Читать книгу The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny - Робин Хобб - Страница 31

IT ALL WOULD HAVE gone perfectly if not for that fat fool Davad Restart.

Malta had found the money under her pillow on the morning that her father left to go to sea. She recognized his cramped handwriting from the missives her mother occasionally received while her father was off trading. ‘For my not-so-little daughter,’ Papa had written. ‘Green silk would suit you best.’ Inside the soft little bag had been four gold coins. She had not been sure what they were worth; they were foreign coins, from one of the lands he visited when he was trading. What Malta had been instantly certain of was that they would be enough for the most sumptuous gown that Bingtown had ever seen.

In the days that followed, whenever she had doubts, she had held the note and re-read it and assured herself that she had her father’s permission to do this. Not only his permission, but his assistance: the money was proof of that. His connivance, her mother would say later, darkly.

Her mother was so predictable. As was her grandmother. Her grandmother had declined to attend the Harvest Offering Ball, citing mourning Grandfather as a reason. And that was all the excuse her mother needed to tell her that no one in the Vestrit family was going to the Ball. And thus, she said, there was to be no argument over dresses or frocks or gowns. She had Rache giving her dancing lessons now, and they were seeking a good etiquette teacher as well. In the meantime, Rache would help her with those lessons, also. And that was more than enough for now for a young girl of her age.

The severity of her mother’s tone had surprised her. When Malta had been brave enough to say, ‘But my father said…’ her own mother had turned on her with something close to fury in her eyes.

‘Your father is not here,’ she had pointed out coldly. ‘I am. And I know what is proper for a young Bingtown girl. As should you. Malta, there is time and more than enough time for you to be a woman. It is natural for you to be curious about such things, and natural, too, for you to wish for lovely gowns and wonderful evenings dancing with handsome young men. But too much curiosity and eagerness… well. It could lead you down the same path as your Aunt Althea took. So trust me. I will be the one to tell you when the time is right for such things. I also know there is much more to the Harvest Ball than pretty dresses and bright-eyed young men. I am a woman of Bingtown, and a Bingtown Trader and I know such things. Not your father. So keep your peace about this, or you will lose what you have gained.’

Then her mother had stormed out of the breakfast room, not even giving Malta time to argue. Not that she would have. She had decided that she did not need to argue. Arguing would only have made her mother suspicious and watchful. There was no sense in making her own tasks harder.

Her father had suggested green silk, and fortunately there had been a good supply of it in Aunt Althea’s sea-chest. She had been aching to know what was in there since it had been delivered to the house, but her mother had wearily told her it was none of her concern. But it hadn’t been locked — Aunt Althea never remembered to lock anything — and as she certainly was never going to use it, Malta saw no sense in letting the lovely fabric stay there and fade. Besides, by using this fabric, she’d have more coin to spend on a fine seamstress. She was only being thrifty. Had not her father told her that was a good trait in a woman?

From Delo Trell, Malta obtained the name of a good dressmaker. It shamed her to have to ask her friend, but even in that important area, her mother and grandmother were so old-fashioned. Almost all their dresses were still made at home, with Nana measuring and fitting and sewing, and sometimes even Mama and Grandmother helping with the sewing and trimming themselves. And so they never had anything that was the latest style from Jamaillia. No. Oh, they would see something they liked at the Ball or the Presentation, and then they would copy it onto the next gown they made. But that was always what it was: a copy. No one was ever astonished by what one of the Vestrit women wore to a social gathering. No one ever gossiped about them or put heads together behind their fans to whisper enviously. They were too respectable. And too boring.

Well, Malta had no intention of being either as staid as her matronly mother, nor as mannish as her wild Aunt Althea. Instead she intended to be mysterious and magical, shyly demure and unknowable, and yet daring and extravagant. It had been hard to express all that to the dressmaker, a disappointingly old woman who clicked her tongue over the green silk Malta brought her. ‘Sallow,’ she had said, shaking her grey head. ‘It will make you look sallow. Pinks and reds and oranges. Those are your colours.’ Her thick Durja accent made it seem like a pronouncement. Malta folded her lips and said nothing. Her father was a Trader who had seen the whole wide world. Surely he knew what colours looked best on women.

Then Fayla went on to measure her endlessly, muttering all the time through a mouthful of pins. She cut and hung paper shapes all over Malta, and paid no attention at all when Malta protested that the neck seemed too high and the skirts too short. The third time Malta objected, Fayla Cart had spat the mouthful of pins out into her own hand and glared at her. ‘You want to look like a trollop? A sallow trollop?’ she demanded.

Malta shook her head wordlessly as she tried to recall what a trollop-flower looked like.

‘Then you listen to me. I sew you a nice dress, a pretty frock. A dress your Mama and Papa happy to pay me for. Okay?’

