Ship of Destiny

Book Three of The Liveship Traders

Robin Hobb

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Voyager 2000

Copyright © Robin Hobb 2000

Cover Layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015. Illustrations © Jackie Morris. Calligraphy by Stephen Raw. Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com (background)

Robin Hobb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780006498858

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007370474

Version: 2018-11-14

Dedication

This one is for Jane Johnson and Anne Groell. For caring enough to insist that I get it right.

Table of Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

MAP

SUMMER’S END

PROLOGUE SHE WHO REMEMBERS

1 THE RAIN WILDS

2 TRADERS AND TRAITORS

3 WINTROW

4 TINTAGLIA’S FLIGHT

5 PARAGON AND PIRACY

6 AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN

7 DRAGON SHIP

8 LORDS OF THE THREE REALMS

9 BATTLE

10 TRUCES

11 BODIES AND SOULS

WINTER

12 ALLIANCES

13 SURVIVING

14 DIVVYTOWN

15 SERPENT SHIP

16 TINTAGLIA’S BARGAIN

17 BINGTOWN NEGOTIATIONS

18 LOYALTIES

19 STRATEGIES

20 PRISONERS

21 PARAGON OF THE LUDLUCKS

22 FAMILY REUNION

23 FLIGHTS

24 TRADER FOR THE VESTRIT FAMILY

25 REFITTING

26 COURTSHIP

27 KEY ISLAND

28 DRAGON DREAMS

29 KENNIT’S WOMEN

30 CONVERGENCE

31 BARGAINING CHIPS

32 AN ULTIMATUM

33 SHIP OF DESTINY

34 RESCUES

35 HARD DECISIONS

36 SECRETS

37 A DRAGON’S WILL

SPRING

38 JAMAILLIA CITY

39 BINGTOWN

40 THE RAIN WILD RIVER

EPILOGUE METAMORPHOSIS

KEEP READING

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PRAISE

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

Map

SUMMER’S END

PROLOGUE SHE WHO REMEMBERS

SHE WONDERED WHAT it would have been like to be perfect.

On the day that she had hatched, she had been captured before she could wriggle over the sand to the cool and salty embrace of the sea. She Who Remembers was doomed to recall every detail of that day with clarity. It was her entire function and the reason for her existence. She was a vessel for memories. Not just her own life, from the moment when she began forming in the egg, but the linked lives of those who had gone before her were nested inside her. From egg to serpent to cocoon to dragon to egg, all memory of her line was hers. Not every serpent was so gifted, or so burdened. Only a relative few were imprinted with the full record of their species, but only a few were needed.

She had begun perfect. Her tiny, smooth body, lithe and scaled, had been flawless. She had cut her way out of the leathery shell with the egg tooth atop her snout. She was a late hatcher. The others in her clutch had already broken free of their shells and the heaped dry sand. They had left their wallowing trails for her to follow. The sea had beckoned her insistently. Every lap of every wave beguiled her. She had begun her journey, slithering across the dry sand under the beating sun. She had smelled the wet tang of the ocean. The moving light on its dazzling surface had lured her.

She had never finished her journey.

The Abominations had found her. They had surrounded her, interposing their heavy bodies between her and the beckoning ocean. Plucked wriggling from the sand, she had been imprisoned in a tide-fed pool inside a cave in the cliffs. There they had kept her, feeding her only dead food and never allowing her to swim free. She had never migrated south with the others to the warm seas where food was plentiful. She had never achieved the bulk and strength that a free life would have granted her. Nevertheless, she grew, until the pool in the cave was little more than a cramped puddle to her, a space barely sufficient to keep her skin and gills wet. Her lungs were pinched always inside her folded coils. The water that surrounded her was constantly befouled with her poisons and wastes. The Abominations had kept her prisoner.

How long had they confined her there? She could not measure it, but she felt certain that she had been captive for several ordinary lifetimes of her kind. Time and again, she had felt the call of the season of migration. A restless energy would come over her followed by a terrible desire to seek out her own kind. The poison glands in her throat would swell and ache with fullness. There was no rest for her at such times, for the memories permeated her and clamoured to be released. She had shifted restlessly in the torment of her small pool and vowed endless revenge against the Abominations who held her so. At such times, her hatred of them was most savage. When her overflowing glands flavoured the water with her ancestral memories, when the water became so toxic with the past that her gasping gills poisoned her with history, then the Abominations came. They came to her prison, to draw water from her pool and inebriate themselves with it. Drunken, they prophesied to one another, ranting and raving in the light of the full moon. They stole the memories of her kind, and used them to extrapolate the future.

Then the two-legs, Wintrow Vestrit, had freed her. He had come to the island of the Abominations, to gather for them the treasures the sea left on the shore. In exchange, he had expected them to prophesy his future for him. Even now, that thought made her mane grow turgid with poison. The Abominations prophesied only what they sensed of the future from stealing her pasts! They had no true gifts of Seeing. If they had, she reflected, they would have known that the two-legs brought their doom. They would have stopped Wintrow Vestrit. Instead, he had discovered her and freed her.

Although she had touched skins with him, although their memories had mingled through her toxins, she did not understand what had motivated the two-legs to free her. He was such a short-lived creature that most of his memories could not even leave an imprint on her. She had sensed his worry and pain. She had known that he risked his brief existence to free her. The courage of such a brief spasm of life had moved her. She had slain the Abominations when they would have recaptured both of them. Then, when the two-legs would have died in the mothering sea, she had aided him to return to his ship.

She Who Remembers opened wide her gills once more. She tasted a mystery in the waves. She had restored the two-legs to his ship, but the ship both frightened and attracted her. The silvery grey hull of the vessel flavoured the water ahead of her. She followed it, drinking in the elusive tang of memories.

The ship smelled, not like a ship, but like one of her own kind. She had followed it now for twelve tides, and was no closer to understanding how such a thing could be. She knew well what ships were; the Elderlings had had ships, though not such as this one. Her dragon memories told her that her kind had often flown over such vessels, and playfully set them to rocking wildly with a gust from wide wings. Ships were no mystery, but this one was. How could a ship give off the scent of a serpent? Moreover, it smelled like no ordinary serpent. It smelled like One Who Remembers.

Again, her duty tugged at her: it was an instinct stronger than the drive to feed or mate. It was time, and past time. She should have been among her own kind by now, leading them in the migration path that her memories knew so well. She should be nourishing their own lesser recall with her potent toxins that would sting their dormant memories to wakefulness. The biological imperative clamoured in her blood. Time to change. She cursed again her crooked green-gold body that wallowed and lashed through the water so awkwardly. She had no endurance to call upon. It was easier to swim in the wall of the ship’s wake, and allow its motion to help draw her through the water.

She compromised with herself. As long as the silver ship’s course aligned with her own, she would follow it. She would use its momentum to help her move as she gained strength and endurance of her own. She would ponder its mystery and solve it if she could. Yet, she would not let this puzzle distract her from her primary goal. When they drew closer to shore, she would leave the ship and seek out her own kind. She would find tangles of serpents and guide them up the great river to the cocooning grounds. By this time next year, young dragons would try their wings on the summer winds.

So she had promised herself for the first twelve tides that she followed the ship. Midway through the swelling of the thirteenth tide, a sound at once foreign and heart-wrenchingly familiar vibrated her skin. It was the trumpeting of a serpent. Immediately she broke free of the ship’s wake and dove down, away from the distractions of the surface waves. She Who Remembers sounded a reply, then held herself in absolute stillness, waiting. No answer came.

Disappointment weighted her. Had she deceived herself? During her captivity, there had been periods when in her anguish she had cried out over and over again, trumpeting until the walls of the cavern rang with her misery. Recalling that bitterness, she lidded her eyes briefly. She would not torment herself. She opened her eyes to her solitude. Resolutely she turned to pursue the ship that represented the only pallid hint of companionship she had known.

The brief pause had only made her more aware of her hampered body’s weariness. It took all of her will to make her push on. An instant later, all weariness fled as a white serpent flashed by her. He did not seem to notice her in his single-minded pursuit of the ship. The odd scent of the vessel must have confused him. Her hearts thundered wildly. ‘Here I am!’ she called after him. ‘Here. I am She Who Remembers. I have come to you at last!’

The white swam on in effortless undulations of his thick, pale body. He did not even turn his head to her call. She stared in shock, then hastened after him, her weariness temporarily forgotten. She dragged herself after him, gasping with the effort.

She found him shadowing the ship. He slipped about in the dimness beneath it, muttering and mewling incomprehensibly at the planks of the ship’s hull. His mane of poisonous tendrils was semi-erect; a faint stream of bitter toxins tainted the water around him. A slow horror grew in She Who Remembers as she watched his senseless actions. From the depths of her soul every instinct she had warned against him. Such strange behaviour hinted of disease or madness.

But he was the first of her own kind that she had seen since the day she had hatched. The drawing of that kinship was more powerful than any revulsion and so she eased closer to him. ‘Greetings,’ she ventured timidly. ‘Do you seek One Who Remembers? I am She.’

In reply, his great red eyes spun antagonistically, and he darted a warning snap at her. ‘Mine!’ he trumpeted hoarsely. ‘Mine. My food.’ He pressed his erect mane against the ship, leaking toxins against her hull. ‘Feed me,’ he demanded of the ship. ‘Give food.’

She retreated hastily. The white serpent continued his nuzzling quest along the ship’s hull. She Who Remembers caught a faint scent of anxiety from the ship. Peculiar. The whole situation was as odd as a dream, and like a dream, it teased her with possible meanings and almost understandings. Could the ship actually be reacting to the white serpent’s toxins and calls? No, that was ridiculous. The mysterious scent of the vessel was confusing both of them.

She Who Remembers shook out her own mane and felt it grow turgid with her potent poisons. The act gave her a sense of power. She matched herself against the white serpent. He was larger than she was, and more muscled, his body fit and knowledgeable. But that did not matter. She could kill him. Despite her stunted body and inexperience, she could paralyse him and send him drifting to the bottom. In the next moment, despite the powerful intoxication of her own body’s secretions, she knew she was even stronger than that. She could enlighten him and let him live.

‘White serpent!’ she trumpeted. ‘Heed me! I have memories to share with you, memories of all our race has been, memories to sharpen your own recollections. Prepare to receive them.’

He paid no heed to her words. He did not make himself ready, but she did not care. This was her destiny. For this, she had been hatched. He would be the first recipient of her gift, whether he welcomed it or not. Awkwardly, hampered by her stunted body, she launched herself towards him. He turned to her supposed attack, mane erect, but she ignored his petty toxins. With an ungainly thrust, she wrapped him. At the same moment, she shook her mane, releasing the most powerful intoxicant of them all, the deep poisons that would momentarily subdue his own mind and let the hidden mind behind his life open itself once more. He struggled frantically, then suddenly grew stiff as a log in her grip. His whirling ruby eyes grew still but unlidded, bulging from their sockets in shock. He made one abortive effort to gulp a final breath.

It was all she could do to hold him. She wrapped his length in hers and kept him moving through the water. The ship began to pull away from them, but she let it go, almost without reluctance. This single serpent was more important to her than all the mysteries the ship concealed. She held him, twisting her neck to look into his face. She watched his eyes spin, then grow still again. Through a thousand lifetimes, she held him, as the past of his entire race caught up with him. For a time, she let him steep in that history. Then she eased him out of it, releasing the lesser toxins that quieted his deeper mind and let his own brief life come back to the forefront of his thoughts.

‘Remember.’ She breathed out the word softly, charging him with the responsibilities of all his ancestors. ‘Remember and be.’ He was quiescent in her coils. She felt his own life suddenly repossess him as a tremor shimmered down his length. His eyes suddenly spun and then focused on hers. He reared his head back from hers. She waited for his worshipful thanks.

The gaze that met hers was accusing.

‘Why?’ he demanded suddenly. ‘Why now? When it is too late for all of us? Why couldn’t I die ignorant of all that I could have been? Why could not you have left me a beast?’

His words shocked her so that she relaxed her grip on him. He whipped himself disdainfully free of her embrace and he shot away from her through the water. She was not sure if he fled, or if he abandoned her. Either thought was intolerable. The awakening of his memories should have filled him with joy and purpose, not despair and anger.

‘Wait!’ she cried after him, but the dim depths swallowed him. She wallowed clumsily after him, knowing she could never match his swiftness. ‘It can’t be too late! No matter what, we must try!’ She trumpeted the futile words to the empty Plenty.

He had left her behind. Alone again. She refused to accept it. Her stunted body floundered through the water in pursuit, her mouth open wide to taste the dispersing scent he had left behind. Faint, fainter, and then gone. He was too swift; she was too deformed. Disappointment welled in her, near stunning as her own poisons. She tasted the water again. Nothing of serpent tinged it now.

She cut wider and wider arcs through the water in a desperate search for his scent trail. When she finally found it, both her hearts leapt with determination. She lashed her tail to catch up with him. ‘Wait!’ she trumpeted. ‘Please. You and I, we are the only hope for our kind! You must listen to me!’

The taste of serpent grew suddenly stronger. The only hope for our kind. The thought seemed to waft to her on the water, as if the words had been breathed to the air rather than trumpeted in the depths. It was the only encouragement she needed.

‘I come to you!’ she promised, and drove herself on doggedly. But when she reached the source of the serpent scent, she saw no creature save for a silver hull cutting the waves above her.

1 THE RAIN WILDS

MALTA DUG HER makeshift paddle into the gleaming water and pushed hard. The little boat edged forwards through the water. Swiftly she transferred the cedar plank to the other side of the craft, frowning at the beads of water that dripped from it into the boat when she did so. It couldn’t be helped. The plank was all she had for an oar, and rowing on one side of the boat would only spin them in circles. She refused to imagine that the acid drops were even now eating into the planking underfoot. Surely, a tiny bit of Rain Wild River water could not do much damage. She trusted that the powdery white metal on the outside of the boat would keep the river from devouring it, but there was no guarantee of that, either. She pushed the thought from her mind. They had not far to go.

She ached in every limb. She had worked the night through, trying to make their way back to Trehaug. Her exhausted muscles trembled with every effort she demanded of them. Not far to go, she told herself yet again. Their progress had been agonizingly slow. Her head ached abominably but worst was the itching of the healing injury on her forehead. Why must it always itch the worst when she could not spare a hand to scratch?

She manoeuvred the tiny rowing boat among the immense trunks and spidering roots of the trees that banked the Rain Wild River. Here, beneath the canopy of rainforest, the night sky and its stars were a myth rarely glimpsed; yet a fitful twinkling drew her on through the trunks and branches. The lights of the tree-borne city of Trehaug guided her to warmth, safety, and most of all, rest. Shadows were still thick all around her, yet the calls of birds in the high treetops told her that in the east, dawn was lightening the sky. Sunlight would not pierce the thick canopy until later, and when it came, it would be as shafts of light amidst a watery green mockery of sunshine. Where the river sliced a path through the thick trees, day would glitter silver on the milky water of the wide channel.

The nose of the rowing boat snagged suddenly on top of a hidden root. Again. Malta bit her tongue to keep from screaming her frustration. Making her way through the forested shallows was like threading the craft through a sunken maze. Time and time again, drifts of debris or concealed roots had turned her aside from her intended path. The fading lights ahead seemed little closer than when they had set out. Malta shifted her weight and leaned over the side to probe the offending obstacle with her plank. With a grunt, she pushed the boat free. She dipped her paddle again and the boat moved around the hidden barrier.

‘Why don’t you paddle us over there, where the trees are thinner?’ demanded the Satrap. The erstwhile ruler of all Jamaillia sat in the stern, his knees drawn nearly to his chin, while his Companion Kekki huddled fearfully in the bow. Malta didn’t turn her head. She spoke in a cold voice. ‘When you’re willing to pick up a plank and help with the paddling or steering, you can have a say in where we go. Until then, shut up.’ She was sick of the boy-Satrap’s imperious posturing and total uselessness for any practical task.

‘Any fool can see that there are fewer obstacles there. We could go much faster.’

‘Oh, much faster,’ Malta agreed sarcastically. ‘ Especially if the current catches us and sweeps us out into the main part of the river.’

The Satrap took an exasperated breath. ‘As we are upriver of the city, it seems to me that the current is with us. We could take advantage of it and let it carry us where I want to go, and arrive much more swiftly.’

‘We could also lose control of the boat completely, and shoot right past the city.’

‘Is it much farther?’ Kekki whined pathetically.

‘You can see as well as I can, ’ Malta retorted. A drop of the river water fell on her knee as she shifted the paddle to the other side. It tickled, then itched and stung. She took a moment to dab at it with the ragged hem of her robe. The fabric left grit in its wake. It was filthy from her long struggle through the halls and corridors of the buried Elderling city the previous night. So much had happened since then, it seemed more like a thousand nights. When she tried to recall it, the events jumbled in her mind. She had gone into the tunnels to confront the dragon, to make her leave Reyn in peace. But there had been the earthquake, and then when she had found the dragon… The threads of her recall snarled hopelessly at that point. The cocooned dragon had opened Malta’s mind to all the memories stored in that chamber of the city. She had been inundated in the lives of those who had dwelt there, drowned in their recollections. From that point until the time when she had led the Satrap and his Companion out of the buried labyrinth, all was misty and dreamlike. Only now was she piecing together that the Rain Wild Traders had hid the Satrap and Kekki away for their own protection.

Or had they? Her gaze flicked briefly to Kekki cowering in the bow. Had they been protected guests, or hostages? Perhaps a little of both. She found that her own sympathies were entirely with the Rain Wilders. The sooner she returned Satrap Cosgo and Kekki to their custody, the better. They were valuable commodities, to be employed against the Jamaillian nobles, the New Traders and the Chalcedeans. When she had first met the Satrap at the ball, she had been briefly dazzled by the illusion of his power. Now she knew his elegant garb and aristocratic manners were only a veneer over a useless, venal boy. The sooner she was rid of him, the better.

She focused her eyes on the lights ahead. When she had led the Satrap and his companion out of the buried Elderling city, they had found themselves far from where Malta had originally entered the underground ruins. A large stretch of quagmire and marshy river shallows separated them from the city. Malta had waited for dark and the guiding lights of the city before they set out in their ancient salvaged boat. Now dawn threatened and she still poled towards the beckoning lanterns of Trehaug. She fervently hoped that her ill-conceived adventure was close to an end.

The city of Trehaug was located amongst the branches of the huge-boled trees. Smaller chambers dangled and swung in the uppermost branches, while the grander family halls spanned trunk to trunk. Great staircases wound up the trunks, and their landings provided space for merchants, minstrels and beggars. The earth beneath the city was doubly cursed with marshiness and the instability of this quake-prone region. The few completely dry pieces of land were mostly small islands around the bases of trees.

Steering her little boat amongst the towering trees towards the city was like manoeuvring around the immense columns in a forgotten god’s temple. The boat again fetched up against something and lodged. Water lapped against it. It did not feel like a root. ‘What are we snagged against?’ Malta asked, peering forwards.

Kekki did not even turn to look, but remained hunched over her folded knees. She seemed afraid to put her feet on the boat’s floorboards. Malta sighed. She was beginning to think something was wrong with the Companion’s mind. Either the experiences of the past day had turned her senses, or, Malta reflected wryly, she had always been stupid and it took only adversity to manifest it. Malta set her plank down and, crouching low, moved forwards in the boat. The rocking this created caused both the Satrap and Kekki to cry out in alarm. She ignored them. At close range, she was able to see that the boat had nosed into a dense mat of twigs, branches and other river debris, but in the gloom, it was hard to see the extent of it. She supposed some trick of the current had carried it here and packed it into this floating morass. It was too thick to force the small boat through it. ‘We’ll have to go around it,’ she announced to the others. She bit her lip. That meant venturing closer to the main flow of the river. Well, as the Satrap had said, any current they encountered would carry them downriver to Trehaug, not away from it. It might even make her thankless task easier. She pushed aside her fears. Awkwardly she turned their rowing boat away from the raft of debris and towards the main channel.

‘This is intolerable!’ Satrap Cosgo suddenly exclaimed. ‘I am dirty, bitten by insects, hungry and thirsty. And it is all the fault of these miserable Rain Wild settlers. They pretended that they brought me here to protect me. But since they have had me in their power, I have suffered nothing but abuse. They have affronted my dignity, compromised my health, and endangered my very life. No doubt, they intend to break me, but I shall not give way to their mistreatment of me. The full weight of my wrath will descend upon these Rain Wild Traders. Who, it occurs to me, have settled here with no official recognition of their status at all! They have no legal claims to the treasures they have been digging up and selling. They are no better than the pirates that infest the Inside Passage and should be dealt with accordingly.’

Malta found breath to snort derisively. ‘You are scarcely in a position to bark at anyone. In reality, you are relying on their good will far more than they are relying on yours. How easy it would be for them to sell you off to the highest bidder, regardless of whether the buyer would assassinate you, hold you hostage, or restore you to your throne! As for their claim to these lands, that came directly from the hand of Satrap Esclepius, your ancestor. The original charter for the Bingtown Traders specified only how many leffers of land each settler could claim, not where. The Rain Wild Traders staked their claims here; the Bingtown Traders took theirs by Bingtown Bay. Their claims are both ancient and honourable, and well documented under Jamaillian law. Unlike those of the New Traders you have foisted off on us.’

For a moment, shocked silence greeted her words. Then the Satrap forced a brittle laugh. ‘How amusing to hear you defend them! Such a benighted little bumpkin you are. Look at yourself, dressed in rags and covered with filth, your face forever disfigured by these renegades! Yet you defend them. Why? Ah, let me guess. It is because you know that no whole man would ever want you now. Your only hope is to marry into a family in which your kin are as misshapen as yourself, where you can hide behind a veil and no one will stare at your frightfulness. Pathetic! But for the actions of these rebels, I might have chosen you as a Companion. Davad Restart had spoken out on your behalf, and I found your clumsy attempts at dancing and conversation endearingly provincial. But now? Faugh!’ The boat rocked minutely with the disdainful flip of his hand. ‘There is nothing more freakish than a beautiful woman whose face has been spoiled. The finer families of Jamaillia would not even take you as a household slave. Such disharmony has no place in an aristocratic household.’

Malta refused to look back at him, but she could imagine how his lips curled with contempt. She tried to be angry at his arrogance; she told herself he was an ignorant prig of a boy. But she had not seen her own face since the night she had nearly been killed in the overturning coach. When she had been convalescing in Trehaug, they had not permitted her a mirror. Her mother and even Reyn had seemed to dismiss the injuries to her face. But they would, her traitor heart told her. They would have to, her mother because she was her mother, and Reyn because he felt responsible for the coach accident. How bad was the scar? The cut down her forehead had felt long and jagged to her questing fingers. Now she wondered: did it pucker, did it pull her face to one side? She gripped the plank tightly in both her hands as she dug into the water with it. She would not set it down; she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fingers grope over her scar. She set her teeth grimly and paddled on.

A dozen more strokes and suddenly the little vessel picked up speed. It gave a small sideways lurch in the water, and then spun once as Malta dug her plank into the water in a desperate effort to steer back into the shallows. She shipped her makeshift oar, and seized the extra plank from the bottom of the rowing boat. ‘You’ll have to steer while I paddle,’ she told the Satrap breathlessly. ‘Otherwise we’ll be swept out into the middle of the river.’

He looked at the plank she thrust towards him. ‘Steer?’ he asked her, taking the board reluctantly.

Malta tried to keep her voice calm. ‘Stick that plank into the water behind us. Hold onto one end of it and use it as a drag to turn us back towards the shallows while I paddle in that direction.’

The Satrap held the board in his fine-boned hands as if he had never seen a piece of wood before. Malta seized her own plank, thrust it back into the water, and was amazed at the sudden strength of the current. She clutched the end awkwardly as she tried to oppose the flow of water that was sweeping them away from the shore. Morning light touched them as they emerged from the shelter of the overhanging trees. Suddenly the sunlight illuminated the water, making it unbearably bright after the dimness. Behind her, an annoyed exclamation coincided with a splash. She swivelled her head to see what had happened. The Satrap was empty-handed.

‘The river snatched it right out of my hands!’ he complained.

‘You fool!’ Malta cried out. ‘How can we steer now?’

The Satrap’s face darkened with fury. ‘How dare you speak to me so! You are the fool, to think it could have done us any good in the first place. It wasn’t even shaped like an oar. Besides, even if it would have worked, we do not need it. Use your eyes, wench. We’ve nothing to fear. There’s the city now! The river will carry us right to it.’

‘Or past it!’ Malta spat at him. She turned from him in disgust, to focus all her strength and thoughts on her single-handed battle with the river. She lifted her eyes briefly to the impressive site of Trehaug. Seen from below, the city floated in the great trees like a many-turreted castle. On the water level, a long dock was tethered to a succession of trees. The Kendry was tied up there, but the liveship’s bow was turned away from them. She could not even see the sentient figurehead. She paddled frantically.

‘When we get closer,’ she panted between strokes, ‘call out for help. The ship may hear us, or people on the docks. Even if we are swept past, they can send rescue after us.’

‘I see no one on the docks,’ the Satrap informed her snidely. ‘In fact, I see no one anywhere. A lazy folk, to be still abed.’

‘No one?’ Malta gasped the question. She simply had no strength left for this final effort. The board she wielded skipped and jumped across the top of the water. With every passing moment, they were carried farther out into the river. She lifted her eyes to the city. It was close, much closer than it had been a moment ago. And the Satrap was right. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, but other than that, Trehaug looked deserted. A profound sense of wrongness welled up in her. Where was everyone? What had become of the normal lively bustle along the catwalks and on the stairways?

‘Kendry!’ she cried out, but her breathless call was thin. The rushing water carried her voice away with it.

Companion Kekki seemed suddenly to understand what was happening. ‘Help! Help!’ she cried in a childish shriek. She stood up recklessly in the small boat, waving her hands. ‘Help us! Save me!’ The Satrap swore as the boat rocked wildly. Malta lunged at the woman and pulled her down into the boat again, nearly losing her plank in the process. A glance around her showed her that the plank was of no real use now. The little boat was well and truly into the river’s current and rapidly being swept past Trehaug.

‘Kendry! Help! Help us! Out here, in the river! Send rescue! Kendry! Kendry!’ Her shouts trailed away as hopelessness dragged at her.

The liveship gave no sign of hearing. Another moment, and Malta was looking back at him. Apparently lost in deep thought, the figurehead was turned towards the city. Malta saw a lone figure on one of the catwalks, but he was hurrying somewhere and never turned his head. ‘Help! Help!’ She continued to shout and wave her plank while she could see the city, but it was not for long. The trees that leaned out over the river soon curtained it from her eyes. The current rushed them on. She sat still and defeated.

Malta took in her surroundings. Here, the Rain River was wide and deep, the opposite shore near lost in permanent mist. The water was grey and chalky when she looked over the side. Overhead the sky was blue, bordered on both sides by the towering rainforest. There was nothing else to be seen, no other vessels on the water, no signs of human habitation along the banks. As the clutching current bore them inexorably away from the marshy shores, hopes of rescue receded. Even if she succeeded in steering their little boat to the shore, they would be hopelessly lost downriver of the city. The shores of the Rain Wild River were swamp and morass. Travelling overland back to Trehaug was impossible. Her nerveless fingers dropped the plank into the bottom of the boat. ‘I think we’re going to die,’ she told the others quietly.

Keffria’s hand ached abominably. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to seize again the handles of the barrow the diggers had just finished loading. When she lifted the handles and began to trundle her load up the corridor, the pain in her healing fingers doubled. She welcomed it. She deserved it. The bright edges of it could almost distract her from the burning in her heart. She had lost them, both her younger children gone in one night. She was as completely alone in the world as she had ever been.

She had clung to doubt for as long as she could. Malta and Selden were not in Trehaug. No one had seen them since yesterday. A tearful playmate of Selden had sobbingly admitted that he had shown the boy a way into the ancient city, a way the grown-ups had thought securely locked. Jani Khuprus had not minced words with Keffria. White-faced, lips pinched, she had told Keffria that the particular passage had been abandoned because Reyn himself had judged it dangerously unstable. If Selden had gone into the buried corridors, if he had taken Malta with him, then they had gone into the area most likely to collapse in an earthquake. There had been at least two large tremors since dawn. Keffria had lost track of how many lesser tremblings she had felt. When she had begged that diggers be sent that way, they had found the entire corridor collapsed just a few steps inside the entry. She could only pray to Sa that her children had reached some stronger section of the buried city before the quake, that somewhere they huddled together awaiting rescue.

Reyn Khuprus had not returned. Before noon, he had left the diggers, refusing to wait until the corridors could be cleared and shored up. He had gone ahead of the work crews, wriggling off through a mostly collapsed tunnel and disappearing. Not long ago, the work crews had reached the end of the line he had left to mark his way. They had found several chalk marks, including the notation he had left on the door of the Satrap’s chamber. Hopeless, Reyn had marked. Thick muck oozed from under the blocked door; most likely the entire room had filled with it. Not far past that door, the corridor had collapsed completely. If Reyn had passed that way, he had either been crushed in the downfall, or was trapped beyond it.

Keffria started when she felt a touch on her arm. She turned to face a haggard Jani Khuprus. ‘Have you found anything?’ Keffria asked reflexively.

‘No.’ Jani spoke the terrible word softly. Her fear that her son was dead lived in her eyes. ‘The corridor is mucking in as fast as we try to clear it. We’ve decided to abandon it. The Elder ones did not build this city as we build ours, with houses standing apart from each other. The ancients built their city like one great hive. It is a labyrinth of intersecting corridors. We will try to come at that section of corridor from a different approach. The crews are already being shifted.’

Keffria looked at her laden barrow, then back down the excavated corridor. Work had stopped. The labourers were returning to the surface. As Keffria stared, a flow of dirty and tired men and women parted to go around her. Their faces were grey with dirt and discouragement, their footsteps dragged. The lanterns and torches they carried fluttered and smoked. Behind them, the excavation had gone dark. Had all of this work been useless, then? She took a breath. ‘Where shall we dig now?’ she asked quietly.

Jani gave her a haunted look. ‘It has been decided we should rest for a few hours. Hot food and a few hours of sleep will do us all good.’

Keffria looked at her incredulously. ‘Eat? Sleep? How can we do either when our children are missing still?’

The Rain Wild woman matter-of-factly took Keffria’s place between the barrow handles. She lifted it and began to push it forwards. Keffria trailed reluctantly after her. She did not answer Keffria’s question, except to say, ‘We sent birds out to some of the closer settlements. The foragers and harvesters of the Rain Wilds will send workers to aid us. They are on their way, but it will take some time for them to arrive. Fresh workers will shore up our spirits.’ Over her shoulder, she added, ‘We have had word from some of the other digging crews, also. They have had more luck. Fourteen people were rescued from an area we call the Tapestry Works, and three more were discovered in the Flame Jewel corridors. Their work has progressed more swiftly. We may be able to gain access to this area of the city from one of those locations. Bendir is already consulting with those who know the city best.’

‘I thought Reyn knew the old city better than anyone?’ Keffria asked cruelly.

‘He did. He does. That is why I cling to the hope that he may be alive.’ The Rain Wild Trader glanced at her Bingtown counterpart. ‘It is why I believe that if anyone could find Malta and Selden, it is Reyn. If he found them, he would not try to come back this way, but would make for the more stable parts of the city. With every breath I take, I pray that soon someone will come running to give us the tidings that they have emerged on their own.’

They had reached a large chamber that looked like an amphitheatre. The work crews had been dumping the tailings of their work here. Jani tipped the barrow and let the load of earth and rocks increase the untidy pile in the middle of the formerly grand room. Their wheelbarrow joined a row of others. Muddy shovels and picks had been tumbled in a heap nearby. Keffria suddenly smelled soup, coffee, and hot morning bread. The hunger she had been denying woke with a roar. The sudden clamouring of her body made her recall that she had eaten nothing all night. ‘Is it dawn?’ she asked Jani suddenly. How much time had passed?

‘Well past dawn, I fear,’ Jani replied. ‘Time always seems fleetest when I most long for it to move slowly.’

At the far end of the hall, trestle tables and benches had been set out. The very old and the very young worked there, ladling soup into dishes, tending small braziers under bubbling pots, setting out and clearing away plates and cups. The immense chamber swallowed the discouraged mutter of talk. A child of about eight hurried up with a basin of steaming water. A towel was slung over her arm. ‘Wash?’ she offered them.

‘Thank you.’ Jani indicated the basin to Keffria. She laved her hands and arms and splashed her face. The warmth made her realize how cold she was. The binding on her broken fingers was soaked and gritty. ‘That needs to be changed,’ Jani observed while Keffria used the towel. Jani washed, and again thanked the child, before guiding Keffria towards several tables where healers were plying their trade. Some were merely salving blistered hands or massaging aching backs, but there was also an area where broken limbs and bleeding injuries were being treated. The business of clearing the collapsed corridor was hazardous work. Jani settled Keffria at a table to await her turn. A healer was already at work re-bandaging her hand when Jani returned with morning bread, soup and coffee for both of them. The healer finished swiftly, abruptly told Keffria that she was off the work detail and moved on to his next patient.

‘Eat something,’ Jani urged her.

Keffria picked up the mug of coffee. The warmth of it between her palms was oddly comforting. She took a long drink from it. As she set it down, her eyes wandered over the amphitheatre. ‘It’s all so organized,’ she observed in confusion. ‘As if you expected this to happen, planned for it –’

‘We did,’ Jani said quietly. ‘The only thing that puts this collapse out of the ordinary is the scale of it. A good quake usually brings on some falls. Sometimes a corridor will collapse for no apparent reason. Both my uncles died in cave-ins. Almost every Rain Wild family who works the city loses a member or two of each generation down here. It is one of the reasons my husband Sterb has been so adamant in urging the Rain Wild Council to aid him in developing other sources of wealth for us. Some say he is only interested in establishing his own fortune. As a younger son of a Rain Wild Trader’s grandson, he has little claim to his own family’s wealth. But I truly believe it is not self-interest but altruism that makes him work so hard at developing the foragers’ and harvesters’ outposts. He insists the Rain Wild could supply all our needs if we but opened our eyes to the forest’s wealth.’ She folded her lips and shook her head. ‘Still. It does not make it any easier when he says, “I warned you all” when something like this happens. Most of us do not want to forsake the buried city for the bounty of the rainforest. The city is all we know, the excavating and exploration. Quakes like this are the danger we face, just as you families who trade upon the sea know that eventually you will lose someone to it.’

‘Inevitable,’ Keffria conceded. She picked up her spoon and began to eat. A few mouthfuls later, she set it down.

Across from her, Jani set down her coffee mug. ‘What is it?’ she asked quietly.

Keffria held herself very still. ‘If my children are dead, who am I?’ she asked. Cold calmness welled up in her as she spoke. ‘My husband and eldest son are gone, taken by pirates, perhaps already dead. My only sister has gone after them. My mother remained behind in Bingtown when I fled; I know not what has become of her. I only came here for the sake of my children. Now they are missing, and perhaps already dead. If I alone survive –’ She halted, unable to frame a thought to deal with that possibility. The immensity of it overwhelmed her.

Jani gave her a strange smile. ‘Keffria Vestrit. But the turning of a day ago, you were volunteering to leave your children in my care, and return to Bingtown, to spy on the New Traders for us. It seems to me that you then had a very good sense of who you were, independent of your role as mother or daughter.’

Keffria propped her elbows on the table and leaned her face into her hands. ‘And this now feels like a punishment for that. If Sa thought I undervalued my children, might he not take them from me?’

‘Perhaps. If Sa had but a male aspect. But recall the old, true worship of Sa. Male and female, bird, beast, and plant, earth, fire, air and water, all are honoured in Sa and Sa manifests in all of them. If the divine is also female, and the female also divine, then she understands that woman is more than mother, more than daughter, more than wife. Those are the facets of a full life, but no single facet defines the jewel.’

The old saying, once so comforting, now rang hollow in her ears. But Keffria’s thoughts did not linger on it long. A great commotion at the entrance to the hall turned both their heads. ‘Sit still and rest,’ Jani advised her. ‘I’ll see what it’s about.’

But Keffria could not obey her. How could she sit still and wonder if the disruption were caused by news of Reyn or Malta or Selden? She pushed back from the table and followed the Rain Wild Trader.

Weary and bedraggled diggers clustered around four youngsters who had just slung their buckets of fresh water to the floor. ‘A dragon! A great silver dragon, I tell you! It flew right over us.’ The tallest boy spoke the words as if challenging his listeners. Some of the labourers looked bemused, others disgusted by this wild tale.

‘He’s not lying! It did! It was real, so bright I could hardly look at it! But it was blue, a sparkly blue,’ amended a younger boy.

‘Silver-blue!’ a third boy chimed in. ‘And bigger than a ship!’ The lone girl in the group was silent, but her eyes shone with excitement.

Keffria glanced at Jani, expecting to meet her annoyed glance. How could these youngsters allow themselves to bring such a frivolous tale at a time when lives weighed in the balance? Instead, the Rain Wild woman’s face had gone pale. It made the fine scaling around her eyes and lips stand out against her face. ‘A dragon?’ she faltered. ‘You saw a dragon?’ Sensing a sympathetic ear, the tall boy pushed through the crowd towards Jani. ‘It was a dragon, such as some of the frescoes showed. I’m not making it up, Trader Khuprus. Something made me look up, and there it was. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It flew like a falcon! No, no, like a shooting star! It was so beautiful!’

‘A dragon,’ Jani repeated dazedly.

‘Mother!’ Bendir was so dirty that Keffria scarcely recognized him as he pushed through the crowd. He glanced at the boy standing before Jani, and then to his mother’s shocked face. ‘So you’ve heard. A woman who was tending the babies up above sent a boy running to tell us what she had seen. A blue dragon.’

‘Could it be?’ Jani asked him brokenly. ‘Could Reyn have been right all along? What does it mean?’

‘Two things,’ Bendir replied tersely. ‘I’ve sent searchers overland, to where I think the creature must have broken out of the city. From the description, it is too large to have moved through the tunnels. It must have burst out from the Crowned Rooster Chamber. We have an approximate idea of where that was. There may be some sign of Reyn there. At the least, there may be another way we can enter the city and search for survivors.’ A mutter of voices rose at his words. Some were expressing disbelief, others wonder. He raised his voice to be heard above them. ‘And the other thing is that we must remember that this beast may be our enemy.’ As the boy near him began to protest, Bendir cautioned him, ‘No matter how beautiful it may seem, it may bear us ill will. We know next to nothing of the true nature of dragons. Do nothing to anger it, but do not assume it is the benign creature we see in the frescoes and mosaics. Do not call its attention to you.’

A roar of conversation rose in the chamber. Keffria caught at Jani’s sleeve desperately. She spoke through the noise. ‘If you find Reyn there…do you think Malta may be with him?’

Jani met her eyes squarely. ‘It is what he feared,’ she said. ‘That Malta had gone to the Crowned Rooster Chamber. And to the dragon that slept there.’

‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Do you think she will come back?’ Weakness as well as awe made the boy whisper.

Reyn turned to regard him. Selden crouched on an island of rubble atop the mud. He stared up at the light above them, his face transfigured by what he had just witnessed. The newly released dragon was gone, already far beyond sight, but still the boy stared after her.

‘I don’t think we should count on her to return and save us. I think that is up to us,’ Reyn said pragmatically.

Selden shook his head. ‘Oh, I did not mean that. I would not expect her to notice us that much. I expect we’ll have to get ourselves out of here. But I should like to see her, just once more. Such a marvel she was. Such a joy.’ He lifted his eyes once more to the punctured ceiling. Despite the dirt and muck that streaked his face and burdened his clothes, the boy’s expression was luminous.

Sun spilled into the ruined chamber, bringing weak light but little additional warmth. Reyn could no longer recall what it felt like to be dry, let alone warm. Hunger and thirst tormented him. It was hard to force himself to move. But he smiled. Selden was right. A marvel. A joy.

The dome of the buried Crowned Rooster Chamber was cracked like the top of a soft-boiled egg. He stood atop some of the fallen debris and looked up at dangling tree roots and the small window of sky. The dragon had escaped that way, but he doubted that he and Selden would. The chamber was filling rapidly with muck as the swamp trickled in to claim the city that had defied it for so long. The flow of chill mud and water would engulf them both long before they could find a way to reach the egress above them.

Yet bleak as his situation was, he still marvelled at the memory of the dragon that had emerged from her centuries of waiting. The frescoes and mosaics that he had seen all his life had not prepared him for the reality of the dragon. The word ‘blue’ had gained a new meaning in the brilliance of her scales. He would never forget how her lax wings had taken on strength and colour as she pumped them. The snake-stench of her transformation still hung heavy in the moist air. He could see no remnants of the ‘wizardwood log’ that had encased her. She appeared to have absorbed it all as she metamorphosed into a mature dragon.

But now she was gone. And the problem of survival remained for Reyn and the boy. The earthquakes of the night before had finally breached the walls and ceilings of the sunken city. The swamps outside were bleeding into this chamber. The only means of escape was high overhead, a tantalizing window of blue sky.

