The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  ‘Be damned,’ Kennit had told him fiercely.

  ‘Quite likely, sir,’ Sorcor had replied unperturbed. He had probably already been sniffing the air for the spoor of a slaveship.

  Or maybe it was just the man’s infernal luck that they had raised this one so quickly. It was a typical Chalcedean slaver, deep-hulled and wide-waisted, all the better to pack her full of flesh. Never had Kennit seen Sorcor so lustful in pursuit, so painstaking in his stalking. The very winds seemed to bless him, and it was actually well before dawn when Sorcor ordered the sweeps out. The ballistae were already wound and set, loaded with ball and chain to foul their prey’s rigging and grappling hooks were ready to snare their crippled conquest. These last were a new idea of Sorcor’s, one that Kennit regarded with scepticism.

  ‘Will you lead the crew to the prize, sir?’ Sorcor asked him even as the lookouts on the slaver sounded the first alarms.

  ‘Oh, I think I shall leave that honour to you,’ Kennit demurred dryly. He leaned idly on the railing, putting the pursuit and battle entirely into Sorcor’s hands. If the mate was dismayed by his captain’s lack of enthusiasm, he covered it well. He sprang aloft, to cry his commands down to the men on deck. The men shared his battle pitch, for they leaped to obey with a will, so that the extra canvas seemed to flow over the mast and blossom with the night wind. Kennit was selfishly grateful for the favourable wind, for it bore most of the stench of the slaver away from them.

  He felt almost detached as they closed the distance on the slaver. In a desperate bid to outpace them, the slaver was putting on sail, the rigging swarming with men scuttling like disturbed ants. Sorcor cursed his delight with this and ordered the ballistae fired. Kennit thought he had acted too quickly, yet the two heavy balls linked with a stout length of barbed and bladed chain flew well and high, crashing into the other ship’s canvas and lines, ripping and tangling as they fell heavily to the deck below. Half a dozen men fell with the balls, screaming until they found the deck or vanished beneath the waves. The sound of their screams had scarcely died before Sorcor had launched a second set of balls and chain. This one did not do quite as much damage, but the harried crew of the slaver were now too busy watching for other missiles to work the sails effectively, while the canvas and lines that had fallen draped the deck and fouled the workings of the other sails. The slaver’s decks were in a state of total disarray when Sorcor ordered grappling-lines swung.

  Kennit felt distant and detached as he watched their hapless victim roped in and secured. As dawn ventured over the water, Sorcor and his raiders leapt or swung across the small distance between the two vessels, whooping and screeching their bloodlust. Kennit himself lifted his cuff to his nose and breathed through his sleeve to keep from inhaling the stench of the slaver. He remained aboard the Marietta with a skeleton crew. Those who remained with him were plainly frustrated to be cheated of the slaughter, yet someone had to man the Marietta and be ready either to repel boarders or cast loose the grappling-lines if things went against them.

  Kennit was a spectator to the slaughter of the slaver’s crew. They had little expected to be attacked by pirates. Their cargo was not usually to a pirate’s taste. Most pirates, like Kennit, preferred valuable, non-perishable goods, preferably easily transportable. The chained slaves below decks were the only cargo this ship carried. Even if the pirates had had the will to make the tedious voyage to Chalced to sell them, the transport of such cargo demanded a watchful eye and a strong stomach. Such livestock needed to be guarded as well as fed, watered and provided with rudimentary sanitation. The ship itself would have some value, Kennit supposed, though the current stench it gave off was enough to turn his stomach.

  The crew of the slaver had such weapons as they carried to keep their cargo in order and little more than that. They did not, Kennit reflected, seem to have much idea of how to fight an armed and healthy man; he supposed that one became accustomed to beating or kicking men in chains and forgot what it was like to deal with any other type of opponent.

  He had earlier tried to persuade Sorcor that the crew and vessel might have some ransom value, even if divested of their cargo. Sorcor had been adamantly opposed. ‘We kill the crew, free the cargo and sell the ship. But not back to other slavers,’ he had loftily stipulated.

