by Robin Hobb
Althea didn't dare reply. She was sitting cross-legged on a small catwalk that had been built, she'd been told, solely that Ophelia might socialize more easily. Althea shook the large dice box in her hands. It was oversized, as were the dice within it. They were the property of the Ophelia. Upon discovering that there was an “extra” hand aboard the ship, she had immediately demanded that Althea would spend part of her watches amusing her. Ophelia was very fond of games of chance, but mostly, Althea suspected, because they gave her plenty of time to gossip. She also suspected that the ship routinely cheated, but this was something she had decided to over-look. Ophelia herself kept tally sticks of what each crew member owed her. Some of the sticks bore the notches of years. Althea's stick already bore a generous number of notches. She opened the box, looked within, and frowned at it. “Three gulls, two fish,” she announced, and tilted the box for the figurehead's inspection. “You win again. ”
“So I do,” Ophelia agreed. She smiled crookedly at Althea. “Shall we up the stakes this time?”
“I already owe you more than I have,” Althea pointed out.
“Exactly. So, unless we change our wager, I have no chance of being paid. How about this: Let's play for your little secret. ”
“Why bother? I think you already know it. ” Althea prayed it was no more than her sex. If that was all Ophelia knew and all she could reveal, then she was still relatively safe. Violence aboard a liveship was not unheard of, but it was rare. The emotions that radiated from violence were too unsettling to the ship. Most of the ships themselves disdained violence, although it was rumored that the Shaw had a mean streak, and had once even called for the flogging of an incompetent hand who'd spilled paint on him. But the Ophelia, for all her blowzy airs, was a lady, and a kind-hearted one as well. Althea doubted she would be raped aboard such a ship, though the rough courtship of a sailor attempting to be gallant could be almost as fierce and bruising. Consider Brashen, for instance, she thought to herself, and then she wished she hadn't. Lately he popped into her mind at unguarded moments. She probably should have hunted him down in Candletown and bid him good-bye. That was all she was missing, putting a final close to things. Above all, she should never have let him have the last word.
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“Well, you are right, I do know at least a part of it. ” The Ophelia laughed huskily. Her lips were painted scarlet, her own conceit. Her teeth were very white when she laughed. She lowered both her eyelashes and her voice as she said more softly, “And right now I'm the only one that knows it. As I'm sure you'd like it to remain. ”
“As I am sure it will,” Althea replied sweetly, shaking the dice box soundly. “For a lady so grand as yourself could never be so petty as to give away another's secret. ”
“No?” She smiled with a corner of her mouth. “Do you not think I have a duty to reveal to my captain that one of his hands is not what he thinks him to be?”
“Mmm. ” It could be a very uncomfortable journey home, if Tenira decided to confine her. “So. What do you propose?”
“Three throws. For each one I win, I get to ask you a question, which you will answer truthfully. ”
“And if I win?”
“I keep your secret. ”
Althea shook her head. “Your stakes are not as high as mine. ”
“You can ask me a question. ”
“No. Still not enough. ”
“Well, what do you want then?”
Althea shook the dice box thoughtfully.
Despite the time of year, the day was almost warm, an effect of the hot swamps to the west of them. All this stretch of coast was swamp and tussocky islands and shifting sand bars that changed seasonally. The hot water that mingled with the brine here was terrible for ordinary ships; sea-worms and other pests throve in it. But it wouldn't bother the Ophelia's wizardwood hull. An occasional whiff of sulfur was the only price they had to pay for it. The wind stirred the tendrils of hair that had pulled free of Althea's queue and warmed the ache of hard work from her joints. Despite her tide of “extra” hand, Tenira had found plenty to keep her busy. But he was a fair man and Ophelia was a beautiful and sweet-tempered ship. And Althea suddenly realized just how content she had been the last week or so.
“I know what I want,” she said quietly. “But I'm not sure even you can give it to me. ”
“You think very loud. Has anyone ever told you that? I think I like you almost as much as you like me. ” Ophelia's voice was warm with affection. “You want me to ask Tenira to keep you on, don't you?”
