Читать книгу The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny - Робин Хобб - Страница 30

THE RAINS OF AUTUMN had washed Divvytown almost clean. The lagoon was higher, the channels deeper, and as the Marietta approached home port, the hearts of those aboard her were lighter than they had ever been before. It had nothing to do with the hold full of pirated cargo. While it was a respectable haul, they’d done better any number of times.

‘It’s that we’re someones now, when we come into a port. Folk know us, and turn out to welcome us. Did I tell you that, in Littleport, Mistress Ramp turned her whole house over to us, for a whole watch, for free? And it wasn’t just the mistress telling her girls to do for us; they were willing, by Sa. Anything we wanted…’ Sorcor’s voice trailed off in amazement at their good fortune.

Kennit repressed a sigh. He’d only heard the tale a score of times before. ‘All that disease, for free,’ he said quietly, but Sorcor took his words for a jest and grinned at his captain fondly. Kennit turned his head and spat over the side. When he turned back to Sorcor, he managed to smile back at him. ‘Caution the men to remember that few prophets are treated well in their home towns.’

Sorcor’s brows knitted in puzzlement.

Kennit did not sigh. ‘I mean that although others, elsewhere, may regard our freeing of slaves and fitting them out as pirates with a share in our territory as an act of philanthropy, some here will see us as creators of competition. And they will judge it their duty to curb our ambitions.’

‘You mean they’re going to be jealous, and they’ll rub our faces in the dirt if they get the chance.’

Kennit considered a moment. ‘Exactly.’

A slow smile crawled across Sorcor’s scarred visage. ‘But, Cap’n, that’s exactly what the men are looking forward to. Them trying to put us in our places.’

‘Ah.’

‘And, Cap’n?’

‘Yes, Sorcor.’

‘The men sort of took a vote, sir. And them what didn’t agree was persuaded to change their minds. Every man will be taking a draw this time, sir, and letting you sell off the cargo whole.’ Sorcor vigorously scratched the side of his face. ‘I suggested they might want to let Divvytown know they all believe in their captain. Now, mind, they weren’t all willing to say they’d do it this way every time. But this time, well, it’s your toss.’

‘Sorcor!’ exclaimed Kennit, and his smile widened fractionally. ‘That was well done.’

‘Thankee, sir. I thought it might please you.’

The two men stood for a few moments longer, watching the shore draw nearer. The rattling rain of the day before had forced the last browning leaves from the deciduous trees, not that there were many of them. Dark large-leafed evergreens were the dominant trees on the hills above and around Divvytown. Closer to the water, medusa vine and creeper-root had taken over the edgelands, with a towering cedar defying its own sodden roots to flourish here and there. In the freshness after the rain, Divvytown looked almost inviting. Woodsmoke rose from chimneys, adding its scent to that of the iodine of the seaweed and the briny water. Home. Kennit tried the word out in his mind. No. It didn’t fit. Port. Yes.

Sorcor hastened away, shouting at some deckhand who wasn’t moving quite swiftly enough to please him. Sorcor was notoriously hard to please when they were bringing the ship into port. It was never enough for him that the ship was docked well; she must be sailed in smartly, as if putting on a display for every lounger who might be watching from the beach. As, this time, they were.

Kennit made a mental tally of their captures since they had last tied up here. Seven ships under their belts, four of them slavers. They’d made five pursuits of liveships, with nothing even approaching success in that area. He was almost resigned to giving up that part of his plan. Perhaps he could achieve the same ends simply by capturing enough slave-ships. He and Sorcor had worked a bit of arithmetic the other night over a mug or two of rum. All of it was speculative, but the results were always pleasant. No matter how well or how poorly the four ships succeeded in piracy, half of the take would come back to the Marietta. In each capture, Kennit had awarded the captaincy of the taken vessel to one of his seasoned men. That, too, had been inspired, for now those that remained on board the Marietta actively vied for his attention, hoping to distinguish themselves sufficiently to earn ships of their own. The only drawback was that it might eventually deplete their own crew of proven men. He put that worry out of his mind. By then he would have a flotilla, no, a fleet of pirate ships under his command. And they would be bound to him, not just by debt but by gratitude. He and Sorcor had carefully spaced their sub-vessels throughout the Inside, spending much time in discussing where these new citizens would be most welcome, not to mention where the pickings were thickest for an inexperienced ship. He was satisfied they had done well. Even those freed slaves who had not chosen to follow him into a life of piracy must think of him with gratitude and speak well of him. He trusted that when the time came for them to speak their loyalties, they would recall how he had rescued them. He nodded sagely to himself. King of the Pirate Isles. It could be done.