  Kennit was beginning to regret letting the man think he regarded him as an equal. He was becoming entirely too demanding, and seemed unaware of how odious Kennit found such behaviour. Kennit narrowed his eyes as he considered that the crew seemed overly pleased with Sorcor’s idealistic ranting. He doubted it was that they shared his lofty goals of suppressing slavery. More likely that they relished the thought of unreined carnage. As he watched two of his worthy seamen together loft a still-living man over the side and into the waiting maw of a serpent, Kennit nodded his head slowly to himself. This bestial bloodshed was what they craved. Perhaps he had been keeping too tight a rein on the men for the sake of the ransom that live captives bought. He tucked that thought away for later consideration. He could learn from anyone, even Sorcor. All dogs needed to be let off their leashes now and then. He mustn’t let the crew believe that only Sorcor could provide such treats.

  He quickly wearied of watching the final slaughter. The slaver’s crew was no match for his. There was no organization to their ship’s defence, merely a band of men trying not to die. They failed at that. The mass of men that had met the pirate’s boarding party rapidly diminished to knots of defenders surrounded by implacable foe. The ending was predictable; there was no suspense at all to this conquest. Kennit turned away from it. There was a sameness to men dying that bored more than disgusted him. The shrieks, the blood that gushed or leaked, the final frantic struggles, the useless pleas; he had seen it all before. It was far more enlightening to watch the two serpents.

  He wondered if they had not escorted this ship for some time; perhaps they even regarded it companionably, as a sort of provider of easy feeding. They had withdrawn when the Marietta initially attacked, seemingly upset by the flurry of activity. But when the sounds of battle and the shrieks of the dying began, they came swiftly back. They circled the locked ships like dogs begging at a table, vying with one another for the choicest positions. Never before had Kennit had the opportunity to observe a serpent for so long and at such close quarters. These two seemed fearless. The larger one was a scintillating crimson mottled with orange. When he reared his head and neck from the water and opened his maw, a ruff of barbs stood out around his throat and head like a lion’s mane. They were fleshy, waving appendages, reminding Kennit of the stinging arms on an anemone or jellyfish. He would have been much surprised to discover they were not tipped with some sort of paralysing poison. Certainly when the smaller turquoise worm vied with the larger one, he avoided the touch of the other’s ruff.

  What the smaller serpent lacked in size it made up for in aggression. It dared to come much closer to the ship’s side, and when it lifted its head to the height of the slaveship’s rail, it opened its maw as well, baring row upon row of pointed teeth. It hissed when it did so, sending forth a fine cloud of venomous spittle. The cloud engulfed two struggling men. Both of them immediately left off their own fight and fell gasping to the deck, writhing in a useless struggle to pull air into their lungs. They soon grew still while the frustrated serpent lashed the sea beside the ship into foam, furious that its prey remained safe aboard the ship. Kennit guessed that it was young and inexperienced. The larger serpent seemed more philosophical. He was content to hover alongside the slaver, watching expectantly for men bearing bodies to approach the railing. He then opened his maw to catch whatever was thrown, regardless of whether it was dead or wriggling. He would seize a body in his jaws, but made no effort at chewing it. His teeth seemed devoted to the purpose of tearing. These small titbits needed no dismembering. Instead the serpent would fling his head back and open his jaws far wider than Kennit would have believed possible. Then the body would vanish, boots and all, and Kennit could mark its progre
ss down the creature’s gullet by the distension of his sinuous throat. It was a spectacle at once chilling and fascinating.

  His crew seemed to share his awe, for as the battle subsided and there were but bodies and subdued captives to dispose of, they gathered their serpent victuals on the high afterdeck of the slaver and took turns feeding the serpents from there. Some of the bound captives wept and screamed, but their cries were drowned out by the approving roars of the pirate crew as each human morsel was flung over the side. It soon became a game to toss each victim or corpse not to a serpent, but between them, to watch the great beasts vie for the meat. Those men who had remained aboard the Marietta felt greatly slighted to be excluded from this pastime, for though they kept to their duties on the ship, it was with many a glance in the direction of their comrades. As the serpents became sated, their aggression diminished and they were content to take turns with their feeding.

