Ship of Destiny (83 page)

A good question, Althea thought. Where was her little niece? She scanned the deck. Her eyes halted in amazement. Malta and Reyn were working together to take a wounded pirate below. Reyn’s left arm was swaddled in a thick white bandage. He went unveiled and Malta’s head was uncovered. In the sunlight, her scar glinted red. Althea saw her turn and speak briefly to Reyn, who nodded to her without hesitation. He put his arm around the man they had been helping and took him below while Malta hastened over to the Satrap. But she addressed her first words to Althea.

“Reyn thinks I’m beautiful. Can you believe that? Do you know what he said about my hands? That they will scale heavily as far as my elbows, most likely. He says if I rub off the dead skin, I’ll see the scarlet scales working through. He thinks I’m beautiful.” Her niece’s eyes shone with joy as she rattled words at Althea. And more than joy? Althea leaned forward incredulously. Reyn was right. Malta had a Rain Wild gleam to her eyes now. Althea lifted a hand to cover her mouth in shock.

Malta did not seem to notice. She slipped her arm around the Satrap, her face suddenly concerned. “You are hurt!” she exclaimed, surprised. “I thought you were just—oh, dear, well, come along, let’s take you below and see to that. Reyn! Reyn, I need you!” Cozening and coaxing, Malta led the Satrap of all Jamaillia away.

Althea turned away from the spectacle of the unmasked Rain Wilder hastening to her niece’s imperious summoning. She nudged Jek out of her stare. “Come on,” she told her. They hastened toward the foredeck, following Kennit’s blood trail. The beads and puddles of blood looked odd to her. Then it struck her. The wizardwood was refusing it. Kennit’s blood remained atop it, as did the other blood shed today. She tried to puzzle out what that might mean. Was Vivacia rejecting the dying pirate? She felt a sudden lift of hope.

An instant later, it turned to dismay as an immense splash showered her. “That was close!” Jek exclaimed. The next ballast stone hit Vivacia’s hull. The hard wood rang with the impact and the ship shuddered. Althea turned wildly, seeking a gap in the circle of ships that surrounded them. There wasn’t one. The
Marietta
and the
Motley
were trapped as well, though they were trying to break free. Another catapult lofted an immense stone toward them as Paragon drifted around the bow of the Jamaillian ship and into full view.

“
ETTA, ETTA.
”
HIS PANTING WHISPER BARELY REACHED HER EARS.

“Yes, dearest, I’m here, hush, hush.” Another splash rocked the ship. “We’ll take you to Vivacia. You’ll be all right.” She tightened her hold on Kennit as they hurried him forward. She wanted to be gentle, but she needed to get him to the foredeck. Vivacia could lend him strength; she knew it, despite the wooden despair on Wintrow’s face. Kennit would be all right, he had to be all right. The danger of losing him drove all doubts from her mind and heart. What could it matter to her what he had done to anyone else? He had loved her, loved her as no one else ever had.

“I won’t be all right, my dear.” His head hung forward on his chest, his gleaming black curls curtaining his face. He coughed slightly. Blood sprayed. She did not know how he found strength to speak. His gasped whisper was desperate, urgent. “My love. Take the wizardwood charm from my wrist. Wear it always, until the day you pass it on to our son. To Paragon. You will name him Paragon? You will wear the charm?”

“Of course, of course, but you aren’t going to die. Hush. Save your strength. Here’s the ladder, this is the last hard bit, my love. Keep breathing. Vivacia! Vivacia, he’s here, help him, help him!”

The crewmen and Wintrow seemed so rough as they hauled him up onto the foredeck. Etta leapt up the ladder and hurried before them. She tore off her cloak and spread it out on the deck. “Here,” she cried to them, “put him here.”

“No!” Vivacia thundered. The figurehead had twisted around as far as she could, further than a real human could have turned. She held out her arms for Kennit.

“You can help him,” Etta sought her reassurance. “He won’t die.”

Vivacia didn’t answer her question. Her green eyes were deep as the ocean as they met Etta’s gaze. The inevitability of the ocean was in her look. “Give him to me,” she said again quietly.

