by Robin Hobb
A mutter ran through the crowd, but Devouchet spoke on. ‘Every one who makes a mark agrees to be bound by the rules of old Bingtown. In turn, each head of a family will gain a vote on the Bingtown Council, as it was of old.’ He looked around, including the leaders on the dais. ‘All must agree that the Bingtown Council’s judgements upon their disputes will be final.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And then, I think, there must be a vote to choose new members of the new Bingtown Council. To assure that every group gains a voice.’
Devouchet’s eyes went back to the dragon. ‘You, too, must make a mark to signify your agreement. Then the Kendry must be returned to us, and the other liveships summoned back, for without them no workers or materials can be carried upriver. Then you must look at our charts with us, and help us mark out the stretches of the river that we do not know, and show us where this deepening of the river must occur.’
People were nodding, but the dragon gave a loud snort of disgust. ‘I have no time for this writing and marking! Regard it as done, and let us begin tonight!’
Reyn spoke before any one else could. ‘Swift is better; on that you and I agree. Let them set their words to paper. Between you and I, I offer you my word, and I am willing to take yours.’
Reyn took a breath. When he spoke again, he made his tone formal. ‘Dragon Tintaglia, do we have a bargain?’
‘We do,’ the dragon replied heavily. Tintaglia looked at Devouchet and the others on the dais. ‘Set your pen to paper, and do it swiftly. I am bound by my name and not by a mark. Tomorrow, Tintaglia begins to do what she has promised. See that you are as quick to keep your word.’
18
LOYALTIES
KENNIT LOOKED DOWN at the scroll in his hand. The pieces of wax seal on his desk had borne the sigil of Sincure Faldin. That worthy merchant had adapted to the loss of his wife and one daughter. His sons and his ship had survived the slavers’ raid on Divvytown unscathed, for they had been out trading at the time. As Kennit had predicted to Sorcor, Sincure Faldin had accepted Sorcor’s marriage to Alyssum, for the Durjan merchant had always been swift to see where power resided. This urgent message was but one more effort by him to curry goodwill with Kennit. As such, he regarded it suspiciously.
The writing on the scroll was laboriously elaborate, and the wording stilted. A full third of the page was an opulent greeting and wish for Kennit’s good health. How like the over-dressed Durjan merchant, to waste his ink and his time so painstakingly before unfolding his dire news. Despite the hammering of his heart, Kennit forced himself to reread the scroll with an impassive face. He sifted facts from the merchant’s flowery prose. Faldin had mistrusted the strangers who came to Divvytown, and had been among the first to suspect the ship was a liveship. He had had his son lure the captain and his woman into his shop and ply them with tales to get them to divulge some of their own history, but to little avail. Their abrupt departure in the middle of the night was as strange as their arrival had been, and tales told the next day by men who had deserted the ship bore out his suspicions. On board was one Althea Vestrit, who claimed ownership of the Vivacia. The crew of the liveship had been oddly mixed, men and women, but the captain had been that Brashen fellow, lately of the Springeve, and before that, Bingtown born and bred, or so rumour had it. If one could believe deserters, the ship’s true mission was to reclaim the liveship Vivacia. Hence, due to his vast respect for the pirate Kennit and his great loyalty to his king, and with another long string of flowery compliments, Sincure Faldin was sending Kennit this warning by the swiftest ship in the Divvytown harbour. The ship had been a liveship, the figurehead badly damaged, and by name Paragon.
The inked name seemed to burn into his eyes. It was hard to concentrate on the meandering section that followed and quoted gossip and bird-borne rumours that Jamaillia City was raising a fleet to sail northward and inflict punishment on Bingtown for the kidnapping of the Satrap and the destruction of his tariff dock there. It was Faldin’s studied opinion that the nobles of Jamaillia had long been seeking an excuse to plunder Bingtown. They seemed to have found it.
Kennit raised incredulous eyebrows at that tale. The Satrap had left Jamaillia, gone to Bingtown and been kidnapped there? The whole narrative seemed far-fetched. The meat of the rumour, of course, was that Jamaillia City was raising a retaliatory fleet. Purposeful warships passing through Pirate Isle waters were to be avoided. When they returned with the spoils of their war-making, however, they would be fat prey. His serpents would make such piracy near effortless.
