CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DIVVYTOWN
“I’M JUST NOT SURE.” BRASHEN STOOD ON THE FOREDECK NEXT to her. The late evening mist dampened his hair to curls and beaded silver on his coat. “It all looks different now. It’s not just the fog, but the water levels, the foliage, the beach lines. Everything is different from how I remember it.” His hands rested on the railing, a handsbreadth from her own. Althea was proud that she could resist the temptation to touch him.
“We could just lie out here.” She spoke softly, but her voice carried oddly in the fog. “Wait for another ship to go in or come out.”
Brashen shook his head slowly. “I don’t want to be challenged or boarded. That may happen to us anyway when we reach Divvytown, but I don’t want to look like I’m blundering about out here. We’ll go in cocky and knowing, sail up there and drop anchor in Divvytown as if we’re sure of a welcome. If I seem a bit of a braggart and a fool to them, their guards will drop faster.” He grinned at her crookedly in the gathering darkness. “It shouldn’t take much effort for me to give them that impression.”
They were anchored off a coastline of swamp and trees. The rains of winter had filled the rivers and streams of this region to overflowing. At high tide, salt water and river water mingled in the brackish bogs. In the gathering darkness, trees both living and dead loomed out of the gently drifting mists. Breaks in the fog occasionally revealed dense walls of trees laced with dangling creepers and curtained with draping moss. The rain forest came right down to the waterline. By painstaking observation, Brashen and Althea had spotted several possible openings, any of which might be the narrow mouth of the winding river leading to the sluggish lagoon that fronted Divvytown.
Brashen once more squinted at the tattered scrap of canvas in his hand. It was his original sketch, a hasty rendering done while he was mate on the Springeve. “I think this was meant to indicate a kelp bed exposed at low tide.” He glanced around at his surroundings again. “I just don’t know,” he confessed quietly.
“Pick one,” Althea suggested. “The worst we can do is waste time.”
“The best we can do is waste time,” Brashen corrected her. “The worst is considerably worse. We could get lodged in some silty-bottomed inlet and have the tide strand us there.” He took a deep breath. “But I guess I choose and we take a chance.”
The ship was very quiet. By Brashen’s order, the crew walked softly and conversed only in whispers. No lights had been hung. Even the ship was trying to mute the small noises of his planked body. All canvas had been lowered and secured. Sound carried too well in this fog. He wished to be able to hear if another ship approached in the mist. Amber ghosted up to stand silently beside them.
“If we’re lucky, some of this fog may burn off in the morning,” Althea observed hopefully.
“We’re as like to be shrouded more thickly than ever,” Brashen returned. “But we’ll wait for what light day offers us before we try it. Over there.” He pointed and Althea followed the line of his arm. “I think that’s the opening. We’ll try it at dawn.”
“You’re not sure?” Amber whispered in quiet dismay.
“If Divvytown were easy to find, it would not have survived as a pirate stronghold all these years,” Brashen pointed out. “The whole trick of the place is that unless you know it’s there, you’d never think to look for it.”
“Perhaps,” Amber began hesitantly. “Perhaps one of the former slaves could help. They came from the Pirate Isles. . . .”
Brashen shook his head. “I’ve asked. They’ve all professed complete ignorance of Divvytown, denied they ever pirated. Ask any of them. They were the sons of runaway slaves who settled in the Pirate Isles to begin new lives. Chalcedean or Jamaillian slave raiders captured them, and they were tattooed and sold in Jamaillia. From thence they were brought to Bingtown.”
“Is it so hard to believe?” Amber asked him.
“Not at all,” Brashen replied easily. “But a boy almost always picks up a generalized knowledge of the town he grows up in. These fellows profess too much ignorance of everything for me to be comfortable with their stories.”
“They’re good sailors,” Althea added. “I expected trouble when they were shifted onto my watch, but they haven’t been. They’d prefer to stay to themselves, but I haven’t allowed that, and they haven’t objected. They turn to with a will, just as they did when they first came aboard to work in secret. Harg, I think, resents losing some of his authority over the others; on my watch, they are all just sailors, on an equal footing with the rest. But they are good sailors . . . a bit too good for this to be their first voyage.”
Amber sighed. “I confess, when I first proposed bringing them aboard and allowing them to trade their labor for a chance to return to their homes, I never considered that they might have conflicting loyalties. Now, it seems obvious.”
“Blinded by the opportunity to do a good turn for someone.” Althea smiled and gave Amber a friendly nudge. Amber gave her a knowing smile in return. Althea knew a moment’s uneasiness.
“Do I dare ask if Lavoy could assist us here?” Amber continued softly.
Althea shook her head when Brashen didn’t reply. “Brashen’s charts are all we have to go by. With the shift in seasons, and the constant changes in the isles themselves, it becomes tricky.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I even have the correct bit of swamp,” Brashen added sourly. “This could be the wrong river entirely.”
“It’s the right bit of swamp.” Paragon’s deep voice was very soft, almost a thrumming rather than speaking. “It’s even the right river mouth. As I could have told you hours ago, if anyone had seen fit to ask me.”
The three humans kept absolutely still as if by moving or speaking they would break some spell. A deep suspicion Althea had always harbored simmered in her mind.
“You’re right, Althea.” The ship answered her unspoken words. “I’ve been here before. I’ve been in and out of Divvytown enough times that I could sail up there in the blackest night, at any tide.” His deep laugh vibrated all the foredeck. “As I’d lost my eyes before I ever went up the river, what I see or don’t see makes little difference.”
Amber dared to speak aloud. “How can you know where we are? You always said you feared to sail the open waters blind. Why are you so fearless now?”
He chuckled indulgently. “There is a great difference between the wide-open sea and the mouth of a river. There are many senses besides sight. Cannot you smell the stink of Divvytown? Their wood fires, their outhouses, the charnel pit where they burn their dead? What the air does not carry to me, the river does. The sour taste of Divvytown flows with the river. With every fiber in my planking, I taste the water from the lagoon, thick and green. I’ve never forgotten it. It is as slimy now as it was when Igrot ruled there.”
“You could take us there, even in the blackest night?” Brashen spoke carefully.
“I said that. Yes.”
Althea waited. To trust Paragon or to fear him. To place all their lives in his care, or to wait for dawn and grope their way up the fog-bound river . . . She sensed a test in the ship’s words. She was suddenly glad that Brashen was the captain. This was not a decision she would want to make.
It was so dark now she could scarcely see Brashen’s profile. She saw his shoulders lift as he took a breath. “Would you take us there, Paragon?”
“I would.”
THEY WORKED IN THE DARK, WITHOUT LANTERNS, PUTTING UP his canvas and raising his anchor. It pleased him to think of them scurrying in the blackness, as blind as he was. They worked his windlass voicelessly, the only sound that of the turning gears and the rattling chain. He opened his senses to the night. “Starboard. Just a bit,” he said softly, as they raised his canvas and the wind nudged him, and heard the command relayed in whispers the length of his deck.
