Mad Ship (2 page)

                                                                                                                                                                                    
SPRING

CHAPTER ONE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
THE MAD SHIP

THE BREEZE AGAINST HIS FACE AND CHEST WAS BRISK
and chill, yet something in it hinted of spring soon to come. The air tasted of iodine; the tide must be out, exposing the kelp beds just off shore. Under his hull, the coarse sand was damp from the last heavy rain. The smoke of Amber’s small fire tickled his nose. The figurehead turned his blind visage away from it then reached up to scratch his nose.

“It’s a fine evening, don’t you think?” she asked him conversationally. “The skies have cleared. There are still some clouds, but I can see the moon and some stars. I’ve gathered mussels and wrapped them in seaweed. When the fire is stronger, I’ll rake away some of the wood and cook them on the coals.” Her voice paused hopefully.

Paragon did not reply.

“Would you like to taste some, when they’re cooked? I know you have no need to eat, but you might find it an interesting experience.”

He yawned, stretched, and crossed his arms on his chest. He was much better at this than she was. Thirty years hauled out on a beach had taught him true patience. He would outlast her. He wondered if she would get angry or sad tonight.

“What good does it do either of us for you to refuse to speak to me?” she asked reasonably. He could hear her patience starting to unravel. He did not bother to shrug.

“Paragon, you are a hopeless twit. Why won’t you speak to me? Can’t you see I’m the only one who can save you?”

Save me from what?
he might have asked. If he’d been speaking to her.

He heard her get up and walk around his bow to stand in front of him. He casually turned his disfigured face away from her.

“Fine, then. Pretend to ignore me. I don’t care if you answer me or not, but you have to listen to what I say. You are in danger, very real danger. I know you opposed me buying you from your family, but I made the offer anyway. They refused me.”

Paragon permitted himself a small snort of disdain. Of course, they had. He was the Ludluck family’s liveship. No matter how deep his disgrace, they would never sell him. They had kept him chained and anchored to this beach for some thirty years, but they’d never sell him! Not to Amber, not to New Traders. They wouldn’t. He had known that all along.

Amber continued doggedly. “I spoke directly to Amis Ludluck. It wasn’t easy to get to see her. When we did speak, she pretended to be shocked that I would make the offer. She insisted you were not for sale, at any price. She said the same things that you did, that no Bingtown Trader family would sell their liveship. That it simply wasn’t done.”

Paragon could not keep down the slow smile that gradually transfigured his face. They still cared. How could he have ever doubted that? In a way, he was almost grateful to Amber for making the ridiculous offer to buy him. Maybe now that Amis Ludluck had admitted to a stranger that he was still a part of her family, she’d be moved to visit him. Once Amis had visited him, it might lead to other things. Perhaps he would yet again sail the seas with a friendly hand on the wheel. His imagination went afar.

Amber’s voice dragged him back ruthlessly. “She pretended to be distressed that there were even rumors of selling you. She said it insulted her family honor. Then she said—” Amber’s voice suddenly went low, with fear or anger. “She said that she had hired some men to tow you away from Bingtown. That it might be better all around if you were out of sight and out of mind.” Amber paused significantly.

Paragon felt something inside his wizardwood chest squeeze tight and hard.

“So I asked her who she had hired.”

He lifted his hands quickly and stuffed his fingers in his ears. He wouldn’t listen. She was going to play on his fears. So his family was going to move him. That didn’t mean anything. It would be nice to be somewhere else. Maybe this time, when they hauled him out, they would block him up level. He was tired of always being at a list.

“She said it was none of my business.” Amber raised her voice. “Then I asked her if they were Bingtown Traders. She just glared at me. So then I asked her where Mingsley was going to take you to have you dismantled.”

Paragon began desperately to hum. Loudly. Amber went on talking. He couldn’t hear her. He would not hear her. He plugged his ears more tightly and sang aloud, “A penny for a sweet-bun, a penny for a plum, a penny for the races, to see the ponies run…”

“She threw me out!” Amber roared. “When I stood outside and shouted that I’d take it to the Bingtown Traders’ Council, she set her dogs on me. They damn near caught me, too!”

