Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“There you are, ma’am,” the young traveler said, wiping his dirt-caked hands on the seat of his trousers. At a glance, he was a drifter, with marks of his own skill-less stitching on his tanned jerkin and a ribbed cotton doublet. The young man had unbuttoned the jerkin to combat the afternoon heat, and Ronica noted that the dark fabric yielded few visible stains. Perhaps that was purposeful.

“Thank you,” Ronica said, drawing the purse that Davad had handed her to dispense among the servants and shaking out the allotted sum into her palm. As she reached to pass the coins onto the man, she studied his face and found herself looking past the unkempt beard and sunken eyes, truly perceiving his features. It startled her to recognize his youth. He was younger than Keffria. Perhaps he was even close to Althea’s age. Something in her, a long-buried yearning, noted that he’d be of an age with her sons, if they’d lived. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

The traveler blinked at her. He was either alarmed by her interest, or shocked that she had asked. He glanced over his shoulder, his thick brows knitting in uncertainty.

“I’ll make do,” he said vaguely, pocketing the coins. He rolled his shoulders and winced. When Ronica opened her mouth, he waved her off in an instant. “Old wound, ma’am. It’s no trouble.”

Somehow, she doubted that. And there was no real way to pry further without it becoming unseemly.

“Your accent…” Ronica began tentatively. She had no intention of insulting the man, but he had intrigued her, being so clearly foreign. It had taken her a bit to place the accemt, as it seemed far less abrasive than she was used to. “You’re from the Six Duchies?”

The boy smiled at her grimly. He shrugged. Then he turned to leave.

“Wait,” Ronica called. The boy stopped to glance back at her expectantly. He seemed irritated. Ronica had not really thought it through, calling after him. She glanced down at Davad’s purse, resentful that she required his money, his servants, and his charity. She took a deep breath. “There is a window loose in the foyer. It’s been bothersome, in the winter months, and I had hoped—well, to be honest with you, we have few men around the house. It wouldn’t take very long, and I can’t afford to give you more than what I already have, but you would be open to our kitchen, as payment for giving it a glance.”

The instant it all came from Ronica’s mouth she felt strangely foolish. She did not know this young man, but she felt such acute pity for him that it had overtaken her senses. The poor boy had clearly seen the worst of the war that plagued their northern neighbors. It was obvious in his scarred face and broken nose, but more-so in his eyes. Ronica had seen eyes like his quite often as of late. Rache’s eyes had looked something like that, when Davad had first deposited her with them.

After a moment’s hesitance, the boy gave a short nod.

“Alright,” he said, eyeing the house behind her uncertainly. “Are you sure I won’t disturb the party?”

“Oh,” Ronica sighed, “don’t worry about that. They’re all in another room, much further into the house. I imagine it won’t take very long to look at it. I don’t expect you to fix it without compensation, of course, merely give an approximation of what the trouble is and how much time it might take to fix.”

“Is that really all?” The boy seemed surprised. Ronica blinked at him as she beckoned him into her home. Then he leaned back and smiled sheepishly. “I thought you wanted me to fix it.”

“I cannot pay you,” Ronica told him gently. The boy merely stared back at her, unblinking, and she realized that he had been more than willing to fix her window for nothing but a decent meal. It was a sobering and mildly heartbreaking thought. “Why don’t we go look at it?”

There was music and laugher filling the eaves of her house. The boy ducked at the sound of it, as if the party somehow felt like a distant threat, and Ronica led him to the foyer quickly. Davad’s other servants were quiet when she entered the kitchen, which was not unexpected. Ronica knew they gossiped. It irritated her that they had no loyalty to her family or her house, which meant that the gossip was uncontrolled and meandering. The kitchen maids glanced over the young man curiously as he hurried past.

“Here we are.” Ronica tied off the billowy curtains that framed the window in question. The boy eyed the open window, and then tentatively reached out to close it. The frame jostled. He raised his head and felt around the wooden molding, giving the pane a small shake. The glass rattled.

“It seems an easy fix,” the boy said quietly. “The nails are loose, see—up here? It’d take maybe an hour or two. I could return tomorrow and do it, only—well, I don’t have the tools.”

“I think we might have some tools about,” Ronica said, relieved. “However, as I said, I cannot pay you. I’m sorry—what was your name again, young man?”

“Tom.”

“Tom,” Ronica sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Thank you, but it will have to wait some time longer. Perhaps if you’re still in town—”

“I don’t plan on being here much longer.” Tom glanced away guiltily, as if he was truly inconveniencing her by leaving port. It was endearing, Ronica had to admit. The foreigner was intriguing. “But I don’t mind doing it. You don’t have to pay me. Honestly, your house has been a bit of a reprieve from the rest of the city. I’ve felt more at peace here than anywhere else.”

Ronica saw his cheeks color as he seemed to process what he was saying, and he shook his head, opening his mouth to amend his statement.

“Thank you,” she said gently, “but I would feel indebted to you if I allowed you to do this work without compensation.”

“I’d work for food,” Tom said wryly. Ronica almost laughed. “So?”

“Well,” Ronica said, “it seems to me that you are getting the raw end of the deal, but you are setting the terms, so who am I to object? That certainly sounds fair to me.”

“Great.” Tom seemed relieved. “Um, don’t panic, if you see my dog outside. He’s friendly, just… big.”

And with that, and without waiting to be dismissed, Tom slipped past Ronica, disappearing back into the kitchen. Ronica stared after him, half-amused and half-stunned. His manners could use work, she conceded, but he seemed a genuine sort.

Ronica shook her head and smoothed out her dress. Well, she had been avoiding the party long enough. She supposed she ought to check in on her daughter and granddaughter.

A man called Tom had been savoring the sweet berry tarts that had crumbled warm in his mouth, succulent jam squeezing between his molars, when a boy stepped into the kitchen from the sunny garden that Tom had spent the past few hours trimming and weeding. He half listened to the serving girl as she demanded to know the boy’s purpose in the Vestrit household. The boy kept his reasoning succinct. And that piqued Tom’s curiosity.

He followed the boy out into the garden with a napkin full of bread and meat. The boy glanced back at him with a frown, and he weaved around him to set the napkin near the hedges. He heard the boy gasp as the great, shaggy wolf appeared through the foliage, jaws tearing into the strips of meat eagerly.

Tom met the boy’s eye and shrugged.

“My dog,” he explained.

Nighteyes snorted into his meal.

Where have I heard that before, the wolf thought. Tom smiled wanly.

“Is he…?” the boy asked hesitantly, tipping his head to get a better look at the beast.

“He won’t hurt you,” Tom said, “if that’s what you’re asking. But I’d advise against petting him. He’s a grouchy old soul.”

Me? Or you?

Just pretend to be a good dog for once, Tom thought at the wolf amusedly.

“Huh.” The boy shrugged, drying off his hands on his trousers. “Alright. I guess I’ve never seen a Duchies dog before. Do they all get so big?”

“Oh, no,” Tom said, enjoying the ignorance of these southern traders for once, “Nighteyes was the runt of his litter.”

Nighteyes managed to paw some dirt onto Tom’s boots. Tom ignored it.

What did I do for you to embarrass me so in front of this female? Nighteyes demanded, raising his head to look at Tom. Tom met his eyes in shock, and then glanced at the boy. He found himself really looking at him. He looked like a boy, certainly, with his stained sea-shirt and trousers, his hair braided thick down his back in that common sailor’s way that was popular among the traders Tom had seen. His shirt was billowy and shapeless, betraying nothing of a womanly figure. He had not come across any female sailors in his short stay in Bingtown. It seemed to him that these people had limiting ideas about women’s work.

“What?” the boy asked sharply. The abrasiveness startled Tom. But now that he was listening closer, he could hear the clarity of the boy’s voice, which should, at his age, be reedy and broken. Studying the boy’s face, too, proved useful. There was a delicateness to his features that Tom had initially attributed to youth.

“I just remembered,” Tom said hastily, hoping to cover up his astonishment, “that you said you came from a liveship. In the kitchen, just a minute ago, you said you had news from a liveship. I'm curious. Do you sail on one?”

The boy—or, the woman who resembled a boy, which Nighteyes snorted at, nagging Tom for his dull senses inside his head—gave a short but eager nod. She was clearly proud of this fact.

“I came from the Ophelia,” the woman said. Her shoulders sagged. “It’s important. Do you know what all this is about?”

“This?” Tom glanced back at the house, where he could hear the clattering of trays and servants bustling. “It’s some sort of party. I’m not really sure. The servants will have a better grasp on the gossip than me. I’m just a gardener passing through.”

“Ah.” The woman seemed pensive. “Well, I’m starving. You comin’ back in?”

Tom felt his wolf staring at him, beckoning him to leave the house and garden entirely. But Tom had a queasy sense of nostalgia, sitting in that kitchen, nibbling on sweets and listening to gossip.

“Yes, I think so.”

Tom followed the woman into the kitchen and watched as the serving girl handed her a plate. She sat on a stool by the hearth, and Tom snatched a cake off a platter, meeting the woman’s eyes and watching her grin. She stole one for herself.

“This tastes like a thousand years ago,” the woman said wistfully, licking the jam off her fingers. Tom nodded in silent agreement, and he wondered if all childhood was a collection of warm memories of a hearth and sweet cakes.

They listened to the gossip in silence as the servants chatted blithely about the young lady of the house’s suitors. Tom watched the woman frown.

“Do you know them?” Tom asked curiously. “The Vestrits? They say the young lady is too young to be courting anyone.”

“She is,” the woman said darkly. And nothing more. Tom shrugged. It was idle kitchen gossip. And there was a time when that had interested Tom. But he had not been Tom then.

At some point, Tom and the woman had begun chatting about ships. The woman, who called herself Athel, had asked him if his scars were from the Red Ship Wars. Tom had coldly replied that they were. And then Athel had eagerly asked if it was true that they allowed women to sail in the Six Duchies.

“Of course we do,” Tom said, realizing for the first time that perhaps the woman resembled a boy on purpose. “I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t allow a woman to sail.”

“Some say it’s dangerous,” Athel said quietly.

“It is. At least, when you’re at war, it is. But women die as easily as men, in my experience. They kill as well as men, too.”

Athel looked at him, mildly awed. Tom realized the rest of the kitchen servants had paused to listen to him. He shook his head.

“That’s just what it’s like at home,” Tom said tersely. “You have your ways, we have ours.”

“So women fight,” Athel said, sounding a bit bitter, “and women sail, and women rule. What do the men do, then?”

“The same,” Tom said, sensing that her bitterness had nothing to do with the Six Duchies. He thought on it a moment, and then said, teasingly, “Only, a bit worse.”

That made her laugh. Tom smiled, satisfied that he’d gotten a chuckle from the jaded young woman. He had no idea if she intended to be taken for a boy, or if the sailor’s garb merely made her look like one. All of the women he’d ever sailed with had been grown and muscled, warriors in their own right. It was hard to take them for men, let alone adolescent boys. But she had the air of a ship’s boy, at least in how she carried herself, and Tom wondered at that.

“Why here?” Athel asked suddenly. One of the serving women had come and taken her plate, then handed them both sugar dumplings. Athel had asked after Ronica Vestrit again, only to be told the lady of the house would see her soon. Athel fixed her gaze on Tom.

“It seemed as good a place as any to see.”

“So you’re just passing through?” Athel sounded surprised. “You won’t stay?”

“I…” Tom did not know how to tell this woman that he did not like her city. “Honestly, it never occurred to me to stay. The folk here are not particularly keen on outsiders, I’ve learned.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Athel sighed. “There are as many outsiders as there are Old Traders, at this point. And I’ve met outsiders who have acclimated well—that is, y’know, they fit in now.”

Tom noted that she seemed to catch her own floundering accent in the middle of her sentence. Suddenly it seemed that she was not a common sailor, but a learned woman, well-spoken and clever. Tom studied her face and found himself wondering at her resemblance to the kind older woman, Ronica.

They took their talk outside as they washed their hands in the garden, at a yard pump. Tom threw Nighteyes another heel of bread and the fatty cast offs of the pork roast. They sat in the grass, watching the wolf gobble up his dinner while carriages began to pull away from the house, into the gravel road.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” Tom asked Athel quietly.

Athel froze beside him. She glanced at him with wide, wondering eyes, and she evaluated him a moment, as if she could not tell if he was a threat or not. He sighed and shook his head.

“You look like her,” he offered.

“Do I?” Athel touched her own face, drawing her fingers over her brow and nose. “I’ve always been told I look like my father.”

“I haven’t met him.”

“He’s dead,” Athel said bitterly.

Tom winced. Of course he was.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

“Yeah, well…” Athel stood up. She dusted her trousers off and shook her head. “It’s not like you could have known. I’m sure you work all sorts of odd jobs, and this is just another. Well, thanks for the chat. It was enlightening, I think.”

“How so?” Tom asked curiously.

Athel opened her mouth, but the serving girl appeared in the doorway before she could reply.

“Mistress Vestrit will see you now,” she said. Athel inclined her head. Then she glanced at Tom.

“Nice talking to you,” she said.

Tom nodded. He watched the woman enter the house and found himself curious as he realized that she had not been recognized by any of the servants. In fact, she had simply sat by and allowed herself to be treated just as Tom was treated, like a stranger passing through, when it was her house.

Do you find this female attractive because she is nice to look at, or because she reminds you of yourself? Nighteyes asked snidely.

Tom threw a stick at the wolf, and the wolf caught it between his jaws, eyes dancing with mirth. The teasing had been expected to a point.

I don’t find her attractive, Tom thought. I’m just curious.

Yes. And I am a dog.

“Shut up,” Tom huffed. The wolf snorted and turned away.

Tom sat in the grass a bit longer. He laid back in the grass, watching the golden sunset cast odd shadows on the house’s façade. He enjoyed the architecture. It was so different than the stout stone buildings that were so common in the Six Duchies. He supposed he liked it because it was foreign and different and new. It was pretty, because it was not home. But if he had seen such a house in Buck, he would be repulsed, he knew, by the ostentatious colors and the odd shape of the windows and doorways. Everything felt airy and open in Bingtown architecture. And vibrant. Warm, maybe, to reflect the climate.

He sighed as he felt Nighteyes nearby, gnawing on a stripped pork bone. He did not know where they would sleep tonight, and somehow, right now, he did not care. He watched the sky as the clouds tumbled up into that golden sunset, pink and purple and yellow, like a mottled bruise.

He fell asleep that way.

“There is a man asleep in the garden.”

Malta entered the kitchen to steal a pastry when she had seen him. A massive animal was curled up beside him. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. A beggar, she thought. Yet her mother and grandmother seemed unmoved by this intruder.

“It is only Tom,” her grandmother said dismissively. “Let him sleep there. The poor boy has nowhere else to go. Now, back to Althea—”

“We’re just going to let him sleep in our garden?” Malta asked, scandalized.

“Hm.” Grandmother frowned. “Good point. Well, there are beds in the servant quarters. Malta, would you wake him and see that he knows that any of those beds are welcome to him?”

Malta stared at her grandmother incredulously. She could not be serious, inviting a strange man to stay in their house, especially when her Aunt Althea had finally returned from who knew where. Had the old woman finally lost it? It seemed likely.

“Malta, go,” her mother said quietly.

“Really?” Malta gasped, genuinely shocked that her mother was going along with this.

“Yes. Go on.”

Malta found herself forced out of the room, despite having earned her place in that conversation, and she huffed as she stomped out into the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the garden. It was a warm spring night. The grass was soft beneath her slippers as she approached the man.

“Hey.” Malta toed the man’s shoulder. She did not want to touch him, out of fear of lice or fleas. His clothing was threadbare and stained. He smelled like wet dog. The animal, she saw, briefly startled, was a very large dog, which explained the smell. It had lifted its head to consider her and then lowered it again in disinterest. “Hey. Hello? Wake up.”

The man jolted awake, scrabbling away from her foot and darting to his feet. They stared at each other, wide-eyed. There was genuine fear in his features that made all of her prior irritation and suspicion fade. Though he was a grown man, he had been afraid of her, however briefly.

It was disturbing.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“What—?” The man blinked rapidly, taking a deep breath. “Tom. I’m Tom. Are you…? A, um, Vestrit?”

“Malta Haven to be precise,” she told him curtly. “Why are you sleeping in my garden?”

“Oh.” The man rubbed his face and glanced around. The dog stretched at his feet. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Sorry about that. I’ll leave now.”

“Grandmother wants you to stay,” Malta said, watching the man freeze. He glanced at her confusedly. “For some reason. So. I’m supposed to bring you to a spare room.”

“What?” Tom’s brow furrowed. “Really? But—why?”

Malta bit back a frustrated retort. She took a deep breath of her own, and she turned her back on him, entering her house and waiting only a moment for him to follow. She heard his quiet, hesitant footfalls on the wooden floorboards, and she started forward, weaving through the halls, until they reached the servants’ quarters.

“The rooms are small,” Malta said with a shrug. “The one on the end is for Rache, so you can’t use that one. Any other one, though.”

“I don’t…” The man seemed hesitant. Malta glanced at him and was startled to find that in the light, he wasn’t old or horrible looking. He was actually quite young, behind the thatch of a beard.

“There’s a basin for you to wash and shave,” Malta offered. She watched Tom’s hand fly to his beard, rubbing the coarse hair there. She stared at him curiously, her eyes trailing over the great white scar that crept across his cheek and crooked nose, and the shock of white hair at his temple. It was all very mysterious. If only his beard wasn’t so unkempt, he might be handsome, in a rugged way that intrigued her. She turned on her heel sharply, avoiding the dog narrowly. “I’m going to ask my mother if she knows where my father kept his shaving things.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Nonsense,” Malta said to the young man sweetly, “you’re our guest!”

She made sure to shoot him a warm smile before gliding down the hall. Perhaps this could be interesting.

Malta all but bounced back to her mother and grandmother. They were still talking about Aunt Althea. It seemed suddenly impossible to ask about the mysterious stranger. Malta sighed and sat down in a nearby chair. She listened to their arguing half-heartedly.

“Does no one care that we have a strange man in our house?” she asked aloud, half-dreamily.

“Tom is the least of our worries,” her grandmother sighed. “I doubt he’ll make any trouble. He’s a Six Duchies man, Malta, just a veteran passing through. The poor man was injured badly during the war, clearly. He offered to fix our window. I doubt he’ll stay long.”

A war veteran! Malta’s eyes widened at the idea of it. No wonder he looked so grizzled and forlorn. Yes, this was interesting!

“Oh, that’s awful,” Malta gasped, earning a strange look from her grandmother. “Mother, I told him that I’d find a razor for him to shave with. Do you know where Papa keeps his?”

Her mother looked at her incredulously. She shared a glance with her grandmother and then nodded.

“Yes,” she conceded, “I do. I’ll bring it to him in the morning.”

“By the time Aunt Althea comes back,” Malta muttered, “it might as well be morning.”

“She’s right,” her mother said.

Malta’s grandmother was silent.

Althea nursed the prior night’s headache with a mug of tea. It was still early morning, but she had not slept well, in her childhood bed, which felt cramped for her adult body. She rubbed the bleariness from her eyes as she poured the water from the kettle into a teapot and let it brew. She could not keep it all straight in her head, the Ophelia seized on the tariff docks, her ceaseless arguments with her sister about propriety, Malta’s courting of a Rain Wilder, and Amber’s insistence about purchasing the Paragon. And that had only just been what had happened yesterday, not to mention the Vivacia was missing, that Kyle had converted her into a slaver, that they were all in a dangerous amount of debt.

She poured the tea before it was ready. She didn’t really care.

“Oh. I’m sorry, Athel.”

Althea jumped. She spun in her stool to face the male intruder in her house, eyes wide as she met Tom’s own stunned face. He stood behind her, somehow having crept in unheard, and he seemed a bit sheepish as she gaped at him. She saw, curious, that he had shaved his beard to stubble on his cheeks, and it had taken years off his face. The man was far more boyish than she had initially realized.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I stayed in a servant’s room.” Tom opened the kitchen door to let his oversized dog out into the garden. He quietly shut the door behind him. “Your mother’s doing. I wasn’t about to object. I didn’t have any place better to stay. Did you get your message to her?”

“Yes.” Althea’s mind reeled. She was sitting here, hair down and tumbling around her shoulders, wearing a night robe, and this man had hardly flinched. He had figured out that he was Ronica Vestrit’s child, but had he immediately figured out that she was the infamously missing Althea Vestrit? No. He still called her Athel. So he had simply figured out she was a woman. Perhaps, she conceded, he was simply used to female sailors and had not even questioned it. “You look much younger without the beard, you know.”

Tom rubbed his mouth with a grimace. The scar on his cheek was also more visible now. Althea didn’t think it looked too terrible, but she pitied him. With the broken nose, she sensed that however he had gotten that injury, it had hurt. Badly.

“It’s Althea,” she said, “by the way.”

“What?”

“My name.” She was amused by his confused glance. “Athel is my boy name. The one I use as a sailor. When I’m a ship’s boy. Does that make sense?”

“Why would you pretend to be a boy?” Tom asked curiously. “To sail?”

“Yes.” Althea sighed. She grabbed another mug and gestured for Tom to sit in the stool beside her. He obliged as she poured him a cup of tea. “It’s so I’d be taken seriously. And for safety, I guess. I’m not sure how Six Duchies ships are, but around here, being a woman on a ship is… not safe.”

Tom was quiet a moment, taking in her tone and her expression, and he looked down at his mug with a surprising amount of soberness.

“It’s not like that at home,” he said quietly. “Not while I sailed, at least. But our ships were warships. I suppose it’s different.”

“I guess so,” Althea said grimly, “if you’re all warriors, you probably are less inclined to mess with one another.”

“You’d think.” Tom smiled and shrugged. He took a sip of his tea. “I won’t lie, I don’t really understand the point of dressing like a boy, but I also don’t understand much about your people. Everyone seems needlessly cruel and judgmental. Except for your mother.”

“My mother is definitely judgmental,” Althea snorted, “are you kidding?”

“Well,” Tom said boldly, “she didn’t judge me. I’m grateful for that.”

“Hm.” Althea rolled her eyes. “It’s probably because you’re a man.”

That made him laugh. Althea glanced at him and found herself grinning. Her grin fell when Keffria strolled into the kitchen, eyes locking with hers. Her eyes darted to Tom and then back. Then they narrowed.

“Perhaps you should be properly dressed before giving our guest any ideas, Althea,” Keffria said in a tight voice. Althea found her face burning as she stared at her sister blankly. Tom stared at her too, clearly confused. He glanced at Althea for an answer that she would not give.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said quickly. His accent seemed thicker now. “I feel that I’ve overstepped some cultural line again. I didn’t realize that Althea wasn’t properly dressed.”

“You didn’t?” Keffria asked incredulously.

“Perhaps I should have known,” Tom conceded, stepping toward the door, “as she’s not wearing her trousers and sea-shirt. Ah, well. I’m off to check on Nighteyes. Excuse me.”

Althea was delighted in the way he had so earnestly declared that she should be wearing her ship’s boy clothing. It might have been a joke, from someone else, but from Tom, in his odd accent, it sounded genuine. She shot Keffria a grin and then shrugged.

“They let women sail in the Six Duchies,” she explained, somewhat snidely.

“They are barbarians in the Six Duchies,” Keffria hissed.

“He doesn’t seem so bad.” Althea waved at the door and peered out the window into the garden. She saw Tom kneel beside his dog and rub his head. “And Mother likes him, so be nice.”

“Mother pities him.” Keffria shook her head with a sigh. “We can’t afford a charity case. And yet, here he is. Another mouth to feed. Mother wants to keep him on for the summer, as a gardener and a handyman. We can’t afford it, but she insists he’ll work for as much as Rache, which is barely anything—”

“Have you talked to him about this?” Althea asked. Keffria blinked. “I don’t see the harm. He’s nice enough. And if he wants to do the work, let him.”

“We don’t know him!”

“It sounds like your real opponent in this argument is Mother,” Althea said, watching Keffria bristle and finding herself grinning, “and you’ve already lost, so what’s the problem? What do you want me to say? I’m not going to say it’s a bad idea.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Althea bit back a retort that she knew she would regret. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to glare down at her tea, consider her words, and remember that her mother and Keffria were butting heads. That Althea happened to agree with her mother was probably just lucky.

“I’m going to go tell her,” Althea said, sliding off her stool and taking her mug with her, “that I think it’s a lovely idea.”

“Althea,” Keffria huffed as Althea slipped past her. “Althea—”

Althea did find her mother in the study, already dressed and ready for the day. They stopped to look at one another, a year apart neither smoothing old wounds nor severing old bonds. There was an instant where Althea was suddenly unsure, as her mother frowned at her, clearly noting her state of dress and the hour at hand.

“Keffria told me you want to keep Tom on for the summer,” Althea said, earning an alarmed glance.

“I told her that it was an idea,” her mother said carefully. “Not one I believe feasible. It’s too much money. We cannot afford him. But it was a thought. Why? What qualms do you have with the boy?”

“None.” Althea shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest as her mother stared at her blankly. “I came to tell you that I think it’s a great idea. Keffria is just sore because he’s Six Duchies, and she thinks he’s a barbarian.”

Althea did not mention, of course, that she had similar ideas of the Six Duchies. Secretly, she still considered the northern nation to be leagues less civilized than Bingtown, but she also conceded that maybe she simply needed to expose herself to more of their culture. It had been apparent from Tom’s reaction to Keffria’s digs at their social impropriety that he believed that Bingtown’s social formalities were the backwards ones.

“Did she say that to him?” Ronica demanded, looking genuinely stricken. Althea raised an eyebrow.

“No,” she admitted. “But she said it to me, just now, once he went into the garden. I just think it could be useful to have a man around.” She watched her mother nod, feeling satisfied. It wasn’t really what Althea thought at all. She didn’t care if Tom stayed or went. Sure, she liked him fine, but ultimately he was a stranger. No, Althea was supportive of the idea that Tom stay because Keffria opposed it. And it wouldn’t hurt to learn a bit more about the Six Duchies. “I’ll go get dressed and then fetch him.”

“Let him fix the window first,” Ronica said with a shake of her head. Althea raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want him to feel obligated to anything. He offered to fix it, and it would be a relief to have it repaired, but if he wished to leave after, I won’t begrudge him that. Our funds won’t cover a summer salary.” Her mother’s eyes grew distant. “It’s a dream, I suppose, that we might have some normalcy.”

“Well I wouldn’t call Tom normal,” Althea said with a grin, earning a frown from her mother, “but he’s interesting. Alright, I’ll bring out the tools then, and tell him that he can start whenever he’d like. What window is he fixing?”

“The foyer window.”

“Is it broken?” Althea asked curiously.

“It’s been loose.”

“Oh.”

It was strange, recognizing how little she knew of her own house. The last time she had been here, she had hardly really stayed in the house at all. It seemed that it had been two whole years since she had called her old house her home.

Leaving the word hanging, Althea found herself retreating from the study. She went to her room and got dressed, as she said she would. For a moment she considered her boy clothes, her fingers running over her canvas trousers and cotton shirt. If she put them on, all good will she’d acquired would go out the window. She needed her family to take her seriously.

So, begrudgingly, she dug through her wardrobe and settled for a plain blue skirt and lightly embroidered blouse. Compromise, she supposed.

Tom was alone when Althea went out to greet him with her father’s tools. He was sitting by the rose bush, picking off dead buds and gathering them in his shirt, as if it was an apron. Althea paused to watch him curiously.

“If you crush these,” Tom said distantly, “you could make a perfume out of them. Or soap. Or candles.”

“I haven’t got any idea how to make any of those.”

Tom shot her a thin smile and shrugged. He continued to pluck the dried-up flowers without a word.

“I’ve brought you some tools,” Althea offered. He nodded mutely. “You’ve really charmed my mother. Don’t know how, but I’m grateful. She likes a good project, and I’m just glad it’s not me for once.”

That made Tom snort. He did not seem surprised by this admission that Ronica thought she could make something of the man. Perhaps he had been expecting it.

“Where’s your dog?” Althea asked suddenly, glancing around.

“He’s around here somewhere.” Tom shrugged. “He’s very smart and very loyal. He’ll come back when he wants to. Do you have tallow left? From yesterday’s pork?”

“What?” Althea asked, startled. “I don’t know. Maybe? You’d have to check the larder.”

“I can show you how to make soap.” Tom continued to pluck the dead roses buds from the overgrown bush. “You have so many flowers in this garden, it’d be a shame not to put them to some use.”

“I imagine my mother never considered them to have any use but to be beautiful,” Althea admitted.

Tom said nothing, though Althea saw a question flicker in his eyes. Maybe he had read further into her statement and had decided that Althea was speaking about more than just flowers. Regardless, she found herself shrugging and handing the tools over.

“I’ll trade you,” she said.

She ended up in his place, gathering dead flowers aproned in her skirt. He advised her to take some fresh petals as well, to make the soap especially fragrant. It amused her that he was so knowledgeable on something that was so clearly a woman’s trade. Another paradox of the Six Duchies.

Gathering the roses in the kitchen, she deposited them into a bowl. Afterwards, she really had no idea what to do. Rache came into the kitchen to prepare lunch, and when she glanced at the bowl, Althea explained that Tom had offered to teach her to make soap. Rache raised an eyebrow in a way that reminded Althea of her mother, but instead of scoffing, as Althea had expected, Rache merely nodded.

“Let me help you,” Althea said. Rache glanced at her, surprised. Althea shrugged sheepishly. “What else do I have to do? Besides, I’m starving. It’ll be quicker if I help, won’t it? Just tell me what to do.”

Althea was tasked with chopping vegetables and descaling a fish. She had no qualms with such things. Rache seemed impressed with how quickly and efficiently she descaled and gutted it. They met each other’s eyes, and the former slave woman seemed to recognize the marked difference between Althea and the rest of the household. And Althea managed a sheepish smile before sliding the fish over to her.

She gutted and descaled another one, and the smell of fish frying made her stomach rumble. Tom came into the kitchen just as they were finishing up, wiping his hands on his trousers, and Althea nodded to the wash basin and pump. He quickly washed his hands and jumped right into washing the dishes. Althea blinked. She wondered if he thought she had been asking him to do them. Oh well.

Her mother walked in on this scene. She paused, glanced at the three of them, and her eyes settled on Althea.

“What?” Althea demanded. Her mother merely blinked and shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said. She fixed her gaze on Tom, who had just finished up washing the frying pan. Her eyes softened. “You did not need to do that, Tom.”

“It’s no trouble.” Tom straightened up and offered her a small smile. “The window seems tight enough now, if you want to test it yourself, ma’am. I left the tools by the door. Once my dog comes back, I’ll be out of your way.”

“Oh,” Ronica said quietly. She seemed disappointed. Althea understood. She was a bit disappointed too. “Won’t you join us for lunch?”

Tom, surrounded by the pervasive aroma of simmering fish, could only bow his head and agree.

They all ate together in the dining room. Malta and Keffria came in from town with eggs for the week. Althea did not make eye contact with her sister, but she knew she was alarmed to see Tom sitting at their table. Malta, however, looked eager.

“Hello,” the girl greeted Tom brightly, pulling out the chair across from him and dropping into it. Rache had disappeared to grab two more plates. “You’re still here.”

“Yes.” Tom blinked. “I’ll be leaving soon, I expect.”

“Oh, must you?” Malta sighed dramatically, and Althea raised a brow at her. She wondered what rude thing the child would say to the man. “That’s a shame. And the garden was just starting to look like itself again. Oh, Grandmother, surely we could spare a few coins for the man to stay a bit longer. I know we can budget it!”

“That’s very kind,” Tom said gently, “but I wasn’t planning on staying much longer in Bingtown.”

“Where are you going?” Althea asked curiously.

“Back to the Six Duchies.”

“Ah.” Althea couldn’t begrudge him that. “You found a ship, then?”

The man shifted in his seat, glanced at his meal, and then shrugged.

“No,” he said. All of the women at the table, including Rache, who Ronica had insisted sit beside her, stared at him blankly. “I was planning on walking.”

“Walking?” Keffria demanded. Beside her, Malta’s eyes were wide and awed, and Althea wondered what her game was. “You can’t walk to the Six Duchies!”

“People keep telling me that,” he sighed. He shook his head.

“For good reason,” Ronica said stiffly. Tom glanced at her. “The Cursed Shores are called such because they are inhospitable. You could not survive such a trek.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“I doubt that,” Ronica muttered.

“You’d be better off going down to the dock and seeing if anyone is hiring a new hand,” Althea told Tom sympathetically. “It might take longer than you’d like, but eventually a trade ship will make its way up the coast.”

“They won’t take Nighteyes on with me,” Tom admitted. The women were all quiet as they pondered over his loyalty to his dog. “I’d have to pay for passage. I just think it’d be better if I went it alone.”

“That’s suicide,” Ronica said flatly. She shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. You can stay here as long as you need, while you save the money you require. But I cannot in good conscience allow you to throw your life away.”

Tom sat in stunned silence. He turned his eyes toward his plate and quietly began to eat. Althea pitied him. He seemed cowed by her demands. Maybe he’d never learned to resist the reprimands of his mother as a child.

“Why can’t Papa take him to the Six Duchies?” Malta demanded.

Everyone was quiet. Althea prodded her fish, eyes darting around her, waiting for someone else to speak. She knew if she said anything at all about Kyle or the Vivacia that it would spark a fight, and as friendly as Tom was, she wasn’t keen on him seeing the ugly side of their family just yet.

“Your father would have to return first,” Ronica said tartly.

“He will,” Malta said firmly. She shot Tom a bright smile. “When my father comes home with his liveship, I’m sure he’d take you to the Six Duchies!”

“You’re sure about that?” Althea asked dryly. Malta’s smile slid off her face and turned to a scowl.

“We can’t promise that the Vivacia will be able to make the trip to the Six Duchies,” Ronica said smoothly. Tom tilted his head confusedly. “However, Malta raises a good point. It’s a possibility that should not be overlooked. We’ve done trade with the Six Duchies before, at least in more peaceful times. Perhaps it would be wise to reopen that that route.”

“I feel that you’ve already offered me too much,” Tom said carefully. He glanced around the table, perhaps realizing for the first time that he was being ardently fought for. “I can stay a bit longer, but I don’t want to burden your family. If I can’t afford passage to Buck, I’ll walk.”

“At least give us until summer’s end,” Ronica insisted. Keffria was silent beside her, mouth thin. “Surely that would be enough time for either the Vivacia to return, or for you to earn enough money for a ship to sail you there on your own.”

The fact that Tom had to even think about it was astounding.

“I could ask the Ophelia as well,” Althea offered. Tom glanced at her, wide-eyed. “It’s the same issue as the Vivacia, though. I can’t guarantee that Ophelia will be headed to the Six Duchies any time soon. But I can ask.”

“Why?”

No one said anything. They all watched him, some confusedly, as Malta and Keffria, and some with pity, as Althea, Rache, and Ronica.

“Why not?” Althea countered before her mother could speak. “Are you a criminal, or something? Not that you’d tell us if you were.”

“Althea,” Ronica sighed, shaking her head.

“Fair enough,” Tom said quietly. He shook his head, seeming amused. “Alright. I’ll stay. So long as it doesn’t inconvenience any of you, and you don’t mind Nighteyes coming and going.”

“The dog?” Malta asked curiously.

“Yes.”

“I see no trouble in that.” Ronica smiled, looking relieved. “Is it a deal then, Tom?”

Tom reached over the table, and Althea watched him and her mother shake on it.

Chapter Text

The days grew warmer, and a man called Tom grew busy. He weeded the garden and trimmed the bushes and pruned the rose and the hydrangea bushes, using the dead flowers to jar for scent and pigment. He harvested figs off a squat little tree, finding it ludicrous that such an expensive little fruit in the Six Duchies was just another plant in a Bingtown Trader's garden. The figs, too, proved suitable for pigment. When dried and ground in a pestle, their skin yielded a pleasant purple hue. It had taken a few weeks for the Vestrit women to realize that their humble gardener not only knew his letters, but also his sums. He had been in the study, fixing the leg on a wobbly chair, while Althea and Malta had been going over their month’s spending. Malta was stuck on a number, and Althea was engrossed in her own work. Tom had glanced over the child's shoulder and suggested that she carry the one.

The Vestrit women both looked up at him, surprised. And then Tom realized he had made a mistake.

“Your letters are immaculate,” Althea said bitterly, handing the paper off to her mother, who had been standing nearby, waiting. They had tasked him with copying a page of a book and balancing a ledger. He did both quickly and easily. He knew if he hesitated to prove his abilities, it would seem far more suspicious than the idea that he was a learned man.

“Where did you learn to write like this?” Ronica gasped. Malta leaned over her arm to look, and she blinked. She glanced at Tom with similar envy as her aunt.

“I apprenticed with a scribe,” Tom said quietly, “when I was a boy. I never thought my letters were adequate. And then I was injured, badly, and that dream sort of…”

“I see.” Ronica set the page aside. Both her daughter and granddaughter glanced after it. “It seems we know very little about you, Tom. I suppose it’s our own ignorance, assuming you had never learned to read or write or run sums. Clearly it is bias we must work through. Is it common in the Six Duchies to receive such an education?”

“No.” Tom couldn’t lie to them and tell them that every common boy was educated. It simply was not true, and, again, it would be more suspicious if he said it. Yet he still had to lie. He thought fast. “I worked in Buckkeep—that is, the castle of the King of the Six Duchies. I apprenticed there, but I was injured when I was fourteen, and my master had to go on without me. I ended up staying on as a servant. Then a soldier. I sailed on the warships, until I was injured again.”

“Oh,” Ronica murmured, sympathy wrought in her face, “you poor boy.”

Tom said nothing as he tried to avoid the women’s eyes. It had been a long time since anyone had been a boy to any woman, and he felt a horrible lurch of longing as he imagined himself sitting not in this stuffy, organized little office that had once belonged to Eprhon Vestrit, but in the cluttered plant nursery of an apartment that Lady Patience had kept at Buckkeep. The thought made tears prickle at the edge of his eyes, and he took a deep breath to steady himself as he pushed the inkwell and pen away.

He was grateful that Keffria had gone to run errands. Her stare tended to be the most judgmental. Althea looked at him hungrily, like she wanted to turn him upside down and shake his secrets out of him. Malta looked at him with glittery-eyed awe, as if he was some sort of song come to life.

He supposed he was, in a way. But it wasn’t a tale a young girl would have any taste for.

“You worked in a palace?” Malta asked eagerly. “Did you ever meet the king?”

“I saw King Shrewd.” Saying it felt strange. Tom had tried not to think of his grandfather for years and years. And now he was speaking freely of him. “And his son, King Verity. They were both good men, dead before their time.”

“What a life you’ve lived,” Althea whistled. “What are you doing here?”

“Passing through.” Tom managed a smile, and the woman laughed. “Is any of this relevant, ma’am?”

“Ronica, boy, I told you before. It’s just you and Rache in the house, and I hardly see the point in you calling me ‘ma’am’ when she does not. Now, it’d be convenient to make copies of old documents. And perhaps you might show Selden how to write his letters so finely. Would you be interested in such tasks?”

“I can,” Tom said. It wasn’t like he had much else to do.

Sometimes Althea joined him in the garden. She had not worn her trousers since that first day he’d met her, and Tom suspected it was simply unfashionable for a woman. He pointed it out once, and Althea went on a long-winded rant about how she could not care less about propriety, or being a Trader’s Daughter, and that she hated skirts, and she wanted nothing more than to be a ship’s boy again. Tom suspected she was exaggerating, as she tended to edge on melodrama when she complained. It seemed to be a family trait.

“I understand,” Tom said gently.

“Do you?” Althea demanded. “Can you? Really?”

Tom had nothing to say. He really couldn’t understand, could he?

He taught Althea to make soap and ink, which saved the family some pennies, here and there. When Nighteyes returned, he never brought his kills with him, but Tom knew the wolf hunted pigeons in the street, and sometimes ventured further into the wild. Nighteyes had asked multiple times when they were leaving, as the hunting in Bingtown was abysmal, and Tom had no answer for him.

“I wish you’d come to town with me,” Althea said one night as they took their evening tea outside in the garden. The dusk had settled around them in comfortable gray shadows, hedgerows looming and fig leaves dancing in the evening breeze. “There’s so much more to Bingtown than this stuffy house.”

“I like this stuffy house,” Tom offered lamely. He cradled his teacup close to his chin, wondering if it would become a problem, how reclusive he was. “And I don’t like the town. So.”

“Have you really even looked at it?” Althea demanded.

“Yes.”

“But you couldn’t have gone to Rain Wild Street,” Althea said with a shake of her head. “Let me take you there. It’s unlike anything you can imagine.”

“I’ve been there.” Tom stared at the contents of his teacup with a grimace. “I did not like it.”

“What? Why?”

“It didn’t feel right.”

“What?” Althea sighed. “What do you mean?”

“The magic—” Tom knew he could not explain it. Even trying to remember the sensation was difficult. He shook his head.

“I’ll convince you one day,” Althea swore. Her tone was teasing, but Tom knew she was determined to prove him wrong. He was irritated that she would not simply let him be.

One afternoon, while Tom was copying a document that he would later use to teach Selden, the youngest Vestrit, how to descend from artful to plain calligraphy, and Althea and Malta were settling the family accounts, Althea suddenly threw her pen down, rubbed her eyes, and drew herself to her feet.

“I have to go out,” she declared. Her mother entered as she announced her intent, and Tom watched silently as Ronica set a basket of flowers upon the table they had been working on with a sigh.

“The accounting of our debts is hardly cheery work. Even I need to get away from it after a few hours.” Ronica glanced at their faces and sighed. “It’s alright to take a break. You as well, Tom.”

“I’m fine,” Tom said. And he was. Mostly he was just warm. It got quite hot in the house during the day. And it was still only spring!

“I’m going into town for a bit,” Althea declared, “to see some friends—Tom? Would you like to come?”

Tom opened his mouth to decline, but Malta beat him to it.

“Are you going to go see that beadmaker again?” Malta asked, trying not to sound too curious. Tom knew her games by this point. At first he had been confused about her attentions toward him, and then Ronica had explained to him that Malta was a very mischievous and flighty little girl. He had witnessed some of this behavior, though he thought Ronica was a bit harsh on her granddaughter. Malta was a pleasant conversationalist, and she was clever. She caught everything. She had once unraveled an inconsistency in Tom’s fabricated past, and it had been a point of contention for a day or so.

Sometimes after talking to Malta, or listening to her talk, he found himself lying in his bed and thinking of Chade and a childhood that did not belong to a man called Tom. He thought of all the games and tests Chade had prepared for that boy, and how Malta was just the right type of child who would thrive in such an environment.

The thought made him feel ill.

“Maybe.” Althea glanced to her mother, as if expecting push-back. “Go on. Say it.”

“I have nothing to say,” Ronica said firmly.

“Because Tom’s here.” Althea scowled. “You want to say that you don’t like Amber because she’s an outsider, but it’d be hypocritical, because you love Tom, and he’s more of an outsider than anyone. And don’t get me started on Kyle.”

“What about my father?” Malta demanded, her ambivalent tone slipping away at the bait her aunt had set for her.

“He’s Chalcedean,” Althea reminded the girl with a huff. “Which is not Old Trader, last time I checked. So what’s the issue with me having a friend who just so happened not to have been born here? Hm?”

“Althea,” Ronica rebuked her, sighing deeply and shaking her head. “It’s not that she’s an outsider! It’s that nasty rumor that the beadmaker has been squatting in the Ludluck’s liveship. After everything the poor ship’s been through—Oh, this is not a conversation for this very moment. Go on, Althea.”

“Well,” Althea said curtly, “now it’s a conversation for now. Listen, Mother, the Paragon—it’s complicated. There’s an explanation for it, and if you want, I’ll explain. When only adults are around.”

“And not outsiders?” Malta chimed in with a scowl. Tom had tried and failed to keep copying the document. He sighed and set his pen down. “The beadmaker has an odd reputation about town. Oh, everyone says she is a wonderful artist. However, as we all know, artists can be strange. She lives with a woman who dresses and acts like a man. Did you know that?”

“Jek is Six Duchies.” Althea folded her arms across her chest and met Malta’s scowl with one of her own. They almost looked alike, then. Tom felt that this was a summon before Althea even looked at him. “Tell her, Tom. It’s just the way of things up there, isn’t it?”

“It’s not strange.” Tom knew it was not what Malta wanted to hear. And now that he knew that one of Althea’s other friends was from the Six Duchies, he was even less inclined to go. “I’ve known many women who dress in trousers and act, as you say, like a man. It’s why I didn’t think much of Althea’s appearance when I first met her.”

“Oh, please,” Ronica murmured, closing her eyes, “don’t bring that up.”

“It confused me more that she had to pretend to be a boy,” Tom declared, “to get any respect at all. But it’s not my business, how Bingtown treats its residents. I’m an outsider, as you say.”

“Like the beadmaker,” Malta pressed. Her eyes were on Althea, and Tom could see the barb coming, though he had no idea what the girl intended. “Of course I never indulge in such gossip, but Aunt Althea, you should know, some people say you visit the beadmaker for the same reason that the Six Duchies woman does. To sleep with her.”

Tom closed his eyes. He resigned himself to this family squabble. Silently, he pondered Malta’s words about Althea and her beadmaker friend. He had not thought on it at all, the idea that maybe Althea did not like men. Though she was an attractive young woman, Tom had not really found himself inclined toward her, and he knew she felt the same easy companionship with him that men often had. Could it be she simply did not find men to her tastes? That did not explain her unsteady courtship with the heir to another Old Trader family. She did not like talking about the man to Tom, but he’d heard the other women of the house gossiping about how unlike Althea it was to go for such a smart match. Perhaps, Tom conceded, he was wrong to discount her womanhood simply because he felt a brotherly companionship toward her.

And then, she proved him wrong.

“If you mean to say fuck, say fuck,” Althea suggested. Tom could not help but laugh, and whatever Althea was about to say died as she glanced at him and then shot him a grin. It was as bawdy as any man could be, and it was amusing how easy it came to Althea to be so blunt.

“Althea!” Ronica cried, scandalized. Her eyes darted to Tom, who quickly sobered himself under her disapproving stare. “Enough! To say such things—and in front of our guest!”

“Our servant,” Althea mocked her mother causing Tom to lean back with a frown. He did not like to be thrown around so idly, when it was clear Althea was using him as a weapon against her mother. “And Tom thought it funny. Which I can’t say for myself. I don’t find it funny at all that Malta wants to insult me and my friends.”

“Enough,” Ronica said, the tone of her voice silencing both Althea and her niece. She took a deep breath, a flush rising on her cheeks, and she looked down at her flowers. “Tom, would you take these to the kitchen? I had thought to bring some life to this room, but it seems pointless, with all the poisonous air being passed around. Perhaps you could do something more useful with them.”

“I can try,” Tom offered, eager to take this escape that she offered him. He scooped up the basket and left the Vestrit women to their bickering.

He had not meant to linger this long in Bingtown, it was true. And if someone were to tell him a month ago that he would find himself busying his days as a catch-all servant to a household of merchant women of dwindling wealth, he would find the insinuation both appalling and insulting. And yet he did not mind it. He liked the old brick and stucco house and its bountiful garden. He liked chatting with Althea about sailing and politics and the differences in their cultures. He liked teaching Selden calligraphy, and he liked sitting in the study while Malta and Althea tended to the family accounts. He liked helping Rache with household chores and making talk about nothing. He liked hearing Ronica’s stories about her late husband, Ephron. He even enjoyed Keffria’s company, when she was not insinuating that Althea was ruining the family.

It was peaceful here. Even with the women’s turbulent relationships, they had a strong familial bond that Tom envied.

“They’re fighting again,” Tom confided in Rache, setting the basket of flowers upon the kitchen table. Rache glanced up from the carrot she was peeling and smiled knowingly. Tom enjoyed the woman’s quiet warmth. He knew she had been a slave once, and Ronica had a hand in freeing her, but he was not sure how it had happened. Regardless, knowing the respect that Rache had for Ronica had influenced a lot of Tom’s decision in staying as long as he had. Initially he had been unsure. Now, though, he found he enjoyed the company.

“I wonder if they realize how alike they all are,” Rache murmured with a shake of her head. Tom took a large bowl from a cabinet and filled it with water. He stared at the bowl for a moment, taken by the ornate craftmanship of the pottery, and he set the bowl down, struck with inspiration. Rache paused her peeling to watch Tom clip the flowers at the stem and drop the bloom into the water. “Althea has gone out?”

Tom had heard the front door slam. He offered only a nod.

“You really have no desire to go with her?” Rache pressed him, causing him to sigh. “I understand your hesitance, I do. I, too, disliked venturing out into town when I first arrived here. But, Tom, I have found it far more gratifying to face my fear than stay a captive to it.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of Bingtown.” Tom shook his head, dropping one bloom after another into the bowl of water, watching it fill up with floating flowers. “I just find the town itself to be both overwhelming and underwhelming. It’s not what everyone says it is. It’s full of nasty people who would not waste their spit on me if I was on fire. Slaves aren’t supposed to exist in Bingtown. And yet every day I see the law circumvented. You know.”

Rache was quiet. Tom watched her eyes flicker down at her hands, and they were both aware of the tattoo scrawled across her cheek which marked her as a slave. He did not know her story, but he knew her sorrow by her eyes, and his heart ached for her.

“So you hide from that?” Rache asked quietly. “Is it better to shut your eyes to it?”

“You know that is not why I stay here.” Tom rolled up the discarded stems of the flowers in a scrap of paper to use later for compost. “If there was anything I could do, I would do it. But only Traders have any say in anything around here.”

“You ought to befriend Keffria, then,” Rache suggested. Tom shot her an incredulous look, and Rache shrugged. “She holds the family vote, not Ronica. That was another reason for them all to fight, when Ephron died.”

“Sometimes it hardly feels like they need an excuse.” Tom lifted the bowl of flowers and turned away. “I’ll see you later, then.”

He brought the flowers to the study. Malta was no longer there, nor was Ronica. Tom was relieved. He went back to copying the document, the smell of roses and peony buds bringing a sense of ease to his work.

While he worked, Selden popped in. He was a precocious boy, and he had taken a liking to Tom, perhaps because it was easy to latch onto an adult male presence when bereft of one. Tom knew that as well as anyone. He wandered over, not to Tom and his busy work, but to the bowl of flowers.

“This is new,” the boy said, peeking over at the flower bowl. “Is this how they display flowers in the Six Duchies?”

“No.” Tom set his pen aside. “A friend of mine kept flowers this way. He put flowers on top and pebbles on the bottom, and a small fish swam between. Have you come for a lesson?”

“No.” Selden rolled his eyes, resting his arms on the back of a chair. “I came to tell you that Malta is entertaining some man.”

“What?” Tom jumped to his feet. He did not know why he felt so panicked. Perhaps, he conceded, he knew that the girl did not understand the dangers of her own childish flirting. Oh, Tom had noticed that she thought to charm him, but it was a girl’s bright-eyed fantasy, and he hardly saw the point in hurting her feelings by bringing attention to it. He knew she had a wealthy suitor already, and he also knew that she simply found the idea of flirtations to be a great game. She did not know it could be a dangerous one. “Who? Do you know him?”

“Would I be here if I did?” Selden tilted his head and snorted. “I heard them talking, and I didn’t recognize his voice. I went looking for Mama, but she’s gone to town, Grandmother and Aunt Althea too. It’s just you and Rache.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Tom stood up and waved the boy off. “Go tell Rache what’s happening. It’s better if we’re all aware.”

“Got it!” Selden darted away eagerly. Tom drew a hand over his face and sighed deeply. He had no idea if he was overreacting at the idea of Malta entertaining a man alone, but even in Buck such a thing would be scandalous. Especially for a girl so young. He drew himself up to his full height and went to go confront the problem head-on.

He followed the pervasive scent of coffee to the morning room, and before he could open the door, he heard an unfamiliar man say sharply, “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Tom stepped back as the door swung open so the man would not barrel into him. He was a stocky man, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and his clothing sea-worthy, though more ostentatious than most of the traders in the bay. He glanced over Tom in genuine shock.

“And who are you?” the man huffed.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” Tom retorted, hearing how harsh and abrasive his voice sounded and not particularly caring. The man was bigger than Tom, but not by a wide margin. Taller and more muscular, but Tom suspected he was quicker and more accustomed to battle. The odds felt fair.

“Tom!” Malta jumped to her feet behind the man, looking alarmed, but more than that, looking like a child caught with their fingers in a berry tart. Clearly she had not expected him. “Have you seen my mother? She should be back by now.”

“I haven’t.” Tom fixed his gaze on the man expectantly. “Well?”

“Brashen Trell,” the man said flatly. “Former first mate of Ephron Vestrit. You?”

“Tom.”

“Tom who?”

“Tom is our gardener,” Malta piped up, stepping closer, eyes wide. “Tom, he said he has news of our ship! Isn’t that wonderful? You might have a way home now!”

“It is wonderful,” Tom said carefully. In the back of his head, his wolf was inquiring how fast he should return. Tom bade him to stand down. Now that he had a good grasp of the situation, it seemed unlikely it would come to blows. He knew that Malta had thrown in the miniscule possibility that her father might take him home because it betrayed to this Trell fellow that Tom was an outsider and did not intend to stick around. Clever girl. “Now, is it true?”

“Yes,” Trell said carefully. “I’d like to bring this news directly to Ronica Vestrit, however. It’s not something I wish to disclose to strangers or children.”

“That is entirely reasonable,” Tom said with a nod. Trell was eyeing him uncertainly, which was probably fair. Tom’s initial words had been so full of venom that the man likely had no idea how to take him. “You should stay, of course, until you’ve delivered your message. Come, Malta.”

“Excuse me?” Malta demanded. Sometimes she allowed Tom to tell her what to do, if she thought she would get something out of it, like a piece of his history or some attention. But if she found it embarrassing, it was hopeless. “I will do no such thing! I am the only Vestrit in the house—”

“Actually, Selden is still here, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“He’s a baby,” Malta huffed.

“He’s not much younger than you.” That earned him a sour look that Tom knew spoke of the girl’s discontent. “You heard the man, Malta, he is not going to tell you anything. Cut your losses and find somewhere else to direct your energy. Come on, let’s go.”

It was then that they all heard the front door open. Malta’s eyes widened. Trell shouldered past Tom, making his way to intercept whichever Vestrit woman had appeared.

It was, Tom saw, both he and Malta peeking around a corner, Ronica and Keffria. Trell had immediately introduced himself with a bow and explained hastily his reason for being in their house. Ronica looked unsurprised that Malta had let him in. The women grew pale as Trell explained that he had tidings of the Vivacia. Ronica quickly led the man to the morning room.

Malta stood silently. Tom could practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she tried to make up a task for him to do so she could be alone to eavesdrop.

“Go on,” he told her, jerking his chin at the door. Malta glanced up at him in shock. “I won’t tell. Just don’t get caught.”

He walked away from her, a feeling unnamed squirming into him. It was not anxiety or fear, but some strange, curious anticipation of wondering if a child could take a task to a successful end. And he knew that Chade had likely felt this feeling a hundred times when molding his young assassin to his liking.

In all likelihood, he should not have encouraged her.

Tom found Selden in the study, sitting on the table, pushing the blooms about the glazed bowl. He glanced at Tom with a smile that brightened the room. The boy was a rambunctious nine-year-old who was never where he was supposed to be. Tom knew that the boy had been tasked with a reading lesson that should have taken him hours to complete. Instead he was swinging his feet from the side of the table, splashing his hands in the cool water.

“Could we add fish to this, do you think?” Selden asked eagerly. Tom said nothing as he approached the table. “Like your friend did?”

“They would not survive in such conditions,” Tom told the boy gently. When Selden frowned and went to object, Tom shook his head. “It is colder where I am from. Here, a fish will bake in this bowl. Besides, the only fish around are saltwater fish, and even if the weather permitted it, we would have to go into town weekly to fetch water from the sea to keep the fish healthy and happy. No. If you wish to take care of an animal, you might check Nighteyes for ticks. He likes you.”

“Does he?” Selden asked eagerly. Of course the little boy loved the shaggy wolf that he perceived as a great, loveable dog. “I bet it’s because I give him half my sweet bread whenever Rache makes it.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Tom smiled at the boy and offered out his hands. The boy was eager to be lifted like a smaller child off the table and back onto his feet. “You are going to make him fat and lazy.”

“He should be a proper dog,” Selden mused, “and lay in the sun all day. He should come inside more, too!”

“He comes in at night,” Tom said amusedly. “I won’t restrict him more than that. He likes his freedom. Now, aren’t you supposed to be reading?”

“I wanted to know if you kicked that man out,” Selden said innocently.

“Oh.” Tom shook his head, earning an eager look from Selden. “No, he’s a family friend, apparently. Trell?”

“Cerwin?” Selden’s brow furrowed. “He called on Malta? It didn’t sound like him. His voice was too deep—”

“No, he said his name was Brashen. He worked under your grandfather.”

“Oh,” Selden gasped, “him! Oh, you wouldn’t know, would you? He’s Cerwin Trell’s older brother, the one who got disowned. Malta says that nobody talks about him, because, well, if he was awful enough that his father disowned him, he must be a scoundrel. I forgot that he worked on the Vivacia.”

“He came with news about the ship.”

“Really?” Selden’s eyes went large with excitement. “Did he say anything about my father and brother?”

“No—”

A horrible wailing sound echoed through open door, shivering in the hall outside. Both Selden and Tom froze, glancing at the door in alarm.

“That was Malta,” Selden whispered, his excitement draining from his face and a look of pure dread replacing it. “Tom—”

“Wait here,” Tom told the boy, leaving him where he stood in the study and rushing into the hall. The evening was creeping up on them, and the shadows yawned across the floor and walls as he found himself outside the morning room again. The door was open, and Tom stood in the entryway, blinking at the incredible display of Malta attempting to beat the tar out of Brashen Trell. He glanced about the room and saw that the Vestrit women were all in a state of shock, pale and shaken.

“It isn’t true!” Malta was screaming, kicking, and thrashing as the man attempted to thwart her attacks. “It isn’t true! My father can’t be dead, he can’t!”

A slow sense of dread mingled with sympathy crept through him as he stared at the little girl suddenly caught in the throes of grief. He recalled once learning his own father had died, and it had inspired a similar feeling of disconnected sadness. It was as if he had all the components for emotional input, but no real place to connect them. Malta grieved with open defiance.

Both Ronica and Keffria managed to pull themselves together simultaneously, commanding Malta to cease her violence as one voice cracking through the tension that had laid thick upon the morning room like the heat of the afternoon. As if spurred by her mother and sister speaking, Althea appeared from a dark corner of the room, grabbing Malta by her hair and yanking her off the man. Malta screamed, but her cry was muffled as Althea squeezed her into a tight hug.

Tom did not hear what Althea whispered to the child. He stepped into the room and set an overturned chair right. He met Ronica’s eye grimly.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” he said carefully.

“I imagine we’ve made enough noise to wake the dead,” Ronica sighed, rubbing the lines of her forehead and glancing about the room. “Malta—”

“Get off me,” Malta said to Althea quietly. Then, in a far stronger voice, she cried, “Let me go! You’re happy this happened! Oh, you wanted a reason to take the ship, didn’t you? Well, now you’ve gotten what you wanted, so—!”

“I did not want this, Malta,” Althea said, gripping the girl still, even as she shoved her. “You think I want to hear that Vivacia is in the hands of pirates? Truly?”

Pirates? Tom glanced around the room in wonder. That was unexpected. Yet from the little gossip Tom received, there was a greater pirate presence this year than years past. He knew no more than that.

“Oh, but you hope my father’s dead,” Malta spat, wrenching herself free from Althea’s arms and glaring up at her aunt. “You never liked him, not ever, and if he’s dead, it’s all the better for you! Don’t pretend it isn’t! And don’t pretend to be nice to me, acting like you don’t hate me!”

“Malta,” Althea said steadily, her tone so level that it was clear that despite their earlier argument in the study, Althea was aware that she was an adult and Malta was a child, “I don’t hate you. I’ll be honest that you vex me, and I am often at odds with you, but do I hate you? No. You are my niece. I am your aunt. Childish bickering will do neither of us any good right now. What we must do, before all else, is focus on retrieving the ship and rescue any of the crew that are still alive. That includes your father and brother.”

Tom recalled that there was another Vestrit, a boy a bit older than Malta, who had been taken to sea with his father. A wave of pity washed over him as he recognized the child was likely lost.

“Is that possible?” Tom cut in before Malta could object again. Trell glanced at him with a frown, clearly wondering why the gardener was part of this conversation. “If the ship was taken by pirates, it seems unlikely that they’d slaughter the whole crew, wouldn’t it? Especially if it is a ship owned by a wealthy family.”

“Yes, exactly,” Althea gasped, meeting Tom’s eyes eagerly. He noticed that she seemed eager to look at him, holding his gaze. “We might be able to ransom them. We have to focus on the possibility that they are alive, and that we can bring them all home, ship included. We just need to keep our heads and be strategic. I’ve heard about this Captain Kennit—he’s the one who took Vivacia, Tom. It seems to me if he pursued Vivacia, he means to keep her.”

Tom thought fast. His heart was beating in anticipation for something he could not explain, as if the adrenaline of a coming battle was hitting him headlong. Why? He had no reason to be anxious. He was a gardener.

“I’ve heard of him,” Tom said carefully, ignoring the dirty look Trell was shooting him, “from Rache—he’s supposedly a chain-breaker. Which is likely a good sign. A man who chases down slavers is a man who can be reasoned with.”

Althea was quiet. She turned slowly and shot her mother and sister a withering look. Keffria had, if possible, gone even paler. Ronica merely closed her eyes.

“What?” Tom asked carefully, knowing by Ronica’s face he ought to dread the words that came out of her mouth.

“He chased the Vivacia because Kyle fashioned her into a slave ship,” Althea said bitterly, “didn’t he?”

“What?” Tom demanded, genuinely shocked as he gaped at Ronica. The woman wrung her hands guiltily, and the betrayal stung deeper than he expected it. He blinked rapidly. “Why? Why would you allow that?”

“It is not my ship,” Ronica said darkly.

“It’s not his either!” Althea cried. “To do that to Vivacia, when she’s only just quickened—”

“We can’t change any of that now,” Keffria cut in impatiently. Her voice was strained, but she seemed to get a hold of herself, smoothing out her skirts and taking a deep breath. “It’s done. Althea is right, we must focus on the possibility that we might ransom them.”

“We should bring this to the Bingtown Council meeting tomorrow night,” Althea said after a moment of faltering that her sister agreed with her on something. “I intended on going for the Teniras, to support their opposition to the Satrap’s tariff, but I think you and Mother should come as well, Keffria. And anyone else you can think of who might agree with the cause. It’s all connected, you see?” Althea smiled bitterly. “The tariffs, the Chalcedean galleys, the slaves—oh, that’s part of the Tenira hearing, too. The opposition to slavery. Which we have a direct hand in, so it will make a strong statement if we stand opposed to it.”

“It might ring hollow to some,” Keffria murmured, glancing worriedly at Tom, who had remained silent in his simmering judgment.

“We can’t change what we’ve already done,” Althea said heatedly, “but we can decide to do better tomorrow. We can take a stand, both against the injustice done to the slaves and the injustice done to us!”

“Wise words,” Tom said absently. He was still a bit shaken by the knowledge that the family had willingly dipped their toes in the slave trade. It felt like seeing a dear friend take a bite out of a roadside corpse. “Do you suppose your council will listen?”

From what Tom understood, this was not so different from petitioning a king for aid. And from Tom’s experience, whether or not aid was given depended on the worthiness of the king.

“I don’t know,” Althea admitted, “but we have to try, don’t we?”

“Can I come?”

They all turned to look at Selden, who had crept into the room almost entirely unnoticed at some point, glancing around eagerly.

“Selden!” Keffria cried, her composure breaking apart at the sight of her young son. She ran to him, scooping him into her arms, and he squirmed against her.

“Let go,” the boy gasped, “Mama, let go—come on—”

“Maybe he should come,” Althea mused. “It might be smart to present all of us as a united front, from Mother to Selden. Three generations of Vestrits.”

“Selden and I are not technically Vestrits,” Malta argued. As if she had not declared herself the only Vestrit in the house earlier.

“By blood you are.” Althea took a deep breath and glanced to her mother. “Do you object to that?”

Ronica shook her head solemnly.

“You are right,” Ronica admitted, “on all accounts, Althea. I think it might be beneficial for all of us to be there as well—but Selden, if you are to accompany us, you must behave. Prove to us, as your sister has, that you ought to be treated as a young man.”

Malta perked up at her grandmother’s alluded praise. It was the most pleased she had looked all afternoon.

“Of course!” Selden gasped, beaming at his grandmother. “Can I sit next to Tom?”

Tom wanted to fade into the shadows suddenly. In some ways, he did. He found himself retreating into his head, questing out for his wolf and finding Nighteyes waiting in the garden, dusk settling over the hedges.

You are distressed, Nighteyes observed.

I’ll explain later, Tom replied.

“Oh, Selden…” Keffria bit her lip and glanced at Tom worriedly. “Tom can’t come.”

“Why?” Selden demanded.

“He’s not a Trader,” Althea explained with a shrug. “It’s just how it is. Besides, Tom wouldn’t want to come.”

Obviously Tom had no desire to go to this Bingtown Council meeting. He had never wanted to do anything less in his life. Yet Althea saying that he clearly would not want to go prickled him, and he scoffed at her.

“Don’t speak for me,” he told her curtly. Althea shot him a grin, knowing him a bit too well by now, and she waved him off.

“Am I wrong?” she demanded.

“No,” he said, crossing his arms, “but I can speak for myself, thank you.”

“Who are you again?” Trell asked him sharply, his animosity surprising Tom. He glanced at the man confusedly. “You’re a gardener, you said?”

“Malta said that,” Tom said carefully. He offered a shrug. “I’m whatever the family needs me to be, I suppose. Is that a problem, Mr. Trell?”

“Don’t take it personally,” Althea told him quickly, “Brashen’s like this with everyone.”

“Oh, so you know each other.” Tom relaxed at that. He had not been sure about Trell, but if Althea was comfortable with him enough to make such a sweeping remark of his character, he was likely not a threat.

“We served on the Vivacia together…” Brashen said, staring at Althea in a way that made Tom realize why the man was so fixated on knowing Tom’s purpose here. He bit back a grin and nodded.

“You must know each other well, then,” he said.

It was like he’d said something utterly salacious, the way both Althea and Brashen reacted. Althea looked away sharply while Brashen reddened. Tom bit back a laugh, hoping that he was the only one who had noticed.

“That’s nice,” he said. He turned away. “Well, I have a dog to feed. You all know where to find me. Goodnight, Mr. Trell.”

“Brashen,” the man corrected.

Tom nodded. He tucked the name in his head for later and went out to confide in his wolf.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Who am I going to tell?” Tom demanded as Althea sat upon her windowsill, the midnight breeze coming through the open windows. She braided her hair for the night while he let his fall free around his shoulders. “I’m practically a hermit.”

“You might not leave this house often,” Althea muttered, and then paused, pondering on it. “Or ever, really. But that’s even more of a reason for you not to know. You’re too close with my mother.”

“I’m closer with you,” Tom offered. And Althea saw how earnest he looked as he stared at her, his big brown eyes searching her face. For a while there, she had wondered if he even liked women, the way he scarcely reacted to her when they sat like this, in their night shirt and night robe, whispering by candlelight so they did not wake her mother or sister. “Come on, Althea, clearly something happened between you two. I only wish to know if it was good or bad.”

“Why?” Althea demanded. “It isn’t your business.”

“Because I care about you?” Tom offered lamely. “He clearly is attracted to you. I thought he might start swinging at me simply for deigning to banter with you.”

“He’s just grouchy.” Althea sighed as she tied off her braid, swinging it behind her. She had to ignore the fact that he thought Brashen’s attraction to her was clear. It was not something she wanted to think about. “I don’t understand him.”

Tom was quiet. He watched a candle that sat upon Althea’s desk, his expression shifting with the shadows upon his face, almost pained. His scars were more prominent now, in the dim light, and Althea wondered not for the first time what had befallen the poor man.

“I loved someone once,” he offered. Althea glanced at him curiously. “I lost her. It was a long time ago. I meant to make her my wife, but it seemed that my life was not meant to go that way. I won’t say more, for it pains me to speak on it, but I will tell you this much. However you feel about that man, you ought to be honest with him. He cannot read your mind. And, you know, sometimes we men need things said to us plainly.”

“You are a bit stupid, aren’t you?” Althea asked dryly. Joking to hide her shock at this vulnerable piece of information that Tom afforded her made her feel almost giddy. She suddenly wanted to share everything with him, as if he were Amber, and she could truly be honest about all her feelings. But Tom was still a man, and it would be foolish to tell him what had truly happened between her and Brashen while Althea had been pretending to be a boy for a year.

“No need to be mean,” Tom huffed. His dog lifted his head, and Tom scowled down at him. Althea watched the dog snort and drop his head at Tom’s feet.

“Sometimes it feels like you two are having a conversation,” Althea mused. Tom froze. He blinked at her. And then he let out a small, strangled laugh.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Tom muttered. He nudged his dog with his foot. “If we could talk to each other, this old mutt might actually take commands instead of coming and going like he’s the king of the world.”

In response, the dog rolled over and showed his belly, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Maybe he is the king of the world in his mind,” Althea declared, slipping off the windowsill and kneeling beside Nighteyes. She scratched the large dog beneath his chin, watching his hindlegs twitch and his tail thump. She smiled. And then she considered Tom and his strange, foreign ways, somehow civilized despite all tales of the barbarous Six Duchies. “I wish you could come to the Council meeting tomorrow.”

“I’d be useless,” Tom huffed. “What do I know of your politics? I understand what you tell me, about Chalced’s patrol ships and Jamaillia’s boot on your necks, about how getting rid of both would likely put an end to the influx of slaves—but what would my presence do besides rile up your people?”

“You’re right,” Althea sighed. “It’d only cause tension. But I’d be less anxious, I suppose. You’ve become a great friend to me, and I’m beginning to—well, I have another friend who wishes she could come to the meeting, but cannot, as she is an outsider like yourself. I’m beginning to feel trapped and isolated by these rules and traditions.”

“This friend is Amber?” Tom pressed curiously. “The beadmaker?”

“I don’t like your tone,” Althea said coolly. Tom threw his hands up in surrender. “What Malta said was nothing but a nasty rumor. Sure, Amber is strange, but she is a wonderful person. People cannot bear to look at someone who is a bit different and see anything but a perversion. It’s maddening.”

Tom was quiet. He seemed far away. Althea watched him curiously.

“We can call it a night,” Althea said gently, rising from the floor. “I’m sure you’re tired. It’s been a day, hasn’t it? I’ll be glad to sleep it away.”

“Sleep does not wash away the day’s problems,” Tom murmured.

“No,” Althea agreed before grinning, “but it does make them a bit more bearable with a fresh mind. Now go on. The bags beneath your eyes have packed luggage of their own. Begone, Tom. And sweet dreams.”

“Yes,” Tom said with a nod as he got to his feet. His dog was up and at his heels in an instant. “You too, Althea.”

That night, a man called Tom dreamt of dragons. He dreamt he was soaring through a summer storm to lay eyes on the dream-children who refused him. They conversed quickly. One of them, Tom realized, was Malta. She looked up at him in wonder and awe, dazzled by his size and by his wings.

He watched the couple keenly. His freedom, he knew, hinged on their tiny brains heeding his might and listening. When they shared a kiss, he watched and waited. He would be free, he promised himself. They would come and free him.

Suddenly the dragon found a boy called Fitz, nestled inside of her consciousness, an unintentional voyeur, and she laughed inside his head. The couple jumped apart at the sound.

Will you come free me, then, wolf-blood?

Tom awoke with a gasp. He rubbed his eyes and peeled his linen sheets from his sticky chest. Nighteyes had jolted awake with him, meeting his gaze in the dark before he fumbled for a candle and a match.

“I don’t know what that was,” he whispered, slinging his stringy hair back from his face. “Don’t ask.”

I wasn’t asking. But I heard it too.

“Did you?” That was worrisome. Tom chewed on the inside of his cheek. “It was just a dream. A strange one, I’ll admit, but—well, what is there to dwell on? The dragons are all gone now. They’ve all gone back to sleep, even Verity.”

Perhaps we should both go back to sleep too, the wolf suggested wryly. When you are tired, you make poor choices. When I am tired, my hunts suffer. We both need our rest.

“Yes,” Tom said dryly, “so you can give those pigeons hell.”

I have found a hare or two in the woods, I’ll have you know.

“And you didn’t share?” Tom shook his head. “No more sweet bread for you!”

I do not need your cast offs. The boy will feed me regardless of what you say.

“Then go be Selden’s wolf,” Tom mocked.

Nighteyes lifted his head to knock his snout against Tom’s knuckles before flopping back onto his side and returning to sleep.

Tom could do no such thing. He laid awake for a while, the dragon’s voice drumming in his ears. It was before dawn, he knew, from his small window. He had kept it open to bring the cool night air in. He got up and went to it, taking deep, even breaths. There were no more dragons. It was just a dream. After all, he had seen Malta kissing a stranger. That was only an oddity that a dream could summon. He did not like it.

He returned to bed and tried to sleep. When that failed, he went to the kitchen and lit the hearth, going through the motions of preparing the morning tea. He was a bit fearful of burning the coffee, as he really had no idea how to properly prepare it, so he left that to Rache. Then he began to bake the morning bread. By the time Rache arrived, she gave him a once over and patted his shoulder sympathetically.

“We’re all a bit shaken, I think,” she admitted.

“Did you know the Vestrit’s ship was a slaver?” Tom asked her abruptly. She glanced at him tiredly. Her lips were pale as she pressed them together thinly.

“Can I at least have a cup of tea before you force me to reflect on these things, boy?” Rache asked, not unkindly, but a bit impatiently. Tom was the only person in the house Rache talked to like this. Perhaps because he was also a servant. She reminded him of Ronica when she did.

After Rache poured herself a cup of tea, she sat down on a stool. She took a deep breath and nodded.

“Ronica has confided in me over and over that she finds the whole ordeal to be repulsive,” Rache said carefully, “but it was either slaves or dealing up the Rain Wild River. I can’t say why they are so against trading with the Rain Wilders—we’ve hosted them enough that I know it’s not a personal grudge against their people. But something has convinced Ronica that the Rain Wild River is worse than trading slaves.”

“That’s not right,” Tom murmured, angry at the woman that had begun to occupy the empty place where other women in his life had often tried to fill.

“She knows that.” Rache looked into the fire. Her expression was unreadable. “Will you leave now? Knowing the crime this family was willing to commit to pay their debts?”

“I don’t know.” Tom looked into his own teacup, feeling small. “If this Kennit fellow really does free slaves, then that might be the one good thing to come out of this. I love the Vestrits, and I’ve enjoyed my time here, but I won’t work for slavers.”

“I understand,” Rache said grimly.

“How can you do it, then?” Tom searched her face in wonder at her resilience.

“Ronica is the only reason I am free,” Rache said quietly. “She could have turned me back over to Restart, and I would be a slave again. But I am not. She pays me a wage. I do my work, and if I am smart about it, perhaps one day I can start a new life here. It was not Ronica’s idea to make the ship a slaver. That was her son-in-law, who is a nasty piece of work. I dreaded his coming home for all the strife he brings. Perhaps I am relieved he may not return, but I mourn the boy. He was meant to be a priest, you know. He refused to go on that ship, but his father forced him.”

“Forced him?”

“I heard about it after, from Ronica.” Rache’s eyes darted away. She gripped her cup with white hands. “The boy told them all that he would be returning to the monastery, and his father beat him unconscious. I pray he has made it through this unscathed.”

A swell of empathy for a boy Tom had never met and had not even known existed bloomed in his chest. Silently, he hoped the boy had made it out. It sounded like Keffria’s husband was a terrible man, and it made sense that the slavery idea had come from him. It simply frustrated Tom that no one had pushed back on it.

Well, Althea had, but nobody listened to her. She swore up and down that if the ship had been hers, as was her birthright, she would have taken her to trade honorably. And she had spent a year at sea pretending to be a boy to prove her own seaworthiness. Althea could not be blamed. Malta and Selden were children, and therefore could not be held responsible for the adults’ choices. Ronica, admittedly, had no say in the family ship. It was Keffria and her husband’s choice.

Perhaps Tom could merely avoid Keffria. It wasn’t like they were friends.

“I’ll stay a bit longer,” Tom said. Rache smiled at him warmly. “I’d like to help however I can, before I go. Perhaps I can do odd-jobs to help raise money for the ransom.”

“You ought to keep that money for your ship fee,” Rache said quietly.

“I can always still walk if I feel like it,” Tom said with a grin. Rache shook her head in disbelief. They chatted a bit more before they got started on breakfast.

It was a busy day in the Vestrit house. The Bingtown Council meeting was important enough that it seemed to affect the whole day. Ronica and Keffria were discussing phrasing at breakfast while Althea interjected every so often with her own thoughts. Malta sat in a daze before her untouched plate, dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked like she was about to drop asleep at any moment. Selden was stealing her bread off her plate.

He did some yard work before sitting Selden down and forcing him to finish his lesson from yesterday. Selden’s response to this was to ask if his father and brother were dead.

“I don’t know,” Tom said honestly. Selden lowered his eyes to his book. Perhaps he was not used to adults speaking to him honestly. “I hope they’re not. But we don’t have enough information.”

“I don’t really know my brother,” Selden admitted. He pushed his book aside glumly. “Wintrow. I met him for a day. Basically. And then he was gone. Like he was never here at all. Papa just—took him. He didn’t want to go, you know.”

“I heard.”

“Papa makes everyone so...” Selden stared at the bowl of flowers and sighed. “I think he’s bad.”

“Why do you say that?” Tom asked carefully.

“Because he’s mean to Aunt Althea and Grandmother, and he makes Mama cry.” Selden scowled and shook his head. “He hurt Wintrow. I know he did. I tried to tell Malta, but she won’t listen. She’s bad, too.”

“Your sister isn’t bad,” Tom said gently. “She’s still a child, like you, and children have to be taught discipline. Malta is simply used to getting her way, and when she doesn’t, she acts out. It’s normal. For a child. I think Malta is simply trying to be mature. You’re trying to be mature as well, aren’t you? Asking to go to the Council meeting, and all that.”

“Well, they let Malta do all the adult things,” Selden huffed, “and she’s really not that much bigger.”

“I agree.” Tom smiled at the boy and shrugged. “You should be treated with the same respect as your sister. And your father never should have hurt your brother or forced him to do something he did not want to. It was wrong of him.”

“Bad,” Selden pointed out.

“Perhaps.” Tom nodded to the boy’s book. “Finish that chapter and you may go play in the garden before you have to get ready for the meeting.”

“Okay!”

Dinner was a quick affair before the family left for the meeting. Tom ended up in the study, reading some books about the trade routes surrounding the Cursed Shores, finding the summer afternoon to be milder today. He fell asleep at the study table and dreamed a comfortable wolf dream.

The young man was asleep in the study when Ronica entered it that night. She had not been in the room since the prior afternoon, and she was hit with the aroma of roses as she shut the door behind her and peered at Tom. He had rested his head upon a book beside a bowl of flowers. Ronica saw, in mild awe, that he had cut and arranged the flowers she’d given him and set them to float in a bowl of water. They were wilting a bit, but the beauty of the gesture filled her with warmth. She rounded the table, shrugging off her shawl, and set it on the boy’s shoulders.

He awoke instantly with a start. Ronica stepped back as he flinched away from her touch. He took a breath, steadied himself, and glanced up at her. In the lamplight, he looked younger than he was, though Ronica did not truly know his age.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Ronica said softly. “You can go to sleep if you wish, Tom. It’s bound to be a long night, and I wouldn’t want you to tax yourself.”

“What’s happened?”

Somehow, in an instant, by simply looking into her face, Tom knew something was amiss. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, blinking up at her worriedly, and she found herself sighing as she dropped into the chair beside him.

“It did not go as planned,” Ronica admitted. “Althea made a bit of a scene—well, you know her.”

“Yes.” Tom smiled at that, and Ronica nodded. She had wondered in the past few months if Tom had begun to harbor feelings for her granddaughter, but he had never seemed threatened by Grag Tenira. Rache agreed with her that Tom seemed uninterested in the girl beyond friendship. It was a relief. Ronica had hoped he could prove a boyish companion rather than a possible suitor, which would be disastrous. “I expected it, if I’m honest. She’s not one to hold her tongue.”

“No.” Ronica sighed and shook her head. “I feel that she’s been gone too long already.”

“What?” Tom’s smile faltered. “Where is she?”

“She drove Davad’s carriage home.” Ronica glanced away from him, wringing her hands. “Oh, it was quite awful. Someone vandalized the poor man’s carriage with pig’s blood. Althea brought him home, and we went in the Trell’s carriage—”

“She went alone?” Tom demanded in a voice that made Ronica freeze. There was nothing of Tom’s mellow, breezy demeanor in his face or his tone suddenly. He looked at Ronica with such sudden, visceral fear that it made her entire body tense up.

“Well, yes—she knows the way, it’s not so far—”

“That’s not the point.” Tom got to his feet, looking dazed. “And she doesn’t have a weapon, does she?”

“Whyever would she need a weapon?” Ronica demanded, her knuckles white against the table. “Tom? What are you saying? Give her a weapon… what would you suggest, arming Althea with a broadsword?”

“Yes, in fact.” Tom shook his head in disbelief, as if she were somehow the one speaking nonsense. “She should at least have a concealed knife—never mind. I’ll send Nighteyes to fetch her.”

“The dog?” Ronica uttered faintly. What was wrong with the poor boy? Had she woken him from a fever dream?

“He’s quick,” Tom explained. “He’ll find her faster than I will, and he’s as good as a knife in a pinch. I’ll worry less knowing no one will threaten her on her way home.”

Ronica had not thought about it, perhaps because her daughter had spent an entire year alone at sea, but Tom did raise some points about Althea’s safety.

“Bingtown is not usually so dangerous,” Ronica murmured.

“She went home in a carriage vandalized with blood.” Tom jerked a finger at the door for emphasis. “That’s a threat, Ronica. A direct threat against Trader Restart, and Althea’s caught in the middle of it. So yes, there is danger in Bingtown. There’s danger everywhere. I’ll be right back.”

The boy disappeared, leaving Ronica completely aghast. And yet, she could not fault him at all for his paranoia. Where he was from, she supposed, everything was a threat.

When the door opened again, Ronica expected Tom, but instead received Keffria. Her daughter was wrapped in her own shawl, looking tired and spent.

“There’s someone at the door,” she said. “Not Althea. She wouldn’t knock.”

Ronica moved to get up, and Keffria shook her head.

“I’ll get it,” she said. “I only wondered if Tom had gone out. I haven’t seen him, and he’s not in his room.”

“He just went to go send his dog after Althea,” Ronica said. Keffria raised an eyebrow and Ronica sighed. “Don’t ask. I believe it’s some sort of Six Duchies anxiety, being out so late. If it gives him some comfort, I won’t deny him.”

“You’re too soft on the man,” Keffria told her gently.

“He is pleasant company. Now, who could be at the door?”

Keffria shook her head and sighed.

“I suppose I’ll go find out,” she said.

Ronica watched her go. She heard voices down the hall, and she could not place them. She got up and went to the doorway.

“Keffria?” she called. She found herself gazing into the foyer, meeting the eyes of the two midnight callers. One was Brashen Trell. The other was a woman Ronica did not recognize, her golden hair set in an array of braids, half loose about her shoulders. Her plain robe was unadorned, tawny in color, and cinched about the waist in a fashionable girdle. The woman’s eyes were a strange color that reflected the lamplight queerly.

“It’s, uh, Brashen Trell and Amber, the beadmaker,” Keffria said, glancing at their guests with a frown.

“I know it’s late,” Brashen said hastily, inclining his head toward her, “but Amber and I have conceived a plan that will benefit all of us. Greatly. I believe it might offer us our only chance of bringing your husband, son, and ship safely home.”

“I do not recall that you ever had any great warmth or respect for my husband.”

“Warmth, no. Respect, yes. In his own way, Kyle Haven was a competent captain. He just wasn’t Ephron Vestrit. Tonight, at the meeting, Althea asked for help. That’s what I’ve come to offer her. Is she home?”

Ronica could sense Keffria was about to turn them away before she even spoke.

“Let them in,” she sighed, turning away. “Bring them to the study. Keffria, we don’t have the luxury of being picky about our allies. Tonight, I am willing to listen to anybody’s plan to make our family home again, no matter how late they come calling. Leave the door open. For Tom.”

Keffria obeyed, bringing the guests to the study and leaving the door ajar for Tom, though she frowned as she went. Brashen shuffled in, the beadmaker in tow, and Ronica watched the woman glance about the study curiously. Her eyes landed on the bowl on the table. She stepped closer, drawing her long, gloved gingers over the blooms, pushing them along in the water.

“This is beautiful,” she said softly. “Did you arrange this?”

Ronica realized the question was directed at her, and she shook her head.

“No, that was Tom—our gardener. He’ll be in, I’m sure. He sent after Althea.”

“Is she not home?” Brashen asked, sounding clearly anxious as he looked around. “Perhaps I should go looking for her. Do you have a horse?”

Before Ronica could respond, the door was shouldered fully open, and Tom emerged from the hall.

“Althea is at the door,” he said, sounding and looking as relieved as Ronica suddenly felt. She found herself pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “She’s with a boy—”

“Fitz?”

Everything in Tom seemed to go taut with tension, as a cat recoiling from a fright. He stood frozen a moment, his dark eyes shot wide with terror and confusion. The room was very quiet, suddenly, as they all looked at Tom, who appeared ready to leap out the nearest window. His darting eyes finally settled on Amber, his brow knitting in clear uncertainty. Ronica glanced up at the woman and saw that she had taken a shaky step forward, hand over her mouth, a signal that it was not only Tom who was shocked and confused beyond belief.

And then, like a spell breaking, Tom’s terror and confusion melted away into recognition and awe. A strange smile of disbelief stretched on his lips as he moved into the room, looking a man possessed.

“Fool?” he gasped in a voice that confused Ronica greatly, because he sounded so breathlessly happy that it made no real sense. Seconds earlier, he had been afraid to move. And the word in itself seemed a declarative contradiction.

Amber nodded her head, and Tom let out a bright laugh that seemed to shake the room in its depth and power. He started forward, his arms outstretched, and Ronica blinked as Amber reeled back in shock, and then let out a small, shaky laugh herself, throwing herself into Tom’s arms. Tom’s embrace was not quick, and Ronica felt suddenly as though she was intruding on some intimate moment as Tom momentarily lifted Amber off the ground in excitement, her sandaled feet kicking at the air as she buried her face in his shoulder, muffling her laughter. It was only when Tom lifted her head to peer at her face that Ronica realized the laughter was intermingled with sobs.

“Ah, don’t cry, Fool,” Tom said gently, dashing Amber’s tears and ignoring his own. “I can’t have gotten uglier.”

Amber’s laughter won out against the sobs. Tom was searching her face like a starving man, looking bewildered or bewitched. Ronica watched the scene unfold with bated breath. Althea would let herself in, she knew. It seemed impolite to interrupt this reunion, whatever it was.

“You are as beautiful as the day I met you,” Amber said in a small voice.

“Ha,” Tom said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Well, what about you? Huh? You’ve changed. You’re—gold.”

“You don’t like it?” Amber drew back from the man, if only to give a short twirl. The skirt of her robe fluttered at her calves. Tom blinked and shook his head.

“No, it’s wonderful,” he said, grabbing her hands. She froze. “It suits you. I just didn’t expect you—how did you know I was here?”

“How did I…?” Amber’s laughter was near hysterical. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Ronica was beginning to worry for the poor woman. “Oh, my dear Fitz. I had no idea you were here.”

“What?” Tom blinked. He eyed Amber quizzically. “But—why are you here, then? How are you here, then?”

“Because my life revolves around you?” Amber mocked the man through her tears. Then she laughed at the way his face fell, and he sputtered. “It’s alright, I know it’s hard to believe. I’m having a hard time believing it myself. How could I not have known? I should have known. I should have felt you near. I thought you seemed nearer to me, but truthfully, I’m so used to your presence that I fear I blinded myself to you. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Oh,” Tom breathed, wiping his own face with a shaky laugh, “I don’t know what any of that means, but I’m too happy to care.”

“Are you?” Amber asked, tilting her head. “Are you really?”

“Of course I am!” Tom swept her into a hug again, and it was then that Althea appeared at the doorway. Her expression was comical.

“What’s happening here?” Althea demanded, marching into the room with a small child in tow. Ronica leapt to her feet at the sight of him, barefoot, scrawny, wearing only a shift. A tattoo marked his cheek.

Tom released Amber’s hands, smiling brightly at Althea, and Ronica found herself recognizing all at once why the man had no interest in her daughter. Certainly there was a marked difference in his behavior toward Amber.

“Althea!” Tom beamed at her. Amber shot him an incredulous glance. “I’m glad you’re back safely. Nighteyes met you, didn’t he?”

“Nighteyes,” Amber breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. Tom glanced at her, and his grin seemed to widen somehow.

“You’ll see him soon,” Tom promised. “He’s excited—he’ll be excited to see you again, too.”

“Uh,” Althea said, glancing between Amber and Tom. “Yeah. Thanks for that. I wasn’t expecting him, honestly, he gave the boy a bit of a fright. And I’m sorry it took so long. We walked.”

“What is that smell?” Keffria gasped.

“It’s her!” the little boy said, his accent peculiar. It was almost familiar. “She’s got shit all over her. She needs a bath.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Althea sighed. She shot one more curious glance between Amber and Tom before addressing Ronica. “I’m going to go wash. I brought the boy with me. I—I couldn’t leave him there, Mother. He was a slave. I’ll take responsibility for him, just—please, let him stay.”

“What Duchy did they take you from?” Tom asked the boy softly. He raised his eyes to the man, blinked at him, and Ronica realized why the accent was so familiar. It was an unrefined version of Tom’s.

“Shoaks, sir,” the boy said quietly.

Tom looked to Amber. The woman stepped forward and quickly ushered the boy into the study.

Althea took a moment, her brow furrowing, and with a shake of her head she turned away.

“I’ll be back,” she said.

She left the child alone with them. He looked momentarily stunned. His eyes darted around the room confusedly.

“My name is Amber,” Amber said, offering the child her hand. Ronica did not miss the way Tom glanced at her curiously. She wondered what the story here was. Perhaps they had been betrothed, in his land, or perhaps they were already married. It did not explain the strange separation, though. Only the emotional reunion.

The boy glanced at Tom. Tom nodded to him.

“Clef,” the boy said hesitantly.

“Nice to meet you, Clef. This is my friend…?”

“Tom.”

“Tom is from Buck.” Amber smiled at the boy warmly. Ronica had nearly missed the hesitance in her voice when introducing Tom. She catalogued that for later. What had she called him when he’d entered? Fitz?

“Are you from Buck too?” the boy asked.

“I lived there for a long time.” Amber sounded far away. “But no. I am not from there.”

“Is this your house?” Clef demanded, looking up at Tom, causing him to step back in alarm. Keffria met Ronica’s eye inquisitively. She had been trying to catch it throughout the exchange between Amber and Tom, but she had been too enthralled in the strange reunion to notice.

“Why do you ask that?” Tom asked awkwardly.

“You sound rich.”

Amber laughed at that. Tom scowled at her.

“It’s not funny,” he told her quietly.

“It’s a little funny.” Amber’s eyes were bright as she nudged his arm. “Go on, Tom. Tell him why you sound rich.”

Tom glared at her, and she batted her eyes innocently. Ronica saw Rache in the doorway and nodded her in. Amber, Tom, and Clef scattered as Rache brought in a tray of tea and spice cakes. The boy’s eyes were wide at the sight of them.

“Go on,” Ronica invited him. “It’s alright, you can take one.”

Clef rushed up to the tray and grabbed a cake. Rache offered him a plate and he took it as an afterthought, the cake already half gone.

“Are you rich?” Brashen asked Tom suddenly.

Tom snorted derisively, shot another glare at Amber, and shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “I am not. My accent is like this because I apprenticed with someone who worked in Buckkeep—the castle in Buck. I never thought about how it made me sound. In the Six Duchies, it’s more common, I suppose.”

“Not that common,” Clef muttered. Tom sighed and shook his head.

“If I was rich,” Tom said firmly, “I would have left Bingtown months ago. As it happens, I’m as poor as the day I was born, and as that is unlikely to change, I find no qualms in it. I make my own way. But nobody came here to hear about my lack of wealth. What exactly is happening? Fo—Amber?”

“I have a proposition for the Vestrit family,” Amber said carefully, folding her hands before her and taking a deep breath. She seemed shaken. Her cheeks and eyes were faintly pink from her tears. “I’ve been here for a while, Tom. There are things at stake that I do not expect you to understand.”

“I can try,” Tom offered. “Don’t count me out just yet. I’ve lived with the Vestrits for a few months now.”

“Months,” Amber breathed, drawing some loose wisps of hair off her forehead, back onto her scalp in distress. “Months! How have I not seen you? I am all over Bingtown. I would know you in an instant. How could I have missed you?”

“I haven’t been in town,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I’ve been here. That’s why. Though I’ll admit, I did not recognize you at first. The… color, I suppose, threw me off.”

“Am I so different?” Amber asked, sounding suddenly miserable.

“No.” Tom took her shoulder and forced her to lift her eyes to his. “No, you’re just the same. I only needed to really look. But I wasn’t really looking at anything, when I was in town. It all repulsed me.”

“I see.” Amber turned away sharply, ignoring Keffria when she attempted to ask her a question. Instead she went to Clef, standing at a distance from him, before she quietly told the boy that the house was safe, and he had nothing to fear. Clef avoided her gaze. With a sigh, Amber took a cake for herself and went to sit on the floor. Clef watched her. When she offered it out to him, he hesitantly sat down beside her, snatching it from her hands.

Tom was watching this exchange as keenly as Ronica was, she knew. She glanced at him, studying his face as he peered down at Amber in wonder. Did he find her behavior odd, as Ronica did?

“Do you two know each other well, then?” Keffria asked Tom suddenly. Tom looked at her blankly. Ronica knew her daughter was merely trying to fill the sudden silence and break the tension that the couple had inadvertently summoned, but it was a silly question.

“Yes,” Tom said curtly. He said nothing more. Suddenly, Ronica noted, he was guarded. Amber did not look up from her new charge. She watched the boy eat.

“How come you didn’t say anything, Amber?” Brashen demanded. Amber lifted her head to fix him with a stare almost identical to Tom’s. “When I spoke about Tom last night, you said you didn’t know him.”

“I didn’t.” Amber offered a shrug. “I’d never met him. Only stories from Althea, which of course I found intriguing, but I never thought—I never connected Althea’s Tom to my Tom. I was a fool, I suppose.”

“We should share the motley then,” Tom said bitterly.

“Winter or summer?” Amber retorted.

“Summer for you. Winter for me.”

“I’ll talk to the court seamstress,” Amber said dryly. She had taken off one of her earrings, a wooden dragon made of linked wood that had joints that moved. It had sat cuffing her ear, hidden by her great swathes of golden hair. She handed the earring to the boy in the floor beside her.

“So you haven’t seen each other in a while, I take it?” Brashen asked. His response was two blank stares from Tom and Amber. “Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on!”

“It’s personal,” Amber said curtly. “And, might I add, it has nothing to do with our current situation. Tom is someone very dear to me that I have not seen in a long time.”

“I suppose you must be very close,” Brashen observed, “for him to get that sort of reaction out of you.”

“You don’t know me very well, Brashen Trell.”

“I would also like to know a bit more,” Keffria interjected. Tom closed his eyes. “How is it that you did not recognize her at first, Tom?”

“Recognize who…?” Tom looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. Then his eyes widened, darting frantically to Amber, who watched him with a long, unblinking stare. His brow furrowed as he said, “Oh. Right. She’s, uh, changed a bit since I last saw her. We were younger, then.”

Childhood sweethearts, perhaps? Ronica sipped her tea as Rache stood beside her, glancing inquisitively at her. Ronica motioned that they’d speak on it later.

“So you grew up together, then?”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Amber shook her head.

“You don’t have to answer, Tom,” she said. Her eyes had drifted back to the boy beside her. “I know you’d prefer the past remain in the past.”

“I would,” Tom admitted after a moment, his taut expression relaxing. “That does not mean I want you to stay in the past. I don’t mind speaking about you. If I was ever to reflect on my childhood, you were likely one of the few things that I can recall without bitterness.”

Amber lifted her head, eyes wide, and she said nothing, though her mouth fluttered open and closed. Althea decided to stroll in at that moment, taking a great, sweeping look around the room before striding toward Amber. Ronica watched her daughter drop down beside her, eyeing her face.

“You’re blushing,” Althea observed. Amber drew a hand to her cheek and did not respond. So Althea’s gaze swung at Tom. “You’ve known each other this whole time?”

“It’s complicated,” Tom sighed. “I’ll explain later. It’s late, and Amber and Brashen certainly did not come here to see me.”

“No,” Althea mused, “I suppose not.” Her eyes shifted to Amber dully. “Why are you here?”

Amber was silent a moment. Then closing her eyes, she nodded.

“I will be as brief as possible,” she said quietly. “I’ve taken up enough of your time tonight. All I ask is that you take the night to consider it.”

She stood, and Ronica had to marvel at her grace. While her face was neither ugly nor pretty, she had a certain draw to her that made her difficult to look away from. She drew eyes to her, commanding attention, and Ronica watched as the woman took a deep breath.

“I propose that to catch a liveship, we need a liveship. The Paragon, to be precise. We buy, lease, or steal him, put a crew aboard with Brashen in command and go after the Vivacia.”

Ronica sucked on her teeth. It was a mad idea on too many points to name. To buy a liveship from a Trader family in itself was unthinkable. Not to mention the ship in question…

“I was under the impression that buying a liveship is not something one does on a whim,” Tom said, frowning. Ronica was relieved that even as an outsider, Tom had difficulty wrapping his head around the thought of buying another family’s liveship.

“It’s not. That’s why I provided alternatives.”

“I don’t imagine stealing a ship that can, apparently, talk and move of its own volition, would be very wise.” Tom shook his head. “I’ve never seen one up close, but from the docks, the ships’ figureheads seem almost sentient. They certainly feel alive.”

“They are,” Amber breathed before Althea could butt in, as she clearly meant to. By Althea’s expression, Ronica knew that this was a conversation that she and Tom had likely had before, and it had likely devolved into a debate or an argument. Her daughter was headstrong and combative enough that even though Tom was clearly a friend, it did not save him from her obstinate, opinionated attitude.  “The ships are alive, Tom. When you meet Paragon, you’ll understand.”

“Will I?” Tom asked doubtfully.

“Once, not so long ago, we met a woman made out of stone. Was she not alive?”

Tom stood very still, the shadows of the candlelight and lanterns flickering strangely over his face as he stared at Amber. He closed his hand over his wrist and shook his head.

“It can’t be the same,” he murmured.

“Not the same exactly,” Amber sighed, “but similar. Trust me. Now, back to the Paragon. I know it is difficult to believe that an outsider can even possibly buy a liveship, but here is the reality. An outsider will buy the Paragon. The Ludlucks intend to sell him, and all I can do is try and save him from being turned into trinkets sold at curiosity shops.”

“Could they do that to something that’s alive?” Tom asked, aghast. Amber shot him a level look, and he paled.

“I believe you all might have more influence than you know,” Amber continued, ignoring Tom’s question, which was, in itself, an answer. “Your friend Davad Restart could be instrumental in helping us negotiate a price with the Ludlucks. After tonight, I’m sure he’ll be itching to gain favor with the Old Traders again, and this purchase would ultimately be for you. Everyone would know that the Paragon is your chance to regain the Vivacia. And I am willing to put up everything I own as part payment for the ship. So?”

“No,” Althea said flatly.

“Why?” Tom demanded in the same instant that Malta stepped into the room wearing only her slippers and a robe over her nightgown, glaring blearily at her aunt.

“Why not?” she asked, nearly at the same time as Tom. Only Amber and Tom seemed unsurprised to see her. Even Ronica jumped at the sound of the girl’s voice. “Why not send a ship? I heard this woman say she would help—and Tom agrees with me, so what’s the problem here? Mama? Grandmother? Why should Althea forbid us from doing this, when it could save Papa? We could go get him ourselves!”

“Well,” Althea huffed, jumping to her feet, “if you really want a reason—firstly, Paragon is mad. He has—”

“Mad how?” Tom asked. Amber’s eyes flickered to his face and then back to Althea. He was still gripping his wrist, as if it was injured. Amber wrung her fingers and sighed.

“Madness is an ugly word for it,” she said quietly.

“It’s the truth, and I won’t sugarcoat it.” Althea scowled at Amber before fixing her gaze upon Tom. “You couldn’t possibly understand what she is suggesting. Until a minute ago you did not even grasp that liveships were sentient beings, though you know I’ve told you before that they are alive. When I say Paragon is mad, I mean it. He has killed entire crews, Tom. Sailing him would be a mistake. He is a liveship, and for a liveship to sail, a blood member of the family must be aboard—”

“Why?”

Althea looked briefly irritated with Tom’s interjection, and Ronica expected her to lash out at the man. Instead, to her surprise, Althea took a deep breath to steady herself. She scowled at the far wall, avoiding looking at Tom entirely.

“Because for a liveship to quicken, three generations of a family must die aboard it,” Althea said impatiently. Tom blinked. Then his eyes widened in horror. He turned to look at Amber, a question in his eyes. She avoided his gaze, and yet, she nodded. Perhaps in agreement with Althea, that this was true. “The ship becomes a part of the family, it—it absorbs the lives and memories of the generations who served it, and it is fiercely loyal to its family. It cannot be traded away for gold! Paragon will not let you. And even if you somehow manage to buy him, what shape is he in to sail? What money do we have to renovate him?”

“It absorbs lives,” Tom repeated dully. He turned away sharply, as if to walk out the door, but Malta was in his way. Their eyes met, and Tom froze. His shoulders tensed and then sagged. He turned around again, heaving a deep breath. “How can you possibly own such a thing?”

Everyone was quiet. Amber closed her eyes, looking both resigned and vindicated.

“It’s not as scary as it sounds,” Althea offered. Tom’s eyes flashed to hers dully. “And liveships are not things that we own. They’re part of the family.”

“So your father remains in the liveship that Amber is offering to trade everything she owns to retrieve,” Tom said quietly, ignoring the way Althea jolted. Ronica, too, flinched. She knew that he was misunderstanding the way that it worked, but was he truly wrong? “And you stand here making excuses because you are frightened of this one particular ship. You should be afraid of all of them.”

For reasons Ronica could not fathom, Malta shuddered. She drew her robe tighter around herself and glanced about the room. Her eyes landed on Althea, who had been struck silent at Tom’s accusation. She seemed stunned.

“We will get no further tonight,” Brashen said suddenly. His eyes flickered bitterly at Tom. “Negotiation seems impossible when some parties are ignorant to the language of the dealings.”

“It is unfamiliar magic,” Tom said bluntly, meeting Brashen’s bitter stare with a hard one. “Yet the more I hear, the more I fear it is not so unfamiliar after all. I suppose I should meet this Paragon.”

“Tomorrow,” Amber told him quietly.

“I’ll leave you to think on it,” Brashen told them. He inclined his head toward Ronica, and then glanced to Althea. “You wanted to object to me being captain. You know as well as I do that I am the best choice when it comes to the simple fact of hiring a crew. We are already at a disadvantage, with the Paragon, and a woman captain—”

“Is that truly the only reason?” Tom interjected with a scoff. “Men here won’t sail under a woman’s command? What a soft-bellied people you southerners are.”

Althea smiled at that, but not even his strange Six Duchies sentiments could turn her sour mood. Brashen seemed undeterred.

“You’re right,” Brashen said with a sigh. “It’s stupid. But it’s a fact, and Althea knows it, because she spent a year trying the circumnavigate it. And as convincing as her boy disguise was, no one will believe for a second she is a man. No one will sail under her as a woman. Not unless that ship is the Vivacia. So unless you have other ideas—”

“You should hire women,” Tom said, “to fill the gaps.”

“Alright,” Brashen sighed, “it’s too late to seriously discuss any of this. Send word to Amber’s shop if you need me—”

“I’m being serious,” Tom objected.

“I know.” Brashen eyed Tom dully. Then his gaze flickered between Amber and Althea. He jerked a finger between them. “I see why you two like him. He’s your type of crazy.”

Althea said nothing as she watched Brashen incline his head at Keffria and Ronica. As he maneuvered around Malta, he glanced at Amber.

“I must stay a bit longer,” Amber murmured.

“I understand,” Brashen said, glancing back a Tom. Tom frowned at him in response. Then he nodded to the women in the room. “Good evening. Please let me know what you decide.”

“Wait!” Malta gasped. She stepped in front of Brashen, already the closest to the door. “Wait, please—may I ask—?” She sucked in a deep breath. She shook her head. “I want to ask you, plainly, how much you think this will cost. Aunt Althea clearly doesn’t believe we have the funds to sustain this. Do you agree?”

“It would be a substantial sum,” Brashen admitted, “to both buy the Paragon and to refit him. Wizardwood is sturdy, and what work Amber’s already done for him might save us a great deal, but yes. It will be expensive.”

“I see what Malta is getting at,” Tom said. “We can’t do anything without money. So Malta is asking if we have the money.”

“Yes,” Malta breathed, looking relieved that someone understood. “Numbers. Before we can do anything, we need to know if it’s even feasible. Could we even afford it? How much would it cost?”

Ronica watched Malta’s face as Althea interrupted Brashen to speak of shipwrights and the Paragon’s reputation, and it was clear that she was growing impatient and frustrated.

It seemed Ronica was not the only one who noticed.

“We can reconvene in the morning,” Tom said curtly, “after you’ve come up with a sum, and the Vestrits have determined if they can even budget for this endeavor. Right now we are all exhausted. No choices can be made until it is determined that it is possible, as Malta said.”

