by Robin Hobb
‘And after that, I suppose, you sort of did what you pleased with men?’
She should have known he’d want to know. Men always seemed to want to know. She shrugged, resigned to the whole truth. ‘Here and there. Not often. Well, only twice. I had a feeling that it hadn’t been… done right. The way the men on the Vivacia talked, I suspected it should at least have been fun. It had just been… pressure, and a bit of pain, and wetness. That was all. So I finally got up my nerve and tried a couple more times, with different men. And it was… all right.’
Brashen lifted his head to look into her eyes. ‘You call this “all right”?’
Another truth she didn’t want to part with. She felt as if she was giving away a weapon. ‘This was not “all right”. This has been what it was always supposed to be. It was never like this before for me.’ Then, because she could not bear the softness that had come into his eyes, she had to add: ‘Maybe it was the cindin.’ She fished the tiny fragment that was left out of her lip. ‘It made little sores inside my mouth,’ she complained and looked away from the small hurt on his face.
‘Like as not, it was the cindin,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve heard it affects women that way, sometimes. Most women don’t use it much you know, because it can, um, make you bleed. Even when it’s not your time.’ He looked suddenly embarrassed.
‘Now he tells me,’ she muttered aloud. His grip on her had loosened. The cindin was wearing off and she was suddenly sleepy. And her head had begun a nasty throbbing. She should get up. Cold room. Wet clothes. In a minute. In a minute, she’d have to get up and go back to being alone. ‘I have to go. If we get caught like this…’
‘I know,’ he said, but he didn’t move. Except to slide his hand in a long caress down her body. A shiver seemed to follow his touch.
‘Brashen. You know this can’t happen again.’
‘I know, I know.’ He breathed the words against her skin as he kissed the back of her neck slowly. ‘This can’t happen again. No more. No more after this last time.’
21
VISITORS
RONICA LOOKED UP from her account ledgers with a sigh. ‘Yes? What is it?’
Rache looked uneasy. ‘Delo Trell is in the sitting room.’
Ronica raised her eyebrows. ‘Why?’ Delo usually ran in and out as she wished. She and Malta had been best friends for at least two years now, and the formalities between the girls had eroded long ago.
Rache looked at the floor. ‘Her older brother is with her. Cerwin Trell.’ Rache hesitated.
Ronica frowned to herself. ‘Well, I can see him now, I suppose. Not here, put him in the morning room. Did he say what he wanted?’
Rache bit her lip for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. He said he was here to call upon Malta. With his sister.’
‘What?’ Ronica shot to her feet as if jabbed.
‘I do not know your ways all that well, in this regard. But to me, it did not seem… correct. So I asked them to wait in the sitting room.’ Rache looked very uncomfortable. ‘I hope I have not caused an awkwardness.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ronica said crisply. ‘Malta invited this “awkwardness”. But young Trell should have better manners as well. They are in the sitting room, you said?’
‘Yes. Should I… bring refreshments?’ The two women looked at one another. In the face of this social dilemma, the lines between mistress and servant were near invisible.
‘I… yes. Thank you, Rache. You are correct. This is best handled with formality rather than scolding him like a rude boy. Even if that is how he has behaved.’ Ronica bit her lower lip for a moment. ‘Advise Keffria of this as well, and ask her to join us. Bring refreshments and serve them. Then, wait a bit before you tell Malta she has guests waiting. She has created this, she should witness how it is dealt with.’
Rache took a breath, a soldier preparing for battle. ‘Very well.’
After she had left the room, Ronica lifted her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. She glanced back at the accounting ledgers she had set aside, and shook her head. Her eyes and head ached from poring over them anyway, and she had yet to find any way to make the debts on the pages any smaller or the credits any larger. This, at least would be a distraction. An unpleasant distraction from an impossible problem. Ah, well. She patted at her hair, then straightened her spine and headed towards the sitting room. If she hesitated, she’d lose her nerve. Cerwin Trell might be young, but he was also the heir to a powerful Trader family. She needed to put him in his place, but without direct insult. It would be a fine line to tread.
