Ship of Magic lt-1

by Robin Hobb

  The Marietta led the way, and Kennit had to admit to a grudging pride that the slaves-cum-sailors that were the main crew of the Fortune now did not shame him. They worked lively if not as skillfully as seasoned salts, bringing the big ship in and setting her anchors well. The Fortune was now flying the Raven flag that was known throughout all the pirate isles as Kennit's emblem. By the time both ships had their boats away, a curious crowd had gathered on the rickety wharves to gawk at the newcomers. The rag-tag community of former slaves and refugees boasted no ship of their own larger than a fishing boat. To see two merchant ships anchor in their harbor must make them wonder what tidings or goods they brought.

  Kennit was content to send Sorcor ashore with the news that they would be taking bids on the Fortune. He doubted that anyone in the ratty little town would have enough coin to have made the conquest worth his while, but he was determined simply to take the best offer and be rid of both the smelly ship and the slaves who had filled its hold. He did not permit himself to dwell on how much the cargo of men would have brought had he forced Sorcor to accept his wisdom and sail on to Chalced to sell them. That opportunity was lost; there was no point in dwelling on it.

  From the docks, a small flotilla of rowboats was suddenly set in motion, hastening towards the Fortune. The slaves already crowded the railings, awaiting their chance to disembark from their floating prison. Kennit had not expected the townsfolk to be so eager to welcome his riff-raff. Well, all to the better. The sooner the Fortune was unloaded and sold, the sooner he could be back to more profitable pursuits. He turned aside, to give the ship's boy a curt order that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. He had no immediate desire to visit Askew. Let the slaves go first, and Sorcor, to see what sort of welcome they might receive.

  Instead he spent several hours after they docked in perusing the fine charts that had been aboard the Fortune. Sorcor had completely overlooked the charts and papers that had been in a concealed cupboard in the captain's quarters. It was only when Kennit had finally decided to indulge his curiosity and pay a personal visit to the captured ship that they had been discovered. The papers were only of minimal interest to him, as they related only to the dead man's personal interests and properties. In passing he noticed that the slaver's wife and child had been well provided for. But the charts were another matter. In going over them, Kennit had noticed that his expectations were well founded. Charts were wealth. The information on them was often gained only at great cost, and was not casually shared with rival merchants or sailors. The slaver's charts showed only the obvious passage past the Pirate Isles. There were a few notes on rumors of other channels, but very little of the inland waterways of the islands had been charted. Seven pirate settlements were marked on the chart, two incorrectly and a third was a settlement long abandoned as too exposed to passing slaveships. Slavers saw no reason not to raid pirate settlements for extra cargo as they were passing through; it was one of Sorcor's grievances against them. Despite these obvious lacks, it was a painstaking chart of the main channel.

  For some time Kennit leaned back in his chair and gazed out at the high passing clouds and considered. He decided he could accept this chart as the current level of the slavers' knowledge of the Pirate Isles and the passages through it. So. If a man could gain control of the main channel, he could strangle all trade. Slaveships had not the leisure to explore, looking for alternate routes. Perhaps the same was true of the liveships. He tempted himself with that belief, then reluctantly shook his head. The liveships and their families had plied these waters for many years longer than the slavers had. The Chalcedean slave trade had largely created the pirates and their settlements. So he would have to assume that most Trader families who plied these waters would have belter knowledge of them than the slavers. Why had not that knowledge been shared? The answer was obvious. No Trader would willingly extend his own advantage to his competitors. He leaned back in his chair. So. What had he learned, really? Nothing he had not already known. Slavers would be easier to capture than liveships. But that did not mean that capturing a liveship would be impossible, only that he might have to give more thought to it.

