Ship of Magic (55 page)

She gasped as he clutched her arm more tightly and urged her towards the coach. “Quickly! Before anyone else sees you . . . you haven't spoken to anyone else, have you?”

“I . . . no. Well, only Delo and her brother. I just arrived you see, and . . . let go of me! You're mussing my dress.”

It both frightened and shocked her, the way he shoved her into his carriage and climbed determinedly in after her. What did he have in mind? She had heard tales of men driven by passion and lust to do impulsive things, but Davad Restart? He was old! The idea was too disgusting! He slammed the door, but this time it refused to catch. He held it shut as he called up, “Driver! To the Vestrit town house. Quickly.” To Malta he said, “Sit down. I'm taking you home.”

“No! Let me out, I want to go to the Harvest Ball. You can't do this to me. You're not my father!”

Trader Restart was panting as he clutched the door handle and held it shut. The carriage started forward with a lurch and Malta sat down hard.

“No, I'm not your father,” Restart agreed harshly. “And tonight I thank Sa I am not, for I am sure I'd have no idea what to do with you. Poor Ronica! After everything else she's been through this year. Wasn't it bad enough that your aunt vanished completely without you presenting yourself at the Harvest Ball dressed like a Jamaillian strumpet? What will your father say about this?” He pulled a large kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his sweating face with it. He was wearing, she noted, the same blue trousers and jacket that he'd worn the two previous years. They strained at his girth; from the smell of cedar in the carriage, she doubted he'd taken them out of his clothing chest before tonight. And he dared to speak to her of clothing and fashion!

“I had this dress specially made for me, and for this night. With money my Papa gave me, I might add. So I scarcely think he would be angry that I had used it as he suggested. What he might want to know, however, is what you mean by snatching his young daughter off the street and dragging her off against her will. I do not think he will be pleased.”

She had known Davad Restart for years, and knew how easily cowed he was when her grandmother snapped at him. She had expected at least a bit of that same deference for herself. Instead he surprised her by snorting. “Let him come to me and ask me, when he gets back to port, and I will tell him that I was trying to save your reputation. Malta Vestrit, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. A little girl like you, dressed up like a common . . . and then daring to show yourself so at the Harvest Ball. I pray to Sa that no one else recognized you. And nothing you can say will convince me that your mother or grandmother knew anything of that dress or your coming to the Ball when any proper girl would still be mourning her grandfather.”

She could have said a dozen things in reply to that. A week later, she had thought of them all, and knew exactly how she should have said them. But at the time no words would come to her and she sat silent and helplessly furious as the swaying carriage bore her resolutely homeward.

When they arrived, she did not wait for Davad Restart, but pushed past him to climb out of the carriage and hurry up to the door before him. Unfortunately a tassel of her skirt caught on the edge of the carriage door. She heard it tear and turned back with an exclamation of despair but it was too late. The tassel and a hand's-length of pale green silk dangled from the doorframe. Davad glanced at it, then slammed the door on it. He stalked past her to the house door and loudly rang for the servants.

Nana answered it. Why had it to be Nana? She stared at Davad crossly, and then looked past him at Malta, who returned her glare haughtily. For an instant Nana merely looked affronted. Then she gave a gasp of horror and shrieked, “Malta! No, it cannot be you. What have you done, what have you done?”

That brought the whole household down on her. First her mother appeared, and fired a dozen angry questions at Davad Restart, none of which he could answer. Then her grandmother, in her nightgown and wrapper, her hair bundled up in a night scarf, appeared to scold her mother for making such a hue and cry in the night. At the sight of her, Grandmother had suddenly gone pale. She had dismissed all the servants save Nana, who she sent off for tea. She gripped Malta firmly by the wrist as she led her down the hall to what had been Grandfather's study. Only when Davad, Keffria and Malta were inside and the door shut firmly had she turned to her.

“Explain yourself,” she commanded.

Malta drew herself up. “I wished to go to the Harvest Ball. Papa had said I might, and that I might go in a gown, as befitted a young woman. I have done nothing I am ashamed of.” Her dignity was impeccable.

