Hobb, Robin - Liveship Traders 02 - Mad Ship

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Mad Ship

by Robin Hobb

Book Two of the Liveship Traders Trilogy

A Bantam Spectra Book/April 1999

Map illustration by James Sinclair

Book design by Laurie Jewell

Jacket illustration © Stephen Youll

Jacket design by Jamie S. Warren Youll

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hobb, Robin.

Mad ship / Robin Hobb.

p. cm. - (The liveship traders : bk. 2)

ISBN 0-553-10333-4

Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

Visit Bantam's website at www.bantam.com/spectra

Description:

In Ship of Magic, the breathtaking first volume in her new fantasy

trilogy, Robin Hobb wrote of the Liveship Traders of Bingtown. Now a new tide

of glory and terror sweeps forward the story of the proud Vestrit clan, their

priceless liveship Vivacia, and all who strive to possess her.

"If Patrick O'Brian were to turn to writing fantasy, he might produce

something like this," raves Booklist, and truer words have never been spoken.

This is a tale of the Old Traders of Bingtown and their rare magic ships-

carved from sentient wizardwood that bonds them mystically with those who sail

them. Theirs is an ancient tradition, but one that is slowly eroding under the

harsh realities of a cold new order.

For these once proud Traders, it is a humbling lesson to learn that the

foundations of their world, which had seemed immutable, are resting on

shifting sands. Their corrupt ruler is deeding away their ancestral lands to

upstart newcomers, and a growing traffic in human flesh is eroding the

boundaries of civilized society. A plague of sea serpents and pirates off the

coast is destroying the established trade routes, and ancient fortunes are

dwindling. Old debts are coming due, and talk of rebellion is growing. And

added to this uneasy mix, ancient powers are stirring on the banks of the

mysterious Rain Wild River.

At the center of the conflict lies the Vestrit clan and their liveship

Vivacia. The Vestrits long for the Vivacia to make port, certain that her

arrival will restore the family fortunes. And Althea Vestrit, beautiful and

dauntless, yearns more deeply than any. For she lives only to reclaim the

liveship as her lost inheritance and captain her on the high seas.

But unknown to Althea, the lovely magical vessel has been seized for a

slave galley and a privateer by the ruthless pirate captain Kennit, and now

the Vivacia sails, her decks washed with blood, through the perilous southern

passages of the Pirate Isles. Held captive onboard is Althea's nephew,

Wintrow, who has made a desperate bargain: he has promised to heal Kennit of a

mortal wound using arts learned in his monastic boyhood-or forfeit his life

and that of his father.

Meanwhile, in Bingtown, Althea finds her onetime sea mate Brashen still

struggling to redeem his wild past and out to prove himself a ship's master.

Though wary of each other since their brief, ill-fated flare of passion, they

now make common cause in a quest to find the Vivacia. But should they risk all

they possess to rescue a liveship who may not want to be rescued? For the

Vivacia is far from unhappy in her new life- and for Althea and Brashen, the

method of Vivacia's liberation may prove more dangerous than leaving her in

Kennit's ambitious grasp.

Mad Ship is a rich, tapestried epic of enchantment that will set your

imagination ablaze, proving that Robin Hobb is a writer not only working at

the top of her form, but constantly surpassing it.

SPRING

PROLOGUE - A Recollection of Wings

BELOW THE SERPENTS, THE BEDS OF WEEDS SWAYED GENTLY IN THE CHANGing tide. The

water was warm here, as warm as it had been in the south before they had

migrated. Despite Maulkin's declaration that they would no longer follow the

silvery provider, her tantalizing scent hung in the salt water. She was not

far away; they trailed her still, but at a distance. Shreever considered

confronting him about it, but decided against it. She eyed their leader

anxiously. The injuries Maulkin had taken in his brief battle with the white

serpent were healing slowly. The gouges disrupted the pattern of his scales.

The golden false-eyes that ran the length of his body and proclaimed him a

prophet were faded and dull.

