Ship of Destiny (76 page)

She focused on presenting a composed face to the pirate King who awaited them. Motley’s entire company had poured their energy into preparing her. In their eagerness that Kennit see the true sumptuousness of their gift, they had bathed and primped and dressed the Satrap more finely than when she had first seen him at the Bingtown Ball. The attention had bolstered his self-importance to a near-unbearable level. Malta had not been neglected. A burly deckhand with a pale snake tattooed beside his nose had insisted on painting her face for her. She had never seen such cosmetics and tools as he had brought to her room. Another had fashioned her turban, while one of the others had selected her jewelry, scent and robes from the plums of their plunder. Malta’s heart had sung at how they aided her in her role, all with the intent of making their gift seem more extravagant. She would not let their efforts go to waste. She stared at
Vivacia,
and tried not to wonder if her father was alive, or what he would think of her transformation.

Then she saw Wintrow standing at the railing. Unbelieving, she came halfway to her feet. “Wintrow!” she called wildly to her brother. He stared at her stupidly. A glimpse of gold hair on a tall figure made her heart leap with hope, but it was not her father who looked down on her, but a woman. The Satrap scowled at her for her lack of decorum, but she ignored him. Anxiously she scanned the waiting folk, hoping against hope that Kyle Haven would step forward and call her name. Instead, the hand that lifted suddenly and pointed at her belonged unmistakably to her Aunt Althea.

ALTHEA LEANED FORWARD PRECARIOUSLY ON THE RAILING. SHE
gripped jek’s forearm and pointed emphatically at the girl in the boat. “Sa’s Breath! It’s Malta!” she exclaimed.

“It can’t be!” Wintrow joined his aunt at the railing and peered down at the girl. “She does look very like Malta,” he faltered.

“Who is this Malta?” Kennit asked despite himself.

“My little sister,” Wintrow observed faintly as every stroke of the oars brought her closer. “She looks very like her. But it cannot be.”

“Well, it would be an extraordinary coincidence. But we shall soon see,” Kennit replied blithely. The wind seemed to echo his words in a whisper. His stomach tightened and he lifted his hand, pretending to smooth his hair. The charm spoke close to his ear.

“There is no such thing as extraordinary coincidence. There is only destiny. So say the followers of Sa.” Soft as a breath, it added, “This is not good fortune for you, but the delivery of your death. Sa will punish you for abandoning Etta.”

Kennit snorted, and put his hands casually behind his back. He had not abandoned the whore; he had simply put her aside for later. Sa would not punish him for that. No one would. Nor would Kennit tremble at the size of the opportunity presented to him. The biggest prizes went to the men with the boldest hands. He smiled to himself as his one hand gripped his other wrist, securely covering the charm’s eyes and mouth in a smothering of lace.

Then Wintrow spoke and a shivering of dread ran down Kennit’s back. He stared at the oncoming boat and the girl’s upturned face as he said almost dreamily, “In Sa, there are no extraordinary coincidences. Only destiny.”

MALTA STARED UP AT THEM, FROZEN IN SHOCK BEYOND
response. What could it mean? Had Althea joined Kennit’s pirate crew instead of rescuing the family liveship? She could not be so false. Could she? What of Wintrow, then? When they reached the side of the ship, the Satrap was hoisted aboard first. At the encouragement of the sailors, she herself seized the rope ladder that was dropped to them. One of the
Motley
’s crewmen accompanied her as she climbed the nastily swaying contraption of wet, rough rope. She tried to make a show of climbing it easily. The wet rungs bit right through the light gloves she wore to cover her roughened hands. The arduous climb was forgotten the moment she seized the railing and was assisted on board. A strange energy seemed to hum through her. She forgot to look for King Kennit as her eyes sought only for her father.

Abruptly Wintrow was there, sweeping her into a more manly hug than she would have thought her spindly brother was capable of. But he had grown and muscled, and when he cried out, “Malta! Sa himself has brought you safely to us!” his voice was deep and sounded not unlike their father. The tears that sprang to her eyes shocked her, as did the way she clung to him, unreasonably glad of his strength and welcome. After a long moment of being held, she realized that Althea’s arms were also around her. “But how? How do you come to be here?” her aunt asked her.

But she had no desire to answer questions until the most important one had been asked. She leaned away from Wintrow, and was astonished to find how her brother had grown. “And Papa?” she asked him breathlessly.

