The steerswoman was rather long in replying; and then she sighed. “We met, briefly,” was all she said.
“Well, it’s a shame she’s gone. Still, it could have been worse. The whole city could have gone up, if Jannik hadn’t been here to stop those dragons. Took the trouble to move their nesting places, too, farther away from the city. We’re lucky to have a wizard in Donner . . .”
He escorted her downstairs, carrying her pack to the street door, and held it as the steerswoman retrieved her cane, which was thong-tied at its side. She needed it only occasionally, but she used the cover of the movements to surreptitiously scan the street.
To the left, a pair of little girls in matching red-flounced dresses strolled arm in arm; a young woman in working attire hauled a cart of kindling down the cobbled street; a group of five sailors wandered aimlessly, gawking at the decorative moldings that each house displayed on every eave and window ledge.
And to the right—
“Hm.” The watcher had noticed her glance, and followed its direction. “Don’t recognize those two. Did they come in on the same ship you did?”
“Yes, they did,” Rowan said; and by taking the watcher’s hand to shake, she managed to turn him back toward her, shifting his attention away from the couple. “Thank you for the wine,” she said, then donned her pack and departed, to the left.
First order of business: her letter, dealt with.
Her second order of business took Rowan on a very long but thankfully flat walk through the streets, northeast from the harbor. She arrived at Donner’s gracious Tea Shop, with its wide veranda overlooking the weedy estuary. The veranda was now deserted, but for a collection of disconsolate, hunch-shouldered gulls lining the railing. It began to rain.
Nearby: a small, shabby shop. Rowan entered, brushed wetness from her hair, slipped her pack from her shoulders.
The bell on the door called from a back room a small, squat woman with a bright eye and gnarled hands. After exchanging greetings, Rowan drew a silk handkerchief from her right vest pocket and opened it. “Can you size this to my finger?”
The jeweler studied the item Rowan passed, then turned up a sharp gaze. “Now, this is a steerswoman’s ring.”
“So it is. And I am a steerswoman.”
“But this isn’t yours.”
“It is now. Its owner resigned, and I lost my own. I seem to have inherited it.”
“Hm. Can you prove you’re a steerswoman?”
“What sort of proof would suffice? I can show you my charts. You can read my logbook, if you like, or look at the soles of my boots.”
The jeweler twisted her mouth in amusement. “I could do all that. Well, I don’t suppose you’ve stolen all your gear; those boots fit you too well.” She considered the ring again. “An hour. Will you wait, or come back?”
“I’ll wait, if you don’t mind. And may I pay you?”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “No, don’t bother. Nice of you to ask, though.”
Rowan tried on a few sizing rings, and the jeweler set to work. Finding no chair about, the steerswoman eased herself to sit on the floor by her pack, with her back against the wall, needing first to unstrap her sword. This she laid across her lap.
The jeweler glanced up. “Either you’re stronger than you look or you inherited that sword, as well.”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” It was a bit chill on the floor; Rowan adjusted her cloak around her knees. “I hope to trade it for a lighter one.” Her own sword was lost, and she missed it deeply; although plain to the eye, it had possessed subtle superiorities that she had learned to exploit well. She wondered if she would ever regain the level of skill it had allowed her.
The jeweler informed her of the location of the city’s two swordsmiths, and of a pawnshop where weapons were sometimes found, and continued with her work, using incongruously heavy clippers to precisely cut a tiny section from the circle of the ring.
Outside, voices: happy exclamations, as if two long-lost friends were meeting by chance. Rowan thought the performance at least overdone, if not entirely unnecessary, and suppressed a surge of annoyance.
The jeweler noticed the turn of her head. “Someone you know?”
“They traveled on the same ship I did,” Rowan said.
The jeweler crimped the ring around a sized rod, then used a pair of tongs to hold it in the heat of the tiny furnace at the back of the room. She was making a speedy job of it. Before the opportunity was lost, Rowan asked: “Have you lived here all your life?”
“I was born right upstairs.”
