by Robin Hobb
“I think that is almost what I fear,” he agreed with her reluctantly. “At the same time, I do not think it is something that you, as Vivacia, impose upon me. I think it has to do with what a liveship is. ” He sighed. “If anyone consigned me to this, it was my own family, my great-great-grandmother when she saw fit to commission the building of a liveship. You and I, we are like buds grafted onto a tree. We can grow true to ourselves, but only so much as our roots will allow us. ”
The wind gusted up suddenly, as if welcoming the ship into the harbor. Wintrow stood and stretched. He was more aware of the differences in his body these days. He did not think he was getting any taller, but his muscles were definitely harder than they had been. A glimpse in a looking-glass the other day had shown him the roundness gone from his face. Changes. A leaner, fitter body and nine fingers to his hands. But they were still not enough changes to suit his father. When his fever had finally gone down and his hand was healing well, his father had summoned him. Not to tell him he'd been pleased by Wintrow's show of bravery or even to ask how his hand was. Not even to say he'd noticed his improved skills as a seaman. No. Only to tell him how stupid he had been, that he had had the chance in Cress to win the crew's approval and be seen as truly a part of them. And he had let it go by.
“It was a sham,” he'd told his father. “The whole setup with the bear and the man who won were just a lure. I knew that right away. ”
“I know that!” his father had declared impatiently. “That's not the point. You didn't have to win, you idiot. Only to show them you have spunk. You thought to prove your courage by standing silent while Gantry cut off your finger. I know you did, don't deny it. Instead you only showed yourself as some sort of . . . religious freak. When they expected guts, you showed yourself a coward. And when any normal man would have cried out and cursed, you behaved like a fanatic. At the rate you're going, you'll never win this crew. You'll never be part of them, let alone a leader they respect. Oh, they may pretend to accept you, but it won't be real. They'll just be waiting for you to let your guard down, so they can really put it to you. And you know something? That's what you've earned from them. And damn me if I don't hope you get it!”
His father's words still echoed through him. In the long days that had passed since then, he had thought he sensed a grudging acceptance by the crew. Mild, as swift to forgive as he was to take offense, had been most quick to resume a tolerant attitude towards him. But Wintrow could no longer relax and accept it. Sometimes, at night, when he tried to reach for his old meditative states, he could convince himself that the situation was contrived. His father had poisoned his attitude towards the other crew members. His father did not wish to see them accept him; therefore he would see to it, however he could, that Wintrow remained an outcast. And that, he told himself as he painstakingly traced the convoluted logic of such insanity, was why he must never trust completely to the crew's acceptance and friendship. Because if he did, his father would find some way to turn them against him.
“Every day,” he said quietly, “it becomes harder for me to know who I am. My father plants doubts and suspicions in me, the coarseness of life aboard this ship accustoms me to casual cruelty amongst my fellows and even you, even the hours I spend with you are shaping me, carrying me away from my priesthood. Towards something else. Something I don't think I want to be. ”
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These words were hard for him to speak. They hurt him as much as they hurt her. That was the only thing that let her keep silent.
“I don't think I can stand it much longer,” he warned her. “Something will have to give way. And I fear it will be me. ” He met her eyes unflinchingly. “I've just been living from day to day. Waiting for something or someone else to change the situation. ” His eyes studied her face, looking for a reaction to his next words. “I think I need to make a real decision. I believe I need to take action on my own. ”
He waited for her to say something, but she could think of no words. What was he hinting he might do? What could the boy do against his father's dominance?
“Hey, Wintrow! Lend a hand!” someone shouted down to the deck.
The call back to drudgery. “I have to go,” he told Vivacia. He took a deep breath. “Right or wrong, I've come to love you. But-” He shook his head, suddenly wordless.
“Wintrow! Now!”