“You’re right,” Brashen murmured, rubbing his eyes. His shoulders slumped. “Send word to Amber’s shop, as I said. I’ll crunch the numbers and have them to her by noon. If we come to a similar number, should I expect that you all are willing to do it?”

“I am,” Keffria said, earning a look of pure shock from Althea. “I don’t expect we’ll get a better offer. This could be our only hope.”

Brashen watched her sympathetically. He nodded, but said nothing more. He bowed his head again and rounded Malta, walking out of the study.

There was a silence that settled between them as they heard the front door close. Ronica sighed and stood, her own exhaustion beginning to hit her. Her daughters looked at her expectantly, as if she had the easy answer.

“We will spend the morning looking over our accounts,” she informed her girls. Malta looked eager and relieved. Perhaps because someone was actually speaking sense to her. “Amber, do you believe that Paragon will sail? If, somehow, we manage to find the money to purchase and refit him?”

“I do.” Amber straightened, looking at Ronica with the same eager relief that shone in Malta’s eyes. “I believe I can convince him. And I think it will be good for him to be a ship again, rather than prisoner fettered upon a beach.”

“Hm.” Ronica nodded. “I suppose it might. But we can do nothing until funds are determined, as Malta said.”

“I understand.” Amber inclined her head somewhat, more to emphasize her point than in reverence. “I suppose I should leave you all to think on it.”

“You suppose?” Althea snorted. “If you’d like to sleep here, you’re welcome to. We can make room.”

“No.” Amber shook her head, and Althea seemed unsurprised at that. “Thank you, but no. I need to return to Paragon. I rarely come to him so late, and I expect he’ll be worried.”

“Should you be visiting the ship so often?” Tom asked worriedly. Ronica thought it was probably good instinct on his part to be nervous about the Paragon, despite all the talk of trusting the ship. The rumors were not mere rumors. Paragon was truly mad.

“It’s not like that,” Amber murmured in a way that made Ronica doubt her previous assumption that Tom was worried about Paragon’s madness. There was something else, she realized, that troubled the boy. “I won’t lose myself. It’s not the same. You’ll understand when you meet him, I promise.”

“I just feel as if we’ve been here before,” Tom said, his voice a warning, “and it nearly killed you last time.”

Amber said nothing, and perhaps that was for the best, for Ronica knew Tom’s words had piqued all of their interest. And they simply hadn’t the time.

“What are you talking about?” Althea demanded. “What nearly killed you, Amber?”

“Tom is exaggerating.”

“Oh,” Tom said with a huff, “I’m really not!”

Amber glared at him. She straightened up and glanced about the room.

“Thank you all for your time,” she said in a curt but gentle voice. “I appreciate it. Truly.” She glanced at Tom. “Meet me at my shop at dawn.”

Tom seemed unsurprised by the suddenness of the request, nor the urgent intensity.

“I’ll be there,” Tom said with a nod. “Please get some sleep, Fool.”

Amber smiled at him with a shake of her head. He seemed to remember something, and he winced. She turned away and walked quietly to the study door.

At the last moment, she whirled around, staring at Tom with a pained expression.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” she said suddenly, gripping the doorframe and staring at Tom desperately. “I’m sorry I did. You don’t know how much it’s haunted me.”

“Oh.” Tom exhaled shakily. Then he shot her a rueful smile. “It’s alright. There are things that happened, after—things that no one needed to see but me. I’m glad you left when you did.”

“I didn’t want to leave you,” she said quietly, closing her eyes.

“I know.” Tom reached out as if to embrace Amber again, but he seemed to think better of it. His hands fell at his side. “I’m glad you did.”

Amber’s eyes flitted over the man, and Ronica recognized some degree of heartbreak in them as she smiled faintly and nodded.

“Tomorrow,” the woman said, and the word sounded as solemn as a promise. “Goodnight, Tom. And, ah—Goodnight, Vestrits.”

“Goodnight,” Althea said, wearing a puzzled expression as Amber hesitantly turned and walked away. They were all quiet as they heard her soft footfalls in the hallways. They listened to the front door open and then closed. Althea instantly whirled on Tom. “What the hell, Tom?”

“What?” Tom gasped, alarmed by her tone. “What have I done?”

“You know Amber! Very well, it seems to me!”

There was almost an accusation in Althea’s tone. Ronica felt her confusion radiate from her. She glanced to Keffria, who had gone to gather up Malta to return her to her bed. Malta was resisting, of course. With a sigh, Ronica interrupted Tom’s flimsy excuse that he could not have known that Althea’s friend Amber was the same woman who had wept at the sight of him.

“You should not toy with a woman’s feelings, Tom,” Ronica said curtly. Tom’s face was comically shocked as he glanced at Ronica confusedly. “I do not know what caused you to separate from her, but it is clear to me that it was a painful separation.”

“It was,” Tom said quietly. He drew his thumb over his wrist thoughtfully, rubbing circles into his skin. Then he sighed. “I hear the insinuation in your voice, Ronica, and the accusation. You believe it unwise to meet… her… at dawn. I suppose.”

“It does seem rather…” Keffria began, her voice teetering on judgment, but resisting due to her genuine curiosity. Ronica was on a similar wavelength.

“How do you even know each other?” Althea asked sharply. “She never mentioned you! And yet, by the way you two have acted, it’s clear that you know her better than I do. Tell me how you met.”

Tom was very quiet as he looked away from Althea sharply. His eyes had fallen somewhere beyond Ronica, and when she followed his gaze, she saw the bowl of flowers sitting upon the study table, the blooms sitting still in their shallow pool.

“I suppose you want an honest answer,” Tom said quietly. He shook his head with a soft snort. “We were children. I think we were both very lonely, but our paths crossed rarely. Amber came to me one day, talking what I had perceived as nonsense, and I offended her by assuming she was dimwitted. All I can remember now is that she told me, ‘Listen to me, you idiot!’”

And suddenly Tom was laughing. He doubled over, breathless and delighted, his laughter reaching the ceiling and shivering in the rafters. Althea blinked at him. Malta stared in wonder. Keffria tilted her head uncertainly. And Ronica found herself even more certain that this was some long-lost love torn asunder by time. She supposed things like that happened in the Six Duchies.

“And you still fell in love with her after that?” Malta whispered in quiet awe. Her romantic heart, perhaps, had been inherited from Ronica, deep down. It was a fanciful idea, when all was said and done, and yet Malta had only said what Ronica was thinking.

Tom’s laughter ceased abruptly. He turned to glance down at Malta in a sort of embarrassed, sputtering shock.

“Fell in love?” he echoed faintly. “I’m not—we’re not—” He took a breath, pausing perhaps to gather his thoughts, which only seemed more suspicious. Althea’s eyes had shot wide, and a look of pure understanding seemed to bloom across her face as she studied Tom’s. “Amber is my friend. We grew up together. I won’t say more than that—the years have not been kind to either of us. But that is all Amber is. A friend.”

Ronica did not believe for a second that this man truly believed that, and as he met her gaze, he seemed to recognize her displeasure.

“I’m not toying with her feelings,” Tom insisted, causing Ronica to frown deeper. “As I said, I’ve known Amber since we were children. I’m not sure what has convinced all of you that there is something more to it than that, but Amber is my friend. There is nothing improper or—or impious about it.”

“I believe you,” Althea said, her voice surprisingly soft as she watched Tom with a frown. “I personally don’t see anything improper about it. I just don’t understand how you two could be so close and not even realize the other was here. I’ve told you both so much about each other.”

“We’ve both changed,” Tom said quietly. He took a deep breath and glanced about the room. “I believe we’ve all exhausted ourselves beyond the coherent thought. Ultimately, my relationship with Amber is not any of your concerns, but if you are so curious about the nature of it, I will tell you this. I would trust Amber with my life. I have trusted Amber with my life. Whatever you choose to do about the liveships, I want you all to understand that Amber is earnest in trying to help you.”

They watched him linger a moment in the doorway before inclining his head. He went to step out of the room, but was stopped by a small voice.

“Wait,” said the little slave boy, the hem of his shirt gathered in his fists. “You’re leaving?”

Tom paused to look at him, startled. He had clearly forgotten about the child. His eyes widened as he looked over Clef’s anxious face.

“No,” he told the boy gently. “I have a room in the house. I will be here if you need me, Clef. But you should allow Althea to take care of you.”

Clef wrinkled his nose, clearly not thrilled with the idea, which was amusing. Hesitantly, he nodded. Althea placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured to him that she’d draw a bath for him. That seemed to grab his attention.

“Okay,” Clef murmured, his voice small. Tom smiled at the boy kindly. Then he disappeared out the door of the study, leaving them all with their ponderings of what had transpired this evening.

Chapter Text

The idea that a man once known as Fitz might have gotten any sleep that night was a ludicrous one. The instant he had gone to the kitchen door to let Nighteyes in, the wolf pounced on him, barreling him backwards into the table, pawing eagerly at his stomach before withdrawing from his assault, flitting in circles excitedly.

The Scentless One! cried the wolf. I know he was here.

“How did you know,” Fitz mocked Nighteyes, watching amusedly as his tail swished fervently, “if you cannot smell him? Hm?”

I sensed him. Through you.

A chill ran through Fitz as he tried to puzzle that observation out. The Fool, he reminded himself, had no innate talent with the Skill. And yet he and Fitz remained linked by some miracle of magic. It was a link that he had not realized withstood the years apart, and he had felt its tremulous presence during that tense midnight negotiation.

“Come to bed, dog,” Fitz huffed, deciding to ignore the whine he received in return. He slipped behind the wolf as he playfully snapped at his ankles. “We have an early morning. I’d rather get some sleep than none at all.”

When they returned to Fitz’s room, he washed his face in the basin beside his bed and changed into his nightshirt. A thousand questions whirled inside his brain as he tried to reconcile the Fool’s sudden appearance. Though the man had claimed he had not known Fitz was there, it was even more difficult to believe that they had coincidentally crossed paths.

He laid awake wondering. Amber the beadmaker. Amber, Althea’s friend, who was the subject of strange and somewhat cruel rumors. Amber, a woman.

Admittedly, Fitz had trouble wrapping his head around that. It was likely a disguise, as Althea had been disguised when Fitz had met her, and though both of those facts confused him immensely, he was not about to question anything in this strange and foreign place. If the Fool believed that he must play this part, he likely had a reason. But Fitz would inquire further tomorrow.

He could blame his restlessness on the evening spent napping in the study, or the stuffy servant’s quarters. He had never found fault with the room before, as small as it was, because it had a nice window which overlooked the garden, and on clear nights like this he could see the moon creeping across the sky. The bedstead was sturdy wood, the straw beneath the canvas sheet evenly spread and scarcely lumpy, and there was even a sack of fustian stuffed with feathers that served as a mattress. The oversheets were cool linen, and it was much more comfortable than the street, or a forest floor. And, additionally, there was enough room for Nighteyes to sprawl out on the floor beside the bed.

As he replayed the moment when he recognized that the young woman in Ephron Vestrit’s study was actually the Fool, he found himself itching to jump up out of bed and go running through the streets of Bingtown, looking for Amber’s shop. Why, he cursed himself now, had he been so foolishly stubborn about avoiding Althea’s beadmaker friend? The thought that he might have had weeks or months of uninterrupted time with the Fool made him furious with himself for his inactivity.

It had taken him a moment to look past the stream of golden hair that had been tamed with a small map of braids, loose strands curling delicately upon the strange woman’s sun-kissed shoulders. Her robe was a soft shade of brown that could have been russet or honey in its hue, its neckline a bit scandalous for these Bingtown women’s daywear, as it showed off her clavicle, a sight unseen to Fitz, who had only known his Fool to wear layers of motely or high collared linen shirts with woolen tunics to fight the Mountain cold. To hear the woman’s low voice utter his name with such breathless shock, it had taken his own breath away. Because he had not recognized the woman at all. He had not known by sight alone that this was his dear friend. It took a great deal of concentration to shake off his sudden panic and truly look at the golden woman, only to find the planes of her long, smooth face to be unquestionably familiar.

The Fool had always been admittedly a bit effeminate. At least in his mannerisms. Perhaps in his delicate features as well, but Fitz had never thought hard on that. It seemed rude. When they had been children, the Fool’s dainty chin and pouty lips and long white eyelashes framing enormous, colorless eyes, those things had been a mark of youth, but now, as it seemed he had only grown out of the colorlessness of those things, it all began to read as less childish and more girlish. If Starling were here, Fitz reflected, she would take one look at Amber and feel the vindication of a man who won a great wager.

It was difficult now to contain his eagerness to see the Fool again. He did not especially care that he had to refer to him as Amber, though an old, almost possessive need to defend the man had made him feel a bit treacherous when referring to him as ‘her.’ He had resented Starling’s insistence on using feminine terms for the Fool, and now he did it himself. But he knew it would be worse to open the Fool up to scrutiny among the Bingtown folk, who knew him as Amber, the merchant woman.

He had wept, seeing Fitz again. Fitz had held the Fool in his arms and felt the tears soak into the thin linen shirt he wore, and he realized how immensely they had missed each other. It was an ache he had been aware of, a deeply settled hollow that had been carved out of some part of his ribcage, a piece of himself that had begged to be filled. And Fitz had known he had missed the man, but he had not realized until this evening that the aching, desperate emptiness he had felt for so long had been because of the Fool’s absence in his life. Tears had streamed down his own face before he could stop them. Of course Fitz had missed the Fool. It seemed so stupidly simple now. He’d known the loss of companionship idly over the past few years, in his quiet solitude, in his search for an identity that led him nowhere and back. But the Fool had missed him an equal amount, despite clearly making a life for himself that suited him.

A beadmaker. A merchant. Things that Fitz had never imagined the Fool becoming, yet he wore these occupations as breezily as he had ever worn motley.

He got up the instant the dark sky seemed to crack a hint of gray. The prior day’s mild temperament had given way to a humid morning. As gray as dawn was turning out to be, the day, he sensed, would be grayer. It would rain later. He tugged on his leather doublet and sturdy boots. Nighteyes was already awake and sitting patiently by the door, his thumping tail betraying his excitement.

“I haven’t seen you this excited in a while,” Fitz observed, tying his hair back in a warrior’s tail and watching the wolf jump up as he approached the door.

We haven’t done much worth getting excited for, Nighteyes replied. This is exciting.

Fitz let him out of the room with an amused smile, watching the wolf bound for the front door. He nearly tripped in the dark over the small form sprawled out on the floor of the hallway. He squinted at the child, wondering if Selden had snuck out of his room in the night and camped out by Fitz’s door. But the boy, he realized, squinting through the dark, was too pale to be Selden.

Clef. Fitz’s heart leapt at the revelation that the slave boy had come scrambling to the servant’s quarters in the night, certainly looking for Fitz, but not knowing what door was his. A small part of him did not want to leave the child by himself, but rationally, he knew he needed to go to the Fool alone. He bent down and, as gingerly as possible, he lifted Clef into his arms and carried him slowly into his room. He set the boy down on his bed, watching for a moment as fingers of dawn’s gray light grazed over the boy’s face. He was pale with fair hair, not particularly common for coastal duchies, but perhaps more common now than it had been ten years ago. He was painfully underweight, looking perhaps eight or so. His bare legs were but thin rods bent at the knees, and one of his ankles still plainly bore the scar of his captivity.

He realized suddenly that if it was light enough to see Clef clearly, he was already late. He hurried from the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and he rushed to find Nighteyes awaiting him in the foyer.

The cub has been mistreated, Nighteyes observed as Fitz let both of them out into the cool morning air. Dew gathered on his paws and fur as they took a shortcut to the road through the shrubbery.

“Yes,” Fitz said quietly. “He was a slave. Althea was right to bring him home, though I have no idea what will happen to him now.”

Slave. Nighteyes knew what this meant. Fitz had explained it a few times. He still could not wrap his wolf brain around it. So young. Humans find new ways to inspire disgust.

“Yeah.”

They walked quietly down the street. The morning sun was crowded by a thicket of dark clouds, and so the shadows yawned and stretched further down the cobbled road to town. There were other mansions surrounding the Vestrit estate, with their manicured hedgerows and slanted terracotta tile rooves. The architecture in Bingtown was so different than the austere masonry seen in the Duchies. Everything was earth tones, warm brown and red brick, orange and blue elaborately painted tiles decorating some roads leading up to wealthy family homes. The Vestrit home had a veranda that overlooked the road, and some other houses had similar architecture. As they approached the town, the buildings became more clustered, the stonework plastered over and painted a variety of bright colors, periwinkle blue and lemon yellow and apple red. The squashed buildings with their bright, audacious façades, reminded Fitz of rows of candied pastries delicately arranged on trays in the palace kitchens. He pushed the thought away as he scraped his hair from his perspiring forehead. Despite the coolness of the morning, the humidity had him sweating already.

Rain Wild Street was a place he had avoided for a long time. It was an enormous stretch of road lined with beautiful buildings, each more vibrant and alive than the last, mosaic tiles splashed against storefronts—some exuded their own queer light in the dim morning, like the geometric designs had begun to burn from a light within themselves. He had gone down this street once, when he first arrived, found himself growing increasingly more dazed and distracted, and turned around before he made it all the way. Once again, he felt that odd tug on his mind, his sleeplessness being no help to avert his attention back to the task at hand. He did not know which shop was Amber’s. He stumbled through the street, feeling half-blind, relying on Nighteyes to lead him.

Led him the wolf did. Nighteyes swerved suddenly toward a shingled storefront, great arched windows allowing more than a peek into the wares within. The shop was dark, but there was a woman outside the painted blue door watching him as he approached. Nighteyes paused before her. She was tall, muscular, and blonde, wearing clothing nearly identical in style to Fitz’s. There was no question in Fitz’s mind that she was from the Six Duchies. He remembered suddenly that Althea had mentioned Amber’s friend was from their home. He stood there a moment, staring at the woman uncertainly. Her eyes whisked him up and down, and then she whistled low.

“She might’ve told me how handsome you are,” the woman huffed. Fitz’s mouth opened and closed. He blinked at her uncertainly. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m very discreet. In fact, I’m not here. Don’t tell her I’ve lingered to meet you. She asked me to be gone for the morning so she could meet her ‘dear childhood friend.’”

The woman shot him a grin, and then a wink, and Fitz swallowed an objection as she clapped him on the shoulder on her way out into the street.

Stunned, Fitz watched her go, whistling a familiar bawdy tune he remembered hearing in his youth. He took a deep breath, wrestled with his own dizziness, and pushed the shop door open.

The sound of tiny bells jingling signaled his arrival to the dark shop’s occupant. He held the door for Nighteyes to shuffle into. There were a few candles lit along the shelves, allowing him a glimpse into the shop’s wares. There were bowls of beads on the shelves, as well as furniture carved from great chunks of wood settled in enticing little pockets of the store, arranged in delightful mock scenes of domesticity to catch or inspire a buyer’s eye.

He nearly missed to soft sound of sandaled feet brushing the blue tile floor. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the Fool there, illuminated by the golden light of the candle cradled between his hands, and the odd, rich coloring of his skin made him almost glow faintly as he stood before him in the shadowy alcove of his shop.

“Hello, Fitz,” the Fool said quietly, a faint smile drawing over his face. He wore a pair of airy trousers that cinched at the ankle. His pale shirt contrasted with the coloring of his skin, and marked the stark difference in appearance from the last time Fitz had seen him. Once, that starched linen would have seemed dark compared to the Fool’s skin.

“Hello, Fool,” Fitz breathed, a small smile rising to his lips. He could not stop it. He stepped forward to drag the Fool into a hug, but was intercepted by Nighteyes, whose tail swished rapidly as he nosed the Fool’s gloved palm. The Fool laughed brightly, rubbing Nighteyes between his ears before dropping to his knees and hugging the wolf close.

“And hello to you, Nighteyes!” the Fool gasped, nuzzling the wolf fondly. Fitz laughed at the sight of Nighteyes contentedly rolling into the Fool’s lap, tongue lolling like a puppy’s. The Fool bent and kissed the wolf’s head. “I missed you, old friend. To think I could’ve been spoiling you silly all this time!”

Let’s not leave him, Nighteyes suggested, resting his chin on the Fool’s thigh. The Fool drew his fingers over his fur thoughtfully. We can stay with him, can’t we? It is as it’s meant to be.

“What is he saying?” the Fool murmured. Fitz looked down at him, surprised. Nighteyes merely lifted his head toward Fitz, cocking it as he said, See?

“He wants to stay with you,” Fitz said softly. The Fool raised an eyebrow and then laughed.

“I would keep you forever,” the Fool murmured to the wolf, “and feed you nothing but honey cakes. And you’d be a fat and lazy old man, spending your days sunbathing and yapping at customers. Not a proper life for a wolf, I fear.”

I wouldn’t mind.

“Oh, stop,” Fitz huffed, knowing the wolf well enough to sense that it was a jest, yet feeling the immensity of Nighteyes’s feelings for the Fool. And the Fool reciprocated these feelings, clearly.

When the Fool did not get up, and Nighteyes made no moves to roll off the man, Fitz found himself sitting on the floor across from him. The Fool glanced at him and smiled warmly.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” the Fool said. His hair was unbound and loose about his shoulders, free from the braids that had lessened the weight of it the night prior. Now it was free to curl around his face, harkening back to his youth when those thick white curls used to bounce around his round cheeks like a cloud rolling across the sky. Now, though, with the humidity, the Fool’s hair sat long and thick, tumbling around his head like a halo of gold. He seemed a dandelion growing in reverse.

“Well, I can say the same for you.” Fitz shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve been busy, clearly. What brought you to Bingtown?”

“Oh,” the Fool sighed flippantly, fingers drawing soothing circles along Nighteyes’s head, “you know. Dragons, serpents, nine-fingered slave boys. The usual. What about you?”

Fitz had to ignore the strangeness of the statement, given who he was talking to, and he shrugged.

“I felt like I should see more of the world,” he said.

“And that ended with the Vestrit’s estate?” the Fool teased. Fitz huffed in response. “Althea called you a handyman. Brashen said you were their gardener. Imagine my surprise, finding FitzChivalry Farseer in such a position!”

“It’s free lodging,” Fitz muttered, “and coin I intended to use for passage out of this place.”

“Intended,” the Fool echoed. He grinned suddenly, his face lighting up with the mischief and mirth of his youth. “Does that mean you no longer intend to leave?”

“Well…”

“Certainly you don’t plan on staying on my account,” the Fool gasped, feigning alarm. The storefront was beginning to grow brighter. Candlelight mingled with the grayish dawn, and the man's face was carved from shadows that accentuated the length of his nose and the sharpness of his cheekbones. Looking at him felt like a dream. Perhaps Fitz could blame it on the magical road outside, but he felt drunk watching light and shadow dance upon the Fool's pretty face.

“I don’t know how you can expect me to leave when you’re here,” Fitz retorted, and he watched the Fool’s face melt into true alarm as his eyes darted over Fitz’s face uncertainly. “What have I got to lose, remaining in this place? What’s waiting for me at home that is so pressing?”

The Fool’s face softened. He dragged his gloved fingers over the wolf’s fur, looking down at him sadly.

“Did you ever go visit them?” he asked quietly.

The question startled him enough that he found himself guarded and bristly as he gazed at the Fool, a beat of silence laying thick an unnamed tension.

“No,” Fitz said curtly, “and I don’t intend to. I’m dead, Fool. What would showing up on their doorstep do but cause them more grief? No. Did you?”

“I went once before I left,” Fool admitted, meeting Fitz’s eyes with earnest warmth. “Your daughter has your spirit, that’s for sure. She gives them both premature gray hair.”

Fitz’s mouth was dry. He found his legs cramping, so he stood up suddenly, looking around the shop and pretending to be more interested in a pre-strung necklace than he truly was.

“How old was she, then?”

“About three,” the Fool said. He shrugged. “I didn’t linger long. I came to deliver a doll and ask Burrich to pass along my intention to disappear entirely. I did not want to return to Buckkeep, nor did I feel comfortable confronting Starling, or any of Chade's known informants. So Burrich felt the safest. I trust him, I suppose, to respect my decision to become a ghost or a legend. Well, he didn't understand it, but he respected it. And you know I didn’t know Molly well, but Burrich… well, our common interest was you. It was difficult to be around each other without bringing you up. Which was upsetting for all parties.”

“I can imagine,” Fitz said dryly. He tried not to be bitter, but the bitterness welled up inside him all the same, and he found himself marching around the shop, blowing out candles as he went. The Fool sat silently on the floor as Fitz whirled on him irritably. “Why are you pretending to be a woman?”

“Pretending?” The Fool lowered his chin upon Nighteyes’s head and cocked it to the side innocently. “What makes you think I’m pretending, silly man?”

Fitz stood frozen for a moment in mild shock before he remembered who he was talking to, and he scoffed.

“Is it because Starling assumed you were one?” Fitz demanded. The Fool quirked an eyebrow, but he said nothing. “Did it strike you as an easy enough disguise? Are you not embarrassed?”

“Is being a woman embarrassing?” the Fool asked softly, his eyes downcast. Nighteyes lifted his head to meet those eyes, and then he nudged the Fool’s chin with his snout affectionately. The Fool sighed. “I thought you liked women.”

“What?” Fitz stared at him confusedly. “What does that have to do with anything? Of course I do—you’re misunderstanding me.”

“Am I?” The Fool smiled grimly. “I’ve said before that I’ve found your perception of gender to be limiting. You did not listen then, and I doubt you will listen now, so I will not try to convince you that I am a woman.”

“Are you?” Fitz demanded, a strange twinge of panic and curiosity knotting in his stomach as his eyes flitted over the Fool. Without that floaty robe on, without his delicate collarbone and dainty glimpse of bare shoulders, he looked less feminine. In boy clothes, he looked like a young, albeit delicately pretty, man. How could anyone doubt that?

The Fool sighed deeply. He gently nudged Nighteyes, and the wolf slipped off his lap, pacing around him as he drifted to his feet. He drew his hands through his thick hair, which did, admittedly, make him look more feminine at this length, especially unbound and left to float about his head. Fitz glimpsed a flash of silver and blue as the Fool’s long fingers raked through his hair. The earring bounced merrily, the colors pleasing to look at against the Fool’s newly acquired coloring. His hair had nearly entirely eclipsed the beauty of not only Fitz’s earring, but all of the other wonderfully carved earrings set into his ears.

As if reading his mind, the Fool grabbed a square of silk from the sale’s counter and wrapped it around his head. It gave him the look of fisherwomen in Buckkeep Town. It tamed the hair back somewhat, but not all the curls could be swept into the binding. Many of them fell onto his forehead and cheekbones.

“If I said yes,” the Fool said quietly, “would that change how you treat me?”

“I would wonder why you never said anything,” Fitz said sharply, earning a knowing look from the Fool. “You are my friend. Nothing will change that, Fool. But if you are a woman, and you could have told me, years ago, but chose not to… why?”

“Perhaps I am not a woman,” the Fool replied idly, now drifting through his shop aimlessly, fingers gliding over wooden fixtures, “and I am not a man—perhaps I am something else. What would you say to that? Would that change anything?”

“Now you’re not making sense,” Fitz sighed, frustrated that the Fool had decided to spin this into a riddle.

“Your mind simply won’t accept sense,” the Fool said with a shrug. “It matters very little to me what gender you want me to be. You always seemed to see me as a boy, so for you, I’ve remained that way. Many others see me as a woman. Jek is one of them. We came to Bingtown together.”

A strange chill ran through Fitz.

“Does she know who I am?” he murmured. The Fool blinked at him.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She knew me briefly as the Fool, during the war, but no. She believes FitzChivalry Farseer is dead, like the rest of them. She has no idea I was close with the ill-fated bastard prince. All she knows is that we were allies during the war, and that it was unwise for a woman to travel to Bingtown on her own. Especially a woman like me.”

That made him smile. He offered Fitz another shrug. And Fitz had trouble wrapping his head around it.

“But why would you let someone assume you’re something you’re not?” he asked helplessly. “Which is true? I don’t want to get this wrong, Fool, please.”

“Why must you know?” the Fool replied breezily, hopping onto the sale’s counter and pulling a bowl of beads into his lap. “Is the space between my legs truly so distracting that you cannot bring your mind from it? Why, Fitz, as a young woman, I have a reputation to uphold!”

Fitz flushed at the insinuation, and the Fool laughed at him for it. He was struggling to decide if this was all an elaborate joke.

“It’s important that I get it right,” Fitz said firmly. “Tell me the truth, Fool.”

“I’ve told you all the truth I have on the subject,” the Fool told him, drawing his hand into the bowl of beads and letting them slip from his fingers, clattering against each other. “You are not listening.”

“So you are a woman.”

“Would you like to find out?” the Fool challenged him, his voice taking on a partly teasing tone, but by the end of the question, there was a clear edge to his words that made Fitz jump. The Fool’s eyes were glued to his face, unblinking, and he did not smile or wink as he set the bowl of beads aside and slipped off the countertop. He stood there a moment, arms out in a sort of offering, and Fitz could not fully wrap his head around what the Fool was asking before the man wrapped his arms around his stomach and turned away sharply. “I thought not. Perhaps I would be a man for you forever, Fitz, but right now, I can’t be. If I’d known you would come to me, if I’d seen it, I would have planned a bit differently. But I am Amber, the beadmaker, and Amber is a woman. She isn’t a clever disguise, Fitz, she is me. I believe she has always been me, an unnamed facet of the child I was and the adult that I am. I put a name to her and let that name be the raiment I face this world with, but she is not a mask. You have known her, Fitz. She is me, so you have known Amber as well as you have known your Fool, because I have let you know me in a way that no one else has ever known me before. So try to get it into your head to see me as a woman when others are around." He took a deep breath, looking almost stunned as he stared past Fitz's face, his shoulders sagging as if he had lost all of the momentum which had propelled his words from his lips. "When we are alone, you may call me Fool, and I can be your man, I promise you that.”

“My man?” Fitz huffed, unable to stifle a laugh of delight at how silly the statement was. As uncomfortable as he’d found the Fool’s words, it was difficult to wrap his head around them, and so the instant he could cling to a jest, he’d taken the chance. The Fool tilted his head and smiled. Things seemed suddenly easy again.

“Do you have another I don’t know about?” he asked innocently.

“None,” Fitz admitted. “I’ve been living with only women for weeks now. Months, even. Well, and Selden. But I’m a bit out of my depth. I suppose I never realized how much time I spent around only men for so much of my life. Oh, and I have no trouble calling you Amber, so long as you call me Tom.”

“Of course,” the Fool said curtly. He seemed amused by Fitz’s commentary about his genuine lack of experience being around women for such lengthy periods. It was an honesty that Fitz was shocked by. He supposed the fact of it was that he would only ever be this honest around Nighteyes or the Fool. “Tom the gardener. Such a clever disguise. I had no idea until I saw you. The way Althea spoke of you, I imagined a grumpy old man, but she was adamant you were close to her own age.”

“And when we’re alone?” Fitz asked carefully. The Fool watched him hesitantly. “Should I call you Fool, truly? You aren’t one anymore, though. It doesn’t seem right.”

“Ah.” The Fool smiled. “That.”

“Tell me your true name,” Fitz demanded suddenly. The Fool’s eyes widened, and he took a step back in alarm. His eyes darted away, and Fitz almost felt guilty.

“You are demanding a lot of personal information from me today, Fitz,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t answer my first demand,” Fitz reminded him. The Fool scoffed at that. Perhaps in the Fool's mind he had answered the question of his gender, but Fitz was not satisfied. “I’ll take one or the other, thank you.”

“Are these things for you to take?” the Fool asked, the gray morning light sending shadows skittering on the planes of his face. His hair seemed less gold and more yellow against the morning sun, dulled by an overcast sky. And yet there was a brilliance to his hair and skin that outshone the sunlight. “There are so many things I would give you freely, Fitz. You needn’t demand anything. I will tell you the name my mother gave me, but as with so many things I say to you, I doubt you will believe me.”

“Try me.”

The Fool smiled. It was a smile that told Fitz that he had already lost this game. Yet he stood there and waited as the Fool approached, gliding across his shop and stopping very close to Fitz, leaving barely a finger’s worth of space between them as he leaned forward, drawing his arms around Fitz’s neck and letting them dangle there for a moment as their noses brushed. Fitz’s eyes darted over the man’s face anxiously. For a minute, he wondered if the Fool would kiss him. It would not be the first time.

Instead, the Fool’s gloved hands slid against his neck, his thumbs caressing Fitz’s cheeks. He lowered Fitz’s forehead to his own and closed his eyes. Fitz wondered if he meant to send the name telepathically. He could feel their sliver of a Skill-bond fluttering like a skittish heartbeat as the Fool lifted his head and leaned forward further, his cheek gliding against Fitz’s. It was difficult not to note the Fool’s distinct hairlessness as his soft skin brushed the scratchy, unshaved bristles of Fitz’s beard. He resisted a shudder as the Fool’s lips brushed his ear.

“Beloved,” he said softly.

The bell on the door jingled as it swung open, and Fitz gasped, finding himself breaking out of a trance as the Fool bowed his head and carefully sidestepped him. It was too late, however. Their intimate position had been caught by the intruder.

Intruders, Fitz corrected himself, glancing rapidly between Althea and Clef. Althea’s mouth was open in shock, her nose and the apples of her cheeks faintly pink as her eyes darted between the two of them. Clef merely looked confused. He had changed out of the ratty shirt he had arrived at the Vestrit house in, and now sported a pair of too-short trousers that had to be belted around his thin waist, and a blue cotton collared shirt that was clearly more expensive than anything the boy had ever owned. These were both likely Selden’s cast-offs.

“Sorry,” Althea choked out as Fitz’s ears seemed to burn from embarrassment. “I didn’t think I’d intrude on anything between friends.”

“You haven’t,” Fitz managed to utter faintly. The Fool had returned to the floor beside Nighteyes, burying his face in his neck. “It wasn’t—it’s not what it looks like at all. Hi. By the way. What are you doing here?”

“Clef was trying to sneak out by himself,” Althea said, nudging the boy’s shoulder. He folded his arms across his chest grumpily. “He’s grown rather attached to you, Tom. He said he was going to look for you, and I told him that it was dangerous and stupid for him to wander off on his own. What if someone assumes he’s a runaway slave? So I brought him here, where I knew you’d be.”

“And you had no desire at all to come see what we might be up to,” Fitz said bitterly. He rolled his eyes and glanced back at the Fool. He lifted his head from Nighteyes’s neck, and Fitz saw that a faint pink blush was fading from his cheeks. It was somewhat gratifying to see that the Fool was as embarrassed as he was. But then, when had the Fool ever been embarrassed about teasing Fitz?

“I might have been a little curious,” Althea said with a shrug. “Can you blame me? I mean, a proper explanation for how you two know each other would suffice, I think.”

“I explained last night,” Fitz objected. “Amber is my friend. We grew up together.”

“In Buckkeep?” Althea asked innocently. The Fool’s eyes flashed up to Fitz in shock, his brow furrowing inquisitively. Fitz suddenly regretted mentioning the castle at all. It had seemed so unlikely, at the time, that anyone would come along and challenge his presence as a scribe’s apprentice there. “Alright. Sure. So what did Amber do there? Was she a carpenter? And why did you keep calling her a fool last night? It seems an awful thing for a friend to call someone they claim to care about.”

Oh, Fitz thought numbly, she’s angry this morning.

Perhaps she could tell you were being cruel to our friend, hm? Nighteyes replied unhelpfully.

You stay out of that, Fitz thought sharply. It’s a human thing.

Yes, I realize that. I can feel his sadness. Can’t you? Nighteyes rubbed against the Fool’s side, and without looking, the Fool rubbed his head back. Be better.

“Althea,” the Fool said carefully, drawing himself to his feet. He avoided knocking into Nighteyes and continued to keep his hand resting on the wolf’s head. “There are things about my past that you don’t need to know. Trust that Tom is my dear friend and leave it at that.”

“Perhaps I don’t need to know them,” Althea huffed, “but I want to know them. You are my friend. Both of you are. So tell me. Were you both apprentices at Buckkeep? And explain the names. My sister told me you called Tom something else before his name was said. I suspect Tom is not your real name, is it?”

Fitz was stunned. He had completely forgotten that the Fool had called him by a dead boy’s name. They glanced at each other guiltily. It was obvious they would have to give Althea something.

“It’s not,” Fitz said quietly. The Fool was beside him in an instant, a gloved hand on his wrist. Fitz almost wished the man had no gloves on at all, so they could share in each other’s thoughts and feelings and beings. It would be simpler than guessing. “Tom is the name my mother gave me, but no one ever called me that but her. It was an ugly name from childhood, what Amber called me.”

“For both of us,” the Fool added, staring up at Fitz’s face before squeezing his wrist. He turned his attention back to Althea. “I was called a fool for a large chunk of my life. When I was young, it was difficult for people to… understand me. I would speak as plainly as I could, but it would come out sounding like a different language to most people. They thought I was dim. Tom was one of the few people who treated me like a normal child.”

“But he still called you a fool,” Althea pointed out, shooting Tom a glare.

“It was my occupation,” the Fool said dully, releasing Fitz’s wrist and turning away sharply. He began rearranging bowls of beads on a shelf. Althea stood very still, her shock blooming on her face. Guilt soon followed. “I was the court fool, Althea. That’s why. I never intended on telling anyone this, but as it seems you will not leave it alone, here is the truth. I was an oddity that intrigued the king, so I became his personal entertainer." His eyes flitted briefly to Clef before darting away hastily. Fitz remembered something suddenly that made his heart seize. Chade's voice bubbled up from the distant past, amused and dismissive. Bought and paid for. "And I will say no more on that, Althea. Please. Don’t speak on it. Don’t even think about it. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Amber,” Fitz began softly, apologetically, taking a step forward. He felt guilty for putting the Fool in a position where he had to reveal things about his past that he had clearly wanted to remain hidden.

“No, Tom.”

Fitz closed his mouth with a click. He watched the Fool rearrange his wares thoughtfully. Then he looked at Althea. She had the tact to look ashamed.

“Our past is altogether not a pleasant one,” Fitz admitted. “We survived it together, for the most part. I hope that answers your questions. You won’t get anything better.”

“It does,” Althea murmured.

“You were the Fool?” Clef asked the Fool in awe. The Fool stared at him with widening eyes. They had both forgotten the boy was Six Duchies born. “I’ve heard songs about you. You flew to Buckkeep on a dragon!”

Althea snorted softly at that. She nudged the boy’s shoulder.

“It’s rude to make up stories like that,” she chided the boy.

“It’s not made up!” he retorted irritably. “The song was about King Shrewd’s loyal fool, who’d fled upon his death to protect Queen Kettricken and her unborn son! Queen Kettricken returned on the back of a dragon, and not long later, so did the Fool! That must be you.”

Fitz had not known that Starling had written a song about the Fool. She had not liked him much, and it seemed wildly unlikely for her to compose such a ballad, but the last he had heard of her, she was Kettricken’s personal minstrel. And Fitz knew that Kettricken loved the Fool, and it had probably seemed safe to her to praise him in song, when he had disappeared several years before.

Althea looked puzzled as she tried to parse out the boy’s meaning, his thick accent making some of the names seem like other words. Fitz’s heart was beating fast. The Fool rubbed his face tiredly.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s me. I’d rather you not repeat it, Clef. No one here believes we woke any sort of dragons, and it becomes a rather touchy subject when you claim to have done the impossible. Even on Rain Wild Street, many people are just not ready to accept true magic in the world. Well. That was a long time ago. Now I am a humble beadmaker. Would you like to pick a bead, Clef?”

The Fool appeared before the boy, bowl in hand. Clef looked up at him confusedly. Hesitantly, he reached into the bowl and retrieved a small token. Fitz could not see what it was.

“Why a knife?” the Fool asked softly.

“Because I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” Clef replied. The Fool took the bead and the bowl and turned away. Fitz saw his expression, and there was tension there. Sorrow, perhaps.

“The things we go through don’t define us,” the Fool said suddenly as he pulled a leather cord from behind the counter and threaded the small dagger through it. He brought the necklace to Clef and gestured for him to turn around. When he did, the Fool drew it around his neck and tied it off.  “What do you want to do, Clef?”

Clef turned around, blinking up at him.

“I dunno,” he said, jerking his chin at Fitz. “Whatever he does.”

The Fool glanced back at Fitz and smiled knowingly. Fitz realized quickly that the boy had genuinely attached himself to him. A bit of dread spread through him. He did not know if he was prepared to take on a fully grown child. It was a responsibility he had assumed he had been robbed of, when Burrich had adopted Nettle.

“Clef,” Althea sighed, “Tom might not be able to bring you everywhere he goes. He is planning on returning to the Six Duchies—”

“I’m not,” Tom said. Althea shot him a startled glance. “Well, not right now, anyway. I’m staying here for now. For Amber.”

Althea’s eyes once again darted between them. She scoffed in disbelief.

“Right,” she sighed, “okay. So that solves that problem, I guess. But still, Clef, Tom hasn’t volunteered to take care of you—”

“I’ll be responsible for the boy,” Fitz said with a dismissive wave. Althea stared at him blankly while Clef’s solemn, tattooed face broke into a bright, excited grin. The Fool watched with a creeping smile that bloomed like flower petals unfurling. “It’s not a problem.”

“Really?” Clef asked eagerly. “Oh, you won’t regret it, I promise! I work real hard, and you won’t even notice I’m there—”

“I don’t expect you to work.” Fitz frowned at the child. “I expect you to be a child. Play with Selden. Learn your letters and sums. If you do all that, perhaps you could help me with my own responsibilities, but that is after. Not before.”

“Letters?” the boy huffed. “Sums? Who do you think I am, some little lordling? Why do I need to learn that stuff?”

“Because no child of mine is going to scoff at learning,” Fitz retorted sharply, earning a wild-eyed stare not only from Clef, but from Althea. “You will learn to read and write, that is not an option. I was about your age when I learned, and it’s not so hard to catch up once you know the basics.”

“You were eleven?” Clef asked softly.

Ah, Fitz had gotten the age wrong. It was disturbing, suddenly, how small the boy was for an eleven-year-old.

“A bit younger,” Fitz admitted, “but not by too much.”

“You should have your own clothes as well,” the Fool said brightly. His eyes lit up at this, but Clef looked less than enthused. “Let me change, and then you and I can go to the tailor. Do you like that style of shirt? Perhaps a vest might suit you.”

“Uh…”

The Fool disappeared into a back room. Fitz resisted the urge to peek through the open door as he heard clothing rustling. When the Fool returned, he had replaced his airy trousers with a long, pleated skirt, tied with a colorful belt that matched the hue of his silk headscarf. He fastened a leather purse to his belt and smiled breezily at Fitz as he passed. Fitz held his breath in wonder. The Fool really did carry himself like a woman in this disguise. It was a bit distracting.

“Lock up the shop for me,” the Fool said, pressing a key into Althea’s hand. “I’ll meet you both at the Paragon within the hour.”

“Alright,” Althea said softly, watching the Fool usher Clef toward the door. He looked dazed.

“Nighteyes,” the Fool called. And to Fitz’s surprise, the wolf came instantly to his heel. “Come with me, will you? If anyone says anything about the boy’s tattoo, I want you to give them the meanest look you’ve got. Can you do that?”

Nighteyes inclined his head affirmatively. It would have been better if he’d barked. Less eerie the way he could clearly understand the Fool. But it only earned an odd, quizzical look from Althea before the three of them were off.

Althea’s eyes slid to Fitz dully.

“Come on,” she said, gathering the unlit candle off the floor and setting it aside. “We can walk and talk.”

Althea was frustrated with her friends. They were clearly either lying to her, or not giving her all of the information, and normally she would let people have their secrets. It wasn’t as if Amber knew every detail of her life. But Amber knew a lot more about Althea than Althea knew about her, and watching her interact with Tom, it was becoming very clear that Althea was not as close with the woman as she thought she was.

“I don’t know anything about dragons,” Tom said suddenly as Althea locked up the shop, “so don’t ask.”

“Please,” Althea scoffed, pocketing the key. “Amber was entertaining a child’s fantasies. She’s better with children than I expect her to be, I always forget she’s rather good at dealing with them—is that because she was a fool?”

“Perhaps.” Tom pressed his lips together thinly. He clearly did not want to answer her probing questions about their past.

“I don’t know why you would call her something like that,” Althea said with a shake of her head. “But you clearly don’t take her feelings seriously.”

“Not this again,” Tom pleaded, looking at Althea with a desperate sort of glance. She glared at him in response. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” Althea demanded. “So she’s not the woman you told me you intended to make your wife?”

Tom’s mouth fell open in a gape as she scoffed at him and marched away. Men, she knew, were often too dense to trust with their own emotions, let alone someone else’s. But Amber’s quiet reflections on the nature of love were fresh in Althea’s brain. She knew that her friends loved each other, but it seemed clear that they did not know how to express it, for reasons beyond Althea’s understanding. So now they were hurting each other.

“Whatever,” Althea grumbled irritably. She was angry with him for toying with Amber, for saying things he didn’t mean, for ultimately being a man like all other men, which was to say, he was an idiot.

“Althea,” Tom called after her, sounding clearly strained in his own confusion about whatever he felt for Amber. “Althea, wait a moment!”

She waited at the end of Rain Wild Street after realizing he had fallen too far behind and did not know the way to Paragon by himself. When she glanced over her shoulder, she watched him move sluggishly forward, looking as though he was half-asleep. There was something strange and dazed in his expression as he moved in sharp, jerky motions. By the time he actually made it to her, she began to worry he might topple over.

“What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, grabbing hold of one of his arms and helping him cross the street onto the sea road.

Tom shook his head. He seemed unable to speak as he leaned heavily against Althea. After a minute or so of walking, he took a deep breath.

“My mind is a bit clearer now,” he said quietly. “Can I sit down a moment?”

Althea released his arm after helping him lower himself to the ground. He stared down the road, where the sea road converged with Rain Wild Street. His eyes had glazed over again.

“Tom.” Althea tapped his thigh with her sandal. “Come on. Have you eaten today? Or had water? Perhaps it’s dehydration—”

“It’s that street,” Tom said darkly. He drew himself up to his feet, saying nothing more on the subject. He merely shook his head furiously and pointed down the sea road. “This way, then?”

“What do you mean?” Althea asked, stepping in time with his unsteady pace. “Rain Wild Street? You’ve said before that you don’t like it, that it doesn’t… feel right. What exactly does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Tom sighed, rubbing his temples. “It feels wrong. I don’t know how to explain it to someone who’s never felt magic before… I suppose it’s a bit like being suddenly and inexplicably intoxicated. I have a headache now. Where are we going?”

“Just follow the road. What do you mean you feel like you’re intoxicated? Because you feel the magic of the street?” Althea found herself skeptical of this as Tom nodded. “Explain.”

“It’s just as I said. I become giddy. Dazed. I lose myself in this strange lull, like I’m being pulled in every direction. It’s happened before, but that road was uninhabited. And very old. Anyway—”

“I think I understand what you mean,” Althea said suddenly. Tom glanced at her, quirking an eyebrow. She sighed and shook her head. “You’re wrong that I’ve never felt magic before. I lived on the Vivacia for half my life. I could feel her, in a way that is difficult to explain to someone who has never had a connection with a liveship. It was like I was already a part of her. Like we were already two parts of one person. If that makes any sense.”

Tom’s eyes softened as he watched her. He offered her a small smile.

“It does,” he said quietly. “Though it worries me. If the ship is a conscious being, and you’ve developed a connection with it since you were a child… hm. Can you sense the Vivacia now?”

“You mean right now?” Althea laughed. “From here? No.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” Althea bit back a cry of frustration. “What do you mean? Do you think it’s possible to connect to Vivacia from far away?”

“If you’ve developed such a deep connection with her,” Tom said gently, “from childhood—and if the nature of that connection is what I think it is—well, yes. I think so.”

“Do you know how to do it?” Althea asked eagerly. Tom shot her a blank look. “What? You’ve obviously got experience with this sort of thing. I didn’t realize magic was so common in the Six Duchies.”

“It’s more common than most people in the Six Duchies realize,” Tom admitted. He sighed and scratched his stubbly beard. “I’m not sure how to help you strengthen your bond with Vivacia. Meditation, maybe. A willingness to open your mind. But that feels dangerous.”

“I’m willing to try it,” Althea gasped. “I mean, what do I have to lose?”

“More than you can feasibly imagine, Althea.”

It was an ominous response, and she resented it. What this did tell her, however, is that Tom was very sensitive to magic. Sure, he had said as much, when bemoaning his dislike of Rain Wild Street, but now that Althea saw his reaction to it, she had to admit that he was telling the truth. It was another clue to Tom’s past, but Althea could not quite put together a full picture yet.

They made it down to the beach, walking along it steadily. Tom’s heavy boots sunk into the sand. Althea smirked at him, shaking her head.

“We need to get you proper Bingtown attire,” she declared.

“With what money?” Tom retorted.

“Why not ask Amber?” Althea asked him innocently. “She’s basically decided she’s going to be Clef’s new mother, since you’ve claimed him. Let her dress you. She has a keen eye, and it might suit you.”

“Are you serious?” Tom sighed.

“I’m serious about you getting new clothes. And I really do think Amber would be delighted to dress you. She liked dressing me.”

Tom shot her a puzzled look, and Althea rolled her eyes.

“The boy disguise was her idea,” she said with a dismissive wave. Tom’s steps faltered as he stared at her blankly. “She said she used to be an actor, so she used to play a boy a lot, and showed me how to act, and what to do to make myself appear less feminine.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you sound so shocked?” Althea asked sharply. “Because she wasn’t an actor, right? She was a court jester.”

“I suppose it’s not so different,” Tom said quietly. He halted as they came up on the massive silver ship beached before them. “Oh.”

Althea kept going, undeterred, up the bank until she could see all of Paragon’s gnarled face. He had tipped his head in their direction, listening to their footsteps.

“Amber?” he called uncertainly. Althea stopped before him, lifting her head to study his face. The ridges of his nose where the bare wood splintered out of his façade, silver striking through the warm hue his skin had taken on.

“No, Paragon,” Althea said gently. “It’s me. I’ve brought a friend.”

“Ah.” Paragon shifted his weight forward curiously. “So many friends lately. Amber swore to me last night that I was to meet her dearest friend. She left me alone to meet with him. I suspect she might finally be growing tired of me.”

“That’s not it,” Althea sighed, shooting a sharp look Tom’s way when he opened his mouth to question this. “Tom and Amber had a lot to talk about.”

“And they couldn’t talk here?” Paragon challenged glumly.

“They wanted it to be private,” Althea said, finding herself realizing how childish she had been, feeling left out of Amber and Tom’s meeting this morning. “They haven’t seen each other in years. And they’re very close. Tom, introduce yourself.”

Paragon did not betray any sense of shame or guilt that he had been talking about Tom right in front of the man. Instead he crossed his arms across his scarred chest and waited. Tom hesitantly drew himself up beside Althea, his eyes darting over the ship in pure wonder. Althea could not help but smirk.

“Hello, Paragon,” Tom said softly. “You are beautiful.”

Paragon’s lips disappeared into his beard as he frowned down at the man. Then he tilted his head curiously.

“You sound like Amber,” he said with a snort. “What is beautiful about me? Oh, I know what Amber likes about me. She thinks I’ve been carved by a genius, that anyone who could mark me must have been a villain indeed. But I do not know you, stranger. What is beautiful about me?”

“That you are alive,” Tom said in breathless reverence, eyes shining as he drew closer to the ship. Paragon had frozen up, perhaps wondering at Tom’s words. “I think Amber must feel the same. May I touch you, Paragon?”

Paragon was clearly taken aback. He was quiet as Tom waited for an answer. Althea was ready to snatch Tom by the shoulders before Paragon could take a swipe at him. Though Tom had been told about Paragon’s reputation, he seemed to have no fear at all. In fact, he seemed almost entranced by the ship. His hands were already extended.

“You and Amber are alike,” Paragon observed. “Hm. She wanted to touch me too, when she met me. What do you expect to find? I am wood.”

“You are,” Tom agreed in that soft, dazed voice that had plagued him for a while now, “in the same way that sometimes dragons are stone. You ought to say no. I shouldn’t touch you. It would be unwise, for both of us.”

“Why,” Paragon gasped, keening forward curiously, “you can’t expect me to say no now! Unwise, you say? Do you fear me?”

“You are not the problem,” Tom admitted softly, withdrawing his hands and letting them fall to his sides. “It’s me. I might give you something of mine unintentionally, by nature of being what I am, and you being what you are.”

“And what are you,” Paragon demanded, “that you would be such a problem for me?”

“Amber calls me a Catalyst,” Tom offered softly. He sounded so far away, Althea was nervous that he might collapse again. “I have no other word. I could hurt you, or change you, if I touch you. I don’t want to give you any more pain than you’ve already endured.”

The ship and Althea were both struck silent, gaping openly at the man. Althea wondered at his intuition. How did he know that liveships were so sensitive to such things?

Suddenly Paragon’s mood changed, and Althea grabbed Tom by his sleeve and yanked him back.

“What do you know of pain?” Paragon demanded. Tom stumbled back into Althea’s arms in shock. “Have you had your eyes carved out? Have you felt the stain of a hundred deaths upon you? No! You are a child. What could you possibly know of it? A scraped knee, perhaps!” The massive figurehead shook as Paragon bellowed a horrible, bitter laugh. “Afraid to give me your pain! Oh, touch me, boy. I will show you pain.”

“Paragon!”

They both whirled around to find Amber darting across the beach, Clef and Tom’s dog hot at her heels. Her skirts billowed in the wind, and she clutched onto her kerchief so it remained in her hair. The great swathe of golden curls flitted against the gusts that blew off the tide.

Marching between them, Amber placed her hands on her hips sternly as she peered up at the old ship. Paragon’s expression flickered suddenly, as if Amber’s presence had finally put some shame in him, but it lasted only an instant. He scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest impudently.

Then, suddenly, Amber sighed. The tension leaked from her shoulders, and she shook her head.

“Oh, Paragon,” she said softly. “What idiotic thing did he say to you?”

“Hey,” Tom objected lamely. His dog had further put a wedge between him and the ship, standing defensively in front of Tom, his snout wrinkled in a silent snarl. Paragon lifted his head, pretending, clearly, that he was not eager to be the one in the right in Amber’s eyes.

“He told me he was scared to touch me,” Paragon huffed, “because he believes he would cause me pain! Isn’t it so silly, Amber?”

Amber was quiet. She turned slowly to look at Tom, and Althea had to bite back a gasp at the look of genuine anguish in her eyes as their eyes met. Tom bowed his head and said nothing.

“It is perhaps,” Amber said in a thin voice, “the wisest thing he could have said or done. I believe it would be a mistake for Tom to touch wizardwood. Tom, I will make you a pair of gloves like mine, which won’t encumber your fingers too much. Do not touch Paragon unless you believe it is necessary.”

“Do you believe I’d hurt him?” Paragon demanded. “It does not work the way you think it works, Amber. I have no connection with this man! He cannot give me anything, and I can give him less. Come, boy. Touch my hand. I am not afraid of you, nor your pain.”

“What would happen?” Tom asked softly. Amber glared at him. “Come on, just think. Hypothetically, if I touched wizardwood—does it work the same? Would I put a bit of myself into him? It might not be a bad part.”

“There are no bad parts, Tom,” Amber said gravely, “only painful parts. And I know you are rising to his bait. You want to hurt him now.”

“No,” Tom objected, but even as he did, he winced, and glanced up at the ship guiltily. “I just don’t understand.”

“Paragon is about as easy to understand as you are. I think knowing you for so long prepared me to deal with his temper. Now as tempting as it is, and you know I know it’s tempting, you understand why you can’t touch him, don’t you?”

“What if I had before you arrived?” Tom demanded suddenly, ignoring the clear insult. Althea was shocked he took it in such a stride. “What if I had, and it was horrible? Or what if I had and nothing had happened?”

“Are you willing to risk that?”

Tom pressed his mouth together thinly. He said nothing.

While the two of them glared at each other, Clef wandered up to Althea’s side, crossing his arms and peering up at the ship.

“You all wanna sail this?” he wondered.

“Hush,” Althea murmured, turning the boy’s face into her side. “Paragon, enough. Is Brashen here?”

Paragon was not in such a foul mood that he could not answer a question. He was in such a foul mood that he answered it rudely.

“Shouldn’t you know? He went to find you. I’m stuck here. If you want to find him, use those legs of yours and walk away from my beach!”

“We’ll try this again later,” Amber said abruptly, throwing a disappointed glance over her shoulder at Paragon. “Clearly a night alone has put Paragon in a sour mood. If I promise to come early tonight, will you calm down?”

“I don’t care if you come back at all!” Paragon snapped. Tom was suddenly at Amber’s side, a hand on her shoulder, his body squaring defensively. “You’ve found a new friend to stay with at night. What do I care? Go be with him. Your Catalyst.”

Amber turned abruptly to stare up at Tom with wide eyes. Tom winced.

“I didn’t think,” he admitted.

“It’s fine,” Amber breathed, shaking her head. “I’m just surprised you’d mention it. You hardly believe it.”

“But you believe it.” Tom considered her for a moment, and then smiled. “And you know, sometimes, you have this uncanny ability to be right.”

“Only sometimes?” Amber huffed, feigning indignation.

Tom laughed at her, and his hand slid down her arm until his hand clasped into hers. Althea’s eyes followed the motion, and she bit back a snide comment. While Tom deserved it, Amber did not.

“Paragon,” Amber called, sighing as the old figurehead jerked his chin away sharply, “please. It’s not a competition. I have more than enough love in my heart for both of you. And I will be back tonight.”

“With Tom?” the mad ship mocked.

“No. Tom is staying with Althea. But he’s going to be around more often, and I’d appreciate it if you try to become friends.”

“What does it matter?” Paragon asked moodily. “You’ll only leave, in the end. Or die. One or the other.”

“Does that mean that we can’t enjoy each other’s company now?” Tom offered. Amber bit her lip, clearly sensing that Tom had not phrased this correctly. He had implied that Paragon was correct in that their friendship was a forgone conclusion—which, technically, he was, but it only served to further spiral the ship’s psyche into doom and gloom. “We’re human. Of course we’ll die someday. And if we must leave, it doesn’t negate the time spent together. Amber and I were separated for years, and when I saw her again, it was like not a day had passed.”

“You say that because you have the ability to leave.” Paragon leaned forward as far as he could go. “You have the ability to die. If you could give me either of those things, perhaps I could enjoy your company.”

“You don’t want to die,” Tom murmured.

“Oh, yes, I do!” Paragon stretched out his arms, smiling at nothing. “You said your touch might change me. That could be like a death. Go on! Change me! Kill me! Or if you can do neither, leave me!”

“That’s enough, Paragon,” Amber sighed, pulling Tom away before he could give into temptation, as he clearly wished to, leaning forward with a hand rising into the air. “I’ll be back tonight. We’ll try to introduce you two again tomorrow. I don’t care how many times it takes, you two will be friends.”

“It’s not my fault the ship doesn’t like me,” Tom gasped as Amber led him down the beach, away from the Paragon. Paragon was stubbornly silent as they left.

“You caught him in a bad mood,” Amber said, shaking her head. “It’s my fault. I disrupted his routine last night, and now he’s bitter and anxious that he’s been replaced. I’ll have to be more conscious of this. I warned him far too late that I couldn’t stay with him last night, and I think it’s ruined the whole day for him.”

“He’s not a child, Amber,” Althea said quietly. “You needn’t work your whole life around his whims.”

“In a way, he is a child,” Amber argued, shooting Althea a sharp look. “You know it as I do. So his behavior must be perceived as though he is a child throwing a tantrum. Right now, he’s jealous of Tom, because Tom kept me from him last night. That doesn’t mean I left him alone—Brashen was here, after all. But he’s chosen to take it out on Tom.”

“He must like you best,” Althea teased. “The mad ship’s favorite.”

“I don’t exactly think he’s mad,” Tom said quietly. Althea shot him a blank look. Paragon had gladly displayed his madness to Tom. They’d all seen it. “I think his life has been a terrible one. I’d want to die too if I was blind, unable to move, stuck to waste away alone on a beach.”

“That’s why we need to give him reasons to want to live,” Amber said fiercely. “Once the deal is finalized, we’ll have to convince him that having a future as a ship is better than an eternity of sitting on this beach or getting chopped up for wood.”

“So we’re going to sail that ship,” Clef said, glancing over his shoulder at the Paragon. The three of them looked down at him, surprised. He blinked. “What? I’m going, obviously. I’m fit to sail. And I won’t be left behind. I’m not a babe to be coddled and fussed over.”

“No,” Tom said hesitantly, “I suppose not. But, Clef—”

“You’re going wherever she goes,” Clef said, jerking his chin at Amber, whose expression remained valiantly neutral. “She’s gonna go with the ship. And I’m gonna go with you. So?”

“You are rather demanding,” Tom said faintly. He blinked. “Alright. I can’t deny you the choice to go or stay. But I want Brashen and Althea to assess what jobs they think you can handle. Also, being on the ship does not mean your lessons will suddenly end. You will be twice as exhausted as any other boy your age.”

“Fine,” Clef said haughtily. “What do I care? You think I don’t know what it’s like being tired from hard work? Please.”

Tom shook his head in disbelief. He had to turn his face away to hide a smile. He did not seem to notice that he was still holding Amber’s hand.

Chapter Text

Life did not stop simply because the Fool had returned like a cyclone to upend everything. Fitz still had his responsibilities with the Vestrit family. He began a new routine in which he woke up at dawn, got started on the garden, took his tea and breakfast among the flowers, and waited for Nighteyes to return from the Paragon with the Fool. Nighteyes did not trust the ship. It did not smell like wood should smell, the wolf had said. He did not want the Fool to sleep there alone.

When Fitz had pointed out that Brashen slept there as well, Nighteyes had glanced at him dully. Neither of them knew much of Brashen beyond that Althea had some sort of history with him, which did not automatically make him trustworthy. Merely a point of interest.

Though Nighteyes was mainly concerned about the idea that the ship or Brashen might murder the Fool in his sleep, a very human anxiety that Fitz had perhaps thrust upon him, Fitz suddenly remembered that women were often subjected to other kinds of violence, and he felt a bit sick as he tried to push the idea from his brain. The Fool was not really a woman. He was pretending to be a woman. There was a difference.

As if those sorts of things don’t happen to men?

It was not a wolf thought. It was a Fitz thought. A deep, bitter thought that he could not shake from his mind.

Fitz did not hesitate to send Nighteyes to the Fool each night. He slept easier that way.

And that was how, with Nighteyes, often came the Fool. He’d come to the Vestrit house not to see Fitz, but to meet with Ronica and Keffria to speak about the financial situation surrounding the Paragon, or how much further negotiations have gotten. Sometimes Brashen showed up with the Fool, at which point Althea often made herself scarce. Fitz did not bother with that debacle. The last time he’d tried, Althea had thrown the Fool in his face again. None of the Vestrit women believed they had no history. Althea believed they were both too frightened to act on their feelings, that they could not see how much the other reciprocated the love they felt. Ronica believed that they had once been engaged, but time and fate had wrenched them apart, only to bring them back together again. Keffria believed that they’d had some sordid, out of wedlock affair. Malta thought they were soulmates.

Only Selden and Clef believed Fitz when he said that Amber was just a friend. But they were young enough that they didn’t think it was strange for a man and a woman to be as close as Fitz and Amber were. They were also, Fitz conceded, little boys. Little boys did not reflect too deeply on such things, from Fitz’s own experience.

Fitz resented the Fool’s female disguise. Everyone assumed that Fitz was Amber’s lover. Nothing he did could stop that. Unless they simply stopped interacting altogether. It made Fitz wonder at their relationship. If the Fool had been a girl flitting around Buckkeep with bawdy songs and bright-eyed devotion, would Fitz have been attracted to him? The thought made his heart seize in terror, and he tried to push it from his mind, but it kept coming back. Again and again he wondered at the thought of his Fool, the wild and mischievous youth, a youth whose body would not betray the differentiation of boyhood or girlhood, even into teenage years, when the motley grew more ornate, and the concealment of any telling attributes gave nothing away. The Fool had always been strange, but had he always been so beautiful as Amber was?

Fitz had made many, many tasks for himself to try and dissipate these thoughts.

While the Fool was with Ronica and Keffria, Fitz taught Selden and Clef in the study. Malta sometimes joined them, running sums and asking Fitz to check her math. She didn’t really need him to, Fitz knew. She was a clever girl. She simply disliked being alone.

“I saw you in the garden last night,” Malta said suddenly one afternoon. Fitz handed her scrap paper back to her without even looking at her.

“And what were you doing awake at that hour?” Fitz asked amusedly.

“I had a nightmare.” Malta folded her hands over her work and raised her eyebrows at him expectantly. “And you, Tom? What were you doing awake?”

“Hm.” Fitz glanced at the girl and saw that she spoke the truth. Her eyes bore the ringing of not simply a single sleepless night. Those were the eyes of an insomniac. “The same, if I’m honest.”

“Really?” Malta blinked. She squinted at him through the afternoon sunlight and set her pen down carefully. “I did not know that men could be plagued with nightmares.”

“Are men not people?” Fitz snorted. Malta’s cheeks colored at the interpretation of her words, and she opened her mouth to object. “It’s not so serious, Malta. Honestly, my dreams have been odd lately.”

“He said he’s been dreaming of dragons,” Clef said, earning a wild-eyed stare from Malta. She turned to look at Fitz with a troubling expression. Not only were her eyes wide, but her face had paled considerably, and they watched each other in silence before it struck Fitz all at once.

“Have you been dreaming about her too?” he asked Malta tentatively.

“The dragon…?” Malta whispered, her eyes becoming unfocused. She sat very still. Selden nudged her gently. “Oh. Yes. I’ve dreamt of her. Nearly every night. She won’t leave me alone.”

“Me either,” Fitz admitted, rubbing his eyes tiredly. A chill had settled in his blood and bones. He was aware both boys were listening to this exchange intently. “I thought I saw you once. In one of the dreams. But they’ve become less distinct, lately. It’s mostly been the dragon telling me to free her.”

“She says the same to me!” Malta gasped, throwing her chair back and jumping to her feet. Her bright eyes burned with excitement and purpose. Fitz leaned back in shock. “Do you know how to do it?”

“What?” Fitz uttered faintly.

“Free her! Surely if she’s speaking to both of us—”

“I don’t get it,” Clef said flatly. “Ain’t it just a dream?”

“They’re dreaming the same dream, though,” Selden whispered to Clef, who offered a shrug. “That’s not normal.”

“I know nothing about this dragon,” Fitz said carefully. “She’s unlike the dragons I’ve seen—”

“You’ve seen dragons?” Selden demanded sharply as Clef muttered, “I knew it.”

“Reyn will be able to explain,” Malta said breathlessly, her eyes growing even wider. Fitz felt a sense of uneasiness as he watched this wild-eyed child sway in place, looking almost maddened in her dazed bewilderment. “When he comes in autumn, you and I will confront him about the dragon. Yes. He will know how to free her—she asked him to do it first!”

“What do you mean?” Fitz asked carefully. “Reyn… your suitor…? He’s connected to the dream dragon?”

“Yes.” Malta began to pace the study, looking like a girl possessed. Fitz knew the look in her eyes well enough. She was speaking to them, but her mind was not really here. “He’ll have a solution.”

“I’m not sure it’s wise to wake a dragon,” Fitz said carefully, “from experience.”

“Oh,” Malta huffed, “because you have so much experience waking dragons. Don’t you see that she isn’t going to leave us alone until we go to her?”

“I don’t see how you’ve come to the conclusion.”

“She said so.”

“Malta,” Fitz sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. It was becoming abundantly clear that the dull ache he often awoke with each morning was a byproduct of the Skill. He had been Skilling to Malta. Or Malta was Skilling to him. The revelation was chilling. He felt suddenly so undeniably anxious that he wanted nothing more than to stand up and walk away. He wanted to leave this girl, abandon her entirely to the magic she had inadvertently stumbled upon. But he knew he could not. “We cannot assume the dragon is real.”

“Are you implying that I’ve imagined her?” Malta demanded impatiently. “I haven’t. You’ve seen her. She speaks to you too. I don’t understand it fully, but I know that it’s important. When it was just a recurring nightmare, perhaps I could ignore the constant battering of this beast in my skull, but knowing that she is haunting you, too—”

“Let’s not act rashly,” Fitz said hurriedly, helplessly trying to usher Malta’s attention away from the idea of dragons. “A dream might be just a dream.”

“And we just so happen to be dreaming the same dream?” Malta challenged him. He had been relieved, for a while, that Malta had given up on her childish fancies and altogether dropped her elegant young lady façade with him more often. Now that she believed that Fitz was spoken for, and that his taste in women was so clearly leagues away from whatever Malta was, she had begun to talk to him in this flippant, casual way. He usually preferred it, to the point where he rarely bothered to correct her assumptions about his relationship with Amber. Now he wished she would stop being so earnest.

“It’s possible that you have latent magical abilities,” Fitz said hesitantly. Malta blinked at him, her brow furrowing confusedly. “Or perhaps I am merely intruding on your dreams. I apologize if so.”

“We are dreaming the same dream,” Malta argued. “Intruding how? What sort of magical abilities?”

“Magic that cannot be explained idly over lessons and accounting,” Fitz warned her, turning his attention back to the two boys. They were listening attentively. “Next you two will be telling me that you’ve befriended hedge mice and garden snakes.”

“Hedge mice,” Clef echoed. He did not look at Fitz’s face, his eyes going suddenly far away as he stared at the far wall of the study. Then he snorted and shrugged. “Haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Good. What word is this?”

Clef groaned and Selden smothered a laugh into his hand. When Clef glared at him, the boy had the wherewithal to look a bit guilty. He returned to his reading somberly. Malta merely stared at Fitz expectantly, as if she did not believe that he would simply stop this conversation here.

But Fitz was not interested in encouraging any sort of Skill-bond with Malta Vestrit. The idea that they might have forged one accidentally both baffled and disturbed him. He would have to practice his rudimentary mental blocking that would keep his mind from wandering away from him at night.

“I will find out what you mean, you know,” Malta warned him after a long silence. “You ought to tell me now.”

Fitz wondered if it was possible for her to learn of the Skill on her own. If she had the ability, it might be worse to leave her in the dark untrained. He had sworn to himself he would never take a student, never put a child through what he had gone through. Yet Malta seemed the type of child who would get herself into trouble without guidance. Thankfully, Fitz could not feel a link with her, not as he felt inextricably tied to the Fool, and certainly not as he and Verity had been so thoroughly intermingled.

That did not mean that the Skill was not there. It merely meant that it could be beyond Fitz’s abilities to sense it.

“I am here to teach Selden to refine his lettering,” Fitz told the girl tartly, “and give Clef some foundational reading and writing skills. If you wish to add magical tutoring to my list of duties, take that up with your mother.”

“Perhaps I’ll take it up with Amber,” Malta huffed in a sharp retort, clapping the Vestrit’s accounting book shut and tucking it beneath her arm. Fitz sat in dumb silence, staring at the child in shock. “Oh, yes, Tom, I’m very serious. Good day.”

The boys craned their necks to watch Malta march from the room, her skirt swishing around her feet. Their eyes darted back to Fitz curiously.

“Enough,” Fitz ground out between his teeth. He was frustrated with the girl, perhaps because he was terrified of her, suddenly. While Ronica bemoaned the child as a manipulative little minx and Althea dismissed her as an immature brat, Fitz had always found her to be, very simply, a child who knew how to wear the clothes and say the lines of an adult very well, but underneath it all, she was still a child playing a game. He had never been frightened of her needling flirtation or even her sharp observational skills. Now, though, he knew that there was a danger in getting too close to the girl. A danger that could ruin her young life. “What are we doing here? Interpreting dreams? Selden, give Clef the sheet you’ve been working on. Clef, identify each word starting every sentence. Now.”

It was simple and effective in getting the boys to drop the matter of dragon dreams. But Fitz knew well enough that once they were alone, they would gossip. They would draw their own conclusions. And later, when Clef returned to Fitz’s small room, he would demand an answer.

Fitz was right, of course. That night, after hours of lingering in the Vestrit’s gardens with the Fool, talking about everything and nothing at all in particular, he bade his friend and his wolf farewell and returned to his chamber. Clef was waiting there, reclining on the mattress that Fitz and Althea had brought in once it had become abundantly clear that Clef was not going to sleep in his own room. In his hands was a small block of wood that the boy was shaving away with carving knife. It obviously belonged to the Fool.

“New hobby?” Fitz asked, kicking off his newly broken in sandals and crossing the short distance to his bedside table. He pulled another candle from the drawer and lit it.

“Amber thinks I need something to do with my hands.” Clef sucked on his teeth in clear irritation. “She says I need to work on focusing more, that if I have some sorta, er, outlet, I might be able to study better. It’s a crock of shit.”

“Perhaps she merely wishes to share her trade with you,” Fitz remarked. Clef paused in his carving, blinking down at the amorphous hunk of wood. “I personally don’t know how woodcarving is going to help you retain letters, though.”

Clef tossed the knife and wooden block aside. He stared up at Fitz levelly.

“You and Malta are sharing dreams,” Clef observed. “Why’s that?”

“If I knew,” Fitz sighed, resigning himself to the fact that soon the whole house would know this strange fact, “I would tell you. But it’s a mystery to me as well. Honestly, it likely means nothing at all.”

“Malta doesn’t believe that.”

“Malta is a child,” Fitz reminded the boy, “same as you. She’s only two years older. Which is not much of a difference at all.”

It was the difference between him and Molly. And when he thought about it, he had to push the thought away, because if he recalled, the difference between being an eleven-year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl had, at the time, felt too immense to bear.

“The difference ain’t age,” Clef remarked dully, “and you know it.”

“There is nothing innately separating you and Malta or you and Selden.” Fitz watched Clef tiredly. He understood the boy’s reservations about learning to read and write while Selden, a boy several years younger, effortlessly copied documents for his grandmother to file away. “Wealth is fleeting. It does not measure a man’s heart. I would not ask you to learn these things if I thought you were incapable of it.”

“It’s just hard. And embarrassing. I don’t like it, okay?” Clef glared at the floor. “You wouldn’t understand. You grew up in a castle. You probably had servants.”

“I was just a scribe’s apprentice, Clef,” Fitz sighed, shaking his head.

“No. You weren’t.”

Fitz froze. He found himself staring at a candle’s flame, weighing his options. The panic that flooded him had no name and could not be wrangled so easily as to dismiss with a word. He was suddenly met with the reality that perhaps he had not been so careful, and perhaps he had made a mistake, allowing Clef to intrude on his life.

“I won’t tell, Tom,” Clef offered lamely. Fitz glanced at the boy helplessly. “I’ve known a while now. I ain’t dumb, you know. I’ve heard the songs about you. I won’t tell no one who you really are. I won’t tell about the wolf, neither.”

Fitz lowered himself onto his bed as he processed what Clef knew. There was no denying it, of course. Clef had recognized Tom, the gardener, as the Witted Bastard. A traitor and a monster who had killed the king with his beast magic. And yet the boy seemed unfazed.

The first instinct was to deny it, of course. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was on the tip of Fitz’s tongue.

But Clef was right. The boy was not stupid. And Fitz had not been especially careful, lately.

“How long have you known?” Fitz sighed.

“Since that first day.” Clef pulled his knees to his chest, watching Fitz through his eyelashes. Fitz jolted in shock at this revelation. It had been weeks. Weeks of Clef quietly trailing after the Witted Bastard, adoration and hero-worship in his eyes. Ridiculous. “Once I realized who Amber was, and her connection to King Verity, it started to make sense. You fit the description from the songs—also, you know, I know what a wolf looks like. These Bingtown folk will believe anything.”

“And you aren’t frightened?” Fitz shook his head in disbelief. “I know what they call me. I know what they think of me. Any normal boy your age would have run away by now, not camp out on the floor of the Witted Bastard’s tiny bedroom.”

“You don’t seem so bad,” Clef countered. “I’ve met worse people. Way worse. Actually, you’re pretty nice, even if you get sorta annoyed easily. You’re nice to me, at least. You’re nice to all of us kids, me and Selden and Malta. We all see it, and, well, we like being around you. Otherwise you know Selden wouldn’t be caught dead in that stuffy old study. Eda, I wouldn’t neither. And besides, you didn’t really kill the king. Everyone knows that.”

“Everyone knows that, do they?” Fitz muttered. He wondered what the boy’s home was like. He’d said he was from Shoaks. But, Fitz reasoned, he could be lying. Perhaps Shoaks was where he’d been taken by slavers, but he could be from Buck. Or Rippon. Or Bearns. Duchies that would, perhaps, harbor some lingering sentiments regarding Prince Chivalry’s ill-fated bastard.

“Well, I don’t know,” Clef huffed, “I haven’t been home in ages. But when I was, lots of people thought you must’ve been framed. Us coastal folk never thought much of King Regal. They started calling him the Pretender, I think, just before we—but he left us to the raiders. It only got so bad because he let it get bad. That's what Da said. You know, I thought I was gonna be Forged when the raiders took us. Da tried to strangle me with one of my socks. Didn't understand why until later, when he was gone, but I get it now, even if I didn't really understand at all then.”

Fitz’s jaw clenched and unclenched as Clef dropped his legs and bent to pick up his whittling again. He scraped the shavings into a small cup he had placed on the floor beside his mattress. The silence stretched between them, the horrors of a war Fitz had been trying to forget for years strung up before him in a gruesome manner. This was the result of allowing Regal to reign, even for a short period of time. This child had lost his childhood and his freedom because Fitz had failed to kill Regal when it had counted. All of his past mistakes seemed to culminate in this tiny child with a slave tattoo.

“You were taken during the war, then?” Fitz tried to keep his voice neutral, so Clef did not suspect how much this rattled him.

Clef shrugged. The war, Fitz knew, had not simply ended the instant the dragons had arrived on the shores of Buck. The Red Ships had tried to fight back against them. Uselessly, of course, but they had tried. And while they were preoccupied with fighting each other, slave raiders came to take what they could, while no one could stop them. It made sense.

“You must have been very young then,” Fitz said softly. Again, Clef shrugged. “You must have heard of me when you were barely more than a little boy.”

“Everyone had heard of you.” Clef raised his eyes, his bluntness stinging less now that Fitz recognized that he truly did not see him as a traitorous monster. “You were a hero. And then they said you were Witted, and half a beast, and you were dead. Well. One of those things is true. But I ain’t gonna judge you none for it. My cousin was killed around then, you know. Da didn’t want me to know, ‘cause she and I were playmates, but she was found in a well, hacked to pieces. Nobody knew where her head had gone, ‘til they found it on a stake, her little field mouse, Cotton, stuffed in her mouth.”

Clef’s knife slashed at his wood bitterly. Fitz bit back a sharp rebuke for him to be careful.

“So,” Clef said after a long, painful silence, “no. I ain’t afraid of you, FitzChivalry Farseer.”

“Alright, Clef,” Fitz said quietly. “Alright.”

And that was that.

“Hello.”

Malta had been admiring a pair of dainty earrings carved out of the whitest wood she had ever seen. The small stars were intricately beveled with swirling designs, and Malta knew it must have taken days of painstaking labor to make those lines so clean. When she heard the woman’s low, breathy voice behind her, she had been so engrossed in the earrings that she jumped.

Amber was a tall woman, Malta knew. She’d seen her around the house so much lately that she might have continued to suspect that the rumor of her proclivity toward women was true. But of course, it had only been a rumor, and Tom proved that. Malta thought that anyone with eyes to see could recognize that Amber and Tom were desperately in love. Though she had not spoken about it to anyone but her mother, who had quietly agreed, but warned her not to go spreading rumors, for risk of Amber’s reputation.

Malta had not remarked that Amber’s reputation had withstood far worse than a rumor that she was in love with a man she was not married to, but that was mainly because she did not care to be chided for it.

“I was expecting your aunt,” Amber confessed, striding up behind the shop’s counter. Behind her, Tom’s dog came plodding out from a back room, regarding Malta with his unusually intelligent eyes. “Today’s the day, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes.” Malta had conflicting feelings of joy, excitement, and anxiety about the purchase of the Paragon. “I did not come here to discuss that.”

Amber raised an eyebrow. She had braided her thick hair back behind her head, letting it run in one thick plait down her back. Her dark brown kerchief was lightly embroidered with small designs—Malta knew that the square of fabric had likely been a bit of practice needlework that had been refashioned into a scarf. It was not badly embroidered. Malta was impressed with the small details of diamonds within flowers within birdcages. But she supposed the hands that could make those tiny earrings could make such tiny scenes.

“I suppose,” Amber said, looking at Malta with both curiosity and amusement, “your mother does not know you’re here.”

“No one knows I’m here.” Malta glanced around the shop curiously. It was a shame that all of it would be sold today. There really were so many beautiful things here. Malta never would have expected to be drawn into a shop full of wood, but the jewelry was exquisite. A part of her resented her own prior judgements of Amber, for if she had known the woman could make such fine things, she would have come here when she’d had money to spend. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Well now you’re intriguing me, Malta,” Amber teased, setting her chin in her hands as she leaned her elbows on her counter. Malta chewed on her lip, glancing at the dog as he sat down, watching her keenly. “Something has brought you here, but you don’t know what. How strange. Tell me more.”

Malta did not know where to start or how to begin, so instead she looked from Nighteyes to Amber.

“Why does Tom let you keep his dog all the time?” she asked. Amber blinked, and then smiled.

“Is that the question you really want to ask?” Amber shook her head and spared the dog a fond look. Nighteyes tipped his head at her curiously. “Nighteyes and I have a bond, I suppose. Tom knows that. Also,” Amber’s voice lowered, almost conspiratorially, “he told me that he wanted Nighteyes to get some fresh air, that he was feeling too cramped in the house, but really I think he’s just worried about me.”

“That’s sweet,” Malta said quietly. She had to admit that Nighteyes made a good guard dog. He was massive. “And he doesn’t mind the Paragon?”

“Oh, he loathes the ship itself.” Amber dropped her hands if only to shake her head. “I’m not sure how sailing will fair for him.”

“You intend to bring him along?” Malta asked, surprised.

“Tom won’t part with him,” Amber said with a shrug, “and I won’t part with Tom. And, presumably, Paragon will not part with me. So we have created a chain of dependency. Is that what you came to ask? How a dog might fair aboard a liveship? The answer is terribly, but he’ll adjust. I’ve been having him stay with me in my quarters inside the Paragon, to get him used to the feeling of the ship, so when it’s on the water he’ll be at the very least familiar with the place. And yes, he loathes it. And yes, Tom knows. He agrees that Nighteyes must get used to Paragon, as Tom must.”

“Tom goes to the Paragon once a day,” Malta said carefully. “Sometimes Clef and Selden go with him.”

“Yes,” Amber said with a nod. “I’ve asked Tom to make an effort to befriend the ship, so he spends an hour each day with him. Paragon is beginning to warm up to him. Tom was open to him at first, but as with most things, he realizes that Paragon is starting to enjoy his company, and so he’s withdrawing. I’ll speak with him on it. Is this what you came here for, Malta? Gossip about Tom?”

“No.” Malta blinked. “Well, not gossip, exactly. I came to ask you something. Since you know him so well.”

“I know him as well as I know myself,” Amber said softly. Malta stared at the woman in awe. It was a good line. She wished she had someone to use it on. It seemed too deep to use on Cerwin, and too earnest to use on Reyn, but in reality, Malta was not sure if she wished to use it on either man. Well, she was promised to Reyn, either way. Perhaps she should get used to the idea of it. Maybe one day she could say that about Reyn, and it would be true. “And because I know him so well, I cannot promise I will be able to answer your questions.”

“You’ve answered them so far,” Malta pointed out.

“Questions about Tom’s dog and his relationship with Paragon are hardly sensitive topics.” Amber studied Malta with curious yellow eyes. Malta found her coloring strange, but she knew it was probably rude to think so. She also thought that the woman’s features were mismatched. Her lips were delicate and pouty, but her face was too long, and her chin was a bit pointy, and her nose was too straight, her cheekbones too high, her eyes too far apart—there were so many extremes in her features that she was startling to look at. And though Malta did not think she was very pretty, there was something so alarmingly enticing about her face that she had to look away sharply. A blush crept upon her cheeks.

“Tom and I share dreams,” Malta confessed suddenly, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could really formulate the proper way to say them.

By the way Amber’s eyes widened, she was shocked, but not nearly as shocked as the woman ought to be. She should have laughed at Malta. Or began chiding her for her silly, childish fantasies. Yet Malta knew now that her nightmares were a bridge into Tom’s mind each night. Once she had realized the dragon haunted both of them, she saw him in the dream, far off in the distance, though he did not look like the man she knew. He looked small and young, like a little boy stuffed in a man’s clothing.

“Well?” Amber demanded, her eyebrows raising as Malta blinked at her. “I’m waiting, Malta. Tell me why you say that.”

“You won’t believe me,” Malta said bitterly. “Tom hardly even believes me. Or he’s doing a fair job of pretending he doesn’t.”

“Tom believes you.” Amber’s eyes fluttered closed as she sighed. “It’s not anything to do with you, Malta, but the magic at play here is not something Tom uses lightly. If you two are connected by it, there must be a reason. When did you discover the connection?”

“I don’t know when it started,” Malta confessed, eager to say it all to someone who might actually listen, “but I’ve been having nightmares nearly every night since I opened Reyn’s dreambox—a dreambox is—”

“Oh, I know what it is.” Amber frowned deeply, not at Malta, but at nothing in particular behind her head. “He is your betrothed, I suppose. It merely seems an odd gift to give a child.”

“I am not a child,” Malta reminded Amber as sweetly as possible without her true irritation leaking through.

“Yes, of course. Now, you said you’ve been having nightmares. And you’ve shared these nightmares with Fitz?”

“Yes,” Malta said, her mouth dry. “Yes, I didn’t realize at first, but—I see him now. Our dreams must be crossing over each other. Oh, I know it sounds mad, I do, but I have no one else to tell. Tom won’t even look at me anymore, after we both realized. He said it was magic, but now pretends he never said such a thing, and that I must be imagining it. And I’ve been so frightened!” She sucked a deep breath, finding that it was easier to play up a distressed emotion when it was, in fact, true. “Sometimes I know the place we end up, like the beach or the garden, but then it becomes unfamiliar. Serpentine hallways made of gray stone, leading to a cold, desolate tower garden. Stables full of horses, a man shouting something I couldn’t understand. A candle shop.”

Recognition flitted over Amber’s eyes. Malta was satisfied that these things rang familiar for the woman. So she met Amber’s gaze and decided to probe further.

“Just last night,” she said, “I followed him up a different tower, into a little room filled with little wooden baubles and intricate, colorful weaving and embroidery. There were suns and moons and little birds. And birdcages.” She waited a minute, expecting Amber to run her hand over her neat little kerchief. She did not. “There was a bowl of water with flowers floating on top, and fish dancing within. But Tom was a little boy, no bigger than Selden or Clef. I watched him pull a woven blanket from the bed and draw it over himself while he sat on the rug and waited for someone who did not come. I don’t think he knew I was there.”

The silence stretched out between them as Amber stared down at her, looking plainly disturbed. Malta had not intended to spook the woman, merely to get someone on her side that could convince Tom to talk to her. What was the use of sharing dreams with someone if they were going to ignore you when you were awake?

“It sounds mad,” Malta continued breathlessly, shifting from foot to foot, a blush creeping up her neck, “I know, but ever since I realized our dreams could be shared, I’ve been walking his dreams as he’s been walking mine. Even the dreams that are not nightmares, though all eventually turn once the dragon comes.”

“Dragon,” Amber repeated, her voice suddenly sharp and attentive. “What dragon?”

“Surely Tom has told you,” Malta said carefully, knowing full well that Tom did not take the dreams seriously.

“Clearly not.” Amber sighed as she glanced away, frowning at her hands. “I know why he has not told me any of this, but the instant I get a chance, I will speak to him about it. For now, I need to know about this dragon. You say you both dream of it?”

“She’s what drew us together to start with,” Malta confessed, so desperate for a sympathetic ear that she did not care how childish she sounded. “I think she was Reyn’s dragon, haunting his dreams, and the dreambox—his dragon has become my dragon, and I suppose somehow my dragon has become Tom’s dragon. Is that normal, with dreamboxes?”

“No,” Amber said carefully. “None of this is normal. You walked Tom’s dreams without him noticing? Until a dragon arrived?”

“Sometimes he realizes I’m there,” Malta said, biting her lip. “He tries to hide, then. I don’t think he realizes what he looks like in his dreams. That he’s a child. And once the dragon comes, nothing matters. All she wants is us to free her. She’s demanded it of us.”

“Free her?” Amber uttered faintly, her eyes glazing over. “From what?”

“I don’t know.” Malta searched the odd woman’s face desperately. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“You needn’t question it, Malta,” Amber said quietly, her eyes fluttering closed. “Not only do I believe you, I have to admit I’m rather shocked. Dragon dreams. Of course he would have dragon dreams. But they come from you. Why?”

“I explained,” Malta said hastily, “that Reyn—”

“If it was meant to be Reyn,” Amber cut in with a huff, “I would not be here in Bingtown. I was meant to be here. Was I meant to find you, I wonder? Are you my missing piece, Malta?”

“Um…” Malta was not entirely certain she followed the woman’s train of thoughts. She was beginning to speak very fancifully, and thus Malta had difficulty tracking what she meant by a missing piece. Yet, with all the talk of magic and sharing dreams, Malta could not exactly blame the woman for beginning to trail away from the topic at hand. “What do you mean?”

“My dreams bring me strange sights too,” Amber said, drifting away from Malta and rounding the dog, her skirts dancing around her ankles as she moved. “I have been dreaming of dragons for longer than you have been alive, Malta. I came to Bingtown searching for an answer to these dreams. I thought the answer was your aunt, but now I wonder if it might be you.”

“Althea?” Malta tried not to scoff. The sound that came out of her mouth was rather squeaky. “She would tell me I was mad if I told her any of this. But if you dream of the dragon as well—what does it mean? What do we do? Tom does not think we should free her, but how else could it end? She’ll haunt our dreams forever if we don’t!”

“She will haunt our dreams regardless,” Amber said thoughtfully. She had stopped her idle pacing about the room to stand very still, tipping her head back to stare at the rafters. Her eyes were wide and almost unseeing, as if she had momentarily gone blind. “You said the dragon wants you to free her. From what?”

“I don’t know,” Malta admitted awkwardly. “It’s never really a conversation. She’s not asking it of us, she’s demanding it. I wake up every morning with this terrible headache. Sometimes I feel I hear her in waking dreams.”

Amber’s head dropped suddenly. She blinked rapidly, her expression blooming with curiosity as she turned to look at Malta with bright eyes.

“You have a connection with the dragon,” Amber said breathlessly. “You and Tom. Of course. I could not understand, for weeks now, why he stumbled into my life at this very moment. I knew there had to be a reason, but I could not see it. Now I do. Oh, Malta, he has brought me you. And now we must navigate this journey together. If there is a dragon out there that demands freedom of you, should we not listen to her cries? If you were trapped in a faraway place, would you not throw yourself upon the bars of your cage with all of your strength until someone answered your pleas?”

“Do you believe it is possible to free her?” Malta asked weakly.

“Of course I do.”

Amber offered Malta a strange smile that made Malta feel as though Amber thought she had put the sun in the sky. She looked upon Malta with new eyes, it seemed, and there was bright adoration there, an immense delight that was both magnetic and contagious. Not only did Amber believe that the dragon was real and could be freed, but she believed Malta was capable of it, somehow. And in that starry-eyed faith, Malta suddenly felt her confidence flood back into her. She could free this dragon, if she wanted to.

Why not?

“I want you to start writing down these dreams,” Amber said suddenly, stepping forward and grasping Malta’s hands tightly in her own. The lacy gloves were white against her golden skin. “Anything the dragon says to you, write it down as soon as you wake. I will ask Tom to do this as well. We might be able to ascertain what is trapping the dragon, and once we understand that, we will be able to find it and free it. Tell me, will Reyn return to Bingtown soon?”

“Not until the Summer Ball,” Malta admitted. Amber frowned at that, but then she nodded. “I haven’t shared a dream with Reyn, though, not since the dreambox. I only share dreams with Tom. What do you suppose that means? I had thought—it’s very intimate, isn’t it?” Amber shot her an amused glance, and she blushed. “I only mean—well with Reyn, it was… different. But I only shared dreams with him because he gave me the box. Why am I able to step into Tom’s dreams so easily?”

“From what I understand,” Amber said carefully, “Tom’s mind is rather… open is not the right word, but he is rather skilled, let’s say, in this type of magic. His consciousness wanders easily. It is why he hates Rain Wild Street. He’s sensitive to magical items, so perhaps when you used the dreambox, when he was so close by, his mind was pulled into the dream by chance. Or fate, perhaps, if you believe in such a thing. But regardless, you clearly have an aptitude for this type of magic. Tom is likely avoiding you to avoid strengthening the connection. Do not blame him for this, Malta. It’s hurt him more in his life that you can ever know.”

“But what is it?” Malta sighed, rubbing her forehead tiredly. “I don’t understand. You’re saying I have magic? Like the objects from the Rain Wilds?”

“Your family has been bound to a liveship for generations,” Amber said, cupping her chin as she studied Malta’s face. “Perhaps it’s the liveship that has granted you this power. I wonder. Well, I will tell you this. In the Six Duchies, this ability is called the Skill, and it is a coveted and dangerous ability when misused.”

“Oh.” Malta frowned deeply at that. “Well, I hardly feel magical at all, so I doubt it will be an issue. But you will help me? If I say I wish to free the dragon, you will help me do so?”

“Of course I will.” Amber’s smile was back, a blinding grin that made her look almost like a mischievous child. Suddenly Malta felt like she was talking to a friend about something frivolous, like gossiping with Delo over spiced cakes. “I believe the Paragon is our best option for this quest. Once we find your family’s ship, we can also brave the Rain Wild River. I imagine, given Reyn’s connection to all of this, that is where our dragon is.”

“Well…” Malta thought on it. “Yes, I suppose so. But the Paragon… we must find my father first.”

“That was not a question in my mind, Malta,” Amber said gently, surprising Malta once more with the range of emotions she could inspire with a simple twitch of a micro-expression. Suddenly Malta thought she might cry. She took a deep breath. “I’m committed to helping find the Vivacia. But once we do…”

“The dragon,” Malta agreed breathlessly. It was like a pounding in her head, the pull of a beast out of the abyss. “Yes. I know.”

“Good.”

Amber suddenly was behind the counter again, whisking the small velvet cushion that held the dainty white earrings that Malta had been admiring, and she set the cushion into a small box. Malta watched, open-mouthed, as Amber closed the box and wrapped it carefully in a bright golden ribbon. When she offered it out, Malta reached for the box numbly.

“I can’t afford this,” Malta managed to mumble as she took the box.

“It’s a gift,” Amber told her tenderly, cupping her hands as she smiled. “It’s not as though it matters. In an hour, all of this will belong to the Ludlucks. Please, Malta, take them. Perhaps you can wear them to the Summer Ball and dazzle your Reyn with them.”

Malta found herself grinning brightly at the suggestion. Then, feeling as though she had gained a confidant and conspirator, her eyes danced over Amber’s face wryly.

“And what shall you wear to dazzle Tom?” she asked, smiling at Amber’s startled look. “Oh, you haven’t thought of it at all, have you? Don’t worry. We have time. And with your coloring… I think red would suit you best. Perhaps we could get him to propose on the spot!”

Amber’s mouth fell open. A bright laugh of disbelief fell from her lips, and she muffled it, though her giggles were nearly contagious. Malta wondered at her age. She could not be too much older than herself. Perhaps she was younger than Althea. It was difficult to tell from her face, but as tall as Amber was, her body was not particularly developed the way a more mature woman’s was.

“That would be a dream,” Amber murmured, “wouldn’t it? Well, I look forward to it, regardless. But now I must bid you farewell. I have all but my name to sell, you see.”

Malta nodded somberly. She gripped the box tightly in her hands as Amber led her to the door and saw her off, waving her down the street. Her thoughts were full of anticipation for the future, where she would dance with Reyn at the Summer Ball and her father would come home and she and Amber and Tom would find their dream dragon and free her from her torment.

The Fool had made Paragon sea pipes. Of course he had. Worse were the sea pipes made for human-sized hands sitting on a rock beside the Fool’s campfire. His staff rested beside it. There was no note, no ribbon or wrappings to mark the pipes as a gift, but Fitz knew that the pipes were his. He sat down on the rock, turning the pipes over in his hand as he listened to Paragon play his own giant mirror of the delicately carved instrument.

The ship had taken no notice to his approach. Perhaps he had memorized the sound of Fitz’s footsteps by now.

He listened to the meandering not-melody that Paragon pulled from his pipes, running his thumb over the intricate designs the Fool had chiseled into Fitz’s own instrument. He listened for a note he recognized, brought the pipes to his lips, and mimicked it.

Paragon stopped. He lowered his pipes from his lips. The great splintered crevice where his eyes should have been faced Fitz. Hesitantly, Paragon lifted the pipes to his mouth again, and blew a note. Fitz listened and matched it.

It became a game, this back-and-forth mimicry. It was the most at ease Fitz had been with the ship, and the ship with him, perhaps, as they shared the music. After a few minutes of this, Paragon lowered his pipes and tilted his head at Fitz.

“Amber made pipes for you too,” the ship observed. Fitz glanced at the sea pipes, the intricate designs, and he sighed. “She told me you used to play them. And I heard her whittling last night. Could you teach me to play them properly?”

“I could,” Fitz admitted quietly. “Though I’m hardly proficient in them. My… mother, when I was young, she wished for me to play an instrument, and this is what I learned. I hardly had any musical talent at all.”

“Play them for me.”

Fitz hesitated. It was a reasonable request, and it would be foolish to deny the mad ship when he was in such a jolly mood. But still, Fitz had no real desire to perform. He had not played the sea pipes since he had been a boy at Buckkeep, taking tea with Patience.

He drew the pipes to his mouth and began to play an old ballad that Patience had liked. The ship listened keenly as the song floated between them. And then, to Fitz’s surprise, he began to play along. Fitz slowed his pace so Paragon could listen and follow better.

At some point, Brashen had come out onto the deck to listen. He leaned over the rail to get a look at the two of them piping away, a smile rising to his lips. Fitz began to feel self-conscious, and he ceased his music.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Brashen called.

“I ought to be leaving,” Fitz said, drawing himself to his feet and pocketing the pipes. Brashen raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t leave,” Paragon gasped, sounding like a small, put-out child. “Brashen can go instead. Brashen, leave us. Your sour face has spooked Tom.”

“You should see his face,” Brashen retorted, causing Fitz to frown. He had been keeping his beard trimmed neatly, and his hair swept from his face. He wore Bingtown appropriate clothing that the Fool had procured for him, lace-up sandals and linen work shirts and trousers. Light, breathable fabrics. Perhaps it was the scar that Brashen was mocking.

“The boys have lessons,” Fitz said hastily, “but I can come back later, when Amber is here—”

“Well, here she comes now.”

Fitz glanced over his shoulder and found that Brashen was telling the truth. The Fool was running across the sand, Nighteyes bounding at his heels, and Fitz smiled as his friend approached, skidding to a stop while Nighteyes looped around Fitz eagerly.

You’re in trouble, the wolf said amusedly.

“What?” Fitz said aloud. Nighteyes gave a half-hearted bark in attempt to play his part as a real dog, jerking his head at the Fool. When Fitz glanced at the Fool, he was staring at Fitz pointedly. “What? What did I do?”

“Dragon dreams, Tom?” the Fool sighed, shaking his head. Fitz found himself struck silent, his eyes widening. How had the Fool known? Oh, it was silly to be shocked. Fitz felt bitter as he resigned himself to the fact that the Fool would always know. “We’ll talk about it later. Brashen, did you check the rudder?”

“It’s all in order.” Brashen drew himself across the slanted deck and threw a leg over the rail. It was a shorter drop, on that side. He jumped down. “You’re late, though. I thought you said you would only be an hour at the shop. Second thoughts?”

“No.” The Fool sighed, glancing at Fitz once more before shaking his head. “Last minute customer. I’ll tell you about it later. What matters is I made it. Tom? Are you staying?”

“Do you want me to…?”

“I would appreciate it.” The Fool’s eyes locked with his once more. There was something strained in his expression that made Fitz’s heart leap. He found himself nodding.

“Then I’ll be right here.” He made his way back to his rock and sat down upon it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Paragon fiddling with his sea pipes. Fitz sensed he was itching to ask. “Do you remember the melody, Paragon? Or should I start from the beginning?”

“Oh,” the old figurehead sighed, relaxing a bit, “the beginning, please.”

Fitz pulled his pipes from his pocket, ignoring the way the Fool’s face brightened eagerly, and began to play the old ballad from the start. The Fool sat down at the foot of the rock, resting his back against it, humming along to the tune as Paragon attempted to copy it. Fitz had to lower his head into the pipes to hide his smile.

“Paragon!”

Althea came trudging down the sandy incline, her curls caught in the midday wind that blew off the sea. She’d bound her hair at the nape of her neck, which did nothing to stop the shorter curls from springing free around her brow and ears. Her eyes flitted over them, sitting around the fire listening to the harmony of the two pipes playing off each other.

“Oh,” Althea breathed, drawing her hand through her hair and smiling down at them. Brashen had taken a seat on another rock, tapping his foot to the tune. “That’s lovely. Are they new?”

“Amber made us matching pipes,” Paragon explained as Fitz continued to play. The Fool tilted his head back, his cheek rather close to Fitz’s thigh as he peered up at him from the ground. Fitz ignored him. Valiantly. “She made me mine first, of course. Gave them to me a few days ago. But I suppose she doesn’t want Tom to feel left out, so she made him some too. Do they match?”

“The detailing is a bit different,” the Fool said, his eyes flitting over Fitz as he blew softly into the flutes. “Yours are a warm mahogany, a very rich brown. If you feel along the sides, I’ve put raised markings along where the holes are, so you might know where to put your fingers. Tom’s don’t have that. I did add some aesthetic additions to his that I doubted you’d care for. There are swirls on his that I painted blue.” Fitz glanced down at his pipes curiously and saw there was, in fact, blue paint within the swirling designs. He was still examining them when Althea swore suddenly under her breath.

“They’re here,” she said, glancing up at Paragon worriedly. The Fool jumped to his feet. Fitz ceased his piping, only for the Fool to place a hand on his shoulder and shake his head.

“No,” he said. “Keep playing. Paragon likes it.”

Fitz spared a glance up at the figurehead and found that Paragon was listening keenly. He waited for Fitz to continue, and Fitz chewed on the inside of his cheek, nodding absently. There was no reason to upset the poor ship. He played his pipes while Brashen, Althea, and the Fool convened together, anxiously murmuring about how Paragon did not yet know. The Fool looked stricken.

“I was late,” he explained to Althea desperately. “Your niece came to my shop, and I got distracted—”

“Malta?” Althea demanded, looking irritated and sounding shocked. Fitz nearly stopped playing, his mind whirling at the thought of Malta seeking out the Fool. Hadn’t she said she would? “What was she doing, bothering you today? She knows how important this is! I’ll deal with her when I get home, I promise—”

“No, Althea,” the Fool sighed, shaking his head. “She was not bothering me. In fact, she’s given me a large piece of the puzzle I have been working at for years now. I can almost see the greater design truly unfold. Listen to me, Althea. Malta must come with us to find Vivacia.”

“What?” Althea gasped. Beside her, Brashen looked equally alarmed and confused. He was staring at the Fool like he had lost his mind. “You must be joking! Malta? On a ship? She’d throw herself into the sea first.”

“She will come willingly.” The Fool seemed far off suddenly. “It is just as important to her as it is to us. And she knows how important her presence will be. We’ll figure out the logistics once we have settled this matter. Trust me, Althea, what we need to do requires Malta. And Malta will require us.”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“I know.” The Fool met Fitz’s knowing gaze, and the stressed, strained expression melted as he smiled. Perhaps because Fitz understood that the Fool was trying to convey something impossible to explain to his friends. He had been on the receiving end of this so many times that nonsense did not sound like nonsense. It sounded merely like the Fool. “Tom, will you keep Paragon company while we meet our guests?”

“Yes, yes,” Paragon said dismissively, “go on! Tom and I have music to make. Tom, does this sound right?”

Fitz listened to the notes and decided that it truly was not his business, how this deal went. He and Paragon were merely witnesses. So he nodded along to the tune before shaking his head at a missed note.

“Nearly, Paragon,” he said. “You’ve picked this up rather fast, honestly. Much faster than I did. I’m impressed.”

The figurehead preened at the praise. He clearly was pleased to show himself off. Fitz ignored his friends as they went to meet Ronica, the Ludluck matriarch, and Davad Restart out on the beach. Nighteyes trotted up to him, sitting where the Fool had sat minutes earlier. He, too, rested his head on Fitz’s thigh.

The girl came to the Scentless One, Nighteyes told Fitz, to tell him of her dreams. She walks inside your head, you know.

Fitz faltered in his piping. Paragon kept going merrily.

I recognized the places she saw, Nighteyes continued. Yes. Stables and gardens. And things I have not seen with my own eyes, but through yours—the Scentless One’s room.

She saw that? Fitz demanded, uneasy and alarmed.

She is able to walk your dreams with no effort at all, Nighteyes told Fitz, raising his head and watching him.

“Tom?” Paragon called. “What’s wrong? Why did you stop playing?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Fitz called back weakly. Paragon frowned down at him. “Sorry. My dog’s got a bramble in his paw. Give me a moment.”

Nighteyes snorted at that.

Fitz glanced back at the Fool. He had turned to watch Fitz, and there was a look in his eyes that spoke to Fitz, even though he could not reach directly into his mind to ask. Somehow, Fitz knew anyway. He set the pipes aside with a sigh.

“Actually, Paragon,” Fitz said carefully, “there’s something I ought to tell you. Amber was going to, earlier, but ran out of time. First, though—can I ask if you like being a ship?”

“What?” Paragon huffed. “What sort of question is that? Do you like being a man?”

