Mad Ship (19 page)

“If this be your will, O Sa, I know not how to endure it gladly,” he said quietly. It was pain to feel Vivacia echo the same thought.

IT WAS HOURS LATER
and the sun was high when the
Marietta
found them. She had a long scorched area along her starboard railing. Deckhands were already at work repairing it. An even plainer sign of both her encounter and her triumph was the string of severed heads that dangled from her bowsprit. The cry of the lookout had brought Wintrow out on deck. Now he stared in sick fascination as the ship drew nearer. He had seen carnage the night the slaves had risen and taken over the
Vivacia.
These trophies went beyond carnage into a planned savagery that he could not completely grasp.

The men and women that lined the railings alongside him lifted up a cheer at the bloody prizes. To them, the heads represented not only the Satrap who had condoned their slavery but Chalced, the most avaricious market for enslaved humanity. As the
Marietta
drew closer, Wintrow could see other signs of their battle with the patrol galley. Several of the pirates wore crude bandages. That didn’t stop them from grinning and waving to their compatriots aboard Vivacia.

There was a tug at Wintrow’s sleeve. “The woman says you’re to come and wait on the captain,” Dedge told him dourly. Wintrow looked at him carefully, fixing the man’s face and his name in his memory. He tried to look past the lineage of his slavery and see the man beneath the sprawling tattoos. His eyes were sea-gray, his hair no more than a fringe above his ears. Despite his years, muscle showed through his rags. Etta had already marked him as her own; he wore a sash of silk about his waist. “The woman” he had called her, like a title, as if she were the only woman aboard the ship. Wintrow supposed that in a sense, she was. “I’ll come right away,” he responded to the man.

The
Marietta
was dropping anchor. Soon a gig would be lowered to bring Sorcor aboard to report to Kennit. Wintrow had no idea why Kennit had summoned him, but perhaps Kennit would allow him to be in the room when Sorcor reported. Earlier today, when he had checked on his father, Kyle had insisted Wintrow must gather as much knowledge of the pirates as he could. Wintrow tried to push the memory of that painful hour away.

Confinement and pain had made Kyle more of a tyrant than ever, and he seemed to believe Wintrow was his only remaining subject. In truth, the boy felt almost no loyalty to him at all, save for a residue of duty. His father’s insistence that he must constantly spy and plot for a way to regain control of the ship struck him as laughable. But he had not laughed; he had merely let the man rant while he saw to his injuries and coaxed him to eat the dry bread and old water that were the only rations afforded him. It was easier to let his words flow past. Wintrow had nodded to them, but said little in reply. To try to explain their real situation aboard the
Vivacia
would only have angered Kyle. Wintrow had let him keep his far-fetched dream that they would somehow regain control of the ship. It seemed the easiest thing to do. Soon enough, they would reach Bull Creek, and then they both must confront what had befallen them. Wintrow would not battle his father to make him recognize reality; reality would do that itself.

He tapped at the door, then entered at Etta’s soft response. Kennit was awake on the bunk. He turned his head to greet him with, “She won’t help me sit up.”

“She is right. You should not sit up, not yet,” Wintrow replied. “You should lie still and rest completely. How do you feel?” He set his hand to the pirate’s forehead.

Kennit rolled his head away from the touch. “Wretched. Oh, do not ask me what I feel. I am alive; what can it matter, what I feel? Sorcor is coming, fresh from triumph, and here I lie, mauled and stinking like a corpse. I will not be seen like this. Help me to sit up, at least.”

“You must not,” Wintrow warned him. “Your blood is quiescent just now. Lie still and let it remain so. To sit up will change the reservoirs of your organs, and may spill blood that then must find its way out through your wound. This I learned well at the monastery.”

“This I learned well on the deck: a pirate captain who can no longer actively lead his crew is soon fish bait. I will be sitting up when Sorcor arrives here.”

“Even if it kills you?” Wintrow asked quietly.

“Are you challenging my will in this?” Kennit demanded abruptly.

“No. Not your will. Your common sense. Why choose to die here, in your bed, for a certainty, simply to impress a man who impresses me as unfailing in his loyalty to you? I think you misjudge your crew. They will not turn on you over your need to rest.”

“You’re a puppy,” Kennit declared in disdain. He rolled his head away from the boy, choosing to look at the wall. “What can you know of loyalty, or how a ship is run? I tell you, I will not be seen like this.” There was an edge in his voice that Wintrow suddenly recognized.

“Why did you not say that your pain was back? The kwazi-rind essence can dull it again. You will think more clearly without agony distracting you. And you will be able to rest.”

