Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (17 page)

He was forced to admit: “I don’t know.”

“Then it seems to me that we’ll increase the chance of one
of us escaping with the information. And Bel, with you outside, even if the
worst happens and we both die, you at least will be able to tell the
Steerswomen what we’ve learned so far.”

Bel considered. “It does improve the odds …”

Willam disliked this line of reasoning very much. He made to
speak twice, angrily, stopped himself, and when he turned to Rowan, she
expected a glare; but instead there was, again, that open concern, that
pleading distress, that she remembered so well. “Rowan, listen to yourself—‘If
we both die.’ Tell me, lady, is this information worth dying for?”

She held his gaze. “Death is a risk,” she told him, “not a
certainty.”

“People have already died,” Bel said. They turned to her.
“My people. And soon enough, yours. We have to stop Slado. You know that.
Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

Two men entered the dining room, carrying a large wicker
basket of fresh linen tablecloths between them. The serving girls observed
their arrival with annoyance, broke up their conversation, and set to replacing
used tablecloths with fresh.

“I don’t like this,” Will said, his gaze on the empty
window. He seemed to be addressing only himself, with quiet vehemence. “This
was supposed to involve only me. No one else should be hurt, no one else should
be put in any danger.”

Bel said: “You can’t make that choice for us.”

“We
are
involved, all three of us,” Rowan said. “That
being the case, perhaps we should get the whole thing over with as soon as
possible.”

Will brought his gaze back from the distance with
difficulty. “No,” he said. “Two days from now.”

“Why then?” Bel asked; then suddenly leaned aside to look
past Rowan’s shoulder in surprise.

A tug on the steerswoman’s sleeve. Rowan turned, looking up,
then down.

It was the handkerchief boy from the kitchen. He stood
before her, silent, wide-eyed, hands behind his back.

“Yes?” No words, and no change in expression or posture.
“May I help you?”

Moving only his eyes, the boy studied first Bel, then
Willam, then brought his gaze back to Rowan. Then he hesitantly pulled out one
hand and held it at arm’s length, leaning forward precariously so as to
approach no nearer.

The hand held a rolled paper tied with a ribbon. Rowan took
it. “Thank you.”

The boy dropped his hand, gaped as if stunned, then abruptly
flashed a huge grin, remarkably similar to Beck’s. Then he was gone, off
through the tables and out of the room, trailing a stream of giggles like
bubbles in his wake.

“Expecting a message?” Bel asked.

“Not especially.” Rowan untied and unrolled the paper. A
glance told her: “This is Ona’s.” She flattened it against the tablecloth.

A drawing, very old, by the condition of the paper. It
showed a garden in full bloom, with banks of rhododendrons and ranks of
daffodils, a cherry tree, a stone bench, the back of a house. In shaded
outline: two figures, one standing, one stooped. Rowan turned it over.

Freshly written in artist’s pencil: Lorren
and
Earner,
Old

Water Street, three doors past the
pawnshop,
blue
house
front. Not in Ona’s handwriting, Rowan saw; she assumed Naio’s.

Rowan reversed the page again. “And that would be Lorren and
Earner themselves.” She slid it across the table for Bel and Willam to see.

“That’s the back of Jannik’s house,” Willam said. “But the
garden is different.”

“From forty years ago?” Bel speculated. “Ha. Kieran’s gardeners.”

“So it would seem. I really must speak with them.” Rowan began
to rise, realized she had not touched her breakfast, sat again, regarded her
gruel with distaste.

“How’s your leg?” Bel asked.

“Uncomfortable. That was rough work, last night.” Rowan
downed her mug of milk.

Bel said to Willam: “That’s her code word for agonizing
pain. You should have seen her while she was recuperating. She’d drag herself
down the staircase by sitting on each step and sliding down, one by one,
stagger over to the worktable, collapse in her chair, sit with her head on her
arms for ten minutes, and when you asked her how she felt, she’d say she was ‘uncomfortable.’”

