It was gone.

His nightshirt had been carefully folded and pinned back from it. There were his legs, swarthy and hairy as ever. But the one just stopped short, snubbed off in a dirty brownish wad of bandaging right below his knee. It couldn't be. He reached toward it, but could not touch it. Instead, stupidly, he put his hand on the empty linen where the rest of his leg should have been. As if the fault might have been with his eyes.

He keened, then drew a breath and held it. He would not make another sound. Not one sound. He tried to remember how it had come to this. Why had he ever brought the crazy bitch aboard, why had they been attacking slaveships in the first place? Merchant ships, that was where the money was. And they didn't have a herd of serpents trailing after them, ready to grab a man's leg. This was their fault, Sorcor's and Etta's. But for them, he'd still be a whole man.

Calm. Calm. He had to be calm, he had to think this through. He was trapped here, in this cabin, unable to walk or fight. And Etta and Sorcor were both against him. What he had to figure out now was if they were in league with one another. And why had they done this to him? Why? Did they hope to take the ship from him? He took another breath, tried to organize his thoughts. “Why did she do this to me?” A second thought occurred to him. “Why didn't she just kill me then? Was she afraid my crew would turn on her?” If so, then perhaps she and Sorcor were not in league

“She did it to save your life.” The tiny voice from his wrist was incredulous. “How can you be this way? Don't you remember it at all? A serpent had you by the leg, he was trying to pick you up and flip you into the air so he could gulp you down. Etta had to cut your leg off. It was the only way to keep him from getting all of you.”

“I find that very difficult to believe,” he sneered at the charm.

“Why?”

“Because I know her. That's why.”

“As do I. Which is why that answer doesn't make sense either,” the face observed cheerily.

“Shut up.”

Kennit forced himself to look at the wrapped stump. “How bad is it?” he asked the charm in a low voice.

“Well, for starters, it's gone,” the charm informed him heartlessly. “Etta's hatchet chop was the only clean part of the severing.

The part the serpent did was half chewed and half sort of melted away. The flesh reminded me of melted tallow. Most of that brown stuff isn't blood, it's oozing pus.”

“Shut up,” Kennit said faintly. He stared at the clotted, smeary bandaging and wondered what was beneath it. They had put a folded cloth beneath it, but there was still a smear of ochre stuff across his fine, clean linen. It was disgusting.

The little demon grinned up at him. “Well, you asked.”

Kennit took a deep breath and bellowed, “Sorcor!”

The door flew open almost immediately, but it was Etta who stood there, teary and distraught. She hastened into the room. “Oh, Kennit, are you in pain?”

“I want Sorcor!” he declared, and even to himself it sounded like the demand of a petulant child. Then the brawny first mate filled the doorway. To Kennit's dismay, he looked as solicitous as Etta as he asked, “Is there aught I can do for you, Captain?” Sorcor's unruly hair stood up as if he had been pulling at it, and his face was sallow beneath its scars and weathering.

He tried to remember why he had called for Sorcor. He looked down at the disgusting mess in his bed. “I want this cleaned up.” He managed to sound firmly in command, as if he were speaking of a sloppy deck. “Have a hand heat some water for a bath for me. And lay out a clean shirt.” He looked up at Sorcor's incredulous stare and realized he was treating him more like a valet than his second in command. “You understand that how I appear when I interrogate the prisoners is important. They must not see me as a crippled wreck in a wad of dirty bedding.”

“Prisoners?” Sorcor asked stupidly.

“Prisoners,” Kennit replied firmly. “I directed that three were to be saved, did I not?”

“Yessir. But that was…”

“And were not three saved for me to question?”

“I have one,” Sorcor admitted uneasily. “Or what's left of one. Your woman has been at him.”

“What?”

“It was his fault,” Etta growled low as a threatening cat. “All his fault that you were hurt.” Her eyes had gone to alarming slits.

“Well. One, you say,” Kennit attempted a recovery. What kind of a creature had he brought aboard his ship? Don't think of that just now. Take command. “See to my orders, then. When I've made myself presentable, I'll want the prisoner brought here. I don't wish to see much of the crew just now. How did the rest of the capture go?”

“Slick as a plate of guts, sir. And we got a little bonus with this one.” Despite the anxiety etched in Sorcor's face, he grinned. “Seems this ship was a bit special. Carrying a bunch of regular slaves, but forward was a batch that were a gift from the Satrap of Jamaillia himself to some high muckamuck in Chalced. A troupe of dancers and musicians, with all their instruments and fancy duds and pots of face paint. And jewels, several nice little casks of sparklies… I stowed those under your bunk, sir. And an assortment of fine cloths, lace, some silver statues and bottled brandies. A very nice little haul. Not weighty, but all of the best quality.” He gave a sideways glance at Kennit's stump. “Perhaps you'd like to sample some of the brandy now yourself.”

“In a bit. These dancers and musicians… are they tractable? How do they feel about having their journey interrupted?” Why hadn't they thrown them overboard with the rest of the crew?

“Wonderful, sir. They'd all been taken as slaves, you see. The company was in debt, so when the owners went bust, the Satrap ordered the dancers and musicians seized as well. Which wasn't quite legal, but being the Satrap, I suppose he doesn't have to worry about that part. No, they're happy as clams at being captured by pirates. Their captain already has them at work, making up songs and dances to tell the whole story of it. You being the hero of the piece, of course.”

“Of course.” Songs and dances. Kennit suddenly felt unaccountably weary. “We're… at anchor. Where? Why?”

“Cove don't have a name that I know, but it's shallow here. The Sicerna was taking on water; had been for some time. Slaves in the bottom hold were just about waterlogged all the time. Seemed best to anchor her up where she couldn't sink too far while we rigged extra pumps for her. Then I thought we'd make for Bull Creek. We've got plenty of man-power to keep the pumps going all the way there.”

“Why Bull Creek?” Kennit asked.

Sorcor shrugged. “There's a decent haul-out beach there.” He shook his head. “She'll take some work before she'll be sea-worthy again. And Bull Creek has been raided twice in the last year by slavers, so I think we'll be welcomed there.”

“There. You see,” Kennit said faintly. He smiled to himself. Sorcor was right. The man had learned much from him. Put a ship there, speak persuasively there, and he could win another little town over. What could he say to them. “If the Pirate Isles had one ruler… that raiders feared… folk could live…” A tremble ran through him.

Etta rushed at him. “Lie back, lie back. You've gone white as a sheet. Sorcor, go for those things, the bath and all that. Oh, and bring in the basin and bandaging I left on the deck outside. I'll want them now.” Kennit listened in dismay as she ordered his mate about with a fine disdain for protocol.

“Sorcor can bandage this,” Kennit declared mistrustfully.

“I'm better at it,” she asserted calmly.

“Sorcor —” he began again, but now the first mate dared to interrupt him with, “Actually, sir, she has quite a nice touch for it. Took care of all our boys after the last set to, and did a fine job of it. I'll see to the wash water.” Then he was gone, leaving Kennit helpless and alone with the bloodthirsty wench.