Troubled Waters

by Sharon Shinn

  “Tell her where you found your buyers,” Ilene said.

  “The Dochenzas,” Barlow said with satisfaction. “Kayle Dochenza is a hunter himself, and I thought surely an elay man would feel an affinity for a creature of the air. It was a gamble, of course it was, but it paid off. He paid me double my cost for every one of those birds.”

  “That was smart,” Zoe said, sincerely impressed.

  “Oh, Barlow has hundreds of stories like that,” Ilene said.

  “Have you ever been to the southern ports?” Barlow asked. When the rest of them all answered in the negative, he said, “It’s nothing like Chialto here, I’ll tell you that,” and launched into a long description of its wharves and markets.

  He seemed taken with the freighters that carried merchandise from far-off countries, for he spent an inordinate amount of time noting the size and hull capacity of all the vessels with which he did any business. “Have you ever thought about sailing to one of those other ports and buying merchandise directly from the dealers?” Zoe asked.

  He laughed and shook his head. “Torz man through and through,” he said. “I don’t like to get too far from land.”

  “Where will you be going when you leave the city?” Melvin asked him.

  “And how long will you be gone?” Ilene added.

  Barlow swallowed another bite. “I have a few short trips I need to make in the next couple of ninedays. First I want to go southwest to pick up some wool that a sheep rancher promised me. I can swap it to a trader who will be in the city toward the end of Quinnahunti, bringing painted glass he hauled in from Berringey. I’m taking the glass up to the northwest provinces. Lalindar territory.”

  “How do you keep it all straight?” Ilene demanded with a laugh.

  Zoe smiled at her. “You have two hundred customers you can call by name,” she said. “How do you keep them all straight?”

  “That’s different. I know them.”

  But Barlow was nodding. “That’s how I feel about the goods I trade for. I might have twenty pelts in one trunk and six different bolts of fabric in the other. But I bought each one, a piece at a time—I could tell you where the flaws are, I could tell you what the weight is. It’s as if they have faces or souls. They’re individuals to me.”

  That’s actually a poetic way to put it, Zoe admitted to herself. Certainly it would never have occurred to her to think in such terms. She thought Barlow might seem like a very interesting man if she knew him for any length of time.

  “Who are you going to see in the northwest?” Melvin asked. “Thought all the Lalindars were here in the city. All the ones with any money, anyway.”

  “Some of them,” Barlow agreed. “The big estate is still empty, but there are a half dozen other Lalindars with smaller houses near the river property.” He laughed and glanced around. “Well, I say they’re smaller, but they could fit this whole space in their kiertens alone.”

  Zoe felt a small frown pucker her forehead. The big Lalindar house was empty? Christara’s lovely, elegant mansion overlooking the Marisi River? Zoe remembered that the polished wood floor in the kierten had been buffed to such a high glow that it looked as wet as the sparkling river. She and her cousins had skated across it in stockinged feet, skidding into the walls and tumbling over each other like clumsy puppies. The seer had told her the Lalindar family was still in disarray since Christara’s death, but it was hard to believe that neither her aunt Sarone nor her uncle Broy had claimed the house, even if they had not yet settled who should be prime.

  “And when do you leave for that trip?” Ilene asked again.

  “Before Quinnahunti is out, I hope. I’ll leave the day after tomorrow to pick up my wool.”

  “I wish you would stay with us whenever you were in the city,” Ilene said.

  He grinned, and once again Zoe felt a certain liking for him. His voice was teasing as he answered, “I like having my own place. A man can’t behave the way he likes when he’s under his mother’s watchful eye.”

  Melvin snorted and then laughed out loud. Ilene batted him playfully on the arm and looked over at Zoe. “Can you believe it? He’s nearly thirty and he still hasn’t picked a wife or provided me with grandchildren.”

  “I’m not a settled kind of man,” he said. “I’d need a wife who likes to wander as much as I do, and so far I haven’t found her.”

