“Go home,” he suggested without sympathy. “You know that eventually you'll have to. The longer you put it off, the harder it will be. So do it now.”
“That's easy to say, and hard to do. You should understand that. You never went home.”
Brashen gave a short, bitter laugh. “Didn't I? I tried. They just threw me out again. Because I had waited too long. So. Now you know you are getting good advice. Go back home while you still can, while a bit of crawling and humble obedience will buy you a place to sleep and food on your plate. Wait too long, let the disgrace set in, let them get used to life without the family troublemaker, and they won't have you back, no matter how you plead and crawl.”
Althea was silent for a long time. Then, “That really happened to you?”
“No. I'm making it all up,” Brashen replied sourly.
“I'm sorry,” Althea said after a time. More resolutely she went on, “But I can't go back. At least, not while Kyle's in port. And even after he's gone, if I do go back, it will only be to get my things.”
Brashen shifted in his hammock. “You mean your dresses and trinkets? Precious relics from your childhood? Your favorite pillow?”
“And my jewelry. If I have to, I can always sell that.”
Brashen threw himself back in the hammock. “Why bother? You'll find you can't drag all that stuff around with you anyway. As for your jewelry, why not pretend you already got it, sold it piece by painful piece and the money is gone and now you really have to find out how to live your own life? That'll save you time, and any heirloom stuff will at least remain with your family. If Kyle hasn't seen to having it locked up already.”
The silence that followed Brashen's bitter suggestion was blacker than the starless darkness that Paragon stared into. When Althea did speak again, her voice was hard with determination.
“I know you're right. I need to do something, not wait around for something to happen. I need to find work. And the only work I know anything about is sailing. And it's my only path to getting back on board Vivacia. But I won't get hired dressed like this . . .”
Brashen gave a contemptuous snort. “Face it, Althea. You won't get hired no matter how you are dressed. You've got too much stacked up against you. You're a woman, you're Ephron Vestrit's daughter, and Kyle Haven won't be too happy with anyone who hires you, either.”
“Why should being Ephron Vestrit's daughter be a mark against me?” Althea's voice was very small. “My father was a good man.”
“True. That he was. A very good man.” For a moment Brashen's tone gentled. “But what you have to learn is that it isn't easy to stop being a Trader's daughter. Or son. The Bingtown Traders look like as solid an alliance you can imagine, from the outside. But you and I, we came from the inside, and the inside works against us. See, you're a Vestrit. All right. So there are some families that trade with you and profit, and other families that compete with you, and other families that are allied with those who compete with you . . . no one is an enemy, exactly. But when you go looking for work, it's going to be, well, like it was for me. “Brashen Trell, eh, Kelf Trell's son? Well, why don't you work for your family, boy? Oh, had a falling out? Well, I don't want to get on your father's bad side by hiring you.' Not that they ever come right out and say it, of course, they just look at you and put you off and say, “come back in four days,' only they aren't in when you come back. And those that don't get along with your family, well, they don't want to hire you, either, cause they like seeing you down in the dirt.”
Brashen's voice was winding down, getting deeper and softer and slower. He was talking himself to sleep, Paragon thought, as he often did. He'd probably forgotten that Althea was even there. Paragon was overly familiar with Brashen's long litany of wrongs done him and injustices suffered by him. He was even more familiar with Brashen's caustic self-accusations of idiocy and worthlessness.
“So how did you survive?” Althea asked resentfully.
“Went to where it didn't matter what my name was. First boat I shipped out on was Chalcedean. They didn't care who I was, long as I would work hard and cheap. Meanest set of rotten bastards I ever shipped with. No mercy for a kid, no, not them. Jumped ship in the first harbor we put into. Left that same day, on a different boat. Not much better, but a little. Then we . . .” Brashen's voice trailed off. For a moment Paragon thought he had fallen asleep. He heard Althea shifting about, trying to find a comfortable way to sit on the slanted deck. “. . . by the time I came back to Bingtown, I was a seasoned hand. Oh, was I seasoned. But still the same old damn thing. Trell's boy this, and Trell's son that . . . I'd thought I'd made something of myself. I actually tried to go to my father and patch things up. But he was not much impressed with what I'd made of myself. No, sir, he was not. What a horse's ass . . . so I went to every ship in the harbor. Every ship. No one was hiring Kelf Trell's son. When I got to the
Vivacia,
I kept my scarf down low on my brow and kept my eyes on the deck. Asked for honest work for an honest sailor. And your father said he'd try me. Said he could use an honest man. Something about the way he said it . . . I was sure he hadn't recognized me, and I was sure he'd turn me off if I told him my name. But I did anyway. I looked at him and I said, “I'm Brashen Trell. I used to be Kelf Trell's son.' And he said, “That won't make your watch one minute shorter or longer, sailor.' And you know. It never did.”
