“Ship? Vivacia?” Gantry had not ventured onto the foredeck. Instead he stood on the short ladder and called to her in a quiet voice.
“You needn't be afraid to approach me,” she told him sulkily. Despite being one of Kyle's men, he was a good sailor. She felt oddly ashamed to have him fear her.
“I but wanted to ask, is there anything I can do for you? To . . . ease you?”
He meant to calm her down. “No,” she replied shortly. “No, there is nothing. Unless you wish to lead a mutiny.” She stretched her lips in a semblance of a smile, to show him she was not serious in her request. At least, not quite yet.
“Can't do that,” he replied, quite solemnly. “But if there's anything you need, let me know.”
“Need. Wood has no needs.”
He went away as softly as he had come, but in a short time, Findow appeared, to sit on the edge of the foredeck and play his fiddle. He played none of the lively tunes he used to set the pace for the crew when they were working the capstan. Instead he played soothingly, tunes with more than a tinge of sadness to them. They were in keeping with her mood, but somehow the simple sound of the fiddle strings echoing her melancholy lifted her spirits and lessened her pain. Salt tears rolled down her cheeks as she stared at Jamaillia. She had never wept before. She had supposed that tears themselves would be painful, but instead they seemed to ease the terrible tightness inside her.
Deep inside her, she felt the men working. Drills twisted into her timbers, followed by heavy eye-bolts. Lengths of chain were measured across her and then secured to stanchions or heavy staples. Oncoming supplies were mostly water and hard-tack and chains. For the slaves. Slaves. She tried the word on her tongue. Wintrow had believed slavery to be one of the greatest evils that existed in the world, but when he had tried to explain it to her, she could not see much difference between the life of a slave and the life of a sailor. All, it seemed to her, were owned by a master and made to work for as long and hard as that master saw fit. Sailors had very little say about their lives. How could it be much worse to be a slave? She had not been able to grasp it. Perhaps that was why Wintrow had been able to leave her so easily. Because she was stupid. Because she was not, after all, a human being. Tears welled afresh into her eyes, and the slaver
Vivacia
wept.
EVEN BEFORE THEY COULD SEE THE SHIP ITSELF, SORCOR DECLARED
he knew she was a slaver by the tallness of her masts. They were visible through the trees as she came around the island.
“More sail to run faster, to deliver “fresh' cargo,” he observed sarcastically. Then he shot Kennit a pleased grin. “Or perhaps the slavers are learning they have something to fear. Well, run as they may, they won't outdistance us. If we put on some sail now, we'll be on her as soon as she rounds the point.”
Kennit shook his head. “The shoals are rocky there.” He considered a moment. “Run up a Trader flag and drag some rope to make us appear heavy laden. We'll just be a fat little merchant vessel ourselves, shall we? Hang off and don't approach too close until she's going into Rickert's Channel. There's a nice sandy shoal just past there. If we have to run her aground to take her, I don't want to hole her.”
“Aye, sir.” Sorcor cleared his throat. It was not clear whom he next addressed. “When we take a slaver, it's usually pretty bloody. Serpents snapping up bodies is not a fit sight for a woman's eyes, and slavers always have a snake or two in their wakes. Perhaps the lady should retire to her cabin until this is over.”
Kennit glanced over his shoulder at Etta. It now seemed to him that any time he came on deck, he could find her just behind his left shoulder. It was a bit disconcerting, but he'd decided the best way to deal with it was to ignore it. He found it rather amusing that Sorcor would refer to a whore so deferentially, and pretend that she needed some sort of sheltering from the harsher realities of life. Etta, however, looked neither amused nor flattered. Instead there were deep sparks in her dark eyes, and a pinch of color at the top of each cheek. She wore sturdier stuff this day, a shirt of azure cotton, dark woolen trousers and a short woolen jacket to match. Her black knee boots were oiled to a shine. He had no idea where those had come from, though she had prattled something about gaming with the crew a few nights ago. A gaudy scarf confined her black hair, leaving only the glossy tips free to brush across her wind-reddened cheeks. Had he not known Etta, he might have mistaken her for a young street tough. She certainly bristled enough at Sorcor to be one.
“I think the lady can discern what is too bloody or cruel for her taste, and retire at that time,” Kennit observed dryly.
