Ship of Destiny (84 page)

That did not mean she took any satisfaction in it. Bitterly she reflected that scores of Bingtown folk, slaves and simple tradesmen as well as Traders, had died for their ambitions. If their plot had succeeded, Bingtown itself would have fallen and eventually the Rain Wilds as well. Perhaps it was time they felt what it was like to stand in danger they could not avoid.

FROM THE TOP OF
PARAGON
’
S MAST, ALTHEA HAD A WIDE VIEW
of the battle. She had told Brashen she would climb the mast to try to see a way out of their situation. He had believed her, not knowing she fled Paragon’s blue-eyed stare and his own possessive touch on her. The combination had suddenly filled her with unease. Brashen had not noticed. He had put Semoy to assembling Paragon’s reduced crew into defense while he took Paragon’s helm. It had wrung her heart to see how many of the sailors had perished, and how many of the survivors bore wounds. Amber’s scalded face and burnt scalp and Clef’s still-peeling burns horrified her. She felt oddly shamed that she had not shared their danger.

From her vantage, she looked down on a scene of disaster and battle. She saw crews abandoning their serpent-damaged ships, and others struggling with fallen rigging and injured men. But those of the Jamaillian fleet that could still function seemed intent on continuing the battle. As far as she could see, there was no easy escape. The
Motley
had rammed a ship that had tried to head her off. The ships were locked together now, their rigging tangled and bloody battle raging on both decks. Althea suspected that no matter who won, both ships were doomed. The
Marietta
could have slipped through and escaped, but Sorcor held her back, trying to aid the
Motley.
Flight after flight of arrows soared from her deck, picking off the Jamaillian sailors, while her own small catapult launched stones at the surrounding ships in a vain effort to keep them back.

It was a very uneven contest, growing worse. Now that Vivacia and Paragon were on the move, only their desire to keep their catapults at a useful range kept the Jamaillian ships from hemming in the two liveships completely. The white serpent hummocking through the water beside Paragon kept some of the ships at bay, while the lingering effects of the earlier serpent attacks delayed others. Althea saw a mainsail on one vessel suddenly crash down, and surmised that an earlier spraying of serpent-spittle had finally eaten through the sheets.

Their only hope was to break out of the circle and flee for Divvytown. Wintrow had said the town was defensible, but defensible did not mean it could withstand a prolonged siege. She suspected that as long as the Satrap lived, the Jamaillian fleet would not give up. And once he had died, they would eliminate all witnesses. Would they hold back from wiping out a whole pirate settlement? She did not think so.

Down on the deck, men were moving Kennit’s body. The old woman trailed after the body, but Etta lingered on the foredeck, gripping the railing and staring past the figurehead’s shoulder, careless of the battle around them. Perhaps she, too, sensed that more of Kennit remained with the figurehead than in the lolling body. Kennit was a part of Paragon now. He had died on Paragon’s deck, and the ship had welcomed him. She still had not grasped why.

Amber suddenly spoke below her. “Best come down. Brashen is sure a rock is going to come by and carry you off with it.”

Paragon had already taken one solid hit that had taken out part of his railing and scored his deck.

“I’d best get down, too,” Amber continued. “It sounds like Kyle is making a fuss over Kennit’s body being here.”

“Kyle?” The word burst out of Althea.

“Didn’t Brashen tell you? Kennit’s mother brought him on board with her. Evidently Kennit had stashed him on Key Island.”

“No. He didn’t. We haven’t had much time to talk.” Now there was an understatement. Kennit’s mother? Key Island? Althea scooted down the mast, passing Amber to gain the deck. She had thought that nothing could further complicate this day. She had been wrong.

Kyle Haven, Keffria’s missing husband, stood in the door of Paragon’s house, blocking the way. Althea recognized his voice. “Throw it over the side!” he demanded harshly. “Murderer! Thieving c-c-cutthroat!” He stammered hoarsely in his fury. “Deserved to die! Feed him to the serpents—as he fed my crew to the serpents.”

The two men bearing the body looked disgruntled, but the old woman who must be Kennit’s mother looked stricken. She still clutched her dead son’s hand.

