by Emily Rodda
15 - The Ceremony
As the Star of Deltora surged into Del harbour the following morning, it seemed to Britta that the night had passed in the blink of an eye. She stood at the prow with Jewel, watching the familiar shore draw nearer, and the same dreamlike feeling that had gripped her on the outward journey took hold of her again.
Was it possible that the voyage had ended? That soon she would be leaving the Star for good? That, except perhaps for Jewel, the people she had seen every day for months would soon be going their separate ways and out of her life?
She tried to make herself believe it. This was no dream. It was really happening, and she had to pull herself together. She would need all her wits about her to cope with what was to come. She had to bargain— with Trader Sorrel and the rest of the Trust Committee, who would know that she had deceived them, and with her mother, whose new life she had smashed.
Part of the strangeness she felt was because she had put on her old Del clothes—the sober blue skirt and the white shirt the goozli had mended. The garments were not as tight as they had been before, because she had lost weight during her illness, but they still made her feel suffocated. And after weeks of freedom, her hair was again twisted into a tight knot at the nape of her neck and secured by the hard, hated hairpins.
‘My mother will be shocked enough by what has happened,’ she had said, when Jewel eyed her in surprise. ‘If I go to her dressed in scarlet silk, with my hair falling about my ears, it will make everything ten times worse.’
She knew she was right about that, but there was no doubt that putting on the uniform of her past life had been like creeping back into a shell that no longer fitted her. She knew, as well, that she looked like a poor, pale copy of Vashti, who was standing as far from her as was possible, confident, blooming and exquisitely neat.
At least, Britta thought grimly, Vashti will be disappointed in one thing. She still thinks Mab is dying, and that it will not be long before Vashti the Rosalyn Apprentice becomes Vashti the Trader Rosalyn. In fact, she will be under the thumb of that treacherous, power-mad old woman for some time yet. I wish her well of it!
‘A crowd is gathering on the dock,’ Jewel said, squinting into the distance. ‘Sorrel is there—right at the front.’
She shook her head with a frown. ‘The news of our arrival must be spreading. More people are appearing every moment. Britta, there is no point in your going through the first part of this. You will have to attend the Apprentice ceremony at sunset—even Sky will have to do that, Hara says—but you should go below and keep out of the way till then, or at least until Sorrel sends for you.’
Britta hesitated, then nodded. Her impulse was to stand and face the outcry to come with what dignity she could muster, but her sense told her to conserve her strength. Her real battle would come later.
So as the Star of Deltora docked, as the first, startling news was given and the expected tumult began, Britta waited below, out of sight. Her mind a blank, she sat with folded hands in her old place at the writing table. She had closed the porthole curtain, but the cabin door was gaping wide, propped open by her bundle of possessions. She wanted to be able to hear Sorrel’s messenger approaching. She could not bear to be surprised by a knock on the door.
Feet tramped on the deck above her head. Voices were raised in shock, dismay and anger. Britta did not even try to hear what was being said—she knew.
Her sense of time began to blur as she sat there, the sun strengthening behind the porthole curtain, but at last she became aware that the sounds on the deck were growing less. Her tension rose. When she heard a little scuffle in the doorway her stomach gave a sickening jolt. But it was only the goozli, pattering towards her, jumping onto her outstretched hand and springing onto the tabletop, looking very pleased with itself.
‘Goozli, you found me!’ Britta exclaimed in relief. The little creature nodded patiently, plainly wondering if she would ever learn to trust it.
‘I do trust you,’ Britta said. ‘I was only worried because you took so long to come to me. But I daresay you had to wait till there were fewer people about.’
The goozli bowed and tapped the side of its nose. Then it stiffened, listening.
Someone was running towards the cabin. Quickly Britta unbuttoned her pocket and held it open. She was buttoning it up again, with the goozli safely inside, when Davvie appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide with fright.
‘You—you’re to come now, Britta,’ he whispered. ‘They’re doing the ‘prentice ceremony now, instead of later, an’ you’re wanted.’ He gulped. ‘Sky says— Sky says that whatever they say to you, you’ve got to keep remembering that—that you’re you, an’ not your father.’
