The Steerswoman's Road (25 page)

“Did you find it to be true?” the potter asked Attise at one
point. “Aren’t the people friendlier in the south?”

Attise made an affirmative sound. “I think it’s the desert
that does it to us. Life is so fragile in the north, you have to work so hard,
live so carefully. It makes us cautious.”

“Well, I never regretted settling down here. There I was,
stumping my way north off the Upland Route with my mind full of misery, and
these people took me in. They didn’t know a thing about me, but they made me
feel like pure gold. You won’t find a finer town than Kiruwan.”

“Have other strangers settled here and found the same thing?”

There was a pause. “Well.” Willam heard him shift. “No other
strangers have moved in. No, everyone else is native.”

Willam abandoned his stool for the third shelf.

“Perhaps you can advise me. Is there anything in this town
that I might find worth buying?”

The potter took his time in answering. “There’s Lena, the
weaver. She does some interesting things. And you might try the jeweler.”

“A small town like this can support a jeweler?”

“Well.” There was a rustle and thump as he stretched his
legs. “He makes most of his money as a silversmith. But we do have enough people
coming through in winter to make his other work pay. I suppose you might find
something you can use.” He did not sound very enthusiastic; possibly he had a
grudge against the man.

Will heard Attise jump to the floor. “Then I’ll look in on
those two. Thank you for your help, and the conversation.”

“I enjoyed it.” He sounded a little regretful.

“Willam.” Will turned to see Attise beckon. “Let’s go.”

“But I’m not finished.”

“He’s a hard worker,” the potter observed. He was looking at
Will a little differently; Will could not identify the change.

“Can’t I stay for a while?”

“I don’t mind,” the man began, but Attise interrupted.

“No.” She was studying Willam, and it suddenly occurred to
him that nothing he had been doing had missed her notice. “I think I need him
with me.”

Outside, Will detoured to carry the broken jug out back to
the trash. Once out of sight, he dug out his grubby handkerchief, poured the
powder into it, knotted the ends, and discarded the jug.

They found Lena, the weaver, plying her shuttle in a little room
completely filled by the bulk of her loom. She listened to Attise’s requests
grudgingly, then conducted them into a second room, where bolts of cloth were
stacked haphazardly. Attise duly inspected the work, but Will could tell she
was not really interested; and try as she might, she could not draw Lena into
casual conversation.

It came to Will that visiting the weaver’s was mere distraction.
Attise was marking her time, waiting for something to happen. There were too
many things Willam did not know, too many events outside of his control. And
the caution he had learned so dearly from his spells began to prick at him. If
there was danger somewhere in this town, he—and perhaps even Attise herself—was
walking into it blindly.

“Are you learning anything?”

Attise looked up at him. “Nothing to speak of.” They
strolled down the street together in silence for a while.

Will slipped to Attise’s opposite side, to avoid the muddy
gutter. “Well, what are you looking for?” But he expected no real answer.

She stopped before a tall-windowed shop. “Perhaps this.”
Stepping across the gutter, she entered, pausing at the door to motion Wiliam
to follow.

Inside, tall shutters had been pushed wide open, and the
broad room was surprisingly bright. The walls were covered with shelves displaying
plates and cups of silver and pewter. Toward the back, the room opened further
into a workshop with benches and a small unlit stove.

Standing near the windows were a number of dark wood cases,
lined with velvet of different colors to offset the varied contents to best
advantage. A hasp on the front of each case suggested that they could be
locked, although lids and locks were not in evidence. The velvet was dusty in
some cases, worn in others, new in a few.

Attise scanned the shop, then strolled idly to the first
case and examined the contents. A collection of red and pale-green stones set
in silver was displayed on yellow velvet. Will reluctantly found himself
fancying an openwork ring of subdued elegance.

“Well, here we are, then, here we are!” A little man bustled
in from the rear of the shop. He was of Attise’s height, with a high forehead,
dark hair, and a beard of more gray than black. “Lovely work, that, lovely
work. Some of my best.” He approached and indicated an item. “There, you see?
Delicacy, that’s my specialty. You won’t find many who can manage work like
that.” He seemed delighted by his own expertise.

“It is lovely,” Attise admitted.

“Oh, yes, and—” He held up one finger. “—if silver’s too
dear for your purse, I can do much the same in pewter.” He bustled over to a
second case, sifted through its contents casually, and came back with a dusky
twin of Will’s ring, with a paler stone.

Attise took the ring and studied it. By now Will knew her conceits
from her genuine reactions, and he realized with some surprise that she was
keenly interested. “Where do you get the stones?” she asked the shopkeeper.

“Ah. Well.” He drummed his fingers and pursed his lips. “Garnets
from the schist in the local hills, lots of that, as you can see; but people
always underestimate its versatility, don’t you agree? Peridots, they’re from
the north, and someone came in last year with a lovely chunk of
tourmaline—never saw anything like it, and I think you’ll agree I’ve put it to
good use ...” He wandered to another case.

Attise turned to Will. “Isn’t your mother’s best dress blue?
Or was it violet?”

“Ha, ha.” The jeweler shook a finger at her. “Now, you can’t
fool me, not in a town like this, tongues wagging all the time. You’re not idly
passing the time. You’re a merchant, and you’re inspecting my goods to see what
you can use. Well, I’m more than glad to help you, and I’ll even give you a
hint: Volume discount is a distinct possibility, yes. Especially with these
garnets. Really, I can’t seem to get rid of them.”

Attise replied with careful casualness. “But garnets are so ...
common, in so many places.”

“Oh ho.” His brown eyes crinkled, and he bounced on the
balls of his feet. “The unusual,” he said expressively, then paused for effect
like a showman.

