The Complete Liveship Traders Trilogy: Ship of Magic, The Mad Ship, Ship of Destiny. Robin Hobb
had a basic distrust of her, that he was not sure if she was of Sa or not. But when he put his own newly-calloused hand into hers, she closed her immense fingers around his, and they were suddenly one.
He looked through his grandfather’s eyes. Ephron had loved this harbour and this island’s folk. The shining white spires and domes of their city were all the more surprising given the smallness of their settlement. Back beneath the green eaves of the forest were where most of the Caymara folk lived. Their homes were small and green and humble. They tilled no fields, broke no ground, but were hunters and gatherers one and all. No cobbled roads led out of the town, only winding paths suitable for foot-traffic and hand-carts. They might have seemed a primitive folk, save for their tiny city on Claw Island. Here every engineering instinct was given vent and expression. There were no more than thirty buildings there, not including the profusion of stalls that lined their market street and the rough wooden buildings that fronted the waterfront for commercial trade. But every one of the buildings that comprised the white heart of the city was a marvel of architecture and sculpting. His grandfather had always allowed himself time to stroll through the city’s marble heart and look up at the carved faces of heroes, the friezes of legends, and the arches on which plants both lived and carved, climbed and coiled.
‘And you brought it here, much of the marble facing. Without you and him… oh, I see. It is almost like my windows. Light shines through them to illuminate the labour of my hands. Through your work, Sa’s light shines in this beauty…’
He was breathing the words, a sub-vocal whisper she could barely hear. Yet more mystifying than his words were the feelings he shared with her. A moving toward unity that he seemed to value above all else was what he appreciated here. He did not see the elaborately-carved façades of the buildings as works of art to enjoy. Instead, they were an expression of something she could not grasp, a coming together of ship and merchant and trading folk that had resulted not just in physical beauty but… arcforia-Sa. She did not know the word, she could only reach after the concept. Joy embodied… the best of men and nature coming together in a permanent expression… justification of all Sa had bequeathed so lavishly upon the world. She felt a soaring euphoria in him she had never experienced in any of his other kin, and suddenly recognized that this was what he missed so hungrily. The priests had taught him to see the world with these eyes, had gently awakened in him a hunger for unadulterated beauty and goodness. He believed his destiny was to pursue goodness, to find and exult it in all its forms. To believe in goodness.
She had sought to share and teach. Instead, she had been given and taught. She surprised herself by drawing back from him, breaking the fullness of the contact she had sought. This was a thing she needed to consider, and perhaps she needed to be alone to consider it fully. And in that thought she recognized yet again the full impact Wintrow was having on her.
He was given shore-time. He knew it did not come from his father, nor from Torg. His father had gone ashore hours ago, to begin the negotiations for trade. He had taken Torg with him. So the decision to grant him shore-time with the others seemed to come from Gantry, the first mate. It puzzled Wintrow. He knew the mate had full charge of all the men on board the ship, and that only the captain’s word was higher. Yet he did not think Gantry had even been fully cognizant of his existence. The man had scarcely spoken to him directly in all the time he had been aboard. Yet his name was called out for the first group of men allowed time ashore, and he found his heart soaring with anticipation. It was too good a piece of luck to question. Each time they had anchored or docked in Chalced, he had stared longingly at the shore, but had never been allowed to leave the ship. The thought of solid ground underfoot, of looking at something he had not seen before was ecstatically dizzying. Like the others fortunate enough to be in the first party he dashed below, to don his shore-clothes and run a brush through his hair and re-plait his queue. Clothes gave him one moment of indecision.
Torg had been given charge of purchasing Wintrow’s kit before they left Bingtown. His father had not trusted Wintrow with money and time in which to buy the clothes and supplies he would need for the voyage. Wintrow had found himself with two suits of canvas shirts and trousers for his crew-work, both cheaply made. He suspected that Torg had made more than a bit of profit between what coin his father had given him and what he had actually spent. He had also supplied Wintrow with a typical sailor’s shore-clothes: a loudly-striped woven shirt and a pair of coarse black trousers, as cheaply made as his deck-clothes. They did not even fit him well, as Torg had not been too particular about size. The shirt especially hung long and full on him. His alternative was his brown priest’s robe. It was stained and worn now, darned in many places, and hemmed shorter to solve the fraying and provide material for patches. If he put it on, he would once more be proclaiming to all that this was what he was, a priest, not a sailor. He would lose what ground he had gained with his fellows.
As he donned the striped shirt and black trousers, he told himself that it was not a denial of his priesthood, but instead a practical choice. If he had gone among the folk of this strange town dressed as a priest of Sa, he would likely have been offered the largesse due a wandering priest. It would have been dishonest to seek or accept such gifts of hospitality, when he was not truly come among them as a priest but only as a visiting sailor. Resolutely he set aside the niggling discomfort that perhaps he was making too many compromises lately, that perhaps his morality was becoming too flexible. He hurried to join those going ashore.
There were five of them going ashore, including Wintrow and Mild. One of them was Comfrey, and Wintrow found that he could neither keep his eyes off the man nor meet his gaze squarely. There he sat, the man who had perpetrated the coffee cup obscenity on his father, and Wintrow could not decide whether to be horrified by him or amused. He seemed a fellow of great good cheer, making one jest after another to the rest of the crew as they leaned on the oars. He wore a ragged red cap adorned with cheap brass charms and his grin was missing a tooth. When he caught Wintrow stealing glances at him, he tipped the boy a wink and asked him loudly if he’d like to tag along to the brothel. ‘Likely the girls’ll do you for half-price. Little men like you sort of tickle their fancy is what I hear.’ And despite his embarrassment, Wintrow found himself grinning as the other men laughed. He suddenly grasped the good nature behind a great deal of the teasing.
They hauled the small boat up on the beach and pulled her well above the tide line. Their liberty would only last until sundown, and two of the men were already complaining that the best of the wine and women would not be found on the streets until after that. ‘Don’t you believe them, Wintrow,’ Comfrey said comfortingly. ‘There’s plenty to be had at any hour in Cress; those two just prefer the darkness for their pleasures. With faces like those, they need a bit of shadow even to persuade a whore to take them on. You come with me, and I’ll see you have a good time before we have to be back to the ship.’
‘I’ve a few errands of my own before sundown,’ Wintrow excused himself. ‘I want to see the carvings on the Idishi Hall, and the friezes on the Heroes’ Wall.’
All the men looked at him curiously, but only Mild asked, ‘How do you know about that stuff? You been to Cress before?’
He shook his head, feeling both shy and proud. ‘No. But the ship has. Vivacia told me about them, and that my grandfather had found them beautiful. I thought I’d go see for myself.’
A total silence fell, and one of the deckhands made a tiny gesture with his left little finger that might have been an invocation of Sa’s protection against evil magic. Again Mild was the one to speak. ‘Does the ship really know everything that Cap’n Vestrit knew?’
Wintrow gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. I only know that what she chooses to share with me is very… vivid. Almost as if it became my memory.’ He halted, suddenly uncomfortable. He found that he did not want to speak about it at all. It was private, he discovered, that link between himself and Vivacia. No, more than private. An intimacy. The silence became uncomfortable again. This time Comfrey rescued them. ‘Well, fellows, I don’t know about you but I don’t get shore-time all that often. I’m for town and a certain street where both the flowers and the women bloom sweet.’ He glanced at Mild. ‘See that both you and Wintrow are back to the boat on time. I don’t want to have to come looking for you.’
‘I