as few men could. Tarman felt comfortable in his hands. With all the changes the ship had undergone recently, Leftrin didn’t want to break in a new tillerman. He met Swarge’s look squarely. ‘You know that my claiming that wizardwood and what we’ve done with it is forbidden. It’s got to stay a secret. Best way to keep a secret, I think, is to make sure it benefits every man who knows it. And to keep those who share the secret in one place.
‘Before we started, I let go any man I didn’t think was mine, heart and soul. I’ve got a plum little crew here now, hand-picked, and I want to keep you all. It comes down to trust, Swarge. I kept you on, because I knew you’d done some boat-building back when you were a youngster. I knew you’d help us do what Tarman needed doing, and keep it quiet. Well, now it’s done, and I want you to stay on as his tillerman. Permanently. If I bring a new man aboard, he’s going to know immediately that something about this ship is very unusual, even for a liveship. And I won’t know if he’s someone I can trust with a secret that big. He might just have a big mouth, or he might be the type that thinks he could squeeze some money out of me for silence. And then I’d have to take steps I’d rather not take. Instead, I’d rather keep you, as long as I can. For the rest of your life, if you’ll sign on for that.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Leftrin was silent for a moment. He hadn’t bargained on this. He thought he’d chosen carefully. He’d never imagined that Swarge would be the one to hesitate. He said the first thing that came into his mind. ‘Why wouldn’t you? What’s stopping you?’
Swarge shifted from side to side on his chair. He glanced at the bottle and away again. Leftrin waited. The man wasn’t known for being talkative. Leftrin poured another tot of rum for both of them and waited, almost patiently.
‘There’s a woman,’ Swarge said at last. And there he stopped. He looked at the table, at his captain, and then at the table.
‘What about her?’ Leftrin asked at last.
‘Been thinking to ask her to marry me.’
Leftrin’s heart sank. It would not be the first time he’d lost a good crewman to a wife and a home.
The recently repaired and renovated Traders’ Concourse still smelled of new timber and oiled wood. For the ceremony, the seating benches had been removed to the sides of the room, leaving a large open space. The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows; fading squares of light fell on the polished floor and broke into fragments against those who had gathered to witness their promises to one another. Most of the guests were attired in their formal Trader robes in the colours of their families. There were a few Three Ships folk there, probably trading partners of Hest’s family, and even one Tattooed woman in a long gown of yellow silk.
Hest had not arrived yet.
Alise told herself that did not matter. He would come. He was the one who had arranged all this; he would scarcely back out of it now. She wished devoutly that her gown did not fit her so snugly, and that it was not such a warm afternoon. ‘You look so pale,’ her father whispered to her. ‘Are you all right?’
She thought of all the white powder her mother had dusted on to her face and had to smile. ‘I’m fine, Father. Just a bit nervous. Shall we walk about a bit?’
They moved slowly through the room, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Guest after guest greeted her and wished her well. Some were already availing themselves of the punch. Others were unabashedly scanning the terms of their marriage contract. The dual scrolls of their agreement were pegged down to the wood of a long central table. Silver candelabra held white tapers; the light was needed for anyone who wished to read the finely written words. Matching black quills and a pot of red ink awaited Hest and her.
It was a peculiarly Bingtown tradition. The marriage contract would be scrutinized, read aloud and signed by both families before the far briefer blessing invocation. It made sense to Alise. They were a nation of traders; of course their nuptials would be as carefully negotiated as any other bargain.
She had not realized how anxious she was until she heard the wheels of a carriage in the drive outside. ‘That must be him,’ she whispered nervously to her father.
‘It had better be him,’ he replied ominously. ‘We may not be so rich as the Finboks, but the Kincarrons are just as much Traders as they are. We are not to be trifled with. Nor insulted.’
For the first time, she realized how much her father had feared Hest would leave her standing unclaimed, their promises unsigned. She looked deep into his eyes and saw the anger that mingled with his fear. Fear that he’d be humiliated, fear that he’d have to take his unclaimed daughter home. She looked away from him, and some of the shine went off the day. Not even her own father could believe that Hest was truly in love with her and would want to marry her.
She drew as deep a breath as the tightly sewn dress would allow her. She stiffened her spine and with it her resolve. She was not going back to live in her father’s house as his failed daughter. Never again. No matter what.
Then the door of the Concourse was flung wide, and Hest’s men poured in dressed in the formal robes of their family lineages. They cascaded down the steps, an unruly laughing mob of his friends and business associates. Hest was carried down in their midst. Her first glimpse of him sent her heart racing. His dark hair was tousled boyishly, and his cheeks were reddened. He was grinning good-naturedly as they hurried him along. His wide shoulders were emphasized by his closely tailored jacket of dark green Jamaillian silk. He wore a white neckcloth pinned with an emerald stick pin that was not greener than his eyes.
When his eyes found her, his face went suddenly still. His smile faded. She held his gaze, challenging him to change his mind now. Instead, as he regarded her solemnly, he nodded slowly, as if confirming something to himself. Dozens of well-wishers had moved forward to greet him when he had entered. He moved through them as a ship cut through waves, not rudely, but refusing to be delayed or distracted by them. When he reached Alise and her father, he bowed formally to both of them. Alise, startled, managed a hasty curtsey. As she rose from it, Hest held out a hand to her. But it was her father he smiled at as he said, ‘I believe this is mine now, isn’t it?’
She put her hand in his.
‘I believe that there is a contract to be signed first,’ her father said, but he spoke jovially. With that one gesture, Hest had changed his anxiety to good nature. Her father was beaming proudly to see his daughter claimed so confidently by such a handsome and wealthy man.
‘That there is!’ Hest exclaimed. ‘And I propose that we get to it immediately. I have no patience with lengthy formalities. The lady has made me wait quite long enough!’
A thrill shot though Alise at his words while a murmur of approving amusement and some small laughter rippled through the gathered guests. Hest, ever charming and charismatic, literally hurried her across the Concourse to the waiting contracts.
As tradition demanded, they moved to their positions on opposite sides of the long table. Sedric Meldar came forward to hold the inkwell for Hest. Alise’s elder sister Rose had demanded the honour of being her attendant. They would move in unison down the long table, each reading aloud a term from their wedding contract. As each term was agreed to, both would sign. At the end of the table, the couple would finally stand together, to be blessed by their parents. Each contract scroll would be carefully sanded and dried, and then rolled up and stored in the Concourse archives. It was rare that the terms of a dowry or the subject of a child’s inheritance came into question, but the written records often served to prevent such strife.
There
