“You got that look to you, like I said. You are Trader born, ain't you? Probably a younger son or something, but you would have the connections in Bingtown, if you wanted to use them. We could take a good haul up there, you would hook us up, and we could trade some top-quality merchandise for some of that magical stuff that the Traders have. Them singing chimes and perfume gems and whatnot.”

“No.” Brashen heard too late how abrupt his reply was. Quickly he softened it. “It's a good idea, a brilliant idea, except for one thing. I don't have any connections.” In a burst of generosity that was probably due to the cindin, he gifted Finney with the truth. “You're right, I'm Trader born. But I tangled those lines a long time ago, and my family cut me loose. I couldn't get a glass of water begging at my Da's door, let alone cut you a trade deal. The way my father feels about me, he wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.”

Finney guffawed and Brashen joined with a wry smile. He wondered why he spoke of such things at all, let alone why he made them a cause for levity. Better than being a crying drunk, he supposed. He watched Finney compose himself, laugh once more and then take another drink of his beer. He wondered if the older man still had a father of his own somewhere. Perhaps he had a wife and children, too. Brashen knew next to nothing about him. It was better so. If he had an ounce of sense, he'd get up now, say he had to check on the crew, and leave before he told Finney any more about himself. Instead he spat the soggy remains of the cindin into the bucket under the table and reached for the humidor. Finney grinned at him as Brashen broke another plug from the stick.

“Wouldn't have to be your own father. A man like you has chums, old friends, eh? Or you know someone with a bent for this, you've heard rumors about him. In any town, there are some that wouldn't mind adding a few coins to their purses, quiet-like. We could go in there, once or twice a year, with a load of our very best, held back from our usual buyers. Not a lot, but of the finest quality. And that's what we would ask in return. Confidentially. Only you and I would need to know.”

Brashen nodded, more to himself than Finney. Yes. The man was planning on going behind his partner's back, to make a bit more money for himself. So much for honor among thieves. He was quietly offering to cut Brashen in on the deal, if Brashen would help him find the sources. It was a low trick. How could Finney look at him and believe he was that sort of man?

How long could he pretend he was not? What was the point of it, anymore?

“I'll think about it,” Brashen told him. “You do that,” Finney grinned.

IN LATE AFTERNOON, WINTROW CROUCHED ON THE FOREDECK BESIDE KENnit. “Ease him off the blanket,” he directed the men who had borne him there. “I want him to be lying on the planking of the deck, with as little between him and the wizardwood as possible.”

A short distance away, her arms crossed on her chest, Etta stood, apparently impassive. She would not look toward Vivacia. Wintrow tried not to stare at the pirate woman. He wondered if anyone else noticed her clenched fists and tight jaw. She had battled his decision to do the cutting here. She had wanted privacy and walls around this messy, painful business. Wintrow had brought her here, and showed her his own bloody handprint on the deck. He had promised her that Vivacia could help Kennit with the pain as she had helped him when his finger was cut off. Etta had finally given in to his will. Neither he nor Vivacia were certain how much help the ship could give, but as they still lacked the medicine chest, anything she could do for Kennit would be helpful.

The ship was anchored in a nameless cove of an uncharted island. Wintrow had gone to Brig, to ask once more about both where the medicine chest was and when they would get to Bull Creek. Both answers had been disappointing. The medical supplies had not been found, and without the Marietta to guide him, Brig did not know how to get back to Bull Creek. The answer had disheartened Wintrow but not shocked him.

Brig's temporary command of the Vivacia was a giant step up for him. Only a few days ago, Brig had been a common seaman. He didn't know how to navigate or read charts. He intended to find a safe place to anchor up, and wait until either the Marietta found them or Kennit was well enough to guide him. When Wintrow had asked incredulously if they were completely lost, Brig had replied that a man could know where he was, and still not know a safe course to somewhere else. The crisp anger in the young sailor's voice had warned Wintrow to hold his tongue. There was no sense in letting the former slaves know of their situation. It presented too great an opportunity for Sa'Adar.

Even now, the wandering priest hovered at the edge of the group. He had not offered to be helpful and Wintrow had not asked him. Most often, wandering priests were judges and negotiators rather than healers or scholars. While Wintrow had always respected the learning and even the wisdom of that order, he had never been completely comfortable with the right of any man to judge another. It did not help right now to feel that scrutiny was being applied to him. Whenever he sensed Sa'Adar gaze at him, he felt a chill knowledge that the man found him unworthy. The older priest stood, arms crossed on his chest. Two map-faces flanked him; he spoke to them quietly. Wintrow pushed aside his awareness of them. If Sa'Adar would not help, Wintrow would not be distracted by him. He rose and walked to the bow of the ship. Vivacia looked back at him anxiously.