Ship of Magic by Robin Hobb
“But . . . she is only a child,” Keffria pleaded. As if by agreeing with her, her mother could somehow change the facts that time had imposed on them.
“She is,” Ronica agreed carefully. “But only for a short time longer. And she must be prepared. ”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - PLOTS AND PERILS
SO. IT DIDN'T WORK OUT QUITE AS CAPTAIN KENNIT THE PIRATE KING HAD PLANNED, DID IT?"
“Shut up. ” Kennit spoke more in weariness than rancor. It had been a distressing and taxing day. They had sighted a liveship, a wide-bellied merchant-trader of the old style, a wallowing sow of a ship. She had been quite a way ahead of them, picking her way through the shallows of Wrong Again channel. She sat deep in the water, heavy with some rich cargo. At the very least, they should have been able to force her to run aground. The Marietta had put on sail and swept up on her, close enough to hear the figurehead calling out the soundings and headings to the steersman. They came close enough to see the faces of the men that manned her, close enough to hear their cries as they recognized his Raven flag and shouted encouragement to one another. Sorcor launched his balls-and-chains at their rigging, only to have the ship sidle aside from it at the last moment. In fury, Kennit called for fire-balls, and Sorcor reluctantly complied. One of them struck well, splattering on a sail that obligingly burst into flames. But almost as swiftly as the flames ran up the canvas, the sail collapsed on itself, billowing down to where a frantic crew could trample it and douse it with water. And with every passing moment, somehow, impossibly, the liveship pulled steadily away from them.
Kennit had shrieked at his crew like a madman, demanding canvas, oars, anything they might muster to push a bit more speed out of the ship. But as if the very gods opposed him, a winter squall blew in, one of the horrible island squalls that sent the winds racketing in every possible direction. Gray rain sheeted down, blinding them. He cursed, and climbed the mast himself, to try to keep sight of her. His every sense strained after her, and time after time, he caught glimpses of her. Each time she had been farther ahead of him. She swept around a headland, and when the Marietta rounded it, the liveship was gone. Simply gone.
Now it was evening, the night wind filled the Marietta's sails and the monotonous rains had ceased. His crew was tip-toeing around him, unaware that his seething displeasure with them had boiled itself dry. He stood on the afterdeck, watching witch-fire dance in their wake, and sought some inner peace.
“I suppose this means you owe Sorcor another slaver, doesn't it?” the charm observed affably.
“I wonder, if I cut you from my wrist and threw you overboard, would you float?”
“Let's find out,” the small face suggested agreeably.
Kennit sighed. “The only reason I continue to tolerate you is because you cost me so much in the first place. ”
The twin countenance pursed his lips at him. “I wonder if you shall say that of the whore, also, in days to come. ”
Kennit clenched his eyes shut. “Cannot you be silent and leave me alone for even a moment?”
A soft step and the whisper of brushing fabric on the deck behind him. “Did you speak to me?” Etta asked.
“No. ”
“I thought you said something . . . you wished to be alone? I can return to the cabin, if you like. ” She paused, and added more softly, “But I would much prefer to join you, if it would please you. ”
Her perfume had reached him now. Lavender. Irresolution assailed him and he turned his head to regard her. She curtsied low to him, a lady greeting her lord.
“Oh, please,” he growled in disbelief.
“Thank you,” she replied warmly. Her slippered feet pattered softly across the deck and Etta was suddenly beside him. She did not touch him. Even now, she knew better than to be that familiar. Nor did she lean casually on the rail beside him. Instead, she stood, her back straight, a single hand resting upon the rail. And she looked at him. After a time, he could not stand it. He turned his head to meet her stare.
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And she smiled at him. Radiantly. Luminously.
“Lovely,” breathed the small voice at his wrist. And Kennit had to concur. Etta lowered her eyes and looked aside from him, as if momentarily shy or confused. She wore yet another new costume. The sailor who had brought her aboard had followed his original directive, supplying her with a tub of warm water for bathing, but had been at a loss as to what to provide her to wear. Clearly rough sailor's clothing would not do for his captain's lady. With a great deal of trepidation, he had laid out the captain's own night-robe for her, and then hesitantly offered her several bolts of rich cloth from their latest trove. Kennit had at first been disgruntled at this largesse, but then resigned to it. Needles and thread were always plentiful aboard a sailing ship, and Etta had kept herself well occupied with her sewing tasks. Kennit eventually concluded that the man had actually been brilliant. While the woman was occupied with needlework, she could not bother him. The clothing Etta styled for herself was unlike anything Kennit had ever before seen on a woman, and actually quite sensible for shipboard life.
Not that he was resigned to her living aboard the ship. He had simply not yet found a good place to stash her. It was convenient to him that she was an adaptable sort. Not once had she complained since he had brought her aboard. Unless one counted the second day, when she stormed the galley and upbraided the cook for over-salting the stew he had sent to Kennit's table. As often as not she now oversaw the preparation of their cabin-served meals. And perhaps the food had improved as a result of that.
