Kyle continued to ignore her, but she refused to rise to his bait. She stood silent and patient, but did not let his apparent disinterest fluster her. After a time he lifted his eyes to regard her. Their blueness was as unlike her father's steady black eyes as his unruly blond hair was unlike her father's smooth black queue. Once more she wondered with distaste what had ever possessed her older sister to desire such a man. His Chalcedean blood showed in his ways as much as in his body. She tried to keep her disdain from showing on her face, but her control was wearing thin. She'd been too long at sea with this man.
This last voyage had been interminable. Kyle had muddled what should have been a simple two-month turnaround trip along Chalced's coast into a five-month trading trek full of unnecessary stops and marginally profitable trade runs. She was convinced all of it was an effort on his part to show her father what a sly trader he could be. For herself, she had not been impressed. At Tusk he had stopped and taken on pickled sea-duck eggs, always an uncertain cargo, and barely made dock in Brigtown in time to sell them off before they went rotten. In Brigtown, he'd taken on bales of cotton, not just enough to fill the empty space in the holds but enough to make a partial deck load as well. Althea had had to bite her tongue and watch her crew take their chances as they scrambled over and around the heavy bales, and then they'd had a late gale that had soaked and most likely ruined the portion of the load on deck. She hadn't even asked him what the profit had been, if any, when he'd stopped to auction it off in Dursay. Dursay had been their last port. The wine casks had yet again been shifted about to allow for a whim cargo. Now, in addition to the wines and brandies that had comprised their original cargo, the hold was stuffed with crates of comfer nuts. Kyle had held forth endlessly on the good price they'd bring, both for the fragrant oil from their kernels for soap and the lovely yellow dye that could be made from their husks. Althea thought that if he crowed once more about the extra profit this would wring from the voyage, she'd throttle him. But self-congratulation was not in the gaze he turned on her. It was cold as seawater, lit with tiny glints of anger.
He neither smiled nor bid her be seated. Instead he simply demanded. “What were you doing in the aft hold?”
Someone had run to the captain and tattled. She kept her voice steady. “I re-stowed the cargo.”
“You did.”
It was a statement, almost an accusation. But it was not a question, so she did not need to make any answer. Instead, she stood very straight under that piercing gaze. She knew he expected her to babble out explanations and excuses, as Keffria would have. But she was not her sister, nor his wife. He suddenly slammed his palm down on the table before him, and though the sudden impact made her flinch, she still did not speak. She watched him waiting for her to say something, and then felt an odd sense of victory when his temper snapped.
“Did you presume to tell the men to change how that cargo was stowed?”
She spoke very softly, very calmly. “No. I did not. I did the work myself. My father has taught me that aboard a ship, one must see what needs doing, and do it. That is what I have done. I arranged the casks as father would have had them done, were he here. Those casks are now as every shipment of wine has been stowed since I was ten years old, bung up and bilge free, fore and aft, ends wedged off in the wings. They are secure, and if they have not already been spoiled by jostling, they will be marketable when we get to Bingtown.”
His cheeks grew pink. Althea wondered how Keffria could stand a man whose cheeks turned pink when he was angry. She braced herself. When Kyle spoke, his voice was not raised, but the longing to shout the words was clear in his clipped accent.
“Your father is not here, Althea. That is precisely the point. I am the master of this vessel, and I gave commands as to how I wanted that cargo stowed. Yet again you have gone behind my back and countermanded those orders. I can't have this interference between me and my crew. You sow discord.”
She spoke quietly. “I acted on my own, by myself. I gave the crew no orders at all, nor did I even speak of what I intended to do. I have done nothing to come between you and the crew.” She clamped her jaws shut before she could say more. She would not tell him that what stood between him and his crew was his own lack of expertise. The sailors who would have gone to their deaths willingly for her father now spoke openly in the forecastle of finding another vessel when next they shipped out. Kyle was in danger of destroying the hand-picked crew that her father had spent the last decade assembling.
