The Liveship Traders Series

by Robin Hobb

  A cacophony of voices broke out, some raised in outrage, others shrill with fear, and still others roaring their approval. At the end of the row, Davad Restart stood suddenly. ‘Hear me!’ he shouted, and when no one paid attention, he climbed up on top of his chair, where he balanced ponderously. ‘HEAR ME!’ he roared out, a surprising sound from such an ineffectual man. All eyes turned to him and the babble died down.

  ‘This is madness,’ he announced. ‘Think what will happen next. He won’t let Bingtown go that easily. The Satrap will send shiploads of soldiers. He will confiscate our holdings. He will deed them over to the New Traders, and make slaves of our families. No. We must work with the New Traders. Give them, not all, but enough to make them content. Make them a part of us, as we did with the Three Ships’ Immigrants. I’m not saying we should teach them all we know, or that they should be allowed to trade with Rain Wild Traders, but…’

  ‘Then what are you saying, Restart?’ someone demanded angrily from the back of the hall. ‘As long as you’re speaking for your New Trader friends, just how much do they want of us?’

  Someone else chimed in, ‘If the Satrap were interested in sending ships up the Inside Passage, he’d have cleaned out the pirates long ago. They say the old patrol galleys are rotting at their quays, for lack of taxes to man them or repair them. All the money goes for the Satrap to entertain himself. He cares nothing about the serpents and pirates that devour our trade. All he cares is that he be amused. The Satrap is no threat to us. Why should we bother with demands. Let’s just run these New Traders off ourselves. We don’t need Jamaillia!’

  ‘Then where would we sell our goods? All the richest trade is to the south, unless you want to deal with the northern barbarians.’

  ‘That’s another thing. The pirates. The old covenant said the Satrap would protect us from sea marauders. If we’re making demands, we should tell him that—’

  ‘We do need Jamaillia! What are we without Jamaillia? Jamaillia is poetry and art and music, Jamaillia is our mother culture. You can’t cut off trade there and still—’

  ‘And the serpents! The damned slavers draw the serpents, we should demand that slavers be outlawed from the Inside Passage—’

  ‘We are an honourable folk. Even if the Satrap cannot recall how to keep his word, we are still bound by—’

  ‘— will take our homes and lands and make slaves of us all. We’ll be right back where our forebears were, exiles and criminals, with no hope of reprieve.’

  ‘We should set up our own patrol ships, to start with. Not just to keep New Traders away from the mouth of the Rain Wild, but to hunt serpents and pirates as well. Yes, and to make clear to Chalced once and for all that the Rain Wild River is not their border, but that their control stops at Hover Inlet. They been pushing—’

  ‘You’d have us in two wars at once then, battling both Chalced and Jamaillia! That’s stupid. Remember, were it not for Jamaillia and the Satrap, Chalced would have tried to overrun us years ago. That’s what we risk if we cut ourselves free of JamaiUia. War with Chalced!’

  ‘War? Who speaks of war? All we need to ask is that the Satrap Cosgo keep the promises that Satrap Esclepius made to us!’

  Once more the hall erupted with a chorus of angry voices. Traders stood on their chairs, or shouted from where they stood. Malta couldn’t make sense of any of it. She doubted anyone could. ‘Mother,’ she whispered pleadingly. ‘I am dying of thirst! And it’s so stuffy in here. Can I just go outside for a breath of air?’

  ‘Not now!’ her mother snapped.

  ‘Malta, shut up,’ her grandmother added. She didn’t even look at her, she seemed to be trying to follow a conversation between two men three rows ahead of them.

  ‘Please,’ Jani Khuprus was calling from the stage. ‘Hear me, please! Please.’ As the babble died down, she spoke more quietly, forcing folk to be silent to hear her. ‘This is our biggest danger. We quarrel among ourselves. We speak with many voices, and so the Satrap heeds none of them. We need a strong group of people to take our words to the Satrap, and we must be united and sincere in what we say. One strong voice he must heed, but as long as we tear at one another like…’

  ‘I have to use the backhouse,’ Malta whispered. There. That was something they never argued with. Her grandmother gave a disapproving shake of her head, but they let her go. Davad Restart was so intent on what Jani Khuprus was saying he scarcely noticed her slip past him.