But she was still a whore, he reminded himself. Despite her crown of sleek short hair that caught the ship's lights and returned it as sheen, despite the emerald-green silk of her loose-sleeved blouse, or the brocaded trousers she tucked it into, despite the cloth-of-gold sash that narrowed her lean waist, she was still just his whore. Even if a tiny ruby twinkled in her ear-lobe, and a lush fur-lined cloak sheltered her body from the night wind.
“I have been thinking about the liveship that eluded you today,” she dared to say. She lifted her eyes to his, dark eyes too bold for his taste. She seemed to sense that, for she cast them down again, even before he barked, “Don't speak to me of that. ”
“I won't,” she promised him gently. But after a moment, she broke her word, as women always did. “The swiftness of a willing liveship is legendary,” she said quietly. She stared out at their wake and spoke to the night. “I know next to nothing of piracy,” she next admitted. As if that might surprise him. “But I wonder if the very willingness of the ship to flee swiftly might not be somehow turned against it. ”
“I fail to see how,” Kennit sneered.
She licked her lips before she spoke, and for just an instant, his whole attention was caught by that tiny movement of wet pink tongue-tip. An irrational surge of desire flamed up in him. Damn her. This constant exposure to a woman was not good for a man. He breathed out, a low sound.
She gave him a quick sideways glance. If he had been certain it was amusement at him that curved the corners of her lips, he would have slapped her. But she spoke only of piracy. “A rabbit kills itself when it runs headlong into the snare,” she observed. “If one knew the planned course of a liveship, and if one had more than one pirate vessel at one's disposal . . . why, then, a single ship could give chase, and urge the liveship to run headlong into an ambush. ” She paused and cast her eyes down to the water again. “I am told that it can be quite difficult to stop a ship, even if the danger ahead is seen. And it seems to me there are many narrow channels in these waters, where a sailing ship would have no alternative but to run aground to avoid a collision. ”
“I suppose it might be done, though it seems to me that there are a great many 'ifs' involved. It would require precisely the right circumstances. ”
“Yes, I suppose it would,” she murmured. She gave her head a small shake to toss the hair back from her eyes. Her s
“Never,” he said roughly, “presume to tell me my business. I well know how to get what I want. I need no woman to advise me. ”
Her eyes were full of the night. “You know very well,” she agreed with him huskily.
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He heard them long before they reached him. He knew it was full dark night, for the evening birds had ceased their calls hours ago. From the damp that beaded him, he suspected there was a dense fog tonight. So Paragon waited with trepidation, wondering why two humans would be picking their way down the beach toward him in the dark and fog. He could not doubt that he was their destination; there was nothing else on this beach. As they drew closer, he could smell the hot oil of a burning lantern. It did not seem to be doing them much good, for there had been frequent small curses as they worked their stumbling way towards him. He already knew one was Mingsley. He was coming to know that man's voice entirely too well.
Perhaps they were coming to set fire to him. He had taunted Mingsley the last time he was here. Perhaps the man would fling the lantern at him. The glass would break and flaming oil would splash over him. He'd die here, screaming and helpless, a slow death by fire.
“Not much farther,” Paragon heard Mingsley promise his companion.
“That's the third time you've said that,” complained another voice. His accent spoke of Chalced even more strongly than Mingsley's did of Jamaillia. “I've fallen twice, and I think my knee is bleeding. This had damn well better be worth it, Mingsley. ”
“It is, it is. Wait until you see it. ”
“In this fog, we won't be able to see a thing. Why couldn't we come by day?”
Did Mingsley hesitate in his reply? “There has been some bad feeling about town; the Old Traders don't like the idea of anyone not an Old Trader buying a liveship. If they knew you were interested . . . well. I've had a few not-so-subtle warnings to stay away from here. When I ask why, I get lies and excuses. They tell me no one but a Bingtown Trader can own a liveship. You ask why, you'll get more lies. Goes against all their traditions, is what they'd like you to believe. But actually, there's a great deal more to it than that. More than I ever suspected when I first started negotiating for this. Ah! Here we are! Even damaged, you can see how magnificent he once was. ”
The voices had grown closer as Mingsley was speaking. A sense of foreboding had been growing within Paragon, too, but his voice was steady as he boomed out, “Magnificent? I thought 'ugly' was the word you applied to me last time. ”
He had the satisfaction of hearing both men gasp.
Mingsley's voice was none too steady as he attempted to brag, “Well, we should have expected that. A liveship is, after all, alive. ” There was a sound of metal against metal. Paragon guessed that a lantern had been unhooded to shed more light. The smell of hot oil came more strongly. Paragon shifted uneasily, crossing his arms on his chest. “There, Firth. What do you think of him?” Mingsley announced.
“I'm . . . overwhelmed,” the other man muttered. There was genuine awe in his voice. Then he coughed and added, “But I still don't know why we're out here and at night. Oh, I know a part of it. You want my financial backing. But just why should I help you raise three times what a ship this size would cost us for a beached derelict with a chopped-up figurehead? Even if it can talk. ”
“Because it's made of wizardwood. ” Mingsley uttered the words as if revealing a well-kept secret.
“So? All liveships are,” Firth retorted.