An unuttered scream echoed through Etta’s heart. Air would not come into her lungs. Her whole body tingled strangely, and then went numb. “Give him to her,” she conceded. She could not feel her mouth move, but she heard the words. Wintrow and Jola raised Kennit’s body, offering him to Vivacia. Etta kept Kennit’s hand tightly in hers as the ship took him in her cradling arms. “Oh, my love,” she mourned as Vivacia received him. Then the figurehead turned away and she had to release his dangling hand.

Vivacia lifted Kennit’s limp body to her breast and held him close. Her great head bent over him. Could a liveship weep? Then she lifted her head, flinging back her raven hair. Another rock struck her bow. The whole ship rang with the impact.

“Paragon!” she cried aloud. “Hurry, hurry. Kennit is yours. Come and take him!”

“No!” Etta wailed, uncomprehending. “You would give him to his enemy? No, no, give him back to me!”

“Hush. This must be,” Vivacia said kindly but firmly. “Paragon is not his enemy. I give him back to his family, Etta.” Gently, she added, “You should go with him.”

Paragon loomed closer and closer still. His hands groped blindly toward Vivacia. “Here, I am here,” she called, guiding him to her. It was an insane maneuver to bring two ships into such proximity, bow to bow, let alone in the midst of a hail of stones. One such missile crashed down, the splash wetting them both. They ignored it. Paragon’s hands suddenly clasped Vivacia and fumbled their way to Kennit in her arms. For a long instant, the two liveships rocked in a strange embrace, the pirate between them. Then, silently, Vivacia placed Kennit’s lax body in Paragon’s waiting arms.

Etta, standing at the railing, watched the change that came over the ship’s young face. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, perhaps to keep it from trembling. Then he raised Kennit’s body.

Paragon’s pale blue eyes opened at last. He looked a long time into the pirate’s face, gazing with the hunger of years. Then, slowly, he clasped him close. Kennit looked almost doll-like in the figurehead’s embrace. His lips moved, but Etta heard nothing. The blood from Kennit’s injuries vanished swiftly as it touched Paragon’s wood, soaking in immediately, and leaving no stain of passage. Then he bowed over Kennit and kissed the top of his head with an impossible tenderness. At last, Paragon looked up. He gazed at her with Kennit’s eyes and smiled, an unbearably sad smile that yet held peace and wholeness.

An elderly woman on Paragon’s deck strained toward Kennit’s body. Tears ran down her face and she cried aloud but wordlessly, a terrible gabbling wail. Behind her, a tall dark-haired man stood with his arms crossed tightly on his chest. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, but he did not try to interfere. He even stepped forward and helped support Kennit’s body as Paragon released it into the woman’s reaching arms. Gently they stretched him on the liveship’s deck.

“Now you,” Vivacia said suddenly. She reached for Etta, and she stepped into the liveship’s grasp.

SOMEWHERE IN THE DARKNESS, SOMEONE WAS BEATING A DRUM.
It was an unsteady rhythm, loud-soft, loud-soft, and slowing, slowing inexorably to peace. There were other sounds, shouts and angry cries, but they no longer mattered. Closer to his ears, familiar voices spoke. Wintrow muttering to him and to someone else, “Damn, sorry, sorry, Kennit. Be careful, can’t you, support his leg as I lift—”

On the other side of him, Etta was talking. “. . . Hush. Save your strength. Here’s the ladder, this is the last hard bit, my love. Keep breathing . . .” He could ignore them if he chose. If he ignored them, what could he focus on? What was important now?

He felt Vivacia take him. Oh, yes, this would be best, this would be easiest. He relaxed and tried to let go. He felt the life seeping out of his body, and he hovered, waiting to be gone. But she held him still, cupped in her hands like water, refusing to take him. “Wait,” she whispered to him. “Hold on, just for a moment or two longer. You need to go home, Kennit. You are not mine. You were never mine, and we always knew that. You need to be one once more. Wait. Just a bit longer. Wait.” Then she called aloud, “Paragon. Hurry, hurry. Kennit is yours. Come and take him!”

