Liavek 7

by Emma Bull

  He saw that Jolesha and Arenride were walking off, hand in hand, and he thought that was good. He put his arms once more around Kaloo, who was still crying. All things considered, that was probably good, too.

  7 THE CURTAIN CALL

  She lifted her eyes from the red-edged documents stacked on the stained tabletop. "Is there a polite way to say I don't want it?"

  Pitullio's brows gathered into a knot. "I beg your pardon?"

  T'Nar's chair, which had been tipped on its back legs against the wall by the tavern's hearth, came down with a crash. The old sailor stood up. "She said she don't want it," he interpreted crankily. "You deaf or something?"

  "T'Nar," Kaloo said gently. "I think this is something I have to handle myself."

  "Then do it," he growled. "We're wasting a good tide. Tides and fish don't wait for you, doesn't matter if you're a Countess or a fisherman's brat. And Daril will sink us both if we're not back by evening with something fresh for the pot, and on time to help with the dinner rush. Don't leave much time for fishing."

  "So go along, then. I'll meet you on the docks when we're done."

  T'Nar growled something that might have been an assent and left the tavern noisily. Kaloo turned back to Pitullio. The man looked disoriented. She pitied him.

  He cleared his throat, tapped the edges of the papers until they were even. "Count Dashif wanted you to inherit. It's not just the title, uh, Kaloo. There is land, and money, and certain other holdings. He chose you as his heir; he wanted you to have these things."

  Kaloo was silent. The things he had left her meant nothing. The things she wanted most from him had gone with him when he died. So much she would never know, so much she would never say to him. She didn't need his land, or his title, or even his name. She'd had a little of his time, and a bit of his teaching, the chance to call him father. That was her share of the inheritance, the only share she wanted to keep. She wondered if Pitullio would understand that, decided not to even try. "He had other … children, didn't he?"

  Pitullio smiled. The quality of the smile made her feel like His Scarlet Eminence must once have felt. This man could arrange anything to his liking. "The will is very clear. They will contest it, of course, and his, uh, wife will challenge it, but I have every confidence that—"

  Kaloo was shaking her head. "No. The last thing I want now is some kind of legal scandal."

  Pitullio pursed his lips. "It could be handled … discreetly. They could be made to understand there is more they could lose than the money. There is a certain man your father occasionally used for such …"

  "No. Those … people have been raised to expect they would inherit what he left. Let them have it. I don't want any kind of a stir about this. They don't even need to know I exist," she added firmly.

  The man looked devastated. She reached across the table to pat his hand. "Count Dashif left me … other things. You don't need to feel you failed him."

  Kaloo rose, signaling the discussion had ended. "And now I have to go, but you're more than welcome to stay, and have a mug of cold beer and a bowl of the Mug and Anchor pot-boil, if you wish. It's quite popular, here on the waterfront."

  "You're going fishing?" Pitullio asked stupidly. Count Dashif's daughter was turning her back on a fortune and going fishing. Liavek was headed for strange times indeed.

  "Not really," Kaloo laughed. "We'll drop our hooks in the water, and then he'll tell me what a fool T'Fregan is for not buying that boat." She turned aside and called toward the kitchen door, "Daril, I'm leaving! But we'll be back before the dinner rush, and the fish will be fresh!"

  Pitullio felt the conversation was leaving him behind. "It's a good boat, I take it?" he fumbled.

  Kaloo nodded. "A very good boat, at a very good price. It's driving T'Nar crazy that he can't buy it for himself. And he's determined the rest of us will go along with him! Good day, Pitullio. And thank you for understanding."

  So saying, she scooped up a greasy leather fishing pack and was gone.

  Pitullio slowly gathered his papers. It was not, he admitted to himself, as if he and Dashif had been what one would call friends. And now Dashif was gone, and Resh, too, and it looked as if his chance to be administrator for the Countess Dashif had just gone fishing. He'd be wise to find himself a new niche immediately and give no more thought to unwilling heirs.

  But … he weighed the papers in his hand. So easy to divert just a little of this. No more than a trickle, just a few of Dashif's enterprises that his heirs would know nothing of, and wouldn't have been interested in anyway. A brothel or two, maybe the money-changing stall in the Market, nothing major. Just enough to let him retire comfortably on his share and still accomplish some of Dashif's intentions. The possibilities began to intrigue him. A bribe in the right place to keep the taxes on the Mug and Anchor down, a wealthy patron who would buy that boat and want to put an experienced captain in charge of it. Perhaps one of the better people on Wizard's Row would be seized with a sudden desire to give a likely newcomer some special instruction. Yes. It could be done.

  Pitullio caught himself grinning as he pushed open the doors of the Mug and Anchor. Amazing. He'd never thought of applying his talents in this direction; he had a feeling it was going to be more interesting than anything he'd done before.

  •

  It has always been said in Liavek that to change a boat's name is to change her luck, and luck is a tricky thing to tamper with. But The Dashforth seemed to take on a new life with her new name, and only the best of luck with it. She was something of a legend even when the old captain was sailing her, but when his daughter took her over, she set speed records for the trading routes that weren't equaled by a ship of her size until steam came to the Sea of Luck.

  The Dashforth was passed down for three generations, but always her sails were red and white, and a white stallion was her name flag. Some said it was wizardry that filled her sails with wind and her holds with a richer cargo than fish, but old captains will tell you, no, it was skill, which is all a sailor can ever rely on anyway. When she was too old for the trading runs anymore, a younger son took her adventuring, off beyond the Farlands, and no more is known of her than that. Some will tell you they've seen her, on the horizon off Minnow Island when the sun sets bloody and turns the waves to red, but the sailors of Liavek, like sailors anywhere, are a superstitious lot. They'd like to believe that boats, if not fisherfolk, can live forever.

  "Spells of Binding" by Pamela Dean

  The people on the stage are not related.

  The words they speak are only poetry.

  The sins here scorned, the actions here berated

  Arise from fancy, not from memory.

  Your mother suffered for this luck you harness.

  You have your father's eyes and hair and wit.

  But others brought you help, when you were helpless.

  Which debt will you recall, and which forget?

  The houses of the wizards all are shuttered.

  They do not spend their art on families.

  These spells of binding work with no word uttered,

  No luck enfolded; thrive on miseries,

  If misery is what you give them. Think:

  This is a desert. Here is water. Drink.