Mad Ship (28 page)

“It’s a liveship, out of Bingtown. Surely, you know her. Liveships are not that common.” Finney pressed.

Brashen took a step closer, peered at the painting, then shrugged. “They’re not that common, true. But they tie up at a different dock from the common ships. They keep to themselves, and idlers aren’t too welcome there. Traders can be a snooty lot.”

“I thought you were Trader born.” Now both of them were looking at him.

He spat out a laugh. “Even Traders have poor relatives. My third cousin is the real Trader. I’m just a shirt-tail relative, and not a welcome sight on the family’s doorstep. Sorry. What’s her name plate say?”

“Vivacia,”
Finney said. “I thought that was a ship you’d served on. Didn’t you say as much to the agent back in Candletown?”

Brashen cursed his cindin-fogged memories of that meeting. He shook his head thoughtfully. “No. I told him I was mate on the
Vicious Vixen.
She was out of a Six Duchies harbor, not Bingtown. Not a bad vessel, if you like living with a bunch of barbarians who think fish-head stew is a real treat. I didn’t.”

Finney and Faldin both chuckled dutifully. It wasn’t much of a jest but it was enough to turn the topic. Faldin flourished the painting a final time; Finney dismissed it with a headshake. Faldin made a great show of carefully re-wrapping the painting, as if to emphasize the value that Finney was missing. Finney was already poking through the rest of the scrolls. Brashen tried to resume his watchful air, but he felt sick. The splintered frame indicated the painting had been taken hastily. Had she been sinking as the framed painting was torn off the wall? One of Faldin’s boys, passing near him, shot him a fearful glance. Brashen realized he was glaring at no one, and rearranged his face.

Some of the men he had worked with aboard the
Vivacia
had been his comrades for years. Their faces rose in his memory: Grig, who could splice line faster than most men could lie, and Comfrey the prankster, and half a dozen others with whom he had shared the forecastle. The ship’s boy, Mild, had had the makings of a top-notch sailor, if his love for mischief hadn’t killed him first. He hoped they had had the good sense to turn pirate when they were offered that option. His need to ask the merchant what he knew of the liveship burned inside him. Was there a way to be curious without betraying himself? Brashen suddenly didn’t care.

“Where did you get the picture of the liveship, anyway?” he asked.

The other two men turned to stare at him.

“Why do you care?” Captain Finney asked. His voice was not casual.

Sincure Faldin broke in, obviously still hoping to dispose of the painting. “The painting comes from the ship herself. Rarely is a liveship ever captured: this authentic memento of such an event is among the rarest of the rare.” As he re-pitched the desirability of the painting, he had snatched it up and was once more freeing it of its shroud.

Brashen shifted the small plug of cindin in his lip. “Don’t believe it, then,” he said gruffly. He met Finney’s eyes. “That’s what was bothering me. If a man has a picture of a ship aboard, it is likely a picture of his own ship. But liveships don’t get caught. Everyone knows that. It’s a fake.” He shifted his gaze, as if by chance, to the merchant. “Oh, I’m not calling you a liar,” he added hastily at the look of outrage on Faldin’s face. “I’m just saying whoever sold it to you was probably gulling you.” He smiled at the man, knowing well that insinuating that a man didn’t know what he was talking about was the best way to get him to share all he knew.

It worked. The trader’s outrage faded to a look that was coldly smug. “I don’t think so. Yet, I can understand why you might believe that was so. The taking of a liveship is not an ordinary feat. An ordinary man did not accomplish it. Captain Kennit did. If you know his name at all, you will not be surprised by it.”

Captain Finney gave a snort of contempt. “That horse’s ass? Is he still alive? I would have bet gold that someone would have spilled his guts by now. He isn’t still spouting that nonsense about becoming the King of the Pirates, is he?”

For the first time, Brashen suspected Sincure Faldin’s affront was genuine. The portly merchant drew himself up and took in a breath. His gaudy shirt filled like a sail bellying with wind. “You speak of a man who is all but engaged to my daughter. I have the highest regard for Captain Kennit, and am honored that he gives me the exclusive privilege of selling his goods. I will hear no disparagement of him.”

