Ship of Magic (71 page)

“I thought the blues and greens were the rarest and most valuable,” she observed. She took a sip of the wine she still carried. That seemed more polite than asking how a coachman came to have such things.

“They are,” he admitted easily. “But these are very small ones. And slightly flawed, I am afraid. They were chipped in the recovery process.” He shrugged. She saw the movement in the rise and fall of the gem at his throat. “They probably won't burn long. No more than a year or two. But I couldn't bear to see them thrown away.”

“Of course not!” Malta exclaimed, almost scandalized. Flame jewels thrown away? Shocking. “You say they burn? Are they hot, then?”

He laughed, a soft chuckle. “Oh, not in the ordinary way. Here. Touch one.” Again he extended his arm towards her.

She unwrapped her arms from around herself to extend a timid finger. She tapped one cautiously. No. It did not burn. Emboldened, she touched it again. It was smooth and cool like glass, although she could feel a tiny nick in one place. She touched the other one, then wrapped her arms around herself again. “They're beautiful,” she said, and shivered. “It's freezing out here. I'd better go back inside.”

“No, don't . . . I mean . . . Are you cold?”

“A little. I left my cloak inside.” She turned to go.

“Here. Take mine.” He had stood up straight and was unfastening his cloak.

“Oh, thank you, but I'm fine. I couldn't take your cloak from you. I just need to get back inside.” The very thought of his cloak from his warty back touching her flesh made her chill deepen. She hurried away, but he followed her.

“Here. Try just my scarf, then. It doesn't look like much, but it's amazingly warm. Here. Do try it.” He had it off, flame gem and all, and when she turned, he draped it over her arm. It was amazingly warm, but what stopped her from flinging it back at him was the blue flame jewel winking up at her.

“Oh,” she said. To wear one, even for just a few moments . . . that was too great an opportunity to pass by. She could always take a bath when she got home. “Would you hold this, please?” she asked him, and held out the wineglass. He took it from her and she wasted no time in draping the scarf around her neck and shoulders. He had been wearing it like a muffler, but its airy knit could be shaken out until it was nearly a shawl. And it was warm, very warm. She arranged it so that the blue jewel rested between her breasts. She looked down at it. “It's so beautiful. It's like . . . I don't know what it's like.”

“Some things are only like themselves. Some beauty is incomparable,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she agreed, staring into the stone's depth.

After a moment, he reminded her, “Your wine?”

“Oh.” She frowned to herself. “I don't want it anymore. You may have it, if you wish.”

“I may?” There was a tone of both amusement and surprise in his voice. As if some delicate balance between them had just shifted in his favor.

She was momentarily flustered by it. “I mean, if you want it . . .”

“Oh, I do,” he assured her. The veil that covered his face was split. He was deft at slipping the glass through, and he drained the wine off with a practiced toss. He held the emptied glass up to the starlight and gazed at it for a moment. She felt that he glanced at her before he slipped the glass up his sleeve. “A keepsake,” he suggested. For the first time, Malta realized that he was older than she and perhaps their conversation was not quite proper, that all of these casual exchanges might be taken to mean something deeper. Nice girls did not stand about in the dark chatting with strange coachmen.

“I had best go inside. My mother will be wondering where I am,” she excused herself.

“No doubt,” he murmured his assent, and again that amusement was there. She began to feel just a tiny bit afraid of him. No. Not afraid. Wary. He seemed to sense it, for when she tried to walk away, he followed her. He actually walked beside her, as if he were escorting her. She was halfway afraid he would follow her right into the Concourse, but he stopped at the door.

“I need something from you, before you go,” he suddenly requested.

“Of course.” She lifted her hands to the scarf.

“Your name.”

She stood very still. Had he forgotten she was wearing his scarf with the flame jewel on it? If he had, she wasn't going to remind him. Oh, she wouldn't keep it. Not forever, just long enough to show Delo.

“Malta,” she told him. Enough of a name that he could find out who had his scarf when he recalled it. Not so much that he could recover it too quickly.

“Malta . . .” he let it hang, prompting her. She pretended not to understand. “I see,” he said after a moment. “Malta. Good evening, then, Malta.”