The missive closed with another string of earnest compliments and good wishes, and rather unsubtle reminders that Kennit should be grateful to Sincure Faldin for sending him these tidings. At the bottom was an intricate signature done in two colours of ink, followed by a tasteless postscript exulting over how ripely Alyssum was swelling with Sorcor’s seed.
Kennit set the scroll down on his desk and let the cursed thing roll itself up. Sorcor and the others gathered in his cabin stolidly waited to hear the news. The messenger had followed Faldin’s explicit orders to deliver the message to Sorcor so that he could take it immediately to Captain Kennit, probably so Sorcor could admire his fatherin-law’s cleverness and loyalty.
Or was there more? Could either Sorcor or Sincure Faldin suspect what this news meant to Kennit? Had there been another message, for Sorcor’s eyes only, in which Faldin bid him watch how his captain reacted? For an instant, doubt and suspicion gnawed at Kennit, but for an instant only. Sorcor could not read. If Faldin had wanted to rope his son-in-law into a plot against Kennit, he had chosen the wrong medium.
The first time Kennit had read the liveship’s name and description, his heart had lurched in his chest. He had forced himself to continue breathing evenly, and maintained his calm expression. A second slow perusal of the page had allowed him time to compose his voice and manner. There were many questions to answer. Did Faldin suspect the connection? If so, how? He did not mention it, unless the words about the sailors who had jumped ship from the Paragon were a hint. Did those sailors know and had they talked? Did this Althea Vestrit know, and if she did, did she intend to use Paragon somehow as a weapon against him? If it was known, how widely was it known? Was it beyond the control of killing a few men and sinking a ship again?
Would his past never stay submerged?
For one wild instant, Kennit offered himself escape. He did not have to go back to Divvytown. He had a liveship under him and a fleet of serpents at his disposal. He could abandon all and go anywhere, anywhere there was water, and still make his fortune. He would have to begin all over, of course, to establish his reputation, but the serpents would assure that that happened swiftly. He lifted his eyes briefly and scanned the people in his room. They would all have to die, unfortunately. Even Wintrow, he thought with a pang. And he’d have to get rid of his entire crew and replace them somehow. And still the ship would know who he had been…
‘Captain?’ Sorcor prodded him gently.
The daydream popped like a bubble. It wasn’t feasible. Far more pragmatic to go back to Divvytown, tidy away whoever suspected, and go on as before. There was the ship himself, of course, but he had dealt with Paragon once. He’d just have to do it again. He pushed that thought aside. He could not face it yet.
‘Bad news, Cap’n?’ Sorcor dared to ask.
Kennit managed a sardonic smile. He would parcel out the tidings and see if anyone flinched. ‘News is news, Captain Sorcor. It is up to the recipient to make good or bad of it. But these tidings are…interesting. I am sure we are all pleased to know that your Alyssum grows ever rounder. Sincure Faldin also reports that a strange ship has visited Divvytown, professing a desire to join us in our crusade to rid the Inside Passage of slaveships. But our good friend Faldin was not convinced of their sincerity. The ship arrived rather mysteriously, negotiating the passage to the harbour in the dark of night, and leaving the same way.’ He glanced back at the scroll negligently. ‘And there is a rumour that Jamaillia City raises
a fleet to plunder Bingtown, in revenge for some affront to the Satrap.’
Kennit leaned back casually in his chair to have more faces in view. Etta was there with Wintrow at her side. He always seemed to be at her side lately, he reflected briefly. Sorcor, his broad, scarred face beaming loyalty and devotion to Kennit and pride in his woman’s fecundity, stood next to Jola, Kennit’s current first mate.
All were resplendent in the rich yields of their most recent piracies. Etta had coaxed even Wintrow into a wide-sleeved shirt of dark blue silk embroidered with ravens, by Etta’s own needle. Staunch Sorcor wore emeralds in his ears now, and a broad belt of leather worked with silver held two matching swords. The richness of the fabrics Etta wore was only heightened by her remarkable cut of them. Had cloth-of-gold ever been worn to climb a mast before? In the hold were other harvests from the sea: rare medicines and exotic perfume oils, gold and silver stamped with the likenesses of many different Satraps, jewels both raw and wrought into jewellery, and fabulous pelts and glowing tapestries. The wealth in his hold now easily equalled last year’s full gathering.
