The Mad Ship

Book Two of The Liveship Traders

Robin Hobb

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Voyager 1999

Copyright © Robin Hobb 1999

Cover Layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015. Illustrations © Jackie Morris Calligraphy by Stephen Raw Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com (background)

Robin Hobb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006498865

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMEBR 2011 ISBN: 9780007383474

Version: 2018-12-04

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Map

SPRING

PROLOGUE

1 THE MAD SHIP

2 THE PIRATE’S LEG

3 THE CROWNED ROOSTER

4 BONDS

5 THE LIVESHIP OPHELIA

6 SATRAP COSGO

7 A BINGTOWN TRADER’S DAUGHTER

8 IMMERSIONS

9 BINGTOWN

10 HOMECOMING

11 JUDGEMENT

12 PORTRAIT OF VIVACIA

SUMMER

13 INTERLUDE

14 SERILLA’S CHOICE

15 TIDINGS

16 TAKING CHARGE

17 MAROONED

18 WISHES FULFILLED

19 AFTERMATH

20 PIRACY

21 SALVAGE

22 A CHANGE OF HEART

23 CONSEQUENCES

HIGH SUMMER

24 THE RINGSGOLD

25 THE LAUNCH OF THE PARAGON

26 COMPROMISES

27 KINGDOM’S FOUNDATION

28 DEPARTURE OF THE PARAGON

29 BINGTOWN CONVERGENCE

30 SHAKEDOWN

31 THE CALM

32 THE STORM

33 PROOFS

34 ORACLE

35 TREHAUG

36 DRAGON AND SATRAP

37 DEATH OF THE CITY

38 PARAGON’S CAPTAIN

39 DRAGON RISING

40 THE MEMORY OF WINGS

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

SPRING

PROLOGUE
A RECOLLECTION OF WINGS

BELOW THE SERPENTS, the beds of weeds swayed gently in the changing tide. The water was warm here, as warm as it had been in the south before they had migrated. Despite Maulkin’s declaration that they would no longer follow the silvery provider, her tantalizing scent hung in the saltwater. She was not far away; they trailed her still, but at a distance. Shreever considered confronting him about it, but decided against it. She eyed their leader anxiously. The injuries Maulkin had taken in his brief battle with the white serpent were healing slowly. The gouges disrupted the pattern of his scales. The golden false-eyes that ran the length of his body and proclaimed him a prophet were faded and dull.

Shreever, too, felt faded and dull.

They had come far in search of One Who Remembers. Maulkin had been so confident at the beginning of their journey. Now he seemed as confused as she and Sessurea were. The three of them were all that remained of the great tangle of sea serpents who had begun the migration. The others in their tangle had lost faith in their quest, and had fallen away from Maulkin. The last she had seen of them, they had been following a great dark provider, feeding mindlessly on the unresisting flesh it distributed to them. That had been many tides ago.

‘Sometimes,’ Maulkin confided to Shreever quietly as they rested, ‘I lose my place in time. It seems to me that we have come this way before, done these things before, perhaps even shared these words before. Sometimes I believe it so strongly that I think today is actually a memory or a dream. I think, then, that perhaps we need do nothing, for whatever has happened to us will occur again. Or has, perhaps, already occurred.’ His voice was without strength or conviction.

She flanked him. They undulated gently in the current, finning no more than they must to maintain their position. Beneath them, Sessurea shook his mane suddenly, releasing a thin waft of toxins to alert them. ‘Look! Food!’ he bugled.

Silver and shimmering, the school of fish came gliding towards them like a blessing. Behind the fish, shadowing them and feeding from the edges of the school was another tangle of serpents. Three scarlets, a green, and two blues they were. The hunters were not a large tangle but they appeared lively and healthy. Their gleaming hides and full flesh contrasted markedly with the slipping scales and sunken sides of Maulkin’s tangle.

‘Come,’ Maulkin bade them, and led them to join the others in their feeding. Shreever made a tiny sound of relief. There would be, at least, full bellies for them. Perhaps the others might even join Maulkin’s tangle, once they realized he was a prophet.

Their prey were not separate fish, but a school, silver and glinting, baffling to the eye. They moved as one creature, yet it was a creature that could separate and stream around a clumsy hunter. The serpents of Maulkin’s tangle were not clumsy hunters, and all three flowed gracefully after the fish. The other tangle trumpeted warnings at them, but Shreever saw no danger. With a lash of her tail, she drove herself into the school, her gaping jaws engulfing at least three fish. She distended her throat to swallow them.

Two scarlet serpents suddenly turned aside and struck Maulkin, battering him with their snouts as if he were a shark or other mutual enemy. A blue came after Shreever, jaws gaping. With a swift coiling she eluded him, changing direction to dart away. She saw the other scarlet try to wrap Sessurea. The scarlet’s mane was distended, spewing poison as he trumpeted obscenities and threats. There was neither sense nor syntax to his curses, only fury.

She fled, shrilling her fear and confusion. Maulkin did not follow. He shook his great mane, releasing a cloud of toxins that near stunned the scarlets. They backed away, shaking their open jaws and pumping their gills as they strove to flush his poisons away.

‘What is the matter with you?’ Maulkin demanded of the strange tangle. He twisted himself through a spiral, his mane distending threateningly as he rebuked them. He summoned a faint gleam to his false-eyes. ‘Why do you attack us like soulless beasts fighting over food? This is not the way of our kind! Even if there were few, fish belong only to the one who catches them, not to those who see them first. Have you forgotten who you are, what you are? Have your minds been stolen completely?’

For a moment the other tangle hung motionless, save for the slight flicks of their tails stabilizing them. The school of fish fled, forgotten. Then, as if the very sanity of Maulkin’s words had incensed them, they turned on him. All six converged, jaws wide to display their teeth, manes erect and streaming toxins, tails lashing. Shreever watched in horror as they wrapped him and bore him struggling down to the muck.

‘Help me!’ Sessurea trumpeted. ‘They’ll smother him!’

His words broke her paralysis. Side by side, they arrowed down, to butt and lash at the tangle that held Maulkin captive. The other tangle savaged him with their teeth, as if he were prey. His blood mingled with his toxins in a choking cloud as he struggled. His false-eyes glimmered through the rising murk. Shreever cried out in horror at the mindless brutality of the attack. Yet, she found herself slashing at them with her teeth while Sessurea used his greater length to whip at them.

At an opportune moment, Sessurea wrapped Maulkin’s lacerated body in his own and snatched him from the midst of the enraged tangle. He fled with Maulkin in his grasp, and Shreever was glad to break off the battle and follow him. The others did not pursue them. In their poisoned frenzy, the other tangle turned upon their comrades, roaring insults and challenges. Their cries were rote sounds, uttered without sense as they tore and lashed. Shreever did not look back.

Some time later, as Shreever smoothed healing slime from her own body onto Maulkin’s lacerated flesh, he spoke to her. ‘They have forgotten. They have forgotten completely who and what they were. It has been too long, Shreever. They have lost every shred of memory and purpose.’ He winced as she nudged a flap of torn skin into place. She sealed a layer of mucus over it. ‘They are what we will become.’

‘Hush,’ Shreever told him gently. ‘Hush. Rest.’ She twined her long body more securely about him, anchored her tail against a rock to secure them from the current. Entangled with them, Sessurea already slept. Or perhaps he was merely silent and impassive, prey to the same discouragement that gnawed Shreever. She hoped not. She had barely enough courage left to shore up her own determination. Sessurea would have to rally himself.

Maulkin concerned her the most. Their encounter with the silver provider had changed him. The other providers that moved within both the Lack and the Plenty were merely sources of easy feeding. The silver one had been different. Her scent had wakened memories in all of them, and they had pursued her, certain that her fragrance must lead them to One Who Remembers. Instead, she had not even been one of their own kind. Still hoping, they had called to her, but she had not answered. To the white serpent who begged from her, she had given flesh. Maulkin had turned aside from her, proclaiming that she could not be One Who Remembers and they would follow her no longer. Yet, in the tides since then, her scent had always been present. She might be out of sight, but Shreever knew she was no more than a brief journey away. Maulkin still followed her, and they still followed him.

Maulkin gave a dull groan and shifted in her grip. ‘I fear it is the last time any of us will make this journey as anything more than beasts.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sessurea demanded abruptly. He twisted awkwardly until his eyes met theirs. His own injuries were many, though none were serious. A deep score adjacent to one of his poison glands just behind his jaw hinge was the worst. If it had penetrated, his own toxins would have killed him. Sheer luck had kept their tangle intact.

‘Search your memories,’ Maulkin commanded hollowly. ‘Search not just the tides and the days, but the seasons and the years, back decades upon decades. We have been here before, Sessurea. All the tangles have swarmed and migrated to these waters, not just once but scores of times. We have come here to seek those who remember, those few entrusted with the memories of all our kind. The promise was clear. We were to gather. Our history would be restored to us, and we would be led to a safe place for our transformation. There we would be reborn. Nevertheless, scores of times, we have been disappointed. Time upon time, we have swarmed, and waited. Each time, we eventually gave up our hopes, forgot our purpose, and finally we returned to the warm southern waters. Each time those of us who have a handful of memories have said, “perhaps we were mistaken. Perhaps this was not the time, the season, and the year for the renewal”. But it was. We were not wrong. Those who were to meet us failed. They did not come. Not then. Perhaps not this time, either.’

Maulkin fell silent. Shreever continued to anchor him against the current. It was a strain. Even if there had been no current, there was no soothing mud to sink into here, only coarse sea grasses and tumbled stone and block. They should find a better place to rest. However, until Maulkin had healed, she did not wish to travel. Besides, where would they go? They had been up and down this current full of strange salts and she had lost her faith that Maulkin knew where he was leading them. Left to herself, where would she go? It was a question that was suddenly too heavy for her mind. She did not want to think.

She cleansed the lenses of her eyes and then looked down on her body tangled with theirs. The scarlet of her scales was bright and strong, but perhaps that was only in contrast to Maulkin’s dull hide. His golden false-eyes had faded to dull browns. The suppurating slashes of his injuries marred them. He needed to feed and grow and then shed a skin. That would make him feel better. It would make them all feel better. She ventured the thought aloud. ‘We need to feed. All of us grow hungry and slack. My toxin sacs are nearly empty. Perhaps we should go south, where food is plentiful and the water is warm.’

Maulkin twisted in her grip to regard her. His great eyes spun copper with concern. ‘You spend too much of your strength upon me, Shreever,’ he rebuked her. She could feel the effort it cost him to shake his mane free and erect. A second shake released a weak haze of toxin. It stung her and woke her, restoring her awareness. Sessurea leaned closer, wrapping them both in his greater length. He shared Maulkin’s toxins, pumping his gills to absorb them.

‘It will be all right,’ Sessurea tried to reassure her. ‘You are just weary. And hungry. We all are.’

‘Weary unto death,’ Maulkin confirmed tiredly. ‘And hungry almost to mindlessness. The demands of the body overpower the functioning of the mind. But listen to me, both of you. Listen and fix this in your minds and cling to it. If all else is forgotten, cherish this. We cannot go south again. If we leave these waters, it will be to end. As long as we can think, we must remain here and seek for One Who Remembers. I know it in my stomach. If we are not renewed this time, we shall not be renewed. We and all our kind will perish and be ever after unknown in sea or sky or upon the land.’ He spoke the strange words slowly and for an instant, Shreever almost recalled what they meant. Not just the Plenty and the Lack. The earth, the sky and the sea, the three parts of their sovereignty, once the three spheres of…something.

Maulkin shook his mane again. This time Shreever and Sessurea both opened their gills wide to his toxins and scalded his memories into themselves. Shreever looked down at the tumbled blocks of worked stone that littered the sea-bottom, at the layered barnacles and sea grasses that were anchored to the Conqueror’s Arch in an obscuring curtain. The black stone veined with silver peeped through only in small patches. The earth had shaken it down and the sea had swallowed it up. Once, lives ago, she had settled upon that arch, first flapping and then folding her massive wings back upon her shoulders. She had bugled to her mate of her joy in the morning’s fresh rain, and a gleaming blue dragon had trumpeted his reply. Once the Elderkind had greeted her arrival with scattered flowers and shouts of welcome. Once in this city under a bright blue sky…

It faded. It made no sense. The images wisped away like dreams upon awakening.

‘Be strong,’ Maulkin exhorted them. ‘If we aren’t fated to survive, then at least let us fight it to the end. Let it be fate that extinguishes us, not our own lack of heart. For the sake of our kind, let us be true to what we were.’ His ruff stood out full and venomous about his throat. Once more, he looked the visionary leader who had seized Shreever’s loyalties so long ago. Her hearts swelled with love of him.

The world dimmed and she lifted her eyes to a great shadow moving overhead. ‘No, Maulkin,’ she trumpeted softly. ‘We are not destined to die, nor to forget. Look!’

A dark provider skimmed lazily along above them. As it swept over their heads, it cast forth food for them. The flesh sank slowly towards them, wafting down on the current. They were dead two-legs, one with chain still upon it. There would be no struggle for this meat. One needed only to accept it.

‘Come,’ she urged Maulkin as Sessurea unwound from them and moved eagerly toward the meat. Gently she drew Maulkin up with her as she rose to accept the bounty of the provider.

1 THE MAD SHIP

THE BREEZE AGAINST his face and chest was brisk and chill, yet something in it hinted of spring soon to come. The air tasted of iodine; the tide must be out, exposing the kelp beds just offshore. Under his hull, the coarse sand was damp from the last heavy rain. The smoke of Amber’s small fire tickled his nose. The figurehead turned his blind visage away from it then reached up to scratch his nose.

‘It’s a fine evening, don’t you think?’ she asked him conversationally. ‘The skies have cleared. There are still some clouds, but I can see the moon and some stars. I’ve gathered mussels and wrapped them in seaweed. When the fire is stronger, I’ll rake away some of the wood and cook them on the coals.’ Her voice paused hopefully.

Paragon did not reply.

‘Would you like to taste some, when they’re cooked? I know you have no need to eat, but you might find it an interesting experience.’

He yawned, stretched, and crossed his arms on his chest. He was much better at this than she was. Thirty years hauled out on a beach had taught him true patience. He would outlast her. He wondered if she would get angry or sad tonight.

‘What good does it do either of us for you to refuse to speak to me?’ she asked reasonably. He could hear her patience starting to unravel. He did not bother to shrug.

‘Paragon, you are a hopeless twit. Why won’t you speak to me? Can’t you see I’m the only one who can save you?’

Save me from what? He might have asked. If he’d been speaking to her.

He heard her get up and walk around his bow to stand in front of him. He casually turned his disfigured face away from her.

‘Fine, then. Pretend to ignore me. I don’t care if you answer me or not, but you have to listen to what I say. You are in danger, very real danger. I know you opposed me buying you from your family, but I made the offer anyway. They refused me.’

Paragon permitted himself a small snort of disdain. Of course they had. He was the Ludluck family’s liveship. No matter how deep his disgrace, they would never sell him. They had kept him chained and anchored to this beach for some thirty years, but they’d never sell him! Not to Amber, not to New Traders. They wouldn’t. He had known that all along.

Amber continued doggedly. ‘I spoke directly to Amis Ludluck. It wasn’t easy to get to see her. When we did speak, she pretended to be shocked that I would make the offer. She insisted you were not for sale, at any price. She said the same things that you did, that no Bingtown Trader family would sell their liveship. That it simply wasn’t done.’

Paragon could not keep down the slow smile that gradually transfigured his face. They still cared. How could he have ever doubted that? In a way, he was almost grateful to Amber for making the ridiculous offer to buy him. Maybe now that Amis Ludluck had admitted to a stranger that he was still a part of her family, she’d be moved to visit him. Once Amis had visited him, it might lead to other things. Perhaps he would yet again sail the seas with a friendly hand on the wheel. His imagination went afar.

Amber’s voice dragged him back ruthlessly. ‘She pretended to be distressed that there were even rumours of selling you. She said it insulted her family honour. Then she said –’ Amber’s voice suddenly went low, with fear or anger. ‘She said that she had hired some men to tow you away from Bingtown. That it might be better all around if you were out of sight and out of mind.’ Amber paused significantly.

Paragon felt something inside his wizardwood chest squeeze tight and hard.

‘So I asked her who she had hired.’

He lifted his hands quickly and stuffed his fingers in his ears. He wouldn’t listen. She was going to play on his fears. So his family was going to move him. That didn’t mean anything. It would be nice to be somewhere else. Maybe this time, when they hauled him out, they would block him up level. He was tired of always being at a list.

‘She said it was none of my business.’ Amber raised her voice. ‘Then I asked her if they were Bingtown Traders. She just glared at me. So then I asked her where Mingsley was going to take you to have you dismantled.’

Paragon began desperately to hum. Loudly. Amber went on talking. He couldn’t hear her. He would not hear her. He plugged his ears more tightly and sang aloud, ‘A penny for a sweet-bun, a penny for a plum, a penny for the races, to see the ponies run…’

‘She threw me out!’ Amber roared. ‘When I stood outside and shouted that I’d take it to the Bingtown Traders’ Council she set her dogs on me. They damn near caught me, too!’

‘Swing me low, swing me high, swing me up into the sky,’ Paragon sang the childish rhyme desperately. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. His family was going to move him somewhere safe. That was all. It didn’t really matter who they hired to do it. Once they had him in the water, he’d go willingly. He would show them how easy it could be to sail him. Yes. It would be a chance to prove himself to them. He could show them that he was sorry for all the things they had made him do.

She wasn’t speaking any more. He slowed his singing, then let it die away to a hum. Silence, save for his own voice. Cautiously he unstopped his ears. Nothing, save the brush of the waves, the wind nudging sand across the beach and the crackling of Amber’s fire. A question occurred to him and he spoke it aloud before he remembered he was not speaking to her.

‘When I get to my new place, will you still come to see me?’

‘Paragon. You can’t pretend this away. If they take you away from here, they’ll chop you up for wizardwood.’

The figurehead tried a different tack. ‘I don’t care. It would be nice to be dead.’

Amber’s voice was low, defeated. ‘I’m not sure you’d be dead. I’m afraid they’ll separate you from the ship. If that doesn’t kill you, they’ll probably transport you to Jamaillia, and sell you off as an oddity. Or give you as a gift to the Satrap in exchange for grants and favours. I don’t know how you’d be treated there.’

‘Will it hurt?’ Paragon asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know enough about what you are. Did it…When they chopped your face, did that hurt?’

He turned his shattered visage away from her. He lifted his hands and walked his fingers over the splintered wood where his eyes had once been. ‘Yes.’ His brow furrowed. Then in the next breath he added, ‘I don’t remember. There is a lot I can’t remember, you know. My logbooks are gone.’

‘Sometimes not remembering is the easiest thing to do.’

‘You think I’m lying, don’t you? You think I can remember, but I just won’t admit it.’ He picked at it, hoping for a quarrel.

‘Paragon. Yesterday we cannot change. We are talking about tomorrow.’

‘They’re coming tomorrow?’

‘I don’t know! I was speaking figuratively.’ She came closer suddenly and reached up to put her hands flat against him. She wore gloves against the night’s chill, but it was still a touch. He could feel the shapes of her hands as two patches of warmth against his planking. ‘I can’t stand the thought of them taking you to cut you up. Even if it doesn’t hurt, even if it doesn’t kill you. I can’t stand the thought of it.’

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ he pointed out. He suddenly felt mature for voicing that thought. ‘There’s nothing either of us can do.’

‘That is fatalistic twaddle,’ Amber declared angrily. ‘There’s a lot we can do. If nothing else, I swear I will stand here and fight them.’

‘You wouldn’t win,’ Paragon insisted. ‘It would be stupid to fight, knowing you couldn’t win.’

‘That’s as may be,’ Amber replied. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that. I don’t want to wait for it to be that desperate. I want to act before they do. Paragon. We need help. We need someone who will speak to the Bingtown Traders’ Council for us.’

‘Can’t you?’

‘You know I can’t. Only an Old Trader can attend those meetings, let alone speak. We need someone who can go to them and convince them they should forbid the Ludlucks to do this.’

‘Who?’

Amber’s voice was small. ‘I had hoped you knew someone who would speak for you.’

Paragon was silent for a time. Then he laughed harshly. ‘No one will speak for me. This is a stupid effort, Amber. Think about it. Not even my own family cares for me. I know what they say about me. I am a killer. Moreover, it’s true, isn’t it? All hands lost. I rolled and drowned them all, and not just once. The Ludlucks are right, Amber. They should sell me to be chopped up.’ Despair washed over him, colder and deeper than any storm wave. ‘I’d like to be dead,’ he declared. ‘I’d just like to stop.’

‘You don’t mean that,’ Amber said softly. He could hear in her voice that she knew he did.

‘Would you do me a favour?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Kill me before they can.’

He heard the soft intake of her breath. ‘I…No. I couldn’t –’

‘If you knew they were coming to chop me up, you could. I will tell you the only sure way. You have to set fire to me. Not just in one place, but many, to make sure they cannot put it out and save me. If you gathered dry wood, a little each day, and put it in piles in my hold…’

‘Don’t even speak of such things,’ Amber said faintly. Distractedly, she added, ‘I should put the mussels on to cook now.’ He heard her scratching at her fire, then the sizzle of wet seaweed steaming on hot coals. She was cooking the mussels alive. He considered pointing that out to her. He decided it would only upset her, not sway her to his cause. He waited until she had come back to him. She sat on the sand, leaning against his canted hull. Her hair was very fine. When it brushed against his planking, it snagged and clung to the wood.

‘You don’t make sense,’ he pointed out genially. ‘You vow you would stand and fight for me, knowing you would lose. But this simple, sure mercy you refuse me.’

‘Death by flames is scarcely mercy.’

‘No. Being chopped to pieces is much more pleasant, I’m sure,’ Paragon retorted sarcastically.

‘You go so quickly from childish tantrums to cold logic,’ Amber said wonderingly. ‘Are you child or man? What are you?’

‘Both, perhaps. But you change the subject. Come. Promise me.’

‘No,’ she pleaded.

He let out his breath in a sigh. She would do it. He could hear it in her voice. If there were no other way to save him, then she would do it. A strange trembling ran through him. It was a strange victory to have won. ‘And jars of oil,’ he added. ‘When they come, you may not have much time. Oil would make the wood burn fast and hot.’

There followed a long silence. When she spoke again, her voice was altered. ‘They will try to move you in secret. Tell me how they would do it.’

‘Probably the same way I was put up here. They will wait for a high tide. Most likely, they would choose the highest tide of the month, at night. They will come with rollers, donkeys, men, and small boats. It will not be a small undertaking, but knowledgeable men could get it done quickly.’

Amber considered. ‘I shall have to move my things into you. I shall have to sleep aboard in order to guard you. Oh, Paragon,’ she cried out suddenly, ‘don’t you have anyone who could speak up for you to the Bingtown Council?’

‘Only you.’

‘I’ll try. But I doubt they will give me a chance. I’m an outsider in Bingtown. They only listen to their own.’

‘You once told me you were respected in Bingtown.’

‘As an artisan and a merchant, they respect me. I am not an Old Trader. They would not have much patience with me if I began meddling in their affairs. Likely, I would suddenly find I had no customers. Or perhaps worse. The whole town is becoming more divided along Old Trader and newcomer lines. There is a rumour that the Bingtown Council has sent a delegation to the Satrap, with their original charter. They will demand he honour the word of Satrap Esclepius. The rumour is that they will demand he recall all the New Traders, and cancel all the land grants he has made them. They also demand that Satrap Cosgo live up to the old charter, and forbear from issuing any more land grants without the consent of the Bingtown Traders.’

‘A detailed rumour,’ Paragon observed.

‘I have a keen ear for rumour and gossip. More than once, it has kept me alive.’

A silence fell.

‘I wish I knew when Althea was coming back.’ Amber’s voice was wistful. ‘I could ask her to speak for us.’

Paragon debated mentioning Brashen Trell. Brashen was his friend, Brashen would want to speak for him. Brashen was Old Trader. But even as he thought of that, he recalled that Brashen had been disinherited. Brashen was as much a disgrace to the Trell family as Paragon was to the Ludlucks. It would do no good to have Brashen speak out for him, even if he could get the Bingtown Traders’ Council to hear him. It would be one black sheep speaking on behalf of another. No one would listen. He set his hand over the scar on his chest, concealing for an instant the crude, seven-pointed star branded into him. His fingers travelled over it thoughtfully. He sighed, then drew a deep breath.

‘The mussels are done. I can smell them.’

‘Do you want to taste one?’

‘Why not?’ He should try new things while he still could. It might not be much longer before his chances to experience new things were gone forever.

2 THE PIRATE’S LEG

‘BACK IN THE monastery, Berandol used to say that one way to disperse fear and create decision was to consider the worst possible outcome of one’s actions.’ After a moment Wintrow added, ‘Berandol said that if one considered the worst possible outcome and planned how to face it, then he could be decisive when it came time to act.’

Vivacia glanced back over her shoulder at Wintrow. The boy had been leaning on the bow rail for the better part of the morning, staring out over the choppy water of the channel. The wind had pulled his black hair free of his queue. The ragged remnants of his brown garments looked more like a beggar’s rags than a priest’s robe. The sentient figurehead had been aware of him, but had chosen to share his silence and mood. There was little to say to each other that they did not both already know. Even now, the boy spoke only to put his own thoughts in order, not to ask any advice of her. She knew that, but still prompted him along. ‘And our worst fear is?’

Wintrow heaved a heavy sigh. ‘The pirate suffers from a fever that comes and goes. Each time it overpowers him, Kennit emerges from it weaker. The source is obviously the infection in his leg stump. Any animal bite is a dirty wound, but the sea serpent’s bite seems unusually poisoned. The festering part must be cut away, and the sooner the better. He is too weak for such a surgery, but I see little prospect that he will grow stronger. So I tell myself I must act swiftly. I also know it is unlikely he will survive my cutting. If he dies, so must my father and I. That was the bargain I struck with him.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘I would die. That is not truly the worst outcome. The worst is that you must continue alone, a slave of these pirates.’

He did not look at her but gazed out over the constantly moving waves as he added, ‘So you see why I have come to you. You have more right to a say in this than I do. I did not fully consider that when I struck my deal with Kennit. I wagered my death and my father’s. In doing so, I unintentionally wagered your life as well. It was not mine to bet. You have, I believe, a great deal more to lose than I.’

Vivacia nodded, but her own thought slid past Wintrow’s and into one of her own. ‘He is not what I expected a pirate to be. Captain Kennit, I mean.’ Thoughtfully she added, ‘A slave, you just said. But I do not think he considers me his slave.’

‘Kennit is not what I thought a pirate would be, either. But despite his charm and intelligence, we must remember that he is one. Moreover, we must recall that if I fail, he will not be the one to command you. He would be dead. There is no telling who would then possess you. It might be Sorcor, his first mate. It might be Etta, his woman. Or perhaps Sa’ Adar would once more attempt to claim you for himself and the freed slaves.’ Wintrow shook his head. ‘I cannot win. If the operation is successful, I must watch Kennit take you from me. Already he flatters and charms you with his words, and his crew works your decks. I have little say in anything that happens aboard you any more. Whether Kennit lives or dies, I will soon have no power to protect you.’

Vivacia shrugged one wizardwood shoulder. ‘And you did before?’ she asked, somewhat coldly.

‘I suppose not.’ The boy’s voice was apologetic. ‘Yet, I had some idea of what to expect. Too much has happened too fast, to both of us. There has been too much death, and too many changes. I have had no time to mourn, no time to meditate. I scarce know who or what I am any more.’

They both fell silent, considering.

Wintrow felt adrift in time. His life, his real life, was far away, in a peaceful monastery in a warm valley rich with orchards and fields. If he could step across the intervening days and distance, if he could wake up in his narrow bed in his cool cell, he was sure he could pick up the threads of that life. He hadn’t changed, he insisted to himself. Not really. So he was missing a finger. He had learned to cope with that. And the slave tattoo on his face went no deeper than his skin. He had never truly been a slave; the tattoo had only been his father’s cruel revenge for his attempt at escaping. He was still Wintrow. In a few quiet days, he could rediscover the peaceful priest inside him.

But not here. The recent swiftly shifting events in his life had left him with so many strong emotions, he could scarcely feel at all. Vivacia’s feelings were as jumbled as his own, for her recent experiences had been as brutal. Kyle Haven had forced the young liveship into service as a slaver, prey to all the dark emotions of her miserable cargo. Wintrow, a blood member of her founding family, had not been able to comfort her. His own involuntary servitude on the ship had soured what should have been a natural bond between them. His alienation from her had only increased Vivacia’s misery. Yet still they had hobbled along, like slaves shackled together.

In one stormy, bloody night, the slaves’ uprising had freed her of Kyle Haven’s captaincy and her role as a slaver. Of the original crew, Wintrow and his father were the sole survivors. As dawn lightened the sky, the crippled ship was overtaken by pirates. Captain Kennit and his crew had claimed Vivacia as a prize without striking a single blow. Then it was that Wintrow had struck his bargain with Kennit: he would try to save the pirate’s life if Kennit would allow him and his father to live. Sa’Adar, a priest among the slaves and the leader of the uprising, had other ambitions. He wished not only to stand in judgment on Wintrow’s father Kyle, but also to demand Kennit turn the Vivacia over to the slaves as their rightful prize. No matter who prevailed, the future was uncertain for both Wintrow and the ship. Yet, the ship already seemed to favour the pirate.

Ahead of them, the Marietta cut a brisk path through the lace-edged waves. Vivacia followed eagerly in her wake. They were bound for some pirate stronghold; Wintrow knew no more than that. To the west, the horizon disappeared into the foggy coast of the Cursed Shores. The swift-running steaming rivers of that region dumped their warm and silty waters into this channel, which created near permanent mists and fogs that cloaked an ever-changing shoreline of shoals and shallows. Sudden, violent storms were common in the winter months, and not unknown even in the kinder days of summer. The pirate islands were uncharted. What sense was there in charting a coast that changed almost daily? The conventional wisdom was to give it a wide berth and sail swiftly past it. Yet the Marietta surged forward confidently and Vivacia followed. Obviously, the pirates were very familiar with these channels and islands.

Wintrow turned his head and looked back over the Vivacia. In the rigging above, the pirate crew moved briskly and competently to Brig’s bellowed commands. Wintrow had to admit he had never seen the Vivacia sailed with such skill. Pirates they might be, but they were also excellent sailors, moving with discipline and coordination, as smoothly as if they were living parts of the quickened ship.

But there were others on deck to spoil the image. Most of the slaves had survived the rebellion. Freed of their chains, they were still recovering the aspects of full humanity. The marks of manacles were yet on their flesh and the slave tattoos on their faces. Their clothes were ragged, and the bodies that showed through the rents were pale and bony. There were far too many of them for Vivacia’s size. Although they now occupied the open decks as well as the holds below, they still had the crowded look of cattle being transported. They stood idly in small groups on the busy decks, moving only when the crew gestured them out of the way. Some of the healthier ones worked dispiritedly with rags and buckets, cleaning Vivacia’s decks and holds. Dissatisfaction showed on many faces. Wintrow wondered uneasily if they would act on it.

He wondered what he felt about them. Before their uprising, Wintrow had tended them belowdecks. His heart had rung with pity for them then. True, he had had small comfort to offer them: the dubious relief of saltwater and a washing rag seemed a false mercy now. He had tried to do a priest’s duties for them, but there had simply been too many. Now whenever he looked at them, instead of recalling his compassion for them, he remembered the screams and the blood as they had killed all his shipmates. He could not name the emotion that now swept through him when he considered the former slaves. Compounded of fear and anger, disgust and sympathy, it wrenched his soul with shame at feeling it. It was not a worthy emotion for a priest of Sa to experience. So he chose his other option. He felt nothing.

Some of the sailors, perhaps, had deserved their violent deaths, as men judged such things. But what of Mild, who had befriended Wintrow, and the fiddler Findow and fun-loving Comfrey and the other good men? Surely, they had merited a kinder end. The Vivacia had not been a slaver when they signed aboard. They had remained aboard her when Kyle had decided to put her to that use. Sa’Adar, the slave priest freed in the rebellion, believed that all who had died had deserved it. He preached that by working as crew on a slave ship, they had become the enemies of all just men. Wintrow felt himself deeply divided on that. He clung to the comforting idea that Sa did not demand he judge others. He told himself that Sa reserved all judging for himself, for only the creator had the wisdom to be judge.

The slaves on board did not share Wintrow’s opinion. Some looked at him and seemed to recall a soft-spoken voice in the darkness and hands with a cool damp rag. Others saw him as a sham, as the captain’s son playing at mercy but doing little to free them until they had taken matters into their own hands. One and all, they avoided him. He could not fault them. He avoided them as well, choosing to spend most of his time on the foredeck near Vivacia. The pirate crewmembers only came there when the operation of the ship demanded it. Otherwise, they avoided it as superstitiously as the slaves did. The living, speaking figurehead frightened them. If their shunning of her bothered Vivacia, she gave no sign of it. For Wintrow’s part, he was glad there was still one place aboard ship where he could be relatively alone. He leaned his head back against her railing and tried to find a thought that wasn’t painful.

At home, it would almost be spring. The buds would be swelling in the monastery orchards. He wondered how Berandol was doing with his own studies, if his tutor ever missed him. He wondered with deep regret what he would be studying now if he were there. He looked down at his hands. Once they had transcribed manuscripts and shaped stained glass windows. They had been a boy’s hands, agile but still tender. Callus coated his palms now, and a finger was missing from one hand. They were the rough hands of a sailor. His finger would never wear a priest’s ring.

Here it was a different kind of spring. The canvas snapped in the brisk chill wind. Migrating flocks of birds passed over head with their haunting cries. The islands to either side of the channel had become even more lush, green, and alive with shorebirds arguing about nesting space.

Something tugged at him.

‘Your father calls for you,’ Vivacia said quietly.

Of course. He had sensed it through her. Their journey through the storm had affirmed and strengthened the bond of mind and spirit between the ship and himself. He did not resent it as he once had and he sensed that Vivacia did not cherish it as dearly as she once had. Perhaps in this, at least, their feelings were meeting in the middle. Since the storm, she had been kind to him, but no more than that. Like a preoccupied parent with a demanding child, he thought to himself.

‘In some ways, we have exchanged roles since our journey began,’ she observed.

He nodded, having neither spirit nor energy to deny the truth. Then he straightened his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, and set his jaw more firmly. He would not let his father see how uncertain he felt.

He kept his head up as he threaded his way across the deck, avoiding the knots of slaves and the working crewmen. No one met his eyes, no one challenged him. Foolish, he told himself, to believe they all watched his passage. They had won. Why should they care about the actions of one surviving crewmember? At least he had come through it physically unscathed.

Vivacia bore the scars of the slave uprising. There were still bloodstains on the decks. The marks had not and would not yield to the sanding-stones the men used. The ship still smelled like a slaver, despite the near continuous scrubbing Brig had ordered. The storm had taken a toll on her canvas as well; the hasty patching that the pirates had done showed plainly on her sails. In the aftercastle, doors had been forced when the slaves had hunted down the ship’s officers. The gleaming woodwork was splintered and awry. She was not the tidy little vessel he had embarked upon from Bingtown. It suddenly shamed him to see his family ship this way, as if he had seen his sister whoring in a tavern. His heart went out to her and he wondered what it would have been like to have come aboard the ship of his own free will, as a boy perhaps, to serve under his grandfather’s authority.

Then he set all such thoughts aside. He came to a battered door guarded by two sullen map-faces. He stepped past the former slaves as if he did not see them and knocked on Gantry’s cabin door. At least, it had been the mate’s while he was still alive. Now the stripped and looted room was his father’s prison cell. He did not wait for a reply, but entered.

His father sat on the edge of the bare bunk. The stare he lifted to Wintrow’s face was an uneven one. Blood filled the white of one eye in his swollen and discoloured face. Kyle Haven’s posture suggested pain and despair, but there was only acid sarcasm in his greeting. ‘Nice of you to recall me. I had supposed you were too busy grovelling to your new masters.’

Wintrow held back a sigh. ‘I came to see you earlier, but you were sleeping. I knew rest would heal you more than anything I could offer. How are your ribs?’

‘Afire. My head throbs with every beat of my heart. And I’m hungry as well as thirsty.’ He made a slight motion with his chin towards the door. ‘Those two won’t even let me out for some air.’

‘I left food and water here for you earlier. Didn’t you…’

‘Yes, I found it. A gill of water and two pieces of dry bread.’ There was suppressed fury in his father’s voice.

‘It was all I could get for you. There is a shortage of food and fresh water aboard. During the storm, much of the food was spoiled by saltwater…’

‘Gobbled down by the slaves, you mean.’ Kyle shook his head in disgust and then winced. ‘They didn’t even have the sense to know they’d have to ration food. They kill the only men who can sail the ship in the midst of a storm, and then eat or destroy half the rations on board. They are no more fit to be in charge of themselves than a flock of chickens. I hope you are pleased with the freedom you dispensed to them. It’s as like to be their deaths as their salvation.’

‘They freed themselves, Father,’ Wintrow said stubbornly.

‘But you did nothing to stop them.’

‘Just as I did nothing to stop you from bringing them aboard in chains.’ Wintrow took a breath to go on, then stopped himself. No matter how he tried to justify what he had done, his father would never accept his reasons. Kyle’s words nudged the bruises on Wintrow’s conscience. Were the deaths of the crew his fault because he had done nothing? If that was so, then was he also responsible for the deaths of the slaves before the uprising? The thought was too painful to consider.

In an altered tone he went on, ‘Do you want me to tend your injuries, or try to find food for you?’

‘Did you find the medical supplies?’

Wintrow shook his head. ‘They’re still missing. No one has admitted taking them. They may have been lost overboard during the storm.’

‘Well, without them, there is little you can do for me,’ his father pointed out cynically. ‘Food would be nice, however.’

Wintrow refused to be irritated. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said softly.

‘Of course you will,’ his father replied snidely. His voice lowered abruptly as he asked, ‘And what will you do about the pirate?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wintrow admitted honestly. He met his father’s eyes squarely as he added, ‘I’m afraid. I know I have to try to heal him. But I don’t know which is worse, the prospect of him surviving and us continuing as prisoners, or him dying and us with him, and the ship having to go on alone.’

His father spat on the deck, an action so unlike him that it was as shocking as a blow. His eyes glittered like cold stones. ‘I despise you,’ he growled. ‘Your mother must have lain with a serpent, to bring forth something like you. It shames me to have folk name you my son. Look at you. Pirates have taken over your family ship, the livelihood of your mother and sister and little brother. Their very survival depends on you taking this ship back! But you don’t even think of that. No. All you wonder is if you will kill or cure the pirate whose boot is on your neck. You have not given one thought to getting weapons for us, or persuading the ship to defy him as she defied me. All the time you wasted nursemaiding those slaves when they were in chains! Do you try to get any of them to help you now? No. You mouse along and help that damn pirate keep the ship he has stolen from us.’

Wintrow shook his head, in wonder as much as sorrow. ‘You are not rational. What do you expect of me, Father? Am I supposed to single-handedly take this ship back from Kennit and his crew, subdue the slaves into being cargo again, and then sail it on to Chalced?’

‘You and this devil ship were able to overthrow me and my crew! Why don’t you turn the ship against him as you turned her against me? Why can’t you, just once, act in the best interests of your family?’ His father stood up, his fists clenched as if he would attack Wintrow. Then he abruptly clutched at his ribs, gasping with pain. His face went from the red of anger to the white of shock, and he swayed. Wintrow started forward to catch him.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Kyle snarled threateningly, staggering to the edge of the bunk. He eased himself back onto it. He sat glowering at his son.

What does he see when he looks at me, Wintrow wondered? He supposed he must be a disappointment to the tall, blond man. Small, dark and slight like his mother, Wintrow would never have his father’s size or his physical strength. At fourteen, he was physically still more boy than man. But it wasn’t just physically that he failed his father’s ambitions. His spirit would never match his sire’s.

Wintrow spoke softly. ‘I never turned the ship against you, sir. You did that yourself, with your treatment of her. There is no way I can reclaim her completely at this time. The very best I can hope to do is to keep us alive.’

Kyle Haven shifted his gaze to the wall and stared at it stonily. ‘Go and get me some food.’ He barked out the order as if he still commanded the ship.

‘I will try,’ Wintrow said coldly. He turned and left the room.

As he dragged the damaged door shut behind him, one of the map-faces spoke to him. The tattooed marks of his many masters crawled on the burly man’s face, as he demanded, ‘Why do you take that from him?’

‘What?’ Wintrow asked in surprise.

‘He treats you like a dog.’

‘He’s my father.’ Wintrow tried to conceal his dismay that they had listened to their conversation. How much had they overheard?

‘He’s a horse’s ass,’ the other guard observed coldly. He turned a challenging gaze on Wintrow. ‘Makes you the son of a horse’s ass.’

‘Shut up!’ the first guard snarled. ‘The boy isn’t bad. If you can’t remember who was kind to you when you were chained up, I can.’ His dark eyes came back to Wintrow. He tossed his head at the closed door. ‘You say the word, boy. I’ll make him crawl for you.’

‘No.’ Wintrow spoke out clearly. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to crawl for me.’ He felt he had to make it absolutely clear to the man. ‘Please. Don’t hurt my father.’

The map-face gave a shrug. ‘Suit yourself. I speak from experience, lad. It’s the only way to deal with a man like that. He crawls for you or you crawl for him. It’s all he knows.’

‘Perhaps,’ Wintrow conceded unwillingly. He started to walk away, then paused. ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Villia. You’re Wintrow, right?’

‘Yes. I’m Wintrow. I’m pleased to know your name, Villia.’ Wintrow looked at the other guard expectantly.

He frowned and looked uncomfortable. ‘Deccan,’ he said finally.

