скачать книгу бесплатно
‘Then how can you even bring such an offer here?’ she demanded hotly.
‘Because half of Bingtown knows how desperate things have become for you. Look here, woman. You haven’t the capital to hire the workers to farm those lands properly. Fullerjon does. And buying them would increase his land ownership to the point where he’d be qualified to petition for a seat on the Bingtown Council. Between the two of us, I think that’s all he’s really after anyway. It needn’t be your bottom lands, though that is what he’d like. Offer him something else; he’ll probably buy it from you.’ Davad leaned back with a dissatisfied look on his face. ‘Sell him the wheat fields. You can’t work them properly anyway.’
‘And he can gain a seat on the Bingtown Council. So he can vote to bring slaves to Bingtown. And work the lands I’ve sold him with slaves and sell the grain he grows cheaper than I can compete with. Or you, for that matter, or any other honest Trader. Davad Restart, use your mind. This offer not only asks me to betray the Vestrit family, but all of us. We’ve enough greedy little merchants on the Bingtown Council already. The Old Traders’ Council is barely able to keep them in check. I shan’t be the one to sell land and a council seat to another latecomer upstart.’
Davad started to speak, then visibly controlled himself. He folded his small hands on his lap. ‘It’s going to happen, Ronica.’ She heard true regret in his voice. ‘The day of the Old Traders is fading. The wars and the pirates bit into us too deeply. And now that the wars are mostly over, these merchants have come, swarming over us like fleas on a dying rabbit. They’ll suck us dry. We need their money in order to recover, so they force us to sell cheap what cost us so dear in blood and children.’ For a moment his voice faltered. Ronica suddenly recalled that the year of the Blood Plague had carried off all his children as well as left him a widower. He had never remarried.
‘It’s going to happen, Ronica,’ he repeated. ‘And those of us who survive will be the ones who have learned to adapt. When our families first settled Bingtown, they were poor and hungry and oh so adaptable. We’ve lost that. We’ve become what we fled. Fat and traditionalist and desperate to hang on to our monopolies. The only reason we despise the new merchants who have started moving in is that they remind us so much of ourselves. Or rather of our great-great-grandparents, and the tales we’ve heard of them.’
For a moment, Ronica almost felt inclined to agree with him. Then she felt a rush of anger. ‘They are nothing like the original Traders! They were wolves, these are eye-picking carrion birds! When the first Carrock set foot on this shore, he risked everything. He sold all he had for his ship-share, and mortgaged half of whatever he might gain for the next twenty years to the Satrap. And for what? For a grant of land and a guarantee of a share in the monopoly. What land? Why, whatever acreage he could claim. What monopoly? Why, on whatever goods he might discover that would be worth trading in. And where was this wonderful bargain granted to him? On a stretch of coast that for hundreds of years had been known as the Cursed Shores, a place where even the gods themselves did not claim dominion. And what did they find here? Diseases unknown before, strangeness that drove men mad overnight, and the doom that half our children are born not quite human.’
Davad suddenly went pale and made shushing motions with his hands. But Ronica was relentless.
‘Do you know what it does to a woman, Davad, to carry something inside her for nine months, not knowing if it’s the child and heir they’ve been praying for, or if it’s a malformed monster that her husband must strangle with his own hands? Or something in between? You must know what it does to a man. As I recall, your Dorill was pregnant three times yet you only had two children.’
‘And the Blood Plague carried them all off,’ Davad admitted brokenly. He suddenly lowered his face into his hands and Ronica was sorry, sorry for all she had said, and sorry for this pathetic shell of a man who had no wife to tell him to relace his tunic and scold the tailor for badly-fitting trousers. She was sorry for all of them, born in Bingtown to die in Bingtown, and in between to carry on the curse-plagued bargain their forebears had struck. Perhaps the worst part of that bargain was that one and all, they had come to love Bingtown and the surrounding green hills and valleys. Verdant as a jungle, soil black and rich in the hand, crystal water in the streams, and abundant game in the forests, it offered them wealth beyond the dreams of the sea-weary and draggled immigrants who had first been brave enough to anchor in the Bingtown harbour. In the end, the real contract had been made, not with the Satrap who nominally claimed these shores, but with the land itself. Beauty and fertility balanced with disease and death.
And something more, she admitted to herself. There was something in calling oneself a Bingtown Trader, in not only braving all the strangeness that came down the Rain River, but claiming it for one’s own. The first Traders had tried to establish their settlement at the mouth of the Rain River itself. They had built their homes on the river’s edge, using the roots of the stilt-trees as foundations for their cottages, and stringing bridges from home to home. The rising and falling river had rushed by beneath their floors and the wild storm winds had rocked their tree-houses at night. Sometimes the very earth itself would heave and tremble, and then the river might suddenly run milky white and deadly, for a day or a month. For two years the settlers had abided there, despite insects and fevers and the swift river that devoured anything that fell into it. Yet it had not been those hardships, but the strangeness that had finally driven them away. The little company of Traders had been pushed south by death and disease and the odd panics that might strike a woman as she kneaded the bread, the furies of self-destruction that could come on a man gathering wood and send him leaping into the river. Of three hundred and seven households that had been the original Traders, sixty-two families had survived that first three years. Even now, from Bingtown to the mouth of the Rain River there stretched a trail of abandoned townsites that marked the path of their attempts at settlement. Finally, here in Bingtown, on the shores of Trader Bay, they had found a tolerable distance from the Rain River and all that flowed down it. Of those families that had chosen to remain as settlers on the Rain River, the less said the better. The Rain Wild Traders were kin and a necessary part of all Bingtown was. She acknowledged that. Still.
‘Davad?’ She reached across Ephron to touch their old friend’s arm gently. ‘I’m sorry. I spoke too roughly, of things better left unmentioned.’
