by Robin Hobb
As the little boat drew nearer, Kennit saw that it held not only the Satrap, theatrically resplendent in borrowed garb, but also his young Companion. The Satrap stared straight ahead, ignoring their rippling serpent escort, but the young woman stared up at the ship, white-faced. Even at this distance, her dark eyes seemed immense. The oddly fashioned turban atop her head was doubtless some new Jamaillian fashion. He found himself wondering how Althea would look in such headgarb.
Althea glanced over at Wintrow. He stared down at the Motley's boat as it battled toward them. He had matured since he had left Bingtown Harbor. It was uncanny to look at him in profile; they shared so many features, it was like looking at herself made male. That he looked so like her somehow made his betrayal all the more intolerable. She would never be able to forgive him.
A trickle of rebuke rose through her from the railing she grasped. "I know, I know. Set it aside," she murmured in response. Repeatedly, the ship had urged her to let go of her anger. But if she let go of her anger, all that would remain was grief and pain. Anger was easier. Anger could be focused outward. Grief corroded from within.
She could not let the matter go. The rape made no sense, served no logic. She could not argue with that. It was the act of a madman, but civil and shrewd Captain Kennit was certainly not mad. So what had happened? Images of Devon and Keffria were mixed with her memories of the attack. Could it have been what he said, a twisted poppy-induced dream? The ship had tried to placate her by suggesting that perhaps it had been some other crewman. Althea refused that. She clung to the truth as she clung to her sanity, for to let the one go was to deny the other.
In some ways, she thought savagely, it did not matter whether Kennit had raped her or not. He had killed Brashen and sunk Paragon. Those were reasons enough to hate him. Even her beloved Vivacia had been stolen from her, and changed so deeply that some of her thoughts and ideas were completely foreign to Althea. All her judgments were based on her deeper dragon nature. At one time, Althea had been sure she knew the ship to her core. Now she frequently glimpsed the stranger within. The values and concerns of a personage that did not share her humanity often baffled her. Vivacia agonized over the plight of the serpents. The commitment that once belonged to the Vestrit family now went to those scaled beasts.
As clearly as if the figurehead had spoken, Althea sensed her thought through their renewed bond. Do you begrudge me that I am who I truly am? Should I pretend otherwise for the sake of pleasing you? If I did, it would be a lie. Would you rather love a lie than know me as I truly am?
Of course not. Of course not.
All the same, her ship's distraction left her adrift and alone. She clung to an ugly reality that others believed was a dream. How could she leave it behind, when over and over it recurred as a nightmare? She had lost count of how many times Jek had shaken her from the confinement of that dream. Her traitor mind carried her from false memories of drowning with Brashen to a frightening struggle for breath in a dark bunk. The lack of sleep told on her judgment. She felt brittle and insecure. She longed for Vivacia as she had once been, a mirror and a reinforcement of Althea's self. She longed for Brashen, a man who had known her to her bones. She drifted in her identity with no kindred spirit to anchor her.
"There is something about that young woman in the boat," Vivacia murmured. "Do not you feel it also?"
"I feel nothing," Althea replied, and wished it were so.
Heart in mouth, Malta stared up at the ship's railing. The snatching waves, the chilling spray, the wind that pushed at the tiny boat and most of all the recklessly surging serpents all threatened her. The white-faced men pulling on the oars shared her fear of the serpents. She saw it in their set stares and straining muscles. As the creatures rose out of the water beside the boat, they stared at her with eyes of gold or silver or bronze. One after another, they threw back their heads as they passed the boat, trumpeting deep cries from their toothy scarlet maws. Not since she had dealt with Tintaglia had she felt such a pressure of sentience from another creature. Their gazes, fixed unwaveringly upon her, were too knowing, as if they sought to reach into her soul and claim her as their own. In terror, she fixed her gaze on the Vivacia to keep from looking at the scaled monsters.
