WINTROW WAS IN A LARGE SHED. It was open on one side and nothing impeded the flow of winter cold into it. The roof was sound, but the walls were little more than rough slab wood cobbled over a beam framework. The stall he was in opened onto a walkway. It faced a long row of identical stalls. The slat sides of it gave him only nominal privacy. There was a scattering of straw on the floor for him to curl up on and a filthy bucket in one corner to contain his wastes. The only thing that prevented him from simply walking away were the leg-irons on his ankles that were chained to a heavy metal staple driven deeply into an iron-hard beam. He had worn most of the skin off his ankles determining that human strength was not going to budge the staple. It was his fourth day here.
In one more day, if no one came to redeem him, then he could be sold as a slave.
This had been carefully explained to him twice by a jovial keeper, on his first and second day of confinement. The man came once a day with a basket of rolls. He was followed by his half-wit son, who pulled a cart with a tub of water on it, and ladled out a cupful of it to every prisoner. The first time he explained it, Wintrow had begged him to carry word of his plight to the priests in Sa’s temple. Surely they would come to claim him. But the keeper had declined to waste his time. The priests, he had explained, did not meddle in civil affairs any more. The Satrap’s prisoners were a civil affair, nothing at all to do with Sa or his worship. The Satrap’s prisoners, if not redeemed, became the Satrap’s slaves, to be sold off to benefit the royal treasury. That would be a sad end to such a short life. Had not the boy some family the keeper might contact? The keeper’s wheedling tone clearly conveyed that he would be happy to convey any message, so long as there was a good chance of a bribe or reward. Surely his mother must be worried about him by now? Had he no brothers who would pay his fine and get him released?
Each time Wintrow had bitten his tongue. He had time, he told himself, to work out his own solution to this problem. Having the man send word to his father would only land him back in his original captivity. That was no solution at all. Surely something else would occur to him if he simply thought hard enough.
And his situation was certainly conducive to thought. There was little else to do. He could sit, stand, lie or squat in the straw. Sleep held no rest. The noises of the stalls invaded his dreams, populating them with dragons and serpents that argued and pleaded with human tongues. Awake, there was no one to talk to. One side of his enclosure was the outer wall of the shed. In the stalls to either side of him, a succession of prisoners had come and gone: a disorderly drunk rescued by his weeping wife, a prostitute who had stabbed her customer and been branded in retribution, a horse-thief taken away to hang. Justice, or at least punishment, was swift in the Satrap’s cells.
A straw-littered aisle fronted his cage. Another row of similar stalls were on the opposite side of it. Slaves were held in those ones. Unruly and undesirable slaves, map-faces with scarred backs came and went from the leg-irons. They were sold cheaply and used hard, from what Wintrow could see. They did not talk much, even to each other. Wintrow judged they had little left to talk about. Take all self-determination from a man’s life, and all that is left for him to do is complain. This they did do, but in a dispirited way that indicated they expected no changes. They reminded Wintrow of chained and barking dogs. The sullen map-faces across the way would be good for heavy labour and crude work in fields and orchards, but little more than that. This he had surmised from listening in on their talk. Most of the men and women stabled across from him had been slaves for years, and fully expected to end their lives as slaves. Despite Wintrow’s disgust with the concept of slavery, it was hard to feel sorry for some of them. Some had obviously become little more than beasts of labour, decrying their hard lot but no longer having the will to struggle against it. After watching them for a few days, he could understand why some worshippers of Sa could look at such slaves and believe they were so by Sa’s will. It was truly hard to imagine them as free men and women with mates and children and homes and livelihoods. He did not think they had been born without souls, predestined to be slaves. But never before had he seen people so bereft of humanity’s spiritual spark. Whenever he watched them, a cold slug of fear crawled slowly through his guts. How long would it take for him to become just like them? He had one day left in which to think of something. Tomorrow, in the morning, they would come and take him to the tattooing block. They’d chain his wrists and ankles to the heavy staples there, and force his head down into the leather-wrapped vice. There they would put the small mark that designated him as the Satrap’s slave. If the Satrap chose to keep him that would be the only tattoo he ever wore. But the Satrap would not choose to keep him. He had no special skills. He would be put up for immediate sale. And when he was sold, a new mark, the sigil of some new owner, would be needled into his face.
