Troubled Waters (15 page)

But she had never thought she
loved
any of those highly ineligible men. She had never thought about marrying them. It had seemed clear she would never marry at all. She was an Ardelay. Her father would not have countenanced her union with anyone not related to one of the Five Families, and it had been highly unlikely that any of them would track her down while she lived in exile.

But now her father was dead and she was living in Chialto. There were still no Five Family scions lining up along the riverbanks to woo her, but there were plenty of other men in the city whom a woman could marry without feeling she had betrayed her name: politicians, professionals, merchants, tradesmen.

Melvin and Ilene’s son.

The wind blew a little more coldly and a drunken girl careened into Zoe under the light of a gas-powered lamp. “Sorry,” the girl squealed, then hiccupped and laughed. Zoe gathered her shawl even more tightly around her shoulders and hurried on.

So what did she think of Barlow? He was a little self-important, but he had displayed a cheerful attitude and a certain intelligence; he generally seemed like a companionable sort. He clearly had some business acumen, and probably made a reasonable income. His restlessness was no drawback to Zoe, who liked the idea of travel, either around the country or across the ocean, if Barlow ever got over his irrational fear of water. At the same time, she was adaptable, as any
coru
girl should be. She would not mind staying behind in some small city dwelling, if that made more sense once the children came along. Ilene would help her out—probably even more than Zoe would like—while Melvin would play with the babies and teach them how to hold an awl and hammer before they were two years old . . .

At the thought, Zoe almost burst out laughing. She pressed her hands to her mouth and had to force back the giggles that could quickly become all-out hysteria. What was she thinking? What was she planning? On the strength of one passably successful dinner, how could she be envisioning her life as this man’s bride, down to the house they would own and the children they would raise? What was the matter with her? Was her existence so empty of meaning that any opportunity, however remote, suddenly lent it contour and substance, no matter how imaginary?

She had no desire to be a tradesman’s wife. She wasn’t even sure what desires she
did
possess; her future still looked blank to her when she tried to peer into its shadowy corridors. But a life beside Barlow was not one she was tempted to pursue.

Which then left her with a very important question . . .

NINE

B
arlow did not make another appearance at the cobbler’s shop during the next few days, but his presence certainly informed the place. For one thing, Ilene was happy just knowing he was near. She smiled much more often, and Zoe thought she looked less gaunt, as though love had plumped up her lean cheeks and thin lips. For another, Ilene couldn’t conduct a conversation without mentioning his name. Zoe listened patiently, agreed anytime it seemed necessary to corroborate a statement about Barlow’s general excellence, but otherwise kept her own counsel.

She was relieved when endday arrived, because it meant she would have a day’s respite from stories about Barlow, but then it turned out she would have other things to think about over firstday.

“We’re packing up and moving off the river,” Annova informed her when Zoe arrived at the campsite that evening.

“What? Why?”

“The king’s guards are closing down the flats, moving us all away,” Annova answered. “Must be special visitors coming to town. That’s always when they make us go somewhere else.”

Despite the fact that her wardrobe had steadily expanded since she’d arrived in the city, Zoe didn’t have much to pack, but the inconvenience still left her feeling disgruntled. “Where do we go?”

Annova waved a hand. “If you’ve got another place to stay, go there. Otherwise, they let us settle on the fairgrounds at the west edge of town. It’s not so bad. They haul in water and provide big trash pits. They didn’t used to do that,” she added, “but one summer, a couple of people died from dehydration, and the squatters almost started a riot. There was such a mess left behind that it took a couple of ninedays to clean it up. So now they make sure we’re taken care of while we’re displaced.”

“Wait for me to get my things together, and I’ll travel over there with you.”

Zoe wasn’t looking forward to a long trek through the crowded streets carrying all her possessions in a couple of sacks, but it turned out the city officials had provided transport as well. For the next two hours, three ramshackle horse-drawn shuttles made a torturously slow loop between the Marisi and the fairgrounds, depositing river folk on wide, bare acres just outside the western canal. Annova was right: a semicircle of large, official-looking vehicles defined the northern edge of the fairgrounds. Two were enclosed privies—one for men, one for women—to keep the river folk from fouling the campgrounds. Two more of the vehicles were marked with the
coru
sign for water and already had dozens of people queued up to fill casks and jugs from an array of spigots.

Some of the river folk were grumbling about the king’s high-handedness, others about the location of the fairgrounds, but most seemed content to settle there for a few nights at least, as long as their basic needs were taken care of.

But not Zoe. As night fell and she stretched out on her mat, listening to the murmur of camp sounds all around her, she found herself edgy and dissatisfied. It was hard to sleep on the open land, away from the sunken contours of the riverbed, away from the drowsy chuckle of the river. The stars were too close and the sounds of the city too far away. She felt more unmoored than at any point since she had stepped out of Darien Serlast’s vehicle and onto the crowded streets. She stayed awake a long time, her body tense as she strained to hear the idle running of the water through the canal; but its passage was too smooth and artificial. She had held herself so rigid, she had been filled with such yearning, that she almost thought, as dawn swept stormily in, that her very longing had brought the rain.

T
he king’s representatives had thought of everything. The rain had been falling for less than an hour by the time they had strung yards of canvas over the fairgrounds, providing a modicum of shelter for the hundreds of people camped there. Still, it was a damp and wretched morning, and more of the displaced squatters were beginning to look as miserable as Zoe felt.