At the sitting room door she paused to take a breath and set her hand to the latch.
‘Mother.’
Ronica turned to see Keffria bearing down on her like a runaway horse. Small glints of anger shone in her usually docile eyes. Her lips were set in a firm line. Ronica could not recall having seen her daughter like this. She lifted a cautioning hand to her. ‘The Trell family is not to be offended,’ she reminded her very quietly. She saw Keffria hear her words, evaluate them, and set them aside.
‘Neither are the Vestrits,’ she hissed in a low voice. The inflection was so like her father that it paralysed Ronica. Keffria pushed open the door and preceded her into the room.
Cerwin looked up with a guilty start from where he perched on the edge of a divan. Even Delo looked startled. She cocked her head to peer past Keffria and Ronica.
Ronica spoke before Keffria could. ‘Malta will join us in a moment, Delo. I am sure your friend will be very happy to see you. And what a pleasure to have you call on us, Cerwin. It has been, oh, let’s see. Why, do you know, I can’t recall the last time you came to visit us.’
Cerwin surged to his feet and bowed. He straightened and smiled, but not easily. ‘I believe my parents brought me to Keffria’s wedding. Of course, that was some years back.’
‘About fifteen,’ Keffria observed. ‘You were an inquisitive little boy, as I recall. Didn’t I catch you trying to grab the goldfish in the garden fountains?’
The boy was still standing. Ronica tried to recall his age. Eighteen? Nineteen? ‘I suppose you did. Yes, I do recall something of that. Of course, as you say, I was just a little boy, then.’
‘That you were,’ Keffria replied before Ronica could speak. ‘And I would never blame a little child for seeing something bright and pretty and desiring to possess it.’ She smiled at Cerwin as she added, ‘And here is Rache with some refreshments for us. Do sit down and be comfortable.’
Rache had brought coffee and small cakes and cream and spices on a tray. She set it up on a small table, and left the room. Keffria served them. For a time the only talk was whether or not cream and spices were preferred in the coffee. When all were served, Keffria seated herself and smiled round at their guests. Delo was sitting nervously on the edge of her seat, and she kept glancing towards the door. Ronica guessed she was hoping Malta would appear and take her out of the grownup setting. At least, so she hoped.
Keffria immediately returned to her attack. ‘So. What does bring you calling here today, Cerwin?’
He met her eyes boldly, but his voice was soft as he said, ‘Malta invited me… us. I had taken Delo into the market for an afternoon of shopping. We chanced to meet Malta and we all took some refreshment together. And Malta extended to us an invitation to call on her at home.’
‘She did.’ Keffria’s tone did not question his story. Ronica hoped her dismay did not show as plainly as her daughter’s. ‘Well. The silly child never told us to expect you. But that is how girls are, I suppose, and Malta worse so than most. Her head is full of foolish fancies, I am afraid, and they crowd out all common sense and courtesy.’
Ronica heard Keffria’s words with half an ear. She was already wondering how often Malta had slipped away to market on her own, and if the meeting had truly been as chance as Trell made it sound. She looked at Delo speculatively; could the two girls have planned the ‘accidental’ encounter?
As if on cue, Malta ent
ered the room. She glanced around in consternation at them all taking refreshments together so socially. A sly wariness came over her face, very ugly to Ronica’s eye. When had the girl become capable of such cunning? It was plain she had hoped to greet Delo and Cerwin on her own. At least she did not appear to have expected them today. Although her hair was freshly brushed and there was a touch of paint on her lips, her dress at least was appropriate to a girl of her age. She wore a simple woollen shift, embroidered at the throat and hem. Yet there was something in the way she wore it, sashed tight to show her waist and pull the fabric firm against her rounding bosom that suggested there was a woman in the child’s clothes. And Cerwin Trell had risen to his feet as if it were a young woman entering rather than a little girl.
This was worse than Ronica had feared.