He had teetered back and forth for several hours. If he called for the keeper, and the man sent a runner down to the harbour, his father would come and get him. Or send someone to fetch him. Then he would go back to the ship, and become once more a prisoner there. But at least his face would be unscarred. If he did not call for his father’s aid, he would be tattooed, and sold, and tattooed again. Unless he either escaped or worked free of slavery, he would for ever remain someone else’s property, at least legally. In either case, he would never become a priest of Sa. As he was determined to fulfil his vocation to be a priest, determined to return home to his monastery, the whole question came down to which situation offered him the better chance of escape.
And on that fine conclusion, his thoughts halted and teetered. He simply didn’t know.
So he sat in the corner of his pen and idly watched the buyers who came to peruse the cheap and undesirable slaves across from him. He was hungry and cold and uncomfortable. But the worst sensation of all was his indecision. That was what kept him from curling up in a morose ball and sleeping.
He did not recognize Torg walking slowly along the fronts of the slave-stalls for several minutes. Then, when he did, he was shocked when his heart gave a leap of near joy. What it was, he realized, was relief. Torg would see him and tell his father. He would not have to make what he had always suspected was a cowardly decision. Torg would do it for him. And when his father came for him, he could not mock him that he had cried out for help from him.
Much insight into himself could have been gained from a contemplation of these things, but Wintrow reined his mind away from it. Perhaps he did not want to know himself quite that well. Instead he abruptly stood up. He moved to the corner of his pen to lounge defiantly against the wall. He crossed his arms on his chest and waited.
It was surprisingly difficult to stand still and silent and wait for Torg to notice him. Torg was making his way slowly down the opposite row, examining every slave, dickering with the keeper, and then either nodding or shaking his head. The keeper had a tally-block he was marking as they came. After a time, it puzzled Wintrow. Torg seemed to be buying a substantial number of slaves, but these were not the artisans and educated slaves that his father had spoken of acquiring.
He watched Torg swagger along, obviously impressed with his own importance as a buyer of human flesh. He strutted for the keeper as if he were a man worth impressing, inspecting the slaves with fine disregard for their dignity or comfort. The longer Wintrow watched him, the more he despised the man. Here, then, was the counterpoint to the slaves’ loss of spirit and spark; a man whose self-importance fed on the humiliation and degradation of others.
And yet there was a horrible kernel of fear in Wintrow’s waiting, too. What if Torg did not turn and notice him? What then? Would Wintrow abase himself by calling out to the man? Or let him pass by, and face a future full of dealing with other Torgs? Just as Wintrow thought he would cry out, just as he bit down on his own tongue to keep it from betraying him, Torg glanced at him. And away, and then back, as if he could not believe what his eyes had shown him. His eyes widened, and then a grin split his face. He immediately left his task to stride over to Wintrow.
‘Well, well,’ he exclaimed in vast satisfaction. ‘I do believe I’ve earned myself quite a bonus here. Quite a bonus.’ His eyes roved up and down Wintrow, taking in the straw clinging to his worn robe, to the shackles around his chafed ankles and his face white with cold. ‘Well, well,’ he repeated. ‘Doesn’t look as if your freedom lasted long, holy boy.’
‘Do you know this prisoner?’ the keeper demanded as he came to stand beside Torg.
‘Indeed I do. His father is… my business partner. He has been wondering where his son disappeared to.’
‘Ah. Then it is fortunate for you that you have found him today. Tomorrow, his freedom would have been forfeit for his fine. He would have been tattooed the Satrap’s slave, and sold.’
‘The Satrap’s slave.’ The grin came back to Torg’s face. His pale eyebrows danced over his grey eyes. ‘Now there’s an amusing idea.’ Wintrow could almost see the slow workings of Torg’s brain. ‘How much is the boy’s fine?’ he demanded suddenly of the keeper.
The old man consulted a tally-cord at his waist. ‘Twelve bits of silver. He killed one of the Satrap’s other slaves, you know.’
‘He what?’ For a moment Torg looked incredulous. Then he burst out laughing. ‘Well, I doubt that, but I imagine there’s quite a tale attached to it. So. If I come back with twelve silver bits tonight, I buy him free. What if I don’t?’ He narrowed both his eyes and grin as he asked, more of Wintrow than the keeper, ‘What would he sell for tomorrow?’
