The Mad Ship
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The Mad Ship
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The minister looked past Tenira. In a bored voice he replied, ‘Traditions change, and laws do too. Bingtown is no longer a provincial backwater, Captain Tenira. It is a rapidly-growing trade centre. It is to Bingtown’s benefit that the Satrap combats the pirates that infest the waterways. Bingtown should normalize trade with Chalced. Jamaillia sees no reason to consider Chalced an enemy. Why should Bingtown?’
‘Jamaillia does not share a disputed boundary with Chalced. Jamaillian farms and settlements have not been raided and burned. Bingtown’s hostility toward Chalced is well-founded on history, not suspicion. Those ships have no right to be in our harbour. I wonder that the Bingtown Traders’ Council has not challenged this.’
‘This is neither the place nor the time to discuss Bingtown’s internal politics,’ the minister suddenly declared. ‘My function here is to serve the Satrap by collecting his rightful tariffs. Corum. Are not you finished with those figures yet? When I accepted you for employment here, I understood from your uncle that you were swift with numbers. What is the delay?’
Althea almost felt sorry for the clerk. He was obviously accustomed to being the subject of the minister’s displeasure, however, for he only smiled obsequiously and clattered his tally sticks a bit faster. ‘Seven and two,’ he muttered, apparently for the benefit of those watching him. ‘Docking fee and security fee…and patrol fee brings it to…And the surcharge on non-Jamaillian woven goods.’ He jotted a number onto the tablet, but before Althea could decipher it, the minister snatched it away. He ran a long-fingered nail down it with a disapproving glare. ‘This is not right!’ he hissed.
‘I certainly hope not!’ Captain Tenira agreed vehemently. He was taller than the minister and looked over his shoulder easily. ‘That is twice what I paid for “fees” last time, and the percentage on non-Jamaillian woven goods is…’
‘Tariffs have gone up,’ the minister interrupted him. ‘There is also a new surcharge on non-Jamaillian worked-metal goods. I believe your tinware falls into that category. Refigure this immediately, accurately!’ He slapped the tablet back down before the clerk, who only bowed his head and nodded repeatedly to the criticism.
‘Rinstin is a Jamaillian town!’ Tomie Tenira declared indignantly.
‘Rinstin, like Bingtown, acknowledges Jamaillia’s rule, but it is not in Jamaillia and is therefore not a Jamaillian town. You will pay the surcharge.’
‘That I shall not!’ Tenira exclaimed.
Althea suppressed a small gasp. She had expected Tenira to bargain over the tariffs that were due. Bargaining was the fabric of Bingtown society. No one ever paid what was first asked. He should have offered a generous bribe to the minister in the form of a lavish meal in a nearby establishment, or a selection from the more choice goods on board the Ophelia. Althea had never heard a Bingtown Trader simply refuse to pay.
The minister narrowed his eyes at Tenira. Then he gave a disdainful shrug. ‘As you will, sir. It is all one to me. Your ship will remain at this dock, her cargo on board until the proper fees are paid.’ He raised his voice suddenly. ‘Guards! Enter, please! I may require your assistance here!’
Tenira did not even look towards the two burly men who stepped inside the door. His whole attention was riveted on the minister. ‘There is nothing proper about these fees.’ He poked at the tablet the scribe was still trying to complete. ‘What is this for “patrol” and this for “security”?’
The minister gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘How do you expect the Satrap to reimburse those he has hired to protect you?’
Althea had suspected that Tenira’s outrage might be some sort of a bargaining ploy. Colour rose so high in his face that she no longer doubted the sincerity of his anger as he asked, ‘You mean those Chalcedean scum, don’t you? May Sa close my ears before I hear such idiocy! I won’t pay for those pirates to anchor in Bingtown Harbour.’
The guards were suddenly standing very close, right at Tomie Tenira’s elbows. Althea, in her role of ship’s boy, strove to look tough and follow her captain’s lead. If Tenira threw a punch, she would be expected to jump in. Any ship’s boy worth his scrap would do so, but it was a daunting prospect. She had never been in a real brawl before, other than that one brief dust-up with Brashen. She set her jaw and chose the younger of the two men as her mark.
It didn’t come to that. Tenira suddenly dropped his voice and growled, ‘I’ll be presenting this to the Traders’ Council.’
‘As you see fit, sir, I’m sure,’ the minister purred. Althea thought him a fool. A wiser man would have known better than to bait Tomie Tenira. She half expected the captain to strike him. Instead, he smiled a very narrow smile.
‘As I see fit,’ he rejoined smoothly. With a curt gesture to Althea to follow him, they left the tariff office. He spoke not a word to her until they were back aboard the ship. Then he sent her to ‘Fetch the mate, and smartly now. Have him come to my cabin.’ Althea obeyed him promptly.