The three plunder ships they had taken had not been noteworthy. One had not even been especially seaworthy, so when the fires got out of control, they had let it sink. They had salvaged most of the easily negotiable cargo by then anyway. The other two ships and the crews had been ransomed through Kennit’s usual brokers. He shook his head to himself at that. Was he getting too confident of himself? He should move around more, use other people. Otherwise it would only be a matter of time before several merchants banded together to have an attempt at revenge on him. The last ship’s captain had been a surly bastard, kicking and attempting to strike out long after he had been securely bound. He’d cursed Kennit and warned him that there were rewards for his capture now, not only in Jamaillia but even in Bingtown. Kennit had thanked him and let him make the rest of his trip to Chalced sitting in his own bilge-water, chained like a slave. He’d been courteous enough when Kennit finally had him hauled on deck. Kennit decided he had always underrated the effects that dark and wet and chains could have on a man’s spirit. Well, one was never too old to learn.

They came into Divvytown in good order, and his men disembarked like visiting royalty, purses already a jingle with coins. Kennit and Sorcor followed them shortly, leaving a handful of chosen men aboard who would be well rewarded for postponing their own pleasures. As he and Sorcor strolled up the docks, ignoring the blatant offerings of the pimps, whores and drug-mongers, he reflected that no matter who inspected them, at least one of them would be seen as having good taste. Sorcor, as always, was dressed in a wide array of fine clothes in colours that bedazzled the eye. The silk scarf that belted his waist had come from the plump, pale shoulders of a noblewoman they had ransomed. The jewelled dagger stuck in it had come from her son, a brave boy who had not known when to surrender. He’d had the yellow silk shirt tailored in Chalced. Given the bulkiness of the man’s muscled shoulders and thick chest, the wide expanse of fluttering fabric reminded Kennit of a ship under sail. In contrast, he had chosen sober colours for himself, trusting the fabric and tailoring to draw the eye. Few in Divvytown would appreciate the rarity of the lace that spilled so extravagantly from cuff and collar, but even in their ignorance they would have to admire it. His high black boots shone while the blue breeches, waistcoat and jacket accentuated both his muscle and his leanness. That the man who had tailored these clothes had been a freed slave who charged him nothing at all for the privilege of serving him only enhanced Kennit’s satisfaction with his appearance.

Sincure Faldin had bought cargoes from Kennit before, but never before had he so obviously fawned on him as he did now. As he had suspected, the rumours of the freed slaves and the newly-flagged Raven ships that now sailed for Kennit had reached Divvytown weeks ago. The man who welcomed them at Faldin’s door showed them, not to his office but to his parlour. This small, stuffily warm room saw little use, Kennit surmised from the stiffness of the fabric on the cushioned chairs. They sat for a few moments, Sorcor uneasily drumming his fingers on his thighs before a smiling woman entered with a tray of wine and tiny sweet biscuits. If Kennit was not mistaken, the woman who brought the wine was Faldin’s own wife. She curtseyed to them silently and then quickly retired from the room. When Faldin himself appeared but moments later, the strength of his scent and the smoothness of his hair attested to recent personal grooming. Like many native to Durja, he favoured brilliant colours and extravagant embroidery. The expanse of fabric round his girth put Kennit in mind of a wall tapestry. The earrings he wore were an elaborate twining of gold and silver. Kennit mentally added five per cent to what he had hoped to get for their cargo.

‘You honour my establishment, Captain Kennit, by seeking us first,’ Faldin greeted them. ‘And is this not your first mate, Sincure Sorcor, of whom I have heard so many tales?’

‘It is,’ Kennit replied before Sorcor could stammer a reply. He smiled to Faldin’s courtesy. ‘You speak of us honouring you with our trade. And how is that, Sincure Faldin?’ Kennit asked dryly. ‘Have not we sought out your business before?’

The Sincure smiled and made a deprecating gesture. ‘Ah, but then, if you will excuse my saying so, you were but one more pirate. Now, if all we hear is true, you are Captain Kennit the Liberator. Not to mention, Captain Kennit, the co-owner of four more ships than the last time I saw you.’

Kennit inclined his head gracefully. He was glad to see that Sorcor had the wit to keep still and but watch how this was done. He waited silently for the offer he was almost certain would come. It did. Sincure Faldin allowed himself a moment to settle deeply into a chair opposite them. He picked up the wine bottle and poured a generous measure for himself, and then added more to their glasses as well. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

‘And so, before we negotiate for but one more shipload of cargo, I suggest we might consider the benefits to both of us if I were always your first choice, for many shiploads of cargo.’