He stepped back to a cupboard against the wall, unlatched
it, and pulled out two small trays covered with black velvet, which he carefully
placed on top of a display of garnets. Then he stepped aside to view the
reaction.

Will’s response was an involuntary “Oh ...”

“Incredible,” Attise breathed.

The works displayed were all constructed of larger and
smaller panels of a rich gem. Shifting light fragmented the color into every
shade of blue, in shapes that reminded Will of frost flowers on the surface of
frozen water.

Each panel, large and small, was embellished with silver
inlay: intricate geometric patterns, emblems, and in some cases even landscapes.
One necklace of startling beauty showed scenes from a hunt: in the center
panel, a stag, wild-eyed, leaped a rushing brook, hounds in pursuit, all
perfectly depicted in tiny silver lines.

“What’s the stone?” Attise asked. “And how do you manage to
cut it so thin?”

“Oh, now ...” The jeweler pursed his lips. “I’m not about to
let that little secret out, am I?” He indicated the trays emphatically. “There’s
no one else who can do that work, no one but me. And of course, the more rare
something is ...”

“Of course.” Attise’s mouth twisted, and she examined the
hunt necklace again. “But these silver lines ... are they filigree? It doesn’t
seem possible.”

“Well ...” He surrendered to a need to boast. “No, they’re
not constructed at all. You see—” He leaned close and pointed at the stag. “I
etch the patterns, with a tool of my own devising—very fine as you can see. Then
I set the gem in a wash ...” Attise shifted her attention to the man’s face,
listening intently as he explained. “The wash is an adhesive, and when it
dries, well, I polish the surface of the gem, just a bit, and the adhesive
comes off the surface and stays in the etches.”

Attise thought a moment, then blinked. “Then you pass it
through a wash of molten silver?”

The jeweler clapped his hands and laughed. “Well, there you
are! That’s exactly what I do! And the silver stays in the lines.”

Attise nodded distractedly and ran her index finger across
the face of one panel. “And you seal it with ... is this a varnish?”

“Something like,” he conceded. “More of a gum, really ...
now wait, wait a bit.” He came to himself and shook a finger at her. “Here,
now. I can’t go telling you everything, can I? That’s not good business.”

She laughed. “No. Not at all. Forgive me, I have some
interest in the craft.” She turned back to the display. “I might find some customers
for such work. Do you manage to sell many?”

“The process is tricky,” he admitted reluctantly. “I find I
have to charge more than people hereabouts and coming through are willing to
pay. Except for the smaller pieces; actually, some of those move quite nicely.”
He indicated a group of brooches and a trio of tiny pendants. Too small for
scenes, they were decorated with simple geometric designs.

Something about the brooches jogged Willam’s memory. Abruptly,
he remembered that Ingrud had worn one as a clasp on her cloak. He was about to
comment, but stopped himself when he could not recall how Ingrud’s known
movements would intersect with Attise’s pretended ones.

“What about these rings?” Attise asked the jeweler.

The little man winced. “Not at all popular, I have to admit.
A bit of an error on my part. People don’t seem to like to wear them where the
gem touches their skin.” Willam touched one experimentally and found the oily
surface eerie and unpleasant.

Attise sifted through the rings and found one with a simple
but striking design. She began to slip it on her middle finger, then stopped
and shifted it to the third. “I see what you mean,” she told the jeweler. “But
they do serve as a good example of your technique.” She turned to him. “I’d
like to give this some thought.”

“Of course, of course! Mustn’t rush into things, but I don’t
have any doubts, my work is unique! Still, think, and come back later. Take
that ring to keep, if you like,” he waved his hand. “No charge, call it a sample.
Just as well to be rid of it, actually.” He tapped his cheek thoughtfully. “Now,
if you come back, make it the evening, if you don’t mind. I have a little
something to do; in fact, I ought to leave now.”

“Business?” Attise asked nonchalantly.

“Ho ho!” He bounced again. “Business of a personal sort. A
lovely little lady, housemaid down at the first farm up the main road. It’s her
afternoon free, but she never goes far, her mistress is an invalid, very
devoted, she is. Now, if you want to talk sooner, you come there, ask for my
Ammalee. Don’t worry about interrupting, business before pleasure ..” He
bustled off, closing and locking cases, then pulling the tall shutters in.
Attise looked long at her ring, eyes narrowed in thought, oblivious to all
else, until the jeweler hurried them out and locked the door.

They returned to their lodgings, Attise in a black, silent mood,
impervious to questions. Back at the ivy-covered house, they found Sala
sitting on a bench in the sunlight with a group of small packages and a
disgruntled expression. “I never met such a closed-mouthed lot. You’d think I was
a criminal, the way they brushed me off. I could hardly get them to do
business.”

Attise tested the grass, found it too wet, and settled down
beside Sala. “What did you get?”

“Some cheese, dried meat, and hardbread.” Sala, catching Attise’s
amused look, gave a wry half smile, and continued. “No gossip, no details. The
war hardly bothered them. They’ve had no contact with wizard’s troops. The
potter moved here ten years ago. Everyone else has been here forever.”

“We did a little better. Here.” Attise slipped off the ring
and passed it to Sala. The mercenary studied it with suspicion.

“It’s the same.”

Attise nodded.

“Ingrud was right?”

“No.” Attise thumped one knee in frustration. “No, it seems—”
She moved her hands as if there were something between them. “It seems as if it
ought to fit, but it’s all too facile.” She dropped her hands. “I talked awhile
with the potter. As it happens, he grew up near the place I did, and he was
quite open with me, for a while.” Sala was interested, and Attise made to
continue, paused, then looked significantly at Willam.

He bristled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will—”

“I do whatever you want, but you never tell me anything. You’re
just using me—”