Mad Ship (81 page)

“He was with the Daw boys a moment ago. I’ll find him.” Keffria abruptly sounded both weary and harassed. “Malta, do you mind? Grandmother will be with you, so you needn’t be afraid.”

Malta suddenly wondered how much they had deduced about her earlier encounter with the Satrap. “I’m not afraid,” she retorted. “Shall we meet you outside?”

“I suppose that will work. I’ll go and find Selden.”

As she and her grandmother crossed the floor, Ronica Vestrit spoke. “I think we shall host a tea ten days from now. The group of women presented this year is not large. Shall we invite them all?”

Malta was startled. “A tea? At our home?”

“In the garden, I think. We should be able to trim it up decently. Now that the berries are ripening, we could make little tarts to serve. In my day, such little tea parties often had a theme.” Grandmother smiled to herself. “My mother held one for me, in which everything was lavender or violet. We ate tiny candied violets, and sugar cakes tinted purple with blueberry juice and the tea was flavored with lavender. I thought it tasted dreadful, but the idea of it was so lovely I didn’t mind.” She chuckled aloud.

Grandmother was trying to make her feel better. “Our lavender is blooming very well this year,” Malta pointed out with an effort. “If we are deliberately old-fashioned, then no one will remark if we use the old lace tablecloths and doilies. And the old china, perhaps.” She tried to smile.

“Oh, Malta, this has all been so unfair to you,” Grandmother began. Then, “Chin up; cheery smile. Here comes Davad.”

He bore down on them like a big gander in a poultry yard. “Well, I do think it is tragic, just tragic, to hurry this sweet girl home like this. Is her headache truly that bad?”

“Devastating,” Malta replied quickly. So that had been her grandmother’s ruse. “I am not accustomed to such late hours, you know,” she added sweetly. “I told Grandmother I only wished to bid you good night and thank you for your kind offer of your coach. Then we shall be on our way.”

“Oh, my poor little sugarplum! Surely, you will at least bid the Satrap good evening. After all, I have already told him you must leave, and I’ve come to escort you while you say good-bye.”

That sealed her doom. No gracious way out. “I suppose I could manage it,” Malta said faintly. She set her hand on Davad’s arm, and he hastened her across the room to the high dais, with Ronica Vestrit hurrying after them.

“Here she is, Magnadon Satrap,” Davad announced grandly before Malta had even caught her breath. He did not seem to notice that he had interrupted a conversation Trader Daw was having with the Satrap.

The Satrap turned a languorous glance on Malta. “So I see,” he said slowly. His eyes moved over her casually. “Such a shame you must leave so soon. We have had only the briefest of conversations, and on such an important topic.”

Malta could think of nothing to say. She had sunk into a deep curtsey the moment the Satrap deigned to notice her. Now Davad rather ungracefully took her arm and hauled her to her feet again. The act made her appear clumsy; she felt the blood rush to her face. “Aren’t you going to tell him good night?” Davad prompted her as if she were a backward child.

“I wish you a good evening, Magnadon Satrap. I thank you for the honor of your dance.” There. That was dutiful and correct. Then, before she could forbid herself the hope, she added, “And I pray you will soon act on your offer to send rescue for my father.”

“I fear I may not be able to, sweet child. Trader Daw tells me there is some unrest down in the harbor tonight. Surely my patrol vessels must stay in Bingtown until it is subdued.”

Before Malta could decide if he expected an answer to that, he was turning to Davad. “Trader Restart, would you have your coach summoned? Trader Daw feels it might be safest for myself to leave the ball early. I shall be sorry not to witness all of your quaint festival, of course, but I see I am not the only one to prefer caution over entertainment.” His languid arm swept the ballroom. Malta glanced around reflexively. The crowd had thinned substantially, and many of those who remained were gathered in small anxious groups and talking. Only a few young couples still moved across the dance floor in apparently blissful ignorance.

Davad looked uncomfortable. “I beg your pardon, Magnadon Satrap. I had just promised Trader Vestrit and her family the use of my coach to get her safely home. But it will return quite swiftly, I promise you.”

The Satrap rose, stretching like a cat. “It will not need to, Trader Restart. Surely, you cannot have intended to send these women off by themselves? I shall accompany them to their home, to see them safely there. Perhaps young Malta and I shall have a chance this evening to continue our interrupted conversation.” The smile he gave her was a lazy one.