Finney rolled his eyes at Brashen. “Then you won’t hear anything from me about him. The man is insane, Sincure. He’s a top-notch captain, and he runs a tight ship. I won’t fault him there. Last year there was all that wild talk about him saying he was destined to be King of the Pirate Isles. Rumor was that he’d gone to the Others Island, and got an oracle to say it was so. Well, you know how much we all want a king. Faugh! Then the next thing I hear about him, he’s running down slaveships just for the sake of freeing the cargo. Not that I don’t feel for those poor clods chained up in Chalcedean holds. I do. I feel for myself, too, when that damn Kennit stirred up enough dust that the boy Satrap thought he needed to send patrols out after pirates. The kid doesn’t even have the sense to keep it a Jamaillian problem, no; he invites in Chalcedean privateers, supposed to clean us out of here. But all they’re really doing is picking off the best cargoes for themselves and leaving us to take the blame.” Finney shook his head. “King of the Pirate Isles. Sure. That’s just about exactly what we’d expected we would get from a king. More dung raining down on us.”

Sincure Faldin crossed his arms stubbornly. “No, no, my dear friend. Far be it from me to disagree with a customer, but you are not seeing the larger picture. Kennit has done great good for us all. The slaves he has freed have joined us, supplying our towns with artisans and craftsmen, not to mention fertile women. Who used to flee to us? Murderers and rapists, thieves and cut-throats. Those few honest men who ended up among us have had to do as you and I have done: devise a way to make an honest living in the midst of disorder. Kennit has changed all that. He swells our towns with folk who ask no more than a chance to live free again. He will make of us a nation rather than a collection of bickering outposts for renegades and refugees. Yes, he stirred the Satrap’s wrath. Those among us so blind as to think we still owed loyalty to a drug-lulled boy who is ruled by his women and advisors now see him for what he truly is. His actions have shattered that sentimental fealty. All of us are coming to realize that we owe no loyalty at all to Jamaillia, that our concerns should be only for ourselves.”

A grudging agreement spread over Finney’s face. “I don’t say he’s all bad. But we don’t need a king. We’ve done fine running things ourselves.”

Brashen dredged up a fragment of half-forgotten gossip. “Kennit. Isn’t he the one who kills everyone aboard a ship when he takes it?”

“Not always!” Faldin objected. “Only on slaveships does he kill the whole crew. But there is a rumor he has spared some of the liveship’s crew, although she was a slaver. The ship was joyous at being rescued. Now she dotes on Captain Kennit.”

“A liveship was being used as a slaver, and when she was captured, she abandoned her loyalty to her family?” Brashen shook his head, amused and disdainful. He spoke to his captain. “I may not know this particular ship, but I know enough of liveships to tell you those two things cannot be true.”

“But they are!” Faldin looked from one man to the other. “You do not have to believe me,” he added in a superior voice. “You are only a day or so from Divvytown. Go there, if you doubt me. The liveship has been there the better part of a month, undergoing repairs. Speak to the slaves, now free folk, delivered by Kennit from her holds. I have not spoken to the ship myself, but those bold enough to do so say that she speaks well of her new captain.”

Brashen’s heart was thundering in his chest. He felt as if he could not get quite enough air. It couldn’t be true. Everything he knew about Vivacia and liveships told him it could not be true. Every scrap of evidence that Sincure Faldin offered him told him that it was. He managed a shrug and then coughed in an attempt to ease the tightness in his throat. “Up to the captain,” he managed to say. He made a great show of shifting the cindin in his mouth. He spoke around the plug. “He makes those decisions. Me?” He shifted the truncheon in his hands. “I do other things.” He grinned at them both, a setting of his teeth.

“If you came to Divvytown, I could show you a much fuller selection of merchandise.” Sincure Faldin had suddenly reverted to being a merchant. His smile returned as he made his spiel. “My warehouse is there. Kennit’s most recent voyage has stocked it well for me, though there is little else that is actually from the liveship. Slaves were the major cargo. Those he has freed. He has chosen to keep the choice appointments of the officers’ quarters intact and otherwise restore the ship. He has not felt well enough yet to welcome visitors, but I am told that the captain’s quarters are very fine, all polished wood and shining brass.”

