That meant they were a long day from F’talezon, unless she ordered the oars broken out. The River Lady's a tub. She's a good old ship but she's still a tub and a royal bitch to row. I can't break everyone's back rowing if it's not necessary.
The ice floes whirling south were big enough to stove them in if one hit them squarely, but Mateus had a feel for this sort of thing, and he and Tze kept them both safe and on course.
Megan paced, shaking her head against the thought of it being too late for Rilla. A long time to be away. This close to F'talezon she felt unsettled, fearful in a way she'd refused to let herself be since Sarngeld died.
She strode out of the cabin to stand by the helm, watching as they came closer and closer to home, wrapped in her thoughts as tightly as the wool of her cloak.
The deck of the Brezhani looked much better than when she'd first come onboard; ropes neatly coiled and ready to hand, the brasses polished, the oak deck holystoned almost white except the old stains near the rail and down where the water barrels stood. Even the old sails had been patched neatly and the new one shone white in the pale spring sun.
The wind swung around by late afternoon, a solid souther that took them against the current briskly enough that the ship plunged in a jerky up and down motion like a horse pulling at the bit.
"Run with the wind, Tze," Megan called when the wind steadied. "We might as well take advantage." She felt split in two, standing on the deck. Part of her knew that she was good at commanding, doing what she'd been taught, doing what she'd dreamed of, but still she despised herself for enjoying it while Lixand was gone.
"Aye, Captain." He relayed the order and the motion of the ship changed as the lateen sails bellied out. Megan raised an eyebrow appreciatively at the smooth maneuver. It's amazing what crew will do for a captain they like… but that's to their credit, not mine. I want to re-rig so we can butterfly, get a bit more speed, but that'll take time and training.
Megan paced back and forth in the cold wind, shivering but ignoring the feeling, looking ahead to Yneltzin on bow-watch. Ever since the one incident, he'd been solid. One hand on the wheel, she looked ahead to the distant mountain that was home.
The jolly boat ride into the docking cavern was almost a mirror of the way she'd left. The Brezhani was moored in a similar spot in the outer harbor, the crowds along the piers, the noise… The differences were enough to keep her throat from closing; her hands stayed steady.
She stood for a moment at the top of the ladder, her feet in the worn hollows of the stone, tried to feel as if she were home, shrugged, and moved out of the way of her crew. It's just another docking, and a late one at that.
The kraumak had been unhooded, but there were only two or three of those. They had been made at public expense during the years of the Republic and the Other Guild held it gauche to think of stealing them, but they'd been fading one by one, replaced with the cheaper torches that filled the docking cavern ceiling with a hanging layer of smoke.
She walked through the throng heading for the Gate before it closed for the night; sailors on leave ready to spend their pay on the licensed Bedwarmers, or on wadiki and a bed big enough to stretch out on, fishmongers carrying heavy buckets full of the final catch, silvery and squirming, or bakers with sold-empty baskets dumping crumbs into the water before joining the throng on the Gate road.
Megan went up past Vikhad Gate to the Main Gate before entering the City, feeling the dampness on her face as it started to rain lightly, the torches hissing. Gospozhyn is likely still working late at his office, unless something's changed. She felt cold, and it wasn't merely because her cloak was worn thin.
At the Main Gate steps where they joined the Stairs she paused, looking out over the City that was already dark; a pattern of lights shining out of windows, the red of firelight or the green or blue of kraumak, peculiarly Zak in a way that none of the enclaves along the river were. The rain was heavier, full of the drowned-worm smell of spring. On the Stairs a door slammed, someone laughed and wished someone else a "Good Blossoming." The odor of maranth bread and spiced barley soup drifted over her, and Megan clenched her teeth against sudden, surprising tears, shook herself mentally and strode toward the Guildhall on the other side of the City, wrapping her cloak around her against the wet.
His habits had changed and he'd moved his office to his manor off Greyvra Park. There, she gave her name to the door-ward and waited, watching the trickles of water find their way into the dry cracks of the flagstones.
