Mad Ship (89 page)

THE SEA HAD NEVER OPPOSED THEM
as it did now. Etta crouched in the stern with Wintrow’s sodden body in her arms. The four sailors on the oars fought them. The whites showed all around their eyes as they struggled. There seemed to be one current for Vivacia to contend with, and another that gripped the small boat and tugged at it like a dog with a bone. The rain lashed down and the wind added its push to the water’s pull. Kennit huddled in the bow. His crutch had been lost when they hauled him from the water. Etta could scarcely see him for the rain that sheeted down between them. Kennit’s hair was sleeked to his skull and his mustache had straightened completely in the wet. In one breathless break in the rain, Etta thought she glimpsed the
Marietta
far offshore. Her sails hung limp from her spars and sunlight glinted off her decks. In the next breath, Etta blinked the rain from her lashes. She told herself that what she had seen was impossible.

Wintrow was a heavy weight atop her legs. If she bent her head over his face, she could hear breath hiss in and out of him. “Wintrow. Wintrow, keep breathing. Keep breathing.” If she had come upon his body anywhere else, she would not have known him. His fat, shapeless lips moved vaguely, but if he spoke it was without sound.

She lifted her eyes. She could not bear to look at him. Kennit had come into her life and taught her how to be loved. He had given her Wintrow, and she had learned to be a friend. Now the damn serpent was going to steal that from her, just as she had discovered it. Her salt tears blended with the rain running down her face. She could not bear it. Had she learned to feel again, only to have to feel this? Could any amount of love ever be worth the pain of losing it? She could not even hold him as he died, for the slime still on him ate into her clothes and the abrasion of her touch wiped away his skin. She cradled him as loosely as she could, while the ship’s boat rocked and reared wildly and never seemed to get any closer to the
Vivacia.

She lifted her face and peered through the storm. She found Kennit staring at her. “Don’t let him die!” he commanded her loudly.

She felt impotent. She could not even tell him how helpless she felt. She saw him crouch and thought he would crawl through the boat to help her somehow. Instead he suddenly stood, peg and foot braced. He turned his back on her and the rowers and faced into the storm that opposed them. He threw back his head to it. The wind flapped his white shirtsleeves against his arms and streamed his black, black hair out behind him.

“NO!” he roared into it. “Not now! Not when I am so close! You can’t have me and you can’t have my ship! By Sa, by El, by Eda, by the God of Fishes, by every god nameless and not, I swear you shall not have me nor mine!” He held out his hands, his fingers like claws, as if he would grapple with the wind that defied them.

“KENNIT!”

Vivacia’s voice roared through the storm. She reached for them with wooden arms, leaning toward the small vessel as if she would tear herself loose from the ship to come to him. Her hair streamed away from her face. A wave hit her, and she took it deep enough to send green water streaming across her deck. But she rose from it, and as she came up from the trough, her hands still reached. The storm she battled threatened to sweep her away, and yet she yearned toward him, mindless of her own safety.

“I shall live!” Kennit bellowed suddenly into the storm. “I demand it.” His one hand gripped his other wrist as he pointed into the storm. “I COMMAND IT!” he roared.

The king worked his first miracle.

From the depths of the very sea that opposed him, the creature rose to his command. The serpent rose at the stern of the vessel. She opened wide her jaws and added her roar to his. Etta shrank down, small, foolish creature that she was, clutching Wintrow to her breast. She groped for a knife long lost even as she wailed out her hopeless terror.

Then the sea serpent, vast beast though she was, bent her head to Kennit’s will. She made deep obeisance to him as he stood in the bow, defying the storm. He turned toward her at the sailor’s voices. Face white and taut, he pointed at her wordlessly. His mouth was open, but either he said nothing to the creature, or the wind blew his words away. Later, the rowers would tell the rest of the crew that however it was he commanded her, it was not for human ears to hear. She set her broad serpent’s brow to the stern of the boat and pushed. Suddenly, the small boat was cutting through the water toward the
Vivacia.
Kennit, exhausted by this display of power, sank suddenly down to his seat in the bow. Etta dared not look at him. His face shone with something, an emotion that perhaps only the god-touched could feel.

