The Mad Ship. Робин Хобб
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into the water. She set her fists to where a woman’s hips would have been. ‘Don’t try that again!’ she warned them angrily. ‘Get out of our way or I’ll run you down!’
From the galley came cries of amazement and fear. While many had undoubtedly heard of the liveships of Bingtown, few Chalcedean sailors would have ever seen one before, let alone seen one angered. Liveships seldom frequented the ports of Chalced; their trade routes were to the south. From the galley, a line was thrown to the Chalcedean sailor struggling in the water.
On board the Ophelia, Captain Tenira bellowed, ‘Ophelia, let me handle this!’ while on the galley deck below them the Chalcedean captain angrily called for firepots to be prepared.
Ophelia paid no attention to her captain. At the mention of firepots, she had first gasped, then shrieked her wordless anger when she saw the smoking pots of tar brought out on his deck. For them to be readied so swiftly meant that the captain of the galley had had them prepared from the beginning. ‘In Sa’s name, no!’ Althea cried as she saw the pots readied for launching. Arrows were thrust headfirst into the small, fat pots; fuses of charred linen dangled. They would be lit before the arrows were released, and given time to ignite the contents of the pots. When the pots of grease and tar struck Ophelia, they would shatter, and the flames would leap up. Ophelia could not avoid them all, and every liveship was vulnerable to fire. It was not just for her rigging and decks that Althea feared, but for Ophelia herself. The only liveship that had ever died had perished in a fire.
The Ophelia was a trading cog, not built for fighting of any kind. Pirates seldom menaced liveships. It was well known that a liveship could out manoeuvre and out sail any ordinary ship of her kind. Althea doubted that anyone had ever challenged Ophelia for right of passage before, let alone demanded to board her. She carried no weaponry; her sailors had no experience in turning aside this kind of a threat. As Tenira shouted the orders that would veer Ophelia to one side, men raced to obey. ‘It won’t be enough,’ Althea said in an undertone to Grag at her side. ‘They’ll set fire to us.’
‘Get oil from belowdecks. We’ll throw firepots of our own!’ Grag commanded angrily.
‘And draw water for fire-fighting!’ Althea shouted. ‘Grag. A spare spar, an oar, anything. Give Ophelia something to use to fight them! Look. She’s not going to back down.’
While her decks bustled with frantic activity, Ophelia again took matters into her own hands. Despite the man on the wheel, she leaned towards the galley, not away. She stretched forth both her arms, and as the Chalcedean firepots were kindled and the bows drawn, she slapped wildly at the galley like an infuriated schoolgirl, all the while shrieking insults. ‘You Chalcedean pigs! Do you think you can stop us in our own waters? You lying sons of whores! You are the true pirates, you slave-mongering vermin!’ One of her windmilling slaps connected. Her great wooden hand struck the painted horse that was the galley’s figurehead. Instantly her fingers closed on it. She thrust down on it savagely, a wild motion that pitched the decks of both ships. Sailors on both vessels cried out as they were flung off their feet. The smaller galley suffered the most. Ophelia released the bow abruptly so that the ship reared back up, a crazed rocking horse of a vessel. The drawn bows went off, the tar pots flying wildly. One shattered and ignited the galley’s own deck; two flew across Ophelia’s decks to douse themselves in black smoke and steam on the other side of her.
One struck her on her starboard bow. Without hesitation, the ship slapped at the burning smear. She pulled back her hand and the tar on her hull flamed up again. She screamed as her fingers ignited suddenly.
‘Smother the flames!’ Althea yelled to her as crewmembers poured water down her hull in an effort to put out the fire on her bow. Ophelia was in too much panic to heed her. She bore down suddenly on the galley, her sheer will defying her rudder, and with her flaming hands caught hold of the smaller boat. She shook it like a toy, then flung it contemptuously aside. She left most of the burning residue from her hands on the other ship. As she let go of it, she clasped her great hands together. Gritting her teeth savagely, she clenched her hands into fists, squeezing out the flames that had seared her. Then, like an affronted lady lifting her skirts and storming out of the room, she suddenly answered both helm and sails. She turned aside from the troubled galley, opening the water wide between her and the smaller vessel. She tossed her head as she sailed past it.
Flames roared, and black smoke billowed up in harmony with the cries of the sailors trapped on the burning ship. Some one or two had the wind and the will to shout threats after Ophelia, but the noise of the fire shushed their words into unintelligible cries. The Ophelia sailed on.
‘I’M BORED AND my head aches. Distract me from my pain. Amuse me.’ The voice came from the divan behind her.
Serilla did not even put down her pen. ‘Magnadon Satrap, that is not my duty,’ she pointed out quietly. ‘You summoned me here to advise you on the Bingtown matter.’ She gestured at the opened scrolls and books on the table. ‘As you can see, that is what I am prepared to do.’
‘Well, you can scarcely expect me to pay attention to your advice while my head is throbbing so. I can hardly see for the pain.’
Serilla set aside the texts she was perusing. She turned her attention to the young man sprawled face down on the divan. The Satrap was nearly engulfed by silken cushions. She tried to keep the annoyance from her voice. ‘I cannot promise that my advice will amuse you. However, if you would care to join me here at the table, I can enlighten you as to the facts of the Bingtown Traders’ dispute.’
The Satrap groaned. ‘Serilla, you delight in giving me headaches. If you can’t be more sympathetic, go away and send in Veri. Or that new Companion from the Jade Island. What was her name? It reminded me of a spice. Meg. Send in Meg.’
‘Gladly shall I obey you, Magnadon Cosgo.’ She did not bother to hide her affront as she shoved the texts away and pushed back from the table.
He rolled about in his pillows, then stretched a pale hand out towards her. ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. I know that I must hear your wisdom about Bingtown. All my advisers have told me the situation is crucial. But how can I think when I am in such pain? Please. Rub my head for me, Serilla. Just for a short time.’
Serilla arose from her table, and put a determinedly pleasant expression on her face. She reminded herself that the Bingtown issue must be resolved. It might even be resolved to her personal advantage. ‘Magnadon Cosgo, I did not mean to be vexing. Do you have a headache? Let me massage it away. Then we will speak about Bingtown. As you say, the issue is crucial. And in my opinion, the Satrap’s present position with them is untenable.’ She crossed the chamber and pushed a number of pillows to the floor. She seated herself on the end of the divan. Cosgo immediately crawled over and put his head in her lap. He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against her thigh like a lamb nuzzling for milk. She clenched her teeth.
‘It is a curse. The headaches, the loose bowels, the flatulence. Some witch has put a curse on me. Why else should I be the victim of so much pain?’ He moaned softly. He brought one hand up to rest on her thigh.
She set her fingers at the base of his skull and began to walk his tension points with her fingertips. There did seem to be some pain. ‘Perhaps some fresh air would ease you. Exercise is most efficacious for bowel problems. It is lovely in the grounds on the south side of the temple. If we took ourselves to the thyme gardens, the fragrance might ease your pain.’
‘It would be simpler to have a servant bring cuttings here. I do not care for bright days such as this. The light pains my eyes. How can you even suggest that I walk there myself when I am in such pain?’ Almost idly, he lifted the hem of her robe. His fingers explored the smooth skin beneath. ‘And last time I was in the temple grounds, I stumbled on an uneven paving stone. I fell to my knees as if I was a slave. My hands went into the dirt. You know how I detest filth.’ He was petulant.
She set her hands to the muscles between his neck and shoulders and kneaded them deeply, making