something about Amber cautioned her that it was wiser to ask her a rude question than to blunder about with the wrong assumption.
“In return,” Amber answered smoothly, “I only ask that you allow me to help you.”
“Allow you to help me what?”
Amber smiled. “Thwart fate,” she replied.
Wintrow scooped a double handful of lukewarm water from the bucket and splashed and rubbed it over his face. With a sigh, he lowered his hands back into the bucket and allowed the water to soothe them for a moment. Broken blisters, his father had assured him, were the beginning of callus. “We'll have those priest's hands toughened up in a week. You'll see,” his father had jovially promised him the last time he had seen fit to notice his son's existence. Wintrow had been unable to reply.
He could not remember when he had ever been so tired before. His training told him that the deepest rhythms of his body were being broken. Instead of rising at dawn and seeking his bed when darkness closed over the land, his father and the first and second mates were forcing him into a new regimen, based on watches and bells. There was no need for their cruelty. The ship was still tied firmly to the dock, but nevertheless they persisted. What they were insisting he learn was not that difficult, if only they would let his body and mind completely rest between lessons. Instead they woke him at hours that made no sense to him, and had him clambering up and down masts and tying knots and sewing canvas and scrubbing and scouring. And always, always, with a scant smile at the corners of their lips, with an edge of mockery to every command. He was convinced he could have dealt well with anything they threw at him, if only he had not had to face that ever-present scorn. He pulled his aching hands from the bucket and gently dried them on a bit of rag.
He looked around the chain locker that had become his home. A hammock of coarse twine was draped across one corner. His clothing shared pegs with coils of line. Every bit of rope was now precisely and neatly stowed. The broken blisters on Wintrow's hands were testament to his repeated lessons.
He took down his cleanest shirt and eased into it. He thought about changing his trousers and decided it wasn't worth the effort. He'd washed out his other pair last night, but in the close confines of the storage room, they were still damp and were beginning to acquire a mildewy smell. He sank down onto his haunches; there was no comfortable place to sit. He put his aching head in his hands and waited for the bang on the door that would summon him to the captain's table. Since he had tried simply to walk off the ship yesterday, Torg had taken to locking him in his quarters during the time allotted for him to sleep.
Incredibly, he dozed off as he crouched there, jerking back to wakefulness when the door was snatched open. “Cap'n wants you.” Torg greeted him. As he strode off, the apish man added, “though why anyone would want you is a puzzle to me.”
Wintrow ignored the gibe and the screaming of his joints to rise and follow the man. As he walked, he tried to work his shoulders loose. It felt good to be able to stand completely upright again. Torg glanced back at him. “Hurry up, you! No one has time to put up with your dawdling.”
It was more his body than his mind that responded, making an effort to put spring in his step. Although Torg had threatened him several times with a knotted rope, he'd never used it. And the fact that he only threatened him when neither his father nor the first mate were on board made Wintrow suspect it was something Torg would have liked to do but dared not. Still, just the sensing of that capacity in the man was enough to make Wintrow's flesh crawl whenever he was about.
Torg saw him right to the captain's door, as if he could not trust the boy to report himself. And Wintrow supposed he could not. Even though his father had reminded him repeatedly that Sa's precepts included obedience and honor due to one's parents, Wintrow had decided that if any opportunity presented itself at all, he would leave the ship and return however he could to his monastery. Sometimes he felt that resolve was all he had left to cling to. Torg watched him as he knocked sharply on the door, and then entered to his father's curt “Come ahead.”
His father was already seated at a small table. A white cloth overlay it, and a goodly array of serving vessels graced it. It was set for two, and for an uncomfortable moment Wintrow stood in the door, wondering if he were intruding on a private meeting.
“Come in,” his father said, a shade of annoyance in his voice. “And shut the door,” he added in a gentler tone.