Brashen was on the wheel. It was good to have his steady hands there; even better to be the one deciding how he would go and feeling the sailors jump to his orders. Let them discover how it felt to have to place your life in the hands of one you feared. For they all feared him, even Lavoy. Lavoy made fine words about friendships that transcended time or kind, but in his gut, the mate feared the ship more profoundly than any other man aboard.
And well they should, Paragon thought with satisfaction. If they knew his true nature, they would piss themselves with terror. They would fling themselves shrieking into the deeps, and count it a merciful end. Paragon lifted his arms out high and spread wide his fingers. It was a pitiful comparison, this damp wind flowing past his hands as his sails pushed him toward the mouth of the river, but it was enough to sustain his soul. He had no eyes, he had no wings, but his soul was still a dragon’s soul.
“This is beautiful,” Amber said to him.
He startled. As long as she had been aboard, there were still times when she was transparent to him. She was the only one whose fear of him he could not feel. Sometimes he shared her emotions, but never her thoughts, and when he did catch a tinge of her feelings, he suspected it was because she allowed it. As a result, her words confused him more often than the others’ did. She was the only one who could possibly lie to him. Was she lying now?
“What is beautiful?” he demanded quietly. She did not answer. Paragon put his mind to the task at hand. Brashen wanted him to take them up the river as silently as possible. He wanted Divvytown to wake tomorrow to the sight of them anchored in their harbor. The idea appealed to the ship. Let them gawk and shout at the sight of him come back from the dead. If there were any there that yet recalled him.
“The night is beautiful,” Amber said at last. “And we are beautiful in the night. There is a moon somewhere above us. It makes the fog gleam silver. Here and there, my eyes find bits of you. A row of silver droplets hung on a line stretched tight. Or the fog breaks for an instant, and the moon shines our way up the river. You move so smoothly and sweetly. Listen. There is the water against your bow, purring like a cat, and the wind shushes us along. The river is so narrow here; it is as if we knife through the forest, parting trees to let us pass. The same wind that pushes us stirs the leaves of the trees. It has been so long since I last heard the wind in the trees and smelled earth smells. It is like being in a silver dream on a magic ship.”
Paragon found himself smiling. “I am a magic ship.”
“I know. Oh, well do I know what a wonder you are. On a night such as this, moving swift and silent in the dark, I almost feel as if you could unfurl wings and lift us into the very sky itself. Do you not feel it, Paragon?”
Of course he did. The unnerving part was that she felt it also, and put words to it. He did not speak of that. “What I feel is that the channel is deeper to starboard. Ease me over, just a bit. I’ll tell you when.”
Lavoy came up onto the deck. Paragon felt him pace aft to where Brashen held the wheel. There was anger in his stride, and aggression. Would it be tonight? Paragon wondered and felt a tightening of excitement. Perhaps tonight the two males would challenge one another, would circle and then strike, exchanging blows until one of them was prostrate and bleeding. He strained to hear what Lavoy would say.
But Brashen spoke first. His soft deep voice carried cold through Paragon’s wood. “What brings you out on deck, Lavoy?”
Paragon felt Lavoy’s hesitation. Fear, uncertainty, or simply strategy. He could not tell clearly. “I expected us to anchor all night. The change in motion woke me.”
“And now that you’ve seen what we’re about?”
“This is mad. We could run aground at any moment, and then we’d be easy prey for whoever chanced upon us. We should anchor now, if we can do so safely, and wait for morning.”
Amusement tinged Brashen’s voice as he asked, “Don’t you trust our ship to guide us, Lavoy?”
Lavoy sank his deep voice to a bare whisper and hissed a reply. Paragon felt a prickling of anger. Lavoy did not whisper for Brashen’s sake; he whispered because he did not wish Paragon to know his true opinion.
In contrast, Brashen spoke clearly. Did he know Paragon would hear every word? “I disagree, Lavoy. Yes, I do trust him with my life. As I have every day since we started the voyage. Some friendships go deeper than madness or common sense. Now that you’ve expressed your opinion of your captain’s judgment and your ship’s reliability, I suggest you retire to your bunk until your watch begins. I’ve some special duties for you tomorrow. They may prove quite tiring. Good night to you.”
For five breaths longer, Lavoy lingered there. Paragon could imagine how they would stand, teeth bared, wings slightly uplifted, long powerful necks arched for the strike. But this time the challenger turned his eyes aside, bowing his head and lowering his wings. He moved slowly away, expressing his subservience, but grudgingly. The dominant male watched him go. Did Brashen’s eyes glitter and spin with triumph? Or did he know that this challenge was not settled, merely deferred?
THEY DROPPED ANCHOR LONG BEFORE DAWN. THE RATTLING OF the chain was the loudest noise they had made since they left the river mouth. They had eased into place in the harbor, not too close to the three other ships secured there. All was quiet aboard the other vessels. Woe to whomever had been left on watch; surely, they’d be chastised tomorrow. Brashen had sent the crew below save for a carefully chosen anchor watch. Then he had ordered his second mate to join him on the afterdeck.
Brashen stood at the railing and looked toward the lights of Divvytown. They glinted like yellow eyes through the fog, winking and then glittering as the fog drifted and changed. One puzzled him, a single light, brighter than the others and much, much higher. Had someone left a lantern burning at the top of a tree? That answer made no sense, so he pushed it aside. Dawn’s light would likely solve that mystery. The other scattered lights did not quite match his recollection of the town, but doubtless the fog had something to do with that. Divvytown, again. The noisome little town never slept. The fog carried odd bits of distorted sound to his ears. Cheerful shouts, a snatch of drunken song, a dog barking. Brashen yawned. He wondered if he dared to try for a few hours’ sleep before dawn revealed the Paragon and his crew to Divvytown.
Bare feet padded up softly behind him. “She’s not here,” Althea whispered disappointedly. “At least, I’ve seen no sign of her in the harbor. . . .”
“No. I don’t think Vivacia is anchored here tonight. That would have been expecting too much luck. But she was here the last time I was, and I think it likely she’ll be here again. Patience.” He turned to her. In the concealing fog, he dared to catch her hand and pull her closer. “What were you imagining? That we’d find her here, tonight, and somehow manage to spirit her away without a fight?”
“A child’s dream,” Althea admitted. Momentarily, she let her forehead rest against his shoulder. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms and hold her.
“Then call me a child, for I had the same vain hope. That something could be simple and easy for us.”
She straightened with a sigh, and moved away from him. It made the damp night colder.
Wistfulness twined through him. “Althea? Do you think there will ever be a time and place when things are simple and easy for us? A time when I can walk down the street with you on my arm under the light of day?”
She answered slowly. “I’ve never allowed myself to look that far ahead.”
“I have,” Brashen said bluntly. “I’ve thought ahead to you captaining Vivacia and me still running Paragon. That’s the happiest ending we could expect from this quest. But then I ask myself, where does that leave us? When and where do we make a home for ourselves?”