The keeper shrugged. ‘Whatever he would bring. New slaves are generally auctioned. Sometimes they have friends or family who are willing to buy them free. Or enemies eager to have them as slaves. The auction bidding can be quite fierce. And sometimes amusing as well.’ The keeper had seen who had the power and was playing to him. ‘You could wait it out, and buy him back. Perhaps you’d save a coin or two. Perhaps you’d have to pay more. But he would be marked by then, marked with the Satrap’s sigil. You or his father could grant him his freedom after that, of course. But he’d have to have some tattoo from you, and some sort of paper or ring to say he was free.’
‘Couldn’t we just burn the tattoo off?’ Torg asked callously. His eyes devoured Wintrow’s face, looking for some kind of fear. Wintrow refused to show any. Torg would never dare to let it go so far. This was but the same kind of mockery and taunting the man always indulged in. If Wintrow gave any sign of being upset by it, Torg would only indulge in more of it. He let his eyes wander past Torg as if he were no longer interested in him or his words.
‘Burning off a slave-tattoo is illegal,’ the keeper pronounced ponderously. ‘A person with a burn scar to the left of his nose is assumed to be an escaped and dangerous slave. He’d be brought right back here, if he were caught. And tattooed again with the Satrap’s sign.’
Torg shook his head woefully, but his grin was evil. ‘Such a shame, to mark such a sweet little face as that, eh? Well,’ he turned abruptly aside from him. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the slaves he had not yet inspected. ‘Shall we continue?’
The keeper frowned. ‘Do you want me to send for a runner? To take word of this boy to his father?’
‘No, no, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll see his father hears of his whereabouts. He’s not going to be pleased with the boy. Now what about this woman? Has she any special skill or training?’ His voice caressed the last two words, making it a cruel joke on the elderly hag who crouched before them.
Wintrow stood trembling in his pen. The anger he felt inside him threatened to burst him wide open. Torg would leave him here, in cold and filth, for as long as he could. But he’d tell his father, and then come down here with him to witness their confrontation. With a sudden cold sinking of his heart, Wintrow considered how vast his father’s anger would be. He’d feel humiliated as well. Kyle Haven did not like to be humiliated. He’d find ways of expressing that to his son. Wintrow leaned against the wall of his pen miserably. He should have just waited and endured. It was less than a year now to his fifteenth birthday. When it came, he would declare himself a man independent of his father’s will, and just step off the ship wherever it was. This foolish attempt at running away was only going to make the months stretch longer. Why hadn’t he waited? Slowly he sank down to sit in the straw in the corner of his pen. He closed his eyes to sleep. Sleeping was far better than considering his father’s anger to come.
‘Get out,’ Kennit repeated in a low growl. Etta stood where she was, her face pale, her mouth firm. One hand held a basin of water, the other was draped in bandaging.
‘I thought a fresh bandage might be more comfortable,’ she dared to say. ‘That one is stiff with dry blood and—’
‘Get out!’ he roared. She whirled, sloshing water over the rim of the basin and fled. The door of his cabin thudded shut behind her.
He had been awake and clear-headed since early morning, but those were the first words he had spoken to anyone. He had spent most of that time staring at the wall, unable to grasp that his luck had forsaken him. How could this have happened to him? How was it possible for Captain Kennit to suffer this? Well. It was time. Time to see what the bitch had done to him, time to take command again. Time. He braced his fists deep in his bedding and hauled himself upright to a sitting position. When his injured leg dragged against the bedding, the pain was such that he felt ill. A new sweat broke out on him, plastering his stinking nightshirt to his back once more. Time. He grabbed the bed clothes and tore them aside. He looked down at the leg she had ruined.
It was gone.
His nightshirt had been carefully folded and pinned back from it. There were his legs, swarthy and hairy as ever. But one stopped short, snubbed off in a dirty brownish wad of bandaging just below his knee. It couldn’t be. He reached toward it, but could not touch it. Instead, stupidly, he put his hand on the empty linen where the rest of his leg should have been. As if the fault might have been with his eyes.