Mud bubbled wetly at the edge of the piece of fallen dome Reyn stood on. Then it triumphed, swallowing the edges of the crystal and slipping towards his bare feet.

‘Reyn.’ Selden’s voice was hoarse with his thirst. Malta’s little brother perched atop a slowly-sinking island of debris. In the dragon’s scrabbling effort to escape, she had dislodged rubble, earth, and even a tree. It had fallen into the sunken chamber and some of it still floated on the rising tide of muck. The boy knit his brows as his natural pragmatism reasserted itself. ‘Maybe we could lift up that tree and prop it up against the wall. Then, if we climbed up it, we could –’

‘I’m not strong enough,’ Reyn broke into the boy’s optimistic plan. ‘Even if I were strong enough to lift the tree, the muck is too soft to support me. But we might be able to break off some of the smaller branches and make a sort of raft. If we can spread out our weight enough, we can stay on top of this stuff.’

Selden looked hopefully up at the hole where light seeped in. ‘Do you think the mud and water will fill up this room and lift us up there?’

‘Maybe,’ Reyn lied heartily. He surmised that the muck would stop far short of filling the chamber. They would probably suffocate when the rising tide swallowed them. If not, they would eventually starve here. The piece of dome under his feet was sinking rapidly. Time to abandon it. He jumped from it to a heap of fallen earth and moss, only to have it plunge away under him. The muck was softer than he had thought. He lunged towards the tree trunk, caught one of its branches, and dragged himself out and onto it. The rising mire was at least chest-deep now, and the consistency of porridge. If he sank into it, he would die in its cold clutch. His move had brought him much closer to Selden. He extended a hand towards the boy, who leaped from his sinking island, fell short, and then scrabbled over the soft mud to reach him. Reyn pulled him up onto the fallen evergreen’s trunk. The boy huddled shivering against him. His clothing was plastered to his body with the same mud that streaked his face and hair.

‘I wish I hadn’t lost my tools and supplies. But they’re long buried now. We’ll have to break these branches off as best we can and pile them up in a thick mat.’

‘I’m so tired.’ The boy stated it as a fact, not a complaint. He glanced up at Reyn, then stared at him. ‘You don’t look so bad, even up close. I always wondered what you looked like under that veil. In the tunnels, with only the candle, I couldn’t really see your face. Then, last night, when your eyes were glowing blue, it was scary at first. But after a while, it was like, well, it was good to see them and know you were still there.’

Reyn laughed easily. ‘Do my eyes glow? Usually that doesn’t happen until a Rain Wild man is much older. We just accept it as a sign of a man reaching full maturity.’

‘Oh. But in this light, you look almost normal. You don’t have many of those wobbly things. Just some scales around your eyes and mouth.’ Selden stared at him frankly.

‘No, not any of those wobbly things yet. But they, too, may come as I get older.’ Reyn grinned.

‘Malta was afraid you were going to be all warty. Some of her friends teased her about it, and she would get angry. But…’ Selden suddenly seemed to realize that his words were not tactful. ‘At first, I mean, when you first started courting her, she worried about it a lot. Lately, she hasn’t talked about it much,’ he offered encouragingly. He glanced at Reyn, then moved away from him along the tree trunk. He seized a branch and tugged at it. ‘These are going to be tough to break.’

‘I imagine she’s had other things on her mind,’ Reyn muttered. The boy’s words brought a sickness to his heart. Did his appearance matter that much to Malta? Would he win her with his deeds, only to have her turn away from him when she saw his face? A bitter thought came to him. Perhaps she was already dead, and he would never know. Perhaps he would die, and she would never even see his face.

‘Reyn?’ Selden’s voice was tentative. ‘I think we’d better get to work on these branches.’

Reyn abruptly realized how long he had hunkered there in silence. Time to push useless thoughts aside and try to survive. He seized a needled branch in his hands and broke a bough from it. ‘Don’t try to break the whole branch off at once. Just take boughs from it. We’ll pile them up there. We want to intermesh them, like thatching a roof –’

A fresh trembling of the earth broke his words. He clung to the tree trunk helplessly as a shower of earth rained down from the ruptured ceiling. Selden shrieked and threw his arms up to protect his head. Reyn scrabbled along the branchy trunk to reach him and shelter him with his body. The ancient door of the chamber groaned and suddenly sagged on its hinge. A flow of mud and water surged into the room from behind it.

2 TRADERS AND TRAITORS

THE LIGHT SCUFF of footsteps was her only warning. In the kitchen garden, Ronica froze where she crouched. The sounds were coming up the carriageway. She seized her basket of turnips and fled to the shelter of the grape arbour. Her back muscles kinked protestingly at the sudden movement, but she ignored them. She’d rather be careful of her life than of her back. Silently she set the basket at her feet. Unbreathing, she peered through the hand-sized leaves of the vines. From their screening shelter, she could see a young man approaching the front entry of the house. A hooded cloak obscured his identity and his furtive manner proclaimed his intentions.

He climbed the leaf-littered steps. At the door he hesitated, his boots grating on broken glass as he peered into the darkened house. He pushed at the big door that hung ajar. It scraped open and he slipped into the house.

Ronica took a deep breath and considered. He was probably just a scavenger, come to see if there was anything left to plunder. He would soon find there was not. What the Chalcedeans had not carried off, her neighbours had. Let him prowl through the ravaged house, and then he would leave. Nothing left in the house was worth risking herself. If she confronted him, she could be hurt. She tried to tell herself that there was nothing to gain. Still, she found herself gripping the cudgel that was now her constant companion as she edged towards the front door of her family home.

Her feet were silent as she picked her way up the debris-strewn steps and through the glass fragments. She peered around the door, but the intruder was out of sight. Soundlessly, she slipped inside the entry hall. She froze there, listening. She heard a door open somewhere deeper inside the house. This villain seemed to know where he was going; was he someone she knew, then? If he was, did he mean well? She considered that unlikely. She was no longer confident of old friends and alliances. She could think of no one who might expect to find her at home.

She had fled Bingtown weeks ago, the day after the Summer Ball. The night before, the tension over Chalcedean mercenaries in the harbour had suddenly erupted. Rumours that the Chalcedeans were attempting a landing while the Old Traders were engaged in their festivities had raced through the gathering. It was a New Trader plot, to take the Satrap hostage and overthrow Bingtown; so the gossip flew. The rumour was enough to ignite fires and riots. The Old and New Traders had clashed with one another and against the Chalcedean mercenaries in their harbour. Ships were attacked and burned, and the tariff docks, symbol of the Satrap’s authority, went up in flames yet again. But this time, the fires spread through the restless town. Angry New Traders set the elite shops along Rain Wild Street aflame. New Trader warehouses were torched in vengeance, and then someone set the Bingtown Traders’ Concourse alight.

Meanwhile, the battle in the harbour raged. The Chalcedean galleys that had been resident in the harbour masquerading as Jamaillian patrol vessels made up one arm of the pincers. The Chalcedean ships that had arrived bringing the Satrap made up the other half. Caught between them were Bingtown liveships and trading vessels and the larger fishing vessels of the Three Ships immigrants. In the end, the rallying of the small boats of the Three Ships folk had turned the tide of battle. In the dark, the tiny fishing vessels could slip up on the large Chalcedean sailing ships. Suddenly pots of burning oil and tar shattered against the hulls of the ships or were lobbed onto the decks. Abruptly the Chalcedean ships were too engaged in putting out fires to contain the ships in the harbour. Like gnats harrying bulls, the tiny boats had persisted in attacking the ships blocking the harbour mouth. Chalcedean fighters on the docks and in Bingtown were horrified to see their own ships driven from Bingtown Harbour. Abruptly the cut-off invaders were fighting for their lives. The running battle had continued as the Bingtown ships pursued the Chalcedeans into the open water.

In the morning, after the sounds of riot and insurrection had died away, smoke snaked through the streets on the summer breeze. Briefly, Bingtown Traders controlled their own harbour again. In the lull, Ronica had urged her daughter and grandchildren to flee to the Rain Wilds for shelter. Keffria, Selden and the badly injured Malta had managed to escape on a liveship. Ronica herself remained behind. She had a few personal tasks to settle before seeking her own asylum. She had secreted the family papers in the hiding place Ephron had devised long ago. Then she and Rache had hastily gathered clothing and food and set out for Ingleby Farm. That particular Vestrit family holding was far away from Bingtown, and humble enough that Ronica believed they would find safety there.

Ronica had made one brief detour that day, returning to where Davad Restart’s carriage had been ambushed the night before. She’d left the road and clambered down the forested hillside, past his overturned carriage to Davad’s body. She had covered him with a cloth, since she had not the strength to take his body away for burial. He had been estranged from his extended family, and Ronica knew better than to ask Rache’s help in burying him. This last pitiful respect was all she could offer a man who had been both a loyal friend for most of her life and a dangerous liability to her these last few years. She tried to find words to say over his body, but ended up shaking her head. ‘You weren’t a traitor, Davad. I know that. You were greedy, and your greed made you foolish, but I won’t ever believe you deliberately betrayed Bingtown.’ Then she had trudged back up to the road to rejoin Rache. The serving woman said nothing about the man who had made her a slave. If she took any satisfaction in Davad’s death, she didn’t speak it aloud. For that, Ronica was grateful.

The Chalcedean galleys and sailing ships did not immediately return to Bingtown Harbour. Ronica had hoped that peace would descend. Instead, a more terrible sort of fighting ignited between Old Trader and New, as neighbour turned on neighbour, and those with no loyalties preyed on anyone weakened by the civil discord. Fires broke out throughout the day. As Ronica and Rache fled Bingtown, they passed burning houses and overturned waggons. Refugees choked the roads. New Traders and Old Traders, servants and run-away slaves, merchants and beggars and Three Ships fisherfolk; all were fleeing the strange war that had suddenly blossomed in their midst. Even those abandoning Bingtown clashed as they fled. Taunts and insults were flung between groups. The jubilant diversity of the sunny city by the blue harbour had shattered into sharply suspicious fragments. Their first night on the road, Ronica and Rache were robbed, their sacks of food spirited away as they slept. They continued their journey, believing they had the stamina to reach the farm even without food. Folk on the road told tales that the Chalcedeans had returned and that all of Bingtown was burning. In the early evening of the second day, several hooded young men accosted them and demanded their valuables. When Ronica replied that they had none, the ruffians pushed her down and ransacked her bag of clothing before flinging her belongings contemptuously into the dusty road. Other refugees hurried past them, eyes averted. No one intervened. The highwaymen threatened Rache, but the slave woman endured it stoically. The bandits had finally left to pursue wealthier prey, a man with two servants and a heavily-laden handcart. The two servants had fled the robbers, leaving the man to plead and shout as the thieves ransacked his cart. Rache had tugged frantically at Ronica’s arm and dragged her away. ‘There is nothing we can do. We must save our own lives.’

Her words were not true. The next morning proved that. They came upon the bodies of the teashop woman and her daughter. Other fleeing folk were stepping around the bodies as they hurried past. Ronica could not. She paused to look into the woman’s distorted face. She did not know her name, but recalled her tea stall in the Great Market. Her daughter had always served Ronica smilingly. They had not been Traders, Old or New, but humble folk who had come to the gleaming trade city and become a small part of Bingtown’s diversity. Now they were dead. Chalcedeans had not killed these women; Bingtown folk had.

That was the moment when Ronica turned around and returned to Bingtown. She could not explain it to Rache, and had even encouraged the woman to go on to Ingleby without her. Even now, Ronica could not rationalize the decision. Perhaps it was that nothing worse could happen to her than what had already happened. She returned to find her own home vandalized and ransacked. Even the discovery that someone had scratched TRAITORS across the wall of Ephron’s study could stir no greater depth of distress in her. Bingtown as she knew it was gone, never to return. If it was all going to perish, perhaps it was best to end with it.

Yet she was not a woman who simply surrendered. In the days to come, she and Rache set up housekeeping in the gardener’s hut. Their life was oddly normal in a detached way. Fighting continued in the city below them. From the upper storey of the main house, Ronica could just glimpse the harbour and the city. Twice the Chalcedeans tried to take it. Both times, they were repulsed. Night winds often carried the sounds of fighting and the smell of smoke. None of it seemed to involve her any more.

The small hut was easy to keep warm and clean, and its humble appearance made it less of a target for roving looters. The last of the kitchen garden, the neglected orchard and the remaining chickens supplied their limited needs. They scavenged the beach for driftwood that burned with green and blue flames in their small hearth. When winter closed in, Ronica was not sure what she would do. Perish, she supposed. But not gracefully, or willingly. No. She would go down fighting.

That same stubbornness now made her tread carefully down the hallway in pursuit of the intruder. She grasped her cudgel in both hands. She had no clear plan for what she would do if or when she confronted the man. She simply wanted to know what motivated this lone opportunist who moved so secretively through her abandoned home.

Already the manor was acquiring the dusty smell of disuse. The Vestrit family’s finest possessions had been sold earlier in the summer, to finance a rescue effort for their pirated liveship. The treasures that remained had been those with more sentimental than monetary value: the trinkets and curiosities that were souvenirs of Ephron’s sailing days, an old vase that had been her mother’s, a wall hanging that she and Ephron had chosen together when they were newly wed… Ronica turned her mind away from that inventory. They were all gone now, broken or taken by people who had no idea what such items represented. Let them go. She held the past in her heart, with no need of physical items to tie it down.

She tiptoed past doors that had been kicked off their hinges. She spared only a glance for the atrium where overturned pots and browning plants littered the floor as she hastened after the hooded man. Where was he going? She caught a glimpse of his cloak as he entered a room.

Malta’s room? Her granddaughter’s bedchamber?

Ronica crept closer. He was muttering to himself. She ventured a quick peek, then stepped boldly into the room to demand, ‘Cerwin Trell, what are you doing here?’

With a wild cry, the young man leapt to his feet. He had been kneeling by Malta’s bed. A single red rose rested on her pillow. He stared at Ronica white-faced, his hand clutching at his breast. His mouth worked, but no sounds came out. His eyes travelled to the club in her hand and widened even more.

‘Oh, sit down,’ Ronica exclaimed in exasperation. She tossed the club to the foot of the bed and took her own advice. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked wearily. She was sure she knew the answer.

‘You’re alive,’ Cerwin said softly. He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed at his eyes. Ronica knew he sought to hide his tears. ‘Why didn’t you…Is Malta safe, too? Everyone said…’

Cerwin sank down to sit beside his rose on Malta’s bed. He set his hand gently on her pillow. ‘I heard you had left the ball with Davad Restart. Everyone knows his coach was waylaid. They were only after the Satrap and Restart. That is what everyone says, that they would have left you alone if you had not been travelling with Restart. I know Restart’s dead. Some claim to know what became of the Satrap, but they are not telling. Every time I asked about Malta and the rest of you…’ He faltered suddenly, and his face flushed, but he forced himself to go on. ‘They say you were traitors, that you were in on it with Restart. The rumour is that you planned to turn the Satrap over to New Traders who were going to kill him. Then the Bingtown Traders would be blamed for his death, and Jamaillia would send Chalcedean mercenaries in to take over our town and deliver it to the New Traders.’ He hesitated, then steeled himself to go on, ‘Some say that you got what you deserved. They say terrible things and I…I thought you were all dead. Grag Tenira spoke up for your family, saying that was nonsense. But since he left on the Ophelia to help guard the Rain Wild River mouth, no one has taken your part. I tried, once, but…I am young. No one listens. My father gets angry with me for even speaking of Malta. When Delo wept about her, he confined her to her room and said he would whip her if she even uttered her name again. And he’s never whipped Delo before.’

‘What is he afraid of?’ Ronica asked bluntly. ‘That folk will label you as traitors for caring what became of your friends?’

Cerwin bobbed his head in a sudden nod. ‘Father was not pleased when Ephron took Brashen on after our family had disowned him. Then you made him captain of the Paragon and sent him off as if you actually believed he could save Vivacia. Father took it that you were trying to show us up, to prove that you straightened out the son he threw away.’

‘What utter nonsense!’ Ronica exclaimed in disgust. ‘I did nothing of the kind. Brashen straightened himself out, and your father should be proud of him, not angry with the Vestrits over that. But I take it that he is satisfied to see us branded as traitors?’

Cerwin looked at the floor, ashamed. The dark eyes he finally lifted to hers were very like his older brother’s. ‘You’re right, I’m afraid. But please, torment me no longer. Tell me. Did Malta escape harm? Is she hiding here with you?’

Ronica considered for a long moment. How much of the truth should she entrust to him? She had no wish to torture the boy, but she would not endanger her family for the sake of his feelings. ‘When last I saw Malta, she was injured, but not dead. Small thanks to the men who attacked us and then left her for dead! She, her mother and brother are hiding in a safe place. And that is all I’m going to tell you.’

She didn’t admit that she knew little more than that herself. They had gone off with Reyn, Malta’s Rain Wild suitor. If all had gone as planned, then they had reached the Kendry in safety, and escaped Bingtown Harbour and then sailed up the Rain Wild River. If all had gone well, they were safe in Trehaug. The trouble was that very little had gone well lately, and there was no way for them to send Ronica word. All she could do was trust to Sa that she had been merciful.

Relief welled up in Cerwin Trell’s face. He reached to touch the rose he had left on Malta’s pillow. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered fervently. Then he spoiled it by adding, ‘At least I now can cling to hope.’

Ronica repressed a grimace. She could see that Delo had not inherited all the melodramatic tendencies in the Trell family. She changed the subject firmly. ‘Tell me what is happening in Bingtown now.’

He looked startled by the sudden request. ‘Well, but, I don’t know that much. Father has been keeping our whole family close to home. He still believes this will all blow past somehow, and then Bingtown will go on as before. He will be furious if he discovers I’ve slipped away. But I had to, you know.’ He clutched at his heart.

‘Of course, of course. What did you see on the way here? Why does your father keep you close to home?’

The boy knit his brows and stared down at his well-kept hands. ‘Well, right now, the harbour is ours again. That could change any time, though. The Three Ships folk have been helping us, but while all the ships are fighting, no one is fishing or bringing goods to market. So food is starting to be dear, especially as so many of the warehouses were burned.

‘In Bingtown, there has been looting and plundering. People have been beaten and robbed simply for trying to do business. Some say the culprits are New Trader gangs, others say they are escaped slaves out for anything they can get. The Market is deserted. Those who dare to open their doors to do business run many risks. Serilla had the City Guard seize what was left of the Satrap’s tariff dock. She wanted the message birds kept there, so that she might send word and receive tidings from Jamaillia. But most of the birds had died in the fire and smoke. The men she posted there did intercept a returning bird recently, but she would not share what tidings it brought. Some parts of the city are held by New Traders, some parts by Old. The Three Ships and other groups are caught between. At night, there are clashes.

‘My father is angry that no one is negotiating. He says that real Traders know that almost everything can be solved by the right bargain. He says that proves that the New Traders are to blame for everything that has happened, but they, of course, blame us. They say we kidnapped the Satrap. My father believes you were going to help kidnap the Satrap so they could kill him and blame it on us. Now the Old Traders squabble among themselves. Some want us to recognize Companion Serilla’s authority to speak for the Satrap of Jamaillia; others say it is time that Bingtown shook off Jamaillian authority entirely. The New Traders claim that we are ruled by Jamaillia still, but they won’t recognize Serilla’s documents. They beat the messenger she sent to them under a truce flag, and sent him back with his hands bound behind him and a scroll tied to his throat. It accused her of treason and being a party to the plot to overthrow the Satrap. They said our aggression against the Satrap and his lawful patrol boats provoked the violence in the harbour and turned our Chalcedean allies against us.’ He licked his lips and added, ‘They threatened that when the time came and strength was on their side, they would show no mercy.’

Cerwin paused for breath. His young face looked older as he went on. ‘It’s a mess and not getting better. Some of my friends want to arm themselves and simply drive the New Traders into the sea. Roed Caern says we should kill any of them who won’t leave. He says we must take back what they stole from us. Many of the Traders’ sons agree with him. They say that only when the New Traders are gone can Bingtown go back to being Bingtown. Some say we should round up the New Traders and give them a choice of leaving, or death. Others talk of secret reprisals against those who dealt with the New Traders, and burning the New Traders out to force them to leave. I’ve heard rumours that Caern and his friends go out a great deal at night.’ He shook his head miserably. ‘That is why my father tries to keep me close to home. He doesn’t want me involved.’ He met Ronica’s eyes suddenly. ‘I am not a coward. But I don’t want to be involved.’

‘In that, you and your father are wise. Nothing will be resolved that way. It will only justify them in more violence against us.’ Ronica shook her head. ‘Bingtown will never be Bingtown again.’ She sighed and asked, ‘When is the next Bingtown Council meeting?’

Cerwin shrugged. ‘They have not met at all since this began. At least, not formally. All the liveship Traders are out chasing Chalcedeans. Some of the Traders have fled the city; others have fortified their homes and never leave them. Several times the heads of the Council have gathered with Serilla, but she has urged them to delay calling a meeting. She wishes to reconcile with the New Traders and use her authority as the Satrap’s representative to restore peace. She wishes to treat with the Chalcedeans, also.’

Ronica was silent for a moment. Her lips tightened. This Serilla, it seemed to her, was taking entirely too much authority to herself. What were the tidings she had concealed? Surely the sooner the Council met and formulated a plan to restore order, the sooner the city could heal. Why would she oppose that?

‘Cerwin. Tell me this. If I went to Serilla, do you think she would speak to me? Or do you think they would kill me as a traitor?’

The young man looked at Ronica with dismay. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I no longer know what my own friends are capable of doing. Trader Daw was found hanged. His wife and children have disappeared. Some say he killed himself when he saw that fortunes were going against him. Others say his brothers-in-law did it, out of shame. No one talks much of it.’

Ronica was silent for a time. She could huddle here in the remains of her home, knowing that if she were murdered, folk would not talk much of it. Or she could find a different place to hide. But winter was coming, and she had already decided that she would not perish gracefully. Perhaps confrontation was all that was left. At least she would have the satisfaction of speaking her piece before someone killed her. ‘Can you carry a message to Serilla for me? Where is she staying?’

‘She has taken over Davad Restart’s house. But, please, I don’t dare carry a message. If my father found out –’

‘Of course.’ She cut him off abruptly. She could shame him into it. All she need do was imply that Malta would think him a coward if he did not. She would not use the boy to test the waters. What sense was there in sacrificing Cerwin to insure her own safety? She would go herself. She had cowered at home long enough.

She stood up. ‘Go home, Cerwin. And stay there. Listen to your father.’

The young man stood slowly. His gaze travelled over her, and then he looked away, embarrassed for her. ‘Do you…are you doing well here, by yourself? Have you enough to eat?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you for asking.’ She felt oddly touched by his concern. She looked down at her garden-stained hands and her dirt-caked nails. She restrained an impulse to put her hands behind her.

He took a breath. ‘Will you tell Malta that I came, that I was worried about her?’

‘I will. The next time I see her. But that may not be for quite a long time. Now go home. Obey your father after this. I am sure he has enough worries without you putting yourself in danger.’

That made him stand up a bit straighter. A smile touched his mouth. ‘I know. But I had to come, you see. I could know no peace until I discovered what had become of her.’ He paused. ‘May I tell Delo, also?’

The girl was one of the worst gossips in Bingtown. Ronica decided that Cerwin did not know enough about anything to be a threat. ‘You may. But plead with her to keep it to herself. Ask her not to speak of Malta at all. It is the greatest favour she can do her friend. The fewer people who wonder about Malta, the safer she is.’

Cerwin frowned dramatically. ‘Of course. I see.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Well. Farewell, Ronica Vestrit.’

‘Farewell, Cerwin Trell.’

Only a month ago, it would have been unthinkable for him to be in this room. The civil war in Bingtown had turned everything topsy-turvy. She watched him go, and it seemed that he carried the last of that old familiar life away with him. All the rules that had governed her had fallen. For an instant, she felt as desolate and plundered as the room she stood in. Then an odd sense of freedom washed over her. What had she left to lose? Ephron was dead. Ever since her husband’s death, her familiar world had been crumbling away. Now it was gone, and only she remained. She could make her own way now. Without Ephron and the children, little of the old life mattered to her.

She might as well make the new one interesting, as long as it was going to be unpleasant anyway.

After the boy’s footsteps in the tiled passage had died away, Ronica left Malta’s bedchamber and walked slowly through the house. She had avoided coming here since the day they had returned and found it raided. Now she forced herself to walk through each room and look at the corpse of her world. The heavier furniture and some of the hangings and drapes remained. Almost everything else of value or use had been carried off. She and Rache had salvaged some kitchen ware and bedding, but all the simple items that made living gracious were gone. The plates they set on the bare wooden table did not match, and no linens protected her from the rough wool of her blankets. Yet, life went on.

As her hand fell on the latch of the kitchen door, she noticed one wax-sealed pot that had fallen on its side and rolled into a corner. She stooped down to retrieve it. It was leaking a little. She licked her sticky finger. Cherry preserves. She smiled ruefully, then tucked it into the crook of her arm. She would take this last bit of sweetness with her.

‘Lady Companion?’

Serilla lifted her eyes from the map she was perusing. The serving boy at the door of the study looked deferentially at his feet. ‘Yes?’ she acknowledged him.

‘There is a woman to see you.’

‘I’m busy. She will have to come back at a better time.’ She was mildly annoyed with him. He should have known she did not want any other visitors today. It was late, and she had spent all the afternoon in a stuffy room full of Traders, trying to make them see sense. They quibbled over the most self-evident things. Some were still insisting that there must be a vote of the Council before they would recognize her authority over them. Trader Larfa had quite rudely suggested that Bingtown should settle Bingtown matters, with no advice from Jamaillia. It was most frustrating. She had shown them the authorization that she had extorted from the Satrap. She had written it herself, and knew it to be unchallengeable. Why would they not admit that she held the authority of the Satrap, and that Bingtown was subject to the Satrap’s authority?

She consulted the Bingtown chart once more. So far, the Traders had been able to keep their harbour open, but it was at the expense of all trade. The town could not long survive those circumstances. The Chalcedeans knew that very well. They did not have to rush in and control Bingtown immediately. Trade was the lifeblood of Bingtown and the Chalcedeans were slowly but surely strangling it.

The stubborn Traders were the ones who refused to see the obvious. Bingtown was a single settlement on a hostile coast. It had never been able to feed itself. How could it stand up to the onslaught of a warlike country like Chalced? She had asked that of the Council leaders. They replied that they had done it before and would do it again. But those other times, the might of Jamaillia backed them. And they had not had to contend with New Traders in their midst who might welcome a Chalcedean invasion. Many New Traders had close ties with Chalced, for that was the major market for the slaves they funnelled through Bingtown.

She considered again the bird-message Roed Caern had intercepted and brought to her. It had promised a Jamaillian fleet would soon set out to take revenge on the corrupt and rebellious Old Traders for the murder of the Satrap. Just to think of it made Serilla cold. The message had arrived too soon. No bird could fly that fast. To her, it meant that the conspiracy was widespread, extending to the nobility of Jamaillia City itself. Whoever had sent the bird to Jamaillia had expected that the Satrap would be murdered and that evidence would point to the Old Traders. The swiftness of the reply indicated that those who responded had been awaiting the message.

The only question was how extensive the conspiracy was. Even if she could root out the source of it, she did not know if she could destroy it. If only Roed Caern and his men had not been so hasty the night that they seized the Satrap. If Davad Restart and the Vestrits had survived, the truth might have been wrung from them. They might have revealed who of the Jamaillian nobility were involved in this. But Restart was dead and the Vestrits missing. She’d get no answers there.

She pushed the chart to one side and replaced it with an elegant map of Bingtown. The finely-inked and illustrated work was one of the wonders she’d discovered in Restart’s library. In addition to the original grants of all the Old Traders, with each holding inked in the family’s colour, Davad had penned in the main claims of the New Traders. She studied it, wondering if it might offer some clue to his allies. She frowned over it, then lifted her pen, dipped it, and made a note to herself. She liked the location of Barberry Hill. It would be a convenient summer home for her, once all this strife was settled. It had been a New Trader holding; likely the Bingtown Traders would be glad to cede it to her. Or as the Satrap’s representative, she could simply take it.

She leaned back in the immense chair, and wished briefly that Davad Restart had been a smaller man. Everything in this room was oversized for her. Sometimes she felt like a child pretending to be an adult. Sometimes all of Bingtown society seemed to have that effect on her. Her entire presence here was a pose. Her ‘authority from the Satrap’ was a document she had coerced Satrap Cosgo into signing when he was ill. All her power, all her claims to social stature were based on it. And its power, in turn, was based on the concept that the Satrapy of Jamaillia lawfully ruled over Bingtown. She had been shocked the first time she had realized how prevalent the Bingtown Traders’ talk of sovereignty was. It made her supposed status amongst them even more dubious. Perhaps she would have been wiser to have sided with the New Traders. But no, for at least some among them realized that Jamaillia City nobles were trying to shake off the Satrap’s authority. If the Satrap’s power in the capital was questionable, how tenuous was it here in the Satrapy’s farthest province?

It was too late to flinch. She’d made her choice and assumed her role. Now her last, best hope was to play it well. If she succeeded, Bingtown would be her home to the end of her days. That had been her dream ever since as a young woman, she had heard that in Bingtown a woman could claim the same rights as a man.

She rested against the cushions for an instant as her eyes travelled the room. A generous fire burned on the hearth of the study. The light from it and from the many tapers in the room gleamed warmly on the polished wood of the desk. She liked this room. Oh, the drapes were intolerable, and the books in the many cases lining the wall were disorganized and tatty, but all that could be changed. The rustic styling had been unsettling at first, almost annoying, but now that the estate was hers, it made her feel she was truly a part of Bingtown. Most of the Old Trader homes she had seen looked much like this one. She could adapt. She wiggled her toes inside the cosy lambswool slippers she wore. They had been Kekki’s, and they were just a bit tight. Idly she wondered if Kekki’s feet were cold right now, but no doubt the Rain Wild Traders were taking good care of their noble hostages. She did not restrain her smile of satisfaction. Even in small servings, revenge was sweet. The Satrap probably had not yet discerned that she had arranged his snatching.

‘Lady Companion?’

It was the serving boy again. ‘I said I was busy,’ she reminded him warningly. Bingtown servants had no real concept of deference to their masters. She had studied Bingtown all her life, but nothing in its official history had prepared her for the egalitarian reality. She set her teeth as the boy spoke back to her.

‘I told the woman that you were busy,’ the boy explained carefully. ‘But she insisted she would see you now. She says that you have no right to possess Davad Restart’s house. She says that she will give you one chance to explain yourself before she presents this grievance to the Bingtown Council on behalf of Davad’s lawful heirs.’

Serilla flung her pen down on the desk. Such words were too much to tolerate from anyone, let alone a servant. ‘Davad Restart was a traitor. By his actions, he forfeited all rights to his property. That includes the claims of his heirs as well.’ She suddenly realized she was explaining herself to a serving boy. Her temper snapped. ‘Tell her to go away, that I have no time to see her, not today, not any day.’

‘Tell me that yourself, and we’ll have more time to argue it.’

Serilla stared in shock at the old woman framed in the doorway. She was dressed simply, in worn but clean clothes. She wore no jewellery, but her gleaming hair was meticulously neat. Her posture more than her accoutrements proclaimed her Trader status. She looked familiar, but as inter-married as the Bingtown Old Traders were, that did not surprise Serilla. Half of them were their own second cousins. Serilla glared at her. ‘Go away,’ she said bluntly. She picked up her pen in a show of calmness.

‘No. I won’t. Not until I have satisfaction.’ A cold anger was in the Trader’s voice. ‘Davad Restart was not a traitor. By branding him as such, you’ve been able to take over his holdings for yourself. Perhaps you don’t mind stealing from a dead man, even one who opened the hospitality of his home to you. But your false accusations have brought disaster to me. The Vestrit family has been attacked and near murdered, I’ve been driven from my home, my possessions stolen, and all because of your slander. I will not tolerate it longer. If you force me to take this before the Bingtown Council, you will find that power and wealth do not sway justice here as in Jamaillia. All the Trader families were little more than beggars when we came here. Our society is founded on the idea that a man’s word binds him, regardless of his wealth. Our survival has depended on our ability to trust one another’s word. To give false witness here is more grievous than you can imagine.’

This must be Ronica Vestrit! She looked little like the elegant old woman at the ball. All she had retained was her dignity. Serilla reminded herself that she was the one in authority here. She held that thought until she could believe it. She dared not let anyone question her supremacy. The sooner the old woman was managed, the less trouble for all. Her memory swept her back to her days at the Satrap’s court. How had he handled such complaints? She kept her face impassive as she declared, ‘You waste my time with this long list of supposed grievances. I will not be bullied by your threats and implications.’ She leaned back in her chair, attempting to appear serenely confident. ‘Don’t you know that you are an accused traitor? To charge in here with your wild accusations is not only foolhardy but ridiculous. You are fortunate I do not have you clapped into chains immediately.’ Serilla tried to catch the serving boy’s eyes. He should take the hint that he should run for aid. Instead, he only watched the two women with avid interest.

Instead of being cowed, Ronica only became more incensed. ‘That might work in Jamaillia, where tyrants are worshipped. But this is Bingtown. Here, my voice is as loud as yours. Nor do we chain folk up without giving them a chance to speak first. I demand the opportunity to address the Bingtown Traders’ Council. I want to clear Davad’s name, or to be shown the evidence that condemns him. I demand decent burial for his remains in either case.’ The old woman advanced into the room. Her bony hands were clenched at her sides. Her eyes roved over the room, her outrage plainly growing as she noted the signs of Serilla’s occupancy. Her words became more clipped. ‘I want Davad’s property surrendered to his heirs. I want my own name cleared, and apology from those who endangered my family. I expect reparations from them as well.’ The woman came even closer. ‘If you force me to go to the Council, I will be heard. This is not Jamaillia, Companion. Complaints from a Trader, even an unpopular Trader, will not be ignored.’

That scatter-brained serving boy had fled. Serilla longed to go to the door and shout for assistance. But she feared even to stand lest she provoke an attack. Already her traitorous hands were trembling. Confrontation unnerved her now. Ever since – No. She would not think of that now, she would not let it weaken her. To dwell on that was to concede that it had changed her irrevocably. No one had that sort of power over her, no one! She would be strong.

‘Answer me!’ the woman suddenly demanded. Serilla started wildly and her flailing hands scattered the papers on the desk. The old woman leaned over the desk, her eyes blazing with anger. ‘How dare you sit there and ignore me? I am Ronica Vestrit of the Bingtown Traders. Who do you think you are, to sit in silence and stare at me?’

Ironically, that was the only question that could have broken Serilla from her frozen panic. It was a question she had asked herself often of late. She had rehearsed the answer to her mirror in endless self-validation. She stood. Her voice quavered only slightly. ‘I am Serilla, vowed Companion to Satrap Cosgo. More than that, I am his representative here in Bingtown. I have the signed documents to prove it, documents that the Satrap created specifically to deal with this situation. While he is in hiding for his personal safety, my word holds the same force as his, my decisions are what his would be, and my rulings are as binding. I myself have investigated the matter of Davad Restart’s treachery, and I have found him guilty of treason. Under Jamaillian law, all he owned is forfeit to the throne. As I represent the throne, I have decided to make use of it.’

For a moment, the old woman looked daunted. Serilla took courage from that evidence of weakness. She picked up her pen once more. Leaning over the desk, she pretended to peruse her notes, then lifted her eyes to the Vestrit woman.

‘As of yet, I have found no direct evidence of your treason. I have made no official pronouncement against you. I suggest that you do not goad me to look more deeply into your involvement. Your concerns for a dead traitor do not do you credit. If you are wise, you will leave now.’ Serilla dismissed her by looking down at her papers once more. She prayed the woman would just go away. Once she left, Serilla could summon armed men and send them after her. She pressed her toes against the floor to keep her knees from shaking.

Silence lasted. Serilla refused to look up. She waited to hear this Ronica Vestrit trudge away in defeat. Instead, the Trader’s fist suddenly slammed down on the desk, making the ink hop in its well. ‘You are not in Jamaillia!’ Ronica declared harshly. ‘You are in Bingtown. And here the truth is fixed by the facts, not by your decree.’ Ronica’s features were contorted with anger and determination. The Bingtown Trader leaned across the desk, shoving her face close to Serilla’s. ‘If Davad had been a traitor, there would be proof of it, here, in his records. However foolish he might have been, his accounts were always in order.’

Serilla pressed herself back into the chair. Her heart was hammering, and there was a roaring in her ears. The woman was completely deranged. She sought the will to leap to her feet and flee, but she was paralysed. She glimpsed the serving boy behind Ronica, and then relief engulfed her as she saw several Traders behind him. A few minutes ago, she would have been furious at him for presenting them unannounced. Now she was so pitifully grateful that tears stung her eyes.

‘Restrain her!’ she implored them. ‘She threatens me!’

Ronica swivelled her head to look back at the men. For their part, they seemed shocked into immobility. Ronica straightened slowly, turning her back on Serilla. Her voice was cold with courtesy as she greeted them by their names. ‘Trader Drur. Trader Conry. Trader Devouchet. I am glad to see you here. Perhaps now my questions will be answered.’

The expressions that passed over the Traders’ faces told Serilla that her situation had not improved. Shock and guilt were quickly masked with polite concern.

Only Trader Devouchet stared at her. ‘Ronica Vestrit?’ he asked incredulously. ‘But I thought…’ He turned to look at his companions but they had been swifter to compose themselves.

‘Is there a problem here?’ Trader Drur began but Conry overrode him with, ‘I fear we have intruded on a private conversation. We can return later.’

‘Not at all,’ Ronica answered gravely, as if they had addressed her. ‘Unless you think my survival is a problem to be solved by the Companion. The true problem here is one more fit to be resolved by the Traders’ Council than by a Satrap’s Companion. Gentlemen, as you obviously know, my family has been savagely attacked, and our reputation smeared to the point at which it endangers our lives. Trader Restart has been treacherously murdered, and so maligned after the fact that those who killed him claim they were justified. I am here to demand that the Council investigate this matter and render justice.’

Devouchet’s eyes grew stony. ‘Justice has already been done. Restart was a traitor. Everyone knows that.’

Ronica Vestrit’s face was impassive. ‘So I keep hearing. But no one has presented me with one shred of evidence.’

‘Ronica, be reasonable,’ Trader Drur rebuked her. ‘Bingtown is a shambles. We are in the midst of a civil war. The Council has no time to convene on private matters, it must…’

‘Murder is not a private matter! The Council must answer the complaints of any Bingtown Trader. That was why the Council was formed, to see that regardless of wealth or poor fortune, justice was available to every Trader. That is what I demand. I believe Davad was killed and my family attacked on the basis of a rumour. That is not justice, that is murder and assault. Furthermore, while you believe that the culprit has been punished, I believe the true traitors go free. I don’t know what became of the Satrap. However, this woman seems to, by her own admission. I know he was taken by force that night. That scarcely seems to me that he “went into hiding, entrusting his power to her.” It seems to me more likely that Bingtown has been dragged into a Jamaillian plot to unseat the Satrap, one that may smear all of us with blame. I have heard that she even wishes to treat with the Chalcedeans. What will she give them, gentlemen, to placate them? What does she have to give them, save what is Bingtown’s? She benefits in power and wealth by the Satrap’s absence. Have some Traders been tricked into kidnapping the Satrap, for this woman’s own ends? If such is the case, she has led them into treason. Is not that a matter for the Council to judge, if it will not consider Davad Restart’s murder? Or are all of those “private matters”?’

Serilla’s mouth had gone dry. The three men exchanged uncertain glances. They were being swayed by this mad woman’s words. They would turn on her! Behind them, the serving boy lingered near the door, listening curiously. There was movement in the passage beyond him, and then Roed Caern and Krion Trentor entered the room. Tall and lean, Roed towered over his shorter, softer companion. Roed had bound his long black hair back in a tail as if he were a barbarian warrior. His dark eyes had always held a feral glint; now they shone with a predator’s lust. He stared at Ronica. Despite the uneasiness the young Trader always roused in her, Serilla felt a sudden wash of relief at his appearance. He, at least, would side with her.

‘I heard the name of Davad Restart,’ Roed observed harshly. ‘If anyone has a dispute with how he ended, they should speak to me.’ His eyes challenged Ronica.

Ronica drew herself up and advanced on him fearlessly. She was scarcely as tall as his shoulder. She looked up to meet his eyes as she demanded, ‘Trader’s son, do you admit the blood of a Trader is on your hands?’

One of the older Traders gasped, and Roed looked startled for an instant. Krion licked his lips nervously. Then, ‘Restart was a traitor!’ Roed declared.