She seemed the right age, barely. “Do you remember a wizard named Kieran?”
The woman suddenly straightened up from the furnace door and, to Rowan’s amazement, tilted back her head, closed her eyes, and flung out both hands. “The Lion!” she announced. “The Eagle! The Winged Horse, and the Brothers, and the Sisters!”
“The constellations,” Rowan said, bemused.
The jeweler dropped her arms, and returned to heating, her face now transformed with childlike happiness. “Oh, yes, I learned them all. What a wonder, to know the stars have names!”
“And . . . how does this relate to Kieran?”
“Oh, he loved the children, such a sweet old man. Once a month, just over at the tea shop”—she pointed with her free hand—“right at midnight, he’d have a little party, with cakes and sweet tea, and only children invited. And all the lanterns made red, so you could see the stars, he said. He taught us the star names, and told us their stories . . .”
Rowan was astonished. This was absolutely contrary to her understanding of the nature of wizards. “You weren’t afraid of him?”
“Some were, you know how children can be. And some of the parents, they wouldn’t let their little ones come at all. But living right here, I never missed a single party. Me and about a dozen others, more or less, showed up every month, until the old wizard passed away.”
Rowan considered this information silently. The jeweler continued her work.
“How did he die, do you know?” Rowan asked.
“Old age.” A pause. “Well, I’m assuming. He looked to me to be about a hundred years old . .. Collecting information, are you?”
“It’s what we do.”
The conversation lapsed; Rowan leaned her head back against the wall. Her hair was still damp, but the room was warm, and she felt herself settle into comfort, listening to the quiet creaks and clinks as the jeweler worked, the hiss of rain, the distant cries of gulls. . .
She did not realize that she had dozed off until a hand on her shoulder woke her. She startled violently, and found the jeweler equally startled. “Jumpy, aren’t you? But we’re done.”
Rowan rubbed her eyes, and clumsily regained her feet; her leg had stiffened while she slept. She winced. “Let’s see.” The jeweler laid it in Rowan’s palm. The steerswoman picked it up, turned it over and over.
A smooth silver circle. Its only ornamentation: a twist in the band. But it was that twist, that precise half-turn, that made all the difference.
It identified the ring, immediately, as a steerswoman’s, and altered the ring’s geometry, subtly, from a simple circle into a lovely paradox.
What seemed to possess two edges had only one. And the two apparent surfaces—the inside of the ring and the outside— were in fact the same single surface, doubled back upon itself.
The jeweler had done well: there was no sign of the alteration. It was perfect. Rowan slipped it on the middle finger of her left hand.
To the Demon Folk, objects were words, and Rowan did not blame them for confiscating her own ring—she only wondered, often, what strange message she had passed on to them. Likely she would never know.
But she felt now, as sometimes she did, that she had perhaps caught a bit of their way of thinking. Because this ring did speak to her, and not of its own sad history. In pure silver it innocently declared its strange truth: smooth, hard, and bright.
Rowan’s o
wn history was written, permanently, on the hand that bore it: a complexity of tiny scars, the price of inattention. And on her leg: the deep burn of a stranger’s ignorance. And invisibly, on her spirit: the wounds of anger, and betrayal, and desperation.
The cost of knowledge was struggle, and pain. But the reward, always, was clean, clear, bright. . .
“Need a hankie?”
“What?” Rowan looked up, found her vision blurred. She used her sleeve to dry her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a long time without my ring. I’m very glad to have this. Thank you.”
The jeweler studied her, nodded. “You look tired. Where are you staying?”
“I haven’t decided yet. . .”
“I’ve got a spare room upstairs.”
“That’s very kind. But I was hoping for something more central. I’ll be doing a lot of walking.”
“Hm.” The jeweler took herself back to her workbench. “I can think of any number of people who’d be willing to put up a steerswoman. Or you could try the Dolphin, smack in the middle of town. Ruffo’s a skinflint, but you might be able to shame him into it. Do you want this?” She turned back, a small chip of silver between thumb and forefinger.
