“Rats,” Kennit informed her. Another tidy flick of his sword, to be sure the last man stayed down and died. “Vermin on your staircase. You really should not allow this, Bettel.”
“They forced me! They forced me. I tried to keep you from going up there, you know I did!” The woman's wail followed him as he turned back to the staircase. He shut the door firmly on it, hoping it had not carried all the way to the chamber at the top of the house. Soft-footed as a cat he padded up the darkened stairs. He let his sword's tip lead the way. When he reached the second door, he paused. If they were alarmed at all—no, if they were sly at all—they'd have a man waiting outside this door. He eased the latch open, took a fresh grip on both weapons, and then shouldered his way through the door, coming in as low and silently as he could. No one was there.
The door to his usual chamber was shut. Voices came through it, pitched softly. Men's voices. At least two, then. They sounded impatient. No doubt they'd seen him through the window as he approached Bettel's house. Why hadn't they ambushed him at the top of the stairs? Perhaps because they'd expected their fellows to overpower him and drag him into this chamber for them?
He considered, then pounded roughly on the door. “Got him!” he cried hoarsely, and was rewarded by a fool who jerked the door open for him. Kennit put his knife low in the man's belly and then dragged it up with all his strength. It did not do as much damage as he had hoped it would; worse, it tangled in the man's loose shirt. Kennit was forced to abandon it in him. He gave the man a backwards shove and then sprang forward to meet the next man's blade. His blade engaged Kennit's neatly, turned aside his thrust, then thrust in turn. A gentlemanly approach to fencing, Kennit realized, as he set the man's blade tip out of alignment with his throat. A mistaken sense of gallantry and showmanship.
Kennit whipped a glance about the room. There was one more man sitting with studied composure in his chair before the fire. He held a glass of claret in one hand, but was prudent enough to have his hand on the drawn sword across his knees. Etta was flung naked across the bed. They had bloodied both the woman and the linens. “Ah. King Kennit has come calling on his lady,” the seated man observed lazily. He gestured with his glass at the whore. “I don't think she'll be up to receiving you just now. Our day's amusement has left her . . . indisposed.”
It was meant to distract him and it almost worked. It was distressing. No. It angered him. This clean and pleasant chamber, the comparative safety of Bettel's house had been taken away. He'd never be able to relax in this room again. The bastards!
A part of him was aware of shouts in the street outside. More of them. He'd have to finish this one quickly, and then get the one in the chair. But even as he pressed his reach advantage, the mocking man rose and advanced on Kennit with his sword. That one, at least, was not stupid enough to think that fair play had anything to do with killing. Kennit was not stupid enough to think he had much of a chance against two blades. He wished he hadn't had to leave his knife in the other man.
A stupid time to die, he told himself, as he parried one blade with his sword and knocked the other aside with his arm. He was thankful for the thick fabric of his sleeve that absorbed most of the impact. Seeing how he must defend himself, his attacker instantly switched to slashing attacks rather than thrusts. Kennit began a constant harried retreat from both blades, with no time to do anything except defend and evade. The other two men laughed and shouted to one another as they fought, mocking words about kings and slaves and whores. He did not listen, he could not listen, one moment's distraction would be his death. All his attention went to the two blades and the two men who powered them. Time to decide, he recognized grimly. Do I make them kill me now, quickly, or fight until I can no longer defend myself well, and they can play cats to my mouse?
He was as startled as they were when the quilted comforter was snapped open and flung over one of them. As he was fighting clear of it, the rest of the bedding quickly followed, fat down-stuffed pillows, billowing sheets that draped his enemies' blades and tangled their feet. A sheet settled over one man, draping him like a walking corpse. Apt, Kennit smiled to himself. Kennit's blade popped through the linen drapery and as he drew it back, a great scarlet blossom opened on it. Etta, cursing and shrieking, gathered up an immense double-armful of feather bed and flung it and herself upon the last attacker. Kennit quickly made sure of the man he had stabbed. By the time he turned, Etta had found the other man's head beneath the blanket and was pounding it up and down on the floor. The bedding muffled his cries as he struggled to get clear of the shrouding stuff. Kennit casually stabbed him several times, and then, out of breath, put the sword where he judged the man's heart to be. The thrashing lump under the blankets stilled. Etta kept on pounding his head against the floor.
“I think you can stop that now,” Kennit pointed out. She did, abruptly, but the sound continued.
