Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (7 page)

Around the side of the building, past the kitchen door—but
Rowan was stopped short by a very distinctive smell.

No one was in the yard. The steerswoman cautiously followed
her nose, and discovered the beggar in the stables, asleep in the straw in the
far corner of an empty stall. Rowan backed out silently and continued to her
room.

Bel was already there, standing by the table. “Can you tell
if anyone’s been looking through your things?”

“Yes.” A glance told the tale. “The maid has cleaned, and
made the bed. My pack’s been moved, but it wasn’t opened. The papers on the
table haven’t been disturbed.”

Bel looked dissatisfied, pulled out the chair, sat.

Rowan took the bed. “Was either the beggar or the stout woman
always with me?”

Bel wove slightly, side to side: a movement typical in her
of calculation. “The woman wasn’t. I saw the beggar twice, but I wasn’t really
watching out for him.”

“You didn’t notice that he’s not blind?”

A disgruntled sound. “No. And he couldn’t find you if he
were. It’s got to be him, or both of them.”

“Not necessarily.” Rowan rubbed her leg, purely out of
habit; thankfully, it had given her no trouble today. “He might be a confidence
trickster, who’s simply identified me as an easy mark he plans to hit again.”

“I wonder where he is now?”

“Asleep in the stables.”

“I don’t like that.”

“Stables are common dossing places for vagrants.” Silence.

“How many times did you notice the woman?”

“She was at the plaza, in that group of people watching when
you gave the beggar lunch. She was outside the first house you went into, but
she left before you came out.”

“Which way did she go?”

“Northwest. Don’t ask me the street name.”

“She might have thought I was going to the orchards.”

“She was gone for a while. But she was looking in a shop window
when you came out of the last house.” A pause. “Where you tripped over the
beggar.”

Both women considered.

“If they’re Jannik’s minions, they’re very alert to have
noticed me this soon.”

“And serious about their duties. He’s not here to tell them
what to do.”

“He may have given them spells to speak to him at a
distance.”

Bel frowned. “Like links?”

“Or something similar.” Fletcher, the wizard’s minion Rowan
and Bel had met in the Outskirts, had carried a link: a small magical device
with which he could paint colored lights in the air, schematic representations
of the land below, as seen through the eye of a Guidestar. The link had allowed
the Guidestars to track Fletcher’s movements, and was also used to report back
to his master or masters—but Fletcher had been executed by the Outskirters
before Rowan could learn more.

And this was unfortunate. It seemed to Rowan that the common
folk would one day need an ally with magic at his or her command, and with
Fletcher gone, there remained only two slim chances for help: Corvus, the
wizard in Wulfshaven, who, thanks to Rowan, knew something of what was
occurring; and Wiliam, a boy of the common folk, whom Rowan and Bel had
befriended on the road, and who was now serving as Corvus’s apprentice.

But Corvus had declined to commit himself, and his own goals
and motives remained unknown. He might yet choose to side with the
master-wizard.

And young Willam—who knew what he might become under
Corvus’s influence?

Fletcher would have helped. Rowan was certain of it.

But as ever, when thoughts of Fletcher arrived unexpectedly,
the steerswoman needed a moment to settle her emotions. She forced herself to
consider her lost lover merely in the light of the information provided by him
and by the fact of his existence.

She was, slowly, becoming rather good at this.

Rowan recovered her train of thought. “If every minor
wizard’s servant carried something as powerful as a link, the fact could not
have been kept secret for this long. I suspect these watchers are using
something simpler.”

“Or nothing at all.”

“Which means that they had advance warning of my arrival—”

“—or already knew that anyone asking about Kieran and Latitia
must be on to something very important.”

And that was exactly what they had been watching for, the reason
for all caution and urgency.

Without knowing why Latitia had visited Donner so close in
time to the fall of the unknown Guidestar, Rowan could not know whether the
matter had any significance at all. But evidence of scrutiny was proof of
importance.

Rowan had planned to conduct her investigation as quickly as
possible, for as long as she was able. And should the wizard

Jannik become interested in the investigation, the plan
called for Rowan and Bel, quite sensibly, to flee.

