The Language of Power

by Rosemary Kirstein

  Marel sat behind an old mahogany desk. Reeder slouched in a red leather armchair to the left of the window. The steerswoman paced.

  He had been here, in Donner: the man she sought, the one behind all the new troubles of the world. Secretive, immensely powerful, casually murderous, evil. Here, at exactly the moment when it all had begun, with the falling of the unknown Guidestar.

  The steerswoman had hoped for more small clues and hints as to his plans, his goals, his nature; she had found instead the man himself.

  But only in the past. “I need to know everything you can remember about Slado.”

  Reeder steepled his fingers, regarded them with lifted brows. “That’s rather an open-ended request,” he said, seeming to address his hands. “One hardly knows where to begin—or how to end, for that matter.”

  The steerswoman stopped, turned to him. Where could one begin?

  And because it was suddenly important to her, she asked, “What color are his eyes?”

  “Gray.” Reeder tilted his head a fraction, as if studying her for comparison. “More gray than yours. Less blue.”

  “Hair?”

  “Reddish brown. Auburn, really. He wore it to his shoulders.”

  “How old?”

  Reeder gazed at the ceiling, in an affected show of thought. “My age, perhaps, or a bit younger,” he said, indifferently. “Eighteen, nineteen . . . He looked younger still, from wearing no beard.”

  So young. And merely an apprentice.

  To bring a Guidestar down from the sky must require very powerful magic indeed. Could an apprentice do such a thing?

  “How long had Slado been in Kieran’s service before the old wizard died?” How much time had he had to learn his craft?

  There was a pause. It was Marel who answered. “I don’t know. It seemed not long. Reeder?”

  A longer pause. “Hardly any time. It was less than a year, I’m certain. More than six months, perhaps. But, really, so long ago—I’m afraid it’s difficult to be clear.”

  “And Slado did not stay on, once Jannik arrived?”

  “I don’t know that they ever met at all. I never saw them together. Jannik arrived, and Slado was never seen again. One has to assume he left some time before . . .”

  Rowan discovered herself facing the wall, and realized that she had begun pacing again. A habit of hers when agitated. She composed herself and turned back.

  If Reeder had himself met Slado, then others had, as well, perhaps some who would remember more clearly. “Did Slado make any friends among the common folk?” she asked. Someone to whom he might have said goodbye, and to whom he might have mentioned something of his future plans. Eighteen years old? “Perhaps he had a sweetheart?”

  The pause was considerably longer. Both men were regarding Rowan dubiously. “I’m sorry.” With her pacing, and her unexplained intensity, she must seem very peculiar to these men. “But this is important. Was there anyone Slado might have been close to?”

  Reeder replied, “It’s hard to remember, lady. I do know that there were girls who looked on him with some interest, but I don’t know if he ever returned it. As for friends . . . No one close that I saw. I spoke to him fairly regularly, but not at any length.”

  Rowan was instantly, sharply attentive. “On what subjects did you speak?”

  Reeder made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “The sorts of things fellows that age say, when they have nothing in particular to say. Insulting observations of the passersby, for the most part.” Something occurred to him. “He didn’t like Kieran,” he said, seeming surprised at the memory.

  “Did he say why?”

  “Well . . . I believe that he thought he was soft.”

  Rowan found Reeder’s expression interesting. “And you agreed.”

  He shifted uncomfortably, seeming puzzled; then glanced at her sharply, as if remembering her presence. His pale green gaze again became masked, indifferent, impenetrable. “I suppose it seemed rather silly to me at the time. Cozying up to people, when you have so much power—why bother? He was a wizard. He needed no one’s approval. He could do as he pleased.”

  “And Slado didn’t bother to ‘cozy up’?”

  “No. And it was clear he found Kieran’s behavior annoying. But Slado was only an apprentice. He didn’t cross his master.”

  Marel took up the other side of tradition’s privilege. “Tell me, lady,” he said, in the formal way, “why so great an interest in a wizard’s apprentice from so very long ago?”

