CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SURVIVING
“MAMA? WE CAN SEE BINGTOWN HARBOR NOW.”
Keffria lifted her aching head from the pillow. Selden stood in the doorway of the small stateroom they shared on the Kendry. She had not truly been asleep. She had simply been curled around her misery, trying to find out how to live with it. She looked at her son. His lips were chapped, his cheeks and brow reddened and chafed by the wind. Ever since his misadventures in the buried city, there had been a distant look behind his eyes, as if he were in some way lost to her, even as he stood before her. Selden was her last living child. That should have made her desperate to cherish him. She should have wanted him by her side every moment. Instead, it numbed her heart to him. Best not to love him too much. Like the others, he could be taken from her at any time.
“Are you coming to see? It looks really strange.” Selden paused. “Some of the people on deck are crying.”
“I’m coming,” she said wearily. Time to face it. All the way here, she had avoided speaking to Selden of what they might find. She swung her feet out of bed. She pushed at her hair then gave it up. A shawl would cover it. She found one, still damp from the last time she had been on deck, flung it about herself and followed him onto the deck.
It was a gray day and the rain was steady. That felt right. She joined the other passengers looking toward Bingtown. No one chattered or pointed: they stood and stared silently. Tears ran down some faces.
Bingtown Harbor was a boneyard. The masts of ruined vessels stuck up from the water. Kendry maneuvered carefully around the sunken ships, heading not toward the liveships’ traditional dock but to one that was newly repaired. The clean yellow lumber contrasted oddly with the weathered gray and scorched black of the rest. Men on the dock waited to welcome them. At least, she hoped it was welcome.
Selden leaned against her. Absently, she lifted a hand and set it on his shoulder. Whole sections of the city were black ruins, burnt skeletons of buildings glistening in the falling rain. The boy leaned against her more heavily. “Is Grandma all right?” he asked in a muffled voice.
“I don’t know,” she replied wearily. She was so tired of telling him she didn’t know. She didn’t know if his father was alive. She didn’t know if his brother was alive. She didn’t know what had happened to Malta. The Kendry had searched down the Rain Wild River to its mouth and found nothing. At Reyn’s frantic insistence, they had turned back and searched up the river all the way back to Trehaug. They had found no sign of the small boat that Reyn claimed he had seen. Keffria had never spoken it aloud, but she wondered if Reyn had not imagined it. Perhaps he had wanted so badly for Malta to be alive that he had deceived himself. Keffria knew what that was like.
At Trehaug, Jani Khuprus had boarded the Kendry. Before they departed the Rain Wild city, they sent a bird to Bingtown, informing the Council that they had not recovered the Satrap, but were continuing the search. It was a foolish hope, but one that neither Keffria nor Reyn could abandon.
On this last trip down the Rain Wild River, Keffria had spent every evening on deck, staring out through the gathering dusk. Time after time, she had been sure she glimpsed a tiny rowboat on the river. Once she had seen Malta standing up in it, one hand lifted in a plea for help, but it had only been a log, torn loose from the bank, a root upraised in despair as it floated past.
Even after the Kendry had left the river behind, she had kept her nightly vigils on the deck. She could not trust the ship’s lookout to watch with a mother’s eyes. Last night, through a chilling downpour, she had glimpsed a Chalcedean ship that the Kendry had easily outrun. Last night’s Chalcedean vessel had been alone, but during their journey their lookout had sighted others, galleys in groups of two or three, and two great Chalcedean sailing ships. All had either ignored the Kendry, or given only token chase. What, the captain had demanded, were the raiders waiting for? Were they converging on the mouth of the Rain Wild River? On Bingtown? Were they part of a fleet that would take over the Cursed Shores? Reyn and Jani had joined the captain in his useless debating, but Keffria saw no use in speculation.
Malta was gone. Keffria did not know if she had died in the sunken city or perished in the river. That she would never know ate at her like a canker. Would she ever find out what had become of Wintrow and Kyle? She tried to hope that they still survived, but could not. Hope was too steep a mountain to climb. She feared she would only fall into an abyss of despair when the hope proved futile. She lived instead in a suspension of all feeling. Now was all there was.
REYN KHUPRUS STOOD BESIDE HIS MOTHER. THE RAIN SOAKED HIS veil. When the wind stirred it, it slapped lightly against his face. There was Bingtown, fully as damaged as he had expected it to be from the news the messenger-birds had brought to Trehaug. He tried to find an emotion to fit to the sight, but none were left to him.
“It’s worse than I feared,” his mother muttered beside him. “How can I ask aid of the Bingtown Council when their own city is a shambles, and their coast menaced by Chalcedean ships?”
That was supposed to be part of their mission here. Jani Khuprus had often represented the Rain Wild Traders to their kin in Bingtown, but seldom on so grave a mission. After she had formally apologized to the Bingtown Council for the unfortunate loss of Satrap Cosgo and his Companion, she would ask for assistance for the Rain Wild Traders of Trehaug. The destruction of the ancient Elderling city was almost complete. With much careful work, parts of the city might eventually be reopened. In the meantime, the Trader families who had depended on the strange and wonderful objects unearthed in the city for their commerce were left abruptly destitute. Those families made up the backbone of Trehaug. Without the Elderling city to plunder, there was no economic reason for Trehaug to exist. While Trehaug harvested some foods from the Rain Wild forest, they had no fields in which to grow grain or pasture cattle. They had always bartered for food, supplying their needs through Bingtown. The Chalcedean interruption of trade was already felt in Trehaug. With winter coming, the situation would soon be desperate.
Reyn knew his mother’s deepest fear. She believed this latest disaster might destroy the Rain Wild folk. Their population had dwindled in the last two generations. Rain Wild children were often stillborn, or died in the first few months. Even those who lived did not have as long a life span as ordinary folk. Reyn himself did not expect to live much beyond his thirtieth year. It was one reason the Rain Wild Traders often sought their mates among their Bingtown kin. Such matches were more likely to be fecund, and the resulting children stronger. But Bingtown folk, kin or no, had become less willing in the last two generations to come to the Rain Wilds. Gifts for the family of a prospective spouse had risen in size, value and number. Witness his own family’s willingness to forgive the debt on a liveship simply to assure Reyn a bride. With Malta lost, Jani knew Reyn would never wed nor produce children for the Khuprus family. The bride-gifts would have been in vain. With the beggaring of Trehaug, other Rain Wild families would be sore pressed to feed the children they had, let alone negotiate for mates for them. The Rain Wild folk might disappear altogether.
So Jani would come to Bingtown, to explain the loss of the Satrap and beg for aid. The combination of the two errands was a deep affront to her pride. Reyn felt sorry for his mother, but distanced by his own grief. The loss of the Satrap could trigger a war that might mean the complete destruction of Bingtown. The ancient Elderling city he loved was destroyed. But these tragedies were now merely the backdrop to his agony at losing Malta.
He had caused her death. By bringing her to his city, he had put her on the path to her death. The only creature he blamed more was Tintaglia, the dragon. He despised himself for the way he had romanticized the dragon. He had believed her capable of nobility and wisdom, had lionized her as the last of her glorious kind. In reality, she was an ungrateful, selfish and egotistical beast. Surely, she could have saved Malta if she had only put her mind to the task.
