Stupid.' She lifted her chin. 'I am Malta Vestrit, a Bingtown Trader's daughter. As wild as his tale sounds, he truly is Magnadon Satrap Cosgo.' She took a breath. 'Kill him, and you will henceforth be known as the stupidest captain ever to discard a Satrap's ransom.'
The captain roared out his delight, and his crew echoed him. Malta felt her cheeks grow red, but she dared not move while the blade pressed her breast. Behind her, the Satrap whispered angrily, 'Don't anger him, wench.'
'Cap'n Red. The ship's secured.' This from a sailor, little more than a boy, wearing an embroidered vest far too large for him. Malta remembered seeing it on Captain Deiari. A dead man's clothes were the ship's boy's plunder.
'Very good, Oti. How many prisoners?'
''Sides these two? Only five.'
'Condition of the ship?'
'Fit to sail, sir. And full holds as well. She's loaded with good stuff.'
'Is she indeed? Marvelous. I think a prize this fat is enough to take us straight back to port, don't you? We've ranged a bit this time, and Divvytown will look good to us, hey?'
'Very good, sir,' the boy replied enthusiastically. There were assenting noises from the rest of the crew.
The captain looked around. 'Secure the five belowdecks. Get names, find out if they've got families that will ransom them. They fought well. If any express an interest in turning pirate, have him brought to me. Cam! Pick yourself a prize crew. You'll be bringing this one home for us.'
Cam, the man who had first found them, grinned broadly. 'That I will, sir. All right, you two, right back down where you came from!'
The captain shook his head. 'No. Not these two. I'll be taking them back to the Motley with me. Even if he's not the Satrap of all Jamaillia, I'll wager he brings a rich ransom from someone.' A deft lift of his blade tip cut Malta's laces. She caught at the loose bodice of her dress and held it to her, gasping in outrage. The captain only grinned. 'As for the lady, she shall have dinner with Captain Stupid and tell me whatever tales she pleases. Bring her along.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE – Paragon of the Ludlucks ALTHEA WAS AT THE TOP OF THE MAST, WATCHING, WHEN VIVACIA'S SAILS FIRST appeared. The sails were all she could see, white against the threatening overcast. Paragon was lurking in an inlet with a clear view of a channel just outside Divvytown, but Vivacia had not yet passed the mouth of the inlet. Brashen had studied his scraps of charts, and gambled that this was the approach Vivacia would use to return to Divvytown, assuming Kennit would be returning from the direction of the Others' Island. Brashen had guessed correctly. Even before Althea could see her hull or her figurehead, she recognized her mast and sails. For a moment, the long-awaited sight left Althea speechless. Several times over the last seven days, she had spotted ships she thought might be Vivacia. Twice she had even called Brashen to the top of the mast to confer with her. Each time, she had been wrong.
Now, as she watched the familiar rigging come into sight, she was certain: this was her ship, and she knew it, as she knew her mother's face. She did not cry out the news to all, but came spidering down the mast and hit the deck running. Without knocking, she barged into Brashen's cabin. He was in bed, sleeping after taking the night watch. 'It's her. To the southwest, whence you thought she would come. No mistake this time, Brashen. It's Vivacia.'
He did not question her. He took a deep breath. 'Then it's time. Let's hope that Kennit is truly as intelligent and rational as you believe he is. Otherwise, we're offering our throats to a butcher.'
For a moment, she could only stare at him, wordless. 'Sorry,' he offered huskily. 'I didn't need to say that. We both decided on this plan. We've both convinced the crew it will work. Don't feel I'm putting it all on you.'
She shook her head. 'You only spoke aloud what I've been thinking for too many days. One way or another, Brashen, it is all upon me. But for me, this ship and this crew would not even be out here, let alone considering this mad plan.'
He caught her in his arms for a rough hug. For an instant, the scent of his bare skin was in her nostrils and his loosened hair against her cheek. She rubbed her face against the warmth of his chest. Why, she wondered, was she willing to gamble at all? Why bet this man's life and her own life on such a wild venture? Then he turned her loose and caught up his shirt from a chair. As he put it on, he became the captain again.
'Go shake out our truce flag and run it up. I want the crew to have weapons ready, but none in hand. Remind them that we're offering to talk first to Kennit; we're not inviting him to board us. At the first sign of aggression from him, though, we respond in kind.'
She bit her tongue to keep from telling him that the crew needed no reminders. They had drilled it into them rigorously. Without Lavoy's subversion to deal with, she felt far more confident of the crew. They would obey. Perhaps, in a few hours, she'd stand on the deck of the Vivacia again. Perhaps. She jumped to carry out his orders.
'THERE, SIR. SEE IT NOW?' GANKIS POINTED AND SQUINTED AS IF THAT WOULD aid his captain's vision. 'The ship is holding anchor just off the beach. He's probably trusting to the shoreline and the trees behind him to make him hard to see, but I spotted-'
'I see him,' Kennit cut the man off tersely. 'Go about your duties!' He stared at the masts and riggings. A strange certainty filled his soul. The old lookout left Kennit's side, chastened by his captain's tone. The chill wind blew past Kennit and his ship plunged on through the waves, but he was suddenly separate from it all. The ship was Paragon. The other half of his soul rode at anchor in the inlet.
'Can I know him from this far away?' he asked himself softly. 'How? Is it a feeling in the air? A scent on the wind?'
'Blood calls to blood,' whispered the charm at his wrist. 'You know it's him. He's come back to you. After all these years, he has come back.'
Kennit tried to breathe, but his lungs felt heavy and sodden. Dread and anticipation warred in him. To speak to the ship again, to tread once more his decks would be to come full circle. All the past defeats and pain would be drowned in that triumph. The ship would take joy in how he had prospered and grown and… No. It would not be like that; it would be confrontation and accusation, humiliation and shame. It would be opening the door to all past sorrows and letting them pour out to poison the present. It would be looking into the face of your betrayed beloved. It would be admitting what he had done to ensure his own selfish survival.
Worse, it would be public. Every man on his ship would know who he had been and what had been done to him. The crew of the Paragon would know. Etta and Wintrow would know. Bolt would know. And none of them would ever respect him again. Everything he had built so painstakingly, all his years of work would come undone.
He could not allow it. Despite the screaming in the back of his mind, he could not allow it. The past could not be changed. The beaten, begging boy would have to be silenced once more. One last time, he would have to erase the groveling, craven lad from the world's memory.
Jola came running down the deck to him. 'Sir, that ship the lookout spotted? They've unfurled a flag, large and white. A truce flag. They're taking up their anchor and coming toward us.' His excited words died away at a baleful look from Kennit. 'What do you want us to do?' he asked quietly.
'I suspect treachery,' he told Jola. 'Faldin's message warned me of it. I will not be lulled by their actions. If necessary, I shall make an example of this ship and its crew. If this is perfidy, the ship goes to the bottom with all hands.' He made his eyes meet Jola's. 'Prepare yourself to hear many lies today, Jola. This particular captain is a very clever man. He tries to use a liveship to take a liveship. We must not allow that to happen, of course.'
Abruptly, his throat closed with pain. Terror rose in him, that Jola might turn toward him just now and see his eyes brim with sudden tears. Feelings change, he reminded himself savagely. This is the choking of a boy, the tears of a boy who no longer exists. I stopped feeling this long ago. I do not feel this.
He coughed to cover his moment of weakness. 'Ready the men,' he ordered him quietly. 'Bring us about and drop anchor. Run up a truce flag of our own to chum them in closer. We'll pretend to be gulled by his ruse. I shall have the ship send forth the serpents.' He showed his teeth in mockery of a smile. 'I doubt that Trell knows of
