The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  Nor could she wring any information from the Satrap. The wallowing of this round-hulled ship made him queasy. When he was not vomiting, he was complaining of hunger and thirst. When food and drink were brought to him, he immediately gorged himself, only to disgorge it a few hours later. With each of his meals came a small quantity of coarse smoking herbs. He would thicken the air of the small cabin until Malta was dizzy with them, all the while complaining that the poor quality of the herb left his throat raw and his head unsoothed. In vain had Malta entreated him to take a bit of air; all he would do was lie on the bed and groan, or demand that she rub his feet, or his neck.

  As long as the Satrap confined himself to the cabin, Malta was effectively jailed there as well. She dared not venture out without him.

  She rubbed at her burning eyes. The smoke from the lantern inflamed them. Their noonday repast had already been cleared away. The long hours until dinner stretched endlessly before her. The Satrap, against her gentle counselling, had once more stuffed himself. He now puffed at a short black pipe. He took it from his mouth, glared at it, and then drew on it again. The dissatisfied look on his face spoke of trouble brewing for Malta. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and then belched loudly.

  ‘A stroll about the deck might aid your digestion,’ Malta suggested quietly.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet. The mere thought of the effort of walking makes my poor belly heave.’ He suddenly snatched the pipe from his mouth and flung it at her. Without even waiting for her reaction, he rolled to face the wall, ending the conversation.

  Malta leaned her head back against the wall. The pipe had not hit her, but the implied threat of his temper had rattled her nerves. She tried to think of what she should do next. Tears threatened. She set her jaw and clenched her fists against her eyes. She would not cry. She was a tough descendant of a determined folk, she reminded herself, a Bingtown Trader’s daughter. What, she wondered, would her grandmother have done? Or Althea? They were strong and smart. They would have discovered a way out of this.

  Malta realized she was absently fingering the scar on her forehead and pulled her hand away. The injury had closed again, but the healed flesh had an unpleasant gristly texture. The ridged scar extended back into her hairline a full fingerlength. Malta wondered what it looked like and swallowed sickly.

  She pulled her knees in tightly to her chest and hugged them. She closed her eyes, but kept sleep at bay. Sleep brought dreams, terrible dreams of all she refused to face by day. Dreams of Selden buried in the city, dreams of her mother and grandmother reviling her for luring him to his death. She dreamed of Delo, recoiling in horror from Malta’s ruined face. She dreamed of her father, turning away, face set, from his disgraced daughter. Worst were the dreams of Reyn; always, they were dancing, the music sweet, the torches glowing. First her slippers fell away, showing her scabby, dirty feet. Then her dress tattered suddenly into filthy rags. Finally, as her hair tumbled lankly to her shoulders and her scar oozed fluid down her face, Reyn thrust her from him. She fell sprawling to the floor, and all the dancers surrounded her, pointing in horror. ‘A moment of beauty, ruined forever,’ they taunted, pointing. A few nights ago, the dream had been different. It had been so real, almost like the shared visions of the dream-box. He had outstretched his hands to grasp hers. ‘Malta, reach for me!’ he had begged. ‘Help me come to you.’ But, even in the dream, she had known it was useless. She had clasped her hands behind her, and hidden her shame from him. Better never to touch him again than to see pity or revulsion on his face. She had awakened sobbing, stabbed by the sweetness of his voice. That dream had been worst of all.

  When she thought of Reyn, her heart ached. She touched her lips, remembering a stolen kiss, the fabric of his veil a soft barrier between their mouths. But every sweet memory was edged with a hundred sharp regrets. Too late, she told herself. Forever too late.

  With a sigh, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. So. Here she was, on a ship, bound Sa knows where, dressed in rags, scar-faced, stripped of her rights and rank as a Trader’s daughter and in the company of an insufferable prig of a boy. She certainly couldn’t depend on him to do anything to better their circumstances. All he did was to lie on the bunk and whimper that this was no way to treat the Satrap of all Jamaillia. Clearly, he had not yet grasped that they were the prisoners of the Chalcedeans.

