by Robin Hobb
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Comfrey got to his feet, coughing, then bent over to spit out a mouthful of blood. For the first time, he recognized Wintrow. “I nearly had him,” he panted. “Damn near had him. Lost everything I'd won earlier. Well, I'm broke now. Damn. If I had just been a bit faster. ” He coughed again, then belched beerily. “I nearly won. ”
“I don't think so,” Wintrow said quietly, more to himself than to Comfrey. But the man heard him.
“No, really, I almost had him, lad. If I'd a been a bit smaller, a bit quicker, we'd all have gone back to the ship with fat pockets. ” He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand.
“I don't think so,” Wintrow rejoined. To comfort him, he added, “I think it was rigged. I think the man that won was in league with the bear man. They show you something that seems to make the bear give up, only it's something he's been taught to do. And then when you try it, the bear has been taught to expect you to try it. So you get stopped. Don't feel bad, Comfrey, it wasn't your fault. It was a trick. Let's get you back to the ship now. ” He put a helping arm around the man.
But Comfrey abruptly wheeled away from him. “Hey! Hey, you. Bear man! You cheated. You cheated me and my friends. ” In the shocked silence that followed, Comfrey proclaimed, “I want my money back!”
The beast-tamer had been in the act of gathering his winnings preparatory to leaving. He made no reply but took up his animal's chain. Despite Comfrey's shout, he would have just walked off, if several sailors from another ship hadn't stepped in front of him. “That true?” one demanded. “Did you cheat? Is this rigged?”
The beast-tamer glanced about at the angry onlookers. “Of course not!” he scoffed. “How could it be rigged? You saw the man, you saw the bear! They were the only two in the square. He paid for a chance to wrestle the bear and he lost. It doesn't get any simpler than that!”
In a sense, what the man said was true, and Wintrow expected the sailors to grudgingly agree with it. He had not taken into account how much they had drunk, nor how much money they had lost. Once the accusation of cheating had been raised, a simple denial was not going to calm them. One, more quick witted than the others, suddenly said, “Hey. Where did that fellow go, the one who won earlier? Is he your friend? Does the bear know him?”
“How should I know?” the bear owner demanded. “He's probably off spending the money he won from me. ” A brief shadow of unease had flickered across the beast-tamer's face, and he glanced about the crowd as if looking for someone.
“Well, I think the bear's been trained for this,” someone declared angrily. It seemed to Wintrow the most obvious and, in this context, the stupidest statement that he'd heard yet.
“It wasn't a fair contest. I want my money back,” another declared, and almost immediately this statement was taken up by the rest of the crowd. The bear's owner again seemed to seek someone in the crowd, but found no allies there.
“Hey. We said we want our money back!” Torg pointed out to him. He swaggered up to put his face close to the beast-tamer's. “Comfrey's my shipmate. You think we're going to stand by and see him beat up and us cheated out of our hard-earned money? You made our man look bad, and by Sa's balls, we don't stand still for that!” Like many a bully, he knew how to best rally men to their own self-interest. He glanced around at the men watching him and then turned back to the beast-tamer. He nodded significantly. “Think we can't just take it if you choose not to give it?” There was a rumbling of agreement from the others.
The beast-tamer was outnumbered and knew it. Wintrow could almost seem him cast about for compromises. “Tell you what,” he declared abruptly. “I didn't cheat and my bear didn't cheat, and I think most of you know that. But I can be fair and more than fair. Any one of you wants, I'll let him wrestle the bear for free. If he wins, I pay off all the bets same as if that man had won. He loses, I keep the money. Fair enough? I'm giving you a chance to win back your money for free. ” After a brief pause, a muttering of agreement ran through the crowd. Wintrow wondered what fool would be the next to feel the bear's strength.
“Here, Win, you go against him,” Comfrey suggested. He gave the boy a shove forward. “You're little and quick. All you got to do is get past him and onto his back. ”
“No. No, thank you. ” As quickly as Comfrey had pushed him forward, Wintrow stepped back. But the sailor's words had been overheard, and another man from another ship took it up.
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“Yea. Let their ship's boy give it a try. He's little and quick. I bet he can get past the bear and get our money back for us. ”
“No!” Wintrow repeated louder, but his voice was lost in the general chorus of assent. It was not just his own shipmates urging him on, but the crowd in general.
