by Robin Hobb
The river was chilling her, and the acid kiss of its water was beginning to itch. Even her tightly scaled skin was not impervious to it when it ran this strong. She waded away from the bank to the center of the river, where there was open sky overhead, stretched forth her wings, set her weight back onto her hindquarters. She leapt, only to come down heavily in the water once more. The gravel had shifted under her clawed feet, spoiling her impetus. She was tired. For a moment, she longed for the hard-packed landing sites the Elderlings had lovingly prepared for their winged guests. If the Elderlings had survived, she reflected, her race would still flourish. They would have circumvented this shallow place in the river for the sake of their dragon-kin. But the Elderlings had died off, and left pathetic humanity as their heirs.
She had crouched to attempt another leap when the thought shivered over her. Humans built things. Could humans dredge the river out, could they channel the flow of water through this stretch to make it deep enough for a serpent? Could they coax the river to flow once more near the silvery earth needed for proper cocooning? She considered what she had seen of their works.
They could. But would they?
Resolve flooded her. She leapt mightily and her beating wings caught her weight and lifted her. She needed to kill again, to take the foul taste of the serpent's spoiled flesh from her mouth. She would do so, but while she did, she would think. Duress or bribe? Bargain or threaten? She would consider every option before she returned to Trehaug. The humans could be made to serve her. Her kind might still survive.
The rap on his stateroom door was just a trifle too hard. Brashen sat up straight in his chair, setting his teeth. He cautioned himself against jumping to conclusions. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, "Enter."
Lavoy came in, shutting the door firmly. He had just come off watch. His oilskins had kept him somewhat dry, but when he took his cap off, his hair was slicked wet to his head. The storm was not savage, but the driving insistence of the rain was demoralizing. It chilled a man to the bone. "You wanted to see me," Lavoy greeted him.
Brashen noted the lack of a "sir."
"Yes, I did," he agreed smoothly. "There's rum on the sideboard. Take the chill off. Then I wish to give you some instructions." The rum was a courtesy, due any mate during such a cold storm. Brashen would extend it to him, even as he prepared to rake him over the coals.
"Thank you, sir," Lavoy replied. Brashen watched the man as he poured out his jot and tossed it off. That had lowered the mate's guard. There was less surliness in his manner as he approached Brashen's table and stood before it. "Instructions, sir?"
He phrased it carefully. "I wish to make clear in advance how my orders are to be followed, specifically as regards yourself."
That stiffened the man again. "Sir?" he asked coldly.
Brashen leaned back in his chair. He kept his voice flat. "The crew's performance during the pirate attack was abysmal. They were fragmented and disorganized. They need to learn to fight as a unit.
"I ordered you to mingle the former slaves with the rest of the crew. This has not been done to my satisfaction. Therefore, I now direct you to shift them to the second mate's watch and let her integrate them. Make it clear to them that this is not due to any dissatisfaction with their performance. I don't want them to believe they are being punished."
Lavoy took a breath. "They're like to take it that way. They're used to working for me. They may be surly about the change."
"See that they aren't," Brashen ordered succinctly. "My second direction has to do with talking to the figurehead." Lavoy's eyes widened, only briefly, only slightly, but enough to make Brashen sure. Lavoy had already disobeyed that order. His heart dropped another notch. It was worse than he had feared. He kept his voice steady as he went on, "I am about to lift my order forbidding the crew from speaking to Paragon. I wish you to understand, however, that you are still barred from talking with him. For reasons of discipline and ship's morale, I will allow you to keep that restriction a private matter between you and myself. Nevertheless, I will not tolerate even the appearance of your violating it. You are not to converse with the figurehead."
The mate's hands knotted into fists. His veneer of respect was thin as he growled, "And may I ask why, sir?"
Brashen made his voice flat. "No. You don't need to."
