by Robin Hobb
Nothing, if she wasn’t told, Wintrow suddenly realized. Nothing at all, if all she knew was that her son had run away in Jamaillia City.
The auctioneer’s lash slapped the table in front of him. ‘Sold!’ he roared out. ‘For ten silvers, and you are welcome to her, my lady fair. Now. Who wants to open the next bid? Come on, now, there’s some likely slaves up here. Look at the muscle on these field-workers. Spring planting is only a few months away, farmers. Can’t be ready too soon!’
‘Father! Please!’ Wintrow shouted, and then flinched away as the handler jabbed him again.
Slowly, Kyle Haven lifted his hand. ‘Five shards. For the boy.’
The crowd had a general laugh at this insulting bid. One bought a bowl of soup for five copper shards, not a slave. The auctioneer recoiled showily, his hand to his chest. ‘Five shards?’ he asked in mock dismay. ‘Oh, laddie, what did you do to displease papa so? Five shards I’m offered, five shards is where we start. Anyone else interested in this five-shard slave?’
A voice came up from the crowd. ‘Which boy is the one who can read, write and figure?’
Wintrow kept silent, but a guard helpfully replied, ‘He’s the one. Was in training to be a priest. Says he can work stained-glass, too.’
This final claim in such an apparently young boy put the others in doubt. ‘A full copper!’ someone laughingly bid.
‘Two!’
‘Stand up straight,’ the guard bid him and followed this advice with a nudge from his stick.
‘Three,’ his father said sullenly.
‘Four!’ This was from a laughing young man at the edge of the crowd. He and his companions nudged one another and shifted, their gazes going from Wintrow to his father. Wintrow’s heart sank. If his father became aware of their game, there was no telling how he’d react.
‘Two silvers,’ someone called, apparently thinking she could make a quick end of the bidding with a large increase. Two silvers, he was to learn later, was still a low bid for a new and unpromising slave, but it was within the realm of acceptability.
‘Two silvers!’ the auctioneer called out with enthusiasm. ‘Now, my friends and neighbours, we are taking this young man seriously. He reads, writes and figures! Claims to do stained-glass, but we shan’t make much of that, shall we? A useful lad, bound to get bigger as he can’t get smaller; a tractable, trainable boy. Do I hear three?’
He did, and it was not from Wintrow’s father or the hecklers. The bids shot up to five silvers before the real buyers began shaking their heads and turning aside to examine other waiting merchandise. The boys at the edge of the crowd continued bidding until Torg was sent to stand beside them. He scowled at them, but Wintrow clearly saw him offer them a handful of coins to leave off their game. Ah. So that was how it was done and the whole purpose of it.
A few moments later, his father bought him for seven silvers and five whole coppers. Wintrow was unfastened from the coffle, and led forward by his manacles exactly as a cow might be. At the bottom of the steps, he was turned over to Torg. His father had not even come forward to receive him. A tide of uneasiness arose in Wintrow. He held his wrists out to Torg to have the chains removed, but the sailor feigned not to notice them. Instead he inspected Wintrow as if he were indeed just any other slave that his master had just purchased. ‘Stained-glass, eh?’ he scoffed, and got a general laugh from the handlers and other idlers at the base of the auction stage. He gripped the chain between Wintrow’s wrist and dragged him forward. Wintrow was forced to stumble after him, his ankles still hobbled.
‘Take the chains off,’ Wintrow told him as soon as they were free of the crowd.
‘And give you a chance to run again? I don’t think so,’ Torg replied. He was grinning.
‘You didn’t tell my father I was held here, did you? You waited. So I’d be marked like a slave and he’d have to buy me back.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Torg replied genially. He was in fine fettle. ‘Were I you, I think I’d be grateful that your father happened to stay at the auctions this long, and saw you and bought you. We sail tomorrow, you know. Got our full load, he was just thinking to pick up a few last-minute bargains. Got you instead.’
Wintrow shut up. He debated the wisdom of telling his father what Torg had done. Would it sound as if he was whining, would his father even believe him? He searched the faces they passed, looking for his father in the gathering dusk. What expression would he wear? Anger? Relief? Wintrow himself was caught between trepidation and gratitude.