It was pouring now, wind driving the rain against the porch wall behind her with a crackle like frying bacon.
"If you will come in, Teik, the Master is in the dining room, entertaining." The door-ward bowed her in with a sweep of her hand. "He said you were to await him in the study."
"Thank you."
The servant showed her into the room that at one point had been immaculate because Yarishk's wife had the keeping of it. Now that it was his office it was crammed with bookshelves and piles of pillows and stacks of paper over layers of mismatching rugs, very much like the old office. Megan stopped in the door, looking at an odd sock lying in the middle of the floor.
She felt the impulse to tidy for him while she was waiting, restrained it and sat down on the guest cushion holding her nervousness inside. Things have changed.
When Yarishk opened the door, Sashi pattered in, sniffed and lay down under the window with a grunt. Then again, some things, like Sashi, never change. Megan rose to greet her Gospozhyn, who looked her up and down, then smiled.
"Megan! It is you," he said, offering her his hands. She nodded a trifle jerkily, nervous. His face didn't change but she knew he'd noticed.
"I'm very, very glad to see you. Sit down, please."
"Thank you, Gospozhyn." The word felt strange on her tongue, as if it were a language she once knew but had forgotten.
"I… we worried about you. I had reports of you from one or two places up and down the river, nothing reliable, and your kin refused to say. What happened?" He settled down without pulling his lapdesk between them.
"Have we… shared salt then?" she asked. His chin came up and the worry lines in his face grew deeper. She could almost hear him thinking so distant, so formal, but he said nothing.
"Of course, if you want it that way…"
"Marte sold me off to an owner/captain by the use-name of Sarngeld," she said bluntly. Yarishk raised steepled fingers to his mouth, nodding.
"I've heard of him. Nothing good, I'm afraid."
"Yes. I found out about him, too. Nothing good."
"Ahh." The sudden tension in the way he held himself, the very calm way in which he said it showed her his feelings. He's furious, Megan thought, wonderingly. A few years ago I wouldn't have known how to read that. I can do that now. "My sympathy," he said solemnly. She shrugged, looking away.
"It happened." He didn't say anything.
She waited, and when he still didn't say anything to that, went on. "I have a bit of a problem, though. Sarngeld, ah, sold me the ship… because of a health problem."
"Oh?" This time she couldn't read his face or tone.
Suddenly, she felt like a young apprentice again, during an examination, at a loss for words. She flattened her hands on her knees and bridled her rising resentment. He… doesn't deserve my anger. He's done me only good. He's a friend as well as a teacher. She raised one eyebrow at him, face cold.
"It is difficult to be healthy at the bottom of the river weighted with rocks."
He nodded, sagely. "With numerous… disconnections in various bodily tissues rendered by small, sharp, street-trained blades."
At one time that would have made her smile, but now she just looked at him and nodded back. "Yes." She held out her ship papers.
"Did you kill anyone else?" His face was suddenly as cold as hers, as he took the parchments from her.
"The crew killed the bosun, a naZak, name of Thoman, out of Brahvniki—he's not a Guild member—and I fought and killed the fi
rst mate, a Thane by the name of Hanald, after Sarngeld." She paused a moment then continued, "I don't think he was a Guild member either."
"I see." He was frowning now. "Who have you learned from, girl, who taught you to speak of killing so lightly?
I never had a hot-spur for a student and never want one." She looked at him, shocked at the ice in his tone. "I…" Her chin came up. "I didn't take it lightly, Gospozhyn. You…" Her voice faltered a bit then she went on determinedly. "You judge me too harshly. I'm no hotspur."
He stared at her, then nodded once, sharply, got up and pulled out a copy of the Guild roll. "A Thane? Unlikely but I should still… ah, no. Good, that makes things a bit easier. What about the rest of the crew, why have you had no trouble with them?"
Still like an exam… "The deck officers are my friends and, well, to be blunt, there wasn't anyone else on board who had any training in trade or the inclination to initiative. Sarngeld didn't hire any like that."