‘It’s all right,’ he lied into his hands. He lifted a pale face to meet her eyes. ‘What we Traders do not speak of amongst ourselves is common talk among these newcomers. Have not you noticed how few bring their wives and daughters with them? They do not come here to settle. They will buy land, yes, and sit on the Council and wring wealth out of Bingtown, but in between they will sail back to Jamaillia. That is where they will wed and keep their wives, where their children will be born, that is where they will go to spend their ageing years and send but a son or two here to manage things.’ He snorted disdainfully. ‘The Three-Ships Immigrants I could respect. They came here, and when we honestly told them what price this sanctuary would cost them, they still stayed. But this wave of newcomers arrive hoping only to reap the harvest we have watered with our blood.’
‘The Satrap is as much to blame as they are,’ Ronica agreed. ‘He has broken the word that was given to us by Esclepius, his forebear. It was sworn to us that he would make no more grants of land to newcomers, save that our Council approved it. The Three-Ships Immigrants came with empty hands, but willing backs, and they have become a part of us. But this latest wave come clutching land grants and claim their leffers with no regard for who or what it harms. Felco Treeves claimed his land on the hillsides above Trader Drur’s beer valley, and put cattle to graze on it. Now Drur’s springs that flowed so clear are yellow as cow’s piss, and his beer is scarcely drinkable. And when Trudo Fells came, he claimed as his own the forest where all had been free to cut firewood and oak for furniture, and…’
‘I know, I know it all,’ Davad cut in wearily. ‘Ronica, there is naught but bitterness in chewing these thoughts again. And there is no good in pretending that things will go back to how they once were. They will not. This is but the first wave of change. We can either ride over the wave, or be swamped by it. Don’t you think the Satrap will sell other grants of lands, once it is seen that these newcomers prosper? More will come. The only way to deal with them is to adapt to them. Learn from them, if we must – and take up their ways where we must.’
‘Aye.’ Ephron’s voice was like a rusted hinge breaking free. ‘We can learn to like slavery so well that we do not care when our grandchildren may become slaves because of a year’s debts mounting too high. And as for the sea serpents that the slave-ships lure into our waters, chumming them along with the bodies they throw overboard, well, we can welcome them right into Trader Bay and never need the bone-yard again.’
It was a long speech for a sick man. He stopped to breathe. At the first sign of his wakening, Ronica had arisen to fetch the poppy milk. She drew the stopper from the heavy brown bottle, but Ephron slowly shook his head. ‘Not yet,’ he told her. He breathed for a moment before he repeated, ‘Not just yet.’ He turned his weary gaze to Davad, whose tactless dismay at Ephron’s weakness was writ large on his face. Ephron gave a feeble cough.
Davad bent his face into an attempt at a smile. ‘It’s good to see you awake, Ephron. I hope our conversation didn’t disturb you.’
For a moment or two Ephron just stared at the man. Then, with the casual rudeness of the truly ill, he ignored him. His dull eyes focused on his wife. ‘Any word of the Vivacia?’ he asked. He asked the question as a starving man might ask for food.
Ronica shook her head reluctantly as she set the poppy milk down. ‘But she should not be much longer. We have had word from the monastery that Wintrow is on his way home to us.’ She offered these last words brightly, but Ephron only turned his head slowly against the pillow.
‘What will he do? Look solemn and beg an offering for his monastery before he leaves? I gave up on that boy when his mother sacrificed him to Sa.’ Ephron closed his eyes and breathed for a time. He did not open his eyes before he spoke again. ‘Damn that Kyle. He should have been back weeks ago… unless he’s taken her to the bottom, and Althea, too. I knew I should have put the ship in Brashen’s hands. Kyle’s a good enough captain, but it takes Trader blood to truly feel the ways of a liveship.’
Ronica felt the blush rise in her cheeks. It shamed her to have her husband speak so of their son-in-law in Davad’s presence. ‘Are you hungry, Ephron? Or thirsty?’ she asked to change the subject.
‘Neither.’ He coughed. ‘I’m dying. And I’d like my damned ship here so I can die on her decks and quicken her, so my whole damned life won’t have been for nothing. That’s not much to ask for, is it? That the dream that I was born to fulfil should be played out as I’ve always planned it?’ He took a ragged breath. ‘The poppy, Ronica. The poppy now.’
She measured the syrupy medicine into a spoon. She held it to Ephron’s mouth and he swallowed it without complaint. Afterwards he took a breath and motioned at his water jug. He drank from the cup in small sips, then lay back against his pillows with a wheezing sigh. Already the lines on his forehead were loosening, his mouth getting slacker. His eyes wandered to Davad, but it was not to him he spoke.
‘Don’t sell anything, my love. Bide your time as best you can. Let me but die on the decks of my ship, and I’ll see the Vivacia serves you well. She and I will cut the waves as no ship ever has before, swift and true. You’ll lack for nothing, Ronica. I promise you. Just stay your course, and all will go well.’
His voice was winding down, going deeper and slower on each word. She held her own breath as he took another gulp of air. ‘Hold your course,’ he repeated, but she did not think he spoke to her. Perhaps the poppy had already carried his dreaming mind back to the deck of his beloved ship.
She felt the hated tears rising and fought them back. They struggled against her determination, choking her until the pain in her throat almost stopped her breath. She gave a sideways glance at Davad. He hadn’t the courtesy to turn his stare away, but at least he had the grace to be uncomfortable. ‘His ship,’ she found herself saying bitterly. ‘Always his damned ship; that was all he ever cared about.’ She wondered why she would rather that Davad believed she cried over that instead of Ephron’s death. She sniffed, horribly loud, then gave in and found her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
‘I should be going,’ Davad realized belatedly.
‘Must you?’ Ronica heard herself replying reflexively. She found the discipline appropriate to her position. ‘Thank you so much for dropping in. Let me at least walk you to the door,’ she added, before Davad could change his mind about leaving.