“Well,” Fitz barked a laugh, “alright, fair enough!”

Paragon grinned at him. Fitz found himself grinning back.

“Listen,” Fitz said, turning the pipes over in his hands idly, “Amber really loves you. And I’ve known Amber practically all my life. Amber is the only person in the world who really knows me.” Fitz paused, trying to decide if that was the truth, and realizing that aside from Nighteyes, who was inextricably part of Fitz, the Fool was the only person alive who he could say knew him. The way Verity had known him. The way Fitz feared being known by anyone else. “And you know, I trust her. It’s hard to trust anyone fully, but I trust Amber. And so I’m going to ask you to trust Amber too, because we need her.”

“We?” Paragon asked amusedly. “Are we the same, Tom? Hm? Oh, I think not. You are a man, soft and squishy, made to bleed. I am wood. Once you said you feared to give me your pain. You do not know the pain I have taken.”

“Nor do I wish to,” Fitz huffed. “That’s not what this is about. I’m telling you that Amber wants the best for you because she loves you. Maybe we’re not the same, but I don’t think Amber sees a difference between us. Flesh or wood, I am as much of a person as you are. And she loves you, just as she loves me.”

To say it aloud made him blush. Of course the Fool had said it so many times it had lost meaning to Fitz, but to utter it now, to Paragon, he had to believe it. And he did. He did not doubt the Fool loved him dearly, as Fitz loved the man back. Paragon did not need to know what that love was.

He did not ask.

“Amber wants to sail you to save the Vivacia,” Fitz said when Paragon did not answer. “The ship was taken by pirates, and we need to get her back.”

“Pirates,” Paragon echoed faintly. Fitz waited to see if the ship’s mood would change. Instead the old figurehead shook his head, his craggy face twisting in disgust. “No good. No good for a liveship. And poor Vivacia, just awakened, too. And you want me to save her? Me?”

“I can’t think of anyone else worthy of such a task,” Fitz said smoothly, watching Paragon tilt his head uncertainly. “You’re the strongest ship I’ve ever seen. Those pirates will cower at the sight of you.”

“Will they?” Paragon swiped a hand over his battered face, and Fitz cursed himself. He needed to be more delicate. The ship’s ego was something that he could flatter to a point, but he needed to be careful with it.

“Not because you look frightening, Paragon,” Fitz said quickly. “No. It’s because when they see you, they will know that you are the Paragon. A legendary unsinkable ship. People say you are cursed, but that’s not true. If you were cursed, you would not have survived all of the hardships you’ve faced. You are lucky, I think.”

“Lucky,” Paragon said dryly. He threw his head back and laughed. It was a startling sound, and Fitz could not tell if it was good or bad. When he glanced back at the Fool, he saw that not only was he staring at him with wide eyes, but everyone else had stopped talking to gaze at Paragon worriedly. “You think so, lad? Well! Would you be willing to test that? Hm?”

“Yes.” Fitz stood up, tipping his head back to watch the Paragon with a steady gaze. He did not need to quest out to feel the humming of life within the hull of the ship. It had been the thing that had drawn him in from the start, a startling and visceral feeling of pure life, something akin to the feeling of the stone dragons before their awakening but amplified by many, many times. “I’m not afraid of you. I believe you can help us all.”

“That’s a nice thought, Tom. You should ask the Ludlucks if they’ll take me to save Vivacia. Until they agree, I can do nothing but sit on this beach.”

“Well…” Fitz grimaced. “Well, they agree that you can go save Vivacia. But…”

“But,” Paragon said cautiously, “they won’t sail me. That’s what you mean to say, isn’t it? Well, that just won’t do.”

“You don’t need them.” Fitz crossed his arms defiantly. Oh, he knew they were all listening. He knew that he had an audience, rapt and attentive and probing. He did not care. This was between him and Paragon. He felt that strange pull toward the ship, something that had been nagging him for weeks now, something like a needle slipping into Fitz’s skin and growing taut, like he was being strung up on a fishing line. “What have they done for you, really? Besides left you to rot on this beach for thirty years.”

“They’re my family,” Paragon gasped, clearly affronted. “No matter what they’ve done. No matter what. The Ludlucks are all the family I’ll ever have. I’ll be loyal to them and only them.”

“Ah.” Fitz’s shoulders sagged. He found himself staring at Paragon’s face and wondering if the Fool thought they would get along because he thought they were, deep down, very similar creatures. “Even if they’ve hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“They don’t deserve you, then.”

He said that very loudly. He wanted the Ludluck woman to hear. He was frustrated with her, with Paragon, with the whole situation. It was so obvious that Paragon had been mistreated. Perhaps not just by his family, but his family had contributed. And so Fitz was glad that the ship was being taken from them.

Suddenly he thought of Patience and her frustration at seeing her husband’s son appearing to lack all the things she perceived a growing boy should need. It made his heart wrench.

“I can’t sail without them,” Paragon said firmly.

“You don’t need them,” Fitz countered once more. “What have they done for you? Abandoned you. Left you on this beach alone for decades with no one to love you but children running aimlessly from their parents and getting scolded for getting too close. Althea and Brashen love you because you were kind to them when they were children. Amber loves you because she sees you not as a ship, but as a person, shackled to a beach for eternity. You don’t need your family, Paragon, because they don’t love you! Not the way Althea and Brashen and Amber do.”

“That’s just not true,” Paragon argued fiercely. “What do you know? You’re an outsider. Go away!”

“I will not!” Fitz heard the hurried footsteps of the Fool’s approach. Althea, Brashen, Ronica, the Ludluck woman, and Davad Restart were all on his tail. “If you could go thirty years on this beach without them, you can go the rest of your life at sea without them.”

“Fitz!” the Fool cried, grabbing his arm and drawing him away from the ship. “No! Not like this—”

“I didn’t want to be here!” Paragon snapped. “I didn’t ask to be here for years and years! I only live now because I could not die then! I am stuck here because I cannot die!”

A pang of resentment shuddered through him as Fitz stumbled back, caught within the Fool’s grip, heart in his throat. He felt so cold and lonely suddenly. He felt the immensity of his own weight as it forced him to remain standing in this foreign body, strung up on strings, compelled to perform the duties of a living man.

Fitz stared up at the figurehead with widening eyes as the Fool pulled him further back, nearly pushing him into the lapping waves. A strange sensation of dread prickled his skin as he recalled the feeling of being stuck inside of a body that felt wrong and foreign. A dead boy’s skin housing a wolf’s soul. He had wanted so badly to go back to being dead, because being alive had seemed too painful. Too wrong.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Paragon spat, “because you are human. Dying is easy for you.”

“Not as easy as you’d think,” Fitz said breathlessly, the phantom pull of the Paragon threading through his skin and muscle, poking into his mind and shuffling around within him. He could not stop it. He could sense them, now, and it was startling to realize he had let them in. He did not know who or what they were, but they were inside him, easing into his skin before suddenly tearing him open like an old trunk, tossing his thoughts and memories around carelessly.

Smells like an Elderling and tastes like a wolf, a dragon spat, wrestling with Fitz’s insides while he swayed in the Fool’s arms.

“Oh,” Paragon huffed, “what does that mean?”

The Fool tugged on Fitz’s sleeve, clearly trying to stop him from saying something he would regret. But Fitz was not here. Fitz had been yanked from his senses, caught between the maws of three great beasts who did not care if it caused him pain to be so utterly wrenched from himself. He was not aware of anything but Paragon, and the wrestling of souls within the paper-thin barrier of his skin.

He could not feel Nighteyes as the wolf called for him within his mind. He was unaware of him snarling and growling at anyone who came close.

“It means,” Fitz said, his voice pouring from his mouth, cold and detached from the pain he felt, “sometimes you die and don’t stay dead.”

Paragon was silent, then. Stunned, clearly, by his expression. His head tipped to the side, his shoulders releasing all the tension pent up in them, and he looked suddenly pained.

“Someone put you back,” Paragon murmured. He reached out, and Fitz felt the urge to take his hand in his and let him see it for himself. Inside of him, the dragons had begun ripping through memories like they were nothing but weeds snagging on their imaginary scales. Fitz felt Paragon’s resentment cool into a shaky sort of regret, and he took a step forward, and then another, extending his hand. “Who?”

“My father.” The word felt wrong inside Fitz’s mouth. It was half a lie. It hardly mattered. Burrich was the father that counted, wasn’t he? He was the father that had been there.

“He wanted you with him,” Paragon said quietly, fingers outstretched.

A pang of grief flooded Fitz. It was not his own, but he could not know that yet.

“He couldn’t let me go.”

Let him go! snarled a dragon, snarled a wolf, in perfect unison. Fitz rocked back in shock. Arms snatched him up around his middle while teeth yanked on the hem of his trousers. He shook both off viciously.

“How painful,” Paragon murmured. He sounded distant. Thoughtful. He did not realize that the dragons were inside Fitz. Not yet. “Let me see. Give it to me.”

Give it to us, boy, the Greater Dragon demanded.

Give it to me! the Lesser Dragon gasped.

He is mine! the Living Dragon cried.

Little brother, his wolf whined helplessly, come back to me!

Fitz felt strange as he continued to approach the figurehead. Dazed. Possessed, maybe, by the desire to give Paragon what he wanted. The dragons had him in their clutches, and he could only give into them. What was he, really, to the immense power of these three beings? Just a nameless boy being thrown from one clenched fist to the next, cowering before an imminent blow.

A large fist unfurled and offered him a chance to release those painful memories. He stretched his own hand out to take it.

A pair of arms flung around his waist, and he felt himself being dragged backwards. He fell into the sand, the Fool on his back, and he briefly wrestled with him, pushing him away irritably. The dragons in his head snarled and snapped. His skull could not contain all five of them, Fitz and the dragons and the wolf.

“Let go, Fool!” he snarled, shoving at his shoulder as the man rolled on top of him, pinning him to the ground with startling strength. The urge to bite him was stronger than it should have been. He thrashed against the Fool’s unusually strong grip, pain shooting through him as he felt suddenly blinded by a piercing headache. “I don’t want to hurt you! This has nothing to do with you!”

“You don’t want to hurt me. So you’d hurt Paragon instead?” the Fool demanded, using his knee to pin him to the sand. “Think! You’re being lured, Fitz. The way we were in the stone garden. Don’t give him your memories! It will only hurt you both!”

Let him in, Nighteyes begged. Let him in so I can tell him what they are doing to you!

“What is going on here?”

It was Ronica. Fitz shoved the Fool off him, only to get hauled up by his arm, the Fool grabbing him by his chin and scowling at him. There was sand all over his nice brown skirt and crisp blue linen blouse. There was sand in his hair, caked to his long, thick braid. His kerchief had fallen off, crumpled in the sand, and wisps of fluffy gold-spun hair floated around his cheeks. Fitz’s eyes trailed toward Paragon, unbidden, and the Fool pulled his face back, forcing him to look into those burning golden eyes.

“Look at me,” the Fool said firmly, his thumb pressing against Fitz’s chin as he held him a captive to his stare. The dragons stilled within him. The silence made Fitz’s mind go blank. “If you want to give your pain away, give it to me. You know I’ll take it. I might not be made of wizardwood, but you know it hardly matters. Better me than him.”

And then, to prove his point, the Fool began to tug the fingers of his gloves from his hands. Fitz was dazed enough that he nearly let him.

“Do you suppose humans can absorb emotion as liveships do, Amber?” Paragon asked distantly. And Fitz realized then that he was just as immobilized as Fitz was, caught between the fitful rage of the dragons within him.

It only occurred to Fitz just then that there should be no dragons on this beach in the first place.

The Fool said nothing. His hand had slipped out from his glove, and now was clenched into a fist. Very slowly, he flipped that fist over and let his fingers uncurl. The ghost of silver-tipped Skill gleamed against his golden skin. It was nearly as tempting as Paragon, and in that delirious decision of who got to devour his pain first, Fitz was able to wrench himself free of whatever spell he had been under.

The dragons, after all, had gone very quiet.

He grabbed the Fool by the wrist and pushed his fingers back into a fist.

“I won’t do that to you,” he murmured, feeling ashamed and slightly mortified at his outburst.

“But you would do it to Paragon?” The Fool frowned deeply at him. Then he yanked his hand free from Fitz’s grasp. He was looking down, and Fitz saw Nighteyes had begun headbutting the back of his legs helplessly, whining like a puppy. The sound was excruciating. Fitz’s head pounded as he tried to understand Nighteyes’s desperation. Why, he wondered, couldn’t he understand his wolf? What was happening to him? “I know something’s wrong. Only you have the words to speak of what happens within your head. What is it? What’s going on?”

“I’d like to know that as well,” Ronica said sharply. None of them approached. When Fitz glanced at them, spots dancing at the edge of his vision, he saw that they all looked genuinely startled. Perhaps because the wolf would not let them come any closer.

“I…” There were no words to speak of what was happening inside Fitz’s head. His skull was being held together by chance. He felt the phantom ache of the altercation, felt it looming like a great wave. Seeing it coming did nothing to brace him for cataclysmic collision. “Fool, there is something wrong with Paragon.”

“The man is as mad as the ship!” a man huffed. Restart, Fitz recalled dully. Davad Restart, the Vestrit’s family friend, the man who had bought Clef. Fitz’s boy, Clef. A terrible rage floated to the surface.

And the dragons, in finding a familiar emotion, latched onto this rage without hesitation.

“Are we mad?” Fitz growled at the man, speaking at once with Paragon, their voices silencing the intruders and causing them all to freeze. Their eyes flitted from Paragon to Fitz. Nighteyes was hunched beside the Fool, looking ready to throw himself at his prey. “You think you can buy me, sell me, cut me to pieces—that is what you do, is it not? It is what you are good for. Humans. If I cut you to pieces, would you feel sane, Davad Restart?”

A cool hand slipped around his wrist, and Fitz’s skull broke apart under the weight of another mind intruding his own.

Mine! cried the Greater Dragon.

Ours, argued the Lesser Dragon.

He will be dead soon, sighed the Living Dragon, for nothing but a squabble between ghosts!

They are killing him, the wolf growled. Help! Help him! Help me fight them!

And then, as if the Fool was the teeth of a key, and Fitz’s mind was the mechanism of a lock, something gave way inside of him, and the pressure of another presence within him was released by the ease of them becoming one man, one mind, one being that could withstand the onslaught of three beasts attempting to pick him clean.

Out, they said. It was shockingly easy to demand it. Fitz might have said it aloud. Release us. Or the loneliness you feel now will never end. What you ask for is nothingness, and if you do not leave us now, nothingness is what you will receive.

The dragons were forced to release him from their talons. It was as though a wall had sprung up between Fitz and the great beasts, their scales flashing behind his eyes before disappearing behind the cover of clouds. That crashing wave had drowned him. He was capsized. Under water. He floated in a daze, waiting to die.

Breathe!

Fitz heaved a gasp so rattling that it scraped his throat and chest, and the pain that followed made him scream. He could not move his arms. His body was too heavy, and every muscle was seized and taut. His senses returned to him slowly.

He heard weeping. He felt the sorrow, distantly, but something prevented it from reaching him.

“—wrong with him? Amber, are you sure—?”

“It was a seizure, Brashen. He has them from time to time. Paragon, stop. I am not angry with you, but you must stop.”

“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t, Amber, I couldn’t stop them! I didn’t know!”

“I know. It’s alright. But you need to calm down. It’s only hurting us more.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Fitz closed his eyes. He had not realized they had been open. He had seen nothing. Was he blind?

When he closed his eyes, he realized why he saw nothing. He was suddenly staring up at Paragon’s ragged face, twisted in shame. Nighteyes was curled beside his skirt defensively. Althea and Ronica were knelt across from him, murmuring to each other. Ronica smoothed the hair back from a young man’s face, her fingers tracing the white scar on his temple—

Fitz’s eyes snapped open, and he saw the great expanse of the blue sky laid out before him. He was on his back. He was alive, head pounding, body aching, but he was alive.

“Fool,” Fitz managed to utter faintly. He could feel the man, not beside him, but inside him. For a few minutes, they had been completely intertangled, a strange contradiction of personhood, two halves of one whole sharing two separate bodies and one mind. The comfort and warmth that cradled his consciousness was the only thing keeping him from weeping at the pain that rattled his bones.

“I have to let you go, Fitz,” the Fool murmured.

“No,” Fitz breathed.

“We can’t stay like this. You know that.”

“Please,” Fitz begged, floating dizzily along the line that connected them, stroking the vein along the dark skin of his forearm with a bare, golden thumb. Love radiated from that touch. He leaned up helplessly, seeking to keep that feeling for as long as he could before the pain flooded him.

The Fool turned his face away, and Fitz’s mouth caught his ear. His own sapphire earring swung to bite into his cheek. A swooping emptiness came over him as he was left alone inside his pounding skull, once filled to the brim with rage and power and love.

I’m still here, brother, Nighteyes murmured. Fitz found himself clinging to that presence desperately. We cannot let this happen again. Those beasts wanted you for themselves. I could not stop them, not alone.

Fitz laid there for a time, his senses returning one by one. He was heaved to his feet suddenly, and he stumbled, his legs giving out. On his knees, he vomited into the sand.

“Tom,” Althea murmured, hand on his back. He glanced at her, stunned that she was suddenly beside him. “Are you alright? Can you tell us what just happened?”

“Elfbark,” was all Fitz could say. Althea’s expression twisted confusedly.

“What does that mean?” Althea sighed, glancing up at the Fool. He bit his lip.

“Trell,” Ronica said suddenly, pulling Fitz’s arm over her shoulder. Fitz glanced at her in shock. He had not known she was beside him, too. “Help me bring him home. Althea, Amber, I trust you can manage this?”

“Yes,” Althea said, rising to her feet. “We’ll be fine. Just—take care of him, will you? I’ve never seen anyone act like that before. Why does he have a connection with the Paragon? Amis, how is it possible that Paragon and Tom could be in each other’s minds?”

“Is that what happened?” Brashen asked sharply, taking Fitz’s other arm and hauling him to his feet. The beach spun around him, and he coughed up bile.

“Obviously,” Althea snapped at him irritably. “Couldn’t you tell? Tom was acting that way because of Paragon’s mood. Amber, how did you calm him down?”

“I just know him,” the Fool said quietly. “Brashen, Ronica, please take care of him. He’s… he’s not likely to have a seizure again, but he’s in a lot of pain. He might say things that don’t make sense, so I’ll bid you ignore them. He’ll be alright once he sleeps.”

“Fool,” Fitz called, twisting as Brashen began leading him away. He recalled suddenly that that was not his name right now. “Amber, wait—”

“Nighteyes will go with you,” the Fool told him gently. “You’ll be safe. I’ll come as soon as I can, but I need to finish this. And I need to speak to Paragon about what just happened.”

“It wasn’t him,” Fitz found himself blurting. Despite the thudding in his chest, despite the genuine terror he felt, he found himself looking up at the figurehead. It wasn’t the ship’s fault that he was the vessel for two very angry dragons. “Paragon. Paragon, none of it is your fault.”

Paragon was quiet. His mouth opened, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was stunned.

“Let’s go,” Brashen muttered, tugging Fitz along the beach, “before he has a fit again.”

“Fitz fits,” Fitz murmured. The Fool whirled to look at him, to meet his eyes as he was dragged away, grinning like a mad man. They both suddenly laughed, but Fitz did not know who owned that laughter.

He was pulled from the beach hastily, supported by Brashen’s strong arms and left to lean on him like an invalid. While Fitz had initially reserved his judgment of the man, after weeks of observation there was nothing especially threatening about him. He was, in fact, infuriatingly direct and earnest about his motivations. Perhaps it was that blunt, unapologetic way of presenting himself as himself that rubbed Althea the wrong way as well. The two of them were as similar as flint against stone.

The worst thing was he could not really bring himself to walk properly. He tried, limping along against Brashen, but he knew almost his entire weight was being supported by Brashen Trell and Ronica Vestrit. The further he got from the beach, the more he was aware that something unfathomable had just happened to him. He could not recall ever experiencing such a visceral mental attack, not even when he had been in Regal’s dungeons attempting to keep his mind secure under brutal physical assaults.

Dragons. There were dragons inside Paragon. Why were there dragons inside Paragon?

“What do you mean?” Brashen huffed. Fitz had said it aloud, he realized. Gentler, Brashen said, “Tom, you’re out of it. Amber said you’d say stuff that doesn’t make sense. Just relax, alright?”

“It hurts,” Fitz admitted quietly, barely able to see the street they trudged down. He felt Ronica’s grip on him tightening. She was quiet throughout the journey.

“I’m sure we can find something to help,” Brashen offered. “Maybe some poppy syrup, or rum.”

“Elfbark,” Fitz breathed.

“I’ve got no idea what that is, Tom, I’ll be honest. Can you describe it?”

He could not. But he had some, he knew, in his room. They just had to make it back to the Vestrit’s manor.

We cannot let that happen again, Nighteyes told him, bounding ahead as they made it up the road to the Vestrit’s house. Whatever mental guards you must place to hold yourself against those beasts, place them. What if it had happened when the Scentless One was not there? You would be dead.

“I know,” Fitz said miserably, “I know.”

“Tom,” Brashen said quietly, “we’re almost there. Here, there’s a step. Can you climb it?”

“He’s feverish,” Ronica said, her hand swiping his forehead. It was a cool, steady hand, and he sighed as he leaned into it. “I have never seen someone react to a liveship like this before.”

“It wasn’t Paragon,” Brashen said dismissively. “Amber said he gets seizures. Paragon was only reacting to what he was seeing, and he saw the man in pain, so he assumed it was his fault. The ship is mad with guilt and grief, Ronica.”

“They spoke as one,” Ronica reminded Brashen as they helped Fitz step up onto the veranda. “And then Amber—”

The door swung open as Brashen reached for it. Fitz’s vision swam as he found himself staring at the wide-eyed child who had come to greet them. Her face was pale, her hair falling in a mess about her forehead and ears, clearly tugged free from the carefully laid pins and left wild around her round face. They locked eyes, and Fitz knew in an instant that she had felt every second of the dragons’ assault on Fitz’s mind. Her hair clung to her brow from perspiration. There was a scratch on her temple, raw and red, where she must have begun clawing at her head.

“You’re alive,” Malta breathed, tears in her eyes. Ronica and Brashen were frozen, gripping Fitz tightly as Malta trembled in the doorway. Suddenly Keffria appeared behind her, ushering her away.

“Malta,” Keffria gasped, grabbing her daughter by the shoulders and pulling her back. “I told you to stay in bed—!”

“I thought they killed you,” Malta said, rocking forward to stare up at Fitz with glittering eyes. Even with his pounding headache, he could not blame the child for reaching for him. He shook off Brashen and Ronica and managed to remain on his feet as Malta launched herself at him, burying her face in his chest. “I begged her to save you, Tom! I didn’t know what else to do. I told her I’d free her if she did.”

“It wasn’t her,” Fitz mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. If he focused, he could feel the dragon slithering at the edge of his vision. She was there, probing at his mental walls curiously. “You don’t owe her anything, Malta. And you shouldn’t have felt that. Any of it. I’m so sorry.”

“What is going on?” Keffria asked carefully. He saw her eyes dart from her mother to Brashen, and then back to Fitz. “Malta had said something bad had happened to Tom, but—”

“She did?” Ronica demanded. Fitz was trembling as he held the girl. He knew he was going to lose his balance, and he was grateful that Brashen saw him buckle and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Malta, let the man breathe!”

“It’s alright,” Fitz sighed. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault—oh…”

“What can I do?” Malta asked eagerly, pulling back from him.

“Elfbark,” he sighed. “I have some—check my room, under my bed—”

Malta was gone in an instant. Fitz was left to stew under the stares of Ronica, Keffria, and Brashen. Silently, Brashen pushed Fitz into the house and deposited him into the nearest chair. He found himself groaning, head in his hands. He had thought that his skull would burst apart, but now that it hadn’t, it was almost worse. He pushed his fingers into his hair, his breaths labored, his vision spotty, and he tried to keep himself from quaking, but his whole body was wracked with uncontrollable tremors. The Vestrit women were conversing sharply, and he heard scraps of information being exchanged. Tom had a fit on the beach. Paragon went mad. Amber had calmed them both. Malta had a fit in the study. She’d screamed for the whole house to hear. She’d started to pull her hair out, screaming for Tom, weeping that someone was killing him. Keffria had put her to bed when she had suddenly stilled and remained still, staring at the ceiling, unblinking, until a few minutes ago.

Fitz felt the small, frantic footfalls before he heard them.

“Tom!”

Clef was on him in a second, grabbing his face while Selden grabbed his hands. He was forced to look up at the boys, blinking back tears as they babbled senselessly. Clef demanded to know who had hurt him. Selden clutched Fitz’s trembling hands and asked his mother if they had a blanket that they could wrap around him, since clearly he was cold.

“I’m alright,” Fitz murmured as Clef gripped his face, refusing to let go until he got an answer.

“First Malta,” Clef huffed, “now you… what’s going on? Is this about the dragon?”

“The dragon again,” Brashen muttered, drawing his hand through his hair. “What the hell is it with dragons? Is there something in the water?”

“Dragons are real,” Clef told Brashen curtly. “I’ve seen ‘em. Anyone from the Six Duchies will say the same. And Tom and Amber, they’ve more than seen ‘em. So shut up.”

Brashen bristled at that. Selden bobbed his head in agreement, shooting Brashen an irritated glance, his small hands rubbing soothing circles around Fitz’s trembling ones. Fitz was stunned. He was being defended by children, and that should have hurt his ego, in truth, but he was so relieved to have someone speak up for him that he did not care.

The show of solidarity between Selden and Clef had made the Vestrits and Brashen go silent. Suddenly Malta was flitting back into the room, a teacup in hand, and Fitz perked up at the sight of it. He pulled his hands from Selden, reaching out for the cup desperately. Malta gently placed it in his trembling hands, helping guide it to his lips. The bitter tea scalded his tongue and the roof of his mouth, peeling down his throat as he gulped it down.

Fitz stopped halfway. His mind was reeling. He could feel Malta’s small presence like a tiny garden serpent coiling up at the back of his mind. Though she could not reach out to him, could not speak to him, she was there. And through him, she had experienced horrors no child should ever experience.

Without a word, Fitz handed her the cup. She did not need to be told to drink it.

“That’s foul,” she gasped, draining the teacup in one go and setting it aside with a shudder.

“It will help with the headache,” Fitz told her quietly, “and to close your mind. Dull the connection.”

Malta’s fingers lifted to her forehead, and she winced as she brushed the scratch her nails had left. She took a deep breath.

“It’s starting to fade already,” she said dazedly. “I can think more clearly now. Tom, what was that?”

“I don’t know,” Fitz admitted, allowing himself to sink into the soft armchair, his headache beginning to dull from the potency of the drug. How Malta had known to make tea out of the herb, Fitz would never know. “I have no idea what that was. I’ve never experienced anything like it. You should have never felt it. Malta, you must close your mind.”

“I don’t know how!” Malta shot him an irritated look. “I’ve been asking you what it all meant, the dragon and the dreams, but you’ve been ignoring me! I don’t mean to go into your head!”

“What?” Keffria asked haltingly. Ronica stood beside her, looking pale and drawn, her hands wringing before her. Brashen merely looked confused. “What does that mean? Malta, you can’t go into a man’s head—”

“I can,” Malta retorted irritably, “and I do. I didn’t want to tell you this because I knew you wouldn’t understand, but it’s magic, Mother. Tom’s magic. Amber said he has it, and that because I can go into his mind, I must have it too.”

“Amber,” Ronica sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “That woman cannot leave this family alone.”

“It’s me,” Fitz said sharply, feeling the desperate need to defend the Fool. Ronica glanced at him, her expression softening. “It’s my fault, not Amber’s. It’s true, I have magic. I have a power that makes me susceptible to… how do I explain this…” Fitz sighed. His limbs felt loose and wobbly. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand if he tried. “Liveships are magic. Obviously. They require human life and human memory and human thought to come alive. I think they use this ability I have to connect with their families, which makes Trader families also susceptible to this mental magic. This has never happened to me before, this mental connection I have with Malta, but it will not continue. I’ll help her close it.”

“Should you even remain here at all?” Keffria asked, scandalized. Malta whirled on her mother furiously.

“You’d send him away when he is the only one who can help me?” Malta demanded sharply. Keffria stared at her daughter blankly. “Tom is willing to take responsibility for it, but it’s not his fault my mind is like this. It’s yours. And Grandfather’s, and all of our ancestors who invested in liveships, and all of the Rain Wilders, too, for meddling with magic. If what Tom is saying is true, and I think it is, it’s not his fault that I can walk into his mind. I’m sure he’d rather I couldn’t, but the fact of it is, I can, so what are we going to do about it?”

“Close the connection,” Fitz said firmly.

“No.” Malta shot him a dull glance. “That’s not it, Tom. We’re not doing that.”

“You cannot remain Skill-bonded to me!” Fitz cried, so exhausted and so frustrated that he did not care that he called it what it was, nor did he care that he was screaming at a child.

“Oh, I can,” Malta snapped back, “and I will! We need each other to free the dragon.”

“We are not freeing the dragon!” Fitz gasped, jolting to his feet. When he got there, he shook like a leaf. Nighteyes stepped before him, staring up at him warningly.

Sit down, brother. Listen to your little snake.

“Yes,” Malta said coolly, “we are. Sit down. Listen to your wolf.”

Fitz fell back into the chair in shock. Nighteyes was amused as he sat down beside Malta, who blinked at him, and then smiled reluctantly.

“I don’t understand any of this,” she admitted quietly, reaching out and laying a small hand on Nighteyes’s head.

Neither did Fitz. But if he said anything more, it would betray too much, and so he merely sat and stared at the floor, stunned and miserable. Unfortunately for him, he had adopted a boy with an inability to keep his mouth shut.

“You can hear Nighteyes?” Clef asked Malta in awe. She shot him a curious glance.

“I heard him when the dragons were trying to kill Tom,” she admitted, rubbing the wolf’s head thoughtfully. She fully ignored the range of wild-eyed looks of disbelief that she received from her family and Brashen. “I had no idea it was him, not until just now. But I knew it was a wolf. Who saved us, Tom?”

“What?” Fitz breathed, unable to meet the child’s eyes.

“We were someone else.” Malta drew her fingers to her temples, her expression twisting into a grimace. “It’s hard to remember now. That feeling. I remember the feeling of being alone after more than anything. It was miserable.”

“You need to close your mind,” Fitz whispered.

“So do you, apparently.” Malta crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes burning with purpose, and Fitz recognized suddenly that determination. That need to prove herself. She was, Fitz realized, the perfect weapon. If King Shrewd had looked upon his bastard grandson, who had shown no real talents at all, and seen the potential for a tool, then Fitz imagined that if they had an inkling of this little girl who used the Skill was breezily as pinning her hair and gathered information like a sponge and bared her outright tenacity and willingness to throw herself into a dangerous situation without hesitation—this was a potential assassin if Fitz had ever seen one, and in recognizing that fact he felt a sliver of damnation carved out for his soul to rest in.

“You have a life, Malta,” Fitz said heavily. “Live it.”

“I intend to,” Malta said flatly, in a voice that was clearly meant to dismiss his concerns.

“You have a life that cannot include me,” Fitz clarified.

“It already does,” Malta said. She rolled her eyes. “You can’t undo it, can you? If you could, you would have when you realized we were sharing dreams. But it’s stronger now. Because of the dragon. And before you start saying it’s your fault again, I’ll remind you that it was my dream that the dragon entered first. She came to you after. So yes, I do have a life, but you are hardly responsible for how it’s gone up until this point, and I doubt you’ll find yourself responsible for it once we go find the dragon.”

“We are not—!” Fitz gasped.

“As I said,” Malta cut in sharply, “it’s not your responsibility, and so it is also not your choice what I decide to do. And I have decided that I am going to free her. My life will be here when I return. Nothing here ever changes, so I doubt it will matter.”

“Malta,” Keffria breathed, “what are you saying? Where do you imagine you will go? How will you get there?”

“I’m saying,” Malta said in a calm, reasonable voice that did not match the conversation, “that I intend on keeping my promise to the dragon. I know you can’t understand that. I thought I was going crazy, before I realized Tom could hear her too. So I have to go to her. On the Paragon.”

“You cannot go on that ship,” Fitz gasped, nearly jerking out of his chair. “You shouldn’t go anywhere near Paragon! Not with your mind so open—”

“Then tell me how to close it,” Malta argued, “without losing our connection!”

“What the hell is happening?” Brashen murmured to Ronica. The Vestrit matriarch merely shook her head mutely.

“She is acting like Althea,” Ronica sighed. Keffria glanced at her mother, looking even more scandalized than before. Fitz thought it was funny that Keffria seemed more able to accept that her daughter had a strange mental bond with their gardener than the idea that her daughter could be anything like her sister.

“Perhaps acting like Althea is the only way any of you will take me seriously,” Malta said, meeting her grandmother’s eyes sharply. Keffria made a small sound of dissent. “You allow Aunt Althea to run around wherever she wants. She’s going to save Papa on the Paragon. Well! I’m older than she was when she first boarded the Vivacia. You cannot object to my decision to board the Paragon.”

“What on earth…?” Keffria breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. “Malta, what is this? Really? Just yesterday you wanted to be taken seriously as a young woman, courting young men, being presented at the Summer Ball—and suddenly today you are a child again, making demands as though you are Althea’s miniature!”

“I still intend to be taken seriously as a young woman,” Malta said firmly, “and courting Reyn, and being presented at the Summer Ball. Do you imagine that’s changed? No. But all those things are expectations of a Trader’s Daughter, and as you well know, I am to be married to a Rain Wild Trader, where magic is abundant. I hardly see why I cannot follow the magic where it leads me, if that is my fate.”

Fitz did not know how Malta could be standing right now, let alone arguing furiously with her mother. It was a mind-numbing display of insolence that only a very privileged child could afford, snapping retorts at her elders without a care in the world.

He felt a blanket fall upon his shoulders, and when he glanced up, he saw Selden’s worried face floating above him.

“It’s always a fight,” Selden murmured tiredly. “Malta doesn’t know how to stop, I don’t think.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Selden,” Malta said, a bit haughtily. “This is grown up talk. You and Clef are too little to understand.”

“Hell, girl, I’m not much younger than you!” Clef cried, clearly offended. And in truth, he was beginning to look more his age now. The consistent meals and sleep and exercise had done wonders for his sickly appearance. He had grown two full inches since arriving at the Vestrit’s house, and if he grew anymore, he would likely be as tall as Malta within the month. Fitz could tell that the boy was bound to be a strapping young man, perhaps even taller than Fitz by the time he reached his full height.

“Alright,” Ronica sighed, “that’s enough. Malta, you cannot expect us to believe that you are needed on the Paragon because of a hypothetical dragon that needs waking.”

“She’s not hypothetical,” Malta said with a scowl. “She’s real. She was in my head and Tom’s head, just an hour ago. When the other dragons were trying to take him out of his body. Ugh, it sounds mad! I know that! But can’t you trust that I wouldn’t say these things if they were not true? Mother! You saw me when the dragons came for Tom! You said I said he was in trouble. How could I know that, if I was not connected to him?”

“I…” Keffria blinked at Fitz uncertainly. Fitz stared back at her dully. “Malta, I’m not sure—”

The door swung open suddenly. Althea and the Fool spilled in, both of them looking a bit weathered and bewildered. The Fool was at Fitz’s side in an instant, sinking to his knees and taking Fitz’s hands in his gloved ones.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice painfully small. Fitz stared at him, nodding mutely. “Oh, Fitz, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t feel what was happening to you. I should have known you wouldn’t hurt Paragon like that. I’ve gotten so used to defending him, it hurt me to think—but I was wrong, and I know that, and I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Fitz murmured. He squeezed the Fool’s hands, wishing he could slide the man’s gloves off and glide his hands over those Skill-laden fingers. He felt like a starving man, and the Fool’s mind was a great feast. His mouth was dry as he tore his eyes from the man’s honeyed gaze. “I don’t know why it happened. I suppose all those warnings I was given about guarding my mind make sense now. I thought everyone with the Skill was dead.”

“You did not account for the sentient ships,” the Fool said dryly, “or the beasts that lurk inside them.”

“I did not,” Fitz admitted, finding the energy to smile. The Fool’s expression matched his in an instant. He thought about it for a moment. “Why are there dragons inside Paragon?”

The room was quiet. Fitz stared down at the Fool as the Fool turned his hands over, kneading his palms with his thumbs. He seemed puzzled.

“I don’t know,” the Fool sighed. He looked up at Fitz with a small, faint smile. “I suppose we’ll just have to figure it out together.”

“Paragon knows that it’s not just him,” Fitz told the Fool desperately. The Fool blinked and nodded slowly. “He’s not mad at all. He’s just—cramped. They’re all fighting each other to be the dominant one, the one who has a voice. It’s not like with us, where we can just—”

“I know,” the Fool said quietly. “I know, I felt it. I know why he acts that way. Honestly, he was rather sedate when we told him that the Ludlucks had sold him to me. I expected him to throw a tantrum, after what happened with you, but I suspect he feels so immensely guilty about hurting you that he’s fallen into a depression.”

“It’s hardly his fault,” Fitz sighed, shaking his head. “He wasn’t the one who hurt me.”

“I don’t think he sees a difference between himself and the dragons,” the Fool said carefully. “In a way, he really is mad, if madness is an instability of the mind. And in another way, he isn’t, because he knows exactly what’s wrong with him, but he can’t fix it. Well. Regardless, I’m glad you’re better. You scared me half to death, you know.”

“You saved me,” Fitz said quietly. “I don’t even know how. I can’t understand it. But you saved me.”

“It was you?”

The Fool drew himself to his feet, still clutching Fitz’s hand, as he turned to face Malta. A flicker of surprise shifted the Fool’s fine features before he blinked and laughed.

“Oh no,” he breathed, his laughter only barely hiding the clear anxiety in his voice. Fitz knew him too well not to catch it. “Don’t tell me you felt that, Malta.”

“Malta was there,” Fitz sighed, shaking his head. “I think maybe that’s why it was so bad. So many different beings inside one mind—”

“But I didn’t feel her at all,” the Fool said quietly. His eyes widened as he looked at Malta, who looked back at him with a small smirk of self-satisfaction, as if she could help her talent with the Skill. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I did,” Malta said, shrugging. “You just couldn’t hear me. It’s like I told you, with Tom’s dreams. He doesn’t even know I’m there half the time.”

Fitz was deeply disturbed by that remark.

“What do you mean, Malta was there?” Althea asked hesitantly. Her eyes roved around the room, raking over her entire family before finally meeting Brashen’s. Fitz saw the incredulous exchange. “What’s going on here?”

“Apparently,” Ronica said in a dry tone, “Malta and Tom have developed a mental connection where they can step into each other’s minds—I imagine it is a bit like the connection you have with Vivacia—because of a dragon somewhere in the Rain Wilds, presumably brought to Malta through the dreambox that Reyn Khuprus gave her—oh, please, child, I know you opened it. And now Malta is demanding to take the Paragon to find this dragon.”

“What?” Althea gasped. Malta scowled at her, her cheeks coloring as her grandmother listed the increasingly odd things that have transpired in the afternoon. Again, for whatever reason, Malta’s decision to join them on the liveship was regarded as the strangest occurrence. Not the Skill or the dragons. It was baffling.

“We’ll find Papa and the Vivacia first, of course,” Malta explained hastily. Althea’s mouth dropped open in pure shock. “But once that’s all done, we must go to the dragon. If we don’t go to her, I’m not sure what she’ll do to us.”

“But—what—how…?”

“Malta, you realize that this isn’t going to be some luxurious journey,” Brashen said carefully. “Living on a ship is uncomfortable. It’s wet, it’s smelly, it’s always moving. And you’re a woman.”

“So?” Malta challenged him. “Althea is a woman, and she’s going. Amber is a woman, and she’s going. What’s the problem?”

“Men,” Brashen said bitterly.

“We’ll figure it out,” the Fool said dismissively. “If I have to build a room just for Malta, I will. But we have time to sort that out. It’s the least of our problems. My concern is having Tom and Malta on the ship when the ship can, at any given moment, mentally attack them.”

“I’ll guard my mind,” Fitz promised.

“And Malta?” The Fool looked down at him with tired eyes. “You know you need to train her. And I know that terrifies you. But what option do you have?”

“I could leave,” Fitz admitted. The thought filled him with dread and sorrow, but it would be preferable to putting a child through the suffering that every Skill-user experienced.

“Ah, yes,” the Fool said with a bitter smile. “You could. But you won’t. No matter how much you wish to, you know you won’t. Because you are more afraid now of what might happen to Malta because you opened her mind to her potential with the Skill, and you feel responsible.”

Fitz had to glance at the Fool’s hand in his own to be sure that the glove was still on. The Fool saw this and laughed.

“I am not reading your mind,” the Fool said gently. “I don’t need to.”

“So you have it too?” Malta demanded. “The Skill, it’s called? If Tom decides not to teach it to me, will you?”

“Oh,” the Fool breathed, blinking rapidly. “No, Malta, I don’t. I can’t. I’ve no aptitude for it. What I have with Tom is only with Tom. I could not help you unless it was through him.”

Malta was quiet. Her eyes slid back to Fitz, and Fitz bowed his head. He knew the aching loneliness of the Skill. The delirious highs and the inescapable lows. The cravings. To put a little girl through it…

“Well,” Malta said stiffly, “I suppose I’ll simply have to leave my mind wide open, then. Maybe the dragons will eat me and take my body the way they wanted yours, Tom. Oh well.”

“Is that what they wanted?” the Fool wondered aloud, blinking rapidly. “Is that possible?”

He was asking Fitz. And Fitz found himself struck by the immensity of the question. He thought suddenly about Will. About Regal’s coterie. He shuddered.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I think it is.”

And he realized, suddenly, that if he did not help Malta, he could not stop the child from going to the ship. She had proven over and over that she did not care what adults bid her to do. She would do what she wanted. She would find a way to get her way.

Even if it killed her.

“What are we to do about this?” Keffria asked suddenly. Her voice was strained. She was looking to her mother, and Ronica looked to Tom. Her lips turned in on each other, and she sighed.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I have never experienced anything like this. I have never known such a thing to become a consequence of trading up the Rain Wild River.”

Keffria was silent as stone. Her face was pale, her eyes wide, her mouth pinched. Malta knelt beside Nighteyes, her hand finding his head again, and Fitz realized she was trying to speak to him.

Can she talk to you?

Nighteyes met his gaze squarely.

No.

Fitz sagged with relief.

Not yet, at least.

“Perhaps we can ask other Trader families,” the Fool suggested, releasing Fitz’s hand. Fitz had not realized he had been clutching it for dear life for so long. “Althea, if you could find a way to inquire if the Teniras have ever experienced anything like this…?”

“I can try,” she said, ignoring the dark look that shadowed Brashen’s face at the mention of the Teniras. Fitz recognized the jealously, even as the man valiantly attempted to squash it. “I’m not really sure what I’m meant to ask about, though. I don’t understand any of this. Malta and Tom are magically, mentally connected. Okay. Sure, why not? But are we seriously considering letting Malta come find Vivacia?”

“Why is that your hang up?” Fitz breathed in disbelief.

“Because it makes no sense!” Althea cried. “Malta on a ship? Malta?”

“I’m as much of a Bingtown Trader as you are,” Malta retorted sharply. “What’s the difference? That you sailed with Grandfather for a decade? And Papa still took Wintrow over you! Wintrow, who’s skinnier than I am, and would rather pray over a problem than try to fix it! I’m sure I can do anything Wintrow can do, and for that matter, I could do anything you can do!”

Althea’s eyes burned momentarily with fury. And then, suddenly, that rage was gone. She blinked down at Malta and then turned to face her mother.

“I am so sorry,” she said. Ronica pressed her lips together to hide a smile.

“No you’re not,” Keffria sighed. Althea scowled at her as she turned to address her daughter. “If you wish to be your Aunt Althea suddenly, which I cannot understand, but certainly you have made it clear that I cannot control your choices, then so be it. But you will work, Malta. If you wish to learn how to sail, then Althea will teach you. I expect it will be very difficult.”

“If she can do it,” Malta said dismissively, “so can I.”

Keffria looked at her daughter like she was a stranger. She turned to face Althea, a flicker of desperation there.

“She’s yours,” she said coolly. “Take care that she does not humiliate herself.”

“Or die?” Althea offered faintly. “This is ridiculous. You can’t truly expect—!”

“Oh, please, Althea, look at the girl!” Keffria threw her hands out to gesture toward Malta, who had never looked so young to Fitz as she did right now, pale and disheveled and scowling. Every shred of her mask of so-called maturity had fallen away, leaving behind a stubborn and unruly child who would get what she wanted no matter the cost. “Use your eyes! She’s you! And what am I to do about that? Tell her no? As though that ever helped you at all!”

Althea bristled, opening her mouth to retort, but Ronica silenced them both with a sharp sigh.

“Enough,” she said. She looked around the room, her expression drawn. “Right. Alright. I believe what Tom says about this magic. I believe him that it is dangerous, which is why I am tasking him to help Malta contain it. Just as I am tasking you, Althea, to prepare Malta for a life of sailing. Keffria is right. If Malta wants to sail, what are we to do to stop her? We could not stop her from deciding she was a woman grown, ready for courtship. Now she’s abandoned these fancies for the life you’ve decided to live, and we can hardly prepare her for that. So you must do it for us.”

“Sa help me,” Althea groaned, “this is a nightmare.”

“Please,” Malta said snidely, “you don’t know what nightmares are.”

It sounded so childish coming from Malta’s mouth, but Fitz knew that for this child, she had seen and felt things in the past day that Althea could not begin to imagine.

That was it. It had been decided, against Althea and Fitz’s wishes, that they would mentor Malta. And Fitz knew that both of their reluctance was due to an indescribable feeling of looking at a child and seeing yourself reflected back. Fitz had not thought he was much like Althea. But Malta was so much like her, and when Fitz reflected on it, she was like Fitz, too. If Fitz had ever had the will to declare his desires so brazenly.

Perhaps if Fitz had not been a bastard prince and had all the luxury in the world of being loved and spoiled rotten, he would have demanded things the way Malta did.

“I’m going to leave Nighteyes here tonight,” the Fool told Fitz quietly. Fitz nodded mutely. He understood why. And if he was honest, he missed the wolf’s company. “I’ll be back in the morning. If you can, please try not to leave your dreams open tonight.”

“I’ll try,” Fitz murmured. He lifted his head toward the Fool, and he found himself reaching for the man. He took his hands carefully in his own, and then sighed deeply. Fitz closed his eyes as he felt the Fool’s cool forehead against his own. “Go on. Get some sleep. I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” And yet the Fool held on a minute longer, his golden curls that framed his forehead and face fluttering against Fitz’s eyes. He lifted his gaze and found himself suddenly very self-conscious, until he remembered that all of these people thought the Fool was a woman, which at once soothed his anxiety and then struck him down with a new worry. They all already thought that he and the Fool were involved in some torrid affair. What did they think of all this?

Suddenly, Fitz distantly recalled the feeling of their joining through the Skill. How he had tried to cling to that sensation, how he had kissed the Fool’s ear in an attempt to keep him close. But it was not the Fool’s ear he had meant to kiss.

His heart seized at the thought.

As if sensing Fitz’s unease—and perhaps the man did—the Fool retracted himself from Fitz’s grasp and stepped back. He smoothed his skirt, took a deep breath, and inclined his head toward the Vestrits.

“Goodnight,” he said, turning toward the door. He held it open for Brashen, who solemnly followed him. Not without, of course, glancing between Fitz and the Fool. As Fitz suspected, the displays of the day had done nothing to quell the rumors.

When they were gone, Fitz was left to the stares of the Vestrit women. Except Malta, who took the opportunity to leave the room. Clef and Selden coaxed Fitz out of his chair and convinced him to go take a hot bath. Fitz sat in the stone basin, sand scrubbed from his scalp and skin, and he turned his wrist over, studying the marks of the Fool’s Skill-touch. He must have touched the same spot again, when going onto Fitz’s mind. He wondered if he would have been angry, if the Fool had done it in a different situation. But it was so hard to place blame when he had been falling apart and could only conceivably be held together by the Fool’s noncorporeal embrace.

He drew his thumb over the Skill-marks, recalling the feeling of the Fool’s thumb as he’d traced the vein of his forearm on the beach. A shiver ran through him. What was this? A Skill-craving? It felt similar. And Fitz was wary of that idea. Wary enough that when he bent his head and touched his lips to the Skill-marks, he was seized by a sudden horror of what he was doing, shame flooding him as though he was a boy on the cusp of manhood unraveling the strange foreignness of his own body all over again.

Dropping his wrist into the water, Fitz found himself sliding down the basin, slipping under the surface and biting his tongue to keep himself from screaming in frustration or moaning in desire.

Chapter Text

“What does this have to do with the Skill?”

The stones were smooth and flat. Tom had painted them black, red, and white. They had been playing each other for nearly an hour now, in the bright stretch of sunlight that filtered into the study, and Malta had picked up the idea of strategy, yet she had been beaten twice, and now she was growing irritated.

“I’m not trying to teach you the Skill,” Tom told her, clearing the mat of stones for the third time that morning and sorting them back into their proper bags. “My goal is to contain your rudimentary ability. Wall you up. You needn’t worry about forming Skill-bonds. All I expect from you is to close your mind off, both from me and from others.”

“What if I don’t want to close my mind off from you?” Malta demanded. Tom looked at her sharply, and she knew he was as irritated as she was.

“Listen,” Tom said carefully, clearly trying and failing to hide how frustrated he was, “the Skill is… it feels good, doesn’t it? It feels like you are a new person. Like you are someone else, and that feeling in itself does something to your brain. It’s not unlike indulging too much in a fine brandy—but like a fine brandy, too much of a pleasurable thing can hurt you. And you can become reliant on it.”

“I don’t understand,” Malta huffed. Well, that wasn't exactly true. She understood the analogy fine, that perhaps this magic was a bit like a drug, or liquor, and could leave a man giddy. But she had never experienced giddiness before while using this magic. Only intense pain and aching loneliness. It was why, she supposed, she craved Fitz's mind so thoroughly. She felt bereft ever since she had shared in his consciousness and been thrown back into herself, alone and uncertain.

“Well,” Tom huffed right back, “I don’t know how to explain it. This is how I was taught to keep my head in this sort of situation, so this is how I’m teaching you.”

“But there must be something else,” Malta gasped, throwing up her hands. “You were taught the Skill, but it couldn’t have all been—been children’s games. What else can I do?”

“Malta,” Tom said, gritting his teeth. And oh, Malta knew she was pushing him to his limits, as she’d pushed Althea to her limits the day prior, but neither of her teachers were particularly good at teaching. They were both impatient, haughty, and resentful. Malta liked Tom better than she liked Althea, and she enjoyed his company, but she did not like to be played with. Althea simply thought she was babysitting.

“Tom,” Malta snapped back, slamming her hand down on the stone game mat. “This is not doing anything. I don’t understand what it means!”

“It’s strategy, like I told you—”

“I feel that you’re just toying with me.”

“Why would I bother?” Tom asked with a heavy sigh. “Malta, I have better things to do than beat you at the stone game.”

“Like what?" She smiled at him sweetly while his jaw worked at itself. She could see his temper rise and fall in the seconds it took her to mock him tritely. "Trimming the hedges?”

“Like helping fix up the Paragon,” Tom reminded her, causing her to frown. They had both been unofficially barred from helping with the renovations and refitting. Althea was teaching her how to sail on a small sailboat borrowed from a Three-Ship family that had some connection to the Teniras. Because the sailing was physically strenuous and the Skill was mentally strenuous, they alternated days. They had been at this for a week now, and Malta was determined to prove both her teachers wrong about her. As difficult as sailing was, and as frustrating as these so called 'Skill-lessons' could be, she knew that if she did not prove to her teachers that she was up to the task, she would get left behind as breezily as a worn out pair of shoes.

“If you taught me better,” Malta told him wistfully, “we could both help with the Paragon. But no. You want me to meditate and play games.”

“I don’t know how else to teach you,” Tom said quietly.

“Teach me like how you were taught!” Malta scowled at him. He stared at her blankly. “I know you had real training. You know the magic, you just don’t want to teach it to me.”

“The way I was taught,” Tom said carefully, his voice so low it was almost a growl, and he laid out the stones beside the leather game mat, “nearly killed me. I am not trying to hurt you, Malta. The Skill is not a toy, or a game. It’s not pleasant. It’s hurt me more than you can ever know. So no, I don’t want to teach it to you. If not for the danger of allowing you to run around without a mental barrier, I would not be sitting here at all.”

Malta sat with this admission, knowing it well enough, but still finding that the rejection stung. She cared for Tom, not for any reason she could properly name, for she did not find him particularly attractive anymore that the novelty of the man had worn off, and he was nothing like her father. He did not shower her with praise, or let her win his stupid game, or let her think that he wanted to be around her. He didn’t. She had forced his hand.

“Show it to me,” Malta demanded.

Tom stared at her. She waited impatiently, flipping her palm up and offering it to him. They’d never sought out a connection before, not really. It always happened accidentally. And Malta had been trying to seek Tom’s mind while awake, trying to speak to Nighteyes, but it was useless. All the talk of barriers in her mind, well, there certainly were! Barriers she could not take down.

“I’ll have Selden practice the stone game with you next time,” Tom said thoughtfully. Malta made a strangled noise of objection. “What? Malta, I can’t show you anything. I am not, by any means, a talented Skill-user. That you could step into my dreams at all is proof enough.”

“All this proves is that you are a coward, Tom,” Malta said in the coldest voice she could muster. She wanted to hurt his ego. She wanted him to realize that she could do this. That she could do what he believed was impossible.

Tom stood up from the table and left her alone with the stones.

Obviously she had no interest in playing the stone game by herself. She left the game where it was, sneaking out of the study and slipping out of the kitchen door and into the garden. There, much to her prickling, childish envy, Selden and Clef were playing with Nighteyes. She stood, arms crossed, watching as they ran about the garden, tossing a stick to each other. Nighteyes chased them, clearly enjoying the exercise, and Malta watched the wolf pounce on Clef’s back, whisking the stick from his hand and bounding off.

“He got you again!” Selden cackled, whooping excitedly as Nighteyes circled them. “Go Nighteyes!”

“Don’t you two have anything better to do?” Malta demanded.

“No,” Clef huffed, dragging himself to his feet and swiping the dirt from his knees. “Tom’s not keen on me helping with Paragon, and he’s too busy teaching you the Farseer magic that he hasn’t any time for our lessons.”

“The what magic?”

Malta watched Clef’s face as he dodged the question. He looked suddenly sheepish as he turned his back on her.

“Hey!” Malta scowled at the boy. The word was foreign to her. Oh, the stupid Duchy boy’s accent made things so hard to understand sometimes! “What does that mean? Fairsed?”

“What are you on about, fair-said,” Clef mocked her, controlling his voice in an admittedly impressive Bingtown accent. It made it all the more frustrating that he never sounded quite right. “I said Far-seer. Far. Seer. Ask Tom if you wanna know so bad, but I ain’t saying nothin’.”

“Farseer,” Malta repeated thoughtfully. She watched the wolf creep up behind Clef, and she smiled at the boy wickedly. “Thanks, Clef. I’m sorry, by the way.”

“For what—?”

The wolf pounced on his back again, and Clef went down with a cry.

“Why’d you do that, wolf?” Clef gasped. “I don’t even got the stick!”

Malta ran away from the boys, telling herself that they were playing children’s games, and unlike her, they had not been tasked with important lessons. Even though both Althea and Tom seemed to delight in teaching her with children’s games.

Thanks, Nighteyes, Malta thought to the wolf. She peeked out the kitchen window, and found that Tom’s shaggy wolf was staring at her. She waved at him eagerly. Clef stood up behind him and scowled at her. He made a rude gesture, and she resisted the urge to stick her tongue out back at him. He was such a child, it was astounding. Honestly, it was shocking that slavery hadn’t matured him at all. He was no better than Selden.

She found Rache in the hallway, and she stopped her by grasping her elbow.

“Have you seen Tom?” she asked.

“He was taking tea out on the veranda, I believe,” Rache said cautiously.

“Thank you.”

Malta left Rache to whatever task she’d been at. She marched through the foyer, flung the door open, and stared at Tom’s back.

“Is that elfbark?” she asked sharply.

Tom snorted softly. The summer sun was high in the sky, and tendrils of sunlight picked out warm ochre highlights in his messy black hair as he turned his face toward the sky. His complexion was darkening in the sun, Malta noticed, and it made him look only a tad bit more foreign, but she felt that if he did not open his mouth, and actually wore the clothing Amber had procured for him properly, he could fit in Bingtown quite well. Only he never really wore a proper waistcoat, preferring to garb himself like a common sailor at all hours, tossing silk vest over a stained linen shirt and switching between the more presentable wool breeches and the casual canvas trousers, dyed dark blue or black. He seemed to have no blessed idea how to put himself together to make himself look like a respectable man and not a vagabond, but Malta supposed that was part of his charm. He was probably oblivious to his own messiness, and perhaps even more oblivious to the fact that if he had just put even a small bit of effort into his appearance, he would be a dazzling man. Oh well.

“Chamomile.” He held the teacup aloft for her. She took it, sniffed it, and confirmed that he was telling the truth. She handed it back to him. “We haven’t been Skilling. So I don’t need it right now. And I’d rather not use it up if I can help it. I haven’t got any idea where I might get more.”

“This is Bingtown,” Malta reminded him, sitting down on the step beside him. “It’s likely in the market. I’ll look tomorrow.”

“We can’t afford it,” Tom reminded her quietly.

“I’ll figure it out. If it’ll help you Skill—”

“No, Malta, it does the opposite. It dulls Skill abilities.”

“Well, if it helps soothe the pain, after, I’ll get it for you.” Malta stared at his face intently. “But only if you help me. You have to really teach me, Tom.”

“Malta…” Tom sighed deeply. “I don’t even know if the magic you have is really properly the Skill. It could be something similar but—different. Something unnamed. I don’t know how your liveships really work. You could have inherited some wild Bingtown magic that I’ve never encountered. What am I to do, then?”

“Try?”

“I am trying,” Tom murmured. He thumbed his teacup, stared out into the street, and sighed deeply. “What did Clef tell you?”

“How did you know what I was about to ask?” Malta asked eagerly. “The Skill?”

“No. Nighteyes.”

“Oh.” Malta kicked a rock at her foot. Her shoes were dusty. She had worn them yesterday on the boat. Althea was trying to convince her to wear Selden’s breeches, as none of her clothing was suitable for sailing. The thought made her sick, but also maybe a bit excited. What would Delo say? She and Cerwin would likely think she’d gone as mad as her aunt. “What’s Farseer?”

Tom was quiet. He set his teacup aside silently, and Malta suddenly feared he would stand up and walk away again. Instead, he looked down into Malta’s eyes, and she saw how tired he looked. How old he looked. Sometimes he seemed as young as Althea. Sometimes, when he was flirting with Amber, he seemed even younger. But right now, looking into his eyes, Malta recalled the strained, far-away look her grandfather had gotten in his eyes at the end of his life. It struck her to witness it in such a young face.

“Farseer,” Tom said carefully, “is the name of the ruling family of the Six Duchies.”

“Like… the king?”

“Yes.”

“Clef called the Skill Farseer magic,” Malta said, her eyes darting over Tom’s face. “So…?”

“It runs deep in the Farseer family line,” Tom said distantly, “but not all who have the Skill are Farseers. Clearly. Unless, Malta Vestrit, you have something you want to tell me.”

“Malta Haven,” she corrected him with a roll of her eyes. “And alright, I get your point. But you knew the Farseers. In the palace. You grew up there.”

She waited for him to confirm this. Instead, he glanced at her tiredly, and he saw that what he wanted was for her to stop talking.

“Malta,” Tom said quietly, “please.”

And of course Malta knew there was a secret here. She also knew that she would figure it out, sooner than later. But she knew she was pushing him too hard, and that would not gain her any favor with him, so she sighed, dropping her cheek against his arm. His shirt was rough-spun and scratchy against her skin, and he stiffened momentarily against her weight, but really only for a moment indeed before he relaxed and let his hand whisk briefly over her head.

“I don’t want to mess it up, Tom,” she said quietly.

“You won’t.”

“You don’t even think I can do it.”

“I think you can,” Tom sighed, “I just wish you wouldn’t.”

“If you told me what happened to you—”

“Malta,” Tom said in a harsh, strained voice, leaning away from her, “please.”

Malta opened her mouth to retort, only to watch Tom jump to his feet. And then she heard a man clear his throat. She turned and saw, surprised, that Delo and Cerwin Trell had come strolling up the lime brick path before them. Delo had a basket on the crook of her elbow, and Cerwin had his hat in his hands, eyes darting fretfully between Malta and Tom.

“We’ll continue the lesson after lunch, Malta,” Tom told her, scooping up his teacup and disappearing back into the house. She resisted an indignant huff.

“Malta,” Delo said carefully. Her eyes flitted over Malta uncertainly, and Malta accepted her friend’s confused judgement. Malta had studied Althea’s habits enough that she could copy the messy way she did her hair, and though she presented herself with more care, the simple skirt and blouse had been pilfered from Althea’s room.

“Delo.” Malta stood up on the step, nodding to her curtly. She glanced to Cerwin and felt a brief glimmer of pity for the man. “Cerwin. We were not expecting you.”

“Clearly not,” Delo gasped, rushing forward and grasping her hands. “Oh, Malta, we’ve heard the strangest things lately! That your family has bought the Paragon, that you’ve taken to sailing with your aunt to make ends meet, that your gardener is half-mad—”

“Well two of those things are true,” Malta cut in, irritated that Tom’s seizure had been scraped into the rumor mill. It was not surprising, but she had hoped that someone would have set it right by now. Did she have to do everything? “Tom is not mad, he’s ill. He had a horrible injury when he was our age, and it causes seizures. Thank goodness his beloved beadmaker was on the beach that day, Delo. I think Tom might have died without her!”

Malta saw a flicker of confusion over both their faces. She had to wait for her words to register. They clicked for Cerwin first, who looked unreasonably relieved at the idea that the rugged, handsome gardener was in a tryst with the strange, foreign beadmaker. It took Delo a bit longer to figure it out.

“The beadmaker?” Delo asked confusedly. “You mean the one that your Aunt Althea…?”

“The funniest thing,” Malta sighed, shaking her head. “It’s really so romantic, Delo. Amber and Tom were together, in the Six Duchies, but then that terrible war happened and ripped them apart. They reunited by chance here, in our house, and have been inseparable ever since.”

“That is romantic,” Delo whispered in awe.

“You should see how they act around each other,” Malta sighed. “How I wish for a love like that!”

She found, strangely, that this was a true declaration. She did not meet Cerwin’s eye, suddenly feeling guilty for toying with him. He knew that she was sworn to Reyn Khuprus. And he would accept that eventually. And as much as she enjoyed Reyn’s company, she knew what she felt for him was not love. It was curiosity.

But there was something about the way Amber and Tom spoke about one another—the way the spoke to one another. Malta was jealous.

“Well,” Delo said quickly thrusting the basket on her arm into Malta’s hands, “we came to deliver this.”

Malta peered into the basket and saw an assortment of jams in jars and logs of cured meats. A practical gift.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly. “This won’t go to waste.”

“Malta,” Delo said carefully, “we’ve been meaning to talk to you—”

The door swung open behind Malta, and she turned to see Clef and Nighteyes appear. The boy glanced curiously at Delo and Cerwin, but he decided to ignore them.

“Lunch is ready, Malta,” he said. At the sight of his tattooed face, Delo gasped, and Clef glanced at her dully. “What?”

“Sorry,” Delo said hastily. “I didn’t realize that—I only mean—”

“I haven’t got a clue what you mean.”

“Clef,” Malta said as sweetly as she could manage. Clef glanced at her like she was crazy. “Could you bring this to Rache?”

“Bring it yourself,” Clef said curtly, rolling his eyes. Malta was unsurprised that he responded this way. After all, she had hoped he would say something rude so Delo would catch onto the fact that he was not by any means their family slave. It would be unseemly for a family of their economic misfortune to have bought a slave. “And hurry up, I’m starving.”

“I’ll be only a minute longer,” Malta said quietly.

“Alright. Keep Nighteyes, then.”

“What?” Malta’s mask faltered for an instant as the wolf trotted up beside her, studying Delo and Cerwin with large, intelligent eyes. “Why?”

“‘Cause Tom said so,” Clef huffed, waving her off, “and you know how paranoid he can be. I mean, there’s a reason he always sends Nighteyes off with Amber at night. He’s just worried, is all.”

“Could you please tell him there’s nothing to worry about?” Malta asked, somewhat impatiently.

“Yeah, sure, if you think that’s gonna do a damn thing, I’ll go tell Tom to relax.” Clef snorted in disbelief. “Like that’s gonna happen.”

Clef left the door open as he disappeared back into the house. Delo and Cerwin followed the exchange with wide eyes. Cerwin’s gaze remained stuck on the wolf. Delo merely blinked in shock.

“That was Clef,” Malta said carefully. “Tom adopted him. And this is Nighteyes, Tom’s dog. He’s very protective.”

“Who is this man?” Cerwin breathed, looking angry very suddenly.

“I know it seems strange,” Malta said quickly, “but he’s helped us a lot the past couple months. And it’s been so hard, without my father around…”

“Oh, Malta!” Delo cried, throwing her arms around Malta’s shoulders. Malta turned her face into her friend’s arm. It was easier to let them pity her. And explaining Tom’s role in their lives was simply too complicated, so allowing them to assume he had stepped into the space Kyle Haven had left… well, it had worked.

“He’s been teaching all of us things he learned in the Six Duchies,” Malta explained hastily, swiping at her eyes as if to dash away tears. “Grandmother is smitten with him, and he’s really kept the house together when it seemed impossible to maintain. I know the Ludlucks are spreading rumors about him, but that’s simply not fair. What happened on the beach, in front of the Ludlucks, it was not some bout of madness. The poor man had a medical emergency, and Amis Ludluck is calling him a madman! It’s simply distasteful. Don’t you think?”

“Oh,” Delo breathed, drinking in Malta’s words eagerly. It helped, Malta supposed, that Tom was so handsome. Nobody in town looked quite like him. Yes, many people in Bingtown, the Vestrits included, had warmer skin-tones, but Tom’s skin was several shades darker than Malta’s. Closer to Althea’s color, but darker still, especially being in the sun all day. His curls were thick and full, and on humid days they seemed to defy gravity, even when he tied them off in a tail. The shock of white at his temple and those stark scars that crawled across his cheek and broken nose, they made him all the more attractive. Malta, too, had found everything about him very mysterious and captivating, until she had gotten inside of the man’s head and found him to be rather sad.

Once you meet a man’s inner child, it sort of ruins an illusion of mystery. And the child inside Tom’s head was a frightened one.

“Malta,” Selden called, poking his head out the open door. Malta wanted to scream. Why couldn’t these stupid boys leave her alone? “Tom said if you’re going to invite your guests in, you ought to warn them that we’re taking lunch in the garden. We have practice swords now, and Clef asked Tom to show him how to use them, if you wanna watch.”

“He isn’t using the one under his bed, is he?” Malta asked worriedly. Selden quirked an eyebrow at her. “I saw it when I had to get him the elfbark. It’s massive!”

“Do you think,” Selden whispered, heedless of Delo and Cerwin’s presence, “he was some sort of warrior in the Six Duchies? Would explain the scars, wouldn’t it? Clef says he fought in the war and met dragons.”

“He probably did,” Malta admitted. She whirled to look at her friend and former crush. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch, but I’m not exactly sure what you’ll be getting yourselves into. Every day in this house has been a new and puzzling experience lately.”

“Just hurry up,” Selden said. “Oh, and bring Nighteyes. He’s supposed to help Clef.”

“Did he agree to that?” Malta glanced down at the wolf, remembered suddenly that she should not ask such questions, and she laughed. “He’s such a well-behaved dog, it’s actually astounding. Sometimes I feel he could talk to us.”

“That’s a big dog,” Delo said weakly.

“Yep,” Selden said, rolling his eyes. Everyone in the house knew Nighteyes was a wolf now. Malta had not been quiet about it. If her mother and grandmother were troubled by it, they had not made it plain. At this point, perhaps it was the least of their concerns. “Are you coming in? We need to grab extra chairs if you are.”

“Selden,” Malta rebuked him.

“Malta,” Selden mocked back. Ever since Clef had arrived, he was a far more outgoing child. To his detriment. “You should let Tom teach you how to use a sword too.”

Malta stood there, scandalized, feeling Delo and Cerwin’s shocked stares. Selden glanced at them and shrugged.

“What?” he huffed. “Women in the Six Duchies fight just as much as men. Tom said that he was taught to fight by a woman. I just think you oughta learn—”

“Ought to,” Malta corrected impatiently, glad she had cut him off before he said something he shouldn’t. “You know, you are meant to teach Clef how to speak properly, not the other way around.”

“He speaks fine. I can understand him.”

“You’re starting to sound like him.”

“No I’m not.” Selden shook his head. “Come in if you want. I’m going to watch Tom knock Clef on his ass.”

“Selden!” Malta gasped, watching her little brother run off. She whirled to face Delo and Cerwin, smiling tightly. “Thank you again. I’m so sorry for all of this. Things have been… hectic, lately.”

“I can see that,” Cerwin said dazedly.

“I’ll see you…” Malta did not know when she would have to time to see her best friend. “Well, we’ll see each other.”

“Yes, Malta. We will.”

Malta hurried back into the house, shut the door, and sighed. As much as she missed her friend, and as much as she had liked Cerwin’s attention, neither of them could understand the immensity of what she had to do. No one except Tom, Amber, and, in all likelihood, Reyn. But she was separated from him until the Summer Ball.

Oh, how the rumors would fly. Malta Haven, dressing as simply as a servant. Malta Haven, getting mouthed off by a freed slave boy. Malta Haven, training to use a sword.

It was all so laughable. A month ago, it would have all made her feel hysterical. Now she had to shrug it off and trudge to the garden, basket on her arm. Rache took it from her as she exited the house, and she blinked into the afternoon sun, surprised to find that Tom had shed his vest and rolled up his sleeves, now stretching his arms above his head while Amber juggled three swords in the air simultaneously. It became suddenly clear that the change in plans had happened because Amber had made a sudden appearance, altering whatever ideas Tom had for the afternoon. Malta froze, staring at the scene blankly.

This house would never be normal again, she realized. Astounding.

Selden and Clef were eating at their small garden table, watching Amber juggle with great enthusiasm. Amber smiled at them amusedly. It seemed to Malta that it took her no effort at all to juggle the swords. She watched in mild awe as she grasped one by the hilt and began to juggle the other two with one hand, tipping her head back and drawing the wooden sword straight into the air, placing the pummel upon her chin and releasing it with ease. Malta gasped, suddenly completely drawn into the performance, watching Amber balance the sword on her chin while simultaneously juggling the other two without looking.

“Can you quit showing off?” Tom asked with a guffaw. Mid-toss, Amber changed the angle of a sword, and it went careening toward Tom, who caught it with a grin. The balancing hilt tipped over, and Amber caught it more deftly than Tom had caught his, twirling it like it weighed nothing between her fingers.

Selden and Clef began to clap eagerly. Malta distantly found herself clapping as well, dazed and dazzled by Amber’s display of talent. Her skirts swished around her as she gave two deep, dramatic bows.

“Thank you,” Amber gasped, “thank you! How thrilling to have a captive audience. How does it feel, Tom?”

As suddenly as the spell was cast, it seemed to break, and Malta found herself gazing at the beadmaker again. She set the two practice swords against the fig tree, drawing her gloved hands behind her back and clasping them as she leaned forward to peer at Tom as he swung the wooden sword in two great arcs.

“This is nice,” Tom admitted, laying the wooden blade flat on his palm. “The weight distribution is perfect. Did you ever work with the practice weapons that Hod kept?”

“Oh yes,” Amber said breezily, “between writing you love poetry and entertaining the king, I liked to sneak down to the weapon’s master to peruse her wooden war machines.”

“No need to be so sore about it,” Tom said, shooting Amber a brief, worried glance. “It only seemed like the sort of thing you’d be interested in.”

“Hod was a master of her craft,” Amber said curtly. “Her craft was not woodcarving. Suppose I tried to forge you a weapon of steel. I could do it, of course, but I’m no blacksmith. It would be flimsy. Perhaps it would even break apart before ever becoming steel. People are like that, you know.”

“What?” Tom sighed.

“I thought that was plain enough for even you to understand,” Amber teased. Tom scowled at her as she laughed at him. She whirled to face the three of them. Malta had slowly sat down at the table, nibbling on a fig as she watched the exchange intently. “Hello, Malta. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” Malta wiped her fingers daintily upon a napkin, ignoring how her brother and Clef tore into the flat bread and goat cheese like wild animals. “How is Paragon?”

“Oh.” Amber’s smile tightened, and Malta recognized that the ship was not well. She bit her lip. “Good days and bad. That’s normal for him. The refitting is obviously riling him up, but it’s necessary, so he’ll get through it. Have you had any more dragon dreams?”

“Yes,” Malta said, her eyes darting to Tom, who stood behind Amber, watching with dark, shadowy eyes. “You could ask Tom. My dreams are his dreams.”

“I’ve asked him,” Amber said delicately. “He agreed to keep a journal. I’d like to cross-reference it with your perspective, if that’s alright.”

“Oh. Yes, that makes sense.”

“Good.” Amber smiled at her, and Malta blinked. She still had no idea how she was supposed to respond to this woman. But, admittedly, more and more, Malta was beginning to see why a man like Tom was so smitten with her. She was odd, it was true, but in a way that made it hard not to look at her. It almost didn’t matter that she wasn’t very pretty. She seemed the sort of person that could take the air out of a room if she put the effort in. “Well, Clef, I believe you asked for a lesson. Let’s see what our Tom has to offer you, shall we?”

Clef jumped up eagerly. Malta did not understand why he wanted to fight Tom, but she was, admittedly, curious about the outcome. Only for the next fifteen minutes, Tom did not fight Clef, but put him through drills that would loosen up his muscles to prepare him for said fight.

“You should do these every day,” Tom told the boy bluntly. “I'll do them with you, if that helps. Nobody is going to wait for you to stretch before they disembowel you. And you can’t block a blow to the belly if you pulled a muscle in your back. Now, hit me.”

Clef hesitated. He held the practice sword in his fists, studying Tom uncertainly. Tom stood before him, his stance looking so casual that Malta thought it almost probable that Clef might land a hit. But then Clef drew forward to strike Tom, and Tom blocked him with ease, sidestepping the assault and knocking the hilt from Clef’s fists. Clef cried out in shock.

“You hesitated,” Tom said, “to mean that. Clef, these swords are wood. You will not hurt me. But you need to mean it. Come on, try again. If you meant it, you would have held onto the sword longer. Now, go on. Hit me again.”

Malta watched with bated breath as this went on and on. Amber had plopped down beside her, chin resting in her hands, and she watched Clef get scolded and corrected and forced to try again in silence. Malta tore a bit of the flat bread and offered it out to Amber, who glanced at her and smiled.

“Tom has changed you, Malta,” she observed.

Malta bristled. She retracted her hands as soon as Amber took the bread, laying them in her lap.

“How so?” she demanded.

“Oh,” Amber said, blinking. She shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem different, somehow.”

“I am,” Malta said, “but that is hardly because of Tom. It’s out of necessity. What do you know of the Farseers?”

Amber froze. Malta watched her take a slice of a fig, wrap it in the scrap of flatbread she’d been given, and pop it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, her gaze, unblinking, glued to Tom and Clef. Malta was aware of Selden beside her, dimly. She saw that Nighteyes had joined the fight, as Clef was actually starting to hold his own, somewhat. At least, he wasn’t sprawled on his back yet.

“Where did you hear about the Farseers?” Amber asked curiously. She hid her initial shock well enough, and perhaps if Malta was a different woman, she would not have noticed.

“Clef.”

“Ah.” Amber nodded. The boy had blocked a blow to his side, and Selden gave a great whoop of encouragement. “And what do you know of the Farseers?”

“I know,” Malta said carefully, “that they rule the Six Duchies. I know that the Skill is Farseer magic.”

“Is it?” Amber arched a brow at her. “Are you a Farseer now? Someone should tell that to the queen. It might make the line of succession rather confusing.”

“Oh,” Malta huffed, “you know what I mean.”

“I fear I don’t.”

“You and Tom know a lot about this magic,” Malta said with a sigh. “I know nothing. Tom will have me playing games and staring at the sky, but he won’t tell me anything. Where did the magic come from?”

“Where did the human race come from?” Amber countered. “Where did the gods? Malta, how do you expect me to answer such a question? I don’t know where the Skill came from. I’m beginning to form a hypothesis, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“Well,” Amber said, shooting her a strange, wicked smile, “dragons, of course.”

Malta did not know what to say to that. And she realized that they had gotten off topic. Just as she was about to press Amber about the Farseers again, Amber drifted to her feet. Clef had landed on his back again, the wolf nudging him back onto his feet. In three swift movements, Amber had whisked the remaining wooden sword from leaning upon the squat fig tree and crossed from the garden table to the stone circle where Tom and Clef were sparring. She stepped between Tom and Clef, earning a wild look of disbelief from Tom. His eyes swiveled from her face to the sword in her hand.

“You aren’t serious,” Tom sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“Serious? Do you take me for a fool?” Amber replied wryly, tossing her sword into the air and catching it lazily. Tom rolled his eyes. “What? You can hit a little boy, but I’m off limits? How chivalrous.”

Tom scowled at her as she laughed at him. She glanced back at Clef with a grin.

“You did very well, Clef,” she said.

“My ass’ll be sore tomorrow,” Clef muttered ruefully. He did not seem put out, though, despite his failure to make any meaningful progress with beating Tom. “Be careful. He’s quicker than he oughta be, for his size.”

“Oh, I know.” Amber waited for Clef to rejoin Selden and Malta at the table, taking the seat Amber had occupied. Selden patted his back, whispering encouragements, but Malta’s focus was on Amber and Tom. If she had not heard talk of Tom being trained by a woman, and that woman, Hod, being an apparent weapons master, she would not have believed her eyes at Amber taking up a sword, wooden or otherwise. “So? Shall we dance?”

“Is that what this is?” Tom demanded. Something about his tone implied that he had no idea how to take Amber in this moment. He was on edge, clearly, teetering between amused and horrified.

“This is what it always is,” Amber said with a soft hum, her sandals scraping stone as she and Tom slowly circled one another. “What it always was and always will be. You only see it differently because I have come to you speaking a language you thought I could not understand. So. Do you think you could kill me?”

“No,” Tom said. He did not even seem to think about it. Still, his lips stretched into a playful grin. “That won’t stop me from knocking you on your ass, though. I won’t treat you any different than Clef.”

“Is that why you’re stalling?”

Tom paused. Amber, in turn, ceased that slow prowling like a cat toying with its prey. They stared at each other silently, and Malta found herself engrossed in this exchange, hands folded over her mouth, eyes darting between them.

It was Tom who struck first. He closed the distance between them with startling speed, his attack swift as he sprung on Amber from the side. She had to swerve to avoid getting struck in the shoulder, and she blocked his next blow with admirable strength. Even Tom seemed surprised as the wooden swords connected twice in a flurry of blows before sitting stagnant, the opposing force of Tom’s attack and Amber’s block leaving them locked together, staring at each other over their swords.

“I always forget,” Tom breathed, “how strong you are.”

“Convenient. I can never forget your strength.” Amber slipped away from him suddenly, leaving him to reel back in order not to topple forward at the sudden release of momentum. “Are you going to show me how to kill a man?”

“Would you be able to?” Tom frowned at her as she gripped the practice sword with both hands. As sure as she had seemed a moment earlier, suddenly Malta doubted she really knew how to use that sword.

“Nobody knows what they are capable of doing until they do it.” Amber offered a shrug. “Do I think I could? No. Would I be able to? Perhaps. I will not lecture you on my reservations on killing. I imagine it would be like a hummingbird telling a wolf that it should try a sip of nectar rather than raw meat.”

“A hummingbird,” Tom repeated, a slow grin spreading on his lips. “That’s a good one. Well, hummingbird, come get me.”

“Come kill you, rather,” Amber ventured.

“You might try.”

Amber paused a moment. Her eyes shifted over Tom, her head tipping to the side. She had braided it back into two long plaits which sat fat and golden against the rich brown fabric of her vest. It was a pretty vest, embellished with gold embroidered trim and beaded leaves. Her billowy shirt swallowed up her thin arms, and her collar was buttoned up to her chin. Malta imagined she was sweating quite a bit.

Without much of a choice, Amber steadied her grip on her sword, lowered her chin determinedly, and then darted forward. Tom’s shoulders squared as he prepared himself for the attack, and Malta knew that there was nothing Amber could do to cut through the man’s defenses. She held her breath, waiting for Tom to cut off the blow and knock the sword from Amber’s hands, likely sending her to the stones as he’d sent Clef countless times.

And then Amber tripped.

Malta gasped, hands clamped over her mouth, as Amber’s sandal caught between a gap in the stones, and both boys at her side cried out a warning as she stumbled, so close to her mark, too. Malta had been prepared to watch Amber fall face first into the masonry, likely sporting a bloody nose or cracked teeth, but faster than she could fully process, Tom had dropped his wooden sword and flown forward, snatching Amber up by the waist before she could hit the stones. She twisted in his arms, throwing her arms around his neck as he stood there, half bent over her, his hands clenching fistfuls of brown fabric. His eyes darted over her face, clearly worried, clearly searching for any signs that Amber had been hurt in her attempt to strike him—only for his eyes to go so wide that Malta could see the whites of them from where she sat.

With her arms locked behind Tom’s neck, Amber had flipped her sword in her hands, and Malta could see now that she had pressed the blunt point of the wooden blade against the center of Tom’s back.

They were all quiet. Malta lowered her hands from her mouth, her lips parted in awe. Selden looked confused, his eyes darting between the intertangled couple, brow furrowed. Clef was merely grinning.

“That doesn’t work,” Tom uttered breathlessly. The wolf had sat down beside him, tipping his head back and watching the exchange with his oddly intelligent eyes.

“You told me,” Amber responded playfully, “to try and kill you. You never said I had to be fair.”

“But this would kill us both,” Tom objected, brow furrowing, clearly not recognizing that Amber did not care about the literal practicality of the game. Malta knew that Amber had no intention of ever killing a man this way. She had done this because it was Tom. No other reason.

“Mutually assured destruction is the first rule of warfare,” Amber said offhandedly. Tom stared at her blankly, as if she was speaking in tongues. She shot him a brilliant, dazzling smile, and swept up to steal a kiss from his stubbled cheek. “Of course I would die with you! What is my life if you are not in it?”

And then, without waiting for him to respond, Amber slipped out of his grasp and spun away with the grace of a seasoned dancer. Tom remained where he stood, slack-jawed, bemused, and red-faced. He looked flustered, and maybe a bit angry. Amber merely set the wooden sword aside and blew her golden curls from her eyes with a huff.

“You should teach Malta,” Amber said suddenly. Malta sat frozen, all her great admiration for the woman suddenly growing as cold as the dread that slid through her. Tom stared at her blankly, and Amber shrugged. “If you are teaching Clef with the expectation that we will be forced to fight at one time or another, you recognize that Malta will need to defend herself. It’s just a thought. Well! I’m off to Paragon. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

And with that, Amber disappeared into the garden hedges and left them in silence.

Tom was angry. That’s where his emotions had settled as Amber left him to stew in whatever pent up longing her kiss had left him. Malta’s mind had been whirling at the sight of that kiss. Oh, to be a woman who could take what she wanted and care nothing for it! If Malta had been in Amber’s shoes, she would try to needle a kiss out of Tom, but to kiss his cheek unabashedly, oh, it was too good. Malta was blushing a bit as Tom gave a sharp huff of indignation.

“Enough,” Tom said sharply. The three of them jumped. They went back to their meal quickly, Selden sliding the dish of goat cheese over to Malta and Malta scraping a bit onto her bread. They each had something in their mouths as Tom glared at his wolf. Then, to her deep horror, Tom called, “Malta! Come here.”

She sat for a moment, mystified by the command. Clef nudged her, and she resisted the urge to snap at him. Remembering herself and all of the work that she had put into crafting her appearance, even if Selden and Clef did not take it seriously, she found herself rising to her feet. She crossed the garden, her sandals scraping softly against stone, and she lifted her head to stare at Tom blankly.

He surprised her by whisking a concealed knife from the small of his back. He had to undo a clasp to release it from his belt, and he pushed it into her hands while she gaped at him in open dismay.

“You’re too small to wield a sword,” he told her curtly. The way he said it, it was as though he was apologizing. As though she might be hurt by the observation. She looked down at the dagger, snug in its sheath, and she felt dazed. “Clef is too, but he’s got more muscle on him from years of manual labor. I don’t expect you to use that, but if you are serious about joining this quest to find the Vivacia, what you need to recognize is that what you are and what you need to become in order to survive might be two entirely separate things. You might need to become a killer. You might need to fight for your life. Could you?”

“Is that not what you’ll be there for?” Malta asked faintly. “To protect me?”

“I can try,” Tom offered in a softer voice, but not a kinder one, “but what if I’m dead? What if Althea and Brashen and Clef are dead? Malta, you are so determined to throw yourself into danger without even looking before you step into a fire. The world is not kind. It will eat you alive if you let it. So take the knife.”

Malta’s fingers closed around the hilt of the blade. She nodded numbly. Any objection died in her throat as she looked into his eyes and saw the desperation there. He was not saying this to scare her. He likely would not have given her a knife if he did not truly believe she might have to use it.

“Your stature can be used to your advantage,” Tom told her, strange and methodical, as though he was telling her how she might bake bread. “Avoid a man’s arms. Aim for the groin, or if you’re low enough, an artery—here.” He reached down and tapped his thigh. Then he tapped his bicep. “If you can’t avoid the arms, try here. Once you’ve nicked the artery, your best bet is the throat. Your instinct will be to slash or slit, but honestly, you could miss, and the man might not die quick enough—my recommendation is to stab and yank.”

“Stab and yank?” Malta repeated uncertainly.

Tom took her hand, which was closed around the hilt of the blade, and he lifted it to his neck.

“Stab,” he said, prodding his own neck with the soft leather scabbard, “and yank.”

He jerked her hand back toward her in a sharp motion. She realized he was telling her to carve up a man’s throat, and she felt queasy. She nodded, if only to get him to stop, and he released her hand. Not before the kitchen door opened and her mother came spilling out of the house.

“What is going on here?” Keffria Vestrit demanded.

“Self-defense lessons.” Tom offered a shrug as Malta quietly fastened the leather sheath to her belt. She was grateful suddenly for the leather band that cinched her small waist. The tiny dagger was visible there, and she wondered if she looked dangerous. The thought thrilled her a little.

“I thought you were supposed to teach Malta magic,” Keffria said distantly. She sounded baffled. Malta glanced at her mother dully. “Is that a knife?”

“Yes.” Malta squared her shoulders, meeting her mother’s eyes and daring her to object. “It is. Come on, Tom. You promised to continue the Skill lesson after lunch. I bet I can beat you at the stone game now.”

She didn’t.

But she was sure she’d gotten closer this time.

Fitz’s unofficial exile from the Paragon was lifted one drowsy summer morning, before the sun rose in the sky, when he found himself dreaming of a ship.

The night was abnormally cold for summer, a chill drifting off the sea. He drew his hand over the unlucky boy’s forehead, smoothing back sweat-slick hair that had been matted down with blood. The jagged stitches along his cheek were angry and puckered. The boy’s lips, cracked and parted, betrayed his ragged, shallow breaths. They grew quieter by the minute.

“Can’t you help him?” he asked helplessly. The figurehead craned her long neck, hair tumbling over her shoulder as she glanced at him.

“I don’t know how,” she said, her voice strangely familiar. The stars were bright above them, betraying a far-off location. It didn’t seem right. But then, nothing about this seemed right. “Are you alright, Wintrow?”

“I’m as good as I’m bound to be,” he said, dragging the bowl of water and rag set out for him closer, wringing the rag out and dabbing the blood from the boy’s forehead. He briefly paused at the sight of his fingers. He shrieked, dropping the cloth directly on the dying boy’s face, and he skittered back.

“Wintrow? Wintrow!”

“What’s happened to my hand?” he gasped, holding his hands up to his face and trembling in horror. He was missing a finger. When had that happened? How had that happened?

Worse, he felt a horror and revulsion that did not belong to him. He suspected it did not belong to the nine-fingered boy named Wintrow, either.

“Something’s wrong,” the figurehead said faintly. “You’re not—you’re not Wintrow—”

It came to Fitz all at once what was happening. The dawning revelation that he was a third, buried consciousness in a boy who had no idea that his mind had been invaded, made Fitz feel sick. He groped along the tenuous Skill-bond and found, to his mounting panic, the now familiar presence of Malta Vestrit. She had slipped into the boy’s skin without intending to, and now she jumped to her feet, wheeling around frantically.

“Where am I?” she babbled senselessly, drawing her hands into her hair. Fitz felt every movement as if it were his own body. The boy’s curls were fine and wispy, left to coil by the constant mist of sea spray in the air. Malta’s curls were thicker, often brushed into waves, unable to fully hold their shape. And Fitz’s curls were nothing like either, a different texture altogether. “Is this a dream? It feels so real—!”

Malta! Fitz snapped. She jolted in shock, both bodily and spiritually. Let him go! Come back. Now!

He found himself wrapping himself around her, unable to explain to her how to unlatch herself from the boy’s body, and he wrenched them both from the Skill-dream, flinging them into the great abyss that could have been the wide ocean or the endless black sky. She clung to him out of fear and confusion. The untethering of the spirit was enough to make any child shriek, and so when Fitz awoke in his bed, slivers of dawn splashing upon his floor, he flung his blanket back and leapt out of bed. Clef blinked awake in an instant at the sound of Fitz’s heavy footfalls as he flung the door of his room open and ran like a madman unleashed through the halls of the Vestrit’s home.

“Malta!” he cried, remembering himself before he barged into her room and hammering on the door viciously. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and he needed to know that the girl was safe inside her own home, inside her own body. “Malta, I’m coming in—!”

The door flew open, and Fitz was knocked a step backwards as the girl’s body slammed into him. Her arms flung around his waist, her face buried in his chest, and he grabbed hold of her, feeling her shoulders trembling and ignoring the sounds of doors opening in the hall around him.

“It’s alright,” he told her gently. He gathered her up in a hard embrace, clinging to her as her spirit had clung to him when he had ripped her from the boy’s body. “You’re back. You’re safe. You’re at home.”

“I don’t understand,” Malta gasped. The Vestrit women had come into the hall, wrapping robes around themselves. Keffria darted forward, arms outstretched, and Fitz tried to release Malta to her mother, but Malta clung to his arms like skittish puppy. “Tom, I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t me. How is that possible?”

“You were using the Skill,” Fitz sighed, shooting Keffria an apologetic look. She glanced between Malta and Fitz with a pale, frantic face. As much as Fitz had not particularly liked the woman, he felt a surge of pity for her as he recognized how he had stolen her child from her by ill chance. “I didn’t think something like this could happen. I assumed the link was just—just between us, and the dragon, but it’s not. You really do have the Skill, and you’re using it, whether you intend to or not.”

“What is happening, Tom?” Ronica asked quietly. Fitz glanced back at the older woman, watching her pull a shawl over her shoulders tiredly.

How to explain it to these women, Fitz hadn’t a clue. He was fighting off a headache that made spots dance at the edge of his vision. There were so many things that he did not understand. How was Malta so powerful with the Skill? Why was she so connected to him? Why did she drag him with her when she Skill-dreamed? Who was that boy?

Fitz saw Clef appear in the hall, white-faced and gaping, and Fitz reached for him, pulling Malta with him as he stepped forward.

“Clef,” he gasped, gripping Malta tight to his side, “Clef, the elfbark—”

“My head doesn’t hurt,” Malta argued as Clef nodded hastily and disappeared the way he came. “I don’t need it!”

“You need to close your mind!” Fitz snapped at her. He was surprised that she did not flinch away from him at his rough tone, only set her jaw and glared up at him defiantly, as though she had known him all her young life, and nothing he could do or say could frighten her. Althea had only just stumbled out into the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she blinked at the scene before her. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? You took that boy’s body! It’s one thing to Skill and see through another’s eyes, but you inhabited him completely! He became a passenger in his own skin.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Malta murmured, sounding pensive. “I didn’t know I was doing it until you pulled me back.”

“Which is why we need to dampen your Skill.” Fitz shook his head. He could not fully believe how powerful the girl was. It chilled him to his core, and at the very same time, he was drawn to her inexplicably, the way a moth was pulled toward an open flame. He expected, if he did not temper her fire, he would be consumed by it, and she would fizzle out. “You should not accidentally be stealing bodies.”

“Well,” Malta countered, still clinging to his nightshirt as if he might disappear in an instant, “if you’d taught me like you said you would—”

“I didn’t think you had this sort of ability.”

“You mean you thought if you did nothing it would simply just go away.” Malta looked up at him, her eyes accusatory, but still, but still, she clung to him. And Fitz realized, suddenly, that there would be no undoing this. Malta was linked to him, inextricably, forever. He could feel her, not just in his arms, but humming like a fitfully buzzing dragonfly in the back of his mind. He felt her frustration and her exhaustion, but more than that, he felt her determination. There was nothing Fitz could do or say that would dissuade her now that she had a taste for the Skill. “Well, what now? It won’t go away, and you know it. If you don’t teach me, I’ll just have to run around with my mind flung open like the door to an abandoned house!”

“What is happening?” Althea gasped. “Has Malta gone crazy? Well, it was bound to happen.”

“Oh, please,” Malta sniffed, releasing Fitz’s arms if only to smooth her sweaty curls from her forehead. Her hair, like the rest of the Vestrit women, had been braided neatly behind her ears. Her violent dream had wrenched her curls from the braids and left them to fly around her head at odd angles. “At least I have an excuse for speaking and acting this way. Don’t you care that I saw Vivacia?”

Althea rocked forward in shock, sputtering questions that could not be fully answered. When, how, what did it mean?

Keffria stared at her daughter with wide eyes as Malta turned to face her, lifting her chin high and shrugging.

“I was Wintrow,” she said distantly.

“What,” Keffria breathed, “does that mean, Malta?”

“I don’t really know.” Malta turned to look up at Fitz. “What does it mean?”

Fitz didn’t know what to say. Wintrow, he recalled, was the name of the boy they’d inhabited. Wintrow, a nine-fingered boy, keeping vigil over a dying child on the deck of a ship.

“It happens sometimes,” Fitz said carefully, “that the Skill brings you away from yourself. In my experience, I’ve only dreamed of people I’m very close with. Family, mainly.”

“Wintrow is my brother,” Malta pointed out, and Fitz blinked down at her.

“Ah,” he said. “That explains it.”

“Did you really…?” Keffria took a deep, shuddering breath. She straightened up and stared directly at Fitz. “Is this true? Did she dream of my son?”

“Yes,” Fitz said carefully. “We both did. It was a cold night, the sea was calm—”

“The boy’s name is Opal,” Malta offered. Fitz shot her an incredulous glance. “Vivacia said it, in my mind. Did you not hear it?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Malta touched her finger, the one that Wintrow had been missing, rubbing it absently. “That’s interesting. I wonder if it’s because Vivacia is our family ship? Though, you could hear Paragon, and he’s not your family.”

“It was not Paragon inside my head, Malta,” Fitz murmured. “It was the others.”

“But the Skill is why they got into your mind to start with,” Malta reasoned, crossing her arms as she parsed through their circumstances. Her elders watched her with increasing concern and wonder. “I think the Skill might be the key to bonding with a liveship. Perhaps we needn’t a family member at all.”

“Malta,” Althea gasped, looking affronted, “what are you saying? What happened with Tom and Paragon proves that a mental connection without a blood connection is dangerous.”

“Yet we intend to sail the Paragon without one,” Malta reminded her curtly. Clef came rushing around the corner, Rache at his heel. Each of them held a teacup. Clef took his to Malta while Rache offered the tea to Fitz. Fitz snatched it up and gulped the tea down as fast as he could. Malta took the cup with a scowl. “What I’m saying is that the Paragon can bond with Tom. Or me.”

There was a stark silence. Fitz’s mouth was scalded from chugging the elfbark tea, the bitter herb leaving a gritty residue on his tongue. He felt sick at her suggestion. Bond with a ship. Bond with that ship.

Open the door, brother, Nighteyes said suddenly, causing Fitz to jump. We are here.

Fitz turned suddenly and walked down the hallway. None of them objected as he pushed through the throng of them. He set the teacup aside on a table in the foyer as he groped through the sickly dawn light toward the door. He opened it and stepped aside so his wolf could trot into the house. The Fool followed at a quicker pace, shooting Fitz a hasty glance as he passed. He looked as put together as the Vestrit women were, a crochet shawl drawn tight between his gloved fingers, two braids loose about his ears, leaving great cottony curls to fly askew. His face was still flushed with sleep, or perhaps the cool morning air had lashed at his cheeks. He wore a nightgown and boots that were not fully laced.

“How did you know?” Fitz asked him quietly.

“Nighteyes,” the Fool replied. Fitz stared at him blankly. “I don’t know, Fitz. He woke me just before dawn, and I knew I must come to you. What else can I say?”

I could hardly leave him, Nighteyes said. I brought him for you. For comfort.

Are you not here for that? Fitz asked amusedly.

I’m not here for you at all.

And with that, Nighteyes slipped into the hall, leaving Fitz to the Fool while he went to ease Malta’s confusion and fear. It was baffling.

“Malta Skilled out in her sleep,” Fitz confessed as the Fool shut the door and leaned back heavily against it. His eyes grew wide in surprise.

“To the dragon?” he asked breathlessly.

“No.” Fitz scowled at the gray patches of light on the richly woven rug beneath his feet. “To her brother.”

“Selden…?”

“Wintrow.” Fitz glanced over his shoulder, expecting the Vestrit women to appear, but he could hear them talking in the hallway. Well, not talking, exactly. With his absence, the Vestrits seemed more willing to speak plainly about their feelings. Which meant they were arguing. “He’s on the Vivacia. I was with him. With them. Malta took me with her when she took his body.”

“That’s…” The Fool’s eyes were so large that they seemed to dwarf his face. With his fat, unruly braids and nightgown and dainty shawl, he looked like a young woman flung from her bed. Not much older than Malta. Which was strange, of course, because the Fool could not be so much younger than Fitz.

“I don’t know how to help her,” Fitz admitted. “It will devour her, Fool. She has no patience, no self-control, and no self-preservation. She will burn too much too fast, and I can’t stop her.”

The Fool fixed him with an odd stare, and Fitz was forced to reflect on his words to figure out what it was that made his friend look at him this way. There was disbelief there. And some amusement. Fitz shook his head.

“You’re not listening,” he huffed.

“I said nothing,” the Fool said lightly, a smile creeping on his lips.

“You needn’t say a word, Fool. You are teasing me with your eyes.”

“Oh my,” the Fool uttered, drawing his fingers to his lips as if scandalized. “To say such things in the dark—in our nightdress—”

“This is serious, Fool,” Fitz groaned, shaking his head as the Fool grinned at him mischievously. “Malta is going to get hurt. She’s far too stubborn—”

“I think she might be the perfect student for you,” the Fool cut in with a shrug. Fitz scowled at him. “Oh, sure, she’s stubborn and she’s frustrating, but I always assumed it took a great deal of willpower to use the Skill. Perhaps her stubbornness and determination will be an asset here and not a handicap, as you assume.”

“She wants to bond with the Paragon!” Fitz shook his head in disbelief. The Fool’s eyes widened momentarily before his expression settled into a placid smile once more.

“Interesting.” The Fool turned away abruptly, fingers knotted in his shawl. “Perhaps we should let her.”

“Fool!”

“Yes, yes, how heartless I am,” the Fool tutted, plopping down upon the fat feather cushions of the foyer’s window seat. Dawn made light of his hair, golden curls glimmering like spun metal. He toyed with the end of his braid before tossing it behind his shoulder with a sigh. “The truth is, I’d bond with Paragon if I could. He won’t let me. Or maybe I’m just not capable of it, being as I am. We could try to sail him without a bond attachment, of course—we intended to, either way. But if we intend to take Malta, and she intends to bond with him, would that truly be such a bad thing? It could only help us.”

“It could only hurt her,” Fitz argued fiercely. “You know that. You know what’s inside him—”

“Malta will be susceptible to their intrusion either way,” the Fool reminded him. “As will you. Shields, Fitz. Walls. Make your minds small and secret and safe behind them. If you cannot do that, then the journey is meaningless anyway. We’re already doomed.”

“Don’t say that…”

“Oh, now you listen?” The Fool showed his teeth as he leapt to his feet. “When I predict disaster and ill fortune you perk your ears and whine that it’s not fair. Well! Perhaps you should listen to me before we are trapped in a sinking ship.”

Fitz had a thousand retorts on his tongue, most of them born of frustration and anger, when Althea appeared suddenly from the darkened hall. She did not seem surprised to see the Fool. She crossed her arms and studied Fitz with her dark, keen eyes.

“Is this all true?” she demanded. Her eyes darted between the Fool and Fitz fiercely. “Can you and Malta really go into Wintrow’s mind aboard the Vivacia?”

Hesitantly, Fitz found himself nodding. Althea let out a small laugh of disbelief and she drew her hands through her hair with a strange grin.

“This changes everything, you know,” she breathed. “We can really find them. We might even be able to talk to Vivacia!”

Fitz opened his mouth to argue, but the Fool beat him to it.

“Malta’s ability to step into her brother’s mind does not erase the very real danger of this ability,” the Fool said calmly, as if he had not been arguing a minute earlier that they should let Malta get eaten by Paragon’s dragons. “Tom is the only one who can teach her how to protect herself from the danger the Skill poses. So it is Tom’s choice how this power is used.”

The Fool then met Fitz’s eyes, and there was a warmth there that melted Fitz’s hardened heart and soothed his burning anger. He knew, suddenly, that the Fool meant no ill will toward Malta. Of course he didn’t. The Fool was too kind to throw Malta to that sort of fate, and Fitz knew that. But the Fool knew, as well as Fitz, that they could not really stop Malta from doing what she wished. And the Paragon would be a danger to both Fitz and Malta if they could not shield themselves from the ship’s magic.

“It’s Malta’s choice,” Fitz corrected, not without an edge of bitterness. The Fool’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he smiled all the same. “It’s her power. I can only help her control it and try to keep her from destroying herself and others with it.”

Althea shot him a brief, wild-eyed glance, growing pale at the suggestion, but she nodded. It surprised him, how easily she agreed to hand Malta this choice, when it was no secret she and the child rarely saw eye to eye.

“She’s gotten really attached to you,” Althea said, and she shot him a smirk when he shuffled uncomfortably, trying to think of an excuse. “That’s not a bad thing, Tom. Honestly, I think she probably needed a man in her life who doesn’t give a damn about spoiling her rotten. This Skill thing has put the thought of men out of her mind entirely, and I think Keffria and Mother should be kissing the ground you walk on for that.”

“I’m shocked they haven’t thrown me out yet,” Fitz admitted lamely.

“Oh, Keffria wanted to.” Althea shrugged. Fitz was not surprised in the least. “Mother even seemed to consider it for a minute there, but Malta would have thrown a fit and ran away. I told them as much.” With a sudden scrunch of her nose, she sighed. “I guess we are alike. Damn. I hate admitting it.”

“The family resemblance is striking,” the Fool said dryly. Althea glanced at him. Her eyes flitted over him curiously.

“Do you have this Skill, Amber?” she asked, causing the Fool the blink and laugh in surprise. “What? You certainly act like you and Tom can speak without talking. Do you enter each other’s minds while you sleep, too?”

“Hardly,” the Fool said, smiling elusively. “No, I have no Skill. Not even the potential for it. Not in the way that Tom and Malta do. I just know Tom very well. And sometimes it feels like we might have a bond, but—”

“We do,” Fitz said quietly. The Fool’s mouth clicked shut. Althea’s eyes darted between them with great interest. “It’s not a strong bond, or anything, and it’s not really your business, Althea.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Althea gasped, feigning distress. She rolled her eyes with a dismissive snort. “As if it’s surprising, the way you two act. When I say you talk without speaking, I mean it. It’s the way old married couples do, just knowing the other’s thoughts before they can say them.”

“Well,” Fitz said stiffly, “we’ve known each other all our lives.”

“All your life, maybe,” the Fool said haughtily. Fitz glanced at him, watching his bright smile unfurl, the smile of his youth teasing him through the years. Even just the sight of it made the Fool look even younger, a child’s face grinning at him, all dimpled cheeks and mirthful eyes. It was nostalgic, to say the least. “I’m older than you, lest you forget.”

“I can hardly believe that,” Fitz huffed. “You were so little at Buckkeep—”

“I was small for a long time. That does not make me young.”

“How old are you?” Althea asked. “Both of you?”

“I’m twenty-five,” Fitz said. He glanced to the Fool expectantly, and the Fool, in turn, nodded.

“That you are,” he said. Althea stared at him expectantly. “I am older than that.”

“Really?” Althea’s surprise leaned more toward suspicion, as though she did not believe a word the Fool said. “You don’t seem much older than I am, if I’m honest.”

“Like I said,” the Fool said levelly, “being small does not make me young. Age is a number that ceases all value after you spend enough suns on this earth. If I thought hard about it, perhaps I could give you a number. But then there is no promise of truth there, is there?”

“What are you even saying?” Althea sighed, shaking her head before looking to Tom for support.

“Oh, don’t ask me. I can’t translate hi—her when she’s like this.”

“Like what?” The Fool batted his eyelashes at him, lacing his fingers together and bringing them beneath his chin. “Who needs a translator? I’m being very plain. I’m older than you both.”

“Hm.” Althea seemed to accept this begrudgingly. She trusted the Fool enough to let the topic die. “How fair you look, Amber, for an old maid.”

