The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny

19 TESTIMONIES

‘DOES IT HURT MUCH?’

‘Can you feel pain?’

‘Not as men do, no, but I understand the distress you must—’

‘Then why do you ask? Any answer I give will have no real meaning to you.’

A long silence followed. Vivacia lifted her smooth arms and crossed them over her breasts. She stared straight ahead of herself. She fought the rising tide of grief and despair inside her. It was not getting any better between Wintrow and her. Since Cress, with every passing day his resentment of her increased. It made what might have been pleasant days into torture.

The wind was blowing from the north, pushing them southwards to warmer climes. The weather had been fair, but all else had been ill. The crew was at odds with Wintrow and hence with her. She had picked up from the men’s talk the gist of what had happened on the beach. In her limited way, she understood it. She knew that Wintrow still believed his decision had been correct. And she knew, with the wisdom of her stored memories, that his grandfather would have agreed with him. But all it took to make him miserable was for him to know that the rest of the crew considered him a coward, and that his father seemed to concur with their opinion. And that was all it took for her to feel a misery as deep.

Despite his misery, he had not given up. In her eyes, that spoke greatly for the spirit inside him. Shunned by his shipmates, consigned to a life he could not relish, he still continued to work hard and learn. He jumped as quickly to orders as any of them did, and endeavoured each day to shoulder a man’s share of the work. He was now as capable as any ship’s boy and was moving rapidly to master the tasks of an able deckhand. He applied his mind as well as his body, comparing how his father managed the sails to the commands that Gantry issued. Some of his eagerness was simply the starvation of a mind accustomed to learning opportunities. Bereft of books and scrolls, he now absorbed the lessons of wind and wave instead. He accepted the physical labour of his shipboard life just as he had once accepted the menial work of the monastery’s orchard. They were the tasks a man must do when he was part of such a life, and it behoved a man to do them well. But Vivacia also knew that there was a second motivation for his mastering of seamanship. He strove to show the crew by his deeds that he was neither fearful of necessary risks nor disdainful of a sailor’s work. It was the Vestrit in him that kept his neck stiff and his head up despite the scorn of Torg and his fellows. Wintrow would not apologize for his decision in Cress. He did not feel he had done wrong. That did not keep him from smarting under the crew’s contempt for him.

But that had been before the accident.

He sat cross-legged on the deck, his injured hand cradled into his lap. She did not need to look at him to know that he, too, stared towards a distant horizon. The small islands they were passing held no interest to him. On a day like this, Althea would have leaned on the railing, eyes avid. It had rained heavily yesterday, and the many small streams of the islands were full and rushing. Some meandered out into the saltwater; others fell in sheets of silver as waterfalls from the steeper, rockier islands. All contributed freshwater that floated for a time atop the salt, changing the colours of the waters they moved through so serenely. These islands teemed with bird-life: sea-birds, shore-birds, and those who inhabited the towering cliffs, all contributed their notes to the chorus. Winter might be here, but in these islands it was a winter of rain and lush plant growth. To the west of them, the Cursed Shore was cloaked in one of its familiar winter fogs. The steaming waters of the many rivers that flowed from that coast mellowed the climate here even as they shrouded the Pirate Islands in mist. These islands would never know a snowfall, for the warm waters of the Inside Passage kept true winter forever at bay. Yet green and inviting as the islands might be, Wintrow had thoughts only for a more distant harbour, far to the south, and the monastery a day’s journey inland from it. Perhaps he could have endured better if there was even the faintest hope that their journey would pause there. But it would not. His father was not so foolish as to offer him the vague hope of escape. Their trade would make them stop in many ports of call, but Marrow was not one of them.

As if the boy could sense her thoughts as clearly as Althea had, he suddenly dropped his head over his bent knees. He did not weep. He was past weeping, and rightfully wary of the harsh mockery that any show of weakness called forth from Torg. So they were both denied even that vent from the wretchedness that coiled inside him and threatened to tear him apart. After a time he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He stared down at his hand loosely fisted in his lap.

