by Robin Hobb
Lop goggled at her, his large pale eyes wide. ‘We didn’t find it, Ma’am.’
‘You didn’t move all the cargo. I can smell it! Can’t you?’
‘Just ship stink, that’s all. All ships smell like that.’ Artu shrugged elaborately. ‘When you been on as many ships as I have,’ he began condescendingly but Althea cut him off.
‘This ship doesn’t stink like that. And it never will as long as I’m a mate on it. Now get that cargo shifted, find that rotten meat and clean it up.’
Artu scratched at a boil on the side of his neck. ‘Our watch is almost up, Ma’am. Maybe the next watch’ll find it.’ He nodded to himself in satisfaction and gave Lop a conspiratorial nudge. The lanky sailor echoed Artu’s grin.
‘Tidings for you, Artu. You and Lop are on watch down here until you find it and clean it up. Clear? Now get on your feet and start shifting this cargo.’
‘That ain’t fair!’ Artu cried out as he came to his feet. ‘We worked our watch! Hey, come back here! That ain’t fair!’
His grubby fingers caught at her sleeve. Althea tried to jerk free, but his grip was amazingly strong. She froze. She wouldn’t risk a struggle she might not win, nor a torn shirt with this man. She met his gaze with narrowed eyes. ‘Let go,’ she said flatly.
Lop stared, wide-eyed as a boy. He’d caught his lower lip between his teeth. ‘Artu, she’s second mate,’ he whispered nervously. ‘You’re gonna get in big trouble.’
‘Mate,’ Artu snorted in disgust. Quick as a flea’s hop, he shifted his grip from her sleeve to her forearm inside it. His dirty fingers bit down hard on her flesh. ‘She ain’t no mate, she’s a woman. And she wants it, Lop. She wants it bad.’
‘She wants it?’ Lop asked dimly. He looked at Althea in consternation.
‘She ain’t screaming,’ Artu pointed out. ‘She’s just standing here, waiting for it. I think she’s tired of getting it from the captain.’
‘She’ll tell,’ Lop complained in confusion. It took so little to confuse the man.
‘Naw. She’ll scream and wiggle a bit, but we’ll leave her smiling. You’ll see.’ Artu leered at her. He wet his pursed little mouth. ‘Right, matey?’ he taunted her. He grinned, showing brown-edged teeth.
Althea met his gaze squarely. She could not show fear. Her mind was racing. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her down here. The ship might be aware of her, but she couldn’t count on Paragon. He had been so weird lately, imagining serpents and floating logs and yelling out sudden warnings that most likely no one would pay attention to him. She would not scream. Artu was looking at her, his little eyes shining. He’d like her to scream, she realized. He and she both knew that when he was finished with her, he’d have to kill her. He’d try to make it look like an accident, falling cargo or whatever. Lop would say whatever Artu told him to say, but Brashen would not be fooled. Brashen would likely kill them both, but she wouldn’t be around to watch him do it.
The cascade of thoughts tumbled through her mind in less than a breath. She was on her own here. She’d sworn to Brashen she could handle this crew. Could she?
‘Let go, Artu. Last chance,’ she told him evenly. She managed to keep the tremor out of her voice.
He backhanded her with his free hand, the blow so swift she never saw it coming. Her head snapped back on her neck. She was stunned for an instant, dimly aware of Lop’s distressed, ‘Don’t hit her,’ and Artu’s, ‘Naw, that’s how she wants it. Rough.’
His hands scrabbled over her body, pulling her shirt loose from her trousers. Her revulsion at his touch was what brought her back. She struck out at him with all her strength, body punches that he didn’t seem to feel – his body was as hard as wood. He laughed at her efforts and she knew an instant of despair. She couldn’t hurt him. She would have fled then, but his grip on her arms was tighter than a vice, and the disarray of cargo made a quick escape impossible. He forced her up against a crate. He released one of her arms to grip the front collar of her shirt. He tried to tear it, but the stout cotton held. With her one free hand, she punched hard in and up at the base of his ribs. She thought he flinched. This time she saw his blow coming. She threw her head to one side and he punched the crate behind her instead of her face. She heard the wood splinter with the force of his blow and heard him shout hoarsely. She hoped he had broken his hand. She tried to gouge his eyes, but he snapped at her, biting her wrist hard and drawing blood. They overbalanced, and went down. She twisted desperately, trying not to land beneath him. They fell on their sides amongst the crates and boxes. It made for close quarters. She drew her arm back and delivered two short, hard jabs to Artu’s belly. She had a glimpse of Lop towering over them. The great dolt was hitting himself in the chest in his distress. His mouth hung open, wailing. No time to think.
