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‘We are here to negotiate my restoration to Jamaillia City,’ the Satrap observed tightly. He had already seated himself at the negotiation table. The others had chosen seats but remained standing, waiting for Kennit. This assumption of protocol did not escape the pirate.

‘Of course we are,’ Kennit smiled widely.

He limped to the head of the table. ‘Wintrow,’ he said, and he obediently drew the chair out and accepted Kennit’s crutch after he was seated.

‘Please. Be comfortable,’ Kennit invited them, and the others took their places.

Sorcor was to his right, and Captain Red beyond him.

Wintrow claimed the seat to his left. The Satrap and Malta were opposite Kennit.

She had regained her composure. She steepled her hands on the table before her and waited.

Kennit settled himself comfortably in his chair.

‘Of course, your father is still alive and in my custody. Oh, not on this ship, of course. Kyle Haven generated far too much ill-will among the crew for that. But he is quite secure where he is. If we reach a satisfactory finish today, perhaps I shall throw him in as a token to Advisor Malta Vestrit, in humble gratitude for helping us negotiate.’

The Satrap’s boyish face flushed with rage. There. That had divided them. Malta had instantly suppressed it, but hope had flared bright in her eyes. She now had an interest in pleasing Kennit rather than protecting the Satrap.

She drew a sharp breath. Her voice was almost steady.

‘That is most kind of you, Captain Kennit. But my interests are not those of my family today.’ She tried to make eye contact with the Satrap, but he stared stonily at Kennit.

‘I am here as the Satrap’s most loyal subject,’ she finished.

She tried to put the ring of truth in her words, but Kennit heard her doubts.

‘Of course, my dear. Of course,’ he purred.

Now, he was ready to begin.

Brashen was catnapping on his bunk. Divvytown was little more than a day and a night away.

He shifted in his bedding, trying to burrow his way to sleep.

He had wrapped himself in Althea’s blanket.

It still smelled of her. Instead of soothing him, it made him ache with longing.

He feared for her. What if their plans failed?

All had gone well the last few days, he reminded himself.

The crew’s morale had vastly improved. A day ashore, fresh meat and vegetables, and the triumph of ‘stealing’ Kennit’s mother had restored their faith in themselves.

Mother herself seemed to have a cheering effect on them.

When weather drove her from the foredeck, she went to the ship’s galley, where she revealed a gift for turning hardtack into a sort of doughy pudding much favoured by the crew.

Most encouraging to Brashen was that Clef had assured him that the men were putting their hearts into recovering Althea.

Some felt loyalty to her; others yearned to regain pride lost at the drubbing they had received from the pirate.

A deep, recurrent sound penetrated Brashen’s mind.

Sleep fled. He rolled from his bunk, rubbed his sandy eyes, and thrust his feet into his shoes.

He emerged onto the deck into thin winter sunlight and a fresh breeze.

Paragon knifed effortlessly through the waves.

The crew took up a sudden chorus, and he looked up to see still more canvas blooming on the masts.

He suddenly realized what had wakened him.

Paragon’s deep voice vibrated the deck with a chantey, marking time for the crew as they hoisted canvas.

A shiver went up Brashen’s spine, followed by a lurching lift of his heart.

Familiar as he was with how a liveship’s dispositions could affect their crews, he was still unprepared for this.

The crew aloft was working with good-hearted energy.

He hurried forwards and encountered Semoy.

‘Too fine a wind to waste, sir!’ the acting mate greeted his captain with a gap-toothed grin.

‘I think we could see Divvytown before noon tomorrow if we can keep our canvas full!’ Squinting with determination, he added, ‘We’ll get our Althea back, sir. You’ll see.’

Brashen nodded and smiled uncertainly. When he reached the foredeck, he found Amber and Mother. Someone had secured Paragon’s long dark hair in a warrior’s tail. ‘What goes on here?’ Brashen asked in quiet disbelief.

Paragon turned his head, mouth wide as he held the final note of the chantey, then cut it off abruptly. ‘Good afternoon, Captain Trell,’ he boomed.