‘I see the benefit to you, if you were assured of always having the pick of our plunder. But I confess I see small good for ourselves out of such an arrangement.’

Sincure Faldin laced his fingers over his extravagant vest. He smiled benevolently. ‘You see no good in having a partner always ready and willing to dispose of whatever you bring in? You see no good in consistently getting the best price for your cargo, large or small? For with a partner ashore, you’d not have to sell all you have in a day or two. A partner ashore would warehouse it for you, disposing of it only when the market for it was strongest. You see, Captain Kennit, when you come into a town and sell off a hundred kegs of fine rum, all at once, why the very quantity of the cargo makes the fineness suddenly common. With a partner ashore with a warehouse, those same kegs could be held and sold off a few at a time, increasing their rarity and thus their price. Moreover, a partner ashore would not sell all those kegs in Divvytown. No. Why, with a small ship at his disposal, he could ply the surrounding islands and settlements as well, cultivating a market for you. And once or twice a year, that ship could make a trip to say, Bingtown or Jamaillia itself, there to sell off the very finest pickings of your year’s taking to merchants more than able to pay the best prices.’

Sorcor was looking a bit too impressed. Kennit resisted the urge to nudge him with his boot; he would only have looked startled and puzzled as well. Instead Kennit leaned back in his uncomfortable chair as if relaxing. ‘Simple economics,’ he announced casually. ‘Your suggestions are far from unique, Sincure Faldin.’

Faldin nodded, not at all flustered by this. ‘Many great ideas are not unique. They only become unique when the men who have the wherewithal actually to implement them come together.’ He paused, weighing the wisdom of his next words. ‘It is gossiped about Divvytown that you have ambitions. Ambitions, I might add, that are far from unique. You would rise to power amongst us. Some say the word “king” and smile in their beards. I do not. I have not proffered the word “king” to you at all in my business offer. And yet, if we applied ourselves, one might rise to that much power and wealth and authority. With or without the word “king” attached to one. Words such as that tend to unsettle folks. But I trust it is not the word you aspire to, but the state of being.’

Sincure Faldin leaned back, his words spoken. Sorcor’s eyes leapt from Faldin to Kennit. His glance was wide, full of wonder. It is one thing to hear one’s captain speak of a desire for power. It was entirely another to find that a respected merchant might take such words seriously.

Kennit moistened his lips. He glanced down to find his amulet grinning at him. The wicked little face winked up at him, then folded its lips tightly as if enjoining him to silence. It was all Kennit could do to keep from staring at it. He found he had sat up straight. Resolutely he stilled his own features and looked away from the wizardwood charm. He glanced up at Faldin. ‘What you propose goes far beyond merely doing business together. Partner, you have said, more than once. Partner, dear Sincure Faldin, is a word that my first mate and I hold in especial regard. So far, we have extended it only to each other. We two know the full depth of that word. Partner. Money alone does not buy it.’ He hoped that Sorcor would not miss that reminder of mutual loyalty. Faldin was looking a bit alarmed now. Kennit smiled at him. ‘However. We are still listening,’ he pointed out to Faldin. Once more he leaned back in his chair.

The merchant took a deep breath. He glanced from one man to another, as if assessing them. ‘I see what you do, sirs. You gather not only wealth, but influence. The loyalty of men and the power of ships are behind that loyalty. But what I have to offer you is something not as easily gathered. Something that only time can establish.’ He paused for emphasis. ‘Respectability.’

Sorcor shot Kennit a puzzled glance. Kennit made a tiny motion of his hand. Hold, the hand motion told him. Stand as you are. ‘Respectability?’ Kennit put an edge of mockery on the word.

Faldin swallowed then plunged on. ‘To gain what you want, sir, you must offer folk assurances. Nothing steadies a community’s regard for a man like respectability. If I might be so bold as to point out, you have no real ties here. No houses, no lands, no wives and families, no blood-ties to those who make up this town. At one time, those things were not important. What were we, what were any of us, except pariahs and outcasts, runaway slaves, petty criminals fleeing justice, debtors and rebels and vagabonds?’ He waited for their grudging nods. ‘But that, Captain Kennit and Sincure Sorcor, was a generation or two ago.’ Excitement was building in his voice. ‘I am sure, sirs, that this is what you have seen as clearly as I have seen myself. Times are changing us. I myself have been here a score of years. My wife was born in this town, as were my children. If a proper society is to rise from the mud and shanties here, well, we will be its cornerstones. We and others like us, and those who have joined our families.’

