Paragon sighed and let himself list, just a little, as he always did if he wasn’t thinking about it. It wasn’t his fault. It was a flaw in his construction. It was the sort of thing that was bound to happen when a ship was built from two different logs of wizardwood. One dragon would always try to dominate the other. Fight, fight, fight, that was all they ever did, until he was sick of trying to make sense of those other selves. He had pushed them down deep and decided to be just Paragon. Paragon Ludluck. He said the name aloud, but softly. He closed his mouth. He stopped breathing. He didn’t really have to breathe, that was just a part of the shape they had given him. It was a shape he could change, if he thought about it carefully. Each carefully fitted plank of wizardwood could shift, just a tiny bit. For a time, he felt nothing. Then inside himself he knew the sheen of seeping water, the slow chill of water running slowly down the inside of his planking. Slowly, ever so slowly he began to grow heavier. He let himself list more. Inside him, the crew began to be aware of it. There were shouts, and the thunder of feet as men ran to try to find where the water was coming in. Every single seam oozed water now. The only question that remained now was whether the fire or the sea would take him first. Probably a bit of both, he thought placidly. But it would not be his fault. He crossed his arms on his chest, faced into the rising storm and composed himself for death.

“I THOUGHT YOU’D WANT TO MAKE THE DECISION YOURSELF, SIR.” JOLA STOOD very stiff. He knew he ventured onto dangerous ground, but he was sage enough to realize that not to defer this to Kennit would have been even more dangerous. Still, Kennit rather wished the mate had just let them drown. It would have been so much tidier.

He leaned over the railing and looked down at the woman in the water. Her blonde hair floated around her like a mat of seaweed. The cold water was taking its toll on her, as was the rising chop of the waves. Soon it would all be over. Even as he watched, a wave washed over her, ducking her under for the duration of its passage. Surprisingly, her head reappeared. She was treading water doggedly. She could have lasted longer if she had let go of her companion. The lad in her arms looked dead anyway. Odd, how stubborn a dying person could be.

The pale woman in the water rolled her head back and coughed. “Please.” He did not hear the word. She was too weak to shout, but he read it formed on her lips. Please. Kennit scratched the side of his beard thoughtfully. “She’s from the Paragon,” he observed to Jola.

“Doubtless,” the mate agreed through gritted teeth. Whoever would have suspected that he would be so distressed by watching a woman drown? Kennit never ceased to marvel at the strange weaknesses that could hole a man’s character.

“Do you think we should take her up?” Kennit’s tone made it clear he was not offering the decision to the mate, only seeking his opinion. “We are pressed for time, you know. The serpents have already left.” In reality, Bolt had commanded them to leave. Kennit had been relieved to see that she still had that much control over them. Their failure to sink Paragon had rattled him badly. Only the white serpent had defied her orders. It continued to circle the ship, its red eyes oddly accusing. Kennit found he did not like it. It irritated him that it had not eaten the two survivors in the water. It would have saved him all this trouble. But no, it just hung there in the water, watching them curiously. Why didn’t it obey the ship?

He looked away from it, forcing his mind to the problem at hand. Bolt herself had indicated that she did not wish to witness the burning of the liveship. Kennit glanced up at the gathering storm. Leaving this place suited Kennit as well.

“Is that what you wish?” the mate weaseled. Kennit’s estimation of the man dropped. Sorcor, dumb as he was, would have been brave enough to express his opinion. Jola had not even that to his credit. The pirate captain glanced aft once more. The Paragon was burning merrily now. A gust of shifting wind carried the smoke and stench to him. Time to go. He wished to be out of the ship’s vicinity. It was not just that he expected the figurehead to do some screaming before the end; there was a real danger that the wind might carry burning scraps of canvas from Paragon’s rigging to Vivacia’s. “A shame we are so pressed for time just now,” he observed to Jola, and then his command to set sail died in his throat.

The blonde woman had leaned back in the water, revealing the features of the lad whose head she supported just out of the waves. “Wintrow!” he exclaimed incredulously. By what misfortune had Wintrow fallen into the sea, and how had she come to rescue him? “Take them up immediately!” he ordered Jola. Then, as the mate sprang to his command, a wave lifted the two floaters fractionally higher. It was not Wintrow. It was not even a man. Yet the compelling resemblance the woman in the water bore to the lad gripped Kennit, and he did not rescind his command. Jola was already shouting for a line to be flung.