Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (32 page)

In the broad main hallway upstairs, they had room to walk
more comfortably. “Quiet tonight,” Gregori noted. Sound from the common room
ought to have reached them by now.

“Perhaps everyone in town is still recovering from the
feast. I should think that would take a couple of days.”

“Not for my people. They’ll eat a whole boar with all the
trimmings, and want the same again for breakfast …”

They reached the main staircase, and began descending. Halfway
down, a man stood, gazing down into the common room. He looked up, greatly
startled, when he saw them, glanced back down, turned back again, seemed about
to speak as they passed him.

A muffled voice from below caught his attention. He
hesitated, then said, with what seemed like resignation: “Well, that’s it,
you’d better get in there, too.”

Rowan was almost at the bottom of the stair. Enid had
lagged. The man reached up, took Enid by the arm, pulled her down beside him.
“Hey!” she said, pulling back.

“What’s going on?” Gregori asked.

“Nobody knows,” the man said, and he shook Enid by the arm,
not unkindly, but to get her attention. He spoke quietly, urgently. “You—all of
you, just stay quiet, and don’t look for trouble.”

And a thought came to Rowan, clearly: she should leave,
should get out of here, now, quickly—but too late. There was someone else
already behind her, a hand on her back, turning her, urging her forward; she
was already entering the room—“And where did they come from?” a voice asked.

The common room was quiet; but it was not empty.

Every seat was taken, with a few people standing, as well, between
the tables or back near the walls. The chairs in front of the hearth had been
pulled away, creating an open space that seemed almost a stage.

Two men were there. One stood slightly aside: a dark,
heavyset man, whose wiry black hair was worn woven into a complicated braid
down his back. By Lorren and Earner’s description, and by the air of concern,
responsibility, and authority with which he regarded the entire room, Rowan
identified Joly, mayor of Donner.

The other man paced; not nervously, but patiently, as if prepared
for a long wait. He seemed mildly concerned, faintly disappointed. He was
small, round, white-haired, dressed in green and silver.

Jannik.

The wizard paused and looked up as the guard urged Rowan and
her companions into the room. “I said, where did they come from?”

The guard shuffled his feet, and was a moment finding his
voice. “Must’ve come in the back door. Sir.”

“Well, post someone there; we have enough spectators as it
is.” Jannik gestured vaguely at the newcomers. “Find someplace to stand, out of
the way.” He returned to pacing.

Get out, Rowan’s instincts told her again. But the wizard
was uninterested in her; he had dismissed her; she was merely a member of a
crowd. She could not flee without drawing attention to herself.

Wait. Find out what’s going on. Stay calm.

She composed herself. Rowan had no talent for feigned emotion.
She resorted instead, as she often had in the past, to attempting to erase from
her outward demeanor every trace of emotion. This she had learned to do; and at
the moment it was the best she could manage.

It took such concentration that for a period she did not see
at all clearly, only knew that Gregori was urging her to a standing place far
back on the left wall, well away from the hearthside where Jannik continued his
patient pacing, and Joly, composed but wary, watched him.

Rowan found herself among unfamiliar faces that glanced at
her incuriously. Some people were standing, some sitting with half-empty mugs
and tea cups on the tables around, and the remains of a few late or early
meals. No one drank; no one ate.

Willam was beside Rowan. She tried not to look at him, for
fear that her face would betray the significance of his presence. He remained
half seen, a tall shape beside her, a glimpse of white hair high in the corner
of her right eye.

Rowan took slow and deep breaths, and began to calm, began
to assemble the scene before her, began to search, unobtrusively, for Bel.

There. The far side of the room. Against the wall. The
Outskirter managed to appear as disturbed and confused as everyone else in the
room, but Rowan recognized Bel’s stance: relaxed, easy, but balanced and alert.
If action became necessary, Bel would be ready.

Rowan picked out other persons known to her: Ruffo, seated
not far from Rowan; the mate from
Graceful Days,
and her husband, the
ship’s navigator, whose hand she held; two day maids; most of the serving
staff; the head groom.

Ona was seated at a table to the front, among three other
women near her age, who all resembled her strongly. Naio stood beside her.

