Paragon heard her striding away, heard Mingsley call after her, “You're stupid. You're walking away from more money than you can even imagine.”
Her footsteps halted. Paragon strained his ears. Would she come back? Her voice alone came, pitched in a normal tone but carrying clearly. “Somehow,” she said coldly, “you have confused profitable and not profitable with right and wrong. I, however, have not.”
Then he could hear her walking away again. She strode like an angry man. The rain began to pelt even harder; the drops would have stung human flesh. He heard Mingsley grunt with distaste at the new downpour.
“Artistic temperament,” he scoffed to himself. “She'll be back.” A pause. Then, “Ship. You, ship. Are you truly alive?”
Paragon chose not to reply.
“It's not smart to ignore me. It's only a matter of time before I own you. It's in your own best interests to tell me what I need to know. Are you separate from the ship, or truly a part of it?”
Paragon faced the pounding rain and did not reply.
“Would it kill you if I cut you free of your ship?” Mingsley asked in a low voice. “For that is what I intend to do.”
Paragon did not know the answer to that. Instead, he invited Mingsley, “Why don't you come close enough to try?”
After a short time, he heard the man leave.
He waited there, in the stinging rain. When he heard her speak again, he did not start. He did turn his head slowly, to hear her better.
“Ship? Ship, may I come closer?”
“My name is Paragon.”
“Paragon, may I come closer?”
He considered it. “Aren't you going to tell me your name?” he finally countered.
A short hesitation. “I am called Amber.”
“But that is not your name.”
“I've had a number of names,” she said after a time. “This is the one that suits me best, here and now.”
She could, he reflected, simply have lied to him and said it was her name. But she had not. He extended an open hand toward the sound of her voice. “Amber,” he accepted her. It was a challenge, too. He knew how huge his hand was in comparison to a human's. Once his fingers closed around her hand, he'd be able to jerk her arm out of its socket. If he chose to.
He listened to her breath, to the sound of the rain pocking the packed sand of the beach. Abruptly she took two quick steps towards him and set her gloved left hand in his. He closed his immense fingers over her small ones. “Paragon,” she said breathlessly.
“Why did you come back?”
She laughed nervously. “As Mingsley put it, I am intrigued by you.” When he made no reply to that, she went on, “I have always been more curious than wise. Yet any wisdom I have ever gained has come to me from my curiosity. So I have never learned to turn away from it.”
“I see. Will you tell me about yourself? As you see, I am blind.”
“I see that only too well.” There was pity and regret in her voice. “Mingsley called you ugly. But whoever shaped your brow and jaw, your lips and nose, was a master carver. I wish I could have seen your eyes. What kind of a person could destroy such art?”
Her words moved him, but they also nudged him toward a thing he could not, would not recall. Gruffly he replied, “Such compliments! Are they meant to distract my mind from the fact that you have not answered my request?” He released her hand.
“No. Not at all. I am . . . Amber. I carve wood. I make jewelry from it, beads and ornaments, combs and rings. Sometimes larger pieces, such as bowls and goblets . . . even chairs and cradles. But not many of those. My talent seems strongest on smaller work. May I touch your face?”
The question came so swiftly that he found himself nodding before he had considered. “Why?” he asked belatedly.
He felt her come closer to him. The scant warmth of her body interceded with the chill of the rain. He felt her fingers brush the edge of his beard. It was a very slight touch and yet he shivered to it. The reaction was too human. Had he been able to draw back, he would have.
“I cannot reach you. Could you . . . would you lift me up?”
The vast trust she offered made him forget she had not answered his first question. “I could crush you in my hands,” he reminded her.
“But you will not,” she told him confidently. “Please.”
The urgency in her plea frightened him. “Why do you think I would not? I've killed before, you know! Whole crews of men! All of Bingtown knows that. Who are you not to fear me?”
For answer, she set her bare wet hand to the skin of his arm. She flowed through his grain; the warmth of her shot through him the way the heat of a woman's hand on a man's thigh can inflame his whole body. Both ways, he suddenly knew, the flow was both ways, he was within her flesh as much as she was within his timbers. Her humanity sang in him. He wallowed in her senses. Rain had soaked her hair and clothes to her body. Her skin was cold, but her body warmed itself from within. He felt the sigh of air in her lungs like wind against his sails had been, the rush of blood through her flesh almost like the sea water thrilling past his hull.
“You are more than wood!” she cried aloud. Discovery was in her voice and he knew the sudden terror of betrayal. She was inside him, seeing too much, knowing too much. All the things he had set aside from himself, she was awakening. He did not mean to push her so hard, but she cried out as she fell on the wet sand and rocky beach. He heard her gasping for breath as the rain fell all around them.