‘But… I’ve brought the money to pay. My own money. And I want a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s frock.’ With every word she spoke, Malta became bolder.

Fayla Cart stood slowly, rubbing at her back. ‘A woman’s gown? Well, who’s going to wear this dress, you or some woman?’

‘I am.’ Malta forced her voice to stay firm.

Fayla scratched at her chin. A hair was growing out of a warty looking mole there. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. You are too young. You will only look silly. You listen to me, I make you a pretty frock. No other girl will have one like it, they will all stare and tug their mamas’ skirts and whisper about you.’

Without warning, Malta tore the paper shape loose from herself and stepped out of it. ‘I am not eager to have girls staring at me,’ she said haughtily. ‘Good day to you.’

And she left the shop, her green silk under her arm, and went down the street to find a dressmaker of her own, one that would listen to her. She tried not to wonder if Delo Trell had purposely sent her to that horrible old woman, if Delo did not think that Malta still belonged in a little girl’s starched skirts. Lately Delo had begun to give herself airs, to imply loftily that there were many things that Malta, young little Malta, simply could not understand about Delo’s life now. As if they had not been playmates since they could walk!

The young seamstress Malta chose wore her own skirts as if they were silk scarves, at once clinging and revealing her legs. She did not quibble about the colour of the fabric, nor try to hide Malta in paper. Instead she measured her swiftly and spoke of things like butterfly sleeves and how a spill of lace could flatter a young woman’s developing bosom into an illusion of fullness. Malta knew then she had chosen well, and had all but skipped home with a tale of being unable to find a free shimshay to excuse her lateness.

From that one decision of finding her own dressmaker had flowed all her good fortune. The woman had a cousin who made slippers; she sent Malta to him when she came in for the second fitting of the dress. And she would need jewellery, Territel reminded her. She pointed out to Malta that the reality of jewellery was not nearly as important as the effect it created with sparkle and shine. Cut glass would do as well as real gems, and then her budget would allow her larger and more glittering pieces. She had yet another cousin, and she came to show Malta her wares during the third fitting. When Malta returned for her final fitting, the slippers and jewellery were ready to be picked up as well. And Territel so kindly showed her how to paint her lips and eyes in the newest way, and even sold to Malta some of her own powders and skin paints. The woman could not have been kinder. ‘To have it exactly as I dreamed of is well worth every coin,’ Malta told her, and gladly gave over to her the pouch of gold that her father had provided. That had been but two days before the Harvest Ball.

It had been a feat both of nerve and creativity to smuggle the paper-wrapped gown home and successfully conceal it not only from Mama but from Nana, too. That old woman didn’t have enough to do any more. Now that Selden was old enough for tutors and didn’t need watching every minute, Nana seemed to be constantly spying on Malta. All of the ‘tidying’ she did in Malta’s chambers was no more than an excuse for going through her things. Nana was constantly asking her questions that were none of the old servant’s business. ‘Where did you get that scent? Does your mother know that you wore those earrings into town?’

In the end the solution had been simple. She directed Rache to store the wrapped gown, jewellery and slippers in her own quarters. Her grandmother had recently granted Rache a whole cottage to herself, one that gave onto the pond garden. She did not know what Rache had done to deserve this private space, but Malta found it useful that she had. No one thought anything of her spending time with Rache. After all, was not the slave woman teaching her dance-steps and body-carriage and etiquette? It was only too funny, of course, that a slave should know such things. Delo and Malta giggled about it often in the brief times they had together. Delo, of course, now thought that she was too old and womanly to be spending time with a mere girl like Malta. Well, that would change as soon as Malta presented herself at the Harvest Offering Ball.

Rache had also been the one to assist her with her dressing on the night of the Ball. Malta had not informed her ahead of time. That would have given the slave woman too much time to ponder things and then run and tattle to her grandmother or mother. Instead she had simply gone down to Rache’s cottage and asked her for the package. She had told Rache to help her dress, and the woman had complied, an odd smile on her face. Malta could see now the complete usefulness of an obedient slave. When she was fastened into the gown, she sat down before Rache’s own small mirror to don her jewellery a piece at a time, and then to carefully paint her lips and eyes. As the seamstress had shown her, she traced the outer edges of her ears and ear-lobes in the same colour as her eyelids. The effect was both exotic and alluring. The slave woman seemed completely amazed at what she was doing. She was probably astonished that Malta had such womanly skills as these.

When the shimshay that Malta had arranged earlier arrived at her door, Rache seemed only mildly alarmed. And where was her young lady off to? An evening at Kitten Shuyev’s house, Malta told her. Kitten’s mother and father had arranged a puppeteer to come and amuse her and her younger brother while they went to the Harvest Ball. It was well known that Kitten’s ankle was still quite painful since her pony had thrown her. Malta was going to go over and cheer her up. As they both had to miss the Harvest Ball, they might as well do it together.

