Читать книгу The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny - Робин Хобб - Страница 29

THE SHIP CRESTED THE WAVE, her bow rising as if she would ascend into the tortured sky itself. Sa knew, the rain was near heavy enough to float a ship. For a long hanging instant, Althea could see nothing but sky. In the next instant, they were rushing headlong down a long slope of water into a deep trough. It seemed as if they must plunge into the rising wall of water, and plunge they did, green water covering the deck. The impact jarred the mast, and with it the yard that Althea clung to. Her numbed fingers slipped on the wet cold canvas. She curled her feet about the footrope she had braced them on and made her grip more firm. Then with a shudder, the ship was shaking it off, rising through the water and rushing up the next mountain.

‘Ath! Move it!’ The voice came from below her. On the ratlines, Reller was glaring at her, eyes squinted against the wind and rain. ‘You in trouble, boy?’

‘No. I’m coming,’ she called back. She was cold and wet and incredibly tired. The other hands had finished their tasks and fled down the rigging. Althea had paused a moment to cling where she was and gather some strength for the climb down. At the beginning of her watch, at first sight of storm, the captain had ordered the sails hauled down and clewed up. The rain hit them first, followed by wind that seemed bent on picking them out of the rigging. They had no sooner finished and regained the deck than the cry came to double reef the topsails and furl everything else. In seeming response to their efforts, the storm grew worse. Her watch had clambered about the rigging like ants on floating debris, clewing down, close reefing and furling in response to order after order, until she had stopped thinking at all, only moving to obey the bellowed commands. She had not forgotten why she was there; of their own accord, her hands had packed the wet canvas and secured it. Amazing, what the body could do even when the mind was numbed by weariness and fear. Her hands and feet were like cleverly-trained animals now that contrived to keep her alive despite her own ambivalence.

She made her slow way down, the last to be clear of the rigging as always. The others had passed her on the way down and were most likely already below. That Reller had even bothered to ask her if she was in trouble marked him as far more considerate than the rest. She had no idea why the man seemed to keep an eye on her, but she felt at once grateful and humiliated by it.

When she had first joined the ship’s crew, she had been burning to distinguish herself. She had driven herself to do more, faster and better. It had seemed wonderful to be back on a deck again. Repetitious food, badly stored; crowded and smelly living conditions; even the crudity of those she was forced to call shipmates had all seemed tolerable in her first days aboard. She was back at sea, she was doing something, and at the end of the voyage she’d have a ship’s ticket to rub in Kyle’s face. She’d show him. She’d regain her ship, she promised herself, and resolutely set out to learn this new ship as swiftly as she could.

But despite her best efforts, her inexperience on such a vessel was multiplied by the lesser size of her body. This was a slaughter-ship, not a merchant-trader. The captain’s objective was not to get swiftly from one place to another to deliver goods, but to cruise a zig-zag path looking for prey. The ship carried a far larger crew than would a merchant-ship of the same size, for in addition to sailing, there must be enough hands to hunt, slaughter, render and stow the harvested meat and oil below. Hence the ship was more crowded and less clean. She had held fast to her resolution to learn fast and well, but determination alone could not make her the best sailor on this stinking carrion ship. She knew, in some dim back part of her mind, that she had vastly improved her skills and stamina since signing on to the Reaper. She also knew that what she had achieved was still not enough to make her what her father would have called ‘a smart lad’. Her purposefulness had wallowed down into despair. Then she had lost even that. Now she survived from day-to-day, and thought of little more than that.

She was one of three ‘boys’ aboard the slaughter-ship. The other two, young relatives of the captain, drew the gentler chores. They waited table for both the captain and mate, with a fair chance at getting the leavings from decent meals. They often helped the cook, too, with the lesser chores of preparing food for the main crew. She envied them that the most, she thought to herself, for it often meant they were inside, not only out of the storm’s reach but close to the heat of the cook stove. To Althea, the odd boy, fell the cruder tasks of a ship’s boy. The messy clean-ups, the hauling of buckets of slush and tar, and the make up work of any task that merited an extra man. She had never worked so hard in her life.

She held tight to the mast for a moment longer, just out of reach of yet another wave that swamped the deck. From there to the shelter of the forepeak, she moved in a series of dashes and gasping moments of clinging tight to lines and rails to stay with the vessel as she ploughed through wave after wave. They’d had three solid days of bad weather now. Before the current storm began, Althea had naively believed it would not get much worse. The experienced hands seemed to accept it as part of a normal season on the Outside. They cursed it and demanded of Sa that he end it, but always wound up telling one another tales of worse storms they had endured upon less seaworthy vessels.

‘Ath! Boy! Best get a move on if you want your share of the mess tonight, let alone to eat it while it’s got a breath of warmth in it!’

Reller’s words had more than a bit of threat to them, but despite that tone the old hand stayed on deck, watching her until she gained his side. Together they went below, sliding the hatch tight shut behind them. Althea paused on the step behind Reller to dash the water from her face and arms and then wring out the thick queue of her hair. Then she followed him down into the belly of the ship.

A few months ago, she would have said it was a cold, wet, smelly place. Now it was haven if not home, a place where the wind could not drive the rain into you so fiercely. The yellow light of a lantern was almost welcoming. She could hear food being served out, a wooden ladle clacking against the inside of a kettle, and hastened to be sure of getting her rightful share.

On board the Reaper, there were no crew quarters. Each man found himself a sleeping spot and claimed it. The more desirable ones had to be periodically defended with fists and oaths. There was a small area in the midst of the cargo hold that the men had claimed as a sort of den. Here the kettle of food was brought by one of the ship’s boys and rationed out in dollops as soon as they came off watch. There was no table, no benches to sit on, save your sea-chest if you had one. For the rest, there was only the deck and the odd keg of oil to lean against. The plates were wooden trenchers, cleaned only with a wiping of fingers or bread, when they had bread. Ship’s biscuit was the rule, and in a storm like this, there was small chance that Cook had tried to bake anything. Althea made her way through a jungle of dangling garments. Wet clothing hung everywhere from pegs and hooks in a pretence of drying. Althea shrugged out of her oilskin, won last week gambling with Oyo, and hung it on the peg she had claimed as her own.

Reller’s threat had not been idle. He was serving himself as Althea approached, and like every man on the ship, he took what he wanted with no regard for who came after. Althea snatched up an empty trencher and waited eagerly for him to be out of the way. She sensed he was taking his time about it, trying to bait her into complaint, but she had learned the hard way to be wiser than that. Anyone could cuff a ship’s boy, and they did not need the excuse of his whining to do it. Better to keep silent and get half a ladle of soup than to complain and get only a cuff for her supper. Reller crouched over the kettle and ladled up scoop after scoop from the shallow puddle of what was left. Althea swallowed and waited her turn.

When Reller saw she would not be baited, he almost smiled. Instead he told her, ‘There, lad. I’ve left you a few lumps in the bottom. Clean up the kettle, and then run it back to Cook.’

Althea knew this was a kindness, in a way. He could have taken all and left her naught but scrapings and no one would have even considered speaking against him. She was happy to take the kettle and all and retire to her claimed spot to devour it.

She had a good place, all things considered. She had wedged her meagre belongings up in a place where the curve of the hull met the deck above. It made it near impossible to stand upright. Here she had slung her hammock. No one else could have curled himself small enough to sleep comfortably there. She had found she could retreat there and be relatively undisturbed while she slept; no one was brushing past her in wet rain gear. So she took the kettle to her corner and settled down with it.

She scooped up what broth was left with her mug and drank it down. It was not hot — in fact the grease had congealed in small floating blobs — but it was warmer than the rain outside and the fat tasted good to her. True to his word, Reller had left some lumps. Potato, or turnip or perhaps just a doughy blob of something meant to be a dumpling but not cooked enough. Althea didn’t care. Her fingers scooped it up and she ate it. With a hard round of ship’s biscuit she scraped the kettle clean of every last remnant of food.

She had no sooner swallowed the last bite than a great weariness rose up in her. She was cold and wet and ached in every bone. More than anything, she longed simply to drag down her blanket, roll up in it and close her eyes. But Reller had told her she had to take the kettle back to the cook. She knew better than to wait until after she had slept. That would be seen as shirking. She thought Reller himself might turn a blind eye to it, but if he did not, or if the cook complained, she could catch the end of a rope for it. She couldn’t afford that. With a sound that could have been a whimper, she crept from her sleeping space with the kettle cradled in her arms.

She had to brave the storm-washed deck again to reach the galley. She made it in two dashes, holding onto the kettle as tightly as she held onto the ship. If she let something like that wash overboard, she knew they’d make her wish she’d gone with it. When she got to the galley, she had to kick and beat upon the door; the cook had secured it from inside. When he did let her in, it was with a scowl. Wordlessly, she offered him the kettle, and tried not to look longingly at the fire in its box behind him. If you were favoured by the cook, you could stay long enough to warm yourself. The truly privileged could hang a shirt or a pair of trousers in the galley, where they actually dried completely. Althea was not even marginally favoured. The cook gestured her out the door as soon as she set the kettle down.

On the trip back, she misjudged her timing. Later, she would blame it on the cook for turning her so swiftly out of the galley. She thought she could make it in one dash. Instead the ship seemed to dive straight into a mountain of water. She felt her desperate fingers brush the line she lunged for, but she did not make good her hold. The water simply swept her feet out from under her and rushed her on her belly across the deck. She kicked and struggled wildly, trying to claw some kind of a hold on the deck with fingers and toes. The water was in her eyes and up her nose; she could not see nor find breath to shout for help. An eternal instant later, she was slammed into the ship’s railing. She took a glancing blow to the side of her head that rang darkness before her eyes and near tore her ear off. For a brief moment, she knew nothing but to hold tight to the railing with both hands as she lay belly down on the swamped deck. Water rushed past her in its hurry to be overboard. She clung to the ship, feeling the seawater cascade past her, but unable to lift her head high enough to get a clear breath. She knew, too, that if she waited until the water was completely gone before she got to her feet, the next wave would catch her as well. If she didn’t manage to get up now, she wasn’t ever going to get up. She tried to move but her legs were jelly.

A hand grabbed the back of her shirt, hauled her choking to her knees. ‘You’re plugging the scuppers!’ someone exclaimed in disgust. She hung from his grip like a drowned kitten. There was air against her face, mixed with driving rain, but before she could take it in, she had to gag out the water in her mouth and nose. ‘Hang on!’ she heard him shout and she wrapped her legs and arms about his legs. She managed one gargly breath of air before the water hit them both.

She felt his body swing with the impact of the water and thought surely they would both be torn loose from the ship. But an instant later, as the water retreated, he struck her a cuff to the side of the head that loosened her grip on him. Suddenly he was moving across the deck, dragging her behind him, her pigtail and shirt caught together in his grip. He hauled her up a mast; as soon as her feet and hands felt the familiar rope, they clung to them and propelled her up of their own accord. The next wave that rushed over the deck went by beneath her. She gagged and then spat a quantity of seawater into it. She blew her nose into her hand and shook it clean. With her first lungful of air, she said, ‘Thank you.’

‘You stupid little deck rat! You damn near got us both killed.’ Anger and fear vied in the man’s voice.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She spoke no louder than she had to in order to be heard through the storm.

‘Sorry? I’ll make you a sight more than just sorry. I’ll kick your arse till your nose bleeds.’

He lifted his fist and Althea braced herself to take the blow. She knew that by ship’s custom she had it coming. When after a moment it did not land, she opened her eyes.

Brashen peered at her through the darkness. He looked more shaken than he had when he’d first dragged her up from the water. ‘Damn you. I didn’t even recognize you.’

She made a small gesture that could have been a shrug. Her eyes did not meet his.

Another wave made its passage across the ship. Again the ship began its wallowing climb.

‘So. How have you been doing?’ Brashen’s voice was pitched low, as if he feared to be overheard talking to her. A mate was not expected to have chummy little chats with the ship’s boy. Since discovering her, he had avoided all contact with her.

‘As you see,’ Althea said quietly. She hated this. She abruptly hated Brashen, not for anything he had done, but because he was seeing her this way. Ground down to someone less than dirt under his feet. ‘I get by. I’m surviving.’

‘I’d help you if I could.’ He sounded angry with her. ‘But you know I can’t. If I take any interest in you at all, someone will suspect. I’ve already made it plain to several of the crew that I’ve no interest in… other men.’ He suddenly sounded awkward. A part of Althea found the irony in this. Clinging to rigging on this scummy ship in the middle of a storm after he’d just offered to kick her arse, and he could not bring himself to speak of sex with her. For fear of offending her dignity. ‘On a ship like this, any kindness I showed you would be construed only one way. Then someone else would decide he fancied you, too. Once they found out you were a woman…’

‘You needn’t explain. I’m not stupid,’ Althea interrupted to stop his litany. Didn’t he know she lived aboard the scum-infested tub?

