Читать книгу The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny - Робин Хобб - Страница 36

‘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 rancour. 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 might 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. Grey 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 further 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 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 curtseyed 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.

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 for 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 nightrobe 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 short sleek hair was perfectly black, as the night sky is black between the stars. He need not fear to kiss her; she had no man save him these days. She saw him watching her. Her eyes widened and suddenly she breathed more quickly and deeply. He abruptly matched his body to hers, pinning her against the rail, mastering her. He forced her mouth open to his, felt the small, hard nipples of her slight breasts through the thin, body-warmed silk of her blouse. He lifted his mouth from hers.

‘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.

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 damned 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 damned family of them is rich,’ Mingsley pointed out. ‘And what makes them rich?’

‘Their 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?’

‘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 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 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 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 Bingtown Traders traffic with. One trip would be all it would take. Firth, we could pay them double what the Old Traders pay them, and still make a profit. This is our chance to get in on a trade that’s been closed to outsiders since Bingtown was founded. I’ve got the contacts, the owners are listening for the right cash offer. All I need is the backing. And you’ve got that.’

‘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 things 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 anyone 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.

‘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.

‘Serpent!’

Althea’s voice rang out clear and cold as the night that surrounded them. She clung with near numbed fingers, her feet braced against the lookout’s platform. Her eyes strained through the darkness to track the creature even as she heard the thundering of the crew’s feet on the deck below, heard her cry passed on. Hatches were flung open as all hands hit the decks to do whatever they could to withstand this latest attack.

‘Where?’

‘Three points off the starboard bow, sir! A big one.’

They were all big, she reflected bitterly as she strove to tighten her weary grip. She was cold and wet and tired, and the healing injury on her scalp still throbbed all the time. In the cold of a night like this, the throbbing became a dull agony as the chill tightened her skin. The fever had passed days ago, and Reller had snipped and tugged the stitches out when the itching had become unbearable. Reller’s clumsiness and coarse jokes about her pain were infinitely preferable to the guarded tenderness she saw in Brashen’s eyes whenever she chanced to be near him. Damn him. And damn him again, for here she was thinking of him when her very life depended on her focusing her mind on her task. Where had the serpent gone? One moment she had seen it, and now it was gone.

In answer to her question, the ship gave a sudden starboard lurch. Her feet slid on her ice-rimed perch, and she found her life depending on the clutch of her numbed fingers. Without even thinking, she wrapped her arm about a line and held on. On the deck below she could hear the captain cursing and demanding that the hunters do something, shoot the damned thing before it took them all to the bottom! But even as the hunters with bows drawn ran to one side of the ship, the serpent had doubled back and nudged them from the other side. It was not a sharp impact like being rammed. It was a strong upward push, like a shark nosing a dead carcass floating on the water. The ship heeled over and men scrabbled across the decks.

‘Where is it?’ the captain demanded furiously as Althea and the other lookouts strained their eyes into the darkness. The cold wind streamed past her, the waves heaved and she saw serpents in the curve of every swell. They dissolved into fear and imagination when she tried to focus on them.

‘He’s gone!’ one of the other lookouts cried, and Althea prayed he was right. This had gone on too long, too many days and nights of sudden random attacks followed by anxious hours of ominous cessation. Sometimes the serpents crested and writhed alongside the ship, always just out of reach of a bowshot. Sometimes there were half a dozen, hides scintillating in the winter sun, reflecting blue and scarlet and gold and green. And sometimes, like tonight, there would be but one monstrous creature, coming to mock them by effortlessly toying with their lives. Sighting serpents was nothing new to Althea. Once, they had been so rare as to be legendary; now they infested certain areas on the Outside, and followed slave-ships through the Inside Passage. She’d seen a few in her time aboard the Vivacia, but always at a distance and never threatening. This proximity to their savagery made them seem new creatures.

