Ship of Magic by Robin Hobb
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“Sure. So tell me again why this one was hauled out and abandoned?” The younger voice sounded extremely skeptical. Mingsley did not trust his older guide, that much was certain.
Paragon could almost hear the older man shrug. “You know what a superstitious lot sailors are. This ship has a reputation for bad luck. Very bad luck. I might as well tell you, because if I don't someone else will. He's killed a lot of men, the Paragon has. Including the owner and his son. ”
“Um. ” Mingsley mused. “Well, if I buy it, I wouldn't be buying it as a ship. I wouldn't expect to pay a ship's price for it, either. Quite honestly, it's the wood I want. I've heard a lot of strange things about it, and not just that the liveships quicken and then move and speak. I've seen that down in the harbor. Not that a newcomer like me is very welcome on the North wall where the liveships tie up. But I've seen them move and heard them speak. Seems to me, if you can make a figurehead do that, you could do it with a smaller carving of the same wood. Do you know how much they'd pay for something like that in Jamaillia City? A moving, speaking carving?”
“I've no idea,” the older man demurred.
The young man gave a snort of sarcastic laughter. “Of course you don't! It's never occurred to you, has it? Come on, man, be honest with me. Why hasn't this ever been done before?”
“I don't know. ” The older man spoke too hastily to be believable.
“Right,” Mingsley replied skeptically. “All the years Bingtown has existed on the Cursed Shores, and no one has thought of marketing wizardwood anywhere except to the residents of Bingtown. And then only as ships. What's the real catch? Does it have to be this big before it can quicken? Does it have to be immersed in salt water a certain amount of the time? What?”
“It's just . . . never been done. Bingtown is an odd place, Mingsley. We have our own traditions, our own folklore, our own superstitions. When our ancestors left Jamaillia all those years ago and came to try to colonize the Cursed Shores, well . . . most came because they had no other options left. Some were criminals, some had shamed or ruined their family names, some were very unpopular with the Satrap himself. It was almost an exiling. They were told that if they survived, each family could claim two hundred leffers of land and would be granted amnesty for their past. He also promised us we would be left in peace, with trade monopoly over whatever goods we found worth trading. In return for the Satrap granting them this, they ceded to him a fifty percent tax on their profits. For years, this bargain worked well. ”
“And now it no longer does. ” Mingsley laughed mockingly. “How could anyone believe that such a bargain would last forever? Satraps are human. And Satrap Cosgo finds the contents of his coffers too small for the habits of pleasure he acquired while waiting for his father to die. Chalcedean pleasure herbs are not cheap, and once the habit has been acquired, well, lesser herbs simply do not compare. And so he sold, to me and my friends, new trading and land grants for Bingtown and the Cursed Shores. And we have come and been very poorly welcomed by you all. You act as if we will snatch the bread from your mouths, when all know that business but begets more business. Why, look at us here. This ship has been rotting here for thirty years, or so you say, of no use to its owners or anyone else. But if I buy, the owner will get a nice price, I don't doubt you will work yourself a nice commission and I will have a quantity of this mysterious wizardwood. ” Mingsley paused and Paragon could hear the silence that his companion allowed to grow.
After a moment, Mingsley continued discontentedly, “But I will admit I am disappointed. I thought you said the ship had quickened. I thought it would speak to us. You did not mention it had been vandalized. Did that kill it?”
“The Paragon speaks only when it pleases him. I don't doubt he's heard every word we said. ”
“Hmf. Is that true, ship? Have you heard every word we've said?”
Paragon saw no reason to reply. After a time, he heard the younger man make an expression of disgust. His footsteps began a slow circuit of the ship, while his heavier, slower companion followed.
After a time, Mingsley spoke again. “Well, my friend, I'm afraid this substantially lowers what I shall offer for the ship. My first estimate to you was based on the concept that I could cut the figurehead free of the ship, take it to Jamaillia City, and sell the quickened wood for a goodly sum. Or more likely, I would end up 'gifting' it to the Satrap for some extensive land grants. But as it is . . . wizardwood or not, it's a singularly ugly bit of carving. What possessed someone to chop the face up so badly? I wonder if an artisan could reshape it into something more pleasing?”
