Dragon Keeper Read online

  “Marrying her won’t change that,” Leftrin pointed out.

  Swarge looked down at the table. “Captain on the Sacha offered me a job last time Bellin and I were in port at the same time. Said if I wanted to jump boats, he’d take me on as tillerman for the Sacha.”

  After a moment, Leftrin unknotted his fists and spoke in a controlled voice. “And you said yes? Without even telling me you might go?”

  Swarge drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and then, without invitation, poured more rum for both of them. “I didn’t say anything,” he said after he’d tossed off his shot. “Like you said, Cap, I been with Tarman over ten years. And Tarman’s a liveship. I know I’m not family, but we got a bond, even so. I like the feel of him on the water. Like how I get that little shiver of knowing right before I see something to watch out for. Sacha’s a good little barge, but she’s just a piece of wood to push around on the river. Would be hard to leave Tarman for that. But . . .”

  “But for a woman, you would,” Leftrin said heavily.

  “We’d like to marry. Have children, if we can. You just said it yourself, Cap. Ten years is half of forever for a Rain Wild man. I’m not getting any younger and neither is Bellin. If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to do it soon.”

  Leftrin was quiet, weighing his choices. He couldn’t let Swarge go. Not now. Things were going to be strange enough for a time on the liveship without making Tarman get used to a new tillerman as well. Did he need another crewman? He had Hennesey to run the deck and man a pole, skinny little Skelly, Big Eider, and himself. Swarge on the tiller, he hoped. It wouldn’t be bad to have another crew member. It might even make Tarman’s momentum more believable. Yes, he decided. That charade might work. He stifled the grin that passed over his face. He totted up his finances and made his decision.

  “She any good?” he demanded of Swarge, and then, at the offended look on the man’s face, he clarified, “As a poleman. Does she do her share? Could she handle duties on a barge the size of Tarman if things got tricky?”

  Swarge just stared at him for a moment. Hope flickered in his eyes. He looked hastily down at the table, as if to conceal it from his captain. “She’s good. She’s not some flimsy little girl. She’s a woman with meat and muscle on her frame. She knows the river and she knows her business.” He scratched his head. “Tarman’s a much bigger vessel and a liveship to boot.”

  “So you think she wouldn’t be up to it?” Leftrin baited him.

  “Of course she would.” Swarge hesitated, then demanded almost angrily, “Are you saying she could join Tarman’s crew? That we could be together on Tarman?”

  “Would you rather be with her on Sacha?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then ask her. I won’t ask you to sign your papers until she agrees to sign as well. But the deal is the same. It’s for a lifetime.”

  “You ain’t even met her yet.”

  “I know you, Swarge. You think you can stand her for a lifetime, then I’m pretty sure I can, too. So ask her.”

  Swarge reached for the pen and the paper. “Don’t need to,” he said as he dipped the quill. “She’s always wanted to serve on a liveship. What sailor doesn’t?” And with a smooth and legible hand, he signed his life over to Tarman.

  MORE THAN ONE guest commented on the pink of her cheeks at their wedding ceremony at the Traders’ Hall. And when the guests had followed them to their new home to share a wedding dinner, she had scarcely been able to taste the honeycake or follow the conversations around her. The dinner was endless, and she could hardly remember a word said to her long enough to make intelligent conversation. She watched only Hest at the other end of the long table. His long-fingered hands cupping a wineglass, his tongue moving to moisten his lip, the soft fall of his hair on his brow. Would the dinner never end, would all these people never leave?

  As tradition dictated, when Hest and his men retired for brandy in his new study, she bid her guests a formal farewell and then retreated to her new marital chambers. Sophie and her mother accompanied her, to help her remove her heavy gown and underskirts. It had been a few years since she and Sophie had been truly close, but as Sedric was serving as Hest’s man, it had seemed appropriate that his sister serve as her attendant. Her mother had left her, with many fond wishes, to assist Alise’s father in bidding farewell to the departing guests. Sophie lingered, helping her tie the dozens of tiny bows that secured the lacy wrapper over her gauzy, beribboned nightdress. Then, as Alise sat, she had helped her take down her red hair and brush it smooth and loose upon her shoulders.