The deep anguish in his eyes told her all. “He is not here,” he told her gently, and she knew better than to ask where he was. He was gone, gone forever, and she had endured all, risked all for nothing. Her father was dead.

Then the ship spoke and in Vivacia’s voice was a timbre that she had heard before, when Tintaglia spoke to her through the dream-box. A terrible recognition of kinship swept through Malta as the ship hailed her. “Well met and welcome, Dragon-Friend.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
BARGAINING CHIPS

ALL EYES TURNED TO THE FIGUREHEAD. MALTA STEPPED FREE OF
Wintrow’s embrace. No one save herself seemed to realize the ship spoke to her. Instead, their gazes traveled to the Satrap and back to the ship again. The Satrap stared at the moving, speaking figurehead in astonishment, but Malta’s eyes went past him. Beside the Satrap stood a tall dark man with one peg leg. His handsome, self-possessed face showed displeasure. Beside him, the confident look was fading from Captain Red’s face. He hated being upstaged. Captain Red glanced at the tall man, and Malta suddenly knew who he was. Captain Kennit, the King of the Pirate Isles. She took advantage of the distraction to appraise him. Her reaction was immediately both attraction and distrust. Like Roed Caern of Bingtown, he radiated danger. Once, she would have found him mysterious and alluring. She had grown wiser. Dangerous men were neither romantic nor exotic; they were men who could hurt you. This man would not be as easy to manipulate and convince as Captain Red had been.

“Are you too shy to speak to me?” the ship invited her warmly.

She sent the figurehead one desperate, pleading glance. She did not want the peg-legged man to see her as especially important. She must be only the Satrap’s advisor. Did a flicker of understanding pass through Vivacia’s eyes?

The Satrap seemed offended at the ship’s coaxing words. He believed she spoke to him. “Greetings, liveship,” he accorded her stiffly. His brief moment of wonder at her had passed. Malta supposed it reflected a lifetime of being showered with new and surprising gifts. No miracle amazed him for long. His gratitude was likewise short-lived. At least he seemed to recall her counsel: “Do not behave as a captive, nor as a supplicant.”

He turned to Kennit. He did not bow nor salute him in any way. “Captain Kennit,” he addressed him unsmilingly. His official recognition of Kennit as King of the Pirate Isles was one of the negotiation points.

Kennit regarded him with cool amusement. “Satrap Cosgo,” he acknowledged him familiarly, already claiming equality. The Satrap’s gaze grew frostier. “This way,” Kennit indicated. He frowned slightly at the Vestrits. “Wintrow. Come.” To Malta, it seemed that he spoke as if her brother were a dog or a servant.

“Malta!” The Satrap’s chill voice sternly reminded her of her duties.

She had a façade to maintain. She could not be Wintrow’s sister, nor Althea’s niece right now. She kept her voice low. “Ask me nothing now. We must talk later. Please. Trust me. Don’t interfere with what I do.” She stepped away and they let her go, but Althea’s eyes were flinty. Wintrow hurried to his captain’s command.

AS THE OTHERS LEFT THE FOREDECK, ALTHEA ASKED ALOUD,
“How does she come here? What does it mean?”

“She’s your niece,” Jek returned bluntly, staring wide-eyed after them.

“As if that gives me any answers. I will hold my questions and not interfere, not because she is such a font of wise actions, but because there is nothing else I can do. I hope she realizes what a treacherous snake Kennit is.”

“Althea,” the ship cautioned her wearily.

Althea turned back to the ship. “Why did you greet him as Dragon-Friend? The Satrap is a friend to dragons?”

“Not the Satrap,” the ship replied evasively. “I would as soon not speak of it just now.”

“Why?” Althea demanded.

“I am troubled about other things,” Vivacia replied.

Althea sighed. “Your serpents. Their need to be guided back to their spawning river and escorted up it. It is hard for me, still, to think of you as a dragon.” And harder still for her to accept that Vivacia had a loyalty that superseded all others. But if the serpents were first in her heart, before the Vestrits, perhaps they preceded Kennit as well. Childishly, Althea perceived a possible wedge. “Why do you not simply demand it of Kennit?”

“Do you know anyone who reacts well to a demand?” Vivacia asked rhetorically.

“You fear he would refuse you.”

Vivacia was silent, and that quiet jolted Althea from the rut of her own concerns. It was like being lifted high on a wave and suddenly seeing to a farther horizon. She perceived Vivacia’s confinement, spirit of a dragon encased in a body of wood, dependent on the men who set her sails and the winds that pushed her canvas. There were, she suddenly saw, many ways to be raped. The revelation broke her heart. Yet her next words sounded childish in her ears. “Were you mine again, we would leave today, this minute.”

