Into their silence she added, “And I know that’s a large enough favor to ask, from a man I’ve spoken to only twice before.”

“But each time, you spoke fairly. Of things dear to me, of peace in Bingtown, a peace that Three Ships folk could have a voice in. And the name Tenira is not unknown to me. I’ve sold them salt fish many a time for ship provisions. They raise straight men in that house, they do.” Sparse pursed his lips, and then made a sucking noise as he considered it. “I’ll do it,” he said with finality.

“I’ve no way of repaying you,” Ronica pointed out quickly.

“I don’t recall that I asked any payment.” Sparse was gruff, but not unkind. He added matter-of-factly, “I can’t think of any payment that would be worth my risking my daughter. Save my own sense of what I ought to do, no matter the risk to us.”

“I don’t mind, Da,” Ekke broke in quietly. “Let the lady write her note. I’ll carry it to Tenira myself.”

An odd smile twisted Sparse’s wide features. “I thought you might want to, at that,” he said. Ronica noted that she had suddenly become “the lady” to Ekke. Oddly, she felt diminished by it.

“I have not even a scrap of paper nor a dab of ink to call my own,” she pointed out quietly.

“We have both. Just because we are Three Ships does not mean we don’t have our letters,” Ekke said. A tart note had come into her voice. She rose briskly to bring Ronica a sheet of serviceable paper, a quill and ink.

Ronica took up the quill, dipped it and paused. Speaking as much to herself as to Rache, she said, “I must pen this carefully. I need not only to ask his aid, but to tell him tidings that concern all of Bingtown, tidings that need to reach many ears quickly.”

“Yet I noticed you haven’t offered to share them here,” Ekke observed.

“You are right,” Ronica agreed humbly. She set her pen aside and lifted her eyes to Ekke’s. “I scarcely know what my news will mean, but I fear it will affect us all. The Satrap is missing. He had been taken upriver, into the Rain Wilds, for safety. All know none but a liveship can go up that river. There, it seemed, he would be safe from any treachery from New Traders or Chalcedeans.”

“Indeed. Only a Bingtown Trader could get to him there.”

“Ekke!” her father rebuked her. To Ronica he said with a frown, “Tell on.”

“There was an earthquake. I know little more than that it did great damage, and for a time he was missing. Now the word is that he was seen in a boat going down the river. With my young granddaughter, Malta.” The next words came hard. “Some fear that she has turned him against the Old Traders. That she is a traitor, and has convinced him that he must flee his sanctuary to be safe.”

“And what is the truth?” Sparse demanded.

Ronica shook her head. “I don’t know. The words I overheard were not meant for me; I could not ask questions. They spoke something about a threatened attack by a Jamaillian fleet, but said too little for me to know if the threat is real or only suspected. As for my granddaughter…” For an instant, her throat closed. The fear she had refused suddenly swamped her. She forced a breath past the lump in her throat, and spoke with a calmness she did not feel. “It is uncertain if the Satrap and those with him survived. The river might have eaten their boat, or they may have capsized. No one knows where they are. And if the Satrap is lost, regardless of the circumstances, I fear it will plunge us into war. With Jamaillia, and perhaps Chalced. Or just a civil war here, Old Trader against New.”

“And Three Ships caught in the middle, as usual,” Ekke commented sourly. “Well, it is as it is. Pen your letter, lady, and I shall carry it. This is news, it seems to me, that it is safer spread than kept secret.”

“You see quickly to the heart of it,” Ronica agreed. She took up the quill and dipped it once more. But as she set tip to paper, she was not only thinking of what words would bring Grag here most swiftly, but of how difficult it was going to be to forge a lasting peace in Bingtown. Far more difficult than she had first perceived. The quill tip scratched as it moved swiftly across the coarse paper.

Liveship Traders 3 - Ship of Destiny

CHAPTER ELEVEN - Bodies and Souls

THE DAWN SUNLIGHT GLINTED FAR TOO BRIGHTLY OFF THE WATER. THE COARSE fabric of Wintrow’s trousers chafed his raw skin. He could not bear a shirt. He could stand and walk alone now, but became giddy if he taxed himself at all. Even limping to the foredeck was making his heart pound. As he made his slow journey, working crewmen slowed to stare at him, then, with false heartiness, congratulated him on his recovery. Scarred enough to make a pirate flinch, he told himself caustically. The crewmen were sincere in their good wishes to him. He was truly one of their own now.