They both turned to the pounding footsteps coming up the stairs. Etta, crouched naked over her kill, looked savage as a feral cat as she unconsciously bared her teeth to the sound. Kennit waded through the welter of bodies and bedding to secure the door. He tried to slam it but the first man's body was in the way. He bent to drag the body free, and before he could close the door, it flew wide open so hard it bounced off the wall. Kennit caught it before it could rebound into Sorcor's face. Sorcor was red-faced from running as were the men who burst into the room behind him. “An old man,” he gasped. “Came to the ship. Said you might have trouble here.”
“Now that was a bit of silver well spent,” a small voice observed. Sorcor glanced at Etta, thinking she had spoken, then self-consciously turned his head from the naked, battered woman. She staggered upright. She glanced at the other men staring at her and then stooped awkwardly, to drag up a corner of one blanket to cover herself. It revealed a man's hand and arm flung lifelessly on the floor.
“Trouble.” Kennit observed drily. “A bit.” He sheathed his sword. He gestured at the body in the door. “Pass me my knife, please.”
Sorcor crouched to pull it out of the man. “You were right,” he observed needlessly. “There's been talk against us in the town, and some are angered by what we do. Is this Rey? Of the
Sea-Vixen
?”
“I don't know,” Kennit admitted. “He never introduced himself.” He stooped and dragged some of the bedding off the other dead men.
“It was Rey,” Etta said in a low voice through bruised lips. “I knew him well enough.” She took a breath. “All of these were
Sea-Vixen
men.” She gestured at the man whose head she had pounded against the floor. “That was their captain. Skelt.” In a lower voice she added, “They kept saying they'd show you that every pirate is his own king. That they didn't need you, and you couldn't rule them.”
“That makes six,” one of Kennit's crew observed in awe. “Cap'n took down six men by himself.”
“How many were outside?” Kennit asked curiously as he resheathed the knife Sorcor gave him.
“Four. They were ten to one against you. Brave sods, weren't they?” Sorcor asked heavily.
Kennit shrugged. “Did I wish to make sure a man was killed, I'd do the same.” He gave Sorcor a small smile. “They still lost. Ten men. They feared me very badly, to wish to be so sure I'd be dead.” His smile widened. “Power, Sorcor. Other men see us gathering it to ourselves. This attempt is but proof that we are moving towards our goal.” He became aware of the eyes of his men. “And taking our crew with us,” he said reassuringly, and nodded his smile all round. The five pirates with Sorcor grinned back at him.
Sorcor put his own blade away. “Well. Now what?” he asked heavily.
Kennit considered briefly. He pointed to his men. “You and you. Together. Make the rounds of the taverns and whorehouses. Find our ship-mates and warn them. Quietly. I suggest it is wisest for all to sleep aboard tonight, with a stout watch posted. Sorcor and I will be doing so. But only after we've made ourselves seen about town, alive and whole. And all of you, I warn you: No bragging about this. This was nothing, do you understand? Not even a story worth the telling. Let other men do the telling for us; the tale will grow faster that way.” The men nodded, grinning appreciatively to one another. “You and you. You will follow Sorcor and I as we show ourselves about, but you won't be with us. Understand? You watch our backs, and you listen for what others say about us at their own tables. Listen, and remember, for I will want a full accounting.”
They nodded their understanding. He glanced about the room. There was something else he should do here, something he'd been intending to do. Etta stood silent, looking at him. A tiny ruby sparkled in her earlobe. “Oh, and you.” He pointed to the last man. “See to my woman.”
The sailor flushed red, and then white. “Yes, sir. Uh. How, sir?”
Kennit shook his head angrily. He had things to do, and they bothered him with details. “Oh, take her down to the ship. Put her in my cabin for later.” If the town considered Etta his woman, then he must put her out of casual reach. He must appear to have no vulnerabilities. He knit his brow. Was that all? Yes.
Etta dragged the sheet free of the last body. Standing straight as a queen, she wrapped the blood-stained linen around her shoulders. Kennit glanced about the room one last time, then took in his men's proud and incredulous grins. Even Sorcor was smiling. Why? Ah. The woman. They would have expected carnage like this to kill his appetite for her. That they believed it hadn't made him more of a man in their eyes. Lust had not motivated him; he did not find bruises on a woman arousing. But his supposed lust for her was what they were admiring. Well, let them think it, then. He glanced back to the blushing man. “See she is provided with warm water for a bath. Feed her. And find appropriate garments for her as well.” He supposed this meant he'd have to keep her in his cabin. At least let her be clean, then.