  She looked at Cosgo and tried to see him impartially. He had grown pale and bony. Now that she thought of it, he had not even complained much the last day or so. He no longer tried to groom himself. When they had first come aboard, he had tried to keep up his appearance. With no combs or brushes, he had directed Malta to groom his unbound hair with her fingers. She had done so, but had scarcely managed to conceal her distaste. He had enjoyed her touch too obviously, leaning his body back against her as she sat on the edge of his bed. In grotesque flirtation, he had mocked her, foretelling that someday she would brag to others of how she had attended the Satrap in his hardship. But he would tell all how miserably she had failed as both a dutiful subject and a woman. Unless… And then he had seized her wrist and tried to guide it where she would not let it go. She had jerked free of him and retreated. But all of that had been before the seasickness mastered him. Since he had become sick, he had grown quieter every day. A sudden worry shook her. If he died, what would become of her? Dimly, she recalled something Kekki had said, back on the galley…She knit her brow, and the words came back to her. ‘His status will protect us, if we protect it.’ Abruptly she sat up straight and stared at him. She did not need to be a Bingtown Trader here to survive on this ship, she must think like a woman of Chalced.

  Malta went to the bunk and stood over the Satrap. His closed eyelids were dark; he clutched feebly at the blanket with thin hands. As much as she disliked him, she found she pitied him. What had she been thinking, to even imagine that he could do anything for them? If anyone was to better their situation, it would have to be her. It was what the Satrap expected, that his Companions would care for his needs. More, she realized, it was what the Chalcedeans had expected. She had cowered in their room while she should have angrily demanded good treatment for her man. Chalcedeans would not respect a man whose own woman doubted his power. The Satrap had been right. She, not he, had condemned them to this miserable treatment. She only hoped it was not too late to salvage his status.

  She dragged the blanket away from him despite his mumbled protest. As she had seen her mother do when Selden was sick, she set her hand to the Satrap’s brow, and then felt under his arms, but found no fever or swellings. Very gently, she tapped his cheek until his eyes cracked open. The whites were yellowish, and when he spoke, his breath was foul. ‘Leave me alone,’ he moaned, groping for the blankets.

  ‘If I do, I fear you will die, illustrious one.’ She tried for the tone that Kekki had always used with him. ‘It grieves me beyond words to see you misused this way. I shall risk myself and go to the captain to protest this.’ The thought of venturing out alone terrified her, yet she knew it was their only chance. She rehearsed the words that she hoped she’d be brave enough to say to the man’s face. ‘He is a fool, to treat the Satrap of all Jamaillia so shamefully. He deserves to die, and his honour and name with him.’

  The Satrap’s eyes opened wider and he stared at her in dull surprise. He blinked and sparks of righteous anger began to burn in his eyes. Good. If she played her role well enough, he would have to live up to it with disdain of his own. She took a breath.

  ‘Even on this tub of a ship, they should be able to provide better for you! Does the captain reside in a bare room, with no comfort or beauty? I doubt it. Does he eat coarse food, does he smoke stable straw? Whatever balm for the soul he enjoys should have been offered you when you boarded. Day after cruel day, you have waited with patience for them to treat you as you deserve. If the wrath of all Jamaillia falls upon them now, they have only themselves to blame. You have practised the very patience of Sa himself. Now I shall demand that they right this disgrace.�
�� She crossed her arms on her chest. ‘What is the Chalcedean word for “Captain”?’

  Consternation touched his face. He took a breath. ‘Leu-fay.’

  ‘Leu-fay,’ she repeated. She paused and looked more closely at the Satrap. Tears of either self-pity or amazement had welled to his eyes. She covered him, snuggling the blankets around him as if he were Selden. A strange resolve had wakened in her. ‘Rest now, lordly one. I shall prepare myself, and then I shall see that you are treated as the Satrap of Jamaillia deserves, or die trying.’ That last, she feared, was true.

