Mad Ship (58 page)

“She has done it! Our beauty has done it! Ah, Vivacia, never did I suspect you had such speed and skill!” Kennit was worshipful in his praise.

A wave of purest adoration for Kennit flowed through Wintrow. The ship’s emotion completely overwhelmed his own fear of what would follow now that the slaver had been captured. The figurehead twisted about to lock eyes with Kennit. The admiration that passed between them was the mutual recognition of predators.

“We will hunt well together, we two,” Vivacia observed.

“That we shall,” Kennit promised her.

Wintrow felt adrift. He was linked to them but they ignored him. He was irrelevant to what they had just discovered in one another. He could sense them connecting on a deeper, more basic level than any he had ever attained. What, he wondered dimly, did they acknowledge in one another? Whatever it was, he felt no answering echo in himself. Across a body-length of water, there was another deck, where men were fighting for their lives. Blood was flowing there, but what flowed here, between the liveship and the pirate, was something even thicker.

“Wintrow. Wintrow!” In a sort of daze, the boy heard his name and turned to it. Kennit’s grin was white and wide as he indicated the captured ship. “With me, lad!”

He found himself following Kennit across the railing and onto a foreign deck where men struggled, cursed and screamed. Etta suddenly flanked them, a drawn blade in her hand. She strode with a pantherish awareness of all around her. Her black hair shone sleek in the sunlight. Kennit himself carried a long knife, but Wintrow was weaponless and wide-eyed in this strange world. His mind cleared somewhat as he left Vivacia’s wizardwood behind, but the chaos he plunged into was nearly as numbing. Kennit strode across the deck fearlessly. Etta had placed herself on his right side, adjacent to his crutch. They threaded their way across the filthy and stinking deck. They passed by men intent on killing one another and circled around a man curled in a pool of blood on the deck. An arrow had skewered him, but the fall from the rigging had done more damage. His face was hideous as he grinned with his pain, his eyes crinkled as if in merriment while blood trickled from his ear and into his scruffy beard.

Sorcor came bounding across the deck toward them. Evidently, the
Marietta
had caught up swiftly, once she put her mind to it. She had grappled the slaver from the other side. The embattled crew never had a chance. The drawn blade in Sorcor’s hand dripped while his tattooed face shone with savage satisfaction. “Just about done here, sir!” he greeted Kennit affably. “Just a few live ones left up on the poop. Not a real fighter amongst them.” A wild yell punctuated his comment, followed by a flurry of splashing. “And one less now,” Sorcor remarked cheerily. “I’ve got some men opening hatch covers. It’s a stinking hole belowdecks. I think they have got as many bodies chained up down there as they do live men. We’re going to have to take the survivors off fast. This ship is making water like a sailor pissing beer.”

“Do we have room for them all, Sorcor?”

The stocky pirate waggled his eyebrows in a shrug. “Most likely. It’ll crowd both our ships, but when we rejoin the
Crosspatch,
we can transfer a lot of them to her. I’d say that about fills us up, though.”

“Excellent.” Kennit nodded almost absently. “We’ll be making for Divvytown, after we pick up the
Crosspatch.
Time to let out the word as to how well we’ve done.”

“I’d say so,” Sorcor grinned.

A blood-smudged pirate hastened up to the group. “Begging your pardons, sirs, but the cook wants to yield. He’s holed up in the galley.”

“Kill him,” Kennit told the man in annoyance.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but he says he knows something that would make it worth our while to let him live. Says he knows where there’s treasure.”

Kennit shook his head in wordless disgust.

“If he knew where there was treasure, why wasn’t he going after it instead of hauling slaves in this tub?” Etta demanded sarcastically.

“Don’t know, ma’am,” the sailor apologized. “He’s an old ’un. Missing an eye and a hand. Claims he used to sail with Igrot the Bold. That’s what got us thinking. Everyone knows that Igrot knocked off the Satrap’s treasure barge and that lot was never seen again. Maybe he does know … ”

“I’ll take care of it, Captain,” Sorcor promised in irritation. “Where’s he at?” he demanded of the hand.

“Hold on a moment, Sorcor. Perhaps I’ll have a word with this cook.” Kennit sounded both intrigued and suspicious.

The young pirate looked uncomfortable now. “He’s holed up in the galley, sir. We got the door half kicked down, but he’s got a lot of knives and choppers in there. Pretty good at throwing them, too, for an old man with one eye.”

