Mad Ship (46 page)

“With friends like that, it is no wonder that the Vestrit fortune is foundering,” Grag observed tartly.

For an instant her heart turned to ice. How could he imply such a thing? But his next words reminded her of how grievous his own situation was, and her feelings towards him softened.

“Ophelia has been asking after you. She herself commanded wine boiled as an offering to Sa on Vivacia’s behalf. She wanted you to know that.” He paused, then smiled fondly. “She is completely bored with being tied up at the tariff dock. Now that the work on her hands is finished, she longs to sail again. Nevertheless, every time I promise her that we shall get back out to sea as soon as we can, she begs that I find a way for you to come along. I told her I could think of only one.” He grinned engagingly at her.

“And that was?” Althea asked curiously. Did he mean to offer her employment on the
Ophelia?
Her heart quickened at the idea. She loved the matriarchal old ship.

He reddened and looked aside, but the smile still played about his mouth. “A hasty wedding and a bridal voyage. I suggested it in jest, of course. Such a scandal as that would raise! I expected Ophelia to scold me roundly. Instead, she thought it a wonderful idea.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Incidentally, so did my father. She brought it up to him, not I.”

He paused and looked at her expectantly, as if he had asked her a question. But he had not, not directly. Even if she had been passionately in love with him, she could scarcely have accepted such an offer while her own family liveship was in danger. Didn’t he realize that? She could not keep the confusion from her face. Her distress only deepened when she glimpsed Brashen Trell standing at the bottom of the steps to the Concourse. Their eyes met, and for an instant, she could not look away.

Grag interpreted her confusion as having a different source. “I don’t truly expect you to consider it,” he said hastily. He tried not to look hurt. “Not here, not now. We both have too many other concerns just now. Tonight may resolve some of them. I hope it does.”

“As do I,” she responded, but it was difficult to put much warmth into her voice. Too much was going on behind his shoulder. Brashen looked at her as if she had stabbed him to the heart. He had not changed his clothes since she had last seen him: the loose yellow shirt and dark trousers he wore made him look like a foreigner amongst all the robed Traders.

Grag followed her gaze. “What’s he doing here?” he demanded, as if she would know. He took her arm as he spoke.

“He brought us word of the
Vivacia.
” Althea looked up at Grag as she replied quietly. She didn’t want Brashen to think they were staring at him and discussing him.

He met her eyes, his brow furrowed. “Did you ask him here, then?”

“No.” She gave a small shake of her head. “I don’t know why he’s here.”

“Is that Amber with him? Why is she here? Why are they together?”

Althea had to look. “I don’t know,” she murmured.

Amber was dressed in a simple gold-brown robe, almost the same shade as her many-plaited hair that hung over her shoulders. She had come from somewhere to stand close beside Brashen. She said something low to him. Her expression was not pleasant, but she wasn’t looking at Brashen or Althea. She was glaring, her eyes yellow as a cat’s, at Davad Restart. Some vexatious fate had ordained that every facet of Althea’s life would collide with every other tonight. Davad Restart had fixed his eyes on Grag Tenira. He was hastening toward them.

Davad was already huffing up the Concourse steps but her mother succeeded in reaching Althea first. Keffria and Malta were but a step behind her. Ronica and Grag greeted one another. Then her mother looked directly in Grag’s eyes. “My daughter Althea may sit with you, Grag, if you wish. I know you have important matters to discuss.”

Grag bowed formally. “Ronica Vestrit, you honor the Teniras with your trust. I vow we shall be worthy of it.”

“I, too, thank you for allowing this,” Althea replied formally to her mother. She had to admire the woman’s foresight. Now she could take Grag’s arm and steer him into the hall before Davad puffed up to them. At least
that
confrontation would be avoided. This Althea did, urging Grag along in a fashion just short of hasty. She tried not to wonder how her hurried departure would look to Brashen.