Shreever, too, felt faded and dull.

They had come far in search of One Who Remembers. Maulkin had been so

confident at the beginning of their journey. Now he seemed as confused as she

and Sessurea were. The three of them were all that remained of the great

tangle of sea serpents who had begun the migration. The others in their tangle

had lost faith in their quest, and had fallen away from Maulkin. The last she

had seen of them, they had been following a great dark provider, feeding

mindlessly on the unresisting flesh it distributed to them. That had been many

tides ago.

"Sometimes," Maulkin confided to Shreever quietly as they rested, "I lose

my place in time. It seems to me that we have come this way before, done these

things before, perhaps even shared these words before. Sometimes I believe it

so strongly that I think that today is actually a memory or a dream. I think,

then, that perhaps we need do nothing, for whatever has happened to us will

occur again. Or has, perhaps, already occurred." His voice was without

strength or conviction.

She flanked him. They undulated gently in the current, finning no more

than they must to maintain their position. Beneath them, Sessurea shook his

mane suddenly, releasing a thin waft of toxins to alert them. "Look! Food!" he

bugled.

Silver and shimmering, the school of fish came gliding toward them like a

blessing. Behind the fish, shadowing them and feeding from the edges of the

school, was another tangle of serpents. Three scarlets, a green and two blues

they were. The hunters were not a large tangle but they appeared lively and

healthy. Their gleaming hides and full flesh contrasted markedly with the

slipping scales and sunken sides of Maulkin's tangle.

"Come," Maulkin bade them, and led them to join the others in their

feeding. Shreever made a tiny sound of relief. There would be, at least, full

bellies for them. Perhaps the others might even join Maulkin's tangle, once

they realized he was a prophet.

Their prey were not separate fish, but a school, silver and glinting,

baffling to the eye. They moved as one creature, yet it was a creature that

could separate and stream around a clumsy hunter. The serpents of Maulkin's

tangle were not clumsy hunters, and all three flowed gracefully after the

fish. The other tangle trumpeted warnings at them, but Shreever saw no danger.

With a lash of her tail, she drove herself into the school, her gaping jaws

engulfing at least three fish. She distended her throat to swallow them.

Two scarlet serpents suddenly turned aside and struck Maulkin, battering

him with their snouts as if he were a shark or other mutual enemy. The blue

came after Shreever, jaws gaping. With a swift coiling she eluded him,

changing direction to dart away. She saw the other scarlet try to wrap

Sessurea. The scarlet's mane was distended, spewing poison as he trumpeted

obscenities and threats. There was neither sense nor syntax to his curses,

only fury.

She fled, shrilling her fear and confusion. Maulkin did not follow. He

shook his great mane, releasing a cloud of toxins that near stunned the

scarlets. They backed away, shaking their open jaws and pumping their gills as

they strove to flush his poisons away.

"What is the matter with you?" Maulkin demanded of the strange tangle. He

twisted himself through a spiral, his mane distending threateningly as he

rebuked them. He summoned a faint gleam to his false-eyes. "Why do you attack

us like soulless beasts fighting over food? This is not the way of our kind!

Even if there were few, fish belong only to the one who catches them, not to

those who see them first. Have you forgotten who you are, what you are? Have

your minds been stolen completely?"

For a moment the other tangle hung motionless, save for the slight flicks

of their tails stabilizing them. The school of fish fled, forgotten. Then, as

if the very sanity of Maulkin's words had incensed them, they turned on him.

All six converged, jaws wide to display their teeth, manes erect and streaming

toxins, tails lashing. Shreever watched in horror as they wrapped him and bore

him struggling down to the muck.

"Help me!" Sessurea trumpeted. "They'll smother him!"

His words broke her paralysis. Side by side, they arrowed down, to butt

and lash at the tangle that held Maulkin captive. The other tangle savaged him

with their teeth, as if he were prey. His blood mingled with his toxins in a

choking cloud as he struggled. His false-eyes glimmered through the rising

murk. Shreever cried out in horror at the mindless brutality of the attack.