Her grandmother pursed her pale lips. When she spoke, there was ice in her voice. “Then you are truly as empty-headed as you appear to be.” She turned aside from Malta, dismissing her completely. “Oh, Davad, how can I ever thank you for whisking her home? I hope you have not put your own reputation at risk while saving ours. Did many people see her like this?”

Trader Restart looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Not many. I hope. Cerwin Trell and his little sister. Some friend of his. I pray they were all.” He paused as if considering whether or not to lie. “The Vintagli family arrived, to represent the Rain Wilds, while she was there. But I do not think they saw her. For once, perhaps, my girth served some useful purpose.” He rubbed his belly ruefully. “I hid her behind me, and snatched her into my carriage the moment they had passed. My footman was there, too, of course.” He added reluctantly, “And there were other Trader families, coming and going, but I trust that I did not make too much of a scene.” His face was troubled as he added hesitantly, “Of course, you knew nothing of any of this?”

“I am both relieved and ashamed to admit I knew nothing,” her grandmother said sternly. Her eyes were full of accusations as she turned to Malta's mother. “Keffria? Did you know what your daughter was up to?” Before her mother could reply, Grandmother went on, “And if you did not, how could you not?”

Malta had expected her mother to burst into tears. Her mother always burst into tears. Instead she turned on her daughter. “How could you do this to me?” she demanded. “And why? Oh, Malta, why?” There was terrible grief in her words. “Didn't I tell you that you only had to wait? That when the time was right, you would be properly presented? What could have persuaded you to . . . do this?” Her mother looked devastated.

Malta knew a moment's uncertainty. “I wanted to go to the Harvest Ball. I told you that. Over and over, I begged to be allowed to go. But you would not listen, even after Papa said I could go, even after he promised me I could have a proper gown.” She paused, waiting for her mother to admit that promise. When she only stared at her aghast, Malta shouted, “Well, it's your own fault if you're surprised! I was only doing what Papa had promised me I could do.”

Something in her mother's face hardened. “If you had any idea of how badly I want to slap you just now, you'd keep a more civil tongue, girl.”

Never had her mother spoken to her like that before. Girl, she called her, as if she were a servant! “Why don't you, then?” Malta demanded furiously. “This evening has been ruined for me in every other way! Why don't you just beat me here, in front of everyone, and have done with it?” The tragedy of her ruined plans rose up and choked her.

Davad Restart looked aghast. “I really must be going,” he said hastily, and rose.

“Oh, Davad, sit down,” Grandmother said wearily. “There is tea coming. We owe you at least that for this rescue tonight. Don't be put off by my granddaughter's sense of drama. Although beating Malta might make us all feel better at this point, we've never resorted to that—yet.” She gave Trader Restart a wan smile and actually took his hand. She led the fat little man back to his chair and he sat down as she bade him. It made Malta queasy. Couldn't they see what a disgusting little man he was, with his face and balding pate shining with sweat and his ill-fitting out-of-style clothes? Why were they thanking him for humiliating her?

Nana entered the room with a tray of tea things. She also had a bottle of port tucked under one arm, and a towel draped over the same arm. She set the bottle and the tray down on the table and then turned to present Malta with a towel. It was damp. “Clean your face,” the old serving woman told her brusquely. The adults all glanced at her, then looked away. They would grant her the privacy in which to obey. For an instant she was grateful. Then it dawned on her what they were doing to her, telling her to wash her face like a dirty child.

“I will not!” she cried, and flung the wet towel to the floor.

A long moment of silence followed. Then her grandmother asked her conversationally, “Do you realize you look like a whore?”

“I do not!” Malta declared. She had another moment of doubt, but thrust it aside. “Cerwin Trell did not seem to find me unattractive this night. This dress and this way of painting my eyes are what is currently fashionable in Jamaillia.”

“For the whores, perhaps,” Grandmother continued implacably. “And I did not say you were “unattractive.' You are simply not attractive in a way any proper woman would be comfortable with.”

“Actually,” Davad Restart began uncomfortably, but Grandmother continued, “We are not in Jamaillia, nor are you a whore. You are the daughter of a proud Trader family. And we do not so flaunt our bodies or our faces in public. I wonder that somehow this has escaped your notice before this.”

