The Mad Ship. Робин Хобб

wandering priest was unruffled. ‘I did. The man must be confined until he can be judged and justice done to him.’ The priest looked down on Wintrow from his superior height and years. ‘Do you dispute that?’

      ‘I?’ Wintrow appeared to consider the question. ‘Why would it worry you if I did? Were I you, I would not worry about what Wintrow Vestrit thought. I would worry about what Captain Kennit might think of me taking such authority to myself.’

      ‘Kennit’s a dying man,’ Sa’Adar said boldly. ‘Brig is the one who commands here. He seems to welcome my authority over the slaves. He gives out his orders through me. He has not challenged my posting of a guard on Captain Haven.’

      ‘Slaves? Surely they are all free folk now.’ Wintrow smiled as he spoke, and pretended not to notice how closely the map-faces were following the conversation. The other former slaves loitering on the deck were also eavesdropping. Some drew closer.

      ‘You know what I mean!’ Sa’Adar exclaimed in annoyance.

      ‘Generally, a man says what he means…’ Wintrow let the observation hang a moment, then added smoothly, ‘You said you were seeking me earlier?’

      ‘I was. Have you been to see Kennit today?’

      ‘Why do you ask?’ Wintrow countered quietly.

      ‘Because I should like to know plainly what his intentions are.’ The priest had a trained voice and he now gave it a carrying quality. More than one tattooed face turned towards him as he spoke. ‘The tales told in Jamaillia City say that when Captain Kennit captures a slave ship, he kills the crew and gives the ship over to those who were slaves on it, so that they, too, can become pirates and carry on his crusade against slavery. Such was what we believed when we welcomed his aid in manning the ship that we had taken. We expected to keep it. We hoped it would be a tool for the new beginning each of us must make. Now Captain Kennit speaks as if he will keep it for himself. With all we have heard of him, we do not believe he is a man who would snatch from us the only thing of value we have. Therefore, we wish to ask him, plainly and fairly. To whom does he believe this ship belongs?’

      Wintrow regarded him levelly. ‘If you wish to ask that question of Captain Kennit, then I encourage you to do so. Only he can give his opinion of the answer. If you ask it of me, you will hear, not my opinion, but the truth.’ He had deliberately spoken more softly than Sa’Adar so that those who wished to listen would have to draw near. Many had done so, including some of the pirate crewmen. They had a dangerous look to them.

      Sa’Adar smiled sardonically. ‘Your truth is that the ship belongs to you, I suppose.’

      Wintrow shook his head, and returned the smile. ‘The ship belongs to herself. Vivacia is a free creature, with the right to determine her own life. Or would you, who have worn the heavy chains of slavery, presume to do to another what was done so cruelly to you?’

      Ostensibly he addressed Sa’Adar. Wintrow did not look around to see how the question affected the others. Instead, he was silent, as if awaiting an answer. After a moment Sa’Adar gave a snort of disdainful laughter. ‘He cannot be serious,’ he told the throng. ‘By some sorcery, the figurehead can speak. It is an interesting bit of Bingtown trickery. But a ship is a ship, a thing, and not a person. And by rights, this ship is ours!’

      Only a few slaves muttered assent, for no sooner was the question uttered than a pirate confronted him. ‘Are you talking mutiny?’ the grizzled tar demanded. “Cause if you are, you’ll go over the side before you take another breath.’ The man smiled in a decidedly unfriendly way that bared the gaps in his teeth. To his left, a tall pirate laughed gutturally. He rolled his shoulders as if stretching, a subtle display of strength for Sa’Adar’s map-faces. Both the tattooed men straightened, eyes narrowing.

      Sa’Adar looked shocked. Obviously, he had not expected this. He stood straight and began indignantly, ‘Why should it be a concern of yours?’

      The stocky pirate poked the tall priest in the chest. His jabbing finger stayed there as he pointed out, ‘Kennit’s our captain. What he says, goes. Right?’ When the priest did not answer, the man grinned. Sa’Adar stepped back from the pressure of his forefinger against his chest. As he turned to walk away, the pirate observed, ‘You’d do best not to talk against anything Kennit does. You don’t like something, tell the captain to his face. He’s a hard man, but fair. Don’t wag your tongue behind his back. If you make trouble on this ship, it will only come down on you.’

      Without a backward glance, the pirates went back to their work. Attention shifted to Sa’Adar. He did not mask the angry glint in his eyes, but his voice sounded thin and childish when he said, ‘Be assured I will speak to Kennit about this. Be assured I will!’

      Wintrow lowered his eyes to the deck. Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps there was a way he could regain his family ship from both slaves and pirates. In any conflict, there is opportunity for someone. His heart beat strangely faster as he walked away, and he wondered where such thoughts had bred in him.

      Vivacia was preoccupied. Although her eyes stared ahead over the water to the stern of the Marietta, her real attention was turned inward. The man on the wheel had a steady hand; the crew that sprang to her rigging were true sailors one and all. The crew was cleansing filth from her decks and holds, and repairing woodwork and polishing metal. For the first time in many months, she had no qualms as to the abilities of her captain. She could let her mind be completely occupied with her own concerns, trusting that those who manned her knew their trade.

      A quickened liveship, through her wizardwood bones, could be aware of all that happened aboard her. Much of it was mundane and scarcely worthy of attention. The mending of a line, the chopping of an onion in the galley need not concern her. Those things could not change her course in life. Kennit could. In the captain’s quarters, the enigmatic man slept restlessly. Vivacia could not see him, but she could feel him in a way humans had no words to describe. His fever was rising again. The woman who tended him was anxious. She did something with cool water and a cloth. Vivacia reached for details, but there was no bond there. She did not yet know them well enough.

      Kennit was far more accessible to her than Etta. His fever dreams ran out of him carelessly, spilling into Vivacia like the blood that had been shed on her decks. She absorbed them but could make no sense of them. A little boy was tormented, torn between loyalty to a father who loved him but had no idea how to protect him, and a man who protected him from others but had no love at all in his heart. Over and over again, a serpent rose from the depths of his dreams to shear off his leg. The bite of its jaws was acid and ice. From the depths of his soul, he reached towards her, towards a deep sharing that he recalled only as a formless memory from a lost infancy.

      ‘Hello, hello, what’s this? Or who is this, perhaps I should say?’

      The voice, Kennit’s voice, came to her in a tiny whisper inside her mind. She shook her head, tousling her hair into the wind. The pirate did not speak to her. Even in her strongest communions with Althea and Wintrow, their thoughts had not come so clearly into her mind. ‘That is not Kennit,’ she murmured to herself. Of that, she was certain. Yet, it was certainly his voice. In his stateroom, the pirate captain drew a deep breath and expelled it, muttering denials and refusals as he did so. He groaned suddenly.

      ‘No. Not Kennit,’ the tiny voice confirmed in amusement. ‘Nor are you the Vestrit you think yourself to be. Who are you?’

      It was disconcerting to feel a mind groping after her reaction. Instinctively she recoiled from the contact. She was stronger far than he was. When she pulled away from him, he could not follow her. In doing so, she severed her tentative contact with Kennit as well. Frustration and agitation roiled through her. She clenched her fists at her side and took the next wave badly, smashing herself into it rather than through it. The helmsman cursed to himself and made a tiny correction. Vivacia licked the salt spray from her lips and shook her hair back from her face. Who and what was he? She held her thoughts still inside herself and tried to decide if she were more frightened or intrigued. She sensed an odd kinship with the being who had spoken to her. She had turned his aggressive prying aside easily,