“I call you Puke-face. Go forward to the mainmast, Puke-face, eat your breakfast if you can, and then repair the iron fitting that holds the drop-gear repetend. The carpenter’s cabinet under the break of the prowhouse will give you tools.” “I—I cannot use tools. I am—a clerk, not a mechanician.” “Death and dragons! Come aft with me, you cunilingous bastard!” The mate’s hand missed Rodvard’s neck, but caught a clutch of jacket at the shoulder, and dragged him along the deck to where a flight of steps went up, and the one-eyed captain stood, an ocular under his arm. “Captain Betzensteg! This lump of excrement says it knows nothing of mechanic.” Sick though he was, Rodvard felt the Blue Star burn cold and looked up into an eye (brimming with something more than mere fury, something strange from which his mind turned). “Diddled, by the Service!” said the voice, between heavy lips. “When next—ah, throw your can of piss up here.” Rodvard was jerked against the steps, striking his shin, and stumbled up by using his hands. The one-eyed captain reached out and ripped the badge from his breast, tearing the cloth. “Go below, stink-pot,” said he, “and tell my boy he’s promoted to seaman. You shall serve my table.” “Yes, sir,” said Rodvard and looked around for his route, since all the architecture of a ship was stranger to him than that of a cathedral. “Go!” said the captain, and lifted an arm as though to strike him with the ocular, but changed his mind. “What held you from telling your status?” “Nothing,” said Rodvard, and gripped the rail of the stair-head, for his gorge began rising within. “If you puke on my deck you shall lick it up.” The captain turned his back and shouted; “Lift the topper peak-ropes!” Down the stairs again there were not so many ways to choose from, so he took to the door to the right (hoping under his mind that this would be an omen) along a passage and into a room, where a sullen-faced lad of maybe eighteen was folding a cloth from a table. “You are Captain Betzensteg’s boy?” asked Rodvard, trying to keep from looking through the window, where the sea-edge rocked slowly up and down. “I am to say you are promoted seaman.” The lad’s mouth popped open as though driven by a spring, he dropped the napery and ran around the table to seize Rodvard by both arms. “Truly? If you trick me—” For one instant pale eyes flashed fury and the small down before first shaving trembled. But he must have seen honesty before him (“Born for the sea and freedom!” his thought read), and quickly thrust past to make for the door. “Stay,” said Rodvard, holding him by the jacket. “Will you not show me—?” The spasm caught him and he retched, mouth full of sour spittle.