  “Do I look silly?” she’d demanded of her old friend. “I’m such a plain girl. Is this nightgown too fancy for me?”

  “You look like a bride,” Sophie had replied. There was a trace of sadness in her eyes. Alise understood. Today, with Alise’s wedding, they left the last remnant of their girlhood behind. They were both wedded women now. Despite her anticipation, Alise felt a brief moment of regret for the life she left behind. Never a girl again, she thought. Never another night in her father’s house as his daughter. And that, she abruptly recognized as relief.

  “Are you worried at all?” Sophie asked her as their eyes met in the elaborately framed vanity mirror.

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied and tried to control her smile.

  “Will it be strange, the three of you sharing a home?”

  “You mean Sedric? Of course not! He was ever my friend, and I’m only too glad to see that he and Hest get along so well. I know so few of the other Traders in Hest’s circle. I shall be very glad to have an old friend at my side as I move into my new life.”

  Sophie met her gaze in the mirror; she looked surprised. Then she cocked her head at her friend and said, “Well, you were ever the one for making the best of things! And I think that my brother will be happy to have such a staunch ally as you’ve always been to him! And I can make you no more beautiful than you already are. You seem so happy with all this. Are you, truly?”

  “Truly, I am,” she assured her friend.

  “Then I shall leave you, with my very best wishes. Good night, Alise!”

  “Good night, Sophie.”

  Alone, she sat before her mirror. She picked up her brush and ran it again through her auburn hair. She scarcely knew the woman in the lacy peignoir. Her mother had expertly applied her powder earlier in the day; her freckles had been subdued, not just on her face but on her bosom and arms. She was, she’d thought, about to step into a life that she hadn’t even tried to imagine since she was a little girl and full of dreams. Downstairs, the musicians played a final song that bid her guests good night. Her bedchamber window was open. She heard the sounds of carriage wheels on the drive as guest after guest left. She tried to be patient, knowing that Hest must remain downstairs until the last one was gone. Eventually, she heard the door close a final time, and she recognized through the open window the voices of her parents bidding Hest’s father good night. They would be the last, she was sure. She freshened her perfume. Two carriages departed. She blew out half the scented candles, dimming the room. Downstairs in the house, all was still. In the candlelit bedchamber filled with elegant vases of fragrant flowers, she anticipated her husband’s arrival. Heart thundering, she waited, ears straining for the sounds of his boots on the stair.

  And waited. The night deepened. And chilled. She donned a soft lambswool shawl and settled into a chair by the hearth. The evening insects stopped their chirring. A lonely night bird called and received no response. Slowly her mood sank from expectant to nervous to anxious and then foundered in bewilderment. The hearth fire that had warmed the room burned down. She added another log to it, blew out the guttering candles in the ornate silver stands, and relit the other ones. She sat, legs curled beneath her, in the cushioned armchair beside the hearth, waiting for her groom to come and claim his right to her.

  When the tears came, she could not stem them. After they passed, she could not repair the damage to her powder
ed face. So she washed her face clean of all pretense, confronted her dappled self in the mirror, and asked herself when she had become such a fool. Hest had stated his terms clearly, from the beginning. She was the one who had made up a foolish fairy tale about love and draped it over the cold iron trellis of their bargain. She could not blame him. Only herself.

  She should simply disrobe and go to bed.

  Instead, she sat down again by the fire and watched the flames devour the log and then subside.

  Long past the deep of night, in the shallows of early morning, when the last of her candles were burning low, her drunken husband came in. His hair was rumpled, his step unsteady, and his collar already loosened. He seemed startled to find her awaiting him by the dying fire. His gaze walked up and down her, and suddenly she felt embarrassed for him to see her in a nightgown that was virginally white and elaborately embroidered. His mouth twitched, and for a second she saw a flash of his teeth. Then he looked aside from her and said in a slurred voice, “Well, let’s get to it, then.”

