a moment to size him up before approaching. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five. His chestnut hair was confined under a yellow kerchief marked with the Raven insignia. His eyes were grey, and the old slave tattoo on his face had been over-needled with a dark blue raven that almost obscured it. Despite his youth, Brig had a decisive air that made even older men jump to his orders. Kennit had chosen well in putting him in charge of the Vivacia until he recovered.
Wintrow took a deep breath. He approached the older man with respect but dignity. He needed Brig to recognize him as a man. Wintrow waited until the man’s eyes swung to meet his own. Brig looked at him silently. Wintrow spoke softly but clearly. ‘I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Do you?’ Brig challenged. His eyes flicked away, up to his lookout man.
‘I do,’ Wintrow replied firmly. ‘Your captain’s leg gets no better. How much longer will it take us to get to Bull Creek?’
‘Day and a half,’ Brig told him, after brief consideration. ‘Maybe two.’ The expression on his face never seemed to change.
Wintrow nodded to himself. ‘I think we can wait that long. There are supplies I’d like to have before I try to cut. I hope we can get them there. In the meantime, I could keep him stronger if I had better supplies. When the slaves rose up against the crew, they ransacked much of the ship. The medical chest has been missing since then. It would be very useful to me now.’
‘No one’s owned up to taking it?’
Wintrow gave a small shrug. ‘I’ve asked but no one has answered. Many of the freed slaves are reluctant to talk to me. I think Sa’Adar is turning them against me.’ He hesitated. That sounded self-pitying. He would not gain Brig’s respect by whining. He went on more judiciously. ‘Maybe they do not realize what they have. Or in the confusion of the storm and the uprising, someone may have taken it, discarded it, and it may have gone overboard.’ Wintrow took a breath and got back to his intent. ‘There were things in it that could make your captain more comfortable.’
Brig tossed him a brief glance. He looked unconcerned, but he suddenly bellowed, ‘Caj!’
Wintrow braced himself to be seized and hustled along. Instead, when the man appeared, Brig ordered, ‘Shake down everyone on board. The medical chest is missing. If someone has it, I want it found. At the very least, I want to know who touched it last. Do it.’
‘Aye,’ Caj replied, and hastened away.
When Wintrow did not leave, Brig sighed out through his nose. ‘Something else?’ he demanded.
‘My father is ’
‘SHIP!’ the lookout suddenly sang out. An instant later, he called, ‘Chalcedean galley, but flying the flag of the Satrap’s Patrol. They’re coming up fast with oars and sail. They must have been laying back in that inlet.’
‘Damn,’ Brig spat. ‘He did it! The son of a whore brought in Chalcedean mercenaries. Clear the decks!’ he suddenly roared. ‘Working crew only! Everyone else below and out of the way. Get some sail on!’
Wintrow was moving, sprinting towards the figurehead. He dodged men nimbly. The deck became as busy as a stirred ant-nest. Ahead of them, the Marietta was sheering off in one direction as Vivacia leaned in another. Wintrow gained the foredeck and then clung to the bow railing. Behind him, he heard thin shouts as the Chalcedean ship hailed them. Brig did not bother to reply.
‘I don’t understand!’ Vivacia called to him. ‘Why do Chalcedean war galleys fly the Satrap’s colours?’
‘I heard rumours of it in Jamaillia. Satrap Cosgo hired Chalcedeans to patrol the Inside Passage. They’re supposed to clear out the pirates, but that doesn’t explain why they’d pursue us. A moment!’ He flung himself into the rigging, scrabbling up to where he had a better view of what was going on. The Chalcedean ship in pursuit was built for warfare, not trade. In addition to her sail, two banks of slaves plied her oars. She was long and lean and her decks swarmed with fighting men. The spring sunlight glinted on helms and swords. The Satrap’s flag with the white spires of Jamaillia on a blue field looked incongruous above the galley’s blood-red sail.
‘He invites their warships into our waters?’ Vivacia was incredulous. ‘Is he mad? The Chalcedeans are without honour. This is like putting the thief to guard your warehouse.’ She glanced fearfully over her shoulder. ‘Do they pursue us?’
‘Yes,’ Wintrow said succinctly. His heart thundered within him. What should he hope? That they escaped cleanly, or that the Chalcedean patrol boat caught them? The pirates would not surrender the Vivacia without a battle. There would be more bloodshed. If the Chalcedeans prevailed, would they restore Vivacia to her legal owners? Perhaps. He suspected they would take the ship back to Jamaillia for the Satrap’s decision. The slaves huddled belowdecks would be enslaved once more, and they knew it. They would fight. The slaves outnumbered the boarders that the Chalcedean vessel could be carrying, but they were unarmed and inexperienced. A great deal of bloodshed, he decided.
So. Should he urge Vivacia to flee, or dawdle? Before he could even voice his uncertainty, the decision was snatched from him.
The smaller, sleeker vessel, driven by oars as well as wind, was gaining on them. For the first time, Wintrow noted the cruel war ram at the bow of the galley. A flight of arrows rose from the Chalcedean’s deck. Wintrow cried out a wordless warning to Vivacia. Some were aflame as they arced toward the ship. The first volley fell short, but they had made their intention plain.
In a display of both seamanship and daring, the Marietta suddenly heeled over, changing her course into a curve that would take her behind Vivacia and right across the Chalcedean ship’s bow. Wintrow thought he glimpsed the pirate Sorcor on the deck, exhorting his men to greater efforts. The Raven flag blossomed suddenly, a taunting challenge to the Chalcedeans. For a moment, it gave Wintrow pause. What sort of a captain was this pirate Kennit to be able to command such loyalty in his men? Sorcor’s plain intention was to draw the pursuit off his captain and to himself.
From Wintrow’s perch, he saw the Marietta rock suddenly as her deck-mounted catapults lofted a shower of ballast at the patrol vessel. Some of the stones fell short, sending white gouts of water leaping from the waves, but a satisfying amount of it rattled down onto the decks of the galley. It wrought havoc among the oarsmen. The steady beating of the oars suddenly looked like the wild scrabbling of a many-legged insect. The gap between the patrol vessel and Vivacia steadily and swiftly widened. The Marietta did not look as if she were staying to fight. Having worked her mischief, she was now piling on canvas and fleeing. As the galley regained the beat of its oars, it shot off in pursuit of her. Wintrow strained to see, but the helmsman was taking Vivacia into the lee of an island. His view was blocked. He suddenly understood the ruse. The Vivacia would be taken swiftly out of sight while the Marietta lured the pursuit well away.
He clambered down to drop lightly to the deck. ‘Well. That was interesting,’ he remarked wryly to Vivacia. But the ship was distracted.
‘Kennit,’ she replied.
‘What about him?’ Wintrow asked.
‘Boy!’ The woman’s sharp voice came from behind him. He turned to see Etta glaring at him. ‘The captain wants you. Now.’ She spoke peremptorily, but her eyes were not on him. Her gaze locked with Vivacia’s. The figurehead’s face grew impassive.
‘Wintrow. Stand still,’ she ordered him softly.
Vivacia lifted her voice to speak to the pirate. ‘His name is Wintrow Vestrit,’ she pointed out to Etta with patrician disdain. ‘You will not call him “boy”.’ Vivacia shifted her eyes to Wintrow. She smiled at him benignly and politely observed, ‘I hear Captain Kennit calling for you. Would you go to him, please, Wintrow?’
‘Immediately,’ he promised her and complied. As he walked away from them, he wondered what Vivacia had been demonstrating. He would not make the mistake of thinking that she had been defending him from Etta. No. That exchange had been about the struggle for dominance