“And why is that?” Mingsley added in a voice freighted with mystery. “Why build a ship of wizardwood, a substance so horrendously expensive it takes generations to pay one off? Why?”
“Everyone knows why,” Firth grumbled. “They come to life and then they're easier to sail. ”
“Tell me. Knowing that about wizardwood, would you rush to commit your family's fortunes for three or four generations, just to possess a ship like this?”
“No. But Bingtown Traders are crazy. Everyone knows that. ”
“So crazy that every damn family of them is rich,” Mingsley pointed out. “And what makes them rich?”
“Their damn monopolies on the most fascinating trade goods in the world. Mingsley, we could have discussed economics back at the inn, over hot spiced cider. I'm cold, the fog has soaked me through, and my knee is throbbing like I'm poisoned. Get to the point. ”
“If you fell on barnacles, likely you are poisoned,” Paragon observed in a booming voice. “Likely it will swell and fester. He's lined you up for at least a week of pain. ”
“Be quiet!” Mingsley hissed.
“Why should I?” Paragon mocked him. “Are you that nervous about being caught out here, tinkering with what doesn't concern you? Talking about what you can never possess?”
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“I know why you won't!” Mingsley suddenly declared. “You don't want him to know, do you? The precious secret of wizardwood, you don't want that shared, do you? Because then the whole stack of blocks comes tumbling down for the Bingtown Traders. Think about it, Firth. What is the whole of Bingtown founded on, really? Not some ancient grant from the Satrap. But the goods that come down the Rain Wild River, the really strange and wondrous stuff from the Rain Wild themselves. ”
“He's getting you in deeper than you can imagine,” Paragon warned Firth loudly. “Some secrets aren't worth sharing. Some secrets have prices higher than you'll want to pay. ”
“The Rain Wild River, whose waters run cold and then hot, brown and then white. Where does it really come from, that water? You've heard the same legends I have, of a vast smoking lake of hot water, the nesting grounds of the firebirds. They say the ground there trembles constantly and that mist veils the land and water. That is the source of the Rain Wild River . . . and when the ground shakes savagely, then the river runs hot and white. That white water can eat through the hull of any ship almost as swiftly as it eats through the flesh and bones of a man. So no one can go up the Rain Wild River to trade. You can't trek up the banks either. The shores of the river are treacherous bogs, the hanging vines drip scalding acid, the sap of the plants that grow there can raise welts on a man's flesh that burn and ooze for days. ”
“Get to the point,” Firth urged Mingsley angrily, even as Paragon shouted, “Shut up! Close your foul mouth! And get away from my beach. Get away from me. Or come close enough to be killed by me. Yes. Come here, little man. Come to me!” He reached out blindly, swinging his arms wide, his hands open to grasp.
“Unless you have a liveship. ” Mingsley revealed. “Unless you have a liveship, hulled with wizardwood, impervious to the hot white water of the river. Unless you have a liveship, who knows from the moment it is quickened the one channel up the river. That is the true source of the Bingtown monopoly on the trade. You have to have a liveship to get in the game. ” He paused dramatically. “And I'm offering you the chance to get one. ”
“He's lying,” Paragon shouted desperately. “Lying! There's more to it, so much more to it. And even if you owned me, I wouldn't sail for you. I'd roll and kill you all! I've done it before, you've heard the tales. And if you haven't, ask in any tavern. Ask about the Paragon, the Pariah, the death ship! Go ahead, ask, they'll tell you. They'll tell you I'll kill you!”
“He can be forced,” Mingsley said with quiet confidence. “Or removed. The hull is what is most important, a good riverman could sound us out a channel. Think what we could do with a wizardwood ship. There's some tribe up there that the Bingt
“He's lying to you,” Paragon bellowed out into the night. “He's going to get you killed. And worse! Much worse. There are worse tilings than dying, you Chalcedean scum. But only a Bingtown Trader would know that. Only a Bingtown Trader could tell you that. ”
“I think I'm interested,” Firth said quietly. “But there are better places to discuss this. ”
“No!” howled Paragon. “You don't know what he's selling you, you don't know what grief you'd be buying. You've no idea, no idea at all!” His voice broke suddenly. “I won't go with you, I won't, I won't. I don't want to, and you can't make me, you can't, I'll kill you, I'll kill you all!”
Again he flailed out wildly. If he had been able to reach the beach, he would have thrown sand, rocks, seaweed, anything. But his hands found nothing. He halted suddenly, listening. The footsteps were receding.
“. . . tell anyone?”
“Not a concern, really,” he heard Mingsley reply confidently. “You heard him. He's mad, completely insane. No one listens to him. No one even comes out here. Even if he had someone to tell, they'd never believe him. That's the beauty of this, my friend. It's so far outside of any one else's imagining. That ship has rested there for years. Years! And no one ever thought of this before . . . ”
His voice dwindled, and was damped away by the muffling fog and the shush of the waves.
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“NO!” Paragon shrieked out into the night. He reached back with his fists to drum and batter on his own planking. “No!” he cried again. Denial and defiance. And hopelessness. They weren't listening to him. No one ever listened to him. That had always been the problem. They'd ignore everything he told them. They'd take him out and he'd have to kill them all. Again.