‘Prove it to me!’ Ronica exploded. ‘Prove it to me, and I’ll keep my peace, though I should not. Traitor or not, what was done to Davad was murder, not justice. But more importantly, gentlemen, I suggest you prove it to yourselves. Davad Restart is not the traitor who planned the abduction of a Satrap. He had no need to abduct a man who was guesting in his home! In believing that Davad was a traitor, and that you have destroyed a plot by killing him, you cripple yourself. Whoever is behind your plot, if there ever was a plot, is still alive and free to do mischief. Perhaps you were manipulated into doing exactly what you say you feared: kidnapping the Satrap, to bring the wrath of Jamaillia down on Bingtown?’ She struggled, then forced calm into her voice. ‘I know Davad was not a traitor. But he may have been a dupe. A sly man like Davad could become the victim of someone slyer still. I suggest you go through Davad’s papers carefully, and ask yourself, who was using him? Ask yourself the question that underlies every Trader’s actions. Who profited?’

Ronica Vestrit met the eyes of each man in turn. ‘Recall all you knew of Davad. Did he ever strike a bargain in which his profit was not certain? Did he ever place himself in physical danger? He was a social blunderer, a man close to being a pariah to both Old Traders and New. Is that the man with the charisma and expertise to engineer a plot against the most powerful man in the world?’ She jerked her head disdainfully in Serilla’s direction. ‘Ask the Companion who fed her the information that led to her assumptions. Match those names against those bargaining through Davad, and you may have a starting place for your suspicions. When you have answers, you can find me at my home. Unless, of course, Trader Caern’s son thinks murdering me as well would be the tidiest way to resolve this.’ Ronica turned abruptly. Sword-straight and unsmiling, she faced Roed.

Handsome, swarthy Roed Caern looked suddenly pale and ill. ‘Davad Restart was thrown clear of the coach. No one intended him to die there!’

Ronica met his angry look with ice. ‘Your intentions made small difference. You did not care either way, about any of us. Malta heard what you said the night you left her to die. She saw you, she heard you, and she lived. Small thanks to any of you. Traders, Traders’ sons, I believe you have much to think on this evening. Good night to you.’

This ageing woman in the worn clothing still managed to sweep regally from the room. The relief Serilla felt as Ronica left the room was momentary. As she sat back in her chair, she became uncomfortably aware of the faces of the men around her. As she recalled her first words when the Old Traders entered the room, she cringed, and then decided she must defend them. ‘That woman is not in her right mind,’ she declared in a lowered voice. ‘I truly believe she would have done me harm if you had not arrived when you did.’ Quietly she added, ‘It might be best if she were contained somehow…for her own safety.’

‘I can’t believe the rest of her family also survived,’ Krion began in a nervous voice, but ‘Shut up!’ Roed Caern ordered him. He scowled about the room. ‘I agree with the Companion. Ronica Vestrit is crazy. She talks of petitioning the Council and murder trials and judgements! How can she think that such rules apply during war? In these days, strong men must act. If we had waited for the Council to meet on the night of the fires, Bingtown would now be in Chalcedean hands. The Satrap would be dead, and the blame put on our heads. Individual Traders had to act, and each did. We saved Bingtown! I regret that Restart and the Vestrit women were entangled in the capture of the Satrap but they made the decision to get into the coach with him. When they chose such a companion, they chose their fate.’

‘Capture?’ Trader Drur raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I was told we had intervened to prevent the New Traders from kidnapping him.’

Roed Caern did not blanch. ‘You know what I mean,’ he growled, and turned aside. He paced to a window and stared out over the darkened grounds as if trying to see Ronica’s departing form.

Drur shook his head. The grizzled Trader looked older than his years. ‘I know what we intended, but somehow…’ He let his words trail away. Then he lifted his eyes and looked slowly around at all the folk in the room. ‘It was why we came here tonight, Companion Serilla. My friends and I fear that in trying to save Bingtown, we have placed it on the path to destruction of its very heart.’

Roed’s face went dark with anger. ‘And I come to say that those of us young enough to be the beating of that heart know that we have not gone far enough. You long to treat with the New Traders, don’t you, Drur? Even though they have already spat upon a truce offer. You would bargain away my birthrights for the sake of a comfortable old age for yourself. Well, your daughter may sit home and tat while men are dying in the streets of Bingtown. She may allow you to crawl cravenly to those upstart newcomers and dicker away our rights for the sake of peace, but we shall not. What would come next? Would you give her to the Chalcedeans to buy peace with them?’

Trader Drur’s face had gone red as a turkey’s wattle. His fists knotted at his side.

‘Gentlemen. Please.’ Serilla spoke softly. Tension thrummed in the room. Serilla sat at the centre of it like a spider in her web. The Traders turned to her and waited on her words. Her fear and anxiety of a moment ago were scorched to ashes in the triumph that burned invisibly within her. Bingtown Trader opposed Bingtown Trader, and they had come for her advice. This was how highly they regarded her. If she could keep her grasp on this power, she could be safe the rest of her life. So, carefully now. Go carefully.

‘I knew this moment would come,’ she lied gracefully. ‘It was one reason I urged the Satrap to come here to mediate this dispute. You see yourselves as factions where the world sees only a whole. Traders, you must come to see yourselves as the world does. I do not mean,’ and she raised her voice and held up a warning hand as Roed drew breath for an angry interruption, ‘that you must give up any of what is rightfully yours. Traders and sons of Traders may be assured that Satrap Cosgo will not take away what Satrap Esclepius granted you. However, if you are not careful, you may still lose it, by failing to realize that times have changed. Bingtown is no longer a backwater. It has the potential to become a major trading port in the world. To do so, Bingtown must become a city more diverse and tolerant than it has been. But it must do that without losing the qualities that make Bingtown unique in the Satrap’s crown.’

The words just came to her, falling from her lips in cadenced, rational statements. The Traders seemed entranced. She hardly knew what she was advising. It did not matter. These men were so desperate for a solution that they would listen to anyone who claimed to have one. She sat back in her chair, all eyes on her.

Drur was the first one to speak. ‘You will treat with the New Traders on our behalf?’

‘You will enforce the terms of our original charter?’ Roed Caern asked.

‘I will. As an outsider and the Satrap’s representative, only I am qualified to bring peace back to Bingtown. Lasting peace, under terms all can find tolerable.’ She let her eyes flash as she added, ‘And as his representative, I will remind the Chalcedeans that when they attack a possession of Jamaillia, they attack Jamaillia herself. The Pearl Throne will not tolerate such an insult.’

As if her words of themselves had accomplished that goal, there was a sudden lessening of tension in the room. Shoulders lowered and the tendons in fists and necks were suddenly less visible.

‘You must not perceive yourselves as opponents in this,’ she offered them. ‘You each bring your own strengths to the table.’ She gestured to each group in turn. ‘Your elders know Bingtown’s history, and bring years of negotiating experience. They know that something cannot be gained without all parties being willing to surrender lesser points. While these, your sons, realize that their future depends on the original charter of Bingtown being recognized by all who reside here. They bring the strength of their convictions and the tenacity of youth. You must stand united in this time of trouble, to honour the past and provide for the future.’

The two groups were looking at one another now, openly, the hostility between them mellowing to a tentative alliance. Her heart leapt. This was what she had been born to do. Bingtown was her destiny. She would unite it and save it and make it her own.

‘It’s late,’ she said softly. ‘I think that before we talk, we all need to rest. And think. I will expect all of you tomorrow, to share noon repast with me. By then, I will have organized my own thoughts and suggestions. If we are united in deciding to treat with the New Traders, I will suggest a list of New Traders who might be open to such negotiating, and also powerful enough to speak for their neighbours.’ As Roed Caern’s face darkened and even Krion scowled, she added with a slight smile, ‘But of course, we are not yet united in that position. And nothing shall be done until we reach consensus, I assure you. I shall be open to all suggestions.’

She dismissed them with a smile and a ‘Good evening, Traders.’

Each of them came to bow over her hand and thank her for her counsels. As Roed Caern did so, she held his fingers in her own a moment longer. As he glanced up at her in surprise, her lips formed the silent words, ‘Come back later.’ His dark eyes widened but he spoke no word.

After the boy ushered them out, she breathed a sigh that was both relief and satisfaction. She would survive here, and Bingtown would be hers, regardless of what became of the Satrap. She pinched her lips together as she considered Roed Caern. Then she rose swiftly and crossed to the servant’s bell. She would have her maid assist her in dressing more formally. Roed Caern frightened her. He was a man capable of anything. She did not wish him to think that her request to him was the invitation to a tryst. She would be cool and formal when she set him to tracking down Ronica Vestrit and her family.

3 WINTROW

THE CARVED FIGUREHEAD stared straight ahead as she sliced the waves. The wind at her back filled her sails and drove her forwards. Her bow cut the water in a near constant white spray. The flying droplets beaded Vivacia’s cheeks and the foaming black curls of her hair.

She had left Others’ Island and then Ridge Island behind her. Vivacia moved west now, away from the open ocean and towards the treacherous gap between Shield Wall and Last Island. Beyond the ridge of islands was the sheltered Inside Passage to the relative safety of the Pirate Isles.

Within her rigging, the pirate crew moved lively until six sails bellied full in the wind. Captain Kennit gripped the bow rail with his long-fingered hands, his pale blue eyes squinting. The spray damped his white shirt and elegant broadcloth jacket, but he took no notice of it. Like the figurehead, he stared longingly ahead, as if his will could wring more speed out of the ship.

‘Wintrow needs a healer,’ Vivacia insisted abruptly. Woefully, she added, ‘We should have kept the slave surgeon from the Crosspatch. We should have forced him to come with us.’ The liveship’s figurehead crossed her arms on her chest and hugged herself tightly. She did not look back towards Kennit, but stared over the sea. Her jaw clamped tightly shut.

The pirate captain took in a deep breath and erased all trace of exasperation from his voice. ‘I know your fears,’ he told her. ‘But you must set them aside. We are days from a settlement of any size. By the time we get to one, Wintrow will either be healing, or dead. We are caring for him as best we can, ship. His own strength is his best hope now.’ Belatedly, he tried to comfort her. He spoke in a gentler tone. ‘I know you are worried about the lad. I am just as concerned as you are. Hold to this, Vivacia. He breathes. His heart beats. He takes in water and pisses it out again. These are all marks of a man who will live. I’ve seen enough of injured men to know that is so.’

‘So you have told me.’ Her words were clipped. ‘I have listened to you. Now, I beg you, listen to me. His injury is not a normal one. It goes beyond pain or damage to his flesh. Wintrow isn’t there, Kennit. I cannot feel him at all.’ Her voice began to shake. ‘While I cannot feel him, I cannot help him. I cannot lend him comfort or strength. I am helpless. Worthless to him.’

Kennit fought to contain his impatience. Behind him, Jola bellowed angrily at the men, threatening to strip the flesh from their ribs if they didn’t put their backs into their work. Wasted breath, Kennit thought to himself. Just do it once to one of them and the first mate would never need to threaten them again.

Kennit crossed his arms on his chest, containing his own temper. Strictness was not a tack he could take with the ship. Still, it was hard to leash his irritation. Worry for the boy already ate at him like a canker. He needed Wintrow. He knew that. When he thought of him, he felt an almost mystical sense of connection. The boy was intertwined with his luck and his destiny to be king. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Wintrow were a younger, more innocent version of himself, unscarred by the harshness of his life. When he thought of Wintrow that way, he felt an odd tenderness for him. He could protect him. He could be to Wintrow the kind of mentor that he himself had never had. Yet to do that, he had to be the boy’s sole protector. The bond between Wintrow and the ship was a double barrier to Kennit. As long as it existed, neither the ship nor the boy was completely his.

He spoke firmly to Vivacia. ‘You know the boy is aboard. You caught us up and saved us yourself. You saw him taken aboard. Do you think I would lie to you, and say he lived if he did not?’

‘No,’ she replied heavily. ‘I know you would not lie to me. Moreover, I believe that if he had died, I would know of it.’ She shook her head savagely and her heavy hair flew with her denial. ‘We have been so closely linked for so long. I cannot convey to you how it feels to know he is aboard, and yet to have no sense of him. It is as if a part of myself had been cloven away…’

Her voice dwindled. She had forgotten to whom she spoke. Kennit leaned more heavily on his makeshift crutch. He tapped his peg loudly thrice upon her deck. ‘Do you think I cannot imagine what you feel?’ he asked her.

‘I know you can,’ she conceded. ‘Ah, Kennit, what I cannot express is how alone I am without him. Every evil dream, every malicious imagining that has ever haunted me ventures from the corners of my mind. They gibber and mock me. Their sly taunting eats away at my sense of who I am.’ She lifted her great wizardwood hands to her temples and pressed her palms there. ‘So often I have told myself that I no longer need Wintrow. I know who I am. And I believe I am far greater than he could ever grasp.’ She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘He can be so irritating. He mouths platitudes and ponders theology at me until I swear I would be happier without him. However, when he is not with me, and I have to confront who I truly am…’ She shook her head again, wordlessly.

She began again. ‘When I got the serpent’s slime from the gig onto my hands –’ Her words halted. When she spoke again, it was in an altered voice. ‘I am frightened. There is a terrible dread in me, Kennit.’ She twisted suddenly, to look at him over one bare shoulder. ‘I fear the truth that lurks inside me, Kennit. I fear the whole of my identity. I have a face I wear to show the world, but there is more to me than that. There are other faces concealed in me. I sense a past behind my past. If I do not guard against it, I fear it will leap out and change all I am. Yet, it makes no sense. How could I be someone other than who I am now? How can I fear myself? I don’t understand how I could feel such a thing. Do you?’

Kennit tightened his arms across his chest and lied. ‘I think you are prone to flights of fancy, my sea lady. No more than that. Perhaps you feel a bit guilty. I know that I chide myself for taking Wintrow to the Others’ Island where he was exposed to such danger. For you, it must be sharper. You have been distant with him of late. I know that I have come between you and Wintrow. Pardon me if I do not regret that. Now that you have been faced with the possibility of losing him, you appreciate the hold he still has on you. You wonder what would become of you if he died. Or left.’

Kennit shook his head at her and gave her a wry smile. ‘I fear you still do not trust me. I have told you, I will be with you always, to the end of my days. Yet still you cling to him as the only one worthy to partner you.’ Kennit paused, then ventured a gambit to see how she would react. ‘I think we should use this time to prepare for when Wintrow will leave us. Fond as we are of him, we both know his heart is not here, but at his monastery. The time will come when, if we truly love him, we must let him go. Do you not agree?’

Vivacia turned away to stare out over the sea. ‘I suppose so.’

‘My lovely water-flower, why cannot you allow me to fill his place with you?’

‘Blood is memory,’ Vivacia said sadly. ‘Wintrow and I share both blood and memories.’

It was painful, for he ached in every limb, but Kennit lowered himself slowly to her deck. He put his hand flat on the bloodstain that still held the outline of his hip and leg. ‘My blood,’ he said quietly. ‘I lay here while my leg was cut from my body. My blood soaked into you. I know you shared memories with me then.’

‘I did. And again, when you died. Yet –’ She paused, then complained, ‘Even unconscious, you hid yourself from me. You shared what you chose to reveal, Kennit. The rest you cloaked in mystery and shadow, denying those memories even existed.’ She shook her massive head. ‘I love you, Kennit, but I do not know you. Not as Wintrow and I know one another. I hold the memories of three generations of his family line. His blood has soaked me as well. We are like two trees sprung from a single root.’ She took a sudden breath. ‘I do not know you,’ she repeated. ‘If I truly knew you, I would understand what happened when you returned from Others’ Island. The winds and sea itself seemed to answer to your command. A serpent bowed to your will. I do not understand how such a thing could be, yet I witnessed it. Nor do you see fit to explain it to me.’ Very softly, she asked him, ‘How can I put my trust in a man who does not trust me?’

For a time, silence blew by with the wind. ‘I see,’ Kennit replied heavily. He got to his knee and then laboriously climbed up his crutch to stand erect. She had wounded him and he chose to let it show. ‘All I can say to you is that it is not yet time for me to reveal myself to you. I had hoped that you loved me well enough to be patient. You have dashed that hope. Still, I hope you know me well enough to believe my words. Wintrow is not dead. He shows signs of recovering. Once he is well, I have no doubt he will come to you. When he does, I shall not stand between you.’

‘Kennit!’ she cried after him, but he limped slowly away. When he got to the short ladder that led from the raised foredeck to the main deck, he had to lower himself awkwardly to it. He set his crutch flat on the deck and scrabbled his body around to the ladder. It presented difficulties for a one-legged man, but he surmounted them without help. Etta, who should have been at his side to aid him, was nursing Wintrow. He supposed that she, too, now preferred the lad’s company to his. No one seemed to care how his exertions on Others’ Island had exhausted him. Despite the warm weather, he had developed a cough from their long and arduous swim. Every muscle and joint in his body ached, but no one offered him sympathy or support, for Wintrow was hurt, the skin scalded from his body by sea serpent’s venom. Wintrow. He was the only one that Etta and Vivacia noticed.

‘Oh. Poor pirate. Poor, pathetic, unloved Kennit.’

The words were drawled sarcastically, in a small voice. It came from the carved charm he wore strapped to his wrist. He would not even have heard the tiny, breathless voice if he had not been climbing down the ladder, his hand still gripping the rung by his face. His foot reached the lower deck. He held to the ladder with one hand as he tugged his coat straight, and corrected the fall of lace from his cuffs. Anger burned in him. Even the wizardwood charm he had created to bring him luck had turned on him. His own face, carved in miniature, flung mockery at him. He thought of a threat for the beastly little wretch.

He lifted his hand to smooth the curl of his moustache. Carved face close to his mouth, ‘Wizardwood burns,’ he observed quietly.

‘So does flesh,’ the tiny voice replied. ‘You and I are bound as tightly as Vivacia is bound to Wintrow. Do you want to test that link? You have already lost a leg. Would you like to try life without your eyes?’

The charm’s words set a finger of ice to the pirate’s spine. How much did it know?

‘Ah, Kennit, there can be few secrets between two such as we. Few.’ It spoke to his thoughts rather than his words. Could it truly know what he thought, or did it shrewdly guess?

‘Here’s a secret I could share with Vivacia,’ the charm went on relentlessly. ‘I could tell her that you yourself have no idea what happened during that rescue. That once your elation wore off, you cowered in your bed and trembled like a child while Etta was nursing Wintrow.’ A pause. ‘Perhaps Etta would find that amusing.’

An inadvertent glance at his wrist showed him the sardonic grin on the charm’s face. Kennit pushed down a deep uneasiness. He would not dignify the ill-natured little thing with a reply. He recovered his crutch and stepped swiftly out of the path of a handful of men hastening to reset a sail that was not to Jola’s liking.

What had happened as they were leaving Others’ Island? The storm had raged about them, and Wintrow had been unconscious, perhaps dying in the bottom of the ship’s boat. Kennit had been furious with fate that it would try to snatch his future away just as he was so close to realizing it. He had stood up in the gig, to shake his fist and forbid the sea to drown him and the winds to oppose him. Not only had they heeded his words, but the serpent from the island had risen from the depths to reunite the gig with its mother ship. He exhaled sharply, refusing credulous fear. It was difficult enough that his own crew now worshipped him with their eyes, cowering in terror at his slightest remonstrance. Even Etta quivered fearfully under his touch and spoke to him with downcast eyes. Occasionally, she slipped back into familiarity, only to be aghast with herself when she realized she had done so. Only the ship treated him as fearlessly as she always had. Now she had revealed that his miracle had created another barrier between them. He refused to surrender to their superstition. Whatever had happened, he must accept it and continue as he always had.

Commanding a ship demanded that the captain always live a detached life. No one could fraternize on equal terms with the ship’s captain. Kennit had always enjoyed the isolation of command. Since Sorcor had taken over command of the Marietta, he had lost some of his deference for Kennit. The storm incident had once more firmly established Kennit as above Sorcor. Now his former second-in-command regarded him with a god-struck gaze. It was not the elevation in their regard that Kennit minded so much. It was knowing that a fall from this new pinnacle could shatter him. Even a slight mistake now might discredit him in their eyes. He must be more careful than ever before. The path he had set himself upon grew ever narrower and steeper. He set his customary small smile to his face. Let no one see his apprehension. He made his way towards Wintrow’s cabin.

‘Wintrow? Here is water. Drink.’

Etta squeezed a small sponge above his lips. A pattering of drops fell. She watched anxiously as his blistered lips opened to the water. His thick tongue moved inside his mouth, and she saw him swallow. It was followed by a quick gasp for breath. ‘Is that better? Do you want more?’

She leaned closer and watched his face, willing a response from him. She would accept anything, the twitch of an eyelid, the flaring of a nostril. There was nothing. She dipped the sponge again. ‘Here comes more water,’ she assured him, and sent another brief trickle into his mouth. Again, he swallowed.

Thrice more she gave him water. The last time, it trickled down his livid cheek. She dabbed it gently away. Skin came with it. Then she leaned back into the chair by his bunk and considered him wearily. She could not tell if his thirst was satiated or if he was too weary to swallow more. She numbered her consolations. He was alive. He breathed; he drank. She tried to build hope upon that. She dropped the sponge back into the pan of water. For a moment, she regarded her own hands. She had scalded them in Wintrow’s rescue, for when she had seized him to keep him from drowning, the serpent slime on his clothing had rubbed off on her, leaving shiny red patches, stingingly sensitive to both heat and cold. And it had done that damage after it had spent most of its strength on Wintrow’s clothing and flesh.

His clothing had been corroded away to flimsy rags. Then, as warm water dissolves ice, the slime had eaten his flesh. His hands had taken the worst damage, but spatters of it had marred his face. It had eaten into his sailor’s queue, leaving uneven hanks of black hair clinging to his head. She had cut his remaining hair to keep it from lying in his sores. His shorn scalp made him look even younger than he was.

In some places, the damage seemed no worse than sunburn; in others, raw tissue shone wet beside tanned and healthy flesh. Swelling had distorted his features, rendering his eyes as slits beneath a ledge of brow. His fingers were as sausages. His breath rattled in and out wetly. His oozing flesh stuck to the linen sheets. She suspected his pain was intense, and yet he gave few signs of it. He was so unresponsive that she feared he was dying.

She closed her eyes tightly. If he died, it would reawaken all the pain she had schooled herself to leave behind. It was so monstrously unfair that she was going to lose him so soon after finally coming to trust him. He had taught her to read. She had taught him to fight. She had competed with him jealously for Kennit’s attention. Somehow, in the process, she had come to consider him a friend. How had she let herself be so careless? Why had she allowed herself such vulnerability?

She had come to know him better than anyone else on board. To Kennit, Wintrow was a lucky piece and a prophet of his success, though he valued the boy, perhaps even loved him in his grudging way. The crew had accepted Wintrow, reluctantly at first, but with almost paternal pride since the mild lad had stood his ground at Divvytown, blade in hand, and voiced his support for Kennit as a king. His shipmates had been eager for Wintrow to walk the Treasure Beach, sure that whatever he discovered there would be omens of Kennit’s greatness to come. Even Sorcor had come to regard Wintrow with tolerance and affection. But none of them knew him as she did. If he died, they would be sad, but Etta would be bereaved.

She pushed her own feelings roughly aside. They were not important. The vital question was, how would Wintrow’s death affect Kennit? She truly could not guess. Five days ago, she would have sworn she knew the pirate as well as anyone. Not that she claimed to know all his secrets; he was a very private man, and his motives often mystified her. Nevertheless, he treated her kindly and more than kindly. She knew she loved him. That had been enough for her; she did not need to be loved in return. He was Kennit, and that was all she required of him.

She had listened with indulgent scepticism as Wintrow had shyly begun to voice his speculations. His initial distrust of Kennit had evolved slowly into a belief that Kennit was chosen by Sa to fulfil some great destiny. She had suspected Kennit of playing on the boy’s gullibility, encouraging Wintrow in his beliefs simply so he could enlist him in his own endeavours. Fond as she was of Kennit, she believed him capable of such deceptions. It did not make her think less of her man that he was willing to do whatever he must to achieve his ends.

But that had been before she had seen Kennit lift his hands and voice to quell a storm and command a sea serpent. Since that moment, she felt as if the man she loved had been snatched away and another set in his place. She was not alone in this. The crew that would have followed Captain Kennit to any bloody death now fell silent at his approach and near cowered at a direct command from him. Kennit scarcely noticed. That was the uncanny thing. He seemed to accept what he had done, and expect the same of those around him. He spoke to her as if nothing had changed. Shockingly, he touched her as he always had. She was not worthy to be touched by such a being, yet she dared not deny herself to him, either. Who was she to question the will of one such as he?

What was he?

Words she would once have scoffed came to her mind. God-touched. Beloved of Sa. Destined. Prophesied. Chosen by fate. She wanted to laugh and dismiss such fancies, but could not. From the very beginning, Kennit had been unlike any other man she had ever known. None of the rules had ever seemed to apply to him. He had succeeded where any other man would have failed, achieved the impossible effortlessly. The tasks he had set himself baffled her. The size of his ambitions astounded her. Had not he captured a Bingtown liveship? What other man had recovered from a sea serpent’s attack? Who but Kennit could have made the rag-tag villages of the Pirate Isles start to think of themselves as outposts of a far-flung realm, Kennit’s rightful kingdom?

What kind of a man harboured such dreams, let alone brought them to fruit?

Such questions made her miss Wintrow even more sharply. If he had been awake, he could have helped her understand. Though he was young, he had spent almost his entire life in schooling at a monastery. When she had first met him, she had disdained him for his educated ways and gentle manners. Now she wished she could turn to him with her uncertainties. Words like destiny and fate and omen fell from his lips as easily as curses came from hers. From him, such words were believable.

She found herself toying with the small pouch she wore around her neck. She opened it with a sigh, and once more took out the tiny manikin. She had found it in her boot, along with a quantity of sand and barnacle shells after they had escaped from Others’ Island. When she had asked Kennit what such an omen from the Treasure Beach might mean, he had told her that she already knew. That answer had frightened her more than any dire prophecy he could have uttered.

‘But truly, I don’t,’ she said softly to Wintrow. The doll just filled her palm. It felt like ivory, yet it was coloured the precise pink of a baby’s flesh. The curled and sleeping infant had tiny perfect eyelashes on its cheeks, ears like minute seashells, and a coiling serpentine tail that wrapped around it. It warmed quickly in her hand, and the smooth contours of the tiny body begged to be touched. Her fingertip traced the curve of its spine. ‘It looks like a baby to me. But what can that mean to me?’ She lowered her voice and spoke more confidentially, as if the youth could hear her. ‘Kennit spoke of a baby, once. He asked me if I would have a baby if he wanted that of me. I told him, of course I would. Is that what this means? Is Kennit going to ask me to have his child?’

Her hand strayed to her flat belly. Through her shirt, her finger touched a tiny lump. A wizardwood charm, shaped like a tiny skull, was ringed through her navel to protect her from disease and pregnancy. ‘Wintrow, I’m afraid. I fear I cannot live up to such dreams. What if I fail him? What am I to do?’

‘I will not ask of you anything I believe is beyond you.’

Etta leapt to her feet with a startled cry. She spun to find Kennit standing in the open door. She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I didn’t hear you,’ she apologized guiltily.

‘Ah, but I heard you. Is our boy awake now? Wintrow?’ Kennit limped into the room, to gaze hopefully on Wintrow’s still form.

‘No. He drinks water, but other than that, there is no sign of recovery.’ Etta remained standing.

‘But still you ask him these questions?’ Kennit observed speculatively. He turned his head to pierce her with his glance.

‘I have no one else to share such doubts,’ she began, and then halted. ‘I meant,’ she began hesitantly, but Kennit silenced her with an impatient motion of his hand.

‘I know what you meant,’ he revealed. He sank into her chair. When he let go of his crutch, she caught it before it could clatter to the floor. He leaned forwards to look at Wintrow more closely, a frown furrowing his brow. His fingers touched the boy’s swollen face with a woman’s gentleness. ‘I, too, miss his counsel.’ He stroked the stubble of hair on Wintrow’s head, then pulled his hand back in distaste at its coarseness. ‘I am thinking of putting him up on the foredeck, by the figurehead. She may be able to speed his healing.’

‘But –’ Etta began, then held her tongue and lowered her eyes.

‘You object? Why?’

‘I did not mean to…’

‘Etta!’ Kennit barked her name, making her jump. ‘Spare me this whining and cringing. If I ask you a question, it is because I wish you to speak, not whimper at me. Why do you object to moving him there?’

She swallowed her fear. ‘The scabs on his burns are loose and wet. If we move him, they may be rubbed off, and delay his healing. The wind and the sun may dry and crack raw skin all the more.’

Kennit looked only at the boy. He appeared to be pondering her words. ‘I see. But we shall move him carefully, and we will not leave him there long. The ship needs assurance that he lives still, and I think he may need her strength to heal.’

‘I am sure you know better than I –’ she faltered, but he cut off her objection with, ‘I am certain that I do. Go fetch some crewmen to move him. I shall wait here.’

Wintrow swam deep, in darkness and warmth. Somewhere, far above, there was a world of light and shadow, of voices and pain and touch. He avoided it. In another plane, there was a being that groped after him, calling him by his name and baiting him with memories as well. She was harder to elude, but his determination was strong. If she found him, there would be great pain and disillusionment for both of them. As long as he remained a tiny formless being swimming through the dark, he could avoid it all.

Something was being done to his body. There was clatter, talk, and fuss. He centred himself against anticipated pain. Pain had the power to grasp him and hold him. Pain might be able to drag him up to that world where he had a body and a mind and a set of memories that went with them. Down here, it was much safer.

It only seems that way. And while it seems that way for a long time, eventually you will long for light and movement, for taste and sound and touch. If you wait too long, those things may be lost to you forever.

This voice boomed rich all around him like the thundering of surf against rocks. Like the ocean itself, the voice turned and tumbled him, considering him from all angles. He tried in vain to hide from it. It knew him. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

The voice was amused. Who am I? You know who I am, Wintrow Vestrit. I am whom you most fear, and whom she most fears. I am the one you avoid acknowledging. I am the one you deny and conceal from yourself and each other. Yet, I am a part of you both.

The voice paused and waited for him, but he would not speak the words. He knew that the old naming magic worked both ways. To know a creature’s true name was to have the power to bind it. But the naming of such a creature could also make it real.

I am the dragon. The voice spoke with finality. You know me now. And nothing will ever be the same.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he babbled silently. ‘I didn’t know. None of us knew. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.’

Not as sorry as I am. The voice was implacable in its grief. Nor yet as sorry as you shall be.

‘But it wasn’t my fault! I had nothing to do with it!’

Nor was it my fault, yet I am the one punished most grievously of all. Fault has no place in the greater scheme of things, little one. Fault and guilt are as useless as apology once the deed is done. Once the action has been taken, all must endure what follows.

‘But why are you down here so deep?’

Where else should I be? Where else is left to me? By the time I recalled who I was, your memories were stacked many layers deep upon me. Yet here I am, and here I shall remain, no matter how long you deny me. The voice paused. No matter how long I may deny myself, it added wearily.

Pain scoured him. Wintrow struggled in a blaze of heat and light, fighting to keep his eyes closed and his tongue stilled. What were they doing to him? It did not matter. He would not react to it. If he moved, if he cried out, he would have to admit he was alive and Vivacia was dead. He would have to admit his soul was linked to a thing that had been dead longer than he had been alive. It was beyond macabre; it numbed him with horror. This was the wonder and glory of a liveship. He must consort forever with death. He did not wish to awaken and acknowledge that.

Would you prefer to remain down here with me? There was bitter amusement in the being’s voice now. Do you wish to linger in the tomb of my past?

‘No. No, I wish to be free.’

Free?

Wintrow faltered. ‘I don’t want to know any of this. I don’t want to have ever been a part of it.’

You were a part of it as soon as you were conceived. There is no way to undo such a thing.

‘Then what must I do?’ The words wailed through him, unvoiced. ‘I cannot live with this.’

You could die, the voice offered sardonically.

‘I don’t want to die.’ Of that, at least, he was certain.

Neither did I, the voice pointed out remorselessly. But I did. Rich as I am in memories of flying, my own wings never were unfurled. For the sake of building this ship, my cocoon was stripped from me before I could hatch. They dumped that which would have been my body to the cold stone floor. All I am are memories, memories stored in the walls of my cocoon, memories I should have reabsorbed as I formed in the hot sun of summer. I had no way to live or grow, save through the memories your kind offered. I absorbed what you gave me, and when it was enough, I quickened. But not as myself. No. I became the shape you had imposed upon me, and took to myself the personality that was the sum of your family’s expectations. Vivacia.

A sudden shift in the position of his body freshened Wintrow’s physical pain. Air flowed over him and the warmth of the sun touched him. Even that contact scoured his denuded flesh. But worst of all was the voice that called to him in a mixture of gladness and concern. ‘Wintrow? Can you hear me? It’s Vivacia. Where are you, what are you doing that I cannot feel you at all?’

He felt the ship’s thoughts reach for him. He cringed away, unwilling to let her touch minds with him. He made himself smaller, hid deeper. The moment Vivacia reached him, she must know all that he did. What would it do to her, to confront what she truly was?

Do you fear it will drive her mad? Do you fear she will take you with her? There was fierce exultance in the voice as it framed the thought, almost like a threat. Wintrow went cold with fear. Instantly he knew that this hiding place was no asylum, but a trap. ‘Vivacia!’ he called out wildly, but his body did not obey him. No lips voiced his cry. Even his thought was muffled in the dragon’s being, wrapped and stifled and confined. He tried to struggle; he was suffocating under the weight of her presence. She held him so close he could not recall how to breathe. His heart leaped arhythmically. Pain slapped him as his body jerked in protest. In a distant world, on a sun-washed deck, voices cried out in helpless dismay. He retreated to a stillness of body and soul that was one degree of darkness away from death.

Good. There was satisfaction in the voice. Be still, little one. Don’t try to defy me, and I won’t have to kill you. A pause. I really have no desire to see any of us die. As closely interwoven as we are, the death of any of us would be a risk to the others. You would have realized that, if you had paused to think. I give you that time now. Use it to ponder our situation.

For a space, Wintrow focused only on his survival. Breath caught, then shuddered through his lungs again. His heartbeat steadied. He was peripherally aware of exclamations of relief. Pain still seethed. He tried to pull his mind back from it, to ignore its clamour of serious damage to his body so that his thoughts could focus on the problem the dragon had set him.

He cringed at her sudden flash of irritation. By all that flies, have you no sense at all? How have creatures like you managed to survive and infest the world so thoroughly and yet have so little knowledge of yourselves? Do not pull back from the pain and imagine that makes you strong. Look at it, you dolt! It is trying to tell you what is wrong so you can fix it. No wonder you all have such short life spans. No, look at it! Like this.

The crewmen who had carried the corners of the sheet supporting Wintrow’s body had lowered him gently to the deck. Even so, Kennit had seen the spasm of fresh pain that crossed Wintrow’s face. He supposed that could be taken as an encouraging sign; at least he still reacted to pain. But when the figurehead had spoken to him, he had not even twitched. None of the others surrounding the supine figure could guess how much that worried Kennit. The pirate had been certain that the boy would react to the ship’s voice. That he did not meant that perhaps death would claim him. Kennit believed that there was a place between life and death where a man’s body became no more than a miserable animal, capable only of an animal’s responses. He had seen it. Under Igrot’s cruel guidance, his father had lingered in that state for days. Perhaps that was where Wintrow was now.

The dim light inside the cabin had been merciful. Out here, in the clear light of day, Kennit could not insist to himself that Wintrow would be fine. Every ugly detail of his scalded body was revealed. His brief fit of spasms had disturbed the wet scabs his body had managed to form; fluid ran over his skin from his injuries. Wintrow was dying. His boy-prophet, the priest who would have been his soothsayer was dying, with Kennit’s future still unborn. The injustice of it rose up and choked Kennit. He had come so close, so very close to attaining his dream. Now he would lose it all in the death of this half-grown man. It was too bitter to contemplate. He clenched his eyes shut against the cruelty of fate.

‘Oh, Kennit!’ the ship cried out in a low voice, and he knew that she was feeling his emotions as well as her own. ‘Don’t let him die!’ she begged him. ‘Please. You saved him from the serpent and the sea. Cannot you save him now?’

‘Quiet!’ he commanded her, almost roughly. He had to think. If the boy died now, it would be a denial of all the good luck Kennit had ever mustered. It would be worse than a jinx. Kennit could not allow this to happen.

Unmindful of the gathered crewmen who looked down on the wracked boy in hushed silence, Kennit awkwardly lowered himself to the deck. He looked long at Wintrow’s still face. He laid a single forefinger to an unblemished patch of skin on Wintrow’s face. He was beardless still and his cheek was soft. It wrung his heart to see the lad’s beauty spoiled so. ‘Wintrow,’ he called softly. ‘Lad, it’s me. Kennit. You said you’d follow me. Sa sent you to speak for me. Remember? You can’t go now, boy. Not when we’re so close to our goals.’

He was peripherally aware of the hushed murmur that ran through the watching crewmen. Sympathy, they felt sympathy for him. He felt a flash of irritation that they might construe his speaking so as weakness. But, no, it was not pity they felt. He looked up into their faces, and saw only concern, not just for Wintrow, but for him. They were touched by their captain’s regard for this injured boy. He sighed. Well, if Wintrow must die, he would wring what good from it he could. Gently he stroked his cheek. ‘Poor lad,’ he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. ‘So much pain. It would be merciful to let you go, wouldn’t it?’

He glanced up at Etta. Tears ran unashamedly down her cheeks. ‘Try the water again,’ he bade her gently. ‘But don’t be disappointed. He is in Sa’s hands now, you know.’

The dragon twisted his awareness. Wintrow did not see with his eyes, nor wallow in the sensation of pain. Instead, she bent his awareness in a direction he had never before imagined. What was the pain? Damaged units of his body, breaks in his defences against the outside world. The barriers needed repairing, the damaged units must be broken down and dispersed. Nothing must get in the way of this task. All his resources should be put to it. His body demanded this of him, and pain was the alarm that sounded through him.

‘Wintrow?’ Etta’s voice penetrated the woolly blackness. ‘Here is water.’ A moment later he felt an annoying trickling of moisture against his lips. He moved his lips, choking briefly as he tried to evade it. An instant later, he realized his error. This liquid was what his body needed to repair itself. Water, sustenance and absolute rest, free of the dilemmas that encumbered him.

A light pressure on his cheek. From far away, a voice he knew. ‘Die if you must, lad. But know that it hurts me. Ah, Wintrow, if you have any love for me at all, reach out and live. Don’t forsake the dream that you yourself foretold.’

The words stored themselves in him, to be considered later. He had no time for Kennit just now. The dragon was showing him something, something that was so much of Sa he wondered how it could have been inside himself all this time and remained unseen. The workings of his own body unfolded before him. Air whispered in his lungs, blood flowed through his limbs, and all of it belonged to him. This was not some uncontrollable territory; this was his own body. He could mend it.

He felt himself relax. Unrestricted by tension, the resources of his body now flowed to his injured parts. He knew his needs. After a moment, he found the reluctant muscles of his jaws and his laggard tongue. He moved his mouth. ‘Water,’ he managed to croak. He lifted a stiffened arm in a faint attempt to shield himself. ‘Shade,’ he begged. The touch of the sun and wind on his damaged skin was excruciating.

‘He spoke!’ Etta exulted.

‘It was the Captain,’ someone else declared. ‘Called him right back from death.’

‘Death himself steps back from Kennit!’ declared another.

The rough palm that so gently touched his cheek, and the strong hands that carefully raised his head and held the blessedly cool and dripping cup to his mouth, were Kennit’s. ‘You are mine, Wintrow,’ the pirate declared.

Wintrow drank to that.

‘I think you can hear me.’ She Who Remembers trumpeted the words as she swam in the shadow of the silvery hull. She kept pace with the ship. ‘I smell you. I sense you, but I cannot find you. Do you deliberately hide from me?’

She fell silent, straining with every sense after a response. Something, she tasted something in the water, a bitter scent like the stinging toxins from her own glands. It oozed from the ship’s hull, if such a thing could be. She seemed to hear voices, voices so distant that she could not make out their words, only that they spoke. It made no sense. The serpent half-feared she was going mad. That would be bitter irony, finally to achieve her freedom and then have madness defeat her.

She shuddered her whole length, releasing a thin stream of toxins. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Where are you? Why do you conceal yourself from me?’

She waited for a response. None came. No one spoke to her, but she was convinced that someone listened.

4 TINTAGLIA’S FLIGHT

THE SKY WAS not blue, oh no. Not once she had taken flight, for compared to her own gleaming self, what could claim to be blue? Tintaglia the dragon arched her back and admired the sunlight glinting silver off her deep blue scales. Beautiful beyond words. Yet even this wonder could not distract her keen eyes and keener nostrils from what was even more important than her glory.