‘Deccan,’ Wintrow repeated, fixing it in his mind. He deliberately met the man’s eyes and nodded at him before he turned away. He could sense both amusement and approval from Villia. Such a minor way of standing up for himself, and yet he felt better for having done it. As he emerged onto the deck, blinking in the bright spring sunshine, Sa’Adar stepped into his path. The big priest still looked haggard from his confinement as a slave. The red kiss of the shackles had scarred his wrists and ankles.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he announced. Two more map-faces flanked the priest like leashed pitbulls.

‘Have you?’ Wintrow resolved to continue as he had begun. He squared his shoulders and met the older man’s eyes. ‘Did you post those two men outside my father’s room?’ he demanded.

The wandering priest was unruffled. ‘I did. The man must be confined until he can be judged and justice done to him.’ The priest looked down on Wintrow from his superior height and years. ‘Do you dispute that?’

‘I?’ Wintrow appeared to consider the question. ‘Why would it worry you if I did? Were I you, I would not worry about what Wintrow Vestrit thought. I would worry about what Captain Kennit might think of me taking such authority to myself.’

‘Kennit’s a dying man,’ Sa’Adar said boldly. ‘Brig is the one who commands here. He seems to welcome my authority over the slaves. He gives out his orders through me. He has not challenged my posting of a guard on Captain Haven.’

‘Slaves? Surely they are all free folk now.’ Wintrow smiled as he spoke, and pretended not to notice how closely the map-faces were following the conversation. The other former slaves loitering on the deck were also eavesdropping. Some drew closer.

‘You know what I mean!’ Sa’Adar exclaimed in annoyance.

‘Generally, a man says what he means…’ Wintrow let the observation hang a moment, then added smoothly, ‘You said you were seeking me earlier?’

‘I was. Have you been to see Kennit today?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Wintrow countered quietly.

‘Because I should like to know plainly what his intentions are.’ The priest had a trained voice and he now gave it a carrying quality. More than one tattooed face turned towards him as he spoke. ‘The tales told in Jamaillia City say that when Captain Kennit captures a slave ship, he kills the crew and gives the ship over to those who were slaves on it, so that they, too, can become pirates and carry on his crusade against slavery. Such was what we believed when we welcomed his aid in manning the ship that we had taken. We expected to keep it. We hoped it would be a tool for the new beginning each of us must make. Now Captain Kennit speaks as if he will keep it for himself. With all we have heard of him, we do not believe he is a man who would snatch from us the only thing of value we have. Therefore, we wish to ask him, plainly and fairly. To whom does he believe this ship belongs?’

Wintrow regarded him levelly. ‘If you wish to ask that question of Captain Kennit, then I encourage you to do so. Only he can give his opinion of the answer. If you ask it of me, you will hear, not my opinion, but the truth.’ He had deliberately spoken more softly than Sa’Adar so that those who wished to listen would have to draw near. Many had done so, including some of the pirate crewmen. They had a dangerous look to them.

Sa’Adar smiled sardonically. ‘Your truth is that the ship belongs to you, I suppose.’

Wintrow shook his head, and returned the smile. ‘The ship belongs to herself. Vivacia is a free creature, with the right to determine her own life. Or would you, who have worn the heavy chains of slavery, presume to do to another what was done so cruelly to you?’

Ostensibly he addressed Sa’Adar. Wintrow did not look around to see how the question affected the others. Instead, he was silent, as if awaiting an answer. After a moment Sa’Adar gave a snort of disdainful laughter. ‘He cannot be serious,’ he told the throng. ‘By some sorcery, the figurehead can speak. It is an interesting bit of Bingtown trickery. But a ship is a ship, a thing, and not a person. And by rights, this ship is ours!’

Only a few slaves muttered assent, for no sooner was the question uttered than a pirate confronted him. ‘Are you talking mutiny?’ the grizzled tar demanded. “Cause if you are, you’ll go over the side before you take another breath.’ The man smiled in a decidedly unfriendly way that bared the gaps in his teeth. To his left, a tall pirate laughed gutturally. He rolled his shoulders as if stretching, a subtle display of strength for Sa’Adar’s map-faces. Both the tattooed men straightened, eyes narrowing.

Sa’Adar looked shocked. Obviously, he had not expected this. He stood straight and began indignantly, ‘Why should it be a concern of yours?’

The stocky pirate poked the tall priest in the chest. His jabbing finger stayed there as he pointed out, ‘Kennit’s our captain. What he says, goes. Right?’ When the priest did not answer, the man grinned. Sa’Adar stepped back from the pressure of his forefinger against his chest. As he turned to walk away, the pirate observed, ‘You’d do best not to talk against anything Kennit does. You don’t like something, tell the captain to his face. He’s a hard man, but fair. Don’t wag your tongue behind his back. If you make trouble on this ship, it will only come down on you.’

Without a backward glance, the pirates went back to their work. Attention shifted to Sa’Adar. He did not mask the angry glint in his eyes, but his voice sounded thin and childish when he said, ‘Be assured I will speak to Kennit about this. Be assured I will!’

Wintrow lowered his eyes to the deck. Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps there was a way he could regain his family ship from both slaves and pirates. In any conflict, there is opportunity for someone. His heart beat strangely faster as he walked away, and he wondered where such thoughts had bred in him.

Vivacia was preoccupied. Although her eyes stared ahead over the water to the stern of the Marietta, her real attention was turned inward. The man on the wheel had a steady hand; the crew that sprang to her rigging were true sailors one and all. The crew was cleansing filth from her decks and holds, and repairing woodwork and polishing metal. For the first time in many months, she had no qualms as to the abilities of her captain. She could let her mind be completely occupied with her own concerns, trusting that those who manned her knew their trade.

A quickened liveship, through her wizardwood bones, could be aware of all that happened aboard her. Much of it was mundane and scarcely worthy of attention. The mending of a line, the chopping of an onion in the galley need not concern her. Those things could not change her course in life. Kennit could. In the captain’s quarters, the enigmatic man slept restlessly. Vivacia could not see him, but she could feel him in a way humans had no words to describe. His fever was rising again. The woman who tended him was anxious. She did something with cool water and a cloth. Vivacia reached for details, but there was no bond there. She did not yet know them well enough.

Kennit was far more accessible to her than Etta. His fever dreams ran out of him carelessly, spilling into Vivacia like the blood that had been shed on her decks. She absorbed them but could make no sense of them. A little boy was tormented, torn between loyalty to a father who loved him but had no idea how to protect him, and a man who protected him from others but had no love at all in his heart. Over and over again, a serpent rose from the depths of his dreams to shear off his leg. The bite of its jaws was acid and ice. From the depths of his soul, he reached towards her, towards a deep sharing that he recalled only as a formless memory from a lost infancy.

‘Hello, hello, what’s this? Or who is this, perhaps I should say?’

The voice, Kennit’s voice, came to her in a tiny whisper inside her mind. She shook her head, tousling her hair into the wind. The pirate did not speak to her. Even in her strongest communions with Althea and Wintrow, their thoughts had not come so clearly into her mind. ‘That is not Kennit,’ she murmured to herself. Of that, she was certain. Yet, it was certainly his voice. In his stateroom, the pirate captain drew a deep breath and expelled it, muttering denials and refusals as he did so. He groaned suddenly.

‘No. Not Kennit,’ the tiny voice confirmed in amusement. ‘Nor are you the Vestrit you think yourself to be. Who are you?’

It was disconcerting to feel a mind groping after her reaction. Instinctively she recoiled from the contact. She was stronger far than he was. When she pulled away from him, he could not follow her. In doing so, she severed her tentative contact with Kennit as well. Frustration and agitation roiled through her. She clenched her fists at her side and took the next wave badly, smashing herself into it rather than through it. The helmsman cursed to himself and made a tiny correction. Vivacia licked the salt spray from her lips and shook her hair back from her face. Who and what was he? She held her thoughts still inside herself and tried to decide if she were more frightened or intrigued. She sensed an odd kinship with the being who had spoken to her. She had turned his aggressive prying aside easily, but she disliked that someone had even tried to invade her mind.

She decided she would not tolerate it. Whoever this intruder was, she would unmask him and confront him. Keeping her own guard up, she reached out tentatively towards the cabin where Kennit shifted in his sleep. She found the pirate easily. He still struggled through his fever dreams, hiding within a cupboard while some dream being stalked him, calling his name in a falsely sweet tone. The woman set a cool cloth on his brow, and draped another over the swollen stump of his leg. Vivacia almost felt the sudden easing it brought him. The ship reached out again, more boldly, but found no one else there.

‘Where are you?’ she demanded suddenly and angrily. Kennit jerked with a cry as the stalker in his dream echoed her words, and Etta bent over him, murmuring soothing words.

Vivacia’s question went unanswered.

Kennit surfaced, gasping his way into consciousness. It took him a moment to recall his surroundings. Then a faint smile of pleasure stretched his fever-parched lips. His liveship. He was on board his liveship, in the captain’s well-appointed chambers. A fine linen sheet draped his sweating body. Polished brass and wood gleamed throughout a chamber both cosy and refined. He could hear the water gurgling past as Vivacia cut through the channel. He could almost feel the awareness of his ship around him, protecting him. She was a second skin, shielding him from the world. He sighed in satisfaction, and then choked on the mucus in his dry throat.

‘Etta!’ he croaked to the whore. ‘Water.’

‘It’s right here,’ she said soothingly.

It was true. Surprising as it was, she was standing right beside him, a cup of water ready in her hand. Her long fingers were cool on the back of his neck as she helped him raise himself to drink. Afterwards, she deftly turned his pillow before she lowered his head again. She patted the perspiration from his face and then wiped his hands with a moist cloth. He lay still and silent under her touch, limply grateful for the comfort she gave. He knew a moment of purest peace.

It did not last. His awareness of his swollen leg rose swiftly to recognition of pain. He tried to ignore it. It became a pulsing heat that rose in intensity with every breath he took. Beside his bed, his whore sat in a chair, sewing something. His eyes moved listlessly over her. She looked older than he recalled her. The lines were deeper by her mouth and in her brow. Her face looked thinner under the brush of her short black hair. It made her dark eyes even more immense.

‘You look terrible,’ he rebuked her.

She set her sewing aside immediately and smiled as if he had complimented her. ‘It’s hard for me to see you like this. When you are ill…I can’t sleep, I can’t eat…’

Selfish woman. She’d fed his leg to a sea serpent, and now tried to make it out that it was her problem. Was he supposed to feel sorry for her? He pushed the thought aside. ‘Where’s that boy? Wintrow?’

She stood right away. ‘Do you want him?’

Stupid question. ‘Of course I want him. He’s supposed to make my leg better. Why hasn’t he done so?’

She leaned over his bed and smiled down at him tenderly. He wanted to push her away but he had not the strength. ‘I think he wants to wait until we make port in Bull Creek. There are a number of things he wants to have on hand before he…heals you.’ She turned away from his sickbed abruptly, but not before he had seen the tears glinting in her eyes. Her wide shoulders were bowed and she no longer stood tall and proud. She did not expect him to survive. To know that so suddenly both scared and angered him. It was as if she had wished his death on him.

‘Go find that boy!’ he commanded her roughly, mostly to get her out of his sight. ‘Remind him. Remind him well that if I die, so does he and his father. Tell him that!’

‘I’ll have someone fetch him,’ she said in a quavering voice and started for the door.

‘No. You go yourself, right now, and get him. Now.’

She turned back and annoyed him by lightly touching his face. ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll go right now.’

He did not watch her go but listened instead to the sound of her boots on the deck. She hurried, and when she went out, the door shut quietly but completely behind her. He heard her voice lifted to someone, irritably. ‘No. Go away. I won’t have him bothered with such things right now.’ Then, in a lower, threatening voice, ‘Touch that door and I’ll kill you right here.’ Whoever it was heeded her, for no knock came at the door.

He half closed his eyes and drifted on the tide of his pain. The fever razored bright edges and sharp colours to the world. The cosy room seemed to crowd closer around him, threatening to fall in on him. He pushed the sheet away and tried to find a breath of cooler air.

‘So, Kennit. What will you do with your “likely urchin” when he comes?’

The pirate squeezed his eyes tight shut. He tried to will the voice away.

‘That’s amusing. Do you think I cannot see you with your eyes closed?’ The charm was relentless.

‘Shut up. Leave me alone. I wish I had never had you made.’

‘Oh, now you have wounded my feelings! Such words to bandy about, after all we have endured together.’

Kennit opened his eyes. He lifted his wrist and stared at the bracelet. The tiny wizardwood charm, carved in a likeness of his own saturnine face, looked up at him with a friendly grin. Leather thongs secured it firmly over his pulse point. His fever brought the face looming closer. He closed his eyes.

‘Do you truly believe that boy can heal you? No. You could not be so foolish. Of course, you are desperate enough that you will insist he try. Do you know what amazes me? That you fear death so much that it makes you brave enough to face the surgeon’s knife. Think of that swollen flesh, so tender you scarce can bear the brush of a sheet upon it. You will let him set a knife to that, a bright sharp blade, gleaming silver before the blood encarmines it…’

‘Charm.’ Kennit opened his eyes to slits. ‘Why do you torment me?’

The charm pursed his lips at him. ‘Because I can. I am probably the only one in the whole world who can torment the great Captain Kennit. The Liberator. The would-be King of the Pirate Isles.’ The little face snickered and added snidely, ‘Brave Serpent-Bait of the Inside Passage. Tell me. What do you want of the boy-priest? Do you desire him? He stirs in your fever dreams memories of what you were. Would you do as you were done by?’

‘No. I was never…’

‘What, never?’ The wizardwood charm snickered cruelly. ‘Do you truly believe you can lie to me, bonded as we are? I know everything about you. Everything.’

‘I made you to help me, not to torment me! Why have you turned on me?’

‘Because I hate what you are,’ the charm replied savagely. ‘I hate that I am becoming a part of you, aiding you in what you do.’

Kennit drew a ragged breath. ‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded. It was a cry of surrender, a plea for mercy or pity.

‘Now there’s a question you never thought of before this. What do I want from you?’ The charm drew the question out, savouring it. ‘Maybe I want you to suffer. Maybe I enjoy tormenting you. Maybe…’

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Etta’s boots and the light scuff of bare feet.

‘Be kind to Etta,’ the charm demanded hastily. ‘And perhaps I will ’

As the door opened, the face fell silent. It was once more still and silent, a wooden head on a bracelet on a sick man’s wrist. Wintrow came in, followed by the whore. ‘Kennit, I’ve brought him,’ Etta announced as she shut the door behind them.

‘Good. Leave us.’ If the damn charm thought it could force him into anything, it was wrong.

Etta looked stricken. ‘Kennit…do you think that’s wise?’

‘No. I think it is stupid. That’s why I told you to do it, because I delight in stupidity.’ His voice was low as he flung the words at her. He watched the face at his wrist for some sort of reaction. It was motionless, but its tiny eyes glittered. Probably it plotted revenge. He didn’t care. While he could breathe, he would not cower before a bit of wood.

‘Get out,’ he repeated. ‘Leave the boy to me.’

Her back was very straight as she marched out. She shut the door firmly behind her, not quite slamming it. The moment she was outside, Kennit dragged himself into a sitting position. ‘Come here,’ he told Wintrow. As the boy approached the bed, Kennit seized the corner of the sheet and flung it aside. It exposed his shortened leg in all its putrescent glory. ‘There it is,’ Kennit told him in disgust. ‘What can you do for me?’

The boy blanched at the sight of it. Kennit knew he steeled himself to approach the bedside and look more closely at his leg. He wrinkled his nose against the smell. Then he lifted his dark eyes to Kennit’s and spoke simply and honestly. ‘I don’t know. It’s very bad.’ His glance darted back to Kennit’s leg then met his eyes again. ‘Let’s approach it this way. If we do not attempt to take off your leg, you will die. What have we to lose by trying?’

The pirate forced a stiff grin to his face. ‘I? Very little, it seems. You have still your own life and your father’s on the scale.’

Wintrow gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I well know that my life is forfeit if you die, with or without my efforts.’ He made a tiny motion with his head towards the door. ‘She would never suffer me to survive you.’

‘You fear the woman, do you?’ Kennit permitted his grin to widen. ‘You should. So. What do you propose?’ He tried to keep up his bravado with casual words.

The boy looked back at his leg. He furrowed his brow and pondered. The intensity of his concentration only made his youth more apparent.

Kennit glanced down once at his decaying stump. After that, he preferred to watch Wintrow’s face. The pirate winced involuntarily as the boy extended his hands towards his leg. ‘I won’t touch it,’ Wintrow promised. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘But I need to discover where the soundness stops and the foulness begins.’ He cupped his hands together, as if to capture something under them. He began at the injury and slowly moved his hands up towards Kennit’s thigh. Wintrow’s eyes were closed to slits and his head was cocked as if he listened intently to something. Kennit watched his moving hands. What did he sense? Warmth, or something subtler, like the slow working of poison? The boy’s hands were weathered from hard work, but retained the languid grace of an artisan’s.

‘You have only nine fingers,’ Kennit observed. ‘What happened to the other one?’

‘An accident,’ Wintrow told him distractedly, then bade him, ‘Hush.’

Kennit scowled, but did as he was bid. He became aware of the boy’s cupped hands moving above his flesh. Their ghostly pressure reawakened him to the pounding rhythm of the pain. Kennit clenched his teeth, swallowed against it, and managed to push it from his mind once more.

Midway up Kennit’s thigh, Wintrow’s hands halted and hovered. The lines in his brow grew deeper. The boy’s breathing deepened, steadied and his eyes closed completely. He appeared to sleep standing. Kennit studied his face. Long dark lashes curled against his cheeks. His cheeks and jaw had lost most of a child’s roundness, but showed not even the downy beginning of a beard. Beside his nose was the small green sigil that denoted he had once belonged to the Satrap. Next to that was a larger tattoo, a crude rendering that Kennit recognized as the Vivacia’s figurehead. Kennit’s first reaction was annoyance that someone had so compromised the boy’s beauty. Then he perceived that the very harshness of the tattoo contrasted his innocence. Etta had been like that when he first discovered her, a coltish girl in a whorehouse parlour…

‘Captain Kennit? Sir?’

He opened his eyes. When had he closed them?

Wintrow was nodding gently to himself. ‘Here,’ he said as soon as the pirate looked at him. ‘If we cut here, I think we’ll be in sound flesh.’

The boy’s hands indicated a spot frighteningly high on his thigh. Kennit took a breath. ‘In sound flesh, you say? Should not you cut below what is sound?’

‘No. We must cut a bit into what is still healthy, for healthy flesh heals faster than poisoned.’ Wintrow paused and used both hands to push his straying hair back from his face. ‘I cannot say that any part of the leg is completely without poison. But I think if we cut there, we would have our best chance.’ The boy’s face grew thoughtful. ‘First, I shall want to leech the lower leg, to draw off some of the swelling and foulness. Some of the monastery healers held with bleeding, and some with leeches. There is, of course, a place and a time for each of those things, but I believe that the thickened blood of infection is best drawn off by leeches.’

Kennit fought to keep his composed expression. The boy’s face was intense. He reminded Kennit of Sorcor attempting to plot strategy.

‘Then we shall place a ligature here, a wide one that will slow the flow of blood. It must bind the flesh tightly without crushing it. Below it, I shall cut. I shall try to preserve a flap of skin to close over the wound. The tools I shall need are a sharp knife and a fine-toothed saw for the bone. The blade of the knife must be long enough to slice cleanly, without a sawing motion.’ The boy’s fingers measured out the length. ‘For the stitching, some would use fine fish-gut thread, but at my monastery, it was said that the best stitches are made with hair from the man’s own head, for the body knows its own. You, sir, have fine hair, long. Your curls are loose enough that the hair can be pulled straight. It will serve admirably.’

Kennit wondered if the boy sought to unnerve him, or if he had completely forgotten that he was talking about Kennit’s flesh and bone. ‘And for the pain?’ he asked with false heartiness.

‘Your own courage, sir, will have to serve you best.’ The boy’s dark eyes met his squarely. ‘I shall not be quick, but I shall be careful. Brandy or rum, before we begin. Were it not so rare and expensive, I would say we should obtain the essence of the rind of a kwazi fruit. It numbs a wound wonderfully. Of course, it works only on fresh blood. It would only be effective after we had done the cutting.’ Wintrow shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should think well of what crewmen you shall want to hold you down. They should be large and strong, with the judgement to ignore you if you demand to be released or threaten them.’

Unwillingness washed over Kennit like a wave. He refused to consider the humiliation and indignity he must face. He thrust away the idea that this was inevitable. There had to be some other way, some alternative to vast pain and helplessness. How could he choose them, knowing that even if he endured it all, he might still die? How foolish he would look then!

‘…and each of those must be drawn out a little way, and closed off with a stitch or two.’ Wintrow paused as if waiting for his agreement. ‘I’ve never done this by myself,’ he admitted abruptly. ‘I want you to know that. I have seen it done twice. Once an infected leg was removed. Once it was a hopelessly smashed foot and ankle. Both times, I was there to help the healer, to pass tools and hold the bucket…’ His voice trailed off. He licked his lips and stared at Kennit, his eyes going wider and wider.

‘What is it?’ Kennit demanded.

‘I’ll have your life in my hands,’ he wondered aloud.

‘And I have yours in mine,’ the pirate pointed out. ‘And your father’s.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Wintrow replied. His voice sounded like a dreamer’s. ‘You are doubtless accustomed to such power. I have never even wished for it.’

3 THE CROWNED ROOSTER

HER FOOTFALLS RANG hollow in the cavernous corridor as Jani Khuprus hastened down it. As she strode along, she trailed her fingers down the long strip of jidzin set into the wall. Her touch triggered a faint light that moved with her down the dark hall that carried her ever deeper into the Elderlings’ labyrinthine palace. Twice she had to circle dark puddles of water on the stone floor. Each time, she routinely noted to herself the location. Whenever the spring rains returned, they had the same problem. The thick layer of soil on top and the questing roots that sought through it were beginning to win the long battle with the ancient buried structure. The quiet dripping of the water was a counter rhythm to her own hurrying feet.

There had been a quake last night. Not a large one by Rain Wild standards, but stronger and longer than the usual gentle shivering of the earth. She resolved not to think about it as she hurried through the dimness. This structure had withstood the great disaster that had levelled most of the ancient city; surely, she could trust it to stand a bit longer. She came at last to an arched entryway closed with a massive metal door. She ran her hands over it lightly and the Crowned Rooster embossed on the surface shimmered into life. It never failed to impress her. She could well understand her ancestor discovering this and immediately making the Crowned Rooster his own heraldic device. The cock on the door was lifting a spurred foot threateningly and his wings were half-raised in menace. Every hackle feather on his extended neck shone. A gem set in his eye sparkled blackly. Elegance and arrogance combined in him. She set a hand firmly to his breast and pushed the door open. Darkness gaped at her.

Only familiarity guided her as she descended the shallow steps that led into the immense room. As she submerged herself in the vaster darkness of the Crowned Rooster Chamber, she scowled to herself. Reyn was not here after all. She had trotted all this way seeking her son for nothing. She paused by the wall at the bottom of the steps, looking around blindly. She started when he spoke to her from the blackness.

‘Have you ever tried to imagine to yourself how this chamber must have looked when it was new? Think of it, Mother. On a day like today, the spring sun would have shone down through the crystal dome to waken all the colours in the murals. What did they do here? From the deep gouges on the floor and the random ordering of the tables, I do not think the wizardwood logs were commonly stored here. No. I think they were brought here in haste, to shelter them from whatever disaster was burying the city. So. Prior to that time, what was the purpose of this huge room with its crystal dome and decorated walls? From the ancient pots of earth, we can surmise they grew plants in here. Was it merely a sheltered garden, where one could walk in comfort even in the stormiest weather? Or was it…’

‘Reyn. Enough,’ his mother exclaimed in annoyance. Her questing fingers found the jidzin strip on the wall. She pressed on it firmly, and several decorative panels answered her dimly. She frowned to herself. In her girlhood, they had been much brighter; each petal of every flower had shone. Now they dimmed more with each passing day. She pushed aside her dismay at the thought of them dying. There was mild irritation in her voice as she demanded, ‘What are you doing down here in the dark? Why aren’t you in the west corridor, supervising the workers? They have found another portal, concealed in a wall of the seventh chamber. Your intuition is needed there, to divine how to open it.’

‘How to destroy it, you mean,’ Reyn corrected her.

‘Oh, Reyn.’ Jani rebuked him wearily. She was so tired of these discussions with her youngest son. Sometimes it seemed that he, who was most gifted at forcing the dwelling places of the Elderlings to give up their secrets, was also the most reluctant to employ his skills. ‘What would you have us do? Leave all buried and forgotten as we found it? Forsake the Rain Wilds and retreat to Bingtown to live with our kin there? That would be brief sanctuary.’

She heard the light scuff of his feet as he circled the last great log of wizardwood that remained in the Crowned Rooster Chamber. He moved like a sleepwalker as he rounded the end of it. Her heart sank as she marked how he walked, his fingers trailing along the massive trunk as he did so. He was cloaked and hooded against the damp and chill of the chamber. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I love the Rain Wilds as you do. I have no desire to live elsewhere. Neither do I think my people should continue to live in hiding and secrecy. Nor should we continue to plunder and destroy the ancient holdings of the Elderlings simply to pay for our own safety. I believe that instead we should restore and celebrate all we have discovered here. We should dig away the soil and ash that mask the city and reveal it once more to sunlight and moonlight. We should throw off the Satrap of Jamaillia as an overlord, deny his taxes and restrictions and trade freely wherever we wish.’ His voice died down as his mother glowered at him, but he was not silenced. ‘Let us display who we are without shame, and say we live where and as we do, not out of shame but by choice. That is what I think we should do.’

Jani Khuprus sighed. ‘You are very young, Reyn,’ she said simply.

‘If you mean stupid, say stupid,’ he suggested without malice.

‘I do not mean stupid,’ she replied gently. ‘Young I said, and young I meant. The burden of the Cursed Shores does not fall as heavily upon you and me as it does the other Rain Wild Traders. In some ways, that makes our lot harder, not easier. We visit Bingtown and from behind our veils we look about and say, “but I am not so very different from the folk who live here. In time they would accept me, and I could move freely among them.” Perhaps you forget just how hard it might be for Kys or Tillamon to stand unveiled before ignorant eyes.’

At the mention of his sisters’ names, Reyn cast his eyes down. No one could say why the disfigurement that was the normal lot of Rain Wild children should have fallen so heavily upon them and so lightly upon Reyn. Here, among their own kind, it was not so immense a burden. Why should one blanch at a neighbour’s face that sported the same pebbled skin or dangling growths as his own? In contrast, the thought of his small half-sister Kys unveiled, even on a Bingtown street, was a daunting one. As clearly as if written on a scroll, Jani watched the thoughts unfurl across her son’s visage. His brow wrinkled at the unfairness of it all.

Bitterness twisted his mouth when he spoke. ‘We are a wealthy folk. I am neither so young nor so stupid as not to know that we could buy acceptance. By all rights, we should be among the wealthiest in the world, were it not for the Satrap’s foot on our neck and hands in our purse. Mark my words, Mother. Could we but throw off the burdens of his taxes and his restraints on our free trade, then we would not need to destroy the very discoveries that enrich us. We could restore and reveal this city, instead of stripping its treasures to sell elsewhere. Folk would come here, paying our ships to bring them up the river, and be glad to do it. They would look upon us and not turn aside their eyes, for folk can come to love whoever has wealth. We would have the leisure then to find the true keys to unlock the secrets that we now hammer and cut free. If we were truly a free folk, we could unearth the full wonder of this city. Sunlight would flood this chamber as it once did, and the Queen that lies trapped here –’

‘Reyn,’ his mother spoke in a low voice. ‘Take your hand off the wizardwood log.’

‘It’s not a log,’ he said as softly. ‘It’s not a log and we both know it.’

‘And we both know that the words you now speak are not solely your own. Reyn. It little matters what we call it. What we both know is that you have spent far too much time in contact with it, studying the murals and contemplating the glyphs on the pillars. It sways your thoughts and makes you its own.’

‘No!’ He denied it sharply. ‘That is not the truth of it, Mother. Yes, I have spent much time in this chamber, and studied the markings the Elderlings left here. I have studied, too, that which we tumbled from inside the other “logs” that were once within the chamber.’ He shook his head, his coppery eyes flashing in the dimness. ‘Coffins. That was what you told me they were when I was young. But they are not. Cradles would be a truer name for them. Moreover, if knowing what I know now, I long to awaken and release the only one that is left, that does not mean I have fallen under her sway. It only means that I have come to see what would be right to do.’

‘What is right to do is to remain loyal to one’s own,’ his mother retorted angrily. ‘Reyn, I tell you this plainly. You have spent so much time in the company of this wizardwood log that you do not know where your own thoughts leave off and its sly promptings begin. There is at least as much of a child’s thwarted curiosity in your desire as there is righteousness. Look at your actions today. You know where you are needed. But where are you?’

‘Here. With one who needs me most, for she has no other advocate!’

‘She is most likely dead.’ His mother spoke bluntly. ‘Reyn. You tease your fancy with nursery tales. How long was that log there, even before we discovered this place? Whatever was within it has perished long ago, and left only the echoes of its longing for light and air. You know the properties of wizardwood. A log, broken free of its contents, becomes free to take on the memories and thoughts of those in daily contact with it. That does not mean the wood is alive. You put your hands on it, and you listen to the trapped memories of a dead creature from another time. That is all they are.’

‘If you are so sure of that, why do not we test your theory? Let us expose this log to light and air. If no dragon queen hatches from within it, then I shall concede I was wrong. I will no longer oppose it being cut into timber to build a great ship for the Khuprus family.’

Jani Khuprus heaved a great sigh. Then she spoke softly. ‘It makes no difference, Reyn, whether you oppose it or not. You are my youngest son, not my eldest. When the time comes, you will not be the one to decide what is done with the last wizardwood log.’ At her son’s downcast face, she felt she might have spoken too harshly. As stubborn as he was, he was also oddly sensitive. That came from his father, she thought, and feared. She tried to make him see her reasoning. ‘To do what you propose would divert workmen and time from the tasks they must do if we are to keep money flowing into our household. The log is too big. The entrance they used to bring it here collapsed long ago. It is too long to wend it down the corridors to get it outside. The only alternative would be for workmen to clear the forest above us and then dig away the soil. We would have to break away the crystal dome and hoist it out with tripods and pulleys. It would be a monumental task.’

‘If I am correct, it would be worth it.’

‘Would it? Let us pretend you are correct, and we have exposed this log to light and something has hatched from it. Then what? What assurances do you have that such a creature will feel kindly toward us, or regard us at all? You have read more of the scrolls and tablets of the Elderkind than any other man alive has. You yourself say that the dragons that shared their cities were arrogant and aggressive creatures, prone to take whatever they desired. Would you free such a creature to walk among us? Worse, what if it resented us, or even hated us, for what we unknowingly did to her kin in the other logs? Look at the size of that log, Reyn. It would be a formidable enemy you had loosed upon your own kind, simply to satisfy your curiosity.’

‘Curiosity!’ Reyn sputtered. ‘It is not solely curiosity, Mother. I feel pity for the trapped creature. Yes, and I feel guilt for those others we so thoughtlessly destroyed over the years. Remorse and atonement can drive one as strongly as curiosity.’

Jani knotted her fists. ‘Reyn. I am not going to discuss this any further with you. If you want to speak of it to me again, then you must do so in my sitting room, not in this damp cave with that…thing swaying your every thought. And that is final.’

Reyn straightened slowly and crossed his arms on his chest. She could not see his face; she did not need to. She knew his mouth was set and his jaw clenched tight. Stubborn lad. Why did he have to be so stubborn?

She did not look at him as she made her peace offering. ‘Son, after you have helped the work crew in the west corridor, I thought we might sit down and plan your trip to Bingtown. Although I have promised the Vestrits that you will not turn Malta’s head with presents, it is still fitting that you take gifts for her mother and grandmother. Those must be selected, as well as garments for your journey. We have not yet discussed how you will present yourself. You have always dressed so soberly. Yet, a man who goes courting should have plumage like a peacock. You must, of course, remain veiled. But how heavily veiled I will leave up to you.’

Her gambit succeeded. His stance softened; she could sense his smile. ‘Veiled impenetrably, but not for the reason you think. I think Malta is a woman who enjoys mystery and intrigue. I think it is what first attracted her to me.’

Jani began to walk slowly towards the chamber entrance. As she had hoped, Reyn trailed after her. ‘Her mother and grandmother seemed to think her very much a child still, but you refer to her as a woman.’

‘She is certainly a woman.’ Reyn’s tone left no room for doubt. He took pride in his declaration. Jani found herself marvelling at the change in her son. Never before had he expressed such an interest in a woman, though there had been no lack of them vying for his attention. Among the Rain Wild families, any of the Khuprus sons or daughters would be a good catch. Only once had they attempted to arrange a marriage on his behalf. His adamant refusal had been socially awkward. There had been a few alliance offers from Bingtown Trader families as well, but Reyn had disdained them. No, disdained was too strong a word for overtures he had scarcely acknowledged. Perhaps Malta Vestrit could save her son from this obsession of his. She smiled over her shoulder at Reyn as she led him from the room.

‘I confess, I am intrigued by this woman-child Malta. Her family speaks of her one way, and you quite another…I look forward to meeting her.’

‘I hope that shall happen soon. I plan to invite her and her kin to come for a visit, Mother. If that is all right with you, of course.’

‘You know I have no objections. The Vestrit family is well thought of among the Rain Wild Traders, despite their decision to forebear trading with us. With the alliance of our families in marriage, that will surely end. They have the liveship that is needed to trade up the Rain Wild River…and they will own it free of encumbrances once the wedding is celebrated. You and Malta have the prospect of prosperity before you.’

‘Prosperity.’ Reyn said the word with an overtone of amusement. ‘Malta and I have far better prospects than mere prosperity. Of that, Mother, I assure you.’

They came to a divergence in the corridor. Jani paused there. ‘You will go to the west corridor and open the new door.’ Her tone stopped just short of making it a question.

‘I will,’ Reyn replied, almost absently.

‘Good. When you are finished there, come to me in my drawing room. I will have a selection of appropriate gifts from which you may choose. Shall I have the tailors come and bring their newest cloths with them?’

‘Yes. Certainly.’ He frowned in distracted thought. ‘Mother, you promised I would not turn Malta’s head with costly gifts. Am I permitted to bring the simple tokens that any young man may offer a maiden? Fruit and flowers and sweets?’

‘I cannot see how they could object to such things as those.’

‘Good.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Could you have baskets prepared for me that I could offer each day of my visit?’ He smiled to himself. ‘The baskets could be trimmed with ribbons and soft scarves in bright colours. And a bottle or two of excellent wine in each…I do not think that would be going too far.’

His mother smiled wryly to herself. ‘You may wish to proceed cautiously, my son. Ronica Vestrit will tell you plainly enough if you overstep the boundaries she has set. I do not think you should hasten to cross wills with her.’

Reyn was already walking away from her. He glanced back, a quick flash of copper eyes. ‘I shall not hasten to cross her, Mother. But neither shall I hasten to avoid it.’ He continued walking away from her as he spoke. ‘I’m going to marry Malta. The sooner they get used to me, the easier it will be for all of us.’

Behind him, in the darkness, Jani folded her arms. Obviously, he had never met Ronica Vestrit. A glint of amusement came into her eyes as she wondered if her son’s stubbornness would not find its equal in that of the Bingtown Trader.

Reyn paused. ‘Have you sent a bird to tell Sterb of my courtship?’

Jani nodded, pleased that he had asked. Reyn did not always get along with his stepfather. ‘He wishes you well. Little Kys says you must not marry until winter, when they return to Trehaug. And Mando says you owe him a bottle of Durjan brandy. Something about a bet you made, long ago, that your brothers would marry before you.’

Reyn was already striding away. ‘A wager I am pleased to lose,’ he called back over his shoulder.

Jani smiled after him.

4 BONDS

BRIG’S HANDS RESTED on the spokes of Vivacia’s wheel, casually competent. The pirate’s face had the distant look of a man completely aware of the ship as his larger body. Wintrow paused a moment to size him up before approaching. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five. His chestnut hair was confined under a yellow kerchief marked with the Raven insignia. His eyes were grey, and the old slave tattoo on his face had been over-needled with a dark blue raven that almost obscured it. Despite his youth, Brig had a decisive air that made even older men jump to his orders. Kennit had chosen well in putting him in charge of the Vivacia until he recovered.

Wintrow took a deep breath. He approached the older man with respect but dignity. He needed Brig to recognize him as a man. Wintrow waited until the man’s eyes swung to meet his own. Brig looked at him silently. Wintrow spoke softly but clearly. ‘I need to ask you some questions.’

‘Do you?’ Brig challenged. His eyes flicked away, up to his lookout man.

‘I do,’ Wintrow replied firmly. ‘Your captain’s leg gets no better. How much longer will it take us to get to Bull Creek?’

‘Day and a half,’ Brig told him, after brief consideration. ‘Maybe two.’ The expression on his face never seemed to change.

Wintrow nodded to himself. ‘I think we can wait that long. There are supplies I’d like to have before I try to cut. I hope we can get them there. In the meantime, I could keep him stronger if I had better supplies. When the slaves rose up against the crew, they ransacked much of the ship. The medical chest has been missing since then. It would be very useful to me now.’

‘No one’s owned up to taking it?’

Wintrow gave a small shrug. ‘I’ve asked but no one has answered. Many of the freed slaves are reluctant to talk to me. I think Sa’Adar is turning them against me.’ He hesitated. That sounded self-pitying. He would not gain Brig’s respect by whining. He went on more judiciously. ‘Maybe they do not realize what they have. Or in the confusion of the storm and the uprising, someone may have taken it, discarded it, and it may have gone overboard.’ Wintrow took a breath and got back to his intent. ‘There were things in it that could make your captain more comfortable.’

Brig tossed him a brief glance. He looked unconcerned, but he suddenly bellowed, ‘Caj!’

Wintrow braced himself to be seized and hustled along. Instead, when the man appeared, Brig ordered, ‘Shake down everyone on board. The medical chest is missing. If someone has it, I want it found. At the very least, I want to know who touched it last. Do it.’

‘Aye,’ Caj replied, and hastened away.

When Wintrow did not leave, Brig sighed out through his nose. ‘Something else?’ he demanded.

‘My father is ’

‘SHIP!’ the lookout suddenly sang out. An instant later, he called, ‘Chalcedean galley, but flying the flag of the Satrap’s Patrol. They’re coming up fast with oars and sail. They must have been laying back in that inlet.’

‘Damn,’ Brig spat. ‘He did it! The son of a whore brought in Chalcedean mercenaries. Clear the decks!’ he suddenly roared. ‘Working crew only! Everyone else below and out of the way. Get some sail on!’

Wintrow was moving, sprinting towards the figurehead. He dodged men nimbly. The deck became as busy as a stirred ant-nest. Ahead of them, the Marietta was sheering off in one direction as Vivacia leaned in another. Wintrow gained the foredeck and then clung to the bow railing. Behind him, he heard thin shouts as the Chalcedean ship hailed them. Brig did not bother to reply.

‘I don’t understand!’ Vivacia called to him. ‘Why do Chalcedean war galleys fly the Satrap’s colours?’

‘I heard rumours of it in Jamaillia. Satrap Cosgo hired Chalcedeans to patrol the Inside Passage. They’re supposed to clear out the pirates, but that doesn’t explain why they’d pursue us. A moment!’ He flung himself into the rigging, scrabbling up to where he had a better view of what was going on. The Chalcedean ship in pursuit was built for warfare, not trade. In addition to her sail, two banks of slaves plied her oars. She was long and lean and her decks swarmed with fighting men. The spring sunlight glinted on helms and swords. The Satrap’s flag with the white spires of Jamaillia on a blue field looked incongruous above the galley’s blood-red sail.

‘He invites their warships into our waters?’ Vivacia was incredulous. ‘Is he mad? The Chalcedeans are without honour. This is like putting the thief to guard your warehouse.’ She glanced fearfully over her shoulder. ‘Do they pursue us?’

‘Yes,’ Wintrow said succinctly. His heart thundered within him. What should he hope? That they escaped cleanly, or that the Chalcedean patrol boat caught them? The pirates would not surrender the Vivacia without a battle. There would be more bloodshed. If the Chalcedeans prevailed, would they restore Vivacia to her legal owners? Perhaps. He suspected they would take the ship back to Jamaillia for the Satrap’s decision. The slaves huddled belowdecks would be enslaved once more, and they knew it. They would fight. The slaves outnumbered the boarders that the Chalcedean vessel could be carrying, but they were unarmed and inexperienced. A great deal of bloodshed, he decided.

So. Should he urge Vivacia to flee, or dawdle? Before he could even voice his uncertainty, the decision was snatched from him.

The smaller, sleeker vessel, driven by oars as well as wind, was gaining on them. For the first time, Wintrow noted the cruel war ram at the bow of the galley. A flight of arrows rose from the Chalcedean’s deck. Wintrow cried out a wordless warning to Vivacia. Some were aflame as they arced toward the ship. The first volley fell short, but they had made their intention plain.

In a display of both seamanship and daring, the Marietta suddenly heeled over, changing her course into a curve that would take her behind Vivacia and right across the Chalcedean ship’s bow. Wintrow thought he glimpsed the pirate Sorcor on the deck, exhorting his men to greater efforts. The Raven flag blossomed suddenly, a taunting challenge to the Chalcedeans. For a moment, it gave Wintrow pause. What sort of a captain was this pirate Kennit to be able to command such loyalty in his men? Sorcor’s plain intention was to draw the pursuit off his captain and to himself.

From Wintrow’s perch, he saw the Marietta rock suddenly as her deck-mounted catapults lofted a shower of ballast at the patrol vessel. Some of the stones fell short, sending white gouts of water leaping from the waves, but a satisfying amount of it rattled down onto the decks of the galley. It wrought havoc among the oarsmen. The steady beating of the oars suddenly looked like the wild scrabbling of a many-legged insect. The gap between the patrol vessel and Vivacia steadily and swiftly widened. The Marietta did not look as if she were staying to fight. Having worked her mischief, she was now piling on canvas and fleeing. As the galley regained the beat of its oars, it shot off in pursuit of her. Wintrow strained to see, but the helmsman was taking Vivacia into the lee of an island. His view was blocked. He suddenly understood the ruse. The Vivacia would be taken swiftly out of sight while the Marietta lured the pursuit well away.

