Page 264

He blinked his eyes. He saw the stripped walls and the bare floor of what was actually little more than a plantation house, not the aristocratic mansion his father had pretended it to be.

Kennit had considered refurbishing the house many times.

In the rooms upstairs were stored more than enough art and furniture to eclipse the house’s former tawdry glory.

It was his carefully gleaned collection, the finest of his troves, brought here a little at a time in great secrecy.

But that was not what he wanted. No. He would restore it with what Igrot had stolen from them.

The same paintings, the same tapestries and rugs, chairs and chandeliers.

Some day, when the time was right, he would go after all of it, bring it back here, and put it all back just as it had been.

He would make it right. He had promised that to himself more times than he cared to remember, and now the fulfilment of that promise was within his grasp.

All that Igrot had ever stolen from anyone was now his by right.

A small hard smile formed on his mouth. King Kennit indeed.

His mother wanted no part of it. When he was younger, during the savage years, he would climb onto her lap, hug her neck tightly, and try to whisper his plans for vengeance into her ear.

She would desperately and fearfully shush him.

She had not even dared dream of revenge.

Now she no longer wanted luxuries and wealth on display.

No. She trusted to her simple life to protect her.

Kennit knew the truth of that. No one can have so little that someone else can find nothing to envy.

Poverty and simplicity were not shields from the greed of others.

If you had nothing left to steal, they’d take your body and enslave it.

For all his musings, he did not pause or tarry.

He led his cavalcade briskly through the hall and back to the kitchen.

He opened the heavy door and left it ajar as he led them down the steps to the cellar beneath.

It had been painstakingly dug down into the rocky bones of the island.

There were no windows but he didn’t bother kindling a torch – he didn’t plan to be down there that long.

It was evenly cool, winter and summer. It had been a good wine cellar.

No sign of that use of it remained now. The rusty chains on the floor and some odd stains recalled its later use as a makeshift dungeon and torture chamber for those who had displeased Igrot. Now it could serve that purpose again.

‘Chain him up,’ he directed his map-faces. ‘Make sure you fasten him tight and true. There are some rings driven into that back wall. Fasten him to one of those. I don’t want him trying to bother little Ankle when she comes with his food and water. If she comes with his food and water.’

‘You’re trying to frighten me.’ From somewhere, Captain Haven had found a last measure of aplomb.

‘I’m not easily scared. The only problem is that I have no idea what you want from me.

Why don’t you simply tell me?’ He even managed to keep his voice steady as the male map-face led him down the steep steps.

The woman had gone ahead to rummage for chains while her docile and implacable mate dealt with the man.

‘Regardless of what my son has told you, I am not an unreasonable man. Everything is negotiable. Even if you keep the ship and the boy, you could get a handsome ransom for me. Have you thought of that? I am worth far more to you alive than dead. Come. I’m not a stingy man. This profits no one.’

Kennit smiled sardonically. ‘My dear captain, not all of life is about profit. Sometimes it is about convenience. This is convenient for me.’

Kyle maintained his composure. He struggled savagely but silently when the rusty manacles were snapped about his ankles.

It did him no good. His time shut up in his cabin had wasted him.

Either of the map-faces alone could have bested him.

Together they handled him as if he were a recalcitrant five-year-old.

The lock was stiff but the old keys hanging on the ring by the kitchen door still turned it.

Kennit thought he knew the precise moment the man broke.

It was at the quiet snap of the lock being fastened.

That was when he began cursing. He swore oaths of vengeance and called down the wrath of a dozen gods on them as they climbed the stairs and left him there.

As they closed the door, shutting him into the dark, dank room, he began to scream.

The door to the wine cellar was heavy and well fitted.

When it shut, it cut off his screams – just as Kennit had recalled. He hung the keys back on their peg.

‘Be sure you show Ankle the way here. I want him kept alive. Do you understand?’

The woman nodded. Seeing her do so, Dedge nodded too.