“Chalcedeans don't hire women,” Althea said dully. Paragon wondered how much of Brashen's tale she had truly heard.
“Not as sailors,” Brashen agreed. “They believe a woman aboard ship will draw serpents after you. Because women bleed, you know. Lots of sailors say that.”
“That's stupid,” she exclaimed in disgust.
“Yeah. Lots of sailors are stupid. Look at us.” He laughed at his own jest, but she did not join him.
“There are other women sailors in Bingtown. Someone will hire me.”
“Maybe, but not to do what you expect,” Brashen said harshly. “Yes, there are women sailors, but most of the ones you see on the docks are working on their family boats, with fathers and brothers to protect them. Ship out alone on anything else, and you'd better choose early which shipmates you want to roll. If you're lucky, they'll be possessive enough to keep the others off you. If you're not lucky, they'll turn a nice profit from your services before you reach the next port. And most mates and captains will turn a blind eye to what goes on, to keep order on the ship. That's if they don't claim your services for themselves.” He paused, then added grumpily, “And you already knew all that. You couldn't grow up around sailors and not know it. So why are you even considering this?”
Anger engulfed her. She wanted to shout that she didn't believe it or demand to know why men had to be such pigs. But she did believe it, and she knew that Brashen could not answer that question any more than she could. Silence bled into the darkness between them, and even her anger deserted her.
“So what am I to do?” she asked miserably. It did not seem to Paragon she was speaking to Brashen, but he answered anyway.
“Find a way to be reborn as a boy. Preferably one that isn't named Vestrit.” Brashen rearranged himself in the hammock and drew in a long breath that emerged as a buzzing snore.
In her cramped corner, Althea sighed. She leaned her head back against the hard wood of the bulkhead and was still and silent.
THE SLAVER WAS A DARKER SILHOUETTE AGAINST THE NIGHT SKY.
If he felt he was in any danger of pursuit, he showed no signs of it. He had a respectable amount of canvas on but Kennit's keen eyes saw no flurry of activity aloft to indicate he felt a need for extreme speed. The night was perfect, a sweet even wind breathing over the sea, the waves willing beasts bearing the ship along. “We'll overhaul him before dawn,” he observed quietly to Sorcor.
“Aye,” Sorcor breathed. His voice betrayed far more excitement at the prospect than his captain felt. Over his shoulder, he said quietly to the helmsman, “Keep her in close to the shore. Hug it like your granny. If their lookout chances to glance this way, I don't want us visible against the open water.” To the ship's boy he hissed, “Below. Pass the word yet again. Still and silent, no movement that isn't in response to a command. And not a light to show, not so much as a spark. Go and softly, now.”
“He's got a couple of serpents off his stern,” Kennit observed.
“They follow for the dead slaves thrown overboard,” Sorcor said bitterly. “And for those too sick to be worth feeding. They go over the side, too.”
“And if the serpents choose to turn and attack us during battle?” Kennit inquired. “What then?”
“They won't,” Sorcor assured him. “Serpents learn quickly. They'll let us kill each other, well knowing they'll get the dead with not a scale lost.”
“And after?”
Sorcor grinned savagely. “If we win, they'll be so fat with the crew of the slaver, they won't be able to wiggle after us. If we lose . . .” he shrugged. “It won't much matter to us.”
Kennit leaned on the railing, sour and silent. Earlier in the day, they had spotted the
Ringsgold,
a fine old fat waddling cog of a liveship, near as deep as he was tall. They had had the advantage of surprise; Kennit had had the crew hang out every bit of canvas the rigging would hold, and yet the liveship had lifted and dashed off as if driven by his own private wind. Sorcor had stood silent by his side as Kennit had first been silently incredulous and then savagely angry at the turn of events. When the
Ringsgold
rounded Pointless Island to catch the favorable current there and be whisked from sight, Sorcor had dared to observe, “Dead wood has no chance against wizardwood. The very waves of the sea part for it.”
