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W ITH THE PREY in sight, all her doubts evaporated like the morning mists on a sunny day.

Wintrow’s shared soul-searching, all his anxieties and structured morality, fell away from her like paint peeling off quickened wizardwood.

She heard the lookout’s shout as the sail came into view and something ancient stirred in her: time to hunt.

When the pirates on her deck took up the lookout’s fierce cry, she herself gave voice, like the shrill ki-ii of a stooping hawk.

First the sail and then the ship came into sight, fleeing madly from the Marietta.

Sorcor’s smaller vessel hounded the prey as Vivacia, concealed behind a headland, swooped out to join the chase.

Her crew drove her on as she had never been driven, piling on canvas until her masts and spars strained to hold the wind’s breath.

The canvas billowing wide, the whistle of the wind past her cheeks stirred in her memories that were not born in human lives.

She lifted her hands and, fingers crooked like talons, reached after the fleeing ship.

A wild thundering filled her heartless, bloodless body, quickening her to a frenzy.

She leaned forward, sleeking her planked body to a fleetness that made her crew whoop with excitement. White spume flew as she cut the waves.

‘You see?’ Kennit cried out in triumph as he clung to her forward rail.

‘It is in your blood, my lady! I knew it! This is what you were made for, not some sedate toting of cargo like a village woman with a bucket of water. After them! Ah, they see you; they see you, look how they scramble! But it will avail them nothing.’

Wintrow dug his fingers into the railing beside Kennit.

Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes in the harsh kiss of the salty wind.

He made not a sound. His jaws were clenched tight, near as tight he held the disapproval inside him.

But the wild pounding of his heart betrayed him.

His blood sang with this wild pursuit. His whole soul quivered in anticipation of the capture.

He might deny this enthusiasm to himself, but he could not hide it from her.

Kennit and Sorcor had not chosen this prey randomly.

The rumour of the Crosspatch had reached Sorcor’s ears weeks ago.

More recently, with his captain’s continuing recovery, he had shared the news with Kennit.

Captain Avery of the Crosspatch had bragged, not only in Jamaillia City but in several smaller ports as well, that no pirate, no matter how daring or righteous would dissuade him from the slave trade.

It had been a foolish boast, Kennit had told Vivacia.

Avery’s reputation was already well known.

He carried only the finest cargo, educated slaves suitable for tutors, house servants and estate managers.

He transported the best of Jamaillia’s civilized wares as well: fine brandies and incenses, perfumes and intricate silverwork.

His customers in Chalced expected the extravagantly fine from him, and paid accordingly for his goods.

While his ship represented a rich target, it was not one that Kennit would have ordinarily chosen.

Why challenge a ship that was fleet and well-armed, crewed by well-disciplined men, when there was easier prey to seize?

But Avery had spoken once too often and once too recklessly.

Such impudence could not be tolerated. Kennit, too, had a reputation to uphold; Avery had been foolish to challenge it.

Kennit had gone to the Marietta more than once to plan this capture with Sorcor. Vivacia knew they had discussed the best places for such an ambush, but knew little more of his plans than that. Her curious questions had received only evasive answers.

As the two ships scissored towards their quarry, Vivacia considered Wintrow’s words from last night.

He had bluntly condemned Kennit. ‘He hunts this ship for glory, not righteousness,’ he had said accusingly.

‘Other slavers carry far more slaves aboard them, in great misery and deprivation. Avery, I have heard, does not chain his charges, but lets them move freely belowdecks. He is generous with both food and water, so his merchandise arrives in good condition and brings fine prices. Kennit chooses to pursue Avery’s ship, not out of hatred of slavery, but for wealth and fame. ’

She had pondered his words for some time.

‘That is not how he feels about it when he thinks of it,’ she answered.

She had not elaborated on that topic further, for she herself was not completely certain of what Kennit felt.

She knew there were depths to him that he concealed from all.

She tried a new tack. ‘I do not think the slaves below his decks will be less grateful for their freedom than those held in squalor and deprivation. Do you think slavery is acceptable, if the slave is treated like a prized horse or dog?’

‘Of course not!’ he retorted and from there, she had steered the conversation into channels she could negotiate more nimbly.

It was only today that she had finally put a name to the emotional undercurrent in Kennit when he spoke of the Crosspatch.

It was the lust of the hunt. The small ship that fled so fleetly before them was a thing of beauty, as irresistible to Kennit as a fluttering butterfly is to a cat.

Pragmatic as he was, he would not have chosen this challenging prey.

Neither could he resist the contest once he had been taunted to it.

As the distance between the Vivacia and the little two-masted Crosspatch closed, Wintrow felt a queasy anticipation build inside him.

Repeatedly, he had warned Kennit that no blood must be shed on the Vivacia’s decks.

He had tried to explain to the pirate that the ship must forever carry the memories of the slain, but he could not convey to him how wearisome a load they were.

If Kennit did not heed him, if the pirate permitted the fighting to reach her decks, or worse, chose to execute prisoners on her decks, Wintrow did not think the ship could handle it.

When Wintrow had gone to plead that Vivacia not be put to piracy, Kennit had listened with a bored air, and then dryly asked him why he thought he had captured the liveship?

Wintrow had chosen to shrug and keep silent.

Further pleading might only drive Kennit to prove his mastery of both ship and boy.

The crew of the Crosspatch was aloft, working the sails desperately.

If the Marietta alone had pursued her, the Crosspatch might have escaped.

The liveship was not only fleeter than the two-master, but in a position to crowd her over in the channel.

For an instant, Wintrow thought the Crosspatch was going to slip past them and gain open water.

Then Wintrow heard an angry command shouted, and saw the slaver spill wind from her sails in a frantic effort to avoid going aground.

Minutes later, the Marietta and Vivacia boxed her.

Grapples soared from the Marietta, to fall and bite into the decks of the Crosspatch.

Her crew gave up their efforts to flee and fell to the tasks of defence.

They were well-prepared. Firepots were launched, to splatter flames on the Marietta’s hull and deck.

Men donned light leather armour and took up blades with casual competence.

Other men with bows slung over their shoulders were moving swiftly up the Crosspatch’s rigging.

On the Marietta, some pirates tended to the defence of their own vessel, smothering the flames with wet canvas while others worked the catapults.

A steady rain of rocks fell upon the Crosspatch.

Meanwhile the grapples pulled the unfortunate ship ever closer to the Marietta where a bloodthirsty boarding-party crowded the rails in anticipation.

The fighters aboard the Marietta outnumbered the crew of the Crosspatch substantially.

Aboard the Vivacia, men lined the railing enviously.

They catcalled and whooped advice to their pirate brethren.

Archers ascended the Vivacia’s rigging, and a random rain of arrows began to fall on the crew and deck of the Crosspatch.

That was the extent of their participation in the battle, but it was a deadly one.

The fighters trying to defend the Crosspatch had to remember there was a second enemy at their backs.

Hissing arrows skewered those who forgot.

Kennit held the Vivacia back at the edge of the action, her bow pointed towards the conflict.

He stood on the foredeck, his hands clutching the railing.

He spoke in a low voice as if he were instructing her.

Every now and then, a gust of wind would bring his muttered words to Wintrow’s ears, but they were obviously intended for Vivacia.

‘There, you see him? First across the railings and onto the enemy’s deck, him in the red kerchief.

That’s Sudge, a fine rascal, always has to be first. Behind him, now that’s Rog.

The lad idolizes Sudge, which may get him killed some day –’