“Losses?” Kennit stumped along briskly.

Sorcor's grin faded. “Heavier than we expected, sir. These were fighters, and they went down blades in hands. We lost Clifto, Marl and Burry. Kemper's short an eye. A few of the others took minor damage. Opal got his face laid open to his teeth. He's wild with the pain; I sent him back to the Marietta already. He was screaming something awful.”

“Opal.” Kennit considered a moment. “Have him sent over to Vivacia. Wintrow will do what he can with him in a bit. Lad has a knack for healing. I notice you've made no mention of yourself, Sorcor.”

The big pirate grinned and made a deprecatory gesture at his bloodied left sleeve. “Two swords to his one and he still managed to cut me. I'm ashamed of myself.”

“Nevertheless, we'll have it seen to. Where's Etta? Etta! See to Sorcor's arm, there's a good lass. Wintrow, you'll come with me. Let's take a quick look at what we've won today.”

It was not a quick look. Kennit deliberately led the boy through every hold. He showed him tapestries and rugs rolled and wrapped in canvas for the journey. He showed him casks of coffee beans and chests of tea, thick ropes of dream herbs coiled in stoppered clay pots and glistening spools of thread in gilt, red and purple. All of this, Kennit explained to him, was the fruit of slavery. Pretty as they might be, they had been bought with blood. Did Wintrow think it right that men such as Avery and his backers be allowed to keep their ill-gotten gains? “As long as slavery is profitable, men will traffic in it. Greed was what brought your own father into this game. It was his downfall. I intend to see that it is the downfall of all who trade in human flesh.”

Wintrow nodded slowly. Kennit was not sure if he was completely convinced of the captain's sincerity. Perhaps that didn't matter. As long as he could cite righteous reasons for piracy and battle, the boy would have to agree with him. That would make it easier to sway the ship to his will. He threw an arm around Wintrow's shoulders and suggested, “Let's go back to Vivacia. I wanted you to see this, and hear from Sorcor himself that we offered those wretches a chance to live. What more could we have done, eh?”

It was the perfect endnote. He should have known it was too good to last. As he and Wintrow emerged onto the deck, three female slaves hurried toward him. Before they could reach him, Etta stepped in front of them, stopping them with her hand on the hilt of her blade. They cowered together as she stared at them. Etta spoke to Kennit. “Bit of a problem here. These three are insisting they don't want to be freed. They want to be ransomed with the captain and mate.”

“And why is that?” Kennit asked in cool but civil tones. He ran his eyes over them. They were all comely women, young and smooth-skinned. Their slave tattoos were tiny pale things, barely visible in the sunlight.

“The stupid bitches think they'd rather go on being slaves than have to find their own lives in Divvytown. Used to being rich men's pets, they are.”

“I'm a poet, not a whore,” one woman broke in angrily. “Captain Avery came to Jamaillia City to buy me especially for Sep Kordor. He is a wealthy noble and well known as a fair-handed master. If I go to him, he will provide for me and let me pursue my art. If I go with you, who knows what I must do to support myself? Even if I continue to compose, who will be my audience, save thieves and cut-throats in a backwater scum-town?”

“Maybe you'd rather sing for the serpents?” Etta suggested sweetly. She drew her blade and touched the tip lightly to the woman's belly above her navel. The poet refused to flinch. She gave her head a shake and stared at Kennit instead.

“And you two ... are you poets also?” Kennit asked lazily. They shook their heads.

“I weave tapestries,” one replied huskily.

“I am a body servant, skilled in massage and the lesser healings,” the other said when Kennit fixed his eyes on her.

“And ... let me guess ... all of you are for the Sep whoever . . . the very rich man with many servants?” Kennit's jovial tone woke an answering sparkle in Etta's eyes. She casually put more pressure on her blade, to nudge the first one back into line with the others. The other two slaves nodded.

“There, you see.” Kennit turned away from them, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “That is what slavery does, Wintrow. A rich man buys their talents for his own glory. He buys them for money, and they do not even know they are whores. Not one has enough pride to speak her own name. They have become a part of their master already.”

“What shall I do with them?” Etta called after him as he limped away.