She set a hand silently to Vivacia's silvery hull. “Please, Sa,” she prayed, but had no words to follow those. She had seldom prayed. It was not in her nature to depend on anyone else to give her what she wanted. She wondered if the great Mother of All would even hear the words of one who usually ignored her. Then she felt the warm response from Vivacia through the palm of her hand, and wondered if she had truly prayed to Sa at all. Maybe, like most sailors she knew, she believed more in her ship than in any divine providence.
“He's coming,” Vivacia breathed softly to her.
Althea moved a step deeper into her ship's shadow and waited.
She hated sneaking about like this, she hated having brief, clandestine meetings with her ship. But it was her only hope of success. She was sure that if Kyle had any notion of her plans, he'd do anything in his power to thwart her. Yet here she was, about to divulge those plans to Wintrow, and all on the basis of a single look exchanged with him. For a brief moment, she had seen her father's sense of honor in the boy's eyes. Now she was going to stake everything on her belief in him.
“Remember, boy, I'm watching you,” Torg's voice boomed nastily in the stillness. When only silence greeted this announcement, he barked, “Answer me, boy!”
“You didn't ask me a question,” Wintrow pointed out quietly. On the docks below, Althea gave the boy marks for guts, if not wisdom.
“You even try to jump ship tonight, and I'll kick your ass until your backbone splits,” Torg threatened him. “You understand me?”
“I understand you,” Wintrow's slight voice replied wearily. He sounded very young and very tired. Althea heard the slight scuff of bare feet, and then the sound of someone settling wearily to the deck. “I am too tired to think, let alone talk,” the boy said.
“Are you too tired to listen?” the ship asked him gently.
Althea heard the indistinct sounds of a yawn. “Only if you don't mind if I fall asleep in the middle of whatever you want to tell me.”
“I'm not the one who wishes you to listen,” Vivacia said quietly. “Althea Vestrit waits on the docks below. She is the one with something to say to you.”
“My Aunt Althea?” the boy asked in surprise. Althea saw his head appear over the railing above her. She stepped silently from the shadows to look up at him. She could see nothing of his face; he was merely a darker silhouette against the evening sky. “Everyone says you just disappeared,” he observed to her quietly.
“Yes. I did,” she admitted to him. She took a deep breath and her first risk. “Wintrow. If I speak frankly with you of what I plan to do, can you keep those plans a secret?”
He asked her a priest's question in reply. “Are you planning on doing something . . . wrong?”
She almost laughed at his tone. “No. I'm not going to kill your father or anything so rash as that.” She hesitated, trying to measure what little she knew of the boy. Vivacia had assured her that he was trustworthy. She hoped the young ship was right. “I am going to try to out-maneuver him, though. But it won't work if he knows of my plans. So I'm going to ask you to keep my secret.”
“Why are you telling anyone at all what you plan? A secret is kept best by one,” he pointed out to her.
That, of course, was the crux of it. She took a breath. “Because you are crucial to my plans. Without your promise to aid me, there is no sense in my even acting at all.”
The boy was silent for a time. “What you saw, that day, when he hit me. It might make you think I hate him, or wish his downfall. I don't. I just want him to keep his promise.”
“That's exactly what I want, also,” Althea replied quickly. “I'm not going to ask you to do anything wrong, Wintrow. I promise you that. But before I can say any more, I have to ask you to promise to keep my secret.”
It seemed to her that the boy took a very long time considering this. Were all priests so cautious about everything? “I will keep your secret,” he finally said. And she liked that about him. No vows or oaths, just the simple offering of his word. Through the palm of her hand, she felt the
Vivacia
respond with pleasure to her approval of him. Strange, that that should matter to the ship.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. She took her courage in both hands, and hoped he would not think she was a fool. “Do you remember that day clearly? The day he knocked you down in the dining room?”
“Most of it,” the boy said softly. “The parts when I was conscious, anyway.”
“Do you remember what your father said? He swore by Sa, and said that if but one reputable captain would vouch for my seamanship, he'd give my ship back to me. Do you remember that?” She held her breath.