Anxiously he looked up at her, worried that his message made no sense, but Britta nodded and managed a smile.
The dreamlike feeling crept over her again as she followed Davvie along the passage and up to the deck. She could hear the murmuring of a large crowd on the dock, the splash of water, and the soft creaking of the moored ship. The sun was very warm and bright. The salty air was heavy with the familiar harbour smells of spices, tar, fried fish and baked sweet potatoes.
Britta felt dizzy, and for a terrible moment she thought she might faint. She pressed her fingers to the goozli nestled in her pocket, steadied herself, and moved on after Davvie.
A group of people stood waiting in the stern, the Rosalyn flag fluttering gently behind them. In the centre was Trader Sorrel. He was looking straight ahead, his silver hair gleaming, his face very grave. On either side of him were some men and women Britta had never seen before—other members of the Rosalyn Trust Committee, no doubt.
Davvie muttered something she did not catch and backed away, leaving her alone. It did not matter. She knew what she had to do. Vashti, Sky and Jewel were standing in a line before the Committee. She had to join them.
She moved stiffly forward, placing her feet very carefully, keeping her back straight. She could feel many eyes upon her. The other members of the Trust Committee turned their heads to stare at her, but Sorrel still looked straight ahead as if he did not know she was there.
As she stepped into line beside Jewel, Britta saw dimly that Captain Hara was standing by the ship’s rail, near some other people who were sitting on chairs that must have been brought up from below. A finely dressed couple perched bolt upright on the first two chairs, looking outraged. Beside them lounged a very tall, broad-shouldered woman whose shaved, painted head proclaimed her to be a woman of Broome.
On the very edge of the fourth chair crouched a shrunken, grey-faced old man with a bushy white beard. Confused as she was, it took a moment for Britta to realise that the pathetic, bowed figure was Captain Gripp. As she met Gripp’s eyes and saw the love and misery there, her heart turned over.
Someone handed Sorrel a roll of parchment. He unrolled it, cleared his throat and began to read aloud, his voice flat and colourless.
‘We, the members of the Trust Committee, are gathered here to appoint the Trader Rosalyn Apprentice, in the presence of the finalists and their sponsors, and of Mab, the Trader Rosalyn ...’
His voice trailed off. He rolled up the parchment again and passed it to the elegant woman standing beside him.
‘The written speech was prepared before certain matters became known, and is now out of date,’ he said, again staring straight ahead. ‘I will have to speak without it. To correct my previous statement: first, the sponsors of only three of the finalists are present. Captain Hara has explained why this is so.’
His bunchy cheeks became rather pink. ‘During the voyage, it was discovered that the finalist Sky of Rithmere does not qualify for the contest, by the rules of the Rosalyn Trust. I ask him to stand aside, but not to leave this place until he is told he may.’
‘Disgraceful!’ someone hissed as Sky left the line of finalists and moved, with the suggestion of a swagger, to stand just out of Britta’s sight.
‘Secondly,’ Sorrel continued, his voice trembli
ng very slightly, ‘Mab, the Trader Rosalyn, is not present at this ceremony. She is not even aware that it is taking place. On the Isle of Tier, where her boat was forced to land after the mutiny of which we have all heard, she was attacked by Dare Larsett and as a result is gravely ill.’
‘That is not true!’ Jewel burst out. ‘Mab was ill before we even reached Tier! And—’
‘Silence!’ Sorrel thundered. ‘We have heard Captain Hara’s report. We require no other.’
Britta turned to look at Hara. His bearded face was quite expressionless.
So, she thought numbly, Hara is going to cover up for Mab. No doubt they decided between them last night that if she did not appear at the ceremony, she would not have to answer any awkward questions.
The tall woman who was plainly Jewel’s sponsor shifted in her chair. ‘If there is a disagreement, surely the matter should be discussed,’ she remarked to no one in particular.