“Swing me low, swing me high, swing me up into the sky,” Paragon sang the childish rhyme desperately. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. His family was going to move him somewhere safe. That was all. It didn’t really matter who they hired to do it. Once they had him in the water, he’d go willingly. He would show them how easy it could be to sail him. Yes. It would be a chance to prove himself to them. He could show them that he was sorry for all the things they had made him do.

She wasn’t speaking anymore. He slowed his singing, then let it die away to a hum. Silence, save for his own voice. Cautiously he unstopped his ears. Nothing, save the brush of the waves, the wind nudging sand across the beach and the crackling of Amber’s fire. A question occurred to him and he spoke it aloud before he remembered he was not speaking to her.

“When I get to my new place, will you still come to see me?”

“Paragon. You can’t pretend this away. If they take you away from here, they’ll chop you up for wizardwood.”

The figurehead tried a different tack. “I don’t care. It would be nice to be dead.”

Amber’s voice was low, defeated. “I’m not sure you’d be dead. I’m afraid they’ll separate you from the ship. If that doesn’t kill you, they’ll probably transport you to Jamaillia, and sell you off as an oddity. Or give you as a gift to the Satrap in exchange for grants and favors. I don’t know how you’d be treated there.”

“Will it hurt?” Paragon asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know enough about what you are. Did it … When they chopped your face, did that hurt?”

He turned his shattered visage away from her. He lifted his hands and walked his fingers over the splintered wood where his eyes had once been. “Yes.” His brow furrowed. Then in the next breath he added, “I don’t remember. There is a lot I can’t remember, you know. My logbooks are gone.”

“Sometimes not remembering is the easiest thing to do.”

“You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I can remember, but I just won’t admit it.” He picked at it, hoping for a quarrel.

“Paragon. Yesterday we cannot change. We are talking about tomorrow.”

“They’re coming tomorrow?”

“I don’t know! I was speaking figuratively.” She came closer suddenly and reached up to put her hands flat against him. She wore gloves against the night’s chill, but it was still a touch. He could feel the shapes of her hands as two patches of warmth against his planking. “I can’t stand the thought of them taking you to cut you up. Even if it doesn’t hurt, even if it doesn’t kill you. I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” he pointed out. He suddenly felt mature for voicing that thought. “There’s nothing either of us can do.”

“That is fatalistic twaddle,” Amber declared angrily. “There’s a lot we can do. If nothing else, I swear I will stand here and fight them.”

“You wouldn’t win,” Paragon insisted. “It would be stupid to fight, knowing you couldn’t win.”

“That’s as may be,” Amber replied. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t want to wait for it to be that desperate. I want to act before they do. Paragon. We need help. We need someone who will speak to the Bingtown Traders’ Council for us.”

“Can’t you?”

“You know I can’t. Only an Old Trader can attend those meetings, let alone speak. We need someone who can go to them and convince them they should forbid the Ludlucks to do this.”

“Who?”

Amber’s voice was small. “I had hoped you knew someone who would speak for you.”

Paragon was silent for a time. Then he laughed harshly. “No one will speak for me. This is a stupid effort, Amber. Think about it. Not even my own family cares for me. I know what they say about me. I am a killer. Moreover, it’s true, isn’t it? All hands lost. I rolled and drowned them all, and not just once. The Ludlucks are right, Amber. They should sell me to be chopped up.” Despair washed over him, colder and deeper than any storm wave. “I’d like to be dead,” he declared. “I’d just like to stop.”

“You don’t mean that,” Amber said softly. He could hear in her voice that she knew he did.

“Would you do me a favor?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Kill me before they can.”

He heard the soft intake of her breath. “I … No. I couldn’t.”

