The stench of vomit was still bad, but did not rival the revolting conditions of yesterday, when most of your brothers and sisters in bondage here in the lowest deck had lost their breakfast on the high seas.

That was before the captain’s men conducted a cleaning. Whether they had forgotten such a basic mercy, or merely detested the idea of repeating the process of dealing with the yield of your sea-sickness, what mattered was that extra privy buckets were now provided.

Further, the beddings cradled by each of the eight swinging hammocks had been replaced.

That was another kindness you did not expect. Especially after they had tossed that unruly detainee overboard the first week. Rumor had it he was frothing and diseased, but the “Umberlee sacrifice” was a cruel fate. He went over screaming, and his wails lingered from a distance, ... for a distance.

You were allowed above decks once per day to dump your waste, clean your bucket, breathe the fresh salt air and endure a dousing of frigid sea water for relative cleanliness if you wished.

On the 10th day, waiting for your “bath” on the main deck as dusk approached, a conversation out of sight hung in the air. Two mates of unknown rank lurked above your position. From the weather deck, they were careless as to how efficiently their discussion traveled.

You stalled in line to listen.

“Slaves? It’s not exactly like that,” one man said to the other in a hackneyed pitch. “These lot will have a tough go of it for a fortnight while they’re being processed at port and then ‘assessed’ for their skills. But after that, it’s up to them.”

“Bullocks!” the other man replied. “They’re doomed.”

“Well, maybe so. But there’s options.”

“How so?”

“Easy to guess. Just move the Viv, I’m told,” the first man quipped. “Mine it, refine it, pack it. Or feed and clothe those who do. Just keep it flowing, and help get it on the ships and off to sea. Move the Viv, and good things follow. I’ve heard it from more than one Freemen over an ale at the Muffin. … There is so much coin to be made on that island, it’d make a jealous man sick. We’re in the wrong line of work.”

The skeptical sailor remained unconvinced.

“I’ve seen the bodies, Darce. They’ll be worked to death for that Vividium shite.”

“You saw the ass end of a foolhardy uprising! A handful of Bane worshipers tried to break out, and failed. That hardass crusader (inaudible) saw to that, I heard.” He lowered his voice in conveying the name.

The second man had to laugh with pity.

“Yeah, that guy. He’s a serious one.”

“Never mind him. I’m telling you, there’s probably a bloke or two down below who will have his papers by harvest season. Probably out-earning the both of us, combined, this time next year.”

Before any more could be absorbed from the conversation, a shove at your backside had you stumbling forward.

“Next!” came a command, half a moment before a cold blast of water sent you reeling to the deck, freezing and startled.