‘You’re not? Then what are you doing aboard?’ He threw the last bitter words over his shoulder before he dropped from the rigging to the deck. Agile as a cat, quick as a monkey, he made his way swiftly to the bow of the ship, leaving her clinging in the rigging and staring after him.

‘The same thing you are,’ she replied snidely to his last words. It didn’t matter that he could not hear them. The next time the water cleared the deck, she followed Brashen’s example, but with considerably less grace and skill. Moments later, she was below decks, listening to the rush of water all around her. The Reaper moved through the water like a barrel. She sighed heavily, and once more dashed the water from her face and bare arms. She wrung out her queue and shook her wet feet like a cat before padding back to her corner. Her clothing was sodden against her skin, chilling her. She changed hastily into clothing that was merely damp, then wrung out what she had had on. She shook it out, hung her shirt and trousers on a peg to drip and tugged her blanket out from its hiding-place. It was damp and smelled musty, but it was wool. Damp or not, it would hold the heat of her body. And that was the only warmth she had. She rolled herself into it and then curled up small in the darkness. So much for Reller’s kindness. It had got her half-drowned and cost her half an hour of her sleep. She closed her eyes and let go of consciousness.

But sleep betrayed her. As weary as she was, oblivion would not come to her. She tried to relax, but could not remember how to loosen the muscles in her lined brow. It was the words with Brashen, she decided. Somehow they brought the situation back to her as a whole. Often she went for days without catching so much as a glimpse of him. She wasn’t on his watch; their lives and duties seldom intersected. And when she had no reminders of what her life once had been, she could simply go from hour to hour, doing what she had to do to survive. She could give all her attention to being the ship’s boy and think no further than the next watch.

Brashen’s face, Brashen’s eyes, were crueller than any mirror. He pitied her. He could not look at her without betraying to her all that she had become, and worse, all that she had never been. Bitterest of all, perhaps, was seeing him recognize as surely as Althea herself had, that Kyle had been right. She had been her Papa’s spoiled little darling, doing no more than playing at being a sailor. She recalled with shame the pride she had taken in how swiftly she could run the rigging of the Vivacia. But her time aloft had mostly been during warm summer days, and whenever she was wearied or bored with the tasks of it, she could simply come down and find something else to amuse herself. Spending an hour or two splicing and sewing was not the same as six hours of frantically hasty sailwork after a piece of canvas had split and needed to be immediately replaced. Her mother had fretted over her callouses and rough hands; now her palms were as hardened and thick-skinned as the soles of her feet had been; and the soles of her feet were cracked and black.

That, she decided, was the worst aspect of her life. Finding out that she was no more than adequate as a sailor. No matter how tough she got, she was simply not as strong as the larger men on the ship. She had passed herself off as a fourteen-year-old boy to get this position aboard the Reaper. Even if she had wished to stay with this slaughter-tub, in a year or so they were bound to notice she wasn’t growing any larger or stronger. They wouldn’t keep her on. She’d wind up in some foreign port with no prospects at all.

She stared up into the darkness. At the end of this voyage, she had planned to ask for a ship’s ticket. She still would, and she’d probably get it. But she wondered now if it would be enough. Oh, it would be the endorsement of a captain, and perhaps she could use it to make Kyle live up to his thoughtless oath. But she feared it would be a hollow triumph. Having a stamped bit of leather to show she had survived this voyage was not what she had wanted. She had wanted to vindicate herself, to prove to all, not just Kyle, that she was good at her chosen life, a worthy captain to say nothing of being a competent sailor. Now, in the brief times when she did think about it, it seemed to her that she had only proved the opposite to herself. What had seemed daring and bold when she’d begun it back in Bingtown now seemed merely childish and stupid. She’d run away to sea, dressed as a boy, taking the first position that was offered to her.

Why, she asked herself now. Why? Why hadn’t she gone to one of the other liveships and asked to be taken on as a hand? Would they have refused as Brashen had said they would? Or could she, even now, be sleeping aboard a merchant vessel cruising down the Inside Passage, sure of both wages and recommendation at the end of the voyage? Why had it seemed so important to her that she be hired anonymously, that she prove herself worthy without either her name or her father’s reputation to fall back on? It had seemed such a spirited thing to do, on those summer evenings in Bingtown when she had sat cross-legged in the back room of Amber’s store and sewed her ship’s trousers. Now it merely seemed childish.

Amber had helped her. But for her help, with both needlework and readily shared meals, Althea would never have been able to do it. Amber’s sudden befriending of her had always puzzled Althea. Now it seemed to her that perhaps Amber had actually been intent on propelling her into danger. Her fingers crept up to touch the serpent’s egg bead that she wore on a single strand of leather about her neck. The touch of it almost warmed her fingers and she shook her head at the darkness. No. Amber had been her friend, one of the few rare women-friends she’d ever had. She’d taken her in for the days of high summer, helped her cut and sew her boy’s clothing. More, Amber had donned man’s clothing herself, and schooled Althea in how to move and walk and sit as if she were male. She had, she told Althea, once been an actress in a small company. Hence she’d played many roles, as both sexes.

‘Bring your voice from here,’ she’d instructed her, prodding Althea below her ribs. ‘If you have to talk. But speak as little as you can. You’ll be less likely to betray yourself, and you’ll be better accepted. A good listener of any sex is rare. Be one, and it will make up for anything else perceived as a fault.’ Amber had also shown her how to wrap her breasts flat to her chest in such a way that the binding cloth appeared to be no more than another shirt worn under her outer shirt. Amber had shown her how to fold dark-coloured stockings to use as blood rags. ‘Dirty socks you can always explain,’ Amber had told her. ‘Cultivate a fastidious personality. Wash your clothing twice as much as anyone else does, and no one will question it after a time. And learn to need less sleep. For you will either have to rise before any others or stay up later in order to keep the privacy of your body. And this I caution you most of all. Trust no one with your secret. It is not a secret a man can keep. If one man aboard the ship knows you are a woman, then they all will.’

This was the only area in which Amber had, perhaps, been mistaken. For Brashen knew she was a woman, and he had not betrayed her. At least, he hadn’t so far. A sudden irony came to Althea. She grinned bitterly to herself. In my own way I took your advice, Brashen. I arranged to be reborn as a boy, and not one called Vestrit.

Brashen lay on his bunk and studied the wall opposite him. It was not far from his face. Was a time, he thought ruefully, when I would have scorned this cabin as a clothes-closet. Now he knew what a luxury even a tiny space to himself could be. True, there was scarce room to turn around once a man was inside, but he did have his own berth, and no one slept in it but him. There were pegs for his clothing, and a corner just large enough to hold his sea-chest. In the bunk, he could brace himself against the ledge that confined his body and almost sleep secure when he was off watch. The captain’s and the mate’s cabins were substantially larger and better appointed, even on a tub like this. But then on many ships the second mate had no better quarters than the crew. He was grateful for this tiny corner of quiet, even if it had come to him by the deaths of three men.

He had shipped as an ordinary seaman, and spent the first part of his trip growling and elbowing in the forecastle with the rest of his watch. Early on, he had realized he had not only more experience but a stronger drive to do his job well than the rest of his fellows. The Reaper was a slaughter-ship out of Candletown far to the south, on the northern border of Jamaillia. When the ship had left the town many months ago in spring, it had left with a mostly conscripted crew. A handful of professional sailors were the backbone of the crew, charged with battering the newcomers into shape as sailors. Some were debtors, their work sold by their creditors as a means of forcing them to pay back what they owed. Others were simple criminals purchased from the Satrap’s jails. Those who had been pickpockets and thieves had soon learned better or perished; the close quarters aboard a slaughter-ship did not encourage a man to be tolerant of such vice in his fellows. It was not a crew that worked with a will, nor one whose members were likely to survive the rigours of the trip. By the time the Reaper reached Bingtown, she’d lost a third of her crew to sickness, accidents and violence aboard. The two thirds that remained were survivors; they’d learned to sail, they’d learned to pursue the slow-moving turtles and the so-called brack-whales of the southern coast inlets and lagoons. Their services were not, of course, to be confused with the skills of the professional hunters and skinners who rode the ship in the comparative comfort of a dry chamber and idleness. The dozen or so men of that ilk never set a hand to a line or stood a watch; they idled until their time of slaughter and blood. Then they worked with a fury, sometimes going without sleep for days at a time while the reaping was good. But they were not sailors and they were not crew. They would not lose their lives save that the whole ship went down or one of their prey turned on them successfully.

The ship had beat her way north on the outside of the pirate islands, hunting, slaughtering and rendering all the way. At Bingtown, the Reaper had put in to take on clean water and supplies and to make such repairs as they had the coin to pay for. The mate had also actively recruited more crew, for the journey out to the Barren Islands. It had been nearly the only ship in the harbour that was hiring.

The storms between Bingtown and the Barrens were as notorious as the multitude of sea mammals that swarmed there just prior to the winter migration. They’d be fat with the summer feedings, the sleek coats of the young ones large enough to be worth the skinning and unscarred from battles for mates or food. It was worth braving the storms of autumn to take such prizes — soft furs, the thick layer of fat, and beneath it all the lean, dark-red flesh that tasted both of sea and land. The casks of salt that had filled the hold when they left Candletown would soon be packed instead with salted slabs of the prized meat, with hogsheads of the fine rendered oil, while the scraped hides would be packed with salt and rolled thick to await tanning. It would be a cargo rich enough to make the Reaper’s owners dance with glee, while those debtors who survived to reach Candletown again would emerge from their ordeal as free men. The hunters and skinners would claim a percentage of the total take and begin to take bids on their services for the next season based on how well they had done this time. As for the true sailors who had taken the ship all that way and brought her back safely, they would have a pocketful of coins to jingle, enough to keep them in drink and women until it was time to sail again for the Barrens.

A good life, Brashen thought wryly. Such a fine berth as he had won for himself. It had not taken much. All he had had to do was scramble swiftly enough to catch the mate’s eye and then the captain’s. That, and the vicious storm that had carried off two men and crippled the third who was a likely candidate for this berth.

Yet it was not any peculiar guilt at having stepped over dead men to claim this place and the responsibilities that went with it that bothered him tonight. No. It was the thought of Althea Vestrit, his benefactor’s daughter, curled in wet misery in the hold in the close company of such men as festered there. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it.’ He spoke the words aloud, as if by giving them to air he could make them ease his conscience. He hadn’t seen her come aboard in Bingtown; even if he had, he wouldn’t have recognized her easily. She was a convincing mimic as a sailor lad; he had to give her that.

His first hint that she was aboard had not been the sight of her. He’d glimpsed her any number of times as ‘a ship’s boy’ and given no thought to it. Her flat cap pulled low on her brow and her boy’s clothes had been more than sufficient disguise. The first time he’d seen a rope secured to the hook on a block with a double blackwall hitch rather than a bowline, he’d raised an eyebrow. It was not that rare a knot, but the bowline was the common preference. Captain Vestrit, however, had always preferred the blackwall. Brashen hadn’t given much thought to it at the time. A day or so later, coming out on deck before his watch, he’d heard a familiar whistle from up in the rigging. He’d looked up to where she was waving at the lookout, trying to catch his attention for some message, and instantly recognized her. ‘Oh, Althea,’ he’d thought to himself calmly, and then started an instant later as his mind registered the information. In disbelief, he’d stared up at her, mouth half-agape. It was her: no mistaking her style of running along the footropes. She’d glanced down, and at sight of him had so swiftly averted her face that he knew she’d been expecting and dreading this moment.

He’d found an excuse to linger at the base of the mast until she came down. She’d passed him less than an arm’s length away, with only one pleading glance. He’d clenched his teeth and said nothing to her, nor had he spoken to her since then until tonight. Once he had recognized her, he’d known the dread of certainty. She wouldn’t survive the voyage. Day by day, he’d waited for her to somehow betray herself as a woman, or make the one small error that would let the sea take her life. It had seemed to him simply a matter of time. The best he had been able to hope for her was that her death would be swift.

Now it appeared that would not be the case. He allowed himself a small, rueful smile, The girl could scramble. Oh, she hadn’t the muscle to do the work she was given. Well, at least not as fast as the ship’s first mate expected such work to be done. It wasn’t, he reflected, so much a matter of muscle and weight that she lacked; she could do the work well enough, actually, save that the men she worked alongside overmatched her. Even a few inches of extra reach, a half-stone of extra weight to fling against a block-and-tackle’s task could make all the difference. She was like a horse teamed with oxen; it wasn’t that she was incapable of the work, only that she was mismatched.

