Ship of Destiny (82 page)

“You are hurt,” she protested. “There is so much blood, Reyn. . . .”

“Not much of it mine, I think.” He lifted a hand to the side of his head. “I was stunned. And I took a sword thrust up my left arm. However, other than that—” He moved slowly, groaning. “I merely hurt all over.”

He drew his feet up, got to his knees and slowly managed to stand. She rose with him, steadying him. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes. “My veil,” he exclaimed suddenly. Then he looked down at her. She had not thought such joy could shine on a man’s face. “You will marry me, then?” he asked in delighted disbelief.

“If you’ll have me, as I am.” She stood straight, chose truth. She could not let him plunge into this blindly, not knowing what others might later whisper about his bride. “Reyn, there is much that you first need to know about me.”

At that instant, Vivacia shouted something about yielding. An instant later, a wrenching impact threw them both to the deck again. Reyn cried out with pain, but rolled to throw himself protectively over her. The ship shuddered beneath them as he gathered her into his embrace. He lay beside her, holding her tight with his good arm, bracing them both against the blows of the world. As sailors clamored and the fresh clatter of battle rose, he shouted by her ear, “The only thing I need to know is that I have you now.”

WINTROW KNEW HOW TO COMMAND. AMIDST ALL ELSE, AS
Althea scrambled to his orders with the others, she saw the sense of them. She saw something else, something even more important than whether she approved of how he ran his deck. The crew was confident in him. Jola, the mate, did not question his competence or his authority to take over for Kennit. Neither did Etta. Vivacia put herself in his hands, without reservations. Althea was aware, jealously, of the exchange between Vivacia and Wintrow. Effortless as water, it flowed past her. Naturally, without effort, they traded encouragement and information. They did not exclude her; it simply went past her the way adult conversation went over a child’s head.

The priest-boy, small and spindly as a child, had become this slight but energetic young man who roared commands with a man’s voice. She knew, with a sudden guilt, that her own father had not seen that possibility in Wintrow. If he had, Ephron Vestrit would have opposed Keffria sending him off to the priesthood. Even his own father had intended to use him only as a sort of placeholder until Selden, his younger, bolder son, came of age. Only Kennit had seen this, and nurtured this in him. Kennit the rapist had somehow been also the leader that Wintrow near worshiped, and the mentor who had enabled him to take his place on this deck and command it.

The thoughts rushed through her head as swiftly as the wind that pushed the sails, trampling her emotions as the barefoot sailors trampled Vivacia’s decks. She poured her angry strength into hauling on a line. She hated and loathed Kennit. Even more than she longed to kill him, she needed to expose him. She wanted to tear his followers’ love and loyalty away from him the way he had torn her dignity and privacy from her body. She wanted to do to him what he had done to her, take from him something he could never regain. Leave him always crippled in a way that did not yield to logic. She did not want to hurt those two, her nephew and her ship. But no matter how much she cared for both of them, she could not walk away from what Kennit had done to her.

It hurt worse, now that she knew Brashen was alive. Every time she caught a glimpse of him on Paragon’s deck, her leaping joy was stained with dread. The thought of telling him tainted her anticipation of reunion. Would even Brashen grasp the whole of it? She was not sure what she feared most: that he would be enraged by it, as if Kennit had stolen from him, that he might spurn her as dirtied, or that he might dismiss it as a bad experience that she would get over. In not knowing how he would react, she suddenly feared that she did not know him at all. The open love and trust between Brashen and her was, in some ways, still new and fresh. Could it bear the weight of this truth? Her anger roiled inside her as she wondered if that, too, would be a thing that Kennit had destroyed.

Then there was no time to think anymore. They were beside the Jamaillian ship. Althea heard a terrible sound as it collided with something. Probably the
Paragon,
she thought with sudden agony. Her poor mad ship flung into this battle for Kennit’s sake. The Jamaillian ship loomed larger, and closer and—

“Brace!” Someone shouted the word.

An instant later, she knew it had been meant as a warning, but by then, she was sliding across the deck. Anger flashed through her as she rolled and skidded. How dared Wintrow risk her ship that way? Then she felt, through her flesh against the wizardwood, how intent the ship had been on this chase and capture. Vivacia had chosen the peril. Wintrow had done all he could to minimize it. Althea fetched up against one of the bodies on the deck. With a shudder, she rolled to her feet. The side of the Jamaillian ship was as close as a pier. She saw Etta make the jump, deck to deck, a blade in her hand. Had Wintrow led the way? She could not see him anywhere. She scrabbled for the blade the dead man still clutched.

