Sorcor shot Kennit a puzzled glance. Kennit made a tiny motion of his hand.
Hold,
the hand motion told him.
Stand as you are.
“Respectability?” Kennit put an edge of mockery on the word.
Faldin swallowed, then plunged on. “To gain what you want, sir, you must offer folk assurances. Nothing steadies a community's regard for a man like respectability. If I might be so bold as to point out, you have no real ties here. No houses, no lands, no wives and families, no blood ties to those who make up this town. At one time, those things were not important. What were we, what were any of us, except pariahs and outcasts, runaway slaves, petty criminals fleeing justice, debtors and rebels and vagabonds?” He waited for their grudging nods. “But that, Captain Kennit and Sincure Sorcor, was a generation or two ago.” Excitement was building in his voice. “I am sure, sirs, that this is what you have seen as clearly as I have seen myself. Times are changing us. I myself have been here a score of years. My wife was born in this town, as were my children. If a proper society is to rise from the mud and shanties here, well, we will be its cornerstones. We and others like us, and those who have joined our families.”
If there had been some sort of a signal, it had escaped Kennit. But the timing was too exquisite to be coincidental. Sincura Faldin and two young women entered the room bearing trays of fruit and bread and smoked meats and cheese. Faldin's features in feminine were plainly marked on the two girls. His daughters. His bargaining chips on the board, the passcards to respectability. They were not Divvytown sluts. Neither dared to look at Kennit, but one sent Sorcor a shy smile and a glance from beneath lowered lashes. They were, Kennit surmised, probably even virgins, never allowed to walk on the streets of Divvytown unless Mama's watchful eyes were upon them. Nor were they bad-looking. Durja still spoke in their pale skin and honey hair, but their eyes were almond-shaped and hazel. Both were plump as ripe fruit, their bared arms round and white. They set out food and drink for each man and for their Mama.
Sorcor had lowered his eyes to his plate, but was sucking speculatively on his lower lip. He suddenly lifted his glance and boldly stared at one of the sisters. A blush raced up her cheeks at his glance. She did not meet his eyes, but she did not turn aside from his stare either. The younger girl could have been no more than fifteen, her sister at most seventeen. Smooth and unscarred they were, a man's transport into a gentle world where women were soft and quiet and saw willingly to their husbands' needs. A world many men probably dreamed about, Kennit thought, and Sorcor was most likely one of them. What other prize could be farther from the grasp of the scarred and tattooed pirate than the willing embrace of a pale virgin? That which was most unattainable was always most desirable.
Faldin pretended not to notice the pirate's ogling of his daughter. Instead he exclaimed, “Ah, refreshment. Let us take a moment from our business. Gentlemen, I welcome you to the hospitality of my home. I believe you've met Sincura Faldin. These two are my daughters, Alyssum and Lily.” Each girl nodded her head in turn, then took her place between their mother and father.
And these two, Kennit reflected, were but the first offer from Divvytown. Not necessarily the best. Nor did this “respectability” have to come from Divvytown. There were other pirate towns on other islands, and merchants more wealthy than Faldin. There was no need to be hasty in choosing. No need at all.
The sun had tracked much of the sky before Kennit and Sorcor emerged from Sincure Faldin's premises. Kennit had disposed of his cargo profitably; more, he had done so without fully committing himself to a permanent alliance with Faldin. After his daughters and lady had left the room, Kennit had taken the tack that while the value of a business association with Faldin could not be doubted, no one could be so heartless as to hasten into any other aspects of such an “alliance.” He had left Faldin with the dubious security of knowing that he would be allowed to show his goodwill by offering the first bid on any goods the
Marietta
brought into Divvytown. The man was merchant enough to know it was a poor offer, and wise enough to know it was the best he would get at this time. So he smiled stiffly and accepted it.
“I could almost see him ciphering the numbers on the back of his tongue. How much would he have to overpay us for our next three cargoes to assure us of his goodwill?” Kennit offered the jest wryly to Sorcor.
“The younger one . . . was she Alyssum, or Lily?” Sorcor asked cautiously.
“Don't worry about it,” Kennit suggested callously. “I am sure that if you don't fancy her name, Faldin will allow you to change it. Here.” He handed Sorcor the tally sticks they had negotiated so easily. “I'll trust these to you. Don't let them deliver less coin than was promised before you allow him to unload. You'll take the ship's watch tonight?”
“Of course,” the burly pirate replied distractedly.
