Ship of Magic by Robin Hobb
“I brought you something,” she said into the comfortable silence.
“You brought me something?” he wondered aloud. “Really?” He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I don't think anyone has ever brought me anything before. ”
She sat up straight. “What, never? No one's ever given you a present?”
He shrugged. “Where would I keep a possession?”
“Well . . . I did think of that. This is something you could wear. Like this. Here, give me your hand. Now, I'm very proud of this, so I want to show it to you a piece at a time. It took me a while to do this, I had to oversize them, to get them to scale, you know. Here's the first one. Can you tell what it is?”
Her hands were so tiny against his as she opened the fingers of his hand. She set something in his palm. A piece of wood. There was a hole in it, and a heavy braided cord ran through it. The wood had been sanded and smoothed and shaped. He turned it carefully in his fingers. It curved, but here there was a projection and at the end of it, a fanning out. “It's a dolphin,” he said. His fingers followed the curve of the spine again, the flare of the flukes. “This is amazing,” he laughed aloud.
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He heard the delight in her voice. “There's more. Move along the cord to the next one. ”
“There's more than one?”
“Of course. It's a necklace. Can you tell what the next one is?”
“I want to put it on,” he announced. His hands trembled. A necklace, a gift to wear, for him. He didn't wait for her to reply, but took it by the cord and shook it open. He set it carefully over his head. It tangled for a moment against the chopped mess of his eyes, but he plucked it clear and set it against his chest. His fingers ran rapidly over the beads. Five of them. Five! He felt them again more slowly. “Dolphin. Gull. Seastar. This is . . . oh, a crab. And a fish. A halibut. I can feel its scales, and the track where its eye moved. The crab's eyes are out on the end of their stalks. And the starfish is rough, and there are the lines of suckers underneath. Oh, Amber, this is wonderful. Is it beautiful? Does it look lovely on me?”
“Why, you are vain! Paragon, I never would have guessed. ” He had never heard her so pleased. “Yes, it looks beautiful on you. As if it belongs. And I had worried about that. You are so obviously the work of a master carver that I feared my own creations might look childish against your fineness. But, well, to praise my own work is scarcely fitting, but I shall. They're made from different woods. Can you tell that? The starfish is oak, and the crab I found in a huge pine knot. The dolphin was in the curve of a willow knee. Just touch him and follow the grain with your fingers. They are all different grains and colors of wood; I don't like to paint wood, it has its own colors, you know. And I think they look best on you so, the natural wood against your weathered skin. ”
Her voice was quick and eager as she shared these details with him. Intimate as if no one in the world could understand such things better. There was no sweeter flattery than the quick brush of her hand against his chest. “Can I ask you a question?” she begged.
“Of course. ” His fingers traveled slowly from one bead to the next, finding new details of texture and shape.
“From what I've heard, the figurehead of a liveship is painted. But when the ship quickens, the figurehead takes on color of its own. As you have. But . . . how? Why? And why only the figurehead, why not all the ship's parts that are made of wizardwood?”
“I don't know,” he said uneasily. Sometimes she asked him these sorts of questions. He did not like them. They reminded him too sharply of how different he was from her. And she always seemed to ask them just when he was feeling closest to her. “Why are you the colors you are? How did you grow your skin, your eyes?”
“Ah. I see. ” She was silent for a moment. “I thought perhaps it was something you willed. You seem such a marvel to me. You speak, you think, you move . . . can you move all of yourself? Not just your carved parts, like your hands and lips, but your planking and beams as well?”
Sometimes. A flexible ship could withstand the pounding of wind and waves better than one fastened too tightly together. Planks could shift a tiny bit, could give with the stresses of the water. And sometimes they could shift a bit more than that, could twist apart from each other to admit a sheet of silent water that spread and deepened as cold and black as night itself. But that would be unforgivable, cold-hearted treachery. Unforgivable, unredeemable. He jerked away from the burning memory and did not speak the word aloud. “Why do you ask?” he demanded, suddenly suspicious. What did she want from him? Why did she bring him gifts? No one could really like him, he knew that. He'd always known that. Perhaps this was all just a trick, perhaps she was in league with Restart and Mingsley. She was here to spy out all his secrets, to find out everything about wizardwood and then she would go back and tell them.