  When his eyes sagged shut again, she stood and went to work. The robe she wore was the same one she had worn since the night she had left Trehaug. She had managed to rinse it out once on board the galley. The hem hung in tatters, and it was stained with hard use. She took it off, and with fingers and teeth she tore the dangling pieces away. She shook it well, and rubbed the worst of the dirt from it before putting it back on. It left her legs bared from the knees down, but that could not be helped. She used the scraps from her robe to fashion a long braid of material. She combed her hair as best she could with her fingers, and then fashioned the braided fabric into a head wrap for herself. Covering her hair, she hoped, would make her appear older, as well as concealing most of her scar. There was some water in the pitcher. She used a scrap of material as a washing cloth to cleanse her face and hands, and then her feet and legs.

  With a bitter smile, she recalled how carefully she had prepared herself for her Presentation Ball, and how she had fretted over her made-over gown and slippers. ‘Attitude and bearing,’ Rache had counselled her then. ‘Believe you are beautiful, and so will everyone else.’ She had not been able to believe the slave woman. Now her words were Malta’s only hope.

  When she had done her best, she composed herself. Stand straight, head up. Imagine little brocade slippers on her feet, rings on her fingers, a crown of blossoms on her head. She fixed her eyes angrily on the door and addressed it firmly. ‘Leu-fay!’ she demanded of it. She took a deep breath, then another. On the third she walked to the door, lifted the latch, and went out.

  She ventured down a long walkway lit only by a swaying lantern at the other end. The shadows shifted with the light, making it difficult to keep her regal bearing. She walked between stowed cargo. The variety of it aroused her suspicions. Honest merchant ships did not carry such a wide spectrum of goods, nor would they stow it so haphazardly. Pirates or raiders, she told herself, though perhaps they thought otherwise of themselves. Was the Satrap no more to them than plunder to be sold to the highest bidder? The thought nearly sent her back to the room. Then she told herself that she would still demand that he be treated well. Surely, such a trade-good would command a better price if it were in the best possible condition.

  She went up a short ladder, and found herself in a room full of men. It stank of sweat and smoke. Hammocks swung nearby, some with snoring occupants. One man mended canvas trousers in the corner. Three others were seated around a crate, with a game of pegs scattered across the top of it. As she entered, they all turned to stare. One, a blond man of about her age, dared to grin. His grimy striped shirt was opened halfway down his chest. She lifted her chin, and reminded herself once more of her glittering rings and blossom crown. She neither smiled nor looked away from him. Instead she reached for her mother’s disapproving stare when she encountered idle servants. ‘Leu-fay.’

  ‘Leufay?’ a grizzled old man at the game table asked incredulously. His eyebrows leapt towards his balding pate in astonishment. The other man at the table chuckled.

  Malta did not allow her face to change expression. Only her eyes became colder. ‘Leufay!’ she insisted.

  With a shrug and a sigh, the blond man stood. As he advanced towards her, she forced herself to stand her ground. She had to look up at him to meet his eyes. It was hard to keep her bearing. When he reached for her arm, she slapped his hand away contemptuously. Eyes blazing, she touched two fingers to her breast. ‘Satrap’s,’ she told him coldly. ‘Leufay. Right now!’ she snapped, not caring if they understood her words or not. The blond man glanced back at his companions and shrugged, but he did not try to touch her again. Instead, he pointed past her. A flip of her hand indicated that he should lead the way. She did not think she could stand to have anyone behind her.

  He led her swiftly through the ship. A ladder took them up through a hatch onto a wind-washed deck. Her senses were dazzled by the fresh cold air and the smell of salt water and the sun sinking to its rest behind a bank of rosy clouds. Her heart leapt. South. The ship was taking them south, towards Jamaillia, not north to Chalced. Was there any chance a Bingtown ship might see them and try to stop them? She slowed her steps, hoping to catch sight of land, but the sea merged with clouds at the horizon. She could not even guess where they were. She lengthened her stride to catch up with her guide.

  He took her to a tall, brawny man who was directing several crewmembers splicing lines. The sailor bobbed his head to the man, indicated Malta, and rattled off something, in which Malta caught the word ‘leufay’. The man ran his eyes up and down her in a familiar way, but she returned his look with a haughty stare. ‘What you want?’ he asked her.