“Are you hurt?” he asked gruffly after a time. Things were calming inside him.
“No,” she spoke quietly. Then, before he could apologize, “I'm sorry,” she said. “Despite everything, I expected you to be . . . wood. I've a gift for wood. When I touch it, I know it, I know how its grain bends, where it runs fine or coarse . . . I thought I could touch you and guess how your eyes had been. I touched you, thinking to find only wood. I should not have been so . . . forgive me. Please.”
“It's all right,” he replied gravely. “I did not mean to push you away so abruptly. I did not intend you should fall.”
“No, it was my own fault. And you were right to push me away. I . . .” She halted again and for a time the only sounds were the rain. The shush of the waves came louder now. The tide had turned and the water was venturing closer. “Please, may we begin again?” she suddenly asked.
“If you wish,” he said awkwardly. This woman . . . he did not understand this woman at all. So quickly she had trusted him, and now so swiftly she moved towards friendship. He was not accustomed to things like this happening, let alone happening so quickly. It frightened him. But more frightening was the thought that she might go away and not come back. He searched himself for some trust of his own to offer her. “Would you like to come in, out of the rain?” he invited her. “I'm at a terrible list, and it's no warmer within than without, but at least you'd be out of the rain.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I'd like that. I'd like that a great deal.”
WINTER
CHAPTER TWENTY
CRIMPERS
THERE WERE FEW SAFE HARBORS ON THE OUTSIDE PASSAGE
worthy of the name, but Nook was one of them. It was a tricky place to get into on an outgoing tide, but once within, it was one of the few places where both ships and sailors could rest easy for a night or two. Most ports on the Outside were regularly scoured by the winter storms that blew in off the Wild Sea and pounded the beaches mercilessly, sometimes for weeks on end. A wise captain kept his ship well away from land on her way south, for the closer she came to the outer banks, the greater the chance she would be driven ashore and pounded to pieces on the rocks. If their water supplies had not gone too foul even for sailors to drink, chances were that the
Reaper
would not have taken the risk of coming into Nook.
But she had, and so the crew was having one blessed evening of shore liberty, of women, of food that was not salt and water that was not green with scum. The holds of the
Reaper
were full, cask after cask of salted meat, stacks of rolled hides, tubs of oil and fat. It was a rich cargo, hard won, and the crew were justifiably proud of having filled her so swiftly. It had been but fifteen months since the
Reaper
had left her home port of Candletown. Their return journey had been far swifter than their outbound one. The professional sailors knew they had well earned the bonuses they expected at the end of the trip, while the hunters and skinners had kept their own tallies as to what their shares would be. Those forced into sailing knew that all they had to do now was survive as far as home, and they would disembark as free men.
Athel, the ship's boy, had distinguished himself by earning a skinner's bonus on top of his regular wages. This had made him somewhat popular with those on the ship who enjoyed playing dice, but the shy boy had turned down all offers to accept his scrip against his forthcoming bonus. To the surprise of all, he had also refused the offer to move in with the skinners and hunters and become one of them, preferring to remain as a common crew member. When pushed to answer why, the boy would only grin and say, “D'ruther be a sailor. Sailor can ship out on any kind of vessel. But hunters and skinners, they have to come north at least once a year. This is my first time north; didn't like it much.”
It was actually the best answer he could have given. Hunters and skinners were left admiring themselves for how tough they were, while the sailors nodded approvingly to themselves at the wisdom of his choice. Brashen had to wonder if Althea had taken all that into account or simply made a lucky decision. He watched her across the tavern. She sat at the end of a bench, nursing the same mug of dark beer that she'd first ordered. She nodded to the talk at the table, she laughed in all the right places, and she looked convincingly bashful when the whores approached her. She was, he thought, finally a member of the ship's crew.
That afternoon on the slaughter beach had changed her. She had proven to herself that she could excel, when the task did not demand brute strength or bulk to accomplish it. For as long as they'd been ashore there, her first task had become to skin, and with the passing days, she had only become swifter at it. She had brought that confidence back on board with her, taking to herself the tasks where nimbleness and swiftness counted more than size. She still struggled when she had to work alongside the men, but that was expected of a boy. That she had excelled in one area had given them faith that in time she would grow into her other tasks as well.
Brashen swallowed the last two mouthfuls of beer in his mug and held it up for more. And, he thought to himself, she had the sense not to get drunk with her shipmates. He nodded to himself. He'd underestimated her. She'd survive this voyage, so long as she kept on as she had begun. Not that she could spend many years sailing as a boy, but she'd get by for this one.
