Both the Marietta and Vivacia rode heavy with spoils. The loading of this last treasure had been a pleasant challenge. Young Rufo had operated the Fortune aggressively, taking nearly every ship they pursued, if he could trust the tales he'd been told. There had been coin aplenty, as well as freed slaves to swell their population. With the aid of the village's head woman, the young pirate had kept a tally. They had showed their record sticks to Kennit as proudly as any steward. He had listened to the accounting of every coin they had spent for lumber or fruit trees or goats. They had even hired themselves several artisans to come and live in Askew. Rufo had saved for Kennit's share the prizes that were most exotic and rare. These treasures they ceded to Kennit with the knowledge that he would take pleasure in them. He had sensed that, and made great display of his delight. It had only fueled their desire to please him more. He had promised them another ship, the next one he took. Well, and why not? They deserved it. Perhaps he would bring the Crosspatch here if her owners were slow to ransom her.

But even pleasure can be taxing. The type of cargo they had taken on could not be treated like crates of salt fish. He had been most particular about how it was stowed, insisting on overseeing it himself. The very best of their prizes, the smallest and most valuable items, he had ordered taken to his cabin. Now as he opened the door, he almost dreaded the delightful task of arranging these new treasures so he would not be crowded. Perhaps he would sleep first and then do it in the morning, after both ships were underway to Divvytown.

He opened the door of his cabin to a wash of golden lamplight and drifting incense. Not again. Did the woman's appetites know no bounds? He expected to find her artfully arranged upon his bed. Instead, she sat in one of two chairs she had drawn close together. A pool of lamplight illuminated her and the open book in her lap. She had on a nightdress, but it was demure rather than seductive. She almost looked like somebody's daughter.

With a glance of annoyance, he realized she had already moved his treasures. His initial response was one of swift outrage. How dared she touch his things! It was followed by a smaller wave of both resignation and relief. Well, at least they were all put away. Nothing stood between him and his bed. He limped over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. The leather cup around his stump was chafing abominably. It needed to be relined again.

"I want to show you something I can do," she said quietly.

He gave a small sigh of exasperation. Did the woman think of nothing but her own pleasures? "Etta, I have had a very long day. Help me with my boot."

Obediently she set her book aside and came to him. She tugged his boot off, then rubbed his foot gently. He closed his eyes. "Fetch me a nightshirt."

She complied quickly. As swiftly as he removed his garments, she shook them out, folded them and returned them to his clothing chest. As he eased the cup and peg off the stump of his leg, he pointed out the abrasion to her. "Cannot you pad this thing so that it stays comfortable?"

She turned the cup, examining the lining. "Were you a less active man, it might be easier. I will try silk this time. Despite its softness, it is a sturdy material."

"Good. I'll need it by morning." He hopped onto his leg, pulled the bedding open and sat down on the linens. They were cool and clean as he lay back in them. The pillow smelled of lavender. He closed his eyes.

Her soft clear voice broke into his emptying mind:

"Our souls have loved a thousand times.

Down pathways we no longer recall, we have ventured in other lives. I know you too well, love you too deeply, for this to be the growth of mere years. As a river carves a course within a valley, so has your soul marked mine with its passage. In other bodies, we have known completeness, such as never-"

He interrupted her recitation wearily. "I have never cared for the Syrenian school of poetry. They speak too plainly. Poetry should not be doggerel. If you are going to memorize something, find something by Eupille or Vergihe." He shouldered deeper into the blankets. He gave a low growl of content and surrendered himself to sleep.

"I didn't memorize it. I was reading it. I can read, Kennit. I can read."

She expected him to be surprised. He was too tired. "That's good. I'm glad Wintrow was able to teach you. Now we'll see if he can teach you what is worth reading."

She set the book aside, and blew out the lamp. It plunged the room into darkness. He heard the soft scuff of her feet as she came to the bed and crawled in beside him. He had to find somewhere else for her to sleep. Perhaps she could hang a hammock in the corner of the room.

"Wintrow says I no longer need his help. Now that I have my letters, he says I should simply explore every manuscript or scroll that comes my way. Only practice will make me read swifter, or write a better hand. That I can do on my own."

Kennit dragged his eyes open. This would not do. Grudgingly he rolled over to face her. "But you would not want that. Surely you have enjoyed the hours you have spent in his company. I know he enjoys teaching you. He has been very honest with me about what a pleasure he takes in your company." He managed a warm chuckle. "The lad is quite enamored of you, you know."

She surprised him. She made no attempt to dissemble. "I know. He's a sweet boy, and gently mannered. I understand now why you are so fond of him. He has given me a gift that I shall keep the rest of my life."

"Well. I hope you thanked him appropriately." All he wanted to do was sleep. At the same time, he could not resist this conversation. It sounded as if perhaps his scheme might bear fruit. She had called him a sweet boy. He had seen how Wintrow's eyes followed her when she was on deck. Had they acted on the impulse yet? Did she, perhaps, already carry an heir for his liveship? He slid his hand down her arm as if he were caressing her, then set his hand flat on her belly. The tiny skull still jutted from her navel. Time, he cautioned his disappointment. These things took time. If he penned them together long enough, they would breed. So it had always worked with his family's pigeons, goats and pigs when he was a boy.

"In truth, I don't know how to thank him," Etta demurred.

The answer to that was obvious to Kennit, but he refrained from stating it baldly. "I think the lad is lonely. Show him that you have become fond of him and enjoy his company. That will please him. Think of what knowledge you have that he might benefit from, and teach him. That would seem an appropriate exchange to me."

There. Was that too broad of a suggestion for her to take?

"I know so little," she faltered after a moment. "What would Win-trow learn from someone like me?"

Kennit sighed and tried again. Delicately, he reminded himself. Delicately. "Oh, I am sure you know far more of the world than he does. The boy has spent most of his life in a monastery. He may know much of letters and the arts, but he is woefully ignorant of more worldly skills. Your situation, of course, was just the opposite. So, share with him what life taught you. Teach the boy to be a man. He could have no better instructor." He stroked the length of her body.

She was silent. He could almost hear her thinking. "I would like to give him… Kennit, would you mind greatly if I gave him something of yours? Something from our cargo?"

This was not quite what he had in mind, but it was along the right path. Who knew where her gift giving might end, once she had started? "Do not hesitate," he encouraged her. "I am, as you know, very fond of the boy. I do not mind sharing with him what is mine."

WINTROW CAME AWAKE TO HIS DOOR OPENING. SOMEONE CAME SILENTLY into his cabin and shut the door stealthily. For a moment, fear paralyzed him. He had slept better since Sa'Adar was no more, but he had always feared that some of the ex-slaves would blame him for their leader's death. He caught his breath and held it. He tried to edge silently over in his bed. Maybe the first attack would miss him and he'd have a chance to escape. Whoever it was crossed to the small desk in his room and set something down there.