An instant later, her feet hit the Jamaillian deck. There was fighting all around her, too thick for her to make sense of any of it. Where was her nephew? A Jamaillian sailor sprang to meet her wavering blade. Althea clumsily parried his first two efforts at killing her. Then, from somewhere, another blade licked in, slashing him across the chest. He turned with a cry and staggered away from her.

Jek was at her shoulder suddenly, grinning insanely as she did for any danger. “Think if I save the Satrap, he’ll marry me? I’d fancy being a Satrapess, or whatever she’s called.”

Before Althea could answer, something rocked the deck under her, sending combatants staggering. She clutched at Jek. “What was that?” she asked, wondering if the Jamaillian fleet was using its catapults against the locked ships. Her answer came in a frenzied shout from a Jamaillian sailor. “Cap’n, Cap’n, the damnable serpent has torn our rudder free. We’re taking on water bad!”

“We’d best get what we came for and get off this tub,” Jek suggested merrily. She plunged into the battle, not singling out any opponent, but scything a way for herself through the mêlée. Althea followed on her heels, doing little more than keeping men off their backs. “I thought I saw Etta—ah, here we are!” Jek exclaimed. Then, “Sa’s breath and El’s balls!” she swore. “They’re down and bloody, both of them!”

THE JAMAILLIAN CAPTAIN HAD TAUGHT HIS MEN TO OBEY
without question. That was a thing to admire, until it was turned on you. Their complete obedience was in their eyes as they closed on Kennit. They’d kill both the pirate and the Satrap, without hesitation, on their captain’s order. Evidently the Satrap either had to be in their control, or dead. Kennit’s estimate of Cosgo’s value soared. He’d keep him alive and in his own control. Clearly that was where he was the greatest threat to the Jamaillians, and hence most valuable. They’d come through a serpent attack and risked everything to capture him. Kennit would take him back, and then they’d pay more dearly than they had ever imagined. Vivacia was alongside; he only needed to hold them off for a few minutes until Etta and Wintrow came for him.

“Get behind me!” he commanded the Satrap, and pushed him roughly back. Kennit braced his hand on the ship’s house to keep from toppling over. His body shielded the cowering Magnadon. With his free hand, Kennit tore his cloak loose. The oncoming men didn’t pause. He foiled the first man’s thrust by flinging his cloak around the blade as it came in and shoving it aside. He tried to grab for it, risking that he could wrench it loose from its owner’s grip, but it slipped out from the folds of heavy cloak.

The second man was a big beefy fellow, more blacksmith than swordsman. Without finesse or pretense, he stepped up and thrust his heavy blade through Kennit and into the Satrap. The blade pinned them together. “Got ’em both!” he exclaimed in satisfaction. His killer’s striped shirt was stained with grease, Kennit noted in shock. The man wrenched the blade back out of them and turned to face the boarding parties. Kennit and the Satrap fell together.

Even as he fell, Kennit did not believe it. This could not be happening, not to him. A shrill screaming, like a cornered rabbit, rose right behind him. The screaming ran down and became pain. It ruptured inside him and spread through his entire body. The pain was white, unbearably white, and so intense there was no need to scream. A long time later it seemed, the deck stopped his fall. Both his hands clutched at his middle. Blood poured out between his fingers. A moment later, he tasted blood, his own blood, salt and sweet in his mouth. He’d tasted blood before; Igrot had loved to backhand him. The taste of blood in his mouth, always the forerunner to worse pain.

“Paragon,” he heard himself call breathlessly, as he had always called when the pain was too intense to bear. “I’m hurt, ship. I’m hurt.”

“Keep breathing, Kennit.” The tiny voice from his wrist was urgent, almost panicked. “Hang on. They’re almost here. Keep breathing.”

Stupid charm. He was breathing. Wasn’t he? Unhappily he turned his eyes down. With every heavy breath, he spattered blood from his lips. His fine white shirt was ruined. Etta would make him a new one. He tasted blood, he smelled it. Where was Paragon? Why didn’t he take this pain? He tried to summon him by speaking his ship’s old words for him. “Keep still, boy,” he whispered to himself, as Paragon had always done. “Keep still. I’ll take it for you. Give it all to me. Just worry about yourself.”