Additionally, she had come from a liveship — her family liveship, at that — to one of mere wood. Had Althea even guessed that pitting one’s strength against dead wood could be so much harder than working a willing ship? Even if the Vivacia hadn’t been quickened in his years aboard her, Brashen had known from the very first time he touched a line of her that there was some underlying awareness there. The Vivacia was far from sailing herself, but it had always seemed to him that the stupid incidents that always occurred aboard other ships didn’t happen on her. On a tub like the Reaper, work stair-stepped. What looked like a simple job, replacing a hinge for instance, turned into a major effort once one had revealed that the faulty hinge had been set in wood that was half-rotten and out of alignment as well. Nothing, he sighed to himself, was ever simple on board the Reaper.

As if in answer to the thought, he heard the sharp rap of knuckles against his door. It wasn’t his watch so that could only mean trouble. ‘I’m up,’ he assured his caller. In an instant he was on his feet and had the door opened. But this was not the mate come to call him to extra duties on this stormy night. Instead Reller stepped in hesitantly. Water still streamed down his face and dripped from his hair.

‘Well?’ Brashen demanded.

A frown divided the man’s wide brow. ‘Shoulder’s paining me some,’ he offered.

Brashen’s duties included minding the ship’s medical supplies. They’d started the voyage with a ship’s doctor he’d been told, but had lost him overboard one wild night. Once it had been discovered that Brashen could read the spidery letters that labelled the various bottles and boxes of medicines, he’d been put in charge of what remained of the medical stores. He personally doubted the efficacy of many of them, but passed them out according to the labels’ instructions.

So now he turned to the locked chest that occupied almost as much space as his own sea-chest did and groped inside his shirt for the key that hung about his neck. He unlocked the chest, frowned into it for a moment, and then took out a brown bottle with a fanciful green label on it. He squinted at the writing in the lantern’s unsteady light. ‘I think this is what I gave you last time,’ he guessed aloud, and held the bottle up for Reller’s inspection.

The sailor peered at it as if a long stare would make the letters intelligible to him. At last he shrugged. ‘Label was green like that,’ he allowed. ‘That’s probably it.’

Brashen worked the fat cork loose from the thick neck and shook out onto his palm half a dozen greenish pellets. They looked, he thought to himself, rather like a deer’s droppings. He’d have only been mildly surprised to discover that’s what they actually were. He returned three to the bottle and offered the other three to Reller. ‘Take them all. Tell Cook I said to give you a half-measure of rum to wash those down, and to let you sit in the galley and stay warm until they start working.’

The man’s face brightened immediately. Captain Sichel was not free with the spirits aboard ship. It would probably be the first taste he’d had since they’d left Bingtown. The prospect of a drink, and a warm place to sit for a time made the man’s face glow with gratitude. Brashen knew a moment’s doubt but then reflected that he had no idea how well the pellets would work; at least he could be sure that the rough rum they bought for the crew would help the man to sleep past his pain.

As Reller was turning to leave, Brashen forced himself to ask his question. ‘My cousin’s boy… the one I asked you to keep an eye on. How’s he working out?’

Reller shrugged. He jiggled the three pellets loosely in his left hand. ‘Oh, he’s doing fine, sir, just fine. He’s a willing lad.’ He set his hand to the latch, clearly eager to be gone. The promised rum was beckoning him.

‘So,’ Brashen went on in spite of himself. ‘He knows his job and does it smartly?’

‘Oh, that he does, that he does, sir. A good lad, as I said. I’ll keep an eye on Athel and see he comes to no harm.’

‘Good. Good, then. My cousin will be proud of him.’ He hesitated. ‘Mind, now, don’t let the boy know any of this. Don’t want him to think he’ll get any special treatment.’

‘Yes sir. No sir. Goodnight, sir.’ And Reller was gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Brashen shut his eyes and took a deep breath. It was as much as he could do for Althea, asking a reliable man like Reller to keep an eye on her. He checked to make sure the catch on his door was secure, and then re-locked the cabinet that held the medical supplies. He crawled back into the narrow confines of his bunk and heaved a heavy sigh. It was as much as he could do for Althea. Truly, it was. It was.

Eventually, he was able to fall asleep.

Wintrow didn’t like the rigging. He had done his best to conceal that from Torg, but the man had a bully’s unerring instinct. As a result, a dozen times a day he would fabricate a reason why Wintrow had to climb the mast. When he had sensed the repetition was dulling Wintrow’s trepidation, he had added to the task, giving him things to carry aloft and place in the crow’s nest, only to send him to fetch them back down almost as soon as he’d regained the deck. Torg’s latest commands had him not only climbing the rigging, but going out to the ends of the spars and clinging there, heart in his mouth, waiting for Torg’s shouted command to return. It was simple hazing, of the stupidest, most predictable sort. Wintrow expected such from Torg. It had been harder to comprehend that the rest of the crew accepted his torment as normal. When they paid any attention at all to what Torg was subjecting him to, it was usually with amusement. No one intervened.

And yet, Wintrow reflected as he clung to a spar and looked down at the deck so far below him, the man had actually done him a favour. The wind rushed past him, the canvas was full-bellied with it, and the line he perched on sang with the tension. The height of the mast exaggerated the ship’s motion through the water, amplifying every roll into an arc. He still did not like being up there, but he could not deny there was an exhilaration to being there that had nothing to do with enjoyment. He had met a challenge and bested it. Left to himself, he would never have sought to take his own measure in this way. He squinted his eyes to the wind that rushed past his ears deafeningly. For a moment he toyed with the idea that perhaps he did belong here, that maybe deep within the priest there could be the heart of a sailor.

A small, odd noise came to his ears. A vibration of metal. He wondered if it were some fitting about to give way, and his heart began to beat a bit faster. Slowly he worked his way along the ratline, looking for the source of the sound. The wind mocked him, bringing the sound and then blasting it away. He had heard it a few times before he recognized that there were variations in tone and a rhythm to the sound that defied the steady rush of the wind. He got to the crow’s nest and clung to the side.

Within the lookout’s post was Mild. The sailor had folded himself up into a comfortable braced squat. His eyes were closed to slits, a tiny jaw harp braced against his cheek. He played it one-handed, the sailor’s way, using his own mouth as a sounding box as his fingers danced on the metal prongs that were the keys. His ears were turned to his private music as his eyes scanned the horizon.

Wintrow thought he was unaware of him until the other boy’s eyes darted briefly to his. His fingers stilled. ‘What?’ he demanded, not taking the instrument from the side of his face.

‘Nothing. You on watch?’

‘Sort of. Not much to watch for.’

‘Pirates?’ Wintrow ventured.

Mild snorted. ‘They don’t bother a liveship, usually. Oh, I’ve heard rumours from when we were in Chalced, that one or two got chased, but for the most part they leave us alone. Most liveships can outrun any wooden ship under identical conditions, unless the liveship has a really carp crew. And the pirates know that even if you catch up with a liveship, you’re in for the fight of your life. And even if they win, what do they have? A ship that won’t sail for them. I mean, do you think Vivacia would welcome strangers aboard her and accept them running her? Not much!’

‘Not much,’ Wintrow agreed. He was pleasantly surprised — both by Mild’s obvious affection and pride for the ship, and by the boy’s conversation with him. Mild seemed flattered by the boy’s rapt attention, for he narrowed his eyes knowingly and went on, ‘The way I see it, right now the pirates are doing us a big favour.’

Wintrow bit. ‘How?’

‘Well. How to explain it… you didn’t get ashore in Chalced, did you? Well, what we heard there was that pirates were suddenly attacking some of the slavers. At least one taken, and rumours of others being threatened. Well. It’s end of autumn now, but by spring, Chalced needs a powerful lot of slaves to do the spring ploughing and planting. If pirates are picking off the regular slavers, well, by the time we run into Chalced with a prime load, it will be a seller’s market. We’ll get so much for our haul, we can probably go straight home to Bingtown.’

Mild grinned and nodded in satisfaction, as if somehow Kyle getting a good price for slaves would reflect well on him. He was likely only repeating what he’d heard the elders of the crew say. Wintrow said nothing. He looked far out over the heaving water. There was a heavy, sick place under his heart that had nothing to do with sea-sickness. Whenever he thought forward to Jamaillia and the actual act of his father buying slaves to sell, a terrible sorrow welled up in him. It was like having the guilt and pain of a shameful memory in advance of the event. After a moment, Mild picked up the conversation again.

‘So. Torg’s got you up here again?’

‘Yeah.’ Wintrow surprised himself, stretching his shoulders and then leaning back casually against his grip. ‘Doesn’t bother me so much any more.’

‘I can tell. That’s why they do it.’ When Wintrow lifted his brows, Mild grinned at him. ‘Oh, you thought it was a special torture just for you? No. Torg likes picking on you. Sa’s balls, Torg likes picking on anyone. Anyone he can get away with, anyway. But running the ship’s boy up and down the mast is a tradition. When I first come aboard, I hated it. Brashen was mate then, and I thought he was the son of a sow. Once he realized I was nervous about coming up here, he saw to it that every one of my meals ended up here. “You want to eat, go get it,” he’d tell me. And I’d have to climb the mast and crawl around up here until I found a bucket with my mess in it. Damn, I hated him. I was so scared and slow, my food was almost always cold when I found it, and half the time there’d be rain sloshing around with it. But I learned, same as you, not to mind it after a while.’

Wintrow was silent, thinking. Mild’s fingers danced again over the keys, picking out a lively little tune. ‘Then Torg doesn’t hate me? This is some kind of training?’

Mild stopped with a snort of amusement. ‘Oh, no. Depend on it. Torg hates you. Torg hates everyone that he thinks is smarter than he is, and that’s most of us aboard. But he knows his job, too. And he knows that if he wants to keep it, he’s got to make you into a sailor. So, he’ll teach you. He’ll make it as painful and unpleasant as he can, but he’ll teach you.’

‘If he’s such a hateful person, why does my… the captain keep him on as second mate?’

Mild shrugged. ‘Ask your Da,’ he said cruelly. Then he grinned, almost making that a joke. He went on, ‘I hear that Torg had been with him quite a while, and stuck with him on a real bad trip on the ship they used to be on. So when he came to the Vivacia, he brought Torg with him. Maybe no one else would hire him and he felt an obligation. Or maybe Torg’s got a nice tight arse.’

Wintrow’s jaw went slack at the implication. But Mild was grinning again. ‘Hey, don’t take it so serious. No wonder everyone loves to tease you, you’re such a mark.’

‘But he’s my father,’ Wintrow protested.

‘Naw. Not when you’re serving aboard his ship. Then he’s just your captain. And he’s an okay captain, not as good as Ephron was, and some of us still think Brashen should have took over when Cap’n Vestrit stepped off. But he’s okay.’

‘Then why did you say… that about him?’ Wintrow was genuinely mystified.

‘Because he’s the captain,’ Mild laboriously explained. ‘Sailors always say and do like that, even if you like the man. Because you know he can shit on you any time he wants. Hey. You want to know something? When we first found out that Cap’n Vestrit was getting off and putting a new man on, you know what Comfrey done?’

‘What?’

‘He went to the galley and took the cap’n’s coffee mug and wiped the inside with his dick!’ Delight shone in Mild’s grey eyes. He waited in anticipation for Wintrow’s reaction.

‘You’re teasing me again!’ A horrified smile dawned on his face despite himself. It was disgusting, and degrading. It was too outrageous to be true, for a man to do that to another man he hadn’t even met yet, just because that man would have power over him. It was unbelievable. And yet… and yet… it was funny. Suddenly Wintrow grasped something. To do that to a man you knew would be cruel and vicious. But to do that to an unknown captain, to be able to look up at the man who had life and death power over you and imagine him drinking the taste of your dick with his coffee… He looked aside from Mild, feeling with disbelief the broad grin on his face. Comfrey had done that to his father.

‘Crew’s gotta do a few things to the cap’n, and the mate. Can’t let them get away with always thinking they’re gods and we’re dung.’

‘Then… you think they know about stuff like that?’

Mild grinned. ‘Can’t be around the fleet too long and not know it goes on.’ He twanged a few more notes, then shrugged elaborately. ‘They probably just think it never happens to them.’

‘Then no one ever tells them,’ Wintrow clarified for himself.

