The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny. Robin Hobb
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He meant to calm her down. ‘No,’ she replied shortly. ‘No, there is nothing. Unless you wish to lead a mutiny.’ She stretched her lips in a semblance of a smile, to show him she was not serious in her request. At least, not quite yet.
‘Can’t do that,’ he replied, quite solemnly. ‘But if there’s anything you need, let me know.’
‘Need. Wood has no needs.’
He went away as softly as he had come, but in a short time, Findow appeared, to sit on the edge of the foredeck and play his fiddle. He played none of the lively tunes he used to set the pace for the crew when they were working the capstan. Instead he played soothingly, tunes with more than a tinge of sadness to them. They were in keeping with her mood, but somehow the simple sound of the fiddle-strings echoing her melancholy lifted her spirits and lessened her pain. Salt tears rolled down her cheeks as she stared at Jamaillia. She had never wept before. She had supposed that tears themselves would be painful, but instead they seemed to ease the terrible tightness inside her.
Deep inside her, she felt the men working. Drills twisted into her timbers, followed by heavy eye-bolts. Lengths of chain were measured across her and then secured to stanchions or heavy staples. Oncoming supplies were mostly water and hard-tack and chains. For the slaves. Slaves. She tried the word on her tongue. Wintrow had believed slavery to be one of the greatest evils that existed in the world, but when he had tried to explain it to her, she could not see much difference between the life of a slave and the life of a sailor. All, it seemed to her, were owned by a master and made to work for as long and hard as that master saw fit. Sailors had very little say about their lives. How could it be much worse to be a slave? She had not been able to grasp it. Perhaps that was why Wintrow had been able to leave her so easily. Because she was stupid. Because she was not, after all, a human being. Tears welled afresh into her eyes, and the slaver Vivacia wept.
Even before they could see the ship itself, Sorcor declared he knew she was a slaver by the tallness of her masts. They were visible through the trees as she came around the island.
‘More sail to run faster, to deliver “fresh” cargo,’ he observed sarcastically. Then he shot Kennit a pleased grin. ‘Or perhaps the slavers are learning they have something to fear. Well, run as they may, they won’t outdistance us. If we put on some sail now, we’ll be on her as soon as she rounds the point.’
Kennit shook his head. ‘The shoals are rocky there.’ He considered a moment. ‘Run up a Trader flag and drag some rope to make us appear heavy-laden. We’ll just be a fat little merchant-vessel ourselves, shall we? Hang off and don’t approach too close until she’s going into Rickert’s Channel. There’s a nice sandy shoal just past there. If we have to run her aground to take her, I don’t want to hole her.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Sorcor cleared his throat. It was not clear whom he next addressed. ‘When we take a slaver, it’s usually pretty bloody. Serpents snapping up bodies is not a fit sight for a woman’s eyes, and slavers always have a snake or two in their wakes. Perhaps the lady should retire to her cabin until this is over.’
Kennit glanced over his shoulder at Etta. It now seemed to him that any time he came on deck, he could find her just behind his left shoulder. It was a bit disconcerting, but he’d decided the best way to deal with it was to ignore it. He found it rather amusing that Sorcor would refer to a whore so deferentially and pretend that she needed some sort of sheltering from the harsher realities of life. Etta, however, looked neither amused nor flattered. Instead there were deep sparks in her dark eyes, and a pinch of colour at the top of each cheek. She wore sturdier stuff this day, a shirt of azure cotton, dark woollen trousers and a short woollen jacket to match. Her black knee-boots were oiled to a shine. He had no idea where those had come from, though she had prattled something about gaming with the crew a few nights ago. A gaudy scarf confined her black hair, leaving only the glossy tips free to brush across her wind-reddened cheeks. Had he not known Etta, he might have mistaken her for a young street tough. She certainly bristled enough at Sorcor to be one.
‘I think the lady can discern what is too bloody or cruel for her taste, and retire at that time,’ Kennit observed dryly.
A small cat smile curved Etta’s lips as she brazenly pointed out, ‘If I enjoy Captain Kennit by night, surely there is little I need to fear by day.’
Sorcor flushed red, scars standing white against his blush. But Etta only shot Kennit a tiny sideways glance to see if he would preen to her flattery. He tried not to, but it was pleasing to see Sorcor discomfited by his woman’s bragging of him. He permitted himself a tiny quirk of his lip acknowledging her. It was enough. She saw it. She flared her nostrils and turned her head, his tigress on a leash.
Sorcor turned away from them both. ‘Well, boys, let’s run the masquerade,’ he shouted to the crew and they tumbled to his command. Kennit’s Raven came down and the Trader flag, taken long ago with a merchant-ship, was run up and the rope drags put over the side. All but a fraction of their crew went below. Now the Marietta moved sedately as a laden cargo-ship, and the sailors who manned her deck carried no weapons. Even as the slaver rounded the point and became completely visible to them, Kennit could tell they would overtake her easily.
He observed her idly. As Sorcor had observed, her three masts were taller than usual, to permit her more sail. A canvas tent for the crew’s temporary shelter billowed on the deck; no doubt the sailors working the ship could no longer abide the stench of their densely-packed cargo, and so had forsaken the forecastle for airier quarters. The Sicerna, as the name across her stern proclaimed her, had been a slaver for some years. The gilt had flaked from her carvings, and stains down her sides told of human waste sloshed carelessly overboard.
As predicted, a fat yellow-green serpent trolled along in the ship’s wake like a contented mascot. If the girth of the serpent was any indication, this slaver had already put a good part of its cargo overboard. Kennit squinted at the slaver’s deck. There were a great deal more people standing about on the deck than he would have expected. Had the slavers taken to carrying a fighting force to protect themselves? He frowned to himself at the idea, but as the Marietta slowly overtook the Sicerna, Kennit realized that the folk huddled together on the deck were slaves. Their worn rags flapped in the brisk winter winds, and while individuals shifted, no one appeared to move freely. The captain had probably brought a batch up on deck to give them a breath of fresh air. Kennit wondered if that meant they had sickness down below. He had never known a slaver to worry solely about his wares’ comfort.
Sorcor was closing up the distance between them now, and the reek of the slave-ship carried plainly on the wind. Kennit took a lavender-scented kerchief from his pocket and held it lightly to his face to mask the effluvium. ‘Sorcor! A word with you,’ he called.
Almost instantaneously, the mate was at his side. ‘Cap’n?’
‘I believe I shall lead the men this time. Pass the word firmly amongst them. I want at least three of the crew left alive. Officers, preferably. I’ve a question or two I’d like answered before we feed the serpents.’
‘I’ll pass the word, sir. But it won’t be easy to hold them back.’
‘I have great confidence they can manage it,’ Kennit observed in a voice that left little doubt as to the hazards of disobedience.
‘Sir,’ Sorcor replied, and went to pass the word to those on deck and to the armed boarders who waited below.
She waited until Sorcor was out of earshot before Etta asked in a low voice, ‘Why do you choose to risk yourself?’
‘Risk?’ He considered it a moment, then asked her, ‘Why do you ask? Do you fear what would happen to yourself if I were killed?’
The lines of her mouth went flat. She turned aside from him. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘But not in the way you think I do.’
They had crept up to hailing distance, when the captain of the Sicerna called to them across the water.
‘Stand off!’ he roared. ‘We know who you be, no matter what flag you show.’