Yet, she found herself slashing at them with her teeth while Sessurea used his

greater length to whip at them.

At an opportune moment, Sessurea wrapped Maulkin's lacerated body in his

own and snatched him from the midst of the enraged tangle. He fled with

Maulkin in his grasp, and Shreever was glad to break off the battle and follow

him. The others did not pursue them. In their poisoned frenzy, the other

tangle turned upon their comrades, roaring insults and challenges. Their cries

were rote sounds, uttered without sense as they tore and lashed. Shreever did

not look back.

Some time later, as Shreever smoothed healing slime from her own body onto

Maulkin's lacerated flesh, he spoke to her. "They have forgotten. They have

forgotten completely who and what they were. It has been too long, Shreever.

They have lost every shred of memory and purpose." He winced as she nudged a

flap of torn skin into place. She sealed a layer of mucus over it. "They are

what we will become."

"Hush," Shreever told him gently. "Hush. Rest." She twined her long body

more securely about him, anchored her tail against a rock to secure them from

the current. Entangled with them, Sessurea already slept. Or perhaps he was

merely silent and impassive, prey to the same discouragement that gnawed

Shreever. She hoped not. She had barely enough courage left to shore up her

own determination. Sessurea would have to rally himself.

Maulkin concerned her the most. Their encounter with the silver provider

had changed him. The other providers that moved within both the Lack and the

Plenty were merely sources of easy feeding. The silver one had been different.

Her scent had wakened memories in all of them, and they had pursued her,

certain that her fragrance must lead them to One Who Remembers. Instead, she

had not even been one of their own kind. Still hoping, they had called to her,

but she had not answered. To the white serpent who begged from her, she had

given flesh. Maulkin had turned aside from her, proclaiming that she could not

be One Who Remembers and they would follow her no longer. Yet, in the tides

since then, her scent had always been present. She might be out of sight, but

Shreever knew she was no more than a brief journey away. Maulkin still

followed her, and they still followed him.

Maulkin gave a dull groan and shifted in her grip. "I fear it is the last

time any of us will make this journey as anything more than beasts."

"What do you mean?" Sessurea demanded abruptly. He twisted awkwardly until

his eyes met theirs. His own injuries were many, though none were serious. A

deep score adjacent to one of his poison glands just behind his jaw hinge was

the worst. If it had penetrated, his own toxins would have killed him. Sheer

luck had kept their tangle intact.

"Search your memories," Maulkin commanded hollowly. "Search not just the

tides and the days, but the seasons and the years, back decades upon decades.

We have been here before, Sessurea. All the tangles have swarmed and migrated

to these waters, not just once but scores of times. We have come here to seek

those who remember, those few entrusted with the memories of all our kind. The

promise was clear. We were to gather. Our history would be restored to us, and

we would be led to a safe place for our transformation. There we would be

reborn. Nevertheless, scores of times, we have been disappointed. Time upon

time, we have swarmed, and waited. Each time, we eventually gave up our hopes,

forgot our purpose, and finally we returned to the warm southern waters. Each

time those of us who have a handful of memories have said, 'Perhaps we were

mistaken. Perhaps this was not the time, the season, and the year for the

renewal.' But it was. We were not wrong. Those who were to meet us failed.

They did not come. Not then. Perhaps not this time, either."

Maulkin fell silent. Shreever continued to anchor him against the current.

It was a strain. Even if there had been no current, there was no soothing mud

to sink into here, only coarse sea grasses and tumbled stone and block. They

should find a better place to rest. However, until Maulkin had healed, she did

not wish to travel. Besides, where would they go? They had been up and down

this current full of strange salts and she had lost her faith that Maulkin

knew where he was leading them. Left to herself, where would she go? It was a

question that was suddenly too heavy for her mind. She did not want to think.

