The line of men that came to receive a coin advance against their crew shares was disappointingly short. Kennit gave each of them five selders. It was, he judged, enough to keep them in women, drink, and food for an evening, and a decent bed in an inn, if they did not decide to return to the ship to sleep. As soon as they had their money, they left the ship. Kennit emerged onto the deck in time to see the last man jump down onto the crowded dock. It reminded him of throwing bloody meat into shark waters. The folk on the dock churned and swarmed around the last seaman, the freegirls proffering their wares even as the pimps shouted over their heads that a wealthy young tar like him could afford better, could afford a woman in a bed all night, yes, and a bottle of rum on the table beside it. With less determination, apprentices hawked fresh bread and sweets and ripe fruit. The young pirate grinned, enjoying their avidity. He seemed to have forgotten that as soon as they'd shaken the last coin from his pocket, they'd be as happy to leave him in a gutter or alley.

Kennit turned aside from the bluster and noise. Sorcor was already finished with his divvying. He was standing on the high deck by the tiller, looking out over the town. Kennit frowned slightly. The mate must have known in advance which men wanted their shares as goods, and have already calculated what he would give them. Then his brow smoothed. It was more efficient that way, and that was ever Sorcor's way. Kennit offered him a pouch heavy with coin, and the mate took it wordlessly. After a moment, he rolled his shoulders and turned to face his captain. “So, Sorcor. Are you coming with me to change our cargo to gold?”

Sorcor took an embarrassed step sideways. “If the captain doesn't mind, I'd sooner have a bit of time to myself first.”

Kennit concealed his disappointment. “It's all one to me,” he lied. Then he said quietly, “I've a mind to turn off those men who always insist on taking their shares as raw goods. The more I have to sell in bulk, the better price I can get. What think you?”

Sorcor swallowed. Then he cleared his throat. “It is their right, sir. To take their crew shares as goods if they choose. That's the way it's always been done in Divvytown.” He paused to scratch at a scarred cheek. Kennit knew he had weighed his words before speaking when he went on, “They're good men, sir. Good sailors, true shipmates, and not a one shirks whether the work is with a sail needle or a sword. But they didn't become pirates to live under another man's rules, no matter how good for them that rule might be.” With difficulty he met Kennit's eyes and added, “No man becomes a pirate because he wants to be ruled by another.”

His certainty increased as he added, “And we'd pay hell's own wages to try and replace them. They're seasoned hands, not scrapings from a brothel floor. The kind of man you'd get, if you went about asking for men who'd let you sell their prizes for them, wouldn't have the spines to act on their own. They'd be the kind as would stand back while you cleared another ship's deck, and only cross when the victory was assured.” Sorcor shook his head, more to himself than to his captain. “You've won these men over to you, sir. They'll follow you. But you'd not be wise to try to force them to give up their wills to you. All this talk of kings and leaders make them uneasy. You can't force a man to fight well for you. ...” Sorcor's voice trailed off and he glanced suddenly up at Kennit as if recalling to whom he spoke.

A sudden icy anger seethed through Kennit. “No doubt that's so, Sorcor. See that a good watch is kept aboard, for I won't be back this night. I leave you in charge.”

With no more than that, Kennit turned and left him. He didn't glance back to read the expression on the mate's face. He'd essentially confined him to the ship for the night, for the agreement between them was that one of them would always sleep aboard when the ship was in port. Well, let him mutter. Sorcor had just crippled all the dreams that Kennit had been entertaining for the last few months. As he strode across his decks, Kennit wondered bitterly how he could be such a fool as to dream at all. This was as much as he'd ever be: the captain of a ship full of wastrels who could see no farther than their own cocks.

He jumped easily from the deck to the docks. At once the crowd of vendors surged toward him, but a single scowl sent them shrinking back. At least he still had that much of a reputation in Divvytown. The thought only soured him further. They gave way as he pushed past them. A reputation in Divvytown. Why, that was at least as good as admiring oneself in a piss-puddle. So he was captain of a ship. For how long? For as long as the curs under him believed in his fist and his sword. Ten years from now, there'd be a man bigger or faster or sneakier, and then Kennit could look forward to being one of the gray-faced beggars that slunk about the alleys robbing drunks, and stood outside taverns begging for leavings.