The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  The Satrap had broken the spell by nudging her with his foot. ‘Get up and busy yourself. I am to dine with the captain tonight, and you have not yet set out my clothes. And Sa’s name, cover that split in your head. It is humiliating enough to me that the whole crew knows you are disfigured without your flaunting it.’

  In numbed silence, she had obeyed him. That night, she had sat on the floor beside his chair like a dog. She had reminded herself of Kekki, subservient but alert. But for a few words of Chalcedean, the table conversation was out of her reach. From time to time, he passed food down to her. After a time, she realized it was when he had sampled a dish and disliked it. She kept silent behind a stiff little smile, even when he had casually wiped his fingers on her gown. Once the men at the table spoke of her. The Satrap said something, the captain replied, and then there was general laughter. The Satrap had given her a disparaging nudge with his foot, as if she sat distastefully close to him.

  She was astonished at how hurt she felt at that. She had fixed the small smile on her face as she stared at nothing. They feasted on rich foods and valuable wines pirated from other ships. After dining, they shared rare pleasure herbs from Captain Deiari’s own lacquer-boxed cache. Later, the Satrap would disdainfully tell her this ship was not a pirate vessel, but one of his patrol ships, and that all the loot was cargo confiscated from smugglers and real pirates. In point of fact, he’d gone on loftily, one of his favourite nobles in Jamaillia had contributed heavily in commissioning this ship, and had an interest in her spoils.

  She had managed to keep her mask in place all evening. Even when she had dutifully followed the Satrap back to their cabin and assisted him in disrobing for bed and resisted his lackadaisical advances, she had kept her aplomb. Only after she was sure he was asleep had the tears come. Accommodating and useful. Was that truly all that was left to her life? With creeping dismay, she realized it sounded like her mother. Accommodating and useful to her Chalcedean father. What would he think if he could see her now? Would he be horrified, or would he think that she had finally learned to be graciously female? It hurt to wonder such things about someone she loved. She had always believed that he loved her best of all his children. But how did he love her? As an independent young woman, a Trader’s daughter? Would he more approve the role she played now?

  The same thought haunted her as she tightened the bodice laces on the blue robe and belted it securely so she would not tread on the hem. She coiled her hair and pinned it at the back of her neck. She concealed her scar with a scarf. When she was finished, she considered her face in the mirror. Shipboard life did not agree with her skin. She was far too pale, save for her eyes and lips, which were wind chafed. ‘I look coarse,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘Like a hard-used servant.’

  Resolutely, she shut the lid of the trunk. Attitude, not appearance, had won her the captain and crew’s deference. If she lost that now, she would lose her ability to deal with them. She had small faith that Cosgo could continue this farce without her. Only her continued obsequiousness to him enabled him to act like a Satrap at all. It was disgusting that she spent so much of her strength bolstering his belief in his superiority. Worse: the more she flattered him, the more attractive he found her, but she was stronger than he was. His few efforts at physical advances she had easily defeated, setting his pawing hands aside and reminding him that she was not worthy of his attentions.

  Soft leather slippers covered her feet, and then she was ready. She crossed to the Satrap’s bed, cleared her throat loudly, and drew back his curtain. She did not wish to surprise him in any sort of nastiness. ‘Lordly one, I hesitate to disturb your rest, but I ask your permission to fetch your breakfast.’

  He opened one eye. ‘You may. See that it comes hot to me, not lukewarm like yesterday.’

  ‘I shall, my lord,’ she promised humbly. She could not remind him that he had lain abed smoking long after she had brought his tray yesterday. Nothing was ever his fault. She settled a cloak about her shoulders, and left quietly.

  This was her stolen time. Out of the Satrap’s sight, moving purposefully, she could enjoy a measure of freedom, unchallenged by anyone. When she encountered any of the sailors, they stared at her bound brow, and made comments behind her back, but they gave way.

