The Liveship Traders Series Page 11

  But that had been why Kennit had chosen the Marietta to ship aboard. Her lines were lovely beneath the debris of years of neglect and the badly patched canvas on her yards. And the captain was ripe for overthrow. Any ship’s master who had not even the leadership to let his mate do his cursing and brawling for him was a man whose reign was ending. It took Kennit seventeen months to overthrow the captain, and an additional four months to see his mate over the side as well.

  By the time he stepped up to command the ship his fellow sailors were clamouring eagerly to follow him. He chose Sorcor with care, and all but courted the man to make him his loyal subordinate. Once they had taken command, he and Sorcor took the vessel out on the open seas, far from sight of land. There they culled the crew as a gambler discards worthless cards at a table. As the only men capable of reading a chart or setting a course, they were almost immune from mutiny, yet Kennit never let Sorcor’s strictness cross the line into abuse. Kennit believed that most men were happiest under a firm hand. If that hand also supplied cleanliness and the security of knowing one’s place, the men would be only the more content. Those that could be made into decent sailors were. They sailed to the limits of the ship’s biscuits and the stars he and Sorcor knew.

  By the time he and Sorcor brought the Marietta into a port so distant that not even Sorcor knew the language, the ship had the guise of a prim little merchant vessel, and a crew who scrambled at a glance from either captain or mate. There Kennit spent his long hoarded crew-shares to refit his ship as best he could. When the Marietta left that shore, it was to indulge in a month of precision piracy such as the little ports on that coast had never faced before. She returned to Divvytown heavy with exotic goods and oddly stamped coins. Those of the crew that returned with him were as wealthy as they had ever been, and as loyal as dogs. In a single voyage, Kennit had gained a ship, a reputation and his fortune.

  Yet even as he stepped down onto the docks of Divvytown, thinking he had realized his life’s ambition, all his joy in his accomplishment peeled away from him like dead skin from a burn. He watched his crew strut up the docks, dressed in silk as if they were lords, their swag-bags heavy with coins and ivory and curiously wrought jewellery. He knew then that they were but sailors, and their plunder would be engulfed in Divvytown’s maw in a matter of hours. And suddenly the immaculately clean decks and neatly sewn sails and crisp paint on the Marietta seemed as brief and shallow a triumph as his crew’s wealth. He rebuffed Sorcor’s companionship, and instead spent their week in port drinking in the dimness of his cabin. He had never expected to be so disheartened by success. He felt cheated.

  It took him months to recover. He moved through that time in a numb blackness, bewildered by the hopelessness that had settled on him. Some distant part of himself recognized then how well he had chosen in his first mate. Sorcor carried on as if nothing were amiss, and never once inquired into the captain’s state of mind. If the crew sensed something was odd, there was no evidence of it. Kennit was of the philosophy that on a well-run ship, the captain need never speak directly to the crew, but should only make his wishes known to the mate and trust him to see them carried out. That habit served him well in those despairing days. He had not felt himself again until the morning that Sorcor had rapped on his door to announce that they had a fine fat merchant vessel in sight, and did the captain wish him to pursue it?

  They not only pursued it, but grappled and boarded her, securing for themselves a fine cargo of wine and perfumes. Kennit left Sorcor in charge of the Marietta’s deck while he himself led the crew onto the merchant vessel. Up to that time, he had viewed battle and killing as one of the untidy aspects of his chosen career. For the first time that day, his heart caught fire with battle fury. Over and again he slew his anger and disappointment, until to his shock there was suddenly no one left to oppose him. He turned from the last body that had fallen at his feet to find his men gathered in knots on the deck, staring at him with a sort of fascination. He heard not so much as a whispered remark, but the combination of horror and admiration in their eyes told him much. He thought he had won his crew to him with discipline, but that was the day when they actually gave him their hearts. They would not speak familiarly with him nor ever regard him with fondness. But when they went forth to drink and carouse through Divvytown, they would brag of his strict shipboard discipline that marked them as men of endurance, and his savagery with a sword that marked them as a ship to be feared.

  From that time on, they expected their captain to lead their forays. The first time he held them back and accepted a captain’s surrender of their ship, the crew had been somewhat disgruntled, until he shared out amongst them the greater crew-shares from the ransom of the ship and cargo. Then it had been all right; the satisfaction of greed can make most things right with a pirate crew.

  In the intervening years, he secured his little empire. He cultivated in Chalced both merchants in the seedier ports that would buy unusual cargos with no questions asked, and lesser Chalcedean lords who did not scruple to act as go-betweens in the ransoming of ships, cargos and crews. One got far more from them for pirated cargo than one did in Divvytown or Skullsport. In recent months he had begun to fantasize that these Chalcedean lordlings could help him gain recognition of the Pirate Isles as a legitimate domain, once he had convinced the inhabitants to accept him as their ruler. He once again tallied up what he had to offer both sides. For the pirates, legitimacy, with no threat of a noose to haunt them. Open trade with other ports. Once he unified the Pirate Isles and towns, they could act together to put an end to the slavers raiding their towns. He worried briefly that that would not be enough for them, but then pushed that thought aside. For the merchants of Chalced and the Traders of Bingtown, the benefits were clearer. Safe use of the Inside Passage up the coast to Bingtown, Chalced and the lands beyond. It would not be free of course. Nothing could be free. But it would be safe. A smile ghosted across his lips. They’d like that change.

