by Robin Hobb
‘And I suppose you are a lady of his court, then?’
She met his sarcasm squarely. ‘Of course not. My accent is Bingtown, as I am sure you know. I am the humblest of his servants, honoured to serve him in his hour of need. I am acutely aware of my unworthiness.’ She gambled again. ‘The demise of his Companion Kekki on board a Chalcedean galley has grieved him greatly. Not that he blames the captain of the galley. But surely if first his Companion, and then the Satrap himself dies in Chalcedean hands, it will speak poorly of your hospitality.’ Very softly, she added, ‘It may even be seen as political intent, in some circles.’
‘If any were to hear of it,’ the captain pointed out heavily. Malta wondered if she had overplayed her game. But his next question rearmed her. ‘What, exactly, were you doing up that river anyway?’
She smiled enigmatically. ‘The secrets of the Rain Wilds are not for me to divulge. If you wish to know more perhaps the Satrap might choose to enlighten you.’ Cosgo did not know enough about the Rain Wilds to betray anything of significance. She breathed out. ‘Or not. Why should he share such secrets with one who has treated him so shamefully? For one who is nominally his ally, you have shown yourself a poor host. Or are we your captives in fact as well as in circumstance? Do you hold us with no thought but to ransom us, as if you were a common pirate?’
The directness of her question jolted the man. ‘I … of course not, not captives.’ His chin came up. ‘If he were a captive, would I be bearing him with all haste to Jamaillia?’
‘Where he will be sold to the highest bidder?’ Malta asked dryly. The captain took a sudden angry breath, but she went on before he could speak. ‘There must, of course, be that temptation. Only a fool would not see that possibility, in the midst of the current unrest. Yet a wise man would know of the legendary generosity of the Satrap to his friends. Whereas the largesse of a man who pays you blood-money brings his disdain and shame with it.’ She cocked her head slightly. ‘Will you be instrumental in cementing the friendship of Chalced and Jamaillia? Or will you forever tarnish the reputation of Chalcedeans, as turncoats who sell their allies?’
A long silence followed her words. ‘You speak like a Bingtown Trader. Yet the Traders have never been fond of Chalced. What is your interest in this?’
My life, you idiot. Malta feigned scandalized surprise. ‘You wish to know the interest of a woman, sir? Then I tell you: My father is of Chalced, sir. But my interest, of course, does not factor into this. The only interest I consider is the Satrap’s.’ She bowed her head reverently.
Those last words lay like ashes on her tongue. In the silence that followed them, she watched the careful working of the man’s mind. He had nothing to lose by treating the Satrap well. A healthy, living hostage would undoubtedly bring more than one on the point of death. And the gratitude of the Satrap might be worth more than what could be wrung out of his nobles for his return.
‘You may go,’ the man dismissed her abruptly.
‘As you wish, I am sure,’ Malta murmured, her submission tinged with sarcasm. It would not do for the Satrap’s woman to be too humble. Kekki had shown her that. She inclined her head gravely, but then turned her back on him rather than reversing from the room. Let him make what he would of that.
When she stepped out into the chill evening wind, a wave of vertigo spun her, yet she forced herself to remain upright. She was exhausted. She once more lifted her head beneath the weight of her imaginary crown. She did not hasten. She found the right hatch, and descended into the noisome depths of the ship. As she passed through the crew quarters, she pretended not to notice any of the men; for their part, they ceased all conversation, and stared after her.
She regained the cabin, shut the door behind her, crossed to the bed and sank shakily to her knees before it. It was as well that this collapse fit with the role she must continue to play. ‘Exalted one, I have returned,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you well?’
‘Well? I am half-starved and nattered at by a woman,’ the Satrap retorted.
‘Ah. I see. Well, lordly one, I have hopes that I have bettered our situation.’
‘You? I doubt it.’
Malta bowed her forehead to her knees and sat trembling for a time. Just as she decided she had failed, there was a knock at the door. That would be the ship’s boy with their dinner. She forced herself to stand and open the door rather than simply bid him enter.
Three brawny sailors stood outside behind the mate. The mate bowed stiffly. ‘You come to Leufay’s table tonight. You, for you, wash, dress.’ This message seemed to strain his vocabulary, but a gesture indicated the men bearing buckets of steaming water and armloads of clothing. Some, she noted, was woman’s garb. She had convinced him of her own status as well. She fought to keep delight and triumph from her face.
