‘THE WINTER MOONLIGHT IS CRISP. It makes the shadows very sharp and black. The shore rocks are sitting in pools of ink, and your hull rests in absolute blackness. Then, because of my fire, there’s an overlay of another kind of shadow. Ones that jump and shift. So, when I look at you, parts of you are stark and sharp in the moonlight, and other parts are made soft and mellow by the firelight.’
Amber’s voice was almost hypnotic. The warmth of her driftwood fire, kindled with great difficulty earlier in the evening, touched him distantly. Warm and cold were things he had learned from men, the one pleasant, the other unpleasant. But even the concept that warm was better than cold was a learned thing. To wood, it was all the same. Yet on a night like tonight, warm seemed very pleasant indeed.
She was seated, cross-legged she had told him, on a folded blanket on the damp sand. She leaned back against his hull. The texture of her loose hair was finer than the softest seaweed. It clung to the grain of his wizardwood hull. When she moved, it dragged across his planks in strands before it pulled free.
‘You almost make me remember what it was like to see. Not just colours and shapes, but the times when sight was a pleasure to indulge in.’
She didn’t reply but lifted her hand and put the palm flat against his planking. It was a gesture she used, and in some ways it reminded him of making eye-contact. A significant glance exchanged without eyes. He smiled.
‘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.
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 colours of wood; I don’t like to paint wood, it has its own colours 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 travelled 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 colour 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 they were. And she always seemed to ask them just when he was feeling closest to her. ‘Why are you the colours 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 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?’
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 re-settled 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 startled when she spoke.
‘Mingsley didn’t send me.’ He heard her stand abruptly. 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, my heart cried out against that. Paragon, I do wish I could win you over. You are a wonder and a mystery to me. My curiosity has always been greater than my wisdom. But largest of all is my own loneliness. Because I am a long way from home and family, not just in distance but in years.’
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 put 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. 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 mend 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?’
‘I was,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not any more.’
‘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 coloured 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,’ Ronicà 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 jewellery 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 has been as acute as her temper. It is good for her to learn a little thrift; she has not had to practise 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 for ever.’
‘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?
‘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 voice.
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 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 rumour; they say the Satrap will hire Chalcedean mercenaries as escorts for Jamaillian tradeships 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 harbour 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?’
Ronica was silent a moment. ‘No, it does not,’ she said at last. Then she sighed. ‘I would not be happy to see her go. But, you know, Keffria, I have never heard of any Bingtown man or woman who was kept against their will by the Rain Wild Traders. They seek wives and husbands, not servants. Who would wish to wed someone against their inclination? Some folk go there of their own accord. And some, who go there as part of a contract, return when it suits them. You remember Scilla Appleby? She was carried off to the Rain Wilds when her family failed in a contract. Eight months later, they brought her back to Bingtown, because she was unhappy there. And two months after that, she sent them word that she had made a mistake, and they came for her again. So it cannot be all that bad.’
‘I heard that her family shamed her into returning. That her grandfather and mother both felt she had disgraced the Applebys and broken their pledge when she came back to Bingtown.’
‘I suppose that could be so,’ her mother conceded doubtfully.
‘I don’t want Malta to go there against her will,’ Keffria said bluntly. ‘Not for duty nor for pride. Not even for our good name. If it came down to it, I think I would help her run away myself.’
‘Sa help me, I fear I would, too.’ Her mother’s words came some minutes later, uttered in a voice that seemed dragged from her.
Keffria was shocked. Not just by what her mother was admitting, but by the depth of emotion that her voice betrayed. Ronica spoke on.
‘There have been times when I hated that ship. How could anything be worth so much? Not just gold they pledged, but their own descendants!’
‘If Papa had continued in the Rain Wild trade, the Vivacia would most likely be paid off by now,’ Keffria pointed out.
‘Most likely. But at what cost?’
