Ship of Magic lt-1

by Robin Hobb

  Ever since Keffria could remember, she had hated the season of the mafe harvest. When she was tiny, all she had known was that it meant her mother was already gone when she awakened, and that she might see her for an hour before bedtime, or not at all that day. As she grew older, there had been a few years when her mother had insistently dragged her along to the hot fields and the long rows of prickly dark green bushes heavy with ripening beans. She had forced her to learn how the beans were harvested, what the pests that plagued them looked like, and which diseased bushes must be pulled up immediately and burned and which must be painstakingly doused with a strong tea made from leaf mold and horse manure. Keffria had hated it. As soon as she was old enough to be concerned with her hair and skin, she had rebelled and refused to be tormented any longer. That, she recalled, was the same year that she resolved she would never marry a man who would go to sea and leave her with such burdens. She would find a man willing to fulfill a man's role, to take care of her and keep her safe and defend their door from all troubles and worries. “And then I went and married a sailor,” she said aloud. The fondness in her voice made it a compliment.

  “Um?” The sleepy question came from deep within his chest. She set a hand on its paleness in the moonlight, enjoyed the contrast of her olive skin against his whiteness.

  “I just wish you weren't gone so much,” she said softly. “Now that papa is dead, you're the man of our family. If you're not around…”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “I've thought of that, I've worried about that. Why else do you think I must insist I take Wintrow on the ship with me? It's time he stepped forward as a man of this family, and took on his share of the responsibilities.”

  “But… his priesthood,” Keffria objected in a tiny voice. It was very hard for her to disagree with her husband, but in this one area, he had always before let her have her way. She could scarcely grasp that he might change his mind now.

  “You know I never approved of that nonsense,” he said quietly as if in answer to her thought. “Offering our firstborn son to the service of Sa… that's a fine thing for the rich folk of Jamaillia to do. Shows off their wealth, that they can offer up the labor of a son and think nothing of it. That's not the case with us, dear. But I knew you wanted it, and I tried to let you have it. We sent the boy off to the monastery. And if your father had lived for another handful of years, they could have kept him. But he didn't. Selden's too young to sail. The plain and simple truth of it is that this family needs Wintrow a lot more than some monastery in Jamaillia. Sa provides, you always say. Well, look at it this way. He provided us with a son, thirteen years ago. And now we need him.”

  “But we promised him,” she said in a small voice. Inside her was a sort of agony. It had meant so much to her that Wintrow was a priest, offered up to Sa. Not all boys who were offered were accepted. Some were returned to their parents with the thanks of the monastery, but a polite letter explaining their sons were not truly suitable for the priesthood. Wintrow had not been returned. No, he had been cherished from the very beginning, advancing swiftly to his novice's brown robe, transferred from the outlying monastery at Kail to Kelpiton monastery on the Marrow peninsula. The priests did not often send reports, but those she had received had been glowing. She kept them, tied with the gilt ribbons that had originally bound them, in the corner of her clothing chest.

  “You promised him,” Kyle pointed out. “Not I. Here. Let me up.” He disentangled himself from her arms and bedding to rise. His body was like carved ivory in the moonlight. He groped at the foot of the bed for his night robe and then dragged it on over his head.

  “Where are you going?” she asked quietly. She knew her comment had displeased him, but he had never quitted her bed to sleep elsewhere before.

  He knew her so well. As if sensing her worry, he reached down to smooth her hair back from her face. “I'll be back. I'm just going to go check Althea's room, and see if she's in yet.” He shook his head. “I can't believe her foolishness. I hope she doesn't make a spectacle of herself in Bingtown tonight. When she has a few drinks, she's capable of saying almost anything. Scandal is the last thing we need right now. The family must be seen as stable and united until we get these financial problems under control. Any wild talk from Althea, and we could find our creditors panicking, thinking they should get what they can out of us while we've got it. Ah, well. We've had enough worries and grief for tonight. Try to go to sleep. I'll be back in a few moments either way.”

