Kennit's grip on his hand slowly lessened. Some of the tension left his neck and his head lolled back onto his damp pillows. His breathing grew slower. It was the labored breathing of a man fighting exhaustion. Wintrow kept possession of his hand. Sa'Parte had spoken of a technique for lending strength to the suffering, but Wintrow's learning had not progressed that far. He had expected to be an artist for Sa, not a healer. Still, as he clasped Kennit's sweating hand between his own, he opened his heart to Sa and begged that the father of all would intervene. He prayed that his mercy would supply what Wintrow lacked in learning. “I can't go on like this.”

From another man, the words might have sounded pitiful or pleading. Kennit spoke them as a simple statement of fact. The pain was ebbing, or perhaps his ability to respond to it was exhausted. He closed his dark eyes and Wintrow felt suddenly isolated. Kennit spoke quietly but clearly. “Take the leg off. Today. As soon as possible. Now.”

Wintrow shook his head, then spoke the denial aloud. “I can't. I don't have half of what I need. Brig said that Bull Creek is only a day or two away. We should wait.”

Kennit's eyes snapped open. “I know that I can't wait,” he said bluntly.

“If it's just the pain, then perhaps some rum . . .” Wintrow began, but Kennit's words over-rode his own.

“The pain is bad, yes. But it's my ship and my command that suffer the worst right now. They sent a boy to tell me of the patrol ship. All I did was try to stand. . . . I fell. Right in front of him, I collapsed. I should have been on the deck as soon as the lookout spotted that sail. We should have turned and cut the throats of every Chalcedean pig aboard that galley. Instead, we fled. I left Brig in command, and we fled. Sorcor had to fight my battle. In addition, all aboard know of it. Every slave on board this ship has a tongue. No matter where I leave them off, every one of them will wag the news that Captain Kennit fled the Satrap's patrol ship. I can't allow that.” In an introspective voice, he observed, “I could drown them all.”

Wintrow listened in silence. This was not the suave pirate who had courted his ship with extravagant words, nor the controlled captain. This was the man beneath that facade, exposed by pain and exhaustion. Wintrow realized his own vulnerability. Kennit would not tolerate the existence of anyone who had seen him as he truly was. Right now Kennit seemed unaware of how much he was revealing. Wintrow felt like the mouse pinioned by the snake's stare. As long as he kept still, he had a chance to remain undetected. The pirate's hand grew lax in his grip. Kennit turned his head on his pillow and his eyes began to sag shut.

Just as Wintrow began to hope he might escape, the door to the cabin opened. Etta entered. She took in the room at a glance. “What did you do to him?” she demanded as she crossed to Kennit's bedside. “Why is he so still?”

Wintrow lifted a finger to his lips to shush her. She scowled at that, but nodded. With a jerk of her head, she indicated the far corner of the room. She frowned at how slowly he obeyed her, but Wintrow took his time, easing the pirate's hand down gently on the quilt and then sliding slowly off the bed so that no movement might disturb Kennit.

It was all in vain. As Wintrow left his bedside, Kennit said, “You will cut off my leg today.”

Etta gave a horrified gasp. Wintrow turned back slowly to the man. Kennit had not opened his eyes, but he lifted a long-fingered hand and pointed at him unerringly. “Gather what you have for tools and such, and get the job done. What we do not have, we must do without. I want to be finished with this. One way or another.”

“Sir,” Wintrow agreed. He changed course, moving hastily toward the door. As swiftly, Etta moved to block him. He found himself looking up into eyes as dark and merciless as a hawk's. He squared his shoulders for a confrontation. Instead, he saw something like relief in her face. “Let me know how I can help you,” she said simply.

He bobbed a nod to her request, too shocked to reply, and slipped past her and out the door. A few steps down the companionway, he halted. He leaned suddenly against the wall and allowed the shaking to overtake his body. The bravado of his earlier bargain overwhelmed him. What had been bold words would soon become a bloody task. He had said he would set a knife to Kennit's flesh, would slice into his body and cut through his bone and separate his leg. Wintrow shook his head before the enormity of the situation could cow him. “There is no path but forward,” he counseled himself, and hastened off to find Brig. As he went, he prayed the medicine chest had been found.

CAPTAIN FINNEY PUT DOWN HIS MUG, LICKED HIS LIPS AND GRINNED AT Brashen. “You're good at this. You know that?”