“Well, for starters, it's gone,” the charm informed him heartlessly. "Etta's hatchet chop was the only clean part of the severing.

The part the serpent did was half chewed and half sort of melted away. The flesh reminded me of melted tallow. Most of that brown stuff isn't blood, it's oozing pus."

“Shut up,” Kennit said faintly. He stared at the clotted, smeary bandaging and wondered what was beneath it. They had put a folded cloth beneath it, but there was still a smear of ochre stuff across his fine, clean linen. It was disgusting.

The little demon grinned up at him. “Well, you asked.”

Kennit took a deep breath and bellowed, “Sorcor!”

The door flew open almost immediately, but it was Etta who stood there, teary and distraught. She hastened into the room. “Oh, Kennit, are you in pain?”

“I want Sorcor!” he declared, and even to himself it sounded like the demand of a petulant child. Then the brawny first mate filled the doorway. To Kennit's dismay, he looked as solicitous as Etta as he asked, “Is there aught I can do for you, Captain?” Sorcor's unruly hair stood up as if he had been pulling at it, and his face was sallow beneath its scars and weathering.

He tried to remember why he had called for Sorcor. He looked down at the disgusting mess in his bed. “I want this cleaned up.” He managed to sound firmly in command, as if he were speaking of a sloppy deck. “Have a hand heat some water for a bath for me. And lay out a clean shirt.” He looked up at Sorcor's incredulous stare and realized he was treating him more like a valet than his second in command. “You understand that how I appear when I interrogate the prisoners is important. They must not see me as a crippled wreck in a wad of dirty bedding.”

“Prisoners?” Sorcor asked stupidly.

“Prisoners,” Kennit replied firmly. “I directed that three were to be saved, did I not?”

“Yessir. But that was ...”

“And were not three saved for me to question?”

“I have one,” Sorcor admitted uneasily. “Or what's left of one. Your woman has been at him.”

“What?”

“It was his fault,” Etta growled low as a threatening cat. “All his fault that you were hurt.” Her eyes had gone to alarming slits.

“Well. One, you say,” Kennit attempted a recovery. What kind of a creature had he brought aboard his ship? Don't think of that just now. Take command. “See to my orders, then. When I've made myself presentable, I'll want the prisoner brought here. I don't wish to see much of the crew just now. How did the rest of the capture go?”

“Slick as a plate of guts, sir. And we got a little bonus with this one.” Despite the anxiety etched in Sorcor's face, he grinned. “Seems this ship was a bit special. Carrying a bunch of regular slaves, but forward was a batch that were a gift from the Satrap of Jamaillia himself to some high muckamuck in Chalced. A troupe of dancers and musicians, with all their instruments and fancy duds and pots of face paint. And jewels, several nice little casks of sparklies ... I stowed those under your bunk, sir. And an assortment of fine cloths, lace, some silver statues and bottled brandies. A very nice little haul. Not weighty, but all of the best quality.” He gave a sideways glance at Kennit's stump. “Perhaps you'd like to sample some of the brandy now yourself.”

“In a bit. These dancers and musicians ... are they tractable? How do they feel about having their journey interrupted?” Why hadn't they thrown them overboard with the rest of the crew?

“Wonderful, sir. They'd all been taken as slaves, you see. The company was in debt, so when the owners went bust, the Satrap ordered the dancers and musicians seized as well. Which wasn't quite legal, but being the Satrap, I suppose he doesn't have to worry about that part. No, they're happy as clams at being captured by pirates. Their captain already has them at work, making up songs and dances to tell the whole story of it. You being the hero of the piece, of course.”

“Of course.” Songs and dances. Kennit suddenly felt unaccountably weary. “We're ... at anchor. Where? Why?”

“Cove don't have a name that I know, but it's shallow here. The Sicerna was taking on water; had been for some time. Slaves in the bottom hold were just about waterlogged all the time. Seemed best to anchor her up where she couldn't sink too far while we rigged extra pumps for her. Then I thought we'd make for Bull Creek. We've got plenty of man-power to keep the pumps going all the way there.”