For his mother’s sake, he tried to say something positive. “It looks as if some of the folk have begun rebuilding,” he pointed out.
“Yes. Barricades,” she observed as the ship approached the dock. She was right. With a sinking heart, Reyn noted that the men on the dock were well-armed. They were Traders, for he recognized several among them, and the captain of the Kendry was already roaring a greeting to them.
Someone cleared her throat. He started and turned to find a shawled Keffria Vestrit at his shoulder. Her eyes moved from his mother to him. “I don’t know what I will find at home,” she said quietly. “But the hospitality of the Vestrit home is open to you.” She smiled wryly. “Providing that it still stands at all.”
“We could not impose,” Jani assured her gently. “Do not be troubled for us. Somewhere in Bingtown, an inn must still stand.”
“It would scarcely be an imposition,” Keffria insisted. “I am sure Selden and I would welcome the company.”
Reyn suddenly understood that there might be more to this invitation than a simple return of hospitality. He voiced it. “It might not be safe for you to return to your home alone. Please. Let my mother and me arrange our business, and then we will accompany you there, to see you resettled.”
“Actually, I would be most grateful for that,” Keffria admitted humbly.
After a moment of silence, Reyn’s mother sighed. “My mind has been busy with my own troubles. I had not stopped to think of all this homecoming might mean to you. Sorrow I knew there must be, but I had not considered danger. I have been thoughtless.”
“You have your own burdens,” Keffria told her.
“Nevertheless,” Jani said solemnly. “Honesty must replace all polite words for a time. And not just between you and me. All Traders must be frank if any of us are to survive this. Ah, Sa, look at the Great Market. Half of it is gone!”
As the crew worked the ship into the dock, Reyn’s eyes roved over the men gathering to meet the ship, and spotted Grag Tenira. He had not seen him since the night of the Summer Ball. The strength of the mixed feelings that surged up in him took him by surprise. Grag was a friend, yet now Reyn connected him with Malta’s death. Would her death edge every day of his life with pain? It seemed it must be so.
The ship was secured to the dock and a gangplank run up to it. The moment there was any access to the ship, the crowd surged forward and folk began to cry out questions to the captain and the crew. Reyn pushed his way through the oncoming folk. His mother, Keffria and Selden followed in his wake. The second his foot touched the wharf, Grag stepped in front of him. “Reyn?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” he confirmed for him. He extended a gloved hand to Grag and Grag took it, but used it to pull Reyn closer.
Head close to Reyn’s, Grag asked anxiously, “Has the Satrap been found?”
Reyn managed to shake his head. Grag frowned, and spoke hastily. “Come with me. All of you. I’ve a wagon waiting. I’ve had a boy watching for the Kendry from the headland for the past three days. Quickly, now. There have been some wild rumors in Bingtown of late. This is not a good place for any of you.” From beneath his own cloak, Grag produced a ragged workman’s cloak. “Cover your Rain Wild garb.”
For an instant, Reyn was shocked into silence. Then he shook out the cloak and flung it over his mother’s before handing her off to Grag. He seized Keffria’s arm without ceremony. “Come along quickly and quietly,” he whispered to her. He saw Keffria grip Selden’s hand more tightly. The boy sensed that all was not right. His eyes widened, and then he hurried along with them. All their bags were left behind on the ship. It could not be helped.
Grag’s wagon was an open cart more suited to hauling freight than passengers. There was a definite smell of fish to it. Two well-muscled young men lounged in the back. They wore the smocks of Three Ships fishermen. Reyn helped the women in as Grag jumped to the seat and took up the reins. “There’s some sailcloth back there. If you spread it over you, it will keep some of the rain off.”
“And hide us as well,” Jani observed sourly, but she helped Reyn to unfold the canvas and stretch it out. They huddled together under it. Their escorts sat on the tail of the wagon, feet swinging as Grag stirred the ancient horse.
“Why is the harbor so empty?” Reyn asked one of the fishermen. “Where are the ships of Bingtown?”
“On the bottom, or off chasing Chalcedeans. They made a poke at us yesterday. Two ships approached the harbor with three others hanging offshore. Ophelia took out after them, and our other ships followed. Sa, how they ran! But I don’t doubt our ships caught up to them. We’re still waiting for our ships to return.”
That didn’t seem right to Reyn, but he couldn’t put his finger on why it disturbed him. As the horse pulled the cart through Bingtown, he saw the city in glimpses from beneath the flapping canvas. Some commerce was taking place, but the city had an uneasy air. Folk hurried by on their errands or suspiciously watched the cart pass. The wind brought the clinging stink of low tide and burned houses. It seemed to Reyn that they took a roundabout route to the Tenira estate. At the gate, armed men waved Grag in and closed the gates behind the cart. As Grag pulled the horse to a halt, the door opened wide. Naria Tenira and two of Grag’s sisters were among those who spilled out. Their faces were anxious.
“Did you find them? Are they safe?” Grag’s mother demanded as Reyn threw back the canvas that had covered them.
Then Selden was scrabbling out of the cart, crying, “Grandma, Grandma!”
On the doorstep of the Tenira manor, Ronica Vestrit opened her arms wide to her grandchild.
SATRAP COSGO, HEIR TO THE PEARL THRONE AND THE MANTLE of righteousness, picked at his chest, pulling off a long papery sheet of peeling skin. Malta looked aside to keep from grimacing. “This is intolerable,” the Satrap complained yet again. “My skin is ruined. Such an unsightly pink shows beneath! My complexion will never again be as fair as it was.” He looked at her accusingly. “The poet Mahnke once compared the skin of my brow to the opalescence of a pearl. Now, I am disfigured!”
Malta felt Kekki’s knee bump the small of her back. Kekki lay on her pallet by the Satrap’s bed and Malta was hunkered on the floor beside her. It was her place in the small room. Malta winced at the nudge against her aching back but recognized the hint. She searched her mind, then lied. “In Bingtown, it is said that the woman who washes her face once a year in Rain Wild River water will never age. It is an uncomfortable treatment, but it is said to keep the complexion youthful and fair.”
Kekki breathed out a sigh of approval. Malta had done well. Cosgo brightened immediately. “Beauty demands a price, but I have never flinched from a little personal discomfort. Still, I wonder what has become of the ship that we were to join at the mouth of the river. I am tired of this wallowing about. A ship of this size is ill-suited to open water like this.”
Malta lowered her eyes and stifled her opinion of his ignorance. The Chalcedeans traveled for months at a time in their galleys. Their ability to subsist on crude rations and endure the hardships of life aboard an open boat was legendary; it made their reputation as sailors and raiders.