She cleansed the lenses of her eyes and then looked down on her body

tangled with theirs. The scarlet of her scales was bright and strong, but

perhaps that was only in contrast to Maulkin's dull hide. His golden false-

eyes had faded to dull browns. The suppurating slashes of his injuries marred

them. He needed to feed and grow and then shed a skin. That would make him

feel better. It would make them all feel better. She ventured the thought

aloud. "We need to feed. All of us grow hungry and slack. My toxin sacs are

nearly empty. Perhaps we should go south, where food is plentiful and the

water is warm."

Maulkin twisted in her grip to regard her. His great eyes spun copper with

concern. "You spend too much of your strength upon me, Shreever," he rebuked

her. She could feel the effort it cost him to shake his mane free and erect. A

second shake released a weak haze of toxin. It stung her and woke her,

restoring her awareness. Sessurea leaned closer, wrapping them both in his

greater length. He shared Maulkin's toxins, pumping his gills to absorb them.

"It will be all right," Sessurea tried to reassure her. "You are just

weary. And hungry. We all are."

"Weary unto death," Maulkin confirmed tiredly. "And hungry almost to

mindlessness. The demands of the body overpower the functioning of the mind.

But listen to me, both of you. Listen and fix this in your minds and cling to

it. If all else is forgotten, cherish this. We cannot go south again. If we

leave these waters, it will be to end. As long as we can think, we must remain

here and seek for One Who Remembers. I know it in my stomach. If we are not

renewed this time, we shall not be renewed. We and all our kind will perish

and be ever after unknown in sea or sky or upon the land." He spoke the

strange words slowly and for an instant, Shreever almost recalled what they

meant. Not just the Plenty and the Lack. The earth, the sky and the sea, the

three parts of their sovereignty, once the three spheres of ... something.

Maulkin shook his mane again. This time Shreever and Sessurea both opened

their gills wide to his toxins and scalded his memories into themselves.

Shreever looked down at the tumbled blocks of worked stone that littered the

sea bottom, at the layered barnacles and sea grasses that were anchored to the

Conqueror's Arch in an obscuring curtain. The black stone veined with silver

peeped through only in small patches. The earth had shaken it down and the sea

had swallowed it up. Once, lives ago, she had settled upon that arch, first

flapping and then folding her massive wings back upon her shoulders. She had

bugled to her mate of her joy in the morning's fresh rain, and a gleaming blue

dragon had blared his reply. Once the Elderkind had greeted her arrival with

scattered flowers and shouts of welcome. Once in this city under a bright blue

sky ...

It faded. It made no sense. The images wisped away like dreams upon

awakening.

"Be strong," Maulkin exhorted them. "If we aren't fated to survive, then

at least let us fight it to the end. Let it be fate that extinguishes us, not

our own lack of heart. For the sake of our kind, let us be true to what we

were." His ruff stood out full and venomous about his throat. Once more, he

looked the visionary leader who had seized Shreever's loyalties so long ago.

Her hearts swelled with love of him.

The world dimmed and she lifted her eyes to a great shadow moving

overhead. "No, Maulkin," she trumpeted softly. "We are not destined to die,

nor to forget. Look!"

A dark provider skimmed lazily along above them. As it swept over their

heads, it cast forth food for them. The flesh sank slowly toward them, wafting

down on the current. They were dead two-legs, one with chain still upon it.

There would be no struggle for this meat. One needed only to accept it.

"Come," she urged Maulkin as Sessurea unwound from them and moved eagerly

toward the meat. Gently she drew Maulkin up with her as she rose to accept the

bounty of the provider.

CHAPTER ONE - The Mad Ship

THE BREEZE AGAINST HIS FACE AND CHEST WAS BRISK AND CHILL, YET SOMEthing in it

hinted of spring soon to come. The air tasted of iodine; the tide must be out,

exposing the kelp beds just off shore. Under his hull, the coarse sand was

damp from the last heavy rain. The smoke of Amber's small fire tickled his

nose. The figurehead turned his blind visage away from it then reached up to

scratch his nose.