Her grandmother swept forward in a rustle of gown. She curtseyed low, near demanding that the Satrap recognize her. After a moment, he nodded at her irritably. “Lady,” he acknowledged in a flat voice.

She rose. “Magnadon Satrap, I am Malta’s grandmother, Ronica Vestrit. We would, of course, be honored to have you call upon us, but I fear our household is a very humble one. We could scarcely accommodate your visit tonight; at least, not in the manner in which you are no doubt accustomed to being welcomed. We would, of course—”

“My dear lady, the whole purpose of travel is to experience that which one is not accustomed to. I am sure I shall find your household accommodating. Davad, you will see to sending my personal servants over tonight, will you not? And my trunks and baggage.”

The way he spoke, it was not a request. Davad bobbed an acquiescent bow. “Certainly, my lord Magnadon. And—”

“Your coach is outside by now, surely. Let us take our leave. Trader Daw, bring Companion Kekki’s wrap and my cloak.”

Davad Restart made a last brave attempt. “Magnadon Satrap, I fear we shall be very crowded in the coach—”

“Not if you ride on top with the driver. Companion Serilla seems to have vanished. Be it upon her own head. If she will not attend me as she should, then she must bear the consequences. Let us leave.”

So saying, he rose from his seat on the dais, descended to the floor and set off for the main door. Davad hurried after him like a leaf caught in a ship’s wake. Malta exchanged a look with her grandmother and then they both followed. “What are we to do?” Malta whispered worriedly to her.

“We shall be courteous,” her grandmother assured her. “And no more than that,” she added in a dangerously low voice.

Outside, the night was mild and pleasant, save for a distinct odor of smoke on the breeze. The Concourse had no view of Bingtown proper. There was no way to tell what was on fire, or where, but just the smell of it put shivers up Malta’s back. Cloaks and wraps were brought hastily and the coach came around. Ignoring his own Companion, the Satrap took Malta’s arm and assisted her into the coach first. He followed her and sat down by her on the ample seat. He gave Davad a look. “You will have to ride up top with the driver, Trader Restart. Otherwise, we shall be unforgivably crowded. Ah, yes, Kekki, you shall sit here, on the other side of me.”

That left the opposite seat for her grandmother, mother and Selden. Malta felt wedged in the corner, for the Satrap sat uncomfortably close to her, his thigh nearly brushing hers. She tried not to look alarmed, but folded her hands modestly in her lap and gazed out the window. She was suddenly exhausted. She desired nothing so much as to be alone. The coach rocked as Davad climbed up awkwardly to take a seat next to the coachman. It took a while for him to settle and then the driver spoke to the horses. The coach moved out smoothly, leaving behind the lights and the music. As the darkness closed around them and the sound of the ball dwindled, the driver kept the horses to a sedate pace. No one spoke inside the coach. It seemed to fill with the night. The overloaded coach creaked companionably as its wheels rumbled over the cobbled road. It was not peace but numbness that settled over Malta. All the merriment and life had been left far behind them now. She feared she might doze off.

Companion Kekki broke the silence. “This summer celebration was very interesting to me. I am so pleased that I could witness it.”

Her vapid words hung in the air, then Ronica exclaimed, “By Sa’s breath! Look at the harbor!”

There was a break in the trees lining the road. Atop the coach, both Davad and the coachman swore in disbelief. Malta stared. It seemed as if the whole harbor were on fire, for the flames were reflected in the water and doubled there. It was not just a warehouse or two; the entire waterfront seemed to be burning, as well as several of the ships. Malta stared in horror, scarcely hearing the exclamations and speculation of the others. Well she knew that only fire could kill a liveship. Had the Chalcedeans known that as well? Were the ships that battled the flames out near the mouth of the harbor liveships or the ships and galleys the Satrap and his party had come on? But they had only that brief glimpse and the distance was too great to be sure what she had seen.

“Perhaps we should go down there and see for ourselves,” the Satrap suggested boldly. He raised his voice. “Coachman! Take us down to the harbor!”

“Are you mad?” Ronica exclaimed, heedless of whom she addressed. “That is no place for Selden or Malta just now. Take us home first, then do as you will!”