“Good evening.” She turned and hurried through the great doors of the hall. Once within, she hastily removed the scarf and jewel. Whatever the scarf was woven of, it was fine as gossamer. When she bunched it in her hands, it was small enough to fit completely inside the pocket sewn into her cloak. She stowed it there. Then, with a small smile of satisfaction, she returned to the hall. Folk in there were still taking turns at speeches. Covenants, compromises, rebellions, slavery, war, embargoes. She was sick of it all. She just wished they would give up and be quiet so her mother would take her home, where she could admire the flame jewel in the privacy of her own room.

THE REST OF THE TANGLE DID NOT SEEM TO SENSE THAT
anything was amiss. Sessurea, perhaps, was a bit uneasy, but the others were content. Food was plentiful and easily obtained, the atmosphere of this Plenty was warm, and the new salts woke exciting colors in the fresh skins that their shedding revealed. They shed frequently, for the feeding was rich and growth was easy. Perhaps, Shreever thought discontentedly, that was all the others had ever sought. Perhaps they thought this indolent life of feeding and shedding was rebirth. She did not.

She knew Maulkin sought far more than this. The rest of the tangle was short-sighted not to perceive Maulkin's anxiety and distress. North he had led them, following the shadow of the provider. Several times he had halted at warm flows of un-briny water, tasting and tasting yet again the strange atmospheres. The others had always wanted to hasten after the provider. Once Sessurea had shocked them by extending his ruff and challenging their passage to halt them in their foolish following. But moments later, Maulkin had closed his jaws in bafflement, and left the warm flow, to once more take his place in the provider's shadow.

Shreever had not been overly distressed when the provider had halted and Maulkin had been content to stay near it. Who was she to question one who had the memories of the ancients? But when the provider had reversed its path to go south, and Maulkin had bid them follow it yet again, she had become anxious. Something, she felt, was not right. Sessurea seemed to share her unease.

They glimpsed other tangles, following other providers. All seemed content and well fed. At such times, Shreever wondered if the fault were in her. Perhaps she had dreamed of too much, perhaps she had taken the holy lore too literally. But then she would mark how distracted Maulkin was, even in the midst of feeding. While the others snapped and gorged, he would abruptly cease feeding and hang motionless, jaws wide, gills pumping as he quested for some elusive scent. And often, when the provider had halted for a time and the others of the tangle were resting, Maulkin would rise, nearly to the Lack, to begin a twining dance with lidded eyes. At such times, Sessurea watched him almost as closely as she did. Over and over again their leader knotted his body and then flowed through the knot, sensitizing the entire length of his skin to all the atmosphere could tell him. He would trumpet lightly and fitfully to himself, snatches of nonsense interspersed with holy lore. Sometimes he would lift his head above the Plenty and into the Lack, and then let himself sink again, muttering of the lights, the lights.

Shreever could endure it no longer. She let him dance until exhaustion began to dim his false-eyes. In a slow wavering of weariness, he began to drift toward the bottom. Ruff slack and unchallenging, she approached his descent and matched it. “Maulkin,” she bugled quietly. “Has your vision failed? Are we lost?”

He unlidded his eyes to stare at her. Almost lazily he looped a loose coil around her, drawing her down to tangle with him in the soft muck. “Not merely a place,” he told her almost dreamily. “It is a time as well. And not just a time and a place, but a tangle. A tangle such as has not been gathered since ancient times. I can almost scent a One Who Remembers.”

Shreever shivered her coils, trying to read his memory. “Maulkin. Are not you One Who Remembers?”

“I?” His eyes were lidding again. “No. Not completely. I can almost remember. I know there is a place, and a time, and a tangle. When I experience them, I will know them without question. We are close, very close, Shreever. We must persevere and not doubt. So often the time has come and gone, and we have missed it. I fear that if we miss it yet again, all our memories of the ancient times will fade, and we will never be as we were.”

“And what were we?” she asked, simply to hear him confirm it.

“We were the masters, moving freely through both the Lack and the Plenty. All that one knew, everyone knew, and all shared the memories of all time, from the beginning. We were powerful and wise, respected and revered by all the lesser creatures of mind.”

“And then what happened?” Shreever asked the rote question.

“The time came to be re-shaped. To mingle the essences of our very bodies, and thus to create new beings, partaking of new vitality and new strengths. It was time to perform the ancient cycling of joining and sundering, and growing yet again. It was time to renew our bodies.”