Like a well-trained dog, he sprang to obey. She watched him scamper up the rigging with familiar ease. That facility told as much as his words did of his love for her. He still complained, and often. He still suffered the torments of a divided heart. But when he gave words to his unhappiness they could discuss it and both learn more of one another in the process. He thought now that he could not bear it, but she knew the truth. Inside him was strength, and he would bear up despite unhappiness. Eventually they would be whole, the both of them. All that they needed was time. She had known ever since that first night together that he was truly destined to be aboard her. It was not easy for him to accept. He had struggled long against the idea. But even in his defiant words today, she sensed a pending resolution to that struggle. Her patience would be rewarded.
She looked about the harbor with new eyes. In many ways, Wintrow was absolutely correct about the city's underlying corruption. Not that she would want to reinforce that with the boy. He needed no help from her to be gloomy. Better for Wintrow that he focus his thoughts on what was clean and good about Jamaillia. The harbor was lovely in the winter sunlight.
She did and yet did not recall it all. Ephron's memory of it was a man's view, not a ship's. He had focused on the docks and merchants awaiting his trade goods, and the architectural wonder of the city above them. Ephron had never noticed the curling tendrils of filthy water bleeding into the harbor from the city's sewers. Nor could he have smelt with every pore of his hull the underlying stench of serpent. Her eyes skimmed the placid waters but there was no sight of the cunning, evil creatures. They were below, worming about in the soft bottom muck of the harbor. Some foreboding made her swing her gaze to the section of the harbor where the slavers anchored. Their foul stench came to her in hints on the wind. The smell of serpent was mixed with that of death and feces. That was where the creatures coiled thickest, over there beneath those miserable ships. Once she was unloaded and refitted for her new trade, she would be anchored alongside them, taking on her own load of misery and despair. Vivacia crossed her arms and held herself. Despite the sunny day, she shivered. Serpents.
Ronica sat in the study that had once been Ephron's and was now slowly becoming hers. It was in this room that she felt closest to him still, and in this room that she missed him most. In the months since his death, she had gradually cleared away the litter of his life, replacing it with the untidy scattering of her own bits of papers and trifles. Yet Ephron was still there in the bones of the room. The massive desk was far too large for her, and sitting in his chair made her feel like a small child. Oddities and ornaments of his far-ranging voyages characterized this room. A massive sea-washed vertebra from some immense sea creature served as a footstool, while one wall shelf was devoted to carved figurines, sea shells and strange body ornaments from distant folk. It was an odd intimacy to have her ledgers scattered across the polished slab of his desk top, to have her teacup and discarded knitting draped on the arm of his chair by his fireplace.
As she often did when perplexed, she had come here to think and try to decide what Ephron would have counseled her. She was curled on the divan on the opposite side of the fireplace, her slippers discarded on the floor. She wore a soft woolen robe, well worn from two years' use. It was as comfortable as her seat. She had built the fire herself, and kindled it and watched it burn through its climax. Now the wood was settling, glowing against itself, and she was relaxed and warm but seemed no closer to an answer of any kind.
She had just decided that Ephron would have shrugged his shoulders and delegated the problem back to her, when she
heard a tap at the heavy wood-paneled door.
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“Yes?”
She had expected Rache, but it was Keffria who entered. She wore a night-robe and her heavy hair was braided and coiled as for sleep, but she carried a tray with a steaming pot and heavy mugs on it. Ronica smelled coffee and cinnamon.
“I had given up on your coming. ”
Keffria didn't directly answer that. “I decided that as long as I couldn't sleep, I might as well be really awake. Coffee?”
