Ship of Magic lt-1

by Robin Hobb

  For a time she thought of nothing. Then from somewhere else, she abruptly came back to the narrow sweaty bunk and his crushing weight upon her and her hair caught under his splayed hand. Her feet were cold, she realized. And she had a cramp in the small of her back. She heaved under him. “Let me up,” she said quietly, and when he did not move at first, “Brashen, you're squashing me. Get off!”

  He shifted and she managed to sit up. He edged over on the bunk so that she was sitting in the curl of his prone body. He looked up at her, not quite smiling. He lifted a hand, and with a finger traced a circle around one of her breasts. She shivered. With a tenderness that horrified her, he drew the sole blanket up to drape her shoulders. “Althea,” he began.

  “Don't talk,” she begged him suddenly. “Don't say anything.” Somehow if he spoke of what they had just done, it would make it more real, make it a part of her life that she'd have to admit to later. Now that she was satiated, her caution was coming back. “This can't happen again,” she told him suddenly.

  “I know. I know.” Nonetheless, his eyes followed his hand as he traced his fingers down her throat to her belly. He tapped at the ring and charm in her navel. “That's… unusual.”

  In the gently shifting lantern light, the tiny skull winked up at them. “It was a gift from my dear sister,” Althea said bitterly.

  “I…” he hesitated. “I thought only whores wore them,” he finished lamely.

  “That's my sister's opinion as well,” Althea replied stonily. Without warning, the old hurt lashed her.

  She suddenly curled herself smaller and managed to lie down in the bunk beside him. He snugged her into the curve of his body. The warmth felt good, as did the gentle tickling as he toyed with one of her breasts. She should push his hand away, she knew. She should let this go no further than it had. Getting up and getting dressed and going back to the forecastle would be the wisest thing she could do. Getting up in the chill cabin and putting her cold wet clothes back on… She shivered and pressed against his warmth. He shifted to put both arms around her and hold her close. Safe.

  “Why did she give you a wizardwood charm?” She could hear the reluctant curiosity in his voice.

  “So I wouldn't get pregnant and shame my family. Or catch some disfiguring disease that would let all Bingtown know what a slut I was.” She deliberately chose the hard word, spat it out at herself.

  He froze for an instant, then soothed his hand down her back. Stroking her, then gently kneading at her shoulders and neck until she sighed and relaxed into him again. “It was my own fault,” she heard herself say. “I should never have told her about it. But I was only fourteen and I felt like I had to tell someone. And I couldn't tell my father, not after he discharged Devon.”

  “Devon.” He spoke the name, making it not quite a question.

  She sighed. “It was before you came on board. Devon. He was a deckhand. So handsome, and always with a jest and a smile for anything, even misfortune. Nothing daunted him. He'd dare anything.” Her voice trailed off. For a time she thought only of Brash's hand gently moving over her back, unknotting the muscles there as if he were untangling a line.

  “That was where he and my father differed, of course. ‘He'd be the best deckhand on this ship if he had common sense,’ Papa once told me. ‘And he'd make a good first, if he only knew when to get scared.’ But Devon didn't sail like that. He was always complaining that we could carry more sail than we did, and when he worked aloft, he was always the fastest. I knew what my father meant. When the other men tried to keep up with him, for pride's sake, then work was done faster but not as thoroughly. Mistakes were made. And sailors got hurt. None seriously, but you know how my father was. He always said it was because the Vivacia was a liveship. He said accidents and deaths on board a liveship are bad for the ship; the emotions are too strong.”

  “I think he was right,” Brashen said quietly. He kissed the back of her neck.

  “I know he was,” Althea said in mild annoyance. She sighed suddenly. “But I was fourteen. And Devon was so handsome. He had gray eyes. He'd sit about on deck after his watch was over, and whittle tilings for me and tell me stories of his wandering. It seemed like he'd been everywhere and done everything. He never exactly spoke against Papa, to me or to the rest of the crew, but you could always tell when he thought we were sailing too cautious. He'd get this disdainful little smile at the corner of his mouth. Sometimes just that look could make my father furious with him, but I'm afraid I thought it was adorable. Daring. Mocking danger.” She sighed. “I believed he could do no wrong. Oh, I was in love.”

