by Robin Hobb
Moments later, she tapped twice at a door, and then boldly let herself in. "Etta?" she gently asked of the dimness.
"In here," the Queen of the Pirate Isles replied.
Malta swiftly crossed the darkened chamber and entered Etta's immense dressing chamber. Closets stood open, gowns were strewn on the chairs and the floor, and Etta sat in her undergarments before her mirror. "Where are your dressing maids?" Malta asked carefully. Wintrow had warned her of Etta's temper. Malta herself had never seen her anger, only the black depths of her sorrow.
"I sent them away," Etta said brusquely. "Their chatter was maddening. 'Try this scent, let us pin your hair so, will you wear the green, will you wear the blue, oh, lady, not the black, not again.' Like so many shrieking gulls, all come to feed on my corpse. I sent them away."
"I see," Malta said gently. A second door opened, and Mother suddenly appeared bearing a tray. A steaming teapot was on it, and matching cups. It was a lovely service, white with flowers done all in blue. Mother muttered a soft greeting to Malta and set the tray down on Etta's dressing table. Her pale-blue eyes lingered on Etta fondly. She spoke to herself as she poured tea for Etta, a gentle stream of words, soothing as a cat's purr. Etta appeared to listen, though Malta could make no sense of the sounds. Then Queen Etta sighed, took up the cup and sipped it. Despite Mother's status at court, she had refused title and chambers of her own. Instead, she shared Etta's chamber, and waited on her at every opportunity. Malta thought such constant attention would chafe her to fury, but Etta seemed to take comfort from it. The Queen of the Pirate Isles set down her cup.
"I will wear the black again," she said, but there was only sadness in her voice now, no anger or bitterness. With a sigh, she turned back to her mirror. Malta found the black dress and shook out its simple lines. Etta wore it to mourn Kennit, just as the only jewelry she wore was the little miniature of him strapped to her wrist and the earrings he had given her. She seemed unaware that the tragic simplicity of her garb and demeanor had captured the dramatic interest of every poet in Jamaillia.
She sat before her mirror but looked down at her hands as Mother brushed her sleek black hair and pinned it up with jeweled pins. From anyone else, Etta would have protested such decoration, but Mother hummed a calming little melody as she did so. When she was finished, Etta's dark hair was the night sky for a score of glittering stars. Mother next took up a scent bottle, and dabbed her throat and wrists.
"Lavender," Etta said quietly. Her voice broke on the word. "Kennit always loved that scent." She suddenly put her head down into her hands. Mother gave Malta a look. When the old woman withdrew to the other side of the chamber and busied herself rehanging garments, Malta humbly helped her.
When Etta lifted her head, there was no track of tears down her face. She looked weary, but she still managed to smile. "I suppose I must get dressed," she surrendered. "I suppose I must be the Queen again tonight."
"Wintrow and Reyn will be waiting for us," Malta agreed.
"Sometimes," Etta confided as Malta fastened the endless row of tiny buttons up her back, "when I am most discouraged, if I take a moment to myself, I swear I can hear him speaking to me. He bids me be strong, for the sake of the son I carry."
Mother gabbled soft agreement as she brought Etta's slippers and stockings.
Etta spoke on softly, almost dreamily. "At night, just before I fall asleep, I often hear his voice. He speaks to me, words of love, poetry, good counsel and encouragement. I swear it is all that keeps me from going mad. I feel that in some way, the best part of Kennit is still with me. That he will always be with me."
"I'm sure he is," Malta replied easily. Privately, she wondered if she were as blind to Reyn's faults. The Kennit that Etta recalled did not match Malta's recollection at all. She had felt only a shiver of relief when she had seen Kennit's canvas-wrapped corpse leave Vivacia's deck to slip beneath the salt water.
Etta stood. The black silk whispered around her. Her pregnancy did not show yet, but all knew of it. The Queen carried the heir of King Kennit. None questioned her right to rule in his stead, just as none questioned the seeming youth of the man who commanded his fleet. In pirate tradition, Wintrow had succeeded to Kennit's position by a vote of his captains. Malta had heard that it was unanimous.
