Swarge answered the question with one of his own. “Why has it got to be forever, Cap? What’s changed so much that I got to promise to sail with you forever now or clear off the ship?”
Leftrin concealed a small sigh. Swarge was a good man and great on the tiller. He could read the river as few men could. Tarman felt comfortable in his hands. With all the changes the ship had undergone recently, Leftrin didn’t want to break in a new tillerman. He met Swarge’s look squarely. “You know that my claiming that wizardwood and what we’ve done with it is forbidden. It’s got to stay a secret. Best way to keep a secret, I think, is to make sure it benefits every man who knows it. And to keep those who share the secret in one place.
“Before we started, I let go any man I didn’t think was mine, heart and soul. I’ve got a plum little crew here now, handpicked, and I want to keep you all. It comes down to trust, Swarge. I kept you on because I knew you’d done some boatbuilding back when you were a youngster. I knew you’d help us do what Tarman needed doing, and keep it quiet. Well, now it’s done, and I want you to stay on as his tillerman. Permanently. If I bring a new man aboard, he’s going to know immediately that something about this ship is very unusual, even for a liveship. And I won’t know if he’s someone I can trust with a secret that big. He might just have a big mouth, or he might be the type that thinks he could squeeze some money out of me for silence. And then I’d have to take steps I’d rather not take. Instead, I’d rather keep you, as long as I can. For the rest of your life, if you’ll sign on for that.”
“And if I don’t?”
Leftrin was silent for a moment. He hadn’t bargained on this. He thought he’d chosen carefully. He’d never imagined that Swarge would be the one to hesitate. He said the first thing that came into his mind. “Why wouldn’t you? What’s stopping you?”
Swarge shifted from side to side on his chair. He glanced at the bottle and away again. Leftrin waited. The man wasn’t known for being talkative. Leftrin poured another jot of rum for both of them and waited, almost patiently.
“There’s a woman,” Swarge said at last. And there he stopped. He looked at the table, at his captain, and then back at the table.
“What about her?” Leftrin asked at last.
“Been thinking to ask her to marry me.”
Leftrin’s heart sank. It would not be the first time he’d lost a good crewman to a wife and a home.
THE RECENTLY REPAIRED and renovated Traders’ Concourse still smelled of new timber and oiled wood. For the ceremony, the seating benches had been removed to the sides of the room, leaving a large open space. The afternoon sun slanted in through the windows; fading squares of light fell on the polished floor and broke into fragments against those who had gathered to witness their promises to each other. Most of the guests were attired in their formal Trader robes in the colors of their families. There were a few Three Ships folk there, probably trading partners of Hest’s families, and even one Tattooed woman in a long gown of yellow silk.
Hest had not arrived yet.
Alise told herself that did not matter. He would come. He was the one who had arranged all this; he would scarcely back out of it now. She wished devoutly that her gown did not fit her so snugly, and that it was not such a warm afternoon. “You look so pale,” her father whispered to her. “Are you all right?”
She thought of all the white powder her mother had dusted on her face and had to smile. “I’m fine, Father. Just a bit nervous. Shall we walk about a bit?”
They moved slowly through the room, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. Guest after guest greeted her and wished her well. Some were already availing themselves of the punch. Others were unabashedly scanning the terms of their marriage contract. The dual scrolls of their agreement were pegged down to the wood of a long central table. Silver candelabra held white tapers; the light was needed for anyone who wished to read the finely written words. Matching black quills and a pot of red ink awaited Hest and her.
It was a peculiarly Bingtown tradition. The marriage contract would be scrutinized, read aloud, and signed by both families before the far briefer blessing invocation. It made sense to Alise. They were a nation of traders; of course their nuptials would be as carefully negotiated as any other bargain.
She had not realized how anxious she was until she heard the wheels of a carriage in the drive outside. “That must be him,” she whispered nervously to her father.
“It had better be him,” he replied ominously. “We may not be so rich as the Finboks, but the Kincarrons are just as much Traders as they are. We are not to be trifled with. Nor insulted.”