He looked at the forged papers and handed them back. "Good enough. I suppose that most customs clerks just assume that the first one checked, making them official by assumption." She nodded.
He got up and paced. "You understand that you've presented me with a problem for which there is no precedent. You are still just an Apprentice and if I jump you to Master, then… well, there are those older and more senior to you who will be very displeased. And the Other Guild…"
"I didn't try to make any connections with either Guild when I was further south because I thought I should speak to you first!"
"Good. That's politic. But you still see my problem. If I don't accredit you, then you are going to keep your ship anyway, am I right?"
"Yes. I need to make a great deal of money and it's either with the ship or other ways."
He stopped pacing and looked down at her where she sat on the guest cushion. "A great deal of money? Why? Well…" He waved away his own question. "We all need to make a great deal of money, don't we? Your intention doesn't show the deepest loyalty."
Stung, she answered anyway. "I came to you first. And I need to get enough gold to get into the Arkan Empire, to get my son back!"
His back was to the kraumak, shadowing his face. "Son?"
"Lixand. My son by Sarngeld."
"You come arguing your case," Yarishk said, severely, "and you only tell me half the story. Perhaps there is something in it that will have some weight with me, hmm?"
She clenched her hands. "I bore him two years ago, and when he was weaned Sarngeld took him and sold him off to an Arkan trader dealing in exotics going into the Empire. When I got loose, I killed Sarngeld, and then had to kill Hanald and take the ship because if he'd taken over he would have put me off on shore right then. I would have been walking, days south of where Lixand had been sold. I was still too late. By then I'd taken the responsibility of running this ship, paying the crew… I couldn't just leave it lie. They are my family now. There wasn't anything else I could do but try coming home."
She rose, staring up into his face. "He's my son. I could have seen him as Sarngeld's and made his birth and my life Halya, but the healer told me I could make him mine, see him as only mine. He was only a baby and it wasn't his fault who his father was. He's the only child I'll ever have and I won't be a slough-kin." Her chin came up. "And if that's not loyalty enough for you, or the Guild—" she hesitated half a heartbeat "—then that's just tough sailing." She clenched her teeth. If he was already considering not accrediting her status, she had nothing to lose, I’ll get Rilla out and we'll go south somewhere.
Gospozhyn Yarishk turned away from her, clasping his hands behind his back. She stayed standing, watching him, listening to Sashi's tail thump every time he came near the dog. She swallowed once, then again, breathing hard as if she were in a fight, hands shaking enough that she crossed her arms to give herself something to hang on to. She had to make him give her what she needed.
Finally, he spoke. "Megan, I will tell you exactly what I am thinking. You are hardly more than a child. And a child who has suffered terrible and unjust things. Such children, if they have gift and will such as you have, go either very good… or very bad.
"I am concerned, not only for you, but for all those around you, over which way you turn. Should I cast you out, I suspect I would be thrusting you towards the dark. In that sense, I do not want to lose you.
"You carry a great deal of anger that you turn into drive, which isn't necessarily a bad thing." He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "It can be good, or bad. You must know it and learn to deal with it, learn to turn it to good. It's the same with pride, which you have plenty of, too. But who will teach you these things? Not your aunt, certainly. Not your crew, even if they are older, if they are not the sort to talk back. Perhaps you've grown hard and brash enough that you think no one can teach you, that you need no Gospozhyn."
His honesty, when she tried to force help out of him, was like pushing with all her strength against someone who wasn't resisting. She blinked, tried to stop the warmth glowing from her neck and ears. "Umm." Painfully reminded of her mother's admonition not to grunt, she cleared her throat instead, as if that could budge the lump she had there. "I never said that. That's why I came back." She looked down at the brazier's fire-screen, as if it had words for her to use. "I… I'd rather be an apprentice and have… some… people tell me what to do, but I can't, Gospozhyn. I've already had to wait iron-cycles doing nothing while Lixand gets further and further away from me…" She drew a sobbing breath to control her tears. "I can't do it by myself, but I don't know how to ask for help anymore."