Kennit did not know whether to frown or smile. So easily could the man be bought with the offer of unsullied flesh. Kennit scratched his chin. He watched Sorcor turn towards the docks and swagger off into the gathering autumn twilight. He gave his head a minute shake. “Whores,” he congratulated himself quietly. “Whores make it all so much simpler.” A wind had come up. Winter was no farther away than a new moon, or a few day's sail to the north. “I've never cared for the cold,” he said softly to himself.
“No one does,” a small voice commiserated. “Not even whores.”
Slowly, as if the token were an insect that might take flight if startled, Kennit raised his wrist. He glanced about the street, then feigned refastening a cuff-link. “And why do you speak to me this time?” he demanded softly.
“Your pardon.” The tiny smile was mocking as his own. “I thought you had spoken to me first. I was just agreeing.”
“There is no strange weight, then, to be put on your words?”
The tiny wizardwood charm pursed its lips as if considering. “No more than I might put to yours,” the face suggested. He gave his master a pitying look. “I know no more than you know, sirrah. The only difference between us is that I admit more easily what I know. Try it yourself. Say this aloud: But in the long run, a whore can cost one more than the most wastrel wife.”
“What?”
“Eh?” An old man passing in the street turned back to him. “You spoke to me?”
“No. Nothing.”
The old man peered at him closer. “You're Captain Kennit, h'ain't you? From the
Marietta
? Goes around freeing slaves and telling them to be pirates?” His coat was fraying at the cuffs, and one boot was split along the seam. But he carried himself as if he were a man of consequence.
Kennit had nodded twice. To the last he replied, “Well, so some say of me.”
The old man coughed wheezily, and then spat to one side. “Well, some also say they don't like the idea. They say you're getting too full of yourself. Too many pirates means the pickings get slimmer. And too many pirates preying on slaveships can irritate the Satrap to where he sends his galleys up our way. Knocking off fat merchant ships, well, that's one thing, laddie. But the Satrap gets a cut of those slave sales. We don't want to be digging in the pockets of the man what funds the warships, if you get my drift.”
“I do,” Kennit said stiffly. He considered killing the old man.
The geezer wheezed and then spat again. “But what I say,” he continued in a creakier voice. “Is more power to you. You put it to him, laddie, and give him a couple thrusts for me as well. Time someone showed him that blue ink on a man's face don't mean he's not a man any more. Not that I'd say that to just anyone around here. There's some as would think I needed shutting up, if they heard me speak so. But, seeing as how it was you, I thought I'd tell you this: not everyone that keeps silent is against you. That's all. That's all.” He went off into his wheezing cough again. It sounded painful.
Kennit was amused to find himself rummaging in his pocket. He came up with a silver coin and passed it to the man. “Try a bit of brandy for that cough, sir. And good evening to you.”
The old man looked at the coin in amazement. Then he held it up and shook it after Kennit as he strode away. “I'll drink your health, sir, that I will!”
“To my health,” Kennit muttered to himself. Having begun talking to himself, it now seemed he could not stop. Perhaps it was a side effect of random philanthropy. Did not most madnesses occur in pairs? He pushed the thought aside. Too much thinking only led to bleakness and despair. Better not to think, better to be a man like Sorcor, who was probably even now imagining a blushing virgin in his bed. He'd be better off simply buying a woman who could blush and squeak convincingly, if that was what appealed to him.
He was still distracted when he strode up to Bettel's bagnio. For such a chill evening, there were more idlers outside her door than he would have expected. Two of them were her regular toughs, cocky and grinning as usual. Someday, he promised himself, he'd do something permanent to their smirks. “Evening, Captain Kennit,” one dared to address him lazily.
“Good evening.” He enunciated the reply, freighting it with a different meaning entirely. One of the idlers abruptly brayed aloud, a whiskey laugh that sent his fellows off into sniggering laughter. Brainless. He took the steps briskly, thinking that the music sounded louder tonight, the notes more brittle. Within, he endured the services of the serving boy, nodding perfunctorily that he was satisfied before passing into the inner chamber.
There, finally, there were enough things out of routine that he was moved to lightly touch the hilt of the sword at his belt. Too many folk were in this room. Customers did not linger here. Bettel did not permit it. If a man came to pay for a whore, then he could take his purchase to a private room to enjoy as he pleased. This was not some cheap sailors' whorehouse, where the wares could be fondled and sampled before one bought. Bettel ran a proper house, discreet and dignified.
But tonight the reek of cindin was heavy in the air, and men slouched insolently in the chairs where the whores usually displayed themselves. The prostitutes who remained in the room were standing or perched on laps. Their smiles seemed more brittle, their laughter more forced, and Kennit noticed how swiftly their eyes strayed to Bettel herself. This time her black locks had been trained into ringlets. They swung stiff and shining. Despite her layers of powder, a mist of perspiration shone on her forehead and upper lip, and the reek of cindin was stronger on her breath.
