by Robin Hobb
She felt his gaze on her head, searching for signs of her scar. He answered her callously. "He's being foolish. He takes no harm from a little rain. I do not see where it is your concern."
"You, sir, are being more foolish than he." She spoke boldly, no longer caring if she gave offense. "Forget my concern. Consider your own. Whatever pleasure you take from making him miserable is not worth what you will lose. If you wish the captains of that fleet to see him as valuable, then you should treat him as the Lord High Magnadon, Satrap of all Jamaillia. If you think to bargain him for riches, that is who you must be holding. Not a wet, cranky, miserable boy."
Her eyes flickered once from Kennit's pale blue ones to those of his woman. To her surprise, she looked faintly amused, almost approving. Did Kennit sense that? He looked at Malta but spoke to his woman. "Etta. See what you can manage for him. I wish him to be very visible."
"I can arrange that." The woman had a soft contralto voice, more refined than Malta had expected from a pirate's woman. There was intelligence in her glance.
Malta met her gaze frankly, and dropped her a curtsey as she said, "My gratitude to you, lady."
She followed Etta from the foredeck and kept up with her. The wind had stirred a nasty little chop and the wet deck was unsteady, but in her days aboard the Motley, she had finally found her sea legs. She amazed herself. Despite all that was wrong in her life, she took pride in being able to move well on her father's ship. Her father. Resolutely, she banished all thoughts of him. Nor would she dwell on Reyn, so close that she could feel his presence. Eventually, she must stand before him, ruined and scarred, and face the disappointment in those extraordinary copper eyes. She shook her head and clenched her teeth against the sting of tears in her eyes. Not now. She would not feel anything for herself just now. All her thoughts and efforts must go into restoring the Satrap to his throne. She tried to think clearly as she followed Etta into her father's stateroom.
The room was as Malta recalled it from her grandfather's days as captain on Vivacia. She looked in anguish at the familiar furnishings. With a flourish, Etta threw open a richly carved cedar chest. It was layered with garments in fabrics both sumptuous and colorful. At any other time, Malta would have been seized with envy and curiosity. Now she stood and stared sightlessly across the room as Etta dug through it.
"Here. This will serve. It will be large on him, but if we seat him in a chair, no one will notice." She dragged out a heavy scarlet cloak trimmed with jet beads. "Kennit said it was too gaudy, but I still think he would look very fine in it."
"Undoubtedly," Malta agreed without expression. Personally, she felt it little mattered how a rapist dressed once you knew what he was.
Etta stood, the rich fabric draped over her arm. "The hood is lined with fur," she pointed out. Abruptly she asked, "What are you thinking?"
There was no point in flinging harsh words at this woman. Wintrow had said that Etta knew what Kennit was. Somehow, she had come to terms with it. Who was she to criticize Etta's loyalty? She must find Malta as craven for serving the Satrap. "I was wondering if Kennit has thought this through. I believe an alliance of Jamaillian nobles sought to have the Satrap die in Bingtown so they could blame the Traders for his murder and plunder our town. Are these nobles in this fleet of ships loyal to the Satrap and intent on his rescue? Or are they traitors hoping to finish what was begun in Bingtown? As well blame the Pirate Isles as Bingtown. Or both." She knit her brows, thinking. "They may have more interest in provoking Kennit to kill the Satrap than in saving him."
"I am sure Kennit has considered everything," Etta replied stiffly. "He is not a man like other men. He sees far, and in times of great danger, he manifests great powers. I know you must doubt me, but all you need do is ask your brother. He has seen Kennit calm a storm and command serpents to serve him. Wintrow himself was cured of serpent scald at Kennit's hand, yes, and had the tattoo that his own father placed on his cheek erased by his captain." Etta met Malta's skeptical gaze unwaveringly. "Perhaps a man like that does not have to abide by ordinary rules," she went on. "Perhaps his own vision prompts him to do things forbidden to other men."
Malta cocked her head at the pirate's woman. "Are we still talking about negotiating to restore the Satrap to the throne?" she asked. "Or do you seek to excuse what he did to my father?" And my aunt, she added silently to herself.
"Your father's behavior needs more excuses than Kennit's," Etta returned coldly. "Ask Wintrow what it is like to wear slave chains and a tattoo. Your father got what he deserved."