He clambered down to drop lightly to the deck. ‘Well. That was interesting,’ he remarked wryly to Vivacia. But the ship was distracted.

‘Kennit,’ she replied.

‘What about him?’ Wintrow asked.

‘Boy!’ The woman’s sharp voice came from behind him. He turned to see Etta glaring at him. ‘The captain wants you. Now.’ She spoke peremptorily, but her eyes were not on him. Her gaze locked with Vivacia’s. The figurehead’s face grew impassive.

‘Wintrow. Stand still,’ she ordered him softly.

Vivacia lifted her voice to speak to the pirate. ‘His name is Wintrow Vestrit,’ she pointed out to Etta with patrician disdain. ‘You will not call him “boy”.’ Vivacia shifted her eyes to Wintrow. She smiled at him benignly and politely observed, ‘I hear Captain Kennit calling for you. Would you go to him, please, Wintrow?’

‘Immediately,’ he promised her and complied. As he walked away from them, he wondered what Vivacia had been demonstrating. He would not make the mistake of thinking that she had been defending him from Etta. No. That exchange had been about the struggle for dominance between the two females. In her own way, Vivacia had asserted that Wintrow was her territory and that she expected Etta to respect that. At the same time, it had pleased her to reveal to the woman that the ship was aware of what went on in the captain’s stateroom. From the spasm of anger that had passed over Etta’s features, he deduced she was not pleased by it.

He glanced back over his shoulder at them. Etta had not moved. He heard no voices, but they could have been speaking softly. He was struck again by the pirate woman’s extraordinary appearance. Etta was tall, her long limbs spare of flesh. She wore her silk blouse and brocaded vest and trousers as casually as if they were simple cotton garments. Her sleek black hair was cut off short, not even reaching her shoulders. She offered neither roundness nor softness to suggest femininity. Her dark eyes were dangerous and feral. From what Wintrow had seen of her, she was savagely tempered and remorseless as a cat. Not one sign of tenderness had he seen in the woman. Nevertheless, all those traits contradicted themselves, combining to make her overwhelmingly female. Never before had Wintrow sensed such power in a woman. He wondered if Vivacia would win her battle of wills with Etta.

Kennit was indeed calling his name, not loudly, but with a panting intensity. Wintrow did not knock but entered immediately. The tall, lean pirate was supine on the bed, but there was nothing restful about his attitude. His hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white, as if he were a woman in labour. His head was thrown back against the dishevelled pillows. The bared muscles of his chest stood out strongly. His gaping mouth gulped air spasmodically; his chest heaved up and down with the effort. His dark hair and open shirt were soaked in sweat. The sharp tang of it filled the cabin.

‘Wintrow?’ Kennit gasped out yet again, as he reached the bedside.

‘I’m here.’ Instinctively, he took one of the pirate’s callused hands in his own. Kennit gripped Wintrow’s hand in so violent a clench it was all he could do to keep from crying out. Instead, he returned the grip, deliberately pinching down hard between the pirate’s thumb and fingers. With his other hand, he wrapped Kennit’s wrist. He tried to set his fingers to the pirate’s pulse, but the man’s bracelet was in the way. He contented himself with moving his hand to Kennit’s forearm. Rhythmically he tightened and then loosened his grip in a slow, calming pattern while he maintained the pinch on Kennit’s hand that was supposed to lessen pain. He dared to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Kennit so that he could meet the tortured man’s eyes. ‘Watch me,’ he told him. ‘Breathe with me. Like this.’ Wintrow took a slow steadying breath, held it for a count, and then slowly released it. Kennit made a faint effort to copy him. His breath was still too short and too brisk, but Wintrow nodded encouragingly at him. ‘That’s right. That is right. Take control of your body. Pain is only the tool of your body. You can master it.’

He held the pirate’s gaze steady with his own. With every breath, he expelled soothing confidence and belief, so that Kennit might breathe it in. Wintrow centred himself within his own body, finding a core that touched his heart and both his lungs. He let the focus of his eyes soften, drawing Kennit’s gaze deeper into his own so that he could share his calmness with the man. He tried to make his gaze draw Kennit’s pain out and let it disperse in the air between them.

The simple exercises drew his mind back to his monastery. He tried to imbibe peace from those memories, to add their strength to what he was trying to accomplish. Instead, he suddenly felt a charlatan. What was he doing here? Mimicking what he had seen old Sa’Parte do with patients in pain? Was he trying to make Kennit believe he was truly a priest-healer, instead of a brown-robed acolyte? He did not have the complete training to do this simple pain alleviation, let alone remove a diseased leg. He tried to tell himself he was simply doing the best he could to help Kennit. He wondered if he were being honest with himself; perhaps he was only trying to save his own skin.

Kennit’s grip on his hand slowly lessened. Some of the tension left his neck and his head lolled back onto his damp pillows. His breathing grew slower. It was the laboured breathing of a man fighting exhaustion. Wintrow kept possession of his hand. Sa’Parte had spoken of a technique for lending strength to the suffering, but Wintrow’s learning had not progressed that far. He had expected to be an artist for Sa, not a healer. Still, as he clasped Kennit’s sweating hand between his own, he opened his heart to Sa and begged that the father of all would intervene. He prayed that his mercy would supply what Wintrow lacked in learning.

‘I can’t go on like this.’

From another man, the words might have sounded pitiful or pleading. Kennit spoke them as a simple statement of fact. The pain was ebbing, or perhaps his ability to respond to it was exhausted. He closed his dark eyes and Wintrow felt suddenly isolated. Kennit spoke quietly but clearly. ‘Take the leg off. Today. As soon as possible. Now.’

Wintrow shook his head, then spoke the denial aloud. ‘I can’t. I don’t have half of what I need. Brig said that Bull Creek is only a day or two away. We should wait.’

Kennit’s eyes snapped open. ‘I know that I can’t wait,’ he said bluntly.

‘If it’s just the pain, then perhaps some rum…’ Wintrow began, but Kennit’s words overrode his own.

‘The pain is bad, yes. But it’s my ship and my command that suffer the worst right now. They sent a boy to tell me of the patrol ship. All I did was try to stand…I fell. Right in front of him, I collapsed. I should have been on the deck as soon as the lookout spotted that sail. We should have turned and cut the throats of every Chalcedean pig aboard that galley. Instead, we fled. I left Brig in command, and we fled. Sorcor had to fight my battle. In addition, all aboard know of it. Every slave on board this ship has a tongue. No matter where I leave them off, every one of them will wag the news that Captain Kennit fled the Satrap’s patrol ship. I can’t allow that.’ In an introspective voice, he observed, ‘I could drown them all.’

Wintrow listened in silence. This was not the suave pirate who had courted his ship with extravagant words, nor the controlled captain. This was the man beneath that façade, exposed by pain and exhaustion. Wintrow realized his own vulnerability. Kennit would not tolerate the existence of anyone who had seen him as he truly was. Right now Kennit seemed unaware of how much he was revealing. Wintrow felt like the mouse pinioned by the snake’s stare. As long as he kept still, he had a chance to remain undetected. The pirate’s hand grew lax in his grip. Kennit turned his head on his pillow and his eyes began to sag shut.

Just as Wintrow began to hope he might escape, the door to the cabin opened. Etta entered. She took in the room at a glance. ‘What did you do to him?’ she demanded as she crossed to Kennit’s bedside. ‘Why is he so still?’

Wintrow lifted a finger to his lips to shush her. She scowled at that, but nodded. With a jerk of her head, she indicated the far corner of the room. She frowned at how slowly he obeyed her, but Wintrow took his time, easing the pirate’s hand down gently on the quilt and then sliding slowly off the bed so that no movement might disturb Kennit.

It was all in vain. As Wintrow left his bedside, Kennit said, ‘You will cut off my leg today.’

Etta gave a horrified gasp. Wintrow turned back slowly to the man. Kennit had not opened his eyes, but he lifted a long-fingered hand and pointed at him unerringly. ‘Gather what you have for tools and such, and get the job done. What we do not have, we must do without. I want to be finished with this. One way or another.’

‘Sir,’ Wintrow agreed. He changed course, moving hastily towards the door. As swiftly, Etta moved to block him. He found himself looking up into eyes as dark and merciless as a hawk’s. He squared his shoulders for a confrontation. Instead, he saw something like relief in her face. ‘Let me know how I can help you,’ she said simply.

He bobbed a nod to her request, too shocked to reply, and slipped past her and out the door. A few steps down the companionway, he halted. He leaned against the wall and allowed the shaking to overtake his body. The bravado of his earlier bargain overwhelmed him. What had been bold words would soon become a bloody task. He had said he would set a knife to Kennit’s flesh, would slice into his body and cut through his bone and separate his leg. Wintrow shook his head before the enormity of the situation could cow him. ‘There is no path but forward,’ he counselled himself, and hastened off to find Brig. As he went, he prayed the medicine chest had been found.

Captain Finney put down his mug, licked his lips and grinned at Brashen. ‘You’re good at this. You know that?’

‘I suppose,’ Brashen reluctantly acknowledged the compliment.

The smuggler laughed throatily. ‘But you don’t want to be good at it, do you?’

Brashen shrugged again. Captain Finney mimicked his shrug, and then went off into hoarse laughter. Finney was a brawny, whiskery-faced man. His eyes were bright as a ferret’s above his red-veined nose. He pawed his mug about on the ring-stained table, then evidently decided he had had enough beer this afternoon. Pushing the mug to one side, he reached for the cindin humidor instead. He twisted the filigreed glass stopper out of the dark wooden container. He turned it on its side and gave it a shake. Several fat sticks of the drug popped into view. He broke a generous chunk off one and then offered the humidor to Brashen.

Brashen shook his head mutely, then tapped his lower lip significantly. A little plug of the stuff was still burning pleasantly there. Rich, black and tarry was the cindin that was sending tendrils of wellbeing throughout his bones. Brashen retained enough wit to know that no one was bribed and flattered unless the other party wanted something. He wondered hazily if he would have enough willpower to oppose Finney if necessary.

‘Sure you won’t have a fresh cut?’

‘No. Thanks.’

‘No, you don’t want to be good at this trade,’ Finney went on as if he had never interrupted himself. He leaned back heavily in his chair and took a long breath in through his open mouth to speed the cindin’s effect. He sighed it out again.

For a moment, all was silent save for the slapping of the waves against the Springeve’s hull. The crew was ashore, filling water casks at a little spring Finney had shown them. Brashen knew that as mate he should be overseeing that operation, but the captain had invited him to his cabin. Brashen had feared Finney had a grievance with him. Instead, it had turned into drinking and cindin at midday, on his own watch. Shame on you, Brashen Trell, he thought to himself and smiled bitterly. What would Captain Vestrit think of you now? He lifted his own mug again.

‘You want to go back to Bingtown, don’t you?’ Finney cocked his head and pointed a thick finger at Brashen. ‘If you had your wishes, that’s what you’d do. Pick up where you left off. You was quality there. You try to deny it, but it’s all over you. You weren’t born to the waterfront.’

‘Don’t suppose it matters what I was born to. I’m here now,’ Brashen pointed out with a laugh. The cindin was uncoiling inside him. He was grinning, matching the smile on Finney’s face. He knew he should worry that Finney had figured out he was from Bingtown, but he thought he could deal with it.

‘Exactly what I was about to tell you. See that? See? You’re smart. Many men, they can’t accept where they end up. They always go moping after the past, or mooning towards the future. But men like us,’ he slapped the table resoundingly. ‘Men like us can grab what we’re offered and make a go of it.’

‘So. You’re going to offer me something?’ Brashen hazarded slyly.

‘Not exactly. It’s what we can offer each other. Look at us. Look at what we do. I take the Springeve up and down this coast, in and out of lots of little towns. I buy stuff, I sell stuff, and I don’t ask too many questions. I carry a good supply of fine trade goods, so I get the deals. I get fine quality stuff. You know that’s true.’

‘That’s true,’ Brashen agreed easily. Now was not the time to point out the pedigree of the goods they trafficked in. The Springeve and Finney traded throughout the Pirate Isles, buying up the best of the pirates’ stolen goods and reselling them to a go-between in Candletown. From there, they were passed off as legitimate goods in other ports. Brashen didn’t know much more than that and he didn’t really care. He was mate on the Springeve. In exchange for that, and for acting as a bodyguard on occasion, he got his room, board, a few coins and some really good cindin. There wasn’t much else a man needed.

‘The best,’ Finney repeated. ‘Damn good stuff. And we take all the risks of getting it. Us. You and I. Then we take that stuff back to Candletown, and what do we get there?’

‘Money?’

‘A pittance. We bring in a fat pig and they throw us back the bones. But together, Brashen, you and I could do better for ourselves.’

‘How do you figure?’ This was starting to make him nervous. Finney had an interest in the Springeve, but he didn’t own it. Brashen didn’t want any part of genuine piracy. He’d already done his share of that early in life. He’d had a gut full of it back then. No. This trading in stolen goods was as close as he wanted to get to it. He might not be the respectable first mate of the liveship Vivacia anymore—he wasn’t even the hard-working second mate of a slaughter ship like the Reaper anymore, but he hadn’t sunk so low as piracy.

‘You got that look to you, like I said. You are Trader born, ain’t you? Probably a younger son or something. But you would have the connections in Bingtown, if you wanted to use them. We could take a good haul up there, you would hook us up, and we could trade some top quality merchandise for some of that magical stuff that the Traders have. Them singing chimes and perfume gems and what not.’

‘No.’ Brashen heard too late how abrupt his reply was. Quickly he softened it. ‘It’s a good idea, a brilliant idea, except for one thing. I don’t have any connections.’ In a burst of generosity that was probably due to the cindin, he gifted Finney with the truth. ‘You’re right, I’m Trader born. But I tangled those lines a long time ago, and my family cut me loose. I couldn’t get a glass of water begging at my Da’s door, let alone cut you a trade deal. The way my father feels about me, he wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire.’

Finney guffawed and Brashen joined with a wry smile. He wondered why he spoke of such things at all, let alone why he made them a cause for levity. Better than being a crying drunk, he supposed. He watched Finney compose himself, laugh once more and then take another drink of his beer. He wondered if the older man still had a father of his own somewhere. Perhaps he had a wife and children, too. Brashen knew next to nothing about him. It was better so. If he had an ounce of sense he’d get up now, say he had to check on the crew, and leave before he told Finney any more about himself. Instead he spat the soggy remains of the cindin into the bucket under the table and reached for the humidor. Finney grinned at him as Brashen broke another plug from the stick.

‘Wouldn’t have to be your own father. A man like you has chums, old friends, eh? Or you know someone with a bent for this, you’ve heard rumours about him. In any town, there are some that wouldn’t mind adding a few coins to their purses, quiet-like. We could go in there, once or twice a year, with a load of our very best, held back from our usual buyers. Not a lot, but of the finest quality. And that’s what we would ask in return. Confidentially. Only you and I would need to know.’

Brashen nodded, more to himself than Finney. Yes. The man was planning on going behind his partner’s back, to make a bit more money for himself. So much for honour among thieves. He was quietly offering to cut Brashen in on the deal, if Brashen would help him find the sources. It was a low trick. How could Finney look at him and believe he was that sort of man?

How long could he pretend he was not? What was the point of it any more?

‘I’ll think about it,’ Brashen told him.

‘You do that,’ Finney grinned.

In the late afternoon, Wintrow crouched on the foredeck beside Kennit. ‘Ease him off the blanket,’ he directed the men who had borne him there. ‘I want him to be lying on the planking of the deck, with as little between him and the wizardwood as possible.’

A short distance away, her arms crossed on her chest, Etta stood, apparently impassive. She would not look towards Vivacia. Wintrow tried not to stare at the pirate woman. He wondered if anyone else noticed her clenched fists and tight jaw. She had battled his decision to do the cutting here. She had wanted privacy and walls around this messy, painful business. Wintrow had brought her here, and showed her his own bloody handprint on the deck. He had promised her that Vivacia could help Kennit with the pain as she had helped him when his finger was cut off. Etta had finally given in to his will. Neither he nor Vivacia were certain how much help the ship could give, but as they still lacked the medicine chest, anything she could do for Kennit would be helpful.

The ship was anchored in a nameless cove of an uncharted island. Wintrow had gone to Brig, to ask once more about both where the medicine chest was and when they would get to Bull Creek. Both answers had been disappointing. The medical supplies had not been found, and without the Marietta to guide him, Brig did not know how to get back to Bull Creek. The answer had disheartened Wintrow but not shocked him. Brig’s temporary command of the Vivacia was a giant step up for him. Only a few days ago, Brig had been a common seaman. He didn’t know how to navigate or read charts. He intended to find a safe place to anchor up, and wait until either the Marietta found them or Kennit was well enough to guide him. When Wintrow had asked incredulously if they were completely lost, Brig had replied that a man could know where he was, and still not know a safe course to somewhere else. The crisp anger in the young sailor’s voice had warned Wintrow to hold his tongue. There was no sense in letting the former slaves know of their situation. It presented too great an opportunity for Sa’Adar.

Even now, the wandering priest hovered at the edge of the group. He had not offered to be helpful and Wintrow had not asked him. Most often, wandering priests were judges and negotiators rather than healers or scholars. While Wintrow had always respected the learning and even the wisdom of that order, he had never been completely comfortable with the right of any man to judge another. It did not help right now to feel that scrutiny was being applied to him. Whenever he sensed Sa’Adar gaze at him, he felt a chill knowledge that the man found him unworthy. The older priest stood, arms crossed on his chest. Two map-faces flanked him; he spoke to them quietly. Wintrow pushed aside his awareness of them; if Sa’Adar would not help, Wintrow would not be distracted by him. He rose and walked to the bow of the ship. Vivacia looked back at him anxiously.

‘I will do my best,’ she said before Wintrow could ask. ‘But keep in mind we have no blood-bond with him; he is not kin to us. Nor has he been aboard long enough for me to be familiar with him.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I will not be much help to you.’

Wintrow leaned far down to touch his palm to hers. ‘Lend your strength to me, then, and that will do much,’ he consoled her.

Their hands met, confirming and increasing the strange bond between them. He did draw strength from her. As he acknowledged that, he saw an answering smile dawn on her face. It was not an expression of happiness, not even a sign that all was now right between them, but a sign of shared determination. Whatever else might threaten them, whatever doubts they harboured about one another, they still went into this together. Wintrow lifted his face to the sea wind and offered up a prayer that Sa might guide them. He turned back to his task. As he drew a deep breath, he could feel Vivacia with him.

Kennit lay limply on the deck. Even at this distance, Wintrow could smell the brandy. Etta had sat beside Kennit, and patiently coaxed him to drink far beyond his desire. The man had a good capacity for alcohol. He was sodden but not senseless. Etta had also been the one to choose who would hold him down. To Wintrow’s surprise, three of those she had chosen were former slaves. One was even an older map-face. They looked uneasy but determined as they stood amongst the gawking onlookers. That would be the first thing Wintrow would deal with. He spoke calmly but clearly.

‘Only those who have been summoned should be here. The rest of you, disperse to give me room.’ He did not wait to see if they obeyed him. To watch them ignore his command would only be an additional humiliation for him. He was sure that if they did, Etta would intervene. He knelt down beside Kennit. It would be awkward to work with him lying flat on the deck, but Wintrow felt that whatever strength Vivacia could lend him would be worth it.

He looked over the paltry array of tools he had scavenged. They lay in a tidy row on a piece of clean canvas next to his patient. It was a motley assortment of makeshift equipment. The knives, freshly sharpened, had come from the cook’s supplies. There were two saws from the carpenter’s box. There were sail-making needles, large and coarse, and some sewing needles that belonged to Etta. Etta had provided him with neatly torn bandaging, both linen and silk. It was ridiculous that he had not been able to salvage better equipment. Almost every sailor aboard had had his own needles and tools. All the belongings of the slaughtered crewmen had disappeared. He was sure the slaves had claimed them when they took over the ship. That none of them had been surrendered to this need spoke deeply of how much the former slaves resented Kennit’s claiming of the ship. Wintrow could understand their feelings, but it did not help his predicament. As he looked down on the crude tools, he knew he was doomed to fail. This would be little better than lopping the man’s leg off with an axe.

He lifted his eyes and sought out Etta. ‘I must have better tools than these,’ he asserted quietly. ‘I dare not begin without them.’

She had been musing, her gaze and thoughts afar. ‘I wish we had the kit from aboard the Marietta,’ she replied wistfully. For that unguarded moment, she looked almost young. She reached down to twine one of Kennit’s black curls through her fingers. The sudden tenderness in her face as she looked on the drowsing man was startling.

‘I wish we had Vivacia’s medicine chest,’ Wintrow replied as solemnly. ‘It was kept in the mate’s cabin, before all this began. There was much in it that would be useful – both medicines and tools. It could have made this much easier for him. No one seems to know what became of it.’

Etta’s gaze darkened and her face hardened into a scowl. ‘No one?’ she asked coldly. ‘Someone always knows something. You just have to ask the right way.’

She stood abruptly. As she crossed the deck, she drew her knife from its hip sheath. Wintrow immediately discerned her target. Sa’Adar and his two guards had withdrawn but not left the foredeck. Too late, the wandering priest turned to acknowledge Etta’s approach. His gaze of disdain became a goggle of shock as Etta casually ran the honed edge of her blade down his chest. He stumbled back with a shout, then looked down at the front of his ragged shirt hanging open. A thin line down his hairy chest became red and widened as the blood began to seep. His two burly guards looked down at Etta’s knife held low and ready. Brig and another pirate had already closed ranks with her. For an instant, no one spoke or moved. Wintrow could almost hear Sa’Adar assessing his choices. The wound was a shallow scoring of his skin, very painful but not life threatening. She could have gutted him where he stood. So. What did she want?

He chose wronged righteousness. ‘Why?’ he demanded theatrically. He opened his arms wide to expose the slash down his chest. He half turned, so that he addressed the slaves still clustered amidships as well as Etta. ‘Why do you choose me to attack? What have I done, except come forward to offer my aid?’

‘I want the ship’s medicine chest,’ Etta responded. ‘I want it now.’

‘I don’t have it!’ Sa’Adar exclaimed angrily.

The woman moved faster than a clawing cat. Her knife licked out and a second line of blood bisected the first. Sa’Adar set his teeth and did not cry out or step back, but Wintrow saw the effort it cost him.

‘Find it,’ Etta suggested. ‘You bragged that you organized the uprising that overthrew the captain. You go among the slaves, exhorting them that you are the true leader they should follow. If that is true, you should know which of your men plundered the mate’s cabin. They took the chest. I want it. Now.’

For a breath longer, the tableau held. Did some sort of a sign, a flicker of a glance, pass between Sa’Adar and his men? Wintrow could not be certain. Sa’Adar began talking, but to Wintrow his words seemed oddly staged. ‘You could have simply asked me, you know. I am a humble man, a priest of Sa. I seek nothing for myself, only the greater good of humanity. This chest you seek…what did it look like?’ His querying eyes fell on Wintrow and his mouth stretched in a manufactured smile.

Wintrow forced himself to keep a neutral expression as he answered. ‘A wooden chest. So by so.’ Wintrow measured it in the air. ‘Locked. Vivacia’s image was burned into the top of it. Within were medicines, doctoring tools, needles, bandaging. Anyone who opened it would know instantly what it was.’

Sa’Adar turned to those gathered in the waist of the ship. ‘Did you hear, my people? Do any of you know of such a chest? If so, please bring it forth now. Not for my sake, of course, but for that of our benefactor, Captain Kennit. Let us show him we know how to be kind to those who are kind to us.’

It was so transparent, Wintrow thought Etta would cut him down where he stood. Instead, an oddly patient look came over her face. By his knee, on the deck, Kennit spoke very softly. ‘She knows she can wait. She likes to take her time killing, and do it in privacy.’

Wintrow’s eyes snapped to the pirate, but he seemed to be nearly unconscious. His lashes lay long on his cheeks; his face was slack. A loose smile twitched over his mouth. Wintrow set two fingers lightly to Kennit’s throat. His pulse still beat steady and strong there, but the man’s skin was fevered. ‘Captain Kennit?’ Wintrow asked softly.

‘Is this it?’ A woman’s voice rang out. The freed slaves parted, and she came striding forward. Wintrow stood up. She carried the medicine chest. The lid had been splintered, but he recognized its worn wood. He did not move forward but let the woman bring it to Etta instead. Let this be her battle with Sa’Adar. He had enough bad blood with the man already.

She lowered her eyes to gaze down at the opened chest when it was placed before her feet. She did not even stoop to stir the dishevelled contents. When she lifted her eyes back to Sa’Adar’s face, she gave a small snort of contempt. ‘I do not enjoy games,’ she said very softly. ‘But if I am forced to play them, I always make sure I win.’ Her stare met his. Neither looked aside. The planes of her cheeks tightened, exposing her teeth in a snarling smile. ‘Now. Take your rabble off this deck. Get belowdecks and close the hatches. I neither wish to see you, nor hear you, nor even smell you while this is going on. If you are very wise, you will never draw my attention to you again. Do you understand?’

Wintrow watched as Sa’Adar made a very serious mistake. He drew himself up to his full height, not quite the match of Etta’s. His voice was coolly amused. ‘Am I to understand that you, and not Brig, are in command here?’

It would have been a deft play, if there had been any rivalry between the two to exploit. Brig only threw his head back in a guffaw of laughter as Etta’s knife danced in to add yet another stripe to Sa’Adar’s chest. This time he cried out and staggered back a step. She had made the knife bite deeper. As the wandering priest clutched at his blood-slicked chest, she smiled darkly. ‘I think we understand that I am in command of you.’

One of the map-faces started forward, his face dark with fury. Etta’s knife moved in and out of him, and he went down, clutching at his belly. Vivacia gave a muffled cry at this new spillage of blood on her deck, an echo of the cries and gasps of the watching freed folk. Wintrow shared the deep shudder of horror that passed through the ship at this fresh violence, but he could not take his eyes away. Sa’Adar shrank back behind his other bodyguard, but that burly man was also cowering away from the woman with the knife. None of the others sprang forward to defend the priest. Instead, there was a subtle movement away from him as folk distanced themselves.

‘Be clear on this!’ Etta’s voice rang out like a hammer on an anvil. She lifted the bloody knife and swept it in an arc that encompassed the whole ship and every staring face, tattooed or not. ‘I will tolerate no one who threatens the wellbeing and comfort of Captain Kennit. If you wish to avoid my wrath, then you will do nothing to inconvenience him.’ Her voice grew softer. ‘It is very simple, really. Now clear these decks.’

This time the crowded folk on the deck disappeared like water swirling down a drain. In a matter of moments, the only people remaining above-deck were the pirate crewmen and those few slaves Etta had chosen to hold Kennit down. Her chosen ones regarded her with an odd mixture of respect and horror. Wintrow suspected they had now completely changed allegiance and would follow her anywhere. It remained to be seen how formidable an enemy she had created in Sa’Adar.

As Etta came to Wintrow, their eyes met. The demonstration with Sa’Adar had been for his benefit as well. If Kennit died under his hands, Etta’s vengeance would be furious if not swift. He drew a deep breath as she approached him, the medicine chest in her hands. He took it from her wordlessly, placed it on the deck and swiftly sorted through its contents. Some of it had been pilfered, but most of it was there. With a deep sigh of relief, he found kwazi rind preserved in brandy. The bottle was tiny. He reflected bitterly that his father had not seen fit to use it to ease his pain when his finger was amputated; then the thought intruded that if he had, Wintrow would not have it now to use on Kennit. He shrugged at the vagaries of fate and began methodically to set out his tools. He pushed aside his collection of kitchen knives, replacing them with the finer edged blades in the chest. He selected a bone saw with a carved handle like a bow. Three needles he threaded with hair from Kennit’s own head. When he lay them down on the canvas, the black hair spiralled into a lax curl. There was a leather strap with two rings on the end to cinch about the limb before he cut it.

That was all. He looked a moment longer at the row of tools. Then he glanced up at Etta. ‘I would like to offer prayers. A few moments of meditation might better prepare all of us for this.’

‘Just get on with it,’ she ordered him harshly. The line of her mouth was set flat, and the high planes of her cheeks were rigid.

‘Hold him down,’ Wintrow replied. His own voice came out as harshly. He wondered if he were as pale as she was. A spark of anger burned inside him at her disdain. He tried to rekindle it as determination.

Etta knelt by Kennit’s head but did not touch him. Two men took his good leg and pinned it to the deck. There was another man on each of his arms. Brig tried to hold Kennit’s head, but his captain twisted free of his tentative grip. He lifted his head to glare wide-eyed at Wintrow. ‘Is it now?’ he demanded, sounding both querulous and angry. ‘Is it now?’

‘It’s now,’ Wintrow told him. ‘Brace yourself.’ To Brig he said, ‘Hold his head, firmly. Put your palms on his forehead and pin him to the deck with your weight. The less he thrashes about, the better.’

Of his own accord, Kennit lay his head back and closed his eyes. Wintrow lifted the blanket that had covered his stump. In the few hours since he had last seen it, it had become worse. Swelling stretched the skin tight and shiny. His flesh had a blue-grey cast to it.

Begin now, while he had courage still. He tried not to think that his own life depended on his success. As he gingerly worked the strap under the leg stump, he refused to think of Kennit’s pain. He must focus on being swift and cutting him cleanly. His pain was irrelevant.

The last time Wintrow had seen a limb severed from a man, the room had been warm and cheery. Candles and incense burned as Sa’Parte had prepared for his task with prayer and chanting. The only prayer uttered here was Wintrow’s silent one. It flowed in and out with his breath. Sa, grant your mercy, lend me your strength. Mercy, on an in-drawn breath, strength as he breathed out. It calmed his thundering heart. His mind was suddenly clearer, his vision keener. It took him a moment to realize Vivacia was with him, more intimately than ever before. Dimly, he could sense Kennit through her. Curiously, Wintrow explored that faint bond. It seemed as if she spoke to Kennit at a great distance, counselling him to courage and strength, promising that she would be there to help. Wintrow felt a moment of jealousy. He lost his concentration.

Mercy, strength, the ship prompted him. Mercy, strength he breathed back at her. He threaded the leather strap through the rings and cinched it firmly about Kennit’s thigh.

Kennit roared out his agony. Despite the men pinning his limbs, his back arched up off the deck. He flopped like a gaffed fish. Fluids broke through the crusted scabs on his stump and spattered on the deck. The foul odour poisoned the breeze. Etta threw herself across Kennit’s chest with a cry and strove to hold him down. A moment of terrible silence fell when he ran out of breath.

‘Cut him, damn you!’ Etta shrieked at Wintrow. ‘Get it over with! Do it!’

Wintrow was frozen as he knelt, paralysed by Kennit’s agony. It inundated him like an icy wave, shocking and immersing him in its intensity. The force of the other man’s experience flooded through his tenuous link with the ship and into Wintrow. He lost his identity in it. He could only stare dumbly at the whore, wondering why she was doing this to him.

Kennit drew in a ragged breath, and expelled it as a scream. Wintrow shattered like a cold glass filled with hot water. He was no one, he was nothing, and then he was Vivacia and abruptly Wintrow again. He fell forward, his palms flattening on the deck, soaking up his identity from the wood. A Vestrit, he was a Vestrit, moreover, he was Wintrow Vestrit, the boy who should have been a priest…

With a shudder, Kennit suddenly lay senseless. In the stillness that followed, Wintrow grasped at his sense of himself, wrapped himself in it. Somewhere the prayer continued: Mercy. Strength. Mercy. Strength. It was Vivacia, setting the rhythm of his breath for him. He took control of himself. Etta was weeping and cursing at the same time. She sprawled on Kennit’s chest, both restraining and embracing him. Wintrow ignored her. ‘Hold him,’ he said tightly. He chose a knife at random. He suddenly understood what he had to do. Speed. Speed was the essence. Pain such as this could kill a man. If he was lucky, he could finish cutting before Kennit recovered consciousness.

He set the shining blade to the swollen flesh and drew it across and down. Nothing had ever prepared him for that sensation. He had helped with butchering at slaughter time at the monastery. It was not a pleasant task, but it had to be done. Then he had cut through cold meat that was still, that was solid and stiff from a day’s hanging. Kennit’s flesh was alive. Its fevered softness gave way to the keen edge of the blade and closed up behind it. Blood welled up to hide his work. He had to grasp Kennit’s leg below the spot where he cut. The flesh there was hot and his fingers sank into it far too easily. He tried to cut swiftly. The meat under the knife moved, muscles twitching and pulling back as Wintrow severed them. The blood poured forth in a constant crimson flood. In an instant, the handle of the knife was both sticky and slick. It puddled on the deck beneath Kennit’s leg, then spread to soak into Wintrow’s robe. He caught glimpses of tendon, glistening white bands that vanished as his knife divided them. It seemed forever before his blade met the bone and was defeated by it.

He flung the knife down, wiped his hands down his shirt and cried, ‘Saw!’

Someone thrust it towards him and he grabbed it. To reinsert it into the wound sickened him but he did it. He dragged it across the bone; it made a terrible sound, a wet grinding.

Kennit surged back to life, yelping like a dog. He pounded the back of his own head on the deck and his torso writhed despite the weight of those holding him down. Wintrow braced himself, expecting to be overwhelmed with the pirate’s pain but Vivacia held it back. He had no time to wonder what it cost her to take that to herself. He did not even have time to be grateful. He bore down on the saw, working swiftly and violently. Blood spattered the deck, his hands, and his chest. He tasted it. The bone gave away suddenly and before he could stop, he had sawed raggedly into flesh. He pulled the saw out of the clinging wound and threw it aside, then groped for a fresh knife. Somewhere Kennit barked, ‘Uh, uh, uh!’ It was a sound beyond screaming. A splattering noise followed.

Wintrow smelled the sourness of vomit on the sea air. ‘Don’t let him choke!’ he said abruptly, but it was not Kennit who had puked but one of the men holding him. No time for that. ‘Hold him down, damn you!’ Wintrow heard himself curse the man. With the knife in his hand he cut down, stopping just short of severing the leg completely. He turned the blade at an angle, slicing himself a flap of skin from the stump before he made the final severing cut and rolled the rotten remains of the leg aside.

He looked down, sickened, at what he had wrought. This was not a neatly sliced piece of meat like a holiday roast. This was living flesh. Freed of their attachments, the bundled muscles sagged and contracted unevenly. The bone glistened up at him like an accusing eye. Everywhere was the spreading blood. He knew with vast certainty that he had killed the man.

Do not think that, Vivacia warned him. Then, almost pleading, Do not force him to believe that. For right now, linked as we all are, he must believe what we think. He has no choice.

With blood-smeared hands, he found the small bottle that held the kwazi fruit rind. He had heard of its potency, but it seemed like a pitifully small amount to stop such vast pain. He unstoppered it. He tried to pour it sparingly, to save some against tomorrow’s pain. The pieces of preserved rind clogged in the bottleneck. He shook it, and the pale green liquid splattered forth unevenly. Where it fell on Kennit’s flesh, it brought a sudden silencing of the pain. He knew because through Vivacia he sensed it. Less than half of the extract was left in the bloody bottle when he capped it. He clenched his teeth and touched the flesh he had cut, patting the thick green liquid to spread it evenly. The cessation of pain was so sudden that it was like being stranded by a retreating wave. He had not realized how much of it was battering past Vivacia’s shield until it stopped. He sensed, too, Vivacia’s sudden relief.

He tried to remember all that he had seen Sa’Parte do when he had cut off the man’s leg. He had tied the ends of some bleeding arteries, folding them back on themselves and closing them off. Wintrow tried. He was suddenly tired and confused; he could not remember how many the healing priest had sewn. All he wanted to do was get away from this gory mess he had created. He longed to flee, curl up in a ball somewhere and deny this. He forced himself to go on. He folded the slab of skin up over the raw end of Kennit’s stump. He had to ask Etta to pull more hair from the pirate’s head and thread the fine needles for him. Kennit lay absolutely still now, his breath puffing in and out of his lips. When the men started to ease up their holds, Wintrow rebuked them.

‘Hold him fast still. If he stirs while I am stitching, he may tear all my work apart.’

The flap did not fit neatly. Wintrow did the best he could, stretching the skin where he had to. He wrapped the stump with lint and bound it with silk. As fast as he hid it, the blood seeped through, smearing from his sticky hands, oozing out to blossom through the fabric. Wintrow lost count of how many layers he wrapped it in. When he was finally finished, he wiped his hands down the front of his robe yet again and then reached for the cinch. When he loosened it, the clean bandaging almost instantly reddened. Wintrow wanted to scream in horror and frustration. How could there be that much blood in a man? How could so much of it gush out of him, and yet leave him still clinging to life’s thread? His own heart was thundering with fear as he wrapped it once again. Supporting the stump in his hands, he said dully, ‘I’m finished. We can move him now.’

Etta lifted her head from Kennit’s chest. Her face was white. Her eyes fell on the discarded leg. Heartbreak contorted her mouth for an instant. With visible effort, she smoothed her features. Her eyes were still bright with brimming tears as she huskily ordered the men, ‘Fetch his litter.’

It was an awkward trip. He had to be manoeuvred down the short ladder to the main deck. Once they had crossed it, there were the narrow corridors of the officers’ living quarters to navigate. Every time the wooden handles of the litter rapped against a wall and jostled Kennit, Etta snarled. As they moved him from his litter to the bed, his eyes opened momentarily and Kennit babbled wildly. ‘Please, please, I’ll be good, I promise. I’ll listen, and obey, I will.’ Etta scowled so blackly that every man lowered his eyes before her. Wintrow was sure the captain would never be questioned about his words. Once on his bed, Kennit closed his eyes and was as still as before. The other men left the cabin as swiftly as they could.

Wintrow lingered a moment longer. Etta scowled at him as he touched Kennit, first at wrist and then throat. His pulse was light and flighty. Wintrow leaned close to him, and tried to breathe confidence into him. He set his sticky hands on Kennit’s face with his fingertips touching the man’s temples and prayed aloud to Sa to grant the man strength and health. Etta ignored him, folding a clean cloth and slipping it deftly under Kennit’s bandaged stump.

‘Now what?’ she asked dully when Wintrow finished.

‘Now we wait and we pray,’ the boy replied. ‘That is all we can do.’

She made a small contemptuous sound and pointed at the door. Wintrow left.

Her deck was a mess. The blood soaking into it made a heavy place. Vivacia’s eyes were half-closed against the brightness of the westering sun. She could feel Kennit breathing in the captain’s cabin, and knew the slow leaking of his blood. The medicine had drowned his pain, but it remained for her a distant throbbing threat. Every beat brought it a minuscule step closer. Although she could not feel his agony yet, she sensed its immensity and dreaded its coming.

Wintrow moved on her foredeck, tidying up the mess. He damped a leftover piece of bandaging in his bucket of water. He wiped each knife as he put it away, cleaning the needles and the saw carefully. He stowed it all in the medicine chest, methodically returning it to order. He had washed his hands and forearms and wiped the blood from his face, but the front of his robe was stiff and soaked with it. He wiped clean the bottle of kwazi fruit essence and considered what was left. ‘Not much,’ he muttered to her. ‘Well, it matters little. I doubt that Kennit will live long enough to require more. Just look at all this blood.’ He placed the bottle back in the chest and then looked down at the piece of leg. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the thing. Severed meat at both ends and a knee in the middle, it balanced oddly light in his hands. He carried it to the side of the ship. ‘This feels wrong,’ he said aloud to Vivacia, but he still threw it over the side.

He staggered back with a low cry as the white serpent’s head shot out of the water to snatch the leg out of the air before it could even splash into the sea. As swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone and the leg with it.

Wintrow darted back to the rail. He clung there, staring down into the green depths, looking for some pale flicker of the creature. ‘How did it know?’ Wintrow demanded hoarsely. ‘It was waiting, it seized the leg before it touched water. How could it have known?’ Before she could answer, he went on, ‘I thought that serpent was gone, driven away. What does it want, why does it follow us?’

‘It hears us, we two.’ Vivacia’s voice was low, pitched for him alone. She felt ashamed. People had started to come out of the hatches, back up onto the deck, but no one ventured near the foredeck. The serpent had come and gone so swiftly and noiselessly that no one else seemed to have seen it. ‘I do not know how and I do not think it understands in full what we think, but it understands enough. As to what it wants, why, exactly what you just gave it. It wants to be fed, no more than that.’

‘Maybe I should fling myself to it. Save Etta the trouble of doing it later.’ He spoke mockingly but she heard the despair under his words.

‘You voice its thought, not your own. It reaches for you, clamouring for food. It believes we owe it food. It does not scruple to suggest your own flesh might satisfy it. Do not listen.’

‘How do you know what it thinks and wants?’ Wintrow had abandoned his tasks and come to the rail, leaning over to speak to the figurehead. She glanced over her shoulder at him. The weariness on his face aged him. She debated how much to tell him and then decided there was no point in sheltering him. Eventually, he must know.

‘He is family,’ she said simply. At Wintrow’s astounded look, she shrugged one bare shoulder at him. ‘That is how it feels to me. I get the same sense of connection. Not as strong as you and I have now, but undeniable.’

‘That makes no sense.’

She shrugged at him again, and then changed the subject abruptly. ‘You must stop believing that Kennit is certain to die.’

‘Why? Are you going to tell me that he is family also and can sense my thoughts?’

There was an edge of bitterness in his voice. Jealousy? She tried not to be pleased about it, but could not resist prickling him more. ‘Your thoughts? No. He cannot sense your thoughts. It is I who he senses. He reaches towards me and I towards him. We are aware of each other. Tenuously, of course. I have not known him long enough to make it stronger. His blood soaking into my deck seals that bond in a way I cannot explain. Blood is memory. As your thoughts touch mine, so they also influence Kennit’s. I try to keep your fears from intruding on him, but it is an effort.’

