by Robin Hobb
A screen trellised with flowers provided an alcove for the young women to be presented tonight. The fathers who would present them and then escort them into the Concourse for the first dance shifted restlessly outside, while within anxious mamas made last minute adjustments to hair and hemlines. They had drawn lots, and it seemed the hand of fate that she would be presented last. Girl after girl was led away. Malta felt as if she could not get enough breath. As Keffria tugged a few stray hairs up and into place, she whispered to Malta, ‘Reyn has not arrived yet. I suppose he was delayed because the Kendry arrived so late. Do you want me to tell Davad to take the first dance with you?’
Malta looked at her mother in horror, but to her shock, Keffria grinned wickedly. ‘I thought that might remind you that there are worse things than having to stand alone during the first dance of your formal presentation.’
‘I shall wait it out and think of Papa,’ Malta assured her. Her mother’s eyes shimmered suddenly with tears, and then Keffria was tugging at the neck of her gown, saying, ‘Now be calm, keep your head up, mind your skirts’ and ‘Oh, it’s your turn now!’ The last words came out as a half-sob. Malta was suddenly blinking away tears of her own. Half-blinded by them, she stepped from behind the screen, to take her place in the circle of torchlight at the top of the stairs.
‘Malta Vestrit, the daughter of Kyle Haven and Keffria Vestrit, is presented now to the Bingtown Traders and the Rain Wild Traders. Malta Vestrit.’
For a moment, she was angered because they named her by her Trader name. Did not they think her father was good enough for their company? Then she accepted it as the Bingtown way. She would do him proud. He might not be here to extend an arm to her and descend the steps with her, but she would walk as his daughter. Head up, but eyes cast down, she sank in a slow curtsey to the assembled folk. As she came back up, she lifted her eyes. For a moment, the people seemed far too numerous, the stairs too many and too steep. She thought she might faint and go tumbling down them. Then she took a deeper breath and began her slow descent to the floor.
Below her on the dance floor, the other girls and their papas awaited her in a half circle. It was her time, and her moment. She wanted it to last forever, and yet, as she reached the bottom of the stair, she felt grateful. As she joined the line of young women and their fathers, she lifted her eyes to look about the room. The folk of Bingtown and the Rain Wild displayed themselves in their finest clothes. Many were not so prosperous as in years past, and it showed. Yet they all carried themselves proudly, and smiled at this latest crop of eligible young women. She did not see Reyn. Soon the music would strike up, and the young girls would be whirled away to it. She would be left standing alone while they danced. It fitted so well with all the rest of her life, she thought bitterly. Then the impossible happened.
Things became worse.
On the dais across the room, wedged into a chair between a pale young man and the head of the Bingtown Council sat Davad Restart. Rather, she devoutly wished he had been sitting. He had half stood up, to lean across the table and frantically waggle his fingers at her. In an agony of humiliation, she lifted her hand slightly and waved her fingers at him. He didn’t stop. Instead, once he was sure she had seen him, he made frantic gestures for her to cross the empty dance floor and come up to the dais. Malta was dying. She longed to faint, but could not. The leader of the musicians, who was awaiting the signal from the dais to begin the music, looked puzzled. At last, she realized she had no other choice. This nightmarish moment would not be over until she had left the safety of the other young women and their papas and crossed the vast expanse of the empty floor alone and presented herself to Davad to hear his congratulations.
So be it.
She drew a deep breath, took one glance at her grandmother’s shocked white face, and then began her slow crossing of the dance floor. She would not hurry; that would be even more unseemly. She kept her head up, and lifted her skirts to allow them to float across the polished floor. She tried to smile as if this were something she had expected, as if it were a perfectly normal part of her presentation. She fixed her eyes on Davad and recalled the dead pig stuck in his carriage window. She managed to keep the smile, despite the roaring in her ears. Then she was standing before the dais. At that moment, she suddenly realized that the pale young man seated next to Davad must be the Satrap of all Jamaillia.
She had just been humiliated before the Satrap of all Jamaillia and two of his Companions. The elegant women of the court were looking down at her in tolerant condescension. Now she would faint. Instead, some sort of instinct took over. She sank down before the dais in a low curtsey. Through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard Davad say enthusiastically, ‘This is the young woman I told you about. Malta Vestrit of the Bingtown Traders. Is not she the fairest young blossom you have ever seen?’
Malta could not rise. If she stood now, she would have to look at their faces. Here she crouched, in her pieced-together gown and her made-over slippers and —
‘You did not exaggerate at all, Trader Restart. But why is this sweet flower unaccompanied?’ Jamaillian accent, and a languid tone. The Satrap himself spoke of her.
The leader of the Bingtown Council took pity on her and signalled the musicians. The tentative opening notes of the music suddenly flowed through the hall. Behind her, proud fathers escorted their daughters onto the dance floor. The thought of it suddenly was anger instead of pain. She came to her feet and lifted her eyes to meet the Satrap’s indulgent stare. She spoke out clearly in answer to his question.