If there had been some sort of a signal, it had escaped Kennit. But the timing was too exquisite to be coincidental. Sincura Faldin and two young women entered the room bearing trays of fruit and bread and smoked meats and cheese. Faldin’s features in feminine were plainly marked on the two girls. His daughters. His bargaining chips on the board, the passcards to respectability. They were not Divvytown sluts. Neither dared to look at Kennit, but one sent Sorcor a shy smile and a glance from beneath lowered lashes. They were, Kennit surmised, probably even virgins, never allowed to walk on the streets of Divvytown unless Mama’s watchful eyes were upon them. Nor were they bad-looking. Durja still spoke in their pale skin and honey hair, but their eyes were almond-shaped and hazel. Both were plump as ripe fruit, their bared arms round and white. They set out food and drink for each man and for their mama. Sorcor had lowered his eyes to his plate, but was sucking speculatively on his lower lip. He suddenly lifted his glance and boldly stared at one of the sisters. A blush raced up her cheeks at his glance. She did not meet his eyes, but she did not turn aside from his stare either. The younger girl could have been no more than fifteen, her sister at most seventeen. Smooth and unscarred they were, a man’s transport into a gentle world where women were soft and quiet and saw willingly to their husbands’ needs. A world many men probably dreamed about, Kennit thought, and Sorcor was most likely one of them. What other prize could be farther from the grasp of the scarred and tattooed pirate than the willing embrace of a pale virgin? That which was most unattainable was always most desirable.

Faldin pretended not to notice the pirate’s ogling of his daughter. Instead he exclaimed, ‘Ah, refreshment. Let us take a moment from our business. Gentlemen, I welcome you to the hospitality of my home. I believe you’ve met Sincura Faldin. These two are my daughters, Alyssum and Lily.’ Each girl nodded her head in turn, then took her place between their mother and father.

And these two, Kennit reflected, were but the first offer from Divvytown. Not necessarily the best. Nor did this ‘respectability’ have to come from Divvytown. There were other pirate towns on other islands, and merchants more wealthy than Faldin. There was no need to be hasty in choosing. No need at all.

The sun had tracked much of the sky before Kennit and Sorcor emerged from Sincure Faldin’s premises. Kennit had disposed of his cargo profitably; more, he had done so without fully committing himself to a permanent alliance with Faldin. After his daughters and lady had left the room, Kennit had taken the tack that while the value of a business association with Faldin could not be doubted, no one could be so heartless as to hasten into any other aspects of such an ‘alliance’. He had left Faldin with the dubious security of knowing that he would be allowed to show his goodwill by offering the first bid on any goods the Marietta brought into Divvytown. The man was merchant enough to know it was a poor offer, and wise enough to know it was the best he would get at this time. So he smiled stiffly and accepted it.

‘I could almost see him ciphering the numbers on the back of his tongue. How much would he have to overpay us for our next three cargoes to assure us of his goodwill?’ Kennit offered the jest wryly to Sorcor.

‘The younger one… was she Alyssum, or Lily?’ Sorcor asked cautiously.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Kennit suggested callously. ‘I am sure that if you don’t fancy her name, Faldin will allow you to change it. Here.’ He handed Sorcor the tally-sticks they had negotiated so easily. ‘I’ll trust these to you. Don’t let them deliver less coin than was promised before you allow him to unload. You’ll take the ship’s watch tonight?’

‘Of course,’ the burly pirate replied distractedly.

Kennit did not know whether to frown or smile. So easily could the man be bought with the offer of unsullied flesh. Kennit scratched his chin. He watched Sorcor turn toward the docks and swagger off into the gathering autumn twilight. He gave his head a minute shake. ‘Whores,’ he congratulated himself quietly. ‘Whores make it all so much simpler.’ A wind had come up. Winter was no further away than a new moon, or a few days’ sail to the north. ‘I’ve never cared for the cold,’ he said softly to himself.

‘No one does,’ a small voice commiserated. ‘Not even whores.’

Slowly, as if the token were an insect that might take flight if startled, Kennit raised his wrist. He glanced about the street, then feigned refastening a cuff-link. ‘And why do you speak to me this time?’ he demanded softly.

‘Your pardon.’ The tiny smile was mocking as his own. ‘I thought you had spoken to me first. I was just agreeing.’

‘There is no strange weight, then, to be put on your words?’

The tiny wizardwood charm pursed its lips as if considering. ‘No more than I might put to yours,’ the face suggested. He gave his master a pitying look. ‘I know no more than you know, sirrah. The only difference between us is that I admit more easily what I know. Try it yourself. Say this aloud: But in the long run, a whore can cost one more than the most wastrel wife.’

‘What?’

‘Eh?’ An old man passing in the street turned back to him. ‘You spoke to me?’