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“Perhaps,” his companion conceded uneasily. “I do not know that that would be wise. I had assumed you were interested in the Paragon as he is, not as a source of wizardwood. Though you must recall, as I warned you, I have not yet approached the Ludlucks with the idea of selling him. I did not wish to broach the idea unless I was sure you were interested. ”
“Come, Davad, you cannot believe me so naive as that. What is 'he,' besides a beached hulk? The owners will probably be glad to be rid of him. Were this ship seaworthy, it would hardly be chained to the beach like this. ”
“Well. ” A long pause. “I do not think even the Ludlucks would be moved to sell him, if he is to be chopped into bits. ” An intake of breath. “Mingsley, I caution you not to do this. To buy the ship and re-fit it is one thing. What you are speaking of is something else entirely. None of the Old Traders would deal with you if you did such a thing. As for me, I would be ruined entirely. ”
“Then you must be discreet about that when you make my offer. As I have been discreet about buying this hulk. ” Mingsley sounded condescending. “I know the Bingtown Traders have many odd superstitions. And I have no wish to flout them. If my offer is accepted, I will float the ship and tow it off before I dismantle it. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying is. Does that satisfy you?”
“I suppose it must,” the man muttered discontentedly. “I suppose it must. ”
“Oh, don't be so glum. Come. Let us go back to town, and I shall buy you dinner. At Souska's. Now that's a handsome offer, you must admit, for I know the prices there, and I've seen you eat. ” The younger man laughed appreciatively at his own humor. The older man did not join in. “And then this evening you will call on the Ludluck family and 'discreetly' present my offer. It's all to everyone's good. Money for the Ludlucks, a commission for you, a large supply of rare wood for my backers. Show me the ill fortune in that, Davad. ”
“I cannot,” the older man said quietly. “But I fear you will find it for yourself. Whether he speaks or not, this ship is quickened, and he has a mind of his own. Try to chop him into bits, and I am sure he will not be silent for long. ”
The younger man laughed merrily. “You but do this to pique my interest, Davad. I know you do. Come. Let's back to town. And Souska's. Some of my backers would very much like to meet you. ”
“You promised to be discreet!” the older man objected.
“Oh, I have been, I assure you. But you cannot expect men to advance me money on my word alone. They want to know what they are buying, and from whom. But they are discreet men, one and all, I promise you. ”
Paragon listened for a long time to their retreating footsteps. Eventually the small sounds of men were swallowed by the more pervasive sounds of the waves and the gulls' cries.
“Chopped into bits. ” Paragon tried the phrase out loud. “Well, it does not sound pleasant. On the other hand, it would at least be more interesting than laying here. And it might kill me. It might. ”
The prospect pleased him. He let his thoughts drift again, toying with this new idea. He had nothing else to occupy his mind.
CHAPTER THREE - EPHRON VESTRIT
EPHRON VESTRIT WAS DYING. RONICA LOOKED AT HER HUSBAND'S DIMINISHED FACE AND IMPRESSED THE thought on her mind. Ephron Vestrit was dying. She felt a wave
of anger, followed by one of annoyance with him. How could he do this to her? How could he die now and leave her to handle everything by herself?
Somewhere beneath the tides of those superficial emotions she knew the cold deep current of her grief sought to pull her down and drown her. She fought savagely to be free of it, fought to keep feeling only the anger and irritation. Later, she told herself. Later, when I have pulled through this and have done all the things I must do, then I will stop and feel. Later.
For now she folded her lips tight in exasperation. She dipped a cloth in the warm balsam-scented water, and gently wiped first his face and then his lax hands. He stirred lightly under her ministrations, but did not waken. She had not expected him to. She'd given him the poppy syrup twice today already, to try to keep the pain at bay. Perhaps for now, the pain had no control over him. She hoped so.
