CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

                                        
JAMAILLIA CITY

HER CHAMBERS WERE BEYOND ANYTHING MALTA HAD IMAGINED. No matter where she turned her eyes, she saw opulence. The frescoes of forests on the wall merged into a pale blue ceiling of birds and butterflies in flight. The deep carpets underfoot were green as moss, while the permanently flowing bath of steaming water bubbled through an immense tub framed by marble waterbirds and screened by a wall of potted reeds and cattails. And this was merely her dressing chamber.

The mirror beside her dressing table was larger than she was. She had no idea what half the little pots of cosmetics and unguents held. She did not need to. That was the business of the three maids who applied them artfully to her skin.

“If it pleases my lady, would she lift her brows, that I may outline her eyes more fully?” one of them requested gently.

Malta lifted a hand. “They are fine as they are, Elise. All three of you have done wonderfully by me.” She had never thought she would get tired of being fussed over, but she was ready for some time alone. She smiled in the mirror at the women around her. Elise had shaved a part in her own dark hair. A comb, decorated with red glass, rested there in artful imitation of Malta’s crest. The other two young women had plucked their eyebrows and replaced them with a glistening cosmetic made from flaked mother-of-pearl and coloring. One had chosen red in Malta’s honor. The other’s shimmering brows were blue. Malta wondered if this were an effort to flatter Reyn.

Another glance in the mirror assured her that no cosmetic efforts could make them look as exotic as she. Malta smiled at herself, enjoying how light moved on her scaling. She turned her head slowly from side to side. “Wonderfully,” she repeated. “You may all go.”

“But, lady, your stockings and slippers . . .”

“I shall put them on myself. Go on, now. Or would you have me believe there are no young men anxiously hoping you may be released a few moments early tonight?”

The smiles that met hers in the mirror told her that she had guessed true. A great ball such as this created excitement through all the levels of the Satrap’s palace. There would be dancing in no less than four separate ballrooms, for every level of aristocracy, and Malta knew that the excitement and glitter would extend to celebration in the servants’ hall as well. That it was the third such gala in less than a month did not seem to dim anyone’s enthusiasm. No one wished to miss the chance to once more glimpse the grave and slender beauty that was the Queen of the Pirate Isles, let alone bypass an opportunity to see the Elderlings dance together. Newly influential advisors and nobles of Jamaillia would once more convene to flatter and exalt the young Satrap who had so valiantly set forth to adventure through the wild world and then returned home with such lofty new allies. Tonight would be their last such opportunity. Tomorrow, she and Reyn would sail north on the Vivacia with Wintrow and Queen Etta. Tomorrow they would finally begin the journey home.

Malta drew on her stockings and then her little white satin slippers. In the midst of tying the second one, she looked down at it closely. She tried to remember how tragic it had been not to have new slippers for her first ball. Her heart went out to the girl she had been even as she shook her head over her ignorance. She took the white lace gloves from her dressing table. They came to her elbow, and were cleverly fashioned to permit hints of her gleaming scarlet scaling to show through the lace. Yesterday, one of her maids had told her that in the bazaar, they now sold gloves with glittering insets to mimic the effect.

Malta looked at herself in the mirror disbelievingly. Everyone, everyone thought she was beautiful. Her gown was a confection of white with hidden panels of scarlet fabric that would flash only when Reyn whirled her on the dance floor. The seamstress who had created it had told her it had come to her in a dream of dragons. She set her hands to the tiny waist of the dress and spun before the mirror, nearly falling as she tried to turn her head to catch the flashing of the red. Then, laughing at her own foolishness, she left her dressing chamber.

Moments later, she tapped twice at a door, and then boldly let herself in. “Etta?” she gently asked of the dimness.

“In here,” the Queen of the Pirate Isles replied.

Malta swiftly crossed the darkened chamber and entered Etta’s immense dressing chamber. Closets stood open, gowns were strewn on the chairs and the floor, and Etta sat in her undergarments before her mirror. “Where are your dressing maids?” Malta asked carefully. Wintrow had warned her of Etta’s temper. Malta herself had never seen her anger, only the black depths of her sorrow.

“I sent them away,” Etta said brusquely. “Their chatter was maddening. ‘Try this scent, let us pin your hair so, will you wear the green, will you wear the blue, oh, lady, not the black, not again.’ Like so many shrieking gulls, all come to feed on my corpse. I sent them away.”

