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

The severity of her mother’s tone had surprised her. When Malta had been brave enough to say, ‘But my father said…’ her own mother had turned on her with something close to fury in her eyes.

‘Your father is not here,’ she had pointed out coldly. ‘I am. And I know what is proper for a young Bingtown girl. As should you. Malta, there is time and more than enough time for you to be a woman. It is natural for you to be curious about such things, and natural, too, for you to wish for lovely gowns and wonderful evenings dancing with handsome young men. But too much curiosity and eagerness… well. It could lead you down the same path as your Aunt Althea took. So trust me. I will be the one to tell you when the time is right for such things. I also know there is much more to the Harvest Ball than pretty dresses and bright-eyed young men. I am a woman of Bingtown, and a Bingtown Trader and I know such things. Not your father. So keep your peace about this, or you will lose what you have gained.’

Then her mother had stormed out of the breakfast room, not even giving Malta time to argue. Not that she would have. She had decided that she did not need to argue. Arguing would only have made her mother suspicious and watchful. There was no sense in making her own tasks harder.

Her father had suggested green silk, and fortunately there had been a good supply of it in Aunt Althea’s sea-chest. She had been aching to know what was in there since it had been delivered to the house, but her mother had wearily told her it was none of her concern. But it hadn’t been locked — Aunt Althea never remembered to lock anything — and as she certainly was never going to use it, Malta saw no sense in letting the lovely fabric stay there and fade. Besides, by using this fabric, she’d have more coin to spend on a fine seamstress. She was only being thrifty. Had not her father told her that was a good trait in a woman?

From Delo Trell, Malta obtained the name of a good dressmaker. It shamed her to have to ask her friend, but even in that important area, her mother and grandmother were so old-fashioned. Almost all their dresses were still made at home, with Nana measuring and fitting and sewing, and sometimes even Mama and Grandmother helping with the sewing and trimming themselves. And so they never had anything that was the latest style from Jamaillia. No. Oh, they would see something they liked at the Ball or the Presentation, and then they would copy it onto the next gown they made. But that was always what it was: a copy. No one was ever astonished by what one of the Vestrit women wore to a social gathering. No one ever gossiped about them or put heads together behind their fans to whisper enviously. They were too respectable. And too boring.

Well, Malta had no intention of being either as staid as her matronly mother, nor as mannish as her wild Aunt Althea. Instead she intended to be mysterious and magical, shyly demure and unknowable, and yet daring and extravagant. It had been hard to express all that to the dressmaker, a disappointingly old woman who clicked her tongue over the green silk Malta brought her. ‘Sallow,’ she had said, shaking her grey head. ‘It will make you look sallow. Pinks and reds and oranges. Those are your colours.’ Her thick Durja accent made it seem like a pronouncement. Malta folded her lips and said nothing. Her father was a Trader who had seen the whole wide world. Surely he knew what colours looked best on women.

Then Fayla went on to measure her endlessly, muttering all the time through a mouthful of pins. She cut and hung paper shapes all over Malta, and paid no attention at all when Malta protested that the neck seemed too high and the skirts too short. The third time Malta objected, Fayla Cart had spat the mouthful of pins out into her own hand and glared at her. ‘You want to look like a trollop? A sallow trollop?’ she demanded.

Malta shook her head wordlessly as she tried to recall what a trollop-flower looked like.

‘Then you listen to me. I sew you a nice dress, a pretty frock. A dress your Mama and Papa happy to pay me for. Okay?’

‘But… I’ve brought the money to pay. My own money. And I want a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s frock.’ With every word she spoke, Malta became bolder.

Fayla Cart stood slowly, rubbing at her back. ‘A woman’s gown? Well, who’s going to wear this dress, you or some woman?’

‘I am.’ Malta forced her voice to stay firm.

Fayla scratched at her chin. A hair was growing out of a warty looking mole there. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. You are too young. You will only look silly. You listen to me, I make you a pretty frock. No other girl will have one like it, they will all stare and tug their mamas’ skirts and whisper about you.’

Without warning, Malta tore the paper shape loose from herself and stepped out of it. ‘I am not eager to have girls staring at me,’ she said haughtily. ‘Good day to you.’

And she left the shop, her green silk under her arm, and went down the street to find a dressmaker of her own, one that would listen to her. She tried not to wonder if Delo Trell had purposely sent her to that horrible old woman, if Delo did not think that Malta still belonged in a little girl’s starched skirts. Lately Delo had begun to give herself airs, to imply loftily that there were many things that Malta, young little Malta, simply could not understand about Delo’s life now. As if they had not been playmates since they could walk!

The young seamstress Malta chose wore her own skirts as if they were silk scarves, at once clinging and revealing her legs. She did not quibble about the colour of the fabric, nor try to hide Malta in paper. Instead she measured her swiftly and spoke of things like butterfly sleeves and how a spill of lace could flatter a young woman’s developing bosom into an illusion of fullness. Malta knew then she had chosen well, and had all but skipped home with a tale of being unable to find a free shimshay to excuse her lateness.

From that one decision of finding her own dressmaker had flowed all her good fortune. The woman had a cousin who made slippers; she sent Malta to him when she came in for the second fitting of the dress. And she would need jewellery, Territel reminded her. She pointed out to Malta that the reality of jewellery was not nearly as important as the effect it created with sparkle and shine. Cut glass would do as well as real gems, and then her budget would allow her larger and more glittering pieces. She had yet another cousin, and she came to show Malta her wares during the third fitting. When Malta returned for her final fitting, the slippers and jewellery were ready to be picked up as well. And Territel so kindly showed her how to paint her lips and eyes in the newest way, and even sold to Malta some of her own powders and skin paints. The woman could not have been kinder. ‘To have it exactly as I dreamed of is well worth every coin,’ Malta told her, and gladly gave over to her the pouch of gold that her father had provided. That had been but two days before the Harvest Ball.

It had been a feat both of nerve and creativity to smuggle the paper-wrapped gown home and successfully conceal it not only from Mama but from Nana, too. That old woman didn’t have enough to do any more. Now that Selden was old enough for tutors and didn’t need watching every minute, Nana seemed to be constantly spying on Malta. All of the ‘tidying’ she did in Malta’s chambers was no more than an excuse for going through her things. Nana was constantly asking her questions that were none of the old servant’s business. ‘Where did you get that scent? Does your mother know that you wore those earrings into town?’

In the end the solution had been simple. She directed Rache to store the wrapped gown, jewellery and slippers in her own quarters. Her grandmother had recently granted Rache a whole cottage to herself, one that gave onto the pond garden. She did not know what Rache had done to deserve this private space, but Malta found it useful that she had. No one thought anything of her spending time with Rache. After all, was not the slave woman teaching her dance-steps and body-carriage and etiquette? It was only too funny, of course, that a slave should know such things. Delo and Malta giggled about it often in the brief times they had together. Delo, of course, now thought that she was too old and womanly to be spending time with a mere girl like Malta. Well, that would change as soon as Malta presented herself at the Harvest Offering Ball.