‘Of course not. Who’d tell?’ A few notes later, Mild stopped abruptly. ‘You wouldn’t, would you? I mean, even if he is your Da and all…’ His voice trailed off as he realized that he might have been very indiscreet.

‘No, I wouldn’t tell,’ Wintrow heard himself say. He found a foolish grin on his face as he added wickedly, ‘But mostly because he is my father.’

‘Boy? Boy, get your arse down here!’ It was Torg’s voice, bellowing up from the deck.

Wintrow sighed. ‘I swear, the man can sense when I’m not miserable, and always takes steps to correct it.’

Wintrow began the long climb down. Mild leaned over slightly to watch his descent and called after him, ‘You use too many words. Just say he’s on your arse like a coat of paint.’

‘That, too,’ Wintrow agreed.

‘Move it, boy!’ Torg bellowed again, and Wintrow gave all his attention to scrambling down.

Much later that night, as he meditated in forgiveness of the day, he wondered at himself. Had not he laughed at cruelty, had not his smile condoned the degradation of another human being? Where was Sa in that? Guilt washed over him. He forced it aside; a true priest of Sa had little use for guilt. It but obscured; if something made a man feel bad then he must determine what about it troubled him, and eliminate that. Simply to suffer the discomforts of guilt did not indicate a man had improved himself, only that he suspected he harboured a fault. He lay still in the darkness and pondered what had made him smile and why. And for the first time in many years, he wondered if his conscience were not too tender, if it had not become a barrier between him and his fellows. ‘That which separates is not of Sa,’ he said softly to himself. But he fell asleep before he could remember the source for the quote, or even if it were from scripture at all.

Their first sighting of the Barrens came on a clear cold morning. The voyage northeast had carried them from autumn to winter, from mild blue weather to perpetual drizzle and fog. The Barrens crouched low on the horizon. They were visible not as proper islands, but only as a place where the waves suddenly became white foam and spume. The islands were low and flat, little more than a series of rocky beaches and sand plains that chanced to be above the high tide line. Inland, Althea had heard there was sand and scrubby vegetation and little more than that. Why the sea-bears chose to haul out there, to fight and mate and raise their young, she had no idea. Especially as each year at this time, the slaughter boats came to drive and kill hundreds of their kind. She squinted her eyes against the flying salt spray and wondered what kind of deadly instinct brought them back here every year despite their memories of blood and death.

The Reaper came into the lee of the cluster of islands at about noon, only to find that one of their rivals had already claimed the best anchorage. Captain Sichel cursed at that, cursed as if it were somehow the fault of his men and his ship that the Karlay had beaten them here. Anchors were set and the hunters roused from their stupor of inactivity. Althea had heard that they’d quarrelled over their gambling a few days ago and all but killed one of their number who they’d suspected of cheating. It was nothing to her; they were foul-mouthed and ill-tempered on the occasions when she’d had to fetch for them in her duties as ship’s boy. She was not at all surprised they were turning on one another in their close quarters and idleness. And what they did to one another was no concern to her at all.

Or so she had thought. It was when they were safely anchored and she was looking forward to the first day of comparative quiet that they’d had in weeks that she suddenly discovered that it would affect her. Officially, she was off-duty. Most of her watch were sleeping, but she had decided to take advantage of the light and the relatively quiet weather to mend some of her clothes. Doing close work by lanternlight had begun to bother her eyes of late, to say nothing of the close air below decks. She’d found a quiet corner, in the lee of the house. She was out of the wind and the sun had miraculously found them despite the edge of winter in the air. She had just begun to cut squares of canvas from her worst worn pair of trousers to patch the others when she heard the mate bellow her name.

‘Athel!’ he roared, and she leapt to her feet.

‘Here, sir!’ she cried, heedless of the work that had spilled from her lap.

‘Get ready to go ashore. You’ll be helping the skinners; they’re short a man. Lively, now.’

‘Yessir,’ she replied, as it was the only possible reply, but her heart sank. That did not slow her feet, however. She snatched up her work and carried it down the hatch with her, and set it aside to finish on some unforeseeable tomorrow. She jammed her calloused feet into felted stockings and heavy boots. The barnacled rocks would not be kind to bare feet. She snugged her knit cap more closely about her ears and dashed back up the steps to the deck. She was not a moment too soon, for the boats were already being raised by the davits. She lunged into one and took a place at an oar.

The sailors manned the oars while the hunters hunched their shoulders to the spray and icy wind and grinned at one another in anticipation. Favourite bows were gripped and held well out of the water’s reach, while oiled bags of arrows rolled sluggishly in the shallow bilge water of the skiff. Althea leaned hard on her oar, trying to match her companion. The boats of the Reaper moved together toward the rocky shores of the islands, each with a complement of hunters, skinners and sailors. She noticed, almost in passing, that Brashen pulled at the oars in one of the other boats. He’d be in charge of the sailors ashore then, she decided. She resolved to give him no reason to notice her. She’d be working with the hunters and skinners anyway; there was no need for their paths to cross. For an instant she wondered just what her task would be, then shrugged it off as useless curiosity. They’d tell her, soon enough.

Just as the rival ship had taken the best anchorage, so too her hunters had taken the prime island. By tradition the ships would not encroach on one another’s hunting territories. Past experience had taught them all that it led only to dead men and less profit for all. So the island where they put ashore was bare of all other human life. The rocky beaches were deserted, save for some very old sows resting in the shallows. The adult males had already left, beginning the migration back to wherever these creatures wintered. On the sandy inland plains, Althea knew they would find the younger females and this year’s crop of offspring. They would have lingered there, feeding off the late runs of fish and gathering fat and strength before they began their long journey.

The hunters and skinners remained in the boats when the rowers jumped overboard into the shallows and seized the gunwales of the skiffs to run the boats ashore. They timed this action to coincide with a wave to help them lift the boat clear of the sharp rocks. Althea waded out on the beach with the others, her soaked legs and wet boots seeming to draw in the cold.

Once ashore, she quickly found her duties, which seemed to be to do whatever the hunters and skinners didn’t care to do for themselves. She was soon burdened with all the extra bows, arrows, knives and sharpening stones. She followed the hunters inland with her arms heavily laden. It surprised her that the hunters and skinners walked so swiftly and talked so freely amongst themselves. She would have supposed this hunt to require some kind of stalking and stealth.

Instead, at the top of the first rise, the gently rolling interior of the island was revealed to her. The sea-bears sprawled and slept in clusters on the sand and amongst the scrub brush. As the men crested the hill, the fat creatures scarcely deigned to notice them. Those that did open their eyes regarded their approach with as little interest as they took in the dung-picker birds that shared their territory.

The hunters chose their positions. She was speedily relieved of the bags of arrows she had carried for them. She stood well back of them as they strung their bows and selected their targets. Then the deadly rain of arrows began. The animals they struck bellowed and some galloped awkwardly in circles before they died, but the creatures did not appear to associate their pain and deaths with the men upon the rise above them. It was almost a leisurely slaughter, as the hunters chose target after target and sent arrows winging. The throats were the chosen targets, where the broad-headed arrows opened the veins. Blood spilled thick. That was the death they meted out, that animals might bleed to death. This left the supple furs of their hides intact, as well as yielding meat that was not too heavy with blood. Death was not swift, nor painless. Althea had never seen much of meat-slaughter, let alone killing on such a scale. It repulsed her, and yet she stood and watched, as she was sure a true youth would have done, and tried not to let her revulsion show on her face.

The hunters were businesslike about their killing. As soon as the final arrows were expended, they moved down to reclaim them from the dead beasts, while the skinners came behind them like gorecrows to a battle scene. The bulk of the live animals had moved off in annoyance from the struggles and bellows of those struck and dying. They still seemed to feel no panic, only a distaste for the odd antics that had disturbed their rest. The leader of the hunters glanced at Althea in some annoyance. ‘See what’s keeping them with the salt,’ he barked at her, as if she had known she would have this duty and had neglected it. She scrambled to this command, just as glad to leave the scene of slaughter. The skinners were already at work, stripping the hide from each beast, salvaging tongues, hearts and livers before rolling the entrails out of the way and leaving the naked fat-and-meat creatures on their own hides. The knowledgeable gulls were already coming to the feast.

She had scarcely crested the rise before she saw a sailor coming toward her, rolling a cask of salt ahead of him. Behind him came a line of others, and she suddenly realized the scope of their task. Cask after cask of salt was making its way up the rise, while a raft of empty barrels was being brought ashore by yet another crew of sailors. All over the island, this was happening. The Reaper herself was securely anchored with no more than a skeleton crew aboard to maintain her. All the others had been pushed into the vast task of off-loading and ferrying kegs of salt and empty barrels ashore. And all, she realized, must then be transported back, the barrels heavy with salted meat or hides. Here they would stay to continue this harvest for as long as animals and empty barrels remained.

‘They want the salt now,’ she told the sailor pushing the first keg. He didn’t even bother to reply. She turned and ran back to her party of hunters. The hunters were already raining death down on another wing of the vast herd, while the skinners seemed to have finished fully half of what the hunters had already brought down.

It was the beginning of one of the seemingly endless bloody days that followed. To Althea fell the tasks that everyone else judged themselves too busy to do. She ferried hearts and tongues to a central cask, salting each organ as she added it to the barrel. Her clothes grew sticky and stiff with blood, dyed brown with repeated staining, but that was no different for anyone else. The erstwhile sailors who had been the debtors of Jamaillia were swiftly taught to be butchers. The slabs of yellowish fat were sliced clean of the meat and packed into clean barrels to be ferried back to the ship. Then the carcasses were boned out to conserve space in the barrels, the slabs of dark red meat were well-salted before they were laid down, and then over all a clean layer of salt before the casks were sealed. Hides were scraped clean of any clinging fat or red strips of flesh the skinners might have left, and then spread out with a thick layer of salt on the skin side. After a day of drying thus, they were shaken clean of salt, rolled and tied, and taken to the ship in bundles. As the teams of butchers moved slowly forwards, they left red-streaked bones and piles of gut-sacks in their wake. The sea-birds descended to this feast, adding their voices to those of the killers and the cries of those being killed.

Althea had hoped that she might gain some immunity to their bloody work, but with each passing day, it seemed to grow both more monstrous and more commonplace. She tried to grasp that this widespread slaughter of animals went on year after year, but could not. Not even the tangles of white bones on the killing fields could convince her that last year had seen slaughter on the same scale. She gave over thinking about it, and simply did her tasks.

They built a rough camp on the island, on the same site as last year’s camp, in the lee of a rock formation known as the Dragon. Their tent was little more than canvas stretched to break the wind and fires for warmth and cooking, but at least it was shelter. The sweet, heavy smells of blood and butchery still rode the wind that assailed them, but it was a change from the close quarters of the ship. The men built smoky fires with the resinous branches of the scrub brush that grew on the island and the scarce bits of driftwood that had washed up. They cooked the sea-bears’ livers over them, and she joined in the feasting, as glad as anyone over the change in their diet and the chance to eat fresh meat again.

In some ways, she was glad of her change in status. She worked for the hunters and skinners now, and her tasks were separate from those of the rest of the crew. She envied no one the heavy work of rolling the filled kegs back up the rise, over the rocky beach and then ferrying them back to the ship and hoisting them aboard and stowing them. It was mindless, back-breaking work. Drudgery such as that had little to do with sailing, yet no one of the Reaper’s crew was excused from it. Her own tasks continued to evolve as the hunters and skinners thought of them. She honed knives. She retrieved arrows. She salted and packed hearts and tongues. She spread hides and salted hides and shook hides and rolled hides and tied hides. She coated slabs of meat with salt and layered it into casks. The frequent exchange of blood and salt on her hands would have cracked them had not they been constantly coated with thick animal fat as well.

The weather had held fine for them, blustery and cold but with no sign of the drenching rains that could ruin both hides and meat. Then came an afternoon when the clouds suddenly seemed to boil into the sky, beginning at the horizon and rapidly encroaching on the blue. The wind honed itself sharper. Yet the hunters still killed, scarcely sparing a glance at the clouds building up on the horizon, tall and black as mountains. It was only when the first sleet began to arrow down that they gave over their own deadly rain and began shouting angrily for the skinners and packers to make haste, make haste before meat and fat and hides were lost. Althea scarcely saw what anyone could do to defy the storm, but she learned swiftly. The stripped hides were rolled up with a thick layer of salt inside them. All were suddenly pressed into work as skinners, butchers and packers. She abruptly found herself with a skinning knife in her hands, bent over a carcass still warm, drawing the blade from the sea-bear’s gullet to its vent.