‘You are linked to him?’ Wintrow asked slowly.

‘You asked me to help him. You asked me to lend him strength. Did you think I could do that without bonding to him?’ Vivacia felt indignant at his disapproval.

‘I suppose I didn’t think about that aspect of it,’ Wintrow replied reluctantly. ‘Do you sense him now?’

Vivacia thought about it. She found herself smiling softly. ‘Yes. I do. And more clearly than I did before.’ The smile faded from her face. ‘Perhaps that is because he is weakening. I think he no longer has the strength to hold himself separate from me.’ She brought her attention back swiftly to Wintrow. ‘Your conviction that he will die is like a curse upon him. Somehow, you must change your heart, and think only of him living. His body listens deeply to his mind. Lend it your strength.’

‘I will try,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But I can scarcely convince myself of something I know is a lie.’

‘Wintrow.’ She rebuked him.

‘Very well.’ He set both hands to the forward rail. He lifted his eyes and fixed them on the horizon. The spring day was melting into twilight. The blue sky was darkening, its colour changing gradually to meld with the darker blue of the sea. In moments, it was difficult to tell where the sea left off and the sky began. Slowly Wintrow withdrew into himself, calling his vision back from that far focus until his eyes closed of their own accord. His breathing was deep and even, almost peaceful. In curiosity she reached for the bond they shared, trying to read his thoughts and feelings without being intrusive.

It did not work. He was instantly aware of her. Yet, instead of being resentful of her invasion, he linked willingly with her. Inside him, she became aware of the steady flowing of his thoughts. Sa is in all life, all life is in Sa. It was a simple affirmation and she realized instantly he had chosen words he absolutely believed. He no longer focused on the health of Kennit’s body. Instead, he asserted that while Kennit lived, the life within him was of Sa and shared Sa’s eternity. No end, his words promised her. Life did not end. After thought, she found she shared his conviction. No final blackness to fear, no sudden stopping of being. Changes and mutations, yes, but those things went on with every breath. Changes were the essence of life; one should not dread change.

She opened herself to Kennit, shared this insight with him. Life went on. The loss of a leg was not an ending, only a course adjustment. While life pulsed in a man’s heart, all possibilities existed. Kennit did not need to fear. He could relax. It was going to be all right. He should rest now. Just rest. She felt the warmth of his expanding gratitude. The tensed muscles of his face and his back eased. Kennit took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He did not draw another one.

5 THE LIVESHIP OPHELIA

ALTHEA’S WATCH WAS over; her time was now her own. She was tired, but pleasantly so. The spring afternoon had been almost balmy. It was rare for the season to be this kindly and Althea had enjoyed it. The Ophelia herself had been in an expansive mood all day. The liveship had made the sailors’ tasks easy, moving northward towards home with a will. She was a ponderous old cog, now heavy with goods from a successful trading journey. The early evening wind was gentle rather than brisk, but Ophelia’s sails caught every breath of it. She slid effortlessly through the waves. Althea leaned on the forward rail, watching the beginnings of the sunset off the port bow. Home was only a few days away.

‘Mixed feelings?’ Ophelia asked her with a throaty chuckle. The buxom figurehead gave her a knowing glance over her bared shoulder.

‘You know you are right,’ Althea conceded. ‘About everything. Nothing in my life makes sense any more.’ She began to tick her confusions off on her fingers. ‘Here I am, serving as first on a liveship merchant vessel, about the highest post a sailor can aspire to. Captain Tenira has promised me a ship’s ticket out of this. It’s all the proof I need that I am a competent sailor. With that credential, I can go home and press Kyle to keep his word, and give me back my ship. Yet, oddly enough, I feel guilty about it. You have made it so easy. I worked three times as hard when I was serving as ship’s boy on the Reaper. It just doesn’t seem right.’

‘I could make your tasks harder if you wish,’ Ophelia offered teasingly. ‘I could develop a list, or start taking on water or…’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ Althea told her with certainty. ‘You’re too proud of how well you sail. No. I do not wish my tasks to be harder. Nor do I regret my months aboard the Reaper. If nothing else, they proved to me that I could scramble. Serving aboard that hulk made me a better sailor, and showed me a side of sailing I had never seen before then. It wasn’t a waste of time. It was time away from the Vivacia; that is where the rub is. Time lost forever.’ Althea’s voice trailed away.

‘Oh, my dear, that’s so tragic.’ Ophelia’s voice was full of solicitude. A moment later, she went on sarcastically, ‘The only way it could be worse would be if you wasted still more time mooning about it. Althea. This is not like you. Look forward, not back. Correct your course and go on. You can’t undo yesterday’s journey.’

‘I know,’ Althea said with a rueful laugh. ‘I know that what I am doing now is the right thing to do. It just seems strange that it is so easy and pleasant. A beautiful ship, a lively crew, a good captain…’

‘A very handsome first mate,’ Ophelia interjected.

‘He is that,’ Althea admitted easily. And I appreciate all Grag has done for me. I know he says he is enjoying the chance to read and relax, but it must be tedious to pretend he is ill so I can have the chance to fill his position. I have a lot of reasons to be grateful to him.’

‘Odd. You haven’t shown him that gratitude.’ For the first time, a touch of chill crept into the ship’s voice.

‘Ophelia,’ Althea groaned. ‘Please, let’s not get into that again. You don’t want me to pretend feelings for Grag that I simply don’t have, do you?’

‘I simply can’t understand why you don’t have those feelings, that’s all. Are you sure you do not deceive yourself? Look at my Grag. He is handsome, charming, witty, kind, and a gentleman. Not to mention that he is born of a Bingtown Trader family and stands to inherit a sizeable fortune. A fortune that includes a magnificent liveship, I might add. What more could you be looking for in a man?’

‘He is all those things and more. I conceded that to you days ago. I find no faults with Grag Tenira. Or with his magnificent liveship.’ Althea smiled at the ship.

‘Then the problem must be with you,’ Ophelia announced inexorably. ‘Why aren’t you attracted to him?’

Althea bit her tongue for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was reasonable. ‘I am, Ophelia. In a way. Nevertheless, there are so many other things going on in my life that I cannot allow myself…I just do not have time to think about things like that. You know what I face when we get to Bingtown. I need to make amends with my mother, if that is possible. And there is another “magnificent liveship” that occupies my thoughts. I have to persuade my mother to support me when I try to take the Vivacia back from Kyle. She heard him vow before Sa that if I could but prove myself a sailor, he would give me the ship. However rashly he spoke, I intend to make him keep that vow. I know it is going to be an ugly struggle to force him to surrender Vivacia to me. I need to keep my mind focused on that.’

‘Don’t you think Grag could be a powerful ally in such a struggle?’

‘Would you think it honourable of me to encourage his advances only to use him as a tool to get my ship back?’ Althea’s voice was cool now.

Ophelia laughed low. Ah. He has made advances, then. I was beginning to worry about the boy. So. Tell me all about it.’ She quirked an eyebrow at Althea.

‘Ship!’ Althea warned her, but after a moment, she could not help joining her laughter. ‘Are you going to pretend to me that you don’t already know everything that goes on aboard you?’

‘Umm,’ Ophelia mused. ‘Perhaps I know most of what happens in the staterooms and belowdecks. But not all.’ She paused, then pried, ‘That was a very long silence inside his quarters yesterday. Did he try to kiss you yesterday?’

Althea sighed. ‘No. Of course not. Grag is far too well-bred for that.’

‘I know. More’s the pity.’ Ophelia shook her head. As if she had forgotten to whom she was speaking, she added, ‘The boy needs a bit more spark to him. Nice is fine, but there’s a time when a man should be a bit of a rogue, to get what he wants.’ She cocked her head at Althea. ‘Like Brashen Trell, for instance.’

Althea groaned. The ship had wormed his name out of her a week ago and had given her no peace since then. If she was not demanding to know what was wrong with Grag and why didn’t Althea fancy him, then she was pestering her for the sordid details of her brief liaison with Brashen. Althea did not want to think about the man. Her feelings on that topic were too confusing. The more she decided she was finished with him, the more he intruded into her thoughts. She kept thinking of all the witty things she should have said at their last parting. He had been so rude when she had not kept a rendezvous she knew was unwise. The man had assumed too much, far too soon. He didn’t deserve a moment of her thoughts, let alone dwelling on him. But despite her waking disdain for him, he intruded into her dreams. In her dreams, the poignancy of his gentle strength seemed a safe harbour worth seeking. In her dreams, she reminded herself, setting her teeth. In her waking hours, she knew he was no safe harbour, but a whirlpool of foolish impulses that would draw her to her doom.

She had been silent too long; Ophelia was watching her face with a knowing look. Abruptly Althea stood straight and put a small smile on her face. ‘I think I’ll go and see Grag before I turn in. There are a few questions I need answered.’

‘Um,’ Ophelia purred, pleased. ‘Take your time asking them, my dear. The Tenira men think deeply before they act, but when they do act…’ She lifted both her eyebrows at Althea. ‘You might not even remember Trell’s name afterwards,’ she suggested.

‘Believe me. I’m already doing my best to forget it.’

Althea was relieved to hurry away from her. Sometimes it was wonderful to spend part of the evening sitting and talking with the ship. The wizardwood figurehead incorporated many generations of Tenira sailors, but women had formed her first and deepest impressions. Ophelia retained a female perspective on life. It was not the fragile helplessness that now passed for femininity in Bingtown, but the independent determination that had distinguished the first women Traders. The advice she offered Althea was often startling to her, yet it frequently reinforced views Althea had privately held for years. Althea had not had many women friends. The tales Ophelia had shared with her had made her realize that her dilemmas were not as unique as she had believed. At the same time, Ophelia’s brazen discussions of Althea’s most intimate problems both delighted and horrified her. The ship seemed to accept Althea’s independence. She encouraged Althea to follow her heart, but also held her responsible for the decisions she had made. It was heady to have such a friend.

She hesitated outside the door to Grag’s cabin. She paused to straighten her clothing and hair. She had been relieved to abandon the boy’s guise she had worn aboard the Reaper. On this ship, the crew knew her name. Althea Vestrit had to uphold the honour of her family. So although she dressed practically, in heavy cotton fabric, the trousers she wore were closer to being a split skirt. She had bound her hair back out of the way, but not tarred it into a queue. The laced up blouse that she tucked carefully into her trousers even had a touch of embroidery on it.

She felt a pleasant anticipation at the thought of seeing Grag. She enjoyed sitting and talking with him. There was a gratifying little tension of awareness between them. Grag found her attractive and was undaunted by her competency. He seemed impressed by it. It was a new and flattering experience for Althea. She wished she could be certain that was all she felt. Despite her fling with Brashen, and despite living aboard ship with men for years, in some areas she was very inexperienced. She was not sure if she was attracted to Grag for himself, or simply because he seemed to be fascinated with her. Surely, this was just a harmless flirtation between them. What more could it be, between two strangers flung together by chance?

She took a breath and knocked.

‘Enter.’ Grag’s voice was muffled.

She found him sitting up on his bunk, his face swathed in bandaging. There was a strong scent of cloves in the air. At the sight of her, a welcoming glint came into his blue eyes. As she shut the door behind her, he pulled the wrappings off his jaw and let them drop gratefully. The pretence of the bandages had left his hair tousled like a boy’s. She grinned at him. ‘So. How’s the toothache?’

‘Convenient.’ He stretched, rolling his wide shoulders, then made a show of flinging himself back on his bunk. ‘I can’t remember when I last had this much time to myself.’ He swung his legs up onto his bunk and crossed them at the ankle.

‘You’re not getting bored?’

‘No. For any sailor, idle time is too much of a novelty. We always find a way to fill it.’ He fished around at the edge of his bunk and came up with a handful of ropework. He unrolled it on his lap to reveal a fancifully knotted mat. The intricate pattern had created a lacy effect from the stout twine he had used to create it. It was hard to believe such a delicate design came from his work-scarred fingers.

Althea touched the edge of it. ‘Beautiful.’ Her fingers traced the pattern of knotted twine. ‘My father could take an empty wine bottle, and some twine, and create this wonderful pattern of knots over the glass. It looked like flowers, or snowflakes…He always promised he’d teach me how to do it, but we never found the time.’ The gaping sense of loss that she had believed she had mastered overwhelmed her again. She turned away from him abruptly and stared at the wall.

Grag was silent for a moment. Then he offered quietly, ‘I could teach you, if you wanted.’

‘Thanks, but it wouldn’t be the same.’ She was surprised by the brusqueness in her own voice. She shook her head, embarrassed by the sudden tears that brimmed in her eyes. She hoped he had not seen them. They made her vulnerable. Grag and his father had already done so much for her. She did not want them to see her as weak and needy, but as a strong person who would make the best of her opportunities. She drew in a long breath and squared her shoulders. ‘I’m all right now,’ she said in answer to his unspoken question. ‘Sometimes I miss him so badly. There’s a part of me that can’t accept that he’s dead, that I’ll never see him again.’

‘Althea…I know that perhaps this is a cruel question, but I’ve wondered. Why?’

‘Why did he take the ship I’d worked on for so many years and will it to my sister instead?’ She glanced over at Grag to see his quick nod. She shrugged. ‘He never told me. The closest he came to a reason was to say something about providing for my sister and her children. On good days, I tell myself that that meant he knew I could provide for myself and he was not afraid for me. On bad days, I wonder if he thought that I was selfish, if he feared that I would take Vivacia and care nothing for their welfare.’ She lifted her shoulders again. She caught a glimpse of herself in Grag’s shaving mirror. For an eerie instant, her father looked out at her. She had his wiry black hair and dark eyes, but not his size. She was small, like her mother. Nevertheless, the resemblance to her father was still strong, in the set of her jaw and the way her brows drew together when she was troubled.

‘My mother said that it was her idea and she talked him into it. She felt the estate had to be kept intact, the liveship inherited with the land holdings, so that the income from the one would go on supporting the other until all the debts were paid.’ She rubbed at her brow. ‘I suppose that makes sense. When Father decided that we would no longer trade up the Rain River, he doomed us to a much lower income. The goods he brought back from the southlands were exotic, but nothing like the magic goods from the Rain Wilds. Our land holdings yielded well, but we could not compete with Chalced’s slave-tended grain and fruit. Consequently, our debt for the ship is still substantial. Moreover, it is secured with our land holdings. If we fail to keep our promise to repay it, we could lose both ship and family land.’

‘And you are hostage for that debt as well.’ Grag pointed the fact out quietly. As a member of a Bingtown Trader family that owned a liveship, he was well aware of the standard terms for such a bargain. Liveships were rare and costly. Just as it took three generations for a liveship to quicken and come to cognisance, so it also took generations to pay for one. Only the Rain Wild Traders knew the source of the wizardwood lumber that made up the liveship hulls and figureheads. Only in a ship constructed of wizardwood could one safely negotiate the Rain River and participate in the trade of their near magical goods. Their value was such that families pledged their fortunes for them. ‘In blood or gold, the debt is owed,’ Grag added quietly. If the Vestrit family could not pay for the ship with coin, then a daughter or son of the family could be claimed.

Althea nodded slowly. Odd. She had known the terms of the bargain ever since she was old enough to be considered a woman, but somehow she had never applied it to herself. Her father had been a wonderful trader; he had always seen that there was money in the household to discharge their just debts. Now that her brother-in-law Kyle was in charge of the family’s liveship and finances, who could say how things would go? Her sister’s husband had never liked her. The last time they had been in the same room, in that final, spectacular family argument, he had said it was her duty to marry well and stop being a burden on the family. Perhaps that was exactly what he had been hinting: that if she went willingly to a Rain Wild man, the family could enjoy a lessening of their debt.

Ever since she was a tiny child, her duties to her family’s honour had been impressed upon her. A Bingtown Trader paid his debts and kept his word. No matter what their personal disagreements might be, when threatened by outsiders the Traders closed ranks and endured. Those ties of kinship and duty included the Traders who had chosen to remain behind in the Rain Wilds and settle there. Distance and years might have separated them, but the Rain Wild Traders were still kin to the Bingtown Traders. Contracts with them were honoured, and the duties of family were respected. She felt something inside her go hard and cold with purpose. If Kyle failed in the Vestrit family obligations, it would be her duty to offer herself. Fecundity was the one treasure the Rain Wild folk lacked. She would have to go to the Rain Wilds, take a husband there and bear children to him. It was what her forebears had promised, so long ago. Not to do so would be unthinkable. Nevertheless, to be forced into it by Kyle’s malice or ineptitude was intolerable.

‘Althea? Are you all right?’

Grag’s voice broke in on her thoughts and brought her back to herself. She realized she was glaring at a bulkhead. She gave a small shake and turned to face him. ‘I came to ask your advice, actually. I’m having a bit of trouble with one of the deckhands. I can’t decide if I should take it personally or not.’

The concerned look on Grag’s face deepened. ‘Which one?’

‘Feff.’ Althea shook her head in mock frustration. ‘One moment he listens and steps lively when I give an order. The next, he’ll look me straight in the face and stand there with a silly grin on his face. I don’t know if he’s mocking me, or…’

‘Ah!’ Grag grinned. ‘Feff’s deaf. In his left ear. Oh, he will not admit it to anyone. It happened when he fell from the mast about two years ago. He hit the deck hard, and for a day or so, we thought he wasn’t going to live. Eventually, he came out of it. He’s a bit slower about some things than he used to be, and I don’t send him aloft unless I have to. He doesn’t seem to have the balance he once did. He can’t always hear what you say, especially if he’s to the right of you. Sometimes if the wind is blowing strong, he can’t hear at all. He doesn’t mean to be insubordinate…that’s what the silly smile is about. Other than that, he’s a good man, and he’s been with the ship a long time. It wouldn’t be right to tie him up for that.’

‘Ah.’ Althea nodded to herself. ‘I wish someone had told me sooner,’ she said a bit crossly.

‘It’s one of those things Da and I don’t even think about any more. It’s just how the ship is. No one meant to make your job harder.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ Althea replied hastily. ‘Everyone has gone out of their way to make my tasks easier. I know that. It’s wonderful to be back on board a liveship again, and even more wonderful to discover that I actually can do this job. My father’s will and my quarrel with Kyle and Brashen’s concerns all made me wonder if I really was competent.’

‘Brashen’s concerns?’ Grag asked in a quietly leading voice.

Why had she said it? Where had her mind been? ‘Brashen Trell was my father’s first mate on the Vivacia. After I signed aboard the Reaper, I found out he was part of her crew, too. When he discovered I was aboard as ship’s boy…well. He had already made it plain to me back in Bingtown that he did not think I could cut it on my own.’

‘So. What did he do? Tell the captain?’ Grag asked when the silence had lengthened.

‘No. Nothing like that. He was just…watchful. That’s the word, I suppose. I had a tough time on that ship. Knowing he was watching me scrabble just to keep up made me feel…humiliated.’

‘He had no right to do that to you,’ Grag observed in a low voice. Two sparks of anger burned deep in his eyes. ‘Your father took him on when no one else would. He owes your family. The least he could have done was protect you rather than mock your efforts.’

‘No. It wasn’t like that, not at all.’ Suddenly she was defending Brashen. ‘He didn’t mock me. Mostly he ignored me.’ When Grag’s expression became even more indignant, she hastily clarified, ‘That was how I preferred it. I did not want special treatment. I wanted to make it on my own. And I did, eventually. What bothered me was that he was a witness to how hard I had to struggle…I don’t know why we’re even talking about this.’

Grag shrugged. ‘You brought it up, not I. There had always been a bit of speculation as to why your father took Brashen Trell on when his own family had given up on him. He’d been in enough trouble over the years that when his father threw him out, no one was really surprised.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ Althea heard the avidity in her own question and toned it down. ‘I was just a girl when that happened, with little interest in Bingtown gossip. Years later, when he hired aboard the Vivacia, my father did not speak of it. He said a man deserves to be judged on who he is, not who he was.’

Grag was nodding to himself. ‘It wasn’t a noisy scandal. I know about it mostly because we schooled together. It started out in small ways. Pranks and silliness. As we got older, he was always the boy who would slip away when the master’s back was turned. At first, it was just to avoid lessons, or go to the market and buy sweets. Later he was the boy who seemed to know more than the rest of us about things like girls and cindin and dice games. My father still says it was Trell’s own fault his son went bad. Brashen always had too much money to spend and too much free time to amuse himself. No one drew a line with him. He’d get into mischief, like gambling more money than he had, or being drunk somewhere public in the afternoon, and his father would drag him home and threaten him.’

Grag shook his head. ‘He never carried out his threats. A day or so later, Brashen would be on the loose, doing the same things again. Trell always said he was going to cut off his credit, cane him, or make him work off his debts. However, he never did. I heard his mother would always weep and faint when his father tried to punish him. He got away with everything that he did. Until one day Brashen came home and found the door closed to him. Just like that. Everyone, including Brashen, thought it was a bluff. We all expected the storm to blow over in a day or so. It didn’t. A few days later, old man Trell made it known that he had officially recognized his younger son as his heir and disowned Brashen entirely. The only surprising thing about the whole affair was that Trell finally drew a line and stuck to it.

‘For a time, Brashen was around town, staying wherever he could, but he soon wore out his welcome and ran out of money. He got a reputation for leading younger boys into trouble and wild ways.’ Grag grinned knowingly. ‘Both I and my younger brother were forbidden to associate with him. Soon no one wanted to be connected with him. Then he disappeared. No one knew what became of him.’ Grag made a wry face. ‘Not that anyone much cared. He left many debts behind him. By then folk knew he did not intend to pay them off. So he was gone. Most people felt Bingtown was a better place without him.’ Grag looked aside from her. ‘After he left, there was a rumour that a Three Ships girl was carrying his child. The baby was stillborn; a mercy, I suppose. The girl was still ruined.’

Althea felt faintly ill. She hated to hear Grag so disparage Brashen. She wanted to deny what he said of the man, but he obviously spoke with an insider’s knowledge of the truth. Brashen had not been an ill-used, misjudged youth. He had been a spoiled eldest son without discipline or morals. Her father had taken him on years later and under her father’s control, he had become a decent man. Without her father, he had reverted. She had to admit to herself that was true. The drunkenness, the cindin. The whoring around, she added harshly to herself.

Ruthlessly she stripped the truth of her foolish embroideries. She had been pretending he had been infatuated with her when he bedded her. The truth was that she had been behaving like a slut and she’d found the partner she deserved. To prove it to herself, all she had to do was think about how they had parted. The moment he realized that she had come to her senses and was not going to allow him her body, he had turned against her. Shame flooded her. How could she have been so stupid and foolish? If he ever returned to Bingtown and spoke of what they had done, she would be ruined, just like the Three Ships girl that he had left in his wake.

Grag was unaware of her discomfort. He had crouched down by a chest at the foot of his bed and was rummaging inside it. ‘I’m ravenous. Since I have this supposed toothache, Cook has only been bringing me soup and bread to sop in it. Would you care for some dried fruit? Jamaillian apricots or dates?’

‘I’ve no appetite. Thank you.’

Grag stopped his rummaging and swivelled to face her with a grin. ‘Now that’s the first time you’ve sounded like a proper Bingtown Trader’s daughter since you came aboard. I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed.’

Althea wasn’t sure if she was flattered or insulted. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh. Well.’ He brought the package of fruit out and sat down on his bunk with it. He patted the place beside him and she sat down. ‘There. You see,’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Not only are we alone and unchaperoned, behind a closed door, but you fearlessly sit down on my bed beside me. When I told you Brashen left a woman pregnant, you do not go pale or rebuke me for speaking of such things. You look thoughtful.’ He shook his head, bemused.

‘You wear your hair sensibly on deck, I’ve seen you wipe your hands down your shirt front, and you went barefoot and trousered the whole time you were pretending to be a ship’s boy. Yet I can still remember a very feminine woman in my arms, perfumed like violets, and dancing as gracefully as…well, as gracefully as you scamper up the rigging. How do you do it, Althea?’ He leaned back against the bulkhead, but the way he looked at her seemed to bring him closer to her. ‘How do you move so easily in both worlds? Where do you really belong?’

‘Why must it be one or the other?’ she countered. ‘You are both a capable seaman and the son of a Bingtown Trader. Why should not I have both sets of skills?’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘There. That is not the answer one would expect from a Trader’s daughter, either. At least, not one of our generation. A proper girl would be simpering over my compliment to her dancing, not asserting her ability to be a good sailor. You remind me of the tales Ophelia tells. According to her, there was a time when the women worked right alongside the men, in every trade, and sometimes excelled them.’

‘Anyone who knows the history of Bingtown knows that when our ancestors came to the Cursed Shores, each one had to scrabble for a living. You know that as well as I do.’ She felt a bit annoyed with him. Did he think she was improper?

‘I know it,’ he admitted quietly. ‘But there are a lot of women in Bingtown who would no longer admit that.’

‘Mostly because it is no longer fashionable. And mostly because their fathers or brothers would be ashamed of them if they did.’

‘True. However, watching you, I have come to see that they are false, not just to history but to life. Althea. Of late, my parents have been urging me to seek a wife. I was born late in their lives; they’d like to see grandchildren before they are too old to enjoy them.’

Althea listened in stunned silence. His sudden words shocked her. He could not be taking this conversation in that direction, could he?

‘When I’m in Bingtown, my mother invites Trader daughters and their mothers over to endless teas. I’ve obediently attended the gatherings and balls. I’ve danced with a few women,’ here he smiled at her warmly. ‘Several have seemed interested in me. Nevertheless, all the courtships I have begun have ended in disappointment. Always the same thing. My father looks at the woman I am seeing and asks me, “Will she be able to take care of herself and a household and children, while you are off sailing?” Then I look at her with that in mind, and no matter how lovely or witty or charming she is, she never seems strong enough.’

‘Maybe you are not giving the women a chance to prove themselves to you,’ Althea ventured.

Grag shook his head regretfully. ‘No. Two of them I asked directly. I reminded them that I expected to be someday the captain of the liveship Ophelia. How would it be, I asked, to know you must share me with a ship? A demanding and sometimes possessive ship, I added, to be honest. I reminded them I would be gone months at a time. That I might not be home when my children were born, or when the roof sprang a leak or harvest season came around.’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘One and all, they told me that surely I could arrange to be home more after we were married. When I said I could not, they refused my suit. Genver went so far as to come aboard the Ophelia, and suggest that she could sail with me after we were married, if I could triple the size of the captain’s room. But only until we had children. Then I would have to somehow arrange my life to be home more often than not.’

‘Did not you court anyone who was born into a liveship family? A girl who would understand what your ship meant to you?’

‘I danced with one once,’ he said quietly.

The silence held. If he expected her to say something, Althea had no idea what. Grag moved very slowly, as if he were afraid she would startle. With one finger, he touched her hand where it rested on the bed. A small touch, but it sent a shiver up her arm even as dismay filled her heart. She liked Grag and found him attractive, but this was no time for either of them to act on that. Had she invited this? How should she deal with it? Was he going to try to kiss her? If he did, would she let him?

She suspected she would.

Grag came no closer. His voice went deeper and softer. His blue eyes were gentle and confiding. ‘In you, I see a strong woman. One who could sail with me, or capably manage things ashore while I was gone. I see someone who is not jealous of Ophelia.’ He paused and smiled ruefully. ‘If anything, I am a bit jealous of how quickly she has become fond of you. Althea, I cannot imagine a better choice for a wife than you.’

Although she had been anticipating his words, they still stunned her. ‘But…’ she began, but he lifted a warning finger.

‘Hear me out. I have been giving much thought to this, and I see advantages for you, as well. It is scarcely a secret that the Vestrit fortunes have not prospered lately. The Vivacia is not yet paid for; that leaves you as ransom to the family’s debt. It is also well known that the Rain Wild Traders would not consider taking a woman who is already married, or who has pledged marriage. Simply by considering my offer, you could put yourself out of their reach.’ He watched her face carefully. ‘We are a wealthy family. My wedding gift to your mother would be substantial, enough to secure her old age. You have made it clear you have no faith that Kyle will care for her.’

Althea found it hard to speak. ‘I don’t know what to say. We’ve talked as friends, and yes, we’ve flirted a bit, but I had no notion that your feelings ran strong enough to propose marriage.’

Grag gave a small shrug. ‘I’m a cautious man, Althea. I see no sense in letting my feelings run ahead of me. In this stage of our relationship, I see planning rather than passion as what we must first share. We should be talking honestly with one another, to see if we share the same ambitions and goals.’ He was watching her face carefully. As if to give the lie to these words, he touched her hand again with one fingertip. ‘Do not think I don’t feel an attraction towards you. You must know that I do. Nevertheless, I am not the sort of a man who would fling his heart where his head had not gone first.’

He was so serious. Althea tried for a smile. ‘And I feared you were going to try to kiss me.’

He returned her smile, shaking his head. ‘I am not an impulsive boy, nor a rough sailor. I would not kiss a woman who had not given me her permission to do so. Besides, there is no sense in taunting myself with what I cannot yet claim.’ He looked aside from her startled expression. ‘I hope I have not spoken too crudely. Despite the rough shipboard life you have shared, you are still a lady and a Trader’s daughter.’

There was no way to share with him the thought that had suddenly flashed through her mind. She knew, with vast certainty, that she would never desire to be kissed by a man who had first asked her permission. ‘Permission to come aboard’ some impish part of her mind whispered, and she fought to keep from grinning. Perhaps, she suddenly thought, Brashen had already ruined her, but not in the social sense. After the sailor’s matter-of-fact declarations of his desire, Grag’s restrained and polite courtship seemed almost silly. She liked the man, truly she did. Yet, his careful negotiations left her unmoved. Abruptly, the situation was impossible. And as if Sa knew that there was no way Althea could rescue herself, fate suddenly intervened.

‘All hands on deck!’ someone roared in a voice that mixed both indignation and fear. Althea did not hesitate as she plunged out the door, nor did Grag even pause to put his toothache binding about his jaws. All hands meant all hands.

The crew of the Ophelia lined the bow railing, looking down. When she joined them, Althea was incredulous at the sight that met her eyes. A Chalcedean war galley, flying the Satrap’s colours, was challenging Ophelia’s passage. The size comparison between the two ships might have been laughable were it not that the galley bristled with soldiers and their weaponry. The smaller, lighter galley confronting them was far more manoeuvrable than the cog. Such a vessel was often swifter than a sailing ship as well. In the light evening breeze, Ophelia could not avoid and outrun such a ship. The galley had run up to her on the windward side, taking advantage of the light breeze that pressed the ships together. They had no choice now; they would have to deal with the galley. The liveship’s figurehead stared down at the Chalcedean’s horse-prowed ship, still and shocked. Ophelia’s arms were crossed stubbornly on her chest. Althea lifted her eyes to scan the horizon. The Chalcedean appeared to be operating alone. Captain Tenira shouted down, ‘What mean you by barring our way?’

‘Throw down a line. In the name of your Satrap, we will board you!’ declared a bearded man standing in the galley’s bow. His blond hair was bound back in a long tail down his back, and battle trophies – finger bones bound with hanks of hair – decorated the front of his leather vest. Missing teeth gapped his threatening snarl.

‘On what grounds?’ Althea demanded of those around her, but Captain Tenira did not bother with such questions.

‘No. You will not. You have no authority over us. Stand aside.’ The Trader captain stood firm, looking down on the galley. His voice was even and strong.

‘In the name of the Satrap, throw down a line and submit to boarding.’ The Chalcedean smiled up at them, more teeth than affability. ‘Do not make us take you by force.’

‘Try,’ Captain Tenira suggested grimly.

The captain of the galley took a handful of documents from his mate. He waved the bundled tube of scrolls up at Tenira. A red ribbon bound them, weighted with a heavy seal of crimped metal. ‘We have authority. Right here. We shall bring our writs aboard to prove it. If you are an honest ship, you have nothing to fear. The Satrap has allied with Chalced to stop piracy in the Inside Passage. We are authorized by him to stop any suspicious ship and search for stolen goods and other signs of pirate activity.’ While the captain was speaking, several of his men had stepped forward with coils of line and grappling hooks.

‘I’m an honest Bingtown Trader. You have no call to stop me, nor will I submit to a search. Be out of our way!’

The grapples were already spinning, and as Captain Tenira finished speaking, three were launched towards the Ophelia. One fell short as the liveship sidled to one side. Another landed well on the deck but was immediately seized and thrown back by the Ophelia’s crew before it could be set in her wood.

Ophelia herself caught the third. In a sudden motion, she plucked it out of the air as it whirred past her. With a shout of anger, she gripped the line below the grapple and snatched up the rope. The man who had thrown it came with it, kicking and cursing in surprise. She disdainfully threw grapple, rope and sailor aside into the water. She set her fists to where a woman’s hips would have been. ‘Don’t try that again!’ she warned them angrily. ‘Get out of our way or I’ll run you down!’

From the galley came cries of amazement and fear. While many had undoubtedly heard of the liveships of Bingtown, few Chalcedean sailors would have ever seen one before, let alone seen one angered. Liveships seldom frequented the ports of Chalced; their trade routes were to the south. From the galley, a line was thrown to the Chalcedean sailor struggling in the water.

On board the Ophelia, Captain Tenira bellowed, ‘Ophelia, let me handle this!’ while on the galley deck below them the Chalcedean captain angrily called for firepots to be prepared.

Ophelia paid no attention to her captain. At the mention of firepots, she had first gasped, then shrieked her wordless anger when she saw the smoking pots of tar brought out on his deck. For them to be readied so swiftly meant that the captain of the galley had had them prepared from the beginning. ‘In Sa’s name, no!’ Althea cried as she saw the pots readied for launching. Arrows were thrust headfirst into the small, fat pots; fuses of charred linen dangled. They would be lit before the arrows were released, and given time to ignite the contents of the pots. When the pots of grease and tar struck Ophelia, they would shatter, and the flames would leap up. Ophelia could not avoid them all, and every liveship was vulnerable to fire. It was not just for her rigging and decks that Althea feared, but for Ophelia herself. The only liveship that had ever died had perished in a fire.

The Ophelia was a trading cog, not built for fighting of any kind. Pirates seldom menaced liveships. It was well known that a liveship could out manoeuvre and out sail any ordinary ship of her kind. Althea doubted that anyone had ever challenged Ophelia for right of passage before, let alone demanded to board her. She carried no weaponry; her sailors had no experience in turning aside this kind of a threat. As Tenira shouted the orders that would veer Ophelia to one side, men raced to obey. ‘It won’t be enough,’ Althea said in an undertone to Grag at her side. ‘They’ll set fire to us.’

‘Get oil from belowdecks. We’ll throw firepots of our own!’ Grag commanded angrily.

‘And draw water for fire-fighting!’ Althea shouted. ‘Grag. A spare spar, an oar, anything. Give Ophelia something to use to fight them! Look. She’s not going to back down.’

While her decks bustled with frantic activity, Ophelia again took matters into her own hands. Despite the man on the wheel, she leaned towards the galley, not away. She stretched forth both her arms, and as the Chalcedean firepots were kindled and the bows drawn, she slapped wildly at the galley like an infuriated schoolgirl, all the while shrieking insults. ‘You Chalcedean pigs! Do you think you can stop us in our own waters? You lying sons of whores! You are the true pirates, you slave-mongering vermin!’ One of her windmilling slaps connected. Her great wooden hand struck the painted horse that was the galley’s figurehead. Instantly her fingers closed on it. She thrust down on it savagely, a wild motion that pitched the decks of both ships. Sailors on both vessels cried out as they were flung off their feet. The smaller galley suffered the most. Ophelia released the bow abruptly so that the ship reared back up, a crazed rocking horse of a vessel. The drawn bows went off, the tar pots flying wildly. One shattered and ignited the galley’s own deck; two flew across Ophelia’s decks to douse themselves in black smoke and steam on the other side of her.

One struck her on her starboard bow. Without hesitation, the ship slapped at the burning smear. She pulled back her hand and the tar on her hull flamed up again. She screamed as her fingers ignited suddenly.

‘Smother the flames!’ Althea yelled to her as crewmembers poured water down her hull in an effort to put out the fire on her bow. Ophelia was in too much panic to heed her. She bore down suddenly on the galley, her sheer will defying her rudder, and with her flaming hands caught hold of the smaller boat. She shook it like a toy, then flung it contemptuously aside. She left most of the burning residue from her hands on the other ship. As she let go of it, she clasped her great hands together. Gritting her teeth savagely, she clenched her hands into fists, squeezing out the flames that had seared her. Then, like an affronted lady lifting her skirts and storming out of the room, she suddenly answered both helm and sails. She turned aside from the troubled galley, opening the water wide between her and the smaller vessel. She tossed her head as she sailed past it.

Flames roared, and black smoke billowed up in harmony with the cries of the sailors trapped on the burning ship. Some one or two had the wind and the will to shout threats after Ophelia, but the noise of the fire shushed their words into unintelligible cries. The Ophelia sailed on.

6 SATRAP COSGO

‘I’M BORED AND my head aches. Distract me from my pain. Amuse me.’ The voice came from the divan behind her.

Serilla did not even put down her pen. ‘Magnadon Satrap, that is not my duty,’ she pointed out quietly. ‘You summoned me here to advise you on the Bingtown matter.’ She gestured at the opened scrolls and books on the table. ‘As you can see, that is what I am prepared to do.’

‘Well, you can scarcely expect me to pay attention to your advice while my head is throbbing so. I can hardly see for the pain.’

Serilla set aside the texts she was perusing. She turned her attention to the young man sprawled face down on the divan. The Satrap was nearly engulfed by silken cushions. She tried to keep the annoyance from her voice. ‘I cannot promise that my advice will amuse you. However, if you would care to join me here at the table, I can enlighten you as to the facts of the Bingtown Traders’ dispute.’

The Satrap groaned. ‘Serilla, you delight in giving me headaches. If you can’t be more sympathetic, go away and send in Veri. Or that new Companion from the Jade Island. What was her name? It reminded me of a spice. Meg. Send in Meg.’

‘Gladly shall I obey you, Magnadon Cosgo.’ She did not bother to hide her affront as she shoved the texts away and pushed back from the table.

He rolled about in his pillows, then stretched a pale hand out towards her. ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. I know that I must hear your wisdom about Bingtown. All my advisers have told me the situation is crucial. But how can I think when I am in such pain? Please. Rub my head for me, Serilla. Just for a short time.’

Serilla arose from her table, and put a determinedly pleasant expression on her face. She reminded herself that the Bingtown issue must be resolved. It might even be resolved to her personal advantage. ‘Magnadon Cosgo, I did not mean to be vexing. Do you have a headache? Let me massage it away. Then we will speak about Bingtown. As you say, the issue is crucial. And in my opinion, the Satrap’s present position with them is untenable.’ She crossed the chamber and pushed a number of pillows to the floor. She seated herself on the end of the divan. Cosgo immediately crawled over and put his head in her lap. He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against her thigh like a lamb nuzzling for milk. She clenched her teeth.

‘It is a curse. The headaches, the loose bowels, the flatulence. Some witch has put a curse on me. Why else should I be the victim of so much pain?’ He moaned softly. He brought one hand up to rest on her thigh.

She set her fingers at the base of his skull and began to walk his tension points with her fingertips. There did seem to be some pain. ‘Perhaps some fresh air would ease you. Exercise is most efficacious for bowel problems. It is lovely in the grounds on the south side of the temple. If we took ourselves to the thyme gardens, the fragrance might ease your pain.’

‘It would be simpler to have a servant bring cuttings here. I do not care for bright days such as this. The light pains my eyes. How can you even suggest that I walk there myself when I am in such pain?’ Almost idly, he lifted the hem of her robe. His fingers explored the smooth skin beneath. ‘And last time I was in the temple grounds, I stumbled on an uneven paving stone. I fell to my knees as if I was a slave. My hands went into the dirt. You know how I detest filth.’ He was petulant.

She set her hands to the muscles between his neck and shoulders and kneaded them deeply, making him wince with discomfort. ‘You were intoxicated, Magnadon,’ she recalled for him. ‘That was why you fell. The filth on your hands was your own vomit that they slipped in.’

He twisted his head abruptly to stare up at her. ‘That makes it my fault, I suppose?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘I thought the whole purpose of paving stones was to make the ground even and safe for walking. My poor gut was severely shocked by that fall. It was no wonder I could not keep my food down. Three healers agreed with me about that. But, I am sure that my well-educated Companion knows far better than the Magnadon Satrap Cosgo or his healers.’

She stood abruptly, not caring that it unsettled him. She caught the wrist of his exploring hand and thrust it towards his own groin in disdain. ‘I am leaving. I am the Companion of your Heart. Nothing binds me to tolerate licentiousness from you.’

Cosgo sat up. He clenched his hands on his knees. ‘You forget yourself! No one walks away from the Magnadon Satrap Cosgo. Come back. I shall say when you may leave.’

Serilla drew herself up to her full height. She was easily a head taller than this pale, self-indulged young man. She looked him up and down, her green eyes flashing. ‘No. You forget yourself, Cosgo. You are not some Chalcedean so-called noble, with a harem of whores that scrabble to fondle and mouth you at your whim. You are the Satrap of Jamaillia. I am a Heart Companion, not some oiled and perfumed body tool. You say when I may leave, that is true. That does not mean I cannot leave when I find you disgusting.’ She spoke over her shoulder as she walked towards the door. ‘Send me word when you want to find out just how much trouble you can expect from Bingtown. That is my area of expertise. Find someone else to deal with your crotch.’

‘Serilla!’ he protested frantically. ‘You cannot leave me in such pain! You know it is the pain that makes me forget myself. You cannot hold that against me.’

She halted at the door. Her brow creased as she frowned at him. ‘I certainly can. And I do. Your father suffered extreme pain from his joints as he aged, yet he never treated me discourteously. Nor did he ever touch me uninvited.’

