The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  It suddenly seemed like too much trouble. The man had obviously lied to Etta and now he was lying to Kennit as well. The prisoner was useless. The pain from his leg was banging against the inside of Kennit’s skull. ‘I’m… occupied.’ He did not want to admit how exhausted he was simply from taking a bath and getting dressed. ‘Take care of him, Sorcor. However you see fit.’ The meaning of his words was plain and the prisoner’s voice rose in a howl of denial. ‘Oh. And shut the door on your way out,’ Kennit further instructed him.

  ‘Sar,’ he heard a deckhand sigh as the door closed behind them and the wailing prisoner. ‘He’s going at her already. Guess nothing keeps Captain Kennit down.’

  Kennit turned very slightly toward the warmth of Etta’s body. His eyes closed and he sank into a deep sleep.

  28

  VICISSITUDES

  IT DIDN’T QUITE SEEM REAL until they laid hands on him. The old keeper he could probably have fought off rather easily, but these were heavy middle-aged men, stolid and muscled and experienced in their work. ‘Let go of me!’ Wintrow cried angrily. ‘My father is coming to get me. Let go!’ Stupidly, he reflected later. As if simply telling them to let go would make them do it. It was one of the things he was to learn. Words from a slave’s mouth meant nothing. His angry cries were no more intelligible to them than the braying of an ass.

  They did things with his arm joints, twisting them so that he stumbled angrily in the direction they wished him to go. He had not quite got over his surprise at being seized when he found himself already pressed firmly up against the tattooist’s block. ‘Be easy,’ one of the men bid him gruffly as he jerked Wintrow’s wrist-shackles tight against a staple. Wintrow jerked back, hoping to pull free before the pin could be set, but he only took skin off his wrists. The pin was already set. As quickly as that they had him, hunched over, wrists chained close to his ankles. One of the men gave him a slight push and he nudged his own head into a leather collar set vertically on the block. The other man gave a quick tug on the leather strap that secured it a hair’s-breadth short of choking him. As long as he didn’t struggle, he could get enough air to breathe. Fettered as he was, it would have been hard to draw a deep breath. The collar about his neck made even his short panting breaths an effort that required attention. They had done it as efficiently as farmhands castrating calves, Wintrow thought foggily. The same expert callousness, the precise use of force. He doubted they were even sweating. ‘Satrap’s sigil,’ one said to the tattooist, and the man nodded and moved a wad of cindin in his cheek.

  ‘My flesh was not made by me. I will not puncture it to bear jewellery, nor stain my skin, nor embed decoration into my visage. For I am a creation of Sa, made as I am intended to be. My flesh is not mine to write upon.’ He had scarce breath enough to quote the holy writ as a whisper. But he spoke the words and prayed the man would hear them.

  The tattooist spat to one side, spittle stained with blood. A hard addict then, one who would indulge in the drug even when his mouth was raw with ulcers. ‘T’ain’t my flesh to mark either,’ he exclaimed with dim humour. ‘It’s the Satrap’s. Now, his sigil I could do blindfolded. You hold still, it goes faster and smarts less.’

  ‘My father… is coming… to pay for me.’ He fought for air to say these essential words.

  ‘Your father is too late. Hold still.’

  Wintrow had no time to wonder if holding still would be an assent to this blasphemy. The first needle was off target, striking not his cheek but the side of his nose and piercing into the side of his nostril. He yelped and jerked. The tattooist slapped him smartly on the back of the head. ‘Hold still!’ he commanded him gruffly.

  Wintrow clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw.

  ‘Aw, I hate it when they wrinkle up like that,’ the tattooist muttered in disgust. Then he went swiftly to work. A dozen jabs of his needle, a quick swipe at the blood and then the sting of a dye. Green. Another dozen jabs, swipe, sting. It seemed to Wintrow as if each time he took a breath, he was getting less air. He was dizzy, afraid he would faint, and furious with himself for being ashamed. How could fainting shame him? They were the ones doing this to him. And where was his father, how could he be late? Didn’t he know what would happen to his son if he was late?

  ‘Now leave it alone. Don’t touch it, don’t scratch it, or you’ll just make it hurt worse.’ A distant voice was speaking over a roaring in his ears. ‘He’s done, take him away and bring another.’