  “Probably won’t find her among the torz women,” Zoe said with a smile.

  “Or the hunti,” Ilene added. “I don’t know where he got his wandering blood, unless it was from Melvin’s coru grandmother.”

  Zoe had never felt like her own coru heritage had been stamped more visibly on her face. This, clearly, was why she had been invited to dinner—so Ilene’s restless son could look her over and see if he found her attractive. Zoe was surprised to think that Ilene approved of her enough to present her to Barlow as an option, but maybe Ilene liked the alternatives even less. Who knew how Barlow spent his time on the road or in his bachelor’s lodgings in the city? Who knew what kind of unworthy women caught his attention? At least Ilene knew Zoe was honest and clean—and steadier than the average woman of blood and water.

  Zoe was clasping her hands together tightly in her lap in the hope that the mild pain would prevent her from bursting into semihysterical laughter. All things considered, Barlow might be a husband preferable to the king; no doubt Ilene would believe Zoe sacrificed nothing by making such a swap. At any rate, Barlow would not expect Zoe to share him with four other wives. That was definitely a point in his favor. She was sure she would find other advantages if she tried. Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.

  “A coru woman might do,” Zoe said, her voice only slightly strained. “But elay and sweela are lively girls as well. Don’t despair of finding someone who suits you.”

  “Zoe has traveled a little,” Ilene said, gesturing in her direction.

  “Really? Where have you been?” Barlow asked.

  “I lived for some time in the southwest provinces,” Zoe said, “but I have done very little traveling except to make the journey here. My life has not been nearly as interesting as yours.”

  That easily was she able to persuade Barlow to begin telling more of his own stories; he was a man who seemed to prefer talking to listening. That, again, might be one of his attractions. He would not require much of a wife except that she appear rapt by his conversation. Zoe didn’t suppose that would be difficult at all.

  Before long they had finished the meal and Ilene wasn’t letting anyone help her clear the plates. “Is it time for some of those chocolates Zoe brought?” Melvin asked hopefully. The women laughed.

  “That’s what you should be trading for,” Ilene called to her son from the kitchen. “Chocolate. That’ll make you a rich man.”

  Barlow laughed with the rest of them but said, “I’m going to be a rich man no matter what I buy and sell. You just wait. You’ll see.”

  The rest of the evening ran along much the same lines, Barlow basking in the attention of his parents, Zoe keeping a smile on her face and her true thoughts in shadow. But she was anxious to bring those thoughts out of hiding and examine them one by one. Therefore, when Ilene made the offhand comment that perhaps Barlow should walk her home, Zoe courteously refused and quickly took her leave before Ilene could insist.

  Fairly quickly she realized that it might have been a good idea to accept an escort. Although it had been fully dark for at least an hour, the streets were still almost as crowded as during the day. But these nighttime pedestrians tended to be younger, a little rougher, than the daytime visitors—less likely to be workers hurrying to and from jobs and more likely to be teenagers looking for trouble or pickpockets looking for an easy target. Zoe pulled her festive wool scarf a little more tightly around her shoulders; that was the one thing she could ill afford to lose. But she supposed she didn’t look rich enough to rob or seductive enough to assault. A few people bumped into her in passing, mumbled excuses, and moved on. Otherwise, no one tro
ubled her.

  She wound her hands in the ends of the shawl and contemplated Barlow and the notion that he might consider her for a wife. Over the years, she had given very little thought to marriage. It had just seemed so remote and unlikely. While living in the village, she had had her share of adolescent infatuations with some of the more popular boys. She had been wildly excited when one of Doman’s nephews had spent a summer with his uncle; during secret trysts he had introduced her to some of the more pleasurable aspects of kissing. She had also nursed a secret affection for one of the peddlers who stopped at their village every quintile, a handsome yellow-haired man with a flashing smile and, no doubt, a litter of illegitimate children stretched across the western territories.

  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

  Barlow 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.

  The 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.