"Perhaps we all get what we deserve," Malta returned sharply. Her eyes swept up and down Etta, and she saw the woman flush with anger. She experienced a moment's remorse when she glimpsed sudden, unmasked pain in Etta's eyes.
"Perhaps we do," the woman replied coldly. "Bring that chair."
It was, Malta thought as she hefted the heavy chair, a petty revenge. She carried it awkwardly, knocking her shins against its thick rungs as she walked.
Reyn Khuprus stood well back from the foredeck where he could observe without being seen. He watched Malta. The veil obscured his view, but he stared hungrily at her anyway. What he saw pained him, but he could not look away. She smiled at the Satrap as she set a chair in place for him. She turned to the tall woman beside her and indicated with pleasure the scarlet cloak she carried. The Satrap's face did not lose its proud cast. He lifted his chin to her. What came next was like a knife turning in Reyn. Malta unfastened his wet cloak for him, smiling warmly all the while. He could not hear the words, but her tender concern showed on her face. She cast the wet cloak carelessly aside, and then hastened to wrap the Satrap in the grand red cloak. She pulled the hood up well and fastened it warmly around him. With light touches of her hand, she gently pushed the damp locks back from the Satrap's forehead and cheeks. When the Satrap seated himself, she fussed with the fall of the cloak, even going down on one knee to adjust the folds of it.
There was fondness in her every touch. He could not blame her. The Satrap with his pale, patrician countenance and lordly ways was a far more fitting match for Malta Vestrit than a scaled and battered Rain Wilder. With a pang, he recalled that the man had shared the first dance with her at her Presentation Ball. Had her heart begun to turn to him even then? She moved to stand behind the Satrap's chair, and set her hands familiarly to the top of it. The trials they had endured together would undoubtedly have bonded them. What man could long resist Malta's charm and beauty? No doubt, the Satrap felt great gratitude as well; he could not have survived on his own.
Reyn felt as if his heart had vanished from his chest, leaving a gaping hole behind. No wonder she had fled the sight of him. He swallowed hard. She had not even had a word of greeting for him, even as a friend. Did she fear he would hold her to her promise? Did she fear he would humiliate her before the Satrap? He bathed in the pain of watching them. She would never again be his.
Althea had helped her niece hoist the heavy chair up to the foredeck. She thought it a foolish bit of show herself, but none of this made any sense to her. They were all trapped in Kennit's ridiculous and dangerous display of strength. She watched Malta take the Satrap's wet cloak from his shoulders and wrap him warmly in the fresh one. She pulled the hood well up as if the man were Selden. When he had seated himself in his makeshift throne, she even tucked the cloak more snugly about his feet and legs. It pained her to watch Malta do such humble service. It stung her worse that Kennit watched the whole performance with a snide little smile on his face.
Hatred so hot it tinged her vision red rushed through her. She actually gasped for breath as her nails bit deep into her palms. She leaned back against the ship's rail and concentrated on letting it pass through her.
"You want to kill him that badly," the ship observed quietly. The comment seemed intended for her alone, yet Althea saw Kennit turn slightly to the words. He raised one eyebrow in a slight, mocking query.
"Yes. I do." She let him read the words on her lips.
&
nbsp; Kennit gave his head a sorrowful little shake. Then he put his attention back on a small ship that was drawing steadily closer to them. It came sluggishly through the darkening afternoon. Kennit wondered if it had taken damage in the serpent attack. An array of impressively garbed men stood on its deck staring toward them. Most of them looked portly beneath their rich cloaks. Sailors stood ready on deck to assist their betters to cross to Vivacia. A smile crooked his lips. It would be amusing if it began to sink while it was alongside. "Perhaps I should have dressed for the occasion," he observed aloud to Etta. "Just as well that we have decked our Satrap so royally. Maybe clothing is all they can recognize." He folded his arms on his chest and grinned expectantly. "Toss some heaving-lines, Jola. Let's see what catch they bring us."
"There they are," Malta went on in an undertone to the Satrap. "Sit tall and regal. Do you recognize any of them? Do you think they are loyal to you?"
