by Robin Hobb
Malta shrugged elaborately. ‘I don’t know! I don’t even know who it’s from or what’s in it! How can I tell you something about it if Grandma won’t even let me look at it?’
‘Come to the study,’ Keffria instructed her with a sigh. Malta raced off ahead of her. By the time Keffria entered the room, she was already arguing with her grandmother.
‘Can’t I at least look at it? It’s for me, isn’t it?’
‘No. You can’t. Malta, this is serious, far more serious than you seem to understand. This is a dream-box. And it’s marked with the crest of the Khuprus family. They are perhaps the most prestigious family of the Rain Wild Traders. It was not a coincidence that they came to represent all the Rain Wild families at the last gathering. They are not a family to offend, or to take lightly. Knowing that, do you still want this box?’ Ronica held it out to the child.
‘Yes!’ Malta replied indignantly and made a grab for it. Ronica snatched it back.
‘Malta!’ cried Keffria. ‘Don’t be foolish. It’s a courting gift. It must be sent back, but very politely. It must be made clear to them that you are too young to consider any man’s suit. But in a very courteous way.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Malta protested. ‘I’m too young to be promised to a man, yet, but why can’t I consider his suit? Please, Grandma, at least let me see what’s in it!’
‘It’s a dream-box,’ Ronica said brusquely. ‘So it has a dream in it. You don’t open it to see what’s in it, you open it to have the dream.’
‘How can there be a dream in a box?’ Keffria asked.
‘Magic,’ Ronica said brusquely. ‘Rain Wild magic.’
The sudden intake of Malta’s breath betrayed her excitement. ‘Can I have it tonight?’
‘No!’ Ronica exploded. ‘Malta, you are not listening. You cannot have it at all. It has to be returned as it is, unopened, with an extremely courteous explanation that somehow there has been a misunderstanding. If you open this box and have this dream, you have consented to his suit. You have given him permission to court you.’
‘Well, what’s so terrible about that? It’s not like I’m promising to marry him!’
‘If we allow you to open it, then we are accepting his suit as well. Which is the same thing as saying that we consider you a woman, and eligible to have suitors. Which we do not,’ Ronica finished firmly.
Malta crossed her arms on her chest, then flung herself back into a chair. She stuck her chin out. ‘I shall be so glad when my father comes home,’ she declared sulkily.
‘Will you?’ asked Ronica acidly.
Watching them both, Keffria felt invisible. And useless. To watch these two strong wills clash was like watching young bulls in the spring, when they pushed and snorted and challenged one another. There was a battle going on here, a battle for dominance, to determine which of these women was going to set the rules for the household while Kyle was away. No, she suddenly realized. Kyle was but a game-piece Malta threw in. Because Malta had already discovered she could manipulate her father. He was no match for her juvenile deviousness; as she grew, he would be even less of a problem to her. Plainly, she believed that only her grandmother stood in her path. Her own mother she had dismissed as insignificant.
Well, wasn’t she? For years she had washed about with the ebb and flow of the household. Her father had sailed, her mother ran the on-shore holdings. She had lived in her father’s house still, as she always had. When Kyle had come home, they had spent his wages mostly on amusing themselves. Now her father was dead, and Kyle and her mother were battling over the helm, while Malta and her mother struggled over who would set the rules of the household. No matter how it was decided, Keffria would remain invisible and unheeded. Malta paid no attention to her floundering attempts at authority. No one did.
Keffria crossed the room abruptly. ‘Mother, give me the gift,’ she demanded peremptorily. ‘As my daughter has caused this unfortunate misunderstanding, I believe it is up to me to rectify the matter.’
For a moment, she thought her mother would deny her. Then, with a glance at Malta, she handed it over to her. Keffria took the small wooden box. It weighed lightly in her hands. She became aware that it gave off a sweet scent, spicier than sandalwood. Malta’s eyes tracked the box into her possession the way a hungry dog follows a piece of raw meat. ‘I shall write to them first thing in the morning. I think I can ask the Kendry to ferry it upriver for me.’