“There's more than that. I'd want him to know what I am, and still be willing to let me work for him. ”
“Ouch,” Ophelia complained mockingly. “That is a high stake. And of course I couldn't promise it, only that I'd try for it. ” She winked at Althea. “Shake the box, girl. ”
Ophelia won the first round easily.
“So. Ask your question,” Althea said quietly.
“Not yet. I want to know how many questions I have, before I start. ”
The next two rounds went to her as swiftly as the first. Althea still could not see how she was cheating; the figurehead's large hands all but overlapped on the dice box.
“Well,” Ophelia purred as she handed the box to Althea for her to inspect her final winning throw. “Three questions. Let me see. ” She deliberated a moment. “What is your full true name?”
Althea sighed. “Althea Vestrit. ” She spoke very softly, knowing the ship would nonetheless hear her.
“No-o-o!” Ophelia breathed out in scandalized delight. “You are a Vestrit! A girl from an Old Trader family runs off to sea, and leaves her own liveship behind. Oh, how could you, you wicked thing, you heartless girl! Have you any idea what you put the Vivacia through? And her just a little slip of a thing, barely quickened and you leave her next to alone in the world! Heartless, wicked . . . tell me why, quickly, quickly, or I shall die of suspense!”
“It was not my choice. ” Althea took a breath. “I was forced off my family ship,” she said quietly, and suddenly it all came back, the grief at her father's death, her outrage at her disinheritance, her hatred of Kyle. Without thinking, she reached up to put her palm flat against the great hand that Ophelia reached down to her in sympathy. Like a floodgate opening, she felt the sudden outflow of her feelings and thoughts. She took a long shuddering breath. She had not realized how much she had missed simply being able to share with someone.
The words spilled from her. Ophelia's features grew first agitated, then sympathetic as she listened to Althea's tale of her wrongs.
“Oh, my dear, my dear. How tragic! But why didn't you come to us? Why did you let them part you?”
“Come to who?” Althea asked dazedly.
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“Why, the liveships. It was all the talk of Bingtown harbor, when you disappeared and Haven took Vivacia over. More than a few of us were upset by it. We had always assumed you would take the Vivacia over when your father's time was done. And she was so upset, poor thing. We could scarcely get a word out of her. Then that boy, um, Wintrow, came aboard, and we were so relieved for her. But even then she didn't seem truly content. And if Wintrow was brought aboard against his will, why, then, that explains so much! But I still don't see why you didn't come to us. ”
“I never thought of it,” Althea admitted. “It seemed a family thing. Besides. I don't understand. What could the other liveships have done?”
“You give us very little credit, darling. There is much we could have done, but the final threat was that we would have refused to sail. All of us. Until the Vivacia was given a willing family member. ”
Althea was shocked. After a moment she managed, “You would have done that, for us?”
“Althea, honey, it would be for all of us. Perhaps you are too young to remember, but once there was a liveship called the Paragon. He was similarly abused, and driven mad by the
abuse. ” Ophelia closed her eyes and shook her head. “At that time, we did not act. By our failure to aid one of our own, he was irreparably damaged. No liveship passes in or out of Bingtown harbor without seeing him, pulled out of the water and chained down, abandoned to his madness. . . . Ships talk, Althea. Oh, we gossip just as much as sailors, and no one gossips like sailors. The pact was made long ago. If we had but known, we would have spoken up for you. And if speaking did not work, then, yes, we would have refused to sail. There are not so many liveships that we can afford to ignore one of our own. ”
“I had no idea,” Althea said quietly.
“Yes, well, and perhaps I have spoken too freely. You understand that if such a pact were well known, it might be . . . misconstrued. We are not mutinous by nature, nor would we ever enact such a rebellion if it were not needed. But neither would we stand by and see one of our own abused again. ” The drawling accents of a bawd had fallen from her voice. Althea now heard just as clearly the utterance of a Bingtown matriarch.
“Is it too late to ask for help?”
