Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (6 page)

“And Kieran looked around at all the people … My father
said he never saw anyone look like that, like there was nothing at all behind
his eyes … Just looked at the people, all around the square … and then
walked away.”

The crowd sighed appreciatively, and relaxed, satisfied by
the eerie tale—but there was more. “And here’s the thing,” the story-teller
said, leaning forward. “When they were laying Ammi out to bury, they could tell
she wasn’t just fresh dead. She was a day dead, at least. That Kieran, he had
killed her from miles away, with magic.”

The people returned to their lunches, commenting to each
other on the excellence of the tale. The bony, braid-wearing woman spoke up.
“Maybe it was the house itself killed her. A magic house.”

“Could be.” The story-teller bit into a plum, leaning
forward to let the juice drip on the ground.

“Were there any visible injuries on the girl’s body?” Rowan
asked.

The man nodded as he swallowed. “Holes.” He indicated on his
own torso, using his fist to show size. “Each about so big.”

Rowan could not help commenting: “You don’t seem very distressed
by the death of your aunt.”

He shrugged. “It’s stupid, isn’t it, messing with a wizard’s
house? Everyone knows that. Anyway, I never knew her.”

“And after hearing this harrowing tale from your father, you
slipped away yourself, to attend the murderer’s parties?”

The man could not miss her accusatory tone. “That happened
ages ago,” he said, annoyed. “And the girl brought it on herself, didn’t she?
But being asked by a wizard to go look at the stars, and hear stories—well,
that’s something wonderful, isn’t it?”

“He invited you personally?”

The man nodded, caught the eye of the woman who had also
attended the parties; she nodded as well.

“Both of you specifically? Did he invite only particular
children?”

“No,” the woman said. “I was with a crowd of my friends, under
the veranda at the tea shop, playing in the mud. He looked down over the edge,
and he asked us all to come. I remember it well, I was so surprised and excited.”

“Same for me. I was playing soldier with some cousins, by
East Well. He passed by and asked us all, too.”

The workers continued their lunch, contemplatively; Rowan
did the same.

Across the plaza, the cook-cart had acquired a customer:
Bel, who passed a coin over and received a cone of brown paper, steam rising
from its top. She peered into it with interest as she ambled over to the
watering trough.

Rowan said to the workers, “Do any of you know how Kieran
died?”

“Old age is what I heard,” the story-teller said. “No
surprise, I suppose. He looked about a thousand years old to me.”

Some in the crowd chuckled, but Rowan knew that wizards aged
differently from the common folk, and could not help wondering at Kieran’s true
age. “How many star parties were there? They ended when he died; but when did
they begin?”

Neither of her informants could identify a specific date. “I
was so little,” the woman said. “Days just ran into each other.”

The man was no more helpful. “Once a month, they were, but
how many months altogether? I don’t know.”

The proprietor of the cook-cart had another visitor, one far
less welcome: a tall man, wide-shouldered but otherwise thin, his clothing many
layers of rags, his white hair a wild tangle. One hand held a bamboo rod, too
long and slim for a support—

ing cane, and there seemed to be a bandage wrapped around
his head. The proprietor was attempting to shoo him off. A beggar, apparently.

Rowan needed clearer information. She turned back to the story-teller.
“Is your father still living?”

“No.”

“Your mother?”

“She married again. They moved upriver, he has a farm somewhere.”

Unfortunate. But other adult family members would certainly
hold a grudge against Kieran, and perhaps would have watched him carefully for
the rest of his life. “You mentioned an uncle, your father’s older brother. Is
he still alive?”

Nods all around: success. “And where might I find him?”

“Rose Street. Just off Ambleway. You can’t miss it, there’s
a big pot of geraniums right in front of the door.”

Rowan sighed. “Nid?”

“Nid,” the bony woman said, before the man could speak, and
the workers cheerfully took it up: “Nid.”

“Nid.”

“Nid.”

“Nid,” the man himself confirmed.

The steerswoman sighed again. “Your father had no other siblings?”

“No.”

She asked the older woman. “Is either of your parents
living?”