Food moved in a clearing far below her. A doe, fat with summer graze, ventured too bravely out into a forest clearing. Foolish thing! Once no deer would have moved into the open without first casting a watchful glance above. Had dragons truly been gone so long from the world that the hoofed ones had discarded their wariness of the sky? She would soon teach them better. Tintaglia tucked her wings and plummeted. Only when she was so close that there was no possibility the deer could evade her did she give voice to her hunt. The musical trumpet of her Ki-i-i as she stooped split the morning peace. The clutching talons of her forelegs gathered her kill to her breast as her massive hind legs absorbed the impact of her landing. She rebounded effortlessly into the air, carrying the deer with her. The doe was shocked into stillness. A swift bite to the back of her neck had paralysed her. Tintaglia carried her prey to a rocky ledge overlooking the wide Rain River Valley. There she lapped the pooling blood of her meal before scissoring off dark red chunks to sate her hunger, flinging back her head to gulp them down. The incredible sensory pleasure of eating nearly overwhelmed her. The taste of the hot bloody meat, the rank smell of the spilled entrails combined with the physical sensation of loading her gut with large pieces of sustenance. She could feel her body renewing itself. Even the sunlight soaking into her scales replenished her.

She had stretched herself out to sleep after her meal when an annoying thought intruded. Before she had made her kill, she had been on her way to do something. She considered the play of sunlight on her closed eyelids. What was it? Ah. The humans. She had intended to rescue the humans. She sighed heavily, sinking deeper into sleep. But it wasn’t as if she had promised them, for how could a promise between one such as herself and an insect be considered binding on one’s honour?

Still. They had freed her.

But they were probably dead and it was doubtless too late to rescue them anyway. Lazily, she let her mind drift towards them. It was almost annoying to find they were both still alive, though their thoughts were the merest humming of a mosquito now.

She lifted her head with a sigh and then roused herself enough to stand. She’d rescue the male, she compromised with herself. She knew exactly where he was. The female had fallen into water somewhere; she could be anywhere by now.

Tintaglia paced to the edge of the cliff and launched herself.

‘I’m so hungry,’ Selden quavered. He pressed himself more tightly against Reyn, seeking body warmth that Reyn himself was rapidly losing. Reyn couldn’t even find the spirit to reply to the shivering boy. He and Selden lay together on a mat of tree limbs that was gradually sinking into the rising muck. When the mud consumed it, it would devour this last hope as well. The only opening out of the chamber was far overhead. They had attempted to build a platform of debris, but as fast as they piled up fallen earth and tree limbs, the muck swallowed them. Reyn knew they were going to die here, and all the boy could do was whine about being hungry.

He felt like shaking some sense into him, but instead he put his arm around Selden and said comfortingly, ‘Someone must have seen the dragon. My mother and brother will hear of it and guess where she came from. They’ll send help.’ Privately, he doubted his own words. ‘Rest for a bit.’

‘I’m so hungry,’ Selden repeated hopelessly. He sighed. ‘In a way, it was worth it. I saw the dragon rise.’ He turned his face to Reyn’s chest and was still. Reyn let his own eyes close. Could it be as simple as this? Could they simply go to sleep and die? He tried to think of something important enough to make him go on struggling. Malta. But Malta was likely dead already, somewhere in the collapsed city. The city itself was the only thing he had cared about before discovering Malta, and it lay in ruins all around him. He’d never unearth its secrets. Perhaps dying here and becoming one of its secrets was the closest he would ever get to it. He found his heart echoing Selden’s words. At least he had freed the dragon. Tintaglia had risen, to fly free. That was something, but it was not a reason to go on living. Perhaps it was a reason to die content. He had saved her.

He felt another tiny quake. It was followed by a splattering sound as loose earth cascaded from the opening above them to splash into the muck. Perhaps the whole ceiling would cave in; that would furnish him a quick end.

Cool air wafted past his face, heavy with the scent of reptile. He opened his eyes, to find Tintaglia’s pony-sized head thrust down into the chamber. ‘Still alive?’ she greeted him.

‘You came back?’ He was incredulous.

She didn’t reply. She had pulled her head out and her taloned forepaws were tearing at the earth around the opening. Rocks, dirt and bits of ceiling rained down within the chamber. Selden awoke with a cry and cowered against Reyn. ‘No, it’s all right. I think she’s trying to rescue us.’ Reyn tried to sound reassuring as he sheltered the boy from the falling debris.

Earth and stone trickled down and the hole overhead grew larger. More light found its way into the chamber. ‘Climb onto this,’ Tintaglia suddenly commanded them. A moment later her head entered the chamber, a stout section of tree trunk gripped firmly in her jaws as if she were a terrier who had fetched a stick. The breath from her nostrils steamed in the cool chamber and the stench of reptile was overpowering. Reyn summoned his last strength to stand up and lift Selden so he could scrabble up onto the log. Reyn caught hold of the other end. As soon as he gripped it, she lifted them. They snagged for a moment in the opening, but she tore the log free with a fine disregard for how weakly they clung to it. An instant later, she had set them down on mossy earth. They sprawled upon an isolated hummock of land amidst the swampy forest, the long-buried dome beneath them. Selden staggered away from the log and then collapsed, crying in relief. Reyn tottered, but found he could stand. ‘Thank you,’ he managed.

‘You are not obliged to thank me. I’ve done as I said I would.’ She flared her nostrils and a blast of steamy breath briefly warmed him. ‘You’ll live now?’ It was as much statement as question.

His legs began to shake and he dropped down to his knees to keep from collapsing. ‘If we can get back to Trehaug soon. We need food. And warmth.’

‘I suppose I can take you there,’ she conceded unwillingly.

‘Thank Sa,’ Reyn breathed as fervent a prayer as he had ever uttered. He drove himself to his feet and lurched over to Selden. He bent over and seized the boy, intending to lift him, found that his strength was not enough and managed only to pull Selden to his feet. Half-dragging the boy, he lurched towards Tintaglia.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Reyn told her. ‘You will have to crouch down for us to climb onto your back.’

The dragon’s eyes spun in silver disdain. ‘Crouch?’ she demanded. ‘You upon my back? I think not, human.’

‘But…you said you would take us to Trehaug.’

‘I shall. However, no creature will ever bestride me, least of all a human. I shall carry you in my talons. Stand before me, together. I shall gather you up and carry you home.’

Reyn looked dubiously at her scaled forefeet. Her claws were silver, gleaming and sharp. He did not see how she could clutch them tightly enough to carry them without impaling them. He glanced down at Selden, to find the boy’s upturned face mirroring his doubts. ‘Are you afraid?’ he asked him quietly.

Selden considered for a moment. ‘I’m more hungry than I am afraid,’ he decided. He straightened himself. His eyes roved over the dragon. When his gaze returned to Reyn, his face shone. He shook his head in wonder. ‘Legends. Tapestries and paintings. They are all so feeble compared to how she shines. She is too amazing for distrust or fear. Even if she killed me right now, I’d still die in her glory.’ The boy’s extravagant words shocked Reyn. Selden summoned all his remaining strength with a deep breath. Reyn knew what it cost him to stand erect and declare, ‘I’ll let her carry me.’

‘Oh? Will you?’ the dragon teased him wickedly. Her eyes glittered with both amusement and pleasure at the boy’s flattery.

‘We will,’ Reyn declared firmly. Selden was silent beside him, but gasped as the dragon reared suddenly onto her hind legs. She towered above them. It was as difficult a thing as Reyn had ever done to stand still as she reached for them with taloned forepaws. He held Selden at his side and did not move as the dragon closed her clawed hands around them. The tips of the claws walked over him, measuring him before her digits wrapped around him. The sharp ends of two talons rested against his back uncomfortably, but they did not pierce him. She clutched them both to her breast as a squirrel treasures a nut it has found. Selden gave an involuntary cry as she crouched on those tremendous hind legs, and she bounded skyward.

Her blue wings beat and they rose steadily. The trees closed below them. Reyn twisted his neck and got a dizzying view of treetops below him. His stomach lurched, but in the next instant his heart swelled with wonder. He almost forgot his fear in this perilous new aspect of the world. Green and swelling, the Rain Forest Valley unfurled itself far below them. Up and up the dragon carried them in a widening gyre that afforded him glimpses of the open river winding through the lush growth. The river, he saw, was a paler grey than usual. Sometimes, after large quakes, it ran white and acid for days and anyone out in a boat had best be mindful of his craft. When the river ran white, it ate wood swiftly. The dragon tipped her wings and they swung inland and upriver. Then he caught both sight and scent of Trehaug. Seen from above, the city hung throughout the tree branches like decorative lanterns. The smoke of cookfires rose in the still air.

‘That’s it!’ He cried the words aloud to the dragon’s unspoken question, and then realized he needn’t have vocalized it at all. Held this close to her, their old bond had reasserted itself. He felt a chill moment of foreboding, but then sensed her sardonic reply: he needn’t worry. Further involvement with humans held no place in her plans.

He was almost grateful for his empty stomach as they descended in dizzying spirals. He caught whirling glimpses of city and river as they came down, including a brief sighting of pointing and shouting figures that scattered before them. He sensed her disgust that there was no wide, flat space prepared for a dragon to land. What sort of a city was this?

They landed joltingly on the city docks. The platforms, free to rise and fall with the changing flow of the river, gave way to the impact. White spray flew up from the edges of the wharf, causing the nearby Kendry to rock alarmingly. The liveship roared his bewilderment. As the dock rose, rocking under the dragon’s weight, Tintaglia opened her claws. Reyn and Selden fell at her feet. She swivelled aside from them to let her forepaws drop to the wood beside them. ‘Now you will live,’ she asserted.

‘Now…we will…live,’ Reyn panted. Selden lay like a stunned rabbit.

Reyn became aware of the thundering of footsteps and the excited susurrus of hushed conversation. He lifted his gaze. A veritable tide of people was flooding onto the piers. Many were begrimed with the mud of long digging. All looked weary despite the amazement on their faces. Some few gripped excavating tools as if they were weapons. All halted at the end of the dock. The incredulous shouts rose to a confused roar as folk gawked and pointed at Tintaglia. Reyn glimpsed his mother elbowing her way through the crowd. When she reached the front row of awed onlookers, she alone stepped free of the crowd and advanced cautiously towards the dragon. Then she saw him, and lost all interest in the towering beast.

‘Reyn?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Reyn!’ Her voice broke on his name. ‘And you are alive? Praise Sa!’ She ran to him and knelt by him.

He reached up to grip her hand. ‘She lives,’ he said. ‘I was right. The dragon is alive.’

Before she could speak, a long wail interrupted them. Reyn saw Keffria break free of the clustered onlookers and race along the wharf to Selden. She knelt by him, and then gathered her boy up in her arms. ‘Oh, thank Sa, he lives. But what of Malta? Where is Malta, where is my daughter?’

Reyn spoke the difficult words. ‘I did not find her. I fear she perished in the city.’

Like a rising wind, the cry rose from Keffria’s throat until it was a piercing scream of denial. ‘No, no, no!’ she wailed. Selden paled in her grip. The features of the tough little boy who had been Reyn’s companion during their ordeal suddenly quivered into a child’s face again. He added his sobs to her wailing.

‘Mama, Mama, don’t cry, don’t cry!’ He tugged at her but could not gain her attention.

‘The one you call Malta isn’t dead,’ the dragon interrupted sharply. ‘Stop this caterwauling and cease your emotional wallowing.’

‘Not dead?’ Reyn exclaimed.

His words were echoed by Selden. He seized his wailing mother and shook her. ‘Mama, listen, didn’t you hear what the dragon said? She said Malta is not dead. Stop crying, Malta isn’t dead.’ He turned a shining gaze on Tintaglia. ‘You can trust the dragon. When she carried me, I could feel her wisdom right through my skin!’

Behind them on the docks, a rising chorus of talk drowned out Selden’s words. Some folk were exclaiming in wonder. ‘She spoke!’ ‘The dragon spoke!’ ‘Did you hear that?’ Some nodded in surprised agreement, while others demanded to know what their friends meant. ‘I heard nothing.’ ‘It snorted, that was all.’

Tintaglia’s silver eyes greyed with disgust. ‘Their minds are too small even to speak to mine. Humans!’ She limbered her long neck. ‘Stand clear, Reyn Khuprus. I am done with you and your kind now. My bond is fulfilled.’

‘No! Wait!’ Reyn jerked free of his mother’s clutch on his arm. Boldly he gripped the clawed tip of Tintaglia’s gleaming wing. ‘You cannot go yet. You said Malta still lives. But where is she? How do you know she lives? Is she safe?’

Tintaglia twitched her wing tip effortlessly free of him. ‘We were linked for a time, as well you know, Reyn Khuprus. Therefore, I retain some small awareness of her. As to where she is, I know not, save that she floats on water. On the river, I surmise, from the fear she feels. She is hungry and thirsty, but not otherwise injured that I can tell.’

Reyn fell to his knees before the dragon. ‘Take me to her. I beg you. I will be forever in your debt if you will but do this one thing for me.’

Amusement flickered over the dragon’s face. He knew it in the swift swirling of her eye colours, and the small flaring of her nostrils. ‘I have no need of your service, human. And your company bores me. Fare well.’ She lifted her wings and began to open them. ‘Stand clear of me, if you would not be knocked down.’

Instead, Reyn sprang towards her. Her sleekly-scaled body afforded no purchase to his scrabbling hands. He flung himself at her foreleg and wrapped his arms around it as if he were a child clinging to his mother. But his words were full of force and fury. ‘You cannot go, Tintaglia Dragon! Not and leave Malta to die. You know she did as much to free you as I did. She opened herself to the memories of the city. She discovered the secret catches that would open the great wall. But for her seeking you out, I would not have come into the city amidst the quakes. You would be buried even now! You cannot turn your back on such a debt! You cannot.’

Behind him, he was aware of garbled questions and conversation among his mother and Selden and Keffria. He didn’t care what they overheard; he didn’t care what the boy told them. Right now, all he could think of was Malta. ‘The river runs white,’ he went on to the dragon. ‘White water eats boats. If she is on the river on a log or raft, the water will devour it and then her. She will die, because she ventured into the city to try to save you.’

The dragon’s eyes spun silver flecked with scarlet, so great was her anger. She snorted a hot blast of breath that nearly knocked him down. Then with a single forepaw she snatched him up as if he were a doll stuffed with sawdust. Her talons closed painfully around his chest. He could barely take a breath.

‘Very well, insect!’ she hissed. ‘I will help you find her. But after that, I have finished with you and yours. For whatever good you and she may have done me, your kin have committed great wrongs against all my kind.’ She lifted him and thrust him towards the liveship. Kendry stared at them, and his face was that of a dying man. ‘Do not think I do not know! Pray that I forget! Pray that after this day, you never see me again!’

He could not take a breath to reply, nor did she wait for words from him. With a mighty leap, she sprang upwards. The sudden lurch of the dock knocked down those who had ventured onto it. Reyn heard his mother’s shriek of horror as the dragon bore him away. Then all sound was driven from his ears by the swift wind of their ascent.

He had not known, before this, what a care Tintaglia had taken for him and Selden on that earlier flight. Now she rose so swiftly that the blood pounded in his face and his ears popped. His stomach was surely left far below them. He could sense the fury seething through her. He had shamed her, before humans, using her own name. He had revealed her name to those others, who had no right to it.

He caught a breath but could not decide on words. To apologize might be as great an error as to tell her she owed this to Malta. He stilled his tongue and clutched her talons, trying to ease their grip around his ribs.

‘Do you want me to loosen them, Reyn Khuprus?’ the dragon mocked him. She opened her claws, but before he could slip through them to his death, she clamped them shut again. Even as he gasped in terror, she arrested their ascent, tipping her body and sending them in a wide spiral above the river. They were too high to see anything. The forested land below them was an undulating carpet of moss, the river no more than a white ribbon. She spoke to his thought.

‘The eyes of a dragon are not like the eyes of a prey beast, small meat creature. I see as much as I need to see from here. She is not in sight. She must have been swept down the river.’

Reyn’s heart turned over in his chest. ‘We’ll find her,’ the dragon comforted him grudgingly. Her great wings began to sweep steadily, driving them down the course of the river.

‘Go lower,’ he begged her. ‘Let me search for her with my own eyes. If she is in the shallows, she may be hidden by the trees. Please.’

She made no reply, but took him down so swiftly that he saw darkness at the edges of his vision. She flew with him down the river. He clutched at her talons with both his hands and endeavoured to watch all of the broad face of the river and both banks. Her flight was too swift. He tried to believe that the dragon’s keener senses would find Malta even if he missed her, but after a time, despair took root in him. They had gone too far. If they had not found her yet, it was because she was no more.

‘There!’ Tintaglia exclaimed suddenly.

He looked, but saw nothing. She banked and turned as adroitly as a swallow, and brought him back over the same stretch of river. ‘There. In that little boat, with two others. Close to the centre of the river. See her now?’

‘I do!’ Joy leaped in him, followed as quickly by horror. They had found her, and as Tintaglia bore him ever closer, he saw that the Satrap and his Companion were with her. But seeing her was not the same as rescuing her. ‘Can you lift her up from the boat?’ he asked the dragon.

‘Perhaps. If I drop you and swamp the boat in the process. There is a chance I could snatch her up without doing more than breaking her ribs. Is that what you wish?’

‘No!’ He thought frantically. ‘Can dragons swim? Could you land near her on the river?’

‘I am not a duck!’ Her disgust was manifest. ‘If dragons choose to come down on a body of water, we do not stop on the surface, but plunge down to the bottom, and then walk out from there. I don’t think you would enjoy the experience.’

He grasped at straws. ‘Can you drop me into the boat?’

‘To do what? Drown with her? Do not be foolish. The wind off my wings would swamp the boat long before I was close enough to drop you right through the bottom of it. Human, I have done my part. I have found her for you. Now you know where she is, it is up to you and the other humans to save her. My part in her life is over.’

It was no comfort. He had seen Malta’s face turn up to them as they swept over her. He almost imagined he had heard her cry out to him, begging for rescue. Yet, the dragon was right. They could do nothing for Malta without putting all of them in greater danger.

‘Take me back to Trehaug, swiftly,’ he begged her. ‘If the Kendry sets out after her now, with every thread of sail he can muster, we may yet overtake the boat before the river devours it.’

‘A wise plan!’ the dragon rumbled sarcastically. ‘You would have been wiser still to have set out on the ship immediately instead of demanding this of me. I told you that she was on the river.’

The dragon’s cold logic was disheartening. Reyn could think of nothing to say. Once more, her wings worked powerfully, taking them high above the multi-canopied forest. The land passed swiftly away beneath them as she carried him back towards Trehaug.

‘Is there no way you can aid me?’ he asked pitifully as she circled above the city. At the sight of her, all the folk on the dock ran for the shore. The winds off her great wings as she beat them to slow their descent buffeted the Kendry. Once more her heavy hindquarters absorbed the impact of their landing as the wharf plunged and bucked under them. She lifted him in her claws, craning her neck and turning her head to focus one huge silver eye on him.

‘Little human, I am a dragon. I am the last Lord of the Three Realms. If any of my kind remain anywhere, I must seek them out and aid them. I cannot be concerned with a brief little spark like you. So. Fare as well as you can, on your own. I leave. I doubt we shall ever meet again.’

She set him on his feet. If she meant to be gentle, she failed. As he staggered away, he felt a sudden shock, more of mind than body. He was suddenly desperately afraid that he had forgotten something of vast importance. Then he realized that what was gone was his mental link with the dragon. Tintaglia had separated herself from him. The loss dizzied him. He seemed to have been taking some vitality from the link, for he was suddenly aware of hunger, thirst and extreme weariness. He managed to take a few steps before he went to his knees. It was as well that he was down, for otherwise he would have fallen as the dragon jolted the dock with her leap into the sky. A final time the beat of her wing wafted her reptilian stink over him. For no reason that he could understand, tears of loss stung his eyes.

The wharf seemed to keep rocking for a long time. He became aware of his mother kneeling beside him. She cradled his head in her lap. ‘Did she hurt you?’ she demanded. ‘Reyn. Reyn, can you speak? Are you hurt?’

He drew a deep breath. ‘Ready the Kendry to sail immediately. We must make all speed down the river. Malta, and the Satrap and his Companion … in a tiny boat.’ He halted, suddenly too exhausted even to summon words.

‘The Satrap!’ a man exclaimed close by. ‘Sa be praised! If he yet lives and we can recover him, then not all is lost. Haste to the Kendry. Make him ready to sail!’

‘Send me a healer!’ Jani Khuprus’s voice rang out above the sudden murmur. ‘I wish Reyn carried up to my apartments.’

‘No. No.’ He clutched feebly at his mother’s arm. ‘I must go with the Kendry. I must see Malta safe before I can rest.’

5 PARAGON AND PIRACY

‘I DON’T MIN’ A beatin’ when I’m due one. But this’un wasn’t tha. I dint do ennerthin wrong.’

‘Most beatings I’ve had in my life came from just that. Not doing anything wrong, but not doing anything right either,’ Althea observed impartially. She put two fingers under Clef’s chin and turned his face up towards the fading daylight. ‘It’s not much, boy. A split lip and a bruised cheek. It will be gone in less than a week. It’s not like he broke your nose.’

Clef pulled sullenly away from her touch. ‘He woulda if I hadenna seen it comen.’

Althea clapped the ship’s boy on the shoulder. ‘But you did. Because you’re quick and tough. And that’s what makes a good sailor.’

‘S’you think it was right, what he done t’me?’ Clef demanded angrily.

Althea took a breath. She hardened her heart and her voice to reply coolly. ‘I think Lavoy’s the mate, and you’re the ship’s boy and I’m the second. Right and wrong don’t come into it, Clef. Next time, be a bit livelier. And be smart enough to stay out of the mate’s path if he’s in a temper.’

‘He’s allus en a temper,’ Clef observed sullenly. Althea let the remark pass. Every sailor had the right to moan about the mate but she could not allow Clef to think that she would take sides on this. She hadn’t witnessed the incident; but she had heard Amber’s outraged account of it. Amber had been up in the rigging. By the time she had regained the deck, Lavoy had stalked away. Althea was glad there had not been an encounter between the first mate and the ship’s carpenter. Nevertheless, it had intensified the enmity Amber and Lavoy felt for one another. The clout Lavoy had given Clef had sent the lad flying, and all because the line he had been coiling hadn’t lain as flat as the mate thought it should. Privately, Althea thought Lavoy was a brute and a fool. Clef was a good-natured lad whose best efforts were bought with praise, not brutality.

They stood on the stern, looking out over the ship’s wake. In the distance, small islands were green hummocks. The water was calm but there was a light evening breeze and Paragon was making the most of it. Of late, the ship had seemed not only willing but almost eager to speed them on their way to the Pirate Isles. He had dropped all his talk of serpents and even his metaphysical musings on whether a person was what other people thought of him or what he thought of himself. Althea shook her head to herself as she watched some gulls diving on a shallow school of fish. She was glad he had stopped waxing philosophical. Amber had seemed to enjoy those long conversations, but Althea was unsettled by them. Now Amber complained that Paragon seemed withdrawn and abrupt, but to Althea he seemed healthier and more focused on the task at hand. It could not be good for a man or a liveship to ponder endlessly on the nature of himself. She glanced back at Clef. The ship’s boy was cautiously tonguing the split in his lip. His blue eyes were far away. She nudged him gently.

‘Best go get some sleep, boy. Your watch will roll around again soon enough.’

‘I spose,’ he agreed lackadaisically. He gazed at her absently for a moment; then seemed to focus on her. ‘I know I gotter take it from hem. I learnt that when I was a slave. Sometimes yer just got ter take it from someone and kip yer head down.’

Althea smiled mirthlessly. ‘Sometimes it seems to me there’s not much difference between being a sailor and being a slave.’

‘Mebbe,’ the boy agreed truculently. ‘Night, ma’am,’ he added before he turned and made his way forwards.

For a short time longer, she watched their wake widening behind them. They had left Bingtown far behind. She thought of her mother and sister snugly at home, and envied them. Then she reminded herself of how boring she had found shoreside life, and how the endless waiting had chafed on her. They were probably sitting in her father’s study right now, sipping tea and wondering how to bring Malta into Bingtown society on such a reduced budget. They’d have to scrimp and make do through the rest of the summer. To be fair, she decided they probably felt a great deal of anxiety for her, and for the fate of the family ship and Keffria’s husband and son. They would have to endure it. She doubted she would return, for good or ill, before spring.

For herself, she’d rather worry about the bigger problem; how was she to find her family liveship and return Vivacia safely to Bingtown? When Brashen had last seen the liveship, Vivacia had been in the hands of the pirate Kennit, anchored in a pirate stronghold. It was not much to go on. The Pirate Isles were not only uncharted and infested with pirates, they were also an uncertain place to visit, for storms and inland floods often changed the contours of the islands, river mouths and waterways. So she had heard. In her trading trips south with her father, he had always avoided the Pirate Isles, precisely because of the dangers that she now directly dared. What would her father think of that? She decided that he would approve of her trying to recover the family ship, but not on her choice of rescue vessel. He had always said that Paragon was not only mad, but also a bad-luck ship. When she was a girl, he had forbidden her to have anything to do with him.

She turned aside suddenly and walked forwards as if she could walk away from her uneasiness. It was a pleasant evening, she told herself, and the ship had been unusually stable and sailing well for the past two days. Lavoy, the first mate, had recently embarked on a storm of discipline and cleanliness, but that was not unusual. Brashen as captain had told him to break down the restraint between the sailors they had hired and those who had been smuggled aboard to escape from slavery. Any mate knew that the way to unite a crew was to keep them all on the ragged edge for a few days.

The crew as a whole could do with a bit more discipline and a lot more cleanliness. In addition to sharpening up their sailing skills, the crew had to learn to fight. And, she added morosely, not just to defend their ship, but to master the skills of attacking another vessel. Suddenly it all seemed too much. How could they hope to locate the Vivacia, let alone win her back with such a patchwork crew and an unpredictable vessel?

‘Good evening, Althea,’ Paragon greeted her. Without even thinking about it, she had come to the foredeck near the figurehead. Paragon turned his maimed face towards her as if he could see her.

‘Good evening to you, Paragon,’ she returned. She tried to put a pleasant note in her voice, but the ship knew her too well.

‘So. Which of our troubles torments you most this evening?’

Althea surrendered. ‘They all nip at my heels like a pack of yapping feists, ship. In truth, I don’t know which to worry about first.’

The figurehead gave a snort of disdain. ‘Then kick them away as if they were truly a pack of curs and fix your gaze instead on our destiny.’ He swivelled his bearded face away from her, to stare sightlessly towards the horizon. ‘Kennit,’ he said in a low and fateful voice. ‘We go to face down the pirate, and take back from him all that is rightfully ours. Let nothing stand between us and that end.’

Althea was stunned into silence. She had never heard the ship speak so. Initially, he had been reluctant even to venture out on the water again. He had spent so many years as a beached and blinded derelict that he had balked at the idea of sailing, let alone setting out on a rescue mission. Now he spoke as if he not only accepted the idea, but relished the chance for vengeance against the man who had seized Vivacia. He crossed his muscular arms on his broad chest. His hands were knotted into fists. Had he truly made her cause his own?

‘Don’t think of the obstacles that lie between now and the moment when we confront him.’ The ship spoke in a low, soft voice. ‘Long or short, if you worry about every step of a journey, you will divide it endlessly into pieces, any one of which may defeat you. Look only to the end.’

‘I think that we will only succeed if we prepare ourselves,’ Althea objected.

Paragon shook his head. ‘Teach yourself to believe you will succeed. If you say, when we find Kennit, we must be good fighters, then you have put it off until then. Be good fighters now. Be now what you must be to succeed at the end of your journey, and when the end comes, you will find it is just another beginning.’

Althea sighed. ‘Now you sound like Amber,’ she complained.

‘No.’ He contradicted her flatly. ‘Now I sound like myself. The self I put aside and hid, the self I intended to be again someday, when I was ready. I have stopped intending. I am, now.’

Wordlessly, Althea shook her head to herself. It had been easier to deal with Paragon when he was sulky. She loved him, but it was not like her bond with Vivacia. Being with Paragon was often like caring for a beloved but ill-mannered and difficult child. Sometimes it was simply too much trouble to deal with him. Even now, when he seemed to have allied himself with her, his intensity could be frightening. An uncomfortable silence fell.

She pushed such thoughts aside and tried to relax into the gentle movement of the ship and the soothing night sounds. The peace didn’t last long.

‘You can say you told me so if you wish.’ Amber’s voice behind her was weary and bitter.

Althea waited for the ship’s carpenter to join her at the railing before she hazarded her guess. ‘You spoke to the captain about Lavoy and Clef?’

‘I did.’ Amber drew a kerchief from her pocket and wiped her brow. ‘It did me no good. Brashen said only that Lavoy is the mate, Clef is the ship’s boy, and that he would not interfere. I don’t understand it.’

A slight smile curved Althea’s mouth. ‘Stop thinking of him as Brashen. If Brashen were on the street and saw Lavoy knock a young boy down, he’d jump right in. But we’re not on the street. We’re on a ship and he’s the captain. He can’t stand between the first mate and the crew. If he did it even once, the whole crew would lose respect for Lavoy. They’d have an endless string of complaints about him, and every one of them would wind up at the captain’s feet. He’d be so busy nurse-maiding, he’d have no time to be captain. I’ll wager that Brashen does not admire Lavoy’s action any more than you do. But the captain knows that ship’s discipline must come before a few bruises to a boy’s pride.’

‘How far will he let Lavoy go?’ Amber growled.

‘That’s the captain’s concern, not mine,’ Althea replied. With a wry smile she added, ‘I’m just the second mate, you know.’ As Amber wiped her brow again and then the back of her neck, Althea asked, ‘Are you well?’

‘No,’ Amber replied succinctly. She did not look at Althea, but Althea stared frankly at the carpenter’s profile. Even in the fading light, her skin looked papery and taut, making her features sharper. Amber’s colouring was always so odd that Althea could tell little from it, but tonight it reminded her of ageing parchment. She had bound her light brown hair back and covered it with a kerchief.

Althea let the silence stretch out between them, until Amber added reluctantly, ‘But neither am I sick. I suffer a malady from time to time. Fever and weariness are all it brings. I shall be fine.’ At Althea’s horrified look, Amber hastily added, ‘It is not a spreading disease. It will affect only me.’

‘Nevertheless, you should tell the captain of your problem. And probably confine yourself to our quarters until it passes.’

They both startled when Paragon added quietly, ‘Even the rumour of fever and plague aboard a ship can cause a crew to become jittery.’

‘I can keep it to myself,’ Amber assured her. ‘I doubt that any besides you and Jek will notice my illness. Jek has seen it before; it will not bother her.’ She turned suddenly to face Althea and demanded, ‘How about you? Do you fear to sleep near me?’

Althea met her gaze through the gathering darkness. ‘I think I will take your word that there is nothing to fear. But you should still tell the captain. He may be able to arrange your duties so that you have more time to rest.’ She did not add that he probably would find ways to isolate Amber to keep her illness secret.

‘The captain?’ A small smile bent Amber’s lips. ‘You truly think of him that way all the time?’

‘It is who he is,’ Althea replied stiffly. At nights, in her narrow bunk, she certainly didn’t think of Brashen as the captain. By days, she had to. She wouldn’t tell Amber just how hard it was for her to keep that distinction clear. Talking about it wouldn’t make it any easier. It was better kept to herself. She suspected uncomfortably that Paragon knew her true feelings for Brashen. She waited for him to say something horrible and revealing, but the figurehead kept silent.

‘It is part of who he is,’ Amber agreed easily. ‘In some ways, it is his best part. I think he has lived many years, planning and dreaming about how he would be if he were the captain. I think he has suffered under poor captains, and learned well under good ones, and he brings all that to what he does now. He is more fortunate than he knows, to be able to live his dream. So few men do.’

‘So few men do what?’ Jek demanded as she strolled up and joined them. She grinned at Althea and gave Amber an affectionate nudge. She leaned on the railing, picking her teeth. Althea stared up at her enviously. Jek radiated vitality and health. The deckhand was long-boned, well muscled, and completely unselfconscious about her body. She did not bind her breasts at all, nor worry that her sailor’s trousers reached no farther than her knee. Her long blonde braid was tattering to straw from the wind and saltwater, but she cared not at all. She is, Althea thought uneasily, what I pretend to be: a woman who does not let her sex deter her from living as she pleases. It wasn’t fair. Jek had grown up in the Six Duchies, and claimed this equality as her birthright. Consequently, men usually ceded it to her. Althea still sometimes felt she needed someone’s permission simply to be herself. Men seemed to sense that in her. Nothing came easily. She felt the struggle was as constant as her breathing.

Jek leaned over the railing. ‘Good evening to you, Paragon!’ Over her shoulder, she asked Amber, ‘Can I borrow a fine needle from you? I’ve some mending to do, and I can’t find mine anywhere.’

‘I suppose so. I’ll come in a bit and get it out for you.’

Jek shifted restlessly. ‘Just tell me where it is and I’ll get it,’ she offered.

‘Use mine,’ Althea interjected. ‘They’re in my small duffel, pushed through a piece of canvas. There’s thread in there, too.’ Althea knew that Amber’s exaggerated need for privacy extended to her personal belongings.

‘Thanks. Now, what was this talk of what few men do?’ Jek allowed her lip to curl and a speculative look came into her eyes.

‘Not what you’re thinking,’ Amber told her tolerantly. ‘We were speaking of people living their dreams, and I said that few do, and even fewer enjoy the experience. For too many, when they get their dream, they discover it is not what they wanted. Or the dream is bigger than their abilities, and all ends in bitterness. But, for Brashen, it seems to be turning out well. He is doing what he always wished to do, and doing it well. He is a fine captain.’

‘He is that,’ Jek observed speculatively. She leaned back along the railing with catlike grace and stared up at the early stars speculatively. ‘And I’ll bet he does a fine job elsewhere also.’

Jek was a woman of appetites; it was not the first time Althea had heard her express interest in a man. Shipboard life and rules had pushed her into a period of abstinence that was at odds with her nature. Although she could not indulge her body, she let her mind run wild, and often insisted on sharing her ruminations with Althea and Amber. It was her most common topic of conversation on the rare nights when they were all in their bunks. Jek had a wry humour about her observations, and her tales of past liaisons gone awry often left the other two women helpless with laughter. Usually Althea found her ribald speculations about the male sailors amusing, but not, she discovered, when the man in question was Brashen. She felt as if she couldn’t take a full breath.

Jek didn’t appear to notice her stiff silence. ‘Ever notice the captain’s hands?’ Jek asked them rhetorically. ‘He’s got the hands of a man that can work…and we’ve all seen him work, back there on the beach. But now that he’s the captain and not in the tar and slush, he keeps his hands as clean as a gentleman’s. When a man touches me, I hate to have to wonder where his hands last were, and if he’s washed them since. I like a man with clean hands.’ She let the thought trail away as she smiled softly to herself.

‘He’s the captain,’ Althea objected. ‘We shouldn’t talk about him like that.’

She saw Amber wince for her at her prim little words. She expected Jek to turn her sharp wits and sharper tongue against her, and feared even more that Paragon would ask a question, but the woman only stretched and observed, ‘He won’t always be the captain. Or maybe I won’t always be a deckhand on his ship. Either way, I expect a time will come when I won’t have to call him “sir”. And when it does…’ She sat up abruptly, grinning with a flash of white teeth. ‘Well.’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘I think it would go well between us. I’ve seen him watching me. Several times he has praised me for working smartly.’ More to herself than the others, she added, ‘We’re just of a height. I like that. It makes so many things more…comfortable.’

Althea could not hold the words back. ‘Just because he praised you doesn’t mean he’s staring at you. The captain is like that. He recognizes a good job when he sees it. When he does, he speaks up, just as he would if he saw a bad bit of work.’

‘Of course,’ Jek conceded easily. ‘But he had to be watching me to know that I work smart. If you take my drift.’ She leaned over the railing again. ‘What do you think, ship? You and Captain Trell go back a ways. I imagine you two have shared many a tale. What does he like in his women?’

In the brief silence that followed this question, Althea died. Her heart stilled, her breath caught in her chest. Just how much had Brashen shared with Paragon, and how much would the ship blurt out now?

Paragon had shifted his mood again. He spoke in a boyish voice, obviously flattered by the woman’s attention. He sounded almost flirtatious as he replied, ‘Brashen? Do you truly think he would speak freely of such things to me?’

Jek rolled her eyes. ‘Is there any man who does not speak far too freely when he is around other men?’

‘Perhaps he has dropped a story or two with me, from time to time.’ The ship’s voice took on a salacious tone.

‘Ah. I thought that perhaps he had. So. What does our captain prefer, ship? No. Let me speculate.’ She stretched in a leisurely manner. ‘Perhaps, as he always praises his crew for “working smart and lively”, that is what he prefers in a woman? One who is quick to run up his rigging and lower his canvas –’

‘Jek!’ Althea could not keep her offence from her tone, but Paragon broke in.

‘In truth, Jek, what he has told me he prefers is a woman who is quiet more often than she speaks.’

Jek laughed easily at his remark. ‘But while these women are being so quiet, what does he hope they’ll be doing?’

‘Jek.’ All Amber’s rebuke was in the single, quietly spoken word. Jek turned back to them with a laugh while Paragon demanded, ‘What?’

‘Sorry to interrupt the hen party, but the captain wishes to see the second mate.’ Lavoy had approached quietly. Jek straightened up, her smile gone. Amber glowered silently at him. Althea wondered how much he had heard, and chided herself. She should not be loitering on the foredeck, talking so casually with crewmembers, especially on such topics. She resolved to imitate Brashen more in how he separated himself from the general crew. A little distance helped maintain respect. Yet the prospect of severing her friendship with Amber daunted her. Then she would truly be alone.

Just as Brashen was alone.

‘I’ll report right away,’ she replied quietly to Lavoy. She ignored the belittlement of the ‘hen party’ remark. He was the first mate. He could rebuke, chide and mock her, and part of her duty was to take it. That he had done so in front of crewmembers rankled, but to reply to it would only make it worse.

‘And when you’re done there, see to Lop, will you? Seems our lad needs a bit of doctoring, it does.’ Lavoy cracked his knuckles slowly as he let a smile spread across his face.

That remark was intended to bait Amber, Althea knew. The doctoring that Lop required was a direct result of Lavoy’s fists. Lavoy had discovered Amber’s distaste for violence. He had not yet found any excuse to direct his temper at Jek or the ship’s carpenter, but he seemed to relish her reactions to the beatings he meted out to other crewmembers. With a sinking heart, Althea wished that Amber were not so proud. If she would just lower her head a bit to the first mate, Lavoy would be content. Althea feared what might come of the simmering situation.

Lavoy took Althea’s place on the railing. Amber withdrew slightly. Jek wished Paragon a subdued, ‘Good night, ship,’ before sauntering quietly away. Althea knew she should hasten to Brashen’s summons, but she did not like to leave Amber and Lavoy alone in such proximity. If something happened, it would be Amber’s word against his. And when a mate declared something was so, the word of a common sailor meant nothing at all.

Althea firmed her voice. ‘Carpenter. I want the latch on my cabin door repaired tonight. Little jobs should be seen to in calm weather and quiet times, lest they become big jobs during a storm.’

Amber shot her a look. In reality, Amber had been the one to point out that the door rattled against the catch instead of shutting tightly. Althea had greeted the news with a shrug. ‘I’ll see to it, then,’ Amber promised her gravely. Althea lingered a second longer, wishing the carpenter would take the excuse to get away from Lavoy. But she didn’t, and there was no way Althea could force her without igniting the smouldering tension. She reluctantly left them together.

The captain’s quarters were in the stern of the ship. Althea knocked smartly, and waited for his quiet invitation to enter. The Paragon had been built with the assumption that the captain would also be the owner, or at least a family member. Most of the common sailors made do with hammocks strung belowdecks wherever they could find room. Brashen, however, had a chamber with a door, a fixed bed, a table and chart table, and windows that looked out over the ship’s wake. Warm yellow lamplight and the rich smells and warm tones of polished wood greeted her.

Brashen looked up at her from the chart table. Spread before him were his original sketches on canvas scraps as well as Althea’s efforts to formalize his charts on parchment. He looked tired, and much older than his years. His scalded face had peeled after he was burnt by the serpent venom. Now the lines on his forehead and cheeks and beside his nose showed even more clearly. The venom burn had taken some of his eyebrows as well. The gaps in his heavy brows made him look somewhat surprised. She was grateful that the spray of scalding poison had not harmed his dark eyes.

‘Well?’ Brashen suddenly demanded, and she realized she had been staring at him.

‘You summoned me,’ she pointed out, the words coming out almost sharply in her discomfiture.

He touched his hair, as if he suspected something amiss there. He seemed rattled by her directness. ‘Summoned you. Yes, I did. I had a bit of a talk with Lavoy. He shared some ideas with me. Some of them seem valuable, yet I fear he may be luring me to a course of action I may regret later. I ask myself, how well do I know the man? Is he capable of deception, even…’ He straightened in his chair, as if he had abruptly decided he was speaking too freely. ‘I’d like your opinion on how the ship is being run of late.’

