It wasn't as if careful planning had paid off well for her lately.

She gave a final heist to her bag and then deliberately set her cap at a jauntier angle. She strode down the street, taking in every detail of the town. This close to the waterfront, it was ship's brokers and chandlers and cheap seaman's boarding houses, interspersed with taverns, whorehouses, gaming rooms and druggeries. It was a rough section of town for a rough pack of folk. And she was part of them now.

She chose a tavern at random and went inside. It looked no different from the taverns in Bingtown. The floor was strewn with reeds, not very fresh. Trestle tables bore ancient ring stains from many mugs. The benches looked much-mended. The ceilings and walls were dark with oily smoke from cooking and lamps. There was a large fireplace at one end, and there the sailors had gathered thickest, close to the warmth and the smell of stew. There was a tavern-keeper, a lean, mournful-looking man, and a gaggle of serving maids, some sullen, some giggly. A staircase at the back led up to rooms above. The conversational roar pushed at her as solidly as a wind.

She found a spot at a table, not as close to the fire as she wished, but still much warmer than it had been outside, or in the forecastle of the ship. She set her back to the wall at the mostly empty table. She got a mug of beer that was surprisingly good, and a bowl of stew that was badly seasoned, but still a vast improvement over ship's food. The chunk of bread that went with it more than made up for it. It had not been out of the oven for more than a few hours. It was dark and thick with grain and chewy. She ate slowly, savoring the warmth, the food, and the beer, refusing to think of anything else. She considered getting a room upstairs, but the thumps, thuds, shrieks and laughter that drifted down the staircase made her aware that the rooms were not intended for sleeping. One tavern maid approached her halfheartedly, but Althea simply pretended not to understand. The girl seemed as glad to go on her way.

She wondered how long one had to be a whore before one got tired of it. Or used to it. She found her hand had gone to her belly and was touching the ring through her shirt. Whore, the captain had called her, and said she'd brought the serpents down on the ship. Ridiculous. But that was how they had seen her. She took a bite of her bread and looked around the room and tried to imagine what it would be like to randomly offer herself to the men there in hopes of money. They were a rancid lot, she decided. The sea might make a man tough, but for the most part, it also made him ugly. Missing teeth, missing limbs, hands and faces weathered dark as much by tar and oil as by wind and sun; there were few men there that appealed to her. Those that were young and comely and well-muscled were neither clean nor mannered. Perhaps, she reflected, it was the oil trade. Hunting and killing and rendering, blood and salt and oil made up their days. The sailors on the merchant vessels had been cleaner, she thought. Or perhaps only the ones on the Vivacia. Her father had pushed the men to be clean to keep the vessel free of vermin as well.

Thinking of the Vivacia and her father did not hurt as much as it once had. Hopelessness had replaced the pain. She brought her mind about and sailed straight into the thought she'd been refusing. It was going to be damn close to impossible to ever get a ship's ticket in her name. All because she was a woman. The defeat that washed abruptly over her almost sickened her. The food in her belly was suddenly a sour weight. She found she was trembling as if she were cold. She pressed her feet against the floor, and set her hands to the edge of the table to still them. I want to go home, she thought miserably. Somewhere that I am safe and warm and people know me. But no, home was none of those things, not anymore. The only place those things existed for her was in the past, back when her father had been alive and the Vivacia had been her home. She reached for those memories, but found them hard to summon. They were too distant, she was too disconnected from them. To long for them only made her more alone and hopeless. Brashen, she thought suddenly. He was as close to home as she could get in this dirty town. Not that she intended to seek him out, but it suddenly occurred to her that she could. That was something she could do, if she wanted to, if she wanted to be reckless and truly care nothing about tomorrow. She could find Brashen, and for a few hours, she could feel warm and safe. The thought was like the smell of a well-laden table to a starving man.

But she wouldn't do it. No. Brashen would not be a good idea. If she went to meet him, he would think that meant she was going to bed him again. She deliberately considered that idea. She felt a slow stirring of interest. She gave a snort of disgust and forced herself to truly consider it. The sounds from upstairs seemed suddenly both degrading and silly. No. She wasn't really interested in doing that with anyone, let alone Brashen. Because if they did, that would be the worst idea of all, because sooner or later one or the other of them, or both of them, would be back in Bingtown. Bedding Brashen on the ship had not been a good idea. They had both been tired and half-drunk, to say nothing of the cindin. That was the only reason it had happened. But if she went to meet him tonight and it happened again, then he might think it meant something. And if they encountered one another in Bingtown . . . well, what happened on the ship was one thing, but in Bingtown it would be quite another. Bingtown was home. So. She would not go to meet him and she would not bed him. That was all quite decided with her.