Mad Ship (42 page)

While the map-faces were prying the two cursing combatants apart and restraining them, Kennit clambered from the gig. The rock and sand of the beach were trickier for both his peg and his crutch than the smooth decks of the
Vivacia
had been. Stones shifted under his weight and sand gave way unexpectedly. Traversing it was going to be more difficult than he had supposed. He gritted his teeth and tried to make his turtle’s pace look measured and deliberate rather than labored. “Well? Follow me!” he snapped at them when they stood watching his progress. “Bring the chest.”

He found the old path without too much trouble. It was overgrown. Probably the pigs and goats were the only creatures keeping it open now, he reflected to himself. Few others beside himself had ever come to this beach, and it had been years since he had passed this way. A slippery pile of fresh pig droppings confirmed his theory. He navigated carefully around them. Ankle was right behind him. Next came the priest and Saylah carrying the chest between them. Dedge followed, manhandling Haven to make him keep pace. Haven was not being quiet, but Kennit no longer really cared. They could do what they wished to the captain, as long as he arrived intact. He was sure they understood that.

For a short time the trail led gently uphill. Then it dipped and began to wind down into the gently rolling interior of the island. Kennit paused for a moment on the lip of that small valley. Forest gave way to tussocky pastureland. A grazing goat lifted his head and regarded them warily. Little had changed. To the west, he saw a tiny thread of smoke rising toward the sky. Well. Maybe nothing at all had changed. The path gave a twist then headed through the forest toward the smoke. Kennit followed it.

The damn crutch was eating a hole in his armpit. It needed more padding. More cushioning was needed in the stump cup, too. He set his teeth and refused to show his discomfort. Sweat was trickling down his back before he reached the clearing. He halted once more on the edge of it. Dedge swore in wonder. The woman muttered a prayer. Kennit paid no heed to them.

Before him stretched the tidy garden, laid out in neat well-tended rows. Chickens cackled and scratched in a pen just beyond a small henhouse. From somewhere, a cow lowed questioningly. Beyond the garden were six cottages, once as alike as peas in a pod. Now five of the thatched roofs sagged pitifully. Smoke rose from the chimney of one that retained a roof. Other than that pale moving pillar, all was still. Beyond the cottages, the upper story and shingled roof of a larger house were visible. Once this had been a small and prosperous freehold. Now this handful of houses was all that remained. Years of careful planning had gone into it. The entire settlement had been laid out with loving precision. It had been an ordered and tidy world, designed especially for him. That had been before Igrot the Terrible discovered its existence. Kennit’s eyes traveled slowly over all of it. Something stirred inside him, but he stifled it before the emotion could make itself known.

He took a slow, deep breath. “Mother!” He called out. “Mother, I’m home!”

For two breaths, nothing happened. Then a door was slowly opened. A gray-haired woman peered out. She squinted in the early morning light as she peered about the yard. She finally spotted them on the far side of the garden. She lifted a hand and clutched at her throat, staring wide-eyed. She made a small sign against wild spirits. Kennit gave a sigh of exasperation. He began to pick his way through the garden, his crutch and peg awkward in the rows of softened earth. “It’s me, Mother. Kennit. Your son.”

As it always had, her caution exasperated him. He was halfway across the garden before she was all the way out the door. She was barefoot, he noted with distaste, and dressed in cotton tunic and trousers like a peasant. Her pinned up hair was the color of wood-ash. Never a slender woman, she had thickened with the years. Her eyes widened as she finally recognized him. She hurried toward him at an inglorious trot. He had to suffer the indignity of her squashy embrace. She was weeping before she even reached him. Over and over, she pointed at his missing leg, gabbling in sorrow and query.

“Yes, yes, Mother, it’s all right. Now have done.” She clutched at him, weeping. He seized her hands firmly and set them back from himself. “Have done!”

Years ago, her tongue had been cut out. Although he had had nothing to do with that and had sincerely deplored it at the time, over the years he had come to see it was not an entirely unfortunate incident. She still talked endlessly, or tried to, but since the event he could steer the conversation as he wished it to go. He told her when she agreed with him, and when a topic was settled. As now.