‘Since the serpent attack?’ she asked needlessly. There had been a subtle shift in power since she and Brashen had stood together to drive the serpent away. The men had more respect for her abilities now, and it seemed to her that Lavoy did not approve of that. She tried to find a way to phrase it without sounding as if she criticized the mate. She took a breath. ‘Since the serpent attack, I have found my share of the command easier to manage. The sailors obey me swiftly and well. I feel that I have won their hearts as well as their allegiance.’ She drew another breath and crossed a line. ‘However, since the attack, the first mate has chosen to tighten discipline. Some of it is understandable. The men did not react well during the attack. Some did not obey; few jumped in to assist us.’

Brashen scowled as he spoke. ‘I myself noted that Lavoy did not assist us. His watch was well begun and he was on the deck, yet he did not aid us at all.’ Althea felt her stomach jump nervously. She should have noticed that. Lavoy had stood it out while she and Brashen fought the serpent. At the time, it had seemed oddly natural that they two would be the ones to stand before the serpent. She wondered if Lavoy’s absence had any significance, beyond his being afraid. Had Lavoy hoped that she, Brashen, or even both of them might be killed? Did he hope to inherit command of the ship? If he did, what would become of their original quest? Brashen was silent again, obviously letting her think.

She took a breath. ‘Since the serpent attack, the first mate has tightened discipline, but not evenly. Some of the men appear to be targeted unfairly. Lop, for one. Clef for another.’

Brashen watched her carefully as he observed, ‘I would not have expected you to have much sympathy for Lop. He did nothing to aid you when Artu attacked you.’

Althea shook her head almost angrily. ‘No one should have expected him to,’ she declared. ‘The man is a half-wit in some ways. Give him direction, tell him what to do, and he performs well enough. He was agitated when Artu … when I was fighting Artu off, Lop was leaping about, hitting himself in the chest and berating himself. He genuinely had no idea what to do. Artu was a shipmate, I was the second mate, and he did not know who to choose. But on the deck, when the serpent attacked, I remember that he was the one with the guts to fling a bucket at the creature and then drag Haff to safety. But for Lop’s action, we’d be short a hand. He’s not smart. Far from it. But he’s a good sailor, if he’s not pushed past his abilities.’

‘And you feel Lavoy pushes Lop past his abilities?’

‘The men make Lop the butt of their jokes. That is to be expected, and as long as they don’t take it too far, Lop seems to enjoy the attention. But when Lavoy joins in, the game becomes crueller. And more dangerous. Lavoy told me to go doctor Lop when you were finished speaking to me. That’s the second time in as many days that he has been banged up. They bait him into doing dangerous or foolish things. When something is amiss and Lavoy targets Lop for it, not one of his shipmates owns up to part of the blame. That’s not good for the crew. It divides their unity just when we most need to build it.’

Brashen was nodding gravely. ‘Have you observed Lavoy with the slaves we liberated from Bingtown?’ he asked quietly.

The question jolted her. She stood silent a moment, running over the past few days in her mind. ‘He treats them well,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve never seen him turn his temper on them. He does not mingle them with the rest of the crew as much as he might. Some seem to have great potential. Harg and Kitl deny it, but I believe they’ve worked a deck before this. Some of the others have the scars and manners of men who are familiar with weapons. Our two best archers have tattooed faces. Yet every one of them swears he is the son of a tradesman or merchant, an innocent inhabitant of the Pirate Isles captured by slave raiders. They are valuable additions to our crew, but they keep to themselves. I think, in the long run, we must get the other sailors to accept them as ordinary shipmates in order to…’

‘And you perceive that he not only allows them to keep to themselves, but seems to encourage it by how he metes out the work?’

She wondered what Brashen was getting at. ‘It could be so.’ She took a breath. ‘Lavoy seems to use Harg and Kitl almost as a captain would use a first and second mate to run his watch. Sometimes it seems that the former slaves are an independent second crew on the ship.’ Uncomfortably, she observed, ‘The lack of acceptance seems to go both ways. It is not just that our dock-scrapings don’t accept the former slaves. The tattooed ones are just as inclined to keep to themselves.’

Brashen leaned back in his chair. ‘They were slaves in Bingtown. Most came to that fate because they were originally captured in Pirate Isles towns. They were willing to risk all and steal away from Bingtown aboard the Paragon because we represented a chance to return home. I was willing to trade that to them, in exchange for their labour aboard the ship when we were preparing for departure. Now I am not so sure that was a wise bargain. A man captured in the Pirate Isles to be sold as a slave is more like to be a pirate than not. Or at least to have a good sympathy for the pirates.’

‘Perhaps,’ she conceded unwillingly. ‘Yet they must feel some loyalty to us for helping them escape a life of slavery.’

The captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps. It is difficult to tell. I suspect the loyalty they feel just now is to Lavoy rather than to you and me. Or to Paragon.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘This is Lavoy’s suggestion. He says that as we enter the waters of the Pirate Isles, we stand a better chance of getting in close if we pretend to be pirates ourselves. He says his tattooed sailors could lend us credibility, and teach us pirate ways. He hints that some may even have a good knowledge of the islands. So. We could go on as a pirate vessel.’

‘What?’ Althea was incredulous. ‘How?’

‘Devise a flag. Take a ship or two, for the practice of battle, as Lavoy puts it. Then we put into one of the smaller pirate towns, with some loot and trophies and generous hands, and put out the word that we’d like to follow Kennit. For some time, this Kennit has been touting himself as King of the Pirates. The last I heard, he was gathering a following for himself. If we pretended we wanted to be a part of that following, we might be able to get close to him and determine Vivacia’s situation before we acted.’

Althea pushed her outrage aside and forced herself to consider the idea. The greatest benefit it offered was that, if they could get close to Kennit, they could find out how many of Vivacia’s crewmen still lived. If any. ‘But we could as easily be drawn into a stronghold, where even if we overcame Kennit and his crew, there would be no possibility of escape. There are two other immense barriers to such an idea. The first is that Paragon is a liveship. How does Lavoy think we could hide that? The other is that we would have to kill, simply for battle practice. We’d have to attack some little merchant vessel, kill the crew, steal their cargo…how can he even think of such a thing?’

‘We could attack a slaver.’

That jolted her into silence. She studied his face. He was serious. He met her astonished silence with a weary look. ‘We have no other strategy. I keep trying to devise ways for us to locate Vivacia surreptitiously, then follow her and attack when Kennit least expects it. I come up with nothing. And I suspect that if Kennit does hold any of the original crew hostage, he would execute them rather than let us rescue them.’

‘I thought we intended to negotiate first. To offer ransom for survivors and the ship.’

Even to herself, the words sounded childish and naïve. The cash that her family had managed to raise prior to Paragon’s departure would not be enough to ransom an ordinary ship, let alone a liveship. Althea had pushed that problem to the back of her mind, telling herself they would negotiate with Kennit and promise him a second, larger payment once Vivacia was returned intact to Bingtown. Ransom was what most pirates wanted; it was the underlying reason for piracy.

Except that Kennit was not like most pirates. All had heard the tales of him. He captured slavers, killed the crews, and freed the cargo. The captured ships became pirate vessels, often crewed by the very men who had been cargo aboard them. Those ships in turn preyed on slavers. In truth, if the Vivacia had not been involved, Althea would have cheered Kennit’s efforts to rid the Cursed Shores of slavery. She would have been pleased to see Chalced’s slave trade choked off in the Pirate Isles. But her sister’s husband had turned their family liveship into a slaver, and Kennit had seized her. Althea wanted Vivacia back so intensely that it was like a constant pain in her heart.

‘You see,’ Brashen confirmed quietly. He had been watching her face. She lowered her eyes from his gaze, suddenly embarrassed that he could read her thoughts so easily. ‘Sooner or later, it must come down to blood. We could take down a small slaver. We don’t have to kill the crew. If they surrendered, we could put them adrift in the ship’s boats. Then we could take the ship into a pirate town and free her cargo, just as Kennit does. It might win us the confidence of the folk in the Pirate Isles. It might buy us the knowledge we need to go after the Vivacia.’ He sounded suddenly uncertain. The dark eyes that regarded her were almost tormented.

She was puzzled. ‘Are you asking my permission?’

He frowned. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘It’s awkward,’ he admitted softly. ‘I am the captain of the Paragon. But Vivacia is your family ship. Your family financed this expedition. I feel that, in some decisions, you have the right to be heard as more than the second mate.’ He sat back in his chair and gnawed at his knuckle for a moment. Then he looked up at her again. ‘So, Althea. What do you think?’

The way he spoke her first name suddenly changed the whole tenor of the conversation. He gestured to a chair and she sat down in it slowly. He himself rose and crossed the room. When he returned to the table, he carried a bottle of rum and two glasses. He poured a short jot into each glass. He looked across at her and smiled as he took his chair. He set a glass before her. As she watched his clean hands, she tried to keep her mind on the conversation. What did she think? She answered slowly.

‘I don’t know what I think. I suppose I’ve been trusting it all to you. You are the captain, you know, not me.’ She tried to make the remark lightly, but it came out almost an accusation. She took a sip of her rum.

He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back slightly in his chair. ‘Oh, how very well I know that,’ he murmured. He lifted his glass.

She turned the conversation. ‘And there’s Paragon to consider. We know his aversion to pirates. How would he feel about it?’

Brashen made a low noise in his throat and abruptly set down his rum. ‘That’s the strangest twist of all. Lavoy claims the ship would welcome it.’

Althea was incredulous. ‘How could he know that? Has he already spoken to Paragon about this?’ Anger flared in her. ‘How dare he? The last thing we need is him planting such ideas in Paragon’s head.’

He leaned across the table towards her. ‘His claim was that Paragon spoke to him about it. He says he was having a pipe up on the bow one evening, and that the figurehead spoke to him, asking him if he’d ever considered turning pirate. From there, the idea came up that to be a pirate vessel would be the safest way to get into a pirate harbour. And Paragon bragged that he knew many secret ways of the Pirate Isles. Or so Lavoy says.’

‘Have you asked Paragon about it?’

Brashen shook his head. ‘I was afraid to bring it up with him; he might think that meant I approved it. Then he would fix all his energy on it. Or that I didn’t approve of it, in which case he might decide to insist on it just to prove he could. You know how he can be. I didn’t want to present the idea unless we were all behind it. Any mention of it from me, and he might set his mind on piracy as the only correct course of action.’

‘I wonder if that damage isn’t already done,’ Althea speculated. The rum was making a small warm spot in her belly. ‘Paragon has been very strange of late.’

‘And when has that not been true of him?’ Brashen asked wryly.

‘This is different. He is strange in an ominous way. He speaks of us encountering Kennit as our destiny. And says nothing must keep us from that end.’

‘And you don’t agree with that?’ Brashen probed.

‘I don’t know about the destiny part. Brashen, if we could come upon Vivacia when she had only an anchor watch aboard her and steal her back, I would be content. All I want is my ship, and her crew if any have survived. I have no desire for any more battle or blood than there must be.’

‘Nor have I,’ Brashen said quietly. He added another jot of rum to each glass. ‘But I do not think we will recover Vivacia without both. We must harden ourselves to that now.’

‘I know,’ she conceded reluctantly. But she wondered if she did. She had never been in any kind of battle. A couple of tavern scuffles were the extent of her brawling experience. She could not picture herself with a sword in her hand, fighting to free the Vivacia. If someone attacked her, she could fight back. She knew that about herself. But could she leap onto another deck, blade swinging, killing men she had never even seen before? Sitting here with Brashen in a warm and comfortable cabin, she doubted it. It wasn’t the Trader way. She had been raised to negotiate for whatever she wanted. However, she did know one thing. She wanted Vivacia back. She wanted that savagely. Perhaps when she saw her beloved ship in foreign hands, anger and fury would wake in her. Perhaps she could kill then.

‘Well?’ Brashen asked her, and she realized she had been staring past him, out the stern window, at their lace-edged wake. She brought her eyes back to his. Her fingers toyed with her glass as she asked, ‘Well what?’

‘Do we become pirates? Or at least put on the countenances of pirates?’

Her mind raced in hopeless circles. ‘You’re the captain,’ she said at last. ‘I think you must decide.’

He was silent for a moment. Then, he grinned. ‘I confess, on some level, it appeals to me. I’ve given it some thought. For our flag, how about a scarlet sea serpent on a blue background?’

Althea grimaced. ‘Sounds unlucky. But frightening.’

‘Frightening is what we want to be. And that was the scariest emblem I could think of, straight from my worst nightmares. As to the luck, I’m afraid we’ll have to make that for ourselves.’

‘As we always have. We’d go after slavers only?’

His face grew grave for a moment. Then a touch of his old grin lightened his eyes. ‘Maybe we wouldn’t have to go after anything. Maybe we could just make it look like we had … or that we intend to. How about a bit of play-acting? I think I’d have to be a dissatisfied younger son from Bingtown, something of a fop, perhaps. A gentleman come south to dabble in piracy and politics. What do you think?’

Althea laughed aloud. The rum was uncoiling in her belly, sending tendrils of warmth throughout her body. ‘I think you could come to enjoy this too much, Brashen. But what about me? How would you explain female crew aboard a Bingtown vessel?’

‘You could be my lovely captive, like in a minstrel’s tale. The daughter of a Trader, taken hostage and held for ransom.’ He gave her a sideways glance. ‘That might help establish my reputation as a daring pirate. We could say the Paragon was your family ship, to explain away the liveship.’

‘That’s a bit overly dramatic,’ she demurred softly. There was a brighter spark in his eyes. The rum was reaching them both, she decided. Just as she feared that her heart would overpower her head, his face turned suddenly grim. ‘Would that we could play-act such a romantic farce and win Vivacia back. The reality of playing pirate would be far more bloody and ruthless. My fear is that I won’t enjoy it nearly as much as Lavoy. Or Paragon.’ He shook his head. ‘Both of them have a streak of – what shall I call it? Just plain meanness, I sometimes think. If either one were allowed complete indulgence of it, I suspect they would sink to a savagery that you or I would find unthinkable.’

‘Paragon?’ Althea asked. There was scepticism in her voice, but a little shiver of certainty ran up her spine.

‘Paragon,’ Brashen confirmed. ‘He and Lavoy may be a very bad mix. I’d like to keep them from becoming close, if such a thing is possible.’

A sudden knock at the door made them both jump. ‘Who is it?’ Brashen demanded roughly.

‘Lavoy, sir.’

‘Come in.’

Althea jumped to her feet as the first mate entered. His quick glance took in the rum bottle and the glasses on the table. Althea tried not to look startled or guilty, but the look he gave her expressed his suspicions plainly. His sarcasm was little short of insubordinate as he addressed Brashen. ‘Sorry to interrupt you both, but there’s ship’s business to attend. The carpenter is unconscious on the forward deck. Thought you’d like to know.’

‘What happened?’ Althea demanded without thinking.

Lavoy’s lip curled disdainfully. ‘I’m reporting to the captain, sailor.’

‘Exactly.’ Brashen’s voice was cold. ‘So get on with it. Althea, go see to the carpenter. Lavoy, what happened?’

‘Damn me if I know.’ The burly mate shrugged elaborately. ‘I just found her there and thought you’d like to know.’

There was no time to contradict him, nor was it the right time to let Brashen know she had left them alone together. Her heart in her mouth, she raced off to see what Lavoy had done to Amber.

6 AN INDEPENDENT WOMAN

A DRIZZLING RAIN WAS falling from the overcast sky. Water dripped endlessly from the bushes in the gardens. Wet brown leaves carpeted the sodden lawns. Serilla let the lace edge of the curtain fall back into place. She turned back to the room. The greyness of the day had crept inside the house and Serilla felt chill and old in its embrace. She had ordered the curtains drawn and the fire built up in an effort to warm the room. Instead of feeling cosier, she felt muffled and trapped in the day. Winter was creeping up on Bingtown. She shivered. Winter was always an unpleasant season at best. This year it was an untidy and unsettled time as well.

Yesterday, with a heavy guard attending her, she had driven from Restart’s estate down into Bingtown. She had ordered the men to take the carriage through the town, along the old market, and past the wharves. Everywhere she had seen destruction and disrepair. She had looked in vain for signs of repair and rebirth in the shattered city. Burned homes and shops gave off their clinging odour of despair. Piers ended in charred tongues of wood. Two masts stuck up from the sullen waters of the harbour. All the folk out in the streets had been hooded and cloaked against the day’s chill, all hurrying somewhere. They looked away from her carriage as it passed. Even those streets of the city where the remnants of the City Guard patrolled seemed edgy and repressed.

Gone were the bright teashops and prosperous trading companies. The bright and busy Bingtown that she had passed through on her first trip to Davad Restart’s house had died, leaving this smelly, untidy corpse. Rain Wild Street was a row of boarded-up shop fronts and deserted stores. The few places that were open for trade had a guarded, anxious look to them. Thrice her carriage had been turned back by barricades of rubble.

She had planned to find merchants and neighbours who were making an effort to restore the city. She had imagined she would dismount from her carriage to greet them and praise their efforts. They were supposed to have invited her into their struggling shops, or walked her through their efforts at rebuilding. She would have congratulated them on their stout hearts, and they would have been honoured by her visit. Her plan had been to win their loyalty and love. Instead, she had seen only harried refugees, sullen-faced and withdrawn. No one had even offered her a greeting. She had returned to Davad’s house and simply gone up to her bed. She had no appetite for supper.

She felt cheated. Bingtown was the glowing bauble she had always promised herself that she would someday possess. She had come so far and endured so much, simply to behold it so briefly. As if fate could not allow her any joy, the moment it seemed she might attain her goal, the city had destroyed itself. A part of her wanted simply to admit defeat, board a ship, and return to Jamaillia.

But there were no ships sailing safely to Jamaillia any more. The Chalcedeans lay in wait for any ship that tried to leave or enter Bingtown harbour. Even if she could somehow reach Jamaillia, what welcome would she receive? The plot against the Satrap had its roots in Jamaillia. She might be seen as a witness and a threat. Someone would find a way to eliminate her. She had been suspicious from the time the Satrap proposed that he leave Jamaillia on this jaunt to Bingtown and then visit Chalced afterwards. His nobles and advisors should have loudly protested such a move; it was rare for the reigning Satrap to travel so far outside the borders of Jamaillia. Instead of objections, he had received encouragement. She sighed to herself. The same set of sycophants who had taught him so young about the pleasures of flesh and wine and intoxicating herbs had encouraged him to leave the governing of his land completely to them while he travelled through hostile waters, in the care of dubious allies. Gullible and lazy, he had accepted the bait. Enticed by the invitations of his Chalcedean ‘allies’, promised exotic drugs and even more exotic fleshy pleasures, he had been led away from his throne like a child baited with candy and toys. His ‘most loyal’ followers who had always encouraged him to have his own way had done so to unseat him.

A sudden realization shocked her. She did not much care what became of the Satrap or his authority in Jamaillia. All she wished to do was to preserve his power in Bingtown, so she could claim it for her own. That meant uncovering who in Bingtown had been so willing to aid in his overthrow. The same people would try to depose her as well.

For a fleeting moment, she wished she had studied more about Chalced. There had been letters in the cabin of the Chalcedean captain, written in Jamaillian lettering, but in the Chalcedean language. She had recognized the names of two high Jamaillian nobles and the notation for sums of money. She had sensed then that she held the roots of a conspiracy in her hands. What had the Chalcedeans been paid to do? Or were they the ones who had paid? If she had been able to read those letters when the Chalcedean captain had held her prisoner there…then her mind shied away.

She hated what those nightmare days of confinement and rape had done to her. They had changed her irrevocably, in ways she despised. She could not forget that the Chalcedean captain had possessed life and death control over her. She could not forget that the Satrap, the boyish, spoiled, self-indulgent Satrap, had had the power to put her in such a position. It had forever altered her image of herself. It had made her recognize the full extent of the power men had over her. Well, she had power now, and as long as she guarded that power well, she would be safe. No man could ever impose his will on her again. She had the strength of her exalted position. Position would protect her. She must maintain it at any cost.

Yet for power, there was a price.

She lifted the corner of the curtain again and peered out. Even here in Bingtown, she was not safe from assassination attempts. She knew that. She never went out unaccompanied. She never dined alone and she always made sure that her guests were served before her and from the same dishes of which she would partake. If they did manage to kill her, at least she would not die alone. But she would not let them kill her, nor wrest from her the influence she had fought so hard to secure. There were threats to that power, but she could defeat them. She could keep the Satrap isolated and unable to communicate. For his own good, of course. She permitted herself a small smile. She wished they had not taken him so far away. If he were here in Bingtown, she could see that he got the pleasure herbs and comforts that would keep him manageable. She could find a way to separate him from Kekki. She could convince him that he was wise to lie low and let her manage things for him.

A discreet rap at the door interrupted her thoughts. She let the curtain fall again and turned back to the chamber. ‘Enter.’

The serving woman had a tattooed face. Serilla was repulsed by the tattoo that spidered greenly across her cheek. She refused to look at her any more than she must. She would not have kept her, save that she was the only servant Serilla could find that was properly trained in Jamaillian courtesy. ‘What is it?’ she demanded as the woman curtseyed.

‘Trader Vestrit wishes to speak with you, Companion Serilla.’

‘Let her enter,’ Serilla replied listlessly. Her spirits dropped yet another notch. She knew she was wise to keep the woman close, where she could watch her. Even Roed Caern had agreed to that. Serilla had been so pleased with herself when she first thought of the ruse. In a secret meeting, the heads of the Traders’ Council had been horrified at her demand to have Ronica Vestrit seized. Even in times such as these, they refused to see the wisdom of such an act, and the thought of that confrontation made Serilla grit her teeth. It had proved to her the limitations of her power over them.

But she, in turn, had demonstrated to the Council heads her own resourcefulness. A graciously worded request had summoned the Trader woman to be Serilla’s guest in Restart Hall. Ostensibly, Ronica was to aid Serilla by exploring all of Restart’s records, not only to prove Davad’s innocence but her own. After some hesitation, Ronica had agreed. Serilla had initially been pleased with herself. Having Ronica Vestrit live under her roof simplified Roed’s task of spying on her. He would soon uncover who was in league with her. But there was a cost to Serilla’s tactic. Knowing the Trader woman was close by was like knowing there was a serpent in one’s bed. To be aware of a danger did not necessarily disarm it.

The day Ronica arrived, Serilla had been sure of her triumph. Ronica brought no possessions save the bundles she and her maid carried. Her servant was a tattoo-faced former slave who treated the Trader woman almost as if they were equals. The Vestrit woman had little clothing and no jewellery at all. As plain Ronica had sat eating at the foot of Serilla’s table that evening, the Companion had felt triumphant. This pitiful creature was no threat: she would become a symbol of the Companion’s charity. And eventually some slip of hers would betray her fellow conspirators. Whenever she left the house, Roed followed her.

Nevertheless, since Ronica had moved into Davad’s old bedroom, the woman had not let Serilla have even one day of peace. She was like a humming gnat in her ear. Just when Serilla should be concentrating all her efforts on consolidating her power, Ronica distracted her at every turn. What was she doing about clearing the sunken ships from the harbour? Was there any word of aid from Jamaillia? Had she sent a bird to Chalced, to protest these acts of war? Had she tried to gain the support of the Three Ships folk to patrol the streets at night? Perhaps if the former slaves were offered paying work, they would prefer it to roaming as looting gangs. Why had Serilla not urged the Bingtown Council to convene and take charge of the city again? Every day, Ronica pushed at her with questions like these. In addition, at every opportunity, she reminded Serilla that she was an outsider. When Serilla ignored her other demands, Ronica went back with monotonous tenacity to insisting that Davad was not a traitor, and that Serilla had no right to his property. The woman did not seem to respect her at all, let alone afford her the courtesy due a Satrap’s Companion.

It rankled even more because Serilla was not sure enough of her position to bring her authority to bear on the Trader. Too often she had given in to the woman’s nagging; first, to have Davad buried, and again to surrender some orchard to the traitor’s niece. She would not give in to her again. It only encouraged her.

Roed had reported to her how the woman spent her mornings. Despite the dangers of the street, Ronica Vestrit and her maid ventured out each day, to go on foot from door to door, rallying the Traders to convene. Roed had reported that she was often turned away or treated brusquely by those she called upon, but the woman was insistent. Like rain on a stone, Serilla thought, she wore down the hardest heart. Tonight she would gain her largest triumph. The Council would convene.

If the Traders listened to Ronica tonight and decided that Davad had never been at fault, it would seriously undermine Serilla’s authority. If the Council decided his niece should inherit his estate, Serilla would have to move out of Restart Hall and be forced to ask hospitality of another Trader. She would lose her privacy and her independence. She could not allow that to happen.

Serilla had gently but firmly opposed the Council’s convening, telling them all it was too early, that it was not safe for the Traders to gather in one place where they could be attacked; but they were no longer listening to her.

Time was all Serilla had needed; time to make her alliances stronger, time to know who could be persuaded with flattery and who needed offers of titles and land. Time might bring her another bird with tidings from Jamaillia. One Trader had brought her a bird-message from his trading partner in Jamaillia. Rumours of the Satrap’s death had reached the city, and riots were imminent. Could the Satrap send a missive in his own hand to disperse this dangerous gossip? She had sent back a bird with a message of reassurance that the rumour was false, and a query as to who had received the message about the Satrap’s death, and from whom? She doubted she would get a reply. What else could she do? If only she had another day, another week. A bit more time, and she was sure she could master the Council. Then, with her superior education and experience of politics and knowledge of diplomacy, she could guide them to peace. She could make them see what compromises they must accept. She could unite all the folk of Bingtown and, from that base, treat with the Chalcedeans. That would establish for all her authority in Bingtown. Time was all she needed, and Ronica was stealing it from her.

Ronica Vestrit swept into the room. She carried a ledger under her arm. ‘Good morning,’ she greeted Serilla briskly. As the servant left the room, Ronica glanced after her. ‘Would not it be far simpler for me to announce myself, rather than have me find the servant to knock at the door and say my name?’

‘Simpler, but not proper,’ Serilla pointed out coldly.

‘You’re in Bingtown now,’ Ronica replied evenly. ‘Here we do not believe in wasting time simply for the purpose of impressing others.’ She spoke as if she were instructing a recalcitrant daughter in manners. Without asking leave, she went to the study table and opened the ledger she had brought. ‘I believe I’ve found something here that may interest you.’

Serilla walked over to stand by the fire. ‘That I doubt,’ she muttered sourly. Ronica had been far too assiduous in tracking down evidence. Her constant ploys to mislead Serilla were vexatious, and making her own deception wear thin.

‘Do you weary so quickly of playing Satrap?’ Ronica asked her coldly. ‘Or is this, perhaps, the way you believe a ruler is to behave?’

Serilla felt as if she had been slapped. ‘How dare you!’ she began, and then her eyes widened even more. ‘Where did you get that shawl?’ she demanded. Serilla knew she had seen it in Davad’s bedroom, flung over the arm of a chair. How presumptuous of the woman to help herself to it!

For an instant, Ronica’s eyes went wide and dark, as if Serilla had caused her pain. Then her face softened. She reached up to stroke the soft fabric draped across her shoulders. ‘I made it,’ she said quietly. ‘Years ago, when Dorill was pregnant with her first child. I dyed the wool and wove it myself to be a special gift from one young wife to another. I knew she loved it, but it was touching to find that of all her things, this was what Davad had kept close by him to remember her. She was my friend. I don’t need your permission to borrow her things. You are the one who is a looter and an intruder here, not I.’

Serilla stared at her, speechless with fury. A petty vengeance occurred to her. She wouldn’t look at the woman’s feeble evidence. She would not give her the satisfaction. She gritted her teeth and turned away from her. The fire was dying. That was why she felt suddenly chilled. Were there no decent servants anywhere in Bingtown? Angrily Serilla picked up the poker herself to try to stir the coals and logs back to life.

‘Are you going to look at this ledger with me, or not?’ Ronica demanded. She stood, her finger pointing at some entry as if it were of vast importance.

Serilla let her anger boil over. ‘What makes you think I have time for this? Do you think I have nothing better to do than strain my eyes over a dead man’s spidery handwriting? Open your eyes, old woman, and see what confronts all of Bingtown instead of dwelling on your private obsession. Your city is dying, and your people do not have the backbone to fight its death. Despite my orders, gangs of slaves continue to loot and steal. I have commanded that they be captured and forced to serve in an army to defend the city, but nothing has been done. The roads are blocked with debris, but no one has moved to clear them. Businesses are closed and folk huddle behind the doors of their homes like rabbits.’ She whacked a log with the poker, sending a stream of sparks flying up the chimney.

Ronica crossed the room and knelt down by the hearth. ‘Give me that thing!’ she exclaimed in disgust. Serilla dropped the poker disdainfully beside her. The Bingtown Trader ignored the insult. Picking it up, she began to lever the ends of the half-burned logs back into the centre of the fire. ‘You are looking at Bingtown from the wrong vantage. Our harbour is what we must hold, first. As for the looting and disorder – I blame you as much as my fellow Traders. They sit about like a great flock of boobies, half of them waiting for you to tell them what to do and the other half waiting for someone else to do it. You have brought division amongst us. But for you proclaiming that you speak with the Satrap’s authority, the Bingtown Council would have taken charge as we always have before. Now some of the Traders say they must listen to you, and some say they must take care of themselves first, and others, wisely I think, say we should simply convene all the like-minded folk in the town and get to work on things. What does it matter now if we are Old Traders or New Traders or Three Ships or just plain immigrants? Our city is a shambles, our trade is ruined, the Chalcedeans pluck all who venture out of Trader Bay, while we squabble amongst ourselves.’ She rocked back on her heels, and looked in satisfaction at the recovering fire. ‘Tonight, perhaps, we shall finally act on some of that.’

A terrible suspicion was forming in Serilla’s mind. The woman intended to steal her plans and present them as her own! ‘Do you spy upon me?’ she demanded. ‘How is it that you know so much of what is said about the city?’

Ronica gave a snort of contempt. She rose slowly to her feet, her knees cracking as she stood. ‘I have eyes and ears of my own. And this city is my city, and I know it better than you ever could.’

As Ronica hefted the cold weight of the poker in her hand, she watched the Companion’s eyes. There it was again, that flash of fear in the woman’s face. Ronica suddenly knew that the right choice of words and threats could reduce this woman to a snivelling child. Whoever had broken her had broken her completely. She was a hollow shell of authority concealing an abyss of fear. Sometimes the Trader felt sorry for her. It was almost too easy to bully her. Yet, when such thoughts came to her, she hardened her heart. Serilla’s fear made her dangerous. She saw everyone as a threat. The Companion would rather strike first and be mistaken than suffer the possibility someone might act against her. Davad’s death proved that. This woman had claimed an authority over Bingtown that Ronica did not believe anyone, not even the Satrap, possessed. Worse, her attempts to wield the power she claimed were fragmenting what remained of Bingtown’s ability to govern itself. Ronica would use whatever tactics came to hand to try to move Bingtown back towards peace and self-government. Only if there was peace was there any hope of Ronica recovering her family, or indeed, finding out if any of them had survived.

So she mimed the woman’s contemptuous gesture and tossed the poker onto the stone hearth. As it landed with a clang and rolled away, she saw the Companion flinch. The fire was recovering nicely now. Ronica turned her back on it and crossed her arms on her chest as she faced Serilla. ‘People gossip, and if one wants to know what is really going on, one listens to them. Even servants, if treated as human beings, can be a source of information. So it is that I know that a delegation of New Traders, headed by Mingsley, has made overtures of truce to you. That is precisely why it is so important that you look at what I have uncovered in Davad’s records. So you will proceed with caution where Mingsley is concerned.’

Serilla’s cheeks turned very pink. ‘So! I invite you into my home, out of pity for you, and you take the opportunity to spy on me!’

Ronica sighed. ‘Haven’t you heard a word I said? That information did not come from spying on you.’ Other information had, but there was no point in revealing that now. ‘Nor do I need your pity. I accept my current fortune. I’ve seen my situation change before, and I will see it change again. I don’t need you to change it.’ Ronica gave a small snort of amusement. ‘Life is not a race to restore a past situation. Nor does one have to hurry to meet the future. Seeing how things change are what makes life interesting.’

‘I see,’ Serilla commented disdainfully. ‘Seeing how things change. This is the hardy Bingtown spirit I have heard touted about so much, then? A passive patience to see what life will do to you. How inspiring. Then you have no interest in restoring Bingtown to all it was?’

‘I have no interest in impossible tasks,’ Ronica retorted. ‘If we focus on trying to go back to what Bingtown was, we are doomed to defeat. We must go forwards, create a new Bingtown. It will never be the same as it was. The Traders will never again wield as much power as we did. But we can still go on. That is the challenge, Companion. To take what has happened to you and learn from it, instead of being trapped by it. Nothing is quite so destructive as pity, especially self-pity. No event in life is so terrible that one cannot rise above it.’

The look Serilla gave her was so peculiar that Ronica felt a shiver down her spine. For an instant, it was as if a dead woman stared out of her eyes. When she spoke it was in a flat voice. ‘You are not as worldly as you think you are, Trader. If you had ever endured what I have faced, you would know that there are events that are insurmountable. Some experiences change you forever, past any cheery little wish to ignore them.’

Ronica met her gaze squarely. ‘That is only true if you have determined it is true. This terrible event – whatever it was – is over and done. Cling to it and let it shape you and you are doomed to live it forever. You are granting it power over you. Set it aside, and shape your future as you wish it to be, in spite of what happened to you. Then you have seized control of it.’

‘That’s easier said than done,’ Serilla snapped. ‘You cannot imagine how appallingly ignorant you sound, with your girlish optimism. I think I’ve had enough provincial philosophy for one day. Leave.’

‘My “girlish optimism” is the Bingtown spirit you have “heard touted about so much”,’ Ronica snapped back at her. ‘You fail to recognize that a belief in being able to conquer your own past is what made it possible for us to survive here. It is what you need to find in yourself, Companion, if you hope to be one of us. Now. Are you going to look at these entries, or not?’

Ronica could almost see the woman’s hackles rise. She wished she could approach Serilla as a friend and ally, but the Companion seemed to regard any woman as a rival or a spy. So she stood straight and cold while she waited for Serilla’s reaction. She watched her with a bargainer’s eyes and saw Serilla’s glance dart to the opened ledgers on the table, and then back to Ronica. The woman wanted to know what was in them, but she did not wish to appear to be giving in. Ronica gave her a bit more time, but when the Companion was still silent, she decided to risk it all.

‘Very well. I see you are uninterested. I had thought you would wish to see what I had discovered before I took it to the Bingtown Council. But if you will not listen to me, I am sure they will.’ With a resolute stride, she crossed to the ledger on the desk. Closing it, she tucked the heavy volume under her arm. She took her time leaving the room, hoping that Serilla would call her back. She walked slowly down the hall, still hoping, but all she heard was the firm shutting of Davad’s study door. It was no use. With a sigh, Ronica began to climb the stairs to Davad’s bedchamber. She halted at the sound of a knock on the great front door, then moved swiftly to stand near the banister and look down silently at the entry below.

A serving woman opened the door, and began a correct greeting, but the young Trader pushed past her. ‘I bear tidings for the Companion Serilla. Where is she?’ Roed Caern demanded.

‘I will let her know that you are –’ the servant began, but Roed shook his head impatiently.

‘This is urgent. A messenger bird has come from the Rain Wilds. Is she in the study? I know the way.’ Without allowing the servant time to reply, he pushed past her. His boots rang on the flagging and his cloak fluttered behind him as he strode arrogantly down the hall. The serving woman trotted at his heels, her protests unheeded. Ronica watched him go, and wondered if she had the courage to venture down to eavesdrop.

‘How dare you charge in like that!’ Serilla spoke as she rose from poking again at the fire. She let every bit of her anger and frustration at the Trader woman vent. Then, as she met the sparks in Roed Caern’s eyes, she took an inadvertent step back towards the hearth.

‘I beg pardon, Companion. I foolishly assumed that tidings from the Rain Wilds would merit your immediate attention.’ Between thumb and forefinger, he held a small brass cylinder of the type messenger birds carried. As she stared at it, he dared to bow stiffly. ‘I shall, of course, await your convenience.’ He turned back towards the door where the serving woman still gaped and spied.

‘Shut that door!’ Serilla snapped at her. Her heart thundered in her chest. The Satrap’s guardians had taken only five messenger birds from Davad’s cotes the night she had dispatched the Satrap to the Rain Wilds. They would not use them needlessly. This was the first message to come since she had heard the Satrap had arrived there and that the Rain Wild folk had consented to hold him in safekeeping. She had sensed then their ambivalence about her request. Had the Satrap swayed the Rain Wilders to his point of view? Was this to charge her with treason? What was in the cylinder and who else had read it? She tried to compose her face, but the cruel amusement on the tall dark man’s face made her fear the worst.

Best to soothe his ruffled fur, first. He reminded her of a savage watchdog, as like to turn on its master as protect her. She wished she did not have such need of him.

‘You are correct, of course, Trader Caern. Such tidings do need to be delivered immediately. In truth, I have been plagued with household affairs this morning. Servant after servant has disturbed my work. Please. Come in. Warm yourself.’ She even went so far as to accord him a gracious bow of her head, though, of course, her rank was far higher than his.

Roed bowed again, deeply, and she suspected, sarcastically. ‘Certainly, Companion. I understand how annoying that can be, especially when such weighty matters press upon your delicate shoulders.’

It was there, a note in his voice, a selection of a word.

‘The message?’ she prompted him.

He advanced, and bowed yet again as he presented the cylinder to her. The wax it had been dipped in appeared undisturbed. But nothing would have prevented him from reading the missive, and then re-dipping the container. Useless to worry. She flicked the wax away from the cylinder, unscrewed it, and coaxed the tiny roll of parchment into her fingers. With a calmness she did not feel, she seated herself at the desk and leaned close to the lamp as she unrolled the message.

The words were brief, and in their brevity, a torment. There had been a major earthquake. The Satrap and his Companion were lost, perhaps killed in the collapse. She read it again, and yet again, willing there to be more information there. Was there any hope he had survived? What did it mean to her ambitions if the Satrap were dead? On the heels of that, she wondered if this message were a deception, for reasons too intricate to unravel? She stared at the crawling letters.

‘Drink this. You look as if you need it.’

It was brandy in a small glass. She had not even noticed Roed taking the bottle down or pouring, but she accepted it gratefully. She sipped it and felt its heat steady her. She did not challenge him as he picked up the tiny missive and read it. Without looking at him, she managed to ask, ‘Will others know this?’

Roed seated himself insolently on the corner of the desk. ‘There are many Traders in this city that keep close ties with their Rain Wild kin. There are other birds a-wing with the same news. Depend on it.’

She had to look up at his smile. ‘What shall I do?’ she heard herself ask, and hated herself. With that one question, she put herself completely in his power.

‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing, just yet.’

Ronica opened the door of Davad’s bedchamber. Her slippers were still damp. The stout door of the study had contained the Companion’s conversation too well, and her walk through the garden had been fruitless. The study windows were tightly closed as well. Ronica looked around Davad’s room with a sigh. She longed for her own home. She was, perhaps, safer here, and she knew she was closer to the work she must do, but she missed her own home, no matter how ransacked it was. She still felt an intruder here. She found Rache at work scrubbing the floor, apparently bent on eradicating every trace of Davad from the chamber. Ronica shut the door quietly behind her.

‘I know you hate being here, in Davad’s home, amongst his things. You don’t have to stay, you know,’ she said gently. ‘I am more than capable of taking care of myself. You owe me nothing. You could go your own way now, Rache, with little fear of being seized as a runaway slave. You are more than welcome to continue to make your home with me, of course. Or, if you wished, I could give you a letter and directions. You could go to Ingleby, and live on the farm there. I am sure that my old nanny would make you welcome there, and probably be glad of your company.’

Rache dropped her rag into the bucket and got stiffly to her feet. ‘I would not abandon the only one who showed me kindness in Bingtown,’ she informed her. ‘Perhaps you can take care of yourself, but you still have need of me. I care nothing at all for Davad Restart’s memory. What does it matter if he is a traitor, when I know he was a murderer? But I would not see you defamed simply by your connection to him. Besides, I have more tidings for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Ronica said, stiffly. Davad had been a long-time family friend, but she had always acknowledged his ruthless side. Yet how much blame should Davad bear for the death of Rache’s child? True, Davad’s money had bought them, and he was a part-owner of the slave ship. But he had not been there when the boy had died in the hold of the ship, overcome by heat, bad water and little food. Nonetheless, he was the one who profited from the slave trade, so perhaps he was to blame. Her soul squirmed within her. What, then, of the Vivacia and the slaves that had been her cargo? She could blame it all on her son-in-law. The ship had been in Keffria’s control, and her daughter had let her husband Kyle do as he wished with it. But how firmly had Ronica resisted? She had spoken out against it, but perhaps if she had been more adamant…

‘Do you wish to hear my news?’ Rache asked her.

Ronica came back from her woolgathering with a start. ‘Certainly.’ She moved to the hearth and checked the kettle on the hob. ‘Shall we have tea?’

‘It’s nearly gone,’ Rache cautioned her.