She wiped gently at his beard again. That clumsy Rache had let him dribble broth all over himself again. It was as if the woman just didn't care to do things properly. Ronica supposed she should just send her back to Davad Restart; she hated to, for the woman was young and intelligent. Surely she did not deserve to end up as a slave.
Davad had simply brought the woman to her house one day. Ronica had assumed she was a relative or guest of Davad, for when she was not staring sorrowfully at nothing, her genteel diction and manners had suggested she was well-born. Ronica had been shocked when Davad had bluntly offered the woman to her as a servant, saying he dared not keep her in his own household. He'd never fully explained that statement, and Rache refused to say anything at all on the topic. Ronica supposed that if she sent Rache back to Davad, he would shrug and send her on to Chalced to be sold as a slave. While she remained in Bingtown, she was nominally an indentured servant. She still had a chance to regain a life of her own, if she would but try. Instead Rache was simply refusing to adapt to her changed status. She obeyed the orders she was given, but not with anything like grace or goodwill.
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In fact, as the weeks passed, it seemed to Ronica that Rache had become more and more grudging in her duties. Yesterday Ronica had asked her to take charge of Selden for the day, and the woman had looked stricken. Her grandson was only seven, but the woman seemed to have a strange aversion to him. She had shaken her head, fiercely and mutely, her eyes lowered, until Ronica had ordered her off to the kitchen instead. Perhaps she was seeing how far she could push her new mistress before Ronica ordered her punished. Well, she'd find that Ronica Vestrit was not the kind of woman who ordered her servants beaten or their rations reduced. If Rache could not find it within herself to accept living comfortably in a well-appointed house with relatively light duties and a gentle mistress, well, then, she would have to go back to Davad, and eventually take her place on the block and see what fate dealt her next. That was all there was to it. A shame, for the woman had promise.
A shame, too, that despite Davad's kindness in offering Rache's services to her, the Old Trader was perilously close to becoming a slave dealer. She had never thought to see one of the old family lines enticed into such a scurrilous trade. Ronica shook her head, and put both Rache and Davad out of her mind. She had other, more important things to think of beside Rache's sour temperament and Davad's dabbling in semi-legal professions.
After all, Ephron was dying.
The knowledge jabbed at her again. It was like a splinter in the foot that one could not find and dig out. That little knife of knowing stabbed into her at every step.
Ephron was dying. Her big bold husband, her dashing and handsome young sea-captain, the strong father of her children, the mate of her body was suddenly this collapsed flesh that sweated and moaned and whimpered like a child. When they had first been married, her two hands could not span the muscled right arm of her groom. Now that arm was no more than a stick of bone clothed in slack flesh. She looked down into his face. It had lost the weathering of the sea and wind; it was almost the color of the linen he lay on. His hair was black as ever, but the sheen had fled it, leaving it dull when it was not matted with sweat. No. It was hard to find any trace of the Ephron she had known and loved for thirty-six years.
She set aside her basin and cloth. She knew she should leave him to sleep. It was all she could do for him anymore. Keep him clean, dose him against pain and then leave him to sleep. She thought bitterly of all the plans they had made together, conspiring until dawn as they sprawled together on their big bed, the stifling blankets thrown aside, the windows flung open to the cool night breeze.
