The evening was muggy. They sat on driftwood logs on the beach. Clef had lugged the beer out from town for them. It was cheap beer and, even at that, too dear for their budget. But the day had been exceptionally long and hot, and Paragon especially difficult. They had convened in the shade of his stern. He had reverted today to his most infantile behavior, which included name-calling and sand-throwing. With the ship laid over on the beach, he could reach a near-unlimited supply. Brashen felt prickly from the sand stuck in his sweaty hair and down the back of his neck. Shouting and cursing him had no effect on him. In the end, Brashen had simply hunkered down and done the necessary work while making no response to the showers of sand from Paragon.

Althea had shrugged one shoulder. Brashen could see black, gritty sand trapped along her hairline. “What can you do? He's a bit large to spank. You can't send him to bed, let alone without any supper. I don't think there is any way to discipline him. We may have to resort to bribes.”

Amber set down her mug of beer. “You're speaking of punishments. The issue is discipline.”

Althea looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose they are two different things, though I don't know how you separate them.”

“I'm ready to try anything to make him behave. Can you imagine the difficulty of sailing him as he is? If we don't make him more tractable soon, all of this work will have been for nothing.” Brashen voiced his deepest fear. “He could turn on us. In a storm, or a confrontation with pirates ... he could kill us all.” In a lower voice, he forced himself to add, “He's done it before. We know he is capable.”

It was the one topic they had never openly discussed. Odd, Brashen thought. Paragon's madness was something they dealt with every day. They had spoken often of many aspects of it, but never bluntly considered it in its entirety. Even now, a silence followed his words.

“What does he want?” Amber asked them all. “Discipline must come from within himself. He must desire to be cooperative, and that desire is only going to be based on what he wants. Ideally, we can hope that that is something we can either provide, or deny him, based on his behavior.”

She sounded troubled as she added, “He's going to have to learn there are consequences for bad behavior.”

Brashen had smiled wryly. “That will be almost harder on you than it is on him. I know you can't stand to see him unhappy. No matter how rotten he is, you always go to him when evening comes, to talk to him or tell him stories or play music for him.”

Amber looked down guiltily, toying with the fingers of her heavy work gloves. “I can feel his pain,” she confessed. “So much has been done to him. So often, he has been left with no choices. And he is so confused. He fears to hope for the best, for whenever he has dared to hope in the past, all joy has been snatched from him. So he has made up his mind to believe, from the outset, that every man's hand is against him. He acts to hurt before he can be hurt. That's a thick wall to break through.”

“So. What can we do?”

Amber closed her eyes tight, as if in pain. Then she opened them. “What is hardest, and hope it is also what is right.” She had risen then and walked the length of the hauled down ship to the bow. Her clear voice carried to them when she spoke to the figurehead. “Paragon. You have behaved badly today. Because of that, I won't be coming to tell you stories tonight. I'm sorry it has to be this way. If you behave tomorrow, I will spend time with you tomorrow night.”

Paragon's silence was very brief. “I don't care. You tell stupid, boring stories anyway. What makes you think I want to hear them? Stay away from me forever. Leave me alone. I don't care. I never cared.”

“I'm very sorry to hear that.”

“I don't care, you stupid bitch! Didn't you hear me? I don't care! I hate you all!”

Amber's step was slow and heavy as she came back to them. She resumed her seat on the log without a word.

“Well. That went well,” Althea observed dryly. “I can see that his behavior will improve in no time.”

The words came back to haunt Brashen as he paced yet another circuit of the work site. Everything was ready and in position. Nothing more could be done until the tide came in. A heavy counterweight attached to what was left of Paragon's mast would ensure that the ship did not right himself too swiftly. Brashen looked out to the work barge anchored offshore. He had put a good man out there, one of the few of his new crew that he actually trusted. Haff would be watching for Brashen's flag signals and supervising the crew on the capstan that would drag the Paragon back toward the water. Inside the Paragon would be other men, ready to man the bilge pumps continuously. His biggest fears were for the side of Paragon that had been in contact with the abrasion and insects of the beach for all those years. He had done what he could from the inside of the hull. He had a weighted sheet of canvas to drop down along that side of the hull, as soon as the ship was in the water and righted. If, as he expected, water rushed through the gaps between those planks, the flow would press the canvas up against the hull, where the fabric would at least slow it. He might have to re-beach the Paragon, with that side up, for extended chinking and caulking on that planking. He hoped not, but was resigned to do whatever he must to make the ship seaworthy.