“Both, I suppose, but where? I couldn’t say, other than
west. They bought out a caravan captain ages ago, they travel all over.”

Across the plaza: protests growing more vehement from the
area of the cook-cart. The workers craned their necks. A handful of passersby
paused to watch. One of these continued on, crossing toward the workers.

The story-teller noticed. “That’s it, then, let’s go,” he announced,
rising to his feet with an authoritative air.

The response from the group was largely hoots and jeers. No
one budged from their seats, save one muscular woman who pointedly made herself
even more comfortable, lounging full length on the ground.

“Come on, if Jenny’s coming back, then old Sam’s not far behind.”
The workers grudgingly and grumblingly conceded the truth of this, and slowly
began to collect themselves.

“How old is old Sam?” Rowan asked.

“Younger than me,” the bony woman informed her, as she
upended her lunch bucket to shake out the crumbs; she was about Rowan’s age.
“He’s just in charge, that’s all. It’s a joke. Why did you ask about that dead
wizard?”

“I’m interested in the events during a particular time in Donner’s
history,” Rowan told her. “Do you know of anyone still living who was an adult,
or close to it, during that time? Someone perhaps fifty-five years old, or
older?”

The worker gave the matter some thought. “There’s my gran
… no, she moved the family here from upriver, that must have been after that
wizard died. But seems like I see a lot of oldsters about … just ask around,
I suppose.” She strode off, back to the uncobbled edge of the plaza; but
halfway there an idea struck her, and she called back: “Ask my gran! Oldsters
like each other’s company, she knows everyone her age. She’ll know who to talk
to.”

This was an excellent idea. Rowan quickly got directions,
and headed off toward the street. But before she reached it, her steps slowed;
she paused and turned.

A small crowd had collected around the cook-cart, watching
as the beggar, half stumbling, backed away from the cook’s continuing curses.

Rowan strode over, brushed through the crowd, interrupted
the cook’s performance. “One portion, please.”

“Of course!” A glance at her ring and chain identified her
as a steerswoman, and he cheerfully waved away the coin Rowan held out.

She took the steaming paper cone in one hand, and forced
payment on the man. “It’s not for me,” she explained, and turned to the beggar.

The reason for the cart cook’s displeasure was already
obvious: the beggar stood in the midst of an acrid stench so strong Rowan felt
it ought to be visible, like some sort of foul cocoon. The combination of this
with the scent of fish and fried potatoes was far from appetizing. The beggar’s
various layers of clothing seemed extremely well used, possibly by several
different persons previous to him, and apparently never cleaned between owners.
The light cloth bandage around his head covered his eyes.

Mastering her fastidiousness, Rowan took his rag-wrapped
left hand, placed the cool end of the cone in it, said: “Be careful, it’s hot,”
and walked away.

Halfway across the plaza, she could not help but glance back
again.

Some of the watchers were now laughing, one of them shoving
another’s shoulder in mirth. Others were gaping after the steerswoman,
including the cart cook and the beggar.

As she continued on, it occurred to Rowan to wonder why a
blind man, surprised, would bother to turn in her direction as she left.

She chuckled to herself, and considered that she might have
just rendered assistance to a confidence artist.

Possibly.

She managed not to stop short at the thought.

Surely, it was too soon … Still, as she drew near to Bel,
and gave the sort of nod one gives to strangers, she said, quietly: “I may have
attracted interest already.”

Bel smiled into her paper cone as if charmed by the local cuisine,
extracted a fried potato with her fingers. Just as the steerswoman passed by
she said: “I’ve noticed.”

Rowan found the grannie seated out in front of a tailor’s shop
run by the mother of the bricklayer. From her, the steerswoman acquired eight
references, and a promise that the question would be passed around to older
friends and acquaintances. Rowan thanked her, then set off to investigate the
names she had been given.

The owner of the first name was out working in the orchards,
Rowan was told by his granddaughter; a long walk there and back. Rowan decided
to try again in the evening, or visit the orchard the next day, if other leads
kept her occupied that night.