“I see,” Malta said gently. A second door opened, and Mother suddenly appeared bearing a tray. A steaming teapot was on it, and matching cups. It was a lovely service, white with flowers done all in blue. Mother muttered a soft greeting to Malta and set the tray down on Etta’s dressing table. Her pale-blue eyes lingered on Etta fondly. She spoke to herself as she poured tea for Etta, a gentle stream of words, soothing as a cat’s purr. Etta appeared to listen, though Malta could make no sense of the sounds. Then Queen Etta sighed, took up the cup and sipped it. Despite Mother’s status at court, she had refused title and chambers of her own. Instead, she shared Etta’s chamber, and waited on her at every opportunity. Malta thought such constant attention would chafe her to fury, but Etta seemed to take comfort from it. The Queen of the Pirate Isles set down her cup.

“I will wear the black again,” she said, but there was only sadness in her voice now, no anger or bitterness. With a sigh, she turned back to her mirror. Malta found the black dress and shook out its simple lines. Etta wore it to mourn Kennit, just as the only jewelry she wore was the little miniature of him strapped to her wrist and the earrings he had given her. She seemed unaware that the tragic simplicity of her garb and demeanor had captured the dramatic interest of every poet in Jamaillia.

She sat before her mirror but looked down at her hands as Mother brushed her sleek black hair and pinned it up with jeweled pins. From anyone else, Etta would have protested such decoration, but Mother hummed a calming little melody as she did so. When she was finished, Etta’s dark hair was the night sky for a score of glittering stars. Mother next took up a scent bottle, and dabbed her throat and wrists.

“Lavender,” Etta said quietly. Her voice broke on the word. “Kennit always loved that scent.” She suddenly put her head down into her hands. Mother gave Malta a look. When the old woman withdrew to the other side of the chamber and busied herself rehanging garments, Malta humbly helped her.

When Etta lifted her head, there was no track of tears down her face. She looked weary, but she still managed to smile. “I suppose I must get dressed,” she surrendered. “I suppose I must be the Queen again tonight.”

“Wintrow and Reyn will be waiting for us,” Malta agreed.

“Sometimes,” Etta confided as Malta fastened the endless row of tiny buttons up her back, “when I am most discouraged, if I take a moment to myself, I swear I can hear him speaking to me. He bids me be strong, for the sake of the son I carry.”

Mother gabbled soft agreement as she brought Etta’s slippers and stockings.

Etta spoke on softly, almost dreamily. “At night, just before I fall asleep, I often hear his voice. He speaks to me, words of love, poetry, good counsel and encouragement. I swear it is all that keeps me from going mad. I feel that in some way, the best part of Kennit is still with me. That he will always be with me.”

“I’m sure he is,” Malta replied easily. Privately, she wondered if she were as blind to Reyn’s faults. The Kennit that Etta recalled did not match Malta’s recollection at all. She had felt only a shiver of relief when she had seen Kennit’s canvas-wrapped corpse leave Vivacia’s deck to slip beneath the salt water.

Etta stood. The black silk whispered around her. Her pregnancy did not show yet, but all knew of it. The Queen carried the heir of King Kennit. None questioned her right to rule in his stead, just as none questioned the seeming youth of the man who commanded his fleet. In pirate tradition, Wintrow had succeeded to Kennit’s position by a vote of his captains. Malta had heard that it was unanimous.

Wintrow and Reyn awaited them at the foot of the stair. Her brother suffered in comparison to the Rain Wilder. The close tailoring of his jacket did nothing to hide the slightness of his build. The formality of Wintrow’s Jamaillian garb made him look even younger than he was until one noticed his eyes. Then he seemed a fitting match for Etta. As always, he wore black as she did. Malta wondered if it was truly to mourn the pirate, or if it was merely to complement Etta and mark them as a pair.

At the foot of the stairs, the pirate Queen paused a moment. Malta watched her take a breath as if she steeled herself. Then she set her fingers atop Wintrow’s proffered arm and lifted her chin. As she glided away on Wintrow’s arm, Malta pursed her lips and frowned.

“Something troubles you?” Reyn asked. He took her hand and set it firmly atop his forearm. The warmth of his hand secured her clasp there.