Lavoy struggled to act like an innocent man. A mask of martyred protest came over his face. "I don't know what you're about, sir, or who's been talking ill of me. I've done nothing wrong. How am I to do my job if you step between the crew and me? What am I supposed to do if the ship speaks to me? Ignore him? How can I—"
Brashen wanted to wring the man's neck, but he kept his seat and managed to keep the demeanor of a captain. "If the job is beyond you, Lavoy, say so. You may step down from it. There are other capable hands aboard."
"Meaning that woman. You'd pull me down and let her step up to first mate." His eyes went black with fury. "Well, I'll tell you something. She wouldn't make it through her first watch as mate. The men wouldn't accept her. You and she can pretend she has what it takes, but she doesn't. She's—"
"Enough. You have your orders. Go." It was all Brashen could do to remain in his chair. He didn't want this to end in blows. Lavoy wasn't a man who learned from a beating; he'd only carry a grudge. "Lavoy, I took you on when no one else would have you. What I offered you was clear: a chance to prove yourself. You still have that chance. Become the first mate you're capable of being. But don't try to be more than that on this ship. Take my orders and see that they're carried out. That is your only task. Do less, and I'll have you put off the ship the first chance I get. I won't keep you on as an ordinary sailor. You wouldn't allow that to work for any of us. You can think about what I've said. Now get out."
The man glared at him in ponderous silence, then turned and walked toward the door. Brashen spoke for a final time. "I'm still willing to let this conversation remain a private matter. I suggest you do the same."
"Sir," Lavoy said. It was not agreement. It was bare acknowledgment that Brashen had spoken. The door closed behind him.
Brashen leaned back in his chair. His spine ached with tension. He had not solved anything. He had, perhaps, bought himself more time. He grimaced to himself. With his luck, he could hold it all together until it fell apart in Divvytown.
He sat for a time, dreading his final task for the night. He had spoken to Paragon and confronted Lavoy. He still needed to straighten things out with Althea, but the ship's taunt came back to him: so angry her fury had gone from hot to cold. He knew exactly what the ship meant and didn't doubt the truth of his words. He tried to find the courage to summon her, then abruptly decided he'd wait until the end of her watch. That would be better.
He went to his bunk, pulled off his boots, loosened his shirt and flung himself back on it. He didn't sleep. He tried to worry about Divvytown and what he could do there. The specter of Althea's cold fury loomed darker than any pirate's shadow. He dreaded the encounter, not for what words she might fling at him, but for how much he desired the excuse to be alone with her.
The rain was nasty, cold and penetrating, but the wind that drove it was steady. Althea had put Cypros on the wheel tonight. The duty demanded little more than that he stand there and hold it steady. Jek was on lookout on the foredeck. The downpour of rain might loosen drift logs from the surrounding islands. Jek had a keen eye for such hazards and would warn the steersman well in advance of them. Paragon preferred Jek to the others on her watch. Although Brashen had forbidden anyone to speak to the figurehead, she had the knack of making silence companionable rather than accusing.
As Althea prowled the deck, she chewed over her problems. Brashen, she told herself stubbornly, was not among them. Letting a man distract her from her real goals had been her greatest error. Now that she knew his true opinion of her, she could set him aside and focus all her efforts on regaining her own life. Once she stopped thinking about the man, everything became clear.
; Since the day of the battle, Althea had raised her own expectations of herself. It did not matter that Brashen regarded her as incompetent and weak, as long as she held herself to a high personal standard. She now centered her life on the ship and seeing that it ran perfectly. She had tightened discipline on her own watch, not with blows and shouts as Lavoy did, but with simple insistence that every task be done exactly as she commanded, and had uncovered both weaknesses and strengths in her deckhands. Semoy was not fast, but he had a deep knowledge of ships and their ways. During the first part of this voyage, he had suffered greatly from being separated from a bottle. Lavoy had pushed the old man onto her watch as a useless annoyance with shaky hands, but now that he had his sea legs again, Semoy had proved to know a great many tricks about rigging and line. Lop was simple and dealt poorly with decision-making or stress, but at the tedious and routine chores of sailing a ship, he was tireless. Jek was the opposite, quick and relishing challenges, but swift to become bored and then careless with repetitive work. Althea flattered herself that she now had her watch well matched to their tasks. She had not had to speak sharply to anyone for two days.
