by Robin Hobb
"You loved him, didn't you?"
"Of course I did. Now stop asking about it."
Sometimes, when she worked on his face, he could feel her affection for the countenance she carved. His face was beardless now, and youthful. It was more in keeping with his voice and with whom he felt himself to be, and yet it made him squirmingly curious to know he wore the face of someone Amber loved. She would not speak of him, but sometimes in the brushing touch of her fingers, he glimpsed the man she saw in her mind.
"Now I am layer upon layer upon layer," he observed as he held her up to the railing. "Dragon and dragon, under Paragon Ludluck, under… whoever this is. Will you give me his name, also?"
"'Paragon' suits you better than any other name could." She asked quietly, "Dragon and dragon?"
"Quite well, thank you, and how are you today?" He grinned as he said it. His polite nothing conveyed his intent. His dragons were his business, just as the identity of the man whose face he wore was hers.
Brashen had come to the foredeck. Now, as Amber climbed down from the railing, he sternly reminded her, "I don't like you out there without a line on you. At the clip we're going, by the time we discovered you were gone, it would be too late."
"Do you still fear I would let her fall unnoticed, Brashen?" Paragon asked gravely.
Brashen looked at the ship's closed eyes. His boyish brow was unlined, serene, as he waited for Brashen's reply. After a short but very uncomfortable silence, Brashen found words. "A captain's duty is to worry about all possibilities, ship." He changed the subject, addressing Amber. "So. Nice earring. Are you nearly finished, then?"
"I am finished. Save for a bit of smoothing on his face." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "And I may do some ornamentation on his accoutrements."
Brashen leaned out on the forerail. He swept his eyes critically over the whole figurehead. She had accomplished an amazing amount of work in a very short time. From her myriad sketches, he surmised she had been planning this since they left Bingtown. In addition to the earring, the extra bits of wood Amber had carved away to reshape his face had been fashioned into a wide copper bracelet for his wrist and a leather battle harness pegged to his chest. A short-handled battle-axe hung from it.
"Handsome," Brashen observed. In a quieter voice, he asked Amber, "Are you going to fix his nose?"
"There is nothing wrong with his nose," Amber asserted warningly.
"Mm." Brashen considered the crooked line of it. "Well, I suppose a sailor should have a scar or two to his face. And a broken nose gives him a very determined look. Why the axe?"
"I had wood to use up," Amber replied, almost evasively. "It's only ornamental. He has given it the colors of a real weapon, but it remains wizardwood."
Mother made an assenting sound. She sat cross-legged on the deck, a logbook open in her lap. She seemed always to be there, mumbling through the words. She read the logbooks as devoutly as some folk read Sa's Edicts.
"It completes him," Amber agreed with great satisfaction. She drew her discarded gloves back on and began gathering her tools. "And I'm suddenly tired."
"Doesn't surprise me. Get some sleep, then come to my quarters. We draw closer to Divvytown with every breath of this wind. I want to discuss strategy."
Amber smiled wryly. "I thought we had agreed we didn't have any, except go to Divvytown and let the word out that we want to trade Kennit's mother for Althea."
Mother's bright eyes followed the conversation. She nodded assent.
"And you see no flaws in that plan? Such as, perhaps, the whole town rising against us and taking her to gain favor with Kennit?"
Mother shook her head; her gestures indicated she would oppose such an act.
"Oh, that. Well, the whole plan is so riddled with flaws that one of that magnitude seemed too obvious to mention," Amber replied lightly.
Brashen frowned. "We gamble for Althea's life. This isn't a jest to me, Amber."
"Nor to me," the carpenter swiftly replied. "I know you are worried to the bone and justly so. But for me to dwell on that anxiety with you will not lessen it. Instead, we must focus on our hopes. If we cannot anchor ourselves in a belief that we will succeed, we have already been defeated." She stood, hefted her tools to her shoulder, then cocked her head and looked at him sympathetically. "I don't know if it will draw any water with you, Brashen, but there is something I know, right down to my bones. I will see Althea again. There will come a time when we will all stand together again. Beyond that moment, I cannot see. But, of that, at least, I am sure."
