Robin Hobb - Ship of Magic

The question measured the distance between them for Wintrow. The gulf between them was vast and uncrossable.

“None of this was about any of that.” A stupid statement. But all the words he could utter in a lifetime would not make his father understand him. The only thing they would ever really share was the ship. “Let's just get her through these rocks,” he suggested. “Let's speak of only that. It's the only thing we can agree on.”

After a very long time, his father stepped up to stand beside him.

He set one hand lightly to the wheel beside his son's. He glanced up at the rigging, spotted one of his own men. “Calt! Leave off that and get to the lookout's post.”

His father's eyes roved ahead. “Here we go,” he warned Wintrow softly as the ship suddenly gained speed.

“You've sold me,” Malta said dully. “You've sold me to a monster, to pay off a ship. So I can be dragged off to some swampy tree-camp to grow warts and make babies while you can all get rich off new trade contracts with the Khuprus family. Don't think I don't know how it works. Usually when a woman is given up to a Rain Wild husband, the family in Bingtown gets fat on the profits.” They had wakened her early and called her down to the kitchen for this. Breakfast wasn't even ready.

“Malta, that's not how it is,” her mother said in her “let's be reasonable” voice.

At least her grandmother was honest about how she felt. She finished filling the kettle, and then set it on the stove. She bent down and poked up the fire herself. “Actually, you sold yourself,” she said in a deceptively pleasant voice. “For a scarf, a flame jewel and a dream-box. And don't claim you weren't smart enough to know what you were doing. You know a great deal more about everything than you let on.”

Malta kept silent for a time. Then, “I have the things in my room. I can return them,” she offered gruffly. The flame jewel. She hated to part with the flame jewel. But better that than to be pledged to a toadish Rain Wild man. She thought of the dream of kissing him and shuddered. In reality, behind his veil, his lips would be pebbled with warts. Even the thought of that kiss made her want to spit now. It wasn't fair, to send a dream in which he was so handsome when he was really a toad.

“It's a bit late for that,” her mother said with asperity. “If you had been honest about the dream-box, things might have been mended. No. I take that back. You'd already accepted a scarf and a jewel, to say nothing of giving him a cup you had drunk from.” She halted a moment, and when she went on her voice was kinder. “Malta. No one is going to force you into a marriage. All we have consented to is that the young man be allowed to see you. You won't be alone with him. Grandmother or I or Rache or Nana will always be there, too. You don't have to be afraid of him.” She cleared her throat and when she went on her tone was unmistakably cooler. “On the other hand, I will permit no discourtesy. You will never be late, or rude to him. You will treat him as you would any honored visitor to our home. And that means no wild talk of warts, or swamps, or making babies.”

Malta got up from the table and went and cut herself a slice of yesterday's bread. “Fine. I won't talk at all,” she offered them. What could they do about that, really? How could they force her to talk to him or be nice to him? She wasn't going to pretend she actually liked him. He'd soon discover she found him disgusting and go away. She wondered if she'd be allowed to keep the scarf and the jewel if he said he didn't want to marry her. It probably wasn't a good time to ask that. But he could have the dream-box back anytime. It had turned an ugly, flat gray color after she had opened it, like ash in a fireplace. It still smelled pretty, but that was small reason to keep it.

“Malta, these are not people we can offend,” her mother pointed out.

She looked very tired and worn of late. There were more lines in her face and she took even less care with her hair than she used to. Soon she would be as sour faced as Grandmother. And Grandmother was frowning now. “It is not a matter of who we can or cannot afford to offend. There are many ways of dealing with an unwelcome suitor. Rudeness is not one of them. Not for our family.”

“When will my father be home?” Malta asked abruptly. “Do we have any peach preserves anywhere?”

“We don't expect him until late spring,” her mother said wearily. “Why?”

“I just don't think he would make me do this. Pretend to like a man I don't even want to know… Isn't there anything good to eat in this house?”

“Put some butter on it instead. And no one asked you to pretend to like him!” Grandmother burst out. “You are not a prostitute, he has not paid you to smile while he leers at you. I am simply saying we expect you to treat him with courtesy. I am sure he will be a complete gentleman. I have Caolwn's word on that, and I have known her a very long time. All you need do is treat him with respect.” In a lower voice she went on, “I am sure he will quickly decide you are not suitable, and cease his attentions.” The way she said it, it was insulting. As if Malta weren't worthy of him.

“I'll try,” Malta grudgingly conceded. She tossed the dry bread down onto the table in front of her. At least it would be something to tell Delo about. She was always subtly bragging about all the young men who came to her house. They were all Cerwin's friends, Malta knew that. But Delo knew their names, and they made teasing jokes with her, and sometimes brought her sweets and trinkets. Once, when she had been allowed to go to the spice market with Delo with Rache accompanying them, one of Cerwin's friends had recognized Delo, and made a big sweeping bow to her, with his cloak blowing out in the wind when he did it. He had offered to treat them to spice tea, but Rache had said they must hurry home. It had made Malta look like an infant. Just for once, it would be nice to tell Delo that a young man had come to her house, to see her. She didn't need to tell Delo he was probably covered with warts. Maybe she could make him seem mysterious and dangerous She smiled to herself and looked afar dreamily, practicing the look she'd wear when she told Delo about her young man. Her mother slammed a pot of honey down on the table in front of her.

“Thank you,” Malta said absently as she helped herself to it.

Maybe Cerwin would be jealous.

“Are you going to let me live?” Kyle Haven asked softly as dawn began to tinge the sky. He tried to speak flatly, but harshness tinged with fear seeped into his words. Wintrow could hear weariness as well. The long night was nearly over, but it had taken both of them on the wheel and all Calt could see and all Vivacia could call back to them to get them through the channel. He had to admire his father for his tenacity. He had lasted it out. He still stood canted, sheltering the ribs on his left side, but he had helped bring the ship through. And now he asked for his life from his son. It had to be bitter.

“I will do all I can to see you live through this. This I promise you.” He glanced from his father to Sa'Adar, who still leaned on the stern. Wintrow wondered how much he himself would have to say in any decision to come. “You don't believe me. But your death would grieve me. All the deaths on this ship have grieved me.”

Kyle Haven stared straight ahead. “Another point to port,” was all he said.

Around them the water suddenly spread and calmed. Crooked Island was falling behind them and Hawser Channel opened up.

His son corrected their course. Overhead, men shouted to one another in the rigging, arguing as to what they should do and how. His father was right. There was no way they could sail the ship with only two experienced and able hands. He gripped the wheel. There had to be some way. “Help me, ship,” he breathed softly. “Help me know what to do.” He felt her weary response. It was not one of confidence, only one of trust.