Between one breath and the next, the ship heeled over. Hard. The horizon swung and suddenly Althea’s feet were flung from under her. For an instant she flapped from the spar like a flag. On the canted deck below sailors roared and flailed wildly as they slid and tumbled. She hitched her belly tight and kicked up a foot to catch a ratline. In a moment she was secure again even as the ship tilted further. The serpent had come up under the ship, and lifted it high to roll her hard to starboard. ‘Hang on!’ someone roared, and then she heard a shrill cry cut short. ‘He took him!’ someone shrieked, and the cry was followed by a confusion of voices, demanding of one another, ‘Did you see that? Who did he get? Picked him off like a ripe plum! That’s what the thing is after!’ The ship righted itself and through the chaos of voices, she clearly heard Brashen cursing. Then, ‘Sir!’ His voice rang desperate in the night. ‘Can we not put some hunters on the stern, to keep him off our rudder? If he takes that out…’

‘Do it!’ the captain barked.

There was the clatter of running feet. Althea clung to her perch dizzily, feeling sick not with the sudden lurching of the ship but from the abruptness of death that had visited them. The serpent would be back, she was certain. He would rock the ship like a boy shaking cherries from a tree. She didn’t think the beast was powerful enough to overturn the ship completely, but she was not certain. Land had never seemed so far away. Land, solid land, that could not shift beneath her, that did not conceal ravenous monsters who could erupt at any time.

She remained at her post, hating that she could not see what was happening on the deck right below her. She did not need to know, she reminded herself. What she did need to do was keep good watch and cry a warning that might save a man’s life. Her eyes were weary from peering into the darkness, her hands no more than icy claws. The wind snatched the warmth from her body. But, she reminded herself, it also filled the sails and pushed the ship on. Soon, they would be out of these serpent-infested waters. Soon.

The night deepened around the ship. Clouds obscured both moon and stars. The only light in the world was that of the ship herself. Down on the deck, men worked at fabricating something. Althea moved swiftly and often, a small spider in a web of wet rigging, trying to keep some warmth in her body as she maintained her futile watch. All she could hope to see was some disturbance in the faint luminescence of the ocean’s moving face.

Eventually the ship’s bell rang and her replacement came to relieve her. She scampered down the now familiar rigging, moving swiftly and gracefully despite the cold and her weariness. She hit the deck cat-lightly and stood a moment kneading her stiff hands.

On the deck, she was given a crewman’s measure of rum thinned with hot water. She held it between her near-numb hands and tried to let it warm her. Her watch was over. At any other time, she would have gone to her hammock, but not tonight. Throughout the ship, cargo was being lashed down more tightly to prevent it shifting if the serpent attacked again. On the deck, the hunters were constructing something that involved a lot of salt meat and about fifty fathom of line. They were both laughing and cursing as they put it together, swearing that the serpent would be sorry it had ever seen this ship. The man who had been devoured had been one of the hunters. Althea had known him, had even worked alongside him on the Barrens, but it was hard to grasp the completeness of his death. It had happened too swiftly. To her, the curses and threats of the hunters sounded thin and impotent, the tantrum of a child pitted against the inevitability of fate. In the darkness and the cold their anger seemed pathetic. She did not believe they could prevail. She wondered what would be worse, to drown or be eaten. Then she pushed all such thought aside, to fling herself into the work of the moment. On the deck was a hodge-podge of items jarred loose by the serpent’s attack. All must be carefully re-stowed. Belowdecks, men worked the pumps. The ship had not sprung, but they had taken in water. There was work and plenty to spare.

The night passed as slow as the flow of black tar. From alert vigilance, all decayed to a state of frayed anxiety. When everything was made as tight as it could be, when the bait was readied and the trap set, all waited. Yet Althea doubted that anyone save the hunters hoped the serpent would return to receive their vengeance. The hunters were men whose lives centred around successful killing. For another creature to stalk and successfully devour one of their own was a sudden reversal of roles they could not accept. To the hunters, it was manifest that the serpent must return to be killed. Such was the rightful nature of the world. The sailors, however, were men who lived constantly with the knowledge that, sooner or later, the ocean would take them. The closest to winning they could come was to tell death, ‘Tomorrow’. The sailors working the ship strove only to put as much ocean behind them as they could. Those who had no tasks napped where they could on deck, well-tucked into nooks and crannies where a man could brace himself. Those who could not sleep haunted the rails, not trusting to the lookouts who stared from the masts above into blackness.

Althea was leaning thus, eyes straining to pierce the night, when she felt Brashen take a place beside her. Without even turning, she knew it was him. Perhaps she was that familiar with how he moved, or perhaps without realizing it, she had caught some trace of his scent on the air. ‘We’re going to be all right,’ he said reassuringly to the night.

