Mad Ship

It was no good. He could not make it come together. The long day was broken into pieces that he could not reconcile. Some parts, he knew, were from his dreams. Others seemed relentlessly real. Had he actually cut off a man's leg earlier this afternoon? That seemed the most unlikely recollection of all. He closed his eyes and groped toward Vivacia. He was aware of her, as he always was whenever he reached toward her. A wordless communion was constant between them. He could feel that much of her, but she seemed distracted. Not disinterested in him so much as intrigued with something else. Perhaps she was as disoriented as he was. Well. It was not going to do any good to lie here.

He rolled his head and looked up at Ke

He drew a deep breath, and got his arms under him. He pushed up carefully from the deck, fighting his way through a wall of vertigo. Never had a working trance so weakened him. He still was not quite sure what he had done, or if he had truly done anything at all. In his work trances at the monastery, he had learned how to engage completely with his art. Immersed in it, the various tasks of creation became a whole act. It seemed he had somehow applied that to healing Ke

Once on his feet, he moved carefully toward the bed. Was this how it felt to be drunk, he wondered? Unsteady and dizzy, seeing colors as too bright, edges of objects sharply defined? It could not be. This was not pleasant. No one would willingly seek out these sensations. He halted at the edge of the bed. He dreaded checking the bandages on Ke

"Don't wake him, please."

Etta's voice was so gentle he almost did not recognize it. He turned his whole body to see her. She was seated in a chair in the corner of the room. There were hollows under her eyes that he had not noticed before. Dark blue fabric overlay her lap while she plied a busy needle. She looked up at him, bit off a thread, turned her work and began a new seam.

"I have to see if he's still bleeding." His words sounded thick and misshapen to his ears.

"He doesn't seem to be. However, if you disturb the bandages to check the wound, you might start blood flowing. Best to leave well enough alone."

"Has he awakened at all?" His mind was starting to clear itself.

"Briefly. Right after you… brought him back. I gave him water, lots of it. Then he dozed off again. He's slept ever since."

Wintrow rubbed at his eyes. "How long has that been?"

"Nearly all night," she told him placidly. "It will be dawn soon."

He could not fathom her kindly ma

"Sleep where you were," she suggested. "It's clean and warm in here. You're close to Ke

"Thank you," he said awkwardly. He was not sure that he wanted to sleep on the deck here. His bed would be the deck no matter where he went on the ship, but the thought of having a stranger watching him while he slept was u

He returned to his blanket on the floor, rather like a dog returning to its designated spot. He sat but could not bring himself to lie down. Instead, he shawled the blanket over his shoulders. He looked at Etta until she returned his gaze. "How did you become a pirate?" he abruptly asked her. He hadn't realized he was going to speak until the words popped out.

She took a breath, then spoke thoughtfully. There was no trace of regret in her voice. "I worked as a whore in a house in Divvytown. Ke

He stared at her. Her words had shocked him. Not her admission that she had killed men for Ke

She frowned at him, thinking he rebuked her. Her eyes were straight and flat as she said, "I was a whore's daughter." A note of challenge crept into her voice as she asked in turn, "And what were you, before your father made you a slave on his ship?"

"I was a priest of Sa. At least, I was in training to be one."

She lifted one eyebrow. "Really? I'd rather be a whore."

Her words ended their conversation irrevocably. There was nothing he could say in reply. He did not feel offended. She had pointed up the vast gulf between them in a way that denied they could communicate at all, let alone offend one another. She went back to her sewing, her head bent over her work. Her face was carefully expressionless. Wintrow felt he had lost a chance. Moments ago, it had seemed that she had opened a door to him. Now the barrier was back, solid as ever. Why should he care, he asked himself, for the depth of his disappointment surprised him. Because she was a back door to influencing Ke

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to sweep aside all social artifice. When he spoke, his words were sincere. "Please. Can we try again? I'd like to be friends."

Etta looked up in surprise. Then her expression changed to a humorless smile. "In case I can save your life later? By intervening with Ke

"No!" he protested.

"That's good. Because I have no influence over Ke

Wintrow sensed an opening. "I would not ask you to. I just… it would be nice to talk to someone. Just to talk. So much has befallen me recently. My friends are all dead, my father despises me, the slaves I helped do not seem to recall what I did for them, I suspect Sa'Adar would like to do away with me…" His voice trailed away as he realized how self-pitying he sounded. He took a breath, but what came out next sounded even whinier. "I'm more alone than I've ever been. And I have no idea of what will become of me next."