Mad Ship (6 page)

“I confess, I am intrigued by this woman-child Malta. Her family speaks of her one way, and you quite another …  I look forward to meeting her.”

“I hope that shall happen soon. I plan to invite her and her kin to come for a visit, Mother. If that is all right with you, of course.”

“You know I have no objections. The Vestrit family is well thought of among the Rain Wild Traders, despite their decision to forbear trading with us. With the alliance of our families in marriage, that will surely end. They have the liveship that is needed to trade up the Rain Wild River … and they will own it free of encumbrances once the wedding is celebrated. You and Malta have the prospect of prosperity before you.”

“Prosperity.” Reyn said the word with an overtone of amusement. “Malta and I have far better prospects than mere prosperity. Of that, Mother, I assure you.”

They came to a divergence in the corridor. Jani paused there. “You will go to the west corridor and open the new door.” Her tone stopped just short of making it a question.

“I will,” Reyn replied, almost absently.

“Good. When you are finished there, come to me in my drawing room. I will have a selection of appropriate gifts from which you may choose. Shall I have the tailors come and bring their newest cloths with them?”

“Yes. Certainly.” He frowned in distracted thought. “Mother, you promised I would not turn Malta’s head with costly gifts. Am I permitted to bring the simple tokens that any young man may offer a maiden? Fruit and flowers and sweets?”

“I cannot see how they could object to such things as those.”

“Good.” He nodded to himself. “Could you have baskets prepared for me that I could offer each day of my visit?” He smiled to himself. “The baskets could be trimmed with ribbons and soft scarves in bright colors. And a bottle or two of excellent wine in each … I do not think that would be going too far.”

His mother smiled wryly to herself. “You may wish to proceed cautiously, my son. Ronica Vestrit will tell you plainly enough if you overstep the boundaries she has set. I do not think you should hasten to cross wills with her.”

Reyn was already walking away from her. He glanced back, a quick flash of copper eyes. “I shall not hasten to cross her, Mother. But neither shall I hasten to avoid it.” He continued walking away from her as he spoke. “I’m going to marry Malta. The sooner they get used to me, the easier it will be for all of us.”

Behind him, in the darkness, Jani folded her arms. Obviously, he had never met Ronica Vestrit. A glint of amusement came into her eyes as she wondered if her son’s stubbornness would not find its equal in that of the Bingtown Trader.

Reyn paused. “Have you sent a bird to tell Sterb of my courtship?”

Jani nodded, pleased that he had asked. Reyn did not always get along with his stepfather. “He wishes you well. Little Kys says you must not marry until winter, when they return to Trehaug. And Mando says you owe him a bottle of Durjan brandy. Something about a bet you made, long ago, that your brothers would marry before you.”

Reyn was already striding away. “A wager I am pleased to lose,” he called back over his shoulder.

Jani smiled after him.

CHAPTER FOUR

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
BONDS

BRIG’S HANDS RESTED ON THE SPOKES OF
VIVACIA
’S
wheel, casually competent. The pirate’s face had the distant look of a man completely aware of the ship as his larger body. Wintrow paused a moment to size him up before approaching. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five. His chestnut hair was confined under a yellow kerchief marked with the Raven insignia. His eyes were gray, and the old slave tattoo on his face had been over-needled with a dark blue raven that almost obscured it. Despite his youth, Brig had a decisive air that made even older men jump to his orders. Kennit had chosen well in putting him in charge of the
Vivacia
until he recovered.

Wintrow took a deep breath. He approached the older man with respect but dignity. He needed Brig to recognize him as a man. Wintrow waited until the man’s eyes swung to meet his own. Brig looked at him silently. Wintrow spoke softly but clearly. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“Do you?” Brig challenged. His eyes flicked away, up to his lookout man.

“I do,” Wintrow replied firmly. “Your captain’s leg gets no better. How much longer will it take us to get to Bull Creek?”

