'Fir try. But I doubt they will give me a chance. I'm an outsider in Bingtown. They only listen to their own.'
'You once told me you were respected in Bingtown.'
'As an artisan and a merchant, they respect me. I am not an Old Trader. They would not have much patience with me if I began meddling in their affairs. Likely, I would suddenly find I had no customers. Or perhaps worse. The whole town is becoming more divided along Old Trader and newcomer lines. There is a rumor that the Bingtown Council has sent a delegation to the Satrap, with their original charter. They will demand he honor the word of Satrap Esclepius. The rumor is that they will demand he recall all the New Traders, and cancel all the land grants I he has made them. They also demand that Satrap Cosgo live up to the old charter, and forbear from issuing any more land grants without the consent of the Bingtown Traders.'
'A detailed rumor,' Paragon observed.
'I have a keen ear for rumor and gossip. More than once, it has kept me alive.'
A silence fell.
'I wish I knew when Althea was coming back.' Amber's voice was wistful. 'I could ask her to speak for us.'
Paragon debated mentioning Brashen Trell. Brashen was his friend, Brashen would want to speak for him. Brashen was Old Trader. But even as he thought of that, he recalled that Brashen had been disinherited. Brashen was as much a disgrace to the Trell family as Paragon was to the Ludlucks. It would do no good to have Brashen speak out for him, even if he could get the Bingtown Traders' Council to hear him. It would be one black sheep speaking on behalf of another. No one would listen. He set his hand over the scar on his chest, concealing for an instant the crude, seven-pointed star branded into him. His fingers traveled over it thoughtfully. He sighed, then drew a deep breath.
'The mussels are done. I can smell them.'
'Do you want to taste one?'
'Why not?' He should try new things while he still could. It might not be much longer before his chances to experience new things were gone forever.
CHAPTER TWO
The Pirate's Leg
BACK IN THE MONASTERY, BERANDOL USED TO SAY THAT ONE WAY TO disperse fear and create decision was to consider the worst possible outcome of one's actions.' After a moment Wintrow added, 'Berandol said that if one considered the worst possible outcome and planned how to face it, then he could be decisive when it came time to act.'
Vivacia glanced back over her shoulder at Wintrow. The boy had been leaning on the bow rail for the better part of the morning, staring out over the choppy water of the channel. The wind had pulled his black hair free of his queue. The ragged remnants of his brown garments looked more like a beggar's rags than a priest's robe. The sentient figurehead had been aware of him, but had chosen to share his silence and mood. There was little to say to each other that they did not both already know. Even now, the boy spoke only to put his own thoughts in order, not to ask any advice of her. She knew that, but still prompted him along. 'And our worst fear is?'
Wintrow heaved a heavy sigh. 'The pirate suffers from a fever that comes and goes. Each time it overpowers him, Kennit emerges from it weaker. The source is obviously the infection in his leg stump. Any animal bite is a dirty wound, but the sea serpent's bite seems unusually poisoned. The festering part must be cut away, and the sooner the better. He is too weak for such a surgery, but I see little prospect that he will grow stronger. So I tell myself I must act swiftly. I also know it is unlikely he will survive my cutting. If he dies, so must my father and I. That was the bargain I struck with him.' He paused, and then went on, 'I would die. That is not truly the worst outcome. The worst is that you must continue alone, a slave of these pirates.'
He did not look at her but gazed out over the constantly moving waves as he added, 'So you see why I have come to you. You have more right to a say in this than I do. I did not fully consider that when I struck my deal with Kennit. I wagered my death and my father's. In doing so, I unintentionally wagered your life as well. It was not mine to bet. You have, I believe, a great deal more to lose than I.'
Vivacia nodded, but her own thought slid past Wintrow's and into one of her own. 'He is not what I expected a pirate to be. Captain Kennit, I mean.' Thoughtfully she added, 'A slave, you just said. But I do not think he considers me his slave.'
'Kennit is not what I thought a pirate would be, either. But despite his charm and intelligence, we must remember that he is one. Moreover, we must recall that if I fail, he will not be the one to command you. He would be dead. There is no telling who would then possess you. It might be Sorcor, his first mate. It might be Etta, his woman. Or perhaps Sa'Adar would once more attempt to claim you for himself and the freed slaves.' Wintrow shook his head. 'I cannot win. If the operation is successful, I must watch Kennit take you from me. Already he flatters and charms you with his words, and his crew works your decks. I have little say in anything that happens aboard you anymore. Whether Kennit lives or dies, I will soon have no power to protect you.'
Vivacia shrugged one wizardwood shoulder. 'And you did before?' she asked, somewhat coldly.
'I suppose not.' The boy's voice was apologetic. 'Yet, I had some idea of what to expect. Too much has happened too fast, to both of us. There has been too much death, and too many changes. I have had no time to mourn, no time to meditate. I scarce know who or what I am anymore.'
They both fell silent, considering.
WINTROW FELT ADRIFT IN TIME. HIS LIFE, HIS REAL LIFE, WAS FAR AWAY, IN a peaceful monastery in a warm valley rich with orchards and fields. If he could step across the intervening days and distance, if he could wake up in his narrow bed in his cool cell, he was sure he could pick up the threads of that life. He hadn't changed, he insisted to himself. Not really. So he was missing a finger. He had learned to cope with that. And the slave tattoo on his face went no deeper than his skin. He had never truly been a slave; the tattoo had only been his father's cruel revenge for his attempt at escaping. He was still Wintrow. In a few quiet days, he could rediscover the peaceful priest inside him.
But not here. The recent swiftly shifting events in his life had left him with so many strong emotions, he could scarcely feel at all. Vivacia's feelings were as jumbled as his own, for her recent experiences had been as brutal. Kyle Haven had forced the young liveship into service as a slaver, prey to all the dark emotions of her miserable cargo. Wintrow, a blood member of her founding family, had not been able to comfort her. His own involuntary servitude on the ship had soured what should have been a natural bond between them. His alienation from her had only increased Vivacia's misery. Yet still they had hobbled along, like slaves shackled together.
In one stormy, bloody night, the slaves' uprising had freed her of Kyle Haven's captaincy and her role as a slaver. Of the original crew, Wintrow and his father were the sole survivors. As dawn lightened the sky, the crippled ship was overtaken by pirates. Captain Kennit and his crew had claimed Vivacia as a prize without striking a single blow. Then it was that Wintrow had struck his bargain with Kennit: he would try to save the pirate's life if Kennit would allow him and his father to live. Sa'Adar, a priest among the slaves and the leader of the uprising, had other ambitions. He wished not only to stand in judgment on Wintrow's father, Kyle, but also to demand Kennit turn the Vivacia over to the slaves as their rightful prize. No matter who prevailed, the future was uncertain for both Wintrow and the ship. Yet, the ship already seemed to favor the pirate.
Ahead of them, the Marietta cut a brisk path through the lace-edged waves. Vivacia followed eagerly in her wake. They were bound for some pirate stronghold; Wintrow knew no more than that. To the west, the horizon disappeared into the foggy coast of the Cursed Shores. The swift-running steaming rivers of that region dumped their warm and silty waters into this channel, which created near-permanent mists and fogs that cloaked an ever- changing shoreline of shoals and shallows. Sudden, violent storms were common in the winter months, and not unknown even in the kinder days of summer. The pirate islands were uncharted. What sense was there in charting a coast that changed almost daily? The conventional wisdom was to give it a wide berth and sail swiftly past it. Yet the Marietta surged forward confidently and Vivacia followed. Obviously, the pirates were very familiar with these channels and islands.
