The Mad Ship

2 THE PIRATE’S LEG

‘BACK IN THE monastery, Berandol used to say that one way to disperse fear and create decision was to consider the worst possible outcome of one’s actions.’ After a moment Wintrow added, ‘Berandol said that if one considered the worst possible outcome and planned how to face it, then he could be decisive when it came time to act.’

Vivacia glanced back over her shoulder at Wintrow. The boy had been leaning on the bow rail for the better part of the morning, staring out over the choppy water of the channel. The wind had pulled his black hair free of his queue. The ragged remnants of his brown garments looked more like a beggar’s rags than a priest’s robe. The sentient figurehead had been aware of him, but had chosen to share his silence and mood. There was little to say to each other that they did not both already know. Even now, the boy spoke only to put his own thoughts in order, not to ask any advice of her. She knew that, but still prompted him along. ‘And our worst fear is?’

Wintrow heaved a heavy sigh. ‘The pirate suffers from a fever that comes and goes. Each time it overpowers him, Kennit emerges from it weaker. The source is obviously the infection in his leg stump. Any animal bite is a dirty wound, but the sea serpent’s bite seems unusually poisoned. The festering part must be cut away, and the sooner the better. He is too weak for such a surgery, but I see little prospect that he will grow stronger. So I tell myself I must act swiftly. I also know it is unlikely he will survive my cutting. If he dies, so must my father and I. That was the bargain I struck with him.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘I would die. That is not truly the worst outcome. The worst is that you must continue alone, a slave of these pirates.’

He did not look at her but gazed out over the constantly moving waves as he added, ‘So you see why I have come to you. You have more right to a say in this than I do. I did not fully consider that when I struck my deal with Kennit. I wagered my death and my father’s. In doing so, I unintentionally wagered your life as well. It was not mine to bet. You have, I believe, a great deal more to lose than I.’

Vivacia nodded, but her own thought slid past Wintrow’s and into one of her own. ‘He is not what I expected a pirate to be. Captain Kennit, I mean.’ Thoughtfully she added, ‘A slave, you just said. But I do not think he considers me his slave.’

‘Kennit is not what I thought a pirate would be, either. But despite his charm and intelligence, we must remember that he is one. Moreover, we must recall that if I fail, he will not be the one to command you. He would be dead. There is no telling who would then possess you. It might be Sorcor, his first mate. It might be Etta, his woman. Or perhaps Sa’ Adar would once more attempt to claim you for himself and the freed slaves.’ Wintrow shook his head. ‘I cannot win. If the operation is successful, I must watch Kennit take you from me. Already he flatters and charms you with his words, and his crew works your decks. I have little say in anything that happens aboard you any more. Whether Kennit lives or dies, I will soon have no power to protect you.’

Vivacia shrugged one wizardwood shoulder. ‘And you did before?’ she asked, somewhat coldly.

‘I suppose not.’ The boy’s voice was apologetic. ‘Yet, I had some idea of what to expect. Too much has happened too fast, to both of us. There has been too much death, and too many changes. I have had no time to mourn, no time to meditate. I scarce know who or what I am any more.’

They both fell silent, considering.

Wintrow felt adrift in time. His life, his real life, was far away, in a peaceful monastery in a warm valley rich with orchards and fields. If he could step across the intervening days and distance, if he could wake up in his narrow bed in his cool cell, he was sure he could pick up the threads of that life. He hadn’t changed, he insisted to himself. Not really. So he was missing a finger. He had learned to cope with that. And the slave tattoo on his face went no deeper than his skin. He had never truly been a slave; the tattoo had only been his father’s cruel revenge for his attempt at escaping. He was still Wintrow. In a few quiet days, he could rediscover the peaceful priest inside him.

But not here. The recent swiftly shifting events in his life had left him with so many strong emotions, he could scarcely feel at all. Vivacia’s feelings were as jumbled as his own, for her recent experiences had been as brutal. Kyle Haven had forced the young liveship into service as a slaver, prey to all the dark emotions of her miserable cargo. Wintrow, a blood member of her founding family, had not been able to comfort her. His own involuntary servitude on the ship had soured what should have been a natural bond between them. His alienation from her had only increased Vivacia’s misery. Yet still they had hobbled along, like slaves shackled together.

In one stormy, bloody night, the slaves’ uprising had freed her of Kyle Haven’s captaincy and her role as a slaver. Of the original crew, Wintrow and his father were the sole survivors. As dawn lightened the sky, the crippled ship was overtaken by pirates. Captain Kennit and his crew had claimed Vivacia as a prize without striking a single blow. Then it was that Wintrow had struck his bargain with Kennit: he would try to save the pirate’s life if Kennit would allow him and his father to live. Sa’Adar, a priest among the slaves and the leader of the uprising, had other ambitions. He wished not only to stand in judgment on Wintrow’s father Kyle, but also to demand Kennit turn the Vivacia over to the slaves as their rightful prize. No matter who prevailed, the future was uncertain for both Wintrow and the ship. Yet, the ship already seemed to favour the pirate.