  His mind strayed to the slaveship. It had been a ship of freed men for three days before he visited, and that had wrought some change in the level of stench, though not enough to placate Kennit's nose. He had given no real thought to it when he had put Rafo in charge of the ship, but he was acquitting himself well in his new position. Hundreds of buckets of seawater had been hauled aboard and the upper decks at least showed the benefit of it. But from the open hatch covers, a fetid stench welled up. There were simply too many live beings crowded aboard the vessel. They huddled in knots on the deck, bony limbs thrusting out of tattered rags. Some were endeavoring to help work the ship, others simply trying to stay out of the way. Some were engaged in the absorbing business of dying, interested in nothing else. As Kennit walked the length of the ship, a handkerchief held to his nose and mouth, the eyes of the slaves followed him. Every one of them spoke softly as he passed them. Eyes flooded with tears at his approach and heads were bowed before him. At first he had thought they groveled in terror of him. When he finally realized their murmurs were expressions of thanks and blessings upon him, he did not know whether to be amused or annoyed. Unsure of how to react to such a display, he resorted to his accustomed small smile, and made his way to what had been the quarters of the ship's officers.

  They had lived very well indeed, compared to the plight of the poor wretches who'd made up their cargo. He found he agreed with Sorcor's assessment of the captain's taste in clothing. In a whimsical moment, he had ordered it distributed to those of the slaves who could make best use of it. The man had smoking herbs in plenty also. Kennit wondered if he had not resorted to those to spare his own nose the stench of his cargo. It was an addiction Kennit had never succumbed to, so those, also, he ordered passed out among the slaves. He had next discovered the charts and papers in the dead man's quarters. These he appropriated to himself. There was little else in the cabin of interest to him. The very ordinariness of the man's possessions would have been a revelation to Sorcor, he thought to himself. This man had been no monster such as Sorcor had presumed, but simply an ordinary sea-captain and trader.

  Kennit had originally intended to inspect below decks as well, to see how sound the ship was, as well as to explore for any other valuables Sorcor might have missed. He descended the ladder into the hold and looked about him with watering eyes. Men, women, even some children, their eyes huge in their bony faces, were a haphazard clutter of limbs and bodies, stretching off into darkness. All faces turned towards him, and the lantern Rafo carried sent its light to dance in all those eyes. They reminded him of rats seen near midden heaps by night.

  “Why are they so thin?” he demanded suddenly of Rafo. “The journey from Jamaillia is not so long as to leave folk like bones, unless they were fed nothing at all.”

  Kennit was shocked to see Rafo's eyes narrow in sympathy. “Most of them had been in debtors' prison. Many are from the same village. Somehow they displeased the Satrap and he raised the taxes for their valley. When none of them could pay, all of them were rounded up to be sold as slaves. Almost the whole village, and not the first time such a thing had happened, from what they say. They were bought and held in pens and fed cheap until the folk trading in them had enough to make a full load. Simple folk like these are don't bring a high price, they say, so they try to haul a lot at once. The ship had to be packed full in order to ensure a decent profit.”

  The sailor lifted his lantern higher. Empty fetters dangled like strange cobwebs and curled on the floor like crushed snakes. Kennit realized he had only been aware of the first row of people staring at him. Behind him, others sprawled, crouched or sat in the darkness as far as his eyes could reach. Other than the slaves, the hold was empty. Bare planking. A few wisps of soiled straw caught in corners suggested discarded bedding. The inside of the ship, too, had been sloshed and scrubbed with seawater,
but the urine-soaked wood and the noisome bilge in the depths would not give up its evil odor. The ammoniac stench made the tears roll freely down his cheeks. He ignored them and hoped they were not noticeable in the dimness. By gritting his teeth and breathing shallowly, he was able to keep from gagging. He wanted nothing so much as to be out of there, but he forced himself to pace the length of the hold.

  The wretches drew closer as he passed, murmuring among themselves. It set the hair up on the back of his neck, but he refused to look behind to see how closely they followed him. One woman, braver or stupider than the rest, stepped in front of him. She suddenly offered him the bundle of rags she clutched. Against his will, he peered at it, to see the babe within. “Born on this ship,” she said hoarsely. “Born into slavery, but freed by you.” Her finger touched the bluish X that some diligent slaver had already marked beside the child's nose. She looked up at him again, a sort of fierceness in her eyes. “What could I ever offer you in thanks?”