“I do,” Wintrow said quietly.
She put both hands to the ship's hull. “And would you swear by Sa that you heard him say those words?”
“No.”
Althea's dreams crashed down through their straw foundations. She should have known it. How could she ever have thought the boy would stand up to his father in a great matter as this? How could she have been so stupid?
“I would vouch that I heard him say it,” Wintrow went on quietly. “But I would not swear. A priest of Sa does not swear by Sa.”
Althea's heart soared. It would be enough, it would have to be enough. “You'd give your word, as a man, as to what he said,” she pressed.
“Of course. It's only the truth. But,” he shook his head down at her, “I don't think it would do you any good. If my father will not keep his word to Sa to give me up to the priesthood, why should he keep his word on an angrily sworn oath? After all, this ship is worth much more to him than I am. I am sorry to say this to you, Althea, but I think your hopes of regaining your ship that way are groundless.”
“You let me worry about that,” she said in a shaky voice. Relief was flowing through her. She had one witness, and she felt she could rely on him. She would say nothing to the boy of the Traders' Council and the power it held. She had entrusted him with enough of her secret. She would burden him with no more of it. “As long as I know you will vouch for the truth, that your father spoke those words, I have hope.”
He received these words in silence. For a time Althea just stood there, her hands on her silent ship. She could almost feel the boy through the ship. His desolation and loneliness.
“We sail tomorrow,” he said finally. There was no joy in his voice.
“I envy you,” Althea told him.
“I know you do. I wish we could change places.”
“I wish it were that simple.” Althea tried to set aside her jealousy. “Wintrow. Trust the ship. She'll take care of you, and you take good care of her. I'm counting on both of you to watch out for each other.” She heard in her own voice the “doting relative” tone that she had always hated when she was young. She pushed it away, and spoke as if he were any young boy setting out on his maiden voyage. “I believe you'll grow to love this life and this ship. It's in your blood, you know. And if you do,” these words came harder, “if you do, and you are true to our ship, when I take her over, I'll make sure there's always a place for you aboard her. That is my promise to you.”
“Somehow I doubt I'll ever ask you to keep it. It's not that I don't like the ship, it's just that I can't imagine—”
“Who are you talking to, boy?” Torg demanded. His heavy feet thudded across the deck as Althea melted back into the ship's shadow. She held her breath. Wintrow wouldn't lie to Torg. She already knew that about him. And she couldn't stand by and let the boy take a beating for her, but she also couldn't risk Torg holding her for Kyle.
“I believe this is my hour with Wintrow,” Vivacia cut in sharply. “Who do you imagine he would be speaking to?”
“Is there someone on the docks down there?” Torg demanded. His bushy head was thrust out over the railing, but both the curve of Vivacia's hull and the deep shadow protected Althea. She held her breath.
“Why don't you haul your fat ass down there and see?” Vivacia asked nastily. Althea clearly heard Wintrow's gasp of astonishment. It was all she could do to keep from laughing. She sounded just like their cocky ship's boy, Mild, in one of his bolder moods.
“Yea? Well, maybe I'll just do that.”
“Don't trip in the dark,” the
Vivacia
warned him sweetly. “It would be a shame if you went overboard and drowned right here by the dock.” The liveship's peaceful rocking suddenly increased by the tiniest of increments. And in that moment her adolescent taunting of the man took on a darker edge that stood the hair up on the back of Althea's neck.
“You devil ship!” Torg hissed at her. “You don't scare me. I'm seeing who's down there.” Althea heard the thudding of his feet on the deck, but she couldn't decide if he hurried toward the gang-plank or away from the figurehead.
“Go now!” Vivacia hissed to her.
“I'm going. Good luck. My heart sails with you.” Althea no more than breathed the words, but she knew the ship did not need to hear her speak so long as she touched her. She slipped away from the
Vivacia,
staying to the deepest shadows as she fled. “Sa keep them both safe, especially from themselves,” she said under her breath, and this time she knew that she uttered a true prayer.