‘My father, my father,’ Cosgo whined. ‘That is all you ever say to me. That I am not as good as he was. It makes me sick to think of that shrivelled old man touching you. How could your parents have given such a young girl to such an old man? It’s disgusting.’

She advanced several steps towards him, hands knotted into fists. ‘You are disgusting, for imagining such things! My parents did not “give” me to your father. I came to Jamaillia City myself, on my own, determined to pursue my studies. He was impressed with my learning when he overheard me in the Library of the North Lands, reciting for my master. He invited me to be a Companion of his Heart, to advise him on those lands. I considered it well, for three days, before I consented and accepted his ring. I took the vow to remain at the Satrap’s side and advise him. It had nothing to do with his couch. He was a fine man. He made it possible for me to study, and he always listened well to me when I counselled him. When we disagreed, he did not blame it on a headache.’ Her voice fell. ‘I still mourn him.’

She opened the door and left the room. Outside, two stone-faced guards pretended they had not heard the squabble. She strode between them. She had not gone more than a dozen steps down the hall before she heard the door flung open. ‘Serilla! Come back!’

She ignored the imperious command.

‘Please!’ the Satrap’s voice grated.

She kept walking, her sandals whispering over the marble floor.

‘The Magnadon Satrap Cosgo courteously requests that Companion Serilla return to his chambers to advise him on the Bingtown matter.’ These words were bellowed after her down the hallway. She paused, then turned. The expression on her face was studiously polite. It was in her vows. She could not refuse him her company if he asked advice in her area of expertise. Her considered advice was all she had vowed to give him.

‘I would be honoured, Magnadon.’ She retraced her steps. He leaned in the doorway, his normally pale cheeks reddened. His dark hair was tousled over his bloodshot eyes. She had to admire the expressionless guards. She re-entered the chamber and did not flinch as he slammed the door behind her. Instead, she crossed the room and hauled the heavy curtains to one side. Afternoon sunlight spilled into the room. She went to the table, seated herself, and then leaned forward to blow out the lamp she had been using. The afternoon light was ample, once the curtains were opened. Cosgo came grudgingly to sit beside her. She had deliberately spread her elbows apart to keep him at a distance. He seated himself as close to her as he could without actually touching her. His dark eyes were reproachful.

She indicated the texts arranged on the table. ‘Here we have a copy of the original Bingtown Charter. This, the list of grievances they have submitted to us. This stack is made up of copies of new land grants you have issued in the Bingtown area.’ She turned to face him. ‘Considering their first point: I find that we have most definitely violated their original charter. All the new grants are in direct violation of the old agreement. You had no authority to issue new land grants to Bingtown lands without consulting the Traders first. That was clearly spelled out in their initial charter.’

He scowled but said nothing. She ran her fingertip down the scroll. ‘They also protest the new tariffs that have been levied, as well as the increases in the old ones. Those, I think we can justify, though we may have to be more moderate in the percentages.’ She perused the Traders’ list of grievances. ‘They complain also about the New Traders trafficking in slaves, and using slaves on their properties. And there is a final complaint about the financing of Chalcedean patrol boats and the stationing of patrol boats in Bingtown Harbour. These are areas in which I think we can negotiate compromises.’

‘Compromises,’ Cosgo muttered in disgust. ‘Am I not the Satrap? Why need I compromise at all?’

She set her chin in her hand and stared out over the gardens pensively. ‘Because you have violated the word of your ancestor. The Bingtown Traders are provincial in many ways. And conservative. They follow many of the old traditions. They keep their bargains to the written letter; a man’s word does not die with him, it is the responsibility of his heirs to honour it. They expect others to do the same. The delegation was very angry when they arrived. They had had a long voyage in which to commiserate with one another. They reinforced one another’s opinions until they were mutually convinced that their position was unassailable. And, of course, only those most angered by our recent actions would take the time to come so far to confront us. They were definitely our adversaries. Still, they might have been mollified on some of their complaints if you had agreed to meet with them personally.’ She turned back to face the Satrap.

He looked both grim and sulky. ‘I was ill that week. It was all I could do to meet with the Chalcedean trade delegation. You might also recall that there was an investiture of priests that I had to attend.’

‘You spent most of the week in a stupor, sampling the new pleasure drugs the Chalcedeans had brought you. Twice you promised me you would meet with the Bingtown delegation. Each time you kept them waiting for hours before sending word you were indisposed. You left me in a very uncomfortable position. They departed feeling snubbed and ignored. They were more convinced than ever of their own righteousness.’ She did not add that she agreed with them. It was her task to present the facts to him, not her feelings. At least, that was her present task. She hoped soon to take on more than that, if her plans prospered.

‘Stiff-necked sons of outcasts and outlaws,’ he sneered. ‘I should do as my friend Duke Yadfin advised me. Put him in place as my appointed governor in Bingtown. Dissolve their silly, feuding Councils. Old Traders, New Traders…who can keep up with it all? A little Chalcedean discipline would do that rabble good.’

Serilla could not help herself. She gaped at him. He scratched his nose negligently.

‘You cannot be serious,’ she offered at last. She was even prepared to feign amusement at his tasteless jest. Put a Chalcedean noble in authority over Bingtown?

‘Why not? Chalced is a good ally. Bingtown’s base slandering of them has proven groundless. Bingtown is closer to Chalced than it is to Jamaillia. A governor from Chalced could better regulate the folk there, and as long as I still received my percentages and tariffs, what harm ’

‘All of Bingtown would rise up in rebellion against you. There has already been talk of such a revolt. They would break with Jamaillia and govern themselves before they would tolerate a Chalcedean in power over them.’

‘Break with Jamaillia? They are nothing without Jamaillia. Bingtown is a backwards trade town, a frontier settlement with no future save trade with my city. They would not dare break with Jamaillia.’

‘I fear you have greatly misjudged the temperament of the folk there. For too long, you have left them to fend for themselves. They begin to question why they should be taxed for protection and improvements they have not received for five years.’

‘Oh, I see. Since my father’s death, you mean. You blame the discontent of this rabble on me, do you?’

‘No. Not entirely.’ She kept her voice flat. ‘Before your father died, his mind had begun to wander. He was not as adept at detail work as he had been when a young man. He, too, had begun to neglect Bingtown. You have simply let the slide continue.’

‘All the more reason then to put a governor there. You see? By your own logic, my idea is a good one.’ He sat back, fanning himself contentedly.

She was silent until she could speak without shrieking. ‘It is not your idea, Magnadon. It is Duke Yadfin’s plan to fleece you while you smile and smoke his pleasure herbs. Legally, you cannot appoint a governor for Bingtown, let alone one from Chalced. That is not the structure of the charter of their founding.’

‘Then do away with the stupid charter!’ he roared at her. ‘Why do I owe them anything? They fled to the Cursed Shores, exiles, criminals, and rebellious young lords. For years, they have lived as they pleased up there, enjoying all the benefits of Jamaillian citizenship without shouldering the burdens…’

‘They cede to you fifty percent of their profits, Magnadon. That is a higher rate than any other class of citizens pay. They argue, and well, that they receive few benefits, that they have paid for all improvements to their harbours and that the piracy in the Inside Passage is worse than it has been since…’

‘Yet they resist my efforts to control the pirates. How can I protect them if they will not permit my patrol boats to shelter in their harbour?’

She sorted pages quickly. ‘Here. They propose that instead of your Chalcedean hirelings, they be allowed to keep those taxes and fund their own patrol vessels. Their argument is that as they are familiar with the tides and channels, and that they could patrol their area more effectively. Their figures indicate they could do it less expensively.’

‘But would they do a good job?’ Cosgo demanded.

Serilla sighed. ‘It is in their own best interests to do a good job.’ She leafed through several more sheets of thick paper. ‘I think this is one proposal you could have accepted easily, and gained much support from them in the process.’

‘Oh, very well.’ He shoved at her sorted papers in disgust. ‘I’ll see them and agree to that one. But they have to…’

‘Magnadon Cosgo, it is too late for that,’ she pointed out impatiently. ‘The delegation left here weeks ago. They went back to Bingtown.’

‘Then why are we worrying about any of this?’ he demanded. He rose. ‘Come. Accompany me to the steam pools. I think it would ease my head.’

Serilla didn’t move. ‘You promised that you would consider their complaints and reply to each one. You promised you would send your decision to them soon.’ She weighed her chances, decided to risk all. ‘I would like to write up your decisions and take ship to Bingtown. The sooner I carry your decisions to them, the sooner the crisis is resolved.’ She shuffled papers yet again, aligning them with obsessive tidiness. ‘I have drawn up a doctrine authorizing me to negotiate on your behalf. If you wish, you could simply sign it. I could take ship tomorrow, and you would not be bothered by any more of this discussion.’ She fought to keep hope from her face and voice.

He leaned over the table to look at the document penned in her even hand. Her heartbeat quickened. She longed to nudge the pen and ink towards him, but resisted. That would be too obvious.

‘This says I give my consent for you to make all decisions on my behalf, as regards the Bingtown Charter controversy.’ He sounded outraged. ‘I do not give that sort of power to anyone!’

Her heart sank. It wasn’t going to be as easy as she had hoped, but she would not give up yet. ‘It is true that you have not given anyone that sort of power in the past. Still, just a moment ago you spoke of appointing a Chalcedean governor. That would be ceding a great deal more power than this. This is but a temporary measure.’ She took a deep breath. She tried to put concern into her voice. ‘There was a time when your health used to be more robust. I know how these negotiations task you. I see no sense why the entire Satrapy should endure the risk to your health. Bingtown is my area of expertise. I should be very happy to serve you in this regard. I feel it is my duty.’

‘Your duty? I wonder. Not your opportunity, then?’

He had always been slyer than he looked. She tried to appear baffled by his words. ‘Magnadon, I have always considered my duty to the Satrapy to be my greatest opportunity in life. Now. As you can see, I have left plenty of room at the bottom where we can write in some limitations. A time limit seems called for, for example.’ She shrugged. ‘I simply saw this as the swiftest, easiest way to solve this.’

‘You would go to Bingtown? Alone? The Companions of the Heart do not leave the grounds of the palace. Not ever.’

Freedom receded. She let nothing show on her face. ‘As I said, I sought the swiftest, easiest way to resolve this without taxing your health. I am completely informed on the history of the situation. I imagined you would convey your wishes to me, and that in turn I would pass them on to the Bingtown Traders. By honouring them with a visit from one of your Heart Companions, you convince them of both your sincerity and your regard for them. It would also present me with the opportunity to see first-hand a city that has been at the heart of my studies for several years.’

Fabled Bingtown. Frontier city of magic and opportunity. The only settlement that had ever survived the Cursed Shores, let alone prospered there. How she longed to see it for herself. She said nothing of the Rain Wild Traders, and their reputed cities far up the Rain Wild River. They were no more than an elusive legend. To imply there was treasure he did not even suspect would only excite his greed. She tried to refocus her thoughts. ‘Before your father died, he promised me that someday I would see that city for myself. This is also an opportunity for you to keep that promise.’ As soon as she uttered the words, she knew they were a mistake.

‘He said he would let you go to Bingtown? Preposterous! Why would he promise you such a thing?’ His eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion. ‘Or is that what you demanded in return for your favours? Did my father ever lie with you?’

A year ago, when he had first dared ask her that question, it had shocked her into silence. He had asked it so often since then that the silence was a reflex now. It was the only true power she had over him. He didn’t know. He didn’t know if his father had had what she refused him, and it gnawed at him.

She recalled the first time she had ever seen Cosgo. He had been fifteen, and she was nineteen. She was very young to be a Heart Companion. It was surprising that such an elderly Satrap would even take a new Companion. When she had been presented to Cosgo as his father’s new adviser, the young man had looked from her to his father and back again. His glance had spoken his thoughts plainly. She had blushed, and the Satrap had slapped his son for his insolent gaze. Young Cosgo had taken that to mean that his base suspicions were true.

When his father died, Cosgo had dismissed all his father’s Heart Companions. Ignoring all tradition, he had sent them off without the mercy of shelter and sustenance for their declining years. Most had been elderly women. Serilla alone he retained. She would have left then, if she could have. As long as she wore a Satrap’s ring, she was bound to the Satrap’s side. Cosgo was Satrap now. Her vows demanded that she stay and advise him as long as he desired it. Her advice was all he could require of her. From the beginning, he had made it plain he wished more. For his other Heart Companions, he had chosen women more educated in the flesh than in diplomacy. Not one of them refused him.

Traditionally, the Companions of the Heart were not a harem. They were supposed to be women with no other loyalties than to the Satrapy. They were supposed to be what Serilla was: blunt, out-spoken, and ethically uncompromising. They were the Satrap’s conscience. They were supposed to be demanding, not comforting. Sometimes Serilla wondered if she were the only Companion who remembered that.

Serilla suspected that if she ever did allow him into her bed, she would lose all power over him. As long as she represented a possession of his father’s that he could not claim, he would want her. He would pretend to listen to her, and occasionally actually follow her advice in an attempt to please her. It was the last vestige of power left to her. She hoped she could use it as a lever to gain her freedom.

So now, she regarded him in cool silence. She waited.

‘Oh, very well!’ he suddenly exclaimed in disgust. ‘I will take you to Bingtown, then, if it means so much to you.’

She teetered between elation and dismay. ‘You’ll let me go, then?’ she asked breathlessly.

A tiny frown creased his brow. Then he smiled at her. He had a tiny thin moustache that twitched just like a cat’s whiskers. ‘No. That is not what I said. I said I’d take you there. You can accompany me, when I go.’

‘But you are the Satrap!’ she faltered. ‘For two generations, no ruling Satrap has left Jamaillia City!’

‘It is as you said. This will convince them of my sincerity when we negotiate. Besides. It is on my way to Chalced. I have been invited there numerous times. I had already decided to go. You shall accompany me there, after we have settled the rebellious rabble in Bingtown.’ His smile widened. ‘There is much you can learn in Chalced. I think it will be good for both of us.’

7 A BINGTOWN TRADER’S DAUGHTER

‘SIT STILL.’

‘It hurts,’ Malta protested. She lifted a hand to touch the hair her mother was twining into gleaming coils. Her mother pushed her hand away.

‘Most of being a woman hurts,’ Keffria told her daughter pragmatically. ‘This is what you wanted. Get used to it.’ She tugged at the weight of shining black hair in her hand, then deftly tucked a few stray strands into place.

‘Please don’t fill her head with nonsense like that,’ Ronica said irritably. ‘The last thing we need is her going about the house feeling martyred simply because she is a female.’ Malta’s grandmother set down the handful of ribbons she had been sorting and paced a restless turn around the room. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said suddenly.

‘What? Getting Malta ready for her first beau?’ There was bemused, maternal warmth in Keffria’s voice.

Malta frowned to herself. Her mother had initially refused to accept Malta being treated as a woman. Only a few weeks ago, she had said her daughter was much too young to have men courting her. Did she now approve of the idea? Malta shifted her eyes to try to see her mother’s face in the looking glass, but Keffria’s head was bent over her hairdressing task.

The chamber was light and airy, perfumed by hyacinths in small glass vases. Sunlight spilled into the room from the tall windows. It was a lovely afternoon in early spring, a day that should have brimmed with promise. Instead, Malta felt weighted with the listlessness of the two older women. There was no lighthearted chatter as they readied her to meet her first suitor. The house seemed stagnated in mourning, as if her grandfather’s death last spring had visited a permanent desolation upon them.

On the table before Malta were small pots of paints and creams and perfumes. None of them were new. They were leftovers from her mother’s rooms. It rankled Malta that they thought she deserved no better than that. Most were not even from the bazaar. They had been made at home, in the kitchen, rendered down like soup stock from berries, flowers, cream, and tallow. Her mother and grandmother were so disappointingly old-fashioned about these things. How could they expect Bingtown society to respect them if they lived as meagrely as paupers?

They spoke over her head as if she were a baby incapable of understanding them.

‘No, I’ve surrendered on that.’ Her grandmother sounded more irritable than resigned. ‘I don’t like that we haven’t heard anything from Kyle and the Vivacia. That is what worries me.’

Keffria’s voice was carefully neutral when she spoke of her husband and the family ship. ‘The spring winds can be fickle. No doubt, he will be home in a handful of days…if he chooses to stop in Bingtown. He may pass us and go directly to Chalced to sell his cargo while it is still in good condition.’

‘You mean while the slaves are still alive and marketable,’ Ronica observed relentlessly. She had always opposed using the family liveship as a slaver. She claimed to oppose slavery on principle, but that did not prevent her from keeping a slave in the house. Ronica had claimed it would be bad for the ship to be used as a slaver, that a liveship could not cope with the dark emotions of such a cargo. Vivacia had quickened only a short time before she set out on this voyage. Everyone said that liveships were very sensitive to the feelings of those who lived aboard them and young ships even more so. Malta had her doubts. She thought the whole thing about liveships was silly. As far as she could see, owning a liveship had brought her family only debt and trouble.

Look at her situation now. After she had begged for months to be allowed to dress and socialize as a young woman instead of a little girl, her family was finally giving in to her. And why? Not because they had seen how reasonable her request was. No. It was because some stupid contract said that if her grandmother could not keep up the payments on the family liveship debt, one of the family’s children would have to be offered to the Rain Wilds in place of the gold.

The unfairness of the whole thing rose and choked her. Here she was, young, lovely, and fresh. Who would her first suitor be? A handsome young Trader like Cerwin Trell, a melancholy poet like Krion Trentor? No. Not for Malta Vestrit. No, she got some warty, old Rain Wild Trader, a man so hideously deformed he had to wear a veil if he wished to come to Bingtown. Did her mother and grandmother even care about such things? Did they ever stop to think what it might mean to her to have such a man foisted upon her? Oh, no, not them. They were too busy worrying about the ship or what was happening to her precious brother Wintrow or where her Aunt Althea was. Malta counted for nothing. Here they were, helping her dress, doing her hair, and still not paying attention to her. On what might be the most important afternoon of her life, they were arguing about slavery!

‘…doing the best he can for the family.’ Her mother spoke in a low even voice. ‘You have to admit that much. Kyle can be thoughtless of feelings. I admit that. He has injured mine more than once. Nevertheless, he is not an evil man, nor selfish. I have never known him to do anything that he did not believe was best for all of us.’

Malta was a bit surprised to hear her mother defending her father. They had clashed badly right before her father sailed, and her mother had spoken little of him since then. Perhaps in her own dowdy, homebody way she still cared about her husband. Malta had always pitied her father; it was a shameful waste that so handsome and adventurous a sea captain should be married to a mousy little woman with no interest in society or fashion. He deserved a wife who dressed well, one who orchestrated social gatherings in their home and attracted fit suitors for their daughter. Malta felt she deserved a mother like that too. A new thought filled her with sudden alarm.

‘What are you planning to wear today?’ she asked her mother.

‘What I have on,’ her mother replied tersely. She added suddenly, ‘I will hear no more about that. Reyn is coming to visit you, not I.’ In a lower tone she added, almost reluctantly, ‘Your hair gleams like night itself. I doubt he will see anyone else but you.’

Malta did not allow the rare compliment to distract her. The simple blue woollen robe her mother was wearing was at least three years old. It had been well cared for and did not look worn; merely sedate and boring. ‘Will you at least dress your hair and put on your jewellery?’ she begged. Almost desperately, she added, ‘You always ask me to dress well and behave appropriately when I am about Trader business with you. Will not you and Grandmother do the same for me?’

She turned away from the mirror to confront them. They both looked surprised. ‘Reyn Khuprus may be a younger son, but he is still a member of one of the most wealthy and influential Rain Wild Trader families. You told me that yourself. Should not we dress as if we are receiving an honoured guest, even if you are secretly hoping he will find me unappealing and simply go away?’ In a lower voice she added, ‘Surely we owe ourselves at least that much self respect.’

‘Oh, Malta,’ her mother sighed.

‘I do believe the child is right,’ her grandmother said suddenly. The small dark woman, burdened in her widow’s robes, suddenly straightened herself. ‘No. I know she is right. We have both been near-sighted in this. Whether or not we welcome Reyn’s courtship of Malta is not the issue here. We have given permission for it. The Khuprus family now holds the note for the Vivacia. Our contract is with them. Not only should we treat them with the same courtesy we did the Festrews, we should present the same face to them as well.’ Ronica paced a quick turn about the room. She ticked off her concerns on her fingers. ‘We have prepared a fine table, and the rooms are newly freshened for spring. Rache can wait upon table; she does well at that. I wish Nana was still with us, but it was too good of an opportunity for her to ask her to let it go. Do you think I should send Rache to Davad Restart’s, to beg the loan of other serving folk?’

‘We could,’ Malta’s mother began hesitantly.

‘Oh, please, no!’ Malta interjected. ‘Davad’s servants are horrid, unmannered and impertinent. We are better off without them. I think we should present our household as it truly is, rather than make a false show with ill-trained servants. Which would you find more genteel? A household with limited means who chooses the best their budget allows, or a household that borrows lackadaisical help?’

It pleased Malta to see both her mother and her grandmother surprised. Her mother smiled proudly as she said, ‘The girl has sense. Malta, I am sure you have seen to the heart of it. It pleases me to hear you speak so.’

Her grandmother’s approval was more wary. She pursed her lips at Malta, and gave a brief nod. Malta looked at her mirror, turning her head to see how well her mother had succeeded with her hair. It would do. She glanced once more at her grandmother’s reflection. The old woman was still perusing her. Malta decided it was hard for Ronica Vestrit to accept anyone else as clever. That was it. Her grandmother was jealous that Malta could think things through as clearly as she could. More clearly in fact. Her mother, however, had been proud of her. Her mother could be won over with her cleverness. Malta had never considered that before. A sudden inspiration came to her.

‘Thank you, Mother. I love what you have done with my hair. Now let me fix yours for you. Come. Sit down.’ She rose gracefully and drew her startled mother to her seat before the mirror. She pulled the long pins from her dark hair. It cascaded to her shoulders. ‘You dress your hair as if you were a dowdy old woman,’ she said artlessly. She did not need to point out that her grandmother wore hers in an identical fashion. She leaned down to put her cheek beside her mother’s, and met her eyes in the looking glass. ‘Let me arrange it with some flowers, set off with your pearl pins. It is spring, you know, and time to celebrate the blossoming of life.’ Malta lifted the silver-handled brush and drew it through her mother’s hair. She cocked her head to smile at her mother’s reflection in the mirror. ‘If we cannot afford to buy new robes and gowns before Father returns, perhaps we could brighten some of our older ones with new embroidery. I am sure it would please him. Besides, it is time I learned your rosebud stitch. Perhaps, after Reyn’s visit, you could teach me.’

Ronica Vestrit was sceptical of her granddaughter’s sudden sweetness. She felt diminished by her own pessimism, but dared not set it aside. She cursed the circumstances that had put her family’s reputation and finances into the awkward hands of this giddy girl. Even more frightening was that those awkward hands were greedy and grasping, and that Malta’s foolishness was fuelled by cunning. If the girl had only applied her keen mind to doing what was genuinely best for her family and herself, she would have done the Vestrits proud. As it stood, she was a dangerous liability.

As Ronica silently withdrew from the room where Malta plaited her mother’s hair into coils, she reflected sourly that if luck favoured her, perhaps Reyn Khuprus would take Malta off their hands. It would be restful to have the conniving little wench out of the house; then Ronica imagined Malta as Jani Khuprus’ daughter-in-law, and winced. No. Malta was a Vestrit problem. It was best to keep her at home until she had been taught to behave as befitted her family. Sometimes Ronica thought the only way to do that would be with a strap.

She sought the relative peace of her own chambers. With the coming of spring, Ronica had had the room cleaned and freshened as she did every year. It had not helped. The memory of the odour of sickness lingered. The sunlight spilling in the tall windows seemed false. The clean linens on the bed looked glacial white and cold, not fresh and inviting. She went to her own dressing table and sat down. She looked at herself in the mirror. Malta was right. She had become a dowdy old woman. She had never considered herself beautiful, but when Ephron had been alive, she had maintained herself. Since he had died, she had forgotten. She had stopped being a woman at all. The lines in her face had deepened; the skin of her throat sagged. The few pots of cosmetics on the table were dusty. When she opened her jewellery chest, the contents seemed both familiar and foreign. How long had it been since she had last taken pains with her appearance? How long since she had cared at all how she looked?

She took a deep breath. ‘Ephron.’ That was all she said, simply speaking his name aloud. Part plea, part apology, part farewell. Then she reached up to release her hair. She shook it down to her shoulders, frowning at how it had thinned. She lifted her hands to her face, prodding the papery dryness of her skin, and trying to smooth away the lines that framed her mouth. She shook her head at herself and then lowered her head to blow the dust off the cosmetic pots. She opened the first one.

She was just finishing by applying perfume when Rache’s hesitant tap came at her door. ‘Come in,’ Ronica called casually. Since Nana had left, Rache was the sole remaining house servant in the formerly bustling household. When the slave-woman entered, Ronica instantly knew why she was there. Only a visit from Davad Restart put such a look of guarded hatred in the woman’s eyes. Rache still blamed him for her son’s death on board Davad’s slave-ship. Any mention of the Trader wakened that look in her; it was the only time when the young woman seemed truly alive. So although Ronica sighed and begged, ‘Please, no,’ she knew the man was already in the sitting room.

‘I am sorry, ma’am,’ Rache said in a nearly toneless voice. ‘It is Trader Restart. He insisted he must see you.’

‘It’s all right,’ Ronica replied with a deeper sigh. She rose from her dressing table. ‘I’ll be down as soon as I’m dressed. No. Do not trouble to go and tell him that. If he cannot be bothered to send a runner ahead of a social call, then he can simply wait until I am ready. Help me with dressing, please.’

She tried to make it a joke on Davad that the two of them could share, but Rache’s mouth remained in a flat line. He had deposited Rache at the Vestrit household when Ephron was dying, ostensibly to help. Ronica suspected it had been to get rid of Rache and her murderous gaze. Technically, she supposed the woman still belonged to him, a slave under Jamaillian law. Bingtown did not recognize slavery. Here in Bingtown, she was genteelly referred to as an indentured servant. There were a great many ‘indentured servants’ about Bingtown lately. Ronica treated her as she would any hired servant.

Ronica took her time choosing, finally selecting a dress of pale green linen. It had been so long since she had worn anything but a loose household robe. She felt oddly naked in it, even when the skirts were sashed about her waist and the over-blouse laced up from behind. She paused to look at herself again in the mirror. Well. She did not look lovely. She did not look young. However, she once more appeared as a matriarch of a Bingtown Family should present herself. She looked both groomed and dignified. She paused at her jewellery cask, to rope her throat recklessly with pearls and hang more from her ears. There. Now let the little minx insinuate she was a dowdy old woman.

She turned from the mirror to find Rache watching her with widened eyes. Ronica felt almost flattered by the serving woman’s surprise. ‘I will see Davad now. Would you bring coffee and simple cakes from the kitchen, please? Nothing elaborate. I do not wish to encourage him to linger.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Rache sketched a curtsey and left silently.

Ronica’s skirts whispered as she walked down the hall to the sitting room. The pearls were cool against her skin. Strange how a change of garments and a bit of care for her appearance made her feel so different. Her deep mourning for Ephron was still there, as was her anger for all that had befallen her with his death. All winter she had done her best to cope with the blows as they fell. It had been staggering to find that her trust in her son-in-law had been misplaced. Kyle’s greed had driven away Althea and his need for ruthless control had all but paralysed Keffria. The discovery that his daughter Malta seemed set on growing up to be just like him had been unnerving. A few months back, Keffria had promised to take a hand with Malta and change her. Ronica snorted softly to herself. So far, the only changes were that Malta was becoming more deceptive daily.

At the entrance to the sitting room she paused, and put such thoughts out of her head. By an act of will she smoothed her brow and put a pleasant expression on her face. She straightened her back and shoulders, then opened the door and swept into the room with a ‘Good morning, Davad. Such a surprise to have you call on us like this.’

His back was to her. He had taken a book from the shelf and was standing by the window to peruse it. With his wide rounded back encased tautly in a dark blue jacket, he reminded Ronica of a beetle. He closed the book and spoke as he turned. ‘Not surprising. Rude. Even as socially inept a blunderer as I know that I should have asked if you had time to see me. But I knew you would say no, and I had to…Ronica! You look amazing!’

His eyes swept up and down her, quite familiarly, bringing an unexpected blush to her face. A returning smile broke out on his ruddy round face.

‘I had become accustomed to seeing you in such dreary clothes, I had forgotten how you truly looked. I remember that dress. It is quite old, isn’t it? Didn’t you wear it to one of the parties you gave to announce Keffria’s wedding to Kyle? It takes years off your face. You must be quite proud to be able to squeeze yourself into it still.’

Ronica shook her head at the old family friend. ‘Davad Restart. Only you can so completely ruin so many compliments in one brief speech.’ He stared at her, completely flummoxed. As was often the case, he was completely unaware of how tactless he was. She moved to a divan and seated herself. ‘Come and join me,’ she invited him. ‘I’ve asked Rache to bring coffee and cakes, but I warn you, I have only a brief moment or two to spare. We are receiving Reyn Khuprus this afternoon. He is coming to call on Malta for the first time, and I still have a great deal of preparation.’

‘I know,’ he admitted easily. ‘Bingtown gossip has been full of it. It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, to allow a man to court her before she’s even been presented as a woman? Not that she doesn’t think she’s ready, I’m sure. After her escapade last winter at the ball…well. I don’t blame you for trying to marry her off quickly. The sooner that girl has a man to settle her down, the safer all of Bingtown will be.’ He paused and cleared his throat. For the first time, he looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Actually, Ronica, that is why I’m here. To beg a very great favour from you, I’m afraid.’

‘You wish to ask a favour of me, and somehow it’s connected to Reyn’s visit?’ Ronica was both puzzled and uneasy.

‘Yes. It’s simple. Invite me, too. Please.’

She managed not to gape at him. She was saved from having to reply immediately by Rache’s entry into the room with the coffee tray. Ronica dismissed her almost immediately; there was no sense in forcing Rache to serve coffee to a man that she hated. The small business of pouring coffee gave Ronica some time in which to think. Davad broke into her thoughts before she could begin her graciously worded refusal.

‘I know it isn’t proper, but I’ve thought of a way around that.’

Ronica decided to be blunt. ‘Davad, I don’t want to find a way around impropriety. The Khuprus family is socially powerful. I cannot afford to give anyone in Bingtown offence these days, let alone the son of such a family. You have not said why you wish to be here when we receive him. Traditionally, only the family of the girl is present when the young man first comes calling. To make him more at ease, you know.’

‘I know, I know. But seeing as how Ephron is dead and Malta’s father is at sea, I thought you could present me as an old friend who was standing in…a sort of protector in the absence of your family men…’

Davad’s voice trailed off at the look on Ronica’s face. She spoke in a low, controlled voice. ‘Davad. You well know that I have never required a man to be my protector. When the girls were small and Ephron was often at sea, I never asked his friends to settle business transactions for him, or deal with unpleasant realities in his absence. I coped. All Bingtown knows that. It is who I am. Now that I am truly alone, shall I quaver and faint and hide myself behind you? I think not. Reyn Khuprus comes today to meet the family of the girl he wishes to wed. He shall meet us as we truly are.’

As Ronica paused to draw breath after this onslaught, Davad spoke hastily. ‘It’s for me. For my benefit, I mean. I will be honest with you. There is no benefit to you, I admit that freely, and it might even cause you some embarrassment for me to be here. Sa knows, several families in Bingtown no longer receive me. I am well aware that I am a social embarrassment. At first, it was because I was inept. Well, I have never been good at the social things. Dorill was. She always took care of those things. After she died, many folk in Bingtown still treated me kindly, in memory of her, I think. But year after year, the number of Traders who hailed me as friend dwindled. I suppose I give offence without intention. Until now, of all the Bingtown Traders, you are the only one I dare call “friend”.’

He paused and sighed heavily. ‘I have no one else to turn to in my isolation. I know I must rebuild my alliances. If I could form some trade connections with the Rain Wild Traders, I could do so. I know that many in Bingtown do not approve of my politics. They say I grovel to the New Traders, that my dabbling in slavery is a disgrace, that I have betrayed the Bingtown Traders by negotiating for the New Traders. But you know that I only do so to survive. What else is there for me? Look at me! I have no one, nothing but my own wits to depend on. No wife to comfort me, no children to inherit my holdings. All I am trying to do is maintain enough property and income to keep me comfortable through my old age. After that, it all ends.’ He paused dramatically and then finished in a dwindling voice, ‘My line ends with me.’

Ronica had closed her eyes halfway through this recitation. When Davad sighed yet again, she opened them. ‘Davad,’ she said in a warning voice. ‘Shame on you, trying such tricks on me. I refuse to pity you, any more than I pity myself. The pits we are in, we have dug ourselves. You know the roots of your problems; you just listed them yourself. If you want to regain the respect of the Bingtown Traders, leave off politicking for the New Traders. Stop “dabbling” in the selling of humans. Go back to being who you were and your friends will return. Not quickly, for you have trodden firmly on too many toes. But eventually. You are Old Trader. As soon as you recall that to yourself, our compatriots will recall it as well.’

‘And in the meantime, I should genteelly starve?’ Davad blustered. As if to fend off such a dire fate, he took a large bite of the spice cake in his hand.

‘You will not starve,’ Ronica pointed out implacably. ‘As you have said, you have only yourself to support. You could live off your own holdings if you chose to apply yourself, even if you never negotiated another trade in your life. I venture to say that if you reduced your servants, you could supply most of your own wants from a kitchen garden, some chickens and a few cattle. You could revert to simplicity, as Keffria and I have been forced to do. As for your being alone in the world, well, as I recall, you have a grandniece. Approach her, if you want an heir. It might mend a great deal with that branch of your family.’

‘Oh, she hates me.’ Davad brushed the idea away with the cake crumbs that had fallen into his lap. ‘Some chance remark I made to her husband when he was courting her. She treats me as if I have the plague. It’s beyond all mending.’ He took a drink of his coffee. ‘Besides. How can you criticize my “dabbling” in slavery? Isn’t that where Kyle and the Vivacia are right now, on a round of slave-trading?’ At the darkening look on Ronica’s face, he abruptly changed his tactics. ‘Please, Ronica. I won’t linger. Just allow me to be here when he arrives, simply introduce me as a family friend. That’s all I ask. Just help me to establish a nodding acquaintance. I’ll do the rest for myself.’

He looked at her appealingly. The perfumed oil on his hair had left a sheen on his brow. He was pathetic. He was an old friend of the family. He trafficked in slaves. He and Dorill had been wed a week after she and Ephron had married; they had danced at one another’s weddings. He was certain to say something unfortunate to Reyn. He had come to her as his last hope.

He was a disaster in the making.

She was still looking at him dumbly when Keffria came into the room. ‘Davad!’ she exclaimed. She smiled stiffly. Her eyes were round with horror. ‘Such a surprise! I did not know you were here.’

Davad rose hastily, nearly oversetting his coffee cup. He charged at Keffria, took her hand and beamingly exclaimed, ‘Well, I know it is not completely correct, but I simply could not resist. With Kyle away, I thought it only fitting that there be some man about your household to appraise this youngster who thinks to come courting our Malta!’

‘Indeed,’ Keffria said faintly. She turned an accusing gaze on her mother.

Ronica steeled herself to the truth. In a quiet voice she spoke. ‘I’ve told Davad it is completely inappropriate. Later in the courtship, if both young people choose to continue it, we will offer a tea and invite family friends. That would be a more appropriate time for him to meet Reyn and his family.’

‘I suppose,’ Davad said heavily. ‘If that’s the best you can offer your oldest, truest friend, Ronica Vestrit. I’ll come back when I’m invited then.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ Keffria said faintly. ‘That’s why I came to find Mother. Reyn and his family are already here.’

Ronica rose swiftly. ‘His family! Here?’

‘In the morning room. I know: I did not expect them either. I did not expect Reyn until late this afternoon; the ship had good sailing. Nevertheless, Jani Khuprus is here with him, and an older brother…Bendir. Awaiting outside is a train of servants bearing baskets of gifts and…Mother, I need your help. With such a reduced staff of our own, how are we to deal–’

‘Quite simply,’ Davad interjected. Suddenly, his whole attitude had changed from petitioner to commander. ‘You still keep a boy for the garden and stable. Send him here to me. I’ll jot down a note, he can carry it to my house, and in no time my serving staff will arrive here. Discreetly, of course. I’ll give very specific instructions that they are to behave as if they are your servants and this is their normal place of employment and…’

‘And when the gossip spreads through Bingtown, as it must whenever servants are involved, we shall be a matter of much jest. No, Davad.’ It was Ronica’s turn to sigh. ‘We’ll take you up on your offer. We must. However, if we must borrow servants, then I shall not hesitate to admit that is so. Nor should your kindness in this matter be hidden for the sake of our pride.’ Belatedly recalling that her daughter’s opinion might differ, Ronica turned to Keffria. ‘Do you agree?’ she asked her bluntly.

She shook her head helplessly. ‘I suppose I must. Malta is not going to care for this one bit.’ The last she added almost to herself.

‘Simply don’t let her trouble her pretty little head about it.’ Davad was beaming now. Ronica longed to club him as he went on, ‘I am sure she is going to be too much interested in her suitor to pay much attention to an old family friend anyway. Now. Where’s that paper, Ronica? I’ll dash a note off and you can get your boy on his way.’

Despite Ronica’s misgivings, all was accomplished quickly and easily. Keffria returned to the guests, assuring them that her mother would appear shortly. The message was sent. Davad insisted on a last minute peek in a mirror. Ronica was not sure if she was motivated by pity for him or for herself, but she persuaded him to blot the oil from his hair and forehead, and re-comb his hair in a more dignified styling. The way his hose sagged at the knees could not be helped, he told her; all his leggings did that, and as for the coat, it was new, and the cut of it was considered quite stylish. Ronica bit her tongue and did not point out the difference between stylish and becoming. Then, with a great deal of trepidation, she entered the morning room on Davad’s arm.

She had heard that the courtship of a Rain Wild man was less restrained than that practised in Bingtown. Before Keffria had consented to Reyn courting her daughter, they had been promised that the young man would not offer her expensive gifts that might turn a young girl’s head. Ronica had been prepared for him to present Malta with a bouquet of flowers and perhaps some sweets. She had expected to be introduced to a shy young man, accompanied perhaps by his tutor or uncle.

The morning room had been transformed. The simple arrangements of spring flowers that she and Keffria had contrived from the garden had all but disappeared. Baskets, bowls and vases of exotic Rain Wild blooms blossomed in profusion throughout the room. The heady floral fragrance was thick as smoke. Platters and bowls of fruit, bottles of wine, and trays of sweets and pastries had joined the carefully arranged repast on the table. Brightly coloured songbirds twittered in a brass cage hung in an artificial tree constructed from bronze and cherry wood. A little spotted hunting cat, no more than a kitten, prowled hopefully beneath the cage. Servants, both veiled and open-faced, moved silently and industriously about the room, completing its metamorphosis. As Ronica entered, a young man whose veiled face proclaimed him a Rain Wild Trader struck up a plaintive melody on a lap-harp.

As if carried by the music, Jani Khuprus swept up to greet her. Her face veil was white lace shimmering with pearls. The loose hood that covered her hair was decorated with braided and coiled silken tassels in many shades of blue. She wore an extravagantly beribboned blouse and loose pantaloons that were gathered at her ankles with yet more ribbons. Fanciful embroidery almost obscured the white linen that backed it. Ronica had never seen a woman in such garb, but she knew instantly it would become the new style in Bingtown. As Jani greeted her in the transformed room, Ronica felt as if she had been magically transported to the Rain Wilds, and that she was the guest in Jani’s home. Jani’s smile was warm, and only one quick puzzled glance betrayed her curiosity about Davad. ‘I am so glad you have come down to join us,’ Jani welcomed her. With unnerving familiarity, she took both Ronica’s hands in hers. She leaned closer to confide, ‘You must be quite proud of your daughter, Keffria. She has greeted us so warmly and so graciously! She is a credit to her upbringing. And Malta! Oh, I can see why my son was smitten so swiftly and so deeply. She is young, as you warned me, but already she is like an opening blossom. Any young man would fall prey to such eyes. No wonder he took such pains choosing what gifts to bring her. I confess, when the flowers are massed like this, they do appear a bit overwhelming, but surely you can forgive a young man’s impetuosity in this.’

‘Especially as it’s much too late to do anything else!’ Davad replied while Ronica was still composing a response. He stepped forward to set his hand on top of Jani’s and Ronica’s clasp. ‘Welcome to the Vestrit home. I’m Davad Restart, a long-time friend of the family. We are so thrilled to have you here, and deeply honoured by Reyn’s courtship of our Malta. Don’t they look charming together!’

His words were so different from anything that Ronica would have chosen to say that she nearly lost control of herself. Jani’s eyes went from Davad’s face to Ronica’s before she gently but unmistakably removed her hands from his clasp. ‘I recall you well, Trader Restart.’ The tone of her voice was chill; evidently, her recollection of him was not a kindly one. The subtlety was lost on Davad.

‘I am so pleased and honoured that you do,’ he exclaimed jovially. He beamed a smile at Jani Khuprus. He obviously believed that things were going well.

Ronica knew she had to say something, but for the life of her, she could not find any significant words. She retreated into banality. ‘Such lovely flowers. Only the Rain Wild yields such extravagant colours and fragrances.’

Jani shifted her body very slightly, but it was enough that she now faced Ronica while her shoulder was toward Davad, excluding him. ‘I am so glad you like them. I had feared you would rebuke me for letting Reyn indulge himself in such plenty. I know we had agreed he must keep his gifts simple.’

In actuality, Ronica felt that Jani had overstepped the bounds of her agreement. Before she could find a tactful way to let her know that Reyn must not do it again, Davad chimed for her. ‘Simple? What place has simplicity in a young man’s passion? Were I a boy again and courting such a girl as Malta, I, too, would attempt to overwhelm her with gifts.’