“You mean those words. I thank you for them.”

Althea had almost forgotten Jek was there until she spoke. “You could force him. Threaten to open up your seams.”

Vivacia smiled bitterly. “I am not mad Paragon, to recklessly menace my entire crew with wild acts of defiance. No.” Althea felt her sigh. “Kennit will not be swayed by threats or demands. Even if I had the will, his pride would make him defy me. For this, I must hark back to your family’s wisdom, Althea. I must bargain, with nothing to offer.”

Althea tried to consider it coldly. “First, what do you want of him? Second, what can we offer him?”

“What do I want? For him to sail me back to the Rain Wild River, as swiftly as possible, and up it to the cocooning grounds. For me to remain there, near the serpents all winter, doing all we could to protect them until they hatched.” She laughed hopelessly. “Even better would be an escort of his vessels, to guard my poor, weary serpents on their long journey. But every bit of that runs counter to Kennit’s best interests.”

Althea felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. “If he helps the serpents, he loses the use of them. They disappear to become dragons. He loses a powerful tool against Jamaillia.”

“Bolt-self was too eager to flaunt her strength to him. She did not foresee this.” She shook her head. “As for your second question, I have nothing to offer him that he does not already possess.”

“The dragons could promise to return and aid him after they hatched,” Jek speculated.

Vivacia shook her head. “They are not mine to bind that way. Even if I could, I would not. It is bad enough that, for as long as wizardwood endures, I must serve humans. I will not indenture the next generation.”

Jek rolled her shoulders restively. “It’s useless. There is nothing he wants that he doesn’t have already.” She smiled mirthlessly. “Save Althea.”

A terrible quiet followed her words.

JUST WHEN ETTA WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL, SHE WAS NOT ON
board, Kennit reflected in annoyance. He had to order everything himself, for Wintrow seemed completely addled by the presence of his sister. “Arrange chairs and a table in the chart room. Get some food and drink as well,” he instructed him hastily.

“I’ll help him,” Sorcor volunteered good-naturedly, and lumbered off after Wintrow. As well. Sorcor and his family had suffered much at the hands of the Satrap’s tax collectors and his slave masters. In their early days together, he had often drunkenly held forth on exactly what he would do if he ever got his hands on the Satrap himself. Best not to give him too much opportunity to dwell on that right now.

Kennit followed them at a leisurely pace, to give Wintrow and Sorcor time to prepare the room. He saw the young woman eyeing his stump and peg. Malta Vestrit resembled her father. Kyle Haven’s arrogance was in her carefully held mouth and narrowed eyes. He halted suddenly, and flourished his stump at her. “A serpent bit it off,” he informed her casually. “A hazard of life upon the seas.”

The Satrap recoiled, looking more distressed than his young Companion did. Kennit kept his smile small. Ah. He had forgotten the noble Jamaillian distaste for physical disfigurement. Could he use that? Captain Red had outlined the details of the Satrap’s proposal. A dazzling offer, Kennit reflected gleefully, and only the first offer.

Kennit led them into the chart room. The preparations were adequate. Wintrow had spread a heavy cloth and added silver candlesticks. The silver tray that Wintrow held bore a collection of bottles and several glazed jugs of a Southby Island intoxicant, all recent plunder. Glasses and noggins suitable for the various drinks had been assembled as well. It was a suitable showing of wealth, without being extravagant. Kennit was pleased. He gestured at the table. “Please, please, come in. Wintrow, do the honors with drink, there’s a good fellow.”

Malta Vestrit stared round the room. Kennit could not resist. “No doubt this chamber has changed since last you saw it, Companion. But, please, be as at ease as if your father still occupied it.”

That provoked an unforeseen response. “Malta Vestrit is not my Companion. You may address her as Advisor,” the Satrap informed him haughtily.

But even more interesting was how pale Malta went. She fought a look of anguish from her face.

Weakness was made to be exploited. Captain Red had warned him she was a wily negotiator. A bit of rattling might take the edge off her wits. Kennit cocked his head at her and gave a small shrug. “A pity Captain Haven became involved in the slave trade. If he had not made that choice, this ship might still be his. I am sure you are aware of my promise to my people. I will rid the Pirate Isles of slavers. Taking Vivacia was one of my first steps.” He smiled at her.