She rose and tugged a light cover over Ephron. He muttered something about the topsail. Davad took her arm as they left the sickroom, and she forced herself to tolerate that courtesy. She blinked as she left the dimness of the sickroom behind her. She had always been proud of her bright and airy home; now the clear sunlight that flooded in the generous windows seemed harsh and glaring. She averted her eyes from the atrium as they passed it. Once it had been her pride and joy; now, bereft of her attentions, it was a desolate wasteland of browning vines and sprawling, straggling plant life. She tried to promise herself that after Ephron had finished dying she’d have time to attend to it once again, but suddenly that thought seemed vile and traitorous, as if she were hoping her husband would soon die so that she could take care of her garden.
‘You are quiet,’ Davad observed bluntly. In truth, she had forgotten him despite his arm linked with hers.
Before she could formulate a polite apology, he added gruffly, ‘But as I recall, when Dorill died, there was really nothing left to talk about to anyone.’ He turned to her as they reached the great white door and surprised her by taking both her hands in his. ‘If there is anything I can do… and I truly mean anything… will you let me know?’
His hands were damp and sweaty, his breath smelled of his over-spiced lunch, but the worst part was the absolute sincerity in his eyes. She knew he was her friend, but at that moment all she could see was what she might become. When Dorill had been alive, Davad had been a powerful man in Bingtown, a sharp Trader, well-dressed and prosperous, hosting balls at his great house, flourishing not only in his businesses but socially. Now his great house was only a collection of dusty, ill-kempt rooms presided over by unsupervised and dishonest servants. Ronica knew that she and Ephron were one of the few couples that still included Davad when they issued invitations to balls or dinners. When Ephron was gone, would she be like Davad, a social left-over, a widow too old to court and too young to seat in a quiet corner? Her fear came out as a sudden bitterness.
‘Anything, Davad? Well, you could always pay off my debts, harvest my fields, and find a suitable husband for Althea.’ She heard her own words in a sort of horror and watched Davad’s eyes widen so far that they almost bulged at her. Abruptly she pulled her hands free of his moist clasp. ‘I’m sorry, Davad,’ she said sincerely. ‘I don’t know what possessed me to…’
‘Never mind,’ he interrupted her hastily. ‘You’re talking to the man who burned his wife’s portrait, simply so that I wouldn’t have to look at what I couldn’t see. At times like these, one says and does things that… never mind, Ronica. And I did, truly, mean anything. I’m your friend, and I’ll see what I can do to help you.’
He turned and hurried away from her, down a white stone walkway to where his saddle-horse waited. Ronica stood watching as he mounted the beast awkwardly. He lifted one hand in farewell and she waved in return. She watched him ride off down the drive. Then she lifted her eyes to look out over Bingtown. For the first time since Ephron had been taken ill, she truly looked at the town. It had changed. Her own home, like many of the old Trader homes, was on a gentle hill above the harbour basin. Through the trees below, she could catch glimpses of the cobbled streets and white stone buildings of Bingtown, and beyond them the blue of Trader Bay. She could not see the Great Market from here, but she trusted it bustled on with the same trust she gave to the rising of the sun. The broad paved streets of it echoed the gentle horseshoe curve of the bay. Open and airy was the Great Market, planned out as carefully as any nobleman’s estate. Clumps of trees shaded small gardens where tables and chairs beckoned the weary buyer to relax for a time before arising to go forth and purchase more. One hundred and twenty shops with tall windows and wide doors welcomed trade from near and far. On a sunny day like today, the brightly-dyed awnings would be spread over the walkways to lure strollers closer to the merchants’ doors with their shade.
Ronica smiled to herself. Her mother and grandmother had always told her, proudly, that Bingtown did not look like a city hacked out of a wilderness on this chill and remote coast, but like any proper city in the Satrap’s dominion. The streets were straight and clean, offal and slops relegated to the alleys and drains behind the shops. Even those areas were regularly cleaned. When one left the Great Market and strolled away from the Lesser Marts, the city still presented a polished and civilized face. The houses of white stone shone in the sunlight. Orange and lemon trees flavoured the air with their fragrance, even if they did grow in tubs and have to be taken in every winter. Bingtown was the gem of the Cursed Shores, the farthest jewel of the Satrap’s cities, but still one of the brightest. Or so Ronica had always been told.
She reflected in a moment’s bitterness that she would never know, now, if her mother and grandmother had spoken truly. Once, Ephron had promised her that some day they would make a pilgrimage to holy Jamaillia City, and visit Sa’s groves and see the gleaming palace of the Satrap himself. Another dream turned to dust. She pulled her mind away from such thoughts and gazed out again over Bingtown. All there looked as it always had; a few more ships anchored in the harbour, a few more folk hastening through the streets, but that was to be expected. Bingtown had been growing, just as it had been growing all her life.
It was when she lifted her eyes to gaze out over the surrounding hills that she realized how much things had changed. Hammersmith Hill, where the oaks had always stood tall and green now showed a bald pate. She gazed at it in a sort of awe. She had heard that one of the newcomers had claimed land there and was going to use slaves to log it. But never before had she seen a hill so completely stripped of forest. The heat of the day beat down mercilessly on the naked hill; what greenery remained looked scorched and sagging.
Hammersmith Hill was the most shocking change, but it was by no means the only one. To the east, someone had cleared space on a hillside and was building a house. No, Ronica corrected herself, a mansion. It was not just the size of the building that jolted her, but the number of workers employed in its construction. They swarmed over the building site like white-coated ants in the heat of the midday sun. Even as she watched, the timber framework for a wall was hoisted into place and secured. Off to the west, a new road cut an arrow-straight path into the hills. She could only glimpse segments of it through the trees, but it was wide and well-travelled. Uneasiness rose in her. Perhaps Davad had been more correct than she had suspected. Perhaps the changes that had come to Bingtown were more significant than a mere swelling of population. And if he were right about that, then he might also be correct in saying that the only way to survive this wave of New Traders would be to emulate them.
She turned away from Bingtown and her uncomfortable thoughts. She had no time to think of such things now. It was all she could do to live with her own disaster and fears. Bingtown would have to take care of itself.
