Ship of Magic

She just shrugged and shook her head. “Don't want to talk,” she said gruffly, and hoped she sounded like an angry adolescent boy instead of a woman on the verge of hysterical tears. Control, control, control, she whispered to herself as she clambered one last time into the cramped and stuffy place she had called home all winter. It was the work of a few moments to snatch up her possessions and shove them down into her sea-bag. She swung it to her shoulder and left the ship. As her foot touched the dock, she looked around her with new eyes. Candletown. A hell of a place to be with nothing but a handful of coins and a sea-bag.

A man turned his head and stared at him oddly. Brashen glanced at him and then looked away. He realized he was striding down the street with a foolish grin on his face. He shrugged his shoulders to himself. He had a right to grin. He was proud of her. She had looked just like any tough ship's lad, standing there on the Reaper's deck. Her casual acceptance of his invitation, the cocky angle of her cap had all been perfect. In retrospect, this voyage that he had expected to kill her had actually been good for her. She'd recovered something, something he'd believed Kyle had hammered out of her once he took over as captain of the Vivacia. The lack of it was what had made her unbearable those last two voyages. It had changed her cheekiness to bitchiness, her sense of fair play to vindictiveness. On the day her father had died, he had thought that spark of the old Althea had been extinguished. He had seen no sign of it until that day on the Barrens when she was skinning out sea bears. Something had changed in her that day. The change had begun there and grown stronger, just as she herself had grown stronger and tougher. The night she had come to him in Nook, he had suddenly and completely realized that she had returned to being the old Althea. He had realized, too, how much he had missed her.

He took a deep breath of land air and liberty. His pay was in his pockets, he was free as a bird, and had the prospect of some very good company for the evening. What could be better? He began watching for the signboard of the Red Eaves. The first mate had grinned and recommended the inn to him as a clean place for a thrifty sailor when Brashen had mentioned he might spend the night ashore. The mate's smile had plainly indicated he did not expect Brashen to spend the night alone. For that matter, neither did Brashen. He caught sight of the inn's red eaves long before he saw its modest signboard.

Within, he found it clean but almost austere. There were only two tables and four benches, all sanded clean as a good ship's deck. The floors were covered with raked white sand. The fire in the hearth was built of driftwood; the flames danced in many colors. The place was empty of customers. He stood some time in the open room before a man gimped out to greet him. He was wiping his hands on his apron as he came. He looked Brashen up and down almost suspiciously before he gave him, “Good day.”

“Your house was recommended to me. How much for a room and a bath?”

Again there was that scrutiny, as if the man were deciding what Brashen could afford. He was a man of middle years, a sea-scarred fellow who now walked on a badly twisted leg. That was probably what had put an end to his sailing. “Three,” he said decisively. Then he added, “You're not the kind to come in drunk and break things up, are you? For if you are, then the Red Eaves has no room for you.”

“I'll come in drunk, yes, but I don't break things up. I sleep.”

“Emph. Well, you're honest, that's in your favor.” He held his hand out for the coin, and as soon as he had it in hand, he pocketed it. “Take the room to the left at the top of the stairs. If you want a bath, there's a pump-house and a fireplace and tub in the shed out back. Fire's banked, but it doesn't take much time to stir it up. See to yourself and take as long as you want, but mind you leave all as tidy as you found it. I keep a tidy place here. Some don't like that, they want to come in and drink and eat and shout and fight until all hours. That's what you want, you'll have to go somewhere else. Here an honest man can pay for a clean bed and get it. Pay for a well-cooked meal and get it: not fancy, but good clean food, cooked today, and an honest mug of good beer with it. But this isn't a tavern or a whorehouse nor a place to make bets and game for money. No, sir. It's a clean place. A clean place.”