“You mean I will be more tractable if you drug me,” Kennit snarled. “You simply seek to impose your will upon me.” He lifted a shaking hand to his brow. “My head pounds with pain; how can that be due to my leg? Is it not more likely the result of some poison given me?” Even in his weariness, the pirate managed to summon up a look of sly amusement. Clearly, he supposed he had surprised Wintrow in a plot.

His words shocked Wintrow into momentary silence. How did one deal with such suspicion and distrust? In a cold, stiff voice he heard himself say, “I will force no medicines upon you, sir. If your pain becomes such that you desire release from it, summon me and I shall apply the kwazi rind. Until then, I shall not trouble you.” He spoke over his shoulder as he turned to go. “If you sit up to see Sorcor, the flow of blood you cause will end both our lives. But I cannot argue with your stubbornness.”

“Stop this,” Etta hissed at both of them. “There is a simple solution, one that may please us all. Will you allow me to suggest it?”

Kennit rolled his head back to stare at her with dulled eyes. “It is?” he prompted.

“Do not receive Sorcor. Simply give him an order to sail for Bull Creek and we will follow him. He does not need to know how weak you are. By the time we arrive in Bull Creek, you may be stronger.”

A spark of cunning lit in Kennit’s eyes. “Bull Creek is too close,” he declared. “Have him lead us back to Divvytown. That will give me more time to recover.” He paused. “But Sorcor will surely wonder that I do not wish to hear his report. He will suspect something.”

Etta folded her arms across her chest. “Say you are busy. With me.” She gave him a small smile. “Send the boy to give the word to Brig, to pass to Sorcor. He will accept it.”

“It might work,” Kennit assented slowly. He flapped a slow hand at Wintrow. “Go now, right now. Tell Brig I am with Etta and do not wish to be disturbed. Pass on to him my orders that we are to head for Divvytown.” Kennit’s eyes narrowed, but from slyness or weariness, Wintrow could not tell. “Suggest I may judge Brig’s seamanship by how well he manages the ship between here and there. Imply this is a test of his skill, not a lapse on my part.” His eyelids sagged further. “Wait a time, until we are under way. Then come back here. I will judge you by how well this task is done. Convince Brig and Sorcor, and perhaps I will trust you to numb my leg for me.” Kennit’s eyes closed completely. In a smaller voice he added, “Perhaps I shall let you live.”

CHAPTER NINE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
BINGTOWN

DEEP INSIDE
PARAGON
, AMBER TOSSED AND TURNED
like a badly digested biscuit in a sailor’s gut. A dream he was not privy to tore at her sleep, rending her rest into a blanketed struggle with herself. Sometimes Paragon was tempted to reach for her thoughts and share her distress, but most nights he was simply grateful that her torment was not his.

She had come to live aboard him, to sleep inside him at night and guard him from those who might come to tow him away and destroy him. In her own way, she had complied with his request as well. She had stocked several of his holds, not with driftwood and cheap lamp oil, but with the hardwoods and finishing oils of her trade. The fiction between them was that she stored them there so that she could sit beneath his bow of an evening and carve. They both knew that it would take but a moment to kindle the dry wood with the oil and fill him with flame. She would not let him be taken alive.

Sometimes he almost felt sorry for her. It was not easy for her to live inside the tilted quarters of the captain’s room. With much muttering, she had cleared Brashen’s abandoned possessions from the chambers. Paragon had noticed that she had handled them thoughtfully before she carefully stowed them belowdecks. Now she had taken over those quarters and slept in his hammock at night. She cooked out on the beach when the evenings were fine, and ate cold food at other times. Each day when she trudged off to her shop at daybreak, she took a water bucket with her. Every evening she returned laden with the brimming bucket and whatever she had brought from the market for her dinner. Then she would bustle about inside him, singing nonsense songs to herself. If the evening was fine, she kindled a cook fire and talked to him while she prepared her simple meal. In a way, it was pleasant to have company on a daily basis. In another way, it chafed him. He had grown accustomed to his solitude. Even in the midst of a companionable talk, he would know that their arrangement was temporary. All humans did was temporary. How else could it be, with creatures who died? Even if she stayed with him the rest of her life, she would still eventually be gone. Once he had grasped that thought, he could not be rid of it. To know that his days with Amber must, eventually, come to an end gave him a feeling of waiting. He hated waiting. Better to be done with it, and have her gone than to spend all his time with her waiting for the day she would leave him. Often it made him cross and short-spoken with her.

