by Robin Hobb
Silence. Then, Take all I have left. I hope it will be enough.
Ship, no, wait!
Althea! Hit the deck now! Her father's familiar command boomed through her mind. In reflexive response, her body jerked, and she was falling. The wooden deck slammed against her, plank against flesh. Eyes and mouth jolted open with the impact. Tiny lights. Stars caught in a circle of porthole. She lay on her back, gasping like a fish. She rolled onto her side and vomited. The stuff was bitter and choking, clotting in her mouth and spewing from her nose. Reflex took over. She sneezed and then gasped.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Wood to flesh, a distant voice counted the rhythm for her, Vivacia steadied the beating of her heart. The ship was joined to her, but the connection was tenuous and fading fast. Even so, it was not just Althea's body she labored to heal, but her heart. Oh, my dear, my dear. I never thought he would do something like this to you. I misjudged him. I misjudged you. I even misjudged myself. The thought died away.
Althea blinked. She felt terrible. Bile had scoured her throat and the inside of her mouth. There was a deep ache inside her. She sneezed again. Her body went on working. She voluntarily took a deep breath, then pressed her palms flat to the deck. Pain. It was so wonderful to feel pain again, to feel anything again.
"So, Vivacia," she croaked. "We're going to live?"
There was no reply, and only wood beneath her palms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Key Island
True to his own command, Paragon had sailed with the tide. Not elegantly, not smoothly, but when the rising water lifted him off the sands, the spliced lines raised his patched sails on his raw timber rigging. Half of his depleted crew bore injuries, great or small, and many were disheartened, but they sailed.
Paragon navigated. Amber had not carved his new face yet, let alone his eyes. In a flurry of work, she had roughed out her ambitions, making marks and taking measures. At the ship's urging, she had set that work aside until more essential tasks were finished. The ship sailed blind, and yet not blind, for Amber's eyes were his.
She leaned on the railing, her hair streaming in the wind, and spoke of all she saw. Through her bare hands, she conveyed to him the feel of the islands they passed. It was not sight, but it was her sense of the ocean and the scattered islands that she shared with him. In return, he shared with her. The white serpent paced them, and urged the ship on in his own mad way. Paragon suspected that he sought to awaken the dragons in him, but they were already awake and stirring more strongly every day. Their thoughts mingled with his. The dragons reached through him to Amber, changing him as they did so. They were becoming him, and he was becoming them.
"We fly," Amber murmured. A stinging rain spattered against her face and soaked her patchy hair. Eyes wide, she stared ahead and with him dreamed these islands as once he had seen them.
"Once, I flew. But these were not islands then, but mountaintops. The Great Inner Wall, we called the first range. Beyond it were the Lowlands, and then the Sea Mountains, a restless and rumbling place. Some of the mountains smoked and spat and vomited liquid stone, turning summer to winter and day to dusk. Now they are drowned. The tops of the Sea Mountains are what you call the Shield Wall and Old Woman Island and the like. These islands we thread are the sunken heights of the Great Inner Wall."
"When you speak of them that way, I can see them in my mind."
"Mm. Now we need to see them as Igrot saw them, and as Lucto Ludluck saw them. He was Sedge Ludluck's son. Everyone in the Pirate Isles called him Lucky Ludluck. And Kennit was Lucky's son. He seized on that name." Paragon was silent for a time, his mind roving the years. "Luck. It was always so important to him."
Amber spoke cautiously. "When Althea told me your history, she told me you left Bingtown with Sedge Ludluck."
"Lucto was Sedge's eldest son. He sailed with his father, but the tension between them was constant. Sedge had the imagination of a rock. He bought cheap and sold dear. That was his sole ethic in life, the Ludluck ethic. He paid his men as little as he could, and changed crew often because he was so callous to them. Their lives were always worth less to him than his cargoes. He never stopped to wonder if life could be different. He didn't fear me because he lacked the imagination to know what I could do.
