by Robin Hobb
But the men in the boat paid no attention to her. The serpents were flowing away with the retreating dragon. They seized the opportunity to make all speed for the Vivacia. On the main deck, amidst pointing and babbling crewmen, both Kennit and Wintrow stared after the dragon.
Only the figurehead shared Etta's concern. Vivacia gave one last, anguished look after the dragon. Then her eyes, too, scanned the waters around the small boat. Etta was still the first to see a pale movement under the waves and she pointed, crying, "There, there he is!"
But the creature that shot gasping to the surface of the water was not a man. He had the shape of a man, but his staring eyes gleamed copper. His dark wet curls, streaming water, reminded her of tangled kelp. He saw the boat, and strained toward it with a reaching hand, but Etta saw that his hand shone with more than wet. He was scaled. With a bubbling cry, he sank again. The rowers who had seen him roared with dismay and leaned into their task. Etta was left transfixed, staring at the place where he went down.
"Take him up! Please!" a girl's voice shrieked. Etta lifted her eyes to an elegantly garbed girl on the deck. Why, the Satrap's Companion looked no older than Wintrow!
Then Vivacia pointed a large and commanding finger at the water. "There! There, you fools, he comes up again! Quickly, quickly, take him up!"
Panicked as they were, the rowers had ignored Etta's plea, but the figurehead's command was another matter. White-faced, they slacked their oars. Then, as the man bobbed up again, they dug their oars in to spin the boat toward him. He saw them and reached desperately. He tried to claw his way toward them, but went under.
"That's it for him," one of the rowers predicted, but an instant later grasping hands broke the surface of the water. His drowning white face appeared and Etta heard him gasp for breath. A rower thrust an oar within his reach. He seized it so strongly he nearly tore it from the man's grip. They pulled him closer to the boat. In another moment, he had managed to seize the side. He could do no more than cling there. It took two men to haul him on board. When they had him in, he lay in the bottom, water streaming from his garments. He gagged. When he snorted his nose clear of sea water, blood followed it. He blinked his inhuman eyes up at Etta. At first, he did not appear to see her. Then he mouthed silent words. "Thank you." His head fell to one side and his eyes closed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ship of Destiny
The crewmen parted to make way for Kennit. He stepped past them and peered down at the figure sprawled facedown on his deck. Water ran from his clothes. Dripping hair masked his features. "Interesting bit of flotsam, Etta," he observed sourly. Whoever he was, or, Kennit privately amended as he studied his hands, whatever he was, he represented an unwelcome complication to a situation that was already too confusing. He had no time for this.
"You fished him out. You may keep him," Kennit announced, then staggered as the Satrap's advisor pushed past him. Kennit glared at her, but she did not notice. He started to speak, then his words died. What was that thing on her head? Althea crowded behind her, managing to brush past him while ignoring him completely. Jek stayed at the edge of the crowd with the pouting Satrap.
"Is he breathing? Is Reyn alive?" Malta demanded breathlessly. She hovered over the man but did not touch him.
Althea knelt beside her. Gingerly, she set her ringers to the side of the man's throat. Her face was still for an instant, and then she smiled up at her niece. "Reyn is alive, Malta." Wintrow had joined them. At Althea's words, he started, then gave his sister an incredulous smile.
As Wintrow smiled at his sister, something almost like jealousy flitted across Etta's face. In an instant, it was gone. She transferred her gaze to Kennit. Her voice was almost sulky as she said, "You sent for me?"
"I did." He became aware that the gathered crew closely followed this conversation. He softened his voice. "And you came. As you always have." He smiled at her. There. She and the crew could make whatever they wanted out of that. He gestured at the man at his feet. "What is this?"
"The dragon dropped him," Etta explained.
"So, of course, you picked him up," Kennit observed wryly.
"Vivacia said we should," one of the men from Sorcor's boat explained nervously. Was King Kennit displeased with him?
"He's Reyn Khuprus, a Rain Wilder. My sister is betrothed to him." Wintrow uttered these amazing words quite calmly. "Sa alone knows how he managed to find her here, but he did. Help me turn him over," he added. He seized the man by one shoulder. As he tugged, Reyn groaned. His hands scrabbled weakly against the deck.