  “And he acted on that, when you were fourteen?” Brashen's voice was condemning. “On your father's ship? That's far past the line of daring, into stupidity.”

  “No. It wasn't like that.” Althea spoke reluctantly. She didn't want to tell him any of this, yet somehow she could not stop. “I think he knew how I adored him, and he sometimes flirted with me, but in a joking way. So I could treasure his words, even as I knew he didn't mean them.” She shook her head at herself. “But one night I got my chance. We were tied up at a dock in Lees. Quiet night. My father had gone into Lees on business, and most of the crew had liberty. I had the watch. I had had liberty earlier that day, and I'd gone into town and bought myself, oh, earrings, and some scent and a silk blouse and a long silk skirt. And I was wearing it all, all rigged out for him to see whenever he came back from the taverns. And when I saw him coming back to the ship early, by himself, my heart started hammering so hard I could barely breathe. I knew it was my chance.

  “He came aboard with a bound, like he always did, landing on the deck like a cat and stood before me.” She gave a snort of laughter. “You know, we must have talked, I must have said something, he must have said something. But I can't recall a word of it, only how happy I was to finally be able to tell him how much I loved him, with no need to be careful, for no one would overhear us. And he stood and grinned to hear me say it, as if he could not believe how fortune had favored him. And… he took my arm and walked me across the deck. He bent me over a hatch cover, and lifted my skirts and pulled down my knickers… and he took me right there. Bent over a hatch cover, like a boy.”

  “He raped you?” Brashen was aghast.

  Althea choked back an odd laughter. “No. No, it wasn't rape. He didn't force me. I didn't know a thing about it, but I was sure I was in love. I went willingly, and I stood still for it. He wasn't rough, but he was thorough. Very thorough. And I didn't know what to expect, so I suppose I wasn't disappointed. And afterwards, he looked at me with that adorable grin and said, ‘I hope you remember this the rest of your life, Althea. I promise I will.’ “ She took a deep breath. “Then he went below and came back up with his sea-bag all packed and left the ship. And I never saw him again.” A silence stretched out. “I kept watching and waiting for him to come back. When we left port two days later, I found out Papa had fired him as soon as we had docked.”

  Brashen let out a low groan. “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Taking you was his revenge against your father.”

  She spoke slowly. “I never thought of it quite that way. I always thought that it was just something he dared to do, reckoning he wouldn't get caught.” She forced herself to ask him, “You really think it was revenge?”

  “Sounds like it to me,” Brashen said quietly. “I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard,” he added softly. “Devon. If I ever meet him, I'll kill him for you.” The sincerity in his voice startled her.

  “The worst was afterwards,” she admitted to him. “We got to Bingtown a couple of weeks later. And I was sure I must be pregnant.

  Just positive of it. Well, I dared not go to my father, and Mother wasn't much better. So I went to my married sister Keffria, sure that she could advise me. I swore her to silence and then I told her.” Althea shook her head. She moved the cindin in her lip again. It had left a sore. The flavor was almost gone now.

  “Keffria?” Brashen pushed her. He so
unded as if he genuinely wanted to know the rest of the story.

  “Was horrified. She started crying, and told me I was ruined forever. A slut and a whore and a shame to my family name. She stopped speaking to me. Four or five days later, my blood days came, right on time. I found her alone and told her, and told her if she ever told Papa or Mama, I'd say she was lying. Because I was so scared. From all she had said, I was sure that they'd throw me out and never love me again if they knew.”

  “Hadn't she promised not to tell?”

  “I didn't trust her to keep her word. I was already pretty sure she'd told Kyle, from the way he started treating me. But she didn't yell at me or anything. She hardly spoke at all when she gave me the navel ring. Just told me that if I wore it, I wouldn't get pregnant or diseased, and that it was the least that I owed my family.” Althea scratched the back of her neck, then winced. “It was never the same after that between us. We learned to be civil to one another, mostly to stop our parents from asking questions. But I think that was the worst summer of my life. Betrayal on top of betrayal.”

