The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  The sun had tracked much of the sky before Kennit and Sorcor emerged from Sincure Faldin’s premises. Kennit had disposed of his cargo profitably; more, he had done so without fully committing himself to a permanent alliance with Faldin. After his daughters and lady had left the room, Kennit had taken the tack that while the value of a business association with Faldin could not be doubted, no one could be so heartless as to hasten into any other aspects of such an ‘alliance’. He had left Faldin with the dubious security of knowing that he would be allowed to show his goodwill by offering the first bid on any goods the Marietta brought into Divvytown. The man was merchant enough to know it was a poor offer, and wise enough to know it was the best he would get at this time. So he smiled stiffly and accepted it.

  ‘I could almost see him ciphering the numbers on the back of his tongue. How much would he have to overpay us for our next three cargoes to assure us of his goodwill?’ Kennit offered the jest wryly to Sorcor.

  ‘The younger one… was she Alyssum, or Lily?’ Sorcor asked cautiously.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kennit suggested callously. ‘I am sure that if you don’t fancy her name, Faldin will allow you to change it. Here.’ He handed Sorcor the tally-sticks they had negotiated so easily. ‘I’ll trust these to you. Don’t let them deliver less coin than was promised before you allow him to unload. You’ll take the ship’s watch tonight?’

  ‘Of course,’ the burly pirate replied distractedly.

  Kennit did not know whether to frown or smile. So easily could the man be bought with the offer of unsullied flesh. Kennit scratched his chin. He watched Sorcor turn toward the docks and swagger off into the gathering autumn twilight. He gave his head a minute shake. ‘Whores,’ he congratulated himself quietly. ‘Whores make it all so much simpler.’ A wind had come up. Winter was no further away than a new moon, or a few days’ sail to the north. ‘I’ve never cared for the cold,’ he said softly to himself.

  ‘No one does,’ a small voice commiserated. ‘Not even whores.’

  Slowly, as if the token were an insect that might take flight if startled, Kennit raised his wrist. He glanced about the street, then feigned refastening a cuff-link. ‘And why do you speak to me this time?’ he demanded softly.

  ‘Your pardon.’ The tiny smile was mocking as his own. ‘I thought you had spoken to me first. I was just agreeing.’

  ‘There is no strange weight, then, to be put on your words?’

  The tiny wizardwood charm pursed its lips as if considering. ‘No more than I might put to yours,’ the face suggested. He gave his master a pitying look. ‘I know no more than you know, sirrah. The only difference between us is that I admit more easily what I know. Try it yourself. Say this aloud: But in the long run, a whore can cost one more than the most wastrel wife.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eh?’ An old man passing in the street turned back to him. ‘You spoke to me?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  The old man peered at him closer. ‘You’re Captain Kennit, h’ain’t you? From the Marietta?. Goes around freeing slaves and telling them to be pirates?’ His coat was fraying at the cuffs, and one boot was split along the seam. But he carried himself as if he were a man of consequence.

  Kennit had nodded twice. To the last he replied, ‘Well, so some say of me.’

  The old man coughed wheezily, and then spat to one side. ‘Well, some also say they don’t like the idea. They say you’re getting too full of yourself. Too many pirates means the pickings get slimmer. And too many pirates preying on slaveships can irritate the Satrap to where he sends his galleys up our way. Knocking off fat merchant-ships, well, that’s one thing, laddie. But the Satrap gets a cut of those slave-sales. We don’t want to be digging in the pockets of the man what funds the warships, if you get my drift.’

  ‘I do,’ Kennit said stiffly. He considered killing the old man.

  The geezer wheezed and then spat again. ‘But what I say,’ he continued in a creakier voice. ‘Is more power to you. You put it to him, laddie, and give him a couple thrusts for me as well. Time someone showed him that blue ink on a man’s face don’t mean he’s not a man any more. Not that I’d say that to just anyone around here. There’s some as would think I needed shutting up, if they heard me speak so. But, seeing as how it was you, I thought I’d tell you this: not everyone that keeps silent is against you. That’s all. That’s all.’ He went off into his wheezing cough again. It sounded painful.

