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The next morning, Mild came to lean on her railing while he surreptitiously tucked a small piece of cindin in his lip.

She frowned to herself. She did not like him using the drug, did not like how it blurred her perception of him.

On the other hand, she could certainly understand why he felt he needed it today.

She waited until he had secreted the remainder of the stick in the rolled cuff of his sleeve and then spoke quietly.

‘Mild. Tell the captain I wish Wintrow brought to me. Now.’

‘Oh, Sar,’ the boy blasphemed quietly. ‘Ship, why you want to put me in that spot? Can I just tell him you’d like a word with him?’

‘No. Because I would not. I’d rather have no words with him at all. I simply want Wintrow brought to me. Now.’

‘Aw, please,’ the young sailor begged. ‘He’s all in a lather already cause some of the map-faces are acting sick. Torg says they’re faking it; they say if he don’t put them somewhere better, they’re all going to die.’

‘Mild.’ It was all in the tone of the word.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She waited, but not for long. Kyle came storming across the deck, jumped to the foredeck. ‘What do you want now?’ he demanded.

She considered ignoring him, decided against it. ‘Wintrow. As I believe you’ve been told.’

‘Later. When we’re under way and the little cur can’t jump ship again.’

‘Now.’

He left without a word.

She was still not certain what she felt just now for Wintrow.

She was glad he was aboard again. Yet she also had to confront the selfishness inherent in such gladness.

And the humiliation that no matter how he had spurned her and abandoned her, she still would welcome him back.

Where was her pride, she asked herself? From the moment he had come aboard, filthy, weary and sickened with despair, she had renewed her link to him.

She had clutched at him and all that made him a Vestrit as a way to secure her own identity again.

Almost immediately she had felt better, much more herself.

It was a certainty she drew from him, an affirmation of herself.

She had never been aware of that before now.

She had known she was joined to him, but had thought of it as the ‘love’ that humans so treasured.

Now she was not sure. Uneasily she wondered if there were something evil in the way she clung to him and drew her perception of herself from him.

Perhaps it was what he had always sensed in their bond that had made him try to escape her.

It was a terrible division, to feel such need for someone, and yet to feel angry that the need existed.

She did not want to exist as a being dependent on another for her validity.

She was going to confront him now, demand to know if he saw her as a parasite and if that was why he had fled her.

She feared he would tell her that was the truth, that she gave nothing to him, only took.

Yet as much as she feared that, she would ask him.

Because she had to know. Did she truly have a life and spirit of her own, or was she but a Vestrit shadow?

She gave Mild a few more minutes. Still, no one was dispatched to Wintrow’s door.

This was intolerable.

Earlier she had noted that their cargo was not evenly loaded.

The crew was not used to stowing humans.

It was not so much that it had to make a difference, but it could.

She sighed, then subtly shifted her weight.

She began to list to starboard. Just a tiny bit.

But Kyle was, in some ways, a good captain, and Gantry was an even better mate.

They would notice the list. They would restow the cargo before getting under way.

At which time she would develop a port list. And perhaps drag her anchor a bit.

She stared stonily off at the shore. In the developing overcast, the white towers of Jamaillia City were dull, the dead white of empty shells.

She swayed with the rocking of the ship, making the motion more pronounced. And she waited.

They sat together in the big darkened kitchen.

Once, Keffria reflected, she had loved this room.

When she was very small, she had loved to come here with her mother.

Back then, Ronica Vestrit had often given intimate parties, and it was her especial pleasure to prepare the foods she herself would serve to her guests.

Then the kitchen had been a lively place, for the boys would play with their blocks under the great wooden table, while she stood on a stool and watched her mother mince fine the savoury herbs that would season the little meat rolls.

Keffria would help her shell the hard-boiled eggs, or pop the lightly steamed almonds out of their little brown jackets.

The Blood Plague had ended those days. Sometimes Keffria thought that everything that was merry and light-hearted and simple in their household had died with her brothers.