  For a long moment, Brashen feared she was going to refuse his offer of escort. Althea wove slightly on her feet as she blearily appraised him. He returned her gaze evenly. Sa, she was a sight! Her hair had come loose and sprawled across her brow and shoulders. Her face was smeared with the day's dust and her own tears. Only her dress marked her as a woman of quality, and its disheveled condition made it look like someone else's cast off. Right now, he thought sourly, she looked more like a doxie looking for a tumble than the proud daughter of a Bingtown Trader family. If she attempted to walk home alone, anything might befall her in the wildness of the night market.

  But in another moment she sighed loudly. “Aye,” she said, and with another heavy sigh she took his offered arm. She leaned on him heavily, and he was glad he had jettisoned his sea-bag earlier in the day. The tavern-keeper holding it for him knew him well, and he had parted with several small coins to ensure its safety. He did not like to think of how much more coin he had spent following her from tavern to tavern. More than he had meant to, true, but not as much as he would have ordinarily spent on a night out on the town. He was still almost sober, he reflected. This had been the most depressing first night back in home port that he had ever spent. Well, it was nearly over. All he had to do was get her safely home, and then the few hours between the stars and dawn would be his to spend as he wished.

  He looked up and down the street. It was ill lit with widely spaced torches and all but deserted at this hour. Those who were still capable of drinking were within the taverns, and everyone else in this quarter would be passed out somewhere. Nevertheless, there would be a few rogues who'd lurk down this way, hoping for a drunken sailor's last coin. He'd be wise to go carefully, especially with Althea in tow.

  “This way,” he told her and attempted to lead her at a brisk pace, but she almost immediately stumbled. “Are you that drunk?” he asked her in annoyance before he could curb his tongue.

  “Yes,” she admitted with a small belch. She stooped so abruptly that he thought she was going to fold up on the boardwalk. Instead she tore off first one and then another heeled-and-ribboned shoe. “And these damn things don't help a bit.” She stood and flung them both out into the dark street. Straightening, she turned back to him and took his arm firmly. “Now let's go.”

  She made her way much better barefoot, he had to admit. He grinned at himself in the darkness. Even after all the years of doing for himself, there was still some of the strait-laced Trell in him. He'd felt a shudder of horror at the impropriety of a Trader's daughter going barefoot through the town. Well, given the rest of her condition, he doubted it would be the first thing anyone noticed. Not that he intended to troll her through the market as she was; he'd keep to the lesser-traveled streets and hope they met no one who could recognize them in the darkness. That much he owed to the memory of Ephron Vestrit.

  But as they came to an intersection, she tugged at his arm and tried to turn toward the bright streets of the night market. “I'm hungry,” she announced, and she sounded both surprised and annoyed, as if it were his fault.

  “Too bad. I'm broke,” he lied succinctly and tried to draw her away.

  She stared at him suspiciously. “You drank all your pay that fast? Sa's ass, man, I knew you were a sot in port, but I didn't think even you could go through coin that fast.”

  “I spent it on whores,” he embellished irritably.

  She appraised him in the flickering torch light. “Yes. You would,” she confirmed to herself. She shook her he
ad. “Nothing you wouldn't do, is there, Brashen Trell?”

  “Not much,” he agreed coldly, resolute on ending the conversation. Once more he tugged at her arm but she still resisted.

  “Lots of places there will give me credit. Come on. I'll buy for you, too.” She had gone from judgmental to effusive in one breath.

  He decided on a direct tack. “Althea. You're drunk and a mess. You're in no condition to be seen in any public place. Come on. I'm taking you home.”

  The resistance went out of her and he led her docilely along the semi-dark street. They were in an area of smaller shops here, some of an unsavory nature, others incapable of paying the high rent of a night market location. Dim lanterns shone outside those that were still open for business: tattoo parlors, incense and drug shops, and those that sated the more unusual cravings of the flesh. He was glad that trade was paltry tonight. Just when he thought that the night's trials were over for him, Althea drew a long shuddering breath. He realized she was weeping, all but silently.

