by Robin Hobb
Often as a girl, she would catnap on the decks of the Vivacia, or spend an evening stretched out on the deck of her father's quarters reading his books. Dozing off always brought her vivid dreams and semi-waking fancies. As she had grown, her father chided her for such behavior, and saw that she had chores enough that she would have no time for napping on deck. In recalling her old dreams, she put them down to a child's vivid imaginings. But that night, on the deck of her own stateroom, the color and detail of her childhood dreams came back to her. The dream was too vivid to dismiss as the product of her own mind.
She dreamed of her great-grandma, a woman she had never known, but in her dream she knew Talley as well as she knew herself. Talley Vestrit strode the decks, shouting orders at the sailors who floundered through a tangle of canvas, lines and splintered wood in the midst of the great storm. In an instant, sudden as remembering, Althea knew what had happened. A great sea had taken off the mast and the mate, and Captain Vestrit herself had joined her crew to bring order and sanity back with her confident bellows. She was nothing like her portrait; here was no woman sitting docilely in a chair, attired primly in black wool and white lace, a stern-faced husband standing at her shoulder. Althea had always known that her great-grandma had commissioned the building of the Vivacia. In that dream, however, she was not just the woman who had gone to the money lenders and the ship builders; she was suddenly a woman who had loved the sea and ships and had boldly determined the course of her family's descendants with her decision to possess a liveship. Oh, to have lived in such a time, when a woman could wield such authority.
The dream was brief and stark, like the image etched in one's vision by a lightning flash, yet when Althea woke with her cheek and palms pressed to the wooden deck, she had no doubt of her vision. There had been too many details too swiftly impressed upon her. In the dream the Vivacia had carried a fore-and-aft rig, or what remained of one after the storm's fury. Althea had never seen her so fitted. She instantly grasped the advantages of such a rigging, and for the interval of the dream, shared her great-grandma's belief in it.
It was dizzying to awaken and find herself Althea, so completely immersed in Talley had she been. Hours later, she was still able to shut her eyes and recall the night of the storm, Talley's true memory shuffled in with hers like a foreign card in a deck. It had come to her from the Vivacia; there could be no other way.
That night, she had deliberately composed herself to sleep on the deck of her stateroom. The oiled and polished planks were not comfortable, yet she put no blanket or cushion between herself and them. The Vivacia rewarded her trust. Althea had spent an afternoon with her grandfather as he carefully negotiated one of the narrower channels in the Perfume Isles. She saw over his shoulder the sightings he took of the jutting rocks, witnessed him putting out a boat and men to pull them the more swiftly through a place passable only at a certain tide. It was his secret, and it had led to the Vestrit monopoly on a certain tree sap that dried into richly fragrant droplets. No one had been up that channel to trade with the villages there since her grandfather's death. Like any Captain, he took to his death more than he could ever pass on to his descendants. He had made no chart. But the lost knowledge was not lost, but stored in the Vivacia, and would awaken with her when she quickened. Even now, Althea was certain that she could take the ship up that channel, so completely had its secrets been passed on to her.
Night after night, Althea sprawled upon the wooden deck and dreamed with her ship. Even by day, she lay there, her cheek pressed firmly to the plank, musing on her future. She became attuned to the Vivacia, from the shuddering of her wooden body as she strained through a sudden change in course, to the peaceful sounds the wood made when the wind drove her on a steady and true course. The shouts of the sailors, the light thunder of their feet on her decks were only slightly more significant than the cries of the gulls who sometimes alighted on her. At such times it seemed to Althea that she became the ship, aware of the small men who clambered up her masts only as a great whale might be aware of the barnacles that clung upon it.
There was so much more to the ship than the folk that worked her. Althea had no human words to express the fine differences she now sensed in wind and current. There was pleasure in working with a good steersman, and annoyance in the one who was always making minute and unnecessary adjustments, but it was a surface thing compared to what went on between the ship and the water. This concept that the life of a ship might be larger than what went on between her and her captain was a major revelation to Althea. In the space of a handful of nights, her whole concept of what a ship was underwent a sea-change.