“Sometimes we’d both be in port at the same time.”
He shook his head. “That isn’t enough for me. I want you all the time, always at my side.”
She spoke quietly. “Brashen. I cannot allow myself to think of that just now. I fear that all my planning for tomorrow must begin with my family ship.”
“And I fear it will always be so. That all your plans will always begin with your ship.” Abruptly he realized that he sounded like a jealous lover.
Althea seemed to feel the same. “Brashen, must we speak of such things now? Cannot we, for now, be content with what we have, with no thoughts for tomorrow?”
“I thought I was supposed to be the one to say such things,” he replied gruffly after a moment. “Still, I know that for now, I must be content with what I have. Stolen moments, secret kisses.” He smiled ruefully. “When I was seventeen, I would have thought this the epitome of romance: covert passion aboard a ship. Furtive kisses on the afterdeck on a foggy night.” With a step he swept her into his arms and kissed her deeply. He had not surprised her; had she been waiting for him to do this? She held nothing back; her body fitted sweetly against his. Her easy response stirred him so deeply he groaned with longing. Reluctantly, he separated his body from hers.
He found a breath. “But I’m not a boy anymore. Now this just drives me mad. I want more than this, Althea. I don’t want suspense and quarrels and jealousy. I don’t want sneaking about and concealing what I feel. I want the comfort of knowing you are mine, and taking pride in everyone else recognizing that as well. I want you in my bed beside me, every night, and across the table from me in the morning. I want to know that years from now, if I stand on another deck somewhere, on another night, you will still be beside me.”
SHE TURNED TO LOOK UP AT HIM INCREDULOUSLY. SHE COULD barely pick out his features. Was he teasing her? His voice had sounded serious. “Brashen Trell, are you proposing marriage to me?”
“No,” he said hastily. There was a long uncomfortable silence. Then he laughed softly. “Yes. I suppose I am. Marriage, or something very like it.”
Althea took a long breath and leaned back on the railing. “You never cease to surprise me,” she observed shakily. “I . . . I don’t have an answer for you.”
His voice also shook, though she knew he tried for levity. “I suppose that’s all right, as I haven’t really asked the question yet. But when all this is over, I shall.”
“When all this is over, I’ll have an answer for you.” She made the promise, knowing she had no idea what that answer would be. Frantically, she pushed that worry to the back of her mind. Other things, she told herself, there were other, more pressing matters to deal with, even if those other matters did not make her heart shake as this had. She tried to quench her quick breathing and the yearning of her flesh.
“What happens next?” she asked, gesturing toward the muted lights.
He countered her question with another question. “Of those on board, who do you trust most? Name me two names.”
That was effortless. “Amber and Clef.”
His short laugh was rueful. “And my answer is the same. Who do you trust least?”
Again she did not need to pause. “Lavoy and Artu.”
“Then they are off the list of those we take ashore. We won’t take our problems with us, nor leave them unattended on the ship.”
We. She liked the sound of that. “Who are we taking, then?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Jek. Cypros and Kert. I’d like to take one or two of your former slaves, to give the impression that we’re a mixed crew. You’ll have to choose them.” He paused, thinking. “I’m leaving Lop with Amber. I’ll let Haff know that he is to back her if she asks him to. I’ll give her the word that if there’s any trouble at all, from inside or outside the ship, Lop is to row Clef ashore to find us.”
“You’re expecting trouble from Lavoy?”
He made a disparaging noise. “Not expecting. Planning for all possibilities.”
She lowered her voice. “It can’t go on like this. What are you going to do about him?”
He spoke slowly. “Let him make the first move. And then, when it’s over, I’ll see what’s left. Maybe I can make a serviceable deckhand out of it.”
DAWN CAME, A DISAPPOINTMENT. A HIGH YELLOW SUN shredded the mist to wandering ghosts. The clouds blew in, covering the sun’s face, and a miserable chill rain lanced down. Brashen ordered out the ship’s gig. While it was made ready, he stared at Divvytown. He scarcely recognized it. The elevated light of the night before resolved itself as a watchtower. The wharves were in a new location, backed by warehouses built of fresh lumber. On the edges of the town, the shells of some burned-out structures remained, as if a spreading fire had created the rebuilt town. He doubted it had been an accident; the watchtower spoke of people determined not to be taken unawares again.
He grinned wolfishly. It would probably upset them to find a strange vessel in their harbor. He considered waiting aboard for whoever they might send out to question him, but decided against it. Bold and brash as his name he would be; he would assume a welcome and fellowship, and see where it got him.
He took a deep breath. His own grin surprised him. He should be exhausted. He’d been up most of the night, and risen again before dawn, just for the pleasure of rousting Lavoy out of bed. He’d given the mate his orders. He was to keep order aboard the ship, and not permit the crew to leave it or converse with any folk who came out to the ship. Above all, calm was to prevail. Clef and the other ship’s boat were at Amber’s disposal. Before Lavoy could dare to ask why, Brashen had added that she had her separate orders, and Lavoy was not to interfere with them. In the meantime, he wanted all the crew’s bedding brought up on deck and aired, the sleeping areas smoked to drive out lice and other vermin, and the galley given a good scrubbing. It was work calculated to keep both mate and men busy, and they both knew it. Brashen stared Lavoy down until the first mate grudgingly acknowledged his orders. Then he had turned on his heel.
To Amber and Paragon, he had given his most difficult commands. The ship was to keep still and silent, to pretend he was an ordinary wooden vessel. Amber was to help him in this ruse however she could. He trusted her to pick up the meaning between his words: let nothing upset the ship. Allow no one to provoke him.
Brashen shrugged his shoulders, trying to find more room in his jacket. He was dressed for his role in the finery of a merchant captain, clothes not worn since he had bidden Bingtown a formal farewell. He’d tied a kerchief made from his yellow shirt about his brow and left his shirt open at the throat. He didn’t want to appear too staid. He wondered what Captain Ephron Vestrit would think if he could see the use his tailored blue jacket and fine white shirt were being put to. He hoped the old man would understand and wish him luck of them.
“Boat’s ready, sir.” Clef grinned up at him hopefully.
“Thank you. You have your orders. See that you obey them.”
Clef rolled his eyes, but replied, “Yes, sir,” with no trace of rebellion. He bounced along at Brashen’s heels as he made his way to the ship’s boat.
As their boat left the Paragon’s shadow, Brashen marked three other small craft on their way out to meet him. “To your oars,” he ordered in a low voice. “Put your backs to it. I want us well away from Paragon before they can cut us off.” As the crew obeyed, Brashen glanced back at his ship. The figurehead, silent and stoic, had his arms crossed on his chest. Amber leaned on the railing behind him. She lifted a hand in farewell, and Brashen nodded curtly. He looked at the rowing crew. “Remember your orders. We’re friendly. Don’t hesitate to spend freely the coin you’ve been given. No brawling. I don’t want anyone getting so drunk that he can’t guard his tongue. If they’ll allow us the free run of the town, spread out. Ask questions. I want every bit of information about Kennit and the Vivacia that we can gather, but don’t be too dogged about asking. Get them talking, then lean back and listen. Curious, not nosy. We’ll meet back at the docks at nightfall.”