She had seen it done often enough now that she had lost most of her squeamishness. Still, a moment’s disgust uncoiled inside her as she peeled the soft hide back from the thick layer of fat. The animal was warm and flaccid beneath her hands, and that first opening of its body released a waft of death and offal. She steeled herself. The wide, flat blade of her skinning knife slipped easily between fat and skin, slicing it free of the body while her free hand kept a steady tug of tension upon the soft fur. She holed the hide twice on her first effort, trying to go too fast. But when she relaxed and did not think about what she was doing so much as how to do it well, the next hide came free as simply as if she were peeling a Jamaillian orange. It was, she realized, simply a matter of thinking how an animal was made, where hide would be thick or thin, fat present or absent.

By her fourth animal, she understood that it was not only easy for her, but that she was good at it. She moved swiftly from carcass to carcass, suddenly uncaring of the blood and smell. The long slice to open the beast, the swift skinning, followed by a quick disembowelling. Heart and liver were freed with two slashes and the rest of the gut-sack rolled free of the body and hide. The tongue, she found, was the most bothersome, prying open the animal’s mouth and reaching within to grasp the still-warm, wet tongue and then hew it off at the base. Had it not been such a valuable delicacy she might have been tempted to skip it entirely.

At some point she lifted her head, to peer around her through the driving sleet. The cold rain pounded her back and dripped into her eyes, but until that moment of respite, she had been almost unaware of it. Behind her, she realized, were no less than three teams of butchers trying to keep up with her. She had left behind her a wide trail of stripped carcasses. In the distance, one of the hunters appeared to be speaking to the mate about something. He made an off-hand gesture towards her and she suddenly knew with certainty that she was the topic of their conversation. She once more bent her head to her work, her hands flying as she blinked away the cold rain that ran into her eyes and dripped from her nose. A small fire of pride began to burn within her. It was dirty, disgusting work, carried out on a scale that was beyond greed. But she was good at it. And it had been so long since she had been able to claim that for herself, her hunger for it shocked her.

There came a time when she looked around her and found no more animals to skin. She stood slowly, rolling the ache from her shoulders. She cleaned her knife on her bloody trousers, and then held her hands out to the rain, letting the icy water flush the blood and gobbets of fat and flesh from them. She wiped them a bit cleaner on her shirt and then pushed the wet hair back from her eyes. Behind her, men bent to work over the flayed carcasses in her wake. A man rolled a cask of salt toward her, while another followed with an empty hogshead. When a man stopped beside her and righted the cask, he lifted his eyes to meet hers. It was Brashen. She grinned at him. ‘Pretty good, eh?’

He wiped rain from his own face and then observed quietly, ‘Were I you, I’d do as little as possible to call attention to myself. Your disguise won’t withstand a close scrutiny.’

His rebuke irritated her. ‘Maybe if I get good enough at this, I won’t need to be disguised any more.’

The look that passed over his face was both incredulous and horrified. He stove in the end of the salt-cask, and then gestured at her as if he were bidding her get to work salting hides. But what he said was, ‘Did these two-legged animals you crew with suspect for one moment that you were a woman, they’d use you, one and all, with less concern than they give to this slaughter. Valuable as you might be to them as a skinner, they’d see no reason why they couldn’t use you as a whore as well. And they would see it that by your being here you had expected and consented to such use.’

Something in his low earnest voice chilled her beyond the rain’s touch. There was such certainty in his tone she could not imagine arguing with it. Instead she hurried off to meet the man with the hogshead, bearing with her the tongue and heart from her final beast. She continued with this task, keeping her head low as if to keep rain from her eyes and trying to think of nothing, nothing. If she had stopped to think of how easy that had become lately, it might have frightened her.

That evening when she returned to camp, she understood for the first time the naming of the rock. A trick of the last light slanting through the overcast illuminated the Dragon in awful detail. She had not seen it before because she had not expected it to be sprawled on its back, forelegs clutching at its black chest, outflung wings submerged in earth. The contortions of its immense body adumbrated an agonized death. Althea halted on the slight rise that offered her this view and stared in horror. Who would carve such a thing, and why on earth did they camp in its lee? The light changed, only slightly, but suddenly the eroded rock upthrust through the thin soil was no more than an oddly shaped boulder, its lines vaguely suggestive of a sprawled animal. Althea let out her pent breath.

‘Bit unnerving the first time you catch it, eh?’ Reller asked at her elbow.

She started at his voice. ‘Bit,’ she admitted, then shrugged her shoulders in boyish bravado. ‘But for all that, it’s just a rock.’

Reller lowered his voice. ‘You so sure of that? You ought to climb up on its chest some time, and take a look. That part there, that looks like forelegs… they clutch at the stump of an arrow shaft, or what’s left of one. No, boy, that’s the real carcass of a live dragon, brought down when the world was younger’n an egg, and rotting slow ever since.’

‘No such things as dragons,’ Althea scoffed at his hazing.

‘No? Don’t be telling me that, nor any other sailor was off the Six Duchies coast a few years back. I saw dragons, and not just one or two. Whole phalanx of ’em, flying like geese, in every bright colour and shape you can name. And not just once, but twice. There’s some as say they brought the serpents, but that ain’t true. I’d seen serpents years before that, way down south. Course, nowadays, we see a lot more of ’em, so folk believe in ’em. But when you’ve sailed as long as I, and been as far as I, you’ll learn that there’s a lot of things that are real but only a few folk have seen ’em.’

Althea gave him a sceptical grin. ‘Yeah, Reller, pull my other leg, it’s got bells on,’ she retorted.

‘Damned pup!’ the man replied in apparently genuine affront. ‘Thinks cause he can slide a skinning knife he can talk back to his betters.’ He stalked off down the rise.

Althea followed him more slowly. She told herself she should have acted more gullible; after all, she was supposed to be a fourteen year old out on his first lengthy voyage. She shouldn’t spoil Reller’s fun, if she wanted to keep on his good side. Well, the next time he trotted out a sea-tale, she’d be more receptive and make it up to him. After all, he was as close as she had to a friend aboard the Reaper.

Vivacia made her fourth port on a late autumn evening. The light was slanting across the sky, breaking through a bank of clouds to fall on the town below. Wintrow was on the foredeck, spending his mandatory evening hour with Vivacia. He leaned on the railing beside her and stared at the white-spired town snugged in the crook of the tiny harbour. He had been silent, as he often was, but lately the silence had been more companionable than miserable. She blessed Mild with all her heart. Since he had extended his friendship to Wintrow the boy had begun to thrive.

Wintrow, if not cheerful, was at least gaining a bit of the cockiness that was expected of a ship’s boy. When that post had been Mild’s, he had been daring and lively, into mischief when he was not being the ship’s jester for anyone who had a spare moment to share with him. When Mild had acquired the status of hand, he had settled into a more sober attitude toward his work, as was right. But Wintrow had suffered badly in comparison. It had showed all too plainly that his heart was not in his work. He had ignored or misunderstood the sailor’s attempts to jest with him, and his doldrums spirits had not been conducive to anyone wishing to spend time with him. Now that he was beginning to smile, if only occasionally, and to good-naturedly rebut some of the sailors’ jests, he was beginning to be accepted. They were more prone now to give the word of advice or warning that prevented him from making mistakes that multiplied his workload. He built on each small success, mastering his tasks with the rapidity of a mind trained to learn well. An occasional word of praise or camaraderie was beginning to waken in him a sense of being part of the crew. Some now perceived that his gentle nature and thoughtful ways were not a weakness. Vivacia was beginning to have hopes for him.

She glanced back at him. His black hair was pulling free of his queue and falling into his eyes. With a pang, she saw a ghost there, an echo of Ephron Vestrit when he had been that age. She twisted and reached a hand to him. ‘Put your hand in mine,’ she told him quietly, and for a wonder he obeyed her. She knew he still had a basic distrust of her, that he was not sure if she was of Sa or not. But when he put his own newly-calloused hand into hers, she closed her immense fingers around his, and they were suddenly one.

He looked through his grandfather’s eyes. Ephron had loved this harbour and this island’s folk. The shining white spires and domes of their city were all the more surprising given the smallness of their settlement. Back beneath the green eaves of the forest were where most of the Caymara folk lived. Their homes were small and green and humble. They tilled no fields, broke no ground, but were hunters and gatherers one and all. No cobbled roads led out of the town, only winding paths suitable for foot-traffic and hand-carts. They might have seemed a primitive folk, save for their tiny city on Claw Island. Here every engineering instinct was given vent and expression. There were no more than thirty buildings there, not including the profusion of stalls that lined their market street and the rough wooden buildings that fronted the waterfront for commercial trade. But every one of the buildings that comprised the white heart of the city was a marvel of architecture and sculpting. His grandfather had always allowed himself time to stroll through the city’s marble heart and look up at the carved faces of heroes, the friezes of legends, and the arches on which plants both lived and carved, climbed and coiled.

‘And you brought it here, much of the marble facing. Without you and him… oh, I see. It is almost like my windows. Light shines through them to illuminate the labour of my hands. Through your work, Sa’s light shines in this beauty…’

He was breathing the words, a sub-vocal whisper she could barely hear. Yet more mystifying than his words were the feelings he shared with her. A moving toward unity that he seemed to value above all else was what he appreciated here. He did not see the elaborately-carved façades of the buildings as works of art to enjoy. Instead, they were an expression of something she could not grasp, a coming together of ship and merchant and trading folk that had resulted not just in physical beauty but… arcforia-Sa. She did not know the word, she could only reach after the concept. Joy embodied… the best of men and nature coming together in a permanent expression… justification of all Sa had bequeathed so lavishly upon the world. She felt a soaring euphoria in him she had never experienced in any of his other kin, and suddenly recognized that this was what he missed so hungrily. The priests had taught him to see the world with these eyes, had gently awakened in him a hunger for unadulterated beauty and goodness. He believed his destiny was to pursue goodness, to find and exult it in all its forms. To believe in goodness.

She had sought to share and teach. Instead, she had been given and taught. She surprised herself by drawing back from him, breaking the fullness of the contact she had sought. This was a thing she needed to consider, and perhaps she needed to be alone to consider it fully. And in that thought she recognized yet again the full impact Wintrow was having on her.

He was given shore-time. He knew it did not come from his father, nor from Torg. His father had gone ashore hours ago, to begin the negotiations for trade. He had taken Torg with him. So the decision to grant him shore-time with the others seemed to come from Gantry, the first mate. It puzzled Wintrow. He knew the mate had full charge of all the men on board the ship, and that only the captain’s word was higher. Yet he did not think Gantry had even been fully cognizant of his existence. The man had scarcely spoken to him directly in all the time he had been aboard. Yet his name was called out for the first group of men allowed time ashore, and he found his heart soaring with anticipation. It was too good a piece of luck to question. Each time they had anchored or docked in Chalced, he had stared longingly at the shore, but had never been allowed to leave the ship. The thought of solid ground underfoot, of looking at something he had not seen before was ecstatically dizzying. Like the others fortunate enough to be in the first party he dashed below, to don his shore-clothes and run a brush through his hair and re-plait his queue. Clothes gave him one moment of indecision.

Torg had been given charge of purchasing Wintrow’s kit before they left Bingtown. His father had not trusted Wintrow with money and time in which to buy the clothes and supplies he would need for the voyage. Wintrow had found himself with two suits of canvas shirts and trousers for his crew-work, both cheaply made. He suspected that Torg had made more than a bit of profit between what coin his father had given him and what he had actually spent. He had also supplied Wintrow with a typical sailor’s shore-clothes: a loudly-striped woven shirt and a pair of coarse black trousers, as cheaply made as his deck-clothes. They did not even fit him well, as Torg had not been too particular about size. The shirt especially hung long and full on him. His alternative was his brown priest’s robe. It was stained and worn now, darned in many places, and hemmed shorter to solve the fraying and provide material for patches. If he put it on, he would once more be proclaiming to all that this was what he was, a priest, not a sailor. He would lose what ground he had gained with his fellows.

As he donned the striped shirt and black trousers, he told himself that it was not a denial of his priesthood, but instead a practical choice. If he had gone among the folk of this strange town dressed as a priest of Sa, he would likely have been offered the largesse due a wandering priest. It would have been dishonest to seek or accept such gifts of hospitality, when he was not truly come among them as a priest but only as a visiting sailor. Resolutely he set aside the niggling discomfort that perhaps he was making too many compromises lately, that perhaps his morality was becoming too flexible. He hurried to join those going ashore.