Her mother was nodding. ‘But take care to wrap the box well. It would not do for anyone else to know what is being returned. The refusal of a courting suit, for any reason, is a delicate thing. It would be best if this were kept a secret between the two parties.’ As Keffria nodded to this, her mother suddenly turned to Malta. ‘Do you fully understand that, Malta? This cannot be spoken of to others, not to your little friends, not to the servants. This misunderstanding must be ended swiftly and completely.’
The sullen girl looked at her mutely.
‘Malta!’ barked Keffria, and her daughter jumped. ‘Do you understand? Answer.’
‘I understand,’ she mumbled. She shot a defiant glance up at her mother, then wadded herself further into her chair.
‘Good. It’s all settled then.’ Keffria had decided to end the battle while she was still winning. ‘And I’m ready to go to bed.’
‘Wait.’ Ronica’s voice was serious. ‘There is one thing more you should know about a dream-box, Keffria. They are not common items. Each one is individually made, keyed to a certain person.’
‘How?’ Keffria asked unwillingly.
‘Well, of course I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that to create one, the maker must begin with a personal item from the intended recipient.’ Her mother sighed as she leaned back in her chair. ‘Such a thing did not come to our door randomly. It was addressed to Malta specifically.’ Ronica shook her head and looked grieved. ‘Malta must have given something of hers to a Rain Wild man. Something personal that he construed as a gift.’
‘Oh, Malta, no!’ Keffria cried in dismay.
‘I did not.’ Malta sat up defiantly. ‘I did not!’ She raised her voice in a shout.
Keffria got up and went to the door. Once she was sure it was firmly closed, she came back to confront her daughter. ‘I want the truth,’ she said quietly and simply. ‘What happened and when? How did you meet this young man? Why would he think you’d accept a courting gift from him?’
Malta glanced from one to the other. ‘At the Trader gathering,’ she admitted in disgust. ‘I went outside for some air. I said good evening to a coachman as I passed by. I think he was leaning on the Khuprus coach. That’s all.’
‘What did he look like?’ Ronica demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Malta said, her words slowed with sarcasm. ‘He was from the Rain Wilds. They wear veils and hoods, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ her grandmother retorted. ‘But their coachman does not. You foolish girl, do you think they drove a coach down the river? The Rain Wild families store their coaches here, and use them only when they come to Bingtown. So their hired drivers are from Bingtown. If you talked to a veiled man, you talked to a Rain Wild Trader. What did you say, and what did you give him?’
‘Nothing,’ Malta flared. ‘I said “good evening” as I passed him. He said the same. That’s all.’
‘Then how does he know your name? How does he make you a dream?’ Ronica pressed.
‘I don’t know,’ Malta retorted. ‘Maybe he guessed my family from my robe colour, and asked someone.’ Suddenly, to Keffria’s complete amazement, Malta burst into tears. ‘Why do you always treat me like this? You never say anything nice to me, it’s always accusations and scolding. You think I’m some kind of a whore or a liar or something. Someone sends me a present, you won’t even let me look at it, and you say it’s all my fault. I don’t know what you want from me any more. You want me to be a little girl, but then you expect me to know everything and be responsible for everything. It’s not fair!’ S
he lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.
‘Oh, Malta,’ Keffria heard herself say wearily. She went swiftly to her daughter, and put her hands on her shaking shoulders. ‘We don’t think you’re a whore and a liar. We’re simply very worried about you. You’re trying to grow up so fast, and there are so many dangers you don’t understand.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Malta sobbed. ‘I shouldn’t have gone outside that night. But it was so stuffy in there, and so scary with everyone yelling at each other.’
‘I know. I know, it was scary.’ Keffria patted her child. She hated to see Malta weep like this, hated that she and her mother had pressed her until she had broken down. At the same time, it was almost a relief. The defiant, bitter Malta was someone Keffria didn’t know. This Malta was a little girl, crying and wanting to be comforted. Perhaps they had broken through tonight. Perhaps this Malta was someone she could reason with. She bent down to hug her daughter, who returned the embrace briefly and awkwardly.