Althea dropped lightly to the deck and hurried over. “Let her pass, Kyle. Tormenting her won’t change a thing that Kennit did.” As she spoke the words, she suddenly knew the truth of them. She looked impassively at Kennit’s dead face. He was beyond her vengeance now, and she would not take out her bitterness on this grieving old woman. Kyle, however, was not out of her reach. She had waited long for this confrontation. His arrogance and selfishness had nearly destroyed her life.

Nevertheless, as he turned to stare at her, her hatred melted into horror. His angry confidence had vanished the moment she challenged him. His hands jerked spasmodically as he glared at her without comprehension. “What?” he demanded querulously. “Who?”

“Althea Vestrit,” she said quietly. She stared at him.

He bore the marks of many beatings. Teeth were missing and scars seamed his face. Gray streaked his unkempt blond hair. Blows to his head had crazed his control of his head and hands. He moved with trembling and corrections like a very old man.

Amber stood just behind Althea. She spoke gently, in the same tones she had used when Paragon was in one of his tempers. “Let it go, Kyle. He’s dead. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re safe now.”

“Doesn’t matter!” he sputtered, outraged. “Does matter! Look at me. Damn mess. Your fault!” he suddenly declared, pointing at Althea with a shaky, crooked finger. His twisted hands made her feel faint to look at him. They bore the marks of systematic breaking. “Your fault—you unnatural—want to be a man. Shamed the family. Made the ship hate me. Your fault. Your fault.”

Althea scarcely heard his words. She saw instead how he struggled to find words and force them from his mouth. Kyle took a great breath, his face mottling red with his effort. “I curse you! Die on this mad ship! Curse you with bad luck. Dead man on board. You’ll die on this deck. Mark that! I curse you! All! I curse you!” He threw wide his shaky hands and saliva flew from his lips.

Althea stared at him, unspeaking. The true curse was that he was Keffria’s husband, the father of Wintrow, Malta and Selden. It was her duty to restore him to them. The thought made her blood cold. Had not Malta suffered enough? She had idealized this man. Must she return this bitter wreckage to her sister’s side?

When his words did not make his wife’s sister flinch, his face wrinkled with fury. He spat on the deck before her, intending insult, but the spittle dribbled from his chin and she felt only appalled. She found words and spoke them calmly. “Kyle. Let him by, for the sake of his mother’s grief. Let them pass.”

While Kyle stared at her in slow comprehension, the men slipped past him with Kennit’s body. Mother followed with one reproachful glance back at him. Etta was beside her now. For an instant, her eyes met Althea’s. There were no words for what passed between them. “Thank you.” The words were stiff and resentful. Hatred still burned in Etta’s eyes, but the hatred was not for Althea. It was for the shameful truth that tormented both of them. Althea turned aside from that searing knowledge. Kennit had raped her. Etta knew, and the admission was a stake in the heart of her memories of him. Neither woman could escape what he had done to them.

Althea looked away, only to have her eyes fall on Kyle. Still muttering and swinging feeble fists in a display of anger, he gestured wildly as he shuffled away from them. His left foot turned out awkwardly.

Amber spoke quietly. “At night, in our room, you used to say you longed to meet him just one more time. Just so you could confront him with what he did.”

“He stole my ship from me. He ruined my dreams.” She spoke the old accusation. It sounded impossible now. Althea could not look away from the lurching figure. “Sa save us all.” The encounter had taken but a few seconds but she felt years older. She dragged her gaze from Kyle to look at her friend. “Cheated of vengeance twice in one day,” she observed in a shaky voice.

Amber gave her a surprised look. “Is that truly how you feel?”

“No. No, it isn’t at all.” Althea searched her heart and was surprised at what she felt. “Grateful. For my life, for my intact body. For a man like Brashen in my life. Sa’s breath, Amber, I have nothing to complain about.” She looked up suddenly, as if waking from a nightmare. “We’ve got to survive this, Amber. We have to. I’ve a life to live.”

“Each of us does,” Amber replied. She looked across the water to where men fought on the decks of the locked ships. “And a death to die as well,” she added more softly.