Ahead of them, the Marietta cut a brisk path through the lace-edged waves. Vivacia followed eagerly in her wake. They were bound for some pirate stronghold; Wintrow knew no more than that. To the west, the horizon disappeared into the foggy coast of the Cursed Shores. The swift-running steaming rivers of that region dumped their warm and silty waters into this channel, which created near permanent mists and fogs that cloaked an ever-changing shoreline of shoals and shallows. Sudden, violent storms were common in the winter months, and not unknown even in the kinder days of summer. The pirate islands were uncharted. What sense was there in charting a coast that changed almost daily? The conventional wisdom was to give it a wide berth and sail swiftly past it. Yet the Marietta surged forward confidently and Vivacia followed. Obviously, the pirates were very familiar with these channels and islands.

Wintrow turned his head and looked back over the Vivacia. In the rigging above, the pirate crew moved briskly and competently to Brig’s bellowed commands. Wintrow had to admit he had never seen the Vivacia sailed with such skill. Pirates they might be, but they were also excellent sailors, moving with discipline and coordination, as smoothly as if they were living parts of the quickened ship.

But there were others on deck to spoil the image. Most of the slaves had survived the rebellion. Freed of their chains, they were still recovering the aspects of full humanity. The marks of manacles were yet on their flesh and the slave tattoos on their faces. Their clothes were ragged, and the bodies that showed through the rents were pale and bony. There were far too many of them for Vivacia’s size. Although they now occupied the open decks as well as the holds below, they still had the crowded look of cattle being transported. They stood idly in small groups on the busy decks, moving only when the crew gestured them out of the way. Some of the healthier ones worked dispiritedly with rags and buckets, cleaning Vivacia’s decks and holds. Dissatisfaction showed on many faces. Wintrow wondered uneasily if they would act on it.

He wondered what he felt about them. Before their uprising, Wintrow had tended them belowdecks. His heart had rung with pity for them then. True, he had had small comfort to offer them: the dubious relief of saltwater and a washing rag seemed a false mercy now. He had tried to do a priest’s duties for them, but there had simply been too many. Now whenever he looked at them, instead of recalling his compassion for them, he remembered the screams and the blood as they had killed all his shipmates. He could not name the emotion that now swept through him when he considered the former slaves. Compounded of fear and anger, disgust and sympathy, it wrenched his soul with shame at feeling it. It was not a worthy emotion for a priest of Sa to experience. So he chose his other option. He felt nothing.

Some of the sailors, perhaps, had deserved their violent deaths, as men judged such things. But what of Mild, who had befriended Wintrow, and the fiddler Findow and fun-loving Comfrey and the other good men? Surely, they had merited a kinder end. The Vivacia had not been a slaver when they signed aboard. They had remained aboard her when Kyle had decided to put her to that use. Sa’Adar, the slave priest freed in the rebellion, believed that all who had died had deserved it. He preached that by working as crew on a slave ship, they had become the enemies of all just men. Wintrow felt himself deeply divided on that. He clung to the comforting idea that Sa did not demand he judge others. He told himself that Sa reserved all judging for himself, for only the creator had the wisdom to be judge.

The slaves on board did not share Wintrow’s opinion. Some looked at him and seemed to recall a soft-spoken voice in the darkness and hands with a cool damp rag. Others saw him as a sham, as the captain’s son playing at mercy but doing little to free them until they had taken matters into their own hands. One and all, they avoided him. He could not fault them. He avoided them as well, choosing to spend most of his time on the foredeck near Vivacia. The pirate crewmembers only came there when the operation of the ship demanded it. Otherwise, they avoided it as superstitiously as the slaves did. The living, speaking figurehead frightened them. If their shunning of her bothered Vivacia, she gave no sign of it. For Wintrow’s part, he was glad there was still one place aboard ship where he could be relatively alone. He leaned his head back against her railing and tried to find a thought that wasn’t painful.

At home, it would almost be spring. The buds would be swelling in the monastery orchards. He wondered how Berandol was doing with his own studies, if his tutor ever missed him. He wondered with deep regret what he would be studying now if he were there. He looked down at his hands. Once they had transcribed manuscripts and shaped stained glass windows. They had been a boy’s hands, agile but still tender. Callus coated his palms now, and a finger was missing from one hand. They were the rough hands of a sailor. His finger would never wear a priest’s ring.

Here it was a different kind of spring. The canvas snapped in the brisk chill wind. Migrating flocks of birds passed over head with their haunting cries. The islands to either side of the channel had become even more lush, green, and alive with shorebirds arguing about nesting space.

Something tugged at him.

‘Your father calls for you,’ Vivacia said quietly.

Of course. He had sensed it through her. Their journey through the storm had affirmed and strengthened the bond of mind and spirit between the ship and himself. He did not resent it as he once had and he sensed that Vivacia did not cherish it as dearly as she once had. Perhaps in this, at least, their feelings were meeting in the middle. Since the storm, she had been kind to him, but no more than that. Like a preoccupied parent with a demanding child, he thought to himself.