She focused on presenting a composed face to the pirate King who awaited them. Motley's entire company had poured their energy into preparing her. In their eagerness that Kennit see the true sumptuousness of their gift, they had bathed and primped and dressed the Satrap more finely than when she had first seen him at the Bingtown Ball. The attention had bolstered his self-importance to a near-unbearable level. Malta had not been neglected. A burly deckhand with a pale snake tattooed beside his nose had insisted on painting her face for her. She had never seen such cosmetics and tools as he had brought to her room. Another had fashioned her turban, while one of the others had selected her jewelry, scent and robes from the plums of their plunder. Malta's heart had sung at how they aided her in her role, all with the intent of making their gift seem more extravagant. She would not let their efforts go to waste. She stared at Vivacia, and tried not to wonder if her father was alive, or what he would think of her transformation.
Then she saw Wintrow standing at the railing. Unbelieving, she came halfway to her feet. "Wintrow!" she called wildly to her brother. He stared at her stupidly. A glimpse of gold hair on a tall figure made her heart leap with hope, but it was not her father who looked down on her, but a woman. The Satrap scowled at her for her lack of decorum, but she ignored him. Anxiously she scanned the waiting folk, hoping against hope that Kyle Haven would step forward and call her name. Instead, the hand that lifted suddenly and pointed at her belonged unmistakably to her Aunt Althea.
Althea leaned forward precariously on the railing. She gripped Jek's forearm and pointed emphatically at the girl in the boat. "Sa's Breath! It's Malta!" she exclaimed.
"It can't be!" Wintrow joined his aunt at the railing and peered down at the girl. "She does look very like Malta," he faltered.
"Who is this Malta?" Kennit asked despite himself.
"My little sister," Wintrow observed faintly as every stroke of the oars brought her closer. "She looks very like her. But it cannot be."
"Well, it would be an extraordinary coincidence. But we shall soon see," Kennit replied blithely. The wind seemed to echo his words in a whisper. His stomach tightened and he lifted his hand, pretending to smooth his hair. The charm spoke close to his ear.
"There is no such thing as extraordinary coincidence. There is only destiny. So say the followers of Sa." Soft as a breath, it added, "This is not good fortune for you, but the delivery of your death. Sa will punish you for abandoning Etta."
Kennit snorted, and put his hands casually behind his back. He had not abandoned the whore; he had simply put her aside for later. Sa would not punish him for that. No one would. Nor would Kennit tremble at the size of the opportunity presented to him. The biggest prizes went to the men with the boldest hands. He smiled to himself as his one hand gripped his other wrist, securely covering the charm's eyes and mouth in a smothering of lace.
Then Wintrow spoke and a shivering of dread ran down Kennit's back. He stared at the oncoming boat and the girl's upturned face as he said almost dreamily, "In Sa, there are no extraordinary coincidences. Only destiny."
Malta stared up at them, frozen in shock beyond response. What could it mean? Had Althea joined Kennit's pirate crew instead of rescuing the family liveship? She could not be so false. Could she? What of Wintrow, then? When they reached the side of the ship, the Satrap was hoisted aboard first. At the encouragement of the sailors, she herself seized the rope ladder that was dropped to them. One of the Motley's crewmen accompanied her as she climbed the nastily swaying contraption of wet, rough rope. She tried to make a show of climbing it easily. The wet rungs bit right through the light gloves she wore to cover her roughened hands. The arduous climb was forgotten the moment she seized the railing and was assisted on board. A strange energy seeme
d to hum through her. She forgot to look for King Kennit as her eyes sought only for her father.
Abruptly Wintrow was there, sweeping her into a more manly hug than she would have thought her spindly brother was capable of. But he had grown and muscled, and when he cried out, "Malta! Sa himself has brought you safely to us!" his voice was deep and sounded not unlike their father. The tears that sprang to her eyes shocked her, as did the way she clung to him, unreasonably glad of his strength and welcome. After a long moment of being held, she realized that Althea's arms were also around her. "But how? How do you come to be here?" her aunt asked her.
But she had no desire to answer questions until the most important one had been asked. She leaned away from Wintrow, and was astonished to find how her brother had grown. "And Papa?" she asked him breathlessly.
