Not that he was resigned to her living aboard the ship. He had simply not yet found a good place to stash her. It was convenient to him that she was an adaptable sort. Not once had she complained since he had brought her aboard. Unless one counted the second day, when she stormed the galley and upbraided the cook for over-salting the stew he had sent to Kennit's table. As often as not she now oversaw the preparation of their cabin-served meals. And perhaps the food had improved as a result of that.

But she was still a whore, he reminded himself. Despite her crown of sleek short hair that caught the ship's lights and returned it as sheen, despite the emerald-green silk of her loose-sleeved blouse, or the brocaded trousers she tucked it into, despite the cloth-of-gold sash that narrowed her lean waist, she was still just his whore. Even if a tiny ruby twinkled in her earlobe, and a lush fur-lined cloak sheltered her body from the night wind.

“I have been thinking about the liveship that eluded you today,” she dared to say. She lifted her eyes to his, dark eyes too bold for his taste. She seemed to sense that, for she cast them down again, even before he barked, “Don't speak to me of that.”

“I won't,” she promised him gently. But after a moment, she broke her word, as women always did. “The swiftness of a willing liveship is legendary,” she said quietly. She stared out at their wake and spoke to the night. “I know next to nothing of piracy,” she next admitted. As if that might surprise him. “But I wonder if the very willingness of the ship to flee swiftly might not be somehow turned against it.”

“I fail to see how,” Kennit sneered.

She licked her lips before she spoke, and for just an instant, his whole attention was caught by that tiny movement of wet pink tongue-tip. An irrational surge of desire flamed up in him. Damn her. This constant exposure to a woman was not good for a man. He breathed out, a low sound.

She gave him a quick sideways glance. If he had been certain it was amusement at him that curved the corners of her lips, he would have slapped her. But she spoke only of piracy. “A rabbit kills itself when it runs headlong into the snare,” she observed. “If one knew the planned course of a liveship, and if one had more than one pirate vessel at one's disposal… why, then, a single ship could give chase, and urge the liveship to run headlong into an ambush.” She paused and cast her eyes down to the water again. “I am told that it can be quite difficult to stop a ship, even if the danger ahead is seen. And it seems to me there are many narrow channels in these waters, where a sailing ship would have no alternative but to run aground to avoid a collision.”

“I suppose it might be done, though it seems to me that there are a great many ‘ifs’ involved. It would require precisely the right circumstances.”

“Yes, I suppose it would,” she murmured. She gave her head a small shake to toss the hair back from her eyes. Her short sleek hair was perfectly black, as the night sky is black between the stars. He need not fear to kiss her; she had no man save him these days. She saw him watching her. Her eyes widened and suddenly she breathed more quickly and deeply. He abruptly matched his body to hers, pinning her against the rail, mastering her. He forced her mouth open to his, felt the small, hard nipples of her slight breasts through the thin, body-warmed silk of her blouse. He lifted his mouth from hers.

“Never,” he said roughly, “presume to tell me my business. I well know how to get what I want. I need no woman to advise me.”

Her eyes were full of the night. “You know very well,” she agreed with him huskily.

He heard them long before they reached him. He knew it was full dark night, for the evening birds had ceased their calls hours ago. From the damp that beaded him, he suspected there was a dense fog tonight. So Paragon waited with trepidation, wondering why two humans would be picking their way down the beach toward him in the dark and fog. He could not doubt that he was their destination; there was nothing else on this beach. As they drew closer, he could smell the hot oil of a burning lantern. It did not seem to be doing them much good, for there had been frequent small curses as they worked their stumbling way towards him. He already knew one was Mingsley. He was coming to know that man's voice entirely too well.

Perhaps they were coming to set fire to him. He had taunted Mingsley the last time he was here. Perhaps the man would fling the lantern at him. The glass would break and flaming oil would splash over him. He'd die here, screaming and helpless, a slow death by fire.

“Not much farther,” Paragon heard Mingsley promise his companion.

“That's the third time you've said that,” complained another voice. His accent spoke of Chalced even more strongly than Mingsley's did of Jamaillia. “I've fallen twice, and I think my knee is bleeding. This had damn well better be worth it, Mingsley.”

“It is, it is. Wait until you see it.”

“In this fog, we won't be able to see a thing. Why couldn't we come by day?”

Did Mingsley hesitate in his reply? “There has been some bad feeling about town; the Old Traders don't like the idea of anyone not an Old Trader buying a liveship. If they knew you were interested… well. I've had a few not-so-subtle warnings to stay away from here. When I ask why, I get lies and excuses. They tell me no one but a Bingtown Trader can own a liveship. You ask why, you'll get more lies. Goes against all their traditions, is what they'd like you to believe. But actually, there's a great deal more to it than that. More than I ever suspected when I first started negotiating for this. Ah! Here we are! Even damaged, you can see how magnificent he once was.”

The voices had grown closer as Mingsley was speaking. A sense of foreboding had been growing within Paragon, too, but his voice was steady as he boomed out, “Magnificent? I thought ‘ugly’ was the word you applied to me last time.”

He had the satisfaction of hearing both men gasp.

Mingsley's voice was none too steady as he attempted to brag, “Well, we should have expected that. A liveship is, after all, alive.” There was a sound of metal against metal. Paragon guessed that a lantern had been unhooded to shed more light. The smell of hot oil came more strongly. Paragon shifted uneasily, crossing his arms on his chest. “There, Firth. What do you think of him?” Mingsley announced.

“I'm… overwhelmed,” the other man muttered. There was genuine awe in his voice. Then he coughed and added, “But I still don't know why we're out here and at night. Oh, I know a part of it. You want my financial backing. But just why should I help you raise three times what a ship this size would cost us for a beached derelict with a chopped-up figurehead? Even if it can talk.”

“Because it's made of wizardwood.” Mingsley uttered the words as if revealing a well-kept secret.

“So? All liveships are,” Firth retorted.

“And why is that?” Mingsley added in a voice freighted with mystery. “Why build a ship of wizardwood, a substance so horrendously expensive it takes generations to pay one off? Why?”

“Everyone knows why,” Firth grumbled. “They come to life and then they're easier to sail.”

“Tell me. Knowing that about wizardwood, would you rush to commit your family's fortunes for three or four generations, just to possess a ship like this?”

“No. But Bingtown Traders are crazy. Everyone knows that.”

“So crazy that every damn family of them is rich,” Mingsley pointed out. “And what makes them rich?”

“Their damn monopolies on the most fascinating trade goods in the world. Mingsley, we could have discussed economics back at the inn, over hot spiced cider. I'm cold, the fog has soaked me through, and my knee is throbbing like I'm poisoned. Get to the point.”