Page 256

For some time, Malta stood in disbelief.

What had she done wrong? No token of his affection, no passionate kiss…

he had not even pleaded to be allowed to escort her part of the way back to her house.

She frowned after them. Then in an instant, she realized her error.

The fault was not hers, but Cerwin’s. She shook her head to herself.

He was simply not man enough to live up to her expectations.

She turned and began to pick her way back to the house through the darkness.

She knitted her brows in thought, then self-consciously smoothed her forehead out.

She certainly didn’t want to end up with a lined forehead like her mother.

Brashen had made her frown. He had been so rude to her at first, but then, when she was offering him coffee and flirting a bit, he had definitely reacted to her.

She would wager that if he had been the one meeting her in the gazebo tonight, she would have been thoroughly kissed.

A shiver ran up her back at that thought.

It was not that she liked him he looked far too coarse in his pirate’s silks and long moustache.

He had still stunk of the ship when he came to the door, and his hands were scarred and rough with calluses.

No. She felt no attraction to the man. But his sidelong glances at her Aunt Althea had stirred her interest. The sailor had watched her move like a hungry cat stalking a bird.

Althea never met his eyes. Even when she spoke to him, she contrived to be looking out the window, or stirring a cup of tea or picking at her fingernails.

Her avoidance of his glance had distressed him.

Time after time, he had addressed his remarks directly to her.

At one point she had even gone over to Selden and sat on the floor beside him, taking his hand as if her nephew could shield her from Brashen’s avid eyes.

Malta didn’t think her mother or grandmother had noticed, but she had.

She firmly intended to find out what was between them.

She would discover just what Althea knew that could make a man look at her like that.

What would she have to say to make Cerwin look at her so warmly?

She shook her head. No. Not Cerwin. Comparing him to his older brother had opened her eyes.

He was a boy still, with no heat to his glance or power of his own.

He was a poor fish, a catch she should throw back.

Even Reyn had had more warmth to his touch.

Reyn always brought her gifts. She reached the kitchen door and eased it open.

She might, after all, use the dream-box tonight.

Brashen stood up from the table. The beer he had ordered was still untouched.

As he turned and left the tavern, he saw the furtive movement of someone else claiming it.

He smiled bitterly to himself. Nice place he’d chosen to drink; it was suited perfectly to the man who couldn’t hold onto anything.

Outside the tavern, another Bingtown night was unravelling.

He was in the roughest part of Bingtown, patronizing one of the waterfront dives that shared a street with warehouses, whorehouses and flophouses.

He knew he should go back to the Springeve.

Finney would be expecting him. But he had nothing to tell the man, and it suddenly occurred to him that he probably wouldn’t go back at all.

Ever. It wasn’t likely Finney would come into Bingtown looking for him.

Time to cut himself loose from that operation.

Of course, that meant that the cindin in his pocket was the last he had.

He stopped where he stood and groped for it.

When he found it, it was shorter than he remembered.

Had he already used some of it? Perhaps.

Without regret, he tucked the last bit into his lip.

He resumed walking down the darkened street.

Just over a year ago, he and Althea had walked down a Bingtown street together at night.

Forget it. It wasn’t likely that would ever happen again.

She went strolling with Grag Tenira now.

So. If he wasn’t going back to the Springeve, where was he going?

His feet had already known the answer to that.

They were taking him out of town, away from the lights and up the long empty beach to where the abandoned Paragon rested on the sands.

A smile sneered over Brashen’s face. Some things never changed.

He was back in Bingtown, close to penniless, and an abandoned ship was the closest thing he had to a friend.

He and the ship had a lot in common. Both were outcasts.

All was peaceful under the summer starlit skies. The waves muttered and shushed one another along the shore. There was just enough of a breeze to keep him from sweating as he strode along on the loose sand. It would have been a lovely evening if he had felt good about anything.

As things stood, the wind blew emptiness through him and the starlight was cold.