“I hope my brother grows taller,” she murmured.

“Malta!” he rebuked her, but then smiled. She had to look up at him, and she loved that she did. The Jamaillian styles suited Reyn very well indeed. His close-fitted indigo jacket only emphasized the width of his shoulders. The white of his cuffs and collar contrasted well with his weather-bronzed skin. White trousers and black knee boots completed him. He wore small gold hoops in his ears, which shone against the glossy black curl of his hair. She smiled sympathetically for whoever had worried it into order tonight. He had no patience with body servants. He turned his head, and the light ran along his scaling, breaking blue highlights from it. Dark as his eyes were, she could see the secret blue in their copper depths.

“Well?” he asked her. There was a faint flush on his face and she realized she had stood long simply looking at him.

She nodded her assent, and they crossed the floor together. The hall opened out around them, its lofty ceiling supported by marble pillars. They walked beneath an arch into the grand ballroom. At one end of the room, musicians played softly, a prelude to the dancing. At the other end, the Satrap presided over the festivities from an elevated throne. Three of his Companions sat in chairs ranged before his dais. A servant tended two censers set to either side of the Satrap. The yellow smoke from the herbs wreathed him. He smiled and nodded benignly on his guests. A separate dais held a slightly less ornate throne for Queen Etta. She was ascending the steps as if they were a gallows. A lower seat beside hers waited for Wintrow.

Seating arrangements for her and Reyn had been more politically perplexing. Satrap Cosgo had, grudgingly, granted that Queen Etta as the reigning monarch of a separate kingdom had, perhaps, stature equal to his own. Malta and Reyn, however, made no royal claims for themselves. Malta repeatedly but quietly asserted that Bingtown was an independent city-state, yet she did not claim to be its representative. Reyn also refused to acknowledge that Jamaillia had any authority over the Rain Wilds, but he was not their ambassador to the Satrap. Rather, they represented the interests of the Dragon Tintaglia and her kind. They were obviously not the King and the Queen of the Dragons nor nobles from afar and hence not entitled to thrones or elevation of any kind. That Cosgo had ensconced them on elevated chairs on a garlanded dais had as much to do with his desire to display these exotic new allies as a wish to honor them. That rankled Reyn more than it did Malta. Her pragmatism had prevailed over his distaste for exhibition. It did not matter to her why he granted her this distinction; she cared only that in the mind of every noble who beheld them, it conveyed their elevated status. It could only increase their bargaining power.

She had used that leverage in every capacity. With the Satrap’s strangling monopoly on Bingtown’s exports broken, there were many merchants anxious to establish new ties with the Trader cities. The current fashion favor for their exotic appearances had even motivated a stream of inquiries about trade and settlement possibilities in the Rain Wilds. Reyn had replied conservatively to these, reminding them that he could not speak for the Rain Wild Council. A number of entrepreneurs and adventure seekers had offered to pay high prices to book passage on the Vivacia for her journey homeward. Wintrow had dealt with that, pointing out that Vivacia was the flagship of the Pirate Isles, not the Rain Wilds. While he would be furnishing transport for the Elderlings’ return, Vivacia was not available for hire. He suggested they seek out other ships that were Bingtown bound.

With the serpents no longer a threat, and the Chalcedean menace greatly reduced, they all foresaw increased shipping and travel between their cities. Malta had spent one long afternoon totting figures with Lord Ferdio. The outcome suggested to both of them that the Satrap’s coffers would actually profit more from this new arrangement than he had from his throttlehold on Bingtown. The increased flow of ships through the Inside Passage, open trade with the Pirate Isles and an increase in Jamaillian sailing ships profiting from trade with Bingtown and points beyond might shock the city out of its downward spiral of stagnation. That was before Ferdio had begun reckoning the possible profits from freely marketing goods from the South Islands to the various northern markets. They had presented their findings to Cosgo, who had smiled and nodded for a brief time before succumbing into boredom.

Satrap Cosgo had changed, Malta thought to herself as they approached his throne, but not enough to impress her with his sincerity. Restored to wealth and comfort, women and intoxicants, he had resumed all the mannerisms of the effete youth she had first met at the Bingtown Traders’ Concourse. Yet, she was willing to take the word of those who had known him for years that his transformation was truly remarkable. As she made her curtsey and Reyn his bow, the Satrap gravely inclined his head in acknowledgment. He spoke down to them.

