Ship of Magic

He knew of only one liveship that had died. Tinester had perished in a fire that spread swiftly through his cargo holds full of barrels of oil and dry hides, consuming him in a matter of hours. A matter of hours of the ship screaming and begging for help. The tide had been out. Even when the blaze holed him and he sank, salt water pouring onto his internal flames, he could not sink deeply enough to douse the deck fires. His wizardwood self had burned slowly, with black greasy smoke that poured up from him into the blue sky over the harbor, but he had burned. Maybe that was the only possible peace for a liveship. Flames and a slow burning. He wondered that the children had never thought of that. Why did they fling stones when they could have set fire to his decaying hulk a long time ago? Should he suggest it to them sometime?

The footsteps were closer now. They halted. Feet grinding sand grittily against underlying stone. “Hey, Paragon.” A man's voice, friendly, reassuring. It took him a moment and then he had it. “Brashen. It's been a time.”

“Over a year,” the man admitted easily. “Maybe two.” He came closer, and a moment later Paragon felt a warm human hand brush the point of his elbow. He unfolded his arms and reached down his right hand. He felt Brashen's small hand attempt to grasp his own.

“A year. A full turning of the seasons. That's a long time for you folk, isn't it?”

“Oh, I don't know.” The man sighed. “It was a lot longer when I was a kid. Now each passing year seems shorter than the one before.” He paused. “So. How have you been?”

Paragon gri

The man had the grace to sound embarrassed. “The usual. I need a place to sleep. A safe place.”

“And you've never heard that just about the worst luck that can be found will be found aboard a ship like me.” It was an old conversation between them. But they had not had it in a while, and so Paragon found it comforting to lead Brashen once more through its measures.

Brashen gave a bark of laughter. He gave a final squeeze to Paragon's hand before releasing it. “You know me, old ship. I've already got about the worst luck that anyone could hunt up. I doubt that I'll find worse aboard you. And at least I can sleep sound, knowing I've a friend watching over me. Permission to come aboard?”

“Come aboard and welcome. But watch your step. Bound to be a bit more rot than the last time you sheltered here.”

He heard Brashen circle him, heard his leap and then a moment later felt the man hauling himself up and over the old railing. Strange, so strange to feel a man walk his decks after such a long time. Not that Brashen strode them easily. Hauled out as he was on the sand, the Paragon's decks sloped precipitously. Brashen more clambered than walked as he crossed the deck to the forecastle door. “No more rot than the last time I was here,” the man observed aloud, almost cheerily. “And there was damn little then. It's almost spooky how sound you are after all the weathering you must take.”

“Spooky,” Paragon agreed, and tried not to sound glum about it. “No one's been aboard since the last time you were here, so I fancy you'll find all within as you left it. Save for a bit more damp.”

He could hear and feel the man moving about inside the forecastle, and then into the captain's quarters. His raised voice reached Paragon's ears. “Hey! My hammock is still here. Still sound, too. I'd forgotten all about it. You remember, the one I made last time I was here.”

“Yes. I remember,” Paragon called back. He smiled a rare smile of remembered pleasure. Brashen had kindled a small fire on the sand, and drunkenly instructed the ship in the ways of weaving. His hands, so much larger than a man's, had proven a challenge to Brashen as he tried to teach the blind ship the necessary knots by touch alone. “Didn't no one ever teach you anything before?” Brashen had demanded with drunken indignance as Paragon had fumbled his way through the simple motions.

“No. No one. At least, nothing like this. When I was young, I saw it done, but no one ever offered me a chance to try it for myself,” Paragon had answered. He wondered how many times since then he had dragged out the memory to pass the long night hours, how many times he had held his empty hands up before him and woven imaginary lines into the simple webbing of a hammock. It was one way to keep the deeper madness at bay.

Within the captain's quarters, he knew Brashen had kicked his shoes off. They slid down into a corner, the same corner that everything slid into. But the hammock was secured to hooks that Brashen had mounted, and so it hung level as the man grunted and clambered his way into it. Paragon could feel it give with his weight, but the hooks held. It was as Brashen had said: surprisingly little new rot. As if Brashen could sense how hungry the ship was for companionship, he roused himself enough to call, “I'm really tired, Paragon. Let me sleep a few hours and then I'll tell you all my adventures since the last time I saw you. My misadventures, too.”

“I can wait. Get some sleep,” the ship told him affably. He wasn't sure if Brashen heard him or not. It didn't matter.

He felt the man shift in the hammock and then settle more comfortably. After that there was almost silence. The ship could sense his breathing. It was not much for company, but it was more than Paragon had had for many a month. He folded his arms more comfortably across his bare chest, and focused on the sound of Brashen breathing.

Ke

The Marietta creaked softly against the dock. Ke

The boy left the cabin with his tray of dishes, shutting the door firmly but respectfully behind himself. For a few moments, there was almost silence within the snug chamber as Ke

Ke