  “What's wrong?” he asked her wearily.

  “Now that my father's dead, no one will ever be proud of me again.” She shook her head blindly, and then blotted her eyes on her sleeve. Her voice was choked when she spoke. “With him, it was what I could do. With all of them, it's how I look, or what others think of me.”

  “You've had too much to drink,” he said quietly. He had meant the words to sound comforting, to mean that such things would only bother her when she was drunk and her defenses were down. Instead they came out sounding like another condemnation. But she only bowed her head to it and followed him docilely, so he let it be. He was certainly having no luck at making her feel better, and honestly he was not sure that he wanted to make her feel better, or had any responsibility to do so. So her family had condemned her. Could she speak to him and forget how completely cast out from his kin he was? Only a few weeks ago, she had thrown that in his face. It wasn't fair of her to expect sympathy now that the tables were turned.

  They had walked some way in silence when she spoke again. “Brashen,” she said quietly in a serious voice. “I'm going to get my ship back.”

  He made a noncommittal noise. There was no sense in telling her he believed there was absolutely no chance of that.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she demanded.

  “Yes. I heard you.”

  “Well. Aren't you going to say anything?”

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “When you get your ship back, I expect to be first mate again.”

  “Done,” she replied grandiosely.

  Brashen snorted. “If I knew it were that easy, I'd have demanded to be captain.”

  “No. No, I'm going to be the captain. But you can be the mate. Vivacia likes you. When I am captain, I'm only going to have people we like aboard her.”

  “Thank you,” he said awkwardly. He had never believed that Althea liked him. In a strange way, it touched him. The captain's daughter had liked him after all.

  “What?” she asked him drunkenly.

  “Nothing,” he told her. “Nothing at all.”

  They turned into the street of the Rain Wild River merchants. Here the stores were more ornate, and all but one or two were closed for the evening. The exotic and expensive merchandise they dealt in was for the very wealthy, not the wild and reckless youth that were the main customers of the night market. The tall glass windows were shuttered for the night, and hired guards, heavily armed, loitered purposefully near the various shops. More than one glowered at the pair as they made their way down the boardwalks. The wares behind the shuttered windows were tinged with the magic of the Rain Wilds. It had always seemed to Brashen that there was a shimmer of something both shivery and sweet on this street. It prickled the hair on the back of his neck at the same time that it closed his throat with awe. Even in the night, with the mysterious goods of the forbidding river trade hidden from sight, the aura of magic simmered silvery-cold in the night air. He wondered if Althea felt it and nearly asked her, save that the question seemed both too serious and too trivial to utter aloud.

  The silence between them had grown until Althea's hand on his arm was an uncomfortable closeness. When he spoke again, it was to dispel that more than from any need. “Well, she's come up in the world quite swiftly,” he observed aloud as they passed Amber's shop. He nodded toward a storefront on the corner of Rain Wild Street, where Amber herself sat in the window behind an expensive set of Yicca glass panes. They were as clear as water, and set in elaborately carved and gilded frames. They made the woman in the window look like a framed piece of art. The woven chair she lounged in was of white wickerwork. She wore a long brown gown that hung simply from her shoulders; it more cloaked than enhanced her slight form. Her shop windows were neither shuttered nor barred; no guards lurked outside. Perhaps Amber trusted to her own strange presence to deter thieves. A single dish lamp burned on the floor beside her with a mellow yellow light. The rich brown of her draped gown pointed up the gold of her skin and hair and eyes. Her bare feet peeped from the bottom of her long skirts. She watched the street with a cat's wide unblinking stare.

  Althea halted to return that stare. She swayed slightly on her feet and without thinking Brashen put his arm around her shoulders to steady her. “What is she selling?” Althea wondered out loud. Brashen winced, certain that the woman beyond the glass had heard her words, but Amber's expression neither changed nor faltered from her emotionless regard of the disheveled girl in the street. Althea screwed her eyes tight shut, then opened them wide as if that would change the view. “She looks as if she's all carved of wood. Golden maple.”

