Ship of Magic lt-1

by Robin Hobb

  Brashen swallowed the last two mouthfuls of beer in his mug and held it up for more. And, he thought to himself, she had the sense not to get drunk with her shipmates. He nodded to himself. He'd underestimated her. She'd survive this voyage, so long as she kept on as she had begun. Not that she could spend many years sailing as a boy, but she'd get by for this one.

  A barmaid came to refill his mug. He nodded to her and pushed a coin across the table. She took it gravely and bobbed a curtsey before she darted off to the next table. A pretty little thing she was; he wondered that her father allowed her to work in the common room. Her demeanor made it plain she was not one of the women working the room as whores, but he wondered if every sailor would respect that. As his eyes followed her about the room at her tasks, he noted that most of them did. One man tried to catch at her sleeve after she had served him, but she evaded him nimbly. When she reached Athel, however, she paused. She smiled as she questioned the ship's boy. Althea made a show of glancing into her mug, and then allowing the girl to refill it for her. The smile the tavern girl gave the supposed lad was a great deal friendlier than she had offered the other customers. Brashen grinned to himself; Althea did make a likely looking boy, and the bashfulness the ship's boy professed probably made her more alluring than most. Brashen wondered if the discomfort Althea exhibited was entirely feigned.

  He set his mug back on the counter in front of him, and then opened his coat. Too warm. He actually felt too warm in here. He smiled to himself, replete with well-being. The room was warm and dry, the deck was still under his feet. The anxiety that was a sailor's constant companion eased for a moment. By the time they reached Candletown with their cargo, he would have earned enough to give him breathing space. Not that he'd be so foolish as to spend it all. No. This time, at least, he'd hearken back to Captain Vestrit's advice and set a bit by for himself. He even had a choice now. He knew the Reaper would be more than willing to keep him on. He could probably stay with the ship for as long as he wanted. Or he could take his ship's ticket in Candletown, and look about a bit there. Maybe he'd find another ship there, something a bit better than the Reaper. Something cleaner, something faster. Back to merchant sailing, piling on the canvas and skipping from port to port. Yes.

  He felt a once-familiar burn in his lower lip and hastily shifted the quid of cindin. It was as potent as the seller had promised, to eat through his skin that fast. He had another mouthful of beer to cool it. It had been years since he'd indulged in cindin. Captain Vestrit had been an absolute tyrant on that point. If he even suspected a man of using it, on shore or on ship, he'd check his lower lip. Any sign of a burn put him off the ship at the next port, with no pay. He'd won the small plug earlier at a gaming table, another amusement he hadn't indulged much of late. But, damn it all, there came a time when a man had to unwind, and this was as good a time as any. He hadn't been irresponsible. He never bet anything he couldn't lose. He'd started out with some sea-bear teeth he'd carved into fish and such in his bunk time. Almost from the start of the game, he'd won steadily. Oh, he'd come near to losing his deck knife, and that would have been a sore blow, but then his luck had turned sweet and he'd won not only the cindin plug but enough coins for the evening's beer.

  He almost felt bad about it. The fellows he had fleeced of the coin and cindin were the mate and steward of the Jolly Gal, another oil ship in the harbor. Only the Jolly Gal had an empty hold and full kegs of salt. She and her crew were just on their way out to the killing grounds. This late in the season, they'd have a hard time filling her up. Wouldn't surprise Brash if she stayed on the grounds the season through, going from sea bear to small whale. Now there was ugly, dangerous work. Damn glad he wouldn't be doing it. His winning tonight was a sign, he was sure of it. His luck was getting better and his life was going to straighten itself out. Oh, he still missed the Vivacia, and old Captain Vestrit, Sa cradle him, but he'd make a new life for himself.

  He drank the last of the beer in his mug, then rubbed at his eyes. He must have been wearier than he thought he was, to feel so suddenly sleepy. Cindin usually enlivened him. It was the hallmark of the drug, the benign sense of well-being coupled with the energy to have fun. Instead he felt as if the most wonderful thing that could happen to him now would be a warm, soft bed. A dry one, that didn't smell of sweat and mildew and oil and oakum. With no bugs.

