by Robin Hobb
Malta suddenly felt she must change the subject. She advanced to the railing and leaned on it to peer down at Paragon. ‘Our ship looks very handsome today!’ she complimented him recklessly. ‘You absolutely gleam, Paragon. How excited you must be!’
As sudden as a snake striking, the ship twisted his head to look up at her. That was the chilling part. The wrecked space between his brow and nose froze her with its shattered glance. The colouring of the rest of his face was so natural, but the chopped place was silvered and splintered wood. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. She gripped the railing to keep from falling. Paragon’s mouth parted in a wide, white smile. It was the rictus of madness.
‘Too late for her,’ he whispered. Malta did not know if he spoke to her or about her. ‘Too late for her. Wide wings hang above her. She crouches like a mouse in the owl’s falling shadow. Her little heart beats to bursting. See how she trembles. But it is too late. Too late. She sees her. Know me as well!’ He threw back his head. The laughter roared from him. ‘I was a king!’ He was incredulous in his triumph. ‘I was lord of the three dominions. But you have made me this. A shell, a toy, a slave!’
Perhaps lightning struck her from the still-blue sky. She fell into a roaring black gulf. She tumbled, soundless, through endless black space. Then from nowhere, a flash of gold appeared. It was too large a shape for her to see it all. In an instant, it loomed too close to her to be seen. Great talons seized her, wrapping around her chest and waist. They squeezed the air from her. She clawed at them, but they were armoured in scales like metal. She could not pry them loose to let herself breathe. Nor did she want to fall to her death if they let go of her. Choose a death, a dragon whispered. That’s all you have left, pretty little one. The choice of your death.
No! She is mine, mine! Let her go!
Prey belongs to he who seizes it first!
You are dead. I have still a chance at life. I will not see it snatched from me!
Iridescent silver clashed suddenly with gold. Mountains collided and fought for possession of her. The talons clenched, cutting her in two. I shall kill her before I let you take her!
Malta had no breath to cry out. There was almost nothing left of her at all. These two were so immense; there was no room for her to exist in their world. She was going to blink out like a dying spark.
Someone spoke for her. ‘Malta is real. Malta exists. Malta is here.’ As if she were being wound up like a ball of yarn, the layers of herself were gradually restored to her. Someone held her against the maelstrom of forces that tried to shred her apart. It was like being cupped in warm hands. She curled tighter into herself, holding on. Finally, she spoke for herself.
‘I am Malta.’
‘Of course you are,’ Keffria spoke the words comfortingly, trying to stay calm despite her panic. Her daughter was pale as death. The slits of her eyes showed only white. When they had heard the commotion on deck and hastened back up, she had never suspected it would be Malta. She had collapsed, and lay half in the bead-woman’s arms, her head supported by one of the woman’s hands. The entire ship had been rocking. The figurehead was doing it, his head bent into his hands as he wept. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he snivelled over and over. ‘Be quiet,’ Keffria heard Amber tell him irritably. ‘You did nothing. Just be quiet.’ Then, as they had burst through the circle of staring sailors, Keffria saw Amber look up and speak directly to Althea.
‘Help me get her off the ship. Right now.’
Something in the foreigner’s voice brooked no argument. Althea stooped and actually lifted her niece bodily, but then Brashen was there, taking her into his own arms. Keffria had a glimpse of Amber’s disfigured hands before the woman gloved them hastily. She glanced up to meet Keffria’s stare. The look in the bead-woman’s eyes chilled her to the bone.
‘What happened to my daughter?’ Keffria demanded.
‘I don’t know. You should go to her.’
The first was obviously a lie, the second a plain truth. Keffria hastened after her daughter as Amber turned back to the figurehead and spoke to him in a low, intense voice. The ship quieted abruptly and the rocking eased. Then Selden began to cry. The boy wept at everything. It was not right for a boy to be so highly-strung, and how could she be thinking of something like that at this moment? ‘Shush, Selden. Come with me,’ she snapped at him. Her son followed her, wailing. When she reached the dock, she found that Brashen had spread out his coat and laid Malta down upon it. Ronica took over Selden, patting and shushing him. Keffria sank down beside her daughter. This was terrible, an awful omen for the launch of the ship, and so improper for Malta to be stretched out unconscious like this in front of every passer-by. Then she moaned and began to mutter, ‘I am Malta, I am Malta.’
