He could feel her fear. It ran from her with her sweat, she expelled it with every breath. He was struck dumb by the idea that someone would be willing to die rather than betray him.

"Done!" the Greater announced. A faint thread of admiration shimmered through his words. "This one has a heart worthy of being partnered with a dragon-ship. Now let her prove she has a mind as well."

Paragon felt Amber strive to rise, but she had spent the last of her strength. She fell back against him. For her, he tried to close up his seams. He could not. The dragons would not let him. So he fed her such strength as he could, pouring it from his wood into the frail body that rested against him. She lifted her head in the smoky darkness.

"Clef!" she called. Her great exertion produced such a weak call. "Clef!"

"PUT YOUR BACKS INTO IT, DAMN YOU!" BRASHEN BELLOWED. THEN HE WENT off into a fit of coughing. He let the makeshift ram come to a rest on the deck. The men who had been helping him pound on the underside of the hatch sank down around him. The hatch above was not surrendering and time was fleeting. He pushed his panic away. Wizardwood was hard to kindle. There was still a little time, still a chance for survival, but only if he kept trying.

"Don't slack off on that pump! Drowning's no better than burning." At his shouted command, he heard the pump crew go back to work, but the tempo was half-hearted. Too many of the men had been killed, too many injured. The ship was alive with ominous sounds: the working of the bilge pumps, the moaning of the injured, and from above the faint crackling of flames. The bilges were rising, bringing their stink with them. The more water Paragon shipped, the more pronounced the tilt of the deck became. The smoke filtering down into the hold was getting denser, also. Time was running out for them.

"Everybody on the ram again." Three of the men staggered to their feet and took a grip on the beam they wielded.

At that moment, Brashen was distracted by a tug at his sleeve. He looked down to find Clef. The boy cradled his injured arm across his belly. "It's Amber, sir." His face was pale with pain and fear in the uneasy lamplight.

Brashen shook his head. He rubbed at his stinging, streaming eyes. "Do the best you can for her, boy. I can't come now. I've got to keep working on this."

"No, it's a message, sir. She said to tell you, try the other hatch. The one in your cabin."

It took a moment for the boy's words to penetrate. Then Brashen shouted, "Come on! Bring the ram!" He snatched down a lantern and staggered off without waiting to see if anyone followed. He cursed his own stupidity. When Amber had lived aboard the beached Paragon, she had used the captain's quarters as her bedroom, but stored her woodworking supplies below in the hold. For her convenience, she had cut a trapdoor in the floor of the room. Both Althea and Brashen had been horrified when they discovered it. Amber had repaired the floor, bracing it from below and pegging it together well. But all the bracing for it was below and accessible from this level. Paragon's hatch covers had been designed to withstand the pounding of the sea, but the trapdoor inside his stateroom had been nailed and braced shut only.

Brashen's confidence ebbed when he looked up at the patched deck above him. Amber was a good carpenter and thorough in her work. The list of the ship made it difficult to work here. He was shoving vainly at a crate when his crew caught up with them. With their aid he stacked crates and barrels and then climbed up them to examine the patched floor above him. Clef passed up the tools.

With hammer and crowbar, Brashen pulled away the bracing. This close to the ceiling, the smoke was thicker. In the lantern light, he saw the drifting gray tendrils reaching down through the seams of the deck. If they broke through, they might find fire above them. He didn't hesitate. "Use the ram, boys," he directed them, scrabbling out of the way.

There was no strength behind their swing, but on the fourth attempt, Brashen saw the boards give way a bit. He waved the men aside and they fell back, coughing and wheezing. Brashen climbed his platform again and hammered at the wood blocking him from life. When it suddenly gave way, the planks of the patch cascaded bruisingly down around him. Yellow firelight illuminated the grimy faces below him.

He jumped, caught the edge of the hole, and hauled himself up. The wall of the room was burning, but the fire had not spread within yet. "Get up here!" Brashen shouted with as much force as he could muster. "Get out while you can!"

Clef was already at the lip of the hole. Brashen seized him by his good arm and hauled him up. The boy followed him as he made his way out onto the deck. Cold rain drenched him. A quick glance about showed him that Paragon was alone in the water. A single white serpent circled curiously. The pouring rain was an ally in putting out the fire, but by itself, it would not be enough. Flames still licked up the main mast and ran furtively along the sides of the deckhouse. Fallen rigging sheltered small pockets of burning wood and canvas. Brashen dragged smoldering debris off the top of the main hatch, undogged it and flung it open. "Get up here!" he shouted again. "Get everyone up on deck, except for the pump crew. Clear this-" He had to stop to cough his lungs clear. Men began dragging themselves up onto the deck. The whites of their eyes showed shockingly in their sooty faces. Groans and coughing came from below. "Clear away the burning stuff. Help the injured up on deck where they can breathe." He turned and made his way forward through a litter of charred debris. He threw overboard a tangle of rope and a piece of spar that still burned merrily. The cold downpour was as blinding as the smoke had been, but at least the air was breathable. Every breath he drew helped to clear his lungs.

He reached the foredeck. "Paragon, close up your seams. Why are you trying to kill us? Why?"

The figurehead did not reply. The uneven light of flames danced illumination over the figurehead. Paragon stared straight ahead into the storm. His arms hugged his chest. The knotted muscles of his back showed the tension of his posture. As Brashen watched, the white serpent rose before them. It cocked its maned head and stared with gleaming red eyes up at the figurehead. It vocalized at the ship, but received no answer.

Clef spoke suddenly behind him. "I went back for Amber. She's safe now."

No one was safe yet. "Paragon! Close up your seams!" Brashen bellowed again.

Clef tugged at Brashen's sleeve. He looked down at the boy's puzzled, upturned face. "He awready did. Din't you feel it?"

"No. I didn't." Brashen seized hold of the railing, trying to will contact with the figurehead. There was nothing. "I don't feel him at all."

"I do. I feel 'em both," Clef said cryptically. An instant later, he warned, "Hang tight, ser!"

With a startling suddenness, the ship leveled itself. The sloshing of the bilge left the deck rocking. As it subsided, Brashen heard wild oaths of amazement from the deck behind him, but he grinned into the darkness. They were riding low in the water, but they were level. If the ship had closed up its seams, if they could keep the bilge pumps going, if the storm grew no more violent, they would live. "Ship, my ship, I knew you wouldn't let us die."

"It warn't him. Least, not exactly." The boy's voice was dropping to a mumble. "It's them and him. The dragons." Brashen caught the boy as he sagged to the deck. "I bin dreamin' 'em for a while now. Thought they was jes' a dream."

"TAKE THEM UP," KENNIT BARKED AT JOLA. HE WATCHED IN ANNOYANCE AS Wintrow and Etta were brought aboard. Frustration threatened to consume him. He had anchored in this cove to wait out the squall and decide what he wished to do. His initial plans to return to Divvytown might have to be changed. He had hoped to have more time alone with Althea, not to mention Bolt.