“And what will happen next?” she completed her part of the ritual.

“All will come together at the time and the place of the gathering. All memory shall be shared again, all that was held safe by one shall be given back to all. The journey to rebirth shall be completed, and we shall rise in triumph once more.”

“So it shall be,” Sessurea confirmed from nearby in the tangle. “So it shall be.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CANDLETOWN

CANDLETOWN WAS A LIVELY LITTLE TRADE PORT ON THE MARROW
Peninsula. Althea had been here before, with her father. As she stood on the deck of the
Reaper
and looked around at the busy harbor, it suddenly seemed that if she jumped from the ship and ran down the docks, she must find the
Vivacia
tied up and her father on board her just as it used to be. He'd be in the captain's salon, receiving merchants from the city. There would be fine brandy and smoked fish and aged cheese set out, and the atmosphere would be one of comradely negotiation as he offered his cargo in exchange for their wares or coin. The room would be both clean and cozy, and Althea's stateroom would be as it once had been, her personal haven.

The sudden ache of longing she felt for the past was a physical pain in her chest. She wondered where her ship was, and how she was faring under Kyle's usage. She hoped Wintrow had become a good companion to her, despite the jealousy that assured her that no one could ever know the
Vivacia
as well as she did. Soon, she promised both herself and her distant ship. Soon.

“Boy!”

The sharp word came from close behind her, and she jumped before she recognized both Brashen's voice and the teasing snap in the word. Still, “Sir?” she asked, turning hastily.

“Captain wants to see you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied and jumped up to go.

“Wait. A moment.”

She hated the way he glanced about to see if anyone was near, or even watching them. Didn't he realize that to anyone else that was an obvious signal of something clandestine between them? Worse still, he stepped close to her, to be able to speak more softly.

“Dinner ashore tonight?” He tapped his pouch, so the coins inside gave a jingle. A newly stamped ship's tag hung from his belt beside it.

She shrugged. “If I get liberty, perhaps I will.” She chose deliberately to miss the invitation in his question.

His eyes traveled over her face lingeringly. “That serpent burn is nearly gone. For a time, I feared you'd carry a scar.”

Althea shrugged, refusing to meet the tenderness in his eyes. “What's one more scar on a sailor? I doubt anyone else aboard has noticed it or will.”

“Then you've decided to stay on with the ship?”

“I'll work it as long as we're in port. But I think I've a better chance of getting a ship back to Bingtown from here than from the other little ports the
Reaper
will visit after this.” She knew she should let it lie at that, but sudden curiosity made her ask, “And you?”

“I don't know yet.” He grinned suddenly at her and confided, “They've offered me second. Almost twice the pay I started out at and it looks much better on a ticket than a third. I might stay aboard her, just for that. I've told them yes, but I haven't signed ship's articles yet.” He was watching her face very carefully as he said, “On the other hand, if we found a sound ship heading back to Bingtown, it might be good to see home again, too.”

Her heart dropped into her belly. No. This mustn't continue. She forced a casual smile to her lips and a laugh. “Now, what are the chances that we'd both end up on the same ship again? Pretty slim, I'd say.”

Still, he watched her so closely. “Depends on how hard we tried,” he offered. He took a breath. “I did put in a word for you here. Said I thought you did more the work of a real sailor than a ship's boy. The first agreed with me. Like as not, that's what the captain wants to see you about, to make you a better offer if you stay on.”

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. Not because she felt grateful, but because she felt the first sparks of anger kindling. Did he think she needed his “good word” to be seen as an able-bodied seaman? She was well worth the wages they paid a regular hand, especially as she could skin, too. She felt as if he'd cheated her of her dignity and her own worth, by putting in his good word. She should have stopped at that, but heard herself add, “I think they've seen that about me already.”

He knew her too damn well. “I didn't mean it that way,” he hastily apologized. “Anyone can see you're worth your pay. You were always a good sailor, Althea. And your time on the
Reaper
has made you an even better one. If I had to work rigging in a storm, I'd choose you to be up there with me. A man can count on you, aloft or on deck.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and this time it came out even more awkwardly, for she meant it. Brashen did not give out compliments casually. “I'd best report to the captain if I want to keep his good opinion of me,” she added, as a way to be quickly away from him.

