Page 25

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 took the cloth draped over the boy’s arm and wiped the day’s sweat and dust from his face and hands.

The boy glanced up at Kennit wordlessly when he was done, and the pirate captain was moved to bestow a pat upon his shaven pate.

The boy grinned at him and scuttled across the room to open the second door for him.

As the white door swung open slowly, the singing became louder.

A blonde woman sat cross-legged on the floor, accompanying herself on three small drums as she sang some ditty about her brave love gone off to sea.

Kennit hardly spared her a glance. She and her sentimental crooning were not what he sought here.

Before he could even think of becoming impatient, Bettel had risen from her cushioned throne to take his arm gently.

‘Kennit!’ she cried aloud in sweet disapproval.

‘So you have finally come, you naughty man! The Marietta tied up hours ago! Whatever has taken you so long to get here?’ She had hennaed her black hair this month and her perfume hung about her as heavily as her jewels.

Her breasts surged against her dress like seas threatening to swamp the gunwales of a boat.

He ignored her scolding. He knew the attention was supposed to flatter him, and knowing that made Bettel’s whole routine irritating.

Of course she remembered him. He paid her to remember him.

He glanced over her head, scanning the tastefully furnished room and the handful of well-made women and men who lounged on the cushioned chairs and divans.

Two of the women smiled at him. They were new.

None of the others met his eyes. He gave his attention back to Bettel and interrupted her flow of complimentary prattle.

‘I don’t see Etta.’

Bettel made a moue of disapproval at him. ‘Well, do you suppose you’re the only one who favours her? She could not wait forever upon you. If you choose to come late, Master Kennit, then you must…’

‘Fetch her and send her to the topmost chamber. Wait. Have her bathe first, while I am eating. Send me up a good meal, with fresh bread. Neither fish nor pork. The rest I leave to you. And the wine, Bettel. I have a palate. Do not send me the decomposing grape you served me with last time, or this house shall lose my patronage entirely.’

‘Master Kennit, do you suppose I shall simply rap on a chamber door and tell one of my other patrons that Etta is required elsewhere? Do you suppose your money spends better than anyone else’s? If you come late, then you must choose from…’

He paid her no mind, but ascended the curving staircase in the corner of the room.

For a moment he paused on the second floor.

The sounds reminded him of a wall full of rats.

He gave a snort of disgust. He opened a door to a dim staircase and went up yet another flight of steps.

Here, under the eaves, was a chamber that shared no walls with any other.

It had a window that looked out over the lagoon.

Habit made him cross first to that vantage point.

The Marietta rode quietly beside the dock, a single lantern shining on her deck. All was well there.

He turned back to the room as a servant tapped at the door.

‘Enter,’ he said gruffly. The man who came in looked the worse for wear.

The scar of many a brawl showed on his wide face, but he moved with quiet grace as he laid a fire in the small fireplace at the opposite end of the room.

He kindled two branches of candles for Kennit.

Their warm light made him aware how dark the summer night outside had become.

He stepped away from the window and sat down by the fireplace in a cushioned chair.

The evening needed no more warmth, but something in him sought the sweet fragrance of the resinous wood and the dancing light of the flames.

A second tap announced two more servants.

One set out a tray of food upon a snowy cloth on a small table while the other presented him with a bowl and a ewer of steaming water, well scented with lavender.

That much, at least, Bettel had remembered of his tastes, he thought, and felt flattered in spite of himself.

He washed his face and hands again, and gestured the servants out of the room before he sat down to his meal.

Food did not have to be very good to compare favourably with shipboard fare, but this meal was excellent.

The meat was tender in a rich dark gravy, the bread was warmly fresh-baked, and the compote of spiced fruit that accompanied the meal was a pleasant counterpoint to the meat.

The wine was not exceptional, but it was more than adequate.

Kennit took his time with his food. He seldom indulged in physical pleasures except when he was bitter of spirit.

Then he savoured his small efforts at comforting himself.

The diversions he allowed himself now reminded him somewhat of how his mother would pamper him when he was ill.

He gave a snort of disdain at his own thought and pushed it aside with his plate.

He poured himself a second glass of wine, kicked his boots out towards the fire and leaned back in his chair.

He stared into the flames and thought carefully of nothing.

A tap at the door heralded the dessert. ‘Enter,’ Kennit said listlessly. The brief distraction of the meal had faded, and the pit of depression that now yawned before him was bottomless. Useless, it was, all of it. Useless and temporary.

‘I’ve brought you warm apple tart and sweet fresh cream,’ Etta said quietly.

He turned only his head to regard her. ‘That’s nice,’ he said tonelessly.

He watched her come towards him. Straight and sleek, he thought.

She wore only a white shift. She was near as tall as he was, long-limbed and limber as a willow wand.

He leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest as she set the white china plate and dessert before him.

The cinnamon and apple scent of it mingled with the honeysuckle of her skin.

She straightened and he considered her for a moment.

Her dark eyes met his dispassionately. Her mouth betrayed nothing.

He suddenly wanted her.

‘Take that off and go and lie on the bed. Open the bedding to the linen first.’

She obeyed him without hesitation. It was a pleasure to watch her as she moved to his commands, folding the bedding back to bare the white sheets, and then standing, reaching down to the hem of her shift to lift it up and over her head.

She placed it carefully upon the lowboy at the foot of the bed.

Kennit watched her move, her long flat flanks, the slight roundness of her belly, the modest swells of her breasts.

Her hair was short and sleek, cut off square like a boy’s.

Even the planes of her face were long and flat.

She did not look at him as she meticulously arranged herself upon the sheets, nor did she speak as she awaited him.

He stood and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Are you clean?’ he asked her callously.

‘As clean as soap and hot water can make me,’ she replied. She lay so still. He wondered if she dreaded him.

‘Do you fear me?’ he asked her, and then realized that was a different question.

‘Sometimes,’ she answered him. Her voice was either controlled or indifferent.

His coat he hung on the bedpost. His shirt and folded trousers joined her shift on the lowboy.

It pleased him to make her wait while he carefully removed his clothing and set it aside.

Deferred pleasure, he thought to himself, like the warm tart and cream upon the fireside tray. That, too, awaited him.