  Kennit was amused to find himself rummaging in his pocket. He came up with a silver coin and passed it to the man. ‘Try a bit of brandy for that cough, sir. And good evening to you.’

  The old man looked at the coin in amazement. Then he held it up and shook it after Kennit as he strode away. ‘I’ll drink your health, sir, that I will!’

  ‘To my health,’ Kennit muttered to himself. Having begun talking to himself, it now seemed he could not stop. Perhaps it was a side-effect of random philanthropy. Did not most madnesses occur in pairs? He pushed the thought aside. Too much thinking led only to bleakness and despair. Better not to think, better to be a man like Sorcor, who was probably even now imagining a blushing virgin in his bed. He’d be better off simply buying a woman who could blush and squeak convincingly, if that was what appealed to him.

  He was still distracted when he strode up to Bettel’s bagnio. For such a chill evening, there were more idlers outside her door than he would have expected. Two of them were her regular toughs, cocky and grinning as usual. Some day, he promised himself, he’d do something permanent to their smirks. ‘Evening, Captain Kennit,’ one dared to address him lazily.

  ‘Good evening.’ He enunciated the reply, freighting it with a different meaning entirely. One of the idlers abruptly brayed aloud, a whisky-laugh that sent his fellows off into sniggering laughter. Brainless. He took the steps briskly, thinking that the music sounded louder tonight, the notes more brittle. Within, he endured the services of the serving boy, nodding perfunctorily that he was satisfied before passing into the inner chamber.

  There, finally, there were enough things out of routine that he was moved to lightly touch the hilt of the sword at his belt. Too many folk were in this room. Customers did not linger here. Bettel did not permit it. If a man came to pay for a whore, then he could take his purchase to a private room to enjoy as he pleased. This was not some cheap sailors’ whorehouse, where the wares could be fondled and sampled before one bought. Bettel ran a proper house, discreet and dignified.

  But tonight the reek of cindin was heavy in the air, and men slouched insolently in the chairs where the whores usually displayed themselves. The prostitutes who remained in the room were standing or perched on laps. Their smiles seemed more brittle, their laughter more forced, and Kennit noticed how swiftly their eyes strayed to Bettel herself. This time her black locks had been trained into ringlets. They swung stiff and shining. Despite her layers of powder, a mist of perspiration shone on her forehead and upper lip, and the reek of cindin was stronger on her breath.

  ‘Captain Kennit, you dear man!’ she greeted him with her usual contrived affection. She came at him, arms wide as if to embrace him. At the last moment she dropped them to clasp her hands joyously before her. Her fingernails were gilded. ‘Just wait until you see what I have for you!’

  ‘I’d rather not wait,’ Kennit replied irritably. His eyes wandered the room.

  ‘For I knew you were coming, you see!’ she burbled on. ‘Oh, we hear of it right away, when the Marietta comes to dock. And here in Divvytown, we’ve heard all the tales of your adventures. Not that we wouldn’t be so delighted if you ever chose to favour us with the telling yourself.’ She batted her lash-laden eyes up at him, and rolled her breasts forward against the confines of her dress.

  ‘You know my usual arrangements,’ he pointed out to her, but she had seized hold of his hand and was threatening to engulf it in her bosom as she clasped it fondly to her.

  ‘Oh, your usual arrangements!’ she cried ga
ily. ‘Fie on the usual, Captain Kennit, dear. That is not why a man comes to Bettel’s house, for the “usual”. Now come with me and see. Just see what I’ve saved for you.’

  There were at least three men in the room who were following their conversation with more attention than seemed polite. None of them, Kennit noted, looked particularly pleased as Bettel tugged him over to a candlelit alcove off the main room. Curious and cautious, he glanced within.

  Either she was a new arrival, or had been working on his previous visits. She was striking if one fancied small, pale women. She had large blue eyes in a heart-shaped face with painted pink cheeks. Her plump little mouth was painted red. Short golden hair was dressed in tight curls all over her head. Bettel had dressed her in pale blue, and decked her with gilt jewellery. The girl stood up from the tasselled cushions where she had been seated and smiled sweetly up at him. Nervously, but sweetly. Her nipples had been tipped with pink to make them stand out more noticeably beneath the pale gauze of her dress.