Kyle looked furious that she would contradict him. “It is enough that you went against my orders. That is all it takes to challenge my authority. Your bad example on this ship makes the crew restless. Then I am forced to clamp down the discipline. You should be ashamed for what you bring down on them. But no. You don't care one whit for that. You're above the captain. Althea Vestrit is probably above almighty Sa! You've shown the entire crew your complete disregard for my orders. Were you truly a sailor, I'd make an example of you, one that would prove my orders are the only orders on this ship. But you're nothing but a spoiled merchant's brat. I'll treat you as such, and spare the flesh of your back. But only until you cross me again. Take this warning to heart, girl. I am captain of this vessel, and my word on this ship is law.”
Althea did not speak, but neither did she look aside. She met his gaze levelly and kept as much expression off her face as she could. The pink spread to Kyle's forehead. He took a breath and reached for control. He speared her with his eyes. “And what are you, Althea?”
She had not expected such a question. Accusations and rebukes she could deal with silently. But in asking her a question, he demanded an answer, and she knew it would be construed as open defiance. So be it. “I am the owner of this vessel,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Wrong!” This time he did shout. But in an instant he had mastered himself. He leaned forward on the table and near spat the words at her. “You are the daughter of the owner. And even were you the owner, it wouldn't make a whit of difference. It's not the owner who commands the ship, it's the captain. You're not the captain, you're not the mate. You aren't even a proper sailor. All you do is take a stateroom to yourself that should be the second mate's, and do only the chores it suits you to do. The owner of this vessel is Ephron Vestrit, your father. He is the one who gave the
Vivacia
over to my command. If you cannot respect me for who I am, then respect your father's choice to captain his ship.”
“But for my age, he would have made me captain. I know the
Vivacia.
I should be her captain.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Althea regretted them. It was all the opening he had needed, this voicing of what they both knew was true.
“Wrong again. You should be at home, married off to some fancy boy as spoiled as yourself. You haven't the faintest idea of how to captain a vessel. You believe that because your father has allowed you to play at sailoring you know how to command a vessel. You've come to believe you're destined to captain your father's ship. You're wrong. You're father only brought you aboard because he had no sons of his own. He as much as told me so, when Wintrow was born. Were not the
Vivacia
a liveship, requiring a family member aboard, I'd never have tolerated your pretenses for a moment. But bear this in mind. A member of the Vestrit family is all this ship requires; it needn't be you. If this ship demands a Vestrit aboard her, then she can bear one that has Haven for a surname. My sons share as much of your sister's blood as mine, they're as much Vestrit as Haven. And the next time this ship leaves Bingtown, one of my boys will take your place on her. You'll be left ashore.”
Althea could feel she had gone white. The man had no idea what he was saying to her, had no idea of the depth of his threat. It only proved he had no true concept of what a liveship was. He should have never been allowed authority over the
Vivacia.
If only her father had been well, he would have seen that.
Something of both her despair and defiance must have shown in her face, for Kyle Haven's mouth grew tauter. She wondered if he fought down a smile as he added, “You are confined to your quarters for the remainder of this voyage. And now you are dismissed.”
She stood her ground. As well have it out then, now that the lines were drawn. “You have declared that I am not even a sailor aboard this vessel. Very well, then. If that is so, then I am not yours to command. And I have no idea why you fancy that you will command the
Vivacia
on her next voyage. When we return to Bingtown, I have every expectation that my father will have recovered his health and will resume his command. And hold it, until such time as ship and command are both mine.”
He fixed her with a flat stare. “Do you really think so, Althea?”
She puffed up with hatred, believing for an instant that he mocked her faith that her father would recover. But he went on, “Your father's a good captain. And when he hears what you've been up to, countermanding my orders, sowing discord among the men, making mock of me behind my back—”
“Making mock of you?” Althea demanded.
Kyle gave a snort of disdain. “Do you think you can get drunk and witless and throw wild words about Dursay town and not have them come back to me? It only shows what a fool you are.”