“
WHAT WOULD KENNIT DO NOW?
”
WINTROW MUTTERED TO
himself as he scanned the closing circle of ships. He had taken up the men from the Jamaillian ship because he had not the heart to leave them to drown or be eaten. Weakness, Kennit would have said. Precious time wasted when he should have been getting his ship away. Jola was dutifully chaining them up, at his command. The thought made him queasy. But there was no time for second thoughts. He was alone in this now. Kennit was dead, and Etta sent off to mourn him. Althea had crossed to the
Paragon.
He had taken command of Vivacia, for he could not tolerate Jola captaining her. Now that he had her, he was afraid he would lose her and all hands. His mind flew back to the last time he had seized control of the ship. Then he had been replacing his father to bring her through a storm. Now he stepped up to fill Kennit’s place, in the midst of battle. Despite the time that had passed, he still felt just as uncertain. “What would Kennit do?” he asked himself again. His mind refused to work.

“Kennit is dead.” Vivacia spoke the harsh words softly. “You are alive. Wintrow Vestrit, it is up to you. Save us both.”

“How? I don’t know how.” He looked around again. He had to act and swiftly. The crew believed in him. They had answered his every command willingly, and now he stood paralyzed as death closed in on them. Kennit would have known what to do.

“Stop that.” She spoke in his heart as well as aloud. “You are not Kennit. You cannot command as he did. You must command as Wintrow Vestrit. You say you fear to fail. What have you told Etta, so often it rings in my bones? When you fear to fail, you fear something that has not happened yet. You predict your own failure, and by inaction, lock yourself into it. Was not that what you told her?”

“A hundred times,” he returned, almost smiling. “In the days when she would not even try to read. And other times.”

“And?”

He took a breath and centered himself. He scanned the battle again. His oldest training came suddenly to the fore. He drew another deep breath. When he let it out, he sent doubt with the spent air. He suddenly saw the battle as if it were one of Etta’s game boards. “In conflict, there is weakness. That is where we will break through.” He pointed toward the
Marietta
and the
Motley,
already locked in a struggle with the Jamaillian ships. Several others were moving to join the battle.

“There?” Vivacia asked, suddenly doubtful.

“There. And we do our best to free them with us.” He lifted his voice in sudden command. “Jola! Bring us about. Archers to the ready. We’re leaving!”

It was not what they expected, but once he had realized he could not forsake his friends, the decision was simple. Vivacia answered the helm readily and for a blessing, the wind was with them. Paragon followed without hesitation. He had a glimpse of Trell at the liveship’s helm. That simple act of confidence restored Wintrow’s faith in himself. “Do not hesitate!” he urged the ship. “We’ll make them give way before us.”

A Jamaillian ship veered in to flank her. It was a smaller vessel, fleet and nimble, her railing lined with archers. At the cries of his hostages, the bowmen faltered, but an instant later they let fly. Wintrow flung himself flat to avoid two shafts aimed at him. Another struck Vivacia’s shoulder, but rebounded harmlessly. She shrieked her outrage, a cry as shrill as a serpent’s. Wizardwood need fear no ordinary arrow. Pitchpots and flames would be another matter, but Wintrow judged correctly that they would fear to use them in such crowded circumstance. The lively wind would be very ready to carry scraps of flaming canvas from one vessel to another. Vivacia’s archers returned the volley, with far greater accuracy. The smaller boat veered off. Wintrow hoped the news of their hostages would spread.

Just as he thought they had escaped unscathed, a man fell from the rigging. The arrow had pierced his throat; Gankis had died soundlessly. The old man had been one of Kennit’s original crew. As his body struck the deck, Vivacia screamed. It was not a woman’s cry, but the rising shriek of an outraged dragon. The anger that surged up from her invaded Wintrow as well. An answering roar came from Paragon, echoed by a shrill trumpeting from the white serpent.

A large ship was moving steadily into their path. No doubt, her captain sought to force Vivacia back into the thick of the fleet. Wintrow gauged their chances. “Cut it as fine as you can, my lady,” he bade her. “Cry the steersman as you wish.” He gripped the forerail and hoped he was not leading them all to their deaths. Canvas full and billowing, it became a race of nerves between the two ships. At the last possible moment the other captain slacked his sails and broke away. Vivacia raced past virtually under his bow. Wintrow became aware that the white serpent had moved up to pace them when it roared and sprayed the ship in passing.

Now the embattled
Motley
was right before them. One of her brightly-colored sails was down and drooping uselessly. The crew had cleared most of her deck of boarders, but the two ships were still both grappled and tangled. Vivacia bore down on them, screaming like a dragon, archers ready. The
Marietta
moved off to allow them room. Sorcor’s supply of both arrows and shot were probably nearly spent.