The deep anguish in his eyes told her all. "He is not here," he told her gently, and she knew better than to ask where he was. He was gone, gone forever, and she had endured all, risked all for nothing. Her father was dead.
Then the ship spoke and in Vivacia's voice was a timbre that she had heard before, when Tintaglia spoke to her through the dream-box. A terrible recognition of kinship swept through Malta as the ship hailed her. "Well met and welcome, Dragon-Friend."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bargaining Chips
All eyes turned to the figurehead. Malta stepped free of Wintrow's embrace. No one save herself seemed to realize the ship spoke to her. Instead, their gazes traveled to the Satrap and back to the ship again. The Satrap stared at the moving, speaking figurehead in astonishment, but Malta's eyes went past him. Beside the Satrap stood a tall dark man with one peg leg. His handsome, self-possessed face showed displeasure. Beside him, the confident look was fading from Captain Red's face. He hated being upstaged. Captain Red glanced at the tall man, and Malta suddenly knew who he was. Captain Kennit, the King of the Pirate Isles. She took advantage of the distraction to appraise him. Her reaction was immediately both attraction and distrust. Like Roed Caern of Bingtown, he radiated danger. Once, she would have found him mysterious and alluring. She had grown wiser. Dangerous men were neither romantic nor exotic; they were men who could hurt you. This man would not be as easy to manipulate and convince as Captain Red had been.
"Are you too shy to speak to me?" the ship invited her warmly.
She sent the figurehead one desperate, pleading glance. She did not want the peg-legged man to see her as especially important. She must be only the Satrap's advisor. Did a flicker of understanding pass through Vivacia's eyes?
The Satrap seemed offended at the ship's coaxing words. He believed she spoke to him. "Greetings, liveship," he accorded her stiffly. His brief moment of wonder at her had passed. Malta supposed it reflected a lifetime of being showered with new and surprising gifts. No miracle amazed him for long. His gratitude was likewise short-lived. At least he seemed to recall her counsel: "Do not behave as a captive, nor as a supplicant."
He turned to Kennit. He did not bow nor salute him in any way. "Captain Kennit," he addressed him unsmilingly. His official recognition of Kennit as King of the Pirate Isles was one of the negotiation points.
Kennit regarded him with cool amusement. "Satrap Cosgo," he acknowledged him familiarly, already claiming equality. The Satrap's gaze grew frostier. "This way," Kennit indicated. He frowned slightly at the Vestrits.
"Wintrow. Come." To Malta, it seemed that he spoke as if her brother were a dog or a servant.
"Malta!" The Satrap's chill voice sternly reminded her of her duties.
She had a facade to maintain. She could not be Wintrow's sister, nor Althea's niece right now. She kept her voice low. "Ask me nothing now. We must talk later. Please. Trust me. Don't interfere with what I do." She stepped away and they let her go, but Althea's eyes were flinty. Wintrow hurried to his captain's command.
As the others left the foredeck, Althea asked aloud, "How does she come here? What does it mean?"
"She's your niece," Jek returned bluntly, staring wide-eyed after them.
"As if that gives me any answers. I will hold my questions and not interfere, not because she is such a font of wise actions, but because there is nothing else I can do. I hope she realizes what a treacherous snake Kennit is."
"Althea," the ship cautioned her wearily.
Althea turned back to the ship. "Why did you greet him as Dragon-Friend? The Satrap is a friend to dragons?"
"Not the Satrap," the ship replied evasively. "I would as soon not speak of it just now."
"Why?" Althea demanded.
"I am troubled about other things," Vivacia replied.
Althea sighed. "Your serpents. Their need to be guided back to their spawning river and escorted up it. It is hard for me, still, to think of you as a dragon." And harder still for her to accept that Vivacia had a loyalty that superseded all others. But if the serpents were first in her heart, before the Vestrits, perhaps they preceded Kennit as well. Childishly, Althea perceived a possible wedge. "Why do you not simply demand it of Kennit?"
"Do you know anyone who reacts well to a demand?" Vivacia asked rhetorically.
"You fear he would refuse you."
