Page 62

‘So how did you survive?’ Althea asked resentfully.

‘Went to where it didn’t matter what my name was.

First boat I shipped out on was Chalcedean.

They didn’t care who I was, long as I would work hard and cheap.

Meanest set of rotten bastards I ever shipped with.

No mercy for a kid, no, not them. Jumped ship in the first harbour we put into.

Left that same day, on a different boat.

Not much better, but a little. Then we… ’ Brashen’s voice trailed off.

For a moment Paragon thought he had fallen asleep.

He heard Althea shifting about, trying to find a comfortable way to sit on the slanted deck.

‘… by the time I came back to Bingtown, I was a seasoned hand. Oh, was I seasoned. But still the same old damn thing. Trell’s boy this, and Trell’s son that…

I’d thought I’d made something of myself.

I actually tried to go to my father and patch things up.

But he was not much impressed with what I’d made of myself.

No, sir, he was not. What a horse’s ass…

so I went to every ship in the harbour. Every ship.

No one was hiring Kelf Trell’s son. When I got to the Vivacia, I kept my scarf down low on my brow and kept my eyes on the deck.

Asked for honest work for an honest sailor.

And your father said he’d try me. Said he could use an honest man.

Something about the way he said it… I was sure he hadn’t recognized me, and I was sure he’d turn me off if I told him my name.

But I did anyway. I looked at him and I said, “I’m Brashen Trell.

I used to be Kelf Trell’s son.” And he said, “That won’t make your watch one minute shorter or longer, sailor. ” And you know. It never did.’

‘Chalcedeans don’t hire women,’ Althea said dully. Paragon wondered how much of Brashen’s tale she had truly heard.

‘Not as sailors,’ Brashen agreed. ‘They believe a woman aboard ship will draw serpents after you. Because women bleed, you know. Lots of sailors say that.’

‘That’s stupid,’ she exclaimed in disgust.

‘Yeah. Lots of sailors are stupid. Look at us.’ He laughed at his own jest, but she did not join him.

‘There are other women sailors in Bingtown. Someone will hire me.’

‘Maybe, but not to do what you expect,’ Brashen said harshly.

‘Yes, there are women sailors, but most of the ones you see on the docks are working on their family boats, with fathers and brothers to protect them. Ship out alone on anything else, and you’d better choose early which shipmates you want to roll.

If you’re lucky, they’ll be possessive enough to keep the others off you.

If you’re not lucky, they’ll turn a nice profit from your services before you reach the next port.

And most mates and captains will turn a blind eye to what goes on, to keep order on the ship.

That’s if they don’t claim your services for themselves.

’ He paused, then added grumpily, ‘And you already knew all that. You couldn’t grow up around sailors and not know it. So why are you even considering this?’

Anger engulfed her. She wanted to shout that she didn’t believe it or demand to know why men had to be such pigs. But she did believe it, and she knew that Brashen could not answer that question anymore than she could. Silence bled into the darkness between them, and even her anger deserted her.

‘So what am I to do?’ she asked miserably. It did not seem to Paragon she was speaking to Brashen, but he answered anyway.

‘Find a way to be reborn as a boy. Preferably one that isn’t named Vestrit.’ Brashen rearranged himself in the hammock and drew in a long breath that emerged as a buzzing snore.

In her cramped corner, Althea sighed. She leaned her head back against the hard wood of the bulkhead and was still and silent.

The slaver was a darker silhouette against the night sky.

If he felt he was in any danger of pursuit, he showed no signs of it.

He had a respectable amount of canvas on but Kennit’s keen eyes saw no flurry of activity aloft to indicate he felt a need for extreme speed.

The night was perfect, a sweet even wind breathing over the sea, the waves willing beasts bearing the ship along.

‘We’ll overhaul him before dawn,’ he observed quietly to Sorcor.

‘Aye,’ Sorcor breathed. His voice betrayed far more excitement at the prospect than his captain felt.

Over his shoulder, he said quietly to the helmsman, ‘Keep her in close to the shore. Hug it like your granny. If their lookout chances to glance this way, I don’t want us visible against the open water.

’ To the ship’s boy he hissed, ‘Below. Pass the word yet again. Still and silent, no movement that isn’t in response to a command.

And not a light to show, not so much as a spark. Go and softly, now.’