So there was little excuse for Brashen to appear on the deck during her watch when he should have been sleeping. She could have forgiven it if the storm had been taxing her crew to the utmost, but the weather was only nasty, not dangerous. Twice she encountered him on her patrol of the deck. The first time he had met her eyes and offered her "Good evening." She had returned the courtesy gravely and continued on her way. She had noted he was on his way to the foredeck. Perhaps, she had reflected ironically, he was «watching» Jek at her duties.
The second time she encountered him, he had the grace to be discomfited. He halted before her, and made some inconsequential comment about the storm. She agreed it was unpleasant, and made to move past him.
"Althea." His voice stopped her.
She turned back to him. "Sir?" she asked correctly.
He stood staring at her. His face was a study in shifting flats and shadows in the swinging light from the ship's lantern. She saw him blink cold rain from his eyes. Served him right. He had no real errand to bring him out on the deck in this weather. She watched him grope for an excuse. He took a breath. "I wanted to let you know that at the end of your watch, I'll be lifting the restriction on speaking to the figurehead." He sighed. "I'm not sure it made any impression on him. Sometimes I fear that isolation will only drive him more deeply into defiance. So I'll be lifting that order."
She nodded once. "So you said. I understood, sir."
He stood there a moment longer, as if expecting her to say more. But there was nothing more for the second mate to say to the captain about this announcement. He was about to change an order; she would see her crew obeyed it. She continued to give him her attention until he nodded briefly and then walked away from her. After that, she had gone back to her work.
So they would be allowed to speak to Paragon again. She was not sure if she was relieved or not. Perhaps it would lift Amber's spirits. The carpenter had brooded darkly since Paragon had killed. When they spoke of it, she always blamed Lavoy for it, insisting that the mate had incited the ship to it. Althea personally could not disagree, but neither could a second mate agree with such a statement. Therefore, she had held her tongue, which had only exasperated Amber.
She wondered what Amber would say the first time she spoke to Paragon. Would she rebuke him, or demand that he explain himself? Althea knew what she, personally, would do. She would treat it as she had treated all of Paragon's sins. She would ignore it. She would not speak of it to the ship, any more than she had ever really spoken of how he had twice capsized and killed all his crew. Some acts were too monstrous to recognize with words. Paragon knew how she felt about what he had done. He was an old liveship, built with much wizardwood throughout his frame. She could touch no piece of it without communicating her horror and dismay to him. Sadly, all she felt in response from him was defiance and anger. He felt justified in what he had done. He was angry that no one else shared that emotion. She added that to her unending list of mysteries about Paragon.
She made another slow circuit of the deck, but found nothing to fault. It would have been a relief to discover some simple task. Instead, she found her thoughts turning to Vivacia. With every passing day, her hopes of recovering her ship dwindled. Her pain at being separated from her liveship was old pain now. It ached deep within her, like an injury that would not heal. Sometimes, as now, she prodded it, as if she were rocking an aching tooth. She dwelt on it to stir it to new flames, simply to prove her soul was still alive. If only she could recover her ship, she told herself, all would be well. If she had Vivacia's decks beneath her feet, none of her other worries would matter. She could forget Brashen. Tonight her dream of regaining her ship seemed a hopeless one. From what that boy had said before Paragon killed him, Kennit would not be open to a ransom offer, especially not a humble one. That left only force or deceit. The crew's haphazard defense of Paragon during the pirate attack had left her with little confidence in their ability to force anyone to do anything.
Deceit remained. Yet, the idea of pretending that they were runaways from Bingtown with hopes of becoming pirates struck her as material for a stage farce rather than a plan of action. In the end, it might prove worse than ridiculous or useless. It might play right into Lavoy's hands. Plainly, he and his tattooed crew savored the idea. Did he hope to take it one step further, to take over Paragon and truly use him as a pirate vessel? To playact the role would inevitably put the idea into every sailor's mind. The Bingtown dock-scrapings they had taken as crew would not harbor strong moral opposition to such a change in career and goal. As for the ship himself, she no longer knew.