“Actually, that would be good. ”
This was the sort of peace they had found, mother and daughter. They talked past one another, asking no questions save regarding food or some other trifle. Keffria and Ronica both avoided anything that might lead to a confrontation. Earlier, when Keffria had not come as invited, Ronica had assumed that was why. Bitterly she had reflected that Kyle had taken both her daughters from her: driven the one away and walled the other up. But now she was here, and Ronica found herself suddenly determined to regain at least something of her daughter. As she took the heavy steaming mug from Keffria, she said, “I was impressed by you today. Proud. ”
A bitter smile twisted Keffria's face. “Oh, I was, too. I singlehandedly triumphed in defeating the conniving plot of a sly thirteen-year-old girl. ” She sat down in her father's chair, kicked off her slippers and curled her feet up under her. “Rather a hollow victory, Mother. ”
“I raised two daughters,” Ronica pointed out gently. “I know how painful victory can be sometimes. ”
“Not over me,” Keffria said dully. There was self-loathing in her tone as she added, “I don't think I ever gave you and Father a sleepless night. I was a model child, never challenging anything you told me, keeping all the rules, and earning the rewards of such virtue. Or so I thought. ”
“You were my easy daughter,” Ronica conceded. “Perhaps because of that, I under-valued you. Over-looked you. ” She shook her head to herself. “But in those days, Althea worried me so that I seldom had a moment to think of what was going right . . . ”
Keffria exhaled sharply. “And you didn't know the half of what she was doing! As her sister, I . . . but in all the years, it hasn't changed. She still worries us, both of us. When she was a little girl, her willfulness and naughtiness always made her Papa's favorite. And now that he has gone, she has disappeared, and so managed to capture your heart as well, simply by being absent. ”
“Keffria!” Ronica rebuked her for the heartless words. Her sister was missing, and all she could be was jealous of Ronica worrying about her? But after a moment, Ronica asked hesitantly, “You truly feel that I give no thoughts to you, simply because Althea is gone?”
“You scarcely speak to me,” Keffria pointed out. “When I muddled the ledger books for what I had inherited, you simply took them back from me and did them yourself. You run the household as if I were not here. When Cerwin showed up on the doorstep today, you charged directly into battle, only sending Rache to tell me about it as an afterthought. Mother, were I to disappear as Althea has, I think the household would only run more smoothly. You are so capable of managing it all. ” She paused and her voice was almost choked as she added, “You leave no room for me to matter. ” She hastily lifted her mug and took a long sip of the steaming coffee. She stared deep into the fireplace.
Ronica found herself wordless. She drank from her own mug. She knew she was making excuses when she said, “But I was always just waiting for you to take things over from me. ”
“And always so busy holding the reins that you had no time to teach me how. 'Here, give me that, it's easier if I just do it myself. ' How many times have you said that to me? Do you know how stupid and helpless it always made me feel?” The anger in her voice was very old.
“No,” Ronica said quietly. “I didn't know that. But I should have. I really should have. And I am sorry, Keffria. Truly sorry. ”
Keffria snorted out a sigh. “It doesn't really matter, now. Forget it. ” She shook her head, as if sorting through things she could say to find the words she must. “I'm taking charge of Malta,” she said quietly. She glanced up at her mother as if expecting opposition. Ronica only looked at her. She took a deeper breath. “Maybe you doubt that I can do it. I know I doubt it. But I know I'm going to try. And I wanted to ask you . . . No. I'm sorry, but I have to tell you this. Don't interfere. No matter how rocky or messy it gets. Don't try to take it away from me because it's easier to do it yourself. ”
Ronica was aghast. “Keffria, I wouldn't. ”
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Keffria stared into the fire. “Mother, you would. Without even knowing you were, just as you did today. I took what you had set up, and handled it from there. But left to myself, I would not have called Malta down at all. I would have told Cerwin and Delo that she was out or busy or sick, and sent them politely on their way, without giving Malta the chance to simper and flirt. ”
“That might have been better,” Ronica conceded in a low voice. Her daughter's words hurt. She had only been trying to think swiftly and handle things quickly to prevent a disaster. But although her daughter's words stung, she could also hear the truth of them. So she closed her lips tightly and took a sip of her coffee. “May I know what you plan?” she asked after a few moments.
