Ship of Magic

by Robin Hobb

  “Oh, your usual arrangements!” she cried gaily. “Fie on the usual, Captain Kennit, dear. That is not why a man comes to Bettel's house, for the 'usual. ' Now come with me and see. Just see what I've saved for you. ”

  There were at least three men in the room who were following their conversation with more attention than seemed polite. None of them, Kennit noted, looked particularly pleased as Bettel tugged him over to a candle-lit alcove off the main room. Curious and cautious, he glanced within.

  Either she was a new arrival, or had been working on his previous visits. She was striking if one fancied small, pale women. She had large blue eyes in a heart-shaped face with painted pink cheeks. Her plump little mouth was painted red. Short golden hair was dressed in tight curls all over her head. Bettel had dressed her in pale blue, and decked her in gilt jewelry. The girl stood up from the tasseled cushions where she had been seated and smiled sweetly up at him. Nervously, but sweetly. Her nipples had been tipped with pink to make them stand out more noticeably beneath the pale gauze of her dress.

  “For you, Captain Kennit,” Bettel purred. “As sweet as honey, and pretty as a little doll. And our largest room. Now. Will you want your meal set out first, as usual?”

  He smiled at Bettel. “Yes, I will. And in my usual room, with my usual woman to follow. I do not play with dolls. They don't amuse me. ”

  He turned and walked away from her, headed toward the stair. Over his shoulder, he reminded her. “Have Etta bathe first. And remember, Bettel, a decent wine. ”

  “But Captain Kennit!” she protested. The nervousness in her voice was suddenly a shrilling of fear. “Please. At least try Avoretta. If you do not fancy her, there will be no charge. ”

  Kennit was ascending the stairs. “I do not fancy her, so there is no charge. ” The small of his back ached with tension. He had seen avidity kindle in the men's eyes as he started up the main staircase. He reached the top of the landing and opened the door to the narrow stair beyond it. He entered it, shutting the door behind him. Several long, light strides took him to the second small landing where the sole lantern burned. Here the stairway bent back on itself. He waited soundlessly around the corner. He drew his sword silently and unsheathed his belt knife as well. He heard the door below softly open and then close again. By their cautious tread, at least three men were behind him on the stairs. He smiled grimly. Better here, in tight quarters with them below him than out on the dark of the streets. With a bit of luck he'd take at least one by surprise.

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  He did not have to wait long. They were too eager. As the first one stepped around the corner, the tip of Kennit's blade flicked across the man's throat. That simple. Kennit gave him a good shove. He tumbled back into his fellows, gargling incoherently, and as they stumbled backwards down the stairs, Kennit followed, dashing out the lamp as he passed it and then flinging the hot glass and spilling oil down on them. They cursed in the dark now, with a dying man's weight pressing them back down the stairs. Kennit made several random downward thrusts with his sword to encourage their retreat. He hoped the dying man would be low, collapsing against their legs. Stabbing him again would be a waste of effort, so he placed his thrusts higher and had the satisfaction of two cries of pain. Perhaps the stairway and closed door would muffle them. He was sure that further surprises awaited him upstairs. No sense in spoiling their anticipation.

  He heard these three hit the downstairs door and sprang forward then, thrusting with both sword and dagger into any flesh he could find. Here he had the advantage, for anything that was not himself was the enemy, whereas they had as good a chance of striking an ally as him in the dark, close confines of the stairwell. One man at least was fumbling wildly for the doorknob, cursing when he could not find it. Eventually he did, but only in time to open it and allow himself and his dying companions to spill out onto the landing. At the base of the staircase, Bettel looked up in horror from her parlor.

  “Rats,” Kennit informed her. Another tidy flick of his sword, to be sure the last man stayed down and died. “Vermin on your staircase. You really should not allow this, Bettel. ”

  “They forced me! They forced me. I tried to keep you from going up there, you know I did!” The woman's wail followed him as he turned back to the staircase. He shut the door firmly on it, hoping it had not carried all the way to the chamber at the top of the house. Soft-footed as a cat he padded up the darkened stairs. He let his sword's tip lead the way. When he reached the second door, he paused. If they were alarmed at all-no, if they were sly at all-they'd have a man waiting outside this door. He eased the latch open, took a fresh grip on both weapons, and then shouldered his way through the door, coming in as low and silently as he could. No one was there.

