Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (10 page)

“Actually,” Rowan said, “I’ve become rather good at
extracting information from casual conversation.”

Reeder glanced down, adjusted one trouser leg at the knee,
flicked an invisible bit of dust from it, and rose from his chair. The
steerswoman stood up.

To Rowan’s amazement, Reeder offered his arm. “I hope you
have no plans for dinner,” he said.

The couple greeted Reeder first with stunned, silent astonishment—and
then, to Rowan’s amazement, cries of delight. They pulled Reeder through the
door by both arms eagerly; there was laughter, and embraces, which Reeder
accepted with a slight smile and a cool dignity. Bemused, Rowan entered the
house in their wake, wondering if she would escape notice entirely; but when
Reeder inserted a pause in which to introduce her, the couple welcomed her
easily.

He was dark; she was light, and freckled. His hair was long,
and iron gray, worn in thick, wild locks about his face and down his back; hers
was short, of corn yellow fading into white. He was Naio; she was Ona.

Their home was their workshop. A long main room, and high,
with ranks of shelves occupying the front and back walls, climbing up into the
shadows, displaying plates, urns, vases, mugs, tea sets. On the far right wall
a kiln stood, still radiating warmth. Two potter’s wheels were set at a
comfortable distance from it, one to each side. On the opposite wall: a hearth,
where a small fire hissed and sparked cheerful flame. A low table before a
faded divan held the settings for the couple’s simple dinner.

Naio and Ona bustled about, finding more plates, more utensils,
another chair, and wineglasses when Reeder, with what Rowan considered an
unnecessarily supercilious air, proffered the two bottles he had acquired en
route.

All four settled down to dinner by the hearth. There was
stew and bread, plain but hearty. But Reeder, in heavily formal phrases,
praised the meal far in excess of its actual quality, causing Rowan to grit her
teeth in annoyance.

Naio seemed not to notice Reeder’s tone at all. He listed
for Reeder the stew’s various ingredients: all rare, all esoteric—and, if
Rowan’s taste was any guide, all definitely absent.

Puzzled, the steerswoman very nearly corrected him, but
caught a side-glance from Ona. A suppressed twinkle in the pale blue eyes—and
Rowan suddenly realized that she was in the midst of a performance.

Inspired by Naio’s list, Reeder’s praise became wildly extravagant.
Naio then entered into a detailed explanation of the cooking process, one
apparently delicate, demanding, and, as nearly as Rowan could tell, completely
impossible to accomplish. Reeder interjected comments on other dishes equally
arcane—and even less likely—whose preparation he, urbane and wide-ranging traveler
that he was, had the good fortune to observe during the course of his many adventures
in distant lands

When the two men had reached the point where Naio was attributing
the recipe’s origin to an ancient tradition handed down from the court of the
mythical King Malcolm, Ona could contain herself no longer. She suddenly leapt
up and began batting Reeder about the head with her flapping napkin, laughing.

He threw up his arms, fending her off. “Ho! Cease! Hold off!
Really, Naio, you must control your woman!”

“Of course, immediately; but first, I’ll have to ask her
permission to do so. That’s always best, I’ve learned …”

The men were old friends of long standing, and their act had
long practice. They positively baited each other to more and more outrageous
comment, Reeder with his heavy-handed air of superiority, Naio with a sort of
cheerful artlessness.

It dawned on Rowan that Reeder’s usual exasperating man—

ner was not what it seemed. It had a natural context, a
place where it was at home. It needed a second voice; it needed Naio. Without
him, Reeder was like the first half of a joke that, lacking its second half,
had become puzzling, meaningless, and on endless repetition, annoying.

And Naio’s cheeriness could find no better foil than
Reeder’s stolid formality. The two men were more than complementary; they were,
in some way, a unit, each incomplete without the other. The steerswoman found
herself wondering why they were not always together, and what had happened to
separate them, and why for so long?

They nattered; they rambled; local politics, gossip, the odd
weather. Opinions were aired, scandals discussed, all in the same practiced
rhythm of escalating absurdity. Rowan was amazed to find herself enjoying
Reeder’s company. She laughed often, and at one point long and helplessly. This
Reeder watched with lifted eyebrow, as if affronted; Naio, with a sort of
beaming pride.

