Althea let out a huge sigh of relief as soon as she was on the boardwalk outside. She scarcely felt the chill wind that flowed past her. Tenira hadn't recognized her, and she now decided it was unlikely he ever would. As lowly ship's boy, it was unlikely she would be face to face with the captain much. Now that he'd seen her as Athel, he'd probably continue to see her as Athel. She was confident she could get past Grag Tenira as well. Athel the ship's boy looked nothing like Althea the dance partner. Her heart soared suddenly as she realized she'd done it. She had passage back to Bingtown. And if all she had heard of Captain Tenira was true, she'd gain a few coins on the trip. The man was fair. If he saw her working hard, he'd reward her. She found a smile on her face. Ophelia would be leaving tomorrow. All she had to do was go and get her sea-bag and head down to the ship and find a place to hang a hammock. Tomorrow she'd be on her way home.

And aboard a liveship again. Her heart approached that with mixed feelings. The Ophelia was not the Vivacia. There would be no bond there. On the other hand, Ophelia would not be some dead piece of wood pushed around only by wind and waves. It would be good to be back on board a responsive vessel again. And she'd be glad to see the last of this greasy little town.

She turned her feet towards the run-down inn where she had been staying. She'd board Ophelia tonight and sail tomorrow. There wasn't time to find Brashen and bid him farewell. She had no idea where he was. Why, for all she knew, he might have shipped out again by now. Besides, what was the point? She'd go her way, he'd go his. That was simply how it was. She had no real connection to the man at all. None at all. She didn't even know why she was thinking about him. Certainly there was nothing left to say to him. And seeing him again would only bring up difficult words and topics.

The office of the ship's agent was small and stuffy. The fireplace held a roaring blaze for such a tiny room. It seemed smoky after the fresh windy day outside. Brashen tugged at his collar, then forced his hands to lie still in his lap.

“I hire for the ship Springeve. That is how much trust the captain places in me. And it is a trust I take gravely. If I send him out with a sloppy man, or a drunk, I can cost the ship time, money, and lives. So I am careful who I hire.”

The agent, a small, balding man, paused to suck at a pipe. He seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Brashen tried to think of one. “It's a heavy responsibility,” he hazarded.

The agent exhaled a yellowish smoke. The acridity of it bit at Brashen's eyes and throat but he tried not to show it. All he wanted was the mate's position they had posted on the bill outside the door. The Springeve was a small, shallow draft trading vessel that worked her way up and down the coast between Candletown and Bingtown. The cargo she picked up or let off in each town determined her next port of call. That was how the agent delicately explained it. To Brashen, it sounded suspiciously as if the Springeve worked with the pirates, buying and selling stolen cargoes from other ships. Brashen wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in that sort of work. Actually, he was damn sure that he didn't want to do any work at all, of any kind. But he was out of money and almost out of cindin. So he had to work, and this berth was as good as any. The man was talking again, and Brashen tried to look as if he'd been paying attention.

“. . . so we lost him. It was a shame, he'd been with us for years. But, as I'm sure you know . . .”he took another long draw from his pipe and breathed it out through his nose. “Time and tide wait for no man. Nor does perishable cargo. The Springeve has to sail and we need a new mate. You seem familiar with the waters we've discussed. We may not be able to pay you what you think you're worth.”

“What could you pay me?” Brashen asked bluntly. Then he smiled, to try and soften the roughness of the words. His headache had abruptly returned, and if the man breathed smoke in his face one more time, he thought he'd puke.

“Well.” The small man bridled a bit at his question. “That depends, of course. You've your ticket from the Reaper, but nothing to show for the other experience you claim. I'll need to think about this.”

He meant he hoped someone with more tickets would apply. “I see. When will you know if you want me?” Another question phrased too baldly. Once he had said it, he could hear it, but he seemed unable to govern his words before they came out of his mouth. He smiled at the man again, and hoped his smile was not as sickly as he felt.

“Possibly by early morning.”

When the man took a draw from his pipe, Brashen bent over and pretended to adjust the cuff of his trousers. He waited until the man breathed out before he straightened up again. There was still a cloud of yellowish fumes waiting for him. He coughed, then cleared his throat. “I'll check back with you then, shall I?” A knot of anxiety was forming in Brashen's gut. He'd have to face another day without food, another night sleeping outside. With every day that passed like that, he'd have less of a chance at a decent berth. A hungry, dirty, unshaven man was not what an agent sought for in a ship's mate.