‘With respect, Erin of Broome, I disagree,’ Vashti’s father said smoothly. ‘You arrived at the dock only minutes ago, so you may not realise how grave our dear Mab’s condition is. Time may be very short. That is why it was decided to hold this ceremony as soon as possible, instead of at the traditional time of sunset.’
‘We had no choice,’ the elegant woman beside Sorrel added, twisting the roll of parchment in her shaking hands. ‘It is vital that the Apprentice is named before ... before any sad event occurs.’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Sorrel went on doggedly, though his voice was still not quite steady. ‘Because the Trader Rosalyn cannot be with us, the Committee has no choice but to base its decision solely on the value of the goods brought back to Del by each finalist.’
He took a card from his pocket and glanced at it. ‘Vashti, daughter of Irma and Loy of Del, used the ten gold coins that had been given to each finalist to buy a dozen small jade vases. The jade is only of medium quality, but the vases are attractive and we believe they would sell in Del for two golds each. Vashti’s trade is therefore valued at twenty-four gold coins.’
The other Trust Committee members clapped without much enthusiasm.
‘We did not land in Maris, you see,’ Vashti said breathlessly, ‘and we had less than a day in Two Moons. I am sure that I would have done very much better if I had been able to follow my trading plan, and—’
‘I daresay,’ Sorrel cut in. ‘In any case, Vashti, you were fortunate in that your goods were stored in the cargo hold, where I understand the mutineers did not go. Jewel of Broome, on the other hand, had purchased in Two Moons an inlaid music box—’
‘I had planned to trade it in Illica,’ Jewel said. ‘But—’
‘But you did not have the opportunity,’ finished Sorrel, giving her a hard stare. Clearly he had heard of Jewel’s trouble in Illica, but for the sake of the dignity of the Rosalyn Trust he was not going to speak of it in public.
Britta looked quickly over her shoulder to exchange glances with Sky, but discovered that he had vanished. Dully she wondered if he had already slipped off the ship, despite the order to stay on board. Sky had a way of easing himself out of trouble.
‘Unfortunately,’ Sorrel was continuing, ‘Jewel of Broome kept the music box in her cabin, where it was found by the mutineers and wantonly smashed. As it is, it is worth nothing, and the few trampled fragments that remain are not enough for us even to guess at its previous value.’
The elegant woman beside him sighed—more because of the destruction of a beautiful thing, Britta thought, than because she had any sympathy for Jewel.
‘And it seems that the remaining finalist, Britta of Del, has brought back nothing at all,’ Sorrel went on, still looking straight ahead. ‘Is that correct, Britta?’
He had chosen not to mention Britta’s father, or her false entry in the contest. Britta knew that she should be grateful for that. But she could see in Sorrel’s eyes, and the eyes of every other person on deck, that everything was known. In the end, she and Captain Gripp would both pay heavily for their deceit.
‘That is correct,’ she made herself say. ‘My only trade was lost in the Two Moons swamplands.’
‘And what in the nine seas was she doing there, I would like to know?’ Vashti’s mother hissed, in a piercing whisper that everyone could hear.
‘Under the circumstances, therefore,’ Sorrel said, ‘the clear and only possible winner of the Rosalyn Apprentice contest is—’
‘What is the meaning of this?’
The voice was loud, familiar and furiously angry. Everyone jumped. The people on the dock craned forward.
Supported on one side by Healer Kay and on the other by Sky of Rithmere, Trader Mab was hobbling rapidly towards Sorrel, her red hair flaming in the sun, her eyes spitting fire.
16 - Mab
The crowd on the dock roared, Jewel yelled and the Trust Committee members froze. The sponsors sprang to their feet. Captain Hara cursed in amazement. Vashti clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle a little scream of shock. For an instant, Sorrel’s face was a picture of almost comical amazement. Then he went bright red, and tears of joy sprang into his eyes.
‘Mab!’ he shouted, all dignity forgotten. ‘By all the wonders—’
‘Why was I not told the ceremony had been put forward?’ Mab demanded. She jerked her head at Sky. ‘If it had not been for this rascal here, Kay and I would never have known! Well, Sorrel? Don’t stand blubbering there! Explain yourself!’