His eyes returned to Sorcor's. “Well, you've got your orders,” his first mate pointed out gruffly to the smirking men. “Move!”
A round of ayes and his two runners rattled off down the stairs. The man assigned to Etta crossed the room, hesitated awkwardly, then scooped her up in his arms as if she were a large child. To Kennit's surprise, Etta wilted against him gratefully. Kennit, Sorcor, and their guards started down the stairs with the man carrying Etta coming behind them. They met Bettel on the landing. Her hands fluttered before her as she exclaimed, “Oh! You're alive!”
“Yes,” Kennit agreed.
In her next breath, she exclaimed angrily, “Do you think you're taking Etta out of here?”
“Yes,” Kennit called over his shoulder up the stairs.
“What about all these dead men?” she shrieked after him as they strode out of her house.
“Those you may keep,” Kennit replied.
Etta caught at the front door with her hand as she and her bearer passed through it. She slammed it shut behind them.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MALTA
IT ALL WOULD HAVE GONE PERFECTLY IF NOT FOR THAT FAT FOOL
Davad Restart.
Malta had found the money under her pillow on the morning that her father left to go to sea. She recognized his cramped handwriting from the missives her mother occasionally received while her father was off trading.
“For my not-so-little daughter,”
Papa had written.
“Green silk would suit you best.”
Inside the soft little bag had been four gold coins. She had not been sure what they were worth; they were foreign coins, from one of the lands he visited when he was trading. What Malta had been instantly certain of was that they would be enough for the most sumptuous gown that Bingtown had ever seen.
In the days that followed, whenever she had doubts, she had held the note and re-read it and assured herself that she had her father's permission to do this. Not only his permission, but his assistance: the money was proof of that. His connivance, her mother would say later, darkly.
Her mother was so predictable. As was her grandmother. Her grandmother had declined to attend the Harvest Offering Ball, citing mourning Grandfather as a reason. And that was all the excuse her mother needed to tell her that no one in the Vestrit family was going to the Ball. And thus, she said, there was to be no argument over dresses or frocks or gowns. She had Rache giving her dancing lessons now, and they were seeking a good etiquette teacher as well. In the meantime, Rache would help her with those lessons, also. And that was more than enough for now for a young girl of her age.
The severity of her mother's tone had surprised her. When Malta had been brave enough to say, “But my father said . . .” her own mother had turned on her with something close to fury in her eyes.
“Your father is not here,” she had pointed out coldly. “I am. And I know what is proper for a young Bingtown girl. As should you. Malta, there is time and more than enough time for you to be a woman. It is natural for you to be curious about such things, and natural, too, for you to wish for lovely gowns and wonderful evenings dancing with handsome young men. But too much curiosity and eagerness . . . well. It could lead you down the same path as your Aunt Althea took. So trust me. I will be the one to tell you when the time is right for such things. I also know there is much more to the Harvest Ball than pretty dresses and bright-eyed young men. I am a woman of Bingtown, and a Bingtown Trader and I know such things. Not your father. So keep your peace about this, or you will lose what you have gained.”
Then her mother had stalked out of the breakfast room, not even giving Malta time to argue. Not that she would have. She had decided that she did not need to argue. Arguing would only have made her mother suspicious and watchful. There was no sense in making her own tasks harder.
Her father had suggested green silk, and fortunately there had been a good supply of it in Aunt Althea's sea chest. She had been aching to know what was in there since it had been delivered to the house, but her mother had wearily told her it was none of her concern. But it hadn't been locked—Aunt Althea never remembered to lock anything—and as Althea certainly was never going to use it, Malta saw no sense in letting the lovely fabric stay there and fade. Besides, by using this fabric, she'd have more coin to spend on a really good dressmaker. She was only being thrifty. Had not her father told her that was a good trait in a woman?
From Delo Trell, Malta obtained the name of a good dressmaker. It shamed her to have to ask her friend, but even in that important area, her mother and grandmother were so old-fashioned. Almost all their dresses were still made at home, with Nana measuring and fitting and sewing, and sometimes even Mama and Grandmother helping with the sewing and trimming themselves. And so they never had anything that was the latest style from Jamaillia. No. Oh, they would see something they liked at the Ball or the Presentation, and then they would copy it onto the next gown they made. But that was always what it was: a copy. No one was ever astonished by what one of the Vestrit women wore to a social gathering. No one ever gossiped about them or put heads together behind their fans to whisper enviously. They were too respectable. And too boring.