‘Of course we are,’ she replied without conviction. Despite the greater danger they all faced, she was still acutely aware of her personal discomfort around Brashen. She would have given a great deal to be able to recall dispassionately all they had said and done that night. She did not know what to blame it on, the drugged beer, the blow to the head, or the cindin, but she was not entirely sure she recalled things as they had happened. She could not, for the life of her, recall what had possessed her to kiss him. Maybe, she reflected bleakly, it was because she did not want to recall that those things had happened at all.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked in a quiet voice that freighted the words with more meaning.

‘Quite well, thank you. And yourself?’ she asked with impeccable courtesy.

He grinned. She could not see it, but she could hear it in his voice. ‘I’m fine. When we get to Candletown, all of this is going to seem like a bad dream. We’ll have a drink and laugh about it.’

‘Maybe,’ she said neutrally.

‘Althea,’ he began, just as the ship gave a lurch beneath them and then began to rise. She caught frantically at the railing and clung tight. As the ship listed over, the sea seemed to rise towards her. ‘Get back from the rail,’ Brashen snapped at her, and then flung himself aft shouting, ‘Feed it to him! Get it over the side, feed it to him!’

The deck under her feet kept inclining towards the vertical. Everywhere sailors shouted out their anger and terror. The ship screamed, too, a terrible creaking of wood accustomed to being supported by water and now pushed up out of it. The flexibility of the ship that made it possible for the Reaper to withstand the pounding of the sea told against her now. Althea could almost feel the pain of planks as fore to aft the whole structure twisted and racked. The rigging groaned and the canvas swung. She found herself crouched on the railing rather than clinging to it, gripping it with both hands. She looked up the slanting deck. Sanded smooth and clean, it offered no handholds to retreat from the edge of the ship. Below her the black sea boiled suddenly as the serpent’s tail lashed the water for more purchase.

A man above her roared in sudden, helpless fury. He had lost his grip, and now he slid down the sloping deck towards her. He wouldn’t strike her. If she just stayed where she was, she’d be safe. He’d hit the railing and probably go over, but she’d be safe. If she just stayed as she was.

Instead she found herself letting go with one hand, and reaching for him. He struck the railing, she seized his coat, and suddenly they were both swinging, attached to the ship only by her hand’s grip and one of his legs crooked over the railing. ‘No,’ she heard herself gasp as she felt her muscles cracking with the strain. They clutched at each other and the ship, the man’s hands clutching her so tightly she thought he’d break her bones as he instinctively tried to scrabble up her body to the ship. Below her, the water seethed.

Aft of her, there was a concerted yell of effort and a huge net-wrapped wad of gobbets of oily sea-bear meat was flung over the side. Althea caught a glimpse of a section of chain following it and then line began to pay out. The meat had no more than touched the surface of the water before an immense open maw rose from beneath the waves to engulf it. She could have touched the scaled curve of its neck as it dived after the bait. She caught a glimpse of layered teeth and huge eyes, then it was gone, a hump of serpent body arching beneath her feet.

There was a triumphant shout and then Brashen was shouting to snub it off, snub it off! As abruptly as the deck had tilted up, it was falling away, while rope was snaking out across the deck as if they had dropped an anchor. Althea and her companion were abruptly on the ship’s railing instead of dangling over the side of it. They both scrabbled frantically to get their whole bodies onto the deck. The bait line snapped suddenly taut, and the whole ship shuddered to that tug as the hook was set. Then there was a shriek of torn wood and the huge cleat that had anchored the line was jerked free. The cleat vanished over the side. The lashed-together line of barrels that followed took out a section of the ship’s rail in their passage into the sea. The empty barrels popped under the water as if made of stone rather than wood. As the ship righted itself, there was a general rush of men towards the railing. All scanned the dark sea for some sign of the vanished serpent. Men were poised, silent and motionless, looking and listening. A soft-voiced hunter spoke into the silence. ‘He can’t stay under for ever. Not with all those barrels tied to that hook and chain.’

