The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  The Satrap did not even lift his head from his pillow. ‘Where is my book?’ he demanded.

  Malta gasped a breath. ‘I don’t think he has any,’ she managed to say. Calm words. Steady voice. Do not let him know how scared you are. ‘I said the words you told me. He just pointed at the door.’

  ‘How annoying. I fear I shall die of boredom on this boat. Come and rub my feet. Perhaps I will doze off. There is certainly nothing else to do.’

  No choice, Malta told herself. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her mouth so dry she could scarcely breathe through it. No choice, except painful death. Her elbows and knees stung; they were skinned raw. She pulled a splinter from her palm, then crossed the tiny room to sit on the floor by his feet. He glanced at her, then jerked his feet away from her touch. ‘What is the matter with you? What is that?’ He stared at her brow.

  ‘I fell. I opened the cut again,’ she said simply. She lifted her hand to touch it gingerly. Her fingers came away sticky with blood and a thick, white pus. Malta stared at it in horror. She picked up one of Kekki’s rags and dabbed at her brow. It did not hurt much, but more of the stuff soaked the rag. Malta began to shake as she looked at it. What was it, what did it mean?

  There was no mirror to consult. She had avoided touching the scar on her forehead. She had not wanted to remind herself it was there. Now she let her fingers walk over it. It hurt, but not as much as it seemed it should for all the blood and discharge. She forced herself to explore it. It was as long as her forefinger and stood up in a thick ridge as wide as two of her fingers. The scar felt knobby and ridged and gristly like the end of a chicken bone. A shudder ran over her. She wanted to vomit. She lifted her face to the Satrap. ‘What does it look like?’ she demanded quietly.

  He did not seem to hear her. ‘Don’t touch me. Go clean yourself, and bind something across that. Feh! I cannot look at that. Get away.’

  She turned away from him, refolded the rag and held it against her brow. It grew heavy and wet. Pink fluid trickled down her wrist to her elbow. It wasn’t stopping. She scooted over to sit by Kekki, seeking any kind of companionship. She was now too frightened even to cry. ‘What if I’m dying from this?’ she whimpered. Kekki did not respond. Malta looked at her, and then stared.

  The Companion was dead.

  Out on the deck, a sailor shouted something excitedly. Others took up the cry. The Satrap sat up suddenly on his pallet. ‘The ship! They’re hailing the ship! Perhaps now there will be decent food and wine. Malta, fetch my … oh, now what ails you?’ He glared at her irritably, and then followed her gaze to Kekki’s corpse. He sighed. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘What a nuisance.’

  Serilla had ordered that her luncheon be brought to the library. She sat awaiting it with an anticipation that had nothing to do with hunger. The tattooed serving woman who set it before her moved with precise courtesy that grated on Serilla’s nerves.

  ‘Never mind that,’ she said, almost sharply, as the woman began to pour her tea for her. ‘I’ll do the rest for myself. You can go now. Please remember that I am not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Yes, lady.’ The stoic woman bobbed her head and retreated to the door.

  Serilla forced herself to sit still at the table until she heard the door shut firmly behind her. Then she rose swiftly, cat-footed across the room and eased the latch into place. A servant had opened the drapes to the wet wintry day outside. Serilla drew them closed and surreptitiously checked to be sure the edges overlapped. When she was certain that no one could enter the room nor spy on her, she went back to the table. Ignoring the food, she took up the napkin and shook it hopefully.

  Nothing fell out.

  Disappointment squeezed her. Last time, the note had been folded discreetly within the napkin. She had no idea how Mingsley had managed it, but she had hoped he would contact her again. She had replied to his overture with a note of her own, left at his suggestion under a flowerpot in the disused herb garden behind the house. When she checked on it later, the note was gone. He should have replied by now.

