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

He took down his cleanest shirt and eased into it. He thought about changing his trousers and decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He’d washed put his other pair last night, but in the close confines of the storage room, they were still damp and were beginning to acquire a mildewy smell. He sank down onto his haunches; there was no comfortable place to sit. He put his aching head in his hands and waited for the bang on the door that would summon him to the captain’s table. Since he had tried simply to walk off the ship yesterday, Torg had taken to locking him in his quarters during the time allotted for him to sleep.

Incredibly, he dozed off as he crouched there, jerking back to wakefulness when the door was snatched open. ‘Cap’n wants you,’ Torg greeted him. As he strode off, the apish man added, ‘though why anyone would want you is a puzzle to me.’

Wintrow ignored the gibe and the screaming of his joints to rise and follow the man. As he walked, he tried to work his shoulders loose. It felt good to be able to stand completely upright again. Torg glanced back at him. ‘Hurry up, you! No one has time to put up with your dawdling.’

It was more his body than his mind that responded, making an effort to put spring in his step. Although Torg had threatened him several times with a knotted rope, he’d never used it. And the fact that he only threatened him when neither his father nor the first mate were on board made Wintrow suspect it was something Torg would have liked to do but dared not. Still, just the sensing of that capacity in the man was enough to make Wintrow’s flesh crawl whenever he was about.

Torg saw him right to the captain’s door, as if he could not trust the boy to report himself. And Wintrow supposed he could not. Even though his father had reminded him repeatedly that Sa’s precepts included obedience and honour due to one’s parents, Wintrow had decided that if any opportunity presented itself at all, he would leave the ship and return however he could to his monastery. Sometimes he felt that resolve was all he had left to cling to. Torg watched him as he knocked sharply on the door, and then entered to his father’s curt, ‘Come ahead.’

His father was already seated at a small table. A white cloth overlay it, and a goodly array of serving vessels graced it. It was set for two, and for an uncomfortable moment Wintrow stood in the door, wondering if he were intruding on a private meeting.

‘Come in,’ his father said, a shade of annoyance in his voice. ‘And shut the door,’ he added in a gentler tone.

Wintrow obeyed him but remained standing by the door, wondering what was required of him now. Had he been summoned to wait table for his father and a guest? His father was dressed well, almost formally. He wore tight-fitting breeches of blue and a blue jacket over a shirt of soft cream. His hair had been plaited with oil and it gleamed like old gold in the lamplight.

‘Wintrow, son, come and sit down and join me. Forget for a moment that I am the captain, and have a good meal and let us talk plainly.’ His father gestured at the plate and chair opposite him and smiled warmly. It only made Wintrow feel warier as he approached the table and gingerly seated himself. He smelled roast lamb and mashed turnips with butter and apple sauce and peas cooked with mint. Amazing, how keen one’s nose could become after a few days of hard bread and greasy stew as rations. Still, he kept his aplomb, forcing himself to unfold his napkin onto his lap and await his father’s signal to begin serving himself. He said, ‘Please,’ to his father’s offer of wine, and ‘thank you’ as each dish was offered him. He sensed his father watching him, but made no effort to meet his eyes as he filled and then emptied his plate.

If his father had intended this civilized meal and quiet moment as a bribe or a peace offering, it was ill-considered. For as the food filled his belly and the surroundings restored to him a sense of normality, Wintrow found a chill sense of outrage growing in him. From not knowing what to say to this man who smiled fondly as his son ate like a famished dog, Wintrow went to forcing his tongue to keep still. He tried to recall all he had been taught about dealing with adverse situations, that he should reserve judgement and action until he had grasped his opponent’s motivation. So he ate and drank silently, watching his father covertly from beneath his lashes. His father actually rose himself to set their plates on a sideboard and then offered Wintrow a serving of custard with fruit. ‘Thank you,’ Wintrow forced himself to say quietly as it was set before him. There was something in the way his father re-settled himself in his chair that let him know the point of this whole meeting was about to be announced.

‘You’ve developed a good appetite,’ Kyle observed genially. ‘Hard work and sea air will do that for a man.’

‘So it would seem,’ Wintrow replied evenly.

His father gave a gruff laugh. ‘So. Still smarting, are we? Come, son, I know this must seem hard to you, and perhaps just now you are still angry at me. But you must be coming to see this is what you were meant to do. Honest hard work and the company of men and the beauty of a ship under full sail… but I suppose you haven’t known the full measure of it yet. I just want you to know, I’m not doing this to you to be harsh or cruel. A time will come when you will thank me. I promise you that. When we have finished with you, you will know this ship as a true captain should, for you will have worked every measure of her, and there won’t be a task on her that you haven’t performed yourself.’ His father paused and smiled bitterly. ‘Unlike Althea, who just claims such knowledge, you will actually have done it, and not just when it pleased you, but as a sailor should, keeping busy every minute of your watch, and doing tasks as they need doing, not only when you are ordered to do so.’

His father paused, obviously expecting some response. Wintrow kept still. After a heavy pause, his father cleared his throat. ‘I know what I am asking you is hard. So I will tell you plainly what awaits you at the end of this steep road. In two years, I expect to make Gantry Amsforge captain of this vessel. In two years, I expect you to be ready to serve as mate. You’ll be very young for it; don’t deceive yourself as to that. And it’s not going to be handed to you. You’ll have to show both Amsforge and me that you are ready for it. And even if and when we accept you, you’ll still have to prove yourself to the crew, every day and every hour. It won’t be easy. Still, it’s an opportunity that damned few men have offered to them. So.’

With a slow smile he reached into his jacket. He drew out a small box. He opened it himself and then turned to proffer the contents to Wintrow. It was a small gold earring, wrought in the likeness of Vivacia’s figurehead. He had seen such earrings on the other sailors. Most crew members wore some device that signalled their allegiance to their ship. An earring, a scarf, a pin, a tattoo if one were really sure of continuing employment. All were ways of declaring one’s highest loyalty was given to a ship. Such an act was not fitting for a priest of Sa. Surely his father must already know his answer. But the smile on his father’s face was warm as he invited him with, ‘This is for you, son. You should wear it proudly.’

Truth. Simple truth, Wintrow counselled himself, spoken without anger or bitterness. So. Politely. Gently. ‘I don’t want this opportunity. Thank you. You must know I would never deface my body by piercing an ear to wear that. I would rather be a priest of Sa. I believe it is my true calling. I know you believe you are offering me a—’

‘Shut up!’ There was deep hurt beneath the anger in his father’s voice. ‘Just shut up.’ As the boy clenched his jaws and forced himself to look only at the table, his father spoke on to himself. ‘I’d rather hear anything from you than your mealy-mouthed prattle about being a priest of Sa. Say you hate me, tell me you can’t take the work, and I’ll know I can change your mind. But when you hide behind this priest nonsense… Are you afraid? Afraid of having your ear pierced, afraid of an unknown life?’ His father’s question was almost desperate. The man grasped after ways he could persuade Wintrow to his side.