They had emerged some days ago from the mouth of the river. The Satrap had been angry that the Chalcedean mother ship was not there to take him up. Malta had been bitterly disappointed that there were no liveships guarding the river mouth. She had been enduring by pretending that Bingtown liveships would halt the galley and rescue her. The despair that swept over her as the galley swept freely on was unbearable. She’d been a fool to dream of rescue. Such dreams had only weakened her. Angrily she purged her heart of them: no liveship patrol, no Reyn searching for her, no dreams at all. No one was going to magically appear and rescue her. She suspected her survival was in her own hands. She suspected many things that she did not share with the Satrap or Kekki. One was that the galley was in trouble. It did wallow, and it shipped a great deal more water than it should. Doubtless, the Rain Wild River had taken a toll on its tarred seams and perhaps on its planking. Since they had left the river, the captain had taken them north, toward Chalced. The galley hugged the shore; if it broke up, they’d at least have a chance of reaching the beach alive. She judged the man was running for home, and gambling he’d reach there with both ship and unexpected cargo intact.
“Water,” Kekki croaked. She seldom spoke now. She no longer sat up at all. Malta kept her as clean as she could and waited wearily for her to die. The Companion’s mouth was ringed with sores that cracked and bled as Malta held a cup to her lips. Kekki managed a swallow. Malta dabbed at the pink-tinged water that ran from the corners of her mouth. She had drunk too much river water to live, but not enough to kill her quickly. Kekki’s insides were probably as ulcerated as her mouth. The thought made Malta cringe.
The Companion, despite her pain and weakness, had kept her word. Malta had kept her alive and seen them rescued, and now Kekki did her best to teach Malta how to survive. She could speak little now, but with nudges and small noises, she reminded Malta of her earlier advice. Some of her hints merely made life tolerable. Malta should always respond to the Satrap’s complaints with either a positive aspect of them, or a compliment on how brave, wise and strong he was in enduring such things. Initially the words had near gagged Malta, but it did divert him from whining. If she must be confined with him, it was best to keep him agreeable. She cherished the hours after his evening meal when his smoke with the captain left him mellowly drowsing and nodding.
Other things Kekki had told her were more valuable. The first time Malta had taken their privy bucket to empty it, the sailors had hooted and clicked their teeth at her. On her return, one man had blocked her way. Eyes cast down, she had tried to step around him. Grinning, he shifted to prevent her escape. Her heart began to hammer in her throat. She looked away and tried once more to pass him. This time he let her slip by, but as she went past him, he reached from behind her, seized one of her breasts and squeezed it hard.
She cried out in pain and alarm. He laughed and jerked her back against him, holding her so tight she could hardly breathe. His free hand snaked down her blouse and caught her other breast. Callused fingers roughly caressed her bare skin. Shock froze her motionless and silent. He ground his body against her buttocks. The other men watched him, eyes bright and grins knowing. When he reached down to lift the back of her skirts, she suddenly found control of her muscles. The heavy wooden bucket was still in her hand. She twisted and swung it hard, hitting him in the shoulder. The remnant waste in the bottom of the bucket spattered up into his face. He had roared his distaste and released her, despite the jeering encouragement of his fellows. She had sprung away and had run back to their canvas shelter and flung herself inside.
The Satrap was not there. He had gone to take a meal with the captain. In abject terror, Malta huddled on the floor beside the sleeping Kekki. Every passing step might be the sailor coming after her. She shook until her teeth chattered. When Kekki stirred awake and saw Malta shivering in a corner, clutching a water mug as her only weapon, she had coaxed the tale from her. While Malta gasped the story out, Kekki had listened gravely. Then she shook her head. She spoke in short phrases to save her mouth and throat.
“This is bad . . . for all of us. They should fear . . . to touch you . . . without Cosgo’s permission. But they don’t.” She paused, pondering. Then she drew breath, rallying her strength. “They must not rape you. If they do . . . and Cosgo does not challenge them . . . they will lose all respect . . . for all of us.
“Don’t tell Cosgo. He would use it . . . to make you obey. To threaten you.” She sucked in a painful breath. “Or give you to them . . . to buy favor. Like Serilla.” She took breath again. “We must protect you . . . to protect all of us.” Kekki groped weakly around herself, then picked up one of the rags Malta used to dab blood away from her mouth. “Here. Wear this . . . between your legs. Always. If a man touches you, say Fa-chejy kol. Means ‘I bleed.’ He will stop . . . when you say it . . . or when he sees this.”
Kekki motioned for water and drank. She sighed, then gathered herself to speak. “Chalced men fear a woman’s blood time. They say—” Kekki took a breath and managed a pink-toothed smile. “A woman’s parts are angry then. They can slay a man’s.”
Malta was amazed that anyone could believe such a thing. She looked at the blood-streaked rag she held. “That’s stupid.”
Kekki shrugged painfully. “Be grateful they are stupid,” she advised her. “Save the words. They know you cannot always be bleeding.” Then her face and eyes grew grave. “If he doesn’t stop . . . don’t fight him. He will only hurt you more.” She dragged in a breath. “They would hurt you . . . until you stopped fighting. To teach you a woman’s place.”
That conversation had been days ago. It was the last time Kekki had spoken more than a few words to her. The woman weakened every day, and the smell from her sores grew stronger. She could not live much longer. For her sake, Malta hoped death came soon, though for her own sake, she feared Kekki’s death. When Kekki died, she would lose her only ally.
Malta was weary of living in fear, but she had little choice. Every decision she made, she made in fear. Her life centered on her fear. She no longer left their chamber unless Cosgo ordered her directly. Then she went quickly, returned swiftly and tried to meet no man’s eyes. The men still hooted and clicked their teeth, but they didn’t bother her when she was emptying the waste bucket.
“Are you stupid or just lazy?” the Satrap demanded loudly.
Malta looked up at him with a jolt. Her thoughts had carried her far. “I’m sorry,” she said, and tried to make her voice sincere.
“I said, I’m bored. Not even the food is interesting. No wine. No smoke, save at table with the captain. Can you read?” At her puzzled nod, he directed her, “Go and see if the captain has any books. You could read to me.”
Her mouth went dry. “I don’t read Chalcedean.”
“You are too ignorant for words. I do. Go borrow a book for me.”
She tried to keep fear from her voice. “But I don’t speak Chalcedean. How will I ask for one?”
He snorted in disgust. “How can parents let their children grow up in such ignorance! Does not Bingtown border on Chalced? One would think you would at least learn your neighbors’ tongue. So damnably provincial. No wonder Bingtown cannot get along with them.” He sighed heavily, a man wronged. “Well, I cannot fetch it myself, with my skin peeling like this. Can you remember a few words? Knock on his door, kneel down and abase yourself, then say, La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en.”
He rattled the syllables off in a breath. Malta could not even tell where one word began and another left off. “La-nee-ra-ke-en,” she tried.
“No, stupid. La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en. Oh, and add, re-kal at the end, so he doesn’t think you are rude. Hurry now, before you forget it.”
She looked at him. If she pleaded not to go, he would know she was afraid and demand to know why. She would not give him that weapon to bludgeon her with. She picked up her courage. Perhaps the sailors wouldn’t bother her if she was obviously bound for the captain’s cabin. On the way back, she’d be carrying a book. It might keep her safe from them; they wouldn’t want to damage their captain’s property. She muttered the syllables to herself as she left the chamber, making a chant of them.