“So. This is to be our last evening together, my friends.”

“One dares to hope otherwise,” Malta replied smoothly. “Surely, in days to come, we shall return to the wonders of Jamaillia City. Perhaps the Lord High Magnadon Satrap will someday undertake another journey to Bingtown or Trehaug.”

“Ah, Sa forfend it! Still, if duty demands that I do so, I shall. Let it not be said that Satrap Cosgo feared the rigors of travel.” He leaned forward slightly. He made a slight gesture of annoyance at the servant, and the man immediately replenished the smoldering concoction on the brass holders. The tendrils of smoke flowed thick once more. “You are determined to depart tomorrow, still.”

Reyn spoke. “Determined? Magnadon Satrap, say rather obligated. As you well know, our wedding arrangements have been postponed once already. We can scarcely disappoint our families again.”

“They needn’t be disappointed. You could be wed tomorrow, if you wished it, in the Satrap’s own Temple of Sa. I shall command a hundred priests to preside, and a procession shall carry you through the streets. This I could arrange for you. Now, if you wish.”

“It is a most gracious offer, Lord High Magnadon. Yet I fear we must decline. Trader ways demand that we be wed among our own folk, with our own customs. A man of your learning, culture and travel undoubtedly understands that such traditions are broken only at grave risk to one’s stature. Of great importance also are the many messages you have charged us with for Traders in both Bingtown and Trehaug. Those must be delivered without more delay. Nor have we forgotten the message birds you have furnished, that communication between the Trader cities, the Pirate Isles and Jamaillia City may be improved.”

Malta bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. It was good that the Satrap did not know Wintrow’s opinion of the “smelly befouling creatures” he had reluctantly welcomed aboard Vivacia. Jola had proposed pigeon pie as variety in their usual menu, but Malta was confident that the birds would live to serve as messengers.

A shadow of petulance crossed his face. “You gained what you desired: independence for Bingtown and the Rain Wilds. I no sooner signed the scrolls than you made plans to leave.”

“Of course, Lord High Magnadon. For did not you also command that the Vestrit family represent Jamaillia’s interests there? It is a duty I take most seriously.”

“No doubt, you will take it most profitably as well,” he pointed out caustically. He inclined his head to inhale his smoke more deeply. “Ah, well, if part we must, then I hope it will lead to good fortune for all of us.” The Satrap leaned back, eyes half-closed. Malta interpreted this, gratefully, as dismissal.

She and Reyn sought their own seats. She looked around the spectacle of the ballroom and realized that she would not miss it. Well, not immediately. She had finally been surfeited with parties, dancing and elegance. She longed for the simplicity of unscheduled days and privacy. Reyn, for his part, chafed to be at the site of the Elderling city.

Ophelia had recently arrived in Jamaillia City with letters for all of them. The news from Bingtown was both heartening and tantalizing. The flow of foodstuffs through Bingtown and up the river was steady and sufficient. The young priest Wintrow had recommended as an engineer had an almost mystical knack for simple yet elegant solutions. As soon as the temporary locks that permitted the serpents to ladder up the river had been completed, Reyn’s brother had turned his attention to searching for the remains of the city. In this, Selden had been most helpful to Bendir. As yet, they had not discovered any intact chambers, but Reyn was certain that was due only to his absence. The fervor of his ambition to begin the search amazed Malta.

He gave a small sigh in reply to her mood. “I, too, long to be home again,” he confided to her. The music had begun to swell. The first dance would be a set piece for the Companions of the Satrap only. They danced together, in his honor, with him as their absent partner while he watched from the dais. She watched the elaborately dressed women move through the sedate measures. At intervals, the Satrap inclined his head, symbolizing his bows to his Companions. It struck Malta as a singularly foolish custom and a waste of good music. She stilled the tapping of her foot. Reyn leaned closer to be sure she heard him. “I secured two more stonecutters. They will follow us on Ophelia. Wintrow says there are several islands in the Pirate Isles that may furnish stone for us, at a reasonable cost. If we replace the log walls of the locks with stone, the workers who must constantly maintain the wood because the river eats it will be free, and we can create a way for large ships to come to dock there. We could then transfer those workers to the excavation of the city—”

“Before or after our wedding?” she asked him gravely.