  The woman behind the glass could hear her words, for Brashen saw a small smile begin to form on her sculpted lips. But when Althea added plaintively, “She reminds me of my ship. Lovely Vivacia, with all the colors of life over the silk grain of wizardwood,” Amber's face abruptly changed to an expression of extreme distaste. Not quite sure of why that patrician disdain so alarmed him, Brashen nonetheless seized Althea by the elbow and firmly hurried her past the window and on down the dimly lit street.

  At the next intersection, he allowed her to slow down. She was limping by then, and he recalled her bare feet and the rough wood of the boardwalk. She said not a word of that, but only asked again, “What does she sell there? She's not one of the Bingtown Traders who have Rain Wild River trade; only liveship families can trade up the Rain Wild River. So who is she and why does she have a shop on Rain Wild Street?”

  Brashen shrugged. “She was new here, about two years ago. Had a tiny little shop off the Odds and Bodkins Square. She made wooden beads and sold them. Nothing else. Just very pretty wooden beads. A lot of people bought them for their children to string. Then, last year, she moved to a better location and started selling, well, jewelry. Only it's all made of wood.”

  “Wooden jewelry?” Althea scoffed. She sounded much more herself and Brashen suspected the walk was sobering her up. Good. Maybe she'd have the sense to tidy herself up before walking barefoot into her father's house.

  “That's what I thought, too, until I saw it. I had never known a crafter could find so much in wood. She works with the odd little knotty bits, and brings out faces and animals and exotic flowers. Sometimes she inlays pieces. But it's as much the wood she chooses as the skill with which she does it. She has an uncanny eye, to see what she does in a bit of wood.”

  “So. Does she work wizardwood, then?” Althea asked boldly.

  “Fa!” Brashen exclaimed in disgust. “She might be new, but she knows our ways well enough to know that would not be tolerated! No, she only uses ordinary wood. Cherry and oak and I don't know, all different colors and grains…”

  “There's a lot more that work wizardwood in Bingtown than would like to own up to it,” Althea observed darkly. She scratched at her belly. “It's a dirty little trade, but if you want a carved bit and have the coin, you can get it.”

  Her suddenly ominous tone made Brashen uneasy. He tried to light
en the conversation. “Well, isn't that what all the world says of Bingtown? That if a man can imagine a thing, he can find it for sale here?”

  She smiled crookedly at him. “And you've heard the rejoinder to that, haven't you? That no man can truly imagine being happy, and that's why happiness isn't for sale here.”

  The sudden bleakness of her mood left him at a loss for words. The silence that followed seemed in tune with the cooling of the summer night. As they left the streets of the merchants and tradesmen behind and followed the winding roads into the residential sections of Bingtown, the night grew darker around them. Lanterns were more widely spaced and set far back from the road. Barking dogs threatened them from fenced or hedged yards. The roads here were rougher, the only walkways were of gravel, and when Brashen thought of Althea's bare feet, he winced sympathetically. But she herself said nothing of it.

  In the silence and darkness, his grief for his fallen captain found space to grow in him. More than once he blinked away the sting of tears. Gone. Captain Vestrit was gone, and with him Brashen's second chance at life. He should have taken better advantage of all the Old Trader offered him while he was alive. He should never have assumed that the helping hand the man had extended him would always be available. Well, now he'd have to make his own third chance. He glanced over at the girl who still depended on his arm. She'd have to make her own way, too, now. Either that, or accept the fate her family parceled out to her. He suspected they'd find a younger son of a Trader family willing to wed her despite her risque reputation. Maybe even his own little brother. He didn't think Cerwin would be any match for Althea's willfulness, but the Trell fortunes would mingle well with those of the Vestrits. He wondered how Althea's adventurousness would stand up to Cerwin's hide-bound traditionalism. He smiled grimly to himself, and wondered who he'd pity more.