Ship of Magic (79 page)

“Tell them it would give me great pleasure,” Kennit told Opal directly. “Harsh as my life has been, I am not a man who disdains the finer pleasures of the arts.”

“Sar!” the boy blasphemed in admiration. He nodded, his face flushing with pride in his captain. A serpent might bite his leg off, but he'd still have time for culture. “I'll tell them, sir. Harsh life, finer pleasures,” he reminded himself as he scurried from the room.

As soon as the boy was out of the room, Kennit turned to Sorcor. “Go to the prisoner. Give him enough water and food to revive him. Etta, my bath, please.”

After the mate had left, she eased him out of his night-robe. She washed him with a sponge, as Chalcedeans did. He had always thought it a nasty way to bathe, a mere smearing of sweat and dirt instead of a clean washing away, but she managed it well enough that he actually felt clean. As she attended to the more intimate parts of such a washing, he reflected that perhaps there was more than one way for a woman to be useful to a man. The bathing and wrapping of his injury was still unpleasant enough that afterwards she had to once more wash sweat from his back, chest and brow. Soft music began, a gentle composition of strings and chimes and women's voices. It was actually pleasant.

Etta matter-of-factly ripped a side seam out of one pair of his trousers to allow her to dress him almost painlessly, and then stitched it up around him again. She buttoned his shirt for him, and then groomed his hair and beard as skillfully as any valet. She took more than half his weight to help him to his chair while she stripped the bed and made it up afresh. It had never occurred to him that Etta might possess such talents. Clearly he had not appreciated how useful she might be to him.

When he was properly washed and attired, she disappeared briefly, only to return with a tray of food. He had not even been aware of his hunger until he smelled the hot soup and light bread. When the sharpest pangs of his appetite were dulled, he set down his spoon to ask quietly, “And what inspired you to make free with my prisoner?”

She gave a tiny sigh. “I was so angry,” she shook her head at herself. “So angry when they hurt you. When they made me hurt you. I vowed I'd get a liveship for you if it was the last thing I ever did. Plainly that was what you wished to ask the prisoners about. So. At the times when I was worn to death of sitting by your bedside but still could not sleep, I went to see them.”

“Them?”

“There were three, at first.” She shrugged casually. “I believe I have the information you want. I checked and rechecked it most carefully. Nonetheless, I took care to keep one alive, as I was sure you'd wish to confirm it for yourself.”

A woman of many talents. And intelligent, too. He'd probably have to kill her soon. “And you discovered?”

“They had word of only two liveships. The first is a cog, the
Ophelia.
She left Jamaillia City before they did, but she still had Bingtown goods to trade, so she'd be making other stops as she came north.” Etta shrugged. “She could be behind them still, she could be ahead of them. There is no way to be sure. The only other liveship they've seen lately was in Jamaillia City. She came into the harbor the day before they left. She didn't plan to be staying there long. She was unloading cargo, and being refitted to haul a load of slaves north to Chalced.”

“That makes no sense, to use a liveship so,” Kennit exclaimed in disgust. “They lied to you.”

Etta gave a tiny shrug. “That's always possible, I suppose. But they lied very well, individually, at different times.” She wadded his sweaty shirt up with the stained linen from his bed. “They convinced me.”

“Easy enough to convince a woman. And that was the whole of what they told you?”

She gave him a look that dared to be cool. “Likely the rest was lies, too.”

“I would hear it, anyway.”

She sighed. “They did not know much. Most of it was rumor. The two ships were in harbor together for less than a day. The
Vivacia
is owned by a Bingtown Trader family named Haven. The ship will be making for Chalced by the Inside Passage as swiftly as she can. They hoped to buy mostly artisans and skilled workers, but might take on some others just for ballast. A man named Torg was in charge of everything, but he didn't seem to be the captain. She's newly quickened. This is her maiden voyage.”

Kennit shook his head at her. “Haven isn't a Trader name.”

She spread her hands at him. “You were right. They lied to me.” She turned her face from him, and stared stonily at a bulkhead. “I'm sorry I bungled the questioning.”

