“It wasn't my fault!” Wintrow declared aloud. But somehow he wondered if it was.
“Was so,” Torg pointed out. “You knew he was full of cindin. He shouldn't have been in there, but he had to go because you were too much the coward. Well.” Torg grinned with satisfaction. “Now they all know you for what you are, boy. Before it was just me that knew what a water-assed coward you were.” Torg spat into the dusty street and walked away from him.
For a time Wintrow stood alone staring at the kicked over corners of the square. He knew he had done the right thing and made the right choices. But a terrible sense of a lost chance was welling up in him. He suspected he had just lost his opportunity to be accepted as part of the
Vivacia
's crew. To be considered a man among men. He glanced up at the westering sun, and then hastened to catch up with the men who now despised him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
KENNIT'S
WHORE
THE RAINS OF AUTUMN HAD WASHED DIVVYTOWN ALMOST CLEAN.
The lagoon was higher, the channels deeper, and as the
Marietta
approached home port, the hearts of those aboard her were lighter than they had ever been before. It had nothing to do with the hold full of pirated cargo. While it was a respectable haul, they'd done better any number of times.
“It's that we're someones now, when we come into a port. Folk know us, and turn out to welcome us. Did I tell you that, in Littleport, Mistress Ramp turned her whole house over to us, for a whole watch, for free? And it wasn't just the Mistress telling her girls to do for us; they were willing, by Sa. Anything we wanted . . .” Sorcor's voice trailed off in amazement at their good fortune.
Kennit repressed a sigh. He'd only heard the tale a score of times before. “All that disease, for free,” he said quietly, but Sorcor took his words for a jest and grinned at his captain fondly. Kennit turned his head and spat over the side. When he turned back to Sorcor, he managed to smile back at him. “Caution the men to remember that few prophets are treated well in their home towns.”
Sorcor's brows knitted in puzzlement.
Kennit did not sigh. “I mean that although others, elsewhere, may regard our freeing of slaves and fitting them out as pirates with a share in our territory as an act of philanthropy, some here will see us as creators of competition. And they will judge it their duty to curb our ambitions.”
“You mean they're going to be jealous, and they'll rub our faces in the dirt if they get the chance.”
Kennit considered a moment. “Exactly.”
A slow smile crawled across Sorcor's scarred visage. “But, Cap'n, that's exactly what the men are looking forward to. Them trying to put us in our places.”
“Ah.”
“And, Cap'n?”
“Yes, Sorcor.”
“The men sort of took a vote, sir. And them what didn't agree was persuaded to change their minds. Every man will be taking a draw this time, sir, and letting you sell off the cargo whole.” Sorcor vigorously scratched the side of his face. “I suggested they might want to let Divvytown know they all believe in their captain. Now, mind, they weren't all willing to say they'd do it this way every time. But this time, well, it's your toss.”
“Sorcor!” exclaimed Kennit, and his smile widened fractionally. “That was well done.”
“Thankee, sir. I thought it might please you.”
The two men stood for a few moments longer, watching the shore draw nearer. The rattling rain of the day before had forced the last browning leaves from the deciduous trees, not that there were many of them. Dark large-leaved evergreens were the dominant trees on the hills above and around Divvytown. Closer to the water, medusa-vine and creeper-root had taken over the edge lands, with a towering cedar defying its own sodden roots to flourish here and there. In the freshness after the rain, Divvytown looked almost inviting. Wood smoke rose from chimneys, adding its scent to that of the iodine of the seaweed and the briny water. Home. Kennit tried the word out in his mind. No. It didn't fit. Port. Yes.
Sorcor hastened away, shouting at some deckhand who wasn't moving quite swiftly enough to please him. Sorcor was notoriously hard to please when they were bringing the ship into port. It was never enough for him that the ship was docked well; she must be sailed in smartly, as if putting on a display for every lounger who might be watching from the beach. As, this time, they were.
Kennit made a mental tally of their captures since they had last tied up here. Seven ships under their belts, four of them slavers. They'd made five pursuits of liveships, with nothing even approaching success in that area. He was almost resigned to giving up that part of his plan. Perhaps he could achieve the same ends simply by capturing enough slaveships. He and Sorcor had worked a bit of math the other night over a mug or two of rum. All of it was speculative, but the results were always pleasant. No matter how well or how poorly the four ships succeeded in piracy, half of the take would come back to the
Marietta.