“If you knew they were coming to chop me up, you could. I will tell you the only sure way. You have to set fire to me. Not just in one place, but many, to make sure they cannot put it out and save me. If you gathered dry wood, a little each day, and put it in piles in my hold … ”

“Don’t even speak of such things,” Amber said faintly. Distractedly, she added, “I should put the mussels on to cook now.” He heard her scratching at her fire, then the sizzle of wet seaweed steaming on hot coals. She was cooking the mussels alive. He considered pointing that out to her. He decided it would only upset her, not sway her to his cause. He waited until she had come back to him. She sat on the sand, leaning against his canted hull. Her hair was very fine. When it brushed against his planking, it snagged and clung to the wood.

“You don’t make sense,” he pointed out genially. “You vow you would stand and fight for me, knowing you would lose. But this simple, sure mercy you refuse me.”

“Death by flames is scarcely mercy.”

“No. Being chopped to pieces is much more pleasant, I’m sure,” Paragon retorted sarcastically.

“You go so quickly from childish tantrums to cold logic,” Amber said wonderingly. “Are you child or man? What are you?”

“Both, perhaps. But you change the subject. Come. Promise me.”

“No,” she pleaded.

He let out his breath in a sigh. She would do it. He could hear it in her voice. If there were no other way to save him, then she would do it. A strange trembling ran through him. It was a strange victory to have won. “And jars of oil,” he added. “When they come, you may not have much time. Oil would make the wood burn fast and hot.”

There followed a long silence. When she spoke again, her voice was altered. “They will try to move you in secret. Tell me how they would do it.”

“Probably the same way I was put up here. They will wait for a high tide. Most likely, they would choose the highest tide of the month, at night. They will come with rollers, donkeys, men and small boats. It will not be a small undertaking, but knowledgeable men could get it done quickly.”

Amber considered. “I shall have to move my things into you. I shall have to sleep aboard in order to guard you. Oh, Paragon,” she cried out suddenly, “don’t you have anyone who could speak up for you to the Bingtown Council?”

“Only you.”

“I’ll try. But I doubt they will give me a chance. I’m an outsider in Bingtown. They only listen to their own.”

“You once told me you were respected in Bingtown.”

“As an artisan and a merchant, they respect me. I am not an Old Trader. They would not have much patience with me if I began meddling in their affairs. Likely, I would suddenly find I had no customers. Or perhaps worse. The whole town is becoming more divided along Old Trader and newcomer lines. There is a rumor that the Bingtown Council has sent a delegation to the Satrap, with their original charter. They will demand he honor the word of Satrap Esclepius. The rumor is that they will demand he recall all the New Traders, and cancel all the land grants he has made them. They also demand that Satrap Cosgo live up to the old charter, and forbear from issuing any more land grants without the consent of the Bingtown Traders.”

“A detailed rumor,” Paragon observed.

“I have a keen ear for rumor and gossip. More than once, it has kept me alive.”

A silence fell.

“I wish I knew when Althea was coming back.” Amber’s voice was wistful. “I could ask her to speak for us.”

Paragon debated mentioning Brashen Trell. Brashen was his friend, Brashen would want to speak for him. Brashen was Old Trader. But even as he thought of that, he recalled that Brashen had been disinherited. Brashen was as much a disgrace to the Trell family as Paragon was to the Ludlucks. It would do no good to have Brashen speak out for him, even if he could get the Bingtown Traders’ Council to hear him. It would be one black sheep speaking on behalf of another. No one would listen. He set his hand over the scar on his chest, concealing for an instant the crude, seven-pointed star branded into him. His fingers traveled over it thoughtfully. He sighed, then drew a deep breath.

“The mussels are done. I can smell them.”

“Do you want to taste one?”

“Why not?” He should try new things while he still could. It might not be much longer before his chances to experience new things were gone forever.

CHAPTER TWO

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
THE PIRATE’S LEG

“BACK IN THE MONASTERY, BERANDOL USED TO SAY
that one way to disperse fear and create decision was to consider the worst possible outcome of one’s actions.” After a moment Wintrow added, “Berandol said that if one considered the worst possible outcome and planned how to face it, then he could be decisive when it came time to act.”