Wintrow saw a change come over Kennit’s face. “I’ll talk to him. Alone. You see to getting the slaves up and out of the holds. She’s starting to list.”

Sorcor was used to taking orders. He didn’t hesitate, just bobbed his head and turned. He was already barking orders as he strode away. Wintrow became aware of slaves. They were standing on the deck in listless groups, blinking at the sunlight. Coated with filth, shivering in the shock of the fresh air, they looked bewildered at the sudden change. The smell and the dazed faces suddenly took him back to the night the slaves emerged from Vivacia’s hold. A wave of pity swept over him. Some of them were so feeble they had to be helped to stand. Slave after slave emerged from the holds. He looked at them, and knew the ineffable rightness of what Kennit had done. To eliminate this misery was right. But his method of achieving it … 

“Wintrow!”

There was a spark of annoyance in Etta’s voice. Wintrow was standing, staring while Kennit was moving swiftly and with purpose across the deck. The list to the ship was becoming more perceptible every moment. There was no time to waste. He hurried after them.

As he crossed the deck, he heard the roaring of serpents, followed by a sudden splashing. They were throwing bodies to the creatures. An appreciative murmur and laughter rose from the watching pirates as the serpents squabbled over the feed.

“Leave off that!” he heard Sorcor bellow. “They’ll have all the dead soon enough. Get the slaves out of the hold and onto the other ships. Swiftly, now! I want to cut this wreck loose as soon as we can.”

The galley was in a low deckhouse. Blades drawn, a cluster of pirates huddled around the door, unaware of Kennit’s approach. As Wintrow watched, one kicked the barricaded door. It brought a volley of curses from the man cornered within and then a blade appeared in the small opening. “I’ll cut the first man what tries to come through. Get your captain. I’ll yield to him, and him alone.” The mocking pirates only crowded closer. They reminded Wintrow of a pack of dogs with a cat up a tree.

“He’s here,” Kennit announced loudly. The laughing, grinning men suddenly sobered. They fell back from the door, making way for him. “Be about your work!” Kennit ordered them brusquely. “I’ll deal with this.”

They dispersed quickly, but not willingly, with many a backward glance. The rumor of treasure was enough to hold any man’s interest, but Igrot’s treasure was legendary. Plainly, they would have liked to stay and hear what bait the man would trade for his life. Kennit ignored them. He lifted his crutch and gave the door a thump. “Come out,” he commanded the cook.

“You the captain?”

“I am. Show yourself.”

The man peeped one eye around the door, then darted back out of sight. “I got something to trade. You let me live, I’ll tell you where Igrot the Bold stashed his loot. The whole lot. Not just all he got from the treasure barge, but all he took afore that.”

“No one knows where Igrot hid his treasure,” Kennit declared with confidence. “He and his whole crew went down together. No one survived. If anyone had, they would have plundered his trove a long time ago.” With amazing stealth, Kennit eased forward to stand immediately beside the doorjamb.

“Well, I did. Been waiting for years to get to where I could go back and get it. But I never was in the right position. Anytime I’d a told, all I woulda got is a knife in the back. And not just any man could go after it. It would take a special ship. A ship like you got, just the same as Igrot once had … and I’m sure you’re taking my drift now. There’s places as a liveship can go that no other can follow. But now, well, I told you enough. You keep me alive, I’ll lead you there. But you gotta let me live.”

Kennit didn’t reply. A stillness came over him. He was poised motionless beside the door. Wintrow glanced at Etta. She was as silent and motionless as Kennit. Waiting.

“Hey! Hey, you, Captain, what say you? Is it a deal? It’s more treasure than you can ever imagine. Heaps of it, and half of it magical Bingtown Trader stuff. You could just walk right in and take it. You’ll be the richest man alive. All you got to do is say I can live.” The cook sounded jubilant. “That’s a fair trade, isn’t it?”

The ship’s list had begun to increase markedly. Wintrow could hear Sorcor and his men hurrying the slaves along. One man’s voice raised suddenly. “He’s dead, woman. Nothing we can do. Leave him.” A woman’s sudden wail of anguish floated on the sea wind, but around the door, all was silent. Kennit made no reply to the cook.

“Hey? Hey, Cap, you out there still?”