She was becoming intractable. If he'd had two good legs under him, he'd have strode up to her and pushed her onto her back on the bed and reminded her what she was. Instead, he'd have to flatter her. He tried to think of something nice to say to her, to make her pleasant again. But the interminable throbbing of his missing leg had suddenly become a pounding pain. He wanted only to lie down, to go back to sleep and avoid all of this. And he'd have to ask her to help him.

“I'm helpless. I can't even get back into my bed alone,” he said bitterly. In rare honesty he declared, “I hate for you to see me this way.” Outside, the music changed. One strong man's voice took up a chant, at once forceful and tender. He cocked his head to make out the oddly familiar words. “Ah,” he said softly to himself. “I know it now. “From Kytris, To His Mistress.' A lovely piece.” He tried again to find a compliment to give her. He couldn't think of any. “You could go out on deck and listen to the music, if you wished,” he offered her. “It's quite an old poem, you know.” The edges of his vision wavered. His eyes watered with his pain. “Have you heard it before?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Oh, Kennit.” She shook her head, suddenly and inexplicitly contrite. Tears stood in her eyes as she came to him. “It sounds more sweet to me here than anywhere else. I'm sorry. I'm such a heartless wench sometimes. Look at you, white as a sheet. Let me help you lie down.”

And she did, as gently as she could manage. She sponged his face with cool water. “No,” he protested feebly. “I'm cold. I'm too cold.”

She covered him gently, and then lay down along his good side. The warmth of her body was actually pleasant, but the lace on the front of her shirt scratched his face. “Take your clothes off,” he directed her. “You're warmest when you're naked.”

She gave a short laugh, at once pleased and surprised. “Such a man,” she rebuked him. But she rose to obey him.

There was a knock at the door. “What?” Kennit demanded.

Sorcor's voice sounded surprised. “I've brought you the prisoner, sir.”

It was all too much trouble. “Never mind,” he said faintly. “Etta already questioned him. I've no need of him anymore.”

Her clothing fell to the floor around her. She climbed into the bed carefully, easing her warmth up against him. He was suddenly so tired. Her skin was soft and warm, a balm.

“Captain Kennit?” Sorcor's voice was insistent, worried.

“Yes,” he acknowledged.

Sorcor jerked the door open. Behind him two sailors held up what remained of the captain of the
Sicerna.
They met their captain's eyes, then both gaped at him in amazement. Kennit turned his head to follow their gaze. Beside him in the bed, Etta held the blanket firmly below her naked shoulders and just above the slight curve of her breasts. The music from the deck came more loudly into the room. He turned his head back to the prisoner. Etta had more than blinded him. She had dismantled the man a bit at a time. Disgusting. He didn't want to look at that just now. But he had to keep up appearances. He cleared his throat. Get it over with.

“Prisoner. Did you tell my woman the truth?”

The wreckage between the two sailors lifted a ruined face towards his voice. “I swear I did. Over and over again. Why would I lie?” The man began to weep noisily. He snuffled oddly with his nostrils slit. “Please, good sir, don't let her at me no more. I told her the truth. I told her everything I knew.”

It suddenly seemed like too much trouble. The man had obviously lied to Etta and now he was lying to Kennit as well. The prisoner was useless. The pain from his leg was banging against the inside of Kennit's skull. “I'm . . . occupied.” He did not want to admit how exhausted he was simply from taking a bath and getting dressed. “Take care of him, Sorcor. However you see fit.” The meaning of his words was plain and the prisoner's voice rose in a howl of denial. “Oh. And shut the door on your way out,” Kennit further instructed him.

“Sar,” he heard a deckhand sigh as the door closed behind them and the wailing prisoner. “He's going at her already. Guess nothing keeps Captain Kennit down.”

Kennit turned very slightly toward the warmth of Etta's body. His eyes closed and he sank into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

VICISSITUDES

IT DIDN'T QUITE SEEM REAL UNTIL THEY LAID HANDS ON HIM. THE
old keeper he could probably have fought off rather easily, but these were heavy middle-aged men, stolid and muscled and experienced in their work. “Let go of me!” Wintrow cried angrily. “My father is coming to get me. Let go!” Stupidly, he reflected later. As if simply telling them to let go would make them do it. It was one of the things he was to learn. Words from a slave's mouth meant nothing. His angry cries were no more intelligible to them than the braying of an ass.

