of the Rain Wild folk. And when she died, it would be her own son or daughter that stepped up to the helm, not one of Kyle’s get. This she promised to both herself and the ship. Althea wiped her tears on the back of her hand and then stooped to gather the silk from the floor.
He was dozing on the sand. Dozing. That was the word the humans had always used, but he had never agreed that what he did was similar to the sleep they indulged in. He did not think a liveship could sleep. No. Even that escape was denied him. Instead, he could go somewhere else in his mind, and immerse himself so deeply in that past moment that the deadly boredom of the present retreated. There was one place in his past that he used most frequently for that. He was not entirely sure what it was he was recalling. Ever since his log books had been taken from him, his memory had begun to stretch and grow thin. There were growing gaps in it now, places where he could not make the events of one year connect to those of another. Sometimes he thought perhaps he should be grateful for that.
So as he dozed in the sun, what he chose to recall was satiation and warmth. The gentle scratching of the sand beneath his hull translated into an elusively similar sensation that refused to be completely called to his mind. He did not try very hard. It was enough to cling to an ancient memory of feeling replete and satisfied and warm.
The men’s voices stirred him from that. ‘This is it? This has been here for, what did you say? Thirty years.’ An accent flavoured the words. Jamaillian, Paragon thought to himself. And from the capital, Jamaillia City itself. Those from the south provinces swallowed their end consonants. This he recalled without knowing the source of the knowledge.
‘This is it,’ another voice replied. The second voice was older.
‘This has not been here thirty years,’ the younger voice asserted. ‘A ship pulled out and left on a beach for thirty years would be worm-holed and barnacled over.’
‘Unless it’s made from wizardwood,’ responded the older voice. ‘Liveships don’t rot, Mingsley. Nor do barnacles or tubeworms find them appetizing. That is but one of the reasons the ships are so expensive, and so desirable. They endure for generations, with little of the hull maintenance an ordinary ship requires. Out on the seas, they take care of themselves. They’ll yell to a steersman if they see hazards in their paths. Some of them near sail themselves. What other vessel can warn you that a cargo has shifted, or that you’ve overloaded them? A wizardwood ship on the sea is a wonder to behold! What other vessel…’
‘Sure. So tell me again why this one was hauled out and abandoned?’ The younger voice sounded extremely sceptical. Mingsley did not trust his older guide, that much was certain.
Paragon could almost hear the older man shrug. ‘You know what a superstitious lot sailors are. This ship has a reputation for bad luck. Very bad luck. I might as well tell you, because if I don’t someone else will. He’s killed a lot of men, the Paragon has. Including the owner and his son.’
‘Um.’ Mingsley mused. ‘Well, if I buy it, I wouldn’t be buying it as a ship. I wouldn’t expect to pay a ship’s price for it, either. Quite honestly, it’s the wood I want. I’ve heard a lot of strange things about it, and not just that the liveships quicken and then move and speak. I’ve seen that down in the harbour. Not that a newcomer like me is very welcome on the North wall where the liveships tie up. But I’ve seen them move and heard them speak. Seems to me, if you can make a figurehead do that, you could do it with a smaller carving of the same wood. Do you know how much they’d pay for something like that in Jamaillia City? A moving, speaking carving?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ the older man demurred.
The young man gave a snort of sarcastic laughter. ‘Of course you don’t! It’s never occurred to you, has it? Come on, man, be honest with me. Why hasn’t this ever been done before?’
‘I don’t know.’ The older man spoke too hastily to be plausible.
‘Right,’ Mingsley replied sceptically. ‘All the years Bingtown has existed on the Cursed Shores, and no one has thought of marketing wizardwood anywhere except to the residents of Bingtown. And then only as ships. What’s the real catch? Does it have to be this big before it can quicken? Does it have to be immersed in saltwater a certain amount of the time? What?’
‘It’s just… never been done. Bingtown is an odd place, Mingsley. We have our own traditions, our own folklore, our own superstitions. When our ancestors left Jamaillia all those years ago and came to try to colonize the Cursed Shores, well… most came because they had no other options left. Some were criminals, some had shamed or ruined their family names, some were very unpopular with the Satrap himself. It was almost an exiling. They were told that if they survived, each family could claim two hundred leffers of land and would be granted amnesty for their past. He also promised us we would be left in peace, with trade monopoly over whatever goods we found worth trading. In return for the Satrap granting them this, they ceded to him a fifty per cent tax on their profits. For years, this bargain worked well.’
‘And now it no longer does.’ Mingsley laughed mockingly. ‘How could anyone believe that such a bargain would last for ever? Satraps are human. And Satrap Cosgo finds the contents of his coffers too small for the habits of pleasure he acquired while waiting for his father to die. Chalcedean pleasure herbs are not cheap, and once the habit has been acquired, well, lesser herbs simply do not compare. And so he sold, to me and my friends, new trading and land grants for Bingtown and the Cursed Shores. And we have come and been very poorly welcomed by you all. You act as if we will snatch the bread from your mouths, when all know that business but begets more business. Why, look at us here. This ship has been rotting here for thirty years, or so you say, of no use to its owners or anyone else. But if I buy, the owner will get a nice price, I don’t doubt you will work yourself a nice commission, and I will have a quantity of this mysterious wizardwood.’ Mingsley paused and Paragon could hear the silence that his companion allowed to grow.
After a moment, Mingsley continued discontentedly, ‘But I will admit I am disappointed. I thought you said the ship had quickened. I thought it would speak to us. You did not mention it had been vandalized. Did that kill it?’
‘The Paragon speaks only when it pleases him. I don’t doubt he’s heard every word we said.’
‘Hmf. Is that true, ship? Have you heard every word we’ve said?’
Paragon saw no reason to reply. After a time, he heard the younger man make an expression of disgust. His footsteps began a slow circuit of the ship, while his heavier, slower companion followed.
After a time, Mingsley spoke again. ‘Well, my friend, I’m afraid this substantially lowers what I shall offer for the ship. My first estimate to you was based on the concept that I could cut the figurehead free of the ship, take it to Jamaillia City, and sell the quickened wood for a goodly sum. Or more likely, I would end up “gifting” it to the Satrap for some extensive land grants. But as it is… wizardwood or not, it’s a singularly ugly bit of carving. What possessed someone to chop the face up so badly? I wonder if an artisan could reshape it into something more pleasing?’
‘Perhaps,’ his companion conceded uneasily. ‘I do not know that that would be wise. I had assumed you were interested in the Paragon as he is, not as a source of wizardwood. Though you must recall, as I warned you, I have not yet approached the Ludlucks with the idea of selling him. I did not wish to broach the idea unless I was sure you were interested.’
‘Come, Davad, you cannot believe me so naive as that. What is “he”, besides a beached hulk? The owners will probably be glad to be rid of him. Were this ship seaworthy, it would hardly be chained to the beach like this.’
‘Well.’
