Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (20 page)

Rowan recovered. “I believe that speaks well for him.”

Bel nodded, waited while the boy brought a tall glass of lemonade,
which splashed over his hands with every step. Rowan took it from him, and
placed it on the table herself. “Interestingly,” Bel went on when the boy had
left, “he’s not as bothered by the man you killed. You were defending someone,
the man turned his attack on you, you stopped him. You were justified.”

“But, Bel—very similar circumstances also held in the woman’s
case.”

The Outskirter nodded broadly. “But in that case, it was Willam
who did it.”

Rowan considered. “Then he’s holding himself to different
standards.”

“That’s right. And he should.” Bel spoke definitely.

“I believe you’re right.” Someone with power beyond the
scope of common folk ought not use it by whim, ought not impose it on weaker
persons. “He’s a good—” Rowan nearly said
He’s a good boy,
but realized
that throughout the entire conversation she had in her mind substituted the
younger Willam, the stocky, awkward, earnest, copper-eyed boy. She corrected
the image. “He’s a good man. He’s managed to hold on to that.”

“Yes.” And Bel added quietly, “But I’m glad he got away from
Corvus.”

The steerswoman sighed. “So am I.”

Rowan’s meal arrived: a bowl of soup delivered, wisely, by
Beck himself. Rowan thanked him distractedly, and the young man departed.

Rowan was about to begin on the soup when she noticed Bel’s
attention caught by something; the steerswoman followed Bel’s gaze.

A young, dark woman, slightly disheveled and wearing a harried
expression, was making her way through the tables, oblivious to the complaints
of persons she jostled. Once at the door of the Dolphin’s common room, she
peered inside, and apparently found no satisfaction. Looking about in
annoyance, she sighted a serving girl attending a group of sailors, went to
her, asked a question. The server immediately indicated Rowan, and the woman hurried
over, with a distinct air of exasperation.

Rowan and Bel observed her approach with perplexity. Arrived,
the woman spoke politely enough. “Excuse me, the steerswoman Rowan, is it?” She
seemed someone who had quite a lot to do, and was not pleased to be doing this.

“Yes …”

“Here.” She passed over an envelope. “From Marel. Will there
be a reply?”

“I really must read this before deciding,” Rowan pointed
out. She untied the ribbon and unfolded the paper. Bel spied a vacated chair
nearby and fetched it, pulling it close beside Rowan to read over the
steerswoman’s shoulder. The messenger, less than pleased, scanned the area,
found not a single free seat, and resigned herself to perching on the window
ledge.

There was no greeting or preamble; Marel got down to the
matter immediately.

After our
conversation, I recalled that one of
my
previous
employees had the regular assignment of delivering to Kieran
any
items
of his shipped
through our
establishment.
It
seemed to me that
the fellow might have
had opportunity to
observe the
wizard’s or
Slado’s
daily doings, so I invited him to tea.

In
fact, he had seen
very
little, other than two
occurrences that struck him as odd.

When delivering packages, the procedure was to place the
item
in front
of the door,
and
wait. (One
never
knocked.)
By
some means, the
wizard,
if he was present, always knew when someone
was at his
door, and
would arrive
in
short
order.

On this
occasion, the wizard did not arrive, which was of
itself not unusual, as he was occasionally out of town, dealing
with the
dragons.
The door was opened by the apprentice
Slado,
who accepted the package
without a
word,
and took it
into
the house.

One
would not necessarily regard this as remarkable; it
seems quite reasonable to me.
But apparently—and here Rowan had to turn to
the second page; Bel snatched up the first, which she had not finished
reading—on
the
next
delivery, three weeks later, the same thing
occurred.
And
Kieran had
not
been seen at all between those two
events.

After
the conversation, I sent one of
my
clerks to
look through
our
old files, which are stored in another building, and it
seems that those two deliveries were the last ever to Kieran.
Marel provided
the exact dates. About
three weeks later,
Jannik
arrived—which
I
remember
distinctly, as I was in the Dolphin chatting to a rival of mine whose business
I
was attempting
to
acquire at a frankly cutthroat rate (I was
successful),
when
the news made its way through
the
room.
Marel
had added the date of the acquisition.

