Then he set all such thoughts aside. He came to a battered door guarded by two sullen map-faces. He stepped past the former slaves as if he did not see them and knocked on Gantry's cabin door. At least, it had been the mate's while he was still alive. Now the stripped and looted room was his father's prison cell. He did not wait for a reply, but entered.

His father sat on the edge of the bare bunk. The stare he lifted to Wintrow's face was an uneven one. Blood filled the white of one eye in his swollen and discolored face. Kyle Haven's posture suggested pain and despair, but there was only acid sarcasm in his greeting. "Nice of you to recall me. I had supposed you were too busy groveling to your new masters."

Wintrow held back a sigh. "I came to see you earlier, but you were sleeping. I knew rest would heal you more than anything I could offer. How are your ribs?"

"Afire. My head throbs with every beat of my heart. And I'm hungry as well as thirsty." He made a slight motion with his chin toward the door. "Those two won't even let me out for some air."

"I left food and water here for you earlier. Didn't you…?"

"Yes, I found it. A gill of water and two pieces of dry bread." There was suppressed fury in his father's voice.

"It was all I could get for you. There is a shortage of food and fresh water aboard. During the storm, much of the food was spoiled by saltwater…"

"Gobbled down by the slaves, you mean." Kyle shook his head in disgust and then winced. "They didn't even have the sense to know they'd have to ration food. They kill the only men who can sail the ship in the midst of a storm, and then eat or destroy half the rations on board. They are no more fit to be in charge of themselves than a flock of chickens. I hope you are pleased with the freedom you dispensed to them. It's as like to be their deaths as their salvation."

"They freed themselves, Father," Wintrow said stubbornly.

"But you did nothing to stop them."

"Just as I did nothing to stop you from bringing them aboard in chains." Wintrow took a breath to go on, then stopped himself. No matter how he tried to justify what he had done, his father would never accept his reasons. Kyle's words nudged the bruises on Wintrow's conscience. Were the deaths of the crew his fault, because he had done nothing? If that was so, then was he also responsible for the deaths of the slaves before the uprising? The thought was too painful to consider.

In an altered tone he went on, "Do you want me to tend your injuries, or try to find food for you?"

"Did you find the medical supplies?"

Wintrow shook his head. "They're still missing. No one has admitted taking them. They may have been lost overboard during the storm."

"Well, without them, there is little you can do for me," his father pointed out cynically. "Food would be nice, however."

Wintrow refused to be irritated. "I'll see what I can do," he said softly.

"Of course you will," his father replied snidely. His voice lowered abruptly as he asked, "And what will you do about the pirate?"

"I don't know," Wintrow admitted honestly. He met his father's eyes squarely as he added, "I'm afraid. I know I have to try to heal him. But I don't know which is worse, the prospect of him surviving and us continuing as prisoners, or him dying and us with him, and the ship having to go on alone."

His father spat on the deck, an action so unlike him that it was as shocking as a blow. His eyes glittered like cold stones. "I despise you," he growled. "Your mother must have lain with a serpent, to bring forth something like you. It shames me to have folk name you my son. Look at you. Pirates have taken over your family ship, the livelihood of your mother and sister and little brother. Their very survival depends on you taking this ship back! But you don't even think of that. No. All you wonder is if you will kill or cure the pirate whose boot is on your neck. You have not given one thought to getting weapons for us, or persuading the ship to defy him as she defied me. All the time you wasted nurse-maiding those slaves when they were in chains! Do you try to get any of them to help you now? No. You mouse along and help that damn pirate keep the ship he has stolen from us."

Wintrow shook his head, in wonder as much as sorrow. "You are not rational. What do you expect of me, Father? Am I supposed to single-handedly take this ship back from Kennit and his crew, subdue the slaves into being cargo again and then sail it on to Chalced?"

"You and this devil ship were able to overthrow me and my crew! Why don't you turn the ship against him as you turned her against me? Why can't you, just once, act in the best interests of your family?" His father stood up, his fists clenched as if he would attack Wintrow. Then he abruptly clutched at his ribs, gasping with pain. His face went from the red of anger to the white of shock, and he swayed. Wintrow started forward to catch him.

"Don't touch me!" Kyle snarled threateningly, staggering to the edge of the bunk. He eased himself back onto it. He sat glowering at his son.

What does he see when he looks at me, Wintrow wondered? He supposed he must be a disappointment to the tall, blond man. Small, dark and slight like his mother, Wintrow would never have his father's size or his physical strength. At fourteen, he was physically still more boy than man. But it wasn't just physically that he failed his father's ambitions. His spirit would never match his sire's.

Wintrow spoke softly. "I never turned the ship against you, sir. You did that yourself, with your treatment of her. There is no way I can reclaim her completely at this time. The very best I can hope to do is to keep us alive."

Kyle Haven shifted his gaze to the wall and stared at it stonily. "Go and get me some food." He barked out the order as if he still commanded the ship.

"I will try," Wintrow said coldly. He turned and left the room.

As he dragged the damaged door shut behind him, one of the map-faces spoke to him. The tattooed marks of his many masters crawled on the burly man's face, as he demanded, "Why do you take that from him?"

"What?" Wintrow asked in surprise.

"He treats you like a dog."

"He's my father." Wintrow tried to conceal his dismay that they had listened to their conversation. How much had they overheard?

"He's a horse's ass," the other guard observed coldly. He turned a challenging gaze on Wintrow. "Makes you the son of a horse's ass."

"Shut up!" the first guard snarled. "The boy isn't bad. If you can't remember who was kind to you when you were chained up, I can." His dark eyes came back to Wintrow. He tossed his head at the closed door. "You say the word, boy. I'll make him crawl for you."

"No." Wintrow spoke out clearly. "I don't want that. I don't want anyone to crawl for me." He felt he had to make it absolutely clear to the man. "Please. Don't hurt my father."

The map-face gave a shrug. "Suit yourself. I speak from experience, lad. It's the only way to deal with a man like that. He crawls for you or you crawl for him. It's all he knows."

"Perhaps," Wintrow conceded unwillingly. He started to walk away, then paused. "I don't know your name."

"Villia. You're Wintrow, right?"

"Yes. I'm Wintrow. I'm pleased to know your name, Villia." Wintrow looked at the other guard expectantly.

He frowned and looked uncomfortable. "Deccan," he said finally.

"Deccan," Wintrow repeated, fixing it in his mind. He deliberately met the man's eyes and nodded at him before he turned away. He could sense both amusement and approval from Villia. Such a minor way of standing up for himself, and yet he felt better for having done it. As he emerged onto the deck, blinking in the bright spring sunshine, Sa'Adar stepped into his path. The big priest still looked haggard from his confinement as a slave. The red kiss of the shackles had scarred his wrists and ankles.