Inside the great hall, she followed Grag. She was aware of other people noting their passage. For her to be seated with his family during such a meeting was a public acknowledgment of serious courtship. For just an instant, she wanted to pull away from him and rejoin her family. But to leave him now would look as if they had had an abrupt disagreement. Instead she put a gracious smile on her face and allowed Grag to seat her between his mother and his sister. His mother was gray-haired and formidable in a solid Trader way. His younger sister gave Althea the grin of a fellow conspirator. They exchanged quiet greetings as the hall began to fill with people and conversation. Grag’s mother and sister conversed softly, offering their condolences on the capture of the
Vivacia,
but Althea found herself unable to do more than nod to the conversation. A sudden nervousness gripped her. She prayed the Council would allow her to speak. Repeatedly, she rehearsed her thoughts. Somehow, she had to make the other Traders see that rescuing the
Vivacia
was a concern for all Bingtown, not just the Vestrit family.

The shuffling and hubbub that preceded the Traders’ Meeting seemed to go on forever. Half a dozen people made a point of coming by the Tenira bench to exchange greetings. Althea set a smile to her face and held it there. They seemed to expect that she and Grag would be giddy over their courtship rather than concerned about the matters at hand. Her irritation receded when Grag’s mother gave a wink. In a very low voice, she murmured, “It is good that you are here. They will take all of us more seriously if it is plain we stand together.” His sister gave Althea’s hand a brief squeeze. Althea felt warmed by their regard, but also a bit uneasy. She was not sure if she wished to be claimed this swiftly.

Conversation died as the Traders’ Council members ascended the dais. They all wore the white robes that indicated they had surrendered their family alliances for now, to be loyal only to the greater good of Bingtown. Several black-robed order keepers took their places along the walls. Traders’ Meetings sometimes became too lively. Their function was to keep the audience civil.

Althea scanned the members of the Council as they greeted one another and took their places at a long table on the dais. She felt suddenly shamed that she could put names to so few of them. Her father would have known which were his allies and which his opponents. She had no such expertise. The chimes that indicated the beginning of the meeting rang. Voices quieted. Althea breathed a brief prayer to Sa to guide her words.

She could have made it a much longer prayer. In a wordy opening speech, the Council head declared that there were several topics to cover, so he thought it best to dispense with the simpler disputes first. Althea lifted a querying eyebrow at Grag; she thought this meeting had been specially requested to hear the Tenira family concerns. He knit his brows and gave a small shrug.

They were subjected to a heated discourse between two Trader families over water rights to a creek that bounded their properties. One man had cattle to water; the other Trader wished to divert water to his fields. It was a lengthy argument settled by the Council’s obvious decision that they must share the water. An arbitrator group of three was appointed to aid them in deciding how. As soon as the argumentative pair had bowed to one another and resumed their seats, Althea sat up expectantly.

She was doomed to disappointment. The next dispute was not so easily settled. One Trader’s prize bull had impregnated the herd of a neighboring Trader. Both claimed to be the injured party. One wanted substantial stud fees; the other countered that he had wished to use a different bull, hence this year’s crop of calves was not what he had desired. One claimed the other’s servant had sabotaged his fence; the second claimed the bull’s owner had been negligent in confining his animal. The Council had great difficulty with this one. They retired to a back room where they could debate more freely. During this recess, the audience shifted restlessly or chatted with neighbors. When the Council returned, they announced that the calves should be sold as soon as they were weaned, and the profits divided between the two Traders. The bull’s owner would be responsible for fortifying the fence. This did not suit either Trader, but the Council’s decision was binding. Both Trader families rose and stalked out angrily. To Althea’s dismay, several other families also rose and followed them. She had hoped they would be able to address the Traders themselves as well as the Council.

The head of the Bingtown Traders’ Council consulted a tablet before him. “The Tenira family has requested time to address the Council for the purpose of disputing the Satrap’s tariffs levied against the liveship
Ophelia
and her detention at the tariff docks due to their failure to pay.”

No sooner had the head of the Council announced this than a Trader stood to address the Council. They recognized Trader Daw, who spoke his obviously rehearsed words quickly. “This is not a proper matter for the Traders’ Council. Trader Tenira’s grievance is with the Satrap’s tariff office, not with another Trader. He should take it up with them, and let the Council devote its precious time to matters that concern us all.”

With a sinking heart, Althea noted that Davad Restart was seated right next to Daw, nodding soberly to his words.

