A map face shrugged. “There's only these two now.”

Only two left alive. And his father. Sa forgive him. He looked at the man who had thrown Torg overboard. “You. You threw a sailor overboard, one we might have used. You take his place now. Get aloft, to the look-out's post. Cry down to me what you see.” He glared around at the others standing around them. It suddenly infuriated him that they would stand about idly. “The rest of you make sure the hatches are down tight now. Get on the pumps, too. I can feel she's too heavy in the water. Sa only knows how much water we took on.” His voice was quieter but just as hard as he added, “Clear the deck of bodies. And get those collapsed tents tidied away.”

The first man's eyes went from Wintrow up to the tiny platform at the top of the main mast. “Up there? I can't go up there.”

The current was like a living thing now, the tide speeding through the narrow channel like a mill race. Wintrow fought the wheel. “Get moving if you want to live,” he barked. “There's no time for your fear. The ship is the only thing that matters now. Save her if you want to save yourselves.”

“That's the only time you've ever sounded like a son to me.”

Blood had darkened down the side of Kyle Haven's face. He moved with his body at a twist, trying not to jar the ribs that poked and grated inside him. He was paler than the gray sky overhead. He looked at his son holding the ship's wheel, at the scarred map-faces that lumbered hastily off to do his bidding, at the debris of the insurrection and shook his head slowly. “This is what it took for you to find your manhood?”

“It was never lost,” he said flatly. “You simply couldn't recognize it, because I wasn't you. I wasn't big and strong and harsh. I was me.”

“You never stepped up to the mark. You never cared about what I could give you.” Kyle shook his head. “You and this ship. Spoiled children, both of you.”

Wintrow gripped the wheel tightly. “We don't have time for this. The Vivacia can't steer herself. She's helping me, but I want your eyes, too. I want your knowledge.” He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. “Advise me, father.”

“He's truly your father?” Sa'Adar asked in consternation. “He enslaved his own son?”

Neither man answered him. Both peered ahead, into the storm. After a moment, the priest retreated to the stern of the ship, leaving them almost alone.

“What are you going to do with her?” his father demanded suddenly. “Even if you get safely through this channel, you haven't enough good men to sail her. These are treacherous waters, even for an experienced crew.” He snorted. “You're going to lose her before you even had her.”

“All I can do is the best I can,” Wintrow said quietly. “I didn't choose this. But I believe Sa will provide.”

“Sa!” Kyle shook his head in disgust. Then, “Keep her to the center of the channel. No, a couple more points to port. There. Hold her steady. Where's Torg? You should put him aloft to cry out what he sees.”

Wintrow considered it an instant, combining his father's opinion with what he felt through Vivacia. Then he made the correction. “Torg's dead,” he said after the brief silence. “He was put over the side. Because a slave considered him useless.” He gestured with his chin to a man who clung, frozen, halfway up the mast. “He was supposed to take the look-out post.”

An aghast silence followed his words. When his father spoke, his voice was strained.

“All of this . . .” his father said in a low voice, pitched only for Wintrow's ears. “All of this, just so you could take the ship now, instead of a few years from now?”

The question measured the distance between them for Wintrow. The gulf between them was vast and uncrossable.

“None of this was about any of that.” A stupid statement. But all the words he could utter in a lifetime would not make his father understand him. The only thing they would ever really share was the ship. “Let's just get her through these rocks,” he suggested. “Let's speak of only that. It's the only thing we can agree on.”

After a very long time, his father stepped up to stand beside him.

He set one hand lightly to the wheel beside his son's. He glanced up at the rigging, spotted one of his own men. “Calt! Leave off that and get to the look-out's post.”

His father's eyes roved ahead. “Here we go,” he warned Wintrow softly as the ship suddenly gained speed.