Captain's Fury (Page 64)

There, visible even from the level of the deck now, was the recognizable shape of another ship, its sails gleaming white in the afternoon sun, its course steadily converging on theirs.

"They’re going to catch up," Kitai said quietly.

"So it would seem," Tavi said. "The crew’s getting anxious. They’ll start sharpening their knives before much longer."

Kitai nodded. "I feel it, too." She was silent for a time more, and said, "Do these pirates always attack so far out at sea? It seems to me to be a troublesome way to seek a quarrel. We could have fought on the docks and settled it there. Then we could have enjoyed the voyage in peace."

"That would have been far more reasonable," Tavi agreed. "But I’m afraid they aren’t reasonable people."

"No. They’re Alerans." She shook her head, and Tavi suddenly noticed the absence of the usual good-humored twinkle in her eye when she made such observations. "Chala, there is something you should see."

Tavi nodded, and followed her the length of the deck, to a narrow staircase that led down into the dimly lit hold of the ship. Within, the ship looked like any rough wooden building, except for the odd contours of the outer wall and the low ceiling. They went through what looked like a larder, full of boxes and barrels of foodstuffs, and a small workshop where various woodworking tools were stored, along with spare lumber, evidently for repairs. Beyond that, the workshop doors opened into the cargo hold.

It was damp and musty, lit with only a single pair of tiny furylamps. The wooden beams of the ship creaked and groaned around them. Kitai slipped forward, through the mostly empty hold, until they reached the foremost part, just under where Tavi had been standing a few moments before.

There, the flat planks forming the floor of the hold had been left out, exposing the curve of the ship’s hull-a space the size of a couple of large bathtubs that was full of what was apparently seawater. A pair of men knelt in the water. Both of them were bare-chested, and both had long hair worn in an odd style of dozens and dozens of tiny braids. Their skin was marked with dark ink formed into abstract swirls and curling patterns. Both men had their eyes closed, their hands spread with fingers wide in the seawater, and they both kept up a constant murmuring under their breath. Their skin had a shriveled look, and they shuddered with the cold.

"The witchmen," Tavi murmured.

"No," Kitai said. "Not them."

Tavi arched an eyebrow at her.

"I asked Demos to show me these witchmen," she said. She walked over to the thick shadows at one side of the hold. "That was when I noticed these."

Tavi followed her, squinting. It was difficult to make out anything in the thick shadows, but his night vision had improved markedly since the bond had formed between him and Kitai. She waited in patient silence for a moment, until his eyes adjusted, and he saw what she had brought him to see.

Chains.

Four heavy rings had been set into the side of the ship, spaced about a foot apart, four feet up from the floor. From each set of rings dangled two sets of manacles, heavy things that could never be broken without fury-assisted strength-and anyone locked into them would perforce be surrounded by the wooden hull of the ship and cut off from contact with the earth.

The hull of the ship, and the floor there beneath the rings was stained, and Tavi was glad that he couldn’t see much of it. A faint scent lingered in the air, beneath the mustiness of the ship itself, the foulness of human waste-and blood. That was easily enough seen, dark blotches on the manacles.

"Demos is a slaver," Kitai said quietly.

Tavi took a step back before he took a deep breath. "It isn’t uncommon in this part of the world. Most captains have transported slaves at one time or another."

Kitai reached out and touched a chain, running her fingers down the links. "And you see nothing wrong with that?"

"I don’t like it," Tavi said, "but men like Demos choose what jobs they will or will not take."

Kitai gave Tavi a rather hard look. "Not that, Aleran. Do you see nothing wrong with the fact that this"-she flicked the chain hard against the ship’s hull-"is not uncommon?"

Tavi blinked and stared at her for a moment. "Kitai…"

She turned back to Tavi, her eyes narrowed. "You told me that Nasaug called your kind monsters. So would my people if they knew you treated your own like this."

"Not everyone does," Tavi said.

"But everyone allows it," she said, her voice hard. She stepped forward until he could see her features in the dimness. They were green agates. "Is this what you are as well, Aleran?"

He met her eyes for a moment and felt her outrage like the heat of a fire on his face. He began to speak, but stopped. Instinct warned him that nothing he said would answer her question.

Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment and dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. He reached out to it, sensing the strength of the steel, feeling its latent energy, partially beaten into shape at a Legion forge. Tavi pressed his senses into the sword, taking steady breaths, drawing his thoughts into focus and drawing the power of the sword with them, shaping it, aligning its matter, strengthening its edge.

Then he opened his eyes, stepped, drew, and swept the weapon in a single sweep and backstroke.

Sparks flew up, metal screeched, and the chains clattered to the flooring, the ends of the severed links aglow with heat.

Tavi sheathed the weapon in a smooth, practiced motion, and turned to Kitai.

The Marat girl lifted her chin, her eyes aglow. She nodded once, the motion deep enough to be almost a bow.

Tavi responded the same way, never looking away from her eyes.

"That," she said, "is my Aleran."

Tavi looked up to find that both witchmen had turned and were staring at him.

"If Captain Demos asks," Tavi told them quietly, "tell him to take it up with me."

The witchmen glanced at one another, and then nodded to Tavi in unison.

Suddenly, there was a surge of emotion from above, a sudden wave of sharply increased panic, fear, and anger. It crashed against Tavi, and his balance wavered beneath the force of it. His hand went of its own accord toward Kitai, landing on her shoulder, steadying himself, even as she shuddered and reached out to brace herself against his chest.

The witchmen both let out quiet moans of misery and crouched even lower in the water. They resumed their murmuring, though it was louder now, faster, almost frantic.

Above, on the deck, there was an agonized scream.

Tavi turned and sprinted for the stairs again, Kitai on his heels. He didn’t draw his blade-a fine mess he would make of himself if he lost his balance in the ship’s roll and gutted himself on his own sword. He came onto the deck to find it in frantic activity, men hurrying back and forth as the ship’s officers shouted commands. All of them were crouching, darting from place to place, and casting frantic glances to port.