Rowan heard Gregori ask, quietly, “What’s on?”

Someone nearby replied, in a whisper: “No one knows. He came
in, told everyone to stay put, and wait while—” Jannik paused, and without
turning raised one finger; the person who spoke silenced. The wizard smiled
thinly, then resumed pacing.

No one else spoke; but there were many glances, between
friends, between strangers, and small shrugs of confusion. Naio rested his hand
briefly on Ona’s shoulder, and she looked up at him, then caught sight of Rowan
across the room. She gave the steerswoman a small nod of acknowledgment; then
something occurred to her. She blinked in thought, then quickly looked away.

When the wizard’s pacing brought him back in Rowan’s direction,
Ona’s gaze again shied off, as she tried very hard, and continued to try, never
to look in the steerswoman’s direction again.

Rowan desperately hoped that this was obvious only to her.

She must try to be more natural herself. Puzzlement would be
the most natural emotion, and most people here were both puzzled and wary.

But if at this moment Rowan showed any emotion at all, it
would be fear. She could not let that be seen. She closed her eyes a moment,
attempted to become more clear, more truly calm. She managed to achieve a
peculiar detachment. When she opened her eyes, she did what everyone else was
doing: she watched the wizard.

He was a small man, about Rowan’s own height, and not quite
portly. His short hair was white, as was his beard, which was close, trim, and
pointed. He wore dark green trousers, with silver piping; a white blouse, silk;
a green-and-silver embroidered vest tight across the stomach, loose elsewhere.
On the armchair nearby, a cloak, light enough to be purely decorative, spilled
a bright glory of green satin and white raw silk.

Jannik paused his pacing, turned to address Joly. “Who else
of the council are still missing?”

Joly said, “Irina and Marel.” His voice was deep. There was
no subservience in his stance. He seemed not afraid, but grimly alert.

“Would the messengers have reached them by now?” Jannik
asked him.

“Yes,” Joly said. “Assuming they are at home.” Rowan found
herself admiring his calm, his immense dignity. She wondered, suddenly and
irrelevantly, at his history.

The wizard considered, mildly annoyed. He glanced at the
crowd. “Well. You may as well make yourselves comfortable. This may take a
while.” Jannik began pacing again, with such perfect nonchalance that Rowan
understood that it was all for show. The wizard was, in fact, enjoying himself.

A few people shifted uneasily: what, under these circumstances,
might constitute making oneself comfortable?

Halfway around the room, near the street door, Beck blinked
a few times, thought, gave the tiniest of shrugs, took a tray from the limp
hands of a nearby serving girl, and began to collect empty mugs and dishes. His
smooth efficiency astonished Rowan.

He had worked his way to the table in front of her before Jannik
took notice. “What are you doing?” He seemed both aggrieved and amused.

Beck stopped, looked at the wizard, looked at the tray in
his hands, and by way of reply, lifted it slightly to show exactly what he was
doing.

“Well, stop it,” Jannik said, and went back to pacing.

Beck shrugged—and, in a move conducted with perfect naturalness,
casually handed Rowan the loaded tray, jerked his head in the direction of the
kitchen door, and turned away, exactly as if instructing and dismissing some
minor member of the serving staff.

Rowan stood a moment stunned. Then, as smoothly as possible,
she turned and began sidling through the tables, carrying her load to the
kitchen.

The door was before her, and open. At the far end of the
kitchen, invisible from Jannik’s perspective, the undercook, crouched under a
preparing table, was beckoning urgently. If Rowan could reach the kitchen, she
could lay low until this was over. Whatever might be afoot, it would be best
for all present if the steerswoman were absent.

“You.” Rowan did not need to wonder whom the wizard was
addressing. She was merely ten feet from the kitchen. She stopped, looked back.

Jannik looked mildly annoyed. “What did I just tell that
boy? Put that down.”

The people around Rowan seemed not to recognize her. She
must seem merely a new hireling, behaving stupidly.

Across the room, Bel was wearing a similar expression. But
all eyes watched Rowan.

The steerswoman set the tray down on the nearest table.
While doing so, using the tray as a shield, she slipped her ring from her hand,
and put it into her pocket.