4 DIVVYTOWN (#ulink_620773a8-c1dd-5543-8464-a5771dcf9bc8)
KENNIT MOISTENED HIS KERCHIEF in lemon oil and smoothed it over his beard and moustache. He regarded himself in the gilt-framed mirror over his washbasin. The oil gave an added sheen to his facial hair, but it was not that effect he had sought. The fragrance of the oil was still not sufficient to keep the stench of Divvytown from his nostrils. Coming to Divvytown was, he reflected, rather like being towed to dock in the musk and stench of a slave’s armpit.
He left his quarters and emerged onto the deck. The outside air was as sultry and humid as within, and the stink more powerful. He looked with distaste at the nearing shores of Divvytown. This pirate’s sanctuary had been well chosen. To find it, one not only had to know the way, but to be a consummate master of bringing a ship up an inland waterway. The limpid river that led to this lagoon looked no more promising than a dozen others that threaded their way through the multiple islands of the Shifting Shore to the true sea, but this one had a deep if narrow channel that a sailing ship could navigate, and a placid lagoon sheltered from even the wildest storms for anchorage. At one time, no doubt, it had been a beautiful place. Now mossy docks and piers poked out from every piece of firm land. The lush greenery that cloaked and overhung the river banks had been sheared back to bare mud. There was neither sufficient flow of water nor stirring of breeze to disperse the sewage and smoke of the clustering huts and hovels and stores of the pirate city. Eventually the rains of winter would come, to flush both city and lagoon briefly clean, but on a hot still summer day, the Divvytown lagoon harbour had all the beckoning charm of an unemptied chamber pot. To anchor here for more than a few days at a stretch invited moss and rot to the hull of a ship; to drink the water from all but a few wells gave a man the flux – and, if he were unlucky, the fever as well. Yet as Kennit stood looking down over the deck of his ship, he saw his crew working well and willingly. Even those in the boats towing the Marietta into harbour pulled away heartily, for to their noses this stench was the sweet smell of both home and pay. By tradition, their trove would be divvied out on deck as soon as the Marietta was tied up. In a few hours, they’d be up to their navels in whores and beer.
Aye, and before sun-up tomorrow, most of their hard-won loot would have passed into the hands of the soft innkeepers and whoremasters and merchants of Divvytown. Kennit shook his head pityingly and dabbed once more at his moustache with his lemon scented handkerchief. He permitted himself a small smile. At least this time, in addition to sowing their plunder throughout the town, his crew would spread the seeds of Kennit’s ambition. Before sun-up tomorrow, he’d wager that half of Divvytown would have heard the tale of Captain Kennit’s sooth-saying at the Others’ Island. He intended to be exceptionally generous with his men this day when it came to divvy-time. He would not flaunt it, but he’d take no more than a double crew-share this time. He wanted the pockets of his crew to be heavy with their pay; he wanted all Divvytown to remark and remember that the men of his ship seemed always to come to port with well-laden purses. Let them mark it up to the luck and largesse of their captain. Let them wonder if a bit of that luck and largesse might not benefit all of Divvytown in time.
The mate came to stand respectfully beside him as he leaned on the rail.
‘Sorcor, do you see that bluff there? A tower there would command a long view of the river, and a ballista or two beneath it could defend it from any ship that ever discovered our channel. Not only could Divvytown be warned well ahead of any attack, but it could defend itself. What do you think?’
Sorcor bit his lip but otherwise contained himself. Every time they put into port here, Kennit made this same proposal to him. Each time the seasoned mate answered the same. ‘Could there be found enough stone in this bog, a tower might be built, and rocks hauled up to throw. I suppose it might be done, sir. But who would pay for it, and who would oversee it? Divvytown would never stop quarrelling long enough to build and man such a defence.’
‘If Divvytown had a strong enough ruler, he could accomplish it. It would be only one of the many things he could accomplish.’
Sorcor glanced cautiously at his captain. This was new territory for their discussion. ‘Divvytown is a town of free men. We have no ruler.’
‘That is true,’ Kennit agreed. Experimentally, he added, ‘And that is why we are ruled instead by the greed of merchants and whoremasters. Look about you. We risk our lives for our gains, every sailor of us. Yet by the time we weigh anchor again, where will our gold be? Not in our own pockets. And what will a man have to show for it? Naught but an aching head, unless he has the ill luck to catch the crabs in a bagnio as well. The more a man has to spend in Divvytown, why then the more the beer or the bread or the women cost. But you are right. What Divvytown needs is not a ruler, but a leader. A man who can stir men to rule themselves, who can waken them so that they open their eyes and see what they could have.’ Kennit let his gaze move back out to the men who bowed their backs to the oars as the ship’s boats towed the Marietta into dock. Nothing in his relaxed stance could indicate to Sorcor that this was a carefully rehearsed speech. Kennit thought well of his first mate. He was not only a good seaman, but an intelligent man despite his limited education. If Kennit could sway him with his words, then perhaps others would begin to listen as well.
He ventured to shift his eyes to Sorcor’s face. A frown furrowed the mate’s tanned brow. It pulled at the shiny scar that was the remains of his slave tattoo. When he spoke, it was after laborious thought. ‘We be free men here. That wasn’t always true. More than half of them who have come here were slaves, or going to be slaves. Many wear a tattoo still, or the scar where a slave tattoo was. And the rest, well, the rest would have to face a noose or a lash, or maybe both if they went back to wherever they come from. A few nights back, you spoke of a king for us pirates. You’re not the first to speak of it, and it seems the more merchants we get here, the more they talk up such ideas. Mayors and councils and kings and guards. But we had enough of that where we come from, and for most of us, it’s why we’re here instead of there. Not a one of us wants any man telling us what we can or can’t do. We get enough of that on shipboard. Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘No offence taken, Sorcor. But you might consider that anarchy is but disorganized oppression.’ Kennit watched Sorcor’s face carefully. The moment of puzzlement told him that his selection of words had been wrong. Obviously, he was going to need more practice at this persuasion. He smiled genially. ‘Or so some would say. I have both more faith in my fellow men, and a greater appreciation for simpler words. What do we have in Divvytown now? Why, a succession of bullies. Do you remember when Podee and his gang were going about breaking heads and taking pouches? It was almost accepted that if a sailor did not go ashore with his shipmates, he’d be beaten and robbed before midnight. And that if he did, the best he could expect was a brawl with Podee’s gang. If three ships’ companies hadn’t turned on Podee and his men at once, it would still be going on. Right now, there’s at least three taverns in which a man stepping into a dim chamber is as likely to get a stick behind his ear as the whore he paid for. But no one does anything. It’s only the business of the man who gets clubbed and robbed.’ Kennit stole a glance at Sorcor. The mate’s brow was furrowed, but he was nodding to himself. With an odd little thrill, Kennit realized that the man on the wheel was paying as much attention to their words as to holding the ship steady. At any other time, Kennit would have rebuked him. Now he felt a small triumph. But Sorcor noticed it at the same moment his captain did.
