Ship of Magic

Althea raced frantically through her scrabbled memories of Dursay. She had got drunk, yes, but only once, and she remembered vaguely that she'd bemoaned her situation to some shipmates. Who? The faces blurred in her memory, but she knew it had been Brashen who'd rebuked her, daring to tell her to shut her hatch and keep private problems private. She did not recall just what she'd said, but now she had a fair idea of who had tattled.

“So. What tales did Brashen carry back to you?” she asked in as calm a voice as she could muster. God of fishes, what had she said? If it had to do with family business, and Kyle carried that tale home . . .

“It wasn't Brashen. But it confirms my opinion of him that he'd sit and listen to you mouth such dirt. There's another just like you, a Trader boy trying to play at sailor. I've no idea why your father ever indulged him on this ship, unless he hoped to make him a match for you. Well, if I have my way, I'll leave him on land in Bingtown, too, so you can still enjoy one another's company there. He's likely the closest you'll get to a man for yourself; best anchor him down while you can.

Kyle leaned back in his chair. He seemed to enjoy. Althea's shocked silence at his inferences. When he spoke again, his voice was low and satisfied. “Well, little sister, it seems you do not enjoy it when I bandy such words about. So perhaps you can understand how I took it when the ship's carpenter came back, a bit the worse for grog, talking loudly of how you'd told him I only married your sister because I hoped to get my hands on the family ship, because the likes of me would never have the chance at commanding a liveship otherwise.” His calm voice suddenly was gritty with fury.

She recognized her own words. Oh, she'd been drunker than she thought, to voice those thoughts out loud. Coward or liar, she challenged herself. She had either to step up and claim those words, pretend disdain of them, or lie and claim she'd never said them. Well, regardless of what Kyle might say of her, she was Ephron Vestrit's daughter. She found her courage.

“That's true. I said it, and it's true. So. How does the truth make mock of you?”

Kyle stood suddenly and came around the table. He was a big man. Even as Althea began to retreat, the force of his slap sent her staggering. She caught at a bulkhead and forced herself to stand. He was very pale as he walked back to his chair and sat down. Too far. They'd both gone too far, as she had always feared they would. Had he feared it, too? He seemed to be shaking as badly as she was.

“That wasn't for me,” he said huskily. “That was for your sister. Drunk as a soldier, in a public tavern, and you as much as call her a whore. Do you realize that? Do you truly think she'd need to buy a man with the bribe of a liveship to command? She's a woman that any man would be proud to claim, even if she came with not a copper to her name. Unlike you. You they'll have to buy a husband for, and you'd better hope to the gods that your family fortunes do better, for they'd have to dower you with half the town before any decent man would look at you. Get to your quarters before my temper truly runs away with me. Now!”

She tried to turn and walk away with dignity, but Kyle stood up and came from behind the table, to place a broad hand on her back and propel her toward the door. As she left the Captain's quarters, shutting the door firmly behind her, she observed Mild diligently sanding some splintering from a railing nearby. The lad had ears like a fox; he'd have heard everything. Well, she'd neither done nor said anything she was ashamed of. She doubted Kyle could say the same. She kept her head up as she made her way aft to the small stateroom that had been hers since she was twelve years old. As she shut the door behind her, the full measure of Kyle's threat to move her off the ship came to her.

This was home. He couldn't force her out of her home. Could he?

She'd loved this room since she was a child, and never would forget that thrill of ownership that came to her the first time she'd walked in and tossed her sea-bag up onto the bunk. That was close to seven years ago, and it had been home and safety ever since. Now she clambered up onto that same bunk and lay curled there, her face to the bulkhead. Her cheek stung, but she would not put her hand to it. He'd struck her. Let it bruise and darken. Maybe when she got home, her sister and her parents would look at it and perceive what sort of vermin they had welcomed into their family when they'd wedded Keffria to Kyle Haven. He was not even Trader stock. He was a mongrel, part Chalcedean and part wharf-rat. But for marrying her sister, he'd have nothing now. Nothing. He was a piece of dung and she would not cry because he was not worth her tears, only her anger. Only her anger.