Her chain was already well concealed, under her vest. If no
one spoke up, she would remain anonymous.

No one spoke up. No one spoke at all. The people waited, silent,
watching as a bird watches a snake. And Jannik paced.

After a space of time, Joly, with careful precision, crossed
to the armchair where Jannik’s cloak lay, picked it up, rearranged it to lie
across and down the chair back, and sat. Jannik paused to watch him, almost
fondly, seeming charmed by the man’s audacity. On his part, Joly displayed not
the slightest trace of fear, only a dignified determination.

This show of calm seemed to reassure the crowd. Some relaxed
slightly. One woman spoke quietly to a table companion, inspiring a sudden
sharp glance from Jannik.

The woman silenced instantly, but Jannik continued to regard
her for a moment, with an odd fascination. Then the wizard smiled a small
smile, and paced away again.

Rowan noticed that Jannik had acquired, from somewhere, a
pair of black gloves. She had not seen him don them; he was wearing them now.

The street door opened, held by a very nervous girl.
Stepping past her, Marel entered. The wizard glanced up. “Ah, good, Marel.
Welcome to my little gathering. Someone give him a chair, please: he’s
elderly.” There was a commotion outside. Jannik said to the messenger: “What’s
going on?”

The girl stuttered, sputtered, was unable to reply, overcome
at being addressed by a wizard. Jannik tilted his head at her. Some braver soul
seated near the door spoke up: “It’s Reeder. He wants to come in.”

“Reeder?”

“Marel’s son,” Joly said.

“Oh, yes, that’s right. By all means, let the fellow in.”

Reeder entered, uncharacteristically disheveled, breathless.
The guard from outside, holding his arm, directed him to a standing place near
the door and set him free. Reeder threw the man a wild glance, then scanned the
room, finding Naio, and Ona, and eventually Rowan.

Jannik had already dismissed Reeder. He said to the guard,
“Is there any sign of Irina yet?”

The guard was nervous. “She—the boy we sent—”

“Yes?”

“—Her family say she’s up at her orchards. Sir.”

“And is she?”

“Uh “

“Never mind. Go out, close the door, don’t let anyone else
in. I think we have enough here. Let’s see …” He turned back, strolled to the
hearth, paused as if waiting for the crowd’s attention. This was entirely
unnecessary; no one was looking at anything else.

The wizard made a dramatic and expansive gesture in Joly’s
direction. “Our honorable mayor.” Joly’s only reaction was the slightest
narrowing of his eyes.

Another gesture took in several members of the crowd, seated
in various locations. “The city council—well, most of them.” The persons
indicated spared each other sidelong glances. Then Jannik spread his arms to
include everyone present, and smiled. “Disinterested witnesses—more than
enough, I should think. And …”

He dropped his hands, spoke precisely: “Thorns in my side
…” He sighed, as if sadly. “Well … at least one is present.” And moving
with such casualness that no one reacted, he took two easy steps to his left,
reached out, and laid his hand on the center of Naio’s chest.

For an instant Naio’s brown eyes looked down into the blue
of the wizard’s

Then: a sound, like the slamming of a door the size of the
world.

Naio’s limbs flung out, rigid; as if struck by some huge
blow, he was thrown backward, crashing into a table behind him. The table
overturned, and he fell to the floor.

The air smelled of smoke, and of mountaintops.

Jannik turned, strolled away, one finger raised as if
thoughtfully making a point. “Now, we have a problem,” he began—exactly as if
the people were not now on their feet, shouting, crying out, some pulling back,
their chairs falling; as if others were not clutching at Naio, trying to bring
him to his feet; as if Ona had not screamed his name, and thrown herself on
him; as if Reeder had not emitted a strangled cry, and begun fighting his way
through the tables toward him; as if Rowan herself had not made a noise,
something between a shout and a choked wail of “No! “; as if others were not
doing the same; as if panic and chaos did not fill the room.

The wizard stopped and looked back, suddenly expressionless.
Joly, already on his feet, saw Jannik’s face. The shock on his own transformed
into something more urgent. He stepped quickly forward, put himself with his
back toward the wizard, facing the crowd, his arms wide, hands out, in a plea
for quiet, stillness.