by Robin Hobb
But even more interesting was how pale Malta went. She fought a look of anguish from her face.
Weakness was made to be exploited. Captain Red had warned him she was a wily negotiator. A bit of rattling might take the edge off her wits. Kennit cocked his head at her and gave a small shrug. "A pity Captain Haven became involved in the slave trade. If he had not made that choice, this ship might still be his. I am sure you are aware of my promise to my people. I will rid the Pirate Isles of slavers. Taking Vivacia was one of my first steps." He smiled at her.
Her mouth moved slightly, but her agonized questions went unvoiced.
"We are here to negotiate my restoration to Jamaillia City," the Satrap observed tightly. He had already seated himself at the negotiation table. The others had chosen seats but remained standing, waiting for Kennit. This assumption of protocol did not escape the pirate.
"Of course we are." Kennit smiled widely. He limped to the head of the table. "Wintrow," he said, and he obediently drew the chair out and accepted Kennit's crutch after he was seated. "Please. Be comfortable," Kennit invited them, and the others took their places. Sorcor was to his right, and Captain Red beyond him. Wintrow claimed the seat to his left. The Satrap and Malta were opposite Kennit. She had regained her composure. She steepled her hands on the table before her and waited.
Kennit settled himself comfortably in his chair. "Of course, your father is still alive and in my custody. Oh, not on this ship, of course. Kyle Haven generated far too much ill-will among the crew for that. But he is quite secure where he is. If we reach a satisfactory finish today, perhaps I shall throw him in as a token to Advisor Malta Vestrit, in humble gratitude for helping us negotiate."
The Satrap's boyish face flushed with rage. There. That had divided them. Malta had instantly suppressed it, but hope had flared bright in her eyes. She now had an interest in pleasing Kennit rather than protecting the Satrap.
She drew a sharp breath. Her voice was almost steady. "That is most kind of you, Captain Kennit. But my interests are not those of my family today." She tried to make eye contact with the Satrap, but he stared stonily at Kennit. "I am here as the Satrap's most loyal subject," she finished. She tried to put the ring of truth in her words, but Kennit heard her doubts.
"Of course, my dear. Of course," he purred.
Now, he was ready to begin.
Brashen was catnapping on his bunk. Divvytown was little more than a day and a night away. He shifted in his bedding, trying to burrow his way to sleep. He had wrapped himself in Althea's blanket. It still smelled of her. Instead of soothing him, it made him ache with longing. He feared for her. What if their plans failed? All had gone well the last few days, he reminded himself. The crew's morale had vastly improved. A day ashore, fresh meat and vegetables, and the triumph of «stealing» Kennit's mother had restored their faith in themselves. Mother herself seemed to have a cheering effect on them. When weather drove her from the foredeck, she went to the ship's galley, where she revealed a gift for turning hardtack into a sort of doughy pudding much favored by the crew. Most encouraging to Brashen was that Clef had assured him that the men were putting their hearts into recovering Althea. Some felt loyalty to her; others yearned to regain pride lost at the drubbing they had received from the pirate.
A deep, recurrent sound penetrated Brashen's mind. Sleep fled. He rolled from his bunk, rubbed his sandy eyes, and thrust his feet into his shoes. He emerged onto the deck into thin winter sunlight and a fresh breeze. Paragon knifed effortlessly through the waves. The crew took up a sudden chorus, and he looked up to see still more canvas blooming on the masts. He suddenly realized what had wakened him. Paragon's deep voice vibrated the deck with a chantey, marking time for the crew as they hoisted canvas. A shiver went up Brashen's spine, followed by a lurching lift of his heart. Familiar as he was with how a liveship's disposition could affect its crew, he was still unprepared for this. The crew aloft was working with good-hearted energy. He hurried forward and encountered Semoy. "Too fine a wind to waste, sir!" the acting mate greeted his captain with a gap-toothed grin. "I think we could see Divvytown before noon tomorrow if we can keep our canvas full!" Squinting with determination, he added, "We'll get our Althea back, sir. You'll see."
Brashen nodded and smiled uncertainly. When he reached the foredeck, he found Amber and Mother. Someone had secured Paragon's long dark hair in a warrior's tail. "What goes on here?" Brashen asked in quiet disbelief.