She grabbed a handful of Artu’s hair and slammed his head against the keg behind him. For an instant, his grip on her slackened. She did it again. He kneed her in the gut, driving all the breath out of her. He rolled on top of her and pressed her down. With a knee, he tried to force her legs apart. She cried out in fury, but could not draw her arms back to get in a decent punch. She tried to pull her legs up to kick at him but he had her pinned. He laughed down at her, his breath foul in her face.
She’d seen it done. She knew it would hurt. She threw her head back as far as she could, then tried to slam her forehead against his. She missed and cracked her forehead against his teeth. They cut her forehead as they broke off in his mouth. He screamed high in pain and was suddenly leaning back from her, his hands to his bloody mouth. She followed him up, hitting him as hard as she could, not caring where her punches landed. She heard one of her knuckles pop and felt a flash of pain in her hand, but kept hitting as she managed to come up to her feet. Once she was standing in the confined space between the crates, she kicked him instead. When he was lying on his side, balled up and moaning, she stopped.
She pushed her loose bloody hair back from her forehead and stared around her. Hours must have passed, but the lantern still flickered and Lop still gaped at them. She had never realized how half-witted the man was until now. He was chewing on his knuckle and as her eyes met his, he shouted at her, ‘I’m in trouble, I know, I’m in trouble.’ His eyes were both defiant and scared.
‘Find that keg of rancid meat and get it overboard.’ She stopped to catch another breath. ‘Clean up the mess. Then you’re off watch.’
She suddenly hunched over, hands on her knees, and took several deep breaths. Her head was spinning. She thought she would throw up, but managed not to. Artu was starting to uncurl. She kicked him again, hard. Then she reached overhead to the freight gaff. She grabbed the hook by the handle and twisted it free of the beam.
Artu rolled his head and stared up at her with one blood-caked eye. ‘Sar, no!’ he begged. He threw his hands up over his head. ‘I didn’t do nothing to you!’ The pain of his broken teeth seemed to have completely disabled him. He waited for the blow to fall.
Lop gave a wordless shout of horror. He frantically began moving crates and kegs, looking for the spoiled meat.
For an answer, she grabbed a handful of Artu’s shirt and punched the freight hook through it. Then she headed towards the ladder, determinedly hauling him after her. He came kicking and squalling and trying to get to his feet. She paused and gave the handle of the hook a twist. The canvas of his shirt twisted with it, binding his arms in tight to his body. She dragged him on, almost a dead weight behind her. She supplemented her ebbing strength with her anger. She could hear Paragon shouting but couldn’t make out his words. By this time, a few heads had appeared at the hatch and were peering down curiously. They were from Lavoy’s watch. That meant the first mate was most likely on deck now. She didn’t look at them as she clambered up the steps dragging the struggling Artu behind her. She put all her determination into reaching the deck.
As she finally emerged above, she heard muttered comments as the hands asked one another what was going on. Those about the
hatch fell back. As she hauled Artu up behind her, the exclamations became curses of awe. She caught one glimpse of Haff, staring wide-eyed at her. She headed for the port railing, dragging Artu after her. He was moaning and mewling, ‘I didn’t do nothing to her, I didn’t do nothing!’ His complaints were muffled by his own hands held protectively over his broken teeth and bloody mouth. Lavoy looked at them incuriously from his post on the starboard railing.
Brashen suddenly appeared on the deck. His shirt was open and he was barefoot, his hair unbound. Clef trailed after him, his mouth still tattling. Brashen took in the situation in a single glance at Althea’s bloodied face and dishevelled clothing. Then he looked about for the mate.
‘Lavoy! What is going on here?’ Brashen roared. ‘Why haven’t you put a stop to this?’