  The cook-stove was in a deckhouse located amidships. When she reached it, the sliding door stood open. The cook, a pale, mournful man, nodded a greeting to her. He set out a tray and two bowls and some utensils, then took up a ladle and stirred the thick porridge that was morning ration for everyone. Some things not even the complaints of a Satrap could change. A sudden outcry from the lookout sent the cook hastening to the door. An instant later, a wild clamour of voices broke out on deck. The relative peace of the swiftly-moving ship was broken by thundering feet and shouted orders. She did not need her limited Chalcedean to know that a great number of curses were mixed with the shouted words. At the door, the cook added a few choice phrases of his own, flung his ladle aside, and sternly ordered Malta to do something. Then he left, slamming the door behind him. Malta immediately opened it a crack to peer out.

  The deck swarmed with purposeful activity. Was a storm coming? She watched in awe as ropes were loosened, sails unfurled and ropes fastened off again. As she watched, more canvas blossomed on masts already white with sail. She felt the deck tilt under her feet as the ship’s speed increased.

  Lookouts at the tops of the masts shouted reports down. Malta ventured two steps outside the deckhouse and craned her neck. She caught a glimpse of an outstretched hand and her eyes followed the pointing finger.

  Sails. Another ship coming up fast. A second shout from above made her duck back into the deckhouse and peer out the opposite window. Still another ship, sails full of wind, was likewise swiftly gaining on them. Both ships flew odd patchwork flags showing a spread-winged raven. Her mind worked frantically. The Chalcedean ship fled from those two others. Did that mean they were from Bingtown? Or were they pirates? Did pirates prey on other pirates? She did not know whether to hope the Chalcedean ship outran them or was captured. If they were captured, and the other ships were pirates, what would become of her and the Satrap? A hasty plan formed in her mind.

  She waited for an opportune moment, then dashed from the deckhouse to dart down the hatch like a mouse down a hole. The hatch cover dropped down behind her, plunging her into darkness. She scurried through the ship and found the crew’s quarters deserted. By the fading light of a lantern, she helped herself to an assortment of garments before hastening to the Satrap’s cabin. When she burst into it, he opened one lazy eye and regarded her irritably.

  ‘Your behaviour is unseemly,’ he told her. ‘Where is my breakfast?’

  Even in this crisis, she must play her role. ‘Your forgiveness, lordly one, I pray you. Our ship flees from two others. If they catch us, there will be battle. If there is battle, I fear we will be overwhelmed. I fear they are pirates from the Pirate Isles with little love or respect for the Satrap of Jamaillia. So I have borrowed clothing for you to disguise yourself. As a simple sailor, you may escape their notice. And I, also.’

  As she spoke, she began to sort the clothing hastily. She chose a rough shirt and trousers for herself, and a sailor’s cap to conceal her brow. A heavy sweater, far too large for her, might help her pass herself off as a boy. For the Satrap, she had chosen the cleaner garments. With these over her hands, she advanced to the bed. He scowled at her and clutched the edge of his blanket tighter.

  ‘Rise, glorious one, and I will help you dress first,’ she offered. She wanted to bark it like a command to a recalcitrant child, but knew that would only make him more stubborn.

  ‘No. Put those disgusting rags aside and lay out proper garb for me. If I must rise and dress before I’ve had any breakfast, I will dress as befits me. You do a great injustice to our Chalcedean sailors to imagine they shall be captured and beaten so easily. There is no need for me to hide myself behind a churlish disguise.’ He sat up in his beddin
g, but crossed his arms resolutely on his chest. ‘Bring me decent clothes and shoes. I shall go out on the deck, and watch my patrol vessel disperse these common pirates.’

  Malta sighed, defeated. Well, if he would not hide himself, then she would make his ransom value obvious. Might not pirates be more gentle with valuable captives?

  She bowed low. ‘You are right, of course, gracious one. Pardon the foolishness of a simple woman, I beg you.’ She threw the rejected sailor garb out into the companionway. Back in their chamber, she selected the most resplendent robes she could find and took them to the Satrap.

  A sudden shock sent her crashing against the bed. She caught her breath and then held it, listening. The sounds on the deck above had changed. The tread of feet and angry shouts and wild cries. Had they been rammed? Were they being boarded even now? She snatched a breath. ‘Lordly one, I think we would be wise to hurry.’

  ‘Very well.’ With a martyred sigh, he pushed his blankets aside. He held his arms out from his side. ‘You may garb me.’

  Tintaglia shook him. Reyn opened his eyes, and saw the wrinkled shimmer of dark water far below him. He cried out in terror and clutched wildly at the claws that held him.