Paragon turned his head, mouth wide as he held the final note of the chantey, then cut it off abruptly. "Good afternoon, Captain Trell," he boomed.
Amber laughed aloud. "I'm not sure, but no one can resist his mood today. I don't know whether it's because Mother finished reading his logs to him, or simply that he is—"
"Decided!" Paragon declared abruptly. "I've reached a decision, Brashen. For myself. As I never have before. I've decided to put my heart into what we do. Not for you, but for myself. I now believe that we can prevail. So does Mother. She is sure that, between the two of us, we can make Kennit see reason."
The old woman smiled gently. The chill wind flushed her cheeks. In a strange contradiction, she seemed both frailer and more vital than she had. She nodded, approving Paragon's recital.
"The logbooks were a part of it, Brashen, but not the largest piece. The largest piece is me. It has done me good to look back and see my voyages through my captains' eyes. The places I've been, Brashen, and the things I've seen, just in my life as a ship; they're all mine." He turned away from Brashen. His eyes were still closed but he seemed to stare far over the waters. In a lowered voice he went on, "The pain was just a part of all that. I had lives before this one, and they are just as much mine as this. I can take all my pasts, keep them and determine my own future. I don't have to be what anyone made me, Brashen. I can be Paragon."
Brashen lifted his hands from the railing. Did the others hear the desperation behind the ship's hopeful words? If Paragon failed at this last grasp for wholeness, he suspected the ship would spiral down into madness. "I know you can," Brashen told the ship warmly. A black corner of his soul felt sour and old at his lie. He dared not trust the ship's sudden elation. It seemed a mirrored distortion of his formerly bleak moods. Could not it vanish just as swiftly and arbitrarily?
"Sail!" Clef's clear tenor called down from aloft. Then, "Sails!" he amended. "Lots o' 'em. Jamayan ships."
"That makes no sense," Brashen observed.
"You want me to go aloft and take a look?" Amber offered.
"I'll do it myself," Brashen assured her. He wanted some time alone, to think over the situation. He hadn't been up in the rigging since they'd done their reconstruction. This would be as good a time as any to see how their repairs were holding up. He started up the mast.
He was soon distracted from the repaired rigging. Clef was right. The distant ships were Jamaillian. The hodgepodge fleet flew not only the colors of Jamaillia, but the flags of the Satrapy as well. Ballista and other siege machines cluttered the decks of several larger ships. This was no merchant fleet. The same wind that was speeding Paragon north toward Divvytown drove them. Brashen doubted that they were heading for the pirate town. All the same, he had no desire to attract their attention.
Once on the deck, he ordered Semoy to slack off the speed. "But gradually. If their lookouts are watching, I want it to appear that we are merely falling behind due to their speed, not slowing down to avoid them. They have no reason to be curious about us. Let's not give them any."
"Althea said something about rumors in Divvytown," Amber spoke up.
"She thought it was just a wild tale. Something about the Bingtown Traders offending or injuring the Satrap, and Jamaillia sending out a fleet to punish the town."
"Like as not, the Satrap has finally tired of both the real pirates and the pirates that masquerade as Chalcedean patrol vessels."
"Then they may be our allies against Kennit?" Amber speculated.
Brashen shook his head and gave a rough
laugh. "They'll be after plunder and slaves as much as clearing the channels of pirates. Any ship they capture, they'll keep, and the folk on board. No. Pray Sa to keep Vivacia well out of their sight, for if they seize her, our chances of getting Althea back are reduced to buying her on the slave block."
"More candles, Wintrow," Kennit suggested merrily.
Wintrow stifled a sigh and rose to obey. The Satrap looked like a hollow-eyed ghost and the paint showed starkly on Malta's pale face. Even Captain Red and Sorcor had begun to show signs of weariness. Only Kennit still possessed his frenzied energy.
Malta had come to the table with the dignity and composure of a Trader. Wintrow had been proud of his younger sister. She had presented her proposal in careful phrases, and at every point, had enumerated the advantages it would bring to both Kennit and the Satrap. Recognition of Kennit as King of the Pirate Isles, a sovereign state. An end to Jamaillian slave raiders in the Pirate Isles. No more Chalcedean «patrol» boats in the Pirate Isles. Captain Red and Sorcor had grinned with triumph. They had been more subdued as she went on to list what the Satrap wanted in exchange: his safe return to Jamaillia City, escorted by Kennit's fleet, with the assurance that the Pirate Isles recognized and supported him as the Satrap of Jamaillia. In the future, Kennit would pledge safe passage for Jamaillian-flagged ships through the Inside Passage, and would himself subdue any «independent» pirates who ignored the agreement.