Sorrel gaped at her, tears still running down his fiery cheeks.
‘We thought you were dying!’ roared Jewel’s sponsor, who was clearly enjoying herself thoroughly.
Mab turned and glared at Hara.
‘Kay said last night that you were too ill to see me,’ Hara said with a shrug. ‘This morning, just before we docked, I was told that you could have no visitors and that I should tell the Committee members all they needed to know.’
‘All Mab wanted them to know,’ Jewel muttered, a little too loudly.
‘Curse you, Hara, that did not mean I planned to miss the Apprentice Ceremony!’ Mab thundered. ‘By the heavens, who knows what a muck of it these fools would have made if I had not arrived in time!’
The Committee members exchanged outraged glances. Sorrel’s cheeks darkened to dull scarlet.
‘I fail to see how we could have made a so-called “muck of it”, Mab,’ he said stiffly. ‘Only one finalist brought traded items of any value back to Del.’
‘Indeed?’ Mab regarded him scathingly. ‘Then I gather you think that seven lives—one of them mine, I might remind you—have no value? What of a fully equipped landing boat, then?’
Shocked gratitude swept through Britta in a great, warm flood, almost knocking her off her feet. With shame mingled with relief she felt Jewel’s arm wrap around her, holding her steady.
Sorrel shied like a startled horse. He darted a glance at Britta, and cleared his throat.
‘We had not considered your escape from the Hungry Isle as being a matter of trade,’ he began carefully. ‘That is, we understand that by some means Britta of Del made the escape possible—’
‘The girl deserves no credit for that!’ Vashti’s father broke in angrily. ‘They would not have been on Tier in the first place if it had not been for her! By the heavens, man, she is the daughter of Dare Larsett!’
‘Trader Loy!’ Sorrel shouted as a startled, furious roar burst from the crowd on the dock. ‘We made it very clear to all sponsors that during this ceremony there was to be no mention—’
‘It was Trader Mab who raised the subject,’ Loy interrupted. ‘And it seems she has taken it into her head to overturn the decision of the Trust Committee and hand the Rosalyn Apprenticeship to a young woman who is unfit in every way to hold such a responsible position.’
‘It is not for you to decide who is fit to be my Apprentice, Loy,’ snapped Mab. ‘The terms of the Rosalyn Trust clearly state that the Trader Rosalyn has the final word.’
‘The Trader Rosalyn when she is
in her right mind!’ barked Loy. ‘Not the Trader Rosalyn when she has just risen from her bed after being struck down by a murdering sorcerer who was the father of one of the finalists!’
There was an ominous rumbling from the dock.
Britta had begun to tremble. She felt dizzy and sick. The lost memory that had been plaguing her for so long was tugging, tugging at her mind, but still it would not show itself.
‘Trader Loy, you go too far!’ cried Sorrel.
‘I do not!’ Loy retorted. ‘Everyone present must see that Mab is not herself! Leaving aside every other issue, the girl Britta entered the Rosalyn contest under false pretences. She claimed to be an orphan, and to be related to Captain Gripp. Plainly she is neither.’
‘Britt didn’t claim it!’ Gripp roared. ‘I claimed it! An’ Mab knew full well—’
‘I knew that Captain Gripp thought a great deal of Britta,’ Mab broke in firmly, drowning him out. ‘And as for a few slight errors on the entry form—this is no time to abide by pettifogging rules! The point of the Rosalyn contest is to choose the best possible Apprentice. I have chosen Britta, and I have explained why. That should be enough.’
‘It is not enough,’ said Loy, meeting her glare with one of his own. ‘The Rosalyn Trust Committee cannot knowingly reward deceit without bringing dishonour to itself and its great history.’
‘Pompous poppycock!’ Mab snorted, but clearly she was shaken. The strain was telling on her, Britta could see. Deep furrows had appeared between her brows. Her painted eyelids were drooping.
Sorrel regarded her thoughtfully, then seemed to come to a decision. He stepped forward, smoothing his moustache. His eyes were red, but he had wiped his face and looked almost his dapper self once more.