  Kennit could feel his control over his rising gorge slipping. The thought of the only thing she might offer him made his flesh crawl. The breath of her mouth smelled of rotting teeth loose in her gums. He bared his own teeth for a moment, a parody of a smile. “Name the child Sorcor. For me,” he suggested in a choked voice. She seemed to miss the sarcasm in his voice, for she blessed him as she stepped back, beaming and clutching the skinny infant. The rest of the crowd jostled stiflingly closer, and several voices were lifted. “Captain Kennit, Captain Kennit!” He forced himself to stand his ground and not retreat. Instead he motioned to the sailor preceding him with the lantern, and then commanded in a wheeze, “Enough. I have seen enough.” He was not able to keep the distress from his voice. He clutched his scented handkerchief to his face and ascended the closest ladder rapidly.

  On deck it took him a moment to regain control of his heaving gut. He set his face and stared off at the horizon until he was sure he would not disgrace himself with any show of weakness. He forced himself to consider this prize Sorcor had won for him. The ship had appeared sound enough, but he'd never get a decent price for her, not if the buyer had a nose at all. “A waste,” he growled, furious. “Such a waste!” He summarily ordered the gig to return him to the Marietta. It was then he had decided to head for Askew. If the ship was not going to bring a good price, then at least he would be rid of it soon, and able to go on with other things.

  It was late afternoon before he decided to visit Askew himself. It would be amusing, he thought, to see both how his freed slaves were reacting to the town, and how the town was welcoming this sudden influx of population. Perhaps by now Sorcor would have seen the folly of his beneficence.

  He made his will known to the ship's boy, who speedily passed the word. By the time he had smoothed his hair, settled his hat and emerged from his cabin, the ship's gig was readied to be lowered. The sailors who were to man her were as eager as dogs invited for a walk. Any town, any shoreside trip was a welcome diversion to them. Despite the brevity of the notice he had given, every man jack of them had found time to don a cleaner shirt. From their anchorage to the docks of Askew was but a few minutes of their diligent rowing. Kennit silently ignored the grins the men exchanged. They tied up at the base of the dock, and he ascended the rickety ladder to the top and then awaited his men while he wiped the slime from his fingers with his handkerchief. As if he were passing out sweetmeats to children, he drew a handful of small coins from his coat pocket. It was enough for a round of small beer for all of them. He entrusted it to the man in charge, with the nebulous warning, “Be here and ready when I come back. Don't make me wait.”

  The men clustered in a circle about them. Gankis spoke for them. “Cap'n. You don't need to do that. After what you done, we'd be waiting here for you if every demon of the deep was after us.”

  The sudden outpouring of devotion from the old pirate took Kennit aback. He could think of nothing he had done for them lately that should merit this sudden affection. In an odd way it touched him as much as it amused him. “Well. No sense waiting thirsty, boys. Do be here, though.”

  “No, sir, Cap'n, that we won't. Promise to be here, every one of us.” The man who spoke grinned so that his old tattoo crawled and danced across his face. Turning his back on them, Kennit proceeded up the docks and towards the heart of town. Behind him, he could hear the men arguing as to how they could best enjoy their beer and still be back awaiting him on time. It pleased him to set them these little dilemmas. Perhaps it even sharpened their wits. In the meantime, he set his own wits as to puzzling out what he had done to please them. Had there been booty on the other boat that Sorcor had not informed him about? Promises of favors from the women that had been among the slaves? Suspicions, never long absent from Kennit's thoughts, suddenly took over. It might be very revealing to find out where Sorcor was right now and what he was doing. That he had let the men believe such largesse had come from the captain did not excuse him for passing it out without making Kennit aware of it.

  He made his way down the main street of the small town. There were but two taverns in the town; if Sorcor was not in one, it was likely he was in the other. As it turned out, he was in neither. In what looked like a jubilant celebration, the entire population of the town seemed to be gathered in the street between the two taverns. Tables and benches had been dragged out into the light of day, and kegs rolled out and broached in the street. Kennit's suspicions became even darker. This sort of jubilation usually bespoke coins by the handful, lavishly doled. He put a knowing look upon his face, accompanied by a small, tight smile. Whatever was going on here, he must appear to be informed of it, or be a fool before all.

