“Fever?” Gantry asked more sharply. “He's one of the map-faces, then?”

“No. He's in the forward hold.”

“How'd he get fever? We've only had fever among the map-faces before this.” He spoke angrily as if it were Wintrow's fault.

“A rat bit him. The man chained to him thinks that is what started it.” Wintrow hesitated. “Perhaps we should remove him from the others, just in case.”

Gantry snorted. “You play on my fears, to get me to do what you want.”

Wintrow looked at him steadily. “Can you give me a real reason why we should not bring the poor wretch onto the deck to die?”

“I don't have the men to move him just now. The seas are heavy, a storm is brewing. I want my full watch on deck in case I need them. We've a tricky bit of channel coming up, and when a storm breaks here, a man has to be ready.”

“If you give me the key, I'll bring him up on deck myself.”

“You can't haul a grown man up from the forward hold by yourself.”

“I'll have another slave help me.”

“Wintrow . . .” Gantry began impatiently.

“Please,” Vivacia interceded softly. “Please. Bring the man up here.”

Gantry could not say why he didn't want to give in. A simple bit of mercy he could offer, but he wanted to hold it back. Why? Because if this small act of taking pity on a dying man was the right thing to do, then . . . He pushed the thought away from him. He was mate on this vessel, he had his job, and that was to run the ship as his captain saw fit. It wasn't his place to decide that all of it was wrong. Even if he faced that thought, even if he said aloud, 'this is wrong!' what could one man do about it?

“You said if there was anything you could do for me, I should let you know,” the ship reminded him.

He glanced up at the night sky, shrouded in gathering clouds. If Vivacia decided to be obstinate, she could double their work through this storm. He didn't want to cross her just now.

“If the seas get any heavier, we'll be taking water over the deck,” he warned them both.

“I don't think it will matter to him,” Wintrow said.

“Sar!” Gantry declared with feeling. “I can't give you my keys, boy, nor permission to bring a healthy slave up on deck. Come on. If I have to do this to keep the ship happy, I'll do it myself. But let's be quick about it and get it over.”

He raised his voice in a shout. “Comfrey! Keep an eye on things here, I'm going below. Sing out if you need me!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Lead the way,” he told Wintrow gruffly. “If there's fever in the forward hold, I suppose I'd better see for myself.”

Wintrow was silent as he led the way. Having made his request of Gantry, he could think of nothing more to say to the man. He was painfully conscious of the differences between them now. Gantry, his father's right hand and trusted advisor, was as far as could be from Wintrow, the slave and disgraced son. As he made his way into the crowded forward hold, he felt as if he led a stranger into his private nightmare.

Gantry had given him the lantern to carry. Its brighter light illuminated far more than the candles that Wintrow had become accustomed to. It enlarged the circle of misery, made clearer the extent of the filth and degradation. Wintrow breathed shallowly. It was a skill he had learned. Behind him, he heard Gantry cough from time to time, and once he thought the mate gagged. He did not turn to look back. As first mate, it was likely that Gantry had not had to venture far into the holds lately. He could command other men to do that. Wintrow doubted that his father had been belowdecks at all since they had left Jamaillia.

As they got closer to the dying man, they had to hunch over. The slaves were packed so tightly it was hard to avoid stepping on them. They shifted restlessly in the lantern light and muttered quietly to one another at the sight of Gantry's lantern. “Here he is,” Wintrow announced needlessly. To the priest beside him, he said, “This is Gantry, the mate. He's letting me take your friend abovedeck.”

The priest slave sat up, blinking in Gantry's lantern light. “Sa's mercy upon you,” he greeted him quietly. “I am Sa'Adar.”

Gantry said nothing to either the introduction or the slave's claim of priesthood. The mate seemed, Wintrow thought, uncomfortable at the idea of being introduced to a slave. He crouched and gingerly touched the dying slave's hot flesh. “Fever,” he said, as if anyone could have doubted it. “Let's get him out of here before he spreads it.”