Ronica shrugged. ‘When it’s gone, it’s gone. No use letting it go stale for fear of going without.’ She found the small container of tea and shook some into the pot. They ate at Serilla’s table, but here in their rooms, Ronica liked the small independence of her own teapot. Rache had matter-of-factly liberated teacups, saucers and other small amenities from Davad’s kitchen. She set these out on a small table as she spoke.

‘I’ve been out and about this morning. I went along the wharves, discreetly of course, but there is little going on down there. The small ships that do come in unload and load quickly, with armed men standing about all the time. I’d say there was one New Trader, probably a joint venture by several families. The cargo appeared to be mostly foodstuffs. Two other ships looked Old Trader to me, but again, I didn’t go close enough to be sure. The liveship Ophelia was in the harbour, but anchored out, not tied. There were armed men on her decks.

‘I left the harbour. Then, I did as you suggested, and went down to the beach where the fisherfolk haul out. There it was livelier, though there were not near the number of little boats there used to be. There were five or six small boats pulled out, with folk sorting the catch and re-stowing their nets. I offered to work for a bit of fish, but they were cool to me. Not rude, mind you, but distant, as if I might bring trouble or be a thief. The ones I talked to kept looking off behind my shoulder, as if they thought I might be distracting them from someone else, someone that meant them harm. But after a while, when I was obviously alone, some of them felt sorry for me. They gave me two small flounders, and talked with me a bit.’

‘Who gave you the flounders?’

‘A fisherwoman named Ekke. Her father told her to, and when one of the other men looked as if he might object, he said, “Folk got to eat, Ange.” The generous man’s name was Kelter. A wide man, chest and belly all one big barrel, with a red beard and red hair down his arms, but not much on the crown of his head.’

‘Kelter.’ Ronica dug through her memories. ‘Sparse Kelter. Did anyone call him Sparse?’

Rache gave a nod. ‘But I thought it more a tease than a name.’

Ronica frowned to herself. The kettle was boiling, the steam standing well above the spout. She lifted it from the hob and poured water into the teapot. ‘Sparse Kelter. I’ve heard the name somewhere, but more than that I can’t say of him.’

‘From what I saw, he’s the man we want. I didn’t speak to him of it, of course. I think we should go slow and be careful yet. But if you want a man who can speak to and for the Three Ships families, I think he is the one.’

‘Good.’ Ronica let the satisfaction ring in her voice. ‘The Bingtown Council meets tonight. I plan to present what information I have, and urge that we begin to unite with the rest of the city once more. I do not know what success I shall have, if any. It is so discouraging that so few have done anything for themselves. But I will try.’

Silence held for a few moments. Ronica sipped at her tea.

‘So. If they will not listen to you, will you give up, then?’ Rache asked her.

‘I cannot,’ Ronica replied simply. Then she gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘For if I give up, I have nothing else to do. Rache, this is the only way I can help my family. If I can be the gadfly that stings Bingtown into action, then it might be safe for Keffria and the children to return. At the very least, it might be possible for me to get word to them, or to hear from them. As things stand, with the city in sporadic fighting and my neighbours distrusting one another, not to mention considering me a traitor, my family cannot return. And if by some miracle Althea and Brashen do manage to bring Vivacia home, then there must be a home for them to return to. I feel like a juggler, Rache, with all the clubs raining down upon me. I must catch as many as I can and try to set them spinning again. If I cannot, I am nothing more than an old woman living hand to mouth until my days end. It is my only hope to regain my life.’ She set her teacup down. It clinked gently against the saucer. ‘Look at me,’ she went on quietly. ‘I have not even a teacup to call my own. My family…dead, or so far away that I know nothing of them. Everything I took for granted has been snatched from me; nothing in my life is as I expected it to be. People are not meant to live like this…’

Ronica’s words trailed off as Rache’s eyes met hers. She suddenly recalled to whom she was speaking. The next words fell from her tongue without thought. ‘Your husband was sold ahead of you and sent on to Chalced. Have you ever thought of seeking him out?’

Rache cupped both hands around her tea as she looked down into it. The lashes of her eyes grew wet, but no tears fell. For a long moment, Ronica regarded the straight pale parting in her dark hair.

‘I’m sorry –’ she began.

‘No.’ Rache’s voice was soft but firm. ‘No. I shall never seek him out. For I like to imagine that he has found a kind master who treats him well for the sake of his pen skills. I can hope that he believes that his son and I are alive and well somewhere. But if I went to Chalced, with this mark upon my face, I would quickly be seized as a runaway slave. I would become chattel again. Even if I didn’t, even if I found him alive, then I should have to tell him how our son died. How our son died and yet I still lived. How could I explain that to him? No matter how I imagine it, it never comes out well. Follow it to the end, Ronica. It always ends in bitterness. No. As bitter as it is now, it is still the best ending I can hope for.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ronica repeated lamely. If she had still had money, if she had had a ship, she could have sent someone to Chalced, to seek for Rache’s husband, to buy him and bring him back. Then…and then they could both live with the knowledge of their dead son. But there could be other children. Ronica knew that. She and Ephron had lost all their sons in the Blood Plague, but Althea had been born to them afterwards. She said nothing to Rache, but she made a small promise to herself and Sa. If her fortune turned, she would do what she could to change Rache’s fortunes as well. It was the least she could do for the woman after she had stood by her side for so long.

First, she would have to change her own fortune. It was time she stopped letting other folk do her dangerous work.

‘I make no progress with Serilla,’ she told Rache abruptly. ‘It is time to take what I know and build upon it, regardless of what the Council decides tonight. If they decide anything at all. Tomorrow, very early, I will go with you to the fishermen’s beach. We will have to catch them before they go out for the morning’s fishing. I will talk to Sparse Kelter myself, and ask him to speak to the other Three Ships families. I will tell them it is time, not only to make peace with Bingtown, but for Bingtown to declare that we rule ourselves. But it will take all of us, not just Old Traders. Three Ships immigrants, even those New Traders who can be persuaded to live by our old ways. No slavery. All must be a part of this new Bingtown we shall build.’ Ronica paused, thinking. ‘I wish I knew of even one New Trader who was trustworthy,’ she muttered to herself.

‘All,’ Rache said quietly.

‘All the New Traders?’ Ronica asked in confusion.

‘You said all must be part of this new Bingtown. Yet there is a group you have left out.’

Ronica considered. ‘I suppose that when I say Three Ships, I mean all the folk who came to settle after the Bingtown Traders had established Bingtown. All the folk who came and took our ways as their own.’

‘Think again, Ronica. Do you truly not see us, even though we are here?’

Ronica closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she met Rache’s gaze honestly. ‘I am ashamed of myself. You are right. Do you know of anyone who can speak for the slaves?’

Rache looked at her levelly. ‘Call us not slaves. Slave was how they named us to try to make us something we were not. Among ourselves, we call ourselves Tattooed. It says that they marked our faces, not that they could own our souls.’

‘Have you a leader?’

‘Not exactly. When Amber was in Bingtown, she showed us a way to help ourselves. In each household, she said, find one who will be the information holder. If anyone discovered a useful thing, something that could aid anyone who wished to escape, or to have some time to herself, such as a door with a broken lock, or where the master kept money that could be quietly taken, well, that information was passed on to the information holder. Then there would be another, a person who did marketing or washing or anything that took him into town and brought him into contact with Tattooed from other households. He would pass along the information from the information holder to other households, and bring back other tidings to be shared. Thus, a Tattooed one might be able to use the knowledge that a master was sending a waggonload of seed grain out to send words to family or friends working at that farm. Or steal money from one master, and hide in a waggon of hay belonging to another to escape. Amber urged us not to have one leader we relied on, but to have many, like the knots in fishing net. One leader could be captured and tormented and betray us all. But as long as we kept the leadership spread, we were like the netting. Even if you cut a net in twain, there are still many knots in each half.’

‘Amber did all this? Amber the bead-maker?’ Ronica queried. When Rache nodded, she demanded, ‘Why?’

Rache shrugged. ‘Some said she had been a slave herself once, despite the fact she has no tattoo. She wears a freedom ring in one ear, you know, the earring that Chalcedean freed-slaves must purchase and wear to prove they have been granted their freedom. I asked her once if she had bought her freedom, or if it had belonged to her mother. She was quiet for a time, and then said it was a gift from her one true love. When I asked Amber why she helped us, she simply said that she had to. That, for reasons of her own, it was important to her.

‘Once, a man got very angry with her. He said it was easy enough for her to play at taking chances and stirring up rebellion. He said she could get us all into great danger, and then walk away from it. Her tattoo could be scrubbed away. Ours could not. Amber met his eyes and said, yes, that was true. Therefore, he demanded that she tell us why she did such things, before he would trust her. It was so strange. She sat back on her heels, very still and silent for a moment. Then she laughed aloud, and said, “I’m a prophet. I’ve been sent to save the world.”’

Rache smiled to herself. A silence fell as Ronica regarded her in consternation. After a moment, Rache cocked her head and speculated, ‘That made a lot of us laugh. We were all gathered at one of the washing fountains, scrubbing out laundry not our own. You had sent me to town to buy something, and I had stopped to talk there. It was a sunny blue day, and with her talk and plans, Amber made us feel as if we could actually regain lives of our own choosing again. Everyone thought that what she said about saving the world was just a jest. But the way she laughed…I always thought she was laughing because she knew it was safe to tell us the truth, because none of us would ever believe it.’

Ronica walked to the Traders’ Concourse. She knew better than to expect Companion Serilla to arrange for her transport. She left Davad’s house early, not only to allow for the walk, but also to be one of the first there. She hoped to speak to individual Traders as they arrived and sound them out on what they thought the Council should do. It was not an easy walk, nor a safe one. Rache wanted to accompany her, but Ronica insisted that she remain behind. There was no sense in risking both of them. The former slave would not be admitted to the Bingtown Traders’ Council meeting, and Ronica would not ask her to wait outside in the gathering darkness. She herself hoped to beg a ride home when the meeting was over. The chill autumn winds tugged at her clothes, and the conditions she saw as she walked tugged at her heart.

Her path did not lead her down into the city, for the Concourse had been built on a low hill that overlooked Bingtown. Her journey took her past many of the Traders’ estates. The open gateways and wide carriage roads up to the properties now were barricaded, and frequently men with weapons stood guard at the closed gates. No home was safe from the roving bands of thieves and looters. The guards watched her go by with unfriendly stares. No one called a greeting or even nodded to her.

Ronica was the first to arrive for the Council meeting. The Concourse itself had suffered as badly as Bingtown. This old building was more than just a structure where the Traders met. It was the heart of their unity, a symbol of who they were. Its stone walls would not burn, but someone had managed to set its roof alight. Ronica stood for a time staring up at it in dismay. Then she braced herself against what she might find, and climbed the steps. The doors had been broken open. She peered past them cautiously. Only one corner of the roof had burned, but the smell of smoke mingled with the damp to make the whole hall reek. The weak light of late afternoon came in through the breached roof to illuminate the empty hall. Ronica pushed past the broken-latched door, and advanced cautiously. The gathering hall was cold. The mouldering decorations from the Summer Ball still trailed down the walls and stirred in the trespassing wind. Garlands had degenerated to bare branches on the door arches and rotting leaves on the floor. Tables, chairs, and the raised dais were still in place. There was even a scattering of dishes on some of the tables, though most had been looted. Dead bouquets were rotting beside broken vases. Ronica gazed about herself with a growing anger. Where were those who were assigned to prepare the hall for the gatherings? What had become of the Traders appointed to caretake the hall? Had everyone abandoned every responsibility save to care for their own welfare?

For a time, she simply waited in the chill, dim hall. Then the clutter and disorder began to clatter against her calm. In her younger days, she and Ephron had served a term as hall-keepers. Almost every young Trader couple did. With a strange twinge of heart, she recalled that Davad and Dorill had served alongside them. They had come early to the Council meetings, to fill the lamps and set the fires, and stayed afterwards to wipe down the wooden benches with oily cloths and sweep the floors. Back then it had been simple, pleasant work, performed in the company of other young Trader couples. Recalling those days was like finding a touchstone for her heart.

She found the brooms, candles, and lamp oil where they had always been kept. It cheered her a tiny bit to find that the storage room had not been looted. That meant that slaves or New Traders had done the other thievery, for any Trader family would have known where to look for the hall supplies. She could not restore the hall completely, but she could begin to set it right.

She needed light first. She climbed on a chair to fill and light the wall lanterns. Their flames flickered in the breeze, and illuminated more clearly the leaves and dirt that had blown in with the fallen bits of charred roof. She gathered the scattered dishes into a washing tub and set it aside. She pulled down the damp banners and denuded garlands from the walls and bundled them into a corner. The broom she chose next seemed a puny weapon against the littered floor of the great hall, but she set to with a will. It felt good, she suddenly decided, to set herself to a physical task. For this small time, at least, she could see the results of her effort and her will. She found herself humming the old broom song as she moved a line of litter rhythmically across the floor. She could almost hear Dorill’s sweet alto singing the repetitive refrain.

The rasp of her broom covered the scuff of footsteps. She became aware of the others only when two other women joined in with brooms of their own. Startled, she halted in her sweeping to stare around her. A group of Traders huddled together in the entry. Some looked at Ronica with hollow eyes and sagging shoulders, but others were moving past those who only stared. Two men came in bearing armloads of firewood. A group of youngsters united in gathering up the smelly banners and dragging them out of the hall. Suddenly, like a knot of debris yielding to the force of water, the folk in the entry flowed into the hall. Some began to move benches and chairs into their proper configuration for a Council meeting. More lamps were kindled, and a hum of conversation began to fill the hall. The first time someone laughed aloud, the buzz of voices ceased for an instant, as if all were startled by this foreign sound. Then talk resumed, and it seemed to Ronica that folk moved livelier than they had.

Ronica looked around at her neighbours and friends. Those who gathered here were the descendants of the settlers who had originally come to the Cursed Shores with little more than land grants and a charter from Satrap Esclepius. Outcasts and outlaws and younger sons, their ancestors had been. With small hope of building or regaining fortunes in Jamaillia, they had come to try their luck on the ominously named Cursed Shores. Their first settlements had failed, doomed by the weirdness that seemed to flow down the Rain River with its waters. They had moved farther and farther from what initially had seemed a promising waterway until they had settled here, on the shores of Bingtown Bay. Some of their kin had stayed to brave the strangeness of life along the Rain Wild River. The river marked those who lived along its shores, but no true Trader ever lost sight of the fact that they were all kin, and all bound by the same original charter. For the first time since the night of the riots, Ronica glimpsed that unity. Every face she greeted looked wearier, older, and more anxious than the last time she had seen them. Some wore their Trader robes in their family colours, but as many were dressed in ordinary clothes. Evidently, she was not the only one who had lost possessions to looters. Now that they were here, they moved about the business of straightening up the hall with a practised doggedness that had always been the Trader hallmark. No matter what, these were folk who had prevailed, and they would prevail again. She took hope from that, at the same time that she dully realized how few acknowledged her.

There were muttered greetings, and the small-talk of folk engaged in the same task, but no one sought real conversation with her. Even more daunting, no one asked after Malta or Keffria. She had not expected anyone to commiserate with her on Davad’s death, but now she realized that the whole topic of that night’s events seemed unmentionable to them.

There came a time when the hall was as tidy as hasty housekeeping could make it. The Council members began to take their places on the high dais, while families filled the chairs and benches. Ronica took a place in the third row. She held her composure, though it stung when the seats to either side of her remained vacant. When she looked over her shoulder, it was frightening to see how many seats remained vacant. Where were they all? Dead, fled, or too frightened to come out? She ran her eyes across the white-robed Council heads, and then noticed with dismay that another seat had been added to the dais. Worse, instead of calling the Traders to order for the meeting, the Council was waiting for the seat to be filled.

A greater silence rather than a murmur turned Ronica’s head. Companion Serilla made her entrance. Trader Drur escorted the Companion as she entered the Concourse, but her hand was not on his arm, and she walked half a pace in front of him. The peacock-blue gown she wore was opulently oversewn with pearls. With it, she wore a scarlet mantle trimmed with white fur that brushed the dirty floor behind her. Her hair had been dressed high, and secured with pearl pins. More pearls wrapped her throat and glowed warmly on her earlobes. The wealth so casually displayed offended Ronica. Did not she know that some of the people in the room had lost nearly everything they owned? Why did she flaunt her possessions before them?

Serilla could hear her heart in her ears as she carefully paced up the aisle that led to the raised dais in the centre of the damaged hall. The place smelled terrible, of rain and mildew. It was cold, too. She was glad of the mantle she had selected from Kekki’s wardrobe. She kept her chin up and a poised smile on her face as she entered. She represented the true government of Bingtown. She would uphold the Satrapy of Jamaillia with more dignity and nobility than Cosgo ever had. Her calm would hearten them, even as the richness of her garments reminded them of her exalted station. This was something she remembered from the old Satrap. Whenever he went into a difficult negotiating session, he presented himself as in his most royal robes and with a calm demeanour. Pomp reassured.

She halted Drur at the bottom of the steps with a small hand motion. Alone, she ascended to the high dais. She advanced to the chair they had left vacant for her. It irked her slightly that it was not elevated but it would have to do. She stood, silent, by her chair until the men on the dais sensed her displeasure. She waited until they had all risen to their feet before she seated herself. Then she indicated with a nod that they might be seated as well. Although the assemblage below her had neglected to rise at her entrance, she nodded round to them as well, to indicate they might be at ease.

She spoke softly to Trader Dwicker, the head of the Bingtown Council. ‘You may begin.’

She sat through a brief prayer in which he begged Sa to send them wisdom to deal with these uncertain times. There followed silence. Serilla let it draw out. She wanted to be sure she had their complete attention before she addressed them. But to her surprise, Trader Dwicker cleared his throat. He looked out over the faces turned up to the Council and shook his head slowly. ‘I scarce know where to begin,’ he said with blunt honesty. ‘So much disorder and strife confronts us. So many needs. Since Companion Serilla agreed to this meeting and we announced it, I have been inundated with suggestions for topics that we must settle. Our city, our Bingtown –’ The man’s voice cracked for an instant. He cleared his throat and regained his aplomb. ‘Never has our city been so grievously assaulted by forces within and without it. Our only solution must be that we stand united, as we always have, as our ancestors before us stood. With that in mind, the Council has met privately and come to some preliminary measures that we would like to enact. We believe these are in the best interests of Bingtown as a whole. We present them for your approval.’

Serilla managed not to frown. She had not been warned of any of this. They had formulated a recovery plan without her? With difficulty, she held her tongue and bided her time.

‘Twice before in our history, we have imposed a moratorium on debts and foreclosures. As we enacted this before, for the Great Fire that left so many families homeless, and again during the Two Year Drought, it is appropriate now. Debts and contracts will continue to amass interest, but no Trader shall confiscate the property of any other Trader, nor press for payment on any debt until this Council declares this moratorium to be lifted.’

Serilla watched their faces. There was a low murmur of conversation in the hall, but no one leapt up to object. This surprised her. She had thought that opportunistic profit had been behind much of the looting. Did the Traders stand back from that now?

‘Secondly, that every Trader family shall double their city duty days, nor shall they be able to buy back this responsibility. Every Trader and every member of a Trader’s family over fifteen years of age shall fulfil this duty personally. Lots shall be drawn for tasks to be completed, but our first efforts shall be made on our harbour, wharves and city streets, that trade may be restored.’

Again, there was only a brief silent pause. Again, no one objected. A slight movement by another council member caught Serilla’s eye. She glanced at the scroll in front of him, where he had just noted, ‘agreed to by all.’ This silence was assent, then?

She gazed about incredulously. Something was happening here, in this room. This people was gathering itself up and finding the united strength to begin anew. It would have been heart-warming, save that they were doing it without her. As her eyes roved over the folk, she marked how some sat straighter. Parents held hands with one another and with their younger children. Young men and some of the women had assumed determined expressions. Then her eyes snagged on Ronica Vestrit. The old woman sat close to the front of the assemblage, in her worn dress and the dead woman’s shawl. Her eyes were bird-bright and they were fixed on Serilla in glittering satisfaction.

Trader Dwicker spoke on. He called for young single men to supplement the City Guard, and read off the boundaries of the area that they would attempt to control. Within that area, merchants were urged to resume normal commerce, so that necessary trade could resume. Serilla began to see the method to their plan. They would restore order to a section of the city, attempt to bring it back to life, and hope that the rejuvenation spread.

When he had finished his list, she waited, expecting that he would next defer to her. Instead, a score of Traders stood and waited silently, hoping to be recognized.

Ronica Vestrit was among them.

Serilla startled everyone, including herself, when she stood. Instantly all eyes were focused on her. All that she had earlier planned to say fled her mind. All she knew was that she must somehow reassert the Satrap’s power, and hence her own. She must keep Ronica Vestrit from speaking. She had thought she had ensured the woman’s silence earlier when she spoke to Roed Caern. Listening to how assuredly the Bingtown mechanism had begun to govern once more, she suddenly had little faith in Roed. The power that people simply took for themselves here astonished her. Roed would be no more than a cat in the path of a carriage if Ronica managed to gain an audience.

She did not wait for Trader Dwicker to recognize her. She had been foolish to let him even begin this meeting. She should have seized control at the very start. So now she looked around at the people and nodded and smiled until those standing slowly resumed their seats. She cleared her throat.

‘This is a proud day for Jamaillia,’ she announced. ‘Bingtown has been called a shining gem in the Satrapy’s crown, and so it is. In the midst of adversity, the folk of Bingtown do not fall into anarchy and disorder. Instead, you gather amidst the ruins and uphold the civilization you are sprung from.’ She spoke on and on, trying to make her voice ring with patriotism. At one point she reached across and picked up the scroll that lay before Trader Dwicker and held it aloft. She praised it, saying that Jamaillia itself was founded on just such a sense of civic responsibility. She let her eyes rove over the crowd as she tried to claim some credit for these measures, but in her heart she wondered if any of them were fooled. She spoke on and on. She leaned forwards towards them, she met their eyes, and she put the fervour of belief into her words. All the while, her heart trembled within her. They did not need the Satrap or the Satrapy to govern them. They didn’t need her. And once they realized it, she was doomed. All the power that she had thought she had amassed would vanish, leaving her just a helpless woman in a strange land, prey to whatever fate overtook her. She could not allow that to happen.

When her throat began to grow dry and her voice to shake, she sought desperately for an ending. Taking a deep breath, she declared, ‘You have made a brave start tonight. Now, as darkness closes around our city, we must recall that dark clouds still overshadow us. Return to the safety of your homes. Keep yourselves well there, and wait for word from us as to where your efforts can best be employed. On behalf of the Satrap, your ruler, I praise and thank you for the spirit you have shown. On your way to your homes this evening, please keep him in mind. But for the threats raised against him, he would be here himself tonight. He wishes you well.’

She took a breath and turned to Trader Dwicker. ‘Perhaps you should lead us in a closing prayer of thanksgiving to Sa before we disperse.’

He came to his feet, his brow creased. She smiled at him encouragingly, and saw him lose the battle. He turned to the assembled Traders and took a breath to begin.

‘Council, I would speak before we adjourn. I ask that the matter of Davad Restart’s wrongful death be considered.’ It was Ronica Vestrit.

Trader Dwicker actually choked. For a moment, Serilla thought she had lost entirely. Then Roed Caern rose smoothly to his feet.

‘Council, I submit that Ronica Vestrit speaks without authority here. She is no longer Trader for her own family, let alone Restart’s. Let her sit down. Unless this matter is raised by a rightful Trader, the Council need not consider it.’

The old woman stood stubbornly, two high spots of colour on her cheeks. She controlled her anger and spoke clearly. ‘The Trader for my family cannot speak for us. The attempt on our lives has sent her into hiding with her children. Therefore, I claim the right to speak.’

Dwicker managed a breath. ‘Ronica Vestrit, have you written authorization from Keffria Vestrit to speak as Trader for the Vestrit family?’

A silence of six heartbeats. Then, ‘No, Councilhead Dwicker, I do not,’ Ronica admitted.

Dwicker managed to contain his relief. ‘Then, according to all our laws, I fear we cannot hear you tonight. For every family, there is only one designated Trader. To that Trader, both voice and vote belong. If you obtain such a paper, duly witnessed, and come back to us when next we meet, then perhaps we can hear you.’

Ronica sank slowly back to her seat. But Serilla’s relief was short lived. Other Traders rose to their feet, and Dwicker began recognizing them in turn. One Trader rose and asked if Wharf Seven could be repaired first, as it offered the best moorage for deep draught ships. Several others quickly agreed with this idea, and in quick succession a number of men volunteered to take this as their task.

Proposal after proposal followed. Some referred to public matters, others to private. One Trader stood to offer space in his warehouse to any who would help him make quick repairs and to guard it at night. He quickly had three volunteers. Another had teams of oxen, but was running out of feed for them. He wanted to trade their labour for food to keep them alive. He, too, received several offers. The night grew later and later, but the Traders showed no inclination to go home. Before Serilla’s eyes, Bingtown knit itself back together. Before Serilla’s eyes, her hopes of power and influence faded.

She had almost ceased listening to the proceedings when a sombre Trader stood and asked, ‘Why are we being kept ignorant of what triggered this whole disaster? What has become of the Satrap? Do we know who was behind the threat to him? Have we contacted Jamaillia to explain ourselves?’

Another voice was raised. ‘Does Jamaillia know of our plight? Have they offered to send ships and men to help us drive out the Chalcedeans?’

All faces turned towards her. Worse, Trader Dwicker made a small motion encouraging her to speak. She gathered her thoughts hastily as she stood. ‘There is little that is safe to tell,’ she began. ‘There is no practical way to send swift word to Jamaillia without risk of it being intercepted. We are also uncertain whom we should consider trustworthy and loyal there. For now, the secret of the Satrap’s location is best not shared with anyone. Not even Jamaillia.’ She smiled warmly at them as if certain of their understanding.

‘The reason I ask,’ the Trader went on ponderously, ‘is that I had a bird from Trehaug yesterday, warning me that I should expect payment for some goods I sent upriver to be delayed. They had had a quake, and a big one. They weren’t sure how much damage had been done when they sent the bird, but said that the Kendry would certainly be delayed.’ The man shrugged one skinny shoulder. ‘Are we sure the Satrap came through it safely?’

For a moment, her tongue could get no purchase on her thoughts. Then Roed Caern was rising gracefully to claim the floor. ‘Trader Ricter, I think we should not speculate on such things, lest we send rumours running. Surely if anything were amiss, we would have received word. For now, I propose we let all questions regarding the Satrap rest. Surely his security is more important than our idle curiosity.’ He had a trick of standing with one shoulder slightly higher than the other. He turned as he spoke, somehow conveying both the charm and arrogance of a well-clawed cat. There was no threat in his words, yet somehow it would be challenging him to ask more about the Satrap. A little ripple of uneasiness seemed to spread out from him. He took his time about resuming his seat, as if allowing everyone to consider his words. No one brought up the topic of the Satrap again.

A few other Traders stood after that to bring up lesser matters, volunteering to keep street lamps filled and the like, but the feeling of the meeting was suddenly that it was over. Serilla was caught between disappointment and relief that it was finished when a man in a dark blue robe stood up in the far corner of the room.

‘Trader’s son Grag Tenira,’ he announced himself when Trader Dwicker hesitated over his name. ‘And I do have permission, written and witnessed, to speak for my family. I speak for Tomie Tenira.’

‘Speak, then,’ Dwicker recognized him.

The Trader’s son hesitated, then drew a breath. ‘I suggest that we appoint three Traders to consider the matter of Trader Restart’s death and the disposition of his estate. I claim interest in this matter, for monies owed by the estate to the Tenira family.’

Roed Caern was on his feet again, too quickly this time. ‘Is this a worthy use of our time?’ he demanded. ‘All debt is to be held in abeyance just now. That was agreed at the very start of the meeting. Besides, how can the manner of a man’s death affect a debt that is owed?’

Grag Tenira did not seem daunted by his reasoning. ‘An inheritance is not a debt, I think. If the estate has been confiscated, then we must give up all hope of regaining what is owed us. But if the estate is to be inherited, then we have an interest in knowing that, and in seeing it passed on to an heir before it is…depleted.’ Depleted was the word he used, yet ‘plundered’ was in his tone. Serilla could not control the pink that rose to her cheeks. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she could not speak. This was far worse than being ignored; he had all but accused her of theft.

Trader Dwicker did not seem to notice her distress. He did not even seem to realize it was up to her to answer this. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said gravely, ‘A panel of three Traders to look into this seems a reasonable request, especially as another member of a Trader family has already expressed concern about this. Would volunteers with no connection to this matter please stand?’

As quickly as that, it was done. Serilla did not even recognize the names of those Dwicker chose. One was a dowdy young woman holding a squirming child in her arms, another an old man with a seamed face who leaned on a cane. How was she supposed to exert her influence on such as those? She felt as if she dwindled into her chair as a wave of defeat and shame washed over her. The shame amazed her in its intensity and brought despair in its wake. Somehow, it was all connected. This was the power that men could take over her. She caught a sudden glimpse of Ronica Vestrit’s face. The sympathy in the old woman’s eyes horrified Serilla. Had she sunk so low that even her enemies pitied her as they tore her to pieces? A sudden ringing in her ears threatened her, and the hall grew dimmer around her.

Ronica sat small and quiet. They would do for Grag Tenira what they would not do for her. They would look into Davad’s death. That, she told herself, was the important thing.

She was distracted from her thoughts by how pale the Companion had suddenly become. Would the woman faint? In a way, she pitied her. She was a stranger to this place, and caught in the turmoil of its civil upheaval with no hope of extricating herself. Moreover, she seemed so trapped in her role as Companion. She sensed that at one time there had been more to Serilla, but somehow it had been lost. Still, it was difficult to pity anyone so obsessed with obtaining and holding power for herself at any cost.

Watching her sit so still and small through the rest of the meeting, Ronica scarcely noticed it ending. Trader Dwicker led them in a final prayer to Sa, at once asking for strength and thanking the deity for survival. The voices echoing his were certainly stronger than those that had responded to his opening prayer. It was a good sign. All that had happened here had been good tonight, for Bingtown.

Companion Serilla left, not with Trader Drur, but on Roed Caern’s arm. The tall, handsome Trader’s son glowered as he escorted her from the gathering hall. Several heads besides Ronica’s turned to watch them go. Almost, they looked like a couple on the edge of a marital spat. It did not please Ronica to see the anxiety that haunted the Companion’s face. Was Caern somehow coercing her?

Ronica had not the gall to hasten after them and beg a ride home, though she would have dearly loved to hear what passed between them in the carriage. Instead, as she wrapped Dorill’s shawl well about her, she thought with dread of the long walk back to Davad’s house. Outside was a chill fall night. The road would be rough and dark, and the dangers more vicious than those of the Bingtown she had known. Well, there was no help for it. The sooner she started, the sooner she was there.

Outside the hall, a nasty little breeze cut at her. Other families were clambering into carriages and waggons or walking home in groups, carrying lanterns and armed with walking sticks. She had not thought to bring either. Chiding herself for thoughtlessness, she started down the steps. At the bottom, a figure stepped from the shadows and touched her on the arm. She gasped in startlement.

‘Beg pardon,’ Grag Tenira spoke immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. I merely wanted to be certain you had a safe way home.’

Ronica laughed shakily. ‘I thank you for your concern, Grag. I no longer even have a safe home to go to. Nor a way there, other than my own two feet. I have been staying at Davad’s house, since my own was vandalized. While I am there, I have been attempting to trace Davad’s transactions with the New Traders. I am convinced that if the Companion would but pay heed to me, she would see that Davad was no traitor. Nor am I.’

The words spilled from her. Belatedly she got her tongue under control. However, Grag stood gravely listening and nodding to her words. When she fell silent, he offered, ‘If the Companion will not heed what you find, I and several others would find it of interest. Although I doubted Davad Restart’s loyalty, I never questioned the Vestrit family’s allegiance to Bingtown, even if you have dabbled in the slave trade.’

Ronica had to bow her head and bite her tongue to that, for it was true. It might not be any of her own doing, but her family ship had gone as a slaver. And been lost because of it. She took a breath. ‘I would be happy to show you and any others who would be interested. I have heard that Mingsley of the New Traders has been making truce offers. In terms of his long dealings with Davad, I wonder if he was not seeking to buy Old Traders to his way of thinking.’

‘I should be pleased to see the records. But, for tonight, I would be more pleased to see you safely to wherever you are staying. I have no carriage, but my horse can carry two, if you would not object to riding pillion.’

‘I would be grateful. But why?’

‘Why?’ Grag looked startled at the question.

‘Why?’ Ronica took up all the bravery of an old woman who no longer cares for the niceties of courtesy. ‘Why do you extend yourself on my behalf? My daughter Althea has refused your suit. My reputation right now in Bingtown is unsavoury. Why chance your own, associating with me? Why press for the matter of Davad’s death to be investigated? What motivates you, Grag Tenira?’

He bowed his head for an instant. Then, when he lifted his face, a nearby torch caught his blue eyes and limned his profile. As he smiled ruefully, Ronica wondered how Althea could ever have held her heart back from this young man. ‘You ask a blunt question and I will give you truth in return. I myself feel some responsibility for Davad’s death and your disaster that night. Not for what I did, but for what I failed to do. And as for Althea –’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Perhaps I don’t give up that easily. And perhaps the way to her heart is through courtesy to her mother.’ He gave a sudden laugh. ‘Sa knows I have tried everything else. Perhaps a good word from you would turn the key for me. Come. My horse is this way.’

7 DRAGON SHIP

ONE MOMENT HE was curled in oblivion, resting in womb-like isolation. Wintrow was aware of nothing save his physical body. He worked on it as he had once worked stained glass. The difference was that it was a restoration rather than a creation. He found placid pleasure in his work; dimly it echoed memories of stacking blocks when he was a very small child. The tasks that faced him were simple and obvious, the work repetitive; he was only directing his body to do more swiftly what it would have eventually done on its own. The willing focus of his mind speeded the labour of his body. The rest of his life had dimmed to an absolute stillness. He considered nothing except repairing the animal he inhabited. It was rather like being in a small cosy room while a great storm raged outside.

Enough, growled the dragon.

Wintrow curled himself smaller before her irritation. ‘I am not finished,’ he begged.

No. The rest will take care of itself, if you nourish your body and encourage it from time to time. I have delayed for you too long. You are strong enough now for all of us to confront what we are. And confront it we shall.

It was like being seized and flung into the air. Like a panicky cat, he flailed and clawed in all directions, seeking something, anything to attach himself to. He found Vivacia.

Wintrow!

Her exclamation was not a verbal cry of joy, but a sudden pulse of connection as she discovered him again. They were reunited, and in that joining they were once more whole. She could sense him; she could feel his emotions, smell with his nose, taste with his mouth, and feel with his skin. She knew his pain, and agonized for him. She knew his thoughts and –

When one falls in dreams, one always awakens before the impact. Not this time. Wintrow’s awakening was the impact. Vivacia’s love and devotion to him collided with his anguished knowledge of what she was. His thoughts were a mirror held to her corpse face. Once she had looked into it, she could not look aside. He was trapped in that contemplation with her, and felt himself pulled down deeper and deeper into her despair. He plunged into the abyss with her.

She was not Vivacia, not really. She had never been anything except the stolen life of a dragon. Her pseudo-life was fastened on to the remnants of the dragon’s death. She had no real right to exist. Rain Wild workers had split open the cocoon of the metamorphosing dragon. The germ of its life had been flung out, to perish squirming on a cold stone floor, while the threads of memory and knowledge that had enclosed it were dragged off and cut up into planks to build liveships.

Life struggles to continue, at any cost. A windstorm flings a tree down to the forest floor; saplings rise from its trunk. A tiny seed amongst pebbles and sand will still seize a droplet of moisture and send up a defiant shoot of green. Immersed in saltwater, bombarded with the memories and emotions of the humans that bestrode her, the fibres of memory in her planks had sought to align themselves into some kind of order. They had accepted the name given to her; they had striven to make sense of what they experienced now. Eventually, Vivacia had awakened. But the proud ship and her glorious figurehead were not truly part of the Vestrit family. No. Hers was a life stolen. She was half a being, less than half, a makeshift creature cobbled together out of human wills and buried dragon memories, sexless, deathless, and in the long run, meaningless. A slave. They had used the stolen memories of a dragon to create a great wooden slave for themselves.

The scream that tore out of Vivacia ripped Wintrow into full consciousness. He rolled over and fell to the floor, landing heavily on his knees beside his bunk. In the small room, Etta jerked awake with a start from where she’d kept watch over him. ‘Wintrow!’ she cried in horror as he heaved himself to his feet. ‘Wait! No, you are not well. Lie down, come back!’ Her words followed him as he staggered out the door and towards the foredeck. He heard noises from the captain’s stateroom, Kennit shouting for his crutch and a light, ‘Etta, damn you, where are you when I need you?’ but Wintrow did not pause for that either. He limped naked save for a sheet, the night air burning against his healing flesh. Startled crewmen on the night watch called out to one another. One seized a lantern and followed him. Wintrow paid him no mind. He took the steps to the foredeck in two strides that tore his healing skin and flung himself forwards until he half-hung over the railing.

‘Vivacia!’ he cried. ‘Please. It was not your fault; it was never your fault. Vivacia!’

The figurehead tore at herself. Her great wooden fingers tangled in her lush black curls and strove to snatch them out of her head. Her fingernails raked her cheeks and dug at her eyes. ‘Not me!’ she cried to the night sky. ‘Never me at all! Oh, Great Sa, what an obscene jest I am, what an abomination in your sight! Let me go, then! Let me be dead!’

Gankis had followed Wintrow. ‘What troubles you, boy? What ails the ship?’ the old pirate demanded, but Wintrow saw only the ship. The yellow lantern light revealed a horror. As swiftly as Vivacia’s nails cut furrows in her perfect cheeks, the fibrous flesh closed up behind them. The hair she tore from her scalp flowed into her hands, was absorbed, and her mane remained thick and glossy as before. Wintrow stared in horror at this cycle of destruction and rebirth. ‘Vivacia!’ he cried again, and flung his being into hers, seeking to comfort, to calm.

The dragon was waiting there. She rebuffed him as effortlessly as she wrapped and held Vivacia in her embrace. Hers was the spirit that defied the ship’s desire to die.

No. Not after all the years of repression, not all the ages of silence and stillness. I will not be dead. If this be the only life we can have, then we shall have it. Be still, little slave. Share this life with me, or know none at all!

Wintrow was transfixed. In a place he could only reach with his mind, a terrible confrontation was taking place. The dragon struggled for life as the ship tried to deny it to both of them. He felt his own small self as a rag seized by two terriers. He was pulled between them, torn in their grips as each tried to claim his loyalty and carry his mind with hers. Vivacia caught him up in her love and despair. She knew him so well; he knew her so well, how could his heart differ from hers? She dragged him with her; they teetered on the edge of a willing leap into death. Oblivion beckoned alluringly. It was, she convinced him, the only solution. What else was there for them? This endless sense of wrong, this horrible burden of stolen life; would he choose that?

‘Wintrow!’ Kennit gasped out the name as he dragged himself up the ladder to the foredeck. Wintrow turned sluggishly to watch him come. The pirate’s nightshirt, half-tucked into his trousers, billowed about him in the night breeze. His one foot was bare. A tiny part of Wintrow’s mind noted that he had never seen Kennit in such a state of dishevelment. There was panic in the captain’s ever cool and sardonic glance. He feels us, Wintrow thought to himself. He is starting to bond with us; he senses something of what is going on, and it frightens him.

Etta passed the captain’s crutch up to him. He seized it and came swinging across the deck to Wintrow’s side. Kennit’s sudden grasp on his shoulder was the grip of life, holding him back from death. ‘What do you do, boy?’ Kennit demanded angrily. Then his voice changed and he stared past Wintrow in horror. ‘God of Fishes, what have you done to my ship!’

Wintrow turned to the figurehead. Vivacia had twisted to stare back at the growing mob of disturbed sailors on the foredeck. One man shrieked aloud as her eyes went suddenly lambent green. The colour of her eyes swirled like a whirlpool, while at the centre was blackness darker than any night. Humanity left her face. Her black tresses blowing in the night breeze were more like a writhing nest of serpents. The teeth she bared at them in a parody of a smile were too white. ‘If I cannot win,’ the lips gave voice to the dragon’s thought, ‘then no one shall.’

Slowly she turned away from them. Her arms lifted wide as if to embrace the night sea. Then slowly she brought them back, to clasp the hull of the ship behind her.

Wintrow! Wintrow, aid me! Vivacia pleaded only in his mind; the figurehead’s mouth and her voice were no longer at Vivacia’s command. Die with me, she begged him. Almost, he did. Almost, he followed her into that abyss. But at the last instant, he could not.

‘I want to live!’ he heard himself cry out into the night. ‘Please, please, let us live!’ He thought, for an instant, that his words weakened her resolve to die.