  “And after that, I suppose, you sort of did what you pleased with men?”

  She should have known he'd want to know. Men always seemed to want to know. She shrugged, resigned to the whole truth. “Here and there. Not often. Well, only twice. I had a feeling that it hadn't been… done right. The way the men on the Vivacia talked, I suspected it should at least have been fun. It had just been… pressure, and a bit of pain, and wetness. That was all. So I finally got up my nerve and tried a couple more times, with different men. And it was… all right.”

  Brashen lifted his head to look into her eyes. “You call this ‘all right'?”

  Another truth she didn't want to part with. She felt like she was giving away a weapon. “This was not ‘all right.’ This has been what it was always supposed to be. It was never like this before for me.” Then, because she could not bear the softness that had come into his eyes, she had to add. “Maybe it was the cindin.” She fished the tiny fragment that was left out of her lip. “It made little sores inside my mouth,” she complained and looked away from the small hurt on his face.

  “Like as not, it was the cindin,” he admitted. “I've heard it affects women that way, sometimes. Most women don't use it much you know, because it can, um, make you bleed. Even when it's not your time.” He looked suddenly embarrassed.

  “Now he tells me,” she muttered aloud. His grip on her had loosened. The cindin was wearing off and she was suddenly sleepy. And her head had begun a nasty throbbing. She should get up. Cold room. Wet clothes. In a minute. In a minute, she'd have to get up and go back to being alone. “I have to go. If we get caught like this…”

  “I know,” he said, but he didn't move. Except to slide his hand in a long caress down her body. A shiver seemed to follow his touch.

  “Brashen. You know this can't happen again.”

  “I know, I know.” He breathed the words against her skin as he kissed the back of her neck slowly. “This can't happen again. No more. No more after this last time.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Visitors

  Ronica looked up from her account ledgers with a sigh. “Yes? What is it?”

  Rache looked uneasy. “Delo Trell is in the sitting room.”

  Ronica raised her eyebrows. “Why?” Delo usually ran in and out as she wished. She and Malta had been best friends for at least two years now, and the formalities between the girls had eroded long ago.

  Rache looked at the floor. “Her older brother is with her. Cerwin Trell.” Rache hesitated.

  Ronica frowned to herself. “Well, I can see him now, I suppose. Not here, put him in the morning room. Did he say what he wanted?”

  Rache bit her lip for a moment. “I'm sorry, ma'am. He said he was here to call upon Malta. With his sister.”

  “What?” Ronica shot to her feet as if jabbed.

  “I do not know your ways all that well, in this regard. But to me, it did not seem… correct. So I asked them to wait in the sitting room.” Rache looked very uncomfortable. “I hope I have not caused an awkwardness.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Ronica said crisply. “Malta invited this ‘awkwardness.’ But young Trell should have better manners as well. They are in the sitting room, you said?”

  “Yes. Should I… bring refreshments?” The two women looked at one another. In the face of this social dilemma, the lines between mistress and servant were near invisible.

  “I… yes. Thank you, Rache. You are correct. This is best handled with formality rather than scolding him like a rude boy. Even if that is how he has behaved.” Ronica bit her lower lip for a moment. “Advise Keffria of this as well, and ask her to join us. Bring refreshments and serve them. Then, wait a bit before you tell Malta she has guests waiting. She has created this, she should witness how it is dealt with.”

  Rache took a breath, a soldier preparing for battle. “Very well.”

  After she had left the room, Ronica lifted her hands to her face and rubbed her eyes. She glanced back at the accounting ledgers she had set aside, and shook her head. Her eyes and head ached from poring over them anyway, and she had yet to find any way to make the debts on the pages any smaller or the credits any larger. This, at least would be a distraction. An unpleasant distraction from an impossible problem. Ah, well. She patted at her hair, then straightened her spine and headed towards the sitting room. If she hesitated, she'd lose her nerve. Cerwin Trell might be young, but he was also the heir to a powerful Trader family. She needed to put him in his place, but without direct insult. It would be a fine line to tread.

