“I see.” Captain Tenira looked at the plate on the table before him and pushed it casually away. His tongue plucked at something in his back teeth for a moment. “Well. That's admirable. But I'd still be feeding you, I think. And working aboard a liveship isn't quite the same as any other kind of a vessel. They're lively in a way that has nothing to do with wind or weather. And Ophelia can be a willful lady.”
Althea bit her lips to suppress a smile. The
Ophelia
was one of the oldest liveships, the first generation as it were. She was a blowzy old cog, bawdy and lewd when the mood took her, and patrician and commanding at other times. A willful lady was the kindest way she had ever heard Ophelia described.
“Her hands have got to be more than quick and smart,” Captain Tenira was lecturing. “They've got to be steady. You can't be afraid of her or superstitious about her. And you can't let her bully you either. Ever been aboard a liveship, boy?”
“A bit,” Althea admitted. “Before I started sailing, I'd go down to the North Wall in Bingtown and talk to them sometimes. I like 'em, sir. I'm not afraid of them.”
The captain cleared his throat. In a different voice, he pointed out, “And a merchant vessel is a lot different from a slaughter ship. We move a lot faster, and we keep a lot cleaner. When the mate tells you to jump, you jump right away. Think you can do that?”
“Yes sir, I can do that. And I'm clean, and I keep my area clean.” Althea was nodding like a puppet.
“Well.” The captain considered. “I still don't need you, you know. Serving on a liveship is something a lot of men would jump through any hoop to do. You're stepping into a position I'd have no trouble filling with an older, experienced man.”
“I know, sir. I appreciate that, sir.”
“See that you do. I'm a hard master, Athel. You may regret this before we reach Bingtown.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I'd heard that about you. That you was hard, but fair.” She let her eyes meet his again. “I don't fear to work for a fair man.”
It was just enough honey. The captain almost smiled. “Go and report to the mate, then. His name's Grag Tenira. Tell him I've hired you on, and that you want to chip rust on the anchor chain.”
“Yes sir,” Althea replied with just enough of a grimace. Chipping rust off the anchor chain was an endless task. Then she reminded herself that even chipping rust off an anchor chain on a liveship was better than any other task she'd ever done aboard the
Reaper.
“Thankee, sir.”
“Go along, then,” Captain Tenira told her genially. He sat forward in his chair to take up his ale mug and wave it at a passing tavern boy.
Althea let out a huge sigh of relief as soon as she was on the boardwalk outside. She scarcely felt the chill wind that flowed past her. Tenira hadn't recognized her, and she now decided it was unlikely he ever would. As lowly ship's boy, it was unlikely she would be face to face with the captain much. Now that he'd seen her as Athel, he'd probably continue to see her as Athel. She was confident she could get past Grag Tenira as well. Athel the ship's boy looked nothing like Althea the dance partner. Her heart soared suddenly as she realized she'd done it. She had passage back to Bingtown. And if all she had heard of Captain Tenira was true, she'd gain a few coins on the trip. The man was fair. If he saw her working hard, he'd reward her. She found a smile on her face. Ophelia would be leaving tomorrow. All she had to do was go and get her sea-bag and head down to the ship and find a place to hang a hammock. Tomorrow she'd be on her way home.
And aboard a liveship again. Her heart approached that with mixed feelings. The
Ophelia
was not the
Vivacia.
There would be no bond there. On the other hand, Ophelia would not be some dead piece of wood pushed around only by wind and waves. It would be good to be back on board a responsive vessel again. And she'd be glad to see the last of this greasy little town.
She turned her feet towards the run-down inn where she had been staying. She'd board Ophelia tonight and sail tomorrow. There wasn't time to find Brashen and bid him farewell. She had no idea where he was. Why, for all she knew, he might have shipped out again by now. Besides, what was the point? She'd go her way, he'd go his. That was simply how it was. She had no real connection to the man at all. None at all. She didn't even know why she was thinking about him. Certainly there was nothing left to say to him. And seeing him again would only bring up difficult words and topics.
THE OFFICE OF THE SHIP'S AGENT WAS SMALL AND STUFFY. THE
fireplace held a roaring blaze for such a tiny room. It seemed smoky after the fresh windy day outside. Brashen tugged at his collar, then forced his hands to lie still in his lap.