‘So Papa always said,’ Keffria said slowly. ‘But I never understood it. Papa never explained it or talked about it in front of us girls. The only time I ever asked him about it, he just told me he thought it was an unlucky path to choose. Yet all the other families who have liveships trade with the Rain Wild families. As the Vestrits own a liveship, we have the right to do so, too. Yet Papa refused it.’ She spoke very carefully as she continued, ‘Perhaps it is a decision we should reconsider. Kyle would be willing. He made that clear when he asked about charts of the Rain River. Before that day, we had not discussed it. I thought that perhaps Papa had already explained to him. Before that day, he had never asked me why we stopped trading up the River. It just never came up.’
‘And if you manage things cleverly, it never will again,’ Ronica said shortly. ‘Kyle up the Rain River would be a disaster.’
And here was another uncomfortable topic. Kyle.
Keffria sighed. ‘I remember that when Grandfather was alive, he took the Vivacia upriver. I remember the gifts he used to bring us. A music box that twinkled as it played.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t even know what became of that.’ More quietly she added, ‘And I never truly understood why Papa wouldn’t trade up the river.’
Ronica stared into the fire as if she were telling an old tale. ‘Your father… resented the contract with the Festrews. Oh, he loved the ship, and would not have traded her for the world. But much as he loved the Vivacia, he loved you girls more. And like you, he saw the contract as a threat to his children. He disliked being bound by an agreement he’d had no say in.’ Ronica lowered her voice. ‘In some ways, he thought ill of the Festrews, that they would hold him bound by such a cruel bargain. Perhaps they saw things differently in those days. Perhaps…’ Her words faltered for a time. Then, ‘I suppose I lied to you just now. I speak the way I know I should think; that a bargain is a bargain, and a contract is a contract. But that contract was made in older, harder times. Still, it binds us.’
‘But Father resented it,’ Keffria said, to draw her mind back to that.
‘He despised the terms. He often pointed out that no one ever completely discharged a debt to the Rain Wilds. New debts were always stacked upon the old ones, so that the chains binding the contracting families together only got stronger and stronger as the years passed. He hated that idea. He wanted there to come a time when the ship would be ours, free and clear, and if we chose to pack up and leave Bingtown, we could do so.’
The very idea shook Keffria to the foundations of her life. Leave Bingtown? Her father had actually thought of taking the family away from Bingtown?
Her mother spoke on. ‘And though his father and grandmother had traded in Rain Wild goods, he always felt they were tainted. That was how he put it. Tainted. Too much magic. He always felt that sooner or later, such magic would have to be paid for. And he did not think it was… honourable, in a way, for him to bring back to our world the magic of another place and time, a magic that had, perhaps, been the downfall of another folk. Perhaps the downfall of the entire Cursed Shores. Sometimes he spoke of it, late at night, saying he feared we would destroy ourselves and our world, just as the Elder folk did.’
Ronica fell silent. Both women were still, thinking. These things were so seldom spoken aloud. Just as the charts of difficult channels represented a major trading advantage, so did the hard-won knowledge shared by Bingtown and Rain Wild Traders. The secrets they shared were as great a basis for their wealth as the goods they bartered.
Ronica cleared her throat. ‘So he did a thing both brave and hard. He stopped trading up the river. It meant he had to work twice as hard and be gone three times as long to turn the same profit. Instead of the Rain Wilds, he sought out the odd little places in the inland channels, to the south of Jamaillia. He traded with the native folk there, for goods that were exotic and rare. But not magical. He swore that would make our fortune. And if he had lived, it probably would have.’
‘Did Papa think the Blood Plague was due to the magic?’ Keffria asked carefully.
‘Where did you hear such a thing?’ Ronica demanded.
‘I was very little. It was right after the boys died. Davad was here, I remember. And Papa was crying and I was hiding outside the door. You were all in this same room. I wanted to come in but I was afraid to. Because Papa never cried. And I heard Davad Restart curse the Rain Wild Traders, saying they had dug up the disease in their mining of the city. His wife and children were dead, too. And Davad said…’
‘I remember,’ Ronica said suddenly. ‘I remember what Davad said. But what you were too small to understand was that he was in the throes of a terrible grief. A terrible grief.’ Ronica shook her head and her eyes were bleak, remembering. ‘A man says things at such times that he doesn’t truly mean. Or even believe. Davad badly needed someone or something to blame for his loss. For a time he blamed the Rain Wild Traders. But he got past that a long time ago.’