A barmaid came to refill his mug. He nodded to her and pushed a coin across the table. She took it gravely and bobbed a curtsey before she darted off to the next table. A pretty little thing she was; he wondered that her father allowed her to work in the common room. Her demeanor made it plain she was not one of the women working the room as whores, but he wondered if every sailor would respect that. As his eyes followed her about the room at her tasks, he noted that most of them did. One man tried to catch at her sleeve after she had served him, but she evaded him nimbly. When she reached Athel, however, she paused. She smiled as she questioned the ship's boy. Althea made a show of glancing into her mug, and then allowing the girl to refill it for her. The smile the tavern girl gave the supposed lad was a great deal friendlier than she had offered the other customers. Brashen grinned to himself; Althea did make a likely looking boy, and the bashfulness the ship's boy professed probably made her more alluring than most. Brashen wondered if the discomfort Althea exhibited was entirely feigned.
He set his mug back on the counter in front of him, and then opened his coat. Too warm. He actually felt too warm in here. He smiled to himself, replete with well-being. The room was warm and dry, the deck was still under his feet. The anxiety that was a sailor's constant companion eased for a moment. By the time they reached Candletown with their cargo, he would have earned enough to give him breathing space. Not that he'd be so foolish as to spend it all. No. This time, at least, he'd hearken back to Captain Vestrit's advice and set a bit by for himself. He even had a choice now. He knew the
Reaper
would be more than willing to keep him on. He could probably stay with the ship for as long as he wanted. Or he could take his ship's ticket in Candletown, and look about a bit there. Maybe he'd find another ship there, something a bit better than the
Reaper.
Something cleaner, something faster. Back to merchant sailing, piling on the canvas and skipping from port to port. Yes.
He felt a once-familiar burn in his lower lip and hastily shifted the quid of cindin. It was as potent as the seller had promised, to eat through his skin that fast. He had another mouthful of beer to cool it. It had been years since he'd indulged in cindin. Captain Vestrit had been an absolute tyrant on that point. If he even suspected a man of using it, on shore or on ship, he'd check his lower lip. Any sign of a burn put him off the ship at the next port, with no pay. He'd won the small plug earlier at a gaming table, another amusement he hadn't indulged much of late. But, damn it all, there came a time when a man had to unwind, and this was as good a time as any. He hadn't been irresponsible. He never bet anything he couldn't lose. He'd started out with some sea-bear teeth he'd carved into fish and such in his bunk time. Almost from the start of the game, he'd won steadily. Oh, he'd come near to losing his deck knife, and that would have been a sore blow, but then his luck had turned sweet and he'd won not only the cindin plug but enough coins for the evening's beer.
He almost felt bad about it. The fellows he had fleeced of the coin and cindin were the mate and steward of the
Jolly Gal,
another oil ship in the harbor. Only the
Jolly Gal
had an empty hold and full kegs of salt. She and her crew were just on their way out to the killing grounds. This late in the season, they'd have a hard time filling her up. Wouldn't surprise Brash if she stayed on the grounds the season through, going from sea bear to small whale. Now there was ugly, dangerous work. Damn glad he wouldn't be doing it. His winning tonight was a sign, he was sure of it. His luck was getting better and his life was going to straighten itself out. Oh, he still missed the
Vivacia,
and old Captain Vestrit, Sa cradle him, but he'd make a new life for himself.
He drank the last of the beer in his mug, then rubbed at his eyes. He must have been wearier than he thought he was, to feel so suddenly sleepy. Cindin usually enlivened him. It was the hallmark of the drug, the benign sense of well-being coupled with the energy to have fun. Instead he felt as if the most wonderful thing that could happen to him now would be a warm, soft bed. A dry one, that didn't smell of sweat and mildew and oil and oakum. With no bugs.
He had been so busy building this image of paradise in his mind that he startled to find the tavern maid before him. She smiled up at him mischievously when he jumped and then gestured at his mug. She was right, it was empty again. He covered it with his hand and shook his head regretfully. “I'm out of coin, I'm afraid. It's all to the good. I'll want a clear head when we leave port tomorrow anyway.”
“Tomorrow? In this blow?” she asked sympathetically.
He shook his head, confirming his own reluctance. “Storm or no storm, we have to face it. Time and tide wait on no man, or so they tell us. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we're home.”
“Home,” she said, and smiled again. “Then this one is on me. To a swift trip home, for you and all your crew.”