  He didn’t come to her. He walked toward the bed, loosening his clothing as he crossed the room. His jacket and then his shirt fell to the thick rug before he stopped by the four remaining candles. He bent at the waist and with a single harsh whoosh of breath, he extinguished them, plunging the room into darkness. She could smell the liquor on his breath.

  She heard the bed give to his weight as he sat down on it. There was one thump and then another as he tugged off his boots and dropped them to the floor. A rustle of fabric told her that his trousers had followed them. The bed sighed as he dropped back onto it. She had remained where she was, frozen by shock tinged with fear. All her sexual anticipation, all her silly romantic dreams were gone. She listened to his breathing. After a moment, he spoke, and there was a note of sour amusement in his voice. “This would be much easier for both of us if you also were in the bed.”

  Somehow she arose from her chair and crossed to him, even as she wondered why she was doing it. It seemed inevitable. She wondered if it was her lack of experience in these areas that had raised her expectations so high. As she left the hearth’s warmth, she felt as if she swam a cold river to cross the cool room. She reached the bedside. He had not said another word to her; the room was so dark, he could not have been watching her approach. Awkwardly, she seated herself on the edge of the bed. After a time had passed, Hest pointed out heavily, “You’ll have to take that off and lie on the bed if we’re to accomplish anything.”

  The front of her nightgown was secured with a dozen tiny bows of silky ribbons. As she undid each one, terrible disappointment rose in her. What a fool she had been, to tease herself with thoughts of how his fingers would pull each ribbon free of its partner. What a silly anticipation she had felt as she had donned this garment; only a handful of hours ago, its extravagance had seemed feminine and seductive. Now she felt she had chosen some silly costume and assayed to play a role she could never fulfill. Hest had seen through it. A woman like her had no right to these silky fabrics and feminine ribbons. This was not to be romance for her, not even lust. This was duty on his part. Nothing more. She sighed as she stood and let the nightgown slide from her body to the floor. She opened the bedclothes and lay down on her half of the bed. She felt Hest roll to face her.

  “So,” he said, and the spirits on his breath now brushed her face. “So.” He sighed. A moment later he took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

  “I suppose so,” she managed to say.

  He shifted in the bed, coming closer to her. She rolled to face him, and then froze, suddenly dreading his touch. It shamed her that despite her fear, she felt a flush of warmth as well. Dread and desire mingled in her. It reminded her with disgust of two of her friends who had endlessly nattered on about the dangers of being raped by Chalcedean raiders. It had been all too apparent to Alise that they were as titillated as they were frightened by the prospect. Stupid, she had thought them then, making breathless fantasy of lust and violence.

  Yet now, as Hest’s hand settled on her hip, she gave a small involuntary gasp. No man had ever touched her bared flesh before. The thought sent a shiver over her skin. Then, as his touch turned hard, as his fingers gripped her flesh to pull her close, she gave a low cry of fear. She had heard it might hurt, the first time, but had never feared he would be cruel about it. Now she did.

  Hest abruptly gave a small huff of breath as if something were suddenly more to his liking. “Not so different,” he muttered, or perhaps his words were, “Not so difficult.” She scarcely had time to think of them, for with a suddenness that drove the breath from her, he pushed her onto her back and he shifted his body onto hers. His knee parted her thighs and pushed her legs open. “Ready indeed,” he said, and thrust against her that which she had never seen.

  She managed to accommodate him. She gripped the bedsheets; she could not bring herself to embrace him. The pain she had been told to expect was not as great as she had feared, but the pleasure she had heard of in whispers and had gullibly anticipated never arrived. She was not even certain that he enjoyed it. He rode her quickly to a finish she didn’t share, and then drew his body apart from hers immediately afterward. His trailing member smeared warmth and wet across her thigh. She felt soiled by it. When he fell back onto his half of the bed, she wondered if he would now drop off to sleep, or would rest and then approach the matter again, perhaps in a more leisurely way.

  He did neither. He lay there long enough to catch his breath, then rolled from the bed and found, at last, the soft warm robe that had been lain out for him. She more heard than saw him don it, and then there was a brief flash of dim light from the hooded candles in the hall. Then the door shut behind him and her wedding night was over.

