The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny. Robin Hobb
of what her father had seen in him.
Kyle stood glowering. His eyes went around the circle of mourners, but Althea knew he was just as aware of the outer circle of crew-members, and even of the folk who had come down to the docks to see a liveship quicken. In the end, he decided to ignore Brashen’s words.
‘Wintrow!’ he commanded in a voice that snapped like a lash. ‘Take the peg and quicken the ship.’
All eyes swung to the boy. His face blanched and his eyes became huge. His mouth shook and then he firmed his lips. He took a deep breath. ‘It is not my right.’
He did not speak loudly, but his young voice carried well.
‘Damn it, are you not as much Vestrit as Haven? It is your right, the ship shall be yours some day. Take the peg and quicken it.’
The boy looked at him without comprehension. When he spoke, his voice teetered and then cracked high on the words. ‘I was given to be a priest of Sa. A priest can own nothing.’
A vein began to pound in Kyle’s temple. ‘Sa be damned. Your mother gave you, not I. And I hereby take you back. Now take this peg and quicken the ship!’ As he spoke, he had stepped forwards, to seize his eldest by the shoulder. The boy tried not to cower away from him, but his distress was plain. Even Keffria and Ronica looked shocked by Kyle’s blasphemy, as well they might be. Althea’s grief seemed to have stepped back from her, leaving her numbed but oddly sensitized. She watched these strangers who shouted and squabbled with one another while an unburied man slowly stiffened at their feet. A great clarity seemed to have come into her mind. She knew, with abrupt certainty, that Kefffia had known nothing of Kyle’s intentions regarding Wintrow. The boy obviously had not; the shock on his face was too great as he stood staring in confusion at the silky grey peg his father thrust into his hands.
‘Now!’ Kyle commanded, and as if the boy were five instead of on the brink of manhood, he turned him and propelled him down the deck. The others drifted after him like wreckage bobbing in a ship’s wake. Althea watched them go. Then she crouched down, to clasp in her own her father’s cooling hand. ‘I am glad you are not here to see this,’ she told him gently. She tried unsuccessfully to close the lids of his staring eyes. After several attempts, she gave up and left him staring up at the canvas canopy.
‘Althea. Get up.’
‘Why?’ She did not even turn to Brashen’s command.
‘Because…’ he paused, fumbling, then went on, ‘because they can take the ownership of the ship from you, but that does not excuse you from what you owe the ship. Your father asked me to help you through this. He would not want the Vivacia to quicken and see only strangers’ faces.’
‘Kyle will be there,’ she said dully. The hurt was coming back. Brashen’s blunt words had wakened it again.
‘She will not know him. He is not the blood of her family. Come.’
She looked down at the still body. Death was working swiftly, sinking her father’s features into lines and planes he had never worn in life. ‘I don’t want to leave him here alone.’
‘Althea. That’s not the captain, it’s just his body. He’s gone. But the Vivacia is still here. Come. You know you have to do this; do it well.’ He leaned down, putting his face near her ear. ‘Head up, girl. The crew is watching.’
She rose reluctantly to his last words. She looked down at her father’s sagging face and tried to meet his eyes one last time. But he was looking past her now, looking into the infinite. She squared her shoulders and held up her head. Very well, then.
Brashen offered his arm, as if he were escorting her into Bingtown’s Presentation Ball. Without thinking, she placed her hand lightly on his forearm as she had been schooled and allowed him to guide her to the bow of the ship. Something about the formality of his walking her there restored her. As she drew near and overheard Kyle’s savagely low tones of anger, it touched a spark off in her as if it were flint against steel. He was berating Wintrow.
‘It’s simple, boy. There’s the hole, there’s the peg, here’s the catch. Push the catch to one side and shove the peg in the hole and release the catch. That’s all. I’ll hold onto you. You needn’t fear that you’ll fall into the bay, if that’s what’s cowing you.’
The boy’s voice rose in reply, too high still, but gentle, not weak. ‘Father. I did not say I could not. I said I would not. I do not feel it is my right, nor proper as a servant of Sa for me to make this claim.’ Only a slight tremor at the end of this speech revealed how difficult it was for the boy to keep his aplomb.
‘You’ll do as I damned well tell you,’ Kyle growled. Althea saw his hand lift in the familiar threat of a blow, and heard Keffria gasp out, ‘Oh, Kyle, no!’
In two strides, Althea was suddenly between Kyle and the boy. ‘This is not a fitting way for any of us to behave on the day of my father’s death. Nor is it a proper way to treat the Vivacia. Peg or no, she is quickening. Would you have her awaken to quarrelling voices and discord?’
And Kyle’s answer betrayed his total ignorance of all a liveship was. ‘I’d have it awaken in any way it can be managed.’
Althea took breath for an angry retort, but then heard Brashen’s whisper of awe. ‘Oh, look at her!’
All eyes swung to the figurehead. From the foredeck, Althea could not see that much of her face, but she could see the paint flaking away from the wizardwood carving. The locks of hair shone raven under the peeling gilt paint, and the sanded flesh had begun to flush pink. The silken fine grain of the wizardwood still remained, and always would, nor would the wood ever be as soft and yielding as human flesh. Yet it was unmistakable that life now pulsed through the figurehead, and to Althea’s heightened awareness, the entire ship rode differently on the quiet waves of the harbour. She felt as she imagined a mother must feel the first time she beholds the life that has grown within her.
‘Give me the peg,’ she heard herself say quietly. ‘I’ll quicken the ship.’
‘Why?’ Kyle asked suspiciously, but Ronica intervened.
‘Give her the peg, Kyle,’ she commanded him quietly. ‘She’ll do it because she loves the Vivacia.’
Later Althea would recall her mother’s words, and they would rouse hate in her to a white-hot heat. Her mother had known all she felt, and still she had taken the ship from her. But at that moment, she only knew that it pained her to see the Vivacia caught between wood and life, suspended so uncomfortably. She could see the distrust on Kyle’s face as he grudgingly offered her the peg. What did he think she would do, throw it overboard? She took it from him and bellied out on the bowsprit to reach the figurehead. She was just a trifle short of being able to reach it safely. She hitched herself forward another notch, teetering dangerously in her awkward skirts, and still could not quite reach.
‘Brashen,’ she said, neither asking nor commanding. She did not even glance back at him, but only stayed as she was until she felt his hands clasp her waist just above her hips. He eased her down to where she could rest one hand on Vivacia’s hair. The paint flaked away from the coiling lock at her touch. The feel of the hair against her hand was strange. It gave way to her touch, but the carved locks were all of a piece rather than individual hairs. She knew a moment of unease. Then her awareness of Vivacia flooded through her, heightened as never before. It was like warmth, yet it was not a sensation of the skin. Nor was it the heat of whisky in one’s gut. This flowed with her blood and breath throughout her body.
‘Althea?’ Brashen’s voice sounded strained. She came back to herself, wondered how long she had been dangling almost upside-down. In a sleepy way she realized she had entrusted her entire weight to Brashen’s grip as she hung there. The peg was in her hand still. She sighed, and became aware of blood pounding in her face. With one hand she pushed the catch to one side; with the other she slid the peg in smoothly. When she released the catch, it seemed to vanish as if it had never been. The peg was now a permanent part of the figurehead.