The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  ‘You did it for Ophelia, but you would not do it for me?’

  ‘Paragon, there is a very great difference there. On Ophelia, I removed damaged wood. You are talking about me pegging pieces on to create new eyes for you. As I said, I don’t understand the nature of wizardwood. Would those pegged on parts become alive as you are? Or would they remain scraps of pegged-on wood?’

  ‘Then do for me as you did for her!’ Paragon burst out after an exasperated silence. ‘Cut away my old ruined face. Make me a new one.’

  Amber breathed out some words in a different language. Paragon had no idea whether she prayed or cursed. He only sensed her horror at his suggestion. ‘Do you know what you are advocating? I would have to rework your face entirely…perhaps your whole body, to make you proportional. I’ve never taken on a project of such magnitude. I’m a wood carver, Paragon, not a sculptor.’ She huffed out a sigh of disgust. ‘I might ruin you. Destroy your beauty forever. How would I live with that?’

  Paragon lifted his hands to his face and clawed his fingers down his ruined eyes. He laughed aloud, a bold, bitter laugh. ‘Amber, I would rather be ugly than blind. Right now, I am both. How could you make it worse?’

  ‘The answer to that question is exactly what I don’t want to discover,’ she replied nimbly. Unwillingly she added, ‘But I know I will think about it. Give me time to think about it, Paragon. Give yourself time to consider it well.’

  ‘Time is all I possess,’ he pointed out. ‘Time and to spare.’

  27

  KINGDOM’S FOUNDATION

  VIVACIA RODE HEAVY in the water. Her holds were filled with Kennit’s collections. It was, the ship thought drowsily, like the feeling a man got after a large, satisfying meal. She felt satiated and pleased with herself, even though her cargo had little to do with her own efforts. Kennit’s wits had earned this trove. No. His wisdom, she corrected herself. Any minor pirate might make his living by his wits. Kennit was beyond that. He was a man of both destiny and vision. She was proud to be his ship.

  This last stint of sailing had not been so different from her days as a trader with Ephron Vestrit. Their first stop had been Divvytown, where the slaves had disembarked. Then there had been a meeting, mysteriously arranged, at which Kennit met a northbound ship and arranged for a ransom note to be taken to the owners of the Crosspatch and to Captain Avery’s family. After that, Kennit had begun a systematic tour of his ‘share-ships’ and their homeports. The Marietta kept them company. At every port of call, Kennit and Sorcor had gone ashore. Sometimes Etta and Wintrow had gone with them. Vivacia liked it when Wintrow accompanied Kennit. When he came back to her and told her of his experiences, it was almost as if she had been there herself. It was very different from the days when she had dreaded being parted from Wintrow for even a few hours. She supposed her sense of self had become more solid, now that she had been quickened longer. Or perhaps her need to know every detail of Kennit’s life had become more pressing than her need for Wintrow’s company. She had besought Kennit to conduct his business on board her, so that she might be more aware of it, but he had refused her.

  ‘You are mine,’ he had told her jealously. ‘All your mystery and beauty I reserve to myself, my sea-lady. It pleases me that they look at you with awe and wonder. Let us keep that mystique intact. I would rather they envied and admired you from afar than that they came aboard and vainly tried to win you from me by charm or bloodshed. You are my castle and my stronghold, Vivacia. I will allow no strangers aboard you.’

  She could recall not just his words, but his every inflection. They had soaked into her like honey into bread. She smiled to herself, recognizing her symptoms. He had courted her and won her. She no longer even attempted to sift his words for inaccuracies or tried to probe his heart for truth. It no longer mattered. He did not seek out and number her faults; why should she inventory his?

  She was anchored now in a pathetic excuse for a harbour. Why anyone would have chosen to settle there, she could not imagine. At the far end of it, the skeletal remnants of a ship were subsiding into the mud. She tried to think of the name of the place. Askew. That was it. Well, it suited the look of the town. The sagging dock, the windswept huts all looked slightly out of joint. There were recent signs of prosperity. The boardwalks that fronted the street were of new yellow lumber. Good intentions and paint covered some of the rickety houses. Someone had planted several rows of trees as a windbreak. Young fruit trees stood in a row beyond them. A herdboy kept a flock of goats well away from the trees’ tender bark. Tied to the dock, amidst a clutter of smaller vessels was a larger ship. The Fortune, her nameplate proudly proclaimed. The Raven flag flew boldly at her mast. Even at a distance, her brass-work gleamed in the sun. The whole town, she decided, had the look of a place on the verge of becoming Somewhere.

