Brashen felt an odd little sideways wrench in his gut. Althea had commissioned a portrait of Vivacia from Pappas. He didn't want to look. He had to. Foolish not to, it could not be what he feared. No pirate vessel could ever overtake the Vivacia.

It was.

Brashen stared, sickened, at the familiar painting. It had hung in Althea Vestrit's stateroom on the Vivacia. The lovely rosewood frame was splintered where someone had hastily pried it free from the wall instead of unfastening it. Vivacia as she had been before she was quickened was the subject. In the painting, the figurehead's features were still, her hair yellow. Her graceful hull cut through the painted waves. The artist's skill was such that Brashen could almost see the clouds scudding across the sky. The last time he had seen that painting, it had still been securely fastened to a bulkhead. Had Althea left it there when she left the ship? Had it been taken from the ship by pirates, or somehow stolen from the Vestrit family home? The second possibility did not make sense. No thief would steal such a thing in Bingtown and then bring it to the Pirate Isles to sell it. The best prices for art were in Chalced and Jamaillia. Logic told him that the painting had been taken off the Vivacia. Yet, he could not believe pirates could have overtaken the sprightly little liveship. Even before she had quickened, Ephron Vestrit had been able to show her heels to anything that even considered pursuing her. Quickened and willing, nothing should have been able to catch her.

“You know the ship, Brash?” Finney asked in a soft, friendly voice.

The captain had caught him staring at the painting. He tried to make his look of dismay seem one of puzzlement. He knit his brows deeper.

“Pappas. I was looking at that name, thinking I knew it. Pappas, Pappas . . . naw. Pappay. That was the fellow's name. Terrible cheat at cards, but a good hand aloft.” He gave Finney a shrug and a halfhearted grin. He wondered if he had fooled him.

“It's a liveship, out of Bingtown. Surely, you know her. Liveships are not that common.” Finney pressed.

Brashen took a step closer, peered at the painting, then shrugged. “They're not that common, true. But they tie up at a different dock from the common ships. They keep to themselves, and idlers aren't too welcome there. Traders can be a snooty lot.”

“I thought you were Trader born.” Now both of them were looking at him.

He spat out a laugh. “Even Traders have poor relatives. My third cousin is the real Trader. I'm just a shirt-tail relative, and not a welcome sight on the family's doorstep. Sorry. What's her name plate say?”

“Vivacia,” Finney said. “I thought that was a ship you'd served on. Didn't you say as much to the agent back in Candletown?”

Brashen cursed his cindin-fogged memories of that meeting. He shook his head thoughtfully. “No. I told him I was mate on the Vicious Vixen. She was out of a Six Duchies harbor, not Bingtown. Not a bad vessel, if you like living with a bunch of barbarians who think fish-head stew is a real treat. I didn't.”

Finney and Faldin both chuckled dutifully. It wasn't much of a jest but it was enough to turn the topic. Faldin flourished the painting a final time; Finney dismissed it with a headshake. Faldin made a great show of carefully re-wrapping the painting, as if to emphasize the value that Finney was missing. Finney was already poking through the rest of the scrolls. Brashen tried to resume his watchful air, but he felt sick. The splintered frame indicated the painting had been taken hastily. Had she been sinking as the framed painting was torn off the wall? One of Faldin's boys, passing near him, shot him a fearful glance. Brashen realized he was glaring at no one, and rearranged his face.

Some of the men he had worked with aboard the Vivacia had been his comrades for years. Their faces rose in his memory: Grig, who could splice line faster than most men could lie, and Comfrey the prankster, and half a dozen others with whom he had shared the forecastle. The ship's boy, Mild, had had the makings of a top-notch sailor, if his love for mischief hadn't killed him first. He hoped they had had the good sense to turn pirate when they were offered that option. His need to ask the merchant what he knew of the liveship burned inside him. Was there a way to be curious without betraying himself? Brashen suddenly didn't care.

“Where did you get the picture of the liveship, anyway?” he asked.

The other two men turned to stare at him.

“Why do you care?” Captain Finney asked. His voice was not casual.

Sincure Faldin broke in, obviously still hoping to dispose of the painting. “The painting comes from the ship herself. Rarely is a liveship ever captured: this authentic memento of such an event is among the rarest of the rare.” As he re-pitched the desirability of the painting, he had snatched it up and was once more freeing it of its shroud.