Instead of an enforced confinement to her quarters, the days she spent closeted in her room became an all-involving experience. She recalled well a day when she had opened her door to find it blazing morning rather than the soft evening she had expected. The cook had been so bold as to take her by the shoulder and shake her when she had drifted off into a daydream in the galley on one of her visits for food. Later she had been annoyed by an incessant tapping at her door. When she opened it, she had found not Kyle, but Brashen standing outside it. He looked uncomfortable at questioning her but still demanded to know if all was well with her.
“Certainly. I'm fine,” she replied and tried to shut the door on him. He stiff-armed it ajar.
“You don't look fine. The cook told me you looked like you'd lost half a stone of weight and I'm inclined to agree. Althea, I don't know what went on with Captain Kyle, but the health of the crew is still part of my duty.”
She looked at his knit brow and dark troubled eyes and saw only an interruption. “I'm not part of the crew,” she heard herself saying. “That is what happened between Captain Kyle and myself. And the health of a mere passenger is not your concern. Leave me be.” She pushed at the door.
“The health of Ephron Vestrit's daughter is my concern, then. I dare to call him friend as well as captain. Althea. Look at yourself. You've not brushed your hair in days, I'd say. And several of the men have said that when they have seen you on deck, you drift like a ghost with eyes as empty as the space between the stars.” He actually looked worried. Well he might. The slightest things could set off a crew that had endured too long under too strict a captain. A bewitched woman wandering about the decks might precipitate them into anything. Still, there was nothing she could do about it.
“Sailors and their superstitions,” she scoffed, but could not find much strength to put into her voice. “Leave it, Brashen. I'm fine.” She pushed again at the door, and this time he let her close it in his face. She'd wager that Kyle knew nothing of that visit. She had once more arranged herself on the deck and, closing her eyes, sunk into communion with the ship. She felt Brashen standing outside the door for a few moments longer, and then sensed him hastening away, back to his proper tasks. By then Althea had already dismissed him and was considering instead the water purling past her bow as the pure wind drove her slicing forward.
Days later, the Vivacia tasted the waters of home, recognized the current that gently swept her towards Trader Bay and welcomed the sheltered waters of the bay itself. When Kyle ordered out two boats to draw the Vivacia into anchorage, Althea found herself rousing. She rose to peer out through the glass. “Home,” she told herself, and “Father.” She felt an answering thrum of anticipation from the Vivacia herself.
She turned away from the porthole and opened her sea chest. In the bottom were her port clothes, items of “proper” apparel to wear from the docks to her home. It was a concession both she and her father had made to her mother years ago. When Captain Vestrit walked about town, he was always resplendent in blue trousers and coat over a thick white shirt, heavy with lace. It was fitting. He was Old Trader, and a captain of note. Althea would not have minded such garb for herself, but her mother insisted that regardless of how she dressed aboard ship, in port and in town she must wear skirts. If nothing else, it set her apart from the serving folk of the town. Always her mother would a
dd that, to look at her hair and skin and hands, no one would ever think her a lady, let alone a daughter of an Old Trader family. Yet it had not been her mother's nagging but a quiet word from her father that had convinced her to comply. “Don't shame your ship,” he had told her quietly. That was all that was needed.
So, amidst the bustle of the crew setting the anchor and making the Vivacia ship-shape for her rest in port, Althea fetched warm water from the galley kettle and bathed herself in her stateroom. She donned her port clothes: petticoat and overskirts, blouse and vest and lacy shawl and a ridiculous lace snood to confine her hair. Atop it all went a straw hat annoyingly adorned with feathers. It was when she was sashing her skirts and lacing her vest that she realized Brashen had been right. Her clothing hung on her like a scarecrow's rags. Her looking-glass showed dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were almost hollow. The dove-gray of her garments and the pale blue trim made her look even more sickly. Even her hands had lost flesh, the bones of her wrist and fingers standing out. Oddly, it did not trouble her. It had been no different, she told herself, from the fasting and isolation that one might do to seek Sa's guidance. Only instead of Sa, it had been the very spirit of the liveship that had possessed her. It had been worth it. She was almost grateful to Kyle for bringing it about. Almost.