‘I am alone, Magnadon Satrap, because my father has been taken by pirates. Pirates that your Chalcedean patrol vessels did nothing to stop.’
The other people on the dais gasped. The Satrap dared to smile at her. ‘I see this little one has the spark of spirit to match her beauty,’ he observed. As a hot flush coloured Malta’s cheeks, he added, ‘And at last I have met one Bingtown Trader who admits that the Chalcedean galleys are simply my patrol vessels.’ One of his Companions chuckled throatily at this cleverness, but the Bingtown Council did not look amused.
Her temper got the better of her. ‘I shall concede that, sir, if you will concede they are ineffective. They have left my family bereft of both our ship and my father.’
The Satrap of all Jamaillia rose to his feet. He would order her dragged off and killed now, she decided. Behind her, in the room, the musicians played on and the couples whirled. She waited for him to summon guards. Instead, he announced, ‘Well, as you blame me for your father’s absence, there is only one way I can rectify this.’
She could not believe her ears. Could it really be this simple? Ask for it, and get it? Breathlessly, she whispered, ‘You will command your ships to rescue him?’
His laugh rang out through the music. ‘Certainly. That is their purpose, you know. But not right this moment. For now, I shall do my best to correct this tragic situation by taking his place on the dance floor with you.’
He rose from his place on the dais. One of his Companions looked shocked; the other horrified. Malta turned her eyes to Davad Restart, but there was no help there. He was beaming at her fondly and proudly. When her eyes met his, he nodded swift encouragement. The faces of the Bingtown Council members were carefully blank. What was she to do?
The Satrap was leaving his seat, and now he was descending the steps to the dance floor. He was taller than she and very lean, his skin so aristocratically white as to be almost pallid. His clothing was unlike any she had ever seen on a man; it was soft and flowing, in pastel hues. His pale blue trousers were cuffed tight to his ankles above his low soft shoes. The loose folds of his saffron shirt shawled about his throat and shoulders. As he came closer to her, she could smell him, foreign smells, a strange perfume, a clinging smokiness on his breath. Then the most powerful man in the world bowed to her and held out his hand for hers.
She was frozen.
‘It’s all right, Malta, you may dance with him,’ Davad Restart announced beni
gnly. He chuckled to the others on the dais, ‘Such a shy and sheltered little thing she is. She scarcely dares touch his hand.’
His words gave her the power to move. She felt cold and yet tingly as she set her hand in his. The Satrap’s hand was very soft as it closed around hers. To her shock, he set his other hand on the back of her hips and drew her body closer to his. ‘This is how we dance this measure in Jamaillia,’ he told her. His breath was warm on her upturned face. There was so little space left between them she feared he would feel her heart beating. He led her into the dance.
For five steps, she was awkward, off balance, moving behind the measure. Then suddenly the music caught her, and it was as easy as if she were holding Rache’s hands and moving to her count around the morning room. The other dancers, the brightly lit room, even the music faded around them. There existed only this man and the motion as their bodies kept time together. She had to look up to see him. He smiled down at her.
‘You are so tiny, like a child. Or a lovely little doll. The fragrance of your hair is like flowers.’
She could think of no reply to such compliments, not even to thank him. All her coquetry had been erased from her mind. She tried to speak, but could only ask, ‘Will you truly send your ships to rescue my father?’
He raised one thin eyebrow. ‘Certainly. Why shouldn’t I?’
She lowered her eyes, then closed them. The music and his body leading hers were all she needed. ‘It seems too easy.’ She shook her head, a tiny motion. ‘After all we have endured…’
He gave a small laugh, high as a woman’s. ‘Tell me, little bird. Have you lived all your life in Bingtown?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, then. You tell me. What can you really know of how the world works?’ Suddenly he drew her even closer, so that her breasts almost brushed his chest. She gasped and stepped back from him, stumbling out of rhythm with the music. He caught the step easily and kept her moving.
‘Are you shy, little bird?’ he asked merrily, but his hand tightened on hers almost cruelly.
The music had ended. He let go of her hand. When she glanced around, she heard the murmur of many-footed rumours running. All eyes looked towards them, although none quite stared. He bowed to her, deeply and graciously. As she sank into a curtsey, he breathed, ‘Perhaps we should speak later about rescuing your father. Perhaps you can better convey to me just how important it might be to you.’
She could not rise. Were his words a threat? Because she had stepped away from his touch, he would not send the ships to rescue her father? She wanted to cry out after him to wait, wait. But he had already turned away from her. A Bingtown matron with her own daughter beside her had claimed his attention. Behind her, the music was starting again. She managed finally to rise from her curtsey. She felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her. She had to get off the dance floor.
She walked between the couples unseeingly. She caught a glimpse of Cerwin Trell; he seemed to be coming towards her, but she could not bear that just now. She hurried on, searching the crowd for her mother, her grandmother, even her little brother. All she wanted was some safe refuge for a few moments until she could gather herself. Had she just destroyed her father’s chance of swift rescue? Had she made a fool of herself before all of Bingtown?
