“No, sir? Ah, well.” With a casualness that could not have been faked, Wintrow walked to the bow of the ship. For a moment he made a show of studying the finger he held in his hand. The nail, torn and dirtied in his work, the mangled flesh and crushed bone of it. Then he flipped the small piece of flesh overboard as if it were nothing at all, had never been connected to him in any way. There he remained, not leaning on the railing but standing straight beside her. He looked far ahead to a distant horizon. To a future he had been promised that now seemed far further than days or distance could make it. He swayed very slightly on his feet. No one else moved or spoke. Even the captain was still, his eyes fastened to his son as if their gaze could pierce him. Cords of muscle stood out on his neck.
Gantry spoke. “Mild. Take him below. See him to his berth. Check on him at each bell. Come to me if he runs a high fever or is delirious.” He rolled up his tools and tied the canvas round them. He opened a wooden case and sorted through some bottles and packets in it. He did not even look up as he added quietly, “You others should find your duties before I find them for you.”
It was enough of a threat. The men dispersed. His words had been simple, the commands well within the range of his duties as mate. But no one could miss that in a very evasive way, Gantry had come between the captain and his son. He had done it as smoothly as he might for any other man aboard who had brought himself too sharply to the captain's attention. It was not an unheard of thing for the mate to do; he'd done it often enough before when Kyle had first taken over the Vivacia. But never before had he interfered between the captain and his son. That he had done so now marked his acceptance of Wintrow as a genuine member of the crew, rather than as the captain's spoiled son, brought along for the sake of his discipline.
Mild made himself small and unnoticed as he waited. After a time, Captain Haven turned without a word and stalked aft. Mild watched him go for a time, then jerked his eyes away, as if it were somehow shameful to watch his captain retreat to his own quarters.
“And Mild,” Gantry suddenly went on, as if there had been no pause. “Assist Wintrow in moving his gear and bedding to the forecastle. He'll bunk with the rest of the men. Once he's settled, give him this. No more than a spoonful and bring the rest back to me right away. It's laudanum,” he added, raising his voice for Wintrow's benefit. “I want him to sleep. It'll speed the healing.” He handed the boy the fat brown bottle, then rose and tucked the rest of his supplies under his arm. With no more than that, Gantry turned and walked away.
“Yessir,” Mild agreed. He moved up shyly to Wintrow's side. When the other boy did not deign to notice him, he nerved himself to tug at Wintrow's sleeve. “You heard what the mate said,” he reminded him awkwardly.
“I'd rather stay here.” Wintrow's voice had gone drifting and dreamy. The pain, Vivacia realized, must be paid for sooner or later. He had kept his body from reacting to it at the time, but the price now was complete exhaustion.
“I know,” Mild said, almost kindly. “But it was an order.”
Wintrow sighed heavily and turned. “I know.” With the docility of weariness, he followed the other boy below.
A short time later Vivacia was aware that Gantry had gone back to take the wheel himself. It was something he did when he was disturbed and wanted time to think. He was not, she thought to herself, a bad mate. Brashen had been better, but Brashen had been with her longer. Gantry's touch on the wheel was sure and steady, reassuring but not distrustful of her.
She looked down furtively and opened her hand. The finger lay in her palm. She did not think anyone had seen her catch it. She could not have explained why she had done so, save that it had been a part of Wintrow, and she was unwilling to lose even so small a fragment of him. It was so tiny compared to her own larger-than-life digits. A thin, jointed rod of bone, coated with flesh and skin, and in the end of it, the finely ridged nail. Even crushed and bloody, it fascinated her with its delicacy and detail. She compared it to her own hand. Her carver had done a competent job, with her joints and nails and even the tendons on the back of her hand. But there was no fine pattern of follicles on the back of her fingers, no tiny hairs, no whorling prints on the pads of her fingers. She bore, she decided regretfully, only a passing resemblance to a true creature of flesh and blood.
