Mad Ship (12 page)

“Did not you court anyone who was born into a liveship family? A girl who would understand what your ship meant to you?”

“I danced with one once,” he said quietly.

The silence held. If he expected her to say something, Althea had no idea what. Grag moved very slowly, as if he were afraid she would startle. With one finger, he touched her hand where it rested on the bed. A small touch, but it sent a shiver up her arm even as dismay filled her heart. She liked Grag and found him attractive, but this was no time for either of them to act on that. Had she invited this? How should she deal with it? Was he going to try to kiss her? If he did, would she let him?

She suspected she would.

Grag came no closer. His voice went deeper and softer. His blue eyes were gentle and confiding. “In you, I see a strong woman. One who could sail with me, or capably manage things ashore while I was gone. I see someone who is not jealous of Ophelia.” He paused and smiled ruefully. “If anything, I am a bit jealous of how quickly she has become fond of you. Althea, I cannot imagine a better choice for a wife than you.”

Although she had been anticipating his words, they still stunned her. “But … ” she began, but he lifted a warning finger.

“Hear me out. I have been giving much thought to this, and I see advantages for you, as well. It is scarcely a secret that the Vestrit fortunes have not prospered lately. The
Vivacia
is not yet paid for; that leaves you as ransom to the family’s debt. It is also well known that the Rain Wild Traders would not consider taking a woman who is already married, or who has pledged marriage. Simply by considering my offer, you could put yourself out of their reach.” He watched her face carefully. “We are a wealthy family. My wedding gift to your mother would be substantial, enough to secure her old age. You have made it clear you have no faith that Kyle will care for her.”

Althea found it hard to speak. “I don’t know what to say. We’ve talked as friends, and yes, we’ve flirted a bit, but I had no notion that your feelings ran strong enough to propose marriage.”

Grag gave a small shrug. “I’m a cautious man, Althea. I see no sense in letting my feelings run ahead of me. In this stage of our relationship, I see planning rather than passion as what we must first share. We should be talking honestly with one another, to see if we share the same ambitions and goals.” He was watching her face carefully. As if to give the lie to these words, he touched her hand again with one fingertip. “Do not think I don’t feel an attraction toward you. You must know that I do. Nevertheless, I am not the sort of a man who would fling his heart where his head had not gone first.”

He was so serious. Althea tried for a smile. “And I feared you were going to try to kiss me.”

He returned her smile, shaking his head. “I am not an impulsive boy, nor a rough sailor. I would not kiss a woman who had not given me her permission to do so. Besides, there is no sense in taunting myself with what I cannot yet claim.” He looked aside from her startled expression. “I hope I have not spoken too crudely. Despite the rough shipboard life you have shared, you are still a lady and a Trader’s daughter.”

There was no way to share with him the thought that had suddenly flashed through her mind. She knew, with vast certainty, that she would never desire to be kissed by a man who had first asked her permission. “Permission to come aboard,” some impish part of her mind whispered, and she fought to keep from grinning. Perhaps, she suddenly thought, Brashen had already ruined her, but not in the social sense. After the sailor’s matter-of-fact declarations of his desire, Grag’s restrained and polite courtship seemed almost silly. She liked the man, truly she did. Yet, his careful negotiations left her unmoved. Abruptly, the situation was impossible. And as if Sa knew that there was no way Althea could rescue herself, fate suddenly intervened.

“All hands on deck!” someone roared in a voice that mixed both indignation and fear. Althea did not hesitate as she plunged out the door, nor did Grag even pause to put his toothache binding about his jaws. All hands meant all hands.

The crew of the
Ophelia
lined the bow railing, looking down. When she joined them, Althea was incredulous at the sight that met her eyes. A Chalcedean war galley, flying the Satrap’s colors, was challenging Ophelia’s passage. The size comparison between the two ships might have been laughable were it not that the galley bristled with soldiers and their weaponry. The smaller, lighter galley confronting them was far more maneuverable than the cog. Such a vessel was often swifter than a sailing ship as well. In the light evening breeze, Ophelia could not avoid and outrun such a ship. The galley had run up to her on the windward side, taking advantage of the light breeze that pressed the ships together. They had no choice now; they would have to deal with the galley. The liveship’s figurehead stared down at the Chalcedean’s horse-prowed ship, still and shocked. Ophelia’s arms were crossed stubbornly on her chest. Althea lifted her eyes to scan the horizon. The Chalcedean appeared to be operating alone. Captain Tenira shouted down, “What mean you by barring our way?”