Then he did catch sight of his father’s face. He was far off, and not even looking towards Wintrow and Torg. He appeared to be bidding on the two farmhands who were being sold together. He didn’t even glance at his own son in chains.
‘My father’s over there,’ Wintrow pointed out to Torg. He halted stubbornly. ‘I want to speak to him before we go back to the ship.’
‘Come on,’ Torg grunted cheerfully. ‘I don’t think he wants to speak to you.’ He grinned to himself. ‘In fact, I doubt he thinks you’d make a good first mate any more when he gives the captaincy over to Gantry. I think he fancies me for that job, now.’ He uttered this with great satisfaction, as if he expected Wintrow to be astounded by it.
Wintrow stopped walking. ‘I want to speak to my father, now.’
‘No,’ Torg replied simply. His greater bulk and muscle easily overmatched Wintrow’s resistance. ‘Walk or be dragged, it’s all one to me,’ he assured him. Torg’s eyes were roving, looking over the heads of a cluster of folk standing about. ‘Ah,’ he exclaimed suddenly, and surged forward, hauling Wintrow behind him.
They halted before a tattooist’s block. He was just freeing a dazed woman from the collar while her impatient buyer tugged on her shackles for her to hurry and follow him. The tattooist looked up at Torg and nodded. ‘Kyle Haven’s mark?’ he asked, gesturing at Wintrow affably. Evidently they had been doing a lot of business.
‘Not this one,’ Torg said, to Wintrow’s instant and vast relief. He supposed there was some freedom trinket or sign to purchase here. His father would not be happy about that extra expense either. Wintrow was already wondering if there were not some way to gently abrade or bleach the new tattoo from his face. Painful as that would be, it would be far better than to wear this sign on his face the rest of his life. The sooner he put this misadventure behind him, the better. He had already decided that when his father did decide to speak to him, Wintrow would give him an honest promise to remain aboard the ship and serve him well to the end of his fifteenth year. Perhaps it was time he accepted the role Sa’s will had placed him in. Perhaps this was supposed to be his opportunity to reconcile with his father. The priesthood, after all, was not a place but an attitude. He could find a way to continue his studies aboard the Vivacia. And Vivacia herself was something to look forward to, he found. A small smile began to dawn on his face as he thought of her. Somehow he’d have to make up to her for his desertion, he’d have to convince her that—
Torg grabbed him by the back of his hair and forced his head down into the collar. The tattooist snubbed it tight. Panicked, Wintrow fought it, but only succeeded in strangling himself. Too tight, they’d pulled it too tight. He was going to pass out, even if he tried to just stand still and breathe, he wasn’t getting enough air and he couldn’t even tell them that. Dimly he heard Torg say, ‘Mark him with a sign like this earring. He’s going to be ship’s property. Bet it’s the first time in the history of Jamaillia City that a liveship bought a slave of her own.’
29
DREAMS AND REALITY
‘THE DREAM-BOX IS MISSING.’
Malta looked from one solemn face to the other. Both her mother and grandmother were watching her intently. Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘How could it be? Are you certain?’
Her mother spoke quietly. ‘I am very certain.’
Malta came the rest of the way into the room and took her place at the breakfast table. She lifted the cover from the dish
in front of her. ‘Not porridge again? We can’t possibly be this poor! How could the box be missing?’
She looked up to meet their eyes again. Her grandmother’s glance was narrowed as she said, ‘I thought perhaps you might know.’
‘Mother had it last. She didn’t give it to me, she barely let me touch it,’ Malta pointed out. ‘Is there any fruit or preserves to go on this stuff?’
‘No. There is not. If we are to pay our debts in a timely fashion, we are going to have to live simply for a while. You have been told that.’
Malta heaved a sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘Sometimes I forget. I hope Papa gets home soon. I’ll be so glad when things are as they are supposed to be again.’ She looked up at her mother and grandmother again and essayed a smile. ‘Until then, I suppose we should just be thankful for what we have.’ She sat up straight, put an agreeable look on her face, and spooned up some of the porridge.