She had to walk the length of the galley between and above the rowers’ benches. The hooting and clicking of teeth terrified her; she knew her fearful expression only encouraged them. She forced herself to keep repeating her syllables. She reached the captain’s door without a man laying a hand on her, knocked, and hoped desperately that she had not knocked too loudly.
A man’s voice replied, sounded annoyed. Praying that he had bid her come in, she opened the door and peered in timidly. The captain was stretched out on his bunk. He leaned up on one elbow to stare at her angrily.
“La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en!” she blurted. Then, abruptly recalling the Satrap’s other instructions, she dropped to her knees and bent her head low. “Re-kal,” she added belatedly.
He said something to her. She dared lift her eyes to him. He had not moved. He stared at her, then repeated the same words more loudly. She looked at the floor and shook her head, praying he would know she did not understand. He got to his feet and she braced herself. She darted a glance up at him. He pointed at the door. She scrabbled toward it, backed out of it, came to her feet, bowed low again and shut it.
The moment she was outside the cabin, the catcalls and teeth-clicking resumed. The other end of the boat seemed impossibly far away. She would never get there safely. Hugging her arms tightly around herself, Malta ran. She was nearly at the end of the rowing benches when someone reached up and snatched hold of her ankle. She fell heavily, striking her forehead, elbows and knees on the rough planking. For an instant, she was stunned. Dazed, she rolled to her back and looked up at a laughing young man standing over her. He was handsome, tall and blond like her father, with honest blue eyes and a ready grin. He cocked his head and said something to her. A query? “I’m all right,” she replied. He smiled at her. Her relief was so great, she almost smiled back at him. Then he reached down and flung up the front of her skirts. He went down on one knee, his hands busy at his belt.
“No!” she cried wildly. She tried to scrabble away, but he seized her ankle and casually jerked her back. Other men were standing up to get a better view. As he exposed himself to Malta, Kekki’s words rushed back to her. “Fa-chejy kol!” she blurted. “Fa-chejy kol!” He looked startled. She pushed her hair back from her face. He recoiled suddenly in horror, uttering an exclamation of disgust. She did not care. It had worked. She jerked away from him, managed to stand, raced the last few strides to shelter, flung herself through the door flap and collapsed on the floor. Her breath sobbed in and out of her. Her elbows stung. She blinked something wet from her eye, then wiped at it. Blood. The fall had opened her scar again.
The Satrap did not even lift his head from his pillow. “Where is my book?” he demanded.
Malta gasped a breath. “I don’t think he has any,” she managed to say. Calm words. Steady voice. Do not let him know how scared you are. “I said the words you told me. He just pointed at the door.”
“How annoying. I fear I shall die of boredom on this boat. Come and rub my feet. Perhaps I will doze off. There is certainly nothing else to do.”
No choice, Malta told herself. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her mouth so dry she could scarcely breathe through it. No choice, except painful death. Her elbows and knees stung; they were skinned raw. She pulled a splinter from her palm, then crossed the tiny room to sit on the floor by his feet. He glanced at her, then jerked his feet away from her touch. “What is the matter with you? What is that?” He stared at her brow.
“I fell. I opened the cut again,” she said simply. She lifted her hand to touch it gingerly. Her fingers came away sticky with blood and a thick white pus. Malta stared at it in horror. She picked up one of Kekki’s rags and dabbed at her brow. It did not hurt much, but more of the stuff soaked the rag. Malta began to shake as she looked at it. What was it, what did it mean?
There was no mirror to consult. She had avoided touching the scar on her forehead. She had not wanted to remind herself it was there. Now she let her fingers walk over it. It hurt, but not as much as it seemed it should for all the blood and discharge. She forced herself to explore it. It was as long as her forefinger and stood up in a thick ridge as wide as two of her fingers. The scar felt knobby, ridged and gristly like the end of a chicken bone. A shudder ran over her. She wanted to vomit. She lifted her face to the Satrap. “What does it look like?” she demanded quietly.
He did not seem to hear her. “Don’t touch me. Go clean yourself, and bind something across that. Feh! I cannot look at that. Get away.”
She turned away from him, refolded the rag and held it against her brow. It grew heavy and wet. Pink fluid trickled down her wrist to her elbow. It wasn’t stopping. She scooted over to sit by Kekki, seeking any kind of companionship. She was now too frightened even to cry. “What if I’m dying from this?” she whimpered. Kekki did not respond. Malta looked at her, and then stared.
The Companion was dead.
Out on the deck, a sailor shouted something excitedly. Others took up the cry. The Satrap sat up suddenly on his pallet. “The ship! They’re hailing the ship! Perhaps now there will be decent food and wine. Malta, fetch my . . . oh, now what ails you?” He glared at her irritably, and then followed her gaze to Kekki’s corpse. He sighed. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” He shook his head sadly. “What a nuisance.”
SERILLA HAD ORDERED THAT HER LUNCHEON BE BROUGHT TO the library. She sat awaiting it with an anticipation that had nothing to do with hunger. The tattooed serving woman who set it before her moved with precise courtesy that grated on Serilla’s nerves.
“Never mind that,” she said, almost sharply, as the woman began to pour her tea for her. “I’ll do the rest for myself. You can go now. Please remember that I am not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, lady.” The stoic woman bobbed her head and retreated to the door.
Serilla forced herself to sit still at the table until she heard the door shut firmly behind her. Then she rose swiftly, cat-footed across the room and eased the latch into place. A servant had opened the drapes to the wet wintry day outside. Serilla drew them closed and surreptitiously checked to be sure the edges overlapped. When she was certain that no one could enter the room nor spy on her, she went back to the table. Ignoring the food, she took up the napkin and shook it hopefully.
Nothing fell out.
Disappointment squeezed her. Last time, the note had been folded discreetly within the napkin. She had no idea how Mingsley had managed it, but she had hoped he would contact her again. She had replied to his overture with a note of her own, left at his suggestion under a flowerpot in the disused herb garden behind the house. When she checked on it later, the note was gone. He should have replied by now.
Unless this was all a trick and the note had been a test of Roed’s devising. Roed suspected everything and everyone. He had discovered the power of cruelty, and it was corrupting him swiftly. He could not keep a secret, yet accused everyone around him of being the source of the rumors that plagued and terrorized Bingtown. He bragged to her of what happened to those who spoke out against him, though he never admitted to having a direct hand in any of it. “Dwicker’s had a good beating for his insolence. Justice has been done.” Perhaps he had intended that such talk would keep her bound to him. It had had the reverse effect. She had felt so chilled and sickened that she was now willing to risk everything to break free of him.
When the first note had come from Mingsley, offering an alliance, she had been shocked at his boldness. It had slipped out of her napkin onto her lap while she was dining with the heads of the Bingtown Council, but if one of them had been instrumental in delivering the note, she saw no sign of it. It must have been one of the servants. Servants were easily bribed to such tasks.
She had agonized over replying. It had taken her a day to decide, and when she had finally set her note out, she had wondered if it would be too late. She knew her note had been taken. Why hadn’t he replied?