Well, Malta had no intention of being either as staid as her matronly mother, nor as mannish as her wild Aunt Althea. Instead she intended to be mysterious and magical, shyly demure and unknowable, and yet daring and extravagant. It had been hard to express all that to the dressmaker, a disappointingly old woman who clicked her tongue over the green silk Malta brought her. “Sallow,” she had said, shaking her gray head. “It will make you look sallow. Pinks and reds and oranges. Those are your colors.” Her thick Durja accent made it seem like a pronouncement. Malta folded her lips and said nothing. Her father was a trader who had seen the whole wide world. Surely he knew what colors looked best on women.
Then Fayla went on to measure her endlessly, muttering all the time through a mouthful of pins. She cut and hung paper shapes all over Malta, and paid no attention at all when Malta protested that the neck seemed too high and the skirts too short. The third time Malta objected, Fayla Cart had spat the mouthful of pins out into her own hand and glared at her. “You want to look like a trollop? A sallow trollop?” she demanded.
Malta shook her head wordlessly as she tried to recall what a trollop flower looked like.
“Then you listen to me. I sew you a nice dress, a pretty frock. A dress your mama and papa happy to pay me for. Okay?”
“But . . . I've brought the money to pay. My own money. And I want a woman's gown, not a little girl's frock.” With every word she spoke, Malta became bolder.
Fayla Cart stood slowly, rubbing at her back. “A woman's gown? Well, who's going to wear this dress, you or some woman?”
“I am.” Malta forced her voice to stay firm.
Fayla scratched at her chin. A hair was growing out of a warty-looking mole there. She shook her head slowly. “No. You are too young. You will only look silly. You listen to me, I make you a pretty frock. No other girl will have one like it, they will all stare and tug their mamas' skirts and whisper about you.”
Without warning, Malta tore the paper shape loose from herself and stepped out of it. “I am not eager to have
girls
staring at me,” she said haughtily. “Good day to you.”
And she left the shop, her green silk under her arm, and went down the street to find a dressmaker of her own, one that would listen to her. She tried not to wonder if Delo Trell had purposely sent her to that horrible old woman, if Delo did not think that Malta still belonged in a little girl's starched skirts. Lately Delo had begun to give herself airs, to imply loftily that there were many things that Malta, young little Malta, simply could not understand about Delo's life now. As if they had not been playmates since they could walk!
The young seamstress Malta chose wore her own skirts as if they were silk scarves, at once clinging and revealing her legs. She did not quibble about the color of the fabric, nor try to hide Malta in paper. Instead she measured her swiftly and spoke of things like butterfly sleeves and how a spill of lace could flatter a young woman's developing bosom into an illusion of fullness. Malta knew then she had chosen well, and had all but skipped home with a tale of being unable to find a free shimshay to excuse her lateness.
From that one decision of finding her own dressmaker had flowed all her good fortune. The woman had a cousin who made slippers; she sent Malta to him when she came in for the second fitting of the dress. And she would need jewelry, Territel reminded her. She pointed out to Malta that the reality of jewelry was not nearly as important as the effect it created with sparkle and shine. Cut glass would do as well as real gems, and then her budget would allow her larger and more glittering pieces. She had yet another cousin, and she came to show Malta her wares during the third fitting. When Malta returned for her final fitting, the slippers and jewelry were ready to be picked up as well. And Territel so kindly showed her how to paint her lips and eyes in the newest way, and even sold Malta some of her own powders and skin paints. The woman could not have been kinder. “To have it exactly as I dreamed of it is well worth every coin,” Malta told her, and gladly gave over to her the pouch of gold that her father had provided. That had been but two days before the Harvest Ball.
It had been a feat both of nerve and creativity to smuggle the paper-wrapped gown home and successfully conceal it not only from Mama but from Nana, too. That old woman didn't have enough to do anymore. Now that Selden was old enough for tutors and didn't need watching every minute, Nana seemed to be constantly spying on Malta. All of the “tidying” she did in Malta's chambers was no more than an excuse for going through her things. Nana was constantly asking her questions that were none of the old servant's business. “Where did you get that scent? Does your mother know that you wore those earrings into town?”