It had been three days since the accident. A stupid mishap, as almost all such are in hindsight, of the commoner sort aboard a ship. Someone had released a line before Wintrow expected it. Vivacia did not believe it had been deliberate. Surely the crew’s feeling against him did not run that high. Only an accident. The twisting of the hemp line had drawn Wintrow’s gripping hand with it, ramming his fingers into a pulley-block. Anger bubbled deep within Vivacia as she recalled Torg’s words to the boy as he lay curled on the deck, his bleeding hand clasped to his chest. ‘Serves you right for not paying attention, you gutless little plugger. You’re just stupid lucky that it was only a finger and not your whole hand smashed. Pick yourself up and get back to your work. No one here is going to wipe your nose and dry your little eyes for you.’ And then he had walked away, leaving Mild to come wordless with guilt with his almost clean kerchief to bind Wintrow’s finger to the rest of his hand. Mild, whose hands had slipped on the line that Wintrow had been gripping. Mild, whose cracked ribs were still wrapped and healing.

‘I’m sorry,’ Wintrow said in a low voice. More than a few moments had passed in silence. ‘I shouldn’t speak so to you. You offer me more understanding than anyone else aboard… at least you endeavour to understand what I feel. It’s not your fault, truly, that I am so unhappy. It’s just being here when I wish I were somewhere else. Knowing that if you were any other ship save a liveship, my father would not force me to be here. It makes me blame you, even though you have no control over what you are.’

‘I know,’ Vivacia replied listlessly. She did not know which was worse, when he spoke to her or when he was silent. The hour each morning and each afternoon that he spent with her was ordered by his father. She could not say why Kyle forced him into proximity with her. Did he hope some bond would miraculously develop? Surely he could not be so stupid. At least, he could not be so stupid as to suppose he could force the boy to love her. Being what she was, and he being who he was, she had no choice but to feel a bond with him. She thought back to the high summer evening that now seemed so long ago, that first night he had spent aboard with her, and how well they had begun together. If only that had been allowed to grow naturally… but there was no sense in pining for that, no more sense than when she let her thoughts drift back to Althea. How she wished she were here now. Hard enough to be without her, let alone to constantly wonder what had become of her. Vivacia sighed.

‘Don’t be sad,’ Wintrow told her, and then, hearing the stupidity of his words, sighed himself. ‘I suppose this is as bad for you as it is for me,’ he added.

She could think of too much to reply to that, and so said nothing. The water purled past her bow, the even breeze sped them on. The man on the wheel had a competent touch; he should have, he was one of Captain Vestrit’s choosing and had been aboard her for almost a score of years. It was an evening to be satisfied, sailing south from winter cold back into warmth, and so her unhappiness pierced her all the more keenly.

There were things the boy had said to her, over the past few days, words he had spoken in anger and frustration and misery. A part of her recognized such words for what they were: Wintrow railed against his fate, not her. Yet she could not seem to let go of them, and they cut her like hooks whenever she allowed herself to think of them. He had reviled her yesterday morning after a particularly bad night’s watch, telling her that Sa had no part in her being and she partook nothing of his divine force, but was only a simulacrum of life and spirit, created by men for the serving of their own greed. The words had shocked and horrified her, but even worse was when Kyle had strode up from behind the boy and knocked him flat to the deck in fury that he would so goad her. Even the kinder men among the crew had spoken ill of Wintrow after that, saying the boy was sure to curse their luck with his evil words. Kyle had seemed ignorant that she would feel the blow he had struck Wintrow as keenly as the boy himself had. Nor had he paused to think that perhaps that was not the way to help Wintrow develop kindly feelings toward her. Instead Kyle ordered the lad below to the extra chores he hated most. She was left alone to mull over the boy’s poisonous words and wonder if they were not, after all, absolutely true.

The boy made her think. He made her think of things no other Vestrit had ever considered while on her decks. Half his life, she reflected, seemed to be considering how he saw that life in respect to the existence of others. She had known of Sa, for all the other Vestrits had revered him in a cursory way. But none of them had pondered the existence of the divine, nor thought to see the reflection of divinity in life around them. None of them had believed so firmly that there was goodness and honour inherent in every man’s breast, nor cherished the idea that every being had some special destiny to fulfil, that there was some need in the world that only that life lived correctly could satisfy. Hence none of them had been so bitterly disappointed as Wintrow had been in his everyday dealings with his fellows.

