Ship of Magic

Page 175

They nodded their understanding. He glanced about the room. There was something else he should do here, something he'd been intending to do. Etta stood silent, looking at him. A tiny ruby sparkled in her earlobe. “Oh, and you. ” He pointed to the last man. “See to my woman. ”

The sailor flushed red, and then white. “Yes, sir. Uh. How, sir?” Kennit shook his head angrily. He had things to do, and they bothered him with details. “Oh, take her down to the ship. Put her in my cabin for later. ” If the town considered Etta his woman, then he must put her out of casual reach. He must appear to have no vulnerabilities. He knit his brow. Was that all? Yes.

Etta dragged the sheet free of the last body. Standing straight as a queen, she wrapped the blood-stained linen around her shoulders. Kennit glanced about the room one last time, then took in his men's proud and incredulous grins. Even Sorcor was smiling. Why? Ah. The woman. They would have expected carnage like this to kill his appetite for her. That they believed it hadn't made him more of a man in their eyes. Lust had not motivated him; he did not find bruises on a woman arousing. But his supposed lust for her was what they were admiring. Well, let them think it, then. He glanced back to the blushing man. “See she is provided with warm water for a bath. Feed her. And find appropriate garments for her as well. ” He supposed this meant he'd have to keep her in his cabin. At least let her be clean, then.

His eyes returned to Sorcor's. “Well, you've got your orders,” his first mate pointed out gruffly to the smirking men. “Move!”

A round of ayes and his two runners rattled off down the stairs. The man assigned to Etta crossed the room, hesitated awkwardly, then scooped her up in his arms as if she were a large child. To Kennit's surprise, Etta wilted against him gratefully. Kennit, Sorcor, and their guards started down the stairs with the man carrying Etta coming behind them. They met Bettel on the landing. Her hands fluttered before her as she exclaimed, “Oh! You're alive!”

“Yes,” Kennit agreed.

In her next breath, she exclaimed angrily, “Do you think you're taking Etta out of here?”

“Yes,” Kennit called over his shoulder up the stairs.

“What about all these dead men?” she shrieked after him as they strode out of her house.

“Those you may keep,” Kennit replied.

Etta caught at the front door with her hand as she and her bearer passed through it. She slammed it shut behind them. .

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - MALTA

IT ALL WOULD HAVE GONE PERFECTLY IF NOT FOR THAT FAT FOOL DAVAD RESTART.

Malta had found the money under her pillow on the morning that her father left to go to sea. She recognized his cramped handwriting from the missives her mother occasionally received while her father was off trading. “For my not-so-little daughter,” Papa had written. “Green silk would suit you best. ” Inside the soft little bag had been four gold coins. She had not been sure what they were worth; they were foreign coins, from one of the lands he visited when he was trading. What Malta had been instantly certain of was that they would be enough for the most sumptuous gown that Bingtown had ever seen.

In the days that followed, whenever she had doubts, she had held the note and re-read it and assured herself that she had her father's permission to do this. Not only his permission, but his assistance: the money was proof of that. His connivance, her mother would say later, darkly.

Her mother was so predictable. As was her grandmother. Her grandmother had declined to attend the Harvest Offering Ball, citing mourning Grandfather as a reason. And that was all the excuse her mother needed to tell her that no one in the Vestrit family was going to the Ball. And thus, she said, there was to be no argument over dresses or frocks or gowns. She had Rache giving her dancing lessons now, and they were seeking a good etiquette teacher as well. In the meantime, Rache would help her with those lessons, also. And that was more than enough for now for a young girl of her age.

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

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