“Be damned,” Kennit had told him fiercely.
“Quite likely, sir,” Sorcor had replied unperturbed. He had probably already been sniffing the air for the spoor of a slaveship.
Or maybe it was just the man's infernal luck that they had raised this one so quickly. It was a typical Chalcedean slaver, deep hulled and wide waisted, all the better to pack her full of flesh. Never had Kennit seen Sorcor so lustful in pursuit, so painstaking in his stalking. The very winds seemed to bless him, and it was actually well before dawn when Sorcor ordered the sweeps out. The ballista were already wound and set, loaded with ball and chain to foul their prey's rigging and grappling hooks were ready to snare their crippled conquest. These last were a new idea of Sorcor's, one that Kennit regarded with skepticism.
“Will you lead the crew to the prize, sir?” Sorcor asked him even as the lookouts on the slaver sounded the first alarms.
“Oh, I think I shall leave that honor to you,” Kennit demurred dryly. He leaned idly on the railing, putting the pursuit and battle entirely into Sorcor's hands. If the mate was dismayed by his captain's lack of enthusiasm, he covered it well. He sprang aloft, to cry his commands down to the men on deck. The men shared his battle pitch, for they leaped to obey with a will, so that the extra canvas seemed to flow over the mast and blossom with the night wind. Kennit was selfishly grateful for the favorable wind, for it bore most of the stench of the slaver away from them.
He felt almost detached as they closed the distance on the slaver. In a desperate bid to outpace them, the slaver was putting on sail, the rigging swarming with men scuttling like disturbed ants. Sorcor cursed his delight with this and ordered the ballista fired. Kennit thought he had acted too quickly, yet the two heavy balls linked with a stout length of barbed and bladed chain flew well and high, crashing into the other ship's canvas and lines, ripping and tangling as they fell heavily to the deck below. Half a dozen men fell with the balls, screaming until they found the deck or vanished beneath the waves. The sound of their screams had scarcely died before Sorcor had launched a second set of balls and chain. This one did not do quite as much damage, but the harried crew of the slaver were now too busy watching for other missiles to work the sails effectively, while the canvas and lines that had fallen draped the deck and fouled the workings of the other sails. The slaver's decks were in a state of total disarray when Sorcor ordered grappling lines swung.
Kennit felt distant and detached as he watched their hapless victim roped in and secured. As dawn ventured over the water, Sorcor and his raiders leaped or swung across the small distance between the two vessels, whooping and screeching their bloodlust. Kennit himself lifted his cuff to his nose and breathed through his sleeve to keep from inhaling the stench of the slaver. He remained aboard the
Marietta
with a skeleton crew. Those who remained with him were plainly frustrated to be cheated of the slaughter, yet someone had to man the
Marietta
and be ready either to repel boarders or cast loose the grappling lines if things went against them.
Kennit was a spectator to the slaughter of the slaver's crew. They had little expected to be attacked by pirates. Their cargo was not usually to a pirate's taste. Most pirates, like Kennit, preferred valuable, non-perishable goods, preferably easily transportable. The chained slaves below decks were the only cargo this ship carried. Even if the pirates had had the will to make the tedious voyage to Chalced to sell them, the transport of such cargo demanded a watchful eye and a strong stomach. Such livestock needed to be guarded as well as fed, watered and provided with rudimentary sanitation. The ship itself would have some value, Kennit supposed, though the current stench it gave off was enough to turn his stomach.
The crew of the slaver had such weapons as they carried to keep their cargo in order and little more than that. They did not, Kennit reflected, seem to have much idea of how to fight an armed and healthy man; he supposed that one became accustomed to beating or kicking men in chains and forgot what it was like to deal with any other type of opponent.
He had earlier tried to persuade Sorcor that the crew and vessel might have some ransom value, even if divested of their cargo. Sorcor had been adamantly opposed. “We kill the crew, free the cargo and sell the ship. But not back to other slavers,” he had loftily stipulated.