He keened, then drew a breath and held it. He would not make another sound. Not one sound. He tried to remember how it had come to this. Why had he ever brought the crazy bitch aboard, why had they been attacking slaveships in the first place? Merchant-ships, that was where the money was. And they didn’t have a herd of serpents trailing after them, ready to grab a man’s leg. This was their fault, Sorcor’s and Etta’s. But for them, he’d still be a whole man.
Calm. Calm. He had to be calm, he had to think this through. He was trapped here, in this cabin, unable to walk or fight. And Etta and Sorcor were both against him. What he had to figure out now was if they were in league with one another. And why had they done this to him? Why? Did they hope to take the ship from him? He took another breath, tried to organize his thoughts. ‘Why did she do this to me?’ A second thought occurred to him. ‘Why didn’t she just kill me then? Was she afraid my crew would turn on her?’ If so, then perhaps she and Sorcor were not in league…
‘She did it to save your life.’ The tiny voice from his wrist was incredulous. ‘How can you be this way? Don’t you remember it at all? A serpent had you by the leg, he was trying to pick you up and flip you into the air so he could gulp you down. Etta had to cut your leg off. It was the only way to keep him from getting all of you.’
‘I find that very difficult to believe,’ he sneered at the charm.
‘Why?’
‘Because I know her. That’s why.’
‘As do I. Which is why that answer doesn’t make sense either,’ the face observed cheerily.
‘Shut up.’
Kennit forced himself to look at the wrapped stump. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked the charm in a low voice.
‘Well, for starters, it’s gone,’ the charm informed him heartlessly. ‘Etta’s hatchet chop was the only clean part of the severing. The part the serpent did was half chewed and half sort of melted away. The flesh reminded me of melted tallow. Most of that brown stuff isn’t blood, it’s oozing pus.’
‘Shut up,’ Kennit said faintly. He stared at the clotted, smeary bandaging and wondered what was beneath it. They had put a folded cloth beneath it, but there was still a smear of ochre stuff across his fine, clean linen. It was disgusting.
The little demon grinned up at him. ‘Well, you asked.’
Kennit took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Sorcor!’
The door flew open almost immediately, but it was Etta who stood there, teary and distraught. She hastened into the room. ‘Oh, Kennit, are you in pain?’
‘I want Sorcor!’ he declared, and even to himself it sounded like the demand of a petulant child. Then the brawny first mate filled the doorway. To Kennit’s dismay, he looked as solicitous as Etta as he asked, ‘Is there naught I can do for you, Captain?’ Sorcor’s unruly hair stood up as if he had been pulling at it, and his face was sallow beneath its scars and weathering.
He tried to remember why he had called for Sorcor. He looked down at the disgusting mess in his bed. ‘I want this cleaned up.’ He managed to sound firmly in command, as if he were speaking of a sloppy deck. ‘Have a hand heat some water for a bath for me. And lay out a clean shirt.’ He looked up at Sorcor’s incredulous stare and realized he was treating him more like a valet than his second-in-command. ‘You understand that how I appear when I interrogate the prisoners is important. They must not see me as a crippled wreck in a wad of dirty bedding.’
‘Prisoners?’ Sorcor asked stupidly.
‘Prisoners,’ Kennit replied firmly. ‘I directed that three were to be saved, did I not?’
‘Yessir. But that was…’
‘And were not three saved for me to question?’
‘I have one,’ Sorcor admitted uneasily. ‘Or what’s left of one. Your woman has been at him.’
‘What?’
‘It was his fault,’ Etta growled low as a threatening cat. ‘All his fault that you were hurt.’ Her eyes had gone to alarming slits.
‘Well. One you say,’ Kennit attempted a recovery. What kind of a creature had he brought aboard his ship? Don’t think of that just now. Take command. ‘See to my orders, then. When I’ve made myself presentable, I’ll want the prisoner brought here. I don’t wish to see much of the crew just now. How did the rest of the capture go?’