‘Hey, you, ’ware there! You’re to hold the ship steady, not be listening in on your betters!’
Sorcor sprang to the man with a look that threatened a blow. The sailor screwed up his face to accept it but did not wince nor budge from his post. Kennit left Sorcor berating him for being a lazy idiot and strolled forward. Beneath his boots, the decks were as white as sand and stone could make them. Everywhere he cast his eyes he found precision and industry. Every hand was engaged at a task, and every bit of gear that was not in immediate use was carefully stowed. Kennit nodded to himself. Such had not been the case when he had first come on board the Marietta five years ago. Then she had been as slatternly a tub as any in the pirate fleet. And the captain that welcomed him aboard with a curse and an ill-aimed blow had been as indistinguishable from his greasy, scurvy crew as any mongrel in a street pack.
But that had been why Kennit had chosen the Marietta to ship aboard. Her lines were lovely beneath the debris of years of neglect and the badly patched canvas on her yards. And the captain was ripe for overthrow. Any ship’s master who had not even the leadership to let his mate do his cursing and brawling for him was a man whose reign was ending. It took Kennit seventeen months to overthrow the captain, and an additional four months to see his mate over the side as well.
By the time he stepped up to command the ship his fellow sailors were clamouring eagerly to follow him. He chose Sorcor with care, and all but courted the man to make him his loyal subordinate. Once they had taken command, he and Sorcor took the vessel out on the open seas, far from sight of land. There they culled the crew as a gambler discards worthless cards at a table. As the only men capable of reading a chart or setting a course, they were almost immune from mutiny, yet Kennit never let Sorcor’s strictness cross the line into abuse. Kennit believed that most men were happiest under a firm hand. If that hand also supplied cleanliness and the security of knowing one’s place, the men would be only the more content. Those that could be made into decent sailors were. They sailed to the limits of the ship’s biscuits and the stars he and Sorcor knew.
By the time he and Sorcor brought the Marietta into a port so distant that not even Sorcor knew the language, the ship had the guise of a prim little merchant vessel, and a crew who scrambled at a glance from either captain or mate. There Kennit spent his long hoarded crew-shares to refit his ship as best he could. When the Marietta left that shore, it was to indulge in a month of precision piracy such as the little ports on that coast had never faced before. She returned to Divvytown heavy with exotic goods and oddly stamped coins. Those of the crew that returned with him were as wealthy as they had ever been, and as loyal as dogs. In a single voyage, Kennit had gained a ship, a reputation and his fortune.
Yet even as he stepped down onto the docks of Divvytown, thinking he had realized his life’s ambition, all his joy in his accomplishment peeled away from him like dead skin from a burn. He watched his crew strut up the docks, dressed in silk as if they were lords, their swag-bags heavy with coins and ivory and curiously wrought jewellery. He knew then that they were but sailors, and their plunder would be engulfed in Divvytown’s maw in a matter of hours. And suddenly the immaculately clean decks and neatly sewn sails and crisp paint on the Marietta seemed as brief and shallow a triumph as his crew’s wealth. He rebuffed Sorcor’s companionship, and instead spent their week in port drinking in the dimness of his cabin. He had never expected to be so disheartened by success. He felt cheated.
It took him months to recover. He moved through that time in a numb blackness, bewildered by the hopelessness that had settled on him. Some distant part of himself recognized then how well he had chosen in his first mate. Sorcor carried on as if nothing were amiss, and never once inquired into the captain’s state of mind. If the crew sensed something was odd, there was no evidence of it. Kennit was of the philosophy that on a well-run ship, the captain need never speak directly to the crew, but should only make his wishes known to the mate and trust him to see them carried out. That habit served him well in those despairing days. He had not felt himself again until the morning that Sorcor had rapped on his door to announce that they had a fine fat merchant vessel in sight, and did the captain wish him to pursue it?
They not only pursued it, but grappled and boarded her, securing for themselves a fine cargo of wine and perfumes. Kennit left Sorcor in charge of the Marietta’s deck while he himself led the crew onto the merchant vessel. Up to that time, he had viewed battle and killing as one of the untidy aspects of his chosen career. For the first time that day, his heart caught fire with battle fury. Over and again he slew his anger and disappointment, until to his shock there was suddenly no one left to oppose him. He turned from the last body that had fallen at his feet to find his men gathered in knots on the deck, staring at him with a sort of fascination. He heard not so much as a whispered remark, but the combination of horror and admiration in their eyes told him much. He thought he had won his crew to him with discipline, but that was the day when they actually gave him their hearts. They would not speak familiarly with him nor ever regard him with fondness. But when they went forth to drink and carouse through Divvytown, they would brag of his strict shipboard discipline that marked them as men of endurance, and his savagery with a sword that marked them as a ship to be feared.
From that time on, they expected their captain to lead their forays. The first time he held them back and accepted a captain’s surrender of their ship, the crew had been somewhat disgruntled, until he shared out amongst them the greater crew-shares from the ransom of the ship and cargo. Then it had been all right; the satisfaction of greed can make most things right with a pirate crew.