  She stopped at the refreshment table to pour herself a glass of wine. She was not the only one to have left her seat. In different parts of the hall, knots of folk were forming and talking, all but ignoring the Rain Wild Trader. Some folk were arguing amongst themselves, others nodding in mutual agreement with her words. Almost everyone there was substantially older than she was. She looked for Cerwin Trell, but he was still seated with his family and appeared to be avidly interested in what was going on. Politics. Privately Malta believed that if everyone just ignored them, life would go on as it always had. The arguments would probably last the rest of the evening and spoil the party. She sighed and took her wine with her as she stepped outside into the crisp winter night.

  It was full dark now. The footpath torches had burned down. Above the icy winter stars sparkled. She glanced up at them now and thought of flame-jewels. The blues and the greens were the rarest. She couldn’t wait to tell Delo that. She knew how she would say it, as if it were something she just assumed that everyone knew. Delo was the best for sharing such things with, because Delo was a hopeless gossip. She’d repeat it to everyone. Hadn’t she spread word among all the girls about Malta’s green gown? Of course, she had also told them about Davad Restart making Malta go home. She’d been an idiot to tell Delo about that, but she’d been so mad, she’d just had to talk to someone. And tonight would make up for that embarrassment. She wouldn’t tell Delo how bored she had been, only that she had stood outside and chatted with Jani Khuprus herself about flame-jewels. She strolled down past the coaches, sipping at her wine. Some of the coachmen sat within the carriages, out of the cold, while others hunched on the boxes. Some few had gathered at the corner of the drive to gossip amongst themselves, and probably share a sip or two from a flask.

  She walked almost to the end of the drive, past Davad’s coach and then the Rain Wilds one. She’d left her ratty old cloak inside and was starting to feel the chill of the evening. She held her arms close to her chest, resolving not to spill wine down her front, and strolled on. She stopped to examine the crest on a coach door. It was a silly one, a rooster wearing a crown. ‘Khuprus,’ she said to herself, and lightly traced it with a finger, committing it to memory. The metal glowed briefly in her finger’s wake, and she realized the crest was made of jidzin. It was not as popular now as it once was. Some of the older street performers still made their cymbals and finger-chimes from jidzin. The metal shimmered whenever it was struck. It was a wonderful treat to the eyes, but in reality brass sounded better. Still, it was one more thing to tell Delo. She strolled idly on, and imagined how she would phrase it. ‘Odd, to think how a human touch sets off both jidzin and flame-jewels,’ she ventured aloud. No, that wasn’t quite it. She needed a more dramatic statement than that.

  Almost beside her, a blue eye winked into existence. She stepped back hastily, then peered again. Someone was standing there, leaning against the Khuprus coach. The blue glow was a jewel fastened at his throat. He was a slight figure, heavily cloaked in the Rain Wild style. His neck was swathed in a scarf, his face veiled like a woman’s. He was probably their coachman. ‘Good evening,’ she said boldly, to cover up her momentary surprise, and started to walk past him.

  ‘Actually,’ he said in a quiet voice, ‘it needn’t be a human touch. Any motion can set them flaring, once they’ve been wakened. See?’ He extended a gloved hand towards her, then gave his wrist a shake. Two small blue gems popped into evidence on his cuff. Malta had to stop and stare. It was not a pale blue, but a deep sapphire blue that danced alone in the
darkness.

  ‘I thought the blues and greens were the rarest and most valuable,’ she observed. She took a sip of the wine she still carried. That seemed more polite than asking how a coachman came to have such things.

  ‘They are,’ he admitted easily. ‘But these are very small ones. And slightly flawed, I am afraid. They were chipped in the recovery process.’ He shrugged. She saw the movement in the rise and fall of the gem at his throat. ‘They probably won’t burn long. No more than a year or two. But I couldn’t bear to see them thrown away.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Malta exclaimed, scandalized. Flame-jewels thrown away? Shocking. ‘You say they burn? Are they hot, then?’

  He laughed, a soft chuckle. ‘Oh, not in the ordinary way. Here. Touch one.’ Again he extended his arm toward her.