  He had been so busy building this image of paradise in his mind that he startled to find the tavern maid before him. She smiled up at him mischievously when he jumped and then gestured at his mug. She was right, it was empty again. He covered it with his hand and shook his head regretfully. “I'm out of coin, I'm afraid. It's all to the good. I'll want a clear head when we leave port tomorrow anyway.”

  “Tomorrow? In this blow?” she asked sympathetically.

  He shook his head, confirming his own reluctance. “Storm or no storm, we have to face it. Time and tide wait on no man, or so they tell us. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we're home.”

  “Home,” she said, and smiled again. “Then this one is on me. To a swift trip home, for you and all your crew.”

  Slowly he removed his hand from the top of his mug and watched her pour. Truly, his luck was changing. “You're from the same ship as those men, aren't you? The Reaper?”

  “That's us,” he confirmed. He shifted the cindin in his mouth again.

  “And you're the mate of the Reaper, then.”

  “Just barely. I'm the third.”

  “Ah. You're Brashen, then?”

  He nodded and could not keep from grinning. There was something flattering about a woman knowing his name before he knew hers.

  “They're saying the Reaper has filled her hold and is headed back. Must have been a good crew?” She raised one eyebrow whenever she asked a question.

  “Good enough.” He was starting to enjoy this conversation. Then, in her next breath, she betrayed the true reason for her generosity.

  “That's your ship's boy on the end, there? He's not much of a drinker.”

  “No, he's not. Doesn't talk much either.”

  “I noticed,” she said ruefully. She took a breath, then suddenly asked, “Is it true what they say about him? That he can skin sea bears near as fast as they shoot them?”

  She did think Althea, or Athel was comely, then. Brashen grinned to himself. “No, it's not true at all,” he said solemnly. “Athel is much faster than the hunters. That's the problem we've had with the lad, he was down there skinning them out before they were shot. Our hunters had to spend all their time chasing down the naked bears he'd already skinned.”

  He took a swallow of the beer. For an instant she just stared at him, eyes wide. Then, “Oh, you,” she rebuked him with a giggle and gave him a playful push. Relaxed as he was, he had to catch at the bar to keep from falling. “Oh, sorry!” she cried and caught at his sleeve to help him right himself.

  “It's all right. I'm just more tired than I thought I was.”

  “Are you?” she asked more softly. She waited until his eyes met hers. Her eyes were blue and deeper than the sea. “There's a room in back with a bed. My room. You could rest there for a while. If you wanted to lie down.”

  Just before he was certain of her meaning, she cast her eyes aside and down. She turned and walked away from him. He picked up his mug again and just as he sipped from it, she said over her shoulder, “Just let me know. If you want to.” She paused as she was, looking back at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Or was it invitingly?

  A man's luck turning is like a favorable tide. One has to make the most of it while it's there. Brashen drained off the last of his mug and stood up. “I'd like that,” he said quietly. It was true. Whether the offer of a bed included the girl or not, it sounded very good. What was there to lose? He shifted the cindin in his mouth again. It was very, very good.

  “One more round,” Reller announced. “Then we'd better get back to the ship.”

  “Don't wait on us,” one of the hands giggled. “He
ad back, Reller. We'll be along soon enough.” He started to sag his head down onto his arms.

  Reller reached across the table and gave him a shake. “None of that, Jord. No passing out here. Once we get to the ship you can drop to the deck and snore like a pig for all I care. But not here.”

  Something in his tone got Jord's attention. He lifted his head blearily. “Why's that?”

  Reller leaned across the table. “Deckhand from the Tern gave me a warning earlier. You know that Jolly Gal, tied up just to the lee of us? Crew had the red-heaves before they got here. They lost seven men. The skipper has been about town for three days, trying to hire on more crew but with no luck. Word is that he's getting desperate; they got to get out to the grounds. Every day they stay here is likely another week they'll have to spend hunting. Fingers from the Tern told me our crew would be wise to stick together and sleep on board tonight. One of their hunters has gone missing for two days now, and you know what they think. So when we go back to the ship we all go back together. Less you want to wake up northward bound on the Jolly Gal.”

