“Take the chains off,” Wintrow told him as soon as they were free of the crowd.

“And give you a chance to run again? I don't think so,” Torg replied. He was grinning.

“You didn't tell my father I was held here, did you? You waited. So I'd be marked like a slave and he'd have to buy me back.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Torg replied genially. He was in fine fettle. “Were I you, I think I'd be grateful that your father happened to stay at the auctions this long, and saw you and bought you. We sail tomorrow, you know. Got our full load, he was just thinking to pick up a few last-minute bargains. Got you instead.”

Wintrow shut up. He debated the wisdom of telling his father what Torg had done. Would it sound like he was whining, would his father even believe him? He searched the faces they passed, looking for his father in the gathering dusk. What expression would he wear? Anger? Relief? Wintrow himself was caught between trepidation and gratitude.

Then he did catch sight of his father's face. He was far off, and not even looking towards Wintrow and Torg. He appeared to be bidding on the two farm hands who were being sold together. He didn't even glance at his own son in chains.

“My father's over there,” Wintrow pointed out to Torg. He halted stubbornly. “I want to speak to him before we go back to the ship.”

“Come on,” Torg grunted cheerfully. “I don't think he wants to speak to you.” He grinned to himself. “In fact, I doubt he thinks you'd make a good first mate anymore when he gives the captaincy over to Gantry. I think he fancies me for that job, now.” He uttered this with great satisfaction, as if he expected Wintrow to be astounded by it.

Wintrow stopped walking. “I want to speak to my father, now.”

“No,” Torg replied simply. His greater bulk and muscle easily overmatched Wintrow's resistance. “Walk or be dragged, it's all one to me,” he assured him. Torg's eyes were roving, looking over the heads of a cluster of folk standing about. “Ah,” he exclaimed suddenly, and surged forward, hauling Wintrow behind him.

They halted before a tattooist's block. He was just freeing a dazed woman from the collar while her impatient buyer tugged on her shackles for her to hurry and follow him. The tattooist looked up at Torg and nodded. “Kyle Haven's mark?” he asked, gesturing at Wintrow affably. Evidently they had been doing a lot of business.

“Not this one,” Torg said, to Wintrow's instant and vast relief. He supposed there was some freedom trinket or sign to purchase here. His father would not be happy about that extra expense either. Wintrow was already wondering if there were not some way to gently abrade or bleach the new tattoo from his face. Painful as that would be, it would be far better than to wear this sign on his face the rest of his life. The sooner he put this misadventure behind him, the better. He had already decided that when his father did decide to speak to him, Wintrow would give him an honest promise to remain aboard the ship and serve him well to the end of his fifteenth year. Perhaps it was time he accepted the role Sa's will had placed him in. Perhaps this was supposed to be his opportunity to reconcile with his father. The priesthood, after all, was not a place but an attitude. He could find a way to continue his studies aboard the Vivacia. And Vivacia herself was something to look forward to, he found. A small smile began to dawn on his face as he thought of her. Somehow he'd have to make up to her for his desertion, he'd have to convince her that.

Torg grabbed him by the back of his hair and forced his head down into the collar. The tattooist snubbed it tight. Panicked, Wintrow fought it, but only succeeded in strangling himself. Too tight, they'd pulled it too tight. He was going to pass out, even if he tried to just stand still and breathe, he wasn't getting enough air and he couldn't even tell them that. Dimly he heard Torg say, “Mark him with a sign like this earring. He's going to be ship's property. Bet it's the first time in the history of Jamaillia City that a liveship bought a slave of her own.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Dreams And Reality

“The dream-box is missing.”

Malta looked from one solemn face to the other. Both her mother and grandmother were watching her intently. Her eyes widened in surprise. “How could it be? Are you certain?”

Her mother spoke quietly. “I am very certain.”

Malta came the rest of the way into the room and took her place at the breakfast table. She lifted the cover from the dish in front of her. “Not porridge again? We can't possibly be this poor! How could the box be missing?”

She looked up to meet their eyes again. Her grandmother's glance was narrowed as she said, “I thought perhaps you might know.”

“Mother had it last. She didn't give it to me, she barely let me touch it,” Malta pointed out. “Is there any fruit or preserves to go on this stuff?”

“No. There is not. If we are to pay our debts in a timely fashion, we are going to have to live simply for a while. You have been told that.”

Malta heaved a sigh. “I'm sorry,” she said contritely. “Sometimes I forget. I hope Papa gets home soon. I'll be so glad when things are as they are supposed to be again.” She looked up at her mother and grandmother again and essayed a smile. “Until then, I suppose we should just be thankful for what we have.” She sat up straight, put an agreeable look on her face, and spooned up some of the porridge.

“So. You have no thoughts on the missing dream-box?” her grandmother pressed.

Malta shook her head and swallowed. “No. Unless… did you ask the servants if they moved it when they tidied? Nana or Rache might know something.”

“I put it away. It was not left out where it might be moved by chance. Someone had to come inside my room, search for it, and then remove it.”

“Is anything else missing?” Malta asked quickly.

“Nothing.”

Malta ate another spoonful of porridge thoughtfully. “Could it have just… disappeared?” she asked with a half-smile. “I know, maybe that is silly. But one hears such extravagant tales of the goods of the Rain Wild. After a time, one almost begins to believe anything is possible.”

“No. It would not have disappeared,” her grandmother said slowly. “Even if it had been opened, it would not disappear.”

“How do you know so much about dream-boxes?” Malta asked curiously. She poured herself a cup of tea and sweetened it well with honey as she waited for a reply.

“A friend of mine was given one once. She opened the box and dreamed the dream. And she accepted the young man's suit. But he died before they were wed. I believe she married his brother a few years later.”

“Ick,” observed Malta. She took another spoonful of porridge and added, “I can't imagine marrying a Rain Wilder. Even if they are supposed to be our kin, and all. Can you imagine kissing someone who was all warty? Or having breakfast with him in the morning?”

“There is more to men than how they look,” her grandmother observed coldly. “When you realize that, I may start treating you as a woman.” She turned her disapproving stare on her own daughter now. “Well. What are we going to do?”

Malta's mother shook her head. “What can we do? Explain, most politely, that somehow the gift was lost before we could return it. But that we still cannot consider the suit, as Malta is far too young.

“We can't possibly tell them we lost his gift!” her grandmother exclaimed.

“Then what can we do? Lie? Say we are keeping it but refusing the suit anyway? Pretend we never got it and ignore the situation?” Keffria's voice was getting more and more sarcastic with each suggestion she made. “We'd only end up looking more foolish. As it was my fault, I shall write the letter, and I shall take the blame. I shall write that I had put it in a place I deemed safe, but it was gone in the morning. I shall offer most sincere apologies and reparation. But I shall also refuse the suit, and most tactfully point out that such a gift so early in a courting is scarcely appropriate”