“So who’s here visiting?” Zoe asked Annova during their shared breakfast. “If this person is going to disrupt our lives so much, we should know who he is.”

Annova waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care.”

But Zoe was curious. So she dressed in her most comfortable clothes, draping her scarf over her head to keep off the continuous drizzle, and crossed the nearest bridge back into the city. She caught one of the smoker cars that ran in a continuous loop around the Cinque and rather admired the view of streets she rarely saw as it traveled along the western leg of the boulevard. Multistory buildings were interspersed with squares of green parks and occasional fountains, and everything was scrupulously well-maintained.
This must be where the wealthy live,
she thought. Not the Five Families, who clustered closer to the palace, but the scholars and lawyers and occasional business owners who had planned right or gambled well.

This was where she and Barlow might buy a home if he turned enough wool into Lalindar glass. She choked back a laugh and continued to watch the scenery flow by.

By the time they got near the Plaza of Women, the crowds were so thick in the streets that the shuttle couldn’t get through. “Everybody out!” the driver bawled, and Zoe hopped to the ground along with all the other riders.

While most of the shop district closed down on firstday, nothing stopped commerce at the Plazas, but Zoe had never seen either of them as crowded as this. “Why are so many people here?” she asked an older man who had been riding the shuttle alongside her.

He looked surprised. “To see the parade, of course,” he replied, and hurried off.

Well, now, that was worth a little effort. Zoe pushed through the gathering throng that had congregated along the north-south stretch of the Cinque. She made it close enough to the front to see that both sides of the street were lined with guards wearing the king’s gaudy rosette. They stood shoulder to shoulder, holding the crowd back.

She’d only been standing there about fifteen minutes, shifting from foot to foot to try to see better, when a procession pulled into view. A smartly dressed contingent of royal soldiers was followed by four open wagons, each holding its own queen. Zoe assumed they rolled by in order of rank, and she stared at each one in turn.

Elidon sat with her hands folded in her lap, wearing a bright yellow dress that made her appear to be clad in sunshine. Her expression was warm as she smiled benevolently at the masses. She had been queen for close to thirty years, and it was clear by the cheers that she was popular. The crowd’s reaction was progressively less enthusiastic as Seterre and Alys passed before them, though the applause picked up a bit for Romelle, or perhaps for the squirming princess she held on her lap.

After the queens came a gas-powered smoker car, with King Vernon sitting inside on a raised stage, four attendants below him. Zoe studied the king, thinking he looked very much as she remembered. His body was slight; his hair was dark and a little thin, ruffled in the damp morning wind. His features were finely made and handsome enough, though at the moment he was frowning a little. He must be past fifty by now, Zoe thought, though the years sat on him lightly. He did not look stooped under too many cares or debauched from excessive indulgence in the perquisites of power. He merely looked like a fussy middle-aged man annoyed that rain had marred what should have been a more enjoyable day.

The king’s car passed to a dutiful level of applause, but the parade watchers expressed more genuine enthusiasm for the vehicle coming right behind his. It was another smoker car, this one carrying two girls standing toward the back and waving at the crowd. The older princesses, Zoe realized. One looked to be about ten and the other thirteen or fourteen; they both wore serious expressions. It was as if they were performing a grave and solemn duty, or one that they endured even though they greatly disliked it.

The girls’ wagon was almost past her before Zoe realized there was a third person in it, sitting with his back to the driver, his expression closed and sober. Seeing him gave her a sudden and violent start; she stepped back into the crowd so he wouldn’t see her. It was Darien Serlast. Zoe supposed it was a mark of high favor for him to accompany the girls, but he didn’t look happy about it. Perhaps he had thought it was a bad idea for them to be so publicly exposed. Perhaps he had argued against their inclusion in the parade at all. Perhaps he had insisted on being the one to sit with the girls, ready to protect them with his own life if danger threatened from the masses.

And perhaps she was romanticizing. He might be wearing that scowl because he had been excluded from the king’s car, and for no more noble reason than that.

At any rate, he did not see Zoe, or change his expression if he did. She felt an odd squeeze in her stomach when a cluster of the crowd put him out of her sight. She told herself the feeling was relief, though it seemed closer to disappointment.

The last wagon was more gaily decorated than all the rest, a brightly painted wooden platform with flags flying from the front bench and ribbons woven through the spokes of the wheels and into the manes of the horses. The man sitting on a thickly padded bench looked older than Vernon, but more robust and cheerful. He had white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a wide smile, and he was dressed in gorgeously embroidered red and gold robes.
He
clearly wasn’t bothered by the damp weather or the slow pace; he smiled and waved and now and then tossed coins into the crowd, which caused everyone to scramble after them. Despite his genial expression and apparent generosity, Zoe conceived a dislike of him. He was too satisfied and well-fed. He looked like a man who indulged his appetites, whatever those appetites might be—and had enough money and power to disregard anyone’s attempts to keep his more unseemly behavior in check.

She shook her head. Where were these thoughts coming from? How could she think she knew what was in Darien’s mind, or in this visitor’s heart? Did she really believe she could judge a man’s character by his smile and his clothes—judge a man’s motives by his frown and his posture?
Maybe if you were an
elay
woman,
she scoffed to herself,
a creature of air and soul. But you are a
coru
woman of no special insights and only ridiculous notions.

After the brightly painted wagon passed by, there were more soldiers, this time in the foreigner’s livery, and then, a few tumblers to amuse the crowd. But Zoe had lost interest. She pushed her way through the throng of people and headed back to the Plaza of Women.