“Oh, after,” he replied fervently. He took her hand. His thumb swept the palm of her hand caressingly. “Do you suppose our mothers would let it be any other way? I personally doubt we shall be allowed to eat or sleep until we have endured the wedding.”

“Endured?” she asked him with raised brows.

“Most definitely,” he replied with a sigh. “My sisters have been in paroxysms of delight. They will meet the Queen of the Pirate Isles and your dashing brother Wintrow. Tintaglia has announced she will be there, to ‘receive’ us afterward, I am told. My sisters are insisting I be veiled for the wedding. They say that it matters not how I display myself in Jamaillia; I must be properly modest for the traditional Rain Wild ceremony.”

“Your modesty has nothing to do with the tradition,” Malta retorted. He was not telling her anything she had not already heard. When Ophelia had docked, she had brought thick letters for all of them. Keffria’s letter had been likewise full of wedding plans. “I will be veiled as well. It is our blind acceptance of one another that they celebrate.” A question tugged at her. “You were closeted long with Grag Tenira. My mother wrote that he courts a Three Ships girl. Is that true?”

“He and Sparse Kelter’s daughter are moving in that direction.”

“Oh. A shame. I suppose that means that Aunt Althea has burned her bridges and will have to be content with Brashen Trell.”

“They looked more than content, the last time I saw them.”

“Grag Tenira would have been a more fitting match for her.”

“Perhaps. From the way she looked at me, I suspected she thought you could do better, also.”

“She looks at everyone that way.” Malta dismissed her aunt’s reservations.

“More interesting to me were the changes in Ophelia. Or the lack of them, rather. She is the same ship she has always been. Grag claims she has no memories of being a dragon. That for her, life began as Ophelia. The same is true for Goldendown.”

“Do you suppose they will recall it later?”

“I do not know.” Reluctantly, he added, “My suspicion is that some of the dragons in the wizardwood logs had perished before we used them. Ophelia and Goldendown, perhaps, have no dragon memories because the creatures inside had died and taken their memories with them. They may remain as they always have been.” He paused. “Grag, at least, is grateful. He says that Kendry has become well nigh unmanageable. He is a bitter creature and sails only at Tintaglia’s behest.”

A silence fell between them. Malta made a valiant effort at distracting him. “I had a note from Selden as well. His handwriting is awful. He loves the Rain Wilds. Cassarick is a torment to him, however. He wants to dig immediately, and your brother will not let him.”

Reyn smiled wryly. “I remember being like that.”

His face was still too pensive to suit her.

“He spends much time with Tintaglia, ‘guarding’ the cocoons.” She shook her head. “Tintaglia says that only fifty-three appear to be developing. He does not say how she knows. Poor creature. She struggled so hard to lead them home, and so many perished along the way. She worries that not all fifty-three will hatch. They should have spent the whole winter cocooned, and hatched in high summer.”

“Perhaps they will hatch in late summer to make up for their late start.”

“Perhaps. Oh.” She tugged at his hand. “The Companions are finished. Now the real dancing will begin.”

“Do not you wish for the music to begin?” he teased her, feigning reluctance to rise.

She widened her eyes at him warningly. He came to his feet.

“You only want to show off your dress,” he accused her gravely.

“Worse. I wish to flaunt my elegant partner before all of these grand ladies, before I snatch him away to immure him as mine in the distant Rain Wilds.”

As always, her extravagant compliments brought a blush to his cheeks. Wordlessly, he led her to the floor. The musicians struck up, Jamaillian stone-drums setting the time until the other instruments swept in. Reyn took her hand and set his other hand to the small of her back, Jamaillian style. She had explained to Wintrow that it was the only proper way to tread this step, but she knew he would be frowning at Reyn’s boldness. They stepped sedately to the sound of the drums until the wind instruments skirled in to bid them spin together. The dizziness was lovely, for Reyn caught her at the end, and again they stepped to the drum, the tempo building.

He spun her the second time, faster and closer to his body. “Do you not regret waiting?” she asked him daringly in the privacy of the dance.

“I would regret more risking the legitimacy of my heir,” he chided her seriously.

She rolled her eyes at him, and he pretended a scowl at her prurience.