But without Jannik himself present

Rowan said, reluctantly, “This is just too unclear …” More
silence.

Rowan said, “Is it possible that neither of those people is
watching me at all?”

“Yes. The beggar might keep himself underfoot for the
reasons you’ve said. The woman might be a coincidence.”

“It takes three to know,” Rowan muttered: a Steerswomen’s
adage.

Bel had heard it often. “Well,” she said, and rose to leave,
“if you trip over the beggar two more times, let me know.”

The next morning, Rowan found the elderly orchard worker
among a troop of others, all ages, who were engaged in the odorous task of
spreading manure throughout the pear orchard. The man, stooped and gnarled but
remarkably strong, was definitely not inclined to converse. Nevertheless,
custom required that he reply to any question asked by a steerswoman, and he
did so, as tersely as possible. Rowan trailed along behind him for an hour,
trying to inspire him to expand on the subject of Kieran. Despite the effort,
she acquired only information that she had already received from other sources.

Eventually, her frustration became complete. She laid down
her cane, which had proved unnecessary that day, folded her cloak on the
ground, and joined in with the workers.

This astonished everyone. After some shuffling, the
steerswoman ended up working alongside two children, a boy of nine and a girl
of about twelve, who were occasionally instructed, in shouts from the old man,
how to correctly discharge their duties. Rowan took his instructions to heart,
and led by example. The children worked much harder, and more efficiently. This
freed their attention somewhat, and they found time to question Rowan
endlessly: about distant lands, strange people, the sea, and monsters.

At lunchtime, all the workers congregated on the ground
beside a donkey cart holding a large water barrel. Rowan continued her
conversation with the children, describing to them the magnificent, mysterious
Dolphin Stair, and how the great fishes leapt down the steps, from level to
watery level, eventually reaching the unexplored Outer Ocean.

Her audience now included all the orchard workers, all of
them enthralled, as they munched on bread and cheese and fruit from sacks they
had stored on the water cart. When the story ended, they continued dining,
silent and thoughtful. Rowan dipped into her own shoulder bag, pulling out a
small wicker box, which had been handed to her by the server who cleared her
breakfast dishes. She opened it.

A crispy pastry filled with sweet turnip cubes and tarragon
beef; a dark yellow triangle that proved to be a bread impregnated throughout
with sharp cheddar cheese; a pear; and, individually wrapped in twists of blue
tissue, three pink frosting candies.

These last she distributed: one to the girl, one to the boy,
one to the elderly worker. The children gobbled theirs, emitting happy squeals;
the old man held his under his nose, eyes closed, breathing in the sugary
scent, in apparent rapture. Finally he popped it past his toothless gums and
held it in his mouth, sitting completely still, his ancient face transformed
with pleasure. The other workers watched, amazed and clearly jealous. The old
man took his time chewing, and when at last he swallowed, said: “The Dolphin.”

Rowan laughed. “I’m staying there. The kitchen staff seem to
have taken me under their wing.”

“Hm.” He studied her, squinting, his eyes mere black chips barely
visible within nests of wrinkles. “And how is young Beck doing?”

“Working hard and cheerfully. Are you related?”

“My great-grandnephew.” He continued to study her, then
seemed to reach a decision. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a flat
silver flask, used his shirttail to wipe it down, opened it, and handed it
across to the steerswoman.

She took a sip: malt whiskey. She closed her eyes, held the
liquor in her mouth, thinking, then swallowed. “High Island,” she said, and
passed the flask back.

He laughed. “My own dad laid down two dozen bottles, and
never touched a drop ’til the day he turned seventy. Took a sip a day after
that, and only lasted one bottle. I thought it was the anticipation kept him
going, so I didn’t start on it until I hit eighty. By then, I thought it was
worth the risk.”

“Thank you for sharing it. You inherited it entirely
yourself?

You must have had at least one sibling to share claim.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Marisa. She didn’t like the taste.”

“Is she still living?”

“Forty years dead.” He eyed her. “And you asking about that
wizard, you’re forty years too late, yourself.”