  Unless this was all a trick and the note had been a test of Roed’s devising. Roed suspected everything and everyone. He had discovered the power of cruelty, and it was corrupting him swiftly. He could not keep a secret, yet accused everyone around him of being the source of the rumours that plagued and terrorized Bingtown. He bragged to her of what happened to those who spoke out against him, though he never admitted to having a direct hand in any of it. ‘Dwicker’s had a good beating for his insolence. Justice has been done.’ Perhaps he had intended that such talk would keep her bound to him. It had had the reverse effect. She had felt so chilled and sickened that she was now willing to risk everything to break free of him.

  When the first note had come from Mingsley, offering an alliance, she had been shocked at his boldness. It had slipped out of her napkin onto her lap while she was dining with the heads of the Bingtown Council, but if one of them had been instrumental in delivering the note, she saw no sign of it. It must have been one of the servants. Servants were easily bribed to such tasks.

  She had agonized over replying. It had taken her a day to decide, and when she had finally set her note out, she had wondered if it would be too late. She knew her note had been taken. Why hadn’t he replied?

  Had she been too conservative in her own note? Mingsley had not been. The bargain that he had bluntly proposed had so stunned her she had barely been able to converse for the rest of the evening. Mingsley first proclaimed his own loyalty to her and to the Satrap she represented. He then plunged into accusations against those who were not so loyal. He minced no words in revealing that ‘traitorous New Traders’ had intended to seize the Satrap from Davad’s house, and even that they had received support from nobles in Jamaillia and Chalcedean mercenaries in their pay. But the plan had soured. The Chalcedeans who had raided Bingtown had betrayed the alliance for the sake of quick plunder. The Jamaillian nobles who had backed them were plunged into civil unrest of their own. Some traitorous fools claimed the Jamaillian conspirators would raise a fleet to aid them and enforce their control of Bingtown. Mingsley believed it unlikely. The Traditionalists in Jamaillia City were more powerful than the conspirators had believed. The conspiracy had failed miserably, both in Bingtown and Jamaillia, thanks to her intervention. All had heard how she had boldly snatched the Satrap. Rumour suggested that the Satrap was now under the safe wing of the Vestrit family.

  In a finely penned and closely worded missive, Mingsley went on to declare that he and other honest New Traders were most anxious to clear their own names and salvage their investments in Bingtown. Her bold declaration that Davad Restart was innocent of treachery against the Satrapy of Jamaillia had heartened them. Simple logic showed that if Davad were innocent, then so were his former trading partners. These honest but misjudged New Traders were most anxious to negotiate a peace with the Bingtown Traders, and to establish their clear loyalty to the Satrapy.

  He then stated his bargain. The ‘loyalist’ New Traders wanted Serilla to intercede for them with the Bingtown Council, but first she must divest herself of ‘the hot-headed, bloody-handed’ Roed Caern. Only then would they treat with her. In return for this sacrifice, Mingsley and the other loyal New Traders would furnish her with a list of those New Traders who had plotted against the Satrap. The list would include the names of highly-placed Jamaillian conspirators, as well as the Chalcedean lords who had been involved. He not-so-subtly pointed out that such a list, kept secret, was worth a great deal of coin. A woman possessing such information could live well and independently the rest of her life, whether she chose to remain in Bingtown or return to Jamaillia.

  Someone had informed Mingsley very well about her.

  When she finally replied to his note, her answer had been reserved. She included no greeting that mentioned him by name, nor had she signed her name. The plain square of paper had succinctly acknowledged that she found his offer interesting and inv
iting. She had hinted that there were others among her ‘current allies’ who would also be receptive to such negotiations. Would he care to set a time and a place to meet?

  In composing the note, she had forced herself to think coldly. There was no truth in this sort of politics, and very little ethics. There were only stances and posturing. The Old Satrap had taught her that. Now she tried to apply his clarity of vision to this situation. Mingsley had been involved with the plot to take the Satrap. His intimate knowledge betrayed him. But the tide had turned against him, and now he wished to change his alliance. If she could, she would help him. It could only benefit her, especially as she was in the midst of doing the same thing. She would use Mingsley’s cooperation as her passage to establish credibility with Ronica Vestrit and other like-thinking members of the Bingtown Council. She wished now that Ronica Vestrit had still been in the house. Not that she regretted giving her the warning that had allowed her to escape: thwarting Roed had finally given her the small measure of courage she needed to take back some control in her life. When the time was right, she could make Ronica aware of who had aided her. Serilla smiled grimly to herself. She could, if she chose, be like Mingsley, reordering all she had done to put herself in a better light.