Fitz barked a laugh, which earned him a sharp look from the Fool that instantly silenced him. Was the man hurt by the jab? Or by Fitz’s laughter? It seemed so silly! The Fool would have laughed at such a joke if they were home. Before Fitz could question it, however, Malta came darting into the room. Nighteyes came up behind her, Clef at his side.

“I want to go to the Paragon,” Malta declared. All thoughts of teasing and age were left to dissipate into nothing as they stared at her blankly. Clef nodded beside her furiously. “I can’t be blindsided by whatever is lurking within him. I think it’s better for Tom and I to face him.”

“I agree,” the Fool said gently.

“You agree?” Fitz huffed. “You are the one who told me I could not help with the work on the Paragon because it would cause me to be too close to the ship!”

“I meant the refitting,” the Fool said, hugging his elbows as he frowned at Fitz, “not the proximity. I think it’s been long enough, and it might even do Paragon some good, seeing you again. He assumes you hate him.”

“How stupid,” Fitz muttered, feeling guilty that the ship had to endure sharing a wooden body with two dragons. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know that. He doesn’t see it that way, though.”

“So we’re in agreement?” Malta asked tiredly. “Clef said he’s coming too. He wants to help with the refitting.”

“He has lessons,” Fitz objected sharply. Clef scowled at him.

“If she gets to go, so do I,” Clef said firmly. “Ain’t no way the prissy little lady gets to help, and I don’t.”

“She won’t be touching Paragon.” The Fool’s eyes slid to Malta, who withstood that strange, brilliant gold gaze admirably. She met the Fool’s eyes without hesitation, waiting for him to continue. “Neither Malta nor Tom can touch the ship. If you’d like to come along, I’m sure Brashen will find some menial task for you to do. Though I warn you, it might be arduous. Personally, I’d rather study.”

“I’ll take some hard work over letters any day,” Clef said, looking relieved.

“I didn’t say you could come,” Fitz warned the boy. Clef looked up at him pleadingly, and Fitz’s heart melted almost instantly. “Oh, fine! But you’ll bring your book and a few sheets of parchment with you. We’ll take our lesson on the beach. Both lessons, Malta. Don’t think you’re excused. This will be the perfect opportunity for a Skill lesson.”

“Oh, splendid,” Malta muttered, whirling away and patting Nighteyes absently as she went. “How I love the stone game.”

Chapter Text

Ronica Vestrit had been so grateful when Malta’s behavior had turned away from boys, only to be struck dumb at this new and even more frightening problem. It vexed her that Malta had abandoned her carefully wrought appearance and endured lessons with Althea under the midday sun, ruining her fair complexion and callousing her soft hands. She walked around the house and town in drab skirts and unadorned blouses, and worse, her latched leather belt had sported a small knife as of late. Keffria was beside herself.

“Sa knows I prayed that she would fall out of these fanciful dreams of courtships and balls, but I hardly wanted her to turn into Althea!”

She’d said it a number of times. This morning was no different. They walked to the beach side by side, unable to stray from the topic that always seemed to plague them. Malta and Tom.

“I don’t know if it is a blessing or a curse,” Ronica admitted as they made their descent toward the beach. “It feels like a gift, this power bestowed upon her. And we are lucky Tom knows so much about it.”

“Are we lucky, Mother?” Keffria asked desperately. “You welcomed him into our home, and what good has it done us? Malta is—she bears the curse of our ancestors, for trading with Rain Wilders. It was bad enough that we’ve bargained her off with one—”

“A decision she made for herself,” Ronica reminded.

“Only because she believes it will pay our debts and save the Vivacia!” Keffria shook her head, a stricken look passing her face. “No. She is cursed, and we are letting some foreign ruffian have his way with her mind—”

“They cannot help the magic, Keffria,” Ronica reminded her impatiently. “I’ve said it before, and I will say it again. Tom did not start this, Malta did. She has admitted, readily, that she invaded his mind without permission. She also admitted that the only reason their minds touched to start with was because she opened the dreambox that I warned her she should not open. Tom has told me that he would leave if I asked. And when I asked him if Malta would be safe in his absence, he admitted to me that he suspected she would not be. So here we are.”

“And you believe him?” Keffria bit her lip. “I just don’t see why you all trust him so.”

“He’s never given us a reason not to.”

“He won’t even give us his real name,” Keffria murmured. Ronica thought on that. She did recall the strange reunion between lovers, and how Amber had called Tom by a different name upon seeing him.

“That is his business. Now hush.”

Luckily the bustling beach around the Paragon drowned out their conversation. Keffria took her arm to aid her over some rockier bits of the beach. There was shouting—Brashen giving orders, Ronica realized. She peered up at the ship curiously. It was coming along quite well, it seemed. The excavation of sand appeared nearly complete, but there was no telling from this perspective how much work was left to be done on the ship itself. When Ronica glanced at the deck, she could see Clef darting around it, stopping to tie something off. He looked happy, Ronica noted. She did not blame Tom for forbidding the boy from working on the ship, but it was obvious that the child had no idea how to be a child anymore. He was learning, slowly, with his garden games that he played with Selden, but she knew that in the boy’s heart he thought he was merely entertaining a rich merchant’s son.

It was a wonder to her that Tom could not see it. The class divide was so jarring, it likely brushed the poor boy like sandpaper, living in their house with nothing to do but study or play. Idle work for a child used to laboring.

Keffria was searching the deck for Malta, Ronica knew. And Ronica searched for Althea. She found her gripping Amber’s arm nearby, the wolf baring his teeth at Brashen. Brashen then turned to speak to them in a much lower voice. Ronica and Keffria made their way to the ladder and carefully made their way up the hull.

“Mother?” Althea gasped. She’d released Amber in the time it had taken to ascend. “Keffria? What are you two doing here?”

“We came to observe Tom’s lesson,” Keffria said breezily. “He did say that was his intention, bringing Malta here. Where is he?”

Amber jerked her chin up toward the sky. Ronica looked up, finding it blue and cloudless, an endlessly beautiful summer afternoon. She blinked, and then lowered her gaze, finding herself staring at the cliffs above the Paragon. There, two figures sat, watching the waves crashing upon the rocks below.

“What are they doing up there?” Keffria asked, surprised. “I thought the point was to test their connection to the Paragon. To see if it could… hurt them, the way Tom was hurt…”

“We tested it,” Amber said gently, “and it went well. Though I suspect it is because Tom was shielding Malta. She spent some time exploring the ship and the holds before speaking to Paragon directly.”

“And how did that go?” Ronica asked dryly. Althea smirked. Amber merely smiled.

“He likes her,” Amber offered. “Right, Paragon?”

Paragon said nothing. Ronica saw a flash of worry in Amber’s eyes, which she valiantly disguised with a nod and a shrug.

“Well, regardless, I think progress was made,” she said.

“Malta scolded Paragon,” Althea admitted. “She told him that she’d felt what he did to Tom, and it nearly sent him spiraling until she said that she didn’t think he had really meant to hurt either of them, but that if she had to guard her mind, he did too. And then they started talking about nonsense. Hair, I think. Malta was curious about his beard.”

“I supervised,” Amber said gently, “while Tom went over his lesson with Clef.”

“Wasn’t allowed to do a damned thing ‘til I read that stupid poem,” Clef breathed as he passed by them, lugging a bucket across the deck. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon, Clef,” Ronica said amusedly. She did not mention they had all seen each other at dawn.

“Tom and Malta have been up there for an hour or so,” he said, lowering the bucket and wiping his brow with his sleeve. “Tom said it was something he liked to do, when he was trying to Skill. I think it might be working, because they haven’t started yelling at each other.”

Ronica had heard quite enough of Malta and Tom’s arguments, which is why she truly had no qualms with allowing the lessons to continue as they have. While Keffria wondered at the impropriety and the possibility that Tom might make a pass at the girl, Ronica had to remind her that Tom was quite clearly in love with his Amber, and regardless, he loathed the idea of the lessons as much as Malta ardently fought for them. And when Malta’s flirtations were brought up, Ronica could only shrug. It seemed as though she had forgotten that Tom was an attractive man and had decided to treat him as she treated Selden. Like an overgrown brother that would not bend to her will.

“I can show you around,” Althea offered, “while we wait for them. I honestly don’t know how long it’ll take. Tom wasn’t specific. So—”

“Yes,” Ronica said with a nod, “that would be lovely. Thank you, Althea.”

It passed the time. Althea showed them the refurbished captain’s quarters, which were far more beautiful than Ronica had ever expected them to be. Every inch of wood gleamed from recently applied stain or polish. Althea ushered them out quickly when Keffria picked up a scrap of paper left upon the captain’s desk. Althea had snatched it away and pushed them toward the door.

“We’ve been throwing around the idea of adding a wall to this room, even if it’s just a temporary one,” Althea said, setting the drawing aside as she shut the door. Ronica glimpsed a beautiful, lovingly rendered depiction of Tom’s face sketched onto it, somewhat more boyish than what she was used to. It took her a moment to realize that Amber, the artist that she was, must have drawn it. What a lucky man.

“Do we have the funds to add an additional wall?” Keffria asked tiredly.

“No,” Althea said with a grimace, “but the second mate’s bunk is too small for four women. Oh, Jek is coming. So there’s four of us. The alternative is to give someone a hammock. I could reasonably sleep in one, but it would still be cramped.”

Althea then showed them the bunk in question. It was, in fact, far too small for four people to live in. It was only meant for one, clearly, but it had been modified with three bunks. The idea of Malta cramming herself into one of them was laughable.

“Has Malta seen this?” Ronica asked. Althea smiled at her and nodded, looking amused.

“She said she’d sleep wherever Nighteyes sleeps,” Althea said, earning blank stares from both Ronica and Keffria. “I know. She’s like a different child altogether, I don’t understand it. But Tom has made it clear that Nighteyes is to stay in this room as a precaution. I think something about the way Brashen talks about our sailors has spooked him.”

“Four women and a wolf,” Ronica murmured. “That sounds…”

“Well,” Althea said hastily, “we’re trying to figure it out. Hence the wall idea. Jek or I will probably end up taking up whatever space we carve out of Brashen’s room, if we do that. Or maybe it should be Malta, given she’s the youngest. I don’t know. It’s a logical hiccup that I’ve been having trouble with. It would be so much easier if I could just pretend to be a boy again.”

“That wouldn’t solve any problems,” Keffria told her curtly. “Aren’t you pleased to have the position you were given?”

“I should be first mate,” Althea said darkly.

“Well you can’t get everything you want, Althea.”

“Might we see the galley?” Ronica suggested as Althea glared at her sister. It was surprising when she whirled around and led them to it. This too had been refitted, shining from top to bottom. The small stove had been cleaned and polished. Ronica could not help but be impressed. Althea saw her expression and smirked.

“This was all work Amber put in before the purchase.” Althea turned away with a shrug. “In case you had any doubts that she loves the old mad ship.”

Ronica felt a new appreciation toward the beadmaker. It was obvious that it had taken a lot of time and effort to get the ship to where it was, but it could very well be sea ready, so long as it didn’t take in water when they floated it.

When they returned to the deck, Malta was there. She was sitting on the railing, swinging her feet as she spoke to the figurehead. Her sandals were neatly set aside, and she wore a pair of socks that she must have brought with her, for whatever reason, a plain blue skirt, and her belt with her knife visible for all to see. It was as though she wanted gossip to spread about her. Perhaps she did, Ronica conceded. Strangely, she also wore a pair of leather gloves that buttoned up her wrist. They were slim, made of red stained leather, and they fit her like a second skin.

“Should she be so close to the figurehead?” Ronica asked uncertainly. She recalled Tom’s seizure vividly. Watching the man lose control of his mind and then begin to scream from some unseeable force setting upon him, thrashing upon the sand, had been quite enough. The thought that Malta had felt any of it made it all the worse.

“I’m protecting her from the ship,” Tom said, appearing from nowhere, a wooden beam set upon his shoulders. Ronica could only nod mutely, not fully understanding. “We’ve already established a bond. Mentally, I mean, me and Malta. I can feel her, she can feel me, and though it’s unstable, we are in close enough proximity that I can sort of… wrap her up, I suppose, in the shields that I constructed for myself. I’m hoping that the feeling of them will encourage her to build her own, since she’ll have a reference for what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Keffria said quietly. It didn’t. Ronica watched her granddaughter chat with the figurehead with a frown. Never would she have imagined Malta Haven in a one-sided conversation with the mad ship. He nodded to her every so often to let her know he was listening.

“It’s a start,” Tom said solemnly, turning away with a shake of his head. “When you return to the house, would you take Clef and Malta with you? They’re likely exhausted but won’t admit it.”

“Of course,” Keffria said gently. She glanced to Ronica when his back was fully turned. As much as Keffria had her reservations about the man, even she had to admit he had a good heart. “I’ll round up Clef if you’ll handle Malta?”

“Do you imagine the boy will be easier?” Ronica asked amusedly. “He’s got quite the mouth on him.”

“He’s never mouthed off to me,” Keffria said confidently. Her eyes darted to her daughter. “I can’t say the same for Malta.”

“Well, I’m sure she will listen to me just fine,” Ronica said dryly, striding up to the rail and figurehead. Malta glanced at her as she approached.

“Have you met my grandmother, Paragon?” Malta asked the ship, flicking her braid over her shoulder as she tipped her head back to glance at the figurehead.

Paragon inclined his head toward her, but he said nothing. He was, perhaps, not in the best of moods. It made the fact that he was allowing Malta to talk to him so idly quite strange.

“We are going home for dinner,” Ronica told her granddaughter curtly. Malta looked unsurprised and unimpressed, but she slipped off the rail and scooped up her sandals without comment.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Paragon,” Malta said, patting the rail before pushing off it. “You’ll just have to wait to find out what Delo said, I’m afraid!”

Gossip, Ronica realized. Her granddaughter was gossiping with the mad ship. Truly, she had seen it all.

Not wanting to push her luck of convincing Malta without an argument, Ronica tried to hurry down the ladder. Malta stared at her blankly from the rail.

“Ronica, watch your step!”

She had nearly missed the last rung, and she gasped as she was caught by the arm and drawn down to her feet. Tom was beside her in an instant, steadying her by her shoulders. Then he frowned up at Malta.

“Malta!” he rebuked her. “You should have gone down before your grandmother and made sure she was safe!”

“How was I to know she’d slip?” Malta huffed, dropping her sandals over the side of the rail and nimbly gliding down the ladder. She took a few steps away from the Paragon before she sat down upon a rock and peeled off her socks, shaking the sand from them. Then she slipped her sandals back onto her feet, lacing them up with a scowl.

“It’s not a matter of knowing something is going to happen,” Tom told her with a shake of his head. “She’s your elder, and you ought to be a bit more compassionate than that.”

“Unless compassion has something to do with Skilling,” Malta said, tying off her laces and smoothing out her skirt, “I hardly see why you are lecturing me on this.”

“Compassion is a key part to Skilling,” Tom rebuked her. Malta glanced at him, her eyes narrowing. “You are going into people’s minds, Malta. What is the bond between us if not an extreme form of empathy?”

Malta said nothing. She simply frowned at him. He stood there, waiting, his arms folded across his chest. They stared at each other, unblinking, for a minute. A minute turned to two. Keffria appeared with a grumpy looking Clef, her eyes darting between Tom and Malta.

“What’s happening now?” she hissed at Ronica.

“They’re arguing.” Ronica watched Malta blink suddenly, wincing a bit as she bowed her head, and she slipped off the rock shakily.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. Let’s just go.”

She was gone in an instant, faster than either of them expected, marching across the beach and up the rocky incline without a care. The drastic changes in Malta, who once would have been so concerned with her appearance as she trekked up the hill, were jarring, admittedly. Ronica did not think her personality had changed much, despite Keffria’s concerns—the girl was still exactly the same headstrong, defiant little girl she had always been. But her focus had shifted.

“Hey!” Clef bolted after Malta, darting up the incline as fast as he could. “Wait for me! Eda’s tits, girl, you’re fast!”

“You certainly swear like a sailor,” Malta sighed, shaking off the boy when he tried to reach out for her. Keffria helped Ronica up the incline, and they listened to the children bicker.

“You oughta try it. It’s good for stress.”

“No, thank you.”

“Did you at least get Paragon to talk to you?”

“No.” Malta sighed even more deeply. Both children had paused at the top of the incline. “I thought that was obvious.”

“He wasn’t yelling, though, so that’s a good sign.”

“I don’t know. I was hoping I’d feel something.”

“Be glad you didn’t,” Ronica warned the girl as she passed by her. Keffria released her arm as they got to level ground. “We agreed that neither of you would try bonding with the ship. It seems too dangerous.”

“You agreed,” Malta reminded her with a short huff. “I still think it’s our best option. But I suppose the ship needs to trust me first. Hm. I’ll have to keep trying.”

And with that she whirled away and stalked down the sea road without a care in the world if she left them in the dust.

The laborers were paid their day’s wage and departed. Fitz stoked the cook fire that the Fool had gotten going, sitting before a silent Paragon and taking his sea pipes from his pocket. He stared at them, running his thumb along the intricate little spiral designs carved into each pipe, and he silently set them on the rock beside him. Though he had brought them specifically to entertain Paragon, he didn’t know if it was wise. The ship had not spoken much at all today. Apparently he’d had an argument with Brashen while Fitz and Malta were on the cliffs, but they had not heard it.

The Fool appeared from behind the hull of the ship, tugging his hair free of the messy braid it had been queued into. He ran his fingers through it, separating the fat curls, and it began to unfurl around his warm, tawny face. Sunset had spilt over him, creating a gilded cast, as if he had truly been set in liquid gold. Fitz found himself staring in awe at the way the man’s fluffy hair caught the light like bands of copper threaded through a painted statue.

“Brashen and Althea have gone,” the Fool announced. Fitz raised an eyebrow, and the Fool shrugged. “It was Althea’s idea. She asked Brashen to buy her a drink.”

“Can Brashen afford that?” Fitz snorted.

“No.” The Fool smiled amusedly. Then he sighed, lowering himself onto the sand opposite Fitz. “She wanted to leave us alone, Fitz. To talk through our relationship, I suspect.”

“Our friendship, you mean,” Fitz corrected.

“You know what they think.” The Fool met his gaze, and once again, Fitz was struck with the full force of the man’s ethereal beauty. He wore trousers and a loose shirt, something familiar, something safe. Fitz let out a shaky breath. “I know you’re not comfortable with it, and I’m sorry that it’s what they all assume. It’s because I’m a woman. I never thought I’d have this problem, honestly—Amber isn’t exactly a lady who seems accessible. Men have flirted with me, but Amber is reserved in her affections.”

“So Amber is just another act,” Fitz said carefully. He was aware, as he was sure the Fool was, that they were not actually alone. Paragon was listening to every word.

“Not at all.” The Fool looked affronted. “I’ve told you before, Fitz. Amber is me. I am her. But my goals here—I haven’t the time for entertaining. That’s the difference, I suppose. Amber is not an entertainer. Perhaps I should have become a minstrel instead of a beadmaker to scratch an itch.”

“And what would you sing?” Fitz asked him amusedly. “Those bawdy love songs you used to haunt me with at Buckkeep?”

“Shall I haunt you once more, my darling Fitzy?” the Fool teased him. Fitz groaned as the Fool leapt to his feet, an arm stretching above his head, hand outstretched. “Each morning do I come to him, my heart he carries round in him, so comely is his shy old grin, that I might become a man again!”

He bent backwards, landing on his hands with a whoop of laughter, and though Fitz’s face burned, it was an almost pleasant embarrassment. It had not been so bad. Fitz had expected far worse. It had plainly been affectionate, and not even very bawdy. Though he could have easily made it so with a gesture, instead he had chosen to display his acrobatics. It was a relief. Fitz found himself clapping with a wide grin as the Fool did an odd contortion with his head beneath his arm, still stretched backwards in a bridge. It was the sort of strange motion that would have gotten the word freak slung at him at Buckkeep.

The Fool stood on his hands and rolled breezily back onto his feet. A loud clapping made them both freeze. They glanced up at Paragon uncertainly.

“Thank you, Paragon,” the Fool said lightly, tossing his hair over his shoulder. “See, Fitz, Paragon always enjoys my singing.”

“I do,” Paragon said quietly.

“Likely because Paragon has never been the subject of your ridicule,” Fitz said dryly.

“Oh, get over it, won’t you? Does youth not erase such follies?” The Fool shot him a very endearing little pout. “I’ve no intention of subjecting you to any ridicule you do not deserve, fairest Fitz.”

“Oh, shut up,” Fitz laughed. The Fool’s pout split into a bright, easy grin, and he smothered his own laughter into his hands. “It’s beyond helping, honestly. What they think we are. I’ve just learned to ignore it.”

“How mature of you.” The Fool sunk slowly to his knees before the fire. “You know it was never my intention—”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re not enjoying it a little,” Fitz sighed. “You love your tricks. I imagine this sort of ruse suits you fine, playacting being torn away from your one true love.”

The Fool was quiet a moment. Fitz realized he had let an edge of bitterness into his voice, and he scowled at his hands. He wrenched off the gloves he’d been wearing all day and tossed them beside his pipes. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, rolling the stiff and aching muscles of his back, and he wondered at the bitterness. He resented it, he realized. He did not like people perceiving something untrue about him and the Fool. There was no pleasure to be had in playacting, not for Fitz.

“Yes,” the Fool said distantly, prodding at the fire with a long stick. A log collapsed into itself, coughing embers into the drawing dusk. “Of course. So much fun. I so enjoy crying in front of strangers and telling those who have no business knowing that King Shrewd’s fool survived the Red Ship Wars that I am he—Clef knows who you are, doesn’t he?”

Fitz was startled by the Fool’s sudden change in demeanor, and he could not understand what had caused it. Yes, admittedly, Fitz had sounded a bit bitter, but he had not been angry or driven to shouting. It had been an observation, nothing more. Uncertainly, Fitz’s eyes dragged up toward the Paragon. The grizzled, scarred figurehead was listening intently.

“Paragon can keep a secret,” the Fool said curtly. “Trust me. Paragon, promise me you’ll never speak a word of what you hear tonight to anyone. Swear it by your wizardwood.”

Paragon’s mouth parted in surprise. Then, after an instant of hesitation, the old mad ship bowed his head toward the Fool.

“I promise, Amber,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.” The Fool had not once looked at the Paragon. His eyes remained on Fitz, unblinking. “Clef knows?”

“He’s smart,” Fitz said quietly. He absently rubbed Nighteyes’s head, wondering about the boy’s ill-fated Witted cousin. Old Blood boy with no talent for it. Blind and deaf to a sixth sense. “He put it together after finding out who you were. You and the wolf gave me away.”

“I don’t see how he could know we were close at Buckkeep,” the Fool said quietly. “He was a child during the Red Ship Wars…”

“He heard songs, I suppose. Of Shrewd’s fool, yes, and the Witted Bastard. Songs before he was known as Witted and after. He told me his cousin had a mouse named Cotton.” Fitz lifted his eyes to the sky, watching the gray evening begin to devour the sweet golden sunset. “He told me they found her head severed from her body, Cotton stuffed inside her mouth.”

The Fool’s face was illuminated by the soft cast of firelight, the gold of his hair and eyes whirling on red, and he shrunk with this small tragedy laid at his feet, drawing his knees to his chest and closing his eyes to the horror of it.

“So yes,” Fitz found himself continuing, when it became apparent that the Fool was not going to respond. Perhaps, for once, he was at a loss for words. “The boy knows. He does not care.”

“Ah.” The Fool nodded, eyes remaining closed. “I suppose I’ve never been gladder that the Wit seems to elude the Cursed Shores.”

“Not entirely.” Fitz jerked his thumb at Paragon. “Liveships must be made with some combination of the Wit and the Skill. Maybe these Rain Wild folk I’ve heard Malta yap about might have a capacity for the Wit, to rend life from wood this way.”

“What is this you speak of?” Paragon asked sharply. Fitz jumped at the jabbing of his booming voice. “Wit and Skill—magic incomprehensible. Is that how you were bent back inside of your body, boy? Incomprehensible magic christened after abstract ideas?”

Fitz was chilled at the mention of his resurrection by the Wit. He had hoped that he could simply reunite with Paragon and not mention their last meeting at all.

“It is magic as incomprehensible as a ship who speaks and jests and tantrums,” the Fool said softly, and Fitz was shocked by the way tone could change how words landed. This statement had all the makings of an average barbed insult, a customary Fool interaction, but instead, the Fool had spoken gently, assuring the ship that he meant no ill will. And of course Fitz had been on the receiving end of such a tone, but still, he found himself staring at his friend and wondering how well he truly knew him.

“Ah, well, all magic is incomprehensible,” Paragon decided with a wave. “Still, we use it. Or it uses us.”

“Wise words from a mad ship,” Fitz managed to utter faintly, trying for a jest and finding it falling flat.

“It seems to me that you’ve dappled in madness yourself, boy,” Paragon replied coolly. Fitz swallowed any retort that leapt to his tongue. He needed to remind himself that Paragon was not a man that he could quarrel with. He was a ship, and the Fool’s friend, and Fitz would need to trust him with all of their lives sooner than later. “Why have you come back here?”

“What?” Fitz asked confusedly.

“Why have you returned to me,” Paragon asked with a scowl, “when I know you must hate me?”

“I don’t hate you,” Fitz offered lamely. “I just don’t understand you. You frighten me. But I suppose it’s the way that Malta frightens me. You have magic you cannot control. It’s not your fault. It’s just your nature. You didn’t hurt me on purpose, Paragon, I know that.”

“Malta frightens you?” Paragon asked him incredulously. “Aren’t you a man? Scared of a little girl, hm! How silly. How silly, indeed! Well, I’m not scared of her. She likes me, you know.”

Fitz’s irritation had sparked as Paragon’s mood had shifted, his more mature musings returning to that frustrating mask of a little boy. When Fitz opened his mouth to retort, he felt a hand on his wrist, and he halted. Suddenly the Fool was beside him, fingers closing around the flesh of his wrist, the thin layer of leather between those Skill-marred fingertips and Fitz’s skin the only barrier that kept Fitz from losing his senses entirely. He forgot that he was angry at all.

“Malta does like you, Paragon,” the Fool said tenderly, watching Fitz’s face carefully as he stared at the place where their skin could touch, if the Fool was less courteous. “But then, all children like you. There’s just something about you that makes them feel at ease.”

Paragon said nothing to that, and Fitz wondered what the ship was thinking. When, after a minute of silence, the Fool realized that Paragon was retreating into himself, he sighed. He turned his face toward the sea, looking pensive.

“Would you like a drink, Fitz?” he asked suddenly.

“You have alcohol?” Fitz asked amusedly.

“A bit of brandy. Would you like some?”

With the Fool’s fingers still wrapped tight around Fitz’s wrist, the last dregs of sunlight haloing his mane of golden curls, it was hard to say anything, so Fitz could only nod.

He had to put his gloves and socks back on before they boarded the Paragon. The Fool gave the hull a pat as they ascended the ladder. Fitz tied his sandal straps together and slung them across his shoulders, feeling they did him little good on the ship. The deck gleamed in the early dusk, silver wood appearing as if it was bathed in moonlight. But there was no moon visible in the sky just yet.

The Fool pulled Fitz into the captain’s quarters, lighting candles as he went. He was met with a cozy, neatly ordered cabin, the silver floors gleaming in the candlelight from a fresh polish. It was sparsely decorated compared to the Fool’s old chambers in Buckkeep, but a keen eye, or perhaps someone who knew what to look for, could note the netted suncatchers at the porthole, colorful glass orbs nestled in cradles of twine, little wooden charms hanging from beaded strings. There were woven blankets on the bed, colorful patterns flashing in the flicker of dim light. At the foot of the bed, there was a chest, deftly carved with moons and suns with all sorts of expressions, baleful or delighted. Upon the chest there was a carefully folded bit of red fabric that caught the candlelight just enough that Fitz saw the flash of gold embroidery. A wooden hoop was attached to it, and it had been pushed aside, nearly completely out of view.

“Please be patient with Paragon,” the Fool said quietly as he pulled the brandy out from a cabinet in the captain’s writing desk. He set two wooden mugs upon the desk and poured them both a healthy amount. “I know it can be frustrating, but treat him as you would a child when he acts that way. You are so good with children, Fitz. They love you.”

“Oh, please,” Fitz murmured, waving his hand dismissively. “Clef was only drawn to me because I reminded him of home. Malta is only drawn to me because of the Skill. Selden is only drawn to me because he lacks a father.”

“And none of that changes that they love you,” the Fool said curtly. “Paragon is a child too—at least part of him is. So be as patient as you would be with Clef or Malta or Selden.”

“But he isn’t a child,” Fitz said, taking the offered mug of brandy and scowling into it. “He’s a ship.”

“A sentient ship,” the Fool reminded him sharply, “who thinks and feels and dreams. Have you not wondered why he acts like a child, Fitz? Think for a moment!”

Fitz took a long sip of his brandy, disturbed by the Fool’s biting tone. The brandy was sweeter than expected, a fruit-tinged burn warming his chest as he turned the Fool’s words over in his mind. Why did Paragon act like a child? He was not mad, Fitz thought, merely confused. The dragons prevented him from functioning the way he ought to. But he would fall into these horrid tantrums, cling to Amber like a jealous child, brag to Fitz how much Amber liked him more—it was possessive and immature behavior.

“I really don’t know,” Fitz sighed.

“Have you noticed the bloodstains yet?”

“What?” Fitz asked, taken aback. The Fool watched him, sighed, and tipped his own mug to his lips. He sat upon the desk, taking a long, deliberate drink as Fitz stared at him wildly. Bloodstains. Blood on wizardwood. Did it work the same as blood on stone dragons?

“There are blood smears all over a particular section of the ship, below deck.” The Fool had pulled his mug away, thumbing its almost deliberately imperfect lip. “Wizardwood does not let blood stains go, it seems. I tried to scrub them away, but Paragon told me that nothing I can do will clean the blood, and I’d be better off putting my energy into stealing the sun from the sky or drying up the ocean. My point is that Paragon’s an amalgamation of all those who have died upon him. And from I have gathered, that is many, many souls.”

“Including children?” Fitz asked uncomfortably.

“Yes, Fitz.”

It chilled him to think about a child’s soul becoming trapped in this blind ship, caught between two angry dragons, completely abandoned for years and years.

Fitz took another long sip of his brandy. He found himself draining his mug. Silently, the Fool filled it again.

“I’m sorry,” the Fool offered. “I know. When I realized, I was distraught. Asking around proved useful. Apparently Paragon quickened early—a father and son died aboard, and Paragon awoke to no one. He sailed home calling for his mother. Or so I heard.”

It was all Fitz could do to not shudder. It was rotten. Whatever wizardwood was, there was an evil that could not be put right within Paragon’s existence. And Fitz felt both sorrow and repulsion at the thought of the poor old ship.

They both drank to the silence of the horrors of the Paragon. The Fool was not telling Fitz nearly all the information he had on the topic, Fitz knew, and he was grateful. He did not want to know about the poor boy who’d died on this ship and now made up part of the mercurial figurehead’s sunny personality.

“Shall we talk about something else?” the Fool asked suddenly. He poured himself more brandy. Fitz nursed his mug and found himself sitting on the floor beside Nighteyes, who had found a small woven rug beside the bed and sprawled out on it. It took him a moment to realize that this was probably as close to a bed as Nighteyes had ever had in his life.

The Scentless One noticed that I do not like lying on the dead wood, Nighteyes informed him, not bothering to open his eyes. He wove this for me one evening. If I was to stand, you would see he wove my paw prints into it. He studied them in the sand and copied them beside the fire.

Did he? Fitz was alarmed at the detail and care that had gone into something as simple as a dog bed. Nighteyes had never desired one before, and even if he had, Nighteyes was a simple wolf that did not bother himself with human fancies such as art. Yet Fitz felt the satisfaction and pride the wolf felt at the thought of his rug.

Well, I’m not getting up to show you, but yes, he did.

Fitz snorted into his mug. The Fool glanced at Nighteyes curiously, and Fitz informed him of the exchange. He was met with a small smile.

“The wizardwood makes him uncomfortable,” the Fool said, shrugging. “I think he’s mostly used to it by now, but minimizing the contact he has with it is best. Nothing I can do about his paws, but at least he can sleep comfortably.”

“I appreciate that, Fool,” Fitz said quietly. He peered into his mug, glimpsing his own shadow flitting in the amber liquid. He swallowed thickly. “Is Beloved really your name?”

The Fool shifted on the desk. He had kicked off his sandals, his bare feet curling against the wood, and he seemed almost perched upon the writing desk like a great golden bird. Even his hair seemed feathery, like burnished plumes flitting around his head.

“Is it so hard to believe that my mother might have looked upon my face and seen someone worth loving unconditionally?” the Fool retorted, bringing his mug to his lips while Fitz stared at him, mouth falling open in shock. Then, with a sigh, the Fool drew the mug away and shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it. You’d think it was a clever trick to set you up for the embarrassment of calling me Beloved. I am not asking you to call me that, Fitz.”

“If it’s your name,” Fitz argued irritably, “I’d like to!”

It was the Fool’s turn for his mouth to drop open in shock. His eyes darted over Fitz’s face in disbelief, and there was something so satisfying about catching the man off guard that Fitz decided he did not care if it was a trick. Doing anything the Fool expected him to do was already losing the game.

“Perhaps the brandy is stronger than I thought,” the Fool teased him, recovering quickly and taking a swig from his own mug.

“Is it so hard to believe that someone might care to call you by the name you were born with?” Fitz mocked him right back. He was not drunk. Not yet. Another mug, though, and he would likely slide away from the merriment of buzzing warmth and wry amusement, and just as likely lose his senses entirely. “Fool, Amber, Beloved—whatever! What do you want me to call you? Tell me.”

The Fool bit his lip. He looked down at his desk, where a few loose sheets of parchment sat. Fitz had not really had the chance to look at them. He watched the Fool drag a finger over one of them, letting out a shaky exhale.

“You can call me by my name,” he said quietly, “if that is truly your wish.”

“It is,” Fitz said firmly, drawing his mug to his lips, “Beloved.”

He expected the Fool to laugh at him. He’d steeled himself against all mocking and teasing, liquid courage easing this conversation along. Honestly, it had been bothering Fitz since the moment the Fool had whispered it in his ear, weeks earlier, and he had not known how to broach the topic since. He had been too anxious to ask. Now, though, with brandy loosening his tongue, he was content with this.

They were both quiet as they drained their mugs. The Fool hesitated to fill Fitz’s up for the third time, though he’d filled his own, and Fitz fixed him with a level stare and waited for him to relent. If he’d made the man uncomfortable, it was his own fault. Yet a small part of Fitz, in the back of his mind, wondered at the idea that perhaps this was not a great trick at all. Perhaps the Fool’s name really was Beloved. And he realized, quickly, that it was not a small part of himself that believed this, but a much larger, much more desperate part of himself that wanted to know this man. He wanted to know everything about him, from the day he’d been born, but that would never happen. All he could do was grasp at this small concession that the Fool had given him and keep it close.

“Do you realize,” the Fool said quietly, “how much you’ve changed by being here, Fitz?”

“I haven’t done anything,” Fitz huffed. He leaned back against his wolf, and Nighteyes did not seem to mind that he was being used as a pillow. He was already softly snoozing.

“Malta.”

“That’s not my fault,” Fitz said defensively, sitting upright and nearly spilling his brandy. “I didn’t mean to Skill-bond with her. Damn it, I tried to stop it, you know I did—!”

“I meant that she’s changed.” The Fool shook his head. “Her goals have changed. Her life isn’t leading up to the Summer Ball and a betrothal any longer. To be quite honest, I don’t know if she realizes that her whole life had been thrown off track. She feels like a stream that’s been diverted. I’m not sure exactly what life she would have led if you had never come into it, Fitz, but I can tell you that it is not the one that she will have.”

“Great,” Fitz muttered into his mug.

“That’s not a bad thing,” the Fool said quickly. “It’s merely different. I suppose we’ll never know what Malta would have been without your intervention. I’m more interested to find out what she will become with it.”

“And what other lives have I changed?” Fitz laughed. “What other futures have I irreparably screwed over?”

“I’m not omniscient, Fitz.”

“Some prophet you are!” Fitz mocked, leaning forward with a grin. The Fool blinked and scoffed.

“You know that the future never feels fixed when you’re around!” he gasped, gesturing to Fitz with his mug and a scowl. “No, no, I will not be baited! What other futures have you changed? Well, mine!”

“You don’t count.”

“Why not?” The Fool placed a hand on his chest, leaning forward and nearly sliding off the desk. “I’m here, aren’t I? I came to Bingtown to do the things I knew I needed to do. Those things did not include you—they couldn’t include you. They’d disturb your peace and your healing—I’d disturb your peace and healing. My presence in your life is one of strife, Fitz, always. Even now I wonder if I’ve doomed you, but you came to me as a token of fate, and what am I to do with that? Say no? Tell fate no?”

“It’s a thought,” Fitz said dryly, not fully processing anything the Fool was saying.

“I can’t,” the Fool breathed, “you know I can’t, and yet—well you’re here, and you’re with me, and I doubt you’d leave even if I asked you to. So off we go, to find pirates and dragons and serpents—do you know anything about sea serpents?”

“Uh…?”

“Silly question,” the Fool conceded. “You don’t know anything about anything.”

“Hey,” Fitz muttered, lifting his mug and grinning, “call me an idiot plainly, Fool. Or call me a fool! But be honest with it, will you?”

“So you’d call me Beloved if I called you Fool?”

“Is that honest?”

“I don’t know, Fitz, is it?”

“You’re the only one I’d let call me that,” Fitz offered, not really knowing what the right answer to this riddle was. The Fool stared at him, his brilliant amber eyes reflecting candlelight, and it occurred to Fitz that the Fool had chosen the name for himself upon looking in the mirror. The intensity of those eyes could make any man breathless.

“I’d only call you a fool if you deserved it,” the Fool offered right back, looking dazed.

“So, what? Always?”

“Oh,” the Fool laughed, “don’t be like that! Only most of the time. But I suppose if you are anyone’s fool, you are mine and mine alone.”

“What’d Kettle call us?” Fitz grinned.

“The Fool and the Idiot.”

“Spot on, old Kettle.” Fitz raised his mug. “I’ll drink to the Fool and the Idiot. Or Beloved and his fool.”

“And who is who?” the Fool challenged, grinning wickedly. Burrich’s gleaming sapphire earring, a great gem nestled in a silver net, swung at the Fool’s ear. Fitz watched it move. He had noticed it, of course, and asked about it once in the Vestrit’s garden. The Fool had immediately torn it from his ear and offered it out, as if Fitz could bear to see it taken from its beautiful home. Against the Fool’s deepened skin tone and gold-tinged hair, the sapphire seemed unreasonably bright. It was like looking at a painting. Fitz had pleaded with him to keep it.

“Does it matter?” Fitz sighed, flapping his hand at the Fool.

“Ah, yes, because we are one soul cleft into two bodies—the fool is he who is blind to what is in front of him, so we wear that motley interchangeably, it seems.”

“Mhm,” Fitz hummed, warm and buzzing from head to toe, amused by this conversation in a way that perhaps he could never be amused sober, and finding his vantage point from the floor most agreeable to admire the way the candlelight hit the Fool’s hair and skin and eyes. The Fool was suddenly quiet, sitting at his perch, hands curled around his mug, and he sat frozen under Fitz’s gaze. Perhaps he sensed that Fitz was drinking in his radiance, the way a condemned man drinks in the sun before hanging.

Fitz tore his eyes from the Fool’s face, his cheeks warm from the heat of the brandy that had flooded his brain.

He straightened up, the room spinning mildly around him. Touches of the Fool were everywhere. Even when the Fool removed his personal items from the room, his presence would linger here forever in the wooden grain of the ship. It occurred to Fitz then how intimate this truly was, the Fool inviting Fitz into his personal bedroom, allowing him a glimpse into the world that he had so desperately wanted to know as a child climbing that lonely tower.

“What’s that?” Fitz asked sharply, pointing to the folded heap of fabric laid upon the wooden chest at the foot of the Fool’s bed. He wanted suddenly, desperately, to change the subject. Perhaps he wanted to Fool to become uncomfortable with him and throw him out onto the beach. Perhaps he wanted to see how much the Fool was willing to concede to Fitz’s probing. Or perhaps Fitz was simply drunk, and his attention could not be held by riddles.

“That,” the Fool said amusedly, “is my dress for the Summer Ball.”

“Huh?” Fitz shot the Fool a quizzical glance. “The Summer Ball? You’re going to that?”

“I imagine you will be too. Malta has told me she intends to see us both there, and you know she has a way of getting what she wants.”

“I’m a gardener,” Fitz uttered dazedly, “not a Trader—”

“Well, I’m not really a Trader either, but I’m going.”

“In a dress?”

“It would be unseemly for a woman, even a woman of my odd reputation, to go to a ball in workman’s trousers, my Fool.”

“Sorry,” Fitz said quickly, pretending he forgot that Amber was a woman. “You’re right, that would be silly. It looks nice. Can I see it?”

“It’s not finished,” the Fool said cautiously.

“Just try it on,” Fitz huffed. “I want to see it.”

“But—” The Fool looked almost frazzled by the demand. Then he huffed, draining his mug with efficiency, and setting it aside. “Oh, fine. The skirt is done, so I suppose I can show you that. How silly of me to assume my time of entertaining the Farseers was over! I suppose I shall be jangling along to the tune of a Farseer’s command for all my life.”

“Hush,” Fitz said with a grimace, watching the Fool slip delicately off the desk and onto his feet. He went to his wooden chest and shifted the fabric onto the bed, lifting the lid and rummaging through it. “You could refuse me in an instant, you know. You won’t, but you could.”

“Perhaps I find it difficult to refuse you,” the Fool teased him, tossing a colorful bit of clothing onto the bed and lifting a hefty bit of red fabric from the chest, folding it over his arms and glancing at Fitz curiously. Fitz stared at him blankly. “‘You won’t, but you could.’ A man projects his own insecurities onto his beloved fool! Perhaps I want to show you what I’ve created, hm? Does it ever occur to you that I am proud of the things I make?”

“No, of course you are,” Fitz gasped, shocked that he had offended his friend. He had not meant to. “It’s why I want to see it. Please, Fool, show me what you made.”

“If you insist,” the Fool said, inclining his head in a mocking sort of bow, and Fitz watched in bemused silence as he took the colorful garment from the bed and began to unlace the robin’s egg blue ribbons that had been threaded through sewn eyelets. Fitz shifted on the floor to get a better look at what he was doing. He realized that he had seen this type of garment before, on working women in the town, though he still did not fully understand the fashion of Bingtown. It was so completely foreign to what he would see on the streets of Buckkeep Town. “What is that?”

“Stays, they’re called. It keeps the silhouette fashionable. You’d never have seen it, in the Six Duchies. Usually it’s worn under a dress but working women will wear it exposed. I made mine with what I could get my hands on, but I rarely wear it, since I favor shapeless clothing.”

The Fool had pulled the bodice on over his linen shirt. It hung from two thick straps, made of the same canvas fabric as the rest, that pale blue ribbon attaching it to the paneled garment. It was beautiful, Fitz realized, whatever it was. Even though he could tell it was made from canvas, it had been constructed so carefully that it looked expensive. And that was without the ornate designs that had so clearly been hand painted onto the fabric. The ribbon trimmed the garment, which depicted bright blue irises flitting between patches of white honeysuckle, green stems and leaves weaving around the curve of the Fool’s body as he blindly laced the ribbons up his back. Fitz was so distracted by the pattern, the vivid and lifelike flowers and the plump little wood thrush that peeked behind them, that he nearly missed the Fool struggling.

“Would you like some help?” Fitz asked faintly. He was lost in his own amazement, recognizing the Fool’s artistic abilities. He had never seen anything like this garment. It would surely attract all eyes to him at the ball.

“No,” the Fool said curtly. He bit his lip, winced, his hands behind his back as the garment was tightened to his abdomen, creating a flat yet angled plane to his body. Despite the flattening aspect, it was incredibly flattering. “Ah. Actually, would you hold my hair?”

“Huh?” Fitz was on his feet in an instant, hands outstretched, though he had no idea what the Fool was asking of him.

“Just hold it back for me,” the Fool muttered, a crease in his brow the only betrayal of the effort it took him to lace the bodice. He was drunk, Fitz realized. Well, they’d each had four glasses of brandy, and the bottle was near empty. Fitz was drunk too. He swayed on his feet, giddy and eager to be of use. “It keeps getting snagged in the ribbon, which is making this more difficult than it ought to be—usually I can get this on in a minute—”

“Here,” Fitz said, placing a hand on the Fool’s shoulder, less to reassure the man and more to steady himself. The Fool tensed at his touch, and they both stood frozen a moment, Fitz suddenly flooded with anxiety that he had crossed a line before the Fool relaxed, letting out a long sigh and easing the tension in his shoulders and back. Fitz’s vision was swimming as he stepped behind the man, squinting at his back. He saw the problem instantly. The ribbons were tangled within the Fool’s fingers, and his long, unruly curls had threaded themselves up in the ribbon. Fitz tugged a few curls free of the lacing, and he swept the great heap of heavy golden hair from the Fool’s back, holding it aside as the Fool quickly resumed his task. Holding the hair in his hands, Fitz wished he had discarded his gloves again, just so he could feel how silky and smooth those golden ringlets were. He suspected it would feel like a dandelion’s petal.

As the Fool adjusted his linen shirt, Fitz caught a glimpse of something on the nape of his neck, a fleeting wisp of something dark lingering on the man’s golden skin. It seemed too vibrant to be a scar, and yet Fitz was seized with the horror of a thought that the Fool might have scars he kept well and hidden beneath his motley, beneath his brown robes, beneath his colorful bodice—

“Thank you,” the Fool said, taking Fitz’s hand and delicately uncurling his fingers so he might release his hair. Fitz stepped back, hitting the wall of the cabin and blinking rapidly as the Fool snatched up the red fabric he’d retrieved from the trunk. He did not shuck off his trousers, as Fitz expected, and instead drew the fabric around his waist, wrapping it around himself until it hung from his hips and cascaded to his feet as if a fountain had begun to run red. He fastened it to himself by tying small, easily concealable ribbons.

“Well,” the Fool said breezily, smoothing out the skirt and then shimmying his hips so the spill of fabric floated about his ankles in a flattering way. Fitz’s eyes could not find a place to land. Should he be looking at the way the bodice had forced the Fool’s body to dip and curve at the waist, so that the out-spill of red fabric at his hips created a deceptively feminine figure? Should he be pondering at the intentional flatness of the bodice, which concealed the lack of cleavage and simultaneously provided just enough of a suggestion that it became impossible not to imagine what could be beneath the canvas and linen? Should he be following the line of the Fool’s hips, where the red fabric had been artfully gathered, lines of golden thread weaving through the shifting red current, small, polished beads embroidered into the vision of autumn leaves falling on a field of burgundy. “Actually, I’m glad I tried this on. I think I ought to hem it again—barefoot, I’m about to trip in it, and that won’t do at all.”

The Fool whirled away, the skirt flowing around him in a startlingly fluid way, and Fitz’s tongue felt heavy as he thought about how wonderful it would be to see the Fool dance in that skirt.

“Malta told me to wear red,” the Fool said, finding a looking glass in the drawer of the desk and propping it up so he could study himself. “She said it would suit my coloring, and she was right, of course—she’s quite good at these things, like a little courtier in training. Sometimes I think she was made for court and not this Bingtown Trader life.”

Fitz did not say that he thought about that all the time. How a secret, nasty part of himself that craved attention and praise wanted to whisk Malta away to Buckkeep and show her off to Chade, not as a gift, an apprentice for an apprentice, but to show the old assassin that Fitz had his own apprentice that Chade could not touch.

He pushed those thoughts away and focused on the lines of the Fool’s body, finding that more palatable than the idea of using Malta as a weapon.

The Fool took a deep breath. He glanced at the mirror again, pushing his stubborn curls behind his ears, his lips pressing together thinly. He adjusted the straps of his bodice, which did not help the helpless churning of hungry curiosity from swelling within Fitz. He would not call it what it was, but his mouth was dry and his eyes were wide and he could not tear his gaze from the Fool. He wondered how much of this was an illusion. Was the man’s waist really so thin? Were his hips really so shapely, and he merely hid these things with the clever draping of fabric and the harsh lines of trousers? In Fitz’s brandy-addled brain, he found it difficult to breathe as he soaked in the contrast of colors, blues into reds into golds, an unreal specter of beauty.

“Please say something,” the Fool said suddenly, his eyes cast down at his feet, his voice strained and thin. Fitz was struck by the desperation he heard there. His mouth fell open as the Fool lifted his bright gold eyes to his face, candlelight burning inside them, and it was hard to form words as he was pinned beneath the intensity of that stare.

“You’re so beautiful,” Fitz managed to utter, his voice gone just as thin, raspy from the alcohol, completely trailing on disoriented as he struggled to get a hold of himself. But he couldn’t. He was enraptured in this moment, completely pulled in by the ethereal painting come to life before him. It was the brandy, Fitz would tell himself later, and the allure of the craftmanship offered by that skirt and bodice. Lying to himself was easy enough. To admit that he would have preferred to see the Fool without any of the ornately crafted clothing at all would be as if to swear a lifelong oath and break it moments later.

The Fool stood there, frozen in genuine shock, his fists closing around the fabric of his skirt and his eyes darting over Fitz uncertainly. Fitz wanted to laugh, but he thought the Fool would think he was teasing, and Fitz would not allow the earnest declaration to be soured so. He had been thinking it since the instant he had seen the Fool in Ephron Vestrit’s study. How could anyone be so unearthly beautiful? He was constantly amazed by it. To say it sober felt like a sin, but now Fitz could not imagine ever not saying it.

“I mean it,” Fitz blurted, face flushed, eyes wide, palms sweating beneath his leather gloves. Though it had cooled down outside, the cabin was still warm from the midday sun. “I mean—look at you.”

“Look at me,” the Fool echoed in a strange, detached voice.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Fitz said, sitting down heavily upon the Fool’s bed before he fell to his knees before the man. He feared his lack of impulse control would send him crawling to the Fool’s feet like a beggar in need of a sip of water. “I had to say it. I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

“Ah.” The Fool wrapped his arms around his stomach, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “You’re drunk, Fitz.”

“So? And you aren’t?”

“I’ve got a clearer mind than you, I think,” the Fool muttered, quickly unlacing his skirt. Fitz’s mouth dropped open at the haste in which he stepped out of it. “Perhaps not by much. Oh, how am I supposed to send you home like this?”

“I can sleep here,” Fitz said eagerly. The Fool shot him an odd glance. It was difficult to decipher what it meant. “I’ll sleep on the floor, with Nighteyes. I miss him.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t bother you,” Fitz gasped, “I promise! I know you like your privacy, but—but it’s me. We slept at each other’s backs on the Skill road. We’ve known each other all our lives. It’s just me, Fool.” His mind caught up with him, though not in a particularly smart way. “It’s just me, Beloved. Please.”

“Oh,” the Fool repeated, in a much higher, much reedier voice. “Well. How am I to refuse all that, hm?”

Fitz laughed, falling sideways into the warm woven blanket on the Fool’s bed, and he grinned at the man, feeling young and giddy.

“But get off my bed,” the Fool huffed, marching up to him and yanking him up by the arms. Fitz yelped, clinging to him for a moment, his legs too wobbly to move right.

“I can’t walk,” Fitz mumbled into the Fool’s shoulder. “Just put me down by Nighteyes, will you? I don’t want to be sick.”

The Fool gingerly lowered him beside his wolf, and Fitz lowered his cheek against Nighteye’s warm, bristly fur. The woven blanket on the Fool’s bed was thrown atop him.

“If you vomit on Paragon,” the Fool warned him, “you’re cleaning it up, and apologizing to him in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Fitz sighed, “yeah, that’s fair. You know I meant it, right?”

“What?” the Fool sighed. Fitz could not see what he was doing, but he heard the sound of fabric rustling. Perhaps he was stripping naked. Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, heart thudding.

“I think you’re beautiful, Beloved.”

Distantly, Fitz heard the sharp intake of breath that followed this confession. Perhaps if he was lucid, he might have overthought it.

If the Fool had a response for him, it was given up to the ship, who could not sleep and could not dream.

Chapter Text

Althea returned home sober, if only because neither she nor Brashen had enough coin to get drunk. It was late enough that she doubted anyone was still awake. Brashen lingered on the veranda, and Althea leaned back against the door, watching him.

“I’m sure Tom is back by now,” Althea offered, earning a dull glance from Brashen. “What? He’s always struck me as rather gentlemanly.”

“It’s not my business what Tom gets up to with Amber tonight,” Brashen said firmly, stuffing his hands into his pockets and frowning out into the street. “I only wish to not interrupt. I would hate to be in his position. And imagine how Amber would feel.”

A bleak twist of anxiety flooded Althea as she vividly empathized with the thought of being caught in an intimate situation. Amber was her dear friend. Althea had put aside her own discomfort at being alone with Brashen to give the woman some time to speak privately with Tom, something that so rarely happened, with all their work on the Paragon and Malta’s lessons. It had occurred to her, of course, that something might happen should the couple be left alone. As much as Tom swore they were not in a courtship, the insistence fooled no one.

“So what will you do?” Althea asked carefully. “I can go see if Tom is home, but…”

“No, I’ll just ask Paragon if Tom is inside,” Brashen sighed. “If he is, I’ll sleep on the beach. It’s a nice night, I don’t mind.”

“Are you…?” Althea stopped herself from asking if the man was sure. What alternative did she have to offer? Invite him in her house and open herself, Tom, and Amber to the scrutiny of her mother and sister? She did not need that obstacle. “Well, alright. Hopefully if they are together, Tom will be smart enough to come home as quickly as possible. I know how Mother and Keffria will act if they realize he’s been with Amber all night.”

“Oh, I know.” Brashen sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps because they’re foreigners they’ll be given some grace. Women from the Duchies are freer with their love, I think. I mean, you’ve met Jek.”

“That I have,” Althea said dryly. Oh, she enjoyed the woman’s company, but there was something incredibly off-putting about the way she so brazenly spoke about her hunger for men. Part of Althea was jealous that she had no qualms speaking such things aloud. “Let’s just hope Tom is already home. I’d hate for my mother to gain two whore sons out of this ordeal.”

Brashen did laugh at the self-deprecating referral of Althea as a whore son, which was a relief. It was a risky joke, and she found herself grinning at him as he shook his head.

“Athel is no whore,” Brashen told her firmly, settling down in an instant. “He’s a good lad, and a hardworking ship’s boy.”

Althea was warmed by his praise, and she allowed herself this strange moment of flirtation as she leaned forward, all the shame of their past encounter leaving her as she looked into his eyes and smirked.

“Sounds like you enjoyed him, then,” she whispered, satisfied by the way Brashen’s eyes widened and his face grew faintly pink in the low lantern light of the veranda.

And at the sight of his blush, she flushed too, and she whirled away, pulling open the door and slipping silently into the house. She did not allow him time to respond.

Scraping her hair from her face, she immediately went to the washroom and used the water pump to wash her face and hair. The effort of the day’s work was mopped from her brow. She shed her clothes and threw on a night robe. Then she went to Tom’s room.

“Tom?” she called, knocking on his door and waiting a moment. She didn’t really think he would be at the Paragon. It simply seemed unlikely.

She was relieved when the door opened, and almost immediately met with disappointment when she came face to face with her scowling niece.

“Where have you been?” Malta demanded. She, too, was washed and dressed for bed, her braid settled at her shoulder, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Behind her, Clef was sitting on his bed, whittling idly.

“Out?” Althea offered with a scowl. “Sorry, did I need your permission to come and go?”

“I assumed you were with Tom,” Malta said, whirling away and hopping onto the man’s bed. Althea stared at her dully. She had some audacity, treating the man’s room as if it were her own. “Clearly not. Well, I suppose I’d know if he was in trouble.”

“Would you?” Althea asked curiously. She had no idea how this Skill worked, but she had begun to think of it as similar to the bond she had with Vivacia. Which frightened her dearly, because she did not know how Malta took such an intimate connection with such grace. Althea would fear another human getting so close to her mind.

“It’s difficult to explain. But yes.” Malta closed her eyes her nose scrunching in concentration. “I’ve been trying to reach him for hours now, but he’s got his walls up, so it feels like I’m shouting at nothing. I don’t even know if he can tell I’m reaching for him. This afternoon it seemed too easy to reach out to him, but I guess he was letting me. Ugh. I have a headache.”

“Do you need that tea that Tom drinks?” Althea offered, not sure how to help her niece and wishing she could escape this conversation entirely. Malta was an adequate student, and Althea had been impressed with the way she scarcely complained with the laborious tasks set for her during their sailing lessons. She only ever had anything to say if it was taking too long or if she felt Althea had not been thorough enough. Yet that did not mean that they were particularly friendly, and it did not mean that Althea wanted to know what this Skill entailed. It all seemed so strange and unnatural, having a ship-bond with a flesh and blood man.

“Hardly,” Malta said while Clef snorted. “I’ve probably just Skilled too much today. Sleep will help, but I need to talk to Tom first.”

“Is it important?” Althea glanced between the two children. Clef glanced at her, but remained silent. “Has something happened? With your dragon?”

“Oh, she’s always angry with us for not moving fast enough.” Malta shook her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s Paragon. I think I could really create a bond with him, but I need Tom’s help—I can’t shield on my own, you see, and the dragons inside Paragon are not as kind as he is. I have a few ideas about getting around that, but I don’t think Tom will like them. Should we go look for him?”

“No.” Althea pursed her lips, earning a sharp look from Malta.

“You know where he is,” she observed.

“What? Come on, Malta, I came here looking for him.”

“Yes, but you know where he’s been all night.” Malta studied her face, an unflinching stare that made Althea shift uncomfortably, wondering how her spoiled, bratty niece could become so unsettling. “Is he with Paragon?”

Althea was struck silent. How had Malta come to that conclusion? Process of elimination perhaps. Still, Althea found herself scrambling for a response while Malta chewed on her thumbnail thoughtfully. It was an action and expression that Althea had seen Tom make a number of times and seeing it on the girl was jarring. They almost looked related in that instant, like perhaps Malta was Tom’s niece instead of Althea’s.

“Then he’s with Amber,” Clef reminded Malta. “He’s probably fine.”

“I’m not worried that the dragons will attack him again,” Malta said, dropping her hand into her lap and sliding off the bed. “His mind is shielded against them now.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried,” Malta said coolly. Clef rolled his eyes at her and set his carving knife and small wooden ornament aside.

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t been hanging around here like a scared little puppy waiting for him to come back,” Clef mocked.

“I’m not scared,” Malta snapped. “I’m trying to strategize! Our best chance at succeeding in our journey is if Paragon is loyal to us—the sort of loyalty a liveship is known to have, you know, the reason why Papa took Wintrow to start. If we have that, nothing can stop us.”

Althea couldn’t disagree. In fact, she thought it was entirely correct, and yet she did not know if it was possible for someone who was not a Ludluck to bond with Paragon the way Malta was implying. If it were, Amber would have done it already.

“Tom has said before that he doesn’t believe that’s a good idea,” Althea reminded Malta carefully.

“Tom is afraid of the Skill,” Malta replied dismissively, “and he’s afraid of liveships. Of course he thinks it’s dangerous. He resents that we have a bond to start with. Well, I’m going to bed. I expect Tom will stay with Amber on the Paragon tonight.”

Althea’s mouth dropped open as her niece shouldered past her. The implication that Malta expected Tom and Amber to sleep together was an alarming one, but then, Malta had proven time and time again that she knew more about these things than a thirteen-year-old ought to. When Althea glanced at Clef, she saw that the boy’s cheeks had gone faintly pink in the candlelight, and that somehow the little boy knew exactly what Malta had been implying.

“Go to bed, Clef,” Althea sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Tom will be home soon, I’m sure, and I doubt he’ll be happy to see you still awake.”

“Right,” Clef squeaked, twisting to blow out the candle beside him. Althea left him with his thoughts. She was not particularly interested in being the person who talked to any of these children about sexual activities, and the faster she was safe in her own bed, away from this responsibility, the better.

Althea fled back to her room, shed her robe, and slipped into bed, trying to push thoughts of the Skill, of Amber and Tom, and most especially of Brashen from her mind.

“Paragon!” He scampered down from the rigging, his bare feet calloused and well-adjusted to the feeling of twine biting into his soles. The wind off the sea caught his shirt up, baring his back to the elements, and the sea spray made him hiss as he dropped to the deck, open wounds taut and stinging from the salt in the air. “Paragon, slow down! You’re taking us into a storm!”

He said it loudly. He said it for all of the crew to hear. Yes, he said it, and yes, he was acknowledging it. The deck swayed beneath him. He found himself gripping the rail as he approached the figurehead.

Good, he thought to his dearest friend. This is good. If we keep going at this speed, maybe it’ll be enough to knock us upside-down—

The thought was knocked from his brain as he was met with a fist upon the side of his head. He was thrown to the deck in an instant, momentarily blinded by the pain that exploded behind his eyes. He felt the ship’s jolt of concern, and he placed his palm flat against the wood, letting his pain flow into that channel. The ship seemed relieved when he sat up dazedly.

“You tell this ship,” the Captain said, fingers closing around his mouth and drawing him to his feet with his fingernails carving half-moons into his cheeks, “that if he knows what’s good for you, he will cease this behavior and take direction like a proper ship. Understand, boy?”

He nodded hastily. He had no choice. And he knew that Paragon had heard the man, but it had to come from him. The choice was his. He stared into the Captain’s eyes, hatred welling up inside him, and he thought to the Paragon:

Sail straight and true, my friend.

The ship picked up speed, and he was thrown to the deck, a boot coming down hard on his ribs. Rain began to pour down on him in sheets as the blows kept coming, pain greeting him as an old friend would, sparing him nothing as the wind howled and the storm unfurled, and he screamed for mercy to the ship and anyone else who could possibly hear him, his bones snapping beneath those hard soled boots, his skull splitting open, the cool stone of the dungeon absorbing his blood as he retreated within himself, completely alone but for his dearest friend, his soul’s keeper—

“Fitz, wake up!”

He was wrenched from his dream when he felt teeth sink into his arm. He yelped, bolting upright as he watched Nighteyes jerk his arm around between his jaws like a puppy cutting teeth on a bone, spitting it out when he saw that Fitz was awake. A full-body shudder wracked him as he found himself enveloped in a cool embrace, seized with terror over a dream that he did not understand. He had been on the ship deck, he had been in Regal’s dungeon—

“Fitz,” the Fool whispered into his hair, “what happened? Was it the dragons?”

“No.” Fitz was shocked by the steadiness of his voice. He inhaled the scent of the Fool’s hair, which fell onto his face as the man bent over him, oil of lavender intermingling with the scent of wood, perhaps cedar or cherry, something rich that caught in his nose. As Amber, he made up for his innate scentlessness by merely existing in the space of a woman woodcarver. It was comforting. He used that scent to steady himself, a reminder that the Fool was real, and the dungeon was a memory. “It was a dream. It was a dream, that’s all.”

“You were screaming.” The Fool gripped him tight, and in the sickly light of dawn peeking through the porthole, Fitz saw his bare fingers gripping his own. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Fitz could not decide, he was still wearing his gloves. “I’ve never heard you sound like that, Fitz. Not ever.”

“I’m alright,” Fitz sighed, drawing a hand to his pounding head and wondering how a dream could give him a Skill-headache. Only to remember how fabulously drunk he had been a few hours prior. “Ah. Water…”

The Fool released him in an instant, setting him against Nighteyes, and he went to the desk. Lighting a few candles, he grabbed a pitcher of water and a wooden cup, returning to Fitz’s side hastily.

“What happened?” the Fool asked, placing the cup in Fitz’s shaky hands. “In the dream, I mean.”

“I don’t really…” Fitz remembered the feeling of the rigging beneath his bare feet. He remembered the elation of the storm. He remembered a shadowy figure demanding something of him, and then the dungeon, Regal’s men laying blow after blow—

“It’s alright,” the Fool said quickly, breathlessly, “never mind, it doesn’t matter. Please drink the water, Fitz, you’re dehydrated.”

“Right…” Fitz tipped the cup back, gulping down the water shakily, finding half the cup spilling onto his chin and chest. Nighteyes watched him keenly.

You went away again, brother, the wolf said.

“I didn’t,” Fitz argued, fighting back a groan as his clutched at his head. The Fool’s arms were around him once more, his face burying in his shoulder, his hair tickling Fitz’s cheeks. “Fool, I’m fine. It’s just a headache, I swear. I don’t know why I was screaming—”

“Nightmare or not,” the Fool murmured into Fitz’s shirt, damp with water and sweat, “I would give a great many things to never hear you sound like that again, Fitz.”

“I’m sorry,” Fitz said weakly, laying a shaky hand on the back of the Fool’s head and watching it sink into his fluffy golden hair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I’m sure that was not your intention when you passed out on the floor beside my bed last night, no,” the Fool said dryly, lifting his head and staring intently into Fitz’s eyes. Their noses were close enough that the tips of them brushed, and Fitz held his breath, searching the Fool’s tear-streaked face and finding himself waiting for something that did not come. The Fool turned away, swiping at his cheeks determinedly, and he jumped to his feet. “You need to go. It's already dawn, and for your sake, I wish you flighted feet indeed.”

“For my sake?” Fitz huffed, rubbing his aching head and using the bed to heft himself shakily to his feet. “What do you mean?”

“Fitz, I am a woman.” The Fool fixed him with a sharp, irritated gaze that made Fitz falter in all his long-held belief that this man was merely pretending at womanhood for whatever reason. It was the first time Fitz found himself truly believing it. “You’ve spent the whole night here with me. Think it over and decide what Ronica and Keffria Vestrit will assume you’ve been doing here.”

“But—” Fitz choked out, flushing at the suggestion and nearly falling backwards onto the Fool’s bed. He drifted along in a daze, his movements jerky as he guided himself blindly from the bed to the ornately carved wooden trunk at the foot of it. He noticed that the bed was perfectly ordered, as if the Fool had not slept in it at all. “That’s not true, though! Nothing had—we wouldn’t—”

“Fitz, I hardly care what the world thinks of me,” the Fool sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly, as if he had been awake the whole night. “I imagine if the Vestrits want to call me a Duchies whore in the privacy of their home, they will, and I don’t particularly care. What bothers me is that this will bother you, and for your sake, I ask you to leave so we can avoid it altogether.”

“Are you really a woman?” Fitz blurted out. The Fool shot him a short, pitying glance, and then opened the door to his bedroom. Small slivers of gray dawn illuminated the pale wizardwood floor.

“I’ll see you later, Fool,” the Fool said in a flat, emotionless voice.

The conversations of the night prior slipped back into mind, floating wisps of words and emotions that stirred something deep within Fitz that he had not realized still could exist.

“Yes, Beloved,” Fitz said in a daze, noting the Fool’s eyes widen in surprise as he stumbled out of the cabin and into the shivering dawn.

The air off the sea was chilly. His sandals were hooked to his belt, and he wished he could feel the grain of the wood on his bare feet, feel the reassurance that he had felt in his dream. He had felt so sure, then, about everything. Even death had seemed a calculated and reasonable choice that he had made, rather than a punishment inflicted by cruel and vengeful men.

The Fool had made a pulley for Nighteyes. He slipped comfortably into the basket, looking far more confident in the contraption than he really ought to have been. Fitz lowered the wolf onto the beach and then took the ladder down onto the sand. His socked feet sunk into it, and he stripped the socks off immediately, rounding the Paragon and glancing up at the figurehead. If he had surveyed his surroundings properly, if the headache and hangover and exhaustion had subsisted enough that he was reminded of his assassin training, he might have noticed the figure huddled beside a rock. But in the dark, with his Wit sense muddled by the ship’s omnipresence, Fitz could only stand before the figurehead and try not to weep.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz confessed helplessly. Paragon was very still. His hands were clasped at his chest, mostly hiding the star-shaped scar carved there. “I think I had a horrible dream that might have leaked into you, and that’s not fair. I need to be better about keeping my emotions and my memories to myself, and not dragging you or Malta into—into the mess that is my mind and my memory and my feelings. So. Yes. Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The ship’s chiseled features twisted, almost as if in pain or in grief, and Fitz wanted to throw something. He was so angry with himself for slipping up so thoroughly that he was seconds from turning toward the sea and screaming wordlessly into the dark as dawn crept over the lapping waves. When he had realized that Malta could see what he dreamed, it had been unsettling, but not so bad, as his dreams were not always horrible, and if she glimpsed Buckkeep, it likely could not hurt her or him much from the safety of Bingtown. But to let his torture and death leak out into this poor ship, which endured a painful existence where he could not die or sleep or dream of anything but this shore—

“Your memory?” Paragon uttered faintly, his voice cracking pitifully. Fitz knew the dream had hurt him. He had felt it upon waking, and that was more frightening than all else.

“My death,” Fitz said, letting the words hang in the cool air as Nighteyes reminded him that the Fool had sent them home, and the sun had come to greet them. “I said I wouldn’t give it to you, and I didn’t mean to. It’s not your pain to bear, Paragon, it’s mine. I don’t want you to have it. But yes, it was my memory.”

“You were… beaten to death,” Paragon said in a small voice, a child’s voice, and Fitz suddenly wanted to cry. He dragged his hands over his face and bit back a sob.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. He turned away sharply and ran after his wolf, who had sensed the tears coming and bolted up the incline.

Running is good, Nighteyes said, darting onto the sea road and pausing to look up at Fitz when he caught up, tears flooding his face, a sob scraping his teeth as he doubled over and screamed into his hands. Howling, well, maybe not. We have ground to cover if we want to be back before they realize you are not there.

“It’s pointless!” Fitz kicked a rock viciously into a tree. He scooped up a few pebbles and began whipping them at the branches overhead. “They’re already awake, I know it. Ronica is an early riser, and even if not, Rache will have noticed, and she’ll tell Ronica. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

The Scentless One thinks it matters.

“The Fool wants to protect me from my own pride and shame,” Fitz snarled, throwing the rocks away and spitting phlegm onto the dirt road. He scrubbed at his damp face, feeling dirt mix with tears, wishing he’d been enough of a man to at least have wiped the Fool’s own tears away before fleeing from him. “He said as much. He doesn't care what people think of him. I do. It’s something I need to get over. I need to, Nighteyes, or we’ll never get anywhere, and it's already hard enough as it is.”

What is it? The wolf trotted alongside him, moving slowly for Fitz’s benefit. I don’t understand what the problem is. Pride, shame—he is our friend.

“You call him ‘he,’” Fitz murmured.

Yes?

“So he’s a man.” Fitz chewed on the inside of his cheek, frustrated and angry with the Fool and with himself for all the emotions that twisted up inside of him senselessly. “You sense that he’s a man.”

I sense nothing. Nighteyes raised his head, staring at Fitz pointedly. He’s not there, Changer. I feel him through you, if anything, but does he feel like a man? No.

“Well, does he feel like a woman?”

No. He feels like you.

“Fucking hell, dog, that’s not an answer!”

Nighteyes nipped at his ankles and darted away.

Call me dog again and I’ll treat your leg the way I treated your arm this morning, and then you can limp home!

Fitz was surprised at the mention of his arm. His head hurt so badly he had forgotten that Nighteyes had been vigorously shaking his arm to wake up, and he saw, in the faint gray dawn, that there was blood on his shirt. Great.

“If I just start treating him as I would a woman, would it change a thing?” Fitz wondered aloud. Nighteyes did not answer. He did not understand the problem. “It would make things easier to just—just go forward with the thought that this friend I’ve had all my life is a woman, rather than trying to remember to fit him into this box when he’s Amber, it just—I haven’t got a clue how to deal with this. What if he really is a woman?”

Why is this more important than being beaten to death on that ship? Nighteyes asked irritably. Where are your priorities? I saw that dream, brother, before you went away from me, and I don’t ever want to see it again.

“It wasn’t the ship, it was the dungeon,” Fitz said, matching the irritable tone Nighteyes slung at him, “and I can’t do anything about that stupid dream, but I have to do something about how I’ve been treating the Fool. I treat him as a man, but this isn’t working. He’s a woman to everyone else. A woman before my friend, even. So I have to remember that, you know, men and women… the rules are different. Especially in this awful place.”

I don’t follow. Because of mating?

“Well, yes, but—”

I didn’t realize you thought of the Scentless One as a potential mate.

“I don’t—”

I’m not judging. The wolf was far enough ahead that Fitz couldn’t tackle him and wrestle him to the ground in fury. And he thought he was too tired to run again. I think the Scentless One is a worthy mate, and I, for one, would be pleased if he never left. And if you mount him, you’ll find out if he is a man or a woman, since you are so concerned about the details of his sex. It seems a good solution to me.

“I’m going to skin you for your pelt, wolf,” Fitz swore to the empty road. “I should have left you in the snow as a pup. I should have made you into soup in the mountains. I should have—”

Changer, I should have eaten you, and then fed you to our scentless friend, who I’m sure would enjoy the taste.

“Oh, that’s it,” Fitz growled, exhaustion be damned, breaking out into a run and bolting after the wolf with as much speed as possible. Nighteyes let him catch up to him, let him tackle him, and he nipped at his shoulder playfully. Fitz shoved him into the dirt, listening to his play-snarls and snarling right back, biting down on the scruff of his neck and getting headbutted for his trouble.

I win! Nighteyes pinned him to the dirt road, tail swishing delightedly. He licked the blood from Fitz’s nose, and Fitz groaned, batting him off. So you’ll do what I say, then? Mate with the Scentless One? Male or female?

“No,” Fitz sighed, staring at the lightening sky miserably. “I don’t… I don’t know if he’d—I don’t know how that would even—I don’t want to think about it.”

You don’t know how it would work? Are you stupid? Ah, do not answer, brother, as if we don’t know the answer.

“Get off me,” Fitz said huffily, shoving the wolf away and dragging himself to his feet. “And by the way, you only won because I’ve got a headache that’d kill a normal man.”

Lucky for you, you’re so abnormal.

“Go back to the Fool,” Fitz snapped, whirling away as Nighteyes giddily hopped right up beside him, undaunted. It was not real anger or a real fight, but it was real irritation and frustration. Things Nighteyes cared nothing for.

He is not to my taste. Too human. But he seems very much to your taste, especially when wearing that red fabric you not very subtly wanted to rip to shreds. But yes, tell me how you don’t want to think about it.

“Please stop,” Fitz murmured. And Nighteyes, ever Fitz’s greatest friend and ally, said nothing more.

Dawn had well passed by the time Fitz returned to the Vestrit’s manor. He was sweaty, dirty, and bloody. His head felt like it might roll off his shoulders and down the gravel road. He was tired and sore, and he wanted to forget the last night and morning had ever happened. Yet how could he? The image of the Fool, slim little waist and the illusion of wide hips, twirling and smiling—the red against his skin, the smooth line of the bodice suggestion breasts that Fitz had never imagined existed, the artistry and the beauty—

And Fitz had told him that it was beautiful. That he was beautiful. Oh, Fitz the Fool indeed!

He let himself in through the kitchen. He knew Rache would be there. She took one look at him and paled considerably. She had him on a stool in an instant, muttering to herself about how unlucky he was, which was probably a fair assessment. He let her peel the shirt off his back, and she froze at the sight of his myriad of scars.

“War,” Fitz managed to utter, half of it a joke, the other half a bitter admittance. War with Regal, maybe.

“Sweet Sa, boy,” Rache breathed, pressing a damp cloth to his arm. “What happened to you? A wild animal?”

“I had a seizure,” Fitz said dazedly, “and my dog pulled me out of the road. I’m not sure how long I was unconscious. I hope no one noticed I was gone, I didn’t mean to worry anyone.”

The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. He was almost shocked at how effortless it was. It fell right into place, and no one would suspect that Tom and Amber had been doing anything improper the night prior. He silently thanked Nighteyes for the assistance. The wolf was gnawing on a leftover chicken bone by the hearth, ignoring him plainly.

“We wondered,” Rache admitted, cleaning the scratches on Fitz’s cheek and testing his nose. “What happened here?”

“I think I fell face down in the road.”

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” Rache murmured, shaking her head.

“Perhaps if I broke it again it’d straighten out?” Fitz offered lamely. Rache eyed him uncertainly. “Sorry. I’m not quite lucid, I’m afraid. I woke with an awful headache.”

“Perhaps coffee will help wake you,” Rache said, patting his shoulder. “Let me brew some. Oh, I know you don’t like it, but I’d rather you alert than act out of your mind.”

Fitz had nothing to say to that. He let her clean and bandage the puncture wounds on his arm. She washed the dirt from the scratches on his cheek, chest, and shoulder. Nighteyes hadn’t broken skin anywhere else he’d bitten Fitz.

“Rache, has Tom—oh my!” Ronica Vestrit had turned the corner into the kitchen and looked down at Tom with an expression of acute horror. “Tom! What happened?”

“Seizure,” Fitz said, fishing his mangled shirt from off the floor and shrugging it on. “Fell down in the road last night, on my way home. Were you looking for me?”

“I only—” Ronica managed her shock fairly well. She schooled her features and nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry we didn’t notice sooner. Was it from the Paragon? The seizure? As it was last time?”

“No.” Fitz took the coffee offered from Rache and thanked her quietly. The smell was enticing, but he knew the taste would make him gag. Still, he would appreciate the energy it would supply him. “Ah, no, it’s—I get them, sometimes. I had a head injury, when I was a boy, and it… well, it subsided, but I couldn’t get home until now.”

“You ought to take today off,” Ronica said firmly. Fitz’s eyes widened. An obstacle to his lies. “Go take a bath and then rest. I want you nowhere near that ship today, nor do I want you Skilling. You say that the seizures have nothing to do with the Paragon, but I don’t believe that this is a coincidence. Malta will busy herself with Althea, I’m sure.”

“Althea will be at the Paragon,” Fitz objected. “Malta can’t go there without me. It’s not safe.”

“Then she will stay home.” Ronica nodded to Rache before turning away. “I want you to rest, Tom. I’m very serious.”

“Yes, Ronica,” Fitz sighed. He felt properly mothered. It was almost nice, if not inconvenient.

He drank his coffee on his way to the washroom. It was thick and acrid, utterly vile in its acidity, yet he was simply grateful for the warm drink. Even if he wished it was tea. When he passed Althea, they stared at each other with wide eyes.

“Wild night?” she offered faintly, eyes whisking over him with a grin spreading on her lips.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’ll get it from Amber, then,” Althea huffed, tossing her braid over her shoulder and breezing past him. So much like Malta. Fitz shook his head and drank his coffee until there was nothing but the faint remnants of grounds at the bottom of his cup.

“Will you marry Amber? When this is all over?”

Malta knew that Tom was on bedrest orders from her grandmother, which had somehow extended to Malta having a day off from all lessons. She was bored. No, worse than bored, she was cagey, and she wanted someone to argue with.

If Tom had actually been resting, perhaps she wouldn’t have stumbled upon him in the garden and decided to ask him these questions.

“Not every man and woman who are close to one another find it necessary to be married,” Tom replied curtly. He was collecting flowers, presumably to make soap or candles or ink.

“I was under the assumption that when a man and a woman are sleeping together, they might find it prudent, if not necessary,” Malta said innocently, earning the most wild-eyed, scathing look Tom could possibly send her. For an instant she thought perhaps she pushed too far, and he might actually yell at her.

“You are too young to be speaking on things you don’t understand,” Tom told her in a low, dangerous voice.

“I understand this fine, I think,” Malta said primly, plucking a rose from his basket and thumbing the petals thoughtfully. “Surely you don’t imagine that I, a betrothed woman, know nothing of what goes on in a marriage bed.”

“Malta Vestrit,” Tom said through gritted teeth, “I will not entertain your childish prodding.”

“It’s Malta Haven, and I am not a child, as I’ve well reminded you many times.” Malta scowled up at him, flinging the flower back into his basket. “You were out with her all night. Aunt Althea thinks it too, and so does Clef.”

“Clef’s said nothing to me about it.”

“Perhaps he merely respects you too much to pry.”

“Ah, and you have no respect for me at all. Typical.”

“I’d respect you more if you weren’t so clearly afraid of the Skill,” Malta sighed, “but you are, and it’s getting in the way of our goals. We need the Skill, Tom. Not that this is about any of that. You’ve evaded the question wonderfully, really. But tell me, don’t you want to marry her? Wouldn’t it be nice?”

“I don’t intend on marrying anyone.” Tom handed her his basket of flowers and jerked his chin toward the kitchen door. “Go bring those inside. It’s going to rain soon, and I wouldn’t want you to get your pretty dress wet. Are you going to visit your friend? Delo, was it?”

“Yes,” Malta said, scowling. “Since you won’t teach me, and Althea told me I cannot be on the Paragon alone—well. What else am I to do? Pray to Sa?”

“You might think about it.”

“Do you pray?”

“We don’t pray to Sa in the Six Duchies.” Tom lifted his head to the sky and shrugged. The scratches on his cheek were raw. Malta had no idea what had happened to him the night prior, but it seemed adventurous. “Our gods are Eda and El. Mainly Eda, who rules the land. El lords over the sea. But to answer your question, no, I don’t pray.”

“Perhaps you should.” Malta clasped her hands behind her back and smiled sweetly, the basket dangling there. “We could use a god on our side. Maybe a dragon is as close as we’ll get. She was annoyed she could not reach you last night.”

“She couldn’t?” Tom seemed surprised. “Strange.”

“I couldn’t either.” Malta studied his handsome face, frowning as he frowned. Something wasn’t adding up, but she didn’t have all the pieces yet. “Were you blocking me out because you didn’t want me intruding on your privacy with Amber?”

Tom flushed and he shook his head fiercely. Malta smiled at how easy it was to make him squirm. He often seemed very young to her, as Amber often did, as though they were still caught up in their childhood love affair.

“I don’t want you trying to push your way into my mind,” he warned her sharply. “How would you feel if I was in your head when you were gossiping with your friend Delo, or entertaining your betrothed? Surely you can grasp why I find it disturbing.”

“I was worried about you.” Malta met his eyes as boldly as she could manage, even though she was beginning to sense she really had pushed him too far. She watched his brow furrow uncertainly and decided that was good enough. “When you didn’t come home, I thought maybe something had happened. I was so sure that I’d feel it if something bad happened to you, but you’ve been shutting me out all morning. I can’t feel anything from you. What happened between you and Amber, really? Are you alright?”

Tom looked down at her, clearly startled. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to be able to tell that something was wrong. Well, of course she knew.

“I’m alright,” Tom said quietly. “I’m sorry I worried you. I just… need to be alone with myself today. The things I’m feeling aren’t suitable for a young girl.”

“Ah.” Malta raised her eyebrows and turned away as if to hide a blush. “Well! I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then.”

“Not like that, Malta—Eda and El in tangle, you make things difficult! I’ve had some painful memories resurface, that’s all.” Tom looked frazzled when she glanced back at him. “I don’t want you to feel any of it. If I can protect you from it, I’ll be content with that.”

“Oh.” Malta was almost touched. But mostly, she was annoyed. It was more boring than the torrid love affair she was imagining. Though, admittedly, her knowledge of the subject limited what she could imagine. “I’m sorry about that. What does Eda and El in tangle mean?”

“It’s just an expression, Malta.”

“It’s a swear,” Malta said thoughtfully. “Eda is a woman, isn’t she? A goddess, I mean. And El a god. So, ‘in tangle’—that’s quite creative.”

“Malta, honestly—”

“What?” Malta asked innocently, as if she hadn’t implied any sort of innuendo. “I’m just curious, honestly, Tom. Sa is just Sa. She’s just what she is.”

“I thought Sa was a god, not a goddess,” Tom said uncertainly. His face was twisted in a hopelessly confused sort of way. It was funny, how simple he could be. He was intelligent, Malta knew from experience, but sometimes he was just so stupid. 

“Do I look like my brother?” Malta rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know why it is this way, but Sa is a goddess for women and a god for men. She’s both, I suppose.”

“At the same time?” Tom asked weakly. “Is it possible to be both? Surely—”

“Tom, when we get Wintrow back, I’m sure he’d be glad to answer all your questions about Sa,” Malta said carefully, “but I really don’t know why she is the way she is. She just is.”

“Oh. I see.”

Malta didn’t know what was bothering the man, nor did she think she was going to get it by speaking to him. Tom knew her too well to be fooled into flattery, and anger had clearly yielded few results except for the fact that something had happened to push him to shut her out of his mind. It was unlikely he would admit what, which left Malta with no other choice.

She would have to ask Amber.

“Well,” Malta said, whisking a few flowers from his basket and whirling away, “I’m off to meet Delo. Remember to rest, Tom, or Grandmother will start to stress over you, and it’d be cruel to put an old woman through such strife.”

“Alright, Malta, get out of here.” Tom scoffed as he shooed her away. “Enjoy your day off.”

“Oh, I shall!”

She all but skipped away from the man, stopping in the kitchen only to set the basket aside and trim the stems off the flowers she’d stolen. A rose, a lily, and an iris. She took some time to thread them into the braided band across her head. The rest of her hair remained free down her back. She wore a simple but elegant dress for her outing with Delo, which was not entirely a ruse, as her mother had called on Delo’s mother for the occasion. Apparently, her mother was growing concerned about Malta’s priorities and thought she needed to have some fun. Imagining her doing such a thing even a few short weeks ago was outlandish.

Delo arrived not long later and sighed in relief at the sight of Malta donned in one of her familiar old dresses, a seafoam green frock that her father had gotten her the last time he was in port. It was for a little girl, and normally Malta would be embarrassed to walk around in it, but very few of her dresses were especially colorful nowadays, and she doubted Delo would want to be seen with a young woman sporting a stained pleated skirt and a workman’s shirt.

“Thank goodness you look like yourself,” Delo gasped, squeezing Malta into a tight hug. “I was beginning to worry about your health. Oh, walk with me, Malta. Tell me what’s happening with you!”

They strolled into the street, sharing a parasol, and Malta carefully selected her anecdotes from the past month to tell Delo about. She told her about the Paragon, about the refitting of the ship, and Althea’s instruction in sailing.

“Are you really going?” Delo whispered urgently, her eyes wide and searching Malta’s face in awe.

“I must save my father,” Malta said gravely. “It is more important to me than anything else, Delo. Oh, imagine how frightened he and Wintrow must be! They need a familiar face when they are rescued, and I want to be there to help them heal from whatever tribulations they have faced as prisoners of those awful pirates.”

“You are so brave,” Delo gasped, whirling to clutch at Malta’s hands eagerly. “Oh, Malta! You are the most courageous person I’ve ever known! Aren’t you scared of the pirates?”

“I think the pirates must be reasonable creatures,” Malta said with a shrug. “If they free slaves, as we’ve heard, they are operating under a logic that all men are equal. That means that they can be negotiated with. I doubt it will come to a real fight, Delo, really. And even if it does, I am confident in the Paragon and his crew.”

“Are you?” Delo bit her lip, looking worried. “I’ve heard—oh, you know the rumors about the mad ship, Malta—”

“He’s better,” Malta said firmly. She made her eyes light up as if struck with a sudden idea. “Would you like to see him?”

Delo froze as Malta clutched at her hands eagerly, and she managed to shake a laugh from her chest, her anxiety showing in her rigid shoulders.

“Oh, I don’t know, Malta, is that safe…?”

“I was just on the ship yesterday,” Malta said with a bright smile, dragging her friend forward down the road. “It’d just be a glimpse, before it starts to rain—he really is magnificent, Delo. A strong, proud liveship if I’ve ever seen one.”

She wasn’t really lying. Paragon was definitely strong and definitely proud. Magnificent, too, if one ignored his horribly scarred face and chest.

“Oh, alright,” Delo sighed, her nervous laughter turning to excited giggles. “But just a glimpse, Malta! We have reservations for tea at noon!”

“Yes, of course, I haven’t forgotten.” Malta had forgotten, but in the same way that one might forget to kill a fly when it ceases buzzing about a room. She would have remembered, she was sure, once she had stopped to consider the day. “It will be very quick, Delo, I promise. Tell me, what are you wearing to the Summer Ball?”

It was almost nice to listen to Delo dip into the frivolities of the ball, which was fast approaching, and Malta smiled and laughed when she knew she ought to, allowing herself to appear enthralled with the description Delo gave of her gown. Her own gown would be made of an old one, which she might have resented a few months ago, but now she was not particularly angry about the idea that she would not be the most show-stopping young woman presented this summer. In reality, she had no interest in garnering the attention of men, partially because she was sworn to Reyn and partially because her life had become too busy for that distraction.

Malta led Delo down the incline, the fastest way to the Paragon, and she seemed intimidated by the steepness and the rocks. Malta offered her a hand and helped her navigate the hike down, grateful for the shorter length of her girl’s frock and the hard soles of her boots. She had her leather belt cinching the dress, which made it look a bit more mature, and in her idleness that morning she had found a way to clasp the sheath of her knife to the inside of the belt, so it was easily concealed.

“Oh my,” Delo breathed as they came upon the beach, watching the bustle of workers move about the ship. Malta heard the tell-tale sound of Brashen barking orders. She could see Amber in the rigging, fixing something in the crow’s nest. Althea was hammering at something with Jek on the deck. Malta led Delo forward, the swirling gray sky blanketing the horizon ominously.

“Hello, Paragon,” Malta chirped, popping up before the figurehead with her hands clasped behind her back. The massive figurehead tipped his head toward her in acknowledgement. “I’ve brought my friend Delo to meet you. Remember Delo? I spoke about her yesterday.”

“Brashen’s sister.” Paragon nodded stiffly. Malta was relieved he remembered, and even more relieved that he was speaking today. “He will be unhappy you’re here, Malta. Althea said you weren’t to come today. That I’m too dangerous for you.”

“What?” Delo asked weakly.

“Don’t be silly,” Malta laughed, waving at the ship dismissively. “Nothing bad has happened yet, has it? And I was with you all day yesterday, Paragon. Oh, Delo, don’t worry, Paragon isn’t dangerous or even really mad. He’s just been treated unfairly, and his reputation sullied by an endless stream of rumors. Look at him, does he seem scary to you?”

Delo tipped her head back in wonder at the ship. Malta knew it would be ready to launch, soon, which frightened and excited her. The Paragon looked every bit a functionable liveship. The sand around the ship had been excavated to give it room to be drawn down to the sea. And the figurehead, though scarred, was not nearly so scary up close as one would expect. He must have been very handsome before his eyes had been chopped away.

“No,” Delo sighed. “No, he’s not scary. I’m sorry, Paragon. My father always told us that you were dangerous and to never go anywhere near you, so I always thought—but I should know better. I should have gone to see you for myself.”

“No harm done, little lady,” Paragon said gently. “Your father was right to warn you away from me. A liveship is no place for children.”

“And yet Aunt Althea played on you all the time,” Malta reminded him. Paragon smiled down at her.

“A liveship is no place for children,” he repeated amusedly, “but that does not stop them from enjoying our company. Ah, Malta, you ought to leave. Brashen is coming—”

“Malta Vestrit!”

She didn’t even bother to correct the man as he climbed down the ladder and rounded the ship furiously. Delo froze up beside her.

“Oh, hello, Brashen!” Malta twirled her parasol and shot him a bright smile. “I was just enjoying my day off, you know, when Delo asked if she could see the Paragon. I could hardly say no, could I? When we’ve worked so hard to bring him back to himself.”

Brashen’s expression had been twisted with anger, finger raised to berate her for disobeying an order, an amusing thought, as if she actually viewed him as her captain, but that expression melted in an instant at the sight of Delo. His eyes went so big he seemed to lose all semblance of intimidation, and in those large, dark eyes, Malta suddenly saw her dear friend in his face. They looked more alike, Malta realized, than Delo and Cerwin.

“Hello, Brashen,” Delo breathed, and when Malta looked at her, she saw that her friend had paled considerably. She looked bewildered, as if this had never occurred to her as a thing that could happen.

“Delo,” Brashen uttered, blinking rapidly. “Uh, hi. You look—big. Well, I mean, you look like a young lady, not a little—ah. You wanted to see the Paragon?”

Brashen sounded so eager suddenly to show off the ship that Malta smiled, nodding eagerly.

“I told her I wasn’t supposed to come,” Malta sighed, waving up at the ship guiltily, “but honestly, as long as I’m not on the ship, what harm could it do? I won’t tell Tom if you don’t.”

Brashen’s eyes darted from Malta to Delo and back. He looked torn.

“I’d really like to see the ship, Brashen,” Delo gasped, stepping forward with her hand extended, and Malta was surprised at her sudden guile. She had stepped so artfully into the role Malta had crafted for her.

And then, upon looking at Delo’s reddened, tear-streaked face, Malta realized her friend was not playing a part at all. She really did want her estranged older brother to show her his ship.

A twinge of guilt flitted through Malta as Brashen nodded dazedly, taking Delo’s small hand and drawing her toward the ladder.

“Alright, Delo, it’s alright,” he murmured, patting her back gently. “Here, there’s a ladder here—I’ll hold onto you, just watch your step—”

They were gone in an instant. Malta let out a small breath of relief and glanced up at the figurehead. He was smirking at her.

“Tricky girl,” he whispered.

“Say nothing,” she hissed back, stepping forward to get a bit closer to the ship. “I wanted to see you, and this seemed the best way.”

“Why did you want to see me?”

“I wanted to test something.” Malta took a deep breath and sent out a thought as clearly as she could:

Can you hear me?

The ship tilted his head. She bit the inside of her cheek irritably.

“Test what?” Paragon asked warily.

“I’m trying right now. Can you listen?”

“Listen to what?”

Malta tried again. The ship had no response. No matter how loud she tried to make her thoughts, no matter how much she focused, there was nothing there to receive her. Yet she felt the ship’s presence so acutely, as if it was a great tide pushing and pulling at her.

“Let me try one more thing,” she said, reaching up with her hands outstretched. She knew it was a very childlike action, but there was no helping it. “Could you pick me up?”

Paragon’s mouth fell open as if she had said something scandalous. He shifted uneasily, uncertainly, as if he was fighting himself, before he nodded eagerly and lowered his great, massive hands to the sand. She stepped into them, straightening up as her stomach leapt from her abdomen at the jerky motion of his hands lifting her up to his face.

“Wow,” she said, nearly stumbling, but managing to catch herself. She studied the figurehead’s face up close, and she found herself drawn in by the planes of the man’s once handsome face, high cheekbones and rich black curls. He had a beard that reminded Malta of her grandfather, before he had gotten sick. His hair fell to his shoulders. Malta leaned forward and touched it, not sure what to expect. She felt a jolt of alarm from the ship, and that made her laugh in delight. “It’s so soft! How can wood be soft like hair?”

“I don’t know,” Paragon whispered. He sounded giddy, suddenly. As if sharing in her delight. “How are you doing that—?”

“Malta! No!”

Mine, she heard the Greater Dragon hiss, slithering into her mind. She could see it suddenly, even though she could also see Paragon’s craggy face, scales gleaming in the midday sun that had not appeared today.

Leave us alone, Malta snapped, finding herself staring into the great reptilian eyes of two massive dragons. I’ve been here before, and I am not yours or anyone’s! Let me be here. I don’t want trouble.

The dragons watched her keenly. She found herself pushing her parasol behind Paragon’s ear as some distant child was greeted by a sudden fall of rain.

“You’ll get wet,” she told the ship dazedly, watching the dragons open their great hinged jaws.

They will not have you, a familiar voice murmured in her head, just as her dragon snarled at her for her foolishness. None of them can have you. Malta, wake up. Push them away. You can do it. Let go. Everyone, let go.

She released Paragon’s cheek, which she had not realized she had been pressing both her palms against, and she swayed against the arm that had encircled her, cool fingers slipping against her neck. Her vision swam, her voice left her, and yet, she managed to remain standing. She laughed giddily as Amber crushed her to her in a tight hug.

“It worked,” she gasped, “it worked! I spoke to him!”

“You spoke to the dragons, maybe,” Amber gasped into her hair. They both stood in Paragon’s cupped hands. She must have scrambled down the rigging and jumped over the rail in record time. “Whether or not Paragon heard it—”

“I did.”

Malta twisted to look at the figurehead brightly. She smiled at him, reaching out to press her hand to his cheek again, the swooping elation she felt at connecting with him eclipsing all sense. Amber snatched her hand and pinned it to her side.

“Malta, no. No more. Apologize to Paragon.”

“But why?” she gasped.

“You did not ask him if you could touch him, and you did not warn him what would happen when you did.” Amber looked down at her with a stony expression, and she looked more of wood than Paragon did. “He could not have known what you meant to do. It’s dangerous for you both. Now apologize!”

“I’m sorry!” Malta squeaked. “I didn’t think—”

“I know, Malta. You rarely think before you do these things.” Amber sighed and squeezed her into another tight hug. Malta stared into the rain dazedly. “It makes me wonder if you aren’t Tom’s long-lost sister after all, the way you two are so alike. It’s amazing. You amaze me. Don’t ever do that again.”

“Okay, Amber,” Malta sighed, clutching at her back if only to grip at something. She rested her cheek on the woman’s shoulder, a headache blooming behind her eyes. “You Skilled to me.”

“I intervened. I can do that, if necessary. If I’m touching you. You should get home.” Amber took a deep breath. “Elfbark. You need elfbark—”

Malta, what did you do?

“Tom!” Malta released Amber and turned toward the voice, stepping toward it. She felt a pair of arms around her waist, both Amber and Paragon shouting in unison. “Tom, where are you?”

She heard nothing more. She flailed and midair, toppling backwards as she and Amber fell to Paragon’s hands. Paragon gave a shout of horror, closing his hands up to form a barrier so neither of them fell over the sides. Malta looked around wildly, rain colliding harshly with the wizardwood, slapping against the sand, plastering her hair to her face.

“Where did he…?” Malta’s eyes widened. “Oh. Was that in my head?”

“Paragon, put us down. Please. Don’t look like that, it’s not your fault at all. It’s Malta. Malta, apologize again.”

Malta laid her hand against the massive one that held her and thought: I’m sorry, Paragon.

Amber snatched her hand away with a scowl, but it didn’t matter, because Malta could feel Paragon’s curious prodding at the edge of her mind. She’d done it. She’d done it, and no one could stop it now, not Amber, not Tom, not anyone. When she was lowered to the sand and pulled away from the ship, she swayed against Amber’s arms, staring up at the figurehead and seeing how nicely the parasol stuck out of his hair.

“We match!” Malta cried excitedly, touching the white lily in her hair. Paragon touched the parasol thoughtfully.

“I’ll take her home, Brashen,” Amber said, hugging Malta tight to her chest. “I need to talk to Tom about this, anyway.”

“Could you take Delo, too?” Brashen gasped. Malta glanced over at her friend dazedly. She was pale, staring at Malta with wide, horrified eyes. The rain fell heavily around her, drenching her pretty lace frock and reddening her cheeks. “I really don’t want my father to find out she’s been to see me.”

“Yes, right. I understand.”

“I’ll come with you,” Althea gasped, using her vest to cover her head. “Come on, let’s get as far from the ship as possible. Malta, are you alright?”

“I’m great!” Malta shot Althea a bright smile and twirled giddily, jumping into a puddle and cackling. “Oh, this is so fun! There are so many games we can play! Paragon—!”

“Please take her away, Amber,” Paragon said in a small, pained voice. Malta felt his sudden horror like an arrow through her heart, and she dropped her arms to stare up at the figurehead, hurt and bemused. “Please. I—I think I’ve hurt her. Please get her away from me.”

“You haven’t hurt her, Paragon,” Amber gasped, squeezing Malta’s shoulders. “She’s done this to herself, and whatever the consequence of it is, I’m sure she’ll face it with her head held high. I’ll be back later, alright?”

“Just go!” Paragon cried, covering his face with his hands. Malta lurched forward, hands outstretched, but Amber was far stronger than she looked, and she wheeled her around and forced her to walk away from the ship.

“Don’t be sad!” Malta called to the ship. “You’re the best ship ever! Don’t you know that? Paragon? Hey—!”

Please stop, Paragon told her, his voice small and weak. I don’t know how you’ve done this, but stop talking. Stop doing this. You aren’t him. Stop taking him from me. Go away!

Malta cried out as he cut himself off from her, tripping into the sand as she felt the bodily shove from his rejection. Yet even with the closure of their connection, which had been an open channel flooding her senses, there was a lingering sense of regret and horror that stung her deeply. She knelt in the sand, staring at it dazedly, a residual feeling of utter disgust and anxiety left to stew inside her. Delo had cried out, hands over her mouth, while Amber knelt beside her, rubbing her back soothingly as she stared out at the sea in a daze.

“I don’t understand,” Malta breathed.

“Oh, Malta,” Amber sighed, pulling her tightly into her arms, gathering her up like she was a child, and Malta hesitantly returned the embrace, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I feel sick,” she admitted quietly. “I need a bath, I think.”

“Let’s get you home,” Amber murmured, smoothing her hair back behind her ears and smiling down at her warmly. It was hard to accept that warmth. Something had just been given to her, only to be stolen in an instant, and she was left with some slimy, pervasive feeling of an intrusion. She had no idea what to make of it.

Althea helped her to her feet. She held her head and took a step forward before doubling over and vomiting. She had no energy to even consider how unseemly and disgusting it was as she retched and heaved, stars dotting her vision. Delo squeaked beside her.

“Malta, what’s wrong?” her friend cried.

“I’ve got a headache,” Malta gasped, pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes and shuddering. “It’s nothing, Delo, really. I’m sorry, I’ve ruined our afternoon.”

“No, no!” Delo caught her arm and helped her up the incline. It was sweet, Malta realized, that she was returning the favor from earlier. “You’re sick, that’s all. We’ll just have to catch up another time. I don’t mind, really—I got to see Brashen. Cerwin will be so jealous! He’s not anything like what Father says he is, Malta. He’s very well spoken and gentlemanly! Oh, if only Father could see it…”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Althea told Delo curtly. “Trader Trell isn’t going to restore Brashen’s inheritance just because you say he’s changed. It’ll only get you in trouble if you even mention that you’ve been with him.”

“I know,” Delo whispered, and Malta knew that tears intermingled with the rain on her face as she sniffed and trudged up the sea road. “It’s not fair. He’s my brother, I should be allowed to visit him!”

“You’re right,” Amber said gently. Althea shot her a warning look. “You should, Delo. It’s not fair to you or your brothers that your father keeps you apart. Perhaps if you’re willing to risk the repercussions you could tell your father that you’ve seen Brashen.”

“Blame me,” Malta said miserably. Delo glanced at her with wide eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Delo, it was my idea to start. Say I wanted to show the Paragon off, and I completely forgot that Brashen is your brother. It’s easy to forget, I think. Or say I did it on purpose. I don’t care.”

“If I say you did it on purpose,” Delo gasped, shaking her head fiercely, “Father would forbid me from ever seeing you again!”

“Well, maybe don’t say that then.” Malta groaned, dragging her hands down her face. She didn’t even really know where they were.

Suddenly Amber stopped before her, crouching in the road.

“Get on my back,” the woman demanded. Malta stood there, shocked and dismayed at the thought of being carried by the odd woman. “Stop dawdling, Malta, if you keep walking you will pass out. You’ll be carried either way. Wouldn’t you rather be awake so you can walk into your home?”

That was enough to sway her. She carefully climbed onto Amber’s back, lacing her arms around the woman’s neck, and Amber hefted her up by her legs, carrying her with surprising ease down the road. As unseemly as her trousers and workman’s shirt were, they allowed a range of movement that brought them quickly along the wooded path and into town.

“This is miserable,” Malta breathed, “and humiliating…”

“Perhaps you will think twice before attempting to forge a mental bond with three less than stable entities trapped inside a wooden ship,” Amber quipped dryly. Malta’s chin was resting upon her head, and she scowled. She had the urge to pull her hair, which was so childish that she had to tell herself it was childish and stupid, over and over.

She did it anyway.

“Ow!” Amber twisted to look up at her in alarm. “Malta, really? What did I say that was untrue?”

“Nothing,” Malta admitted. “I just didn’t care for you saying it.”

“I was thinking she had been acting too mature lately,” Althea sighed. “Well, a child will be a child.”

Malta did not respond, knowing well and good that she’d done something immensely childish, feeling small and silly and stupid, but she did not know why. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to break something to bits.

“Is that what’s happening, Malta?” Delo asked in a small voice. “You were trying to form a connection with the Paragon?”

“I did form a connection with Paragon,” Malta corrected bitterly.

“But—but that’s not possible!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said miserably, “because he hates me, and he’ll never let me in again. Oh, I’ve messed it all up!”

“I’ll speak to him, Malta,” Amber sighed. “I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. I think you spooked him, is all. You need to ask permission for these things. He wasn’t prepared to have someone inside his head like that. Well, next time we’ll monitor you very closely.”

“So I can’t touch him?” Malta asked with a sigh.

“No, Malta,” Amber said amusedly. “So we can ensure you and Paragon are both safe. He thinks he hurt you. That’s why he was so upset.”

“I’m mostly fine.” Malta shook her head. “Dizzy. Nauseous. Sort of… empty, I guess. I don’t know. It’s like I had something I didn’t know I ever needed, but he took it away before I could name it.”

“This is why Tom has warned you over and over about how dangerous the Skill is,” Amber sighed, shaking her head. As if she could feel Malta scowling, she laughed. “Oh, I know you don’t want to hear it. It’s been a great game to you, playing with the Skill, learning from Tom, pushing his buttons, but this is real, Malta. Your life, your mind, it’s at stake every time you test the limits of this power. It scares Tom because it’s hurt him, and he is only cautious with you because he does not want you to be hurt as he’s been hurt. So when we tell him what happened with Paragon today, we will be firm with him that the connection is already there, and he will decide how we proceed. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” Malta sighed. She was too tired to care.

Malta was relieved that no one in town had stopped them. The rain had probably saved them a lot of strife. Amber put her down on the veranda, and Malta leaned heavily against her side as Althea let them into the house.

A great wolf nearly knocked Malta and Amber off their feet.

