Ship of Magic

Page 245

“My ticket,” Althea said desperately. She lunged for it, but the captain snatched it up. She'd have to assault him to get it. “Please,” she begged him as the mate grabbed her arm.

“Get out of here and off my ship!” he growled in return. “Be damn glad I'm giving you time to pack your gear. If you don't get out of here now, I'll have you put off on the docks without it. Lying whore-bitch. How many of the crew did you sleep with to keep your secret?” he asked as the mate forced her toward the door.

None, she wanted to say angrily. None at all. But she had slept with Brashen, and though that was no one's business but hers, it would have made a lie of her denial. So, “This is not fair,” was all she could manage to choke out.

“It's fairer than your lying to me was!” Captain Sichel roared.

The mate thrust her out of the room. “Get your gear!” he growled in a savage whisper. “And if I hear so much as a rumor of this in Candletown, I'll hunt you down myself and show you how we deal with lying whores. ” The push he gave her sent her stumbling across the deck. She caught her balance as he slammed the door behind him. She swayed with the strength of her anger and disappointment as she stared at the slab of wood that had closed between her and her ticket. None of it seemed real. The months of hard work, and all for what? The handful of coins that was all a ship's boy was worth. She would have gladly given them all back, and everything else she owned for the scrap of leather that he was, no doubt, cutting up even now. As she turned slowly away, she caught Reller staring at her. He raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“They've turned me off the ship,” she said briefly. It was true and the simplest explanation.

“What for?” the sailor demanded, following her as she headed towards the forecastle to gather her meager belongings.

She just shrugged and shook her head. “Don't want to talk,” she said gruffly, and hoped she sounded like an angry adolescent boy instead of a woman on the verge of hysterical tears. Control, control, control, she whispered to herself as she clambered one last time into the cramped and stuffy place she had called home all winter. It was the work of a few moments to snatch up her possessions and shove them down into her sea-bag. She swung it to her shoulder and left the ship. As her foot touched the dock, she looked around her with new eyes. Candletown. A hell of a place to be with nothing but a handful of coins and a sea-bag.

A man turned his head and stared at him oddly. Brashen glanced at him and then looked away. He realized he was striding down the street with a foolish grin on his face. He shrugged his shoulders to himself. He had a right to grin. He was proud of her. She had looked just like any tough ship's lad, standing there on the Reaper's deck. Her casual acceptance of his invitation, the cocky angle of her cap had all been perfect. In retrospect, this voyage that he had expected to kill her had actually been good for her. She'd recovered something, something he'd believed Kyle had hammered out of her once he took over as captain of the Vivacia. The lack of it was what had made her unbearable those last two voyages. It had changed her cheekiness to bitchiness, her sense of fair play to vindictiveness. On the day her father had died, he had thought that spark of the old Althea had been extinguished. He had seen no sign of it until that day on the Barrens when she was skinning out sea bears. Something had changed in her that day. The change had begun there and grown stronger, just as she herself had grown stronger and tougher. The night she had come to him in Nook, he had suddenly and completely realized that she had returned to being the old Althea. He had realized, too, how much he had missed her.

He took a deep breath of land air and liberty. His pay was in his pockets, he was free as a bird, and had the prospect of some very good company for the evening. What could be better? He began watching for the signboard of the Red Eaves. The first mate had grinned and recommended the inn to him as a clean place for a thrifty sailor when Brashen had mentioned he might spend the night ashore. The mate's smile had plainly indicated he did not expect Brashen to spend the night alone. For that matter, neither did Brashen. He caught sight of the inn's red eaves long before he saw its modest signboard.

Within, he found it clean but almost austere. There were only two tables and four benches, all sanded clean as a good ship's deck. The floors were covered with raked white sand. The fire in the hearth was built of driftwood; the flames danced in many colors. The place was empty of customers. He stood some time in the open room before a man gimped out to greet him. He was wiping his hands on his apron as he came. He looked Brashen up and down almost suspiciously before he gave him, “Good day. ”