  He was broken from his reverie by the flurry of activity as the deck crew hastened to throw and secure lines. The hands turned to with a will, positioning the heavy hemp camels that would prevent the Marietta from grinding against the dock. Kennit stood silent and aloof, listening to Sorcor bark the necessary orders. All about him, the ship was made tidy and secure. He neither moved nor spoke until all the hands were mustered in the waist below him, restlessly awaiting the division of the loot. When Sorcor mounted the deck to stand beside him, Kennit gave him a brief nod, then turned to his men.

  ‘I make to you the same offer I have made the last three times we’ve made port. Those of you who choose may take your shares as allotted and carry them off to trade and peddle as best you can. Those of you with patience and good sense can take a draw against your share, and allow the mate and me to dispose of our cargo more profitably. Those who choose to do so can return to the ship the day after tomorrow to take their remaining share of those profits.’ He looked out over the faces of his men. Some met his eyes and some glanced at their fellows. All shuffled restlessly as children. The town and rum and women awaited them. He cleared his throat. ‘Those of you who have had the patience to allow me to sell their cargo for them can tell you that the coin they received as their shares was greater than if they had tried to barter on their own. A wine merchant will pay more for our whole shipment of brandy than you will get for a single keg you bargain away to an innkeeper. The bales of silk, sold as a lot to a Trader, will fetch far more than you can trade a single bolt to a whore for.’

  He paused. Below him, men fidgeted and shifted impatiently. Kennit clenched his jaws. Time and time again, he had proven to them all that his way was more profitable. They knew it, any man of them would admit it, but the moment they were tied to the dock, all good sense deserted them. He permitted himself a brief sigh of exasperation, then turned to Sorcor. ‘The tally of our gains, Mate Sorcor.’

  Sorcor was ready with it. Sorcor was always ready with everything. He held up the scroll and unfur
led it as if reading from it, but Kennit knew he had actually memorized what they had taken. The man could not even read his own name, but if you asked him what each crew-share should be from forty bales of silk, he could tell you in an instant. The men murmured appreciatively amongst themselves as the tally was read aloud. The pimps and freegirls who had gathered on the dock to await his crewmen catcalled and whistled, with some of the freegirls already calling out offers on their wares. The men shifted about like tethered beasts, eyes darting from Sorcor and his scroll to all the pleasures that awaited them on the dock and up the muddy roads. When Sorcor finished, he had to roar twice for silence before Kennit would speak. When he did, his voice was deliberately soft.

  ‘Those of you wishing to take a draw against what your crew-share of what our goods will bring may line up outside my cabin to see me one at a time. You others may meet with Sorcor.’

  He turned and descended the ways to his cabin. He’d found it best to let Sorcor deal with the others. They would simply have to accept the mate’s assessment of what one third of a bale of silk was worth in terms of two fifths of a keg of brandy or a half measure of cindin. If they hadn’t the patience to wait to get their shares as coin, they’d have to accept whatever equivalent Sorcor thought fair. So far, he’d heard no grumbling against the mate’s division of the loot. Either like Kennit they did not question his honesty among his shipmates, or they simply did not dare to bring their grumbling to the captain’s door. Either was fine with Kennit.

  The line of men that came to receive a coin advance against their crew-shares was disappointingly short. Kennit gave each of them five selders. It was, he judged, enough to keep them in women, drink and food for an evening, and a decent bed in an inn, if they did not decide to return to the ship to sleep. As soon as they had their money, they left the ship. Kennit emerged onto the deck in time to see the last man jump down onto the crowded dock. It reminded him of throwing bloody meat into shark waters. The folk on the dock churned and swarmed around the last seaman, the freegirls proffering their wares even as the pimps shouted over their heads that a wealthy young tar like him could afford better, could afford a woman in a bed all night, yes and a bottle of rum on the table beside it. With less determination, apprentices hawked fresh bread and sweets and ripe fruit. The young pirate grinned, enjoying their avidity. He seemed to have forgotten that as soon as they’d shaken the last coin from his pocket, they’d be as happy to leave him in a gutter or alley.

  Kennit turned aside from the bluster and noise. Sorcor was already finished with his divvying. He was standing on the high deck by the rail, looking out over the town. Kennit frowned slightly. The mate must have known in advance which men wanted their shares as goods, and had already calculated what he would give them. Then his brow smoothed. It was more efficient thus, and that was ever Sorcor’s way. Kennit offered him a pouch heavy with coin, and the mate took it wordlessly. After a moment, he rolled his shoulders and turned to face his captain. ‘So, Sorcor. Are you coming with me to change our cargo to gold?’

