Inside her holds, it was even worse. The slaves breathed out misery, until a miasma of unhappiness filled her from within. They were packed like fish in a barrel, and fastened to one another as well, so that they could not even shift without the co-operation of their chain-mates. The holds were dark with their fear; they pissed it out with their urine, wept it out with their tears until Vivacia felt saturated with human wretchedness.

In the chain locker, vibrating in harmony with her and adding his own special note to the woe, was Wintrow. Wintrow, who had abandoned her, was once again aboard her. He sprawled in the dark on the deck, ankles and wrists still weighted with chains, face pocked and stained with her image. He did not weep or moan, nor did he sleep. He simply stared into the blackness and felt. He shared her awareness of the slaves and their misery.

Like the beating of a heart she did not have, Wintrow thrummed with the slaves' despair. He knew the entire gauntlet of their despondency, from the half-wit who could not comprehend the change in his life to the aging sculptor whose early works still decorated the Satrap's personal quarters. In the lowest and darkest of her holds, scarcely above the bilge, was a layer of those least valuable. Map-faces, little more than human ballast they were, and the survivors would be sold for whatever they might bring in Chalced. In a safe dry hold that had oftimes held bales of silk or casks of wine, artisans huddled. To these were given the comfort of a layer of straw and enough chain to stand upright, if they took turns at it. Kyle had not secured as many of these as he had hoped for. The bulk of his cargo in the main hold were simple laborers and tradesmen, journeymen fallen on hard times, smiths and vineyard-dressers and lacemakers, plunged into debt by illness or addiction or poor judgment, and now paying the forfeit of their debts with their own flesh.

And in the forecastle were men with a different sort of pain. Some of the crew had had reservations about the captain's plan from the beginning. Others had given it no thought, had assisted in installing the chains and eye-bolts as if they were just another kind of netting to restrain cargo. But in the past two days, it had all become real. Slaves were coming aboard, men and women and some half-grown children. All were tattooed. Some wore their fetters with experience and others still stared and struggled against the chains that bound them. None had traveled in the cargo hold of a ship before; slaves that left Jamaillia went to Chalced. None ever came back. And each man in the crew was learning, some painfully, not to look at eyes or faces and not to heed voices that pleaded or cursed or ranted. Cargo. Stock. Bleating sheep shoved into pens until the pens would hold no more. Each man was coming to terms with it in his own way, was inventing other ways of seeing tattooed humans, other words to associate with them. Comfrey's joshing manner had vanished on the first day of loading. Mild, in his effort to find the relief of levity somewhere, made jokes that were not funny, that were sand in the wounds of an abraded conscience. Gantry held his peace and did his work, but knew that once this trip was up, he would not sail on a slaver again. Only Torg seemed to find contentment and satisfaction. In the depths of his greasy little soul, he was now living the cherished fantasy of his youth. He walked down the lines of his lashed-down cargo, savoring the confinement that finally made him feel free. He had already marked for himself those in need of his attentions, those who would benefit from his extra “discipline.” Torg, Vivacia reflected, was a piece of carrion that, overturned, now showed its working maggots to the daylight.

She and Wintrow echoed one another's misery. And working inside her despair was the deep conviction that this never could have happened to her if her family had only been true to her. If one of her true blood had captained this ship, that captain would have had to share what she was feeling. She knew Ephron Vestrit would never have exposed her to this. Althea would have been incapable of it. But Kyle Haven heeded her not. If he had any misgivings, he had not shared them with anyone. The only emotion Wintrow recognized from his father was a cold burning anger that bordered on a hatred for his own flesh and blood. Vivacia suspected that Kyle saw them as a double-pronged problem: the ship that would not heed his wishes because of a boy that would not be what his father commanded him to be. She feared that Kyle was determined to break one or the other of them. And both, if he could.

She had kept her silence. Kyle had not brought Wintrow forward last night when he had hauled him on board. He had thrown Wintrow into his old confinement and then come forward himself to brag of his son's capture. In a voice pitched to carry to every man working on deck, he recounted to her how he had found his son a slave, and bought him for the ship. Once they were underway, he'd have the boy brought to her, and she might command him as she pleased-for his father, by Sa's damned eyes, was through with him.