RONICA VESTRIT WAITED ALONE IN THE KITCHEN. OUTSIDE THE
night was full, the summer insects chirring, the stars glinting through the trees. Soon the gong at the edge of the field would sound. The thought filled her stomach with butterflies. No. Moths. Moths were more fitting to the night and the rendezvous she awaited.
She had given the servants the night off, and finally told Rache pointedly that she wished to be alone. The slave woman had been so grateful to her lately that it was difficult to be rid of her sad-eyed company. Keffria had her teaching Malta to dance now, and how to hold a fan and even how to discourse with men. Ronica found it appalling that she would entrust her daughter's instruction in such things to a relative stranger, but understood also that lately Keffria and Malta had not been on the best of terms. She was not informed as to the full extent of their quarreling, and fervently hoped she would not be. She had problems enough of her own, real and serious problems, without listening to her daughter's squabbles with her grand-daughter. At least Malta was keeping Rache busy and out from under foot. Most of the time.
Twice now Davad had hinted he'd like the slave to be returned to him. Each time Keffria had thanked him so profusely for all Rache's help, all the while exclaiming that she didn't know how she'd get along without her, that there had been no gracious way for Davad to simply ask for her back. Ronica wondered how long that tactic would suffice, and what she would do when it did not. Buy the girl? Become a slave-owner herself? The thought made her squeamish. But it was also endlessly aggravating that the poor woman had so attached herself to her. At any time when she was not busy with something else, Rache would be lurking outside whatever chamber Ronica was in, looking for an opportunity to leap forth and be of some service to her. She devoutly wished the woman would find some sort of life for herself. One to replace the one that her slavery had stolen from her, she asked herself wryly?
In the distance, a gong rang, soft as a chime.
She arose nervously and paced around the kitchen, only to come back to the table. She had set it and arranged it herself. There were two tall white candles of finest beeswax to honor her guest. The best china and her finest silver decked the table upon a cloth of heavy cream lacework. Trays of dainty tarts vied with platters of subtly smoked oysters and fresh herbs in bitter sauce. A fine old bottle of wine awaited as well. The grandness of the food was to indicate how she respected her guest, while secrecy and the kitchen setting reminded them both of the old agreements to both protect and defend one another. Nervously Ronica pushed the silver spoons into a minutely improved alignment. Silliness. This was not the first time that she had received a delegate from the Rain Wild Traders. Twice a year since she had been married to Ephron they had come. It was only the first time she had received one since his death. And the first time she had not been able to amass the full payment due.
The small but weighty casket of gold was two measures light. Two measures. Ronica intended to admit it, to bring it up herself before embarrassing questions could be asked. To admit it, and offer an increase in interest on the next payment. What else, after all, could she do? Or the delegate? A partial payment was better than none, and the Rain Wild folk needed her gold far more than anything else she could offer them. Or so she hoped.
Despite her anticipation, she still startled when the light tap came on the door. “Welcome!” she called without moving to open the door. Quickly she blew out the branch of candles that had illuminated the room. She saved but one, to light the two tall beeswax tapers before she extinguished it. Ornamental hoods of beaten brass with decorative shapes cut out of them were then carefully lowered over the tapers. Now the room was lit only by a scattering of leaf-shaped bits of light. Ronica nodded approval to herself at the effect, and then stepped quickly to open the door herself.
“I bid you welcome to my home. Enter, and be at home also.” The words were the old formality, but Ronica's voice was warm with genuine feeling.
“Thank you,” the Rain Wild woman replied. She came in, glanced about to nod her approval at the privacy and the lowered lights. She ungloved her hands, passing the soft leather garments to Ronica and then pushed back the cowl that had sheltered her face and hair. Ronica held herself steady, and met the woman's eyes with her own. She did not permit her expression to change at all.
“I have prepared refreshment for you, after your long journey. Will you be seated at my table?”
“Most gratefully,” her companion replied.
The two women curtseyed to one another. “I, Ronica Vestrit, of the Vestrit Family of the Bingtown Traders, make you welcome to my table and my home. I recall all our most ancient pledges to one another, Bingtown to Rain Wilds, and also our private agreement regarding the liveship
Vivacia,
the product of both our families.”