Her mouth moved slightly, but her agonized questions went unvoiced.

“We are here to negotiate my restoration to Jamaillia City,” the Satrap observed tightly. He had already seated himself at the negotiation table. The others had chosen seats but remained standing, waiting for Kennit. This assumption of protocol did not escape the pirate.

“Of course we are.” Kennit smiled widely. He limped to the head of the table. “Wintrow,” he said, and he obediently drew the chair out and accepted Kennit’s crutch after he was seated. “Please. Be comfortable,” Kennit invited them, and the others took their places. Sorcor was to his right, and Captain Red beyond him. Wintrow claimed the seat to his left. The Satrap and Malta were opposite Kennit. She had regained her composure. She steepled her hands on the table before her and waited.

Kennit settled himself comfortably in his chair. “Of course, your father is still alive and in my custody. Oh, not on this ship, of course. Kyle Haven generated far too much ill-will among the crew for that. But he is quite secure where he is. If we reach a satisfactory finish today, perhaps I shall throw him in as a token to Advisor Malta Vestrit, in humble gratitude for helping us negotiate.”

The Satrap’s boyish face flushed with rage. There. That had divided them. Malta had instantly suppressed it, but hope had flared bright in her eyes. She now had an interest in pleasing Kennit rather than protecting the Satrap.

She drew a sharp breath. Her voice was almost steady. “That is most kind of you, Captain Kennit. But my interests are not those of my family today.” She tried to make eye contact with the Satrap, but he stared stonily at Kennit. “I am here as the Satrap’s most loyal subject,” she finished. She tried to put the ring of truth in her words, but Kennit heard her doubts.

“Of course, my dear. Of course,” he purred.

Now, he was ready to begin.

BRASHEN WAS CATNAPPING ON HIS BUNK. DIVVYTOWN WAS
little more than a day and a night away. He shifted in his bedding, trying to burrow his way to sleep. He had wrapped himself in Althea’s blanket. It still smelled of her. Instead of soothing him, it made him ache with longing. He feared for her. What if their plans failed? All had gone well the last few days, he reminded himself. The crew’s morale had vastly improved. A day ashore, fresh meat and vegetables, and the triumph of “stealing” Kennit’s mother had restored their faith in themselves. Mother herself seemed to have a cheering effect on them. When weather drove her from the foredeck, she went to the ship’s galley, where she revealed a gift for turning hardtack into a sort of doughy pudding much favored by the crew. Most encouraging to Brashen was that Clef had assured him that the men were putting their hearts into recovering Althea. Some felt loyalty to her; others yearned to regain pride lost at the drubbing they had received from the pirate.

A deep, recurrent sound penetrated Brashen’s mind. Sleep fled. He rolled from his bunk, rubbed his sandy eyes, and thrust his feet into his shoes. He emerged onto the deck into thin winter sunlight and a fresh breeze.
Paragon
knifed effortlessly through the waves. The crew took up a sudden chorus, and he looked up to see still more canvas blooming on the masts. He suddenly realized what had wakened him. Paragon’s deep voice vibrated the deck with a chantey, marking time for the crew as they hoisted canvas. A shiver went up Brashen’s spine, followed by a lurching lift of his heart. Familiar as he was with how a liveship’s disposition could affect its crew, he was still unprepared for this. The crew aloft was working with good-hearted energy. He hurried forward and encountered Semoy. “Too fine a wind to waste, sir!” the acting mate greeted his captain with a gap-toothed grin. “I think we could see Divvytown before noon tomorrow if we can keep our canvas full!” Squinting with determination, he added, “We’ll get our Althea back, sir. You’ll see.”

Brashen nodded and smiled uncertainly. When he reached the foredeck, he found Amber and Mother. Someone had secured Paragon’s long dark hair in a warrior’s tail. “What goes on here?” Brashen asked in quiet disbelief.

Paragon turned his head, mouth wide as he held the final note of the chantey, then cut it off abruptly. “Good afternoon, Captain Trell,” he boomed.

Amber laughed aloud. “I’m not sure, but no one can resist his mood today. I don’t know whether it’s because Mother finished reading his logs to him, or simply that he is—”

“Decided!” Paragon declared abruptly. “I’ve reached a decision, Brashen. For myself. As I never have before. I’ve decided to put my heart into what we do. Not for you, but for myself. I now believe that we can prevail. So does Mother. She is sure that, between the two of us, we can make Kennit see reason.”