win.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Amber replied. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t want to wait for it to be that desperate. I want to act before they do. Paragon. We need help. We need someone who will speak to the Bingtown Traders’ Council for us.’
‘Can’t you?’
‘You know I can’t. Only an Old Trader can attend those meetings, let alone speak. We need someone who can go to them and convince them they should forbid the Ludlucks to do this.’
‘Who?’
Amber’s voice was small. ‘I had hoped you knew someone who would speak for you.’
Paragon was silent for a time. Then he laughed harshly. ‘No one will speak for me. This is a stupid effort, Amber. Think about it. Not even my own family cares for me. I know what they say about me. I am a killer. Moreover, it’s true, isn’t it? All hands lost. I rolled and drowned them all, and not just once. The Ludlucks are right, Amber. They should sell me to be chopped up.’ Despair washed over him, colder and deeper than any storm wave. ‘I’d like to be dead,’ he declared. ‘I’d just like to stop.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ Amber said softly. He could hear in her voice that she knew he did.
‘Would you do me a favour?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Kill me before they can.’
He heard the soft intake of her breath. ‘I…No. I couldn’t –’
‘If you knew they were coming to chop me up, you could. I will tell you the only sure way. You have to set fire to me. Not just in one place, but many, to make sure they cannot put it out and save me. If you gathered dry wood, a little each day, and put it in piles in my hold…’
‘Don’t even speak of such things,’ Amber said faintly. Distractedly, she added, ‘I should put the mussels on to cook now.’ He heard her scratching at her fire, then the sizzle of wet seaweed steaming on hot coals. She was cooking the mussels alive. He considered pointing that out to her. He decided it would only upset her, not sway her to his cause. He waited until she had come back to him. She sat on the sand, leaning against his canted hull. Her hair was very fine. When it brushed against his planking, it snagged and clung to the wood.
‘You don’t make sense,’ he pointed out genially. ‘You vow you would stand and fight for me, knowing you would lose. But this simple, sure mercy you refuse me.’
‘Death by flames is scarcely mercy.’
‘No. Being chopped to pieces is much more pleasant, I’m sure,’ Paragon retorted sarcastically.
‘You go so quickly from childish tantrums to cold logic,’ Amber said wonderingly. ‘Are you child or man? What are you?’
‘Both, perhaps. But you change the subject. Come. Promise me.’
‘No,’ she pleaded.
He let out his breath in a sigh. She would do it. He could hear it in her voice. If there were no other way to save him, then she would do it. A strange trembling ran through him. It was a strange victory to have won. ‘And jars of oil,’ he added. ‘When they come, you may not have much time. Oil would make the wood burn fast and hot.’
There followed a long silence. When she spoke again, her voice was altered. ‘They will try to move you in secret. Tell me how they would do it.’
‘Probably the same way I was put up here. They will wait for a high tide. Most likely, they would choose the highest tide of the month, at night. They will come with rollers, donkeys, men, and small boats. It will not be a small undertaking, but knowledgeable men could get it done quickly.’
Amber considered. ‘I shall have to move my things into you. I shall have to sleep aboard in order to guard you. Oh, Paragon,’ she cried out suddenly, ‘don’t you have anyone who could speak up for you to the Bingtown Council?’
‘Only you.’
‘I’ll try. But I doubt they will give me a chance. I’m an outsider in Bingtown. They only listen to their own.’
‘You once told me you were respected in Bingtown.’
‘As an artisan and a merchant, they respect me. I am not an Old Trader. They would not have much patience with me if I began meddling in their affairs. Likely, I would suddenly find I had no customers. Or perhaps worse. The whole town is becoming more divided along Old Trader and newcomer lines. There is a rumour that the Bingtown Council has sent a delegation to the Satrap, with their original charter. They will demand he honour the word of Satrap Esclepius. The rumour is that they will demand he recall all the New Traders, and cancel all the land grants he has made them. They also demand that Satrap Cosgo live up to the old charter, and forbear from issuing any more land grants without the consent of the Bingtown Traders.’
‘A detailed rumour,’ Paragon observed.
‘I have a keen ear for rumour and gossip. More than once, it has kept me alive.’
A silence fell.
‘I wish I knew when Althea was coming back.’ Amber’s voice was wistful. ‘I could ask her to speak for us.’
Paragon debated mentioning Brashen Trell. Brashen was his friend, Brashen would want to speak for him. Brashen was Old Trader. But even as he thought of that, he recalled that Brashen had been disinherited. Brashen was as much a disgrace to the Trell family as Paragon was to the Ludlucks. It would do no good to have Brashen speak out for him, even if he could get the Bingtown Traders’ Council to hear him. It would be one black sheep speaking on behalf of another. No one would listen. He set his hand over the scar on his chest, concealing for an instant the crude, seven-pointed star branded into him. His fingers travelled over it thoughtfully. He sighed, then drew a deep breath.
‘The mussels are done. I can smell them.’
‘Do you want to taste one?’
‘Why not?’ He should try new things while he still could. It might not be much longer before his chances to experience new things were gone forever.
‘BACK IN THE monastery, Berandol used to say that one way to disperse fear and create decision was to consider the worst possible outcome of one’s actions.’ After a moment Wintrow added, ‘Berandol said that if one considered the worst possible outcome and planned how to face it, then he could be decisive when it came time to act.’
Vivacia glanced back over her shoulder at Wintrow. The boy had been leaning on the bow rail for the better part of the morning, staring out over the choppy water of the channel. The wind had pulled his black hair free of his queue. The ragged remnants of his brown garments looked more like a beggar’s rags than a priest’s robe. The sentient figurehead had been aware of him, but had chosen to share his silence and mood. There was little to say to each other that they did not both already know. Even now, the boy spoke only to put his own thoughts in order, not to ask any advice of her. She knew that, but still prompted him along. ‘And our worst fear is?’