“In this case”—Rowan reached over to snatch the remains of
Bel’s sausage—“it’s merely accurate. My leg hurts, but if I don’t work it, it
will just stiffen up. Oh, my.” This in response to the flavor of the sausage.
“And it’s a flat walk to Old Water Street,” she continued around a mouthful.
“I’ll be fine. Bel—” Rowan had been about to ask if Bel was ready to go, but
the only watchers so far had been for Willam, and not the steerswoman. There
had been no other sign of interest in Rowan’s investigations from any
threatening party. Jannik himself was still out of town, still entirely unaware
of the steerswoman’s presence. There might well be no need for caution at all,
and certainly none for urgency.

“I think you both should get some rest,” Rowan said. “Bel, I
suspect you didn’t sleep last night, and I believe Willam hasn’t, either.”

“I dozed for about half an hour, until I thought the
bathhouse would be open.”

“You probably need sleep more than either of us,” Bel
pointed out to Rowan.

“You may be right,” although she did not feel drowsy at all,
“but …”

Bel grinned. “But you’re dying to hear what Kieran’s
gardeners have to say.”

“I am,” Rowan admitted. “And they’re elderly. Perhaps
they’ll be napping in the afternoon. I’ll do so, myself.” She scanned the table
for tempting remnants, and discovered that Will had entirely neglected his
cheese bread. She confiscated it, and the last of his apple slices.

The servers recognized the signs of imminent departure, and
two approached, with trays and apologetic expressions. Bel rose, gestured
expansively. “All this on my tally, please. Come on, Will. You really have to
see the room they’ve given me.”

The three left the dining room together. In the hall, by the
staircase, they paused: Rowan would be going down, Bel and Willam up.

No one else was present. Rowan said to Willam, “Why two days
from now?”

Will rubbed his eyes; apparently the anticipation of sleep
was causing its lack to catch up with him. “Regular maintenance and updates,”
he said. “Certain systems will be down.” He forced himself to more alertness.
“Some of the biggest spells need to be adjusted,” he explained. “While that’s
happening, no one can use them.” He was unable to suppress a yawn. “I can
handle the house, but if any wizards try to see what I’m doing, it’ll be harder
for them … with the updates running …”

Bel took his arm. “Explain later. Sleep now.” She led him
away, up the staircase.

The young woman who met Rowan at the door of the blue house
on Old Water Street was amazed by the steerswoman’s request, but admitted Rowan
and led her up a long, polished oak staircase. During the ascent, Rowan studied
with interest the collection of odd objects displayed in niches along the wall:
a blown-glass vase holding glass daffodils; a marionette of a tinker dancer,
very realistic with its golden curls and flounced skirts, seated companionably
beside an equally realistic evil imp; an empty bottle of lemon liqueur, chosen
perhaps for its artful and ornate label; and an old book—no longer in its niche
but being read by a young man seated on the stair beneath it. His only reaction
to Rowan’s presence was to shift his knees aside as she and her guide passed
by.

In the musty dimness at the top of the stairs, the woman
crossed the landing and opened a door. Clean, bright light spilled out, and she
stood aside as Rowan entered space that seemed all light, color, and fresh air.

A white room, with two beds, neatly made, on opposite walls.
Broad double windows with glass panes stood open to the yard below, brown with
autumn, but for splashes of asters and chrysanthemums, purple and pink, yellow
and orange. A table directly under the window held more asters, freshly cut, in
a blue vase.

On either side of the table in huge cushioned armchairs sat two
ancient persons, quite the oldest Rowan had ever seen in her life. The one on
the left seemed asleep, chin on chest; the other gazed out the window with an
air of deep contentment.

Rowan glanced back, hoping the young woman would perform
introductions; but she had departed. Rowan approached the pair tentatively,
regretting the need to disturb them. “Excuse me?” It was the sleeper who
reacted first, opening faded brown eyes to regard her curiously; the other
turned from the window, blinking perplexity. “My name is Rowan. I’m a
steerswoman—”

“Ah!” one of them said.

“Oh!” said the other.

“Don’t see many of those.”

“Traveling far and wide, all over the world.”

Rowan was relieved by their alertness. They were obviously
at least not completely senile. “I wonder if you would mind answering a few
questions?”

“Oh,” the one on the right said, in a dubious tone.

“Well,” the other said, “busy day, don’t know if we could
fit you in …”

“There’s the roses to cover.”