‘If it pleases the Satrap,’ she replied coolly, and with a gesture bade them bring it all inside.
‘What will you do?’ Wintrow dared to ask the ship. The chill night wind blew past them. He stood on the foredeck, arms wrapped around himself against the cold. They were making good time back to Divvytown. If Wintrow could have done so, he would have stilled the wind, slowed the ship, anything to gain time to think.
The sea was not dark. The tips of the waves caught the moonlight and carried it with them. Starlight snagged and rippled on the backs of the serpents that hummocked through the water beside them. Their eyes shone in lambent colours, copper, silver and warm gold, eerie pink and blue, like night-blooming sea flowers. Wintrow felt they were always watching him whenever he came to the foredeck. Perhaps they were. Coinciding with the thought, a head lifted from the water. He could not be sure in the gloom, but he thought that it was the green-gold serpent from the Others’ beach. For the space of three breaths, she held her place beside the ship, watching him. Two-legs, I know you whispered through his mind, but he could not decide if she spoke to him or if he only recalled her voice from the beach.
‘What will I do?’ the ship taunted him lazily.
She could smash him at will. Wintrow pushed the useless fear aside. ‘You know what I mean. Althea and Brashen are seeking us. They may be lying in wait for us near Divvytown, or they may simply confront us in the harbour. What will you do, you and your serpents?’
‘Ah. About that. Well.’ The figurehead leaned back towards him. Her dark locks writhed like a nest of snakes. She put a hand to one side of her mouth, as if to share a secret with him. But her whisper was loud, a stage-whisper intended for Kennit as he came step-tapping onto the deck. ‘I will do whatever I please about that.’ She smiled past him at the pirate. ‘Good evening, my dear.’
‘Good evening, and good wind, lovely one,’ Kennit responded. He leaned over the railing and touched the large hand the ship held up to him in greeting. Then he smiled at Wintrow, his teeth white as a serpent’s in the moonlight. ‘Good evening, Wintrow. I trust you are well. When you left my cabin earlier, you looked a bit peaked.’
‘I am not well,’ Wintrow replied flatly. He looked at Kennit, and his heart came up in his throat. ‘I am torn, and I cannot sleep for the fears that roil through me.’ He turned his gaze back to the ship. ‘Please, do not be so flippant with me. We are speaking of our family. Althea is my aunt, and your long-time companion. Think, ship! She set the peg in you, and welcomed you as you awoke. Don’t you remember that?’
‘I well remember that she left me not long after that. And allowed Kyle to turn me into a slaver.’ Bolt arched one eyebrow at him. ‘If those were your final memories of her, what reaction would you have to her name?’
Wintrow clenched his fists at his side. He would not be distracted from his question. ‘But what are we to do? She is still our family!’
‘Our? What is this “our”? Are you confusing me with Vivacia again? Dear boy, between us there is no “we”, no “our”. There is you and there is me. When I say “we” or “our”, I am not referring to you.’ She ran her eyes over Kennit caressingly.
Wintrow was stub
born. ‘I refuse to believe there is nothing of Vivacia in you. Otherwise how could you be so bitter at the memories you do recall?’
‘Oh, dear,’ the ship muttered, and sighed. ‘Are we back to that again?’
‘I’m afraid we are,’ Kennit answered her consolingly. ‘Come, Wintrow, don’t glare like that. Be honest with me, lad. What do you expect us to do? Surrender Bolt back to Althea to prevent your feelings from being hurt? Where is your loyalty to me in that?’
Wintrow came slowly to stand beside Kennit at the railing. Eventually, he spoke. ‘My loyalty is yours, Kennit. You know that. I think you knew it even before I admitted it to myself. If you did not have my loyalty, I would not be in such pain now.’
The pirate seemed genuinely moved by this confession. He set his hand on Wintrow’s shoulder. For a time, they shared silence. ‘You, my dear boy, are so very young. You must speak aloud what you want.’ Kennit’s voice was no more than a whisper.
Wintrow turned to him in surprise. Kennit gazed ahead through the night as if he had not spoken. Wintrow took a breath and forced his thoughts into order. ‘What I would ask of you both is that Althea not be harmed. She is my mother’s sister, blood of my blood, and true family to the ship. Bolt may deny it, but I cannot believe that she could see Althea die and not be harmed by it.’ In a lower voice he added, ‘I know I could not.’