He eyed his nobles sullenly. "I know old Lord Criath's colors. He was most enthusiastic about my journey north, yet declined to join me because sea travel pains his joints. Yet, look how easily he crosses to our deck, and how tall he stands. He scarcely needs the man who hands him across. The fifth man, he who comes now, he wears the colors of house Ferdio, but Lord Ferdio is a small, slight man. This must be a stouter, taller son of his. The others… I cannot tell. They are so well hooded and hatted, their collars pulled so high, I scarce can see their faces—"
Malta suspected it, an instant before anyone else did. She glanced past the men boarding the Vivacia. On the deck of the other ship, sailors assisted their leaders to cross. Many surly, glaring sailors, all cloaked against the day's cold. Too many?
"Ware treachery!" she shouted suddenly. Her cry forced them to act, perhaps sooner than they had planned. Some finely dressed men remained on the other ship, but at Malta's cry, all flung aside their cloaks, sailors as well as counterfeit nobles. Their weapons came into view, as did the garb of common fighting men. With a roar, the sailors who had been «assisting» their cohorts flung themselves across the gap that separated the ships. More men appeared from belowdecks, a flood of fighters leaping across, blades in hand.
Kennit's men, never trusting souls, sprang to meet them. In an instant, the main deck of the Vivacia was a melee of struggling men and flashing blades. Everywhere Malta turned, there was chaos. Kennit stood, sword drawn, barking orders about cutting lines and pushing off, while Etta guarded his back with both a sword and a shorter blade. Even Wintrow, her gentle brother, had drawn a knife and stood ready to repel any who tried to come up onto the foredeck. Jek and Althea, empty-handed, had moved to back him. All this, in the merest blinking of an eye.
Horror transfixed the Satrap. He shrank back in his chair, even drawing his feet up from the deck. Malta stood helplessly beside him. "Protect me," he cried shrilly, "protect me, they've come to kill me, I know they have." He seized her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. He sprang to his feet, stumbling on the too-long cloak, and pulled her in front of him. "Guard me, guard me!" he pleaded. He dragged her away from the chair to the point of the bow and huddled there, clutching her wrist.
Malta struggled desperately to break free. She needed to see what was happening on the main deck. "Let me go!" she cried but he was too frightened to heed her. More men were pouring over from the other vessel.
There was a great crash as Jek snatched up the Satrap's chair and smashed it on the deck. She seized one leg of it, and tossed another carved leg to Althea. She was grinning wildly; the woman was crazy. "Malta!" she shouted, and Malta ducked as the woman flung a heavy rung from the chair at her. "Use this!" Then she sprang back to the ladder, clubbing savagely at the men who had nearly gained the foredeck. Althea joined her. Wintrow had taken up a position near Kennit, who was shouting orders to his men.
Malta threw her head back and stared wildly around her. The other ships of the Jamaillian fleet were drawing near. She caught a glimpse of the Marietta charging down on them. She could not see the Motley, but she doubted it had fled. She glimpsed another ship, coming swiftly, not flying Jamaillian colors. Had another pirate ship chanced upon the fray? Then she saw the figurehead move.
"A liveship comes! A Bingtown ship comes to our aid!" Malta shouted the news, but no one paid any heed.
The Satrap had hold of her shoulder. Now he shook her frantically. "Get me below, take me to safety. You must protect me."
"Let me go!" she cried desperately. "I can't protect you if you cling to me like this." She strained against his grip and managed to reach the rung Jek had thrown. She hefted it in her hand, but didn't feel any safer.
"We have no idea what we're charging into!" Amber shouted up to him.
"We know Althea's on that ship!" Brashen bellowed angrily as he clambered down the mast. "We can't hold back here and do nothing while the Jamaillians take the Vivacia. I don't trust them any more than I do Kennit. She may be killed, or captured. I've no desire to see Althea with a slave tattoo across her cheek. So let's try to turn this to our advantage." He sprang to the deck. "Semoy! Break out the weapons!"
Semoy came on the run. "Right away, Captain. But you ought to tell the men who we're fighting."
Brashen grinned, wild and reckless. "Anyone that gets between us and Althea!"
A surprising bellow burst suddenly from Paragon. "But save Kennit for me!"
The battle, confined to the main deck of the Vivacia, suddenly shifted. The sheer pressure of men pouring over from the Jamaillian ship was turning the tide. In horror, Malta saw Jek pulled down. Althea dove into the melee after her. As she vanished, a wave of Jamaillian warriors came up over the lip of the deck. She had one glimpse of Wintrow, Etta and Kennit, all in a tight group, fighting for their lives.