  The steerswoman turned to him. “Because,” she said, “Slado is now the most powerful, dangerous, and evil man in the world. Because the harm he is causing with his magic is far worse than anything we ever thought possible.” She paused. “And because something must be done about him.”

  The implications of this last statement took time to sink in; then both men grew disturbed, Marel slowly sitting upright behind his desk, Reeder, blank-faced, pressing himself back in his armchair.

  Marel said, “That’s . . . not the sort of thing one generally hears from a steerswoman.”

  “Yes.”

  “And exactly what do you intend—”

  “No!” Reeder had risen. Rowan, startled, stepped back a pace. Reeder said to his father, vehemently: “No! We do not want to know about this!” He turned to Rowan, fists clenched at his sides, and spoke through his teeth. “Steerswoman—get out of here!”

  “Reeder!” Marel’s tone was sharp.

  “We want nothing from the wizards, and nothing to do with them. If you’re planning to actually cross one—then get far away from us, and keep us out of it!”

  Marel thumped the top of his desk. “My home,” he declared, his bright green eyes now sharp on his son. “My office. And if I may remind you, Reeder, my business. If you do not like the company I keep, if you cannot speak politely to a guest in my home, then it’s you who should—politely—excuse yourself.”

  “Father—”

  “Merchant’s honor, Reeder. Value rendered for value received. I cannot count the number of times this business has benefited from information that ultimately came, directly or indirectly, by short route or long, from the Steerswomen.” Marel folded his hands, composed himself; but he still held Reeder’s gaze, and the son seemed locked in its grip. “Now, this woman is asking questions,” Marel said tightly, “and for the sake of everything we’ve gained from the Steerswomen’s knowledge, we must reply to the best of our ability—or declare ourselves hypocrites and swindlers!”

  Reeder hissed once through clenched teeth. He said, “There has been trouble enough from wizards lately—”

  “Lately?” Rowan was taken aback. “What trouble has there been lately?”

  Marel released Reeder from his glare; the son stepped back loose-kneed, as if the release had been physical.

  The old merchant replied, “No trouble in Donner itself, lady—although if events continue, perhaps we can expect some difficulties.” Reeder made an abortive gesture, perhaps of protest, then spun away and threw himself back into his seat. Marel went on: “I find that several of my smaller competitors upriver have been run out of business. Jannik has been commandeering materials, whether or not the suppliers and merchants can afford to lose them. Certain staple foods, grain for the most part; cloth and thread; ores—not the sort you’d expect, not the precious metals. Tin, copper, some iron. The raw stuff, not worked.”

  Rowan considered. “How odd,” she said.

  “Those who protest are dealt with rather more harshly than has been Jannik’s habit. And interestingly, a similar thing seems to be happening in Olin’s holding—where there is less local organization to draw on. He has been commandeering people as well as materials.”

  Rowan grew more disturbed. “Is Olin gathering an army?”

  “If so, an odd sort of army. Two towns by the Salt Bog have been completely emptied, with their citizens, children included, sent somewhere north, for no reason anyone knows.”

  The steerswoman cast
about in her mind, seeking patterns, explanations, and discovering none. She emerged from her ruminations to find both men watching her: Marel speculatively, Reeder with suppressed anger.

  Marel, Rowan believed, would gladly help her, if he could. But it seemed to her that Reeder knew far more than he was saying, and he, in fact, could help her—if he wished.

  But his dislike of her went beyond this room, and this moment. It was personal.

  Steerswomen and sailors were said to be immune to certain types of spells. On Morgan’s Chance the boy who had traveled with Reeder had watched from hiding while a navigator demonstrated to Rowan that this was true. The navigator, and then Rowan, had touched a magic trunk carried in the hold, one being shipped to a wizard. No harm had come to them.

  But later, all alone, the boy had attempted the same act. The guard-spell had killed him.

  Rowan crossed the room to Reeder’s chair and stood before him, looking down. She wished that she could sit as well, wished she did not have to loom over him so. “I’m sorry about what happened to your young friend. It broke my heart when I heard of it. But Reeder—I didn’t do it. He died by the hand of a wizard.”