Before the Satrap could reply, the coach gave a lurch as the coachman whipped up his horses. As blackness closed around them once more, Ronica exclaimed, “What can Davad be thinking, to travel at such a pace in the darkness? Davad? Davad, what are we doing?”

There was no direct reply to her query, only muffled shouts exchanged atop the coach. Then Malta thought she heard another voice. She seized the windowsill and leaned out of it. Behind them, in the darkness, she thought she caught a glimpse of something. “I think some horsemen are coming up behind us quickly. Perhaps Davad is just trying to get out of their way.”

“They must be drunk, to gallop their horses at night on this road,” Keffria exclaimed in disgust. Selden was climbing up on the seat, trying to get to the window to look out. “Sit down, child! You’re trampling my dress,” she exclaimed in annoyance. Suddenly Selden was thrown to the floor as the coachman cracked his whip and the horses suddenly surged forward against their harness. The coach rocked heavily now, shifting them back and forth against one another as it swayed. If they had not been packed so tightly together, they would have been sliding about inside the coach.

“Don’t lean against the doors!” her mother commanded her wildly, while Ronica cried out, “Davad! Make him slow the horses! Davad!”

As Malta clung desperately to the windowsill to keep from being thrown about, she glimpsed sudden movement outside it. A horse and rider had pulled abreast of them. “Yield!” he shouted. “Halt and yield to us, and no one will be hurt!”

“Highwaymen!” Kekki exclaimed in horror.

“In Bingtown?” Ronica retorted. “Never!”

Yet now there was another horse and rider on the other side of the coach. Malta glimpsed him, and then she heard the driver shout something. A wheel bumped wildly, and she was thrown against the side of the coach as it slewed to one side. For an instant, it seemed to recover. All would be well, she told herself, and then the opposite side of the coach simply sank with an abrupt lurch. She was flung hard against the Satrap who sprawled against Companion Kekki. Incredibly, she was falling sideways, and then the roof of the coach was somehow almost under her. A door flew open beside her. She heard a scream, a terrible scream and saw a sudden great flash of white light.

“DAVAD IS DEAD.”
Ronica Vestrit spoke the words so calmly, she could hardly believe it was her own voice. She had come across his body in the darkness, groping her way up the steep and uneven slope toward the road. She knew it was Davad by the heavy embroidery on his jacket. She was glad it was too dark to see his body. The heavy warm stillness and the stickiness of blood were overwhelming enough. She could find no pulse at his throat, only blood. There was no whisper of breath. She believed from the drenching of blood down the back of his jacket that his skull had been crushed, but she could not bring herself to touch him anymore. She crawled away from him.

“Keffria! Malta! Selden!” She called the names wildly but without strength. Nothing made sense. Above her, she could see the bulk of the coach between her and the uneven light of torches. There were voices up there, and people moving in the darkness. Maybe her children were up there.

The hillside was steep and brushy. She could not clearly recall how she had gotten out of the coach. She could not understand how she could be so far away from it. Had she been thrown clear?

Then to her ears came Keffria’s voice. She wailed, “Mama, mama!” just as she had used to call when she was a child and tormented by nightmares.

“I’m coming!” Ronica called. Prickly bushes caught at her and she fell again. The entire left half of her body stung as if she had lost the skin off it. But that could be managed, that could be ignored, forgiven and forgotten, if she could just find the children. She fell again.

It seemed to take a long time to get up. Had she fainted? She could see nothing at all now, not the coach, nor the flickering light. Had there been people moving about or had she imagined that? She listened hard. There. A sound, a squeaking of breath, or weeping. She scrabbled toward it.

In the darkness, she found Keffria by touch. The squeaking had been her sobbing. She cried out when Ronica touched her, then clutched at her wordlessly. Little Selden was in her lap. The boy was curled in a tight little ball. The tension of his muscles told Ronica that he was alive. “Is he hurt?” were her first words to her daughter.

“I don’t know. He won’t speak. I can’t find any blood.”

“Selden, come here. Come to Grandma.” He did not resist her but he did not try to come to her. She felt the boy over. No blood, nor did he cry out at her touch. He simply huddled, shivering. She gave him back to Keffria. For a miracle, neither of them seemed seriously injured. Keffria had some broken fingers, but more than that she could not tell, nor could Ronica see. The trees were too dense. No moonlight or starlight reached them to help them search.