"Here he is!" roared a Jamaillian sailor as he leapt up to her. She swung her rung at him. It hit his sword arm, but he simply shifted his arm so the blow was glancing. With his free hand, he snatched the rung out of her grip as easily as taking a toy from a child. He roared with laughter and pushed her aside. His push and the Satrap clinging to her sent her sprawling. The man grabbed the Satrap by the back of his collar, shook him free of his grip on Malta. When she snatched at the Satrap, the fighter held him out of her reach and drew his sword back to plunge it into Malta, then stared in sudden disbelief at a sword tip standing out from his chest. Behind him, a tall man roared his fury. He jerked both sword and victim back and away from Malta. He shoved the dead man into his comrades, pulling the sword out as he did so.
"Get down! Be small!" Reyn shouted at her furiously, and then he turned his back to her. His copper eyes flashed through his tattered veil. She had a glimpse of his left sleeve, sodden with blood. Then three men flung themselves at him and he went down before her very eyes.
"Reyn! No!" she cried and tried to spring forward, but the Satrap was a clinging, shrieking weight behind her. He latched onto her shoulders like a limpet, gibbering and weeping. A man seized her by the hair and flung her aside. With a wild laugh, he sprang on the Satrap as if he were a child seizing a cornered puppy. "I have him!" he roared. "I have him!"
Malta jerked her head aside to avoid a kick. It glanced off her skull, dazing her for an instant. It was not deliberate. Now that they had the Satrap, no one was interested in her anymore. She saw him picked up like a sack of meal and flung to a man's shoulder. He bore him away, roaring his triumph. The battle parted for him and receded after him. The boarders had what they had come for and now they were leaving. She had one glimpse of the Satrap's white face, his mouth and eyes wide with terror. She could not see Reyn anywhere. She scrabbled to her knees and stared wildly about. The Satrap was toted across a deck where dead men sprawled amongst the rolling, groaning wounded. The pirates who still fought were in defensive positions, battling for their own lives, unable to spring to his rescue.
The Satrap was an annoying, useless person, but she had cared for him like a child. Day and night, she had been at his side. It smote her heart to see him being borne off to his death. "Mal
ta!" he cried, and his one free hand strained toward her.
"The Satrap!" she shouted uselessly. "They have taken him! Save him, save him!" No one could answer her cry for help. As his captors bore him off, the other Jamaillian warriors fell back around him, grinning and shouting with triumph. As the focus of the battle shifted, Malta caught a glimpse of Althea. She had taken a blade from someone. She made an abortive attempt to break free of the knot of fighters that engaged her, but Jek dragged her back.
"He's not worth your life!" the tall woman shouted at her. Her blonde tail of hair dripped blood.
Then, from a tangle of bodies on the deck, Reyn reared up. Malta shrieked aloud with joy at the sight of him. When he had gone down, she had given him up for dead. "Reyn!" she cried, and then as he snatched up a blade and staggered after the Satrap's captors, she screamed, "No! No, come back, don't, Reyn!"
He did not get far. A wounded man clutched at him as he dashed past and Reyn fell solidly to the deck. Malta staggered to her feet. Reyn was all she could see. He grappled with the man who had dragged him down. The other man had a knife, already reddened with blood. Heedless of all else, Malta flung herself toward the struggling men.
"Let me go!" Althea tried to break Jek's grip, but her friend was relentless.
"No! Let him go. They've taken him onto their deck. Will you take the fight there, where the odds are even worse? We've lost him, Althea, at least for now!"
Althea knew she was right. The man carrying the Satrap had caught a dangling line and swung across to the other ship's deck. The Jamaillian sailors were retreating in triumph, cutting the lines that had bound the ships together during the short, fierce fighting. As swiftly as they had come, they left, taking the Satrap with them.
Althea saw Reyn's curtailed charge. She thought he would get up, but before he could scrabble to his feet, an unlikely savior sprang to the Satrap's rescue. With a wild cry of fury, Kennit sprang from between Etta and Wintrow and into the fray. "Don't let them take him!" he roared angrily. He had a short blade in one hand and his crutch gripped under his other arm. She did not expect him to get more than a few steps, but he swung his way across the deck, loping from foot to crutch with a grace that amazed her. "To me!" Kennit roared as he ran. Loyal pirates closed in behind him. Etta and Wintrow sprang after him, but others had filled the gap. They were cut off from him.