Eventually, the men turned to reminiscing. Their
acquaintance with each other was far longer than with Ona, and they were soon
discussing people Ona barely knew at all. Rowan began to listen closely, hoping
for mention of Kieran and Slado, but Reeder could not have more effectively
avoided the topics if he were doing so intentionally. She began to realize that
he was. She had been told to follow his lead; she waited for that lead to
appear.

The women were now entirely outside the conversation, and
Ona shot Rowan a wry glance. Reeder noticed, as if he had been waiting for this
moment. “Naio, these poor women can’t possibly be interested in our childhood
history. Rowan, why don’t you ask Ona to show you some of her work? Really,
she’s quite the more talented of these two.”

“Due to my training,” Naio interjected proudly. “I taught
her everything she knows.”

Reeder shook his head sadly. “No, Naio; I’m sorry to say
that you merely taught her everything
you
know …”

Ona protested politely, but the steerswoman insisted,
equally politely. With a fond smile as her husband and his old friend returned
to their conversation, Ona led Rowan away from the hearthside.

“I suppose,” Ona said shyly, “you’ve seen some very good
pots and ceramics, traveling about the world as you do, much better than these
…” She hesitated, reached up, and brought down from one shelf a delicate
vase, which she set on a small display table.

Rowan said, spontaneously and sincerely: “This is
beautiful.”

The vase was pale white, translucent. A painted branch of
pear blossoms swept across its side, curling up the neck. Petals trailed across
the open spaces as if caught by a soft wind. Rowan found herself holding the
vase, turning it around and around in her hands.

She set it down reluctantly, then scanned the shelves above
for more treasures—and abruptly burst out laughing. “What is that? Am I seeing
it right?”

Ona gave a cry of delight and scrambled to bring over a step
stool. She climbed, reached high, passed the items down to Rowan, and the
steerswoman laughed at each as she took it.

A fat tea pot, in the shape and color of a calico cat, one
raised paw serving as spout. Six mice were the tea cups, with curled tails for
handles, cheese slices as saucers. Each mouse showed a different expression of
terror at the presence of the cat, but for one fat mouse, asleep on its back, a
smile of satisfaction on its face and its painted whiskers full of cheese
crumbs.

Ona laughed, too. “Oh, you like it, I’m glad! I’ve been working
on another similar idea …” She glanced about, sighted what she sought, and
went to fetch it: a fat folder, bursting with papers. Ona opened it, flipped
through the pages. “Here.” She passed the sheet to the steerswoman.

Rowan looked at it. “Hm,” she said, dubiously.

Ona took no offense. “Yes … It doesn’t quite work with a
dog and cats. I’d have to make the cats kittens, to be good tea cups ..”

“One can’t help but feel sorry for them.” But the drawing
was marvelously well executed. The imagined tea set seemed as real as the
existing one.

Rowan understood why she had been brought here. But—“casual
conversation,” Reeder had insisted. Rowan would need to maneuver events.

She reached out one hand. “May I?”

With shy pride, Ona passed the folder over. Rowan scanned
through the drawings, then looked up to study Ona’s delicate skin, her faded
hair; the woman was at least in her mid-fifties. “Have you been drawing all
your life?”

“Oh, since I was a child. Unfortunately, nice pictures don’t
pay the bills.”

“I’d really like to see some of them,” Rowan said, with
sincerity. Ona hesitated. “Steerswomen have to draw quite often.” And this was
true. “I think I might … learn something.”

Ona allowed herself to be convinced, and she led Rowan
through a door beside the hearth, into a small room with its own little
fireplace, cold. The room was used for storage, but a small, dusty cot with a
bare mattress stood against one wall. Rowan sat on this, as Ona scanned the
various boxes and crates that filled most of the chamber.

Ona sighed, selected one at random, opened it. “They’re not
organized at all, I’m afraid. Most of these are old studies for pots.” She
sifted through the contents quickly, abandoned it for another. “I suppose I’m
the sort of person who just can’t stand to throw anything away.”

“You never know what might come in useful,” Rowan commented.

Ona received no satisfaction from the box, moved it to the
floor to gain access to the trunk beneath it. “Oh, this is old …” She pulled
out a leather folder, opened it. “Here!” Ona was first delighted, then
hesitant, as she passed a folder over to the steerswoman. “I was rather young
then …” Prepared to be patient, Rowan opened it and examined the contents.

