They drank together. Tarlock took a hefty slug of the rum, gasped, then leaned back with a sigh. He scratched his nose and whiskery chin energetically. Then he pointed a single thick finger at Brashen. “Child of the Wind,” he said, and grinned his gap-toothed smile. “I'm right, ain't I?”

“About what?” Brashen asked him lazily. He watched the man through narrowed eyes as he took a slow sip of his own rum. Tarlock followed his example with another swallow of his.

“Aw, come on,” Tarlock wheezed after a moment. “You were on Child of the Wind when we overtook her. Little whip of a kid you was, spitting and scratching like a cat when we hauled you out of the rigging. Didn't have so much as a knife to defend yourself, but you fought right up until you dropped.”

“Child of the Wind. Can't say as I recall her, Tarlock.” Brashen put a note of warning in his voice. “You're not going to tell me you were a pirate, are you?”

The man was either too stupid or too drunk to deny it. Instead he spewed a rummy laugh into his own mug and then sat back, to wipe his chin with his wrist. “Hey! Weren't we all? Look around you, man. Think there's a man in this room hasn't freebooted a bit? Naw!” He leaned forward across the table, suddenly confidential. “You wasn't too slow to sign the articles, once you had a blade at your ribs.” He leaned back again. “But as I recall, the name you went by wasn't Brashen Trell of Bingtown.” He rubbed his reddened nose, considering. “I bin trine to member,” he slurred. He leaned heavily on the table, then set his head down on one of his arms. “Can't remember what you said it was. But I recall what we called you.” Again the thick finger lifted, just from the tabletop, to wag at Brashen. “Weasel. Cuz you was so skinny and so fast.” The man's eyes sagged shut. He drew a deep, heavy breath that emerged as a snore.

Brashen stood quietly. The merchandise would be nearly loaded by now. It wouldn't take much to speed up their departure. Perhaps when Tarlock awoke, he'd find his ship had sailed without him. He wouldn't be the first sailor to get drunk and be left behind. He looked down at the snoring Tarlock. The years had not been kind to him since the Child of the Wind. Brashen would never have recognized him if he hadn't revealed himself. He lifted the bottle of rum, then in a spirit of largesse, he re-corked it and nestled it in the crook of the old pirate's elbow. If he woke up too soon, he'd likely delay himself with another drink or two. And if he woke up too late, perhaps the rum would console him. He really had nothing against the man, except that he reminded Brashen of a time he'd sooner forget.

Weasel, he thought to himself as he left the tavern and emerged into the chill fog of the early evening. I'm not Weasel anymore. As if to convince himself, he took a stick of cindin from his pocket and snapped the end off in his mouth. As he tucked it in his cheek, the sharp bitterness of it almost made his eyes water. It was probably the best quality of the drug he'd ever known, and it had been a parting goodwill gift to him from the freebooters they'd dealt with earlier in the day. Free.

No, he wasn't Weasel anymore, he reflected wryly as he headed back toward the dock and the Springeve. Poor Weasel never had cindin like this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE - PIRATES AND CAPTIVES

THEY'RE PIRATES, YOU DAMN FOOL!“ KYLE SPAT AT SA'ADAR. ”MUSTER YOUR MEN TO REPEL THEM. WE'VE still got a chance to get away. With Wintrow at the helm, Vivacia will ..."

“Yes, they are pirates,” Sa'Adar agreed triumphantly. “And they fly the Raven flag. They're the pirates that every slave in Jamaillia prays for. They capture slaveships and free the slaves. And they feed the crews to their own stinking serpents.” The last he uttered in a low growl that was at odds with the joyous smile on his face. “Truly, Sa has provided,” he added, and then he was striding away from them, to the waist of the ship where the gathered slaves were pointing at the Raven flag and shouting joyously to one another.

The word had spread through the ship like fire. As the Marietta came alongside, grapples were thrown. Wintrow felt Vivacia's apprehension as the sharpened hooks dragged across her decks to catch in her railing. “Steady, my lady,” he breathed to her again. Her anxiety mingled with his own. They had no crew with which to resist the capture, even if he had had the stomach for more fighting and blood. He felt his exhaustion hung on him like a heavy, cold garment. He kept her wheel, even as the other ship hauled in tight to her. Like an outpouring of ants from a disturbed nest, gaudily dressed sailors were suddenly swarming over her sides. Someone in the waist was barking orders, to slaves as well as sailors. With a swiftness and order that was almost magical, men began to flow up the masts. The sails were quickly and neatly reefed. He heard the anchor chain rattle out. Someone was barking orders in a voice of authority that the slaves responded to as they crowded out of the way of the pirate crewmen.