Boy-O spoke softly. ‘It’s not like that, Kennitsson. Not like that at all.’
‘You’ve come to know one another?’ Althea asked softly but received no response.
Wintrow spoke in a low, controlled voice. ‘I want you off this ship. We both know that your mother does not approve of your coming here.’
Kennitsson cocked his head and grinned. ‘I also know that my mother is not here.’
Wintrow did not return his smile. ‘A queen does not have to be present to expect that her commands will be obeyed. Especially by her son.’
‘Ah, but this is not the will of a queen but the will of my mother who fears for me. And it is time for me to live beyond her fears.’
‘In this case, her fears are well-founded,’ Wintrow countered.
‘You are not welcome aboard this vessel,’ Brashen added in a flat voice. There was no anger in his tone but there was danger. For an instant, Kennitsson’s face went blank with astonishment. Then we all heard a roar of disagreement from Paragon the ship.
‘Send him forward! Send him forward to me!’
Kennitsson recovered himself, and his features shifted from shock to royal arrogance. I had not been so vividly reminded of Regal in many a year. His words were clipped, his anger palpable. ‘I believe this was my father’s ship before it was yours. And I believe that even if I did not have an inherent right to be here, my authority as Prince of the Pirate Isles supersedes your captain’s powers. I go wherever I wish to go.’
‘On this deck, nothing overshadows the say of the captain,’ Brashen informed him.
Paragon’s roar blasted us. ‘Except the will of the ship!’
Kennitsson canted his head at Brashen and smiled. ‘I believe I am summoned,’ he said, and offered an elegant bow, complete with a sweep of his feathered hat, before turning and sauntering away. Brashen made a noise, but Wintrow stepped between Brashen and the door and blocked the captain from exiting.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me talk with him. He has been consumed with curiosity about Paragon since he was eight years old.’ He turned his gaze to Althea. ‘Any boy raised with no glimpse of Kennit, surrounded by dozens of men telling him hero tales of his father, would be enamoured of this ship. He cannot resist.’
‘Coming aboard!’ someone roared, and in the next breath, ‘Kennitsson! Prince you may be, but you do not defy me or your mother without a reckoning!’
‘Sorcor,’ Wintrow said with a sigh. ‘Oh, lovely. Just perfect.’
‘Sometimes Kennitsson listens to him.’ Boy-O sounded hopeful.
Beside me, Amber breathed, ‘Kennit’s first mate, in the old days.’
‘Sometimes,’ Wintrow agreed and then turned and went to meet Sorcor. I heard the hasty mutter of their conversation, Sorcor’s voice accusing and Wintrow’s defensive and reasonable. But my ears strained to hear a different set of voices. I heard the ship hail ‘young Paragon’ with joy and the young man’s more measured response.
‘How can he?’ Boy-O spoke into the quiet. ‘After what Kennit did to you, after all you and Brashen have done for him, how can he be so joyous to receive Kennit’s son?’ I wondered if I heard a twinge of jealousy beneath his outrage. His jaw was set and he suddenly looked a great deal more like his father.
‘He’s Paragon. He’s always been capable of things we can’t even imagine.’ Althea stood slowly. She moved as if she had suddenly aged, as if every joint in her body were stiff.
‘I’m not my father,’ Brashen said suddenly. ‘Neither is he.’
‘He looks like him,’ Althea said uncertainly.
‘Much as Boy-O looks like you. And me. But he isn’t either of us. And he’s not responsible for anything we’ve done in our lives.’ Brashen’s voice was low and calm. Rational.
‘Boy-O,’ the young man said softly. ‘Haven’t heard that name in a while. I’m almost used to being called Trellvestrit now.’
‘I’m not … I don’t think I hate him. Kennitsson I mean. And I don’t judge him for his father.’ Althea tried to find words for her thoughts and continued, as if her son had not spoken. ‘I think I’m a better person than that. His father is not his fault. Though I don’t find him the least bit charming.’ She looked sideways at Brashen, and stood straighter. Determination came back into her face and voice. ‘But I am concerned by what he might waken in Paragon. There is so much of my father in Vivacia. So much of my grandmother in the Vestrit family liveship.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I always knew that Kennit must be a part of Paragon. He was a Ludluck, and the Ludluck family owned Paragon for generations. And we both know that Paragon absorbed all the abuse that Igrot heaped on Kennit, all the deep hurts and wrong. There was so much blood shed on his decks in Igrot’s day, so much cruelty, the pain and fear sank into him with the blood spilled on his planks. And then, when Kennit died, our ship took into himself all that Kennit had been since he’d abandoned Paragon. I thought Paragon had …nullified it. Outgrown it, as children outgrow selfish ways and learn to have empathy for others. I thought …’ Her voice faltered into silence.
‘We all bury things inside ourselves,’ Amber said, making me flinch. She was looking straight ahead, not at Althea, but I felt she had intruded into a private conversation. ‘We think we have mastered them. Until they burst out.’ Her hand was on the cuff of my shirt and I felt it tremble.
‘Well, what’s done is done,’ Althea said abruptly. ‘Time to face it.’ She took Brashen’s arm and a look passed between them that reminded me of two warriors standing back to back in battle. As they walked away, Boy-O and Clef fell in behind them as if it were some sort of formal procession.
‘Lead me,’ Amber demanded. We trailed after them with Lant and Spark and Per following us. The few members of her crew who had decided to stay aboard despite where Paragon might take them ghosted along after us.
Lanterns illuminated the masts and bows of the anchored vessels in the harbour, and the moon had risen. The light was uneven, draping angled faces in veils of shadow. But the moonlight fell on Paragon’s features and his face was full of fondness. It was like approaching a puppet show in the middle of an act. Paragon’s figurehead was twisted to look down at Kennit’s son on his deck, and his profile showed me his smile. His namesake stood with his back to us, legs wide and hands clasped loosely behind his back. His stance spoke to me more of patience than awe.
Behind him, Wintrow stood beside a heavy-set man with little hair left to his head but a generous grey beard. He wore loose trousers tucked into high boots and a wide belt that held a curved sword over his equally generous belly. His shirt was so white it seemed to gleam in the moonlight. The man was scowling, his arms crossed on his chest. I was abruptly reminded of Blade. Some old warriors are like good weapons. Their scars become the patina of experience and wisdom.