Amber laughed aloud. ‘I’m not sure, but no one can resist his mood today. I don’t know whether it’s because Mother finished reading his logs to him, or simply that he is –’

‘Decided!’ Paragon declared abruptly. ‘I’ve reached a decision, Brashen.

For myself. As I never have before. I’ve decided to put my heart into what we do.

Not for you, but for myself. I now believe that we can prevail.

So does Mother. She is sure that, between the two of us, we can make Kennit see reason. ’

The old woman smiled gently. The chill wind flushed her cheeks. In a strange contradiction, she seemed both frailer and more vital than she had. She nodded, approving Paragon’s recital.

‘The log-books were a part of it, Brashen, but not the largest piece. The largest piece is me. It has done me good to look back and see my voyages through my captains’ eyes.

The places I’ve been, Brashen, and the things I’ve seen, just in my life as a ship; they’re all mine.

’ He turned away from Brashen. His eyes were still closed but he seemed to stare far over the waters.

In a lowered voice he went on, ‘The pain was just a part of all that. I had lives before this one, and they are just as much mine as this. I can take all my pasts, keep them, and determine my own future. I don’t have to be what anyone made me, Brashen. I can be Paragon.’

Brashen lifted his hands from the railing.

Did the others hear the desperation behind the ship’s hopeful words?

If Paragon failed at this last grasp for wholeness, he suspected the ship would spiral down into madness.

‘I know you can,’ Brashen told the ship warmly.

A black corner of his soul felt sour and old at his lie.

He dared not trust the ship’s sudden elation.

It seemed a mirrored distortion of his formerly bleak moods.

Could not it vanish just as swiftly and arbitrarily?

‘Sail!’ Clef’s clear tenor called down from aloft. Then, ‘Sails!’ he amended. ‘Lots o’ ’em. Jamayan ships.’

‘That makes no sense,’ Brashen observed.

‘You want me to go aloft and take a look?’ Amber offered.

‘I’ll do it myself,’ Brashen assured her. He wanted some time alone, to think over the situation. He hadn’t been up in the rigging since they’d done their reconstruction. This would be as good a time as any to see how their repairs were holding up. He started up the mast.

He was soon distracted from the repaired rigging.

Clef was right. The distant ships were Jamaillian.

The hodge-podge fleet flew not only the colours of Jamaillia, but the flags of the Satrapy as well.

Ballista and other siege machines cluttered the decks of several larger ships.

This was no merchant fleet. The same wind that was speeding Paragon north towards Divvytown drove them.

Brashen doubted that they were heading for the pirate town.

All the same, he had no desire to attract their attention.

Once on the deck, he ordered Semoy to slack off the speed. ‘But gradually. If their lookouts are watching, I want it to appear that we are merely falling behind due to their speed, not slowing down to avoid them. They have no reason to be curious about us. Let’s not give them any.’

‘Althea said something about rumours in Divvytown.’ Amber spoke up. ‘She thought it was just a wild tale. Something about the Bingtown Traders offending or injuring the Satrap, and Jamaillia sending out a fleet to punish the town.’

‘Like as not, the Satrap has finally tired of both the real pirates and the pirates that masquerade as Chalcedean patrol vessels.’

‘Then they may be our allies against Kennit?’ Amber speculated.

Brashen shook his head and gave a rough laugh.

‘They’ll be after plunder and slaves as much as clearing the channels of pirates.

Any ship they capture, they’ll keep, and the folk on board.

No. Pray Sa to keep Vivacia well out of their sight, for if they seize her, our chances of getting Althea back are reduced to buying her on the slave block. ’

‘More candles, Wintrow,’ Kennit suggested merrily.

Wintrow stifled a sigh and rose to obey. The Satrap looked like a hollow-eyed ghost and the paint showed starkly on Malta’s pale face. Even Captain Red and Sorcor had begun to show signs of weariness. Only Kennit still possessed his frenzied energy.