Torg swaggered up to him and looked him up and down. He smelled of beer. “So,” he sneered. “You think you can win our money back for us? Somehow I doubt it. But give it a try, boy. ” He gripped Wintrow's arm and dragged him toward the bear's square. “Our ship's boy wants to give it a try. ”
“No,” Wintrow hissed at him. “I don't. ”
Torg frowned at him. “Just get past him and onto his back,” he explained in an elaborately patient voice. “That should be easy for a skinny little weasel like you. ”
“No. I won't do it!” Wintrow declared loudly. A chorus of guffaws greeted this, and Torg's face darkened with embarrassed fury.
“Yes, you will,” he declared.
“Boy doesn't want to do it. Got no guts,” Wintrow clearly heard a man say.
The beast-tamer had his animal back in the square. “So. Your boy going to try or not?”
“Not!” Wintrow declared loudly, as Torg firmly announced, “He will. He just needs a minute. ” He rounded on Wintrow. “Look here,” he hissed at him. “You're shaming us all. You're shaming your ship! Get in there and get our money back for us. ”
Wintrow shook his head. “You want it done, you do it. I'm not stupid enough to take on a bear. Even if I got past him and got on his back, there's no guarantee he'll give in. Just because he did it before . . . ”
“I'll do it!” Mild volunteered. His eyes were bright with the challenge.
“No,” Wintrow objected. “Don't do it, Mild. It's stupid. If you weren't humming on cindin, you'd know that. If Torg wants it done, let Torg do it. ”
“I'm too drunk,” Torg admitted freely. “You do it, Wintrow. Show us you got some guts. Prove you're a man. ”
Wintrow glanced at the bear. It was a stupid thing to do. He knew it was a stupid thing to do. Did he need to prove anything to Torg, of all people? “No. ” He spoke the word loudly and flatly. “I'm not going to do it. ”
“The boy doesn't want to try, and I'm not going to stand around here all day. Money's mine, boys. ” The beast-tamer gave an elaborate shrug and grinned around.
Someone in the crowd made an unflattering remark about the Vivacia's crew in general.
“Hey. Hey, I'll do it. ” It was Mild again, grinning as he volunteered.
“Don't do it, Mild!” Wintrow entreated him.
“Hey, I'm not afraid. And someone's got to win our money back. ” He shifted restlessly on his feet. “Can't go off leaving this town believing the crew of the Vivacia's got no nerve. ”
“Don't do it, Mild! You'll get hurt. ”
Torg gave him a savage shake. “Shup up!” He belched. “Shut up!” he repeated more clearly. “Mild ain't afraid! He can do it if he wants. Or do you want to do it? Hurry up, decide! One of you has got to win our money back. We're nearly out of time. ”
Wintrow shook his head. How had it suddenly come down to this, to him or Mild getting into a square with a bear to win back someone else's money in a rigged game? It was preposterous. He looked around at the crowd, trying to find one rational face to side with him. A man caught his gaze. “Well, who is it?” he demanded. Wintrow shook his head wordlessly.
&nb
sp; “Me!” Mild declared with a grin and danced a step or two. He stepped into the square and the beast-tamer released the bear's chain.
Later Wintrow would wonder if the tamer had not been irritating the animal somehow the whole time they were waiting. The bear did not lumber toward Mild, nor mince forward on his hobbled legs. Instead he lunged on all fours for the boy, slamming his huge head against him and then gripping him with his huge paws. The bear reared up with Mild yelling and struggling in his grasp. Blunted or not, his claws shredded the young sailor's shirt until a shout from his owner made him throw the boy aside. Mild landed hard outside the bear's square. “Get up!” someone yelled, but Mild did not. Even the bear's owner looked rattled at the violence of it. He grabbed the bear's chain and tugged hard on it to convince the animal he had control of it.
“It's over!” he declared. “You all saw it, it was fair. The bear won. The boy's out of bounds. And the money is mine!”