“Nighteyes!” Amber cried, shielding Malta as the wolf leapt up to greet them. “Hold on, let Malta sit down—Oh, Tom, don’t be angry with her—”

“What were you thinking?” Tom snarled, grabbing Malta by the arm and wrenching her from Amber’s grasp. Amber shouted in shock and genuine rage, and she smacked Tom in the shoulder, which only jostled Malta more. She stared up at the man in mute terror, her brain shutting off, her blood turning to ice.

Igrot, her mind supplied, though she had no idea what it meant. She simply stood there, frozen, mute, waiting for a blow that never came.

“Malta,” Tom breathed, sinking to his knees before her and cupping her wet cheeks with his callused hands. “I’m sorry. What is going on? What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” Malta whispered dazedly. She wanted Tom to stop touching her, but a strange, alien fear kept her rooted in place. Yet Tom seemed to sense her discomfort, and he retracted his hands as if her skin was an open flame.

“It’s not nothing,” Tom said. His voice was low and dangerous. Malta shuddered and bit back a sob. “Oh, Malta, don’t cry—Fool, would you—?”

Amber pulled her away from Tom gently, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Malta sank into her arms, turning her face into her shoulder and muffling a sob into her damp vest. She didn’t know why she was crying. Her head hurt, certainly, but she was feeling desolate and full of terror, and she could not place why.

“Paragon gave her something of his, I think,” Amber said gravely. “It was an accident. On his part, at least. Malta didn’t tell him what she intended to do, and he couldn’t shield from her, as he’s shielded from me in the past. I’m not sure what this is, but it’s bad. Clearly.”

“Can he take it back?” Tom demanded, rising to his feet in a rage.

“It might go away on its own.” Amber absently smoothed Malta’s hair from her face. Malta clung to her tightly. “If not, we’ll have to try to get Paragon to remove it. Whatever it is. Did you see anything strange when you touched him, Malta? A memory, or…?”

“Just dragons,” Malta murmured. She withdrew from Amber, swiping at her face and taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m alright now. I don’t know what came over me—”

“You were terrified of me,” Tom told her glumly.

“You grabbed me!” Malta snapped at him. “I thought you were going to hurt me!”

“Why would I ever hurt you?” Tom stared at her with wide, genuinely pained eyes. Malta said nothing, searching her brain for an answer and finding none that were logical. “Malta, let me make this very clear. I won’t hurt you. Ever. I’m sorry I grabbed you, and I—I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was angry, and I was frightened, but you didn’t deserve that. I’m so sorry. Can I touch you? Please?”

There was a strange and desperate voice inside Malta’s head, a dying one, that begged her not to trust him. It told her that he was lying, that he always lied, that he was going to hurt her if she let him close—but then, when had Tom ever hurt her? Logically, it made no sense. He had always put her safety first. It was the reason for all of the caution surrounding the Skill.

So hesitantly, Malta withdrew from Amber and gave Tom a small, shaky nod. She squeaked as he drew her into a tight embrace, just as swiftly as Amber had, and she found the voice inside her head had quieted. She felt empty. Not calm, exactly, but bereft of something. She sighed into Tom’s shoulder and wrapped her arms around his middle.

“I think it’s gone,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut.

“I know.” Tom crouched a bit before her again, withdrawing from the hug and clutching her arms in both his hands. “Malta, whatever just happened cannot happen again. I was angry because I told you it was dangerous, but you did not care. You think my warnings are the ravings of a madman, but I’ve been where you are, and I cannot let you get hurt the way I was hurt. Please. Leave this thing with the Paragon alone for now. Focus on your walls, focus on me, but leave the ship. I will do whatever I can to help you master the Skill, as much as someone like me, who has no talent with it at all, can help with such a thing. Just—please, please don’t touch that ship again. And please don’t be scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you, Tom,” Malta whispered, searching the man’s scarred face and seeing a frightened young man that had no business looking so haunted. She felt guilty for forcing him to feel all the horrible things she’d felt today. “I’m sorry for not listening.”

“I doubt you really are,” Tom huffed, rising to his feet and mussing her hair. She grimaced. It was the sort of thing her father had often done to Selden. Great. Tom thought of her like a son. Fantastic. These were things that could haunt her after she was bathed and fed. “I already have elfbark brewed.”

“Oh, thank Sa,” Malta breathed, kicking off her muddy boots and darting for the kitchen. She stopped and looked up at Tom. “You won’t tell Mother or Grandmother about this, will you?”

“And risk my hide? No way.”

“Thank you.” Malta was relieved, at least, that he was on her side more than her elders’. Althea, well, Malta doubted her aunt would go gossiping to her mother about this. Still, she’d talk to her later about keeping her mouth shut. “I made a real connection with Paragon. If it matters.”

Tom’s eyes softened. He patted her head again.

“Maybe it does,” he offered. “Shields first. Then we’ll talk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

The crickets seemed to bellow around him in the chill of dusk as Fitz sat at the garden table and watched the sky darken over the hedgerows. He was avoiding Keffria and Ronica, who had returned home to a frightened Delo sitting in the foyer, Amber and Althea drenched and muddy beside her, and of course Fitz and Malta drinking elfbark in the kitchen. Malta had fled to take a bath, leaving Fitz to explain. He had no idea how to do that, so he told them that Malta had overexerted herself Skilling, despite his warnings. Neither of them seemed surprised about that.

Althea had taken Delo home. The Fool was tending to Malta, which Fitz thought was smart. Malta viewed Amber as safe, even when she was seized with terror. Fitz knew it was because Amber was a woman. He had felt the bone-chilling fear that his actions had caused the poor girl harm, and he knew it was his responsibility to act accordingly. He had not thought about how abrasive and violent his actions could be, but he knew his temper often got the best of him, and when he had felt Malta’s Skill-connection to the Paragon, he had no way to help her. He could not shield her from so far away. He had been driven to rage by his genuine horror and fear, and that had left her utterly terrified of him.

Though she had said that it was merely whatever Paragon had Skilled into her, Fitz could not help but wonder if it was deeper than that.

The Fool appeared in the kitchen doorway suddenly. Rain and mud had drenched his prior attire, and he’d changed since tending to Malta. He wore one of Althea’s plain skirts and airy blouses, both of them blue. The color seemed rich against his honeyed skin. He lit a lantern to ward off mosquitos and brought it to the table, plopping down beside Fitz.

“She’s asleep,” he said, lowering his chin onto his arms and staring at the candle within the lantern dully. “She asked me to stay with her until sleep took her, and I agreed, but it was not a particularly quick endeavor. She started crying again. I’m not sure whatever Paragon did to her is fully gone, despite her assertions. What did you feel, exactly?”

“You pulled her out,” Fitz sighed, “what did you feel?”

“I felt the dragons. But it’s Paragon that did this.” The Fool lifted his head and studied Fitz with his bright golden eyes. “I suspect this is the child in Paragon. It latched onto Malta.”

“The little boy who died with his father and made the ship quicken early?” Fitz asked confusedly.

“Perhaps.” The Fool thumbed the lace on the cuff of his borrowed shirt and sighed. “I don’t know, Fitz. I haven’t got a clue what could be wrong with her, and you can imagine how that frustrates me. Paragon was so upset about it… and it’s hard when she doesn’t understand it either. She was fine, and then suddenly she became so panicked and hysterical, she begged me not to leave and not to blow out the candles. When I asked her what it was that she feared so strongly, she told me she didn’t know, but that it came in the dark. It’s awful, Fitz, it’s so…”

“Unlike Malta?” Fitz offered. Even as he said it, his mouth was dry and his heart was clenched in his chest. He was glad that he had not been the one with her as she'd wept. The Fool was a far more comforting presence, and Fitz would have been frantic trying to get her to stop.

“Yes.” The Fool bit his lip anxiously. Fitz reached for his hand, and he was relieved when the Fool clasped it tightly. Whatever had happened the night prior had not ruined their friendship. Fitz found himself sighing in relief. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Fitz asked confusedly.

“You seem…” The Fool blinked at him. His eyes flitted quickly. “Tense. Is it because of Malta fearing you? I think that’s gone away for good. Hopefully in the morning all of this will be gone for good.”

“I can’t begin to explain what she was feeling when I grabbed her,” Fitz admitted, lowering his face into his hands. “I feel terrible, Fool. Just horrible. She’s just a little girl! How could I have done that to her?”

“It… was frightening, in the moment, even for me, I’ll admit,” the Fool said carefully. “But you did not hurt her. You merely scared her. And I’m sorry I hit you.”

“Oh, I deserved it.”

“Maybe,” the Fool said, his lips twisting in an almost smile, “but if I’m to advise you on the importance of using your words and not your fists to deal with an uncomfortable situation, I would like not to sound like such a hypocrite.”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever hit me before,” Fitz said, lowering his hands to peer at his friend. “It was interesting. Well. I just hope when she wakes up that she’s better. I feel awful.”

“I know,” the Fool said sympathetically. “I’ll ask Paragon if he knows how to fix it. But if he doesn’t… Malta is strong, Fitz. She’ll get through this.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Fitz hissed, shaking his head. “The Skill—I never should have agreed to—”

“If you were not here teaching her, she would have been devoured,” the Fool cut in sharply. “She was trying to fight them off when I got to her. She might have succeeded, but I didn’t let them properly attack. That’s why I’m saying it’s Paragon that did this, not the dragons.”

“Oh. She was pushing back?” Fitz could not imagine being that young and having the strength to withstand the consciousness of two dragons. When he had been that young, he could barely muster the strength to withstand Galen. But Malta was getting stronger with the Skill every day. “That’s good, I suppose.”

“It’s great.” The Fool smiled at him warmly. “You’re doing a good job, Fitz. You’re not a bad teacher, you just need to have more faith in yourself and in Malta. And really, can you blame her for touching Paragon?”

“It was foolish,” Fitz huffed.

“So it was!” The Fool grinned at him, sliding his gloved fingers over Fitz’s wrist. His breath caught in his throat. “And we’ve never done a foolish thing once in our lives, have we?”

“Is that a real question, Beloved?” Fitz asked breathlessly.

“Only if you’re not a coward, my Fool.”

“A coward?” Fitz demanded, grabbing the Fool’s hand that lingered over the Skill marks on his wrist, staring into the man’s bright golden eyes, drawn in by the way the lantern light glittered in his irises. “Yet you still wear these when you touch me. Who’s the real coward, hm?”

The Fool’s eyes widened. His lips parted in shock, and Fitz grinned at him, wondering if he’d take the dare, or if Amber’s sensible side would win out.

“I wonder if you’ll regret this,” the Fool murmured, unbuttoning his glove slowly, his eyes never leaving Fitz’s.

“I’ll add it to my pile of regrets,” Fitz said, his fingers hooking around the lip of the leather glove and sliding across the Fool’s cool palm. The Fool was quiet, eyes widening as he searched Fitz’s face. His mouth opened and closed. It delighted Fitz that he had done something to hold the man’s tongue. Feeling the soft skin of his hand, which was so often hidden from the world, felt strangely intimate. As if Fitz had exposed a more scandalous part of him.

“Am I, uh, interrupting something…?”

Fitz withdrew his fingers from the Fool’s palm, and the Fool tugged the glove back on, jaw set, fingers quick to button it back up. Althea had marched into the garden from the road and stopped short, taking in the sight of Fitz’s fingers caressing the Fool’s hand within the confines of its glove—oh. Damn it.

“No,” the Fool said calmly, remarkably composed as Althea approached them slowly. “How is Delo?”

“A bit shaken up,” Althea admitted. “She’s scared for Malta, which is understandable. Can I ask how long you two think you can keep pretending like you’re not fucking so that I can stop pretending like I don’t know you two are fucking?”

Fitz made an involuntary noise, something between a squeak and a groan. The Fool merely stared at Althea blankly.

“That’s a rude assumption,” the Fool said flatly.

“That was a rude thing he was miming with your glove, Amber. Oh, come on, we’re all adults here.”

“I was not—!” Fitz silenced himself at the Fool’s sharp warning glance. It was a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. It was infuriating!

“Does holding my hand a consummation make?” the Fool asked, turning out his hand and unfurling his fingers as he offered them to Althea. “Would you like a taste, then?”

Althea froze. Then she burst into unsteady laughter. She took the final chair at the table, batting the Fool’s hand away.

“You always surprise me,” she said, smiling warmly at the Fool. Her eyes slid to Fitz then. “Don’t think you’re off the hook. I know you didn’t come home last night.”

“I had a seizure—”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Althea crossed her arms and shrugged. “It’s not my business, I’m not asking for details. I just need to know if it’ll affect our voyage.”

“What? No!” Fitz shook his head fiercely. “Nothing is happening between us. It’s not—Amber isn’t—”

“We’ll be good on the ship,” the Fool promised. “No fraternization, like proper sailors. We won’t give you any issues, sir.”

“Ha ha.” Althea rolled her eyes. “And why do I doubt that? Well, just keep it discreet. And try not to get pregnant.”

“I can’t get pregnant,” the Fool said in that eerie, calm voice he used when he was really leaning into Amber.

“Oh.” Althea stiffened, and then shrugged. “Sorry. Or, you know, good? I’m not sure how you feel about it, I’m sorry if all that sounds insensitive.”

“I don’t mind, Althea. I’ve known a long time that I was not meant to have children.” The Fool played with the end of his braid, his expression blank. Fitz sat quietly, trying to ease his hammering heart and ever so grateful that the darkness would hide his flushed cheeks. “Need I have this talk back at you, or will we let this conversation die?”

“Oh, piss off.” Althea wrinkled her nose. “Whatever. Tom, why did you tell Paragon you died?”

“What?” Fitz asked, feeling completely dazed. Every word out of Althea’s mouth since she had appeared out of the hedgerows had been like a hard cuff to the side of the head. Except gradually the cuffing became like a hammer coming down on his skull.

“You know, when you had that seizure on the beach,” Althea said, frowning at her hands, “and then again this morning…”

“How did you know about that?” Fitz asked sharply. Beside him, the Fool was still and silent, lips pressing together thinly as he stared at the candle within the lantern before him.

“Brashen.” Althea glanced at him, her brow furrowing uncertainly. “He said that Paragon was really upset about it after you left. And then with Malta today… I don’t know. Is it safe for you two to be on the ship?”

“It’s fine.” Fitz took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He felt the Fool’s hand on his shoulder, and he could not bring himself to shrug it off. “I did die, for a few minutes. I was brought back by some miracle of medicine. Resuscitation, it’s called, I think.”

“Brashen said that Paragon said you were beaten to death,” Althea whispered, eyes widening. “Tom… if that’s true—”

“It’s really nothing you need to worry about,” Fitz said hastily. He found himself reaching out blindly, and the Fool clasped his hand in his without question. “It was a long time ago, and it has nothing to do with anything. Leave it alone, Althea. Please.”

“Oh. Alright.” Althea blinked dazedly. “I’m sorry. I just—I didn’t think it could really be true—”

“Don’t worry about it. In fact, forget it entirely.”

“Okay…” Althea’s eyes flitted between the two of them uncertainly. Then she stood, throwing up her hands. “I’m going to go. Pretend like I didn’t interrupt you. Yeah? Alright. See you both tomorrow.”

Althea escaped into the safety of her house, leaving Fitz both angry and bereft. Before he could say a word, he found himself being dragged into a pair of strong arms, his head pulled down to the Fool’s shoulder, his chin resting upon Fitz’s head. Fitz grappled at the Fool’s shirt, and he settled down as the Fool smoothed his hair back and stroked it soothingly. He had seen him do the same to Malta earlier when she had been on the verge of becoming overwhelmed by her own panic. He found his heartrate settling as he allowed himself this embrace.

“I’m sorry, Fitz,” the Fool murmured into his hair.

“It’s my big mouth that gets us into trouble.” Fitz sighed into the Fool’s neck. “And my stupid hands.”

“Well, you’ve always been handsy.” The Fool’s eyes glittered as Fitz glared up at him. “What? Okay, so Althea thinks what we knew she’d think. Oh, what a surprise! You think you’ll convince her otherwise? It’s Althea. And anyway, you must admit, what you did was rather… compromising.”

“It’s a glove,” Fitz said flatly, lifting his head to scowl at the Fool.

“Indeed.” The Fool lifted Fitz’s hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it. Fitz wrenched his hand away with a strangled noise of dissent. “And that was a kiss. Goodnight, my Fool.”

“Oh, piss off, Beloved,” Fitz retorted, earning a short, bright laugh that brought Fitz right back to his childhood. A slow grin rose to his face before he could stop it. “Don’t go yet.”

“I’m afraid I must,” the Fool sighed, drifting to his feet, “though I know you’ll miss me terribly. I have a lonely old ship to attend to. Shall I leave a glove for you to remember me by?”

“You didn’t touch me,” Fitz reminded him. The Fool paused to glance back at him incredulously. “Well? You didn’t. So yes. Give me your glove.”

The Fool turned around to face him fully. His eyes were wide and bright with mischief. He started forward, unbuttoning his glove as he went, and Fitz blinked as the glove was yanked off his hand and tossed onto the table before him.

“Enjoy,” the Fool said, whirling away and waggling a Skill-tipped finger at him as he disappeared into the hedgerows and was swallowed by the night.

“They’re launching the Paragon today.”

Tom lifted his head from his scribblings. Another day of shielding practice, another boring afternoon. Malta was going to go stir crazy. The heat of the late summer afternoon had settled into the study, and she was sweating from the effort of keeping Tom’s mind from whisking into her skull and seizing her secret.

That was the game. Tom had come up with it the morning after the incident with Paragon, insisting that it was the only way he could think to practice. They would take turns thinking a secret and try to keep the other from finding it out.

Malta had given up many secrets this way. Tom had given up none.

“Don’t you want to be there?” Malta pressed him, watching him move a stone on the fabric mat and return to his scribbling. She didn’t think it was his manuscript on the flowers in their garden, the roses and wisteria and jasmine. He had made her memorize the medicinal purposes, and which flowers could be toxic, as part of their practice when they were not exchanging secrets. Instead, she was sure he was scrawling something very personal. “We should be showing a united front. And it would encourage Paragon—”

“You used to steal toffee with Delo from the confectionary down the road,” Tom cut in dismissively. “Your turn, Malta.”

“It’s hard to play the game and shield at the same time,” Malta hissed, glaring at the stones before her.

“That’s the point.” Tom set his pen aside, leaning back in his chair to study her thoughtfully. He had shaved that morning, and whenever he went without the bristle of his beard, he looked unreasonably young. Malta chewed on the inside of her teeth and tried to focus. The white pieces were the most useful and most vulnerable, and Tom had chided her for sacrificing them so thoughtlessly. She had tried to be better about it. The times that she’d managed to beat him at the stone game, she had restrained herself with laying down white pieces, and had strategized with red and black. It was, admittedly, fun to flex her brain in this way. Tom had even complimented her strategy once, though he’d almost instantly found fault in her logic.

“How do you do it, then?” Malta demanded.

“I’ve been alive longer.” Tom gestured to the cloth mat. “Go.”

Malta took a stone from the bag and placed it before the red stone that Tom had just laid down. The black paint had begun to flake off from the amount of use the pieces had gotten in the past few weeks.

“You haven’t come up with a secret,” Tom said amusedly, plucking up his pen and returning to his writing. Malta had read some of it, when Tom thought she wasn’t looking. Something about a puppy and a stableman. Tom’s expression fell. “You’ve been reading my private writings?”

“That wasn’t the secret,” Malta gasped, frustrated that he’d whisked that from her brain. “Can’t you let me think?”

“You make it easy to collect your innermost thoughts,” Tom replied sharply, jerking the pen in her face. She shoved it away with a scowl. “You’re clever, Malta. You’re quick on your feet and you clearly have some talent for this. Just focus.”

“I am focusing!” Malta watched him set a black piece upon her red one, and she realized she’d lost. She took a deep breath, cleared the cloth, and stared at it numbly. “Who’s Burrich?”

“There’s only one way you’ll find that out,” Tom said, a harsh edge to his voice, folding his bit of paper and tearing it in half. “You said it wrong, just so you know.”

“Well excuse me for the lack of a Duchies brogue, Tom,” Malta huffed. She looked into his eyes and pushed as hard as she could, using all she had to weasel her way past Tom’s defenses. She could only scrabble at his walls, pressing an ear to them, waiting for something to leak out. There were cracks in his defenses, she knew. She just needed to find one large enough to slither through.

Tom set down a white stone. Malta countered it with a red one. Tom laid down a red stone. Malta countered it with a black one. Tom set down a black stone. Malta cleared the cloth.

“The game wasn’t finished,” Tom chastised her.

“Father,” Malta said, stuffing the stones back into their bag. Tom froze. “I heard it just now. That’s a secret. I won. And stop ripping up what you’ve written. I won’t read anymore.”

“You’re lying.”

“Can we please go see Paragon?” Malta begged. Tom sat silently, staring at her blankly. “Just shield me if you have to, but I’ve proven that I’m strong enough to push back if I need to.”

“Strength at pushing in does not equal strength at pushing out,” Tom told her curtly. “You need to keep me out, Malta. Especially if you intend on pursuing a bond with the Paragon. Think of our bond as training for that. If I can take your secrets, so can the ship.”

“I thought liveships and their families shared in everything,” Malta muttered. It was how things were supposed to be, she knew, but it seemed unlikely she and Paragon would ever have a natural bond.

“No one should give themselves up entirely to something else,” Tom said gravely. There was a strained look upon his face that made his pale scars pucker against his cheek. “No matter how tempting it is, no matter how much you love the other, you must remain yourself. There must be boundaries. Even Nighteyes and I have that.”

“When can I start fully understanding him?” Malta asked eagerly. The wolf was enjoying the woods while he could. Tom had said that the journey would be harsh on him. “I haven’t heard him once since the dragons attacked you.”

“I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to,” Tom sighed. “Malta, the Skill… it doesn’t work like that. You felt him through me, that’s all. It… might be a separate talent altogether, the ability to understand an animal like that. Don’t worry yourself with it.”

“But—”

“If you can take one more secret from me,” Tom said, “I’ll consider bringing you down to the docks. But we’d watch from there. No going on the ship. Do you understand?”

“We’ll be on the ship soon,” Malta reminded him.

“But not today. So?”

Malta took a deep breath. She took a red stone and set it down on the cloth. Back again slipping out of her body, probing at the strength of Tom’s walls. He was strong. She knew that. The walls had been here for perhaps as long as she’d been alive. Was the point that he claimed to have such little talent and yet could clearly Skill around her with ease? What was the answer? Trickery? She doubted she could manipulate Tom. He knew her too well, and he could sense when she was being less than truthful. If she pushed with all of her strength, that would not be enough to topple these walls, so what could she do?

The stone game went on without her. She made moves mechanically, her hand moving to place a stone as her mind sidled up to Tom’s, resting against the barrier that repelled her and recognizing that there was no amount of strength and no amount of trickery that would bring these walls down for her. He was there, inside her mind, a constant humming presence, like a hearth fire on a cold night, but that did not mean that she could navigate a path through the solid mental block he had on her. It seemed impenetrable. Getting the wisp of the word father before felt like chance. She had no idea how she had managed to hear it at all.

She found herself defeated. A small and wavering voice pressing up against his mind.

Please, she thought, tears in her eyes from the effort, let me in.

Malta felt his callused hands scrape against hers as he pried a white stone from her fist. He cradled her twitching fingers as she stared into his wide, dark eyes, watching his features swim away from her as she remained unblinking. His mouth might have moved. She heard nothing but the sound of his mind, a familiar hum that tugged at her soul.

And then, suddenly, she felt the walls that had been as true as the stone in her hand give way. As if transfigured into something fluid. She found herself parting the veil as she might lift a curtain. The sensation was like being hit with a blast of cold air. An open window somewhere let the draft in. She shivered, seized by the jaws of time and memory and shaken like a rag doll between now and then, between her life and a life that no longer existed. She laid on a feather pillow, the velvet cushion lumpy against her aching neck, and she thought her head might roll off as a man took her quaking hands and helped her cup a steaming teacup, ornately gilded in the seams of its mother of pearl panels, like a brilliant tulip blooming warmly between her palms. She drank deeply, raising her eyes to his, and she saw with relief that it was Tom’s wide brown eyes staring down at her sadly.

Her head pounded as the man knelt beside her. He spoke, but this she did not fully hear, feeling rather like she had been submerged under water. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him that she was okay, that he needn’t worry, his brow creased with concern, his jaw set stubbornly. She laid there, and she drew herself up somewhat with straining effort, the wind biting her trembling bones and rattling her deep. There was a rejection here, a solemn push against her mind, a reminder that she did not belong here in this familiar sea-side tower in this gray stone house. Tom meant to cut her loose. She felt it in every jerky movement she made, and she felt it in his grim black stare. Her mouth tasted of bile and elfbark as she forced herself to utter his name.

“Verity,” she said.

And Tom stooped over her, the cup he’d offered gripped in his fist. In the shifting candlelight, and the light that shivered through the open window, the planes of his face grew longer, and his skin seemed darker—deeper—browner than the sun-kissed tan that Tom sported from working in the garden, a shade or two deeper than Althea’s complexion. His hair, too, was wrong. Tom’s hair fell in ringlets, tight, messy curls that collapsed to a mess of waves if he drew his fingers through them. This man had coarse, almost wiry curls, which had been swept from his strong brow and gathered at the back of his head neatly. And his clothes—a blue velvet overtunic belted with a gold embroidered sash, wide sleeves exposing skinny, bony wrists and hands, ringless and ink-stained. Gold in his ears, gold trim on the hem of his livery. He drew himself to his full height and cast a long shadow as she shrunk against the stifling cushion.

“No,” Not-Tom said. His voice was Tom’s—and then, it was not. The air left her lungs as she gazed at the stranger and felt a foreign longing, a boy's ceaseless yearning for love and home. Fear battled that ceaseless desire to be useful and to belong. “Say ‘my prince.’ For in this, I am your prince, and I will not be questioned on it. Now eat.”

She was pulled from the cushion and gently placed in a chair. The man's careful touch did not make her fear and horror dissipate, even as she felt the sidelong daze of want and need the instant the man's hands left her shoulders. She felt as though she might sink fully into the chair, like she was not there at all. Like she was a ghost and all these things she saw—the velvet cushion, the wide-open window with the roar of waves hissing at her back, the grand wooden table, and the prince who was not Tom—they were all things she could haunt in the dark if she cared to.

Her fingers trembled against the tart grapes that she pushed past her lips. She was in a daze as she chewed mechanically. Her hands and mouth moved without her permission. She was a passenger in her own skin. Her teeth tore into a hard heel of bread, the soft innards melting on her tongue. All of the food seemed wrong. The bread was too dense, the grapes were too sour, the meat too salty, and the cheese was aged and hard and mild. All the flavors seemed as grim as the décor. She wanted to tell Prince Not-Tom that his taste was as miserable as his expression, but she instead was forced to stand on shaky legs and move toward the door. Because she could not speak and release her anxiety, she wanted nothing more than to scream or cry.

“FitzChivalry Farseer,” the man said. She heard Tom’s voice in truth, this time, harmonizing with this man’s, an almost near match in cadence and tone, only one was slightly higher than the other.

She found it in herself, when her hands froze on the latch, to swing it open anyway. She spilled out the door and felt it slam shut behind her, a curtain of steel cold against her back shifting into sun-warmed wood.

On the floor of her grandfather’s study, she felt a cushion beneath her head. It was brocade, not velvet, she knew, and the air was warm and thick from the late summer heat. It was stuffy and bright, dust swirling in a catch of golden sunlight between the floor and the artistically plastered ceiling. The smell of flower blooms crowded her nose, freshly cut lilacs from the garden and the smell of salt and smoke and the taste of elfbark and bile dissipated fast. She lifted her eyes and found that Tom was leaning over her, his dark eyes squeezed shut.

“Did you mean for me to see that?” she whispered. Tom opened his eyes. His dark stare was identical to the prince’s. And Malta’s mind worked quickly to weave together the threads of information.

“You took more than I intended,” Tom said hoarsely. He offered her his hand, and she grasped it tightly, drawing herself upright dizzily. “I only meant to offer… well, I should have known you wouldn’t be satisfied with a scrap of a thought. What did you see?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Malta asked confusedly as he helped her into her chair. The wave of déjà vu made her go very still. His touch was very careful, and his hands did not linger upon her shoulders. But she felt safer now than she had in that tower. She did not feel like a strange prisoner within her own body, nor did she fear Tom the way she had feared his sad-eyed shadow-self.

“I know you must have grabbed hold of something more significant than what I meant to give you. Tell me.” Tom dragged his chair beside her and set a steady hand on her shoulder. They both sagged in relief. “It won’t happen again. Don’t worry.”

“He said that,” Malta said suddenly, earning an odd look from her companion of the mind. “I hadn’t been listening, fully, but I remember now. He said it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Who did?” Tom asked carefully, a flash of fear registering in his face before the resignation hit. He flinched when she spoke.

“Verity.” Malta’s eyes dragged over his face tiredly. “Your prince. And your… what? Who was he to you?”

Tom was silent. He straightened in his chair, retracting his hands from her shoulders, and she snatched them up helplessly. His response was to turn his face away sharply.

“Look at me,” Malta demanded, watching him shake his head. “Please. I think I understand what you were trying to give me. Please just look at me, so I know for sure.”

Hesitantly, Tom’s eyes flickered back to her. Yes, they were the very same. The prince who had Tom’s eyes and had Tom’s voice, he was a close relative. Maybe not Tom’s father, but close.

“FitzChivalry Farseer,” Malta said quietly. Tom watched her dully. He looked unsurprised with this utterance, and she knew now that he had meant it. He had wanted her to take this. It was trust beyond trust. He had let her go inside of his mind and take away an intimate secret. “That’s what Amber calls you. Fitz.”

“Fitz.” The corner of Tom’s mouth twitched. “So. Do you understand why I gave this to you?”

“You trust me,” Malta said, buzzing with pride.

“I trust you,” Tom agreed, placing his hand over hers, looking plainly uncomfortable and maybe a little angry, “with this secret. You already know who the Farseers are. And if you saw Verity, in my memories—and that will not happen again, Malta, you won't see anything like that again... Well, anyway, you can guess my place in the grand scheme of things.”

“Verity used you.” Malta had felt what Tom had felt. What Fitz had felt. The strange, sickening feeling of being eaten alive. The way the dragons had tried to eat them alive. It did not escape her notice, the way Fitz flinched again. “I don’t know how. I couldn’t—it’s hard to remember all of it. But he was apologizing for using you. It wouldn’t happen again, he said. Your prince. He used you.”

“Malta,” Tom breathed, wrenching his hands from her and jerking away, “that’s enough—”

“But he—it wasn’t just the once, was it?” Malta searched Fitz’s face and found the answers carved in his heart. The walls could not keep the pain in. He could not stopper it. Tears had worn tracks upon her cheeks well before she began to weep.

“Malta!” Fitz grabbed her shoulders and snatching her up from her seat. “Stop! That’s enough! This is not your pain to feel—!”

“But you won’t feel it!” she gasped, panic settling into her, as it had when she had stumbled home from Paragon a few weeks earlier. The same welling sense of anxiety and shame and confusion was flooding into her. Fitz let go of her, his mouth open in shock.

“You’re like a sponge,” he breathed, drawing his hands to his head helplessly. “Stop it, Malta! Stop it. Please, for me, close your mind! I gave you this secret so you would have something to fight to keep safe. So keep me safe. Guard yourself against anyone or anything that might reach into your mind and take me from you.”

In her panic, she felt the need to hide. She gathered herself up as if she was a thousand blankets littered on the floor, and she cocooned herself and his name within.

They were both silent.

Still, she cried. She couldn’t stop the tears. She swiped at her face furiously, her hands shaky, and Fitz watched her in mute horror as she turned away from him. Of course he felt afraid of rejection, same as her. Though she could not hear his thoughts or see into his mind, she felt his anxiety acutely, and she did not know how to handle it. He must have thought she assumed he was weak for not being able to withstand whatever his prince had done to him.

“Is this why you say the Skill is so dangerous?” Malta whispered, walking up to the study window and leaning out of it. Though the drop was not long, Fitz was at her side in a second, drawing her back.

“There is always a danger in sharing thoughts—”

“I meant what your uncle did to you, FitzChivalry.”

Fitz froze. He stared down at her as she tipped her head to meet his gaze squarely. She did not know what Verity Farseer had done to his nephew. What she knew was that it had been wrong, and the man had known it. The utterances that bubbled at the edge of her memory, puttering like a fountain while she had inhabited a fragile, vulnerable little boy, it made her feel strange and withdrawn and sick. There were things here that were beyond her understanding, and yet, she was certain that it had hurt Fitz irreparably.

“There is a danger to the Skill,” Fitz said carefully. “My uncle needed me, and I was sworn to him. He was my king. My life was his to use. That’s not the case with you, Malta. Your Skill—it’s yours. Your life is yours. Not a king’s, and not a man’s. Yours. Do not let anyone take it from you.”

“The way your uncle did?” Malta whispered. She had started to cry again. For some reason, whenever she mentioned Verity, she was overcome with wave upon wave of sadness and bitterness and longing and panic. She was repulsed by the man, whoever he was.

“I don’t know what you saw,” Fitz warned her, scowling as she glared up at him, “but Verity was my king, Malta. I swore my life to him. That has nothing to do with any of this. I didn’t give you my name so you could panic over what my oath to the Farseers means for my life. That’s not your business.”

“But he hurt you using the Skill,” Malta pointed out miserably. “He stole from you, using the Skill—”

“And I’d never do that to you,” Fitz cut in impatiently, “so why are you so—? It doesn’t matter! Yes, it’s possible to draw strength from others using the Skill. It will have to be a lesson for a later date on how not to do that, because it could kill another person if you try. I didn’t want you to even know about it.”

“So he could have killed you.” Malta shook her head in disbelief. No wonder the man’s anxiety was leaking out of him and latching onto Malta. No wonder he had been so afraid to let her in. No wonder he hated the Skill! “If you want me to stop feeling your pain, you could, I don’t know, feel it? I’m only crying for you! Cry for yourself!”

“I didn’t mean for you to cry!” Fitz shook his head furiously. “I only meant to give you a real, tangible desire to strengthen your Skill walls! And it worked, so you’re welcome! Do you still want to go to see the launching?”

“Of course I do,” Malta huffed, smoothing her hair back from her face. Tears had caused it to stick to her cheeks. She glared out into the garden below. It was a relief that Selden wasn’t playing outside, or he might’ve heard all of that. “I suppose we won’t be talking about the fact that you are a prince, then.”

“The only secret I was willing to disclose was my name,” Fitz warned her.

“And you thought I wouldn’t connect you to the ruling family of the Six Duchies?” Malta scowled. “I’m not stupid, FitzChivalry.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Fitz, then,” she sighed. “So? Are we really not to talk about it? You’re a prince.”

“I’m illegitimate,” Fitz snapped, bristling in fury. “It means nothing. I’m not anyone, Malta. I’m certainly not that person anymore. Just—please, keep calling me Tom. And keep my secret safe.”

“Of course I will,” Malta said, blinking up at him. She wasn’t shocked that he was an illegitimate prince. The pieces of information she’d accumulated about his past had finally slotted into place, and she felt she understood him a bit better now. Having stepped inside his dreams and heard his haphazardly sewn together story of his youth, it made more sense why he was the way he was. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s your concern.”

“You cannot tell anyone,” Fitz warned her, “and you must keep your walls up. They exist now, because there is something worth keeping safe and hidden to you, but you should treat every thought and every dream and every emotion as if it was as precious as my name. Malta, what did you see inside my mind?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said quickly, hoping to dodge the question so she would not cry again.

“What did Verity do?” Fitz looked down at her, his expression hard to read. “Was it… was it Buckkeep that you saw? A tower?"

"Yes." Malta rubbed the back of her neck, which still ached a bit. She noticed Fitz relax, and she understood with that slow, bleeding tension released from his shoulders and facial muscles that there were things inside his mind that he dreaded to let out. “You must have loved him. Your uncle.”

“I did,” Fitz murmured, bowing his head. It was grief he felt just then. Malta peered at his face, laid a hand on his arm, and watched him sigh deeply.

“I feel it, you know,” she offered, following Fitz’s gaze out the window and into the garden, wondering if he saw waves crashing upon rocks. “And I feel how much he hurt you with that love, too.”

“Enough, Malta.” Fitz lifted her hand from his arm and dropped it, whirling away from her. “Speak nothing of my king. Speak nothing of my name. These feelings are my own, the good and the bad, and I will not give them to you.”

“But you already have!” Malta cried, tears springing to her eyes again. She swiped at her face irritably. “Fitz—”

“Tom,” he corrected her in a low, dangerous voice. She gritted her teeth and glared up at him defiantly. Then, remembering her goal for the day, she demurred. She bowed her head in silent recognition of his power over her. Let him think that she was cowed by his anger and pain. Let him believe that she would let this go. It would be his own foolishness to believe that she could, now that she held the dual blade of adoration and repulsion that came with the name Verity.

“Tom,” Malta said quietly. He had swept up to the table where the stone game laid unfinished. She had been winning, she saw. There was no delight in that. She watched Fitz collect the stones with a viciousness, his anger palpable in the thick air. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Malta.”

“But—”

“What am I doing to you?” Fitz snapped at her, not even bothering to look her way. She stood frozen, crying tears of his past, an unknown pain swirling inside her, no end or beginning, just an open, festering wound that would not close because he would not acknowledge that it was there. “I started all this to protect you from it, but now—Malta. Enough. Strengthen your walls. Shut me out. Leave me to myself, I beg you.”

“I don’t know how,” she whispered.

Fitz turned his back to her. And she knew that if he could have wrenched his feelings from her soul, he would have, heedlessly. But he did not know how either.

He had been a child in that memory. She had felt how small and feeble he had been, shaky and gangly—perhaps he had been Clef’s age. A meager eleven, used and abused by powers lorded over him. She thought of the ceaseless complaints about the Satrapy, and the Chalcedean patrol ships, and Bingtown’s ability to self-govern. Suddenly she felt inclined to agree that kings were worthless, if they took from the most vulnerable without thought or care.

“Can we go to the docks now?” Malta asked weakly.

Fitz looked down at her, and she felt his sorrow and exhaustion, but more than that, she felt his regret.

“Okay, Malta,” he said heavily.

“I don’t like Lavoy,” Fitz said glumly as the Fool laid in the plush grass, letting fireflies crawl over his gloved fingers. His golden hair blanketed the greenery, laid out around his head like bundles of dyed cotton. Nighteyes was resting his head upon his stomach.

“You needn’t like a man to work with him,” the Fool said. “I don’t like him either. I think Brashen made the wrong decision, hiring him as first mate. It should have been Althea or you.”

“Me?” Fitz scoffed. He idly added another rose to the Fool’s hair. He had been tending to the garden at sunset when the Fool had arrived, tired from the day’s work, but bright-faced and eager to get sailing. Fitz knew that he regretted agreeing to wait until after the Summer Ball. But it was the last bit of normalcy they could provide Malta before they whisked her away to a world of stress and uncertainty.

“You’ve served on ships before,” the Fool said with a shrug. “I told Brashen that you were a Red Ship War veteran. You served on the Rurisk. He was surprised, and he said he’d think about it, but ultimately, he said, the Duchies warships are nothing like liveships. You weren’t out on the sea for months. But he wants you to help prepare the crew for battle.”

“Great,” Fitz said dryly, tucking another rose into the soft train of spun-gold curls that slithered across the grass. The roses were red and pink, and even in the trundling dusk the clash of vibrant, rich colors against the glittering yellow was astounding. “Well, what are we going to do about Lavoy when he becomes a problem?”

“You seem so sure he will be.”

“He will.” Fitz peered at the Fool’s face dully. The Fool did not look at him, and instead focused on the darkening sky, where stars began to wink down at him. “Brashen is an idiot. Althea should be his first mate.”

“I agree, but—”

“But he doesn’t believe that anyone would follow a woman,” Fitz spat irritably.

“It’s different here.” The Fool shook his head, jostling the rose tucked behind his ear. “Women are expected to step into very specific roles. And when they don’t, they’re viewed as… well, Brashen has made it very clear that we are to bolt our door and alert him to any misconduct.”

“Rapists,” Fitz hissed, shaking his head. “If he has such little faith in his crew—!”

“The Paragon is a disreputable ship,” the Fool reminded him, shooting him a tired glance, as if he’d had this argument before. “I know. You think I don’t? I worry for Althea and Jek, but most especially Malta. I put her on this path, Fitz. I pushed her into this role, and if she gets hurt, it’s because of me. I am using her just as surely as I’ve used you. Will you promise me that you’ll protect her?”

“I’ll protect all of you,” Fitz swore, though he did not know what he would be protecting them from. All he knew was that if it was within his power, he and Nighteyes would do it.

“Well, I appreciate the sentiment,” the Fool said amusedly, reaching up and patting his cheek, “but I’m rather sturdier than that, I think. I’ll be alright.”

“You’ve never been the best in a fight,” Fitz reminded him.

“I’ll survive.” There was a certainty to that statement that Fitz envied. The Fool was so sure. It might have been infectious, if Fitz were less of a worrier. “And so will you, my Fool.”

Fitz leaned into the Fool’s hand. He closed his eyes and felt the late summer breeze pick up at his back.

“Ronica asked me if we’ll be planning our wedding when we get back,” Fitz murmured.

“Will we?” The Fool let his hand slip from Fitz’s cheek, much to his disappointment. He glanced down at the man’s face, studying it for any sign of surprise. There was none. He looked contentedly up at the stars. “That is news to me. In my heart we are already married, you know.”

“Shut up,” Fitz laughed. He lowered himself down beside the Fool, staring at the roses that floated down his river of golden hair. It was almost easy to imagine him wreathed in them, standing at a Witness Stone, bright-eyed and eager. Fitz banished the thought from his mind, his heart seizing as he remembered himself. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Does it bother me that others think that we are lovers?” The Fool’s eyes rolled his way, and Fitz stared at him desperately. “You really are my Fool, aren’t you? Well. I have lived a long life, and for much of it I have been regarded with derision and scorn and disgust. I’ve learned that it does not matter much what others think. I know who I am. I know who you are. You are more important to me than a lover or a husband, and they will never understand that. I doubt you even fully understand it.”

“What?” Fitz laughed weakly.

“Exactly.” The Fool smiled at him warmly, reaching out and flicking a curl from his eyes. He caught the man’s hand and studied his face hungrily.

More and more there was a nagging feeling that perhaps his friend really was a woman. There were things about him that were so feminine. There was a pull that Fitz felt that he had thought only a woman could possess. And of course, there was the incomprehensible beauty. The way his golden hair tumbled perfectly, even after a day of hard labor. How sweat and grime did nothing to distract from the perfect proportions of his cheekbones and proud, straight nose, and the pout of his lips that framed his straight white teeth. Even the imperfections seemed calculated. There was a mole, usually hidden, on his neck between his jaw and shoulder. The sun had kissed a light spray of freckles across his nose, an unusual sight on that familiar face that had once been as white as marble. There was a small gap between his two front teeth, which caused his voice to sometimes whistle like a flute when he spoke. It should have been an ugly sound, but it only gave him a musicality that lent him his otherworldliness.

“Fitz,” the Fool said quietly. Fitz realized he had been staring at the man, unblinking, for an unreasonable amount of time. He released the Fool’s hand and watched him sit up. Roses came tumbling down around his shoulders with the great spill of his hair. “I don’t expect you to feel the same.”

“Feel the same?” Fitz asked confusedly. The Fool stared at him blankly, and then suddenly turned his face forward, his jaw clenching.

“If I was Amber right now,” the Fool said lowly, “I’d give you a piece of my mind. I’d tell you what I’ve told Althea on this topic, and I would not be so kind as I was with her. But I am not Amber to you. I am the Fool. Goodnight, Fitz.”

“Goodnight?” Fitz snatched the Fool’s hand again as he tried to rise to his feet. “No, wait—you’ve only just gotten here—I miss you. Fool, please—Beloved, please—”

The Fool sat beside him, shoulders tense, head bowed, and Fitz drew the man into a tight hug. The Fool laughed into his shoulder in disbelief. He let himself be held in Fitz’s arms, and he felt the tension release as he melted into the embrace. Fitz felt the urge to simply lie down in the grass, the Fool atop him, and they might fall asleep that way. It could be simple. But it wasn’t. Fitz was lying to himself if he thought it was.

It's simple if you don’t overthink it, Nighteyes said, rising from his place in the grass and shaking out his fur. Fitz had disturbed his pillow when he had pushed the Fool to stand out of discomfort. You love him.

Of course I love him, Fitz thought back, squeezing the Fool tight and inhaling the scent of his hair. Rose petals had been left in the wake of the fallen soldiers that had been disturbed by the Fool’s abrupt movements. Still, though, some flowers remained. He smelled strongly of rose and of lavender—the scent of the beeswax polish he often favored as a wood varnish. Beneath that was, of course, nothing at all.

What is the problem, then? Nighteyes sounded impatient as he plodded around the garden until he found a nice, plush patch of grass and folded himself into it. Brother, I feel what you feel. He does not. Tell him so he does not think he is alone in his love for us.

Fitz took a breath. He had the Fool gathered in his arms, and he thought that should be enough. He didn’t understand how the Fool could possibly think he was alone. He supposed there were so many things he did not understand about the Fool, but the Fool understood Fitz perfectly, and that mismatched devotion made Fitz dizzy. Nobody knew him the way the Fool knew him. And the Fool knew that.

“You call me Beloved,” the Fool sighed into his shoulder, “and I lose all sense. You want me to stay? Can you still the rising of the sun and make this night last for all the years this body has left? If that was within your power, I don’t imagine you would be here with me right now. Why must I wait? Why must I stay?”

The Fool lifted his head, fixing Fitz with a stare so intense that Fitz was struck silent. His words spun in Fitz’s head, an eternity of the Fool held firm within his arms, an endless night of jests and laughter and whatever this game of push and tug might be in earnest, if a man was honest—and Fitz was not.

“When we are on that ship,” Fitz said carefully, “we will not have time to be alone. Our talks will be limited. So I want you to stay here for as long as you possibly can, because I will miss this when it is gone.”

“Miss what, exactly?” the Fool teased him, placing a hand on his chest to put some meager distance between them. “The Fool? Beloved? Or Fitz?”

“I’ll miss being free to be with you as we should be,” Fitz said, earning a raised brow.

“And how is that, my darling Fool?”

“How am I to put words to something that makes no sense to me?” Fitz demanded sharply. The Fool blinked at him and laughed. “Don’t laugh! Beloved—”

“Don’t laugh?” The Fool withdrew, or attempted to, leaning back and shifting against the boundaries of Fitz’s arms. “Ah, so you do expect the sun not to rise! You wish to fight nature at every turn! Ask the sun to go into exile and ask a fool not to laugh—I should ask you to be courteous and leave things be, but even the Fool knows when not to beg a man to go against himself.”

“What do you want me to say?” Fitz gripped him by the shoulders when he made a move to stand. It was not often that the Fool was caught cornered, and Fitz so rarely had the upper hand that he wanted to keep it.

“Nothing, Fitz.” The Fool laid his hands upon Fitz’s, lifting his chin to stare into his eyes and smiling faintly. “I want you to say nothing. You are holding me as if you believe I will vanish. How might I put your mind at ease? You won’t believe me if I say that I am with you even when we are parted by seas and mountains. So what if we will not be alone on the Paragon? We don’t need to be alone to be together.”

“But it’s not the same,” Fitz complained, and the Fool grinned at him in disbelief.

“You hate not to have my undivided attention, don’t you?” He shook his head with a short laugh. “You and Paragon… don’t you know my love has no limits?”

“Can you prove that?” Fitz asked.

“I didn’t think I needed to,” the Fool replied, leaning forward with such purpose that Fitz froze in anticipation for a kiss that never came, “my Fool.”

The Fool’s forehead was cool against his. Fitz could smell the roses distinctly, and the smell of seawater on his clothing, and he stared at the ground as the Fool’s hand slipped behind his neck and forced his head to bow so they were not looking at one another.

“Stay with me,” Fitz murmured, closing his eyes and letting his head slide onto the Fool’s shoulder. He wore a macrame vest studded with wooden beads that pried butterflies from the pale knots. “Please, Beloved?”

The Fool sighed against his hair. He pulled him closer, locking his arms around Fitz’s shoulders. Fitz considered pushing him down into the grass and wrestling him like they were boys splashing in a creek, an impulse that was dampened by the reminder that as secluded as he felt they were, the house was full of people who could walk in on them at any moment, and the Fool was not a boy to tussle in the grass. To everyone around them, the Fool was a strong-willed, beautiful woman who happened to dote on their beleaguered old gardener.

“I’ll stay.” The Fool smoothed the hair from Fitz’s face and laid a chaste kiss on his temple, where a scar remained from the force of his skull splitting open on a dungeon floor. Fitz shuddered. The Fool’s lips were smooth and cool, like stone. “Are you alright?”

“I’m having trouble lately keeping the past in the past,” Fitz admitted.

“Malta?”

“How’d you guess?” Fitz sighed, lifting his eyes to the man. He nodded solemnly.

“You told me that she knows about your name,” the Fool said carefully. “She asked me about what Verity had done to you yesterday, when we were alone on the ship. She’s Skill-walking, isn’t she?”

“I let her have my name,” Fitz sighed, “and she took more than I was willing to give. She’s powerful enough, I suppose. I don’t know. I suspect she saw Verity use my Skill for himself, when I was a child. I think I was around her age when it happened, so it makes sense—”

“She senses something deeper than that, Fitz.”

Fitz said nothing. He tightened his grip on the Fool helplessly.

“I’m not sure she’s put it together,” the Fool admitted, “but she’s compared it to the feelings she got from Paragon, when she inherited the dead boy’s emotions. I think there’s something similar there, maybe in the way the boy was drained of life, maybe in the way he had no choice—but Fitz, she’s worried for you. And very defensive of you. Did you know she’s demanded that you escort her at the Summer Ball?”

“She did what?” Fitz gasped, reeling back in shock. The Fool shot him a grin and finally managed to peel himself free of Fitz’s iron grip, taking advantage of his shock.

“Of course she’d say nothing to you,” the Fool said amusedly. “I suppose she believes you haven’t a choice. You’ll do what she wants, because you are her valiant replacement for Kyle Haven—don’t look so surprised, Fitz, you’ve been fathering the girl without even meaning to.”

“But—”

“They’ve been arguing about it back and forth,” the Fool said with a shrug. “Althea told me that Keffria and Ronica are against it for similar reasons—you are not a Bingtown Trader, and it would seem very strange indeed for a foreign gardener of no real repute to present the daughter of one. Yet Malta insists that if she must be presented, she ought to be presented by a man who knows her better than anyone in the world. You can imagine how they took that.”

“I should go explain,” Fitz breathed, rising to his feet, “how the Skill works—it’s not her fault, it’s—the bond inspires devotion, I think. This is why we’ve been working so hard to shield—”

“I know, Fitz,” the Fool said gently, drawing himself to his feet as well, “you really don’t have to explain it to me. I know. Ronica likes you, and she doesn’t believe you have done anything to Malta. Keffria is unsure, I think, from what Althea said. It’s still up in the air, I suppose, what they’ll do, but Malta really is quite insistent.”

“I didn’t even intend to go to the stupid ball,” Fitz muttered.

“Oh,” the Fool said, his grin widening, “I know. And I told you that Malta would not give you a choice.”

“Damn that little girl.”

“You adore her,” the Fool told him as he scowled, “and I think that’s very sweet. Will you do it, then?”

“What?”

“Escort her at the ball.” The Fool drew his hands behind his back, clasping them there as he tilted his head curiously. “She knows it is a social misstep. She knows it will cause people to talk and gossip, and she knows that it will cast a shadow upon her family, and she is asking for it anyway. Can you imagine her asking it of you a few months ago? Imagine Malta not caring about what Bingtown thinks of her when you met her. Now think about what you must mean to her if she is willing to risk all of that.”

Fitz was silent as he stewed on these facts. The girl knew him too well at this point. She likely had not bothered to ask him because she knew he would do it, and he knew she was right. He would go to the Summer Ball for the child he had inadvertently bonded with. The Skill was not something he fully understood, but he recognized that she was likely feeling the intense and unyielding devotion to him that he had felt for Verity. And he loathed to think too hard about it.

“Of course I’ll do it,” Fitz said heavily. The Fool smiled at him with the warmth of the sun cast upon his face, though the sun was gone, and even the moon seemed absent. The only light came from the fireflies that drifted around the Fool’s head. “I won’t abandon her. If she wants me there, I will go. I only wish I could do more—”

“You are doing all you can to protect her,” the Fool told him gently. “You saw how she was on the ship, yesterday. She held her own. Her shields are holding. You’ve prepared her as much as you can.”

“And that is not enough,” Fitz said gravely.

“Have some faith!” The Fool laughed, rocking back on his heels and whirling away toward the door. “She believes we can do this. Perhaps you need to remember what it is like to be a child with unwavering faith that things will turn out the way you want them to.”

“Nothing ever turned out the way I wanted them to,” Fitz said bitterly.

“Alright, perhaps that’s true,” the Fool said, shrugging open the kitchen door, “but what you asked for was to live simply when your life has never been simple. You should have asked for the sun not to rise. It was more likely, I think.”

“Fool!” Fitz groaned as he laughed at him from the kitchen. Nighteyes cut between them, shooting Fitz a sharp look.

You didn’t tell him, the wolf accused.

We have other problems!

Your excuses are wearing thin, Changer. The wolf followed the Fool into the house, and Fitz scowled after him.

Inside, the Fool had made quick work of finding the Vestrits. They were in the study, all of them, Selden included, and Fitz saw that Althea was working with Rache to assemble some sort of floral headpiece. Selden was sitting on the floor collecting scraps of lace and bringing them to his aunt. Keffria and Ronica were tending to the hem of the lovely dress that Malta wore, which hugged her slender figure and managed to make her look more woman than child for once.

“You look lovely, Malta,” the Fool said, gathering up Clef as he ran to hug him. He had been stitching something in the corner, and Fitz realized he was sewing eyelets into Malta’s silk slippers, spying a small shoe in his fist.

“Thanks.” Malta glanced back at the Fool. She blinked twice, and then her gaze flickered to Fitz with a brow raised. “Have you been wrestling in the rose garden?”

“Oh.” The Fool drew his hands through his loose curls, and a few petals and a leaf fluttered to the study floor. “Tom was decorating my hair. I didn’t know how many he actually put in it.”

Not one of the occupants of the study looked surprised by that. Ronica glanced at him with an amused, if not pointed stare. Keffria merely tutted with a shake of her head and continued sewing. Althea grinned from her place at the table, and Rache pressed her lips together thinly to hide her smile. Selden merely watched curiously.

“Malta,” Fitz said curtly. She had not looked away from him for an instant. “Why didn’t you ask me if I would escort you to the ball?”

Malta blinked. Her mother leaned back, shooting Fitz a tired glance, informing him that this had been an ongoing argument. Ronica merely crossed her arms and watched her granddaughter, waiting for her response.

“Well,” she said with a puzzled frown, “I thought it was a given. You don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that,” Fitz said, his voice softening. He watched her eyes brighten considerably. “I’m just not sure it’s the best idea. I’m not known in this community, and it could be considered inappropriate—”

“I don’t care,” Malta cut in, her tone making it clear that this was an argument she’d heard before. “You’re as good as family to me. What everyone else thinks is their business, not mine.”

“And there we are,” Ronica said, drawing up her hands and gesturing widely between Malta and Tom. “That settles it, I think.”

“Tom hasn’t agreed yet,” Malta said glumly.

“I’ll do it,” Fitz said gently, fighting a warm smile when Malta whirled to face him eagerly. He could feel her infectious joy even with both their shields held firmly in place. It radiated off her.

“Malta! The hem—!”

“I got it,” Selden gasped, holding a pin in place for his mother.

“Well that’s nice,” Althea said, rising from her seat. She clearly wanted an excuse to leave the room.

“We have a few things we need to discuss about the voyage,” Fitz said, inclining his head toward Ronica. He deferred to her role as the matriarch of the family. “If we’re too late, Amber might stay the night, if that’s alright…?”

“She can stay in my room,” Althea said hastily before Ronica could object. Ronica blinked at her and then sighed.

“Yes,” she said, resigned to the strangeness she had introduced to her family upon taking Fitz in. “That’s fine. I’ll have a blanket ready for you, Amber.”

“Thank you,” the Fool murmured. In the light of the study, Fitz saw just how many roses he had tucked into his hair. It was a bit embarrassing.

As they left the room, shutting the study door behind them, Althea plucked a rose from the Fool’s curls and waved it between the two of them.

“I’ll say nothing,” she said, “if you want Clef to stay in my room tonight instead.”

“Althea,” Fitz gasped, blushing at the insinuation. “No, that’s not—”

“Would you?” the Fool asked, backing away into the hallway and watching as Althea smirked and nodded. “Well, if you insist—”

“Amber,” Fitz said with a groan, following them down the hall, “come on—”

“Well, she’s offering,” the Fool said innocently, “and as magical as a night with Althea sounds, I’d rather spend it with you, my Fool. As you’ve begged me so ardently to stay.”

Fitz was struck silent. He had, indeed, begged the Fool to stay. He would have gone back to the Paragon with Nighteyes in an instant. He had tried to leave. And Fitz had begged him not to. Of course, if the Fool was caught in his room, that would be an issue. Did Fitz trust Clef enough not to tell?

Well, yes. But still, the insinuation was clear. Althea expected Fitz and Amber to sleep with one another. A strange and terrifying thought. Fitz found himself following the Fool out onto the veranda. Althea and Nighteyes trailed after.

“Clef is old enough that he’ll understand,” Althea offered, sitting in a wicker chair and lighting a lantern above her head. The Fool lit another at their feet.

“What do you want to do?” Fitz demanded of the Fool, staring into the man’s face and watching him blink in surprise. “Really? Tell me the truth.”

“What do I want to do?” the Fool echoed. “Oh, that’s a scandalous question to ask in the company of a young lady, my Fool—”

“None of that,” Fitz cut in sharply, causing Althea to blink in surprise and the Fool to close his mouth, his jaw clenching. “Speak to me plainly, Beloved.”

“I always do,” the Fool said softly. Althea’s eyes darted between them wildly. “You just don’t listen. What would you like me to say plainly? I can say quite a bit, and none of those things are meant for ears but your own—and even then, you would not notice the words, only the tongue that speaks them, as every word I’ve ever said to you is a great jest, is it not? So. What do I want? I don’t know. It wasn’t my choice to stay. What do you want of me, Beloved?”

Fitz was struck silent once more, the use of the Fool’s name thrown upon him like a raiment of gold. Heavy and cold.

“Um,” Althea said hastily, “well, I can leave if you both want—”

“No, stay.” The Fool began to pluck roses from his hair, letting them fall to his feet. Fitz watched this and felt each flower falling as if they were pieces of his heart. “As I’ve said, none of this was my idea, so I don’t particularly care if you witness this. Have you seen what I did to the captain’s quarters?”

“I did,” Althea said, shooting a sharp look at Fitz, as if to galvanize him into speaking. But Fitz could not speak. He was stunned. “I think we should put Malta there. It’s small, but as a Trader’s Daughter and a child, it would make sense for her to have her own room. I did.”

“I agree. I also think it will show that Brashen favors her, which would be bad for any of us, but good for Malta. It means that the crew will be less inclined to mess with her, I think.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Althea looked relieved. “It’ll still be cramped, the three of us in one room, but we’ll make do, I suppose.”

“We’ll have to.”

“How did Paragon feel when you partitioned the room?” Althea asked uncertainly.

“He didn’t complain when I put a hatch in the captain’s cabin,” the Fool said with a shrug, “and this was less invasive. I didn’t cut into him at all, it’s all dead wood, not wizardwood. We can remove it when the journey is done.”

“And Brashen didn’t give you any trouble? He’s alright with it?”

“He’ll have to be.”

They continued to chat for a bit about the upcoming journey. Fitz stopped listening. He sat on the step of the veranda, Nighteyes beside him, and he watched the sky. Nighteyes prodded him mentally to say something to the Fool. Fitz told him to mind his own business.

This affects me too, Nighteyes reminded him. The Scentless One is not merely your friend, brother, he has become a companion to me. He is pack. Stop pretending he is not.

Malta and Clef came to find them after an hour or so. Clef hopped up to the Fool and presented him with a figurine he had carved. It was rudimentary and juvenile, his little wolf, but the Fool exclaimed over it in delight.

“Can I put a loop in it?” he asked eagerly as the boy flushed. “I want to wear it.”

“It’s not good enough!” Clef cried, snatching the wolf back, looking panicked and ashamed. “It’s not like your jewelry, y’know. You’ve mastered it completely, and I—well, I just wouldn’t want it sitting with all your pretty beads.”

“But it’s beautiful,” the Fool gasped, looking surprised. “Clef, I’d be honored to wear it—”

“No,” Clef said firmly, clutching the figure to his chest. “Let me make you something better. I’ll be better, next time I make something, I swear.”

“But—!”

“Leave him be, Amber,” Fitz said quietly.

The Fool let his hands drop as Clef relaxed somewhat, pocketing the figurine. Malta had come to sit beside Fitz, staring out into the cool night, resting her chin in her hands.

“You’re anxious,” Fitz observed. She sighed and straightened up. Her eyes darted to his face uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I want to marry Reyn,” she confessed.

“Of course you don’t,” Fitz said, frowning. She jolted at his observation, which was a truth that he had plucked from her easily enough. Perhaps she had not realized she had been broadcasting her melancholy so loudly. “You’re fourteen. Is that a real concern? You aren’t a little girl, but you do have more in your life to worry about than a man’s courtship and a marriage. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because a few months ago,” Althea said amusedly, “Malta couldn’t imagine anything more important than a courtship and a marriage.”

“I never wanted to get married this fast,” Malta argued sharply. Clef was quiet as he watched her, worry clear in his eyes. Though they often fought over trivial things, Fitz knew that the boy cared for Malta. Fitz suspected he might have something of a young boy’s crush on her, which was unfortunate, but he would likely grow out of it. The age difference, he knew, was the same as between him and Molly. Clef probably felt like there was a world between the two of them. “I just wanted to have fun and meet boys and go to parties. I didn’t expect to be engaged so quickly. I don’t know. I liked Reyn when he was doting on me and competing with Cerwin for my attention, but I… I don’t know if I’m the person he thought he was getting, when he started this. No, that’s a lie. I know I’m not. I don’t know if I want to be married at all. It seems like an inconvenience at this point. Where would I find the time to do the things I need to do if I’m raising a child? I just don’t see the practicality in it.”

“That’s very wise, Malta,” the Fool said quietly. Fitz glanced at him confusedly. He didn’t know if he saw the wisdom in swearing off marriage and children. But Malta was very young. “A marriage and a child are not things anyone should rush into. Perhaps you will change your mind when you meet Reyn again at the ball, but it’s in your best interest to be cautious with these things.”

“I agree,” Althea offered, sounding mildly shocked.

“Of course you do,” Malta sighed, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, I’m turning into you, aren’t I? Mother says so every day.”

“There are worse things,” Althea snorted.

“I’m hard pressed to think of one.”

“Ha ha.” Althea scowled. “Little snake. Anyway, nobody is forcing you to marry Reyn.”

“I must,” Malta reminded her, “to pay off our debts!”

“What?” Fitz asked confusedly. “Have I missed something? I thought you were marrying Reyn because you’d agreed to, after he’d courted you.”

“I did,” Malta sighed, shaking her head. “But additionally… well, his family bought our debt when he became interested in me. I can wipe away the debt from the Vivacia if I agree to marry Reyn.”

Fitz suddenly found himself strongly disliking this Reyn fellow. Malta sensed it and shoved him harshly.

“You don’t even know him,” Malta snapped. “Don’t just judge him because you think he’s snatching me up out of the cradle! I know you, Tom, you think I’m just a little girl.”

“No,” Fitz sighed, “I respect that you are a young woman who must make these decisions. I respect him far less, though.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Malta shook her head fiercely. “I’ll handle it. If I must marry him, I’ll marry him, but I expect it might turn out miserably when I tell him I’d like to wait to have children. Well. We’ll see, I suppose. At least we have the dragon in common. Have you heard her, lately? She’s angry that I’ve been keeping her out, and angrier with you for not even letting her into your dreams. Her only way to you is through me.”

“I know that.” Fitz was well aware of the dragon’s influence on Malta. It was lessened in her waking hours, but she had difficulty maintaining the Skill walls while she slept. Fitz knew this would be a problem on the Paragon. “Have you told her that we’re coming?”

“She says we’re not quick enough.”

“That’s unfortunate. We’ve done the best we can.”

“I don’t know what else to do.” Malta rubbed her forehead irritably. “I think I’ll go to sleep and ask her to try very hard to describe where she is. That might help. Perhaps she could show it to me.”

“I’d rather you practiced keeping your mind closed while you sleep,” Fitz said glumly.

“Yes, I’m sure. Well, goodnight.”

Malta disappeared back into the house. Clef blew out a sharp breath as he watched her go, shaking his head solemnly.

“I don’t envy this Reyn fellow,” he said. Fitz frowned at him. “What? Malta’s so… she wants something bad, then she doesn’t. She’s like the waves on the sea, constantly changing her mind. Anyhow, is there something you two wanna tell me, or what?”

“What?” Fitz asked confusedly.

“You’ll be staying in my room tonight, Clef,” Althea said before Fitz or the Fool could say anything. Clef looked unsurprised. “I’ll trust you can keep that quiet.”

“Sure.” Clef flushed a bit, not meeting Fitz or the Fool’s eyes. “I mean, it’s not like this hasn’t happened before. Malta told me that Ronica and Rache had been talking about your, um, time together—well, I ain’t gonna tell no one about it, if that’s your worry, Tom.”

“It’s not what you think,” Fitz said desperately, horrified that his foster son had the mind to understand adult sexuality. He supposed being a slave had not afforded him the kindness of ignorance, and that chilled Fitz to the bone.

“That ain’t my business, Tom,” Clef said in a strained voice, “really, I’m good. No problem.”

“But—”

“So,” Althea chirped, dragging Clef by the shoulder toward the door. He was more than willing to escape this conversation, it seemed. “See you both in the morning. Goodnight!”

And then they were alone again.

The Fool lowered himself into the wicker chair. He stared up at the lantern above him, his fingers finding an ornately carved bead on his vest and drawing it between his fingers, an anxious action. He did not meet Fitz’s eyes as he drew his legs up onto the chair, hugging them to his chest. He wore that style of breathable trousers that cinched at the ankle. His sandals bared his slender feet, his toes visibly curled in tension.

“Am I supposed to just accept that they all think I’m bedding you?” Fitz demanded.

“Say what you want,” the Fool replied breezily. It was not Amber’s voice that he replied with. The deeper tone chilled Fitz. Lately, the Fool had been speaking in some combination of the two voices, higher than what was strictly normal for a man, but low and raspy for a woman. Now, though, it was a man’s voice that the Fool spoke with. Was he trying to provoke Fitz by reminding him of what he was not? Or was he tricking Fitz again?

“You’d have me say, ‘No, you’re mistaken, you see, Amber is a man, and that’s rather perverse, don’t you think?’”

The Fool raised his eyes to Fitz dully. There was a look there that warned Fitz not to go further. That his words were hurtful, and Fitz sucked in a deep breath, thinking over what he had just said. He winced.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

“Are you?” The Fool rested his chin upon his knees. “Tell me to leave. I’ll go.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Fitz sighed.

“You don’t want me to leave, you don’t want them to assume that you have any interest in me—Fitz, I don’t know what you want from me. Do you imagine that I think we will go to your room, and you’d have me like some blushing virgin on her wedding day? You blush as I say it.”

“You implied it,” Fitz reminded him, flushed and awkward, “to Althea—”

“It was a joke.” The Fool stared at him blankly. “You’ve known me for how long, Fitz? I don’t expect you to desire me. Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Why are you?” Fitz demanded. “You pretend to be a woman—do you understand how confusing that is for me?”

“What? Confusing for you?” the Fool sighed. “Do your wits leave you when you must differentiate the Fool from Amber? It is little wonder that your performance as court assassin was so spectacularly lukewarm.”

His temper flared at that, and the Fool dropped his legs, sinking low into the wicker chair, his eyes alight with his own anger.

“I am going to leave,” he said. He made no move to stand.

“No,” Fitz retorted, “you are going to stay, because you promised me you would.”

“You are disgusted by me.”

“No!” Fitz’s anger fled him in an instant, replaced by horror and shame and confusion. Suddenly his fury at the Fool’s silly little innuendos seemed stupid and small and petty. He saw for the first time that he had put something inside the Fool’s mind that should not exist. That the Fool might believe that Fitz was capable of it was in itself a horror he could not comprehend.

“You find the idea that I could be a woman ridiculous.” The Fool lifted himself from the chair, his eyes fluttering closed. “You think I am wrong. Perverse, was it? Well, alright. I never intended for you to meet Amber. If I’d known she would repulse you so, I would never have concocted her. Sometimes, Fitz, you make me wish I had left her locked away inside my heart and never given her a name at all.”

“Amber is you,” Fitz argued, watching the Fool’s eyes snap open. “I know that. I mean, I’m around you enough to see that plainly. You restrain yourself from, you know, the jests and the barbs, but I’ve never felt like Amber was—was fully some act you put on. I’ve thought about it, and it just—she’s not—she’s just you. Isn’t she? I don’t know. Am I making sense?”

“Yes,” the Fool breathed, “and no. If that is true, why are you so furious that I am a woman?”

“Because I—” Fitz did not want to say it. The Fool stared at him intently, his golden hair alighted by the lantern above his hair, a messy assortment of curls that framed his face as he watched, stiff-backed and uncertain. There was a beauty to him that made Fitz feel like he should not even be in the man’s presence. And even calling him a man, now, seemed ill-suiting, like tossing him a weathered, oversized cloak. “I’m sorry, okay? It’s confusing for me.”

“I’m aware.”

“I think if I’d met you at Buckkeep,” Fitz admitted, “and you’d been a girl—things would be different, wouldn’t they?”

“Would they?” The Fool raised a brow with some interest. “I did not imagine a decision of mine could change anything so drastically. It’s you who makes the choices, Fitz, not me. So I came to Buckkeep a boy. King Shrewd kept me as his fool, a little half-wit boy with no knowledge of his language, or so he thought. And if he was wrong? If I was really a gangly little prophet girl, wise beyond her years, who knew the Duchy tongue, what difference would that make?”

“I—”

“You’d find me attractive,” the Fool supplied with a roll of his eyes. “Is that the issue? Is that where your disgust lies, FitzChivalry? You find Amber attractive, and it pains you to think of me that way?”

“No,” Fitz lied with a huff, “you’re mistaking me—”

“You know I’m not.” The Fool’s fingers closed to fists at his side. He took a deep breath. “Would you permit me to leave?”

“No.”

“Why?” The Fool looked at him in genuine distress. “For what purpose? Have you not done enough? Please, Fitz—”

“I just want you to stay with me,” Fitz cut in irritably, “is that not enough? You are my dearest friend, and I have not had a proper night’s rest in months. The Skilling and the dragon and this resurfacing of memories—I just want you near. It would make me feel safe, as it did on the Skill road. Please.”

The Fool was wild eyed for a moment before all the tension seemed to bleed out of his body, and he laughed quietly to himself, drawing his hair back from his face as he tipped his head back. Fitz glimpsed the mole on his neck. It was tiny and dark, barely noticeable in the dim light.

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” the Fool said, a faint whine to his voice. Fitz bit back a grin. “You don’t have to twist my arm to have me to stay, you know. Just say, ‘I don’t really care what the others think.’ That’s all I needed to hear.”

“That would be a lie,” Fitz admitted.

“As if you haven’t lied to me tonight.” The Fool fixed him with a cool gaze. Fitz had to give that up to him. “So?”

“So.” Fitz felt Nighteyes at his side, and he winced as the wolf entered his mind with a harsh rebuke.

Are you done hurting him now? Nighteyes nudged his leg. Fitz jerked his knee to push him away. You must know that you have. I don’t understand why you do this.

“What is he saying?” the Fool asked quietly.

“He said I hurt you,” Fitz said quietly, “and he doesn’t understand why.”

“That makes two of us, I suppose.”

“Fool—”

“You don’t need to love me,” the Fool cut in with a great puff of a breath, and Fitz found himself gaping in shock. “I don’t expect you to. But I know you must care for me, so in the interest of our friendship—oh, I don’t even know what to ask you.”

“Do you really wish to leave?” Fitz asked softly, taking a step forward. The Fool took a step back.

“I wish we were not having this conversation.” The Fool gripped his elbows and held his arms over his belly, glaring at his feet. “That’s all.”

“Then let’s stop talking.” Fitz took a deep breath. He felt like an idiot. He felt like a stupid little boy floundering to say something to the pretty girl who had left him behind to youth with her two years of experience. He had never before compared the Fool to Molly. In his mind, no one could replace Molly, no one could even hold a candle to her. But the Fool had a place in Fitz’s heart that was independent of Molly, and perhaps just as important. He could not lose that. “And just so we’re clear, I do love you.”

The Fool exhaled so sharply Fitz thought he might have let out a sob. He stepped forward, arms outstretched, and the Fool allowed him to draw him into a hug.

“I do love you,” Fitz repeated into the soft, pillowy curls that had obscured the Fool’s face. “I do. I’m sorry I made you doubt that. I’m sorry for all of this.”

“I know,” the Fool murmured, “I know—”

“Do you?”

“I know,” the Fool said quietly, “that you loved me once, a long time ago, when we were boys in the mountains making grand attempts to save the world. If I doubted that now, where would that leave me?”

“You should call me an idiot.”

“I don’t really need to, do I?”

“But it might make you feel better,” Fitz offered. “I mean, it’s a free hit. Low hanging fruit.”

“Ah, yes, my favorite.” The Fool sounded miserable. Fitz felt awful. He held his friend a bit tighter, listening to him sigh. “Fitz, I’ll stay. I said I would. You can let me go now.”

“In a minute.”

He felt Nighteyes lurking beside them, considering them thoughtfully.

Happy? Fitz demanded.

It’s a start. You shouldn’t have hurt him before saying it, but as we both know, you’ve never been particularly agile in these things.

The Fool hugged him back. It was a relief, holding him in his arms, feeling his cool cheek against his neck. Fitz resisted the urge to kiss the threads of gold that leapt from his unruly curls. It would make things worse.

You resist what is natural, Nighteyes told him curtly.

A man bedding a man is not natural, Fitz replied.

To you! The wolf wedged himself between them, forcing them apart. The Fool gasped in surprise as Nighteyes looped around him, nuzzling his side. The Fool dropped to his knees in an instant to hug him. Men! To tell a wolf something is unnatural, when we know perfectly well what is nature and what is man’s creation. You decided that it was unnatural because you were told it was so. No wolf is told this. We do as we will, with the freedom of nature, no judgement and no qualms. I loathe the chain of manhood that strangles your chance at happiness, brother.

“What’s going on?” the Fool asked helplessly, hugging Nighteyes close as the wolf whined. “Is he alright?”

“He’s acting.” Fitz scowled at Nighteyes. “He just wants your attention. Perhaps he’s jealous, like Paragon, that I’ve soaked up so much of it.”

“I love you both equally,” the Fool told Nighteyes gently.

You ought to love me more, the wolf thought, for I’m not ashamed of it!

“Shut up, wolf,” Fitz groaned.

“What is he saying?”

“That he loves you.”

“So you told him to shut up?” the Fool asked amusedly. “My, are you jealous—!”

“Would you come to my bed,” Fitz asked suddenly, face aflame, silencing his friend in an instant, and watching the panic and confusion wash over the Fool’s face, “and not ask any questions? Simply let me hold you, and if I seem to be in the throes of a nightmare, pull me back to myself. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” the Fool said quietly.

“Okay.” Fitz took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Beloved.”

“That’s your name,” Fitz snorted, “not mine—”

“But you are beloved to me,” the Fool said innocently, “and you only use my name to tease me or beg something of me.”

Fitz had no idea what to say, so he merely opened the door and let the Fool and the wolf in. The house was dark. They had talked and quarreled past midnight, and the manor slept. Fitz brought the Fool to his room, quietly permitting him entry, and he watched his friend step inside with a bowed head. On Fitz’s bed was a nightgown. The Fool thumbed it thoughtfully. Althea had left several candles lit for them. Clef’s bedding remained neatly made, except his pillow was missing.

“There’s a basin,” Fitz offered, gesturing to the ewer and bowl, “to wash up. I could run a bath for you, if you’d rather—”

“This is fine.” The Fool poured water from the pitcher into the bowl and began to wash his face and dampen his hair. He then braided it back from his face. Fitz watched as the thick curls were bound back, but some still sprang free around his cheeks and forehead. Fitz drew his shirt off, tossing it aside, and reached for his nightshirt. He noticed the Fool avoided looking at him.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Fitz reminded him, shucking off his dirty workman’s trousers and pulling on a pair of soft leggings.

“My jests on the matter have obviously made you uncomfortable,” the Fool replied.

“Oh, come on,” Fitz groaned.

“What?” The Fool’s eyes slid to his sharply. “Am I to be your man, your dear friend who teases you relentlessly, or am I to be a woman you are vaguely attracted to because you find all women to be so very comely?”

“That’s not true,” Fitz gasped.

“You don’t find all women comely?” The Fool’s eyes widened. “That’s rather rude. Well, I’ve been told I’m odd looking, so—”

“Oh, like you don’t know you’re beautiful,” Fitz scoffed, waving him off dismissively. The Fool stared at him blankly. “What?”

“I thought you were merely saying it because you were drunk,” the Fool admitted. “On the Paragon—”

“What? Oh. No, I meant that.” Fitz shook his head fiercely as if to shake off the flush that flooded his cheeks. “I’d be a madman not to mean it. But, anyway, that’s not the point—”

“Okay, Fitz,” the Fool said gently. “Don’t strain yourself. Would you turn around so I can get changed?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” Fitz turned slowly to face Clef’s bed. His face burned as he heard the soft rustling of fabric and the clinking of beads. It was a shameful urge, the desire to turn around and peek at the Fool. A few months ago, the Fool had offered to reveal his body to Fitz, but it had seemed half a jest. Now Fitz wanted to know so badly, for himself, to sate some hunger unnamed. He bit his tongue and clenched his fists and waited.

I know, Nighteyes thought to him smugly. Fitz froze, waiting for an answer to an unasked question. Oh, I’m not telling you. You don’t deserve to know. Goodnight, Changer.

You’re supposed to be on my side, Fitz complained.

I go where the intelligence is, I’m afraid.

“I’m done.”

Fitz turned around to see the Fool sitting awkwardly upon the edge of his bed, his clothing folded on the floor at his feet. The nightdress hit his calves, revealing his hairless legs, and the sleeves were rather short, giving Fitz a view of the Fool’s long, slender arms. It was a shapeless garment that revealed nothing of the lines of the Fool’s body, but it was clearly made for a woman with more of a bosom than what the Fool had to offer, which appeared very flat indeed.

“This makes you look younger,” Fitz admitted, finding some discomfort in that. If Fitz did not know who he was looking at, he would assume the Fool was a very tall girl given the nightgown and the braid and the lack of womanly curves.

“I feel very young right now.” The Fool folded his hands in his lap and glanced around curiously. “You’ve done well, making this homey.”

“We can’t all be like you and create little homes everywhere we go,” Fitz retorted. The Fool smiled faintly. He was nervous, Fitz knew. “I’m not going to do anything. I mean, I won’t—I wouldn’t—you can relax. I meant what I said. I just want you here. You can sleep in Clef’s bed if you’d be more comfortable there.”

“I think that defeats the purpose of my presence,” the Fool said dryly, “as someone you can hold and remind you what reality is. Is this what you intended, when you asked me to stay in the garden?”

“Yes.” Fitz’s mouth was dry. He watched the Fool nod quietly. “It was never strange, before. I held you in the mountains, and it wasn’t anything but me holding you and keeping you warm and you keeping me grounded.”

“But we aren’t in the mountains.” The Fool closed his eyes. “This is not that. Things have changed. I’ve changed, you’ve changed—”

“Hardly.”

“Circumstances have changed.” The Fool gripped the edge of the bed and then shrugged. “Would you like your back to the wall or the door?”

“The wall.”

“Should have guessed.” The Fool sat waiting. Fitz slowly approached, pulling back the blankets and feeling small and silly. It wasn’t any different, he told himself. It wasn’t. They were best friends. Nothing about it was strange. “I’ll be gone before dawn. No one will know I was in here.”

“Alright.” Fitz sat upon the bed beside him. “I feel as though this is far more awkward than I intended it to be.”

“Oh, and whose fault is that?” the Fool chided him with a soft snort. Fitz studied his face in the warm candlelight, rich and golden, and he felt a flutter of pure affection and desire that he could not fully ignore. So he slipped into his blankets and twisting to blow out the candles and leaving the Fool to sit at the edge of his bed in silence.

Fitz was grateful beyond belief when the Fool laid down beside him and left the blanket between them.

The moon had finally peeked out and filled the room with silvery light. It blanketed the Fool in a still bluish cast that made him look almost as he had in youth. Fitz watched him slide his braid over his shoulder as he made himself small on the mattress beside him. This did nothing to help the hopeless, churning desire that had lit a fire in Fitz’s belly. His mouth was dry as he studied the protrusions of the Fool’s spine on his neck and upper back, visible beneath the scalloped trim of the nightdress. And then, Fitz registered that the skin there was not gold, but mottled in colors Fitz could not quite see, swirls of different shapes peeking out and staining his skin. A tattoo.

“What is this?” Fitz breathed, drawing his fingers over the Fool’s cool skin and watching in horror as he jerked away. He sat up, looking down at Fitz in genuine horror.

“Not tonight,” the Fool pleaded, looking stricken. He seemed like he might start crying. “Please, Fitz, if you love me at all, don’t.”

“Yes, Beloved,” Fitz said in an instant, watching the Fool sink back into the mattress, this time on his back. He stared at the ceiling with wide eyes. They were glistening with unshed tears. All of Fitz’s desire fizzled out into deep, unimaginable shame. How horribly he had treated his friend, and how selfishly he had acted to get him to lie here, vulnerable and small beside him. He wrapped his arms around the Fool’s stomach and pulled him closer, resting his chin on his shoulder.

Slowly and steadily, Fitz could feel the Fool’s muscles relax, and the man sighed as he closed his eyes and leaned into Fitz’s embrace. The arguments and the discomfort fell away as they laid beside each other contentedly. Fitz laid awake for a long while, turning over his own words to the Fool in his mind, shame and anxiety taking the place of that dreaded desire. He had hurt his dearest friend. The Fool thought that Fitz believed him to be disgusting, when the opposite was true. Fitz was so enamored with the Fool’s beauty that he was ashamed of it. It was mortifying. And worse, for all of Fitz’s negativity toward that dreaded topic of sleeping with the Fool, there was the truth of the matter that Fitz was not just passingly attracted to Amber. It was not an idle thought. Fitz found Amber to be an incredibly desirable woman, and he did not see the difference between her and the Fool.

He would leave that thought to die in the quiet of their slumber.

He felt the Fool’s deep, steady breathing. His friend was fast asleep, tucked into Fitz’s arms. Fitz forced himself to put aside this night and remind himself that the world would go on without a whisper of the argument. And, after allowing that resisted kiss upon the Fool’s golden curls, which he had denied himself on the veranda, Fitz fell asleep and dreamed of nothing in particular.

Chapter Text

Malta was pensive as she waited for Althea to inspect her knot. Althea had forced her to do the knot perhaps twenty times, not fully trusting her ability to keep her gloves on while she did it. But she did. Yet she was distracted, Althea saw, her eyes on the docks below. Althea followed her gaze and saw her watching Tom and Amber conversing with Brashen.

“Staring is rude,” Althea told her niece, kicking her lightly in the shin. Malta tore her gaze away, flushing a bit. She undid her knot and redid it in a few seconds. Althea tugged it, surprised how firmly it held.

“Have you noticed anything peculiar about Amber?” Malta asked carefully.

“You want specifics?” Althea snorted. “Amber is odd. It’s part of her charm. You’re a bit odd too now that you’ve thrown yourself into your magic and decided to hunt dragons.”

“Not hunt,” Malta argued with a scowl, “free. There’s a big difference. And I just mean… does she seem perhaps a bit… masculine to you?”

“No?” Althea was offended that Malta would ask it. “You really don’t need to be so mean, you know. Tom can share his attention between you and Amber.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Malta objected, her scowl deepening. “I don’t feel threatened by Amber—though she does have a connection to Tom, I know that. It’s faint, but I feel it sometimes, when they’re… I don’t know.”

“Fucking?” Althea offered.

“No.” It was amusing to watch Malta blush a deeper red, though she handled the comment with poise. “I’m not sure they’ve ever slept together, if I’m honest.”

“What?” Althea laughed in disbelief. “What makes you say that?”

“Just… a feeling.” Malta offered a shrug. “But Fit—Tom loves Amber. I know that. He knows that. Amber knows that. The whole world must know. Still, it’s not what I thought it was. I think Tom is fighting how much he really loves her because he’s scared to love anyone that much. Especially Amber.”

“Why?” Althea asked uncertainly. She trusted Malta’s intuition more than she cared to admit. The girl was uncannily accurate about most things nowadays.

“How should I know?” Malta shrugged. “He shields these things from me. I get the excess feelings. He’s ashamed, I think. He loves her, and he’s ashamed. I think I know why, but if I mention it to him, I think he’ll go absolutely mad and fight with her again.”

“Well, tell me,” Althea demanded.

“No.” Malta turned away sharply.

“What? Malta!”

“It’s not your business,” Malta said with a shooing wave. “I’m not going to gossip about it.”

“This isn’t gossip,” Althea argued.

“Oh, it certainly is.” Malta shot her a knowing grin, and she continued on her way to the figurehead. She hopped up onto the rail without hesitation, leaning over to smile warmly at the old ship. “Hello, Paragon. Are you excited to sail?”

“As excited as you are, I expect,” the ship said amusedly. “Can you tell me this secret about Amber?”

“No.” Malta jerked away in surprise. Her eyes darted fearfully to the dock, where Amber had very clearly stilled. Both Tom and Amber looked up at the figurehead worriedly. “That’s—if she hasn’t said anything to you, why should I tell you?”

“Why should you know in the first place?” Paragon countered. “Why did she tell you and not me?”

“She didn’t tell me anything,” Malta sighed, shaking her head. “I overheard. By accident!”

“Liar,” Paragon chided her. He raised a hand and used his index finger to pat Malta’s head affectionately. She gaped at him. “That’s alright, Malta, I already know. I just wanted to see if you’d tell a secret—I should have known you’re good at keeping them. Well. Would you like to try climbing my rigging again?”

Malta slipped off the rail hurriedly, not even bother to answer. Althea watched her scurry up the rigging like a proper ship’s boy. It was absurd. She found herself grinning.

“So,” Althea said, leaning over to glance at Paragon. “What’s this secret?”

“Not your business.” Paragon stuck his tongue out at her. Althea huffed and whirled away. She watched Malta climb the rigging curiously. She was, bafflingly, a very dedicated student.

Waiting for Malta to climb back down, Althea was met with Amber, Tom, and Brashen. They arrived on deck as she reached the crow’s nest.

“She’s getting good at that,” Brashen observed with pride. As if he had anything to do with it.

“She’s alright. I expect you heard Paragon?” Althea addressed Amber, who was watching Malta with a wary expression.

“We’ll talk with her later,” Tom said quickly. “It’s the Skill that’s opened her to secrets she should not have, so… well, we’ve been slacking on our lessons, since we’re leaving so soon.”

“Is this secret something we should know about?” Althea asked carefully.

“No.” Tom looked at her squarely, and she felt for her friends as she interpreted that stern, determined expression. Whatever he felt, it was something between him and Amber that Malta had no business knowing. As curious as Althea was, and as jealous as she felt of their intimacy, she was frustrated that her nosy little niece had intruded on their peace. “How prepared are we to leave in an emergency?”

Althea was surprised. She glanced to Brashen, who offered a small shrug.

“He already asked me this,” he said. “I told him that we could, feasibly, leave at any time if we needed. The hold is stocked, the ship is ready. The crew is antsy to get out of here. It’s just the Ball we’re waiting on, and even then, I don’t particularly love the idea of it—”

“You should come this year,” Althea said. Brashen’s jaw clicked shut. “Why not? You’re a Bingtown Trader, even if you’ve been disowned. And if Amber and Tom can come, you certainly can too.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to come,” Brashen retorted. Althea rolled her eyes. Typical.

“Then don’t?” Althea shook her head. “This is Malta’s presentation ball. It means a lot to her. Hell, I couldn’t have cared less a few months ago, but now I feel for her, you know. It’s her last bit of normalcy, the last remnant of the world she knew before everything went absolutely to hell. And we do need the information from her betrothed. So suck it up and come.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Brashen said snidely. Althea could not believe him. She took a deep breath and turned away. “I mean, fine! I’ll come! But I think it’s a waste of time.”

“Of course it is,” Althea huffed. She turned around as Malta scuttled back onto the deck, watching them keenly. She had likely heard the entire exchange. “That was rather slow, don’t you think?”

“I was enjoying the view from the crow’s nest,” Malta huffed, smoothing her hair back. She wore trousers. It was hilarious. Well, it was a split skirt that had the illusion of being one cohesive unit. She was embarrassed by it, but she loathed to climb the rigging in a dress. “I could see the Satrap’s ships, I think.”

They were all silent at that. There had been rumors of the Satrap’s arrival, but the idea that he could really be here was astounding.

“That’s trouble, I imagine,” Tom said dryly.

“What gave you that idea?” Amber teased him. He rolled his eyes at her, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“How can Jamaillia have any claim over this place?” Tom wondered aloud. “The king—”

“Satrap,” Amber and Malta corrected in the same mild tone.

“Whatever. He’s never even been here. He raises taxes and interferes with your lives, but he’s not a real ruler. Him coming here is a bad idea, the way you Bingtowners talk about him. You have your own government independent of Jamaillia. Independent of any sort of monarchy.” Tom looked distant as he spoke. “Honestly? You don’t need him.”

“No,” Malta agreed. “We don’t.”

Amber said nothing. She watched the two of them with glittering eyes, eagerly observing the exchange. Althea agreed, but once again she was shocked her views aligned with her niece’s. She glanced at Brashen in alarm. He looked just as astonished as she was.

“Hopefully the visit will clean up the Chalced patrol and the tariff issue,” Brashen said smoothly.

“Hopefully,” Malta echoed. She stared out onto the sea. “The dragon is angry.”

“Block her,” Tom commanded sternly.

“She’s too angry for me to block.” Malta winced. “She doesn’t understand Paragon. She feels him and the dragons, but she doesn’t get it. They’re dead, she says, so they should be dead and leave me to her. But I don’t hear the others right now.”

“Here.” Tom reached out and laid his palm on her head. Her eyes widened as she stared up at him. He winced, as if something had struck him, and then he squared his shoulders. He let out a puff of an exhale. “There. She’s gone.”

“She’s still there,” Malta whispered, “just… quiet.”

“That’ll have to be good enough, Malta. Let’s go home.”

Malta sat at the garden table, the seeds of a fig popping between her molars as Fitz checked the perimeter of the house to be sure no one was eavesdropping. At this point, Malta was sick of figs, but their fig tree reliably produced them, and it was more flavorful than most of their meals of late. Her bare feet scraped the grass beneath her, and she nudged Nighteyes to offer him the remnants of her fruit. He took it gently from her fingers with his massive jaws, and she relished in the tameness of this great beast.

“So,” Fitz said, dropping into the seat beside her, a white curl falling into his eyes. “Let’s start with the most important thing. Is the dragon still bothering you?”

“On the edges of my walls,” Malta sighed, turning her head as if she might be greeted with the looming shadow of wings overhead. “I don’t hear her, if that’s what you’re asking. But she’s growing impatient. I told her to talk to Reyn, to tell him to come to me, and she said she had, but he won’t listen to her anymore. He doesn’t believe her.”

“What part doesn’t he believe?” Fitz asked.

Malta wiped her fingers on a napkin and offered him a shrug. What Reyn believed or did not believe was not something she was privy to.

“I only know what she tells me,” Malta said carefully. “She can be erratic. You know that. She’s just scared, I think. She doesn’t want to die, Fitz.”

“Tom,” Fitz corrected irritably.

“We’re alone,” Malta reminded him. She tried to be gentle, wanting him to agree to allow her to address him properly. “I can call you by your real name when we’re alone, can’t I?”

“You’ve known me for long enough as Tom. Why does it matter?”

“It just does.” Malta leaned back in her chair, studying his face. Ever since discovering his identity, she had to rearrange what she knew about him in her mind. He was a Red Ship War veteran—or was he? He was a scribe’s apprentice—or was he? He had gotten those scars from somewhere, and it had hurt, whatever had happened to him. She didn’t think it had been his uncle who had done it, but then, at the same time, she did have to wonder. He kept his mind too well guarded for her to probe it with the Skill. She had to rely on dreams, and even then, he had learned to sense her too well to let her in. She missed when he didn’t notice her at all. “So. You want to know what I know.”

“You eavesdropped on Amber and I,” Tom accused her, looking distinctly disappointed in her. She did not care much.

“It was a rather loud argument,” Malta said innocently. “I’m surprised no one else heard.”

“You used the Skill.”

“I hardly needed to,” Malta said, shaking her head. “At first I did. It’s what brought me back to the door, you see. I felt… angry. Confused. I thought you might’ve gotten into trouble, so I went to the door—well, I listened. Okay, so I listened! And I learned you’re a bit of a coward. So what?”

“Excuse me?” Fitz bristled.

“Excuse you indeed,” Malta replied curtly. She cut another fig in half with a knife and tossed a slice to Nighteyes. He caught it deftly. “Firstly, yes, I know that Amber might have been a boy in your youth—shut your mouth, FitzChivalry, I am speaking. Thank you. I know that, based on your conversation, which I’m sorry for listening to, I really am—”

“No you’re not—”

“I said I’m speaking,” Malta said icily. Fitz bared his teeth at her but said nothing more. He was furious with her. She didn’t really care. Maybe his fury was her own. “Do you even realize how you treat her? Do you even recognize how obvious it is that you adore her? Of course you don’t. You are a man, and men are predisposed to absolute stupidity. You are entirely useless! That’s how I know that Amber is a woman, because at least she does things! And the way you spoke to her, don’t even get me started—!”

“I know!” Fitz winced, his fury fading fast. “Oh, what do you want me to say, Malta? I’m ashamed, alright, I know I hurt her—him—”

“You demanded she go to bed with you,” Malta said quietly, her eyes flashing over Fitz’s face and watching it flush. “Yes, I heard that. I heard most of it, you know. She wanted to leave, and you would not let her, and I’ve been wondering, since then, what your problem is. Is it because she might be a man? Again, I find it doubtful.”

“You didn’t know him when he was young,” Fitz said hesitantly.

“I don’t need to. I know Amber now. But it’s curious, I guess.” Malta found the entire debacle rather exciting, but she would never say so. It was as thrilling as Althea’s stint as a sailor boy, but with an added layer of scandal. A few months ago, Malta might have been repulsed by the thought of it, but now, knowing Amber and knowing Fitz, she could not imagine something so silly getting in the way. She felt how Fitz felt about her. He was being intentionally obtuse. “And if she’s a man?”

“What do you mean?” Fitz sighed.

“I mean what will you do?” Malta stared at him blankly. “It seems to me your heart has decided but your brain isn’t ready to accept it. That’s unfortunate. Worse, given I have to feel it.”

“Wait,” Fitz said, looking panicked, which Malta resented, “Malta—”

“The downside of having a mental bond with a man, I guess,” Malta admitted, folding her napkin and setting it aside. She had not wanted to tell him this. It had been embarrassing enough to realize it was happening and she had shut her shield down tight, but the emotions lingered. “Did you end up sleeping with her?”

“No!”

“I thought not.” Malta shook her head. She did not envy his situation, the confusion and shame, and yet part of her yearned to feel the unflinching love that he felt for Amber for herself, not a secondhand longing. “You don’t want to hear any of this from me. I know that. But who else can you talk to about it? Amber does not want to speak on it. Nighteyes, I suppose. Has he weighed in his opinion?”

“Only that he thinks I’m an idiot,” Fitz said miserably.

“On that we can agree,” Malta said. Then, gentler, she sighed, “I guess it’s not your fault that men are so stupid. And if it makes you feel better, I always thought you were less stupid than most.”

“Thanks, Malta,” Fitz said dryly.

“Anything to help,” Malta said sweetly. She did not mention that she had changed her opinion and decided that Fitz was, unfortunately, just as stupid as every other man. She just happened to understand him better, being connected to his mind, and all. She rested her cheek on her hand and studied his face. “You’re angry with me for listening. Well, argue more quietly!”

“I’m not angry, exactly.” Fitz watched her tiredly. “You’re a lot like me. I don’t like that.”

“Great. I look forward to growing into stupidity like a pair of shoes.” Malta rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “What if Reyn hates me?”

“He’d be stupid to hate you.”

“He’s a man, so—”

“Well,” Fitz said, grinning in spite of himself, “alright, you’ve got me there. Perhaps tell him that, and see if he goes running. If not, I’d say marry him.”

“I haven’t got much of a choice either way.” Malta chewed on her cheek thoughtfully. “Would you marry Amber if you could?”

“Malta,” Fitz warned her.

“You love her,” Malta reminded him. “I heard you say it.”

“I love him the way friends love each other—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Malta looked squarely into his eyes and watched him freeze. “You can’t lie to me. And I can’t lie to you. We’re stuck with each other. I feel how much you love Amber. It’s the sort of stupid love you hear about in songs. I feel half in love with Amber, the way I can feel your excitement whenever she walks into a room.”

“Shield yourself from that,” Fitz told her sharply.

“I do,” Malta retorted, “but it doesn’t help, because you love her that much! Just stop being such a child about it. Figure it out! I would like some peace while I deal with my own mess of a courtship, thank you.”

Fitz said nothing, and she wondered if she’d actually gotten through to him. It was doubtful. She had not expected to have this conversation. After she’d heard the argument about Amber’s gender, Malta had been struck by the intimacy of the exchange. And all of the feelings that followed. Fitz was ultimately just a man who did not know what he wanted, like most men. A total idiot when it comes to women. He was so smart with all else, it was almost shocking to see him fumble here.

“You don’t have to marry him,” Fitz told her quietly.

“I do.” Malta patted his arm gently. “For my family. I have to do all of this, for my family. When I come back from freeing the dragon, I’ll be a good Bingtown Trader’s daughter, and I will marry Reyn Khuprus and perhaps lose my mind from boredom. Oh well.” She drummed her fingers against the table thoughtfully. She said it casually, flippantly, like it wasn’t the greatest source of dread in her heart at the moment. The future seemed so… distant. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” Fitz stared at her worriedly. “I had intended to go back to the Six Duchies. But with Clef, and you, and Amber—”

“Clef will likely go with you wherever you decide to go,” Malta countered breezily. “I’m spoken for, unfortunately. I have a wedding to plan, and all. But Amber will go with you too, I’m sure.”

“She’s never done anything that’s ever made sense to me.” Fitz scowled at his hands and shook his head. “I would love for her to come with me. I don’t think she will, though. I haven't given her much of a reason to.”

“Oh.” Malta, at this point, could scarcely imagine one without the other. “You should get married before then, if you can manage it.”

“Malta, Eda help me, enough!”

“Yes, Prince FitzChivalry,” Malta mocked him lightly, earning the most impressive glare she’d ever seen. “Okay, okay! I’ll stop. That was a scary look, you know.”

“You ought to be nicer to me,” Fitz muttered, face pink and brow furrowed. “I’m teaching you the Skill, and what thanks do I get? I swore I’d never teach anyone, and here I have the most ill-mannered, petulant student—”

“That you enjoy teaching,” Malta cut in brightly. “Don’t deny it, I know you do. You like our games. Well, I like them too. Shall we play a round?”

Fitz did not deny her that.

Getting roped into going to the Summer Ball was probably the most inconvenient thing that had happened to Fitz in a long while. The whole house was simmering with apprehension over it, none of it feeling much like excitement at all. Fitz was reminded of the festivals of his youth, and he could understand the anticipation, though no one seemed especially happy. Malta donned her handmade dress as if it was a mourning shroud. Althea threw on a rather comely frock from her wardrobe which emphasized her figure more than her usual sporting of loose blouses and skirts did. Ronica had Fitz try on a few different outfits that belonged to her late husband, and ultimately Fitz was stuffed into a maroon suitcoat that was a bit too broad in the shoulders, velvet trimmed in gold coil. He did not want to sew hidden pockets into Ephron Vestrit’s clothes, so he wore his own belt, which was mostly hidden by his jacket. The did not stop him from finding the small hidden panels that had been carefully stitched into the inside of the jacket. Malta had offered to alter it to fit him better the previous day. Fitz did not question it.

“Can someone do his hair?” Malta asked as he stepped into the room to greet her. “Althea—?”

“Like I’m going to do anything different,” Althea scoffed, twisting her coiled hair around her finger. It was elegantly pinned back, a few curls left loose against her ears and neck. She had done it herself, and it looked beautiful. Fitz did not doubt she could do his hair if she wanted, she just chose not to.

“Oh, Sa, come here, Tom,” Malta huffed, jumping up from the vanity and gesturing for him to sit. Her mother glanced frantically between them. Fitz sat down hesitantly. Malta immediately tugged his hair free from its warrior’s tail and shook it out. She combed two sections out around his temples, braiding it back deftly. Keffria peered over her shoulder and nodded approvingly.

“Yes, that looks much nicer,” she said.

“I know,” Malta said, fastening the two braids at the back of his head. Fitz did not think it looked that nice. The sight of most of his hair down, curling at his shoulders, was a hard one. Mostly because when he glanced at Malta’s mirror, he found himself reminded of a painting of Chivalry Farseer, and he found himself unable to meet his own eye. “Tom?”

“Thank you, Malta,” Fitz said carefully, rising from her seat taking a deep breath. Malta watched him worriedly. “You look beautiful. All three of you.”

“Aw,” Althea said with a laugh, “he’s trying to flatter us. Well, you clean up nice yourself, Tom. I’m glad you chose the maroon suit.”

It had been Malta who had chosen for him, but he would not mention it.

“You don’t mind?” Tom asked uncertainly. He knew Althea had been close with her father, and he watched her expression closely as she seemed to bite back her reservations.

“It looks nice on you,” she told him carefully. “It’s better than letting his clothes get eaten by moths. Well. Would you like to borrow an earring?”

“What?” Fitz asked confusedly.

“Your ear is pierced.” Althea offered a shrug. “You never wear jewelry though—”

“Oh. Right.” Fitz drew his thumb over his ear. The hole had not fully closed, somehow. It would hurt to put a needle through it, but not that badly. “I don’t wear jewelry. I had an earring once, that belonged to my father…”

“You lost it?” Althea asked, looking sympathetic.

“No.” Fitz turned away, knowing that this would not be taken the right way, and finding himself resigned to that fact. Ever since his conversation with Malta about the Fool, he realized that there was little he could do to change anyone’s minds, and in his attempts to quell the rumors about them, he only made things more complicated. It would be so easy to not care, wouldn’t it? Perhaps it would be like asking the sun not to rise. “I gave it to Amber.”

He studied each of their reactions with a grim understanding that if he could observe the tale of Amber the beadmaker and Tom the gardener as an absolute outsider, he’d come to a similar conclusion. Malta’s eyes widened with recognition, her head tipping curiously, and her own earrings bobbed at the motion. The Fool’s handiwork, of course. Althea smiled at him with the sort of knowing, mirthful expression of delight and joy for another’s happiness. Even Keffria seemed somewhat moved by the gesture.

“Anyway,” Fitz said, waving dismissively, “I don’t need to replace it. Jewelry never suited me.”

“Just as well,” Althea said breezily. “Wouldn’t want you to look like a pirate. It’d get us into a nice load of trouble, with this blockade.”

They all knew that getting around the Chalcedean blockade on the harbor would be a nuisance. Their crew was irritable that they had not left before the blockade had been enacted. The Fool did not seem troubled by any of it.

“We will leave when we need to leave,” he’d said cryptically the night prior.

“Tell that to our dragon friend,” Fitz had responded bitterly.

“Perhaps I shall! Shall I use you as a carrier pigeon?”

Fitz had thrown a shoe at him and gotten rebuked by Paragon for his efforts. In no small words he was told that if he hurt Amber, he’d go overboard.

“He’s joking,” the Fool had said with a laugh. “He knows you’d never hurt me.”

“I don’t know that,” Paragon had said in a strange, withdrawn voice. “I don’t know you. Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom. Wit Bastard. Wolf-blood. Changer.”

The Fool had been quick to excuse Paragon. But the damage was done. Fitz had not known that Paragon had delved so deeply into his mind. It made him fear the voyage immensely.

He had not spoken to the Fool since then. Of course his friend had not pressured him to stay. He had been lucky that Paragon had not called him FitzChivalry Farseer, which he likely knew based on that taunt. Still, he was disturbed, not only because somehow these things had leaked into the Paragon, but also because somehow Paragon thought he was capable of hurting the Fool. Fitz did not know why.

“Wow,” Clef said boldly, peeking into the room to peer at the Vestrit women. He was the only occupant of the house, aside from Rache, who was not attending the Ball. Fitz had asked him if he wanted to come, and Clef had snorted and gestured to his tattooed face as he vehemently declined. “You look like a proper lady, Malta.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Malta snapped.

“What’d I say, girl? I said you look like a lady—”

“Clef,” Fitz sighed, half-amused by his foster son’s attitude, knowing how much it rankled Malta, “perhaps a compliment could be paid to the young lady?”

“I did, though.” Clef’s brow furrowed and he shrugged. “Whatever. You look nice, Malta. Anyway, Tom, I’m going to stay on the Paragon tonight. Amber said I could.”

“Are you going with Amber?” Fitz asked uncertainly. Clef shot him an irritated glance.

“I don’t need someone with me all the time,” Clef huffed.