Wintrow and Reyn awaited them at the foot of the stair. Her brother suffered in comparison to the Rain Wilder. The close tailoring of his jacket did nothing to hide the slightness of his build. The formality of Wintrow's Jamaillian garb made him look even younger than he was until one noticed his eyes. Then he seemed a fitting match for Etta. As always, he wore black as she did. Malta wondered if it was truly to mourn the pirate, or if it was merely to complement Etta and mark them as a pair.
At the foot of the stairs, the pirate Queen paused a moment. Malta watched her take a breath as if she steeled herself. Then she set her fingers atop Wintrow's proffered arm and lifted her chin. As she glided away on Wintrow's arm, Malta pursed her lips and frowned.
"Something troubles you?" Reyn asked. He took her hand and set it firmly atop his forearm. The warmth of his hand secured her clasp there.
"I hope my brother grows taller," she murmured.
"Malta!" he rebuked her, but then smiled. She had to look up at him, and she loved that she did. The Jamaillian styles suited Reyn very well indeed. His close-fitted indigo jacket only emphasized the width of his shoulders. The white of his cuffs and collar contrasted well with his weather-bronzed skin. White trousers and black knee boots completed him. He wore small gold hoops in his ears, which shone against the glossy black curl of his hair. She smiled sympathetically for whoever had worried it into order tonight. He had no patience with body servants. He turned his head, and the light ran along his scaling, breaking blue highlights from it. Dark as his eyes were, she could see the secret blue in their copper depths.
"Well?" he asked her. There was a faint flush on his face and she realized she had stood long simply looking at him.
She nodded her assent, and they crossed the floor together. The hall opened out around them, its lofty ceiling supported by marble pillars. They walked beneath an arch into the grand ballroom. At one end of the room, musicians played softly, a prelude to the dancing. At the other end, the Satrap presided over the festivities from an elevated throne. Three of his Companions sat in chairs ranged before his dais. A servant tended two censers set to either side of the Satrap. The yellow smoke from the herbs wreathed him. He smiled and nodded benignly on his guests. A separate dais held a slightly less ornate throne for Queen Etta. She was ascending the steps as if they were a gallows. A lower seat beside hers waited for Wintrow.
Seating arrangements for her and Reyn had been more politically perplexing. Satrap Cosgo had, grudgingly, granted that Queen Etta as the reigning monarch of a separate kingdom had, perhaps, stature equal to his own. Malta and Reyn, however, made no royal claims for themselves. Malta repeatedly but quietly asserted that Bingtown was an independent city-state, yet she did not claim to be its representative. Reyn also refused to acknowledge that Jamaillia had any authority over the Rain Wilds, but he was not their ambassador to the Satrap. Rather, they represented the interests of the Dragon Tintaglia and her kind. They were obviously not the King and the Queen of the Dragons nor nobles from afar and hence not entitled to thrones or elevation of any kind. That Cosgo had ensconced them on elevated chairs on a garlanded dais had as much to do with his desire to display these exotic new allies as a wish to honor them. That rankled Reyn more than it did Malta. Her pragmatism had prevailed over his distaste for exhibition. It did not matter to her why he granted her this distinction; she cared only that in the mind of every noble who beheld them, it conveyed their elevated status. It could only increase their bargaining power.
She had used that leverage in every capacity. With the Satrap's strangling monopoly on Bingtown's exports broken, there were many merchants anxious to establish new ties with the Trader cities. The current fashion favor for their exotic
appearances had even motivated a stream of inquiries about trade and settlement possibilities in the Rain Wilds. Reyn had replied conservatively to these, reminding them that he could not speak for the Rain Wild Council. A number of entrepreneurs and adventure seekers had offered to pay high prices to book passage on the Vivacia for her journey homeward. Wintrow had dealt with that, pointing out that Vivacia was the flagship of the Pirate Isles, not the Rain Wilds. While he would be furnishing transport for the Elderlings' return, Vivacia was not available for hire. He suggested they seek out other ships that were Bingtown bound.