  The Trader woman would have been useful to her right now. The tangled threads of accusations and suspicion were difficult to follow. So much was based on what Mingsley knew or suspected. Ronica had had a gift for sorting out such things.

  And a gift for making her think. Ronica’s words kept coming back to her. She could be shaped by her past without being trapped by it. At one time, she had considered those words only in light of her rape. Now she leaned back in her chair and opened her mind to a wider interpretation. Satrap’s Companion. Must that determine her future? Or could she set it aside and become a woman of Bingtown, standing independent?

  ‘I hate to rush you,’ Grag apologized as he entered Reyn’s guest chamber with an armload of clothes. He kicked the door shut behind him. ‘However, the others are gathered and waiting. Some of them have been here since early morning. The longer they wait, the more impatient they grow. Here are dry clothes. Some of these should fit you. Your clothes fit me well enough when I was a Rain Wilder for the Ball.’ He must have seen Reyn wince, for immediately he added, ‘I’m sorry. I never got to tell you that. Sorry about what happened with the coach, and sorry that Malta was injured.’

  ‘Yes. Well. It makes small difference to her now, I suppose.’ Reyn heard how harsh his words sounded. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t talk about it.’ He tried to interest himself in the clothes. He picked up a long-sleeved shirt. There were no gloves there; he’d have to use his wet ones. And the wet veil, too. It didn’t matter, nothing really mattered.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to talk about it.’ There was genuine regret in Grag’s voice. ‘Your tie with Malta has brought this down on you. The rumour around town is either that she kidnapped the Satrap from where the Rain Wild Traders were holding him, or that she aided his escape. Roed Caern has been noising it about that she has probably turned him over to the Chalcedeans, because she is Chalcedean herself, and…’

  ‘Shut up!’ Reyn drew in a deep breath. ‘A moment, please,’ he said thickly. Despite his veil, he turned his back on Grag. He bowed his head and clenched his hands, willing that the tears would not spill, that his throat would not close up and choke him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Grag apologized again.

  Reyn sighed. ‘No. I should apologize. You don’t know, you can’t know everything I’ve been through. I’m surprised that you’ve heard anything at all. Listen. Malta is dead, the Satrap is dead.’ A strange laugh bubbled up in him. ‘I should be dead. I feel I am dead. But … no. Listen. Malta went into the buried city for my sake. There was a dragon there. The dragon was … between lives. In a coffin or a cocoon type of thing… I don’t know what to call it. The dragon had been tormenting me, invading my dreams, twisting my thoughts. Malta knew. She wanted to make it stop.’

  ‘A dragon?’ Grag’s voice was questioning of both the word and Reyn’s sanity.

  ‘I know it’s a wild tale!’ Reyn’s denial of Grag’s interruption was fierce. ‘Don’t ask me questions and don’t look sceptical. Just listen.’ Swiftly he recounted all that had happened that day. At the end of his tale, he lifted his veiled eyes to challenge Grag’s incredulous stare. ‘If you don’t believe me, ask the Kendry. The ship saw the dragon as well. It … changed him. He has been morose since then, constantly seeking his captain’s approval and closeness. We have been concerned for him.’

  In a softer voice, Reyn went on, ‘I never saw Malta again. They’re dead, Grag. There was no plot to steal the Satrap from Trehaug. Only a girl, trying to survive an earthquake. She didn’t succeed. We searched the whole length of the river, twice. There was no sign of them. The river ate the boat and they perished in the water. It’s a horrible way to drown.’

