for her. Kennit had thought it fitting; had not Askew been founded when a storm-driven slaver took shelter up a channel and the cargo managed a successful uprising against the crew, he had asked Sorcor in amusement. Yes, that was true, but Sorcor had still been opposed, for there was little more to Askew than sand and rocks and clams. What future could these folk have there? Better than what the slaver had offered them, Kennit pointed out. Sorcor became surly but Kennit insisted. The journey there had taken six slow days, far less than it would have taken them to reach Divvytown, and from Kennit’s point of view, the time had been well spent.
Sorcor had seen a number of his rescued slaves die; disease and starvation did not vanish simply because a man could claim to be free. To Rafo’s credit and that of his charges, they had turned to and given the vessel a good scrubbing. It no longer gave off the full stench of a slaver, but Kennit still insisted that the Marietta sail upwind of her. He would risk no wind bringing disease to his ship. He had permitted none of the freed slaves to board the Marietta, saying that crowding his own vessel to relieve the tight quarters on the Fortune would do no one any good. Instead the slaves had had to be content with spreading out on the decks and taking the living area of the devoured crew. Some of the healthier ones were pressed into service as deckhands to fill out the ranks of the skeleton crew that manned her. The unfamiliar work was hard for them, especially in their weakened state. Despite this, and the continued deaths, the morale on the captured ship seemed high. The former slaves were pathetically grateful for fresh air, for shares of the salt pork that had once gone to the slaver’s crew, and for whatever fish they could catch to supplement their diets. Sorcor had even been able to drive off the serpents with several showers of ballast shot from the ballistae on the decks of the Marietta. Those who died now were still heaved from the decks of the ship, but the bodies splashed into the water rather than being snatched up by an avid serpent. This seemed to afford them great satisfaction, though for the life of him, Kennit could not see what difference it could make to the dead men.
They brought the ships into Askew on an incoming tide, when the push of the waters helped them up the sluggish tide channel that led into the brackish bay. The remains of a foundered ship thrust up skeletally at the shallow end of the anchorage. The village itself had sprung up as a row of huts and houses along the beach. These shelters were made from old ship’s timbers, driftwood and stone. Thin smoke rose from a few chimneys. Two makeshift fishing boats were tied to a battered wharf and half a dozen skiffs and coracles were pulled up on the sandy shore. It was not a prosperous town.
The Marietta led the way, and Kennit had to admit to a grudging pride that the slaves-cum-sailors that were the main crew of the Fortune now did not shame him. They worked as lively if not as skilfully as seasoned salts, bringing the big ship in and setting her anchors well. The Fortune was now flying the Raven flag that was known throughout all the Pirate Isles as Kennit’s emblem. By the time both ships had their boats away, a curious crowd had gathered on the rickety wharves to gawk at the newcomer. The rag-tag community of former slaves and refugees boasted no ship of their own larger than a fishing boat. To see two merchant-ships anchor in their harbour must make them wonder what tidings or goods they brought.
Kennit was content to send Sorcor ashore with the news that they would be taking bids on the Fortune. He doubted that anyone in the ratty little town would have enough coin to have made the conquest worth his while, but he was determined simply to take the best offer and be rid of both the smelly ship and the slaves who had filled its hold. He did not permit himself to dwell on how much the cargo of men would have brought had he forced Sorcor to accept his wisdom and sail on to Chalced to sell them. That opportunity was lost; there was no point in dwelling on it.
From the docks, a small flotilla of rowing boats were suddenly set in motion, hastening towards the Fortune. The slaves already crowded the railings, awaiting their chance to disembark from their floating prison. Kennit had not expected the townsfolk to be so eager to welcome his riff-raff. Well, all to the better. The sooner the Fortune was unloaded and sold, the sooner he could be back to more profitable pursuits. He turned aside, to give the ship’s boy a curt order that he was not to be disturbed by anyone. He had no immediate desire to visit Askew. Let the slaves go first, and Sorcor, to see what sort of welcome they might receive.
Instead he spent several hours after they docked in perusing the fine charts that had been aboard the Fortune. Sorcor had completely overlooked the charts and papers that had been in a concealed cupboard in the captain’s quarters. It was only when Kennit had finally decided to indulge his curiosity and pay a personal visit to the captured ship that they had been discovered. The papers were only of minimal interest to him, as they related only to the dead man’s personal interests and properties. In passing he noticed that the slaver’s wife and child had been well provided for. But the charts were another matter. In going over them, Kennit had noticed that his expectations were well founded. Charts were wealth. The information on them was often gained only at great cost, and was not casually shared with rival merchants or sailors. The slaver’s charts showed only the obvious passage past the Pirate Isles. There were a few notes on rumours of other channels, but very little of the inland waterways of the islands had been charted. Seven pirate settlements were marked on the chart, two incorrectly and a third was a settlement long abandoned as too exposed to passing slave-ships. Slavers saw no reason not to raid pirate settlements for extra cargo as they were passing through; it was one of Sorcor’s grievances against them. Despite these obvious lacks, it was a painstaking chart of the main channel.
For some time Kennit leaned back in his chair and gazed out at the high passing clouds and considered. He decided he could accept this chart as the current level of the slaver’s knowledge of the Pirate Isles and the passages through it. So. If a man could gain control of the main channel, he could strangle all trade. Slave-ships had not the leisure to explore, looking for alternate routes. Perhaps the same was true of the liveships. He tempted himself with that belief, then reluctantly shook his head. The liveships and their families had plied these waters for many years longer than the slavers had. The Chalcedean slave-trade had largely created the pirates and their settlements. So he would have to assume that most Trader families who plied these waters would have better knowledge of them than the slavers. Why had not that knowledge been shared; the answer was obvious. No Trader would willingly extend his own advantage to his competitors. He leaned back in his chair. So. What had he learned, really? Nothing he had not already known. Slavers would be easier to capture than liveships. But that did not mean that capturing a liveship would be impossible; only that he might have to give more thought to it.
His mind strayed to the slave-ship. It had been a ship of freed men for three days before he visited, and that had wrought some change in the level of stench, though not enough to placate Kennit’s nose. He had given no real thought to it when he had put Rafo in charge of the ship, but he was acquitting himself well in his new position. Hundreds of buckets of seawater had been hauled aboard and the upper decks at least showed the benefit of it. But from the open hatch covers, a fetid stench welled up. There were simply too many live beings crowded aboard the vessel. They huddled in knots on the deck, bony limbs thrusting out of tattered rags. Some were endeavouring to help work the ship, others simply trying to stay out of the way. Some were engaged in the absorbing business of dying, interested in nothing else. As Kennit walked the length of the ship, a handkerchief held to his nose and mouth, the eyes of the slaves followed him. Every one of them spoke softly as he passed them. Eyes flooded with tears at his approach and heads were bowed before him. At first he had thought they grovelled in terror of him. When he finally realized their murmurs were expressions of thanks and blessings upon him, he did not know whether to be amused or flattered. Unsure of how to react to such a display, he resorted to his accustomed small smile, and made his way to what had been the quarters of the ship’s officers.
They had lived very well indeed, compared to the plight of the poor wretches who’d made up their cargo. He found he agreed with Sorcor’s assessment of the captain’s taste in clothing. In a whimsical moment, he had ordered it distributed to those of the slaves who could make best use of it. The man had smoking herbs in plenty also. Kennit wondered if he had not