“When the girls are grown,” he'd promised her, “wedded and bedded, with lives of their own, then, my lass, we'll take up our own life again. I've a mind to carry you off with me to the Perfume Isles. Would you fancy that? Twelvemonth of clean salt air and naught to do but be the captain's lady? And then, when we get there, why, we shall not hurry to take on a cargo. We shall go together, into the Green Mountains. I know a chieftain there who's often invited me to come and see his village. We could ride those funny little donkeys of theirs, right up to the very edge of the sky, and . . . ”
“I'd rather stay home with you,” she'd always said then. “I'd rather keep you at home here with me for a full year, have you beside me to see a full turning of the seasons with me. We could go to our holdings in the hills for spring; you've never seen it, when the trees are covered with red and orange blossoms, with not a leaf to be seen on one of them. And once, just once, I'd like to have you suffer alongside me during the mafe harvest. Up every morning before dawn, rousing the workers, getting them out to pick the ripe beans before the sun can touch them and shrivel them. Thirty-six years we've been married, and never once have you had to help me with that. Come to think of it, in all the years we've been married, you've never been home for the blooming of our wedding tree. You've never seen the pink buds swell and then open, so full of fragrance. ”
“Oh, there will be time enough for that. Time enough for posies and land work, when the girls are grown and the debts paid. ”
“And when they are, I'll have a year of you, all to myself,” she'd threatened him. And always he'd promised her, “A whole year of me. You'll probably be heartily sick of me before it's done. You'll be begging me to go back to sea and leave you to sleep nights in peace. ”
Ronica bowed her face into her hands. She'd had her year of him at home; woeful gods, but what a way to gain her wish. She'd had a fall of him coughing and fractious, feverish and red-eyed, lying in their bed all day and staring out the window at the sea whenever he was well enough to sit. “He'd best be taking care of them,” he'd growled whenever the sky showed a dark cloud, and Ronica had known that his thoughts were always with Althea and the Vivacia. He'd been so reluctant to turn the ship over to Kyle. He'd wanted to give it to Brashen, an untried boy. It had taken Ronica weeks of arguing with him to make him see how that would look to the town. Kyle was his own son-in-law, and had proved himself as captain on three other ships. If he'd passed him over to put Brashen in charge of the Vivacia, it would have been a slap in the face to his daughter's husband, to say nothing of his family. Even though the Havens were not Bingtown Traders, they were an old family in Bingtown nonetheless. And the way the Vestrit fortunes were faring lately, they could afford to offend no one. So last autumn she'd persuaded him to entrust his precious Vivacia to Kyle and take a trip off, to strengthen his lungs again.
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As winter had darkened their skies and whitened the streets, he'd stopped coughing. She had thought he was getting better, except that he couldn't seem to do anything. At first, when he walked the length of the house, he'd lost his breath. Soon he was stopping to breathe between their bedroom and the parlor. By the time spring came, he could not cover the distance unless he leaned on her arm.
He'd finally been home for the blooming of their wedding tree. As the year warmed, the tree had budded. There had been a few weeks when, if Ephron was not getting better, at
least he got no worse. She sat by his lounge and sewed or did the accounts while he did scrimshaw or made rope mats for the doorsteps. They had spoken of the future and he had fretted about his ship and daughter. The only times they had disagreed had been over Althea. But there was nothing new about that. They'd been disagreeing about her for as long as they'd had her.
Ephron had never been able to admit that he spoiled their youngest child. The Blood Plague had carried off their boys, one by one, back in that hellish disease year. Even now, close to twenty years later, Ronica felt the squeeze in her chest when she thought of it. Three sons, three bright little boys, taken in less than a week. Keffria had barely come through it alive. Ronica had thought it would drive them both mad, to see the tree of their family stripped of every male flower. Instead, Ephron had suddenly turned his attention and hopes to the babe that had sheltered inside her womb. Attentive as he had never been during her other pregnancies, he had even tied up the ship for an extra two weeks to be sure of being home when the child was born.
When the babe had been a girl, Ronica had expected Ephron to be bitter. Instead, he had given all his attention to his young daughter, as if somehow his will could make a man of her. He had encouraged her wildness and stubbornness until Ronica despaired of her. Ephron had always denied it was anything other than high spirits. He refused her nothing, and when Althea one day demanded to go with him on his next voyage, Ephron had even consented to that. It had been a short trip, and Ronica had met the ship at the docks, convinced she would get back a girl who had had more than enough of the rough living conditions on the ship. Instead she'd seen a wild monkey up the rigging, her black hair cut back to no more than a brush, barefoot and bare-armed. Ever since then, she had sailed with her father. And now she sailed without him.