“Throw down a line. In the name of your Satrap, we will board you!” declared a bearded man standing in the galley’s bow. His blond hair was bound back in a long tail down his back, and battle trophies—finger bones bound with hanks of hair—decorated the front of his leather vest. Missing teeth gapped his threatening snarl.

“On what grounds?” Althea demanded of those around her, but Captain Tenira did not bother with such questions.

“No. You will not. You have no authority over us. Stand aside.” The Trader captain stood firm, looking down on the galley. His voice was even and strong.

“In the name of the Satrap, throw down a line and submit to boarding.” The Chalcedean smiled up at them, more teeth than affability. “Do not make us take you by force.”

“Try,” Captain Tenira suggested grimly.

The captain of the galley took a handful of documents from his mate. He waved the bundled tube of scrolls up at Tenira. A red ribbon bound them, weighted with a heavy seal of crimped metal. “We have authority. Right here. We shall bring our writs aboard to prove it. If you are an honest ship, you have nothing to fear. The Satrap has allied with Chalced to stop piracy in the Inside Passage. We are authorized by him to stop any suspicious ship and search for stolen goods and other signs of piratical activity.” While the captain was speaking, several of his men had stepped forward with coils of line and grappling hooks.

“I’m an honest Bingtown Trader. You have no call to stop me, nor will I submit to search. Be out of our way!”

The grapples were already spinning, and as Captain Tenira finished speaking, three were launched toward the
Ophelia.
One fell short as the liveship sidled to one side. Another landed well on the deck but was immediately seized and thrown back by the
Ophelia
’s crew before it could be set in her wood.

Ophelia herself caught the third. In a sudden motion, she plucked it out of the air as it whirred past her. With a shout of anger, she gripped the line below the grapple and snatched up the rope. The man who had thrown it came with it, kicking and cursing in surprise. She disdainfully threw grapple, rope and sailor aside into the water. She set her fists to where a woman’s hips would have been. “Don’t try that again!” she warned them angrily. “Get out of our way or I’ll run you down!”

From the galley came cries of amazement and fear. While many had undoubtedly heard of the liveships of Bingtown, few Chalcedean sailors would have ever seen one before, let alone seen one angered. Liveships seldom frequented the ports of Chalced; their trade routes were to the south. From the galley, a line was thrown to the Chalcedean sailor struggling in the water.

On board the
Ophelia,
Captain Tenira bellowed, “Ophelia, let me handle this!” while on the galley deck below them the Chalcedean captain angrily called for firepots to be prepared.

Ophelia paid no attention to her captain. At the mention of firepots, she had first gasped, then shrieked her wordless anger when she saw the smoking pots of tar brought out on his deck. For them to be readied so swiftly meant that the captain of the galley had had them prepared from the beginning. “In Sa’s name, no!” Althea cried as she saw the pots readied for launching. Arrows were thrust headfirst into the small, fat pots; fuses of charred linen dangled. They would be lit before the arrows were released, and given time to ignite the contents of the pots. When the pots of grease and tar struck Ophelia, they would shatter, and the flames would leap up. Ophelia could not avoid them all, and every liveship was vulnerable to fire. It was not just for her rigging and decks that Althea feared, but for Ophelia herself. The only liveship that had ever died had perished in a fire.

The
Ophelia
was a trading cog, not built for fighting of any kind. Pirates seldom menaced liveships. It was well known that a liveship could out-maneuver and out-sail any ordinary ship of her kind. Althea doubted that anyone had ever challenged Ophelia for right of passage before, let alone demanded to board her. She carried no weaponry; her sailors had no experience in turning aside this kind of a threat. As Tenira shouted the orders that would veer
Ophelia
to one side, men raced to obey. “It won’t be enough,” Althea said in an undertone to Grag, at her side. “They’ll set fire to us.”

“Get oil from belowdecks. We’ll throw firepots of our own!” Grag commanded angrily.

“And draw water for firefighting!” Althea shouted. “Grag. A spare spar, an oar, anything. Give Ophelia something to use to fight them! Look. She’s not going to back down.”

While her decks bustled with frantic activity, Ophelia again took matters into her own hands. Despite the man on the wheel, she leaned toward the galley, not away. She stretched forth both her arms, and as the Chalcedean firepots were kindled and the bows drawn, she slapped wildly at the galley like an infuriated schoolgirl, all the while shrieking insults. “You Chalcedean pigs! Do you think you can stop us in our own waters? You lying sons of whores! You are the true pirates, you slave-mongering vermin!” One of her windmilling slaps connected. Her great wooden hand struck the painted horse that was the galley’s figurehead. Instantly her fingers closed on it. She thrust down on it savagely, a wild motion that pitched the decks of both ships. Sailors on both vessels cried out as they were flung off their feet. The smaller galley suffered the most. Ophelia released the bow abruptly so that the ship reared back up, a crazed rocking-horse of a vessel. The drawn bows went off, the tar pots flying wildly. One shattered and ignited the galley’s own deck; two flew across Ophelia’s decks to douse themselves in black smoke and steam on the other side of her.

