Ship of Magic

Another carriage rattled up behind Davad's just as his coachman clucked to his horses. It was an old style of carriage, with heavy lace panels obscuring the windows. Malta lagged to see who would get out of it. In the dim light, she had to peer to see the crest on the door. It was unfamiliar, not an Old Trader crest. That meant they had to be Rain Wild. No one else would dare to be here tonight. She walked on, but could not resist glancing over her shoulder to see who would get out. A family disembarked, six figures, all cloaked and hooded in dark colors. But as each stepped out, the touch of gloved hand to collar or cuff set tiny amber, red and orange lights to flickering at each location. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and then she realized what they were. Flame jewels. Malta halted where she stood. Oh, the rumors of them could not do them justice. She caught her breath and stared. The closer they came, the more magnificent they were.

“Malta?” She heard the warning in her mother's voice.

“Good evening.” It was a husky woman's voice that came from within the shadowed depths of the hood. And now Malta could see that the hood was veiled with a curtain of lace as well. What could be so hideous, as to need hiding even in darkness? The flame jewels she wore were scarlet, weighing down the edges of her veil. She was dimly aware of hurried footsteps behind her, the soft susurrus of fabric. She startled when her mother spoke right at her elbow. “Good evening. I am Keffria, of the Vestrit Trader family.”

“Jani of the Rain Wild's Khuprus gives you greeting,” the hooded woman replied.

“May I present my daughter, Malta Haven of the Vestrit family?”

“You may indeed.” The woman's voice was a cultured purr. Malta belatedly remembered to bow. The woman chuckled approvingly. When she spoke, it was to Malta's mother. “I do not believe I have seen her at a Gathering before. Has she just entered society?”

“In truth, this is her first Gathering. She has not been presented yet. Her grandmother and I believe she must learn the duties and responsibilities of a Trader woman before she is presented as one.” In contrast to Jani, her mother's voice was courteous and hasty, as if correcting a wrong impression.

“Ah. That does sound like Ronica Vestrit. And I do approve of such philosophy. I fear it is becoming rarer in Bingtown these days.” Her tone smooth and rich as cream now.

“Your flame jewels are beautiful,” Malta blurted out. “Are they very expensive?” Even as she said it, she heard how childish she sounded.

“Malta!” her mother rebuked her.

But the Rain Wild woman chuckled throatily. “Actually, the scarlets are the most common and the easiest to awaken. But I still love them best. Red is such a rich color. The greens and blues are rarer far, and much harder to stir. And so, of course, they are the ones we charge most dearly for. The flame jewels are the exclusive province of the Khuprus, of course.”

“Of course,” her mother replied. “It is quite thrilling to see this new addition to the Khuprus merchandise. The rumors of them have not done them justice.” Her mother glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, dear! We have delayed you, I fear. We should probably all go in lest they begin without us.”

“Oh, they will wait on me, I am certain,” Jani Khuprus observed heavily. “It is at my behest we are all gathered here. But you are right, there is no courtesy in keeping others waiting. Keffria, young Malta. A pleasure to speak with you both.”

“Our pleasure,” her mother demurred, and stepped aside deferentially to allow the hooded woman to precede her. As her mother took her arm, she gripped it just a fraction tighter than was comfortable. “Oh, Malta,” she sighed in rebuke, and then firmly escorted her in. Just within the doors of the Trader Concourse, Grandmother awaited them. Her lips were folded tightly. She curtsied deeply to Jani Khuprus as she passed, then turned wide eyes on Malta and her mother.

Her mother waited a few moments to be sure Jani Khuprus was out of earshot, then hissed, “She presented herself to her!”

“Oh, Malta,” her grandmother groaned. Sometimes Malta felt her name was a sort of club. Almost any time either of them said it, they expressed anger or disgust or impatience with the world. She hung her cloak on a peg, then turned with a shrug.

“I just wanted to see her flame jewels,” she tried to explain, but as usual, neither of them was listening to her. Instead they hurried her inside the hall. It was dimly lit with tall standing branches of tapers. A third of the space had been given over to an elevated stage. The floor that she had always seen cleared for dancing was now lined with rows of chairs. And it was as she had feared. They were late. The tables of food were picked over and folk were either seated already or seeking their seats. “Can I go and sit with Delo?” she asked hastily.