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Brashen’s temper snapped. The brightness of the day blazed inside his skull, igniting the pain to unbearable heat. He snatched up one of the buckets of drinking water that the workers had left near the bow. With every ounce of strength he had, he dashed it in Paragon’s face.

The entire ship shuddered and Paragon gave an angry roar.

Water dripped from his beard and ran down his chest. Below him on the sand, Brashen dropped the now empty bucket.

He roared at the ship, ‘Don’t pretend you can’t hear me.

I’m your captain, damn it, and I won’t tolerate insubordination from you nor anyone else.

Get this through your wooden head, Paragon.

You’re going to sail. One way or another, I’m dragging you out into the water again and putting canvas on your bones.

Now you have a choice, but you’d better choose fast, because I am all out of patience.

You can go out of here listing and wallowing, sulking like a brat, and the whole damn fleet will watch you go that way.

Or you can lift your head up and sail out of here like you don’t give a damn about anything that anyone has ever said about you.

You have a chance to prove them all wrong.

You can make them eat every foul thing they’ve ever said about you.

You can sail out of here like a Bingtown liveship and we’ll go give some pirates a bloody bad time.

Or you can prove they were right all along and that I was the fool.

I’m telling you this because that is the only thing you have a choice in.

You don’t get to decide whether you’re going or not, because I’m the captain and I already decided that.

You’re a ship, not a flowerpot. You were meant to sail and it is what we are going to do. Are we clear on that?’

The ship clenched his jaws and crossed his arms on his chest. Brashen spun about and snatched up a second bucket. With a grunt of effort, he dashed it up into the figurehead’s face. Paragon recoiled, sputtering with shock.

‘Is that clear?’ Brashen bellowed. ‘Answer me, damn you!’

Around him, the workmen were transfixed with awe. They waited for him to die.

Althea had gripped Amber’s arm. The bead-maker’s eyes blazed with outrage. Only that hold kept her from charging out between Brashen and the ship. With a sign, Althea warned her to keep silent. Amber clenched her fists, but kept her tongue still.

‘It’s clear,’ Paragon finally replied. The words were clipped and unrepentant. But he had answered. Brashen clung to that tiny triumph.

‘Good,’ Brashen replied in a surprisingly calm voice.

‘I leave you to think about your choice. I think you can make me proud. I have to get back to my work. I intend that when you sail, you’ll look as sharp as the first time you were put into water.

’ He paused. ‘Maybe we can make them eat every slur they ever uttered about me, too.’

He turned back to Amber and Althea with a grin.

Neither woman returned it. After a moment, it faded from his face.

He took a breath and shook his head in resignation.

In a low voice, he spoke only to them. ‘I’m doing my best with him, the only way I know how.

I’m sailing. I’ll do or say whatever I must to get this ship in the water.

’ He glared at their disapproving silence.

‘Maybe you two need to decide how badly you want this to happen. But while you’re thinking, we’re the bow work crew.

Maybe tonight I can hire some new workers who aren’t afraid of him, but I can’t waste daylight on it now.

’ He pointed at the flung timber. ‘We’re putting that back in place.

’ In the quietest voice he could summon, he added, ‘If he thinks you’re afraid of him…

if he thinks he can get away with behaving like this… we are all lost. Paragon included.’

It was the start of a long, sweaty day. The skid timbers were massive.

In a fit of perversity, Brashen spared neither of the women nor himself.

He worked in the sun until he felt his brain boiling inside his skull.

They dug at dry sand and hauled it away.

The rocks they encountered were always wedged together in layers, or just slightly larger than one person could move.

He drove his body relentlessly, punishing it for its unceasing itch for cindin.

If either Althea or Amber had asked for quarter, he could have given it.

But Althea was as stubborn as he was, and Amber amazingly tenacious.

They matched the pace he set. More, as they worked under the nose of the figurehead, they included Paragon in the conversation, ignoring his stubborn silence.

