She recalled occasions when Port Sanger received such a coating, causing shops and businesses to close while women hurried outside to sweep puffballs from their windowsills into vacuum jars, for preservation. A sprinkle of glory disrupted daily life far more than thicker falls of normal snow, which simply entailed boots and shovels and some seasonal grumbling.
Certainly men preferred dense drifts of the regular wind. Even slippery ice, making the streets slick and treacherous, seemed to perturb the rough sailors nowhere near as much as a thin scattering of lacy glory. Most males fled to their ships, or beyond the city gates, until sunlight cleansed the town, and its women citizens were in a less festive mood.
That was on shore, Maia remembered. Here, there's no place for the poor fellows to run.
From the narrow doorway at the head of the stairs, Maia inhaled a cool, faintly cinnamon odor. This was no minor dusting, like in Long Valley. The air felt bracing, and provoked a tingling in her spine. Sensations vaguely familiar from prior winters, yet enhanced this time.
Of course, she hadn't been a grown woman before. Maia felt combined eagerness and reluctance, waiting to see if the aroma would have a deeper effect, now that she was five.
There was movement on deck, male sailors shuffling with the desultory slowness of dawn-shift workers. They were physically unaffected by the icy encrustation, yet the captain's expression seemed unhappy, irritated. He snapped at his officers and frowned, contemplating the fine, crystal dusting.
The unhappiest person in sight was the only female — the youngest of Kiel's company of Rads, a girl about Maia's age. She was using a broom to sweep glory frost into a square-mouthed bucket, which she proceeded to empty over the side before going back for another load.
Maia sensed a stirring behind her — another woman rising with the sun. She glanced back and nodded a silent good-morning as Naroin climbed the short, steep steps to squeeze alongside. "Well, look at that," the older var commented, sniffing the soft, chill breeze. "Quite a sight, eh? Too bad it's all got to go."
The petite sailor redescended, plunging momentarily into the dimness of the narrow cabin. She reached onto the bunk Maia had just vacated, and returned bearing Maia's coat. "There you go," Naroin said with a kindly tone, and pointed at the girl outside, sweeping the deck rejectedly. "Your job, too. Law of th' sea. Women stay below till the frost goes. Except virgies."
Maia blushed. "How do you know I'm a—"
Naroin held up a hand placatingly. "Just an expression. Half o' these vars" — she jerked her thumb at those still sleeping below—"never had a man, an' never will. Eia, it's a matter of age. Youngsters sweep up. Go on, child. Eia."
"Eia," Maia responded automatically, slipping on the coat. She trusted Naroin not to lie about something like this. Still, it seemed unfair. Her feet shuffled reluctantly as the bosun gently pushed her outside and shut the door behind her. Chill air condensed her breath in steamy plumes. Rubbing already-numb hands, Maia sighed and went to the utility locker to fetch a broom.
The other girl gave her a look that seemed to say, Where have you been? Maia lifted her shoulders in the same silent language.
I didn't know anything about it. Do I ever?
It was logical, when she thought about it. Glory didn't affect women as strongly as summer's aurorae did men, thank Lysos. Still, it drew those of fertile age toward ideas of sex at exactly the time of year when most men preferred a good book. What males found irksome but avoidable on land could not be escaped so easily at sea. Fivers and sixers, who were less affected by the seasons, and unattractive to males anyway, naturally got the job of sweeping up, so other women might be permitted to emerge before noon.
The chore soon lost whatever attraction lay in novelty, and Maia found the faintly pleasant tingling in her nose less fixating than advertised. Carrying bucketsful to the rail, she could not escape the sensation of being watched. Maia felt certain some of the sailors were pointing at her, sniggering.
The reason had nothing to do with the glory fall, and everything to do with last night's fiasco of a "competition." It was bad enough being a lowly young var, on a voyage not of her choosing. But the Life match had left her a laughingstock.
Sure enough, one of her opponents, the cook's assistant, was firing up his stove under the eaves of the poop deck. The boy grinned when Maia's sweeping brought her nearby. He lisped through a gap left by two missing teeth, "Ready for another game? Whenever you an' the Starman want, me an' Kari are ready."
Maia made as if she hadn't heard. The youth was clearly no intellect, yet he and the cabin boy had made quick hash of Renna's carefully-thought-out Game of Life plan. The rout became obvious within a few rounds.