  ‘Sa’s breath,’ Grag shuddered. ‘Reyn, you’re right, I didn’t know. In Bingtown, all we’ve heard are conflicting rumours. We heard that the Satrap was missing or dead in the quake. Then a rumour started that the Vestrits had stolen him to sell him to the Chalcedeans or let the New Traders kill him. Ronica Vestrit has been hiding here with us. Caern has put it about that she must be captured and held. At any other time, we would have urged Ronica to go to the Council and demand that they hear her. But lately, there have been some ugly reprisals against folk that Roed Caern has accused of being traitors. I don’t know why the Companion trusts him so. It’s dividing the Bingtown Council, for some say we must listen to her as the Satrap’s representative, while my father and I feel it is time Bingtown kept its own counsel.’

  He took a breath. Gently, as if fearing his words would injure Reyn more, he added, ‘Roed has been saying that the Vestrits plotted with the Chalcedeans. He says that maybe pirates never took their liveship, but hints that Kyle Haven has been part of this “conspiracy”, that maybe he took Vivacia up the Rain Wild River to pick up the Satrap and Malta. Well, too many of us know the lie of that, so he changed his tune, and said it didn’t have to be a liveship, maybe it was a Chalcedean ship.’

  ‘Roed’s a fool,’ broke in Reyn. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. We’ve had ships, Chalcedean and others, try to come up the river. The river eats them. They try all the tricks we know don’t work: they grease their hulls or tar them. One ship was even shingled with baked clay.’ Reyn shook his veiled head. ‘They all perish, some fast, some slow. Besides, there have been liveships on patrol at the mouth of the Rain Wild River since this all started. They’d have been seen.’

  Grag grimaced. ‘You have more faith in our patrols than I do. There has been an onslaught of Chalcedean ships. We chase them out of the harbour, and while we are gone, another wave comes in. I’m surprised you got past them as easily as you did.’

  Reyn shrugged. ‘You’re right, I suppose. When the Kendry came out of the river mouth, there were no other liveships about. We sighted several Chalcedean vessels on our way here, however. Most gave us a wide berth; liveships have a reputation now, thanks to your Ophelia. One Chalcedean ship seemed interested in us last night, but Kendry soon left it behind.’

  A moment of silence fell between them. Reyn turned his back on Grag and peeled off his wet shirt. As he shrugged into a dry one, Grag said, ‘There is so much happening, I can’t grasp it all. A dragon? Somehow, it is easier to believe in a dragon than to believe Malta is dead. When I think of her, I can only see her as she looked that night in your arms on the dance floor.’

  Reyn closed his eyes. A small white upturned face stared at him from a tiny boat shooting down the river. ‘I envy you that,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You are the Trader for the Vestrits. You decide for the family. If you do not wish to be involved in this, I understand. But as for myself, I remain here.’ Ronica took a breath. ‘I stand here as myself only. But know, Keffria, that if you decide to go to the Bingtown Council, I will st
and with you there, also. You would have to be the one to present our view there. The Bingtown Council would not let me speak on the matter of Davad’s death. They will surely refuse to hear me on this. Nevertheless, I will stand by you while you speak. And accept the consequences.’

  ‘And I would say what?’ Keffria demanded wearily. ‘If I tell them that I don’t know what became of Malta, let alone the Satrap, it sounds like a deception.’

  ‘You have one other alternative. You and Selden can flee Bingtown. You might be left at peace in Ingleby for a time. Unless someone decided to win favour with Serilla and Caern by hunting you down there.’

  Keffria leaned her forehead into her hands. Heedless of how it might look to the others, she rested her elbows on the table. ‘Bingtown is not like that. It won’t come to that.’ She waited for someone to agree, but no one spoke. She lifted her head and looked at the grave faces that confronted her.

  Too much was happening too fast. They had allowed her time to bathe, and she was dressed in a fresh gown from one of the Tenira women. She’d had a simple meal in her room, and then she had been summoned down to this gathering. She had had little time with her mother. ‘Malta’s dead,’ she had said to her as her mother hugged her in greeting. Ronica had stiffened in Keffria’s arms and closed her eyes, and when she had opened them, Keffria had seen the grief in her mother’s eyes over the death of her wayward granddaughter. It glittered there like ice, cold and immutable, too solid for tears. For a brief time, they shared sorrow, and oddly that had healed much of the rift between them.