The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  No. No! He would not let go. He would hang onto himself, and fight and something would happen. Something. Would the monastery send anyone to inquire after him when he did not return? ‘I think I’m hoping to be rescued,’ he observed wearily to himself. There. That was a high ambition. To stay alive and remain himself until someone else could save him. He was not sure if… if… if. There had been the beginning of a thought there, but the upsurging blackness of sleep drowned it.

  In the dark of the harbour, Vivacia sighed. She crossed her slender arms over her breasts and stared up at the bright lights of the night market. So engrossed was she in her own thoughts that she startled to the soft touch of a hand against her planking. She looked down. ‘Ronica!’ she exclaimed in gentle surprise.

  ‘Yes. Hush. I would speak quietly with you.’

  ‘If you wish,’ Vivacia replied softly, intrigued.

  ‘I need to know… that is, Althea sent me a message. She feared all was not well with you.’ The woman’s voice faltered. ‘The message actually came some days ago. A servant, thinking it unimportant, had set it in Ephron’s study. I only found it today.’

  Her hand was still set to the hull. Vivacia could read some of what she felt, though not all. ‘It is hard for you to go into that room, isn’t it? As hard as it is to come down here and see me.’

  ‘Ephron,’ Ronica whispered brokenly. ‘Is he… is he within you? Can he speak through you to me?’

  Vivacia shook her head sorrowfully. She was used to seeing this woman through Ephron’s eyes or Althea’s. They had seen her as determined and authoritative. Tonight, in her dark cloak with her head bowed, she looked so small. Vivacia longed to comfort her, but would not lie. ‘No. I’m afraid it isn’t like that. I’m aware of what he knew, but it is commingled with so much else. Still. When I look at you, I feel as my own the love he felt for you. Does that help?’

  ‘No,’ Ronica answered truthfully. ‘There is some comfort in it, but it can never be like Ephron’s strong arms around me, or his advice guiding me. Oh, ship, what am I to do? What am I to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Vivacia answered. Ronica’s distress was awakening an answering anxiety in her. She put it in words. ‘It frightens me that you ask me that question. Surely you know what to do. Ephron certainly always believed you did.’ Reflectively, Vivacia added, ‘He thought of himself as a simple sailor, you know. A man who had the knack of running a ship well. You were the wisdom of the family, the one with the greater vision. He counted on that.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Of course he did. How else could he have sailed off and left you to manage everything?’

  Ronica was silent. Then she heaved a great sigh.

  Quietly Vivacia added, ‘I think he would tell you to follow your own counsels.’

  Ronica shook her head wearily. ‘I fear you are right. Vivacia. Do you know where Althea is?’

  ‘Right now? No. Don’t you?’

  Ronica answered reluctantly. ‘I have not seen her since the morning after Ephron died.’

  ‘The last time she came to see me, Torg came down onto the docks and tried to lay hands on her. She pushed him off the dock, and walked away while everyone else was laughing.’

  ‘But she was all right?’

  Vivacia shook her head. ‘Only as “all right” as you or me. Which is to say she is troubled and hurt and confused. But she told me to be patient, that all would eventually be put right. She told me not to take matters into my own hands.’

  Ronica nodded gravely. ‘Those are the very things I came down here to say tonight, also. Do you think you can keep such counsels?’

  ‘I?’ The ship almost laughed. ‘Ronica, I am three times a Vestrit. I fear I shall have only as much patience as my forebears did.’

  ‘An honest answer,’ Ronica conceded. ‘I will only ask that you try. No. I will ask one more thing. If Althea returns here, before you sail, will you give her a message from me? For I have no other way to contact her, save through you.’

  ‘Of course. And I will see that no one save her hears the message.’

  ‘Good, that is good. All I ask is that she come to see me. We are not at odds as much as she believes we are. But I will not go into details now. Just ask her to come to me, quietly.’

  ‘I shall tell her. But I do not know if she will.’

  ‘Neither do I, ship. Neither do I.’