Malta had had complete confidence in her own casual lies. Rache had been taken in completely, nodding and smiling and saying that she did not doubt at all that Kitten would be well amused. The only discomfort was the dark winter cloak that Malta had to wear over her gown on the way to the Ball. It did not go with such a fine dress. But it would not do to have dust from the street soil her dress, nor did she wish to have anyone see her before she made her entrance into the gathering. A shimshay was not exactly the traditional way to arrive at the Ball. Everyone else would be taking their carriages there, or riding their flashiest mounts. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Her flashiest mount was the fat pony that she and Selden shared. She had begged in vain for a horse of her own. As usual, her mother had said no, that if she wanted to take the time to learn to ride properly, she could learn on her mother’s own mare. Her mother’s mare was older than Malta. Even if she had wanted to use the nag, there would be no getting a riding horse out of the stables at this hour without her mother hearing of it. Besides. Given the fluttering nature of her skirts, she did not think horseback would be seemly.

But despite it all, despite the heavy winter cloak that misted her face with perspiration on this mild night, despite the rude little song the shimshay driver seemed to think was humorous, despite the fact that she knew her mother was going to be furious afterwards, it was all terribly exciting. ‘I’m doing it. I’m really doing it,’ she breathed to herself over and over. It gave her a heady sense of power to have finally stepped forward and taken control of her own life. She did not realize how tired she had grown of staying home and being her mother’s child. Her mother was so staid and matronly and settled. She never did anything that people did not expect of her. For the last year, while Grandfather was dying, the house had been the most boring place on earth. Not that it had ever been exciting. Not like other people’s homes. Other Trader families held gatherings at their homes, and not just of Trader folk. Some welcomed the newcomers and their families. The Beckerts once had a whole evening of fun with a troupe of jugglers that some newcomer family had hired. Polia Beckert had told her all about it the next day, how the young boys in the troupe had worn little more than a wrap of cloth about their loins, and how they had juggled fire and knives and glass balls. There was never anything like that in the Vestrit home. Grandmother used to have some of the old lady Traders over, but all they did was sit in a room and embroider together and sip wine and talk of how much better everything used to be. But even they had not come for a long time. When Grandfather’s illness became severe, Grandmother stopped inviting anyone over to the house. All had been quiet and dullness and dimmed rooms for almost a year. Mother even stopped playing her harp in the evenings — not that Malta had missed it. Whenever Mama played, she tried to teach Malta the notes as well. Sitting about plucking harpstrings was not Malta’s idea of an interesting evening.

‘Stop here!’ she hissed at the shimshay driver, and then louder, ‘No. Here. Stop here! I’ll walk up to the door. I said, I’ll walk, you idiot!’

He was nearly in the circle of light that the torches threw off before he stopped. And he had the effrontery to laugh at her anger. She gave him exactly what she owed him for the trip and not a penny more. Let him laugh about that. He avenged himself by not presenting her his hand to dismount. Well, she didn’t need his hand, she was young and lively, not some crippled up old woman. She stepped a little bit on the hem of her gown as she clambered down, but she did not stumble or tear it. ‘Come back for me at midnight,’ she commanded him imperiously. That was an early end to Harvest Ball, but, little as she cared to admit it, she did not wish to push her mother too far. Too far, and Grandmother’s authority might be angered as well. Besides, the presentation was always done shortly after midnight, and Malta had never cared for that part of the Harvest Ball. It was simply too creepy. One year, when Malta was only seven, the representative from the Rain Wilds had unmasked for the presentation. Malta had been dumbfounded at his body. It was as if a child had begun as a human, but in growing had somehow outgrown the human body, putting out odd bones, unusual height, flesh that might have pouched organs unknown to a human’s body. She had been in awe when her grandfather touched hands with him and called him ‘brother’. Her grandfather had put their family’s presentation into the Rain Wild man’s hands himself. For many nights afterwards, when the image of the Rain Wilder had given her nightmares, she had taken comfort in knowing how brave her grandfather was. She need fear no such monsters. Still: ‘Midnight sharp,’ she repeated.

The driver looked down meaningfully at the few coins in his hand. ‘Oh, without doubt, young mistress,’ he said sarcastically. He started his horse and as the nag’s hoofbeats faded into the night, Malta had a moment’s uneasiness. What if he did not return? She could not imagine walking all the way home in the dark, least of all in a long gown and soft slippers. Resolutely she pushed the thought away. Nothing, she would let nothing stand between her and her enjoyment of this night.