  The door to his usual chamber was shut. Voices came through it, pitched softly. Men's voices. At least two, then. They sounded impatient. No doubt they'd seen him through the window as he approached Bettel's house. Why hadn't they ambushed him at the top of the stairs? Perhaps because they'd expected their fellows to overpower him and drag him into this chamber for them?

  He considered, then pounded roughly on the door. “Got him!” he cried hoarsely, and was rewarded by a fool who jerked the door open for him. Kennit put his knife low in the man's belly and then dragged it up with all his strength. It did not do as much damage as he had hoped it would; worse, it tangled in the man's loose shirt. Kennit was forced to abandon it in him. He gave the man a backwards shove and then sprang forward to meet the next man's blade. His blade engaged Kennit's neatly, turned aside his thrust, then thrust in turn. A gentlemanly approach to fencing, Kennit realized, as he set the man's blade tip out of alignment with his throat. A mistaken sense of gallantry and showmanship.

  Kennit whipped a glance about the room. There was one more man sitting with studied composure in his chair before the fire. He held a glass of claret in one hand, but was prudent enough to have his hand on the drawn sword across his knees. Etta was flung naked across the bed. They had bloodied both the woman and the linens. “Ah. King Kennit has come calling on his lady,” the seated man observed lazily. He gestured with his glass at the whore. “I don't think she'll be up to receiving you just now. Our day's amusement has left her . . . indisposed. ”

  It was meant to distract him and it almost worked. It was distressing. No. It angered him. This clean and pleasant chamber, the comparative safety of Bettel's house had been taken away. He'd never be able to relax in this room again. The bastards!

  A part of him was aware of shouts in the street outside. More of them. He'd have to finish this one quickly, and then get the one in the chair. But even as he pressed his reach advantage, the mocking man rose and advanced on Kennit with his sword. That one, at least, was not stupid enough to think that fair play had anything to do with killing. Kennit was not stupid enough to think he had much of a chance against two blades. He wished he hadn't had to leave his knife in the other man.

  A stupid time to die, he told himself, as he parried one blade with his sword and knocked the other aside with his arm. He was thankful for the thick fabric of his sleeve that absorbed most of the impact. Seeing how he must defend himself, his attacker instantly switched to slashing attacks rather than thrusts. Kennit began a constant harried retreat from both blades, with no time to do anything except defend and evade. The other two men laughed and shouted to one another as they fought, mocking words about kings and slaves and whores. He did not listen, he could not listen, one moment's distraction would be his death. All his attention went to the two blades and the two men who powered them. Time to decide, he recognized grimly. Do I make them kill me now, quickly, or fight until I can no longer defend myself well, and they can play cats to my mouse?

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  He was as startled as they were when the quilted comforter was snapped open and flung over one of them. As he was fighting clear of it, the rest of the bedding quickly followed, fat down-s
tuffed pillows, billowing sheets that draped his enemies' blades and tangled their feet. A sheet settled over one man, draping him like a walking corpse. Apt, Kennit smiled to himself. Kennit's blade popped through the linen drapery and as he drew it back, a great scarlet blossom opened on it. Etta, cursing and shrieking, gathered up an immense double-armful of feather bed and flung it and herself upon the last attacker. Kennit quickly made sure of the man he had stabbed. By the time he turned, Etta had found the other man's head beneath the blanket and was pounding it up and down on the floor. The bedding muffled his cries as he struggled to get clear of the shrouding stuff. Kennit casually stabbed him several times, and then, out of breath, put the sword where he judged the man's heart to be. The thrashing lump under the blankets stilled. Etta kept on pounding his head against the floor.

  “I think you can stop that now,” Kennit pointed out. She did, abruptly, but the sound continued.