“Captain Kennit, you dear man!” she greeted him with her usual contrived affection. She came at him, arms wide as if to embrace him. At the last moment she dropped them to clasp her hands joyously before her. Her fingernails were gilded. “Just wait until you see what I have for you!”
“I'd rather not wait,” Kennit replied irritably. His eyes wandered the room.
“For I knew you were coming, you see!” she burbled on. “Oh, we hear of it right away, when the
Marietta
comes to dock. And here in Divvytown, we've heard all the tales of your adventures. Not that we wouldn't be so delighted if you ever chose to favor us with the telling yourself.” She batted her lash-laden eyes up at him, and rolled her breasts forward against the confines of her dress.
“You know my usual arrangements,” he pointed out to her, but she had seized hold of his hand and was threatening to engulf it in her bosom as she clasped it fondly to her.
“Oh, your usual arrangements!” she cried gaily. “Fie on the usual, Captain Kennit, dear. That is not why a man comes to Bettel's house, for the “usual.' Now come with me and see. Just see what I've saved for you.”
There were at least three men in the room who were following their conversation with more attention than seemed polite. None of them, Kennit noted, looked particularly pleased as Bettel tugged him over to a candle-lit alcove off the main room. Curious and cautious, he glanced within.
Either she was a new arrival, or had been working on his previous visits. She was striking if one fancied small, pale women. She had large blue eyes in a heart-shaped face with painted pink cheeks. Her plump little mouth was painted red. Short golden hair was dressed in tight curls all over her head. Bettel had dressed her in pale blue, and decked her in gilt jewelry. The girl stood up from the tasseled cushions where she had been seated and smiled sweetly up at him. Nervously, but sweetly. Her nipples had been tipped with pink to make them stand out more noticeably beneath the pale gauze of her dress.
“For you, Captain Kennit,” Bettel purred. “As sweet as honey, and pretty as a little doll. And our largest room. Now. Will you want your meal set out first, as usual?”
He smiled at Bettel. “Yes, I will. And in my usual room, with my usual woman to follow. I do not play with dolls. They don't amuse me.”
He turned and walked away from her, headed toward the stair. Over his shoulder, he reminded her. “Have Etta bathe first. And remember, Bettel, a decent wine.”
“But Captain Kennit!” she protested. The nervousness in her voice was suddenly a shrilling of fear. “Please. At least try Avoretta. If you do not fancy her, there will be no charge.”
Kennit was ascending the stairs. “I do not fancy her, so there is no charge.” The small of his back ached with tension. He had seen avidity kindle in the men's eyes as he started up the main staircase. He reached the top of the landing and opened the door to the narrow stair beyond it. He entered it, shutting the door behind him. Several long, light strides took him to the second small landing where the sole lantern burned. Here the stairway bent back on itself. He waited soundlessly around the corner. He drew his sword silently and unsheathed his belt knife as well. He heard the door below softly open and then close again. By their cautious tread, at least three men were behind him on the stairs. He smiled grimly. Better here, in tight quarters with them below him than out on the dark of the streets. With a bit of luck he'd take at least one by surprise.
He did not have to wait long. They were too eager. As the first one stepped around the corner, the tip of Kennit's blade flicked across the man's throat. That simple. Kennit gave him a good shove. He tumbled back into his fellows, gargling incoherently, and as they stumbled backwards down the stairs, Kennit followed, dashing out the lamp as he passed it and then flinging the hot glass and spilling oil down on them. They cursed in the dark now, with a dying man's weight pressing them back down the stairs. Kennit made several random downward thrusts with his sword to encourage their retreat. He hoped the dying man would be low, collapsing against their legs. Stabbing him again would be a waste of effort, so he placed his thrusts higher and had the satisfaction of two cries of pain. Perhaps the stairway and closed door would muffle them. He was sure that further surprises awaited him upstairs. No sense in spoiling their anticipation. He heard these three hit the downstairs door and sprang forward then, thrusting with both sword and dagger into any flesh he could find. Here he had the advantage, for anything that was not himself was the enemy, whereas they had as good a chance of striking an ally as him in the dark, close confines of the stairwell. One man at least was fumbling wildly for the doorknob, cursing when he could not find it. Eventually he did, but only in time to open it and allow himself and his dying companions to spill out onto the landing. At the base of the staircase, Bettel looked up in horror from her parlor.