Vivacia was silent, and that quiet jolted Althea from the rut of her own concerns. It was like being lifted high on a wave and suddenly seeing to a farther horizon. She perceived Vivacia's confinement, spirit of a dragon encased in a body of wood, dependent on the men who set her sails and the winds that pushed her canvas. There were, she suddenly saw, many ways to be raped. The revelation broke her heart. Yet her next words sounded childish in her ears. "Were you mine again, we would leave today, this minute."
"You mean those words. I thank you for them."
Althea had almost forgotten Jek was there until she spoke. "You could force him. Threaten to open up your seams."
Vivacia smiled bitterly. "I am not mad Paragon, to recklessly menace my entire crew with wild acts of defiance. No." Althea felt her sigh. "Kennit will not be swayed by threats or demands. Even if I had the will, his pride would make him defy me. For this, I must hark back to your family's wisdom, Althea. I must bargain, with nothing to offer."
Althea tried to consider it coldly. "First, what do you want of him? Second, what can we offer him?"
"What do I want? For him to sail me back to the Rain Wild River, as swiftly as possible, and up it to the cocooning grounds. For me to remain there, near the serpents all winter, doing all we could to protect them until they hatched." She laughed hopelessly. "Even better would be an escort of his vessels, to guard my poor, weary serpents on their long journey. But every bit of that runs counter to Kennit's best interests."
Althea felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. "If he helps the serpents, he loses the use of them. They disappear to become dragons. He loses a powerful tool against Jamaillia."
"Bolt-self was too eager to flaunt her strength to him. She did not foresee this." She shook her head. "As for your second question, I have nothing to offer him that he does not already possess."
"The dragons could promise to return and aid him after they hatched," Jek speculated.
Vivacia shook her head. "They are not mine to bind that way. Even if I could, I would not. It is bad enough that, for as long as wizardwood endures, I must serve humans. I will not indenture the next generation."
Jek rolled her shoulders restively. "It's useless. There is nothing he wants that he doesn't have already." She smiled mirthlessly. "Save Althea."
A terrible quiet followed her words.
Just when Etta would have been useful, she was not on board, Kennit reflected in annoyance. He had to order everything himself, for Wintrow seemed completely addled by the presence of his sister. "Arrange chairs and a table in the chart room. Get some food and drink as well," he instructed him hastily.
"I'll help him," Sorcor volunteered good-naturedly, and lumbered off after Wintrow. As well. Sorcor and his family had suffered much at the hands of the Satrap's tax collectors and his slave masters. In t
heir early days together, he had often drunkenly held forth on exactly what he would do if he ever got his hands on the Satrap himself. Best not to give him too much opportunity to dwell on that right now.
Kennit followed them at a leisurely pace, to give Wintrow and Sorcor time to prepare the room. He saw the young woman eyeing his stump and peg. Malta Vestrit resembled her father. Kyle Haven's arrogance was in her carefully held mouth and narrowed eyes. He halted suddenly, and flourished his stump at her. "A serpent bit it off," he informed her casually. "A hazard of life upon the seas."
The Satrap recoiled, looking more distressed than his young Companion did. Kennit kept his smile small. Ah. He had forgotten the noble Jamaillian distaste for physical disfigurement. Could he use that? Captain Red had outlined the details of the Satrap's proposal. A dazzling offer, Kennit reflected gleefully, and only the first offer.
Kennit led them into the chart room. The preparations were adequate. Wintrow had spread a heavy cloth and added silver candlesticks. The silver tray that Wintrow held bore a collection of bottles and several glazed jugs of a Southby Island intoxicant, all recent plunder. Glasses and noggins suitable for the various drinks had been assembled as well. It was a suitable showing of wealth, without being extravagant. Kennit was pleased. He gestured at the table. "Please, please, come in. Wintrow, do the honors with drink, there's a good fellow."
Malta Vestrit stared round the room. Kennit could not resist. "No doubt this chamber has changed since last you saw it, Companion. But, please, be as at ease as if your father still occupied it."
That provoked an unforeseen response. "Malta Vestrit is not my Companion. You may address her as Advisor," the Satrap informed him haughtily.
