Ship of Magic

Amber had helped her. But for her help, with both needlework and readily shared meals, Althea would never have been able to do it. Amber's sudden befriendment of her had always puzzled Althea. Now it seemed to her that perhaps Amber had actually been intent on propelling her into danger. Her fingers crept up to touch the Serpent's Egg bead that she wore on a single strand of leather about her neck. The touch of it almost warmed her fingers and she shook her head at the darkness. No. Amber had been her friend, one of the few rare women friends she'd ever had. She'd taken her in for the days of high summer, helped her cut and sew her boy's clothing. More, Amber had do

“Bring your voice from here,” she'd instructed her, prodding Althea below her ribs. “If you have to talk. But speak as little as you can. You'll be less likely to betray yourself, and you'll be better accepted. A good listener of any sex is rare. Be one, and it will make up for anything else perceived as a fault.” Amber had also shown her how to wrap her breasts flat to her chest in such a way that the binding cloth appeared to be no more than another shirt worn under her outer shirt. Amber had shown her to fold dark-colored stockings to use as blood rags. “Dirty socks you can always explain,” Amber had told her. “Cultivate a fastidious personality. Wash your clothing twice as much as anyone else does, and no one will question it after a time. And learn to need less sleep. For you will either have to rise before any others or stay up later in order to keep the privacy of your body. And this I caution you most of all. Trust no one with your secret. It is not a secret a man can keep. If one man aboard the ship knows you are a woman, then they all will.”

This was the only area in which Amber had, perhaps, been mistaken. For Brashen knew she was a woman, and he had not betrayed her. At least, he hadn't so far. A sudden irony came to Althea. She gri

Brashen lay on his bunk and studied the wall opposite him. It was not far from his face. Was a time, he thought ruefully, when I would have scorned this cabin as a clothes closet. Now he knew what a luxury even a tiny space to himself could be. True, there was scarce room to turn around once a man was inside, but he did have his own berth, and no one slept in it but him. There were pegs for his clothing, and a corner just large enough to hold his sea chest. In the bunk, he could brace himself against the ledge that confined his body and almost sleep secure when he was off watch. The captain's and the mate's cabins were substantially larger and better appointed, even on a tub like this. But then on many ships the second mate had no better quarters than the crew. He was grateful for this tiny corner of quiet, even if it had come to him by the deaths of three men.

He had shipped as an ordinary seaman, and spent the first part of his trip growling and elbowing in the forecastle with the rest of his watch. Early on, he had realized he had not only more experience but a stronger drive to do his job well than the rest of his fellows. The Reaper was a slaughter ship out of Candletown far to the south, on the northern border of Jamaillia. When the ship had left the town many months ago in spring, it had left with a mostly conscripted crew. A handful of professional sailors were the backbone of the crew, charged with battering the newcomers into shape as sailors. Some were debtors, their work sold by their creditors as a means of forcing them to pay back what they owed. Others were simple criminals purchased from the Satrap's jails. Those who had been pickpockets and thieves had soon learned better or perished; the close quarters aboard a slaughter ship did not encourage a man to be tolerant of such vice in his fellows. It was not a crew that worked with a will, nor one whose members were likely to survive the rigors of the trip.

By the time the Reaper reached Bingtown, she'd lost a third of her crew to sickness, accidents and violence aboard. The two-thirds that remained were survivors; they'd learned to sail, they'd learned to pursue the slow-moving turtles and the so-called brack-whales of the southern coast inlets and lagoons. Their services were not, of course, to be confused with the skills of the professional hunters and ski

The ship had beat her way north on the outside of the pirate islands, hunting, slaughtering and rendering all the way. At Bingtown, the Reaper had put in to take on clean water and supplies and to make such repairs as they had the coin to pay for. The mate had also actively recruited more crew, for the journey out to the Barren Islands. It had been nearly the only ship in the harbor that was hiring.

The storms between Bingtown and the Barrens were as notorious as the multitude of sea mammals that swarmed there just prior to the winter migration. They'd be fat with the summer feedings, the sleek coats of the young ones large enough to be worth the ski

It would be a cargo rich enough to make the Reaper's owners dance with glee, while those debtors who survived to reach Candletown again would emerge from their ordeal as free men. The hunters and ski

A good life, Brashen thought wryly. Such a fine berth as he had won for himself. It had not taken much. All he had had to do was scramble swiftly enough to catch the mate's eye and then the captain's. That, and the vicious storm that had carried off two men and crippled the third who was a likely candidate for this berth.

Yet it was not any peculiar guilt at having stepped over dead men to claim this place and the responsibilities that went with it that bothered him tonight. No. It was the thought of Althea Vestrit, his benefactor's daughter, curled in wet misery in the hold in the close company of such men as festered there. “There's nothing I can do about it.” He spoke the words aloud, as if by giving them to air he could make them ease his conscience. He hadn't seen her come aboard in Bingtown; even if he had, he wouldn't have recognized her easily. She was a convincing mimic as a sailor lad; he had to give her that.

His first hint that she was aboard had not been the sight of her. He'd glimpsed her any number of times as “a ship's boy” and given no thought to it. Her flat cap pulled low on her brow and her boy's clothes had been more than sufficient disguise. The first time he'd seen a rope secured to the hook on a block with a double blackwall hitch rather than a bowline, he'd raised an eyebrow. It was not that rare of a knot, but the bowline was the common preference. Captain Vestrit, however, had always preferred the blackwall. Brashen hadn't given much thought to it at the time. A day or so later, coming out on deck before his watch, he'd heard a familiar whistle from up in the rigging. He'd looked up to where she was waving at the lookout, trying to catch his attention for some message, and instantly recognized her. “Oh, Althea,” he'd thought to himself calmly, and then started an instant later as his mind registered the information. In disbelief, he'd stared up at her, mouth half-agape. It was her: no mistaking her style of ru