Kennit smiled, well pleased. These two would do fine here.

Life on Key Island would offer them more than their wildest dreams. They would have their own cottage, plenty of food, peace, and a place to raise their child.

So simply had he bought their lives from them, he reflected.

Strange how men would resist slavery savagely, only to sell themselves for a simple chance at life.

As he walked back to the big house, they followed at his heels.

He spoke over his shoulder to them. ‘My mother can show you all you need to know about the island. Pigs are plentiful. There are goats as well. Almost anything you need, the island can provide. If it is outside the big house, you can help yourself to what you need. All I ask in return is that you do the heavier chores for my mother. That, and be sure the priest never attempts to leave. If he does, simply put him in the cellar with the captain. Encourage him to amuse my mother.’ He stopped and looked back at them when they reached the cottage door.

‘Is there anything I’ve forgotten?’ he asked them. ‘Anything you don’t understand?’

‘It’s all quite clear.’ The woman replied quickly.

‘We’ll keep our end of the bargain, Captain Kennit.

Make no mistake.’ She rested one hand upon her belly, as if pledging to the child within rather than to him.

That, as much as anything they had done him, convinced him he had chosen well.

He nodded, well satisfied with himself. He was rid of Sa’Adar without the bad luck associated with killing a priest. Kyle Haven would be where neither he nor Wintrow had to fret about him, yet he was still available to be ransomed off later if Kennit chose to do so.

The disposal of the others had been convenient.

They had rowed the boat ashore and seen that neither the priest nor the captain gave trouble. Yes. He had planned well.

He went into the cottage and glanced around.

The priest stood in a corner, his arms folded on his chest. He did not look as if he were praying.

His mother crouched over the open chest, aahing and clucking over the contents.

She had already donned the turquoise earrings.

As he entered the room, Ankle gimped the short distance from the hearth to the table with a platter of fresh flat bread.

There was a bowl of berry preserves on the table, and a slab of yellow spring butter.

Beside the butter, herb tea was steaming from the cracked lid of a pot.

The table was set with odds and ends of crockery.

Not a cup matched its fellow. Kennit knew a moment’s annoyance.

Although those gathered here would never leave this island, he did not like anyone to see his mother living in such circumstances.

When he was king, it would not do for such tales to be noised about.

‘Next time I come to visit, I shall bring you a proper tea set, Mother,’ he announced.

‘I know you are fond of these old pieces, but really…’

He let the words trail off as he helped himself to a piece of warm bread.

His mother gabbled away at him as she poured him a cup of tea and offered him the only chair at the table.

He seated himself gratefully. The crutch head was beginning to chafe him severely.

He slathered his bread with butter and heaped it with preserves.

His first bite nearly swept him away on a wave of sensory memories.

These humble foods, still so delicious to his palate, were like ghosts.

They belonged to the world of a very small boy, coddled and indulged and safe beyond all imagining.

All that had been betrayed nearly thirty-five years ago.

Odd, that such a sweet taste could summon up such bitterness.

He ate the rest of his bread and three more pieces, caught between enjoyment and painful memory.

The others joined him in the meal, obeying his mother’s gestures to stand about the table.

Only the priest demurred. His supercilious stare included Kennit.

It did not bother the pirate. Hunger would cure him of his snobbery soon enough.

For now, it was an oddly pleasant gathering.

His mother gabbled on in her singsong way.

The map-faces responded to her gestures and mouthing with nods and smiles, but few words.

Her dumbness seemed contagious. Ankle appeared almost competent in this humble setting.

She took up the brush and swept the ashes back into the hearth without being told.

Her eyes had already lost some of their bruised look.

Kennit knew a moment’s reconsideration of her.

He had wanted a docile servant for his mother; he hoped this girl did not recover too much of her spirits.

He finished his tea and rose. ‘Well. I must be going. Now, Mother, don’t start to carry on. You know I can’t stay.’