“Does a hungry man resent the preparation of the feast?” he asked her the next time they closed in a spin. They whirled so close she felt his breath on her crest. It brought the now familiar flush of warmth through her. She became aware that it had happened again. The floor was cleared in a great circle around them as other couples paused to watch the Elderlings dance. He spun her again, faster, so close that her breasts nearly brushed his chest. “They say that hunger is what makes the meal so savory,” he added by her ear. “I warn you. By the time we reach Bingtown, I shall be as a starving man.”

The murmur of the crowd told her that they were spinning so fast on these steps that her gown was now flashing its scarlet insets. She closed her eyes, trusting him to hold her in his orbit, and wondered what could ever surpass this glorious moment. Then she smiled, knowing the answer.

Telling Delo about it.

 

THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL TOGETHER, ETTA MURMURED.

Wintrow risked a sidelong glance at her. She watched the dancers with a strange hunger in her eyes. He supposed she was imagining herself in Kennit’s arms, skimming the floor as gracefully as Reyn and Malta. But not as abandonedly, he decided. Even pirates had more decorum than his wayward sister did. “It is good they’re getting married soon,” he observed stiffly.

“Oh. Do you think that will put a stop to their dancing?” Etta asked him sarcastically.

He gave her a humbled smile. Every now and then, a spark of the old Etta showed through, like coals gleaming in a banked fire. “Probably not,” he conceded. “Malta was born dancing, I believe.” Watching the ecstasy on her face as Reyn spun her in the dance, he added, “I suspect that a dozen children from now, she will still display her feelings as plainly.”

“What a shame,” Etta consoled him dryly. She was silent as the couple spun again, then asked, “Do all in Bingtown disdain dancing as you do?”

“I do not disdain dancing,” he answered with surprise. “I was learning the basic steps, and accounted graceful enough, before I was sent off to be a priest.” He watched Reyn and Malta a few moments. “What they are doing is not that impressive. It is just that they are able to do it both swiftly and gracefully. And that they are a well-matched couple.” He frowned a moment, then admitted, “And that incredible dress she’s wearing.”

“Do you think you could dance like that?”

“With practice, perhaps.” A sudden thought came to him. He coupled it to the discovery of how stupid he still could be. He leaned toward her. “Etta. Would you care to dance?”

He held his open hand out toward her. She looked at it for a moment, then looked aside. “I do not know how,” she replied stiffly.

“I could teach you.”

“I would not be good at it. I would only humiliate myself, and my partner.”

He leaned back in his chair and spoke softly, forcing her to listen carefully. “When you fear to fail, you fear something that has not happened yet. Dancing is far less difficult than reading, especially for a woman who can run the rigging and never miss a step.” He waited.

“I . . . not now. Not in so public a place.” She built up to admitting it, as admitting any desire was difficult for her. “But someday, I would like to learn to dance.”

He smiled at her. “When you are ready, I will be honored to partner you.”

She spoke very softly as she added, “And I will have a dress to surpass that one.”

 

THE STARS GLITTERED COLD IN THE BLACK SKY OVERHEAD. BY contrast, the yellow lights of Jamaillia were warm and close. Their reflections snaked like serpent backs over the rippling water of the harbor. The sounds of merriment and music from the distant festivities wafted thin in the cold spring night. Across the dock from her, Ophelia shifted in the darkness. She was an old-fashioned liveship, a blowsy old cog. A moment later, she rattled a large dice box at Vivacia. “Do you game?” she asked invitingly.

Vivacia found herself smiling at the matronly figurehead. She had not expected to find the company of another liveship so convivial, especially one who professed to have lost all dragon memories. Ophelia was not only good company but a veritable fount of Bingtown gossip.

Even more important to Vivacia were her detailed accounts of all she had seen and heard in Trehaug. The cocooning banks were far upriver, beyond the reach of a ship of her draft, but Ophelia was an adept meddler and an avid listener. She had contrived to know not only every fact but every rumor about the serpents’ progress. The news she shared with Vivacia had been bad as well as good, but knowing the fate of her serpents was a kind of peace in itself. She served her kind best by remaining in Jamaillia for now, but the suspense had been difficult to endure. Ophelia had understood her thirst for information about the serpents. Since she had arrived in Jamaillia City, her detailed accounts had been a great comfort to Vivacia. Still, she shook her head at Ophelia’s dice box. “Althea seemed to believe that you cheated when she played with you,” she observed lightly.

