“I will tell you plainly, demoiselle,” said Captain Mülvedo, “that if it
were not for Ser Brog saying how he saw with his own eyes that this
young man moved to the rail without your urging, I should have been most
skeptic. As things stand, I must acquit you of acts direct. As for
others, as employment of the Art, they are a matter for a court of
Deacons, and since you are bound to Mancherei, you’ll be beyond such
jurisdiction.” He stared at her gloomily. “As captain of this ship, and
therefore judge in instruction, I must ask you to keep your cabin until
we reach port.”
Lalette looked at the moving gullet of the first mate as he stood by the
Captain beside the bed, and even this sight seemed to make her the more
ill. Said Brog’s voice, dry as a ratchet; “Aye. You have my word for it.
The little demoiselle never touched a hand to him as he went over. But
he came from her cabin.”
“No more rehearsing of things known. We know all except what she will
not tell us,” said Mülvedo. (Her body ached all over from lying in the
one position.)
“Aye.” It was Brog again. “Yesterday he was all quick with life, maybe a
little hasty, but a kindly, helpful young man, and now the fishes are
tearing pieces of his guts out.” Brog’s face wrinkled in what might have
been a smile, had there been any mirth in it.
She turned her face away and began to retch, but nothing came up beyond
a few drops of spittle, bitter and sour.
“Not nice to think on, no,” said Brog. “But nicer than the mind that
would bring such a death to the lad; there’s the real, black, stinking
hell.”
(The bird of Lalette’s mind felt the bars shift in tighter, she wanted
to cry and beat with her hands.) Said Captain Mülvedo; “Ser Brog, I have
acquit this demoiselle of direct acts. You will oblige me by not
questioning as though the matter were still to decide. If this were the
Art, no jurisdiction lies in us.”
“You are my captain, and I am therefore even under your orders, even as
to this court of the ship,” said Brog, his thin lips closing sharply.
“But I am master of the cargo, of which she forms a part, and it is my
province to know what kind of goods I deliver.”
(Lalette had a sense without seeing it directly that the chandelier
swung twice as she looked at the three and thought—the truth? But how to
explain about the trip, what Tegval had done, how he had demanded the
deepest fruit of love as a casual thing like a cup of water, dragging
her down?) “Ah, no,” she said in her dying voice, and swallowed again,
turning eyes of misery toward the Captain.
He frowned (and she knew it for a frown in her favor, and knew the
reason for it and hated him and herself). “Ser Brog,” he said, “I now
declare the court shut. This demoiselle is not cargo but a person.”
Brog’s wrinkles ran deeper; the three passed out, the Captain remaining
till latest, to pat her hand on the coverlet. Revolt ran through her
veins at kindness for the wrong reason, which was worse than hate or
anger; there was no understanding in this seaman who only wanted to
change bed-partners now and again, she was afloat on a sea of desires.
The daylight swung from powder to deep dusk. One knocked, and it was the
gnome-like creature who stewarded for the Captain, who offered her a
bowl of broth. The motion of the ship being a trifle easier, she was
able to eat a little and hold it, in spite of the shadow that lay across
her mind. (But I will not regret, she cried inwardly, and then one-half
her mind played critic to the other and cried—no, no. Is there no
surcease?) The hours slid by along a silent stream, and she was alone.