She turned away from him, but he called after her, “I've got liberty. I'm off to the Red Eaves. Good food, and better ale and cheap. See you ashore.”

She hurried away from him, and hoped that by ignoring the odd look Reller sent her way she could dismiss it. Damn him. She'd hoped to live aboard and work the off-loading and re-supplying of this ship until she had a berth on another one. But if Brashen made it too awkward, she'd have to go ashore and pay for a room. Her lips were folded tight as she knocked at Captain Sichel's door. She tried to smooth her face into a more presentable expression when she heard his terse, “Come ahead.”

She had only glimpsed the officer's mess once or twice on the trip. Now as she entered it, she found it even less impressive than she had before. True, this was a hard-working ship and oil and meat were messy cargoes, but her father would never have tolerated the clutter she saw here. Captain Sichel sat at the table, while the first stood at his shoulder. There was a strongbox on the table, and a ledger as well as a stack of leather tickets and the ship's seal. She knew that a number of the men had been paid off earlier that day. Those who had come aboard as debtors or prisoners had walked off as free men. True, they'd received no pay to show for the long year aboard the ship, only the stamped leather tag to show they'd put in their time, and a receipt to show their debt worked off. She caught herself wondering what sort of homes most of the men were returning to, or if their homes still existed. Then she felt the captain's expectant stare and called her mind back to herself.

“Reporting, sir,” she told him smartly.

He glanced down at the open ledger before him. “Athel. Ship's boy. And I've a note here that you earned a bonus skinning for us as well. That right, boy?”

“Yessir.” He knew it, she knew it. She waited for whatever else he wanted to say.

He flipped back through another book on the table, and ran his finger down the entries. “I've a note here in the ship's log that it was your quick action that kept our third from being crimped, and yourself as well. Not to mention several men from other ships. And,” he flipped the pages forward to another marker in the logbook, “the mate has noted that on the day we hooked the serpent, your quick action kept another man from going overboard. That so, boy?”

She struggled to keep the grin off her face but could do nothing about the pleased flush that rose to her cheeks. “Yessir,” she managed, and added, “I didn't think anyone had made note of those things.”

The captain's chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “We take more notice of most things than the men aboard suspect. With this large of a crew, and half of them jail scrapings, I depend on my ship's officers to watch closely, to see who is worth his salt and who isn't.” He cocked his head at her. “You came on at Bingtown as a ship's boy. We'd like to keep you on, Athel.”

“Thank you, sir.” And no offer of a raise in either pay or status? So much for Brashen's good word.

“That suits you, then?”

She took a breath. Her father had always preferred honesty in his men. She'd try it here. “I'm not sure, sir. The
Reaper
's a fine ship, and I've no complaint against her. But I've been thinking I'd like to make my way back to Bingtown, and get there sooner than the
Reaper
would take me. What I'd like to do, sir, is take my pay and my ticket now, but stay aboard her and work as long as she's in port. And if I didn't find another berth before the
Reaper
sailed, perhaps I could stay aboard her after all.”

So much for honesty. The captain's look had darkened. Plainly he believed he'd made her a fair bid in offering to keep her on. He wasn't pleased that she'd consider looking about for a better one. “Well. You've a right to your pay and your ticket, of course. But as to your maybe, perhaps attitude, well, we set a great store on loyalty to the ship. Plainly you think you could do better elsewhere.”

“Not better, no sir. The
Reaper
's a fine vessel, sir, a fine vessel. I was just hoping to find one that would take me home a bit sooner.”

“A sailor's home is his vessel,” Captain Sichel observed heavily.

“Home port is what I meant, sir,” Althea amended weakly. Plainly she was not handling this well.

“Well. Let's tally you out and pay you off. And I'll give you your ticket as well, for I've no quarrel with the job you did. But I won't have you idling about my deck and hoping for a better position. The
Reaper
is scheduled to sail within the month. If you come back before we up anchor and want your position back, well, we'll see. It may be filled easily, you know.”

“Yessir.” She bit her lip to keep from saying more. As the captain totted up her pay and bonus and counted it out to her, she gave him marks for his own honesty. Blunt and merciless as he had been, he still counted out her correct pay, down to the last copper shard. He passed it to her, and while she pocketed it, he took up a ship's tag and with mallet and stamp drove the
Reaper
's mark into it. He wiped ink over it to make it stand out better, and then took up a leather scribing tool. “Full name?” he asked casually.