Hunting had been bountiful lately; piracy had never been so effortless. Flanked by his flotilla of serpents, he need do no more than sight an interesting sail. He and Bolt selected their targets and she sent the serpents forth. An hour or two of harassment by the serpents, and the prey surrendered. At first, he had then closed on the demoralized ships and demanded surrender of all their valuables. The crews had always been subservient and willing. Without even a sword drawn, Kennit fleeced the vessels and then sent them on their way, with a stern reminder that these waters were now the province of King Kennit of the Pirate Isles. He suggested that if their rulers were interested in establishing generous tariffs to pass through his territory, he might be willing to treat with them.
The last two ships, he had ordered the serpents to ‘fetch’ for him. The Vivacia anchored until the serpents herded her victims to her. The last captain had surrendered on his knees while Kennit sat enthroned on a comfortable chair on the Vivacia’s foredeck. Bolt delighted in the captive captain’s ill-concealed terror of her. After Kennit had made his selections from the ship’s manifests, the captured crew had seen to the cargo transfer. Kennit’s only concern would be to keep his own crew from becoming bored or complacent. From time to time, he planned to stop a slaver, to let the crew indulge their need for bloodshed and feed the serpents to increase their loyalty to him.
Faldin’s message had arrived on a swift little ship named Sprite. Although Jola had recognized the ship and she had been flying Kennit’s raven flag, neither Kennit nor Bolt had been able to resist flaunting their power. The serpents had been sent forth to surround the small ship and escort it to Kennit. The captain had made a brave show of greeting Kennit but no amount of bravado could quite banish the quaver from his voice. The messenger had been pale and silent when he reached the deck of the Vivacia, for he had made the crossing in a tiny boat through the gleaming backs of serpents.
Kennit had taken the missive and dismissed the messenger to a ‘well-deserved ration of brandy’. Every man aboard the Sprite would carry word to Divvytown of Kennit’s new allies. It was well to impress one’s enemies with a show of strength. It was even better to be sure one’s friends remembered it as well. Kennit kept that in mind as he slowly surveyed the faces around him.
Sorcor’s brow furrowed as he endeavoured to think. ‘Did Faldin know the skipper? He should. He knows damn near everyone in Divvytown, and it takes an experienced man to bring a ship up the slough, even in daylight.’
‘He did,’ Kennit confirmed easily. ‘One Brashen Trell, of Bingtown. I gather he did business in Divvytown last season on the Springeve with old Finney.’ Kennit feigned glancing at the missive again. ‘Perhaps this Trell is an extraordinary navigator with an excellent memory, but Faldin suspects it was more the ship he used than the man. A liveship. With a chopped face. By name, Paragon.’
Wintrow’s face betrayed him. His cheeks had flushed at the name of Trell. Now he stood, tongue-tied and sweating. Interesting. Impossible that the lad was in league with Sincure Faldin; he simply had not had enough free time in Divvytown. So this was something else. As if by accident, he let his eyes meet the boy’s. He smiled mildly at him. And waited.
Wintrow looked stricken. Twice his lips parted and closed again before he cleared his throat faintly. ‘Sir?’ he managed in a whisper.
‘Wintrow?’ Kennit put warm query into his voice.
Wintrow crossed his arms on his chest. What secret, Kennit wondered, did he seek to hold inside? When Wintrow spoke, his voice was small. ‘You should heed Faldin’s warning. Brashen Trell was first mate to my grandfather, Captain Ephron Vestrit. Perhaps he truly seeks to join you, but I doubt it. He served aboard the Vivacia for years, and may still feel great loyalty to the Vestrits. To my family.’
At these final words, the boy’s fingers tightened on his arms. So there it was. Wintrow chose to be loyal to Kennit but still felt it as a betrayal of his family. Interesting. Almost touching. Kennit steepled his fingers on the table before him. ‘I see.’ A vague shivering had passed throughout the ship at the mention of her old captain’s name. That was even more interesting than Wintrow’s divided loyalty. Bolt claimed that there was nothing left of the old Vivacia. Why, then, would she tremble at Captain Vestrit’s name?
