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‘No. A tattoo does not make me a slave,’ Wintrow agreed.

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment.

‘It is my blood that binds me to Vivacia almost as firmly as chains. The bond between us grows stronger with every passing day. I think that perhaps, I could still leave her and find completeness in a life dedicated to Sa. But that would be a selfish act, one that would leave her forever hollowed by my absence. I do not think I could find serenity, knowing that I had left her.’

Kennit cocked his head. ‘And you do not think she could ever accept me in your stead? For I only want what will make the both of you happy. Your monastery for you, if it can be managed without destroying the ship’s spirit.’

Wintrow shook his head slowly. ‘It would have to be someone of my blood. Someone who shares a family tie with the ship. Only that could keep her from going mad at the abandonment.’

‘I see,’ Kennit said pensively. ‘Well. That does leave us in a fix, doesn’t it?’ He patted the boy’s shoulder comfortingly. ‘Perhaps I shall be able to think of something that would make us all happy.’

The water moving against the hull made a pleasant sound.

Vivacia was underway once more, flanking the Crosspatch with Marietta.

Kennit wanted all three ships well away from the ambush site.

Kennit had told Etta that ransom was more swiftly paid when preceded by uncertainty.

The Crosspatch would simply disappear for a time.

He would take the ship to Divvytown first, to show off his prize and his captives.

In a month or two, he would arrange for word to be sent to Chalced that the ship and the survivors could be ransomed.

The cargo he would dispose of himself. Etta had already helped herself to some of it.

She smoothed the fabric that lay across her lap, marvelling yet again at its texture before putting more thread on her needle.

The night was dark around the ships now.

Kennit himself was on the wheel. Etta tried not to be annoyed at that.

After all the time he had spent talking with the ship earlier today, it seemed as if he could rest now.

It had been a long day for all of them. She herself had sewn up Sorcor’s arm.

The big man had sat still, teeth clenched in a grin of pain as she closed the long slash.

She didn’t enjoy such work, but at least he hadn’t been screaming like poor Opal.

They had brought Opal over to the Vivacia to heal him.

He’d struggled as they pinned him down on the foredeck as if they were going to flog him.

A sword cut had laid open his cheek and nose to the bone.

The gash had to be stitched closed if he was ever going to eat normally again.

Evening was falling; they hung a lantern and the light fell upon him in a circle.

There had been a surgeon on the Crosspatch among the slaves.

At Wintrow’s earnest request, Kennit had sent for him as well.

Opal would not allow anyone to touch the wound.

When Wintrow tried to hold the flesh together for the surgeon to stitch, the boy had shrieked and thrown his head about so wildly they had given it up.

The surgeon decided they must bleed him to ease the force of the pain, and this he did until Opal subsided.

Etta had watched for a time whilst Kennit spent the time explaining the process to the ship.

The pain the boy endured was necessary: he could not be healed without it.

Kennit compared it to the necessary killing he did in his effort to rid these waters of slavers.

Wintrow had scowled at the words, but his task of catching Opal’s blood had kept him busy.

He had been very conscientious about it, insisting that canvas be put down thickly to keep even a drop from staining the liveship’s decks.

Eventually Opal’s hoarse cries of pain subsided to muted little sighs and they took up their needles to make the boy’s face whole again.

He would never be as pretty as he had been, but he would be able to eat.

It had been Opal’s first time to be part of a boarding party. Bad luck had caught him, that was all.

Etta finished the last looping stitches of the hem.

She bit off the thread, stood up, and unfastened her skirt.

It fell to the floor around her feet in a scarlet puddle.

She stepped into her new creation, drew it up, and fastened it at her waist. She did not know the proper name for this fabric.

It had a crisp texture, crinkling deliciously under her hands as she smoothed it.

It was a cedar green, but when she moved, it caught the lamplight in watermarks on the fabric, making the colour ripple gently.

The feel of the cloth pleased her the most. She ran her hands over it again, sleeking it against her hips.

It made a slight crackling sound. Kennit would like it.