‘Slick as a plate of guts, sir. And we got a little bonus with this one.’ Despite the anxiety etched in Sorcor’s face, he grinned. ‘Seems this ship was a bit special. Carrying a bunch of regular slaves, but forward was a batch that were a gift from the Satrap of Jamaillia himself to some high muckamuck in Chalced. A troupe of dancers and musicians, with all their instruments and fancy duds and pots of face paint. And jewels, several nice little casks of sparklies… I stowed those under your bunk, sir. And an assortment of fine cloths, lace, some silver statues and bottled brandies. A very nice little haul. Not weighty, but all of the best quality.’ He gave a sideways glance at Kennit’s stump. ‘Perhaps you’d like to sample some of the brandy now yourself.’
‘In a bit. These dancers and musicians… are they tractable? How do they feel about having their journey interrupted?’ Why hadn’t they thrown them overboard with the rest of the crew?
‘Wonderful, sir. They’d all been taken as slaves, you see. The company was in debt, so when the owners went bust, the Satrap ordered the dancers and musicians seized as well. Which wasn’t quite legal, but being the Satrap, I suppose he doesn’t have to worry about that part. No, they’re happy as clams at being captured by pirates. Their captain already has them at work, making up songs and dances to tell the whole story of it. You being the hero of the piece, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Songs and dances. Kennit suddenly felt unaccountably weary. ‘We’re… at anchor. Where? Why?’
‘Cove don’t have a name that I know, but it’s shallow here. The Sicerna was taking on water; had been for some time. Slaves in the bottom hold were just about waterlogged all the time. Seemed best to anchor her up where she couldn’t sink too far while we rigged extra pumps for her. Then I thought we’d make for Bull Creek. We’ve got plenty of manpower to keep the pumps going all the way there.’
‘Why Bull Creek?’ Kennit asked.
Sorcor shrugged. ‘There’s a decent haul-out beach there.’ He shook his head. ‘She’ll take some work before she’ll be seaworthy again. And Bull Creek has been raided twice in the last year by slavers, so I think we’ll be welcomed there.’
‘There. You see,’ Kennit said faintly. He smiled to himself. Sorcor was right. The man had learned much from him. Put a ship there, speak persuasively there, and he could win another little town over. What could he say to them. ‘If the Pirate Isles had one ruler… that raiders feared… people could live…’ A tremble ran through him.
Etta rushed at him. ‘Lie back, lie back. You’ve gone white as a sheet. Sorcor, go for those things, the bath and all that. Oh, and bring in the basin and bandaging I left on the deck outside. I’ll want them now.’ Kennit listened in dismay as she ordered his mate about with a fine disdain for protocol.
‘Sorcor can bandage this,’ Kennit declared mistrustfully.
‘I’m better at it,’ she asserted calmly.
‘Sorcor —’ he began again, but now the first mate dared to interrupt him with, ‘Actually, sir, she has quite a nice touch for it. Took care of all our boys after the last set-to, and did a fine job of it. I’ll see to the wash-water.’ Then he was gone, leaving Kennit helpless and alone with the bloodthirsty wench.
‘Now sit still,’ she told him, as if he could get up and run away. ‘I’m going to lift your leg up and put a pad underneath it so we don’t soak all your bedding. Then when we’re finished, we’ll give you clean linens.’ He clenched his teeth and squinted his eyes and managed not to make a sound as she lifted his stump and deftly slid more folded rags under it. ‘Now I’m going to wet the old bandages before I try to take them off. They pull less that way.’
‘You seem to know a great deal about this,’ he gritted out.
‘Whores get beaten up a lot,’ she pointed out pragmatically. ‘If the women in a house don’t take care of each other, who will?’
‘And I should trust the care of my injury to the woman who cut my leg off?’ he asked coolly.
All her motion ceased. Like a flower wilting, she sank down on the floor beside his bed. Her face was very pale. She leaned forwards until her forehead rested on the edge of his bed. ‘It was the only way I could save you. I’d have cut off both my hands instead of your leg, if that would have saved you.’
This declaration struck Kennit as so profoundly absurd that he was speechless for a moment. The charm, however, was not. ‘Captain Kennit can be a heartless pig. But I assure you that I understand that you did what you had to do to preserve me. I thank you for your deed.’