“Then I wish I were a whore in Jamaillia!” Malta declared hotly. “Because anything else would be better than being suffocated here. Forced to dress and act like a little child when I am near a woman grown, forced to always be quiet, be polite, be . . . unnoticed. I don't want to grow up like that, I don't want to be like you and Mother. I want to . . . to be beautiful, and noticed, and have fun, and have men want to be near me and send me flowers and presents. And I don't want to dress in last year's fashions and behave as if nothing ever excited me or angered me. I want . . .”

“Actually,” Davad broke in awkwardly, “there has been a, uh, similar fashion in Jamaillia. Since last year. One of the Satrap's, uh, Companions appeared thus. Uh, in the guise of a, uh, street woman. Not at a public function, but at a very large private gathering. To proclaim her, shall we say, complete devotion to the Satrap and his needs. That she was willing to, well, to be seen and treated as his, well . . .” Davad took a deep breath. “This is not something I usually would discuss with any of you,” he pointed out awkwardly. “But it did happen, and there were, uh, shall we say echoes of it seen in fashionable dress in the months that followed. The ear paint, the uh, accessible panels of the skirts . . .” He suddenly flushed very red and subsided.

Grandmother only shook her head angrily. “This is what our Satrap has come to. He breaks the promises of his grandfather and father, and reduces the Companions of his Heart to whores for his bodily pleasures. Time was when a family was proud to have one of their daughters named as a Companion, for it was a post that demanded wisdom and diplomacy. What are they now? His seraglio? It disgusts me. And I will not see my granddaughter dressed as such, no matter how popular the garb becomes.”

“You want me to be old and dowdy, like you and mother,” Malta declared. “You want me to go from being an infant to being an old woman. Well, I won't. Because that's not what I want.”

“Never in my life,” Keffria declared suddenly, “have I spoken so to my mother. And I won't tolerate you speaking so to your grandmother. If—”

“If you had, maybe you would have had a life!” Malta pointed out suddenly. “But no! I bet you've always been mousy and silent and obedient. Like a cow. Shown one year and wed the next, like a fine fat cow taken to auction! One season of dancing and fun, and then married off to have babies with whatever man offered the best bargain to your parents.” She had shocked the whole room. She looked around at them all. “That's not what I want, Mother. I want a life of my own. I want to wear pretty clothes, and go to wonderful places. I don't want to marry some nice Trader boy you pick out for me. I want to visit Jamaillia some day, I want to go to the Satrap's Court, and not as a married woman with a string of babies following me. I want to be free of all that. I want—”

“You want to ruin us,” grandmother said quietly, and poured tea. Cup after tidy cup, calmly and efficiently as she spoke her damning words. “You want, you say, and give no thought at all to what we all need.” She glanced up from her tea duties, to inquire, “Tea or port, Davad?”

“Tea,” he said gratefully. “Not that I can stay long. I must hasten back, to at least be in time for the Presentation of the Offerings. I have no one else to give my presentation in my place, you know. And Trader Vintagli seemed to wish to speak to me. They will not expect you this year, of course, because of your mourning . . .” His voice trailed off awkwardly.

“Tea? Very well, then.” Her grandmother filled in smoothly. Her eyes moved from Davad to Nana. “Nana, dear. I hate to ask this of you, but would you see Malta off to bed? And see she washes well first. I am so sorry to put this on you.”

“Not at all, Mistress. I see it as my duty.”

And Nana did. Large and implacable as she had been when Malta was a child, she took her wrist and dragged her from the room. Malta went quietly, for the sake of her own dignity, not out of any acquiescence. She did not fight as Nana disrobed her, and she climbed herself into the steaming bath that Nana poured for her. She did not, in fact, speak a word to her large and imperious nanny, not even to interrupt Nana's boring monologue about how ashamed of herself she should be.

Because she was not ashamed, Malta told herself. Nor cowed at all. When her father came home, they would all have to answer for their mistreatment of her. For now, she would be satisfied with that.