Carriages were pulling up to the Traders’ Concourse. Malta had been here before, many times, but tonight the hall seemed larger and more imposing. The glows of the torches made the marble shine with an almost amber tone. From each carriage Traders were alighting, in couples or family groups, all dressed in their best. The rich gowns of the women swept the paving stones. The girls wore the last of the year’s flowers in their hair, and the little boys were scrubbed and groomed to implausible orderliness. And the men… For a time, Malta stood in the shadows and watched almost greedily as they stepped down from carriages or dismounted from horses. The fathers and grandfathers she quickly dismissed. With her eyes she followed the young husbands and the men so obviously and flamboyantly still single.

She watched them as they arrived, and she wondered. How did one choose, how did a woman know? There were so many kinds, and yet in her whole lifetime, a woman could possess but one. Or two, perhaps, if her husband died young and left her a widow while she could yet bear children. Still, she supposed, if one truly loved her husband, she wouldn’t hope for that to happen, no matter how curious she might be. Still. It did not seem fair. There, on the black horse, pulling him in so abruptly that the horse’s hooves clattered on the paving stones, that was Roed Caern. His hair flowed down his back in a black stream, as glistening as his horse’s mane and as unbound. His shoulders strained the seams of his tailored coat. He had a sharp nose and narrow lips, and Delo had shivered when she spoke of him. ‘Oh, but he’s a cruel one,’ she had said so knowingly, and then only rolled her eyes when Malta had demanded to know what she had meant.

Jealousy gnawed at Malta’s heart that Delo knew such things and she did not. Delo’s brother frequently invited his friends to dine at his home. Roed was one such. Oh, why couldn’t she have a brother like Cerwin, who rode and hunted and had handsome friends instead of doltish Wintrow with his saggy brown robes and beardless chin? She followed Roed’s striding steps with her eyes, and marked how he gave way suddenly with a deep and courtly bow to allow a young wife to precede him into the hall. Her husband looked none too pleased at his gallantry.

Yet another carriage pulled up. The Trentor family’s, the crest on the door proclaimed it. The white horses that pulled it had ostrich plumes on their headstalls. Malta watched the family alight, the parents dressed so sedately in dove grey, followed by three unwed daughters, all in shades of goldenrod and holding hands as if they feared some man would try to separate such devout sisters. Malta snorted softly at their fearfulness. Krion came last. He was dressed in grey, like his father, but the scarf at his throat was a deeper gold than that his sisters wore. His hands were gloved in white tonight. Krion always wore gloves, to cover the terrible scars where he had stumbled into a fire as a child. He was ashamed of his hands, and modest, too, of the poetry he wrote. He never read it aloud himself, leaving that task to his devoted sisters. His hair was auburn and as a boy he had been as freckled as an egg. His eyes were green. Delo had confided to Malta that she thought she was in love with him. Someday, she said, she hoped to be the one to stand before chosen friends and read his latest verses aloud. Such a gentle spirit, Delo had breathed, and then sighed.

Malta watched him ascend the steps, and sighed herself. She longed to be in love. She longed to know more of men, to speak knowingly of this one or that, to blush at the mention of a name or frown sternly at the glance of dark eyes. Her mother was wrong, wrong when she said there was plenty of time, to wait to be a woman. The years of being a woman with a choice were far too few. All too soon women married and grew fat with babies. Malta did not dream of a solid husband and a well-filled crib. She hungered for this, these nights in the shadows, these hungers of the soul, and the attention of men who could not claim to possess her.

Well, it would not happen to her hiding in the shadows. Resolutely she took her cloak from her shoulders. She bundled it up and tossed it under a bush to retrieve later. She almost wished that her mother and grandmother were here, that she were arriving in a carriage, certain that her hair had not been disarranged, that the paint on her lips was straight and fresh still. For an instant she imagined them all arriving here together, her handsome father presenting her his arm to escort her into the Ball. But with that thought came an image of awkward little Wintrow trotting along behind them in his brown priest’s robe, and Mother in some stiflingly modest dress. Malta winced. She was not ashamed of her family. She would have enjoyed having them here, if only they knew how to behave properly and could dress well. Had she not asked, over and over, for her mother to come to the Ball this year? Well, they had refused her that. If she was to enter life as a woman, Malta would have to do it on her own. And she would be brave, allowing only a hint of her tragedy and loneliness to show on her face. Oh, she would be merry tonight, laughing and charming, but in an unguarded moment, perhaps one knowing eye would look at her and know the neglect she suffered at home, ignored and passed over by her family. She took a deep breath and walked towards the torchlight and the wide, beckoning doors.

The horses pulling the Trentor family carriage clopped away. Another took its place. The Trells, Malta realized with both delight and dread. Delo would be in that carriage. Her parents and older brother Cerwin, would, unfortunately, be with her. If Malta greeted them as they alighted, Delo’s parents would be bound to ask where Mama and Grandmother were. Malta was not ready to face awkward questions just yet. Still, it would be such fun to go in arm and arm with Delo, two dazzling young women of the Bingtown Traders entering society together. She ventured a step closer. If Delo’s parents and brother preceded her, there was a chance she could hist to Delo and have her wait for her.

