Ship of Magic. Робин Хобб

grow,’ he reminded himself, and felt the pain ease. Wintrow went to pack a change of clothes.

      Brashen stared down at Althea in disbelief. This was the last thing he needed today, he thought inanely, and then hung onto the anger in that thought to keep the panic from his mind. He pushed the door shut and then knelt on the floor by Althea. He had entered her cabin when she had completely refused to answer his raps and then his loud knocking on her door. When he had angrily thrust the unlocked door open and strode in, he expected her to hiss and spit at him. Instead he found her sprawled on the floor of her cabin, looking for all the world like one of the fainting heroines in a penny-theatre play. Except instead of falling gracefully with her hands to cushion her face, Althea lay with her hands almost clutching at the deck, as if she strove to dig her fingers into it.

      She was breathing. He hesitated, then shook her shoulder gently. ‘Mistress,’ he began gently, then, in annoyance, ‘Althea. Wake up!’

      She moaned softly but did not stir. He glared at her. He should yell for the ship’s doctor, except he shared her feelings about having anyone make a fuss. He knew she would rather not be seen like this. At least, that had been true of the old Althea. This fainting and sprawling on the deck was as unlike her as her moping in the cabin had been on the long voyage home. Nor did he like her pallor and the bony look to her face. He glanced about the stripped cabin, then scooped her up and deposited her on the bare mattress on the bunk. ‘Althea?’ he demanded again, and this time her eyelids twitched, then opened.

      ‘When the wind fills your sails, you can cut the water like a hot knife through butter,’ she told him with a gentle smile. Her eyes were distant, transfigured, as they looked into his. He almost smiled back at her, drawn into the sudden intimacy of her soft words. Then he caught himself.

      ‘Did you faint?’ he asked her bluntly.

      Abruptly her eyes snapped into wariness. ‘I… no, not exactly. I just couldn’t stand… ’ She let her words trail off as she pushed herself up from the bed. She staggered a step, but even as he reached for her arm she steadied herself against a bulkhead. She gazed at the wall as if it presented some perfect view. ‘Have you readied a place for him?’ she asked huskily.

      He nodded. She nodded in unison with him, and he made bold to say, ‘Althea. I grieve with you. He was very important to me.’

      ‘He’s not dead yet,’ she snapped. She smeared her hands over her face and pushed her hair back. Then, as if she thought that restored her bedraggled appearance, she stalked past him, out the cabin door. After a moment he followed her. Typical Althea. She had no concept that any other person beside herself truly existed. She had dismissed his pain at what was happening as if he had offered the words out of idle courtesy. He wondered if she had ever stopped to think at all what her father’s death meant to him or to any of the crew. Captain Vestrit was as openhanded and fair a man as skippered a ship out of Bingtown. He wondered if Althea had any idea how rare it was for a captain to actually care about the well-being of his crew. No. Of course she couldn’t. She’d never shipped aboard a boat where the rations were weevily bread and sticky salt pork almost turned poison. She’d never seen a man near beaten to death by the mate’s fists simply because he hadn’t moved fast enough to a command. True enough that Captain Vestrit never tolerated slackness in any man, but he’d simply be rid of him at the next port of call; he’d never resorted to brutality. And he knew his men. They weren’t whoever happened to be standing about on the docks when he needed a crew, they were men he had trained and tried and knew to their cores.

      These men had known their captain, too, and had believed in him. Brashen knew of some who had turned down higher positions on other vessels simply to remain with Vestrit. Some of the sailors, by Bingtown standards, were too old to work a deck, but Ephron had kept them on for the experience of their years, and chose carefully the young, strong sailors he put alongside to learn from them. He had entrusted his ship to them, and they had entrusted their future to him. Now that the Vivacia was about to become hers, he hoped to Sa she’d have the morals and the sense to keep them on and do right by them. A lot of the older hands had no home save the Vivacia.

      Brashen was one of them.

       6 THE QUICKENING OF THE VIVACIA

      THEY BROUGHT HIM ABOARD on a litter. That was what made Brashen’s heart clench and sudden tears burn his eyes. In the moment that he beheld the limp form beneath the linen sheet, he grasped the full truth. His captain was coming back aboard to die. His secret hope that Ephron Vestrit was not truly that badly off, that somehow the sea air and the deck of his own ship would miraculously revive him was only a silly child’s dream.

      He stood back respectfully as Kyle supervised the men who carried his father-in-law up the gangplank. They set his litter under the canopy Brashen had improvised from canvas. Althea, as pale as if she were carved of ivory, stood there to receive him. The family trailed after him like lost sheep, to take up places around Ephron Vestrit’s litter as if they were guests and he were a laden table. His wife and elder daughter looked both panicky and devastated. The children, including an older boy, looked mostly confused. Kyle stood back from them all, a look of disapproval on his face as if he were studying a poorly-repaired sail or a badly-loaded cargo. After a few minutes, Althea seemed to break loose of her stupor. She left quietly, returning with a pitcher of water and a cup. She knelt on the deck beside her father and offered him a drink.

      In the first hint of motion that Brashen had seen from him, Ephron turned his head and managed to sip some water. Then, with a vague motion of one skeletal hand, he reminded them that he must be lifted from the pallet and placed on the deck of his ship. Brashen found himself starting forward to that gesture, as he had so often sprung to obey his captain. He was briefly aware of Kyle’s scowl before he crouched by Captain Vestrit’s pallet.

      ‘If I may, sir,’ he said softly, and waited for the half nod of both recognition and permission that he was given. Althea was suddenly beside him, slipping her arms under her father’s bony legs as Brashen himself took the bulk of the old man’s weight. Not that there was much weight to him, or even that he was all that old, Brashen reminded himself as he eased the emaciated body down to the bare planks of the deck. Instead of frowning at the hardness of the deck, the captain sighed as if some great pain had suddenly eased. His eyes flicked open and found Althea. A trace of their old spark was there as he quietly commanded her, ‘Althea. The figurehead peg.’

      Her eyes widened for an instant in a sort of horror. Then she squared her shoulders and rose to obey him. Pinched white lines formed around her mouth as she left her father’s side. Instinctively Brashen began to withdraw. Captain Vestrit would not have asked for the figurehead’s peg if he had not felt death was very near. This was a time for him to be alone with his family. But as Brashen drew back, he felt his wrist suddenly seized in a surprisingly tight grip. The captain’s long fingers dug into the flesh of his arm, and drew him back, closer. The smell of death was strong on him, but Brashen did not flinch as he lowered his head to catch his words.

      ‘Go with her, son. She’ll need your help. Stand by her through this.’ His voice was a hoarse whisper.

      Brashen nodded that he understood and Captain Vestrit released him. But as Brashen rocked back onto his heels to stand, the dying man spoke again. ‘You’ve been a good sailor, Brashen.’ He now spoke clearly and surprisingly loudly, as if he desired not just his family, but everyone to hear his words. He dragged in a breath. ‘I’ve no complaint against you nor your work.’ Another breath. ‘Could I but live to sail again, you’d be my choice for first mate.’ His voice failed on the last words, coming out as a wheeze. His eyes left Brashen’s face suddenly, to turn unerringly to where Kyle stood and glowered. He struggled, then drew in a whistling breath. ‘But I shan’t sail again. The Vivacia will never again be mine.’ His lips were going blue. He found no more air, struggle as he might. His hand knotted in a fist, made a sudden, violent gesture that would have been meaningless to any other. But Brashen leaped to his feet and dashed forward to find Althea and hurry her back to him.

      The