“I scarcely know myself,” Keffria admitted. “She is so far gone, and she has so little respect for me . . . I may not be able to do anything with her. But I have a few ideas of ways to begin. I'm going to take Rache away from her. No more dance or etiquette lessons unless she earns them. If and when they resume, she will have to extend to Rache the same courtesy and respect that Selden gives his tutor. The lessons will be at a set time every day, not whenever Malta is bored and wishes a diversion. If she misses one, she will have to earn the time back with chores. ” Keffria took a breath. “I intend that she will only earn the privileges of a woman by doing the work of a woman. So. ” She took a breath and then met her mother's eyes. “I am taking back my ledger books from you. I will not let Malta grow up as ignorant as I am. Malta is going to have to spend some time reconciling the ledgers every week. I know she will blot them and spoil pages and make mistakes and copy pages over. We will both have to endure that, as will she. She will have to enter the numbers and tot them up. And she . . . we, that is . . . will have to accompany you when you meet with the brokers and the tradesmen and the overseers. She needs to learn how the estates and trading accounts are handled. ”
Again Keffria paused, as if waiting to deal with an objection. Ronica said nothing.
“She will, of course, have to behave well at those times. And dress as befits a girl who is becoming a woman. Not cheaply and suggestively, but not childishly, either. She will need some new clothing. I intend that she shall share in the making of it. And that she will learn to prepare food, and supervise the servants. ”
Ronica nodded gravely each time Keffria added another task to those Malta must learn. When she finally paused, her mother spoke. “I think you have made wise plans, and Malta can benefit greatly from what you propose to teach her. But I do not think she will come willingly to this. It is not fashionable at all for a woman to know how to do such things, let alone to actually do them. In fact, Bingtown now sees such behavior as plebeian. It will hurt her pride to do it. I doubt she will be a willing student. ”
“No. She will not,” Keffria concurred. “And that is why I have yet another task. Mother, I know you will not agree with this, but I think it is the only way to rein her to my will. Not a coin must she be given to spend on her own, save that it comes from me. I will have to instruct the shopkeepers and tradesmen that they are no longer to extend her the family's credit. It will be humiliating to do, but . . . ” she paused as if considering. “Yes. I will widen that to include Selden as well. I suppose it is not too early to begin with him. Perhaps I should never have allowed Malta to have so easily whatever she desired. ”
To this Ronica nodded, suppressing a heartfelt sigh of relief. There were already on the desk a handful of chits with Malta's imprint on them, for sweets and baubles and outrageously priced perfumes. Malta's casual spending had not been easy to allow for, but it was yet another thing that Ronica had been unwilling to bring up to Keffria. Now she honestly wondered why. “She is your daughter,” Ronica added. “But I fear this will not be easy, on any of us. And,” she added unwillingly, “there is yet another thing she must be taught about. Our contract with the Festrew family. ”
Keffria raised one eyebrow. “But I am married,” she pointed out.
Ronica felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her daughter. She recalled how she had felt, the first time she realized that her growing daughters were now vulnerable to a bargain struck generations ago. “That you are,” she agreed quietly. “And Althea is missing. And our debts grow faster far than our credits. Keffria, you must recall the terms of the Vestrit bargain. Blood or gold. Once Malta is presented to Bingtown society as a woman, then she is forfeit to the Festrews, if we do not have the gold to make the payment. And,” she added unwillingly, “at the midsummer, I was short. I have promised to pay it in full by midwinter, plus a penalty. ” She could not find the courage to admit to her daughter what a large penalty she had accepted. “If not,” she went on with difficulty, “Caolwn Festrew may invoke her right to claim blood from us. Althea, if she is found by then. Malta, if she is not. ”
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Ronica could find no more words. She watched understanding and horror grow in Keffria's eyes. Followed, inevitably, by anger. “It is not fair. I never agreed to such a bargain! How can Malta be forfeit to a contract signed generations before she was born? It makes no sense, it isn't fair!”
Ronica gave her a moment or two. Then she said the words familiar to any Trader's daughter or son. “It's Trader. Not fair, always; not right, always. Sometimes not even understandable. But it's Trader. What did we have when we came to the Cursed Shores? Only ourselves, and the value of a man's word. Or a woman's. We pledged our loyalty to each other, not just for the day or the year, but to all generations. And that is why we have survived here where no others had before. We pledged ourselves to the land, also, and to what it demands. That, I imagine, is another topic you have not yet discussed with Malta. You should, and soon, for you know that she must have heard rumors. ”