  He looked up at her. His gaze narrowed fractionally. “Which one?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. The chest could easily have been Slado’s, but: “I’m sorry, but I don’t know and can’t guess.” She drew and released a breath. “It’s not common knowledge, but the wizards do have one authority over them all, one person whom even they must obey. They fight amongst themselves— who knows why? They work their magics at whim, and they do not care how it touches us, whether for good or evil. We have no choice. We have no say. Each wizard seems a law unto himself, beyond control or command.”

  And because she suddenly could no longer continue looking down at Reeder, Rowan dropped to one knee, resting her folded hands on the other. She looked up, into pale green eyes the color of sunlit seawater. “But I know, and now you know, that the wizards have over them a single master. His name is Slado. Will you help me?” Whom do you hate more: the wizards, or me?

  His gaze had become unreadable, impenetrable. He studied her from the distance that lay behind his eyes. It took some time.

  At last he said, “Are you capable of acting with . . . discretion?”

  “If necessary.”

  “As condition for my assistance.”

  “Reeder.” Marel’s tone was warning; Reeder ignored him.

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” Rowan said.

  And as she watched, the man’s facade reassembled itself: the shuttered gaze, the supercilious tilt of the head, a shift in his body as he regained balance, and dignity. Rowan found it rather an interesting performance.

  “I am referring,” he said, “to casual, innocent conversation. Without pointed questions, dire revelations, or talk of interfering in wizards’ business.”

  “Actually,” Rowan said, “I’ve become rather good at extracting information from casual conversation.”

  Reeder glanced down, adjusted one trouser leg at the knee, flicked an invisible bit of dust from it, and rose from his chair. The steerswoman stood up.

  To Rowan’s amazement, Reeder offered his arm. “I hope you have no plans for dinner,” he said.

  The couple greeted Reeder first with stunned, silent astonishment—and then, to Rowan’s amazement, cries of delight. They pulled Reeder through the door by both arms eagerly; there was laughter, and embraces, which Reeder accepted with a slight smile and a cool dignity. Bemused, Rowan entered the house in their wake, wondering if she would escape notice entirely; but when Reeder inserted a pause in which to introduce her, the couple welcomed her easily.

  He was dark; she was light, and freckled. His hair was long, and iron gray, worn in thick, wild locks about his face and down his back; hers was short, of corn yellow fading into white. He was Naio; she was Ona.

  Their home was their workshop. A long main room, and high, with ranks of shelves occupying the front and back walls, climbing up into the shadows, displaying plates, urns, vases, mugs, tea sets. On the far right wall a kiln stood, still radiating warmth. Two potter’s wheels were set at a comfortable distance from it, one to each side. On the opposite wall: a hearth, where a small fire hissed and sparked cheerful flame. A low table before a faded divan held the settings for the couple’s simple dinner.

  Naio and Ona bustled about, finding more plates, more utensils, another chair, and wineglasses when Reeder, with what Rowan considered an unnecessarily supercilious air, proffered the two bottles he had acquired en route.

  All four settled down to dinner by the hearth. There was stew and bread, plain but hearty. But Reeder, in heavily formal phrases, praised the meal far in excess of its actual quality, causing Rowan to grit her teeth in annoyance.

  Naio seemed not to notice Reeder’s tone at all. He listed for Reeder the stew’s various ingredients: all rare, all esoteric— and, if Rowan’s taste was any guide, all definitely absent.

  Puzzled, the steerswoman very nearly corrected him, but caught a side-glance from Ona. A suppressed twinkle in the pale blue eyes—and Rowan suddenly realized that she was in the midst of a performance.

  Inspired by Naio’s list, Reeder’s praise became wildly extravagant. Naio then entered into a detailed explanation of the cooking process, one apparently delicate, demanding, and, as nearly as Rowan could tell, completely impossible to accomplish. Reeder interjected comments on other dishes equally arcane—and even less likely—whose preparation he, urbane and wide-ranging traveler that he was, had the good fortune to observe during the course of his many adventures in distant lands—

  When the two men had reached the point where Naio was attributing the recipe’s origin to an ancient tradition handed down from the court of the mythical King Malcolm, Ona could contain herself no longer. She suddenly leapt up and began batting Reeder about the head with her flapping napkin, laughing.

