outcrop of the beach. All around Paragon, the workers were retreating from the ship. They called warnings to one another, pointing not just at the thrown timber but at the trench it had made in the beach when it landed. Without a word, his face expressionless, Paragon refolded his thick arms on his muscled chest. He stared blindly out across the water.
'Damn you!' Brashen cried out with great feeling. He glared around at the workers. 'Who let him get hold of that timber?'
A white-faced oldster replied. 'We was setting it in place. He reached down and snatched it away from us… How in Sa did he know it was there?' The old man's voice was full of superstitious dread.
Brashen clenched his hands into fists. If it had been the ship's first display of sulkiness, he might have been surprised. But every day since they began, he had created one delay after another. His displays of temper and strength made it difficult for Brashen to keep workers. Through them all, Paragon had spoken not one civil word to Brashen.
Brashen leaned over the railing. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Althea, just arriving at the ship for the day's work. She looked puzzled at the frozen scene. 'Get back to work!' he bellowed at the men who were gawking and nudging one another. He pointed at the thrown timber. 'Pick that up and put it back in place.'
'Not me!' one worker declared. He wiped sweat from his face, then tossed his mallet to the sand. 'He could have killed me, just then. He can't see where he's throwing stuff, even if he did care. And I don't think he does. He's killed before, everyone knows that. My life is worth more than you're paying me for a day's work. I'm gone. I want my pay.'
'Me, too.'
'Same for me.'
Brashen clambered over the railing, then dropped lightly to the beach. He didn't let his face show how the pain shot to the top of his skull. He advanced on the men in a show of aggression, praying he wouldn't have to back it up. He thrust his face into that of the first man who had spoken. 'You want to get paid, you stick around and finish out your day's work. You walk now, you don't get a copper.' He scowled round at the lot of them and hoped his bluff would work. If these ones walked, he didn't know where he would find others. They were the dregs of the taverns, men who would only work long enough to earn coins for the night's drinking. He had had to offer them better wages than they could get anywhere else to lure them out to the bad-luck ship. As the men about him muttered discontentedly, he barked, 'Take it or leave it. I didn't hire you for half a day's work, and I'm not paying for half a day's work. Get under that timber, now.'
'I'll work,' one of the men offered. 'But not up here, not where he can reach me or crush me with a thrown timber. I won't do that.'
Brashen spat in disgust. 'Work on the aft keel then, lionheart. Amber and I will take the bow, if none of you here has the courage to do so.'
A slow and evil smile spread across Paragon's face. 'Some prefer a quick death, some a slow one. Some don't care if their sons are born legless and blind like this cursed ship. Pick up your mallets and work on. What care you about what happens tomorrow?' In a lower voice he added, 'Why should you expect to live that long?'
Brashen had spun to confront the ship. 'Are you talking to me?' he demanded. 'All your days of silence, and then you say that to me?'
For an instant, the Paragon's face changed. Brashen could not say what emotion was displayed there, but it froze his soul and squeezed his heart. An instant later, it was replaced with a supercilious stare. The figurehead took a breath and settled into stillness.
Brashen's temper snapped. The brightness of the day blazed inside his skull, igniting the pain to unbearable heat. He snatched up one of the buckets of drinking water that the workers had left near the bow. With every ounce of strength he had, he dashed it in Paragon's face.
The entire ship shuddered and Paragon gave an angry roar. Water dripped from his beard and ran down his chest. Below him on the sand, Brashen dropped the now-empty bucket. He roared at the ship, 'Don't pretend you can't hear me. I'm your captain, damn it, and I won't tolerate insubordination from you nor anyone else. Get this through your wooden head, Paragon. You're going to sail. One way or another, I'm dragging you out into the water again and putting canvas on your bones. Now you have a choice, but you'd better choose fast, because I am all out of patience. You can go out of here listing and wallowing, sulking like a brat, and the whole damn fleet will watch you go that way. Or you can lift your head up and sail out of here like you don't give a damn about anything that anyone has ever said about you. You have a chance to prove them all wrong. You can make them eat every foul thing they've ever said about you. You can sail out of here like a Bingtown liveship and we'll go give some pirates a bloody bad time. Or you can prove they were right all along and that I was the fool. I'm telling you this because that is the only thing you have a choice in. You don't get to decide whether you're going or not, because I'm the captain and I already decided that. You're a ship, not a flowerpot. You were meant to sail and it is what we are going to do. Are we clear on that?'
The ship clenched his jaws and crossed his arms on his chest. Brashen spun about and snatched up a second bucket. With a grunt of effort, he dashed it up into the figurehead's face. Paragon recoiled, sputtering with shock.
'Is that clear?' Brashen bellowed. 'Answer me, damn you!'
Around him, the workmen were transfixed with awe. They waited for him to die.
Althea had gripped Amber's arm. The bead-maker's eyes blazed with outrage. Only that hold kept her from charging out between Brashen and the ship. With a sign, Althea warned her to keep silent. Amber clenched her fists, but kept her tongue still.
'It's clear,' Paragon finally replied. The words were clipped and unrepentant. But he had answered. Brashen clung to that tiny triumph.
'Good,' Brashen replied in a surprisingly calm voice. 'I leave you to think about your choice. I think you can make me proud. I have to get back to my work. I intend that when you sail, you'll look as sharp as the first time you were put into water.' He paused. 'Maybe we can make them eat every slur they ever uttered about me, too.'
He turned back to Amber and Althea with a grin. Neither woman returned it. After a moment, it faded from his face. He took a breath and shook his head in resignation. In a low voice, he spoke only to them. 'I'm doing my best with him, the only way I know how. I'm sailing. I'll do or say whatever I must to get this ship in the water.' He glared at their disapproving silence. 'Maybe you two need to decide how badly you want this to happen. But while you're thinking, we're the bow work crew. Maybe tonight I can hire some new workers who aren't afraid of him, but I can't waste daylight on it now.' He pointed at the flung timber. 'We're putting that back in place.' In the quietest voice he could summon, he added, 'If he thinks you're afraid of him… if he thinks he can get away with behaving like this… we are all lost. Paragon included.'
It was the start of a long, sweaty day. The skid timbers were massive. In a fit of perversity, Brashen spared neither of the women nor himself. He worked in the sun until he felt his brain boiling inside his skull. They dug away dry sand and hauled it away. The rocks they encountered were always wedged together in layers, or just slightly larger than one person could move. He drove his body relentlessly, punishing it for its unceasing itch for cindin. If either Althea or Amber had asked for quarter, he could have given it. But Althea was as stubborn as he was, and Amber amazingly tenacious. They matched the pace he set. More, as they worked under the nose of the figurehead, they included Paragon in the conversation, ignoring his stubborn silence.
The efforts of two mere women and their lack of fear seemed to shame the hired workmen. First one, and then another came to join them at the bow. When Amber's friend Jek walked out from town to see what they were doing, she gave them a couple of hours of her strong back as well.
Clef came and went, underfoot as often as he was helpful. Brashen snarled at the boy as frequently as he praised him, but his stint as a slave had given him a thick skin. He worked doggedly, handicapped more by his size than any lack of skill. He had all the makings of a good hand. Against his conscience, Brashen would probably take him along when they sailed. It was wrong, but he needed him.
The other workmen on the ship watched them surreptitiously. Perhaps it shamed them to see the women working where they had refused to go. They stepped up the pace of their own labors. Brashen had never expected that such a sorry lot of dock scrapings would have any pride left. He seized the opportunity to push them harder.