That, and the shivery sensation that Cerwin Trell's glance had awakened in her. She thought of his eyes and felt it again. Cerwin, at least, knew that she was no longer a little girl.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

TESTIMONY

“DOES IT HURT MUCH?”

“Can you feel pain?”

“Not as men do, no, but I understand the distress you must—”

“Then why do you ask? Any answer I give will have no real meaning to you.”

A long silence followed. Vivacia lifted her smooth arms and crossed them over her breasts. She stared straight ahead of herself. She fought the rising tide of grief and despair inside her. It was not getting any better between Wintrow and her. Since Cress, with every passing day his resentment of her increased. It made what might have been pleasant days into torture.

The wind was blowing from the north, pushing them southwards to warmer climes. The weather had been fair, but all else had been ill. The crew was at odds with Wintrow and hence with her. She had picked up from the men's talk the gist of what had happened on the beach. In her limited way, she understood it. She knew that Wintrow still believed his decision had been correct. And she knew, with the wisdom of her stored memories, that his grandfather would have agreed with him. But all it took to make him miserable was for him to know that the rest of the crew considered him a coward, and that his father seemed to concur with their opinion. And that was all it took for her to feel a misery as deep.

Despite his misery, he had not given up. In her eyes, that spoke greatly for the spirit inside him. Shunned by his ship-mates, consigned to a life he could not relish, he still continued to work hard and learn. He jumped as quickly to orders as any of them did, and endeavored each day to shoulder a man's share of the work. He was now as capable as any ship's boy and was moving rapidly to master the tasks of an able deckhand. He applied his mind as well as his body, comparing how his father managed the sails to the commands that Gantry issued. Some of his eagerness was simply the starvation of a mind accustomed to learning opportunities. Bereft of books and scrolls, he now absorbed the lessons of wind and wave instead. He accepted the physical labor of his ship-board life just as he had once accepted the menial work of the monastery's orchard. They were the tasks a man must do when he was part of such a life, and it behooved a man to do them well. But Vivacia also knew that there was a second motivation for his mastering of seamanship. He strove to show the crew by his deeds that he was neither fearful of necessary risks nor disdainful of a sailor's work. It was the Vestrit in him that kept his neck stiff and his head up despite the scorn of Torg and his fellows. Wintrow would not apologize for his decision in Cress. He did not feel he had done wrong. That did not keep him from smarting under the crew's contempt for him.

But that had been before the accident.

He sat cross-legged on the deck, his injured hand cradled into his lap. She did not need to look at him to know that he, too, stared towards a distant horizon. The small islands they were passing held no interest to him. On a day like this, Althea would have leaned on the railing, eyes avid. It had rained heavily yesterday, and the many small streams of the islands were full and rushing. Some meandered out into the salt water; others fell in sheets of silver as waterfalls from the steeper, rockier islands. All contributed fresh water that floated for a time atop the salt, changing the colors of the waters the ship moved through so serenely. These islands teemed with bird life; sea birds, shore birds and those who inhabited the towering cliffs, all contributed their notes to the chorus. Winter might be here, but in these islands it was a winter of rain and lush plant growth. To the west of them, the Cursed Shore was cloaked in one of its familiar winter fogs. The steaming waters of the many rivers that flowed from that coast mellowed the climate here even as they shrouded the Pirate Islands in mist. These islands would never know a snowfall, for the warm waters of the Inside Passage kept true winter forever at bay. Yet green and inviting as the islands might be, Wintrow had thoughts only for a more distant harbor, far to the south, and the monastery a day's journey inland from it. Perhaps he could have endured better if there was even the faintest hope that their journey would pause there. But it would not. His father was not so foolish as to offer him the vague hope of escape. Their trade would make them stop in many ports of call, but Marrow was not one of them.

As if the boy could sense her thoughts as clearly as Althea had, he suddenly dropped his head over his bent knees. He did not weep. He was past weeping, and rightfully wary of the harsh mockery that any show of weakness called forth from Torg. So they were both denied even that vent from the wretchedness that coiled inside him and threatened to tear him apart. After a time he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He stared down at his hand loosely fisted in his lap.

