Caolwn nodded.
“I will owe you twelve measures of gold, for the regular payment.”
Again the woman nodded. This was one of Ephron's tricks in striking a bargain. Get them agreeing with you, set up a pattern of agreement, and sometimes the competitor could be led into agreeing to a term before he had given it thought.
“And I will also owe you the two measures of gold I am short this time, plus an additional two measures of gold to make up for the lateness of the payment.” Ronica tried to keep her voice steady and casual as she named the princely sum. She smiled at Caolwn.
Caolwn smiled in return. “And if you do not have it, we shall adhere to our family's original pledge. In blood or gold, the debt is owed. You shall forfeit a daughter or a grandchild to my family.”
There was no negotiating that. It had been pledged years ago, by Ephron's grandmother. No Trader family would dream of going back on the given pledge of an ancestor. The nod she gave was a very stiff one, and the words she spoke she said carefully, binding the other woman with them. “But if I have for you a full sixteen measures of gold, then you will accept it as payment.”
Caolwn held out a bare hand in token of agreement. The lumps and wattles of flesh that depended from the fingers and knobbed the back of it were rubbery in Ronica's grip as their handshake sealed them both to this new term. Caolwn stood.
“Once more, Ronica of the Trader family Vestrit, I thank you for your trade. And for your hospitality.”
“And once more, Caolwn of the Rain Wild family Festrew, I am pleased to have welcomed you and dealt with you. Family to family, blood to blood. Until we meet again, farewell.”
“Family to family, blood to blood. May you fare well also.”
The formality of the words closed both their negotiations and the visit. Caolwn donned once more the summer cloak she had set aside. She pulled the hood up and well forward until all that remained of her features were the pale lavender lights of her eyes. A veil of lace was drawn down to cover them as well. As she drew on her loose gloves over her misshapen hands, she broke tradition. She looked down as she spoke. “It would not be so ill a fate as many think it, Ronica. Any Vestrit who joined our household I would treasure, as I have treasured our friendship. I was born in Bingtown, you know. And if I am no longer a woman that a man of your folk could look upon without shuddering, know that I have not been unhappy. I have had a husband who treasured me, and borne a child, and seen her bear three healthy grandchildren to me. This flesh, the deformities… other women who stay in Bingtown perhaps pay a higher price for smooth skin and eyes and hair of normal hues. If all does not go as you pray it will, if next winter I take from you one of your blood… know that he or she will be cherished and loved. As much because that one comes of honorable stock and is a true Vestrit as because of the fresh blood he or she would bring to our folk.”
“Thank you, Caolwn.” The words almost choked Ronica. Sincere as the woman's words might be, could she ever guess how they turned her bowels to ice inside her? Perhaps she did, for the lambent stare from within the hood blinked twice before Caolwn turned to the door. She took up the heavy wooden box of gold that awaited her by the threshold. Ronica unlatched the door for her. She knew better than to offer lantern or candle. The Rain Wild folk had no need of light on a summer's night.
Ronica stood in her open doorway and watched Caolwn walk off into the darkness. A Rain Wild man shambled out from the shadows to join her. He took the wooden casket of gold and tucked it effortlessly under his arm. They both lifted a hand in farewell to her. She waved in return. She knew that on the beach there would be a small boat awaiting them, and farther out in the harbor a ship that bore but a single light. She wished them well, and hoped they would have a good journey. And she prayed fervently to Sa that she would never stand thus and watch one of her own walk off into darkness with them.
In the darkness, Keffria tried once again. “Kyle?”
“Um?” His voice was warm and deep, sweet with satiation.
She fitted her body closely to his. Her flesh was warm where they touched, chilled to delicious goosebumps where the summer breeze from the open window flowed over them. He smelled good, of sex and maleness, and the solid reality of his muscle and strength were a bulwark against all night fears. Why, she demanded silently of Sa, why couldn't it all be this simple and good? He had come home this evening to say farewell to her, they had dined well and enjoyed wine together and then come together in both passion and love here. Tomorrow he would sail and be gone for however long it took him to make a trade circuit. Why did she have to spoil it with yet another discussion of Malta? Because, she told herself firmly, it had to be settled. She had to make him agree with her before he left. She would not go behind his back while he was gone. To do so would chip away the trust that had always bonded them.
So she took a deep breath and spoke the words they were both tired of hearing. “About Malta…” she began.
He groaned. “No. Please, Keffria, no. In but a few hours I will have to rise and go. Let us have these last few hours together in peace.”
“We haven't that luxury. Malta knows we are at odds about this. She will use that as a lever on me the whole time you are gone. Whatever she wants that I forbid, she will reply, ‘But Papa said I am a woman now… 'It will be torture for me.”
With a long-suffering sigh, he rolled away from her. The bed was suddenly a cooler place than it had been, uncomfortably cool. “So. I should take back my promise to her simply so you won't be squabbling with her? Keffria. What will she think of me? Is this really so great a difficulty as you are making it out to be? Let her go to the one gathering in a pretty dress. That's all it is.”
“No.” It took all her courage to contradict him directly. But he didn't know what he was talking about, she told herself frantically. He didn't understand, and she'd left it too late to explain it all to him tonight. She had to make him give in to her, just this once. “It's far more than dancing with a man, in a pretty dress. She's having dance lessons from Rache. I want to tell her that she must be content with that for now, that she must spend at least a year preparing to be seen as a woman in Bingtown society before she can go out as one. And I want to tell her that you and I are united in this. That you thought it over and changed your mind about letting her go.”
“But I didn't,” Kyle pointed out stubbornly. He was on his back now, staring up at the ceiling. He had lifted his hands and laced the fingers behind his head. Were he standing up, she thought, he'd have his arms crossed on his chest. “I think you are making much of a small thing. And… I don't say this to hurt you, but because I see it more and more in you… I think you simply do not wish to give up any control of Malta, that you wish to keep her a little girl at your side. I sense it almost as a jealousy in you, dear. That she vies for my attention, as well as the attentions of young men. I've seen it before; no mother wishes to be eclipsed by her daughter. A grown daughter must always be a reminder to a woman that she is not young anymore. But I think it is unworthy of you, Keffria. Let your daughter grow up and be both an ornament and a credit to you. You cannot keep her in short skirts and plaited hair forever.”
Perhaps he took her furious and affronted silence for something else, for he turned slightly toward her as he said, “We should be grateful she is so unlike Wintrow. Look at him. He not only looks and sounds like a boy, but longs to continue being one. Just the other day, aboard the ship, I came upon him working shirtless in the sun. His back was red as a lobster and he was sulking as furiously as a five-year-old. Some of the men, as a bit of a jest, had taken his shirts and pegged them up at the top of the rigging. And he feared to go up to get them back. I called him to my chamber and tried to explain to him, privately, that if he did not go up after them, the rest of the crew would think him a coward. He claimed it was not fear that kept him from going after his shirt but dignity. Standing there like a righteous little prig of a preacher! And he tried to make some moral point of it, that it was neither courage nor cowardice, but that he would not risk himself for their amusement. I told him there was very little risk to it, did he but heed what he'd been taught, and again he came back at me with some cant about no man should put another man even to a small risk simply for his own amusement. Finally, I lost patience with him and called Torg and told him to see the boy up the mast and back to get his shirt. I fear he lost a great deal of the crew's respect over that”
“Why do you allow your crew to play boys' pranks when they ought to be about their work?” Keffria demanded. Her heart bled for Wintrow even as she fervently wished her son had simply gone after his own shirt. If he'd but risen to their challenge, they would have seen him as one of their own. Now they would see him as an outsider to torment. She knew it instinctively, and wondered that he had not.