Althea crouched beside Wintrow. "Wait. Give him time to clear his lungs," she suggested as he began to cough. Reyn wheezed, lifted his head slightly from the deck, and then let it sag back. "Malta?" he asked in a thick voice.
She gasped and sprang back from him. She threw her hands up before her face. "No!" she cried out, then wheeled and jostled her way through the crowd. Etta stared after her in consternation.
"What was that about?" she asked of anyone.
Before anyone could answer, a lookout shouted, "Sir! The Jamaillian ships are coming back!"
It was Kennit's turn to whirl and hasten away. He should not have let anything distract him from his enemy, no matter how damaged and scattered they had appeared. He gained the foredeck as swiftly as he could and stared in amazement at the oncoming ships. They were attempting to close around his three ships. Were they insane? Some were obviously limping, but two in good condition had come to the fore, leading the others. On their decks, he saw the telltale scrabble of men readying war machines. He appraised them thoughtfully. He had the Marietta and the Motley to back him, both with seasoned crews. The Jamaillian men would, at the least, be wearied, and they had probably spent a good amount of their shot. Technically, the Jamaillian fleet still outnumbered him, but most of their ships had taken substantial damage. Two were already going down, their crews seeking safety in small boats.
Kennit held the Satrap as a bargaining chip. It was as good a time as any to challenge the fleet of Jamaillia. "Jola!" he commanded. "Get the men back to their posts and have them stand ready."
Vivacia watched the oncoming ships with him but her mind was elsewhere. "How is the Rain Wilder?"
"Alive," he replied briefly.
"The dragon brought him. Here, to me."
"Wintrow seems to think the dragon dropped him off for his sister," Kennit replied acidly.
"That would make sense," the ship said thoughtfully. "They belong together."
"As much sense as anything that has happened today. What are the odds of such a thing happening, Vivacia? Out of all the ships around us, the dragon drops Malta's beloved by the correct one to find her."
"There was nothing random about it. The dragon came seeking Malta and found her. But The figurehead slowly scanned the approaching ships and said in a soft voice, "Something hovers here, Kennit. Something even more powerful than the luck you worship." She smiled but there was sadness in her expression. "Destiny knows no odds," she added mysteriously.
He had no answer to that. The very idea of it annoyed him. Destiny was all very well when it meant he would succeed. But today fate seemed to be weighting the balance against him. He recognized Etta's footfalls on the foredeck behind him. He turned to her. "Bring the Satrap up here And Malta."
She didn't reply. "Well?" he asked her at last. Her expression was odd. What was wrong with her today? He'd brought her back to the ship. What more could she want from him? Why must she want it right now?
"I've something to tell you. It's important."
"More important than our survival?" He glanced back at the oncoming ships. Would they halt and parley first, or just attack? Best not to take a chance. "Send Jola and Wintrow to me as well," he commanded her.
"I shall," she promised. She took a breath and added, "I'm pregnant. I carry your child." Then she turned and walked away from him.
Her words froze time around him. He suddenly felt he stood, not on a deck, but encap
sulated in a moment. So many paths spread out from this instant, and in so many directions. A baby. A child. The seed of a family. He could be a father, as his own father had been. No. Better. He could protect his own son. His father had tried to protect him, but his father had failed. He could be a king and his son a prince. Or he could be rid of Etta, take her somewhere, leave her there and go on, with no one to depend on him, no one he could fail. His thoughts did not spin; they rattled in his brain like stones. Maybe she was lying. Maybe she was wrong. Did he want a child? What if it was a girl?
"Would you still name her Paragon?" the charm on his wrist whispered viciously. It gave a low laugh. "Destiny no longer hovers. Some of it has flown off with the dragon. It decrees that the Lords of the Three Realms will fly again. The rest of today's destiny has fallen upon your head. It weighs a bit more than a crown, does it not?"