“I can’t stay long, I’m afraid, but I’ve brought you a few things.” He turned her determinedly and led his awe-stricken cavalcade toward the intact cottage. “The chest has a few gifts for you. Some flower seeds I thought you would like, some cooking spices, some cloth, a tapestry. A bit of this, a bit of that.”

They reached the door of the cottage and went inside. It was spotlessly tidy. Bare. On the table were smoothed shingles of white pine. Brushes and dyes were laid out beside them. So, she still painted. Yesterday’s work still rested on the table, a wildflower done in intricate and realistic detail. A kettle of water bubbled on the hearth. Through the door into the second room, he glimpsed the neatly made bed. Everywhere he looked, he saw signs of a simple and placid life. She had always liked things that way. His father had loved opulence and variety. They had complemented one another well. Now she was like half a person. The thought suddenly agitated him beyond his self-control. He paced a turn around the room, then seized Ankle by the shoulders and thrust the girl forward.

“I’ve thought of you often, Mother. See, this is Ankle. She’s your servant now. She’s not very bright, but she seems clean and willing. If she turns out not to be, I’ll kill her when I come back.” His mother’s eyes flew wide in horror and the crippled girl crouched down, babbling for mercy. “So, for her sake, do try to get along well together,” he added almost gently. Already he wished he were back on the deck of his ship. Things were so much simpler there. He gestured at his prisoner.

“And this is Captain Haven. Say hello and then good-bye for now. He will be staying, but you needn’t bother much about him. I’ll be putting him down in the old wine cellar under the big house. Ankle, you will remember to give him some food and water now and then, won’t you? At least as often as you were fed and watered aboard the ship, right? That seems fair to everyone, now doesn’t it?” He waited for answers but they were all gaping at him as if he were mad. All save his mother, who clutched the front of her blouse and wrung the fabric between her hands. She looked distressed. He thought he knew the problem. “Now, remember, I have given my word that he is to be kept safe. So I insist you do just that. I’ll chain him up well, but you must see to the food and water part. Do you understand?”

His mother gabbled frantically at him. He nodded in approval. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. Now. What have I forgotten?”

He glanced at the others. “Oh, yes. Look, Mother. I’ve brought you a priest, too! I know how you like priests.” His eyes drilled Sa’Adar. “My mother is very devout. Pray for her. Or bless something.”

Sa’Adar’s eyes went wide. “You’re mad.”

“Scarcely. Why do people always accuse me of that when I’m arranging things to my liking instead of theirs?” He dismissed the priest. “Now, these two, Mother, are going to be your neighbors. They have a baby on the way, they’ve told me. I’m sure you’ll like having a little one around, won’t you? They’re both handy at heavy work. Perhaps the next time I come to visit, I’ll find things in better repair. Perhaps you’ll be living in the big house again?”

The old woman shook her head so violently that her gray hair flew free of its pinning. Her eyes went wide with some remembered pain. She opened her mouth in a quavering cry. It revealed the stump of her tongue. Kennit looked aside in distaste. “This cottage does seem quite cozy,” he amended. “Perhaps you are better off here. But that doesn’t mean we should stand by and let the big house fall down.” He glanced at the map-face couple. “You two may choose one of the cottages for yourself. As may the priest. Keep him well away from the captain. I promised Wintrow that his father would be kept somewhere, intact, where the boy no longer needed to worry about him or deal with him.”

For the first time, Kyle Haven spoke. His jaw dropped and his mouth gaped for a moment. He strangled, and then the furious words roared out of him. “This is Wintrow’s doing? My son did this to me?” His blue eyes flew wide in hurt and justified hatred. “I knew it. I knew it all along! The treacherous little viper! The cur!”

Kennit’s mother cowered from his vehemence. Kennit casually backhanded Haven across his mouth. Even supporting himself on his crutch, Kennit managed sufficient force that the captain staggered backward. “You’re upsetting my mother,” he pointed out coolly. He gave a short sigh of exasperation. “I suppose it’s time I put you away. Come along, then. You two bring him.” This he addressed to his map-faces. Turning to the girl, he commanded her, “Make some food. Mother, you show her where the supplies are. Priest, stay here. Pray or something. Do whatever my mother wishes you to do.”