The second person proved to have left town to visit family
upriver, and would not return for months.

The third, a frail, ancient woman nearly totally deaf,
regaled the steerswoman for more than an hour, endlessly plying her with thin,
sour tea, addressing her by three different names, none of them correct, and
never once touching the subjects of Kieran or Latitia, despite Rowan’s repeating
the questions at full volume. Attempts to question her in writing proved
useless: she was illiterate.

The fourth person, unfortunately, had passed away that very
morning, and the steerswoman had to ease herself awkwardly out of a room full
of his mourners.

During her wanderings, Rowan sighted Bel only twice, al—

though, interestingly, on the second occasion the Outskirter
actually seemed to be following from in front: pausing at, and then casually
passing by, the home of the deaf woman, before Rowan had identified it herself.
She must have overheard the conversation with the bricklayer’s grannie while
remaining unseen by Rowan.

The steerswoman also noticed the beggar: once tapping down
the street where the orchard worker lived, and later immediately underfoot,
when Rowan literally tripped over him as she exited the mourning-house. He was
curled up by the foot of the front steps, seemingly asleep. He did not stir.

Back at the Dolphin, Rowan was late for dinner, with the dishes
already being cleared from the tables in the common room. The diners remained,
enjoying ale and wine, apparently in anticipation of an evening’s
entertainment. A small band of musicians, tinkers by the style of their
apparel, were organizing themselves in one corner of the room: a fiddle, a
lap-harp, and a bouzouki.

Rowan attempted and failed to flag down one of the servers.
She had just resigned herself to a trip to the kitchen, when she turned back to
discover a meal already before her: turbot, cold but sweet, its juices sealed
by roasting in a crust of salt; buttered beans sprinkled with marjoram; a
light, airy bread, delicate as sea foam, that collapsed under her fingers and
melted on her tongue. Presently, the handkerchief boy delivered a pitcher of
ale, walking carefully across the room, with great concentration, using both
hands. Rowan thanked him politely, which caused him to gape, erupt in giggles,
and then flee to the kitchen. A moment later Beck arrived with the mug the boy
had forgotten, and another wink.

Bel and Dan came down from their dinner in the formal dining
room, and settled themselves at a table in the company of a narrow, dark-haired
woman who, by the loud conversation Rowan overheard, had a business interest in
a lumber mill upriver. Music began, and when Rowan’s plates were cleared away,
she joined a group of locals at a long table. None was old enough to have been
an adult when Kieran had passed away, and the steerswoman passed the evening in
more casual conversation.

The music was as excellent as the food, but the tinkers, typically,
ignored all applause and sneered at requests. However, they accepted tips.

Eventually, Bel separated herself from her dinner companions
and went to stand alone to one side of the room, as if to gain a better view of
the musicians. She had chosen a likely spot, and Rowan felt that anyone might
sensibly do the same; so she did so herself.

Bel indicated the musicians with her mug of ale, as though
about to remark on their skill, but said: “Don’t stay by me too long. If you
are being watched, the watcher is here now.”

“Really?” A twinge of tension in Rowan’s stomach; she covered
any outward sign by sipping at her ale. “I’m surprised Ruffo let him inside,
considering the smell.”

Bel did not turn to Rowan, but her brows knit. “Him? No,
her.”

Rowan blinked, permitted a verse to pass before saying:
“Who?”

“The stout woman sitting in the corner, at our five,” Bel
said, using Outskirter orientation.

Rowan did not look, but from memory reconstructed the room
behind her, and its occupants. At the back, to Rowan’s right: a strong-bodied,
gray-haired woman, drinking alone. “Interesting. Not the beggar?”

It was Bel’s turn to be surprised. She hid it well, changing
a suppressed impulse to turn to Rowan into a sideways motion, repeated, as if
rocking a bit to the music. Another stanza passed. “If they’re working
together, that would explain why neither one of them was always there.”

Rowan drained her ale. “I’m going to my room.” And she nodded
politely to Bel, waved at her drinking companions as she passed, handed her
empty mug to a passing server, and left through the front door.