He looked at her quietly and the coals in the brazier settled. Sashi waddled over and thrust a cold nose into her hand, whining. "You do know how to ask, Megan. You are now." He put out a hand, laid it on her shoulder.
She turned away from him, from the hand she wanted so much, picked up her books and held them out to him. "Here are my records."
He took them, put them on his desk. "What was the ship's name again?"
"The Zingas Brezhani." Megan sat down and petted the dog as if that were the most important thing to do, burying her face in Sashi's ruff. "Anchored in the outer harbor," she said, voice muffled by the dog's fur.
"I'll see what I can do. Stay overnight. You're welcome to and we'll work something out tomorrow or the day after. I never said it was impossible that you keep both your ship and your Guild status." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "I suspect you won't want to retrieve your cousin until your future is more assured."
Next day he sent his apologies for letting her break her fast alone. She stared around at the grey-green tapestries of the morning room with a fresh cup of chai in her hand and tried to keep from worrying. Then she stayed in the library, trying to read, pulling books down from the shelves, putting them back, reading lines over and over without understanding, till early evening when he called her into his study.
He sat reading when she came in, his lapdesk set on the rug to one side; on it was a stack of steel and gold coins as high as a candlestick. He looked up and waved her to a cushion with a smile.
"I'm sorry it's taken so long, but there were a few other things to do as well."
She bit the inside of her lip, not wanting to raise hope, and sat down quietly. I've been dealing with Rand, why can't I see what I need in his face?
"In looking over your books, I can see you've been doing well enough that I can justifiably count your experiences as your Journeyman's work. The ship herself is hardly going to make anyone jealous though she's still valuable—please don't take offence, child but I, if no one else, should be blunt about such things—and I can set you a masterwork on her, under my orders. On paper she must be my ship, at least for now, held in trust for you till you become a Master. That should placate the older deadheads." She smiled, thinking of other deadheads, half-sunken logs that had almost holed the Brezhani and sunk her and he smiled back as he continued. "As a Journeyman you must journey. Here, you might have to have it sized." He
held out his hand and dropped the thin silver and copper ring of a Rivermerchant Journeyman into her hand. She closed her cold fingers on it, shivering. She swallowed.
He nodded at the stack of coin. "Those are the proceeds from Vaizal's gold candlestick I was holding for you. I'll allow you that, to clip as you need, because your Brezhani needs a lot of work or she'll sink midstream one day. The rose—you might recall I had it in trust? Vaizal is refusing to pay to get the three back, and they are far too valuable to break up, so I will continue to hold yours. You'll have to trade hard this next season or two—I won't make it too easy for you."
"No, Gospozhyn. I understand." I did it. I did it, Lixand-mi. I did it. She wanted to dance, sing, do silly, goosey things. I did it. She's mine—when I make Nal-Gospozhyn, she's mine. She put the ring on, finding that it fit her second finger. "I'll make you proud of me, I will, I swear."
He shook his head fondly. "I am already, but don't let that swell your sails too much, Megan. You have to bring the ship back next season, with a clear profit to make Yolculvik. If it's enough of a profit, you'll be Nal-Gospozhyn. Even lesser masters own ships in their own right."
"I understand, Gospozhyn. Thank you." She shivered again, but more from excitement.
"You are welcome. Now, it's never too soon to start developing contacts of your own, child. You'll have the opportunity at my dinner tonight. You have something better to wear?… I suspect you've waited long enough to rescue your cousin and see to your—" he smiled "— my ship." He lost his smile. "Can you deal with your aunt?"
Megan looked up from the Journeyman's ring on her finger. "Yes, Gospozhyn. I don't need help there." He nodded.
She stopped by the apothecary shop and looked in the rain-streaked window. The dust was still thick on the inside of the glass, but the jar of leeches was the same as ever, full of red-brown suckers moving as if the water were at a slow boil. Have I dreamt being away? She tugged her new black cloak over the dark velvet outfit she’d bought for the Guild dinner.
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