Shock warred with fury that the charm would so betray itself to another. He immediately clapped his hand over it, only to feel tiny teeth sink savagely into the meat of his palm. He snatched his hand away with a gasp of pain as Etta lifted her face to regard him with tear-filled eyes. ‘I understand,’ she said hoarsely. ‘There are many roles a man has to play. It is probably necessary that Captain Kennit be a heartless pig.’ She shrugged her shoulders and tried to smile. ‘I do not hold it against the Kennit who is mine.’
Her nose had turned red and her leaky eyes were most distressing. Worse, she dared to believe him capable of thanking her for cutting off his leg. Mentally he cursed his sly, malicious charm for putting him in such a fix, even as he grasped at the straw of hope that she truly believed such words could come from his lips. ‘Let’s say no more about it,’ he suggested hastily. ‘Make the best you can of the wretched mess of my leg.’
The water she used to soak the bandaging free was warm as blood. He scarcely felt it, until she began gingerly to peel the layers of linen and lint from the wound. Then he turned his head aside and focused on the wall until the edges of his vision began to waver. Sweat sheeted his body. He wasn’t even aware that Sorcor had come back until the mate offered him an open bottle of brandy.
‘A glass?’ Kennit asked disdainfully.
Sorcor swallowed. ‘From the look of your leg, I thought it might be a waste of time.’
If Sorcor hadn’t said that, Kennit might have been able not to look at his stump. But now as the sailor fumbled clumsily in a cupboard for an appropriate glass, Kennit turned his head slowly to look down to where his sound, strong, muscular leg had once been.
The dirty bandaging had actually cushioned the shock. Seeing his leg end in a wad of stained fabric was not the same as seeing his leg stop in a mangle of chewed and seared flesh. The end of it looked partially cooked. His gorge rose, and sour bile bubbled into the back of his throat. He swallowed it back, refusing to disgrace himself in front of them. Sorcor’s hand was shaking as he offered him the glass. Ridiculous. The man had dealt worse injuries than the one he was looking at now. Kennit took the glass and downed the brandy at a gulp. Then he took a shaky breath. Well, perhaps his luck had held in one odd way. At least the whore knew how to doctor him.
Snatching even that bare comfort away from him, Etta said in a quiet whisper to Sorcor, ‘This is a mess. We need to get him to a healer. And quickly.’
He counted three breaths as he drew them. He gestured with the glass at Sorcor, but when the man tried to fill his glass, Kennit took the bottle from him instead. One drink. Three breaths. Another drink. Three breaths. No. It was time, it was time now.
He pushed himself up to a full sitting position again. He looked down at the thing on the bed that had been his leg. Then he untied the lace of his nightshirt at his throat. ‘Where is my wash-water?’ he demanded brusquely. ‘I have no wish to sit here in my own stink. Etta. Leave off that until I am washed. Lay out clean garments for me, and find clean linens for this bed. I will be properly washed and dressed before I interrogate my prisoner.’
Sorcor cast a sideways glance at Etta before he said quietly, ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but a blind man isn’t going to notice how you’re dressed.’
Kennit looked at him evenly. ‘Who is our prisoner?’
‘Captain Reft of the Sicerna. Etta made us fish him out.’
‘He was not blinded in the battle. He was intact when he fell in the water.’
‘Yes sir.’ Sorcor glanced at Etta and swallowed. So. That was the basis of this deferential wariness the mate now had for his whore. It was almost amusing. It was evidently one thing for Sorcor to dismember a man in battle, and quite another for the whore to torment one in captivity. He had not known Sorcor was prey to such niceties.
‘Perhaps a blind man might not know how I was attired, but I would,’ Kennit pointed out. ‘See to your orders. Now.’
But even as he spoke, there was a tap at the door. Sorcor admitted Opal who bore two steaming wooden buckets of water. He set them down on the floor. He didn’t even dare look at Kennit, let alone speak to him. ‘Mr Sorcor, sir, them music people want to make music on our deck for the captain. They said I should uh, “beg your indulgence”. And,’ the boy’s brow furrowed with an effort to recall the foreign words, ‘um, they want to uh, “express extreme gratitudes”… something like that.’
Kennit felt a tiny twitch of movement against his wrist. He glanced down at the charm hidden in the cradle of his folded arms. It was making frantic faces of assent and enthusiasm. The traitorous little bastard-thing actually seemed to think he would heed its advice. It was mouthing some words at him.
‘Sir?’ Sorcor asked deferentially.
