“I've been looking for you,” he announced. Two more map-faces flanked the priest like leashed pitdogs.

“Have you?” Wintrow resolved to continue as he had begun. He squared his shoulders and met the older man's eyes. “Did you post those two men outside my father's room?” he demanded.

The wandering priest was unruffled. “I did. The man must be confined until he can be judged and justice done to him.” The priest looked down on Wintrow from his superior height and years. “Do you dispute that?”

“I?” Wintrow appeared to consider the question. “Why would it worry you if I did? Were I you, I would not worry about what Wintrow Vestrit thought. I would worry about what Captain Kennit might think of me taking such authority to myself.”

“Kennit's a dying man,” Sa'Adar said boldly. “Brig is the one who commands here. He seems to welcome my authority over the slaves. He gives out his orders through me. He has not challenged my posting of a guard on Captain Haven.”

“Slaves? Surely they are all free folk now.” Wintrow smiled as he spoke, and pretended not to notice how closely the map-faces were following the conversation. The other former slaves loitering on the deck were also eavesdropping. Some drew closer.

“You know what I mean!” Sa'Adar exclaimed in annoyance.

“Generally, a man says what he means. . . .” Wintrow let the observation hang a moment, then added smoothly, “You said you were seeking me earlier?”

“I was. Have you been to see Kennit today?”

“Why do you ask?” Wintrow countered quietly.

“Because I should like to know plainly what his intentions are.” The priest had a trained voice and he now gave it a carrying quality. More than one tattooed face turned toward him as he spoke. “The tales told in Jamaillia City say that when Captain Kennit captures a slaveship, he kills the crew and gives the ship over to those who were slaves on it, so that they, too, can become pirates and carry on his crusade against slavery. Such was what we believed when we welcomed his aid in manning the ship that we had taken. We expected to keep it. We hoped it would be a tool for the new beginning each of us must make. Now Captain Kennit speaks as if he will keep it for himself. With all we have heard of him, we do not believe he is a man who would snatch from us the only thing of value we have. Therefore, we wish to ask him, plainly and fairly. To whom does he believe this ship belongs?”

Wintrow regarded him levelly. “If you wish to ask that question of Captain Kennit, then I encourage you to do so. Only he can give his opinion of the answer. If you ask it of me, you will hear, not my opinion, but the truth.” He had deliberately spoken more softly than Sa'Adar so that those who wished to listen would have to draw near. Many had done so, including some of the pirate crewmen. They had a dangerous look to them.

Sa'Adar smiled sardonically. “Your truth is that the ship belongs to you, I suppose.”

Wintrow shook his head, and returned the smile. “The ship belongs to herself. Vivacia is a free creature, with the right to determine her own life. Or would you, who have worn the heavy chains of slavery, presume to do to another what was done so cruelly to you?”

Ostensibly he addressed Sa'Adar. Wintrow did not look around to see how the question affected the others. Instead, he was silent, as if awaiting an answer. After a moment Sa'Adar gave a snort of disdainful laughter. “He cannot be serious,” he told the throng. “By some sorcery, the figurehead can speak. It is an interesting bit of Bingtown trickery. But a ship is a ship, a thing, and not a person. And by rights, this ship is ours!”

Only a few slaves muttered assent, for no sooner was the question uttered than a pirate confronted him. “Are you talking mutiny?” the grizzled tar demanded. '“Cause if you are, you'll go over the side before you take another breath.” The man smiled in a decidedly unfriendly way that bared the gaps in his teeth. To his left, a tall pirate laughed gutturally. He rolled his shoulders as if stretching, a subtle display of strength for Sa'Adar's map-faces. Both the tattooed men straightened, eyes narrowing.

Sa'Adar looked shocked. Obviously, he had not expected this. He stood straight and began indignantly, “Why should it be a concern of yours?”

The stocky pirate poked the tall priest in the chest. His jabbing finger stayed there as he pointed out, “Kennit's our captain. What he says, goes. Right?” When the priest did not answer, the man grinned. Sa'Adar stepped back from the pressure of his forefinger against his chest. As he turned to walk away, the pirate observed, “You'd do best not to talk against anything Kennit does. You don't like something, tell the captain to his face. He's a hard man, but fair. Don't wag your tongue behind his back. If you make trouble on this ship, it will only come down on you.”