  14

  FAMILY MATTERS

  KENNIT DID NOT TAKE the captured ship to Divvytown. He did not trust the wallowing thing not to become mired in negotiating the narrow channels and numerous sandbars a ship must pass to get there. Instead, after a tense conference, he and Sorcor determined that Askew would be a better port for her. Kennit had thought it fitting; had not Askew been founded when a storm-driven slaver took shelter up a channel and the cargo managed a successful uprising against the crew, he had asked Sorcor in amusement. Yes, that was true, but Sorcor had still been opposed, for there was little more to Askew than sand and rocks and clams. What future could these folk have there? Better than what the slaver had offered them, Kennit pointed out. Sorcor became surly but Kennit insisted. The journey there had taken six slow days, far less than it would have taken them to reach Divvytown, and from Kennit’s point of view, the time had been well spent.

  Sorcor had seen a number of his rescued slaves die; disease and starvation did not vanish simply because a man could claim to be free. To Rafo’s credit and that of his charges, they had turned to and given the vessel a good scrubbing. It no longer gave off the full stench of a slaver, but Kennit still insisted that the Marietta sail upwind of her. He would risk no wind bringing disease to his ship. He had permitted none of the freed slaves to board the Marietta, saying that crowding his own vessel to relieve the tight quarters on the Fortune would do no one any good. Instead the slaves had had to be content with spreading out on the decks and taking the living area of the devoured crew. Some of the healthier ones were pressed into service as deckhands to fill out the ranks of the skeleton crew that manned her. The unfamiliar work was hard for them, especially in their weakened state. Despite this, and the continued deaths, the morale on the captured ship seemed high. The former slaves were pathetically grateful for fresh air, for shares of the salt pork that had once gone to the slaver’s crew, and for whatever fish they could catch to supplement their diets. Sorcor had even been able to drive off the serpents with several showers of ballast shot from the ballistae on the decks of the Marietta. Those who died now were still heaved from the decks of the ship, but the bodies splashed into the water rather than being snatched up by an avid serpent. This seemed to afford them great satisfaction, though for the life of him, Kennit could not see what difference it could make to the dead men.

  They brought the ships into Askew on an incoming tide, when the push of the waters helped them up the sluggish tide channel that led into the brackish bay. The remains of a foundered ship thrust up skeletally at the shallow end of the anchorage. The village itself had sprung up as a row of huts and houses along the beach. These shelters were made from old ship’s timbers, driftwood and stone. Thin smoke rose from a few chimneys. Two makeshift fishing boats were tied to a battered wharf and half a dozen skiffs and coracles were pulled up on the sandy shore. It was not a prosperous town.

  The Marietta led the way, and Kennit had to admit to a grudging pride that the slaves-cum-sailors that were the main crew of the Fortune now did not shame him. They worked as lively if not as skilfully as seasoned salts, bringing the big ship in and setting her anchors well. The Fortune was now flying the Raven flag that was known throughout all the Pirate Isles as Kennit’s emblem. By the time both ships had their boats away, a curious crowd had gathered on the rickety wharves to gawk at the newcomer. The rag-tag community of former slaves and refugees boasted no ship of their own larger than a fishing boat. To see two merchant-ships anchor in their harbour must make them wonder what tidings or goods they brought.

  Kennit was content to send Sorcor
ashore with the news that they would be taking bids on the Fortune. He doubted that anyone in the ratty little town would have enough coin to have made the conquest worth his while, but he was determined simply to take the best offer and be rid of both the smelly ship and the slaves who had filled its hold. He did not permit himself to dwell on how much the cargo of men would have brought had he forced Sorcor to accept his wisdom and sail on to Chalced to sell them. That opportunity was lost; there was no point in dwelling on it.

  From the docks, a small flotilla of rowing boats were suddenly set in motion, hastening towards the Fortune. The slaves already crowded the railings, awaiting their chance to disembark from their floating prison. Kennit had not expected the townsfolk to be so eager to welcome his riff-raff. Well, all to the better. The sooner the Fortune was unloaded and sold, the sooner he could be back to more profitable pursuits. He turned aside, to give the ship’s boy a curt order that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. He had no immediate desire to visit Askew. Let the slaves go first, and Sorcor, to see what sort of welcome they might receive.