  They both turned to the pounding footsteps coming up the stairs. Etta, crouched naked over her kill, looked savage as a feral cat as she unconsciously bared her teeth to the sound. Kennit waded through the welter of bodies and bedding to secure the door. He tried to slam it but the first man's body was in the way. He bent to drag the body free, and before he could close the door, it flew wide open so hard it bounced off the wall. Kennit caught it before it could rebound into Sorcor's face. Sorcor was red-faced from running as were the men who burst into the room behind him. “An old man,” he gasped. “Came to the ship. Said you might have trouble here. ”

  “Now that was a bit of silver well spent,” a small voice observed. Sorcor glanced at Etta, thinking she had spoken, then self-consciously turned his head from the naked, battered woman. She staggered upright. She glanced at the other men staring at her and then stooped awkwardly, to drag up a corner of one blanket to cover herself. It revealed a man's hand and arm flung lifelessly on the floor.

  “Trouble. ” Kennit observed drily. “A bit. ” He sheathed his sword. He gestured at the body in the door. “Pass me my knife, please. ”

  Sorcor crouched to pull it out of the man. “You were right,” he observed needlessly. “There's been talk against us in the town, and some are angered by what we do. Is this Rey? Of the Sea-Vixen?”

  “I don't know,” Kennit admitted. “He never introduced himself. ” He stooped and dragged some of the bedding off the other dead men.

  “It was Rey,” Etta said in a low voice through bruised lips. “I knew him well enough. ” She took a breath. “All of these were Sea-Vixen men. ” She gestured at the man whose head she had pounded against the floor. “That was their captain. Skelt. ” In a lower voice she added, “They kept saying they'd show you that every pirate is his own king. That they didn't need you, and you couldn't rule them. ”

  “That makes six,” one of Kennit's crew observed in awe. “Cap'n took down six men by himself. ”

  “How many were outside?” Kennit asked curiously as he resheathed the knife Sorcor gave him.

  “Four. They were ten to one against you. Brave sods, weren't they?” Sorcor asked heavily.

  Kennit shrugged. “Did I wish to make sure a man was killed, I'd do the same. ” He gave Sorcor a small smile. “They still lost. Ten men. They feared me very badly, to wish to be so sure I'd be dead. ” His smile widened. “Power, Sorcor. Other men see us gathering it to ourselves. This attempt is but proof that we are moving towards our goal. ” He became aware of the eyes of his men. “And taking our crew with us,” he said reassuringly, and nodded his smile all round. The five pirates with Sorcor grinned back at him.

  Sorcor put his own blade away. “Well. Now what?” he asked heavily.

  Kennit considered briefly. He pointed to his men. “You and you. Together. Make the rounds of the taverns and whorehouses. Find our ship-mates and warn them. Quietly. I suggest it is wisest for all to sleep aboard tonight, with a stout watch posted. Sorcor and I will be doing so. But only after we've made ourselves seen about town, alive and whole. And all of you, I warn you: No bragging about this. This was nothing, do you understand? Not even a story worth the telling. Let other men do the telling for us; the tale will grow faster that way. ” The men nodded, grinning appreciatively to one another. “You and you. You will follow Sorcor and I as we show ourselves about, but you won't be with us. Understand? You watch our backs, and you listen for what others say about us at their own tables. Listen, and remember, for I will want a full accounting. ”

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  They nodded their understanding. He glanced about the room. There was something else he should do here, something he'd been intending to do. Etta stood silent, looking at him. A tiny ruby sparkled in her earlobe. “Oh, and you. ” He pointed to the last man. “See to my woman. ”

  The sailor flushed red, and then white. “Yes, sir. Uh. How, sir?” Kennit shook his head angrily. He had things to do, and they bothered him with details. “Oh, take her down to the ship. Put her in my cabin for later. ” If the town considered Etta his woman, then he must put her out of casual reach. He must appear to have no vulnerabilities. He knit his brow. Was that all? Yes.

  Etta dragged the sheet free of the last body. Standing straight as a queen, she wrapped the blood-stained linen around her shoulders. Kennit glanced about the room one last time, then took in his men's proud and incredulous grins. Even Sorcor was smiling. Why? Ah. The woman. They would have expected carnage like this to kill his appetite for her. That they believed it hadn't made him more of a man in their eyes. Lust had not motivated him; he did not find bruises on a woman arousing. But his supposed lust for her was what they were admiring. Well, let them think it, then. He glanced back to the blushing man. “See she is provided with warm water for a bath. Feed her. And find appropriate garments for her as well. ” He supposed this meant he'd have to keep her in his cabin. At least let her be clean, then.

