As they started down the big stairway, past the portrait of the woman and her husbands, he heard Pasima ask Giliead, “How do you know which ones are wizards?”
Unable to help himself, Ilias said, “First, you get born a Chosen Vessel, then—” He cut himself off there, years of experience telling him when Giliead was about to clout him in the head in exasperation.
“There aren’t many wizards on board,” Giliead replied dryly, and left it at that.
They arrived at the cabin and found the wizard lights still on. The walk had given Ilias time to realize he was more mad at himself than anyone else. He had let himself forget that this really didn’t change anything, no matter what Karima wanted to believe. A marriage wouldn’t take away the curse mark.
He dumped his pack on one of the chairs and carried the wooden bow case into the room with the big table. He opened the case to count five goathorn bows and a bundle of sinew to string them; they had never been able to bring this many weapons along on a sea voyage before, and it was a novelty to have so many to choose from. But if they had unlimited space, they might as well take advantage of it.
Giliead brought the case containing the arrows and a set of javelins. He put it down on the table, saying nothing eloquently.
“I’ll apologize to her,” Ilias told him, hoping his tone would cut off further discussion. He picked up one of the bows, realizing it was old, the grip well-worn, the carving teasingly familiar. “Is this Ranior’s old bow?” The words were out before he could stop them, and he winced. He didn’t want Giliead to think he was using the painful past as a means to change the subject.
But Giliead only shrugged slightly, leaning one hip on the table. “No point in letting it sit in the cabinet, unused.”
The curse that had destroyed Ranior, Giliead’s father before the god, was the first curse that Giliead had ever faced. Even though the god had chosen him years before, this was the first time Giliead had felt its gift. At the time Ilias had had no idea that Ranior’s sudden violent outbursts against his family and friends were caused by a curse; he had even told Giliead that his suspicions were just wishful thinking. Ilias hadn’t realized until later that it was because deep in his heart he believed that all families turned on their children eventually, that they could teach you sheep shearing one day and take you out to die the next. He had thought Giliead lucky because it hadn’t happened until he was nearly grown.
Ilias closed the bow case, twisting the leather loop that held it shut.
The reality of the god’s choice hadn’t really sunk in before Ranior died. He knew that until then, on some level, Giliead had still thought of himself as spending his life at Andrien, taking care of the family farms for his beloved sister until he married. Ilias was damn sure that neither of them had ever thought of doing this.
Giliead ran a hand over the bow case, then straightened up. “I’m going to check on Ixion.”
Ilias nodded. “I’ll go with you.”
Giliead gave him a long look. “Why don’t you stay here and make sure the others get settled in?”
He meant, of course, stay here and stop acting like an idiot. Ilias let out his breath. “Fine.”
He reluctantly followed Giliead out into the main room. Pasima’s group looked wary of touching anything, though Danias was saying, “It’s not as strange as—” He stopped as they entered, looking at Pasima uncertainly.
Giliead nodded to her and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Pasima asked sharply.
Giliead stopped in the doorway to the little entrance hall. Ilias folded his arms, able to tell from the line of his friend’s back that he was gathering his patience. Pasima might be doing it out of nerves, though she hid it well. But Giliead was still the Chosen Vessel, and he didn’t like having his movements questioned.
Having given everyone long enough to realize he was angry, Giliead said without turning, “To make sure Ixion is still where they think he is,” and walked out.
There was a brief uncomfortable silence. Pasima dropped her bag on the floor, her mouth set in a thin line. The others looked variously affronted or uncomfortable. Ilias leaned in the doorway, thinking, Well, here we go.
Then Kias dumped his pack and sword down in the corner and dusted off his hands. He eyed the group thoughtfully, possibly evaluating the chances for a peaceful evening and deciding the prospects didn’t look good. “I’m going up to the big hall and see what’s doing.”
Arites, squatting on the floor to dig through his belongings, pulled out the bag with his writing materials and got to his feet. “I’ll go with you.”
Danias, by far the youngest member of the party, started to speak, then hesitated, looking at Pasima. She pressed her lips together, then shook her head slightly. “Go with them, if you want. Just…take care.”
At least she realizes she can’t keep them penned in here the whole voyage, Ilias thought. Arites started for the door, preoccupied with sorting through his writing supplies, but Kias threw Ilias an ironic glance. He told Pasima, “We’ll make sure he doesn’t fall overboard,” and waved Danias out the door ahead of him.
There was another uncomfortable silence. Cletia stepped close to one of the cabinets built into the wall, carefully touching a square of polished wood set into the door. Gyan let out a sigh, sinking down onto the couch. He nodded toward the doorway leading to the rest of the chamber. “There’s rooms in the back there. The larger one, you might take that.”
Cimarus and Sanior looked at Pasima as if this was a controversial suggestion and they needed her greater wisdom to properly evaluate it. Ilias rolled his eyes. Karima had never run her household as if she were the only one capable of making a rational decision; if they had looked to her for every little thing, she probably would have sent them all to go live in the woods.
Pasima nodded gravely, and the two men collected their packs. Ilias shifted out of the doorway to give them room to pass.