One struck her on her starboard bow. Without hesitation, the ship slapped at the burning smear. She pulled back her hand and the tar on her hull flamed up again. She screamed as her fingers ignited suddenly.

“Smother the flames!” Althea yelled to her as crew members poured water down her hull in an effort to put out the fire on her bow. Ophelia was in too much panic to heed her. She bore down suddenly on the galley, her sheer will defying her rudder and with her flaming hands caught hold of the smaller boat. She shook it like a toy, then flung it contemptuously aside. She left most of the burning residue from her hands on the other ship. As she let go of it, she clasped her great hands together. Gritting her teeth savagely, she clenched her hands into fists, squeezing out the flames that had seared her. Then, like an affronted lady lifting her skirts and storming out of the room, she suddenly answered both helm and sails. She turned aside from the troubled galley, opening the water wide between her and the smaller vessel. She tossed her head as she sailed past it.

Flames roared, and black smoke billowed up in harmony with the cries of the sailors trapped on the burning ship. Some one or two had the wind and the will to shout threats after Ophelia, but the noise of the fire shushed their words into unintelligible cries. The
Ophelia
sailed on.

CHAPTER SIX

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
SATRAP COSGO

“I’M BORED AND MY HEAD ACHES. DISTRACT ME
from my pain. Amuse me.” The voice came from the divan behind her.

Serilla did not even put down her pen. “Magnadon Satrap, that is not my duty,” she pointed out quietly. “You summoned me here to advise you on the Bingtown matter.” She gestured at the opened scrolls and books on the table. “As you can see, that is what I am prepared to do.”

“Well, you can scarcely expect me to pay attention to your advice while my head is throbbing so. I can hardly see for the pain.”

Serilla set aside the texts she was perusing. She turned her attention to the young man sprawled facedown on the divan. The Satrap was nearly engulfed by silken cushions. She tried to keep the annoyance from her voice. “I cannot promise that my advice will amuse you. However, if you would care to join me here at the table, I can enlighten you as to the facts of the Bingtown Traders’ dispute.”

The Satrap groaned. “Serilla, you delight in giving me headaches. If you can’t be more sympathetic, go away and send in Veri. Or that new Companion from the Jade Island. What was her name? It reminded me of a spice. Meg. Send in Meg.”

“Gladly shall I obey you, Magnadon Cosgo.” She did not bother to hide her affront as she shoved the texts away and pushed back from the table.

He rolled about in his pillows, then stretched a pale hand out toward her. “No. I’ve changed my mind. I know that I must hear your wisdom about Bingtown. All my advisors have told me the situation is crucial. But how can I think when I am in such pain? Please. Rub my head for me, Serilla. Just for a short time.”

Serilla arose from her table, and put a determinedly pleasant expression on her face. She reminded herself that the Bingtown issue must be resolved. It might even be resolved to her personal advantage. “Magnadon Cosgo, I did not mean to be vexing. Do you have a headache? Let me massage it away. Then we will speak about Bingtown. As you say, the issue is crucial. And in my opinion, the Satrap’s present position with them is untenable.” She crossed the chamber and pushed a number of pillows to the floor. She seated herself on the end of the divan. Cosgo immediately crawled over and put his head in her lap. He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against her thigh like a lamb nuzzling for milk. She clenched her teeth.

“It is a curse. The headaches, the loose bowels, the flatulence. Some witch has put a curse on me. Why else should I be the victim of so much pain?” He moaned softly. He brought one hand up to rest on her thigh.

She set her fingers at the base of his skull and began to walk his tension points with her fingertips. There did seem to be some pain. “Perhaps some fresh air would ease you. Exercise is most efficacious for bowel problems. It is lovely in the grounds on the south side of the temple. If we took ourselves to the thyme gardens, the fragrance might ease your pain.”

“It would be simpler to have a servant bring cuttings here. I do not care for bright days such as this. The light pains my eyes. How can you even suggest that I walk there myself when I am in such pain?” Almost idly, he lifted the hem of her robe. His fingers explored the smooth skin beneath. “And last time I was in the temple grounds, I stumbled on an uneven paving stone. I fell to my knees as if I was a slave. My hands went into the dirt. You know how I detest filth.” He was petulant.

