Could it be this easy? He met the pale blue eyes once more and the woman nodded at him emphatically. She wanted to do this her own way. Very well.

"I'll wait there for you," he told her gravely. He stood, and bowed formally.

"Hold a moment," Saylah warned him. She stuck her head out the door. "Ankle! You put that down! Mother says we are to let him go back to the cove. If you hit him with that, I'll take a belt to you. Now, I mean it!"

Just outside the door, a heavy stick of kindling was flung disdainfully to the earth.

The tattooed woman issued more orders. "You run tell Dedge that Mother said to let him pass. Tell him all is well. Go on, now."

Brashen watched the girl run away. If he had stepped out the door, she would have brained him. He felt a cold rush up his spine at the thought.

"She's never been right since they chained her, but she's getting better. She can't help it!" The woman spoke the last words defensively, as if Brashen had criticized her.

"I don't blame her," he said quietly, and found that he did not. Brashen watched the girl run. She could not have been more than sixteen. She had a very pronounced limp, as she hurried up to Dedge. He listened, then acknowledged the message with a nod to Saylah.

Brashen left the cottage with another bow. Ankle made faces at him as he passed them and gesticulated wildly and obscenely. Dedge spoke not a word. His eyes never left Brashen. Brashen gave him a solemn nod as he passed, but the man's face remained impassive. He wondered what Dedge would say or do when he was told Kennit's mother planned to take him with her.

"SO. HOW LONG DO WE WAIT?" AMBER ASKED HIM.

Brashen shrugged. He had returned immediately to the ship and told her all. He had found his men jubilantly gutting two hairy pigs they had taken with spears. They had wanted to hunt longer, but he had insisted that the entire crew reboard. He would take no chances on any possible trickery.

Paragon had remained silent through his account. Amber had looked thoughtful. Now the ship spoke. "Never fear. She will come." He turned his face away, as if ashamed to let them read his features. "She loves Kennit as much as I did."

As if his words had summoned her, Brashen spotted movement on the shaded trail. An instant later, Kennit's mother emerged onto the beach. She looked up at Paragon and her hands flew to her tongueless mouth. She stared at him. Dedge came behind her. He carried a sack over his shoulder; in his free hand he held the end of a chain. At the end of it shambled a wreck of a man, long-haired and pale, thin as a bundle of sticks. The chained man turned his eyes from the light, wincing as if it pained him.

"What is that?" Amber demanded in horror.

"I guess we'll soon find out," Brashen replied.

Behind them came Saylah, pushing a barrow of potatoes and turnips. A few trussed roosters squawked loudly atop the vegetables. Amber instantly grasped what that was about. She jumped to her feet. "I'll see what we can spare in the way of trade goods. Are we generous or sparing?"

Brashen shrugged his shoulders. "Use your judgment. I doubt we have much, but anything they can't make for themselves will probably please them."

In the end, the entire exchange went easily. Kennit's mother was brought aboard and immediately went to the foredeck. With her, she carried a canvas packet. It was more difficult to get the chained man aboard. He could not manage to climb the ladder; in the end, he had to be hoisted aboard like cargo. Once on deck, he huddled in a heap, moaning softly. His scarred forearms sheltered his head as if he expected a blow at any moment. Brashen guessed it had taken all his strength to get that far. Amber was generous to a fault in her trading, giving them needles and such tools and fasteners as she decided she could spare from the ship's tool chest, as well as clothing and fabric from the seachests of their dead crewmen. Brashen tried not to think about buying food for the living with the possessions of the dead, but the crew did not seem troubled by it, and Saylah was delighted. Amber's generosity went far to disarm her hostility and suspicion.

"You'll take good care of Mother?" she asked as they were taking leave.

"Excellent care," Brashen promised sincerely.

Saylah and Dedge watched from the shore as they departed. Brashen stood on the foredeck by Kennit's mother as the anchor was lifted. He wondered to himself how Kennit would treat those on the island when he discovered how easily they had surrendered his mother. Then he glanced at the old woman. She seemed calm and clear of conscience. Perhaps he could be, as well. He turned to Amber. "Shift Althea's things from the first mate's cabin into my stateroom. We'll put Mother there. And cut the chains off that poor devil and feed him. Sa only knows why she dragged him along, but I'm sure she had a reason."

"I'm sure she did," Amber replied in such a strange tone that Brashen was glad when she hurried off to her tasks.

As the anchor was taken up and Brashen called his commands, Kennit's mother kept her place on the foredeck. The turning of her head, and her nods of approval as the crew moved to their tasks showed her familiarity with the ways of a ship. As Paragon began to move, she lifted her head and her veined hands ran along his forerail in the little pats of a proud mother on her son's shoulders.

As the wind took Paragon, and he began to slice the waves on his way out of the cove, the old woman unwrapped her package. Brashen rejoined her on the foredeck. Three fat worn books emerged from the yellowed canvas. Brashen knit his brow. "Ship's logs," he exclaimed. " The Logs of the Paragon, a Liveship Trader Vessel of Bingtown on the Cursed Shores. Paragon, they're your logs!"

"I know," the ship replied gravely. "I know."

A hoarse voice creaked from behind him. "Trell. Brashen Trell."

Brashen turned in consternation. Amber supported the skeletal prisoner from Key Island. "He insisted he had to speak to you," the carpenter began in a low voice.

The prisoner spoke over her words. His blue eyes watered as he fixed Brashen with a doleful stare. His head nodded restlessly in an aimless circle. His hands palsied as well. "I'm Kyle Haven," he rasped. "And I want to go home. I just want to go home."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT — Dragon Dreams

TINTAGLIA'S WINGS BEAT FRANTICALLY. REYN CLENCHED HIS EYES AS THE BEACH rushed up toward him. The wind was gusting horribly; this was going to be bad. As her clawed hind feet came down on the beach in a scrabbling run, her body pitched forward. She kept hold of him this time, her clenching claws deepening the permanent bruises that rounded his chest. He managed to land on his feet as she released him, and staggered clear as she caught her weight on her front legs. He lurched a few steps further and then sank onto the damp sand, pathetically relieved to be on the ground again.

"Dragons were never meant to land like that," Tintaglia complained.

"Humans were never meant to be dropped that way," Reyn responded wearily. Even breathing hurt.

"As I tried to tell you before we began this foolishness."

"Go hunt," Reyn responded. There was no hope in conversing with her when she was hungry. No matter what they discussed, it was always his fault.

"I'm not likely to find anything in this light," she snorted. But as she gathered herself to take flight again, she added, "I'll try to bring you some fresh meat."

She always said that. Sometimes she actually remembered to do it.

He didn't try to stand up until he had felt the wind of her wings pass over him. Then he forced himself to his feet and staggered up the beach to the edge of a wood. He followed what had become a weary ritual for him. Wood. Fire. Fresh water if any was to hand, water from his skins if there was not. A sparing meal from his supplies, now woefully low. Then he bundled himself up near the fire and took whatever sleep he could get. Tintaglia was right about her hunting. The short winter day had passed swiftly, and the stars were already starting to show in the sky. It was going to be clear and cold. At least he would not be rained on tonight. Only frozen.