The priest glanced at Wintrow. His smile was a hard one. “Come, boy, and bring the lantern. We've Sa's work to do.” To the others he said quietly, “We have to leave you now, in the dark, while we go to free the others. Be patient. Be brave. Pray. And remember that if you move too soon, you condemn us all, and this brave boy's work will be for naught.” To Wintrow he said, “Lead on. Hold by hold, we have to free them all, and then take the crew by surprise. It's the only chance we have.”

Numbly, Wintrow led the way. Above him, he heard the first pattering of a hard rain falling on Vivacia's decks. Within and without, the long-brewing storm overtook the ship.

“I don't care about the weather. I want the ship.”

“Aye, sir.” Sorcor took a breath as if to speak further, but then changed his mind.

“Let's go after her.” Kennit went on. He stood in the waist and stared out over the water, clutching the rail with both hands like a landsman. Ahead of them, the silvery hull of the liveship glistened as she cut the rising waves, and seemed to beckon him through the night. He spoke without looking away from her. “I've a feeling about this one. I think she's ours for the taking.”

The bow of the Marietta bit deeper into an oncoming wave. Spray flew up suddenly, drenching them all. The blast of icy water almost felt good against his over-heated body, but even that splash was nearly enough to push him off balance. He managed to cling where he was and keep his leg under him. The ship fell off as she crested the wave and Kennit was hard put to keep from falling. His crutch hit the deck and washed away from him as the next wave rushed out through the scuppers. He was barely able to keep his foot under him by clinging tightly to the ship's rail. “Damn it, Sorcor, trim her up!” he roared to cover his shame.

He doubted the man heard him. Sorcor had already left his side and was shouting orders to deckhands on his way back to the helm.

“Let me take you back to the cabin,” the ever-present whore said from behind his shoulder. He had just been about to tell her to do that. Now, of course, he could not. He'd have to wait until she believed it was his own idea, or until he could think of a good reason why he had to go there. Damn her! His good leg was beginning to tire, and the bad one just dangled there, a hot heavy weight of pain.

“Retrieve my stick,” he ordered her. It pleased him to see her chase it across the wave-washed deck. At the same time, he noted that she definitely had her sea-legs now. There was nothing clumsy about her. Had she been a man, he'd have said she had the makings of a good sailor.

In that abrupt change so characteristic of these waters, the rain squall hit them. Torrents sheeted down over the ship, while the wind's direction seemed to switch almost constantly. He could hear Sorcor's bellowed commands to the deck crew. What had looked to be a simple little blow was now building up to something else entirely. There was always a current in Hawser Channel, and in some tides it could be difficult, but now the storm wind conspired with that current to send them racing. The liveship fled ahead of them. He watched her, expecting her to take in sail. Sorcor had their hands reefing canvas. Storm and current were driving them along swiftly enough without giving the treacherous winds anything extra to push on. Not far ahead was Crooked Island. To the east of the island was the better passage. The liveship would certainly take it. To the west of the island was how they would have to go. They'd use both storm and current to race ahead of the liveship and cut her off. It would be tricky, and no mistake there. He wasn't sure they'd make it. Well, he doubted he had long to live anyway. He might as well die on his own deck if he couldn't do it on the deck of a liveship.

Sorcor had taken the wheel himself; Kennit could tell it by the way the Marietta seemed suddenly to relish each challenging wave. He squinted his eyes against the downpour and tried to find their quarry again. For the space of three waves he could not see her. Then he spotted the liveship at the same time as he heard her distant scream.

She was taking the storm badly, her untended sails pushing her awkwardly against each wave. As Kennit watched in horror, she slid down the trough of a wave, disappeared, and then a moment later wallowed into view again. His straining eyes could pick out figures of men dashing about her dimly lit decks, lots of men, but no one seemed to be doing anything to save her. He gave a groan of despair. To get this close to capturing a liveship, only to see her go down right before his eyes because of her own crew's incompetency-it was too bitter to bear.

“Sorcor!” he bellowed through the storm's blast. He wouldn't be able to wait until they could cut her off. As she was going now, she'd end up on the rocks. “Sorcor! Catch her up and ready a boarding party of good seamen.” The rain and wind snatched the words from his mouth. He tried to work his way aft, holding to the rail and hopping along on his good leg. Each jarring motion felt as if he'd plunged his stump into boiling oil. Suddenly he was shaking with cold as well. The waves were running taller. As each wave broke, he saw the salt water rushing towards him and could do nothing save clutch tighter to the rail. Eventually one swept his tired leg out from under him. For an interminable moment he clung desperately as the water washed over his body and out the scuppers again. Then Etta had him, carelessly seizing hold of him with no mind for his injured leg at all. She wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders and hoisted him up, gripping him around the chest.