The carpenter's odd eyes had taken on a dreaming quality. Their color seemed to shift between dark gold and pale brown. It sent a chill up his back, yet he was oddly comforted by it. He could not share her equanimity, but he could not doubt her, either.
"There. You see. Your faith is stronger than your doubts." Amber smiled at him. In a less mystical voice she asked, "Has Kyle told you anything useful?"
Brashen shook his head sourly. "To listen to him wearies me. A hundred times, he has detailed how both Vivacia and Wintrow betrayed him. It is the only thing he willingly discusses. I think he must have lived it repeatedly the whole time he was chained in that cellar. He speaks only evil of them both. It is harder to control my temper when he says Althea brought all her troubles on herself and should be left to face them the same way. He urges us to return immediately to Bingtown, to forget Althea, his son, the family ship, all of it. And when I say I will not, he curses me. The last time I spoke to him, he slyly asked if Althea and I had not been in league with Wintrow from the beginning. He hints that he knows we have all plotted against him." Brashen shook his head bitterly. "You have heard his tale of how Wintrow seized the ship from him, only to give it to Kennit. Does any of that sound possible to you?"
Amber gave a tiny shrug. "I do not know Wintrow. But this I do know. When circumstances are right, unlikely people do extraordinary things.
When the weight of the world is behind them, the push of events and time itself will align to make incredible things happen. Look around you, Brashen. You skirt the center of the vortex, so close you do not see how wondrous are the circumstances surrounding us. We are being swept toward a climax in time, a critical choice-point where all the future must go one way, or another.
"Liveships are wakening to their true pasts. Serpents, reputed to be myths when you were a boy, are now accepted as natural. The serpents speak, Brashen, to Paragon, and Paragon speaks to us. When last did humanity concede intelligence to another race of creatures? What will it mean to your children and your grandchildren? You are caught up in a grand sweep of events, culminating in the changing of the course of the world." She lowered her voice and a smile touched her mouth. "Yet all you can perceive is that you are separated from Althea. A man's loss of his mate may be the essential trigger that determines all events from henceforth. Do you not see how strange and wonderful that is? That all history balances on an affair of the human heart?"
He looked at the odd woman and shook his head. "That isn't how I see it, Amber. That isn't how I see it at all. It's just my life, and now that I have finally discovered what I must have to be happy, I'm willing to lay down my life for it. That's all."
She smiled. "That is all. You are right. And that is all that AH ever is."
Brashen drew a shuddering breath. Her words were edged with mystery and fraught with import. He shook his head. "I'm just a simple sailor."
Mother had been watching the interchange intently. Now she smiled, a smile at once beatific in its peacefulness and terrifying in its acceptance. The expression was like a confirmation of all Amber had said. Brashen felt suddenly cornered by the two women, compelled toward he knew not what. He fixed his gaze on Mother. "You know your son. Do you think there is any chance we will succeed?"
She smiled, but sorrow edged it. She lifted her shoulders in an old woman's shrug.
Paragon spoke. "She thinks you will succeed. But whether you will know you have succeeded, or if the success wi
ll be the one you would have chosen for yourself, well, those are things no one can say now. But she knows you will succeed at whatever you are meant to do."
For a moment, he tried to unknot the ship's words. Then Brashen sighed. "Now don't you start with me, too," he warned the ship.
Malta sat at the captain's table, her fingers steepled before her. "This is a fair offer, one that benefits all. I cannot see any reason why you would refuse it." She smiled charmingly over her hands at Captain Red. The Satrap, impassively silent, sat beside her.
Captain Red looked shocked. The others at the table were equally stunned. Malta had chosen her time well. The most difficult part had been persuading the Satrap to do it her way. She had dressed and groomed him carefully, and by dint of badgering and begging, convinced him to come to dinner at the captain's table. She had dictated his manner to him as well, and he had complied, being courteous but not affable, and more silent than talkative. It was only when the meal was nearly over that he had cleared his throat and addressed the captain.
"Captain Red, please attend Malta Vestrit as she presents a negotiation on my behalf."