It had been three days since the accident. A stupid mishap, as almost all such are in hindsight, of the commoner sort aboard a ship. Someone had released a line before Wintrow expected it. Vivacia did not believe it had been deliberate. Surely the crew's feeling against him did not run that high. Only an accident. The twisting of the hemp line had drawn Wintrow's gripping hand with it, ramming his fingers into a pulley block. Anger bubbled deep within Vivacia as she recalled Torg's words to the boy as he lay curled on the deck, his bleeding hand clasped to his chest. “Serves you right for not paying attention, you gutless little plugger. You're just stupid lucky that it was only a finger and not your whole hand smashed. Pick yourself up and get back to your work. No one here is going to wipe your nose and dry your little eyes for you.” And then he had walked away, leaving Mild to come wordless with guilt with his almost clean kerchief to bind Wintrow's finger to the rest of his hand. Mild, whose hands had slipped on the line that Wintrow had been gripping. Mild, whose cracked ribs were still wrapped and healing.

“I'm sorry,” Wintrow said in a low voice. More than a few moments had passed in silence. “I shouldn't speak so to you. You offer me more understanding than anyone else aboard . . . at least you endeavor to understand what I feel. It's not your fault, truly, that I am so unhappy. It's just being here when I wish I were somewhere else. Knowing that if you were any other ship save a liveship, my father would not force me to be here. It makes me blame you, even though you have no control over what you are.”

“I know,” Vivacia replied listlessly. She did not know which was worse, when he spoke to her or when he was silent. The hour each morning and each afternoon that he spent with her were ordered by his father. She could not say why Kyle forced him into proximity with her. Did he hope some bond would miraculously develop? Surely he could not be so stupid. At least, he could not be so stupid as to suppose he could force the boy to love her. Being what she was, and he being who he was, she had no choice but to feel a bond with him. She thought back to the high summer evening that now seemed so long ago, that first night he had spent aboard with her, and how well they had begun together. If only that had been allowed to grow naturally . . . but there was no sense in pining for that, no more sense than when she let her thoughts drift back to Althea. How she wished she were here now. Hard enough to be without her, let alone to constantly wonder what had become of her. Vivacia sighed.

“Don't be sad,” Wintrow told her, and then, hearing the stupidity of his words, sighed himself. “I suppose this is as bad for you as it is for me,” he added.

She could think of too much to reply to that, and so said nothing. The water purled past her bow, the even breeze sped them on. The man on the wheel had a competent touch; he should have, he was one of Captain Vestrit's choosing and had been aboard her for almost a score of years. It was an evening to be satisfied, sailing south from winter cold back into warmth, and so her unhappiness pierced her all the more keenly.

There were things the boy had said to her, over the past few days, words he had spoken in anger and frustration and misery. A part of her recognized such words for what they were: Wintrow railed against his fate, not her. Yet she could not seem to let go of them, and they cut her like hooks whenever she allowed herself to think of them. He had reviled her yesterday morning after a particularly bad night's watch, telling her that Sa had no part in her being and she partook nothing of his divine force, but was only a simulacrum of life and spirit, created by men for the serving of their own greed. The words had shocked and horrified her, but even worse was when Kyle had strode up from behind the boy and knocked him flat to the deck in fury that he would so goad her. Even the kinder men among the crew had spoken ill of Wintrow after that, saying the boy was sure to curse their luck with his evil words. Kyle had seemed ignorant that she would feel the blow he had struck Wintrow as keenly as the boy himself had. Nor had he paused to think that perhaps that was not the way to help Wintrow develop kindly feelings toward her. Instead Kyle ordered the lad below to the extra chores he hated most. She was left alone to mull over the boy's poisonous words and wonder if they were not, after all, absolutely true.

The boy made her think. He made her think of things no other Vestrit had ever considered while on her decks. Half his life, she reflected, seemed to be considering how he saw that life in respect to the existence of others. She had known of Sa, for all the other Vestrits had revered him in a cursory way. But none of them had pondered the existence of the divine, nor thought to see the reflection of divinity in life around them. None of them had believed so firmly that there was goodness and honor inherent in every man's breast, nor cherished the idea that every being had some special destiny to fulfill, that there was some need in the world that only that life lived correctly could satisfy. Hence none of them had been so bitterly disappointed as Wintrow had been in his everyday dealings with his fellows.