Paragon? Fear stabbed him. Paragon was lost to him, no more than a boyish ghost now. He had killed him. His own ship could never take him back. He could never go home. Paragon would fling him away, would leave him to sink beneath the sea just as he had—

He knew the touch of the big hands that accepted him. He would have wept, but there were no tears left. He tried to make his mouth move, to speak aloud how sorry he was. “There, there,” someone said comfortingly. Paragon? His father? Someone who loved him said, “Don’t fear. I have you now. I won’t let you go. You will not be hurt anymore.” Then he felt the kiss that absolved him without judgment. “Come back to me,” he said. “Come home.” The darkness was no longer black. It grew silvery and then as Paragon embraced him and took him home he faded into white.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
HARD DECISIONS

“
COME BELOW SO I CAN BANDAGE THIS,
”
MALTA INSISTED.
“Lordly one, you must not take chances with yourself.” She flinched as a rock landed in the water aft of them. She glanced back and Reyn followed her stare. Their aim was getting better. The Jamaillian ships were closing in.

“No. Not yet.” The Satrap clung to the railing and stared down gloatingly. Malta was beside him, pressing a rag to his sword thrust. The Satrap himself refused to touch his wound. Only Malta would do for that duty, but Reyn refused to be jealous. The Satrap clung to her presence as if she anchored his world, yet refused to acknowledge his dependence on her. It amazed him that the man could not hear the falsity in Malta’s sweetness to him. The Satrap leaned forward suddenly and cupped his hands to his mouth so that his shouted words would carry his gleeful satisfaction to the men on the foundering Jamaillian ship.

“Farewell, Lord Criath. Give your good counsels to my white serpent now. I’ll be sure your family in Jamaillia City knows of your bold cries for mercy. What, Ferdio? Not a swimmer? Don’t let it trouble you. You won’t be in the water long, and there’s no need to swim in the serpent’s belly. I mark you, Lord Kreio. Your sons will never see their inheritance. They lose all, not just my Bingtown grants to you but your Jamaillian estates as well. And you, Peaton of Broadhill, oh best of smoking partners! Your forests and orchards will smoke in memory of you! Ah, noble Vesset, will you hide your face in your hands? Do not fear, you will not be overlooked! You leave a daughter, do you not?”

The noble conspirators gazed up at him. Some pleaded, some stood stolidly and some shouted insults back at him. They would all meet the same end. When they had balked at entering the water in the ship’s boats while the serpent prowled so near, the crew had abandoned them. Their distrust of the ship’s boats had been well founded. They were floating wreckage now. Reyn had not seen a single sailor survive.

It was too much for the Rain Wilder. “You mock the dying,” he rebuked the Satrap.

“I mock the traitorous!” the Satrap corrected him savagely. “And my vengeance will be sweet!” he called loudly across the water. Avidly, his eyes tallied the Jamaillian nobles who stood helplessly on the deck of the foundering ship. It was already awash. He muttered names, obviously committing them to memory for later retaliation on their families. Reyn exchanged an incredulous look with Malta. This savage, merciless boy was the Lord High Magnadon Satrap of all Jamaillia? Cosgo opened his mouth again, crying, “Oh, serpent, don’t leave, here’s a tender— Ah!”

He gasped suddenly and bent over his wound.

Malta looked as innocent as a babe as she held the rag firmly to the injury and proclaimed, “Oh, Lord Satrap, you must stop your shouting. Look, it has started your bleeding again. Come, we must go below. Leave them to Sa’s justice.”

“Bleeding again—ah, the treacherous cowards deserve to die more slowly. Kennit was right. He saved me, you know.” Without asking permission, he clutched Reyn’s arm and leaned on him as they tottered him toward the ship’s house. “At the end, Kennit recognized that my survival was more important than his. Brave soul! I defied those traitors, but when they came with the killing thrust, brave Kennit took my death for me. Now there is a name that will be remembered with honor. King Kennit of the Pirate Isles.”

So the Satrap sought to crown himself with Kennit’s deeds and reputation. Reyn embroidered his conceited fantasy for him. “No doubt minstrels will make wondrous songs to tell of your great adventure. To Bingtown and the Rain Wilds the bold young Satrap journeyed. To be saved at the end by the unselfish pirate king who belatedly recognized the ultimate importance of the Satrap of all Jamaillia is the only fitting end for such a song.” Reyn drawled the words, loving that Malta must fight to keep from smiling. Between them, the Satrap’s face lit with delight.

“Yes, yes. An excellent concept. And a whole verse devoted to the names of those who betrayed me and how they perished, torn apart by the serpents that Kennit had commanded to guard me. That will make future traitors pause before they conspire against me.”