They were more than halfway to the docks when the three other boats surrounded him. At a sign from Brashen, his crew shipped their oars.
“State your business here!” a skinny graybeard in one of the boats commanded him. The rain had soaked his shapeless hat to his head. An ancient slave tattoo was just visible above his beard.
Brashen laughed aloud. “My business in Divvytown? Divvytown has but one business, and I’ll wager that mine is the same as yours, old man. My name is Brashen Trell, and before I state anything else, I’ll know to whom I’m stating it.” He grinned at him easily. Jek lolled at her oars, smiling broadly. Althea’s smile looked a bit more forced, while the others were apparently uninterested in the proceedings.
The oldster took himself very seriously. “I’m Maystar Crup, and I’m the harbormaster. Captain Kennit hisself appointed me, and I got the right to ask any what come here what they’re about.”
“Kennit!” Brashen sat up straight. “That’s the name, sir, the name that brings me here. I’ve been here before, you know, aboard the Springeve, though that was a brief visit and I’ll fault no one if they don’t recall me. But the tales I heard then of Captain Kennit are what have brought me back now, me and my good ship and crew. We’d like to throw in our lots with his, so to speak. Think you that he’d see us today?”
Maystar ran a cynical eye over him. He licked his lips, revealing that most of his remaining teeth were yellow. “He might. If he were here, which he’s not. If you know about Kennit, how is it you don’t know he has a liveship? You don’t see no liveship in our harbor just now, do you?”
“I had heard Kennit was a man of many ships. Moreover, I’d heard the first mistake any man could make about him was to assume anything about him. Sly as a fox is he, that is what is said, and keen as an eagle’s eye. But this is a chill and uncomfortable place to discuss such things. Divvytown has changed more than a bit since the last time I saw it, but surely it still has a tavern where men can talk at ease?”
“It does. When we decide a man is welcome in Divvytown.”
Brashen raised one shoulder. “Perhaps that would be better decided over a bit of brandy. And then you can tell me if the rest of my crew would be welcomed ashore. We’ve been a time at sea. They’ve dry gullets and the coin to spend to wet them. Divvytown, they agreed, would be a fine place to divvy out our spoils.” He smiled engagingly and slapped the fat purse at his belt. The coins in it clinked against the nails and the cut-up spoon he’d padded it with. He carried enough to stand a round of drinks or two, as well as pick up some minor supplies for the ship. His picked crew had enough coin for a fine show as well. Successful pirates they were, with money to spend.
Brashen’s smile was stiffening in the chill winter rain before Maystar gave him a grudging nod. “Aye. We can talk in the tavern, I suppose. But your men . . . your crew will stay with us there, and those on the ship will stay there for the time being. We don’t take kindly to strangers here in Divvytown. Not from ships that sneak in during the dark of night.”
That puzzled him, did it? Well, let the old man focus on that. “To the tavern, then!” Brashen agreed heartily. He sat back in the stern and rode into town like a king, escorted by Divvytown’s constabulary. Half a dozen curious onlookers were huddled on the dock, shoulders hunched to the cold rain. Maystar preceded Brashen up the ladder. By the time he reached the top, Maystar was already the center of a hail of questions. Brashen shifted all attention to himself when he proclaimed, “Gentlemen! Won’t someone guide us to the tavern?” He beamed at the gathered crowd. From the corner of one eye, he noticed Jek’s smiling appraisal of the men. The grins she was getting in response could not hurt his cause. As his crew joined him on the dock, the onlookers relaxed. These were not raiders, but honest freebooters like themselves.
“The tavern’s this way,” Maystar told him grumpily.
Perhaps he was jealous of his importance. Brashen immediately targeted him. “Please, lead on,” he told him. As they trailed Maystar, Brashen noticed that their following had already diminished. That suited him well. He wanted to gather information, not enthrall the whole town. He noted that Althea had positioned herself to his left and one step behind him. It was good to know someone was there with a ready knife if the Divvytown folk did decide to turn on him. Cypros and Kert were right behind him. Harg and Kitl, the two tattooed ones that Althea had chosen, followed them. Jek had dropped back to the end of their group and had already struck up a conversation with a handsome young man. He caught a word or two; she was asking him if he thought they’d be given the run of the town, and if so, what entertainment he recommended for a lonely sailor on her first night in port. Brashen gripped his smile with his teeth. Well, he’d asked her to be friendly and gather information.
THE INTERIOR OF THE TAVERN WAS DIM. MOST OF THE WARMTH came from body heat rather than from the blazing fire in the hearth. The smells of damp wool, sweat, smoke and cooking lingered in the air. Althea loosened her coat but didn’t take it off. If they had to get out of here fast, she didn’t want it left behind. She looked about her curiously.
The building was fairly new, but the walls had already begun to discolor with smoke. It had a plank floor, strewn with sand to make each night’s sweeping out easier. A window at one end faced the sea. Brashen led them toward the hearth end of the open chamber. Plank tables and long benches supported a variety of eaters, drinkers and talkers. Evidently the oncoming storm kept folk in today. They were regarded with varying degrees of curiosity, but no outright animosity. Brashen just might dance through the deception without missing a step.
Brashen clapped a friendly hand on Maystar’s shoulder as they seated themselves at the table, and before he could say a word, bellowed out an order for brandy for the harbormaster and himself, and ale all round for his crew. A bottle was swiftly brought and opened, and two clay noggins set out. As the tavern boy began to load a tray with foaming mugs, Brashen turned to Maystar. “Well, much has changed in Divvytown. New buildings and a welcoming party for my ship are the least of it. I’ve never seen the harbor so deserted. Tell me. What has befallen the place since last I was here?”
For an instant, the old man looked puzzled. Althea wondered if he even remembered that he was supposed to be the one asking the questions. But Brashen had pegged his garrulous nature well. He probably didn’t often get the chance to hold forth as an expert for so long. Brashen became the most attentive and flattering of audiences as Maystar told in lurid detail of the slaver’s raid that had changed forever not just the layout but the very nature of Divvytown. As he spoke on, at great length, Althea began to grasp that this Kennit was no ordinary pirate. Maystar spoke of him with admiration and pride. Others added their own stories of things Kennit had said, or done, or caused to be done. One of the speakers was a man of obvious learning. The tattoo on his cheek wrinkled as he scowlingly recounted his days below deck in a slaveship before Kennit had freed him. They spoke of the man as if they were telling hero tales, Althea realized uneasily. The stories made her grudgingly admire the pirate, even as they chilled her heart. A man like that, bold and sage and noble, would not easily give up a ship like Vivacia. And if half the tales told of him were true, perhaps the ship had given her heart to him. Then what?