‘Malta,’ she said softly. ‘Here. Look here. Here is the box. You can’t keep it or open it: it has to be returned tomorrow intact. But you can look at it.’
Malta gave a sniff and sat up. She glanced at the box on her mother’s palm, but did not reach for it. ‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s just a carved box. I thought it might have jewels on it or something.’ She looked away from it. ‘Can I go to bed now?’ she asked wearily.
‘Of course. You go on to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning, when we’ve all had some rest.’
A very subdued Malta sniffed once, then nodded. Keffria watched her slowly leave the room, and then turned back to her own mother with a sigh. ‘Sometimes it’s so hard, watching her grow up.’
Ronica nodded sympathetically. But then she added, ‘Lock up that box somewhere safe for the night. I’ll get a runner in the morning to carry your letter and the box down to the docks to the Kendry.’
It was just a few hours shy of dawn when Malta took the small box back to her room. It had been exactly where she had known it would be: in her mother’s ‘secret’ cupboard at the back of her wardrobe in her dressing chamber. It was where she always hid the naming-day presents and her most expensive body oils. She had been afraid mother would put it under her pillow, or perhaps even open the box and claim the dream for herself. But she hadn’t.
Malta shut the door behind her and sat down on her bed with the box in her lap. Such a small present for them to raise such a fuss about. She lifted the box to her nose and inhaled. Yes, she had thought it carried a sweet scent. She got out of bed again and padded quietly across to her own wardrobe. In a box up in the corner, under several old dolls, was the scarf and the flame-jewel. In the dark room it seemed to burn more brightly than ever. For a time she just watched it before she recalled why she had taken it out. She sniffed the scarf, then brought it back to her bed to compare it to the box. Different scents, both exotic. Both sweet, but different. This box might not even have come from the veiled man, then. The mark on it was like the one on the coach, yes, but perhaps it had just been bought from the Khuprus family. Maybe it was really from Cerwin. Over the years, she’d left plenty of personal things over at Delo’s home. It would have been very easy, and actually, it was much more likely when she thought about it. Why would a chance-met stranger send her an expensive gift? Like as not, this was a courting gift from Cerwin. The crowning piece of her logic suddenly fell into place. If the veiled Rain Wild man had puzzled out who she was and sent her a present, wouldn’t he have reminded her to return his scarf and flame-jewel at the same time? Of course he would. So this wasn’t from him. This was from Cerwin.
She stuffed the scarf and jewel under her pillow, and curled up with the box in the curve of her body. With one forefinger, she traced the line of her lips. Cerwin. She ran her finger down over her chin, traced a line between her breasts. What kind of a dream would he have chosen for her? Her lips curved in a smile. She suspected she knew. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
She closed her eyes and opened the box. Or tried to. She opened her eyes and peered at it. What she had taken to be the catch was not. By the time she finally worked out how to open it, she was quite annoyed with it. And when she did get it open, it was empty. Simply empty. She had imagined a sparkling dream-dust, or a burst of light or music or fragrance. She stared into the empty corners of the box, then felt inside it to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. No. It was empty. So, what did that mean? A joke? Or merely that the gift was the cleverly carved and sweet-scented box? Maybe it wasn’t even supposed to be a dream-box, maybe that was some old-fashioned idea that her grandmother had come up with. Dream-boxes. Malta had never heard of one before tonight. In a wave of irritation, it all became clear. Her grandmother had only said that so her mother wouldn’t let her have the box. Unless, perhaps, one of them had opened it and taken out whatever was in there and kept it for themselves.
‘I hate them both,’ Malta hissed in a savage whisper. She flung the box down to the rug beside her bed and threw herself back on her pillows. She knew she should get up and go and put the box back in her mother’s wardrobe, but a part of her didn’t care. Let them find out she had taken it. She wanted them to know that she knew they’d stolen her present. She crossed her arms unrepentantly on her chest and closed her eyes.
