LITMIR.BIZ

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her majority, and authority over her fell to her mother and Kyle… she hastily pushed the thought away, rapping her knuckles against the wood of the Vivacia to ward off the ill luck of thinking of such a bad thing.

      Yet she could not deny how she anticipated the quickening of the Vivacia. How many hours had she spent, stretched out on the bowsprit as close to the figurehead as she could get as they ploughed through the seas, and stared at the carved wooden lids that covered the Vivacia’s eyes? She was not wood and paint like the figurehead of any ordinary ship. She was wizardwood. She was painted for now, yes, but at the moment of Ephron Vestrit’s death aboard her decks, the painted locks of her tumbling hair would be not gilt but curling gold, and her high-boned cheeks would lose their rouge of paint and glow pink with her own life. She’d have green eyes. Althea knew it. Of course, everyone said that no one could truly know what colour a liveship’s eyes would be until those eyes were opened by the deaths of three generations. But Althea knew. The Vivacia would have eyes as green as sea-lettuce. Even now, thinking of how it would be when those great emerald eyes opened, Althea had to smile.

      The smile faded as she recalled Kyle’s words. It was plain what he hoped to do. Put her off the ship and bring one of his sons aboard. And when her father did die, Kyle would try to keep command of the Vivacia, would keep his boy aboard as his token Vestrit to keep the ship happy. It had to be an empty threat. Neither boy was suited, the one too young, the other given to the priests. Althea had nothing against her nephews, but even if Selden were not too young to live aboard ship, he had the soul of a farmer. As for Wintrow, Keffria had given him over to the priests years ago. Wintrow cared nothing for the Vivacia, knew nothing of ships; her sister Keffria had seen to that. And he was destined to be a priest. Kyle had never been much enthused about that, but last time Althea had seen the boy, it was plain that he’d make a good priest. Small and spindly, always staring off into the distance, smiling vaguely, thoughts full of Sa; that was Wintrow.

      Not that Kyle would care where the boy’s heart was, or even about backing out on dedicating his eldest son to Sa. His children by Keffria were no more than tools to him, the blood he’d claim in order to gain control of the liveship. Well, he’d shown his hand a bit too plainly this time. When they got back to port, she’d see to it that her father knew exactly what Kyle had planned, and how badly he’d treated her. Perhaps then her father would reconsider his decision that Althea was too young to captain the ship. Let Kyle go and find some dead chunk of wood to push about the seas, and give the Vivacia back into Althea’s care where she would be safe and respected. Through the palms of her hands, she was sure she felt a response from the ship. The Vivacia was hers, no matter what plots Kyle might make. He’d never have her.

      She shifted again in her bunk. She’d outgrown it. She should have the ship’s carpenter come in and redo the room. If she put her bunk on the bulkhead, below the porthole, she could have an extra hand of length to it. Not much, but even a bit would help. Her desk could come over against this wall… Then she frowned to herself, recalling how the carpenter had betrayed her. Well, she’d never liked the man, and he’d never cared for her. She should have guessed he’d be the one to make mischief between her and Kyle with his tale-telling.

      And she should have known also that it wasn’t Brashen. He wasn’t a man to go about behind another’s back, no matter what Kyle might think of him. No, Brashen had told her, to her face and quite rudely, that she was a childish little trouble-maker and he’d thank her to stay away from his watch. As she mulled on it, that night in the tavern came clearer in her head. He’d chewed her out as if she were a green hand, telling her she ought not criticize the captain’s decisions to the crew, nor talk out her family business in public. She’d known what to say to that. ‘Not everyone feels ashamed to speak of their family, Brashen Trell.’ That was all she’d had to say. Then she’d risen from the table and stalked away.