Althea fought to keep the smile on her face and to nod to Maystar’s tales as she pondered it. She had been thinking of Vivacia as a stolen family treasure, or as a kidnapped child. What if she was more like a headstrong girl who had eloped with the love of her life? The others were all laughing at some witticism. Althea chuckled dutifully. Did she have the right to take Vivacia away from Kennit, if the ship had truly bonded to him? What was her duty, to her family, to the liveship?
Brashen leaned over to reach the brandy bottle. It was a pretense, to bring his leg into contact with hers. She felt the steady warm pressure of his knee against hers, and realized that he saw her dilemma. His brief glance spoke volumes. Worry later. Pay attention now, and later they would consider all the implications of what they had heard. She finished her mug of ale and held it aloft for a refill. Her eyes met those of the stranger across the table. He was watching her intently; Althea hoped her earlier thoughtfulness had not made him too curious. At the far end of the table, Jek was engaged in arm wrestling with the man she had targeted earlier. Althea judged that she was letting him win. The man across the table followed her gaze, and then his eyes came back to hers. Merriment danced in them. He was a comely man, his looks spoiled only by a trail of tattoos across his cheek. In a lull in Maystar’s explanations, she asked him, “Why is the harbor so empty? I saw but three ships where several dozen could easily anchor.”
His eyes lit at her question, and he grinned more broadly. He leaned across the table to speak more confidentially. “You’re new to this trade, then,” he told her. “Don’t you know that this is the harvest season in the Pirate Isles? All the ships are out reaping our winter livelihood. The weather is our ally, for a ship from Jamaillia may have been running three days in a storm, its crew weary and careless, when we step out from our doorsteps to stop it. We let winter do our harrying for us. This time of year, the cargoes are fatter, for the fruits of the harvest are now in transit.”
His grin faded as he added, “It is also the worst time of year for those taken by slaveships. The weather is rough, and the seas run cold. The poor bastards are chained below in damp holds, in irons so cold they bite the flesh from your bones. This time of year, slaveships are often little more than floating cemeteries.”
He grinned again, fierceness lighting his face now. “But there is sport this year, as well. The Inside Passage swarms with Chalcedean galleys. They hoist a flag and proclaim they are the Satrap’s own, but it is all a sham to pick off the fattest hogs for themselves. They think themselves so sly. Captain Brig, Kennit’s own man, has taught us the game of it. Let the galleys prey and fight and glut themselves with wealth. When their ships ride heavy, the harvest is ripe for gathering. We go in, and in one battle, we harvest the cream of many ships they’ve taken.”
He sat back on the bench, laughing aloud at Althea’s incredulous look, then seized his mug and banged it on the table to attract the serving boy’s attention. After the boy brought him a fresh mug, he asked, “How came you to this life?”
“By as crooked a road as your own, I’ll wager,” she returned. She cocked her head and looked at him curiously. “That’s not Jamaillia I hear in your accent.”
The ruse worked. He launched into his life history. Indeed, a convoluted path had brought him to Divvytown and piracy. There was tragedy in his tale, as well as pathos, and he told it well. Unwillingly, she began to like him. He told of the raid that ended his parents’ lives and of a sister vanished forever. Carried off from his family’s sheep farm in some little seacoast town far to the north, he passed through a succession of Chalcedean masters, some cruel, others merely callous, before he found himself on a ship southbound, sent off with half a dozen other slaves as a wedding gift. Kennit had stopped the ship.
And there it was again. His story challenged not just her idea of who and what Kennit was, but her notion of what slavery meant and who became slaves. Pirates were not what she had expected them to be. The greedy immoral cutthroats she had heard tales of were suddenly men pushed to the edge, clawing their way out of slavery, stealing back a portion of what had been stolen from them.
He told her other things that greatly surprised her. Part of the shock was his casual assumption that all knew these things were so. He spoke of the carrier pigeons that ferried news between the exiles in the Pirate Isles settlements and their kin in Jamaillia City. He spoke of the legitimate trading ships from Jamaillia and even Bingtown that regularly made furtive stops in the Pirate Isles. The latest gossip from both towns was common knowledge in Divvytown. The news he passed on seemed far-fetched to Althea. An uprising in Bingtown had burned half the town. In retaliation, the Bingtown Traders had taken the visiting Satrap hostage. New Traders had conveyed that word to Jamaillia City, where those loyal to the Satrap were raising a fleet of warships to teach the rebellious province proper humility. There would be rich pickings in the wake of battle between Bingtown and Jamaillia. The pirates were already anticipating Jamaillian ships fat with Bingtown and Rain Wild goods. Discord between the two cities could only be good for the Pirate Isles.
Althea hung on his every word, trapped between horror and fascination. Could any of this be true? If it was, what did it mean for her family and home? Even if she accepted that time and distance had fertilized the rumors, it boded ill for all she held dear. Meanwhile, the pirate waxed large in his telling of these tales, flattered and encouraged by her rapt attention. He gloated that when Kennit returned and heard these tidings, he would know that his time was truly come. In the midst of his neighbors’ discord, he could seize power. He had often told them that when the time was right, he planned to control all trade through the Pirate Isles. Surely, that time was soon.
A sudden gust of wind hit the tavern’s window, rattling it and making her jump. It made a space in the conversation. “This Kennit sounds to me like a man worth meeting. Is he returning to Divvytown soon?”
The young man shrugged. “When his holds are full, he’ll return. He’ll bring us word from the Others’ Island as well; he has taken his priest there for the Others to augur his destiny. But no doubt Kennit will pirate his way back. Kennit sails when and where he will, but he never passes up prey.” He cocked his head. “I understand your interest in him. There is no woman in Divvytown who does not sigh at his name. He is a man to put the rest of us into the shade. But you should know that he has a woman. Etta is her name and her tongue is as sharp as her knife. Some say that in Etta, Kennit has found the missing half of his soul. All men should be so fortunate.” He leaned closer, eyes warm, and spoke quietly. “Kennit has a woman, and is content with her. But I do not.”
Brashen stretched, rolling his shoulders and spreading his arms. When he rocked forward, his left hand rested on Althea’s shoulder. He inclined very slightly toward the other man, and gently confided, “What a pity. I do.” He smiled before he went back to Maystar’s conversation, but left his arm across Althea’s shoulder. She tried for a disarming smile and shrugged her free shoulder.
“No offense meant,” the man said a bit stiffly.
“None taken,” she assured him. A warm flush rose to her face when, down the table, Jek caught her eye and dropped her a slow congratulatory wink. Damn Brashen! Had he completely forgotten that they were trying to keep this a secret? Yet, she could not deny that she took keen pleasure in the weight of his arm across her shoulder. Was this what he had been speaking of, the comfort of publicly claiming one another? Once they returned to the ship, they would both have to disavow this as a sham, as part of their overall ploy to gain information. But for now . . . She relaxed into him, and felt the solid warmth of his body, his hip against hers. He shifted slightly to accommodate her.