‘Sir?’ Lavoy looked puzzled. He glanced over at Althea and Artu as if he had only just now noticed them. ‘Not my watch, Sir. The second seems to have it well in hand.’ He hardened his voice to that of command as he asked her, ‘Am I correct? Can you handle your task, Althea?’
She halted where she stood to look at him. ‘I’m throwing the rotten meat overboard, like you ordered. Sir.’ She put another half-twist on the hook as she spoke.
For a moment, all was still. Lavoy transferred his quizzical look to Brashen. The captain shrugged. ‘Carry on.’ He began fastening his shirt as if it did not concern him. He lifted his eyes to look over the water and see what sort of weather lay before them.
Artu howled like a kicked dog and began to struggle. She dragged him closer to the rail, wondering if she would really do it. Suddenly Lop appeared on deck. He was carrying two buckets; the smell told her what they held. ‘I found the bad meat. I found it,’ he bellowed and rushed past her to the railing. ‘Cask was smashed. It is all over down there, but we’ll get it cleaned up, right Artu? We’ll get it cleaned up.’ He heaved one load over the side. As he lifted the second bucket, a serpent’s head broke the water.
It snapped at the fall of foul meat as Lop staggered back, screaming.
‘Serpent! Serpent!’ Paragon added his roar to the sudden commotion.
Althea let go of the cargo hook. Artu scrambled backwards from the railing, the hook handle clacking against the deck as he went. For a long instant, she and the serpent stared at one another, eye to eye. Its scales were the green of new spring foliage, with immense eyes as yellow as dandelions. Each individual scale overlapped two others in a precise pattern that begged the eye to follow it. The largest scales on its back were bigger than her hand, while around the eyes its scales were tinier than grains of wheat. For a moment, the beauty of the immense animal transfixed her. Then it opened jaws that could have easily engulfed a whole man. She looked into a shockingly red mouth edged with rows of teeth. It shook its head back and forth with a questioning roar. She stood stock-still. It closed its mouth and stared at her.
She caught movement from the corner of her eye. A man running with a boat hook. At the same instant came Brashen’s shouted warning, ‘Don’t anger it! Leave it alone!’
She turned and flung herself at Haff. The sailor brandished the long gaff like a weapon, shouting, ‘I’m not afraid!’ The pallor of his face told a different story. She caught at his arm and tried to stop him.
‘It just wants food. Leave it alone. It might go away. Haff. Leave it alone!’
He shook her off impatiently. Her bruised hands were suddenly too sore to grip. She fell away from him as he spurned her. In horror, she watched him swing the hook.
‘No!’ Brashen roared, but the gaff was already in motion. It struck the animal on the snout, glancing harmlessly off the overlapping scales until the hook reached a nostril. More by chance than aim, the hook caught there and dug in.
In horror, Althea watched the creature throw its head back. The gaff went with it and Haff held on with the game stupidity of a pit dog. In an instant, the serpent seemed to double in size. Its neck swelled, and an immense ruff of poisonous quills suddenly stood out stiff around its face and throat. It roared again, and this time a fine spray flew from its mouth. Where it struck the deck, the wood smoked. Althea heard Paragon cry out in distress. The drift of poison stung Althea’s skin like a sunburn. Haff shrieked as he was engulfed in a fog of the stuff. He let go of the gaff and fell bonelessly to the deck. He was either unconscious or dead. The serpent abruptly cocked its head, eyeing the prone man. Then it darted its head at Haff.
Althea was the only one close enough to do anything. Even if the only thing she could do was stupid, she could not watch the serpent just eat the man. She sprang and caught the wooden handle of the gaff. It felt pitted and splintered from the serpent’s breath. She grasped it, and threw her weight against it to jerk the creature’s head off target. From somewhere, Lop had appeared. He flung an empty wooden bucket at the serpent’s head. In the same motion, he grabbed Haff’s ankles and dragged him back.
That left Althea as the serpent’s sole target. She tightened her grip on the gaff and shoved with all her might. She expected the wooden handle to give way at any moment. Momentarily, her push and the serpent’s pain turned the creature’s head away from her. It breathed another rush of spittle that pocked Paragon’s deck. The liveship shrieked again. Behind her, other voices were raised, Lavoy commanding men to put on sail, men yelling in anger or terror, but above all was the ship’s amazed and furious cry. ‘I know you!’ Paragon roared. ‘I know you!’ Amber shouted a question but Althea could not make it out. She gripped the hook desperately. The haft was weakening in her hands, but it was the only weapon she had.