“Doubtless,” Malta agreed. “But now we must go below.” Firmly, she eased him along. Her anxious eyes met Reyn’s, sharing her fear that they would not survive the day. Despite the darkness of the emotion, Reyn treasured that he could sense so much of what she felt just by standing near her. He gathered his strength and radiated calmness toward her. Surely, Captain Kennit had been in worse situations. His crew would know how to get them out of this.

“
I
’
LL LAY OUT CANVAS FOR A SHROUD,
”
AMBER OFFERED.

“Very well,” Brashen agreed numbly. He looked down on Kennit’s body. The pirate that had nearly killed them all had died on his deck. His mother rocked him now, weeping silently, a tremulous smile on her lips. Paragon had gone very still since he had handed Kennit to his mother. Brashen feared to speak to him lest he did not answer. He sensed something happening within his ship. Whatever it was, Paragon guarded it closely. Brashen feared what it might be.

“We gonna get out of here?” Clef asked him pragmatically.

Brashen looked down at the boy by his side. “Don’t know,” Brashen answered him shortly. “We’re going to try.”

The boy surveyed the enemy ships critically. “Whyer they holdin’ back?”

“I suspect they fear the liveships. Why risk lives when rocks will work?”

The Jamaillian ship was going down. A few desperate souls had fled to her rigging, for the white serpent had shown them that their ship’s boats would provide no escape for them. Kennit’s other two ships had engaged adjacent Jamaillian vessels and were trying to force a gap in the ring of vessels that surrounded them. Another missile landed uncomfortably close. Paragon rocked slightly with it. No doubt, as soon as they were clear of the Jamaillian ship, the rest of the fleet would be bolder with their rock throwing. “If we could get the white serpent to help those two pirate vessels, we might be able to break out. But then we’d have to outrun the fleet, too.”

“It doesn’t look good,” Clef decided.

“No,” Brashen agreed grimly. Then he smiled. “But we aren’t dead yet, either.”

A strange woman was stepping down onto the railing from Paragon’s hands. She did not even glance at Brashen, but settled herself silently beside the fallen pirate. An inexpressible grief dulled her black eyes. She lifted Kennit’s hand and held it to her cheek. Mother reached across Kennit to rest a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. The women’s eyes met across his body. For a moment, the dark-haired woman studied Mother’s face. Then she spoke quietly.

“I loved him. I believe he loved me. I carry his child.”

The woman smoothed Kennit’s curls back from his still face. Brashen, feeling an intruder, looked away from them to the retreating
Vivacia.
Wintrow and Althea stood together on the foredeck, conferring about something. Brashen’s heart leapt at the sight of her. Cursing himself for a fool, he sprang suddenly to the rail. If one woman could cross, so could another. “Althea!” he bellowed, but the two ships had already drifted apart. Nevertheless, at his call, she spun. She sprinted wildly toward the bow. His heart choked him as he saw her spring wildly to the figurehead’s shoulder. There was no mistaking the shock on Vivacia’s face. She caught Althea in her headlong flight.

Her words to her ship carried clearly across the water to him. His heart flew on them. “Please, Vivacia. You don’t need me. I want to go to him.”

Vivacia glanced over at Paragon. Then her voice rang clear across the water. “Paragon! This one I give to you as well!”

As a parent might playfully loft a child, Vivacia swung Althea high, low, and then high again, letting her fly toward the blind ship. Her body arced through the air.

“No!” Brashen roared in terror, clutching the rail.

“I’ve got her!” Paragon cried reassuringly, and then, miraculously, he did.

He caught her and swung her with her momentum, whirling her around before handing her off suddenly into Brashen’s reaching arms. She stumbled off the railing and slid down into his embrace. He clasped her to him, folding her into his arms. He didn’t even try to speak. He had no breath left. When he looked up at Paragon, the ship looked back. His pale blue eyes crinkled in a grin. Brashen was transfixed.

“Welcome aboard and le’s get out of here ef we can!” Clef greeted her.

“Oh, Brashen,” Althea said shudderingly into his chest. Her voice jolted Brashen from his shock. She lifted her face to look up at him but held him as closely as ever. She took a deep breath. “Wintrow’s plan. If we can break free, run north for Divvytown. That harbor’s defensible now. We can hold out there as long as we need to, until birds can bring Kennit’s other ships to help us.”