  Her attention perked as a party of men left the largest building in the village and moved towards the dock. Kennit would be amongst them. She spotted him soon, in the lead, his well-wishers flanking him or trailing behind him as their local status dictated. Sorcor walked beside him. Etta, tall and thin, shadowed him with Wintrow at her side. For a time the gathering clustered on the dock. Then, with many flourishes and bows, they bid her captain farewell. As he and his party clambered down the ladder and into her gig that was moored there, the townsfolk on the dock called farewells. So it had been in every town they had visited on this circuit. Everyone loved her captain.

  She watched the ship’s boat approach her across the glittering water of the placid harbour. Kennit had dressed well for this visit. The black plumes on his hat nodded in the breeze. He saw her watching his approach and lifted a hand in greeting to her. The sun flashed off the silver buttons on the cuff of his jacket. He looked every bit the prosperous pirate. More, he sat in the bow of the boat as regally as any king.

  ‘They treat him as such already,’ Wintrow had confided to her the last time he had told her of such a visit. ‘They present his share of their takings without a murmur of discontent. But it is not just that they acknowledge his right to claim a portion of their piratical profits. They bring him their internal grievances. He has passed judgement on everything from chicken thieves to unfaithful spouses. He has drawn plans for the defence of the towns, and dictates what they must build and what must be torn down.’

  ‘He is a judicious man. I am not surprised they have waited for his decisions.’

  Wintrow snorted. ‘Judicious? Only in how it furthers his own popularity. I have stood behind him and listened to their grievances as they presented them. He listens, frowns, and asks questions. But in each case, he decides with the popular sentiment, even when it is clearly not just. He does not judge, Vivacia. He merely validates their opinions and makes them feel justified in them. When he has dispensed that justice, he strolls through the town, looking at this and that. “You need a well, for better water,” he will tell them. Or “Tear down that building before it burns down and takes the rest of the town with it. Repair your dock. That widow needs a new roof on her cottage. See that she gets it.” In addition, he scatters coin to pay for what he suggests, as if it were largesse rather than returning what they gave him. He enraptures them. They adore him.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they? It sounds as if he does great good for them.’

  ‘He does,’ Wintrow had admitted uncomfortably. ‘He does. He gives them money to be kind to the poor and the old amongst them. He makes them lift up their heads and see what could be. In the last town, he commanded that they create a place for their children to gather and learn. There was one man in the town who could read and cipher well. Kennit left enough money to pay him handsomely to teach the children.’

  ‘I still do not grasp why you find that so reprehensible.’

  ‘It is not what he does. What he does is fine, even noble. It is his motives for doing it that I suspect. Vivacia, he wants to be king. So he makes them feel good. With the money they parcel out to him, he buys what they should have bought for themselves. Not be
cause it is the right thing to do, but because it makes them think well of him and feel good about themselves. They will connect that feeling of pride with his coming.’

  She had shaken her head. ‘I still see no harm in it. In fact, I see much good. Wintrow, why are you so suspicious of him? Did you ever consider that perhaps he wants to be King of the Pirate Isles just so he can do such things?’

  ‘Does he?’ Wintrow had demanded.

  To him, she owed the truth. Still. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied honestly. ‘But I hope that he does. The results are the same, in any case.’

  ‘For now, they are,’ he admitted. ‘But I do not know what the results will be over the long run,’ he’d added darkly.

  She mulled his words as she watched the boat approaching. The youth was too suspicious. Some small-spirited part of him could not accept Kennit as a force for good. That was all. The boat came alongside and the rope-ladder was flung down to them. She always hated this part. Kennit stubbornly insisted of late that he would get himself up the ladder and back aboard his ship. It seemed to take him forever to manage the climb. At every step she feared he would slip and fall down, to smash his bones against the boat below him. Or worse, he might fall into the water, to either vanish beneath the waves, or be snapped up by serpents. There was a veritable plague of serpents this year. Never could she recall a time when they had been so thick nor so bold. It was unnerving.

