The crowd rolled up to him, and then flowed ominously around him. Behind Kennit, the men at his back turned to face outward. Tension hummed in the air. Faced with a determined group of armed men, no one in the mob wanted to be the first to engage. The red-faced man he now confronted he recalled as a tavern owner: Boj, that was his name. He carried a cudgel that he tapped meaningfully against his leg, but he stayed out of the boy's knife reach. The others stood, waiting for him to attack. Kennit suspected Boj suddenly did not relish being leader of this mob. A glance to the side showed him Sorcor flanking the mob with his own sailors from the Marietta. The girl had vanished. Kennit had no time to wonder where. A look passed between the two men; Sorcor needed no sign from him. He would do nothing until it became inevitable. Then he would cut his way to Kennit as swiftly as he could.

Boj glanced warily over his shoulder at his followers, then smiled with cold satisfaction at the ones that had surrounded the pirate. Sure of his backing, he confronted Kennit. He had to look over Wintrow's head to lock eyes with him. “It is your fault, you scummy bastard. You're the one that stirred things up, pirating slaveships. Had to show off, you couldn't be content with just making a living. You and your talk of being a king. A ship here, a ship there, that boy with a crown in Jamaillia didn't care. Not until you come along. The Satrap was leaving us alone, until you stirred the pot. You got into his pocket personal. Now look what you've done to us. We've got nothing left. We're going to have to find a new place, and rebuild from the ground up. Chances are we'll never find as good a hiding place as Divvytown was! We were safe here, and you destroyed that. The raiders that came here were looking specifically for you.” Suddenly he slapped the cudgel meaningfully against his hand. “You owe us, is how I see it. Whatever you got on that ship, we are taking, so we can find ourselves a new hiding spot. Choose now how we get it. If you don't want to share easy, well . . .” He swung the cudgel with a whistling motion. Kennit refused to flinch.

More folk had emerged from the trees. Plainly, there were more survivors than he had first thought, but this whole confrontation was a foolish one. Even if they killed him here on the beach and wiped out his men, they could scarcely expect both ships to yield to them. They'd simply sail away. It was stupid; mobs were usually stupid. And deadly. He let his smile widen as he composed his words.

“Hiding. Is that all you can think of?”

The sound of Wintrow's voice shocked Kennit. It rang out, clear as a bard's, laden with contempt, and pitched, Kennit realized, to reach not just the men in front of him but those coming in from the jungle as well. Wintrow still held his knife low and ready; where had he learned that? But the boy obviously had other intentions than fighting the crowd.

“Shut up, kid. No one has time for more talk!” Boj weighed his cudgel threateningly. He eyed Kennit over Wintrow's head. “Well, King Kennit? Easy or-”

“Of course you have no time for talk!” Wintrow's voice rang clear over Boj's. “Talk would require brains, not brawn. No one here ever has time for talk, not even when it would have saved you. Kennit tried to show you. You can't hide from what is happening outside your little town. Sooner or later, the rest of the world catches up with you. Kennit tried to warn you. He told you to fortify the town, but you wouldn't listen. He brought slaves here and set them free amongst you, but you would not look at them and see yourselves! No, you'd rather hide here in the muck like some garbage-eating crab, and trust that the world will never take notice of you! It doesn't work that way. If you'd listen to him now, you'd find out how to be men again. I've seen the sketches in his room. This harbor could be fortified. Divvytown could declare itself. You could dredge this stinking slough you call a harbor and claim a place on the traders' charts. All you'd have to do is stand up and say, we are a people, not a band of outlaws and Jamaillia's outcasts. Choose a leader and stand up for yourselves. But no. All you want to do is splatter some more brains, work some more death and then go hide under another rock until the Satrap's raiders dig you out again!”

The boy had run out of breath. Kennit hoped the others could not see his trembling. He pitched his voice low, as if for Wintrow alone, but he knew his words would carry. “Give it up, son. They wouldn't listen to me, they won't listen to you. This is all they know. Fighting and hiding. I've done what I could to try to teach them to be free men.” He shrugged one shoulder. “They'll do what they'll do.” He lifted his eyes and looked over the crowd. Some of the tattooed faces he saw were vaguely familiar. Slaves he had brought here as free men, he realized, as one after another they dropped their eyes from his gaze. One slave, braver than the rest, suddenly stepped apart from the mob.