They did things with his arm joints, twisting them so that he stumbled angrily in the direction they wished him to go. He had not quite got over his surprise at being seized when he found himself already pressed firmly up against the tattooist's block. “Be easy,” one of the men bid him gruffly as he jerked Wintrow's wrist shackles tight against a staple. Wintrow jerked back, hoping to pull free before the pin could be set, but he only took skin off his wrists. The pin was already set. As quickly as that they had him, hunched over, wrists chained close to his ankles. One of the men gave him a slight push and he nudged his own head into a leather collar set vertically on the block. The other man gave a quick tug on the leather strap that secured it a hair's-breadth short of choking him. As long as he didn't struggle, he could get enough air to breathe. Fettered as he was, it would have been hard to draw a deep breath. The collar about his neck made even his short panting breaths an effort that required attention. They had done it as efficiently as farmhands castrating calves, Wintrow thought foggily. The same expert callousness, the precise use of force. He doubted they were even sweating. “Satrap's sigil,” one said to the tattooist, and the man nodded and moved a wad of cindin in his cheek.

“My flesh was not made by me. I will not puncture it to bear jewelry, nor stain my skin, nor embed decoration into my visage. For I am a creation of Sa, made as I am intended to be. My flesh is not mine to write upon.” He had scarce breath enough to quote the holy writ as a whisper. But he spoke the words and prayed the man would hear them.

The tattooist spat to one side, spittle stained with blood. A hard addict, then, one who would indulge in the drug even when his mouth was raw with ulcers. “T'ain't my flesh to mark either,” he exclaimed with dim humor. “It's the Satrap's. Now, his sigil I could do blindfolded. You hold still, it goes faster and smarts less.”

“My father . . . is coming . . . to pay for me.” He fought for air to say these essential words.

“Your father is too late. Hold still.”

Wintrow had no time to wonder if holding still would be an assent to this blasphemy. The first needle was off target, striking not his cheek but the side of his nose and piercing into the side of his nostril. He yelped and jerked. The tattooist slapped him smartly on the back of the head. “Hold still!” he commanded him gruffly.

Wintrow clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw.

“Aw, I hate it when they wrinkle up like that,” the tattooist muttered in disgust. Then he went swiftly to work. A dozen jabs of his needle, a quick swipe at the blood and then the sting of a dye. Green. Another dozen jabs, swipe, sting. It seemed to Wintrow as if each time he took a breath, he was getting less air. He was dizzy, afraid he would faint, and furious with himself for being ashamed. How could fainting shame him? They were the ones doing this to him. And where was his father, how could he be late? Didn't he know what would happen to his son if he was late?

“Now leave it alone. Don't touch it, don't scratch it, or you'll just make it hurt worse.” A distant voice was speaking over a roaring in his ears. “He's done, take him away and bring another.”

Hands tugged at his shackles and his collar, and then he was being strong-armed again, being forced off to somewhere else. He stumbled, half-dazed, taking one deep breath after another. His destination turned out to be a different stall in a different row in a different shed. This could not have happened, he told himself. It could not have happened to him, his father would not have left him to be tattooed and sold. His captors halted him by a pen set aside for new slaves. The five slaves he shared it with each bore a single oozing green tattoo.

His shackles were secured to a pin set in the floor and the men left him there. The moment they let go of his arms, Wintrow lifted his hand to his face. He touched it gingerly, feeling the puffing and seeping of his outraged flesh. A pink-tinged liquid ran slowly down his face and dripped from his chin. He had nothing to blot it.

He stared around at the other slaves. He realized he had not said a word since he had spoken to the tattooist. “What happens now?” he asked dazedly of them.