“I wish I trusted this town more,” Fitz admitted, earning sharp glances from the Vestrit women. Althea almost immediately seemed empathetic. She had, after all, rescued Clef in the first place. “Take Nighteyes. And please just—be careful, won’t you?”

“Sure.” Clef watched Fitz with a furrowing brow, as if he was puzzled. “Have fun dancing, or whatever.”

Clef seemed eager to leave, and Fitz recognized the need to disappear. He wanted nothing to do with the Ball, and the fact that he had stayed long enough to watch them all frantically get ready was probably a feat. Fitz reached out to Nighteyes inquisitively.

I’ll watch him, the wolf promised. Though I hate to spend more time on that lump of dead wood than I need to.

I know. I’m sorry.

What can we do about it? Nighteyes was irritable. He had been sleeping on the ship for a few months now, but ever since they had floated the Paragon, he had been losing sleep over the uneasiness. The Fool insisted that he’d get used to it. Fitz was not so sure. Watch yourself and the Little Snake.

Is that her name now? Fitz asked amusedly, glancing at Malta. She raised her eyes, a question pressing upon his mind.

It seems apt. Perhaps I will call her that. Little viper in the grass, waiting to strike.

“Are you Skilling to Nighteyes?” Malta asked curiously.

“Not Skilling. But yes.”

“What else would it be?” Malta returned her attention to her looking glass, rearranging a curl or two with a sigh. Nothing was working for her. Fitz saw nothing different, and thought she looked perfectly lovely regardless.

He had never explained the Wit to Malta. She had some bare awareness of Nighteyes, and had even claimed to hear him once or twice, but Fitz did not think she was Witted. If she was, she wasn’t particularly strong in it, not like the Skill. Explaining it at all seemed foolish.

“Don’t worry about it.” Fitz backed away toward the door. “I suppose I’ll go wait in the foyer.”

“I’ll come with you.” Althea hooked her arm through his and dragged him from the room. She wore a faintly floral perfume with notes of vanilla. “Goodness, I didn’t imagine I’d be going to one of these balls again. It’s a bit exciting, honestly.”

“I didn’t take you as the type to enjoy these sorts of things,” Fitz admitted.

“Oh, why?” Althea widened her eyes in a mocking sort of shock. “Do you think I’m too manly for such frivolous activities?”

“I don’t think you’re manly at all,” Fitz huffed, unhooking their arms and rolling his eyes. “I think you’re busy and practical. Balls… take up time and energy that could be spent elsewhere.”

“Surely you’ve been to a ball before.”

“There are festivals,” Fitz said carefully, “in Buckkeep Town. But it’s not the same, I guess. Anyway, you really do look beautiful, Althea.”

“And you’re so handsome it sickens me,” she replied dryly, a roll of her eyes once more confirming to Fitz that Althea thought of him as some extension of family and therefore not attractive at all. The feeling was more or less mutual. Objectively, he knew Althea was beautiful. He was a man with eyes, and because of that, he saw that though she could play the part of a Bingtown Trader’s daughter with her glossy curls and rouged lips, there was no confidence to her stride the way there was when she could wear her boy’s trousers and workman’s shirt. “It seems so pointless. The way this is still a priority—we’re about to tangle with pirates and find a dragon, and my mother and Keffria are still worried about how Malta’s presentation might go. It’s crazy!”

“To your mother and sister,” Fitz said gently, “this is reality. They are not going to fight pirates. They have no connection to this dragon, and I’m not sure they even believe it’s real. Keffria only believes in the Skill because Malta knows things she shouldn’t. Even then, I know she blames me for taking her daughter away from her.”

“I don’t think Malta was ever Keffria’s to start with,” Althea said with a grimace. “She was always Kyle’s, you know. I guess without him here, she didn’t have anyone she truly wanted to impress, except herself. You probably did her a favor by giving her somewhere to focus her energy while all of this is happening.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Fitz knew that Malta had seen and felt too much already. The Vestrits had let him into their home, and he had irreparably marred the mind of one of the youngest amongst them. Malta would not see it that way, but Fitz knew in his heart that there was no going back from this. Malta would have the Skill for life. He would have to come to terms with the idea that one day she would have to simply live that life without him, and hope she didn’t get herself killed. “Do you wish we’d left earlier?”

“Of course I do.” Althea opened the front door. Their hired coach was waiting for them, and Ronica waited beside it. She’d insisted on inspecting it. “No use whining about it now, I suppose. Maybe we all deserve a night of frivolity. What do you think?”

“I’d rather stay home,” he admitted.

“Well, we all knew that.” Althea glanced at Selden as he hurried past them, running to his grandmother. “Clef will be fine, by the way.”

“I know.” While Fitz did not trust this town, he trusted Nighteyes. The boy would be fine. It was Fitz who had to survive the night. He dreaded the scrutiny of these Bingtown Traders. He would escort Malta and then, hopefully, find a nice corner to sit in where he could people watch until the night was done. “Brashen keeps warning me that I’ll have to let him be the ship’s boy when we set sail. I’m not sure if he means that I need to be less overprotective or if I need to give him more responsibility, but regardless, I haven’t got a clue how to change things. I don’t want Clef to come.”

“That’s not your choice,” Althea said quietly.

“I know.” Fitz scowled at his shoes. “I guess if I was a real father I’d forbid him from the ship. A proper father would take care of his son and keep him out of harm’s way.”

“You’re letting Clef make this decision,” Althea reminded him, “when so many choices were stolen from him. Just let him come, Tom. And don’t worry about Brashen, alright? I’ll take care of him. Clef might be the ship’s boy, but he’s also a Vestrit. To me, at least.”

Fitz saw her eyes dart to Ronica uncertainly, but Ronica said nothing.

Selden suddenly called Althea away to look at the horses. Fitz approached Ronica carefully. She regarded him with some sadness, and he straightened his spine as she dusted some lint from his shoulder. He knew she was looking at him in her husband’s old clothes and feeling the grief more intensely this evening.

“You’ve done an admirable job with Clef,” Ronica told him quietly. “He’s adjusted to a normal childhood as best as a boy in his position can. And I wish as well as you do that he would stay behind, but I suppose we all must let our children make their own choices on the matter.”

“I would give anything to keep Malta here,” Fitz told Ronica earnestly. She nodded. He did not need to explain himself. She already knew.

“You have somehow managed to do the girl some good,” Ronica sighed, “and make her even more stubborn and contrary. Well, I raised Althea, and look how that turned out. Stifling her will get us nowhere. Telling her that she cannot sail with you will only lead her to do something drastic, such as stow away on your boat, and with Malta’s mixture of luck and mischief, she will succeed in that. At least you can all keep an eye on her this way.”

“I’ll protect her,” Fitz said, though he had promised it before. It felt like a true oath now. “I’m responsible for all this strife in your house, so I will see to it that your granddaughter returns home safely.”

“Oh, you are not solely responsible for all the strife in our house, Tom,” Ronica sighed. “That would be Malta’s real father. Ah, here they come. Look alive, will you? It’s a ball, Tom, not a funeral.”

The rebuke reminded him painfully of Patience. He tried to take the words to heart.

They piled into the hired coach, Keffria, Ronica, and Fitz on one side, Althea, Malta, and Selden on the other. Malta was anxious. Oh, Fitz felt it clearly. She was sitting there, looking admirably calm, her hair pinned up with only a few ringlets framing her face. The headpiece was made of the garden’s finest blooms, framing the back of her head in lilies and peonies and roses, little accents of jasmine dotting her curls. She did not fidget. She did not blink.

Relax, Malta, Fitz advised her. Her eyes flitted to him, unsurprised and unblinking. This was not the first time he had tried this with her. He was surprised it worked. You look beautiful. Your young man will adore you.

That is not what I’m nervous about, Fitz.

She Skilled it back so clearly and succinctly that he winced. At first when they had begun exchanging Skill-thoughts in conversation, her voice had been so small in his head he barely heard it. She gained confidence fast. Now, it felt like her thoughts could be his own. This was only after a few days of progress.

I know. Fitz was startled when Althea snapped her fingers in front of his face, scowling.

“You two need to stop doing whatever it is you’re doing,” she sighed. “It’s creepy.”

“What are they doing?” Keffria asked hesitantly.

“Nothing,” Malta said, jabbing Althea in the stomach—or attempting to. Althea saw the blow coming and pushed her into Selden. “Hey! Althea—!”

“Aunt Althea to you.”

“What are you doing?” Keffria demanded of Fitz, her eyes locking with his. They had been situated next to each other. And Fitz had found himself more and more feeling sorry for this woman. He felt he had stolen her daughter from her, somehow.

“It’s the Skill,” he replied with a shrug. “Malta has grown strong enough with it that we can communicate without talking.”

The carriage was silent. Malta’s jaw had set defiantly, waiting for her mother or grandmother to say something disparaging. Althea, who had already known about this aspect of the Skill, slouched in her seat and peered out the window to gaze at the warm late summer evening. Selden rocked forward to peer at Malta, a question in his eyes, but she ignored him.

“I don’t understand how that is possible,” Keffria admitted with a sigh, “but I suppose I should not be surprised. She knew you were in trouble on the beach somehow, though I suppose I’ll never understand it.”

“It’s just like speaking,” Malta offered, leaning back in her seat. “Just… in your head.”

“Would you say that your efforts to teach Malta to control this power have been successful, Tom?” Ronica asked sedately.

“Far better than I expected,” Fitz admitted. Malta’s eyes flashed bright with pride. “Of course, she still fights me on the strength of her shields—she does not like to keep them as strong as they should be, out of fear that we might lock each other out of our minds.”

“Shouldn’t you want to be alone in your own mind, Malta?” Keffria asked in shock. Malta looked at her mother as if she had said something utterly ludicrous.

“It’s the Skill,” Fitz explained quickly before Malta could say something rude to her mother. “There’s a draw to it, once you use it, which is why I was so reluctant to allow Malta to learn it. Once you use it, you feel… the natural state of your being becomes quite lonely, and the sharing of thoughts and feelings becomes euphoric. Which is why I have focused so heavily on the act of shielding before all else.”

“I see,” Keffria said in a way that made it clear she did not see anything at all but her own discomfort.

She doesn’t understand, Malta told Fitz, calm and dismissive of her mother. Fitz focused on the window so no one thought they were speaking to one another. She refuses to understand me. She thinks that if she pretends hard enough, I will still be the stupid little girl who snuck out to the Autumn Ball last year. She would rather I be stupid and frivolous than something she cannot understand.

She is your mother, Fitz replied curtly. She’s trying.

No. She’s not.

They arrived at the Traders’ Concourse, a building Fitz had never been inside, though he had seen it from afar once or twice. Malta shifted in her seat, her anxiety overflowing and hitting Fitz squarely.

“Calm down,” Fitz told her sharply. Everyone in the carriage looked to him in alarm. Probably because Malta did not look anxious at all. They could not know how nervous she truly was. The carriage drew to a slow stop, and it was hardly stationary before Fitz threw the door open. He offered each Vestrit a hand as they descended from the couch. Althea was last, and she shut the door behind her.

It was certainly a festival. Fitz was momentarily overwhelmed by the memories of Buckkeep in full swing of summer festivities, the swarms of people buzzing about the floral arches like great bees. The dress was different, of course—Bingtown fashion was as foreign as the rest of the strange, isolated city. Great heaps of bubbling skirts swirled about the cobblestones and men dressed in all sorts of jewel tones escorted the ladies into the building. Fitz knew he should follow suit. He offered Malta his arm as Selden attended to his grandmother.

What if Reyn is disappointed? Malta asked him desperately.

Then he does not deserve you. Fitz watched her slump. She did not seem to know how to summon the confidence of the pretty, flirtatious young girl he had met in the spring. All of her energy had gone into the Skill and the dragon and the ship, it seemed.

“Malta,” Fitz said gently, “chin up. This is not the beginning or end of your life. It’s just a party.”

“If you’d told her that a month or two ago,” Althea said brightly, “I don’t think she’d believe you!”

“Shut up, Althea,” Malta breathed. She took a deep breath and started forward. Fitz followed her, leading her up the steps carefully. Her small hand was locked around Fitz’s wrist, though she appeared the picture of a poised young lady as she glided up the stairs beside him. “I feel so foolish.”

“Why?” Fitz asked gently, glad she was speaking aloud and not into his mind.

“Because it shouldn’t matter.” Malta glanced about her as they reached the entrance of the Traders’ Concourse, doors propped open wide to reveal the great banquet hall before them. “It doesn’t matter, really, not any of this. The dragon—”

“Can’t you forget about the dragon for one night?” Fitz asked her desperately. She stared up at him blankly. Her eyes were paler than her mother’s, grandmother’s, and aunt’s. Selden’s were lighter, but he seemed to take after his father in looks. Her eyes were brown, somewhat, in the center of her iris, but green at the edges. It made her gaze piercing. “Malta, I promise you the weight of the world can give you a single night to be a fourteen-year-old girl.”

“Woman,” Malta corrected curtly.

“Well, you haven’t been presented yet.” Fitz released her arm as she huffed indignantly. He grinned down at her. “There we are. Normal Malta. Forget about the dragon. She can haunt our dreams and claw out our brains later.”

“Encouraging,” Malta said dryly. “How that lifts my spirits, Tom.”

“Go on,” Fitz said, shooing her away. “I see your friend Delo over there trying to get your attention. I’ll be with you in a bit.”

“Okay,” Malta said, straightening her spine and instantly shaking off the grumbling student role she had slouched into. She swept up to her young friend with a bright smile. Fitz watched her transform, relieved to see her begin chatting glibly with Delo. Even if it was Malta putting on the act of Malta, it was a relief that she could summon the shroud of herself in an instant.

“You’ll save a dance for me, I hope,” Althea piped up from beside him. She had marched up the steps heedlessly, slipping into the grand hall with a playful smirk on her painted lips.

“But of course,” Fitz said genially, plucking up her hand and kissing the back of it. Althea stifled a jubilant laugh and swatted his bowed head. “Oof—you know, you could pretend to receive the courtesy.”

“Perhaps I find your manners lacking,” Althea retorted, retracted her hand from his and rolling her eyes at him. “Also, you really don’t want to be embroiled in all the gossip about me. Missing Vestrit girl turns up, courts Tenira’s boy, and now her handsome gardener is escorting her niece and kissing her hand—”

“Gossip doesn’t bother me.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” Althea squared her shoulders and shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me much, what people think of me. But I don’t care for my family being dragged into it. And I guess somehow that’s started to include you.”

Fitz said nothing. He was a little stunned as he recognized the significance of that statement. Certainly he’d begun to feel a kinship with all of the Vestrits—it was difficult not to. And yet, he had still felt that he was troubling them with his presence. He wished he’d left them alone, in all honesty, as it probably would have saved Malta from the Skill.

But he was here. And Althea would not say it if she did not mean it.

“Chin up,” Althea laughed, nudging him. “At least lift your head to look at Amber.”

Lift his head he did, and he almost immediately wished he hadn’t. He wished suddenly that he was not here at all. The instant recollection of his drunken confession of the Fool’s beauty came swirling to the forefront of his mind as he was struck dumb and mute for an instant, watching the shifting cascade of red skirts glide along the polished floor. The Fool swept into the Traders’ Concourse, Brashen beside him, his golden skin seeming to glow against the rich depth of red velvet drapery. He did not wear the painted stays, or if he did, they were not visible, and instead his bodice was the same smooth burgundy as the skirt, embroidered with dainty swirls of gold leaves and vines and butterflies, spirals of wooden beads trimming the planes of the bodice and lining the length of his sleeves like golden wings. His great heap of golden curls had been netted behind his head, the shining filaments studded with polished wooden ornaments, reddish leaves and golden roses and white butterflies.

He wore no jewelry but the gleaming blue earring that bounced as he turned his head about.

“You might consider closing your mouth,” Althea advised him wisely. Fitz had not realized his lips had been parted in shock, and his jaw clicked shut as he blinked in wonder at the Fool. This was the sort of beauty that drove men to madness, Fitz thought bitterly. It was unfair that the Fool could flaunt it so brazenly. He could do them all a kindness and at least attempt dull his innate brightness, so he did not blind them all.

“Hey,” Brashen said as the two of them approached. Fitz could not tear his eyes from the Fool as he swept toward him. Even with the chatter all around them, Fitz could hear his heels against the tile, and though he could not see the shoe, he sensed that his slippers had been carved from wood as well. “So where’s the liquor?”

“Pace yourself,” Althea told him dryly. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

“I’ve already seen my father.” Brashen looked miserable. “He looked right through me, of course. Sa, this was an awful idea.”

“Delo waved to you,” the Fool told Brashen gently. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

Brashen looked pale suddenly as he whirled away.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he said determinedly, marching off assuredly in a direction that might have had alcohol, perhaps, but then, perhaps not. Althea looked after him with a strained expression.

“I suppose I should make sure he limits himself to one glass of wine,” she said grimly. She did not seem to want to do this, but she plucked up her courage admirably and marched off after him.

Fitz licked his lips. The Fool was watching Brashen and Althea go, his brow knitted in mild concern. He had perfumed his hair, and the scent of rose petals wafted toward him. Fitz’s eyes flickered over the bodice again, impressed by the craftmanship and the way that it could imply the presence of breasts using shadow and proportion. The thought was in itself a terrifying one.

“Love is strange,” the Fool observed as he watched Althea and Brashen bicker over alcohol. “Don’t you think so, Tom?”

“I’ve always found it to be so, Amber.” Fitz was proud of himself for getting the words out and sounding plainly disinterested. If he had stuttered, the Fool would know in an instant that something was not quite right, and perhaps he would begin to suspect how flustered Fitz actually was.

“Well,” the Fool said, facing him fully, a small, fond smile drifting on his lips. They were a deeper color than normal, softly flushed as if he had just been kissed. Fitz dragged his eyes back up to the Fool’s expectantly. “I must say, I’m impressed. Though I know I shouldn’t be, honestly, I should have trusted that Malta would never steer you wrong in the way of fashion. The cut is immaculate—did they get it tailored for you?”

“No,” Fitz said, tugging on his embroidered waistcoat and offering a shrug. “Malta altered it a bit. I think that Ephron Vestrit and I were probably about the same height, which helps.”

“I have never seen you look so striking,” the Fool said in a quiet voice. Fitz glanced at him uncertainly. “Oh, you know. You never indulge in extravagant clothing. I suppose you were never given the chance to. This is a treat for me, to see you dressed as though you were a prince.”

“I’m not,” Fitz reminded the Fool uncomfortably.

“No?” The Fool quirked a brow as he tilted his head. A slow grin rose to his rouged lips. “And here I thought we were living a proper fairy tale.”

“Perhaps I’m one of those evil shapeshifters,” Fitz said without much passion to the lame, bitter joke, “and when you kiss me, I will turn back to my beast-shape.”

“Promise?” the Fool asked innocently.

An easy, flirtatious retort nearly tumbled off his tongue before Fitz remembered himself and thought better of it. He merely shrugged while his friend laughed, leaning against his arm and the scent of roses made him dizzy. And despite all of his determination to keep himself distantly present in this conversation, he was pulled back into the Fool’s orbit, and he leaned against him, his laughter joining in the song of bright giggles that warmed his heart.

“Who braided your hair?” the Fool asked, his thumb stroking the edge of the thin, neat braids at his temple. And then, in unison, they both sighed, “Malta.”

The Fool was laughing again. It was gratifying to hear the sound which hearkened back to childhood, bright and high and clear like wind whistling through the rafters of a stable loft. The laughter transformed his face, and for an instant he was not the beautiful, mysterious woman who had drifted into Bingtown with her ornate jewelry and odd appearance. He was the Fool, Fitz’s oldest, most cherished friend, the corners of his eyes crinkling, an ageless mirth glittering in his big tawny eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” the Fool said, lifting his fingers before they brushed the scar on his temple. The gloves he wore were lacy, and the airy fabric had likely been dyed to match the dress. Fitz took the Fool’s hand, earning a curious glance. “What? Shall I go seek out the girl and thank her for doing the world such a service in presenting you as a well-groomed gentleman?”

“I’m supposed to be presenting her,” Fitz grumbled, “not the other way around.”

“Indeed. And is it not funny how the world will spin backwards before it grants you a winnable hand? Bad luck, I’d say, that your first and only student is a girl like Malta.” The Fool’s eyes danced with bright amusement. “Or perhaps it is very good luck. It depends on how you look at it, I suppose.”

“She’s a stubborn and reckless student,” Fitz sighed. “Talented, though. And she’s kept her shields up, which is what I’ve asked of her. It seems that as long as neither of us touch Paragon, we’re safe from unwanted visitors in our minds. Honestly, I wish all she had to worry about was this night and the outcome of her match with this Rain Wilder.”

“I imagine she’s confided in you her feelings on the arrangement?”

“She doesn’t need to say it in words.” Fitz gazed across the ballroom and found Malta easily enough. She was gliding along on Delo’s arm, listening to her friend with wide-eyed interest. “I feel her apprehension and confusion and resignation. It’s exhausting, being a fourteen-year-old girl. So much overthinking!”

“As opposed to not thinking at all,” the Fool said glibly, “a notable fourteen-year-old boy quality—or twenty-four-year-old man, if we are being honest—how old are you?”

The Fool asked this innocently. Fitz knew that he knew the answer.

“Twenty-five,” Fitz huffed, “same as you, I expect.”

“You expect?” the Fool smiled at him wryly. “Oh, how I’d hate to ruin your expectations, my Fool, but alas! I am older than you.”

“How much older?” Fitz asked confusedly. His brain couldn’t truly connect this information to what he knew about the Fool. “You and I were both children at—” He considered the wide-open room full of people, and though he knew that parties were good places to have private conversations, they could also be the worst places to have private conversations. “We were children together. You were far littler than me for much longer.”

“Much?” The Fool snorted at that. “It was a few years, Fitz. I was smaller than you, yes, but never younger. But yes, I suppose in a way, I was still a child with you. Physically, mentally—yes. We were children together.”

Fitz didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged and glanced at Malta again. She had been tapping on his shields impatiently.

What is it? he demanded.

It’s time, Malta said sharply. Get over here!

“I have to go,” Fitz said apologetically.

“Of course.” The Fool inclined his head. “I have to go attend to a pair of geese fighting over the last scrap of bread. But don’t think I won’t be watching.”

“Well, wish us luck, at least!”

“Don’t trip,” the Fool said brightly, “or you’ll take Malta down with you. And she might just kill you for that!”

“Ha,” Fitz replied dryly, whirling away. He did not doubt that, honestly.

Fitz crossed the Concourse Hall to the trellised wall of flowers that partitioned the young women from the rest of the party as they prepared to be presented. The men who would present them were gathered outside the alcove, chatting among themselves in their tailored suitcoats and brandy glasses, a veil of smoke from the collection of tobacco pipes softening their faces and expressions. They quieted, noticeably, when Fitz approached.

“Are you lost, young man?” a gentleman of middling years asked.

“Clearly not,” said another man, eyes narrowed upon Fitz’s face. There was something familiar about him, in the set of his square jaw and the gravel of his voice. It came to Fitz very quickly why. Brashen. This man looked like an older, meaner Brashen Trell. “This is that gardener I was telling you about, Redof. Somehow he’s managed to weasel his way into the Vestrit’s good graces.”

“Oh.” Redof blinking at Fitz with newfound distaste. Fitz merely stared back at him. “But why is he here?”

“I’m to present Malta Vestrit.” Fitz ignored the hush that fell over these men as they stared at him incredulously.

“And her mother approved of this?” Trell scowled. “Her husband toils somewhere, a prisoner on the Vestrit’s liveship, and you—you just come in and take what you want while it’s still hot, don’t you?”

“I’ve never met Kyle Haven,” Fitz said, gritting his teeth against his instinct to say something rude and start a real fight of wits or fists. “I suppose I will, so long as he’s still alive. I’m going on the expedition to retrieve the Vivacia, Trader Trell—if you are so concerned for Captain Haven, I suggest you speak to your son. He’s Paragon’s captain, and he’s right over there—”

“Did he put you up to this?” Trell spat. Fitz stared at him blankly. “Well, I’ll tell you now, he is no son of mine. And as for presenting Malta Vestrit, it’s just not right—”

“Shall I go tell her that?” Fitz waved toward the entrance of the alcove where all the young ladies were sequestered. He knew Malta was listening keenly from behind the thin trellis. He could make out the shape of her behind the partition. “Yes, you are right, Trader Trell. When the girl asked me to escort her in the place of her missing father, I should have refused her on the grounds of my low birth and lack of social standing. I shall remedy that, of course—it is so much kinder to force her to walk out alone than to embarrass herself by standing alongside an outsider like me.”

Fitz was angry. He was angry because Malta was angry, or maybe Malta was angry because he was angry. Keffria was holding her back to keep her from jumping out of the alcove and snarling insults at Trell, an action that had no place in this environment, even if she did it with tact and poise. It was also unnecessary. Though it was clear that Fitz’s words had incensed Trell, the other fathers in the group murmured softly amongst themselves before a hand came down firmly on Fitz’s shoulder.

“Don’t listen to this old fart,” a Trader said, shaking his head. “If the girl asked for you, you have the right to be here. And, well, I’ve heard a thing or two about you. I am Eleo Pardi. Tom, was it?”

“Yes.” Tom took his offered hand. “I imagine that thing or two is that I’m a gardener and I don’t particularly like going into town.”

“Well,” Pardi laughed, “yes. But I’ve also heard you have an odd reaction to liveships and have to wear gloves and socks when working aboard the Paragon. Is that true?”

“Where did you hear that?” Fitz asked uncomfortably.

“Trader Restart started a nasty rumor that you were mad,” Redof said with a grimace, “and Althea Vestrit has adamantly denied this. She said you have a sensitivity to wizardwood.”

“Well,” Fitz said, “I do. But I hardly see the point—"

“Where is that accent from?” another Trader asked curiously. He was far younger than most of the other men, a comely youth with bright, warm eyes and soft features. It was clear to Fitz that the boy was a bit out of place, but he carried himself as if he belonged, and that was admirable.

“The Six Duchies,” Fitz said carefully. “But—”

“The Six Duchies,” Trell muttered, shaking his head in disgust. “Well, that explains it. You barbarians hardly know any sense at all. What would you know of the proper way of doing things? I imagine you’ve filled the Vestrits’ heads with all sorts of ludicrous ideas. My Delo says that Malta has been acting unlike herself lately, and she spends all her time with that damnable mad ship.”

Fitz had been so briefly shocked and then incensed by the word ‘barbarian’ that he hardly heard what Trell had to say about Malta.

“Trell!” Redof gasped, clearly scandalized by the man’s words. “Honestly, man, enough!”

“Please take no offense,” Pardi murmured to Fitz, pulling him away from Trell while the other fathers rebuked Trell firmly. Fitz listened to their low tones and found that the issue as not that Trell had called Fitz a barbarian, but that he had said it to his face. It was startling. He had not realized that the Bingtown Traders harbored such a prejudice against the Six Duchies—but then, hadn’t Althea mentioned it, months ago? Perhaps Fitz had merely been coddled by the open-minded Vestrits. And once again he remembered how much he loathed this town.

“Perhaps if the man spoke to his son,” Fitz said in a loud enough voice that he knew that Trell would hear it, “he would not be insulting a young lady so flagrantly—and within earshot of the young lady and all of her peers.”

All of the men went quiet. Trell’s face had gone red in fury and embarrassment while the fathers’ eyes darted to the trellis, a partition of aesthetic value that did nothing to muffle their words for the girls behind it.

Perhaps Fitz got very lucky that a councilor appeared to initiate the presentation of the young ladies, but he felt the simmering resentment of Trell as the men quickly fell in line. They had some sort of system for the presentation which Fitz had not been privy to, and he was glad for Redof and Pardi, who told him where to stand and what to expect. He would escort Malta out into the hall, and then he would leave her to curtsey to the councilors, going to the opposite side of the hall with the other fathers. They would reunite for a dance, and then it would be over. It seemed easy enough.

When it was their turn, Fitz stood beside the arched entrance, one arm behind his back, and he tried to recall every bit of courtesy training Patience had ever given him. He needed to be the Tom that she had wanted him to be tonight. He needed to be the man she had dreamed he would become. It nearly brought tears to his eyes as Malta appeared beside him, shooting him a frantic, desperate glance. He let her in.

I’m sorry, Fitz, she said, and inside his mind she was small and trembling like a leaf in the wind. I wanted you here so badly because I thought it would make me feel strong enough to do this, but I’ve made you feel awful. I want to cry.

Fitz offered her a hand, blinked back his tears, and forced himself to smile.

“Thank you for asking me to be here, Malta,” he said gently. She blinked up at him in wonder. “It’s an honor to be your escort. Shall we?”

Malta let out a small breath of relief, and she placed her small hand in his.

I wish my father was here, she thought, perhaps not even to him, but he heard it nonetheless. He squeezed her hand.

“Malta Vestrit, daughter of Kyle Haven and Keffria Vestrit, is now presented to the Bingtown Traders and Rain Wild Traders by Tom Vestrit. Malta Vestrit.”

Fitz had no time to react to the name the councilor had read off as Malta drew forward, head held high, her forearm beneath Fitz’s. He moved alongside her down the grand ballroom stairs, rattled deeply by the casual naming of Tom Vestrit—had it been a mistake? Had the councilors assumed he must be some offshoot family member? Had Ronica done this? There was no way to know in that moment, so Fitz merely had to guide his charge down the steps, facing forward with a straight spine and a lifted chin. Patience had often forced him to walk her about her room in a similar fashion. He suspected now that she had done it for his benefit, and he was grateful for the lessons that had seemed so pointless then, as a bastard with no prospects.

Vestrit, Malta thought to him with bitterness.

Vestrit, Fitz agreed in disbelief. So it was not Malta who had suggested he be named as such. She was just as baffled, and perhaps annoyed that he claimed her name. It wasn’t my decision.

Vestrit is the Trader name, Malta replied as they glided down the aisle. Fitz thought that the Skilling was actually keeping her from focusing on how nervous she was, which helped. He sensed some of the tension in her body releasing as they walked. I wouldn’t be surprised if the councilors decided it on their own. Perhaps I must be Malta Vestrit, even if that is not my name. As you must now be Tom Vestrit, because of your association with me. Well. Let go of my arm now.

Fitz did as he was told, releasing her arm and stepping back to clap for Malta with the rest of the crowd as she curtseyed to the councilors. He focused on her back and shoulders, noticing her going more tense as she lifted her head to them. He glanced up and saw that Davad Restart was making a show of his delight at her presentation. When the clapping ceased, Malta and Fitz went to separate lines on the dance floor.

This is humiliating, Malta thought helplessly.

What? Fitz watched her stand across from him, her fists clenched. I thought that went well.

You did fine. We did fine. It’s Davad.

Ignore him.

It was easier said than done. Malta’s anxiety was leaking into him, and he had to choose between putting up a barrier to prevent her feelings from affecting him and shutting her out or letting himself remain open so she did not feel alone.

He chose the latter. Unfortunately.

He’s not stopping, Malta said desperately. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. Fitz glanced at Restart and saw he was gesturing for Malta to come forward. What do I do?

Ignore him, I said.

I don’t think I can. Malta squared her shoulders and stepped out of line. Fitz stared at her incredulously. This couldn’t be protocol. Based on the reactions of her peers and the fathers beside him, Fitz realized quickly that this was entirely unorthodox, perhaps even more so than Fitz escorting the girl.

“What’s happening?” Fitz hissed to the boy beside him, who had spoken up about Fitz's accent earlier. The young man had introduced himself as ‘Sedric, from the Meldar family,’ who was escorting his young cousin in place of her father, who had fallen ill.

“Restart’s introducing the girl to the Satrap of Jamaillia!” The boy shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not how things are supposed to go. The dancing should have commenced, but this is confusing the musicians—I suspect she had no idea he was going to do this?”

“None,” Fitz said flatly. He turned those words over, trying to grasp the enormity of it all. He had heard that the Satrap of Jamaillia was in Bingtown, but he had not thought the man would come to this gathering. He cursed himself for the lapse in judgement. It was a grand party. Of course a nobleman would attend. Fitz glanced at the dais again, trying to find the man in question, but the only foreigner was a boy who had withdrawn from his seat and began to descend the steps. He was pale and gangly, a child swaddled in jewels and silk. Fitz realized what was happening too late.

“What is he doing?” Fitz demanded as the Satrap spoke to Malta. He vaguely could hear the accented voice, high and presumptuous, inquiring about her presentation. Malta raised her head.

“I’m not sure,” Sedric beside him said as the musicians began to play, “but it’s time to dance—at least, I mean, it should be—”

“Go on,” Fitz told the man. “Dance with your cousin. I’ll find a way to excuse Malta.”

“Is that wise?” Sedric blinked. “It might be best to wait for the Satrap to dismiss her.”

Politics. Fitz bit his tongue and nodded, setting aside his discomfort and reminding himself this was all foreign. And the Satrap, Fitz had learned, was essentially a king. Did that make Fitz more inclined to care for him? Not in the slightest. But it could provide some inconvenience.

“Just wait,” Sedric told Fitz gently. His eyes darted across the room to his cousin. “I have to go, but—you know, I think what you’re doing for the girl is very kind. Don’t listen to people like Trader Trell. That man’s just bitter that his son is not the washed-up failure he’d always thought he’d be, and he’s taking it out on you.”

Fitz suspected that Sedric either knew the Trells personally, or perhaps more likely he was very attuned to the gossip of Bingtown. He watched the man go off to dance with his cousin, and he turned his attention back to the dais.

The Satrap had descended the steps and was offering Malta his hand.

Fitz stood frozen, an immediate and visceral horror flooding him as he watched Malta stand there in shock. He felt her embarrassment and confusion, and he took a step forward instinctively, knowing that he might still swoop in and save her the obligation of dancing with the boy.

An arm hooked around his and drew him away from the dance floor.

“Think, Fitz,” the Fool hissed in his ear. “That’s the Satrap, not some Trader. Let Malta handle this. Interfering will only make it worse for her.”

“Worse,” Fitz repeated heatedly as the Fool pulled him to the fringes of the crowd. “Fool, she’s already humiliated. And this—this is a fat cat playing with its food!”

“Yes, well,” the Fool breathed, pinching the inside of his wrist and causing him to squeak in surprise, “keep your voice down about it, will you? You’ve already drawn enough attention.”

“I don’t care,” Fitz hissed.

“But you should,” the Fool said, “for Malta’s sake.”

Althea and Brashen had made it to him. Althea looked furious, and Brashen was gripping her wrist as if he feared she might take flight. When Fitz met Althea’s eyes, he knew it was worse than he had feared initially.

“This is madness,” Althea growled. “That Davad would initiate any of this—I could kill him. The sort of power a man like that has, and over a girl so young—I want to kill them both!”

“Shh!” Brashen and the Fool hissed at her. She paid them no heed. The four of them were clustered together at the edge of the dance floor, by the grand staircase, and from this vantage point, Fitz saw the whole ballroom. He saw the Satrap and Malta whirling between the fathers and their daughters, the Satrap’s hand unspeakably low upon Malta’s back. Fitz realized in that moment that Malta had shielded her emotions from him.

He tore his arm from the Fool and marched forward without another thought about it.

The throng of dancers parted for him easily. He was quick to reach the Satrap and Malta, and quicker to slide behind the man just as he was taking a step back. Malta had stumbled, and Fitz watched the boy drag her closer. From where he stood, he saw the naked panic on Malta’s face at the unwanted proximity. Then she saw Fitz and her mouth dropped open.

As the Satrap’s back collided with Fitz’s chest, he smoothly, caught the boy by the arm.

“Let me help you, sir,” Fitz said, squeezing the Satrap’s arm and smiling down at him tightly. The Satrap looked up at him in outrage.

“Oh,” he sneered, “you. What did you call him, little doll? Your… ‘uncle?’”

The Satrap made a derisive noise as his eyes flitted over Fitz. The whole dance floor had stilled, Fitz realized, and the hall was suddenly very quiet. Yet there was a roaring in his ears that would not dissipate.

“That’s right,” Fitz said. “I’m Malta’s escort, as you well know—which, if I am right about the customs of Bingtown, means I was owed her first dance. So. Will you let her go, or shall I make you?”

Fitz! Malta cried in his mind, loud enough that he nearly winced. She looked at him with open horror, but he did not much care if she was embarrassed if it meant this man’s hands were off her. Anyone with eyes could see that this ugly little boy had no kind intentions toward her.

“Who,” the Satrap squawked in shock and rage, “do you think you are, demanding anything of me? Do you know who I am?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Fitz lied with another tight smile. “But you might introduce yourself, by all means!”

“Tom,” Malta said aloud, her voice thin and desperate, “I’m sorry I didn’t save you the first dance! Let me make it up to you—!”

She tried to shake off the Satrap’s arm around her waist, but he tightened his grip on her. Fitz watched the boy go redder than a radish.

“I am the Satrap of Jamaillia,” the Satrap declared, yanking his arm from Fitz’s grip. Fitz allowed this, if only because it caused the Satrap to redistribute his strength away from holding Malta in his grip. It was easy to tug her away from him and draw her behind Fitz. Her fingers almost immediately dug into the back of his suitcoat. “And who are you to so boldly disrespect your Satrap?”

“Tom,” Fitz said dryly. “And I haven’t got a clue what a Satrap is, begging your pardon, sir.”

“Are you a half-wit?” the Satrap snapped, glancing at Fitz with unmasked disgust.

“No, sir,” Fitz said blithely, “just foreign. We don’t have Satraps in the Six Duchies. I suspect it’s something like a duke, or a king—but you are not my duke, and you are not my king, so I will bid you a good evening while I dance with my niece. Sir.”

Fitz caught Malta by the wrist and pulled her as far as they could get from the Satrap. All the while she looked up at him in shock, looking torn between awe and horror. Part of her was pleased, he knew, but the other part was mortified.

“Are you crazy?” Malta breathed as another song slowly started up and the dancing continued. Fitz noticed a few Traders nod at him as he drifted past, which surprised him. “Tom, that was the Satrap.”

“Evidently,” Fitz said dryly. He watched her face, noting her unshed tears and her pale complexion. The rouge on her cheeks looked too red as she moved mechanically to the lilting harp and viola. “You shut me out.”

“I didn’t want you doing something stupid,” Malta said bitterly, “which I suppose backfired.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nonsense,” Malta said with a hard edge to her voice. “Nothing important. I just—I didn’t think it would be like that. I couldn’t say no. I wanted to, but I couldn’t—”

“It’s alright, Malta,” Fitz told her gently.

“You shouldn’t have interrupted,” Malta said, glaring up at him. A tear slid onto her pale cheek, and Fitz quickly dashed it before it smudged the makeup lining her eyes. “You should have waited a minute longer for the music to end. He’s glaring at you, don’t you see?”

“No,” Fitz said, “and I don’t much care. If he’d like a fight, I can give him one.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“You’re right,” Fitz said with a nod, “poison would be better.”

A bright laugh of disbelief bubbled out of Malta before she could stop it, and she leaned to the side to stifle it. Fitz grinned down at her. It didn’t matter that he was serious.

It was an immense relief to see Malta relax somewhat. Fitz did not believe that he had done anything that could warrant an arrest—if he had, the Satrap would have done it by now. And if it came down to it, everyone had heard Fitz loudly claim his ignorance as a foreign-born man. A barbarian had no reason to bow to a foreign noble. And Malta was free of the boy-king’s clutches.

“Are you alright?” Fitz asked Malta gently as she finally seemed to fall in time with the music.

“No,” she admitted. “I want this night to be over. Honestly, I—all I wanted was my mother.”

For all her attempts to be bigger than she was, she was still a child, and perhaps she felt that now more keenly than before. Fitz took a moment to scan the crowd, finding Keffria’s face and meeting her eyes. He was surprised to see her nod to him, just as the Traders had as he’d passed them.

As the song ended, a man appeared beside them. Fitz had sensed him approaching and noted him out of the corner of his eye. He seemed tense as he came to a halt beside them, inclining his head toward Malta. The veil surprised Fitz. He had heard that the Rain Wilders did not show their faces, but the extent to which the man was covered was startling and disconcerting. It was a beautifully crafted veil, black lace with gold and silver studded eyes peering at Fitz unblinkingly. That was uncanny enough that Fitz frowned at the man.

“Reyn,” Malta greeted breathlessly, laying a hand on Fitz’s arm to calm him. He quickly realized he had not closed himself off from her, and she sensed his uneasiness. “May I introduce you to my uncle?”

“A pleasure.” The voice behind the veil was young enough. There was a mixture of uncertainty and admiration there. He had some height to him, more than Fitz had expected, and suddenly he had to wonder how old this boy was. “Might I steal your niece for a dance?”

“That’s her decision, lad,” Fitz said dryly. He nodded to Malta, releasing her shoulder and offering her a small smile as she shot him a grateful glance. She dipped her head toward Reyn and took his proffered hand. “Well, I’ll leave you two, then. Malta.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Malta murmured. The color had returned to her face, and she seemed eager to dance with the man. That was nice. Fitz stepped back and slipped away from the dance floor.

Ronica was at his elbow in an instant.

“That was very brave,” she murmured, “and very, very stupid.”

“What do you mean?” Fitz asked her innocently. “How was I to know anything about the Satrap of Jamaillia? I’m a scribe from Buck, ma’am.”

“You are far more slippery than I ever expected.” Ronica smiled at him warmly, and Fitz leaned toward her as she patted his shoulder. “Thank you. She was drowning in that dance. I will need to speak with Davad when all of this is over—to think he put her in such a position!”

“Your daughter is plotting his murder as we speak,” Fitz confessed. Ronica glanced at him, and then scoffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Damn Althea,” she sighed. “Well, she’s found someone to dance with, it seems. And a Rain Wilder at that, isn’t that interesting?”

Fitz turned and observed the truth of that question, watching Althea move breezily across the dance floor in the arms of a tall, veiled man. She looked enraptured in whatever the man was saying.

“Oh,” Fitz said, frowning. He scanned the room for Brashen, but could not find him immediately. “I thought… well, never mind. I’m going to go outside for a bit.”

“Nonsense,” Ronica gasped, ushering him back toward the dancefloor. “You have a perfectly beautiful young lady waiting for you to ask for her hand. Go on now!”

Fitz was confused about who Ronica meant, and he briefly looked around to see if Keffria was nearby, only to lock eyes with the bright golden gaze of his Fool.

“Don’t yell at me,” he said defensively.

“My Fool,” his Fool said fondly, a faint smile drawing on his painted lips. “I should have known better than to try and stop you from doing anything.”

Fitz exhaled. He found himself offering his arm without even truly thinking about it. The Fool raised an eyebrow, his smile widening into a grin. He was more than happy to take that arm, gliding onto the dance floor beside him in a great swirl of burgundy skirts.

“You look beautiful,” Fitz murmured to him, watching him freeze. The Fool’s eyes darted over Fitz’s face uncertainly. “I mean that. I meant it before, and I mean it now. Did you do all of this yourself?”

“I hardly have any money for a seamstress,” the Fool managed to jest breathlessly, “putting up all my money and belongings for Paragon.”

“So yes.”

“You saw the embroidery hoop,” the Fool teased him. “You’re just making silly small talk. Yes, of course I did all of it. I started it when Malta told me that we would be staying for the Ball.”

“You never cease to amaze me,” Fitz sighed, stepping in time with the music and watching the beads hanging on the Fool’s sleeves sway. “And those? On the sleeves?”

“They put into mind wings, don’t they?” The Fool winked at him. “Well, I had a lot of ideas. And I doubt I’ll ever get an opportunity like this again. Perhaps I overdid it.”

“No.” Fitz smiled down at him. “It’s beautiful, really. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen wings before,” the Fool said merrily. “Though you’ve a tendency to stick your head in the mud and never look up to witness the world outside of your walls, so perhaps not.”

“All I’ve done is sing your praises,” Fitz huffed, “and you decide insults are the way to my heart. Same old Fool.”

“Same old Fitz,” the Fool said wistfully, “not listening to a word I say. Well, that’s alright. I can’t complain about anything right now.”

“Not even my stupidity?” Fitz offered.

“If I complained every time you did something stupid,” the Fool said, “I’d be a rather whiny, unpleasant creature, and then it would make quite a lot of sense why no one listens to me. What is it?”

“Your make up,” Fitz said, completely distracted by the Fool’s face. He had finished studying his hair and dress and now gazed at the light painting of black on his waterline and the faint blush of pink on the apples of his cheeks and upon his pouty lips. “Did you get that from Malta?”

“I have make up for other purposes,” the Fool admitted, moving expertly in time with the music. Fitz only realized now that he had been moving with the Fool effortlessly and without thought, as if they had done this dance a hundred times before. “For purely cosmetic reasons, though—well, Amber is a natural creature. She doesn’t have much time for her appearance. So I used charcoal for my eyes and cherries for my lips and cheeks.”

“Cherries?” Fitz laughed in disbelief. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” the Fool said with a grin. “I bit open a cherry and merely dabbed the flesh of it on my cheeks and lips and rubbed it in—”

Fitz could not say why he did it. It was the foolish, impulsive part of him that never thought anything through that held the blame for what he did next. He leaned forward and silenced the Fool with his mouth, swallowing whatever words he meant to say next and hearing the soft squeak that accompanied the muffling of his casual statement. Briefly they both came to a halt on the dance floor as Fitz drew his tongue over the Fool’s lips and tasted the memory of a cherry in the grooves of them.

“Hm,” Fitz murmured as he pulled back, ignoring the wide-eyed stare that the Fool was giving him, “yes, that’s a cherry. Interesting. Let’s keep moving.”

Fitz did not want to acknowledge the thundering of his own heart as he guided the Fool back into their dance. And the Fool merely slipped into the steps without thought or effort, but his eyes had fallen from Fitz’s face, his head bowed.

Stupidity. This was, Fitz thought, worse than confronting the Satrap. How could he have done something so utterly foolish?

The Fool’s Fool indeed.

When the song ended, the Fool lifted his head and smiled as he curtseyed.

“Thank you for the dance, Tom,” he said in Amber’s higher register. Fitz felt frantic. He stared at the Fool as he turned away, and he snatched him by the arm.

“One more dance,” he begged. The Fool glanced up at him incredulously. “Amber, please. I was out of line, and I apologize. Please do me the honor of another dance. I’ll behave.”

“Oh,” Amber breathed, her eyelashes fluttering, “somehow I doubt that very much.”

Yet she let him take her hand and guide her back onto the dance floor. It was then he became aware of others watching them. Ronica looked satisfied. Althea had moved aside with her veiled dancing partner and was grinning at him boldly. He passed Malta and her man on the dance floor, and Malta stopped him by tugging on his sleeve.

“Put your walls down,” she hissed at him. Fitz stared at her incredulously, shooting the Rain Wilder an uncertain glance. “Don’t worry about Reyn. I need to talk to you. Stop getting distracted by Amber and remember why we’re here.”

“Oh my,” Amber murmured, a hint of amusement playing in her melodic voice. Fitz winced and allowed the girl into his mind as he glided away.

Thank you, Malta said. Reyn is very distressed about the dragon, Fitz. He said that she told him that I was coming to free her, but he didn’t believe her because dragons lie. He’s horrified that we want to free her, because he said it’s not possible. Her cocoon is underground, and it would take a lot of manpower to excavate it. What do you think?

“Eda take this night,” Fitz swore softly. Amber was watching his face intently. He exhaled sharply and continued the dance, feeling Amber’s body matching every step he made, fluidly echoing every small movement with the ease and perfection of someone whose muscles had been primed for the act of dancing with him. They slotted together as a foot might find its footprint in an old, broken in boot, or how fingers might find their fingerprints on a man’s wrist.

“What’s wrong?” the Fool asked quietly. And he was, in fact, the Fool again. The expression on his face was entirely the young man that Fitz adored, though he would have to sort out his feelings on if there was any difference between him and Amber later.

“Reyn’s not happy about the dragon,” Fitz confided. Malta was in his mind, impatiently demanding an answer. The Fool merely grimaced. “I guess it would take a lot to free her? I’m not really sure.”

“Whatever it takes,” the Fool said quietly, “we must free her. You understand that, right, Fitz?”

“Yeah.” Fitz did not understand it at all. “So what do we do?”

“What we planned.” The Fool shrugged. “I don’t see how it changes anything. We knew it would be difficult to get to her. Does Reyn know where she is?”

“Malta said underground…”

Fitz, are you listening? Reyn doesn’t believe we can communicate like this. Tell me something, at least!

We’re discussing it, Fitz replied curtly. The Fool doesn’t think it matters much if Reyn thinks it difficult to free the dragon. He said we should just continue as we planned.

The Fool?

Oh. Fitz grimaced. Amber.

Ah. You really think she’s a man, don’t you?

I don’t know, Malta, Fitz told her sharply, but that’s not your business. Tell Reyn that I said that we promised the dragon we’d free her in exchange for our minds, and that our connection is because of her slipping into our dreams.

I told him all that. He doesn’t believe that she could have connected our minds that way.

“Stubborn,” Fitz muttered. The Fool gripped his shoulder tightly and bit his lip.

“Well,” the Fool said, “as I said, if he doesn’t want to help us, that changes very little, I think. The information that the dragon is underground is already very helpful. I assume that means she’s in the Rain Wilds—probably close to whatever settlement the Khuprus family lives in.”

“Hold on,” Fitz said, whisking the Fool across the floor. He drew an arm tight around Fitz’s waist to keep on beat. He swept up to Reyn and Malta, watching the man’s veiled head jerk up at the sight of him. “If the dragon is underground, you must know where it is. Tell Malta. We don’t have time for your apprehension.”

Then he pulled away, twirling the Fool as he went. He caught his friend in his arms, and the Fool looked up at him in disbelief.

“Always to the point!” he breathed. “Don’t you think that will startle him?”

“I needed to prove that Malta and I do, in fact, have a mental connection.” Fitz shook his head as the music ended. “Honestly, I’d rather have him on our side, regardless of his feelings on the dragon. It might be more useful to have someone who knows the place and circumstances of her imprisonment, even if he’s against freeing her. I’m sure we can convince him somehow.”

“Malta probably can,” the Fool pointed out, jerking his chin at the couple. When Fitz glanced at them, he saw that Reyn had inclined his head to listen to whatever Malta was saying. “Well, that’s one piece in motion, I suppose. We should find Brashen—”

Fitz turned abruptly at the sensation of someone sneaking up on him, and the Fool drew him back before he could lash out. He stared down at the Satrap incredulously as he fully ignored Fitz’s presence entirely and took the Fool’s hand, inclining his head to put his mouth to the lacy knuckles. The Fool stared at him in shock as he lifted his head.

“Excuse me for my presumptuousness,” the Satrap said, sliding his hand over the Fool’s arm and drawing him away from Fitz, “but I needed to see you for myself, golden lady. Truly, your skin is as bright as a thousand gilded rings, your eyes a molten delight, and your hair spun from thread of gold—a single strand might be worth more than this entire tiny bay, I think! Please, dance with me.”

“Of course, Magnadon Satrap,” Amber said in a smooth, cool voice. She did not look at Fitz as she turned away, but she did make a gesture at him with her hand behind her back which Fitz knew suggested he back down. It did nothing to quell the rising fury within him. He took a step forward, his vision tunneling in absolute rage, only to be caught in the light embrace of a young woman who turned him away from the Satrap and his prey.

“Fix your face,” Keffria demanded of him, so sharply he thought she was Althea for an instant before he really looked at her. “You must have known this would happen, kissing her like that in front of everyone. Honestly, Tom, you are good man, but you have no skill at all with society. Perhaps Malta should have been giving you lessons, not the other way around.”

“He’s only dancing with her to get back at me,” Fitz growled. Keffria nodded gravely.

“And he only noticed her because you kissed her,” she sighed, “which was your mistake. I will need to thank Amber after all of this for distracting him from Malta. And I suppose I must thank you as well, though it was a show of bullheaded foolishness that had led to the Satrap watching you like a hawk all night.”

Better Amber than Malta was what Keffria was saying. And Fitz had to agree that the Fool could handle himself a bit better in high-risk situations, but it did not make things less scary as he recalled how Regal had beaten him bloody for less. It occurred to Fitz then that the reason he felt so viscerally malicious toward the Satrap was because he reminded him so much of Regal, and in that revelation a cold chill ran through him.

“She’ll be alright,” Keffria told Fitz gently. He had to think hard suddenly to remember the movements of the dance. Keffria was guiding him more than anything. It was nothing like dancing with the Fool, which had felt as easy as walking. “Look at her, she’s a natural. You could learn from her how to handle these things with a sense of propriety.”

Fitz glanced at Amber and the Satrap and saw the breezy way she stepped along with his movements, despite the scandalous proximity of their bodies. She smiled through it, and Fitz knew that Keffria could not see the tightness of that smile or the uneasiness in Amber’s eyes.

“I saw you speaking to Reyn and Malta.” Keffria sounded a bit desperate as Fitz forced himself to look at her. “Is everything alright? Is Malta alright? I haven’t gotten to speak to her, and… after the Satrap’s dance, I thought—she was white as a ghost, Tom, it was frightening.”

“She’s okay.” Fitz watched Keffria’s brow furrow. “She was a bit shaken, but not enough that it distracted her from trying to bully information out of Reyn. I think if he withstands her demands tonight, perhaps they might make a good match after all.”

Keffria blinked and then closed her eyes, a shaky exhale leaving her lips.

“I should have expected as much,” she said, tension easing from her shoulders. “That’s good. It’s good that she is acting like herself, and equally good that she is showing this side to Reyn. You’re right. If this match is to succeed, he will need to know her beyond her beauty and wit and charm. Sa knows if any man can handle all of that.”

Fitz didn’t know how to respond to that kindly, as he did not much care if a man could handle Malta’s personality or not. If Reyn found that he’d bitten off more than he could chew with Malta, he would need to bow his head and swallow his pride. Keffria did not want to hear that, though. She expected her daughter to make herself smaller for a man. Fitz did not care for any of that.

Instead of answering, he glanced back at Amber and the Satrap. He saw that his hand had wandered down her back, the way it had with Malta, and they were so close that Fitz could hardly see Amber’s face. He was whispering something in her ear, Fitz realized.

And then Amber stumbled. She missed a step and drew back, hobbling somewhat as she remained trapped in the Satrap’s arms. Fitz stopped dancing with Keffria entirely to watch, and he only felt her hands digging into his forearms when the music stopped and Amber broke away from the Satrap, curtseying low and murmuring something before limping off the dance floor.

Keffria released him, which was the smartest thing she could have done, because if she had held onto him any longer, he probably would have accidentally thrown her to the ground. He darted off the dance floor after Amber, his mind whirling at the idea that somehow she had gotten hurt while dancing with that imbecile. He had seen her slip out of the Concourse Hall and followed her out into the warm summer night.

It was the Fool who he found when he stumbled upon him in the garden outside the Hall. He had slipped off his wooden shoes and hiked up his skirts, dipping his bare feet into a small, decorative pond. Fitz approached slowly, noting that though he had set the pair of wooden slippers beside him, one of the shoes was missing a heel.

“Did you break this on purpose?” Fitz asked, kneeling beside his friend and lifting the slipper up. It was beautiful, of course, made of a durable wood and ornately carved with small swirling designs. The Fool did not look up at him, but merely swished his feet in the water. “Beloved?”

“Ah.” The Fool turned his face toward Fitz and Fitz froze. “Funny you should call me that right now. Yes, Beloved, I broke it on purpose.”

“What did he do?” Fitz was on his knees beside the Fool in an instant, reaching out to cup his face and dash the tears from his cheeks. Something in the Fool’s eyes made him halt. “What happened? What did he say to you?”

“Nothing worth repeating.” The Fool turned his face away and stared at the water. The sound of his feet rhythmically making soft, puttering waves in the small pool was comforting. “You shouldn’t have come out here. You should be watching Malta.”

“Why?” Fitz’s eyes darted over the Fool frantically. “What did he say? Did he threaten her?”

“Yes.”

“Did he threaten you?”

The Fool took a deep breath. It was a ragged breath, the sort of stuttering intake of air that heralded a sob. Instead, the Fool’s shoulders sagged, and he tore off his gloves and swiped at his face viciously.

“Beloved,” Fitz whispered, his hand hovering over his shoulder. He felt so guilty for the kiss, he did not know what to do. “I’m sorry. I brought this on you, I know I did. He was trying to get back at me. If I didn’t—I shouldn’t have kissed you, and I know that it overstepped a boundary between us, and worse, it made you a target. It's not even the first time. Can I…?”

“You can touch me, Fitz,” the Fool said in a small voice. Fitz could not help the desperation in his jerky motion as he pulled the Fool into a tight hug.

The Fool sank into him, neither returning the embrace nor rejecting it, and Fitz felt his head drop against his shoulder, damp eyelashes tickling his neck. Slowly, his arms drew around Fitz’s waist, and he clutched at the back of his suitcoat with one hand, his other, Skill-laced fingers dancing through the air, hovering over Fitz’s wrist.

“You can touch me, Fool,” Fitz murmured in his ear.

“I don’t want to give you this,” the Fool breathed. Fitz watched his fingers curl into a fist, and his knuckles pressed coolly against the inside of his wrist, a tantalizing motion, as if he had lifted his mouth to Fitz’s only to kiss his cheek instead. “Perhaps I’m more cowardly than I thought.”

“I don’t mind.” Fitz folded his hand over the Fool’s knuckles, stroking them with the pad of his thumb, and he did not care how intimate this motion felt, and he did not care anymore that everyone thought he and Amber were lovers—except that he did care that it had hurt the Fool. “Your pain is my pain. Give it to me.”

He heard a soft, breathless intake of air into the Fool’s lungs. He sounded like a man who had just been stabbed in the stomach.

“No.” The Fool lifted his head and turned away, withdrawing both his hands and folding them in his lap. “Not this, Fitz. I would give you anything, but I won’t give you more pain. I’ve already hurt you enough, I think, and I will hurt you again. So. No.”

“I’m not Paragon,” Fitz said insistently. The Fool glanced at him, arching a brow. “I’m not of a delicate mind that I’ll fall apart if you push me a bit. Fool—”

“I’m alright, Fitz,” the Fool sighed, shaking his head, “honestly. It just startled me. I wasn’t expecting him to—”

“To what?” Fitz demanded. His eyes flitted over the Fool’s face as he pulled his feet from the pond and set them on the sandstone ledge of a short garden wall. “Did he say he’d beat you? Have you arrested?”

The Fool’s eyes dragged up to Fitz’s face, and he saw the tired resignation there. It startled him.

“Did he threaten to…?” Fitz’s mind had to do loops to accept that he had come to this conclusion, and it sickened him.

“Usually,” the Fool said distantly, “a man like that, cowardly and small, would bluff—but he’s powerful enough and cruel enough that I doubt he was lying. He gave me reason to believe him, at least.”

“I’ll kill him,” Fitz growled, rising to his feet.

“No,” the Fool breathed, tugging Fitz back down. He nearly toppled into the pond, and the Fool snatched him by the wrist.

And in an instant, they were tumbling together into a pool, not of water, but of Skill, of soul, of youth unfettered, and the warmth of the Fool’s being enveloping his own was enough that he could not help but let himself fall into it completely. He was the Fool again, he was Beloved, he was kneeling in a shallow pool, cradling the man he loved—love unbound, unrestrained, swelling like a wave and never crashing, only expanding, as if it meant to consume the earth.

There was a feeling, there, beneath the love, a residual stain of shame and fear that had been unearthed like a tile overturned, and it was more familiar than expected, this shared feeling unnamed that evoked a sense of helplessness and a desire to guard every part of himself so that no one could hurt him again.

It was difficult to tell if this was a Fool feeling or a Fitz feeling or if they had both felt it at different avenues of their lives, but it stirred them both to tears, wherever they were, physically.

Don’t take this, the Fool thought quietly. Don’t look.

Fitz did not know how not to look, nor did he know how not to take, but the Fool seemed to shroud himself in smoke within the confines of their joining, and the love Fitz had felt so ardently merely seconds before dissipated. Fitz reached for it. The Fool shrank away.

He returned to himself wet and cold, sitting waist deep in an artificial pond. Lanterns on a line overhead illuminated the Fool’s tear-streaked face.

“You love me,” Fitz blurted dazedly. The Fool stared at him blankly. Then he laughed in disbelief.

“You know I do,” he breathed. His skirt had gotten water-logged. Who knew how long they had been sitting in the pond. Fitz suddenly remembered that the suit he was wearing was not his own, and he shrugged off the suitcoat and set it on the ledge. The bottom of it had gotten wet. He regretted being so careless with Ephron Vestrit’s legacy, if only for Althea and Ronica. “Fitz…”

“I love you too, you know.” Fitz unbuttoned the waistcoat and set that aside too. He felt the Fool’s eyes on him keenly, and when he glanced at him, he saw his wild-eyed stare. “You know I do. You must have felt it.”

“Is it as a man loves a man?” the Fool mocked him almost bitterly. Fitz opened his mouth to retort yes, of course, but then he remembered that he had kissed this man in front of all of Bingtown and brought horrible consequences onto him, so what was the truth, really?

“I don’t know,” Fitz admitted, and he could tell that this surprised the Fool, because his hands fell into the water at his sides and spasmed slightly. He splashed Fitz by accident. Fitz splashed him back lightly. “What? I’m confused, Fool, alright? I don’t know what I feel for you, in truth, I don’t know the nature of it, except that it is love, and—and I know it sounds like an excuse, but I just don’t know what else to think. You are my dearest friend. Of course I love you.”

“And the kiss?” the Fool murmured.

“I’m an idiot,” Fitz offered.

“Oh, yes, that’s been established longer than you’ve been alive, I think.” The Fool rolled his eyes. “Preordained stupidity is a wonderful thing. If only I did not love you for it. Ah, well, call me a fool. I don’t mind that you kissed me, Fitz. It surprised me, but not in a bad way.”

Fitz knew that. He had felt it. The boundless love had enveloped him, and he had felt something from the Fool he had never felt from anyone in his life. Unconditional love.

He craved it more than a prisoner craves the sun.

“We’re going to have a time explaining why we’re wet,” Fitz said suddenly, getting to his feet and listening to the water putter back into the pond. His breeches were suctioned to his legs. He offered the Fool his hands and he reached out with his non-Skill-laced one, allowing Fitz to heft him up. The weight of his skirt and the amount of water that clung to it was alarming. Fitz had to hold him by the waist to help him out of the pond.

“We already have a reputation for being an odd couple,” the Fool said, wringing out his skirt and shrugging. “And we’ve both made a public spectacle, so the gossip will go where it goes. It hardly matters to me. Amber has never had a particularly kind reputation here. I think it would be smart if I left, however. I don’t particularly want another interaction with the Satrap. Though if he sees how thoroughly his words rattled me, perhaps he’ll feel that he’s humiliated you enough. Hm. What do you think?”

“I think we should go,” Fitz said firmly. “I’m going to tell Malta, too. We’ll walk back to Paragon.”

“That might be an issue for me,” the Fool admitted, plucking up his broken shoe.

“I’ll carry you, then,” Fitz huffed. “It’s not like you weigh much.”

The Fool stared at him a moment in disbelief and then laughed at him. It did not matter that he was serious. The Fool knew that.

Malta, he called. Malta, we’re leaving.

So are we. Malta’s anxiety leaked from behind her shields with her words. With the Satrap.

“What happened here?”

Fitz pulled the Fool closer as he felt multiple people approach. He did not recognize the voice, and it had startled him. He saw that the small gaggle of interlopers included multiple Rain Wilders, Reyn Khuprus among them, Brashen and Althea, and a woman he did not recognize. The Fool turned his lips close to Fitz’s ear suddenly.

“That’s the Satrap’s Companion,” the Fool whispered.

“What does that mean?” Fitz murmured back. He cursed himself for not paying more attention to the wormy little man.

“Sorry to interrupt, Tom,” Althea said, sounding strained, “but this is a bit urgent. Are you two alright?”

“Fine.” Fitz squeezed the Fool tight to him for a moment before releasing him and shouldering past the group before him. “I need to go get Malta.”

“What?” Althea looked at him wildly. “She probably shouldn’t—”

“No, he’s right,” Brashen said firmly. “You know we need to leave tonight, before things get worse. We will never get another chance. She’s already proven that she’s just as capable as Clef on the ship, and this involves her, too. Either Tom gets her now, or we leave her behind.”

“We cannot leave her behind,” the Fool said firmly. Reyn whirled on him.

“And who are you?” he demanded.

“Amber.” And she was. She eyed the man coolly. “Malta makes her own choices. You would be wise to learn that now.”

“I’m going.” Fitz shot Amber a pleading look. “Be careful.”

“You as well, Beloved,” she said, still glaring at Reyn.

Fitz darted across the garden and held onto his bond with Malta like their lives depended on it.

Reyn had disappeared with the Satrap’s Companion, and Malta drifted from the dance floor, hoping to eavesdrop. She was not under any delusions that Reyn was still smitten with her after their three dances, wherein Malta had explained multiple times that there was no alternative to releasing the dragon.

“I just know we have to,” Malta had sighed, “can’t you trust that? Is magic not proof enough?”

“I am from the Rain Wilds, Malta,” Reyn had retorted impatiently, “magic is not proof of anything. She is manipulating you, don’t you see?”

Well, it would be a relief to be free of the engagement. And perhaps she followed Reyn out of jealousy—that sting would wear away, she knew. She had more important things to deal with than some immature Rain Wild man-child.

She was stopped by Cerwin again. She smiled at him politely, keeping one eye on Reyn and the Companion, and she took a drink from him as he spoke to her quietly.

“I know you’ve been around my brother,” Cerwin murmured, surprising her. “Delo told me about the day you had at the Paragon. I also know you plan to join them on their journey. Malta, do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“We are Bingtown Traders,” Malta said genially. “We take the risks that no sane men would ever take. Yes, I know it will be dangerous. I can handle it.”

“I pleaded with Brashen,” Cerwin breathed, clutching her hands and startling her, “to leave you alone. He told me that I did not know you very well if I thought that it was him I needed to convince—”

“That’s true.” Malta watched his expression stutter in shock. She patted his hand gently. “Oh, Cerwin, it’s not that I don’t care for you. It’s only—I must rescue my father. I don’t believe I can rely on anyone but myself, because for the past several months, I am the only person that I’ve been able to count on.” It was strange, being honest with this man that she had toyed with so readily months earlier. She felt a bit guilty for it now. But only a little bit. “Did you really waste what time you had speaking to your brother on me? Cerwin, Brashen is a good man. Did Delo tell you that she spent time with him on the Paragon? That I brought her there so she could use my newfound recklessness as an excuse to be near him?”

Cerwin’s jaw had slackened. He stared at her blankly. Then he craned his neck to spot Delo or Brashen in the crowd, his expression twisted in remorse.

“He is your brother,” Malta told him gently. “Even if you don’t know him, he’s still your brother. And if you value my opinion, I think he’s worth knowing.”

“Is that why you are doing this?” Cerwin whispered, sounding pathetic and small. Malta blinked at him in surprise. “For your brother?”

Malta had not considered Wintrow. She rubbed the digits of her finger absently as she nodded.

“My father was cruel to him,” she admitted. She stared at her finger and felt the sting of its loss as if it had been her own. How had Wintrow lost a finger? If she tried to reach out to him, would she be able to find out? “I love my father, and he has never in my life shown me the man he was with Wintrow, but in the year since they left, I’ve accepted that maybe my father is not the man I thought he was. And Wintrow did not deserve to be treated the way my father treated him.”

She remembered hearing about the beating and dismissing it. She remembered her mother crying over it and thinking she was overreacting. Now she felt a bit heartless, knowing where Wintrow was and how he’d been maimed.

“I need to speak to Delo, I think,” Cerwin said quietly.

“Go,” Malta said, smiling at him in a warm, gentle way that made him relax. That was good. She wanted him gone so she could find Reyn and the Companion. “I’ll be here, I’m sure.”

Cerwin nodded, inclined his head toward her, and drifted away. Malta relaxed. She turned back toward the exit.

“Malta,” her mother exhaled, grasping her sleeve and tugging her to a halt. Malta turned to face her tiredly. “I’ve been trying to get you alone all night. Tom said you were alright, but…”

“Yes,” Malta sighed, “I’m fine. The Satrap was… well, I think Amber had a more unpleasant time with him than I did. I wish Tom hadn’t kissed her, it only drew his attention.”

“I told him as much,” her mother said gravely. “The poor woman… I’m glad he went after her. She seemed upset. Oh, what a disaster tonight has been. At least tell me your dances with Reyn went well.”

“Afraid not,” Malta said dryly. Her mother’s eyes widened, and she gripped her hands sympathetically. “I think I scared him off. I suppose I should have been clever about it and tried to lull him in with charm before biting his head off for not responding to the messages I sent him through the dragon.”

Her mother’s sympathetic eyes widened into a confused, horrified gaze. Malta sighed deeply.

“He won’t listen to me,” she confided in frustration. “I told him that the dragon gave Tom and I a connection, and he didn’t believe it until Tom came up and said something he couldn’t have possibly known on his own. And then he refused to admit that freeing the dragon is the best option for all of us. He said the dragon lies, and I told him I don’t care if the dragon is a liar, we must free her.”

“Alright,” Keffria said faintly, “alright, Malta. Settle down. Where is he now?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Malta waved outside vaguely. “With one of the Satrap’s Companions. I wish I could call on Tom, but I know he’s working out some things with Amber right now.”

She had felt their connection, briefly, before closing down her walls tight. She had never felt anything like it, and she had been dancing with Cerwin at the time. She’d stumbled into him and nearly fallen over. That would teach her to leave herself open like that again. Fitz had been right. Shields were important and useful so one did not break their teeth on tile because someone was having some deeply soul-altering experience a consciousness over.

“Let them go,” her mother told her quietly. “They need their time together alone. Honestly, I came because I believe we should leave.”

“Leave?” Malta echoed confusedly. She looked around, trying to spot Fitz or Althea. “But—”

As she looked around, she noticed it. All of the Rain Wilders had vanished from the dance floor. She felt a chill run down her spine. Something was happening, but she could not place what. She glanced at her mother, who nodded sharply.

“Exactly,” she murmured. “Your grandmother is looking for Althea. We might have to leave Tom with Amber.”

“We shouldn’t leave them here alone,” Malta objected, shaking her head. “Especially after—you said it yourself, Amber was upset. I know her better than you, Mother, she does not get shaken so easily.”

And if the things the Satrap had said to her were any indication of what the man might have said to Amber, Malta could understand why she had fled the dance floor so quickly.

“Brashen and Amber came together,” Keffria reminded her. “I’m sure they have a coach somewhere.”

Malta doubted that. She knew the state of both their funds, as they’d been bled dry for the acquisition of the Paragon. The fact that Amber had assembled such a beautiful dress was a testament to her own talent as an artist. Malta thumbed the tiny wooden stars that dangled from her ears.

“I cannot find her,” Ronica said suddenly, appearing beside Keffria with Selden in tow. The boy looked sleepy. “I fear she’s run off with that Rain Wilder.”

Malta did not mention it was more likely she had run off with Brashen. She wondered how her aunt would feel when Malta told her how she’d saved her skin this night.

“She’s probably gone off to find Amber and Tom,” she said, waving her grandmother off dismissively. Ronica’s eyes narrowed at her. “She asked me if I’d seen them before. Just leave them. It’d be more of a relief to leave Amber and Tom with more people than less, don’t you agree?”

“Whatever the Satrap said to the woman,” Ronica said carefully, “I’m sure she can manage. I’m more concerned with the whereabouts of my daughter. Did she say where she was looking?”

“No.”

“Well—” Her grandmother halted and shook her head. “Here comes Davad. He is letting us take his coach, so please remember your manners, regardless of how foolish he’s been with your feelings. Selden, don’t you go trying to slip away.”

“I was just going to try and find Tom and Althea,” Selden objected. Malta suspected that was why her brother had stuck beside their grandmother to start with. He had been deeply unhappy that Clef was not coming tonight and had tried to convince their mother to let him stay behind on the Paragon, too. It had been an unpleasant conversation.

Davad swept up to them without much mercy, and Malta bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself to smile.

“Well, I do think it is tragic, just tragic, to hurry this sweet girl home like this. Is her headache truly that bad?”

“Oh,” Malta breathed, leaning against her mother for support, “I’m just a bit dizzy, I’m afraid—I’m worried I might faint. Thank you for offering us your coach, Davad, truly. I don’t know how to repay you.”

“Oh,” Davad huffed, “my poor little sugarplum! Think nothing of it. Only—surely you will bid the Satrap good evening. I already told him you must leave, and I’ve come to escort you while you say goodbye.”

Malta stared at the man blankly. She felt all of her courtesy and all of her propriety flee her body as she turned around and began walking toward the exit.

“Malta!” her mother cried in shock.

Malta turned on her heel and forced a smile on her face.

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m just going to find Tom.”

She thought about lowering her shields and calling for Fitz. She knew that speaking to the Satrap again would be a horrible idea but would be worse to drag Fitz into it. Her family clearly recognized that by their expressions. Davad shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Is that wise?” he asked quietly. “Oh, Malta, I know you care for the man—enough, I suppose, to call him your uncle when he was a penniless barbarian off the street when I met him—but he’s a complete dolt, if you don’t mind me saying. To make such a scene before the Satrap and ruin your dance—not to mention he’s opened that beadmaker to such salacious rumors—”

“What do you mean?” Malta asked coolly. She was impatient and furious. Had the Satrap said something to Davad about Amber? The endless propriety that women must endure, Malta thought, and a man could call a woman a whore over nothing. Malta knew it. She did not need to be a mind reader to know it. She saw it on Davad’s reddening face. “Because Tom kissed Amber? They’re practically married. If you or anyone here bothered to learn anything about them before spreading gossip, you’d know that. And if you must know, Davad, I’m a bit worried that Amber’s feelings have been hurt. She’s a very kind lady, and she didn’t deserve to have a spectacle made of her.”

They were all quiet as Davad’s face went so red that under the lanternlight, it appeared almost purple. Malta took a deep breath and put on her best smile.

“Let’s go say goodbye,” she suggested, starting forward and linking her arm through Davad’s, leading him toward the dais. “It’s the least I can do to repay you, Davad, really.”

She marched up the dais, ignoring the Satrap’s conversation with Trader Daw, and she did a quick and nimble curtsey.

“Thank you for the dance, Magnadon Satrap,” she said, watching his eyes snap to hers. Davad’s mouth opened and closed. “I hope you have a wonderful evening.”

“I suspect it was an exciting one for you,” the Satrap said, his eyes flitting over her with barely concealed disdain. Malta’s heart thudded in her chest. She was an idiot for not simply walking out that door. “And where is your ‘uncle’ and his pretty gold… companion?”

Every word that the Satrap said was dipped in venom. Uncle and companion might as well have been dog and whore. Malta gritted her teeth as she smiled.

“Somewhere around here, I expect, Magnadon Satrap.” She inclined her head. “Thank you again. Good evening.”

“Surely they are staying with you,” the Satrap pressed. Malta blinked at him. “I did ask around, out of curiosity. The Vestrit family has certainly piqued my interest. That Tom fellow lives with you as a gardener, does he not? Interesting occupation for an uncle.”

“He enjoys gardening,” Malta said carefully. “Mostly he teaches Selden and I.”

“Oh, a teacher!” The Satrap clasped his hands together and smiled down at her as kindly as a fox smiles at a hare. “How exciting. And what could a man like that teach you, my dear child?”

It took a moment of panic to subside and return for her to realize he was not aware of the Skill at all but was insinuating something far more indecent. Malta glanced up at Davad, expecting him to object, but he seemed to have missed the innuendo entirely. Trader Daw had not. He was looking down at her with wide eyes, his mouth open in shock.

“Tom was a scribe and a scholar in his homeland,” Malta said curtly. “He teaches Selden and I more ornate ways to write our letters, which if I am to be honest, my lord Magnadon, is very boring. He is also a fine illustrator and has taught me medicinal herbs through his own research and documentation. Take this flower for example.”

Malta plucked a white jasmine flower from her headdress and offered out to the Satrap.

“This flower is sometimes used to relieve abdominal pain. It makes a wonderful tea.” She plucked a petal from the flower and laid it on her tongue, chewing it slowly and watching the Satrap’s face twist in disgust and then curiosity. She lifted a yellow jasmine flower from her headdress and laid it on the table. “For you, Magnadon Satrap.”

“How interesting.” The Satrap plucked up the tiny yellow flower and frowned at it. “Well, it sounds like he taught you well—perhaps too well. It’s a rather dry subject, flowers.”

It had stopped Trader Daw from believing Malta was sleeping with Fitz, so she supposed she was grateful for dry subjects and edible flowers. Or inedible. If the Satrap was stupid enough.

“It seems you have an extensive garden,” the Satrap said, setting the flower aside. Malta did not know if she was disappointed or not. She knew Fitz would be unhappy if he knew what she’d tried to do, but still, she was so furious with this man that she did not care. “Trader Restart, call your carriage. Trader Daw feels it might be safest to leave the festivities early, and I am so curious to pick this gardener scholar’s brain about his work with petals.”

The way he said it, Malta knew it was another innuendo. She chewed on her tongue and glanced back at her grandmother desperately. The Satrap could not come to their home, and yet, it seemed their fate was sealed. She would have to warn Tom not to come home tonight.

“Magnadon Satrap,” her grandmother said, curtseying low. The Satrap glanced at her with clear derision. Malta wanted to shove the yellow jasmine blossom down his throat. “I am Malta’s grandmother, Ronica Vestrit. We would, of course, be honored to have you call upon us, but I fear our household is a very humble one. We could scarcely accommodate a visit tonight—”

Malta could not listen anymore as the Satrap cut her grandmother off. There was no way around this. The Satrap would come to their home, Fitz would quarrel with him, and it would be a horrible, horrible mess. Perhaps it was best that he had not eaten the yellow jasmine.

She half-listened to the Satrap tell Davad that he would have to sit on top of the coach with the driver. He mentioned something about his Companion, the one that had disappeared with Reyn. Malta closed her eyes. A real headache was beginning to form behind her eyes.

Then she felt a tapping on her mental walls. She opened herself to Fitz instantly, trying to keep as much of her shields up as possible so she did not flood him with her panic.

Malta, he said frantically. She was startled. Did he know what was happening here? She looked around for him in wonder, but she did not see his deep burgundy suit or sleek black curls with their striking shock of white run through. Malta, we’re leaving.

They were being ushered outside to the coach. Malta wondered at Fitz’s bad timing.

So are we, she told him. With the Satrap.

She heard nothing more. She felt nothing from him either. She wondered about that. Sometimes it was so easy to speak to him, and then other times it was like he was not there at all. With a sigh, Malta exited the Concourse Hall, turning into the light breeze and wishing that this night had not happened at all.

Distantly, she could smell fire. She frowned at that.

“You next, my dear,” Davad said, offering her hand. She reached for it, drawing her skirt up with her fist to step into the coach.

“Malta!”

She was caught by Fitz’s arms around her waist, physically pried away from Davad and set down a few feet from the coach as she cried out in shock.

“Tom!” She smacked him in the shoulder. “You frightened me! What’s wrong?”

“We’re going.” The look in his eyes was something wild that she had never seen before. She stared up at him confusedly. “Now. Say goodbye.”

“What?” she breathed. And then he said it in her mind.

We’re departing tonight. Say goodbye.

Her heart shattered. She had known that they would be attempting to break the blockade in the coming days or weeks, but she had not even once considered that they might have to leave suddenly like this. She was not prepared. Certainly she was in theory—she had packed away a good deal of clothing and amenities in the tiny cupboard of a chamber tucked inside the captain’s cabin. She was as physically ready as she’d ever be. Yet she could not reconcile the word goodbye with the act of it.

She saw Davad’s face, twisted in confusion, and he shouted an objection at Fitz. Her mother was already in the coach. Her grandmother stood aside with Selden, watching her and Tom with wide eyes.

Ronica Vestrit nodded to them once and then drew Selden into the coach.

That was it. Malta was pulled away sharply. There was no time to say what she wanted to say, that she loved them, that she would be safe, that she would bring her Papa home, and Wintrow too, and then go wake a dragon, and then, finally, have a peaceful dream.

Instead she was led away to another coach. She saw Naria Tenira standing beside it, tapping her foot impatiently.

“There you are,” she breathed. She was looking at Fitz, who had jolted to a stop in surprise. “I just put poor Amber in. She told me that you both took a spill in the pond. Tell me, Tom, is she alright?”

Fitz nodded hastily. Behind him, Malta saw Brashen speaking emphatically to Reyn and another Rain Wilder, the one who had been dancing with Althea. She watched in mild wonder.

Reyn tipped his head in her direction, and she knew that he was staring at her beneath his veil. She stared at him back, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. She wanted to speak to him, but there was no time. So she held onto Fitz’s arm and looked away sharply.

“If I might confess,” Naria said to Fitz quietly, “I was a bit taken aback by your brazenness, young man. But the way you ran after her—well, perhaps it is different in the Six Duchies. Amber is a special young lady, and to see her so wildly disrespected by the Satrap—!”

“Let’s go,” Brashen said, knocking on the door of the coach. It opened to reveal both Amber and Althea inside. Amber was indeed soaking wet from the waist down. She was looking out the opposite window while Althea stared at them grimly. Malta realized that her own skirt was wet, from where it had brushed Fitz’s trousers. “Thanks again for this, ma’am. I know it’s a big ask, and I’ll be in your and your son’s debt.”

“All I ask is you bring Vivacia home.” Naria took his hand and climbed into the coach. Fitz helped Malta by offering his arm. Then he and Brashen slipped inside, slamming the doors shut behind him.

Chapter Text

They were lucky, Fitz supposed, that most of the crew had already been aboard. Luckier still that Clef had decided to go to the Paragon with Nighteyes rather than be bored at home. Their hasty escape had been stressful, strenuous, and exhausting. By the time Fitz collapsed bonelessly into a hammock that night, there was barely enough night left to sleep.

He had not expected the Tenira woman to be there, let alone aid them. He had spoken to her a few times in passing while the Fool had worked on the Tenira family ship, Ophelia, and he had been allowed on the ship after coming one too many times to inquire about Amber. That was when Fitz found out that the liveship Ophelia was a gossip and had told the Teniras that Tom was Amber’s childhood sweetheart, her secret lover, her betrothed. It changed every time she spoke about him.

Now he was separated from the Fool. He at least got to keep an eye on Clef in the belly of the ship. And Nighteyes had an eye on the Fool, so it wasn’t like they were truly apart. The wolf slept on the floor between bunks, and Fitz was aware of the Fool’s bare hand against Nighteyes’s fur. Not his Skill-fingered hand, but still, he had fallen asleep with the comfort of the wolf at his side. That was reassuring.

How is he? Fitz thought as he dozed in his hammock.

Normal enough for the Scentless One. Nighteyes was drowsy. The females were fussing about him when we arrived in here. The Little Viper included.

And? Fitz asked anxiously. What did he say?

That he was fine, and they needn’t overreact. Nighteyes was on the edge of sleep now. The one from home wanted to know exactly what happened, since she was here. I am also confused.

A powerful man said some awful things. Fitz did not know what else to say. The Fool had refused to tell him what the Satrap had said, exactly. He knew that the Fool would never tell him. The fact that he had managed to glean that it was likely a threat of rape was astonishing enough. And it was not something Nighteyes really understood, though Fitz had tried to explain it before. He was upset. We linked for a bit.

I know, said the wolf. I felt it from here.

Oh.

It felt nice. Nighteyes drifted into a wolf dream and Fitz drifted with him. It feels whole.

In the wolf dream, Nighteyes was hunting birds in Bingtown. Up and down the cobble streets, the warm summer sun on his hide. A young girl chased him happily. Tiny bare feet slapped upon the stone. For a while, Fitz thought she was Malta intruding his dream again. She tackled him to the street and laughed as she nuzzled his neck, heedless of his bristly fur.

“Shadow Wolf,” the child gasped, “don’t leave! Please! Papa says you’re not real. He says I can’t dream of wolves. Shadow Wolf, where are you?”

Far away, Nighteyes told the girl in Fitz’s voice.

Fitz only realized that the girl was not Malta when he lifted his wolf eyes and saw Malta sitting on a veranda nearby, watching them with wide eyes.

He awoke with the sun. The crew groaned and grumbled, Fitz and Clef among them, and they got to work. The sea did not much agree with Fitz. He vomited twice before noon. It was different than the Rurisk. The tasks were different, and there was less anxiety as they managed to evade the Chalcedean galleys.

It was strange. He went an entire day, nearly, glimpsing his friends in passing, but they all had duties to attend to and had little time to chat. Only Malta managed to have a real conversation with him, and that was only after hours of tapping on his walls.

Shouldn’t you be focusing on whatever knot you’re meant to be tying? Fitz finally demanded of her. He was, admittedly, shocked and wary of how effortless the Skill connection was becoming. He had not felt so tied to another person since Verity.

Who was that little girl? Malta retorted.

What? Fitz nearly released the bit of rigging he was meant to be hauling. Jek shot him a sharp glance. She had been getting closer to him since this task started, and he knew she was about to bring up the night prior. Fitz had tried to avoid Jek as much as possible, but it would be pointless on the ship.

The girl. In your dream.

Fitz had not remembered his dream from the night prior. It had been a wolf dream, and he had not really catalogued it as important.

Ask Nighteyes, he said impatiently.

You know I can’t!

“You alright?” Jek asked, nudging his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Fitz tied the end of the rope off and rolled his shoulder with a wince. “Bad back. Er, how’s Amber?”

“You ought to ask her yourself, I think.” Jek gave him a congenial pat on the shoulder. “These people are such prudes, honestly. I don’t think you did anything wrong. I’m shocked it didn’t happen sooner.”

“I’d rather it not be spread around,” Fitz hissed, his eyes narrowing at Jek. He glanced around them at their fellow sailors. “For her sake. Please.”

“Right.” Jek nodded eagerly. “But, you know, if you two ever need the cabin to yourselves—”

“Thanks, Jek,” Fitz said dryly, “I’ll remember that, thank you so much. Now please be quiet.”

They all found each other to eat their evening meal. The Fool perched upon a barrel spooning barley and carrot pottage into his mouth. He looked fully the Fool today. His airy trousers were belted at his narrow waist with a colorful scarf that had been in his hair for most of the day. He wore his hair in a loose tail, and a mess of curls had fallen from it onto his face. He wore a plain white linen shirt. He looked like the boy that Fitz had awoken to in the cottage in Jhaampe.

Malta and Clef were arguing about something. That was not unusual for them. Nighteyes was gnawing a bone at Malta’s feet. Althea and Brashen were conversing civilly, which was unusual. Jek was leaning against the rail, telling the Fool some anecdote or another.

“I’m going to go talk to Paragon,” the Fool said suddenly, setting his bowl aside. Fitz watched him go desperately. He had been waiting for the opportunity to ask him if they could speak alone. No one spoke as he went to the figurehead and leaned over to greet the old ship.

“She’ll need time,” Althea assured Fitz quietly. “You know, I didn’t believe you before, when you told me you weren’t together, but now I do. I think it scares her.”

Fitz did not say that it scared him too, likely far more than it scared the Fool. He merely nodded.

You should go talk to her, Malta suggested. Their eyes met, and Fitz scowled at her. She offered a shrug. I can distract Paragon. You can talk to Amber…

“What exactly happened last night?” Fitz asked Brashen instead. Brashen lifted his eyes from his bowl and shrugged. “You were gone far before Amber and I went to the gardens. Why?”

“Grag Tenira had danced with Companion Serilla,” Brashen explained, prodding at a carrot with his spoon. “Then he danced with Althea, which—well, I was already on my way to the gardens when Serilla approached me for a dance. She told me of the plot against the Satrap, and I ended up in the garden to discuss it further. Althea came a few minutes later. I suppose Grag must have been dancing with her to relay information.”

“Yes,” Althea agreed, “and because he wanted to, of course.”

“It wouldn’t have killed you to save me a dance,” Brashen muttered.

“She promised to save me one too,” Fitz said wistfully, hoping to ease the tension as Althea frowned at Brashen.

“It’s probably better that she didn’t,” Malta said, “with the luck you had last night. Imagine the Satrap going after Althea. She would have lost a hand, I think.”

“Hey!” Althea crossed her arms impudently. “Well, alright, perhaps that’s true. But he deserves a good slap.”

“I hope he’s not giving Mother and Grandmother too much trouble,” Malta sighed. She bit her lip and glanced at Fitz worriedly. He stared at her. “I might have given him something to make him sick.”

Fitz felt a chill run through him as Althea barked a laugh of disbelief.

“You never stop surprising me,” Althea said, swatting Malta playfully in the arm.

“What did you give him?” Fitz asked her gravely.

“Yellow jasmine.” Malta shook her head quickly. “I doubt he would have eaten it. But… he could have.”

“Malta…” Fitz breathed, unsure if he was proud or horrified.

“I was sick of him,” Malta admitted. “He made crude comments about me, about you, about Amber—”

“So poisoning is the answer?” Fitz could have laughed. He had put the idea in her head, hadn’t he? And would he have done any different?

“Well, I probably didn’t poison him,” Malta sniffed, “so there is really no need to sound so disappointed in me. Can we play the stone game now?”

Fitz obliged her that, if only to get his mind off the thought that his apprentice might have poisoned a king.

Living on a ship was not so bad. Perhaps, Malta conceded, it was because she and Brashen were the only ones with their own rooms. Otherwise, threw herself into the work she was given, if only to prove that she was as adept at it as Clef was. The idea of Clef beating her in anything was so mortifying that she often challenged him to race up the rigging just to prove she was faster.

Fitz kept some of his belongings in her room. She had noticed the first night that his sword had been stashed beneath her bed, and his supply of elfbark, and a few scrolls. She read through them curiously. Some of them were the botany work he’d been doing, the colorful illustration of yellow jasmine taunting her, reminding her that they were as toxic as their white counterpart were delicious. Others were clearly idle thoughts, and Malta found herself lighting a candle each night and reading through at least one scroll.

She found out quite a few things.

Firstly, Fitz’s father had been named Chivalry. Fitz had never known him. He had been brought to Prince Verity when he had been six, and never properly named. He had been called ‘Boy,’ or ‘Fitz,” and left in the care of a horseman named Burrich. Fitz, Malta knew, would later consider this man to be his father.

Malta recalled the memory she had pried out of Fitz of Verity calling him FitzChivalry Farseer. She recognized now how significant that moment had truly been.

She was hungry for more information, but she knew better than to ask. She did not want to reveal that she’d read his scrolls, an action that he would resent, and so she stewed in the thought of his princely father and loveless childhood. She could understand why he had instantly accepted Clef now. And, begrudgingly, herself as well. She had to accept that he had taken her in just the same, regardless of the fact that she had parents. If his idle thoughts put to page were any indication, he had been so lonely in his youth that he probably could not stand to reject any young person looking for guidance. She might have resented it, really, if she wasn't so grateful that he was around.

The days went on. It was monotonous. The work lessened after the first day or so, perhaps because they had not been prepared to sail on such short notice. She was informed that the reason that Reyn had left with the Satrap’s Companion was to help devise a plot to save the Satrap from assassination. At first she had not understood what the threat had been. She demanded that Brashen and Althea explain.

“You don’t understand,” she’d gasped, looking at Althea with wide, horrified eyes, “the Satrap was in the same coach as Mama!”

Althea had paled, but she had merely shaken her head furiously.

“They didn’t say what the plot entailed,” she said quickly, “and Reyn and Grag were going off to intercept the Satrap anyway. I’m sure it’s fine.”

There was no way of knowing, but Malta had to operate as if everything had gone smoothly, and the Satrap was simply at her home making her family miserable.

Something she had noticed very quickly was that she was not allowed to wander about the ship on her own. If Lavoy barked at her to retrieve something below deck, Jek would come to her side an in instant and follow her down. If it was late and she had been tasked with swabbing the deck, Fitz was there with her, scrubbing down the wood. She could not bring herself to complain about it. It was about safety, she knew, and she was a target. The other women on the ship were oddities. Jek was a foreign warrior, Amber a foreign carpenter, and Althea the second mate. Malta wasn’t even a ship’s boy. She was just… there.

Amber had fashioned soft-soled boots for Malta and Fitz. They had pretty little designs embossed on the leather, which laced up their calves to prevent any skin from touching the wizardwood. At night it was difficult to resist touching the ship. Malta would dangle her feet off the edge of her bunk and stare at the floor, wondering at what Paragon might do to her if she did.

Instead, she simply went to him.

“No gossip today, I’m afraid,” she said, leaning over the rail. He tipped his head toward her and shrugged.

“That’s alright,” he said. “I have other friends for that. Though I’m sure you could tell me a bit about Tom and Amber.”

“There’s nothing to tell at the moment.” Malta had pried into this very same topic with Fitz the night prior. He had told her to leave it alone. “They’re not fighting, but they’re not really talking much either. Tom said that there isn’t much time for anyone to be alone on this ship, which I should know well, since we never get to be alone for our lessons. Might I braid your hair, Paragon?”

“Braid it?” Paragon lifted a hand to his head, an almost self-conscious gesture.

“Please,” Malta sighed, “it’s in the way. I can hardly see your face from here.”

“I hardly think there is much worth seeing,” Paragon muttered.

“Nonsense,” Malta said, reaching down and touching his shoulder, “you have such a handsome face. Lift me up.”

She climbed into Paragon’s large hands, perched upon his shoulder, and began to pull great chunks of curly black hair into her hands.

“Don’t let me go,” she warned him. He held onto her legs with both hands as she began to braid his hair back from his face.

“You see into Tom’s dreams,” Paragon said suddenly, “don’t you?”

“What?” Malta glanced at him, briefly chilled by the prescient question, but she remembered that Paragon had been inside her head. She shrugged. “Sometimes. Well, most of the time. It’s been mostly wolf dreams lately. But I have my own dreams, too.”

“Of the nine-fingered slave boy?”

“My brother,” Malta corrected, focusing hard on the braid. She was chilled to her very core at the knowledge that Paragon could simply glimpse her dreams without effort. She supposed that the Skill really was the thing that connected liveships to their families. “Wintrow. We’re going to get him now. He’s on the Vivacia.”

“You don’t dream of him, Malta.” Paragon sounded very distant. “You dream you are him.”

“I don’t see why that matters.” She tied off the braid with a ribbon she had tied around her wrist for this purpose earlier that day. “Once I realize, I go back to myself. Tom doesn’t like the idea of walking around in someone else’s skin. But I only do it if Wintrow is awake very late.”

“Hm.”

“It’s been very boring,” Malta offered. “He’s usually just in his room reading, I think. But I suppose it’s good to know that he’s safe. Do you think I should try to get information from him?”

“How should I know?” Paragon huffed. He set her back onto the deck, and she was startled to see Amber standing there, watching her with wide eyes. She looked at Malta as though Malta held the answer to a riddle that had been plaguing her for the whole of her life. “Hello, Amber. Do you like my braid?”

“I love it, Paragon,” Amber said gently. Her eyes never left Malta’s. “I was coming to speak with you, but I’m afraid I need to talk to Malta first.”

“Fine. Be quick about it, though.”

Amber took Malta by the wrist and dragged her across the deck. They entered the captain’s cabin, and through Brashen’s room, they entered Malta’s. Malta stared at her incredulously the entire time.

“What?” Malta gasped, wrenching her arm away. “What is it?”

“You have been Skilling to your brother,” Amber said, her eyes darting over Malta’s face intently. “Tom knows this?”

“He’s there with me sometimes.” Malta rubbed her finger absently. Through the gloves, her finger felt numb. Amber’s eyes flickered to her hands at the motion and then dragged back to Malta’s face. “Is it really your business?”

“He lost a finger?” Amber asked carefully.

“I don’t know how,” Malta said defensively. “It’s not like I can ask. But yes, he did.”

Amber stared at her blankly. Her eyes widened in shock.

“Oh,” she said. She turned away as if to walk out the door. Then, with a laugh, she dropped onto Malta’s bed. “Well. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Tell me, Malta, did he have a tattoo on his face? Could you tell?”

“How did you…?” Malta had been ignoring that bit of information since two nights ago when she had glimpsed a mirror while intruding on Wintrow’s late-night reading and she had gasped in horror, coming back to herself in an instant and prodding the crudely inked outline of a naked woman on his cheek before forcing herself to withdraw from him completely.

“Malta,” Amber breathed, her voice shaky, “this is very important. I need to know everything you know about Wintrow. Please.”

“I mean… what?” Malta laughed if only to mask her confusion. “He’s my brother. I don’t…?”

“This could help us understand the dragon,” Amber offered.

“How in Sa’s name could Wintrow help us with the dragon?” Malta squeaked. Nothing the beadmaker said ever made sense. But then, magic didn’t make much sense either.

“Please, Malta,” Amber said desperately, “just trust me. Wintrow. What do you know? What have you seen?”

“Not much at all,” Malta admitted. “Just him in his room, mostly. I suppose I should tell Brashen that I’ve seen him, but… I don’t know. It felt private. The tattoo… I don’t know how he got it. I don’t know how he lost his finger. He was normal when I was with him last, as normal as a priest of Sa can be. He’s usually just about to go to sleep himself when I intrude on him, and if he’s already sleeping, I don’t go into his head at all. I don’t… should I try to look around his room? Fitz told me not to.”

“Did he?” Amber asked quietly.

“He said I shouldn’t take over,” Malta explained with a shrug. “That it’s wrong, I suppose, to control someone else’s body.”

“Oh.” Amber slumped. “Yes, that’s true. It is. He’s right. I only wondered why he didn’t tell me you dreamed of your brother.”

“Why is it your business?” Malta frowned at the woman. “Not to offend you, Amber, but he’s my brother, and I don’t think he really has anything to do with the dragon. Fitz said I probably can only do this because he’s family.”

“That’s true.” Amber nodded absently. “You must have a connection because he is your brother. But why him, Malta? Why not Selden? Why not your mother or father? How often does it happen?”

“I just told you,” Malta said impatiently, “that it only happens when he’s awake late. So, I don’t know, a few times, but not that often. Usually when I dream, I dream Fitz’s dreams, or I just dream of the dragon. I dreamt of Wintrow a few nights ago for the first time in a while, and that’s when I saw the tattoo, but there’s really no way of knowing how it got there, is there?”

“It was a slave tattoo,” Amber clarified quietly, “wasn’t it?”

“I…” Malta knew it was, of course, but she had been trying not to think about it. “Amber, speak to me plainly. What is all this about?”

“Speak to you plainly,” Amber breathed, her bright honeyed gaze flashing over Malta in absolute wonder. “Well. You are certainly his creation now, if I ever doubted it before. As for what this is about, I’ve already told you. Wintrow has a connection to the dragon. How, I am not sure yet. I need more information. Could you try to Skill into him tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Malta said, frowning at the woman. She did not understand what she was saying at all. “I mean, I could try, yes, but that hardly means I will succeed. And from what I’ve gathered from being inside his head, he doesn’t really know anything about the dragon. His immediate thoughts are…” Malta did not know how to describe the anxiety her brother was feeling when she became a passenger in his skin. He seemed constantly on edge. “I think he’s worried. I suppose because he’s a hostage. But if Fitz says it’s alright, and I manage to get through to him, I could look around, or pass on a message—”

“I’ll speak to Fitz on the matter,” Amber said firmly, rising to her feet. “Try your best tonight. I believe things will begin to become clearer once we have more information.”

She went to leave the room, and Malta was suddenly struck with the realization that they were alone for the first time in a long time.

“Wait,” Malta gasped. Amber turned to face her, her face brightly inquisitive. Malta had never thought Amber was especially pretty. Yet the more time she spent within Fitz’s mind, the more she understood how he could perceive her as an incomparable beauty. Perhaps she wasn’t pretty, with her angular jaw and wide-set eyes and gap-toothed smile, but there was a charm to her odd appearance, and it became less bizarre and more miraculous. “Are you talking to Fitz again, then? If you’re speaking to him about this…?”

“Did he tell you that we aren’t speaking?” Amber did not look surprised as she turned slowly to face Malta.

“Well, no, but… you two aren’t around each other as much as you used to be, so…”

“We’ve both been busy.” Amber offered a shrug. She did not seem bothered at all at the suggestion that it had appeared they were in the midst of a quarrel. “We have different tasks aboard the ship, as you are probably aware of, and it’s difficult to find time to ourselves. I’ve spoken to him in passing, and I’m sure if there was anything pressing, he would tell me.”

“You seem to regard my dreams of Wintrow to be pressing,” Malta pointed out, “and he didn’t tell you about them.”

“What I find pressing,” Amber sighed, “and what Fitz finds pressing—well, I understand why he thought little of it. Now, why do you ask?”

“I just think he misses you.” Malta feigned innocent surprise when Amber shot her a sharp look. “I can feel it, sometimes, the way he just… well, he wants to speak to you, that much is clear to me. What he feels about it is something he ought to tell you himself.”

“I doubt he will,” Amber said, smiling thinly, “but thank you for telling me. Sometimes I think I’m imagining it, that he… well, what happened at the Summer Ball was unexpected. I suppose I’m not entirely sure if I want to know how he feels about it, so I’ve made it more difficult for us to be alone together. It’s silly. Knowing him, he’s more likely to say nothing and pretend it did not happen at all.”

Hearing Amber’s perspective suddenly made things start to align. Fitz’s uncertainty about his love for the woman, his heartfelt longing and desire which he stifled out of compulsive shame. Malta felt these things and tried to ignore them, because they were not meant for her any more than her anxiety and disappointment about her courtship with Reyn was meant for Fitz. Their feelings so often leaked out of their shields by accident, and Malta could not help it, knowing Fitz’s complicated feelings about Amber.

“And you’re alright with that?” Malta asked uncertainly.

“I accepted it a long time ago,” Amber said with a sad smile. “It’s personal, Malta. I understand that your Skill connection with Fitz gives you some insight into his mind, and it is for that reason that I am telling you that space is the best remedy for what transpired at the Summer Ball.”

“He kissed you,” Malta said with a huff, “it’s hardly some great and terrible thing. Perhaps it was impulsive and ill-conceived, doing it in the ballroom in front of everyone, but honestly, Amber, I don’t see why it’s changed anything. The kiss was less intense than whatever it was you two did after, with the Skill, anyway.”

“You felt that?” Amber asked, looking down at Malta in genuine alarm.

“It was hard not to.” Malta did not want to admit what it was she felt, exactly. She didn’t know if Amber would appreciate the knowledge that her intimate feelings had been poured into Malta through Fitz. “Listen, Amber, I don’t really mean to feel any of these things. I’m certain that Fitz feels things that I feel that he wishes he didn’t, but we’re learning as we go, so please just… take my advice? Talk to him. I don’t know your entire history, and I won’t assume, of course, but… I do know more than most people.”

Amber was quiet. She crossed her arms over her chest, and Malta perceived the flatness of it with some curiosity that almost immediately embarrassed her. She hoped her shields were locked tight.

“Anyway,” Malta said quickly, drawing her hands behind her back and smiling at Amber genially, “I just think you ought to push him a bit. You must know he loves you. It seems pointless to avoid it at this point.”

“I know he loves me,” Amber said in a low voice, raspy and small, “and I love him—but sometimes, Malta, and I know this might be very hard for you to understand, having felt what you felt, but—sometimes love is not enough to change a man’s nature. Fitz is stubborn. He’s stubborn, and he’s set in his ways, and even if it was true that he could love me the way I love him, I don’t know if he would accept it. I think he’s ashamed that he loves me.”

“Because you’re…” Malta’s eyes flitted over Amber, and Amber stiffened. Some measure of guilt swept over her as she shook her head. “Not like other women…?”

Amber said nothing. She leaned back against the door of Malta’s small, cramped little room, and she chewed on her lower lip as her eyes darted away.

“Yes,” she said heavily.

Malta had no idea what to think about that. She did not know what it meant, if she should be disgusted or intrigued, but her curiosity had won out over her repulsion weeks ago when she had overheard Amber and Fitz arguing over Amber’s womanhood. She wondered why a man would pretend to be a woman, or if it was pretend at all—certainly Malta thought that Amber looked like a woman, and acted like a woman, and sounded like a woman. The idea that she wasn’t seemed wrong.

“But you are a woman,” Malta found herself saying, shaking her head as if to clear it of a great fog. “You share in every ugly reality a woman must face, and perhaps it is ignorant of me to say, but if you are not a woman, you must be a fabulous magician, because I cannot imagine you a man.”

That earned a short laugh of disbelief that melted into a warm little giggle—another indication, Malta thought, that Amber was a woman.

“It must baffle you, then,” Amber said softly, “that Fitz disagrees.”

“I think he’s in love with you,” Malta said with a dismissive wave, ignoring the way Amber went very still, “regardless of if you are a woman or man. But yes. It’s confusing. For him and for me. Or maybe it is his confusion, and I just share in it.”

Malta found herself rubbing her forehead with a grimace. Their connection really was a troubling thing, the more they used it.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about, Malta.” Amber was suddenly beside her, her long, willowy arms draping around her shoulders. Malta blinked as she was pulled into a short, but very sincere hug. Amber’s hair smelled faintly of lavender, and Malta’s cheek was precariously close to her collarbone. She was suddenly bitten by that curiosity again, her thoughts wandering, and she flushed as Amber released her. “I’ll talk to Fitz. Ultimately it is your choice, what you do about Wintrow. I will not tell Brashen. He’ll demand that you use this chance to find out where the Vivacia is, and I don’t believe it wise to force you to take control of him that way. So I will leave it to your discretion.”

Malta was shocked that Amber was putting this choice in her hands. She stared up at the woman with wonder as she tried to wrap her head around this interaction. Amber merely slipped out of the room without another word.

Sitting down on her bed, Malta considered her brother, the perfect stranger that he was, and wished she had been better at shielding from the start. She cursed herself for being so flighty and eager to throw herself into the Skill, and she resented how right Fitz had been about taking care to build up shields. She had no desire to share Wintrow’s mind. It scared her more than sharing Fitz’s. Fitz was familiar. He was a warm and steady presence, aware of Malta and ready to manage any mishap that might arise within their Skill-bond. Wintrow was a foreign entity all together.

But it could help them find the Vivacia. It could help them find her father.