Captain Red, too startled to do otherwise, had nodded.
Then, in a speech she had practiced endlessly before the little looking-glass in her chamber, she had presented the Satrap's offer. She pointed out that monetary wealth was not the essence of the Satrapy; power was. The Satrap would not offer coin for his release, nor would he petition his nobles to do so. Instead, he would negotiate the terms himself. Speaking concisely, she outlined his offer: recognition of Kennit as King of the Pirate Isles, an end to slave raids in the Isles and the removal of the Chalcedean patrol vessels. The finer points of this would, of course, have to be negotiated more thoroughly with King Kennit. Perhaps they might include trade agreements; perhaps they might include pardons for those in exile who wished to return to Jamaillia. Malta had deliberately presented the offer while many still lingered at the table. In her conversations with the crew, she had gleaned the concerns dearest to them. She had gathered their fears that they might return to Divvytown or Bull Creek and find their homes burned, alongside their longing to see friends and family in Jamaillia City, to perform once again in the grand theaters of the capital.
She had distilled their desires into this offer. His silence was eloquent. He rubbed his chin, and swept a glance around the table. Then he leaned toward the Satrap. "You're right. I thought only of coin. But this He stared at him almost suspiciously. "You're truly ready to offer us these sorts of terms?"
The Satrap spoke with quiet dignity. "I'd be a fool to let Malta say such things if I had not well considered them."
"Why? Why now?"
That was not a question Malta had prepared him for. She held her smile on her lips. They had agreed he would defer such queries to her. Yet, she was not surprised as he calmly ignored their agreement.
"Because I am a man who can learn from his errors," he announced. Those words alone would have stunned her to silence, but what followed nearly made her gape. "Coming away from Jamaillia City and traveling through my domain has opened my eyes and my ears to facts that my advisors either hid from me, or were ignorant of themselves. My bold journey has borne fruit. My 'foolishness' in leaving the capital will now shine forth as true wisdom." He smiled graciously around the table. "My advisors and nobles often underestimated my intelligence. It was a grave error on their part."
He had them in the palm of his hand. Everyone at the table waited for his next words. The Satrap leaned forward slightly. He tapped his finger on the table as he made each point. Malta was entranced. She had never seen this man.
"I find myself in the company of pirates, of men and women tattooed with the shame of slavery. Yet you are not what I was told you were. I do not find ignorance or stupidity amongst you, nor yet barbarism and savagery.
"I have seen the patrol vessels negotiated by treaty with Chalced. Yet I see far too many of them in my waters. They wallow with the wealth they have taken. Clearly, I have put my trust in the wrong allies. Jamaillia City stands vulnerable to attack by the ships of Chalced. I would be wise to seek truer allies. Who better than those who already have learned to do battle with Chalcedeans?"
"Who better indeed?" Captain Red asked those at his table. He grinned broadly, but then brought his smile under control as he added, "Of course, King Kennit will make all final decisions. But I suspect we are bringing him a prize far weightier than all the gold we have ever shared with him. We are only a few days out of Divvytown. A bird shall be sent at once to alert Kennit to what we bring." He lifted his glass in a toast. "Here's to ransoms paid in more than coin or blood!"
As all lifted their glasses and joined in, Malta heard the lookout's cry of "Sail!"
The men at the table exchanged wary looks. Chalcedean ships were to be avoided, now that the Motley was fully loaded. There was a rap at the door. "Enter!" Captain Red conceded, annoyance in his voice. The man detested anything that disrupted his meals, let alone a dramatic moment.
The door opened. The ship's boy stood there, his cheeks pink with excitement. With a broad grin he announced, "Sir, we've sighted the Vivacia, and the Marietta."
Kennit watched the approach of the small boat from the motley with mixed feelings. Sorcor had come over from the Marietta for the occasion. He was attired in several acres of scarlet fabric. He stood just behind his captain's right shoulder. Captain Red, at his other side in his own garish garments, seemed too caught up in his own triumph to be aware of his leader's personal reservations. He was delivering to King Kennit a prize that no other of his captains would ever match. For a man with his theatrical background, it was the ultimate achievement. Ever after, he would be known as the pirate captain who gave the Satrap of all Jamaillia to King Kennit as a gift.