“I didn't mean to upset you,” Amber said quietly.
“No? Then what did you mean to do?” he sneered.
“Understand you. ” She did not respond in kind to his tone. There was no anger in her voice, only gentleness. “In my own way, I am as different from the folk of Bingtown as I am from you. I'm a stranger here, and no matter how long I live here or how honestly I run my business, I will always be a newcomer. Bingtown does not make new folk welcome. I get lonely. ” Her voice was soothing. “And so I reach out to you. Because I think you are as lonely as I am. ”
Lonely. Pitiful. She thought he was pitiful. And stupid. Stupid enough to believe that she liked him when she was really just trying to discover all his secrets. “And because you would like to know the secrets of wizardwood,” he tested her.
His gentle tone took her in. She gave a quiet laugh. “I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't curious. Whence comes the wood that can turn to life? What sort of a tree produces it, and where do such trees grow? Are they rare? No, they must be rare. Families go into debt for generations to possess one. Why?”
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Her words echoed Mingsley's too closely. Paragon laughed aloud, a harsh booming that woke the cliff birds and sent them aloft, crying in the darkness. “As if you didn't know!” he scoffed. “Why does Mingsley send you here? Does he think you will win me over? That I will sail willingly for you? I know his plans. He thinks if he has me, he can sail fearlessly up the Rain Wild River, can steal trade there that belongs rightfully only to the Bingtown Traders and the Rain Wild Traders. ” Paragon lowered his voice thoughtfully. “He thinks because I am mad, I will betray my family. He thinks that because they hate me and curse me and abandon me that I will turn on them. ” He tore the bead necklace from his throat and flung it down to the sand. “But I am true! I was always true and always faithful, no matter what anyone else said or believed. I was true and I am still true. ” He lifted his voice in hoarse proclamation. “Hear me, Ludlucks! I am true to you! I sail only for my family! Only for you. ” He felt his whole hull reverberate with his shout.
Chest heaving, he panted in the winter night. He listened, but heard nothing from Amber. There was only the snapping of the driftwood fire, the querulous notes of the cliff birds as they resettled awkwardly in the dark, and the endless lapping of the waves. No sound at all from her. Maybe she had run off while he was shouting. Maybe she had crept off into the night, ashamed and cowardly. He swallowed and rubbed at his brow. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing. He rubbed at his neck where the necklace cord had snapped. He listened to the waves creep closer as the tide rose. He heard the driftwood collapse into the fire, smelled the gust of smoke as it did so. He star-tied when she spoke.
“Mingsley didn't send me. ” He heard her abruptly stand. She walked to the fire and he heard the shifting of wood in it. Her voice was quiet and controlled when she spoke. “You are right, the first time I came here, he brought me. He proposed to cut you into bits, purely for the sake of your wizardwood. But from the first time I saw you,
Her words were quick and hard as falling stones. She was moving about as she spoke. He heard the brush of her skirts. His quick ears caught the small sound of two pieces of wood clicking together. His beads, he suddenly thought in desolation. She was gathering them up. She would take her gift away.
“Amber?” he said pleadingly. His voice went high on her name and broke, as it sometimes did when he was afraid. “Are you taking my beads away?”
A long silence. Then, in a voice almost gruff, she said, “I didn't think you wanted them. ”
“I do. Very much. ” When she didn't say anything, he gathered his courage. “You hate me now, don't you?” he asked her. His voice was very calm, save that it was too high.