  Hands tugged at his shackles and his collar, and then he was being strong-armed again, being forced off to somewhere else. He stumbled, half-dazed, taking one deep breath after another. His destination turned out to be a different stall in a different row in a different shed. This could not have happened, he told himself. It could not have happened to him, his father would not have left him to be tattooed and sold. His captors halted him by a pen set aside for new slaves. The five slaves he shared it with each bore a single oozing green tattoo.

  His shackles were secured to a pin set in the floor and the men left him there. The moment they let go of his arms, Wintrow lifted his hand to his face. He touched it gingerly, feeling the puffing and seeping of his outraged flesh. A pink-tinged liquid ran slowly down his face and dripped from his chin. He had nothing to blot it.

  He stared around at the other slaves. He realized he had not said a word since he had spoken to the tattooist. ‘What happens now?’ he asked dazedly of them.

  A tall, skinny youth picked his nose with a dirty finger. ‘We get sold,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And we’re slaves the rest of our lives. Unless you kill someone and get away.’ He was sullenly defiant, but Wintrow heard it was only words. Words were all that were left of his resistance. The others seemed not even to have that much. They stood or sat or leaned, and waited for whatever would happen to them next. Wintrow recognized the state. Severely injured people fell into it. Left to themselves, they would simply sit and stare and sometimes shiver.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Wintrow heard his own voice whisper. ‘I can’t believe Torg didn’t tell my father.’ Then he wondered why he had ever expected that Torg would. What was the matter with him, why had he been so stupid? He’d trusted his fate to a sadistic brutal idiot. Why hadn’t he sent word for his father, why hadn’t he told the keeper the first day? Come to think of it, why had he fled the ship? Had it really been so bad there? At least there had been an end in sight, a two-year wait to his deliverance from his father. Now there was no end to it. And he would not have Vivacia to sustain him. The thought of her brought a terrible pang of loneliness welling up in him. He’d betrayed her, and he’d sent himself into slavery. This was real. He was a slave now. Now and for ever. He curled up in the dirty straw on his side, clasping his knees to his chest. In the distance, he seemed to hear a roaring wind.

  Vivacia rocked disconsolately in the placid harbour. It was a lovely day. The sunlight glittered on fabled white Jamaillia City. The winds were from the south today, ameliorating the winter day and the stench of the other slavers anchored alongside her. Not so long now to spring. Farther south, where Ephron had used to take her, fruit trees would be cascades of white or pink blossoms. Somewhere to the south, it was warm and beautiful. But she would be going north, to Chalced.

  The banging and sawing from within her were stilled at last; all her modifications for being a slaver were complete. Today would be spent loading the last of the supplies, and tomorrow her human cargo would be ferried out to her. She would sail away from Jamaillia, alone. Wintrow was gone. As soon as she lifted anchor, one or more of the sluggish serpents in the harbour mud below would uncoil and follow her. Serpents would be her companions from now on. Last night, when the rest of the harbour was still, a small one had risen, to slink about among the anchored slavers. When it came to her, it had lifted its head above the water, to gaze at her warily. Something about its stare had closed her throat tight with terror. She had not even been able to call the watch. If Wintrow had been aboard, at least someone w
ould have sensed her fear and come to her. She dragged her thoughts free of him. She’d have to take care of herself now. Loss clawed at her heart. She denied it. She refused it all. It was a lovely day. She listened to the waves slap against her hull as she rocked at anchor. So peaceful.

  ‘Ship? Vivacia?’

  She turned her head slowly and looked back and up. It was Gantry, standing on her foredeck and leaning on the rail to speak to her.

  ‘Vivacia? Could you stop that, please? It’s unnerving the whole crew. We’re two hands short today; they didn’t come back from liberty. And I think it’s because you’ve frightened them off.’

  Frightened. What was so frightening about isolation and loneliness and serpents no one else ever saw?

  ‘Vivacia? I’m going to have Findow come play his fiddle for you. And I’ve got liberty myself today for a few hours, and I promise you I’ll spend every moment of it looking for Wintrow. I promise you that.’

  Did they think that would make her happy? If they found Wintrow and dragged him back to her, forced him to serve her, did they think she would be content and docile? Kyle would believe that. That was how Kyle had brought Wintrow aboard her in the first place. Kyle understood nothing of the willing heart.