"It's a fine evening, don't you think?" she asked him conversationally.

"The skies have cleared. There are still some clouds, but I can see the moon

and some stars. I've gathered mussels and wrapped them in seaweed. When the

fire is stronger, I'll rake away some of the wood and cook them on the coals."

Her voice paused hopefully.

Paragon did not reply.

"Would you like to taste some, when they're cooked? I know you have no

need to eat, but you might find it an interesting experience."

He yawned, stretched, and crossed his arms on his chest. He was much

better at this than she was. Thirty years hauled out on a beach had taught him

true patience. He would outlast her. He wondered if she would get angry or sad

tonight.

"What good does it do either of us for you to refuse to speak to me?" she

asked reasonably. He could hear her patience starting to unravel. He did not

bother to shrug.

"Paragon, you are a hopeless twit. Why won't you speak to me? Can't you

see I'm the only one who can save you?"

Save me from what? he might have asked. If he'd been speaking to her.

He heard her get up and walk around his bow to stand in front of him. He

casually turned his disfigured face away from her.

"Fine, then. Pretend to ignore me. I don't care if you answer me or not,

but you have to listen to what I say. You are in danger, very real danger. I

know you opposed me buying you from your family, but I made the offer anyway.

They refused me."

Paragon permitted himself a small snort of disdain. Of course, they had.

He was the Ludluck family's liveship. No matter how deep his disgrace, they

would never sell him. They had kept him chained and anchored to this beach for

some thirty years, but they'd never sell him! Not to Amber, not to New

Traders. They wouldn't. He had known that all along.

Amber continued doggedly. "I spoke directly to Amis Ludluck. It wasn't

easy to get to see her. When we did speak, she pretended to be shocked that I

would make the offer. She insisted you were not for sale, at any price. She

said the same things that you did, that no Bingtown Trader family would sell

their liveship. That it simply wasn't done."

Paragon could not keep down the slow smile that gradually transfigured his

face. They still cared. How could he have ever doubted that? In a way, he was

almost grateful to Amber for making the ridiculous offer to buy him. Maybe now

that Amis Ludluck had admitted to a stranger that he was still a part of her

family, she'd be moved to visit him. Once Amis had visited him, it might lead

to other things. Perhaps he would yet again sail the seas with a friendly hand

on the wheel. His imagination went afar.

Amber's voice dragged him back ruthlessly. "She pretended to be distressed

that there were even rumors of selling you. She said it insulted her family

honor. Then she said-" Amber's voice suddenly went low, with fear or anger.

"She said that she had hired some men to tow you away from Bingtown. That it

might be better all around if you were out of sight and out of mind." Amber

paused significantly.

Paragon felt something inside his wizardwood chest squeeze tight and hard.

"So I asked her who she had hired."

He lifted his hands quickly and stuffed his fingers in his ears. He

wouldn't listen. She was going to play on his fears. So his family was going

to move him. That didn't mean anything. It would be nice to be somewhere else.

Maybe this time, when they hauled him out, they would block him up level. He

was tired of always being at a list.

"She said it was none of my business." Amber raised her voice. "Then I

asked her if they were Bingtown Traders. She just glared at me. So then I

asked her where Mingsley was going to take you to have you dismantled."

Paragon began desperately to hum. Loudly. Amber went on talking. He

couldn't hear her. He would not hear her. He plugged his ears more tightly and

sang aloud, "A penny for a sweet-bun, a penny for a plum, a penny for the

races, to see the ponies run. . . ."

"She threw me out!" Amber roared. "When I stood outside and shouted that

I'd take it to the Bingtown Traders' Council, she set her dogs on me. They

damn near caught me, too!"

"Swing me low, swing me high, swing me up into the sky," Paragon sang the

childish rhyme desperately. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. His family was

going to move him somewhere safe. That was all. It didn't really matter who

they hired to do it. Once they had him in the water, he'd go willingly. He

would show them how easy it could be to sail him. Yes. It would be a chance to

prove himself to them. He could show them that he was sorry for all the things

they had made him do.

