He heard them long before they reached him. He knew it was full dark night, for the evening birds had ceased their calls hours ago. From the damp that beaded him, he suspected there was a dense fog tonight. So Paragon waited with trepidation, wondering why two humans would be picking their way down the beach toward him in the dark and fog. He could not doubt that he was their destination; there was nothing else on this beach. As they drew closer, he could smell the hot oil of a burning lantern. It did not seem to be doing them much good, for there had been frequent small curses as they worked their stumbling way towards him. He already knew one was Mingsley. He was coming to know that man's voice entirely too well.

Perhaps they were coming to set fire to him. He had taunted Mingsley the last time he was here. Perhaps the man would fling the lantern at him. The glass would break and flaming oil would splash over him. He'd die here, screaming and helpless, a slow death by fire.

“Not much farther,” Paragon heard Mingsley promise his companion.

“That's the third time you've said that,” complained another voice. His accent spoke of Chalced even more strongly than Mingsley's did of Jamaillia. “I've fallen twice, and I think my knee is bleeding. This had damn well better be worth it, Mingsley.”

“It is, it is. Wait until you see it.”

“In this fog, we won't be able to see a thing. Why couldn't we come by day?”

Did Mingsley hesitate in his reply? “There has been some bad feeling about town; the Old Traders don't like the idea of anyone not an Old Trader buying a liveship. If they knew you were interested . . . well. I've had a few not-so-subtle warnings to stay away from here. When I ask why, I get lies and excuses. They tell me no one but a Bingtown Trader can own a liveship. You ask why, you'll get more lies. Goes against all their traditions, is what they'd like you to believe. But actually, there's a great deal more to it than that. More than I ever suspected when I first started negotiating for this. Ah! Here we are! Even damaged, you can see how magnificent he once was.”

The voices had grown closer as Mingsley was speaking. A sense of foreboding had been growing within Paragon, too, but his voice was steady as he boomed out, “Magnificent? I thought 'ugly' was the word you applied to me last time.”

He had the satisfaction of hearing both men gasp.

Mingsley's voice was none too steady as he attempted to brag, “Well, we should have expected that. A liveship is, after all, alive.” There was a sound of metal against metal. Paragon guessed that a lantern had been unhooded to shed more light. The smell of hot oil came more strongly. Paragon shifted uneasily, crossing his arms on his chest. “There, Firth. What do you think of him?” Mingsley announced.

“I'm . . . overwhelmed,” the other man muttered. There was genuine awe in his voice. Then he coughed and added, “But I still don't know why we're out here and at night. Oh, I know a part of it. You want my financial backing. But just why should I help you raise three times what a ship this size would cost us for a beached derelict with a chopped-up figurehead? Even if it can talk.”

“Because it's made of wizardwood.” Mingsley uttered the words as if revealing a well-kept secret.

“So? All liveships are,” Firth retorted.

“And why is that?” Mingsley added in a voice freighted with mystery. “Why build a ship of wizardwood, a substance so horrendously expensive it takes generations to pay one off? Why?”

“Everyone knows why,” Firth grumbled. “They come to life and then they're easier to sail.”

“Tell me. Knowing that about wizardwood, would you rush to commit your family's fortunes for three or four generations, just to possess a ship like this?”

“No. But Bingtown Traders are crazy. Everyone knows that.”

“So crazy that every damn family of them is rich,” Mingsley pointed out. “And what makes them rich?”

“Their damn monopolies on the most fascinating trade goods in the world. Mingsley, we could have discussed economics back at the inn, over hot spiced cider. I'm cold, the fog has soaked me through, and my knee is throbbing like I'm poisoned. Get to the point.”

“If you fell on barnacles, likely you are poisoned,” Paragon observed in a booming voice. “Likely it will swell and fester. He's lined you up for at least a week of pain.”

“Be quiet!” Mingsley hissed.

“Why should I?” Paragon mocked him. “Are you that nervous about being caught out here, tinkering with what doesn't concern you? Talking about what you can never possess?”