Behind her, the stern of the small boat steamed and stank where the serpent’s slime touched it. It would have been faithless of her to be afraid of what it did, for it acted on Kennit’s command. She bent forward over Wintrow’s body, holding him as tenderly as she could, as the creature shoved them through the waves. She had no mercy on the tiny vessel, but forced it through the waves that opposed them. The rowers abandoned their oars and huddled in the bottom of the boat, wordless with terror and awe.

The
Vivacia
plunged doggedly toward them. There was a moment when two oceans seemed to collide in turmoil. There was no pattern to wave nor winds. The breath of the world lashed them, threatening to snatch the clothes from their bodies, and the hair from their heads. Etta felt deafened by the onslaught, but the serpent inexorably pushed the tiny boat on.

Then they were suddenly in the same wind and the same current as Vivacia. Joyously both sea and air caught at them, and conspired with the serpent to bring them together. The wind and current that Vivacia opposed swept their small boat toward her reaching arms. Vivacia took a wave hard. The sailors that waited at the bow of the ship, lines ready for throwing, clung madly to her railings instead to keep from being swept away by green water.

But as Vivacia came up from the wave that had swamped her briefly, her great arms cupped and held the helpless boat. She rose from the wave with it clasped to her. Etta had never been so close to the figurehead. As she bore them up out of the deep, her voice boomed out over them. “Thank you, thank you! A thousand blessings upon you, sister of the sea. Thank you!” Silver tears of joy streamed down the liveship’s carved face and fell like jewels into the water.

As the frightened sailors scrabbled toward their fellows on deck, Kennit sat roaring with joyous laughter in the bow of the boat. If there was an echo of madness in his mirth, that was the least fearsome thing about him now. For as his crewmen reached down to lay hands on him and haul him on board, the great green and gold serpent rose from the storming depths and gazed upon him. Etta felt gripped by that whirling gold stare. She looked into the depths of the creature’s eyes and almost knew … something.

Then the creature roared one final time and sank back into the suddenly calming depths.

The small boat was going to pieces around them, the planks twisting away from their fellows as the stern gave way. Etta felt herself and Wintrow cradled in the ship’s hands as Vivacia let the useless pieces of wood fall away. The ship herself lifted them to where eager hands gripped them and pulled them aboard. “Gently, gently!” she cried as they seized Wintrow from her arms. “Bring fresh water. Cut his clothes away and pour over him water and wine. Then … then … ”

Vivacia suddenly cried aloud in wonder. She clasped her steaming hands together as if she prayed. “I know you!” she cried out abruptly. “I know you!”

Kennit reached down to where Etta crawled on the deck. His long-fingered hand cupped her cheek. “I will take care of it, my dear,” he told her. The same hand that had commanded both sea and serpent touched her skin. Etta fell to the deck and knew no more.

KENNIT HAD FOLLOWED ETTA’S ADVICE
about Wintrow, for lack of any better. The boy, loosely wrapped in a length of linen, now slept in his own bed. Breath whistled in and out of him. He was ghastly. His entire body was so swollen as to be almost shapeless. The skin had blistered and bubbled up from his body. The slime had eaten through his clothing, and then melted skin and fabric together. In washing him, great patches of his skin had sloughed away, leaving raw red stretches of flesh. Kennit suspected it was good that he was unconscious. Otherwise, the pain would have been terrible.

Kennit rose stiffly. He had been sitting on the foot of the bed. Now that the storm was over, he had time to think things through. But he would not. Some things were not to be too carefully considered. He would not ask Vivacia how she had known that she must abandon her post in Deception Cove and seek him out. He would not question what the serpent had done. He would not try to change the groveling deference the crew was currently showing him.

There was a tap at the door and Etta entered. Her eyes went to Wintrow and then back to Kennit. “I’ve a bath waiting for you,” she said, and then her words halted. She looked at him as if she did not know what name to call him by. He had to smile at that.

“That is good. Keep watch here, with him. Do whatever you think wise to make him easy. Keep giving him water whenever he stirs. I’ll be back soon. I can manage my bath by myself.”

“I put out dry clothes for you,” she managed to say. “And hot food awaits you. Sorcor is aboard, asking to see you. I didn’t know what to say to him. The lookout on the
Marietta
saw it all. Sorcor was going to have him flogged for lying. I told him the sailor wasn’t lying … ” Her words ran out.