She set her hands to the muscles between his neck and shoulders and kneaded them deeply, making him wince with discomfort. “You were intoxicated, Magnadon,” she recalled for him. “That was why you fell. The filth on your hands was your own vomit that they slipped in.”

He twisted his head abruptly to stare up at her. “That makes it my fault, I suppose?” he asked sarcastically. “I thought the whole purpose of paving stones was to make the ground even and safe for walking. My poor gut was severely shocked by that fall. It was no wonder I could not keep my food down. Three healers agreed with me about that. But, I am sure that my well-educated Companion knows far better than the Magnadon Satrap Cosgo or his healers.”

She stood abruptly, not caring that it unsettled him. She caught the wrist of his exploring hand and thrust it toward his own groin in disdain. “I am leaving. I am the Companion of your Heart. Nothing binds me to tolerate licentiousness from you.”

Cosgo sat up. He clenched his hands on his knees. “You forget yourself! No one walks away from the Magnadon Satrap Cosgo. Come back. I shall say when you may leave.”

Serilla drew herself up to her full height. She was easily a head taller than this pale, self-indulged young man. She looked him up and down, her green eyes flashing. “No. You forget yourself, Cosgo. You are not some Chalcedean so-called noble, with a harem of whores that scrabble to fondle and mouth you at your whim. You are the Satrap of Jamaillia. I am a Heart Companion, not some oiled and perfumed body tool. You say when I may leave, that is true. That does not mean I cannot leave when I find you disgusting.” She spoke over her shoulder as she walked toward the door. “Send me word when you want to find out just how much trouble you can expect from Bingtown. That is my area of expertise. Find someone else to deal with your crotch.”

“Serilla!” he protested frantically. “You cannot leave me in such pain! You know it is the pain that makes me forget myself. You cannot hold that against me.”

She halted at the door. Her brow creased as she frowned at him. “I certainly can. And I do. Your father suffered extreme pain from his joints as he aged, yet he never treated me discourteously. Nor did he ever touch me uninvited.”

“My father, my father,” Cosgo whined. “That is all you ever say to me. That I am not as good as he was. It makes me sick to think of that shriveled old man touching you. How could your parents have given such a young girl to such an old man? It’s disgusting.”

She advanced several steps toward him, hands knotted into fists. “You are disgusting, for imagining such things! My parents did not ‘give’ me to your father. I came to Jamaillia City myself, on my own, determined to pursue my studies. He was impressed with my learning when he overheard me in the Library of the North Lands, reciting for my master. He invited me to be a Companion of his Heart, to advise him on those lands. I considered it well, for three days, before I consented and accepted his ring. I took the vow to remain at the Satrap’s side and advise him. It had nothing to do with his couch. He was a fine man. He made it possible for me to study, and he always listened well to me when I counseled him. When we disagreed, he did not blame it on a headache.” Her voice fell. “I still mourn him.”

She opened the door and left the room. Outside, two stone-faced guards pretended they had not heard the squabble. She strode between them. She had not gone more than a dozen steps down the hall before she heard the door flung open. “Serilla! Come back!”

She ignored the imperious command.

“Please!” the Satrap’s voice grated.

She kept walking, her sandals whispering over the marble floor.

“The Magnadon Satrap Cosgo courteously requests that Companion Serilla return to his chambers to advise him on the Bingtown matter.” These words were bellowed after her down the hallway. She paused, then turned. The expression on her face was studiously polite. It was in her vows. She could not refuse him her company if he asked advice in her area of expertise. Her considered advice was all she had vowed to give him.

“I would be honored, Magnadon.” She retraced her steps. He leaned in the doorway, his normally pale cheeks reddened. His dark hair was tousled over his bloodshot eyes. She had to admire the expressionless guards. She re-entered the chamber and did not flinch as he slammed the door behind her. Instead, she crossed the chamber and hauled the heavy drapes to one side. Afternoon sunlight spilled into the room. She went to the table, seated herself, and then leaned forward to blow out the lamp she had been using. The afternoon light was ample, once the drapes were opened. Cosgo came grudgingly to sit beside her. She had deliberately spread her elbows apart to keep him at a distance. He seated himself as close to her as he could without actually touching her. His dark eyes were reproachful.

She indicated the texts arranged on the table. “Here we have a copy of the original Bingtown Charter. This, the list of grievances they have submitted to us. This stack is made up of copies of new land grants you have issued in the Bingtown area.” She turned to face him. “Considering their first point: I find that we have most definitely violated their original charter. All the new grants are in direct violation of the old agreement. You had no authority to issue new land grants to Bingtown lands without consulting the Traders first. That was clearly spelled out in their initial charter.”

