Even as he fell, Kennit did not believe it. This could not be happening, not to him. A shrill screaming, like a cornered rabbit, rose right behind him. The screaming ran down and became pain. It ruptured inside him and spread through his entire body. The pain was white, unbearably white, and so intense there was no need to scream. A long time later it seemed, the deck stopped his fall. Both his hands clutched at his middle. Blood poured out between his fingers. A moment later, he tasted blood, his own blood, salt and sweet in his mouth. He'd tasted blood before; Igrot had loved to backhand him. The taste of blood in his mouth, always the forerunner to worse pain.

"Paragon," he heard himself call breathlessly, as he had always called when the pain was too intense to bear. "I'm hurt, ship. I'm hurt."

"Keep breathing, Kennit." The tiny voice from his wrist was urgent, almost panicked. "Hang on. They're almost here. Keep breathing."

Stupid charm. He was breathing. Wasn't he? Unhappily he turned his eyes down. With every heavy breath, he spattered blood from his lips. His fine white shirt was ruined. Etta would make him a new one. He tasted blood, he smelled it. Where was Paragon? Why didn't he take this pain? He tried to summon him by speaking his ship's old words for him. "Keep still, boy," he whispered to himself, as Paragon had always done. "Keep still. I'll take it for you. Give it all to me. Just worry about yourself."

"He's alive!" someone cried out. He rolled his eyes up to the speaker, praying for deliverance. But the face that looked down at him was Jamaillian. "You jerk, Flad! You didn't even kill him." Efficiently, this man stabbed his slender blade into Kennit's chest and dragged it out. "Got him that time!" The satisfaction in the voice followed Kennit down into the darkness.

THEY WERE TOO LATE. WINTROW SHOUTED HIS AGONY AND KILLED THE MAN who had just killed his captain. He did it without thought, let alone remorse. The crew who had followed him from the Vivacia cut them a space on the crowded deck. Etta flung herself past Wintrow to land on her knees by Kennit. She touched his face, his breast. "He breathes, he breathes!" she cried in stricken joy. "Help me, Wintrow, help me! We have to get him back to Vivacia! We can still save him."

He knew she was wrong. There was far too much blood, dark thick blood, and it still spilled from Kennit as they spoke. They couldn't save him. The best they could do was to take him home to die, and they would have to act swiftly to do that. He stooped and took his captain's arm across his shoulders. Etta got on the other side of Kennit, crooning to him all the while. That he did not cry out with pain as they lifted him proved to Wintrow that he was nearly gone. They had to hurry. The Jamaillians had been beaten back, but not for long.

The Satrap was underneath Kennit. As they lifted him off, the Satrap spasmed into life, screaming and rolling himself into a ball. "No, no, no, don't kill me, don't kill me!" he babbled. With the voluminous red cloak, he looked like a child hiding under his blankets.

"What a nuisance," Wintrow muttered to himself, and then bit his tongue, scarcely believing he had uttered such words. As they started back to the ship with Kennit, he shouted to his crew, "Somebody bring the Satrap."

Jek bounded past him from the edge of the group. Stooping, she picked the Satrap up in her arms, then shifted him over her shoulder. "Let's go!" she proclaimed, ignoring the Satrap's cries. Althea, at her side, menaced the closing Jamaillian warriors with a sword, guarding Jek's back. Wintrow caught one flash from her dark and angry eyes. He tried not to care. He had to bring Kennit back to his own deck. He wished she could understand that despite what Kennit had done to her, there was still a bond between Kennit and him. He wished he could understand it himself. They crossed the deck at a half-run. Kennit's leg and peg dragged behind them, leaving a scrawl of his blood in their wake. Someone caught his legs up as they went over the railings and helped them. "Cast off!" he shouted to Jola as soon as Althea and the others had regained the deck of the Vivacia. They turned to slash at Jamaillians, who sought to board them, intent on reclaiming the Satrap or at least his body. The ships began to move apart. A Jamaillian made a furious leap and fell into the widening gap. Their ship was wallowing now. Whatever the serpent had done to their rudder was flooding their holds. The same serpent watched their ship avidly, positioned just beneath the boat they were trying to get off. Wintrow tore his eyes away.

"Wintrow! Bring me Kennit!" Vivacia shouted. Then, even louder, "Paragon, Paragon, we have him! Kennit is here!"

Wintrow exchanged a glance with Etta. The pirate hung silently between them. Blood dripped from his chest to puddle on the deck. Etta's eyes were wide and dark. "To the foredeck," Wintrow said quietly. Then he shouted to the crew, "Get us clear of the Jamaillian ship. It's sinking. Jola! Get us away before the fleet can close us in."

"We're a bit late for that!" Jek announced cheerily as she dumped the Satrap to his feet on Vivacia's deck. Althea caught his arm to keep him from falling. As he gasped in outrage, Jek took hold of his shirt and tore it open. She inspected the dark wound that welled blood sluggishly down his belly. "I don't think it hit anything really important. Kennit took your death for you. Best get below and lie down until someone has time to see to you." Casually, she tore a hank of his shirt free and handed it to him. "Here. Press this on it. That will slow the blood."

The Satrap looked at the rag she had thrust into his hand. Then he looked down at his wound. He dropped the rag nervelessly and swayed on his feet. Althea kept a firm grip on him as Jek took his other arm with a shake of her head. She rolled her eyes at Althea.

Althea stared after Wintrow. Kennit's arm was across her nephew's shoulders, Wintrow's arm around his waist as they dragged him along. She clenched her jaws. That man had raped her and Wintrow had still risked his own life for him. The Satrap took a gasp of air. Then, "Malta!" he wailed, as a child would have cried "Mama!"

"I'm bleeding. I'm dying. Where are you?"

A good question, Althea thought. Where was her little niece? She scanned the deck. Her eyes halted in amazement. Malta and Reyn were working together to take a wounded pirate below. Reyn's left arm was swaddled in a thick white bandage. He went unveiled and Malta's head was uncovered. In the sunlight, her scar glinted red. Althea saw her turn and speak briefly to Reyn, who nodded to her without hesitation. He put his arm around the man they had been helping and took him below while Malta hastened over to the Satrap. But she addressed her first words to Althea.

"Reyn thinks I'm beautiful. Can you believe that? Do you know what he said about my hands? That they will scale heavily as far as my elbows, most likely. He says if I rub off the dead skin, I'll see the scarlet scales working through. He thinks I'm beautiful." Her niece's eyes shone with joy as she rattled words at Althea. And more than joy? Althea leaned forward incredulously. Reyn was right. Malta had a Rain Wild gleam to her eyes now. Althea lifted a hand to cover her mouth in shock.

Malta did not seem to notice. She slipped her arm around the Satrap, her face suddenly concerned. "You are hurt!" she exclaimed, surprised. "I thought you were just-oh, dear, well, come along, let's take you below and see to that. Reyn! Reyn, I need you!" Cozening and coaxing, Malta led the Satrap of all Jamaillia away.

Althea turned away from the spectacle of the unmasked Rain Wilder hastening to her niece's imperious summoning. She nudged Jek out of her stare. "Come on," she told her. They hastened toward the foredeck, following Kennit's blood trail. The beads and puddles of blood looked odd to her. Then it struck her. The wizardwood was refusing it. Kennit's blood remained atop it, as did the other blood shed today. She tried to puzzle out what that might mean. Was Vivacia rejecting the dying pirate? She felt a sudden lift of hope.