He looked at her. She had changed into a loose woolen robe. Her wet hair was smoothed to her skull, reminding him of a seal’s head. She stared at him. Her scalded hands were clutched together in front of her. Her breath came short and fast.

“And what else?” he prompted her gently.

She moistened her lips and held out her hand. “This was in my boot. When I changed. I think … it must have come from the Others Island.”

She held out her hands toward him. Cupped in them, no bigger than a quail’s egg, was a baby. The infant was curled tight in sleep, eyes closed, lashes on his cheeks, tiny round knees drawn up to his chest. Whatever it was carved from mimicked perfectly the fresh pink of young flesh. A tiny serpentine tail wrapped its body.

“What does it mean?” Etta demanded, her voice quavering.

Kennit touched it with a fingertip, his weathered skin dark against it. “I think we both know, don’t we?” he asked her solemnly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
TREHAUG

“I LIKE IT HERE. IT’S LIKE LIVING IN A TREE-HOUSE CITY.”
Selden was sitting on the foot of the divan where she lay. He bounced thoughtfully as he spoke. Where did he get the energy? Malta wished her mother would come in and shoo him away.

“I always thought you belonged in a tree,” Malta teased her brother weakly. “Why don’t you go and play somewhere?” He gave her an owly stare, then smiled cautiously. He looked around the sitting room, then edged closer to her on the divan. He sat on her foot and she winced and pulled it away. She still ached all over.

Selden leaned too close to her and whispered in her face, “Malta? Promise me something?”

She leaned back from him. He’d been eating spiced meat. “What?”

He glanced around again. “When you and Reyn get married, can I live here with you in Trehaug?”

She didn’t tell him how unlikely it was that she would ever marry Reyn. “Why?” she asked him.

He sat up straight, swinging his feet now. “I like it here. There are boys to play with, and I get to have my lessons with some of the Khuprus sons. I love the swinging bridges. Mother is always afraid I’ll fall off them, but most of them have nets strung under them as well. I like watching the fire birds spoon in the shallows of the river.” He paused, then added boldly, “I like it that not everyone here is so worried all the time.” He leaned even closer and added, “And I like the old city. I sneaked into it last night, with Wilee, after everyone else was asleep. It’s spooky. I loved it.”

“Were you in the city when it quaked last night?”

“That was the best part!” His eyes were alight with the adventure.

“Well, don’t do it again. And don’t tell Mama,” she warned him automatically.

“Do I look stupid?” he demanded in a superior way.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

He grinned. “I’m going to go find Wilee. He promised to take me out in one of the thick boats, if we could sneak one.”

“Watch out, or the river will eat it from under you.”

He gave her a worldly look. “That’s a myth. Oh, if there was a quake and the river ran white, then it might eat it fast. But Wilee says a thick boat will last ten days, sometimes more if the river runs regular. They last even longer if you pull them out at night, turn them upside down and piss on them.”

“Ew. That is probably another myth, one told to make you look foolish when you repeat it.”

“No. Wilee and I saw the men pissing on the boats two nights ago.”

“Go away, dirty boy.” She tugged her coverlet away from him.

He stood up. “Can I live with you, after you marry Reyn? I never want to go back to Bingtown.”

“We’ll see,” she said firmly. Go back to Bingtown? She wondered if there even was a Bingtown. There had been no word from Grandmother since they arrived, and there wasn’t likely to be. The only messages the birds carried back and forth had to do with the war. The
Kendry
that had ferried them up the river was the only liveship making the run. The others were all on patrol near the mouth of the river and around Bingtown Harbor, trying to drive off not only Chalcedean galleys but sea serpents. Lately the waters near the river mouth were infested with them.

As abruptly as a bird taking flight, Selden hopped off the divan and left the chamber. She shook her head as she looked after him. He had recovered so swiftly. More than recovered; he had suddenly become a person. Was that what parents meant when they said children grew up so fast? She felt almost sentimental about her annoying little brother. She wondered, wryly, if that meant she were growing up, too.

She leaned back on the divan and closed her eyes again. The windows of the chamber were open and the river air flowed in one and out the other. She had almost become accustomed to the smell. Someone scratched lightly at the door, then entered.

“Well. You look much better today.” The healer was chronically optimistic.

