I want a life of my own. I want to wear pretty clothes, and go to wonderful places. I don’t want to marry some nice Trader boy you pick out for me. I want to visit Jamaillia some day, I want to go to the Satrap’s Court, and not as a married woman with a string of babies following me. I want to be free of all that. I want—’
‘You want to ruin us,’ Grandmother said quietly, and poured tea. Cup after tidy cup, calmly and efficiently as she spoke her damning words. ‘You want, you say, and give no thought at all to what we all need.’ She glanced up from her tea duties, to inquire, ‘Tea or port, Davad?’
‘Tea,’ he said gratefully. ‘Not that I can stay long. I must hasten back, to at least be in time for the Presentation of the Offerings. I have no one else to give my presentation in my place, you know. And Trader Vintagli seemed to wish to speak to me. They will not expect you this year, of course, because of your mourning…’ His voice trailed off awkwardly.
‘Tea? Very well, then.’ Her grandmother filled in smoothly. Her eyes moved from Davad to Nana. ‘Nana, dear. I hate to ask this of you, but would you see Malta off to bed? And see she washes well first. I am so sorry to put this on you.’
‘Not at all, mistress. I see it as my duty.’
And Nana did. Large and implacable as she had been when Malta was a child, she took her wrist and dragged her from the room. Malta went quietly, for the sake of her own dignity, not out of any acquiescence. She did not fight as Nana disrobed her, and she climbed herself into the steaming bath that Nana poured for her. She did not, in fact, speak a word to her large and imperious nanny, not even to interrupt Nana’s boring monologue about how ashamed of herself she should be.
Because she was not ashamed, Malta told herself. Nor cowed at all. When her father came home, they would all have to answer for their mistreatment of her. For now, she would be satisfied with that.
That, and the shivery sensation that Cerwin Trell’s glance had awakened in her. She thought of his eyes and felt it again. Cerwin, at least, knew that she was no longer a little girl.
‘DOES IT HURT MUCH?’
‘Can you feel pain?’
‘Not as men do, no, but I understand the distress you must—’
‘Then why do you ask? Any answer I give will have no real meaning to you.’
A long silence followed. Vivacia lifted her smooth arms and crossed them over her breasts. She stared straight ahead of herself. She fought the rising tide of grief and despair inside her. It was not getting any better between Wintrow and her. Since Cress, with every passing day his resentment of her increased. It made what might have been pleasant days into torture.
The wind was blowing from the north, pushing them southwards to warmer climes. The weather had been fair, but all else had been ill. The crew was at odds with Wintrow and hence with her. She had picked up from the men’s talk the gist of what had happened on the beach. In her limited way, she understood it. She knew that Wintrow still believed his decision had been correct. And she knew, with the wisdom of her stored memories, that his grandfather would have agreed with him. But all it took to make him miserable was for him to know that the rest of the crew considered him a coward, and that his father seemed to concur with their opinion. And that was all it took for her to feel a misery as deep.
Despite his misery, he had not given up. In her eyes, that spoke greatly for the spirit inside him. Shunned by his shipmates, consigned to a life he could not relish, he still continued to work hard and learn. He jumped as quickly to orders as any of them did, and endeavoured each day to shoulder a man’s share of the work. He was now as capable as any ship’s boy and was moving rapidly to master the tasks of an able deckhand. He applied his mind as well as his body, comparing how his father managed the sails to the commands that Gantry issued. Some of his eagerness was simply the starvation of a mind accustomed to learning opportunities. Bereft of books and scrolls, he now absorbed the lessons of wind and wave instead. He accepted the physical labour of his shipboard life just as he had once accepted the menial work of the monastery’s orchard. They were the tasks a man must do when he was part of such a life, and it behoved a man to do them well. But Vivacia also knew that there was a second motivation for his mastering of seamanship. He strove to show the crew by his deeds that he was neither fearful of necessary risks nor disdainful of a sailor’s work. It was the Vestrit in him that kept his neck stiff and his head up despite the scorn of Torg and his fellows. Wintrow would not apologize for his decision in Cress. He did not feel he had done wrong. That did not keep him from smarting under the crew’s contempt for him.
But that had been before the accident.
He sat cross-legged on the deck, his injured hand cradled into his lap. She did not need to look at him to know that he, too, stared towards a distant horizon. The small islands they were passing held no interest to him. On a day like this, Althea would have leaned on the railing, eyes avid. It had rained heavily yesterday, and the many small streams of the islands were full and rushing. Some meandered out into the saltwater; others fell in sheets of silver as waterfalls from the steeper, rockier islands. All contributed freshwater that floated for a time atop the salt, changing the colours of the waters they moved through so serenely. These islands teemed with bird-life: sea-birds, shore-birds, and those who inhabited the towering cliffs, all contributed their notes to the chorus. Winter might be here, but in these islands it was a winter of rain and lush plant growth. To the west of them, the Cursed Shore was cloaked in one of its familiar winter fogs. The steaming waters of the many rivers that flowed from that coast mellowed the climate here even as they shrouded the Pirate Islands in mist. These islands would never know a snowfall, for the warm waters of the Inside Passage kept true winter forever at bay. Yet green and inviting as the islands might be, Wintrow had thoughts only for a more distant harbour, far to the south, and the monastery a day’s journey inland from it. Perhaps he could have endured better if there was even the faintest hope that their journey would pause there. But it would not. His father was not so foolish as to offer him the vague hope of escape. Their trade would make them stop in many ports of call, but Marrow was not one of them.
As if the boy could sense her thoughts as clearly as Althea had, he suddenly dropped his head over his bent knees. He did not weep. He was past weeping, and rightfully wary of the harsh mockery that any show of weakness called forth from Torg. So they were both denied even that vent from the wretchedness that coiled inside him and threatened to tear him apart. After a time he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He stared down at his hand loosely fisted in his lap.
It had been three days since the accident. A stupid mishap, as almost all such are in hindsight, of the commoner sort aboard a ship. Someone had released a line before Wintrow expected it. Vivacia did not believe it had been deliberate. Surely the crew’s feeling against him did not run that high. Only an accident. The twisting of the hemp line had drawn Wintrow’s gripping hand with it, ramming his fingers into a pulley-block. Anger bubbled deep within Vivacia as she recalled Torg’s words to the boy as he lay curled on the deck, his bleeding hand clasped to his chest. ‘Serves you right for not paying attention, you gutless little plugger. You’re just stupid lucky that it was only a finger and not your whole hand smashed. Pick yourself up and get back to your work. No one here is going to wipe your nose and dry your little eyes for you.’ And then he had walked away, leaving Mild to come wordless with guilt with his almost clean kerchief to bind Wintrow’s finger to the rest of his hand. Mild, whose hands had slipped on the line that Wintrow had been gripping. Mild, whose cracked ribs were still wrapped and healing.
‘I’m sorry,’ Wintrow said in a low
