“Then let us go forward and look,” Tenira immediately declared. He gave an almost apologetic look at Althea. “I know you bear tidings for me from your mother. Do not think I undervalue them. But Ophelia is my ship.”

“She must come first,” Althea agreed. “It was in my mind also, when I asked my friend Amber to accompany me.”

“That is so like you,” Grag observed warmly. He was so bold as to touch Althea's hand. He sketched a bow toward Amber. “Anyone that Althea calls friend, I am honored to know. It is the only credential you need with me.”

“My son recalls me to my manners. Forgive me, lady. I am Captain and Bingtown Trader Tomie Tenira of the liveship Ophelia. This is my son, Grag Tenira.”

Althea realized sharply that she did not know Amber's family name. But before she could stumble through that introduction, Amber spoke. “I am Amber the bead-maker, an artisan of Rain Wild Street. I look forward to meeting your ship.”

With no more ado, Captain Tenira led the way. Ophelia was obviously simmering with curiosity. She looked Amber up and down with a scandalized restraint that brought a grin to Althea's face despite herself. As soon as Amber's presence was explained, the ship showed no hesitation at turning to her and presenting her scorched hands for inspection. “Do you think you can do anything for me?” she asked gravely.

It was the first time Althea had had a clear look at the damage. The tarry fireballs had clung to her fingers as they burned her. It had licked up the inside of Ophelia's left wrist. Her patrician hands looked like those of a scrub maid.

Amber took one of the ship's large hands in both her own. She ran her gloved fingertips over the scorched surface lightly, then rubbed at it more firmly. “Tell me if I hurt you,” she added belatedly. Her brow was furrowed with concentration. “A most peculiar wood,” she added to herself. She opened the tote of tools and selected one. She scraped lightly at one blackened fingertip. Ophelia gave a sharp intake of breath.

“That hurts?” Amber asked immediately.

“Not as humans hurt. It feels . . . wrong. Damaging.”

“I think there is sound wood just below the scorched surface. Working with my tools, I could remove what is blackened. I might have to reshape your hands a bit; you would end up with slimmer fingers than you have now. I could keep a good proportion, I believe, unless the damage goes much deeper than I think. However, you would have to endure that sense of damage, unflinching, while I did my work. I do not know how long it would take.”

“What do you think, Tomie?” the ship demanded of her captain.

“I think we have little to lose by trying,” he said gently. “If the sensation becomes unbearable, then Mistress Amber will stop, I am sure.”

Ophelia smiled nervously. Then a wondering look came into her eyes. “If your work on my hands is successful, then perhaps something could be done about my hair as well.” She lifted a hand to touch the long loose curls of her mane. “This style is so dated. I have often thought that if I could contrive ringlets around my face and ...”

“Oh, Ophelia.” Tomie groaned as the others laughed.

Amber had kept possession of one of Ophelia's hands. Her head was still bent over it, examining the damage. “I may have great difficulty in matching the stain. Never have I seen stain that mimics so well the color of flesh without obscuring the grain of the wood. Someone told me that a liveship creates its own colors as it awakens.” She met Ophelia's eyes without selfconsciousness as she asked, “Will that happen again, if I have to plane so deep that I expose uncolored wood?”

“I do not know,” Ophelia replied quietly.

“This will not be the work of an afternoon,” Amber said decidedly. “Captain, you will have to give your watch permission to let me come and go. I shall keep this same guise. Is that acceptable?”

“I suppose so,” the captain conceded grudgingly. “Though it may be hard to explain to other Traders why such delicate work is entrusted to a slave, or why I use a slave's labor at all. I oppose all slavery, you know.”

“As do I,” Amber replied gravely. “As do many, many folk in this town.”

“Do they?” Tomie replied bitterly. “If there is any great public outcry about it, it has escaped me.”

Amber lightly tapped her fake tattoo. “Were you to put on rags and one of these and stroll about Bingtown, you would hear the voices of those who oppose slavery most bitterly. In your efforts to waken Bingtown to its senses, do not ignore that pool of allies.” She selected a small block plane from her tote of tools and began to adjust the blade on it. “If one were interested in, say, the inner workings of the household of the tariff minister, willing spies might easily be found among that pool. I believe the scribe who composes his correspondence to the Satrap is a slave, also.”