Keffria took a careful breath. ‘Is it true, that Davad’s son—’
‘What was that?’ Her mother’s sudden exclamation cut off Keffria’s words. They both sat up and were still, listening. Ronica’s eyes were so wide, the white showed all round them.
‘It sounded like a gong,’ Keffria whispered into the gathered silence. It was eerie to hear a Rain Wild gong when they had been discussing them. She thought that she heard the scuff of footsteps in the hallway. With a wild look at her mother, she leapt to her feet. When she reached the door and pulled it open, her mother was right behind her. But all she caught was a brief glimpse of Malta at the end of the hall.
‘Malta!’ she called out sharply.
‘Yes, Mother?’ The girl came back from around the corner. She was in her nightrobe and carrying a cup and saucer.
‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ Keffria demanded.
For answer, Malta held up the cup. ‘I couldn’t sleep. I made myself some camomile tea.’
‘Did you hear an odd sound, a few moments ago?’
Malta shrugged. ‘Not really. Perhaps the cat knocked something down.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Ronica muttered worriedly. She brushed past Keffria and headed towards the kitchen. Keffria followed her and Malta, cup in hand, trailed after them curiously.
The kitchen was dark save for the glow of the banked fires. There were the familiar, somehow safe smells of the room: the cook-fire, the yeasty smell of the slow bread put out to rise for the morning’s baking, the lingering aroma of the night’s meat. Ronica had brought a candle from the den; she crossed the familiar room to the outside door and tugged it open. Winter cold flowed in, making mist ghosts in the room.
‘Is there anyone there?’ Keffria asked as the candle guttered in the breeze.
‘Not any more,’ her mother replied grimly. She stepped out of the door onto the icy porch. She looked all around, and then stooped down to retrieve something. She came back into the kitchen and shut the door firmly.
‘What is it?’ Keffria and Malta asked together.
Ronica set the candle down on the table. Beside it she placed a small wooden box. She peered at it for a moment, then turned a narrowed gaze on Malta. ‘It’s addressed to Malta.’
‘It is?’ Malta cried in delight. ‘What is it? Who is it from?’ She surged towards the table, her face alight with anticipation. She had always loved surprises.
Her grandmother put a firm hand on top of the box as Malta reached for it. Her denial was plain. ‘What it is,’ Ronica went on in an icy tone, ‘I believe, is a dream-box. It is a traditional Rain Wild courting gift.’
Keffria felt her heart pause inside her. She couldn’t get her breath, but Malta only tugged at the box under her grandmother’s forbidding grip. ‘What’s in it?’ she demanded. ‘Give it to me.’
‘No.’ Ronica’s voice was full of authority. ‘You will come back with us to your grandfather’s study. You have some explaining to do, young woman.’
Ronica scooped up the box and strode from the room.
‘Mother, it’s not fair, it’s addressed to me! Make Grandma give it to me. Mother? Mother!’
Keffria realized she was leaning on the table. She straightened up slowly. ‘Malta. Didn’t you hear what your grandmother just told you? It’s a courting gift! How could this be?’
Malta shrugged elaborately. ‘I don’t know! I don’t even know who it’s from or what’s in it! How can I tell you something about it if Grandma won’t even let me look at it?’
‘Come to the study,’ Keffria instructed her with a sigh. Malta raced off ahead of her. By the time Keffria entered the room, she was already arguing with her grandmother.
‘Can’t I at least look at it? It’s for me, isn’t it?’
