Mad Ship by Hobb Robin

beneath that façade, exposed by pain and exhaustion. Wintrow realized his own vulnerability. Kennit would not tolerate the existence of anyone who had seen him as he truly was. Right now Kennit seemed unaware of how much he was revealing. Wintrow felt like the mouse pinioned by the snake’s stare. As long as he kept still, he had a chance to remain undetected. The pirate’s hand grew lax in his grip. Kennit turned his head on his pillow and his eyes began to sag shut.
    Just as Wintrow began to hope he might escape, the door to the cabin opened. Etta entered. She took in the room at a glance. “What did you do to him?” she demanded as she crossed to Kennit’s bedside. “Why is he so still?”
    Wintrow lifted a finger to his lips to shush her. She scowled at that, but nodded. With a jerk of her head, she indicated the far corner of the room. She frowned at how slowly he obeyed her, but Wintrow took his time, easing the pirate’s hand down gently on the quilt and then sliding slowly off the bed so that no movement might disturb Kennit.
    It was all in vain. As Wintrow left his bedside, Kennit said, “You will cut off my leg today.”
    Etta gave a horrified gasp. Wintrow turned back slowly to the man. Kennit had not opened his eyes, but he lifted a long-fingered hand and pointed at him unerringly. “Gather what you have for tools and such, and get the job done. What we do not have, we must do without. I want to be finished with this. One way or another.”
    “Sir,” Wintrow agreed. He changed course, moving hastily toward the door. As swiftly, Etta moved to block him. He found himself looking up into eyes as dark and merciless as a hawk’s. He squared his shoulders for a confrontation. Instead, he saw something like relief in her face. “Let me know how I can help you,” she said simply.
    He bobbed a nod to her request, too shocked to reply, and slipped past her and out the door. A few steps down the companionway, he halted. He leaned suddenly against the wall and allowed the shaking to overtake his body. The bravado of his earlier bargain overwhelmed him. What had been bold words would soon become a bloody task. He had said he would set a knife to Kennit’s flesh, would slice into his body and cut through his bone and separate his leg. Wintrow shook his head before the enormity of the situation could cow him. “There is no path but forward,” he counseled himself, and hastened off to find Brig. As he went, he prayed the medicine chest had been found.
             
    CAPTAIN FINNEY put down his mug, licked his lips and grinned at Brashen. “You’re good at this. You know that?”
    “I suppose,” Brashen reluctantly acknowledged the compliment.
    The smuggler laughed throatily. “But you don’t want to be good at it, do you?”
    Brashen shrugged again. Captain Finney mimicked his shrug, and then went off into hoarse laughter. Finney was a brawny, whiskery-faced man. His eyes were bright as a ferret’s above his red-veined nose. He pawed his mug about on the ring-stained table, then evidently decided he had had enough beer this afternoon. Pushing the mug to one side, he reached for the cindin humidor instead. He twisted the filigreed glass stopper out of the dark wooden container. He turned it on its side and gave it a shake. Several fat sticks of the drug popped into view. He broke a generous chunk off one and then offered the humidor to Brashen.
    Brashen shook his head mutely, then tapped his lower lip significantly. A little plug of the stuff was still burning pleasantly there. Rich, black, and tarry was the cindin that was sending tendrils of well-being throughout his bones. Brashen retained enough wit to know that no one was bribed and flattered unless the other party wanted something. He wondered hazily if he would have enough willpower to oppose Finney if necessary.
    “Sure you won’t have a fresh cut?”
    “No. Thanks.”
    “No, you don’t want to be good at this trade,” Finney went on as