  It took every grain of her courage. ‘I will speak to your captain.’ She guessed that the sailor had taken her to the mate.

  ‘Tell me what you want.’ His accent was heavy, but the words were clear.

  Malta folded her hands on her chest. ‘I will speak to your captain.’ She spoke slowly and distinctly as if he might be merely stupid.

  ‘Tell me,’ he insisted.

  It was her turn to gaze him up and down. ‘Certainly not!’ she snapped. She tossed her head, turned with a motion that she and Delo had practised since they were nine years old (it would have flounced the skirts on a proper gown) then walked away from them all, keeping her head high and trying to breathe past her hammering heart. She was trying to remember which hatch they had come up when he called out ‘Wait!’

  She halted. Slowly she turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder. She raised one brow questioningly.

  ‘Come back. I take you Captain Deiari.’ He made small hand motions to be sure she understood.

  She let him flap his hand at her several times before returning, at a dignified pace.

  The captain’s quarters in the stern were resplendent compared to the chamber she shared with the Satrap. There was a large bay window, a thick rug on the floor and several comfortable chairs and the chamber smelled sweetly of tobacco smoke and other herbs. In one corner, the captain’s bed boasted a fat feather mattress as well as thick coverlets and even a throw of thick white fur. Books leaned against one another on a shelf, and several glass decanters held liquors of various colours.

  The captain himself was seated in one of the comfortable chairs, his legs stretched out before him and a book in his hands. He wore a shirt of soft grey wool over heavy trousers. Thick socks shielded his feet from the cold; his sturdy wet boots were by the door. Malta longed for such warm, dry, clean clothing. He looked up in annoyance as they entered. At the sight of her, he barked a rough question at the mate. Before the man could reply, Malta cut in smoothly.

  ‘Deiari Leufay. At the merciful Satrap Cosgo’s pleasure, I have come to offer you the chance to correct your mistakes before they become irredeemable.’ She met his eyes, her gaze cold, and waited.

  He let her wait. A chilling certainty grew in her; she had miscalculated. He was going to have her killed and thrown overboard. She let only the coldness show on her face. Jewels on her fingers, a crown of blossoms, no, of thick gold on her brow. It was heavy; she lifted her chin to bear the weight and watched the man’s pale eyes.

  ‘The merciful Satrap Cosgo,’ the man finally said colourlessly. His words were clear, unaccented.

  Malta gave a tiny nod of acknowledgement. ‘He is a more patient man than many. When first we came aboard, he excused your lack of courtesy towards him. Surely, he told me, the captain is
busy with all the men he has taken aboard. He has reports to hear, and decisions to consider. The Satrap knows what it is to command, you see. He said to me, “Contain your impatience at this insult to me. When he has had time to prepare a proper reception, then the leufay will send an envoy to this poor cabin, little better than a kennel, that he has provided for me.” Then, as day after day passed, he found excuse after excuse for you. Perhaps you have been ill; perhaps you did not wish to disturb him while he was recovering his own strength. Perhaps you were ignorant as to the full honour that should be accorded him. As a man, he makes little of personal discomfort. What is a bare floor or poor food compared to the hardships he endured in the Rain Wilds? Yet as his loyal servant, I am offended for him. Charitably, he supposes that what you have offered him is your best.’ She paused, and looked about the chamber slowly. ‘Such a tale this will make in Jamaillia,’ she observed quietly, as if to herself.

  The captain came to his feet. He rubbed the side of his nose nervously, then made a dismissive wave to the mate who still stood at the door. The man whisked himself out of sight immediately, and the door shut solidly behind him. Malta could smell the tang of sudden sweat, but the captain appeared outwardly calm.

  ‘It was such a wild tale, I scarcely gave it credit. This man is truly the Satrap of all Jamaillia?’

  She gambled. All pleasantness faded from her face as she lowered her voice to an accusation. ‘You know that he is. To profess ignorance of his rank is a poor excuse, sir.’