Young Clef remained at his side, a short blade in his good hand, throughout the heartbreakingly brief struggle. As the wave of boarders engulfed them, Brashen killed a man, and then another, and Clef took out a third by hamstringing him but got a nasty slash down his ribs for his bravery. More pirates simply stepped over the bodies of their comrades, blades at the ready. Brashen grabbed the boy's collar with his free hand, and jerked him back behind him. Together they retreated through the disorder, fighting only to stay alive, and managed to gain the foredeck. Brashen looked down at a deck fouled with downed men. The pirates were in clear command of the carnage; his own men were reduced to defending themselves or scurrying like chased rats through the rigging as laughing freebooters hunted them down. Brashen had thought to get a better view of the battle and call out commands to re-form his fighters, but a single glance showed him no strategy save one could save them. It was not battle, but slaughter.
'I'm sorry,' he said to the bleeding boy at his side. 'I should never have let you come with me.' He raised his voice. 'And I'm sorry, Paragon. To bring you so far and raise such hopes in us both, only to end like this. I've failed you both. I've failed us all.'
He took a deep breath and bellowed out the hated words. 'I yield! And I beg quarter for my crew. Captain Brashen Trell of the liveship Paragon yields and surrenders his ship to you.'
It took a moment for his words to penetrate the din. The clatter of swords gradually stilled, but the moaning of the wounded went on. Walking through the mayhem toward Brashen, his moustache elegantly curled, unsullied by blood or sweat, came a one-legged man who could only be Captain Kennit. 'Already?' he asked dryly. He gestured at his sheathed weapon. 'But good sir, I've only just come aboard. Are you certain you wish to yield?' He glanced about at the scattered huddles of survivors. Their weapons lay at their feet, while circles of blades menaced them. The pirate's smile was white, his voice charming as he offered, 'I'm sure my lads would be willing to let them pick up their blades for one more try at this. It seems a pity to fail on your very first effort. This was your first effort, wasn't it?'
The laughter that greeted each of his sallies washed against Brashen like licking flames. He looked down to avoid the despairing eyes of his crew, but found Clef looking up at him. His brimming eyes were full of anguish as he protested, 'I wouldena given up, sir. I'd a died f'you.'
Brashen let his own weapon fall. He set a hand on the boy's fair head. 'I know. That was what I feared.'
AND SO, A TIDY ENDING AFTER ALL. FAR TIDIER THAN HE HAD EXPECTED, GIVEN all the hitches his original plan had encountered. Kennit did not even bother to step forward to accept the captain's weapon. The churl had let it fall to the deck anyway. Had he no concept of the proper way to do things? It was not that he feared to step on the foredeck. The crew was efficient. They had been too long without a real battle. This one had barely whetted their appetite before it was over. He would have to hunt down a slaver or two and let them indulge themselves. For now, he commanded that the survivors be secured under the hatches. They went docilely enough, expecting that he would soon summon their captain and negotiate terms for ransom. Once they were out of sight, he had his men throw the bodies overboard. The serpents, he noted with disdain, were quick enough to come for this easy meat that they had refused to kill for themselves. Well, let it be, let them think it was bounty from Bolt. Perhaps stopping a slaver or two and feeding the serpents fat again would restore their tractability.
The Althea matter was settled easily enough. There were no women aboard, amongst the living or dead. To Captain Trell's anguished questions as to whether the Vivacia had taken up any survivors from his ship's boat, he could only shrug. If she had been in the ill-fated rowboat, then it had not managed to return to the ship. He gave a small sigh that might have been relief. He did so hate to lie to Wintrow. He could have an easy conscience when he shrugged his shoulders and said that whatever had befallen her was none of his doing.
Trell's eyes had narrowed as Kennit ordered him below, but he had gone. He had little choice, with three blades hemming him in. The hatch cover had closed off his angry shouts.
Kennit ordered his men back to his ship, detaining only three with a quiet order that they return with casks of lamp oil. They looked, but they did not question him. While they were gone, he walked a quiet turn about the decks. His own ship buzzed with victory, but this one muttered with muffled cries from below. Some of the men they had put down the hatches were badly injured. Well, they would not suffer for long.