  “Say nothing. Trust your luck,” chided a tiny voice. The charm at his wrist had a tiny melodic laugh, unnerving in its sweetness. “Above all, show no fear. Luck such as yours has no patience with fear.” Again, the laugh.

  He dared not lift his wrist nor gaze at his token. Not in public. Nor was there time to seek a quieter spot to confer with it, for at that moment the crowd became aware of him. “Kennit!” cried a voice aloud. “Captain Kennit! Kennit!” Others took up the cry until the summer air rang with his name. Like a beast stirred from licking itself, the mob turned faces towards him and then surged at him like an oncoming wave.

  “Courage. And smile!” taunted the wizardwood face.

  He himself felt his sardonic grin was set in ice upon his features. His heart pounded and the sweat started down his back at the sight of the mob coming towards him, fists and mugs raised to the sky. But they could not see that. No. All they would see as they closed on him was that small smile and how straight and fearless he stood as they engulfed him. A bluff, perhaps, but a bluff only worked so long as the user believed it would. In vain he tried to pick out Sorcor's face in that oncoming wave of humanity. He wanted to find him, and, if necessity dictated it, make sure he at least died before Kennit did.

  Instead the folk ringed him, their faces flushed red with both drink and apparent triumph. None, as yet, dared to touch him. They stood a respectful distance from his fists and every eye was on him. He let his gaze rove over them, looking for a weakness or for the aggressor who would strike the first blow. Instead a burly woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd ringing him, to stand before him, her meaty fists on her generous hips. “I'm Tayella,” she announced in a clear and powerful voice. “I run Askew.” Her eyes met his as if he might challenge that declaration. Then, to his astonishment, her eyes flooded suddenly with tears. They spilled unabashedly down her cheeks as she added in a voice that suddenly broke, “And I tell you that anything here is yours, yours for the asking. Anything, anytime. For you have brought us our own, whom we never thought to see again!”

  Trust the luck. He returned her smile, and with his most gallant bow and silent heartfelt regrets for the wasted lace, offered her his handkerchief. She took it from him as if it were embroidered with gold. “How did you know?” she asked brokenly. “How could you have guessed? One and all, we were asto
nished.”

  “I have my ways,” he assured her. He wondered what it was he was supposed to have known. But he did not ask, did not even flinch when her hand fell on his shoulder with a whack surely meant to be welcoming.

  “Set out a fresh table and all our best. Make way for Captain Kennit! Bless the man who delivered our kin and our neighbors from slavers, and brought them here to join us in freedom and a new life. Bless the man!”

  They swept him forward in a triumphant wave, to seat him at a sticky table and then heap it high with baked fish and some kind of starchy cakes made from a pounded root. A bucket of clam soup thickened with sea weed completed the festive meal. Tayella joined him there, to pour him a wooden bowl of a wine they had contrived from a sour berry. He supposed that as it was the only wine in the town, it was also the best. He tried a sip of it and managed not to wince. Tayella seemed to have had a quantity of it already. He judged it most politic to sip at his wine and let her regale him with the town's history. He scarcely glanced at the man when Sorcor came to join them. The swarthy old dog looked chastened, somehow. Humbled with amazement. To Kennit's appalled amusement, he carried the swaddled child marked with the X. The mother hovered not far away.

  Tayella rose, to clamber up on top of the table and address the company at large.

  “Twelve long years ago,” she intoned, “we were brought here. In chains and sick and half dead, some of us. The ocean blessed us with a storm like to a hurricane. Shoved the ship right up this channel, where no slaver had ever come before or since, and run her aground. The pounding the ship took loosened a lot of things. Including a staple that secured a whole string of slave fetters. Even with our hands and feet still bound, we killed those Chalcedean bastards. And we freed our companions and we made this place our own. Not such a great place, no, but once anyone's been in the hold of a slaver, anywhere else is Sa's own paradise. We learned to live here, we learned to use the ship's boats to fish, in time we even ventured out to let others know we were here. But we knew we could never go home. Our families, our village were lost to us forever.” She turned suddenly to point down at Kennit. “Until you brought it back to us today.”