  As the final captives went over the side, the first of the slaves began to emerge onto the deck. They came up from the hatches, coughing and blinking in the morning light. They clutched their tattered rags about their bony bodies against the briskness of the sea wind. As hatch cover after hatch cover was removed, the fetid stink in the air increased, as if the stench were an evil genie confined too long belowdecks. Kennit’s gorge rose as he saw how scabrous these men were. Disease had always held a great horror for him, and he hastily sent a man to tell Sorcor it was time the vessels parted. He wanted good clean seawater between him and that pestilence-ridden hulk. He saw his messenger leap to his command, more than willing to get a closer look for himself. Kennit himself quit the afterdeck and went below to his cabin. There he set scented candles alight to ward off the trailing odour from outside.

  Some moments later, Sorcor rapped smartly on his door.

  ‘Enter,’ Kennit invited him brusquely.

  The burly mate came in, red of hand and bright of eye. ‘A complete victory,’ he told Kennit breathlessly. ‘A complete victory. The ship is ours, sir. And over three hundred and fifty men, women and children released from below her scurvy decks.’

  ‘Any other cargo worth speaking of?’ Kennit asked dryly when Sorcor paused for breath.

  Sorcor grinned. ‘The captain seemed to have an eye for fine clothes, sir. But he was a portly man, and his taste in colours rather wild.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will find the dead man’s garments to your taste.’ The chill in Kennit’s tone stood Sorcor up straight. ‘If you have finished with your adventure, I suggest we put a small crew aboard her and sail our “prize” to port somewhere, seeing as how that wooden hulk is all we have to show for the night’s work. How many men lost or wounded?’

  ‘Two dead, sir, three cut up a bit.’ Sorcor sounded resentful of the question. Plainly he had been foolish enough to expect Kennit to share his exuberance.

  ‘I wonder how many more we shall lose to disease. The stench alone is enough to give a man the flux, let alone whatever other contagion they have bred in that tub.’

  ‘It’s scarcely the fault of the folk we have rescued if we do, sir,’ Sorcor pointed out stiffly.

  ‘I did not say it would be. I will put it down to our own foolishness. Now. We have the ship to show for our troubles, and perhaps it will sell for a bit, but only after we have rid it of its cargo and seen to its scrubbing out.’ He looked at Sorcor and smiled carefully as he phrased the question he had been looking forward to. ‘What do you propose to do with these wretches you have rescued? Where shall we put them off?’

  ‘We can’t simply put them off on the closest land, sir. It’d be murder. Half are sick, the others weak, and there are no tools or provisions of any kind we could leave them, save ship’s biscuit.’

  ‘Murder,’ Kennit cut in affably. ‘Ah, now there’s a foreign concept for you and I. Not that I’ve been tossing folk to sea serpents of late.’

  ‘They got what they deserved!’ Sorcor was beginning to look badgered. ‘And better than what they deserved, for what they got was quick!’ He smacked a meaty fist into his other palm and nearly glared.

  Kennit heaved a tiny sigh. ‘Ah, Sorcor, I do not dispute that. I am merely trying to remind you that we are, you and I, pirates. Murderous villains who scour the Inside Passage for vessels to overcome, loot and plunder and ransom. We do this to make a profit for ourselves. We are not nursery maids for sickly slaves, half of whom are probably as deserving of their fates as were the crew that you fed to the serpents. Nor are we heroic saviours of the downtrodden. Pirates, Sorcor. We are pirates.’

  ‘It was our deal,’ Sorcor pointed out doggedly. ‘For every liveship we chase, we go after one slaver. You agreed.’

  ‘So I did. I had hoped that after you had dealt with the reality of one “triumph” you would see the futility of it. Look you, Sorcor. Say we strain our crew and resources to take that squalid vessel to Divvytown. Do you think the inhabitants are going to welcome us and rejoice that we put ashore three hundred and fifty half-starved, ragged, sickly wretches to infest their town as beggars, whores and thieves? Do you think these slaves we have “rescued” are going to thank you for abandoning them to their fates as paupers?’