      Let him sit there and choke on that, she’d told herself. She knew Brashen’s history, and she’d wager half the crew did, even if they daren’t talk about it to his face. Her father had rescued him when he was on the very threshold of the debtor’s gaol. The only route out of there for him would have been an indentureship, for all knew his own family had had their fill of his wastrel ways. And all knew what lay down the road from an enforced indentureship. He’d probably have ended up in Chalced, a face full of slave tattoos, were it not for Ephron Vestrit. And yet he had dared to speak to her like that. He thought entirely too much of himself, did Brashen Trell. Most Trells did. At the Traders’ Harvest Ball last year, his younger brother had presumed to ask her to dance twice with him. Even if Cerwin was the Trell heir now, he should not be so bold. She half-smiled as she thought of his face when she’d coolly declined. His polite acceptance of her refusal had been correct, but all his training had not been enough to keep the flush from his face. Cerwin had prettier manners than Brashen, but he was slender as a boy, with none of Brashen’s muscle. On the other hand, the younger Trell had been smart enough not to throw away both family name and fortune. Brashen hadn’t.

      Althea pushed him from her mind. She felt a twinge that Kyle was going to let him go at the end of the voyage, but she would not be especially sad to see him go. Her father’s feelings on that matter would be another thing. He’d always made something of a pet of Brashen, at least on shore. Most of the other Trader families had stopped receiving Brashen when the Trells disinherited him. But Ephron Vestrit had shrugged and said, ‘Heir or not, he’s a good seaman. Any sailor of my crew who isn’t fit to call at my door isn’t fit to be on my decks.’ Not that Brashen came often to the house, or ever sat at table with them. And on the ship her father and Brashen were strictly master and man. It was probably only to her that her father had spoken admiringly of the boy’s gumption in picking himself up and making something of himself. But she’d say nothing to Kyle on that score. Let him make yet one more mistake for her father to see. Let her father see just how many changes Kyle would make on the Vivacia if he were not checked.

      She was strongly tempted to go out on deck, simply to challenge Kyle’s order to her. What could he do? Order a deckhand to put her back in her quarters? There wasn’t a hand on this ship that would dare lay hands on her, and not just because she was Althea Vestrit. Most of them liked and respected her, and that had been a thing she’d earned for herself, not bought with her name. Despite what Kyle said, she knew this ship better than any sailor aboard it now. She knew it as only a child who has grown up aboard a ship could; she knew the places in the holds where no grown man could have fit himself, she had climbed masts and swung on rigging as other children climbed trees. Even if she did not stand a regular watch, she knew the work of every hand aboard and could do it. She could not splice as fast as their best rigger, but she could make a neat strong splice, and cut and sew canvas as well as any deckhand. She had divined this was her father’s intention in bringing her aboard; to learn the ship and every sailor’s task of running her. Kyle might despise her as a mere daughter of her family, but she had no fear that her father thought her any less than the three sons the family had lost to the Blood Plague. She was not a substitute for a son; she was to be Ephron Vestrit’s heir.

      She knew she could defy Kyle’s order and nothing would befall her. But like as not he’d take it out on the hands, punishing them when they did not leap to obey his order to confine her to quarters. She would not let that happen to them. This was her quarrel with Kyle; she’d settle it herself. Because despite what he’d said, she did not care just for herself. The Vivacia deserved a good crew, and save for Kyle, her father had chosen every hand well. He paid good money, more than the going rate, to keep able and willing hands aboard. Althea would not give Kyle an excuse to discharge any of them. She felt again a pang of guilt that she’d been part of that fate coming down on Brashen.

      She tried to push thoughts of him aside, but he refused to budge. In her mind’s eye, he stood before her, arms crossed on his chest, looking down at her from his superior height as he so often did. Lips flat in disapproval of her, brown eyes narrowed to slits, with even the bristle of his beard betraying his annoyance. Good deckhand he might be, and a promising mate, but for all of that, the man had an attitude. He’d thrown over the Trell name, but not their aristocratic ways. She could respect that he’d worked his way up the decks to his position of mate; still, she found it irritating that he moved and spoke as if command were his birthright.

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