  ‘For you, Captain Kennit,’ Bettel purred. ‘As sweet as honey, and pretty as a little doll. And our largest room. Now. Will you want your meal set out first, as usual?’

  He smiled at Bettel. ‘Yes, I will. And in my usual room, with my usual woman to follow. I do not play with dolls. They don’t amuse me.’

  He turned and walked away from her, headed toward the stair. Over his shoulder, he reminded her. ‘Have Etta bathe first. And remember, Bettel, a decent wine.’

  ‘But Captain Kennit!’ she protested. The nervousness in her voice was suddenly a shrilling of fear. ‘Please. At least try Avoretta. If you do not fancy her, there will be no charge.’

  Kennit was ascending the stairs. ‘I do not fancy her, so there is no charge.’ The small of his back ached with tension. He had seen avidity kindle in the men’s eyes as he started up the main staircase. He reached the top of the landing and opened the door to the narrow stair beyond it. He entered it, shutting the door behind him. Several long, light strides took him to the second small landing where the sole lantern burned. Here the stairway bent back on itself. He waited soundlessly around the corner. He drew his sword silently and unsheathed his belt knife as well. He heard the door below softly open and then close again. By their cautious tread, at least three men were behind him on the stairs. He smiled grimly. Better here, in tight quarters with them below him than out on the dark of the streets. With a bit of luck he’d take at least one by surprise.

  He did not have to wait long. They were too eager. As the first one stepped around the corner, the tip of Kennit’s blade flicked across the man’s throat. That simple. Kennit gave him a good shove. He tumbled back into his fellows, gargling incoherently, and as they stumbled backwards down the stairs, Kennit followed, dashing out the lamp as he passed it and then flinging the hot glass and spilling oil down on them. They cursed in the dark now, with a dying man’s weight pressing them back down the stairs. Kennit made several random downward thrusts with his sword to encourage their retreat. He hoped the dying man would be low, collapsing against their legs. Stabbing him again would be a waste of effort, so he placed his thrusts higher and had the satisfaction of two cries of pain. Perhaps the stairway and closed door would muffle them. He was sure that further surprises awaited him upstairs. No sense in spoiling their anticipation. He heard these three hit the downstairs door and sprang forwards then, thrusting with both sword and dagger into any flesh he could find. Here he had the advantage, for anything that was not himself was the enemy, whereas they had as good a chance of striking an ally as him in the dark, close confines of the stairwell. One man at least was fumbling wildly for the doorknob, cursing when he could not find it. Eventually he did, but only in time to open it and allow himself and his dying companions to spill out onto the landing. At the base of the staircase, Bettel looked up in horror from her parlour.

  ‘Rats,’ Kennit informed her. Another tidy flick of his sword, to be sure the last man stayed down and died. ‘Vermin on your staircase. You really should not allow this, Bettel.’

  ‘They forced me! They forced me. I tried to keep you from going up there, you know I did!’ The woman’s wail followed him as he turned back to the staircase. He shut the door firmly on it, hoping it had not carried all the way to the chamber at the top of the house. Soft-footed as a cat he padded up the darkened stairs. He let his sword’s tip lead the way. When he reached the second door, he paused. If they were alarmed at all — no, if they were sly at all — they’d have a man waiting outside this door. He eased the latch open, took a fresh grip on both his weapons, and then shouldered his way through the door, coming in as low and silently as he could. No one was there.

  The door to his usual chamber was shut. Voices came through it, pitched softly. Men’s voices. At least two, then. They sounded impatient. No doubt they’d seen him through the window as he approached Bettel’s house. Why hadn’t they ambushed him at the top of the stairs? Perhaps because they’d expected their fellows to overpower him and drag him into this chamber for them?

  He considered, then pounded roughly on the door. ‘Got him!’ he cried hoarsely, and was rewarded by a fool who jerked the door open for him. Kennit put his knife low in the man’s belly and then dragged it up with all his strength. It did not do as much damage as he had hoped it would; worse, it tangled in the man’s loose shirt. Kennit was forced to abandon it in him. He gave the man a backwards shove and then sprang forwards to meet the next man’s blade. His blade engaged Kennit’s neatly, turned aside his thrust, then thrust in turn. A gentlemanly approach to fencing, Kennit realized, as he set the man’s blade tip out of alignment with his throat. A mistaken sense of gallantry and showmanship.

