Mad Ship

Ke

Wintrow smelled the sourness of vomit on the sea air. "Don't let him choke!" he said abruptly, but it was not Ke

He looked down, sickened, at what he had wrought. This was not a neatly sliced piece of meat like a holiday roast. This was living flesh. Freed of their attachments, the bundled muscles sagged and contracted unevenly. The bone glistened up at him like an accusing eye. Everywhere was the spreading blood. He knew with vast certainty that he had killed the man.

Do not think that, Vivacia warned him. Then, almost pleading, Do not force him to believe that. For right now, linked as we all are, he must believe what we think. He has no choice.

With blood-smeared hands, Wintrow found the small bottle that held the kwazi fruit rind. He had heard of its potency, but it seemed like a pitifully small amount to stop such vast pain. He unstoppered it. He tried to pour it sparingly, to save some against tomorrow's pain. The pieces of preserved rind clogged in the bottleneck. He shook it, and the pale green liquid splattered forth unevenly. Where it fell on Ke

He tried to remember all that he had seen Sa'Parte do when he had cut off the man's leg. He had tied the ends of some bleeding arteries, folding them back on themselves and closing them off. Wintrow tried. He was suddenly tired and confused; he could not remember how many the healing priest had sewn. All he wanted to do was get away from this gory mess he had created. He longed to flee, curl up in a ball somewhere and deny this. He forced himself to go on. He folded the slab of skin up over the raw end of Ke

"Hold him fast still. If he stirs while I am stitching, he may tear all my work apart."

The flap did not fit neatly. Wintrow did the best he could, stretching the skin where he had to. He wrapped the stump with lint and bound it I with silk. As fast as he hid it, the blood seeped through, smearing from his sticky hands, oozing out to blossom through the fabric. Wintrow lost count of how many layers he wrapped it in. When he was finally finished, he wiped his hands down the front of his robe yet again and then reached for the cinch. When he loosened it, the clean bandaging almost instantly reddened. Wintrow wanted to scream in horror and frustration. How could there be that much blood in a man? How could so much of it gush out of him, and yet leave him still clinging to life's thread? His own heart was thundering with fear as he wrapped it once again. Supporting the stump in his hands, he said dully, "I'm finished. We can move him now."

Etta lifted her head from Ke

It was an awkward trip. He had to be maneuvered down the short ladder to the main deck. Once they had crossed it, there were the narrow corridors of the officers' living quarters to navigate. Every time the wooden handles of the litter rapped against a wall and jostled Ke

Wintrow lingered a moment longer. Etta scowled at him as he touched Ke

"Now what?" she asked dully when Wintrow finished.

"Now we wait and we pray," the boy replied. "That is all we can do."

She made a small contemptuous sound and pointed at the door. Wintrow left.

HER DECK WAS A MESS. THE BLOOD SOAKING INTO IT MADE A HEAVY PLACE.

Vivacia's eyes were half-closed against the brightness of the westering sun. She could feel Ke

Wintrow moved on her foredeck, tidying up the mess. He damped a left-over piece of bandaging in his bucket of water. He wiped each knife as he put it away, cleaning the needles and the saw carefully. He stowed it all in the medicine chest, methodically returning it to order. He had washed his hands and forearms and wiped the blood from his face, but the front of his robe was stiff and soaked with it. He wiped clean the bottle of kwazi-fruit essence and considered what was left. "Not much," he muttered to her. "Well, it matters little. I doubt that Ke

He staggered back with a low cry as the white serpent's head shot out of the water to snatch the leg out of the air before it could even splash into the sea. As swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone and the leg with it. Wintrow darted back to the rail. He clung there, staring down into the green depths, looking for some pale flicker of the creature. "How did it know?" Wintrow demanded hoarsely. "It was waiting, it seized the leg before it touched water. How could it have known?" Before she could answer, he went on, "I thought that serpent was gone, driven away. What does it want, why does it follow us?"