  In a short time, his peg-legged step sounded on her decks. She breathed a sigh of relief and awaited him impatiently. He always came to see her first, whenever he rejoined the ship. Sometimes Wintrow dogged his steps. Etta had used to, but of late, she had avoided the foredeck. Vivacia thought that was a wise decision on her part.

  This time, as she twisted her body about to greet him, she saw he was alone. Her smile deepened and became warmer. These were the best times, when they were alone and could speak unfettered by Wintrow’s questions and sceptical looks. He returned her smile with a smug grin. ‘Well, my lady. Are you ready to take on more cargo? I’ve arranged for them to ferry it out this afternoon.’

  ‘What sort?’ she asked, knowing well that he delighted in enumerating his treasures.

  ‘Well,’ he paused, savouring his pleasure. ‘Some very fine brandy in small casks. Bales of tea. Silver bars. Some woollen rugs, in truly amazing colours and designs. Quite a selection of books, all very well bound. Poetry, histories, an illustrated natural history, and several travel journals, quite fine. Those I think I shall keep for myself, though I shall let Wintrow and Etta read them, of course. Foodstuffs, sacks of wheat, casks of oil and rum. And quite a quantity of coin, in various minting. Rufo has done quite well with the Fortune. I am quite pleased with how Askew has prospered.’

  Vivacia’s attention had been captured by the mention of the books. ‘I suppose this means that Wintrow will continue to spend every spare moment he has closeted with Etta,’ she observed sourly.

  Kennit smiled. He leaned over the railing and touched her hair, letting a heavy lock slide through his fingers as he spoke. ‘That’s right. He will continue to distract Etta, and she will busy him. Thus you and I shall continue to have private time in which to talk of our own ambitions and interests.’

  A shiver ran over her shoulders at his touch. She knew a moment of delightful confusion. ‘Then you have deliberately paired them, to give us more time together?’

  ‘Why else?’ He picked up another lock of her hair and weighed the thickly-carved coil. She glanced over her shoulder at him. His pale blue eyes were closed to slits. He was, she thought, an extraordinarily handsome man, in a cruel way. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Etta is quite ignorant, poor thing. Whoring is such a narrow occupation. Wintrow is more patient a teacher than I could be. He will give her the tools she needs to better herself, so that when she leaves the ship, she need not go back to whoring.’

  ‘Etta will leave?’ Vivacia asked breathlessly.

  ‘Of course. I only brought her aboard the Marietta for her own protection. We really have very little in common. She was kind, and useful while I was recovering from my injury. Nevertheless, it is hard to overlook that she was the source of the injury.’ He favoured her with a narrow smile. ‘Wintrow shall educate her, and when she goes ashore, she will be able to do more than lie on her back.’ A thoughtful frown creased his brow. ‘I think it is my duty to leave people better than I found them, don’t you?’

  ‘When will Etta be leaving?’ Vivacia tried to keep eagerness from her voice.

  ‘Well. Our next port is Divvytown. That was her home.’ He smiled to himself. ‘But one never knows how things will develop. I shall not force her to leave, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vivacia murmured in reply. He was twining the heavy lock of her black hair in his hand, and the tickling tip of it brushed her bare shoulder.

  A package was tucked under his arm, something wrapped in coarse burlap. ‘Your hair is so lovely,’ he said quietly. ‘I thought of you the moment I saw this.’ He opened one end of it, then drew out a handful of something red. He shook it loose, and length upon length of wide red fabric unfurled, incredibly light and fine. He offered it to her. ‘I thought you might put it in your hair.’

  She was flustered. ‘I have never had such a gift,’ she marvelled. ‘Are you sure you wish to give it to me? The sea and the wind may spoil it…’ Yet as she spoke she twined it through her hands. She lifted it, to place a band of it across her brow. He caught the ends and tied it for her.