As Malta had hoped, Delo’s parents got out first. Her mama was dazzling. Her gown was simple and deep blue. The neckline left her throat and shoulders bare save for a single silver chain with a row of pendant perfume gems. How Malta wished her own mother would appear, just once, so elegantly dressed. Even from where she lurked, she could smell the heady scent of the gems. Delo’s mama took her papa’s arm. He was tall and thin. His linen jacket and trousers were also blue, flattering his wife’s gown. They ascended the steps to the hall like folk from a legend. Behind them, Cerwin waited impatiently for Delo to clamber out of the carriage. Like his father, his coat and trousers were blue, his boots a softly gleaming black. He wore a single gold earring in one ear, and his black hair was daringly curled into long locks. Malta, who had known him all her life, suddenly felt an odd little shiver in her belly. Never before had he looked so handsome to her. She longed to astonish him with her presence.

Instead, she herself was astonished when Delo finally appeared in the carriage door. Her dress echoed the colour of her mother’s, but there the resemblance stopped. Her hair was plaited into a crown decked with fresh flowers, and a flounce of lace graced her short skirts to make them almost mid-calf. Matching lace trimmed the high collar and cuffs. She wore no jewellery at all.

Malta could not contain herself. She swept up to Delo like an avenging spirit. ‘But you said you were going to wear a gown this year! You said your mama had promised you would,’ she greeted her friend. ‘What happened?’

Delo looked up at Malta miserably. Then her eyes widened in astonishment and her mouth opened. No sound came out of it.

Cerwin stepped protectively in front of her. ‘I don’t believe you could know my sister,’ he said in a haughty voice.

‘Cerwin!’ Malta exclaimed in annoyance. She peered past him at Delo. ‘What happened?’

Delo’s eyes widened another fraction. ‘Malta? Is that you?’

‘Of course it’s me. Did your mama change her mind?’ A nasty suspicion began to unfold in Malta’s mind. ‘You must have had dress fittings. You must have known you weren’t going to be allowed to wear a gown!’

‘I didn’t think you’d be here!’ Delo wailed miserably, while Cerwin Trell asked incredulously, ‘Malta? Malta Vestrit?’ His eyes moved over her in a way that she knew was rude. Rude or not, it made another shiver run over her.

‘Trell?’ Shukor Kev was dismounting from his horse. ‘Trell, is that you? Good to see you. And who is this?’ His incredulous glance went from Malta to Cerwin. ‘You can’t bring her to the Harvest Ball, friend. You know it’s only for Traders.’ Something in his tone made Malta uncomfortable.

Another carriage had pulled up. The footman was having trouble opening the door, the catch appeared to be stuck. Malta tried not to stare. It was not ladylike. But the footman caught sight of her and appeared to be so struck by her appearance that he completely forgot his task. Within the carriage, a portly man thudded his shoulder against the door, which flew open, narrowly missing her. And Davad Restart, in all his clumsy glory nearly tumbled out into the street.

The footman had caught at her arm to steady her as she stepped hastily back from the wide-flung door. Had he not had hold of her arm, she could have easily stepped away and avoided disaster. Instead she was there as Davad caught his balance by snatching at the door and then trod squarely on the hem of her dress. ‘Oh, I beg pardon, I do,’ he declared fervently, and then the words died on his lips as he looked her up and down. So transformed was she that for a time she was sure he did not recognize her. She could not resist. She smiled at him.

‘Good evening, Trader Restart,’ she greeted him. She curtseyed, a trickier, task in the longer skirts than she had known it would be. ‘I trust you are well.’

Still, he goggled at her. After a moment, he opened his mouth and squeaked out, ‘Malta? Malta Vestrit?’

Another carriage came to take the place of the Trells’. This one was resplendent in green and gilt, Rain Wild colours. That would be the representatives from the Rain Wild families. The ball would begin as soon as they were seated.

Behind her, like an echo, came Shukor’s incredulous, ‘Malta Vestrit? I don’t believe it!’

‘Of course.’ She smiled up at Davad again, enjoying the astonished way his eyes leapt from the necklace at her throat to the lace that frothed at her bosom. He suddenly glanced behind her. She turned, but there was no one there. Damn. Delo had gone into the Ball without her! She turned back to Davad, but he was staring wildly about. As the door of the Rain Wild carriage opened, he suddenly seized her by the shoulders and thrust her behind him, almost inside the still open door of his carriage. ‘Be still!’ he hissed. ‘Say nothing at all!’