Vivacia glanced back over her shoulder at Wintrow. The boy had been leaning on the bow rail for the better part of the morning, staring out over the choppy water of the channel. The wind had pulled his black hair free of his queue. The ragged remnants of his brown garments looked more like a beggar’s rags than a priest’s robe. The sentient figurehead had been aware of him, but had chosen to share his silence and mood. There was little to say to each other that they did not both already know. Even now, the boy spoke only to put his own thoughts in order, not to ask any advice of her. She knew that, but still prompted him along. “And our worst fear is?”

Wintrow heaved a heavy sigh. “The pirate suffers from a fever that comes and goes. Each time it overpowers him, Kennit emerges from it weaker. The source is obviously the infection in his leg stump. Any animal bite is a dirty wound, but the sea serpent’s bite seems unusually poisoned. The festering part must be cut away, and the sooner the better. He is too weak for such a surgery, but I see little prospect that he will grow stronger. So I tell myself I must act swiftly. I also know it is unlikely he will survive my cutting. If he dies, so must my father and I. That was the bargain I struck with him.” He paused, and then went on, “I would die. That is not truly the worst outcome. The worst is that you must continue alone, a slave of these pirates.”

He did not look at her but gazed out over the constantly moving waves as he added, “So you see why I have come to you. You have more right to a say in this than I do. I did not fully consider that when I struck my deal with Kennit. I wagered my death and my father’s. In doing so, I unintentionally wagered your life as well. It was not mine to bet. You have, I believe, a great deal more to lose than I.”

Vivacia nodded, but her own thought slid past Wintrow’s and into one of her own. “He is not what I expected a pirate to be. Captain Kennit, I mean.” Thoughtfully she added, “A slave, you just said. But I do not think he considers me his slave.”

“Kennit is not what I thought a pirate would be, either. But despite his charm and intelligence, we must remember that he is one. Moreover, we must recall that if I fail, he will not be the one to command you. He would be dead. There is no telling who would then possess you. It might be Sorcor, his first mate. It might be Etta, his woman. Or perhaps Sa’Adar would once more attempt to claim you for himself and the freed slaves.” Wintrow shook his head. “I cannot win. If the operation is successful, I must watch Kennit take you from me. Already he flatters and charms you with his words, and his crew works your decks. I have little say in anything that happens aboard you anymore. Whether Kennit lives or dies, I will soon have no power to protect you.”

Vivacia shrugged one wizardwood shoulder. “And you did before?” she asked, somewhat coldly.

“I suppose not.” The boy’s voice was apologetic. “Yet, I had some idea of what to expect. Too much has happened too fast, to both of us. There has been too much death, and too many changes. I have had no time to mourn, no time to meditate. I scarce know who or what I am anymore.”

They both fell silent, considering.

WINTROW FELT ADRIFT IN TIME
. His life, his real life, was far away, in a peaceful monastery in a warm valley rich with orchards and fields. If he could step across the intervening days and distance, if he could wake up in his narrow bed in his cool cell, he was sure he could pick up the threads of that life. He hadn’t changed, he insisted to himself. Not really. So he was missing a finger. He had learned to cope with that. And the slave tattoo on his face went no deeper than his skin. He had never truly been a slave; the tattoo had only been his father’s cruel revenge for his attempt at escaping. He was still Wintrow. In a few quiet days, he could rediscover the peaceful priest inside him.

But not here. The recent swiftly shifting events in his life had left him with so many strong emotions, he could scarcely feel at all. Vivacia’s feelings were as jumbled as his own, for her recent experiences had been as brutal. Kyle Haven had forced the young liveship into service as a slaver, prey to all the dark emotions of her miserable cargo. Wintrow, a blood member of her founding family, had not been able to comfort her. His own involuntary servitude on the ship had soured what should have been a natural bond between them. His alienation from her had only increased Vivacia’s misery. Yet still they had hobbled along, like slaves shackled together.