  ‘They’re thankful now, the whole damn lot of them,’ Sorcor declared stubbornly. ‘And I know in my time, sir, I’d have been damn grateful to be set ashore anywhere, with or without a mouthful of bread or a stitch of clothes, so long as I was a free man and able to breathe clean air.’

  ‘Very well, very well’ Kennit made a great show of capitulating with a resigned sigh. ‘Let us ride this ass to the end, if we must. Choose a port, Sorcor, and we shall take them there. I shall but ask this. On our way there, those who are able shall begin the task of cleaning out that vessel. And I should like to get underway as soon as we are decently able, while the serpents are still satiated.’ Kennit glanced casually away from Sorcor. It would not do to let him wallow in the gratitude of the freed captives. ‘I shall require you aboard the Marietta, Sorcor. Put Rafo in charge of the other vessel, and assign him some men.’

  Sorcor straightened himself. ‘Aye, sir,’ he replied heavily. He trudged from the room, a very different man from the one who had burst in the door exuberant with victory. He shut the door quietly behind himself. For a time, Kennit remained looking at it. He was straining the man’s loyalty; the link that bound them together was forged mostly from Sorcor’s fidelity. He shook his head to himself. It was, perhaps, his own fault. He had taken a simple uneducated sailor with a knack for numbers and navigation and elevated him to the status of mate, taught him what it felt to control men. Thinking, perforce, went with that command. But Sorcor was beginning to think too much. Kennit would soon have to decide which was worth more to him: the mate’s value as second in command, or his own total control of his ship and men. Kennit sighed heavily. Tools blunted so quickly in this trade.

  13

  TRANSITIONS

  BRASHEN AWOKE WITH GRITTY EYES and a crick in his neck. Morning sunlight had penetrated the thick panes of the bay windows that glassed one end of the chamber. It was a thick, murky light, greenish with the dried algae that coated the outside of the windows, but light nonetheless. Enough to alert him that it was daylight and time he was up and about.

  He swung out of the hammock to his feet. Guilty. He was guilty of something. Spending all his pay when he had sworn that this time he would be wiser. Yes, but that was a familiar guilt. This was something else, something that bit with sharper teeth. Oh. Althea. The girl had been here last night, begging his advice, or he had dreamed her. And he had given her his bitterest counsels with not a word of hope or an offer of help from him.

  He tried to shrug the concern away. After all, what did he owe the girl? Nothing. Not a thing. They hadn’t even really been friends. Too big of a gap in status for that. He had just been the mate on her father’s ship, and she had been the daughter of the captain. No room for a friendship there. And as for the old man, well, yes, Ephron Vestrit had done him a good turn when no one else would
, had let him prove himself when no one else would. But the old man was dead now, so that was that.

  Besides. Bitter as the advice had been, it was solid. If Brashen could have gone back in time, he would never have quarrelled with his father. He’d have gone to the endless schooling, behaved correctly at the social functions, eschewed drunkenness and cindin, married whoever was chosen for him. And he’d be the heir now to the Trell fortune instead of his little brother.

  The thought reminded him that as he was not heir to the Trell fortune and as he had spent the rest of his money last night save for a few odd coins, he had best be worrying more about himself and less about Althea. The girl would have to take care of herself. She’d have to go home. That’s all there was to it. What was the worst that would happen to her, really? They’d marry her off to a suitable man. She’d live in a comfortable home with servants and well prepared food, wear clothing tailored especially for her and go to the endless round of balls and teas and social functions that seemed so essential to Bingtown society and the Traders especially. He snorted softly to himself. He should hope for such a cruel fate to befall him. He scratched at his chest and then his beard. He ran both hands through his hair to smooth it back from his face. Time to find work. He’d best clean himself up and head down to the docks.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted Paragon as he rounded the bow of the ship.

  The figurehead looked permanently uncomfortable, fastened to the front of the heavily-leaning ship. Brashen suddenly wondered if it made his back ache, but didn’t have the courage to ask. Paragon had his thickly-muscled arms crossed over his bare chest as he faced out over the glinting water to where other ships came and went from the harbour. He didn’t even turn toward Brashen. ‘Afternoon,’ Paragon corrected him.