He could appreciate sensation, at those times when he let himself focus on it.

Not that those times had been as frequent lately as she could hope for.

She looked into the glass in his cabin and shook her head at herself.

Ungrateful woman. It had not been that long since he was flat on his back, burning with fever.

She should be grateful that he had recovered his manly appetites at all.

She had heard that some never did after they had been maimed.

She picked up a brush and drew it through her thick hair, sleeking it down.

She was letting it grow longer. Soon it would be to her shoulders.

She thought of his hands in her hair and his weight upon her, and felt her blood stir.

When she had been a whore, she had never imagined she would come to this.

Longing for a man’s touch, rather than wishing they would just get on with it and finish.

Then again, she had never imagined that she would feel jealous of a ship.

Now that was foolishness. She lifted her chin to put scent on her throat.

She sniffed it critically. This was a new fragrance, also taken from the Crosspatch just today.

Spicy and sweet. She decided it would do.

She resolved to have more faith in Kennit.

Didn’t he have enough on his mind, without her giving in to feelings of jealousy?

Foolish jealousy at that. It was a ship, not a woman.

She drifted about the cabin, tidying after Kennit.

He was always drawing or writing something.

Sometimes she watched him, when he allowed it.

The skill fascinated her. His pen moved so swiftly, scratching down the precise marks.

She paused to look at some of the scrolls before she rolled them and moved them to his chart table.

How did he remember what all the little marks meant?

It was a man’s skill, she supposed. From the deck outside, she heard Brig’s voice raised in command.

Shortly thereafter, she heard the anchor going down. So they would stop for the night. Good.

She left the cabin and went looking for Kennit.

She made her way to the foredeck. Wintrow sat cross-legged on the deck by Opal, keeping vigil with him.

She looked down on the injured ship’s boy.

The stitches had drawn the edges of the cut together.

That was all that could be said for their work.

She crouched down to touch his brow. As she did so, her skirts crinkled out pleasantly around her. ‘He feels chilled to me,’ she observed.

Wintrow glanced up at her. He was paler than Opal. ‘I know.’ He snugged a blanket more closely about his patient. More to himself than to her, he added, ‘He seems so weak. I am sure the surgeon did what was best. I wish the night was warmer.’

‘Why not take him below, away from the night chill?’

‘I think he takes more good from being here than he would from being below.’

She cocked her head at him. ‘You believe your ship has healing powers?’

‘Not on the body. But she lends strength to his spirit, and helps it heal the body.’

She straightened up slowly, but remained looking down on him. ‘I thought that was what your Sa did,’ she observed.

‘It is,’ he agreed.

She could have mocked him then, asking him if he still needed a god if he had this ship. Instead, she suggested, ‘Go get some sleep. You look exhausted.’

‘I am. But I’m going to sit with him tonight. It doesn’t seem right to leave him alone.’

‘Where did the surgeon go?’

‘Over to the Marietta. There are other injured men there. He’s done what he could do here. Now it is up to Opal.’

‘And your ship,’ she could not resist adding. She glanced about the foredeck. ‘Have you seen Kennit?’

Wintrow glanced towards the figurehead. It took her a moment to pick out his silhouette, for he shared a shadow with Vivacia.

‘Oh,’ she said quietly. She did not usually seek him out when he was talking to the ship.

But having asked after him aloud, she could not very well just walk away.

Trying to appear casual, she joined him at the bow rail.

For a time, she did not speak. He had selected a small cove in one of the lesser islands for their anchorage.

The Crosspatch rocked nearby, and the Marietta just beyond her.

They showed few lights, but those few zigzagged away in reflections on the water.

The wind had died off to an insistent breeze that made a faint music in the rigging.

So close to land, the smell of the trees and plants was as strong as the saltwater.

After a moment, she observed, ‘The attack went well today.’

‘Are you telling me that because you think I don’t know it?’ He put a small bite of sarcasm on his words.

‘Will you do it again? Use that channel that way?’

‘I might.’ His brief answer chilled her effort at conversation.