Cletia turned away from the cabinet. “It’s true, one of these people married…him?” she asked suddenly, her eyes midway between Gyan and Ilias.
“It’s true,” Pasima answered. Her cool eyes went to Ilias. “These people, like the Chaeans, don’t understand curse marks.”
Ilias felt his jaw set. “Maybe you could explain it to them.”
Pasima looked away, her face hardening in annoyance.
“They understand curse marks,” Gyan said, deceptively mild. Probably Pasima had forgotten his wife had died of a curse. “And as many do, they think the things are just a way to punish people clever or strong enough to survive.”
Pasima frowned, slightly embarrassed, and Cletia’s fair skin reddened. She began to busy herself with picking up her bag and carrying it into the other room. She darted a look at Ilias as she passed.
Recovering her poise, Pasima said in a softer tone, “I look forward to meeting these people.” Her eyes settled on Ilias, turning speculative. “Especially this Tremaine.”
Ilias was looking forward to that too.
As the meeting broke up, Tremaine escaped out the side door, making her way through another couple of darkened lounges and corridors, then out onto the Promenade deck. Gerard caught up with her after a few steps.
The Promenade was a roofed deck, meant to be used in any weather, with a solid wooden balustrade and huge glass windows. The Ravenna had been moving away from Cineth for some time, out to the open ocean, and the sea was dark and empty. There were no lights lit and the moonlight was barely enough for them to make their way along, but the deck was empty, the polished wooden boards stretching out the length of the great ship.
Tremaine waited for Gerard to say something but when he did speak, he only asked, “Was it safe to mention the Valiarde connection with Morane?”
“He told me it didn’t matter anymore. I don’t think he would have let me know otherwise.” For years Tremaine had known that Gerard was only one of the men who had been appointed as guardian of her and her father’s estate;
that the other was Captain of the Queen’s Guard Reynard Morane had come as something of a shock. She eyed Gerard, though it was too dark to read his expression. “You knew.”
“I suspected,” he corrected her carefully. “I knew there were strong ties between Nicholas and Reynard Morane in the past. I didn’t realize Nicholas still trusted the man to that extent.” He glanced at her. “What are you going to do?”
As always, a good question. It rather surprised her that she had the answer. “I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of the Syprians.” She shrugged, wishing it was that simple. “And fight the Gardier. What else is there to do?”
He said nothing for a long moment, their footsteps on the boards the only sound besides the wind and the ship’s movement. Then Gerard said, “I hope you realize you can call on my assistance. As your father would.”
Tremaine stopped, staring at him, but he had already turned away, going through a dark hatch back into the interior of the ship.
The cabin door was open and Tremaine wandered in, trying to look casual. Gyan sprawled comfortably on the couch and Pasima was sitting in one of the chairs. She eyed Tremaine thoughtfully, saying, “Back from your council?”
Tremaine lifted her brows. “Apparently.” She couldn’t tell what Pasima’s attitude was from her tone, but this was Visolela’s sister.
Pasima inclined her head gracefully. “Is it permitted that we know what was discussed?”
Tremaine felt herself smile blithely. This “one monarch to another” stance was going to get old rapidly. “Not much. We’re still going to Capidara to drop off the refugees, then back to Parscia to try to contact what’s left of our government. The Gardier are still evil. Oh, they have managed to talk to our Gardier prisoners a little and now we know they’re both ignorant and evil.” Her nerves were making her feel as if her head was about to explode. “If you want the longer version, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow, or ask Gerard or Ander.”
Pasima smiled. “I see.”
Gyan seemed to see it too and sat up, smoothing his rumpled shirt, saying hastily, “Giliead’s off checking on Ixion, and Ilias is back in there.” He jerked his head toward the doorway into the rest of the suite.
Tremaine nodded firmly. “Right.” Under Pasima’s critical gaze she wasn’t going to add Wish me luck. She wondered if the other woman’s presence had driven Ilias out of the room or if he was still too mad to want company. She went through the dining room, heard unfamiliar voices in the back bedroom, and turned into the other one. Ilias was sitting on the floor near the couch, braiding the leather cords on a scabbard.
As she stopped in the doorway he looked up, shaking his hair back. Before he could say anything, Tremaine blurted, “All right, I’m sorry. I was having a…” moment of self-consciousness, cowardice and anxiety, “Some sort of brain fever. Sorry?”
“It wasn’t you, it was me.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “Your people don’t get married like that, do you?”
“No, we don’t. It’s more complicated, with flowers and things.” Tremaine wandered further into the room, gesturing vaguely, too relieved to go into more coherent detail.
She sat on the floor next to him as he put the scabbard aside. Looking as if he was relieved too, he said, “For us there’s usually a party, depending on how prominent the families are. Nicanor’s mother’s family is very rich, so when he and Visolela married they gave a big festival, and most of Cineth went to it.” He reached behind him, pulling an embroidered leather bag out of the pile on the couch and handing it to her. “And there’s gifts. Karima sent this to you. She had to send someone back to Andrien for them, that’s why we were late to the harbor.”
