“Why don't you haul your fat ass down there and see?” Vivacia asked nastily. Althea clearly heard Wintrow's gasp of astonishment. It was all she could do to keep from laughing. She sounded just like their cocky ship's boy, Mild, in one of his bolder moods.
“Yea? Well, maybe I'll just do that.”
“Don't trip in the dark,” the Vivacia warned him sweetly. “It would be a shame if you went overboard and drowned right here by the dock.” The liveship's peaceful rocking suddenly increased by the tiniest of increments. And in that moment her adolescent taunting of the man took on a darker edge that stood the hair up on the back of Althea's neck.
“You devil ship!” Torg hissed at her. “You don't scare me. I'm seeing who's down there.” Althea heard the thudding of his feet on the deck, but she couldn't decide if he hurried toward the gangplank or away from the figurehead.
“Go now!” Vivacia hissed to her.
“I'm going. Good luck. My heart sails with you.” Althea no more than breathed the words, but she knew the ship did not need to hear her speak so long as she touched her. She slipped away from the Vivacia, staying to the deepest shadows as she fled. “Sa keep them both safe, especially from themselves,” she said under her breath, and this time she knew that she uttered a true prayer.
Ronica Vestrit waited alone in the kitchen. Outside the night was full, the summer insects chirring, the stars glinting through the trees. Soon the gong at the edge of the field would sound. The thought filled her stomach with butterflies. No. Moths. Moths were more fitting to the night and the rendezvous she awaited.
She had given the servants the night off, and finally told Rache pointedly that she wished to be alone. The slave woman had been so grateful to her lately that it was difficult to be rid of her sad-eyed company. Keffria had her teaching Malta to dance now, and how to hold a fan and even how to discourse with men. Ronica found it appalling that she would entrust her daughter's instruction in such things to a relative stranger, but understood also that lately Keffria and Malta had not been on the best of terms. She was not informed as to the full extent of their quarreling, and fervently hoped she would not be. She had problems enough of her own, real and serious problems, without listening to her daughter's squabbles with her granddaughter. At least Malta was keeping Rache busy and out from under foot. Most of the time.
Twice now Davad had hinted he'd like the slave to be returned to him. Each time Keffria had thanked him so profusely for all Rache's help, all the while exclaiming that she didn't know how she'd get along without her, that there had been no gracious way for Davad to simply ask for her back. Ronica wondered how long that tactic would suffice, and what she would do when it did not. Buy the girl? Become a slave-owner herself? The thought made her squeamish. But it was also endlessly aggravating that the poor woman had so attached herself to her. At any time when she was not busy with something else, Rache would be lurking outside whatever chamber Ronica was in, looking for an opportunity to leap forth and be of some service to her. She devoutly wished the woman would find some sort of life for herself. One to replace the one that her slavery had stolen from her, she asked herself wryly.
In the distance, a gong rang, soft as a chime.
She arose nervously and paced around the kitchen, only to come back to the table. She had set it and arranged it herself. There were two tall white candles of finest beeswax to honor her guest. The best china and her finest silver decked the table upon a cloth of heavy cream lacework. Trays of dainty tarts vied with platters of subtly smoked oysters and fresh herbs in bitter sauce. A fine old bottle of wine awaited as well. The grandness of the food was to indicate how she respected her guest, while secrecy and the kitchen setting reminded them both of the old agreements to both protect and defend one another. Nervously Ronica pushed the silver spoons into a minutely improved alignment. Silliness. This was not the first time that she had received a delegate from the Rain Wild Traders. Twice a year since she had been married to Ephron they had come. It was only the first time she had received one since his death. And the first time she had not been able to amass the full payment due.
The small but weighty casket of gold was two measures light. Two measures. Ronica intended to admit it, to bring it up herself before embarrassing questions could be asked. To admit it, and offer an increase in interest on the next payment. What else, after all, could she do? Or the delegate? A partial payment was better than none, and the Rain Wild folk needed her gold far more than anything else she could offer them. Or so she hoped.
Despite her anticipation, she still startled when the light tap came on the door. “Welcome!” she called without moving to open the door. Quickly she blew out the branch of candles that had illuminated the room. She saved but one, to light the two tall beeswax tapers before she extinguished it. Ornamental hoods of beaten brass with decorative shapes cut of out them were then carefully lowered over the tapers. Now the room was lit only by a scattering of leaf-shaped bits of light. Ronica nodded approval to herself at the effect, and then stepped quickly to open the door herself.
“I bid you welcome to my home. Enter, and be at home also.” The words were the old formality, but Ronica's voice was warm with genuine feeling.
“Thank you,” the Rain Wild woman replied. She came in, glanced about to nod her approval at the privacy and the lowered lights. She ungloved her hands, passing the soft leather garments to Ronica and then pushed back the cowl that had sheltered her face and hair. Ronica held herself steady, and met the woman's eyes with her own. She did not permit her expression to change at all.
“I have prepared refreshment for you, after your long journey. Will you be seated at my table?”
“Most gratefully,” her companion replied.
The two women curtseyed to one another. “I, Ronica Vestrit, of the Vestrit Family of the Bingtown Traders, make you welcome to my table and my home. I recall all our most ancient pledges to one another, Bingtown to Rain Wilds, and also our private agreement regarding the liveship Vivacia, the product of both our families.”
“I, Caolwn Festrew, of the Festrew Family of the Rain Wild Traders, accept your hospitality of home and table. I recall all our most ancient pledges to one another, Rain Wilds to Bingtown, and also our private agreement regarding the liveship Vivacia, the product of both our families.”
Both women straightened and Caolwn gave a mock sigh of relief that the formalities were over. Ronica was privately relieved that the ceremony was a tradition. Without it, she would never have recognized Caolwn. “It's a lovely table you've set, Ronica. But then, in all the years we have met, it has never been anything else.”
“Thank you, Caolwn.” Ronica hesitated, but not to have asked would have been the false reticence of pity. “I had expected Nelyn this year.”
“My daughter is no more.” Caolwn spoke the words quietly.
“I am sorry to hear that.” Ronica's sympathy was genuine.
“The Rain Wilds are hard on women. Not that they are easy on men.”
“To outlive your child… that is bitter.”
“It is. And yet Nelyn gifted us with three children before she went. She will be long remembered for that, and long honored.”
Ronica nodded slowly. Nelyn had been an only child. Most Rain Wild women considered themselves lucky if they bore one child that lived. For Nelyn to have borne three would indeed make her memory shine. “I had taken out the wine for Nelyn,” Ronica said quietly. “You, as I recall, prefer tea. Let me put the kettle on to boil and set aside the wine for you to take back with you.”
“That is too kind of you.”
“No. Not at all. When it is drunk, please have all who share it remember Nelyn and how she enjoyed wine.”
Caolwn suddenly bowed her head. The sagging growths on her face bobbed as she did so, but they did not distract Ronica from the tears that shone suddenly in the other woman's violet eyes. Caolwn shook her head and then heaved a heavy sigh. “For so many, Ronica, the formalities are only that. The welcome is forced, the hospitality uncomfortable. But ever since you became a Vestrit and took on the duties of the visit, you have made us feel truly welcome. How can I thank you for that?”
Another woman might have been tempted to tell Caolwn then that the measure of the gold was short. Another woman might not have believed in the sacredness of the old promises and pacts. Ronica did. “No thanks are needed. I give you no more than is due you,” she said, and added, because the words sounded cold, “But ceremony or no, pact or no, I believe we would have been friends, we two.”
“As do I.”