The map-faces hustled Captain Haven out the door. As Kennit followed, Sa’Adar announced, “You can’t command what I do. You can’t make me your slave.”

Kennit glanced back at him. He gave him a small smile. “Perhaps not. However, I
can
make you dead. It’s an interesting choice, don’t you think?” He turned and left without a backward glance.

The map-faces awaited him outside. Haven sagged between the well-muscled pair. Disbelief warred with despair in his face. “You can’t do this. You can’t abandon me here.”

Kennit merely shook his head to himself. He was so weary of people telling him that he could not do what he obviously could. He did not bother to look at his followers as he led the way to the big house. The pebbled path was overgrown, the flowerbeds long gone to weed and ruins. He pointed it out to the map-faces. “I’d like this tidied. If you don’t know anything about gardening, ask my mother for direction. She knows a great deal about it.” As they came around the front of the house, he did not look at the remains of the other structures. There was no sense in dwelling on the past. Grass and creeping vines had long ago overpowered and cloaked the burnt remains. Let it lie so.

Even the big house had taken some damage in that long ago raid. There were scorch marks on the planked walls where the flames from the neighboring structures had threatened to set it ablaze as well. Such a night of flames and screams that had been, as the supposed allies revealed their true intent. Such an orgy of cruelty as Igrot indulged to his sensual limits. The smells of smoke and blood were forever intermingled in his memories of that night.

He climbed the steps. The front door was not locked. It had never been locked. His father had not believed in locks. He opened the door and strode in. For an instant, his memory leaped and showed him the interior as it once had been. Education and travel had sharpened his tastes since then, but when he was a child, he had found the hodge-podge of tapestries and rugs and statuary luxurious and rich. Now he would have scoffed at such a mish-mash of trash and treasures, but then his father had reveled in it and the boy Kennit with him. “You’ll live like a king, laddie,” his father would say. “No. Better yet, you’ll be a king. King Kennit of Key Island! Now doesn’t that have a fine ring? King Kennit, King Kennit, King Kennit!” Singing that refrain, his father would scoop him up and swing him wildly about, capering drunkenly around the room. King Kennit.

He blinked his eyes. He saw the stripped walls and the bare floor of what was actually little more than a plantation house, not the aristocratic mansion his father had pretended it to be. Kennit had considered refurbishing the house many times. In the rooms upstairs were stored more than enough art and furniture to eclipse the house’s former tawdry glory. It was his carefully gleaned collection, the finest of his troves, brought here a bit at a time in great secrecy. But that was not what he wanted. No. He would restore it with what Igrot had stolen from them. The same paintings, the same tapestries and rugs, chairs and chandeliers. Someday, when the time was right, he would go after all of it, bring it back here, and put it all back just as it had been. He would make it right. He had promised that to himself more times than he cared to remember, and now the fulfillment of that promise was within his grasp. All that Igrot had ever stolen from anyone was now his by right. A small hard smile formed on his mouth. King Kennit indeed.

His mother wanted no part of it. When he was younger, during the savage years, he would climb onto her lap, hug her neck tightly, and try to whisper his plans for vengeance into her ear. She would desperately and fearfully shush him. She had not even dared dream of revenge. Now she no longer wanted luxuries and wealth on display. No. She trusted to her simple life to protect her. Kennit knew the truth of that. No one can have so little that someone else can find nothing to envy. Poverty and simplicity were not shields from the greed of others. If you had nothing left to steal, they’d take your body and enslave it.

For all his musings, he did not pause or tarry. He led his cavalcade briskly through the hall and back to the kitchen. He opened the heavy door and left it ajar as he led them down the steps to the cellar beneath. It had been painstakingly dug down into the rocky bones of the island. There were no windows but he didn’t bother kindling a torch. He didn’t plan to be down there that long. It was evenly cool, winter and summer. It had been a good wine cellar. No sign of that use of it remained now. The rusty chains on the floor and some odd stains recalled its later use as a makeshift dungeon and torture chamber for those who had displeased Igrot. Now it could serve that purpose again.

“Chain him up,” he directed his map-faces. “Make sure you fasten him tight and true. There are some rings driven into that back wall. Fasten him to one of those. I don’t want him trying to bother little Ankle when she comes with his food and water. If she comes with his food and water.”