“I think they're going to have to cut my finger off.” He spoke hesitantly and softly, as if his voicing of the fear might make it a reality.

Vivacia held her tongue. It was the first time since the accident that he had initiated a conversation. She suddenly recognized the deep fear he had been hiding behind his harsh words to her. She would listen and let him share with her whatever he could.

“I think it's more than broken. I think the joint is crushed.” Simple words, but she felt the cold dread coiled beneath them. He took a breath and faced the actuality he'd been denying. “I think I've known it since it happened. Still I kept hoping . . . But my whole hand has been swelling since this morning. And it feels wet inside the bandaging.” His voice went smaller. “So stupid. I've cared for other's injuries before, not as a healer, but I know to how to clean a wound and change a dressing. But this, my own hand . . . I haven't been able to muster the courage to look at it since last night.” He paused. She heard him swallow.

“Isn't it odd?” he went on in a higher, strained voice. “I was there once when Sa'Garit cut a man's leg off. It had to be done. It was so obvious to all of us. But the man kept saying, “no, no, let's wait a bit longer, perhaps it will get better,' when hour by hour we could see it getting worse. Finally his wife persuaded him to let us do what had to be done. I wondered, then, why he had kept putting it off, instead of simply getting it over with. Why cling to a rotting hunk of flesh and bone, simply because it used to be a useful part of your body?”

His voice suddenly closed itself off. He curled forward over his hand again. And now she could sense the throbbing of his pain, the beat, beat, beat in his hand that echoed every pulse of his body's heart.

“Did I ever really look at my hands before, really think about them? A priest's hands . . . one always hears about a priest's hands. All my life, I had perfect hands. Ten fingers, all working and nimble . . . I used to create stained-glass windows. Did you know that, Vivacia? I used to sit and plunge myself so deeply into my work . . . my hands would move of their own accord, it almost seemed. And now . . .”

He fell silent again. Vivacia dared to speak. “A lot of sailors lose fingers. Or whole limbs. Yet those sailors still . . .”

“I'm not a sailor. I'm a priest. I was to be a priest! Until my father condemned me to this. He's destroying me. He deliberately seeks to destroy me. He and his men make mock of my belief, when I try to hold to my ideals they use them against me. I cannot withstand what he is doing to me, what they are all doing to me. They are destroying . . .”

“Yet those sailors still remain who they are, lost limbs or not.” Vivacia continued implacably. “You are not a finger, Wintrow. You're a man. You cut your hair, your nails, and you are still Wintrow and a man. And if you are a priest, then you will remain one, nine fingers or ten. If you must lose a finger, then you must lose a finger. But do not use it as an excuse to stop being yourself.” She paused, almost savoring the boy's astonished silence. “I know little of your Sa, Wintrow. But I know much of the Vestrits. What you are born to be, you will be, whether it be priest or sailor. So step up and be it. Let them do nothing to you. Be the one who shapes yourself. Be who you are, and eventually all will have to recognize who you are, whether they are willing to admit it or not. And if your will is that you will shape yourself in Sa's image, then do so. Without whimpering.”

“Ship.” He spoke the word softly, but it was almost like a benediction. He placed his good hand flat on her planking. After a moment's hesitation, he placed his injured hand, palm down, beside it. For the first time since Althea had left the ship, she felt one of her own deliberately reach towards her for strength. She doubted that he knew that was what he did; perhaps as he bowed his head and spoke soft words, he thought he prayed to Sa. But no matter who he addressed his plea for strength to, she was the one who answered it.

“Wintrow,” she said quietly, when his soft words were done. “Go to your father now and tell him it must be done. And demand that it be done here, beside me. In my name, if they will not heed your wish.”

She had feared he would hesitate. Instead he rose gracefully. Without a word to anyone else he made his way to the captain's gallery, where he rapped smartly on the door with his good hand.