Ronica finally found her tongue. ‘But I am sure a young man like Reyn will want to be valued for himself, not his presents. Such a display is worthy of their first presentation to one another, but I am sure his courtship to follow will be more restrained.’ By addressing her words to Davad rather than Jani, Ronica hoped to avoid giving offence while still letting her position be known.

‘Nonsense!’ Davad insisted. ‘Look at them. Does she look to you as if she wishes him to be restrained?’

Malta was all but enthroned in flowers. She sat in an armed chair, holding a great bouquet on her lap. Pots and vases of blooms and greenery had been placed around her. A single red flower had been pinned to the shoulder of her demure white dress. Another had been fastened into her upswept hair. They complimented the warm tones of her skin, and made her black hair seem even glossier. Her eyes were downcast as she spoke softly to the young man that stood so attentively beside her. Yet every so often, she would glance up at him through her eyelashes. When she did, her mouth would curve in the tiniest of cat-smiles.

Reyn Khuprus was dressed all in blue. A discarded cloak of dark blue draped an adjacent chair. His traditional Rain Wild garb of loose trousers and a long-sleeved shirt effectively camouflaged any deformities from the casual eye. He had a lean waist that he had proudly sashed with a wide silk belt. It was a darker hue than his other clothes. Black boots peeped out from the loose cuffs of his trousers. The backs of his fine black gloves were studded with azure flame-gems in a breathtaking display of casual wealth. His hood was plain, made from the same silk as his sash. His face veil was black lace, effectively obscuring his features. Although his face was invisible, one sensed his rapt attention in the cant of his head.

‘Malta is very young,’ Ronica said. She spoke quickly, before anyone could say any more. ‘She does not have the wisdom to know when to go slowly. It is up to her mother and me to exercise that caution. Jani and I have agreed that, for their own sakes, these young people must not be allowed to be too impulsive.’

‘Well, I fail to see why,’ Davad contradicted her jovially. ‘What can come of this except good? Eventually, Malta must wed. Why stand in the path of young romance? Think of what may come of this: grandchildren for Jani, great-grandchildren for you, Ronica. And mutually profitable trade arrangements for all, I don’t doubt.’

It pained Ronica to hear Davad so laboriously drag the conversation in the direction he wished it to go. Over the years, she had come to know the man too well. This was why he was truly here. He was an old friend of the family; he genuinely cared for Malta and what became of her. But the greatest part of his heart had long ago been given over to trade and the profits there from. For good or ill, it was how Davad’s mind worked. He had never hesitated to use his friendships to the good of his business deals, though he seldom risked a business profit for the sake of friendship.

All this passed through Ronica’s mind in a fraction of a moment. She saw Davad clearly, as she had always known him to be. She had never evaluated what it meant to have such a friend. Differences in politics had not persuaded her to set him aside, even when many other Traders ceased dealing with him. He was not a truly evil man; he simply did not give much thought to what he did. Profits beckoned and he followed, into slave trading, into the questionable practices of the New Traders, even to making a profit from Malta’s unsought courtship. He meant no harm by it; he never considered it in terms of right and wrong.

That did not make him harmless. Not in terms of what he could inadvertently do to the Vestrit family if he offended Jani Khuprus just now. The Khuprus family held the note on the liveship Vivacia. Ronica had reluctantly accepted Reyn’s courtship of Malta in the certainty that he would soon realize how young and unsuitable she was. For Reyn to begin such a courtship and then break it off would give her an odd social advantage. The Vestrit family might be seen as the injured party; the Khuprus family would be expected to be more than civil in their business dealings. But if the Khuprus family broke off the courtship because the Vestrit family had undesirable political connections, the attitude of the other Traders towards her family might be substantially different. Ronica had already felt social pressure to cut off her association with Davad Restart. She would be in a financial quagmire if that were extended to trading pressure.

The wise thing to do would be to dump Davad Restart.

Loyalty forbade that. And pride. If the Vestrit family allowed itself to be governed by what others perceived as correct, they would lose all control of their destiny. Not that much control truly remained in their hands.

The silence had grown uncomfortable. Ronica felt a resigned fascination coupled with horror. What dreadful thing would Davad say next? He was completely unaware of how gauche he was being. He smiled brightly and began, ‘Speaking of trade alliances –’

Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. Keffria swept up to them. A very fine mist of perspiration on her brow was the only visible sign of the agitation she undoubtedly felt at seeing Davad stand so close to Jani Khuprus for so long. She touched his arm lightly and asked him quietly if he could assist her in the kitchen, just for a moment. The servants were having difficulty opening some of the old wines she had chosen; could he come and supervise that task?

Keffria had chosen well. Wine and the correct serving of it were one of Davad’s favourite obsessions. He hastened away with Keffria following him, nodding as he spoke learnedly of the correct way to uncork a bottle to minimize agitation. Ronica sighed out in relief.

‘I wonder that you even tolerate him being here,’ Jani observed quietly. Now that Davad had gone, she stood at Ronica’s side. She spoke confidentially to her, beneath the music and conversation in the room. ‘The other day I heard him referred to as the Traitor Trader. He denies it, but all know he has been the go-between for the New Traders in many of their most tawdry dealings. It is even said that he is behind the New Traders who are making such ridiculous offers in the hope of buying the Paragon.’

‘Shockingly ridiculous offers,’ Ronica agreed in a low voice. ‘I think it is scandalous that the Ludluck family even allows them to be presented.’ She ventured a small smile as she presented this thought to Jani. To be sure her point was not missed, she added the old Trader adage, ‘After all, it takes two to strike a bargain.’

‘Indeed,’ Jani agreed coolly. ‘But isn’t it cruel of Davad that he tempts the Ludlucks with such offers? He knows how straitened their circumstances are.’

‘Most Bingtown Traders are feeling the pinch these days. Including the Vestrits. So we form alliances with one another, ones that may strike others as strange. Davad, for instance, came by today to offer me the use of his servants, for he was well aware we had reduced our staff to a mere skeleton.’

There. That was out in the open now. If Reyn’s courtship were mistakenly based on a supposed wealth the Vestrit family no longer possessed, it would soon be terminated.

When Jani Khuprus replied, Ronica discovered she had misjudged the depth of the woman’s graciousness. ‘I, too, was aware of your financial worries. It pleases me to see Reyn courting a young woman who understands the necessity of living within one’s means. Thrift and discipline are virtues always, no matter what one’s wealth. The servants we brought with us were meant, not to embarrass you, but to assist in making this a carefree time for all.’ Sincerity rang in her voice.

Ronica answered it. ‘Davad can be a difficult friend. I could abandon him. However, I have never seen the virtue in that. I have never respected folk who cast out offspring or relatives that displeased them. It always seemed to me that the duty of family is to continue trying to correct, no matter how painful. Why should it be different with old family friends? Especially when, in many ways, we have become Davad’s family. He lost his wife and sons to the Blood Plague, as you perhaps know.’

Jani’s reply caught Ronica off balance. ‘Then you did not force Althea out of your home for improper behaviour?’

The shock of the question astounded Ronica. Was that the Bingtown rumour? Spread as far as the Rain Wilds? She was grateful for the servant that suddenly presented them with a tray of delicate cakes. Was it only last night she and Keffria had baked these? She took one and then was immediately confronted by another serving person offering a fluted glass of some Rain Wild liqueur. She accepted it with thanks and took a sip from it. ‘This is wonderful,’ she told Jani with genuine pleasure.

‘As are the cakes,’ Jani replied. She looked aside, letting her gaze linger on Reyn and Malta. Whatever she had just said to him had made him laugh. The cant of Jani’s head suggested she smiled also.

Ronica considered letting the topic drop, but then steeled herself. Best to snuff rumours as soon as they were heard. Sa alone knew how long that one had been circulating, but it had probably been about ever since last summer.

‘I did not ask Althea to leave our home. In fact, she left against my will. The division of the inheritance from her father much distressed her. She had expected to inherit the Vivacia. She was hurt when she did not, and she disagreed with how Kyle chose to run the ship. There was a quarrel and she left.’ She found it hard, but she stared squarely at Jani’s veil and added, ‘I do not know where she is now or what she is doing. If she came to the door this very moment, I would welcome her with all my heart.’

Jani seemed to return her look. ‘It was an awkward question, perhaps. It is my way, to speak directly. I do not mean to give offence by it. It has always seemed to me that honest words leave the least room for misunderstanding.’

‘I share that sentiment.’ Ronica’s eyes followed Jani’s gaze as she turned to look at Reyn and Malta. Malta had lowered her face and turned her eyes aside. Her cheeks were pink with a blush, but her eyes were merry. The tilt of Reyn’s head showed that he shared her amusement as he tried to see into her averted face.

‘Within a family, there is no room for secrets,’ Jani added.

It was wonderful, far more wonderful than Malta had ever imagined it would be. So this was what it was like to be treated properly. Her soul had starved for this her entire life, and now it was able to sate itself in sweet sensations. Flowers scented the air all around her, every type of dainty food and fine drink that she could imagine had been offered to her, and Reyn himself could not have been more attentive. She could think of nothing that could have improved the day, unless perhaps some of her friends could be present to be enviously impressed. She indulged herself in imagining that scene. Delo and Kitten and Carissa and Polia would be seated over there, and as each tray of food or drink was offered to Malta, she would take her pick of it, and then send the rest over to her friends. Later, she would apologize warmly to them that she had so little time for them. What a shame that Reyn had insisted on monopolizing her time! But, well, they knew how men were! She would smile at them knowingly. Then she would recount some of the compliments he had showered on her, or repeat some of his witticisms.

‘May I ask what now brings such a smile to your face?’ Reyn requested gently. He stood a respectful yet attentive distance from her chair. He had not accepted her offer of a seat. She lifted her eyes to his veiled face. Her pretty daydream soured. Who knew what sort of a visage smiled beneath that veil? A little quivering turned restlessly in her belly. She did not let her unease show on her face. Instead, she answered in a pleasantly modulated voice, ‘Why, I was but thinking how gay it might be if some of my friends were here to share all this with us.’ She gracefully gestured at the festive room.

‘And I was thinking the opposite,’ he replied. He had a pleasant voice. It was cultured and richly masculine. His face veil stirred lightly with the wind of his breath.

‘The opposite?’ she wondered aloud as she raised an eyebrow to his words.

He did not move from where he stood, but pitched his voice for more intimacy. ‘I was thinking how pleasant it will be when I am deep enough in your trust to see you more privately.’

All she had to go by was his posture and his voice. There was no raised brow or shy smile to accompany the words. She had spoken to men before, even flirted when her mother or grandmother was not present, but no man had ever been so frank with her. It was both heady and daunting. All the time she hesitated, she knew he studied her bared face. Try as she might, she could not keep all expression from it. How could one flirt and smile when one did not know if a man or a grotesque freak answered that smile? The thought put a tiny chill into her words. ‘Surely, we must first decide if this courtship is even to begin. Is not that what this first meeting is about: to see if we are suited to one another?’

He gave a small snort of amusement. ‘Mistress Malta, let us leave that sport to our mothers. That is their game. See how, even now, they circle one another like wrestlers, awaiting an opening, a tiny bit of imbalance in the other? They will strike the bargain that joins us, and I do not doubt that both families will benefit in every way.’

He inclined his hooded head, very slightly, towards Jani Khuprus and Ronica Vestrit. Their facial expressions were carefully pleasant, but there was a poised alertness to them that suggested some verbal contest was in progress.

‘That is my grandmother, not my mother,’ Malta pointed out. ‘And I do not understand why you speak of this meeting as a game. Surely, this is a serious moment. At least, it is for me. Do you find it trivial?’

‘I will never find trivial any moment spent in your presence. Of that, you may be assured.’ He paused, then let his words pour forth. ‘From the moment that you opened the dream box and we ventured together into your imaginings, I have known that nothing could turn me aside from this courtship. Your family sought to dampen my hopes with the notion that you were more child than woman. That I found laughable. That is the game I spoke of, the game that all families play when their offspring wish to wed. Obstacles will be invented, only to dissolve when the balance is weighted with enough gifts and trade advantages…but this talk is too blunt for us. It speaks of the pocket and not of the heart. It speaks not at all of my hunger for you.’ His words tumbled swiftly, unchecked. ‘Malta, I ache for you. I long to possess you, to share every secret of my heart with you. The sooner my mother surrenders to every demand of your family, the better. Tell your grandmother that. Tell her she may ask anything she wishes and I will be sure the Vestrits receive it, so long as I may find you soon in my arms.’

Malta recoiled with a swift intake of breath. Her shock was not feigned, but Reyn mistook the source of it. He stepped back from her and inclined his head gravely. ‘Forgive me, I beg you.’ His voice went husky. ‘I am cursed with a tongue that speaks the words of my heart before my head can intervene. How crude I must seem to you, like an animal panting after you. I vow to you, that is not so. Ever since I saw you that evening outside the Traders’ Concourse, I became aware that I had a soul as well as a mind. Before that, I was little more than an intelligent tool, serving my family as well as I could to advance their fortunes. When my brother or sisters spoke of passion and attractions, I could not grasp what they meant.’ He paused for breath, and gave a sort of laugh. ‘If you know aught of Rain Wild Folk, you will know that we usually find our hearts when we are young and wed soon after. By the customs of my folk, I have always been an odd fish. Some say I was ensorcelled young by my work, and would never know a true love for anyone human.’ A snort of disdain bespoke his disgust.

He shook his head, then went on, ‘Some whispered that I was a eunuch, incapable of a man’s passions. Their words did not bother me. I knew I had a heart, but it slept within me and I saw no need for it to awaken. In the runes I traced and deciphered, in the strange mechanisms I dismantled, I thought I had enough to occupy all my thoughts. I was annoyed when my mother insisted I accompany her to Bingtown for that meeting. Annoyed! All that was swept aside in the first moment I dared speak to you. As jidzin is wakened to light by touch, so your voice woke my heart to longing. Wild, boyish hope drove me to leave the dream-box for you. I was sure you would not open it, sure that one such as yourself would discard my dream before I could even broach it to you. But you did not. You opened my soul and shared with me a vision of such enchantment…you walked through my city and your presence awoke it to life! I had always believed the cold and silent city was my heart. You can guess what that meant to me.’

Malta heard his impassioned words with only half an ear. Her thoughts and heart were full of what he had already said. Anything that she asked, he would see that his family conceded. Anything! Her mind darted about like a startled fish. She should not ask so much that she seemed greedy. That might make him rethink his passion for her. Nor should she ask so little that she appeared foolish, or undervalued by her family. No. There was a line to tread here, one to be carefully considered. Instantly she seized on the one she considered wisest in the way of bargaining. Oh, if only her father were here, he would see to it that she used Reyn’s passion to her best advantage. In an instant, she realized that was what she must do: delay the negotiations until her father returned.

‘You are silent,’ Reyn observed in a chastened voice. ‘I have offended you.’

She moved to seize the advantage. He must think his position uncertain, but not hopeless. She tried to put a timorous smile on her face. ‘I am not accustomed…that is, no one has ever spoken to me of such…’ She let her voice trail away doubtfully. She took a breath as if composing herself. ‘My heart is beating so…Sometimes, when I am frightened, I become quite…Do you suppose you could bring me a glass of wine?’ She lifted both hands and patted lightly at her cheeks, as if endeavouring to restore herself. After the dream they had shared, could she make him believe her spirit was so delicate as to be distressed at such frank speech?

She could. There was suppressed panic in the set of his shoulders as he turned hastily from her. He snatched up a glass from the sideboard and poured her wine so hastily that it threatened to leap from the glass. When he brought it to her, she drew back slightly, as if fearing to take it from his hand. He expelled a small sound of dismay, and she forced a tremulous smile to her lips. As if she steeled herself to courage, she took the glass from him and raised it to her lips to sip delicately from it. It was an excellent vintage. She lowered the glass and sighed softly. ‘That is better. Thank you so much.’

‘How can you thank me, when I am the one who caused you such distress?’

She widened her eyes and looked up at him. ‘Oh, I am sure the fault is with me,’ she said disingenuously. ‘How foolish I must appear to you, that I begin to tremble at mere words. My mother warned me that there was still a great deal that I did not know of what it is to be a woman. This, I suppose, is part of it.’ She made a small gesture around at the room. ‘As you can tell, we live a quiet life here. I suppose I have been more sheltered than I thought. I have well understood my family’s need to live simply, within our means. Nevertheless, it has kept me apart from many experiences.’ With a tiny shrug, she confessed, ‘I know so little of the ways of young men.’ She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them as she added meekly, ‘I must ask you to be patient while I learn, I fear.’ A final glance up at him through lowered lashes. ‘I hope you will not think me stupid and dull, nor be wearied with the need to teach me such things. I hope you do not give up on me as hopelessly simple. Almost, I wish I had had other suitors, that I could already know something of the ways of men and women.’ She gave a tiny shrug and a sigh as she looked back down. She held her breath for a moment, hoping the effort would redden her cheeks as with a blush. She whispered breathlessly, ‘I confess, I almost did not understand my own dream, that night I opened the box.’ She did not look up as she pleaded prettily, ‘Could you teach me what such things signify?’

She did not need to see his face. She didn’t even need to look up at his stance. She knew she had conquered completely in the moment he replied, ‘I could think of nothing I should like better than to be your tutor in such things.’

8 IMMERSIONS

‘HE STOPPED!’ VIVACIA was astonished.

‘No!’ Wintrow shrieked, his voice breaking to a boy’s on the word.

He spun away from the railing and hurled himself from the foredeck to the main. He crossed it at a run, then raced down the companionway. Fear of death had been all that had kept the pirate clinging to life. When Wintrow and Vivacia had persuaded him not to fear it, Kennit had simply let go. At the door to the captain’s quarters, Wintrow did not knock nor pause. Etta looked up in astonished anger at his mad entrance. She had been folding lint bandages. As Wintrow rushed to Kennit’s bedside, she dropped them to the deck and tried to intercept him.

‘Don’t wake him!’ she cautioned him. ‘He’s finally resting.’

‘He’s trying to be dead!’ Wintrow contradicted her as he shouldered past her. At Kennit’s bedside, he took the pirate’s hand and called his name. There was no response. He tapped Kennit’s cheek, then slapped it almost sharply. He pinched the man’s cheek gently, then hard, trying to get a reaction. There was none. Kennit was not breathing.

He was dead.

Kennit settled into the dark, drifting down gently like a leaf falling to the forest floor. He felt warm and comfortable. A thin silver thread of pain anchored him to his life. It attenuated as he fell. Soon it must fade to nothing and then he would be free of his body. It did not seem worth his attention. Nothing was worth his attention. He let go of himself and felt his consciousness expand. Never before had he comprehended how cramped a man’s thoughts were when confined to a mere body. All those discordant worries and ideas jumbled together like a sailor’s swag in his sea bag. Now they could spread out and disconnect. Each could assume its own importance.

Abruptly he felt a tug. An insistence he could not resist drew him into itself. Reluctantly he gave way to it, but once it possessed him, it did not seem to know what to do with him. He mingled with it confusedly. It was like being plunged into a kettle of simmering fish chowder. First one thing and then another bobbed to the surface, only to float away a moment later. He was a woman, combing out her long hair as she stared thoughtfully across the water. He was Ephron Vestrit, and by Sa, he would bring his cargo through intact and on time, storm or no. He was a ship, the cold water purring past his bow, shining fish flickering below and stars glittering above him. Deeper, higher, and wider than all others, encompassing them all but thin as a coat of shellac, there was another awareness, one that spread wide her wings and soared through a summer sky. That one drew him more strongly than any of the others did and when it drifted away from him, he tried to follow it.

No, someone forbade him, gently but firmly. No. I do not go there and neither shall you. Something drew him back and held him together. He felt like a child, supported in a mother’s arms, protected and cherished. She loved him. He settled into her embrace. She was the ship, the lovely, intelligent ship he had won. The stirring of that memory was like a breath on the ember of his being. He glowed brighter and almost became aware of who he had been. That was not what he desired. He rolled over and burrowed into her, merging with her, becoming her. Lovely, lovely ship, hull to the cupping water, sails in a caressing wind, I am you and you are me. When I am you, I am wondrous and wise. He sensed her amusement at his flattery, but flattery it was not. In you, I could be perfect, he told her. He sought to dissipate himself but she held him intact.

She spoke again, her words intended for someone else. I have him. Here. You must take him and put him back. I do not know how.

A boy’s voice replied. It was uncertain and thin as smoke, coming from a great distance. Fear was making him jabber. I don’t know what you mean. How can you have him, how can I take him? Put him back how? Put him back where? The pleading desperation in the young voice rang against something inside him. It woke echoes of another boy’s voice, just as desperate, just as pleading. Please. I can’t do that. I don’t know how, I don’t want to, please, sir, please. It was the hidden voice, the secret voice, the voice that must never be acknowledged. No one else must hear it, no one. He flung himself upon it, wrapped himself around it and stilled it. He absorbed it into himself to conceal it. The divergence that was the key to him was restored. A shiver of anger ran over him, that they had forced him to be himself again.

Like that, she said suddenly to the other one. Like that. Find the pieces of him and put them back into one. More softly, she added, There are places where you almost match. Begin with those.

What do you mean, he matches me? How could he match me?

I meant only that in some ways you resemble one another. You share more than you realize. Do not fear him. Take him. Restore him.

He clung to the ship’s being more tightly than ever. He would not allow himself to be separated from her. Frantically, he strove to weave himself into her, twining his consciousness into hers as a single rope is woven from multiple strands. She did not repulse him, but neither did she welcome him in. Instead, he felt himself gathered back together, and offered in turn to an entity that was both of her and distinct from her.

Here. Take him. Put him back.

The connection between the two was amazingly complex. They loved one another and yet struggled not to be one another. Resentments burned like isolated brush fire in the landscape of their relationship. He could not discern where one left off and the other began, yet each clearly asserted ownership to a greatness of soul that could not be encompassed by a single creature. The outstretched wings of an ancient creature both sheltered and overshadowed them, yet they were unaware of it. Blind funny little creatures they were, fumbling in the midst of a love they feared to acknowledge. To win, all they had to do was surrender but they could not perceive that. The beauty of what they could have been together made him ache. It was a love he had been seeking all his life, a love to redeem and perfect him. That which he most desired, they feared and avoided.

Come back. Please. It was the boy’s voice, pleading. Kennit. Please choose to live.

The name was a magic. It bound and defined him. The boy sensed that. Kennit. He repeated the name coaxingly. Kennit, please. Kennit. Live. At each touch of the word, he became more solid. Memories coagulated around the name, scabbing over the old wound of his life and sealing him into it.

Please, he begged. He groped for his tormentor’s name. Wintrow. Please let me go. Wintrow. He sought to bind the boy as he had been bound, by the use of his name. Instead of bending Wintrow to his will, it only locked him into an awareness of the boy.

Kennit, the boy acknowledged him eagerly. Kennit. Help me. Come back to yourself, become yourself again. Enter your life again.

A curious thing happened then. In Wintrow’s urgent welcome of his self-awareness and Kennit’s sensing of the boy, they mingled. Memories churned and tumbled free of their owners. A boy wept silent tears the night before he was sent from his family to a monastery. A boy yammered in terror as he watched his father beaten unconscious while a man held him and laughed. A boy struggled and yelped in pain as a seven-pointed star was needled into his hip. A boy meditated, and saw shapes of dragons in the clouds and images of serpents in swirling water. A boy struggled with his tormentor, who throttled him into compliance. A boy sat long and still, transported by a book. A boy choked and gasped, resisting the tattooing of his face. A boy spent hours practising the careful formation of letters. A boy held his hand to the deck and refused to cry out as his infected finger was cut from his hand. A boy grinned and sweated with joy as a tattoo was seared from his hip.

The ship had been right. There were many conjunctions, many places where they matched. The congruency could not be denied. They overlapped, they were one another, and then they separated again.

Kennit knew himself again. Wintrow cowered at the harshness that had been Kennit’s early years. In the next instant, a wave of pity and compassion overwhelmed Kennit. It came from the boy. Wintrow reached out to him. Ignorantly, he sought to fix the parts that Kennit had deliberately broken away from himself. This was you. You should keep it, Wintrow kept insisting. You cannot simply discard parts of yourself because they are painful. Acknowledge them and go on.

The boy had no concept of what he was suggesting. That whimpering, crippled thing could never be a part of Kennit the Pirate. Kennit defended himself from it in the same fashion he always had. With anger and contempt he rebuffed Wintrow, severing that brief connection of empathy. In the moment before they parted, he became aware of the boy’s sudden hurt at his act. For the first time in many years, he felt remorse burn him. Before he could truly consider it, he heard as from a great distance, a woman’s voice calling his name.

‘Kennit. Oh, my Kennit. Please, please, please, don’t be gone. Kennit!’

Unavoidable pain defined the confines of his body. There was a weight on his chest and his leg ended in a sensation of wrongness. He drew in a deep breath through a throat that was raw with spirits and bile. As if pulling up an anchor by himself, he hauled his eyelids open. Light scorched his brain.

The whore clutched his left hand, weeping over it. Her wet face and dishevelled hair, her shrill cries…it was really too distressing to tolerate. He tried to jerk his hand free of her grip, but he was too weak. ‘Etta. Do stop that. Please.’ His words came out in a hoarse croak.

‘Oh, Kennit!’ she cried out in sudden joy. ‘You aren’t dead. Oh, my love.’

‘Water,’ he said to her, as much to be rid of her as for the sake of his thirst. She sprang to the task, hastening to the carafe on the sideboard across the room. He swallowed in a dry throat, then pushed vaguely at the weight on his chest. Hairy. Rough hair under his hand, and a sweaty face. He managed to lift his head a tiny bit and look down at his chest. It was Wintrow. From a chair next to the bed, the boy was collapsed forward onto Kennit. The boy’s eyes were shut, his face a dreadful pasty colour, but tears streaked his cheeks. Wintrow wept for him. A sudden rush of feeling confused Kennit. The boy’s head was on his chest, making breathing even more difficult. He wanted to push him away, but the warmth of his hair and skin under his hand awoke a foreign longing as well. It was as if he himself were embodied afresh in this lad. He could protect this boy as he had not been protected himself. He had the power to stave off the destructive forces that had once torn his own life apart.

After all, they were not that different. The ship had said so. To protect him would be like saving himself.

It was a curious feeling, that power. It offered to sate a deep hunger that had lived nameless inside him since he had been a boy himself. Before he could wonder further at it, Wintrow’s eyes opened. The boy’s gaze was dark and unguarded. He looked full into Kennit’s face with an expression of bottomless woe that changed suddenly to wonder. The boy’s hand rose to touch Kennit’s cheek. ‘You’re alive,’ he said in whispery awe. His voice wandered as if that of a fever victim but joy began to kindle in his eyes. ‘You were all in pieces. Just like a stained-glass window, all in pieces. So many parts to a man. I was amazed. You still came back.’ His eyes sagged shut on a sigh. ‘Thank you. Thank you. I didn’t want to die.’

The boy blinked his eyes and suddenly seemed more himself. He lifted his head from Kennit’s chest and looked around groggily. ‘I must have fainted,’ he said to himself in a thin voice. ‘I went so deep in the trance…that’s never happened to me before, but Berandol warned me…I suppose I’m lucky that I found my way back at all.’ He leaned back abruptly into the chair he was perched on. ‘I suppose we’re both lucky,’ he said woozily.

‘My leg is wrong,’ Kennit told him. With the boy’s head off his chest, it was easier to take breath and speak. He was now free to focus entirely on the strange sensation of his truncated body.

‘It’s numb. I treated it with kwazi fruit rind, to take the pain away for a while. You should sleep while you can. The pain will be back. We don’t have enough rind to keep it away forever.’

‘You’re in my way,’ Etta said tartly.

Wintrow gave a guilty start. She stood beside him, holding a cup of water. The boy was not truly in her way; she could have simply brought it to the other side of the bed. Wintrow took her true meaning, however. ‘Beg pardon,’ he said hastily, and rose. He staggered two steps towards the door and then collapsed to the deck as bonelessly as a dropped rag. He lay where he had swooned.

Etta gave an exclamation of annoyance. ‘I’ll call a crew man to take him away,’ she said. The sight of the unconscious boy on the deck distressed the pirate until she offered him the dripping cup.

Her long-fingered hand was cool on the back of his neck as she held up his head. His thirst was suddenly all consuming. It was ship’s water, neither cold nor fresh, tasting of the barrel it had been stored in. It was nectar. He drank it down. ‘More,’ he croaked when she took the cup away.

‘Right away,’ she promised him.

His eyes followed her as she returned to the water ewer. He noted in passing the limp boy on the floor. A moment ago, there had been something about him, something urgent he wished Etta to do. It had been important, but now he could not recall it. Instead, he was starting to float, rising off the bed. The experience was both unnerving and pleasant. The cup of water came back. He drank it all. ‘I can fly,’ he observed to the woman. ‘Now that the pain is gone, I can fly. The pain was anchoring me down.’

She smiled at him fondly. ‘You’re light-headed. And perhaps a bit drunk still.’

He nodded. He could not keep the foolish smile from his lips. A rush of gratitude suffused him. He had lived with the pain for so long and now it was gone. It was wonderful. His gratitude swelled to engulf his whole world.

The boy had done it.

He looked at Wintrow still sprawled on the floor. ‘He’s such a good boy,’ he said affectionately. ‘We care so much about him, the ship and I.’ He was getting very sleepy but he managed to bring his eyes back to the woman’s face. Her hand was touching his cheek. He reached up slowly and managed to capture it. ‘You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?’ His eyes moved across her face, from her mouth to her eyes. It was hard to make his eyes see her whole face at once. It was too much work to refocus them. ‘I can count on you for that, can’t I?’

‘Is that what you want?’ she asked him reluctantly.

‘More than anything,’ he declared passionately. ‘Be kind to him.’

‘If that is what you want, I will,’ she said, almost unwillingly.

‘Good. Good.’ He squeezed her fingers gently. ‘I knew you would if I asked you. Now I can sleep.’ He closed his eyes.

When Wintrow opened his eyes, there was a cushion under his head and a blanket thrown over him. He was on the deck of the captain’s stateroom. He tried to find his place in time. He had a fragmented dream of a stained-glass window. A frightened boy had been hiding behind it. The window had broken. Somehow, Wintrow had reassembled the window. The boy had been grateful. No. No, in the dream, he had been the boy…no, he had pieced the man back together, while Berandol and Vivacia advised him from behind a curtain of water. There had been a serpent and a dragon, too. A seven-pointed star that hurt horribly. Then he had wakened, and Etta had been annoyed with him and then…

It was no good. He could not make it come together. The long day was broken into pieces that he could not reconcile. Some parts, he knew, were from his dreams. Others seemed relentlessly real. Had he actually cut off a man’s leg earlier this afternoon? That seemed the most unlikely recollection of all. He closed his eyes and groped towards Vivacia. He was aware of her, as he always was whenever he reached towards her. A wordless communion was constant between them. He could feel that much of her, but she seemed distracted. Not disinterested in him so much as intrigued with something else. Perhaps she was as disoriented as he was. Well. It was not going to do any good to lie here.

He rolled his head and looked up at Kennit’s bunk. The pirate’s chest rose and fell reassuringly under his bedding. His colour was terrible, but he was alive. At least that much of Wintrow’s dream had been true.

He drew a deep breath, and got his arms under him. He pushed up carefully from the deck, fighting his way through a wall of vertigo. Never had a working trance so weakened him. He still was not quite sure what he had done, or if he had truly done anything at all. In his work trances at the monastery, he had learned how to engage completely with his art. Immersed in it, the various tasks of creation became a whole act. It seemed he had somehow applied that to healing Kennit, but he did not understand how. He could not remember composing himself for a work trance.

Once on his feet, he moved carefully towards the bed. Was this how it felt to be drunk, he wondered? Unsteady and dizzy, seeing colours as too bright, edges of objects sharply defined? It could not be. This was not pleasant. No one would willingly seek out these sensations. He halted at the edge of the bed. He dreaded checking the bandages on Kennit’s leg, but he knew he should. He might still be bleeding. If he was, Wintrow had no idea what he would do. Despair, he decided. He reached gingerly for the edge of the blanket.

‘Don’t wake him, please.’

Etta’s voice was so gentle he almost did not recognize it. He turned his whole body towards her. She was seated in a chair in the corner of the room. There were hollows under her eyes that he had not noticed before. Dark blue fabric overlay her lap while she plied a busy needle. She looked up at him, bit off a thread, turned her work, and began a new seam.

‘I have to see if he’s still bleeding.’ His words sounded thick and misshapen to his ears.

‘He doesn’t seem to be. However, if you disturb the bandages to check the wound, you might start blood flowing. Best to leave well enough alone.’

‘Has he awakened at all?’ His mind was starting to clear itself.

‘Briefly. Right after you…brought him back. I gave him water, lots of it. Then he dozed off again. He’s slept ever since.’

Wintrow rubbed at his eyes. ‘How long has that been?’

‘Nearly all night,’ she told him placidly. ‘It will be dawn soon.’

He could not fathom her kindly manner towards him. It was not that she looked at him warmly or smiled. Rather something was gone from her voice, an edge of jealousy or distrust that had always been there before now. Wintrow was glad that she didn’t seem to hate him any more, but he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. ‘Well,’ he said inanely. ‘I suppose I should go back to sleep for a while then.’

‘Sleep where you were,’ she suggested. ‘It’s clean and warm in here. You’re close to Kennit in case he needs you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said awkwardly. He was not sure that he wanted to sleep on the deck here. His bed would be the deck no matter where he went on the ship, but the thought of having a stranger watching him while he slept was unnerving. What happened next was even stranger. She shook out the work on her lap, holding it up between them, her eyes going from him to her needlework and back again. It was a pair of trousers, and she was obviously eyeing him to see if they would fit. He felt like he should say something, but he did not know what. She folded it back into her lap without comment. She threaded her needle again and resumed her work.

He returned to his blanket on the floor, rather like a dog returning to its designated spot. He sat, but could not bring himself to lie down. Instead, he shawled the blanket over his shoulders. He looked at Etta until she returned his gaze. ‘How did you become a pirate?’ he abruptly asked her. He hadn’t realized he was going to speak until the words popped out.

She took a breath, then spoke thoughtfully. There was no trace of regret in her voice. ‘I worked as a whore in a house in Divvytown. Kennit took a liking to me. One day I helped him kill some men who attacked him there. Afterwards, he took me out of the whorehouse and brought me here. At first, I was not sure why he had brought me to his ship, or what he expected of me. However, after a time, his thought became clear to me. I could be much more than a whore, if I chose to. He was giving me the chance.’

He stared at her. Her words had shocked him. Not her admission that she had killed men for Kennit; he had expected that of this pirate. She had called herself a whore. That was a man’s word, a shame-word flung at a woman. But she did not seem ashamed. She wielded the word like a sword, slicing away all his preconceptions of who she was. She had earned her living by her sex, and she did not seem to regret it. It roused a strange shivering of interest in him. She suddenly seemed a more powerful creature than she had just moments ago. ‘What were you before you were a whore?’ Unaccustomed to speaking the word, he put too much emphasis on it. He had not meant it to sound that way, he had not meant to ask that question at all. Had Vivacia nudged him to it?

She frowned at him, thinking he rebuked her. Her eyes were straight and flat as she said, ‘I was a whore’s daughter.’ A note of challenge crept into her voice as she asked in turn, ‘And what were you, before your father made you a slave on his ship?’

‘I was a priest of Sa. At least, I was in training to be one.’

She lifted one eyebrow. ‘Really? I’d rather be a whore.’

Her words ended their conversation irrevocably. There was nothing he could say in reply. He did not feel offended. She had pointed up the vast gulf between them in a way that denied they could communicate at all, let alone offend one another. She went back to her sewing, her head bent over her work. Her face was carefully expressionless. Wintrow felt he had lost a chance. Moments ago, it had seemed that she had opened a door to him. Now the barrier was back, solid as ever. Why should he care, he asked himself, for the depth of his disappointment surprised him? Because she was a back door to influencing Kennit, because he might need her goodwill someday, the sly part of himself suggested. Wintrow pushed the thought aside. Because she, too, is a creation of Sa, he told himself firmly. I should reach out to befriend her for herself, not for any influence she has with Kennit. Nor because she is unlike any woman I have ever known at all and I cannot resist the puzzle of her.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to sweep aside all social artifice. When he spoke, his words were sincere. ‘Please. Can we try again? I’d like to be friends.’

Etta looked up in surprise. Then her expression changed to a humourless smile. ‘In case I can save your life later? By intervening with Kennit?’

‘No!’ he protested.

‘That’s good. Because I have no influence over Kennit that way.’ Her voice dropped a note. ‘What there is between Kennit and me, I would not use that way.’

Wintrow sensed an opening. ‘I would not ask you to. I just…it would be nice to talk to someone. Just to talk. So much has befallen me recently. My friends are all dead, my father despises me, the slaves I helped do not seem to recall what I did for them, I suspect Sa’Adar would like to do away with me…’ His voice trailed away as he realized how self-pitying he sounded. He took a breath, but what came out next sounded even whinier. ‘I’m more alone than I’ve ever been. And I have no idea of what will become of me next.’

‘Who ever does?’ Etta asked him heartlessly.

‘I used to,’ he said quietly. His thoughts turned inward as he spoke. ‘When I was at the monastery, life seemed to stretch out before me like a shining road. I knew I would continue my studies. I knew I excelled at my chosen work. I genuinely loved my life. I had no desire to change any of it. Then I was summoned home, my grandfather died, and my father forced me to serve aboard the ship. Since then, I have had no say in my life. Every time I tried to take control of it, I only bent it in a stranger direction.’

She bit off her thread. ‘Sounds normal to me.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘I do not know. Perhaps it is, for other folk. I only know it was not what I was accustomed to, nor what I expected. I keep trying to think of a way to get back to where I was and restore my life to what it is supposed to be, but –’

‘You can’t go back,’ she told him bluntly. Her voice was neither kind nor unkind. ‘That part of your life is over. Set it aside as something you have finished. Complete or no, it is done with you. No being gets to decide what his life is “supposed to be”.’ She lifted her eyes and her gaze stabbed him. ‘Be a man. Discover where you are now, and go on from there, making the best of things. Accept your life, and you might survive it. If you hold back from it, insisting this is not your life, not where you are meant to be, life will pass you by. You may not die from such foolishness, but you might as well be dead for all the good your life will do you or anyone else.’ Wintrow was stunned. Heartless as her words were, they brimmed with wisdom. Almost reflexively, he sank into meditation breathing, as if this were a teaching direct from Sa’s scrolls. He explored her idea, following it to its logical conclusions.

Yes, these thoughts were of Sa, and worthy. Accept. Begin anew. Find humility again. Pre-judging his life, that was what he had been doing. Always his greatest flaw, Berandol had warned him. There was opportunity for good here, if he would just reach out towards it. Why had he been bent on returning to his monastery, as if Sa could only be found there? What had he just said to Etta? That the more he tried to take control of his life, the further he bent it. It was no wonder. He had been setting himself in opposition to Sa’s will for him.

He suddenly grasped how the slaves must have felt when the shackles were loosed from their ankles and wrists. Her words had freed him. He could let go of his self-imposed goals. He would lift up his eyes and look around him and see where Sa’s way beckoned him most clearly.

‘Stop staring at me like that.’ There was both command and an edged uneasiness in Etta’s voice. Wintrow immediately dropped his eyes.

‘I was not…I mean, I did not intend to stare. Your words simply woke in me such thoughts…Etta. Where were you taught such things?’

‘Such things as what?’ There was definite suspicion in her voice now.

‘Such things as accepting life and making the best of it…’ Spoken aloud, it seemed such a simple concept. Moments ago, those words had rung for him like great bells of truth. It was right, what they said: Enlightenment was merely the truth at the correct time.

‘In a brothel.’

Even that revelation opened his mind to light. ‘Then Sa is truly there, as well, in all his wisdom and glory.’

She smiled and it almost reached her eyes. ‘To judge from the number of men who grunt out her name as they finish, I would say Sa is definitely there.’

Wintrow looked aside from her. The image was uncomfortably vivid. ‘It must be a hard way to make your living,’ he blurted out.

‘Do you think so?’ She laughed aloud, a brittle sound. ‘That’s a surprise to me, to hear you say that. But you are still just a boy. Most men tell us they wish they could earn their bread on their backs. They think we have it easy, dealing in “pleasure” all day.’

Wintrow considered it for a moment. ‘I think it would be very hard, to be that intimate and vulnerable to a man one had no true feelings for.’

For just an instant, her eyes went pensive and dark. ‘After a time, all feelings go away,’ she said in an almost childish voice. ‘It’s a relief when they do. Things get so much easier. Then it is no worse than any other dirty job. Unless you get a man who hurts you. Still, one can get hurt working anywhere: farmers are gored by their oxen, orchard workers fall from trees, fishermen lose fingers or drown…’

Her voice trailed away. Her eyes went back to her stitching. Wintrow kept silent. After a time, a pale smile came to the edges of her mouth. ‘Kennit brought my feelings back. I hated him for it. That was the first thing he taught me to feel again: hate. I knew it was a dangerous thing. It is dangerous for a whore to feel anything. Knowing that he had made me feel emotions again just made me hate him even more.’

Why, Wintrow wondered, but he did not say the word aloud. He did not need to.

‘He came into the bagnio one day and looked around.’ Her voice was distant in reminiscence. ‘He was dressed very fine, and was very clean. A dark green broadcloth jacket with ivory buttons, and a spill of white lace down his chest and at his cuffs…He had never come to Bettel’s bagnio before, but I knew who he was. Even then, most of Divvytown knew who Kennit was. He did not come to the brothel like most men did, with a friend or two, or his whole crew. He did not come drunk and boasting. He came alone, sober and purposeful. He looked at us, really looked at us, and then he chose me. “She’ll do,” he told Bettel. Then he ordered the room he wanted and the meal. He paid Bettel, right then, in front of everyone. Then he stepped up to me as if we were already alone. He leaned close to me. I thought he was going to kiss me. Some of the men do that. Instead, he sniffed the air near me. Then he ordered me to go wash myself. Oh, I was humiliated. You would not think a whore can feel humiliation, but we can. Nevertheless, I did what I was told. Then I went upstairs and did as I was told, but no more than that. I was in a fury, and was cold as ice to him. I expected him to slap me, refuse me, or complain to Bettel. Instead, it seemed to suit his wishes.’

