Robin Hobb - The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy - Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny

‘That’s likely so,’ Sorcor agreed after a moment’s pondering. ‘So. How do we get them to listen to us?’

Finally. The question he had been leading him to ask. Kennit came swiftly back to the table. He forced himself to pause for the drama of the moment. He set his own glass down, and uncorked the bottle. He topped up Sorcor’s wine, and added a dollop to his own nearly-full glass. ‘We make them believe we can do the impossible. By doing things all others deem impossible. Such as, say, capturing a liveship and using it as our main vessel.’

Sorcor scowled at him. ‘Kennit, old friend, that’s crazy. No wooden ship can capture a liveship. They’re too fleet. I’ve heard tell that the ship herself can scent a passage through a channel, and cry it to her steersman. And that they can feel the luff of the wind, and catch and use a breath of air that wouldn’t budge another ship. Besides, even if we did fall upon one and manage to kill off her crew, the ship itself would be no good to us. They’ll only sail for their own family members. Any one else, they turn on. The ship would run herself aground, or onto the rocks, or just turn turtle on us. Look at that death-ship, what was his name? The one that went mad and turned on his own family and crew? He rolled and took all hands with him. Not once, but three times, or so I’ve heard. And the last time they found him, he was floating upside-down in the mouth of Bingtown harbour itself. Some say the ghost crew brought him home, others that he came back to show them Traders what he’d done. They dragged him out and beached him, and there he’s been ever since. Pariah. That was his name. The Pariah. ’

‘The Paragon ,’ Kennit corrected him with wry amusement. ‘His name was the Paragon, though even his own family have taken to calling him the Pariah. Yes, I’ve heard all the old myths and legends about liveships, Sorcor. But that’s what they are. Myths and legends. I believe a liveship could be taken and could be used. And if the heart of the ship could be won over, you’d have a vessel for piracy that no other ship could stand against. It’s true, what you say about the currents and winds and liveships. True, also, that they can sense a serpent long before a man can spot him, and cry it out to the archers to be ready. A liveship would be the perfect vessel for piracy. And for charting out new passages through the Pirate Isles, or battling serpents. I’m not saying we should forsake all else and go hunting a liveship. I’m just saying that if one comes our way, instead of saying there’s no use in pursuing it, let’s give it a chase. If we win it, we win it. If not, well, plenty of other ships get away from us. We’ll have lost no more than we had before.’

‘Why a liveship?’ Sorcor asked bewilderedly. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘I… want one. That’s why.’

‘Well then. I’ll tell you what I want.’ For some odd reason, Sorcor thought they were striking a bargain. ‘I’ll go along with it,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘We’ll chase liveships when we see them, though I don’t see much use to it. Not that I’ll admit that to the men. In front of the men, I’ll be as hot to go after them as a hound on a scent. But you make me this balance. For every liveship we chase, we go after the next slaver we smell. And we board them, and throw the crew to the serpents, and see the slaves safe back to a town. No offence to your judgement, Cap’n, but I think that if we stop enough slavers and do away with the crews, we’ll gain the respect of the others a lot faster than by capturing a liveship.’

Kennit did not mask his scowl. ‘I think you overestimate the righteousness and morality of our fellows here in Divvytown. I think they’d be as likely to think us soft-headed fools to waste our time pursuing slavers only to free the cargo.’

Perhaps the fine wine had gone to Sorcor’s head faster than a lesser vintage would have. Or perhaps Kennit had unwittingly found the man’s one nerve. His deep voice was deadly soft as he pointed out, ‘You only think so because you’ve never been chained hand and foot in a stinking hold when you’re scarcely more than a lad. You’ve never had your head gripped in a vice to still you while a tattooist jabs your new master’s mark into your face.’ The man’s eyes glittered, turned inward towards a darkness only his sight could pierce. He drew a slow breath. ‘And then they put me to work in a tanner’s pit, curing hides. They cared nothing for what it did to my own hide. I saw older men there coughing blood from their lungs. No one cared, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I was one of them. One night I killed two men and got away. But where was I to go? North where it’s all ice and snow and barbarians? Back south to where my tattoo would mark me as an escaped slave, easy money for anyone who wanted to club me down and return me to my owner? Or should I make for the Cursed Shores, and live like an animal until some demon drained my blood? No. The only thing left to a man like me was the Pirate Isles and a pirate’s life. But it’s not what I would have chosen, Kennit, given the chance to choose. There’s damned few here would have chosen this.’ His voice wandered off as did his eyes. He stared past Kennit into the dim corner of the room, seeing nothing for a time. Then his gaze snapped suddenly back to Kennit’s. ‘For every liveship we chase, we run down a slaver. That’s all I’m asking. I give you a shot at your dream, you allow me one at mine.

‘Fair enough,’ Kennit declared brusquely. He knew when the final bargain had been set out on a table. ‘Fair enough then. For every liveship, a slaver.’

A coldness welled up in Wintrow. It had filled his belly first and now it flowed out through him. He literally shook with it. He hated how it made his voice waver, as if he were a child on the brink of crying when all he was trying to do was present his case rationally and calmly, as he had been trained. As he had been taught in his beloved monastery. The memory of the cool stone halls where peace flowed with the wind rose up unbidden. He tried to take strength from it. Instead it only unmanned him more. He was not there, he was here, in the family’s dining hall. The low table of golden oak polished until it shone, the cushioned benches and lounges that surrounded the table, the panelled walls and the paintings of ships and ancestors all reminded him that he was here, in Bingtown. He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice as he looked from his mother to his father to his grandmother. They were all seated at the same table, but they were grouped at one end of it, like a panel about to pass judgement on him. As perhaps they were. He took a breath.

‘When you sent me off to be a priest, it was not my choice.’ Again he looked from face to face, trying to find some memory in them of that devastating day. ‘We stood in this very room. I clung to you, Mother, and promised I’d be good for ever, if only you wouldn’t send me away. But you told me I had to go. You told me that I was a first-born son, dedicated to Sa from the moment that I drew breath. You said you couldn’t break your promise to Sa, and you gave me over to the wandering priest to take me to the monastery at Kall. Don’t you remember at all? You stood there, Father, over by that window, on a day so bright that when I looked at you, all I could see was a black shadow against the sunlight. You said not a word that day. Grandmother, you told me to be brave, and gave me a little bundle with a few cakes from the kitchen to keep me on my way.’

Again he looked from face to face, seeking some discomfort with what they were doing to him, some trace of guilt that would indicate they knew they were wronging him. His mother was the only one to show any signs of uneasiness. He kept trying to catch her eye, to make her speak her thoughts, but her gaze slid away from him to his father. The man looked as if he were carved of stone.