As swiftly as the melee had begun, it was abruptly over. His pirates were left standing. Anyone in the mob who had truly wanted to fight was down. The rest had withdrawn a safe distance. Somehow, Sorcor had contrived to cut through the thick of it, as usual. As Kennit lost his balance and sat back in the mud, Sorcor casually dispatched a wounded Divvytown man and stepped across the remaining space between them, extending a broad hand dripping both mud and blood. Before Kennit could object, Sorcor had seized him by his jacket front and set him back on his feet. Etta found his crutch and offered it to him. It, too, was thick with muck. He accepted the filthy thing and tried to look nonchalant as he tucked it under his arm.

At his feet, Wintrow had managed to get as far as his knees. In his right arm, he cradled his left, but he still gripped his knife as well. This Etta noticed and she gave a proud laugh. Heedless of his moan, she seized him by the back of his shirt and hauled him upright. To Kennit's surprise, she gave the boy a rough hug. “You didn't do too badly, for your first time. Next time, duck deeper.”

“I think my arm is broken,” he gasped in reply.

“Let me see.” She seized his left arm and worked her hands up it. Wintrow gave an involuntary cry and tried to pull away from her, but she held him fast. “It's not broken. If it were broken, you would have passed out when I did that. I think it might be cracked a bit, though. You'll get over it.”

“Help me get to firmer ground,” Kennit demanded, but it was Sorcor who took his arm and helped him along. Etta and Wintrow followed together. For an instant, that rankled. Then he reminded himself that it was his intention to throw Etta and Wintrow together. They passed the handful of men who had died, and one who sat with his head bowed over his slit belly. The other Divvytown folk had fallen back to a safe distance. One of his crewmen had been gashed on the leg, but for the most part, they were unharmed. The outcome did not surprise Kennit. They had had the advantage of full bellies and decent weapons, experienced fighters against town brawlers. Only the odds had been against him, and a few deaths had quickly changed that.

Once he was where he could stand on his own, Kennit wiped his hands firmly down the front of his hopelessly spoiled trousers. He glanced past the crewmen who encircled him protectively to the ruins of the town. Nowhere to take a bath, nowhere to have a quiet drink, nowhere to sell his booty. Nothing left of Divvytown. No point in staying. “Let's get out of here,” he said to Sorcor. “There's a man in Bull Creek with a link to Candletown. Last time we were there, he was bragging he could get us better prices for our swag. Maybe we'll try a bit with him.”

“Sir,” agreed Sorcor. Then he hung his head as if studying the sand between his big boots. “Sir, I'm taking Alyssum.”

“If you must,” Kennit replied in some annoyance. When the big man lifted his head, there were glints of anger deep in his eyes. “And of course you must,” Kennit amended hastily, shaking his own head sadly. “For what is left for the poor girl here? You're the only protector she has now, Sorcor. I see it as your duty. You must.”

Sorcor was nodding gravely. “Just as I saw it myself, sir.”

Kennit looked with distaste at the trampled muck he must pass through on his way back to the boat. He must manage it so that it looked no more difficult for him than for anyone else. He took a firmer grip on his mud-slicked crutch. “Let's go, then. There's nothing left for us here.”

He cast a wary eye at the folk that still huddled in clusters, staring at them. None looked prone to attack, but one never knew. As he glanced at them, one stepped out boldly to stand before the rest. “You're leaving us here, like this?” He was incredulous.

“How else would I leave you?” Kennit demanded.

Again, Wintrow surprised him. “You've made it very apparent he's not welcome here. Why should he waste his time on you?” The boy sounded sincerely disdainful.

“It wasn't us that jumped him!” the man cried out, affronted. “It was them other troublemakers, and they're all dead now. Why should we be punished for what they done?”

“It also wasn't you that jumped in to save him,” Wintrow snapped back. “That shows you have learned nothing. Nothing! You still believe that the evil that befalls another is nothing to you. Let another man be taken slave, let another town be raided, let someone else be slaughtered on the beach right in front of you. It won't matter to you until it's your own throat being slit, and we haven't time to wait for that. Other towns are glad to listen to what he says, glad to profit from his leadership. Divvytown is dead. It was never on a chart, and it never will be. Because the people in it were already dead.”