The pirate drained off his beer. He set the mug down with a thump. “Well, Maystar, I see little threat from these folk. Noon’s well past now, and I’ve still a day’s work to do.”
Maystar, in the midst of a long-winded tale, dismissed him with a wave. The man gave Althea a farewell nod, rather curt, and left. With his departure, several others also made their excuses and left. Brashen gave her shoulder a slight squeeze. Well done. They’d established they were no risk to Divvytown.
Rain still streamed down the tavern window. The uniform grayness of the day had disguised the passage of time. Brashen patiently heard Maystar’s tale out to the end, and then made another show of stretching. “Well, I could listen to you all day; it’s a pleasure to hear a man who can properly spin a yarn. Unfortunately, that won’t fill my water barrels. I’d best put some of my crew to that, but I’ve noticed that the old water dock is gone completely. Where do ships take on water now? And I’ve promised the crew a bit of fresh meat if there’s any to be had. Be kind to a stranger, and steer me to an honest butcher.”
But Brashen was not rid of Maystar that easily. The garrulous harbormaster told him where to take on water, but then went on to discuss at great length the relative merits of the two butchers in Divvytown. Brashen interrupted the man briefly, to put Jek in charge of the others. They could take their shore time now, but he warned them that he expected the ship’s casks to be filled before noon tomorrow. “Be back at the docks by nightfall. The second’s coming with me.”
When a boy came running to tell Maystar that his pigs were loose again, the old man hurried off, uttering oaths and threats against the hapless swine. Brashen and Jek exchanged a look. She stood up, stepping over the bench she’d been seated on. “Care to show me where we can fill our ship’s casks?” she asked the man she’d been talking with, and he agreed readily. Without further ado, the crew dispersed.
Outside the tavern, the rain was falling determinedly, driven by a relentless wind. The streets were mud, but they ran straight. Brashen and Althea walked in silent companionship down a wooden walkway; a ditch beneath it rushed with rain water draining from the street down to the harbor. Few of the structures boasted glass windows and most were tightly shuttered today against the downpour. The town had not the elegance or beauty of Bingtown, but it shared Bingtown’s purpose. Althea could almost smell the commerce here. For a town burnt to the ground not so long ago, it had recovered well. They passed another tavern, this one built of raw timbers, and heard within it a minstrel singing with a harp. Since they had anchored, another ship had come into the lagoon and tied up at the pier. An ant line of men with barrows was unloading the cargo from the ship to a warehouse. Divvytown was a prosperous lively trade port; folk everywhere thanked Kennit for that.
The people hurrying along the walkway to escape the rain wore an amazing variety of garb. Some of the languages she overheard she did not even recognize. Many folk wore tattoos, not just on their faces, but on arms, calves and hands. Not all face tattoos were slave marks: some had decorated themselves with fanciful designs.
“It’s a declaration,” Brashen explained quietly. “Many bear tattoos they cannot erase. So they obscure them with others. They dim the past with a brighter future.”
“Odd,” she muttered quietly.
“No,” he asserted. She turned in surprise at the vehemence in his voice. More quietly, he went on, “I understand the impulse. You don’t know how I’ve fought, Althea, to try to make folk see the man I am instead of the wild boy I was. If a thousand needle pricks in my face would obscure my past, I’d endure it.”
“Divvytown is a part of your past.” There was no accusation in her voice.
He looked around the busy little port as if seeing another place and time. “It was. It is. I was last here on the Springeve, and that was none too honest an operation. But years ago, also, I was here. I had only a few voyages under my belt when pirates took the ship I was on. They gave me a choice. Join them or die. I joined.” He pushed his wet hair back and met her eyes. “No apologies for that.”
“None are needed,” she replied. The rain on his face, the drops glistening in his hair, his dark eyes and the simple nearness of him suddenly overwhelmed her. Something of her rush of emotion must have shown on her face, for his eyes widened. Heedless of who might see, she seized his wet hand. “I can’t explain it,” she laughed up at him. For an instant, just looking at him was all she needed in the world.
He squeezed her hand. “Come on. Let’s buy some stuff and talk to people. We do have a reason to be here.”
“I wish we didn’t. You know, I like this town and I like these people. In spite of every reason that I shouldn’t, I do. I wish we could just be here, on our own like this. I wish this were our real life. Almost, I feel like I belong here. I’ll bet Bingtown was like this, a hundred years ago. The rawness, the energy, the acceptance of folk for who they are; it draws me like a candle draws a moth. Sa forgive me, Brashen, but I wish I could kick over every responsibility to my name and just be a pirate.”
He looked at her in astonished silence. Then he grinned. “Be careful what you wish for,” he cautioned her.
It was a strange afternoon. The role she played felt more natural than reality. They bought oil for the ship’s lanterns and arranged to have it sent down to the dock. At another merchant’s, Althea selected herbs and potents to restock Paragon’s medicine chest. Impulsively, Brashen tugged her inside a dry goods store and bought her a brightly colored scarf. She bound her hair back with it, and he added hoop earrings embellished with jade and garnet beads. “You have to look the part,” he muttered in her ear as he fastened the catch of a necklace.
In the clouded mirror the shopkeeper offered, she caught a glimpse of a different Althea, a side of herself she had never permitted into the daylight. Behind her, Brashen bent to kiss the side of her neck. When he glanced up, their eyes met in the mirror. Time rocked around her, and she saw the wild, runaway Bingtown boy and the willful virago who had scandalized her mother. A likely pair; piracy and adventure had always been their destiny. Her heart beat faster. Her only regret for this moment was that it was a sham. She leaned back against him to admire the glittering necklace on her throat. They watched themselves in the mirror as she turned her head and kissed him.
At each place they went, one or the other would turn the conversation to Kennit or his liveship. They gathered nuggets of information about him, both useful and trivial. Like legends; each teller added personal embellishments to their stories of Kennit. His boy-priest had cut off his mangled leg, and Kennit had endured it without making a sound. No, he had laughed aloud in the face of his pain, and bedded his woman scarce an hour later. No, it was the boy’s doing: the pirate king’s prophet had prayed and Sa himself had simply healed Kennit’s stump. He was beloved of Sa; all knew that. When evil men had tried to rape Kennit’s woman, right here in Divvytown, the god had protected her until Kennit appeared to slay a dozen men single-handedly and carry her off from her imprisonment. Etta had lived in a whorehouse, but kept herself only for Kennit. It was a love story to make the most hardened cutthroat weep.
In late afternoon, they stopped to buy fish chowder and fresh-baked bread. There they first heard how the boy-priest had stood his ground between Kennit and most of Divvytown, and prophesied that Kennit would someday be their King. Those who had doubted the boy’s words had fallen to his flashing blade. Althea’s astonishment must have flattered the fish vendor, for he told the tale thrice more, with more details each time. At the last telling, the man added, “And well the poor lad knew about slavery, for his own father had made him a slave, yes and tattooed his own ship’s likeness onto the boy’s face. I’ve heard it said that when Kennit freed the liveship and the boy, he won both their hearts at once.”