In the end the solution had been simple. She directed Rache to store the wrapped gown, jewelry and slippers in her own quarters. Her grandmother had recently granted Rache a whole cottage to herself, one that gave onto the pond garden. Malta did not know what Rache had done to deserve this private space, but she found it useful that Rache had it. No one thought anything of her spending time with Rache. After all, was not the slave woman teaching her dance steps and body carriage and etiquette? It was only too funny, of course, that a slave should know such things. Delo and Malta giggled about it often in the brief times they had together. Delo, of course, now thought that she was too old and womanly to be spending time with a mere girl like Malta. Well, that would change as soon as Malta presented herself at the Harvest Offering Ball.
Rache was also the one to assist her with her dressing on the night of the Ball. Malta had not informed her ahead of time. That would have given the slave woman too much time to ponder things and then run and tattle to her grandmother or mother. Instead she had simply gone down to Rache's cottage and asked her for the package. She had told Rache to help her dress, and the woman had complied, an odd smile on her face. Malta could see now the complete usefulness of an obedient slave. When she was fastened into the gown, she sat down before Rache's own small mirror to don her jewelry a piece at a time, and then to carefully paint her lips and eyes. As the seamstress had shown her, she traced the outer edges of her ears and earlobes in the same color as her eyelids. The effect was both exotic and alluring. The slave woman seemed completely amazed at what she was doing. She was probably astonished that Malta had such womanly skills as these.
When the shimshay that Malta had arranged earlier arrived at her door, Rache seemed only mildly alarmed. And where was her young lady off to? An evening at Kitten Shuyev's house, Malta told her. Kitten's mother and father had arranged a puppeteer to come and amuse her and her younger brother while the parents went to the Harvest Ball. It was well known that Kitten's ankle was still quite painful since her pony had thrown her. Malta was going to go over and cheer her up. As they both had to miss the Harvest Ball, they might as well do it together.
Malta had had complete confidence in her own casual lies. Rache had been taken in completely, nodding and smiling and saying that she did not doubt at all that Kitten would be well-amused. The only discomfort was the dark winter cloak that Malta had to wear over her gown on the way to the Ball. It did not go with such a fine dress. But it would not do to have dust from the street soil her dress, nor did she wish to have anyone see her before she made her entrance into the gathering. A shimshay was not exactly the traditional way to arrive at the Ball. Everyone else would be taking their carriages there, or riding their flashiest mounts. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Her flashiest mount was the fat pony that she and Selden shared. She had begged in vain for a horse of her own. As usual, her mother had said no, that if she wanted to take the time to learn to ride properly, she could learn on her mother's own mare. Her mother's mare was older than Malta. Even if she had wanted to use the nag, there would be no getting a riding horse out of the stables at this hour without her mother hearing of it. Besides. Given the fluttering nature of her skirts, she did not think horseback would be seemly.
But despite it all, despite the heavy winter cloak that misted her face with perspiration on this mild night, despite the rude little song the shimshay driver seemed to think was humorous, despite the fact that she knew her mother was going to be furious afterwards, it was all terribly exciting. “I'm doing it. I'm really doing it,” she breathed to herself over and over. It gave her a heady sense of power to have finally stepped forward and taken control of her own life. She did not realize how tired she had grown of staying home and being her mother's child. Her mother was so staid and matronly and settled. She never did anything that people did not expect of her.
For the last year, while Grandfather was dying, the house had been the most boring place on earth. Not that it had ever been exciting. Not like other people's homes. Other Trader families held gatherings at their homes, and not just of Trader folk. Some welcomed the newcomers and their families. The Beckerts once had a whole evening of fun with a troupe of jugglers that some newcomer family had hired. Polia Beckert had told her all about it the next day, how the young boys in the troupe had worn little more than a wrap of cloth about their loins, and how they had juggled fire and knives and glass balls. There was never anything like that in the Vestrit home. Grandmother used to have some of the old lady Traders over, but all they did was sit in a room and embroider together and sip wine and talk of how much better everything used to be. But even they had not come for a long time. When Grandfather's illness became severe, Grandmother stopped inviting anyone over to the house. All had been quiet and dullness and dimmed rooms for almost a year. Mother even stopped playing her harp in the evenings—not that Malta had missed it. Whenever Mama played, she tried to teach Malta the notes as well. Sitting about plucking harp strings was not Malta's idea of an interesting evening.