At first, Kennit had waxed enthusiastic. He had sent Wintrow for parchment, pen and ink, and instructed him to write it up. That had been straightforward, save for the matter of the proper forms for referring to the Satrap. That alone took nearly half a page of "His Most Glorious and Magnificent Honor" and the like. Kennit had leaped into the spirit of it, dictating that the document refer to him as "The Daring and Undefeated Pirate Captain Kennit, King of the Pirate Isles by Virtue of his Boldness and Cunning." Wintrow had seen the dancing merriment in Captain Red's eyes as well as the profound pride in Sorcor's as he transcribed these illustrious titles. He had thought that would bring a swift end to the negotiations, but Kennit had only begun.
Swiftly and surely, he began to tack other provisions on to the pact. The fabulously powerful Satrap of Jamaillia could not expect him, king of scattered towns of outcasts, to patrol these waters against miscreant pirates with no remuneration. Whatever agreement Jamaillia had had with the Chalcedean patrol vessels would be passed on to Kennit and his «patrol» ships. How could the Satrap object? It would not mean any more coins out of his coffers; they would simply be going to a different set of ships. And, of course, in reciprocal courtesy, ships bearing Kennit's raven flag would pass unmolested in Jamaillian waters on their journeys to points south. As for selective pardons to criminals who had fled to the Pirate Isles, why, that was all much too confusing. A blanket pardon of every one of Kennit's subjects would be much easier to manage.
When the Satrap objected that these «Tattooed» would be indistinguishable from the lawful slaves of Jamaillia, Kennit had appeared to take him seriously. He had gravely proposed that the Satrap, by edict, have all free folk of Jamaillia tattooed with a special mark that would proclaim them free subjects of the Satrap. Captain Red had had a coughing fit to cover his laughter, but the Satrap had flushed scarlet. Standing, he had declared himself irrevocably offended. The Satrap had stalked to the door and out of it. Malta had followed him miserably. Her humiliated stare betrayed that she realized what the Satrap did not. There was noplace for him to go. This «negotiation» was to become little more than a documented robbery. While they waited out the Satrap's temper tantrum, Kennit ordered Wintrow to pour the finest spirits for his lieutenants, and sent him to fetch samples of the cheeses and exotic preserved fruits he had captured on his most recent foray. They were relaxed and warm and comfortable when the Satrap returned followed by a defeated Malta. They resumed their seats at the table. In a chill voice, the Satrap offered Kennit one hundred signed pardons that he could distribute as he saw fit.
"A thousand," Kennit countered as coolly. He leaned back in his chair. "And you would give me the authorization to issue others as needed."
"Done," the Satrap snapped sulkily as Malta's mouth opened in angry protest. The young ruler glared at her. "It costs me nothing. Why should not I give it to him?"
That set the tone for all that followed. Malta's efforts to give ground grudgingly were undermined by the Satrap's obvious despair and ultimately his boredom with the whole process. Jamaillian ships that stopped for water, supplies or trade in the Pirate Isles would pay a fee to Kennit. Jamaillia would not interfere with Kennit's right to regulate trade and ships passing through the Pirate Isles. Sorcor's triumph was that persons condemned to be sold on the block for debt would be offered the option of exile to the Pirate Isles. Captain Red inserted that individual actors would no longer be responsible for the debts of a troupe. From there, the political significance of Kennit's demands dwindled to mere piracy of privilege. A suite of rooms in the Satrap's palace would be reserved exclusively for Kennit in the event that he ever chose to visit Jamaillia City. Any serpent sighted in Inside Passage waters was to be considered Kennit's property and left unmolested. Kennit was always to be referred to as the Merciful and Just King Kennit of the Pirate Isles. The negotiations flagged only when Kennit's inventiveness began to fail him.