A touch on her arm made her gasp. She recoiled from it as she turned to see who it was. He was veiled, hooded, and gloved like any other Rain Wilder, but she knew it was Reyn. No one but he could take the secretive garb of a Rain Wilder and turn it to such elegance. His veil was black lace, but gilt and silver cat’s eyes outlined where his eyes would be. The hood that covered his hair and the back of his neck was secured with an elaborately folded cravat of shimmering white silk. His soft white shirt and black trousers revealed as much of his physique as his veil and hood concealed of his features. The breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his chest were accentuated by his slim waist and narrow hips. His light dancing boots were filigreed with silver and gilt to match his veil. He held a glass of wine towards her. Softly he said, ‘You are pale as snow. Do you need this?’
‘I want my mother,’ she said stupidly. To make it worse, she repeated it more desperately. ‘I want my mother.’
Reyn’s whole stance stiffened. ‘What did he say to you? Did he hurt you?’
‘No. No. I just…I want my mother. Now.’
‘Of course.’ As if it were the most normal of behaviours, he tapped a passing Trader on the shoulder and handed him the glass of wine. Reyn turned back to Malta. ‘This way.’ He did not offer her his arm or try to touch her in any way. Did he sense that just now she could not have tolerated it? Instead, he gestured gracefully with a gloved hand, and then walked slightly in front of her, parting the crowd for her. Folk stared after them curiously.
Keffria came swiftly through the crowd, as if she had been seeking her. ‘Oh, Malta,’ she cried out in a low voice, and Malta braced herself for the inevitable recrimination. Instead her mother went on, ‘I was so worried, but you handled yourself beautifully. Whatever was Davad thinking? I was trying to get to you after you danced and he dared to catch hold of my arm and advise me to tell you to come to him, that he could see you got another dance with the Satrap.’
Malta was trembling all over. ‘Mother. He said he would send ships to rescue Papa. But then ‘ She faltered, and suddenly wished she had said nothing. Why tell her mother? It would have to be her own decision.
How important was it to her that her father be rescued? She knew exactly what he had insinuated to her. It was unmistakable. The choice was hers. If she was the one who would have to pay the price, did not the decision belong to her alone?
‘And you believed him?’ Reyn butted in incredulously. ‘Malta, he was toying with you. How could he toss out such an offer as if it were a bit of flattery? The man has no compunctions at all, no ethics. You are barely more than a girl, and he torments you like this…I should kill him.’
‘I am not a girl,’ Malta asserted coldly. Girls did not have to face decisions such as this. ‘If you believe I am such a child, where are your ethics in courting me?’ She hardly knew what she was saying. She needed to be alone somewhere, to think about what the Satrap had offered, and what he had implied the price was. Her tongue flew on without her mind. ‘Or is this how you seek to make your claim exclusive, the first time another man shows an interest in me?’
Her mother caught her breath sharply. Her eyes flitted from Reyn to Malta. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, and fled their lovers’ quarrel. Malta scarcely noticed her going. A moment ago, she had longed for her. Now she knew her mother could not help her with this.
Reyn actually took a half-step backwards. The silence quivered like a bowstring between them. Abruptly he sketched a bow towards her. ‘I beg your pardon, Malta Vestrit.’ She actually heard him swallow. ‘You are a woman, not a child. But you are a woman newly admitted to society, with little experience in the ways of low men. I thought only to protect you.’ He turned his veiled face to watch the dancers as they moved through the formal steps of a multi-partnered dance. His voice lowered as he added, ‘I know that rescuing your father is foremost in your thoughts. It is a vulnerability in you just now. It was cruel of him to offer to help you.’
‘Odd. I thought it was cruel of you to refuse me when I begged your help. I now see you intended to be kind.’ She heard the icy scorn in her own voice and recognized it. This is how my father quarrels with my mother, she thought, turning her own words against her. Something in her wanted to stop this, but she did not know how. She needed to think, she needed time to think, and instead everything just kept happening. The only Presentation Ball she would ever have was whirling on around her, she might be able to get the Satrap to save her father, and instead of all the other girls watching enviously as her elegant beau danced with her, she was standing here having a stupid quarrel with him. It wasn’t fair!
‘I did not intend to be kind. I intended to be truthful,’ he said quietly.
The music had ended. The dancers were leaving the floor or securing new partners. Reyn’s words fell in the silence, not loudly, but enough that several heads turned their way. Malta sensed that he was as uncomfortably aware of the attention as she was. She tried to put a small smile on her face, as if his words were some kind of a witticism, but her cheeks felt hot and stiff. At that moment, someone cleared his throat behind her. She turned her head.
Cerwin Trell swept a low bow to her. ‘Would you allow me the next dance?’ There was a small challenge in his voice, almost as if the words were directed to Reyn rather than to her. Reyn took it up.
‘Malta Vestrit and I were sharing a conversation,’ he pointed out in a dangerously pleasant voice.
