The Liveship Traders Series Page 17

  ‘Brashen,’ she said, neither asking nor commanding. She did not even glance back at him, but only stayed as she was until she felt his hands clasp her waist just above her hips. He eased her down to where she could rest one hand on Vivacia’s hair. The paint flaked away from the coiling lock at her touch. The feel of the hair against her hand was strange. It gave way to her touch, but the carved locks were all of a piece rather than individual hairs. She knew a moment of unease. Then her awareness of Vivacia flooded through her, heightened as never before. It was like warmth, yet it was not a sensation of the skin. Nor was it the heat of whisky in one’s gut. This flowed with her blood and breath throughout her body.

  ‘Althea?’ Brashen’s voice sounded strained. She came back to herself, wondered how long she had been dangling almost upside-down. In a sleepy way she realized she had entrusted her entire weight to Brashen’s grip as she hung there. The peg was in her hand still. She sighed, and became aware of blood pounding in her face. With one hand she pushed the catch to one side; with the other she slid the peg in smoothly. When she released the catch, it seemed to vanish as if it had never been. The peg was now a permanent part of the figurehead.

  ‘What is taking so long?’ Kyle’s voice demanded.

  ‘It’s done,’ Althea breathed. She doubted if anyone but Brashen heard her. But as his grip on her tightened and he began to pull her up, Vivacia suddenly turned to her. She reached up, her strong hands catching hold of Althea’s own. Her green eyes met Althea’s.

  ‘I had the strangest dream,’ she said engagingly. Then she smiled at Althea, a grin that was at once impish and merry. ‘Thank you so for waking me.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Althea breathed. ‘Oh, you are more beautiful than I imagined you would be.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the ship replied with the serious artlessness of a child. She let go of Althea’s hands to brush flecks of paint from her hair and skin as if they were fallen leaves. Brashen drew Althea abruptly back up onto the deck and set her on her feet with a thump. He was very red in the face, and Althea was suddenly aware of Kyle speaking in a low, vicious voice.

  ‘… and you are off this deck for ever, Trell. Right now.’

  ‘That’s right. I am.’ Somehow the timbre of Brashen’s voice took Kyle’s dismissal of him and made it his own disdainful parting. ‘Fare well, Althea.’ Courtesy was back in his voice when he spoke to her. As if he were departing from some social occasion, he next turned and took formal leave of her mother. His calm seemed to rattle the woman, for though her lips moved, she spoke no farewell. But Brashen turned and walked away lightly across the deck, as if absolutely nothing had happened. Before Althea could recover from that, Kyle turned on her.

  ‘Are you out of your mind? What is wrong with you, letting him touch you like that?’

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. ‘Like what?’ she asked dazedly. She leaned on the railing to look down at Vivacia. The figurehead twisted about to smile up at her. It was a bemused smile, the smile of a person not quite awake on a lovely summer morning. Althea smiled sadly back at her.

  ‘You know very well what I speak of! His hands were all over you. Bad enough that you look like a dusty slattern, but then to let a deckhand manhandle you while you dangle all but upside-down…’

  ‘I had to put the peg in. It was the only way I could reach.’ She looked away from Kyle’s face, mottled red with his anger, to her mother and sister. ‘The ship is quickened,’ she announced softly but formally. ‘The liveship Vivacia is now aware.’

  And my father is dead. She did not speak the words aloud, but the reality of them cut her again, deeper and sharper. It seemed to her that each time she thought she had grasped the fact of his death, a few moments later it struck her again even harder.

  ‘What are people going to think of her?’ Kyle was demanding of Keffria in an undertone. The two younger children stared at her openly, while the older boy, Wintrow, looked aside from them all as if even being near them made him acutely uncomfortable. Althea felt she could not grasp all that was happening around her. Too much had occurred, too fast. Kyle attempting to put her off the ship, her father’s death, the quickening of the ship, his dismissal of Brashen, and now his anger at her for simply doing a thing that had needed doing. It all seemed too much for her to deal with, but at the same time she felt a terrible void. She groped inside herself, trying to discover what she had forgotten or neglected.

  ‘Althea?’

  It was Vivacia, calling up to her anxiously. She leaned over the railing to look down at her, almost sighing.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know your name. Althea.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Vivacia.’ And in that moment, she knew what the void was. It was all she had expected to feel, the joy and wonder at the ship’s quickening. The moment, so long awaited, had come and gone. Vivacia was awakened. And save for the first flush of triumph, she felt nothing of what she had expected to feel. The price had been too high.