‘Malta,’ her mother greeted her. She smiled at her daughter. ‘Delo has come over to visit with you. But won’t you have some cakes and coffee with us first?’
Delo’s and Malta’s eyes met. Delo swallowed and licked her lips. ‘And afterwards, perhaps you can show us the trumpet vine that you said was on bud.’ She cleared her throat and spoke louder than was needed as she added to Keffria, ‘Malta was telling us about your hothouse room when last we met. My brother is very interested in flowers.’
Keffria smiled, a stretching of her lips. ‘Is he? Then he shall have a tour. Malta spends so little time in the flower rooms, I am surprised that she even recalled we had a trumpet vine. I shall show it to Cerwin myself. After all,’ and she turned the smile on Cerwin, ‘I can scarcely trust him alone with my goldfish, after what he tried the last time!’
Ronica almost felt sorry for the boy, as he forced a smile to his face and tried not to show his full understanding of her words.
‘I am sure I would enjoy that very much, Keffria.’
Ronica had expected to have to take control of this situation. But in this area, at least, Keffria seemed to have finally assumed her full role. Ronica said little other than courtesy talk as they finished the coffee and cakes. Instead, she watched. She was soon convinced that Malta and Delo were conspirators in this, with Delo far more uneasy and guilt-stricken over it than Malta. Malta looked, if not at ease, at least determined. She focused herself and her conversation at Cerwin in a way he could not help but respond to. Cerwin himself seemed well aware of the impropriety of the situation, but like a mouse fascinated by a snake, he could not seem to recover himself from it. Instead he strove to remain focused on Keffria’s stream of polite conversation, while Malta smiled at him over the rim of her coffee cup. Mentally, Ronica shook her head. Keffria had worried that Malta was too naive to be brought into Bingtown society as a young woman, fearing that men might take advantage of her. The opposite was more likely true. Malta watched Cerwin with the avidity of a stalking cat. Deep in her heart, Ronica wondered which was more important to her; the man or the hunting of him. Cerwin was young, and from what little Ronica had seen of him, inexperienced in games such as these. If Malta won him too easily… and he showed little sign of resisting her attentions… then Malta might discard him for more challenging conquests.
Ronica was looking at her granddaughter with new eyes. What she saw there she found no more admirable in a woman than in a man. A little predator, she was. Ronica wondered if it were already too late to do anything about it. When had the pretty little girl metamorphosed into not a woman but a grasping, conquering female? She found herself thinking that perhaps it was just as well Kyle had drawn Win trow back from the priesthood. If one of them must inherit the Vestrit Trader legacy, she would rather it went to him than to Malta as she was now.
Her thoughts turned to Wintrow. She hoped the boy was doing well. It would be more realistic, she knew, to hope he was surviving. There had been one message from the monastery. A certain Berandol had written to inquire after the boy, and ask when they might expect him to return. Ronica had turned the missive over to Keffria. Let her answer it as she saw fit.
There were times when Ronica wanted to punish Keffria savagely for not having the spine to stand up to Kyle. She wanted to force her to confront every bit of the pain that man had managed to cause in the few short months since Ephron had died. Wintrow had been virtually kidnapped and forced into slavery on his own family ship. Sa only knew what had become of Althea; sometimes that was the hardest for Ronica, to lie awake at night and wonder endlessly what had become of her wayward daughter. Did her body rot in a hasty grave somewhere? Did she live somewhere in Bingtown in dreadful circumstances, doing whatever she must to support herself? This last Ronica doubted. She had made too many inquiries and received not even a titbit of gossip about her daughter. If Althea lived, she had left Bingtown. Under what circumstances, though?
