It had been a busy day. She had gone personally to petition the Bingtown Council. They had said only that they would consider it. They did not have to hear her. Keffria was the Trader of the family, not Althea, and she had stiffly told her sister that she, too, would speak tonight if the opportunity presented itself. Althea had composed a note to let Grag know of the taking of the
Vivacia,
and sent Rache off to deliver it. After that, she had gone herself to Davad Restart’s, both to give Davad the news about the piracy and to ask the Trader if he would give them a ride to the Council. Davad had been properly horrified, but also reluctant to believe anything “that Trell rascal” said. He assured her that if the story proved true, he would stand by them in their trouble. Althea noticed that that offer had not extended to his wallet. She knew Davad better than to expect financial assistance from him. His affection and his money were kept well separated. Then she had returned home, helped Rache bake the week’s bread, staked the beans in the kitchen garden and tied up the plants, and thinned the green fruit on the plum and apple trees. It had taken a good scrubbing to make herself presentable again.
Yet, all her frantic activity had not been enough to keep Brashen Trell from intruding on her thoughts. Hadn’t her life been complicated enough without him coming back to Bingtown? Not that he had anything to do with her life, really. Right now, every moment of her time should have been occupied with thoughts of Vivacia or the Traders’ Council meeting. Or Grag. Instead, Brashen stood there, at the edge of every thought, opening a whole realm of other possibilities. To contemplate any of them made her uneasy. She pushed him away, but images of him kept returning: Brashen sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and nodding to her mother’s words; Brashen’s head bent over little Selden as he lifted the boy to carry him off to bed; Brashen standing, legs braced as if on a deck, staring out the window of her father’s study into the night. Or, she reminded herself tartly, Brashen, repeatedly feeling in the corner of his jacket pocket for the cindin that undoubtedly was there. The man was the victim of his own bad decisions. Let him go.
Althea hurried out to the entry. She didn’t want to be late for the meeting tonight. There were too many portentous things on the agenda. To her surprise, Malta was already waiting there. She ran a critical eye over her niece, but found nothing to correct. She had expected Malta to overindulge in paint, scent and jewelry, but she looked almost as sedate as Althea did. The flowers in her hair were her only ornamentation. Yet even simply attired in her Trader robe, the young girl was breathtaking. Althea looked at her and could not fault the young men who admired her. She was growing up. Over the past day and a half, she had shown far more maturity than Althea had thought she possessed. It was a shame that it had taken a family crisis to bring it out in her. She tried to push her nervousness aside and reassure her niece.
“You look very nice, Malta.”
“Thank you,” the girl replied distractedly. She turned to Althea with a frown. “I wish we weren’t riding to the meeting with Davad Restart. I don’t think it looks good.”
“I agree with you.” Althea was surprised that Malta had even considered it. Althea herself was fond of Davad, as one is fond of an eccentric and occasionally boorish uncle. For that reason, she struggled to ignore the wrong-headedness of his current politics. She agreed with her mother. Davad Restart had been a friend of the family too long to let a political disagreement come between them. Althea just hoped her association with him would not weaken her presentation to the Council. She must seem whole-hearted and righteous in her support of the Tenira family. It would be humiliating beyond repair if she was regarded as a silly woman who would take sides based on the opinion of the man closest to her. She wanted to be heard as Althea Vestrit, not as a girl infatuated with Grag Tenira.
“Does a carriage and a team truly cost that much? There is the whole summer season of balls, teas and parties ahead of us. We cannot always be depending on Davad. Think how that looks to the other Trader families,” Malta went on plaintively.
Althea knit her brows. “There is the old carriage. If you are willing to help me, we could clean and oil it. It’s very dusty, but sound. Then we could look into hiring a team and a driver.” She crossed the room to peer out the window. Then she turned and grinned wickedly at Malta over her shoulder. “Or I could manage the reins myself. When I was your age, Hakes, our coachman, used to let me drive occasionally. Father didn’t mind, but Mother never approved.”
Her niece gave her a cool look. “That, I think, would be more humiliating than riding in Restart’s rattletrap.”