  ‘Vivacia,’ Gantry asked with despair in his voice. ‘Please. Please, can you just stop rocking? The water is smooth as glass today. Every other ship in the harbour is still. Please.’

  She felt sorry for Gantry. He was a good mate, and a very able seaman. None of this was his fault. He shouldn’t have to suffer for it.

  But then, neither should she.

  She made an effort to find her strength. He was a good sailor; she owed him some small explanation. ‘I’m losing myself,’ she began, and then heard how peculiar that sounded. She tried again. ‘It’s not so hard, when I know someone is coming back. But when I don’t, it suddenly gets harder to hold on to who I am. I start thinking… no. Not thinking. Almost like a dream, but we liveships cannot sleep. But it’s like a dream, and in the dream I’m someone else. Something else. And the serpents touch me and that makes it worse.’

  The man only looked more worried now. ‘Serpents,’ he repeated doubtfully.

  ‘Gantry,’ she said in a very faint voice. ‘Gantry, there are serpents here in the harbour. Hiding down at the bottom in the mud.’

  He took a deep breath and sighed it out. ‘So you told me before. But, Vivacia, no one else has seen any sign of them. So, I think you might be mistaken.’ He paused, hoping for a response.

  She looked away from him. ‘If Wintrow were here, he would feel them. He’d know I wasn’t being foolish.’

  ‘Well,’ Gantry said reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here. And I know that makes you unhappy. And maybe it makes you fearful, just a bit.’ He paused. His voice took on a cajoling tone, as if she were a nervous child. ‘Maybe there are serpents down there. But if there are, what can we do about them? They’re not hurting us. I think we should both just ignore them, don’t you?’

  She turned her head to stare at him, but he would not meet her gaze. What did he think of her? That she was imagining serpents? That her grief at Wintrow abandoning her was making her mad? She spoke quietly. ‘I’m not mad, Gantry. It is… hard… for me to be alone like this. But I’m not going insane. Maybe I’m even seeing things more clearly than I used to. Seeing things my own way, not a… Vestrit way.’

  Her efforts to explain only confused him. ‘Well. Of course. Uh.’ He looked away from her.

  ‘Gantry, you’re a good man. I like you.’ She almost didn’t say the words. But then she did. ‘You should get onto a different ship.’

  She could smell the sudden fear in his sweat when he spoke to her. ‘Now, what other ship could compare to you?’ he asked her hastily. ‘After sailing aboard you, why would I want to take ship on another?’ False heartiness in his voice.

  ‘Maybe because you want to live,’ she said in a very low voice. ‘I’ve a very bad feeling about this voyage. A very bad feeling. Especially if I must make it alone.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that!’ he said roughly, as if she were an unruly hand. Then, in a calmer voice, he offered, ‘You won’t be alone. I’ll be here with you. I’ll go and tell Findow to come fiddle for you, shall I?’

  She shrugged. She had tried. She fixed her eyes on the distant spire of the Satrap’s palace.

  After a while, he went away.

  She had been afraid Captain Tenira would recognize her. She had danced with his son at the Winter Gathering, three years ago. But if the Bingtown Trader saw any resemblance between Athel the sailor and Althea the daughter of Ephron Vestrit, he gave no sign of it. He looked her up and down critically, then shook his head. ‘You’ve the look of a good sailor to you, boy. But I’ve told you. I don’t need another hand. My crew is full.’ He spoke as if that settled the matter.

  Althea kept her eyes down. Two days ago she had spotted the Ophelia in the harbour. The sight of the old liveship’s silvery hull and smiling figurehead had moved her with a depth that shocked her. A question or two in the waterfront taverns had given her all the information she needed. The liveship was homeward bound, heading back for Bingtown in a matter of days. In the instant of hearing that, Althea had resolved that one way or another, she would be on board her. She had hung about the docks, watching and waiting for her chance to catch the captain alone. Her plan was simple. She’d first try to hire aboard as a ship’s boy. If that didn’t work, she’d reveal to him who she was and beg for passage home. She didn’t think he’d turn her down. Still, it had taken all her courage to follow Tenira to this waterfront tavern and wait while he dined. She had stood in a corner, waiting until he had finished eating before she approached him. When he set down his fork and leaned back in his chair, she’d placed herself before him. Now she summoned all her courage. ‘Sir, begging your pardon, sir. I’d work for nothing, just for my passage back to Bingtown.’