Odd, the places where the world caught up with one. Somehow she had never foreseen this moment. She took a breath. It had to be in her name, or it would be worth nothing at all. “Althea Vestrit,” she said quietly.

“That's a girl's name,” the captain complained as he began to carve the letters into the ticket.

“Yessir,” she agreed quietly.

“What in Sa's name made your parents hang a girl's name on you?” he asked idly as he started on the “Vestrit.”

“I suppose they liked it, sir,” she answered. Her eyes didn't leave his hands as he carefully scored the letters into the leather. A ship's ticket, and all the proof she needed to make Kyle keep his oath and give her back her ship. The scribing hand slowed, then halted. The captain looked up and met her eyes. A frown deepened on his face. “Vestrit. That's a Trader name, isn't it?”

Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Yes—” she began, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

He swung his attention to his first mate. “Vestrits had that ship, what was her name? A liveship?”

The mate shrugged, and Captain Sichel turned back to her sharply. “What was the ship's name?”

“The
Vivacia
,” Althea said quietly. Pride crept into her voice whether she willed it or no.

“And the captain's daughter worked the deck alongside the crew,” Captain Sichel said slowly. He stared at her hard. “You're that girl, aren't you?” His voice was hard now, the words an accusation.

She held herself very straight. “Yessir.”

He flung the carving implement down in disgust. “Get her off my ship!” he snapped at the first.

“I'll go, sir. But I need that ticket,” Althea said as the mate advanced on her. She stood her ground. She wasn't going to shame herself by fleeing from him now.

The captain gave a snort of disgust. “You'll get no ticket from me, not with my ship's stamp on it! Do you think I'll let you make me the mock of the slaughter fleet? Shipped a woman aboard all season and never even knew it? That would be a fine laugh on me! I ought to shake your pay out of your pockets for such a lie. No wonder we had such troubles with serpents, worse than we ever had before. Everyone knows a woman aboard a ship draws serpents. We're damn lucky we got here alive, no thanks to you. Get her out of here!” This last he bellowed at his mate, whose expression showed he shared his captain's opinion.

“My ticket,” Althea said desperately. She lunged for it, but the captain snatched it up. She'd have to assault him to get it. “Please,” she begged him as the mate grabbed her arm.

“Get out of here and off my ship!” he growled in return. “Be damn glad I'm giving you time to pack your gear. If you don't get out of here now, I'll have you put off on the docks without it. Lying whore-bitch. How many of the crew did you sleep with to keep your secret?” he asked as the mate forced her toward the door.

None, she wanted to say angrily. None at all. But she had slept with Brashen, and though that was no one's business but hers, it would have made a lie of her denial. So, “This is not fair,” was all she could manage to choke out.

“It's fairer than your lying to me was!” Captain Sichel roared.

The mate thrust her out of the room. “Get your gear!” he growled in a savage whisper. “And if I hear so much as a rumor of this in Candletown, I'll hunt you down myself and show you how we deal with lying whores.” The push he gave her sent her stumbling across the deck. She caught her balance as he slammed the door behind him. She swayed with the strength of her anger and disappointment as she stared at the slab of wood that had closed between her and her ticket. None of it seemed real. The months of hard work, and all for what? The handful of coins that was all a ship's boy was worth. She would have gladly given them all back, and everything else she owned for the scrap of leather that he was, no doubt, cutting up even now. As she turned slowly away, she caught Reller staring at her. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“They've turned me off the ship,” she said briefly. It was true and the simplest explanation.

“What for?” the sailor demanded, following her as she headed towards the forecastle to gather her meager belongings.

She just shrugged and shook her head. “Don't want to talk,” she said gruffly, and hoped she sounded like an angry adolescent boy instead of a woman on the verge of hysterical tears. Control, control, control, she whispered to herself as she clambered one last time into the cramped and stuffy place she had called home all winter. It was the work of a few moments to snatch up her possessions and shove them down into her sea-bag. She swung it to her shoulder and left the ship. As her foot touched the dock, she looked around her with new eyes. Candletown. A hell of a place to be with nothing but a handful of coins and a sea-bag.