“Pruning that apple tree.”

“Those daffodils. Got to plant ’em.”

“Three dozen of them, altogether.” Rowan became disturbed;
for persons of such age, these plans were completely impossible.

“And,” the one on the right reminded the other, “the Grand
Ball at the Dolphin tonight.”

“Oh, yes!” Brown eyes under raised brows caught and held
Rowan’s gaze. “We intend,” their owner informed her, “to drink an entire keg of
ale between us, kiss all the prettiest dancers, and kick up our heels until
dawn.”

And Rowan laughed, half with humor, half with relief; they were
obviously jesting. Her laughter pleased them, and they traded broad smiles.

With a lift of the chin, the one on the right indicated a
straight-backed chair standing by the door. Rowan fetched it, placed it near,
and sat.

She regarded them. “I’m sorry, I don’t know which of you is
which.”

Laughter, in ancient, cracked voices. “I’m Lorren,” the one
on the left said. The head that had been tilted down in sleep remained tilted;
Rowan assumed it a permanent condition.

“Eamer,” said the other, with a lift of one hand, bird-boned
and blotched with brown.

Age had rendered them virtually indistinguishable from each
other. Both were tiny, frail, and almost entirely bald, with a few sparse white
hairs remaining on the top of yellowish pates, somewhat more behind the ears
and across the backs of their heads. They seemed not to possess a single tooth
between them.

They were dressed identically, in fine blue quilted silk
house jackets, buttoned to the chin. Wool blankets covered their legs,
home-knit, but of excellent work. The colors of these were brown, gold, green,
and yellow, with small points of pink, echoing the flowers in the vase, and the
autumn world outside the window.

Rowan realized that she absolutely could not determine their
genders, and could find no polite way to ask. Even their voices gave no clue:
Lorren’s was more creak than voice; Eamer’s name had been spoken by its owner
in a fuzzy baritone, such as even a woman might acquire at such an advanced
age. Rowan decided that the matter was irrelevant to her purposes.

Because she thought it would please them, the steerswoman
pulled Ona’s drawing from her shoulder sack and passed it over.

Earner took it, held it close to examine it, displayed pink
gums in a grin, then leaned across to show it to Lorren.

“Ah,” Lorren said immediately, “Ona. That’s Ona’s work.”

“Yes, what a lovely girl.”

“All grown up now, of course. She married that fellow, what
was his name, the dark one with all the hair—”

“Joly.”

“No, the other one. Naio.”

“Of Reeder-and-Naio, that’s right! Ho, that was a surprise.”

“Bigger surprise when the baby came. So late in life for
Ona.” This with sympathy.

“Even later for Naio, not that that matters. But that baby
was already on the way, wasn’t it? That’s the thing.” Rowan said, “That’s
Kieran’s garden, isn’t it?”

Earner nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes … ,” Lorren said, laying the drawing down on the
knitted brown-and-gold. “We were with him, what was it, twenty years?”

“No. Seventeen, altogether.”

“That’s right. Fifteen before, and two after.”

Rowan was about to inquire concerning “before” and “after”,
then realized. “After he changed,” she said.

Both old persons nodded.

“Can you tell me about that? You seem to think there was a
very clear division.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“We were working—”

“It was morning—”

“Early. We always started early. We were planting marigolds
that day.”

“We didn’t think he was up yet.”

“Well,” Earner said to Lorren, “he’d been up all night,
hadn’t he?”

Lorren nodded to the degree that the bent neck allowed. “By
the look of him. Long, hard night.”

“Came out the back door, and just stood there.”

“Looking like he’d had a hod of bricks dropped on him.”

“Then he sat down on the back steps.”

“And me and Earner, shooting glances at each other, and
trying not to stare.”

“Didn’t want him to notice we’d noticed.”

“And when I looked at him again,” Lorren said, and raised
one hand, as if indicating the scene, “he was looking straight at me. Nearly
gave me a fright, because I thought he’d seen us watching. But no. He looked at
me like he’d just noticed I was there, and didn’t know who I was.”

“And he looked at me the same. I just went back to work. But
then”—here Eamer squinted in thought—“when I glanced up again, he was looking
at me like he did know who I was. And he got up and walked over.”