“Yes, I do know,” her grandmother retorted. “But their coachman does not. You foolish girl, do you think they drove a coach down the river? The Rain Wild families store their coaches here, and use them only when they come to Bingtown. So their hired drivers are from Bingtown. If you talked to a veiled man, you talked to a Rain Wild Trader. What did you say, and what did you give him?”
“Nothing,” Malta flared. “I said ‘good evening’ as I passed him. He said the same. That's all.”
“Then how does he know your name? How does he make you a dream?” Ronica pressed.
“I don't know,” Malta retorted. “Maybe he guessed my family from my robe color, and asked someone.” Suddenly, to Keffria's complete amazement, Malta burst into tears. “Why do you always treat me like this? You never say anything nice to me, it's always accusations and scolding. You think I'm some kind of a whore or a liar or something. Someone sends me a present, you won't even let me look at it, and you say it's all my fault. I don't know what you want from me anymore. You want me to be a little girl, but then you expect me to know everything and be responsible for everything. It's not fair!” She lowered her face into her hands and sobbed.
“Oh, Malta,” Keffria heard herself say wearily. She went swiftly to her daughter, and put her hands on her shaking shoulders. “We don't think you're a whore and a liar. We're simply very worried about you. You're trying to grow up so fast, and there are so many dangers you don't understand.”
“I'm sorry,” Malta sobbed. “I shouldn't have gone outside that night. But it was so stuffy in there, and so scary with everyone yelling at each other.”
“I know. I know, it was scary.” Keffria patted her child. She hated to see Malta weep like this, hated that she and her mother had pressed her until she had broken down. At the same time, it was almost a relief. The defiant, bitter Malta was someone Keffria didn't know. This Malta was a little girl, crying and wanting to be comforted. Perhaps they had broken through tonight. Perhaps this Malta was someone she could reason with. She bent down to hug her daughter, who returned the embrace briefly and awkwardly.
“Malta,” she said softly. “Here. Look here. Here is the box. You can't keep it or open it: it has to be returned tomorrow intact. But you can look at it.”
Malta gave a sniff and sat up. She glanced at the box on her mother's palm, but did not reach for it. “Oh,” she said after a moment. “It's just a carved box. I thought it might have jewels on it or something.” She looked away from it. “Can I go to bed now?” she asked wearily.
“Of course. You go on to bed. We'll talk more in the morning, when we've all had some rest.”
A very subdued Malta sniffed once, then nodded. Keffria watched her slowly leave the room, and then turned back to her own mother with a sigh. “Sometimes it's so hard, watching her grow up.”
Ronica nodded sympathetically. But then she added, “Lock up that box somewhere safe for the night. I'll get a runner in the morning to carry your letter and the box down to the docks to the Kendry.”
It was just a few hours shy of dawn when Malta took the small box back to her room. It had been exactly where she had known it would be: in her mother's “secret” cupboard at the back of her wardrobe in her dressing chamber. It was where she always hid the naming-day presents and her most expensive body oils. She had been afraid mother would put it under her pillow, or perhaps even open the box and claim the dream for herself. But she hadn't.
Malta shut the door behind her and sat down on her bed with the box in her lap. Such a small present for them to raise such a fuss about. She lifted the box to her nose and inhaled. Yes, she had thought it carried a sweet scent. She got out of bed again and padded quietly across to her own wardrobe. In a box up in the corner, under several old dolls, was the scarf and the flame jewel. In the dark room it seemed to burn more brightly than ever. For a time she just watched it before she recalled why she had taken it out. She sniffed the scarf, then brought it back to her bed to compare it to the box. Different scents, both exotic. Both sweet, but different.
This box might not even have come from the veiled man, then. The mark on it was like the one on the coach, yes, but perhaps it had just been bought from the Khuprus family. Maybe it was really from Cerwin. Over the years, she'd left plenty of personal things over at Delo's home. It would have been very easy, and actually, it was much more likely when she thought about it. Why would a chance-met stranger send her an expensive gift? Like as not, this was a courting gift from Cerwin. The crowning piece of her logic suddenly fell into place. If the veiled Rain Wild man had puzzled out who she was and sent her a present, wouldn't he have reminded her to return his scarf and flame jewel at the same time? Of course he would. So this wasn't from him. This was from Cerwin.