They'd had words about that, too. It had taken all her words and his pain atop them to convince him that he should stay home for a time. Ronica had assumed that, of course, Althea would stay home, too. What business had she aboard a ship without her father? When she had suggested as much to Ephron, he had been aghast.
“Sure. So tell me again why this one was hauled out and abandoned?” The younger voice sounded extremely skeptical. Mingsley did not trust his older guide, that much was certain.
Paragon could almost hear the older man shrug. “You know what a superstitious lot sailors are. This ship has a reputation for bad luck. Very bad luck. I might as well tell you, because if I don't someone else will. He's killed a lot of men, the Paragon has. Including the owner and his son. ”
“Um. ” Mingsley mused. “Well, if I buy it, I wouldn't be buying it as a ship. I wouldn't expect to pay a ship's price for it, either. Quite honestly, it's the wood I want. I've heard a lot of strange things about it, and not just that the liveships quicken and then move and speak. I've seen that down in the harbor. Not that a newcomer like me is very welcome on the North wall where the liveships tie up. But I've seen them move and heard them speak. Seems to me, if you can make a figurehead do that, you could do it with a smaller carving of the same wood. Do you know how much they'd pay for something like that in Jamaillia City? A moving, speaking carving?”
“I've no idea,” the older man demurred.
The young man gave a snort of sarcastic laughter. “Of course you don't! It's never occurred to you, has it? Come on, man, be honest with me. Why hasn't this ever been done before?”
“I don't know. ” The older man spoke too hastily to be believable.
“Right,” Mingsley replied skeptically. “All the years Bingtown has existed on the Cursed Shores, and no one has thought of marketing wizardwood anywhere except to the residents of Bingtown. And then only as ships. What's the real catch? Does it have to be this big before it can quicken? Does it have to be immersed in salt water a certain amount of the time? What?”
“It's just . . . never been done. Bingtown is an odd place, Mingsley. We have our own traditions, our own folklore, our own superstitions. When our ancestors left Jamaillia all those years ago and came to try to colonize the Cursed Shores, well . . . most came because they had no other options left. Some were criminals, some had shamed or ruined their family names, some were very unpopular with the Satrap himself. It was almost an exiling. They were told that if they survived, each family could claim two hundred leffers of land and would be granted amnesty for their past. He also promised us we would be left in peace, with trade monopoly over whatever goods we found worth trading. In return for the Satrap granting them this, they ceded to him a fifty percent tax on their profits. For years, this bargain worked well. ”
“And now it no longer does. ” Mingsley laughed mockingly. “How could anyone believe that such a bargain would last forever? Satraps are human. And Satrap Cosgo finds the contents of his coffers too small for the habits of pleasure he acquired while waiting for his father to die. Chalcedean pleasure herbs are not cheap, and once the habit has been acquired, well, lesser herbs simply do not compare. And so he sold, to me and my friends, new trading and land grants for Bingtown and the Cursed Shores. And we have come and been very poorly welcomed by you all. You act as if we will snatch the bread from your mouths, when all know that business but begets more business. Why, look at us here. This ship has been rotting here for thirty years, or so you say, of no use to its owners or anyone else. But if I buy, the owner will get a nice price, I don't doubt you will work yourself a nice commission and I will have a quantity of this mysterious wizardwood. ” Mingsley paused and Paragon could hear the silence that his companion allowed to grow.
After a moment, Mingsley continued discontentedly, “But I will admit I am disappointed. I thought you said the ship had quickened. I thought it would speak to us. You did not mention it had been vandalized. Did that kill it?”
“The Paragon speaks only when it pleases him. I don't doubt he's heard every word we said. ”
“Hmf. Is that true, ship? Have you heard every word we've said?”
Paragon saw no reason to reply. After a time, he heard the younger man make an expression of disgust. His footsteps began a slow circuit of the ship, while his heavier, slower companion followed.