In the intervening years, he secured his little empire. He cultivated in Chalced both merchants in the seedier ports that would buy unusual cargos with no questions asked, and lesser Chalcedean lords who did not scruple to act as go-betweens in the ransoming of ships, cargos and crews. One got far more from them for pirated cargo than one did in Divvytown or Skullsport. In recent months he had begun to fantasize that these Chalcedean lordlings could help him gain recognition of the Pirate Isles as a legitimate domain, once he had convinced the inhabitants to accept him as their ruler. He once again tallied up what he had to offer both sides. For the pirates, legitimacy, with no threat of a noose to haunt them. Open trade with other ports. Once he unified the Pirate Isles and towns, they could act together to put an end to the slavers raiding their towns. He worried briefly that that would not be enough for them, but then pushed that thought aside. For the merchants of Chalced and the Traders of Bingtown, the benefits were clearer. Safe use of the Inside Passage up the coast to Bingtown, Chalced and the lands beyond. It would not be free of course. Nothing could be free. But it would be safe. A smile ghosted across his lips. They’d like that change.
He was broken from his reverie by the flurry of activity as the deck crew hastened to throw and secure lines. The hands turned to with a will, positioning the heavy hemp camels that would prevent the Marietta from grinding against the dock. Kennit stood silent and aloof, listening to Sorcor bark the necessary orders. All about him, the ship was made tidy and secure. He neither moved nor spoke until all the hands were mustered in the waist below him, restlessly awaiting the division of the loot. When Sorcor mounted the deck to stand beside him, Kennit gave him a brief nod, then turned to his men.
‘I make to you the same offer I have made the last three times we’ve made port. Those of you who choose may take your shares as allotted and carry them off to trade and peddle as best you can. Those of you with patience and good sense can take a draw against your share, and allow the mate and me to dispose of our cargo more profitably. Those who choose to do so can return to the ship the day after tomorrow to take their remaining share of those profits.’ He looked out over the faces of his men. Some met his eyes and some glanced at their fellows. All shuffled restlessly as children. The town and rum and women awaited them. He cleared his throat. ‘Those of you who have had the patience to allow me to sell their cargo for them can tell you that the coin they received as their shares was greater than if they had tried to barter on their own. A wine merchant will pay more for our whole shipment of brandy than you will get for a single keg you bargain away to an innkeeper. The bales of silk, sold as a lot to a Trader, will fetch far more than you can trade a single bolt to a whore for.’
He paused. Below him, men fidgeted and shifted impatiently. Kennit clenched his jaws. Time and time again, he had proven to them all that his way was more profitable. They knew it, any man of them would admit it, but the moment they were tied to the dock, all good sense deserted them. He permitted himself a brief sigh of exasperation, then turned to Sorcor. ‘The tally of our gains, Mate Sorcor.’
Sorcor was ready with it. Sorcor was always ready with everything. He held up the scroll and unfurled it as if reading from it, but Kennit knew he had actually memorized what they had taken. The man could not even read his own name, but if you asked him what each crew-share should be from forty bales of silk, he could tell you in an instant. The men murmured appreciatively amongst themselves as the tally was read aloud. The pimps and freegirls who had gathered on the dock to await his crewmen catcalled and whistled, with some of the freegirls already calling out offers on their wares. The men shifted about like tethered beasts, eyes darting from Sorcor and his scroll to all the pleasures that awaited them on the dock and up the muddy roads. When Sorcor finished, he had to roar twice for silence before Kennit would speak. When he did, his voice was deliberately soft.
‘Those of you wishing to take a draw against what your crew-share of what our goods will bring may line up outside my cabin to see me one at a time. You others may meet with Sorcor.’
He turned and descended the ways to his cabin. He’d found it best to let Sorcor deal with the others. They would simply have to accept the mate’s assessment of what one third of a bale of silk was worth in terms of two fifths of a keg of brandy or a half measure of cindin. If they hadn’t the patience to wait to get their shares as coin, they’d have to accept whatever equivalent Sorcor thought fair. So far, he’d heard no grumbling against the mate’s division of the loot. Either like Kennit they did not question his honesty among his shipmates, or they simply did not dare to bring their grumbling to the captain’s door. Either was fine with Kennit.
The line of men that came to receive a coin advance against their crew-shares was disappointingly short. Kennit gave each of them five selders. It was, he judged, enough to keep them in women, drink and food for an evening, and a decent bed in an inn, if they did not decide to return to the ship to sleep. As soon as they had their money, they left the ship. Kennit emerged onto the deck in time to see the last man jump down onto the crowded dock. It reminded him of throwing bloody meat into shark waters. The folk on the dock churned and swarmed around the last seaman, the freegirls proffering their wares even as the pimps shouted over their heads that a wealthy young tar like him could afford better, could afford a woman in a bed all night, yes and a bottle of rum on the table beside it. With less determination, apprentices hawked fresh bread and sweets and ripe fruit. The young pirate grinned, enjoying their avidity. He seemed to have forgotten that as soon as they’d shaken the last coin from his pocket, they’d be as happy to leave him in a gutter or alley.
Kennit turned aside from the bluster and noise. Sorcor was already finished with his divvying. He was standing on the high deck by the rail, looking out over the town. Kennit frowned slightly. The mate must have known in advance which men wanted their shares as goods, and had already calculated what he would give them. Then his brow smoothed. It was more efficient thus, and that was ever Sorcor’s way. Kennit offered him a pouch heavy with coin, and the mate took it wordlessly. After a moment, he rolled his shoulders and turned to face his captain. ‘So, Sorcor. Are you coming with me to change our cargo to gold?’
Sorcor took an embarrassed step sideways. ‘If the captain doesn’t mind, I’d sooner have a bit of time to myself first.’