‘Blood of your blood, and true family to the ship,’ Kennit repeated to himself. He squeezed Wintrow’s shoulder. ‘For myself, I promise not to harm a hair of her head. Ship?’
The figurehead shrugged her great shoulders. ‘Whatever Kennit says. I feel nothing, you see. I have no desire to kill her, or to let her live.’
Wintrow heaved a sigh of relief. He did not believe that Bolt felt nothing. There was too much tension thrumming through him; not all of it could be his own. ‘And her crew?’ he ventured.
Kennit laughed, and gave his shoulder a friendly shake. ‘Come, Wintrow, we can scarcely guarantee how they will fare. If a man chooses to fight to the death, how am I to stop him? But as you have seen, of late we shed blood only when forced to it. Consider all the ships we have set free to continue on their way. Slavers, of course, are another matter. When it comes to slavers, I must keep faith with all the people in my kingdom. To the bottom they must go. You cannot save everyone, Wintrow. Some folk have made up their minds to be killed by me long before I encounter them. When we encounter Captain Trell and Paragon, then we will act as befits the situation. Surely you can ask no more of us than that.’
‘I suppose not.’ It was the best he could do tonight. He wondered, if he had been alone with the ship, could he have forced her to admit she still had a bond with Althea? Althea, he thought fiercely at the ship. I know you remember her. She woke you from your long sleep, she greeted your return to life. She loved you. Can you turn your back on that kind of love?
A shudder of agitation ran through the ship, and beside her, a loud splashing announced the return of the green-gold serpent. The figurehead, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, turned to glare at Wintrow. He braced himself, expecting her to fling pain at him. Instead, Kennit gave him a shake. ‘Enough of that!’ he told Wintrow sternly. ‘Do you think I cannot feel what you are doing to her? She has said she feels nothing. Accept it.’ Then he gave Wintrow’s shoulder a sympathetic push. ‘Feelings end, lad. Bolt is not who she was to you. Why don’t you go find Etta? She always seems to cheer you.’
As Kennit watched Wintrow cross the main deck, the charm spoke. It did not whisper, or try to conceal itself from the ship at all. ‘Feelings end,’ it mocked. ‘Bolt is not who she was. Oh, yes. Convince yourself of that, dear heart, and you’ll be able to deal with Paragon again.’ It suddenly dropped its voice to a confiding undertone. ‘You always knew you’d have to deal with him again, didn’t you? When first the rumour reached you of a blinded liveship returned to Bingtown, you knew that eventually your paths must cross again.’
‘Shut up!’ Fear tinged Kennit’s flash of fury. The hair on the back of his neck prickled against his collar.
‘I know Paragon,’ the ship said suddenly. ‘That is, I have Althea’s memories of him. And her father’s. Ephron Vestrit did not like that ship. He didn’t want his daughter to play near him. Paragon is mad, you know. Quite mad.’
‘Oh, quite mad,’ the charm agreed affably. ‘But then, who wouldn’t be, given all the memories that are soaked into his planks? It’s a wonder he can speak at all. Don’t you agree, Kennit? Wasn’t it enough to strike a boy dumb? No need to cut his tongue out, when he hardly spoke a word for three years. Oh, Igrot believed his secrets were quite safe. All his secrets. But secrets do have a way of leaking out.’
‘Be silent!’ Kennit raged in a hoarse whisper.
‘Silent,’ the carved wizardwood on his wrist breathed. ‘Silent as a blinded ship, floating hull up in the sea. Silent as a scream underwater.’
19
STRATEGIES
THE FOG AND mists were relentless. Even on days when it did not rain, everything dripped with the constant condensation. Garments hung in the galley to dry merely became steamy. The clothes in in her duffel bag were as damp as the wool blanket she took from her bunk. Everything smelled green and sour. She half-expected to comb moss from her hair in the mornings. Well, at least they would all have a bit more room now. She’d cleared Lavoy’s things from the first mate’s cabin and was moving her gear in today. The promotion was traditional and hers by right. Brashen had moved Haff up to second. He seemed very pleased with his new rank; an even better sign was that the crew in general approved of his promotion.