Had she been too conservative in her own note? Mingsley had not been. The bargain that he had bluntly proposed had so stunned her she had barely been able to converse for the rest of the evening. Mingsley first proclaimed his own loyalty to her and to the Satrap she represented. He then plunged into accusations against those who were not so loyal. He minced no words in revealing that “traitorous New Traders” had intended to seize the Satrap from Davad’s house, and even that they had received support from nobles in Jamaillia and Chalcedean mercenaries in their pay. But the plan had soured. The Chalcedeans who had raided Bingtown had betrayed the alliance for the sake of quick plunder. The Jamaillian nobles who had backed them were plunged into civil unrest of their own.
Some traitorous fools claimed the Jamaillian conspirators would raise a fleet to aid them and enforce their control of Bingtown. Mingsley believed it unlikely. The Traditionalists in Jamaillia City were more powerful than the conspirators had believed. The conspiracy had failed miserably, both in Bingtown and Jamaillia, thanks to her intervention. All had heard how she had boldly snatched the Satrap. Rumor suggested that the Satrap was now under the safe wing of the Vestrit family.
In a finely penned and closely worded missive, Mingsley went on to declare that he and other honest New Traders were most anxious to clear their own names and salvage their investments in Bingtown. Her bold declaration that Davad Restart was innocent of treachery against the Satrapy of Jamaillia had heartened them. Simple logic showed that if Davad were innocent, then so were his former trading partners. These honest but misjudged New Traders were most anxious to negotiate a peace with the Bingtown Traders, and to establish their clear loyalty to the Satrapy.
He then stated his bargain. The “loyalist” New Traders wanted Serilla to intercede for them with the Bingtown Council, but first she must divest herself of “the hot-headed, bloody-handed” Roed Caern. Only then would they treat with her. In return for this sacrifice, Mingsley and the other loyal New Traders would furnish her with a list of those New Traders who had plotted against the Satrap. The list would include the names of highly placed Jamaillian conspirators, as well as the Chalcedean lords who had been involved. He not so subtly pointed out that such a list, kept secret, was worth a great deal of coin. A woman possessing such information could live well and independently the rest of her life, whether she chose to remain in Bingtown or return to Jamaillia.
Someone had informed Mingsley very well about her.
When she finally replied to his note, her answer had been reserved. She included no greeting that mentioned him by name, nor had she signed her name. The plain square of paper had succinctly acknowledged that she found his offer interesting and inviting. She had hinted that there were others among her “current allies” who would also be receptive to such negotiations. Would he care to set a time and a place to meet?
In composing the note, she had forced herself to think coldly. There was no truth in this sort of politics, and very little ethics. There were only stances and posturing. The Old Satrap had taught her that. Now she tried to apply his clarity of vision to this situation. Mingsley had been involved with the plot to take the Satrap. His intimate knowledge betrayed him. But the tide had turned against him, and now he wished to change his alliance. If she could, she would help him. It could only benefit her, especially as she was in the midst of doing the same thing. She would use Mingsley’s cooperation as her passage to establish credibility with Ronica Vestrit and other like-thinking members of the Bingtown Council. She wished now that Ronica Vestrit was still in the house. Not that she regretted giving her the warning that had allowed her to escape: thwarting Roed had finally given her the small measure of courage she needed to take back some control in her life. When the time was right, she could make Ronica aware of who had aided her. Serilla smiled grimly to herself. She could, if she chose, be like Mingsley, reordering all she had done to put herself in a better light.
The Trader woman would have been useful to her right now. The tangled threads of accusations and suspicion were difficult to follow. So much was based on what Mingsley knew or suspected. Ronica had had a gift for sorting out such things.
And a gift for making her think. Ronica’s words kept coming back to her. She could be shaped by her past without being trapped by it. At one time, she had considered those words only in light of her rape. Now she leaned back in her chair and opened her mind to a wider interpretation. Satrap’s Companion. Must that determine her future? Or could she set it aside and become a woman of Bingtown, standing independent?
“I HATE TO RUSH YOU,” GRAG APOLOGIZED AS HE ENTERED Reyn’s guest chamber with an armload of clothes. He kicked the door shut behind him. “However, the others are gathered and waiting. Some of them have been here since early morning. The longer they wait, the more impatient they grow. Here are dry clothes. Some of these should fit you. Your clothes fit me well enough when I was a Rain Wilder for the ball.” He must have seen Reyn wince, for immediately he added, “I’m sorry. I never got to tell you that. Sorry about what happened with the coach, and sorry that Malta was injured.”
“Yes. Well. It makes small difference to her now, I suppose.” Reyn heard how harsh his words sounded. “I’m sorry. I can’t . . . I can’t talk about it.” He tried to interest himself in the clothes. He picked up a long-sleeved shirt. There were no gloves there; he’d have to use his wet ones. And the wet veil, too. It didn’t matter, nothing really mattered.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk about it.” There was genuine regret in Grag’s voice. “Your tie with Malta has brought this down on you. The rumor around town is either that she kidnapped the Satrap from where the Rain Wild Traders were holding him, or that she aided his escape. Roed Caern has been noising it about that she has probably turned him over to the Chalcedeans, because she is Chalcedean herself, and . . .”
“Shut up!” Reyn drew in a deep breath. “A moment, please,” he said thickly. Despite his veil, he turned his back on Grag. He bowed his head and clenched his hands, willing that the tears would not spill, that his throat would not close up and choke him.
“I’m sorry,” Grag apologized again.
Reyn sighed. “No. I should apologize. You don’t know, you can’t know everything I’ve been through. I’m surprised that you’ve heard anything at all. Listen. Malta is dead, the Satrap is dead.” A strange laugh bubbled up in him. “I should be dead. I feel I am dead. But . . . no. Listen. Malta went into the buried city for my sake. There was a dragon there. The dragon was . . . between lives. In a coffin or a cocoon type of thing . . . I don’t know what to call it. The dragon had been tormenting me, invading my dreams, twisting my thoughts. Malta knew. She wanted to make it stop.”
“A dragon?” Grag’s voice was questioning of both the word and Reyn’s sanity.
“I know it’s a wild tale!” Reyn’s denial of Grag’s interruption was fierce. “Don’t ask me questions and don’t look skeptical. Just listen.” Swiftly he recounted all that had happened that day. At the end of his tale, he lifted his veiled eyes to challenge Grag’s incredulous stare. “If you don’t believe me, ask the Kendry. The ship saw the dragon as well. It . . . changed him. He has been morose since then, constantly seeking his captain’s approval and closeness. We have been concerned for him.”
In a softer voice, Reyn went on, “I never saw Malta again. They’re dead, Grag. There was no plot to steal the Satrap from Trehaug. Only a girl, trying to survive an earthquake. She didn’t succeed. We searched the whole length of the river, twice. There was no sign of them. The river ate the boat and they perished in the water. It’s a horrible way to drown.”