‘So. You have no thoughts on the missing dream-box?’ her grandmother pressed.
Malta shook her head and swallowed. ‘No. Unless… did you ask the servants if they moved it when they tidied? Nana or Rache might know something.’
‘I put it away. It was not left out where it might be moved by chance. Someone had to come inside my room, search for it, and then remove it.’
‘Is anything else missing?’ Malta asked quickly.
‘Nothing.’
Malta ate another spoonful of porridge thoughtfully. ‘Could it have just… disappeared?’ she asked with a half-smile. ‘I know, maybe that is silly. But one hears such extravagant tales of the goods of the Rain Wild. After a time, one almost begins to believe anything is possible.’
‘No. It would not have disappeared,’ her grandmother said slowly. ‘Even if it had been opened, it would not disappear.’
‘How do you know so much about dream-boxes?’ Malta asked curiously. She poured herself a cup of tea and sweetened it well with honey as she waited for a reply.
‘A friend of mine was given one once. She opened the box and dreamed the dream. And she accepted the young man’s suit. But he died before they were wed. I believe she married his brother a few years later.’
‘Ick,’ observed Malta. She took another spoonful of porridge and added, ‘I can’t imagine marrying a Rain Wilder. Even if they are supposed to be our kin, and all. Can you imagine kissing someone who was all warty? Or having breakfast with him in the morning?’
‘There is more to men than how they look,’ her grandmother observed coldly. ‘When you realize that, I may start treating you as a woman.’ She turned her disapproving stare on her own daughter now. ‘Well. What are we going to do?’
Malta’s mother shook her head. ‘What can we do? Explain, most politely, that somehow the gift was lost before we could return it. But that we still cannot consider the suit, as Malta is far too young.’
‘We can’t possibly tell them we lost his gift!’ her grandmother exclaimed.
‘Then what can we do? Lie? Say we are keeping it but refusing the suit anyway? Pretend we never got it and ignore the situation?’ Keffria’s voice was getting more and more sarcastic with each suggestion she made. ‘We’d only end up looking more foolish. As it was my fault, I shall write the letter, and I shall take the blame. I shall write that I had put it in a place I deemed safe, but it was gone in the morning. I shall offer most sincere apologies and reparation. But I shall also refuse the suit, and most tactfully point out that such a gift so early in a courting is scarcely appropriate…’
‘By Rain Wild standards, it is,’ Ronica disagreed. ‘Especially for the Khuprus family. Their wealth is legendary. The boy probably considered it little more than a trinket.’
‘Mm. Maybe we should marry Malta off to him, then,’ her mother offered facetiously. ‘We could certainly use a wealthy relative these days.’
‘Mother!’ Malta exclaimed in irritation. She hated it when her mother said things like that.
‘It was a joke, Malta. Don’t fly into a fit about it.’ Keffria stood up from the table. ‘Well. This is not going to be an easy letter to compose. I had best get started.’
‘Assure them that if we find the box, it will be returned,’ her grandmother suggested.
‘Of course. And I do intend to search my room again. But I’d best get this letter written if I am to have anything to send with the Kendry when she sails.’ Malta’s mother hastened out of the room.
Malta scooped up the last spoonful of porridge from her bowl, but she was not quite fast enough.
‘Malta,’ her grandmother said in a soft but firm voice. ‘I want to ask you, one last time, if you stole the box from your mother’s room. No, think before you answer. Think what this means to our family honour, to your reputation. Answer truthfully, and I promise not to be angry with you about your first lie.’ Her grandmother waited, holding her breath, watching Malta like a snake.
Malta set down her spoon. ‘I did not steal anything,’ she said in a quivering voice. ‘I don’t know how you can believe such things of me. What have I ever done to you, to deserve these accusations all the time? Oh, I wish my father were here, to see how I am treated while he is away. I am sure this is not the life he intended for his only daughter!’