Slowly he removed his hand from the top of his mug and watched her pour. Truly, his luck was changing. “You're from the same ship as those men, aren't you? The
Reaper
?”
“That's us,” he confirmed. He shifted the cindin in his mouth again.
“And you're the mate of the
Reaper,
then.”
“Just barely. I'm the third.”
“Ah. You're Brashen, then?”
He nodded and could not keep from grinning. There was something flattering about a woman knowing his name before he knew hers.
“They're saying the
Reaper
has filled her hold and is headed back. Must have been a good crew?” She raised one eyebrow whenever she asked a question.
“Good enough.” He was starting to enjoy this conversation. Then, in her next breath, she betrayed the true reason for her generosity.
“That's your ship's boy on the end, there? He's not much of a drinker.”
“No, he's not. Doesn't talk much either.”
“I noticed,” she said ruefully. She took a breath, then suddenly asked, “Is it true what they say about him? That he can skin sea bears near as fast as they shoot them?”
She did think Althea, or Athel, was comely, then. Brashen grinned to himself. “No, it's not true at all,” he said solemnly. “Athel is much faster than the hunters. That's the problem we've had with the lad, he was down there skinning them out before they were shot. Our hunters had to spend all their time chasing down the naked bears he'd already skinned.”
He took a swallow of the beer. For an instant she just stared at him, eyes wide. Then, “Oh, you,” she rebuked him with a giggle and gave him a playful push. Relaxed as he was, he had to catch at the bar to keep from falling. “Oh, sorry!” she cried and caught at his sleeve to help him right himself.
“It's all right. I'm just more tired than I thought I was.”
“Are you?” she asked more softly. She waited until his eyes met hers. Her eyes were blue and deeper than the sea. “There's a room in back with a bed. My room. You could rest there for a while. If you wanted to lie down.”
Just before he was certain of her meaning, she cast her eyes aside and down. She turned and walked away from him. He picked up his mug again and just as he sipped from it, she said over her shoulder, “Just let me know. If you want to.” She paused as she was, looking back at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Or was it invitingly?
A man's luck turning is like a favorable tide. One has to make the most of it while it's there. Brashen drained off the last of his mug and stood up. “I'd like that,” he said quietly. It was true. Whether the offer of a bed included the girl or not, it sounded very good. What was there to lose? He shifted the cindin in his mouth again. It was very, very good.
“ONE MORE ROUND,” RELLER ANNOUNCED. “THEN WE'D BETTER
get back to the ship.”
“Don't wait on us,” one of the hands giggled. “Head back, Reller. We'll be along soon enough.” He started to sag his head down onto his arms.
Reller reached across the table and gave him a shake. “None of that, Jord. No passing out here. Once we get to the ship you can drop to the deck and snore like a pig for all I care. But not here.”
Something in his tone got Jord's attention. He lifted his head blearily. “Why's that?”
Reller leaned across the table. “Deckhand from the
Tern
gave me a warning earlier. You know that
Jolly Gal,
tied up just to the lee of us? Crew had the red-heaves before they got here. They lost seven men. The skipper has been about town for three days, trying to hire on more crew but with no luck. Word is that he's getting desperate; they got to get out to the grounds. Every day they stay here is likely another week they'll have to spend hunting. Fingers from the
Tern
told me our crew would be wise to stick together and sleep on board tonight. One of their hunters has gone missing for two days now, and you know what they think. So when we go back to the ship we all go back together. Less you want to wake up northward bound on the
Jolly Gal.
”
“Crimpers?” Jord asked in a sort of horror. “Working here in Nook?”
“Where better?” Reller asked in a low voice. “Man don't come back to his ship on time, no one's going to stay tied up here to look for him. Easy to lay in an alley, pick off a few tars from a home-bound vessel, the poor sots wake up back on the hunting waters. I tell you, this isn't a town where a sailor should walk about alone.”
Jord abruptly hauled himself to his feet. “I've had a gut full of these northern waters. No way I'll even take a chance on that. Come on, fellows. Let's to the ship.”
Reller glanced about. “Hey, where'd Brash go? Wasn't he sitting over there?”
“He went with a girl, I think.” Althea spoke up for the first time. She heard the disapproval in her voice and saw the faces turn toward her in surprise. “One I thought was looking at me,” she added sourly. She picked up her mug, took a sip, and set it down. “Let's go. The beer here tastes like piss, anyway.”
“Oh, you know what piss tastes like, do you?” Jord mocked her.
“Don't need to. All I need to know is that this stuff smells just like your bunk, Jord.”