In each capture, Kennit had awarded the captaincy of the taken vessel to one of his seasoned men. That, too, had been inspired, for now those that remained on board the
Marietta
actively vied for his attention, hoping to distinguish themselves sufficiently to earn ships of their own. The only drawback was that it might eventually deplete their own crew of proven men. He put that worry out of his mind. By then he would have a flotilla, no, a fleet of pirate ships under his command. And they would be bound to him, not just by debt but by gratitude.
He and Sorcor had carefully spaced their sub-vessels throughout the Inside, spending much time in discussing where these new citizens would be most welcome, not to mention where the pickings were thickest for an inexperienced ship. He was satisfied they had done well. Even those freed slaves who had not chosen to follow him into a life of piracy must think of him with gratitude and speak well of him. He trusted that when the time came for them to speak their loyalties, they would recall how he had rescued them. He nodded sagely to himself. King of the Pirate Isles. It could be done.
The three plunder ships they had taken had not been noteworthy. One had not even been especially sea-worthy, so when the fires got out of control, they had let it sink. They had salvaged most of the easily negotiable cargo by then anyway. The other two ships and the crews had been ransomed through Kennit's usual brokers. He shook his head to himself at that. Was he getting too confident of himself? He should move around more, use other people. Otherwise it would only be a matter of time before several merchants banded together to have an attempt at revenge on him. The last ship's captain had been a surly bastard, kicking and attempting to strike out long after he had been securely bound. He'd cursed Kennit and warned him that there were rewards for his capture now, not only in Jamaillia but even in Bingtown. Kennit had thanked him and let him make the rest of his trip to Chalced sitting in his own bilge water, chained like a slave. He'd been courteous enough when Kennit finally had him hauled on deck. Kennit decided he had always underrated the effects that dark and wet and chains could have on a man's spirit. Well, one was never too old to learn.
They came into Divvytown in good order, and his men disembarked like visiting royalty, purses already a-jingle with coins. Kennit and Sorcor followed them shortly, leaving a handful of chosen men aboard who would be well rewarded for postponing their own pleasures. As he and Sorcor strolled up the docks, ignoring the blatant offerings of the pimps, whores and drug mongers, he reflected that no matter who inspected them, at least one of them would be seen as having good taste. Sorcor, as always, was dressed in a wide array of fine clothes in colors that bedazzled the eye. The silk scarf that belted his waist had come from the plump pale shoulders of a noblewoman they had ransomed. The jeweled dagger stuck in it had come from her son, a brave boy who had not known when to surrender. He'd had the yellow silk shirt tailored in Chalced. Given the bulkiness of the man's muscled shoulders and thick chest, the wide pale expanse of fluttering fabric reminded Kennit of a ship under sail. In contrast, he had chosen sober colors for himself, trusting the fabric and tailoring to draw the eye. Few in Divvytown would appreciate the rarity of the lace that spilled so extravagantly from cuff and collar, but even in their ignorance they would have to admire it. His high black boots shone while the blue breeches, waistcoat and jacket accentuated both his muscle and his leanness. That the man who had tailored these clothes had been a freed slave who charged him nothing at all for the privilege of serving him only enhanced Kennit's satisfaction with his appearance.
Sincure Faldin had bought cargoes from Kennit before, but never before had he so obviously fawned on him as he did now. As he had suspected, the rumors of the freed slaves and the newly flagged Raven ships that now sailed for Kennit had reached Divvytown weeks ago. The man who welcomed them at Faldin's door showed them, not to his office but to his parlor. This small, stuffily warm room saw little use, Kennit surmised from the stiffness of the fabric on the cushioned chairs. They sat for a few moments, Sorcor uneasily drumming his fingers on his thighs, before a smiling woman entered with a tray of wine and tiny sweet biscuits. If Kennit was not mistaken, the woman who brought the wine was Faldin's own wife. She curtseyed to them silently and then quickly retired from the room. When Faldin himself appeared but moments later, the strength of his scent and the smoothness of his hair attested to recent personal grooming. Like many native to Durja, he favored brilliant colors and extravagant embroidery. The vested expanse of his girth put Kennit in mind of a wall tapestry. The earrings he wore were an elaborate twining of gold and silver. Kennit mentally added five per cent to what he had hoped to get for their cargo.
“You honor my establishment, Captain Kennit, by seeking us first,” Faldin greeted them. “And is this not your first mate, Sincure Sorcor, of whom I have heard so many tales?”