A strange silence followed his words. Even the night breeze seemed to hold its breath. Wintrow became aware that somewhere a sailor gabbled out a child’s prayer but another, smaller sound caught his ears. It was a running, brittle sound, like the noise of cracking ice on the surface of a lake when one ventures out too far.

‘She’s gone,’ breathed Etta. ‘Vivacia’s gone.’

It was so. Even in the poor light of the lantern, the change was obvious. All colour and semblance of life had drained from the figurehead. Grey as a tombstone was the wood of her back and hair. No breath of life stirred her. Her carved locks were frozen and immune to the breeze’s fingering touch. Her skin looked as weathered as an ageing fence. Wintrow groped after her with his mind. He caught a fading trail of her despair, like a vanishing scent in the air. Then even that was gone, as if some tight door had closed between them.

‘The dragon?’ he muttered to himself, but if she was still within him, she had hidden herself too well for his poor senses.

Wintrow drew a deep breath and let it out again. Alone in his mind again; how long had it been since his thoughts had been the only ones in his head? An instant later he became aware of his body. The cool air stung his healing scalds. His knees jellied, and he would have sunk to the deck but for Etta’s cautious arm around him. He sagged against her. His new skin screamed at her touch, but he was too weak even to flinch away.

Etta looked past him. Her gaze mourned Kennit. Wintrow’s eyes followed hers. He had never seen a man look so grief-stricken. The pirate leaned far out on the bow railing to stare at Vivacia’s profile, his features frozen in anguish. Lines Wintrow had never noticed before seemed graven into Kennit’s face. His glossy black hair and moustache looked shocking against his sallow skin. Vivacia’s passing diminished Kennit in a way that the loss of his leg had not. Before Wintrow’s eyes, the man aged.

Kennit turned his head to meet Wintrow’s gaze. ‘Is she dead?’ he asked woodenly. ‘Can a liveship die?’ His eyes pleaded that it not be so.

‘I don’t know,’ Wintrow admitted reluctantly. ‘I can’t feel her. Not at all.’ The gap within himself was too terrible to probe. Worse than a lost tooth, more crippling than his missing finger. To be without her was a terrible, gaping flaw in himself. He had once wished for this? He had been mad.

Kennit turned back abruptly to the figurehead. ‘Vivacia?’ he called questioningly. Then, ‘Vivacia!’ he bellowed, the angry, forsaken call of a spurned lover. ‘You cannot leave me now! You cannot be gone!’

Even the light night breeze faded to stillness. On the deck of the ship, the silence was absolute. The crew seemed as stricken by their captain’s grief as by the passing of the liveship. Etta was the one who broke the silence.

‘Come,’ she said to Kennit. ‘There is nothing to be done here. You and Wintrow should come below, and talk about this. He needs food and drink. He should not be out of bed yet. Together, you two can puzzle out what is to be done next.’

Wintrow saw clearly what she was doing. The captain’s attitude was rattling the crew. It was best he was out of their sight until he recovered. ‘Please,’ Wintrow croaked, adding his plea to hers. He had to be away from that terrible, still figure. Looking at the grey figurehead was worse than gazing at a decaying corpse.

Kennit glanced at them as if they were strangers. A sudden flatness came to his eyes as he mastered himself. ‘Very well. Take him below and see to him.’ His voice was devoid of every emotion. He ran his eyes over his crew. ‘Get back to your posts,’ he muttered at them. For an instant, they did not respond. A few faces showed sympathy for their captain, but most stared confusedly, as if they did not know the man. Then, ‘Now!’ he snapped. He did not raise his voice, but the command in it sent his men scrabbling to obey. In an instant, the foredeck was empty save for Wintrow, Etta and Kennit.

Etta waited for Kennit. The captain moved awkwardly, shifting his crutch about until he got it under his arm. He hopped free of the railing and lurched across the foredeck to the ladder.

‘Go help him,’ Wintrow whispered. ‘I can manage.’

Etta gave a single nod of agreement. She left him for Kennit. The one-legged man accepted her help without any objections. That was as unlike the pirate as his earlier show of emotion. Wintrow, watching how tenderly the woman aided him down the short ladder, felt more keenly his own isolation. ‘Vivacia?’ he asked quietly of the night. The wind sighed past him, making him aware of his scalded skin and of his own nakedness. But Vivacia had been peeled away from him as painfully as his own skin had, leaving a different kind of pain. The nakedness of his body was a small discomfort compared to his solitude in the night. In a dizzying instant, he was aware of how immense the sea and the world around him were. He was no more than a mite of life on this wooden deck rocking on the water. Always before, he had sensed Vivacia’s size and strength around him, sheltering him from the world at large. Not since he had first left home as a child had he felt so tiny and unattended.

‘Sa,’ he whispered, knowing that he should be able to reach out for his god as solace. Sa had always been there for him, long before he had boarded the ship and bonded with her. Once, he had been certain he was destined to be a priest. Now, as he reached out with a word to touch the awe of the divine, he realized that the name on his lips was truly a prayer that Vivacia be restored to him. He felt shamed. Had his ship then replaced his god? Did he truly believe he could not go on without her? He knelt suddenly on the darkened deck, but not to pray. His hands groped over the wood. Here. The stains should be here, where his blood had joined her timbers and united him with her in a bond he shared with no other. But when his maimed hand found his own bloody handprint it was by sight, not touch. For he felt nothing under his palm save the fine texture of the wizardwood deck. He felt nothing at all.

‘Wintrow?’

Etta had come back for him. She stood on the ladder, staring across the foredeck at him hunched on his hands and knees. ‘I’m coming,’ he replied, and lurched to his feet.

‘More wine?’ Etta asked Wintrow.

The boy shook his head mutely. For boy he looked, draped in a fresh sheet from Kennit’s own bed. Etta had snatched it up and offered it to him when she had staggered him into the cabin. His peeling flesh would not yet bear the touch of proper clothing. Now the lad perched uncomfortably in a chair across the table from Kennit. It was obvious to Etta that he could find no position that eased his scalds. He had eaten some of the food she had put before him, but he seemed little better for it. Where the venom had eaten at him, his skin was splotched red and shiny. Bald red patches on his shorn head reminded her of a mangy dog. But worst was the dull look in his eyes. They mirrored the loss and abandonment in Kennit’s.

The pirate sat across from Wintrow, his dark hair in disarray, his shirt half-buttoned. Kennit, always so careful of his own appearance, seemed to have forgotten it entirely. She could barely stand to look at the man she had loved. In the years she had known him, he had first been simply her customer, then the man she longed for. When he had carried her off, she had thought nothing could bring her more joy. The night he had told her he cared for her, her life had been transformed. She had watched him grow, from captain of one vessel to the commander of a fleet of pirate ships. More, folk now hailed him as king of the Pirate Isles. She had thought she had lost him in the storm when he commanded both sea and sea serpent to his will, for she could not be worthy of a man chosen by Sa for great destiny. She had mourned his greatness, she thought with shame. He had soared, and she had been jealous of it, for fear it might steal him from her.

But this, this was a thousand times worse.

No battle, no injury, no storm had ever unmanned him. Never, until tonight, had she seen him uncertain or at a loss. Even now, he sat straight at the table, drinking his brandy neat, his shoulders square, and his hand steady. Nevertheless, something had gone out of him. She had seen it leave him, seen it flow away with the life of the ship. He was now as wooden as Vivacia had become. She feared to touch him lest she discover his flesh was as hard and unyielding as the deck.

He cleared his throat. Wintrow’s eyes snapped to him almost fearfully.

‘So.’ The small word was sharp as a blade. ‘You think she is dead. How? What killed her?’

It was Wintrow’s turn to clear his throat, a small and tremulous sound. ‘I did. That is, what I knew killed her. Or drove her so deep inside herself that she cannot find a way back to us.’ He swallowed, fighting tears, perhaps. ‘Maybe she simply realized she had always been dead. Perhaps it was only my belief otherwise that kept her alive.’

Kennit’s shot glass clacked against the table as he set it down sharply. ‘Talk sense,’ he snarled at his prophet.

‘Sorry, sir. I’m trying to.’ The boy lifted a shaking hand to rub his eyes. ‘It’s long and it’s confusing. My memories have mixed with my dreams. I think a lot of it I always suspected. Once I was in contact with the serpent, all my suspicions suddenly came together with what she knew. And I knew.’ Wintrow lifted his eyes to meet Kennit’s and blanched at the blind fury in the man’s face. He spoke more quickly. ‘When I found the imprisoned serpent on the Others’ Island, I thought it was just a trapped animal. No more than that. It was miserable, and I resolved to set it free, as I would any creature. No creation of Sa’s should be kept in such cruel confinement. As I worked, it seemed to me that she was more intelligent than a bear or a cat would have been. She knew what I was doing. When I had removed enough bars that she could escape, she did. But on her way past me, her skin brushed mine. It burned me. But in that instant, I knew her. It was as if a bridge had been created between us, like the bond I share with the ship. I knew her thoughts and she knew mine.’ He took a deep breath and leaned forwards across the table. His eyes were desperate to make the pirate believe him.

‘Kennit, the serpents are dragon spawn. Somehow, they have been trapped in their sea form, unable to return to their changing grounds to become full dragons. I could not grasp it all. I saw images, I thought her thoughts, but it is hard to translate that into human terms. When I came back on board the Vivacia, I knew that the liveship was meant to be a dragon. I do not know how exactly. There is some stage between serpent and dragon, a time when the serpent is encased in a kind of hard skin. I think that is what wizardwood is: the husk of a dragon before it becomes a dragon. Somehow, the Rain Wild Traders changed her into a ship instead. They killed the dragon and cut her husk into planks to build a liveship.’

Kennit reached for the brandy bottle. He seized the neck of it as if he would throttle it. ‘You make no sense! What you say cannot be true!’ He lifted the bottle and for one frightening instant Etta thought he would dash out the boy’s brains with it. She saw in Wintrow’s face that he feared it, too. But the lad did not flinch. He sat silently awaiting the blow, almost as if he would welcome his own death. Instead, Kennit poured brandy into his glass. A tiny wave of it slopped over the edge of his glass onto the white tablecloth. The pirate ignored it. He lifted the glass and downed it at a gulp.

His anger is too great, Etta suddenly thought to herself. There is something else here, something even deeper and more painful than the Vivacia’s loss.

Wintrow took a ragged breath. ‘I can only tell you what I believe, sir. If it were not true, I do not think Vivacia would have believed it so deeply that she died. Some part of her always knew. A dragon has always slept within her. Our brush with the serpent awakened it. The dragon was furious to discover what it had become. When I was unconscious, it demanded of me that I help it share the ship’s life. I…’ The boy hesitated. He left something unsaid when he went on. ‘The dragon woke me today. She woke me and she forced me into full contact with Vivacia. I had held myself back from her, for I did not want her to realize what I knew, that she had never truly been alive. She was the dead shell of a forgotten dragon that my family had somehow bent to their own purposes.’

Kennit took in a sharp breath through his nose. He leaned back in his chair and held up a commanding hand that halted the boy’s words. ‘And that is the secret of the liveships?’ he scoffed. ‘It can’t be. Anyone who has ever known a liveship would refuse such mad words. A dragon inside her! A ship made of dragon skin. You’re addled, boy. Your illness has cooked your brain.’

But Etta believed it. The ship’s presence had jangled against her nerves ever since she had first come aboard. Now it made sense. Like the strings of a musical instrument brought into true, the theory was in harmony with her feelings. It was true. There had always been a dragon inside Vivacia.

Moreover, Kennit knew it. Etta had seen the man lie before; she had heard him lie to her. Never before had she seen him lie to himself. He was not very good at it. It showed in the minute shaking of his hand as he poured himself yet another jot of brandy.

As he returned his glass to the table, he announced abruptly, ‘For what I must do, I need a liveship. I have to bring her back to life.’

‘I don’t think you can,’ Wintrow said softly.

Kennit snorted at him. ‘So swiftly you lose your faith in me. Was it only a few days ago that you believed I was Chosen of Sa? Only a few weeks ago that you spoke out for me to all the people, saying I was destined to be king for them, if they could be worthy of me? Ha! Such a tiny, brittle faith, to snap at the first test. Listen to me, Wintrow Vestrit. I have walked the shores of the Others’ Island, and their soothsaying has confirmed my destiny. I have calmed a storm with a word. I have commanded a sea serpent and it bent its will to mine. Only a day ago, I called you back from the very door of death, you ungrateful wretch! Now you sit there and scoff at me. You say that I cannot restore my own ship to life! How dare you? Do you seek to undermine my reign? Would the one I have treated as a son lift a scorpion’s sting to me now?’

Etta remained where she stood, outside the circle of the lantern above the table, and watched the two men. A cavalcade of emotions trailed across Wintrow’s face. It awed her that she could read them so clearly. When had she let her guard down so far as to know another so well? Worse, she suddenly hurt for him. He, like her, was caught between love for the man they had followed so long and fear for the powerful being he was becoming. She held her breath, hoping Wintrow could find the right words. Do not anger him, she pleaded silently. Once you anger him, he will not hear you.

Wintrow drew a deep breath. Tears stood in his eyes. ‘In truth, you have treated me better than my own father ever did. When you came aboard Vivacia, I expected death at your hands. Instead you have challenged me, every day, to find my life and live it. Kennit: you are more than captain to me. I do believe, without question, that you are a tool of Sa, for the working of his will. We all are, of course, but I think he has reserved for you a destiny larger than most. Nevertheless, when you speak of calling Vivacia back to life…I do not doubt you, my captain. Rather I doubt that she was ever truly alive, in the sense that you and I are. Vivacia was a fabrication, a creature composed of the memories of my forebears. The dragon was once real. But if Vivacia was never real, and the dragon died in her creation, who remains for you to call back to life?’

Briefer than the flick of a serpent’s tongue, uncertainty flashed over Kennit’s face. Had Wintrow seen it?

The young man remained still. His question still hung in the air between them. In disbelief, Etta watched his hand lift slightly from the table. Very slowly, he began to reach across the table, as if he would touch Kennit’s own hand, in – what? Sympathy? Oh, Wintrow, do not err so badly as that!

If Kennit noticed that hovering hand, he gave no sign of it. Wintrow’s words seemed not to have moved him at all. He eyed the boy and Etta clearly saw him reach some decision. Slowly he lifted the brandy bottle and poured yet another shot into his own glass. Then he reached across the table and seized Wintrow’s empty glass. He sloshed a generous measure of brandy into it and set it back down before him. ‘Drink that,’ he commanded him brusquely. ‘Perhaps it will put a bit of fire in your blood. Then do not tell me that I cannot do this thing. Instead, tell me how you will help me.’ He raised his own glass and tossed it down. ‘For she was alive, Wintrow. We all know that. So whatever it was that animated her, that is what we will call back.’

Wintrow’s hand went slowly to the glass. He lifted it, then set it down again. ‘What if that life no longer exists to call back, sir? What if she is simply gone?’

Kennit laughed, and it chilled Etta. So might a man laugh under torture, when screams were no longer sufficient for his pain. ‘You doubt me, Wintrow. That is because you do not know what I know. This is not the first liveship I have ever known. They do not die so easily. That, I promise you. Now drink up that brandy, there’s a good lad. Etta! Where are you? What ails you that you’ve set out a near-empty bottle on the table? Fetch another, and quickly.’

The boy had no head for liquor. Kennit had put him easily under the table, and tending him would occupy the whore. ‘Take him to his room,’ he told Etta, and watched tolerantly as she pulled him to his feet. He staggered blindly alongside her, groping a hand ahead of him down the passage. Kennit watched them go. Confident that he now had some time to himself, Kennit tucked his crutch firmly under his arm and lurched to his feet. With a ponderously careful tread, he made his way out onto the deck. He was, perhaps, just the slightest bit drunk himself.

It was a fine night still. The stars were distant, a haze of cloud veiling their brilliance. The sea had risen a bit, to run against them, but Vivacia’s trim hull cut each wave with rhythmic grace. The wind was steady and stronger than it had been. There was even a faint edge of a whistle in it as it cut past their sails. Kennit cocked his ear to it with a frown, but even as he listened, the sound faded.

Kennit made a slow circuit of the deck. The mate was on the wheel; he acknowledged his captain with a nod, but uttered no word. That was as well. There would be a man up in the rigging, keeping watch, but he was invisible in the darkness beyond the reach of the ship’s muted lanterns. Kennit moved slowly, his tapping crutch a counterpoint to the softness of his step. His ship. The Vivacia was his ship, and he would call her back to life. And when he did, she would know he was her master, and she would be his in a way she had never been Wintrow’s. His own liveship, just as he had always deserved. Damn right, he had always deserved his own liveship. Nothing was going to take her from him now. Nothing.

He had come to hate the short ladder that led from the main deck to the elevated foredeck. He managed it now, and not too clumsily, then sat for a moment, catching his breath but pretending simply to study the night. At last he drew his crutch to him, regained his footing and approached the bow rail. He looked over the sea before them. Distant islands were low black hummocks on the horizon. He glanced once at the grey-fleshed figurehead. Then he looked out past her, over the sea.

‘Good evening, sweet sea lady,’ he greeted her. ‘A fine night tonight and a good wind at our backs. What more could we ask?’

He listened to her stillness just as if she had replied. ‘Yes. It is good. I’m as relieved as you are to see Wintrow up and about again. He took a good meal, some wine, and more brandy. I thought the lad could do with a good sleep to heal him. And, of course, I set Etta to watch over him. It gives us a minute or two to ourselves, my princess. Now. What would please you this evening? I’ve recalled a lovely old tale from the Southlands. Would you like to hear it?’

Only the wind and the water replied to him. Despair and anger warred in him, but he gave no voice to them. Instead, he smiled cordially. ‘Very well, then. This is an old tale, from a time before Jamaillia. Some say it is really a tale from the Cursed Shores that was told in the Southlands, and eventually claimed as their own.’ He cleared his throat. He half-closed his eyes. When he spoke, he spoke in his mother’s words, in the cadence of the storyteller. As she had spoken, so long ago, before Igrot cut out her tongue, slicing her words away forever.

‘Once, in that distant time so long ago, there was a young woman, of good wit but small fortune. Her parents were elderly, and when they died, what little they had would be hers. She might, perhaps, have been content with that, but in their dotage, they decided to arrange a marriage for their daughter. The man they chose was a farmer, of good fortune but no wit at all. The daughter knew at once she could never find happiness with him, nor even tolerate him. So Edrilla, for that was her name, left both parents and home and –’

‘Erlida was her name, dolt.’ Vivacia twisted slowly to look back at him. The movement sent a jolt of ice up Kennit’s spine. She turned sinuously, her body unbound by human limitations. Her hair was suddenly jet-black shot with silver gleams. The golden eyes that met his caught the faint gleams of the ship’s lantern and threw the light back to him. When she smiled at him, her lips parted too widely, and the teeth she showed him seemed both whiter and smaller than before. Her lips were too red. The life that moved in her now glittered with a serpent’s sheen. Her voice was throaty and lazy. ‘If you must bore me with a tale a thousand years old, at least tell it well.’

His breath caught hard in his throat. He started to speak, then caught himself. Be silent. Make her talk. Let her betray herself to him first. The creature’s gaze on him was like a blade at his throat, but he refused to show fear. He did his best to meet her gaze and not flinch from it.

‘Erlida,’ she insisted. ‘And it was not a farmer, but a riverside pot-maker that she was given to; a man who spent all his day patting wet clay. He made heavy, graceless pots, fit only for slops and chamber pots.’ She turned away from him, to stare ahead over the black sea. ‘That is how the tale goes. And I should know. I knew Erlida.’

Kennit let the silence stretch until it was thinner and more taut than the silk of a spider’s web. ‘How?’ he demanded hoarsely at last. ‘How could you have known Erlida?’

The figurehead snorted contemptuously. ‘Because we are not as stupid as humans, who forget everything that befell them before their individual births. The memory of my mother, and of my mother’s mother, and her mother’s mother’s mother are all mine. They were spun into strands from memory sand and the saliva of those who helped encase me in my cocoon. They were set aside for me, my heritage, for me to reclaim when I awoke as a dragon. The memories of a hundred lifetimes are mine. Yet here I am, encased in death, no more than wistful thinking.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Kennit ventured stiffly when it was obvious she had finished speaking.

‘That is because you are stupid,’ she snapped bitterly.

No one, he had once vowed to himself, would ever speak to him like that again. Then he had cleansed their blood from his hands, and he had kept that promise to himself. Always. Even now. Kennit drew himself up straight. ‘Stupid. You may think me stupid, and you may call me stupid. At least I am real. And you are not.’ He tucked his crutch under his arm and prepared to lurch away.

She turned back to him, the corner of her mouth lifting in a sneering smile. ‘Ah. So the insect has a bit of sting to him. Stay, then. Speak to me, pirate. You think I am not real? I am real enough. Real enough to open my seams to the sea at any moment I choose. You might wish to think on that.’

Kennit spat over the side. ‘Boasts and brags. Am I to find that admirable, or frightening? Vivacia was braver and stronger than you, ship, whatever you are. You take refuge in the bully’s first strength: what you can destroy. Destroy us all then, and have done with it. I cannot stop you, as well you know. When you are a sunken wreck on the bottom, I wish you much joy of the experience.’ He turned resolutely away from her. He had to walk away now, he knew that. Just turn and keep walking, or she would not respect him at all. He had nearly reached the edge of the foredeck when the entire ship gave a sudden lurch. There was a wild whoop from the lookout high in the rigging, and a cumulative mutter of surprise from the crew below in their hammocks. The mate back on the wheel shouted an angry question. Kennit’s crutch tip skittered on the smooth deck and then flew out from under him. He fell, sprawling, his elbows striking heavily. The fall knocked the wind from his lungs.

As he lay gasping on the deck, the ship righted herself. In an instant, all was as it had been before, save for the querying voices of crewmen raised in sudden alarm. A soft but melodious laugh from the figurehead taunted him. A smaller voice spoke by Kennit’s ear. The tiny wizardwood charm strapped to his wrist spoke abruptly. ‘Don’t walk away, you fool. Never turn your back on a dragon. If you do, she will think you are so stupid that you deserve destruction.’

Kennit gasped in a painful breath. ‘And I should trust you,’ he grunted. He managed to sit up. ‘You’re a bit of a dragon yourself, if what she says is true.’

‘There are dragons and dragons. This one would just as soon not spend eternity tied to a heap of bones. Turn back. Defy her. Challenge her.’

‘Shut up,’ he hissed at the useless thing.

‘What did you say to me?’ the ship demanded in a poisonously sweet voice.

With difficulty, he dragged himself up. When his crutch was in place again, he swung across the deck to the bow rail. ‘I said, “Shut up!”’ he repeated for her. He gripped the railing and leaned over it. He let every bit of his fear blossom as anger. ‘Be wood, if you have not the wit to be Vivacia.’

‘Vivacia? That spineless slave thing, that quivering, acquiescent, grovelling creation of humans? I would be silent forever rather than be her.’

Kennit seized his advantage. ‘Then you are not her? Not one whit of you was expressed in her?’

The figurehead reared her head back. If she had been a serpent, Kennit would have believed her ready to strike. He did not step back. He would not show fear. Besides, he did not think she could quite reach him. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her eyes spun with anger.

‘If she is not you, then she has as much a right to be the life of this ship as you do. And if she is you…well, then. You mock and criticize yourself. Either way, it matters not to me. My offer to this liveship stands. I little care which of you takes it up.’

There. He had put all his coins on the table. He either would win or be ruined. There was nothing else between those extremes. But then, there never had been.

She expelled a sudden breath with a sound between a hiss and a sigh. ‘What offer?’ she demanded.

Kennit smiled with one corner of his mouth. ‘What offer? You mean, you don’t know? Dear, dear. I thought you had always been lurking beneath Vivacia’s skin. It appears that instead you are rather newly awakened.’ He watched her carefully as he gently mocked her. He must not take it to the point where she was angry, but he did not wish to appear too eager to bargain with her either. As her eyes began to narrow, he shifted his tactic. ‘Pirate with me. Be my queen of the seas. If dragon you truly are, then show me that nature. Let us prey where we will, and claim all these islands as our own.’

Despite her haughty stare, he had seen the brief widening of her eyes that betrayed her interest. Her next words made him smile.

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘What do you want?’

She watched him. He stood straight and met her strange gaze with his small smile. She ran her eyes over him as if he were a naked whore in a cheap house parlour. Her look lingered on his missing leg, but he did not let it fluster him. He waited her out.

‘I want what I want, and when I want it. When the time comes for me to take it, I’ll tell you what it is.’ She threw her words down as a challenge.

‘Oh, my.’ He tugged at his moustache as if amused. In reality, her words trickled down his spine like icewater. ‘Can you truly expect me to agree with such terms?’

It was her turn to laugh, a throaty chuckle that reminded him of the singsong snarl of a hunting tiger. It did not reassure Kennit at all. Nor did her words. ‘Of course you will accept those terms. For what other course is available to you? As little as you wish to admit it, I can destroy you and all your crew any time it pleases me. You should be content with knowing that it amuses me to pirate with you for a time. Do not seek more than you can grasp.’

Kennit refused to be daunted. ‘Destroy me and you destroy yourself. Or do you think it would be more amusing to sink to the bottom and rest in the muck there? Pirate with me, and my crew will give you wings of canvas. With us, you can fly across the waves. You can hunt again, dragon. If the old legends be true at all, that should more than amuse you.’

She chuckled again. ‘So. You accept my terms?’

Kennit straightened. ‘So. I take a night to think about it.’

‘You accept them,’ she said to the night.

He did not deign to reply. Instead he gripped his crutch and made his careful way across her deck. At the ladder, he lowered himself to the deck, and managed the steps awkwardly. He nodded curtly to two deckhands as he passed them. If they had overheard any of the captain’s conversation with the ship, they were wise enough not to show it.

As he crossed the main deck, he finally allowed himself to feel his triumph. He had done it. He had called the ship back to life, and she would serve him once more. He thrust away her side of the bargain. What could exist that she could want for herself? She had no need to mate nor eat nor even sleep. What could she demand of him that he could not easily grant her? It was a good agreement.

‘Wiser than you know,’ said his own voice in small. ‘A pact for greatness, even.’

‘Is it?’ muttered Kennit. Not even to his good luck charm would he risk showing his elation. ‘I wonder. The more so in that you endorse it.’

‘Trust me,’ suggested the charm. ‘Have I ever steered you wrong?’

‘Trust you, and trust a dragon,’ Kennit retorted softly. He glanced about to be sure no one was watching or listening to him. He brought his wrist up to eye level. In the moonlight, he could make out no more of the charm’s tiny features than the red glinting of its eyes. ‘Does Wintrow have the right of it? Are you a leftover bit of a still-born dragon?’

An instant of silence, more telling than any words. ‘And if I am?’ the charm asked smoothly. ‘Do I not still bear your own face? Ask yourself this. Do you conceal the dragon, or does the dragon conceal you?’

Kennit’s heart lurched in his chest. Some trick of the wind made a low moaning in the rigging. It stood Kennit’s hair on end.

‘You make no sense,’ he muttered to the charm. He lowered his hand and gripped his crutch firmly. As he moved through his ship, towards his own bunk and rest, he ignored the minute snickering of the thing bound to his wrist.

Her voice was rusty. She had sung before, to herself, in the maddening confinement of the cave and pool. Shrill and cracked had her voice been, crashing her defiance against the stone walls and iron bars that bound her.

But this was different. Now she lifted her voice in the night and sang out an ancient song of summoning. ‘Come,’ it said, to any who might hear. ‘Come, for the time of gathering is nigh. Come to share memories, come to journey together, back to the place of beginnings. Come.’

It was a simple song, meant to be joyous. It was meant to be shared by a score of voices. Sung alone, it sounded weak and pathetic. When she moved from the Plenty up to the Lack and sang it out under the night sky, it sounded even thinner. She drew breath again, and sang it out, louder and more defiantly. She could not say whom she summoned; there was no fresh trace of serpent scent in the water but only the maddening fragrance from the ship. There was something about the ship she followed that suggested kinship to her. She could not imagine how she could be kin to a ship, and yet she could not deny the tantalizing toxins that drifted from the ship’s hull. She took in air to sing again.

‘Come, join your kin and lend strength to the weaker ones. Together, together, we journey, back to our beginnings and our endings. Gather, shore-born creatures of the sea, to return to the shores yet again. Bring your dreams of sky and wings; come to share the memories of our lives. Our time is come, our time is come.’

The last piping notes of the song faded, carried away by the wind. She Who Remembers waited for an answer. Nothing came. Yet, as she sank disconsolately beneath the waves once more, it seemed to her that the toxins that trailed elusively from the ship ahead of her took on more substance and flavour.

I mock and tease myself, she chided herself. Perhaps she was truly mad. Perhaps she had returned to freedom only to witness the end of all her kind. Desolation wrapped her and tried to bear her down. Instead, she fell back into her position behind the ship, to follow where it would lead her.

8 LORDS OF THE THREE REALMS

TINTAGLIA’S SECOND KILL was a bear. She measured herself against him, predator against predator, the beat of her wings against the swipe of his immense clawed paws. She won, of course, and tore open his belly to feast on his liver and heart. The struggle satiated something in her soul. It was a proof that she was no longer a helpless, pleading creature trapped in a coffin of her own body. She had left behind the humans who had stupidly cut up the bodies of her siblings. It had not been their doing that had imprisoned her. They had acted in ignorance, mostly, when they slew her kin. Eventually, two of them had been willing to sacrifice all to free her. She did not have to decide if the debts of murder were balanced by the acts of rescue. She had left them behind, for all time. As sweet as vengeance could have been, it would not save those of her kind who might still have survived. Her first duty was to them.

She had slept for a time athwart her kill. The honey sunshine of autumn had baked into her through the long afternoon. When she had awakened, she was ready to move on. While she slept, her next actions had become clear in her mind. If any of her folk survived, they would be at their old hunting grounds. She would seek them there first.

So she had arisen from the bear’s carcass, its rank meat already abuzz with hundreds of glistening blue flies. She had tested her wings, feeling the new strength she had gained from this kill. It would have been far more natural for her to emerge in early spring, with all the summer to grow and mature before winter fell. She knew that she must kill and feed as often as she could in these dwindling harvest days, building her body’s strength against the winter to come. Well, she would, for her own survival was paramount to her, but she would seek her folk at the same time. She launched from the sunny hillside where the bear had met his end, and rose into the sky on steadily beating wings.

She rose to where the wind flowed stronger and hung there on the currents, spiralling slowly over the lands below. As she circled, she sought for some sign of her kin. The muddy riverbanks and shallows should have borne the trampled marks of dragon wallows, yet there were none. She soared past lofty rock ledges, ideal for sun basking and mating, but all of them were innocent of the clawed territorial marks and scat that should have proclaimed their use. Her eyes, keener than any hawk’s, saw no other dragon riding the air currents over the river. The distant skies were blue, and empty of dragons all the way to the horizons. Her sense of smell, at least as keen as her eyesight, brought her no musk of a male, not even an old scent of territory claimed. In all this wide river valley, she was alone. Lords of the Three Realms were dragonkind; they had ruled the sky, the sea and the earth below. None had been their equal in magnificence or intelligence. How could they all have disappeared? It was incomprehensible to her. Some, somewhere, must have survived. She would find them.

She flew a wide, lazy circle, studying the land below for familiar landmarks. All had vanished. In the years that had passed, the river had shifted in its wide bed. Flooding and earthquakes had re-formed the land numerous times; her ancestral memories recalled many changes in the topography of this area. Yet, the changes she saw now seemed more radical than any her folk had ever seen. She felt that the whole countryside had sunken. The river seemed wider and shallower and less defined. Where once the Serpent River had raced strongly to the sea, the Rain Wild River now twined in a lazy sprawl of swamp and marsh.

The human city of Trehaug was built beside the sunken ruins of old Frengong of the Elderlings. The Elderlings had chosen that site for the city so that they might be close to the dragons’ cocooning grounds. Once, there had been a wide shallows there in the bend of the Serpent River. There the memory stone had shone as silvery-black sand on a gleaming beach. In long-ago autumns, serpents had wallowed out of the river onto the sheltered beaches there. With the aid of the adult dragons, the serpents had formed their cocoons of long strands of saliva mixed with the rich memory sand. Every autumn, the cocoons had littered the beach like immense seed pods awaiting the spring. Both dragons and Elderlings had guarded the hardened cases that protected the metamorphosing creatures all through the long winter. Summer light and heat would eventually come, to touch the cases and awaken the creatures inside.

Gone, all gone. Beach and Elderlings and guardian dragons, all gone. But, she reminded herself fiercely, Frengong had not been the only cocooning beach. There had been others, further up the Serpent River.

Hope battled misgiving as she banked her wings and followed the water upriver. She might no longer recognize the lie of the land, but the Elderlings had built cities of their own near the cocooning beaches. Surely, something remained of those sprawling hives of stone buildings and paved streets. If nothing else, she could explore where once her kind had hatched. Perhaps, she dared to hope, in some of those ancient cities the allies of the dragon folk still survived. If she could not find any of her kin, she might find someone who could tell her what had become of them.

The sun was merciless in the blue sky. The distant yellow orb promised warmth, but the constant mists of the river drenched and chilled them all. Malta’s skin felt raw; the tattering of her ragged garments plainly showed that the mists were as caustic as the river water itself. Her body was pebbled with insect bites that itched perpetually, yet her skin was so irritated that any scratching made her bleed. The cruel glittering of light against the water dazzled her eyes. When she felt her face, her eyes were puffed to slits, while the scar on her brow stood up in ridges of proudflesh. She could find no comfortable position in the tiny boat, for the bare wooden seats were not big enough to lie down on. The best she could do was to wedge herself into a half-reclining position and then drape her arm over her eyes.

Thirst was her worst torment. To be parched of throat, and yet surrounded by undrinkable water was by far the worst torture of all. The first time she had seen Kekki lift a palmful of river water to her mouth, Malta had sprung at her, shouting at her to stop. She had stopped her that time. From the Companion’s silence and the puffiness of her swollen and scarlet lips now, Malta deduced that Kekki had yielded to the taunt of the water, and more than once.

Malta lay in the tiny rocking vessel as the river swept it along and wondered why she cared. She could come up with no answer, and yet it made her angry to know the woman would drink water that would eventually kill her. She watched the Companion from the shelter of her arm’s shade. Her fine gown of green silk would once have left Malta consumed with envy. Now it was even more ragged than Malta’s clothing. The Companion’s artfully coifed hair was a tangle of locks around her brow and down her back. Her eyes were closed and her lips puffed in and out with her breathing. Malta wondered if she were dying already. How much of the water did it take to bring death? Then she found herself wondering if she were going to die anyway. Perhaps she was foolish and it was better to drink, and no longer be thirsty, and die sooner.

‘Maybe it will rain,’ the Satrap croaked hopefully.

Malta moved her mouth, and finally decided to reply. ‘Rain falls from clouds,’ she pointed out. ‘There aren’t any.’

He kept silent, but she could feel annoyance radiating from him like heat from a fireplace. She didn’t have the energy to turn and face him. She wondered why she had even spoken to him. Her mind wandered back to yesterday. She had felt something brush her senses, clinging and yet as insubstantial as a cobweb against her face in the dark. She had looked all around, but seen nothing. Then she had turned her eyes upward and seen the dragon. She was sure of it. She had seen a blue dragon, and when it tipped its wings, the sun had glinted silver off its scales. She had cried out to it, begging it for aid. Her shouts had roused the Satrap and his Companion from their dozing. Yet, when she had pointed and demanded that they see it too, they had told her there was nothing there. Perhaps a blackbird, tiny in the distance, but that was all. The Satrap had scoffed at her, telling her that only children and ignorant peasants believed in dragon tales.

It had angered her so much that she did not speak to him again, not even when night fell and he complained endlessly of the dark, the chill, and the damp. He had a knack for making every discomfort her fault, or the fault of the Bingtown Traders or the Rain Wild Traders. She had grown tired of his whining. It was more annoying than the shrill humming of the tiny mosquitoes that discovered them as darkness fell and feasted upon their blood.

When dawn had finally come, she had tried to persuade herself that it brought hope. The lone board that she had to use as a paddle lasted less than half the morning. Her efforts to push them out of the main current of the river had been both exhausting and fruitless. It rotted away in her hands, eaten by the water. Now they sat in the boat, as helpless as children while the river carried them farther and farther from Trehaug. Like an uncomfortable and idle child, the Satrap picked at quarrels.

‘Why hasn’t anyone come to rescue us yet?’ he demanded suddenly.

She spoke over her shoulder. ‘Why would they look for us here?’ she asked dryly.

‘But you shouted at them as we floated past Trehaug. We all did.’

‘Shouting and being heard are two different things.’

‘What will become of us?’ Kekki’s words were so soft and thick that Malta could barely make them out. The Companion had opened her eyes and was looking at Malta. Malta wondered if her own eyes were as bloodshot as Kekki’s.

‘I’m not sure.’ Malta moved her mouth, trying to moisten her tongue enough to talk. ‘If we are fortunate, we may be carried to one side and caught in a shallows or backwater. If we are very lucky, we may encounter a liveship coming up the river. However, I doubt it. I heard they had all gone out to drive the Chalcedean ships away from Bingtown. Eventually, the river will carry us to the sea. Perhaps we will encounter other vessels there, and be rescued. If our boat holds together that long.’ If we live to see it, Malta added to herself.

‘We’ll likely die,’ the Satrap pointed out ponderously. ‘The tragedy of my dying so young will be vast. Many, many other deaths will follow mine. For when I am gone, there will be no one to keep peace among my nobles. No one will sit on the Pearl Throne after me, for I die in the flower of my youth, without heirs. All will mourn my passing. Chalced will no longer fear to challenge Jamaillia. The pirates will raid and burn unchecked. All of my vast and beautiful empire will fall into ruin. And all because of a foolish little girl, too ignorantly rustic to know when she was being offered the chance to better herself.’

Malta sat up so fast that the little boat rocked wildly. She ignored Kekki’s frightened moans to turn and face the Satrap Cosgo. He sat in the stern of the boat, his knees drawn up under his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. He looked like a petulant ten-year-old. His pale skin, sheltered so long from the elements, was doubly ravaged by his exposure to the water and the wind. At the ball in Bingtown, his delicate features and pallid skin had seemed romantic and exotic to Malta. Now he merely looked like a sickly child. She fought a sudden and intense urge to push him overboard.

‘But for me, you’d already be dead,’ she declared flatly. ‘You were trapped in a room that was filling with mud and water. Or had you forgotten that?’

‘And how did I get there? By the machinations of your people. They assaulted and kidnapped me, and for all I know, they have already sent ransom notes.’ He halted abruptly, coughed, and then forced the parched words out. ‘I never should have come to your ratty little town. What did I discover? Not a place of wonder and wealth as Serilla had led me to believe, but a dirty little harbour town full of greedy merchants and their unmannered, pretentious daughters. Look at you! A moment of beauty, that is all you will ever have known. Any woman is beautiful for a month or so of her life. Well, you are past that brief flowering now, with your dried-up skin and that crusty split down your brow. You should have seized your chance to amuse me. Then I might have taken you back to Court, out of pity for you, and you would at least have been able to glimpse what it was like to live graciously. But no. You refused me, and so I was forced to stay overlong at your peasant dance and become a target for ruffians and robbers. All Jamaillia will falter and fall into ruin without me. And all because of your inflated view of yourself.’ He coughed again, and his tongue came out in a vain effort to wet his parched lips. ‘We’re going to die on this river.’ He sniffed. A tiny tear formed at the corner of his eyes and trickled down beside his nose.

Malta felt an instant of hatred purer than any emotion she had ever felt. ‘I hope you die first so I can watch,’ she croaked at him.

‘Traitor!’ Cosgo lifted a trembling finger and pointed at her. ‘Only a traitor could speak so to me! I am the Satrap of all Jamaillia. I condemn you to live-flaying and to be burnt afterwards. I swear that if we live, I will watch my sentence carried out on you.’ He looked past her at Kekki. ‘Companion. Witness my words. If I die and you survive, it is your duty to make my will known to others. See that bitch punished!’

Malta glared at him but said nothing. She tried to work moisture into her throat but found none. It galled her to let his words stand, but she had no choice. She turned her back on him.

Tintaglia sated her hunger with a foolish young boar. She had spotted him rooting at the edge of an oak grove. At the sight and scent of him, hunger had roared in her. The foolish pig had stood, staring at her curiously as she stooped down to him. At the last moment, he had brandished his tusks at her as if that would scare her off. She had devoured him in a matter of bites, leaving little more than blood-smeared leaves and detritus to show he had ever existed. Then she had taken off again.

Her voracity almost frightened her. For the rest of the afternoon, she flew low, hunting as she travelled, and killed twice more, a deer and another boar. They were sufficient to her hunger, but no more than that. The grumbling of her belly kept distracting her from her avowed intention. At one point, she lifted her eyes to scan the general lie of the land and was suddenly aware she had been paying no attention to where she was flying. She could no longer see the river.

