his duties. Wintrow stood up more slowly, rubbing an elbow and gradually remembering how to breathe. When he finally managed to straighten up, he found himself face to face with his father.
“Look at you,” his father growled, and in some puzzlement Wintrow glanced down at himself, wondering if he had dirt on his clothes. His father gave him a light shove on the shoulder.
“I don't mean your priest's robes, I mean you. Look at you! A man's years and a boy's body, and the wits of a landsman. You can't even get out of your own way, let alone another man's. Here. Torg. Here! Take him and put him to doing something so he's out of the way at least.”
Torg was the second mate. He was a brawny man if not tall, with short blond hair and pale gray eyes. His eyebrows were white; it struck Wintrow that his face looked bald, it was composed of so many pale things. Torg's notion of keeping him out of the way was to put him below, coiling lines and hanging chain in the chain locker. The coils that were already there looked just fine to Wintrow, but Torg gruffly told him to coil them up tidy, and not be slack about it. It sounded easier than it was to do, for once disturbed, the coils tangled themselves alarmingly, and seemed reluctant to lay flat again. The thick coarse ropes soon reddened his hands and the coils were much heavier than he had expected them to be. The close air of the chain locker and the lack of any light save a lantern's combined to make him feel queasy. Nevertheless, he kept at it for what seemed like hours. Finally it was Malta who was sent to find him, telling him with some asperity that they were dockside and tied up, if he'd care to come ashore now. It took every fragment of self-control he had to remind himself that he should behave as a future priest of Sa, not an annoyed elder brother.
Silently he set down the coil of rope he'd been working on. Every piece of rope he'd touched looked less, not more, orderly than when he'd began. Well, Torg could recoil them as he wished, or push the task off on some poor sailor. Wintrow had known it was busy work from the start, though why his father had wished to humiliate and irritate him, he could not fathom. Perhaps it had something to do with his refusal to push in the peg that quickened the ship. His father had said some wild words then. Well, it was over now. His grandfather was dead and consigned to the sea, the family had made plain they wished no comfort from him, and he would go home as soon as he decently could. Tomorrow morning, he decided, would not be too soon.
He went up on deck and joined his family as they thanked and bid farewell to those mourners who had accompanied them on board the ship. Not a few said their good-byes to the living figurehead as well. The summer dusk was venturing into true night as the last person left. The family stood a bit longer, silent and exhausted, while Kyle gave orders to the mate for the unloading to proceed at earliest daybreak. Then Kyle came to tell the family it was time to go home. Kyle took his mother's arm, and Wintrow his grandmother's. He was silently grateful that there would be a coach awaiting them; he was not sure the old woman could have managed the uphill walk through the dark cobbled streets.
But as they turned to leave the foredeck, the figurehead spoke up suddenly. “Are you going?” she asked anxiously. “Right now?”
“I'll be back at first light,” Kyle told her. He spoke as if a deckhand had questioned his judgment.
“Are all of you going?” the ship asked again. Wintrow was not sure what he responded to. Perhaps it was the note of panic in her voice.
“You'll be all right,” he told her gently. “You're safe, tied up to the docks here. There's nothing to fear.”
“I don't want to be alone.” The complaint was a child's, but the voice was that of an uncertain young woman. “Where's Althea? Why isn't she here? She wouldn't leave me all alone.”
“The mate will sleep aboard, as will half the crew. You won't be alone,” Kyle replied testily. Wintrow could remember that tone from his own childhood. His heart went out to the ship despite his better judgment.
“It's not the same!” she cried out, even as he heard himself offer, “I could stay aboard if she wished it. For this night, at least.”
His father scowled as if he had countermanded his order, but his grandmother squeezed his arm gently and gave him a smile. “Blood will tell,” she said softly.
“The boy can't stay,” Kyle announced. “I need to speak to him tonight.”
“Tonight?” Keffria asked incredulously. “Oh, Kyle, not tonight. Not anything more tonight. We are all too weary and full of sorrow.”
“I had thought we might all sit down together tonight, and discuss the future,” his father pointed out ponderously. “Weary and sorrowful we may be, but tomorrow will not wait.”