Her brows knit, Tremaine plopped the bag into her lap. A scent puffed up from the leather, as if the contents had been stored in a place where the air was thick with incense. She undid the wooden toggle fastening and saw it seemed to be stuffed with fabric. She pulled out two shirts, one faded green and the other soft gold, and a pair of dark blue cotton pants. The hems were stamped with geometric designs and the seams reinforced with braided leather. In the bottom of the bag was a blanket, in beautifully woven blues, greens and cream, with geometric patterns meant to represent waves and Syprian galleys. She tugged it out, smoothing the fabric across her lap. “How did she know I wanted a blanket?” She noted that her voice sounded suspiciously thick.
He watched her, a faint line between his brows. “When you’re born your mother is supposed to make you a blanket. You take it with you when you leave your family. When you bring someone into your family who doesn’t have one, you give them one.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure why this should render her completely undone, but it had.
Ilias tilted his head to get a better view of her face, then nodded to himself. “It was the right thing, then. We weren’t sure.”
“Why?”
He shrugged a little, smiling. “Your people are so different.”
“Gifts are always good. So’s this.” Impulsively she put her hand in his hair and drew his head down for a kiss.
He had kissed her once before, in the Gardier base, but that had gone by too fast for her to really absorb detail. This time she could tell he tasted spicy, like Syprian wine, and his hair smelled like a cat’s, clean but with a faint animal scent underneath. Tremaine had had a series of affairs in her wild tear through the theater world but had, for some reason she couldn’t fathom at the moment, mentally filed that part of her life away as over. There had been the men who thought they were taking advantage of the naive young heiress only to find that she wasn’t so naive, and the men who were just casual acquaintances. She had told none of them about her father’s real profession or activities. None of them had been serious about her. Maybe she had drawn back from Ander not because of the gossip about the asylum but because she had sensed he was inclined to be serious.
When she pulled back Ilias suddenly demanded, “How do you say your name?”
She stared at him. “Tremaine?”
Ilias rolled his eyes. “Your family name.”
“Oh. It’s Valiarde.”
“Val—” He let out his breath in frustration. “I can’t say it.”
“Well, I—” Tremaine stared at him, struck by a sudden realization, seeing Syprian marriage customs from a different angle. “You’re nervous.” Growing up, Ilias must have thought of bringing in a large marriage settlement as his duty to the family; now, despite the curse mark, he had been able to accomplish it, and he was anxious not to mess it up.
That got her an actual glare. “No.”
Right, he’s nervous. “Wait.” She got up and found her carpetbag on the console table on the far side of the room. Clawing through it, she thought, There has to be something. She had pared her life down to the bone, but surely—In the tangle of costume jewelry at the bottom of the bag she found a ring and pulled it out, turning back to Ilias. “Here. It’s a ring my father gave me for my twelfth birthday. It’s white gold, with ‘Valiarde’ inscribed on it. Well, it’s in this script that’s impossible to read, because my father didn’t believe in wearing things that could be used to identify you, but that is what it says.” It occurred to her that that was just as well; if worse came to worst and the Gardier captured Ilias, at least the ring couldn’t be readily identified as coming from Ile-Rien.
He took it tentatively, and she realized she couldn’t recall if the Syprians wore rings or not; earrings, armbands, necklaces yes, but perhaps not rings. With her luck, finger rings probably represented some terrific social insult, not that it would fit him, anyway. “You could wear it around your neck. On a cord, I mean.”
Ilias quirked a brow at her, then gave her that warm smile. He didn’t look nervous anymore. Yes, she thought, feeling the butterflies in her stomach give way to a different kind of flutter, that was the right thing.
She realized she could hear music, someone picking out a tune on a stringed instrument in the other bedroom. It reminded her that Pasima and th
e others were still there, liable to barge or wander in at any moment. “Let’s get out of here.”
They went up the stairs past the painting of the Matriarch to the main hall. It was quieter now, but Ilias got the idea that Tremaine didn’t want to draw the attention of the few people still sitting on the couches at the center. She pulled out a bunch of keys she had tucked under her belt, looked thoughtful, then started away. “I’ve got an idea. This way.” His initial anxiety gone, Ilias was more than willing to follow her wherever she wanted to go. He thought she was heading for the enclosed deck on this level, but she took the narrow stairwell in the side wall.
The wizard lights weren’t on inside it, making it very dark indeed and impossible to see the figured metal trail signs, but Tremaine seemed to know where they were going. After they climbed up for a time she chose a door, fumbling for the handle in the dark, and Ilias helped her push it open.
“Aha, the Sun Deck,” she said as they stepped out into moonlight and a cool salt-laden breeze.
Ilias whistled in admiration of the view and stepped to the railing, surveying the dark sea stretching out to infinity. The clouds had broken up and the moon was high in the vault of stars. They were nearly at the top of the ship here, with only one more deck above them. It was hard to get used to being so high above the surface of the water, hard to believe something so tall could ride the waves without toppling over. Tremaine tugged his arm and he followed her along, still looking out at the limitless sea.
The moonlight reflecting off the polished boards was almost enough to see by, but he was glad for the metal railings. Tremaine asked suddenly, “Can Pasima tell you what to do? Give you orders?”