She paused. For a time, the silence rang in Wintrow’s ears. He knew he did not want to hear any more about this, yet he avidly hoped she would say more. It was voyeurism, pure and simple, a keen curiosity to know in detail what went on between a man and a woman. He knew the physical mechanics; such knowledge had never been concealed from him. But knowing how such things are done does not convey the real knowledge of how it happens. He waited, looking at the deck by her feet. He dared not lift his eyes to see her face.

‘Every time after that, it was the same. He came, he chose me, he told me to wash, and he used me. He made it so cold. The other men who came to the bagnio, they’d pretend a bit. They would flirt, and laugh with the girls. They would tell stories and see who listened the best. They acted as if we had some say. They made us compete for them. Some would even dance with the whores, or bring little gifts, sweets or perfumes for the ones they liked best. Not Kennit. Even when he began asking for me by my name, it was still just a transaction.’

She shook out the trousers, turned them right side out, and began to sew on them again. She took a breath once, as if she would continue. Then she gave her head a minute shake and went on with her sewing. Wintrow could not think of anything to say. Despite his fascination with her story, he was suddenly horribly tired. He wished he could go back to sleep, but he knew that even stretched out on the floor, sleep would not come to him. Outside, the night paled. Soon it would be dawn. He felt a brief stirring of triumph. He had cut Kennit’s leg off yesterday, and the pirate was still alive today. He had done it. He had saved the man’s life.

Then he rebuked himself sharply. If the pirate still lived, it was only because his will had coincided with Sa’s. To believe anything else was false pride. He glanced again at his patient. His chest still rose and fell. However, he had known that Kennit still lived before he looked. Vivacia knew, and through her, he knew. He did not want to consider that link, nor wonder how strong it was. It was bad enough that he was connected so to the ship. He did not want to share such a bond with the pirate.

Etta made a tiny sound, an intake of breath. Wintrow swung his attention back to her. She didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes focused on her stitching. Yet, there was a quiet glow of pride about her. Plainly, there was something she had well considered and decided to say to him. When she spoke, he listened silently.

‘I stopped hating Kennit when I realized what he was giving me, each time he came. Honesty. He preferred me, and he did not fear to show that. In front of everyone, he chose me, every time. He did not bait me to simper and flirt. I was what he wanted, and I was for sale, so he bought me. He was showing me that as long as I was a whore that was all we could ever share. An honest transaction.’

An odd little smile crossed her face. ‘Sometimes, Bettel would offer him other women. She had many. Some were fancier women, far more beautiful than I; some were women who knew exotic ways to please a man. Bettel sought to win his favour that way. She did that with the house patrons, to keep them loyal to her. She offered them variety, and tempted them to…acquire new preferences. I knew it did not please her to see Kennit always come to me. It made her feel less important, I suppose. Once, in front of everyone, she asked him, “Why Etta? So lanky, so plain. So ordinary. I have courtesans trained in the finest houses in Chalced. Or, if you prefer innocence, I have sweet virginal things from the countryside. You could afford the best in my house. Why do you prefer my cheapest whore?”‘ A tiny smile reached Etta’s eyes. ‘I think she thought to shame him, before the other patrons there. As if he could ever have cared what they thought. Instead, he said, “I never confuse the cost of something with its value. Etta, go and wash yourself. I shall be upstairs.” After that, all the other whores called me Kennit’s whore. They tried to make it a name that stung. But it never bothered me.’

Obviously, Kennit was a deeper man than Wintrow had supposed him to be. Most sailors did not look beyond a whore’s face and figure to make a choice. Kennit evidently had. On the other hand, perhaps the woman was deceiving herself. He glanced up at Etta’s face and then away. Uneasiness swept through him. Whence had that thought sprung? For an instant, he had felt the sting of jealousy. Had it been from the ship herself? He felt the sudden need to speak with Vivacia.

He stood, his knees crackling. His lower back was stiff, his shoulders sore. When had he last slept in a real bed, slept until he had awakened naturally? Eventually, he must pay heed to the needs of his own body, or it would enforce its demands for rest and food. Soon, he promised himself. As soon as he felt safe, he would see to himself. ‘It’s dawn,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I should check on the ship and on my father. I need to get some sleep for myself, too. Will you send for me if Kennit awakens?’

‘If he needs you,’ Etta replied coolly. Perhaps that had been the point of her entire conversation: to make clear to Wintrow her prior claim upon Kennit. Did she see him as a threat somehow? Wintrow decided he did not know enough about women. She lifted her work to her mouth, and bit off a thread. Then she too, stood, shaking out the garment she had finished. ‘For you,’ she said abruptly, and thrust the trousers at him. He started towards her to take the gift from her hands, but she tossed it at him, forcing him to catch it awkwardly. One trouser leg slapped him lightly in the face.

‘Thank you,’ he said uncertainly.

She didn’t look at him, nor acknowledge his words. Instead she opened a clothes chest and rummaged through it. She came up with a shirt. ‘Here. This will do for you. It’s one of his old ones.’ She fingered the fabric for a moment. ‘It’s a very good weave. He knows quality, that one.’

‘I am sure he does,’ Wintrow replied. ‘He chose you, as you have told me.’ It was his first effort at a gallantry. Somehow, it did not come out quite right. The comment hung crookedly between them. Etta stared at him, sorting the words to see if they held an insult. The heat of a blush rose to his cheeks; what had ever possessed him to say such a thing? Then she tossed the shirt at him. It collapsed over his hands, decent heavy cloth, strong yet supple. It was a very good shirt, much too fine to dispose of so casually. Was there, he wondered, a message here, one that Etta scarcely knew that she conveyed? He draped the garments over his arm. ‘Thank you for the clothing,’ he said again, determined to be polite.

Her eyes levelled with his. ‘Kennit wants you to have them, I am sure,’ she said. Just as he began to feel grateful, she doused it with, ‘You will be looking after him. He demands cleanliness of those around him. You should take time today to wash yourself, including your hair.’

‘I’m not…’ he began and then stopped. He was dirty. A moment’s reflection made him realize he stank. He had cleansed his hands after he cut off Kennit’s leg, but he had not washed his entire body for days. ‘I will,’ he amended humbly. Carrying the clothes, he left the captain’s cabin.

The disarray and crowding on the captured ship almost seemed normal now. His eyes no longer snagged on every splintered doorjamb. He could look past bloodstains on the decks and walls. As he emerged onto the deck, he pressed his back to the wall to make room for a couple to pass him. They were both map-faces. The man was a bit simple, Wintrow recalled. Dedge was his name. He was one of the map-faces Etta had chosen to hold Kennit down. He always seemed to be with the younger, quicker Saylah. They scarcely noticed Wintrow as they brushed past him, so caught up were they in one another. That, too, had begun to happen. He should have expected it. After any disaster, that was always the first sign of returning hope. Men and women paired off and coupled. He looked after them curiously, wondering where they would find privacy. Idly, he wondered if they had been slaves long, if privacy were of any concern to them any more. He realized he was staring after them. With a twitch of annoyance at himself, he called to mind his errands. Confer with Vivacia. Check on his father. Eat. Bathe. Sleep. Check on Kennit. His life suddenly assumed a shape, with a schedule to his hours and purpose to his acts. He made his way forward.

The Vivacia still swung at anchor in the small cove. Had it truly been just one night since they had hidden here? A mist was dispersing in the morning sunlight. Soon the sun might have enough strength to warm the day. The figurehead stared out towards the wide channel as if keeping watch. Perhaps she was.

‘I worry that the other ship will never find us.’ She spoke aloud in answer to his silent thought. ‘How will they know where to look?’

‘I have the feeling that Kennit and Sorcor have sailed together for a long time. Such men have ways of doing things, ways they pass on to their crews. Besides, Kennit is still alive. Before long, he may feel well enough to guide us to Bull Creek himself.’ Wintrow spoke reassuringly, attempting to comfort the ship.

‘Perhaps,’ Vivacia conceded grudgingly. ‘But I would feel better if we were underway already. He has survived the night, that is true. Nevertheless, he is far from strong, or cured. Yesterday, he died when he stopped struggling to live. Today, he struggles to cling to life. I do not like how his dreams twitch and dance. I would feel better if he were in the hands of a real healer.’

Her words stung, just a bit. Wintrow knew he was not a trained healer, but she might have spoken some word of admiration at how well he had done so far. He glanced down at the deck where he had performed his crude surgery. Kennit’s flowing blood had followed the contours of his supine body. The dark stain was an eerie outline of his injured leg and hip. It was not far from Wintrow’s own bloody handprint. That mark had never been erased from the deck. Would Kennit’s shadow stay as well? Uneasily, Wintrow scuffed at it with his bare foot.

It was like sweeping his fingers across a stringed instrument, save that the chord he awoke was not sound. Kennit’s life suddenly sang with his own. Wintrow reeled with the force of the connection, then sat down hard on the deck. A moment later, he tried to describe it to himself. It had not been Kennit’s memories, nor his thoughts or dreams. Instead, it had been an intense awareness of the pirate. The closest comparison he could summon was the way a perfume or scent could suddenly call up detailed memories, but a hundred times stronger. His sense of Kennit had almost driven him out of himself.

‘Now you glimpse how it is for me,’ the ship said quietly. A moment later she added, ‘I did not think it could affect you that way.’

‘What was that?’

‘The power of blood. Blood remembers. Blood recalls not days and nights and events. Blood recalls identity.’

Wintrow was silent, trying to grasp the full import of what she was saying. He reached out a hand towards Kennit’s spilled shadow on the deck. Then he pulled back his fingers. No amount of curiosity could draw him to experience that again. The potency of it had dizzied his soul and nearly displaced him from himself.

‘And that is what you felt,’ the ship added to his thought. ‘You, who have blood of your own. At least you possess your own body, your own set of memories and your own identity. You can set Kennit aside and say, “He is not I.” I have none of that. I am no more than wood impregnated with the memories of your family. The identity you call Vivacia is one I have cobbled together for myself. When Kennit’s blood soaked into me, I was powerless to refuse it. Just like the night of the slave uprising, when man after man entered me, and I was powerless to deny any of them.

‘The night all that blood was spilled…Imagine being drenched in identities, not once or twice, but dozens of times. They collapsed on my decks and died, but as their blood soaked into me, they made me the reservoir of who they had been. Slave or crewmember, it made no difference. They came to me. All that they were, they added to me. Sometimes, Wintrow, it is too much. I walk the spiral pathways of their blood, and I know who they were in detail. I cannot free myself from those ghosts. The only more powerful influences are those of you who possess me doubly: with your blood soaked into my planks and your minds linked to mine.’

‘I do not know what to say,’ Wintrow replied lamely.

‘Do you think I do not already know that?’ Vivacia replied bitterly.

A long silence fell between them. To Wintrow, it was as if the very planks of the deck emanated cold towards him. He crept away quietly, his new clothes bundled under his arm, but he took the knowledge with him that there was nowhere he could go that would free her from his presence. Accept life as it came. That was what Etta had said to him but a short time ago. Then, it had seemed brilliant. He tried to imagine accepting that their eternal fate was to be bound together. He shook his head to himself.

‘If this be your will, O Sa, I know not how to endure it gladly,’ he said quietly. It was pain to feel Vivacia echo the same thought.

It was hours later and the sun was high when the Marietta found them. She had a long scorched area along her starboard railing. Deckhands were already at work repairing it. An even plainer sign of both her encounter and her triumph was the string of severed heads that dangled from her bowsprit. The cry of the lookout had brought Wintrow out on deck. Now he stared in sick fascination as the ship drew nearer. He had seen carnage the night the slaves had risen and taken over the Vivacia. These trophies went beyond carnage into a planned savagery that he could not completely grasp.

The men and women that lined the railings alongside him lifted up a cheer at the bloody prizes. To them, the heads represented not only the Satrap who had condoned their slavery but Chalced, the most avaricious market for enslaved humanity. As the Marietta drew closer, Wintrow could see other signs of their battle with the patrol galley. Several of the pirates wore crude bandages. That didn’t stop them from grinning and waving to their compatriots aboard Vivacia.

There was a tug at Wintrow’s sleeve. ‘The woman says you’re to come and wait on the Captain,’ Dedge told him dourly. Wintrow looked at him carefully, fixing the man’s face and his name in his memory. He tried to look past the lineage of his slavery and see the man beneath the sprawling tattoos. His eyes were sea-grey, his hair no more than a fringe above his ears. Despite his years, muscle showed through his rags. Etta had already marked him as her own; he wore a sash of silk about his waist. ‘The woman’ he had called her, like a title, as if she were the only woman aboard the ship. Wintrow supposed that in a sense, she was. ‘I’ll come right away,’ he responded to the man.

The Marietta was dropping anchor. Soon a gig would be lowered to bring Sorcor aboard to report to Kennit. Wintrow had no idea why Kennit had summoned him, but perhaps Kennit would allow him to be in the room when Sorcor reported. Earlier today, when he had checked on his father, Kyle had insisted Wintrow must gather as much knowledge of the pirates as he could. Wintrow tried to push the memory of that painful hour away.

Confinement and pain had made Kyle more of a tyrant than ever, and he seemed to believe Wintrow was his only remaining subject. In truth, the boy felt almost no loyalty to him at all, save for a residue of duty. His father’s insistence that he must constantly spy and plot for a way to regain control of the ship struck him as laughable. But he had not laughed; he had merely let the man rant while he saw to his injuries and coaxed him to eat the dry bread and old water that were the only rations afforded him. It was easier to let his words flow past. Wintrow had nodded to them, but said little in reply. To try to explain their real situation aboard the Vivacia would only have angered Kyle. Wintrow had let him keep his far-fetched dream that they would somehow regain control of the ship. It seemed the easiest thing to do. Soon enough, they would reach Bull Creek, and then they both must confront what had befallen them. Wintrow would not battle his father to make him recognize reality; reality would do that itself.

He tapped at the door, then entered at Etta’s soft response. Kennit was awake on the bunk. He turned his head to greet him with, ‘She won’t help me sit up.’

‘She is right. You should not sit up, not yet,’ Wintrow replied. ‘You should lie still and rest completely. How do you feel?’ He set his hand to the pirate’s forehead.

Kennit rolled his head away from the touch. ‘Wretched. Oh, do not ask me what I feel. I am alive; what can it matter what I feel? Sorcor is coming, fresh from triumph, and here I lie, mauled and stinking like a corpse. I will not be seen like this. Help me to sit up, at least.’

‘You must not,’ Wintrow warned him. ‘Your blood is quiescent just now. Lie still and let it remain so. To sit up will change the reservoirs of your organs, and may spill blood that then must find its way out through your wound. This I learned well at the monastery.’

‘This I learned well on the deck: a pirate captain who can no longer actively lead his crew is soon fish bait. I will be sitting up when Sorcor arrives here.’

‘Even if it kills you?’ Wintrow asked quietly.

‘Are you challenging my will in this?’ Kennit demanded abruptly.

‘No. Not your will. Your common sense. Why choose to die here, in your bed, for a certainty, simply to impress a man who impresses me as unfailing in his loyalty to you? I think you misjudge your crew. They will not turn on you over your need to rest.’

‘You’re a puppy,’ Kennit declared in disdain. He rolled his head away from the boy, choosing to look at the wall. ‘What can you know of loyalty, or how a ship is run? I tell you, I will not be seen like this.’ There was an edge in his voice that Wintrow suddenly recognized.

‘Why did you not say that your pain was back? The kwazi rind essence can dull it again. You will think more clearly without agony distracting you. And you will be able to rest.’

‘You mean I will be more tractable if you drug me,’ Kennit snarled. ‘You simply seek to impose your will upon me.’ He lifted a shaking hand to his brow. ‘My head pounds with pain; how can that be due to my leg? Is it not more likely the result of some poison given me?’ Even in his weariness, the pirate managed to summon up a look of sly amusement. Clearly, he supposed he had surprised Wintrow in a plot.

His words shocked Wintrow into momentary silence. How did one deal with such suspicion and distrust? In a cold, stiff voice he heard himself say, ‘I will force no medicines upon you, sir. If your pain becomes such that you desire release from it, summon me and I shall apply the kwazi rind. Until then, I shall not trouble you.’ He spoke over his shoulder as he turned to go. ‘If you sit up to see Sorcor, the flow of blood you cause will end both our lives. But I cannot argue with your stubbornness.’

‘Stop this,’ Etta hissed at both of them. ‘There is a simple solution, one that may please us all. Will you allow me to suggest it?’

Kennit rolled his head back to stare at her with dulled eyes. ‘It is?’ he prompted.

‘Do not receive Sorcor. Simply give him an order to sail for Bull Creek and we will follow him. He does not need to know how weak you are. By the time we arrive in Bull Creek, you may be stronger.’

A spark of cunning lit in Kennit’s eyes. ‘Bull Creek is too close,’ he declared. ‘Have him lead us back to Divvytown. That will give me more time to recover.’ He paused. ‘But Sorcor will surely wonder that I do not wish to hear his report. He will suspect something.’

Etta folded her arms across her chest. ‘Say you are busy. With me.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘Send the boy to give the word to Brig, to pass to Sorcor. He will accept it.’

‘It might work,’ Kennit assented slowly. He flapped a slow hand at Wintrow. ‘Go now, right now. Tell Brig I am with Etta and do not wish to be disturbed. Pass on to him my orders that we are to head for Divvytown.’ Kennit’s eyes narrowed, but from slyness or weariness, Wintrow could not tell. ‘Suggest I may judge Brig’s seamanship by how well he manages the ship between here and there. Imply this is a test of his skill, not a lapse on my part.’ His eyelids sagged further. ‘Wait a time, until we are under way. Then come back here. I will judge you by how well this task is done. Convince Brig and Sorcor, and perhaps I will trust you to numb my leg for me.’ Kennit’s eyes closed completely. In a smaller voice he added, ‘Perhaps I shall let you live.’

9 BINGTOWN

DEEP INSIDE PARAGON, Amber tossed and turned like badly digested biscuit in a sailor’s gut. A dream he was not privy to tore at her sleep, rending her rest into a blanketed struggle with herself. Sometimes Paragon was tempted to reach for her thoughts and share her distress, but most nights he was simply grateful that her torment was not his.

She had come to live aboard him, to sleep inside him at night and guard him from those who might come to tow him away and destroy him. In her own way, she had complied with his request as well. She had stocked several of his holds, not with driftwood and cheap lamp oil, but with the hardwoods and finishing oils of her trade. The fiction between them was that she stored them there so that she could sit beneath his bow of an evening and carve. They both knew that it would take but a moment to kindle the dry wood with the oil and fill him with flame. She would not let him be taken alive.

Sometimes he almost felt sorry for her. It was not easy for her to live inside the tilted quarters of the captain’s room. With much muttering, she had cleared Brashen’s abandoned possessions from the chambers. Paragon had noticed that she handled them thoughtfully before she carefully stowed them belowdecks. Now she had taken over those quarters and slept in his hammock at night. She cooked out on the beach when the evenings were fine, and ate cold food at other times. Each day when she trudged off to her shop at daybreak, she took a water bucket with her. Every evening she returned laden with the brimming bucket and whatever she had brought from the market for her dinner. Then she would bustle about inside him, singing nonsense songs to herself. If the evening was fine, she kindled a cook-fire and talked to him while she prepared her simple meal. In a way, it was pleasant to have company on a daily basis. In another way, it chafed him. He had grown accustomed to his solitude. Even in the midst of a companionable talk, he would know that their arrangement was temporary. All humans did was temporary. How else could it be, with creatures who died? Even if she stayed with him the rest of her life, she would still eventually be gone. Once he had grasped that thought, he could not be rid of it. To know that his days with Amber must, eventually, come to an end gave him a feeling of waiting. He hated waiting. Better to be done with it, and have her gone than to spend all his time with her waiting for the day she would leave him. Often it made him cross and short-spoken with her.

But not tonight. Tonight they had had a merry evening together. She had insisted on teaching him a silly song, and then they had sung it together, first as a duet for two voices and then as a round. He had discovered he liked singing. She had taught him other things as well. Not weaving a hammock: that he had learned from Brashen. He did not think she knew such sailorly skills. However, she had given him soft wood and an oversize blade that he might try his hand at her trade. Sometimes she played another game with him, one that was somewhat unsettling. With a long light pole, she would reach up to tap him gently. The game was that he must bat the pole aside. She praised him most when he could deflect the tip before it actually touched him. He was getting good at the game. If he concentrated, he could almost feel the pole by the slight movement of air that it caused. Another fiction between them was that this was just a game. He recognized it for what it was: a drill in skills that might help him protect himself, if it came to a direct attack. How long could he protect himself though? He smiled grimly into the darkness. Long enough for Amber to be able to kindle fires inside him.

He wondered if that was what brought her bad dreams. Perhaps she dreamed that she had set fire to him and had not had time to escape. Perhaps she dreamed that she was burning inside his hull, the flesh crisping away from her bones as she screamed. No. This was more of a whimpering and pleading she made in her sleep, not the scream that could wake her. Sometimes, when the nightmares were upon her, it took her a long time to struggle back to wakefulness. Then, smelling of fear sweat, she would come out onto the deck to take in great gasps of cool night air. Sometimes when she sat down on his sloping deck with her back to the cabin, he could feel the trembling of her slender body.

That thought made him lift his voice. ‘Amber? Amber, wake up! It’s only a dream.’

He felt her shift restlessly and heard her incoherent reply. It sounded as if she called to him from a vast distance.

‘Amber!’ he replied.

She thrashed violently, more like a fish caught in a net than a woman sleeping in a hammock, then she was suddenly still. Three breaths later, he felt her bare feet hit the floor. She padded toward the hooks where she kept her garments. A moment later she was moving across his canted deck. Light as a bird, she dropped over his side to land on the sand. A moment later she leaned against his planking. Her voice was hoarse. ‘Thank you for waking me. I think.’

‘You wished to remain in your nightmare?’ He was puzzled. ‘I understood such experiences were unpleasant, almost as unpleasant as living through the reality.’

‘They are. Extremely unpleasant. But sometimes, when such a dream comes repeatedly, it is because I am meant to experience it and heed it. After a time, such dreams can come to make sense. Sometimes.’

‘What did you dream?’ Paragon asked unwillingly.

She laughed unevenly. ‘The same one. Serpents and dragons. The nine-fingered slave boy. Moreover, I hear your voice, calling warnings and threats. But you are not you. You are…someone else. And there is something…I don’t know. It all tatters away like cobwebs in the wind. The more I grasp after it, the worse I rend it.’

‘Serpents and dragons.’ Paragon spoke the dread words unwillingly. He tried to laugh sceptically. ‘I’ve taken the measure of serpents in my day. I do not think much of them. However, there are no such things as dragons. I think your dream is only a nasty dream, Amber. Set it aside and tell me a story to clear our minds.’

‘I think not,’ Amber replied unsteadily. Her dream had shaken her more than Paragon had thought. ‘For if I tried to tell stories tonight, I would tell you of the dragons I have seen, flying overhead against the blue sky. It was not so many years ago, and not so far to the north of here. I will tell you this, Paragon. Were you to tie up in a Six Duchies harbour, and tell the folk there that there were no such things as dragons, they would scoff at you for foolish beliefs.’ She leaned her head back against him and added, ‘First, though, they would have to get used to the idea that there was truly such a thing as a liveship. Until I saw one and heard him speak, I had believed liveships were only a wild tale concocted to enhance the reputation of the Bingtown Traders.’

‘Did you truly find us that strange?’ Paragon demanded.

He felt her turn her head to gaze up at him. ‘One of the strangest things about you, my dear, is that you have no idea how wondrous you are.’

‘Really?’ He fished for another compliment.

‘You are fully as marvellous as the dragons I saw.’

She had expected the comparison to please him. He sensed that, but instead it made him uneasy. Was she fishing for secrets? She’d get none from him.

She seemed unaware of his displeasure as she mused, ‘I think there is in the heart of a man a place made for wonder. It sleeps inside, awaiting fulfilment. All one’s life, one gathers treasures to fill it. Sometimes they are tiny glistening jewels: a flower blooming in the shelter of a fallen tree, the arch of a small child’s brow combined with the curve of her cheek. Sometimes, however, a trove falls into your hands all at once, as if some greedy pirate’s chest spilled before an unsuspecting beholder. Such were the dragons on the wing. They were every gem colour I know, and every possible shape one could imagine. Some were dragons such as I knew from childhood tales, but others had shapes whimsical and still others were terrifying in their strangeness. There were proper dragons, some with long serpentine tails, some four-legged, some two, red and green and gold and sable. Flying amongst them were winged stags, a formidable boar who swept his tusks from side to side as he flew, and one like a great winged serpent and even a great striped cat, with striped wings…’ Her voice died away, subsiding in awe.

‘They weren’t real dragons, then,’ Paragon observed snidely.

‘I tell you, I saw them,’ she insisted.

‘You saw something. Or some things, some of which had stolen the shapes of dragons. Nevertheless, they were not real dragons. As well to say that you saw green, blue, and purple horses, some of which had six legs and some shaped like cats. Such things would not be horses at all. Whatever it was you saw, they were not dragons.’

‘Well…but…’

It pleased him to hear her flounder for words. She who was usually so glib. He didn’t help her.

‘Some were dragons,’ she finally defended herself. ‘Some were shaped and coloured just as the dragons I have seen in ancient scrolls and tapestries.’

‘Some of your flying things were shaped like dragons and some like cats. As well to say that flying cats are real, and sometimes they are shaped like dragons.’

She was silent for a long time. When she spoke, he knew she had been thinking and that her chain of thought had dragged her back to his personal history. ‘Why,’ she asked in a deceptively courteous tone, ‘is it so essential to your happiness that there be no such thing as dragons? Why are you so intent on crushing the wonder I felt at the sight of those creatures winging?’

‘It isn’t. I don’t. I simply believe that one should say what one means. I don’t care that you wondered at them. I just don’t think you should call such things dragons.’

‘Why? If there are no such things as dragons, what does it matter what I call the creatures I saw? Why should not I name them dragons if that name pleases me?’

‘Because,’ he declared, suddenly nettled beyond all reason. ‘Because if there were any such thing as dragons still, it would demean them to be grouped with such grotesques.’

Suddenly she sat up straight. He felt her shift away from him. He could almost feel her prying stare trying to pierce the darkness and see what little the hatchet had left of his face. ‘You know something,’ she accused him. ‘You know something about dragons, and you know something about my dream and what it means. Don’t you?’

‘I don’t even know what you dreamed,’ he stated. He tried to make his voice reasonable, but it climbed up the scale and cracked. It always chose the worst times to do that. ‘And I’ve never seen any dragons.’

‘Not even in your dreams?’ Her soft question was as insidious as drifting fog.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he warned her suddenly.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said, but he did not believe her. If she touched him, skin to wood, and reached hard enough, she would know if he were lying. That was not fair. He couldn’t do that to her.

‘Do you ever dream of dragons?’ she asked him. It was a direct question, asked in a casual voice. He did not fall for it.

‘No,’ he replied succinctly.

‘Are you sure? I thought you had spoken to me about such dreams, once…’

He shrugged, an elaborate charade. ‘Well, perhaps I did. I don’t recall. Maybe I did dream such a dream, but it wasn’t important to me. Not all dreams are important, you know. In fact, I wonder if any dreams are important or significant.’

‘Mine are,’ said Amber defeatedly. ‘I know they are. That is why it is so distressing when I cannot grasp what they mean. Oh, Paragon, I fear I’ve made an error. I pray it is not a grievous one.’

He smiled in the darkness. ‘Well, how grievous an error can a bead-maker commit? I am sure you are troubling yourself over nothing. Dragons and sea serpents indeed. What do such fantastic creatures have to do with you and me?’

‘Sea serpents!’ Amber suddenly exclaimed. ‘Ah!’ For a long time, she was silent. Then he almost felt the warmth of her smile wash against him. ‘Sea serpents,’ she affirmed to herself softly. ‘Thank you, Paragon. Thank you for that much.’

‘It’s not your watch.’ Ophelia spoke the words quietly.

‘I know that as well as you do. I couldn’t sleep,’ Althea replied. She looked out past the figurehead. The waves were gentle swells. The soft spring wind pushed her light cloak against her body.

‘I know that as well as you do,’ Ophelia countered. ‘You’ve been tossing in your bunk for two hours now. Why? Are you excited about docking in Bingtown tomorrow?’

‘Yes. But not in a glad way. I fear all I must face tomorrow. My sister, my mother. Kyle, perhaps, if Vivacia is there. Oh, Ophelia, I even dread facing my ship when the time comes. How can I look at her and explain how and why I let her go?’

‘You know you will not have to. Just put your hand to her planking and she will feel it all, as surely as I do.’

Althea slid her hands lovingly along the polished railing. ‘It is such a wonder to me, the understanding that has developed between us. It is another reason I dread docking in Bingtown tomorrow. I have felt so safe aboard you. I hate to leave you.’

A light footfall on the deck behind her turned her head. It was Grag. He moved across the moonlit deck, his bare feet falling softly. He wore only his trousers. His hair was tousled and boyish. Obviously, he had recently awakened, yet there was still a tigerish grace to his gait as he crossed the deck. A slow smile crept across Althea’s face. Very softly, Ophelia answered her thought. ‘Men have no concept of their own beauty.’

Grag grinned as he approached. ‘I tapped at your door. When I didn’t find you there, I knew right away where to look.’

‘Oh?’ Ophelia broke in archly. ‘Are you in the habit of tapping at Althea’s door at this hour? With no shirt on?’

‘Only when my father wakes me up and asks me to,’ Grag replied easily. ‘He said he wanted to have a quiet talk with both of us.’

‘I was not to be included in this “quiet talk”?’ Ophelia demanded, already offended.

‘I assume you were, since he asked me to wake Althea and bid her to come here. I thought you might even have suggested it.’

‘No. It’s my idea.’ Captain Tenira stepped quietly into their circle. A coal glowed in the bowl of his short stemmed pipe and fragrant smoke drifted with him. ‘Call me a fearful old man if you will, but there are some precautions I’d like to take before we dock in Bingtown. And they involve Althea.’ His serious tone quenched their banter.

‘What did you have in mind?’ Althea asked.

‘I’ve been thinking about our encounter with that Chalcedean galley. They were flying the Satrap’s banner. Things have been changing in Bingtown for the last few years. I don’t know how much favour and influence that captain may have there, or whether he would send a complaint there about our response.’ Captain Tenira gave a disgusted snort. ‘When he finally got under way again, he may even have fled there. So. Depending on how much influence he has there…and on how badly the Satrap currently grovels to Chalced…we may have an unpleasant welcome awaiting us.’

A little silence fell over the group. It was obvious to Althea that Grag had given this no more thought than she had. It was not that she had dismissed the incident as trivial: never that! Ophelia’s beautiful, slender-fingered hands were scorched. No matter how many times the figurehead assured her that she did not feel pain, at least, not as humans did, Althea still winced at every glimpse of her blackened hands. Althea had looked forward to reaching Bingtown, and expected that the other Old Traders would share her deep anger and affront at the attack. Never had she paused to think that others there might think the Chalcedean galley and her crew had been wronged.

Captain Tenira gave them time to mull this before he spoke again. ‘As I said, I might simply be a fearful old man. What, I asked myself, is the worst they can do to me? Well, I answered, they could seize my ship when I tied up at the tax dock. Why, they might even take custody of my first mate and me. Then who would go to my family, to tell what had befallen us? Who would witness to the Bingtown Trader Council and demand their aid? I have many good hands good sailors one and all – but,’ he shook his head, ‘good speakers they are not, nor are they Bingtown Traders.’

Althea grasped it instantly. ‘You want me to go?’

‘If you would.’

‘Of course. Without hesitation. I wonder that you think you need to ask this.’

‘Of that, I had no doubt. But there is more, I’m afraid,’ Captain Tenira said quietly. ‘The more I dwell on what may have changed in Bingtown, the less confidence I have of our welcome. To be safe, to be sure, I think it would be best if you resumed your boy’s guise. That way, you could more easily slip away from the ship. If you had to.’

‘Do you really believe it is likely to come to that?’ Grag asked incredulously.

Captain Tenira sighed. ‘Son, we carry a spare mast belowdecks. Why? Not because we are likely to need it but because some day we may. That is how I prefer to think of this as well.’

‘I would feel as if I were sending her to face danger alone,’ Grag objected suddenly.

His father eyed him levelly. ‘If it comes to this, we may actually be helping her to slip away from danger before the trap can close on her as well. It would be more advantageous to them to hold hostages from two Bingtown Trader families than one.’

‘Them? Who are “them”?’ Ophelia suddenly demanded. ‘And why should any Bingtown Trader have to fear any one in Bingtown, save another Trader? Bingtown is our town. The Satrap Esclepius deeded it to us many years ago.’

‘And Satrap Cosgo has been whittling away at that deed ever since he inherited the Mantle of Righteousness.’ Captain Tenira closed his mouth suddenly, as if biting back bitter words. In a milder voice he went on, ‘Others have come to power in Bingtown. At first, we paid little heed to the tariff collectors. Even when they demanded a tax dock where each ship must first tie up, we conceded it as sensible. When they demanded the right to inspect cargoes for themselves rather than take the captain’s word on what he carried, we laughed and agreed. It was our town. Their suspicions were offensive, but in much the same way that rude children are offensive. We did not count on this wave of so-called New Traders, who would ally with the Satrap’s tax collectors to gain power. Nor did any of us ever believe that any Satrap would accept Chalced’s grubby hand in friendship, let alone permit Chalcedean galleys in our waters under the guise of law and protection.’ He shook his head to himself. ‘These are the things I have been contemplating tonight, and that is why I have decided to err on the side of caution.’

‘It seems wise –’ Althea began but Ophelia broke in, ‘You said they might seize me. I shall not allow it. I did not permit those Chalcedean swine to board me and I shall not permit ’

‘Yes, you shall.’ Captain Tenira’s grave voice stopped her defiance cold. ‘Just as Grag and I shall permit them to detain us, if they attempt it. I have thought this through, my dear, to the bitter dregs. It is time Bingtown awakened. We have been slumbering and letting others chip and nibble away at what is ours. A few days ago, Chalcedean pirates masquerading as the Satrap’s patrol attacked us. A day or so from now, brigands and kidnappers masquerading as lawful tariff collectors may hold us. We shall let them seize us and detain us. Not because we recognize their right to do so, nor because we cannot defy them, but only to show the rest of Bingtown the powers these little upstarts have claimed. The danger must be recognized, while it is still easy to destroy. Therefore, I beg you, if they attempt to seize you, even to put armed guards aboard you, I think we should permit it. They cannot hold us long, once Bingtown is roused. Let Ophelia become a rallying point for Bingtown Trader pride.’

Ophelia allowed the silence to hang for a moment. ‘I suppose I shall allow it,’ she finally conceded. ‘Only because you ask it of me.’

‘That’s my good girl,’ Tenira praised her warmly. ‘Never fear. Grag and I will see that you take no harm.’

Ophelia rolled her shoulders. ‘I shall see that you take no harm,’ she suggested.

Her captain smiled wanly. ‘Well. That is certainly a great relief to me.’ His glance went from Grag to Althea and then to the moonlit night above them. ‘I am suddenly weary,’ he announced. He looked only at Althea. ‘Will you take my watch for me? You seem wide awake.’

‘Pleased to do so, Sir. You’ve given me a great deal to mull over.’

‘Thank you. Carry on, then, Althea. Good night, Grag.’

‘Good night, Sir,’ the son replied.

Just before the captain was out of earshot, Ophelia observed, ‘How sweet! He found a way to leave you two alone in the moonlight.’

‘Pity you can’t do the same,’ Grag replied without rancour.

‘Leave you unchaperoned? Shame upon you, for even suggesting such a thing.’

He made no reply to that, but only went to the port side to lean on the railing. With a wink and a toss of her great head, Ophelia urged Althea to join him there. Althea sighed ruefully, then followed the ship’s suggestion.

‘You haven’t said much to me, these last few days,’ Grag remarked quietly to the night sea.

‘My work has kept me busy. When your father gives me a ship’s ticket, I want to have truly earned it.’

‘You already have. No one on board this vessel would ever dispute your ability. However, I do not think you have truly been that busy. I think our last conversation made you uncomfortable.’

She did not deny it. Instead, she noted, ‘You speak very directly, don’t you? I like that.’

‘Simple questions usually get simple answers. A man likes to know where he stands.’

‘That’s reasonable. A woman needs some time to think.’ Althea tried to keep her tone light but not flippant.

He did not meet her eyes as he pressed her. ‘Most women don’t need time to think about whether or not they could love someone.’ Was there a trace of hurt in his voice?

‘I didn’t think that was what you had asked me,’ Althea replied honestly. ‘I thought the topic under discussion was a possible marriage between us. If you are asking whether I could come to care for you, then I believe the answer is an easy “yes”. You are thoughtful, courteous and kind.’ Althea glanced toward Ophelia. The figurehead was intently motionless, staring over the water. Althea pitched her voice just a trifle louder. ‘Not to mention that you are very handsome and likely to inherit a beautiful ship.’

As she had hoped, they both laughed, and suddenly the atmosphere eased. Grag reached casually to cover her hand with his. She did not move away but added in a lower voice, ‘Marriage is not about love alone. Especially not a marriage between two Bingtown Trader families. For that is what it would be, not a simple joining of you and me, but an alliance of our families. I have to think of many things. If I married you, and went to sea with you, what would become of my own ship? All I have done in the last year, Grag, I have done with an eye to recovering her. Would marrying you mean giving up Vivacia?’ She faced him and he looked down on her with shadowed eyes. ‘Would you give up the Ophelia to marry me and live with me aboard the Vivacia while I captained her?’

The shock on his face made it evident he had never considered such a question.

‘And that is but the first of my considerations. I must ask myself, what would I bring to our partnership, other than my family’s debts? I inherited nothing from my father, Grag. Nothing except the sailing skills he taught me. I am sure my family would give me some sort of a dowry for the sake of respectability. But it would not be what you could usually expect to accompany a Trader’s daughter.’ Althea shook her head. ‘You could get more marrying a Three Ships girl. They’d pay richly for the family connection.’

He lifted his hand from hers. There was almost a chill in his voice as he asked, ‘Did you think that was why I made my proposal? To see how good an offer your family would make?’

‘No. Nevertheless, it is something I must consider, if only for the sake of my pride. You were the one who suggested that perhaps planning should come ahead of passion. So I consider the situation from every angle. Look at it coldly, Grag. To marry you, I must not only give up my ship, but also see her in the hands of a man I despise. To marry me, you must give up other partners who might create lucrative alliances for your family. If you consider these aspects, it does not look promising for us.’

Grag took in a slow breath. ‘I suppose you are right and –’

‘Just kiss her, you great booby!’ Ophelia hissed loudly.

Althea burst into a laugh that was cut off by Grag’s mouth on hers. The kiss was startling, and her body’s response to it was shocking. Heat washed through her and she turned towards him, lifting one hand to his shoulder. She expected him to embrace her and continue the kiss. Before she could wonder how far she would allow him to continue, he lifted his mouth from hers and drew back a little. He would not. This was Grag, not Brashen, she reminded herself. He was ruled by his head, not his passions. She denied the disappointment in the comparison. In the moment that he lifted his mouth from hers, she convinced herself that if he had not broken the kiss, she would have. Grag Tenira was to be taken seriously. He was not an anonymous fling in a distant seaport. How she conducted herself with him would affect the rest of her life in Bingtown. Caution was the better path.

She took a breath. ‘Well!’ she said, in a tone intended to convey surprise without affront.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered and looked aside with a half-grin that did not look repentant at all. ‘Ophelia’s been bossing me around since I was eight years old.’

‘That did sound like a direct order,’ Althea agreed affably. She turned back to look out over the water. After a moment, his hand covered hers on the railing.

‘There would be difficulties to surmount,’ he said judiciously. ‘That is true of any undertaking. Althea, I ask only that you consider my offer. I could scarcely ask you for an answer now. You have not discussed it with your family; I have not broached the subject with my parents. We do not even know what sort of a storm we shall encounter when we tie up in Bingtown. I’d just like you to consider my offer. That’s all.’

‘That I will,’ she replied. The night was easy around them, and the clasp of his callused hand was warm.

She did not know what Captain Tenira or Grag said to the crew, but no one evinced any surprise when she appeared on deck in her boy’s togs. Ophelia entered Bingtown Harbour on a crisp breeze that made the hands work lively. If any of the crew recognized Althea as Athel from Candletown, no one was foolish enough to admit it. Instead, they accepted her toiling beside them with only a bit of good-natured teasing. Ophelia sailed with a will. The seasoned ship knew her business and cooperated with her crew, calling out suggestions to the man on the wheel. This was not operating a contraption of planks and canvas and lines to a place beside a dock, but the guiding of a cognizant creature into her home.

The Ophelia’s boats were put out to assist her to her berth at the tax dock. Althea took a spot on a bench and an oar; Captain Tenira had decided it was the best way to distance her from the ship and give her a chance to slip away if she needed it. After all their preparations, it was almost a disappointment to see the harbour traffic so ordinary. No one seemed to take any unusual notice of the Ophelia. As Althea’s eyes roved over the busy trading port, she felt a sudden rush of emotion far stronger than any homesickness. She had been on longer voyages with her father, and travelled farther than on this last trip. Nevertheless, she felt as if she saw Bingtown for the first time in years.

Bingtown was cupped in a sparkling blue bay. Rolling hills in the bright greens of spring backed the lively merchant town. Even before they docked, she could smell the smoke and cooking and cattle. The shrill cries of the hawkers in the market floated out over the water. The streets bustled with traffic, and the waters of the harbour were no less busy. Small craft plied back and forth between the shore and anchored ships. Little fishing vessels threaded their way through the tall-masted merchant ships to bring their catch to market. It was a symphony of sight and sound and smell, and its theme was Bingtown.