Captain Finney made a nondescript noise. Brashen kept very still. The glint of interest had kindled in his captain’s eyes. There was the prospect of seeing a captured liveship, perhaps even speaking to her. Given that sort of proof, and Faldin’s assurance that the painting was the only trophy of its taking, he’d probably buy the portrait. Rarity always brought coin. Finney cleared his throat. “Well. Set the picture aside. I have got a bit of space in the hold to fill. Sounds like Divvytown might be the place to do it. If I see this liveship and your tale proves true, I’ll buy the picture. Now. Let’s back to business. Have you got any tapestries like those you sold me last year?”

HAMMERS RANG
above a chorus of saws burring. The smell of hardwood sawdust and fresh varnish filled the ship’s companionways. The slaves that had crowded the decks and holds of the
Vivacia
had been replaced with gangs of carpenters and shipwrights. Wintrow stepped around a man applying varnish to a repaired doorframe, then dodged an apprentice bearing blocks of beeswax. With amazing swiftness, the
Vivacia
was being restored. The damage she had taken in the slave uprising had nearly been eradicated. Her holds were being cleaned, not just scrubbed but freshened by the careful burning of aromatic herbs. Soon only the stains of spilled blood would remain on her decks. Despite scrubbing, sanding or soaking, the wizardwood refused to forget.

Sorcor was very much in evidence, striding about the ship energetically supervising everyone. His voice carried well and men jumped to obey his orders. Less obvious but no less commanding was Etta. She did not announce her presence with a bellowed command, but her quiet comments served just as well. Deckhands beamed at a word of praise from her. Wintrow had been watching her surreptitiously. He had expected that she would be waspish in her direction, sharply sarcastic. He had felt the razor edge of her tongue so often that he assumed it was her common demeanor. Instead, he discovered that she had a great talent for both charm and persuasion. He also detected the careful line she walked to get tasks accomplished to her satisfaction without interfering with Sorcor’s authority. When the mate and the captain’s woman were in proximity, they displayed both camaraderie and rivalry. It intrigued and puzzled Wintrow. Both their bond and their dispute was Kennit.

How could one man command such loyalty from such diverse people? At the monastery, one oft-repeated old saying was “Sa’s hand can fit around any tool.” It was usually uttered when an unlikely novice suddenly bloomed with talent. After all, Sa had a purpose for all things. It was the limit of humanity that those reasons could not always be perceived. Maybe Kennit truly was a tool of Sa, and was aware of his destiny. Wintrow supposed that stranger things had happened. He simply could not recall any.

Wintrow rapped once at a freshly restored door, then worked the latch and entered. Despite the sunshine slanting in through the porthole, the chamber seemed dark and close. “You should open the window and let in some fresh air,” he observed aloud. He set down the tray he was carrying.

“Shut the door,” his father replied gruffly. He unfolded his legs, stretched, and then stood. The rumpled bed behind him retained the imprint of his body. “What did you bring me this time? Sawdust cakes full of weevils?” He glared at the door that still stood open. In one angry stride he crossed the small room and slammed it shut.

“Turnip and onion soup and wheatcakes,” Wintrow replied evenly. “The same food that everyone else got today.”

Kyle Haven grunted in reply. He lifted the bowl of soup, poked it with a finger. “It’s cold,” he complained, and then drank it where he stood. His whiskery throat moved as he swallowed. Wintrow wondered when he had last shaved. When he lowered the bowl, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He caught his son staring and glared back. “Well? What sort of manners do you expect of a man kept like a dog in a kennel?”

“There are no longer any guards on the door. I asked some days ago if you might be allowed out on deck. Kennit said you could, so long as I was with you and took responsibility for you. It is your own decision to remain in this room as if it were a cell.”

“I wish there were a mirror in here, so I could see if I look as stupid as you think I am,” his father retorted sourly. He snatched up a wheatcake and wiped out the bowl with it before he bit into it. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he muttered around a mouthful of food. “You could trot along beside me on deck, and be oh-so-surprised and horrified when some sneaking bastard put a knife in my ribs. Then you would be rid of me for good and all. Don’t think that I don’t know that’s what you want. That’s what this has all been about. Not that you have the guts to do it yourself. Oh, no, not the boy in the skirts. He prays to Sa, rolls his big brown eyes, and sets it up for others to do his dirty work. What’s this?”

“Alde tea. And if I wanted so badly to be rid of you, I’d have poisoned it.” Wintrow heard with a shock the heartless sarcasm in his own voice.