Kennit was offended. 'Ashamed? She has not suffered at my hands.
On the contrary, I gave her a night tonight that she will never forget.' He stretched, trying to ease his aching muscles. 'And at no small cost to myself,' he added petulantly.
'Such a performance,' the little wizardwood face muttered sarcastically. 'Did you fear the ship would not know it if she did not cry out with pleasure? I assure you, Vivacia is keenly aware of you at all times. It was your efforts on Etta's behalf that scalded her, not any pleasure Etta took.'
Kennit rolled over and spoke more softly. 'So. How aware of the ship are you?'
'She guards against me,' the charm admitted reluctantly. 'But there is still much I can tell. She is far too large, and all around me. She cannot completely conceal her awareness from me.'
'And Wintrow? Can you sense him through her? What does he feel tonight?'
'What? Do you need to know more than how he sounded when he came to bring you the news? He was devastated by Opal's death.'
'Not about Opal's death,' Kennit said impatiently. 'I saw him watching us, when I kissed Etta in front of Vivacia. It surprised me. Does he have feelings for the whore?'
'Don't call her that!' the charm warned him in a low growl. 'If you speak of her like that again, I shall tell you nothing.'
'Does he find Etta attractive?' Kennit persisted doggedly.
The charm relented. 'He is naive. He admires her. I doubt he would presume to find her attractive.' The small voice paused. 'Your little display tonight set him thinking for a time. He will contrast that with Opal's death.'
'An unfortunate coincidence,' Kennit muttered. He fell silent, considering how he could make Wintrow more aware of Etta. He should have her wear more jewelry, he decided. Boys were always attracted to sparkly things. He would display her as an attractive possession.
'Why did you ask her about a baby tonight?' the charm demanded abruptly.
'A passing thought. A child might be useful. Much depends on how Wintrow develops.'
The charm was baffled. 'I don't understand what you are suggesting. I suspect if I did, I would find it repugnant.'
'I don't see why,' Kennit replied easily. He composed himself for sleep.
'How could a child be useful to you?' the charm demanded a few moments later.
'I won't be quiet until you answer me,' it added when some silence had passed.
Kennit drew a weary breath and sighed it out. 'A child would content the ship. If Wintrow becomes too intractable, if he interferes with me persuading the ship to obey me willingly, well, he could be replaced.'
'With your own child, by Etta?' the charm asked incredulously.
Kennit chuckled sleepily. 'No, of course not. Now you are being ridiculous.' He stretched and turned his back to Etta. He curled up and closed his eyes. 'Wintrow would have to father the child. So it would be of the ship's family.' He gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, then frowned to himself. 'I imagine a baby aboard would be a nuisance. It would be simpler if Wintrow learned to accept his fate. The boy has great potential. He thinks. I simply have to school him to think my way. Perhaps I shall take him to the Others' oracle. Perhaps they could persuade him it is his destiny.'
'Let me speak to him instead,' the charm offered. 'Perhaps I could persuade him to kill you.'
Kennit chuckled appreciatively and released himself into sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Salvage
THE BREEZE OFF THE WATER WAS THE ONLY THING THAT MADE WORKING tolerable. The summer sun beat down from the cloudless sky. When Brashen looked out across the waves, the reflected light was dazzling. The brightness pounded spikes of pain into his brow. The only thing that made him scowl more deeply was the workmen moving lackadaisically, performing their tasks without energy or enthusiasm.
He stood braced on the slanting deck of the Paragon. He shut his eyes for a moment then re-opened them and tried to consider the task from a fresh perspective. The ship had been hauled out on the beach over a score of years ago. Abandoned and neglected, the elements had had their way with him. Were it not for his wizardwood construction, he would be no more than a skeleton. Storms and tides had conspired to push the Paragon to the limits of the high-tide line. The passage of years had heaped sand against his hull. He now lay with his keel toward the water, heeled over on the sandy beach. Only the very highest tides now touched him.
The solution was deceptively easy. The sand must be shoveled away. Timbers shoved under the hull would act as skids. Put a heavy counterweight on the top of his shattered main mast to lay him even further over on his side. At the highest tide at the end of the month, anchor a barge offshore. Run a line from the Paragon to the barge's stern windlass. With men on shore with levers to urge him down the skids and men on the barge working the windlass, the ship would slide on his side toward the water. The counterweight on his hull would keep him heeled over and allow him to float in shallower water. Once they got him into deeper water, they'd right him.
Then they would see what happened next.
Brashen sighed. A man could describe the whole operation in a breath or two. Then he could work for a solid week and be no closer to the solution.
All around the ship, men toiled with shovels and barrows. Heavy timbers had been floated in on yesterday's high tide. Securely roped together, they awaited use on the beach. Near them was another raft of roller logs. If all went well, eventually Paragon would ride them down the beach to be re-launched. If all went well. Some days that seemed like a vain hope.
The new crew of workmen moved sluggishly in the hot sun. Hammers rang in the summer air. There was rock under the sand. In some places it could be chipped away to allow the skids under the ship. In others, the workers were trying to set levers under the hull. Then there would be a massive effort of lifting, so that other levers could be grounded even more deeply. Each shifting placed new wracks on the old vessel.
After all the years of lying on his side, there was bound to be some shifting of timbers and planks. From what Brashen could see, the hull was not too badly racked, but the ship would have to be lifted before he could be sure. Once he was upright and floating free… and he prayed Paragon would float freely… the real work would begin. The entire hull would have to be trued up before it could be re-caulked. Then a new mast would have to be stepped… Brashen abruptly stopped the chain of thought. He could not think that far ahead, or he would become completely discouraged. One day and one task at a time were all his aching head could handle.
He absentmindedly ran his tongue about inside his lower lip, feeling for a piece of cindin that wasn't there. Even the deep sores from the addictive drug were starting to heal now. His body seemed able to forget the drug faster than his spirit. He longed for cindin with an intensity as relentless as thirst. He'd traded away his earring for a stick two days ago, and regretted it. Not only had it set him back in forgetting the drug, but the cindin had been poor quality, no more than a tease of relief. Still, if he'd had even a shard of silver to his name, he would not have been able to resist the urge. The only coins he possessed were those in the bag Ronica Vestrit had entrusted to him. Last night he'd awakened drenched in a cold sweat, his head pounding. He'd sat up until dawn, trying to rub the cramps from his hands and feet while he stared at the dwindling purse. He'd wondered how wrong it would be to take a few coins to set himself right. The cindin would help him to stay alert longer and have more energy for this task. Towards dawn, he had opened the bag and counted the coins out into his hand. Then he had put them back and gone into the galley, to brew and drink yet another pot of chamomile tea.
Amber, sitting there and whittling, had wisely said nothing. He was still amazed at how easily she had adapted to his presence. She accepted his coming and going without comment. She still occupied the captain's cabin. Time enough to make that space his own when the Paragon floated free once more. For now, he had slung his hammock in the tween decks. Living in the canted ship became more challenging daily as the angle of the deck grew ever sharper.
'Paragon, no!'
Amber's voice, raised in disbelief, coincided with the immense crack of a timber. Voices cried out in alarm. Brashen scrambled forward, arriving on the foredeck just in time to hear a timber strike ringingly against a rocky