‘Yes. You are Malta,’ she assured her daughter. ‘You’re here and you’re safe, Malta.’
As if those words were a magic charm, the girl suddenly opened her eyes. She looked around dazedly, then gasped. ‘Oh, help me up!’ she begged her mother.
‘Rest a moment longer,’ Brashen counselled her, but Malta had already seized her mother’s arm and was pulling herself upright. She rubbed at the back of her neck, winced, and then rubbed her eyes.
‘What happened?’ she demanded.
‘You fainted,’ Amber told her. She had appeared suddenly at the edge of the group. Now she pushed closer to Malta and their eyes met. ‘That is all. I suspect the light on the water dazzled you. That can happen, you know, if you stare at the sea too long.’
‘I fainted,’ Malta agreed. She lifted a hand to pat nervously at her throat and gave a giddy little laugh. ‘How silly of me!’
Her words and gestures were so contrived that Keffria could not believe that anyone could accept them. But Davad bustled up, to add, ‘The excitement of the day, no doubt. And we all know how Malta has pined for her father. No doubt this launch of his rescue has overwrought the poor child.’
Malta glared at him. ‘No doubt,’ she said in a venomous little voice. Even thick-skinned Davad seemed to feel the barb. He recoiled a bit, and looked at her oddly.
‘I fainted,’ Malta repeated. ‘Dear me. I hope I have not delayed the sailing.’
‘Not by much. But you are right, we must be on our way.’ Brashen turned away from her, but before he could shout an order, Trader Ashe stepped up to him.
‘Let your men save their backs. I’ll have the boats from Sea Rover give you a tow out.’
‘Leave room for one from Winsome,’ Trader Larfa brayed. In a moment, half a dozen other liveship owners had offered assistance. Keffria stood, wondering if this was a belated show of goodwill, or simply a sign of how eager they were to have Paragon out of the harbour. There had been rumours that some of the other liveships found him unsettling, but no one had been crass enough to challenge his right to dock there.
‘Gentlemen, I give you my thanks,’ Brashen had replied in such a wry voice that Keffria was certain he wondered the same things.
They did not re-board the vessel, but said their goodbyes right there. Mother was more emotional than Keffria had expected her to be. Over and over, she cautioned Althea to be careful and come home safely. Althea scowled when Brashen promised to do all he could to watch over her. As she embraced her sister in their own goodbye, Keffria could only wish that things had been different between them. Her heart was so full of conflicting emotions that she could barely wish her farewell.
It was even more disturbing to turn from that and see Amber holding one of Malta’s hands in her two gloved ones. ‘Take good care of yourself,’ the foreigner was saying to her – her gaze was far too intense.
‘I will,’ Malta had promised her. They spoke almost as if Malta were the one sailing off into the unknown. Keffria watched Amber turn away from her daughter and re-board the ship. A moment later, the bead woman reappeared on the foredeck by the figurehead. She leaned down and said something to him. The carved figure dropped his hands away from his face. He brought his head up, took in a breath
that swelled his chest, and then crossed his arms on his chest tightly. His jaw set into lines of stark determination.
The lines were cast off, the final farewells and good wishes exchanged. The crews of the small rowing vessels bent to their oars and began to draw Paragon away from the dock and out into the waters of the harbour. Althea and Brashen joined Amber on the foredeck. Each in turn bent to speak to Paragon, but if he acknowledged them in any way, Keffria could not see it. She glanced away from the spectacle and found Malta staring raptly at the ship. She could not decide if her daughter’s expression was one of terror or love. Nor, she frowned to herself, could she tell if she stared at the figurehead or Amber.
Malta gasped and Keffria immediately looked out to the ship again. The small boats were catching back the lines thrown to them. Brashen was waving his thanks as the sails began to blossom on the ship’s rigging. Despite the men scampering about frantically, it was a truly graceful sight. As Keffria watched, the figurehead suddenly threw wide his arms as if to embrace the horizon. He shouted and a trick of the wind carried the words to them. ‘I fly again!’ It was a triumphant challenge to the world. Paragon’s sails swelled with wind and he began to move under his own power. From his deck, a faint cheer rang out. Tears pricked Keffria’s eyes.