There were five of them going ashore, including Wintrow and Mild. One of them was Comfrey, and Wintrow found that he could neither keep his eyes off the man nor meet his gaze squarely. There he sat, the man who had perpetrated the coffee cup obscenity on his father, and Wintrow could not decide whether to be horrified by him or amused. He seemed a fellow of great good cheer, making one jest after another to the rest of the crew as they leaned on the oars. He wore a ragged red cap adorned with cheap brass charms and his grin was missing a tooth. When he caught Wintrow stealing glances at him, he tipped the boy a wink and asked him loudly if he’d like to tag along to the brothel. ‘Likely the girls’ll do you for half-price. Little men like you sort of tickle their fancy is what I hear.’ And despite his embarrassment, Wintrow found himself grinning as the other men laughed. He suddenly grasped the good nature behind a great deal of the teasing.

They hauled the small boat up on the beach and pulled her well above the tide line. Their liberty would only last until sundown, and two of the men were already complaining that the best of the wine and women would not be found on the streets until after that. ‘Don’t you believe them, Wintrow,’ Comfrey said comfortingly. ‘There’s plenty to be had at any hour in Cress; those two just prefer the darkness for their pleasures. With faces like those, they need a bit of shadow even to persuade a whore to take them on. You come with me, and I’ll see you have a good time before we have to be back to the ship.’

‘I’ve a few errands of my own before sundown,’ Wintrow excused himself. ‘I want to see the carvings on the Idishi Hall, and the friezes on the Heroes’ Wall.’

All the men looked at him curiously, but only Mild asked, ‘How do you know about that stuff? You been to Cress before?’

He shook his head, feeling both shy and proud. ‘No. But the ship has. Vivacia told me about them, and that my grandfather had found them beautiful. I thought I’d go see for myself.’

A total silence fell, and one of the deckhands made a tiny gesture with his left little finger that might have been an invocation of Sa’s protection against evil magic. Again Mild was the one to speak. ‘Does the ship really know everything that Cap’n Vestrit knew?’

Wintrow gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. I only know that what she chooses to share with me is very… vivid. Almost as if it became my memory.’ He halted, suddenly uncomfortable. He found that he did not want to speak about it at all. It was private, he discovered, that link between himself and Vivacia. No, more than private. An intimacy. The silence became uncomfortable again. This time Comfrey rescued them. ‘Well, fellows, I don’t know about you but I don’t get shore-time all that often. I’m for town and a certain street where both the flowers and the women bloom sweet.’ He glanced at Mild. ‘See that both you and Wintrow are back to the boat on time. I don’t want to have to come looking for you.’

‘I wasn’t going with Wintrow!’ Mild protested. ‘I’ve got a lot more in mind than looking at walls.’

‘I don’t need a guardian,’ Wintrow added. He spoke aloud what he thought might be troubling them. ‘I won’t try to run away. I give you my word I’ll come back to the boat well before sundown.’

The surprised looks on their faces told him they had never even considered this. ‘Well, course not,’ Comfrey observed dryly. ‘No place on Claw Island to run to, and the Caymarans ain’t exactly friendly to strangers. We weren’t worrying about your running off, Wintrow. Cress can be dangerous for a sailor out and about on his lonesome. Not just a ship’s boy, but any sailor. You ought to go with him, Mild. How long can it take for him to look at a wall anyway?’

Mild looked extremely unhappy. Comfrey’s words were not an order; he did not have the power to give him an order. But if he ignored his suggestion and Wintrow got into some kind of trouble…

‘I’ll be fine,’ Wintrow said insistently. ‘It won’t be the first time I’ve been in a strange city. I know how to take care of myself. And our time is wasted just standing here arguing. I’ll meet you all back here at the boat, well before sundown. I promise.’

‘You’d better,’ Comfrey said ominously, but there was an immediate lightening of spirit. ‘You come find us at the Sailors’ Walk as soon as you’ve seen this wall of yours. Be there ahead of time. Now that you’re starting to act like a sailor on board, it’s time we marked you as one of our own.’ Comfrey tapped the elaborate tattoo on his arm while Wintrow grinned and shook his head emphatically. The older sailor thumbed his nose at him. ‘Well. Be on time, anyway.’

Wintrow knew that if anything did happen to him now, they could all agree that he’d insisted on going off by himself, that there had been nothing they could do about it. It was a bit disconcerting to see how quickly they abandoned him. He was still part of the group as they walked down the beach, but when they reached the commerce docks, the men veered like a flock of birds, heading for the waterfront bars and brothels. Wintrow hesitated a moment, watching them go with an odd sort of longing. They laughed loudly, a band of sailors out on the town, exchanging friendly shoves and gestures suggestive of their afternoon plans. Mild bounced along at their heels almost like a friendly dog, and Wintrow was suddenly certain that he was newly accepted to that brotherhood, that he had only been promoted to it because Wintrow had come to take his place on the bottom rung of the ship’s hierarchy.

Well, it didn’t bother him. Not really, he told himself. He knew enough of men’s ways to realize that it was natural for him to want to be a part of the group, to do whatever he must do to belong. And, he told himself sternly, he knew enough of Sa’s ways to know that there were times when a man had to set himself apart from the group, for his own good. Bad enough, really, that he had not so much as muttered a single word against their afternoon’s plans for whoring and drunkenness. He tried to find reasons for that but knew they were only excuses and set the whole question aside in his mind. He had done what he had done, and tonight he would meditate on it and try to find perspective on it. For now, he had a whole city to see in the space of a few hours.

He had his grandfather’s memory of the city’s layout to guide him. In an odd way, it was almost as if he walked with him, for he could see the changes that had occurred since the last time Ephron had visited this port. Once, when a shopkeeper came out to adjust the awning over his heaped baskets of fruit, Wintrow recognized him and nearly greeted him by name. Instead he just found himself grinning at the man, thinking that his belly had done a bit of rounding out in the last few years. The man glared at him in turn, looking the boy up and down as if he were affronted. Wintrow decided his smile had been too familiar and hastened on past him, heading into the heart of the city.

He came to Well Square and stopped to stare in awe. Cress had an artesian spring for its water supply. It surged up in the centre of a great stone basin, with enough force to mound the water in the centre as if a great bubble were trying to rise from the depths. From the main basin it had been channelled into others, some for the washing of clothes, some for potable water and still others for watering of animals. Each basin had been fancifully decorated with images of its purpose so that there could be no mistake in its utility. The overflow too was gathered and funnelled off out of sight into a drainage system that no doubt ended in the bay. Interspersed among the various basins were plantings of flowers and shrubs.

A number of young women, some with small children playing beside them, were taking advantage of the clear and warm afternoon to wash clothing. Wintrow halted and stood looking at the scene they made. Some of the younger women stood in the washing basin, skirts looped up and tied about their thighs as they pounded and rubbed the laundry clean and then wrung it out against their legs. They laughed and called to one another as they worked. Young mothers sat on the basin’s side, washing clothes and keeping a watchful eye on babes and toddlers that played at the fountain’s edge. Baskets were scattered about, holding laundry both wet and dry. There was something so simple and yet so profound about the scene that it nearly brought tears to Wintrow’s eyes. Not since he had left the monastery had he seen folk so harmoniously engaged in work and life. The sun shone on the water and the Caymaran women’s smooth hair, gleamed on the wet skin of their arms and legs. He gazed avidly, taking it all in as balm that soothed his roughened spirit.

‘Are you lost?’

He turned quickly to the words. They could have been spoken kindly, but had not been. One look at the eyes of the two city guardsmen left him in no doubt of their hostility. The one who had spoken was a bearded veteran, with a white stripe tracing an old scar through his dark hair and down his cheek. The other was a younger man, brawny in a professional way. Before Wintrow could reply to the query, the second guard spoke. ‘The waterfront’s down that way. That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for.’ He pointed with a truncheon back the way Wintrow had come.

‘What I’m looking for…?’ Wintrow repeated blankly. He looked from one tall man to the other, trying to fathom their hard faces and cold eyes. What had he done to cause offence? ‘I wanted to see the Heroes’ Frieze and the carvings on the Idishi Hall.’

‘And on the way,’ the first guard observed with ponderous humour, ‘you thought you might stop off to watch some young women getting wet in a fountain.’

There seemed nothing he could say. ‘The fountains themselves are objects of beauty,’ he attempted.

‘And we all know how interested sailors are in objects of beauty.’ The guard put the emphasis on the last three words with heavy sarcasm. ‘Why don’t you go buy some “objects of beauty” down at the Blowing Scarf? Tell them Kentel sent you. Maybe I’ll get a commission.’

Wintrow looked down, flustered. ‘That isn’t what I meant. I do, seriously, wish to take time to see the friezes and carvings.’ When neither man replied, he added defensively, ‘I promise, I’ll be no trouble to anyone. I have to be back to my ship by sundown anyway. I just wanted to look about the town a bit.’

The older man sucked his teeth briefly. For a moment, Wintrow thought he was reconsidering. ‘Well, we “seriously” think you ought to get back down where you belong. Down by the docks is where sailors “look about our town”. The street for your kind is easy to find; we call it the Sailors’ Walk. Plenty there to amuse you. And if you don’t head back that way now, young fellow, I promise you that you will have trouble. With us.’

He could hear his heart beating, a muffled thunder in his ears. He couldn’t decide which emotion was stronger, but when he spoke, it was the anger he heard, not the fear. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said brusquely. But even if the anger was stronger, it was still hard to turn his back on the men as he walked past them. The skin on his back crawled, half expecting to feel the blow of a truncheon. He listened for footsteps behind him. What he did hear was worse. A derisive snort of laughter, and a quietly mocking comment from the younger man. He neither turned to it nor walked faster, but he could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders knotting with his fury. My clothing, he told himself. It isn’t me they’ve judged, but my clothing. I should not take their insults to heart. Let it go by, let it go by, let it go by, he breathed to himself, and after a time, he found that he could. He turned at the next corner and chose a different path up the hill. He would let their words go by, but he would not be defeated by their attitude. He intended to see the Idishi Hall.

He wandered for a time, bereft of his grandfather’s guidance, for he had never taken this route through the city. He was stopped twice, once by a young boy who offered to sell him some smoking herbs and more distressingly by a woman who wished to sell herself to him. Wintrow had never been so approached before, and it was worse that the tell-tale sores of a flesh disease were plain around her mouth. He forced himself to refuse her courteously twice. When she refused to be put off, only lowering her price and offering him ‘any way you like, anything you fancy at all’, he finally spoke plainly. ‘I have no wish to share your body or your disease,’ he told her, and heard with a pang how cruel his honesty sounded. He would have apologized but she did not give him time, spitting at him before she turned and flounced away. He continued walking, but found that she had frightened him more than the city guards had.

Finally he gained the heart of the city proper. Here the streets were paved and every building that fronted on the street had some decoration or design to recommend it. These were obviously the public structures of Cress, where laws were made and judgements passed and the higher business of the city conducted. He walked slowly, letting his eyes linger, and often stopping to step back into the street to try to see a structure as a whole. The stone arches were some of the most amazing work he had ever seen.

He came to a small temple of Odava, the serpent-god, with the traditional rounded doors and windows of the sect. He had never especially cared for this particular manifestation of Sa, and had never met a follower of Odava who would admit that the serpent-deity was but another facet of Sa’s jewel face. Nonetheless, the graceful structure still spoke to him of the divine and the many paths folk trod in seeking it out. So finely was the stone of this building worked that when he set his hand to it, he could scarcely feel the seam of the builders’ joining. He stood thus for a time, reaching out as he had been trained to do to sense structure and stresses in the building. What he discovered was a powerful unity, almost organic in its harmony. He shook his head in amazement, scarcely noticing the group of men in white robes banded with green and grey who had emerged from a door behind him and now walked past and around him with annoyed glances.

After a time he came to himself, and realized, too, that the afternoon was fleeing more swiftly than he had expected it to. He had no more time to waste. He stopped a matron to courteously ask her the way to the Idishi Hall. She took several steps back from him before she answered, and then it was only with a toss of her hand that indicated a general direction. Nonetheless, he thanked her and hurried on his way.

The streets in this part of the city had more pedestrian traffic. More than once he caught folk looking at him oddly. He suspected that his clothes proclaimed him a stranger to their town. He smiled and nodded, but hastened along, too pressed for time to be more social.