‘No. You can’t. Malta, this is serious, far more serious than you seem to understand. This is a dream-box. And it’s marked with the crest of the Khuprus family. They are perhaps the most prestigious family of the Rain Wild Traders. It was not a coincidence that they came to represent all the Rain Wild families at the last gathering. They are not a family to offend, or to take lightly. Knowing that, do you still want this box?’ Ronica held it out to the child.
‘Yes!’ Malta replied indignantly and made a grab for it. Ronica snatched it back.
‘Malta!’ cried Keffria. ‘Don’t be foolish. It’s a courting gift. It must be sent back, but very politely. It must be made clear to them that you are too young to consider any man’s suit. But in a very courteous way.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Malta protested. ‘I’m too young to be promised to a man, yet, but why can’t I consider his suit? Please, Grandma, at least let me see what’s in it!’
‘It’s a dream-box,’ Ronica said brusquely. ‘So it has a dream in it. You don’t open it to see what’s in it, you open it to have the dream.’
‘How can there be a dream in a box?’ Keffria asked.
‘Magic,’ Ronica said brusquely. ‘Rain Wild magic.’
The sudden intake of Malta’s breath betrayed her excitement. ‘Can I have it tonight?’
‘No!’ Ronica exploded. ‘Malta, you are not listening. You cannot have it at all. It has to be returned as it is, unopened, with an extremely courteous explanation that somehow there has been a misunderstanding. If you open this box and have this dream, you have consented to his suit. You have given him permission to court you.’
‘Well, what’s so terrible about that? It’s not like I’m promising to marry him!’
‘If we allow you to open it, then we are accepting his suit as well. Which is the same thing as saying that we consider you a woman, and eligible to have suitors. Which we do not,’ Ronica finished firmly.
Malta crossed her arms on her chest, then flung herself back into a chair. She stuck her chin out. ‘I shall be so glad when my father comes home,’ she declared sulkily.
‘Will you?’ asked Ronica acidly.
Watching them both, Keffria felt invisible. And useless. To watch these two strong wills clash was like watching young bulls in the spring, when they pushed and snorted and challenged one another. There was a battle going on here, a battle for dominance, to determine which of these women was going to set the rules for the household while Kyle was away. No, she suddenly realized. Kyle was but a game-piece Malta threw in. Because Malta had already discovered she could manipulate her father. He was no match for her juvenile deviousness; as she grew, he would be even less of a problem to her. Plainly, she believed that only her grandmother stood in her path. Her own mother she had dismissed as insignificant.
Well, wasn’t she? For years she had washed about with the ebb and flow of the household. Her father had sailed, her mother ran the on-shore holdings. She had lived in her father’s house still, as she always had. When Kyle had come home, they had spent his wages mostly on amusing themselves. Now her father was dead, and Kyle and her mother were battling over the helm, while Malta and her mother struggled over who would set the rules of the household. No matter how it was decided, Keffria would remain invisible and unheeded. Malta paid no attention to her floundering attempts at authority. No one did.
Keffria crossed the room abruptly. ‘Mother, give me the gift,’ she demanded peremptorily. ‘As my daughter has caused this unfortunate misunderstanding, I believe it is up to me to rectify the matter.’
For a moment, she thought her mother would deny her. Then, with a glance at Malta, she handed it over to her. Keffria took the small wooden box. It weighed lightly in her hands. She became aware that it gave off a sweet scent, spicier than sandalwood. Malta’s eyes tracked the box into her possession the way a hungry dog follows a piece of raw meat. ‘I shall write to them first thing in the morning. I think I can ask the Kendry to ferry it upriver for me.’
Her mother was nodding. ‘But take care to wrap the box well. It would not do for anyone else to know what is being returned. The refusal of a courting suit, for any reason, is a delicate thing. It would be best if this were kept a secret between the two parties.’ As Keffria nodded to this, her mother suddenly turned to Malta. ‘Do you fully understand that, Malta? This cannot be spoken of to others, not to your little friends, not to the servants. This misunderstanding must be ended swiftly and completely.’
The sullen girl looked at her mutely.