Several awkward drawings of flowers, the same arrangement,
seen from different angles: then suddenly and startlingly, a single bloom
executed perfectly, to the spark of sunlight in a drop of dew on its petals,
with all its companions in the vase, and the vase itself, mere outline and
shadow. “This is lovely!” Rowan declared, immediately.

Ona demurred. “It’s unfinished.”

“No … No, it’s perfect.” It was as if the artist had
captured, not the outer world, but the seeing mind, as it focused closely on
one chosen detail.

Rowan felt an undeniable tug of longing. In her own work,
when she was required to draw objects or scenes, she did so with precision and
accuracy. But she felt that this single flower, alone and glowing with reality,
more truly captured Rowan’s own sight, her own heart, as she apprehended with
crystal precision some small portion of the wider world.

She looked up at Ona in amazement. “How old were you when
you drew this?”

Ona sat down beside her. “Nine, I think.”

The other drawings in the folder were more typical of a talented
child: static depictions of various adults, perhaps family members, simple
landscapes, and many, many drawings of cats.

Ona retrieved a second folder, opened it. “I was older
here.” She passed it to Rowan.

The difference showed immediately. The artist’s hand was
sure, and Ona now used selection of focus as a tool, at will, to very good
effect. “I wish I could do this …” Passing through the drawings, Rowan found
a face that interested her, paused.

A thin man with white hair, a long beard … She recalled
the bricklayer’s description. “Is this the wizard Kieran?”

“Yes, it is.” Ona was delighted. “Now, how did you guess
that ?”

“Actually, I’m here in Donner to fill in some history …
And Kieran is an interesting case … Are you aware that he altered his
behavior? That people used to be afraid of him?”

“Marel and Nid used to talk about Ammi.”

“N id’s sister.”

“Yes … but that was so long ago. People do change.”

Rowan held the sketch carefully, lightly resting it on the
fingers of both hands. “He hardly seems malevolent.” With eyes closed, chin on
his chest, the old man might have been anyone’s elderly grandfather, dozing in
the sunshine.

But most drawings, and especially drawings made by persons
of real talent, more closely reflected the artist’s own evaluation of the
subject than objective fact. “Did you like Kieran?” Rowan asked.

Ona shrugged, sifted through the other pages. “Well enough,
I suppose. He had an interesting face.” She paused at another drawing, a half
smile on her face.

Kieran again, and a child, about three years old, tugging at
the hem of his cloak, a mischievous spark in her eyes. Ona had captured the
child’s bravado, the wizard’s feigned unawareness, the varying degrees of
interest and uninterest on the part of persons nearby, themselves mere vague
silhouettes.

Rowan laughed out loud. “That’s Reeder!” An adolescent, but
instantly recognizable among the shadowy watchers by the back-tilt of his head,
an arm at particular aspect to the body, an air of disdainful superiority.
Rowan found Naio beside his friend, leaning against a wall, arms crossed,
ostentatiously casual. By shaded outline only, Ona had rendered both easily
identifiable.

Rowan indicated the child. “Who is the little girl?” she
asked.

“That’s Saranna.” Ona saw the change on Rowan’s face. “Did
you know her?”

“Not well.” But Saranna seemed determined to haunt the
steerswoman.
I’ll
find your murderer, Rowan promised the girl in the
drawing.

Rowan’s compliments inspired Ona to pull out a second chest,
while the steerswoman continued to leaf through the thick folder.

Tucked among the separate sketches was a slim folio of soft
leather, tied with silk ribbons. Rowan opened it.

A face she recognized: Reeder’s traveling companion on
Morgan’s
Chance,
the boy who had died by wizard’s magic.

Rowan looked up: Ona was sifting through the trunk, her back
to the steerswoman. Turning the pages quietly, Rowan glanced at the other
drawings in the folio. The same boy, at a younger age; again, and younger yet
…

The last showed a chubby-cheeked infant, wrapped in a blanket,
cradled in Naio’s arms. Father and son were fast asleep in the same high-backed
armchair that Rowan had used during dinner. Their faces were soft with sleep,
half shadowed, half revealed by gentle firelight. Of all the drawings, only
this one bore a title, in a neat, slanted hand: First
Night.