When they were sequestered in the captain’s cabin, Tenira himself poured three jots of rum for them. He didn’t pause to consider propriety, nor did Althea as she drank it off. The scene in the tariff office had chilled her worse than a cold night on deck. ‘It’s bad,’ was Tenira’s first greeting to his son. ‘Worse than I’d feared. Not only are the Chalcedeans tied up here, but the Traders’ Council hasn’t even challenged it. Worse, the damn Satrap has tacked more duties and taxes on to our trade to pay them to be here!’
‘You didn’t pay them?’ Grag asked incredulously.
‘Of course not!’ Tenira snorted. ‘Someone around here has to start standing up to this nonsense. It may be a bit rocky to be the first one, but I’ll wager once we’ve set the example, others will follow. The minister says he’s going to detain us here. Fine. While we’re tied up here, we take up this much dock space. A few more like us, and he won’t be able to process ships or tariffs. Grag, you’ll have a quiet word with Ophelia. Sa help us all, but I plan to give her free rein and let her be as unpleasant and bitchy as only she knows how. Let the dock workers and passers-by deal with that.’
Althea found herself grinning. The small room was as charged as if a storm were brewing. It was a storm, she told herself, and one her father had seen gathering for years. Still, it humbled her to watch an old captain like Tenira announce that he would call the first bolt down on himself. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Go home. Take word to your mother of all you saw and heard. I didn’t see the Vivacia in the harbour, but if she is in, I ask you to set aside your differences with your brother-in-law and try to make him see why we must all be together in our defiance. I’ll be heading home myself in a bit. Grag, I’ll be trusting the ship to you. At the first whiff of any sign of trouble, send Calco to me with a message. Althea?’
Althea weighed his words, then nodded slowly. As much as she hated the idea of a truce with Kyle, Captain Tenira was right. It was no time for the Bingtown Traders to be divided on anything.
The smile the Teniras gave her was worth it. ‘I suspected I could count on you, lass,’ Captain Tenira said fondly.
Grag grinned at her. ‘And I knew I could.’
10 HOMECOMING (#ulink_85f4eb59-044d-5384-a22f-a34947167f87)
THE VESTRIT MANSION, like the homes of the other Bingtown Traders, was set in the cool and forested foothills that surrounded Bingtown itself. It was a brief carriage ride from the docks, or a comfortable walk on a pleasant day. Along the way, one could glimpse other elegant Trader homes set well back from the main road. She passed flowering hedges and drives lined with trees extravagantly green with spring growth. Ivy sprawled in a mantle over the Oswells’ stone wall. Crisp yellow daffodils were showing their first blooms in clumps by their gate. The spring day was rich with birdcalls and the dappling shade of newly leafed trees and the scents of early flowers.
Never before had it seemed to be such a long walk.
Althea marched on as if going to her death.
She still wore her ship’s boy garb; it had seemed wisest to them all that she retain her disguise as she left the docks. She wondered how her mother and sister would react to it. Kyle was not home. Relief at that almost balanced her disappointment that Vivacia was not in the harbour. At least she did not have to worry about his extreme distaste. It was not quite a year since she had quarrelled with her brother-in-law and then stormed out of their family home. She had learned so much since then that it seemed like a decade. She wanted to have her family recognize how she had grown. Instead, she feared they would see only her clothes and her oiled plait of hair and judge it all a childish masquerade of defiance. Her mother had always said she was headstrong; for years, her sister Keffria had believed her capable of disgracing the family name simply for her own pleasure. How could she go back to them now, dressed this way, and make them believe she had matured and was worthy to claim the captaincy of the family liveship? How would they greet her return? With anger or cold disdain?
She shook her head furiously to clear it of such thoughts and turned up the long driveway to her home. She noted with annoyance that the rhododendrons by the gate had not been pinched back. Last spring’s leggy growth now sported this spring’s swelling buds. When they were properly cut back, they would lose a whole year of flowers. She felt a tinge of worry. Col the groundskeeper had always been most particular about those bushes. Had something happened to him?
Her whole journey up the drive spoke to her of the garden’s neglect. The herbaceous borders swelled and straggled out of their beds. Bright green leaf buds were unfurling on rose bushes that still bore the winter-blackened stalks of last year’s growth. A wisteria had fallen off its trellis and now valiantly opened its leaves where it sprawled. Winter winds had banked last autumn’s fallen leaves wherever they wished; branches broken by storms still littered the grounds.
She almost expected to find the house abandoned to match the neglected grounds. Instead, the windows were flung open to the spring day and sprightly music of harp and flute cascaded out to greet her. A few gigs drawn up before the front door told her that a gathering was in progress. It was a merry one judging by the sudden trill of laughter that mingled for a moment with the music. Althea diverted her steps to the back entrance, wondering more with every step she took. Her family had hosted no gatherings since her father fell ill. Did this party mean that her mother had ended her mourning period already? That did not seem like her. Nor could Althea imagine her mother allowing the grounds to be neglected while spending coin on parties. None of this made sense. Foreboding nibbled at her.