Kennit concealed his disappointment. ‘It’s all one to me,’ he lied. Then he said quietly, ‘I’ve a mind to turn off those men who always insist on taking their shares as raw goods. The more I have to sell in bulk, the better price I can get. What think you?’
Sorcor swallowed. Then he cleared his throat. ‘It is their right, sir. To take their crew-shares as goods if they choose. That’s the way it’s always been done in Divvytown.’ He paused to scratch at a scarred cheek. Kennit knew he had weighed his words before speaking when he went on, ‘They’re good men, sir. Good sailors, true shipmates, and not a one shirks whether the work is with a sail needle or a sword. But they didn’t become pirates to live under another man’s rules, no matter how good for us they might be.’ With difficulty he met Kennit’s eyes and added, ‘No man becomes a pirate because he wants to be ruled by another.’ His certainty increased as he added, ‘And we’d pay hell’s own wages to try and replace them. They’re seasoned hands, not scrapings from a brothel floor. The kind of man you’d get, if you went about asking for men who’d let you sell their prizes for them, wouldn’t have the spines to act on their own. They’d be the kind as would stand back while you cleared another ship’s deck, and only cross when the victory was assured.’ Sorcor shook his head, more to himself than to his captain. ‘You’ve won these men over to you, sir. They’ll follow you. But you’d not be wise to try to force them to give up their wills to you. All this talk of kings and leaders makes them uneasy. You can’t force a man to fight well for you…’ Sorcor’s voice trailed off and he glanced suddenly up at Kennit as if recalling to whom he spoke.
A sudden icy anger seethed through Kennit. ‘No doubt that’s so, Sorcor. See that a good watch is kept aboard, for I won’t be back this night. I leave you in charge.’
With no more than that, Kennit turned and left him. He didn’t glance back to read the expression on the mate’s face. He’d essentially confined him to the ship for the night, for the agreement between them was that one of them would always sleep aboard when the ship was in port. Well, let him mutter. Sorcor had just crippled all the dreams that Kennit had been entertaining for the last few months. As he strode across his decks, Kennit wondered bitterly how he could be such a fool as to dream at all. This was as much as he’d ever be; the captain of a ship full of wastrels who could see no further than their own cocks.
He jumped easily from the deck to the docks. At once the crowd of vendors surged toward him, but a single scowl sent them shrinking back. At least he still had that much of a reputation in Divvytown. The thought only soured him further. They gave way as he pushed past them. A reputation in Divvytown. Why, that was at least as good as admiring oneself in a piss-puddle. So he was captain of a ship. For how long? For as long as the curs under him believed in his fist and his sword. Ten years from now, there’d be a man, bigger or faster or sneakier, and then Kennit could look forward to being one of the grey-faced beggars that slunk about the alleys robbing drunks, and stood outside taverns begging for leavings.
His anger grew in him like a poison in his blood. He knew he’d be the wiser to find a place to be alone until this black mood left him, but his sudden hatred for himself and his world was such that he did not care what was wiser. He detested the sticky black mud of the streets and byways, he despised the dumped slops he stepped around, he loathed the stench and noise of Divvytown. He wished he could avenge himself on his world and on his own stupidity by destroying it all. He knew it was no time to go bargaining. He didn’t care. The brokers in Divvytown added such a large cut for themselves that it was scarcely worth his time to deal with them. They’d done far better when they’d disposed of their goods in Chalced. All the prizes they’d taken between Chalced and home he was practically giving to these vultures. In his reckless temper he let the silk go for half what it was worth, but when the Trader tried to get as good a bargain on the brandy and cindin, he uncovered Kennit’s icy wrath, and ended up paying more than their worth to keep Kennit from taking the entire cargo elsewhere. The bargain was sealed with a nod, for Kennit disdained even to shake hands with the man. The gold would be paid tomorrow when the broker sent his longshoremen to off-load the cargo. Kennit left the Trader’s parlour without another word.
Outside a summer’s dusk had fallen. The raucous noise from the taverns had increased, while the shrilling of insects and frogs from the surrounding swamps and the brackish swale provided a background chorus. The cooling of the day seemed to free a new regiment of odours to assault Kennit’s nose. The greasy mud of the streets sucked noisily at his boots as he strode along. He stayed well to the middle of the street, away from the dimmer alley mouths and the predators that would lurk there. Most of them were desperate enough to attack any man who came within reach. As if recalling a forgotten appointment, it came to Kennit that he was hungry and thirsty. And tired. And sad.
The tide of his anger had retreated, leaving him stranded in weariness and misery. Hopelessly, he tried to discover who was at fault for his situation. It did not please him to decide that the fault, as always, was his own. There was no one else to blame, there was no one else to punish. No matter how he seared the faults from himself, another always arose to take its place.
His feet had carried him to Bettel’s bagnio. Light leaked past the shutters on the low windows. Music sounded faintly from within, and the edged soprano of a woman singing. There were perhaps a dozen buildings in Divvytown that were more than one storey high. Bettel’s was one of them. White paint, tiny balconies, and a red-tiled roof; it looked as if someone had plucked up a Chalcedean brothel and plopped it down in the mud of Divvytown. Pots of flowers on the steps struggled to perfume the air, while two copper and brass lanterns gleamed invitingly on either side of the green and gilt door. The two bravos on watch smirked at him knowingly. Abruptly he hated them, so big and so stupid, making a living by their muscle alone. They thought it would always be enough; he knew better. He longed to seize them by the throats and smash their grinning faces together, to feel their skulls impact against each other and give way, bone to bone. He longed to feel their windpipes crumple beneath his fingers, to hear their last breaths whistle in and out of their crushed throats.
Kennit smiled at them slowly. They stared back at him, their smirks changing to uncomfortable sneers. Finally they gave way to him, almost cringing as they stepped clear of the door that he might pass.
