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Wintrow’s eyes snapped to the pirate, but he seemed to be nearly unconscious.

His lashes lay long on his cheeks; his face was slack.

A loose smile twitched over his mouth. Wintrow set two fingers lightly to Kennit’s throat.

His pulse still beat steady and strong there, but the man’s skin was fevered. ‘Captain Kennit?’ Wintrow asked softly.

‘Is this it?’ A woman’s voice rang out. The freed slaves parted, and she came striding forward.

Wintrow stood up. She carried the medicine chest. The lid had been splintered, but he recognized its worn wood.

He did not move forward but let the woman bring it to Etta instead.

Let this be her battle with Sa’Adar. He had enough bad blood with the man already.

She lowered her eyes to gaze down at the opened chest when it was placed before her feet.

She did not even stoop to stir the dishevelled contents.

When she lifted her eyes back to Sa’Adar’s face, she gave a small snort of contempt.

‘I do not enjoy games,’ she said very softly.

‘But if I am forced to play them, I always make sure I win.’ Her stare met his.

Neither looked aside. The planes of her cheeks tightened, exposing her teeth in a snarling smile.

‘Now. Take your rabble off this deck. Get belowdecks and close the hatches. I neither wish to see you, nor hear you, nor even smell you while this is going on. If you are very wise, you will never draw my attention to you again. Do you understand?’

Wintrow watched as Sa’Adar made a very serious mistake. He drew himself up to his full height, not quite the match of Etta’s. His voice was coolly amused. ‘Am I to understand that you, and not Brig, are in command here?’

It would have been a deft play, if there had been any rivalry between the two to exploit.

Brig only threw his head back in a guffaw of laughter as Etta’s knife danced in to add yet another stripe to Sa’Adar’s chest. This time he cried out and staggered back a step.

She had made the knife bite deeper. As the wandering priest clutched at his blood-slicked chest, she smiled darkly.

‘I think we understand that I am in command of you.’

One of the map-faces started forward, his face dark with fury.

Etta’s knife moved in and out of him, and he went down, clutching at his belly.

Vivacia gave a muffled cry at this new spillage of blood on her deck, an echo of the cries and gasps of the watching freed folk.

Wintrow shared the deep shudder of horror that passed through the ship at this fresh violence, but he could not take his eyes away.

Sa’Adar shrank back behind his other bodyguard, but that burly man was also cowering away from the woman with the knife.

None of the others sprang forward to defend the priest. Instead, there was a subtle movement away from him as folk distanced themselves.

‘Be clear on this!’ Etta’s voice rang out like a hammer on an anvil.

She lifted the bloody knife and swept it in an arc that encompassed the whole ship and every staring face, tattooed or not.

‘I will tolerate no one who threatens the wellbeing and comfort of Captain Kennit. If you wish to avoid my wrath, then you will do nothing to inconvenience him.’ Her voice grew softer.

‘It is very simple, really. Now clear these decks.’

This time the crowded folk on the deck disappeared like water swirling down a drain.

In a matter of moments, the only people remaining above-deck were the pirate crewmen and those few slaves Etta had chosen to hold Kennit down.

Her chosen ones regarded her with an odd mixture of respect and horror.

Wintrow suspected they had now completely changed allegiance and would follow her anywhere.

It remained to be seen how formidable an enemy she had created in Sa’Adar.

As Etta came to Wintrow, their eyes met.

The demonstration with Sa’Adar had been for his benefit as well.

If Kennit died under his hands, Etta’s vengeance would be furious if not swift.

He drew a deep breath as she approached him, the medicine chest in her hands.

He took it from her wordlessly, placed it on the deck and swiftly sorted through its contents.

Some of it had been pilfered, but most of it was there.

With a deep sigh of relief, he found kwazi rind preserved in brandy.

The bottle was tiny. He reflected bitterly that his father had not seen fit to use it to ease his pain when his finger was amputated; then the thought intruded that if he had, Wintrow would not have it now to use on Kennit.