As Wintrow rose to fetch fresh candles for the table, he reflected that soon they would not need them. The talks had consumed the night: a late winter dawn was breaking over the water. He stood beside Malta as he fitted the candles into the heavy silver holders and wished he could reach her as he did the ship, with no more than a focused thought. He wished she knew that although he sat with those who opposed her, he was proud of her. She had bargained like a true Trader. If Kennit's offer of restoring their father had weighed on her mind, she had refused to show it. Small hope that Kennit would honor that offer. How Malta had come to be in the Satrap's company was still a mystery, but the rigors of that journey showed on her face. If the negotiations went successfully, what then? Would she leave with the Satrap?
He longed for this to be over, so he could talk with her. His hunger for news from home was more powerful than his need for food and sleep. He lit the last candle and resumed his seat. Kennit surprised him by clapping him genially on the shoulder. "Tired, son? Well, we are nearly at the end of this. All that remains to negotiate now is the actual ransom itself. Some prefer coins, but I am more lenient in these matters. Precious gems, pearls, furs, tapestries, even…"
"This is outrageous!" Despite his weariness, the Satrap lurched to his feet. His mouth had gone white and pinched. His clenched hands trembled with fury. For one horrifying instant, Wintrow feared he would burst into angry tears. Malta reached a supportive hand toward him, but stopped short of touching him. She sent Kennit a killing glare. When she spoke, her voice was calm.
"Lord Magnadon Satrap, I see the logic of this. Your nobles will value you less if they have not had to pay anything to recover you. Consider this. It will give you a way to gauge who is truly loyal to you. You will reward those who are willing to contribute to your recovery later. Those who are not will feel your magnificent wrath. King Kennit is, after all, my lord, still a pirate." She gave Kennit a tight-lipped smile, as if to be sure her barb hit home. "All your nobles would distrust a treaty in which he did not demand some sort of reward for himself, rather than merely benefits for his people."
It was pathetic. She saw that the Satrap was powerless to refuse Kennit. She sought to save the boy's pride for him. The Satrap's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He shot Malta a venomous look. Then, in a quiet voice, he hissed, "Certainly this is so. It has nothing to do with you groveling to regain your father, does it?" He swung his look to Kennit. "How much?" he snapped bitterly.
"SAILS!" All heads turned to the lookout's cry, but Kennit merely looked annoyed. "See to that, would you, Sorcor?" he requested lazily. He turned back to the Satrap and smiled, a great black tomcat toying with a mouse
. But before Sorcor could reach the door, Wintrow heard running footsteps outside it. Jola did not knock; he pounded on the wood. Sorcor jerked the door open.
Jola blurted out, "Sir, Jamaillian ships! A whole fleet of them headed our way from the south. Lookout says he sees war machines on their decks." He drew breath. "We can escape them if we up anchor now."
Hope kindled in the Satrap's eyes. "Now we shall see!" he declared.
"Indeed we shall," Kennit agreed affably. He turned to his mate with a rebuke. "Jola, Jola, why would we flee, when fate has given me every advantage in this confrontation? We are in familiar waters, our serpents surround us and we have the supreme Magnadon Satrap as our… guest. A small demonstration of power is in order." He turned to the Satrap. "Your fleet may be more prone to honor our agreement if they have first enjoyed the attentions of a few serpents. Then we shall see how well they negotiate for your release." He gave a thin-lipped smile to the Satrap and thrust the treaty toward him. "I am going to enjoy finalizing this. Your signature, sir. Then I shall affix mine. When they confront us, if they do, we shall see what regard they have for their Satrap's word. And for his life." He grinned at Sorcor. "I believe we have several Jamaillian flags among our plunder. As the Lord High Magnadon Satrap of all Jamaillia is our guest, it is only fitting that we fly them in his honor."
Kennit rose from the table, abruptly a sea captain again. He gave his first mate a disdainful look. "Jola. Calm yourself. See that the Satrap's flag is added to our own, then have the men prepare themselves for battle. Sorcor, Red, I recommend you return to your ships and do likewise. I must consult with my ship and the serpents. Ah, yes. Our guests. Wintrow, make them comfortable and secure in Althea's room, will you? She and Jek will join them there until this is over."
He did not specifically command that they be locked in. Wintrow clutched that omission to himself. He would have a few moments with his sister.