The doors of the bagnio swung shut behind him, shutting out the mud and the stench of Divvytown. Here he stood in a carpeted foyer in muted yellow lamplight. Bettel’s familiar perfume rode the air, and the smoky tang of burnt cindin. The singing and the soft drumming that accompanied it were louder here. A serving boy stood before him and gestured mutely at his muddy boots. At a slight nod from Kennit, he sprang forward with his brush to wipe the worst of the mud from his boots and then follow it up with a careful wiping with a rag. Next he poured cool water into a basin and offered it to Kennit. Kennit took the cloth draped over the boy’s arm and wiped the day’s sweat and dust from his face and hands. The boy glanced up at Kennit wordlessly when he was done, and the pirate captain was moved to bestow a pat upon his shaven pate. The boy grinned at him and scuttled across the room to open the second door for him.
As the white door swung open slowly, the singing became louder. A blonde woman sat cross-legged on the floor, accompanying herself on three small drums as she sang some ditty about her brave love gone off to sea. Kennit hardly spared her a glance. She and her sentimental crooning were not what he sought here. Before he could even think of becoming impatient, Bettel had risen from her cushioned throne to take his arm gently. ‘Kennit!’ she cried aloud in sweet disapproval. ‘So you have finally come, you naughty man! The Marietta tied up hours ago! Whatever has taken you so long to get here?’ She had hennaed her black hair this month and her perfume hung about her as heavily as her jewels. Her breasts surged against her dress like seas threatening to swamp the gunwales of a boat.
He ignored her scolding. He knew the attention was supposed to flatter him, and knowing that made Bettel’s whole routine irritating. Of course she remembered him. He paid her to remember him. He glanced over her head, scanning the tastefully furnished room and the handful of well-made women and men who lounged on the cushioned chairs and divans. Two of the women smiled at him. They were new. None of the others met his eyes. He gave his attention back to Bettel and interrupted her flow of complimentary prattle.
‘I don’t see Etta.’
Bettel made a moue of disapproval at him. ‘Well, do you suppose you’re the only one who favours her? She could not wait forever upon you. If you choose to come late, Master Kennit, then you must…’
‘Fetch her and send her to the topmost chamber. Wait. Have her bathe first, while I am eating. Send me up a good meal, with fresh bread. Neither fish nor pork. The rest I leave to you. And the wine, Bettel. I have a palate. Do not send me the decomposing grape you served me with last time, or this house shall lose my patronage entirely.’
‘Master Kennit, do you suppose I shall simply rap on a chamber door and tell one of my other patrons that Etta is required elsewhere? Do you suppose your money spends better than anyone else’s? If you come late, then you must choose from…’
He paid her no mind, but ascended the curving staircase in the corner of the room. For a moment he paused on the second floor. The sounds reminded him of a wall full of rats. He gave a snort of disgust. He opened a door to a dim staircase and went up yet another flight of steps. Here, under the eaves, was a chamber that shared no walls with any other. It had a window that looked out over the lagoon. Habit made him cross first to that vantage point. The Marietta rode quietly beside the dock, a single lantern shining on her deck. All was well there.
He turned back to the room as a servant tapped at the door. ‘Enter,’ he said gruffly. The man who came in looked the worse for wear. The scar of many a brawl showed on his wide face, but he moved with quiet grace as he laid a fire in the small fireplace at the opposite end of the room. He kindled two branches of candles for Kennit. Their warm light made him aware how dark the summer night outside had become. He stepped away from the window and sat down by the fireplace in a cushioned chair. The evening needed no more warmth, but something in him sought the sweet fragrance of the resinous wood and the dancing light of the flames.
A second tap announced two more servants. One set out a tray of food upon a snowy cloth on a small table while the other presented him with a bowl and a ewer of steaming water, well scented with lavender. That much, at least, Bettel had remembered of his tastes, he thought, and felt flattered in spite of himself. He washed his face and hands again, and gestured the servants out of the room before he sat down to his meal.
Food did not have to be very good to compare favourably with shipboard fare, but this meal was excellent. The meat was tender in a rich dark gravy, the bread was warmly fresh-baked, and the compote of spiced fruit that accompanied the meal was a pleasant counterpoint to the meat. The wine was not exceptional, but it was more than adequate. Kennit took his time with his food. He seldom indulged in physical pleasures except when he was bitter of spirit. Then he savoured his small efforts at comforting himself. The diversions he allowed himself now reminded him somewhat of how his mother would pamper him when he was ill. He gave a snort of disdain at his own thought and pushed it aside with his plate. He poured himself a second glass of wine, kicked his boots out towards the fire and leaned back in his chair. He stared into the flames and thought carefully of nothing.
A tap at the door heralded the dessert. ‘Enter,’ Kennit said listlessly. The brief distraction of the meal had faded, and the pit of depression that now yawned before him was bottomless. Useless, it was, all of it. Useless and temporary.
‘I’ve brought you warm apple tart and sweet fresh cream,’ Etta said quietly.
He turned only his head to regard her. ‘That’s nice,’ he said tonelessly. He watched her come towards him. Straight and sleek, he thought. She wore only a white shift. She was near as tall as he was, long-limbed and limber as a willow wand. He leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest as she set the white china plate and dessert before him. The cinnamon and apple scent of it mingled with the honeysuckle of her skin. She straightened and he considered her for a moment. Her dark eyes met his dispassionately. Her mouth betrayed nothing.
He suddenly wanted her.
‘Take that off and go and lie on the bed. Open the bedding to the linen first.’
She obeyed him without hesitation. It was a pleasure to watch her as she moved to his commands, folding the bedding back to bare the white sheets, and then standing, reaching down to the hem of her shift to lift it up and over her head. She placed it carefully upon the lowboy at the foot of the bed. Kennit watched her move, her long flat flanks, the slight roundness of her belly, the modest swells of her breasts. Her hair was short and sleek, cut off square like a boy’s. Even the planes of her face were long and flat. She did not look at him as she meticulously arranged herself upon the sheets, nor did she speak as she awaited him.
He stood and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Are you clean?’ he asked her callously.
‘As clean as soap and hot water can make me,’ she replied. She lay so still. He wondered if she dreaded him.