  ‘Then I should simply have to bring you more.’ He cocked his head, and smiled in admiration. ‘Such a beauty you are!’ he said quietly. ‘My pirate queen.’

  Wintrow unbuckled the carved wooden cover of the book carefully. He opened it gingerly, then sighed in awe. ‘Oh, this is incredible. Look at the detail here.’ He carried the open volume over to the window where the light fell on the artfully decorated page. ‘This is exquisite.’

  Etta came slowly to stand at his shoulder and look down on the displayed page. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a herbal…a book about herbs, with drawings and descriptions and explanations of how they are to be used. I’ve never seen one so elaborate.’ Carefully he turned the page, to expose yet more beauty. ‘Even in our monastery library, we had nothing so fine as this. This is an incredibly valuable book.’ He touched his finger lightly to the page and outlined the drawing of a leaf. ‘See? This is peppermint. Look at the crinkles and tiny hairs on each leaf. Such an eye this artist had.’

  They were in the small stateroom he had once shared with his father. All signs of that time had been scrubbed away long ago. Now there was only his neatly made bunk, the small fold down desk, and a case full of manuscripts and scrolls and books. Wintrow had begun Etta’s lessons in the captain’s quarters, but Kennit had soon decided that they made too much clutter with their books, papers and pens. He had banished their studies to Wintrow’s room. Wintrow did not mind. Never before had he had complete and unhampered access to so much written work. Certainly, he had never before even glimpsed a book to rival the quality of the one he now held.

  ‘What does it say?’ Etta asked reluctantly.

  ‘You can read it,’ he encouraged her. ‘Try.’

  ‘The letters are all crawly,’ she complained, but she accepted the book he tenderly transferred into her hands. She knitted her brows over it.

  ‘Don’t let that discourage you. His hand was very decorative, and some of the characters are formed elaborately. Look only at the basic forms of the letters, and ignore the flourishes. Try it.’

  Her finger moved slowly across the page, piecing the words together. Her mouth moved as she puzzled them out. Wintrow clamped his jaws together to keep from helping her. After a time, she drew a deep breath and began. ‘Of all the goodly herbs known, this is the queen. A tea brewed from fresh leaves is best for a closed head…’

  She stopped abruptly and closed the book carefully. When Wintrow glanced up at her face in confusion, he saw her eyes
were closed as well. As he watched, tears leaked out from under her lashes.

  ‘You can read,’ he confirmed for her. He stood very still, afraid to say more. It had been a very arduous journey to this place. Etta had been a difficult student. She was bright enough. But his efforts to teach her had uncovered a deep anger within her. For a time, he had been sure the anger was directed at him. She was surly, disdaining his help and then accusing him of withholding it to make her look stupid. She had a temper that did not stop at flinging a precious book across the room, or shredding expensive paper to bits. More than once, she had shoved him away as he bent over her work to correct her. Once he had raised his voice to her when he had had to explain for the fifth time that she was reversing a letter. She had struck him. Not a slap, but a closed fist blow to his face that had sent him reeling. Then she had stalked out of the room. She had never apologized for that.

  Only after days of working with her did he realize that her anger was not for him. It was for her own abysmal ignorance. She felt shamed that she did not know. It humiliated her when she had to ask him for help. If he insisted she try it on her own, she interpreted that as taunting her for her stupidity. Given her propensity for taking it out on him, she was not only a difficult student but also an intimidating one. Praising her too much was as dangerous as letting her struggle. He had tried once to escape. He had approached Kennit to beg off from this task. He had expected Kennit to order him back to it. Instead, the pirate had only cocked his head and asked him gently if he truly believed it was Sa’s will that he not help Etta. While Wintrow had stood silent, struck dumb by the question, Kennit’s face had suddenly changed.

  ‘It’s because she was a whore, isn’t it?’ he had demanded starkly. ‘You don’t think she’s good enough to benefit from such learning. You’re repulsed by her, aren’t you?’ He asked the question with a face so kindly and understanding and yet so grieved that Wintrow felt as if the deck were rocking under him. Did he look down on Etta? Did he secretly harbour a belief in his own superiority, a belief he would have found reprehensible in anyone else?