Ships of Merior discussion

[Varsha 664]

I've still got 20 pages to go 🤣 Not a great reading week for me haha. @Steve, @The Fantasy Thinker, @chrisM,  @Robyn bookends, @chibipoe - are we reading the next three chapters or the next 4 chapters for the next discussion (sorry if you mentioned this in the discussion video - I haven't caught up on it yet because I haven't finished reading chapter 😎

[chibipoe 296]

IX - XII for our next Sunday and then the final 2 is the plan, I believe. 

 

[chibipoe 296]

I know you couldn't make it for this one, @Varsha, but I do want to keep this thread going in addition, as we can share passages that we liked, etc. So please, share your thoughts on V to VIII as soon as you finish! Some sections I really adored:

Spoiler

Immersed in grief and self-pity, he fumbled to a spur of rock and sat, and lost to his impulse to weep. In respect for the departed bard's dignity, he found the restraint to keep silent until the final candle consumed in a spitting flare of wax; one drowned flame among thousands, an honour lit for a master singer talented beyond reach of millions.

And a bit later: 

Spoiler

Then the last veiling leather fell away, Arithon braced his hip on the trestle edge, scattered off a run like white sparks, and tenderly nurse the abalone and ebony pegs that tuned fourteen silver-wound strings. Bright sound sheared across the Kittiwake's din. By the time he had finished, conversation had lapse. Heads turned, and fraught silence webbed the close air to the dimmest alcove in the room.

For an instant the musician paused, head tilted that familiar fraction to one side, fingers poised above the fret and string as he measured the temper of the crowd. They offered no easy, willing audience. Their wants were varied as their roughest tastes and trades: the tar-stained sail-hands with wenches like gaudy birds in their laps; the cordwainers from the shipyards, shirtless, their muscled arms glistening hot sweat; the knife-scarred, off-duty garrison soldiers grouped in tight knots over a battered pair of dice.

Before that suspended opening could pass, Arithon reeled off through a dance tune. He played saucy and fast, in heartfelt, glorious tribute to Halliron's best style. And the Kittiwake's riff-raff roared back an approval that rattled the crockery on the shelves.

The landlord backed off, stupefied. Past the first, stiff moment of surprise, Dhirken laid her elbows in spilled spirits and coins, her chin cupped in her palms to listen.

The measures spun faster, and faster still, alive as the crackle of summer lightning. A few of the doxies sprang up to dance a jig, and soon the floor planks were shaking. In minutes the whole Kittiwake rocked in celebration, while more customers packed in from the streets. By then, Arithon had bent his head to his soundboard. Black hair veiled his expression, wholly; even Dakar, who was closest, never noticed the flash of the tears that splashed and wet his flying knuckles.

Halliron Masterbard was dead; gone. In a headlong passionate harmony of celebration, the man proven fit to succeed him made the most coarse-mannered dive in Ship's Port reel with ruffians who stamped and clapped and shrieked. As if by whipping up joy to bring catharsis, he could fill the bereft void in his heart.