“Before Kyle,” Vivacia said slowly. She turned to glare at him. “I want Ephron Vestrit back at the helm. And Althea on board. And Brashen.” She lifted her hands to cover her face and turned away from them. “I want to be sure of who I am again.” Her voice shook like a child's.

“I can't give you that. No man can give you that.” Gantry shook his head. “Come, ship. We're doing our best. Wintrow's out of the chains. I can't force him to be happy. I can't force the slaves to be happy. I'm doing the best I can.” The man was close to pleading.

Vivacia shook her head slowly. “I just can't go on like this,” she said, and there were tears in her muffled voice. “I feel it all, you know. I feel it all.”

“Bilge,” Kyle growled. Enough of this. He mastered the disgust he felt for his own unbridled anger. So he'd lost his temper. Well, Sa knew he'd been pushed hard enough lately. It was time to let them all know he'd tolerate no more nonsense. He stepped up to the railing beside his mate. “Gantry, don't encourage her to whine. Don't encourage her to be childish.” He looked down on Vivacia and their eyes met. “Ship. You'll sail. That's all there is to it. You can sail willing or sail like a cow-hide raft, but we'll sail you. I don't give a rat's ass for whether you're happy or not. We've got a task to do and we'll do it. If you don't like having a hold full of slaves, why then, sail faster, damn you. The sooner we get to Chalced the sooner we're rid of them. As for Wintrow, there's no making him happy. He didn't want to behave as my son, he didn't want to be the ship's boy. He made himself a slave. So that is what he is now. That's your likeness needled into his face. He's yours, to do with as you will and you're welcome to him. If he doesn't please you, you can throw him over the side for all I care.”

Kyle stopped. He was out of breath and they were all staring at him. He didn't like the look on Gantry's face. He was staring at Kyle as if he were mad. There was a deep uneasiness behind his eyes. Kyle didn't like it. “Gantry. Take the watch,” he snapped at him. He glanced aloft. “Get her canvas up, every scrap of it, and see the men scramble lively. Move this tub along. If a seagull farts near us, I want the wind from it caught.” He strode off to go back to his cabin. He'd bought incense in Jamaillia City, on the advice of one of the experienced slaver captains. He'd burn that and get away from the stink of slaves for a time. He'd get away from all of them for a time.

The ship had returned to near calm. A slaveship was never completely peaceful. Always, there were cries from somewhere in the hold. People cried out for water, for air, begging voices rose, pleading for the simple light of day. Fights broke out amongst the slaves. It was astounding, how much damage two closely chained men could work upon each other. The cramped quarters and the stench, the stingy rations of ship's bread and water made them turn on one another like rats in a rain barrel.

Not so different, Wintrow thought, from Vivacia and me. In their own way, they were like the slaves chained cheek by jowl below. They had no space to be separate from one another, not even in their thoughts and dreams. No friendship could survive such an enforced confinement. Especially not when guilt was an invisible third sandwiched between them. He had abandoned her, left her to her fate. And for her, the one whispered comment when she had first seen his marked face. “This falls upon me,” she had said. “But for me, none of this would have befallen you.”

“That is true,” he had had to agree with her. “But that does not mean it is your fault.”

By her stricken look, he had known that his words wounded her. But he had been too weary and despondent on his own behalf to try to soften them with yet more useless words.

That had been hours ago, back before his father had attacked him. Not a sound had she uttered since Gantry had left them. Wintrow had huddled in the angle of her prow, wondering what had possessed his father. He wondered if he would be suddenly attacked again. He had been too dispirited to speak. He had no idea what had stilled Vivacia's tongue but her silence was almost a relief.

When she finally did speak, her words were banal. “What are we going to do?”

The futility of the question jabbed him. He refolded the wet rag to find a cooler spot, then held it against his swollen face. The bitter words rose to his lips spontaneously. “Do? Why do you ask me? I no longer have any choices as to what I will do. Rather, you should tell your slave what you command.”

“I have no slave,” Vivacia replied with icy dignity. Outrage crept gradually into her voice. “If you wish to please your father by calling yourself a slave, say you belong to him. Not me.”