The cindin had energized him, but purposelessly.

All it had done was given him plenty of wakefulness in which to be confused.

Malta, for instance. What game, by Sa’s beard, had she been playing with him?

He did not know whether to feel stalked, mocked, or flattered by her attention.

He still did not know how to think of her, child or woman.

Once her mother had returned, she had become a demure young lady, save for the occasional sharp remark delivered so innocently that it seemed accidental.

Despite Malta’s apparent decorum once her older relatives arrived, he had caught her eyes on him more than once that evening.

He had seen her speculative gaze go from him to Althea, and her look had not been kind.

He tried to pretend that she was the reason Althea had not met his eyes.

She had not wanted her young niece to guess what had passed between them.

For three strides, he believed it. Then he admitted glumly to himself that she had not given him the least sign of warmth or interest. She had been courteous to him, just as Keffria had been courteous to him.

No more than that, and no less. As befitted a daughter of Ephron Vestrit, she had been gracious and welcoming to a guest, even when he brought bad tidings to the family.

The only time she had failed in courtesy had been when Ronica had offered him a bedchamber.

Keffria had urged him to accept it, citing the lateness of the hours and how weary he looked.

Althea, however, had kept silent. That had made his decision. He left.

Althea had been lovely. Oh, not as her sister was attractive, nor as Malta was beguiling.

Keffria and Malta were careful and constructed in their beauty.

The touch of paint, the brush of powder, the careful arranging of hair and selection of clothing all combined to set off their best features.

Althea had come in from the streets, her sandals dusty, her hair tendrilled with perspiration at her brow and the back of her neck.

The warmth of summer was on her cheeks, and the liveliness of Bingtown’s market shone in her eyes.

Her skirt and blouse were simple garments, chosen for freedom of movement rather than fineness of weave.

Even her struggle with Malta when she first entered the room had impressed him with her vitality.

She was no longer the boyish hand she’d been on the Reaper, nor even the captain’s daughter from Vivacia.

Her stay in Bingtown had been kind to her hair and skin.

Her attire was softer and a bit less pragmatic. She looked like a Trader’s daughter.

Hence, unattainable.

A hundred might-have-beens passed through his mind.

If he were still heir to the Trell fortune and Trader status.

If he had listened to Captain Vestrit and saved some money.

If Althea had inherited the ship and kept him on as first mate.

So many ifs, but he had no more hope of winning her than of being re-inherited by his father.

So, throw it away, with his other discarded futures. Walk on into the empty night.

He spat out bitterness with the fibrous remnants of the cindin stick.

The dark hulk of the Paragon loomed ahead against the bright canopy of the starry night sky.

He caught a faint whiff of wood-smoke from somewhere.

As he approached, he began to whistle loudly.

He knew Paragon did not like to be surprised.

As he drew closer, he called out jovially, ‘Paragon! Hasn’t anyone made you into kindling yet? ’

‘Who goes there?’ A cold voice from the shadows halted him in his tracks.

‘Paragon?’ Brashen queried in confusion.

‘No. I am Paragon. If I’m not mistaken, you’re Brashen,’ the ship jestingly replied. He added in an aside, ‘He’s no danger to me, Amber. Set aside your staff.’

Brashen peered through the gloom. A slender silhouette stood between him and the ship, tension in her stance.

She moved, and he heard the clatter of hardwood on stone as she leaned her stick on a rock.

Amber? The bead-maker? She sat down on something, a bench or stacked stone. He ventured closer. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello.’ Her voice was cautiously friendly.

‘Brashen, I’d like you to meet my friend Amber.

Amber, this is Brashen Trell. You know something of him.

You cleaned up after him when you moved in.

’ There was breathless excitement in the Paragon’s boyish voice.

He was obviously enjoying this encounter.

There was an element of adolescent brag in his voice as he teased Brashen.

‘Moved in?’ Brashen heard himself query.