Kyle for one more moment, let alone her mother’s reasonable tones as she spoke horrible words. She did not look back to see the dismay on the faces of the crew nor how Keffria clung to Kyle’s arm to keep him from charging after her to drag her back. At that moment, she knew she could not bear to see Vivacia untied from the dock with Kyle in command of her. She hoped the ship would understand. No. She knew the ship would understand. She had always hated the thought of Kyle commanding the family ship. Now that Vivacia was quickened and aware, she hated it even more. It was worse than leaving a child in the control of a person you despised, but she also knew there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. At least not now.
The ship’s agent had a tiny office right on the docks. He had been somewhat taken aback to find Brashen leaning on his counter, his sea-bag slung over one shoulder.
‘Yes?’ he asked in his polished, businesslike way.
Brashen thought to himself that the man reminded him of a well-educated chipmunk. It was something about the way his beard whiskered his cheeks, and how he sat up so suddenly straight in his chair before he spoke. ‘I’ve come for my pay,’ he said quietly.
The man turned to a shelf, considered several books there before taking down a fat ledger. ‘I’d heard that Captain Vestrit had been brought down to his ship,’ he observed carefully as he opened the book flat and ran his finger down a line of names. He looked up and met Brashen’s eyes. ‘You’ve been with him for a long time. I’d think you’d want to stay with him to the end.’
‘I did,’ Brashen said briefly. ‘My captain is dead. The Vivacia is Captain Haven’s ship now, and we’ve little liking for one another. I’ve been cashiered.’ He found he could keep his voice as low and pleasant as the chipmunk’s.
The agent looked up with a frown. ‘But surely his daughter will take it over now? For years, he’s been grooming her. The younger one, Althea Vestrit?’
Brashen gave a brief snort. ‘You’re not the only one surprised that isn’t to be so. Including Mistress Vestrit herself, to her shock and grief.’ Then, feeling abruptly that he had said too much about another’s pain, he added, ‘I’ve just come for my pay, sir, not to gossip about my betters. Please pay no mind to an angry man’s words.’
‘Well said, and I shall not,’ the agent assured him. He straightened from a money box to set three short stacks of coins on the counter before Brashen. Brashen looked at it. It was substantially less than what he’d pulled down when he was first mate under Captain Vestrit. Well, that was how it was.
He suddenly realized there was one other thing he should ask for. ‘I’ll need a ship’s ticket, too,’ he added slowly. He’d never thought he’d have to ask for one from the Vivacia. In fact, several years ago, he had thrown away his old ones, convinced he’d never again have to show anyone proof of his capability. Now he wished he’d kept them. They were simple things, tags of leather embossed with the ship’s stamp and scored with the sailor’s name and sometimes his position, to show he’d satisfactorily performed his duties. A handful of ship’s tickets would have made it a lot easier to get another position. But even one from a liveship would carry substantial weight in Bingtown.
‘You have to get that from the captain or mate,’ the ship’s agent pointed out.
‘Hmph. Small chance of that.’ Brashen abruptly felt robbed. All his years of good service to the ship, and these stacks of coins were all he had to show for them.
The agent cleared his throat suddenly. ‘It’s well known to me, at least, that Captain Vestrit thought highly of you and your work. If you need a recommendation, feel free to refer them to this office. Nyle Hashett. I’ll see they get an honest word from me.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Brashen said humbly. It was not a ship’s ticket, but it was something. He took a moment to stow the coins — a few in his purse, some in his boot and the rest in the kerchief bound tight to his neck. No sense in letting one pickpocket have them all. Then he shouldered his sea-bag with a grunt and left the office. He had a mental list of what he needed to do. First, find a room at a cheap rooming house. Before this, he’d lived aboard the Vivacia even when she was in port. Now everything he owned was in the bag on his back. Next he’d go to a banker. Captain Vestrit had urged him, often enough, to set aside a few coins each trip. He’d never got around to it. When he’d sailed with Vestrit, his future had seemed assured. Now he abruptly wished he’d taken that advice much sooner. Well, he’d start now, as he could not start sooner, and remember this hard lesson well.
And then? Well, then he’d allow himself one good night in port before he set himself to looking for a new berth. Some fresh meat and new baked bread, and a night of beer and good companionship at the harbour taverns. Sa knew he’d earned a bit of pleasure for himself on this voyage. He intended to take this night and enjoy it. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about the rest of his life. He felt a moment’s shame at anticipating pleasure while his captain lay dead. But Kyle would never allow him back aboard to pay his last respects. The best he could do for Captain Vestrit’s memory was not to be yet another discordant element at his funeral. Let him go to the bottom from a peaceful deck. Tonight Brashen would drink to his memory with every mug he raised. Let that be his own private tribute to the man. Resolutely he turned towards town.
But as he stepped out of the shady offices of the ship’s agent, he spotted Althea storming down the gangplank. He watched her come down the docks, striding along so that her skirts trailed out behind her like shredded sails in a gale. Her face was tear-streaked, her hair dishevelled, and her eyes hot-black with an anger that was almost frightening. Heads turned to watch her go by. Brashen groaned to himself, then settled his sea-bag more firmly on his shoulder. He’d promised he’d watch over her. With a heartfelt sigh, he followed her.
IT TOOK THE REST OF THE DAY to bury his grandfather. Runners were sent throughout the town to advise friends and neighbours, and his death services were cried aloud in the public markets and on the dock. Wintrow had been surprised at the number of people who came, and how swiftly they gathered. Merchants and sea-captains, Old Traders and tradesmen forsook the business of the day and converged on the dock and ship. Those closest to the family were welcomed aboard Vivacia, and others followed on the vessels of friends. Every liveship currently in the harbour followed Vivacia as she carried her former master out to where he would be surrendered to the sea.
Wintrow was uncomfortable throughout the whole ceremony. He could not sort out what he felt about any of it. It stirred his pride that so many turned out to honour his grandfather, but it seemed uncouth that so many of them offered first their condolences and then their congratulations on the quickening of the ship. As many who stopped beside the body to pay their final respects also stepped forward to the bow of the ship, to greet Vivacia and wish her well. That was where his grandmother stood, not by the body of her dead husband. Only his grandmother seemed to notice his unease. At one point she quietly told him that he had been too long away from Bingtown and its customs. That they congratulated her on the ship did not diminish one whit the grief they felt that Ephron had died. It was simply not the way of Bingtown folk to dwell on the tragic. Why, if the founders of Bingtown had dwelt on their tragedies, they would have drowned in their own tears. He nodded to her explanations, but kept his own private counsels as to what he thought of that.
He hated standing on the deck next to his grandfather’s body, hated the proximity of the other great-sailed ships as they left the harbour together to do homage to his grandfather’s burial at sea. It all seemed overly complicated, not to mention dangerous, to have all these ships sail forth, and then drop anchor in a