“Sa’s breath.” Grag shuddered. “Reyn, you’re right, I didn’t know. In Bingtown, all we’ve heard are conflicting rumors. We heard that the Satrap was missing or dead in the quake. Then a rumor started that the Vestrits had stolen him to sell him to the Chalcedeans or let the New Traders kill him. Ronica Vestrit has been hiding here with us. Caern has put it about that she must be captured and held. At any other time, we would have urged Ronica to go to the Council and demand that they hear her. But lately, there have been some ugly reprisals against folk that Roed Caern has accused of being traitors. I don’t know why the Companion trusts him so. It’s dividing the Bingtown Council, for some say we must listen to her as the Satrap’s representative, while my father and I feel it is time Bingtown kept its own counsel.”
He took a breath. Gently, as if fearing his words would injure Reyn more, he added, “Roed has been saying that the Vestrits plotted with the Chalcedeans. He says that maybe pirates never took their liveship, but hints that Kyle Haven has been part of his ‘conspiracy,’ that maybe he took Vivacia up the Rain Wild River to pick up the Satrap and Malta. Well, too many of us know the lie of that, so he changed his tune, and said it didn’t have to be a liveship, maybe it was a Chalcedean ship.”
“Roed’s a fool,” broke in Reyn. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. We’ve had ships, Chalcedean and others, try to come up the river. The river eats them. They try all the tricks we know don’t work: they grease their hulls or tar them. One ship was even shingled with baked clay.” Reyn shook his veiled head. “They all perish, some fast, some slow. Besides, there have been liveships on patrol at the mouth of the Rain Wild River since this all started. They’d have been seen.”
Grag grimaced. “You have more faith in our patrols than I do. There has been an onslaught of Chalcedean ships. We chase them out of the harbor, and while we are gone, another wave comes in. I’m surprised you got past them as easily as you did.”
Reyn shrugged. “You’re right, I suppose. When the Kendry came out of the river mouth, there were no other liveships about. We sighted several Chalcedean vessels on our way here, however. Most gave us a wide berth; liveships have a reputation now, thanks to your Ophelia. One Chalcedean ship seemed interested in us last night, but Kendry soon left it behind.”
A moment of silence fell between them. Reyn turned his back on Grag and peeled off his wet shirt. As he shrugged into a dry one, Grag said, “There is so much happening, I can’t grasp it all. A dragon? Somehow, it is easier to believe in a dragon than to believe Malta is dead. When I think of her, I can only see her as she looked that night in your arms on the dance floor.”
Reyn closed his eyes. A small white upturned face stared at him from a tiny boat shooting down the river. “I envy you that,” he said quietly.
“YOU ARE THE TRADER FOR THE VESTRITS. YOU DECIDE FOR THE family. If you do not wish to be involved in this, I understand. But as for myself, I remain here.” Ronica took a breath. “I stand here as myself only. But know, Keffria, that if you decide to go to the Bingtown Council, I will stand with you there, also. You would have to be the one to present our view there. The Bingtown Council would not let me speak on the matter of Davad’s death. They will surely refuse to hear me on this. Nevertheless, I will stand by you while you speak. And accept the consequences.”
“And I would say what?” Keffria demanded wearily. “If I tell them that I don’t know what became of Malta, let alone the Satrap, it sounds like a deception.”
“You have one other alternative. You and Selden can flee Bingtown. You might be left at peace in Inglesby for a time. Unless someone decided to win favor with Serilla and Caern by hunting you down there.”
Keffria leaned her forehead into her hands. Heedless of how it might look to the others, she rested her elbows on the table. “Bingtown is not like that. It won’t come to that.” She waited for someone to agree, but no one spoke. She lifted her head and looked at the grave faces that confronted her.
Too much was happening too fast. They had allowed her time to bathe, and she was dressed in a fresh gown from one of the Tenira women. She’d had a simple meal in her room, and then she had been summoned down to this gathering. She had had little time with her mother. “Malta’s dead,” she had said to her as her mother hugged her in greeting. Ronica had stiffened in Keffria’s arms and closed her eyes, and when she had opened them, Keffria had seen the grief in her mother’s eyes over the death of her wayward granddaughter. It glittered there like ice, cold and immutable, too solid for tears. For a brief time, they shared sorrow, and oddly that had healed much of the rift between them.
But whereas Keffria wanted to huddle somewhere until this incomprehensible pain passed, her mother insisted that they go on living. For her, that meant fighting as well, fighting for Bingtown and Selden’s future. Ronica had accompanied her to her room and helped her change into the dry clothes. While she did so, she spoke hurriedly of Bingtown. The words had rattled and flown past Keffria’s ears: a breakdown of the Bingtown Council’s ability to rule. Roed Caern and a handful of other young Traders terrorizing families that did not agree with his ideas. A need to create a new governing body for Bingtown, one that encompassed all the folk who lived there. A lecture on politics was the last thing Keffria wanted or needed just now. She had nodded numbly, repeatedly, until Ronica had departed to confer with Jani Khuprus. There had been a brief time of peace and solitude. Then Keffria had descended, Selden at her side, to find this mixed company of folk in the grand hall of the Tenira mansion.
It was an odd gathering around Naria Tenira’s great table. The Tenira family filled one set of chairs. Seated next to them, in a row, were representatives from at least six Trader families. Keffria recognized Devouchet and Risch. The others she did not know by name; the introductions had eluded her weary brain. Two women and a man with tattooed faces filled the next chairs, and beside them sat four folk who, by their garb, were Three Ships immigrants. Reyn and Jani Khuprus came next, and completing the circle were the three remaining Vestrits. Keffria found herself at Naria Tenira’s left hand. The Trader woman had insisted that Selden be seated at the table and admonished the boy to pay great attention. “This is your future unfolding, lad. You’ve a right to witness how it comes into being.”
Initially, Keffria had thought that Naria was merely trying to include the boy and reassure him he was still important. Since they had left Trehaug, Selden had grown clingy and withdrawn. He seemed a much younger child than the boy who had swiftly adapted to the treetop city. Now she wondered if Trader Tenira’s words were not prophetic. Selden sat listening to it all with a rare concentration. Keffria looked at her young son as she conceded, “I am too tired to run anymore. We have to face whatever comes.”
“You need to do more than face it,” Naria corrected her. “You need to challenge it. Half of Bingtown is so busy huddling in the ruins that they don’t perceive the power that Serilla and her toady Caern have seized. We made a fine start of restoring order. Then, things began to happen. Trader Dwicker called a meeting. He had heard a rumor that Serilla was treating with the New Traders regarding a truce, bypassing the Bingtown Council completely. The entire Council condemned it. Caern denied it, on Serilla’s behalf. That was when we saw how close they had become.” She paused and took a breath. “Dwicker was found later, so badly beaten that he never spoke again before he died. Another Council head had his barn set on fire. New Traders or slaves were blamed both times, but there are other, darker, rumors about town.”
