“The mate won't do,” Wintrow asserted softly.
Kyle ignored him. He stepped to the door, opened it and leaned out to bellow, “GANTRY!” for the mate. “I'm captain of this ship,” he told Wintrow in the intervening space of quiet. “And on this ship, I say what will or will not do. And I say who does what. The mate does this sort of doctoring, not I.”
“I had thought my father might prefer to do it himself,” Wintrow essayed quietly. “But I see you have no stomach for it. I'll wait for the mate on the foredeck, then.”
“It's not a matter of stomach,” Kyle railed at him, and in that moment Vivacia glimpsed what Wintrow had done. He had shifted this, somehow, from a matter between the ship's boy and the captain to something between a father and a son.
“Then come and watch, father. To give me courage.” Wintrow made his request. No plea, but a simple request. He stepped out of the cabin without waiting to be dismissed, not even pausing for an answer. As he walked away, Gantry approached the door, to be harshly ordered to fetch his surgeon's kit and come to the foredeck. Wintrow did not pause but paced calmly back to the foredeck.
“They're coming,” he told Vivacia quietly. “My father and the mate, to cut off my finger. I pray I don't scream.”
“You've the will,” Vivacia promised him. “Put your hand flat to my deck for the cut. I'll be with you.”
The boy made no reply to that. A light breeze filled her sails and blew to her the scent of his sweat and fear. He only sat patiently picking the last of the bandaging from his injured hand. “No.” He spoke the word with finality. “There's no saving this. Better to be parted from it before it poisons my whole body.” She felt him let go of the finger, felt him remove it from his perception of his body. In his mind, he had already done the deed.
“They come,” Vivacia said softly.
“I know.” He gave a nervous giggle, chilling to hear. “I feel them. Through you.”
It was his first acknowledgment of such a thing. Vivacia wished it could have come at a different time, when they could have spoken about it privately, or simply been alone together to explore the joining. But the two men were on the foredeck, and Wintrow reflexively surged to his feet and turned to face them. His injured hand rested upon the palm of his good one like an offering.
Kyle jerked his chin toward his son. “Boy thinks you need to take his finger off. What do you think?”
Wintrow's heart seemed to pause in his chest, then begin again. Wordlessly he presented his hand to the mate. Gantry glanced at it and bared his teeth in his distaste. “The boy is right.” He spoke to his captain, not Wintrow. He gripped Wintrow's right wrist firmly and turned his hand to see the finger from all sides. He gave a short grunt of disgust. “I'll be having a word with Torg. I should have seen this hand before now. Even if we take the finger off now, the lad will need a day or so of rest, for it looks to me like the poison from the finger has worked into the hand.”
“Torg knows his business,” Kyle replied. “No man can predict everything.”
Gantry looked levelly at his captain. There was no argument in his voice as he observed, “But Torg has a mean streak to him, and it comes out worst when he thinks he has one who should be his better at his mercy. It's what drove Brashen awry; the man was a good hand, save when Torg was prodding him. Torg, he picks a man, and doesn't know when to leave off riding him.” Gantry went on carefully, “It's not a matter of favoritism. Don't fear that. I don't care what this lad's name is, sir. He's a working hand aboard the ship, and a ship runs best when all hands can work.” He paused. “I'll be having a word with Torg,” he repeated, and this time Kyle made no reply. Gantry's next words were to Wintrow.
“You're ready to do this.” It wasn't really a question, mostly an affirmation that the boy had seen the right of it.
“I am.” Wintrow's voice had gone low and deep. He went down on one knee, almost as if he were pledging his loyalty to someone, and set his injured hand flat on Vivacia's deck. She closed her eyes. She concentrated on that touch, on the splayed fingers pressing against the wizardwood planking of the foredeck. She was wordlessly grateful that the foredeck was planked with wizardwood. It was almost an unheard-of use for the expensive wood, but today she would see that it would be worth every coin the Vestrits had pledged for it. She gripped his hand, adding her will to his that it would not move from the place where he had set it.
The mate had crouched beside him and was unrolling a canvas kit of tools. Knives and probes rested in canvas pockets, while needles were pierced through the canvas. Some were ready threaded with fine fish-gut twine. As the last of the kit bounced open, it revealed the saws, toothed both fine and coarse. Wintrow swallowed. Beside them Gantry set out bandages of lint and linen.
