Claude was quicker than the others--in both brain and boots--and his leadership had seen them survive their recent misfortune, which kept him captain in the first place. Not the strongest. Not the meanest. But the sharpest. Oh sure, some great dull cudgel of a brute might trounce him in their next election--and the sun might rise in the west, tomorrow, too.

He shook his head with a snort. It would hardly matter to his present catch why he'd been made captain, or how he held onto that position. And anyway at times he outpaced himself: having caught the poor creature, he hadn't the faintest idea what to do next.

Or, really, how to care for him. He looked plain miserable, and that struck the headwind straight from Claude's sails. Something sharp and bitter pulled at his ribs for the sight of the great gold tail in a tight coil, fins pulled inward and arms the same, wrapped tight around the little pouch they'd fair drooled over. The merman's eyes darted this way and that--alight with something other than fear, for that moment, caught up in some other venture of feeling--but his gaze slitted sharp in sheer winter as he watched Claude.

Ice and steel in his voice, poised sharp enough to cut.

"Peace be!" grumbled the captain, prodding his own lip. "T'were hard enough to pry ye loose! Those louts out there are great in a storm, and better in a fight, but--well. They might think you're made of gold, shining like that. And they won't believe you aren't magic, no matter what you tell 'em. Had to get you apart."

And out of the sun. And into some good clean seawater--he'd seen what fresh water did to ocean fish, and salt to river ones.

And his room was the nicest on the ship. Or, it had been, anyway. Still was, under all the fuss. Claude snorted, arighting himself: this was his own fault.

"Give a man a moment to think," he sighed, trying to straighten his--everything--while he went through the guesswork.

It made sense to run down a checklist of what human hostages tended to need or want in this position. Freedom to move about under guard was often the first and fiercest of their desires, but it had to be earned, and anyway he'd no idea how that would work--ships made their way by keeping water out. Could they safely take on water, later on? After a good and thorough careening in harbor, they might be able to work something up. Perhaps by some mechanism of the lower decks--except, reversed bilge would be foul and silty, not at all like the clear currents he might be used to...

No. Fat lot of dream sheep wool that idea was. So: with shelter improvised, for now, the lad would need food. And more than that:

"Didn't cut ye, did I? I mean, are you hurt anywhere?" And lest the merman take this for charity, for bleeding-hearted weakness, well. "In men, copper poisons the blood, and I wouldn't lose you that way."

There. Much tougher. Couldn't give the lad a chance to see his chagrin.

Besides, he was curious.

"D'you eat," thinking, "sea grass? Or other fish, maybe--certainly that and biscuit are most of our lunch, this late in a voyage. Can't let you starve, either."

Pause. Squinting:

"Forgive me, but--how do you, drink? Water's just air to ye, isn't it, and the salt must be terrible dehydrating--"

He was babbling. He sighed.

"Don't suppose you take tea?"