Stillness. Emptiness. Only a voice. A whisper. So, Malta Vestrit. You have received my gift. Here we mingle, you and I. Shall we make a sweet dream together? Let us see. A tiny thread of awareness that this was a dream faded out of reach.
She was inside a burlap bag. It covered her head and draped down almost to her knees. It smelled of dust and potatoes. She was fairly sure it had been used as a harvest sack. She was being carried over someone’s shoulder, carried rapidly and triumphantly, snatched and carried off against her will. The one who carried her had companions. They hooted and laughed in victory, but the man who carried her was too full of satisfaction to give vent to such boyish noises. The night was cool and misty moist against her legs. Her mouth was gagged, her hands bound behind her. She wanted to struggle but was afraid that if she did, he might drop her. And she had no idea where she was or what else might befall her if she did escape her captor. Frightening as it was, it was still the safest place she could be at this moment. She knew nothing of the man who carried her, except that he would fight to the death to keep her.
They reached somewhere. They all stopped, and the one carrying her slung her to her feet. He kept a grip on her. She heard a muffled conversation, quick words spoken low in a language she didn’t understand. The others seemed to be laughingly urging something that the one who had carried her amiably but firmly refused. After a time, she heard footsteps receding. She sensed the others had gone. She was alone save for the man who still held her bound wrists. She trembled.
There was the cold kiss of metal against her wrists and suddenly her hands were free. She immediately clawed her way free of the sack, and pulled the wet gag from her mouth. She was still half-blinded by the dust and fibres from the rough burlap. She brushed roughly at her face and hair and then turned to confront her captor.
They were alone in a dark and foggy night. A city and a crossroads. She could tell no more than that. He stood watching her expectantly. She could see nothing of his features. His dark hood was pulled far forward; he watched her from its depths. The night smelled swampy and thick, the only lights were fog-muffled torches far down the street. If she ran, would he pounce on her? Was this a cat’s game? If she escaped, would she be plunging herself into greater danger? In time it seemed to her that he was watching her and letting her make up her mind about what she would do.
After a time, he made a sign with his head that she should follow him. He walked away swiftly down one of the streets and she went with him. He moved quickly and confidently through the labyrinthine city. After a time, he took her hand. She did not pull away. The fog was thick and wet, blinding, almost choking, and it was so dark she could make out nothing of her grea
ter surroundings. Openings in the fog showed her tall buildings to either side of the alley they walked. But the darkness and silence seemed complete. Her companion seemed certain of his way. His large hand was warm and dry as it clasped her chilled one.
He finally turned aside, to lead her down some steps and then open a door. When the door was opened, sound boomed out. Music, laughter and talk, but all of a style and language she did not know, and so it was all just noise. Deafening noise, so that even if she had been able to understand her companion, she would not have been able to hear him. It was some kind of an inn or tavern, she surmised. There were many small round tables, each with a single short candle burning in the centre. He led her to an empty one, and gestured her to a seat. He sat down across from her. He pushed back his hood.
For a long time in the dream, they just sat there. Perhaps he listened to the music, but to her it was a sound so uniformly loud that she felt deafened. By the candlelight, she could finally see her companion’s face. He was handsome, in a pale way. Beardless and blond, his eyes a warm brown. He had a small soft moustache. His shoulders were wide, his arms well-muscled. He did nothing at first, save look at her. After a time, he reached across the table and she put her hand in his. He smiled. She suddenly felt they had come to so perfect an understanding that she was glad there were no words that could interfere. A long time seemed to pass. Then he reached into a pouch and brought out a ring with a simple stone on it. She looked at it, and then shook her head. She was not refusing the ring; she was only saying that she did not need an outward symbol. The agreement they had already reached was too flawless to complicate with such things. He put the ring away. Then he leaned across the table towards her. Heart thundering, she leaned forwards to meet him. He kissed her. Only their mouths met. She had never before kissed a man, and it stood gooseflesh up all over her to feel the softness of his moustache beside her lips, the swift brush of his tongue that bade her lips part to his. All time stopped, hovering like a nectar bird in that one sweet moment of decision, to open or remain closed.