Certainly there had never been any gay little parties after that.

She did not recall her mother ever again preparing dainties as she had then, or even spending much time in the kitchen.

Now that they had reduced their servants, Keffria came in to help with the cooking herself on busy days. But Ronica did not.

Until tonight. They had come to the kitchen as the shadows of the day began to lengthen.

In an awful parody of those old days, they had cooked together, chopping and peeling, simmering and stirring, all the while discussing the selection of wines and teas, how strong to make the coffee and which cloth to set out on the table.

They spoke very little of why the Festrews had contacted them to say they would come tonight.

Even though the payment was not due for some days now, it waited in a strongbox by the door.

Unspoken between them was the uneasy knowledge that there had been no reply at all to Keffria’s letter.

The Khupruses were not the Festrews; there was likely no connection at all. Likely.

Keffria had known since she was a woman that the Rain Wild Traders came twice a year to accept payment on the liveship.

She had known, too, that when the ship quickened, the size of the payments would increase.

That was customary. The size of the payments reflected the belief that liveships would be used in trade on the Rain River, in the very profitable and exotic Rain Wild goods.

Most liveship owners became swiftly very wealthy as soon as their ships quickened.

The Vestrits, of course, had not. Sometimes, Keffria allowed herself to wonder if her father’s decision about magical goods had been a wise one. Sometimes, like tonight.

When the food was prepared and the table set, the two women sat down quietly by the hearth. Keffria made tea and poured cups for herself and her mother.

‘I still think we should invite Malta to join us,’ she ventured. ‘She should learn…’

‘That one has learned far more than we suspect,’ her mother said wearily.

‘No, Keffria. Indulge me in this. Let you and I hear the Festrews out together, and together decide our course. I fear that the decisions we make tonight may chart the course of the Vestrit family.’ She met her daughter’s eyes.

‘I do not say these words to hurt, but I do not know how to put it kindly. We two are the last of the Vestrits, I fear. Malta is Haven to the bone. I do not say Kyle Haven is a bad man. I say only that what conspires here tonight is for Bingtown Traders to decide. And the Havens are not Bingtown Traders.’

‘Have it as you will,’ Keffria said tiredly.

Some day, she thought to herself without rancour, you will be dead and I will no longer be caught in the middle.

Perhaps then I shall simply give it all over to Kyle, and spend the time tending my gardens.

Thinking of nothing else, save whether the roses need pruning or if it is time to split the iris clumps.

Resting at last. She was sure Kyle would leave her alone.

These days, when she thought of her husband, it was like ringing a cracked bell.

She could recall the wonderful sound his name had once produced in her heart, but she could no longer hear it or make it.

Love, she thought dejectedly, was after all, based on things.

Family love, the love in her marriage, even her daughter’s love for her.

All based on things and the power to control the things.

If you gave up power to people, then they loved you.

Funny. Since she had discovered that, she little cared if anyone loved her or not any more.

She sipped at her tea and watched the fire burn. From time to time she added wood to it. There were still pleasures to be found in simple things: the warmth of the fire, a good cup of tea. She would savour what was left to her.

A distant gong rang from somewhere across the field.

Her mother rose hastily, to make a final check of everything.

The lights in the room had long been dimmed, but now she added to the candles the leaf hoods to disperse their light even more.

‘Make fresh tea,’ she said quietly. ‘Caolwn likes tea.’ Then her mother did a rather peculiar thing.

She went to the interior door of the kitchen, and opened it suddenly.

She stepped out quickly, to peer up and down the hall, as if she expected to surprise someone.

When she came back into the room, Keffria asked her, ‘Is Selden out of bed again? He is such a little night owl.’

‘No, no one was there,’ her mother said distractedly. Then she shut the door firmly and came back to the table. ‘You recall the greeting ritual?’ she suddenly asked Keffria.

‘Of course. Don’t worry, I won’t shame you.’

‘You have never shamed me,’ her mother replied absently. Keffria could not say why her words made her heart leap so strangely.