"Lucto, his son, was different. He was a dreamer, a young man who savored the pleasures of life. Bingtown customs, manners and traditions stifled him. Lucto was the one who talked Sedge into a little side trade in the Pirate Isles. Lucto had a gift with the lawless folk. He relaxed among them, and in turn, they liked him. He helped the family fortune prosper again. That pleased his father. To reward him, he arranged a good match for the boy with the younger daughter of a very proper Trader. But Lucto had a heart and that heart already belonged to a girl from the Pirate Isles. He was about twenty-two the day his father dropped dead at the bargaining table in Divvytown. Lucto mourned him, but not enough to return to Bingtown and take up the dreary life planned for him. He buried his father ashore, and never went home. The crew was glad enough to follow him, for he liked whiskey as much as they did, and dispensed it with an open hand. He was a generous lad, but not as wary as he might have been. He married his Pirate Isles girl and vowed he would live like a king in his own little world."
Paragon shook his head to himself. "He traded well and lived large. He built up a secret refuge for himself and his men. He trusted to the good will of his crew to keep his world safe. But there are always hungry men, men for whom a share of good fortune is not enough. And one brought Igrot into Lucky's world. Igrot already had a reputation as the pirate who would do what other men did not even imagine. He came to Lucky with the fable that they would be partners in trade and piracy. Lucto believed him. But in the midst of celebrating their alliance, Igrot turned on him. He imprisoned my father to subdue me, and took Kennit hostage to control me, and we all had to obey him for fear he would hurt the others. He cut out my mother's tongue—"
"Paragon, Paragon." Amber's voice was gentle but urgent. "Not your father. Kennit's. Not your mother. Kennit's."
The ship smiled bitterly into the rain. "You draw lines that do not exist. It is what you do not understand, Amber. When you speak to Paragon, you speak to the human memories stored in me. When Kennit and I killed myself, it was our suicide."
"That is a thing I will never understand," Amber observed in a low voice. "How can one hate oneself so much that one is willing to murder that self?"
The ship shook his head and rain flew from his locks. "That is your mistake. No one wants the self to die. I only wanted to make all the rest of it stop. The only way to achieve that was to put death between the world and myself."
He suddenly turned his blinded face toward an island. "There. That one."
"That's Key Island?" Her voice was incredulous. "Paragon, there's nowhere to land. The island comes straight up out of the water, like a fortress with trees."
"No, that's not the Key. That is Keyhole Island. From this main channel, it looks like any other island. But if you leave the main channel and circle the island, you'll find an opening in that wall. The island is shaped like a crescent, nearly closed. Until you enter the crescent, it looks like an unpromising inlet. But Keyhole Island cups a bay. Inside Keyhole Island, in the bay, is a smaller island. The Key in the Keyhole. On the back side of Key Island, there is a cove with good anchorage. There used to be a wharf and a pier, but I suppose they are long gone. That is where we are bound."
Brashen was on the wheel. He saw the wide wave of Amber's arm, and nodded that he saw the indicated island. This area of the Pirate Isles was pocked with little islands jutting sharply up from the waves; this one looked no different. Paragon had been very close-mouthed about what made this one so special. The cynical part of Brashen's soul laughed at him, yet he shouted his command to the crew, and as they shifted the wet sails, turned the wheel to bring the ship around. The steady wind had been favoring them before. Now it would be a long series of wearying tacks to take Parago
n where Amber indicated.
The reduced crew was running on the ragged edge. When the holds had flooded, much of the food had been ruined. Painful injuries, a reduced and monotonous diet, and the strenuous tasks of running the ship with too few men would have been demoralizing enough. But they knew that it was Brashen's intent that they once more face Kennit in battle and they had no interest in rushing to their doom. Their seamanship had grown both grudging and sloppy. Were the ship himself not so eager to sail, the task would have been hopeless.
Clef hastened up to the captain, blue eyes squinted against the rain. The boy seemed mostly recovered from his injuries though he still favored his scalded arm. "Sir! Amber says the ship says we're to watch for an opening on the lee of the island. It opens to a bay inside the island, and an island in the bay. That island in turn will have good anchorage on its windward side. Paragon says to anchor up there."
"I see. And what then?" The question was rhetorical. He didn't expect Clef to answer.