She stuffed the scarf and jewel under her pillow, and curled up with the box in the curve of her body. With one forefinger, she traced the line of her lips. Cerwin. She ran her finger down over her chin, traced a line between her breasts. What kind of a dream would he have chosen for her? Her lips curved in a smile. She suspected she knew. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
She closed her eyes and opened the box. Or tried to. She opened her eyes and peered at it. What she had taken to be the catch was not. By the time she finally worked out how to open it, she was quite annoyed with it. And when she did get it open, it was empty. Simply empty. She had imagined a sparkling dream dust, or a burst of light or music or fragrance. She stared into the empty corners of the box, then felt inside it to be sure she wasn't missing anything. No. It was empty. So, what did that mean? A joke? Or merely that the gift was the cleverly carved and sweet-scented box? Maybe it wasn't even supposed to be a dream-box, maybe that was some old- fashioned idea that her grandmother had come up with. Dream-boxes. Malta had never heard of one before tonight. In a wave of irritation, it all became clear. Her grandmother had only said that so her mother wouldn't let her have the box. Unless, perhaps, one of them had opened it and taken out whatever was in there and kept it for themselves.
“I hate them both,” Malta hissed in a savage whisper. She flung the box down to the rug beside her bed and threw herself back on her pillows. She knew she should get up and go and put the box back in her mother's wardrobe, but a part of her didn't care. Let them find out she had taken it. She wanted them to know that she knew they'd stolen her present. She crossed her arms unrepentantly on her chest and closed her eyes.
Stillness. Emptiness. Only a voice. A whisper. So, Malta Vestrit. You have received my gift. Here we mingle, you and I. Shall we make a sweet dream together? Let us see. A tiny thread of awareness that this was a dream faded out of reach.
She was inside a burlap bag. It covered her head and draped down almost to her knees. It smelled of dust and potatoes. She was fairly sure it had been used as a harvest sack. She was being carried over someone's shoulder, carried rapidly and triumphantly, snatched and carried off against her will. The one who carried her had companions. They hooted and laughed in victory, but the man who carried her was too full of satisfaction to give vent to such boyish noises. The night was cool and foggy-moist against her legs. Her mouth was gagged, her hands bound behind her. She wanted to struggle but was afraid that if she did, he might drop her. And she had no idea where she was or what else might befall her if she did escape her captor. Frightening as it was, it was still the safest place she could be at this moment. She knew nothing of the man who carried her, except that he would fight to the death to keep her.
They reached somewhere. They all stopped, and the one carrying her slung her to her feet. He kept a grip on her. She heard a muffled conversation, quick words spoken low in a language she didn't understand. The others seemed to be laughingly urging something that the one who had carried her amiably but firmly refused. After a time, she heard footsteps receding. She sensed the others had gone. She was alone save for the man who still held her bound wrists. She trembled.
There was the cold kiss of metal against her wrists and suddenly her hands were free. She immediately clawed her way free of the sack, and pulled the wet gag from her mouth. She was still half-blinded by the dust and fibers from the rough burlap. She brushed roughly at her face and hair and then turned to confront her captor.
They were alone in a dark and foggy night. A city and a crossroads. She could tell no more than that. He stood watching her expectantly. She could see nothing of his features. His dark hood was pulled far forward; he watched her from its depths. The night smelled swampy and thick, the only lights were fog-muffled torches far down the street. If she ran, would he pounce on her? Was this a cat's game?
If she escaped, would she be plunging herself into greater danger? In time it seemed to her that he was watching her and letting her make up her mind about what she would do.
After a time, he made a sign with his head that she should follow him. He walked away swiftly down one of the streets and she went with him. He moved quickly and confidently through the labyrinthine city. After a time, he took her hand. She did not pull away. The fog was thick and wet, blinding, almost choking, and it was so dark she could make out nothing of her greater surroundings. Openings in the fog showed her tall buildings to either side of the alley they walked. But the darkness and silence seemed complete. Her companion seemed certain of his way.