She broke her flow of words suddenly. She stared at Kennit’s still body. The old woman and Etta on either side of him seemed unaware of anyone else. “He’s dead,” Brashen whispered into her hair. “He died in Paragon’s arms.” Althea clung to him as she never had before. He held her, wishing there were time for them. But there was not. Death threatened all around them. “Break free,” he muttered skeptically. “How?”

Paragon spoke suddenly. He looked at Brashen over Althea’s bowed head and spoke as if they were completely alone. “Once I promised not to kill you. I was mad, and you knew it, and still you believed in me.” The ship looked around, scanning their situation with cold blue eyes. “I’m whole now. Now I make you both a new promise. I’ll do all I can to keep you alive.”

“
TAKE THEM UP!
”

The command came from behind them. Malta, Reyn and the Satrap turned to it. Wintrow, his shirt crimson with Kennit’s blood, pointed at the desperate nobles on the foundering ship. Jola hastened to his side. “Launch a boat?” he asked incredulously.

“No. I won’t risk any of mine for them.” He raised his voice to the Jamaillian nobles. “We’ll throw you a line! Those brave enough to cross may survive. It’s your choice. Your fleet isn’t giving us time to rescue you. Jola, see to it.” He strode off to the foredeck again.

Chaos broke out among the nobles. They crowded the side of the listing ship. One old man lifted his hands and begged Sa to be merciful. A dapper young man, more pragmatic, ran to the other side of the ship, where he waved his cloak and cried to their ships to cease their attack. No one heeded him. The waves lapped over the top of the railings now. Jola prepared a heaving-line and threw it. All the men snatched at it, and one immediately tried to swarm up it.

“Not like that, you fool!” the mate roared down at them. “Secure the end to something, and come up it hand over hand.”

But some were graybeards and others gentlemen of leisure. Few could make the climb unassisted. In the end, it took several lines and some diligent but rapid hoisting to bring them aboard. By the time they arrived what remained of their finery was in tatters. “Be grateful she’s a liveship,” Jola informed them callously. “They don’t hold barnacles like regular wood. A smoother keelhauling than most is what you got.”

They stood before the Satrap, a dozen men that he knew by name, men he had dined with, men he had trusted. Malta gave him credit for a small courage. He stood face-to-face with them. Some met his gaze steadily, but most stared at their feet or off to the horizon. When he spoke, it was the last word Malta had expected to hear from him.

“Why?” he asked. He looked at each in turn. Malta, still holding the rag to his belly, could feel that he trembled slightly. She glanced up at his face and saw a truth that perhaps no one else did. He was hurt by their betrayal. “Did you hate me that much, to seek my death by treachery?”

The one he had called Lord Criath lifted gray eyes to stare at him. “Look at you,” he growled. “You’re weak and foolish. You think of nothing except yourself. You’ve plundered the treasury and let the city go to ruin. What else could we do but kill you? You were never a true Satrap.”

Satrap Cosgo met the man’s eyes squarely. “You have been my trusted advisor since I was fifteen years old,” he returned gravely. “I listened to you, Criath. Ferdio, you were Minister of the Treasury. Peaton, Kreio, did not you offer me counsels as well? Counsels I always heeded, despite what some of my Companions said, for I wanted you to think well of me.” His eyes moved over them. “That was my mistake, I see. I measured myself by how sweetly you complimented me. I am what you taught me to be, gentlemen. Or I was.” He stuck out his jaw. “A time out in the world among true men has been very enlightening. I am no longer the boy you manipulated and betrayed, my lords. As you will come to discover.” As if he had the authority, he instructed Jola, “Secure them below. They need not be too comfortable.”

“No.” Wintrow had returned. He countermanded the order without apology. “Fasten them about the ship’s house, Jola. I want them visible to their fleet. They may discourage some of the arrows and boulders that will come our way when we break free of this.” He spared a look for his sister, but she scarcely recognized him. Grief had set lines in his face and chilled his eyes. He tried to soften his voice, but his words still sounded like a command. “Malta, you are safer inside the captain’s stateroom. Reyn, will you take her there? And the Satrap, of course.”

She gave a final glance to the sinking Jamaillian ship. She did not linger to watch the nobles tied up as a living shield. This was war, she told herself harshly. He did what he did to try to save them all. If the nobles died, it would be because their own men fired on them. Death was a risk they had chosen when they plotted against the Satrap.