The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny. Robin Hobb
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drink and food for an evening, and a decent bed in an inn, if they did not decide to return to the ship to sleep. As soon as they had their money, they left the ship. Kennit emerged onto the deck in time to see the last man jump down onto the crowded dock. It reminded him of throwing bloody meat into shark waters. The folk on the dock churned and swarmed around the last seaman, the freegirls proffering their wares even as the pimps shouted over their heads that a wealthy young tar like him could afford better, could afford a woman in a bed all night, yes and a bottle of rum on the table beside it. With less determination, apprentices hawked fresh bread and sweets and ripe fruit. The young pirate grinned, enjoying their avidity. He seemed to have forgotten that as soon as they’d shaken the last coin from his pocket, they’d be as happy to leave him in a gutter or alley.
Kennit turned aside from the bluster and noise. Sorcor was already finished with his divvying. He was standing on the high deck by the rail, looking out over the town. Kennit frowned slightly. The mate must have known in advance which men wanted their shares as goods, and had already calculated what he would give them. Then his brow smoothed. It was more efficient thus, and that was ever Sorcor’s way. Kennit offered him a pouch heavy with coin, and the mate took it wordlessly. After a moment, he rolled his shoulders and turned to face his captain. ‘So, Sorcor. Are you coming with me to change our cargo to gold?’
Sorcor took an embarrassed step sideways. ‘If the captain doesn’t mind, I’d sooner have a bit of time to myself first.’
Kennit concealed his disappointment. ‘It’s all one to me,’ he lied. Then he said quietly, ‘I’ve a mind to turn off those men who always insist on taking their shares as raw goods. The more I have to sell in bulk, the better price I can get. What think you?’
Sorcor swallowed. Then he cleared his throat. ‘It is their right, sir. To take their crew-shares as goods if they choose. That’s the way it’s always been done in Divvytown.’ He paused to scratch at a scarred cheek. Kennit knew he had weighed his words before speaking when he went on, ‘They’re good men, sir. Good sailors, true shipmates, and not a one shirks whether the work is with a sail needle or a sword. But they didn’t become pirates to live under another man’s rules, no matter how good for us they might be.’ With difficulty he met Kennit’s eyes and added, ‘No man becomes a pirate because he wants to be ruled by another.’ His certainty increased as he added, ‘And we’d pay hell’s own wages to try and replace them. They’re seasoned hands, not scrapings from a brothel floor. The kind of man you’d get, if you went about asking for men who’d let you sell their prizes for them, wouldn’t have the spines to act on their own. They’d be the kind as would stand back while you cleared another ship’s deck, and only cross when the victory was assured.’ Sorcor shook his head, more to himself than to his captain. ‘You’ve won these men over to you, sir. They’ll follow you. But you’d not be wise to try to force them to give up their wills to you. All this talk of kings and leaders makes them uneasy. You can’t force a man to fight well for you…’ Sorcor’s voice trailed off and he glanced suddenly up at Kennit as if recalling to whom he spoke.
A sudden icy anger seethed through Kennit. ‘No doubt that’s so, Sorcor. See that a good watch is kept aboard, for I won’t be back this night. I leave you in charge.’
With no more than that, Kennit turned and left him. He didn’t glance back to read the expression on the mate’s face. He’d essentially confined him to the ship for the night, for the agreement between them was that one of them would always sleep aboard when the ship was in port. Well, let him mutter. Sorcor had just crippled all the dreams that Kennit had been entertaining for the last few months. As he strode across his decks, Kennit wondered bitterly how he could be such a fool as to dream at all. This was as much as he’d ever be; the captain of a ship full of wastrels who could see no further than their own cocks.