“Day and a half,” Brig told him, after brief consideration. “Maybe two.” The expression on his face never seemed to change.

Wintrow nodded to himself. “I think we can wait that long. There are supplies I’d like to have before I try to cut. I hope we can get them there. In the meantime, I could keep him stronger if I had better supplies. When the slaves rose up against the crew, they ransacked much of the ship. The medical chest has been missing since then. It would be very useful to me now.”

“No one’s owned up to taking it?”

Wintrow gave a small shrug. “I’ve asked but no one has answered. Many of the freed slaves are reluctant to talk to me. I think Sa’Adar is turning them against me.” He hesitated. That sounded self-pitying. He would not gain Brig’s respect by whining. He went on more judiciously. “Maybe they do not realize what they have. Or in the confusion of the storm and the uprising, someone may have taken it, discarded it, and it may have gone overboard.” Wintrow took a breath and got back to his intent. “There were things in it that could make your captain more comfortable.”

Brig tossed him a brief glance. He looked unconcerned, but he suddenly bellowed, “Caj!”

Wintrow braced himself to be seized and hustled along. Instead, when the man appeared, Brig ordered, “Shake down everyone on board. The medical chest is missing. If someone has it, I want it found. At the very least, I want to know who touched it last. Do it.”

“Aye,” Caj replied, and hastened away.

When Wintrow did not leave, Brig sighed out through his nose. “Something else?” he demanded.

“My father is—”

“SHIP!” the lookout suddenly sang out. An instant later, he called out, “Chalcedean galley, but flying the flag of the Satrap’s Patrol. They’re coming up fast with oars and sail. They must have been laying back in that inlet.”

“Damn,” Brig spat. “He did it! The son of a whore brought in Chalcedean mercenaries. Clear the decks!” he suddenly roared. “Working crew only! Everyone else below and out of the way. Get some sail on!”

Wintrow was moving, sprinting toward the figurehead. He dodged men nimbly. The deck became as busy as a stirred ant-nest. Ahead of them, the
Marietta
was sheering off in one direction as
Vivacia
leaned another. Wintrow gained the foredeck and then clung to the bow railing. Behind him, he heard thin shouts as the Chalcedean ship hailed them. Brig did not bother to reply.

“I don’t understand!” Vivacia called to him. “Why do Chalcedean war galleys fly the Satrap’s colors?”

“I heard rumors of it in Jamaillia. Satrap Cosgo hired Chalcedeans to patrol the Inside Passage. They’re supposed to clear out the pirates, but that doesn’t explain why they’d pursue us. A moment!” He flung himself into the rigging, scrabbling up to where he had a better view of what was going on. The Chalcedean ship in pursuit was built for warfare, not trade. In addition to her sail, two banks of slaves plied her oars. She was long and lean and her decks swarmed with fighting men. The spring sunlight glinted on helms and swords. The Satrap’s flag with the white spires of Jamaillia on a blue field looked incongruous above the galley’s blood-red sail.

“He invites their warships into our waters?” Vivacia was incredulous. “Is he mad? The Chalcedeans are without honor. This is like putting the thief to guard your warehouse.” She glanced fearfully over her shoulder. “Do they pursue us?”

“Yes,” Wintrow said succinctly. His heart thundered within him. What should he hope? That they escaped cleanly, or that the Chalcedean patrol boat caught them? The pirates would not surrender the
Vivacia
without a battle. There would be more bloodshed. If the Chalcedeans prevailed, would they restore Vivacia to her legal owners? Perhaps. He suspected they would take the ship back to Jamaillia for the Satrap’s decision. The slaves huddled belowdecks would be enslaved once more, and they knew it. They would fight. The slaves outnumbered the boarders that the Chalcedean vessel could be carrying, but they were unarmed and inexperienced. A great deal of bloodshed, he decided.

So. Should he urge Vivacia to flee, or dawdle? Before he could even voice his uncertainty, the decision was snatched from him.

