Eona - Alison Goodman [152]
“Sir.” The deck-boy’s agonized whisper was loud in the thick silence that had descended across the command cabin. “I have forgotten the hot water.”
Master Tozay jerked his head toward the hatchway. “Be quick.”
I picked up one of the nautical instruments from the lipped shelf behind me. It was a brass compass of some sort, its dial gleaming in the extravagant glow of the three large wall lanterns lighting the cabin. I turned it over and over in my hands, glad to have somewhere to focus. Even through my unease, it was occurring to me that Master Tozay was not quite the simple fisherman turned resistance fighter that he professed to be. He cleared away the star charts spread across the table, his pace quickening as neither Lillia nor I made any move to speak. The boy returned, hurriedly mixed tea and retrieved water together, and with a bow backed out of the cabin.
“I will leave you two alone, my lady, to get acquainted,” Master Tozay said, slipping the last scroll into one of the neat slots built into the bulkhead. He glanced across at Lillia’s downturned face and clasped hands. A quick bow, and the door closed behind him.
Above us came the calls and creaks of the junk getting under way. I returned the instrument to the shelf.
“May I pour you some tea?” I asked.
She finally looked up. Although the weight of time had softened the taut lines of her face, it was more or less the same oval as my own. Perhaps her chin was less stubbornly set and her nose longer, but her mouth had my upward tilt and her eyes the same wide cast. I knew the expression on her face, too. I had worn it many times myself—an overly courteous mask designed to avoid irritating a master or mistress.
“No, please, allow me, my lady,” she said and crossed to the table. She picked up the brewing dish, deftly pouring a measure into the first bowl.
I chewed my lip. She could not seem to scale the mountain of my rank. “Thank you,” I said—then took a breath and climbed my own mountain. “Mother.”
Her hand shook, spilling some of the tea onto the table. Slowly she placed the brewing dish down, carefully cupped the first bowl, and carried it to me. With a bow, she held it out. As I reached, we both paused, staring down at the meeting of our hands. Both were long-fingered, with a thumb almost at right angles.
“We have the same hands,” I said, wincing at my too-bright tone as I took the bowl.
“They were my mother’s hands, too,” she said softly. She chanced a fleeting look up at me. “Charra. Your grandmother.”
“Charra? I have her death plaque.”
“You still have it?”
I silently thanked Dela. “Yes, and the other one, too.”
My mother caught the emphasis and looked away. She knew something about Kinra.
I placed the bowl on the table and retrieved my leather pouch, upending it. The two plaques slipped out onto my palm. With a shaking forefinger, Lillia touched Charra’s memorial, then pulled out a worn cloth bag that hung on a string around her neck. She opened it and withdrew another death plaque, a replica of Charra’s.
“I had two made when my dear mother died—may she walk in the garden of the gods,” she said. “I knew he wanted to get rid of you as soon as she died. I had to give you a link to your family. To me.” She stroked the plaque again. “He was afraid of Charra.”
A sour lump formed in my throat. “Do you mean my father?”
Lillia gave a strained laugh. “No, not your dear father. Charra loved him as if he was her own. No, he died—drowned in the terrible Pig Year storms. Do you not remember?”
I shook my head, and pain crossed her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I do not remember much at all.”
“I suppose it is to be expected. You were only four when he joined the glory of his ancestors. I married another man, a year after.” She studied me. “You do not remember your stepfather,