He jumped easily from the deck to the docks. At once the crowd of vendors surged toward him, but a single scowl sent them shrinking back. At least he still had that much of a reputation in Divvytown. The thought only soured him further. They gave way as he pushed past them. A reputation in Divvytown. Why, that was at least as good as admiring oneself in a piss-puddle. So he was captain of a ship. For how long? For as long as the curs under him believed in his fist and his sword. Ten years from now, there’d be a man, bigger or faster or sneakier, and then Kennit could look forward to being one of the grey-faced beggars that slunk about the alleys robbing drunks, and stood outside taverns begging for leavings.
His anger grew in him like a poison in his blood. He knew he’d be the wiser to find a place to be alone until this black mood left him, but his sudden hatred for himself and his world was such that he did not care what was wiser. He detested the sticky black mud of the streets and byways, he despised the dumped slops he stepped around, he loathed the stench and noise of Divvytown. He wished he could avenge himself on his world and on his own stupidity by destroying it all. He knew it was no time to go bargaining. He didn’t care. The brokers in Divvytown added such a large cut for themselves that it was scarcely worth his time to deal with them. They’d done far better when they’d disposed of their goods in Chalced. All the prizes they’d taken between Chalced and home he was practically giving to these vultures. In his reckless temper he let the silk go for half what it was worth, but when the Trader tried to get as good a bargain on the brandy and cindin, he uncovered Kennit’s icy wrath, and ended up paying more than their worth to keep Kennit from taking the entire cargo elsewhere. The bargain was sealed with a nod, for Kennit disdained even to shake hands with the man. The gold would be paid tomorrow when the broker sent his longshoremen to off-load the cargo. Kennit left the Trader’s parlour without another word.
Outside a summer’s dusk had fallen. The raucous noise from the taverns had increased, while the shrilling of insects and frogs from the surrounding swamps and the brackish swale provided a background chorus. The cooling of the day seemed to free a new regiment of odours to assault Kennit’s nose. The greasy mud of the streets sucked noisily at his boots as he strode along. He stayed well to the middle of the street, away from the dimmer alley mouths and the predators that would lurk there. Most of them were desperate enough to attack any man who came within reach. As if recalling a forgotten appointment, it came to Kennit that he was hungry and thirsty. And tired. And sad.
The tide of his anger had retreated, leaving him stranded in weariness and misery. Hopelessly, he tried to discover who was at fault for his situation. It did not please him to decide that the fault, as always, was his own. There was no one else to blame, there was no one else to punish. No matter how he seared the faults from himself, another always arose to take its place.
His feet had carried him to Bettel’s bagnio. Light leaked past the shutters on the low windows. Music sounded faintly from within, and the edged soprano of a woman singing. There were perhaps a dozen buildings in Divvytown that were more than one storey high. Bettel’s was one of them. White paint, tiny balconies, and a red-tiled roof; it looked as if someone had plucked up a Chalcedean brothel and plopped it down in the mud of Divvytown. Pots of flowers on the steps struggled to perfume the air, while two copper and brass lanterns gleamed invitingly on either side of the green and gilt door. The two bravos on watch smirked at him knowingly. Abruptly he hated them, so big and so stupid, making a living by their muscle alone. They thought it would always be enough; he knew better. He longed to seize them by the throats and smash their grinning faces together, to feel their skulls impact against each other and give way, bone to bone. He longed to feel their windpipes crumple beneath his fingers, to hear their last breaths whistle in and out of their crushed throats.
Kennit smiled at them slowly. They stared back at him, their smirks changing to uncomfortable sneers. Finally they gave way to him, almost cringing as they stepped clear of the door that he might pass.
The doors of the bagnio swung shut behind him, shutting out the mud and the stench of Divvytown. Here he stood in a carpeted foyer in muted yellow lamplight. Bettel’s familiar perfume rode the air, and the smoky tang of burnt cindin. The singing and the soft drumming that accompanied it were louder here. A serving boy stood before him and gestured mutely at his muddy boots. At a slight nod from Kennit, he sprang forward with his brush to wipe the worst of the mud from his boots and then follow it up with a careful wiping with a rag. Next he poured cool water into a basin and offered it to Kennit. Kennit