Wintrow obeyed him but remained standing by the door, wondering what was required of him now. Had he been summoned to wait table for his father and a guest? His father was dressed well, almost formally. He wore tight-fitting breeches of blue and a blue jacket over a shirt of soft cream. His hair had been plaited with oil and it gleamed like old gold in the lamplight.
“Wintrow, son, come and sit down and join me. Forget for a moment that I am the captain, and have a good meal and let us talk plainly.” His father gestured at the plate and chair opposite him and smiled warmly. It only made Wintrow feel warier as he approached the table and gingerly seated himself. He smelled roast lamb and mashed turnips with butter and applesauce and peas cooked with mint. Amazing, how keen one's nose could become after a few days of hard bread and greasy stew as rations. Still, he kept his aplomb, forcing himself to unfold his napkin onto his lap and await his father's signal to begin serving himself. He said, “please,” to his father's offer of wine, and “thank you” as each dish was offered him. He sensed his father watching him, but made no effort to meet his eyes as he filled and then emptied his plate.
If his father had intended this civilized meal and quiet moment as a bribe or a peace offering, it was ill- considered. For as the food filled his belly and the surroundings restored to him a sense of normality, Wintrow found a chill sense of outrage growing in him. From not knowing what to say to this man who smiled fondly as his son ate like a famished dog, Wintrow went to forcing his tongue to keep still. He tried to recall all he had been taught about dealing with adverse situations, that he should reserve judgment and action until he had grasped his opponent's motivation. So he ate and drank silently, watching his father covertly from beneath his lashes. His father actually rose himself to set their plates on a sideboard and then offered Wintrow a serving of custard with fruit. “Thank you,” Wintrow forced himself to say quietly as it was set before him. There was something in the way his father resettled himself in his chair that let him know the point of this whole meeting was about to be announced.
“You've developed a good appetite,” Kyle observed genially. “Hard work and sea air will do that for a man.”
“So it would seem,” Wintrow replied evenly.
His father gave a gruff laugh. “So. Still smarting, are we? Come, son, I know this must seem hard to you, and perhaps just now you are still angry at me. But you must be coming to see this is what you were meant to do. Honest hard work and the company of men and the beauty of a ship under full sail… but I suppose you haven't known the full measure of it yet. I just want you to know, I'm not doing this to you to be harsh or cruel. A time will come when you will thank me. I promise you that. When we are done with you, you will know this ship as a true captain should, for you will have worked every measure of her, and there won't be a task on her that you haven't performed yourself.” His father paused and smiled bitterly. “Unlike Althea, who just claims such knowledge. You will actually have done it, and not just when it pleased you, but as a sailor should, keeping busy every minute of your watch, and doing tasks as they need doing, not only when you are ordered to do so.”
His father paused, obviously expecting some response. Wintrow kept still. After a heavy pause, his father cleared his throat. “I know what I am asking you is hard. So I will tell you plainly what awaits you at the end of this steep road. In two years, I expect to make Gantry Amsforge captain of this vessel. In two years, I expect you to be ready to serve as mate. You'll be very young for it; don't deceive yourself as to that. And it's not going to be handed to you. You'll have to show both Amsforge and I that you are ready for it. And even if and when we accept you, you'll still have to prove yourself to the crew, every day and every hour. It won't be easy. Still, it's an opportunity that damn few men have offered to them. So.”
With a slow smile he reached into his jacket. He drew out a small box. He opened it himself and then turned to proffer the contents to Wintrow. It was a small gold earring, wrought in the likeness of the Vivacia's figurehead. He had seen such earrings on the other sailors. Most crew-members wore some device that signaled their allegiance to their ship. An earring, a scarf, a pin, a tattoo if one were really sure of continuing employment. All were ways of declaring one's highest loyalty was given to a ship. Such an act was not fitting for a priest of Sa. Surely his father must already know his answer. But the smile on his father's face was warm as he invited him with, “This is for you, son. You should wear it proudly.”
Truth. Simple truth, Wintrow counseled himself, spoken without anger or bitterness. So. Politely. Gently. “I