The Idishi Hall was framed by its site. A hollow in the side of a hill cupped the building lovingly in its palm. From Wintrow’s vantage, he could look down on it. The verdant forest behind it set off the gleaming white of its pillars and dome. The contrast of the lush and random growth and the precise lines of the hall took Wintrow’s breath away. He stood transfixed; it was an image he wished to carry with him for ever. People were coming and going from the hall, most dressed in gracefully-draped robes in cool tones of blues and greens. It could not have been more lovely if it had been a contrived spectacle. He softened the focus of his eyes, and took several deep breaths, preparing to absorb the scene before him with complete concentration.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Sailor-boy is lost again,’ the younger city guard observed. Even as Wintrow’s head swivelled to the man’s words, he received a shove that sent him sprawling on the paving stones. The older guard looked down at him and shook his head, almost regretfully.

‘I guess we’ll have to see him back to where he belongs this time,’ he observed as the brawny guard advanced on Wintrow. There was a deadly softness to his words that chilled Wintrow’s heart. Even more chilling were the three people who had halted to watch. None of them spoke nor made any effort to interfere. When he looked appealingly at them, seeking help, their eyes were guiltless, showing only their interest in what would happen next.

The boy struggled to his feet hastily and began backing away. ‘I’ve done no one any harm,’ he protested. ‘I simply wanted to see the Idishi Hall. My grandfather saw it and…’

‘We don’t welcome waterfront rats coming up our streets and dawdling about staring at folk. Here in Cress, we don’t let trouble start.’ The older man was speaking but Wintrow scarcely heard him. He spun about to flee, but in one lunge the brawny guard had him by the back of his collar. He gripped it hard, half strangling Wintrow and then shaking him. Dazed, Wintrow felt himself lifted from the ground and then propelled suddenly forward. He tucked into the fall, rolling with the momentum this time. One uneven paving stone caught him in the short ribs as he did so, but at least no bones broke. He came to his feet almost smoothly but not quite swiftly enough to avoid the younger guardsman. Again he seized Wintrow, shook him and then threw him in the general direction of the waterfront.

This time he collided with the corner of a building. The shock took the skin from his shoulder but he kept to his feet. He ran a few staggering steps, with the grinning inexorable guard in pursuit. Behind him the older soldier followed them almost leisurely, lecturing as he came. It seemed to Wintrow that his words were not for him, but to remind the folk who were halting to watch that they were only doing their jobs. ‘We’ve nothing against sailors, so long as they keep themselves and their vermin to the waterfront where they belong. We tried to be nice to you, boy, just because you are such a pup. If you’d gone to the Sailors’ Walk, you’d have found it suited you well, I’m sure. Now you’re bound for the waterfront anyway. You could have saved all of us a lot of effort and yourself a lot of bruises if you’d only listened.’

The calm reasonableness of the older man’s voice was almost more horrifying than the other guard’s efficient enjoyment of his task. The man was as quick as a snake. Somehow he once more had hold of Wintrow’s collar. This time he snapped the boy out as a dog flings a rat, sending him slamming into a stone wall. Wintrow felt his head strike the stone and saw a brief flash of darkness. He tasted blood. ‘Not a sailor,’ he blurted out. ‘I’m a priest. A priest of Sa.’

The young guard laughed. The older man shook his head in mock regret for the boy. ‘Oho. That makes you a heretic as well as waterfront scum. Haven’t you heard that the followers of Odava have no use for those who would submerge him as but a part of their own god? I was about to tell Flav you’d had enough, but another knock or two might hasten your enlightenment.’

The guard’s hand was closing on his collar, dragging him to his feet. In a panic, Wintrow let his head slip through the overlarge collar and whipped his arms in as well. He literally fell out the bottom of his shirt as the guard hauled up on the collar of it. Fear spurred him and he scrabbled away, already running as he came to his feet. There was a burst of laughter from the onlookers. He had one brief glimpse of the younger guard’s surprised face and the older man’s beard split in a grin of amusement. The old man’s laughter and the younger man’s angry shout followed him but Wintrow was running now, running full tilt. The lovely stonework that had earlier transfixed him was now but something to pass on his way back to his ship and safety. The wide straight streets that had been so open and welcoming now seemed designed only to expose him to pursuit. He dodged past people on the street, and they shrank back from him and then stared after him curiously. He ran shirtless, turning corners as he came to them, afraid of looking back lest they still be pursuing him.

When the streets narrowed and began winding through rows of wooden warehouses and ramshackle inns and brothels, he slowed from his now staggering run. He looked around himself. A tattoo shop. A cheap chandlery. A tavern. Another tavern. He came to an alley and stepped into it, heedless of the scattered garbage he waded through. Halfway down it, he leaned against a door-jamb and caught his breath. His back and shoulder burned where stone had abraded the skin from them. He touched his mouth cautiously; it was already beginning to puff up. The lump on his head was no more than that, just a bad bump. For a sickening second he wondered how badly the guard had intended to hurt him. Had he wanted to crack his skull, would he have continued beating him until he was dead if he hadn’t run away? He had heard of sailors and strangers being ‘roughed up’ by the city guard, even in Bingtown. Was this what was meant by that? He had always assumed that it happened only to those who were drunk or ill-mannered or in some other way offensive.

Yet today it had happened to him. Why? ‘Because I was dressed as a sailor,’ he said quietly to himself. For one ghastly instant he considered that this might be a punishment from Sa for not having worn his priest’s robe. He had denied Sa and as retribution Sa had denied him His protection. He pushed the unworthy thought away. So children and the superstitious spoke of Sa, as if he were nothing but a much larger and more vengeful human rather than the god of all. No. That was not what was to be learned from this. What was the lesson then? Now that the danger was past, his mind sought refuge in the familiar exercise. There was always something to be learned from any experience, no matter how horrendous. As long as a man kept sight of that, his spirit could prevail against anything. It was only when one gave in and believed the universe to be nothing more than a chaotic collection of unfortunate or cruel events that one’s spirit could be crushed.

The breath came more easily to his lungs. His mouth and throat were parched dry but he was not ready yet to go and look for water. He pushed the need to the back of his awareness and reached instead for the calm centre of himself. He took the deep steadying breaths and opened himself to perceive the lesson. He willed that his own mind would not shape it, nor his emotions. What was to be learned from this? What should he carry away?

The thought that came floating to the top of his mind shocked him. With great clarity, he saw his own gullibility. He had seen the beauty of the city, and interpreted it to mean that folk of beautiful spirit lived here. He had come here expecting to be greeted and welcomed in the light of Sa. So strong had been his prejudgement that he had failed to heed any of the warnings that now glared so plainly. His crew-mates had warned him, the city guard’s hostility had been a warning, the baleful glances from the townspeople… he had been like an overly friendly child approaching a growling dog. It was his own fault he’d been bitten.

A wave of desolation deeper than anything he’d ever felt swept over him. He was unprepared for it and sank with it, letting it sweep away his balance from him. Hopeless, it was all hopeless. He’d never regain his monastery, never return to the life of meditation he so missed. He would become like so many others he’d met, convinced that all men were born his enemy and that only crass gain created friendship or love. So often he’d heard folk mock Sa’s ideal that all folk had been created to become creatures of goodness and beauty. Where, he asked himself bitterly, was the goodness in the young guard who’d taken such pleasure in roughing him up today? Where was the beauty in the ulcer-lipped woman who had wanted to lie with him for the sake of money? He suddenly felt young and stupid, gullible in the worst way. A fool. A stupid fool. The pain of this hurt was as real as his bruises, his heart actually felt heavy in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut to it, wishing he could be somewhere else, be someone else who didn’t feel this way.

After a moment he opened his eyes and stood up. The worst of it was that he still had to go back to the ship. This experience would have been hard enough even if he had had the safety and peace of the monastery to return to. To go from this to the stupid squabbling aboard Vivacia, to return to Torg’s gleeful brutality and his father’s disparagement of him was almost more than his heart could bear. Yet what was the alternative? To hide himself and remain in Cress as a penniless and despised vagabond? He sighed heavily but his heart only sank deeper in his chest. He waded through softening garbage to the mouth of the alley and then glanced up at the westering sun. The time that had seemed so brief for sight-seeing was now a long empty stretch until sundown. He decided to find the rest of Vivacia’s crew. He could think of nothing else he wanted to see or do in Cress.

He trudged shirtless down the street, ignoring the grins of those who remarked his fresh bruises and scrapes. He came upon a group of men, obviously part of the crew of another ship enjoying some free time. They all wore headscarves that once had been white with a black bird marked on the front. They were laughing and shouting congenial insults to one another as they moved as a group from a brothel to a tavern. Their eyes fell upon Wintrow. ‘Oh, poor lad!’ One exclaimed in mock sympathy. ‘Turned you down, did she? And kept your shirt to boot?’ This witticism brought a general chorus of guffaws. He walked on.

He turned a corner and was suddenly sure he’d found the Sailors’ Walk. Not only the Blowing Scarf was on this street, with a signboard depicting a woman clad only in a scarf that the wind was blowing away from her, but the signboards on the other erstwhile taverns were equally suggestive. The crudity of the signboards signalled the specialities of those who worked within the brothels. Obviously the makers had had small faith in any sailor’s ability to read.

There were other, cheaper amusements fronting the street. One stall offered lucky charms, potions and amulets: dried cauls to protect a man from drowning, bits of horn to ensure virility, magic oils that could soothe a storm to stillness. Wintrow passed the stall with a look of pity for those gullible enough to be seeking its wares. Further down the street, in a marked-off square, a beast-tamer was offering passers-by the chance to wrestle his bear for a purse of gold. Even muzzled as he was with his claws blunted to stubs, the bear looked formidable. A short chain hobbled his hind legs, while a heavier chain led from his collar to his owner’s fist. The bear shifted constantly, an anxious, restless mountain. His small eyes prowled the crowd. Wintrow wondered what sort of an idiot would be talked into accepting such a challenge. Then with a sinking heart he recognized a grinning Comfrey leaning on a companion and talking to the beast-tamer. A small crowd of on-lookers, most of them sailors, were excitedly placing side bets.

He was tempted to walk on by and look for Mild. Then he noticed Mild amongst those placing bets. With a sigh, he went to join him. Mild recognized him with a grin of delight as he approached. ‘Hey, come on, Wintrow, you’re in luck. Comfrey’s going to wrestle the bear. Put your money down and you can double it.’ He leaned closer to Wintrow. ‘It’s a sure thing. We just saw a man win. All he had to do was get up on the bear’s back and the bear gave up right away. The beastmaster didn’t want to let anyone else wrestle him after that, but Comfrey insisted.’ Mild suddenly goggled at Wintrow. ‘Hey. What happened to your shirt?’

‘I lost it wrestling with the city guards.’ Wintrow was almost able to make a joke of it.

He was a bit hurt at how easily Mild accepted his words, until he noticed the tang to the other boy’s breath. A moment later he saw him shift something about in his lower lip. Cindin. The focus of his eyes quivered with the stimulant. Wintrow felt uneasy for him. The drug was forbidden aboard ship; if he even came aboard still intoxicated he’d be in trouble. The rash optimism it gave a man did not make him a prudent sailor. Wintrow thought he should say something, suggest caution to him somehow, but could find no words. ‘I just wanted to let you all know I’d be waiting for you back at the boat. I’ve finished my sight-seeing, and I’m headed there now.’

‘No. No, don’t go!’ The other boy grabbed his arm. ‘Stay and watch this. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. You sure you don’t want to bet a coin or two? The odds don’t get better than this. And the bear’s tired. He’s got to be tired. He’s already wrestled half a dozen times.’

‘And the last man won?’ Curiosity was getting the better of Wintrow.

‘Yeah. That’s right. Once he got up on the bear’s back, the bear just folded up like a sleeping cat. Made the beast-tamer scowl, I’ll tell you, to have to give him the purse.’ Mild linked arms with him. ‘I got my last five coppers riding on this. Course Comfrey has more than that. He did well at the gaming table earlier today.’ Again Mild peered at him. ‘You sure you don’t have any money you want to put down? The whole crew’s betting on Comfrey.’

‘I haven’t a coin of my own. Not even a shirt,’ Wintrow pointed out again.

‘That’s right. That’s right. Never mind, it’s… here he goes!’

With a grin and a wave to his gathered shipmates, Comfrey stepped into the marked-off square. No sooner had he crossed the line than the bear reared up onto his hind legs. His fettered legs kept his steps small as he lumbered slowly toward Comfrey. The sailor wove one way and then abruptly dodged the other to slip past the bear and get behind him.

But he never had a chance. As if it were a move he had practised a hundred times, the bear turned and swatted the sailor down. His powerful front legs had a much greater reach than Wintrow would have credited. The impact of the blow slammed Comfrey face-first to the ground.

‘Get up, get up!’ his shipmates were yelling, and Wintrow found himself shouting with the rest. The bear continued his restless, shifting dance. He had dropped to all fours again. Comfrey lifted his face from the dusty street. Blood was streaming from his nose, but he seemed to take encouragement from his shipmates’ cheers. He sprang abruptly to his feet and dashed past the bear.