A small cat smile curved Etta's lips as she brazenly pointed out, “If I enjoy Captain Kennit by night, surely there is little I need to fear by day.”
Sorcor flushed red, scars standing white against his blush. But Etta only shot Kennit a tiny sideways glance to see if he would preen to her flattery. He tried not to, but it was pleasing to see Sorcor discomfited by his woman's bragging of him. He permitted himself a tiny quirk of his lip acknowledging her. It was enough. She saw it. She flared her nostrils and turned her head, his tigress on a leash.
Sorcor turned away from them both. “Well, boys, let's run the masquerade,” he shouted to the crew and they tumbled to his command. Kennit's Raven came down and the Trader flag, taken long ago with a merchant ship, was run up and the rope drags put over the side. All but a fraction of their crew went below. Now the
Marietta
moved sedately as a laden cargo ship, and the sailors who manned her deck carried no weapons. Even as the slaver rounded the point and became completely visible to them, Kennit could tell they would overtake her easily.
He observed her idly. As Sorcor had observed, her three masts were taller than usual, to permit her more sail. A canvas tent for the crew's temporary shelter billowed on the deck; no doubt the sailors working the ship could no longer abide the stench of their densely packed cargo, and so had forsaken the forecastle for airier quarters. The
Sicerna,
as the name across her stern proclaimed her, had been a slaver for some years. The gilt had flaked from her carvings, and stains down her sides told of human waste sloshed carelessly overboard.
As predicted, a fat yellow-green serpent trolled along in the ship's wake like a contented mascot. If the girth of the serpent was any indication, this slaver had already put a good part of its cargo overboard. Kennit squinted at the slaver's deck. There were a great deal more people standing about on the deck than he would have expected. Had the slavers taken to carrying a fighting force to protect themselves? He frowned to himself at the idea, but as the
Marietta
slowly overtook the
Sicerna,
Kennit realized that the folk huddled together on the deck were slaves. Their worn rags flapped in the brisk winter rings, and while individuals shifted, no one appeared to move freely. The captain had probably brought a batch up on deck to give them a breath of fresh air. Kennit wondered if that meant they had sickness down below. He had never known a slaver to worry solely about his wares' comfort.
Sorcor was closing up the distance between them now, and the reek of the slave ship carried plainly on the wind. Kennit took a lavender-scented kerchief from his pocket and held it lightly to his face to mask the effluvium. “Sorcor! A word with you,” he called.
Almost instantaneously, the mate was at his side. “Cap'n?”
“I believe I shall lead the men this time. Pass the word firmly amongst them. I want at least three of the crew left alive. Officers, preferably. I've a question or two I'd like answered before we feed the serpents.”
“I'll pass the word, sir. But it won't be easy to hold them back.”
“I have great confidence they can manage it,” Kennit observed in a voice that left little doubt as to the hazards of disobedience.
“Sir,” Sorcor replied, and went to pass the word to those on deck and to the armed boarders who waited below.
She waited until Sorcor was out of earshot before Etta asked in a low voice, “Why do you choose to risk yourself?”
“Risk?” He considered it a moment, then asked her, “Why do you ask? Do you fear what would happen to yourself if I were killed?”
The lines of her mouth went flat. She turned aside from him. “Yes,” she said softly. “But not in the way you think I do.”
THEY HAD CREPT UP TO HAILING DISTANCE, WHEN THE CAPTAIN
of the
Sicerna
called to them across the water.
“Stand off!” he roared. “We know who you be, no matter what flag you show.”
Kennit and Sorcor exchanged a look. Kennit shrugged. “The masquerade ends early.”
“Hands on deck!” Sorcor bellowed cheerfully. “And heave the ropes up.”
The decks of the
Marietta
resounded to the pounding of eager feet. Pirates crowded the railing, grappling lines and bows at the ready. Kennit cupped his hands to his mouth. “You may surrender,” he offered the man as the lightened
Marietta
closed with her prey.
For an answer, the man barked some command of his own. Six stalwart sailors abruptly seized up an anchor lying on the deck. Screams sounded as they hove it over the side. And in its wake, as swiftly as if they had eagerly leaped, went a handful of men who had been manacled to it. They vanished instantly, their screams bubbled into silence. Sorcor stared in shock. Even Kennit had to admit a sort of awe at the other captain's ruthlessness.
