Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (22 page)

“Well, I have some. Since I got here, I’ve mostly begged for
food.”

“Very effectively, I’m sure. You were truly pitiful.”

An event was afoot after all: two roast boars with all the
trimmings, with entertainment to follow. In the common room, every table was
occupied, despite the caravan’s departure that morning. Bel had managed to
claim a small table herself and defend it against all comers. The Outskirter
waved Rowan and Willam over.

When they arrived and took their seats, Bel leaned down and
with a cautious glance around the room passed something surreptitiously to
Willam under the table. “Here, take them,” she said to him quietly. “They make
me nervous.
^),

“They’re perfectly safe. Unless you drop them off a cliff,
or throw them into the fireplace.” He shifted, arranging the object between his
feet.

“And you should find someplace to put them. Carrying a burlap
sack with you everywhere you go looks too suspicious. You might be taken for a
thief of some kind.”

“I don’t like to leave them alone, with people about.”
Willam’s destructive charms. “No one has bothered my pack in my room,” Rowan
began. Then: “No …” The fact that the maids had so far been honest did not
guarantee the same in the future.

Will leaned back as a burly serving man arrived with
fistfuls of knives and forks, which he distributed gracelessly; apparently the
most experienced servers were working in the formal dining room.

Will gestured Rowan and Bel closer, to speak above the clash
of cutlery and rise of conversation all about. “When I was in the stables the
other night, I noticed a place up in the rafters that should make a good hiding
place for them, if I can climb up there without being noticed.”

“Later tonight, then,” Rowan said. “There should be no one
about at all by midnight.”

A sudden crash and clatter as silverware escaped from the
server’s overloaded grip, inspiring a cheer from a table of sailors across the
room.

Something nagged at the back of Rowan’s mind; she identified
it, and stopped short, puzzling.

Will was watching the serving man scrambling about on hands
and knees, searching for lost silverware; some customers were cheerfully
directing him toward far-flung items. Only Bel had noticed Rowan’s reaction.
“What is it?” she asked, causing Will to turn back in curiosity.

“Eighteen thirty,” the steerswoman said, thoughtfully.

The others traded a glance. Bel said, “No, midnight is twenty-four
hundred. You know that.”

“Wait, let me think.” Rowan closed her eyes. The serving man
was voicing petulant complaint; apparently some of the directions provided were
intentionally spurious.

“Are you all right?” Will asked Rowan. “Rowan?”

“I’m trying to remember something …” So long ago … Six
years back, and Rowan a captive of the wizards Sham—

mer and Dhree. Rowan had told them of the fallen Guidestar; she
had described the pattern of fragments; maps had been brought out. Maps of
incredible detail, and seemingly impossible beauty of execution … Rowan tried
to ignore the din around her, concentrated harder.

Numbers, everywhere on the wizards’ maps: measurements,
Rowan had thought at first, elevations. But she had seen, then, that the
numbers attached to landmarks that she knew well did not in any way match
elevations on her own charts.

She tried to remember some specific number from the wizards’
maps, any number at all. But it was no use: it was too long ago, and the
numbers had been meaningless to her, and she had not retained them.

She opened her eyes to find Bel and Willam watching her dubiously.
“Will,” Rowan said, then checked to ensure that no one else was attending the
conversation. “The Krue … do they measure length in centimeters and meters,
distance in meters and kilometers?”

The question surprised him. “Yes.”

Bel turned to him. “So do we.”

“And the Outskirters count twenty-four separate hours in a
day, instead of twice twelve.”

“So do we,” Will said. “Except, midnight is zero hundred.”

“How very interesting.” Two such different peoples,
standing, it seemed, at utter opposite points in both society and location.
“The Outskirters must have learned it from the wizards.”

Bel caught and held Rowan’s gaze, an extremely stubborn expression
on her face. “No,” she said, and stressed the next words. “The Outskirters were
the first people.” This was a very old disagreement between them. “If, as you
say, our line names resemble your Inner Lands women’s names, then you got your
names from us. And if the wizards use our time and distances, then they got
those
from us.”