‘I think they’re going to have to cut my finger off.’ He spoke hesitantly and softly, as if his voicing of the fear might make it a reality.

Vivacia held her tongue. It was the first time since the accident that he had initiated a conversation. She suddenly recognized the deep fear he had been hiding behind his harsh words to her. She would listen and let him share with her whatever he could.

‘I think it’s more than broken. I think the joint is crushed.’ Simple words, but she felt the cold dread coiled beneath them. He took a breath and faced the actuality he’d been denying. ‘I think I’ve known it since it happened. Still I kept hoping… But my whole hand has been swelling since this morning. And it feels wet inside the bandaging.’ His voice went smaller. ‘So stupid. I’ve cared for others’ injuries before, not as a healer, but I know how to clean a wound and change a dressing. But this, my own hand… I haven’t been able to muster the courage to look at it since last night.’ He paused. She heard him swallow.

‘Isn’t it odd?’ he went on in a higher, strained voice. ‘I was there once when Sa’Garit cut a man’s leg off. It had to be done. It was so obvious to all of us. But the man kept saying, “no, no, let’s wait a bit longer, perhaps it will get better,” when hour by hour, we could see it getting worse. Finally his wife persuaded him to let us do what had to be done. I wondered, then, why he had kept putting it off, instead of simply getting it over with. Why cling to a rotting hunk of flesh and bone, simply because it used to be a useful part of your body?’

His voice suddenly closed itself off. He curled forward over his hand again. And now she could sense the throbbing of his pain, the beat, beat, beat in his hand that echoed every pulse of his body’s heart.

‘Did I ever really look at my hands before, really think about them? A priest’s hands… one always hears about a priest’s hands. All my life, I had perfect hands. Ten fingers, all working and nimble… I used to create stained-glass windows. Did you know that, Vivacia? I used to sit and plunge myself so deeply into my work… my hands would move of their own accord, it almost seemed. And now…’

He fell silent again. Vivacia dared to speak. ‘A lot of sailors lose fingers. Or whole limbs. Yet those sailors still…’

‘I’m not a sailor. I’m a priest. I was to be a priest! Until my father condemned me to this. He’s destroying me. He deliberately seeks to destroy me. He and his men make mock of my belief, when I try to hold to my ideals they use them against me. I cannot withstand what he is doing to me, what they are all doing to me. They are destroying…’

‘Yet those sailors still remain who they are, lost limbs or not.’ Vivacia continued implacably. ‘You are not a finger, Wintrow. You’re a man. You cut your hair, your nails, and you are still Wintrow and a man. And if you are a priest, then you will remain one, nine fingers or ten. If you must lose a finger, then you must lose a finger. But do not use it as an excuse to stop being yourself.’ She paused, almost savouring the boy’s astonished silence. ‘I know little of your Sa, Wintrow. But I know much of the Vestrits. What you are born to be, you will be, whether it be priest or sailor. So step up and be it. Let them do nothing to you. Be the one who shapes yourself. Be who you are, and eventually all will have to recognize who you are, whether they are willing to admit it or not. And if your will is that you will shape yourself in Sa’s image, then do so. Without whimpering.’

‘Ship.’ He spoke the word softly, but it was almost like a benediction. He placed his good hand flat on her planking. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed his injured hand, palm down, beside it. For the first time since Althea had left the ship, she felt one of her own deliberately reach towards her for strength. She doubted that he knew that was what he did; perhaps as he bowed his head and spoke soft words, he thought he prayed to Sa. But no matter who he addressed his plea for strength to, she was the one who answered it.

‘Wintrow,’ she said quietly, when his soft words were finished. ‘Go to your father now and tell him it must be done. And demand that it be done here, beside me. In my name, if they will not heed your wish.’

She had feared he would hesitate. Instead he rose gracefully. Without a word to anyone else he made his way to the captain’s gallery, where he rapped smartly on the door with his good hand.

‘Enter,’ Kyle replied.