With the serpents no longer a threat, and the Chalcedean menace greatly reduced, they all foresaw increased shipping and travel between their cities. Malta had spent one long afternoon totting figures with Lord Ferdio. The outcome suggested to both of them that the Satrap's coffers would actually profit more from this new arrangement than he had from his throttlehold on Bingtown. The increased flow of ships through the Inside Passage, open trade with the Pirate Isles and an increase in Jamaillian sailing ships profiting from trade with Bingtown and points beyond might shock the city out of its downward spiral of stagnation. That was before Ferdio had begun reckoning the possible profits from freely marketing goods from the South Islands to the various northern markets. They had presented their findings to Cosgo, who had smiled and nodded for a brief time before succumbing into boredom.
Satrap Cosgo had changed, Malta thought to herself as they approached his throne, but not enough to impress her with his sincerity. Restored to wealth and comfort, women and intoxicants, he had resumed all the mannerisms of the effete youth she had first met at the Bingtown Traders' Concourse. Yet, she was willing to take the word of those who had known him for years that his transformation was truly remarkable. As she made her curtsey and Reyn his bow, the Satrap gravely inclined his head in acknowledgment. He spoke down to them.
"So. This is to be our last evening together, my friends."
"One dares to hope otherwise," Malta replied smoothly. "Surely, in days to come, we shall return to the wonders of Jamaillia City. Perhaps the Lord High Magnadon Satrap will someday undertake another journey to Bingtown or Trehaug."
"Ah, Sa forfend it! Still, if duty demands that I do so, I shall. Let it not be said that Satrap Cosgo feared the rigors of travel." He leaned forward slightly. He made a slight gesture of annoyance at the servant, and the man immediately replenished the smoldering concoction on the brass holders. The tendrils of smoke flowed thick once more. "You are determined to depart tomorrow, still."
Reyn spoke. "Determined? Magnadon Satrap, say rather obligated. As you well know, our wedding arrangements have been postponed once already. We can scarcely disappoint our families again."
"They needn't be disappointed. You could be wed tomorrow, if you wished it, in the Satrap's own Temple of Sa. I shall command a hundred priests to preside, and a procession shall carry you through the streets. This I could arrange for you. Now, if you wish."
"It is a most gracious offer, Lord High Magnadon. Yet I fear we must decline. Trader ways demand that we be wed among our own folk, with our own customs. A man of your learning, culture and travel undoubtedly understands that such traditions are broken only at grave risk to one's stature. Of great importance also are the many messages you have charged us with for Traders in both Bingtown and Trehaug. Those must be delivered without more delay. Nor have we forgotten the message birds you have furnished, that communication between the Trader cities, the Pirate Isles and Jamaillia City may be improved."
Malta bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. It was good that the Satrap did not know Wintrow's opinion of the "smelly befouling creatures" he had reluctantly welcomed aboard Vivacia. Jola had proposed pigeon pie as variety in their usual menu, but Malta was confident that the birds would live to serve as messengers.
A shadow of petulance crossed his face. "You gained what you desired: independence for Bingtown and the Rain Wilds. I no sooner signed the scrolls than you made plans to leave."
"Of course, Lord High Magnadon. For did not you also command that the Vestrit family represent Jamaillia's interests there? It is a duty I take most seriously."
"No doubt, you will take it most profitably as well," he pointed out caustically. He inclined his head to inhale his smoke more deeply. "Ah, well, if part we must, then I hope it will lead to good fortune for all of us." The Satrap leaned back, eyes half-closed. Malta interpreted this, gratefully, as dismissal.
She and Reyn sought their own seats. She looked around the spectacle of the ballroom and realized that she would not miss it. Well, not immediately.
She had finally been surfeited with parties, dancing and elegance. She longed for the simplicity of unscheduled days and privacy. Reyn, for his part, chafed to be at the site of the Elderling city.
Ophelia had recently arrived in Jamaillia City with letters for all of them. The news from Bingtown was both heartening and tantalizing. The flow of foodstuffs through Bingtown and up the river was steady and sufficient. The young priest Wintrow had recommended as an engineer had an almost mystical knack for simple yet elegant solutions. As soon as the temporary locks that permitted the serpents to ladder up the river had been completed, Reyn's brother had turned his attention to searching for the remains of the city. In this, Selden had been most helpful to Bendir. As yet, they had not discovered any intact chambers, but Reyn was certain that was due only to his absence. The fervor of his ambition to begin the search amazed Malta.