In one stormy, bloody night, the slaves’ uprising had freed her of Kyle Haven’s captaincy and her role as a slaver. Of the original crew, Wintrow and his father were the sole survivors. As dawn lightened the sky, the crippled ship was overtaken by pirates. Captain Kennit and his crew had claimed Vivacia as a prize without striking a single blow. Then it was that Wintrow had struck his bargain with Kennit: he would try to save the pirate’s life if Kennit would allow him and his father to live. Sa’Adar, a priest among the slaves and the leader of the uprising, had other ambitions. He wished not only to stand in judgment on Wintrow’s father, Kyle, but also to demand Kennit turn the
Vivacia
over to the slaves as their rightful prize. No matter who prevailed, the future was uncertain for both Wintrow and the ship. Yet, the ship already seemed to favor the pirate.

Ahead of them, the
Marietta
cut a brisk path through the lace-edged waves. Vivacia followed eagerly in her wake. They were bound for some pirate stronghold; Wintrow knew no more than that. To the west, the horizon disappeared into the foggy coast of the Cursed Shores. The swift-running steaming rivers of that region dumped their warm and silty waters into this channel, which created near-permanent mists and fogs that cloaked an ever-changing shoreline of shoals and shallows. Sudden, violent storms were common in the winter months, and not unknown even in the kinder days of summer. The pirate islands were uncharted. What sense was there in charting a coast that changed almost daily? The conventional wisdom was to give it a wide berth and sail swiftly past it. Yet the
Marietta
surged forward confidently and
Vivacia
followed. Obviously, the pirates were very familiar with these channels and islands.

Wintrow turned his head and looked back over the
Vivacia.
In the rigging above, the pirate crew moved briskly and competently to Brig’s bellowed commands. Wintrow had to admit he had never seen the
Vivacia
sailed with such skill. Pirates they might be, but they were also excellent sailors, moving with discipline and coordination, as smoothly as if they were living parts of the quickened ship.

But there were others on deck to spoil the image. Most of the slaves had survived the rebellion. Freed of their chains, they were still recovering the aspects of full humanity. The marks of manacles were yet on their flesh and the slave tattoos on their faces. Their clothes were ragged, and the bodies that showed through the rents were pale and bony. There were far too many of them for
Vivacia
’s size. Although they now occupied the open decks as well as the holds below, they still had the crowded look of cattle being transported. They stood idly in small groups on the busy decks, moving only when the crew gestured them out of the way. Some of the healthier ones worked dispiritedly with rags and buckets, cleaning
Vivacia
’s decks and holds. Dissatisfaction showed on many faces. Wintrow wondered uneasily if they would act on it.

He wondered what he felt about them. Before their uprising, Wintrow had tended them belowdecks. His heart had rung with pity for them, then. True, he had had small comfort to offer them: the dubious relief of salt water and a washing rag seemed a false mercy now. He had tried to do a priest’s duties for them, but there had simply been too many. Now whenever he looked at them, instead of recalling his compassion for them, he remembered the screams and the blood as they had killed all his shipmates. He could not name the emotion that now swept through him when he considered the former slaves. Compounded of fear and anger, disgust and sympathy, it wrenched his soul with shame at feeling it. It was not a worthy emotion for a priest of Sa to experience. So he chose his other option. He felt nothing.

Some of the sailors, perhaps, had deserved their violent deaths, as men judged such things. But what of Mild, who had befriended Wintrow, and the fiddler Findow and fun-loving Comfrey and the other good men? Surely, they had merited a kinder end. The
Vivacia
had not been a slaver when they signed aboard. They had remained aboard her when Kyle had decided to put her to that use. Sa’Adar, the slave priest freed in the rebellion, believed that all who had died had deserved it. He preached that by working as crew on a slaveship, they had become the enemies of all just men. Wintrow felt himself deeply divided on that. He clung to the comforting idea that Sa did not demand he judge others. He told himself that Sa reserved all judging for himself, for only the creator had the wisdom to be judge.

