“This I learned well on the deck: a pirate captain who can no longer actively lead his crew is soon fish bait. I will be sitting up when Sorcor arrives here.”

“Even if it kills you?” Wintrow asked quietly.

“Are you challenging my will in this?” Kennit demanded abruptly.

“No. Not your will. Your common sense. Why choose to die here, in your bed, for a certainty, simply to impress a man who impresses me as unfailing in his loyalty to you? I think you misjudge your crew. They will not turn on you over your need to rest.”

“You're a puppy,” Kennit declared in disdain. He rolled his head away from the boy, choosing to look at the wall. “What can you know of loyalty, or how a ship is run? I tell you, I will not be seen like this.” There was an edge in his voice that Wintrow suddenly recognized.

“Why did you not say that your pain was back? The kwazi-rind essence can dull it again. You will think more clearly without agony distracting you. And you will be able to rest.”

“You mean I will be more tractable if you drug me,” Kennit snarled. “You simply seek to impose your will upon me.” He lifted a shaking hand to his brow. “My head pounds with pain; how can that be due to my leg? Is it not more likely the result of some poison given me?” Even in his weariness, the pirate managed to summon up a look of sly amusement. Clearly, he supposed he had surprised Wintrow in a plot.

His words shocked Wintrow into momentary silence. How did one deal with such suspicion and distrust? In a cold, stiff voice he heard himself say, “I will force no medicines upon you, sir. If your pain becomes such that you desire release from it, summon me and I shall apply the kwazi rind. Until then, I shall not trouble you.” He spoke over his shoulder as he turned to go. “If you sit up to see Sorcor, the flow of blood you cause will end both our lives. But I cannot argue with your stubbornness.”

“Stop this,” Etta hissed at both of them. “There is a simple solution, one that may please us all. Will you allow me to suggest it?”

Kennit rolled his head back to stare at her with dulled eyes. “It is?” he prompted.

“Do not receive Sorcor. Simply give him an order to sail for Bull Creek and we will follow him. He does not need to know how weak you are. By the time we arrive in Bull Creek, you may be stronger.”

A spark of cunning lit in Kennit's eyes. “Bull Creek is too close,” he declared. “Have him lead us back to Divvytown. That will give me more time to recover.” He paused. “But Sorcor will surely wonder that I do not wish to hear his report. He will suspect something.”

Etta folded her arms across her chest. “Say you are busy. With me.” She gave him a small smile. “Send the boy to give the word to Brig, to pass to Sorcor. He will accept it.”

“It might work,” Kennit assented slowly. He flapped a slow hand at Wintrow. “Go now, right now. Tell Brig I am with Etta and do not wish to be disturbed. Pass on to him my orders that we are to head for Divvytown.” Kennit's eyes narrowed, but from slyness or weariness, Wintrow could not tell. “Suggest I may judge Brig's seamanship by how well he manages the ship between here and there. Imply this is a test of his skill, not a lapse on my part.” His eyelids sagged further. “Wait a time, until we are under way. Then come back here. I will judge you by how well this task is done. Convince Brig and Sorcor, and perhaps I will trust you to numb my leg for me.” Kennit's eyes closed completely. In a smaller voice he added, “Perhaps I shall let you live.”

CHAPTER NINE - Bingtown

DEEP INSIDE PARAGON, AMBER TOSSED AND TURNED LIKE A BADLY DIGESTED biscuit in a sailor's gut. A dream he was not privy to tore at her sleep, rending her rest into a blanketed struggle with herself. Sometimes Paragon was tempted to reach for her thoughts and share her distress, but most nights he was simply grateful that her torment was not his.

She had come to live aboard him, to sleep inside him at night and guard him from those who might come to tow him away and destroy him. In her own way, she had complied with his request as well. She had stocked several of his holds, not with driftwood and cheap lamp oil, but with the hardwoods and finishing oils of her trade. The fiction between them was that she stored them there so that she could sit beneath his bow of an evening and carve. They both knew that it would take but a moment to kindle the dry wood with the oil and fill him with flame. She would not let him be taken alive.

Sometimes he almost felt sorry for her. It was not easy for her to live inside the tilted quarters of the captain's room. With much muttering, she had cleared Brashen's abandoned possessions from the chambers. Paragon had noticed that she had handled them thoughtfully before she carefully stowed them belowdecks. Now she had taken over those quarters and slept in his hammock at night. She cooked out on the beach when the evenings were fine, and ate cold food at other times. Each day when she trudged off to her shop at daybreak, she took a water bucket with her. Every evening she returned laden with the brimming bucket and whatever she had brought from the market for her dinner. Then she would bustle about inside him, singing nonsense songs to herself. If the evening was fine, she kindled a cook fire and talked to him while she prepared her simple meal. In a way, it was pleasant to have company on a daily basis. In another way, it chafed him. He had grown accustomed to his solitude. Even in the midst of a companionable talk, he would know that their arrangement was temporary. All humans did was temporary. How else could it be, with creatures who died? Even if she stayed with him the rest of her life, she would still eventually be gone. Once he had grasped that thought, he could not be rid of it. To know that his days with Amber must, eventually, come to an end gave him a feeling of waiting. He hated waiting. Better to be done with it, and have her gone than to spend all his time with her waiting for the day she would leave him. Often it made him cross and short-spoken with her.