‘Malta!’ barked Keffria, and her daughter jumped. ‘Do you understand? Answer.’
‘I understand,’ she mumbled. She shot a defiant glance up at her mother, then wadded herself further into her chair.
‘Good. It’s all settled then.’ Keffria had decided to end the battle while she was still winning. ‘And I’m ready to go to bed.’
‘Wait.’ Ronica’s voice was serious. ‘There is one thing more you should know about a dream-box, Keffria. They are not common items. Each one is individually made, keyed to a certain person.’
‘How?’ Keffria asked unwillingly.
‘Well, of course I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that to create one, the maker must begin with a personal item from the intended recipient.’ Her mother sighed as she leaned back in her chair. ‘Such a thing did not come to our door randomly. It was addressed to Malta specifically.’ Ronica shook her head and looked grieved. ‘Malta must have given something of hers to a Rain Wild man. Something personal that he construed as a gift.’
‘Oh, Malta, no!’ Keffria cried in dismay.
‘I did not.’ Malta sat up defiantly. ‘I did not!’ She raised her voice in a shout.
Keffria got up and went to the door. Once she was sure it was firmly closed, she came back to confront her daughter. ‘I want the truth,’ she said quietly and simply. ‘What happened and when? How did you meet this young man? Why would he think you’d accept a courting gift from him?’
Malta glanced from one to the other. ‘At the Trader gathering,’ she admitted in disgust. ‘I went outside for some air. I said good evening to a coachman as I passed by. I think he was leaning on the Khuprus coach. That’s all.’
‘What did he look like?’ Ronica demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ Malta said, her words slowed with sarcasm. ‘He was from the Rain Wilds. They wear veils and hoods, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ her grandmother retorted. ‘But their coachman does not. You foolish girl, do you think they drove a coach down the river? The Rain Wild families store their coaches here, and use them only when they come to Bingtown. So their hired drivers are from Bingtown. If you talked to a veiled man, you talked to a Rain Wild Trader. What did you say, and what did you give him?’
‘Nothing,’ Malta flared. ‘I said “good evening” as I passed him. He said the same. That’s all.’
‘Then how does he know your name? How does he make you a dream?’ Ronica pressed.
‘I don’t know,’ Malta retorted. ‘Maybe he guessed my family from my robe colour, and asked someone.’ Suddenly, to Keffria’s complete amazement, Malta burst into tears. ‘Why do you always treat me like this? You never say anything nice to me, it’s always accusations and scolding. You think I’m some kind of a whore or a liar or something. Someone sends me a present, you won’t even let me look at it, and you say it’s all my fault. I don’t know what you want from me any more. You want me to be a little girl, but then you expect me to know everything and be responsible for everything. It’s not fair!’ She lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.
‘Oh, Malta,’ Keffria heard herself say wearily. She went swiftly to her daughter, and put her hands on her shaking shoulders. ‘We don’t think you’re a whore and a liar. We’re simply very worried about you. You’re trying to grow up so fast, and there are so many dangers you don’t understand.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Malta sobbed. ‘I shouldn’t have gone outside that night. But it was so stuffy in there, and so scary with everyone yelling at each other.’
‘I know. I know, it was scary.’ Keffria patted her child. She hated to see Malta weep like this, hated that she and her mother had pressed her until she had broken down. At the same time, it was almost a relief. The defiant, bitter Malta was someone Keffria didn’t know. This Malta was a little girl, crying and wanting to be comforted. Perhaps they had broken through tonight. Perhaps this Malta was someone she could reason with. She bent down to hug her daughter, who returned the embrace briefly and awkwardly.
‘Malta,’ she said softly. ‘Here. Look here. Here is the box. You can’t keep it or open it: it has to be returned tomorrow intact. But you can look at it.’
Malta gave a sniff and sat up. She glanced at the box on her mother’s palm, but did not reach for it. ‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s just a carved box. I thought it might have jewels on it or something.’ She looked away from it. ‘Can I go to bed now?’ she asked wearily.