“Paragon, I . . . ” her voice dwindled away. “I don't hate you,” she said suddenly, and her voice was gentle. “But I don't understand you either,” she said sadly. “Sometimes you speak and I hear the wisdom of generations in your words. Other times, without warning, you are a spoiled ten-year-old. ”
Twelve years old. Nearly a man, damn you, and if you don't learn to act like a man on this voyage, you'll never be a man, you worthless, whining titty-pup. He lifted his hands to his face, covered the place where his eyes had been, the place the betraying tears would have come from. He moved one hand, to put it firmly over his mouth so the sob would not escape. Don't let her look at me just now, he prayed. Don't let her see me.
She was still talking to herself. “I don't know how to treat you, sometimes. Ah. There's the crab. I have them all now. Shame on you, throwing these like a baby throws toys. Now be patient while I fix the string. ”
He took his hand away from his mouth and took a steadying breath. He voiced his worst fear. “Did I break . . . are they broken?”
“No, I'm a better workman than that. ” She had moved back to her blanket by the fire. He could hear the small sounds of her working, the tiny taps of the beads against each other. “When I made these, I kept in mind that they'd be exposed to wind and rain. I put a lot of oil and wax on them. And they landed on sand. But they won't withstand being thrown against rocks, so I wouldn't do that again, if I were you. ”
“I won't,” he promised. Cautiously, he asked, “Are you angry at me?”
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“I was,” she admitted. “I'm not anymore. ”
“You didn't shout at me. You were so quiet I thought you had left. ”
“I almost did. I detest shouting. I hate being shouted at, and I never shout at anyone. That doesn't mean I never get angry, though. ” After a moment's pause, she added, “Or that I never get hurt. 'Only my pain is more silent than my anger. ' That's a quote from the poet Tinni. Or a paraphrase, actually, a translation. ”
“Tell me the whole poem,” Paragon begged, leaping swiftly to this safe topic. He wanted to get away from speaking of anger and hatred and spoiled children. Perhaps if she told him the poem, she would forget that he had not apologized. He did not want her to know that he could not apologize.
“Nana has said that she would rather stay on at half-pay, if we can still afford that. ” Ronica spoke the words into the quiet room. Keffria sat in the chair on the opposite side of the hearth, where her father had sat in the times when he was home. She held a small embroidery frame, and skeins of colored thread were arranged on the arm of the chair, but she no longer pretended to work. Ronica's hands were likewise idle.
“Can we afford that?” Keffria asked.
“Only just. If we are willing to eat simply and live simply. I'm almost embarrassed to say how grateful and relieved I am that she offered. I felt so guilty letting her go. Most families want a young woman to watch over their children. It would have been hard for her to find another place. ”
“I know. And Selden would have been devastated. ” She cleared her throat. “So. What about Rache?”
“The same,” her mother said shortly.
Keffria began carefully, “If our finances are so strained, then perhaps paying Rache a wage is not as essential-”
“I don't see it that way,” Ronica stated abruptly.
Keffria was silent, simply looking at her.
After a short time, Ronica was the one to glance aside. “Beg pardon. I know I've been too sharp with everyone lately. ” She forced her voice to be conversational. “I feel it is important that Rache be paid something. Important for all of us. Not so important that I would put Malta at risk for it, but far more important than new frocks and hair ribbons. ”
“Actually, I agree,” Keffria said quietly. “I but wanted to discuss it with you. So. With those expenses agreed on . . . will we still have enough to pay the Festrews?”
Her mother nodded. “We have the gold, Keffria. I've set it aside, the full amount we owe, and the penalty. We can pay the Festrews. What we can't pay is anyone else. And there are a few who will come between now and then, demanding payment. ”
“What will you do?” Keffria asked. Then, remembering, she changed it to, “What do you think we should do?”
Ronica took a breath. “I suggest we wait and see who comes, and how insistent they are. The Vivacia is due before long. Some may be willing to be put off until she arrives, others may demand extra interest. If we are unlucky, there will be some that demand immediate payment. Then we will have to sell something from the holdings. ”
“But you believe that should be a final resort?”