  ‘That’s better,’ the dragon proclaimed mercilessly. ‘I thought you were dead. I had forgotten that humans are not so well attached to their bodies as dragons are. When you venture too far from them, you can lose your way back.’

  Reyn clung sickly to her claws. He felt dizzy and cold and small, but he did not think it was the effect of the flight. He suspected he had been unconscious. He tried to reach back to the last thing he could remember. It eluded him. He stared down, and suddenly made sense of what he was seeing. ‘Are those galleys down there Chalcedean? What are they doing, where are they bound?’ There were seven of them, moving southward in formation like a V of geese.

  ‘How can you expect me to know such things? Or care about such things?’ She glanced down almost idly. ‘I have seen many such ships moving southward through these waters. I chased them away from Bingtown, as I agreed to do. But there are far too many for one dragon to disperse them all.’ She seemed offended that he had forced her to admit this. She diverted the topic. ‘I thought all your concerns were for Malta?’

  ‘They are,’ he said faintly. ‘But those ships…’ He let his words trail away. He grasped what he should have seen all along. Chalced’s move was not just against the Rain Wilds and Bingtown. Chalced had been heavily involved with the New Traders against the Satrap. That they had turned on the New Traders meant only that Chalced was treating allies as it always did. Now Chalced was moving against Jamaillia, in force. Bingtown was but a stop along the way, a place to cripple and occupy so that Chalced would not have an enemy at its back while it went after bigger prey. He stared down at the ships. Many like those, Tintaglia had said. Jamaillia’s sea power had been declining for almost a decade. He did not know if Jamaillia could wage war against Chalced, let alone win such a struggle. Could Bingtown survive the disruption to trade that such a war would wreak? His mind spun with the implications of all he saw.

  Tintaglia was annoyed. ‘Well. Did you find your mate? Could you tell where she was?’

  He swallowed. ‘Somewhat.’ He sensed her impatience with his answer. ‘A moment,’ he begged her. He took deep breaths of the cold air, hoping it would restore him while he tried to make sense of the fragmented dream-memory. ‘She was on a ship,’ he told the dragon. ‘A deep-hulled ship, from the motion, not a galley. Yet she said it was Chalcedean.’ He knit his brows. ‘Did not you sense that also?’

  ‘I was not that attentive,’ she replied carelessly. ‘So. A Chalcedean ship. A large one. There are many like that to choose from. Where?’

  ‘Bound for Jamaillia.’

  ‘Oh, that’s helpful.’

  ‘South. Fly south over the Inside Passage.’

  ‘And when we fly over the ship she is in, you will simply know it,’ the dragon continued sceptically. ‘And what then?’

  He stared down at the water below his toes. ‘Then, somehow, you will help me rescue her. And take her home with us.’

  The dragon made a rumble of displeasure. ‘A foolish and impossible errand. We waste time, Reyn. We should go back now.’

  ‘No. Not without Malta,’ he replied adamantly. To her silently simmering anger, he retorted, ‘What you ask of me is just as foolish and impossible. You demand that I slog through the Rain Wild swamps and somehow locate a city engulfed Sa alone knows how many years ago, and that I then somehow rescue any cocooned dragons buried deep within it.’

  ‘Are you saying now that you can’t do that?’ The dragon was outraged.

  He gave a snort of laughter. ‘One impossible quest at a time. You first.’

  ‘I will keep my word,’ she promised sulkily.

  He regretted having offended her. That was not the way to win her best effort. ‘I know you will keep your word,’ he assured her. He took a breath. ‘I have touched souls with you, Tintaglia. You are too great-hearted to go back on your promise.’

  She did not reply, but he sensed her mollification. Why she found such gratification in praise, he had no idea, but it was a small price to pay. She bore him on, her wide wings beating steadily. He became aware of the working of a mighty heart inside her chest. Where she clasped him against her, he was warm. He felt a surge of confidence in both of them. They would find Malta, and they would bring her safely home. He gripped her claws in his hands, and ignored the ache of his swinging legs.