  Instead he spent several hours after they docked in perusing the fine charts that had been aboard the Fortune. Sorcor had completely overlooked the charts and papers that had been in a concealed cupboard in the captain’s quarters. It was only when Kennit had finally decided to indulge his curiosity and pay a personal visit to the captured ship that they had been discovered. The papers were only of minimal interest to him, as they related only to the dead man’s personal interests and properties. In passing he noticed that the slaver’s wife and child had been well provided for. But the charts were another matter. In going over them, Kennit had noticed that his expectations were well founded. Charts were wealth. The information on them was often gained only at great cost, and was not casually shared with rival merchants or sailors. The slaver’s charts showed only the obvious passage past the Pirate Isles. There were a few notes on rumours of other channels, but very little of the inland waterways of the islands had been charted. Seven pirate settlements were marked on the chart, two incorrectly and a third was a settlement long abandoned as too exposed to passing slaveships. Slavers saw no reason not to raid pirate settlements for extra cargo as they were passing through; it was one of Sorcor’s grievances against them. Despite these obvious lacks, it was a painstaking chart of the main channel.

  For some time Kennit leaned back in his chair and gazed out at the high passing clouds and considered. He decided he could accept this chart as the current level of the slaver’s knowledge of the Pirate Isles and the passages through it. So. If a man could gain control of the main channel, he could strangle all trade. Slaveships had not the leisure to explore, looking for alternate routes. Perhaps the same was true of the liveships. He tempted himself with that belief, then reluctantly shook his head. The liveships and their families had plied these waters for many years longer than the slavers had. The Chalcedean slave-trade had largely created the pirates and their settlements. So he would have to assume that most Trader families who plied these waters would have better knowledge of them than the slavers. Why had not that knowledge been shared; the answer was obvious. No Trader would willingly extend his own advantage to his competitors. He leaned back in his chair. So. What had he learned, really? Nothing he had not already known. Slavers would be easier to capture than liveships. But that did not mean that capturing a liveship would be impossible; only that he might have to give more thought to it.

  His mind strayed to the slaveship. It had been a ship of freed men for three days before he visited, and that had wrought some change in the level of stench, though not enough to placate Kennit’s nose. He had given no real thought to it when he had put Rafo in charge of the ship, but he was acquitting himself well in his new position. Hundreds of buckets of seawater had been hauled aboard and the upper decks at least showed the benefit of it. But from the open hatch covers, a fetid stench welled up. There were simply too many live beings crowded aboard the vessel. They huddled in knots on the deck, bony limbs thrusting out of tattered rags. Some were endeavouring to help work the ship, others simply trying to stay out of the way. Some were engaged in the absorbing business of dying, interested in nothing else. As Kennit walked the length of the ship, a handkerchief held to his nose and mouth, the eyes of the slaves followed him. Every one of them spoke softly as he passed them. Eyes flooded with tears at his approach and heads were bowed before him. At first he had thought they grovelled in terror of him. When he finally realized their murmurs were expressions of thanks and blessings upon him, he did not know whether to be amused or flattered. Unsure of how to react to such a display, he resorted to his accustomed small smile, and made his way to what had been the quarters of the ship’s officers.

  They had lived very well indeed, compared to the plight of the poor wretches who’d made up their cargo. He found he agreed with Sorcor’s assessment of the captain’s taste in clothing. In a whimsical moment, he had ordered it distributed to those of the slaves who could make best use of it. The man had smoking herbs in plenty also. Kennit wondered if he had not resorted to those to spare his own nose the stench of his cargo. It was an addiction Kennit had never succumbed to, so those, also, he ordered passed out among the slaves. He had next discovered the charts and papers in the dead man’s quarters. These he appropriated to himself. There was little else in the cabin of interest to him. The very ordinariness of the man’s possessions would have been a revelation to Sorcor, he thought to himself. This man had been no monster such as Sorcor had presumed, but simply an ordinary sea-captain and trader.