“Forty-two, in fact. Still, some new information seems to be
coming to light.” She took another bite of beef pastry. “Those star parties he
held for the children, for instance. That was not very typical of wizards, and
it’s not mentioned in our records. I suppose that the steerswoman who was here
at that time didn’t stay long enough to learn of them.”

Then: “Ah!” the old man said, with great feeling; and to everyone’s
amazement, and with sudden energy, he pantomimed an immense arrow shaft
piercing his breast. He fell back, to lie on the ground with eyes closed and
arms spread, a beatific smile on his face. Laughter all around, but for Rowan,
who watched the performance, perplexed.

“Lowry’s dead!” the boy cried, overcome with giggles; “He’s
in love,” the girl corrected, in mock-seriousness. Playing along, she knelt by
the old man’s head, leaned her ear near his mouth. Theatrically, old Lowry
breathed, as if it were his last breath: “Latitia …”

“Actually,” Rowan said, bemused, “yes.”

Lowry broke his pose, reached up to tousle the girl’s hair,
then used her shoulder to pull himself up again.

Rowan said: “May I assume that you were lovers?”

“Oh, no!” Astonishment. “Ah, if only that were true, but no,
no. She wouldn’t look at me twice, me such a scrawny little man and her so …”
He sighed ostentatiously. “… magnificent.”

“Really?” Rowan was delighted. “What was she like?”

“Tall, tall, and slim as a willow wand. Skin so dark that
blue light seemed to shine off it. She moved lovely, regal, long graceful steps
with her head held high, like a princess from some strange land. And eyes like
cool stars in the night sky …”

“Oh, my,” Rowan said. “And did you ever speak to this veritable
paragon of beauty?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Constantly! What a pest
I was! Ah, but she was a steerswoman, and all I had to do was ask, and she had
to answer. Oh, I asked and asked …”

“Did she ever mention what brought her to Donner?”

“Well, steerswomen travel. I don’t think I ever asked her
that one. Mostly, lady, I just asked to hear the sound of her voice. Never paid
much attention to what she was saying …” His voice trailed off; the
self-mocking air faded; he acquired a contemplative look.

Interested, Rowan waited, and when Lowry looked at her
again, it was with a tinge of speculation. “Might have been that wizard.”

Rowan could not help leaning forward eagerly. “Do you know
that for a fact, or are you reasoning it?”

“A little of both, maybe. She was mad at him, I knew that.”

“Really?” This was unexpected. “Why?”

“For dying. That’s how she said it. She was angry,
underneath, the whole time she was here, and I couldn’t help noticing it. So I
asked her straight out: Tell
me, lady, what’s made you so
angry? And she
said:
Kieran.
And I asked:
What did he do?
And she told me,
He
died too soon.”
He thought long, and hard, and Rowan waited; but at the end
of his thoughts, he only shook his head. “If the conversation went on from
there, lady, I don’t know what was said. It’s a long time ago, and really, I
was just listening to her voice.”

Rowan said: “Something about Kieran brought her to Donner.”

His gaze became sharper. “And it’s brought you, too, hasn’t
it?”

She sighed. “Yes. But I have no idea what, or why.”

Returning from the orchard, Rowan caught sight of a pair of
figures standing on a bridge that crossed one of the many streams flowing down
from the hills. Even from so great a distance, Rowan easily recognized Bel and
Dan. The two seemed to be conversing idly, but Bel had arranged it so that she
was facing the orchard.

From Rowan’s vantage on the low hill, she could see quite a
distance across the flat land: down toward the stream, across northeast to
where Greyriver curved around the city. In the fields and in the visible
streets, there was no sign of either the beggar or the stout gray woman.

The steerswoman continued down into the city.

The owner of the next name on Rowan’s list was not at home,
the house shuttered and apparently abandoned. Instead of proceeding directly to
the next address, Rowan rambled, in a widening circle, turning left and right
in the close streets, occasionally pausing just past corners to glance back.
Neither of her suspected followers was present, but eventually Bel and Dan
appeared in the street ahead. They stepped into a pawnshop, which reminded
Rowan that she ought to see about replacing her sword. She decided not to enter
the shop while Bel was there; tomorrow would do.