She forced herself to stop thinking of her belly. Swiftly she soared across the wide swampy valley until she returned to the choked thread of the river. Here the trees encroached on the flow of water, and the swampy banks of the river spread wide beneath the forest canopy. Nothing promising here. Once more, she flew upstream, but this time she drove herself, flying as swiftly as ever she had, looking, always looking for a familiar landmark or a sign of Elderling occupation. Slowly the river widened again, the forest retreating. Soon it regained grassy banks as she followed its flow into foothills. The land around it was firmer here, more true forest than swamp. Then, with heart-stopping suddenness, she recognized where she was. On the horizon, in a bend of the river, she glimpsed the map-tower of Kelsingra. It glinted in the westering sun, and her heart lifted. It still stood, and her eyes picked out the detail of other familiar buildings around it. In the next instant, her heart sank. Her nose brought her no odours of chimney smoke or foundry and forge at work.

She flew toward the city. The closer she came, the more obvious became its death. The road was not only completely devoid of the lively traffic it had once sustained; at one point, a landslide had sheared the road away entirely. The memory stone still recalled blackly that it had been told to be a road. She could sense the trapped memories of the merchants and soldiers and nomadic traders who had once traversed it still humming in the stone. Grass and moss had not overcome it. The road still shone, black, straight and level as it made its businesslike way to the city. The road still recalled itself as a highway, but no one else in the world did.

She circled above the deserted city and looked down on its ancient destruction. The Elderlings had built the city for the ages, built it blithely assuming that they would always stroll its streets and inhabit its gracious homes. Now its emptiness mocked all such mortal illusions. Sometime in the past, a cataclysmic settling of the earth had riven the city in two. A huge cleft divided it, and the river had claimed that sunken piece for itself. She could glimpse the rubble of sunken buildings in the depths. Tintaglia blinked her eyes, forcing herself to see the city as it was rather than how the memory stone recalled itself. Thus had the Elderlings built, cutting the memory stone and bringing it here to build their fair city on the plains by the river. They had bound the stone, forcing into it their concept of what it was to be. Faithful and silent, the city stood.

Tintaglia came to the city as the dragons always had, and nearly killed herself in the process. Always, her ancestral memories told her, the dragons had arrived by landing in the river itself. It made a spectacularly showy arrival. The sliding plunge from the blue sky into the cool water always sent up a great feathery splash. The alighting of a dragon always set all the docked ships to rocking in their berths. The water cushioned the landing, and then the dragon would wade out of the cool depths onto the pebbled shore to the cheers and greetings of the gathered folk.

The river was far shallower than her ancient memories told her it would be. Instead of plunging completely beneath it and letting the water catch her, Tintaglia crashed into it. It was scarcely shoulder-deep on her, and she was fortunate not to break her legs. Only the cushioning of her powerful muscles kept her from harm. She cracked two claws on her left foreleg, and bruised her outstretched wings painfully as she caught herself and waded out of the river not to cheers and songs of welcome but to the whispering of the wind among the deserted buildings.

She felt as if she wandered through a dream. The memory stone was near impervious to the encroaching of organic life. As long as it recalled what it was supposed to be, it rejected the tendrilling roots of plants. Animals who might have claimed the city as a place to nest and den were turned aside by the stone’s memories of men and women dwelling there. Even after all these years, she saw only tentative signs that the natural world would eventually reclaim this place. Moss had begun to find its first footholds in the fine cracks between the paving stones and in the angles of the steps. Crows and ravens, ever scornful of humanity’s claims of mastery, had a few messy nests jutting out from window ledges or wedged into belfries. Algae stained the edges of the fountains that still held rainwater trapped in their ornate basins. Domes had caved in on themselves. The outer walls of some buildings had collapsed in some long-ago quake, leaving the interior chambers open to the autumn day and scattering rubble across the street below it. Eventually, nature always triumphed. The Elderlings’ city would ultimately be swallowed by the wild world, and then no one would remember a time when man and dragon had dwelt together.

It surprised Tintaglia that such a thought could cut her heart. Humanity as it now existed little appealed to her. There had been a time, her ancestors whispered in the back of her brain, when dragon essence mingled with the nature of men, and Elderlings emerged from that accidental blending. Tall and slender, dragon-eyed and golden-skinned, that ancient race had lived alongside dragons and gloried in the symbiosis. Tintaglia walked slowly down streets made generously wide enough to allow a dragon to pass in ease. She came to their halls of government, and ascended the wide, shallow steps that had been engineered to allow her kind gracious access to the gathering halls of the Elderlings. The exterior walls of this building still gleamed blackly, while figures of gleaming white decorated the exterior in bas-relief. Cariandra the Fecund still endlessly ploughed her fields behind her team of massive oxen, while on the adjacent wall Sessicaria spread wide his wings and trumpeted silently.

Tintaglia passed between the impassive stone lions that guarded the entrance. One wide door had already collapsed. As she brushed past the other immense wooden door, a chance graze of her tail brought it slumping down into a heap of splinters and fragments. Wood had not the memory of stone.

Within, polished oak tables had given way to become heaps of wood dust trapped under the stone tabletops they had once supported. Dust had coated thick the windows; sunlight hardly penetrated the room. Threadbare reminders of rich tapestries were shredded cobwebs on the walls. Memories clustered thickly here and clamoured at her, but she resolutely kept her mind to this day and this time. Silence and dust and the wind whispering dismally through a broken window. Perhaps somewhere in the building written records had survived. But fading words on crumbling parchment would be no solace to her. There was nothing here for her.

For a moment longer, she stood, looking about, then she flung herself back on her hind legs and stretched out her neck to roar her anger and disappointment, trumpeting out her betrayal to the infuriating ghosts of the place. The blast of her voice shook the stagnant air of the room. Her lashing tail scattered the fragments of desks and benches and flung a marble table-top crashing into a corner. Across the hall, a tapestry gave up its last futile grip and cascaded to the floor in threads. Dust motes whirled alarmingly in the air. She whipped her head back and forth on the end of her serpentine neck, trumpeting out blast after blast of fury.

Then, as suddenly as the fit had seized her, it passed. She let her front legs drop back to the cool black floor. She fell silent and listened to the last echoes of her own voice fade and die. Fade and die, she thought. They all have done so, and I am the last foolish echo, still bouncing off these stones with no ears to hear me.

She left the hall and prowled the deserted streets of the dead city. Light was fading from the day. She had flown swift and hard to come to this place, only to discover death here. The stalwart memory of the stone had left it a stagnant place. The city had perished decades ago, yet life had not managed to reclaim this place. The veins of moss that struggled in the seams of the street were pathetic. Typical of humans, Tintaglia thought disdainfully. What they can no longer use, they have prevented any other creatures from using. An instant later, the bitterness of the thought shocked her. Did she believe, then, that the Elderlings had been no different from the humans who had left her imprisoned for so many years?

A stone-lipped well and the remnants of a windlass distracted her from those thoughts. She felt a pleasant rush of anticipation at the sight. She sought the ancient memory. Ah, yes. Here, long ago, others of her kind had drunk, not water, but the liquid silver flow of the magic that veined the memory stone. Even to a dragon, it had been a powerful intoxicant. To drink of it, undiluted, was to realize a oneness with the universe. The memory was a tantalizing one. She felt a rush of longing for that sense of connection. She snuffed the edge of the well, then peered into its depths. As she shifted her head, she thought she caught a distant shimmer of silver at the very bottom, but she could not be sure. Did not stars shine in daytime in the bottoms of the deepest wells? It might be no more than that. Whatever it was, it was far beyond the reach of her teeth or claws. She would not drink her fill of liquid magic here. No dragon would ever do so again. To have recalled that untasted pleasure was but one more torment to her. It defined the agony of her solitude. With great deliberation, she smashed the rusted remnants of the windlass and pushed them down the well. She listened to the clanking as the pieces rattled down the narrow hole.

Malta had closed her eyes against the brightness of the river. When next she opened them, the light was fading from the day. That small mercy was accompanied by the oncoming chill of night. The first mosquito buzzed delightedly by her left ear. Malta tried to lift a hand to swat at it, but found her cramped muscles had stiffened, as if while she slept she had rusted. With a groan of pain, she straightened her head. Kekki was a crumpled heap of rags, half on the seat, half in the bottom of the boat.

She looked dead.

Horror seized Malta’s heart. She could not be stuck in this boat with a dead woman. She could not. Then the silliness of her terrified thought struck her. A terrible smile twisted her face. What would they do if Kekki were dead? Put her over the side, into the devouring water? Malta could not do that, not any more than she could sit here and stare at a dead woman until she herself died. She could barely move her tongue inside her mouth, but she managed to croak out, ‘Kekki?’

The Companion moved her hand against the damp floorboards. It was just a twitch of her fingers, but at least she was not dead yet. She looked horribly uncomfortable. Malta longed to leave her there, but somehow she could not. To fold her knees and force herself down into the bottom of the boat set every muscle in her body to screaming. Once there, she lacked the strength to lift Kekki to a better position. She could do little more than push at her. She tugged the remnants of Kekki’s green silk gown more closely around her. She patted at her face.

‘Help me live.’ The Companion’s plea was a pitiful whisper. She hadn’t even opened her eyes.

‘I’ll try.’ Malta felt she only mouthed the words, but Kekki seemed to sense them.

‘Help me live now,’ Kekki repeated. Her efforts to talk were cracking her lips. She took a sobbing breath. ‘Please. Help me live now, and I’ll help you later. I promise.’

It was the pledge of a beaten child, promising obedience if only the pain will stop. Malta patted the woman’s shoulder. Awkwardly, she lifted Kekki’s head and set it where the thwart of the boat did not press so roughly against her cheek. She curled herself around the Companion’s back so that they could share their body warmth. It was as much as she could do for her.

Malta forced her stiffened neck muscles to turn her head to look back at the Satrap. The high ruler of all Jamaillia glared at her malevolently from where he crouched on his plank seat. His brow was swollen over his puffy eyes, distorting his face.

Malta turned away from him. She tried to prepare for the night by pulling her arms inside the sleeves of her robe, tugging the collar of it up as far as it would go and drawing her feet up under the skirts. Huddled against Kekki in the bottom of the boat, she pretended that she was warmer now. She closed her eyes and dozed.

‘Whasaat?’

Malta ignored him. She wasn’t going to be baited into another squabble. She had no strength for it.

‘Whasaat?’ the Satrap repeated urgently.

Malta opened her eyes and lifted her head slightly. Then she sat bolt upright in the boat, making it rock wildly. Something was coming towards them. She peered at it, trying to resolve it into a familiar shape. Only a liveship could come up the Rain Wild River. Anything else would fall victim to its caustic waters. But this shape was lower to the water than a liveship should be, and seemed to have a single rectangular sail. Only its own dim lanterns illuminated it but Malta thought she glimpsed movement to either side. The high, misshapen prow bobbed as the ship forced its way upriver. Malta creakingly stood upright in the small boat, bracing her feet as she stared at the oncoming ship, her disbelief slowing her acceptance of it. She crouched down in the boat again. It was dark and their boat was small. It was possible the ship would pass them without seeing them.

‘What is it?’ the Satrap enunciated painfully.

‘Hush. It’s a Chalcedean war galley.’ Malta stared at the oncoming ship. Her heart hammered against her ribs. What business had a Chalcedean ship coming up the Rain Wild River? It could only be to spy or raid. Still, it was the only ship they had seen. Here was rescue, or brutal death. While she hesitated, wondering what to do, the Satrap acted.

‘Help! Help! Over here! Over here!’ He rose to a half-crouch in the stern of the boat, clinging to the side of the boat with one hand and waving wildly with the other.

‘They may not be friendly!’ Malta rebuked him.

‘Of course they are! They are my allies, my hirelings to rid Jamaillia’s waters of pirates. Look! They have Jamaillian colours on their flagstaff. They’re some of my mercenaries, hunting pirates. Hey! Over here! Save us!’

‘Hunting pirates up the Rain Wild River?’ Malta retorted sarcastically. ‘They’re raiders!’

They ignored her. Kekki, too, had roused. She dragged herself to a sitting position in the bow, flailed one arm feebly, and yowled wordlessly for help. Even through their clamour, Malta heard the surprised shout of the lookout on the galley. In moments, a cluster of lanterns appeared on the bow of the ship, throwing over them a distorted shadow of the monster-headed prow. A silhouette of a man suddenly pointed towards them. Two others joined him. Shouts from the galley’s deck betrayed their excitement. The ship diverted to make straight for them.

It seemed to take a very long time for the ship to reach them. A line was thrown and Malta caught it. She braced herself as they drew the boats together. Lanterns held over the side of the galley blinded her. She stood stupidly holding the line as first the Satrap and then Kekki were taken on board. When it was her turn, she reached their deck and found her legs would not hold her. She sank down to the planks. Chalcedean voices asked insistent questions but she just shook her head. From her father, she had a smattering of the language, but her mouth was too dry to speak. They had given the Satrap and Kekki water, and Kekki was haltingly thanking them. When the waterskin was offered to Malta, she forgot all else. They took it away before she had near enough. Someone threw her a blanket. She wrapped it around her shoulders and sat shivering miserably, wondering what would become of them now.

The Satrap had managed to drag himself to his feet. His Chalcedean was fluent, if roughened by the condition of his throat. Malta listened dully as the fool declared himself to them and thanked them for rescuing him. The sailors listened to his words with broad grins. She did not need the language; their gestures and tones betrayed their scepticism. When the Satrap grew angry, their mirth increased.

Then Kekki rallied. She spoke more slowly than the Satrap had, but again Malta learned more from her tone than from the smattering of words she picked out. It did not matter that her clothes were dirty and torn, her complexion harshened, and her lips chapped. The Companion berated them and taunted them in polished Chalcedean, using the noble pronouns rather than the common forms. Moreover, Malta knew that no Chalcedean woman would dared have spoken so, unless she trusted firmly in the status of the male who protected her to shelter her from the sailors’ wrath. Kekki gestured at the banner of Jamaillia that hung limply from the ship’s mast, and then back to the Satrap.

Malta watched the men’s attitude shift from scorn to uncertainty. The man who helped her to her feet was careful to touch only her hands or arms. To do otherwise was deadly insult to father or husband. Malta tugged her blanket more firmly around her shoulders and managed to totter stiffly after the Satrap and Kekki.

She was not impressed with their ship. A raised deck ran the length of it between the benches for the rowers. Fore and aft were abovedeck structures designed more for battle than shelter or comfort. They were escorted to the aft one and ushered into a cabin. The sailors left them there.

It took a moment for Malta’s eyes to adjust. The warmly-lit cabin seemed brilliant to her dazzled eyes. Lush furs covered the bedstead while a thick rug underfoot comforted her cold bare feet. A small brazier burned in a corner, giving off fumes and heat in equal proportion. The warmth made her skin sting and tingle. A man seated behind a chart table finished inking in a line and made a small notation to himself. He lifted his eyes slowly to regard them. The Satrap boldly, or foolishly, advanced to drop into another chair beside the table. When he spoke his tone was neither command nor request. Malta caught the word for ‘wine’. Kekki sank to the floor, to sit at the Satrap’s feet. Malta remained standing by the door.

She watched the events as if she watched a play. With a sinking heart, she knew that her fate was in the Satrap’s hands. She had no faith in the man’s honour or intelligence, yet circumstances trapped her. She did not have enough Chalcedean to speak for herself, and she well knew her inferior status by Chalcedean custom. If she tried to declare herself independent of the Satrap, she would also be shearing herself of whatever protection he might offer her. She stood silent, trembling with hunger and fatigue, and watched her destiny unfold.

The ship’s boy brought the captain wine and a tray of sweet biscuits. She had to endure watching the captain pour wine for himself and the Satrap. They drank together. They spoke, with the Satrap doing most of the talking interspersed with frequent sips of wine. Someone brought the Satrap a steaming bowl of something. As he ate, from time to time the Satrap handed Kekki a biscuit or a piece of bread as if she were a dog under the table. The woman took the tidbits and nibbled at them slowly with no indication she desired more. The woman was exhausted, but Malta marked that the Companion seemed to be striving to follow the conversation. For the first time, Malta felt a stirring of admiration for Kekki. Perhaps she was tougher than she looked. The days of exposure had left her eyes mere slits in her swollen face, but a shrewd light still glinted in them.

The men finished eating, but remained at table. A boy came in bearing a lacquered box. From it, he took two white clay pipes, and several pots of smoking herbs. Cosgo sat up with an exclamation of delight. Anticipation shone in his eyes as the captain tamped a load into a pipe for him and offered it to him. He leaned forwards towards the flame the captain offered. As the mixture of intoxicant herbs kindled, Cosgo took a long draw from his pipe. For a moment, he simply held his position and breath, a blissful smile spreading across his face. Then he leaned back and breathed out smoke in a sigh of contentment.

Soon smoke tendrilled through the room. The men talked expansively and laughed often. Malta found she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She tried to keep her attention on the captain and judge his reactions to what the Satrap said, but it was suddenly hard to concentrate. It took all her will just to remain standing. The table and the men at the other end of the cabin receded into a warm distance. Their voices were a soothing murmur. She twitched back to alertness as the captain stood. He extended a hand towards the door, inviting the Satrap to precede him. Cosgo rose stiffly. The food and wine seemed to have restored some of his strength. Kekki tried to follow her master, but sank back down to the carpet. The Satrap gave a snort of disdain and said something deprecating to the captain. Then he focused on Malta.

‘Help her, stupid,’ he commanded her in disgust. The two men left the cabin. Neither looked back to see if the women followed.

Behind their backs, Malta seized a biscuit from the table and crammed it into her mouth. She chewed it dry and gulped it down hastily. Malta did not know where she found the strength to help Kekki rise and follow. The woman kept stumbling into her as they staggered along together. The men had walked the full length of the ship and the two women were forced to hurry after them. Malta did not like the looks she got from some of the sailors. They seemed to mock her appearance even as they leered at them.

She and Kekki halted behind the Satrap. A man was hastily moving his possessions out of a rough wooden-framed tent set up on the deck below the skeletal castle. The instant he dragged his gear out, the captain gestured the Satrap in. The Satrap inclined his head graciously to the captain and entered the temporary chamber.

As Malta helped Kekki into the room, the man who had moved his belongings set his hand on her arm. She looked up at him in confusion, wondering what he wanted, but he grinned as he addressed a query over her head to the Satrap. The Satrap laughed aloud in reply, then shook his head. He added something with a shrug. Malta caught the word ‘later’. Then the Satrap rolled his eyes as if marvelling at the man’s question. The man made a face of mock disappointment, but, as if by accident, he ran his hand down Malta’s arm, briefly touching the curve of her hip. Malta gave a shocked gasp. The captain gave the man a friendly shove; Malta decided he must be the mate. She was confused as to what had just taken place, but decided she didn’t care. She ignored all of them to help Kekki towards the lone cot, but when they reached it, the woman sank down bonelessly on the deck beside it. Malta tugged hopelessly at her arm.

‘No,’ Kekki muttered. ‘Leave me here. Go stand by the door.’ When Malta looked at her in consternation, the woman mustered all her strength to command. ‘Don’t question it now. Do as I say.’

Malta hesitated, then became aware of the captain’s gaze on her. She rose awkwardly and limped across the room to stand by the door. Like a servant, she suddenly realized. Anger burned in her but gave her no strength. She let her eyes rove the small room. The walls were of hide. There was a single cot and a small table where a lantern burned. That was all. Obviously temporary. She wondered at that. A moment later the captain was bidding the Satrap good evening. As soon as the door flap fell behind the man, Malta sank to the floor. She was still hungry and thirsty, but sleep would do for now. She pulled her blanket closer about herself.

‘Get up,’ the Satrap advised her. ‘When the boy returns with food for Kekki, he will expect her servant to take it from him. Don’t humiliate me by refusing it. He is bringing warmed water as well. After you bathe me, you can see to her as well.’

‘I’d rather throw myself over the side,’ Malta informed him. She did not move.

‘Then stay there.’ Food and wine had restored his arrogance. With total disregard for Malta’s presence, he began to peel off his filthy clothing. Affronted, she looked away from him, but could not escape his words. ‘You won’t have to throw yourself over the side. The crewmen will probably do that, after they have finished with you. That was what the first mate asked about you, as you came in. “Is the scarred one available?” he asked me. I told him you were a servant for my woman but that perhaps later she could spare some of your time.’ A superior smile curled the corners of his mouth. His voice was unctuous with false kindness. ‘Remember, Malta. On this ship, you might as well be in Chalced. On this boat, if you are not mine, then you are no man’s woman. And in Chalced, no man’s woman is every man’s woman.’

Malta had heard the saying before, but never fully grasped what it meant. She clenched her jaws together. Kekki’s rusty voice turned Malta’s eyes back to her. ‘The Magnadon Satrap Cosgo speaks truth, girl. Stand up. If you would save yourself, be a servant.’ She sighed in a breath and added cryptically, ‘Remember my promise to you, and heed me. We all need to live, if any of us are to survive. His status will protect us, if we protect it.’

The Satrap kicked the last of his garments aside. His pale body was shocking to Malta. She had seen the bare chests of dockworkers and farmhands before, but never had she seen a man completely naked. Against her will, her eyes were drawn down to his loins. She had heard it called a manhood; she had expected more of it than a bobbing pink stalk in a nest of curly hair. The dangling member looked wormy and unhealthy to her; were all men made so? It appalled her. What woman could bear to have a repulsive thing like that touch her body? She snatched her gaze away. He did not seem to notice her distaste. Instead, he complained, ‘Where is that bath water? Malta, go and ask what the delay is.’

There was a knock at the doorframe before Malta had time to refuse. She stood hastily, despising herself for her capitulation. The door flap was pushed open and the ship’s boy entered, kicking a wooden tub across the deck before him while toting two buckets of water. He set down his burdens and stared at the Satrap as if he, too, had never seen a naked man. Malta privately wondered if it were the Satrap’s paleness or the slack slenderness of his body. Even Selden had more muscle to his chest than the Satrap did. Behind the boy came another sailor bearing a tray of food. He glanced about, then handed it to Malta, but a flip of his hand indicated that it was intended for Kekki. Boy and sailor exited.

‘Give her the food,’ the Satrap snapped as Malta stared at the water, ship’s biscuit and thin broth on the tray. ‘Then get over here and pour my bath water.’ As he spoke, he stepped into the shallow tub and crouched down. He hunkered there, waiting. Malta glared at him. She was trapped and she knew it.

She crossed the room and clacked the tray onto the floor beside Kekki. The woman reached out and took up a piece of hard ship’s biscuit. Then she set it down, pillowed her head on her arms, and closed her eyes. ‘I am so tired,’ she whispered hoarsely. For the first time, Malta noticed the glistening of fresh blood at the corner of Kekki’s mouth. She knelt beside the Companion.

‘How much river water did you drink?’ she asked her. But Kekki only sighed deeply and was still. Timidly, Malta touched her hand. Kekki made no response.

‘Never mind her. Get over here and pour my water.’

Malta looked longingly at the food. Without turning, she lifted the bowl of broth and drank half of it greedily. Moisture and warmth in one. It was wonderful. She broke off a chunk of ship’s bread and put it to her mouth. It was hard and dry and coarse, but it was food. She gnawed at it.

‘Obey me now. Or I shall call the sailor who wants you.’

Malta remained where she was. She swallowed the bite of ship’s biscuit. She took up the flagon of water and drank half of it. She would be honourable. She would leave half for Kekki. She glanced at the Satrap. He crouched, naked, in the shallow tub. His tousled hair and windburned face made it look as if his head did not belong with his pale body. ‘Do you know,’ she asked conversationally, ‘how much you look like a plucked chicken in a roasting pan?’

The Satrap’s chapped face suddenly mottled red with fury. ‘How dare you mock me?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I am the Satrap of all Jamaillia and I –’

‘And I am the daughter of a Bingtown Trader, and will one day be a Bingtown Trader.’ She shook her head at him. ‘I do believe my Aunt Althea was right after all. We owe Jamaillia no allegiance. I certainly feel no obligation to a skinny youth who cannot even wash himself.’

‘You? You think you are a Bingtown Trader, little girl. But in reality, do you know what you are? Dead. Dead to everyone who ever knew you. Will they even look for you down this river? No. They’ll mourn you for a week or so and then forget you. It will be as if you never existed. They’ll never know what became of you. I’ve spoken to the captain. He is turning the boat downriver. They were exploring upriver, but now that they have rescued me, of course their plans have changed. We’ll rejoin his fellows at the river mouth, and make straight for Jamaillia. You’ll never see Bingtown again. So. This is your life now, and the best you’ll get. So choose now, Malta Vestrit, once of Bingtown. Live as a servant. Or die as a used-up slattern, thrown off a war galley.’

The biscuit suddenly stuck in Malta’s throat. In his cold smile, she saw the truth of what he said. Her past had been torn away from her. This was her life now. She rose slowly, and walked across the room. She looked down at the man who would rule her, crouched incongruously at her feet. He gestured disdainfully at the buckets. She looked at them, wondering what she would do. It suddenly seemed all so distant. She was so weary and so hopeless. She didn’t want to be a servant, nor did she want to be used and discarded by a boatload of filthy Chalcedean sailors. She wanted to live. She would do what she must to survive.

She picked up the steaming bucket. She stepped up to the Satrap’s tub and poured a slow stream of water over him till he sighed in pleasure at the running warmth. A sudden waft of the steam made Malta smile. The idiots had heated river water for his bath. She should have guessed. A ship this size would not carry a vast supply of fresh water. They would conserve what they had. The Chalcedeans evidently knew they could not drink river water, but did not realize they should not bathe in it, for they probably did not bathe at all. They would not know what it would do to him. Tomorrow, blisters would cover him.

She smiled sweetly as she asked, ‘Shall I pour the second bucket over you as well?’

9 BATTLE

ALTHEA GLANCED ABOUT the deck; all was running smoothly. The wind was steady, and Haff was on the wheel. The sky overhead was a clear deep blue. Amidships, six sailors were methodically moving through a rote series of attacks and parries with sticks. Although they weren’t putting much spirit into it, Brashen seemed satisfied with the form and accuracy they achieved. Lavoy moved among them, chastising and correcting loudly. She shook her head to herself. She did not claim to know anything of fighting, but this set routine baffled her. No battle could be as orderly as the give and take of blows the sailors practised, nor as calm and unhurried as the archery practice that had preceded it. How could it be useful? Nevertheless, she kept her mouth shut, and when it was her turn, she drilled with the rest of them, and tried to put her heart into it. She was becoming a fair shot with the light bow allotted to her. Still, it was hard to believe that any of it would be useful in a real fight.

She hadn’t taken her doubts to Brashen. Lately her feelings for him had been running warmer. She would not tempt herself with private conferences with him. If he could control himself, then so could she. It was merely a matter of respect. She listened to the rhythmic clacking of the mock swords as Clef paced them with a chantey. If nothing else, she told herself, it kept the crew out of mischief. The Paragon carried more than a working crew, for Brashen had hired enough men to fight as well as run the ship, and extras to allow for losses. The stow-away slaves had swelled their population even more. The cramped quarters bred idle quarrelling when the men were not kept busy.

Satisfied that nothing required her immediate attention, she sprang to the mast. She pushed herself for speed going up it; sometimes her muscles ached due to the confines of the ship. A brisk trip to the lookout’s platform eased some of the kinks in her legs.

Amber heard her coming. She always seemed preternaturally aware of folk around her. Althea saw the carpenter’s resigned smile of welcome as she hauled herself over the lip of the platform and sat down beside her, legs dangling. ‘How do you feel?’ she greeted Amber.

Amber smiled ruefully. ‘Fine. Will you stop worrying? I’m over it. I’ve told you, this ailment comes and it goes. It’s not serious.’

‘Mm.’ Althea was not sure she believed her. She still wondered what had happened that night when she had found Amber unconscious on the deck. The carpenter claimed that she simply passed out, and that the bruises on her face came from striking the deck. Althea could think of no reason that she would lie. Surely if Lavoy had struck her down, either Amber or Paragon would have complained of it by now.

She studied Amber’s face. Lately the carpenter had begged for lookout duty, and Althea had reluctantly given it to her. If she passed out up here and fell to the deck, it would do more than bruise her face. Yet, the lofty, lonely duty seemed to agree with her, for though the wind had burned her face until it peeled, the skin beneath was tanned and glowing with health, which made her eyes seem darker and her hair more tawny. Althea had never seen her looking more vital.

‘There’s nothing to see,’ Amber muttered uncomfortably, and Althea realized she was staring. Deliberately she pretended to misunderstand. She scanned the full horizon as if checking for sails.

‘Amongst all these islands, you never know. That’s one reason the pirates love these waters. A ship can lie low and wait for her prey to come into sight. With all the little coves and inlets, a pirate might be lurking anywhere.’

‘Over there, for instance.’ Amber lifted an arm and pointed. Althea followed the gesture. She stared for a time critically, then asked, ‘You saw something?’

‘I thought I did, for an instant. The tip of a mast moving behind the trees on that point.’

Althea stared, squinting. ‘There’s nothing there,’ she decided, and relaxed her posture. ‘Maybe you saw a bird moving from tree to tree. The eye is drawn to motion, you know.’

The waterscape before them was a dazzling vista of greens and blues. Rocky steep-sided islands broke from the water, but above their sheer cliffs, they were lush with vegetation. Streams and waterfalls spilled down their steep sides. The bright flowing water glittered in the sunlight as it fell to shatter into the moving waves. So much anyone could see from the deck. Here, atop the mast, one could see the true contours of both land and water. The colour of the water varied not only by depth, but also with how much sweet water was floating atop the salt. The varying blues told Althea that the channel ahead was deep enough for Paragon, but rather narrow. Amber was supposed to watch these shades and give cry back to Haff on the wheel if shallows impeded their passage. Shifting sandbars were the second most legendary danger of the Pirate Isles. To the west, a multitude of jutting islets could be seen as islands, or as easily visualized as the mountaintops of a submerged coast. Fresh water flowed endlessly from that direction, carrying with it sand and debris that formed new sandbars and shallows. The storms that regularly battered the area swept through and rearranged these obstacles to shipping. Charting the Pirate Isles was a fruitless task. Waterways silted in and became impassable, only to be swept clean in the next storm. The hazards of navigation that slowed heavily-laden merchant vessels were the pirates’ ally. Often pirate craft were shallow draught, powered by sweeps as well as sail, and manned by men who knew the waters as well as they could be known. In all Althea’s days of sailing the Cursed Shores, she had never ventured this deeply into the Pirate Isles. Her father had always avoided them, as he avoided any kind of trouble. ‘The profit from danger only pays you interest in trouble,’ he’d said more than once. Althea smiled to herself.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Amber asked her quietly.

‘My father.’

Amber nodded. ‘It’s good that you can think of him and smile now.’

Althea murmured an assent, but said no more. For a time, they rode the mast in silence. The high platform amplified the gentle rolling of the ship below them. Althea could not remember a time when she had not found the movement intoxicating. But peace did not last. The question itched at her. Without looking at Amber, she asked yet again, ‘Are you sure Lavoy did nothing to you?’

Amber sighed. ‘Why would I lie to you?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. Why would you answer my question with another question?’

Amber faced her squarely. ‘Why can’t you accept that I was feeling sick and collapsed? If it had been anything other than that, do you think Paragon would have kept silent about it all this time?’

Althea did not reply immediately. Then she said, ‘I don’t know. Paragon seems to be changing lately. It used to annoy me when he was sulky or melodramatic. He seemed like a neglected boy to me then. Yet there were times when he was eager to please. He spoke of proving himself to me and Brashen. But lately, when he talks with me at all, he says shocking things. He brings up pirates, and all he talks of is blood and violence and killing. Torture he has seen. He says it all in such a way that it is like dealing with a braggart child who deliberately lies to shock me. I cannot even decide how much of it to believe. Does he think I will be impressed with how much cruelty he has witnessed? When I challenge him, he agrees such things are horrendous. But he relates those stories with such salacious glee, it is as if there is a violent and cruel man hiding within him, relishing what he is capable of doing. I don’t know where all the viciousness is coming from.’ She glanced away from Amber and added quietly, ‘But I don’t like how much time he spends with Lavoy.’

‘You could more correctly say how much time Lavoy spends with him. Paragon can scarcely seek out the mate. The man comes to him, Althea. And truly, Lavoy brings out the worst in Paragon. He encourages him in violent fantasies. They vie in the telling of such stories, as if witnessing cruelty were a measure of manhood.’ Amber’s voice was deceptively soft. ‘For his own ends, I fear.’

Althea felt uncomfortable. She had the sudden feeling that she was going to regret leading the conversation in this direction. ‘There is little that can be done about that.’

‘Isn’t there?’ Amber gave her a sideways glance. ‘Brashen could forbid it.’

Althea shook her head regretfully. ‘Not without undermining Lavoy’s command of the ship. The men would see it as a rebuke to him and –’

‘Then let them. It is my experience that when a man in command of other men starts to go rotten, it is best to expel him as soon as possible. Althea, think. The ship is not subtle. Paragon says what is in his mind. The sailors are wiser than that. But if Lavoy is influencing the ship to his way of thinking, can you imagine he is doing less with the crew, especially the Tattooed? Lavoy has gained far too much influence over them. They are, in some ways, like Paragon. They have been brutalized by life and the experience has left them capable of cold cruelty. Lavoy builds on that in men. Look how he encourages the crew to deride and torment Lop.’ She looked away from Althea, out over the water. ‘Lavoy is a danger. We should be rid of him.’

‘But Lavoy –’ Althea began. She was interrupted by Amber springing to her feet.

‘Ship!’ she shouted, pointing. On the deck below, the secondary watchman took up the cry and pointed in the same direction for the benefit of the man on the wheel. Althea saw it now, a mast moving behind a thin line of trees on a long point of land, close to where Amber had been watching earlier. The ship had probably held back and waited there, allowing the Paragon to come closer before they made their attempt.

‘Pirates!’ Althea confirmed. And ‘PIRATES!’ she yelled down to alert the crew below. As if aware that they had been seen, colours suddenly unfurled from the other ship’s flagstaff, a red flag with a black emblem on it. Althea counted six small boats being prepared for launch from the other ship. That would be their tactic then; the little boats would harry Paragon and board him if they could while the larger ship tried to force him into the shallows ahead. If the small boats’ crews were successful at overrunning Paragon’s deck, they could deliberately run him aground and pluck him at their leisure. Althea’s heart hammered. They had spoken of this, prepared for this, but somehow it still shocked her. For an instant, fear gripped her so strongly she could not breathe. The men in those boats would do all in their power to kill her. She choked a breath past her terror, shut her eyes and then opened them wide. There was no time to fear for her own life. The ship depended on her.

Brashen had appeared on deck at her first shout. ‘Put on sail!’ Althea shouted down to him. ‘They’re trying to wolf-pack us, but we can outrun them. Six small boats, and a mother ship. Be wary! There are shallows ahead.’ She turned to Amber. ‘Go down to Paragon. Tell him he must aid us to keep him in the best channel. If the pirates start to get close to us, arm him. He could do a lot to drive back a small boat. I’m going to keep the watch here. The captain will run the deck.’

Amber did not wait to hear more. She was gone, spidering down the lines as if she had done it all her life. As Paragon drew abreast of the point of land, the small boats raced to intercept him. Six men in each craft manned the oars while others clutched weapons or grapples and awaited their opportunity. Below her, Paragon’s deck swarmed with activity. Some crew hastened to add canvas while others passed out weapons or took up watch positions all along the railings. The frenzied activity was not the coordinated preparation she had hoped to see.

Althea felt a sudden rush of anticipation. The excitement was giddying, submerging her fear. After all the waiting, her chance had finally, finally come. She would fight and she would kill. All of them would see what she could do; they would have to respect her after this. ‘Oh, Paragon,’ she whispered to herself as she realized abruptly the source of her feelings. ‘Oh, ship, you have nothing to prove to anyone. Don’t let this become you.’

If he was aware of her thoughts, he gave no sign of it. Almost, she was glad to cloak her fear in his bravado. As she called down to Brashen the locations of the oncoming boats that he might steer to avoid them, Paragon was shouting for their blood. Amber had not armed him yet. He roared his threats and thrashed mightily, blindly flailing his arms as he sought for prey within his reach. As Althea watched from her rocking perch, two of the small boats slackened their efforts at the sight and sound of the infuriated figurehead. The other four came on unchecked. She could see them clearly now. The men wore red kerchiefs with a black sigil on their brows. Most of them had tattooed faces. Their mouths were wide as they yelled their own threats back at the ship and brandished swords.

What was happening on Paragon’s deck was not so clear to Althea. Rigging and canvas blocked her view of Paragon’s deck, but she could hear Brashen bellowing orders and curses. Althea continued to cry the positions of the small boats. She took heart that two of the little boats were already falling back. Perhaps they might just slip by all of them. Brashen gave orders intending to evade them, but the wild leaning of the figurehead was thwarting the steersman’s efforts. From her perch, Althea heard Amber’s voice raised clearly once. ‘I decide!’ she declared emphatically to someone.

Brashen’s heart sank within him. None of the crew’s training seemed to be bearing fruit. He glanced about for Lavoy. He was supposed to be commanding the archers. The mate should also be bringing the deck under control, but the man was nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t time to find him: Brashen needed the crew to function now. They raced about like unruly children playing a wild game. At this first challenge, most of them had reverted to being the waterfront scum he had recruited in Bingtown. He recalled with chagrin his orderly plan: one set of men to defend the ship, a second ready to attack whilst a third saw to the sailing of the ship. The railing should have been lined with a row of archers by now. It wasn’t. He estimated that perhaps half his crew recalled what they were supposed to be doing. Some gawked, or leaned over the railing shouting and making bets as if they were watching a horse race. Others shouted insults at the pirates, and shook weapons at them. He saw two men squabbling like schoolboys over a sword. The ship was the worst of all, wallowing about instead of answering the helm. With every instant, the pirates drew closer.

He abandoned the distance a captain kept from his crew. Haff on the wheel seemed to be the only man focused on his task. Brashen moved swiftly about the deck. A well-aimed kick broke up one group of gawkers. ‘To your posts,’ he snapped at them. ‘Paragon!’ he bellowed. ‘Straighten yourself!’ Five steps carried him to where the men were pawing through the arms. The two squabblers he seized by their collars, knocked their heads together, and then armed them both with less desirable blades. The sword they had fought over he kept for himself. He glanced about. ‘Jek! You’re in charge of passing out weapons. One to a man, and if anyone doesn’t take what he’s offered, he does without. The rest of you, get in line!’ He ordered aloft three men who were hanging back, bidding them watch and cry down to him all they saw. They sprang to with a will, gladly giving up their weapons to those more anxious to fight. Brashen berated himself for not foreseeing this chaos. As their cries and Althea’s shouts told him the positions of the advancing boats, he shouted his orders to the man on the wheel and the crew working the rigging. He judged that they would be able to evade the smaller boats, but not by much. As for the larger vessel behind him, well, the same wind filled her sails as his. He had a lead, and should be able to keep it. Paragon was a liveship, damn it. He should be able to outrun anything he had a lead on. Yet for all that, the ship’s responses lagged, as if Paragon resisted the crew’s efforts to speed him along. Dread uncoiled inside Brashen. If Paragon did not pick up speed, the smaller boats would close with him.

In a matter of minutes, Brashen had the ship’s deck crew working smoothly. As the chaos subsided, he glanced about for Lavoy. Where was the man whose job he’d been doing?

He spotted Lavoy headed for the foredeck. Even more unnerving than the previous disorder was the small, orderly group of men around Lavoy. Composed mostly of the former slaves they had smuggled out of Bingtown, this group flanked the first mate as if they were his personal escort. They carried both bows and swords. They ranged themselves on the foredeck. Purpose was in Lavoy’s stride as he paced it. Brashen felt an irrational flash of anger. The way the men moved around Lavoy told all. This was Lavoy’s élite crew. They answered to him, not Brashen.

As Brashen crossed the deck, his coat snagged on something. He spun in annoyance to free it, and found a flush-faced Clef hanging on to him. The boy held a long knife in his right hand and his blue eyes were wide. He quailed at Brashen’s stern look but did not let go of his jacket. ‘’m watchen your back, Cap’n,’ he announced. A disdainful toss of his head indicated Lavoy and the men around him. ‘Wait,’ Clef suggested in a lowered voice. ‘Jes watch’em for a minute.’

‘Let go,’ Brashen ordered him in annoyance. The boy complied, but followed him as closely as a shadow as Brashen headed for the foredeck.

‘Come here! I’ll kill you all! Come closer!’ Paragon shouted gleefully at the pirates in the small boats. His voice was deeper and hoarser than Brashen had ever heard it. If not for the volume of the words, he would not have known it was his ship. He felt Paragon’s bloodlust himself for an instant; a boy’s wild determination to prove himself spiked with a man’s drive to crush any who opposed him. It chilled him, and his spine grew colder as he heard Lavoy’s wild shout of laughter. Was Lavoy unknowingly feeding off Paragon’s wild emotions?

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