After a time, Mingsley spoke again. “Well, my friend, I'm afraid this substantially lowers what I shall offer for the ship. My first estimate to you was based on the concept that I could cut the figurehead free of the ship, take it to Jamaillia City, and sell the quickened wood for a goodly sum. Or more likely, I would end up 'gifting' it to the Satrap for some extensive land grants. But as it is . . . wizardwood or not, it's a singularly ugly bit of carving. What possessed someone to chop the face up so badly? I wonder if an artisan could reshape it into something more pleasing?”
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“Perhaps,” his companion conceded uneasily. “I do not know that that would be wise. I had assumed you were interested in the Paragon as he is, not as a source of wizardwood. Though you must recall, as I warned you, I have not yet approached the Ludlucks with the idea of selling him. I did not wish to broach the idea unless I was sure you were interested. ”
“Come, Davad, you cannot believe me so naive as that. What is 'he,' besides a beached hulk? The owners will probably be glad to be rid of him. Were this ship seaworthy, it would hardly be chained to the beach like this. ”
“Well. ” A long pause. “I do not think even the Ludlucks would be moved to sell him, if he is to be chopped into bits. ” An intake of breath. “Mingsley, I caution you not to do this. To buy the ship and re-fit it is one thing. What you are speaking of is something else entirely. None of the Old Traders would deal with you if you did such a thing. As for me, I would be ruined entirely. ”
“Then you must be discreet about that when you make my offer. As I have been discreet about buying this hulk. ” Mingsley sounded condescending. “I know the Bingtown Traders have many odd superstitions. And I have no wish to flout them. If my offer is accepted, I will float the ship and tow it off before I dismantle it. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying is. Does that satisfy you?”
“I suppose it must,” the man muttered discontentedly. “I suppose it must. ”
“Oh, don't be so glum. Come. Let us go back to town, and I shall buy you dinner. At Souska's. Now that's a handsome offer, you must admit, for I know the prices there, and I've seen you eat. ” The younger man laughed appreciatively at his own humor. The older man did not join in. “And then this evening you will call on the Ludluck family and 'discreetly' present my offer. It's all to everyone's good. Money for the Ludlucks, a commission for you, a large supply of rare wood for my backers. Show me the ill fortune in that, Davad. ”
“I cannot,” the older man said quietly. “But I fear you will find it for yourself. Whether he speaks or not, this ship is quickened, and he has a mind of his own. Try to chop him into bits, and I am sure he will not be silent for long. ”
The younger man laughed merrily. “You but do this to pique my interest, Davad. I know you do. Come. Let's back to town. And Souska's. Some of my backers would very much like to meet you. ”
“You promised to be discreet!” the older man objected.
“Oh, I have been, I assure you. But you cannot expect men to advance me money on my word alone. They want to know what they are buying, and from whom. But they are discreet men, one and all, I promise you. ”
Paragon listened for a long time to their retreating footsteps. Eventually the small sounds of men were swallowed by the more pervasive sounds of the waves and the gulls' cries.
“Chopped into bits. ” Paragon tried the phrase out loud. “Well, it does not sound pleasant. On the other hand, it would at least be more interesting than laying here. And it might kill me. It might. ”
The prospect pleased him. He let his thoughts drift again, toying with this new idea. He had nothing else to occupy his mind.
CHAPTER THREE - EPHRON VESTRIT
EPHRON VESTRIT WAS DYING. RONICA LOOKED AT HER HUSBAND'S DIMINISHED FACE AND IMPRESSED THE thought on her mind. Ephron Vestrit was dying. She felt a wave
Somewhere beneath the tides of those superficial emotions she knew the cold deep current of her grief sought to pull her down and drown her. She fought savagely to be free of it, fought to keep feeling only the anger and irritation. Later, she told herself. Later, when I have pulled through this and have done all the things I must do, then I will stop and feel. Later.
For now she folded her lips tight in exasperation. She dipped a cloth in the warm balsam-scented water, and gently wiped first his face and then his lax hands. He stirred lightly under her ministrations, but did not waken. She had not expected him to. She'd given him the poppy syrup twice today already, to try to keep the pain at bay. Perhaps for now, the pain had no control over him. She hoped so.
