Mad Ship (71 page)

Malta gasped and Keffria immediately looked out to the ship again. The small boats were catching back the lines thrown to them. Brashen was waving his thanks as the sails began to blossom on the ship’s rigging. Despite the men scampering about frantically, it was a truly graceful sight. As Keffria watched, the figurehead suddenly threw wide his arms as if to embrace the horizon. He shouted and a trick of the wind carried the words to them. “I fly again!” It was a triumphant challenge to the world. Paragon’s sails swelled with wind and he began to move under his own power. From his deck, a faint cheer rang out. Tears pricked Keffria’s eyes.

“May Sa speed you,” Malta whispered.

Keffria heard her daughter’s voice break on the words. “May Sa speed you, and bring you safely home again,” she herself said aloud. The breeze seemed to blow her prayer away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
BINGTOWN CONVERGENCE

THE FLEET THAT ACCOMPANIED THEM HAD GROWN
. Serilla thought it would be very interesting to discover how it had been arranged for the other ships to join them en route. How long had all this been in the planning? Did anyone in Jamaillia know this show of force accompanied the Satrap as he descended upon Bingtown? She was now almost sure that the Satrap would be sacrificed to justify a Chalcedean attack on Bingtown. She clutched that morsel of knowledge to herself as if it were a gold nugget. To warn the Old Traders might be her surest way of buying their trust of her. If she had any loyalties left, they now belonged to the wondrous place she had studied for years. She lifted her eyes and stared through the night. On the horizon was a very faint glow: the lights of the Night Market rose into the starlit sky. By morning, they would arrive in Bingtown.

A sailor came to stand at her shoulder. “Satrap call for you. Want to come out, too.” He clipped the words curiously with his foreign tongue.

“He can’t. His health is much too delicate. But I shall go to him now.”

She would have ignored his summons, except that the Chalcedean captain might hear of it. Despite her newfound strength, she still did not dare to cross him. She had encountered him twice since he had returned her to the Satrap. It shamed her that she had been unable to look at him. The first time she had turned a corner in the corridor and run into him, she had nearly wet herself with terror. He had laughed aloud as she had scuttled away from him. It was incomprehensible that she could so fear another human being. Sometimes, when she was alone, she tried to work up a fury toward him or hatred. It was useless. The captain had steeped her in terror. She could feel nothing else about him. The thought of him hastened her footsteps as she returned to the Satrap’s chamber.

She ignored the Chalcedean on duty at the door. She entered a chamber that was clean and uncluttered. The fresh ocean air swept through the room from the open window. She nodded to herself with satisfaction. The servants had left her evening repast on the table, and lit the candelabra for her. There was a platter of sliced meat, and a pudding of steamed fruit and several flats of unleavened bread to accompany it. A bottle of red wine and a single goblet awaited her. Simple foods, she thought with satisfaction, prepared to her command. She was taking no chances with herself. Whatever had sickened the rest of the Satrap’s company had not touched the Chalcedean captain or crew. She doubted poison, only because she could not see how anyone would profit from it. She suspected one of the more elaborate delicacies the Satrap had brought with him. Perhaps the pickled eggs and walnuts, or the fat pork pastries had gone bad.

On a smaller tray was the Satrap’s meal. There was a bowl of bread soaked in hot water, and a smaller dish of steamed onions and turnips mashed together. As a treat, she would allow him some watered wine. Perhaps she would even shred some meat for him. She had stopped seasoning his food with emetics two days ago. It would not do to have him too weak when he arrived in Bingtown. She smiled, pleased with herself, and sat down to her meal. He should rally briefly before he died. As she transferred a slice of meat to her plate, she heard the Satrap stir in his bedding.

“Serilla?” he whispered. “Serilla, are you here?”

She had closed the drapes around his bed. She considered not answering him. He was so weak now that to sit up and part his own curtains would require a substantial effort. She decided to be kind.

“I’m here, Magnadon. I’m preparing some food for you.”

“Oh. That’s good.” He fell silent.

She ate at her leisure. She had trained him to be patient. The servants were barred from his chamber, save once a day when they came in to tidy under her particular supervision. She allowed him no other visitors. His health was far too delicate, she told him. It had not taken much effort to inflate his fears of death to a stultifying level. A substantial number of his party had died from this illness. Even Serilla had been appalled at the toll it had taken. She believed she was quite safe from whatever it had been. But she had filled the Satrap’s head with the idea that the disease still ran rampant on the ship.

