Ship of Magic. Робин Хобб
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shook her head reluctantly as she set the poppy milk down. ‘But she should not be much longer. We have had word from the monastery that Wintrow is on his way home to us.’ She offered these last words brightly, but Ephron only turned his head slowly against the pillow.
‘What will he do? Look solemn and beg an offering for his monastery before he leaves? I gave up on that boy when his mother sacrificed him to Sa.’ Ephron closed his eyes and breathed for a time. He did not open his eyes before he spoke again. ‘Damn that Kyle. He should have been back weeks ago… unless he’s taken her to the bottom, and Althea, too. I knew I should have put the ship in Brashen’s hands. Kyle’s a good enough captain, but it takes Trader blood to truly feel the ways of a liveship.’
Ronica felt the blush rise in her cheeks. It shamed her to have her husband speak so of their son-in-law in Davad’s presence. ‘Are you hungry, Ephron? Or thirsty?’ she asked to change the subject.
‘Neither.’ He coughed. ‘I’m dying. And I’d like my damned ship here so I can die on her decks and quicken her, so my whole damned life won’t have been for nothing. That’s not much to ask for, is it? That the dream that I was born to fulfil should be played out as I’ve always planned it?’ He took a ragged breath. ‘The poppy, Ronica. The poppy now.’
She measured the syrupy medicine into a spoon. She held it to Ephron’s mouth and he swallowed it without complaint. Afterwards he took a breath and motioned at his water jug. He drank from the cup in small sips, then lay back against his pillows with a wheezing sigh. Already the lines on his forehead were loosening, his mouth getting slacker. His eyes wandered to Davad, but it was not to him he spoke.
‘Don’t sell anything, my love. Bide your time as best you can. Let me but die on the decks of my ship, and I’ll see the Vivacia serves you well. She and I will cut the waves as no ship ever has before, swift and true. You’ll lack for nothing, Ronica. I promise you. Just stay your course, and all will go well.’
His voice was winding down, going deeper and slower on each word. She held her own breath as he took another gulp of air. ‘Hold your course,’ he repeated, but she did not think he spoke to her. Perhaps the poppy had already carried his dreaming mind back to the deck of his beloved ship.
She felt the hated tears rising and fought them back. They struggled against her determination, choking her until the pain in her throat almost stopped her breath. She gave a sideways glance at Davad. He hadn’t the courtesy to turn his stare away, but at least he had the grace to be uncomfortable. ‘His ship,’ she found herself saying bitterly. ‘Always his damned ship; that was all he ever cared about.’ She wondered why she would rather that Davad believed she cried over that instead of Ephron’s death. She sniffed, horribly loud, then gave in and found her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
‘I should be going,’ Davad realized belatedly.
‘Must you?’ Ronica heard herself replying reflexively. She found the discipline appropriate to her position. ‘Thank you so much for dropping in. Let me at least walk you to the door,’ she added, before Davad could change his mind about leaving.
She rose and tugged a light cover over Ephron. He muttered something about the topsail. Davad took her arm as they left the sickroom, and she forced herself to tolerate that courtesy. She blinked as she left the dimness of the sickroom behind her. She had always been proud of her bright and airy home; now the clear sunlight that flooded in the generous windows seemed harsh and glaring. She averted her eyes from the atrium as they passed it. Once it had been her pride and joy; now, bereft of her attentions, it was a desolate wasteland of browning vines and sprawling, straggling plant life. She tried to promise herself that after Ephron had finished dying she’d have time to attend to it once again, but suddenly that thought seemed vile and traitorous, as if she were hoping her husband would soon die so that she could take care of her garden.
‘You are quiet,’ Davad observed bluntly. In truth, she had forgotten him despite his arm linked with hers.
Before she could formulate a polite apology, he added gruffly, ‘But as I recall, when Dorill died, there was really nothing left to talk about to anyone.’ He turned to her as they reached the great white door and surprised her by taking both her hands in his. ‘If there is anything I can do… and I truly mean anything… will you let me know?’
His hands were damp and sweaty, his breath smelled of his over-spiced lunch, but the worst part was the absolute sincerity in his eyes. She knew he was her friend, but at that moment all she could see was what she might become. When Dorill had been alive, Davad had been a powerful man in Bingtown, a sharp Trader, well-dressed and prosperous, hosting balls at his great house, flourishing not only in his businesses but socially. Now his great house was only a collection of dusty, ill-kempt rooms presided over by unsupervised and dishonest servants. Ronica knew that she and Ephron were one of the few couples that still included Davad when they issued invitations to balls or dinners. When Ephron was gone, would she be like Davad, a social left-over, a widow too old to court and too young to seat in a quiet corner? Her fear came out as a sudden bitterness.
‘Anything, Davad? Well, you could always pay off my debts, harvest my fields, and find a suitable husband for Althea.’ She heard her own words in a sort of horror and watched Davad’s eyes widen so far that they almost bulged at her. Abruptly she pulled her hands free of his moist clasp. ‘I’m sorry, Davad,’ she said sincerely. ‘I don’t know what possessed me to…’
‘Never mind,’ he interrupted her hastily. ‘You’re talking to the man who burned his wife’s portrait, simply so that I wouldn’t have to look at what I couldn’t see. At times like these, one says and does things that… never mind, Ronica. And I did, truly, mean anything. I’m your friend, and I’ll see what I can do to help you.’
He turned and hurried away from her, down a white stone walkway to where his saddle-horse waited. Ronica stood watching as he mounted the beast awkwardly. He lifted one hand in farewell and she waved in return. She watched him ride off down the drive. Then she lifted her eyes to look out over Bingtown. For the first time since Ephron had been taken ill, she truly looked at the town. It had changed. Her own home, like many of the old Trader homes, was on a gentle hill above the harbour basin. Through the trees below, she could catch glimpses of the cobbled streets and white stone buildings of Bingtown, and beyond them the blue of Trader Bay. She could not see the Great Market from here, but she trusted it bustled on with the same trust she gave to the rising of the sun. The broad paved streets of it echoed the gentle horseshoe curve of the bay. Open and airy was the Great Market, planned out as carefully as any nobleman’s estate. Clumps of trees shaded small gardens where tables and chairs beckoned the weary buyer to relax for a time before arising to go forth and purchase more. One hundred and twenty shops with tall windows and wide doors welcomed trade from near and far. On a sunny day like today, the brightly-dyed awnings would be spread over the walkways to lure strollers closer to the merchants’ doors with their shade.
Ronica smiled to herself. Her mother and grandmother had always told her, proudly, that Bingtown did not look like a city hacked out of a wilderness on this chill and remote coast, but like any proper city in the Satrap’s dominion. The streets were straight and clean, offal and slops relegated to the alleys and drains behind the shops. Even those areas were regularly cleaned. When one left the Great Market and strolled away from the Lesser Marts, the city still presented a polished and civilized face. The houses of white stone shone in the sunlight. Orange and lemon trees flavoured the air with their fragrance, even if they did grow in tubs and have to be taken in every winter. Bingtown was the gem of the Cursed Shores, the farthest jewel of the Satrap’s cities, but still one of the brightest. Or so Ronica had always been told.
She reflected in a moment’s bitterness that she would never know, now, if her mother and grandmother had spoken truly. Once, Ephron had promised her that some day they would make a pilgrimage to holy Jamaillia City, and visit Sa’s groves and see the gleaming palace of the Satrap himself. Another dream turned to dust. She pulled her mind away from such thoughts and gazed out again over Bingtown. All there looked as it always had; a few more ships anchored in the harbour, a few more folk hastening through the streets, but that was to be expected. Bingtown had