Silence reigned. Wintrow stared down at the edge of the table. His face was very still, his jaw set. Kennit tossed up his last bit of information. He gave a small, resigned sigh. ‘Ah. That would explain the presence of Althea Vestrit among the crew. Deserters from the Paragon say that she intends to take Vivacia away from me.’
A second shivering ran through the ship. Wintrow froze, his face paling. ‘Althea Vestrit is my aunt,’ he said faintly. ‘She was closely bonded to the ship, even before she awakened. She had expected to inherit Vivacia.’ The boy swallowed. ‘Kennit, I know her. Not well, not in all things, but where this ship is concerned, she will not be dissuaded. She will try to take the Vivacia. That is as certain as sunrise.’
Kennit smiled faintly. ‘Through a wall of serpents? If she survives them, she will discover that Vivacia is no longer who she once was. I do not think I need to fear.’
‘No longer who she once was,’ Wintrow repeated in a whisper. His look had become distant. ‘Are any of us?’ he asked, and lowered his face into his hands.
Malta was sick of ships. She hated the smells, the motion, the appalling food, the coarse men, and most of all she hated the Satrap. No, she corrected herself. Worst of all she hated that she could not show the Satrap how much she loathed and despised him.
The Chalcedean mother ship had taken them up days ago. Kekki’s body had been hastily abandoned with the badly leaking galley. As Malta and the others had been hauled to safety aboard the three-masted ship, their rescuers hooted and pointed at the sinking galley. She suspected the captain of the galley had suffered a great loss of status by losing his ship that included forfeiting his rights to his ‘guests’ for they had not seen the man since they had come aboard. The single chamber she now shared with the Satrap was larger, with real walls of solid wood and a door that latched securely. It was warmer and drier than the makeshift tent cabin on the deck of the galley, but just as bare. It had no window. It offered little more than the absolute necessities for life. Food was brought to them, and the dishes taken away afterwards. Once every two days, a boy came to carry away their waste bucket. The air of the cabin was close and stuffy; the sole lantern that swung from an overhead beam smoked incessantly, contributing to the thick atmosphere. Fastened to the wall were a small table that folded down for use and a narrow bunk with a flattened mattress and two blankets. The Satrap ate while seated on his bunk; Malta stood. The chamberpot was under the bunk, with a small railing to keep it from sliding about. A jug for water and a single mug rested on a small, railed shelf by the door. That was it. As Malta disdained to share the bunk with the Satrap, the floor was her bed. After he was asle
ep, she could sometimes filch one of the blankets from under his slack grip.
When she and the Satrap had first been shown to the room and the door shut securely behind them, he had stared slowly around himself. His pinched lips white with fury, he had demanded, ‘This is the best you could do for us?’
She had still been sodden with shock. Her near-rape, the death of Kekki and the sudden change in ships had left her reeling. ‘I could do for us?’ she asked stupidly.
‘Go now! Tell them I will not tolerate this. Right now!’
Her temper snapped. She hated the tears that brimmed her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she demanded, ‘Just how am I to do that? I don’t speak Chalcedean, I don’t know who to complain to if I did. Nor would these animals listen to me. In case you haven’t noticed, Chalcedeans don’t exactly respect women.’
He gave a snort of contempt. ‘Not women like you, they don’t. If Kekki were here, she would soon set things right. You should have been the one to die. At least Kekki knew how to manage things!’
Going to the door, he had flung it open. He stood in the doorframe and yelled for attention until a deckhand came, then shrieked at the man in Chalcedean. The deckhand had looked from the Satrap to Malta and back again, in obvious puzzlement. Then he had bowed sketchily and disappeared. ‘It’s your fault if he doesn’t even come back!’ the Satrap had spat at her, flinging himself down on the bunk. He pulled the blankets over himself and ignored her. Malta had sat down in the corner on the floor and sulked. The deckhand had not returned.
The corner had become her part of the room. She sat there now, her back braced against the wall contemplating her grubby feet. She longed to get out on the deck, to get one breath of clean, cold air, to see the sky and above all to discover in which direction they sailed. The galley had been carrying them northward, towards Chalced. The Chalcedean ship that had picked them up had been travelling south. But she had no way of knowing if it had continued on its course, or had turned back to Chalced. To be so confined, and have no idea of when their voyage would end was yet another torture. Enforced idleness and tedium had become the fabric of her days.