  The captain turned in his chair to face her and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Why?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Althea looked at the tavern floor between her bare feet and bit her lip. Then she looked up at the captain of the liveship Ophelia. ‘Got my wages from the Reaper… at least, I still got part of them. I’d like to get home, sir and give them to my mother.’ Althea swallowed awkwardly. ‘Before they’re all gone. I promised her I’d come home with money, sir, Da being in a bad way. And I been trying to, but the longer I look for a ship back to Bingtown, the more I spend each day.’ She looked back at the floor. ‘Even if you don’t pay me anything, I’d probably get home with more money if I ship now than if I wait around and try for a paying berth.’

  ‘I see.’ Captain Tenira looked at the plate on the table before him and pushed it casually away. His tongue plucked at something in his back teeth for a moment. ‘Well. That’s admirable. But I’d still be feeding you, I think. And working aboard a liveship isn’t quite the same as any other kind of a vessel. They’re lively in a way that has nothing to do with wind or weather. And Ophelia can be a wilful lady.’

  Althea bit her lips to suppress a smile. The Ophelia was one of the oldest liveships, the first generation as it were. She was a blowsy old cog, bawdy and lewd when the mood took her, and patrician and commanding at other times. A wilful lady was the kindest way she had ever heard Ophelia described.

  ‘Her hands have got to be more than quick and smart,’ Captain Tenira was lecturing. ‘They’ve got to be steady. You can’t be afraid of her or superstitious about her. And you can’t let her bully you either. Ever been aboard a liveship, boy?’

  ‘A bit,’ Althea admitted. ‘Before I started sailing, I’d go down to the North wall in Bingtown and talk to them sometimes. I like ’em, sir. I’m not afraid of them.’

  The captain cleared his throat. In a different voice, he pointed out, ‘And a merchant-vessel is a lot different from a slaughter-ship. We move a lot faster, and we keep a lot cleaner. When the mate tells you to jump, you jump right away. Think you can do tha
t?’

  ‘Yes sir, I can do that. And I’m clean, and I keep my area clean.’ Althea was nodding like a puppet.

  ‘Well.’ The captain considered. ‘I still don’t need you, you know. Serving on a liveship is something a lot of men would jump through any hoop to do. You’re stepping into a position I’d have no trouble filling with an older, experienced man.’

  ‘I know, sir. I appreciate that, sir.’

  ‘See that you do. I’m a hard master, Athel. You may regret this before we reach Bingtown.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I’d heard that about you. That you was hard, but fair.’ She let her eyes meet his again. ‘I don’t fear to work for a fair man.’

  It was just enough honey. The captain almost smiled. ‘Go and report to the mate, then. His name’s Grag Tenira. Tell him I’ve hired you on, and that you want to chip rust on the anchor chain.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ Althea replied with just enough of a grimace. Chipping rust off the anchor chain was an endless task. Then she reminded herself that even chipping rust off an anchor chain on a liveship was better than any other task she’d ever done aboard the Reaper. ‘Thankee, sir.’

  ‘Go along then,’ Captain Tenira told her genially. He sat forward in his chair to take up his ale mug and wave it at a passing tavern-boy.

  Althea let out a huge sigh of relief as soon as she was on the boardwalk outside. She scarcely felt the chill wind that flowed past her. Tenira hadn’t recognized her, and she now decided it was unlikely he ever would. As lowly ship’s boy, it was unlikely she would be face to face with the captain much. Now that he’d seen her as Athel, he’d probably continue to see her as Athel. She was confident she could get past Grag Tenira as well. Athel the ship’s boy looked nothing like Althea the dance partner. Her heart soared suddenly as she realized she’d done it. She had passage back to Bingtown. And if all she had heard of Captain Tenira was true, she’d gain a few coins on the trip. The man was fair. If he saw her working hard, he’d reward her. She found a smile on her face. Ophelia would be leaving tomorrow. All she had to do was go and get her sea-bag and head down to the ship and find a place to hang a hammock. Tomorrow she’d be on her way home.