  She unwrapped her arms from around herself to extend a timid finger. She tapped one cautiously. No. It did not burn. Emboldened, she touched it again. It was smooth and cool like glass, although she could feel a tiny nick in one place. She touched the other one, then wrapped her arms around herself again. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said, and shivered. ‘It’s freezing out here. I’d better go back inside.’

  ‘No, don’t… I mean… Are you cold?’

  ‘A little. I left my cloak inside.’ She turned to go.

  ‘Here. Take mine.’ He had stood up straight and was unfastening his cloak.

  ‘Oh, thank you, but I’m fine. I couldn’t take your cloak from you. I just need to get back inside.’ The very thought of his cloak from his warty back touching her flesh made her chill deepen. She hurried away, but he followed her.

  ‘Here. Try just my scarf then. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s amazingly warm. Here. Do try it.’ He had it off, flame-gem and all, and when she turned, he draped it over her arm. It was amazingly warm, but what stopped her from flinging it back at him was the blue flame-jewel winking up at her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. To wear one, even for just a few moments… that was too great of an opportunity to pass by. She could always take a bath when she got home. ‘Would you hold this, please?’ she asked him, and held out the wine glass. He took it from her and she wasted no time in draping the scarf around her neck and shoulders. He had been wearing it like a muffler, but its airy knit could be shaken out until it was nearly a shawl. And it was warm, very warm. She arranged it so that the blue jewel rested between her breasts. She looked down at it. ‘It’s so beautiful. It’s like… I don’t know what it’s like.’

  ‘Some things are only like themselves. Some beauty is incomparable,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, staring into the stone’s depth.

  After a moment, he reminded her, ‘Your wine?’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowned to herself. ‘I don’t want it any more. You may have it, if you wish.’

  ‘I may?’ There was a tone of both amusement and surprise in his voice. As if some delicate balance between them had just shifted in his favour.

  She was momentarily flustered by it. ‘I mean, if you want it…’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ he assured her. The veil that covered his face was split. He was deft at slipping the glass through, and he drained the wine off with a practised toss. He held the emptied glass up to the starlight and gazed at it for a moment. She felt that he glanced at her before he slipped the glass up his sleeve. ‘A keepsake,’ he suggested. For the first time, Malta realized that he was older than she and perhaps their conversation was not quite proper, that all of these casual exchanges might be taken to mean something deeper. Nice girls did not stand about in the dark chatting with strange coachmen.

  ‘I had best go inside. My mother will be wondering where I am,’ she excused herself.

  ‘No doubt,’ he murmured his assent, and again that amusement was there. She began to feel just a tiny bit afraid of him. No. Not afraid. Wary. He seemed to sense it, for when she tried to walk away, he followed her. He actually walked beside her, as if he were escorting her. She was halfway afraid he would follow her right into the Concourse, but he stopped at the door.

  ‘I need something from you, before you go,’ he suddenly requested.

  ‘Of course.’ She lifted her hands to the scarf.

  ‘Your name.’

  She stood very still. Had he forgotten she was wearing his scarf with the flame-jewel on it? If he had, she wasn’t going to remind him. Oh, she wouldn’t keep it. Not for ever, just long enough to show Delo.

  ‘Malta,’ she told him. Enough of a name that he could find out who had his scarf when he recalled it. Not so much that he could recover it too quickly.

  ‘Malta…’ he let it hang, prompting her. She pretended not to understand. ‘I see,’ he said after a moment. ‘Malta. Good evening, then, Malta.’

  ‘Good evening.’ She turned and hurried through the great doors of the hall. Once within, she hastily removed the scarf and jewel. Whatever the scarf was woven of, it was fine as gossamer. When she bunched it in her hands, it was small enough to fit completely inside the pocket sewn into her cloak. She stowed it there. Then, with a small smile of satisfaction, she returned to the hall. People in there were still taking turns at speeches. Covenants, compromises, rebellions, slavery, war, embargoes. She was sick of it all. She just wished they would give up and be quiet so her mother would take her home, where she could admire the flame-jewel in the privacy of her own room.