‘He’s got a couple of serpents off his stern,’ Kennit observed.

‘They follow for the dead slaves thrown overboard,’ Sorcor said bitterly. ‘And for those too sick to be worth feeding. They go over the side, too.’

‘And if the serpents choose to turn and attack us during battle?’ Kennit inquired. ‘What then?’

‘They won’t,’ Sorcor assured him. ‘Serpents learn quickly. They’ll let us kill each other, well knowing they’ll get the dead with not a scale lost.’

‘And after?’

Sorcor grinned savagely. ‘If we win, they’ll be so fat with the crew of the slaver, they won’t be able to wiggle after us. If we lose…’ he shrugged. ‘It won’t much matter to us.’

Kennit leaned on the railing, sour and silent.

Earlier in the day, they had spotted Ringsgold, a fine old fat waddling cog of a liveship, near as deep as he was tall.

They had had the advantage of surprise; Kennit had had the crew hang out every bit of canvas the rigging would hold, and yet the liveship had lifted and dashed off as if driven by his own private wind.

Sorcor had stood silent by his side as Kennit had first been silently incredulous and then savagely angry at the turn of events.

When Ringsgold rounded Pointless Island to catch the favourable current there and be whisked from sight, Sorcor had dared to observe, ‘Dead wood has no chance against wizardwood. The very waves of the sea part for it.’

‘Be damned,’ Kennit had told him fiercely.

‘Quite likely, sir,’ Sorcor had replied unperturbed. He had probably already been sniffing the air for the spoor of a slaveship.

Or maybe it was just the man’s infernal luck that they had raised this one so quickly.

It was a typical Chalcedean slaver, deep-hulled and wide-waisted, all the better to pack her full of flesh.

Never had Kennit seen Sorcor so lustful in pursuit, so painstaking in his stalking.

The very winds seemed to bless him, and it was actually well before dawn when Sorcor ordered the sweeps out.

The ballistae were already wound and set, loaded with ball and chain to foul their prey’s rigging and grappling hooks were ready to snare their crippled conquest. These last were a new idea of Sorcor’s, one that Kennit regarded with scepticism.

‘Will you lead the crew to the prize, sir?’ Sorcor asked him even as the lookouts on the slaver sounded the first alarms.

‘Oh, I think I shall leave that honour to you,’ Kennit demurred dryly.

He leaned idly on the railing, putting the pursuit and battle entirely into Sorcor’s hands.

If the mate was dismayed by his captain’s lack of enthusiasm, he covered it well.

He sprang aloft, to cry his commands down to the men on deck.

The men shared his battle pitch, for they leaped to obey with a will, so that the extra canvas seemed to flow over the mast and blossom with the night wind.

Kennit was selfishly grateful for the favourable wind, for it bore most of the stench of the slaver away from them.

He felt almost detached as they closed the distance on the slaver.

In a desperate bid to outpace them, the slaver was putting on sail, the rigging swarming with men scuttling like disturbed ants.

Sorcor cursed his delight with this and ordered the ballistae fired.

Kennit thought he had acted too quickly, yet the two heavy balls linked with a stout length of barbed and bladed chain flew well and high, crashing into the other ship’s canvas and lines, ripping and tangling as they fell heavily to the deck below.

Half a dozen men fell with the balls, screaming until they found the deck or vanished beneath the waves.

The sound of their screams had scarcely died before Sorcor had launched a second set of balls and chain.

This one did not do quite as much damage, but the harried crew of the slaver were now too busy watching for other missiles to work the sails effectively, while the canvas and lines that had fallen draped the deck and fouled the workings of the other sails.

The slaver’s decks were in a state of total disarray when Sorcor ordered grappling-lines swung.

Kennit felt distant and detached as he watched their hapless victim roped in and secured.

As dawn ventured over the water, Sorcor and his raiders leapt or swung across the small distance between the two vessels, whooping and screeching their bloodlust. Kennit himself lifted his cuff to his nose and breathed through his sleeve to keep from inhaling the stench of the slaver.

He remained aboard the Marietta with a skeleton crew.

Those who remained with him were plainly frustrated to be cheated of the slaughter, yet someone had to man the Marietta and be ready either to repel boarders or cast loose the grappling-lines if things went against them.