  His eyes returned to Sorcor's. “Well, you've got your orders,” his first mate pointed out gruffly to the smirking men. “Move!”

  A round of ayes and his two runners rattled off down the stairs. The man assigned to Etta crossed the room, hesitated awkwardly, then scooped her up in his arms as if she were a large child. To Kennit's surprise, Etta wilted against him gratefully. Kennit, Sorcor, and their guards started down the stairs with the man carrying Etta coming behind them. They met Bettel on the landing. Her hands fluttered before her as she exclaimed, “Oh! You're alive!”

  “Yes,” Kennit agreed.

  In her next breath, she exclaimed angrily, “Do you think you're taking Etta out of here?”

  “Yes,” Kennit called over his shoulder up the stairs.

  “What about all these dead men?” she shrieked after him as they strode out of her house.

  “Those you may keep,” Kennit replied.

  Etta caught at the front door with her hand as she and her bearer passed through it. She slammed it shut behind them. .

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - MALTA

  IT ALL WOULD HAVE GONE PERFECTLY IF NOT FOR THAT FAT FOOL DAVAD RESTART.

  Malta had found the money under her pillow on the morning that her father left to go to sea. She recognized his cramped handwriting from the missives her mother occasionally received while her father was off trading. “For my not-so-little daughter,” Papa had written. “Green silk would suit you best. ” Inside the soft little bag had been four gold coins. She had not been sure what they were worth; they were foreign coins, from one of the lands he visited when he was trading. What Malta had been instantly certain of was that they would be enough for the most sumptuous gown that Bingtown had ever seen.

  In the days that followed, whenever she had doubts, she had held the note and re-read it and assured herself that she had her father's permission to do this. Not only his permission, but his assistance: the money was proof of that. His connivance, her mother would say later, darkly.

  Her mother was so predictable. As was her grandmother. Her grandmother had decline
d to attend the Harvest Offering Ball, citing mourning Grandfather as a reason. And that was all the excuse her mother needed to tell her that no one in the Vestrit family was going to the Ball. And thus, she said, there was to be no argument over dresses or frocks or gowns. She had Rache giving her dancing lessons now, and they were seeking a good etiquette teacher as well. In the meantime, Rache would help her with those lessons, also. And that was more than enough for now for a young girl of her age.

  The severity of her mother's tone had surprised her. When Malta had been brave enough to say, “But my father said . . . ” her own mother had turned on her with something close to fury in her eyes.

  “Your father is not here,” she had pointed out coldly. “I am. And I know what is proper for a young Bingtown girl. As should you. Malta, there is time and more than enough time for you to be a woman. It is natural for you to be curious about such things, and natural, too, for you to wish for lovely gowns and wonderful evenings dancing with handsome young men. But too much curiosity and eagerness . . . well. It could lead you down the same path as your Aunt Althea took. So trust me. I will be the one to tell you when the time is right for such things. I also know there is much more to the Harvest Ball than pretty dresses and bright-eyed young men. I am a woman of Bingtown, and a Bingtown Trader and I know such things. Not your father. So keep your peace about this, or you will lose what you have gained. ”

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  Then her mother had stalked out of the breakfast room, not even giving Malta time to argue. Not that she would have. She had decided that she did not need to argue. Arguing would only have made her mother suspicious and watchful. There was no sense in making her own tasks harder.

  Her father had suggested green silk, and fortunately there had been a good supply of it in Aunt Althea's sea chest. She had been aching to know what was in there since it had been delivered to the house, but her mother had wearily told her it was none of her concern. But it hadn't been locked-Aunt Althea never remembered to lock anything-and as Althea certainly was never going to use it, Malta saw no sense in letting the lovely fabric stay there and fade. Besides, by using this fabric, she'd have more coin to spend on a really good dressmaker. She was only being thrifty. Had not her father told her that was a good trait in a woman?