  The instant her mind held the thought, she wished she could unthink it. It was the ultimate in betrayal, to stand on this deck, not so far from her father’s body, and think that the cost had been too high, that the liveship was not worth the death of her father, let alone the death of her grandfather and great-grandmother. And it was not a fair thought. She knew that. Ship or no, they all would have died. Vivacia was not the cause of their deaths, but rather the sum total of their legacies. In her, they lived on. Something inside her eased a bit. She leaned over the side, trying to think of something coherent and welcoming to say to this new being. ‘My father would have been very proud of you,’ she managed at last.

  The simple words woke her grief again. She wanted to put her head down on her arms and sob, but would not allow herself to, lest she alarm the ship.

  ‘He would have been proud of you, also. He knew this would be difficult for you.’

  The ship’s voice had changed. In moments, it had gone from high and girlish to the rich, throaty voice of a grown woman. When Althea looked down into her face, she saw more understanding than she could bear. This time she did not try to stop the tears that flowed down her cheeks. ‘I just don’t understand it,’ she said brokenly to the ship. Then she swung her gaze back to her family, who like her lined the railing and looked down at Vivacia’s face.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ she said more loudly, although her thickened voice was not more clear. ‘Why did he do this? Why, after all the years, did he give Vivacia to Keffria and leave me with nothing?’

  She spoke her words to her mother’s stern anguish, but it was Kyle who dared to speak. ‘Maybe he wanted her to be in responsible hands. Maybe he wanted to entrust her to someone who had shown he could be reliable and steady and care for someone besides himself.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you!’ Althea shrieked at him. ‘Can’t you just shut up?’ She knew she sounded childish and hysterical and she hated it. But there had just been too much to take today. She had no control left. If he spoke to her again, she would fly at him and claw him to shreds.

  ‘Be quiet, Kyle,’ her mother bade him firmly. ‘Althea. Compose yourself. This is neither the time nor the place. We will discuss this later, at home, in private. In fact, I need to discuss it with you. I want you to understand your father’s intentions. But for now there is his body to dispose of, and the formal presentation of the ship. The Traders and other liveships must be notified of his death, and boats hired to bring them out to witness his burial at sea. And… Althea? Althea, come back here, right now!’

  She had not realized she was striding away until she came to the gangplank and started down it. Somehow she had marched right past her father’s body and not even seen it. She did then what she would regret the rest of her life. She walked away from Vivacia. She did not accompany her on her maiden voyage to witness the sinking of her father’s body in the waters beyond the harbour. She did not think she could stand to watch his feet bound to the spare anchor and his body swathed i
n canvas before it was tilted over the side. Ever after, she would wish she had been there, to bid him farewell one final time.

  But at that moment, she only knew she could not abide the sight of 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.

  7

  LOYALTIES

  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 great circle so folk might crowd along their railings and watch Ephron Vestrit’s canvas-wrapped corpse slide off a plank and slip be
neath the moving waves.

  Afterwards there was some totally incomprehensible ceremony in which Vivacia was presented formally to the other individual liveships. His grandmother had presided quite solemnly. She stood on the foredeck and loudly introduced Vivacia to each ship as it was sailed across her bow. Wintrow stood alongside his scowling father, and wondered both at the smile on the old woman’s face and the tears that coursed down it. Clearly, something had been lost when he was born a Haven. Even his mother had looked on glowingly, her younger two children standing at her side and waving to each ship in turn.

  But that had been the larger scope of the ceremonies. Aboard Vivacia, there had been another sort of ritual entirely. Kyle possessed himself of the ship. Even to Wintrow’s untrained eyes that was plain. He barked out orders to men decades his senior and cursed them roundly if he thought they did not scamper quickly enough to his will. More than once, he loudly observed to his first mate that he had some changes in mind to make in the way this ship was run. The first time he said those words, something like a grimace of pain crossed Ronica Vestrit’s features. Observing her quietly the rest of the afternoon, it had seemed to Wintrow that the old woman grew graver and graver as the day passed, as if her sorrow for her husband’s death took root in her and grew with each passing hour.

  He found little to say to anyone and they said even less to him. His mother was occupied with keeping a sharp watch on little Selden, and preventing Malta from even exchanging glances with any of the younger deckhands. His grandmother mainly stood on the foredeck and stared out over the bow. If she spoke at all, it was to the figurehead, and quietly. The very thought of that put a shiver up Wintrow’s spine. There was nothing natural about the life that animated that carved artefact, nothing at all of Sa’s true spirit in her. While he sensed no evil about her, neither did he sense anything of good. He was glad he had not been the one to insert the peg in her, and avoided the foredeck.