A tall, skinny youth picked his nose with a dirty finger. “We get sold,” he said sarcastically. “And we're slaves the rest of our lives. Unless you kill someone and get away.” He was sullenly defiant, but Wintrow heard it was only words. Words were all that were left of his resistance. The others seemed not even to have that much. They stood or sat or leaned, and waited for whatever would happen to them next. Wintrow recognized the state. Severely injured people fell into it. Left to themselves, they would simply sit and stare and sometimes shiver.

“I can't believe it,” Wintrow heard his own voice whisper. “I can't believe Torg didn't tell my father.” Then he wondered why he had ever expected that Torg would. What was the matter with him, why had he been so stupid? He'd trusted his fate to a sadistic brutal idiot. Why hadn't he sent word for his father, why hadn't he told the keeper the first day? Come to think of it, why had he fled the ship? Had it really been so bad there? At least there had been an end in sight, a two-year wait to his deliverance from his father. Now there was no end to it. And he would not have the
Vivacia
to sustain him. The thought of her brought a terrible pang of loneliness welling up in him. He'd betrayed her, and he'd sent himself into slavery. This was real. He was a slave now. Now and forever. He curled up in the dirty straw on his side, clasping his knees to his chest. In the distance, he seemed to hear a roaring wind.

THE
VIVACIA
ROCKED DISCONSOLATELY IN THE PLACID HARBOR.
It was a lovely day. The sunlight glittered on fabled white Jamaillia City. The winds were from the south today, ameliorating the winter day and the stench of the other slavers anchored alongside her. Not so long now to spring. Farther south, where Ephron had used to take her, fruit trees would be cascades of white or pink blossoms. Somewhere to the south, it was warm and beautiful. But she would be going north, to Chalced.

The banging and sawing from within her were stilled at last; all her modifications for being a slaver were complete. Today would be spent loading the last of the supplies, and tomorrow her human cargo would be ferried out to her. She would sail away from Jamaillia, alone. Wintrow was gone. As soon as she lifted anchor, one or more of the sluggish serpents in the harbor muck below would uncoil and follow her. Serpents would be her companions from now on. Last night, when the rest of the harbor was still, a small one had risen, to slink about among the anchored slavers. When it came to her, it had lifted its head above the water, to gaze at her warily. Something about its stare had closed her throat tight with terror. She had not even been able to call the watch. If Wintrow had been aboard, at least someone would have sensed her fear and come to her. She dragged her thoughts free of him. She'd have to take care of herself now. Loss clawed at her heart. She denied it. She refused it all. It was a lovely day. She listened to the waves slap against her hull as she rocked at anchor. So peaceful.

“Ship? Vivacia?”

She turned her head slowly and looked back and up. It was Gantry, standing on her foredeck and leaning on the rail to speak to her.

“Vivacia? Could you stop that, please? It's unnerving the whole crew. We're two hands short today; they didn't come back from liberty. And I think it's because you've frightened them off.”

Frightened. What was so frightening about isolation and loneliness and serpents no one else ever saw?

“Vivacia? I'm going to have Findow come play his fiddle for you. And I've got liberty myself today for a few hours, and I promise you I'll spend every moment of it looking for Wintrow. I promise you that.”

Did they think that would make her happy? If they found Wintrow and dragged him back to her, forced him to serve her, did they think she would be content and docile? Kyle would believe that. That was how Kyle had brought Wintrow aboard her in the first place. Kyle understood nothing of the willing heart.

“Vivacia,” Gantry asked with despair in his voice. “Please. Please, can you just stop rocking? The water is smooth as glass today. Every other ship in the harbor is still. Please.”

She felt sorry for Gantry. He was a good mate, and a very able seaman. None of this was his fault. He shouldn't have to suffer for it.

But then, neither should she.

She made an effort to find her strength. He was a good sailor; she owed him some small explanation. “I'm losing myself,” she began, and then heard how peculiar that sounded. She tried again. “It's not so hard, when I know someone is coming back. But when I don't, it suddenly gets harder to hold on to who I am. I start thinking . . . no. Not thinking. Almost like a dream, but we liveships cannot sleep. But it's like a dream, and in the dream I'm someone else. Something else. And the serpents touch me and that makes it worse.”