  He threw up his arms, fending her off. “Ho! Cease! Hold off! Really, Naio, you must control your woman!”

  “Of course, immediately; but first, I’ll have to ask her permission to do so. That’s always best, I’ve learned . . .”

  The men were old friends of long standing, and their act had long practice. They positively baited each other to more and more outrageous comment, Reeder with his heavy-handed air of superiority, Naio with a sort of cheerful artlessness.

  It dawned on Rowan that Reeder’s usual exasperating manner was not what it seemed. It had a natural context, a place where it was at home. It needed a second voice; it needed Naio. Without him, Reeder was like the first half of a joke that, lacking its second half, had become puzzling, meaningless, and on endless repetition, annoying.

  And Naio’s cheeriness could find no better foil than Reeder’s stolid formality. The two men were more than complementary; they were, in some way, a unit, each incomplete without the other. The steerswoman found herself wondering why they were not always together, and what had happened to separate them, and why for so long?

  They nattered; they rambled; local politics, gossip, the odd weather. Opinions were aired, scandals discussed, all in the same practiced rhythm of escalating absurdity. Rowan was amazed to find herself enjoying Reeder’s company. She laughed often, and at one point long and helplessly. This Reeder watched with lifted eyebrow, as if affronted; Naio, with a sort of beaming pride.

  Eventually, the men turned to reminiscing. Their acquaintance with each other was far longer than with Ona, and they were soon discussing people Ona barely knew at all. Rowan began to listen closely, hoping for mention of Kieran and Slado, but Reeder could not have more effectively avoided the topics if he were doing so intentionally. She began to realize that he was. She had been told to follow his lead; she waited for that lead to appear.

  The women were now entirely outside the conversation, and Ona shot Rowan a wry glance. Reeder noticed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Naio, these poor women can’t possibly be interested in
our childhood history. Rowan, why don’t you ask Ona to show you some of her work? Really, she’s quite the more talented of these two.”

  “Due to my training,” Naio interjected proudly. “I taught her everything she knows.”

  Reeder shook his head sadly. “No, Naio; I’m sorry to say that you merely taught her everything you know . . .”

  Ona protested politely, but the steerswoman insisted, equally politely. With a fond smile as her husband and his old friend returned to their conversation, Ona led Rowan away from the hearthside.

  “I suppose,” Ona said shyly, “you’ve seen some very good pots and ceramics, traveling about the world as you do, much better than these . . .” She hesitated, reached up, and brought down from one shelf a delicate vase, which she set on a small display table.

  Rowan said, spontaneously and sincerely: “This is beautiful.”

  The vase was pale white, translucent. A painted branch of pear blossoms swept across its side, curling up the neck. Petals trailed across the open spaces as if caught by a soft wind. Rowan found herself holding the vase, turning it around and around in her hands.

  She set it down reluctantly, then scanned the shelves above for more treasures—and abruptly burst out laughing. “What is that? Am I seeing it right?”

  Ona gave a cry of delight and scrambled to bring over a step stool. She climbed, reached high, passed the items down to Rowan, and the steerswoman laughed at each as she took it.

  A fat tea pot, in the shape and color of a calico cat, one raised paw serving as spout. Six mice were the tea cups, with curled tails for handles, cheese slices as saucers. Each mouse showed a different expression of terror at the presence of the cat, but for one fat mouse, asleep on its back, a smile of satisfaction on its face and its painted whiskers full of cheese crumbs.

  Ona laughed, too. “Oh, you like it, I’m glad! I’ve been working on another similar idea . . . She glanced about, sighted what she sought, and went to fetch it: a fat folder, bursting with papers. Ona opened it, flipped through the pages. “Here.” She passed the sheet to the steerswoman.