A slave spoke up. “You hear how it affects Bingtown Traders. Worse things have been done to Tattooed families,” she said grimly. “Folk have been beaten, simply for going out to barter or buy food. Families have been burned out. We are blamed for every crime in Bingtown, and given no chance to prove innocence. Caern and his cohorts are known and feared by all. New Trader families who are less able to defend themselves have been attacked in their homes. Fires are set in the night, and the fleeing folk, even children, are ambushed. A cowardly, sneaky way to wage a war. We have no love for the New Traders who enslaved us, but neither do we wish to be a party to the slaughter of children.” She met the eyes of the Traders at the table. “If Bingtown cannot bring Caern and his thugs under control soon, you will lose all opportunity to ally with the Tattooed. The rumors we hear are that the Bingtown Council supports Caern. That once Bingtown Traders are in full command of the town, we will be shipped out with the New Traders, driven forth from Bingtown and back into slavery.”
Ronica shook her head. “We have become a ghost town ruled by rumors. The latest rumor is that Serilla has appointed Roed as the head of a new Bingtown Guard and that he has called a secret meeting with the remaining leaders of the Bingtown Traders’ Council. Tonight. If we reach consensus today, we will all be there, to put an end to such nonsense, and an end to Caern’s brutality. When have secret meetings ever been part of Bingtown’s government?”
The red-bearded Three Ships man spoke up. “All the doings of the Bingtown Traders’ Council have always been secret from us.”
Keffria looked at him, puzzled. “That is how it has always been. Trader business is for Traders,” she explained simply.
His ruddy color heightened. “But running the whole town is what you claim as Trader business. That’s what forces Three Ships folk to the edge, and keeps us there.” He shook his head. “If you want us on your side, then it has to be by your side. Not outside a wall, nor on a leash.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. A deep unrest was building in her. Bingtown as she had known it was being dismantled, and the folk in this room seemed intent on speeding the process along. Had her mother and Jani Khuprus gone mad? Would they save Bingtown by destroying it? Were they seriously considering sharing power with former slaves and fishermen?
Jani Khuprus spoke quietly. “I know my friend Ronica Vestrit shares your feelings. She has told me that the folk of Bingtown with similar goals must ally, regardless of whether they are Trader or not.” She paused, turning her veiled face to survey all the folk at the table. “With great respect for those here, and for the opinions of dear friends, I do not know if that is possible. The bonds between the Bingtown Traders and the Rain Wild Traders are old and secured with blood.” She paused. Her shoulders rose and fell in an eloquent shrug. “How can we offer that loyalty to others? Can we demand it in return? Are your groups willing to forge that strong a bond and abide by it as we have, not just binding ourselves, but binding our children’s children’s children?”
“That depends.” Sparse Kelter, that was the bearded man’s name, Keffria suddenly recalled. He glanced at the slaves at the table as if this was something they had already discussed. “We would make demands in return for our loyalty. I may as well lay them on the table now. They’re simple, and you folks can say yea or nay. If the answer is nay, there’s no sense my wasting a tide’s fishing here.”
Keffria was suddenly reminded of her own father and his reluctance to waste time on mincing words.
Kelter waited and when no one opposed him, he spoke. “Land for everyone. A man should own the spot his house stands on, and I’m not talking a patch of beach barely out of the tide’s reach. Three Ships folk are sea folk. We don’t ask much more than enough space for a proper house, some ground for a chicken to scratch in, some greens to sprout and a place to mend our nets. But those that have a bent to farming or beasts will need more than that.”
He was still looking around the table to see how this would be received when a Tattooed woman spoke. “No slavery,” she said huskily. “Let Bingtown become a place slaves can flee to, and not fear being turned back to their masters. No slavery, and land for those of us who are already here.” The woman hesitated, then surged on determinedly. “And each family gets a vote in the Bingtown Council.”
“Council votes have always gone with land ownership,” Naria Tenira pointed out.
“But where did that bring us? To here, to this mess. When the New Traders claimed votes based on land they’d purchased from financially wounded Traders, we were foolish enough to grant them. If it hadn’t been for the Traders’ Council, they’d be running Bingtown already.” Devouchet’s soft deep voice somehow kept his words from sounding offensive.
“We kept the Bingtown Traders’ Council separate before,” Keffria offered. These people were swaying her, but something, she felt, must be held back for Selden. She could not stand by and let being a Bingtown Trader become merely an empty title. “Could not we do that again? Have one Council where all landowners vote, and a separate one for the Bingtown Traders only?”
Sparse Kelter crossed his arms on his chest. The woman beside him looked so like him, she must be some relation, Keffria decided. “Do that, and we all know where the true power would remain,” he said quietly. “No leashes. A fair say in Bingtown.”
“We’ve heard what you ask, but not what you offer,” another Trader spoke. Keffria admired the way he had sidestepped Kelter’s observation, but at the same time she wondered what they were doing. What was the sense of asking any of these questions? No one here had the power to make a binding decision.
Sparse Kelter spoke again. “We offer honest hands and strong backs and knowledge, and we ask the same. Let us stand on an equal footing with you to share the work of rebuilding Bingtown. We offer to help defend her, not just from pirates and Chalcedeans, but from Jamaillia itself if need be. Or do you think the Pearl Throne will let you slip its leash and speak not a word to rebuke you?”
The full realization of what they were discussing suddenly settled on Keffria. “We are talking about separating Bingtown completely from Jamaillia? About standing on our own, alone, between Jamaillia and Chalced?”
“Why not?” Devouchet demanded. “The idea has been broached before, Trader Vestrit. Your own father often spoke of it privately. We will not have a better chance than this. For better or worse, the Satrap has perished. The Pearl Throne is empty. The birds we’ve had from Jamaillia speak of civil unrest, rioting by the Jamaillian army over unpaid wages, an uprising by the slaves and even a Condemnation of State from the Temple of Sa in Jamaillia. The Satrapy is rotten. When they discover that the Satrap is dead, the nobles there will be too busy scrabbling for power in Jamaillia to pay any mind to what we do. They have never treated us as equals. Why not break free now, and make Bingtown a place where folk begin anew, all men standing on an equal footing?”
“And all women, too.” She must be Sparse’s daughter, thought Keffria. Even her voice echoed his in tone.
Devouchet looked at her in surprise. “It was but a manner of speaking, Ekke,” he said mildly.
“A manner of speaking becomes a manner of thinking.” She lifted her chin. “I am not here simply as Sparse Kelter’s daughter. I’ve a boat and nets of my own. If this alliance comes to pass, I’ll want land of my own. Three Ships folk know that what a person has for a mind is more important than what is between their legs. Three Ships women will not give up our place alongside our men simply to say we are part of Bingtown now. That, too, must be understood.”
“That is only common sense,” Grag Tenira asserted smoothly. He smiled warmly at the Three Ships woman as he added, “Look about this table, and see who speaks here. Bingtown has a long tradition of strong women. Some of the strongest are seated here today. That tradition will not change.”
Ekke Kelter leaned back in her chair. She returned Grag’s smile easily. “I just wanted to hear those words spoken aloud here,” she confirmed. She nodded to Grag, and for an instant, Keffria wondered if there was an understanding between them. Had Ekke spoken her piece knowing that Grag Tenira would take her side? Did Grag Tenira count her, Keffria, as one of those strong women? But as swiftly as her interest had been piqued, it faltered. She took a breath and spoke her thoughts.