He shrugged at the vagaries of fate and began methodically to set out his tools.

He pushed aside his collection of kitchen knives, replacing them with the finer edged blades in the chest. He selected a bone saw with a carved handle like a bow.

Three needles he threaded with hair from Kennit’s own head.

When he lay them down on the canvas, the black hair spiralled into a lax curl.

There was a leather strap with two rings on the end to cinch about the limb before he cut it.

That was all. He looked a moment longer at the row of tools. Then he glanced up at Etta. ‘I would like to offer prayers. A few moments of meditation might better prepare all of us for this.’

‘Just get on with it,’ she ordered him harshly. The line of her mouth was set flat, and the high planes of her cheeks were rigid.

‘Hold him down,’ Wintrow replied. His own voice came out as harshly. He wondered if he were as pale as she was. A spark of anger burned inside him at her disdain. He tried to rekindle it as determination.

Etta knelt by Kennit’s head but did not touch him.

Two men took his good leg and pinned it to the deck.

There was another man on each of his arms. Brig tried to hold Kennit’s head, but his captain twisted free of his tentative grip.

He lifted his head to glare wide-eyed at Wintrow.

‘Is it now?’ he demanded, sounding both querulous and angry. ‘Is it now?’

‘It’s now,’ Wintrow told him. ‘Brace yourself.’ To Brig he said, ‘Hold his head, firmly. Put your palms on his forehead and pin him to the deck with your weight. The less he thrashes about, the better.’

Of his own accord, Kennit lay his head back and closed his eyes. Wintrow lifted the blanket that had covered his stump. In the few hours since he had last seen it, it had become worse. Swelling stretched the skin tight and shiny. His flesh had a blue-grey cast to it.

Begin now, while he had courage still. He tried not to think that his own life depended on his success. As he gingerly worked the strap under the leg stump, he refused to think of Kennit’s pain. He must focus on being swift and cutting him cleanly. His pain was irrelevant.

The last time Wintrow had seen a limb severed from a man, the room had been warm and cheery.

Candles and incense burned as Sa’Parte had prepared for his task with prayer and chanting.

The only prayer uttered here was Wintrow’s silent one.

It flowed in and out with his breath. Sa, grant your mercy, lend me your strength.

Mercy, on an in-drawn breath, strength as he breathed out.

It calmed his thundering heart. His mind was suddenly clearer, his vision keener.

It took him a moment to realize Vivacia was with him, more intimately than ever before.

Dimly, he could sense Kennit through her.

Curiously, Wintrow explored that faint bond.

It seemed as if she spoke to Kennit at a great distance, counselling him to courage and strength, promising that she would be there to help.

Wintrow felt a moment of jealousy. He lost his concentration.

Mercy, strength, the ship prompted him. Mercy, strength he breathed back at her. He threaded the leather strap through the rings and cinched it firmly about Kennit’s thigh.

Kennit roared out his agony. Despite the men pinning his limbs, his back arched up off the deck.

He flopped like a gaffed fish. Fluids broke through the crusted scabs on his stump and spattered on the deck.

The foul odour poisoned the breeze. Etta threw herself across Kennit’s chest with a cry and strove to hold him down.

A moment of terrible silence fell when he ran out of breath.

‘Cut him, damn you!’ Etta shrieked at Wintrow. ‘Get it over with! Do it!’

Wintrow was frozen as he knelt, paralysed by Kennit’s agony.

It inundated him like an icy wave, shocking and immersing him in its intensity.

The force of the other man’s experience flooded through his tenuous link with the ship and into Wintrow.

He lost his identity in it. He could only stare dumbly at the whore, wondering why she was doing this to him.

Kennit drew in a ragged breath, and expelled it as a scream.

Wintrow shattered like a cold glass filled with hot water.

He was no one, he was nothing, and then he was Vivacia and abruptly Wintrow again.

He fell forward, his palms flattening on the deck, soaking up his identity from the wood.

A Vestrit, he was a Vestrit, moreover, he was Wintrow Vestrit, the boy who should have been a priest…