“He’s alive!” someone cried out. He rolled his eyes up to the speaker, praying for deliverance. But the face that looked down at him was Jamaillian. “You jerk, Flad! You didn’t even kill him.” Efficiently, this man stabbed his slender blade into Kennit’s chest and dragged it out. “Got him that time!” The satisfaction in the voice followed Kennit down into the darkness.

THEY WERE TOO LATE. WINTROW SHOUTED HIS AGONY AND
killed the man who had just killed his captain. He did it without thought, let alone remorse. The crew who had followed him from the
Vivacia
cut them a space on the crowded deck. Etta flung herself past Wintrow to land on her knees by Kennit. She touched his face, his breast. “He breathes, he breathes!” she cried in stricken joy. “Help me, Wintrow, help me! We have to get him back to Vivacia! We can still save him.”

He knew she was wrong. There was far too much blood, dark thick blood, and it still spilled from Kennit as they spoke. They couldn’t save him. The best they could do was to take him home to die, and they would have to act swiftly to do that. He stooped and took his captain’s arm across his shoulders. Etta got on the other side of Kennit, crooning to him all the while. That he did not cry out with pain as they lifted him proved to Wintrow that he was nearly gone. They had to hurry. The Jamaillians had been beaten back, but not for long.

The Satrap was underneath Kennit. As they lifted him off, the Satrap spasmed into life, screaming and rolling himself into a ball. “No, no, no, don’t kill me, don’t kill me!” he babbled. With the voluminous red cloak, he looked like a child hiding under his blankets.

“What a nuisance,” Wintrow muttered to himself, and then bit his tongue, scarcely believing he had uttered such words. As they started back to the ship with Kennit, he shouted to his crew, “Somebody bring the Satrap.”

Jek bounded past him from the edge of the group. Stooping, she picked the Satrap up in her arms, then shifted him over her shoulder. “Let’s go!” she proclaimed, ignoring the Satrap’s cries. Althea, at her side, menaced the closing Jamaillian warriors with a sword, guarding Jek’s back. Wintrow caught one flash from her dark and angry eyes. He tried not to care. He had to bring Kennit back to his own deck. He wished she could understand that despite what Kennit had done to her, there was still a bond between Kennit and him. He wished he could understand it himself. They crossed the deck at a half-run. Kennit’s leg and peg dragged behind them, leaving a scrawl of his blood in their wake. Someone caught his legs up as they went over the railings and helped them. “Cast off!” he shouted to Jola as soon as Althea and the others had regained the deck of the
Vivacia
. They turned to slash at Jamaillians, who sought to board them, intent on reclaiming the Satrap or at least his body. The ships began to move apart. A Jamaillian made a furious leap and fell into the widening gap. Their ship was wallowing now. Whatever the serpent had done to their rudder was flooding their holds. The same serpent watched their ship avidly, positioned just beneath the boat they were trying to get off. Wintrow tore his eyes away.

“Wintrow! Bring me Kennit!” Vivacia shouted. Then, even louder, “Paragon, Paragon, we have him! Kennit is here!”

Wintrow exchanged a glance with Etta. The pirate hung silently between them. Blood dripped from his chest to puddle on the deck. Etta’s eyes were wide and dark. “To the foredeck,” Wintrow said quietly. Then he shouted to the crew, “Get us clear of the Jamaillian ship. It’s sinking. Jola! Get us away before the fleet can close us in.”

“We’re a bit late for that!” Jek announced cheerily as she dumped the Satrap to his feet on Vivacia’s deck. Althea caught his arm to keep him from falling. As he gasped in outrage, Jek took hold of his shirt and tore it open. She inspected the dark wound that welled blood sluggishly down his belly. “I don’t think it hit anything really important. Kennit took your death for you. Best get below and lie down until someone has time to see to you.” Casually, she tore a hank of his shirt free and handed it to him. “Here. Press this on it. That will slow the blood.”

The Satrap looked at the rag she had thrust into his hand. Then he looked down at his wound. He dropped the rag nervelessly and swayed on his feet. Althea kept a firm grip on him as Jek took his other arm with a shake of her head. She rolled her eyes at Althea.

Althea stared after Wintrow. Kennit’s arm was across her nephew’s shoulders, Wintrow’s arm around his waist as they dragged him along. She clenched her jaws. That man had raped her and Wintrow had still risked his own life for him. The Satrap took a gasp of air. Then, “Malta!” he wailed, as a child would have cried “Mama!” “I’m bleeding. I’m dying. Where are you?”