Kennit’s eyes narrowed as if in thought. Something almost like a smile played about his mouth. Wintrow felt a sudden shiver of nervousness. It was time to finish this and get off this ship. It was taking on water, and as the vessel grew heavier, the sea gained more power over it. He took a breath to speak but Etta elbowed him sharply. What happened next occurred simultaneously. Wintrow was left staring, trying to comprehend. Did Kennit’s knife hand move first or did he glimpse the motion of the man peering around the door? The two objects came together as swiftly and synchronously as clapping hands. Kennit’s blade sank deep into the man’s good eye and then was pulled out. The man’s body tumbled back out of sight. “There are no survivors from Igrot’s crew,” Kennit asserted. He took an uneven breath. When he looked around, he blinked as if awakening from a dream.

“Stop dallying here. This ship is going down,” he exclaimed in annoyance. Bloody knife still gripped in his hand, he stalked back to the
Vivacia.
Etta walked almost beside him. The woman appeared unfazed by what had just happened. Wintrow trailed them numbly. How did death happen so swiftly? How could the whole equation of a man’s life be so swiftly reduced to zero? What he had done was an immense shock to the youth. A brief extension of the pirate’s hand, and death bloomed. Yet, the holder of the knife felt nothing. Wintrow felt scored by his association with the man. He suddenly longed for Vivacia. She would help him think about this. She would say there was no justification for the guilt that he felt.

Kennit’s boot had no sooner touched the deck of the
Vivacia
than the ship called out to him. “Kennit! Captain Kennit!” Her voice boomed in assertive command. There was a note in it that Wintrow had never heard. Kennit grinned in hard satisfaction. “Get the slaves settled and cut that hulk loose!” he ordered brusquely. He glanced at Wintrow and Etta. “See that they are made as clean as possible. Keep them aft.” He turned and hastened away from them and toward the figurehead.

“He wants to be alone with her.” Etta stated it as blunt fact. Jealousy flamed in her eyes.

Wintrow looked down at the deck to keep her from seeing the same thing in his face.

“FOR A MAN IN HIDING, YOU LIVE IN STYLE,”
Althea observed, smiling.

Grag grinned, well pleased with himself. He leaned back in the small chair he was perched in, rocking it back on two legs. He reached overhead to bat casually at a cut-tin lantern that hung from the tree branch above him. “What is life, without style?” he asked rhetorically. They both laughed aloud easily.

The swinging lantern scattered light around them dizzily. Patterned candlelight danced in the darkness of his eyes. He wore a dark shirt, open at the throat, and loose white trousers. When he moved his head, the light gleamed warmly on his gold earring. The summer sun had bronzed him; his coloring made him seem a part of the forest evening. When his teeth flashed white in a smile, he seemed the easy-going sailor lad from Rinstin. He looked about the clearing in front of the cottage and sighed peacefully.

“I hadn’t been up here in years. When I was a little boy, before I began sailing with Da, Mother used to bring us all up here for the hottest part of the summer.”

Althea glanced about the little garden. The house was little more than a cottage, with the forest encroaching almost to the door. “Is it cooler up here in the summer?”

“A bit. Not much. But you know how Bingtown can stink in the summer. We were up here the year the Blood Plague first struck. None of us got it. Mother always believed it was because we avoided the evil humors of the city that summer. After that, she insisted on bringing us here every year.”

They both fell silent for a time, listening. She imagined this cabin and garden as a lively place, inhabited by a woman and her children. Not for the first time, Althea wondered how her life would have been different if her brothers had survived the Blood Plague. Would her father have taken her on the ship? Would she be married by now, with children of her own?

“What are you thinking?” Grag asked her gently. He let his chair drop forward, then leaned his elbows on the table. He rested his chin in his hands and regarded her fondly. A bottle of wine, two glasses and the remains of a cold supper cluttered the table. Althea had brought the food up with her. The note that had come to the house had actually been from Grag’s mother to hers. It had begged her mother’s pardon, then asked if it would be possible for Althea to run a discreet errand for the Tenira family. Keffria had raised her eyebrows, but perhaps her mother had decided that Althea had no reputation left to protect. She had returned a note granting her leave.

A horse had been waiting for her in a Bingtown stable. Althea had set out with no clear knowledge of her destination. As she passed a small tavern on the outskirts of Bingtown, a loiterer had hailed her and pressed a note into her hand. The note directed her to an inn, where she half expected to find Grag. Instead, when she arrived there, she was offered a fresh horse and a man’s hooded cloak. The mount that awaited her had laden saddle packs. Still another note accompanied him.