But not tonight. Tonight they had had a merry evening together. She had insisted on teaching him a silly song, and then they had sung it together, first as a duet for two voices and then as a round. He had discovered he liked singing. She had taught him other things as well. Not weaving a hammock: that he had learned from Brashen. He did not think she knew such sailorly skills. However, she had given him softwood and an oversize blade that he might try his hand at her trade. Sometimes she played another game with him, one that was somewhat unsettling. With a long light pole, she would reach up to tap him gently. The game was that he must bat the pole aside. She praised him most when he could deflect the tip before it actually touched him. He was getting good at the game. If he concentrated, he could almost feel the pole by the slight movement of air that it caused. Another fiction between them was that this was just a game. He recognized it for what it was: a drill in skills that might help him protect himself, if it came to a direct attack. How long could he protect himself? He smiled grimly into the darkness. Long enough for Amber to be able to kindle fires inside him.

He wondered if that was what brought her bad dreams. Perhaps she dreamed that she had set fire to him and had not had time to escape. Perhaps she dreamed that she was burning inside his hull, the flesh crisping away from her bones as she screamed. No. This was more of a whimpering and pleading she made in her sleep, not the scream that could wake her. Sometimes, when the nightmares were upon her, it took her a long time to struggle back to wakefulness. Then, smelling of fear sweat, she would come out onto the deck to take in great gasps of cool night air. Sometimes when she sat down on his sloping deck with her back to the cabin, he could feel the trembling of her slender body.

That thought made him lift his voice. “Amber? Amber, wake up! It’s only a dream.”

He felt her shift restlessly and heard her incoherent reply. It sounded as if she called to him from a vast distance.

“Amber!” he called back.

She thrashed violently, more like a fish caught in a net than a woman sleeping in a hammock, then she was suddenly still. Three breaths later, he felt her bare feet hit the floor. She padded toward the hooks where she kept her garments. A moment later she was moving across his canted deck. Light as a bird, she dropped over his side to land on the sand. A moment later she leaned against his planking. Her voice was hoarse. “Thank you for waking me. I think.”

“You wished to remain in your nightmare?” He was puzzled. “I understood such experiences were unpleasant, almost as unpleasant as living through the reality.”

“They are. Extremely unpleasant. But sometimes, when such a dream comes repeatedly, it is because I am meant to experience it and heed it. After a time, such dreams can come to make sense. Sometimes.”

“What did you dream?” Paragon asked unwillingly.

She laughed unevenly. “The same one. Serpents and dragons. The nine-fingered slave boy. Moreover, I hear your voice, calling warnings and threats. But you are not you. You are … someone else. And there is something … I don’t know. It all tatters away like cobwebs in the wind. The more I grasp after it, the worse I rend it.”

“Serpents and dragons.” Paragon spoke the dread words unwillingly. He tried to laugh skeptically. “I’ve taken the measure of serpents in my day. I do not think much of them. However, there are no such things as dragons. I think your dream is only a nasty dream, Amber. Set it aside and tell me a story to clear our minds.”

“I think not,” Amber replied unsteadily. Her dream had shaken her more than Paragon had thought. “For if I tried to tell stories tonight, I would tell you of the dragons I have seen, flying overhead against the blue sky. It was not so many years ago, and not so far to the north of here. I will tell you this, Paragon. Were you to tie up in a Six Duchies harbor, and tell the folk there that there were no such things as dragons, they would scoff at you for foolish beliefs.” She leaned her head back against him and added, “First, though, they would have to get used to the idea that there was truly such a thing as a liveship. Until I saw one and heard him speak, I had believed liveships were only a wild tale concocted to enhance the reputation of the Bingtown Traders.”

“Did you truly find us that strange?” Paragon demanded.

He felt her turn her head to gaze up at him. “One of the strangest things about you, my dear, is that you have no idea how wondrous you are.”

“Really?” He fished for another compliment.

“You are fully as marvelous as the dragons I saw.”

She had expected the comparison to please him. He sensed that, but instead it made him uneasy. Was she fishing for secrets? She’d get none from him.

She seemed unaware of his displeasure as she mused, “I think there is in the heart of a man a place made for wonder. It sleeps inside, awaiting fulfillment. All one’s life, one gathers treasures to fill it. Sometimes they are tiny glistening jewels: a flower blooming in the shelter of a fallen tree, the arch of a small child’s brow combined with the curve of her cheek. Sometimes, however, a trove falls into your hands all at once, as if some greedy pirate’s chest spilled before an unsuspecting beholder. Such were the dragons on the wing. They were every gem color I know, and every possible shape one could imagine. Some were dragons such as I knew from childhood tales, but others had shapes whimsical and still others were terrifying in their strangeness. There were proper dragons, some with long serpentine tails, some four-legged, some two, red and green and gold and sable. Flying amongst them were winged stags, a formidable boar who swept his tusks from side to side as he flew, and one like a great winged serpent and even a great striped cat, with striped wings … ” Her voice died away, subsiding in awe.

“They weren’t real dragons, then,” Paragon observed snidely.

“I tell you, I saw them,” she insisted.