The kitchen door stood open and the tantalizing smell of freshly-baked bread and savoury meat wafted out to mingle in the spring sunshine. Althea’s stomach grumbled appreciatively at the thought of shore-side food: risen bread and fresh meat and vegetables. She abruptly decided that she was glad to be home, no matter what reception she might get. She stepped into the kitchen and looked around.
She did not recognize the woman rolling out dough on the tabletop, nor the boy turning the spit at the cook-fire. That was not unusual. Servants came and went in the Vestrit household. Trader families regularly ‘stole’ the best cooks, nannies and stewards from one another, coaxing them to change households with offers of better pay and larger quarters.
A serving girl came into the kitchen with an empty tray. She clattered it down and rounded on Althea. ‘What do you want here?’ Her voice was both chill and bored.
For once, Althea’s mind was faster than her mouth. She made a sketchy bow. ‘I’ve a message from Captain Tenira of the liveship Ophelia for Trader Ronica Vestrit. It’s important. He asked me to deliver it to her in private.’ There. That would get her some time alone with her mother. If there were guests in the house, she didn’t want to be seen by them while she was still dressed as a boy.
The serving girl looked troubled. ‘She is with guests just now, very important ones. It is a farewell gathering. It would be awkward to call her away.’ She bit her lower lip. ‘Can the message wait a bit longer? Perhaps while you ate something?’ The maid smiled as she offered this little bribe.
Althea found herself nodding. The smell of the newly-cooked food was making her mouth water. Why not eat here in the kitchen, and face her mother and sister with a full stomach? ‘The message can wait a bit, I suppose. Mind if I wash my hands first?’ Althea nodded towards the kitchen pump.
‘There’s a pump and trough in the yard,’ the cook pointed out, a sharp reminder of Althea’s supposed status. Althea grinned to herself, then went outside to wash. By the time she returned, a plate was ready for her. They had not given her choice cuts; rather it was the crispy outside end of the pork roast, and the heels of the fresh cooked bread. There was a slab of yellow cheese with it and a dollop of fresh churned butter for the bread and a spoonful of cherry preserves. It was served to her on a chipped plate with a stained napkin. The niceties of cutlery use were supposedly unknown to a ship’s boy, so she made do with her fingers as she perched on a tall stool in the corner of the kitchen.
At first, she ate ravenously, with little thought for anything other than the food before her. The crust of the roast seemed far richer in flavour than the best cut she had ever enjoyed. That crispy fat crunched between her teeth. The new butter melted on the still-warm bread. She scooped up the tart cherry preserves with folded bits of it.
As her hunger was sated, she became more aware of the kitchen bustle around her. She looked around the once familiar room with new eyes. As a child, this room had seemed immense and fascinating, a place she had never been allowed to explore freely. Because she had gone to sea with her father before she had outgrown that curiosity, the kitchen had always retained an aura of the forbidden for her. Now she saw it for what it was: a large, busy work area where servants came and went in haste while a cook reigned supreme. As every servant came in, he or she inevitably gave a brief report on the gathering. They spoke familiarly and sometimes with contempt of the folk they served.
‘I’ll need another platter of the sausage rolls. Trader Loud-Shirt seems to think we baked them for him alone.’
‘That’s better than doing what that Orpel girl is doing. Look at this plate. Heaped with food we worked all morning to prepare, she’s scarcely nibbled it and then pushed it aside. I suppose she hopes a man will notice her dainty appetite and think she’s an easy keeper.’
‘How’s the empress’s second choice faring?’ the cook asked curiously.
A serving man mimed the tipping of a wineglass. ‘Oh, he drowns his troubles and scowls at his rival and moons at the little empress. Then he does it all over again. All very genteelly, of course. The man should be on a stage.’
‘No, no, she’s the one who should be on a stage. One moment she’s simpering at Reyn’s veil, but when she dances with him, she looks past his shoulder and flutters her lashes at young Trell.’ The serving maid who observed this added with a snort of disgust: ‘She has them both stepping to her tune, but I’ll wager she cares not a whit for either of them, but only for what measures she can make them tread.’
For a brief time, Althea listened with amusement. Then her ears and cheeks began to burn as she realized that this was how the servants had always spoken of her family. She ducked her head, kept her eyes on her plate, and slowly began to piece the gossip into a bizarre image of the current state of the Vestrit family fortunes.
Her mother was entertaining Rain Wild guests. That was unusual enough, given that her father had severed their trading connections there years ago. A Rain Wild suitor was courting a Trader woman. The servants did not think much of her. ‘She’d smile at him more if he replaced his veil with a mirror,’ one servant sniggeringly observed. Another added, ‘I don’t know who’s going to be more surprised on their wedding night: her when he takes off his veil and shows his warts, or him when she shows her snake’s nature behind that pretty face.’ Althea knit her brow trying to think what woman was a close enough friend to the Vestrit family that her mother would host a gathering in her honour. Perhaps one of Keffria’s friends had a daughter of marriageable age.