‘In some ways, we have exchanged roles since our journey began,’ she observed.

He nodded, having neither spirit nor energy to deny the truth. Then he straightened his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, and set his jaw more firmly. He would not let his father see how uncertain he felt.

He kept his head up as he threaded his way across the deck, avoiding the knots of slaves and the working crewmen. No one met his eyes, no one challenged him. Foolish, he told himself, to believe they all watched his passage. They had won. Why should they care about the actions of one surviving crewmember? At least he had come through it physically unscathed.

Vivacia bore the scars of the slave uprising. There were still bloodstains on the decks. The marks had not and would not yield to the sanding-stones the men used. The ship still smelled like a slaver, despite the near continuous scrubbing Brig had ordered. The storm had taken a toll on her canvas as well; the hasty patching that the pirates had done showed plainly on her sails. In the aftercastle, doors had been forced when the slaves had hunted down the ship’s officers. The gleaming woodwork was splintered and awry. She was not the tidy little vessel he had embarked upon from Bingtown. It suddenly shamed him to see his family ship this way, as if he had seen his sister whoring in a tavern. His heart went out to her and he wondered what it would have been like to have come aboard the ship of his own free will, as a boy perhaps, to serve under his grandfather’s authority.

Then he set all such thoughts aside. He came to a battered door guarded by two sullen map-faces. He stepped past the former slaves as if he did not see them and knocked on Gantry’s cabin door. At least, it had been the mate’s while he was still alive. Now the stripped and looted room was his father’s prison cell. He did not wait for a reply, but entered.

His father sat on the edge of the bare bunk. The stare he lifted to Wintrow’s face was an uneven one. Blood filled the white of one eye in his swollen and discoloured face. Kyle Haven’s posture suggested pain and despair, but there was only acid sarcasm in his greeting. ‘Nice of you to recall me. I had supposed you were too busy grovelling to your new masters.’

Wintrow held back a sigh. ‘I came to see you earlier, but you were sleeping. I knew rest would heal you more than anything I could offer. How are your ribs?’

‘Afire. My head throbs with every beat of my heart. And I’m hungry as well as thirsty.’ He made a slight motion with his chin towards the door. ‘Those two won’t even let me out for some air.’

‘I left food and water here for you earlier. Didn’t you…’

‘Yes, I found it. A gill of water and two pieces of dry bread.’ There was suppressed fury in his father’s voice.

‘It was all I could get for you. There is a shortage of food and fresh water aboard. During the storm, much of the food was spoiled by saltwater…’

‘Gobbled down by the slaves, you mean.’ Kyle shook his head in disgust and then winced. ‘They didn’t even have the sense to know they’d have to ration food. They kill the only men who can sail the ship in the midst of a storm, and then eat or destroy half the rations on board. They are no more fit to be in charge of themselves than a flock of chickens. I hope you are pleased with the freedom you dispensed to them. It’s as like to be their deaths as their salvation.’

‘They freed themselves, Father,’ Wintrow said stubbornly.

‘But you did nothing to stop them.’

‘Just as I did nothing to stop you from bringing them aboard in chains.’ Wintrow took a breath to go on, then stopped himself. No matter how he tried to justify what he had done, his father would never accept his reasons. Kyle’s words nudged the bruises on Wintrow’s conscience. Were the deaths of the crew his fault because he had done nothing? If that was so, then was he also responsible for the deaths of the slaves before the uprising? The thought was too painful to consider.

In an altered tone he went on, ‘Do you want me to tend your injuries, or try to find food for you?’

‘Did you find the medical supplies?’

Wintrow shook his head. ‘They’re still missing. No one has admitted taking them. They may have been lost overboard during the storm.’

‘Well, without them, there is little you can do for me,’ his father pointed out cynically. ‘Food would be nice, however.’

Wintrow refused to be irritated. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said softly.

‘Of course you will,’ his father replied snidely. His voice lowered abruptly as he asked, ‘And what will you do about the pirate?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wintrow admitted honestly. He met his father’s eyes squarely as he added, ‘I’m afraid. I know I have to try to heal him. But I don’t know which is worse, the prospect of him surviving and us continuing as prisoners, or him dying and us with him, and the ship having to go on alone.’

His father spat on the deck, an action so unlike him that it was as shocking as a blow. His eyes glittered like cold stones. ‘I despise you,’ he growled. ‘Your mother must have lain with a serpent, to bring forth something like you. It shames me to have folk name you my son. Look at you. Pirates have taken over your family ship, the livelihood of your mother and sister and little brother. Their very survival depends on you taking this ship back! But you don’t even think of that. No. All you wonder is if you will kill or cure the pirate whose boot is on your neck. You have not given one thought to getting weapons for us, or persuading the ship to defy him as she defied me. All the time you wasted nursemaiding those slaves when they were in chains! Do you try to get any of them to help you now? No. You mouse along and help that damn pirate keep the ship he has stolen from us.’