She finally found her tongue. "You could not be more wrong," she declared, but there was no strength in her words. Beside her, Amber hid her smile in her teacup. When Althea glared at her accusingly, she shrugged. Sudden embarrassment claimed Brashen. Disdaining the rope ladder, he clambered over the railing and dropped lightly to the sand. Without another word or look back, he stalked off to the bow of the ship.

Clef had a small cook-fire going. Cooking the evening meal was his task. The work on the ship kept him busy in many ways. He had gone to fetch more drinking water for the men after Brashen had flung their ration at Paragon. He sharpened tools, he ran errands, and when evening came, he fetched supplies from the Vestrit home and fixed food for them. Ronica Vestrit had told them they were welcome to eat at her table, but Amber had courteously refused, saying she did not feel comfortable leaving Paragon alone. It had been a handy excuse for Brashen. There was no way to conceal his anxiety; sitting at a polite table would have strained him past the breaking point.

Sa, he wished he had just one tiny nubbin of a cindin stick left. Just enough to make his skin stop tingling with longing. "So. What's for supper?" he asked the boy.

Clef gave him a fish-eyed stare but didn't reply.

"Don't you start with me, boy!" Brashen warned him, his temper flaring again.

"Fesh soup, sir." Clef scowled as he clacked the wooden spoon about in the pot. He looked at the soup as he defiantly muttered, "He'n't junk."

So that was what had tweaked the boy. Brashen softened his voice. "No. Paragon isn't junk. So he shouldn't behave like beach junk." He turned to look up through the gathering darkness at the figurehead that loomed silently above them. He addressed Paragon more than the boy. "He's a damn fine sailing ship. Before this is all over, he'll recall that. So will everyone else in Bingtown."

Clef scratched his nose and then stirred the pot. " 'zee bad luck?"

"Is he bad luck," Brashen corrected him wearily. "No. He just had bad luck, from the very beginning. When you have bad luck, and then heap your own mistakes on top of it, sometimes you can feel like you'll never get out from under it." He laughed without humor. "I speak from experience."

"Y'got bad luck?"

Brashen frowned. "Speak plain, boy. If you're going to sail with me, you have to be able to make yourself understood."

Clef snorted, "I say, ya got bad luck?"

Brashen shrugged. "Better than some, but worse than most."

"Turn yer shert about. My da tole me, t'change yer luck, change yer shert."

Brashen smiled in spite of himself. "It's the only shirt I've got, lad. Wonder what that says about my luck?"

ALTHEA STOOD SUDDENLY. SHE DASHED THE TEA OUT OF HER CUP ONTO THE beach. "I'm going home," she announced.

"Farewell," Amber replied neutrally.

Althea slapped the stern rail. "I always knew he'd throw that at me some day. I always knew it. It was what I feared all along."

Amber was puzzled. "Throw what at you?"

Even alone on the isolated ship, she lowered her voice. "That I bedded with him. He knows he can ruin me with that. All he has to do is brag to the right person. Or the wrong person."

A glint came into Amber's eyes. "I have heard people say some stupid things when they were frightened or hurt. But that is among the stupidest. Althea, I don't believe that man has ever considered that as a weapon. I don't think he has a braggart's nature. Nor do I believe he would ever deliberately hurt you."

An uncomfortable silence held for a time. Then, she admitted, "I know you're right. Sometimes I think I just want a reason to be angry with him." She crossed her arms on her chest. "But why does he have to say such stupid things? Why does he have to ask me questions like that?"

Amber let the questions hang for a moment. Then she asked one of her own. "Why does it upset you so much when he does?"

Althea shook her head. "Every time I start to feel good about what we're doing, he… and we had a good day today, Amber. Damn him! We worked hard, and we worked well together. It was like old times. I know how he works and how he thinks; it's like dancing with a good partner. Then, just when I start thinking that it's going to be comfortable between us again, he has to…" Althea's voice trailed off into silence.

"Has to what?" Amber pressed.

"He has to ask me a question. Or he says something."

"Something more than, 'Get under that beam! or 'Pass me the mallet'?" Amber inquired sweetly.

Althea smiled miserably. "Exactly. Something that reminds me of how we used to talk when we were friends. I miss it. I wish we could go back to it."

"Why can't you?"

"It wouldn't be right." She scowled to herself. "There's Grag, now, and…"

"And what?"

"And it could lead to more, I suppose. Even if it didn't, Grag wouldn't approve."

"Grag wouldn't approve of you having friends?"

Althea scowled. "You know what I mean. Grag wouldn't like me being friends with Brashen. I don't mean polite friends. I mean, as we used to be. Comfortable. Feet up and beer on the table."

Amber laughed softly. "Althea, in a short time, we're all going to sail off in his ship. Do you expect to use tea-party manners with someone you work with each day?"

"Once we sail, he won't be Brashen. He'll be the captain. He's already rubbed my nose in that. No one gets chummy with the captain."

Amber cocked her head and looked up at Althea in the darkness.

"Then why are you worrying about it? It sounds to me like time will cure all."

Althea spoke in a very low voice. "Maybe I don't want it cured. Not that way." She looked at her hands. "Maybe I need Brash's friendship more than Grag's approval."

Amber shrugged one shoulder. "Then maybe you should start talking to him again. And say something more than 'Here's the mallet. »

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A Change of Heart

VIVACIA WAS SEETHING. WINTROW FELT AS IF HE WERE IN THE PRESENCE OF a bubbling pot that was perpetually on the verge of boiling over and scalding everyone. The worst part was that he could do nothing to calm her. She not only would not allow herself to be calmed; she actively repelled any attempts to soothe her.

It had gone on for nearly a month, now. Wintrow sensed in her the vengeful purpose of a child who has been told she is too small to do something. Vivacia was determined to prove herself, and not just to Ken-nit. Her defiant enthusiasm included Wintrow. In the days since Opal had died on her deck, her resolve had grown and strengthened. She would turn pirate. Every time Wintrow tried to dissuade her, she became more stubborn. More troubling was that she grew more remote from him every day. She was reaching out toward Kennit so strongly that she had left Wintrow behind and alone.

Kennit sensed her turmoil. He was well aware of the feelings he had stirred in her. The pirate did not ignore her. He spoke gently to her and treated her with all courtesy. But he no longer courted her. Instead, he had turned the sun of his face onto Etta, and in his light, the woman bloomed extravagantly. Like a spark set to tinder, he had kindled her. She walked the decks like a tigress on the prowl, and all heads turned to watch her pass. There were a few other women aboard; Kennit had permitted some of the freed women to remain aboard, but in contrast to Etta, they seemed only moderately female. The puzzling thing to Wintrow was that he could not name any specific change she had made in herself. She dressed as she always had. Despite Kennit's presentations of jewelry, she seldom wore more of it than a tiny ruby earring. Instead, it was as if the ash had been brushed from a coal to reveal the fire burning within. She had not stopped working the deck; she still flowed up the rigging with pantherish speed; she still talked and laughed with the men as her sail needle flashed in the sun. Her tongue was as sharp as ever, her humor as biting. Yet, when she looked at Kennit, even across the deck, the life in her seemed to multiply. Captain Kennit, for his part, seemed to revel in her glory. He could not pass her without touching her. Even bluff Sorcor near blushed at the sight of them together on the deck. Wintrow could only watch them in amazement and envy. To his chagrin, every time Kennit caught him looking at them, he would raise his eyebrow at him. Or wink.