"He says that if we are lucky, the old woman who lived there will still be alive. We have to take her hostage, sir. She's the key to Kennit himself. He'll trade anything to get her back. Even Althea." The boy took a long breath, then blurted out, "She's Kennit's mother. So the ship says."
Brashen raised an eyebrow to that. In a moment, he recovered. "And that is something best kept to yourself, lad. Go tell Cypros to take the wheel for a bit. I'll hear for myself all Amber has to tell me now."
The rain eased just as Brashen discovered Key Island's anchorage, but even the sun breaking through the day's overcast did little to cheer him. As Paragon had predicted, a sagging pier ran out into the inlet, but time had swayed its pilings and gapped its planks. The rattling of the dropping anchor seemed to shatter the winter peace of the island. But as Brashen looked at the silent forested hillside above the dock, he reflected that such concerns had probably been unnecessary. If people had once lived here, the ramshackle wharf was the only sign that remained of them. He saw no houses. At the end of the wharf, the mouth of an overgrown path vanished beneath the trees.
"Don't look like much," Clef gave voice to his captain's thoughts.
"No, it doesn't. Still, we're here, so we'll take a look around. We'll go ashore in the ship's boats; I don't trust that pier."
"We?" Clef asked with a grin.
"We. I'm leaving Amber aboard with Paragon and a handful of men. I'm taking the rest of the crew with me. It will do them good to get off the ship for a time. We may be able to find some game and take on fresh water here. If people once lived here, the island must have provided some of their needs." He didn't tell Clef that he was taking most of the crew off so they couldn't abscond with the ship while he was gone.
The crew assembled dispiritedly, but brightened at the prospect of going ashore. He had them draw lots for who would remain aboard, and then ordered the rest of them to the boats. Some would hunt and forage, and a picked handful would follow the path with him. While the men readied the boats, he sauntered forward to Paragon with feigned nonchalance. "Want to tell me what I should expect?"
"A bit of a hike, to begin with. Lucto did not want his little kingdom to be easily visible from the water. I've Kennit's memories of the way. You'll go uphill, but when you crest the hill and start to go down, be alert. The path goes through an orchard first, and then to the compound. There was a big house, and a row of smaller cottages. Lucto took good care of his crewmen; their wives and children lived here in happier times, until Igrot slaughtered most of them. The rest he carried off as slaves."
Paragon paused. He stared blindly at the island. Brashen waited. "The last time I sailed from here, Mother was still alive. Lucto had perished. Igrot had taken his games too far and Father died. When we departed, Mother was marooned alone. That amused Igrot, I think. But Kennit swore he would come back to her. I believe he would have kept that oath. She was a doughty woman. Even as battered as she was, she would have chosen to live. She may still be alive here. If you find her… when you find her, tell her your tale. Be honest with her. She deserves that much. Tell her why you have come to take her." The ship's boyish voice choked suddenly. "Don't terrorize or hurt her.
She has had enough of that in her life. Ask her to come with us. I think she may come willingly."
Brashen took a deep breath and confronted the villainous aspect of the ship's plan. It shamed him. "I'll do the best I can," he promised Paragon. The best he could. Could the word «best» be applied at all to this task, the kidnapping and bartering of an elderly woman? He did not think so, yet he would do it to regain Althea safely. He tried to console himself. He would see that she came to no harm. Surely Kennit's own mother had nothing to fear from the pirate.
He voiced the largest hole in the plan. "And if Kennit's mother is… no longer here?"
"Then we wait," the ship proposed. "Sooner or later, he will come here."
Now there was a comforting thought.
Brashen led his force of armed men up the overgrown trail. Fallen leaves were thick underfoot. Overhead, branches both bare and leafy dripped the morning's rain. A sword weighted one side of his belt, and two of his men carried bows at the ready. The precaution was more against pigs, whose hoof tracks and droppings were plentiful, than against any imagined resistance. From what Paragon said, if the woman still lived, she likely lived here alone. He wondered if she would be mad. How long could a person live in complete isolation and remain sane?
