Althea judged it was best to leave her alone. She had seen this before, in new sailors. Either Amber would adapt to shipboard life, or she'd crack. Somehow, Althea could not imagine her going to pieces. She had an advantage over most new hands in that she had not come to the sea to make an exciting new life for herself. The adventurers fared the worst: they woke up on the fifth day to realize that the monotonous food, enforced companionship and general squalor of the crew quarters were the norm of the glorious new life they had embarked upon. Those were the ones who not only broke, but often took others with them.

Althea closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Soon enough she'd have to be out on deck again and she had problems of her own to wrestle. The weather had been fair and the Paragon was sailing as well as any ordinary ship would have. The ship had not been jolly, but he had not descended into one of his morose moods, either. For those blessings, she thanked Sa. The other side of the coin was that she was having problems with the crew. In fact, she was having the very kind of problems that Brashen had predicted she would, damn him. Somehow, that made it impossible to go to him for advice. She had been so cocky, back on the beach. She had been sure she could handle herself and the men under her command. Now her crew seemed bent on proving the opposite.

Not all of them, to be fair, she reminded herself. Most, she thought, would have fallen into line well enough, if not for Haff. He bucked her at every opportunity. Worse, he was charismatic. The others easily fell in with his attitude. He was handsome, clean and engaging. He always had a cheery word or a jest for his shipmates. He sprang to it readily when another man was in trouble. He was the ideal shipmate, well liked by the rest of the crew. His own natural leadership, she decided wearily, was exactly why he was always at odds with her. Her sex was the rest of the issue. He seemed to have no problems taking orders from Brashen or Lavoy. That was another reason why she could not take her grievances to them. This was something she'd have to unknot for herself.

If the man had been openly insubordinate, she could have dealt with it openly. But he defied her subtly and made her appear incompetent to her crew. She imagined herself making that complaint to Brashen and winced. Haff was clever. If she was paired with him, hauling on a line, he held back his strength, forcing her to work to the limits of hers. The one time she had told him to put his back into it, he had looked shocked at her rebuke. The other men had glanced at them in surprise. Paired with anyone else, Haff always did more than his share. It made her look weak. She was not as strong as the men she worked alongside. She could not change that. Nevertheless, damn him, she did her share, and it humiliated her when he made the others think she could not keep up. When she set him to a task on his own, he did it swiftly and well. He had an air of rakish showmanship that turned the simplest job aloft into a feat. Disdain for her command and a certain relish of risk: uncomfortably, she recalled a young sailor named Devon who had shared those traits and how she had admired him. No wonder her father had gotten rid of him.

Haff's other trick was to defer to her as a woman rather than as the mate in command. He would make a sly show of stepping aside to allow her to precede him, or offering her a rope or tool as if it were a cup of tea. This last brought snickers from the other men, and today Lop had been fool enough to imitate it. He had been clumsily obvious as he bobbed his head obsequiously to her. Their positions had been right and she had delivered a substantial kick to his butt that had sent him down the companionway ahead of her. There had been a general laugh of support for her, ruined when some faceless wag called, "No luck, Lop. She likes Haff better'n you." From the corner of her eye, she had seen Haff grin broadly at the remark and waggle his tongue. She had pretended not to have seen, simply because there was no good way to deal with it. She thought she had pulled it off until she saw the look on Clefs face. Disappointment was writ large on his face. He had turned aside from her, shamed by her shame.

That as much as anything had convinced her she had to act the next time Haff stepped out of line. The problem was, she still had no idea what to do. Second mate was a hard position to hold down. She was both of the crew and above them. Neither officer nor honest seaman, she had to walk this line alone.

"What would you like to do about Haff?" Amber asked her quietly from the bottom bunk.

"It spooks me when you do that," Althea complained.

"I've explained it before. It's an obvious trick, used at every fair you've ever been to. You've been shifting about up there as if your bunk is full of ants. I simply picked the most likely cause of your anxiety."

"Right," Althea replied skeptically. "To answer your question, I'd like to kick him in the balls."

"Exactly the wrong tack," Amber told her in a superior way. "Every man that witnessed it would wince and imagine himself in Haff's place. It would be seen as a whore's trick, a woman hitting a man where he is most vulnerable. You can't be seen that way. You have to be perceived as a mate giving an uppity hand a take-down."

"Suggestions?" Althea asked warily. It was unnerving to have Amber cut so swiftly to the heart of a problem.

"Prove you're better than he is, that you deserve to be second mate. That's his real problem, you know. He thinks that if you stepped aside and became a passenger, he'd step up into your spot."

"And he would," Althea conceded. "He's a competent sailor and a natural leader. He'd be a good second, or even a first."

"Well, there's your other option. Step aside and let him be second."

"No. That's my spot," Althea growled.

"Then defend it," Amber suggested. "But because you're already on top, you have to fight fair. You have to show him up. Wait for your moment, watch for it, then seize it. It has to be real. The rest of the crew has to have no doubt. Prove you're a better sailor than he is, that you deserve what you've got." Althea heard Amber shift in her own bunk.

Althea lay still, pondering a disturbing idea. Was she better than Haff? Did she deserve to be mate over him? Why shouldn't he take the position from her? Althea closed her eyes. That was something she'd have to sleep on.

With a muttered oath, Amber kicked at her footboard, then turned her pillow over. She settled down, only to shift again an instant later.

"I haven't your gift. Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?" Althea called down.

"You wouldn't understand," Amber complained. "No one can."

"Try me," Althea challenged her.

Amber took a long breath and sighed it out. "I'm wondering why you aren't a nine-fingered slave-boy. I'm wondering how Paragon can be both a frightened boy and a cruel-hearted man. I'm wondering if I should be aboard this ship at all, or if I was supposed to stay in Bingtown and watch over Malta."

"Malta?" Althea asked incredulously. "What does Malta have to do with any of this?"

"That," Amber pointed out wearily, "is exactly what I would love to know."

"SOMETHING IS WRONG, SIR! WITH DIVVYTOWN, I MEAN."

Gankis stood framed in Kennit's stateroom door. The old pirate looked more distressed than Kennit had ever seen him. He had taken off his hat and stood wringing it. Kennit felt his stomach turn with a sudden premonition. He didn't let it show on his face.

He raised one eyebrow queryingly. "Gankis, there are many things wrong with Divvytown. Which particular one has brought you to my door?"

"Brig sent me, sir, to tell you the smell is bad. The smell of Divvytown, that is. Well, it's always bad, coming into Divvytown, but now it's real bad. Like wet ashes-"