She did not know Brashen had joined her until he struck the serpent with an oar. It was a pitiful weapon against such a creature, but it was all that was close to hand. Abruptly, her hook came loose from the creature’s nostril. Unencumbered now, it shook its maned head, spattering the deck with smoking poison. As the head came towards them, Althea levelled the gaff like a pike and charged. She was aiming for the great eye, but missed as the serpent swivelled its head towards Brashen. Instead, the tip of the boat hook struck a colour spot on the creature just behind its jaw hinge. To her shock, the tip of the hook plunged into the flesh easily, as if she had stabbed a ripe melon. With all her strength, she shoved it as deep as it would go. The hook followed the tip into the animal’s flesh. With a jerk, she set it.
In agony, the serpent flung its head back. ‘Get away!’ she cried needlessly to Brashen. He had already ducked and rolled away. She gave a final jerk on the hook. It tore flesh, and smoking hot poison ran down the serpent’s own neck. It shrieked, fountaining poison and blood from its wide-open mouth. It shook its head wildly, snatching the gaff from her numbed hands. She sat down hard and stared helplessly up at the thrashing creature. Some of its poison landed harmlessly in the sea, but some spattered across Paragon’s deck and side. The ship cried out wordlessly and a tremor ran through his wooden body. As the serpent fell back and sank beneath the waves, Brashen was already shouting for buckets, seawater and brushes. ‘Get it off the deck! Now!’ He roared from where he crouched on his hands and knees. His face was scalded scarlet by the serpent’s venom. He rocked back and forth as if he were trying to rise but could not. She feared he was blinded.
Then from the bow came the wild cry that chilled Althea’s blood. ‘I knew you!’ the Paragon bellowed. ‘And you knew me. By your poisons, I know myself!’ His wild laughter rose on the wind. ‘Blood is memory!’
How much could the world change in one night, Ronica Vestrit wondered?
If one stood on a chair in Althea’s old bedroom and looked out the window, there was a partial view of Bingtown and the harbour over the intervening treetops. Today, peer as she might, all she could see was smoke. Bingtown was burning.
She clambered stiffly down from the chair and picked up the armful of linens from Althea’s bed. She would use it to make bundles for them to carry as they fled.
She remembered far too much of the long walk home in the darkness. Malta had lurched along betwe
en them like a crippled calf. After a time, Selden had come out of his daze and begun to cry. He wailed endlessly, demanding to be carried, as he had not been in years. Neither of them could do it. Ronica had gripped his hand in hers and towed him along, with her other arm about Malta’s waist. Keffria had gripped Malta’s upper arm and helped her along while she carried her own injured hand curled to her chest. The walk had been eternal. Twice riders had passed them, but despite their cries for help, the horsemen had simply thundered past.
Daybreak came late, for the smoky air extended night’s hold on the land. Night had been more merciful. Daylight revealed their tattered clothes and scraped flesh. Keffria was barefoot, her shoes lost in the wreck. Malta shuffled along in the ragged remnants of slippers never intended for the street. Selden’s shredded shirt clung to his raw back; he looked as if he had been dragged by a horse. Malta had struck her forehead and blood had dried in macabre stripes down her face. Both her eyes were blacked and closed to slits. Ronica looked at the others and could imagine how she looked.
They spoke hardly at all. Once, Keffria observed, ‘I forgot all about them. The Satrap and his Companion, I mean.’ In a lower voice she asked, ‘Did you see them?’
Ronica shook her head slowly. ‘I wonder what happened to them,’ she had replied, although in truth she did not. She did not wonder anything about anybody except her own just now.
Malta spoke thickly through her puffed mouth. ‘The horsemen took them away. They looked for the other Companion, and when they found that I was not her, they just left me there. One of them said I was nearly dead anyway.’
She fell silent again. The silence lasted the rest of the way home.
Like a string of battered beggars, they limped up the unkempt drive to Vestrit Manor, only to find the door latched and barred to them. Keffria had given way to tears then, pounding weakly on the door as she sobbed. When Rache came to let them in at last, she carried a stick of kindling in her hand as a makeshift club.