Althea shrugged and looked out the window again. Every time she thought she had established some sort of link with Malta, the girl would rebuff her.
Her mother and Keffria entered the room just as Davad’s carriage pulled into the drive. “Let’s not wait,” Althea suggested, and opened the entry door before Davad could leave the carriage. “Once Davad is inside, he’ll want wine and biscuits before we leave again. I really don’t think we have time,” she added at her sister’s disapproving stare.
“I don’t want to be late,” her mother conceded. They all trooped out to the carriage. Before the surprised coachman was completely off the box, Althea had tugged the carriage door open. She shooed her relatives in ahead of her. Davad obediently squeezed over to make room. Althea sat down next to him. His musk-based perfume was nearly as dizzying as the camphor on her robes. Well, it would not be a long journey. Keffria, Mother and Malta settled facing them. Davad signaled the driver and the carriage jolted forward. The rhythmic squeaking of the carriage spoke of neglect, as did the grit in the seams of the upholstered seats. Althea frowned to herself but made no comment on it. Davad had never been adept at getting the best from his servants.
“Just look what I’ve brought for you,” Davad announced. He produced a small beribboned box. Opening it himself, he presented them with an assortment of sticky jelly candies, the sort Althea had doted on when she was six. “I know they’re your favorites,” he confided to them as he helped himself to one and then passed the box around to the others. Althea gingerly took one of the sticky treats and popped it in her mouth. Keffria made brief eye contact with her sister as she was handed the box. The look they exchanged was one of fond tolerance for Davad. Keffria took a red one.
Davad himself beamed satisfaction at them. “Well! Don’t you all look beautiful! I shall be the envy of every man at the Traders’ meeting, arriving with a carriage full of such loveliness. I shall have to lay about me with a stick just to drive the young men back from the door!”
Althea and Keffria smiled dutifully to the extravagant compliment, as they had smiled to his compliments since they were children. Malta looked affronted, while Mother commented, “Davad, you are always full of such flattery. Do you think we believe you after all these years?” She frowned and added, “Althea, would you straighten Davad’s scarf for him? The knot has worked around to under his ear.”
Althea saw her mother’s true concern. There was a blotch of gravy or some such predominantly displayed on the fine yellow silk. The scarf was not appropriate with his Trader robe, but she knew better than to try to persuade Davad to take it off. Instead she untied and re-knotted it for him in such a way that the stain scarcely showed.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said fondly as he patted her hand gratefully. Althea smiled back and glanced at Malta to find her staring in distaste. She quirked one eyebrow at her young niece, asking her understanding. She could understand Malta’s avid dislike of Davad. When Althea stopped and considered Davad’s recent actions, she knew the same disgust. He had stooped to the low practices of the New Traders, and then surpassed them by aiding them against his own class. Ignoring the censure of the other Traders, he always spoke out for them at the Trader meetings now. He had acted as go-between for many of the more desperate Bingtown Trader families and the New Traders avid to buy their ancestral lands. Rumor said that he bargained keenly to get the best terms, not for the Trader involved, but for the newcomers. It was hard for her to believe half of what she had heard gossiped about Davad. She was forced to accept that he not only used slaves on his property now, he trafficked in them. That was bad enough, but by far the worst rumor she had heard was that he was somehow involved in the efforts of New Traders to buy the
Paragon.
Now she studied the avuncular man beside her and wondered. At what point would her loyalty be strained to breaking? Would they reach that point tonight?
To distract herself, she made conversation. “Well, Davad, you always know the most amusing gossip in Bingtown. What is the best tale you’ve heard today?” She expected nothing more than mildly scandalous. Davad was very strait-laced in his ways.
He smiled at her compliment and patted his stomach complacently. “The juiciest rumor I have heard today is not about Bingtown, my dear, although if it turns out to be true, it will definitely have a most profound effect upon all of us.” He looked around at each of them, securing his audience. “This I have from a New Trader. One of his messenger birds brought it from Jamaillia City.” He paused, tapping his forefinger against his smiling lips as if he considered the wisdom of sharing his news. He wanted to be coaxed.
Althea indulged him. “Do go on. We are always interested in the goings-on in Jamaillia.”