Rowan decided not to repeat the argument. “Regardless. There
was, at some point, a connection between your people and mine. And now it seems
that there was also a connection between the Outskirters and the Krue. Will—”
She turned to him. “Do you know anything about that?”

He shook his head. “No, I never heard anything. It never
came up. But I think you must be right. Spells need very precise timing and
measurement. Our way is a lot easier to calculate than inches and feet.
Outskirters and wizards must have at least met, long ago, if they’re using our
measurements.”

A hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned to the
kitchen door, from behind which came a sudden bustle, voices, clatters, and
thunks.

Bel alone seemed uninterested. She turned to Willam. “Their
measurements,” she said.

He looked at her. “What?” The bustle in the kitchen quieted.

The room was nearly silent. Bel leaned closer. “You said
‘our measurements,’” she said quietly. “You mean ‘their.’ You’re not one of
them, anymore. And you were never really Krue at all.”

He blinked. “You’re right.” He gave a small laugh of embarrassment.
“I guess I’ve gotten used to thinking like them.”

“Just try not to think too much like them.”

“Until two nights from tonight, at”—Rowan internally
adjusted her thinking to Outskirter modes—“twenty-three hundred.”

Across the room, someone gave a plaintive cry. The reason
was immediately evident: from beyond the kitchen door, perfectly audible in the
near-silence, the sound of stairs creaking as some extremely heavy object was
carried upward, accompanied by no less than four sets of ponderous footsteps.

All listened as the sounds diminished. Then, from some—

where in the distance and upward, a cheer, followed by a
rising rhythmic noise, thumpings and voices, resolving into: “The boar! The
boar! The boar!”

Groans of frustration in the common room, and sighs of resignation.
Conversation resumed.

“It seems we’re a bit early after all,” Rowan remarked. “Apparently
upstairs gets first choice.”

Bel eyed the common room, tilted her head. “I like it better
down here.”

Young Beck had been given charge of the proceedings in the
common room. He took his assignment very seriously, and attempted graciously to
direct the other servers by subtle nods and gestures only. Unfortunately, the
new servers were not accustomed to picking up the cues. There was stumbling,
and awkwardness, requiring Beck to move quickly here and there, correcting and adjusting
as needed. But his calm and persistence were impressive, and Rowan decided that
the young man definitely had a bright future in the business.

Eventually, the food arrived, and the crowd let out a cheer.
For a space, there was only appreciative silence, as the portions were
dispensed, and then dispatched by the happy diners.

Roast boar, not the best cuts, but plentiful. Also: buttered
beans; cubes of potatoes and turnips cooked together with bacon; a side dish of
pickled fruit; and for afters, white-frosted pumpkin cake. The steerswoman’s
slice, delivered by Beck personally, arrived decorated with a tiny drizzle of
rare chocolate. Dinner was long, and delightful, and conducted in a reverent
near-silence.

When the dishes were cleared, everyone stayed for drink, and
for entertainment, which the crowd provided for itself. There was music, but
not here: it drifted faintly down from the formal dining room. Occasionally,
the melody was recognizable. Whenever this happened the common room crowd dropped
all other pursuits and sang along, for as long as the tune was audible. New
lyrics were sometimes improvised.

New arrivals swelled the crowd, and Rowan, Bel, and Willam
were required to share their table. Their tablemates were the female bricklayer
Rowan had met on the first day; a narrow blond man in his thirties, who by his
own cheerful admission possessed neither occupation nor permanent abode; and a
squat, muscular young woman with huge callused hands, who served as apprentice
to one of the city’s swordsmiths. With the dinner dishes cleared, there
remained just enough room on the little table for six mugs of ale, and the
occasional pair of elbows.

With the strangers present, Rowan, Bel, and Willam could no
longer discuss their mission. Rowan fell into conversation with the
swordsmith’s apprentice concerning the steerswoman’s need for a new weapon.
Willam listened to the bricklayer’s bitter tale of bad luck in recent wagers,
and expressed his opinion that the rat races were fixed. Bel professed an
interest in the underside of city life, and the vagrant became her eager
informant.

Some time later, Rowan noticed Naio descending the main
staircase then pausing to scan the crowd. Suspecting that she was herself the
subject of his search, Rowan stood and waved him over.