  Malta’s hands shook as she twitched his jacket straight. A deep-voiced cry of agony resounded through the deck. She clenched her teeth against it and tried to believe the Chalcedeans were winning. She had suddenly discovered that she preferred the known danger to the unknown. Gently, she tugged the Satrap’s collar straight. There. The Satrap of all Jamaillia, heir to the Pearl Throne, Magnadon Satrap Cosgo was now presentable. The Satrap regarded himself in the small mirror she lifted. Unruffled by the smothered sounds of fighting, he smoothed the thin line of his moustache. Something fell heavily to the deck above them. ‘I will go up now,’ he announced.

  ‘I don’t think that’s wise. It’s battle up there, can’t you hear it?’ She had spoken too hastily. He set his jaw stubbornly.

  ‘I am not a coward!’ he declared.

  No. Only an idiot. ‘Lordly one, you must not risk yourself!’ she begged him. ‘I know you do not fear for yourself, but consider Jamaillia, bereft and lost as a rudderless ship if aught should befall you.’

  ‘You are a fool,’ the Satrap told her tolerantly. ‘What man would dare to physically assault the Satrap of Jamaillia? Those pirate dogs may dispute my rule, but only from a safe distance. When they look me in the face, they will cower in shame.’

  He actually believed it. Malta gawked in stunned silence as he walked to the door. He paused, waiting for her to open it for him. Perhaps that was the solution. Maybe if she didn’t open the door for him, he would simply stay in the room. But after a long frozen moment, he scowled at her and announced, ‘I suppose I must do everything for myself,’ and opened it. She trailed after him in sick fascination.

  As she stood at the foot of the ladder that led to the deck, she reflected that the hatch cover might save him. It was always hard to lift and slide; perhaps it would defeat him. But when he was halfway up the ladder, the hatch opened, and a square of sunlight fell down onto them. A bare-chested man glared down at them. The spread-winged raven tattooed on his chest was spattered with fresh blood, seemingly not his own. Slave tattoos sprawled across his face and down one side of his neck. The knife he held dripped red. Then his wide-eyed stare changed to a whoop of delight.

  ‘Hey, Cap! Come see what pretty birds I’ve found caged below!’ To the Satrap and Malta, he barked, ‘Come on up here and don’t be slow!’

  As the Satrap emerged from the hatch, the pirate seized him by the arm and hauled him onto the deck. The Satrap cursed and struck out at the man, who sent him sprawling with a ca
reless shove. As he grabbed Malta, she set her teeth and refused to cry out. She glared at him as he lifted her by one arm and swung her onto the deck. She landed on her feet beside the Satrap. Without taking her eyes from the gloating pirate, she stooped down, seized the Satrap by his upper arm and helped him to his feet.

  Around them, the deck was a shambles. A huddle of disarmed Chalcedeans were corralled at one end, guarded by three mocking invaders. Just past the base of the mast, Malta could see a man’s sprawled legs. They did not move. Other pirates were dropping down into the hold to see what cargo they had won. Malta heard a splash and turned in time to see some men throw a body overboard. It might have been the mate.

  ‘You will die for this! You will die!’ the Satrap was puffing with fury. Two red spots stood out on his pale cheeks and his hair was dishevelled. He glowered at all of them. ‘Where is the captain? I demand to see the captain!’

  ‘Please be quiet,’ Malta begged him in an undertone.

  He did not listen. He pushed at her, as if his fall were her fault. ‘Silence!’ he spat at her. ‘Stupid woman. Do not presume to tell me what to do!’ His eyes sparked with anger but his voice betrayed him with its shrillness. He set his fists to his hips. ‘I demand that the captain be brought to me.’

  ‘What have you found, Rusk?’ A short, brawny man asked their captor with a grin. Curly red hair spilled out from under a head kerchief marked with a raven. He gripped a sword in his left hand. With the tip of the blade, he lifted the embroidered edge of the Satrap’s jacket. ‘This is a finely-feathered bird. Rich merchant or noble blood, I’d say.’

  Cosgo swelled his chest in affront. ‘I am the Magnadon Satrap Cosgo, ruler of all Jamaillia and heir to the Pearl Throne! And I demand to speak to the captain.’

  Malta’s hopes died within her.

  A smile split the man’s freckled face. ‘You are speaking to the captain. Captain Red.’ He swept a low bow and added purringly, ‘At your service, great Satrap, I’m sure.’