The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny. Robin Hobb
one of the Vestrit women wore to a social gathering. No one ever gossiped about them or put heads together behind their fans to whisper enviously. They were too respectable. And too boring.
Well, Malta had no intention of being either as staid as her matronly mother, nor as mannish as her wild Aunt Althea. Instead she intended to be mysterious and magical, shyly demure and unknowable, and yet daring and extravagant. It had been hard to express all that to the dressmaker, a disappointingly old woman who clicked her tongue over the green silk Malta brought her. ‘Sallow,’ she had said, shaking her grey head. ‘It will make you look sallow. Pinks and reds and oranges. Those are your colours.’ Her thick Durja accent made it seem like a pronouncement. Malta folded her lips and said nothing. Her father was a Trader who had seen the whole wide world. Surely he knew what colours looked best on women.
Then Fayla went on to measure her endlessly, muttering all the time through a mouthful of pins. She cut and hung paper shapes all over Malta, and paid no attention at all when Malta protested that the neck seemed too high and the skirts too short. The third time Malta objected, Fayla Cart had spat the mouthful of pins out into her own hand and glared at her. ‘You want to look like a trollop? A sallow trollop?’ she demanded.
Malta shook her head wordlessly as she tried to recall what a trollop-flower looked like.
‘Then you listen to me. I sew you a nice dress, a pretty frock. A dress your Mama and Papa happy to pay me for. Okay?’
‘But… I’ve brought the money to pay. My own money. And I want a woman’s gown, not a little girl’s frock.’ With every word she spoke, Malta became bolder.
Fayla Cart stood slowly, rubbing at her back. ‘A woman’s gown? Well, who’s going to wear this dress, you or some woman?’
‘I am.’ Malta forced her voice to stay firm.
Fayla scratched at her chin. A hair was growing out of a warty looking mole there. She shook her head slowly. ‘No. You are too young. You will only look silly. You listen to me, I make you a pretty frock. No other girl will have one like it, they will all stare and tug their mamas’ skirts and whisper about you.’
Without warning, Malta tore the paper shape loose from herself and stepped out of it. ‘I am not eager to have girls staring at me,’ she said haughtily. ‘Good day to you.’
And she left the shop, her green silk under her arm, and went down the street to find a dressmaker of her own, one that would listen to her. She tried not to wonder if Delo Trell had purposely sent her to that horrible old woman, if Delo did not think that Malta still belonged in a little girl’s starched skirts. Lately Delo had begun to give herself airs, to imply loftily that there were many things that Malta, young little Malta, simply could not understand about Delo’s life now. As if they had not been playmates since they could walk!
The young seamstress Malta chose wore her own skirts as if they were silk scarves, at once clinging and revealing her legs. She did not quibble about the colour of the fabric, nor try to hide Malta in paper. Instead she measured her swiftly and spoke of things like butterfly sleeves and how a spill of lace could flatter a young woman’s developing bosom into an illusion of fullness. Malta knew then she had chosen well, and had all but skipped home with a tale of being unable to find a free shimshay to excuse her lateness.
From that one decision of finding her own dressmaker had flowed all her good fortune. The woman had a cousin who made slippers; she sent Malta to him when she came in for the second fitting of the dress. And she would need jewellery, Territel reminded her. She pointed out to Malta that the reality of jewellery was not nearly as important as the effect it created with sparkle and shine. Cut glass would do as well as real gems, and then her budget would allow her larger and more glittering pieces. She had yet another cousin, and she came to show Malta her wares during the third fitting. When Malta returned for her final fitting, the slippers and jewellery were ready to be picked up as well. And Territel so kindly showed her how to paint her lips and eyes in the newest way, and even sold to Malta some of her own powders and skin paints. The woman could not have been kinder. ‘To have it exactly as I dreamed of is well worth every coin,’ Malta told her, and gladly gave over to her the pouch of gold that her father had provided. That had been but two days before the Harvest Ball.
It had been a feat both of nerve and creativity to smuggle the paper-wrapped gown home and successfully conceal it not only from Mama but from Nana, too. That old woman didn’t have enough to do any more. Now that Selden was old enough for tutors and didn’t need watching every minute, Nana seemed to be constantly spying on Malta. All of the ‘tidying’ she did in Malta’s chambers was no more than an excuse for going through her things. Nana was constantly asking her questions that were none of the old servant’s business. ‘Where did you get that scent? Does your mother know that you wore those earrings into town?’
In the end the solution had been simple. She directed Rache to store the wrapped gown, jewellery and slippers in her own quarters. Her grandmother had recently granted Rache a whole cottage to herself, one that gave onto the pond garden. She did not know what Rache had done to deserve this private space, but Malta found it useful that she had. No one thought anything of her spending time with Rache. After all, was not the slave woman teaching her dance-steps and body-carriage and etiquette? It was only too funny, of course, that a slave should know such things. Delo and Malta giggled about it often in the brief times they had together. Delo, of course, now thought that she was too old and womanly to be spending time with a mere girl like Malta. Well, that would change as soon as Malta presented herself at the Harvest Offering Ball.
Rache had also been the one to assist her with her dressing on the night of the Ball. Malta had not informed her ahead of time. That would have given the slave woman too much time to ponder things and then run and tattle to her grandmother or mother. Instead she had simply gone down to Rache’s cottage and asked her for the package. She had told Rache to help her dress, and the woman had complied, an odd smile on her face. Malta could see now the complete usefulness of an obedient slave. When she was fastened into the gown, she sat down before Rache’s own small mirror to don her jewellery a piece at a time, and then to carefully paint her lips and eyes. As the seamstress had shown her, she traced the outer edges of her ears and ear-lobes in the same colour as her eyelids. The effect was both exotic and alluring. The slave woman seemed completely amazed at what she was doing. She was probably astonished that Malta had such womanly skills as these.
When the shimshay that Malta had arranged earlier arrived at her door, Rache seemed only mildly alarmed. And where was her young lady off to? An evening at Kitten Shuyev’s house, Malta told her. Kitten’s mother and father had arranged a puppeteer to come and amuse her and her younger brother while they went to the Harvest Ball. It was well known that Kitten’s ankle was still quite painful since her pony had thrown her. Malta was going to go over and cheer her up. As they both had to miss the Harvest Ball, they might as well do it together.
Malta had had complete confidence in her own casual lies. Rache had been taken in completely, nodding and smiling and saying that she did not doubt at all that Kitten would be well amused. The only discomfort was the dark winter cloak that Malta had to wear over her gown on the way to the Ball. It did not go with such a fine dress. But it would not do to have dust from the street soil her dress, nor did she wish to have anyone see her before she made her entrance into the gathering. A shimshay was not exactly the traditional way to arrive at the Ball. Everyone else would be taking their carriages there, or riding their flashiest mounts. Well, there was nothing she could do about that. Her flashiest mount was the fat pony that she and Selden shared. She had begged in vain for a horse of her own. As usual, her mother had said no, that if she wanted to take the time to learn to ride properly, she could learn on her mother’s own mare. Her mother’s mare was older than Malta. Even if she had wanted to use the nag, there would be no getting a riding horse out of the stables at this hour without her mother hearing of it. Besides. Given the fluttering nature of her skirts, she did not think horseback would be seemly.
But despite it all, despite the heavy winter cloak that misted her face with perspiration on this mild night, despite the rude little song the shimshay driver seemed to think was humorous, despite the fact that she knew her mother was going to be furious