  Sorcor took an embarrassed step sideways. ‘If the captain doesn’t mind, I’d sooner have a bit of time to myself first.’

  Kennit concealed his disappointment. ‘It’s all one to me,’ he lied. Then he said quietly, ‘I’ve a mind to turn off those men who always insist on taking their shares as raw goods. The more I have to sell in bulk, the better price I can get. What think you?’

  Sorcor swallowed. Then he cleared his throat. ‘It is their right, sir. To take their crew-shares as goods if they choose. That’s the way it’s always been done in Divvytown.’ He paused to scratch at a scarred cheek. Kennit knew he had weighed his words before speaking when he went on, ‘They’re good men, sir. Good sailors, true shipmates, and not a one shirks whether the work is with a sail needle or a sword. But they didn’t become pirates to live under another man’s rules, no matter how good for us they might be.’ With difficulty he met Kennit’s eyes and added, ‘No man becomes a pirate because he wants to be ruled by another.’ His certainty increased as he added, ‘And we’d pay hell’s own wages to try and replace them. They’re seasoned hands, not scrapings from a brothel floor. The kind of man you’d get, if you went about asking for men who’d let you sell their prizes for them, wouldn’t have the spines to act on their own. They’d be the kind as would stand back while you cleared another ship’s deck, and only cross when the victory was assured.’ Sorcor shook his head, more to himself than to his captain. ‘You’ve won these men over to you, sir. They’ll follow you. But you’d not be wise to try to force them to give up their wills to you. All this talk of kings and leaders makes them uneasy. You can’t force a man to fight well for you…’ Sorcor’s voice trailed off and he glanced suddenly up at Kennit as if recalling to whom he spoke.

  A sudden icy anger seethed through Kennit. ‘No doubt that’s so, Sorcor. See that a good watch is kept aboard, for I won’t be back this night. I leave you in charge.’

  With no more than that, Kennit turned and left him. He didn’t glance back to read the expression on the mate’s face. He’d essentially confined him to the ship for the night, for the agreement between them was that one of them would always sleep aboard when the ship was in port. Well, let him mutter. Sorcor had just crippled all the dreams that Kennit had been entertaining for the last few months. As he strode across his decks, Kennit wondered bitterly how he could be such a fool as to dream at all. This was as much as he’d ever be; the captain of a ship full of wastrels who could see no further than their own cocks.

  He jumped easily from the deck to the docks. At once the crowd of vendors surged toward him, but a single scowl sent them shrinking back. At least he still had that much of a reputation in Divvytown. The thought only soured him further. They gave way as he pushed past them. A reputation in Divvytown. Why, that was at least as good as admiring oneself in a piss-puddle. So he was captain of a ship. For how long? For as long as the curs under him believed in his fist and his sword. Ten years from now, there’d be a man, bigger or faster or sneakier, and then Kennit could look forward to being one of the grey-faced beggars that slunk about the alleys robbing drunks, and stood outside taverns begging for leavings.

  His anger grew in him like a poison in his blood. He knew he’d be the wiser to find a place to be alone until this black mood left him, but his sudden hatred for himself and his world was such that he did not care what was wiser. He detested the sticky black mud of the streets and byways, he despised the dumped slops he stepped around, he loathed the stench and noise of Divvytown. He wished he could avenge himself on his world and on his own stupidity by destroying it all. He knew it was no time to go bargaining. He didn’t care. The brokers in Divvytown added such a large cut for themselves that it was scarcely worth his time to deal with them. They’d done far better when they’d disposed of their goods in Chalced. All the prizes they’d taken between Chalced and home he was practically giving to these vultures. In his reckless temper he let the silk go for half what it was worth, but when the Trader tried to get as good a bargain on the brandy and cindin, he uncovered Kennit’s icy wrath, and ended up paying more than their worth to keep Kennit from taking the entire cargo elsewhere. The bargain was sealed with a nod, for Kennit disdained even to shake hands with the man. The gold would be paid tomorrow when the broker sent his longshoremen to off-load the cargo. Kennit left the Trader’s parlour without another word.

  Outside a summer’s dusk had fallen. The raucous noise from the taverns had increased, while the shrilling of insects and frogs from the surrounding swamps and the brackish swale provided a background chorus. The cooling of the day seemed to free a new regiment of odours to assault Kennit’s nose. The greasy mud of the streets sucked noisily at his boots as he strode along. He stayed well to the middle of the street, away from the dimmer alley mouths and the predators that would lurk there. Most of them were desperate enough to attack any man who came within reach. As if recalling a forgotten appointment, it came to Kennit that he was h
ungry and thirsty. And tired. And sad.

  The tide of his anger had retreated, leaving him stranded in weariness and misery. Hopelessly, he tried to discover who was at fault for his situation. It did not please him to decide that the fault, as always, was his own. There was no one else to blame, there was no one else to punish. No matter how he seared the faults from himself, another always arose to take its place.

  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.