  “Crimpers?” Jord asked in a sort of horror. “Working here in Nook?”

  “Where better?” Reller asked in a low voice. “Man don't come back to his ship on time, no one's going to stay tied up here to look for him. Easy to lay in an alley, pick off a few tars from a home-bound vessel, the poor sots wake up back on the hunting waters. I tell you, this isn't a town where a sailor should walk about alone.”

  Jord abruptly hauled himself to his feet. “I've had a gut full of these northern waters. No way I'll even take a chance on that. Come on, fellows. Let's to the ship.”

  Reller glanced about. “Hey, where'd Brash go? Wasn't he sitting over there?”

  “He went with a girl, I think.” Althea spoke up for the first time. She heard the disapproval in her voice and saw the faces turn toward her in surprise. “One I thought was looking at me,” she added sourly. She picked up her mug, took a sip, and set it down. “Let's go. The beer here tastes like piss, anyway.”

  “Oh, you know what piss tastes like, do you?” Jord mocked her.

  “Don't need to. All I need to know is that this stuff smells just like your bunk, Jord.”

  “Aw, a bunk sniffer, eh?” Jord guffawed drunkenly. The others joined in the laughter and Althea just shook her head. Afloat or ashore, the humor and witticisms were the same. She actually found herself eager to return to the ship. The sooner they sailed from this armpit, the sooner they'd get to Candletown. She pushed back from the table. Jord leaned over to look in her mug. “You going to drink that?” he demanded.

  “Be my guest,” she told him and turned to follow the others out of the tavern into the storm. From the corner of her eye she saw Jord toss it off and then make a face.

  “Ew. Guess you got the bottom of the cask or something.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and followed.

  Outside the storm was still blowing. Althea wondered wearily if it ever did not storm in the forsaken hole. She squinted her eyes into the rain-laden wind that tore at her clothes and hair. In two steps she forgot that she had ever been warm and dry. Back to life as the ship's boy.

  She almost didn't hear the innkeeper calling from behind her. Reller turned, and when she glanced back to see what he was staring at, she saw the man leaning out the door of his tavern. “You Athel?” he yelled into the storm.

  Reller pointed silently at her.

  “Brashen wants you. He's had a bit much to drink. Come and haul him out of here!”

  “Wonderful,” she snarled to herself, wondering why he had picked on her. Reller motioned her to go back.

  “Meet us back at the ship!” he roared into the wind and she nodded. She turned back to the inn wearily. She didn't look forward to staggering through the storm with Brash leaning on her. Well, this was the sort of task that fell to ship's boys. If he puked, she'd get to clean that up, too.

  Muttering to herself, she climbed the steps and then stepped into the tavern. The keeper motioned towards a door in the back. “He's in there,” he said disgustedly. “Nearly passed out on one of the girls.”

  “I'll get him out of here,” Althea promised and dripped her way past the tables and benches of drinkers to the door. She opened it on a dimly lit chamber. There was a bed, and the tavern maid with her blouse unlaced. The girl was bent over Brashen as Althea came in. She looked up at Althea and smiled helplessly. “I don't know what to do,” she said, still smiling. “Won't you help me?”

  Perhaps if Althea had truly been a ship's boy, she would have been distracted by the girl's bared breasts and would simply have stepped into the room. She probably would not have stared at Brashen as she did, thinking that he did not look like a man passed out in a bed but rather like a man who had been struck down and then arranged on a bed. In that momentary pause, she caught a flicker of motion to her left. She dodged back, catching the blow on the side rather than on the top of her head. The club crashed into the top of her shoulder as well, numbing her right arm down to her fingertips. She staggered forward with a cry as the man who had clubbed her slammed the door shut behind her.