She emerged from her room onto the deck, blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight that bounced off the placid harbor waters. She lifted her eyes and surveyed the walls of the harbor basin. Bingtown spread out along the shores like the brightly colored wares in her marketplace. The smell of land drenched Althea. The tax docks were busy, as always. Ships coming into Bingtown had always to report there first, that the Satrap's tax agents might inspect and tax the incoming cargoes as they were unloaded. The Vivacia would have to await her turn; it looked as if the Goldendown were nearly ready to leave. They'd take that slip, then, as soon as it was clear.
Instinctively her eyes sought her home: she could see one corner of the white walls of the house; the rest was obscured by shade trees. She frowned for a moment at the changes she saw on the surrounding hills, but then dismissed them. Land and town had little to do with her. Her impatience and her worry about her father's health mingled with a strange reluctance to leave the Vivacia. The captain's gig had not yet been lowered over the side; by tradition, she would ride ashore in that. She did not relish the thought of seeing Kyle again, let alone sharing a boat ride with him. But somehow it did not seem as significant a displeasure as it would have a week or two ago. She knew now that he could never part her from the Vivacia. She was bonded to the ship; the ship herself would not tolerate being sailed without her. Kyle was an irritation in her life, but his threats no longer had any weight. Once she had spoken to her father, he would see what had happened. He'd be angry with her about what she had said of Kyle's reasons for marrying Keffria. Recalling her own words now made even Althea wince. Her father would be angry with her and she would deserve it. But she knew him too well to fear that he would separate her from the Vivacia now.
She found herself on the foredeck, leaning far out on the bowsprit to look at the figurehead. The carved eyes were still closed, but it did not matter. Althea had shared her dreams.
“Don't slip.”
“Small fear of that,” Althea replied to Brashen without turning.
“Not usually. But as pale as you looked, I feared you'd get giddy and just go over the side.”
“No.” She hadn't even glanced at him. She wished he would go away. When next he spoke, his voice had become more formal.
“Mistress Althea. Have you baggage you wish taken ashore?”
“Just the small chest inside the door of my stateroom.” It held the silk and small gifts for her family. She'd seen to its packing days ago.
Brashen cleared his throat awkwardly. He did not walk away. She turned to him in some irritation. “What?”
“The captain has ordered me to assist you in any way necessary to remove your possessions from the, uh, officer's stateroom.” Brashen stood very straight and his eyes looked past her shoulder. For the first time in months, she truly saw him. What had it cost him to step down from first mate to sailor, simply to remain aboard this ship? She'd taken the brunt of Kyle's tongue only once; she'd lost count of the times that either he or his first mate had taken Brashen to task. Yet here he was still, given a distasteful order whose wisdom he doubted, and doing his best to carry it out as a proper ship's officer.
She spoke more to herself than to Brashen when she said, “No doubt he gets a great deal of pleasure from assigning this duty to you.”
He didn't reply. The muscles in his jaws bunched a notch tighter, but he held his tongue. Even now, he would not speak out against his captain's orders. He was hopeless.
“Just the small chest, Brashen.”
He drew up a breath as if it had the weight of an anchor. “Mistress Althea. I am ordered to see your possessions removed from that cabin.”
She looked away from him. She was suddenly horribly weary of Kyle's posturing. Let him think he had his way for now; her father would soon put it all right.
“Then follow your order, Brashen. I shan't hold it against you.”
He stood as if stricken. “You don't want to do the packing up yourself?” He was too shocked even to add “Mistress Althea.”
She gave him the ghost of a smile. “I've seen you stow cargo. I'll warrant you'll do a tidy job of it.”
For a moment longer he stood at her elbow, as if hoping for reprieve. She ignored him. After a time she heard him turn and pad lightly away across the deck. She went back to her consideration of the Vivacia's visage. She gripped the railing tightly and vowed fiercely to the ship never to give her up.