The efforts of two mere women and their lack of fear seemed to shame the hired workmen.

First one, and then another came to join them at the bow.

When Amber’s friend Jek walked out from town to see what they were doing, she gave them a couple of hours of her strong back as well.

Clef came and went, getting underfoot as often as he was helpful.

Brashen snarled at the boy as frequently as he praised him, but his stint as a slave had given him a thick skin.

He worked doggedly, handicapped more by his size than any lack of skill.

He had all the makings of a good hand. Against his conscience, Brashen would probably take him along when they sailed. It was wrong, but he needed him.

The other workmen on the ship watched them surreptitiously.

Perhaps it shamed them to see the women working where they had refused to go.

They stepped up the pace of their own labours.

Brashen had never expected that such a sorry lot of dock scrapings would have any pride left.

He seized the opportunity to push them harder.

The afternoon was sweltering inside the morning room. Opening the windows hadn’t helped; there wasn’t a breath of air stirring. Malta plucked at the collar of her dress, pulling the damp fabric away from her skin.

‘I remember when we used to drink iced tea here. And your cook would make those tiny lemon pastries.’ Delo sounded more fretful about Malta’s reduced circumstances than Malta herself. In fact, it rather irritated Malta to have her friend so pointedly noticing all the deficiencies in her home.

‘Times have changed,’ Malta pointed out wearily. She walked over to the open window and leaned out to look at the neglected rose garden. The bushes were blooming voluptuously and sprawling, rejoicing in their lack of discipline. ‘Ice is expensive,’ she pointed out.

‘My papa bought two blocks yesterday,’ Delo said negligently. She fanned herself. ‘Cook is making ices for dessert tonight.’

‘Oh. How nice.’ Malta’s voice was void of expression.

How much of this did Delo expect her to take?

First, she had shown up in a new dress with a fan and a hat to match.

The fan was made of spice paper, and gave off a pleasant scent when she used it.

It was the newest vogue in Bingtown. Then Delo hadn’t even asked how the ship was coming along, or if they’d received a ransom note yet.

‘Let’s go out in the shade,’ Malta suggested.

‘No, not yet.’ Delo glanced around the room as if servants might be spying.

Malta almost sighed. They didn’t have servants to eavesdrop.

With a great show of secrecy, Delo pulled a small purse from inside the waistband of her skirt.

In a lowered voice, she confided, ‘Cerwin sent you this, to help you in these troubled times.’

For an instant, Malta could almost share Delo’s enjoyment of this dramatic moment.

Then it fluttered away from her. When she had first learned of her father’s abduction, it had seemed exciting and fraught with tragedy.

She had thrown herself into exploiting the situation to the limit of its theatrical possibilities.

Now the days had passed, one after another, full of anxiety and stress.

No good news had come. Bingtown had not rallied to their side.

People had expressed sympathy, but only as a courtesy.

A few had sent flowers with notes of commiseration, as if her father were already dead.

Despite her plea to Reyn that he come to her, he had not. No one had rallied to her.

Day after day had ground by in deadly, boring desperation.

It had slowly come to Malta that this was real, and that it might be the death knell for her family’s fortune.

She could not sleep for thinking of it. When she did fall asleep, her dreams were disturbing ones.

Something stalked her, determined to bend her to its will.

The dreams she could remember were like evil sendings from someone determined to break her hopes.

Yesterday morning she had awakened with a cry, from a nightmare in which her father’s wasted body washed up on the beach.

He could be dead, she suddenly realized.

He could already be dead and all these efforts for nothing.

She had lost spirit that day, and had not been able to recover hope or purpose since then.

She took the little purse from Delo’s hand and sat down.

Her friend’s discontented expression showed that she had expected a more passionate response.

She feigned examining it. It was a little cloth purse, extensively embroidered and closed with gilt strings.

Cerwin had probably bought it especially for her.

She tried to take some pleasure in that.

But thoughts of Cerwin were not as exciting as they had once been. He hadn’t kissed her.