He scowled but said nothing. She ran her fingertip down the scroll. “They also protest the new tariffs that have been levied, as well as the increases in the old ones. Those, I think we can justify, though we may have to be more moderate in the percentages.” She perused the Traders’ list of grievances. “They complain also about the New Traders trafficking in slaves, and using slaves on their properties. And there is a final complaint about the financing of Chalcedean patrol boats and the stationing of patrol boats in Bingtown Harbor. These are areas in which I think we can negotiate compromises.”

“Compromises,” Cosgo muttered in disgust. “Am I not the Satrap? Why need I compromise at all?”

She set her chin in her hand and stared out over the gardens pensively. “Because you have violated the word of your ancestor. The Bingtown Traders are provincial in many ways. And conservative. They follow many of the old traditions. They keep their bargains to the written letter; a man’s word does not die with him, it is the responsibility of his heirs to honor it. They expect others to do the same. The delegation was very angry when they arrived. They had had a long voyage in which to commiserate with one another. They reinforced one another’s opinions until they were mutually convinced that their position was unassailable. And, of course, only those most angered by our recent actions would take the time to come so far to confront us. They were definitely our adversaries. Still, they might have been mollified on some of their complaints if you had agreed to meet with them personally.” She turned back to face the Satrap.

He looked both grim and sulky. “I was ill that week. It was all I could do to meet with the Chalcedean trade delegation. You might also recall that there was an investiture of priests that I had to attend.”

“You spent most of the week in a stupor, sampling the new pleasure drugs the Chalcedeans had brought you. Twice you promised me you would meet with the Bingtown delegation. Each time you kept them waiting for hours before sending word you were indisposed. You left me in a very uncomfortable position. They departed feeling snubbed and ignored. They were more convinced than ever of their own righteousness.” She did not add that she agreed with them. It was her task to present the facts to him, not her feelings. At least, that was her present task. She hoped soon to take on more than that, if her plans prospered.

“Stiff-necked sons of outcasts and outlaws,” he sneered. “I should do as my friend Duke Yadfin advised me. Put him in place as my appointed governor in Bingtown. Dissolve their silly, feuding Councils. Old Traders, New Traders … who can keep up with it all? A little Chalcedean discipline would do that rabble good.”

Serilla could not help herself. She gaped at him. He scratched his nose negligently.

“You cannot be serious,” she offered at last. She was even prepared to feign amusement at his tasteless jest. Put a Chalcedean noble in authority over Bingtown?

“Why not? Chalced is a good ally. Bingtown’s base slandering of them has proven groundless. Bingtown is closer to Chalced than it is to Jamaillia. A governor from Chalced could better regulate the folk there, and as long as I still received my percentages and tariffs, what harm—”

“All of Bingtown would rise up in rebellion against you. There has already been talk of such a revolt. They would break with Jamaillia and govern themselves before they would tolerate a Chalcedean in power over them.”

“Break with Jamaillia? They are nothing without Jamaillia. Bingtown is a backward trade town, a frontier settlement with no future save trade with my city. They would not dare break with Jamaillia.”

“I fear you have greatly misjudged the temperament of the folk there. For too long, you have left them to fend for themselves. They begin to question why they should be taxed for protection and improvements they have not received for five years.”

“Oh, I see. Since my father’s death, you mean. You blame the discontent of this rabble on me, do you?”

“No. Not entirely.” She kept her voice flat. “Before your father died, his mind had begun to wander. He was not as adept at detail work as he had been when a young man. He, too, had begun to neglect Bingtown. You have simply let the slide continue.”

“All the more reason then to put a governor there. You see? By your own logic, my idea is a good one.” He sat back, fanning himself contentedly.

She was silent until she could speak without shrieking. “It is not your idea, Magnadon. It is Duke Yadfin’s plan to fleece you while you smile and smoke his pleasure herbs. Legally, you cannot appoint a governor for Bingtown, let alone one from Chalced. That is not the structure of the charter of their founding.”

“Then do away with the stupid charter!” he roared at her. “Why do I owe them anything? They fled to the Cursed Shores, exiles, criminals and rebellious young lords. For years, they have lived as they pleased up there, enjoying all the benefits of Jamaillian citizenship without shouldering the burdens … ”

“They cede to you fifty percent of their profits, Magnadon. That is a higher rate than any other class of citizens pay. They argue, and well, that they receive few benefits, that they have paid for all improvements to their harbors and that the piracy in the Inside Passage is worse than it has been since … ”