“Gig's waiting on you, Mistress Althea.”
The note in the man's voice implied that he had spoken to her before, possibly more than once. She straightened herself and reluctantly put her dreams aside. “I'm coming,” she told him spiritlessly, and followed him.
She rode into town in the gig, facing Kyle but seated as far from him as possible. No one spoke to her. Other than necessary commands, no one spoke at all. Several times she caught uneasy glances from the sailors at the oars. Grig, ever a bold sort, ventured a wink and a grin. She tried to smile at him in return, but it was as if she could not quite recall how. A great stillness seemed to have found her as soon as she left the ship; a sort of waiting of the soul, to see what would befall her next.
The few times her eyes did meet Kyle's, the look on his face puzzled her. At their first encounter, he looked almost horror-struck. A second glance showed his face deeply thoughtful, but the last time she caught him looking at her was the most chilling. For he nodded at her and smiled fondly and encouragingly. It was the same look he would have bestowed on his daughter Malta if she had learned her lessons particularly well. She turned expressionlessly away from it and gazed out over the placid waters of Trader Bay.
The small rowing vessel nosed into a dock. Althea submitted to being assisted up to the dock as if she were an invalid; such was the nuisance of full skirts and shawls and hats that obscured one's vision. She gained the dock, and for an instant Grig annoyed her by holding on to her for longer than was strictly necessary. She drew herself free of his arm and glanced at him, expecting to find mischief in his eyes. Instead she saw concern, and it deepened a moment later when a wave of giddiness made her catch at his arm. “I just need to get my land-legs again,” she excused herself, and once more stepped clear of him.
Kyle had sent word ahead of them and an open two-wheeled shimshay waited for them. The skinny boy who drove it abandoned the shady seat to them. “No bags?” he cawed.
Althea just shook her head. “No bags, driver. Take us up to the Vestrit House. It's on the Traders' Circle.”
The half-naked boy nodded and offered her his hand as she clambered up onto the seat. Once Kyle had joined her there, the boy leaped nimbly to the nag's back and clicked his tongue at her. Her shod hooves rang
on the wooden planks of the dock.
Althea stared straight ahead as the shimshay left the docks for the cobbled streets of Bingtown, and offered no conversation. Bad enough that she had to sit next to Kyle. She would not annoy herself by conversing with him. The hustle and bustle of folk and cart traffic, the shouts of bargaining, the smells of the streetfront restaurants and tea shops seemed oddly distant to her. When she and her father had docked, it had been usual that her mother would be waiting to greet them. They would have left the docks on foot, her mother rattling off an account of all that had happened since they had left port. Like as not they would have stopped at one of the tea shops for fresh, warm sweet buns and cold tea before strolling the rest of the way home. Althea sighed.
“Althea? Are you all right?” Kyle intruded.
“As well as I could expect, thank you,” she replied stiffly.
He fidgeted, and then cleared his throat as if he were getting ready to say more. She was saved by the boy pulling in the horse right in front of home. He was by the side of the shimshay, offering his hand to her before Kyle could even stir. She smiled at him as she stepped down and he grinned back at her. A moment later the door of the house flew open and Keffria rushed out, crying, “Oh, Kyle, Kyle, I'm so glad you're home. Everything is just awful!” Seldon and Malta were at their mother's heels as she flew forwards to embrace her husband. Another boy followed them awkwardly. He looked oddly familiar: probably a visiting cousin or some such.
“Nice to see you, too, Keffria,” Althea muttered sarcastically, and headed for the door.
Inside the manor, it was cool and shady. Althea stood a moment, gratefully letting her eyes adjust. A woman she did not recognize appeared with a basin of scented water and a towel and began to offer her the welcome of the house. Althea waved her away. “No, thank you. I'm Althea, I live here. Where is my father? In his sitting room?”
She thought she saw a brief flash of sympathy in the woman's eyes. “It has been many days since he was well enough to enjoy that room, Mistress Althea. He is in his bedchamber and your mother is with him.”