She wiped gently at his beard again. That clumsy Rache had let him dribble broth all over himself again. It was as if the woman just didn't care to do things properly. Ronica supposed she should just send her back to Davad Restart; she hated to, for the woman was young and intelligent. Surely she did not deserve to end up as a slave.
Davad had simply brought the woman to her house one day. Ronica had assumed she was a relative or guest of Davad, for when she was not staring sorrowfully at nothing, her genteel diction and manners had suggested she was well-born. Ronica had been shocked when Davad had bluntly offered the woman to her as a servant, saying he dared not keep her in his own household. He'd never fully explained that statement, and Rache refused to say anything at all on the topic. Ronica supposed that if she sent Rache back to Davad, he would shrug and send her on to Chalced to be sold as a slave. While she remained in Bingtown, she was nominally an indentured servant. She still had a chance to regain a life of her own, if she would but try. Instead Rache was simply refusing to adapt to her changed status. She obeyed the orders she was given, but not with anything like grace or goodwill.
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In fact, as the weeks passed, it seemed to Ronica that Rache had become more and more grudging in her duties. Yesterday Ronica had asked her to take charge of Selden for the day, and the woman had looked stricken. Her grandson was only seven, but the woman seemed to have a strange aversion to him. She had shaken her head, fiercely and mutely, her eyes lowered, until Ronica had ordered her off to the kitchen instead. Perhaps she was seeing how far she could push her new mistress before Ronica ordered her punished. Well, she'd find that Ronica Vestrit was not the kind of woman who ordered her servants beaten or their rations reduced. If Rache could not find it within herself to accept living comfortably in a well-appointed house with relatively light duties and a gentle mistress, well, then, she would have to go back to Davad, and eventually take her place on the block and see what fate dealt her next. That was all there was to it. A shame, for the woman had promise.
A shame, too, that despite Davad's kindness in offering Rache's services to her, the Old Trader was perilously close to becoming a slave dealer. She had never thought to see one of the old family lines enticed into such a scurrilous trade. Ronica shook her head, and put both Rache and Davad out of her mind. She had other, more important things to think of beside Rache's sour temperament and Davad's dabbling in semi-legal professions.
After all, Ephron was dying.
The knowledge jabbed at her again. It was like a splinter in the foot that one could not find and dig out. That little knife of knowing stabbed into her at every step.
Ephron was dying. Her big bold husband, her dashing and handsome young sea-captain, the strong father of her children, the mate of her body was suddenly this collapsed flesh that sweated and moaned and whimpered like a child. When they had first been married, her two hands could not span the muscled right arm of her groom. Now that arm was no more than a stick of bone clothed in slack flesh. She looked down into his face. It had lost the weathering of the sea and wind; it was almost the color of the linen he lay on. His hair was black as ever, but the sheen had fled it, leaving it dull when it was not matted with sweat. No. It was hard to find any trace of the Ephron she had known and loved for thirty-six years.
She set aside her basin and cloth. She knew she should leave him to sleep. It was all she could do for him anymore. Keep him clean, dose him against pain and then leave him to sleep. She thought bitterly of all the plans they had made together, conspiring until dawn as they sprawled together on their big bed, the stifling blankets thrown aside, the windows flung open to the cool night breeze.