  The rest of the tangle did not seem to sense that anything was amiss. Sessurea, perhaps, was a bit uneasy, but the others were content. Food was plentiful and easily obtained, the atmosphere of this Plenty was warm, and the new salts woke exciting colours in the fresh skins that their shedding revealed. They shed frequently, for the feeding was rich and growth was easy. Perhaps, Shreever thought discontentedly, that was all the others had ever sought. Perhaps they thought this indolent life of feeding and shedding was rebirth. She did not.

  She knew Maulkin sought far more than this. The rest of the tangle was short-sighted not to perceive Maulkin’s anxiety and distress. North he had led them, following the shadow of the provider. Several times he had halted at warm flows of unbriny water, tasting and tasting yet again the strange atmospheres. The others had always wanted to hasten after the provider. Once Sessurea had shocked them by extending his ruff and challenging their passage to halt them in their foolish following. But moments later, Maulkin had closed his jaws in bafflement, and left the warm flow, to once more take his place in the provider’s shadow.

  Shreever had not been overly distressed when the provider had halted and Maulkin had been content to stay near it. Who was she to question one who had the memories of the ancients? But when the provider had reversed its path to go south, and Maulkin had bid them follow it yet again, she had become anxious. Something, she felt, was not right. Sessurea seemed to share her unease.

  They glimpsed other tangles, following other providers. All seemed content and well-fed. At such times, Shreever wondered if the fault were in her. Perhaps she had dreamed of too much, perhaps she had taken the holy lore too literally. But then she would mark how distracted Maulkin was, even in the midst of feeding. While the others snapped and gorged, he would abruptly cease feeding and hang motionless, jaws wide, gills pumping as he quested for some elusive scent. And often, when the provider had halted for a time and the others of the tangle were resting, Maulkin would rise, nearly to the Lack, to begin a twining dance with lidded eyes. At such times, Sessurea watched him almost as closely as she did. Over and over again their leader knotted his body and then flowed through the knot, sensitizing the entire length of his skin to all the atmosphere could tell him. He would trumpet lightly and fitfully to himself, snatches of nonsense interspersed with holy lore. Sometimes he would lift his head above the Plenty and into the Lack, and then let himself sink again, muttering of the lights, the lights.

  Shreever could endure it no longer. She let him dance until exhaustion began to dim his false-eyes. In a slow wavering of weariness, he began to drift towards the bottom. Ruf
f slack and unchallenging, she approached his descent and matched it. ‘Maulkin,’ she bugled quietly. ‘Has your vision failed? Are we lost?’

  He unlidded his eyes to stare at her. Almost lazily he looped a loose coil around her, drawing her down to tangle with him in the soft muck. ‘Not merely a place,’ he told her almost dreamily. ‘It is a time as well. And not just a time and a place, but a tangle. A tangle such as has not been gathered since ancient times. I can almost scent a One Who Remembers.’

  Shreever shivered her coils, trying to read his memory. ‘Maulkin. Are not you One Who Remembers?’

  ‘I?’ His eyes were lidding again. ‘No. Not completely. I can almost remember. I know there is a place, and a time, and a tangle. When I experience them, I will know them without question. We are close, very close, Shreever. We must persevere and not doubt. So often the time has come and gone, and we have missed it. I fear that if we miss it yet again, all our memories of the ancient times will fade, and we will never be as we were.’

  ‘And what were we?’ she asked, simply to hear him confirm it.

  ‘We were the Masters, moving freely through both the Lack and the Plenty. All that one knew, everyone knew, and all shared the memories of all time, from the beginning. We were powerful and wise, respected and revered by all the lesser creatures of mind.’

  ‘And then what happened?’ Shreever asked the rote question.

  ‘The time came to be reshaped. To mingle the essences of our very bodies, and thus to create new beings, partaking of new vitality and new strengths. It was time to perform the ancient cycling of joining and sundering, and growing yet again. It was time to renew our bodies.’

  ‘And what will happen next?’ she completed her part of the ritual.

  ‘All will come together at the time and the place of the gathering. All memory shall be shared again, all that was held safe by one shall be given back to all. The journey to rebirth shall be completed, and we shall rise in triumph once more.’