Bingtown was no longer the civilized place it had been but five years ago. These newcomers had brought all sorts of vices with them, and very contagious attitudes toward both servants and women. The newcomers were mostly men. She did not know how they treated their women at home, but the women in their households now were servants only nominally different from slaves. And slaves were often treated as less than animals. The first time Ronica had seen a newcomer man strike one of his servants in the face right there in the market, she had been shocked. Not that the man had done it; there were ill-tempered tyrants among the Bingtown Traders as there were anywhere else, folk who lost their tempers with servants or kin and lashed out at them. Usually they ended up with what they deserved: servants who stole and lied and did as little as possible. But the servant in the market only cowered away from his master; he did not speak out at all, did not threaten to leave his employer or even complain it was an injustice. And somehow by not speaking out on his own behalf, he made it impossible for anyone else to object. One hesitated, wondering, did he perhaps truly deserve the blow? Was he acknowledging his own fault in the matter by accepting it? And so no one else spoke out for the man.
Now it had evolved that there were two classes of servants in Bingtown. True servants, like Nana, paid a living wage and entitled to their own dignity and lives — for waiting on the Vestrits was only her job, not her life. And the newcomers’ servants, who were no more than slaves, whose very existence was to please any whim of their owners. It was not legal, but how did one go about proving a man was a slave and not merely a servant? When asked, such servants immediately and fearfully asserted they were, indeed, servants whose wages were sent home to their families. Many insisted they were content as they were, and had chosen their lives. It always made Ronica a bit queasy to wonder what threats held them in such abject fearfulness. Obviously the threats had been carried out more than once, for the slaves to so fear them.
‘Good day, Ronica Vestrit.’
She did not startle. She had that much poise. Cerwin was before her, nodding his head in a gentleman’s bow to her. She nodded gravely in return. ‘Good day, Cerwin Trell. I hope you enjoy our garden room. And if you enjoy the trumpet vine, perhaps Keffria can give you a cutting from it. As harsh as it may seem, we cut ours back quite severely to encourage it to bloom and to have a graceful shape.’
‘I see,’ he said, and she was sure that he did. He thanked her and then followed Keffria from the room. Malta and Delo, heads together, followed them. Malta’s pent frustration showed in her flared nostrils and flat lips. Clearly she had expected to get Cerwin alone, or at least in no more than the company of his sister. To what end? Probably the girl herself did not know.
Possibly that was the most frightening thing about all this; that Malta had flung herself into it so aggressively with so little knowledge of the consequences.
And whose fault was that, Ronica was forced to ask herself as she watched them go. The children had been growing up in her household. She had seen them often, at table, underfoot, in the gardens. And yet they had been, always, the children. Not tomorrow’s adults, not small people growing towards what they must someday be, but the children. Selden. Where was Selden, at this moment, what was he doing? Probably with Na
na, probably with his tutor, supervised and secure. But that was all she knew of him. A moment of panic washed over her. There was so little time, it might even now be too late to shape them. Look at her own daughters. Keffria, who only wanted someone to tell her what to do, and Althea, who only desired that she do her own will always.
She thought of the numbers on her ledgers, that no act of mere will could change. She thought of the debt she owed the Festrews of the Rain Wilds. Blood or gold, that debt was owed. In a sudden wrenching of her perceptions, it was not her problem. It was Selden’s and it was Malta’s, for were not they the blood that might pay the debt? And she had taught them nothing. Nothing.
‘Mistress? Are you all right?’
She lifted her eyes to Rache. The woman had entered, gathered up the coffee things on a tray, then come to stand next to where her mistress stared black-eyed off into the distance. This woman, a servant-slave in her own house, entrusted with the teaching of her granddaughter. A woman she hardly knew at all. What did her mere presence in the household teach Malta? That slavery was to be accepted — was that the shape of things to come? What did that say to Malta about what it meant to be a woman in the Bingtown society to come?
‘Sit down,’ she heard herself saying to Rache. ‘We need to talk. About my granddaughter. And about yourself.’
‘Jamaillia,’ said Vivacia softly.
The word woke him and he lifted his head from the deck where he’d been sleeping in the winter sunlight. The day was clear, neither cool nor warm, and the wind was leisurely. It was that hour of the afternoon designated for him to ‘pay attention to the ship’ as his father so ignorantly put it. He had been sitting on the foredeck mending his trousers and quietly conversing with the figurehead. He did not recall lying down to sleep.