‘May Sa speed you,’ Malta whispered.
Keffria heard her daughter’s voice break on the words. ‘May Sa speed you, and bring you safely home again,’ she herself said aloud. The breeze seemed to blow her prayer away.
29
BINGTOWN CONVERGENCE
THE FLEET THAT accompanied them had grown. Serilla thought it would be very interesting to discover how it had been arranged for the other ships to join them en route. How long had all this been in the planning? Did anyone in Jamaillia know this show of force accompanied the Satrap as he descended upon Bingtown? She was now almost sure that the Satrap would be sacrificed to justify a Chalcedean attack on Bingtown. She clutched that morsel of knowledge to herself as if it were a gold nugget. To warn the Old Traders might be her surest way of buying their trust of her. If she had any loyalties left, they now belonged to the wondrous place she had studied for years. She lifted her eyes and stared through the night. On the horizon was a very faint glow: the lights of the Night Market rose into the starlit sky. By morning, they would arrive in Bingtown.
A sailor came to stand at her shoulder. ‘Satrap call for you. Want to come out, too.’ He clipped the words curiously with his foreign tongue.
‘He can’t. His health is much too delicate. But I shall go to him now.’
She would have ignored his summons, except that the Chalcedean captain might hear of it. Despite her newfound strength, she still did not dare to cross him. She had encountered him twice since he had returned her to the Satrap. It shamed her that she had been unable to look at him. The first time she had turned a corner in the corridor and run into him, she had nearly wet herself with terror. He had laughed aloud as she had scuttled away from him. It was incomprehensible that she could so fear another human being. Sometimes, when she was alone, she tried to work up a fury towards him or hatred. It was useless. The captain had steeped her in terror. She could feel nothing else about him. The thought of him hastened her footsteps as she returned to the Satrap’s chamber.
She ignored the Chalcedean on duty at the door. She entered a chamber that was clean and uncluttered. The fresh ocean air swept through the room from the open window. She nodded to herself with satisfaction. The servants had left her evening repast on the table, and lit the candelabra for her. There was a platter of sliced meat, and a pudding of steamed fruit and several flats of unleavened bread to accompany it. A bottle of red wine and a single goblet awaited her. Simple foods, she thought with satisfaction, prepared to her command. She was taking no chances with herself. Whatever had sickened the rest of the Satrap’s company had not touched the Chalcedean captain or crew. She doubted poison, only because she could not see how anyone would profit from it. She suspected one of the more elaborate delicacies the Satrap had brought with him. Perhaps the pickled eggs and walnuts, or the fat pork pastries had gone bad.
On a smaller tray was the Satrap’s meal. There was a bowl of bread soaked in hot water, and a smaller dish of steamed onions and turnips mashed together. As a treat, she would allow him some watered wine. Perhaps she would even shred some meat for him. She had stopped seasoning his food with emetics two days ago. It would not do to have him too weak when he arrived in Bingtown. She smiled, pleased with herself, and sat down to her meal. He should rally briefly before he died. As she transferred a slice of meat to her plate, she heard the Satrap stir in his bedding.
‘Serilla?’ he whispered. ‘Serilla, are you here?’
She had closed the drapes around his bed. She considered not answering him. He was so weak now that to sit up and part his own curtains would require a substantial effort. She decided to be kind.
‘I’m here, Magnadon. I’m preparing some food for you.’
‘Oh. That’s good.’ He fell silent.
She ate at her leisure. She had trained him to be patient. The servants were barred from his chamber, save once a day when they came in to tidy under her particular supervision. She allowed him no other visitors. His health was far too delicate, she told him. It had not taken much effort to inflate his fears of death to a stultifying level. A substantial number of his party had died from this illness. Even Serilla had been appalled at the toll it had taken. She believed she was quite safe from whatever it had been. But she had filled the Satrap’s head with the idea that the disease still ran rampant on the ship.
