Free Mad Ship by Hobb Robin Page B

lessen pain. He dared to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Kennit so that he could meet the tortured man’s eyes. “Watch me,” he told him. “Breathe with me. Like this.” Wintrow took a slow steadying breath, held it for a count, and then slowly released it. Kennit made a faint effort to copy him. His breath was still too short and too brisk, but Wintrow nodded encouragingly at him. “That’s right. That is right. Take control of your body. Pain is only the tool of your body. You can master it.”
    He held the pirate’s gaze steady with his own. With every breath, he expelled soothing confidence and belief, so that Kennit might breathe it in. Wintrow centered himself within his own body, finding a core that touched his heart and both his lungs. He let the focus of his eyes soften, drawing Kennit’s gaze deeper into his own so that he could share his calmness with the man. He tried to make his gaze draw Kennit’s pain out and let it disperse in the air between them.
    The simple exercises drew his mind back to his monastery. He tried to imbibe peace from those memories, to add their strength to what he was trying to accomplish. Instead, he suddenly felt a charlatan. What was he doing here? Mimicking what he had seen old Sa’Parte do with patients in pain? Was he trying to make Kennit believe he was truly a priest-healer, instead of a brown-robed acolyte? He did not have the complete training to do this simple pain alleviation, let alone remove a diseased leg. He tried to tell himself he was simply doing the best he could to help Kennit. He wondered if he were being honest with himself; perhaps he was only trying to save his own skin.
    Kennit’s grip on his hand slowly lessened. Some of the tension left his neck and his head lolled back onto his damp pillows. His breathing grew slower. It was the labored breathing of a man fighting exhaustion. Wintrow kept possession of his hand. Sa’Parte had spoken of a technique for lending strength to the suffering, but Wintrow’s learning had not progressed that far. He had expected to be an artist for Sa, not a healer. Still, as he clasped Kennit’s sweating hand between his own, he opened his heart to Sa and begged that the father of all would intervene. He prayed that his mercy would supply what Wintrow lacked in learning.
    “I can’t go on like this.”
    From another man, the words might have sounded pitiful or pleading. Kennit spoke them as a simple statement of fact. The pain was ebbing, or perhaps his ability to respond to it was exhausted. He closed his dark eyes and Wintrow felt suddenly isolated. Kennit spoke quietly but clearly. “Take the leg off. Today. As soon as possible. Now.”
    Wintrow shook his head, then spoke the denial aloud. “I can’t. I don’t have half of what I need. Brig said that Bull Creek is only a day or two away. We should wait.”
    Kennit’s eyes snapped open. “I know that I can’t wait,” he said bluntly.
    “If it’s just the pain, then perhaps some rum … ” Wintrow began, but Kennit’s words over-rode his own.
    “The pain is bad, yes. But it’s my ship and my command that suffer the worst right now. They sent a boy to tell me of the patrol ship. All I did was try to stand … I fell. Right in front of him, I collapsed. I should have been on the deck as soon as the lookout spotted that sail. We should have turned and cut the throats of every Chalcedean pig aboard that galley. Instead, we fled. I left Brig in command, and we fled. Sorcor had to fight my battle. In addition, all aboard know of it. Every slave on board this ship has a tongue. No matter where I leave them off, every one of them will wag the news that Captain Kennit fled the Satrap’s patrol ship. I can’t allow that.” In an introspective voice, he observed, “I could drown them all.”
    Wintrow listened in silence. This was not the suave pirate who had courted his ship with extravagant words, nor the controlled captain. This was the man