“Excuse me?”

Rowan found herself regarding a thin, graceful woman of late
middle age, wearing fine attire and an expression of sup pressed outrage. “I
heard you were asking about Slado?” The steerswoman was bemused. “Yes …”

A diner nearby vacated a chair; the woman appropriated it instantly,
pulled it over to Rowan’s table, and sat. She said, with no preliminaries: “I
slapped him.”

hat?”

“And you survived?” Bel asked.

“As you can see. But it was a near thing.”

Rowan’s astonishment was immense. “You slapped him? Was he
taking liberties with your person?”

“He was doing exactly that, and I endure such affronteries
from no one, not even at the age of seventeen!”

“Were you leading him on?” Bel wondered.

The woman turned the Outskirter an evil glare. “I was conversing
with him in a somewhat flirtatious manner,” she said stiffly, “but with no
particular intensity. No person of normal social perceptivity would have
mistaken my behavior as bawdy.”

“Maybe Slado lacked normal social perceptivity,” Bel remarked
to Rowan.

“Or considered it irrelevant,” Rowan said. “But,” she
continued to the woman, “I’m frankly amazed that you didn’t, say, immediately
catch fire. Or vanish in a flash of light.”

“Or get turned into a weasel,” Bel said.

“Well, he would have done that to me, or some such, I’m
sure; but Kieran arrived instantly, pulled Slado aside, and gave him a serious
talking-to.”

“I see,” Rowan said and, with no effort on her part, her
information began to interlock. It was rather an interesting internal process,
which she observed with pleasure. “This would have been at the celebration at
Saranna’s Inn?”

The woman seemed surprised that Rowan knew this. “In fact,
yes. The occasion was the mayor’s inauguration.”

“Was that Nid?”

“Nid? No, the council had just voted him out. The wizard
would never have been invited to any function Nid held. This was Elena’s.”

“Is Elena still living?” A possible new source of
information. “Who knows? They left, she and her husband, when the council put
up Joly in her place, twelve years ago.”

“And that would be the dark fellow with all the hair,” Rowan
said, recalling Eamer’s and Lorren’s comments.

The woman eyed her. “Yes … he keeps a lot of it. Elena was
so distressed, she left the city altogether. They bought a caravan, of all
things.”

Rowan could not help enjoying herself. “And their daughter
is a bricklayer?”

A disparaging sound. “A general laborer. When she’s not
gaming in the back rooms. It’s her debts that keep her from rising in life.”

Bel was observing the conversation with something like
pride; apparently she found Rowan’s performance impressive. The steerswoman
went on. “Then, that night, Kieran’s attention lapsed briefly, and Slado
immediately caused a problem.”

“Well, the old wizard kept him close, generally, that’s for
certain.”

“For a period of time. Later, Slado moved freely again.”

“I wouldn’t know. I generally steered clear of both of them.
I didn’t trust that wizard.”

Rowan hesitated. “You mean Slado.”

“No, I mean Kieran. It made no sense; first he’s cruel and
dangerous, and then suddenly he’s getting invited to social events, protecting
innocent maidens, and playing with little children. People don’t change
overnight like that.”

Rowan said, musingly, “Apparently, Kieran did …
^/I

Bel noticed her tone, became curious. “Literally overnight?”

“So it would seem … I believe I possess the exact date.”
Across the street, Rowan saw Willam arrive, carrying an unstrung bow in one
hand and a knotted burlap sack in the other. A bedroll was slung across his
back, to which a quiver of arrows was tied. He studied the group at Rowan’s
table, hesitated, then placed the bow on the ground, and the sack—using no
great care with it, Rowan noted. Then he sat down beside them in the dirt, his
back against one of Ruffo’s lampposts.

Rowan returned to the woman. “I don’t suppose you managed to
overhear the substance of Kieran’s remarks to Slado?”