The slaves on board did not share Wintrow’s opinion. Some looked at him and seemed to recall a soft-spoken voice in the darkness and hands with a cool damp rag. Others saw him as a sham, as the captain’s son playing at mercy but doing little to free them until they had taken matters into their own hands. One and all, they avoided him. He could not fault them. He avoided them as well, choosing to spend most of his time on the foredeck near Vivacia. The pirate crew members came there only when the operation of the ship demanded it. Otherwise, they avoided it as superstitiously as the slaves did. The living, speaking figurehead frightened them. If their shunning of her bothered Vivacia, she gave no sign of it. For Wintrow’s part, he was glad there was still one place aboard ship where he could be relatively alone. He leaned his head back against her railing and tried to find a thought that wasn’t painful.

At home, it would almost be spring. The buds would be swelling in the monastery orchards. He wondered how Berandol was doing with his own studies, if his tutor ever missed him. He wondered with deep regret what he would be studying now if he were there. He looked down at his hands. Once they had transcribed manuscripts and shaped stained-glass windows. They had been a boy’s hands, agile but still tender. Callus coated his palms now, and a finger was missing from one hand. They were the rough hands of a sailor. His finger would never wear a priest’s ring.

Here it was a different kind of spring. The canvas snapped in the brisk chill wind. Migrating flocks of birds passed overhead with their haunting cries. The islands to either side of the channel had become even more lush, green and alive with shorebirds arguing about nesting space.

Something tugged at him.

“Your father calls for you,” Vivacia said quietly.

Of course. He had sensed it through her. Their journey through the storm had affirmed and strengthened the bond of mind and spirit between the ship and himself. He did not resent it as he once had and he sensed that Vivacia did not cherish it as dearly as she once had. Perhaps in this, at least, their feelings were meeting in the middle. Since the storm, she had been kind to him, but no more than that. Like a preoccupied parent with a demanding child, he thought to himself.

“In some ways, we have exchanged roles since our journey began,” she observed aloud.

He nodded, having neither spirit nor energy to deny the truth. Then he straightened his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair and set his jaw more firmly. He would not let his father see how uncertain he felt.

He kept his head up as he threaded his way across the deck, avoiding the knots of slaves and the working crewmen. No one met his eyes, no one challenged him. Foolish, he told himself, to believe they all watched his passage. They had won. Why should they care about the actions of one surviving crew member? At least he had come through it physically unscathed.

Vivacia
bore the scars of the slave uprising. There were still bloodstains on the decks. The marks had not and would not yield to the sanding-stones the men used. The ship still smelled like a slaver, despite the near-continuous scrubbing Brig had ordered. The storm had taken a toll on her canvas as well; the hasty patching that the pirates had done showed plainly on her sails. In the aftercastle, doors had been forced when the slaves had hunted down the ship’s officers. The gleaming woodwork was splintered and awry. She was not the tidy little vessel he had embarked upon from Bingtown. It suddenly shamed him to see his family ship this way, as if he had seen his sister whoring in a tavern. His heart went out to her and he wondered what it would have been like to have come aboard the ship of his own free will, as a boy perhaps, to serve under his grandfather’s authority.

Then he set all such thoughts aside. He came to a battered door guarded by two sullen map-faces. He stepped past the former slaves as if he did not see them and knocked on Gantry’s cabin door. At least, it had been the mate’s while he was still alive. Now the stripped and looted room was his father’s prison cell. He did not wait for a reply, but entered.

His father sat on the edge of the bare bunk. The stare he lifted to Wintrow’s face was an uneven one. Blood filled the white of one eye in his swollen and discolored face. Kyle Haven’s posture suggested pain and despair, but there was only acid sarcasm in his greeting. “Nice of you to recall me. I had supposed you were too busy groveling to your new masters.”