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‘I do.’ It put him in mind of his monastery, but he did not say the words aloud. He did not need to.

‘I do not know why you will not give him a chance,’ she suddenly burst out.

‘I cannot claim to know him as I know you. However, this we both have seen; he harbours more affection and goodwill towards you than your father ever did. He thinks of others. Ask him, sometime, to show you the plans he has drawn for Divvytown. He has given it great thought, how he would build a tower to warn them of danger, and where he would put the wells to have cleaner water. Askew, too. He has drawn a chart of Askew, with a breakwater to improve the harbour, and docks drawn in. If only they would listen to him and live their lives as he directed, things would be so much better for them. He wants to make things tidy and better. Moreover, he wants to be your friend, Wintrow. Perhaps what he did to Kyle was high-handed, but you did request it. He could have gained the goodwill of the slaves by turning Kyle over to them. His torture and death would have been a spectacle for Divvytown that would have brought Kennit great renown. Surely, you must know that. Alternatively, he could have ransomed him back to your mother, beggaring the Vestrit family in the process of enriching his own coffers. He did neither of those things. Instead, he simply set that nasty, small-hearted man aside, in a place where he cannot hurt you or others.’

She drew a breath, then seemed out of words. Wintrow felt overwhelmed by what she had said. He had not known Kennit dreamed such dreams. Her reasoning seemed valid, but her defence of the pirate still stung him. ‘That is why he is a pirate, I suppose. To do good?’

The ship was insulted. ‘I do not pretend he is selfless. Nor that his methods are above reproach. Yes, he savours power and longs for more of it. When he gains it, he does good with it. He frees slaves. Would you prefer it if he stood and spouted platitudes about the brotherhood of man? What is all your longing to return to your monastery, but a desire to retreat from what is wrong in the world?’

Wintrow gaped in wordless astonishment. A moment later, she bravely confessed, ‘He has asked me to pirate with him. Did you know that?’

Wintrow tried to remain calm. ‘No. But I expected it.’ Bitterness broke through in his voice.

‘Well? What would be so wrong with it?’ she demanded defensively.

‘You see the good he does. I know his ways are harsh. He has admitted that to me himself. He has asked me if I would be able to cope with what I must witness. I have told him honestly of that horrid night when the slaves rose. Do you know what he said?’

‘No. What did he say?’ Wintrow struggled to master his emotions. She was so gullible, so na?ve. Didn’t she see how the pirate was playing her?

‘That it was like cutting off his leg. He had suffered a long misery, thinking it might get better if he did nothing. You made him see he had to endure a far greater pain before his anguish could be over. He believed in you, and you were right. He asked me to recall all I had shared of the slaves’ torment, and then to consider that in other ships, that torment continued.

It is not piracy, but surgery he performs.’

Wintrow’s lips had been folded tightly. Now he opened them to say, ‘So Kennit plans to only attack slaver ships after this?’

‘And those who profit from slavery. We cannot seize every slave-ship between Jamaillia and Chalced. However, if Kennit’s just wrath is felt by all who traffic with slavery and not just those who run slave-ships, soon all will be forced to think about what they do.

Those merchants who are honest and good will turn against the slavers when they see what they have brought down on them. ’

‘You don’t think the Satrap will renew his patrols of this area? His patrol ships will hunt down and destroy the pirate colonies in an effort to be rid of Kennit.’

‘Perhaps he will try but I do not believe he will succeed. Kennit champions a holy cause, Wintrow. You of all people should see that. We cannot be turned aside by the prospect of pain or risk. If we do not persevere in this endeavour, who will?’

‘Then you have told him you will pirate for him?’ Wintrow was incredulous.

‘Not yet,’ Vivacia replied calmly. ‘But tomorrow I intend to.’

Althea’s Trader robe smelled of camphor and cedar.

Her mother had stored it to keep the moths from the wool.

Althea shared the moth’s opinions of the smells.

The cedar would have been tolerable, in a milder dose.

The camphor made her feel giddy. She had been surprised to find the robe still fitted her – it had been several years since she had worn it.

She crossed the room and sat down in front of her glass.

A feminine young woman looked back at her.

Sometimes her days as ship’s boy aboard the Reaper seemed like a dream.

Since she had returned home, she had put on weight.

Grag had expressed his approval of how her figure had rounded out.

As she brushed out her glossy black hair and then pinned it up sedately, she had to admit she was not displeased with the change.

The plainly-cut Trader’s robe was not especially flattering to her.

Just as well, she told herself as she turned slowly before the glass.

She did not want to be seen as an ornamental female tonight, but as a sober and industrious Trader’s daughter.

She wanted her words to be taken seriously.

Nonetheless, she paused to add a bit of scent to her throat, and a touch of colour to her lips.

Garnet earrings, a recent gift from Grag, swung from her ears. They went well with the magenta robe.

It had been a busy day. She had gone personally to petition the Bingtown Council.

They had only said that they would consider it.

They did not have to hear her. Keffria was the Trader of the family, not Althea, and she had stiffly told her sister that she, too, would speak tonight if the opportunity presented itself.

Althea had composed a note to let Grag know of the taking of the Vivacia, and sent Rache off to deliver it.

After that, she had gone herself to Davad Restart’s, both to give Davad the news about the piracy and to ask the Trader if he would give them a ride to the Council.

Davad had been properly horrified, but also reluctant to believe anything ‘that Trell rascal’ said.

He assured her that if the story proved true, he would stand by them in their trouble.

Althea noticed that that offer had not extended to his wallet.

She knew Davad better than to expect financial assistance from him.

His affection and his money were kept well separated.

Then she had returned home, helped Rache bake the week’s bread, staked the beans in the kitchen garden and tied up the plants, and thinned the green fruit on the plum and apple trees.

It had taken a good scrubbing to make herself presentable again.

Yet, all her frantic activity had not been enough to keep Brashen Trell from intruding on her thoughts.

Hadn’t her life been complicated enough without him coming back to Bingtown?

Not that he had anything to do with her life, really.

Right now, every moment of her time should have been occupied with thoughts of Vivacia or the Traders’ Council meeting.

Or Grag. Instead, Brashen stood there, at the edge of every thought, opening a whole realm of other possibilities.

To contemplate any of them made her uneasy.

She pushed him away, but images of him kept returning: Brashen sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and nodding to her mother’s words; Brashen’s head bent over little Selden as he lifted the boy to carry him off to bed; Brashen standing, legs braced as if on a deck, staring out the window of her father’s study into the night.

Or, she reminded herself tartly, Brashen, repeatedly feeling in the corner of his jacket pocket for the cindin that undoubtedly was there.

The man was the victim of his own bad decisions. Let him go.

Althea hurried out to the entrance. She didn’t want to be late for the meeting tonight.

There were too many portentous things on the agenda.

To her surprise, Malta was already waiting there.

She ran a critical eye over her niece, but found nothing to correct.

She had expected Malta to overindulge in paint, scent and jewellery, but she looked almost as sedate as Althea did.

The flowers in her hair were her only ornamentation.

Yet even simply attired in her Trader’s robe, the young girl was breathtaking.

Althea looked at her and could not fault the young men who admired her.

She was growing up. Over the past day and a half, she had shown far more maturity than Althea had thought she possessed.

It was a shame that it had taken a family crisis to bring it out in her.

She tried to push her nervousness aside and reassure her niece.

‘You look very nice, Malta.’

‘Thank you,’ the girl replied distractedly. She turned to Althea with a frown. ‘I wish we weren’t riding to the meeting with Davad Restart. I don’t think it looks good.’