Althea raced frantically through her scrabbled memories of Dursay. She had got drunk, yes, but only once, and she remembered vaguely that she'd bemoaned her situation to some shipmates. Who? The faces blurred in her memory, but she knew it had been Brashen who'd rebuked her, daring to tell her to shut her hatch and keep private problems private. She did not recall just what she'd said, but now she had a fair idea of who had tattled.
“So. What tales did Brashen carry back to you?” she asked in as calm a voice as she could muster. God of fishes, what had she said? If it had to do with family business, and Kyle carried that tale home . . .
“It wasn't Brashen. But it confirms my opinion of him that he'd sit and listen to you mouth such dirt. There's another just like you, a Trader boy trying to play at sailor. I've no idea why your father ever indulged him on this ship, unless he hoped to make him a match for you. Well, if I have my way, I'll leave him on land in Bingtown, too, so you can still enjoy one another's company there. He's likely the closest you'll get to a man for yourself; best anchor him down while you can.”
Kyle leaned back in his chair. He seemed to enjoy Althea's shocked silence at his inferences. When he spoke again, his voice was low and satisfied. “Well, little sister, it seems you do not enjoy it when I bandy such words about. So perhaps you can understand how I took it when the ship's carpenter came back, a bit the worse for grog, talking loudly of how you'd told him I only married your sister because I hoped to get my hands on the family ship, because the likes of me would never have the chance at commanding a liveship otherwise.” His calm voice suddenly was gritty with fury.
She recognized her own words. Oh, she'd been drunker than she thought, to voice those thoughts out loud. Coward or liar, she challenged herself. She had either to step up and claim those words, pretend disdain of them, or lie and claim she'd never said them. Well, regardless of what Kyle might say of her, she was Ephron Vestrit's daughter. She found her courage.
“That's true. I said it, and it's true. So. How does the truth make mock of you?”
Kyle stood suddenly and came around the table. He was a big man. Even as Althea began to retreat, the force of his slap sent her staggering. She caught at a bulkhead and forced herself to stand. He was very pale as he walked back to his chair and sat down. Too far. They'd both gone too far, as she had always feared they would. Had he feared it, too? He seemed to be shaking as badly as she was.
“That wasn't for me,” he said huskily. “That was for your sister. Drunk as a soldier, in a public tavern, and you as much as call her a whore. Do you realize that? Do you truly think she'd need to buy a man with the bribe of a liveship to command? She's a woman that any man would be proud to claim, even if she came with not a copper to her name. Unlike you. You they'll have to buy a husband for, and you'd better hope to the gods that your family fortunes do better, for they'd have to dower you with half the town before any decent man would look at you. Get to your quarters before my temper truly runs away with me. Now!”
She tried to turn and walk away with dignity, but Kyle stood up and came from behind the table, to place a broad hand on her back and propel her toward the door. As she left the Captain's quarters, shutting the door firmly behind her, she observed Mild diligently sanding some splintering from a railing nearby. The lad had ears like a fox; he'd have heard everything. Well, she'd neither done nor said anything she was ashamed of. She doubted Kyle could say the same. She kept her head up as she made her way aft to the small stateroom that had been hers since she was twelve years old. As she shut the door behind her, the full measure of Kyle's threat to move her off the ship came to her.
This was home. He couldn't force her out of her home. Could he?
She'd loved this room since she was a child, and never would forget that thrill of ownership that came to her the first time she'd walked in and tossed her sea-bag up onto the bunk. That was close to seven years ago, and it had been home and safety ever since. Now she clambered up onto that same bunk and lay curled there, her face to the bulkhead. Her cheek stung, but she would not put her hand to it. He'd struck her. Let it bruise and darken. Maybe when she got home, her sister and her parents would look at it and perceive what sort of vermin they had welcomed into their family when they'd wedded Keffria to Kyle Haven. He was not even Trader stock. He was a mongrel, part Chalcedean and part wharf-rat. But for marrying her sister, he'd have nothing now. Nothing. He was a piece of dung and she would not cry because he was not worth her tears, only her anger. Only her anger.