“No. She will not,” Keffria concurred. “And that is why I have yet another task. Mother, I know you will not agree with this, but I think it is the only way to rein her to my will. Not a coin must she be given to spend on her own, save that it comes from me. I will have to instruct the shopkeepers and tradesmen that they are no longer to extend her the family's credit. It will be humiliating to do, but…” she paused as if considering. “Yes. I will widen that to include Selden as well. I suppose it is not too early to begin with him. Perhaps I should never have allowed Malta to have so easily whatever she desired.”

To this Ronica nodded, suppressing a heartfelt sigh of relief. There were already on the desk a handful of chits with Malta's imprint on them, for sweets and baubles and outrageously priced perfumes. Malta's casual spending had not been easy to allow for, but it was yet another thing that Ronica had been unwilling to bring up to Keffria. Now she honestly wondered why. “She is your daughter,” Ronica added. “But I fear this will not be easy, on any of us. And,” she added unwillingly, “there is yet another thing she must be taught about. Our contract with the Festrew family.”

Keffria raised one eyebrow. “But I am married,” she pointed out.

Ronica felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her daughter. She recalled how she had felt, the first time she realized that her growing daughters were now vulnerable to a bargain struck generations ago. “That you are,” she agreed quietly. “And Althea is missing. And our debts grow faster far than our credits. Keffria, you must recall the terms of the Vestrit bargain. Blood or gold. Once Malta is presented to Bingtown society as a woman, then she is forfeit to the Festrews, if we do not have the gold to make the payment. And,” she added unwillingly, “at the midsummer, I was short. I have promised to pay it in full by midwinter, plus a penalty.” She could not find the courage to admit to her daughter what a large penalty she had accepted. “If not,” she went on with difficulty, “Caolwn Festrew may invoke her right to claim blood from us. Althea, if she is found by then. Malta, if she is not.”

Ronica could find no more words. She watched understanding and horror grow in Keffria's eyes. Followed, inevitably, by anger. “It is not fair. I never agreed to such a bargain! How can Malta be forfeit to a contract signed generations before she was born? It makes no sense, it isn't fair!”

Ronica gave her a moment or two. Then she said the words familiar to any Trader's daughter or son. “It's Trader. Not fair, always; not right, always. Sometimes not even understandable. But it's Trader. What did we have when we came to the Cursed Shores? Only ourselves, and the value of a man's word. Or a woman's. We pledged our loyalty to each other, not just for the day or the year, but to all generations. And that is why we have survived here where no others had before. We pledged ourselves to the land, also, and to what it demands. That, I imagine, is another topic you have not yet discussed with Malta. You should, and soon, for you know that she must have heard rumors.”

“But… she is only a child,” Keffria pleaded. As if by agreeing with her, her mother could somehow change the facts that time had imposed on them.

“She is,” Ronica agreed carefully. “But only for a short time longer. And she must be prepared.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Plots And Perils

“So. It didn't work out quite as captain Kennit the Pirate King had planned, did it?”

“Shut up.” Kennit spoke more in weariness than rancor. It had been a distressing and taxing day. They had sighted a liveship, a wide-bellied merchant-trader of the old style, a wallowing sow of a ship. She had been quite a way ahead of them, picking her way through the shallows of Wrong Again channel. She sat deep in the water, heavy with some rich cargo. At the very least, they should have been able to force her to run aground. The Marietta had put on sail and swept up on her, close enough to hear the figurehead calling out the soundings and headings to the steersman. They came close enough to see the faces of the men that manned her, close enough to hear their cries as they recognized his Raven flag and shouted encouragement to one another. Sorcor launched his balls-and-chains at their rigging, only to have the ship sidle aside from it at the last moment. In fury, Kennit called for fire-balls, and Sorcor reluctantly complied. One of them struck well, splattering on a sail that obligingly burst into flames. But almost as swiftly as the flames ran up the canvas, the sail collapsed on itself, billowing down to where a frantic crew could trample it and douse it with water. And with every passing moment, somehow, impossibly, the liveship pulled steadily away from them.

Kennit had shrieked at his crew like a madman, demanding canvas, oars, anything they might muster to push a bit more speed out of the ship. But as if the very gods opposed him, a winter squall blew in, one of the horrible island squalls that sent the winds racketing in every possible direction. Gray rain sheeted down, blinding them. He cursed, and climbed the mast himself, to try to keep sight of her. His every sense strained after her, and time after time, he caught glimpses of her. Each time she had been farther ahead of him. She swept around a headland, and when the Marietta rounded it, the liveship was gone. Simply gone.

Now it was evening, the night wind filled the Marietta's sails and the monotonous rains had ceased. His crew was tip-toeing around him, unaware that his seething displeasure with them had boiled itself dry. He stood on the afterdeck, watching witch-fire dance in their wake, and sought some inner peace.

“I suppose this means you owe Sorcor another slaver, doesn't it?” the charm observed affably.

“I wonder, if I cut you from my wrist and threw you overboard, would you float?”

“Let's find out,” the small face suggested agreeably.

Kennit sighed. “The only reason I continue to tolerate you is because you cost me so much in the first place.”

The twin countenance pursed his lips at him. “I wonder if you shall say that of the whore, also, in days to come.”

Kennit clenched his eyes shut. “Cannot you be silent and leave me alone for even a moment?”

A soft step and the whisper of brushing fabric on the deck behind him. “Did you speak to me?” Etta asked.

“No.”

“I thought you said something… you wished to be alone? I can return to the cabin, if you like.” She paused, and added more softly, “But I would much prefer to join you, if it would please you.”

Her perfume had reached him now. Lavender. Irresolution assailed him and he turned his head to regard her. She curtsied low to him, a lady greeting her lord.

“Oh, please,” he growled in disbelief.

“Thank you,” she replied warmly. Her slippered feet pattered softly across the deck and Etta was suddenly beside him. She did not touch him. Even now, she knew better than to be that familiar. Nor did she lean casually on the rail beside him. Instead, she stood, her back straight, a single hand resting upon the rail. And she looked at him. After a time, he could not stand it. He turned his head to meet her stare.

And she smiled at him. Radiantly. Luminously.

“Lovely,” breathed the small voice at his wrist. And Kennit had to concur. Etta lowered her eyes and looked aside from him, as if momentarily shy or confused. She wore yet another new costume. The sailor who had brought her aboard had followed his original directive, supplying her with a tub of warm water for bathing, but had been at a loss as to what to provide her to wear. Clearly rough sailor's clothing would not do for his captain's lady. With a great deal of trepidation, he had laid out the captain's own night-robe for her, and then hesitantly offered her several bolts of rich cloth from their latest trove. Kennit had at first been disgruntled at this largesse, but then resigned to it. Needles and thread were always plentiful aboard a sailing ship, and Etta had kept herself well occupied with her sewing tasks. Kennit eventually concluded that the man had actually been brilliant. While the woman was occupied with needlework, she could not bother him. The clothing Etta styled for herself was unlike anything Kennit had ever before seen on a woman, and actually quite sensible for shipboard life.