It felt like her priorities had gotten so skewed with the looming presence of the dragon burning a shadow into her brain. She knew that by finding the Vivacia, they would find her father. She was not sure if she would be pleased with that discovery, however.

Part of her had already resigned herself to the idea that he might be dead.

What am I supposed to do? she wondered. She did not cast the thought out to Fitz. Instead, she knelt upon the wooden floor of the ship’s deck and took a deep breath. She hesitantly lowered her forehead to the wizardwood and gave her uncertainty up to Paragon. What am I supposed to do?

In an instant, Paragon took that uncertainty, no words exchanged, and yet, there was a levity to her heart and mind as she lifted her head and blinked around her small room. She had certainly felt the ship, but it was not the deep, gouging connection it had been when she had touched his cheek and received some poor boy’s residual emotional turmoil in response. Instead, Paragon took and did not give.

She wondered if she should feel bad about that. Instead, she found that this gave her the answer she had sought. Without her uncertainty, she knew she must go into Wintrow’s head and retrieve as much information as possible.

As she stood up, she suddenly felt she ship sway beneath her. She stumbled into the wall of her cabin with a cry of shock.

“Paragon?” she gasped, laying a gloved hand upon the wall. It was the lone wizardwood wall in the room. The rest of the walls were dead wood, constructed hastily by Amber. “What’s going on?”

She was startled when she heard the ship inside her head.

Serpents, Paragon said. It wasn’t a very clear voice, but it was Paragon, and he had said it without her even needing to touch the wizardwood with her bare skin.

Malta was so giddy about that fact that she nearly forgot what Paragon had told her entirely until the ship careened again, sending her grappling at her bunk. She heard a shrill shriek that rattled the wood of the ship first, and her bones second.

The screeching dread enveloped her. She did not know if she could move. She sat upon her bunk, gripping her blankets, and she listened with blood thudding an unsteady rhythm in her ears. Serpents, Paragon had said. Sea serpents. The ship was responding to an attack, swaying against the tide, and she was overcome with the thought of splintering wood and a long, cold death, trapped in this room as Paragon sank to the ocean floor.

Malta flung herself from her bunk and threw herself out the door. The floor beneath her rocked as she moved through the captain’s cabin.

If she was going to die, she wanted to be on deck. She wanted to see the sky one last time.

When she stumbled onto the deck, she was met with shouts of horror as the crew scrambled around the great green serpent that had peeled out of the water and coiled up against the portside of the ship. A gaseous vapor radiated off its shaggy ruff, which stood on end like a collar as it let out a shriek of pain.

And that was when Malta saw her aunt plunging some sort of makeshift weapon into the serpent’s side.

“No,” Malta found herself saying, drifting forward, claws inside her mind and wings scrabbling at her back, “no! Stop it! Stop it! Leave it alone!”

“I know you!” cried Paragon. She realized that it was his shock and dismay that had sent her scrambling toward the serpent. She was snatched around the waist before she could throw herself at the creature. “I know you!”

The serpent let out a horrible scream as Althea wrenched a hook from its flesh, and blood came pouring out of its side, a gaping wound glistening through its scales, and Malta let out a cry of pain as the blood hit the deck of the ship. She fell to her knees, taking her savior with her, and she screamed with the serpent as it sank into the sea.

“Malta!” Fitz cried, shaking her shoulders. “Malta, it’s gone. It’s dead. Malta, could you hear it?”

“No.” Malta was forced to look at him, and she saw that the serpent’s venom had scalded his shoulder. “It hurt you.”

“I was in the way.” Fitz shook his head, pulling her to her feet. She realized quickly he was just as shaky as she was. Nighteyes tugged on the leg of her trousers, and she reached out for him blindly. “Are you sure you couldn’t hear it? You’re crying.”

“Am I?” Malta laughed shakily. She turned to watch the crew scramble to scrub the blood and poison from the ship’s deck. “They’re not my tears. Blood is memory.”

Fitz stared at her with a furrowed brow until they heard Paragon let out a great, ear-piercing scream.

“I knew you! And you knew me!” The figurehead laughed, and Malta laughed with him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her lungs burning from the fumes of the serpent’s venom pitting holes on the deck. “By your poisons, I know myself! Blood is memory!”

Fitz clutched Malta closer, muffling her laughter into his chest. She had seen the crew freeze as she had begun to cackle along with the mad ship. Over Fitz’s shoulder, she caught Althea’s wild eyes. She was burned from the venom, bloody and disheveled from a fight, and still, Malta laughed.

She felt Fitz’s bare hands grasp her face. It was lifted to look into his eyes.

That’s enough, he told her gravely. She felt his Skill wrap around her and tug her into the steel curtain that walled his mind.

And suddenly, she felt nothing.

“Is Malta asleep?”

Fitz dragged the bottle of brandy from his lips as the Fool approached him. He sat in Brashen’s cabin, back resting against Malta’s door, a stalwart vigil that would ultimately go nowhere. Their captain was on the deck, still assessing the damage done by the serpent. Clef had helped Fitz bring Malta to her cabin, where she had sat silently for a while, staring at the floor. Fitz knew that speaking would not help. Clef’s careful questions did not rouse Malta from her stupor. He had eventually left to go help with the clean-up. And when Malta had finally exhausted herself and nodded off, Fitz waited a while longer to leave. Nighteyes offered to stay by her side for the night, but Fitz would rather do it himself.

As he dangled the bottle of brandy between his fingers, the Fool grasped it and sat down beside him. He took a swig while Fitz nodded.

“What was that thing?” Fitz murmured.

“A sea serpent.” The Fool said it like it was obvious. Fitz stared at him incredulously. “What? They exist. They’re always illustrated on maps, especially on maps that include Bingtown and the Pirate Isles.”

“I didn’t think they were real,” Fitz admitted. He leaned his back against Malta’s door tiredly. “It spoke to me.”

“What?” the Fool demanded, jolting up straighter, his eyes darting over Fitz’s face in shock. “What did it say?”

“Before it was attacked,” Fitz sighed, “it just wanted to know what was wrong with Paragon. It was surprised that I could communicate with it—as surprised as I was, I suppose, that it responded to the Wit so strongly. It felt as easy as speaking to Nighteyes. But I had to cut myself off from it, when it was attacked. Otherwise I’d be worse than Malta right now.”

“And she connected with the serpent through the Wit as well…?” the Fool asked uncertainly.

“No.” Fitz grimaced. “I don’t think Malta has the Wit at all. But her Skill is very strong, and that might have been enough. I don’t know. Or, maybe, it has something to do with Paragon.”

“Why do you say that?” the Fool asked.

“Because,” Fitz sighed, “she was saying what Paragon said, before he said it. I don’t know, Fool. It’s confusing, but… I think their connection might be growing.”

The Fool nodded. It did not surprise him at all. That was startling, Fitz realized, watching him take another swig of brandy and hand the bottle back. He rested his head back against the door behind him and closed his eyes.

“Did you know this would happen?” Fitz accused.

“Did I know Malta would form a connection with Paragon so strong that she would share his distress?” the Fool asked quietly. “Or did I know that the serpent would attack? The answer is no either way.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m as surprised that Malta has gotten herself into this situation as I am when you get yourself into similar situations.” The Fool cracked an eye open and smiled at him coyly. “So, of course, not very. I’m not shocked because of course she’s done something dangerous unintentionally. What else would she do? I cannot predict her any more than I can predict you, and that only makes her actions less shocking, not more.”

“I thought I was your Catalyst,” Fitz huffed. “Can there be more than one?”

“No.” The Fool shrugged. “Well, not exactly. You are my Catalyst, Fitz, that’s true. You are my stone that I use to jostle time’s wheel as surely as you were Chade’s knife he used to cut out an enemy’s throat and Verity’s shield he used to buffer against the Red Ships. But you being here… you know, you weren’t meant to be. I never saw it, not once. That should make everything unpredictable, but instead, I feel that everything is coming into focus.”

The Fool smiled at him then, a small, fond smile that warmed Fitz’s heart. He blamed it on the brandy as he took another swig.

“I came to Bingtown,” the Fool said quietly, “with a path I knew I wanted to take. Yet it was so much harder than I thought it would be to get on that path. It’s like—like all my life I’ve been weaving a tapestry, and without you by my side, everything has gotten snagged. I could take the time to untangle the strings and reweave what I could, but things get lost or discarded or forgotten when you prioritize one crisis over the other. We always worked best, you and I, when we are together and united in a common goal. So you arrived here, and suddenly all the knots in my tapestry have unraveled. You’ve set us on a course that leads exactly where we ought to be. You are my Catalyst. You are my world, and you are my future. And I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done and what you will do.”

Fitz was quiet. He couldn’t speak, because he could not fully understand what the Fool was saying, but he gathered the weight of it. He felt that well enough.

“And Malta?” Fitz whispered. The Fool gingerly took the brandy bottle from his fingers and drew it to his lips. “Tell me, Fool. What are we doing to her? Is this the future she was meant to have? I doubt it very much. I think she should be at home now, worrying over that foolish Rain Wild man, and not here having her mind constantly put on the block. We will carve her away to nothing. You realize that, don’t you?”

The Fool was quiet a moment. The lack of a quick jest or a clever quip chilled Fitz to the bone. Because the Fool took the time to consider it, and that gave the pain they had caused Malta weight and substance. He took a long drink and then handed the brandy bottle back to Fitz. His eyes were lowered toward his hands.

“I don’t know what Malta’s future holds.” The Fool took a deep breath. His shoulders sagged. “I know that it’s changed. How it has changed, I cannot say. It’s just another thread in the tapestry, Fitz. All I know is that your presence brought us Malta, and Malta will bring us the nine fingered slave boy. That is the hand we have, and we must play it. Regardless of what that means.”

“Regardless of—?” Fitz leaned away from the Fool in shock. “Nine fingered slave boy? What are you talking about? You’d use Malta, put her mind at risk, for a chance at finding what exactly?”

“Dragons.” The Fool grimaced. “I don’t want to risk Malta’s mind. I have more faith in her than you do, I suppose. But, Fitz, you know that I came to Bingtown for a reason. I dreamed of a nine fingered slave boy once, a long time ago, and I thought the instant I saw him I would know him. I didn’t. I didn’t at all. I thought he was Althea, Fitz. I was so wrong. He’s Malta’s brother.”

“Selden…?” Fitz asked in dawning horror, trying to imagine the young boy suddenly enslaved.

“No. Her older brother. Wintrow.”

A chill shivered through him. Wintrow. Yes, Wintrow. The boy on the deck who had kept vigil over a dying child. He had been missing a finger, Fitz recalled, and that had tugged Malta out of her Skill-walking and into consciousness, heaving Fitz along with her. She had been distraught over it, and Fitz had warned her against repeat violations. He did not want her to stumble into Wintrow’s mind and face something she could not unsee.

“Is Wintrow a slave?” Fitz asked hesitantly.

“He has a slave tattoo.” The Fool watched Fitz desperately. There was a pleading look in his eyes that was hard to ignore. “Malta said she doesn’t know how it got there. Fitz, the boy has a connection to the dragons. I know he does. It’s lucky, I suppose, that we’re on our way to him.”

“And how does Wintrow connect to the dragon?” Fitz asked tiredly. “She never mentioned him before. Malta never said anything about it, either, and you know she would. She’s obsessed with releasing that dragon.”

“I know she is.” The Fool spoke with a solemness, but also a fondness, as if this behavior was intrinsically part of a teenage girl’s adolescence. “I know it’s difficult to understand, but I’m asking you to put your faith in me, Fitz. If you believe, even just a little bit, that I am the White Prophet, and that I have seen things that will come to pass—trust me. This is all we can do. Malta must connect with Wintrow, so Wintrow can help us bring dragons back into the world.”

Fitz dragged a hand down his face. He did not follow the Fool’s thoughts or words, but he did understand the strain this would put on Malta. He doubted he could stop it if she chose to pursue it.

“Did she say she’d connect with her brother?” Fitz asked solemnly.

“She wants your approval.”

“Oh.” Fitz did not know what to say to that. The idea that Malta valued his opinion so highly still startled him. But he supposed she was not the little girl she had been when he’d met her. “Well, I don’t approve. But that’s not going to stop her. It might be out of both our hands.”

The Fool was silent. He sighed, dropping his head upon Fitz’s shoulder. Fitz blinked down at him in surprised. He lowered his cheek to the Fool’s hair, finding himself closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of lavender oil. Beneath that, Fitz knew, there was no scent. Scentless. An anomaly, truly. Any animal would find the Fool unnerving. But not Nighteyes. To Nighteyes, the Fool was pack.

He is pack, the wolf said then, and so is the Little Viper. Give me the word, and I will come.

No, Fitz told Nighteyes. That’s alright. I told you I’d rather do this myself. Best you stay with the women.

Are you counting the Scentless One among them?

For right now, yes.

He could sense the wolf’s amusement. He ignored it, turning his mouth to the Fool’s hair and allowing himself a brief moment of weakness where he could kiss the gilded strands and feel no shame in it.

The cabin door opened and closed, and Fitz opened his eyes, blinking up at Brashen as he lit the lanterns by the doors. Althea trailed after him, shooting them an unsurprised glance before approaching the captain’s desk. Lavoy lingered by the door.

“The deck’s as clean as it’ll ever be,” Althea reported to Brashen with her hands clasped behind her back. “I hope we never have to face a serpent again, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking.”

“Are you reporting to our captain while the Duchies sheepherder and his woman are cozying up on his cabin floor?” Lavoy demanded, slipping further into the room. Fitz blinked at the derogatory use of ‘sheepherder,’ which seemed uncreative and ill-fitting, but perhaps to a man who made a living at sea, it seemed the most insulting profession a Duchies man could have.

“Tom Vestrit, Amber,” Brashen said, gesturing for them to stand. Fitz stood slowly, the Fool quietly slipping out of his arms. “What’s going on?”

Fitz did not want to tell Brashen anything while Lavoy was in the room. He glared at the man in silence, stewing in his silent disdain. He was surprised when the Fool spoke.

“Malta, sir,” Amber said quietly. “She’s not feeling herself today. Tom wanted to give her some privacy, but he fears going too far. I came to see how she was doing.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Lavoy said, his eyes drifting over Amber in such a clear licentious manner that Fitz drew her closer, hovering at her shoulder. She shook him off and started forward stubbornly, standing beside Lavoy and straightening to her full height—the Fool’s full height. Nearly the same height as Lavoy. Fitz blinked in surprise. He had forgotten how tall the Fool truly was. Had he always been so tall? Did he shrink himself as Amber, somehow?

“I believe Malta has established a true connection with the ship,” Amber informed Brashen curtly. Brashen stared at her. “That is why she’s so upset right now. Paragon is upset, so Malta is upset.”

“His madness has infected the girl?” Lavoy asked with a scoff.

“It’s a liveship connection,” Althea corrected Lavoy coolly. “The ship’s feelings affect her now. Which is particularly unfortunate, given both Paragon and Malta are prone to bouts of melancholy.”

“It’s worse than simple melancholy,” Fitz said quietly. Brashen glanced at him. “The ship takes. It takes, but it doesn’t need to give in return. It’s taking a toll on her.”

“It’s a liveship connection,” Althea repeated, far more gently to Fitz than to Lavoy. “It won’t hurt her, Tom. I think it’s just… the ship, you know. Paragon is not an easy companion on the best of days.”

“I can’t explain it to you,” Fitz said impatiently, “but I can tell you that she’s pushing herself too hard. She’s wearing herself too thin, and she is letting too much in when she gives the ship an inch. I’ve warned her away from this for a reason. It’s not safe.”

“It’s strange,” Althea admitted, “and unorthodox, but it can’t hurt her, really—”

And just as she said it, a great, ear-piercing scream of pain floated out from Malta’s room.

Fitz flung the door open in an instant. Malta’s walls were down. Something had utterly demolished them. He felt her pain like a wave plunging him into a searing, white-hot sea. He felt scorched, inside and out. On the bed, Malta was writhing in her blankets, her head thrown back as her body spasmed uncontrollably. Her screams ricocheted through the small cabin. Every tremor sent a wild lash of Skill through their bond, and Fitz buckled in the doorway, a cry of pain bitten off into a growl as he stumbled to Malta’s bedside and grabbed her by the shoulders.

She was not here.

“No,” Fitz breathed, his voice strangled, his vision blurring. Her body went limp, her head hanging back as if she was a puppet whose strings had been violently slashed. “No, no, no—Malta, wake up!”

“What’s happening?” Althea demanded. She had scrambled into the room behind him, her face pale and her dark eyes wide. She had seen Malta’s convulsing come to a sudden stop, her screams silenced. “Is she breathing? Never mind, just move!”

Althea tried to shove Fitz out of the way to get to her niece, but Fitz would not let Malta go. His eyes landed on the Fool as he slipped into the room. Brashen held Lavoy back, Fitz saw, but the door remained open.

“Help me,” Fitz pleaded, staring at the Fool with tears in his eyes. The pain had been excruciating. He knew it had swept Malta away.

“How?” the Fool whispered, wide eyes darting between Fitz and Malta.

Fitz yanked his sleeve back and bared his wrist to the warm air, turning the gray fingerprints out toward their owner.

“Anchor me,” Fitz demanded. “Keep me here. I’m going to get her back.”

The Fool’s jaw tightened. He nodded once, silently lowering himself to his knees beside Fitz, unlacing his gloves as he went. Althea was cradling Malta’s head, looking bewildered.

“Her pulse is weak,” she said, “but it’s there. What is it exactly that you two are doing? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t have time to explain.” Fitz reached out and took Malta’s face in his hands. He made sure to turn his wrist out toward the Fool. “Just trust me, I guess.”

“Ready, Beloved?” The Fool murmured, his voice soft in Fitz’s ear. Fitz closed his eyes and did not answer. He merely threw himself into the Skill and hoped he had the strength to achieve this task.

First he felt the great cascade of the Skill washing over him. He tried to remember exactly what Malta felt like inside his mind, that small, slippery presence, like a little garden snake coiling around his thoughts. He knew her. He could follow that feeling of her, like a hound follows a scent. He found a trail of her, between the yawning cavern of rushing thoughts that pressed too readily against his mind, and he dove after it.

It was then he felt the Fool. An instant connection, a binding of souls, as easy as taking a breath. He knew that the Fool was with him, holding him tethered to his body the way a spider holds itself to a trembling leaf. It seemed so light and feeble, too precarious to keep the weight of him, and yet it did. The Fool held him, but he did not let him fall into the great swell of Skill that rushed around him.

I’m here, the Fool said. I have you.

I know. Fitz was not afraid to lose himself in the stream of Skill. Perhaps if he was alone, he would be. But he was not alone. He was not alone, not in his body and not in his soul.

He tumbled into a cacophony of pain that drummed at his mind as he pushed forward. Voices babbled uncontrollably, and each word was punctuated by a blistering spike of pain. Dreams, the voices recalled, of dragons and serpents. Art of dragons and serpents. Death, the voices pleaded. Death is preferrable to captivity.

It was sudden, how he became many. How he tumbled into the remembrance, a dance of a thousand lives, and he cherished the knowledge that he would finally, finally bring his kind back to the world. They would share, all of them, in the lives that they had been destined to live. He would guide them all to safety and they would become dragons again.

Dragons? His Fool dangled him like a puppet on a string, jerking him this way and that. He became aware of himself only because the Fool was aware of him, and in the Fool’s awareness, Fitz knew he was not a serpent. He was taken in by the wideness of the serpent’s consciousness, which had brushed against his mind somehow, releasing pain unrelenting, physical and mental.

Who are you? asked the serpent and the boy that she had collected into her great swirling consciousness that enveloped the world that had been and would be.

Changer. Fitz felt it, then, the way the Wit and the Skill moved around this creature, an unprecedented feat for an animal, and it made his mind whirl, too, as it drew him in.

What do you want, Changer?

Fitz felt her gills flutter in the water as she pushed herself past her limits. He sent a wordless query over her health, which she ignored. He did not know why he was worried about the beast, but he was, and he reached for her soothingly. She relaxed.

I know you, she said.

How? Fitz wanted to withdraw from her tangling web of thoughts, her knowledge of him foreknowledge that could not exist, just as the Fool’s prophecies could not exist. All of the lives the serpent had lived, and somehow she knew him.

We have met many times. The serpent allowed him a glimpse of a woman that he had seen before, her merry, colorless face flashing a brilliant smile, and for an instant Fitz forgot who he was or what he was after as he looked at the pale woman who wore a crown of feathers that plumed out from her shock of white hair in a colorful array. You did not call yourself Changer, then.

What did I call myself? he asked helplessly.

I hold only the memories of my race, Prophet, the serpent warned. I cannot hold your memories, too. If you were meant to remember all that you were, your race would carry your memories with you into the next cycle. Your memory is human, even if your body is not. Do not weep for that, Prophet, and do not weep for me. You wonder if you have done enough, I know it. You feel you have failed already. Have faith! We are not dead yet!

“Where is Malta?” Fitz demanded suddenly. He had not even noticed his consciousness and the Fool’s had completely melted together until he said it. The reverence for the creature was not his own. The anxiety he felt for her health, too, was foreign. Yet his mind lingered on that familiar sight of the woman who looked like the Fool in her rooster crown.

Who?

I came here looking for her. Fitz felt frustrated as he moved deeper into the throng of memory that coiled around the serpent. I tracked her here. You have her. Give her back.

I do not have her. The serpent sounded surprised. Then, consideringly, she added, I might have felt her, though, briefly. With Wintrow. He must have her.

Oh. Fitz did not know what else to say. He was already exhausted from contacting this serpent, wherever it was. Can you push me in the right direction?

Certainly, said the serpent reluctantly, but… unfortunately, the boy is dying.

What? Fitz was panicked. He scrabbled for a line that might bring him to Wintrow and Malta. The serpent clung to him briefly.

Be careful, Changer, the serpent said. Yours is the burden of choice. The Prophet’s is the burden of fate. You are as close to one being as two separate souls can be, and yet you chafe against destiny, as is your role in this life. Be careful not to push too hard. Goodbye.

She thrust him away, and he found himself grappling at the endless, boundless well of Skill that surrounded him. In an instant he found himself, the tether to reality holding strong, and through that line, there was a quiver of an emotion that he could not place just then, because though he knew he had found Malta, there was something deeply wrong here.

All of his energy had gone into finding the serpent. He was running on reserves, and still, he was overwhelmed with their pain. They were one entity, the way that the Fool and Fitz were one entity, embroiled in one another, sharing in the agony so their minds did not break entirely. It gave them comfort to dream of memories that were not theirs. Borrowed memories from the serpent. The dragon was there, pleading with Malta to abandon the dead boy and flee back to her body, where she could use her new knowledge. Malta did not hear her. Fitz had to push himself back from their body, cramped as it was already, to hover like a phantom outside of the confines of flesh. He saw that the boy was bloated and swollen, a corpse on a ship, twitching feebly as he was bathed with a towel to remove the excess toxins from the serpent.

Fitz knew what had happened. He had seen it when passing through their mind. Wintrow had released the serpent—She-Who-Remembers, she had called herself. The serpent’s toxins had left him a blistered, bloated remnant of a boy, his face peeling away when they scrubbed at it, helplessly trying to save him from his own empathy. His skin was sloughing off his muscle like meat that spent too long in a boiling pot.

Malta, Fitz called. They could not hear him. They were in their dragon dream, content and free. And worse, he could not sense which was which, who was who. Malta was Wintrow and Wintrow was Malta. He would have to forcibly disentangle them and wrench Malta free.

The boy was on a bed. Fitz saw that. He saw the bed, and the boy, and the worried man bent over, mouth covered in his fists, staring at the child with a stark desperation there. A son? Fitz felt around for a feeling of kinship, but he gave up quickly when he found the man’s feelings to be too distant to grasp at. He could either pry that out of the man and pry Malta out of her brother’s body.

Fitz forced himself back into the dragon dream. They were flying. The sky was endless, the way the Skill was endless. And Fitz was there, overwhelmed by a euphoric understanding that his place in this world was as massive and unending as the sky and the sea.

He took hold of the dragon’s neck and yanked it back.

Wake up, he demanded. You are not a dragon! You are not even one person! Remember who you are!

And just like that, the dragon howled in pain, and he grasped at a familiar presence, ripping it away from the dragon and tumbling backward, using the tether that the Fool had wrapped around him and falling back into his body.

He instantly doubled over. His head was pounding against the confines of his skull. The swaying of the ship beneath him made his stomach lurch. He managed to vomit into a wastebin. He felt a hand on his back, and he spat bile into the bin, shuddering as he blinked back tears.

“She knew me,” the Fool breathed into Fitz’s ear. “She knew me, Fitz. She remembered me.”

“It’s in her name,” Fitz wheezed.

“What?”

“She-Who-Remembers.” Fitz lowered his forehead against the floor and was met was a blinding flash of confusion and panic. He felt the ship bellow in shock, and he knew Paragon was shouting something even if he could not hear it.

“Don’t touch Paragon!” the Fool cried, yanking him back from the wizardwood floorboards, just as he felt the ship begin to pluck at Fitz’s pain like a carrion picking at a bloated corpse.

Bloated corpse. Wintrow. Poor Wintrow. Fitz exhaled shakily. He felt the Fool slip gloves back onto his hands, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Will Wintrow die?” he asked the Fool tiredly. His mouth tasted foul. The acidic burn from the vomit was harsh on his tongue. The remnants of the serpent’s toxins scalded his skin the way cobwebs could tickle and itch long after swiping them away. He trembled, his vision blurring, and he thought he might vomit again as the Fool drew him closer.

“I don’t know,” the Fool murmured. “I don’t know, Fitz. I know I was supposed to find him. I suppose I did, now, through you and Malta. But Wintrow is dying. You felt it too. He will die.”

Fitz felt nothing. He nodded absently, even while hearing Althea’s strangled gasp. He allowed himself to be held by his Fool and thought that he could live with Wintrow’s death as long as Malta was safe.

“Am I dead?”

Malta’s small voice jolted him from his cold, detached evaluation of the boy’s life. Fitz scrambled upright, stars prickling his vision as he reached out for Malta’s hand. Sweat beaded her forehead, her long black hair plastered to her skin, her eyes open and wide as she stared at him in clear dazed bewilderment. Althea propped her upright, and she trembled in her aunt’s arms, her breath rattling as she looked around the small room like a caged animal. Fitz noticed that the door had been closed, and he made a mental note to thank Brashen later.

“No, Malta,” the Fool said gently. “You’re not dead. You’re safe.”

“Malta?” Malta’s eyes slid to the Fool dazedly. “My sister. I was with her, wasn’t I? Where is she?”

They were all silent. Fitz felt a crushing dread as the realization hit him. He knew he understood what had happened first, and in his understanding, in whatever horrible expression his face made, the Fool understood too. His honeyed eyes grew so wide that they seemed comically too large for his face, and he looked from Fitz to Malta and back. Fitz scooted away from the bed, his back bumping up against the wall of Malta’s small room, and he bit back a scream of horror and frustration.

“You’re confused,” Althea said weakly, scraping Malta’s sweaty hair back from her face and holding her tight. “It’s alright. You’re safe, I promise.”

Malta looked up at her aunt confusedly. Her eyes widened.

“Aunt Althea…?” she uttered in shock. “What’s happening…?”

“You’re dreaming,” the Fool said in an instant, lifting himself from the floor and sitting upon the edge of Malta’s bed. Malta’s wide eyes followed the motion, but she remained still and dazed. “As you dreamed of dragons and serpents all your life and found that has come to pass, so too do you dream of your aunt and your sister and friends you have yet to meet. This is Sa’s will, Wintrow.”

“Sa’s will,” the boy trapped in his sister’s skin repeated reverently. Malta’s shoulders sagged in resignation. It was like the Fool had said some magic phrase, and now the child was completely under his spell. “I felt her. My sister. She was calling to me, but I couldn’t—She-Who-Remembers. I had to free her.”

“I know.” The Fool took the child’s hands in his. One hand gently cradled the back of her neck. Fitz realized that his gloves had been discarded in his lap too late. Althea was watching in silence, her confusion clear on her face, but she did not object to question what was happening. Perhaps she was putting it together on her own. “You had to free She-Who-Remembers, Wintrow. Your whole life brought you to that moment. It is your fate to free the serpent, just as it is your sister’s fate to free the dragon. She was with you when you freed She-Who-Remembers, but now you must let her go, as we must let you go.”

“To die,” the child said gravely. To hear Malta say it made Fitz’s chest seize. He shook his head mutely. The child and the Fool ignored him. “Yes. I know. But Kennit—”

“He believes you are his prophet,” the Fool murmured, gripping the child’s neck and stroking their cheek with his thumb. His brow pinched at that. “That Sa brought you to him to make him king.”

“Well—” the child breathed, shaking his head. “I mean, Sa did bring me to Kennit. I have to believe that. I was brought to Kennit so that Kennit could bring me to the serpent—”

“And that makes him worthy to be king?” The Fool hummed softly. “Are kings puppets carved by a prophet’s hands? Kennit is a thread in fate’s design, no better than you or I, no more or less significant than a bird that drinks the nectar from a flower and brings the pollen to a tree that bears the fruit which feeds a nation.”

“In that way,” the child argued, “he is significant, is he not? Without the bird that pollinates the trees, there is no harvest. Without Kennit’s leadership that spurs the pirates into action against slavery, there is no independence or self-government. He is a catalyst.”

The Fool was silent for a heartbeat, and Fitz did not need to lay those familiar fingers upon his flesh to know that Wintrow’s words had chilled him to the very core of his being.

“Very well,” the Fool said in a flat voice, “he is a catalyst for change, the same as you, the same as Malta. If that is the criteria for kingship, perhaps I should crown you, then, for you have changed the world already by giving your life for a creature that has lived a hundred of your small life and will live a hundred more lives after you have gone.”

“I don’t care that I am going to die.” Wintrow shook off his aunt, and Althea’s fingers flexed at the air desperately as she looked down at Malta’s tiny form in distress. Her eyes flitted to Fitz for an answer. He shook his head mutely. “I have done what Sa put me here to do. I know that. All my life I saw patterns, twisting colors in my dreams, and I tried to make them reality, but it never made sense. Now it does.”

“Serpents,” the Fool said quietly. “Dragons.”

“I would like to wake up now,” Wintrow murmured. “I want to die as myself.”

“Yes.” The Fool turned to look at Fitz. Fitz stared at him incredulously. “We will give you that.”

“I can’t,” Fitz croaked, holding his pounding head in his hands. “I—I can’t, I’ve used it all up, I don’t—it took everything I had to get him here. Everything. And now Malta—”

“Take it from me,” the Fool said quietly.

Fitz stared at him. He shook his head fiercely.

“That was not a question,” the Fool said in a sharper tone. “Take what you need from me, Beloved. It’s yours. I trust you to take what you need, because I have stepped into your skin and have been you, as surely as you have stepped into mine and have been me. It’s yours. I’m yours. Do what you must.”

Fitz swallowed his objections and scrambled to his feet. He nearly toppled over, lightheaded and dizzy, his awareness of all his earthly senses frayed at the edges, and he stood beside the Fool, looming over Malta’s body and looking into her eyes and into Wintrow’s soul. His gaze had been fixed on the Fool, and still those eyes remained stuck on him.

“Wintrow,” the Fool murmured.

“Yes, Prophet?”

The Fool seemed unsurprised by the reverence in which Wintrow referred to him as ‘Prophet.’ Perhaps he used the epithet because the serpent had referred to him as such. If Fitz had the strength, he might have probed the boy’s mind to find a hint of Skill talent, which he suspected was just as strong as Malta’s potential, if not more so, but as it was, Fitz had tapped himself of all his reserves. He heard Nighteyes’s insistent questions in the back of his mind, but he had to dismiss them. There was no time to explain now.

“What will you do if you do not die?”

Wintrow jolted at the suggestion. Malta’s face twisted in confusion. The child was so certain of his fate, and Fitz understood why. He had been in his place once, in such excruciating pain that it seemed impossible to imagine living through it.

But he had.

And that was why the Fool asked the boy this. It seemed easy, Fitz supposed, to expect death. Expecting life was harder.

“I won’t live,” Wintrow said. Althea touched his shoulder. She had tears in her eyes. And she looked, Fitz saw, very angry. “I can’t. My body—no. I will welcome the death that Sa gave me.”

“And what if Kennit asks you what happened?” The Fool seemed persistent in this line of questioning.

“I will tell him that Sa showed me a golden prophet, and she told me that my work has been done.” Wintrow closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. “My work is done.”

“Perhaps,” the Fool said gently, “perhaps not. Your catalyst, little prophet, might not be done with you yet. Well. Tell him this, then.” The Fool took a deep breath. When Fitz watched his face, he saw his expression go lax, so his eyes unfocus, saw his mind go far away as he spoke softly at no one and everyone at once. “A ship with a serpent flag will bear him his fate. The past and the future will converge on him, and he will urge the wheel to keep on turning. He will succeed in his heart’s desire. That which he is most driven to do, he will accomplish, and that feat will blossom in his hands as blood blossoms around a wound. Tell him that he will return to himself.”

“I will,” Wintrow said gravely. He took no thought in the Fools words, did not try to parse through them as Fitz did. He merely accepted them as truth and accepted his role as the messenger of them.

“Wintrow,” Althea said quietly, squeezing Malta’s shoulder. “I… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Wintrow looked up at his aunt and smiled gently. It was a strange expression on Malta’s face, foreign and soft. “I am where I’m meant to be, I think. I only wish this was real and not a dream, Aunt Althea.”

Althea sucked in a sharp breath, tears spilling onto her cheeks.

“It is real, Wintrow,” she whispered. “It’s real. I’m real.”

“Ah.” Wintrow did not believe her, Fitz knew. He smiled up at her sadly. “Well, if you are real, then, could you do something for me? Please tell my mother that I’m sorry I could not be her son. I’m sorry I could not be the man who could come home to her. I know she tried. I know she loved me, even if it hurt me. I’m sorry I couldn’t be her son.”

“You are her son,” Althea insisted.

“I am her son,” Wintrow said, “in the same way that I am alive. In the word alone. It is a fact, but it is a hollow one. There is an inevitability in the end of it. Goodbye, Aunt Althea.”

Althea clutched him close as the Fool’s fingers slipped against Fitz’s wrist, and he was once more struck by the perfect encapsulation of being that became of them when they were joined. The joy of being whole swept through him, and he was relieved as the pain brought on by his overexertion of Skill was shared between two bodies. There was a lurching understanding that he must go. He must act. The lessening of white-hot pain and the welling of energy was an indication that he had to act. He reached into Wintrow, a task as easy as dipping his hands into a stream, as the boy’s Skill talent was raw and unrefined, so starkly different from his sister’s carefully crafted barriers. He took the boy swiftly up and carried him away, following the recently trodden path through the Skill’s endless babbling, back to Wintrow’s body.

He had no idea how he accomplished it. The trade felt hollow. He felt like an agent of death depositing a child to his doom while whisking another away from it. Yet when he came close to Wintrow’s body, a strange specter looming over his bloated not-corpse, he almost instantly felt Malta. Her walls, he realized, were still in place. Without Wintrow to carry her off into a dragon dream, she had locked herself within her mind to provide a barrier against the pain of the serpent’s toxins eating away at Wintrow’s flesh.

Malta, he called. He slipped into her mind and drew himself against the walls she had put there, Wintrow a wisp of a consciousness fluttering beside him. Malta, let us in.

In an instant, he felt her reach for him. She heard him clearly and her swell of hope nearly crippled him. She let down her walls enough that he swept her up and released Wintrow to himself, withdrawing as fast as he could with his girl tucked safely with him.

He did not miss Wintrow’s last thought.

Thank you, Changer.

Chapter Text

It had been three days. After Tom had somehow retrieved Malta, Amber had collapsed onto the floor of Malta’s small cabin. Althea had cried out, but she had not wanted to let Malta go, because the instant she had become herself again, she had screamed so loudly the ear closest to her mouth briefly lost hearing. She thrashed against her as she hugged her close, writhing and sobbing before going very still and heaving deep, shuddering breaths. Althea had realized she had calmed because Tom had grabbed her hand. They were speaking in their heads.

Then, slowly, Tom had released Malta’s hand. He had pulled his gloves back on and drew Amber upright, smoothing her hair back and looking absolutely stricken by whatever he had done. He murmured something that Althea could not hear, and Amber had stirred.

“Did it work?” she had murmured.

“Yes, Beloved,” Tom had breathed.

Althea had watched Tom draw her close, and Amber had lifted her arms shakily to wrap around him.

Brashen had knocked on the door then. Althea had not wanted to let go of Malta, and Tom had not wanted to let go of Amber, so Brashen let himself in. He had looked at the scene before him in genuine dismay. Tom carefully explained what had transpired.

“Nobody can know about this,” Brashen had told them all gravely. Malta had sat on her bed, staring at Brashen with bloodshot eyes, wide enough that the whites of them enveloped her irises. Tears had dried and left ruddy tracks on her ashen face. “This power, whatever it is, needs to be kept secret. If it’s that dangerous that it did… whatever that was to Malta, we can’t rely on it.”

“I agree,” Tom had said. Amber was able to sit up now. “I’m going to brew us all elfbark—don’t look at me like that, Fool, you know why you need it.”

“Miserable drug,” Amber murmured.

“I know. I’m sorry. It will help with the headache, though. It might help Malta with… everything.”

“Yes,” Malta had croaked. “Please. I need—I don’t want to feel anything right now. Please.”

That had been three days ago. And today, Althea saw her niece leave her small cabin for the first time since she had switched bodies with Wintrow. The idea had been hard to wrap her head around at first, but she could not deny that the person who had been speaking with Malta’s voice was not Malta. The Skill, she realized, was not some neat little trick that Tom and Malta had arranged. All of Tom’s insistence over the summer that teaching Malta this magic was dangerous suddenly made too much sense.

“Malta!” Althea strode up to her niece, who had walked up to the foredeck and begun climbing the rigging. She hung limply from the rope, her head tipping down toward Althea, her expression unreadable. She looked, Althea thought, more like a ship’s boy than she ever had in her life. She had abandoned any intricate hairdo and her flowy split skirts, wearing the worn workman’s shirt and trousers of a crewman. Her hair was flat to her head, braided neatly back in a queue. The circles beneath her eyes seemed to age her pretty face. She did not look like a woman, exactly, but she certainly did not look like a girl.

“I’m ready and able to do my work,” Malta said flatly. “Paragon said there’s a rope loose up here. I’m going to tie it.”

“Paragon told you that?” Althea shot a glance at the figurehead. Malta had not come out of her room since that night. It was obvious that she and Paragon were speaking in their minds. It was a true liveship connection, and Althea had to swallow down her envy. “Alright. I’ll get Clef to do it.”

“You know I’m faster.”

“You’re injured,” Althea reminded her niece sharply. That had been their cover for her odd behavior, that she had been injured by the serpent that had attacked them the night she had switched bodies with Wintrow. It was half the truth. The issue was that Lavoy had been partially present and did not believe it, and though Althea had not heard any rumor yet, she suspected the crew thought Malta was mad.

“I’m recovered.”

And without another word, Malta scampered up the rigging in an instant. Faster than she had been before by a longshot. Althea gaped after her. It was like watching a boy who had been crawling around the ropes for months, seeing her small body flit from rung to rung, darting breezily up into the yards and making quick work of whatever rope had loosened.

“Tom,” Althea called, spotting the man as he crossed the deck. “Come here.”

Tom had been working on something with Jek, it seemed, but he looked eager to get away from the woman. He did not like Jek much, she knew, and when Althea had pointed it out, Jek had shrugged it off. Amber had said that Tom was slow to trust.

“Malta’s in the rigging,” Althea confided quietly when Tom approached. He raised his eyes to the ropes above them, drawing a hand over his brow to shade himself from the sun. “Is she well enough to work, do you think? I’ve tried speaking to her, but she just… I feel like I’m talking to a ghost.”

“She speaks to me.” Tom looked resigned to that fact. His expression was dour as he frowned up at Malta and then shrugged. “Let her work. If it gets her out of that room, I see no issue. She’s been through an ordeal, and getting her mind on something might be helpful.”

“Has she spoken to you about if she’s alright?” Althea pressed anxiously. “I’ve asked Amber, but she won’t talk to her either. She only talks to you.”

“She’s grieving.” Tom shot Althea a dull glance. Althea stared at him, her jaw clenching. It was a point of contention between them, Wintrow’s death. Althea did not know how she would be able to go back to her sister and tell her what Wintrow had said. It would break Keffria’s heart. “Let her go. She’s got an itch for this right now. It’ll help, I think, to be him for a little while.”

“What?” Althea breathed. Tom jerked his chin up at Malta, shrugged, and turned away.

Althea took some time to mull over his words before bringing them to Amber. Her friend had retired to their cabin earlier that afternoon after Tom had brought it to Brashen’s attention that Amber was not feeling well. She had been angry with Tom for bringing it up, but accepted Brashen’s orders to take the afternoon off all the same. Althea suspected it was to keep the crew from spreading a rumor that she was ill.

“Malta isn’t still Wintrow,” she said in the safety of their cabin, “is she?”

“No.” Amber sat on her bunk, carving away at a small figurine. It was, Althea saw, a tiny version of Nighteyes. The wolf in question laid at her feet, on his woven mat. Amber had explained that he did not like the deck, and though he hated being confined, at least he didn’t fear falling overboard. When Althea asked how she knew this, Amber had shrugged and said that Tom had told her. It was hard to imagine these mental conversations going on all around her, and worse, Althea felt painfully lonely. “Tom returned Wintrow and Malta to their own bodies. But when we went to get them—Althea, sometimes, when I touch Tom, we… disappear. We are two bodies, but one mind. It is hard to know his ending and my beginning, we are so thoroughly intertwined. That happened to Malta and Wintrow, for a little bit. That’s why Tom took Wintrow back instead of Malta, at first. Because he could not tell them apart and so he just reached in and grabbed one of them. He got unlucky that it was Wintrow. But now that Malta is back, she’s dealing with the aftermath of being another person. She was Wintrow, she was the sea serpent, She-Who-Remembers, and briefly, they were both every dragon that has ever lived. Tom and I, we felt that. We were that, too, for just a moment. It was… I can’t explain. But it was longer for Malta. Of course she’s confused about who she is right now.”

“I just want her to be Malta,” Althea said desperately. “I don’t care if she’s annoying or whiny or bratty. I just want her to be herself, so I know she’s okay.”

“She is herself.” Amber’s eyes flitted over Althea’s face grimly. “Perhaps it is not the girl you knew, but she is herself, Althea. She is becoming who she is meant to be.”

Althea said nothing. She did not know how she felt about any of this. Her nephew was dead, and her niece had been hurt badly by something nobody could explain properly. A sea serpent with memories of dragons. Alright. The sea serpents were dragons. Okay. The sea serpents and the dragons could both reach Tom and Malta and Wintrow telepathically. What? How? Why?

Tom had said it was probably the same reason why her family could connect with liveships. Althea still did not understand that. They could communicate with one liveship. Their liveship. Vivacia was their family. And she wasn’t a serpent or a dragon.

Tom had merely shrugged.

There was a knock on the door. Althea assumed it was Jek and opened it.

Malta slipped inside, her expression stony.

“Clef’s face is all bruised up,” she announced. Amber jumped to her feet, looking alarmed. Althea waved her down before turning her attention back to Malta.

“Yes,” she said, earning a sharp look from her niece. “I took a look at it an hour or so ago. Nothing’s broken, it was just a split lip. He’ll be alright.”

“I asked him what happened,” Malta insisted sharply. “He said Lavoy hit him for no reason. Did he tell you that?”

“Yes.” Althea crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at Malta. Her eyes narrowed back at her. “It’s to be expected. This is how crews work, Malta. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“I’m going to tell Brashen,” she declared, whirling away out the door. Althea huffed at that. Brashen would tell her the same thing, she knew. Lavoy was the first mate, and Clef was the ship’s boy. There was nothing to be done about it. This was the hierarchy of power on a ship. Amber brushed past Althea, shooting her a furious glance. Althea grabbed her by the wrist.

“Don’t you dare confront Lavoy,” Althea hissed at her.

“Someone has to!”

“And you think that you should be the one to do it?” Althea was surprised when Amber tore her hand out of Althea’s fist with a surprising amount of strength. “Lavoy is a bully, that’s true. If Clef keeps his head down, Lavoy will find another target, but it will do none of us any good if that target is you.”

“I can handle myself,” Amber said curtly, shouldering past her.

“Amber!” Althea gasped.

She followed her friend out onto the deck. Tom was still there, but he had found Clef and Althea watched from afar as the man took an assessment of the boy’s injured face. His expression twisted in an unsettling manner as the boy explained what had happened. Tom raised his head to look around, certainly looking for Lavoy, and instead his eyes found Amber.

Althea approached slowly as Amber took Clef by the shoulder and cupped his face. He shook his head.

“I’m alright,” he insisted. “Should you be out here? Tom said you were sick.”

“I was dehydrated, that’s all. Clef, why didn’t you come to me or Tom immediately?”

“I went to Althea.” Clef’s eyes flashed to Althea uncertainly. As if he questioned if it had been the right thing to do. “She was the first person I found. You were ill, Tom was with Jek and the captain, and Malta… well, the girl’s got her own problems. But I’m alright. I gotta keep my head down and take it. I know that.”

“No,” Amber insisted, shaking her head, “you don’t. You’re not a slave, Clef. You don’t have to take beatings from anyone. If this happens again—”

“You’re not confronting him,” Tom warned her. She glanced at him and scoffed.

“You can’t stop me,” she challenged him. Tom scowled. “You’ve noticed that he picks the easy targets. Clef is small, and he was a slave, so Lavoy thinks he can get away with it because Clef can’t fight back.”

“And you can?” Tom demanded furiously. “No. Don’t go anywhere near him. He doesn’t like you, you know that. Althea, you’ve noticed it too.”

The last thing Althea had expected when she had chased Amber on deck was to get between a lover’s quarrel. She grimaced as she nodded, ignoring Amber’s glare.

“Amber,” Althea said gently, “we all need to pick and choose our battles. Lavoy is not an enemy that you want to make. Let us deal with him.”

“You told Malta that this is just how crews are,” Amber retorted coolly. Althea winced. “Clef is not a slave, and I am not a coward. If you are afraid of what the fallout will be, alright. Then don’t get in my way.”

“Stay away from him,” Tom told Amber sharply. He looked at Clef squarely, and the boy flinched at the anger in Tom’s voice. “Both of you. I think we’ve all had enough experience with men like that, who pick the weakest targets out of some sick and miserable desire to inflict pain and feel powerful. Leave it alone.”

“You think I can’t handle myself?” Amber demanded. Althea couldn’t help but empathize with Amber’s fury. Had she not had so many similar conversations with Brashen about her own safety on a ship?

“You are not a fighter,” Tom sighed, his rage melting into frustration. “I’ve never seen you fight, Fool. Just—come on. You know why I’m worried.”

“I don’t.” Amber grasped Clef’s shoulders and pulled him away. She watched Tom solemnly. “You don’t mean to, Tom, but you imagine me a weak and feeble creature. I’d wonder if it is because I am a woman, but you have known enough women who are warriors that I doubt it. So why?”

“I don’t think you’re weak,” Tom said, looking panicked. “I don’t—obviously you have your own strengths. But fighting has never been one of them.”

“So you say.” Amber stared into his eyes, and he ducked his gaze, looking almost ashamed. “Do you not imagine I can handle Lavoy without using my fists? Or is that the only way you know how to negotiate now?”

“There is no negotiating with a man like that,” Tom said darkly.

“Chade would be disappointed in you.” Amber whisked Clef away without another word. Tom had jolted at Amber’s words, looking both stricken and furious. He threw his hands over his head, baring his teeth and biting back a curse. Althea shook her head.

“If it helps,” she offered, “I’m on your side in this. Amber and Lavoy… it’s a disaster waiting to happen. He’s too liberal in dealing out punishments, and she’s too outspoken to ever let a perceived injustice slide.”

“Is it horrible that I’m grateful it was Clef and not Malta?” Tom asked miserably, sliding his hands over his face and sighing. “Clef can handle it. He’s got tough skin. He was smart not to fight back, and he was smart to go to you and not me. I would have—well, I’m angry now, but I wouldn’t have been able to think clearly at all if he came to me. If it had been Malta…”

“She isn’t nearly as fragile as you think she is,” Althea found herself saying, despite her own worries about the girl’s mental state. Tom’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “I know that you’ve grown to care for them both as if they are your children, and honestly, Tom, I respect you immensely for having such a big heart, but you need to remember where you are, and you need to remember that they are not your children. There’s a way about things here, on a ship. You need to follow that, or we’re all doomed. That goes for Amber, too.”

“Right.” Tom took a deep breath. “Right. We’re sailors. But Clef is my responsibility, Althea, whether he’s my son or not. If Lavoy touches him again, I’m going to have to do something.”

“Don’t,” Althea warned. “Go to Brashen before you start a fight. I’m serious, Tom, this isn’t like any Six Duchies warship. We have to live with each other for who knows how long, and for that to work, we need order. We need leadership we can count on. Lavoy is your first mate. He is second in command. We have to acknowledge that, or we’ll all fall apart.”

“Yeah, well, I never liked him,” Tom said boldly. Althea swatted his shoulder and shot him a warning glare. Though the sun was going down, there were still a few sailors milling about the deck. “What? I’d say it to his face.”

“You and Amber,” Althea sighed, “are hopeless. Well, at least try to heed my advice, will you? Go to Brashen if a problem arises. Don’t start anything that you can’t finish.”

“Duly noted,” Tom said dryly. He looked away sharply, staring out into the calm sea. “Do I treat Amber a certain way?”

“What?” Althea asked uncertainly.

“Do I treat her like—like a woman?”

“I mean… yes?” Althea laughed in disbelief. “Is this a serious question, Tom? Do you mean do you disrespect her? Because honestly, I find that a bit offensive.”

“No, that’s not—” Tom blinked rapidly and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You could just talk to her,” Althea sighed.

“Statistically,” Tom sighed, “that has not worked out in my favor.”

Althea offered a shrug. She patted him on the shoulder encouragingly.

“It’s a strange situation to be in,” Althea said sympathetically. “I get it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Tom said dryly. Althea stared at him, waiting for him to insinuate something else, but instead he shrugged her off. “Thanks, Althea. I’ll try to take your advice.”

“About Amber? Or about Lavoy?”

“Both, I suppose. Goodnight.”

Althea watched him disappear, likely in search of Malta or Nighteyes. She stood on the deck of the Paragon and peered out at the sea, watching the sky melt easily into its tumbling flare of purple clouds. It was breathtaking to watch.

Still, she worried about Malta. She worried about bringing her home to Keffria and having to explain that not only had Wintrow died, but Malta had suffered for it. Malta had felt it happening. He had died by serpent’s venom, a terrible and viscerally painful way to go. And now Malta carried him with her.

They did not speak about what Amber had said to Wintrow before Tom had sent him back to die. It chafed at Althea, and she had mentioned it to Brashen, who had thought on it and decided that it could do them no real harm if somehow Wintrow lived long enough to tell Captain Kennit that a ship with a sea serpent flag was coming. In fact, Brashen had reasoned, it might work in their favor.

Althea was not so sure.

“Althea,” Paragon greeted as she wandered up the foredeck and leaned against the rail. He tipped his head toward her, and she spotted a fresh braid in his shaggy dark hair. Malta must have done it when she had gotten down from the rigging. “Might I guess what troubles you?”

“I think you’d have a long list to choose from,” Althea said dryly. “I’m glad to see the braid is back. I’m sure Malta missed you.”

“I missed her,” the old ship admitted, reaching up and touching the slim, juvenile little plait that hung near his ear. “I did not think I could feel this way again, Althea, I will be honest. I fear it.”

“What?” Althea laughed, trying to mask her lurching anxiety. “You mean because you can hear each other?”

“It’s deeper than that, I’m afraid.” Paragon shook his head. “No matter. You did not come here to hear my anxieties. Tell me, what is it right now that picks at you? Amber’s recklessness? Clef’s injury? Or is it not an immediate concern, and more an overarching dread?” Paragon turned his face toward the sea. “Is it Kennit you fear?”

Althea stared at the ship, opening her mouth to object, but he continued on as if he had not expected her to answer at all.

“It is right that we are going to him,” the ship said. “I believe we must all be in exactly the right place. It’s our fate, Althea, to go on this path and face him. And we will bring him back to himself.”

“That’s what Amber said,” Althea said quietly.

“Hm?”

“Amber said that Kennit would accomplish what he wanted, and it would bloom like blood from a wound and then he would return to himself,” Althea recited. This was not the first time she had recalled Amber’s odd message to the pirate captain. Paragon was silent. “Did she tell you that?”

“No.” Paragon crossed his arms and shrugged. “She is right, though. I only wonder how she could know it.”

“Wintrow called her a prophet,” Althea offered weakly. She had no other explanation for it. “At this point, I’m prepared to accept anything.”

“Wintrow.” Paragon sighed deeply. “I felt the boy, when he switched with Malta. When I could not feel her anymore, I thought she had died. I did not know what to do.”

“That must have been very frightening for you,” Althea said, biting back how frightening it had been for her, clutching onto her niece, whose body was being inhabited by her dying nephew.

“Malta said that he’s Kennit’s boy.”

The way Paragon said it was so strange that Althea could not respond immediately. The ship’s voice was detached and cool, as if he was spitting some miserable fact out into the sea.

“I don’t know,” Althea said carefully. “We didn’t have a lot of time with him. He didn’t say much about Kennit.”

“I see. Well. I wonder if we’ll meet him.”

“He’s dead, Paragon,” Althea said quietly. “He died. He’d been covered in serpent venom.”

Paragon nodded absently.

“Perhaps he died.” The old ship sighed. “Perhaps he died, indeed.”

Althea sensed they might be slipping into a topic that would set the ship off, so she offered the railing a small pat.

“I’ll let you know if anything changes,” she said. “For now, we’re just trying to keep it together. Actually, can you do me a favor, Paragon?”

“And what can I do for you, my dear?”

“Malta.” Althea bit her lip. She watched the figurehead’s broad shoulders rise and fall. “I’m worried about her. She’s… not been herself, you know, since what happened a few days ago. Could you keep an eye on her?”

“You want me to spy on her?” Paragon sounded unsure. “She’s alright, Althea. She’s made of stronger stuff than that, you know.”

“I know.” Althea was relieved to hear it from someone who could feel Malta’s feelings. “I just don’t want to lose her again. Could you take care of her for me?”

Paragon was quiet. He lifted his head toward Althea, his mouth opening and closing uncertainly.

“She trusts you,” Althea explained hastily, “in a way she’ll never trust me. I’m just an extension of her mother to her, really. But you… she talks to you. She lets you in. Please just… promise me that you’ll protect her if you can. Tell me if she’s in any real danger.”

“Do you imagine you could stop her from losing her mind?” Paragon asked quietly.

“No,” Althea said, “but I imagine you’ll warn me if you think it’s coming to that. Please, Paragon?”

“Yes,” the ship said softly. A smile ghosted his lips, and he seemed truly pleased to be given such a task. “I promise I’ll protect her as much as an old ship can.”

“Thank you,” Althea said gently. She bent over the rail and kissed Paragon’s hair. He raised his hand to support her so she did not fall overboard. “You’re a good old ship, you know that, Paragon?”

“Don’t start spreading that around,” Paragon teased her. “I have a reputation, you know.”

Althea laughed. She dropped back down to the deck and bid the ship a goodnight.

As she walked back across the deck, she was met with Amber and Malta. They approached her glumly, Amber with a somber resignation and Malta with clear rage in her eyes. It reminded Althea eerily of the way Tom had looked when he had seen Clef’s bruises.

“Don’t,” Malta said sharply when Althea opened her mouth to ask what had happened. Amber placed a hand on her shoulder, but Malta shrugged it off. She lifted her chin defiantly. “Brashen won’t do anything about it. Clef’s not just a ship’s boy, he’s—he’s our friend. If someone beat you, would we be insisting upon the supposed hierarchy of a ship, which seems to me a lawless place, if we are being honest!”

“Someone did beat me,” Althea reminded her gently. Malta looked at her incredulously. “The day of the serpent attack. I handled it. I needed to, for the crew to recognize me as one of them. That’s the type of place a ship is, Malta. It might seem lawless to you, but taking a beating—it’s a rite of passage, really. The other men will look at Clef and see how he wears those bruises without complaint, and they’ll respect him for it. They’ll say, ‘Well, look at our ship’s boy. Might make a man out of him yet!’ That’s how it is, Malta. If we interfere, they’ll view Clef as weak, and it will make him more of a target, not less.”

“And if it continues?” Amber demanded.

“Lavoy is the mate,” Althea reminded her, “not me. And for this ship to run smoothly, Brashen cannot have favorites.”

“But he does,” Malta pointed out. “You. And me, obviously. Nobody’s said a word about me having three days off to stare at a wall. No one even asked.”

“It’s different with you,” Althea said carefully.

“Because I’m a girl.” Malta’s eyes narrowed. “Right. So if Lavoy beat me, would that remind Brashen that he’s a man, and the captain of this ship, and that he is responsible for Lavoy’s actions?” Malta sucked on her teeth irritably. “Kennit would just kill him.”

Althea and Amber exchanged a bewildered glance as Malta whirled away.

“I’m going to bed,” she declared. They watched her go mutely, waiting until she disappeared to speak.

“What did that mean?” Althea breathed. “How could she know that?”

“Wintrow, perhaps.” Amber looked disturbed. “We know she’s been acting a bit more like him today. Perhaps not all of him left her.”

“Sa’s breath, what?” Althea felt sick thinking about it. They stood in the simmering dusk, the lavender sunset bruising over wickedly as the bleak night crept up on them. “What does that mean?”

“Good question.” Amber smiled and shrugged. “I’m not omniscient. I haven’t a clue if Wintrow is still here or not. Part of me selfishly wants it to be so, but truly? I rather hope not. It seems a wretched fate, to be forced to live when your body has been so brutally broken.”

Althea found herself nodding, not really knowing what to say. She wasn’t sure if she agreed or not.

“Are you feeling any better?” Althea asked, noting that Amber had swiped at her brow.

“It will pass.” She smiled at Althea grimly. “It’s not a contagious disease. It’s… I’ve an illness that plagues me once in a while, as the seasons change. I’m used to it. I can work through it.”

“Tom didn’t seem to think so.”

“Tom is…” Amber pursed her lips and shook her head irritably. “I love him. I cannot hide that from anyone, I’m afraid. But he can be so thoroughly bullheaded, it baffles me. He only treats me like a woman when it’s convenient for him to belittle me.”

“Now, Amber,” Althea said amusedly, “I don’t think that’s it at all. I think he cares about you and is frightened you might get hurt because of your illness.”

“Well,” Amber huffed, a faint blush dusting her cheeks as she shook her head, “he might say that instead of trying to boss me around.”

“You two are hopeless,” Althea teased her. “When will you both settle this squabbling and confess your love for each other?”

“I’m afraid you’ve underestimated Tom’s stubbornness,” Amber said amusedly. “Never, I believe.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Althea shook her head. She saw Jek approach and nodded to her, glad that the conversation had turned to Amber’s relationship with Tom. Jek knew that something had happened to Malta, but not the extent of the surrealness of the encounter. “Perhaps ask Jek for some tips. She boasts about her skill in seducing men.”

“Who are we seducing?” Jek asked with a grin. She nudged Amber encouragingly. Amber crossed her arms, her lips thinning out. “Ah, yes, our handsome young soldier. Well, it can’t be so hard to get him to bed, honestly. I’ve worked with him enough, and without fail, every single time you walk onto this deck, Amber, he stops what he is doing to watch you.”

Amber’s lower lip disappeared between her teeth. She glanced away from Jek, her brow furrowing uncertainly.

“He calls you beloved,” Althea reminded Amber gently. Amber laughed bitterly at that.

“He does,” she conceded. “He also calls me a fool. Oh, I know what it all looks and sounds like. I know. It must seem baffling to you, that we’ve never shared a bed, but it’s… complicated.”

“How?” Jek asked, more gently than expected. “Emotionally or physically?”

“I’d rather not speak about it.” Amber seemed genuinely uncomfortable with this conversation. “I can’t deny to anyone that I love him. That does not mean he feels the same.”

“Have you eyes, woman?” Jek groaned, leaning back against the rail and shaking her head. “I’ve never seen a man more in love. It’s honestly irritating—gets in the way when we’re trying to work. I’ve actually been meaning to ask you to stop showing up when we’ve got time-sensitive tasks to get done.”

“I can’t control Tom’s wandering eyes,” Amber said defensively.

“Mm. Yeah, he wants you.” Jek shrugged. “He’ll come around. Anyway, can I borrow a needle?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Amber nodded distractedly. “Give me a bit and I’ll come and get it out for you.”

“Just tell me where it is, and I’ll get it.”

“Use mine,” Althea told Jek, noting Amber’s strained expression. “They’re in my small duffel, pushed through a piece of canvas.”

“Thanks.” Jek grinned broadly. “Now, back to business. How are we to get you and Tom abed, hm? Come now, let us put our minds together, we’re intelligent women. We could lock them in our room until they sort it out, what do you say, Althea?”

“I’m not entertaining this,” Althea said, throwing up her hands. “It’s not my business.”

“Thank you,” Amber breathed, looking genuinely flustered. She turned her attention to Jek. “Jek, enough. Honestly, Tom would hate to be talked about like this. I don’t want to upset him this way.”

“I don’t understand what he’s waiting for,” Jek huffed. “I know it’s personal, Amber, but really what is the problem? You love him, he clearly loves you—what, are you saving it for marriage? That’s rather archaic.”

“It’s not that either,” Amber sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. She was sweating, but it was difficult to see the perspiration in the dark. “I just… he just… oh, it’s impossible. I can’t explain it. Our lives are an endless dance, and I am the fool who will only have one partner.”

“All the more reason,” Jek gasped. “We could have you two married in an instant, if we found some Witness Stones.”

“He has someone else, Jek,” Amber said suddenly, impatiently, her eyes flashing to Jek’s face and then darting away when both Althea and Jek stared at her in absolute shock and disbelief. “Stop, please. Enough. It’s not his fault, don’t blame him. He’s not leading me to believe anything I don’t already know. You must understand, we have known each other since we were children. I’ve known as long as I’ve known him that he would never be mine, and I’ve accepted that, but you insisting that it isn’t so—that he must love me enough to want me, or marry me—I know you don’t mean it to be, but it’s cruel.”

“He’s the cruel one.” Jek looked suddenly incensed. “Does he have a woman at home, then? I doubt she could compare to the moon and stars that reflect your beauty, Amber. I’m sure he knows that just as well as I. And he plays with your heart so—!”

“Jek,” Amber begged, genuinely distraught, “I told you. Enough. This isn’t your business, and it’s not Tom’s fault that I love him. He knows that I love him. He’s known since we were children. It changes nothing.”

“I could throw him overboard?” Jek offered. She almost seemed serious.

“I second that,” Althea murmured. She felt utterly baffled. It felt like the man she had known for months was a lie. But then, suddenly, she remembered what he had told her once. That he had loved a woman who he’d meant to make his wife, but he had lost her. It had never quite fit exactly with Amber. But if it had been someone else, now that made too much sense.

“What you both could do for me,” Amber said bitterly, “is to drop this now. Say nothing, and I mean nothing to Tom. If you care about me, you will pretend this conversation never happened. I only mentioned it because you are so insistent that we must find time to bed one another in the middle of a crisis.”

“Paragon,” Jek called, “can you kill Tom for me? I’ll clean you crow’s nest to rudders if you do!”

“Jek!” Amber cried, looking stricken. She leaned over the rail. “Paragon, don’t listen to her. She’s joking.”

“I’m listening,” Paragon called back, “and I’m certainly considering her offer.”

“Great,” Amber breathed, lowering her forehead to the rail. “Perfect. This is exactly what I needed right now. I will have to tell Tom I told you both this. He is going to be furious with me.”

“He should be more worried about what we’ll do to him,” Jek huffed.

“Sorry to interrupt the hen party, but the captain wants to see the second mate.”

They all looked up at Lavoy blankly.

Althea wondered if the man understood that he could not have had worse timing. Her eyes darted to Amber’s face desperately, and she saw, in the lamplight, that her expression had gone carefully blank. That was good. Perhaps she could slip away and all would be well.

“I’ll report right away,” Althea said.

“And when you’re done there, see to Lop, would you?” Lavoy cracked his knuckles for emphasis, and Althea saw Amber’s jaw clench. She must have known it was bait. “Seems our lad needs a bit of doctoring.”

“Will do,” Althea said blandly. She tried to catch Jek’s eye to plead with her to stay with Amber, but Jek had already bid the ship goodnight and wandered away. Lavoy took up Althea’s place at the railing beside Amber, and Amber drifted back. Althea was starkly aware of all the things that could happen if she left the two of them alone. She took a gamble. “Carpenter, I want the latch on my cabin door repaired tonight. Little jobs should be seen to in calm weather and quiet times, lest they become big jobs during a storm.”

Amber watched her. She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“I’ll see to it, then,” she said. She made no move to leave the deck. Althea’s heart sank. Amber had to know the danger. Perhaps she banked on it. Perhaps she wanted a confrontation.

Althea had to hope that she was wise enough to step away when it counted, and she left them alone on the darkening deck.

Fitz waited for Malta in her room. He had brought Clef, not wanting him to stay with the other sailors below deck, fearing for his safety against all reason. Realistically he was in no danger. Yet the beating he had taken from Lavoy that afternoon had spurred an anxiety within Fitz that could not be quelled.

It did not help that he had been having odd nightmares recently.

“You all need to quit making such a big deal about it,” Clef sighed. “If he catches wind of it—what if he does it again? He’s stronger than me, Fitz. And he’s the mate. I can’t fight back!”

“You can.” Fitz shook his head. “I’ll show you how.”

So he began showing Clef places he could hit Lavoy that would maximize pain without much strength.

Malta appeared not long into this impromptu lesson. She was unsurprised when she opened the door to find them there.

“There’s not enough room in here for you to teach him anything useful,” Malta declared. Nighteyes lifted his head and concurred.

It’s too cramped, the wolf complained. The four of us hardly fit.

“We don’t have much privacy anywhere else,” Fitz said grimly. He leaned back against the wall as Clef muttered to himself, pointing to various pressure points on his own body. “Did you speak to Brashen?”

“I’m going to make a case against Lavoy and have him removed from his post.” Malta pulled her nightdress out from her small bag of clothing that she had managed the stash away before they’d had to run from Bingtown. She draped it over her bed and shrugged when Clef looked at her, bewildered and startled. “If he’s hurting the crew, it seems pointless to keep him in a position of power over us. Brashen believes that if he punishes Lavoy for hurting Clef, it will be chaos, because the crew will stop respecting him. Well, if chaos is what it takes to topple a man who thinks power is crushing the weak, let’s cause chaos.”

Fitz almost grinned. He was proud of her in this moment, for more reasons than he could process. She was still overcoming the traumatic experience of the sea serpent and Wintrow and nearly dying because of Fitz’s incompetence with the Skill, and yet here she was, speaking clearly about toppling corrupt men who claimed authority over others.

“You think the captain’ll listen to that?” Clef asked with a shake of his head. “You really are mad, girl. Be serious. There’s no replacing Lavoy. The captain knows all the bad shit Lavoy has done, but he allows it because he’d rather a few of us get roughed up than discipline his mate.”

“And it reflects poorly on him.” Malta’s jaw clenched at that. She lifted her head high and crossed her arms defiantly. “He’ll see it my way. Lavoy is not worth keeping around. He’ll do something that will cross a line soon enough, and I will make Brashen see that it’s better to cut his losses now before Lavoy makes a mockery of him.”

“And how do you propose we cut that loss?” Fitz asked curiously.

“I don’t know.” Malta said it, but Fitz knew that she was lying. He stared at her levelly. “I thought maybe Brashen should just kill him.”

“That is an option,” Fitz admitted. Clef looked up at him in horror. “Not one that I think Brashen would ever employ, though. He is not that type of man.”

“He’s weak, you mean.”

“No!” Fitz was surprised at how breezily she said it. Malta lifted her eyes to Fitz. “Malta, killing is not always the answer.”

“Is it ever the answer?” Clef asked weakly.

“Yes,” Fitz admitted. In the back of his mind, the Fool’s words scraped at him. Chade would be disappointed in you. He felt sick. “In extreme circumstances. Think, Malta, what else can we do with Lavoy?”

“He’s too dangerous.” Malta scowled at Fitz. “You know it as well as I do. It’s not safe to keep him on the ship.”

“Lots of people on this ship are dangerous,” Fitz said carefully. He needed to convince Malta that Lavoy did not need to die, even when he himself was not entirely sure he believed it. “Take me, for instance.”

“Yeah, everyone knows that,” Clef huffed. “The big ol’ wolf gives it away, Fitz. Oh, not your identity! Just that you’re not to be messed with.”

“Nobody gossips with me,” Malta admitted. “So I don’t know.”

Fitz realized how isolated Malta must feel on this ship.

“Why don’t we go into Brashen’s cabin right now,” Fitz said, gesturing toward the door, “and tell him this plan of yours to kill Lavoy. Have you picked a way to dispose of him?”

“You don’t have to be mean about it,” Malta snapped.

“I’m being practical.” Fitz shook his head. “Don’t say things like that if you haven’t thought of every possible scenario and every possible failure. You want to kill a man? Fine. But don’t muck it up. Don’t declare intent to anyone who might punish you. Like, say, our captain. Look at me, Malta!”

Her eyes had darted away in a panic. She turned her face back toward Fitz, tears in her eyes. She stood very still and very straight, as though she was standing at attention and waiting for and order.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he said in a gentler voice.

“I mean it,” Malta said quietly. She stretched out her hand. “Give me that vial you have in your sleeve. Or I could chip off some wizardwood and put it in his porridge. That’d kill him quick enough. I’ll do it in the morning. I’m in the galley so often, nobody would notice.”

Fitz was chilled to the bone. He had not realized she knew the purpose of his secret pockets, but then, he remembered, she had sewn them for him. And the revelation that wizardwood could be used as a poison was something that made him feel ill. And though Fitz had never taught her to be an assassin, she was too much of him now not to pull that thread and unravel him.

He wondered if daughters could be made, not of flesh and blood, but of spirit and mind.

“No.” Fitz reached out and closed Malta’s hand gently. “No. I do not want you to do it. It’s not worth it. If it must be done, I will do it, and it will be in a manner of my choosing, where the nature of the death cannot be questioned. Give me some time.”

“Fine.” Malta seemed resigned to that fact. She nodded hesitantly. “Now get out—oh!”

Malta paled suddenly. Fitz jerked forward, grabbing her shoulders. Clef grasped her elbow and led her to her bed. She swatted both of them off, her eyes widening in horror.

“Amber,” she gasped, looking up at Fitz. “Lavoy is hurting Amber. He’s—!”

Fitz was out the door in an instant. He did not notice or care that Brashen and Althea were conversing in the captain’s quarters as he ran past them. All he could think of right now was that Lavoy was alone with the Fool, hurting him, and icy panic clashed with white-hot rage. When he was on the deck, he could not see Lavoy yet, but he felt him with the Wit. He could hear the sound of a man’s uneven breaths in the dark, and he did not waste time deliberating. He used the Wit, repelling Lavoy and listening to his sharp cry as he hit the deck with a thud. Fitz arrived just in time to watch the Fool’s body slide bonelessly off the rail, crumpling up as he collapsed onto his side. Fitz heard the Fool’s breath rattling, the only thing that kept him from letting out a scream of primal rage and ripping Lavoy’s arms out of their sockets.

Lavoy was too close to the Fool. Fitz’s eyes dragged over the Fool’s body, the state of his hair, undone from its simple braid and left to crowd his reddened cheek, his shirt untucked and rumpled, his neck bare to the collarbone, his jewelry conspicuously absent. Fitz’s mind whirled at the implications of all of this, the conclusions he came to fueled a fire inside him that threatened to devour him whole.

And if his rage ate him alive, he would take Lavoy with him.

Fitz did not hear Lavoy’s half-hearted excuses.

Watch my Fool, he told Nighteyes as he backhanded Lavoy across his mouth, silencing his brittle lies about Amber being ill and nearly falling overboard. Nighteyes had been snarling, snapping at Lavoy’s feet as he skittered back from the salivating wolf. When Fitz had hit Lavoy, Nighteyes turned away toward the Fool, nudging him with a whine.

Lavoy was shocked, Fitz knew, that a mere sailor would hit him. Especially so hard, with such purpose. Fitz thought about the poison in his sleeve. He decided, reeling back and bearing his fist down on Lavoy’s face again, that poison was too polite a way to deal with a man like this.

The man scrabbled to gain the upper hand, his fist flying out and catching Fitz in the side of his face, missing a crucial hit that could have disoriented him. Fitz hit him again. He hefted him up by his shirt, feeling the satisfying crunch of the cartilage of his nose beneath his fist as he screamed in pain. His hand flew up again, pushing Fitz’s jaw up so he could no longer see the damage he was doing, and Fitz kicked him to the deck with a vicious cry.

“Tom Vestrit!”

He had not heard the hurried footsteps approach. He kicked Lavoy again, listening to him let out a wet gasp, blood filling his mouth from his broken nose and broken teeth. Fitz saw him jolt up, a glint of malice in his eyes, desperation clinging to his skin as he made a move to tackle Fitz. In response, Fitz pinned him down to the deck with a snarl, taking his face and smacking the back of his head hard into the wizardwood.

“Tom!” That, he realized, was Althea. It did not matter. He slammed Lavoy’s head into the deck again, and again, and again, and in his rattling gasp of pain, he sprayed blood across Fitz’s face.

He felt a pair of arms slide beneath his own, dragging him from Lavoy and lifting him to his feet. Fitz twisted and resisted, nobly, the urge to bite Brashen’s ear off, and he delivered one swift, final kick to Lavoy’s groaning, bloody body.

“Touch my boy again,” Fitz warned Lavoy as Althea helped him upright, much to his disgust. “Touch my wife again! You won’t be nursing a pretty little bruise. I’ll take your hands, Lavoy. And then your tongue. And then I’ll let the serpents have the rest!”

“He’s insane,” Lavoy gasped, turning a swelling eye to Brashen, who was admittedly holding Fitz rather loosely, all things considered. Fitz dragged his eyes to the Fool, and he was relieved that Malta and Clef were huddled there with Nighteyes between them, murmuring to each other as they took account of the bruises on his face and the state of his shirt. “I was trying to help the carpenter! She collapsed out of nowhere—” Blood was pouring into the man’s mouth, making it difficult to speak.

“You hurt her,” Fitz spat. “The ship witnessed it. How do you think I knew to come out here? Paragon felt you hurting her. You thought you could take advantage of her fever and beat her, steal from her, violate her—”

“I didn’t rape the woman,” Lavoy objected.

“You thought about it,” Fitz hissed, tearing himself from Brashen, who had ultimately let Fitz go. He believed Lavoy capable of it, Fitz knew.

“Captain,” Lavoy gasped, “are you truly going to listen to this madman? Have him confined below deck. He is a danger to us all!”

“Tom…” Brashen sounded resigned. Fitz glanced at him in disbelief. “There is no evidence—”

“Open his fist,” Fitz spat, “and empty his pockets. He took Amber’s necklaces. He took the earring I gave her when we parted ways, years ago. The blue stone in silver netting. My mother gave it to me. It belonged to my father.” It hardly mattered which father. It had belonged to both. In this, Chivalry and Burrich could be one entity. He wondered if Chivalry would have liked that. “He was going to throw her overboard and say that her fever did her in.”

Althea looked at Brashen with an expression that revealed how truly angry she was. She smothered it quickly. Fitz knew that her responsibility to the ship’s welfare outweighed her friendship with Amber and Tom. If it was merely Fitz’s word against Lavoy’s, Fitz would lose. But the proof of theft was there, Fitz knew, as Althea lifted Lavoy’s clenched fist. It had been closed the entire time, Fitz had noted. He had been planning to pry the earring out of his fist or cut it off entirely.

“Lavoy,” Brashen said tiredly, “open your hand and turn out your pockets. Now.”

Fitz did not watch the reveal of Lavoy’s theft. He went to the Fool and stooped to touch his face. It was warm and clammy beneath the bruising.

“She’s breathing,” Malta murmured as Fitz scooped the Fool into his arms. “I don’t think anything is broken, but she has a bruise on her lower ribs that you might want to look at.”

“Thanks.” Fitz adjusted his grip on the Fool and shot Brashen a dull look. He was now dangling the Fool’s earring between his fingers, a grim expression contorting his face as he now had to decide what he was going to do with Lavoy. “If you want to arrest me, I’ll be with Amber.”

“You’re not under arrest, Tom,” Brashen said quietly.

“Great. Then I’ll be taking our earring back. Give it to Malta, will you? I need to see if Amber’s ribs are broken.”

Brashen nodded, and Fitz whirled away, clutching the Fool to his chest and feeling the rage in his body leak away and leave him nothing but a hollow desperation. He needed to know that his Fool was okay. He needed him to wake up and jest that Fitz had taken things too far, or something of that nature, because the alternative felt impossible to imagine.

He made it to the Fool’s shared cabin and shouldered open the door. Jek was in there, lounging on her bunk, sewing a pair of trousers. When she saw them, she leapt to her feet.

“What happened?” she cried, her eyes wide in horror as Fitz parted the curtains of the Fool’s small bunk and gingerly laid him out on his bed. His breathing was shallow, and his hair clung to his mottled cheek.

“Lavoy.”

Fitz smoothed the Fool’s hair back from his face gently. The bruise was already darkening in the lamplight, crawling across his cheekbone and causing the corner of his eye to swell slightly. It would be an ugly bruise, but Fitz suspected the Fool was lucky Lavoy had not kicked him at an angle that would break his nose. And Fitz certainly could recognize that the Fool’s injuries were from being kicked while he was down. He suspected that the pair had argued, and because of the Fool’s illness, which Fitz had warned the man against underestimating, the Fool had collapsed. That had left Lavoy stewing in resentment of the stubborn woman who had dared to challenge his authority. So he had done what men who crave power over others do.

“Is she alright?” Jek gasped, her face going pale. “I left them together just a few minutes ago—I didn’t think—!”

“It’s not your fault, Jek.” Fitz crossed the room and found a basin and an ewer. He took a rag and dipped it in the tepid water, wringing it out before dabbing the sweat from the Fool’s forehead. He stirred, letting out a small whimper of pain.

“Where is he?” Jek demanded, crossing the room toward the door. “This is too far, even for that brute. Does he think he’ll get away with it?”

“I don’t know.” Fitz truly did not know what Brashen would do with the man. In Fitz’s opinion, Lavoy was lucky to be alive at all. If Brashen hadn’t shown up, Fitz probably would have killed him. “I suspect he didn’t imagine I’d show up and give him what he’s been owed.”

“You did?” Jek looked at him with begrudging admiration. “Well. I’d like to see that!”

“I’m sure they’re still on deck,” Fitz said, gently drawing the cloth over the Fool’s bruise. He hissed through his teeth and his eyes fluttered open dazedly.

“Fitz…?” the Fool uttered, confusion clouding his quiet voice.

Fitz felt Jek’s eyes on his back then. He felt her surprise and confusion without even looking at her. The Fool had never called him Fitz in front of her before. The Fool knew that Fitz feared Jek recognizing him and had tried his best to minimize any association to the Witted Bastard.

It was not the Fool’s fault. Fitz would never blame him for calling him by the name he had known him by all his life.

“Fool,” Fitz said softly. He smiled faintly, some of his anxiety and paranoia beginning to fall away as a wolf shakes water off his hide. “I’m sorry I wasn’t quicker. What hurts?”

The Fool stared at him uncomprehendingly. He shook his head and then winced.

“Your neck?” Fitz pulled off his gloves hastily, tossing them aside. He took the Fool’s chin and gingerly tipped it from side to side so he could get a good look at it. There was some minor bruising there. Lavoy must have lifted him by his throat.

“Fitz,” the Fool breathed, “what…?”

“I’m going to leave you two,” Jek said suddenly, sounding baffled as she opened the door. “I’ll see if, uh, the captain needs any help.”

“Good idea,” Fitz said dryly, not looking at her. The door clicked softly shut behind her.

The Fool tried to sit up. He cried out in pain and dropped back down onto his pillow, clutching his side.

“What happened?” he gasped, looking up at Fitz desperately. Tears of pain formed in the corner of his eyes.

“Lavoy beat you.” Fitz watched the Fool’s face as the confusion faded into a grim understanding. “You were unconscious, and he took advantage of that.”

The Fool’s eyes slid over Fitz’s face. He took a deep breath and forced himself to sit upright. Fitz objected, and the Fool waved him off. He thumbed his shirt, unbuttoned to the collarbone, untucked and clearly rumpled. Fitz reached out and grasped his hands.

“Nothing happened,” he promised the Fool, though he knew he could not know the extent of Lavoy’s attempt.

“He considered it,” the Fool said grimly. He let out a short, shaky laugh, the sort that expelled all his dread and anxiety, as he collapsed back onto the bed. He turned Fitz’s hand over in his own, like he was examining some pretty piece of wood. “I suspect you used your fists and not your words?”

Fitz’s knuckles had split on Lavoy’s face. Blood had splattered up his arms and over his nose, eyes, cheeks. It clung to his beard.

“It was not a situation where words would have conveyed my feelings,” Fitz said carefully.

“And do you suppose I should thank you?” The Fool dropped his hand. “My knight, so chivalrous, beating a man for my honor. How noble, FitzChivalry.”

“Stop.” Fitz did not want to be lectured right now. He felt a twinge of irritation that the Fool was mocking him for this, but the irritation was muffled by the relief that the Fool was mocking him at all. “I don’t care. I don’t care that I beat the man, he deserved worse. He’s lucky he’s not dead.”

“Perhaps that’s true,” the Fool murmured. He took a deep breath and winced. Fitz reached for him, and the Fool shook his head. “It’s alright. I don’t think my ribs are broken. It’s just… fresh. I don’t know why I didn’t consider that this could happen. I was sure that if I confronted him in front of Paragon, at least I would have a witness—”

“You did.” Fitz was proud of the ship for that. “He told Malta what was happening. Malta told me. I’m not sorry I beat Lavoy, Fool. I’m only sorry I didn’t get there sooner, so I could have saved you some pain.”

“Oh, pain is fleeting.” The Fool shot him a grim smile. “I will suffer it a few days, and then it will pass. If you had killed him, that might have worse consequences than a few bad bruises. So I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Well.” Fitz did not know how to tell him that he and Malta had agreed that Lavoy should die before Fitz had even begun his mission to beat Lavoy to death—a failed mission, but an attempted one. “I need to be sure your ribs aren’t broken. May I look at the bruise on your chest?”

The Fool shot him a strained glance, and Fitz sighed deeply. He did not understand this man.

“I know you are an incredibly private person,” he said quietly, “and you do not want your body exposed to me. But, Fool, I know you. I have been you. What is the problem? Do you think I fear to know that you have or have not the characteristics of a man? Of a woman? I don’t care right now! Is it the tattoo that you fear to show me? Alright. I’ll admit that I am curious about your body, but I am only a man, Fool. Curiosity is not a sin, and ultimately, I don’t care what is beneath your shirt or—or between your legs, because—because it does not matter!”

It came out like a flood, his breathless declaration, which was perhaps not entirely truthful, but he meant it as much as he possibly could. He did not know if he didn’t care, exactly, but he did know that it did not matter, because he had already been tempted by Amber’s flushed, cherry-coated lips, and he would be tempted again, he knew, by her or by the Fool or some manner of both, taunting him prettily.

The Fool sat up. Fitz leaned back, watching his mouth flutter wordlessly around a gasp that could have been a hundred words, but none found a way to claw through the Fool’s open shock. There were tears in his eyes as his gaze flashed desperately over Fitz’s face, probing him for a lie, looking somewhat devastated.

“What?” Fitz gasped, reached out and catching the tears as they fell against the Fool’s warm, bruised cheek. “What have I said wrong? I thought it didn’t matter—does it matter to you? I don’t understand, I thought—”

“It does not matter,” the Fool said quietly, turning his lips into Fitz’s hand and kissing his naked palm. A shudder ran through him. “It doesn’t. Not to me. I only wonder if it does matter to you, and you are merely telling me what you know I want to hear so you can nursemaid me.”

“Perhaps I’m doing that,” Fitz said reluctantly, earning a faint smile from his Fool. “Does that make it less true?”

“I don’t know.” The Fool turned his face away. “I trust you, Fitz. You know I do. But this… my body…”

“You have seen mine enough,” Fitz offered. “Is it so different?”

“I suppose I have a different relationship to my body.” The Fool leaned back, holding his ribs with a grimace. “It has taken me a long time to accept it as it is. And still, there are things I loathe about it. The tattoo is one of them.”

“Why?” Fitz asked, not thinking it would be such a question that the Fool would flinch and shake his head. A fresh spill of tears tore down his cheeks. He laughed weakly when Fitz scrambled to wipe them away. “What? What have I said? Fool, please, this is all—I’m not sure what to say to make you feel better.”

“I’m not either.” The Fool took a deep breath. He winced. He shifted on his bunk. “I’ll lift my shirt enough for you to look. If that will suffice.”

“Yes.” Fitz was relieved they had come to a compromise. “However much you’re comfortable with.”

“Ah, the Chivalry in your name is doing all the heavy work today,” the Fool murmured. “Perhaps they should have named you FitzPatience instead. You could use some of her infinite wisdom and certainly her namesake.”

“Shut up,” Fitz laughed. He watched the Fool drag his shirt up, hiking it just enough so Fitz saw his slim, dainty waist and the dip of his navel, his trousers hanging upon his hips loosely. His ribcage was bared to Fitz, a sprawling bruise creeping up further than the Fool would allow Fitz to see. The darkening skin appeared to be only a bruise, but Fitz had to feel around the protrusions just in case. The Fool sat very still, and Fitz let his hand rest upon his stomach as he traced the line of his ribcage. “Breathe, Fool.”

The Fool exhaled shakily. Fitz felt it beneath his hands. His heart thudded in his chest uselessly as he wetted his lips and continued to trace along the Fool’s ribs.

“Do you remember when Regal had you beaten?” Fitz asked, desperate for a line of questioning that would get his mind off the intimacy of his fingers gliding over the Fool’s bare chest.

“Oh, yes,” the Fool breathed. “With great fondness. What a lovely day that was for us both.”

“You wouldn’t let me tend to you then.”

“You’d almost beaten me yourself, if you recall.”

Fitz had admittedly forgotten about that.

“Was it because of the tattoo?” Fitz asked. “Or…?”

The Fool crossed his arms so that they pinned his shirt to his chest, where his breasts may or may not be, and he shrugged. Fitz’s fingers dipped against the line of a curved rib until it had slipped beneath his body and rested upon his back. The Fool’s breath shuddered softly.

“Can I see it?” Fitz asked.

“I don’t…” The Fool bit his lip. Fitz retracted his hand quickly. Shame burned him intensely, and he wondered if it was shame over pushing the Fool’s boundaries or shame at how eager he was to push them. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Fitz. I do. It’s… I don’t have words to describe my feelings about it. I would rather you never knew it existed. But you do, and I can do nothing to stop that now.”

“Is it a slave tattoo?” Fitz murmured.

The Fool watched him with an expression that sat between pain and resignation.

“Not exactly.” The Fool took a deep breath. He slowly unlaced his gloves and withdrew them from his fingers. He let his Skill-tipped fingers draw against the air in a glimmering offering, and Fitz drew himself onto the bed, led like a horse to water, until they were slotted together once more in their comfortable unity. The easiness of it should scare them, but there was no fear at all in the joining, only hesitant wonderings as the love that came so easily rushed boundless between them without the restrictions of flesh to bind it back wordlessly.

They were drawn together into a small, intimate chamber. Light cascaded through a stained-glass window. A bird tittered nearby as they trembled and shifted from foot to foot, their bare feet scraping against the cool limestone floor. The table was prepared for them. Their teachers gathered around them, shushing them with warm, gentle voices as they were led to it. They babbled at the teachers, words in a tongue that made sense and simultaneously fell unintelligibly. Empty apologies spilled from the teachers’ mouths over a sin that could not be erased. They were coaxed onto the table, small and stiff, and they stared down at their bare white legs, scrawny and thin, as the teachers peeled their warm linen robe from their back. A cool hand slid through their hair, fluffy around their head, dandelion seeds blown to the wind, and they wept as the woman stepped before them, one hand gliding along their bare spine and the other lifting their head and forcing them to look into her stark, pallid face and colorless eyes.

“Remember this, Beloved,” she told them as she laid them down upon the table and pushed her fingers into their spine.

And they did.

When they unraveled from each other, they were both weeping. A phantom pain stung Fitz’s back, and the Fool drew his face into his hands, a sob rattling his thin shoulders, and Fitz yanked the Fool into a tight hug.

“I love you,” Fitz said, forcing the Fool’s tears to be absorbed by his blood-stained shirt. “I love you, and there is nothing in the past or the future that will change that. They didn’t really love you, Beloved. If they loved you, they’d have never hurt you like that.”

He had scraps of understanding, by being Beloved, the tiny child weeping on a cold table as the adults meant to keep them safe betrayed him and hurt him. It was a violation, what they had done. Fitz did not know if he had ever felt something so viscerally painful as an adult he loved violating that love without any real remorse.

Except, perhaps, if he thought about it very hard, he did. But he did not think about it. He would not think about it.

He clutched the Fool tight and buried his nose into his hair.

“But they did,” the Fool breathed, lifting his head and smiling faintly. “They did love me. And they hurt me anyway. Ah. A fool from birth until death. Love is a funny thing, you know. You can love someone more than you love the air that you breathe, and you can still hurt them. I do it to you every day. I’m doing it now.”

“How?” Fitz demanded. The Fool blinked up at him, tears shining beneath his eyes, glistening in the crevices of his skin. It made his skin glitter where there was no bruising, like gold in sunlight. “Because I am your Catalyst? Because you know the painful things that I might face, and you nudge me along anyway? Okay. That’s not the same as torturing you.”

“Torture,” the Fool echoed. He laughed dazedly. “Ah. Well, now you know. That is the end of it. No more questions, Fitz, please. I’m too tired. I cannot withstand your incessant poking and prodding.”

“I always thought you could easily out stubborn me,” he teased. That earned him a small smile.

“Perhaps on a good day.” He shook his head, rubbing his bruised neck and sighing. “Not today.”

“Alright.” Fitz leaned forward and laid a kiss on the Fool’s sweaty forehead. The Fool’s fingers hooked around Fitz’s shirt, drawing him closer, and Fitz’s breath hitched. The Fool’s skin was warm beneath his lips. When they had tangled up together in the Skill, before the Fool had led them into a memory, all of Fitz’s love and desire had been laid bare. He had known that, and he had not withdrawn it. The Fool did not seem to mind.

He took it as an invitation to lift his lips from the Fool’s forehead and lay them upon his open mouth.

The Fool gasped, stealing the air from Fitz’s lungs, and he did not know if it was a pleased sound or not for a few quiet, anxious seconds. Then, to Fitz’s great relief, the Fool tipped his face up and returned the breath he had stolen, sighing softly into Fitz’s mouth and sagging into his pillow. He drew Fitz down with him, whether he intended to or not.

A small whimper of pain caused Fitz to jerk away. He looked down at the Fool and saw that in his fervor he had pushed a knee up against the Fool’s bruised ribs. It was startling to realize he had climbed atop him without even really meaning to.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz managed to utter faintly, breathless and flushed, feeling like an imbecile for kissing the Fool like this, when he was sick and injured. He leveraged himself up using the bunk above the Fool’s, swinging his leg over the side of the bed.

The Fool’s chest rose and fell raggedly. He looked bewildered, his naturally pouty lips pink and puffy from the bruising pressure of Fitz’s long-held desire. Fitz sat on the edge of the bunk, his stomach in knots, and he stared at Jek’s bed with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Fitz repeated helplessly. “I didn’t—you’re ill. I shouldn’t have done that while you’re in this state. You were just—and the memory—why did I—?”

“I suppose because you wanted to,” the Fool said quietly. He sat up hesitantly. “Same as when you kissed me at the Summer Ball. I never asked. I did not want to know. I feared knowing.”

“I keep doing this all wrong,” Fitz breathed. He felt wretched in that instant, a swelling anxiety forming fast as he wondered if the Fool despised him for pushing too far, for demanding too much. Just because Fitz craved attention and love did not mean the Fool was willing to give it.

“Is there a right way to love anyone?” the Fool teased him, tipping his head to the side in a distinctly Fool-like way which brought a grin to Fitz’s lips and a laugh to his mouth before he could think to stop any of it. His anxiety fell away like ribbons sheared, and he could not bring himself to care that he had acted so selfishly. The Fool grinned at him, and then he laughed, lowering his forehead to Fitz’s shoulder. “Tell me you meant it.”

“What?” Fitz blinked down at him confusedly. “The kiss? Of course I meant it.”

The Fool lifted his eyes to Fitz, and there was something there that Fitz had not expected. Wide-eyed, radiant hope. The gold of them seemed to burn brightly as he laughed in disbelief. Even the bruise could not distract from how distinctly lovely the Fool’s face was. He seemed carved by some great artisan’s hand, life breathed into him by a god of wit and beauty, if such a god existed somewhere in this world. Fitz could not help himself. He stole another kiss with a man’s simple desperation, a need to quell an urgent desire, which was met with equal enthusiasm.

He did not know how long they spent like this, the Fool pulling his hair from his warrior’s tail so he could run his fingers through it while Fitz drew the tip of his tongue over the thin space between his front teeth, a gap that air sometimes whistled through that gave his words a queer musicality. They kissed the way that youths kissed, hastily and curiously, everything feeling new and untested. Fitz was careful of the Fool’s injuries as he lifted his mouth to the Fool’s cheek, running his lips over his sharp jawline, listening to his breath catch softly as he nosed the hollow beneath his ear. He felt the Fool’s body shaking, and he paused, lifting his eyes to meet the brandy-stained gaze of his dearest friend.

“Sorry,” the Fool squeaked, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his giggles. Fitz’s mouth opened in shock, his face already heated from the unraveling of their desire. “Sorry, it’s just—your beard.”

“What?” Fitz breathed, completely taken aback.

“It tickles.” The Fool sucked in a deep breath and went very still. He closed his eyes and lifted his chin. “I’ll be quiet now, I promise.”

“Oh, that’ll be the day,” Fitz muttered, chuckling into the Fool’s throat. “A quiet Fool. That sounds like a threat.”

“Oh,” the Fool exhaled. Fitz could feel him wringing his hands nervously in his lap. “Should I talk, then? Would that put you at ease?”

“What would put you at ease?” Fitz countered. He heard the Fool’s quiet intake of breath as he found what he had been looking for. He kissed the mole on the Fool’s neck.

“I suppose talking,” the Fool admitted in a valiantly measured tone. Fitz wondered what would make him lose that composure. He was eager to find out. “Shall I recite a poem?”

“Eda, no.”

“If you don’t want me for my wit,” the Fool whined, “and you don’t want me for my body—”

“Is that the poem?”

“No.” The Fool yanked him by his hair, and he lifted his eyes, biting back a yelp, just to watch the Fool scowl at him teasingly. Then he grinned, his eyes darting away from Fitz’s face in a clear suggestion. “Do you like this? How scandalous.”

“Are you going to recite your poem,” Fitz growled, lifting the Fool’s face by his chin, “so I can keep kissing you? Or would you like me to stop?”

The Fool’s fever had already left him flushed, but now his cheeks and nose were so rosy that his unnaturally honeyed complexion seemed as normal as any blushing young woman’s. His mouth was parted, a smile turning at the corners, and his big golden eyes darted over Fitz’s face as he dipped his head back to the curve of his neck, as supple and strong as a wooden bow’s arch. He felt the Fool exhale softly as he leaned into Fitz’s insistent kisses.

“‘The lady of good fortune,

She cannot afford the sum

That her lord has portioned

For his mistress of good fun.

She cannot afford the sum

A trickster never does pay

For his mistress of good fun

Has tucked it all away.

A trickster never does pay,

For the sleight gone unseen

Has tucked it all away

Behind a golden screen.

For the sleight gone unseen

Is our lord trickster’s blade

Behind a golden screen

He gets what he has paid—’ Eek! Fitz!”

Fitz had closed his teeth on the Fool’s shoulder. He had slid his shirt down ever so slightly to do it, half-listening to the poem, and he could sense a bawdy final stanza coming without even really needing to pay much attention. The Fool was quiet then, perhaps suddenly aware of how far Fitz had kissed down his neck, and how precariously his shirt hung now upon his shoulders. Fitz suddenly wanted to withdraw from him, if he had so desperately needed distraction from Fitz’s kisses. But to his surprise, the Fool had turned his face down to Fitz’s and lifted his head to kiss him on the mouth once more. His Skill-tipped fingers dangled off Fitz’s shoulder.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Fitz declared as the Fool broke away to take a deep breath. “No more talking.”

“Why?” the Fool asked innocently. Fitz did not answer. He merely returned to his quest to kiss as far down the Fool’s chest as he would allow. “What worries you so, my love? Is it the tongue that unravels you, or the mouth that owns it? I should have sung you a song of your beauty and charm—”

“Which would end with how homely and awkward I am, no doubt.”

“Well, not to me,” the Fool huffed, “but I am blinded by love, you see. I can scarcely speak for the people, Fitzy, dearest—”

Fitz laughed into his collarbone. The Fool muffled his own laughter into his hair. He was grateful no more mention was made of Fitz’s arousal, which the Fool surely felt. Instead the Fool drew his fingers through Fitz’s hair, an action that made Fitz want to melt into him and loosen himself entirely from his body just to remain forever a part of the Fool. He did not know if that was possible, if coupling could sake the need he felt in this moment, but he knew in his heart that it was a love that would exist long after their bodies had decayed.

I know you are busy, brother, but whatever you are doing, I hope you are decent.

Nighteyes’s warning came a bit too late.

The door opened suddenly. Fitz jerked back, dragged his hand over his face and slinging his hair back from it, cheeks burning, while the Fool froze where he sat in his bunk, hair askew, shirt half slung over his shoulder where the outline of Fitz’s teeth sat starkly against his golden skin. Fitz had not meant to bite him hard, but he had.

It was somewhat of a relief that it was Althea. If Fitz had to choose anyone on this ship to catch him in this position, he would choose her. She at least would not judge, would not question, and would not spread it about.

Yet still, as her eyes darted wildly from Fitz to the Fool and back, Fitz shrunk in shame. He should not have given into it. He should have pushed it down again, the way he always did when those feelings arose. He could not help it. There were feelings that Fitz held right now, deep in his chest, that he could not put a name to, because he was certain that no one in existence had ever felt so ardently before.

“Sorry,” Althea muttered, her brow furrowing. Her eyes darted confusedly to the Fool, who silently, with as much dignity as possible, pulled his shirt back up on his shoulder and pressed his kiss-bitten lips together thinly. “I wanted to make sure you both were okay, and let you know what’s happened, but—”

“That’s alright, Althea,” the Fool said, his voice pitching up slightly into Amber’s mellow tone.

“No,” Althea said, throwing up her hands. “It’s not. I should have knocked. I’ll let you get back to your wife, Tom.”

It was an accusatory word flung at him with clear irritation. Fitz stared at her blankly. His mouth opened and closed. He had forgotten entirely that he had declared Amber as his wife in his anger at Lavoy. Why had he done that?

“Wife?” the Fool asked with a twinge of amusement in his voice. “When did we get married? Did I lose my memory along with my consciousness on that deck, I wonder? I certainly was not out for that long.”

“Glad to see you’re well enough to jest,” Althea said, looking surprised as she smiled. “Ask your husband, Amber. Truly, I’m as shocked as you are.”

The Fool looked to Fitz uncertainly. Fitz shot Althea a tired glance and he scratched his beard idly.

“I might have called you my wife in front of Lavoy,” he admitted.

“His exact words,” Althea supplied, earning a sharp glare, “were ‘touch my wife again and I’ll take your hands, Lavoy!’ Truly inspired. For a minute there I actually believed it.”

“Oh.” The Fool sunk into his pillow, looking startled and unsure. “Well. That’s… colorful. That reminds me, Beloved, you are covered in blood. Go clean yourself up.”

“Oh!” Fitz had, admittedly, completely forgotten about Lavoy’s blood caking his face and hands and shirt. “Sorry. Will you be alright if I leave?”

“I’m fine.” The Fool rolled his eyes. “Clearly. It is not the first time I’ve been beaten, and I doubt it will be the last, so I would hate to dwell much on it. And I’ve probably kept you too long for my own amusement.”

“I’m sure,” Althea said, her eyes telling both Fitz and the Fool that they were not about to hear the end of this. “Just rest, Amber. You’ve been through an ordeal. Oh!”

Althea pulled the Fool’s jewelry from her pocket and set it down on the edge of the Fool’s bed. He gasped, snatching up their shared earring and clutching it to his chest.

“Thank you!” he cried, looking up at Althea with widening eyes. “I didn’t realize it was gone. Did it fall off?”

“Lavoy tried to steal it before throwing you overboard,” Fitz informed him, earning a wild-eyed look from Althea. The Fool grimaced and nodded, immediately putting it back in his ear.

“Well,” Althea said carefully, “Lavoy is currently below deck, in our makeshift brig. Brashen has decided to suspend his command and appoint me interim first mate. We’ll have an official vote after we’ve dropped Lavoy off on the nearest island. I just wanted to let you know that you’re safe, Amber.”

“Thank you,” the Fool said in a neutral voice.

“Brashen wants to speak with you,” Althea said, “whenever you’re well enough. But I’ll leave you both for now. I think you have some more pressing issues than Brashen’s apology.”

“Yes,” the Fool agreed, “like Tom cleaning himself up.”

“Sure.” Althea shot Fitz a hard glance and then disappeared, shutting the door behind her.

Fitz and the Fool were silent. The Fool straightened up, throwing his legs over the side of the bunk, and he straightened up beside him. They sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at their hands.

“Your wife?” the Fool murmured.

“It just came out,” Fitz admitted awkwardly.

“But why?”

“I don’t know.” Fitz sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just felt that way in the moment.”

“That I’m your wife?”

“Well, everyone thinks you might as well be, anyway!” Fitz’s face heated in embarrassment as the Fool’s eyes darted over him confusedly. “And it’d stop some of the rumors, you know.”

“Which ones?” the Fool asked cautiously.

“That you’re promiscuous, or—you know. Whatever they say. It makes me angry, so I try not to listen.”

“So the answer to that is that we are married?”

“They only say it because they think we are together.” Fitz saw that the Fool had no rebuttal for that, and so he pressed on. “If it protects you from more men like Lavoy trying to get their hands on you, then you are my wife now. I don’t care if it’s true or not, I don’t want a repeat of what happened tonight. And don’t say you can handle yourself, Fool, I would have killed that man tonight if I could have. I haven’t fully decided yet that I won’t.”

“Please don’t,” the Fool said gently, taking his hand with his bare, gloveless one. Fitz wished it had been his Skilled hand. “I’m safe. And I suppose it’ll be difficult to explain that I am not actually your wife, since that will likely spread around the ship as quickly as dry wood catches fire, but you should know something first. And I’m terribly sorry about this, because I had no idea—I did not think what happened tonight between us would ever happen. I had not seen it coming, not once, and I feel silly for forgetting that you are my Catalyst, and therefore outside the limitations of my predictions.”

“What did you do?” Fitz asked warily. He did not like how the Fool was rambling. It was clear he was nervous to say what he needed to say.

“Well,” the Fool said, biting his lip, “I may have mentioned to Althea and Jek that you are in love with someone else.”

Fitz stared at the Fool blankly. He looked up at him with desperate eyes, offering a tight smile and a shrug.

“Jek wouldn’t stop badgering me about getting us to bed by any means,” he explained hastily, “and I knew it would humiliate you if she went on any longer—and it bothered me. It bothered me that I thought it was impossible. So I told them the truth. That you had someone else, and could not love me the same way.”

“Why would you bring Molly into this?” Fitz asked faintly. He felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Molly. His wife. If he’d had the chance, anyway.

Suddenly the weight of his claim of the Fool as his wife made him question himself.

But then, he reminded himself, Molly married Burrich. Molly moved on. Molly had taken a husband and had not waited on a ghost.

And Fitz did love the Fool. It was impossible to deny it.

“So they would stop,” the Fool breathed, “so they would realize what I had realized a long time ago, that our love is a thing that cannot be contained in a physical capacity. I just did not believe that physical intimacy was something you wanted with me.”

“Do you want it?” Fitz asked hesitantly.

“I…” The Fool flushed. It made Fitz grin, realizing that for all of the Fool’s innuendos and bawdy poems, he could so easily be flustered. “I’m not sure. Could I think about it?”

Fitz tried to quell his disappointment as he smiled and nodded. He kissed the Fool’s forehead and closed his eyes. He realized he should probably think about it too, before he ruined something that he genuinely cherished.

“Well,” the Fool said as Fitz drew back and stood up. “That was quite an eventful evening. Goodnight, then, husband.”

Fitz grinned down at him, his heart swelling with warmth.

“Goodnight, wife,” he said, sweeping down and catching one last kiss from the Fool’s lips before fleeing like a thief in the night.

Chapter Text

“Lavoy is dead.”

Malta tore a chunk of her flat bread off with her teeth and chewed silently, raising her head in acknowledgement of her aunt as she approached. Clef’s mouth dropped open beside her, and she felt his eyes dart to her incredulously. She shifted closer and pinched the inside of his arm so he would look away.

“What?” Fitz demanded. His eyes did not flash to Malta’s face, but he immediately stepped into her mind.

What did you do?

Malta did not answer. Plausible deniability. The less he knew the better.

“He’s dead.” Althea sighed, dropping down onto the barrel in front of them. They had decided to sit together on the deck to eat their midday meal as they made for land. The idea was that they were supposed to be a pirate ship, so they would attempt to get pirating before dropping off Lavoy. Malta did not think it was a smart plan. Brashen believed that they could simply leave Lavoy somewhere in the Pirate Isles, and somehow their secrets would not get back to Kennit.

