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 logbooks 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 hodgepodge fleet flew not only the colors 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 toward 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 rumors 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.