“I do. ” Her mother spoke firmly. “Carriages, horses, even jewelry are all things that come and go. I don't think we've truly missed what we've sold. Oh, I know it has grated on Malta not to have new clothes this winter, but I don't think her suffering as been as acute as her temper. It is good for her to learn a little thrift; she has not had to practice it much at any other time in her life. ”
Keffria bit her tongue. Her daughter had become a painful topic, one she wished to discuss as little as possible. “But land?” she prompted her mother. It was a discussion they had had before. She didn't really know why she brought it up again.
“The holdings are another matter. As more and more folk come to Bingtown, the best land becomes ever more precious. If we sold what we have now, our best offers would come from new folk. That goes without saying. If we sell to them, we lose much goodwill from our Old Trader kin. We deliver more power into the hands of the new folk. And, to me the most telling point, we are selling something that can never be replaced. One can always buy a new carriage or some earrings. But there is no more bottom land near Bingtown to be had. Once ours is gone, we've given it up forever. ”
“I think you are right. And you believe we can hold out until the Vivacia returns?”
“I do. We had word that she hailed the Vestroy as they passed one another in Markham's Straits. That means she is right on schedule getting into Jamaillia. The southbound trip is always the trickiest this time of year. ” Her mother was only speaking what they both already knew. What was so reassuring about again sharing these thoughts? A belief that perhaps if one spoke them often enough, fate would listen and heed their plans? “If Kyle does as well with selling slaves as he believed he would, then when he returns, we should have enough to put ourselves current with our creditors. ” Ronica's voice was carefully neutral when she mentioned the slaves. She still did not approve. Well, neither did Keffria. But what else could they do?
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“If he does well with the slaves, then we will have enough,” she echoed her mother. “But only just enough. Mother, how long can we go on just keeping abreast of our debts? If prices for grain fall any lower, we shall be falling behind. Then what?”
“Then we shall not be alone,” her mother said in a dire v
Keffria took a breath. The things they had hoped would come to pass, they spoke of often. Now she dared to voice their unuttered fear. “Do you truly believe there will be an uprising against the Satrap? A war?” Even to speak of war against Jamaillia was difficult. Despite her being born in Bingtown, Jamaillia was still home. It was the motherland, the source, the pride of the folk of Bingtown, the seat of all civilization and learning. Jamaillia, gleaming white city to the south.
Her mother sat silent a long time before she replied. “A great deal will depend on how the Satrap replies to our envoys. There has been another disturbing rumor; they say the Satrap will hire Chalcedean mercenaries as escorts for Jamaillian trade ships and privateers to get rid of the pirates in the Inside Passage. Already people are arguing, saying we cannot allow armed Chalcedean ships in our harbor and waters. But I do not think there will be outright war. We are not a warring people, we are traders. The Satrap must know that all we are asking is that he keep his word to us. Our envoys carry with them the original charter for our company. It will be read aloud to the Satrap and his Companions. No one can deny what was promised us. He will have to call back the New Traders. ”
Keffria thought her mother was doing it again-speaking aloud what they hoped would be, trying to forge a reality from words. “Some thought he might offer us money in reparation,” she ventured.
“We would not take it,” her mother said quickly. “I was frankly shocked by Davad Restart when he suggested we should set an amount and seek it. One does not buy back one's word. ” Her voice went bitter as she added, “Sometimes I fear Davad has forgotten who he is. He spends so much time with the New Traders and takes their part so often. We stand between the world and our Rain Wild kin. Shall we take money for our family?”
“It is hard for me to care about them just now. Whenever I think of them, I feel them as a threat to Malta. ”
“A threat?” Ronica sounded almost offended. “Keffria, we must keep in mind that they are but holding us to our original agreement. Exactly the same thing we are requiring of the Satrap. ”
“Then it does not feel at all to you as if we would be selling her into slavery, if a time came when we did not have the payment and they claimed blood instead?”