‘No. Nothing.’

The old man peered at him closer. ‘You’re Captain Kennit, h’ain’t you? From the Marietta?. Goes around freeing slaves and telling them to be pirates?’ His coat was fraying at the cuffs, and one boot was split along the seam. But he carried himself as if he were a man of consequence.

Kennit had nodded twice. To the last he replied, ‘Well, so some say of me.’

The old man coughed wheezily, and then spat to one side. ‘Well, some also say they don’t like the idea. They say you’re getting too full of yourself. Too many pirates means the pickings get slimmer. And too many pirates preying on slave-ships can irritate the Satrap to where he sends his galleys up our way. Knocking off fat merchant-ships, well, that’s one thing, laddie. But the Satrap gets a cut of those slave-sales. We don’t want to be digging in the pockets of the man what funds the warships, if you get my drift.’

‘I do,’ Kennit said stiffly. He considered killing the old man.

The geezer wheezed and then spat again. ‘But what I say,’ he continued in a creakier voice. ‘Is more power to you. You put it to him, laddie, and give him a couple thrusts for me as well. Time someone showed him that blue ink on a man’s face don’t mean he’s not a man any more. Not that I’d say that to just anyone around here. There’s some as would think I needed shutting up, if they heard me speak so. But, seeing as how it was you, I thought I’d tell you this: not everyone that keeps silent is against you. That’s all. That’s all.’ He went off into his wheezing cough again. It sounded painful.

Kennit was amused to find himself rummaging in his pocket. He came up with a silver coin and passed it to the man. ‘Try a bit of brandy for that cough, sir. And good evening to you.’

The old man looked at the coin in amazement. Then he held it up and shook it after Kennit as he strode away. ‘I’ll drink your health, sir, that I will!’

‘To my health,’ Kennit muttered to himself. Having begun talking to himself, it now seemed he could not stop. Perhaps it was a side-effect of random philanthropy. Did not most madnesses occur in pairs? He pushed the thought aside. Too much thinking led only to bleakness and despair. Better not to think, better to be a man like Sorcor, who was probably even now imagining a blushing virgin in his bed. He’d be better off simply buying a woman who could blush and squeak convincingly, if that was what appealed to him.

He was still distracted when he strode up to Bettel’s bagnio. For such a chill evening, there were more idlers outside her door than he would have expected. Two of them were her regular toughs, cocky and grinning as usual. Some day, he promised himself, he’d do something permanent to their smirks. ‘Evening, Captain Kennit,’ one dared to address him lazily.

‘Good evening.’ He enunciated the reply, freighting it with a different meaning entirely. One of the idlers abruptly brayed aloud, a whisky-laugh that sent his fellows off into sniggering laughter. Brainless. He took the steps briskly, thinking that the music sounded louder tonight, the notes more brittle. Within, he endured the services of the serving boy, nodding perfunctorily that he was satisfied before passing into the inner chamber.

There, finally, there were enough things out of routine that he was moved to lightly touch the hilt of the sword at his belt. Too many folk were in this room. Customers did not linger here. Bettel did not permit it. If a man came to pay for a whore, then he could take his purchase to a private room to enjoy as he pleased. This was not some cheap sailors’ whorehouse, where the wares could be fondled and sampled before one bought. Bettel ran a proper house, discreet and dignified.

But tonight the reek of cindin was heavy in the air, and men slouched insolently in the chairs where the whores usually displayed themselves. The prostitutes who remained in the room were standing or perched on laps. Their smiles seemed more brittle, their laughter more forced, and Kennit noticed how swiftly their eyes strayed to Bettel herself. This time her black locks had been trained into ringlets. They swung stiff and shining. Despite her layers of powder, a mist of perspiration shone on her forehead and upper lip, and the reek of cindin was stronger on her breath.

‘Captain Kennit, you dear man!’ she greeted him with her usual contrived affection. She came at him, arms wide as if to embrace him. At the last moment she dropped them to clasp her hands joyously before her. Her fingernails were gilded. ‘Just wait until you see what I have for you!’

‘I’d rather not wait,’ Kennit replied irritably. His eyes wandered the room.

‘For I knew you were coming, you see!’ she burbled on. ‘Oh, we hear of it right away, when the Marietta comes to dock. And here in Divvytown, we’ve heard all the tales of your adventures. Not that we wouldn’t be so delighted if you ever chose to favour us with the telling yourself.’ She batted her lash-laden eyes up at him, and rolled her breasts forward against the confines of her dress.

‘You know my usual arrangements,’ he pointed out to her, but she had seized hold of his hand and was threatening to engulf it in her bosom as she clasped it fondly to her.