“I hire for the ship
Springeve.
That is how much trust the captain places in me. And it is a trust I take gravely. If I send him out with a sloppy man, or a drunk, I can cost the ship time, money, and lives. So I am careful who I hire.”
The agent, a small, balding man, paused to suck at a pipe. He seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Brashen tried to think of one. “It's a heavy responsibility,” he hazarded.
The agent exhaled a yellowish smoke. The acridity of it bit at Brashen's eyes and throat but he tried not to show it. All he wanted was the mate's position they had posted on the bill outside the door. The
Springeve
was a small, shallow draft trading vessel that worked her way up and down the coast between Candletown and Bingtown. The cargo she picked up or let off in each town determined her next port of call. That was how the agent delicately explained it. To Brashen, it sounded suspiciously as if the
Springeve
worked with the pirates, buying and selling stolen cargoes from other ships. Brashen wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in that sort of work. Actually, he was damn sure that he didn't want to do any work at all, of any kind. But he was out of money and almost out of cindin. So he had to work, and this berth was as good as any. The man was talking again, and Brashen tried to look as if he'd been paying attention.
“. . . so we lost him. It was a shame, he'd been with us for years. But, as I'm sure you know . . .” he took another long draw from his pipe and breathed it out through his nose. “Time and tide wait for no man. Nor does perishable cargo. The
Springeve
has to sail and we need a new mate. You seem familiar with the waters we've discussed. We may not be able to pay you what you think you're worth.”
“What could you pay me?” Brashen asked bluntly. Then he smiled, to try and soften the roughness of the words. His headache had abruptly returned, and if the man breathed smoke in his face one more time, he thought he'd puke.
“Well.” The small man bridled a bit at his question. “That depends, of course. You've your ticket from the
Reaper,
but nothing to show for the other experience you claim. I'll need to think about this.”
He meant he hoped someone with more tickets would apply. “I see. When will you know if you want me?” Another question phrased too baldly. Once he had said it, he could hear it, but he seemed unable to govern his words before they came out of his mouth. He smiled at the man again, and hoped his smile was not as sickly as he felt.
“Possibly by early morning.”
When the man took a draw from his pipe, Brashen bent over and pretended to adjust the cuff of his trousers. He waited until the man breathed out before he straightened up again. There was still a cloud of yellowish fumes waiting for him. He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I'll check back with you then, shall I?” A knot of anxiety was forming in Brashen's gut. He'd have to face another day without food, another night sleeping outside. With every day that passed like that, he'd have less of a chance at a decent berth. A hungry, dirty, unshaven man was not what an agent sought for in a ship's mate.
“Yes. Do that,” the agent said absently. He was already shuffling papers on his desk, Brashen dismissed from his mind. “And come ready to sail, for if we want you, we shall want you right away. Good day.”
Brashen stood slowly. “That is swash. You won't say if you want me or how much you'll pay me, but I should be on my toes to leave if you wink at me. I don't think so.”
You're being stupid,
some rational part of himself was yelling.
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
But the words were out and he knew he'd only look stupid as well as rude if he tried to recall them now. He tried to put an arch civility into his tone as he added, “Good day to you, sir. I regret we couldn't do business together.”
The ship's agent looked both insulted and worried. “Wait!” he exclaimed almost angrily. “Wait.”
Brashen halted and turned to him, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.
“Let's not be hasty.” The man's eyes shifted in indecision. “I'll tell you what we can do. I'm going to talk to the
Reaper
's man sometime today. If he says all's square with you, then we'll pay you the same wages you had there. That's fair.”
“No. It's not.” Having adopted a hard-nosed stance, he had no choice but to stick with it. And he didn't really want the agent to chat with anyone from the
Reaper.
“On the
Reaper
I was a third. If I sign with the
Springeve,
I'll be the mate. Not the captain, nor a sailor before the mast. The mate, who is held liable for anything that goes wrong aboard. The
Springeve
may be a smaller vessel, but it's a bigger job. The crew on a trader has to be worked harder and faster than the crew on a slaughter ship. And I'll wager the
Springeve
brings in more coin than the
Reaper
ever did, if she's worth her salt at all. If I sail as mate on the
Springeve,
I'll want the same wages the last mate was paid.”
