Robin Hobb - The Mad Ship

Althea groaned. The ship had wormed his name out of her a week ago and had given her no peace since then. If she was not demanding to know what was wrong with Grag and why didn’t Althea fancy him, then she was pestering her for the sordid details of her brief liaison with Brashen. Althea did not want to think about the man. Her feelings on that topic were too confusing. The more she decided she was finished with him, the more he intruded into her thoughts. She kept thinking of all the witty things she should have said at their last parting. He had been so rude when she had not kept a rendezvous she knew was unwise. The man had assumed too much, far too soon. He didn’t deserve a moment of her thoughts, let alone dwelling on him. But despite her waking disdain for him, he intruded into her dreams. In her dreams, the poignancy of his gentle strength seemed a safe harbour worth seeking. In her dreams, she reminded herself, setting her teeth. In her waking hours, she knew he was no safe harbour, but a whirlpool of foolish impulses that would draw her to her doom.

She had been silent too long; Ophelia was watching her face with a knowing look. Abruptly Althea stood straight and put a small smile on her face. ‘I think I’ll go and see Grag before I turn in. There are a few questions I need answered.’

‘Um,’ Ophelia purred, pleased. ‘Take your time asking them, my dear. The Tenira men think deeply before they act, but when they do act…’ She lifted both her eyebrows at Althea. ‘You might not even remember Trell’s name afterwards,’ she suggested.

‘Believe me. I’m already doing my best to forget it.’

Althea was relieved to hurry away from her. Sometimes it was wonderful to spend part of the evening sitting and talking with the ship. The wizardwood figurehead incorporated many generations of Tenira sailors, but women had formed her first and deepest impressions. Ophelia retained a female perspective on life. It was not the fragile helplessness that now passed for femininity in Bingtown, but the independent determination that had distinguished the first women Traders. The advice she offered Althea was often startling to her, yet it frequently reinforced views Althea had privately held for years. Althea had not had many women friends. The tales Ophelia had shared with her had made her realize that her dilemmas were not as unique as she had believed. At the same time, Ophelia’s brazen discussions of Althea’s most intimate problems both delighted and horrified her. The ship seemed to accept Althea’s independence. She encouraged Althea to follow her heart, but also held her responsible for the decisions she had made. It was heady to have such a friend.

She hesitated outside the door to Grag’s cabin. She paused to straighten her clothing and hair. She had been relieved to abandon the boy’s guise she had worn aboard the Reaper. On this ship, the crew knew her name. Althea Vestrit had to uphold the honour of her family. So although she dressed practically, in heavy cotton fabric, the trousers she wore were closer to being a split skirt. She had bound her hair back out of the way, but not tarred it into a queue. The laced up blouse that she tucked carefully into her trousers even had a touch of embroidery on it.

She felt a pleasant anticipation at the thought of seeing Grag. She enjoyed sitting and talking with him. There was a gratifying little tension of awareness between them. Grag found her attractive and was undaunted by her competency. He seemed impressed by it. It was a new and flattering experience for Althea. She wished she could be certain that was all she felt. Despite her fling with Brashen, and despite living aboard ship with men for years, in some areas she was very inexperienced. She was not sure if she was attracted to Grag for himself, or simply because he seemed to be fascinated with her. Surely, this was just a harmless flirtation between them. What more could it be, between two strangers flung together by chance?

She took a breath and knocked.

‘Enter.’ Grag’s voice was muffled.

She found him sitting up on his bunk, his face swathed in bandaging. There was a strong scent of cloves in the air. At the sight of her, a welcoming glint came into his blue eyes. As she shut the door behind her, he pulled the wrappings off his jaw and let them drop gratefully. The pretence of the bandages had left his hair tousled like a boy’s. She grinned at him. ‘So. How’s the toothache?’

‘Convenient.’ He stretched, rolling his wide shoulders, then made a show of flinging himself back on his bunk. ‘I can’t remember when I last had this much time to myself.’ He swung his legs up onto his bunk and crossed them at the ankle.

‘You’re not getting bored?’

‘No. For any sailor, idle time is too much of a novelty. We always find a way to fill it.’ He fished around at the edge of his bunk and came up with a handful of ropework. He unrolled it on his lap to reveal a fancifully knotted mat. The intricate pattern had created a lacy effect from the stout twine he had used to create it. It was hard to believe such a delicate design came from his work-scarred fingers.

Althea touched the edge of it. ‘Beautiful.’ Her fingers traced the pattern of knotted twine. ‘My father could take an empty wine bottle, and some twine, and create this wonderful pattern of knots over the glass. It looked like flowers, or snowflakes…He always promised he’d teach me how to do it, but we never found the time.’ The gaping sense of loss that she had believed she had mastered overwhelmed her again. She turned away from him abruptly and stared at the wall.

Grag was silent for a moment. Then he offered quietly, ‘I could teach you, if you wanted.’

‘Thanks, but it wouldn’t be the same.’ She was surprised by the brusqueness in her own voice. She shook her head, embarrassed by the sudden tears that brimmed in her eyes. She hoped he had not seen them. They made her vulnerable. Grag and his father had already done so much for her. She did not want them to see her as weak and needy, but as a strong person who would make the best of her opportunities. She drew in a long breath and squared her shoulders. ‘I’m all right now,’ she said in answer to his unspoken question. ‘Sometimes I miss him so badly. There’s a part of me that can’t accept that he’s dead, that I’ll never see him again.’

‘Althea…I know that perhaps this is a cruel question, but I’ve wondered. Why?’

‘Why did he take the ship I’d worked on for so many years and will it to my sister instead?’ She glanced over at Grag to see his quick nod. She shrugged. ‘He never told me. The closest he came to a reason was to say something about providing for my sister and her children. On good days, I tell myself that that meant he knew I could provide for myself and he was not afraid for me. On bad days, I wonder if he thought that I was selfish, if he feared that I would take Vivacia and care nothing for their welfare.’ She lifted her shoulders again. She caught a glimpse of herself in Grag’s shaving mirror. For an eerie instant, her father looked out at her. She had his wiry black hair and dark eyes, but not his size. She was small, like her mother. Nevertheless, the resemblance to her father was still strong, in the set of her jaw and the way her brows drew together when she was troubled.

‘My mother said that it was her idea and she talked him into it. She felt the estate had to be kept intact, the liveship inherited with the land holdings, so that the income from the one would go on supporting the other until all the debts were paid.’ She rubbed at her brow. ‘I suppose that makes sense. When Father decided that we would no longer trade up the Rain River, he doomed us to a much lower income. The goods he brought back from the southlands were exotic, but nothing like the magic goods from the Rain Wilds. Our land holdings yielded well, but we could not compete with Chalced’s slave-tended grain and fruit. Consequently, our debt for the ship is still substantial. Moreover, it is secured with our land holdings. If we fail to keep our promise to repay it, we could lose both ship and family land.’