It had not been hard. The more she restricted his food and dosed him with poppy syrup, the more tractable he became. When his eyes were wide and wandering, whatever she told him became his truth. When she had first taken over caring for him, the others had been too ill to visit him, let alone intervene. Since they had recovered, she had successfully turned them back at the door. It was the Satrap’s order that he not be disturbed. Serilla had had the spacious chamber to herself, save for the bed the Satrap occupied. She had been quite comfortable.
When she had finished eating, and had enjoyed a glass of wine, she carried the Satrap’s tray to his bedside. She swept back the bed curtains and regarded him critically. Perhaps, she thought, she had gone too far. His skin was pallid, his face almost skeletal from lack of flesh. The bony hands that rested upon the coverlet twitched from time to time. That was nothing new; his indulgence in pleasure drugs had done that to him years ago. It was only their feebleness that made them look like dying spiders, she decided.
She sat down gently on the edge of the bed and set the tray on a low table. She smiled as she gently pushed back his hair. ‘You’re looking so much better,’ she told him. She patted his hand reassuringly. ‘Shall we get some food into you?’
‘Please,’ he said. He smiled up at her fondly. He was convinced she was the only one who had stood by him, the only one he could rely on. She winced from his foul breath when he opened his mouth for the spoon. He had complained yesterday that some of his teeth felt loose. Well, he would probably recover swiftly enough. Or not. He just had to live long enough to get her ashore in Bingtown and ingratiated with the Traders. She did not want him to be so strong that he could contradict her account. Anything unfortunate that he said she intended to attribute to his wandering mind.
A bit of food dribbled from his mouth. She slipped an arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit up. ‘Isn’t that good?’ she cooed to him as she spooned up some of the soggy bread. ‘And tomorrow we’ll be in Bingtown. Won’t that be nice?’
Ronica Vestrit could not recall the last time the great bell had rung to summon an emergency gathering of the Traders. Dawn was barely grey in the sky above the Traders’ Concourse. Ronica and her family had hastened down the hill from their home on foot, only to be picked up by Trader Shuyev’s coach on its way to the meeting. Folk milled about in front of the hall, calling to one another. Who had r
ung the bell? Why were they summoned? Some of the Traders who were arriving were in their morning robes, summer cloaks flung hastily about their shoulders. Others were red-eyed from lack of sleep and still wearing evening dress. All had come hastening as soon as the bell had clanged out its dire warning. Many carried weapons or had swords strapped to their sides. Children clung to their parents; young boys tried desperately to look brave, but many faces showed the tracks of panicky tears. The diverse crowd of worried folk looked incongruous amongst the planters full of blooming flowers and the garlanded arches and beribboned stairs of the Concourse. The festive decorations on the hall in preparation for the Summer Ball almost seemed mocking.
‘It’s the Blood Plague,’ someone declared on the edge of the crowd. ‘The Blood Plague has come to Bingtown again. That’s all it could be.’
Ronica heard the rumour picked up and boosted along through the gathering. The muttering began to rise to a panicky roar. Then from the steps, Trader Larfa bellowed for attention. He was the owner of the liveship Winsome, a man usually steady to the point of dullness. This morning his cheeks were glowing red with excitement. His hair stood up in wild tufts on his head. ‘I rang the bell!’ he proclaimed. ‘Listen to me, all of you! There isn’t time to enter the hall and convene properly. I’ve already passed the word to every liveship in the harbour, and they’ve gone out to face them. Invaders! Chalcedean war galleys. My boy saw them at first light and came to wake me up. I sent him to the North Wall to rouse the other liveships. I don’t know how many galleys are out there, but it’s more than ten. They mean business.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘How many?’
‘How many liveships went out? Can they hold them back?’
The questions peppered him. He shook his fists at the crowd in frustration. ‘I don’t know. I’ve told you all I know. There’s a fleet of Chalcedean warships coming into Bingtown Harbour. If you’ve got a ship, man it and get it out there. We need to slow them down. Everyone else, bring weapons and buckets and come down to the harbour. Chalcedeans use fire. If they manage to get off their ships, they’ll try to burn the town.’