It had not been hard. The more she restricted his food and dosed him with poppy syrup, the more tractable he became. When his eyes were wide and wandering whatever she told him became his truth. When she had first taken over caring for him, the others had been too ill to visit him, let alone intervene. Since they had recovered, she had successfully turned them back at the door. It was the Satrap’s order that he not be disturbed. Serilla had had the spacious chamber to herself, save for the bed the Satrap occupied. She had been quite comfortable.

When she had finished eating, and had enjoyed a glass of wine, she carried the Satrap’s tray to his bedside. She swept back the bed curtains and regarded him critically. Perhaps, she thought, she had gone too far. His skin was pallid, his face almost skeletal from lack of flesh. The bony hands that rested atop the coverlet twitched from time to time. That was nothing new; his indulgence in pleasure drugs had done that to him years ago. It was only their feebleness that made them look like dying spiders, she decided.

She sat down gently on the edge of the bed and set the tray on a low table. She smiled as she gently pushed back his hair. “You’re looking so much better,” she told him. She patted his hand reassuringly. “Shall we get some food into you?”

“Please,” he said. He smiled up at her fondly. He was convinced she was the only one who had stood by him, the only one he could rely on. She winced from his foul breath when he opened his mouth for the spoon. He had complained yesterday that some of his teeth felt loose. Well, he would probably recover swiftly enough. Or not. He just had to live long enough to get her ashore in Bingtown and ingratiated with the Traders. She did not want him to be so strong that he could contradict her account. Anything unfortunate that he said she intended to attribute to his wandering mind.

A bit of food dribbled from his mouth. She slipped an arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit up. “Isn’t that good?” she cooed to him as she spooned up some of the soggy bread. “And tomorrow we’ll be in Bingtown. Won’t that be nice?”

RONICA VESTRIT COULD NOT RECALL
the last time the great bell had rung to summon an emergency gathering of the Traders. Dawn was barely gray in the sky above the Traders’ Concourse. Ronica and her family had hastened down the hill from their home on foot, only to be picked up by Trader Shuyev’s coach on its way to the meeting. Folk milled about in front of the hall, calling to one another. Who had rung the bell? Why were they summoned? Some of the Traders who were arriving were in their morning robes, summer cloaks flung hastily about their shoulders. Others were red-eyed from lack of sleep and still wearing evening dress. All had come hastening as soon as the bell had clanged out its dire warning. Many carried weapons or had swords strapped to their sides. Children clung to their parents; young boys tried desperately to look brave, but many faces showed the tracks of panicky tears. The diverse crowd of worried folk looked incongruous amongst the planters full of blooming flowers and the garlanded arches and beribboned stairs of the Concourse. The festive decorations on the hall in preparation for the Summer Ball almost seemed mocking.

“It’s the Blood Plague,” someone declared on the edge of the crowd. “The Blood Plague has come to Bingtown again. That’s all it could be.”

Ronica heard the rumor picked up and boosted along through the gathering. The muttering began to rise to a panicky roar. Then from the steps, Trader Larfa bellowed for attention. He was the owner of the liveship
Winsome,
a man usually steady to the point of dullness. This morning his cheeks were glowing red with excitement. His hair stood up in wild tufts on his head. “I rang the bell!” he proclaimed. “Listen to me, all of you! There isn’t time to enter the hall and convene properly. I’ve already passed the word to every liveship in the harbor, and they’ve gone out to face them. Invaders! Chalcedean war galleys. My boy saw them at first light and came to wake me up. I sent him to the West Wall to rouse the other liveships. I don’t know how many galleys are out there, but it’s more than ten. They mean business.”

“Are you sure?”

“How many?”

“How many liveships went out? Can they hold them back?”

The questions peppered him. He shook his fists at the crowd in frustration. “I don’t know. I’ve told you all I know. There’s a fleet of Chalcedean warships coming into Bingtown Harbor. If you’ve got a ship, man it and get it out there. We need to slow them down. Everyone else, bring weapons and buckets and come down to the harbor. Chalcedeans use fire. If they manage to get off their ships, they’ll try to burn the town.”

“What about our children?” a woman cried from the back of the crowd.

“If they’re old enough to tote a bucket, bring them with you. Leave the smallest ones here with the old and crippled. They’ll have to look after each other. Come on.”