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There were some grumbles but no one challenged him this time as he trudged off. The bear minced along at his heels. One sailor glanced over at Mild still lying in the dust and then spat. “Gutless, the whole lot of them,” he declared and glared at Wintrow meaningfully. Wintrow returned his glare and then went to kneel in the dust beside Mild. He was still breathing. His mouth was half open and he was drawing in dust with every breath. He had landed so hard, chest first, it would be a miracle if his ribs were not at least cracked.
“We've got to get him back to the ship,” he said and glanced up at Comfrey.
Comfrey looked down at him with disgust. Then he looked away as if he were not there. “Come on, boys, time to get back to the ship. ” Heedless of any injuries Mild might have, he seized the lad by his arm and dragged him upright. When Mild sagged like a rag doll, he scooped up the boy and flung him over his shoulder. The other two sailors from the Vivacia's crew trailed off after him. None of them deigned to notice Wintrow's existence.
“It wasn't my fault!” Wintrow declared aloud. But somehow he wondered if it was.
“Was so,” Torg pointed out. “You knew he was full of cindin. He shouldn't have been in there, but he had to go because you were too much the coward. Well. ” Torg grinned with satisfaction. “Now they all know you for what you are, boy. Before it was just me that knew what a water-assed coward you were. ” Torg spat into the dusty street and walked away from him.
For a time Wintrow stood alone staring at the kicked over corners of the square. He knew he had done the right thing and made the right choices. But a terrible sense of a lost chance was welling up in him. He suspected he had just lost his opportunity to be accepted as part of the Vivacia's crew. To be considered a man among men. He glanced up at the westering sun, and then hastened to catch up with the men who now despised him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - KENNIT'S WHORE
THE RAINS OF AUTUMN HAD WASHED DIVVYTOWN ALMOST CLEAN. THE LAGOON WAS HIGHER, THE CHANnels deeper, and as the Marietta approached home port, the hearts of those aboard her were lighter than they had ever been before. It had nothing to do with the hold full of pirated cargo. While it was a respectable haul, they'd done better any number of times.
“It's that we're someones now, when we come into a port. Folk know us, and turn out to welcome us. Did I tell you that, in Littleport, Mistress Ramp turned her whole house over to us, for a whole watch, for free? And it wasn't just the Mistress telling her girls to do for us; they were willing, by Sa. Anything we wanted . . . ” Sorcor's voice trailed off in amazement at their good fortune.
Kennit repressed a sigh. He'd only heard the tale a score of times before. “All that disease, for free,” he said quietly, but Sorcor took his words for a jest and grinned at his captain fondly. Kennit turned his head and spat over the side. When he turned back to Sorcor, he managed to smile back at him. “Caution the men to remember that few prophets are treated well in their home towns. ”
Sorcor's brows knitted in puzzlement.
Kennit did not sigh. “I mean that although others, elsewhere, may regard our freeing of slaves and fitting them out as pirates with a share in our territory as an act of philanthropy, some here will see us as creators of competition. And they will judge it their duty to curb our ambitions. ”
“You mean they're going to be jealous, and they'll rub our faces in the dirt if they get the chance. ”
Kennit considered a moment. “Exactly. ”
A slow smile crawled across Sorcor's scarred visage. “But, Cap'n, that's exactly what the men are looking forward to. Them trying to put us in our places. ”
“Ah. ”
“And, Cap'n?”
“Yes, Sorcor. ”
“The men sort of took a vote, sir. And them what didn't agree was persuaded to change their minds. Every man will be taking a draw this time, sir, and letting you sell off the cargo whole. ” Sorcor vigorously scratched the side of his face. “I suggested they might want to let Divvytown know they all believe in their captain. Now, mind, they weren't all willing to say they'd do it this way every time. But this time, well, it's your toss. ”
“Sorcor!” exclaimed Kennit, and his smile widened fractionally. “That was well done. ”
“Thankee, sir. I thought it might please you. ”
The two men stood for a few moments longer, watching the shore draw nearer. The rattling rain of the day before had forced the last browning leaves from the deciduous trees, not that there were many of them. Dark large-leaved evergreens were the dominant trees on the hills above and around Divvytown. Closer to the water, medusa-vine and creeper-root had taken over the edge lands, with a towering cedar defying its own sodden roots to flourish here and there. In the freshness after the rain, Divvytown looked almost inviting. Wood smoke rose from chimneys, adding its scent to that of the iodine of the seaweed and the briny water. Home. Kennit tried the word out in his mind. No. It didn't fit. Port. Yes.