“Quite a gathering tonight,” he commented, nodding to the
others at the table. Rowan could not help noticing that he held a rolled and
ribbon-tied paper.

“Were you dining upstairs?” Rowan asked.

“Yes. Ona is still there, I’ll go back in a moment.” Finding
no empty chair, Naio lowered himself to sit on his heels beside Rowan. “We’ve
been going through her old drawings together—and that was an interesting
experience, I’ll tell you!” He paused to suppress a grin; it took all his
self-control to do so.

Rowan guessed what inspired the amusement. “Including,” she
asked, “the nude studies?”

“All of them completely from her imagination, of course.” He
raised his eyebrows. “She was, let’s say, an extremely innocent girl.”

“Oh?” Rowan played along. “And was her subject”—she sought a
delicate way to phrase it—“imaginatively endowed?” She sipped her beer.

“Well, that’s the thing. Being so innocent and sheltered,
Ona was completely ignorant … She ended up depicting the subject in question
with, ah, no endowments whatsoever.”

Caught off-guard, the steerswoman choked and snorted beer up
her nose, then succumbed to a coughing fit that required the assistance of Bel,
pounding on Rowan’s back, to quell.

Naio waited for the fit to subside. “On the one hand,” he
said, “poor fellow. On the other, serves him right, I say.”

Rowan gestured weakly toward the paper in his hand. “Please,
tell me that isn’t—”

“Oh! No! No, lady, I wouldn’t do that. This—well, I thought
you might find it interesting.”

Rowan took the paper, untied and unrolled it. She was
briefly stymied, then fascinated. “Is this Latitia?”

“Part of her, at least.”

In ink: a standing figure seen from behind, only vaguely and
rapidly outlined. Young Ona had lavished all her attention on the subject’s
thick black hair. Pulled back from Latitia’s face, it was held close to her
head by a complicated interweaving of braid, then allowed its freedom past the
nape of her neck. It must have been very wiry; it stood out like a small
thundercloud behind the steerswoman’s shoulders. Of Latitia herself, there was
only the suggestion of leanness and grace, and a few draping folds of a
steerswoman’s cloak.

Rowan was delighted. “I’m beginning to feel that I know

“And I’ve managed to find out where she stayed when she was
here.”

She turned to him, astonished. “Naio, I hardly know how to
thank you. I think you’re doing as much work on this question as I am.”

Her gratitude pleased him. “Well, it’s entertaining. I do
love gossip. And gossip from forty years back—that’s a challenge! A steerswoman,
a wizard, an evil apprentice—it’s too much to pass up.” He rose, and winced as
he stretched cramped legs. “Now, the fellow you want actually used to be mayor
here—” He stopped when Rowan’s face fell.

“Not old Nid?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes—”

“But, I understand that he’s senile.”

“So he is. But he also rambles. If you invest a little time,
and use a lot of patience, you might be able to get some details from him.”

It sounded worth the attempt. “Thank you,” Rowan said. “I believe
I’ll look Nid up after all.” And there would be plenty of time to devote to the
project, tomorrow.

Naio took his leave, and Rowan returned to casual
conversation with her tablemates.

The steerswoman’s glass was never empty, thanks to Beck’s
attentions. The others were required to pay, but Willam drank slowly and
little, and Bel, seeing the vagrant come up short, poured half her own beer
into the man’s empty mug, inspiring him to gallantly kiss her hand. Out of
sheer good spirits, the entire table adopted him, and followed Bel’s example.
The man did not lack for drink for the rest of the night.

Time passed; the evening grew quieter, but no less
convivial. Obeying one of the universal laws of such gatherings, the crowd
began, subtly and spontaneously, to grow more unified.

At the sailors’ table, a wiry young woman, oak brown and
blond from the sun, rose and sang “Jamboree,” with her crew-mates clapping
along and the locals enjoying puzzling over the lyrics—except for Rowan’s
table, where, to her own discomfiture, the steerswoman was asked by the
swordsmith’s apprentice to translate “Jinny keep your ring-tail warm.”

Bel rolled her eyes at the explanation; then, as soon as the
song ended, and with no warning whatsoever, she rose and stood on her chair.