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He glanced back over his shoulder at them.

Etta had not moved. He heard no voices, but they could have been speaking softly.

He was struck again by the pirate woman’s extraordinary appearance.

Etta was tall, her long limbs spare of flesh.

She wore her silk blouse and brocaded vest and trousers as casually as if they were simple cotton garments.

Her sleek black hair was cut off short, not even reaching her shoulders.

She offered neither roundness nor softness to suggest femininity.

Her dark eyes were dangerous and feral. From what Wintrow had seen of her, she was savagely tempered and remorseless as a cat.

Not one sign of tenderness had he seen in the woman.

Nevertheless, all those traits contradicted themselves, combining to make her overwhelmingly female.

Never before had Wintrow sensed such power in a woman.

He wondered if Vivacia would win her battle of wills with Etta.

Kennit was indeed calling his name, not loudly, but with a panting intensity.

Wintrow did not knock but entered immediately.

The tall, lean pirate was supine on the bed, but there was nothing restful about his attitude.

His hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as if he were a woman in labour.

His head was thrown back against the dishevelled pillows.

The bared muscles of his chest stood out strongly.

His gaping mouth gulped air spasmodically; his chest heaved up and down with the effort.

His dark hair and open shirt were soaked in sweat. The sharp tang of it filled the cabin.

‘Wintrow?’ Kennit gasped out yet again, as he reached the bedside.

‘I’m here.’ Instinctively, he took one of the pirate’s callused hands in his own.

Kennit gripped Wintrow’s hand in so violent a clench it was all he could do to keep from crying out.

Instead, he returned the grip, deliberately pinching down hard between the pirate’s thumb and fingers.

With his other hand, he wrapped Kennit’s wrist. He tried to set his fingers to the pirate’s pulse, but the man’s bracelet was in the way.

He contented himself with moving his hand to Kennit’s forearm.

Rhythmically he tightened and then loosened his grip in a slow, calming pattern while he maintained the pinch on Kennit’s hand that was supposed to lessen pain.

He dared to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Kennit so that he could meet the tortured man’s eyes.

‘Watch me,’ he told him. ‘Breathe with me. Like this.’ Wintrow took a slow steadying breath, held it for a count, and then slowly released it.

Kennit made a faint effort to copy him. His breath was still too short and too brisk, but Wintrow nodded encouragingly at him.

‘That’s right. That is right. Take control of your body.

Pain is only the tool of your body. You can master it. ’

He held the pirate’s gaze steady with his own.

With every breath, he expelled soothing confidence and belief, so that Kennit might breathe it in.

Wintrow centred himself within his own body, finding a core that touched his heart and both his lungs.

He let the focus of his eyes soften, drawing Kennit’s gaze deeper into his own so that he could share his calmness with the man.

He tried to make his gaze draw Kennit’s pain out and let it disperse in the air between them.

The simple exercises drew his mind back to his monastery.

He tried to imbibe peace from those memories, to add their strength to what he was trying to accomplish.

Instead, he suddenly felt a charlatan. What was he doing here?

Mimicking what he had seen old Sa’Parte do with patients in pain?

Was he trying to make Kennit believe he was truly a priest-healer, instead of a brown-robed acolyte?

He did not have the complete training to do this simple pain alleviation, let alone remove a diseased leg.

He tried to tell himself he was simply doing the best he could to help Kennit.

He wondered if he were being honest with himself; perhaps he was only trying to save his own skin.

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 laboured 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 overrode 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 towards 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 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 counselled 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?’

‘I suppose,’ Brashen reluctantly acknowledged the compliment.

The smuggler laughed throatily. ‘But you don’t want to be good at it, do you?’