This whole adventure had revealed facets to Paragon's character that she had never suspected. Time was what she needed, time to concoct a better plan, time to understand this poor, mad ship. But time burned through her hands like a wild line. Every watch carried them closer to Divvytown, Kennit's stronghold.
The rain let up toward morning. As her watch ended, the sun broke through the cloud cover, sending broad streaks of light down to touch the water and the islands that dotted it. The wind began to bluster and shift. She ordered her watch to assemble to hear Brashen's change in orders as Lavoy's men came on deck. Lavoy glowered at her in passing, but his hostility no longer surprised her. It was part of her job.
When all hands were mustered onto the deck, Brashen spoke his piece. She listened impassively as he lifted his ban on speaking to the figurehead. As she had expected, Amber's face expressed her relief. When Brashen went on to move men off her watch to order to shift the former slaves onto it, she managed to hold her peace. Without even consulting her, he had undone her careful efforts to make her watch operate as efficiently as possible. Now, as they sailed deeper every day into pirate territory, he had made her responsible for men she scarcely knew, men that perhaps Lavoy had been inciting to mutiny. A fine addition to her watch. She seethed silently, but gave no sign of her outrage.
When Brashen was finished, she dismissed her sailors to food and sleep or whatever other amusement they could find. Her anger had killed her appetite. She went directly to her stateroom, wishing it were truly her own rather than a tiny space shared with two others. For once, it was empty. Jek would be eating and Amber was probably with Paragon already. She knew a moment of guilt that she avoided the figurehead. Then she centered herself in her anger and decided it was for the best. She had removed not only Brashen from her softer emotions, but also the ship and Amber. It was simpler so, and better. She could function most efficiently as a mate when she let no personal considerations stand between her and her tasks.
Sleep, she decided, was what she needed. She had pulled her rain-dampened shirt out of her trousers and started to drag it over her head when there was a rap at the door. She hissed in annoyance. "What is it?" she demanded through the wood. Clef's voice said something quietly outside the door. She pulled her shi
rt back on, snatched the door open and demanded, "What?"
Clef took two steps back. "Cap'n wants to see you," he blurted. His startled face was a dash of cold reality. She took a breath and smoothed her features.
"Thank you," she said brusquely, and shut the door again. Why couldn't Brashen have taken care of whatever it was when she was mustered on deck with the others? Why did he have to cut into what little privacy and sleep she could find? She stuffed her shirttail back into her trousers and slammed out of the room.
"Enter!" Brashen called in response to the thudding on his door. He looked up from his charts, expecting Lavoy or one of his sailors with important news. Instead, Althea entered and strode up to stand before him.
"You sent Clef for me, sir."
His heart sank in him. "I did," he acknowledged and then could find no words. After a moment, "Sit down," he invited her, but she took the chair stiffly as if he had ordered it. She sat, meeting his eyes with an unflinching gaze. Captain Ephron Vestrit had always been able to stare him down.
"When your father looked at me like that, I knew I was in for a private reprimand that would leave my ears smoking."
At the shocked look on her face, he realized he had spoken the words aloud. He was horrified, yet fought a wild impulse to laugh at her expression. He leaned back in his chair and managed to keep his face composed and his voice level as he added, "So why don't you just say it and we'll be done with it?"
She glared at him. He could see the pressure building in her. His invitation was too much for her to resist. He braced himself as she took a deep breath as if she would roar at him. Then, surprisingly, she let it out. In a quiet controlled voice that still shook slightly, she said, "That's not my place, sir."
"Sir." She was keeping it formal, yet her tension vibrated through him. He deliberately nudged at it, determined to clear the air between them. "I believe I just gave you permission. Something is troubling you. What is it?" At her continued silence, he found his own temper rising. "Speak!" he snapped at her.