  The girl was in on it. Althea grasped that instantly, and spurred by her pain, she struck the tavern maid in the face as hard as she could with her left hand. It was not her best punch, but the girl seemed shocked as much as hurt. Clutching at her face, she staggered back with a scream as Althea spun to face the man beside the door. “You heartless little bastard!” the man spat, and swung at her. Althea ducked it and sprang for the door behind him. She managed to pull it part way open. “Crimpers!” she shouted with every bit of breath in her body. A white flash of light knocked her to the floor.

  Voices came back first. “One from the Tern, the one they've been looking for. He was tied up in the beer cellar. One from the Carlyle, and these two from the Reaper. Plus it looks like there's a couple more out back with some earth scraped over them. Probably hit them too hard. Tough way for a sailor to go.”

  There was a shrug in the second voice that replied, “Well, tough is true, but we never seem to run out of them.”

  She opened her eyes to overturned tables and benches. Her cheek was in a puddle of something; she hoped it was beer. Men's legs and boots were in front of her face, close enough to step on her. She tipped her head to look up at them. Townsmen wearing heavy leathers against the storm's chill. She pushed against the floor. On her second try she managed to sit up. The movement set the room to rocking before her.

  “Hey, the boy's coming round,” a voice observed. “What did you hit Pag's girl for, you sot?”

  “She was the bait. She's in on it,” Althea said slowly. Men. Couldn't they even see what was right in front of their faces?

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the man replied judiciously. “Can you stand?”

  “I think so.” She clutched at an overturned chair and managed to get to her feet. She was dizzy and felt like throwing up. She touched the back of her head cautiously, then looked at her red fingers. “I'm bleeding,” she said aloud. No one seemed greatly interested.

  “Your mate's still in there,” the man in boots told her. “Better get him out of there and back to your ship. Pag's plenty mad at you for punching his daughter. Didn't no one ever teach you any manners about women?”

  “Pag's in on it, too, if it's going on in his back room and beer cellar,” Althea pointed out dully.

  “Pag? Pag's run this tavern for ten years I know about. I wouldn't be saying such wild things if I were you. It's your fault all his chairs and tables are busted up, too. You aren't exactly welcome here any more.”

  Althea squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them. The floor seemed to have steadied. “I see,” she told the man. “I'll get Brashen out of here.” Obviously Nook was their town, and they'd run it as they saw fit. She was lucky the tavern had been full of other sailors who weren't fond of crimpers. These two townsmen didn't seem overly upset about how Pag made his extra money. She wondered. If there wasn't a knot of angry sail
ors still hovering near the fire, would they be letting her and Brashen go even now? She'd better get while the going was good.

  She staggered to the door of the back room and looked in. Brashen was sitting up on the bed, his head bowed into his hands. “Brash?” she croaked.

  “Althea?” he replied dazedly. He turned toward her voice.

  “It's Athel!” she asserted grumpily. “And I'm getting damn tired of being teased about my name.” She reached his side and tugged uselessly at his arm. “Come on. We got to get back to the ship.”

  “I'm sick. Something in the beer,” he groaned. He lifted a hand to the back of his head. “And I think I was sapped, too.”

  “Me, too.” Althea leaned closer to him and lowered her voice.

  “But we've got to get out of here while we can. The men outside the door don't seem too upset about Pag's crimping. The sooner we're out of here, the better.”

  He caught the idea quickly, for one as bleary as he looked. “Give me your shoulder,” he ordered her, and staggered upright. She took his arm across her shoulders. Either he was too tall or she was too short for it to work properly. It almost felt as if he was deliberately trying to push her down as they staggered out of the back room and then through the tavern to the door. One of the men at the fireside nodded to them gravely, but the two townsmen merely watched them go. Brashen missed a step as they went down the stairs and they both nearly fell into the frozen muck of the street.

  Brashen lifted his head to stare into the wind and rain. “It's getting colder.”

  “The rain will turn to sleet tonight,” Althea predicted sourly.

  “Damn. And the night started out so well.”

  She trudged down the street with him leaning heavily on her shoulder. At the corner of a shuttered mercantile store she stopped to get her bearings. The whole town was black as pitch and the cold rain running down her face didn't help any.