Althea found herself speechless. Wintrow? Kyle had done that to Wintrow, his own son, her nephew?
Brashen choked slightly on his chowder, but managed to ask, “And what fate did Kennit mete out to so cruel a father?”
The man shrugged callously. “What he deserved, no doubt. Over the side to the serpents with the rest. So he does with the full crew of every slaver he takes.” He raised an eyebrow at Brashen. “I thought everyone knew that.”
“But not the boy?” Althea asked softly.
“The boy weren’t crew. I told you. He was a slave on the ship.”
“Ah.” She looked at Brashen. “That would make sense.” The ship turning on Kyle and accepting Kennit made sense now. The pirate had rescued and protected Wintrow. Of course, the ship would be loyal to Kennit now.
So. Where did that leave her? For one treacherous instant, she wondered if she were free. If Vivacia was happy with Wintrow aboard her, if she was content with Kennit and her life of piracy, did Althea have the right to “rescue” her from it? Could she just go home now and tell her mother and sister that she had failed, that she had never found their family ship? For an instant, she teetered on a wilder decision. Did she, really, have to go home at all? Could not she and Brashen and Paragon simply go on as they had begun?
Then she thought of Vivacia, quickening under her hands as she slipped the final peg into the figurehead, the peg her father had filled with his anima as he died. That was hers. Not Wintrow’s, certainly not Kennit’s. Vivacia was her ship, in a way no one else could claim. If the earlier gossip she had heard was true at all, if Bingtown were in some sort of upheaval, then her family needed their liveship more than ever. Althea would reclaim her. The ship would learn to love her again, Wintrow would be reunited with his family.
She found she blamed Kyle more than Kennit for the deaths of Vivacia’s crewmen. Loyalty to her family had kept those men aboard Vivacia; Kyle’s betrayal of her father’s ethics had killed them. She could not mourn Kyle at all; he had caused her and her family too much pain. The only sympathy she felt was for Keffria. Better she mourn her husband’s death, Althea thought grimly, than to mourn a long life with him.
TIME HAD BECOME A SLIPPERY CREATURE THAT WRITHED IN Paragon’s grip. Did he rest at anchor in Divvytown’s harbor, or did his outstretched wings send him sliding aloft on an updraft? Did he wait for young Kennit to return, desperately hoping the boy would be unhurt this time, or did he expect Althea and Brashen to return and lead him to his vengeance? The placid motion of the lagoon water, the dwindling patter of the evening rain, the smells and sounds of Divvytown, the guarded quiet of his crew all plunged him into a state of suspension almost like sleep.
Deep in his hold, in the darkness, where the curve of the bow made a cramped space beneath the deck, was the blood place. It was too small for a man to stand or even creep, but a small, battered boy could shelter there, rolled in a tight ball while his blood dripped onto Paragon’s wizardwood, and they shared their misery. There Kennit could brace himself and snatch briefly at sleep, knowing no one could come upon him unawares. Whenever Igrot began to bellow for him, Paragon would wake him. Quick as a rabbit, he would pop out of his hiding place and present himself, choosing to leave his sanctuary and face Igrot rather than risk the searching crew discovering his refuge. Sometimes Kennit slept there. He would press his small hands against the great wizardwood beams that ran the length of the ship, and Paragon would watch over him while sharing his dreams.
And his nightmares.
During those times, Paragon had discovered his unique ability. He could take away the pain, the nightmares, and even the bad memories. Not completely, of course. To take all the memory away would have left the boy a fool. But he could absorb the pain just as he absorbed the blood from his beatings. He could dim the agony and soften the edges of Kennit’s recall. All that he could do—for the boy. It demanded that he keep for himself all he took away from Kennit. The sharp humiliation and indignity, the stabbing pain and stunned bewilderment and the scorching hatred all became Paragon’s, to keep hidden forever deep inside him. To Kennit he left only his icy-cold resolve that he would escape, that he would leave it all behind and that someday his own exploits would forever blot from the memory of the world all trace of Igrot. Someday, Kennit resolved, he would restore all that Igrot had broken and destroyed. He would make it as if the evil old pirate had never been. No one would even recall his name. Everything Igrot had ever dirtied would be hidden away or silenced.
Even Kennit’s family liveship.
That was how it was supposed to have been.
The admission disturbed ancient pain, shifting it like unsecured cargo pounding him during a storm. The depth of his failure overwhelmed him. He had betrayed his family, he had betrayed the last true-hearted member of his blood. He had tried to be loyal, he had tried to stay dead, but then the serpents had come, prodding and nosing at him, speaking to him without words, confusing him as to who he was and where his loyalties should lie. They had frightened him, and in his fear he had forgotten his promises, forgotten his duty, forgotten everything except his need for his family to comfort and reassure him. He had gone home. Slowly, through the seasons, he had drifted, following friendly currents, until he had returned, a derelict, to the shores of Bingtown.
And all that befell him there was only just punishment for his faithlessness. How could he feel anger with Kennit? Had not Paragon betrayed him first? A deep groan broke loose inside Paragon. He gripped his stillness and his silence like a shield.
The light tread of running feet on his deck. Two slender hands on his railing. “Paragon? What is the matter?”
He could not tell her. She would not understand, and to speak would only break his promise more thoroughly than it was already broken. He bowed his face into his hands and sobbed, his shoulders shaking and his hands trembling.
“There, I told you, didn’t I? It’s him.” The voices came from below. Someone was down there on the water near the bow, staring up at him. Staring and jeering and mocking. Soon they would begin to throw things. Dead fish and rotten fruit.
“You down there, stand clear of our ship!” Amber warned them in a stern voice. “Take your gig away from here.”
They paid no attention. “If he was Igrot’s ship, then where is Igrot’s star?” another voice demanded. “He put that star on everything that belonged to him.”
The long-ago horror of the star being cut into his chest was eclipsed by the memory of a thousand inky needle-pricks jabbing the same emblem into his hip. He began to tremble. Every plank in his body shuddered. The calm waters of the lagoon shivered against him.
“Paragon. Steady, steady. It will be all right. Say nothing.” Amber spoke swiftly, trying to calm him, but her words could not take away the ancient sting.
“Star or not, I’m right. I know I am.” The man in the boat below sounded very smug. “The chopped face is a dead giveaway. Moreover, it’s a liveship, same as I’ve always heard the tales say. Hey! Hey, ship! You were Igrot’s ship, weren’t you?”
The insult of that vile lie was too much to bear. Too often had it been flung at him, too many times he had been forced to mouth it for the boy’s sake. Never again. Never!