‘Do the rain and the fogs never cease in these wretched islands?’ Amber demanded as she came into the tiny cabin. Moisture had beaded on her hair and eyelashes. Water dripped from the cuffs of her shirt.
‘In summer,’ Althea offered her. ‘But for now, this is the weather. Unless it rains hard enough to clear the air.’
‘That would almost be preferable to this constant dripping. I climbed the mast to see what I could see. I’d have been as wise to stuff my head in my duffel bag. How do the pirates move about on days like these? There’s neither sun nor star to steer by.’
‘Let’s hope they don’t. I’d hate to have one run us down in the fog. Try to think of it as concealing us from hostile eyes.’
‘But it conceals them from us just as effectively. How will we know when Kennit returns to Divvytown if we can’t even see the island?’
They had been anchored for the last day and a night in a small, sheltered inlet. Althea knew what others did not. They anchored here, not in wait for Kennit, but to try to salvage some sort of plan. Last night, sequestered together in Brashen’s cabin, they had considered options. Brashen had not been optimistic. ‘It’s all gone down to the bottom,’ he said bleakly. He stared up at the ceiling above his bunk. ‘I should have foreseen that Lavoy would do something like that. He’s destroyed any hope of surprise that we ever had. Someone will send word to Kennit and at first sight of us, he’ll surely attack. Damn Lavoy. When I first suspected him of talking mutiny, I should have keel-hauled him.’
‘That would have been good for morale,’ Althea had murmured from the shelter of his arm. She lay in his bunk beside him. The length of his naked body was warm against hers and her head was pillowed on his shoulder. The mellow lantern light made shifting shadows on the wall, tempting her to simply clasp Brashen close and fall asleep beside him. Her fingers idly walked the long seam down his ribs that was the track of the pirate’s sword.
‘Don’t,’ he had muttered irritably, twitching away from her. ‘Stop distracting me and help me think.’
She had breathed out a long sigh. ‘You should have said that before you bedded me. I know I should be putting all my wits to regaining Vivacia from Kennit, but somehow, here with you…’ She had smoothed a hand down his chest to his belly, and let his thoughts follow it.
He had rolled towards her. ‘So. Do you just want to give it all up? Go back to Bin
gtown, and leave things as they are?’
‘I’ve thought about it,’ she had admitted. ‘But I can’t. I’d always thought that Vivacia would be our major ally in reclaiming her from Kennit. I’d counted on the ship defying him to turn battle in our favour. Now that we know that Wintrow is alive and well aboard her, and that they both seem content with Kennit, I don’t know what to think. But I can’t just walk away from her, Brash. They’re my family. Vivacia is my ship, in a way she can never belong to anyone else. To give her up to Kennit would be like giving up a child to him. She may be satisfied with Kennit now, but in the end, she’ll want to come home to Bingtown. So will Wintrow. Then where will they be? Outcasts and pirates. Their lives will be ruined.’
‘How can you know that?’ Brashen had protested. A smile curved his lips and he raised his brows as he asked her, ‘Would Keffria say this was where you belonged? Wouldn’t she say the same things, that eventually you will want to come home and that I’m ruining you? Would you welcome her trying to rescue you from me?’
She had kissed the corner of his mouth. ‘Perhaps I’m the one ruining you. I don’t intend to let you go, even when we do go back home. But we are both adults, aware of what this decision may cost us.’ In a lower voice she added, ‘We are both prepared to pay that cost, and count it still a good bargain. But Wintrow is scarcely more than a boy, and the ship had barely wakened to life before she left Bingtown. I can’t let them go. I have to at least see them, speak to them, know how they are.’
‘Yes, I’m sure Captain Kennit would find time for us to visit them,’ Brashen had replied dryly. ‘Perhaps we should return to Divvytown and leave calling cards, asking when he is at home.’
‘I know it sounds ridiculous.’
‘What if we did return to Bingtown?’ Brashen had asked, suddenly serious. ‘We have Paragon, and he’s a fine ship. The Vestrits would still have a liveship, one that is paid for. You and I would stand shoulder to shoulder and refuse to be parted. We’d be married, with a proper wedding, in the Traders’ Concourse. And if the Traders wouldn’t allow that, well, to the bottom with them, and we’d sail up to the Six Duchies and make our promises to one of their black rocks.’