Brashen was a good man. And a very naïve one.

“How?” Malta asked, regaining her composure after chewing and swallowing her bread.

“He choked on his own vomit this morning.” Althea frowned out into the sea, looking puzzled. “The sickness came on suddenly, apparently. I don’t like the timing, but I suppose we should count our blessings and move on.”

“Yeah,” Clef said in a high, nervous voice. All three of them looked at him. Althea curiously, Fitz worriedly, and Malta sharply. “I mean, you know. After what he did to Amber…”

“There’s no love lost there.” Althea shook her head. “It’s true. Brashen wants to do an emergency check of our food stores, just in case, though.”

“Well if it’s the food,” Malta said, glancing at her bread and wrinkling her nose as she tossed it over the rail, “I suspect we’re all about to find out.”

“Food, illness,” Althea sighed, “it’s a bad omen regardless. Everyone is a bit on edge right now. I thought I’d let you know before someone else did.”

“Thank you,” Fitz said quietly.

“I thought you’d be celebrating,” Althea admitted, watching Fitz warily. “You would have killed him last night if you could have.”

“Yes,” Fitz agreed. “But I didn’t. If I wanted to kill him, I’d have done it when it made sense to. In chains, the man was hardly a threat.”

He said it like it was a lesson spoken over stones. Malta nodded along.

“Sad,” she said wistfully. Althea’s eyes slid to her sharply, and Malta shrugged. “I just mean that we would have dropped him off somewhere. It’s a poor way to die, don’t you think?”

Althea frowned. She nodded hesitantly. Then she turned her attention to Fitz.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” she said quietly.

“About Lavoy?” Fitz asked carefully. “Or about Amber?”

“Amber.”

“Ah.” Fitz glanced at Malta and Clef. They stared back at him. “Well, go ahead. These two won’t gossip.”

“Malta won’t gossip?” Althea scoffed.

“Only with Paragon,” Malta said placidly. She patted the ship’s deck with her gloved hand. She felt the ship nudge her mind playfully back, and she smiled. Ever since she had returned from Wintrow’s desiccated body, Paragon’s reservations with coming into her mind had vanished. They felt each other as surely as one felt a limb now. He spoke to her often, in her mind.

When she had brought Lavoy his breakfast that morning, Paragon had told her that he would do it for her if she wanted him to. All she would have to do was bring the man on deck, and Paragon would handle the rest.

You’re just like Fitz, she told the old ship fondly.

And then she had poisoned Lavoy.

Fitz had not noticed her taking his bloodied shirt the night prior. She often gathered his and Clef’s clothing to wash in her room with her own things. Fitz had noticed and sometimes joined her when he had the time, and he had told Clef not to let her do his washing for him, but it irritated her to see him wearing stained, weathered clothing. The salt water was harsh on her fingers and knuckles, and the fabric dried stiff, but she felt more herself when she was clean.

So she had taken Fitz’s bloody shirt, and she had taken the vial of poison from its hidden pocket, all while Fitz had slept in his hammock below Clef. She’d gathered up Clef’s dirty clothes as well to have an excuse. Then she’d slipped back to her room, careful not to wake Brashen.

“Well,” Althea said, addressing Fitz with a frown, “if you insist. Amber mentioned something last night that has confused Jek and I.”

“I know.” Fitz truly seemed unsurprised. “She told me. In her defense, it’s not untrue. I… did love someone before Amber. It was a long time ago, when we were young. I wanted to marry her, but it didn’t work out.”

“Can I ask why?” Althea asked hesitantly. “You said you’d lost her once. I thought that had meant Amber, but…”

“She married someone else.” Fitz glanced away, gazing over the ocean with a strange, pained expression. Althea was quiet. Her brow furrowed.

“I’m sorry,” she offered hesitantly.

“It’s better this way.” Fitz closed his eyes. It did not seem like he believed his own words.

Is that true? Malta asked.

Yes. Fitz did not look at her. Now will you tell me if you poisoned Lavoy?

Malta set her bowl aside and stretched her arms above her head.

“Well,” she announced, “I’m off to tell Paragon this incredibly salacious gossip. Unless you have something to add, Tom…?”

Tom scowled at her.

Malta left him to stew about it.

She had expected to feel guilty about killing a man. She had thought it would feel horrible, that she would regret it the instant it was done. But she didn’t. In fact, she was relieved. Lavoy was a problem that had been solved neatly. He would not sell their secrets to Kennit’s pirates. They still had the upper hand. And the man who had beaten Clef and Amber was dead. That was enough for her to feel very little in the way of guilt or regret.

Climbing over the rail breezily, she perched upon Paragon’s shoulder and rested her cheek against his hair.

“Permission to climb aboard?” Malta joked. Paragon had already cupped his hands around her to keep her from falling.

“Permission granted.”

She stepped into Paragon’s hands and let him hold her up to his face.

“You liked Lavoy,” she said, sitting down in Paragon’s palms, “didn’t you?”

Paragon hesitated before nodding.

“Why?”

“He talked to me like a man, not a child.” Paragon tipped his head sadly. “Perhaps he said things that Amber would not approve of, but I liked that. I liked that he seemed a bit dangerous. But I did not think he would do that to Amber.”

“You were right to tell me.” Malta stealthily slipped her glove off her hand and laid her palm against Paragon’s. She felt his loneliness acutely, and she smiled at the old ship, sending a wave of reassurance. He wrapped himself in that feeling like it was a warm blanket, and then brought her closer so she could kiss his mangled nose.

At first she had thought she could merely manipulate the ship into caring about her. She had not realized how hard it would be to not care about him back, when their feelings became so embroiled in one another. He knew her intentions clearly. He had to. Yet, she knew he loved her. She could feel it.

And she loved the ship too, somehow. Odd. She had never believed that she would become so attached to a liveship, and certainly not one that was not Vivacia. Yet here she was.

“You won’t let me kill Tom, will you?” Paragon muttered.

“He can hear you,” Malta pointed out.

“Well, let him, then.” Paragon scowled. “He hurt Amber’s feelings.”

“He’s always doing that.” Malta shrugged. “He’s a man. Men are stupid. What do you want me to say?”

“That I can kill him.”

“You must hate him because you’re just like him,” Malta mused. She caught Fitz’s eye over Paragon’s head. He was, in fact, listening with a tart little scowl that made Malta laugh. “He and Amber made up, from what I understand.”

“I felt… something.” Paragon shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t like it.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Malta told him gently. “Amber and Tom have known each other forever. They’re basically married.”

“Oh, yes, I heard his little declaration.” Paragon scoffed. “His wife.”

“You hardly know what that means.”

“I know it’s not true.”

“It’s true enough.” Malta withdrew her hand from his and patted his cheek. “Let me braid your hair again. The wind keeps taking it out.”

Fitz found the Fool in his cabin. The crew knew, of course, what Lavoy had done to Amber. Apparently the story was that Lavoy had knocked her unconscious and then continued to beat her, a cowardly move, and any man who empathized with Lavoy had likely seen the result. Fitz had heard the mutterings about how Lavoy could have avoided this if he had known that Amber was Tom Vestrit’s wife.

Regardless, no one questioned Brashen’s decision to keep Amber on bedrest for the day.

The Fool was awake, but abed. That was odd enough. The fever must have been burning through him still.

“So my husband has come calling,” the Fool mused. He sat up, his blanket crumpling in his lap. He looked exhausted as he drew himself to his feet.

“Malta killed Lavoy,” Fitz told him gravely. The Fool jolted where he stood. His mouth fell open as he stared at Fitz, a thousand emotions seeming to cross his face before it settled into resignation.

“How?” he asked softly.

“Poison.” Fitz chewed on the inside of his lip. “Are you surprised?”

“More than I’d like to be.” The Fool collapsed back onto his bed, smoothing his unruly golden curls back. “I thought you might do something like this, admittedly, but—Malta? You’re sure?”

“Oh, yes.” Fitz smiled at him grimly. “She told me last night before Lavoy attacked you that she would do it if I didn’t. Well. Now I know she keeps her word, I suppose.”

“Before?” The Fool gaped at him. “But—why?”

“Because he was a problem,” Fitz said cautiously, “that Brashen refused to solve swiftly. To Malta, Lavoy was only bound to become a bigger threat, and eliminating him seemed the best option to deter rising sympathies among the crew. She must have noticed that he’s been garnering support. I have, too. But that’s my years of assassin training. To Malta… I never taught her to do that.”

“I think you did,” the Fool said quietly. “You just didn’t realize it.”

Fitz was silent. He could not think on a time where he had instilled this in her, but perhaps the Fool was right. Perhaps he had overlooked it, simply deciding to warn her about paying attention to her surroundings.

But then, she had been a chronic eavesdropper before he had ever truly paid much attention to her at all.

“What matters is it’s done.” Fitz shook his head. “We can’t undo it. She refuses to admit it, but I know it was her. She took the poison from me, just as she said she would, and now we have to hope she will not get caught.”

“Who else knows?” the Fool asked carefully.

“You, me, Clef, and Paragon.”

“Paragon?” The Fool blinked. “She told him?”

“Fool, her connection with him is…” Fitz shook his head. He felt it, tangentially. It was the way that he suspected Malta felt Nighteyes. And it was strong. “He saved your life last night, more than I did. He told Malta, Malta told me. I suspect that he was with Malta when she killed Lavoy.”

“So she trusts him more than she trusts you,” the Fool said, a probing statement that was perhaps an attempt to stir Fitz's emotions. Fitz did not really feel threatened by the ship, however.

“No.” Fitz shook his head. “She trusts us both, but… for different reasons. I suppose she knows Paragon disapproves less of her murdering someone.”

“I might have to have a conversation with him about this,” the Fool admitted.

“This can’t leave this room. You know that.”

“Well, I’ll have a conversation with him about if his violent urges have returned, then.”

“I’m sure they never left. And he’ll tell you he wants to kill me.” Fitz shrugged as the Fool scoffed. “No new information there.”

“He’s jealous,” the Fool said flippantly.

“I noticed. He does realize that he is a ship, right?”

“Are you jealous?” the Fool countered with a grin.

“If he was not a ship, then perhaps I would be.” Fitz grinned back. “Unfortunately for Paragon, I’m at an advantage.”

“Perhaps we should level the playing field,” the Fool said loftily. “I’ve been thinking of carving him a new face. Perhaps I should give him yours!”

“Is that possible?” Fitz asked curiously. He ignored the implications of the jest, finding it mildly disturbing at best and horrifying at worst. But he did not want to entertain the Fool’s jibes by bringing attention to how they chafed him. That would only encourage his nature.

“I think so.” The Fool shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit. I did reshape Ophelia’s hands. I think I might be able to do it, if I was very focused, and if I knew the face well. Hence, well…”

“We’ll have to consider it. Very, very carefully.” He closed his eyes, ignoring the Fool’s silly grin. “Does he want a new face?”

“Yes.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“I don’t know.” The Fool shook his head. “We don’t have a lot of time to test it out. I don’t want to do it unless it’s safe to.”

“That makes sense.”

“So.” The Fool drew his feet up, so he perched on the edge of his bed like a bird. “Malta. What do we do?”

“I’m not sure.” Fitz had never imagined he’d accidentally become Chade. It was frightening. Worse, Malta was a better assassin than he’d ever been, because she had never been trained to be an assassin. She just saw the political tension mounting on this ship and decided to remove the problem piece herself. It was masterful. Chade would have been delighted. It made Fitz's stomach go into a great twist of knots as he imagined his old tutor spinning his web about Malta. No. They could never meet. “I might have to do some assassin training with her in earnest just to keep her from making rash decisions like this again.”

“Catalysts will do what they will, I suppose.”

Fitz did not want to think of Malta as a catalyst of anything. He wished he could have left her alone to her fanciful imaginings of courtships and balls. The recognition that he had stolen a young girl’s life from her was a stark one.

He sat down carefully on the bed beside the Fool. Their shoulders bumped against each other.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Better.” The Fool smiled as he watched him incredulously. “Really. It’s irritating that I have to be treated so delicately, but I understand that perhaps my stubbornness to confront Lavoy when I know I am prone to fainting during these spells—I might have brought this on myself.”

“You did not,” Fitz snapped. The Fool blinked at him. “Lavoy was a nasty, power-hungry man. I’m not sad he’s dead. I’d have done it myself. I’m only angry at myself for making Malta into an assassin.”

“You did not,” the Fool echoed him gently. “She made herself into one. You cannot control what she chooses to do, not any more than I can control you.”

“So I just let her turn into this.” Fitz did not know what to say. He had no idea how to fix this. Mostly, he conceded, because he couldn’t avoid Malta even if he wanted to. The Skill-bond made it impossible, even if he managed to flee the ship and run back to the Six Duchies. Unless he disconnected from the Skill altogether. He was not sure if that was possible.

“You guide her through it,” the Fool said gently, “and try to lead her down a path that you were not allowed to take. A path free from the machinations of kings and assassins.”

“And prophets?”

The Fool took the accusation in a stride.

“Technically,” he offered, “I do not need Malta to free the dragon. I have you.”

Fitz hated to hear it, and yet it was such a relief to know that the Fool would let Malta go free of this task, he could not help but drag him into a tight hug.

“Does this mean you’d free the dragon if I asked you to?” the Fool laughed.

“I was probably going to do it anyway.”

“How neat and simple of you to be my Catalyst so flawlessly.”

Fitz had the urge then to kiss him. He thought on it, remembered their conversation from the night prior, and decided against it. He did not want to influence the Fool into an act that neither of them could undo. And he was not thinking clearly about any of it at all, really, only that he wanted to do it, and the Fool had yet to object. It made Fitz feel strange and confused about his own desire.

“Get some rest,” he told the Fool quietly, withdrawing from his arms and standing from the bed.

“Fortunately that is all I have done today, and now I’m afraid I’m quite restless.” The Fool tilted his head. “Brashen apologized for Lavoy, you know. He felt simply awful. So why am I being punished?”

“You’re ill and injured,” Fitz pointed out. “It’s not a punishment, it’s just Brashen happening to be a compassionate leader. Those are rare, you know. So rest, Beloved. I’m serious.”

“I can see that,” said the Fool blandly, “and that does not make me more inclined to lie around when I know we are down two crewmen.”

“And if you fall from the rigging and break your neck,” Fitz snapped, “we will be down a carpenter as well. I’m not taking that risk.”

“It’s not as serious as you think it is,” the Fool gasped, waving dismissively.

“Yes,” Fitz said, “it is! You just throw your life around with complete abandon because you can see the future. If I did that, wouldn’t you tell me to consider the consequences before I throw myself at something?”

“I do,” the Fool said tartly, “and you never listen. Is this supposed to be encouraging?”

“No, I’m just trying to keep you from getting yourself killed.”

“I think I’ve had enough Chivalry from you,” the Fool spat. “I will call you Fitz-Good-and-Attentive-Listener from now on.”

“That’s even more of a mouthful than FitzChivalry, which is a feat, you know.”

“Fitz-Begone, then,” said the Fool, shooing him away, “for all I want from you right now is for you to leave.”

“So you can sneak out?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“I’m sure.” Fitz was grinning despite all his frustration that the Fool could suffer a bit of boredom for the sake of his safety. “You know I’ll just tell Brashen that you’re attempting to dodge bedrest.”

“And I wonder if he’ll be interested to know who killed Lavoy,” the Fool said flippantly. And that was when Fitz realized it truly bothered him that the man was dead.

“You wouldn’t do that to Malta.”

“I think Brashen and Althea should know.” The Fool shook his head. “You’re right. I wouldn’t tell a secret like that. But it might be more dangerous to keep them in the dark. What if they suspect a poisoning and attempt to find the culprit?”

“They won’t.” Fitz had already considered that. “Lavoy’s death is too convenient, and they are going to take advantage of it.”

“Convenient is a good word. I wonder if the other crewmates think that Lavoy’s death was convenient in its timing.”

Fitz sucked on his teeth and found himself unable to meet the Fool’s eyes. He was looking at Fitz intently, and though Fitz had already considered the ramifications of Lavoy’s death, there was no denying that it could haunt them.

“It’s done,” Fitz said steadily. “He’s dead. You’re not. Brashen is calling on all of us to vote for a new first mate at sundown, or at least he was before this news spread. I suppose this will be as good a time as any to address the death. And if anyone is suspicious, I doubt Malta would hit their list of suspects.”

“Can Brashen not merely appoint Althea permanently?” The Fool frowned uncertainly.

“Don’t you trust these good men to choose wisely?” Fitz asked wryly.

“I suppose this is what happens when there are no kings.” The Fool’s frown drifted into a small, distant smile. “We simply have to trust that men will be good and choose wisely, for all of our fates are tied to this ship, and if it sinks, well, we will all go down with it.”

“You should tell them that,” Fitz said, “I’m sure it will go over well. How about this, since you are so keen on leaving this room. Walk the deck with me. Get some fresh air.”

The Fool shifted from foot to foot. He was barefoot, his trousers rolled up his calves.

“Alright,” he said. He gathered his hair back into a tail and drew a kerchief over it. Fitz reached down and tucked a few stray hairs into it as he tugged on socks and boots. The Fool lifted his head curiously as Fitz thumbed his cheek idly, and then quickly withdrew his fingers as the Fool straightened to his full height. His hair stubbornly curled across his forehead, short pieces brushing against his brow and cheek, his gathered hair gleaming like cornsilk beneath the colorful kerchief. His eyes darted over Fitz’s face, a question unasked.

Fitz took a deep breath. He lowered his forehead to brush against the Fool’s, pulling his face closer and feeling his breath upon his face. The Fool pushed his forehead into Fitz’s, his fingers snaking behind Fitz’s neck and holding him there. There was an easiness to this motion. They could stand there forever, caught in each other’s orbit, their foreheads kissing, their noses brushing.

A slender hand cupped Fitz’s cheek. His head was lifted ever so slightly, and he was drawn back into the Fool’s gravity in an instant, nose to nose with him, hand over hand with him, his mind whirling at the thought of getting his fingers back on his skin so that they could shed the confines of their flesh and lose themselves in the intimacy of knowing and being the other.

The Fool lifted his chin and kissed him instead.

Fitz had been thinking about it. He had been edging around the act, helplessly wanting something that could tear their friendship apart, but the instant he got it, he could not pretend that it was not something he had so thoroughly desired. He felt the Fool’s tenderness, the tentative press of his lips upon Fitz’s, curious and probing, and Fitz opened himself to it with great enthusiasm. He listened to the Fool’s quickening breaths as Fitz pushed him against the door, his hands skimming down his chest and landing on his narrow waist. Squeezing the slim space above his hips, Fitz felt the instant acceptance of this act as the Fool rocked into him, his tongue quick inside Fitz’s mouth, as surprisingly agile as the rest of his muscles, it seemed.

Fitz tugged the Fool’s body closer, feeling his own hands scrabble at Fitz’s shoulders, and he heard the Fool squeak in surprise as Fitz’s hand fell lower, lifting the Fool’s leg by the meat of his thigh.

The sound broke Fitz out of his brief haze of desire, withdrawing with a quiet gasp as he considered the Fool’s kiss-bitten lips and flushed face. He hesitantly dropped his leg, but the Fool, tricky as ever, looped it around Fitz’s and kissed him once more.

“Don’t tease me,” Fitz gasped. The kiss was so quick and chaste, it drove him mad. Part of him thought the only solution to the puzzle that had been handed to him was to throw his best friend upon the small bed and push his buttons, like a puzzle box that could be solved.

“I thought you liked to be teased,” the Fool said innocently. His leg slid up and down Fitz’s suggestively. Fitz placed his hand back upon the Fool’s thigh to still him.

“I’m serious,” he warned. The Fool blinked at him, looking suddenly surprised and a bit uncertain. “You’re treating this like a game. Like we’re just—like we’re competing to see who can make the other more flustered. Fool—Beloved, we are not playing pretend at being lovers. I would take you to bed in this instant if you told me you wanted to.”

“Oh?” The Fool’s eyes grew round with an understanding that seemed both curious and alarmed. He unhooked his leg from Fitz’s, and Fitz knew in that instant that no matter how flirtatious and seductive the Fool could be, he was not nearly as experienced in bed as Fitz was, and Fitz, admittedly, had a select few partners to call upon. Fitz did not know anything of the Fool’s sexual experience at all, really. He wondered if the Fool’s reluctance was because he had never done this before. “I could—”

“No.” Fitz stepped back. He felt terrible doing so, his heart in his throat, and he wondered at the Fool’s body, and if it really did not matter at all that underneath it all, after all of the pondering, he could very well be endowed with the body of a man. Could Fitz be satisfied with such an arrangement? Evidently, it had not mattered thus far, and Fitz’s desire was not exactly dampened by the thought of drawing his mouth over a flat chest if it meant he could have the Fool squirming and panting prettily over his kisses. The idea of manhood was a bit different, and more daunting to be sure, but he was familiar enough with such a vehicle that he knew he could at the very least bring the Fool some amount of pleasure, if he sought it. “No. You don’t want to. I can tell.”

“I didn’t say that,” the Fool argued, pink-faced and pouting. He took a deep breath, leaning back against the door and shrinking a bit. “I trust you, you know. I have experience. Quite enough, I think. I could—”

“Experience matters less than trust,” Fitz said distantly, valiantly shoving aside the burning jealousy he felt suddenly, “and trust matters less than want. You don’t want to. You’d do it, because I want it, but I can tell by how you’re holding yourself that you’re scared. I won’t ask why.”

He didn’t have to. He was scared too, no matter how much he wanted it.

The Fool watched him silently, which was the worst thing he could have done. A quip or a jibe would have eased Fitz’s anxiety. Instead, he realized how right he had been. The Fool had been eager to kiss him, the way children catch kisses off friends. It did not mean he was prepared to give himself to Fitz entirely. At least not his body. His soul, on the other hand, was a different story.

“Do you think less of me?” the Fool asked hesitantly.

“No!” Fitz was alarmed at the question. The Fool smiled faintly and shook his head.

“You know I am older than you,” the Fool said carefully, “and that I have done this before—so I can say yes, I will do this for you—”

“That’s just the problem, right there!” Fitz cried. The Fool blinked at him as Fitz drew a deep breath, ignoring the ache of his desire, and focusing on the problem at hand. “You’d do it just to please me. Not because you actually desire me.”

“I do, Fitz.” The Fool stared at him with widening eyes. He seemed shocked as he shook his head in utter disbelief. “Of course I do. It’s not that at all. It’s a wonder at all that we are having this conversation—of course I do. Of course.”

“It’s too fast, isn’t it?” Fitz offered. The soft repetition seemed to only cast more doubt upon the reality that perhaps neither of them were ready to push this development further. The Fool pressed his lips together thinly as he took in Fitz’s words. “It’s too much at once. It’s fun, kissing me, teasing me, but then there’s the follow through.”

“How illuminating,” the Fool said dryly. “Will you draw me a diagram next?”

“Do you want to go to that bed and let me undress you?” Fitz demanded. It sounded harsher than he meant it to. The Fool said nothing, going very still, as if he had truly turned to wood. “Do you trust me enough? Do you want me enough? You’ve been so guarded with your body in all the time I’ve known you. I’m sorry if I don’t believe you would stop now, just because kissing me happens to be fun.”

The Fool let out a shuddering breath. He lowered himself to the floor, drawing his head into his hands. Fitz was at his side an in instant, but he feared to touch him.

“I have gotten used to you being quite oblivious," the Fool murmured, "and I dislike when you’re so attentive."

“If I wasn’t,” Fitz replied gently, ignoring the insult in favor of the praise, “would you trust me so?”

The Fool turned and pressed his forehead to Fitz’s. They did not kiss. They sat with each other’s silence and remained apart, perhaps to prove to each other that they could.

After a while, Fitz lifted the Fool from the floor. The Fool kissed his knuckles. They were still bruises from Lavoy’s brick-like skull colliding with them.

“For being so chivalrous,” he joked lamely.

“I wish I could go back in time and beg Shrewd to name his son anything else.”

“FitzHopeless,” the Fool mocked him, “FitzIdiocy.”

“FitzFoolishness?” Fitz offered, grinning as the Fool laughed and looped his arm through his.

“That’s right, my Fool,” he said, gazing at him with bright, eager eyes. “Though I know what I’d name you, if I had a choice.”

“And what’s that?” Fitz asked amusedly, waiting for the punchline.

“Why, Beloved, of course!”

For some reason, Fitz had been expecting another mocking name to go along with every other one the Fool had called him. So to be branded with the Fool’s name so readily was astounding.

“If I started calling you Fitz,” he said teasingly, “people would find that strange.”

“Not me.” The Fool’s eyes twinkled, a strange emotion melting upon his face that could have been adoration or mischief. “I would cherish your name as much as I cherish my own.”

“That’s because your mother loved you enough to call you Beloved,” Fitz snorted. “I’ve no idea what my mother called me. If she called me anything at all.”

“I’m sure she believed you just as beloved to her as I was to my mother,” the Fool said quietly. It was not a jest or a quip, and Fitz melted into his side. The thought filled him with a hollowness that made him want to weep. “Let’s walk about the ship, Beloved, husband, mine.”

“Yes, Beloved.”

The serpents took Lavoy’s body as the crew gathered for an election. Malta sat beside Paragon, on the rail beside his figurehead, watching the crew gather around Brashen and Althea. She’d noticed Amber and Fitz moving about the ship, talking quietly, and she was relieved to see the woman up and about. She still seemed to favor one side, and the bruises on her face were stark against her golden skin. Paragon was less enthused, but he would not tell Malta why. She suspected he simply just did not like Fitz, though that made little sense to her, as he had come around to him on the beach. Something had changed.

There were things, she knew, that Paragon would not tell her. She wondered if the ship knew she would inevitably figure it out.

Brashen’s speech was short and concise, about how losing Lavoy was a misfortune, but they would have to carry on.

“This,” Brashen said, “is our first election as a real crew. I appointed Lavoy because I believed he had the capacity to be a strong leader and look out for the interests of all of you. Whether he excelled at his post or not is not up for debate. The man is dead, and that leaves you all with the opportunity to decide who amongst you will represent you. The role of first mate, or quartermaster, depending on the vessel you’ve served on, is to be me, if I am ever incapacitated. This is a man who must know the ship. He must know the ship, the crew, and the sea. He must be someone you trust to act for you, someone you trust to settle conflicts when I am not there. Now, we will go around, left to right, and each of you will give a name to nominate. We will narrow from there.”

Is this normal for a ship? Malta asked Paragon.

Not for me. Paragon seemed puzzled. Brashen is not like any captain I’ve ever had, though.

Malta thought it was probably smart. A chunk of the crew had been attached to Lavoy because they thought he was a better leader than Brashen. This gave them the opportunity to feel like Brashen took their opinion very seriously, and portion out a degree of power to these men.

Names were said. Clef stood beside Brashen, writing them down. The second round of voting began as the sun was setting. Malta noticed that Fitz looked irritated, as his name had been brought up almost as much as Althea’s.

You beat Lavoy, Malta reminded him. They know you’re strong, physically, and could break up any fights that occur. You’re also a man.

I have no idea how a ship works, Fitz told her curtly. Or lied curtly. Whichever. Vote for Althea.

It was nearly an even split by the last vote between Althea and Fitz. It seemed to Malta that the crew had no qualms with Lavoy’s death. But now that it was between Althea and Fitz, that changed.

“Do we honestly trust this man not to put his woman before the crew?” asked one of Lavoy’s friends. Fitz raised an eyebrow at that. Amber was beside him, her face still blackened around her eye from the beating she had received from Lavoy.

“My woman,” Fitz said coldly, “has a name. And Amber is part of this crew, same as you. She’s more important to the welfare of this ship than I am. I’m only here because she is. Sure, I care about the ship, and I care about the crew, because I’m one of you. That doesn’t mean I want anything to do with leading you sorry lot.”

Malta wondered at Fitz’s ability to be so rude that it turned back around into a sort of charm.

“And how convenient,” the man said, “that our former first mate happened to die after touching your woman.”

“He would have died on the deck if the captain hadn’t stepped in,” Fitz warned, ignoring Amber’s hand as it fell on his shoulder. “You want my honesty? I’m angry he died in a cell and not by my hand. Lavoy hurt Amber, he hurt Clef, he hurt Lop—I don’t care that he’s dead. If you think his death was convenient, maybe it was for you, but I feel robbed of justice. That man dealt beatings on the weakest among this crew just to feel powerful. If the first mate represents the interests of the crew, he was a poor first mate, I would say. You all should vote for the person who does care about your welfare. All of you. So. Do we cast our last votes, Captain? Because I’m voting for Althea.”

And so Althea won. But Fitz was forced to accept his role as the second mate in her place.

“I didn’t come onto this boat to suddenly become important,” he grumbled at Brashen.

“I think they admire you,” Brashen said amusedly. “Standing up to Lavoy got you into the good graces of anyone who Lavoy picked on. And anyone allied with Lavoy has to respect that you beat him in a fight. And right now, we need fighters.”

“Great.” Fitz rolled his eyes. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’ll teach you,” Althea said, not even bothering to hide her pleasure that she had been voted first mate. “But I think you should start by offering to teach the crew how to fight. We’ll be targeting a slaver soon, and I want us to be ready.”

“I’m not sure that’s something I could teach in a short amount of time.”

“You’re going to have to.”

Fitz looked unhappy with that. Amber patted his shoulder consolingly, looking highly amused.

“You’ve just got a charisma about you,” she teased. “People want to follow you. They can’t help it.”

“I think it’s because I look like I’ve been mauled by a bear,” Fitz muttered, “and they need to believe someone on this ship has battle experience.”

“Oh, how dare they,” Amber said dryly. “Next they’ll start respecting you. Oh, the horror!”

“I don’t want to raise their expectations of me,” Fitz said, looking irritated and unsure.

“I’m certain that no one on this ship, aside from me, has any idea what to expect from you in a real fight, Beloved.” Amber kissed his cheek and drifted away toward Paragon. Jek watched the motion, Malta saw, with a frown. Althea covered her mouth amusedly. Brashen fully pretended he did not see it. “What do you think of this development, Paragon?”

“Althea is a good choice,” the ship said.

And Fitz? Malta asked the ship.

“He’ll do, I suppose.”

“What?” Amber asked.

“I was speaking to Malta.” The figurehead frowned. “Sometimes I forget to speak to her in my head. I must get used to it again.”

Malta said nothing as Amber’s eyes slid to her. She silently slipped off the rail and let the woman have her time with the ship. Paragon loved her, Malta knew. He might not have a connection with her the way that he did with Malta, but that mattered little to him. His adoration was palpable. It was, Malta felt, as strong as Fitz’s. They were such similar creatures, and they danced around her head, feeding her their feelings of resentment and bitterness and love and devotion, she had trouble keeping them straight sometimes. They felt different, in her mind. Paragon was a weight that bore her down to the depths of the sea and gave her the confidence to believe that nothing could harm her. Fitz was the opposite, flighted wings bearing her over a great storm, encouraging her to be wary and keen.

In her heart, she knew she was changing. She knew her mind and her heart had been burned by the toxins that had enveloped her brother. Her brother. She tried not to think too hard about Wintrow, but her mind wandered back to him every time she climbed the rigging or tied a particularly strong knot. He was a stain within her soul, stubborn and unyielding, and she realized she might carry him forever, a stranger that shared her blood and part of her mind. She feared she had left parts of herself inside him when Fitz had whisked her from that broken body.

She had been avoiding the dragon. Even at night, in her dreams, she shied away from her. That night, when Malta returned to her bunk, she wondered what the dragon would do if they could not free her. Would they take her memories and turn her into a liveship? Malta touched the wizardwood wall with her bare palm, and she felt the toiling of the two dragons dormant within the ship’s consciousness. They turned their eyes toward her hungrily.

She withdrew and closed her shields down tight.

There was nothing she could do to avoid sleeping, though she feared it, and the foreboding recognition of her dragon coming to knock on her mind. She laid down and stared at the ceiling.

She had thought for a long time that she owed it to the dragon to free her. Knowing what her fate would be if they did not succeed only heightened the stakes. Death, Malta thought, was simple. But to remain fractured, a bit of a soul, a bit of memories, locked within a prison of non-flesh. It seemed hellish.

She closed her eyes and reached for her dragon.

Where did you go?

Malta found herself perched on a rock by a river. This was not her dream, but the dragon’s. She looked down at her hands and saw that her fingers were taloned, and her skin smoothed over in overlapping red and yellow iridescent scales. She tried to wipe them away in the water anxiously.

You. My little Elderling. Look at me.

Malta raised her head and looked at the shadow of the dragon. It shifted its form, big and small, dark and light, as if the dragon did not know what it was supposed to look like. Malta could empathize.

“I’m sorry,” Malta offered.

Sorry is not good enough. Sorry does not save me from this prison. Sorry is a child’s word, and you are not a child. You are the path to my future. Come let me out.

“I’m trying.” Malta rubbed at the scales on her arms, watching them fall away like glittering jewels into the babbling water. “We’re on our way, but we keep getting sidetracked. Did you know what liveships are, dragon? Did you know that the memories of your kin are trapped inside these ships?”

The memories of my kin? The dragon’s temper clearly flared. Yes. I know of these liveships. Reyn has knowledge of them, and I have Reyn’s knowledge. He continues to fail me. He spoke of you once, when he returned, and demanded I let you go. That he could bear the burden of me, and that I was cruel for stepping into your mind and warping you so.

“I tried to convince him,” Malta said with a sigh. “I can’t undo the distrust you’ve instilled in him. You can come on rather strong, dragon.”

For I must! cried the dragon. What else can I do? Shall I wait to become a floating corpse, like your feeble-minded ghost that you let crawl around inside your head? What do you call him? Paragon?

“He is my friend.” Malta knew the dragon did not care. “It’s not his fault, what happened to him. But listen to me. Reyn told me that you’re under a whole city. He said if he could get you out, he would—they need an excavation team. I will come, dragon, I promised you I would, but freeing you is going to be up to Reyn. He has the political power in the Rain Wilds to convince his people to authorize excavation. I’m nothing to them.”

Political power, the dragon scoffed, authorization—what is the point of these human concepts? I am here. I am alive. Why is that not enough?

“I don’t know, dragon.”

Malta knew all too well. She just did not want to tell the dragon that she was worth more money dead than alive.

Figure it out!

“Get Reyn on your side,” Malta retorted. “I don’t care for your childish demanding of ‘do this, do that, figure it out!’ I am telling you that there are real obstacles in our way, and Reyn is the key around them.”

That is what I took you for, my little Elderling.

“And that backfired immensely,” Malta retorted. She did not understand the epithet. It irritated her. She held her hands out to the sunlight, and she was relieved to find she was human again. “Perhaps the dragons died out because they had no use for politics. You could stand to recognize that the only way you are going to get out of that cocoon alive is if you bargain with Reyn, not threaten him.”

And what shall I offer him? You?

“Something he doesn’t already have,” Malta sighed. “I’m betrothed to him. He already has me, technically, even if I’m not with him. You’ll have to think of something else.”

Like what?

“Figure it out,” Malta told the dragon dryly.

She stood up and walked away from the river, banishing the dragon from her mind and finding herself strolling through a stone breezeway of a great courtyard. She watched curiously as a child of perhaps twelve jumped through the open arch, laughing eagerly as a smaller, wilder looking child pounced upon the ledge after him. The first was a boy who Malta recognized as a young FitzChivalry, his face round and jubilant with youth. The other child was smaller and stranger to look at, with papery white skin and eyes that lacked any sort of color at all, peering with an unnatural milkiness, long white eyelashes curling around those large, wide-set eyes. The child might have been a boy, but it was difficult to tell by the roundness of their cheeks, which had been painted with black pointed stars following the hollows of his eyes. Their lips, too, were painted black, and when they grinned, they revealed a hardly noticeable little gap between their teeth.

The Fool, Malta realized, had been a very small child. She looked younger than Fitz by several years, and the motely she wore, great swathes of black and white diamonds enveloping her small frame, did nothing to help that.

Malta wondered at the difference in coloring between Amber as a child and Amber now. She sat upon the barrier between the outside of the courtyard and the breezeway, and she leaned back upon a column, watching Fitz dream.

The Fool had chased him to Verity’s tower and then suddenly disappeared. Fitz looked behind him confusedly, feeling lost in his dim understanding of what his life was, and with the Fool no longer trailing after him, he could not know what he was, who he was, where he was, when he was. It was like he was a stone dropped into the sea with no way back to the surface.

“Eat,” Verity said suddenly. Fitz looked at him in wonder. His uncle was young again, his youth written on his warm, smiling face. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he sat down at his table and waited for Fitz to join him. Hesitantly, he did.

“I miss you,” Fitz uttered softly. His uncle watched him take a piece of bread and nibble on it. He took nothing for himself. “I miss you every day.”

“You miss an idea, FitzChivalry.” Verity’s smile was small and sad. “A good and virtuous king who loved you and needed you. Oh, how I needed you.”

The bread crumbled to charcoal on Fitz’s tongue, and he spat it out, scraping at the residual flakes with his nails. Verity watched him sadly, shaking his head in disappointment.

“You’ve forgotten your duty to this family,” the man said quietly.

“I haven’t!” Fitz spat ash onto the ornately woven rug beneath the table legs. “I’ve done all I can! I’ve given all I have!”

“Have you?”

It all changed suddenly. The stone walls melted to gray wood and the table fell away to a reserved bunk draped in rich silk blankets and heavy fur pelts. He lifted his eyes to Verity, dread seeping into his heart, and he watched his uncle’s face warp unnaturally in the flickering lantern light. It was like watching his skin peel back to reveal a different man entirely, only for some unseen force to snatch the mask back into place, fastening it by his nose and lips, where things blurred uncannily in the shadowy chamber.

Everything felt strange and foreign. His body ached both familiarly and unfamiliarly, a recent beating resonating in his small bones, and a wariness overtaking him as his uncle approached the bunk.

“On your stomach,” said the man who wore Verity’s face like a mask skinned from muscle and bone, his voice echoing gutturally through the small space. “Perhaps I will spare you a whipping if you spare me your tears, boy.”

He stared at his bare legs as they hung off the edge of the bunk, and he realized that this feeling he felt was one he had felt before, both as himself and as the Fool. He could not stop himself from lying down obediently upon his belly and staring at a notch in the wizardwood wall. He silently sent a plea to the ship to take whatever pain awaited him so no tears fell.

There was a hand on his bare spine. Everything was muddled and thick, every sensation a thousand sensations, as he tried to recall what he was, who he was, where he was, when he was. The pressure of the man’s callused fingers were so different than the Pale Woman’s slender, cool touch. Yet the effect was the same.

Glancing over his shoulder, he found himself staring at a man he had no recognition of at all, and yet deep in his soul, some part of him knew him, and it was an evil unending, a coil unraveling, the end becoming the beginning and the beginning becoming the end—

Fitz! Wake up!

He lurched onto his back, his eyes darting wildly for some sign of Malta, but the cabin was snatched away from him in an instant. He flung himself from his hammock with a cry, hitting the wizardwood flooring with a thud and immediately retching on his hands and knees. He vomited the contents of his stomach and more, spitting bile as he felt his dream become quietly absorbed into the ship. He realized a bit too late that his bare hands were pressed upon the wizardwood, and he wrenched himself away from the floor, wiping at his mouth as sailors groaned and cursed at him in their hammocks.

For a long while he sat in the dark, his breathing erratic and his heart unsettled. He felt strangled by a number of emotions, shame and disgust being the primary culprits, and the fingers of horror closed around his throat while he parsed through what remnants of his dream the ship had left him. He remembered Verity. He remembered a hand on his bare back, belly to slippery silk, and he remembered thinking about the Fool, and the Pale Woman, and Verity, and it became too much to remember all of it in succession. He gagged into his hand.

Why had his mind done this? He could not understand it. Verity had never—would never—and yet his brain had shoved a man that Fitz had loved dearly, who Fitz had devoted his life to, into a space of cruelty and depravity. His king would not treat him that way. His uncle would not use him that way.

After a while of sitting, silent tears running down his cheeks, he got up and groped around the shadowy hold, the sounds of snoring men drowning out his stumbling, and he found a rag that was useful enough in mopping up the small puddle of vomit beside his hammock. He brought the rag up onto the deck and tossed it over the side. His fingers stank of the sour regurgitation of that evening’s fish stew.

He wiped his hands off on his trousers before wandering up the forward deck, standing dazedly before Paragon. The wind whipped at his loose hair, and it tangled against his nose and ears.

“What did I give you?” he asked tiredly.

“What are you talking about?” the ship replied, clearly agitated. “Go away.”

“No.” Fitz’s fingers clenched into fists at his sides. “No, Paragon. I’ve given you a painful thing just now. I want it back.”

He reached to lay his hand upon the wooden rail, and Paragon twisted to face him, teeth bared in a wolf's smile.

“You think I’ll let you?” The ship laughed heartily, like Fitz had told him some great, bawdy joke. “Touch me, FitzChivalry, and you will regret it, I promise you that. I could eat you and leave you just a bag of muscle and bone. Be reasonable, young man. Do you wish to be a great carcass floating through life with no purpose but whatever base functions your sorry little body needs to live?”

Fitz felt cold as he withdrew his hand, shock flooding him as he gazed down at the figurehead in terror.

“Now you get it,” Paragon said merrily. “Good man. Go back to bed. Dream a nice dream, and leave me out of it.”

“You’d Forge me?” Fitz whispered, stepping away from the figurehead and feeling a wave of fresh nausea shudder through him.

“Forge you into what? Oh, I don’t really care, honestly. I’m tired of you, you know. You pick at me, like a scavenger, like a crow pecks at a still warm body, as if to prove to me that I am dead. Well, you are dead too, so what right do you have? I don’t take your pain, no matter how readily you offer it, so keep your grubby little claws out of mine!”

Brother!

Fitz whirled around so he could take the brunt of Nighteyes’s tackle into his stomach rather than his back. He was forced to brace himself against the rail, and he cried out in horror as his hand skimmed the wizardwood. He feared an instantaneous Forging. He squeezed his eyes shut, fresh tears pouring onto his cheeks, and he held his breath as his wolf tugged on his sleeve impatiently.

Brother, open your eyes. You’re alright. You are still you.

Fitz did as the wolf said. He raised his eyes and found himself staring at the Fool. His hair was loose about his head, a great swarm of honey-brown curls fluttering against the wind.

“Nighteyes woke me,” he explained quietly. Behind Fitz, Paragon was very quiet. Perhaps they both wondered how much the Fool had heard. Ultimately, Paragon probably did not care. “What happened?”

“Nightmare,” Fitz said quietly. The Fool drifted closer, laying his bare, non-Skilled hand on Fitz’s shoulder. Then he lifted it to his cheek. “A bad one. I’ve been having strange dreams lately, of—of childhood, and beatings, but this—this was unlike anything—”

“Was it of Regal?” the Fool asked patiently.

“No,” Fitz gasped, fresh tears spilling onto his cheeks as the Fool held his face gingerly. “No, that’s the oddest thing, Fool, it was Verity. I cannot speak of it. I will not.”

“Alright.” The Fool used his sleeve to wipe Fitz’s tears, and he sat upon the rail beside him, perching as breezily as he always had, like a great golden bird peering down at him. “You will not speak of it. Yet I wonder if I could understand it, if you let me.”

“Are you the interpreter of dreams?” Fitz demanded gruffly.

“If the situation demands it of me.” The Fool watched him levelly. “Verity hurt you in your dream.”

Fitz said nothing. He would not betray his king by giving words to what had transpired inside his head. Shame burned him. He wondered, fitfully, if his desire for the Fool had done this. If his subconscious had begun to twist that desire into something base and brutal, so he could recognize that men bedding men was a perverse thing. It felt awful and shameful, and the guilt of loving and wanting something that seemed so natural, and yet all he felt was the burn of the stigma that would follow him if Chade or Burrich could see him now, lusting over Shrewd’s odd little jester.

He should have let those feelings stay buried deep within him, as he always had.

“Look at me.”

When Fitz turned his eyes up at the Fool, he saw that he had risen to his feet upon the rail, staring down at him as the wind toyed ceaselessly with his hair and nightdress. His lithe, willowy legs were revealed as he strolled along the ledge with ease, fearlessly balancing against the wind’s incessant tug, and he stepped onto Paragon’s shoulder. Though Fitz knew his ribs were still bruised, the man acted like he had not been injured at all.

“Did Fitz take something from you,” the Fool said softly, leaning against the figurehead’s hair, “without meaning to, Paragon?”

“He’s always taking without meaning to,” the ship said reluctantly. “I’d be glad to see him off, away from here. Malta doesn’t dig so deep as he does. She glides through the surface of me and does not delve beneath into things that should never be seen. And if she does take a snippet of a dream that is not hers, she does not fuss over it being taken back.”

Fitz had no idea what the damn mad ship was talking about.

“Fitz doesn’t want your memories,” the Fool told Paragon firmly. “He’s not trying to take anything from you. He’s got this magic, you see—he taught Malta how to use it, but his grip on it has always been a bit erratic. He doesn’t want to take your memories, but sometimes I don’t think he can help it. Did he take a memory from you just now? Is that why you are so angry with him?”

“I took it back,” Paragon said stiffly. “He’s babbling nonsense now.”

“Alright.” The Fool sighed deeply. “But you know he can’t help it. He can’t help it anymore than you can help your moods. He really did not mean it. Tell him, Fitz.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Fitz said blandly, though he did not know what he did not mean. “I’m sorry, Paragon.”

“Hmph,” said the old ship. “If you’re so sorry, stop doing it.”

“I will,” Fitz swore, if only because the fear of being Forged was so acute that he would tell the ship anything if it meant he would not take Fitz’s memories and emotions from him.

“Good job,” the Fool said, “both of you. Fitz, help me up?”

Fitz helped the Fool back onto the deck. The Fool turned and waved at Paragon.

“I’m bringing him back below,” he told the ship. “Then perhaps we can chat some more.”

“I’d like that,” the ship admitted.

The Fool hooked his arm around Fitz’s as they made their way across the deck, as far from Paragon as possible. Fitz knew the ship would hear them no matter what. So did the Fool. Nighteyes followed them hesitantly.

Your dream, he said, worried me, Changer. It confused me, as well.

“I can’t remember most of it,” he confessed.

“Paragon likely took as much of it as he could away,” the Fool admitted. “He probably thought it was merciful.”

“He threatened to Forge me, Fool!”

“Did he?” The Fool frowned at that. “Can he? That’s news to me. I’ll speak with him on that. It worries me, though, what’s left. Verity hurt you in this dream. Are you sure it was Verity?”

“I saw him,” Fitz croaked. But he had seen the Pale Woman too. Hadn’t he? Or had he merely been the Fool, for a brief flash of an instant, lying belly down on a cool table, waiting for pain and terror to consume him? He stared at the Fool’s face, searching it desperately, and he felt guilty then for assuming it was his love of his dearest friend that had put this in his head. “I saw him, but… what did Paragon mean, that I took something from him?”

“I suspect,” the Fool said carefully, “that you are susceptible to the Paragon’s memories. I’ve thought so ever since you had that nightmare on my floor, a few months ago. Malta is too, I think. She took some of the memories the first time she touched Paragon, and they lingered. That’s why she thought you would hurt her, when we brought her home that day. Because there are painful memories stuck inside of this ship, and they’ve lingered and festered. Now they’re infecting you.”

“Malta thought—” Fitz shook his head furiously. “No, that was different. She thought I was going to hit her, and she was scared of me for it, but this is different. It’s worse.”

“I believe you need to put words to it, Fitz,” the Fool said tiredly. “I’m a prophet, not a mind reader. That’s your realm of expertise, is it not? Give a name to the thing, as awful as it is, so we can address what is truly bothering you.”

Fitz’s eyes were wet as he stared at the Fool’s face, watching him dazedly as he held him by the shoulders and waited.

“I think,” Fitz said, his mouth dry, rancid stomach bile still clinging to his tongue, “that he was about to rape me. In the dream.”

“Verity?”

“Yes.” Fitz swallowed the lump in his throat and found himself laughing in a strained, panicky way. “Which is ridiculous, because—because he wouldn’t ever—”

“But he did.”

Fitz stood very still. He stared past the Fool’s face, out into the ink black sea, wishing he could unhear those words.

“No,” he breathed. “That’s different—how dare you—no, no, it wasn’t like that, he needed to—”

“I won’t argue with you,” the Fool said quietly. “You’ve already called it what it was inside your mind enough times that I did not need to say what it was for you to think of it. You can hate me for conflating the incidents, you can be furious with me for bringing it up, but your mind has done the work for you. So you can say to me, ‘No, Fool, that is different because he had to,’ and I will say, well, perhaps he had to, but he did not ask, did he?”

“What does it matter?” Fitz snapped. “Would it make a difference?”

“Yes.” The Fool watched him sadly. “Perhaps you wouldn’t feel so wretched about it.”

“I would have felt wretched regardless,” Fitz admitted, “and I would have done it even if he asked.”

“Does that not make it worse?”

“I loved him,” Fitz hissed, tears in his eyes again, “and I would have died for him! What does it matter that it hurt, in the end? What does it matter that he did not ask?”

“Oh, and how he loved you,” the Fool murmured, “that he would not kill you, but he would hurt you so deeply that you carry this wound with you for all the life you have left. You told me not so long ago that the teachers who scarred me for life did not love me, because someone who loved me truly would never hurt me in such a way. In your own estimation of love, Verity did not love you at all.”

“You can’t say that,” Fitz breathed, a sob beckoned on his lips.

“You said it to me without thinking or caring what it meant to me to think they could have pretended to care about me for all those years,” the Fool retorted. “Is it not better to believe that they loved me and hurt me anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Fitz gasped. “I don’t know! But Verity—he was my king. I was sworn to him, body and soul, and what he did—”

“What he did,” the Fool said quietly, “was a knife in your back to spare your daughter’s throat. That is all. I said I would not argue, and I won’t. You already believe it. Whether you can admit it or not is not my problem.”

“Fool—!”

The Little Viper is listening.

Fitz whirled around and saw, to his astonishment, that Malta was standing in the darkened corner of the deck, listening keenly. She had managed to shield herself so thoroughly that Fitz did not feel her.

“Malta,” Fitz barked at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you.” Malta approached slowly. She had thrown a workman’s shirt over her nightgown to preserve some of her modesty. Her hair was braided neatly over one shoulder. She glanced between Fitz and the Fool grimly. “I saw your dream.”

Fitz said nothing. The Fool’s hand fell upon his shoulder. Fitz leaned into him for a moment and then plucked up his courage.

“All of it?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.” Malta stared at Fitz with a furrowed brow. “You became someone else.”

“What?” Fitz asked confusedly.

“You kept changing.” Malta shook her head. “Same as the man. He was your uncle, but then—his face was like putty. It kept morphing.”

“It was someone else’s memory,” the Fool said quietly, “as I told you, Fitz. Malta remembers more of it because Paragon did not take it from her.”

“He’s only just realized I saw it.” Malta glanced toward the figurehead, which was abnormally quiet. “He’s furious at me right now because I won’t give it back. I suspect he won’t be talking to me for a bit. Oh well. I came to see if you were alright, but also to ask about Verity.”

“Please,” Fitz begged the girl, his strange surrogate daughter who did not know the immense hole that she filled, “stop, Malta. No. Enough.”

“I heard enough to know he must have done something awful to you,” Malta said, crossing her arms stubbornly, “which I suspected, you know, from the instant I saw that memory of him—”

“You did not know him,” Fitz hissed. “You cannot know what you are saying. Stop it, Malta. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Fine,” Malta said coolly. She lifted her chin to peer at him, her eyes sliding over his face in a calculating manner. Fitz glared down at her in response. “You never told me you had a daughter.”

“Is that your business?” Fitz replied irritably.

“I suppose not,” Malta replied, her tone lofty and self-righteous. “Perhaps it was foolish of me to believe you trusted me.”

“Malta,” Fitz sighed, guilt immediately hounding him, as he was sure she intended it to, “it’s not that—”

“Where is she, anyway?”

“Far away from here.”

Malta studied him. Her eyes lingered on his face, and he knew she had trapped him like a butterfly pinned to cloth that he had once seen in Chade’s workroom.

“Am I a replacement for her?” she asked, a knife in his heart. “Mother said that about you, you know. That Grandmother had a soft spot for you because you reminded her of one of my uncles who died of the Blood Plague. So? Am I?”

“I never met her, Malta,” Fitz told the girl quietly. Her walls were so tightly bound to her that he could not feel the panic that he knew stewed inside her. She would not let it show on her face or leak out of her walls, but he knew her too well by now. “You aren’t her, just as I am not your father. Neither of us can replace what we’ve lost.”

“My father is not dead,” Malta said, and he wondered if she believed it at all anymore.

“Neither is my daughter.” Fitz met her gaze squarely. She did not blink as she watched him with a neutral expression. It was incredible to watch her completely school her features, even when he knew she was furious. “I’m sorry you witnessed my dream. Perhaps you should give it back to Paragon.”

“It’s important,” Malta said stubbornly.

“It’s horrible,” Fitz objected. “It’s—Malta, what happened in that dream—”

“I know.” Malta shook her head. “I know that boy, Fitz. The one who you kept changing into. I’ve seen him before. I’ve been him before. I won’t let him go this time. It’s too important.”

“She’s right,” the Fool said quietly. He nudged Fitz gently. “Trust her judgement.”

“But—” Fitz was baffled. He could not imagine seeing what he had dreamt and deciding to keep it. He felt sick at the thought that Malta had seen it at all.

“I’ll go back to your bunk,” Malta offered the Fool, who looked down at her with his eyebrows raised. “If you two want to talk privately, you can have my room. Just don’t wake Brashen.”

“We’ll try. Thank you, Malta.”

“Come on, Nighteyes.” Malta patted the wolf’s head as he waited patiently by Fitz. He stared up at him.

I feel we’ve been separated too much recently, the wolf complained.

“Go with Malta,” Fitz told Nighteyes quietly. “Keep her company.”

And you? You don’t need my company?

I have the Fool.

Oh, Nighteyes said amusedly, turning to trod after Malta, that sort of company.

We aren’t going to bed each other.

Not yet. But you want to.

Fitz ignored the wolf, his face warming as the Fool took his hand and squeezed it.

“I need to talk to Paragon,” he said quietly.

“I’ll wait here, then,” Fitz said, not wanting to sneak into the captain’s cabin alone, even if it was to go two paces to the left where Malta’s cabin was.

He sat down on a nearby barrel, watching the Fool dart across the deck to speak to the ship’s figurehead. The fear that he had felt so acutely at losing himself to the ship had not yet fled from him. He remembered the strange lull he had felt when he had first met the ship, to give himself over to it, to pour his painful memories into it.

It was like the stone dragons. It was just like the stone dragons.

And he wondered at that. A memory resurfaced of his brief time skimming the consciousness of She-Who-Remembers. The lifecycle of a dragon, the end becoming the beginning and the beginning becoming the end—

It registered to him, the thing that he had missed so entirely when absorbing the memories of the dragons. Perhaps he had set it all aside to keep his mind intact. But he knew it now. The dragons were inside Paragon because the ship held the memories of those dragons. The serpents spun cocoons which became dragons, unless, of course, they became liveships instead.

Fitz felt sick at the thought. His Wit sense of the ship had always been odd. He felt it as he would feel any animal, the immensity of it striking, but it had drawn him in, somehow. He was not exactly repulsed by the liveships, but there was an inherent wrongness to the Wit radiating off them when they were supposed to be wood.

But they were not wood. They were memories. Dragon memories.

Blood is memory, the old mad ship had cried when the serpent’s blood had scraped divots into his deck.

Blood had woken the stone dragons. Blood is memory.

The Fool returned not long later, looking at Fitz with a grim expression.

“Paragon is angry,” he said.

“At me or Malta?”

“Both.” The Fool shook his head furiously. “He thinks Malta prefers you and is choosing you over him. He’s angry that Malta and I are always choosing you. Oh, don’t look like that, Fitz, I told him that I love you both equally, and I expect that he’ll accept that. Eventually.”

“He’s been persistent about how much he does not like me recently.”

“Yes, well…” The Fool pursed his lips. “I suspect he might feel everything that happens on the ship. He wasn’t so hostile toward you until a few days ago.”

“What?” Fitz was baffled. “What happened a few days ago?”

“You kissed me,” the Fool reminded him amusedly.

“Oh. Wait, what?”

“He didn’t say anything about it specifically,” the Fool sighed, “I’m just speculating based on the timing of it all. Maybe he doesn’t like that we’ve been together, maybe he’s jealous of the intimacy. Or maybe he fears it.”

“What do you mean?” Fitz asked confusedly. “Why would he fear it?”

“Oh, why would anyone?” The Fool smiled at nothing in particular, and it was an empty smile that Fitz found disturbing on his friend’s merry face.

“Fool…”

“I have a working theory,” the Fool admitted, “but I’m not sure about it. I need more time to evaluate it. Do you want me with you tonight? I can go back to my bunk—”

“Please don’t leave me alone,” Fitz begged him. The Fool took his hand, warm from his fever, and he led him quietly back to Malta’s room without question.

It was easy to sneak in. Fitz’s assassin training and the Fool’s general existence proved them both adept at silently moving between the door of the captain’s cabin and the door of Malta’s room. Fitz shut the door behind him. Malta had lit a lantern when she’d awoken, but her bed remained unmade, her blankets crumpled around where she had been curled up perhaps an hour before. The Fool sat down silently on the bed.

“Malta was intuitive,” he said quietly, “offering you this. I don’t understand that girl at all.”

“She’s a wild one.” Fitz knew she’d been wild before he had ever stepped into her life, but he wondered if he made her worse. “Explaining this in the morning will be a headache, though.”

“You are my husband,” the Fool said sweetly, tipping his head to the side with a fey smile that caught Fitz’s heart. “You made sure that everyone knows it. No one will think much of it at all.”

And wasn’t that a strange thought? All of his anxiety about what people might think about him and the Fool, and yet here, it was so much stranger to everyone that he might not be bedding him. Because the Fool was a woman to them. And to Fitz, the Fool was not a woman at all, but he was beginning to suspect that he had accepted Amber’s existence more readily than any sane man ought to. And he knew she was a singularly beautiful creature, an otherworldly treasure that any man would be lucky to look at, let alone possess.

“What?” the Fool asked, his smile fading. “Does that bother you? You said it. I was trying to silence the gossip about the nature of our relationship when you decided to marry us, husband.”

“I was only thinking about how beautiful you are, wife,” he replied quietly.

The Fool blinked at him, his mouth parting as he watched Fitz with widening eyes. Fitz did not know how it could possibly shock him. The man had to know his own beauty. It made no sense that he could look like this and be completely oblivious to his radiance and charm. Fitz could not help himself as he kissed the Fool’s open mouth, feeling his shaky exhale and cupping is face gingerly. Burrich’s earring bobbed against Fitz’s knuckles, a strange reminder of Fitz’s love for this man and how utterly improbable it was that he would love this man at all. He wondered what Burrich would think of it. But then, Fitz recalled, Burrich had given the earring to Chivalry out of devotion, so perhaps Burrich would understand, like as not.

The mattress sank beneath Fitz’s weight as he drew himself upon it, the Fool falling back slowly, his arms encircling Fitz’s neck. He was quiet as Fitz kissed him hard enough to bruise, straddling him as he was struck with a need to feel in control of his own body and his own desire. He imagined it suddenly with vicious clarity, the Fool pinned under him, on his stomach, his back arching beneath Fitz’s hand—

Fitz wrenched himself away from the Fool, horror sinking into his very bones as he gazed down at the Fool’s swelling lower lip. Fitz must have bitten it, lost chasing desire that had morphed into something darker, and he could taste the Fool’s blood in his mouth. He had not heard the Fool gasp or cry. He only watched Fitz with a guarded look.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Fitz breathed, tears in his eyes.

“Because I expected this.” The Fool did not blink as the tears splashed upon his cheeks, rolling down his face as if they were his own. “I know you are afraid, and I know you are lonely, and I know you feel lost in your own body. The last time this happened, I knew it too. You coped with Starling.”

“Coped.” Fitz bit back a sob. “She knows how it feels, I suppose. And—and so do you. Which is why I—” Fitz lifted himself off the bed. He took a deep breath while the Fool laid behind him. “You think the solution to this is for me to fuck you so I can feel in control again? Why would I do that to you?”

“I don’t know.” The Fool sounded genuinely uncertain. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that, exactly. Only that it had worked once, and perhaps it could work again. But at the same time, I doubt it is a good idea to let the ship feel such a thing. He might hate you even more.”

“The ship…?” Fitz was mortified at the thought. “Could he feel that…?”

“I told you,” the Fool sighed, “I have a working theory.”

Fitz twisted to look down at him incredulously. The Fool sat up, swept his hair up into a messy knot atop his head, and he licked up the blood on his lip, tonguing it thoughtfully.

“Good thing my skin is peeling,” the Fool said quietly. “I can pass this away as my lips being so dry they’ve begun to crack. Anyway, my theory. Would you like to hear it, or are you going to sit there and gawk at me?” He wiped Fitz’s tears from his cheeks and took a deep breath. “I am not afraid of you, Fitz. My reservations about sexual intimacy are my own, and they have nothing to do with you. And I have clearly put some thought into it and decided that I would have you, if you would have me, but that is not on the table right now, clearly.”

“Well—” Fitz objected, earning a sharp look from the Fool. It was deserved, he supposed, as he had applied horror to what, in reality, was nothing more than what they had been doing for the past few days. It had been Fitz’s mind that had betrayed him, and it was silly to imagine he could ask to resume their tryst now.

“I suspect,” the Fool admitted, “that like you, like Starling, and like me, as you have so aptly put, Paragon has some uncomfortable memories surrounding sexual encounters. The memories that he put into you to give you that nightmare were someone’s. Someone on this ship was raped, and the ship remembers it.” The Fool bit his lip, toying with the split in it, and Fitz gingerly took his chin to stop him from tearing the cut open in earnest. He let go of his lip, lifting his chin between Fitz’s fingers, and watching him keenly. “That’s my theory, at least. I can’t prove it. I tried to ask him about it tonight, but he would only speak to me about how if you want me and Malta so badly then you can keep us because he’s used to being alone.”

“He’s a child,” Fitz breathed.

“Yes, Fitz. That is the thing, isn’t it?”

Fitz said nothing. The horror of it all, the nightmare that had faded out of memory, snatched back by the ship, leaving nothing but the knowledge and the feeling.

Malta had said she had seen someone else when looking into the nightmare.

“That’s terrible,” Fitz whispered.

“I could be wrong,” the Fool offered.

Fitz doubted it. It made more sense than he wanted to admit. Paragon’s behavior was that of a beaten, neglected, traumatized child. Of course it was. And Fitz had blamed him for it.

“Can I apologize for biting you?” Fitz asked after a long silence.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” the Fool said, sticking his tongue out so he could run it over the cut. “Should I? Shall I squawk at your teeth like little bird caught in a wolf’s maw? Silly man. I didn’t mind the first time you bit me, either. Perhaps I’ll bite you, next time.”

The thought was more thrilling than Fitz wanted to admit.

“You can come back up here,” the Fool said softly when Fitz said nothing, staring up at him forlornly, wishing to take back the last several minutes of their lives. “You can touch me. Or you can simply lie beside me. Regardless, Malta gave up her bed and her privacy, and you really should not sleep on the floor. The proximity to the wizardwood worries me.”

Fitz was on the bed in an instant. The Fool muffled a laugh.

“We must be quieter,” he urged. “I did not build this room with sound proofing in mind. I’d hate to wake Brashen.”

“Right.” Fitz would also hate to face the man. “Thank you, by the way.”

“I haven’t really done anything,” the Fool teased him. “You got in the way of that.”

“I mean just…” Fitz took a deep breath. He drew the Fool into a hug, feeling him stiffen in surprise. He wondered if, for all his words, he had not been so comfortable with how things had gone after all. “Thank you for being here. For always being here.”

“Yes, well…” The Fool let his cheek drop upon Fitz’s shoulder. “It’d be a long walk home, I’m afraid.”

Fitz muffled his laughter into the Fool’s neck, and they fell onto their sides like this, helplessly attempting to smother their giggles into Malta’s pillow. And then it became easy again, and Fitz was struck with how simple things could be when he remembered that he had loved this man long before he had ever desired him.

The Fool fell asleep with his head upon Fitz’s chest. Fitz thought he was lucky. And as dawn broke through Malta’s small window, the Fool’s hair caught sunlight, and it danced like fire along the glittering strands.

Chapter Text

Malta had been in the crow’s nest when they’d come upon the Chalcedean slaver. She had been the one to spot it, mentally calling it down to Paragon. She was ordered to stay up there, even as she reached for the rigging.

The battle was bloody. She saw everything from her vantage point. At a few points she could not look away, but she found herself sinking to the floor of the crow’s nest, clutching her knife in horror. When she had killed Lavoy, it had been so easy. She had handed him a bowl of pottage and walked away. Now she had to wonder if killing was easy at all, or if she had just gotten lucky the first time.

She had tried to pick Fitz out in the battle. Paragon asked her if he could use her eyes to see where he could not. He had been relatively absent in her mind the past couple days. Malta was frustrated that he was so eager to take things away. She wondered if all liveships were so hungry for memories.

The Chalcedean slaver had a decent sized crew, from her estimation. They fought hard, perhaps expecting pirates, and Malta was distraught at the excess of bloodshed as the crews clashed. In reality, she did not know where Fitz was. She only knew that he was still alive because she reached for him instinctively, feeling the warmth of his mind somewhere close by, but unable to get through to him. She called to him several times worriedly.

The killing thrilled her, in a distant, sickening way. It shamed her enough that she closed her eyes, and it struck her as odd only when Paragon chided her to keep them open.

“This is you,” she said breathlessly, fighting her disgust and her hunger, wondering if any of the emotions she felt were her own. “You want blood.”

“I want justice!” cried the old ship.

Malta said nothing. She wanted justice, too. But not against these slavers. She and Paragon had an unspoken enemy in common.

She wanted to spill pirate blood on this deck more than she wanted to see dawn tomorrow. And she had thought for a long time now that it was her own sick desire for vengeance that ghosted her thoughts. But it was Paragon. It was Paragon, so deeply and truly, that now it was her too.

But these were not pirates.

Paragon did not care. And as Malta lifted her head over the edge of her lookout platform and watched blades carve great hunks of flesh from the sailors, Paragon and slaver alike, she found herself caring less and less.

It ended suddenly. Malta knew they had won as she watched the slaver’s crew, or what remained of it, huddled in a row on their deck. A figure walked before them, studying them. She realized it was Fitz.

Will you kill them?

She was surprised when the man lifted his head, looking around in surprise, as if he had forgotten she could speak into his mind.

No, said Fitz. We’re setting the slaves free and letting them decide what to do with them. Though they will probably kill them. I told Brashen as much.

“Good,” Malta and Paragon said in unison.

Fitz whirled in place. Malta felt his wariness as he peered up where, if he squinted, maybe, he might see her. She ducked away from him, pressing her hand to the platform below and sending her encouragement to Paragon. They had won and gotten their justice. They had won, and now they could put this bloodlust aside.

“Malta Vestrit!” Fitz cried from the deck of the Paragon. He had leapt the distance, she realized, heart sinking. Like a madman. “Get down here!”

Malta sat very still. She knew he was angry. She could sense his anger, and she knew he was angry. He was displeased about something. He would strike her if she went down to the deck. If she hid up here, in the crow’s nest, she would be safe.

Malta, you need to take your hand off the wizardwood, Fitz told her, his voice far gentler inside her mind than outside it. Now!

It was as if the wood had scorched her palm, the way she wrenched it from the floor of the lookout platform. She gasped in shock, cradling her hand and blinking wildly, feeling as though she had just broken the surface of the sea after a great stretch of eternity in the depths. Fear was cold and listless in her belly as she drifted to her feet.

“Stop talking in her head!” Paragon snapped. “Stop telling her what to do! You’re not her father, you’re not even a father to your own daughter! Just stop! Leave us alone!”

The terror she felt battled her absolute mortification at Paragon saying those words, which she had thought were locked deep in her own mind. She struggled to grab hold of the rigging around the crow’s nest, her leather boots dancing along the rope until she caught the foreyard. She dangled over the foredeck, over the mast, and Paragon tipped his head up at her. He knew exactly where she was.

“Malta!”

She stepped off the yard and dropped into Paragon’s waiting hands.

It had been like flying, briefly. Like she had grown wings and taken flight, the purpose of her abrupt journey into open air scattering to the wind as she sat in Paragon’s palms, listening to the harried shouts of the crew and feeling Fitz push anxiously at her Skill barriers.

“Paragon,” Malta said, careful not to let her bare hands brush his, “why are you giving me your feelings?”

“You keep giving me yours,” Paragon retorted glibly. “It’s an exchange, little one! You wanted this, remember? Do you regret it now that it’s become too hard to share a mind with me? Oh, my Malta! You haven’t any idea what I shield from you.”

“Give her over, ship. Now.”

Fitz was at the rail of the foredeck. Amber was beside him, reaching down to touch Paragon’s shoulder.

“If she wants to,” Paragon retorted, “she’ll do it. I told you to leave us alone!”

“Paragon,” Amber said, sounding uncertain, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you. This wasn’t what I expected you to do, when we got into our first real battle. Listen to me, Malta is safe. Tom is not going to hurt her.”

Paragon’s hands cupped her close to his chest. She saw the remnants of the terrible star that had been carved there, and she exhaled shakily. Amber had sanded the star down so there was little of it that remained. And yet, Paragon still felt it there, as if it was still part of him.

“Paragon,” Malta murmured, heart thundering, “let me go. It’s alright, I’m not angry with you, but you can’t hold me here forever. Let me back on the deck.”

Hesitantly, he lifted her up. Fitz caught her up in an instant, lifting her over the rail and pulling her in a tight hug, and she was met with the cold awareness that his shirt was damp with blood. Still, she tried to shake Paragon’s anxieties from her mind as she let him hug her. This man, she reminded herself, was not a threat. He shared her mind. He shared her dreams. The world’s order had bent so they could form a connection by magic. The fear she felt was Paragon’s fear, not her own.

Amber was murmuring to the ship as Malta was pulled away. She gazed over at the galley beside them, meeting the eyes of several wild-eyed slaves who had been brought to the deck and were being informed by Brashen of their freedom. Althea was on the galley too, ferrying the slaves onto the surface of the vessel.

She was surprised when Fitz dragged her to her small room. She stood silently in the doorway as he dug through her things like a man possessed.

“Will you stop?” Malta asked frustratedly. “What are you even doing? What are you looking for?”

He overturned a small box of trinkets on Malta’s bed, and she bit back a cry of dissent as he plucked her leather gloves from the pile and whirled on her. He held the gloves up with a scowl.

“These stay on,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Do you have any idea how much danger you have been putting yourself in, letting the ship into your mind so easily?”

“I let you in,” Malta retorted, catching the gloves as he tossed them at her. “It’s not any different, Fitz. You two are so much more alike than either of you wish to admit!”

Blood was dripping from his forehead where someone had managed to strike him. His face was transformed when bloody, his boyishness giving way under the weight of his white scars, and he seemed carved out of stone as he scowled at her, a dangerous sort of look heavy in his eyes. She glared back at him, pushing down her fear, pushing it down deep, because it was the ship’s anxiety, not her own, and she was wise enough to know the difference.

“He will take things from you,” Fitz warned, “that can’t be replaced, Malta. You love the ship, fine. But he’s dangerous. Not because he’s erratic and moody, but because he is made of memory and emotion, and every time you touch him, you put a little of your own memory and a little of your own emotion into him.”

“Okay?” Malta did not understand the issue. “My family has been doing that for years with Vivacia. I know how a liveship works, Fitz, this is our livelihood. It’s not dangerous like the way you think it is.”

“Yes it is!” Fitz looked at her like she was half mad. “You are too young to realize it, but throwing yourself into a magical entity like the Paragon is the easiest way to lose yourself entirely! He can’t help but steal bits and pieces of you, it’s not his fault he was made this way, but he is stealing from you.”

“He’s giving me more than he’s taking,” Malta said, shaking her head. “I know that. I’m not an idiot, Fitz! I know he’s been hurt in a thousand ways, and the fact that he trusts any of us is a miracle. He doesn’t trust you, but you don’t trust him, either!”

“He’s a dragon, Malta!” Fitz was angry and frustrated enough that she realized she would have no luck speaking to him at all. She felt his despair and wondered what this was really about.

“He’s a liveship.” Malta took a deep breath. She slipped the gloves onto her hands and flexed them, grimacing at how they restricted her fingers. If it appeased Fitz, she’d wear them. It wasn’t like she needed to touch the ship to communicate with him. “Yes, the dragons are there, but they don’t bother me. Not any more or less than our dragon, who is very impatiently waiting to be freed.”

“Malta—”

Nighteyes came up behind her suddenly, headbutting her legs. She yelped in surprise, glancing down at the wolf confusedly.

“What?” she gasped.

“He wants us to stop fighting,” Fitz said heavily. “He said that I should explain why I’m so afraid of what the ship might do to you.”

“Explain, then!” Malta threw her hands up with a huff. It was undignified, but at this point, she could not keep up any sort of mask with Fitz. He knew her heart as readily as he knew his eyes and ears and fingers. “What could be so scary about my connection with Paragon? It’s not different than my connection with you!”

“I don’t take from you,” Fitz said quietly. He took a deep breath and shook his head. “Liveships are made of memories and emotions, as I said. In my country, in the Six Duchies, we had a war. Do you remember this?”

“Yes,” Malta said hesitantly. “It was against raiders of some kind, wasn’t it?”

“The Red Ships came,” Fitz said cautiously, “and raided towns—this was not abnormal for Outislanders, who often raided our coasts. Slavers raided our coasts too, which is how Clef was stolen from his home. But the Red Ships, they came, first, to a town called Forge. That town was raided, and its people held captive. King Shrewd, my grandfather, was given a ransom for these captives. Pay a fee, or the captives would be set free.”

“What?” Malta thought Fitz was mixing up his wording as she shook her head. “You mean pay the fee to set them free, surely.”

“No, Malta.” Fitz’s expression was so terrible that she realized how mistaken she was. A chill ran through her. She wondered if it was Fitz’s horror that she felt. “My grandfather refused to pay the ransom, and so the people of Forge were set free. They were empty husks, with no feeling, no ties to their humanity, shuffling around without a care for who they hurt or what they had to do to sate their desires. Hunger, thirst, comfort. Lust, too. Malta, they were not human any longer. They had been what we now call Forged, and I don’t know how, but I think it might be connected to your liveships.”

“That’s not possible,” Malta huffed. “Oh, Fitz… I understand it now, I do, I can feel how frightened you are, but it’s not like that at all. Firstly, we’d know if your Outislander barbarians had gotten a liveship, somehow. Liveships come from the Rain Wilds, you know.”

“Yes,” Fitz sighed, “I’m aware. I’m not saying they have a liveship, exactly—”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I don’t know!” Fitz whisked the stray hairs that had become stuck to his bloody face back from his cheeks. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know how they did it, only that they did, and that Paragon threatened to do something similar to me. Maybe they had wizardwood. Maybe they used something else, something similar to wizardwood, with the same… the same attributes.”

“Like what?” Malta asked uncertainly. “Is there any wood like wizardwood?”

“Not wood, exactly.” Fitz looked dazed. “Stone, though. Stone…”

“Okay.” Malta had heard enough. She placed her hands up on Fitz’s shoulders and offered him a small smile. “I get it, Fitz. I’ll be more careful, and I’ll wear the gloves. I won’t be Forged, or whatever it’s called, and neither will you. Paragon distrusts you, but it’s not your fault, I think you remind him of someone else.”

She had a face but not a name there. It irritated her that she had to constantly fight Paragon’s desire to throw his hatred of a dead man onto Fitz, when Fitz had committed no crime to warrant the comparison.

“What have I ever done to this ship to make him fear me?” Fitz groaned.

“It’s not you.” Malta was sure of that. “It’s not you at all. Trust me on that. I’ll try to convince Paragon, and ask Amber to try too.”

“I’d like you to stop going over the edge,” Fitz said stiffly.

“Didn’t we tell you that you’re not my father?” Malta teased him. His mouth dropped open, floundering in shock. She laughed as she patted his shoulders. “You’re disgusting, by the way. Did we lose a lot of men? It was hard to tell, up in the lookout.”

“We lost more than we bargained for,” Fitz sighed. He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “The Fool said he wants to—Amber said she wants to speak with the slaves, see what they want to do. She suspects some will join us, which will fill out our crew.”

“That’s clever.”

“She’s not doing it because it suits us,” Fitz said with a small, fond smile. “She’s very eager about this direction we’re taking, freeing the slaves. Before your little stunt, I was sure I hadn’t seen her so pleased in a long time. Which, by the way, if you ever jump from the rigging again—”

“Paragon was going to catch me no matter what,” Malta huffed.

“I don’t care!” Fitz snapped. “It doesn’t matter what you believe, you could have died!”

She bit back a flinch. She stuffed Paragon’s feelings deep and locked them up tight. They were useless right now.

“I’m fine,” she told him curtly. “You’re the one who’s hurt. Can I at least tend to the cut on your forehead?”

Fitz looked down at her with a frown as he reluctantly let her lead him to sit down on the edge of her bed so she could take water from her basin and dab at his forehead with a rag. She felt Paragon at the edge of her mind, and she turned the information that Fitz had given her over to him.

Did you really threaten to do that to him? She watched Fitz’s jaw set as she scraped the rag over his cut. He watched her face tiredly while Nighteyes jumped onto her bed, lowering his head in Fitz’s lap. Can you even do that?

I was angry. Paragon sounded defensive. I wouldn’t do it, you know. I just said it because I was angry. Will you wear gloves all the time now?

I think it might be a good idea.

He wants to keep you all to himself, the ship warned her. He’s not your father. He’s just a man who crawls along your mind. Are you sure you trust him?

Amber trusts him, do you give her this much grief about it?

Ah. Amber loves me, Malta, that’s true, but you know she can’t feel what we feel. One day she will leave me, like they all do. Even you will leave me one day. Unless, of course, you don’t.

“I can feel you speaking to him,” Fitz muttered.

“I can’t help it.” Malta grimaced. She tried to push Paragon out of her mind, but he clung stubbornly. “I think he’s lonely. He hasn’t had someone to share his heart with in a long time, it seems.”

“Because his family all died.”

“Yes.” Malta leaned back and assessed the cut. It was smaller than she had assumed. “That’s better, I think. The bleeding’s mostly stopped.”

“Malta,” Fitz said, taking her hand and looking up at her with big, desperate eyes, “if the Skill is the thing that dooms you because I was too weak to teach you properly to guard yourself, then I will never forgive myself. The ship is too dangerous. Can’t you trust me on that?”

“I trust you, Fitz,” Malta said gently.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.” Malta squeezed his hand and turned away. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

You’re lying.

Malta shooed the old ship away.

“You’re lying, Malta,” Fitz muttered.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and found herself smiling in disbelief.

“You really are just alike,” she told him fondly. She left him there to stew on that.

They sailed to the nearest pirate port, which was called Divvytown. Fitz was still deeply displeased over Malta’s deepening connection with Paragon, but Nighteyes reminded him over and over that he could not stop it any more than Heart of the Pack had been able to stop their bond.

The comparison was sobering.

“She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” he complained to the Fool as he stood at the wheel of the slaver, which had been called Gallantry, but had since been rechristened by the freed slaves. They called the ship Dawn. Fitz, as the second mate, had been assigned this post to help steer the ship into port. He had no idea how to steer a ship like this, used to Six Duchies rowing vessels, so the Fool volunteered to come with him. Fitz did not know if it was more because of his presence or because he could be around the slaves. “The Skill is dangerous enough on its own, but having this Skill-bond with Paragon—it didn’t scare me as much, at first, because I didn’t know how serious it could be. Forging, Fool!”

“I’ve spoken to him about it,” the Fool told him gently. A little slave girl was at the wheel beside him, studying how he stood at the wheel. Fitz suspected she would want to join their crew, if they let her. He doubted Brashen would, however. Fitz knew he should be more careful about how he spoke in front of little girls, given his track record, but it wasn’t like the freed slave child had any master to report to anymore. “He thinks you’re just as dangerous, you know, but he won’t give me a reason why.”

“Oh, I remind him of someone else, Malta said.” Fitz scowled. “Does us all a lot of good, doesn’t it? I’ve done nothing to the damn ship, and he hates me more than he hated Lavoy.”

“He actually quite liked Lavoy.”

“Exactly!” Fitz threw his hands up in frustration. “Exactly, what did he get out of that? He knew Lavoy beat the crew, and he enjoyed his company anyway. I’ve never laid a hand on anyone, but somehow he still makes Malta think I’m going to give her a beating that will leave her bloody on the deck.”

“It’s all trauma, Tom,” the Fool said with a sigh. “Scars, I suppose. You should be empathetic. You have just as many scars, and you can be just as irrational and just as stubborn. You’re doing it now, you know.”

“What?” Fitz felt betrayed by this assessment.

The Fool turned to the little girl and smiled.

“Tiral, would you like to hold the wheel for a bit? Whistle if you see the Paragon move too far away. Clef will help you.”

“Yes, Amber!” the girl cried eagerly. Her small, tattooed face flushed with eagerness as she grabbed hold of the massive steering wheel. Fitz did not think she could actually steer it herself, but Clef had been at the wheel a handful of times, and likely could manage it.

“Listen to me,” the Fool said, taking his arm and leading him down the forward deck, “I know. I understand. It’s not an unwarranted anxiety, Fitz. But Paragon loves Malta. He wouldn’t hurt her.”

“He might not be able to help it,” Fitz argued.

“I have to believe that it’s not the same,” the Fool said steadily. He lifted his head toward the cloudy sky and shrugged. “I’ve worked wizardwood before, with Ophelia’s hands. I didn’t put any of myself into her, the way I did with Girl-on-a-Dragon. So I think wizardwood is inherently less dangerous. Still, advising caution is not a bad thing. I noticed Malta wearing her gloves when we left.”

“We’ll see if she still has them on when we return,” Fitz said darkly.

“I don’t like that face,” the Fool chided him, “or that expression. Where is my charming, handsome husband, and what have you done with him?”

“Oh, Fool,” Fitz groaned as the Fool tugged at his cheeks, determinedly yanking at his beard. “Ouch! Okay, stop. I can’t magick myself charming or handsome.”

“Oh, but you already have!” The Fool smiled at him brightly, drawing his fingers over Fitz's brow where his furrow had smoothed. “There we are. Good as new. No more grumpy old wolf.”

The worst part of this arrangement was leaving Nighteyes. Fitz had tried to coax him over to the Dawn, but the wolf had taken one look at the gangplank and turned away with a swish of his tail.

I’ll stay with the Little Viper, Changer, the wolf informed him curtly. Agility aside, I dislike the swaying of these floating cages, and I trust not the bearing of that wood to support my weight. No. I will protect our lizardy cub if you protect our eager pup.

He meant Clef, who had insisted on coming to the slave ship as soon as Brashen allowed him. He had not been granted to board it during the battle which had them taking substantial losses, and it was a relief to Fitz knowing that he had been relatively safe on the Paragon. Now he ran about, teaching the slaves how to do things about the ship like tying knots and scaling the rigging. His presence had also afforded Fitz more respect, because all of the slaves instantly took to Clef, and Clef explained that Althea had freed him while Tom had taken him in.

Amber had earned her respect by merely being herself. Fitz often watched the Fool become her in wonder, seeing her flourish among the slaves. Some pointed out her earring. This, too, earned Fitz respect, as Amber immediately told them that it had been her husband’s father’s.

Fitz was Amber’s husband here. Amber’s husband, Clef’s father, but no one really knew or cared for his name. They knew Kennit’s name, though.

“What if we find Kennit in Divvytown?” Fitz asked suddenly. The Fool arched a brow. “How far do we go?”

“Right now,” the Fool said, “we are smoothly drawing fish into a net. Kennit frees slaves. We know this. We have brought his fleet another ship, with prisoners. Though he might just kill the slavers. He has that reputation. But he’ll likely hear us out, given we are strengthening his numbers and, if nothing else, us being a liveship will grab his attention.”

“What if he sees us as a threat?” Fitz pressed. “What if he wants the Paragon? What if he wants an exchange?”

The Fool’s eyes widened. He had not considered the possibility, for whatever reason.

“Paragon won’t go without a fight,” he said quietly.

“And that frightens me.”

“No more of this,” the Fool said, his gaze far off and his voice thin. “It will not happen like that.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it then? You might offer some insight, then. I feel mad thinking about it.”

“There is much of this journey I haven’t seen.” The Fool offered Fitz a small, somewhat guilty smile. “Sometimes I fear that I changed too much. That you’ve changed too much. Still, we tread forward. I know we must trust our course.”

“Your faith astounds me,” Fitz said dryly.

“Faith in the future is an easy thing,” the Fool said breezily, “for the sun always rises, even after a starless night. Nothing lasts forever, Beloved.”

“I suppose not.” Fitz sighed at that. “I guess I thought it different, that your faith is something intangible. The sunrise is expected. The future, that’s uncertain.”

“And so it is!” The Fool grinned at him broadly. “And we march toward it anyway! How brave of us.”

This was not the first time Fitz had worried about their confrontation with the so-called pirate king. He thought his companions were very idealistic about the outcome of this situation, assuming Captain Kennit wanted ransom money or more freed slaves, when he was clearly capable of taking both things whenever and wherever he wanted. Fitz had silently gathered as much information as he could over the stay on the ship, which was more than he expected. Slaves talked amongst one another. And Kennit was a legend.

What was his reasoning? Fitz sat that night in the captain’s quarters of the slaver, which had been stripped of anything valuable by the freed slaves. They allowed him this space only because they afforded Amber the respect they thought she was due, and Fitz was her husband. Clef and another of their crew were steering the ship, though it had taken convincing from Clef to get them in here. Admittedly, the cold weather was vicious on the arrow wound that stretched painfully upon his back, and the Fool, who was only just beginning to shake free of his fever, was shooed off to take care of “her hobbling old man,” as Clef had put it so kindly.

“I want to talk this through,” Fitz said suddenly, sitting upright in bed and twisting to face the Fool. He was sitting by a brazier, warming his hands, a thin blanket draped upon his slender shoulders. He had been wearing a high-necked vest that afternoon to make up for the loose neckline of the shirt he wore, and his tattoo stood bright against his pale brown skin, looping tails of sapphire and emerald flitting against his spinal column, scales illuminated as if gemstones had been painstakingly sewn into his back.

Fitz thought he knew, then, what the tattoo might be. He forced himself to not think too long or too hard about it.

“Speak, then,” the Fool said glibly. He seemed to have realized that his tattoo was visible, because he shrugged the blanket tighter to himself, shielding it from view. Fitz decided to ignore it for his sake.

“Put yourself in this man’s shoes,” Fitz said, waving his hands wildly in a circular motion, “and tell me what it would take for you, a longtime pirate, by the sound of it, to suddenly care about slaves enough to start freeing them when—and bear with me, I know you disagree, just bear with me—when they are just as valuable a commodity as casks of wine or bolts of fabric. Is it his good heart? Is it personal trauma? Perhaps he was a slave. Okay, so he was a slave, let’s say, and this is vengeance and justice. He calls himself a king, Fool. You heard them. He thinks he is a king. Is that justice? He’s freeing these people and giving them sustainable lives, alright—and in return, their undying loyalty. Life for loyalty.”

The Fool had straightened up considerably, his eyes large and round as he listened to Fitz babble senselessly, spilling his thoughts between them without hesitation. If it had been someone else, Althea or Brashen, they would have found these words confusing or troubling, but the Fool seemed to know Fitz’s thoughts as keenly as he knew his own, and he followed an invisible thread with the mental agility that would put his limber body to shame. There was something unsaid between them, in that phrase.

Life for loyalty. It was their own past mirrored back at them, children playing merrily in the shadows suddenly struck still by the light that had been cast on the bars of the cage their loyalty had built around them.

“You suspect that our chain-breaking pirate king is not as benevolent as we’ve been led to believe," the Fool said cautiously. He said nothing of Shrewd, which was for the best. They had never spoken of the old king, and Fitz was frightened to hear anything the Fool had to say about him.

Bought and paid for.

Fitz did not want to think about Shrewd and the Fool.

"I think it's a real possibility that nobody wants to address," Fitz said, staring into the man’s golden eyes, which reflected the warmth of the brazier like topaz gemstones flickering in the sunlight. “Not even you want to address it.”

“I know it’s a possibility, Fitz,” he said quietly. “I’ve been considering it since we spoke to Wintrow through Malta. I have my own reservations about this pirate king. Wintrow said that Kennit believes that he was brought to him by Sa. He thought of Wintrow as Sa’s prophet. It fills me with dread, that, but I can’t explain why. I’ve no visions to fall back on, only the need to find a nine-fingered slave boy, which I failed to do.”

“You did find him, though,” Fitz reminded him. “You found him. Because Malta came on this voyage, you found him, and you were the one to convince Malta to come, so it was you all along.”

“It wasn’t me, Fitz.” The Fool smiled up at him fondly. “It was you. But continue, talk me through your thoughts on Captain Kennit. You assume he has less than kind intentions?”

“I don’t know.” Fitz shook his head, throwing his legs over the side of the bunk and sighing. “My gut tells me that no good man wants to be a king. Desiring that sort of power, believing himself worthy of it, believing that a child came into his life to prophecy his kingdom into being… even if he was a slave, once, the result of his benevolence is kingship. The question is whether he intended it that way or not, I suppose.”

“And that’s the difference between a good man and a bad one?”

“It’s the difference between a dangerous man and a sane one,” Fitz said gravely.

“Well said.” The Fool’s smile spread upon his lips, his head tipping onto his shoulder. “So we gamble. We chance it. There is no way of knowing the man’s mind or heart before meeting him. We must go in good faith.”

“We might be going into a bear’s den,” Fitz warned.

“And perhaps that bear might spare us some salmon he caught jumping in the river and not eat our faces while we rest in his company,” the Fool said dryly. “As I said, we gamble. I like it less than you do, trust me. My dreams have been unreliable lately. They’ve changed, too, you know.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s different.” The Fool took a deep breath and twisted to face him. His golden curls spilled against sun-kissed shoulders, and Fitz watched his slender neck stretch to face him. A momentary lapse of judgement had him imagining that neck beneath his mouth as he felt the vibrations of the Fool’s melodic voice pipe from his lips as if Fitz could play him like a flute. He shook his head to banish the thought.

The Fool, like this, bare and simple as he’d been in his cabin in Jhaampe, made Fitz feel lost in his own desire, because he did not know what he was supposed to do with it. It was different than how he had desired Molly, but not so different, he supposed, as he remembered how easy it had been to be Newboy and chase Molly Nosebleed up and down the streets of Buckkeep Town. He had always thought his friendship with the Fool was different than what he’d had with Molly, but if he looked far enough back into the cloudy pool of his memory, they had occupied much of the same space in his childhood. Newboy chased Molly Nosebleed, the Fool haunted the Fitz, and children outgrew the confines of comfortable companionship. But companionship, to a child, did not mean anything more than acceptance. So easily could Molly Nosebleed have rejected Newboy. So easily could the Fool have ignored Fitz entirely and left him to his lonely little life as the Bastard of Buckkeep.

The revelation that friendship had turned to love which turned to desire came, Fitz supposed, with the revelation that he had grown up. The difference was that Molly had become a beautiful and desirable young woman—and, Fitz realized with stinging dread, was that not also true of the Fool? Could any man truly blame him for wanting a man who had been by his side since his memory began, who had traveled to the end of the world with him, who had been in his head and in his soul and shared in his grief and pain—that man who had suddenly flourished into a woman whose hair floated like golden thread around her angular face, whose eyes twinkled like amber glass in firelight, who moved with the grace of a dancer and spoke with a voice like a clear summer afternoon.

To realize that he was in love was a horrifying little thought that he tucked into the recesses of his mind.

Yet that banishment of the thought did not banish the Fool from his sight, and he watched his dearest companion shift against the hard planks of the wooden floor, his eyes drifting to Fitz’s face and studying him as he was studied. He plucked at the loose thread of his blanket, an idle and thoughtful motion. He took a deep breath.

“When I was young,” said the Fool in that gravelly combination of his naturally melodic voice and Amber’s higher register, “I foretold so many things. It made sense to me, then, the way the world makes sense to a child’s mind—the sky is blue because the clouds are white, the trees have branches for tiny hands to climb them, and apricots grow in endless groves because they are delicious. So, too, was my foresight. My sister would break her arm while hiking one year, long after I left her, but I would always tell her to watch her arm anyway when she climbed with me. I didn’t understand. To me it was already broken, and it would always be broken. My mother’s hair would turn white before her time, and though I never saw it with my eyes open, I would say, ‘We look so alike, you and I, we look so alike.’ Because to me, we did, and we would, and then we wouldn’t, for I would change, and she would change, but for an instant in the great cosmic scheme of things, she and I shared in this. When her hair went white, she spoke of me to all who would hear, and she would say, ‘Beloved, we look so alike!’ And so I spoke her words back to her a thousand days before her tongue ever formed them. She’s dead now, I’m sure. I saw that, too. She dies, she died, she dies. She died in my bedroom. I know this, because I could not sleep there. I slept anywhere, everywhere, but in my bed. A child’s understanding of cause and effect. I thought if I did not sleep in that bed, she would not die in it. So, often, I slept in her bed, tucked between her and my fathers, knowing she was dead before I knew what life even was.”

It made no sense to Fitz. It was babbling, senseless babbling, and still, he felt a twinge of heartache for the Fool as he recounted prophecies and family long gone. The mention of fathers was something he could question later. Perhaps the Fool had misspoken. 

“When you are a child,” the Fool said quietly, “even a normal child, I suspect—you get threads of knowledge. The sky is blue, the clouds are white, the tree grows apricots. As you grow, you apply that knowledge, you take it in your hands, and you braid it together. A tree grows apricots because an insect or a bird pollinated it. That is knowledge you learn later. You do not need to learn it to know that an apricot fits perfectly in your small hands, and a tree has branches that your limbs perfectly bend and stretch with. Prophecy is like that. I knew things to be, and only later saw why, but in that instant, to a child’s mind, things are what they are because they fit perfectly.”

“Oh,” Fitz said dumbly.

The Fool sucked in a deep breath. He shook his head furiously, a short laugh bright on his lips as his eyes fell sharply.

“I’m not speaking plainly,” he murmured.

“I don’t know if this is something you can put in plain terms,” Fitz offered, his mind full of imaginings, the Fool’s round, childish face bright with laughter as he climbed a tree or a parapet, no fear of his own safety. “I sort of see what you mean, though. At least about childhood. You know mine was strange, but that was sort of how the Wit felt like.”

“Really?” The Fool straightened up eagerly, looking stunned to find some common footing between their two magics. “Explain. Please.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Fitz rubbed his face tiredly. “The world, when you’re Witted, it’s—everything is connected, and you feel the life all around you, so even when you’re alone, you feel that connection tying you to the air that you breathe. Living things are all around us. So I had this awareness of people and animals, a feeling like kinship. It just was. It felt natural, until Burrich told me it wasn’t.”

“Such is the case with so many adults who spy a child’s curiosity and decide it is dangerous,” the Fool said, without judgement, somehow, his tone level and somber.

“Does any of that make sense to you?” Fitz asked helplessly.

“It does. It makes abstract sense.” The Fool smiled at him warmly. “I understand how the feeling is similar, though I have no way to draw on that feeling myself.”

“Come here,” Fitz said instantly, shaking his sleeve back and offering it to the Fool without hesitation. “I can show you.”

The Fool drifted to his feet, his body-language more Amber in this instant than springy, wild-limbed Fool. He clasped the blanket tight in one fist at his chest as he drew himself upon the bed beside Fitz, folding his legs beneath him and peering closely at his face. Then he glanced down at his own dusted fingerprints on Fitz’s dark skin.

He leaned closer, carefully removing the glove from his hand, and his Skill-fingers glinted like molten silver folded over gold as he let them take their place against Fitz’s wrist.

And there he was, there they were, as perfect a fit as an apricot in the palm of their hand. They sat, they lingered, they drank in the ease of one another, the simplicity of being when they were one and not two, when they were them and not he. The breath they breathed was synchronicity, their heartbeats aligning, their pulse steady beneath their fingers. They were comfortable like this for a long time. And then, suddenly remembering the purpose of this joining, they quested out.

They felt the ship around them, not the wood, as they would have on Paragon, but the people within. There was pain in that. It was hard to ignore the pain, heart-deep, mind-sick pain, and physical pain, too. There were many feeble limbs, chafed and bloody ankles, broken fingers and broken skin, and other such injuries that plagued the poor, sickly lot. Yet they would live. They would live past this ship, and they would heal.

Together again, Nighteyes thought with bright amusement. It was the Fool who spoke for them both, shaky and uncertain.

Oh, I have missed you! The Fool quested for Nighteyes, pulling Fitz along with him until they were once again an amalgamated being. I miss you. I wish you were here.

I know. We will be together soon. For now, be whole, and know I am with you this way.

When Fitz looked down at the Fool, he saw there were tears on his face, an almost lazy current of unceasing emotion. He tried to lift his fingers from his arm in a panic, and the Fool seized his wrist, staring, perhaps, through the wolf’s eyes.

“Whole,” the Fool uttered quietly. “Do you feel the same?”

Fitz said nothing. He felt the Fool’s emotions as clearly as if they were his own, because in this instant, they were. Tears spilled onto his cheeks, and he pulled the Fool down with him as he laid upon the bed, curling around him and kissing his tear-stained cheeks. Still as one, the Fool lifted his face to meet the kiss he beckoned for.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Malta had been sitting on the rail beside Paragon, mending a shirt, when he had suddenly seized up in horror. Brashen had asked her to do this outside her room, because he wanted to speak to Althea. Lonely without Clef and Fitz, Malta sought out Paragon, who was likely just as lonely without Amber.

They were not each other’s entire world, Malta knew, because they both had other people to attend to. Without them, they were floundering.

“Paragon?” Malta leaned over and touched his shoulder. He shrugged her off. When she reached for him, mentally, he pushed her back. “Hey! What’s happening? What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Paragon sounded very small and very far away. “Go away, Malta.”

“What have I done?” she huffed. She slid off the rail and shook her head. “You’re closing me out. Why are you doing that? I know you’re scared, you know, you can’t hide that from me!”

Paragon did not answer, though. He merely crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. Malta bit back a cry of frustration and took a deep breath. Without Fitz nearby, and with Paragon firmly holding her away from him, like a father placing a toddler in a gated pen, she felt inescapably lonely.

“Is it better to let me wonder?” Malta demanded. “I can wonder a lot of things, Paragon. I have a wide imagination. So! Tell me what’s going on with you?”

“Hush,” the old ship said quietly. “Shh. Stop talking. Sit here if you must, but—no. Don’t sit here. Just—”

“Paragon?” Malta was truly worried now. She leaned over the rail again, and he lifted a hand, urging her back.

“Go climb the rigging, boy,” Paragon muttered. “Go up high. Don’t come down, you hear? Don’t come down until I say.”

“What?” Malta was baffled. A chill ran through her as she gripped the railing with her bare hands. Yes, alright, she’d taken the gloves off upon approaching the figurehead. She felt him toiling. Yet it seemed so far away, suddenly. She had not realized he could do that. “Paragon, I’m not him. I’m not—”

She’d had the name, and then she lost it.

“Up!” the ship cried. “Up you go! Not another word. I will tell you when it is over.”

Malta backed away from the figurehead slowly. She tugged her gloves back on with haste. There were tears in her eyes, the rejection stinging, but she was too angry with the ship for pushing her away, even with physical contact, that she tidied her hair and straightened her shirt before turning away abruptly. She said nothing to her ship. If he was upset about something, it was not her problem if he could not communicate that to her.

She went to the captain’s cabin and opened the door.

It jostled on its hinges, locked from the inside.

She gaped at the handle beneath her hand. Dusk settled at her back, and she was growing cold from the autumn wind. Had Brashen locked her out? Why? She tried again.

“Captain?” she called. She got no answer. Was he sleeping? No, she remembered, he’d called Althea to him.

Oh.

Malta’s mouth opened and closed. She found herself surprised at her own ability to turn around and walk away.

This, she thought, was scandalous. She wondered dimly if she should tell someone, but then realized that Brashen and Althea were the closest people to her on the ship right now. She found herself nodding at the timing of it. Well, stolen kisses were hardly abnormal on the ship. She knew that Fitz and Amber had been rather intent on exploring each other recently, partly because she had an awareness of Fitz’s mind that could not be undone, and partly because she had sent them off to her room alone a few nights prior.

Walking back across the deck, Malta leaned over the rail, not to look at Paragon, but to look at the ugly little galley trailing after them. Brashen had said they should arrive in Divvytown tomorrow, and then the rest of the crew who had gone over to sail the ship would be back. She instinctively reached for Fitz, and she found a wall between them.

“Is everyone shutting me out tonight?” she seethed to herself. She was bitter and irritated, blaming Brashen and Althea for their romantic interlude, as it kept her from her bed. She was angry at Paragon for broadcasting his negativity and saying nothing about it. And Fitz… well, she did not know what was happening with him, but it was frustrating, either way!

She felt something warm brush against her side. She looked down to see Nighteyes watching her keenly.

“Oh,” she sighed. It was a relief to see the wolf, but it did not help her loneliness. Fitz could hear Nighteyes. Malta could not. “Well, at least you want to be with me.”

The wolf turned and walked away.

“Hey!” Malta bit back a childish insult at the wolf’s behavior. She took a deep breath and swiped a tear from her cheek. Paragon. It was Paragon’s fault. The stupid ship was so intent on making her miserable without reason. “Fine, you can leave. I get it, I’m not Fitz.”

The wolf paused to glance back at her. He seemed almost amused.

“What?” she demanded. “What is it—oh.”

Nighteyes pawed at the cabin he shared with Althea, Amber, and Jek. The door opened after a moment, a sliver of lamplight staining the deck faintly yellow, and Malta watched the wolf pause to glance back at her before trotting inside. Malta followed him silently.

Jek was at the door. Her pale hair was tossed lazily into a tail, pieces falling into her chiseled face. She was not a pretty woman, but she was rather handsome. If she’d been a man, she’d be attractive. Malta watched Nighteyes jump onto Amber’s bed and curl up onto it. She followed him, sitting down beside him.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Jek said amusedly. Malta glanced at her and shrugged. She thought on how trustworthy Jek was. Gossiping was an amusing pastime, when you knew where that gossip was going. When Malta told Delo things, she understood the web tangled about her friend, because she had helped weave it. With Jek, it was impossible to know where the information would go.

“I’m waiting for Brashen to be done speaking to my aunt,” Malta said with a shrug. There. That was safe.

“The captain’s speaking to Althea in private, is he?” Jek’s eyebrows raised instantaneously at the suggestion. Malta was struck dumb. She had specifically said the thing that would seem the most innocent. She realized she probably had few conversations with Jek for this very reason.

“She’s the first mate,” Malta reminded Jek primly.

“First to mate, I’d say.”

“Jek!” Malta was not shocked at the words, but how readily Jek said them. Somehow, though, it amused her to hear. “No, I don’t think that’s it—”

“A big, strong guy like him?” Jek whistled. “And he’s got a heart to him? Yeah, she’s got her eyes on the big fish. Not judging, obviously, I’m happy for her! But I reckon you’ll be sleeping here tonight, like you did when you let our Amber have her fun.”

“Er… right.” Malta wondered if Amber had any fun at all that night. Fitz had felt acutely miserable, and his shielding had been shaky. She thought that if it had gone beyond kissing, she’d probably know. Though as curious as she was, she didn’t know if she particularly wanted to know about Fitz’s bedding down with Amber. His arousal was irritating enough to deal with. “I suppose I might have to.”

“That gives us time to talk!” Jek looked eager as she plopped down on her bed. “I never get to speak with you. Tell me, are you really betrothed?”

“Yes.” Malta felt Nighteyes watching her, and she glanced down at him. He did not look away. She patted his head. “His name is Reyn Khuprus. He’s a Rain Wild Trader.”

“How exotic!” Jek clasped her hands together with a toothy grin. “I’ve only really glimpsed them. They wear hoods, don’t they? Cover their faces?”

“Yes, they do.”

“That’s incredibly enticing,” Jek admitted, earning a raised brow from Malta. “Oh, the modesty! It probably would feel very good to get a look under one of those veils.”

“They have certain qualities,” Malta explained cautiously. “I don’t know what Reyn looks like, but I know it’s common for Rain Wilders to gain certain attributes. Like growths or lizardy skin.”

“Oh, exotic indeed!” Jek grinned broadly. “I must catch one for myself to see. Oh, you look like Althea when you scowl so, come now, Malta, it’s my womanly curiosity! Tell me more about your Reyn. I’d like to get a handle on what sort of man he is.”

Reluctantly, Malta agreed. And somewhere in-between Jek making rather lewd remarks about her fiancé, Malta found herself genuinely amused. It was a relief to speak to someone who could not share her mind. Though she loved Fitz and Paragon, they knew her too well at this point. It was almost nice that by the end of the conversation Jek was encouraging her to go for Reyn.

“He’s rich,” she pointed out, “which can instantly make up for a man’s lesser qualities, like a wrinkly face or a less than satisfactory endowment.”

“You mean a man’s penis?” Malta and Delo had discussed this in secret, but neither of them had ever seen one, just diagrams in an old medical book Delo had found while snooping through cargo. Well, Malta had an idea of what it might look like, having grown up with a younger brother, but she did not think that seeing Selden streak naked through the foyer because he refused to bathe counted.

“Yes, girl, keep up. Now, your man is rich, he could very well be handsome, but even if he’s not, the veil is half the intrigue, isn’t it? Does it stay on, do you think, when they fuck?”

Malta stared at Jek blankly, her ears burning, and she offered a shrug.

“I doubt it,” she said, keeping her voice very cool and flippant. Like she knew what she was talking about. “I’ll let you know, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Malta smiled. It was a bafflingly stupid conversation. She felt a little less lonely for it.