“Thank you.” Malta didn’t open her eyes. The woman didn’t wear a veil. Her face had the pebbled texture of a muffin. The skin of her hands was as rough as the pads of a dog’s feet. It made Malta’s flesh crawl when the woman touched her. “I feel sure that all I need is more rest,” Malta added in the hopes of being left alone.

“To lie still is actually the worst thing for you right now. Your vision has returned to normal, you told me. You no longer see two of everything?”

“My vision seems fine,” Malta assured her.

“You are eating well, and your food agrees with you?”

“Yes.”

“Your dizziness has gone?”

“It only bothers me if I move suddenly.”

“Then you should be up and about.” The woman cleared her throat, a wet sound. Malta tried not to flinch. The healer snorted loudly, as if catching her breath, then went on, “You’ve no broken bones that we can find. You need to get up and move about, to remind your limbs of how to work. If you lie still too long, the body forgets. You may cripple yourself.”

A sour reply would only make the woman more insistent. “Perhaps I shall feel up to it this afternoon.”

“Sooner than that. I will send someone to walk you. It is what you need, in order to heal. I have done my part. Now you must do yours.”

“Thank you,” Malta said distantly. The healer was singularly unsympathetic for one of her profession. Malta would be asleep when the healer’s assistant arrived. She doubted anyone would disturb her. That had been her injury’s sole benefit; since then, she had been able to sleep free of dreams. Sleep was escape once more. In sleep, she could forget Reyn’s distrust of her, her father’s captivity or death, even the smell of Bingtown burning. She could forget that she and her family were paupers now, herself forfeit to a bargain made before she was born. She could hide from her failures.

She listened to the scuff of the healer’s retreating footsteps. She tried to will herself down into sleep, but her peace had been broken too thoroughly. First, her mother had come this morning, heavy with grief and worry, but acting as if Malta were her only concern. Then Selden and then the healer. Sleep had fled.

She gave in and opened her eyes. She stared at the domed ceiling. The wickerwork reminded her of a basket. Trehaug was certainly not what she had expected. She had envisioned a grand marble mansion for the Khuprus family in a city of fine buildings and wide roads. She had expected ornate chambers decorated with dark wood and stone, lofty ballrooms and long galleries. Instead, it was just what Selden had said it was: a tree-house city. Airy little chambers balanced in the upper limbs of the great trees along the river. Swaying bridges connected them. Everything in the sunny upper reaches of the trees was built as lightly as possible. Some of the smaller chambers were little more than very large wickerwork baskets that swung like birdcages when the wind blew. Children slept in hammocks and sat in slings. Anything that could be woven of grass or sticks was. The upper reaches of the city were insubstantial, a ghost of the ancient city they plundered.

As one descended into the depths of Trehaug, that image changed. Or so Selden told her. Malta had not ventured from her chamber since she had awakened here. Sunny chambers like hers were high in the treetops, while close to the base of the trees, workshops, taverns, warehouses and shops existed in a perpetually shady twilight. In between were the more substantial rooms of the Rain Wild Traders’ homes, the dining rooms, kitchens and gathering halls. These were built of plank and beam. Keffria had told her that they were palatial rooms, some spanning several trees, and as fine as any grand Bingtown mansion could have offered. Here the wealth of the Rain Wild Traders was showcased, not only in the old city’s treasures but in all the luxuries that their exotic trade had bought them. Keffria had tried to lure Malta from her bed with tales of the art and beauty to be seen there. Malta had not been tempted. Having lost all, she had no wish to admire the wealth of others.

Trehaug swung and hung over the banks of the Rain Wild River, adjacent to the open channel. But the river had no true shores. Swamp, muck and shifting bogs extended back from the open river far under the trees. The corrosive waters of the river ruled the world, and flowed where they wished. A patch of ground that was solid for a week could suddenly begin to bubble and then sink away into muck. No one trusted the ground underfoot. Pilings driven into it were either eaten away or slowly toppled over. Only the far-reaching roots of the Rain Wild trees seemed able to grip some stability there. Never had Malta seen or imagined such trees. The one time she had ventured to her window and peered down, she could not see the ground. Foliage and bridges obscured the view. Her chamber perched in the forked branch of a tree. A walkway over the limb protected its bark from foot traffic. The branch was wide enough for two men to walk abreast on it, and it led to a spiraling staircase that wound down the trunk. The staircase reminded Malta of a busy street, even to the vendors who frequented the landings.

