corner and tried not to betray how self-conscious she felt.
No one’s watching you
, she tried convincing herself.
Or if they are, what of it? No one has any cause to go out of their way to dislike you.
Then she overheard someone mutter, not too softly, “… bad enough breathin’ this damn coal dust all th’ way to Gremlin Town. Do I also gotta stand th’ stink of a
Lamai brat
aboard?” Maia glanced up to catch a glower from a tough-looking var in her mid-eights or nines. The woman’s fair hair and sharp-jawed features reminded Maia of the Chuchyin clan, a rival of Lamatia based up-coast from Port Sanger. Was she a Chuchyin half or quarter sister, using an old grudge between their maternal houses as an excuse to start a private one of her own?
“Stay downwind from me, Lamai virgie,” the var grunted when she caught Maia’s gaze, and snorted in satisfaction when Maia looked away.
Bleeders! How far must I to go to escape Lamatia?
Maia had none of the advantages of being her mother’s child,only an inheritance of resentment toward a clan widely known for tenacious self-interest.
So intent was she on her plate that she jerked when someone nudged her arm. Blinking, Maia turned to meet a pair of pale green eyes, partly shaded under a dark blue bandanna. A small, deeply tanned, black-haired woman, wearing shorts and a quilted halter, held out the wine jug with a faint smile. As Maia reached for it, the var said in a low voice, “Relax. They do it to every fiver.”
Maia gave a quick nod of thanks. She lifted the jug to her mouth …
… and doubled over, coughing. The stuff was awful! It stung her throat and she could not stop wheezing as she passed the bottle to the next var. This only brought more laughter, but now with a difference. It came tinged with an indulgent, rough-but-affectionate tone.
Each of them was five once, and they know it
, Maia realized.
I’ll get through this too.
Relaxing just a bit, she started listening to the conversation. The women compared notes on places each had been, and speculated what opportunities might lie to the south, with storm season over and commerce opening up again. Derisory comments about Port Sanger featured prominently. The image of a whole town called to arms because some clumsy reavers spilled a lantern had them in stitches. Maia couldn’t help also grinning at the farcical picture.
It didn’t seem funny to that dead woman
, a part of her recalled soberly. But then, hadn’t somebody written that one essence of humor is the tragedy
you
managed to escape?
From hints here and there, Maia surmised that some of these vars had worn the red bandanna themselves.
Say you gather a pack of down-and-out summerlings, resentful at society’s bottom rung, and sign a sisterly compact. Together, you hire a fast schooner … men willing to pilot their precious
ship alongside some freighter, giving your band of comrades a narrow moment to dare all, win or lose.
Savant Judeth had explained why it was grudgingly allowed.
“It would’ve happened anyway, sooner or later,” the Lamai teacher once said. “By laying down rules, Lysos kept piracy from getting out of hand. Call it welfare for the desperate and lucky. A safety valve.
“And if reavers get too uppity?” There had been confident menace in Judeth’s smile. “We have ways of dealing with that, too.”
Maia never intended to find out what the great clans did, when provoked too far. At the same time, she pondered the sanitized legends told about the very first Lamai … the young var who, long ago, turned a small nest egg into a commercial empire for her clone descendants. Stories were vague about where the first mother got her stake. Perhaps a red bandanna lay somewhere in a bottom drawer of the clan’s dustiest archive.
As expected, most of the vars aboard were working off passage while seeking permanent employment ashore. But a few actually seemed to consider themselves regular members of the Wotan’s
No one’s watching you
, she tried convincing herself.
Or if they are, what of it? No one has any cause to go out of their way to dislike you.
Then she overheard someone mutter, not too softly, “… bad enough breathin’ this damn coal dust all th’ way to Gremlin Town. Do I also gotta stand th’ stink of a
Lamai brat
aboard?” Maia glanced up to catch a glower from a tough-looking var in her mid-eights or nines. The woman’s fair hair and sharp-jawed features reminded Maia of the Chuchyin clan, a rival of Lamatia based up-coast from Port Sanger. Was she a Chuchyin half or quarter sister, using an old grudge between their maternal houses as an excuse to start a private one of her own?
“Stay downwind from me, Lamai virgie,” the var grunted when she caught Maia’s gaze, and snorted in satisfaction when Maia looked away.
Bleeders! How far must I to go to escape Lamatia?
Maia had none of the advantages of being her mother’s child,only an inheritance of resentment toward a clan widely known for tenacious self-interest.
So intent was she on her plate that she jerked when someone nudged her arm. Blinking, Maia turned to meet a pair of pale green eyes, partly shaded under a dark blue bandanna. A small, deeply tanned, black-haired woman, wearing shorts and a quilted halter, held out the wine jug with a faint smile. As Maia reached for it, the var said in a low voice, “Relax. They do it to every fiver.”
Maia gave a quick nod of thanks. She lifted the jug to her mouth …
… and doubled over, coughing. The stuff was awful! It stung her throat and she could not stop wheezing as she passed the bottle to the next var. This only brought more laughter, but now with a difference. It came tinged with an indulgent, rough-but-affectionate tone.
Each of them was five once, and they know it
, Maia realized.
I’ll get through this too.
Relaxing just a bit, she started listening to the conversation. The women compared notes on places each had been, and speculated what opportunities might lie to the south, with storm season over and commerce opening up again. Derisory comments about Port Sanger featured prominently. The image of a whole town called to arms because some clumsy reavers spilled a lantern had them in stitches. Maia couldn’t help also grinning at the farcical picture.
It didn’t seem funny to that dead woman
, a part of her recalled soberly. But then, hadn’t somebody written that one essence of humor is the tragedy
you
managed to escape?
From hints here and there, Maia surmised that some of these vars had worn the red bandanna themselves.
Say you gather a pack of down-and-out summerlings, resentful at society’s bottom rung, and sign a sisterly compact. Together, you hire a fast schooner … men willing to pilot their precious
ship alongside some freighter, giving your band of comrades a narrow moment to dare all, win or lose.
Savant Judeth had explained why it was grudgingly allowed.
“It would’ve happened anyway, sooner or later,” the Lamai teacher once said. “By laying down rules, Lysos kept piracy from getting out of hand. Call it welfare for the desperate and lucky. A safety valve.
“And if reavers get too uppity?” There had been confident menace in Judeth’s smile. “We have ways of dealing with that, too.”
Maia never intended to find out what the great clans did, when provoked too far. At the same time, she pondered the sanitized legends told about the very first Lamai … the young var who, long ago, turned a small nest egg into a commercial empire for her clone descendants. Stories were vague about where the first mother got her stake. Perhaps a red bandanna lay somewhere in a bottom drawer of the clan’s dustiest archive.
As expected, most of the vars aboard were working off passage while seeking permanent employment ashore. But a few actually seemed to consider themselves regular members of the Wotan’s
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