  Kennit had originally intended to inspect belowdecks as well, to see how sound the ship was as well as to explore for any other valuable Sorcor might have missed. He descended the ladder into the hold and looked about him with watering eyes. Men, women, even some children, their eyes huge in their bony faces, were a haphazard clutter of limbs and bodies, stretching off into darkness. All faces turned towards him, and the lantern Rafo carried sent its light to dance in all those eyes. They reminded him of rats seen near midden heaps by night.

  ‘Why are they so thin?’ he demanded suddenly of Rafo. ‘The journey from Jamaillia is not so long as to leave folk like bones, unless they were fed nothing at all.’

  Kennit was shocked to see Rafo’s eyes narrow in sympathy. ‘Most of them had been in debtors’ prison. Many are from the same village. Somehow they displeased the Satrap and he raised the taxes for their valley. When none of them could pay, all of them were rounded up to be sold as slaves. Almost the whole village, and not the first time such a thing had happened, from what they say. They were bought and held in pens and fed cheap until the folk trading in them had enough to make a full load. Simple folk like these are don’t bring a high price, they say, so they try to haul a lot at once. The ship had to be packed full in order to ensure a decent profit.’

  The sailor lifted his lantern higher. Empty fetters dangled like strange cobwebs and curled on the floor like crushed snakes. Kennit realized he had only been aware of the first row of people staring at him. Behind him, others sprawled, crouched or sat in the darkness as far as his eyes could reach. Other than the slaves, the hold was empty. Bare planking. A few wisps of soiled straw caught in corners suggested discarded bedding. The inside of the ship, too, had been sloshed and scrubbed with seawater, but the urine-soaked wood and the noisome bilge in the depths would not give up its evil odour. The ammoniac stench made the tears roll freely down his cheeks. He ignored them and hoped they were not noticeable in the dimness. By gritting his teeth and breathing shallowly, he was able to keep from gagging. He wanted nothing so much as to be out of there, but he forced himself to pace the length of the hold.

  The wretches drew closer as he passed, murmuring among themselves. It set the hair up on the back of his neck, but he refused to look behind to see how closely they followed him. One woman, braver or stupider than the rest, stepped in front of him. She suddenly offered him the bundle of rags she clutched. Against his wil
l, he peered at it, to see the babe within. ‘Born on this ship,’ she said hoarsely. ‘Born into slavery, but freed by you.’ Her finger touched the bluish X that some diligent slaver had already marked beside the child’s nose. She looked up at him again, a sort of fierceness in her eyes. ‘What could I ever offer you in thanks?’

  Kennit could feel his control over his rising gorge slipping. The thought of the only thing she might offer him made his flesh crawl. The breath of her mouth smelled of rotting teeth loose in her gums. He bared his own teeth for a moment, a parody of a smile. ‘Name the child Sorcor. For me,’ he suggested in a choked voice. She seemed to miss the sarcasm in his voice, for she blessed him as she stepped back, beaming and clutching the skinny infant. The rest of the crowd jostled stiflingly closer, and several voices were lifted. ‘Captain Kennit, Captain Kennit!’ He forced himself to stand his ground and not retreat. Instead he motioned to the sailor preceding him with the lantern, and then commanded in a wheeze, ‘Enough. I have seen enough.’ He was not able to keep the distress from his voice. He clutched his scented handkerchief to his face and ascended the closest ladder rapidly.

  On deck it took him a moment to regain control of his heaving gut. He set his face and stared off at the horizon until he was sure he would not disgrace himself with any show of weakness. He forced himself to consider this prize Sorcor had won for him. The ship had appeared sound enough, but he’d never get a decent price for her, not if the buyer had a nose at all. ‘A waste,’ he growled, furious. ‘Such a waste!’ He summarily ordered the gig to return him to the Marietta. It was then he had decided to head for Askew. If the ship was not going to bring a good price, then at least he would be rid of it soon, and able to go on with other things.