Privately, Althea wondered. What could they really know of what a serpent could or could not do? Might those scissoring teeth be capable of severing the chain leader that bound the meat to the roped-together kegs? Perhaps the serpent was so powerful, it could take the kegs to the bottom with it and not even feel the strain.

As if in answer to her thought, there was a sudden shout from the other side of the ship. ‘There! See them, they just bobbed up! Look at them go! And she’s down again!’

‘So now it’s a she,’ Althea muttered to herself.

She started to cross the deck but was stopped by the mate’s yell. ‘All of you, quit your gawking. While the damn thing is busy, let’s get out of here.’

‘You’re not going to run it down and kill it?’ One of the hunters demanded in astonishment. ‘You don’t want to be the first ship to bring a serpent’s head and hide back to port? A man could drink for a year on even the telling of such a story!’

‘I want to live to get to port,’ the mate replied sourly. ‘Let’s get some canvas on!’

‘Cap’n?’ the hunter protested.

Captain Sichel stared out to where they had last seen the serpent. His whole body was tense with hatred, and Althea guessed that he longed to pursue it with the same mindless tenacity as a hound on a scent. She stood still and silent, scarcely breathing, as she thought to herself, no, no, no, no, no.

Just as the hunters started to talk cheerfully amongst themselves about harpoons and boats and partners, the captain shook himself as if awakening from a dream. ‘No,’ he said quietly, regretfully. And then, ‘No,’ more firmly and loudly. ‘It would be a stupid risk. We’ve got a full hold of cargo to deliver. We won’t risk it. Besides. I’ve heard some say a mere touch of a serpent’s skin will numb a man’s muscles and drag him down to death. Let the hellspawn go. That wad of sea-bear meat hooked in its gorge will kill it, most like. If it comes back, why, then we’ll fight it with everything we’ve got. But for now, let’s get out of here. Let it drag those kegs down to the bottom with it for all I care.’

Althea would have expected the men to spring to such a command, but they went reluctantly, with many a glance at the black patch of sea where the serpent had last sounded. The hunters manifested their anger and frustration openly. Some threw down their bows with a clatter, while others meaningfully kept their arrows drawn as they scanned the night sea with narrowed eyes. If the serpent showed again, they’d feather it. As Althea hauled herself up into the rigging, she prayed it would stay away. At the farthest edge of the world, the sun was clambering up out of the ocean’s depths. She could see a shimmer of grey where it would soon burst free. As illogical as it was, she almost believed that if the sun managed to rise before the serpent returned, they would all survive. Something in her instinctively longed for light and day to put an end to this long nightmare.

Beside the ship, the serpent suddenly rose like a log turned on end by a whirlpool. The creature shot up, shaking its head wildly, its jaws gaping wide as it sought to dislodge the hook. As it whipped its maned head frantically, small gobs of bloody mucous flew wildly from its maw. Tiny flecks of stinging slime pattered against the canvas. One struck Althea’s cheek and burned. She cried out wordlessly and wiped it away with a sleeve. A terrifying numbness spread out from the burn. Other cries from other sailors let her know she was not the only one hit. She clung where she was and tried to be calm. Would the stuff kill her?

On the deck below, the hunters whooped triumphantly and rushed to the side of the ship where the serpent stood on its tail and tried to free itself from the barbed bait it had swallowed. The chain rattled against its teeth and the kegs bobbed on the water nearby. Arrows sang and harpoons were flung. Some fell short or went wide of their target, but a handful found their mark. The serpent trumpeted its agony as it fell back into the water. It was a shrill sound, more akin to the scream of a woman than the roar of a bull. It dived again, for the kegs vanished like popping bubbles.

Above Althea, a man cried out more loudly, a loose, wordless sound. He fell, his body striking a spar near her. He teetered a moment, and Althea caught the sleeve of his shirt. But his body overbalanced and the sleeve tattered free in her grip. She heard him strike the deck far below. She was left gazing stupidly at the rotted cloth that she clutched. The serpent’s slime had eaten through the heavy cotton fabric like a horde of moths through woven wool.

She wondered what it was doing to her face. A graver thought than that came to her, and she cried out, ‘The serpent’s slime is eating our canvas!’