He turned back and bowed low as the Rain Wild representatives exited their carriage. Malta peeped past him. There were three of them this year. Two tall and one short was all she could tell of them, hooded and cloaked as they were. The dark fabric of their cloaks was something she had never seen before. It was black when they were still, but any motion set it to dancing in scintillant colours. Green, blue, and red shone briefly in the darkness at the tiniest movement.

‘Trader Restart,’ one greeted him. A woman’s reedy voice.

‘Trader Vintagli,’ he replied, bowing even deeper. ‘I welcome you to Bingtown and the Harvest Ball.’

‘Why, thank you, Davad. Shall I see you within, then?’

‘Most certainly,’ he replied. ‘As soon as I find my gloves. I seem to have dropped them on the floor of my carriage.’

‘How careless of you!’ she rebuked him. Her voice caressed the words oddly. She then moved on after her companions.

The still autumn air reeked of Restart’s sudden sweat. The moment the doors of the hall closed behind the Rain Wild family, he spun about to confront Malta. He seized her by one arm and shook her.

‘Where is your grandmother?’ he demanded. Then before she could reply, he asked as urgently, ‘Where is your mother?’

She should have lied. She could have said they had already gone in, or that she had just now stepped out for a breath of cooler air. Instead, she said simply, ‘I’ve come alone.’ She glanced aside from him, and spoke more softly, adult to adult. ‘Since Grandfather died, I’m afraid they’ve become more housebound than ever. It’s so sad. But I knew that if I did not get out and about, I should simply go mad. You can’t imagine how gloomy it has been for me—’

She gasped as he clutched her arm more tightly and urged her towards the coach. ‘Quickly! Before anyone else sees you… you haven’t spoken to anyone else, have you?’

‘I… no. Well, only Delo and her brother. I just arrived you see, and… let go of me! You’re crushing my dress.’

It both frightened and shocked her, the way he shoved her into his carriage and climbed determinedly in after her. What did he have in mind? She had heard tales of men driven by passion and lust to do impulsive things, but Davad Restart? He was old! The idea was too disgusting! He slammed the door, but this time it refused to catch. He held it shut as he called up, ‘Driver! To the Vestrit townhouse. Quickly.’ To Malta he said, ‘Sit down. I’m taking you home.’

‘No! Let me out, I want to go to the Harvest Ball. You can’t do this to me. You’re not my father!’

Trader Restart was panting as he clutched the door handle and held it shut. The carriage started forward with a lurch and Malta sat down hard.

‘No, I’m not your father,’ Restart agreed harshly. ‘And tonight I thank Sa I am not, for I am sure I’d have no idea what to do with you. Poor Ronica! After everything else she’s been through this year. Wasn’t it bad enough that your aunt vanished completely without you presenting yourself at the Harvest Ball dressed like a Jamaillian strumpet? What will your father say about this?’ He pulled a large kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his sweating face with it. He was wearing, she noted, the same blue trousers and jacket that he’d worn the two previous years. It strained at his girth; from the smell of cedar in the carriage, she doubted he’d taken it out of his clothing chest before tonight. And he dared to speak to her of clothing and fashion!

‘I had this dress specially made, for me, and for this night. With money my papa gave me, I might add. So I scarcely think he would be angry that I had used it as he suggested. What he might want to know, however, is what you mean by snatching his young daughter off the street and dragging her off against her will. I do not think he will be pleased.’

She had known Davad Restart for years, and knew how easily cowed he was when her grandmother snapped at him. She had expected at least a bit of that same deference for herself. Instead he surprised her by snorting. ‘Let him come to me and ask me, when he gets back to port, and I will tell him that I was trying to save your reputation. Malta Vestrit, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. A little girl like you, dressed up like a common… and then daring to show yourself so at the Harvest Ball. I pray to Sa that no one else recognized you. And nothing you can say will convince me that your mother or grandmother knew anything of that dress or your coming to the Ball when any proper girl would still be mourning her grandfather.’

She could have said a dozen things in reply to that. A week later, she had thought of them all, and knew exactly how she should have said them. But at the time no words would come to her and she sat silent and helplessly furious as the swaying carriage bore her resolutely homeward.

When they arrived, she did not wait for Davad Restart, but pushed past him to climb out of the carriage and hurry up to the door before him. Unfortunately a tassel of her skirt caught on the edge of the carriage door. She heard it tear and turned back with an exclamation of despair but it was too late. The tassel and a hand’s-length of pale green silk dangled from the doorframe. Davad glanced at it, then slammed the door on it. He stalked past her to the house door and loudly rang for the servants.

Nana answered it. Why had it to be Nana? She stared at Davad crossly, and then looked past him at Malta, who returned her glare haughtily. For an instant Nana merely looked affronted. Then she gave a gasp of horror and shrieked, ‘Malta! No, it cannot be you. What have you done, what have you done?’