Little Selden stood beside her in the crowd. Ronica looked down at him. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. His eyes were huge. “Go into the Concourse, Selden,” Keffria told him in a falsely cheerful voice. “We’ll be back for you soon.”

“Shan’t!” he declared in a brittle little voice. “I’m big enough to carry a bucket.” He choked back a frightened sob and crossed his arms defiantly on his chest.

“Malta will be with you,” Keffria offered desperately. “She can help take care of the babies and old people.”

“I’d rather carry a bucket,” Malta declared sourly as she took Selden’s hand in hers. For a moment she looked and sounded almost like Althea. “We’re not going to hide here and wonder what is going on. Come on, Selden. Let’s go.”

At the top of the Concourse steps, Trader Larfa was still shouting directions. “You. Porfro. Get word to the Three Ships families. Someone take word to the New Traders’ Council.”

“As if they would care! Let them watch out for themselves!” someone shouted back angrily.

“It’s their fault we have Chalcedeans in the harbor in the first place,” someone added.

“There’s no time for that now. We need to defend the city!” Larfa argued. “Bingtown is what counts, not when we got here!”

“Bingtown!” someone shouted. Others took up the cry. “Bingtown! To Bingtown!”

Wagons and carriages were already rattling out of the courtyard, headed down into the city proper. Ronica overheard someone arranging riders to take word to the outlying farms and settlements. There was no time to go home and change into different clothes, no time to wonder about missed breakfasts or shoes that were more sensible. She saw a woman and her grown daughter matter-of-factly tearing their voluminous skirts from their gowns. They discarded the hobbling fabric and in their long cotton pantaloons followed the men of their family.

Ronica seized Keffria’s hand, counting on the children to follow. “Room for us?” she shouted to a passing cart. The driver halted it without a word. They piled into it, heedless of the crowding. Three young men leaped in after them. One wore a pitted sword at his hip. They were all grinning like maniacs. Their eyes were bright, their movements swift and powerful like young bulls ready to challenge one another. They smiled wide at Malta, who glanced at them and looked aside. The cart started with a jolt and Ronica seized hold of the edge. They began the trip down to Bingtown.

At one place in the road, the trees parted and Ronica had a brief glimpse of the harbor. The liveships were drawn up in the mouth of it. Men clustered on their decks, milling and pointing. Out beyond them, she saw the tall mast of a ship. The many-oared galleys of the Chalcedeans surrounded it like foul, scuttling bugs.

“They were flying the Jamaillian standard!” one young man in their cart cried out as they lost sight of the harbor.

“Don’t mean a thing,” another one sneered. “The cowardly buggers just want to get in close before they attack. There’s no other reason for that many ships to be heading into our harbor.”

Ronica agreed. She saw a sickly smile blossom on Malta’s face. She leaned close to the white-faced girl. “Are you all right?” she asked her quietly. She feared her granddaughter was about to faint.

Malta laughed, a thin, near-hysterical sound. “It’s so stupid. All this week, I’ve been sewing on my dress, thinking about Reyn, and the flowers and lights and dancing. Last night I could not sleep because my slippers displeased me so. And now I’ve a feeling that none of it may ever come to be.” She lifted her head and her wide eyes swept over the stream of wagons, carts, and the folk beside them on foot and on horseback. She spoke with a quiet fatalism. “Everything in my life that I was sure I would do someday has always been snatched away when it was almost within my reach. Perhaps it will happen again.” A far look came into her eyes. “Perhaps by tomorrow we shall all be dead and our town a smoking ruin. Perhaps my presentation will never even be.”

“Don’t say such things!” Keffria exclaimed in horror.

Ronica said nothing at all for a time. Then she set her hand over Malta’s where she gripped the side of the cart. “This is today. And this is your life.” They were comfortless words, and she was not sure where they came from. “It is my life, also,” she added, and looked ahead of them, far down the winding road to Bingtown.

REYN STOOD ON THE AFTERDECK OF THE
KENDRY
,
watching the widening wake of the great liveship in the broad river. The coming of morning turned the milky water of the river to silver and made the ever-dripping canopy of the forested banks a shimmering curtain of falling jewels. The swiftness of the current and the ship’s great sails carried them downriver at an incredible rate. He drew in a great breath to try to lift the heaviness from his heart. It would not go away. He bowed his head into his hands. Sliding his hands up under his veil, he scrubbed at his sandy eyes. Deep sleep seemed like a nursery tale from his childhood. He wondered if he would ever sleep well again.