“It is,” Kennit replied before Sorcor could stammer a reply. He smiled to Faldin's courtesy. “You speak of us honoring you with our trade. And how is that, Sincure Faldin?” Kennit asked drily. “Have not we sought out your business before?”
The Sincure smiled and made a deprecating gesture. “Ah, but then, if you will excuse my saying so, you were but one more pirate. Now, if all we hear is true, you are Captain Kennit the Liberator. Not to mention, Captain Kennit, the co-owner of four more ships than the last time I saw you.”
Kennit inclined his head gracefully. He was glad to see that Sorcor had the wit to keep still and but watch how this was done. He waited silently for the offer he was almost certain would come. It did. Sincure Faldin allowed himself a moment to settle deeply into a chair opposite them. He picked up the wine bottle and poured a generous measure for himself, and then added more to their glasses as well. He took a deep breath before he spoke.
“And so, before we negotiate for but one more ship-load of cargo, I suggest we might consider the benefits to both of us if I were always your first choice, for many ship-loads of cargo.”
“I see the benefit to you, if you were assured of always having the pick of our plunder. But I confess I see small good for ourselves out of such an arrangement.”
Sincure Faldin laced his fingers over his extravagant vest. He smiled benevolently. “You see no good in having a partner always ready and willing to dispose of whatever you bring in? You see no good in consistently getting the best price for your cargo, large or small? For with a partner ashore, you'd not have to sell all you have in a day or two. A partner ashore would warehouse it for you, disposing of it only when the market for it was strongest. You see, Captain Kennit, when you come into a town and sell off a hundred kegs of fine rum, all at once, why, the very quantity of the cargo makes the fineness suddenly common. With a partner ashore with a warehouse, those same kegs could be held and sold off a few at a time, increasing their rarity and thus their price. Moreover, a partner ashore would not sell all those kegs in Divvytown. No. Why, with a small ship at his disposal, he could ply the surrounding islands and settlements as well, cultivating a market for you. And once or twice a year, that ship could make a trip to, say, Bingtown or Jamaillia itself, there to sell off the very finest pickings of your year's taking to merchants more than able to pay the best prices.”
Sorcor was looking a bit too impressed. Kennit resisted the urge to nudge him with his boot; he would only have looked startled and puzzled as well. Instead Kennit leaned back in his uncomfortable chair as if relaxing. “Simple economics,” he announced casually. “Your suggestions are far from unique, Sincure Faldin.”
Faldin nodded, not at all flustered by this. “Many great ideas are not unique. They only become unique when the men who have the wherewithal actually to implement them come together.” He paused, weighing the wisdom of his next words. “It is gossiped about Divvytown that you have ambitions. Ambitions, I might add, that are far from unique. You would rise to power amongst us. Some say the word “king' and smile in their beards. I do not. I have not proffered the word “king' to you at all in my business offer. And yet, if we applied ourselves, one might rise to that much power and wealth and authority. With or without the word “king' attached to one. Words such as that tend to unsettle folks. But I trust it is not the word you aspire to, but the state of being.”
Sincure Faldin leaned back, his words spoken. Sorcor's eyes leaped from Faldin to Kennit. His glance was wide, full of wonder. It is one thing to hear one's captain speak of a desire for power. It was entirely another to find that a respected merchant might take such words seriously.
Kennit moistened his lips. He glanced down to find his amulet grinning at him. The wicked little face winked up at him, then folded its lips tightly as if enjoining him to silence. It was all Kennit could do to keep from staring at it. He found he had sat up straight. Resolutely he stilled his own features and looked away from the wizardwood charm. He glanced up at Faldin. “What you propose goes far beyond merely doing business together. “Partner,' you have said, more than once. “Partner,' dear Sincure Faldin, is a word that my first mate and I hold in especial regard. So far, we have extended it only to each other. We two know the full depth of that word. “Partner.' Money alone does not buy it.” He hoped that Sorcor would not miss that reminder of mutual loyalty. Faldin was looking a bit alarmed now. Kennit smiled at him. “However. We are still listening,” he pointed out to Faldin. Once more he leaned back in his chair.
The merchant took a deep breath. He glanced from one man to another, as if assessing them. “I see what you do, sirs. You gather not only wealth, but influence. The loyalty of men and the power of ships are behind that loyalty. But what I have to offer you is something not as easily gathered. Something that only time can establish.” He paused for emphasis. “Respectability.”