“No . . .” Rowan glanced at her ring again. “You keep it. Perhaps you can find some use for it.”
“Perhaps I will.” The jeweler considered it speculatively, then laughed. “There, you see? You’ve paid me after all.”
“Someone has,” Rowan admitted.
The Dolphin was a sprawling establishment, possessing three wings of differing ages. Centrally, a large and comfortable sitting room faced the street through tall windows of real glass, behind which a number of well-dressed patrons were tended by graceful and solicitous servers, all safe from the drizzling rain.
Directly adjacent: a small entrance, announced by a life-sized model of a dolphin hung above the door. The detail on this was excellent, and Rowan surmised that the original artist had actually been privileged to observe the creatures personally. Unfortunately, later maintenance had been executed by a lesser hand, whose owner clearly shared Donner’s local love of clumsy excess decoration. The fish was painted brightly, red on top, green below, with gold-gilt eyes and an entirely spurious line of wavelike markings down its length. Rowan felt she ought to apologize to it on the city’s behalf.
Inside, Rowan found a simpler public room. The proprietor, one Ruffo, was occupied, and Rowan found a seat nearby and listened.
“Well, back again, getting to be a regular thing, isn’t it. Just off Graceful Days, I suppose? And what’s this? A lady?” Introductions were performed, at a rather high volume; around the room, heads turned to watch. By sheer will, Rowan forced herself not to do the same. “Your usual room is available, as it happens, but as you’ve got company this time, I suspect you’ll want something a little finer—”
Eventually, the arrangements were completed; Rowan waved away the server who approached her, then rose and went to introduce herself to Ruffo.
He was a small, wiry man, dressed in fine green twill trousers with bright red piping, and a yellow silk shirt that did not complement his complexion. As mark of his trade, he also wore a white apron, but even this was of good, heavy linen, and sported a small embroidered red dolphin at the lower right corner. The apron was starched, and spotless.
When Rowan identified herself as a steerswoman, Ruffo grew wary. His suspicions were confirmed when she made her request: a small room, if one could be spared. She made no mention of payment.
Ruffo looked aside, scratched his ear, and embarked on a series of rambling comments regarding a sudden excess of business due to the ship’s arrival, a caravan that would depart in two days, and more; he continued for some time. Rowan merely stood patiently, leaning on her cane.
The handful of patrons in the common room watched closely, said nothing, but visibly grew more and more outraged on the steerswoman’s behalf. Finally, Ruffo succumbed to the silent social pressure. Likely the cane had helped.
A chambermaid wearing an extremely dubious expression escorted the steerswoman: up a broad, polished staircase; through a tangle of corridors; down a narrow, worn staircase exactly the same length as the first; down another corridor; and eventually to a door that opened on a room merely twice the size of its bed.
A rickety table stood under the window, holding pitcher and ewer and candlestick. A less rickety but even more ancient chair was tucked under the table. The maid departed for linens, and Rowan took off her pack, set it on the floor, and discovered that there remained in the room exactly enough space for one person to stand.
She thought a moment, exited the room, and continued down the corridor. Five feet, a turn to the right, and the steerswoman found herself at a door that opened directly to the outside.
A dirt yard, now hissing with rain and splashing mud; stables to the right; kitchen entrance to the left, and access to the street beyond. Excellent.
She shut the door and made her long and tedious way up and down stairs, back to the common room, where she requested a simple meal. When it arrived, its quality surprised her: eel in a tart lemon sauce; brown rice seasoned with scallions; a large mug of vegetable stew; and an entire bottle of the effervescent pear wine. Rowan nervously asked the price. The server, a slim, handsome lad of about fourteen, glanced about, gazed at the ceiling as if doing sums in his head, gave her a wink, and departed.
The cuisine on Graceful Days had been hearty, but artless. Rowan dined with deep pleasure, and, when her plates were cleared away, gathered up her bottle and glass, and took herself to a seat at a table closer to the fire.