“But he had years of experience on her!” the agent squeaked.
“I've years of experience as a mate on the
Vivacia,
a substantially larger vessel. Come. Pay me what you paid the last man. If you made money with him, I'll guarantee you'll make just as much with me.”
The agent sank back into his chair. “You've the arrogance of a good mate,” he conceded grudgingly. “All right. Come ready to sail, and at mate's wages. But I warn you, if you show badly, the captain will put you off at the next port, no matter how small it is.”
“I'll do you one better, as I'm an honest man and a hard worker,” Brashen offered. “I'll report to the ship now. If she's to leave day after tomorrow, I'll want at least that much time to be sure all aboard is stowed right, and to make sure the crew understands I'm the mate now. It will give the captain a full day to test my mettle. He doesn't like how I do things, he tells me to walk. Is that fair?”
It was the right time to offer him such a concession. It let the agent save a bit of his pride as he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and then nodded. “That's fair. You know where the
Springeve
is tied up?”
Brashen grinned at him. “Do I look the sort of man who'd ask for a position aboard a vessel I hadn't seen? I know where she's tied. I and my sea-bag will be aboard her, should you change your mind about me. But I don't think you will.”
“Well. All right. Good day to you, then.”
“Good day.”
Brashen left the man's office, shutting the door firmly behind him. Once outside, he walked briskly down the street, a man with a purpose. He was relieved to find that his sea-bag was still in a straw pile behind the livery stable where he had slept last night. Now if that had been stolen, he would have been in a real fix. He opened it and glanced through it quickly, to be sure that nothing had been filched from it. Not that he had much of value in there, but what was his was his. He poked through the bag. His cindin supply was still there. It was dwindling, but it would be enough. He wouldn't be using it while he was on duty, anyway. He never used cindin on duty. Like as not, he'd set it aside and not even use it while he was aboard. After all, for the years he had been on board the
Vivacia,
he hadn't used it at all, not even when he had liberty on shore.
Thinking of the
Vivacia
woke a dull pang in him. When he'd lost his place on her, he'd lost a lot. He tried to imagine how things could have been if Ephron Vestrit hadn't sickened. He knew he'd still be sailing aboard her. Althea, too. The thought of her jabbed him. He didn't even know where she was in this dirty town. Stupid and stubborn, that was him. There had been no reason, really, to stalk off like that on that night. So she'd said they didn't even know one another. That was just words, he knew better, she knew better.
She knew him so well she had wanted nothing further to do with him.
He stopped on the street, lowered his sea-bag and took out the remaining cindin. He broke a small piece off the stick and tucked it into his cheek. Not much, just enough to help him look lively until he had a proper meal aboard. Odd, how a couple nights of a near-empty belly could make even hard-tack and salt beef sound good. For a moment the cindin stung, then he shoved it into a better position with his tongue and it was fine. He took a deep breath past the bitterness in his mouth and felt all the world come into a sharper focus. He tossed his sea-bag to his shoulder again and headed towards the docks.
It would be good to have a definite place in the world again. And the
Springeve
promised to be an interesting ship. As often as he'd been up and down the Inside Passage on the
Vivacia,
they hadn't done much stopping. Captain Vestrit had done most of his buying to the south of Jamaillia. Brashen had been to a hundred exotic little ports in that part of the world. Now it would be interesting to re-acquaint himself with the Pirate Isles. He wondered if anyone would remember him there.
MIDDAY HAD COME AND GONE, AS NEAR AS WINTROW COULD
tell. At least, that was what his stomach told him. He touched his face again, then looked at his fingertips. The ooze from the new tattoo felt tacky. He wondered what it looked like. He could see the same green sigil on the faces of the others in the pen with him, but somehow he couldn't imagine it on his own visage. They were slaves, it was somehow not shocking to see them tattooed. But he was not a slave. It was a mistake. His father was supposed to have come and rescued him. Like a bubble popping, he saw the complete illogic of this. Yesterday, their faces had been as clean as his own. Like him, they were newly come to this status. But somehow he could not yet think of himself as a slave. It was all a great mistake.