She wasn't speaking anymore. He slowed his singing, then let it die away

to a hum. Silence, save for his own voice. Cautiously he unstopped his ears.

Nothing, save the brush of the waves, the wind nudging sand across the beach

and the crackling of Amber's fire. A question occurred to him and he spoke it

aloud before he remembered he was not speaking to her.

"When I get to my new place, will you still come to see me?"

"Paragon. You can't pretend this away. If they take you away from here,

they'll chop you up for wizardwood."

The figurehead tried a different tack. "I don't care. It would be nice to

be dead."

Amber's voice was low, defeated. "I'm not sure you'd be dead. I'm afraid

they'll separate you from the ship. If that doesn't kill you, they'll probably

transport you to Jamaillia, and sell you off as an oddity. Or give you as a

gift to the Satrap in exchange for grants and favors. I don't know how you'd

be treated there."

"Will it hurt?" Paragon asked.

"I don't know. I don't know enough about what you are. Did it ... When

they chopped your face, did that hurt?"

He turned his shattered visage away from her. He lifted his hands and

walked his fingers over the splintered wood where his eyes had once been.

"Yes." His brow furrowed. Then in the next breath he added, "I don't remember.

There is a lot I can't remember, you know. My logbooks are gone."

"Sometimes not remembering is the easiest thing to do."

"You think I'm lying, don't you? You think I can remember, but I just

won't admit it." He picked at it, hoping for a quarrel.

"Paragon. Yesterday we cannot change. We are talking about tomorrow."

"They're coming tomorrow?"

"I don't know! I was speaking figuratively." She came closer suddenly and

reached up to put her hands flat against him. She wore gloves against the

night's chill, but it was still a touch. He could feel the shapes of her hands

as two patches of warmth against his planking. "I can't stand the thought of

them taking you to cut you up. Even if it doesn't hurt, even if it doesn't

kill you. I can't stand the thought of it."

"There's nothing you can do," he pointed out. He suddenly felt mature for

voicing that thought. "There's nothing either of us can do."

"That is fatalistic twaddle," Amber declared angrily. "There's a lot we

can do. If nothing else, I swear I will stand here and fight them."

"You wouldn't win," Paragon insisted. "It would be stupid to fight,

knowing you couldn't win."

"That's as may be," Amber replied. "I hope it doesn't come to that. I

don't want to wait for it to be that desperate. I want to act before they do.

Paragon. We need help. We need someone who will speak to the Bingtown Traders'

Council for us."

"Can't you?"

"You know I can't. Only an Old Trader can attend those meetings, let alone

speak. We need someone who can go to them and convince them they should forbid

the Ludlucks to do this."

"Who?"

Amber's voice was small. "I had hoped you knew someone who would speak for

you."

Paragon was silent for a time. Then he laughed harshly. "No one will speak

for me. This is a stupid effort, Amber. Think about it. Not even my own family

cares for me. I know what they say about me. I am a killer. Moreover, it's

true, isn't it? All hands lost. I rolled and drowned them all, and not just

once. The Ludlucks are right, Amber. They should sell me to be chopped up."

Despair washed over him, colder and deeper than any storm wave. "I'd like to

be dead," he declared. "I'd just like to stop."

"You don't mean that," Amber said softly. He could hear in her voice that

she knew he did.

"Would you do me a favor?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Kill me before they can."

He heard the soft intake of her breath. "I ... No. I couldn't."

"If you knew they were coming to chop me up, you could. I will tell you

the only sure way. You have to set fire to me. Not just in one place, but

many, to make sure they cannot put it out and save me. If you gathered dry

wood, a little each day, and put it in piles in my hold . . ."

