Robin Hobb - The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy - Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny

After a moment he opened his eyes and stood up. The worst of it was that he still had to go back to the ship. This experience would have been hard enough even if he had had the safety and peace of the monastery to return to. To go from this to the stupid squabbling aboard Vivacia, to return to Torg’s gleeful brutality and his father’s disparagement of him was almost more than his heart could bear. Yet what was the alternative? To hide himself and remain in Cress as a penniless and despised vagabond? He sighed heavily but his heart only sank deeper in his chest. He waded through softening garbage to the mouth of the alley and then glanced up at the westering sun. The time that had seemed so brief for sight-seeing was now a long empty stretch until sundown. He decided to find the rest of Vivacia’s crew. He could think of nothing else he wanted to see or do in Cress.

He trudged shirtless down the street, ignoring the grins of those who remarked his fresh bruises and scrapes. He came upon a group of men, obviously part of the crew of another ship enjoying some free time. They all wore headscarves that once had been white with a black bird marked on the front. They were laughing and shouting congenial insults to one another as they moved as a group from a brothel to a tavern. Their eyes fell upon Wintrow. ‘Oh, poor lad!’ One exclaimed in mock sympathy. ‘Turned you down, did she? And kept your shirt to boot?’ This witticism brought a general chorus of guffaws. He walked on.

He turned a corner and was suddenly sure he’d found the Sailors’ Walk. Not only the Blowing Scarf was on this street, with a signboard depicting a woman clad only in a scarf that the wind was blowing away from her, but the signboards on the other erstwhile taverns were equally suggestive. The crudity of the signboards signalled the specialities of those who worked within the brothels. Obviously the makers had had small faith in any sailor’s ability to read.

There were other, cheaper amusements fronting the street. One stall offered lucky charms, potions and amulets: dried cauls to protect a man from drowning, bits of horn to ensure virility, magic oils that could soothe a storm to stillness. Wintrow passed the stall with a look of pity for those gullible enough to be seeking its wares. Further down the street, in a marked-off square, a beast-tamer was offering passers-by the chance to wrestle his bear for a purse of gold. Even muzzled as he was with his claws blunted to stubs, the bear looked formidable. A short chain hobbled his hind legs, while a heavier chain led from his collar to his owner’s fist. The bear shifted constantly, an anxious, restless mountain. His small eyes prowled the crowd. Wintrow wondered what sort of an idiot would be talked into accepting such a challenge. Then with a sinking heart he recognized a grinning Comfrey leaning on a companion and talking to the beast-tamer. A small crowd of on-lookers, most of them sailors, were excitedly placing side bets.

He was tempted to walk on by and look for Mild. Then he noticed Mild amongst those placing bets. With a sigh, he went to join him. Mild recognized him with a grin of delight as he approached. ‘Hey, come on, Wintrow, you’re in luck. Comfrey’s going to wrestle the bear. Put your money down and you can double it.’ He leaned closer to Wintrow. ‘It’s a sure thing. We just saw a man win. All he had to do was get up on the bear’s back and the bear gave up right away. The beastmaster didn’t want to let anyone else wrestle him after that, but Comfrey insisted.’ Mild suddenly goggled at Wintrow. ‘Hey. What happened to your shirt?’

‘I lost it wrestling with the city guards.’ Wintrow was almost able to make a joke of it.

He was a bit hurt at how easily Mild accepted his words, until he noticed the tang to the other boy’s breath. A moment later he saw him shift something about in his lower lip. Cindin. The focus of his eyes quivered with the stimulant. Wintrow felt uneasy for him. The drug was forbidden aboard ship; if he even came aboard still intoxicated he’d be in trouble. The rash optimism it gave a man did not make him a prudent sailor. Wintrow thought he should say something, suggest caution to him somehow, but could find no words. ‘I just wanted to let you all know I’d be waiting for you back at the boat. I’ve finished my sight-seeing, and I’m headed there now.’

‘No. No, don’t go!’ The other boy grabbed his arm. ‘Stay and watch this. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. You sure you don’t want to bet a coin or two? The odds don’t get better than this. And the bear’s tired. He’s got to be tired. He’s already wrestled half a dozen times.’

‘And the last man won?’ Curiosity was getting the better of Wintrow.

‘Yeah. That’s right. Once he got up on the bear’s back, the bear just folded up like a sleeping cat. Made the beast-tamer scowl, I’ll tell you, to have to give him the purse.’ Mild linked arms with him. ‘I got my last five coppers riding on this. Course Comfrey has more than that. He did well at the gaming table earlier today.’ Again Mild peered at him. ‘You sure you don’t have any money you want to put down? The whole crew’s betting on Comfrey.’

‘I haven’t a coin of my own. Not even a shirt,’ Wintrow pointed out again.

‘That’s right. That’s right. Never mind, it’s… here he goes!’

With a grin and a wave to his gathered shipmates, Comfrey stepped into the marked-off square. No sooner had he crossed the line than the bear reared up onto his hind legs. His fettered legs kept his steps small as he lumbered slowly toward Comfrey. The sailor wove one way and then abruptly dodged the other to slip past the bear and get behind him.

But he never had a chance. As if it were a move he had practised a hundred times, the bear turned and swatted the sailor down. His powerful front legs had a much greater reach than Wintrow would have credited. The impact of the blow slammed Comfrey face-first to the ground.

‘Get up, get up!’ his shipmates were yelling, and Wintrow found himself shouting with the rest. The bear continued his restless, shifting dance. He had dropped to all fours again. Comfrey lifted his face from the dusty street. Blood was streaming from his nose, but he seemed to take encouragement from his shipmates’ cheers. He sprang abruptly to his feet and dashed past the bear.

But the bear rose, tall and solid as a wall, and one outstretched paw greeted Comfrey’s head in passing. This time the sailor was flung to his back, his head rebounding from the dirt. Wintrow flinched and looked away with a groan. ‘He’s had it,’ he told Mild. ‘We’d better get him back to the ship.’

‘No, no. He’ll get up, he can do this. Come on, Comfrey, it’s just a big old stupid bear. Get up, man, get up!’ The other sailors from Vivacia were shouting as well, and for the first time Wintrow picked out Torg’s hoarse voice among the crowd. Evidently he had been dismissed by his captain to take some entertainment of his own. Wintrow was suddenly sure he’d have something witty to say about his missing shirt. Abruptly, he wished that he had never left the ship. This day had been one long string of disasters.

‘I’m going back to the boat,’ he said again to Mild, but Mild paid no attention. He only gripped his arm the harder.

‘No, look, he’s getting up, I told you he would. That’s the way, Comfrey, come on man, you can do it.’

Wintrow doubted that Comfrey heard anything Mild shouted. The man looked dazed still, as if instinct alone were compelling him to get to his feet and get away from the bear. But the instant he moved, the animal was on him again, this time clutching him in a hug. It looked laughable, but Comfrey cried out in a way that suggested cracking ribs.

‘Do you give up then?’ the beast-tamer shouted to the sailor, and Comfrey nodded his head violently, unable to get enough wind to speak.