They crested the hill and started down the other side. The trees were as thick, though sizable stumps showed that once this hillside had been logged for timber. The forest had taken it back since then. At the bottom of the hill, they emerged into an orchard. Tall wet grass soaked Brashen to the thighs as he pushed his way through it. His men followed him through the bare-branched fruit trees. Some of the trees sprawled where they had fallen. Others reached to intertwine wet black branches overhead.
But halfway through the orchard, the wide-reaching branches of the trees showed the signs of seasonal pruning. The grass had been trampled down, and Brashen caught a faint whiff of woodsmoke on the air. He saw now what the tangled trees had hidden. A whitewashed great-house dominated the valley, flanked by a row of cottages along the edges of the cultivated lands. He halted and his men stopped with him, muttering in surprise. A barn suggested livestock; he lifted his eyes to isolated sheep and goats grazing on the opposite hillside. This was too much to be the work of one set of hands. There were people here. There would be confrontation.
He glanced back at the men following him. "Follow my lead. I want to talk my way through this if we can. The ship said she would be willing to go with us. Let's hope that is so."
As he spoke, a woman carrying a child fled toward one of the cottages and slammed the door behind her. An instant later, it opened again. A large man stepped out onto the doorstep, spotted them, and ducked back inside the cottage. When he reappeared, he carried a woodsman's axe. He hefted it purposefully as he looked up at them. One of Brashen's archers lifted his bow.
"Down," Brashen commanded in a low voice. He lifted his own arms wide to show his peaceful intent. The man by the cottage did not look impressed. Nor did the woman who emerged behind him. She carried a large knife now instead of the baby.
Brashen reached a hard decision. "Keep your bows lowered. Follow me, but twenty paces behind me. Unless I order it, no man shoots an arrow. Am I clear?"
"Clear, sir," one man answered, and the rest muttered doubtful responses. His last effort at peaceful negotiating was still fresh in their minds.
Brashen lifted his arms wide of his sheathed sword and called out to the people by the cottage. "I'm coming down. I mean no harm. I just want to talk to you." He began to walk forward.
"Stop where you are!" the woman shouted back. "Talk to us from there!"
Brashen took a few more steps to see what they would do. The man came to meet him, axe ready. He was a large man, his wide cheeks tattooed all the way to his ears. Brashen recognized his type
from brawls: he would not fight especially well, but he'd be hard to kill. With a sinking certainty, he knew he had no heart for this. He wasn't going to kill anyone while their untended baby wailed inside the cottage. Althea herself would not ask that of him. There had to be another way.
"The Ludluck woman!" he shouted. He wished Paragon had told him the mother's name. "Lucky's widow. I want to talk to her. That's why we've come."
The man halted uncertainly. He looked back at the woman. She lifted her chin. "We're the only ones here. Go away and forget you ever came."
So she knew the odds were against them. If his men fanned out, they could trap them in the cottage. He decided to push his advantage.
"I'm coming down. I just want to see that you are telling the truth. If she isn't here, we'll go away. We want no bloodshed. I just want to speak to the Ludluck woman."
The man glanced back at his woman. Brashen read uncertainty in her stance and hoped he was correct. Arms held well away from his sword, Brashen walked slowly toward the house. The closer he came, the more he doubted that they were the only people on the island. At least one other cottage had a well-trodden path to the door and a shimmer of smoke rising from its chimney. A very slight movement of the woman's head warned him. He turned just as a slender young woman launched herself from a tree. She was barefoot and unarmed but her fury was her weapon.
"Raiders. Raiders. Filthy raiders!" she yowled as she attacked with her fists and nails. He lifted his arm to shield his face from her nails.
"Ankle! No! No, stop, run away!" the other woman screamed. She came toward them at a lumbering run, her knife held high, the man only a step behind her.
"We're not slavers!" he told her, but Ankle only came at him more fiercely. He hunched away from her, then spun back to seize her around the waist. He managed to catch one of her wrists. She clawed and pulled hair with the other hand until he captured that, too. It was like hugging an angry cat. Her bare feet thudded against his shins while she bit his shoulder. His vest was thick, but it did not dull the savagery of her attack. "Stop it!" he shouted at her. "We're not slavers. I just need to talk to Kennit Ludluck's mother. That is all."