Kennit feigned rubbing his head to bring the charm near his ear. ‘A king should be gracious to his grateful subjects. A gift disdained can harden any man’s heart.’
Kennit abruptly decided it was good advice, regardless of the source.
‘Tell them it would give me great pleasure,’ Kennit told Opal directly. ‘Harsh as my life has been, I am not a man who disdains the finer pleasures of the arts.’
‘Sar!’ the boy blasphemed in admiration. He nodded, his face flushing with pride in his captain. A serpent might bite his leg off, but he’d still have time for culture. ‘I’ll tell them, sir. Harsh life, finer pleasures,’ he reminded himself as he scurried from the room.
As soon as the boy was out of the room, Kennit turned to Sorcor. ‘Go to the prisoner. Give him enough water and food to revive him. Etta, my bath, please.’
After the mate had left, she eased him out of his nightrobe. She washed him with a sponge, as Chalcedeans did. He had always thought it a nasty way to bathe, a mere smearing of sweat and dirt instead of a clean washing away, but she managed it well enough that he actually felt clean. As she attended to the more intimate parts of such a washing, he reflected that perhaps there was more than one way for a woman to be useful to a man. The bathing and wrapping of his injury was still unpleasant enough that afterwards she had to once more wash sweat from his back, chest and brow. Soft music began, a gentle composition of strings and chimes and women’s voices. It was actually pleasant.
Etta matter-of-factly ripped a side seam out of one pair of his trousers to allow her to dress him almost painlessly, and then stitched it up around him again. She buttoned his shirt for him, and then groomed his hair and beard as skilfully as any valet. She took more than half his weight to help him to his chair while she stripped the bed and made it up afresh. It had never occurred to him that Etta might possess such talents. Clearly he had not appreciated how useful she might be to him.
When he was properly washed and attired, she disappeared briefly, only to return with a tray of food. He had not even been aware of his hunger until he smelled the hot soup and light bread. When the sharpest pangs of his appetite were dulled, he set down his spoon to ask quietly, ‘And what inspired you to make free with my prisoner?’
She gave a tiny sigh. ‘I was so angry,’ she shook her head at herself. ‘So angry when they hurt you. When they made me hurt you. I vowed I’d get a liveship for you if it was the last thing I ever did. Plainly that was what you wished to ask the prisoners about. So. At the times when I was worn to death of sitting by your bedside but still could not sleep, I went to see them.’
‘Them?’
‘There were three, at first.’ She shrugged casually. ‘I believe I have the information you want. I checked and rechecked it most carefully. Nonetheless, I took care to keep one alive, as I was sure you’d wish to confirm it for yourself.’
A woman of many talents. And intelligent, too. He’d probably have to kill her soon. ‘And you discovered?’
‘They had word of only two liveships. The first is a cog, the Ophelia. She left Jamaillia City before they did, but she still had Bingtown goods to trade, so she’d be making other stops as she came north.’ Etta shrugged. ‘She could be behind them still, she could be ahead of them. There is no way to be sure. The only other liveship they’ve seen lately was in Jamaillia City. She came into the harbour the day before they left. She didn’t plan to be staying there long. She was unloading cargo, and being refitted to haul a load of slaves north to Chalced.’
‘That makes no sense, to use a liveship so,’ Kennit exclaimed in disgust. ‘They lied to you.’
Etta gave a tiny shrug. ‘That’s always possible, I suppose. But they lied very well, individually, at different times.’ She wadded his sweaty shirt up with the stained linen from his bed. ‘They convinced me.’
‘Easy enough to convince a woman. And that was the whole of what they told you?’
She gave him a look that dared to be cool. ‘Likely the rest was lies, too.’
‘I would hear it, anyway.’
She sighed. ‘They did not know much. Most of it was rumour. The two ships were in harbour together for less than a day. The Vivacia is owned by a Bingtown Trader family named Haven. The ship will be making for Chalced by the Inside Passage as swiftly as she can. They hoped to buy mostly artisans and skilled workers, but might take on some others just for ballast. A man named Torg was in charge of everything, but he didn’t seem to be the captain. She’s newly quickened. This is her maiden voyage.’
Kennit shook his head at her. ‘Haven isn’t a Trader name.’