The smaller, sleeker vessel, driven by oars as well as wind, was gaining on them. For the first time, Wintrow noted the cruel war ram at the bow of the galley. A flight of arrows rose from the Chalcedean’s deck. Wintrow cried out a wordless warning to Vivacia. Some were aflame as they arced toward the ship. The first volley fell short, but they had made their intention plain.

In a display of both seamanship and daring, the
Marietta
suddenly heeled over, changing her course into a curve that would take her behind
Vivacia
and right across the Chalcedean ship’s bow. Wintrow thought he glimpsed the pirate Sorcor on the deck, exhorting his men to greater efforts. The Raven flag blossomed suddenly, a taunting challenge to the Chalcedeans. For a moment, it gave Wintrow pause. What sort of a captain was this pirate Kennit to be able to command such loyalty in his men? Sorcor’s plain intention was to draw the pursuit off his captain and to himself.

From Wintrow’s perch, he saw the
Marietta
rock suddenly as her deckmounted catapults lofted a shower of ballast at the patrol vessel. Some of the stones fell short, sending white gouts of water leaping from the waves, but a satisfying amount of it rattled down onto the decks of the galley. It wrought havoc among the oarsmen. The steady beating of the oars suddenly looked like the wild scrabbling of a many-legged insect. The gap between the patrol vessel and
Vivacia
steadily and swiftly widened. The
Marietta
did not look as if she were staying to fight. Having worked her mischief, she was now piling on canvas and fleeing. As the galley regained the beat of its oars, it shot off in pursuit of her. Wintrow strained to see, but the helmsman was taking
Vivacia
into the lee of an island. His view was blocked. He suddenly understood the ruse. The
Vivacia
would be taken swiftly out of sight while the
Marietta
lured the pursuit well away.

He clambered down to drop lightly to the deck. “Well. That was interesting,” he remarked wryly to Vivacia. But the ship was distracted.

“Kennit,” she replied.

“What about him?” Wintrow asked.

“Boy!” The woman’s sharp voice came from behind him. He turned to see Etta glaring at him. “The captain wants you. Now.” She spoke peremptorily, but her eyes were not on him. Her gaze locked with Vivacia’s. The figurehead’s face grew suddenly impassive.

“Wintrow. Stand still,” she ordered him softly.

Vivacia lifted her voice to speak to the pirate. “His name is Wintrow Vestrit,” she pointed out to Etta with patrician disdain. “You will not call him ‘boy.’” Vivacia shifted her eyes to Wintrow. She smiled at him benignly and politely observed, “I hear Captain Kennit calling for you. Would you go to him, please, Wintrow?”

“Immediately,” he promised her and complied. As he walked away from them, he wondered what Vivacia had been demonstrating. He would not make the mistake of thinking that she had been defending him from Etta. No. That exchange had been about the struggle for dominance between the two females. In her own way, Vivacia had asserted that Wintrow was her territory and that she expected Etta to respect that. At the same time, it had pleased her to reveal to the woman that the ship was aware of what went on in the captain’s stateroom. From the spasm of anger that had passed over Etta’s features, he deduced she was not pleased by it.

He glanced back over his shoulder at them. Etta had not moved. He heard no voices, but they could have been speaking softly. He was struck again by the pirate woman’s extraordinary appearance. Etta was tall, her long limbs spare of flesh. She wore her silk blouse and brocaded vest and trousers as casually as if they were simple cotton garments. Her sleek black hair was cut off short, not even reaching her shoulders. She offered neither roundness nor softness to suggest femininity. Her dark eyes were dangerous and feral. From what Wintrow had seen of her, she was savagely tempered and remorseless as a cat. Not one sign of tenderness had he seen in the woman. Nevertheless, all those traits contradicted themselves, combining to make her overwhelmingly female. Never before had Wintrow sensed such power in a woman. He wondered if Vivacia would win her battle of wills with Etta.