‘Oh, your usual arrangements!’ she cried gaily. ‘Fie on the usual, Captain Kennit, dear. That is not why a man comes to Bettel’s house, for the “usual”. Now come with me and see. Just see what I’ve saved for you.’

There were at least three men in the room who were following their conversation with more attention than seemed polite. None of them, Kennit noted, looked particularly pleased as Bettel tugged him over to a candlelit alcove off the main room. Curious and cautious, he glanced within.

Either she was a new arrival, or had been working on his previous visits. She was striking if one fancied small, pale women. She had large blue eyes in a heart-shaped face with painted pink cheeks. Her plump little mouth was painted red. Short golden hair was dressed in tight curls all over her head. Bettel had dressed her in pale blue, and decked her with gilt jewellery. The girl stood up from the tasselled cushions where she had been seated and smiled sweetly up at him. Nervously, but sweetly. Her nipples had been tipped with pink to make them stand out more noticeably beneath the pale gauze of her dress.

‘For you, Captain Kennit,’ Bettel purred. ‘As sweet as honey, and pretty as a little doll. And our largest room. Now. Will you want your meal set out first, as usual?’

He smiled at Bettel. ‘Yes, I will. And in my usual room, with my usual woman to follow. I do not play with dolls. They don’t amuse me.’

He turned and walked away from her, headed toward the stair. Over his shoulder, he reminded her. ‘Have Etta bathe first. And remember, Bettel, a decent wine.’

‘But Captain Kennit!’ she protested. The nervousness in her voice was suddenly a shrilling of fear. ‘Please. At least try Avoretta. If you do not fancy her, there will be no charge.’

Kennit was ascending the stairs. ‘I do not fancy her, so there is no charge.’ The small of his back ached with tension. He had seen avidity kindle in the men’s eyes as he started up the main staircase. He reached the top of the landing and opened the door to the narrow stair beyond it. He entered it, shutting the door behind him. Several long, light strides took him to the second small landing where the sole lantern burned. Here the stairway bent back on itself. He waited soundlessly around the corner. He drew his sword silently and unsheathed his belt knife as well. He heard the door below softly open and then close again. By their cautious tread, at least three men were behind him on the stairs. He smiled grimly. Better here, in tight quarters with them below him than out on the dark of the streets. With a bit of luck he’d take at least one by surprise.

He did not have to wait long. They were too eager. As the first one stepped around the corner, the tip of Kennit’s blade flicked across the man’s throat. That simple. Kennit gave him a good shove. He tumbled back into his fellows, gargling incoherently, and as they stumbled backwards down the stairs, Kennit followed, dashing out the lamp as he passed it and then flinging the hot glass and spilling oil down on them. They cursed in the dark now, with a dying man’s weight pressing them back down the stairs. Kennit made several random downward thrusts with his sword to encourage their retreat. He hoped the dying man would be low, collapsing against their legs. Stabbing him again would be a waste of effort, so he placed his thrusts higher and had the satisfaction of two cries of pain. Perhaps the stairway and closed door would muffle them. He was sure that further surprises awaited him upstairs. No sense in spoiling their anticipation. He heard these three hit the downstairs door and sprang forwards then, thrusting with both sword and dagger into any flesh he could find. Here he had the advantage, for anything that was not himself was the enemy, whereas they had as good a chance of striking an ally as him in the dark, close confines of the stairwell. One man at least was fumbling wildly for the doorknob, cursing when he could not find it. Eventually he did, but only in time to open it and allow himself and his dying companions to spill out onto the landing. At the base of the staircase, Bettel looked up in horror from her parlour.

‘Rats,’ Kennit informed her. Another tidy flick of his sword, to be sure the last man stayed down and died. ‘Vermin on your staircase. You really should not allow this, Bettel.’

‘They forced me! They forced me. I tried to keep you from going up there, you know I did!’ The woman’s wail followed him as he turned back to the staircase. He shut the door firmly on it, hoping it had not carried all the way to the chamber at the top of the house. Soft-footed as a cat he padded up the darkened stairs. He let his sword’s tip lead the way. When he reached the second door, he paused. If they were alarmed at all — no, if they were sly at all — they’d have a man waiting outside this door. He eased the latch open, took a fresh grip on both his weapons, and then shouldered his way through the door, coming in as low and silently as he could. No one was there.

The door to his usual chamber was shut. Voices came through it, pitched softly. Men’s voices. At least two, then. They sounded impatient. No doubt they’d seen him through the window as he approached Bettel’s house. Why hadn’t they ambushed him at the top of the stairs? Perhaps because they’d expected their fellows to overpower him and drag him into this chamber for them?