Captain Red had come first to the Vivacia to share the news. Now, dramatically poised, he hovered by Kennit's side as they watched the loot delivered. Kennit was both elated, and annoyed. The capture of the Satrap was remarkable, and the potential for gain from his ransom was vast. But this windfall also came at a time when his mind had another focus. He gave a sideways glance to where Althea Vestrit also stood at the railing watching the small boat approach. Jek was at her side. Jek was always at her side. The winter wind blew their hair and Jek's bright skirts, and brought color to their faces. Jek was a stunning woman, tall, fair and bold. But Althea captivated Kennit as no other woman could.
In the days since she had emerged from her cabin and been given the freedom of the ship, he had walked a careful line with her. He maintained to everyone that her terrible dream had been the result of poppy syrup, given her for the pain of a damaged back. For that, he had publicly apologized to her, while gently reminding her that she had complained of a painful back. Didn't she recall taking the syrup? At her snarling denial, he had shrugged helplessly. "It was when you said you liked lace on a man," he had delicately prompted her, even as his hand toyed with the lace at his throat. He had smiled fondly at her.
"Don't try to make that mean something," she threatened him.
He composed his face to injured resignation. "Doubtless you are far more susceptible to the poppy than you knew," he courteously suggested.
His luck had given him the power to adorn her as he saw fit. Her lack of garments had forced her to accept the clothing he selected from his plunder and sent to her stateroom. Jewelry, perfume and bright scarves he sent as well. Jek availed herself of this feminine bounty unashamedly, but Althea had resisted it for days. Even now, she kept herself as plain as one could be in silk trousers and damask vest. It pleased him that he chose the colors she wore, that he had touched the garments that now clung to her. How long could she remain proof against such largesse? Like a caged bird, she must eventually come fluttering to his hand.
She avoided him as much as she could, but Vivacia was not a large ship. From threats of murder and foul names, she had simmered to seething hatred and murderous looks. He had met all her stares with grieved c
oncern and solicitous courtesy. Deep inside him, a bizarre merriment bubbled at her predicament. He had a power over her that he never could have foreseen, even if he had deliberately created this situation. She believed herself a wronged victim, but was treated as the hysterical accuser of an innocent man. If she spoke of the rape, her words were received with pity rather than shared outrage. Even Jek, who bore him an impersonal hate for the sinking of the Paragon, had reservations about Althea's accusations. A lack of support for her cause was undoubtedly very daunting to her desire to kill him.
Most of the crew were uninterested in what he had or had not done to her. He was, after all, the captain, and the pirates of his crew had never been overly afflicted with morality. Some, those fondest of Etta, were more concerned by her absence than by Althea's presence. A few seemed to think he had wronged Etta somehow. He suspected that this was what troubled Wintrow most. He never spoke of it directly but from time to time, Kennit would catch Wintrow looking at him speculatively. Fortunately for Wintrow, he did not do this often. Instead, the boy spent most of his time in a futile effort to establish some sort of bond with his aunt.
Althea resolutely ignored her nephew. Wintrow bore her rebuffs mildly, but managed to spend most of his free time in her vicinity. He obviously hoped for reconciliation. To busy him, Kennit had passed most of the day-today tasks of the ship's command on to him. His wits were far sharper than Jola's. If the circumstances had been different, Kennit would have moved him up to mate. He had the instinct for command.
What grated on Kennit was that he had not had even a moment alone with Althea. As far as the pirate could determine, when Althea was not in the stateroom she shared with Jek, she was on the foredeck with the figurehead. It amused Kennit, for he knew the ship spent much time trying to convince her that Kennit would not have mistreated her as she claimed. More than any other influence, Vivacia's attitude seemed to undermine the experience of Althea's own senses. When he himself came to the foredeck each evening to converse with Vivacia, Althea no longer stormed away with Jek in her wake, but retreated a little way and then eavesdropped on them. She watched his every move, trying to see the monster she would make of him. His facade defied her.