“Oh, well, that’s Althea. Nice girl, but a bit suspicious. Not the best judgment in the world, either. After all, she chose that renegade Trell when she could have had my Grag.”

Vivacia laughed softly. “I don’t think your Grag ever had much of a chance. I rather suspect ‘that renegade Trell’ was chosen for her by Ephron Vestrit a number of years ago.” At Ophelia’s affronted expression, she added kindly, “But Grag doesn’t seem to have missed her for long.”

Ophelia nodded in satisfaction. “Humans have to be pragmatic about these things. They don’t live that many years, you know. Now his Ekke, she’s a fine girl, knows how to seize life and make something of it. Reminds me of my first captain. ‘Don’t expect me to stay ashore and have babies for you,’ she told him, right here on my foredeck. ‘My children are going to be born on this ship,’ she said to him. And you know what Grag said? ‘Yes, dear.’ Meek as milk. I think he knows he’d better get to it if he’s going to have a family. Humans only have so much time, you know.”

“That’s why we have to cram so much living into those years.” This observation came from Jek. Her perfume wafted on the spring night. Despite the chill, she was barefoot, a long skirt swirling about her ankles. She came boldly to perch on Vivacia’s railing. “Evening, ladies,” she greeted them. She took a deep breath, sighed with contentment and sat swinging her feet.

“You’ve been up at the dancing!” Ophelia enthused. “Tell us about it. Did you see the Satrap’s palace?”

“From the outside. It was all lit up like a bawdy-house lantern, golden lamplight and music spilling from every window and door. The streets were full of fine carriages, and there was a great line of folk parading in, dressed fine as kings, every one of them. Some were content to stand about and gawk at their betters, but not I. The courtyard was fine with me. The music was gay, the men were handsome and the dancing lively. They were cooking whole pigs on spits, and keg after keg of beer did they broach. It was as good a feasting as I’ve ever seen in any town. Still and all, I’m ready to sail tomorrow. Jamaillia’s a dirty place, for all its fine houses. I’ll be glad to get out on the water again, and gladder still to see Divvytown. I knew it was my home port that first time I saw it.”

“The pirate town? Sa save us all. Does someone wait there for you, dearie?” Ophelia asked.

Jek laughed aloud. “They all wait for me. They just don’t know it yet.”

Ophelia’s bawdy chuckle echoed hers. Then she noticed Vivacia’s silence. “Why so thoughtful, my dear? Do you miss your Wintrow? He’ll be back soon enough.”

Vivacia stirred from her reverie. “No. Not Wintrow. As you say, he will be back soon enough. Sometimes it is a pleasure to have no thoughts but my own. I was looking at the sky and recalling. The higher you fly, the more stars there are. There are stars up there that I will never see again. They didn’t matter to me when the heavens still belonged to me, but now I feel it as a loss.”

“You’re young. You’re going to find a lot of things like that in your life,” the old liveship replied complacently. “No sense dwelling on them.”

“My life,” Vivacia mused. “My life as a liveship.” She turned to regard Ophelia with a sigh. “I almost envy you. You recall nothing, so you miss nothing.”

“I recall a lot, my dear. Just because my memories have sails instead of wings, don’t you discount them.” She sniffed. “And my life is nothing for you to disdain, I might add. Nor your own. You could take a lesson from my Grag. Don’t go mooning after the stars, when the wide sea is all around you. It’s a sky of its own, you know.”

“And with just as many stars,” Jek observed. She hopped back onto the deck and stretched until her muscles crackled. “Good night, ladies. I’m for my bunk. The day starts early for sailors.”

“And for liveships. Sweet dreams, my dear,” Ophelia wished her. As Jek padded softly away, the liveship shook her head. “Mark my words. She’ll regret it if she doesn’t settle down soon.”

“Somehow I doubt it,” Vivacia replied, smiling. She looked back at the lights of the town. In the Satrap’s palace, Wintrow and Etta prepared humans to accept the return of her kind. She knew a sudden surge of pride in them. Astonishingly, she felt the same for herself. She smiled at Ophelia. “Jek is too busy living. She won’t waste time on regrets. And neither shall I.”