"Don't even speak of such things," Amber said faintly. Distractedly, she

added, "I should put the mussels on to cook now." He heard her scratching at

her fire, then the sizzle of wet seaweed steaming on hot coals. She was

cooking the mussels alive. He considered pointing that out to her. He decided

it would only upset her, not sway her to his cause. He waited until she had

come back to him. She sat on the sand, leaning against his canted hull. Her

hair was very fine. When it brushed against his planking, it snagged and clung

to the wood.

"You don't make sense," he pointed out genially. "You vow you would stand

and fight for me, knowing you would lose. But this simple, sure mercy you

refuse me."

"Death by flames is scarcely mercy."

"No. Being chopped to pieces is much more pleasant, I'm sure," Paragon

retorted sarcastically.

"You go so quickly from childish tantrums to cold logic," Amber said

wonderingly. "Are you child or man? What are you?"

"Both, perhaps. But you change the subject. Come. Promise me."

"No," she pleaded.

He let out his breath in a sigh. She would do it. He could hear it in her

voice. If there were no other way to save him, then she would do it. A strange

trembling ran through him. It was a strange victory to have won. "And jars of

oil," he added. "When they come, you may not have much time. Oil would make

the wood burn fast and hot."

There followed a long silence. When she spoke again, her voice was

altered. "They will try to move you in secret. Tell me how they would do it."

"Probably the same way I was put up here. They will wait for a high tide.

Most likely, they would choose the highest tide of the month, at night. They

will come with rollers, donkeys, men and small boats. It will not be a small

undertaking, but knowledgeable men could get it done quickly."

Amber considered. "I shall have to move my things into you. I shall have

to sleep aboard in order to guard you. Oh, Paragon," she cried out suddenly,

"don't you have anyone who could speak up for you to the Bingtown Council?"

"Only you."

"Fir try. But I doubt they will give me a chance. I'm an outsider in

Bingtown. They only listen to their own."

"You once told me you were respected in Bingtown."

"As an artisan and a merchant, they respect me. I am not an Old Trader.

They would not have much patience with me if I began meddling in their

affairs. Likely, I would suddenly find I had no customers. Or perhaps worse.

The whole town is becoming more divided along Old Trader and newcomer lines.

There is a rumor that the Bingtown Council has sent a delegation to the

Satrap, with their original charter. They will demand he honor the word of

Satrap Esclepius. The rumor is that they will demand he recall all the New

Traders, and cancel all the land grants I he has made them. They also demand

that Satrap Cosgo live up to the old charter, and forbear from issuing any

more land grants without the consent of the Bingtown Traders."

"A detailed rumor," Paragon observed.

"I have a keen ear for rumor and gossip. More than once, it has kept me

alive."

A silence fell.

"I wish I knew when Althea was coming back." Amber's voice was wistful. "I

could ask her to speak for us."

Paragon debated mentioning Brashen Trell. Brashen was his friend, Brashen

would want to speak for him. Brashen was Old Trader. But even as he thought of

that, he recalled that Brashen had been disinherited. Brashen was as much a

disgrace to the Trell family as Paragon was to the Ludlucks. It would do no

good to have Brashen speak out for him, even if he could get the Bingtown

Traders' Council to hear him. It would be one black sheep speaking on behalf

of another. No one would listen. He set his hand over the scar on his chest,

concealing for an instant the crude, seven-pointed star branded into him. His

fingers traveled over it thoughtfully. He sighed, then drew a deep breath.

"The mussels are done. I can smell them."

"Do you want to taste one?"

"Why not?" He should try new things while he still could. It might not be

much longer before his chances to experience new things were gone forever.

CHAPTER TWO - 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

anymore. 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 anymore."

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

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MadShipbyRobinHobbBookTwooftheLiveshipTradersTrilogyABantamSpectraBook/April1999Allrightsreserved.Copyright©1999byRobinHobbMapillustrationbyJamesSinclairBookdesignbyLaurieJewellJacketillustration©StephenYoullJacketdesignbyJamieS.WarrenYoullLibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataHobb,Robin.Mad...

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