He considered, then pounded roughly on the door. ‘Got him!’ he cried hoarsely, and was rewarded by a fool who jerked the door open for him. Kennit put his knife low in the man’s belly and then dragged it up with all his strength. It did not do as much damage as he had hoped it would; worse, it tangled in the man’s loose shirt. Kennit was forced to abandon it in him. He gave the man a backwards shove and then sprang forwards to meet the next man’s blade. His blade engaged Kennit’s neatly, turned aside his thrust, then thrust in turn. A gentlemanly approach to fencing, Kennit realized, as he set the man’s blade tip out of alignment with his throat. A mistaken sense of gallantry and showmanship.

Kennit whipped a glance about the room. There was one more man sitting with studied composure in his chair before the fire. He held a glass of claret in one hand, but was prudent enough to have his hand on the drawn sword across his knees. Etta was flung naked across the bed. They had bloodied both the woman and the linens. ‘Ah. King Kennit has come calling on his lady,’ the seated man observed lazily. He gestured with his glass at the whore. ‘I don’t think she’ll be up to receiving you just now. Our day’s amusement has left her… indisposed.’

It was meant to distract him and it almost worked. It was distressing. No. It angered him. This clean and pleasant chamber, the comparative safety of Bettel’s house had been taken away. He’d never be able to relax in this room again. The bastards!

A part of him was aware of shouts in the street outside. More of them. He’d have to finish this one quickly, and then get the one in the chair. But even as he pressed his reach advantage, the mocking man rose and advanced on Kennit with his sword. That one, at least, was not stupid enough to think that fair-play had anything to do with killing. Kennit was not stupid enough to think he had much of a chance against two blades. He wished he hadn’t had to leave his knife in the other man.

A stupid time to die, he told himself, as he parried one blade with his sword and knocked the other aside with his arm. He was thankful for the thick fabric of his sleeve that absorbed most of the impact. Seeing how he must defend himself, his attacker instantly switched to slashing attacks rather than thrusts. Kennit began a constant harried retreat from both blades, with no time to do anything except defend and evade. The other two men laughed and shouted to one another as they fought, mocking words about kings and slaves and whores. He did not listen, he could not listen, one moment’s distraction would be his death. All his attention went to the two blades and the two men who powered them. Time to decide, he recognized grimly. Do I make them kill me now, quickly, or fight until I can no longer defend myself well, and they can play cats to my mouse?

He was as startled as they were when the quilted comforter was snapped open and flung over one of them. As he was fighting clear of it, the rest of the bedding quickly followed, fat down-stuffed pillows, billowing sheets that draped his enemies’ blades and tangled their feet. A sheet settled over one man, draping him like a walking corpse. Apt, Kennit smiled to himself. Kennit’s blade popped through the linen drapery and as he drew it back, a great scarlet blossom opened on it. Etta, cursing and shrieking, gathered up an immense double-armful of feather bed and flung it and herself upon the last attacker. Kennit quickly made sure of the man he had stabbed. By the time he turned, Etta had found the other man’s head beneath the blanket and was pounding it up and down on the floor. The bedding muffled his cries as he struggled to get clear of the shrouding stuff. Kennit casually stabbed him several times, and then, out of breath, put the sword where he judged the man’s heart to be. The thrashing lump under the blankets stilled. Etta kept on pounding his head against the floor.

‘I think you can stop that now,’ Kennit pointed out. She did, abruptly, but the sound continued.

They both turned to the pounding footsteps coming up the stairs. Etta, crouched naked over her kill, looked savage as a feral cat as she unconsciously bared her teeth to the sound. Kennit waded through the welter of bodies and bedding to secure the door. He tried to slam it but the first man’s body was in the way. He bent to drag the body free, and before he could close the door, it flew wide open so hard it bounced off the wall. Kennit caught it before it could rebound into Sorcor’s face. Sorcor was red-faced from running as were the men who burst into the room behind him. ‘An old man,’ he gasped. ‘Came to the ship. Said you might have trouble here.’

‘Now that was a bit of silver well spent,’ a small voice observed. Sorcor glanced at Etta, thinking she had spoken, then self-consciously turned his head from the naked, battered woman. She staggered upright. She glanced at the other men staring at her and then stooped awkwardly to drag up a corner of one blanket to cover herself. It revealed a man’s hand and arm flung lifelessly on the floor.

‘Trouble.’ Kennit observed dryly. ‘A bit.’ He sheathed his sword and gestured at the body in the door. ‘Pass me my knife, please.’