“Well.” He leaned back in the seat. “You all know, I am sure, of that unfortunate fuss last winter. The Khuprus family … indulge me, Malta, I know their boy is enamored of you, but this is politics I’m talking, not romance… The Khuprus family came to Bingtown on behalf of the Rain Wild Traders, to stir up trouble between us and the Satrap. I tried to talk sense to them, but you recall what a mob scene that meeting was, Ronica. Well. Anyway. The result was that a delegation of Bingtown Traders set off for Jamaillia City, with our original charter, with the intent of demanding the Satrap live up to the ancient document. How could they believe such antiquated agreements could be forced to apply to our modern age? Nevertheless, off they went. And they were received courteously, and told firmly that the Satrap would consider their position. And we heard no more.” He glanced about to see if they were paying attention. It was all old news, but Althea listened dutifully. Malta stared out the dusty window.
Davad leaned forward over his belly and lowered his voice, as if he feared the driver might be listening. “You have all heard the rumors that the Satrap promised to dispatch an envoy to Bingtown. We have all been expecting his arrival any day now. Well, the rumor I have heard is that there is no envoy. No! Instead, the Satrap himself, high-hearted adventurous young man that he is, has decided to come himself. It is said he will travel in disguise, with only a few choice Companions of his Heart, but well escorted by his Chalcedean honor guards. He hopes, it is said, to show Bingtown that he still considers our settlement to be as tightly tied to Jamaillia and the Satrapy as any of the cities in Jamaillia itself. When folk realize what he has endured to make this trip, and the concern he has that Bingtown remain loyal to him, well, I don’t see how they can refuse to be more reasonable. How many years has it been since a reigning Satrap last visited Bingtown? Not in our lifetimes, eh, Ronica? Some of the New Trader families who have heard the rumor are already planning balls and parties such as Bingtown has never seen before. Oh, what a time to be a lovely and single young woman, eh, Malta? Don’t be too hasty in accepting that Rain Wilder’s suit, now. Perhaps, with my connections, I can arrange an invitation to a ball where you may catch the eye of the Satrap himself!”
His words produced the shock he’d been hoping for. Even Malta stared at him wide-eyed. “The Satrap? Here?” queried her mother in disbelief.
“He’d have to be out of his mind.” Althea didn’t realize she’d spoken the words aloud until Davad turned to stare at her. “I mean, such a long and hazardous journey to undertake so impulsively!”
“Even so, he is on his way. So flies the rumor bird. Now, not a word of this to anyone, you understand?” He did not truly expect that last warning to be heeded. He always appended it to every bit of gossip he shared.
Althea was still mulling over his tale when the driver pulled the horses in. The carriage came to a halt, and then gave a final bounce back. “Allow me,” Davad said, and leaned over Althea to reach the door handle. As the driver tugged from the outside, Davad put his wide shoulder against the inside of the door and shoved. The door flew open and Althea caught at the portly man’s robe to keep him from spilling out. The driver reluctantly offered Davad his hand. The Trader exited the carriage, then proudly handed down each of the Vestrit women in turn.
Grag Tenira was loitering at the top of the steps outside the Traders’ Concourse. He had girt his dark blue Trader robe up in the old seafarer style. It showed a substantial amount of well-muscled legs and sandaled feet. Somehow, he managed to look both the daring sailor and the serious Trader. He was, she admitted to herself, a very handsome man. His wandering eyes told her that he was watching for her arrival. She had sent him a message at dawn about the seizure of the
Vivacia.
His immediate reply had been as warm and supportive as she could wish. He would stand beside her, and even do his best to see that she received time to speak at this meeting. He had written that his family and Ophelia shared her concern for Vivacia.
She smiled as she caught his eye, and he gave her a white-toothed grin in response. His smile froze when he glimpsed her escort. Althea quietly excused herself and hastened up the Concourse steps to meet Grag. He bowed formally over her extended hand. As he straightened, he murmured, “I should have thought to send a carriage for you. Next time, I shall.”
“Oh, Grag. It’s only Davad. He has been a family friend for a long time. He would be very hurt if I refused to ride with him.”