Other cries confirmed her. Another man, hands burned and numbed, was clutched by his comrades as they awkwardly worked him down to the deck. His head lolled on his shoulders and his mouth and nose both leaked fluid. Althea did not think he was completely aware any more. It was a terrible sight, but more terrible were the small rips that were appearing in the canvas. As the wind pressed on the sail, the fabric first holed and then began to split. The captain watched with a wary eye, measuring the speed the ship was managing to hold against how long it would take to drag up the spare sails and set them. His plan seemed to be to get as far as he could from the serpent grounds before he paused to replace canvas. Althea agreed with it.

A cry aft turned her head. She did not have a clear view, but the shouts from below told her that the serpent had been sighted again. ‘The bastard’s coming right after us!’ someone yelled, and the captain bellowed for the hunters to go aft, and be ready to drive it off with arrows and harpoons. Althea, clinging to her perch, caught one clear glimpse of the creature bearing down on them. Its mouth still gaped wide, the chain dangling from the corner. Somehow it had severed the heavy hemp line that had attached the barrels to it. The arrows and harpoons stood out from its throat. Its immense eyes caught a bit of the first feeble light of dawn and reflected it as red anger. Never before had Althea seen an emotion shine so fiercely in an animal’s countenance. Taller and taller it reared up from the water, impossibly tall, much too long to be something alive.

It struck the ship with every bit of force it could muster. The immense head landed on the afterdeck with a solid smack, like a giant hand upon a table. The bow of the ship leapt up in response and Althea was nearly thrown clear of the rigging. She clung there, voicing her terror in a yell that more than one echoed. She heard the frantic twanging of arrows loosed. Later, she would hear how the hunters sprung fearlessly forward, to thrust their spears into the creature over and over again. But their actions were unneeded. It had been dying even as it charged up on them. It lay lifeless on the deck, wide eyes staring, maw dribbling a milky fluid that smoked where it fell on the wooden deck. Gradually the weight of its immense body drew its head back and down, to vanish into the dark waters from whence it had sprung. Half the after-rail went with it. It left a trough of scarred wood smoking in its wake. Hoarsely the captain ordered the decks doused with seawater.

‘That wasn’t just an animal,’ a voice she recognized as Brashen’s said. There was both awe and fear in his voice. ‘It wanted revenge before it died. And it damned near got it.’

‘Let’s get ourselves out of here,’ the mate suggested.

All over the ship, men sprang to with a will as the grudging sun slowly reached toward them over the sea.

He came to the foredeck in the dead of night on the fourth day of their stay in Jamaillia. Vivacia was aware of him there, but then, she was aware of him anywhere on board her. ‘What is it?’ she whispered. The rest of the ship was still. The single sailor on anchor-watch was at the stern, humming an old love song as he gazed at the city’s scattered lights. A stone’s throw away, a slaver rocked at anchor. The peace of the scene was spoiled only by the stench of the slave-ship and the low mutter of misery from the chained cargo within it.

‘I’m going,’ he said quietly. ‘I wanted to say goodbye.’

She heard and felt his words, but they made no sense to her. He could not mean what the words seemed to say. Panicky, she reached for him, to grope inside him for understanding, but somehow he held that back from her. Separate.

‘You know I love you,’ he said. ‘More important, perhaps, you know I like you, too. I think we would have been friends even if we had not been who we are, even if you had been a real person, or I just another deckhand—’

‘You are wrong!’ she cried out in a low voice. Even now, when she sensed his decision to abandon her hovering in the air, she could not bring herself to betray him. It was not, could not be real. There was no sense in crying an alarm and involving Kyle in this. She would keep it private, between the two of them. She kept her words soft. ‘Wintrow. Yes, in any form we would be friends, though it cuts me to the quick when you seem to say I am not a real person. But what is between us, ship and man, oh, that could never be with any other! Do not deceive yourself that it could. Don’t salve your conscience that if you leave me I can simply start chatting with Mild or share my opinions with Gantry. They are good men, but they are not you. I need you, Wintrow. Wintrow? Wintrow?’

She had twisted about to watch him, but he stood just out of her eye-shot. When he stepped up to her, he was stripped to his underwear. He had a very small bundle, something wadded up inside an oilskin and tied tight. Probably his priest’s robe, she thought angrily to herself.

‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what I’m taking, and nothing else. The only thing of mine I ever brought aboard with me. Vivacia. I don’t know what else I can say to you. I have to go, I must, before I cannot leave you. Before my father has changed me so greatly I won’t know myself at all.’

She struggled to be rational, to sway him with logic. ‘But where will you go? What will you do? Your monastery is far from here. You have no money, no friends. Wintrow, this is insanity. If you must do this, plan it. Wait until we are closer to Marrow, lull them into thinking you’ve given up and then…’

‘I think if I don’t do this now, I will never do it at all.’ His voice was quietly determined.

‘I can stop you right now,’ she warned him in a hoarse whisper. ‘All I have to do is sound the alarm. One shout from me and I can have every man aboard this vessel after you. Don’t you know that?’

‘I know that.’ He shut his eyes for a moment and then reached out to touch her. His fingertips brushed a lock of her hair. ‘But I don’t think you will. I don’t think you would do that to me.’

That brief touch and then he straightened up. He tied his bundle to his waist with a long string. Then he clambered awkwardly over the side and down the anchor chain.

‘Wintrow. You must not. There are serpents in the harbour, they may…’

‘You’ve never lied to me,’ he rebuked her quietly. ‘Don’t do it now to keep me by you.’

Shocked, she opened her mouth, but no words came. He reached the cold, cold water and plunged one bare foot and leg into it. ‘Sa preserve me,’ he gasped, and then resolutely lowered himself into the water. She heard him catch his breath hoarsely in its chill embrace. Then he let go of the chain and paddled awkwardly away. His tied bundle bobbed in his wake. He swam like a dog.

Wintrow, she screamed. Wintrow, Wintrow, Wintrow. Soundless screams, waterless tears. But she kept still, and not just because she feared her cries would rouse the serpents. A terrible loyalty to him and to herself silenced her. He could not mean it. He could not do it. He was a Vestrit, she was his family ship. He could not leave her, not for long. He’d get ashore and go up into the dark town. He’d stay there, an hour, a day, a week, men did such things, they went ashore, but they always came back. Of his own free will, he’d come back to her and acknowledge that she was his destiny. She hugged herself tightly and clenched her teeth shut. She would not cry out. She could wait, until he saw for himself and came back on his own. She’d trust that she truly knew his heart.

‘It’s nearly dawn.’

Kennit’s voice was so soft, Etta was scarcely sure she had heard it. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed very quietly. She lay alongside his back, her body not quite touching his. If he was talking in his sleep, she did not wish to wake him. It was seldom that he fell asleep while she was still in the bed, seldom that she was allowed to share his bedding and pillows and the warmth of his lean body for more than an hour or two.

He spoke again, less than a whisper. ‘Do you know this piece? “When I am parted from you, The dawn light touches my face with your hands.”’

‘I don’t know,’ Etta breathed hesitantly. ‘It sounds like a bit of a poem, perhaps… I never had much time for the learning of poetry.’

‘You have no need to learn what you already are,’ he said quietly. He did not try to disguise the fondness in his voice. Etta’s heart near stood still. She dared not breathe. ‘The poem is called, From Kytris To His Mistress. Older than Jamaillia, from the days of the Old Empire.’ Again there was a pause. ‘Ever since I met you, it has made me think of you. Especially the part that says, “Words are not cupped deeply enough to hold my fondness. I bite my tongue and scowl my love, lest passion make me slave.’” A pause. ‘Another man’s words, from another man’s lips. I wish they were my own.’

Etta let the silence follow his words, savoured them as she committed them to memory. In the absence of his breathless whisper, she heard the deep rhythm of his breathing in harmony with the splash and gurgle of the waves against the ship’s bow. It was a music that moved through her with the beating of her blood. She drew a breath and summoned all her courage.

‘Sweet as your words are, I do not need them. I have never needed them.’

‘Then in silence, let us bide. Lie still beside me, until morning turns us out.’

‘I shall,’ she breathed. As gentle as a drifting feather alighting, she laid her hand on his hip. He did not stir, nor turn to her. She did not mind. She did not need him to. Having lived for so long with so little, the words he had spoken to her now would be enough to last her a life. When she closed her eyes, a single tear slid forth from beneath her lashes.

In the dimness of the captain’s cabin, a tiny smile curved his wooden features.