The room slowly emptied of diners, until all that remained were a handful of locals by the hearth, and the occupants of the table directly behind Rowan. There, over one and then a second pitcher of ale, the conversation continued: loud, enthusiastic. One could not help but listen, and Rowan resigned herself to doing so. Eventually she heard:
“Now, didn’t I tell you—finest ale to be had in Donner, and I know my ale. But, alas, even the best ale only comes to visit, never to stay. If you’ll excuse me . .” And Rowan heard the scrape of a chair, and the side door opening, then closing.
The room grew instantly quieter, and the patrons by the fireplace seemed to sigh in relief. Rowan waited a few moments; then she leaned back in her chair, and spoke quietly, without turning. “Bel, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”
From behind her, the reply, as quiet, was amused. “I’m doing exactly what we planned. I’m watching your back.”
“With Dan constantly at your side?”
“I’ve decided that he makes good cover.”
The steerswoman brought her glass to her lips, sipped twice. No one was taking note of the conversation. She said: “He is large, loud, and attracts a great deal of attention.”
“Perfect. The best place to hide something is in plain sight. And the best way to hide something in plain sight is to put it near something large, and loud, and distracting.”
“I’m not attempting to hide!”
“I don’t mean you, I mean me. I’m keeping a low profile.”
“By maintaining a high one?”
“That’s right. Wherever Dan and I go, everyone watches us. No one can accuse me of sneaking around.”
“You’re using him.”
“So I am. And he’s enjoying it. He thinks it’s an adventure.”
“I don’t want him to enjoy it!” Rowan glanced about; no one had noticed her sudden vehemence. She moderated her voice, and studied her wineglass as if idly. “Bel, at some point, possibly soon, this may well become dangerous. Dan isn’t a fighter or an adventurer; he’s just a cooper from Alemeth. He doesn’t have the resources to deal with real danger.”
“Yes he does; he has me. If anyone makes a move on him, I’ll kill them. Really, Rowan, it’s all very simple.”
“This was not in the plan.” Rowan found she was grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead. She stopped herself. “Bel—
”
“Rowan, I’m better at this than you are. You do your job; I’ll do mine. I think it’s lucky that Dan needed to come to Donner at the same time we did. I’m going to go on taking advantage of him for as long as I can. In a couple of days, he’ll head up-river after his order of lumber, and you can stop worrying about him then.”
At this point Dan himself entered the room, deep in conversation with someone he had met outside. Rowan and Bel quickly exchanged directions to each other’s rooms, and the steerswoman addressed herself to the rest of her wine.
Much later, in her tiny room, as the steerswoman sat nodding over her notes and logbook, a soft sound startled her alert.
She sat, speculating. It repeated: a quiet knock on the door.
Rowan cautiously opened it. Bel slid inside and closed the door silently behind her.
She was smaller than Rowan, but muscular, and sturdy. Her hair was thick and brown, worn short over a wide forehead. Her nose was strong, her mouth small and mobile. But what one noticed first and last about Bel were her eyes: very dark, and large. On a person of her size they seemed completely to dominate her face, and whenever Rowan thought of Bel, the image she always had was of those great, dark eyes, looking up.
The dark eyes now regarded Rowan’s chamber with astonishment. “Is this a room, or a closet?”
“I suspect it’s served as both,” Rowan said. “Have you learned something?”
“Yes, good news.” Bel reached past Rowan, tested the mattress with one hand, and sat down. “I heard some locals talking. It seems that the wizard Jannik is out of town.” She attempted a bounce. The bed did not bounce with her. “Ow.”
Rowan leaned back against the door, thinking. Bel caught her expression. “Rowan, that is good news. We may get by without being noticed at all.”
Rowan crossed her arms. “I suppose it must be coincidence—”
Bel threw up her hands. “Of course it’s coincidence!”
“—but I do find it suspiciously convenient—”
“He’s been gone for two days! If he were trying to lull you into a false sense of security, and lay a trap, he would have had to know already that you were coming here. Two days ago, you were on Graceful Days. Before that, you were in Alemeth, where no one has had contact with the rest of the world for months.”
The Language of Power Page 2