‘Of course. You go on to bed. We’ll talk more in the morning, when we’ve all had some rest.’
A very subdued Malta sniffed once, then nodded. Keffria watched her slowly leave the room, and then turned back to her own mother with a sigh. ‘Sometimes it’s so hard, watching her grow up.’
Ronica nodded sympathetically. But then she added, ‘Lock up that box somewhere safe for the night. I’ll get a runner in the morning to carry your letter and the box down to the docks to the Kendry.’
It was just a few hours shy of dawn when Malta took the small box back to her room. It had been exactly where she had known it would be: in her mother’s ‘secret’ cupboard at the back of her wardrobe in her dressing chamber. It was where she always hid the naming-day presents and her most expensive body oils. She had been afraid mother would put it under her pillow, or perhaps even open the box and claim the dream for herself. But she hadn’t.
Malta shut the door behind her and sat down on her bed with the box in her lap. Such a small present for them to raise such a fuss about. She lifted the box to her nose and inhaled. Yes, she had thought it carried a sweet scent. She got out of bed again and padded quietly across to her own wardrobe. In a box up in the corner, under several old dolls, was the scarf and the flame-jewel. In the dark room it seemed to burn more brightly than ever. For a time she just watched it before she recalled why she had taken it out. She sniffed the scarf, then brought it back to her bed to compare it to the box. Different scents, both exotic. Both sweet, but different. This box might not even have come from the veiled man, then. The mark on it was like the one on the coach, yes, but perhaps it had just been bought from the Khuprus family. Maybe it was really from Cerwin. Over the years, she’d left plenty of personal things over at Delo’s home. It would have been very easy, and actually, it was much more likely when she thought about it. Why would a chance-met stranger send her an expensive gift? Like as not, this was a courting gift from Cerwin. The crowning piece of her logic suddenly fell into place. If the veiled Rain Wild man had puzzled out who she was and sent her a present, wouldn’t he have reminded her to return his scarf and flame-jewel at the same time? Of course he would. So this wasn’t from him. This was from Cerwin.
She stuffed the scarf and jewel under her pillow, and curled up with the box in the curve of her body. With one forefinger, she traced the line of her lips. Cerwin. She ran her finger down over her chin, traced a line between her breasts. What kind of a dream would he have chosen for her? Her lips curved in a smile. She suspected she knew. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
She closed her eyes and opened the box. Or tried to. She opened her eyes and peered at it. What she had taken to be the catch was not. By the time she finally worked out how to open it, she was quite annoyed with it. And when she did get it open, it was empty. Simply empty. She had imagined a sparkling dream-dust, or a burst of light or music or fragrance. She stared into the empty corners of the box, then felt inside it to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. No. It was empty. So, what did that mean? A joke? Or merely that the gift was the cleverly carved and sweet-scented box? Maybe it wasn’t even supposed to be a dream-box, maybe that was some old-fashioned idea that her grandmother had come up with. Dream-boxes. Malta had never heard of one before tonight. In a wave of irritation, it all became clear. Her grandmother had only said that so her mother wouldn’t let her have the box. Unless, perhaps, one of them had opened it and taken out whatever was in there and kept it for themselves.
‘I hate them both,’ Malta hissed in a savage whisper. She flung the box down to the rug beside her bed and threw herself back on her pillows. She knew she should get up and go and put the box back in her mother’s wardrobe, but a part of her didn’t care. Let them find out she had taken it. She wanted them to know that she knew they’d stolen her present. She crossed her arms unrepentantly on her chest and closed her eyes.
Stillness. Emptiness. Only a voice. A whisper. So, Malta Vestrit. You have received my gift. Here we mingle, you and I. Shall we make a sweet dream together? Let us see. A tiny thread of awareness that this was a dream faded out of reach.