Tomie Tenira stood. The old sea-captain’s taut shoulders strained the sleeves of his Trader’s robe. His fists were knotted at his sides. He strove to keep the anger from his voice. “When was the Traders’ Council reduced to a nanny quelling squabbles between siblings? What is the Traders’ Council, if not Bingtown’s voice? The grievance I present is not between the tariff officer and me. It is about an unjust tax levied against all ship owners. Our original charter called for fifty percent of our profits to go to the Satrap’s coffers. Outrageous as that is, our forebears agreed to it, and I willingly abide by it. However, nowhere in that charter are these tariffs mentioned. Moreover, no document anywhere says that we must tolerate murdering, thieving Chalcedean mercenaries in our harbors.” Tomie Tenira’s voice had begun to shake with fury. He strangled into silence, trying to regain control of himself.

Davad Restart came to his feet. Althea felt ill.

“Council members, all Jamaillian merchants pay tariff to the Satrap. Why should we be any different? Is he not our good and just ruler? Do not we owe him support to maintain the reign that benefits all of us? These tariffs go to maintain the docks and facilities in Jamaillia City, as well as to pay for those who patrol the Inside Passage against piracy. The very qualities Trader Tenira disparages in the Chalcedeans are those that make them excellent defenders against piracy. If he does not care for their services, then perhaps he should … ”

“The Chalcedean ‘patrol ships’ are no more than pirates themselves! They stop legitimate ships, with no other intent than extortion. All here know how my liveship
Ophelia
was injured defending herself from such an unwarranted intrusion. Bingtown ships have never willingly submitted to being boarded by foreigners. Are you suggesting we accept it now? The tariffs began simply, as reasonable fees. Now they are so complicated to figure that we must accept the word of a hired scribe as to what we owe. The tariffs have one purpose only: to make it unprofitable for us to trade anywhere except Jamaillia City. They steal our profits to bind us more tightly to their purse strings. Anyone who has tied up in Jamaillia recently can testify that the charges we are paying are not going for dock maintenance there. I doubt if anything has been spent on those docks in the last three years.”

A general rumble of agreement, with some laughter, followed his last statement. “My ship’s boy damn near fell through the last one we tied up to,” someone in the back called out.

Daw stood again quickly, inserting his words into the pause. “Council members, I suggest you adjourn to see if you should even be hearing this matter before you accept any more testimony about it.” He glanced about. “Evening draws close to night. Perhaps we should save this matter for a later meeting.”

“We are well within our purpose in hearing this, I believe,” the head of the Council replied, only to have two lesser members immediately shake their heads in denial. This necessitated another withdrawal to the private room.

This time the room was less patient and social while they were gone. Folk got up and milled about. Trader Larfa of the liveship
Winsome
came to stand before Tomie Tenira. He did not lower his voice as he announced, “Count on me, Tomie. No matter how it goes here. If you want, give the word now. Me and my sons will be with you, and we’ll go right now and untie your ship from that damned tariff dock.” Two tall young men behind him nodded soberly to their father’s offer.

“You wouldn’t be alone,” offered another man, one Althea didn’t recognize. Like Trader Larfa, he was flanked by his sons.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Tomie said quietly. “I would like this to be something Bingtown acts on, not the Tenira family alone.”

At that moment, a shouting match broke out elsewhere in the room. Althea half stood and craned her neck. She could see little, due to others standing up between her and the dispute, but it seemed to center where Traders Daw and Restart had been seated. “You liar!” someone accused. “You did and you know you did. Without you, the damn New Traders would never have become so deeply entrenched here.” Another voice muttered a bland denial. The Council’s order keepers were already moving to quell the disturbance. Althea felt her nails bite into her palms. The room was on the edge of breaking into violence, Trader against Trader.

“This serves no one!” she heard herself announce bitterly. By chance, her voice had sounded in a lull in the noise. Heads turned toward her. Even Grag and Tomie Tenira were looking at her in astonishment. She took a breath. If she waited, the Council might well adjourn for the night. Precious time would be lost. This might be her only chance to speak. “Look at us! We squabble like children, Trader against Trader. Ask yourself who wins that battle? We need to find agreement here. We need to speak of the larger matter that confronts us. What is Bingtown becoming? Are we going to bow our heads to the Satrap’s rules, accept his tariffs and restrictions, no matter how heavy they become? Will we tolerate his hirelings tying up in our harbor? Will we pay to feed and outfit them, so they can stop our ships and fleece them before they reach port? Why?”