On the deck were the bloody silhouettes of fallen bodies. The blood marked the scrubbed decks. A shame. This Captain Trell had run a clean ship. Paragon was as clean as Kennit had ever seen him. Igrot had run a tight ship, but had not been much for spit and polish. His father's ship had been as cluttered as his home. Kennit walked to the door of the captain's chamber and paused there. A strange fluttering seized his heart. For a mercy, the charm on his wrist was silent. He walked another turn about the decks. The men below the hatches were quieting. That was good. His three deckhands returned and presented themselves, each bearing a cask of oil.
'Splash it about, lads, rigging and house and deck. Then get back to our own decks.' He looked at them gravely, making sure that each knew the seriousness of his words. 'I'll be the last man to leave this ship. Do your tasks and get off him. Cast him loose save for a stern line, and then I want everyone on our ship to go below as well. Understand me? Everyone. I've a final errand of my own.'
Ducking and bobbing their obedience, they left him. Kennit stood well clear of them and let them perform their task. When the last empty cask was rolling on the deck, he motioned to them to leave. Finally, as he had not done in more than thirty years, he made his way forward through the buffeting wind and stood on the deck looking down on Paragon's bowed head.
If the ship had been looking up at him, if he had had to meet eyes that were angry, defiant, sad or overjoyed to see him, he could not have spoken. But, foolish thought, that! Paragon could not look up at him with any sort of eyes. Igrot had seen to that years ago. Kennit had wielded the hatchet, standing on Paragon's great hands to reach his ship's face. Together, they had endured that, because Igrot had promised them both that if they did not, Kennit would die. Igrot had stood on this deck, where Kennit stood now, and looked down on Kennit and laughed while he did the dirty task. Paragon had already killed two good hands that Igrot had sent to blind him. But he would not hurt the boy, oh, no. He would stand the pain and even hold the boy close enough to reach his face so he could do the task, as long as Igrot promised not to kill Kennit. And as Kennit had looked deep into his dark eyes one final time and then ruined them with the rising and falling of his hatchet, he had known that no one should love anyone or anything that deeply. No one should have a heart that true. He had known then that never, never, never would he love anyone or anything as Paragon loved him. He had promised it to himself, and then he had lifted the shining hatchet and chopped into the dark eyes so full of love for him. Beneath them, he found nothing, not blood, not flesh, only silvery gray wood that splintered easily away under his small hatchet. Wizardwood, he had been told, was among the hardest woods a ship could be built from, but he chopped it away like cottonwood, falling in chips and chunks into the deep cold sea beneath his bare feet. Little cold feet, so callused against his warm palm.
The double strength of the mutual memory seared him. Kennit could recall vision falling from him in pieces, not at all as a man would have lost his sight. Rather it was like someone cut away pieces of a picture before his eyes, leaving him in blackness. In the aftermath of it, he trembled and vertigo took him for a moment. When he came back to himself, he was clutching the fore-rail. A mistake. He had not intended to touch any part of the ship with his bare hands, yet here he was. Linked again. Bound by blood and memories.
'Paragon.' He said the name quietly.
The ship flinched, but did not lift his head. A long silence wrapped them. Then: 'Kennit. Kennit, my boy.' His deep gentle voice was choked. Incredulous recognition overwhelmed all other emotions. 'I was so angry with you,' the ship apologized in wonder. 'Yet, you stand with me, and I cannot even imagine ever feeling anger for you.'
Kennit cleared his throat. It was a little time before he could speak. 'I never thought to stand here again. I never expected to speak to you once more.' Love was rising from the ship like a flood tide. He fought to hold his identity separate from Paragon's. 'This was not what we agreed upon, ship. This was not what we agreed upon at all.'
'I know.' Paragon spoke into his hands, cupped over his face. Shame swept through him and touched Kennit as well. 'I know. I tried. I did try.'
'What happened?' Despite himself, Kennit spoke gently. He did not want to know. Paragon's rich deep voice reminded him of thick treacle over morning cakes, of warm summer days running on his decks barefoot while his mother begged his father to make the boy be more cautious. Memories, all those memories, had soaked into the wood of this ship and were bleeding up into him.