“That was five slaves!” bellowed the captain of the
Sicerna.
“Stand off! The next measure of chain has twenty fastened to it.”
“Probably the sickly ones he didn't expect to last the journey anyway,” Kennit opined. From the deck of the other vessel, he could hear voices, some raised in pleas, others in terror or anger.
“In Sa's name, what do we do?” Sorcor breathed. “Those poor devils!”
“We do not stand off,” Kennit said quietly. Loudly, he called back, “
Sicerna.
If those slaves go over the side, you pay with your own lives.”
The other captain threw back his head and laughed so ringingly that the sound came clear across the water to them. “As if you would let any of us live! Stand off, pirate, or these twenty die.”
Kennit looked at the agony in Sorcor's face. He shrugged. “Close the distance! Grapples away!” he shouted. His men obeyed. They could not see the indecision in the mate's eyes, but all heard the screams of twenty men as a second anchor dragged them down. They took part of the ship's railing with them.
“Kennit,” Sorcor groaned in disbelief. His face paled with horror and shock.
“How many spare anchors can he have?” Kennit asked as he sprang to lead the boarding party. Over his shoulder he flung back, “You were the one who told me you would have preferred death to slavery. Let us hope it was their preference as well!”
His men were already hauling on the grappling lines, drawing the two ships closer, while his archers kept up a steady rain of arrows against the defenders who sought to pluck the grapples out and throw them overboard. The crew of the
Marietta
outnumbered that of the
Sicerna
at least three times over. The embattled defenders were well-armed, but obviously unfamiliar with their weapons. Kennit drew his blade and jumped the small gap between the boats. He landed, then gut-kicked a sailor with one arrow standing out of his shoulder as he wrestled with his own bow. The man went down and one of Kennit's knifed him in passing. Kennit spun on him. “Leave three alive!” he spat angrily. No one else challenged his boarding, and with drawn sword he went seeking the vessel's captain.
He found him on the opposite side of the vessel. He, the mate and two sailors were hastily trying to launch the ship's boat. It hung swinging over the water from its davits, but one of the release lines was jammed. Kennit shook his head to himself. The entire ship was filthy; they should not be surprised at a seized-up block if they could not even keep the deck clear.
“Avast!” he shouted with a grin.
“Stand clear,” the
Sicerna
's captain warned him, leveling a hand-held cross bow at his chest.
Kennit lost respect for him. He had been far more impressive when he acted instead of threatening first. And then, arcing up from the water came the sinuous neck of the serpent. Perhaps the man did not wish to expend his bolt until he knew which target was more threatening. As the serpent's head lifted from the water, Kennit saw the body of a slave gripped in the serpent's jaws. Twin chains hung from the man's body. To one side, a manacle still gripped a hand and arm. The other chain dangled slack and empty. The serpent gave a sudden worrying shake to the body, then a slight toss. The great jaws closed more firmly on its catch, shearing away the still-manacled hands at the elbows. The chain splashed back into the water. The serpent threw back its head and gulped the rest of the man down. As the bare feet vanished down its throat, it gave its head another shake. Then it eyed the men in the boat with interest. One of the sailors cried out in horror. The captain aimed his weapon at the monster's wide eyes.
The moment the crossbow was not pointed at his chest, Kennit sprang forward. He poised his blade to chop one of the davit lines that supported the boat. “Throw down the weapon and come back on board,” Kennit ordered him. “Or I'll feed you to the serpent now!”
The man spat at Kennit, then fired the bolt unerringly into the serpent's swirling green eye. The bolt vanished from sight into the creature's brain. Kennit guessed it was not the first serpent the man had shot. As the creature went into a frenzy of lashing and screaming, the man drew his own knife and began sawing at the line just above the hook that secured it to the boat. “We'll take our chances with the serpents, you bastard!” he screamed at Kennit as the undulating serpent sank beneath the waves. “Rodel, cut your line loose!”
Rodel, however, did not share his skipper's optimism regarding the serpent. The terrified sailor gave a cry of despair and flung himself from the dangling boat back to the ship's deck. Kennit disabled him with a cut to his leg and then put his attention back on the boat. He ignored the cries of the squirming sailor who tried vainly to stem the flow of his blood.