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Sorcor hastened away, shouting at some deckhand who wasn't moving quite swiftly enough to please him. Sorcor was notoriously hard to please when they were bringing the ship into port. It was never enough for him that the ship was docked well; she must be sailed in smartly, as if putting on a display for every lounger who might be watching from the beach. As, this time, they were.
Kennit made a mental tally of their captures since they had last tied up here. Seven ships under their belts, four of them slavers. They'd made five pursuits of liveships, with nothing even approaching success in that area. He was almost resigned to giving up that part of his plan. Perhaps he could achieve the same ends simply by capturing enough slaveships. He and Sorcor had worked a bit of math the other night over a mug or two of rum. All of it was speculative, but the results were always pleasant. No matter how well or how poorly the four ships succeeded in piracy, half of the take would come back to the Marietta. In each capture, Kennit had awarded the captaincy of the taken vessel to one of his seasoned men. That, too, had been inspired, for now those that remained on board the Marietta actively vied for his attention, hoping to distinguish themselves sufficiently to earn ships of their own. The only drawback was that it might eventually deplete their own crew of proven men. He put that worry out of his mind. By then he would have a flotilla, no, a fleet of pirate ships under his command. And they would be bound to him, not just by debt but by gratitude.
He and Sorcor had carefully spaced their sub-vessels throughout the Inside, spending much time in discussing where these new citizens would be most welcome, not to mention where the pickings were thickest for an inexperienced ship. He was satisfied they had done well. Even those freed slaves who had not chosen to follow him into a life of piracy must think of him with gratitude and speak well of him. He trusted that when the time came for them to speak their loyalties, they would recall how he had rescued them. He nodded sagely to himself. King of the Pirate Isles. It could be done.
The three plunder
ships they had taken had not been noteworthy. One had not even been especially sea-worthy, so when the fires got out of control, they had let it sink. They had salvaged most of the easily negotiable cargo by then anyway. The other two ships and the crews had been ransomed through Kennit's usual brokers. He shook his head to himself at that. Was he getting too confident of himself? He should move around more, use other people. Otherwise it would only be a matter of time before several merchants banded together to have an attempt at revenge on him. The last ship's captain had been a surly bastard, kicking and attempting to strike out long after he had been securely bound. He'd cursed Kennit and warned him that there were rewards for his capture now, not only in Jamaillia but even in Bingtown. Kennit had thanked him and let him make the rest of his trip to Chalced sitting in his own bilge water, chained like a slave. He'd been courteous enough when Kennit finally had him hauled onto deck. Kennit decided he had always underrated the effects that dark and wet and chains could have on a man's spirit. Well, one was never too old to learn.
They came into Divvytown in good order, and his men disembarked like visiting royalty, purses already a-jingle with coins. Kennit and Sorcor followed them shortly, leaving a handful of chosen men aboard who would be well rewarded for postponing their own pleasures. As he and Sorcor strolled up the docks, ignoring the blatant offerings of the pimps, whores and drug mongers, he reflected that no matter who inspected them, at least one of them would be seen as having good taste. Sorcor, as always, was dressed in a wide array of fine clothes in colors that bedazzled the eye. The silk scarf that belted his waist had come from the plump pale shoulders of a noblewoman they had ransomed. The jeweled dagger stuck in it had come from her son, a brave boy who had not known when to surrender. He'd had the yellow silk shirt tailored in Chalced. Given the bulkiness of the man's muscled shoulders and thick chest, the wide pale expanse of fluttering fabric reminded Kennit of a ship under sail. In contrast, he had chosen sober colors for himself, trusting the fabric and tailoring to draw the eye. Few in Divvytown would appreciate the rarity of the lace that spilled so extravagantly from cuff and collar, but even in their ignorance they would have to admire it. His high black boots shone while the blue breeches, waistcoat and jacket accentuated both his muscle and his leanness. That the man who had tailored these clothes had been a freed slave who charged him nothing at all for the privilege of serving him only enhanced Kennit's satisfaction with his appearance.