Mastering her fastidiousness, Rowan took his rag-wrapped left hand, placed the cool end of the cone in it, said: “Be careful, it’s hot,” and walked away.
Halfway across the plaza, she could not help but glance back again.
Some of the watchers were now laughing, one of them shoving another’s shoulder in mirth. Others were gaping after the steerswoman, including the cart cook and the beggar.
As she continued on, it occurred to Rowan to wonder why a blind man, surprised, would bother to turn in her direction as she left.
She chuckled to herself, and considered that she might have just rendered assistance to a confidence artist.
Possibly.
She managed not to stop short at the thought.
Surely, it was too soon . . . Still, as she drew near to Bel, and gave the sort of nod one gives to strangers, she said, quietly: “I may have attracted interest already.”
Bel smiled into her paper cone as if charmed by the local cuisine, extracted a fried potato with her fingers. Just as the steerswoman passed by she said: “I’ve noticed.”
3
Rowan found the grannie seated out in front of a tailor’s shop run by the mother of the bricklayer. From her, the steerswoman acquired eight references, and a promise that the question would be passed around to older friends and acquaintances. Rowan thanked her, then set off to investigate the names she had been given.
The owner of the first name was out working in the orchards, Rowan was told by his granddaughter; a long walk there and back. Rowan decided to try again in the evening, or visit the orchard the next day, if other leads kept her occupied that night.
The second person proved to have left town to visit family upriver, and would not return for months.
The third, a frail, ancient woman nearly totally deaf, regaled the steerswoman for more than an hour, endlessly plying her with thin, sour tea, addressing her by three different names, none of them correct, and never once touching the subjects of Kieran or Latitia, despite Rowan’s repeating the questions at full volume. Attempts to question her in writing proved useless: she was illiterate.
The fourth person, unfortunately, had passed away that very morning, and the steerswoman had to ease herself awkwardly out of a room full of his mourners.
During her wanderings, Rowan sighted Bel only twice, although, interestingly, on the second occasion the Outskirter actually seemed to be following from in front: pausing at, and then casually passing by, the home of the deaf woman, before Rowan had identified it herself. She must have overheard the conversation with the bricklayer’s grannie while remaining unseen by Rowan.
The steerswoman also noticed the beggar: once tapping down the street where the orchard worker lived, and later immediately underfoot, when Rowan literally tripped over him as she exited the mourning-house. He was curled up by the foot of the front steps, seemingly asleep. He did not stir.
Back at the Dolphin, Rowan was late for dinner, with the dishes already being cleared from the tables in the common room. The diners remained, enjoying ale and wine, apparently in anticipation of an evening’s entertainment. A small band of musicians, tinkers by the style of their apparel, were organizing themselves in one corner of the room: a fiddle, a lap-harp, and a bouzouki.
Rowan attempted and failed to flag down one of the servers. She had just resigned herself to a trip to the kitchen, when she turned back to discover a meal already before her: turbot, cold but sweet, its juices sealed by roasting in a crust of salt; buttered beans sprinkled with marjoram; a light, airy bread, delicate as sea foam, that collapsed under her fingers and melted on her tongue. Presently, the handkerchief boy delivered a pitcher of ale, walking carefully across the room, with great concentration, using both hands. Rowan thanked him politely, which caused him to gape, erupt in giggles, and then flee to the kitchen. A moment later Beck arrived with the mug the boy had forgotten, and another wink.
Bel and Dan came down from their dinner in the formal dining room, and settled themselves at a table in the company of a narrow, dark-haired woman who, by the loud conversation Rowan overheard, had a business interest in a lumber mill up-river. Music began, and when Rowan’s plates were cleared away, she joined a group of locals at a long table. None was old enough to have been an adult when Kieran had passed away, and the steerswoman passed the evening in more casual conversation.
The music was as excellent as the food, but the tinkers, typically, ignored all applause and sneered at requests. However, they accepted tips.
Eventually, Bel separated herself from her dinner companions and went to stand alone to one side of the room, as if to gain a better view of the musicians. She had chosen a likely spot, and Rowan felt that anyone might sensibly do the same; so she did so herself.
Bel indicated the musicians with her mug of ale, as though about to remark on their skill, but said: “Don’t stay by me too long. If you are being watched, the watcher is here now.”
“Really?” A twinge of tension in Rowan’s stomach; she covered any outward sign by sipping at her ale. “I’m surprised Ruffo let him inside, considering the smell.”
Bel did not turn to Rowan, but her brows knit. “Him? No, her."
Rowan blinked, permitted a verse to pass before saying: “Who?”
“The stout woman sitting in the corner, at our five,” Bel said, using Outskirter orientation.
Rowan did not look, but from memory reconstructed the room behind her, and its occupants. At the back, to Rowan’s right: a strong-bodied, gray-haired woman, drinking alone. “Interesting. Not the beggar?”
It was Bel’s turn to be surprised. She hid it well, changing a suppressed impulse to turn to Rowan into a sideways motion, repeated, as if rocking a bit to the music. Another stanza passed. “If they’re working together, that would explain why neither one of them was always there.”
Rowan drained her ale. “I’m going to my room.” And she nodded politely to Bel, waved at her drinking companions as she passed, handed her empty mug to a passing server, and left through the front door.
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 orch
ards.”
“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 Willam, 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.”
The Language of Power Page 5