“You saw something. Or some things, some of which had stolen the shapes of dragons. Nevertheless, they were not real dragons. As well to say that you saw green, blue, and purple horses, some of which had six legs and some shaped like cats. Such things would not be horses at all. Whatever it was you saw, they were not dragons.”

“Well … but … ”

It pleased him to hear her flounder for words, she who was usually so glib. He didn’t help her.

“Some were dragons,” she finally defended herself. “Some were shaped and colored just as the dragons I have seen in ancient scrolls and tapestries.”

“Some of your flying things were shaped like dragons and some like cats. As well to say that flying cats are real, and sometimes they are shaped like dragons.”

She was silent for a long time. When she spoke, he knew she had been thinking and that her chain of thought had dragged her back to his personal history. “Why,” she asked in a deceptively courteous tone, “is it so essential to your happiness that there be no such thing as dragons? Why are you so intent on crushing the wonder I felt at the sight of those creatures winging?”

“It isn’t. I don’t. I simply believe that one should say what one means. I don’t care that you wondered at them. I just don’t think you should call such things dragons.”

“Why? If there are no such things as dragons, what does it matter what I call the creatures I saw? Why should not I name them dragons if that name pleases me?”

“Because,” he declared, suddenly nettled beyond all reason. “Because if there were any such thing as dragons still, it would demean them to be grouped with such grotesques.”

Suddenly, she sat up straight. He felt her shift away from him. He could almost feel her prying stare trying to pierce the darkness and see what little the hatchet had left of his face. “You know something,” she accused him. “You know something about dragons, and you know something about my dream and what it means. Don’t you?”

“I don’t even know what you dreamed,” he stated. He tried to make his voice reasonable, but it climbed up the scale and cracked. It always chose the worst times to do that. “And I’ve never seen any dragons.”

“Not even in your dreams?” Her soft question was as insidious as drifting fog.

“Don’t touch me,” he warned her suddenly.

“I wasn’t going to,” she said, but he did not believe her. If she touched him, skin to wood, and reached hard enough, she would know if he were lying. That was not fair. He couldn’t do that to her.

“Do you ever dream of dragons?” she asked him. It was a direct question, asked in a casual voice. He did not fall for it.

“No,” he replied succinctly.

“Are you sure? I thought you had spoken to me about such dreams, once ….”

He shrugged, an elaborate charade. “Well, perhaps I did. I don’t recall. Maybe I did dream such a dream, but it wasn’t important to me. Not all dreams are important, you know. In fact, I wonder if any dreams are important or significant.”

“Mine are,” said Amber defeatedly. “I know they are. That is why it is so distressing when I cannot grasp what they mean. Oh, Paragon, I fear I’ve made an error. I pray it is not a grievous one.”

He smiled in the darkness. “Well, how grievous an error can a bead maker commit? I am sure you are troubling yourself over nothing. Dragons and sea serpents indeed. What do such fantastic creatures have to do with you and me?”

“
Sea
serpents!” Amber suddenly exclaimed. “Ah!” For a long time, she was silent. Then he almost felt the warmth of her smile wash against him. “Sea serpents,” she affirmed to herself softly. “Thank you, Paragon. Thank you for that much.”

“IT’S NOT YOUR WATCH.”
Ophelia spoke the words quietly.

“I know that as well as you do. I couldn’t sleep,” Althea replied. She looked out past the figurehead. The waves were gentle swells. The soft spring wind pushed her light cloak against her body.

“I know that as well as you do,” Ophelia countered. “You’ve been tossing in your bunk for two hours now. Why? Are you excited about docking in Bingtown tomorrow?”

“Yes. But not in a glad way. I fear all I must face tomorrow. My sister, my mother. Kyle, perhaps, if Vivacia is there. Oh, Ophelia, I even dread facing my ship when the time comes. How can I look at her and explain how and why I let her go?”

“You know you will not have to. Just put your hand to her planking and she will feel it all, as surely as I do.”

Althea slid her hands lovingly along the polished railing. “It is such a wonder to me, the understanding that has developed between us. It is another reason I dread docking in Bingtown tomorrow. I have felt so safe aboard you. I hate to leave you.”

A light footfall on the deck behind her turned her head. It was Grag. He moved across the moonlit deck, his bare feet falling softly. He wore only his trousers. His hair was tousled and boyish. Obviously, he was recently awakened, yet there was still a tigerish grace to his gait as he crossed the deck. A slow smile crept across Althea’s face. Very softly, Ophelia answered her thought. “Men have no concept of their own beauty.”

Grag grinned as he approached. “I tapped at your door. When I didn’t find you there, I knew right away where to look.”

“Oh?” Ophelia broke in archly. “Are you in the habit of tapping at Althea’s door at this hour? With no shirt on?”