That brought the whole household down on her. First her mother appeared, and fired a dozen angry questions at Davad Restart, none of which he could answer. Then her grandmother, in her nightgown and wrapper, her hair bundled up in a night scarf, appeared to scold her mother for making such a hue and cry in the night. At the sight of her, Grandmother had suddenly gone pale. She had dismissed all the servants save Nana, who she sent off for tea. She gripped Malta firmly by the wrist as she led her down the hall to what had been Grandfather’s study. Only when Davad, Keffria and Malta were inside and the door shut firmly had she turned to her.

‘Explain yourself,’ she commanded.

Malta drew herself up. ‘I wished to go to the Harvest Ball. Papa had said I might, and that I might go in a gown, as befitted a young woman. I have done nothing I am ashamed of.’ Her dignity was impeccable.

Her grandmother pursed her pale lips. When she spoke, there was ice in her voice. ‘Then you are truly as empty-headed as you appear to be.’ She turned aside from Malta, dismissing her completely. ‘Oh, Davad, how can I ever thank you for whisking her home? I hope you have not put your own reputation at risk while saving ours. Did many people see her like this?’

Trader Restart looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Not many. I hope. Cerwin Trell and his little sister. Some friend of his. I pray they were all.’ He paused as if considering whether or not to lie. ‘The Vintagli family arrived, to represent the Rain Wilds while she was there. But I do not think they saw her. For once, perhaps, my girth served some useful purpose.’ He rubbed his belly ruefully. ‘I hid her behind me, and snatched her into my carriage the moment they had passed. My footman was there, too, of course.’ He added reluctantly, ‘And there were other Trader families, coming and going, but I trust that I did not make too much of a scene.’ His face was troubled as he added hesitantly, ‘Of course, you knew nothing of any of this?’

‘I am both relieved and ashamed to admit I knew nothing,’ her grandmother said sternly. Her eyes were full of accusations as she turned to Malta’s mother. ‘Keffria? Did you know what your daughter was up to?’ Before her mother could reply, Grandmother went on, ‘And if you did not, how could you not?’

Malta had expected her mother to burst into tears. Her mother always burst into tears. Instead she turned on her daughter. ‘How could you do this to me?’ she demanded. ‘And why? Oh, Malta, why?’ There was terrible grief in her words. ‘Didn’t I tell you that you only had to wait? That when the time was right, you would be properly presented? What could have persuaded you to… do this?’ Her mother looked devastated.

Malta knew a moment’s uncertainty. ‘I wanted to go to the Harvest Ball. I told you that. Over and over again, I begged to be allowed to go. But you would not listen, even after Papa said I could go, even after he promised me I could have a proper gown.’ She paused, waiting for her mother to admit that promise. When she only stared at her aghast, Malta shouted, ‘Well, it’s your own fault if you’re surprised! I was only doing what Papa had promised me I could do.’

Something in her mother’s face hardened. ‘If you had any idea of how badly I want to slap you just now, you’d keep a more civil tongue, girl.’

Never had her mother spoken to her like that before. Girl, she called her, as if she were a servant! ‘Why don’t you then?’ Malta demanded furiously. ‘This evening has been ruined for me in every other way! Why don’t you just beat me here, in front of everyone, and have done with it?’ The tragedy of her ruined plans rose up and choked her.

Davad Restart looked aghast. ‘I really must be going,’ he said hastily and rose.

‘Oh, Davad, sit down,’ Grandmother said wearily. ‘There is tea coming. We owe you at least that for this rescue tonight. Don’t be put off by my grand-daughter’s sense of drama. Although beating Malta might make us all feel better at this point, we’ve never resorted to that — yet.’ She gave Trader Restart a wan smile and actually took his hand. She led the fat little man back to his chair and he sat down as she bade him. It made Malta queasy. Couldn’t they see what a disgusting little man he was, with his face and balding pate shining with sweat and his ill-fitting out-of-style clothes? Why were they thanking him for humiliating her?

Nana entered the room with a tray of tea things. She also had a bottle of port tucked under one arm, and a towel draped over the same arm. She set the bottle and the tray down on the table and then turned to present Malta with a towel. It was damp. ‘Clean your face,’ the old serving woman told her brusquely. The adults all glanced at her, then looked away. They would grant her the privacy in which to obey. For an instant she was grateful. Then it dawned on her what they were doing to her, telling her to wash her face like a dirty child.

‘I will not!’ she cried, and flung the wet towel to the floor.

A long moment of silence followed. Then her grandmother asked her conversationally, ‘Do you realize you look like a whore?’

‘I do not!’ Malta declared. She had another moment of doubt, but thrust it aside. ‘Cerwin Trell did not seem to find me unattractive this night. This dress and this way of painting my eyes are what is currently fashionable in Jamaillia.’