“No, I went off in a huff, found a nicer dancing partner,
and married him that year.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful …” Rowan realized
that the messenger was still waiting, slouched back against the windowpanes,
arms crossed, eyes narrowed to a squint. Rowan said to her: “No reply, other
than ‘Thank you.’” The messenger threw up her hands, emitted an inarticulate
noise of frustration, and departed. The middle-aged woman remained in place and
waved at Beck, apparently planning to dine. With no other tables available, Rowan
could hardly chase her off. Instead, she set to her own neglected lunch.

Chicken soup, now nearly cold. Bel considered it with amusement.
“Are you going to tell the staff that you haven’t been sick after all?”

“I suppose I should. But frankly, I’m finding all this
concern rather flattering.”

“Ha. Deception by omission.”

“I’m not required to volunteer information.”

“You steerswomen draw a fine line sometimes.” Bel glanced
past the tables. “Finish your lunch. I think I’ll chat with our friend over
there.”

She rose and departed; her chair was instantly claimed, and
occupied. “Ah, there you are!” It was Naio. “I was looking for you in your
room. Sherrie told me you were under the weather.”

The steerswoman was bemused. “Sherrie?”

“My niece. She’s a chambermaid. Here.” He placed on the table
a slim cardboard folder.

Rowan took two more spoonfuls of soup before setting down
the silverware and taking the folder. “More of Ona’s work?”

“Yes. We had quite an interesting discussion, after you and
Reeder left.” He seemed pleased, and deeply amused. “You know, it’s amazing
what you can not know about your own wife. But Ona and I never really knew each
other at all until, oh, our forties. I wonder, sometimes, what she was like as
a girl. A whole history that I never knew about.”

Their tablemate made a disgruntled sound. “I was under the
impression that you were one of those fellows who didn’t notice the girls at
all. Had I thought otherwise, I’d have given you a run for your money.”

He beamed at her. “I’m sure you would have, Irina. You were
the prettiest thing in town, and knew it well.”

“You should properly be saying that about your own wife.”

“My own wife has other fine qualities, which I’ve come to
find I cannot live without.”

“Ah!” This from Irina, as Rowan opened the folder. “There’s
the nasty little man!”

“He was short?” Rowan asked.

^“
Yes.
^”

“No,” Naio said. “Irina, you forget how tall you were.”
Irina gave him an arch look. “It merely added to my grace.”

“So it did,” Naio assured her.

Rowan considered the drawing. Slado was not its subject, or
rather, had not been planned to have been. It was a scene on a wharf, with
lobster pots piled artfully askew. Ona had apparently been fascinated by the
complexity of the inner workings of the traps, and the knotted strands were
shown with that luminous clarity that Rowan had come to love in Ona’s work.

A handful of bystanders were sketched in the background, and
it was clear that Ona had shifted her focus. Among other persons composed
merely of outline and shadow: young Slado, depicted with obsessive detail, his
face in light, his left shoulder shadowed by the overhang of an adjacent
building.

Rowan called to mind the various wharves in the harbor, identified
which one was shown, and found that she knew exactly where the apprentice had
been standing, and by the shadow, the time of day.

“Hmph,” Irina said. “Felicia.”

“Felicia?”

“That girl he’s talking to.” Irina indicated the
shadow-shape of a buxom figure with wild curls. “A much better subject for his
attentions than myself, I assure you. A wanton little thing she was.” Rowan
found Slado’s expression interesting: evaluative, as in the tea-cup portrait,
but with a shade of intensity perhaps understandable under the circumstances. A
young man, after all, with natural inclinations and urges.

“I don’t think I knew her,” Naio said.

“You hardly would. A much lower class of person. I was certain
she’d end up in the bawdy-houses; she had no other talents to speak of.”

“But she didn’t?” Rowan asked. “End up in a bawdy-house?”
Irina sniffed. “Well perhaps she did after all, but not one in this city. Wild
girl that she was, she wandered off one day, probably following a sailor or
caravan worker or some such riffraff. No one ever—” And she stopped.

Silence at the table.

Eventually, Rowan said: “In other words, she vanished.” On
the page, the young apprentice regarded the shadow-girl, and his intensity
seemed to have acquired a darker cast. “I believe,” the steerswoman said, “that
you had a much closer call than you’d thought, Irina.”