“NO!” He roared the word. “Not I!” He snatched at the air in front of him, hoping that his tormentors were within reach. “I was never Igrot’s ship! Never! Never! Never!” He shouted the word until it rang in his own ears, drowning out every other lie. Below and above and within him, he heard confused shouts. Bare feet thundered on his decks but he didn’t care anymore. “Never! Never! Never!”
He barked the word out, over and over, until he could think of nothing else. If he never stopped saying it, then they could never ask him anything again. If they didn’t ask, he couldn’t tell. He could at least be that true to his word and his family.
THEY MEANDERED DOWN THE STREET IN EASY COMPANIONSHIP. The rain had eased and a few stars were starting to show in the deep blue edge of the sky. The taverns were setting their lanterns out. Candlelight glowed behind the shuttered windows of small homes. Brashen’s arm was across her shoulders, and Althea’s was about his waist. Their day had gone well. Divvytown seemed to have accepted them at their word. If the information they had gathered was confusing, it still confirmed one thing. Kennit would return to Divvytown. Soon.
Establishing that had required several rounds of drink at the final tavern. They were now making their way back to the ship’s boat. They had not yet decided whether to slip quietly out of Divvytown tomorrow, or to stay on, perhaps even await Kennit’s return. The chance of ransoming Vivacia seemed small; deceit seemed a likelier tack. There were too many possible courses of action. Time to go back to the ship and consider them all.
Foot traffic in the town dwindled as folk sought shelter for the night. As they wended their way down the wooden boardwalk, a couple ahead of them turned into the door of a small house and shut the door firmly behind them. A few moments later, dim candlelight shone from within.
“I wish we were them,” Althea observed wistfully.
Brashen’s stride checked, then slowed. He pulled her around to face him and offered quietly, “I could find us a room somewhere.”
She shook her head regretfully. “The crew is waiting down at the boat. We told them to be there by nightfall. If we’re late, they’ll assume something has gone wrong.”
“Let them wait.” He bent his head and kissed her hungrily. In the chill night, his mouth was tauntingly warm. She made a small frustrated sound. “Come here,” he said gruffly. He stepped off the boardwalk into the thick dark of the alley and drew her after him. In the deep shadows, he pressed her back up against a wall and kissed her more leisurely. His hands wandered down her back to her hips. With abrupt ease, he lifted her. When his body pressed hers to the wall, she could feel the jut of his desire. “Here?” he asked her thickly.
She wanted him but this was too dangerous. “Perhaps if I were wearing a skirt. But I’m not.” She pushed gently away from him and he let her down, but kept her pinned against the wall. She did not struggle. His kiss and his touch were more intoxicating than the brandy they had shared. His mouth tasted of liquor and lust.
He broke the kiss suddenly, lifting his head like a stag at bay. “What’s that?”
It was like waking from a dream. “What’s what?” She felt dazed.
“That shouting. Do you hear it? From the harbor.”
The faint repetitive cries came to her ears. She could not make out the word, but with icy certainty, she knew the voice. “Paragon.” She stuffed her shirt back into her waistband. “Let’s go.”
Side by side, they thundered down the boardwalk. There was no sense going quietly. Shouting was not unusual in a town like Divvytown, but eventually it would attract attention. Paragon was crying the same word over and over again.
They were nearly at the docks when Clef charged up to them. “Yer needed on ther ship, Cap’n. Paragon’s gone mad.” He panted the words breathlessly and then they were all running together. As they clattered out onto the docks, Althea saw the crew of the ship’s gig waiting for them, as well as Lop. Jek had her knife out. “I’ve got the stuff you bought loaded, but we’re missing two men,” she announced. The two former slaves were not there. Althea knew that no amount of waiting would change that.
“Cast off,” she ordered them tersely. “Get back to the ship, all of you. We’re leaving Divvytown tonight.”
There was a moment of shock, and Althea cursed herself for a drunken fool. Then Brashen demanded, “Didn’t you hear the mate’s order? Do I have to tell you myself?”
They scrambled down the ladder into the waiting boats. Paragon’s voice carried clearly over the water. “Never, never, never!” his deep tones belled dolorously. Althea made out the shapes of two small boats near his bow. He’d attracted an audience already. Doubtless, the word would burn through Divvytown that the newcomers had arrived in a liveship. What would that convey to the pirate city?
It seemed to take all night to reach the ship. As they gained the deck, a scowling Lavoy met them. “I told you this was insane!” he rebuked Brashen. “The damn ship has gone crazy, and your fool carpenter did nothing to calm him. Those louts in the boat below were bellowing that he was Igrot’s ship. Is that true?”
“Hoist anchor and our sails spread, now!” Brashen replied. “Use the boats to turn us about. We’re leaving Divvytown.”
“Tonight?” Lavoy was outraged. “In the dark on a lunatic ship?”
“Can you obey an order?” Brashen snarled at him.
“Maybe if it made any sense!” Lavoy retorted.
Brashen reached out and seized the mate by the throat. He dragged him close and snarled into his face, “Make sense of this. If you won’t obey my orders, I’ll kill you now. Last chance. I’ve had it with your insolence.”
For an instant, the tableau held, Brashen’s hand on Lavoy’s throat, and Lavoy staring up at him. Brashen had height and reach over Lavoy, but the mate had wider shoulders and a deeper chest. Althea held her breath. Then Lavoy lowered his eyes.
Brashen released his throat. “Get to your task.” He turned away.
Like a snake striking, Lavoy pulled his knife and sank it into Brashen’s back. “That for you!” he roared.
Althea leapt to Brashen as he staggered forward, eyes clenched against the pain. In two strides, Lavoy reached the railing. “Stop him! He’ll betray us!” Althea ordered. Several crewmen sprang after him. She thought they would seize him. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lavoy leap. “Damn!” she cried, and turned. To her horror, the other men who had sprung toward him were following him over the side. Not just the Tattooed ones from Bingtown, but other crewmen as well, leaping over the railing after Lavoy as if they were fish heading up a spawning river. She heard the splash of swimmers below. Lavoy would betray them in Divvytown. The loyal crew gaped after them.
“Let them go,” Brashen commanded hoarsely. “We need to get out of here and we’re better off without them.” He let go of her and stood straight.
Incredulously, she watched Brashen reach over his shoulder. With a tug, he freed Lavoy’s knife from his back. He flung it down with an oath.
“How bad is it?” Althea demanded.
“Forget it for now. It didn’t go deep. Get the crew moving while I deal with Paragon.”
Without waiting for her reply, he hastened to the foredeck. Althea was left gaping after him. She caught her breath and began barking out orders to get the ship under way. Up on the foredeck, she heard Brashen give one of his own. “Ship! Shut your mouth! That’s an order.”
Astonishingly, Paragon obeyed. He answered both his helm and the tug of the small boats as the men below rowed frantically to bring the ship about. The sluggish flow of the lagoon was with them, as was the prevailing wind. As Althea sprang to her own tasks, she prayed that Paragon would keep to the channel and take them safely down the narrow river. Like an opening blossom, their canvas bloomed in the night wind. They fled Divvytown.