‘No. He’d have auctioned you off like a fat calf by now,’ her grandmother said shortly. ‘Do not flap your emotions at me. You may fool your mother but you don’t fool me. I tell you this plainly. If you have taken the dream-box and opened it, well, that is bad enough a hole for us to dig out of. But if you persist in lying and keep that thing… oh, Malta. You cannot flaunt a courtship from one of the major Trader families of the Rain Wilds. This is not a time for your childish little games. Financially, we are teetering. What has saved us thus far is that we are known for keeping our word. We don’t lie, we don’t cheat, we don’t steal. We pay our debts honestly. But if people lose faith in that, if they start believing we do not keep our word, then we are lost, Malta. Lost. And young as you are, you will have to help pay the forfeit for that.’
Malta stood slowly. She flung down her spoon so it rang against her plate. ‘My father will be home soon, with a fat purse from his hard work. And he will pay off your debts and protect us from the ruin your stubbornness has brought us to. We’d have no problems if Grandpa had traded up the Rain Wild River, like any other man with a liveship. If you’d listened to Davad and sold off the bottom land, or at least let him use his slaves to work it for shares, we wouldn’t be in this hole. It’s not my stubbornness that threatens this family, but yours.’
Her grandmother’s face had gone from stern to shocked. Now her mouth was pinched white with fury. ‘Do you listen at doors, sweet granddaughter? To the words of a dying man to his wife? I had thought many things of you, Malta, both good and bad. But I never suspected you of being a prying little eavesdropper.’
Malta wagged her head coldly. She made her voice sweet. ‘I was told it was how one became accepted as a woman in this family. To know the family holdings and finances, to be aware of both dangers and opportunities. But it seems to me you would rather risk any opportunity for the sake of keeping my father in ignorance. You don’t really see him as a member of this family, do you? Oh, he’s fine for fathering children and keeping my mother content. But you want nothing of him beyond that. Because then he might threaten your own plan. To keep power and control for yourself, even if it means ruin for the family.’ Malta had not known the depth of her own anger until she heard it poured out as venom.
Her grandmother’s voice was shaking as she replied. ‘If your father is ignorant of our ways, it is because he never took the time to learn them. If he had, I would not be so fearful of the power he already wields. Malta.’ The woman took a breath. ‘You show me, here and now, that you have understanding I did not suspect in you. If you had shown us the depth of your understanding before, perhaps your mother and I would have seen you as more adult than child. For now, understand this. When Ephron… when your grandfather died, I could
have retained far more control of the family fortune than I did. His wish was that Althea have the ship. Not Keffria and your father. It was I who persuaded him that your father would be a better choice for captain. Would I have done that, if my hope were to keep control for myself? If I opposed your father being a full member of this family? I believed in his stability and wisdom. But he was not content to inherit. He brought too much change, too fast, with no real understanding of what he was changing, or why such change would be bad. He never consulted any of us about it. Suddenly, it was all his own will and what he thought was best. I do not keep him in ignorance, Malta. His ignorance is a fortress he has built himself and defended savagely.’
Malta listened, but it was almost against her will. Her grandmother was too clever for her. She knew there were lies hidden there, she knew the old woman was twisting the truth about her handsome, dashing, bold father. But she wasn’t smart enough to unravel the deception. So she forced a smile to her lips. ‘Then you won’t mind if I tell him what I know, to dispel his ignorance that offends you so. You won’t mind if I tell him there never were any charts of the Rain Wild River. That the quickened ship is her own guide. Surely I should dispel that ignorance for him.’
She watched her grandmother’s face closely, to see how she would take Malta knowing this secret. But the old woman’s face did not betray her. She shook her head. ‘You make a threat, child, and you don’t even know that you threaten yourself. There are both costs and dangers to dealing with the Rain Wild Traders. Our kin they are, and I speak no ill against them. The bargains we have struck with them I will keep. But Ephron and I long ago decided that we would make no new bargains, no new commitments with them. Because we wanted our children and our grandchildren, yes, even you, to make their own decisions. So we lived a harder life than we needed to, and our debts were not paid off as swiftly as they might have been. We did not mind the sacrifice.’ Her grandmother’s voice began to quaver wildly. ‘We sacrificed for you, you spitting little cat. And now I look at you and wonder why. Chalcedean saltwater runs in your veins, not Bingtown blood.’