Kennit was indeed calling his name, not loudly, but with a panting intensity. Wintrow did not knock but entered immediately. The tall, lean pirate was supine on the bed, but there was nothing restful about his attitude. His hands gripped the linens, knuckles white, as if he were a woman in labor. His head was thrown back against the disheveled pillows. The bared muscles of his chest stood out strongly. His gaping mouth gulped air spasmodically; his chest heaved up and down with the effort. His dark hair and open shirt were soaked in sweat. The sharp tang of it filled the cabin.

“Wintrow?” Kennit gasped out yet again, as he reached the bedside.

“I’m here.” Instinctively, he took one of the pirate’s calloused hands in his own. Kennit gripped Wintrow’s hand in so violent a clench it was all he could do to keep from crying out. Instead, he returned the grip, deliberately pinching down hard between the pirate’s thumb and fingers. With his other hand, he wrapped Kennit’s wrist. He tried to set his fingers to the pirate’s pulse, but the man’s bracelet was in the way. He contented himself with moving his hand to Kennit’s forearm. Rhythmically he tightened and then loosened his grip in a slow, calming pattern while he maintained the pinch on Kennit’s hand that was supposed to lessen pain. He dared to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Kennit so that he could meet the tortured man’s eyes. “Watch me,” he told him. “Breathe with me. Like this.” Wintrow took a slow steadying breath, held it for a count, and then slowly released it. Kennit made a faint effort to copy him. His breath was still too short and too brisk, but Wintrow nodded encouragingly at him. “That’s right. That is right. Take control of your body. Pain is only the tool of your body. You can master it.”

He held the pirate’s gaze steady with his own. With every breath, he expelled soothing confidence and belief, so that Kennit might breathe it in. Wintrow centered himself within his own body, finding a core that touched his heart and both his lungs. He let the focus of his eyes soften, drawing Kennit’s gaze deeper into his own so that he could share his calmness with the man. He tried to make his gaze draw Kennit’s pain out and let it disperse in the air between them.

The simple exercises drew his mind back to his monastery. He tried to imbibe peace from those memories, to add their strength to what he was trying to accomplish. Instead, he suddenly felt a charlatan. What was he doing here? Mimicking what he had seen old Sa’Parte do with patients in pain? Was he trying to make Kennit believe he was truly a priest-healer, instead of a brown-robed acolyte? He did not have the complete training to do this simple pain alleviation, let alone remove a diseased leg. He tried to tell himself he was simply doing the best he could to help Kennit. He wondered if he were being honest with himself; perhaps he was only trying to save his own skin.

Kennit’s grip on his hand slowly lessened. Some of the tension left his neck and his head lolled back onto his damp pillows. His breathing grew slower. It was the labored breathing of a man fighting exhaustion. Wintrow kept possession of his hand. Sa’Parte had spoken of a technique for lending strength to the suffering, but Wintrow’s learning had not progressed that far. He had expected to be an artist for Sa, not a healer. Still, as he clasped Kennit’s sweating hand between his own, he opened his heart to Sa and begged that the father of all would intervene. He prayed that his mercy would supply what Wintrow lacked in learning.

“I can’t go on like this.”

From another man, the words might have sounded pitiful or pleading. Kennit spoke them as a simple statement of fact. The pain was ebbing, or perhaps his ability to respond to it was exhausted. He closed his dark eyes and Wintrow felt suddenly isolated. Kennit spoke quietly but clearly. “Take the leg off. Today. As soon as possible. Now.”

Wintrow shook his head, then spoke the denial aloud. “I can’t. I don’t have half of what I need. Brig said that Bull Creek is only a day or two away. We should wait.”

Kennit’s eyes snapped open. “I know that I can’t wait,” he said bluntly.

“If it’s just the pain, then perhaps some rum … ” Wintrow began, but Kennit’s words over-rode his own.