“When the girls are grown,” he'd promised her, “wedded and bedded, with lives of their own, then, my lass, we'll take up our own life again. I've a mind to carry you off with me to the Perfume Isles. Would you fancy that? Twelvemonth of clean salt air and naught to do but be the captain's lady? And then, when we get there, why, we shall not hurry to take on a cargo. We shall go together, into the Green Mountains. I know a chieftain there who's often invited me to come and see his village. We could ride those funny little donkeys of theirs, right up to the very edge of the sky, and . . . ”
“I'd rather stay home with you,” she'd always said then. “I'd rather keep you at home here with me for a full year, have you beside me to see a full turning of the seasons with me. We could go to our holdings in the hills for spring; you've never seen it, when the trees are covered with red and orange blossoms, with not a leaf to be seen on one of them. And once, just once, I'd like to have you suffer alongside me during the mafe harvest. Up every morning before dawn, rousing the workers, getting them out to pick the ripe beans before the sun can touch them and shrivel them. Thirty-six years we've been married, and never once have you had to help me with that. Come to think of it, in all the years we've been married, you've never been home for the blooming of our wedding tree. You've never seen the pink buds swell and then open, so full of fragrance. ”
“Oh, there will be time enough for that. Time enough for posies and land work, when the girls are grown and the debts paid. ”
“And when they are, I'll have a year of you, all to myself,” she'd threatened him. And always he'd promised her, “A whole year of me. You'll probably be heartily sick of me before it's done. You'll be begging me to go back to sea and leave you to sleep nights in peace. ”
Ronica bowed her face into her hands. She'd had her year of him at home; woeful gods, but what a way to gain her wish. She'd had a fall of him coughing and fractious, feverish and red-eyed, lying in their bed all day and staring out the window at the sea whenever he was well enough to sit. “He'd best be taking care of them,” he'd growled whenever the sky showed a dark cloud, and Ronica had known that his thoughts were always with Althea and the Vivacia. He'd been so reluctant to turn the ship over to Kyle. He'd wanted to give it to Brashen, an untried boy. It had taken Ronica weeks of arguing with him to make him see how that would look to the town. Kyle was his own son-in-law, and had proved himself as captain on three other ships. If he'd passed him over to put Brashen in charge of the Vivacia, it would have been a slap in the face to his daughter's husband, to say nothing of his family. Even though the Havens were not Bingtown Traders, they were an old family in Bingtown nonetheless. And the way the Vestrit fortunes were faring lately, they could afford to offend no one. So last autumn she'd persuaded him to entrust his precious Vivacia to Kyle and take a trip off, to strengthen his lungs again.
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As winter had darkened their skies and whitened the streets, he'd stopped coughing. She had thought he was getting better, except that he couldn't seem to do anything. At first, when he walked the length of the house, he'd lost his breath. Soon he was stopping to breathe between their bedroom and the parlor. By the time spring came, he could not cover the distance unless he leaned on her arm.
He'd finally been home for the blooming of their wedding tree. As the year warmed, the tree had budded. There had been a few weeks when, if Ephron was not getting better, at
Ephron had never been able to admit that he spoiled their youngest child. The Blood Plague had carried off their boys, one by one, back in that hellish disease year. Even now, close to twenty years later, Ronica felt the squeeze in her chest when she thought of it. Three sons, three bright little boys, taken in less than a week. Keffria had barely come through it alive. Ronica had thought it would drive them both mad, to see the tree of their family stripped of every male flower. Instead, Ephron had suddenly turned his attention and hopes to the babe that had sheltered inside her womb. Attentive as he had never been during her other pregnancies, he had even tied up the ship for an extra two weeks to be sure of being home when the child was born.
When the babe had been a girl, Ronica had expected Ephron to be bitter. Instead, he had given all his attention to his young daughter, as if somehow his will could make a man of her. He had encouraged her wildness and stubbornness until Ronica despaired of her. Ephron had always denied it was anything other than high spirits. He refused her nothing, and when Althea one day demanded to go with him on his next voyage, Ephron had even consented to that. It had been a short trip, and Ronica had met the ship at the docks, convinced she would get back a girl who had had more than enough of the rough living conditions on the ship. Instead she'd seen a wild monkey up the rigging, her black hair cut back to no more than a brush, barefoot and bare-armed. Ever since then, she had sailed with her father. And now she sailed without him.
They'd had words about that, too. It had taken all her words and his pain atop them to convince him that he should stay home for a time. Ronica had assumed that, of course, Althea would stay home, too. What business had she aboard a ship without her father? When she had suggested as much to Ephron, he had been aghast.