  Kennit whipped a glance about the room. There was one more man sitting with studied composure in his chair before the fire. He held a glass of claret in one hand, but was prudent enough to have his hand on the drawn sword across his knees. Etta was flung naked across the bed. They had bloodied both the woman and the linens. ‘Ah. King Kennit has come calling on his lady,’ the seated man observed lazily. He gestured with his glass at the whore. ‘I don’t think she’ll be up to receiving you just now. Our day’s amusement has left her… indisposed.’

  It was meant to distract him and it almost worked. It was distressing. No. It angered him. This clean and pleasant chamber, the comparative safety of Bettel’s house had been taken away. He’d never be able to relax in this room again. The bastards!

  A part of him was aware of shouts in the street outside. More of them. He’d have to finish this one quickly, and then get the one in the chair. But even as he pressed his reach advantage, the mocking man rose and advanced on Kennit with his sword. That one, at least, was not stupid enough to think that fair-play had anything to do with killing. Kennit was not stupid enough to think he had much of a chance against two blades. He wished he hadn’t had to leave his knife in the other man.

  A stupid time to die, he told himself, as he parried one blade with his sword and knocked the other aside with his arm. He was thankful for the thick fabric of his sleeve that absorbed most of the impact. Seeing how he must defend himself, his attacker instantly switched to slashing attacks rather than thrusts. Kennit began a constant harried retreat from both blades, with no time to do anything except defend and evade. The other two men laughed and shouted to one another as they fought, mocking words about kings and slaves and whores. He did not listen, he could not listen, one moment’s distraction would be his death. All his attention went to the two blades and the two men who powered them. Time to decide, he recognized grimly. Do I make them kill me now, quickly, or fight until I can no longer defend myself well, and they can play cats to my mouse?

  He was as startled as they were when the quilted comforter was snapped open and flung over one of them. As he was fighting clear of it, the rest of the bedding quickly followed, fat down-stuffed pillows, billowing sheets that draped his enemies’ blades and tangled their feet. A sheet settled over one man, draping him like a walkin
g corpse. Apt, Kennit smiled to himself. Kennit’s blade popped through the linen drapery and as he drew it back, a great scarlet blossom opened on it. Etta, cursing and shrieking, gathered up an immense double-armful of feather bed and flung it and herself upon the last attacker. Kennit quickly made sure of the man he had stabbed. By the time he turned, Etta had found the other man’s head beneath the blanket and was pounding it up and down on the floor. The bedding muffled his cries as he struggled to get clear of the shrouding stuff. Kennit casually stabbed him several times, and then, out of breath, put the sword where he judged the man’s heart to be. The thrashing lump under the blankets stilled. Etta kept on pounding his head against the floor.

  ‘I think you can stop that now,’ Kennit pointed out. She did, abruptly, but the sound continued.

  They both turned to the pounding footsteps coming up the stairs. Etta, crouched naked over her kill, looked savage as a feral cat as she unconsciously bared her teeth to the sound. Kennit waded through the welter of bodies and bedding to secure the door. He tried to slam it but the first man’s body was in the way. He bent to drag the body free, and before he could close the door, it flew wide open so hard it bounced off the wall. Kennit caught it before it could rebound into Sorcor’s face. Sorcor was red-faced from running as were the men who burst into the room behind him. ‘An old man,’ he gasped. ‘Came to the ship. Said you might have trouble here.’

  ‘Now that was a bit of silver well spent,’ a small voice observed. Sorcor glanced at Etta, thinking she had spoken, then selfconsciously turned his head from the naked, battered woman. She staggered upright. She glanced at the other men staring at her and then stooped awkwardly to drag up a corner of one blanket to cover herself. It revealed a man’s hand and arm flung lifelessly on the floor.

  ‘Trouble.’ Kennit observed dryly. ‘A bit.’ He sheathed his sword and gestured at the body in the door. ‘Pass me my knife, please.’