‘For the whores, perhaps,’ Grandmother continued implacably. ‘And I did not say you were “unattractive”. You are simply not attractive in a way any proper woman would be comfortable with.’

‘Actually,’ Davad Restart began uncomfortably, but Grandmother continued, ‘We are not in Jamaillia, nor are you a whore. You are the daughter of a proud Trader family. And we do not so flaunt our bodies or our faces in public. I wonder that somehow this has escaped your notice before this.’

‘Then I wish I were a whore in Jamaillia!’ Malta declared hotly. ‘Because anything else would be better than being suffocated here. Forced to dress and act like a little child when I am near a woman grown, forced to always be quiet, be polite, be… unnoticed. I don’t want to grow up like that, I don’t want to be like you and Mother. I want to… to be beautiful, and noticed, and have fun, and have men want to be near me and send me flowers and presents. And I don’t want to dress in last year’s fashions and behave as if nothing ever excited me or angered me. I want…’

‘Actually,’ Davad broke in awkwardly, ‘there has been a, uh, similar fashion in Jamaillia. Since last year. One of the Satrap’s, uh, Companions appeared thus. Uh, in the guise of a, uh, street woman. Not at a public function, but at a very large private gathering. To proclaim her, shall we say, complete devotion to the Satrap and his needs. That she was willing to, well, to be seen and treated as his, well…’ Davad took a deep breath. ‘This is not something I usually would discuss with any of you,’ he pointed out awkwardly. ‘But it did happen, and there were, uh, shall we say echoes of it seen in fashionable dress in the months that followed. The ear paint, the uh, accessible panels of the skirts…’ He suddenly flushed very red and subsided.

Grandmother only shook her head angrily. ‘This is what our Satrap has come to. He breaks the promises of his grandfather and father, and reduces the Companions of his Heart to whores for his bodily pleasures. Time was when a family was proud to have one of their daughters named as a Companion, for it was a post that demanded wisdom and diplomacy. What are they now? His seraglio? It disgusts me. And I will not see my grand-daughter dressed as such, no matter how popular the garb becomes.’

‘You want me to be old and dowdy, like you and mother,’ Malta declared. ‘You want me to go from being an infant to being an old woman. Well, I won’t. Because that’s not what I want.’

‘Never in my life,’ Keffria declared suddenly, ‘have I spoken so to my mother. And I won’t tolerate you speaking so to your grandmother. If—’

‘If you had, maybe you would have had a life!’ Malta pointed out suddenly. ‘But no! I bet you’ve always been mousy and silent and obedient. Like a cow. Shown one year and wed the next, like a fine fat cow taken to auction! One season of dancing and fun, and then married off to have babies with whatever man offered the best bargain to your parents.’ She had shocked the whole room. She looked around at them all. ‘That’s not what I want, Mother. I want a life of my own. I want to wear pretty clothes, and go to wonderful places. I don’t want to marry some nice Trader boy you pick out for me. I want to visit Jamaillia some day, I want to go to the Satrap’s Court, and not as a married woman with a string of babies following me. I want to be free of all that. I want—’

‘You want to ruin us,’ Grandmother said quietly, and poured tea. Cup after tidy cup, calmly and efficiently as she spoke her damning words. ‘You want, you say, and give no thought at all to what we all need.’ She glanced up from her tea duties, to inquire, ‘Tea or port, Davad?’

‘Tea,’ he said gratefully. ‘Not that I can stay long. I must hasten back, to at least be in time for the Presentation of the Offerings. I have no one else to give my presentation in my place, you know. And Trader Vintagli seemed to wish to speak to me. They will not expect you this year, of course, because of your mourning…’ His voice trailed off awkwardly.

‘Tea? Very well, then.’ Her grandmother filled in smoothly. Her eyes moved from Davad to Nana. ‘Nana, dear. I hate to ask this of you, but would you see Malta off to bed? And see she washes well first. I am so sorry to put this on you.’

‘Not at all, mistress. I see it as my duty.’

And Nana did. Large and implacable as she had been when Malta was a child, she took her wrist and dragged her from the room. Malta went quietly, for the sake of her own dignity, not out of any acquiescence. She did not fight as Nana disrobed her, and she climbed herself into the steaming bath that Nana poured for her. She did not, in fact, speak a word to her large and imperious nanny, not even to interrupt Nana’s boring monologue about how ashamed of herself she should be.

Because she was not ashamed, Malta told herself. Nor cowed at all. When her father came home, they would all have to answer for their mistreatment of her. For now, she would be satisfied with that.

That, and the shivery sensation that Cerwin Trell’s glance had awakened in her. She thought of his eyes and felt it again. Cerwin, at least, knew that she was no longer a little girl.