The man only looked more worried now. “Serpents,” he repeated doubtfully.

“Gantry,” she said in a very faint voice. “Gantry, there are serpents here in the harbor. Hiding down at the bottom in the muck.”

He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “So you told me before. But, Vivacia, no one else has seen any sign of them. So, I think you might be mistaken.” He paused, hoping for a response.

She looked away from him. “If Wintrow were here, he would feel them. He'd know I wasn't being foolish.”

“Well,” Gantry said reluctantly. “I'm afraid he's not here. And I know that makes you unhappy. And maybe it makes you fearful, just a bit.” He paused. His voice took on a cajoling tone, as if she were a nervous child. “Maybe there are serpents down there. But if there are, what can we do about them? They're not hurting us. I think we should both just ignore them, don't you?”

She turned her head to stare at him, but he would not meet her gaze. What did he think of her? That she was imagining serpents? That her grief at Wintrow abandoning her was making her crazy? She spoke quietly. “I'm not mad, Gantry. It is . . . hard . . . for me to be alone like this. But I'm not going crazy. Maybe I'm even seeing things more clearly than I used to. Seeing things my own way, not a . . . Vestrit way.”

Her efforts to explain only confused him. “Well. Of course. Uh.” He looked away from her.

“Gantry, you're a good man. I like you.” She almost didn't say the words. But then she did. “You should get onto a different ship.”

She could smell the sudden fear in his sweat when he spoke to her. “Now, what other ship could compare to you?” he asked her hastily. “After sailing aboard you, why would I want to take ship on another?” False heartiness in his voice.

“Maybe because you want to live,” she said in a very low voice. “I've a very bad feeling about this voyage. A very bad feeling. Especially if I must make it alone.”

“Don't talk like that!” he said roughly, as if she were an unruly hand. Then, in a calmer voice, he offered, “You won't be alone. I'll be here with you. I'll go and tell Findow to come fiddle for you, shall I?”

She shrugged. She had tried. She fixed her eyes on the distant spire of the Satrap's palace.

After a while, he went away.

SHE HAD BEEN AFRAID CAPTAIN TENIRA WOULD RECOGNIZE HER.
She had danced with his son at the Winter gathering, three years ago. But if the Bingtown Trader saw any resemblance between Athel the sailor and Althea the daughter of Ephron Vestrit, he gave no sign of it. He looked her up and down critically, then shook his head. “You've the look of a good sailor to you, boy. But I've told you. I don't need another hand. My crew is full.” He spoke as if that settled the matter.

Althea kept her eyes down. Two days ago she had spotted the
Ophelia
in the harbor. The sight of the old liveship's silvery hull and smiling figurehead had moved her with a depth that shocked her. A question or two in the waterfront taverns had given her all the information she needed. The liveship was homeward bound, heading back for Bingtown in a matter of days. In the instant of hearing that, Althea had resolved that one way or another, she would be on board her. She had hung about the docks, watching and waiting for her chance to catch the captain alone. Her plan was simple. She'd first try to hire aboard as a ship's boy. If that didn't work, she'd reveal to him who she was and beg for passage home. She didn't think he'd turn her down. Still, it had taken all her courage to follow Tenira to this waterfront tavern and wait while he dined. She had stood in a corner, waiting until he had finished eating before she approached him. When he set down his fork and leaned back in his chair, she'd placed herself before him. Now she summoned all her courage. “Sir, begging your pardon, sir. I'd work for nothing, just for my passage back to Bingtown.”

The captain turned in his chair to face her and crossed his arms on his chest. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

Althea looked at the tavern floor between her bare feet and bit her lip. Then she looked up at the captain of the liveship
Ophelia.
“Got my wages from the
Reaper . . .
at least, I still got part of them. I'd like to get home, sir and give them to my mother.” Althea swallowed awkwardly. “Before they're all gone. I promised her I'd come home with money, sir, Da being in a bad way. And I been trying to, but the longer I look for a ship back to Bingtown, the more I spend each day.” She looked back at the floor. “Even if you don't pay me anything, I'd probably get home with more money if I ship now than if I wait around and try for a paying berth.”