But the bear rose, tall and solid as a wall, and one outstretched paw greeted Comfrey’s head in passing. This time the sailor was flung to his back, his head rebounding from the dirt. Wintrow flinched and looked away with a groan. ‘He’s had it,’ he told Mild. ‘We’d better get him back to the ship.’

‘No, no. He’ll get up, he can do this. Come on, Comfrey, it’s just a big old stupid bear. Get up, man, get up!’ The other sailors from Vivacia were shouting as well, and for the first time Wintrow picked out Torg’s hoarse voice among the crowd. Evidently he had been dismissed by his captain to take some entertainment of his own. Wintrow was suddenly sure he’d have something witty to say about his missing shirt. Abruptly, he wished that he had never left the ship. This day had been one long string of disasters.

‘I’m going back to the boat,’ he said again to Mild, but Mild paid no attention. He only gripped his arm the harder.

‘No, look, he’s getting up, I told you he would. That’s the way, Comfrey, come on man, you can do it.’

Wintrow doubted that Comfrey heard anything Mild shouted. The man looked dazed still, as if instinct alone were compelling him to get to his feet and get away from the bear. But the instant he moved, the animal was on him again, this time clutching him in a hug. It looked laughable, but Comfrey cried out in a way that suggested cracking ribs.

‘Do you give up then?’ the beast-tamer shouted to the sailor, and Comfrey nodded his head violently, unable to get enough wind to speak.

‘Let him go, Sunshine. Let him go!’ the tamer commanded, and the bear dropped Comfrey and waddled away. He sat down obediently in the corner of the square and nodded his muzzled head all about as if accepting the cheers of the crowd.

Save that no one was cheering. ‘I had my every coin on that!’ one sailor shouted. He added a muttered comment about Comfrey’s virility that seemed to have little relation to bear wrestling. ‘It wasn’t fair!’ another added. That seemed to be the general consensus of those who had bet, but Wintrow noticed that not one of them followed it up with a reason why it was not fair. He himself had his own suspicions, but saw no reason to voice them. Instead he moved forward to offer Comfrey some help in getting to his feet. Mild and the others were too busy commiserating on what they had lost. ‘Comfrey, you moron!’ Torg called across the ring. ‘Can’t even get past a hobbled bear.’ A few other sour remarks confirmed that general opinion. The crew of Vivacia were not the only sailors to have lost their bets.

Comfrey got to his feet, coughing, then bent over to spit out a mouthful of blood. For the first time, he recognized Wintrow. ‘I nearly had him,’ he panted. ‘Damn near had him. Lost everything I’d won earlier. Well, I’m broke now. Damn. If I had just been a bit faster.’ He coughed again, then belched beerily. ‘I nearly won.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Wintrow said quietly, more to himself than to Comfrey. But the man heard him.

‘No, really, I almost had him, lad. If I’d a been a bit smaller, a bit quicker, we’d all have gone back to the ship with fat pockets.’ He wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand.

‘I don’t think so,’ Wintrow rejoined. To comfort him, he added, ‘I think it was rigged. I think the man that won was in league with the bear-man. They show you something that seems to make the bear give up, only it’s something he’s been taught to do. And then when you try it, the bear has been taught to expect you to try it. So you get stopped. Don’t feel bad, Comfrey, it wasn’t your fault. It was a trick. Let’s get you back to the ship now.’ He put a helping arm around the man.

But Comfrey abruptly wheeled away from him. ‘Hey! Hey, you. Bearman! You cheated. You cheated me and my friends.’ In the shocked silence that followed, Comfrey proclaimed, ‘I want my money back!’

The beast-tamer had been in the act of gathering his winnings preparatory to leaving. He made no reply but took up his animal’s chain. Despite Comfrey’s shout, he would have just walked off, if several sailors from another ship hadn’t stepped in front of him. ‘That true?’ one demanded. ‘Did you cheat? Is this rigged?’

The beast-tamer glanced about at the angry onlookers. ‘Of course not!’ he scoffed. ‘How could it be rigged? You saw the man, you saw the bear! They were the only two in the square. He paid for a chance to wrestle the bear and he lost. It doesn’t get any simpler than that!’

In a sense, what the man said was true, and Wintrow expected the sailors grudgingly to agree with it. He had not taken into account how much they had drunk, nor how much money they had lost. Once the accusation of cheating had been raised, a simple denial was not going to calm them. One, more quick-witted than the others, suddenly said, ‘Hey. Where did that fellow go, the one who won earlier? Is he your friend? Does the bear know him?’

‘How should I know?’ the bear owner demanded. ‘He’s probably off spending the money he won from me.’ A brief shadow of unease had flickered across the beast-tamer’s face, and he glanced about the crowd as if looking for someone.

‘Well, I think the bear’s been trained for this,’ someone declared angrily. It seemed to Wintrow the most obvious and, in this context, the stupidest statement that he’d heard yet.

‘It wasn’t a fair contest. I want my money back,’ another declared, and almost immediately this statement was taken up by the rest of the crowd. The bear’s owner again seemed to seek someone in the crowd, but found no allies there.

‘Hey. We said we want our money back!’ Torg pointed out to him. He swaggered up to put his face close to the beast-tamer’s. ‘Comfrey’s my shipmate. You think we’re going to stand by and see him beaten up and us cheated out of our hard-earned money? You made our man look bad, and by Sa’s balls, we don’t stand still for that!’ Like many a bully, he knew how to best rally men to their own self-interest. He glanced around at the men watching him and then turned back to the beast-tamer. He nodded significantly. ‘Think we can’t just take it if you choose not to give it?’ There was a rumbling of agreement from the others.

The beast-tamer was outnumbered and knew it. Wintrow could almost see him cast about for compromises. ‘Tell you what,’ he declared abruptly. ‘I didn’t cheat and my bear didn’t cheat, and I think most of you know that. But I can be fair and more than fair. Any one of you wants, I’ll let him wrestle the bear for free. If he wins, I pay off all the bets same as if that man had won. He loses, I keep the money. Fair enough? I’m giving you a chance to win back your money for free.’ After a brief pause, a muttering of agreement ran through the crowd. Wintrow wondered what fool would be the next to feel the bear’s strength.

‘Here, Win, you go against him,’ Comfrey suggested. He gave the boy a shove forward. ‘You’re little and quick. All you got to do is get past him and onto his back.’

‘No. No, thank you.’ As quickly as Comfrey had pushed him forward, Wintrow stepped back. But the sailor’s words had been overheard, and another man from another ship took it up.

‘Yeah. Let their ship’s boy give it a try. He’s little and quick. I bet he can get past the bear and get our money back for us.’

‘No!’ Wintrow repeated louder, but his voice was lost in the general chorus of assent. It was not just his own shipmates urging him on, but the crowd in general.

Torg swaggered up to him and looked him up and down. He smelled of beer. ‘So,’ he sneered. ‘You think you can win our money back for us? Somehow I doubt it. But give it a try, boy.’ He gripped Wintrow’s arm and dragged him toward the bear’s square. ‘Our ship’s boy wants to give it a try.’

‘No,’ Wintrow hissed at him. ‘I don’t.’

Torg frowned at him. ‘Just get past him and onto his back,’ he explained in an elaborately patient voice. ‘That should be easy for a skinny little weasel like you.’

‘No. I won’t do it!’ Wintrow declared loudly. A chorus of guffaws greeted this, and Torg’s face darkened with embarrassed fury.

‘Yes, you will,’ he declared.

‘Boy doesn’t want to do it. Got no guts,’ Wintrow clearly heard a man say.

The beast-tamer had his animal back in the square. ‘So. Your boy going to try or not?’

‘Not!’ Wintrow declared loudly, as Torg as firmly announced, ‘He will. He just needs a minute.’ He rounded on Wintrow. ‘Look here,’ he hissed at him. ‘You’re shaming us all. You’re shaming your ship! Get in there and get our money back for us.’

Wintrow shook his head. ‘You want it done, you do it. I’m not stupid enough to take on a bear. Even if I got past him and got on his back, there’s no guarantee he’ll give in. Just because he did it before…’

‘I’ll do it!’ Mild volunteered. His eyes were bright with the challenge.

‘No,’ Wintrow objected. ‘Don’t do it, Mild. It’s stupid. If you weren’t humming on cindin, you’d know that. If Torg wants it done, let Torg do it.’

‘I’m too drunk,’ Torg admitted freely. ‘You do it, Wintrow. Show us you got some guts. Prove you’re a man.’

Wintrow glanced at the bear. It was a stupid thing to do. He knew it was a stupid thing to do. Did he need to prove anything to Torg, of all people? ‘No.’ He spoke the word loudly and flatly. ‘I’m not going to do it.’

‘The boy doesn’t want to try, and I’m not going to stand around here all day. Money’s mine, boys.’ The beast-tamer gave an elaborate shrug and grinned around.

Someone in the crowd made an unflattering remark about the Vivacia’s crew in general.

‘Hey. Hey, I’ll do it.’ It was Mild again, grinning as he volunteered.

‘Don’t do it, Mild!’ Wintrow entreated him.

‘Hey, I’m not afraid. And someone’s got to win our money hack.’ He shifted restlessly on his feet. ‘Can’t go off leaving this town believing the crew of the Vivacia’s got no nerve.’

‘Don’t do it, Mild! You’ll get hurt.’

Torg gave him a savage shake. ‘Shut up!’ He belched. ‘Shut up!’ he repeated more clearly. ‘Mild ain’t afraid! He can do it if he wants. Or do you want to do it? Hurry up, decide! One of you has got to win our money back. We’re nearly out of time.’

Wintrow shook his head. How had it suddenly come down to this, to him or Mild getting into a square with a bear to win back someone else’s money in a rigged game? It was preposterous. He looked around at the crowd, trying to find one rational face to side with him. A man caught his gaze. ‘Well, who is it?’ he demanded. Wintrow shook his head wordlessly.

‘Me!’ Mild declared with a grin and danced a step or two. He stepped into the square and the beast-tamer released the bear’s chain.

Later Wintrow would wonder if the tamer had not been irritating the animal somehow the whole time they were waiting. The bear did not lumber toward Mild, nor mince forward on his hobbled legs. Instead he lunged on all fours for the boy, slamming his huge head against him and then gripping him with his huge paws. The bear reared up with Mild yelling and struggling in his grasp. Blunted or not, his claws shredded the young sailor’s shirt until a shout from his owner made him throw the boy aside. Mild landed hard outside the bear’s square. ‘Get up!’ someone yelled, but Mild did not. Even the bear’s owner looked rattled at the violence of it. He grabbed the bear’s chain and tugged hard on it to convince the animal he had control of it.

‘It’s over!’ he declared. ‘You all saw it, it was fair. The bear won. The boy’s out of bounds. And the money is mine!’

There were some grumbles but no one challenged him this time as he trudged off. The bear minced along at his heels. One sailor glanced over at Mild still lying in the dust and then spat. ‘Gutless, the whole lot of them,’ he declared and glared at Wintrow meaningfully. Wintrow returned his glare and then went to kneel in the dust beside Mild. He was still breathing. His mouth was half open and he was drawing in dust with every breath. He had landed so hard, chest first. It would be a miracle if his ribs were not at least cracked.

‘We’ve got to get him back to the ship,’ he said and glanced up at Comfrey.

Comfrey looked down at him with disgust. Then he looked away as if he were not there. ‘Come on, boys, time to get back to the ship.’ Heedless of any injuries Mild might have, he seized the lad by his arm and dragged him upright. When Mild sagged like a rag doll, he scooped up the boy and flung him over his shoulder. The other two sailors from the Vivacia’s crew trailed off after him. None of them deigned to notice Wintrow’s existence.

‘It wasn’t my fault!’ Wintrow declared aloud. But somehow he wondered if it was.

‘Was so,’ Torg pointed out. ‘You knew he was full of cindin. He shouldn’t have been in there, but he had to go because you were too much the coward. Well.’ Torg grinned with satisfaction. ‘Now they all know you for what you are, boy. Before it was just me that knew what a water-arsed coward you were.’ Torg spat into the dusty street and walked away from him.

For a time Wintrow stood alone staring at the kicked over corners of the square. He knew he had done the right thing and made the right choices. But a terrible sense of a lost chance was welling up in him. He suspected he had just lost his opportunity to be accepted as part of Vivacia’s crew. To be considered a man among men. He glanced up at the westering sun, and then hastened to catch up with the men who now despised him.