At night, watchmen patrolled, keeping the lanterns on the staircases and bridges filled and alight. Night brought a festive air, as the city bloomed in necklaces of light. The Rain Wild folk gardened in hammocks and troughs of earth suspended in the trees. Foragers had their own pathways through the trees and over the swamplands. They harvested the exotic fruits, flowers and gamebirds of the Rain Wild jungle. Water came from the sprawling system of rain catchers, for no one could drink much of the river water and hope to live. The thick boats, hollowed out from green tree trunks, were pulled out of the river each night and hammocked in the trees. They were the temporary transportation between the “houses,” supplements to the swaying bridges and pulley carts that linked the trees. The trees supported the whole city. A quake that caused the wet ground below to bubble and gape did no more than make the great trees sway gently.

Below, on the true ground, there was the ancient city, of course, but from Selden’s description, it was little more than a lump in the swampland. The little bit of solid ground around it was devoted to the workshops for salvage and exploration of the city. No one lived there. When she had asked Selden why, he had shrugged. “You go crazy if you spend too much time in the city.” Then he had cocked his head and added, “Wilee says that Reyn might be crazy already. Before he started liking you, he spent more time down there than anyone else ever had. He nearly got the ghost disease.” He had glanced about. “That’s what killed his father, you know,” he’d added in a hoarse whisper.

“What’s the ghost disease?” she had asked him, intrigued in spite of herself.

“I don’t know. Not exactly. You drown in memories. That’s what Wilee said. What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know.” His newly discovered ability to ask questions was almost worse than his former long silences had been.

She stretched where she lay on the divan, then curled back into her coverlet. The ghost disease. Drowning in memories. She shook her head and closed her eyes.

Another scratch came at the door. She did not reply. She kept still and made her breathing deep and slow. She heard the door rasp open. Someone came into her room. Someone came close to the bed and looked down on her. The person just stood over her, watching her feign sleep. Malta kept her pretense and waited for the intruder to leave.

Instead, a gloved hand touched her face.

Her eyes flew open. A veiled man stood by her. He was dressed completely in dull black.

“Who are you? What do you want?” She shrank back from his touch, clutching the coverlet.

“It’s me. Reyn. I had to see you.” He dared to sit down on the divan’s edge.

She drew her feet up to avoid any contact with him. “You know I don’t want to see you.”

“I know that,” he admitted reluctantly. “But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

“You seem to,” she responded bitterly.

He stood up with a sigh. “I have told you. And I have written it to you, in all the letters you’ve returned to me. I spoke in desperation that day. I would have said anything to get you to go with me. Nevertheless, I do not intend to enforce the liveship contract between our families. I will not take you as payment for a debt, Malta Haven. I would not have you against your will.”

“Yet here I am,” she pointed out tartly.

“Alive,” he added.

“Small thanks to the men you sent after the Satrap,” she pointed out acidly. “They left me to die.”

“I didn’t know you’d be in the coach.” His voice was stiff as he offered the excuse.

“If you had trusted me enough to tell me the truth at the ball, I wouldn’t have been. Nor my mother, grandmother or brother. Your distrust of me nearly killed us all. It did kill Davad Restart, who was guilty of no more than being greedy and stupid. If I had died, you would have been the one guilty of my death. Perhaps you saved my life, but it was only after you had nearly taken it from me. Because you didn’t trust me.” These were the words she had longed to fling at him since she had pieced that last evening together. This was the knowledge that had turned her soul to stone. She had rehearsed the words so often, yet never truly known how deep her hurt was until she uttered them aloud. She could scarcely get them past the lump in her throat. He was silent, standing over her still. She watched the impassive drapery across his face and wondered if he felt anything at all.

She heard him catch his breath. Silence. Again the ragged intake of air. Slowly he sank down to his knees. She watched without comprehension as he knelt on the floor by her bed. His voice was so choked she could scarcely understand him. The words flooded out of him. “I know that it’s my fault. I knew it through all the nights when you lay here, unstirring. It ate at me like river water cuts into a dying tree. I nearly killed you. The thought of you, lying there, bleeding and alone … I’d give anything to undo it. I was stupid and I was wrong. I have no right to ask it, but I beg it of you. Please forgive me. Please.” His voice broke on an audible sob. His hands came up to clench into fists against his veil.