“Whether tomorrow will wait or not, I shall,” his grandmother cut across the argument. There was a shadow of imperiousness in her voice, and for a moment, he recalled more vividly the woman he had known as a child. Even as his father drew breath to speak, she added, “And if Wintrow would sleep aboard and give comfort to Vivacia as best he can, I would take it as a personal favor.” She turned to the figurehead and added, “I shall need him to escort me to the coach first, though. Will you be all right alone for just a few moments, Vivacia?”
He had been vaguely aware of how anxiously the ship had been following their conversation. Now a beaming smile broke out over the carved features. “I am certain I shall be just fine, Ronica. Just fine.” She shifted her glance to Wintrow, her gaze diving into his eyes so deeply that it startled him. “When you come back on board, would you sleep up here, on the foredeck, where I can see you?”
He glanced uncertainly at his father. They seemed to be the only two aware that he had not yet given his permission for this. Wintrow decided to be diplomatic. “If my father permits it,” he concurred cautiously. He still had to look up to his father to meet his eyes, but he forced himself to do it and not to look away.
His father scowled still but Wintrow thought he also saw grudging respect in the man's eyes. “I permit it,” he said at last, making it clear to everyone that he regarded this decision as his. He looked his son up and down. “When you come on board, report to Torg. He'll see you get a blanket.” Kyle glanced from the boy to the waiting second mate, who nodded at the order.
His mother sighed out, as if she had been holding her breath. “Well, if that's settled, then let's go home.” Her voice broke unexpectedly on that last word, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “Oh, my father,” she said softly, as if rebuking the dead man. Kyle patted her hand where it rested on his arm and escorted her from the ship. Wintrow followed more slowly with his grandmother. His younger siblings scrambled impatiently past them and hurried ahead to the carriage.
His grandmother moved so slowly, he thought she was excessively weary until she began speaking. Then he realized she had deliberately delayed to have a moment of privacy with him. Her voice was lowered, pitched for his ears alone.
“It all seemed strange and foreign to you earlier today, Wintrow. Yet just now, you spoke as a Vestrit, and I believe I saw your grandfather in your face. The ship reaches for you.”
“Grandmother, I fear I have no idea what you are talking about,” he confessed quietly.
“Don't you?” She halted their slow stroll and he turned to face her. Small but straight, she looked up into his face. “You say you don't, but I see otherwise,” she said after a moment. “If you did not already know it yourself, in your heart, you could not have spoken up for the ship the way you did. You'll come to it, Wintrow. You'll come round to it in time, no fear.”
He felt a tightening of foreboding. He wished he were going home with them tonight, and that he could sit down with his father and mother and speak plainly. Obviously they had discussed him. He did not know what they had been talking about, but he felt threatened by it. Then he sternly reminded himself to avoid pre-judgment. His grandmother said no more and he assisted her down the gangplank and then handed her up into the waiting carriage. All the others were already within.
“Thank you, Wintrow,” she told him gravely, and “You're welcome,” he replied, but uncomfortably, for he suspected she thanked him for more than walking her to the carriage. He wondered briefly whether he would truly welcome giving her whatever it was she assumed. He stood alone as the driver chupped to his horses and drove them off, their hooves thudding hollowly on the wooden planks of the docks. After they had gone, he lingered for a time, seeking the quiet of the night.
In truth, it was not quiet at all. Neither Bingtown proper nor the docks ever truly slept. Across the curve of the harbor, he could see the lights and hear the distant sounds of the night market. A trick of the wind brought him a brief gust of music, pipes and wrist-bells. A wedding, perhaps, with dancing. Closer to hand, the tarry torches bracketed to the dock supports provided widely spaced circles of fitful light. The waves sloshed rhythmically against the pilings beneath the docks, and the tethered boats rubbed and creaked in their slips. They were like great wooden animals, he thought, and then a shiver walked up his spine as he recalled the liveship's awareness. Neither animal nor wooden ship, he realized, but some unholy mix and wondered how he could have volunteered to spend