She was inside a burlap bag. It covered her head and draped down almost to her knees. It smelled of dust and potatoes. She was fairly sure it had been used as a harvest sack. She was being carried over someone’s shoulder, carried rapidly and triumphantly, snatched and carried off against her will. The one who carried her had companions. They hooted and laughed in victory, but the man who carried her was too full of satisfaction to give vent to such boyish noises. The night was cool and misty moist against her legs. Her mouth was gagged, her hands bound behind her. She wanted to struggle but was afraid that if she did, he might drop her. And she had no idea where she was or what else might befall her if she did escape her captor. Frightening as it was, it was still the safest place she could be at this moment. She knew nothing of the man who carried her, except that he would fight to the death to keep her.
They reached somewhere. They all stopped, and the one carrying her slung her to her feet. He kept a grip on her. She heard a muffled conversation, quick words spoken low in a language she didn’t understand. The others seemed to be laughingly urging something that the one who had carried her amiably but firmly refused. After a time, she heard footsteps receding. She sensed the others had gone. She was alone save for the man who still held her bound wrists. She trembled.
There was the cold kiss of metal against her wrists and suddenly her hands were free. She immediately clawed her way free of the sack, and pulled the wet gag from her mouth. She was still half-blinded by the dust and fibres from the rough burlap. She brushed roughly at her face and hair and then turned to confront her captor.
They were alone in a dark and foggy night. A city and a crossroads. She could tell no more than that. He stood watching her expectantly. She could see nothing of his features. His dark hood was pulled far forward; he watched her from its depths. The night smelled swampy and thick, the only lights were fog-muffled torches far down the street. If she ran, would he pounce on her? Was this a cat’s game? If she escaped, would she be plunging herself into greater danger? In time it seemed to her that he was watching her and letting her make up her mind about what she would do.
After a time, he made a sign with his head that she should follow him. He walked away swiftly down one of the streets and she went with him. He moved quickly and confidently through the labyrinthine city. After a time, he took her hand. She did not pull away. The fog was thick and wet, blinding, almost choking, and it was so dark she could make out nothing of her greater surroundings. Openings in the fog showed her tall buildings to either side of the alley they walked. But the darkness and silence seemed complete. Her companion seemed certain of his way. His large hand was warm and dry as it clasped her chilled one.
He finally turned aside, to lead her down some steps and then open a door. When the door was opened, sound boomed out. Music, laughter and talk, but all of a style and language she did not know, and so it was all just noise. Deafening noise, so that even if she had been able to understand her companion, she would not have been able to hear him. It was some kind of an inn or tavern, she surmised. There were many small round tables, each with a single short candle burning in the centre. He led her to an empty one, and gestured her to a seat. He sat down across from her. He pushed back his hood.
For a long time in the dream, they just sat there. Perhaps he listened to the music, but to her it was a sound so uniformly loud that she felt deafened. By the candlelight, she could finally see her companion’s face. He was handsome, in a pale way. Beardless and blond, his eyes a warm brown. He had a small soft moustache. His shoulders were wide, his arms well-muscled. He did nothing at first, save look at her. After a time, he reached across the table and she put her hand in his. He smiled. She suddenly felt they had come to so perfect an understanding that she was glad there were no words that could interfere. A long time seemed to pass. Then he reached into a pouch and brought out a ring with a simple stone on it. She looked at it, and then shook her head. She was not refusing the ring; she was only saying that she did not need an outward symbol. The agreement they had already reached was too flawless to complicate with such things. He put the ring away. Then he leaned across the table towards her. Heart thundering, she leaned forwards to meet him. He kissed her. Only their mouths met. She had never before kissed a man, and it stood gooseflesh up all over her to feel the softness of his moustache beside her lips, the swift brush of his tongue that bade her lips part to his. All time stopped, hovering like a nectar bird in that one sweet moment of decision, to open or remain closed.
Somewhere, a distant male amusement, but one that approved. You have warm nature, Malta. Very warm. Even if your ideas of courtship hark back to that most ancient custom of abduction. It was all fading now, whirling away from her, leaving only that tickle of sensation on her mouth. I think we shall dance well together, you and I.