She spread her hands at him. ‘You were right. They lied to me.’ She turned her face from him, and stared stonily at a bulkhead. ‘I’m sorry I bungled the questioning.’
She was becoming intractable. If he’d had two good legs under him, he’d have strode up to her and pushed her onto her back on the bed and reminded her what she was. Instead, he’d have to flatter her. He tried to think of something nice to say to her, to make her pleasant again. But the interminable throbbing of his missing leg had suddenly become a pounding pain. He wanted only to lie down, to go back to sleep and avoid all of this. And he’d have to ask her to help him.
‘I’m helpless. I can’t even get back into my bed alone,’ he said bitterly. In rare honesty he declared, ‘I hate for you to see me this way.’ Outside, the music changed. One strong man’s voice took up a chant, at once forceful and tender. He cocked his head to make out the oddly familiar words. ‘Ah,’ he said softly to himself. ‘I know it now. From Kytris, To His Mistress. A lovely piece.’ He tried again to find a compliment to give her. He couldn’t think of any. ‘You could go out on deck and listen to the music, if you wished,’ he offered her. ‘It’s quite an old poem, you know.’ The edges of his vision wavered. His eyes watered with his pain. ‘Have you heard it before?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
‘Oh, Kennit.’ She shook her head, suddenly and inexplicably contrite. Tears stood in her eyes as she came to him. ‘It sounds more sweet to me here than anywhere else. I’m sorry. I’m such a heartless wench sometimes. Look at you, white as a sheet. Let me help you lie down.’
And she did, as gently as she could manage. She sponged his face with cool water. ‘No,’ he protested feebly. ‘I’m cold. I’m too cold.’
She covered him gently, and then lay down along his good side. The warmth of her body was actually pleasant, but the lace on the front of her shirt scratched his face. ‘Take your clothes off,’ he directed her. ‘You’re warmest when you’re naked.’
She gave a short laugh, at once pleased and surprised. ‘Such a man,’ she rebuked him. But she rose to obey him.
There was a knock at the door. ‘What?’ Kennit demanded.
Sorcor’s voice sounded surprised. ‘I’ve brought you the prisoner, sir.’
It was all too much trouble. ‘Never mind,’ he said faintly. ‘Etta already questioned him. I’ve no need of him any more.’
Her clothing fell to the floor around her. She climbed into the bed carefully, easing her warmth up against him. He was suddenly so tired. Her skin was soft and warm, a balm.
‘Captain Kennit?’ Sorcor’s voice was insistent, worried.
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged.
Sorcor jerked the door open. Behind him two sailors held up what remained of the captain of the Sicerna. They met their captain’s eyes, then both gaped at him in amazement. Kennit turned his head to follow their gaze. Beside him in the bed, Etta held the blanket firmly below her naked shoulders and just above the slight curve of her breasts. The music from the deck came more loudly into the room. He turned his head back to the prisoner. Etta had more than blinded him. She had dismantled the man a bit at a time. Disgusting. He didn’t want to look at that just now. But he had to keep up appearances. He cleared his throat. Get it over with.
‘Prisoner. Did you tell my woman the truth?’
The wreckage between the two sailors lifted a ruined face towards his voice. ‘I swear I did. Over and over again. Why would I lie?’ The man began to weep noisily. He snuffled oddly with his nostrils slit. ‘Please, good sir, don’t let her at me no more. I told her the truth. I told her everything I knew.’
It suddenly seemed like too much trouble. The man had obviously lied to Etta and now he was lying to Kennit as well. The prisoner was useless. The pain from his leg was banging against the inside of Kennit’s skull. ‘I’m… occupied.’ He did not want to admit how exhausted he was simply from taking a bath and getting dressed. ‘Take care of him, Sorcor. However you see fit.’ The meaning of his words was plain and the prisoner’s voice rose in a howl of denial. ‘Oh. And shut the door on your way out,’ Kennit further instructed him.
‘Sar,’ he heard a deckhand sigh as the door closed behind them and the wailing prisoner. ‘He’s going at her already. Guess nothing keeps Captain Kennit down.’
Kennit turned very slightly toward the warmth of Etta’s body. His eyes closed and he sank into a deep sleep.