“Well, we're a long way from home. It's going to take rime. Trust me to pass the word to other liveships as I encounter them. Don't you try to speak for yourself. We can't do much until the Vivacia herself comes into Bingtown harbor again. Oh, I do hope I'm there. I wouldn't miss this for the world. At that time, I-or one of us, I do hope I get to be the one-will ask her for her side of your story. If she feels as aggrieved as you do, and I am sure she will, for I can read you almost as clearly as my own kin, then we will act. There are always one or two liveships in Bingtown harbor. We will speak to our families, and as other ships come in, they will join us, petitioning their families to speak to the Vestrits as well. The concept, you see, is that we pressure our own families to put pressure on your family. The ultimate pressure, of course, would be if we all refused to sail. It is, frankly, a stance we hope we shall never have to take. But we will if we have to. ”
Althea was silent for a long time.
“What are you thinking?” Ophelia asked her at last.
“That I have wasted the better part of a year, away from my own ship. I have learned a great many things, and I do believe I am a better sailor than I was. But that I will never be able to regain the wonder of those first months of her life. You are right, Ophelia. Heartless and wicked. Or maybe just stupid and cowardly. I don't know how I could have left her alone to deal with Kyle. ”
“We all make mistakes, my dear,” Ophelia assured her gently. “I wish all of them could be righted as easily as this. Of course we will get you back on board your own ship. Of course we will. ”
“I don't know how to thank you. ” It was like being able to take a deep breath again, or to stand up straight after bearing a heavy burden for a long time. She had never grasped that liveships might share such feelings for one another. Her individual bond with Vivacia had been all she had perceived. She had never paused to think that in time her ship might develop friendships with others like her. That she and Vivacia might have allies beyond each other.
Ophelia gave her throaty bawd's chuckle. “Well, you still have to answer one question for me. ”
Althea shook her head and smiled. “You have asked me far more than three questions. ”
“I think not!” Ophelia declared haughtily. “I recall only that I asked you your name. The rest just all came out freely. You spilled your guts, girl. ”
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“Well, perhaps I did. No, wait. I clearly recall that you asked me why I hadn't come to the liveships for help. ”
“That was not a question, that was just a conversational gambit. But even if I give you that, you still owe me a question. ”
Althea was inclined to feel generous. “Ask away, then. ”
Ophelia smiled, and a bright spark of mischief came into her eyes. For a second she bit the tip of her tongue between her white teeth. Then she asked quickly, “Who is that dark-eyed man who gives you such . . . stimulating dreams?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - STORM
“LET'S TRY THIS,” WINTROW SUGGESTED. HE PUSHED HER FETTER AS FAR UP HER SKINNY SHANK AS IT WOULD GO.
He took a strip of rag and lightly wrapped it around the girl's raw ankle. Then he slid her fetter back over the top of it. “Is that better?”
She didn't speak. The moment he took his hand away, she began working her ankle against the fetter again.
“No, no,” he said quietly. He touched her ankle and she stopped. But she did not speak and she did not look at him. She never did. A day or so more, and she'd be permanently crippled. He had no herbs or oils, no real medicines or bandaging. All he had was seawater and rags. And she was gradually scoring her own tendons. She seemed unable to stop herself from working against the fetter.
“Give it up,” a voice from the darkness suggested sourly. “She's crazy. She don't know what she's doing, and she's going to die before we get to Chalced anyway. You washing her and bandaging her is only going to make it take longer. Let her go, if that's her only way out of here. ”
Wintrow lifted up his candle and peered into the gloom. He could not decide who had spoken. In this part of the hold, he couldn't even stand up straight. The slaves chained here were even more restricted. Yet the rolling of the Vivacia as she cut through the heavy seas kept them in constant motion, flesh against wood. They averted their eyes from his dim candlelight, blinking as if they stared at the sun. He scooted farther down the line, trying to avoid the worst of the filth. Most of the slaves were silent and impassive to his passage, all of their strength invested in endurance. He saw a man half sitting up in his chains, blinking as he tried to meet Wintrow's eyes. “Can I help you?” he asked quietly.