"Leave me alone," Kennit whispered. He spoke not to the charm, but to the past that had reached forth and reclaimed him. Other memories, memories most deeply denied flooded back to him. Standing within the circle of his father's arms, reaching up to rest his own small hands on the inner spokes of Paragon's wheel while his father held the ship steady. He recalled riding tall on his father's shoulders, his mother laughing up at him, a bright scarf fluttering in her dark, dark hair as they strode through Divvytown. These recollections, bright and joyful, were more intolerable than any remembered pain. They were a mockery, a lie, for all fondness and safety had been erased one dark and bloody night.
Now Etta would start it all over again. Was she mad? Didn't she know what must come? Eventually, of course, he'd have to hurt the child. Not because he wanted to, but because it was inevitable. This moment marked one end of the pendulum's swing. Ride it they must, until it peaked at the other end, the place where he was Igrot and Igrot was he. Then the child must step up to play the role that had once been Kennit's.
"You poor pathetic bastard," the charm whispered in horror. But pity would not stay destiny. Nothing could save him, or the child. Events had to follow their pattern. Nothing could disrupt the cycling of time. Things would happen again just as they always had. Just as they always would.
"Sir?" it was Jola, standing at his elbow. How long had he been there? Kennit's musings blew away like dandelion fluff blown by a child's lips. What had he been thinking? When had it begun to rain? Damn the woman! Why had she chosen to distract him just now? His first mate swallowed and spoke. "The Jamaillian ship is hailing us."
"Where is the Satrap?" he demanded angrily. He pulled his cloak more tightly around him, and dashed water from his face. The rain was cold.
Jola looked frightened. "Behind you, sir."
Kennit glanced back at him. Malta, her headwrap again in place, stood beside the Satrap. Wintrow hovered near his sister. When had they all come up on the foredeck? How long had he stood there, dazed with Etta's news?
"Of course he is!" He kept his anger, but refocused it. "Exactly where he should be. Return their hail. Tell them King Kennit bids them think well. Remind them, that I can recall the serpents at any time. Then tell them that my intent is not to destroy them, but simply to make them heed a lawful treaty. They may send one ship forward with representatives. We will allow them aboard. They shall hear from the Satrap himself that my claims are true."
Jola looked relieved. "Then the serpents haven't left us? They'd come back if you called them?"
If there had been a serpent close by, Kennit would have fed him to it.
"Relay my message!" he barked at Jola. He turned back to stare at the threatening fleet. He recognized the type of fleet it was. Each ship belonged to a noble, and each cherished the hope of returning laden with booty and crowned with glory. They would vie to be the one to treat for the Satrap's release; every noble would want to negotiate it. Would they be foolish enough to send him a hostage from every ship? He hoped so, and yet he knew that there might still be bloody fighting today.
When Malta fled, Jek and Althea had carried Reyn down to Althea's room. On her bunk, he had come to himself. "Where's Malta?" he demanded woozily. "Didn't I find her?" Blood leaked sluggishly from one nostril and water dripped from his hair.
"You did," Althea assured him. "But Captain Kennit has summoned her." Reyn suddenly clapped both hands to his bared face. "Did she see me?" he demanded, horrified. A question like that, at such a time, demanded a truthful answer.
"Yes. She did," Althea replied quietly. There was no point in lying, or trying to save his feelings. His copper eyes were hard to read but the set of his mouth was not. "She's very young, Reyn," Althea excused her niece. "You knew that when you began courting her." She tried to make her words gentle as well as firm. "You can't expect—"
"Leave me for a time. Please," he requested quietly.
Jek left off staring at him, and opened the door. Althea followed her out. "Those are Wintrow's clothes on the pegs," she said over her shoulder. "If you want some dry things on." Not that there was much hope any of it would fit him. Despite his scaly face and eyes, he was a well-made man, tall and muscled.
Jek seemed to have been following her thoughts. "Even with the scales, he's not bad-looking," she observed quietly.
Althea leaned against the wall outside her room, Jek beside her. "I should be out on the foredeck, not down here," she grumbled to her friend.
"Why? It's not like you have any control over what happens up there," Jek pointed out maddeningly. She lowered her voice suddenly. "Admit it, Althea," she coaxed. "When you look at the scales on his face, you have to wonder about the rest of him."