  At the sitting room door she paused to take a breath and set her hand to the latch.

  “Mother.”

  Ronica turned to see Keffria bearing down on her like a runaway horse. Small glints of anger shone in her usually docile eyes. Her lips were set in a firm line. Ronica could not recall having seen her daughter like this. She lifted a cautioning hand to her. “The Trell family is not to be offended,” she reminded her very quietly. She saw Keffria hear her words, evaluate them, and set them aside.

  “Neither are the Vestrits,” she hissed in a low voice. The inflection was so like her father that it paralyzed Ronica. Keffria pushed open the door and preceded her into the room.

  Cerwin looked up with a guilty start from where he perched on the edge of a divan. Even Delo looked startled. She cocked her head to peer past Keffria and Ronica.

  Ronica spoke before Keffria could. “Malta will join us in a moment, Delo. I am sure your friend will be very happy to see you. And what a pleasure to have you call on us, Cerwin. It has been, oh, let's see. Why, do you know, I can't recall the last time you came to visit us.

  Cerwin surged to his feet and bowed. He straightened and smiled, but not easily. “I believe my parents brought me to Keffria's wedding. Of course, that was some years back.”

  “About fifteen,” Keffria observed. “You were an inquisitive little boy, as I recall. Didn't I catch you trying to grab the goldfish in the garden fountains?”

  The boy was still standing. Ronica tried to recall his age. Eighteen? Nineteen? “I suppose you did. Yes, I do recall something of that. Of course, as you say, I was just a little boy then.”

  “That you were,” Keffria replied before Ronica could speak. “And I would never blame a little child for seeing something bright and pretty and desiring to possess it.” She smiled at Cerwin as she added, “And here is Rache with some refreshments for us. Do sit down and be comfortable.”

  Rache had brought coffee and small cakes and cream and spices on a tray. She set it up on a small table, and left the room. Keffria served them. For a time the only talk was whether or not cream and spices were preferred in the coffee. When all were served, Keffria seated herself and smiled round at their guests. Delo was sitting nervously on the edge of her seat, and she kept glancing towards the door. Ronica guessed she was hoping Malta would appear and take her out of the grown-up setting. At l
east, so she hoped.

  Keffria immediately returned to her attack. “So. What does bring you calling here today, Cerwin?”

  He met her eyes boldly, but his voice was soft as he said, “Malta invited me… us. I had taken Delo into the market for an afternoon of shopping. We chanced to meet Malta and we all took some refreshment together. And Malta extended to us an invitation to call on her at home.”

  “She did.” Keffria's tone did not question his story. Ronica hoped her dismay did not show as plainly as her daughter's. “Well. The silly child never told us to expect you. But that is how girls are, I suppose, and Malta worse so than most. Her head is full of foolish fancies, I am afraid, and they crowd out all common sense and courtesy.”

  Ronica heard Keffria's words with half an ear. She was already wondering how often Malta had slipped away to market on her own, and if the meeting had truly been as chance as Trell made it sound. She looked at Delo speculatively; could the two girls have planned the “accidental” encounter?

  As if on cue, Malta entered the room. She glanced around in consternation at them all taking refreshments together so socially. A sly wariness came over her face, very ugly to Ronica's eye. When had the girl become capable of such deliberate waywardness? It was plain she had hoped to greet Delo and Cerwin on her own. At least she did not appear to have expected them today. Although her hair was freshly brushed and there was a touch of paint on her lips, her dress at least was appropriate to a girl of her age. She wore a simple woolen shift, embroidered at the throat and hem. Yet there was something in the way she wore it, sashed tight to show her waist and pull the fabric firm against her rounding bosom that suggested there was a woman in the child's clothes. And Cerwin Trell had risen to his feet as if it were a young woman entering rather than a little girl.

  This was worse than Ronica had feared.

  “Malta,” her mother greeted her. She smiled at her daughter. “Delo has come over to visit with you. But won't you have some cakes and coffee with us first?”