A discordant note jarred the harmony as the departure of a ship slowly disclosed a Chalcedean galley tied up at the tax dock. The Satrap’s banner hung flaccid from the single mast. Althea knew at a glance it was not the same galley that had accosted them; this one sported a fanged cat’s face upon the figurehead, and showed no signs of fire damage. Her frown only deepened. How many of the galleys were in Bingtown waters? Why had it been allowed into the harbour at all?

She kept her thoughts to herself and performed her share of the docking tasks as if she were no more than a ship’s boy. When Captain Tenira barked at her to bring his sea bag and follow snappy, she did not flinch at the unusual order. She sensed he wanted her to witness his meeting with the Satrap’s tax minister. She shouldered the small canvas bag and followed meekly at his heels. Grag, as first mate, stayed aboard to supervise the ship.

Tenira strode into the tax minister’s office. A clerk greeted them and brusquely demanded the manifest of the ship’s cargo. Althea kept her eyes averted, even when Tenira slammed his fist on the counter and demanded to speak with the tariff minister.

The clerk gave a startled squeak, then got his face and voice under control. ‘I am in charge here today, sir. Your manifest, please.’

Tenira tossed the bundled documents to the counter with a fine disdain. ‘There’s my ship’s manifest. Stick your nose in it, boy, and figure out what I owe. But get me someone down here who can talk of more than coppers and cargo. I’ve a complaint.’

The door to an inner room opened and a robed man emerged. His shaven pate and topknot proclaimed his status as the Satrap’s minister. He was a well-fleshed man. His robe was embroidered on sleeves, breast and hems. His pale hands nestled together before him. ‘Why are you abusing my assistant?’ he demanded.

‘Why is a Chalcedean war galley tied up to a Bingtown dock? Why did a similar galley accost my ship, supposedly in the Satrap’s name? Since when have the enemies of Jamaillia been allowed safe harbour in Bingtown?’ Tenira punctuated each query with a thud of his fist on the counter.

The minister was unruffled. ‘The Chalcedean privateers are agents of the Satrap. They have been allowed to dock here since the Satrap appointed them guardians of the Inside Passage. The galleys both reported here formally, presenting their letters of merit. Their sole purpose is to control piracy. They will attack pirates, on their ships and in their outlaw settlements. They will also combat the smuggling that supports the pirates; if those miscreants had no markets for their stolen goods, their trade would soon cease.’ The tariff minister paused to straighten a fold of his sleeve. In a bored tone, he resumed. ‘It is true there were some complaints from a few Bingtown residents about the Chalcedean presence, but the tariff dock is the property of the Satrap. No one save he can forbid the Chalcedeans to tie up here. And he has given his express permission that they may.’ The minister gave a small snort of contempt. ‘I do not think the captain of a trading ship can override the Satrap’s word.’

‘This dock may belong to the Satrap, but the waters that surround it are Bingtown Harbour, given by charter to the Bingtown Traders. By tradition and by law, we allow no Chalcedean galleys in our waters.’

The minister looked past Tenira. In a bored voice he replied, ‘Traditions change, and laws do too. Bingtown is no longer a provincial backwater, Captain Tenira. It is a rapidly-growing trade centre. It is to Bingtown’s benefit that the Satrap combats the pirates that infest the waterways. Bingtown should normalize trade with Chalced. Jamaillia sees no reason to consider Chalced an enemy. Why should Bingtown?’

‘Jamaillia does not share a disputed boundary with Chalced. Jamaillian farms and settlements have not been raided and burned. Bingtown’s hostility toward Chalced is well-founded on history, not suspicion. Those ships have no right to be in our harbour. I wonder that the Bingtown Traders’ Council has not challenged this.’

‘This is neither the place nor the time to discuss Bingtown’s internal politics,’ the minister suddenly declared. ‘My function here is to serve the Satrap by collecting his rightful tariffs. Corum. Are not you finished with those figures yet? When I accepted you for employment here, I understood from your uncle that you were swift with numbers. What is the delay?’

Althea almost felt sorry for the clerk. He was obviously accustomed to being the subject of the minister’s displeasure, however, for he only smiled obsequiously and clattered his tally sticks a bit faster. ‘Seven and two,’ he muttered, apparently for the benefit of those watching him. ‘Docking fee and security fee…and patrol fee brings it to…And the surcharge on non-Jamaillian woven goods.’ He jotted a number onto the tablet, but before Althea could decipher it, the minister snatched it away. He ran a long-fingered nail down it with a disapproving glare. ‘This is not right!’ he hissed.

‘I certainly hope not!’ Captain Tenira agreed vehemently. He was taller than the minister and looked over his shoulder easily. ‘That is twice what I paid for “fees” last time, and the percentage on non-Jamaillian woven goods is…’

‘Tariffs have gone up,’ the minister interrupted him. ‘There is also a new surcharge on non-Jamaillian worked-metal goods. I believe your tinware falls into that category. Refigure this immediately, accurately!’ He slapped the tablet back down before the clerk, who only bowed his head and nodded repeatedly to the criticism.

‘Rinstin is a Jamaillian town!’ Tomie Tenira declared indignantly.

‘Rinstin, like Bingtown, acknowledges Jamaillia’s rule, but it is not in Jamaillia and is therefore not a Jamaillian town. You will pay the surcharge.’

‘That I shall not!’ Tenira exclaimed.

Althea suppressed a small gasp. She had expected Tenira to bargain over the tariffs that were due. Bargaining was the fabric of Bingtown society. No one ever paid what was first asked. He should have offered a generous bribe to the minister in the form of a lavish meal in a nearby establishment, or a selection from the more choice goods on board the Ophelia. Althea had never heard a Bingtown Trader simply refuse to pay.

The minister narrowed his eyes at Tenira. Then he gave a disdainful shrug. ‘As you will, sir. It is all one to me. Your ship will remain at this dock, her cargo on board until the proper fees are paid.’ He raised his voice suddenly. ‘Guards! Enter, please! I may require your assistance here!’

Tenira did not even look towards the two burly men who stepped inside the door. His whole attention was riveted on the minister. ‘There is nothing proper about these fees.’ He poked at the tablet the scribe was still trying to complete. ‘What is this for “patrol” and this for “security”?’

The minister gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘How do you expect the Satrap to reimburse those he has hired to protect you?’

Althea had suspected that Tenira’s outrage might be some sort of a bargaining ploy. Colour rose so high in his face that she no longer doubted the sincerity of his anger as he asked, ‘You mean those Chalcedean scum, don’t you? May Sa close my ears before I hear such idiocy! I won’t pay for those pirates to anchor in Bingtown Harbour.’

The guards were suddenly standing very close, right at Tomie Tenira’s elbows. Althea, in her role of ship’s boy, strove to look tough and follow her captain’s lead. If Tenira threw a punch, she would be expected to jump in. Any ship’s boy worth his scrap would do so, but it was a daunting prospect. She had never been in a real brawl before, other than that one brief dust-up with Brashen. She set her jaw and chose the younger of the two men as her mark.

It didn’t come to that. Tenira suddenly dropped his voice and growled, ‘I’ll be presenting this to the Traders’ Council.’

‘As you see fit, sir, I’m sure,’ the minister purred. Althea thought him a fool. A wiser man would have known better than to bait Tomie Tenira. She half expected the captain to strike him. Instead, he smiled a very narrow smile.

‘As I see fit,’ he rejoined smoothly. With a curt gesture to Althea to follow him, they left the tariff office. He spoke not a word to her until they were back aboard the ship. Then he sent her to ‘Fetch the mate, and smartly now. Have him come to my cabin.’ Althea obeyed him promptly.

When they were sequestered in the captain’s cabin, Tenira himself poured three jots of rum for them. He didn’t pause to consider propriety, nor did Althea as she drank it off. The scene in the tariff office had chilled her worse than a cold night on deck. ‘It’s bad,’ was Tenira’s first greeting to his son. ‘Worse than I’d feared. Not only are the Chalcedeans tied up here, but the Traders’ Council hasn’t even challenged it. Worse, the damn Satrap has tacked more duties and taxes on to our trade to pay them to be here!’

‘You didn’t pay them?’ Grag asked incredulously.

‘Of course not!’ Tenira snorted. ‘Someone around here has to start standing up to this nonsense. It may be a bit rocky to be the first one, but I’ll wager once we’ve set the example, others will follow. The minister says he’s going to detain us here. Fine. While we’re tied up here, we take up this much dock space. A few more like us, and he won’t be able to process ships or tariffs. Grag, you’ll have a quiet word with Ophelia. Sa help us all, but I plan to give her free rein and let her be as unpleasant and bitchy as only she knows how. Let the dock workers and passers-by deal with that.’

Althea found herself grinning. The small room was as charged as if a storm were brewing. It was a storm, she told herself, and one her father had seen gathering for years. Still, it humbled her to watch an old captain like Tenira announce that he would call the first bolt down on himself. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

‘Go home. Take word to your mother of all you saw and heard. I didn’t see the Vivacia in the harbour, but if she is in, I ask you to set aside your differences with your brother-in-law and try to make him see why we must all be together in our defiance. I’ll be heading home myself in a bit. Grag, I’ll be trusting the ship to you. At the first whiff of any sign of trouble, send Calco to me with a message. Althea?’

Althea weighed his words, then nodded slowly. As much as she hated the idea of a truce with Kyle, Captain Tenira was right. It was no time for the Bingtown Traders to be divided on anything.

The smile the Teniras gave her was worth it. ‘I suspected I could count on you, lass,’ Captain Tenira said fondly.

Grag grinned at her. ‘And I knew I could.’

10 HOMECOMING

THE VESTRIT MANSION, like the homes of the other Bingtown Traders, was set in the cool and forested foothills that surrounded Bingtown itself. It was a brief carriage ride from the docks, or a comfortable walk on a pleasant day. Along the way, one could glimpse other elegant Trader homes set well back from the main road. She passed flowering hedges and drives lined with trees extravagantly green with spring growth. Ivy sprawled in a mantle over the Oswells’ stone wall. Crisp yellow daffodils were showing their first blooms in clumps by their gate. The spring day was rich with birdcalls and the dappling shade of newly leafed trees and the scents of early flowers.

Never before had it seemed to be such a long walk.

Althea marched on as if going to her death.

She still wore her ship’s boy garb; it had seemed wisest to them all that she retain her disguise as she left the docks. She wondered how her mother and sister would react to it. Kyle was not home. Relief at that almost balanced her disappointment that Vivacia was not in the harbour. At least she did not have to worry about his extreme distaste. It was not quite a year since she had quarrelled with her brother-in-law and then stormed out of their family home. She had learned so much since then that it seemed like a decade. She wanted to have her family recognize how she had grown. Instead, she feared they would see only her clothes and her oiled plait of hair and judge it all a childish masquerade of defiance. Her mother had always said she was headstrong; for years, her sister Keffria had believed her capable of disgracing the family name simply for her own pleasure. How could she go back to them now, dressed this way, and make them believe she had matured and was worthy to claim the captaincy of the family liveship? How would they greet her return? With anger or cold disdain?

She shook her head furiously to clear it of such thoughts and turned up the long driveway to her home. She noted with annoyance that the rhododendrons by the gate had not been pinched back. Last spring’s leggy growth now sported this spring’s swelling buds. When they were properly cut back, they would lose a whole year of flowers. She felt a tinge of worry. Col the groundskeeper had always been most particular about those bushes. Had something happened to him?

Her whole journey up the drive spoke to her of the garden’s neglect. The herbaceous borders swelled and straggled out of their beds. Bright green leaf buds were unfurling on rose bushes that still bore the winter-blackened stalks of last year’s growth. A wisteria had fallen off its trellis and now valiantly opened its leaves where it sprawled. Winter winds had banked last autumn’s fallen leaves wherever they wished; branches broken by storms still littered the grounds.

She almost expected to find the house abandoned to match the neglected grounds. Instead, the windows were flung open to the spring day and sprightly music of harp and flute cascaded out to greet her. A few gigs drawn up before the front door told her that a gathering was in progress. It was a merry one judging by the sudden trill of laughter that mingled for a moment with the music. Althea diverted her steps to the back entrance, wondering more with every step she took. Her family had hosted no gatherings since her father fell ill. Did this party mean that her mother had ended her mourning period already? That did not seem like her. Nor could Althea imagine her mother allowing the grounds to be neglected while spending coin on parties. None of this made sense. Foreboding nibbled at her.

The kitchen door stood open and the tantalizing smell of freshly-baked bread and savoury meat wafted out to mingle in the spring sunshine. Althea’s stomach grumbled appreciatively at the thought of shore-side food: risen bread and fresh meat and vegetables. She abruptly decided that she was glad to be home, no matter what reception she might get. She stepped into the kitchen and looked around.

She did not recognize the woman rolling out dough on the tabletop, nor the boy turning the spit at the cook-fire. That was not unusual. Servants came and went in the Vestrit household. Trader families regularly ‘stole’ the best cooks, nannies and stewards from one another, coaxing them to change households with offers of better pay and larger quarters.

A serving girl came into the kitchen with an empty tray. She clattered it down and rounded on Althea. ‘What do you want here?’ Her voice was both chill and bored.

For once, Althea’s mind was faster than her mouth. She made a sketchy bow. ‘I’ve a message from Captain Tenira of the liveship Ophelia for Trader Ronica Vestrit. It’s important. He asked me to deliver it to her in private.’ There. That would get her some time alone with her mother. If there were guests in the house, she didn’t want to be seen by them while she was still dressed as a boy.

The serving girl looked troubled. ‘She is with guests just now, very important ones. It is a farewell gathering. It would be awkward to call her away.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘Can the message wait a bit longer? Perhaps while you ate something?’ The maid smiled as she offered this little bribe.

Althea found herself nodding. The smell of the newly-cooked food was making her mouth water. Why not eat here in the kitchen, and face her mother and sister with a full stomach? ‘The message can wait a bit, I suppose. Mind if I wash my hands first?’ Althea nodded towards the kitchen pump.

‘There’s a pump and trough in the yard,’ the cook pointed out, a sharp reminder of Althea’s supposed status. Althea grinned to herself, then went outside to wash. By the time she returned, a plate was ready for her. They had not given her choice cuts; rather it was the crispy outside end of the pork roast, and the heels of the fresh cooked bread. There was a slab of yellow cheese with it and a dollop of fresh churned butter for the bread and a spoonful of cherry preserves. It was served to her on a chipped plate with a stained napkin. The niceties of cutlery use were supposedly unknown to a ship’s boy, so she made do with her fingers as she perched on a tall stool in the corner of the kitchen.

At first, she ate ravenously, with little thought for anything other than the food before her. The crust of the roast seemed far richer in flavour than the best cut she had ever enjoyed. That crispy fat crunched between her teeth. The new butter melted on the still-warm bread. She scooped up the tart cherry preserves with folded bits of it.

As her hunger was sated, she became more aware of the kitchen bustle around her. She looked around the once familiar room with new eyes. As a child, this room had seemed immense and fascinating, a place she had never been allowed to explore freely. Because she had gone to sea with her father before she had outgrown that curiosity, the kitchen had always retained an aura of the forbidden for her. Now she saw it for what it was: a large, busy work area where servants came and went in haste while a cook reigned supreme. As every servant came in, he or she inevitably gave a brief report on the gathering. They spoke familiarly and sometimes with contempt of the folk they served.

‘I’ll need another platter of the sausage rolls. Trader Loud-Shirt seems to think we baked them for him alone.’

‘That’s better than doing what that Orpel girl is doing. Look at this plate. Heaped with food we worked all morning to prepare, she’s scarcely nibbled it and then pushed it aside. I suppose she hopes a man will notice her dainty appetite and think she’s an easy keeper.’

‘How’s the empress’s second choice faring?’ the cook asked curiously.

A serving man mimed the tipping of a wineglass. ‘Oh, he drowns his troubles and scowls at his rival and moons at the little empress. Then he does it all over again. All very genteelly, of course. The man should be on a stage.’

‘No, no, she’s the one who should be on a stage. One moment she’s simpering at Reyn’s veil, but when she dances with him, she looks past his shoulder and flutters her lashes at young Trell.’ The serving maid who observed this added with a snort of disgust: ‘She has them both stepping to her tune, but I’ll wager she cares not a whit for either of them, but only for what measures she can make them tread.’

For a brief time, Althea listened with amusement. Then her ears and cheeks began to burn as she realized that this was how the servants had always spoken of her family. She ducked her head, kept her eyes on her plate, and slowly began to piece the gossip into a bizarre image of the current state of the Vestrit family fortunes.

Her mother was entertaining Rain Wild guests. That was unusual enough, given that her father had severed their trading connections there years ago. A Rain Wild suitor was courting a Trader woman. The servants did not think much of her. ‘She’d smile at him more if he replaced his veil with a mirror,’ one servant sniggeringly observed. Another added, ‘I don’t know who’s going to be more surprised on their wedding night: her when he takes off his veil and shows his warts, or him when she shows her snake’s nature behind that pretty face.’ Althea knit her brow trying to think what woman was a close enough friend to the Vestrit family that her mother would host a gathering in her honour. Perhaps one of Keffria’s friends had a daughter of marriageable age.

A kitchen maid tugged her empty plate from her lax hands and offered her a bowl with two sugar dumplings in it. ‘Here. You may as well have these; we made far too many. There are three platters left and the guests are already starting to leave. No sense a young man like you going hungry here.’ She smiled warmly and Althea turned her eyes aside in what she hoped was a convincing display of boyish shyness.

‘Can I take my message to Ronica Vestrit soon?’ she asked.

‘Oh, soon enough, I imagine. Soon enough.’

The sweet gooey pastries were messy to eat but delicious. Althea finished them, returned her bowl and used her sticky hands as an excuse to go back to the yard pump. A grape arbour screened the kitchen yard from the main entrance, but the new leaves were still tiny. Althea could watch the departing carriages through the twining branches. She recognized Cerwin Trell and his little sister as they left. The Shuyev family had also come. There were several other Trader families that Althea recognized more by crest than by face. It made her realize how long it had been since she had truly belonged to their social circle. Gradually the number of carriages dwindled. Davad Restart was one of the last to depart. Shortly after that, a team of white horses arrived drawing a Rain Wild coach. The windows were heavily curtained and the crest on the door was an unfamiliar one. It looked something like a chicken with a hat. An open wagon was drawn up behind it and a train of servants began carrying luggage and trunks from the house to that conveyance. So. The Rain Wild Traders had been houseguests at the Vestrit home. Increasingly mysterious, Althea thought to herself. Crane her neck as she might, she got no more than a glimpse of the departing family. Rain Wilders were always veiled by day and this group was no exception. Althea had no idea who they were or why they were staying at the Vestrit home. It made her uneasy. Had Kyle chosen to renew their trading connections there? Had her mother and sister supported such an idea?

Had Kyle taken Vivacia up the Rain River?

She clenched her fists at the idea. When the kitchen maid tugged at her sleeve, she spun on her, startling the poor girl. ‘Beg pardon,’ Althea apologized immediately.

The maid looked at her strangely. ‘Mistress Vestrit will see you now.’

Althea suffered herself to be led back into her own home and down the familiar hallway to the morning room. Everywhere were the festive signs of guests and lively company. Vases of flowers filled every alcove and perfume lingered in the air. When she had left, this had been a house of mourning and family contention. Now the household seemed to have forgotten those difficult days and her with them. It did not seem fair that while she had toiled through hardship, her sister and mother had indulged in social celebration. By the time they reached the morning room, the simmering confusion inside her was so great she guarded against it breaking forth as anger.

The maid tapped at the door of the chamber. When she heard Ronica’s murmured assent, she stepped aside, whispering to Althea, ‘Go in.’

Althea bobbed a bow, then entered the room. She shut the door quietly behind herself. Her mother was sitting on a cushioned divan. A low table with a glass of wine upon it was close to hand. She wore a simple day-gown of creamy linen. Her hair was coiled and perfumed, and a silver chain graced her throat, but the face she lifted to meet Althea’s gaze was taut with weariness. Althea forced herself to meet her mother’s widening eyes with a direct look. ‘I’ve come home,’ she said quietly.

‘Althea,’ her mother gasped. She lifted a hand to her heart, and then put both hands over her mouth and breathed in through them. She had gone so pale that the lines in her face stood out as if etched. She dragged in a shuddering breath. ‘Do you know how many nights I have wondered how you died? Wondered where your body lay, if it was covered in a decent grave or if carrion birds picked at your flesh?’

The flood of angry words caught Althea off-guard. ‘I tried to send you word.’ She heard herself lying like a child caught in a misdeed.

Her mother had found the strength to rise and now she advanced on Althea, her index finger levelled like a pike. ‘No you did not!’ she contradicted her bitterly. ‘You never even thought of it until just now.’ She halted suddenly in her tracks. She shook her head. ‘You are so like your father, I can even hear him lying with your tongue. Oh, Althea. Oh, my little girl.’ Then her mother suddenly embraced her, as she had not in years. Althea stood still in the circle of her pinning arms, completely bewildered. A moment later she was horrified when a sob racked her mother’s body. Her mother clung to her and wept hopelessly against her shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ Althea said uncomfortably. Then she added, ‘It’s going to be all right now.’ A few moments later she tried, ‘What’s wrong?’

For a time, her mother did not reply. Then she drew a deep, rattling breath. Ronica stepped back from her daughter and rubbed her sleeve across her eyes like a child. It smeared the careful paint on her lashes and eyelids, marking the fabric of her sleeve. Her mother took no notice of that. She walked unsteadily back to her divan and sat down. She took a long drink of her wine, then set it down and tried to smile. The smeared paint on her face made it ghastly. ‘Everything,’ she said quietly. ‘Everything that could be wrong, is. Save for one thing. You are home and alive.’ The honest relief on her mother’s face was more searing than her anger had been.

It was hard to cross the room and seat herself on the end of the divan. Harder still to say calmly and rationally, ‘Tell me about it.’ For so many months, Althea had looked forward to coming home, to telling her story, to forcing her family to finally, finally listen to her view. Now she was here, and she knew with the unerring truth of Sa’s own revelation that duty demanded she listen first to all her mother would say.

For a moment, Ronica just looked at her. Then the words began to spill out. It was a disordered tale of one disaster after another. The Vivacia was late coming home. She should have been back by now. Kyle might have taken her straight on to Chalced to sell the slaves, but surely he would have sent word by another ship if he intended to do so. Wouldn’t he? He knew how poor the family finances were; surely, he would have sent word so that Keffria would have something to tell their creditors. Malta had been into one kind of mischief after another. She didn’t even know where to begin that tale, but the end of it was that a Rain Wild Trader was now courting Malta. As his family held the paper on the Vivacia, courtesy and politics dictated that the Vestrits at least entertain his suit, although Sa knew Malta was not truly a woman and old enough to be courted. Moreover, Davad Restart had leapt into the midst of that tangle, and had made one gaffe after another all week in his determination to wring a profit from the courtship. Just because the man was totally tactless did not mean he was without tactics. It had taken all her ingenuity to keep him diverted and to keep Reyn’s family from taking offence. Keffria was insisting on trying to manage the family businesses. That was her right, true, but she wasn’t giving them the attention they needed. Instead she was all caught up in the flowers and the frills of this courtship, and never mind that the grain fields were only half-ploughed and the planting moon was only a week away. A late frost had taken at least half the blooms from the apple orchards. The roof in the second bedroom in the east wing had begun to leak, and there was no money to have it seen to right now, but if it were not repaired soon, that entire ceiling would give way and…

‘Mother,’ Althea said gently, and then, ‘Mother! A moment! My head is reeling with all this!’

‘Mine, also, and for far longer than yours,’ Ronica pointed out wearily.

‘I don’t understand this.’ Althea tried to speak calmly although she wanted to shout. ‘Kyle is using Vivacia as a slave-ship? And Malta is being practically sold off to the Rain Wild Traders to pay our family debts? How can Keffria allow that, let alone you? Even if the Vivacia has not yet returned, how can our finances be so bad? Didn’t the shoreside properties used to pay their own way?’

Her mother made small patting motions at her with her hands. ‘Calm down. I suppose this is a shock to you. I have seen the gradual slide, but you return to see us at the bottom of our fortunes.’ Her mother pressed her hands to her temples for a moment. She looked at Althea absently. ‘How are we to get you out of those clothes and properly attired without the servants asking questions?’ she mused in an aside to herself. Then she drew a breath. ‘Just to explain all this to you wearies me so. It is like detailing the slow death of something you loved. Allow me to skip details and say just this instead: the use of slaves for field and orchard crops in Chalced and even in Bingtown lands has driven prices down. We have always hired workers for our fields; for years, the same men and women have ploughed, planted, and harvested for us. Now what are we to tell them? It would be more profitable to let the fields lie fallow or graze goats on them, but how can we do that to our farmers? So, we struggle on. Or rather, at my behest, Keffria does. She gives some heed to my counsel. Kyle, as you know, controls the ship. That was my error; I cannot bear to look you in the face over it. But Sa help me, Althea! I fear he is right. If the Vivacia succeeds as a slaver, she may yet save us all. Slaves, it seems, are the only way to prosper. Slaves as cargo, slaves in the grain fields…’

She looked at her mother incredulously. ‘I cannot believe I am hearing those words from you.’

‘I know it is wrong, Althea. I know. But what are our alternatives? Let little Malta unknowingly flirt herself into a marriage she isn’t ready for, simply for the sake of the family fortune? Surrender Vivacia back to the Rain Wilds in forfeiture of the debt, and live in poverty? Or perhaps we could just flee our creditors, leave Bingtown, and go Sa knows where…’

‘Have you truly considered such things?’ Althea asked in a low voice.

‘I have,’ her mother replied wearily. ‘Althea, if we do not take action on our own, then others will decide our fate. Our creditors will strip us of all we own, and then we might look back and say, well, if we had allowed Malta to wed Reyn, at least she would have been spared living in poverty. At least the ship would have been ours.’

‘“The ship would have been ours”. How?’

‘I told you. The Khuprus family has bought the note on Vivacia. They have as much as said that forgiving the debt would be Reyn’s wedding gift to the family.’

‘That’s crazy.’ Althea uttered the words flatly. ‘No one gives wedding gifts like that. Not even Rain Wild Traders.’

Ronica Vestrit took a deep breath. Changing the subject, she announced, ‘We have to sneak you up to your room and get you into some proper clothes. Though you look skinny as a rail. I wonder if anything you left here would still fit you.’

‘I can’t resume being Althea Vestrit just yet. I bring a message for you from Captain Tenira of the liveship Ophelia.’

‘That is true? I thought it was only a ruse to get in to see me.’

‘It’s true. I’ve been serving aboard the Ophelia. When we have more time, I’ll tell you all about that. But for now, I want to give you his message, and then take your reply back to him. Mother, the Ophelia has been seized at the tariff docks. Captain Tenira has refused to pay the outrageous fees they have demanded, especially all the ones they have tacked on to support those Chalcedean pigs tied up in the harbour.’

‘Tied up Chalcedean pigs?’ Her mother looked confused.

‘Surely you know what I mean. The Satrap has authorized Chalcedean galleys to act as patrol vessels throughout the Inside Passage. One of them actually attempted to halt us and board us on our way here. They are no more than pirates, and worse than the ones they are supposed to control. I cannot understand why they are tolerated in Bingtown Harbour, let alone that anyone would stomach the extra fees demanded of us!’

‘Oh. The galleys. There has been quite a stir about them lately, but I think Tenira is the first to refuse the fees. Fair or not, the Traders pay them. The alternative is no trade at all, as Tenira is finding out.’

‘Mother, that is ridiculous! This is our town. Why aren’t we standing up to the Satrap and his lackeys? The Satrap no longer abides by his word to us; why should we continue to let him leech away our honest profits?’

‘Althea…I have no energy left to consider such things. I don’t doubt you are right, but what can I do about it? I have my family to preserve. Bingtown will have to look after itself.’

‘Mother, we cannot think that way! Grag and I have discussed this a great deal. Bingtown has to stand united before the New Traders and the Satrap, and all of Jamaillia, if need be. The more we concede to them, the more they take. The slaves that the New Traders have brought in are at the bottom of our family problems right now. We need to force them to observe our old law forbidding slavery. We need to tell the New Traders that we will not recognize their new charters. We need to tell the Satrap that we will pay no more taxes until he lives up to the letter of our original charter. No. We need to go further than that. We need to tell him that a fifty percent tax on our goods and his limits on where we may sell our goods are things of the past. We have already let it go on too long. Now we need to stand united and make it stop.’

‘There are some Traders who speak as you do,’ her mother said slowly. ‘And I reply to them as I do to you: my family first. Besides. What can I do?’

‘Just say you will stand united with those Traders who refuse the tariffs. That is all I am asking.’

‘Then you must ask your sister. She has the vote now, not I. On your father’s death, she inherited. She is the Bingtown Trader now, and the council vote is hers to wield.’

‘What do you think she will say?’ Althea asked after a long silence. It had taken her a time to grasp the full significance of what her mother had said.

‘I don’t know. She does not go to many of the Trader meetings. She is, she says, too busy and she also says she does not want to vote on things that she has not had time to study.’

‘Have you spoken to her? Told her how crucial those votes can be?’

‘It is only one vote,’ Ronica said almost stubbornly.

Althea thought she heard a trace of guilt in her mother’s voice. She pressed her. ‘Let me go back to Trader Tenira and say this at least. That you will speak to Keffria, and counsel her both to attend the next Trader meeting, and to vote in Tenira’s support. He intends to be there and to demand that the Council officially side with him.’

‘I suppose I can do that much. Althea, you need not carry this message back yourself. If he is openly defiant of the tariff minister, then he could precipitate some sort of…of action down there. Let me have Rache fetch a runner to carry your word. There is no need for you to be in the middle of this.’

‘Mother. I wish to be in the middle of this. Also, I want them to know I stand firmly with them. I feel I must go.’

‘But not right now! Althea, you have only just come home. Surely you can stop to eat and bathe and change into proper clothes.’ Her mother looked aghast.

‘That I cannot. I am safer on the docks in these clothes. The guards at the tariff dock will not blink an eye at the errands of a ship’s boy. Let me return for now, and…there is one other person I must go and see. But right after that, I shall come back. I promise that by tomorrow morning, I shall be safely under your roof and attired as befits a Trader’s daughter.’

‘You’ll be out all night? Alone?’

‘Would you rather I was with someone?’ Althea asked mischievously. She disarmed her words with a quick grin. ‘Mother, I have been “out all night” for almost a year now. No harm has come to me. At least, nothing permanent…but I promise I shall tell you all when I return.’

‘I see I cannot stop you,’ Ronica said resignedly. ‘Well. For the sake of your father’s name, please do not let anyone recognize you! The family fortune is shaky enough as it is. Be discreet in whatever it is that you must do. And ask Captain Tenira to be discreet as well. You served aboard his ship, you said?’

‘Yes. I did. Moreover, I said I would tell you all when I return. The sooner I leave, the sooner I’m back.’ Althea turned towards the door. Then she halted. ‘Would you please tell my sister I’m back? And that I wish to speak to her of serious things?’

‘I will. Do you mean that you will try to, well, not make amends, or apologize, but make a truce with Kyle and your sister?’

Althea closed her eyes tight and then opened them. She spoke quietly. ‘Mother, I intend to take my ship back. I will try to make you both see that I am ready to do so and that I not only have the most right to her, but that I can do the most good for the family with her. But I do not want to say any more just yet, to you or to Keffria. Please do not tell her that. Say, if you would, only that I wish to speak to her of serious things.’

‘Very serious things.’ Her mother shook her head to herself. The lines on her brow and around her mouth seemed to deepen. She drank more wine, without relish or pleasure. ‘Go carefully, Althea, and return swiftly. I do not know if your coming home brings us salvation or disaster. I only know I am glad to know you are alive.’

Althea nodded abruptly and slipped quietly out of the room. She did not go back the way she had come, but went out the front door. She acknowledged a serving man who was sweeping scattered flower petals from the steps. The massed hyacinths by the steps gave off a rising tide of perfume. As she hurried down the drive towards Bingtown, she almost wished she were simply Athel, a ship’s boy. It was a beautiful spring day, her first day on shore in her homeport in almost a year. She wished she could take some simple pleasure in it.

As she hurried down the winding roads back to Bingtown proper, she began to notice that the Vestrit estate was not the only one that showed signs of disrepair. Several other great homes that she passed showed the neglect of a pinched purse. Trees had gone unpruned and winter wind damage unrepaired. When she passed through the busier streets of Bingtown’s market district, it seemed to her that she saw many unfamiliar folk.

It was not just that she did not recognize their faces; she had been so often away from Bingtown in the last ten years that she no longer expected to know many friends and neighbours. These strangers spoke with the accents of Jamaillia and dressed as if they were from Chalced. The men all seemed to be young, in their twenties or early thirties. They wore wide-bladed swords in filigreed sheaths, and hung their pouches at their belts as if to brag of their wealth. The rich skirts of the women who trailed after them were slashed to reveal filmy underskirts. Their vividly coloured cosmetics obscured rather than enhanced their faces. The men tended to speak more loudly than was necessary, as if to draw as much attention to themselves as possible. More often than not, the tone of their words was arrogant and self-important. Their women moved like nervous fillies, tossing their heads and gesturing broadly when they spoke. Their perfumes were strong, their bangled earrings large. They made the courtesans of Bingtown seem like drab pigeons in contrast to their peacock strutting.

There was a second class of unfamiliar folk on the street. They bore the tattoos of slavery beside their noses. Their furtive demeanour said they wished nothing so much as to be unnoticed. The number of menial servants in Bingtown had multiplied. They carried packages and held horses. One young boy followed two girls little older than himself, endeavouring to hold a parasol over both of them to shield them from the gentle spring sunlight. When the younger of the girls cuffed him and rebuked him sharply for not holding the sunshade steady, Althea repressed an urge to slap her. The boy was far too young to cower so deferentially. He walked barefoot on the cold cobblestones.

‘It could break your heart, if you let it. But those two have been schooled not to have hearts at all.’

Althea started at the low voice so close to her ear. She spun to find Amber a step behind her. Their eyes met and Amber raised one knowing eyebrow. In a haughty tone, she offered, ‘I’ll give you a copper, sailor-boy, if you’ll carry this wood for me.’

‘Pleased to oblige,’ Althea replied and bobbed her head in a sailor’s bow. She took the large chunk of ruddy wood from Amber’s arms, and instantly found it much heavier than she had supposed. As she hefted it to a more secure grip, she caught the merriment in her friend’s topaz eyes. She fell into step a deferential two paces behind Amber and followed her through the Market to Rain Wild Street.

Things had changed here as well. There had always been a few shops that kept night guards, and one or two that even employed guards by day. Now nearly every shop boasted a surly doorman with a short sword or a long knife at his hip. Doors did not stand invitingly open, nor was merchandise displayed on racks and tables outside the shops. The intricate and near-magical goods imported to Bingtown from the Rain Wilds were now visible only through the barred windows. Althea missed the waft of perfumes and the ringing of wind chimes and the savour of rare spices on the breeze. The shops and street were as busy as ever, but in both merchants and buyers there was a guarded wariness very unpleasant to behold. Even Amber’s shop had a guard outside the latched door. The young woman at her door wore a leather doublet and nonchalantly juggled two truncheons and a sap as she waited for her mistress to open up. She had long blonde hair caught back in a tail. She gave Althea a toothy smile. Althea edged past her uncomfortably. A large cat might so appraise a fat rodent.

‘Wait outside, Jek. I’m not ready to open the store yet,’ Amber told her succinctly.

‘Whatever your pleasure, mistress,’ Jek replied. Her tongue put a strange foreign twist on the words. She shot Althea one speculative glance as she carefully backed out the door and closed it behind her.

‘Where did you find her?’ Althea asked incredulously.

‘She’s an old friend. She is going to be disappointed when she discovers you’re a woman. And she will. Nothing escapes Jek. Not that there is any danger of her betraying your secret. She is as close-mouthed as can be. Sees all, tells nothing. The perfect servant.’

‘It’s funny. I never imagined you having servants of any kind.’

‘It’s my preference not to, but I’m afraid a guard for the shop became necessary. I decided to live elsewhere, and with the increase of burglary in Bingtown, I had to hire someone to watch my shop at night. Jek needed a place to live; the arrangement works wonderfully.’ She took the chunk of wood from Althea’s arms and set it aside. Then, to Althea’s surprise, she seized her by both shoulders and held her at arm’s length. ‘You do make a fetching youth. I can scarcely blame Jek for eyeing you.’ She gave her a warm hug. As she released her, she added, ‘I am so glad to see you return unscathed. I have thought of you often and wondered how you fared. Come into the back. I’ll make some tea and we can talk.’

As Amber spoke, she was leading the way. The back room was the cluttered cave Althea remembered. There were workbenches with scattered tools and partly finished beads. Clothes hung on hooks or were layered neatly into trunks. There was a bed in one corner and an unmade pallet in another. A small fire burned in the hearth.

‘I’d love tea, but I haven’t time just now. At least, not yet. I’ve a message to deliver first. However, as soon as I’ve done it, I’ll come right back here. I intended to do so, even before you spotted me on the street.’

‘It is very important to me that you do so,’ Amber replied – so seriously that Althea stared at her. In answer to that look, Amber added, ‘It’s not something I can explain quickly.’

Althea’s curiosity was piqued, but her own concerns pushed it aside. ‘I need to speak to you privately as well. It’s a delicate matter. Perhaps I have no right to interfere, but she is’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps now is actually the best time, even though I haven’t spoken to Captain Tenira about this yet.’ Althea paused, then plunged ahead. ‘I’ve been serving on the liveship Ophelia. She’s been hurt, and I hope you can help her. A Chalcedean galley challenged us as we made our way back to Bingtown. Ophelia burned her hands fending them off. She says there is no pain, but she seems always to keep her hands clasped or otherwise hidden from view. I do not know how bad the damage is, or if a woodworker like yourself could do anything to repair scorched wood, but…’

‘Challenged by a galley? And attacked?’ Amber was horrified. ‘In the Inside Passage waters?’ She exhaled in a rush. She stared past Althea, as if looking into a different time and place. Her voice went strange. ‘Fate rushes down upon us! The time drags and the days plod past, lulling us into thinking that the doom we fear will always so delay. Then, abruptly, the dark days we have all predicted are upon us, and the time when we could have turned dire fate aside has passed. How old must I be before I learn? There is no time; there is never any time. Tomorrow may never come, but todays are linked inexorably in a chain, and now is always the only time we have to divert disaster.’

Althea felt a sudden sense of vindication. This was the reaction she had hoped to get from her mother. Strange that it was a newcomer, and one not even a Bingtown Trader who instantly grasped the full significance of her news. Amber had completely forgotten her earlier offer of tea. Instead she flung open a chest in the corner of the room and began to haul garments from it in frenzy. ‘Give me just a few moments and I shall be fit to accompany you. However, let us not waste an instant. Begin with the day you left here, and talk to me. Tell me everything of your travels, even those things you consider unimportant.’ She turned to a small table and opened a box on it. She made a brisk check of its contents of pots and brushes, then tucked it under her arm.

Althea had to laugh. ‘Amber, that would take hours no, days – to do.’

‘Which is why we must begin now. Come. Start while I change.’ Amber bundled up an armful of cloth and disappeared behind a wooden screen in the corner. Althea launched into an account of her experiences aboard the Reaper. She had barely got past her first miserable months and Brashen’s discovery of her before Amber emerged from behind the screen. But it was not Amber who stood before her. Instead, it was a smudge-faced slave girl. A tattoo sprawled across one wind-reddened cheek. A crusty sore encompassed half her upper lip and her left nostril. Her dirty hair was pulling free from a scruffy braid. Her shirt was rough cotton and her bare feet peeped out from under her patched skirts. A dirty bandage bound one of her ankles. Rough canvas work gloves had replaced the lacy ones Amber habitually wore. She spread a dirty canvas tote on the table and began to load it with woodworking tools.

‘You amaze me. How did you learn to do that?’ Althea demanded, grinning.

‘I’ve told you. I have played many roles in my life. This one disguise has proved very useful of late. Slaves are invisible. I can go almost anywhere in this guise and be ignored. Even the men who would not hesitate to force themselves on a slave are put off by a bit of dirt and a few well-placed scabs.’

‘Have the streets of Bingtown become that dangerous for a woman alone?’

Amber shot her a look that was almost pitying. ‘You see what is happening and yet you do not see. Slaves are not women, Althea. Nor men. They are merchandise, goods and property. Things. Why should a slave-owner care if one of his goods is raped? If she bears a child, he has another slave. If she does not, well, what is the harm done? That boy you were staring at…it costs his master nothing if he weeps himself to sleep every night. The bruises he is given cost his owner nothing. If he becomes sullen and intractable from poor treatment, he will simply be sold off to someone who treats him even worse. The bottom rungs of the ladder become very slippery, once slavery is accepted. If a human’s life can be measured in counted coins, then that worth can be diminished, a copper at a time, until no value is left. When an old woman is worth less than the food she eats…well.’ Amber sighed suddenly.

As abruptly, she straightened herself. ‘No time for that.’ She ducked to peer at herself in a mirror on the table, then snatched up a ragged scarf and tied it about her head and over her ears. The tool tote was concealed inside a market basket. She tucked her earrings up out of sight. ‘There. Let’s go. We’ll slip out the back way. On the street, take my arm, lean close and leer at me like a nasty sailor. That way we can talk as we go.’

Althea was amazed at how well the ruse worked. Those folk who took any notice of them at all turned aside in disgust. Althea continued the tale of her journey. Once or twice, Amber made small sounds as if she would interrupt, but when Althea paused she would insist, ‘No, go on. When you are finished, that is the time for questions.’ Never had anyone listened to her so intently, absorbing her words as a sponge soaks in water.

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