  For a time she remained as she was on the bed. A shiver ran over her. It became a quivering that developed into a shuddering. She didn’t weep. She wanted to vomit. Instead, she scrubbed her leg and her crotch with the sheets on his side of the bed, and then rolled over to a clean spot. She worked at pulling air into her lungs and then pushing it out again. Deliberately, she made her breathing slow. She counted, holding each inhalation for a count of three and then breathing it out as slowly.

  “I’m calm,” she said aloud. “I’m not hurt. Nothing is wrong. I’ve lived up to the terms of my marriage contract.” A moment later, she added aloud, “So has he.”

  She got up from the bed. There was another log for the fire. She put it on the coals and watched it catch while she thought. In the remainder of the predawn hours she contemplated the folly of the bargain she had struck. She’d shed her tears. For a time, she choked on her disappointment and humiliation and regretted her foolish choice. Briefly, she entertained the idea of storming out of Hest’s house and going home.

  “Home” to what? To her father’s house? To questions and scandals and her mother demanding to know every detail of what had upset her? She imagined her father’s face. There would be whispers in the market if she went to shop, muted conversation at the next table if she stopped for a cup of tea. No. She had no home to go to.

  Before the sun rose, she set aside her girlish fancies and her anguish. Neither could save her from her fate. Instead, she summoned to the forefront of her mind the practical old maid she had rehearsed to be. No tenderhearted maiden could endure what had befallen her. Best set her aside. But the dedicated spinster could accept her fate with resignation and begin to weigh the advantages of it.

  As the sun kissed the sky, she rose and summoned a maid. Her own maid, as a matter of fact; her own personal maid, a pretty girl with only a small tattoo of a cat by her nose to mark that once she had been a slave. The girl brought her hot tea and an herbal wash to bathe her eyes. Then, at Alise’s request, she had fetched a hot breakfast of Alise’s choosing, on a lovely enameled tray. While Alise ate, the girl set out a selection of pretty new dresses for Alise to choose from.

  That afternoon, Alise sailed into the first of several reception teas in their honor, attired in a
demure gown of pale green with white lace. The simplicity of the dress belied how expensive it had been. She smiled cheerily and colored prettily when some of her mother’s friends whispered to her that marriage seemed to agree with her. The gem of her satisfaction was when Hest appeared, nattily attired, but hollow eyed and pale.

  He stood in the door of the drawing room, late for the gathering and obviously looking for her. When his gaze found her, she smiled and waved her fingers at him. He had seemed astonished both at her air of well-being and how little she seemed to care for his quickly whispered apology for his “condition” the night before. She merely nodded and gave all her attention to her hostess and the guests assembled to honor them. She did her best to be charming, even witty.

  Strange to discover it was not that difficult. Like any decision, once she had reached it, the world suddenly seemed simpler. Her decision, cemented as dawn rosed the sky, was that she would meticulously live up to her end of the bargain. And that she would see that Hest did, too.

  The very next day, she summoned the carpenters who transformed the dainty sewing room next to her bedchamber into her personal library. The tiny desk, all white and gilt, she replaced with a large one of heavy dark wood with numerous drawers and pigeonholes. And in the weeks that followed, the booksellers and antiquity dealers quickly learned to bring their freshest inventory for her to peruse before offering it to the general public. Before six months passed, the shelves and scroll racks of her little library were well populated. She judged that if she had sold herself, at least she’d demanded a high price.

  Day the 17th of the Rain Moon

  Year the 8th of the Reign of the Most Noble and Magnificent Satrap Cosgo

  Year the 2nd of the Independent Alliance of Traders

  From Detozi, Keeper of the Birds, Trehaug

  To Erek, Keeper of the Birds, Bingtown

  In the enclosed scroll case, two queries. The first, to be posted generally, asking if any mariner or farmer has had any sighting of the dragon Tintaglia, who has been absent some months from the Rain Wilds. The second, a message for the Bingtown Traders’ Council, a reminder that funds are due to assist in paying those who tend and hunt for the young dragons. A swift reply is desired and expected.