Sorcor crouched to pull it out of the man. ‘You were right,’ he observed needlessly. ‘There’s been talk against us in the town, and some are angered by what we do. Is this Rey? Of the Sea-Vixen?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kennit admitted. ‘He never introduced himself.’ He stooped and dragged some of the bedding off the other dead men.

‘It was Rey,’ Etta said in a low voice through bruised lips. ‘I knew him well enough.’ She took a breath. ‘All of these were Sea-Vixen men.’ She gestured at the man whose head she had pounded against the floor. ‘That was their captain. Skelt.’ In a lower voice she added, ‘They kept saying they’d show you that every pirate is his own king. That they didn’t need you, and you couldn’t rule them.’

‘That makes six,’ one of Kennit’s crew observed in awe. ‘Cap’n took down six men by himself.’

‘How many were outside?’ Kennit asked curiously as he resheathed the knife Sorcor gave him.

‘Four. They were ten to one against you. Brave sods, weren’t they?’ Sorcor asked heavily.

Kennit shrugged. ‘Did I wish to make sure a man was killed, I’d do the same.’ He gave Sorcor a small smile. ‘They still lost. Ten men. They feared me very badly, to wish to be so sure I’d be dead.’ His smile widened. ‘Power, Sorcor. Other men see us gathering it to ourselves. This attempt is but proof that we are moving towards our goal.’ He became aware of the eyes of his men. ‘And taking our crew with us,’ he said reassuringly, and nodded his smile all round. The five pirates with Sorcor grinned back at him.

Sorcor put his own blade away. ‘Well. Now what?’ he asked heavily.

Kennit considered briefly. He pointed to his men. ‘You and you. Together. Make the rounds of the taverns and whorehouses. Find our shipmates and warn them. Quietly. I suggest it is wisest for all to sleep aboard tonight, with a stout watch posted. Sorcor and I will be doing so. But only after we’ve made ourselves seen about town, alive and whole. And all of you, I warn you: no bragging about this. This was nothing, do you understand? Not even a story worth the telling. Let other men do the telling for us; the tale will grow faster that way.’ The men nodded, grinning appreciatively to one another. ‘You and you. You will follow Sorcor and I as we show ourselves about, but you won’t be with us. Understand? You watch our backs, and you listen for what others say about us at their own tables. Listen, and remember, for I will want a full accounting.’

They nodded their understanding. He glanced about the room. There was something else he should do here, something he’d been intending to do. Etta stood silent, looking at him. A tiny ruby sparkled in her ear-lobe. ‘Oh, and you.’ He pointed to the last man. ‘See to my woman.’

The sailor flushed red, and then white. ‘Yes, sir. Uh. How, sir?’

Kennit shook his head angrily. He had things to do, and they bothered him with details. ‘Oh, take her down to the ship. Put her in my cabin for later.’ If the town considered Etta his woman, then he must put her out of casual reach. He must appear to have no vulnerabilities. He knit his brow. Was that all? Yes.

Etta dragged the sheet free of the last body. Standing straight as a queen, she wrapped the blood-stained linen around her shoulders. Kennit glanced about the room one last time, then took in his men’s proud and incredulous grins. Even Sorcor was smiling. Why? Ah. The woman. They would have expected carnage like this to kill his appetite for her. That they believed it hadn’t made him more of a man in their eyes. Lust had not motivated him; he did not find bruises on a woman arousing. But his supposed lust for her was what they were admiring. Well, let them think it then. He glanced back to the blushing man. ‘See she is provided with warm water for a bath. Feed her. And find appropriate garments for her as well.’ He supposed this meant he’d have to keep her in his cabin. At least let her be clean, then.

His eyes returned to Sorcor’s. ‘Well, you’ve got your orders,’ his first mate pointed out gruffly to the smirking men. ‘Move!’

A round of ayes and his two runners rattled off down the stairs. The man assigned to Etta crossed the room, hesitated awkwardly, then scooped her up in his arms as if she were a large child. To Kennit’s surprise, Etta wilted against him gratefully. Kennit, Sorcor, and their guards started down the stairs with the man carrying Etta coming behind them. They met Bettel on the landing. Her hands fluttered before her as she exclaimed, ‘Oh! You’re alive!’

‘Yes,’ Kennit agreed.

In her next breath, she exclaimed angrily, ‘Do you think you’re taking Etta out of here?’

‘Yes,’ Kennit called over his shoulder up the stairs.

‘What about all these dead men?’ she shrieked after him as they strode out of her house.

‘Those you may keep,’ Kennit replied.

Etta caught at the front door with her hand as she and her bearer passed through it. She slammed it shut behind them.