He kept his head up as he threaded his way across the deck, avoiding the knots of slaves and the working crewmen. No one met his eyes, no one challenged him. Foolish, he told himself, to believe they all watched his passage. They had won. Why should they care about the actions of one surviving crew member? At least he had come through it physically unscathed.

Vivacia bore the scars of the slave uprising. There were still bloodstains on the decks. The marks had not and would not yield to the sanding-stones the men used. The ship still smelled like a slaver, despite the near-continuous scrubbing Brig had ordered. The storm had taken a toll on her canvas as well; the hasty patching that the pirates had done showed plainly on her sails. In the aftercastle, doors had been forced when the slaves had hunted down the ship's officers. The gleaming woodwork was splintered and awry. She was not the tidy little vessel he had embarked upon from Bingtown. It suddenly shamed him to see his family ship this way, as if he had seen his sister whoring in a tavern. His heart went out to her and he wondered what it would have been like to have come aboard the ship of his own free will, as a boy perhaps, to serve under his grandfather's authority.

Then he set all such thoughts aside. He came to a battered door guarded by two sullen map-faces. He stepped past the former slaves as if he did not see them and knocked on Gantry's cabin door. At least, it had been the mate's while he was still alive. Now the stripped and looted room was his father's prison cell. He did not wait for a reply, but entered.

His father sat on the edge of the bare bunk. The stare he lifted to Wintrow's face was an uneven one. Blood filled the white of one eye in his swollen and discolored face. Kyle Haven's posture suggested pain and despair, but there was only acid sarcasm in his greeting. “Nice of you to recall me. I had supposed you were too busy groveling to your new masters.”

Wintrow held back a sigh. “I came to see you earlier, but you were sleeping. I knew rest would heal you more than anything I could offer. How are your ribs?”

“Afire. My head throbs with every beat of my heart. And I'm hungry as well as thirsty.” He made a slight motion with his chin toward the door. “Those two won't even let me out for some air.”

“I left food and water here for you earlier. Didn't you . . . ?”

“Yes, I found it. A gill of water and two pieces of dry bread.” There was suppressed fury in his father's voice.

“It was all I could get for you. There is a shortage of food and fresh water aboard. During the storm, much of the food was spoiled by saltwater. . . .”

“Gobbled down by the slaves, you mean.” Kyle shook his head in disgust and then winced. “They didn't even have the sense to know they'd have to ration food. They kill the only men who can sail the ship in the midst of a storm, and then eat or destroy half the rations on board. They are no more fit to be in charge of themselves than a flock of chickens. I hope you are pleased with the freedom you dispensed to them. It's as like to be their deaths as their salvation.”

“They freed themselves, Father,” Wintrow said stubbornly.

“But you did nothing to stop them.”

“Just as I did nothing to stop you from bringing them aboard in chains.” Wintrow took a breath to go on, then stopped himself. No matter how he tried to justify what he had done, his father would never accept his reasons. Kyle's words nudged the bruises on Wintrow's conscience. Were the deaths of the crew his fault, because he had done nothing? If that was so, then was he also responsible for the deaths of the slaves before the uprising? The thought was too painful to consider.

In an altered tone he went on, “Do you want me to tend your injuries, or try to find food for you?”

“Did you find the medical supplies?”

Wintrow shook his head. “They're still missing. No one has admitted taking them. They may have been lost overboard during the storm.”

“Well, without them, there is little you can do for me,” his father pointed out cynically. “Food would be nice, however.”

Wintrow refused to be irritated. “I'll see what I can do,” he said softly.

“Of course you will,” his father replied snidely. His voice lowered abruptly as he asked, “And what will you do about the pirate?”

“I don't know,” Wintrow admitted honestly. He met his father's eyes squarely as he added, “I'm afraid. I know I have to try to heal him. But I don't know which is worse, the prospect of him surviving and us continuing as prisoners, or him dying and us with him, and the ship having to go on alone.”