“Do you have the key to these things?” one man to the side of him answered sarcastically, while another one demanded, “How come you get to move about?”
“So that I can keep you alive,” Wintrow answered evasively. He was a coward. He feared that if they knew he was the captain's son, they'd try to kill him. “I've a bucket of seawater and rags, if you want to wash yourself. ”
“Give me the rag,” the first man commanded him gruffly. Wintrow sopped it in water and passed it to him. Wintrow had expected him to wipe his face and hands. So many slaves seemed to take comfort from that bare ritual of cleanliness. Instead he shifted as far as he could to put the rag against the bared shoulder of an inert man next to him. “Here you go, rat-bait,” he said, almost jokingly. He sponged tenderly at a raw and swollen lump on the man's shoulder. The man made no response.
“Rat-bait here got bitten hard a few nights ago. I caught the rat and we shared it. But he ain't been feeling well since. ” His eyes met Wintrow's for a glancing moment. “Think you could get him moved out of here?” he asked in a more genteel tone. “If he's got to die in chains, at least let him die in the light and air, on deck. ”
“It's night, right now,” Wintrow heard himself say. Foolish words.
“Is it?” the man asked in wonder. “Still. The cool air. ”
“I'll ask,” Wintrow said uncomfortably, but he wasn't sure he truly would. The crew left Wintrow to himself. He ate apart from them, he slept apart from them. Some of the men he had known earlier in the voyage would watch him sometimes, their faces a mixture of pity and disgust at what he had become. The newer hands picked up in Jamaillia treated him as they would any slave. If he came near them, they complained of his stench and kicked or pushed him away. No. The less attention he got from the crew, the simpler his life was. He had come to think of the deck and the rigging as “outside. ” Here “inside” was his new world. It was a place of thick smells, of chains caked with filth and humans meshed in them. The times when he went on deck to refill his bucket were like trips to a foreign world. There men moved freely, they shouted and sometimes laughed, and the wind and rain and sun touched their faces and bared arms. Never before had such things seemed so wondrous to Wintrow. He could have st
ayed abovedeck, he could have insinuated himself back into the routine as ship's boy. But he did not. Having been belowdecks, he could not forget or ignore what was there. So each day he rose as the sun went down, filled his bucket and got his washed-out rags, and went down into the slave holds. He offered them the small comfort of washing with seawater. Fresh water would have been far better, but there was precious little of that to spare. Seawater was better than nothing. He cleaned sores they could not reach. He did not get to every slave, every day. There were far too many of them for that. But he did what he could, and when he curled up to sleep by day, he slept deeply.
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He touched the leg of the inert man. His skin was hot. It would not be long.
“Would you damp this again, please?”
Something in the man's tones and accent were oddly familiar. Wintrow pondered it as he sloshed the rag in the small amount of seawater remaining in his bucket. There was no pretending the rag and water were clean anymore. Only wet. The man took it, and wiped the brow and face of his neighbor. He folded the rag anew, and wiped his own face and hands. “My thanks to you,” he said as he handed the rag back.
With a shivering up his back, Wintrow caught it. “You come from Marrow, don't you? Near Kelpiton Monastery?”
The man smiled oddly, as if Wintrow's words both warmed and pained him. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I do. ” In a lower voice, he amended it to, “I did. Before I was sent to Jamaillia. ”
“I was there, at Kelpiton!” Wintrow whispered, but he felt the words as a cry. “I lived in the monastery, I was to be a priest. I worked in the orchards, sometimes. ” He moistened the rag and handed it back again.
“Ah, the orchards. ” The man's voice went far as he gently wiped his companion's hands. “In the spring, when the trees blossomed, they were like fountains of flowers. White and pink, the fragrance like a blessing. ”
“You could hear the bees, but it was as if the trees themselves were humming. Then, a week later when the blossoms fell, the ground was pink and white with them. . . . ”
“And the trees fogged with green as the first leaves came out,” the other man whispered. “Sa save me,” he moaned suddenly. “Are you a demon come to torment me, or a messenger-spirit?”