Wattling's eyes widened. "You cannot, sir! The boy is a redemptioneer. He is indentured to me."

"I can, sir, and I will, unless…"

"Yes?"

"You cancel his indenture contract and pay him a crown."

"That is an outrage!"

"Captain, if you were to drop anchor here, and we tried Mr. Wattling, what would the penalty be?"

"Fifty lashes."

"You cannot flog me! I am a gentleman!"

Owen closed the gap between them in two easy steps. "No, sir, you are not. You are a pompous fool who has made the mistake of insulting the Mystrians who surround him, and will surround him. And let us not be coy, sir. If you were such a success in Norisle, you would not have packed your press and come so far over the sea. You'd hardly allow that Colonials can read, yet you bring a press to serve their need for reading material. Is it to make your fortune, sir, or to avoid paying a fortune to your creditors?"

Wattling shrank back against the ship's rail. His voice barely rose above the hiss of sea against hull. "I haven't got a crown, sir. All those damned pirated editions of Villerupt. They ruined me. And now, without a servant, how will I earn money? How will I live?"

Gideon Tar rested a hand on the man's shoulder. "You will live like every Mystrian, Mr. Wattling. You will work hard. You'll be cold in the winter. Hungry, too. You'll marvel at some things and quake in fear at others. You'll sweat, you'll ache. You will live and perhaps even prosper."

The Captain guided the man toward the main deck. "You'll want to get below to finish gathering your things."

Once Wattling had disappeared, Gideon returned to Owen's side. "I don't normally abide flogging, but for him…"

"If arrogance was a flogging offense, he'd have long since grown immune to the lash."

"Doubtless true, my lord."

Owen shook his head. "Don't, Captain. I'm not a noble. My stepfather never adopted me. Out of deference to my mother's father, Lord Ventnor provided me a basic education. He applauded my entering the army, with high hopes I'd die on the Continent."