“What do we do here? We talk of agreements, but none of us has the power to make these agreements binding on all Bingtown.”
Her own mother contradicted her. “We have as much power as anyone in Bingtown these days. More than the Traders’ Council has, for we do not fear to wield it. They dare not meet without asking Serilla’s opinion. And she dares not give it without looking to Caern.” She smiled grimly at her daughter. “There are more of us, Keffria, than just those you see here. More could not gather for fear of drawing attention. One of the Council heads sides with us; he told us of the secret meeting. After tonight, we shall not fear to gather openly. Our strength comes from our diversity. Those of us who were made slaves have an intimate knowledge of the New Traders and their holdings. The New Traders hope to hold what they have taken with folk they have tattooed. Once the Tattooed are freed, will they fight for their masters? I doubt it. When the New Traders are stripped of their slaves, their number is greatly reduced. Nor do they defend home and family as we do; their homes and their legitimate families are in Jamaillia. They have brought their mistresses and bastards to share the risks of living on the Cursed Shores, not their legitimate heirs. With Jamaillia in a civil uproar, the New Traders won’t get help from that quarter. Many will rush back to Jamaillia to defend ancestral holdings there.
“There are also the pirates to consider. Eventually, Jamaillia may send an army against us to master us once more, but first it must make its way through the Pirate Isles. Well do I know to my own sorrow that that is not an easy journey these days.”
“Are you saying the New Traders are no threat to Bingtown?” Jani Khuprus asked incredulously.
Ronica smiled bitterly. “Less of a threat than some would have us believe. Our first danger comes from those within our town who seek to corrupt the Traders and our ways. Tonight, we will defeat them. After that, the real danger will come from the usual source: Chalced. While Jamaillia is fighting internal battles and we chase one another through the streets with swords, Chalced has the opportunity to sweep in and subdue Bingtown.” Again, her gaze swept the folk seated around the table. “But if we rally ourselves, we can stand them off. We have Trader ships, liveships and the working vessels of the Three Ships families. We know our waters better than anyone else.”
“You are still talking about a single city-state standing against all of Chalced. And possibly Jamaillia.” Another of the Bingtown Traders spoke. “We might hold them off for a while, but in the long run they could starve us out. We’ve never been completely self-sufficient. And we must have markets for our trade goods.” He shook his head. “We must retain our bond with Jamaillia, even if it means compromising with the New Traders.”
“There must be some compromises with the New Traders,” Ronica agreed. “Not all will simply leave. Compromises should include trade agreements with Jamaillia for fair and open trade. But those compromises must be on our terms, not theirs. No more tariff ministers. No more tariffs.” She looked around the table for support.
“Not compromise with New Traders. Ally.” Startled eyes turned to Keffria. She could scarcely believe it was herself speaking, yet she knew her words made sense. “We should invite them to stand with us tonight when we break into Serilla’s secret meeting with the Council heads.” She took a breath and crossed a line. “Ask them, boldly, to break with Jamaillia, stand with us and take up our ways. If Bingtown is to be one, then we must be one today. Now. We should send word to that friend of Davad’s . . . what was his name? Mingsley. He seemed to have sway with his fellows.” She firmed her voice. “A united Bingtown is our only hope against both Chalced and Jamaillia. We have no other allies.”
A daunted silence followed her words.
“Maybe the dragon would help us.” Selden’s piping tenor voice was startling.
All eyes turned to her son, sitting so straight on his chair. His eyes were wide-open, but he looked at no one. “The dragon could protect us from Jamaillia and Chalced.”
An embarrassed silence fell. Reyn spoke at last, his voice heavy with emotion. “The dragon cares nothing for us, Selden. She showed that when she let Malta perish. Forget her. Or rather, remember her with contempt.”
“What is this about a dragon?” Sparse Kelter demanded.
Gently, Naria observed, “Young Selden has been through a great deal of late.”
The boy’s jaw firmed. “Don’t doubt me. Do not doubt her. I have been carried in her claws, and looked down on our world. Do you know how small we truly are, how pitiful are even our greatest works? I have felt her heart beating. When she touched me, I realized there could be something beyond good and evil. She . . . transcends.” He stared, unseeing. “In my dreams, I fly with her.”
A silence followed his words. The adults exchanged glances, some amused, some pitying, some annoyed at this interruption to their business. It stung Keffria to see her son treated so. Had not he been through enough?
“The dragon was real,” Keffria declared. “We all saw it. And I agree with Selden. The dragon may change everything.” Her words shocked them but the look Selden gave her was worth it. She could not recall the last time her son had looked at her with such shining eyes.
“I don’t doubt that dragons are real,” Sparse hastily interjected. “I saw some myself, a few years back when sailing far to the north. They flew over, like jewels winking in the sun. Buckkeep mustered them against the Outislanders.”
“That old tale,” someone muttered, and Sparse glowered at him.
“This dragon is the last of her kind. She hatched in the collapsing ruins of the Elderling city, just before the swamp swallowed it,” Reyn stated. “But she is no ally of ours. She is a treacherous and selfish creature.”
Keffria looked around the circle of faces. Disbelief loomed large. Pink-faced, Ekke Kelter suggested, “Perhaps we should return to discussing the New Traders.”
Her father slapped the table with a broad palm. “No. I can see now that I need the whole telling of what went on in the Rain Wilds. Long have we been kept ignorant of what is up that river. Let this be the first sign of openness from the Bingtown Traders to their new allies. I want a full telling of this dragon tale, and how Malta Vestrit and the Satrap perished.”
A heavy silence followed his words. Only the turning of their veiled heads revealed that Reyn and his mother conferred. All the other Traders at the table kept the silence of their ancestors. It was a mistake, Keffria knew. But even knowing that, she could not change it. The Rain Wild must choose to reveal itself, or remain hidden. Reyn leaned back. He crossed his arms on his chest.
“Very well, then,” Sparse Kelter declared heavily. He set his wide, work-reddened hands to the table and pushed his chair back to rise.
Selden glanced up at Keffria, gave her hand a quick squeeze, and suddenly stood beside his chair. It did not make him much taller, but the look on his face demanded recognition. “It all began,” Selden’s young voice piped, “when I told Malta I knew a secret way to get into the Elderling city.”
All eyes went to the boy. He met Sparse Kelter’s astonished gaze. “It’s my story as much as anyone’s. Bingtown Trader and Rain Wild Trader are kin. And I was there.” The look he gave Reyn defied him. “She’s my dragon as much as yours. You may have turned on her, but I have not. She saved our lives.” He took a breath. “It’s time to share our secrets, so we can all survive.” The boy’s glance swept the table.
With a sudden motion, Reyn threw back his veil. He pushed back his cowl as well and shook free his dark, curly hair. He looked with shining copper eyes from face to face at the table, inviting each of them to stare at the scaling that now outlined his lips and brows and the ridge of pebbled skin that defined his brow. When he looked at Selden, respect was in his eyes. “It began much farther back than my young kinsman’s memory,” he said quietly. “I suppose I was about half Selden’s age the first time my father took me to the dragon’s chamber far underground.”