Ship of Magic. Робин ХоббЧитать онлайн книгу.
not unduly rough, but still she wept, even after he rolled off her. Somehow the near-noiseless weeping of the woman beside him troubled him. The disturbance he felt at it combined with his earlier shame and self-disgust. What was the matter with her? He paid her, didn’t he? What right did she have to expect any more than that from him? She was, after all, just a whore. It was the deal they had made.
Abruptly he rose and began pulling on his clothes. After a time, her weeping stopped. She turned over suddenly in the bedding. ‘Please,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Please don’t go. I’m sorry I displeased you. I’ll be still now. I promise.’
The hopelessness in her voice rang against the hopelessness in his heart, steel against steel. He should kill her. He should just kill her rather than let her say such words to him. Instead, he thrust his hand into his coat pocket. ‘Here, this is for you,’ he said, groping for some small coin to give her. Money would remind them both of why they were here together in this room. But fate had betrayed him, for there was nothing in his pocket. He’d left the ship in that much haste. He’d have to go back to the Marietta to get money to pay Bettel. It was all damnably embarrassing. He knew the whore was looking at him, waiting. What could be more humiliating than to stand penniless before the whore one had already used?
But there, in the smallest corner of his pocket he felt something, something tiny that jabbed him under the fingernail. He picked it loose in annoyance, a thorn or a stray pebble, and drew forth instead the tiny jewelled earring from the blue kitten’s ear. The ruby winked at him. He had never cared for rubies. It would do for Etta. ‘Here,’ he said, pushing it into her hand. He added, ‘Don’t leave the room. Keep it until tomorrow night. I’ll be back.’ He left the room before she could speak. It irked him, for he suspected Bettel would demand a small king’s ransom for keeping both room and girl occupied a full night and a day besides. Well, let her demand, he knew what he’d pay. And it would keep him from having to admit to Bettel that he had not the money to pay her tonight. At least he could avoid that shame.
He rattled down the stairs and out the door. ‘I want the room and girl kept for me, as they are,’ he informed Bettel as he passed. Another time, he might almost have enjoyed the look of consternation that brought to her face. He was well down the street before he felt his purse thudding against his hip. It was in his left pocket. Ridiculous. He never kept it there. He thought of going back and paying Bettel off right now, but decided against it. He’d only look like a fool if he went back now saying he’d changed his mind. A fool. The word burned in his mind.
He lengthened his stride to try and escape his own thoughts. He needed to be out and moving just now. As he strode down the mud-sticky street, a tiny voice spoke at his wrist. ‘That was likely the only bit of treasure ever carried off from the Others’ Island, and you gave it to a whore.’
‘So?’ he demanded, bringing the small face up to his own to stare into it.
‘So perhaps you do have both luck and wisdom.’ The tiny face smirked at him. ‘Perhaps.’
‘What mean you by that?’
But the wizardwood charm did not speak again that evening, not even when he flicked his forefinger against its face. The carved features remained as still and hard as stone.
He went to Ivro’s parlour. He did not know he was going there until he stood outside the door. It was dark within. It was far later than he’d thought. He kicked at the door until first Ivro’s son, and then Ivro yelled at him to stop.
‘It’s Kennit,’ he said into the darkness. ‘I want another tattoo.’
A feeble light was kindled inside the house. After a moment, Ivro jerked the door open. ‘Why should I waste my time?’ the small craftsman demanded furiously. ‘Take your trade elsewhere, to a dolt with some needles and ash who doesn’t give a damn about his work. Then when you have it burned off the next day, you won’t have destroyed anything worth having.’ He spat, narrowly missing Kennit’s boots. ‘I’m an artist, not a whore.’
Kennit found himself holding the man by his throat, on his toes, as he shook him back and forth. ‘I paid, damn you!’ he heard himself shouting. ‘I paid for it and I did what I wanted with it. Understand?’
He found his control as abruptly as he had lost it. Breathing hard, he set the artist back on his own feet. ‘Understand,’ he growled more softly. He saw hatred in the man’s eyes, but also fear. He would do it. He’d do it for the heavy gold that clinked in the purse Kennit showed him. Artists and whores, gold always bought them. An artist was no more than a whore who had been well paid.
‘Come in, then,’ Ivro invited him in a deadly soft voice. With a shivering up his back, Kennit knew the small man would make sure he gave him pain as well as art. But there was enough of the artist in him that Kennit knew his tattoo would also be as perfect as Ivro could contrive it. Pain and perfection. It was the only path to redemption he knew. And if ever he needed to make reparation to his luck, it was tonight. Kennit followed the man into his parlour, and unbuttoned his shirt as Ivro lit branch after branch of candles. He folded his shirt carefully and sat down on the low stool with both his shirt and his jacket across his lap. Pain and perfection. He felt a terrible anticipation of release as Ivro moved about the room, setting up candles on tables and pulling supplies closer.
‘Where and what?’ Ivro demanded. His voice was as callous as Kennit’s when he spoke to a whore.
‘The nape of my neck,’ Kennit said softly. ‘And an Other.’
‘Another what?’ Ivro asked testily. He was already drawing up a table beside them. Tiny pots of brilliant inks were arrayed upon it in precise rows. He placed a taller stool behind Kennit’s and sat upon it.
‘An Other,’ Kennit repeated. ‘Like from the Others’ Island. You know what I mean.’
‘I do,’ Ivro said harshly. ‘It’s a bad-luck tattoo, and I’m more than happy to drill it into you, you son of a bitch.’ His fingertips walked lightly over Kennit’s skin, measuring. In Jamaillia, an owner could stab his mark into a man’s face. Even if a slave won his freedom later, it was for ever illegal to deface the marks of his servitude. But in the Pirate Isles, that same man could put whatever art he wanted anywhere he wanted on his body. Some former slaves, like Sorcor, preferred a burn scar. Others had artists like Ivro rework their old slave tattoos into new symbols of their freedom. Ivro’s fingers prodded the two scars that already adorned Kennit’s back. ‘Why’d you have them burned off? I worked hours on those tattoos, and you paid well for them. Didn’t you like them?’ Then, ‘Drop your head forward. Your shadow’s in my way.’
‘I liked them fine,’ Kennit muttered. He felt the first stab of a needle into his taut flesh. Gooseflesh stood up on his arms and he felt his scalp twitch with the pain. More softly, he added to himself, ‘I liked the burns even better.’
‘You’re a madman,’ Ivro observed, but his voice was distracted. Kennit was nothing to him any more, not a man, not an enemy. Only a canvas for his passionate work. The tiny needle drilled in, over and over again. His skin twitched with pain. He heard Ivro expel a tiny breath of satisfaction.
It was the only way, he thought to himself. The only way to expunge the bad luck. Going to the Others’ Island had been a bad decision, and now he had to pay for it. A thousand jabs of the needle, and the stinging freshness of the new tattoo for a day. Then the cleansing agony of the hot iron to burn the mistake away and make it as if it had never happened. To keep the good luck strong, Kennit told himself as he knotted his hands into fists. Behind him, Ivro was humming to himself, enjoying both his work and his revenge.
SEVENTEEN DAYS. Althea looked out the tiny porthole of her stateroom, and watched Bingtown draw nearer. The bared masts of caravels and carracks forested the docks that lined the placid bay. Smaller vessels plied busily between anchored ships and the shore. Home.
She had spent seventeen