She could not see all that went on within herself, but she was aware of it in a way humans had never given her a word for. So she knew the thundering of Wintrow’s heart, and sensed too the small leap of triumph he felt when his father looked up from his bills of lading to startle at the sight of his son standing so boldly before him.

‘What do you do here?’ Kyle demanded harshly. ‘You’re the ship’s boy, no more than that. Don’t bring your whining to me.’

Wintrow stood quietly until his father was finished. Then in an even voice he spoke. ‘I need this finger cut off. It was crushed, and now it’s infected. I can tell already it won’t get better.’ He took a small, swift breath. ‘I’d like it done while it’s only the finger and not the whole hand.’

When Kyle finally replied, his voice was thick and uncertain. ‘You are sure of this? Did the mate tell you so? He does the doctoring aboard the ship.’

‘It scarcely needs a doctor’s eye. See for yourself.’ With a casualness Vivacia was sure Wintrow did not feel, he began to unwind the crusted bandaging. His father made a small sound. ‘The smell is bad, also,’ Wintrow confirmed, still in that easy voice. ‘The sooner you cut it off for me, the better.’

His father rose, scraping his chair back over the deck. ‘I’ll get the mate for you. Sit down, son.’

‘I’d rather you did it, sir, if it’s all the same to you. And up on deck, by the figurehead.’ She could almost feel Wintrow’s calculated glance about the room. ‘No sense in bleeding in your stateroom,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

‘I can’t… I’ve never…’

‘I can show you where to cut, sir. It’s not that different from boning out a fowl for the pot. It’s just a matter of cutting out the joint. That’s another thing they taught me in the monastery. Sometimes it surprised me, how much cooking had in common with medicine. The herbs, the knowledge of… meat. The knives.’

It was some kind of a challenge, Vivacia realized. She didn’t understand it in full. She wondered if even Wintrow did. She tried to work it through in her head. If Kyle refused to cut the infected finger from his son’s hand, he somehow lost. Lost what? She was not sure, but she suspected it had something to do with who truly controlled Wintrow’s life. Perhaps it was a challenge from the boy for his father to admit fully to himself the life he had forced his son into, to make him confront completely the harshness of it. There was in it also the foolish challenge to risk his body that he had refused in town. They had called him a coward for that, and deemed him fearful of pain. He would prove to them all now that it had not been pain he feared. A shiver of pride in him travelled over her. Truly, he was unlike any Vestrit she had ever carried before.

‘I’ll call the mate,’ Kyle Vestrit replied firmly.

‘The mate won’t do,’ Wintrow asserted softly.

Kyle ignored him. He stepped to the door, opened it and leaned out to bellow, ‘GANTRY!’ for the mate. ‘I’m captain of this ship,’ he told Wintrow in the intervening space of quiet. ‘And on this ship, I say what will or will not do. And I say who does what. The mate does this sort of doctoring, not I.’

‘I had thought my father might prefer to do it himself,’ Wintrow essayed quietly. ‘But I see you have no stomach for it. I’ll wait for the mate on the foredeck, then.’

‘It’s not a matter of stomach,’ Kyle railed at him, and in that moment Vivacia glimpsed what Wintrow had done. He had shifted this, somehow, from a matter between the ship’s boy and the captain to something between a father and a son.

‘Then come and watch, Father. To give me courage.’ Wintrow made his request. No plea, but a simple request. He stepped out of the cabin without waiting to be dismissed, not even pausing for an answer. As he walked away, Gantry approached the door, to be harshly ordered to fetch his surgeon’s kit and come to the foredeck. Wintrow did not pause but paced calmly back to the foredeck.

‘They’re coming,’ he told Vivacia quietly. ‘My father and the mate, to cut off my finger. I pray I don’t scream.’

‘You’ve the will,’ Vivacia promised him. ‘Put your hand flat to my deck for the cut. I’ll be with you.’

The boy made no reply to that. A light breeze filled her sails and blew to her the scent of his sweat and fear. But he spoke no more words. He only sat patiently picking the last of the bandaging from his injured hand. ‘No.’ He spoke the word with finality. ‘There’s no saving this. Better to be parted from it before it poisons my whole body.’ She felt him let go of the finger, felt him remove it from his perception of his body. In his mind, he had already done the deed.