He gave a small sigh in reply to her mood. "I, too, long to be home again," he confided to her. The music had begun to swell. The first dance would be a set piece for the Companions of the Satrap only. They danced together, in his honor, with him as their absent partner while he watched from the dais. She watched the elaborately dressed women move through the sedate measures. At intervals, the Satrap inclined his head, symbolizing his bows to his Companions. It struck Malta as a singularly foolish custom and a waste of good music. She stilled the tapping of her foot. Reyn leaned closer to be sure she heard him. "I secured two more stonecutters. They will follow us on Ophelia. Wintrow says there are several islands in the Pirate Isles that may furnish stone for us, at a reasonable cost. If we replace the log walls of the locks with stone, the workers who must constantly maintain the wood because the river eats it will be free, and we can create a way for large ships to come to dock there. We could then transfer those workers to the excavation of the city—"
"Before or after our wedding?" she asked him gravely.
"Oh, after," he replied fervently. He took her hand. His thumb swept the palm of her hand caressingly. "Do you suppose our mothers would let it be any other way? I personally doubt we shall be allowed to eat or sleep until we have endured the wedding."
"Endured?" she asked him with raised brows.
"Most definitely," he replied with a sigh. "My sisters have been in paroxysms of delight. They will meet the Queen of the Pirate Isles and your dashing brother Wintrow. Tintaglia has announced she will be there, to 'receive' us afterward, I am told. My sisters are insisting I be veiled for the wedding. They say that it matters not how I display myself in Jamaillia; I must be properly modest for the traditional Rain Wild ceremony."
"Your modesty has nothing to do with the tradition," Malta retorted. He was not telling her anything she had not already heard. When Ophelia had docked, she had brought thick letters for all of them. Keffria's letter had been likewise full of wedding plans. "I will be veiled as well. It is our blind acceptance of one another that they celebrate." A question tugged at her. "You were closeted long with Grag Tenira. My mother wrote that he courts a Three Ships girl. Is that true?"
"He and Sparse Kelter's daughter are moving in that direction."
"Oh. A shame. I suppose that means that Aunt Althea has burned her bridges and will have to be content with Brashen Trell."
"They looked more than content, the last time I saw them."
"Grag Tenira would have been a more fitting matc
h for her."
"Perhaps. From the way she looked at me, I suspected she thought you could do better, also."
"She looks at everyone that way." Malta dismissed her aunt's reservations.
"More interesting to me were the changes in Ophelia. Or the lack of them, rather. She is the same ship she has always been. Grag claims she has no memories of being a dragon. That for her, life began as Ophelia. The same is true for Goldendown."
"Do you suppose they will recall it later?"
"I do not know." Reluctantly, he added, "My suspicion is that some of the dragons in the wizardwood logs had perished before we used them. Ophelia and Goldendown, perhaps, have no dragon memories because the creatures inside had died and taken their memories with them. They may remain as they always have been." He paused. "Grag, at least, is grateful. He says that Kendry has become well nigh unmanageable. He is a bitter creature and sails only at Tintaglia's behest."
A silence fell between them. Malta made a valiant effort at distracting him. "I had a note from Selden as well. His handwriting is awful. He loves the Rain Wilds. Cassarick is a torment to him, however. He wants to dig immediately, and your brother will not let him."
Reyn smiled wryly. "I remember being like that."
His face was still too pensive to suit her.
"He spends much time with Tintaglia, 'guarding' the cocoons." She shook her head. "Tintaglia says that only fifty-three appear to be developing. He does not say how she knows. Poor creature. She struggled so hard to lead them home, and so many perished along the way. She worries that not all fifty-three will hatch. They should have spent the whole winter cocooned, and hatched in high summer."
"Perhaps they will hatch in late summer to make up for their late start."
"Perhaps. Oh." She tugged at his hand. "The Companions are finished. Now the real dancing will begin."