"No, I don't," Althea replied icily. She didn't want to think about it. The man was a Rain Wilder, kin to Bingtown Traders; she owed him loyalty, not idle speculation about his body. She'd seen Rain Wilders before and, she told herself, she wasn't shocked. They could not help what the Rain Wilds did to them. The Khuprus family was renowned for both their wealth and honor. Reyn Khuprus, scaled or not, was a good catch; that he had come seeking his betrothed so far, in such a way, was undeniable evidence of a brave heart. Still, she did not blame Malta for running away. She had probably fantasized a handsome face beneath his veil. To confront her scaly betrothed must have shaken her.
Reyn pulled his wet shirt off. It slapped to the floor atop his other clothes. He took a deep breath through his tight throat and stared into the room's small mirror forcing himself to see what Malta had seen. Tintaglia had not lied to him. His contact with her had accelerated the Rain Wild changes. He touched the fine dragon scaling of his face, lidded and opened the copper reptile eyes that stared at him. The scaled planes of his bared chest glinted bronze. There was a bluish cast to the skin beneath: bruising or a color change? He had seen Rain Wild gaffers of fifty who had not shown as much change as he already did. What would become of him as he aged? Would he grow dragon claws, would his teeth become pointed, his tongue ridged?
It scarcely mattered, he told himself. He'd grow old alone now, underground most of the time, digging for dragons. How he looked would not matter to anyone. Tintaglia had kept her end of the bargain. He would keep his. The irony did not escape him. He'd wagered the rest of his life against the hope that he could rescue Malta. He would not deny his wild fancies now. He'd dreamed that he would rescue her, unscathed despite the horrible dangers she'd endured, and that she would collapse into his arms and promise to always be at his side. He'd dreamed that when he unveiled before her, she would smile and touch his face and tell him it did not matter, that it was him she loved, not his face.
But the reality was crueler. Tintaglia had dropped him and departed with her precious serpents. After days of battering flight and sleeping cold on isolated beaches, he'd nearly drowned. Malta's kin had had to rescue him. They must think him an utter fool. His entire quest had been to no purpose, for Malta was safe already. He had no idea why the Vivacia was flying the Jamaillian flag, but obviously Althea Vestrit had managed to regain her ship and rescue her niece. They not only hadn't needed his pathetic efforts, they'd had t
o rescue him.
He took one of Wintrow's shirts from a peg and held it up. With a sigh, he hung it up again. He picked up his own shirt from the floor and watched the water run from it. His veil was tangled with it. For a time, he stared at it. Then he tugged it loose and wrung it out. It was the first thing he put on.
Malta stood unseeing in the pelting rain. The fine scaling of Reyn's face had been like silken mail, the warm gleam of his copper eyes like a beacon. Once, she had kissed those lips through the fine mesh of a veil. She felt her scrub-maid's fingers on her chapped lips and snatched her hand away. Unattainable, now. She lifted her face to the cold rain and welcomed its icy touch. Numb me, she begged of it. Take away this pain.
"I'm cold," the Satrap whimpered beside her. "And I'm tired of standing here."
Kennit shot him a warning glance.
The Satrap had his arms wrapped tightly around himself but he still shook with the cold. "I don't think they're coming. Why must I stand here in the wind and rain?"
"Because it pleases me," Kennit snapped at him.
Wintrow thought to intervene. "You can have my cloak, if you like," he offered.
The Satrap scowled. "It's dripping wet! What good would that do me?"
"You could be wetter," Kennit snarled.
Malta took a long breath. The pirate and the Satrap did not seem much different from one another. If she could manage one, she could manage the other. It was not courage that motivated her to march across the deck and stand before Kennit with her arms crossed, but profound despair. He was a dangerous, violent man, but she didn't fear him. What could he do to her? Ruin her life? The thought almost made her smile.
Her low, even words were meant only for Kennit but the tall woman who stood behind his shoulder listened, too.
"Please, King Kennit, let me fetch him a heavier cloak and a chair, if you will not allow him to go inside to shelter."
