They did not converse on the way. Willam seemed thoughtful and absorbed. Rowan remained alert. Jannik had been given reason to hurry to the dragon fields, and may have left at first light. Rowan and Willam might actually encounter the wizard on the road.
But there was no sight of him during the open stretches of the journey. When they came into closer landscape, among trees and turning roads, Rowan took the precaution of tucking her chain inside her vest. Should the wizard pass by, there was no need to advertise herself as a steerswoman.
The day grew cooler yet, under a clearing sky. Other than this, all seemed as on the previous day, as they approached the city’s limits. Rowan’s concern relaxed.
They took a different route into the city proper, swinging to the east, then down along the harbor. Rowan caught sight of Graceful Days, out past the shallows. The ship rode heavy, now; two transfer barges, light on the water, were crossing the shallows back to the wharves.
“Ahoy!”
Rowan shaded her eyes against the late-afternoon sun.
“Gregori!” she called back, and slowed as he approached the riders.
He was in the company of Enid, who served as supercargo on Graceful Days: a small, weathered, sun-bleached woman, who peered about with a sharp blue gaze, as if constantly calculating the mass and volume of every object her eye fell upon. She and Rowan had shared many a conversation on the voyage— somewhat limited in scope, but enjoyable nevertheless.
“Now, I didn’t know steerswomen rode,” Gregori commented as he and his companion fell in beside Rowan’s mare.
“We do,” Rowan said. “We can. We’re taught to. But we rarely use horses in the general course of our work.” It was one matter to request free food and lodging for a solitary wanderer, occasionally for weeks on end; quite another to include a large, hungry animal. Also, a horse was a tempting target for bandits.
Enid and Gregori turned curious glances at Rowan’s companion, and before they could ask, he provided: “Willam. Rowan and I have been out riding in the countryside.”
The steerswoman completed the introductions. Gregori regarded Will with obvious speculation; Rowan’s poorly suppressed grin seemed to please him. Enid studied Willam openly, as if trying to determine how much heavy labor he was capable of. “Your eyes aren’t pink,” she said to him.
“Um . . . no . . .”
She had obviously thought that he might be an albino. “Good. Otherwise, you’d fry on the deck on fair days.” All Enid’s interactions with the world at large were filtered through her evaluation of their potential use to her ship, regardless of whether or not any such consideration actually applied.
“I hadn’t expected to see you again,” Rowan said to Gregori, as the four of them, on foot and on horseback, continued up the street past a chandler’s, a rope-walk, a shipping office.
“Some cross-shipments were delayed. But we’re loaded now. Wood from upriver, wine and preserved fruits from Donner. Some of the Alemeth silk stayed aboard. Rice from up north.”
“Don’t like carrying rice,” Enid grumbled.
“It’s not like we’re filling the hold with it,” Gregori told her. Rice, if it became wet, would expand and burst its sacks. In a hold otherwise closely packed, this could cause serious difficulty. Rowan took a moment to explain the matter to Willam. “When do you leave?” Rowan asked the captain.
“Noon-tide tomorrow, or the day after. Take that much time to gather up the rest of the crew; what with the delay, who knows where they’ve wandered to?”
The literal-minded Enid chose to answer the rhetorical question. “The mate knows.”
“Yes,” Gregori said patiently. “And she’s waiting for us at the Dolphin.” The first mate was Gregori’s eldest daughter, sister to Zenna. An idea occurred to the captain. “Rowan, you and your friend come along; I’ll stand you both drinks.”
“That happens to be exactly where we’re headed, as a matter of fact. I’ve been lodging there. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Bel about?”
This took him by surprise; he obviously did not know that Rowan and Bel no longer needed to behave as strangers to each other. “Can’t say I have . . . Enid?” The supercargo made a disgruntled noise in the negative. During the voyage from Alemeth, Bel and Enid had acquired a mutual dislike. Bel had found Enid stolid, limited, and unimaginative; Enid, for her own part, had never forgiven the Outskirter for a particularly clever satirical poem the supercargo had inspired.
At the stables, there were no grooms about, but it was nearing dinnertime. Willam and Rowan removed the tack, found cloths for a quick rubdown, and left the mares tied in the yard. They entered the Dolphin by the back door, and the captain and Enid paused outside Rowan’s room while she and Will dropped off their traveling gear.
Inside, on the table beside a new bouquet of dried roses, was a letter.
“Who knows you’re here?” Willam asked.
“Zenna, and Steffie,” Rowan said, bemused, “and everyone else in Alemeth . . .” She picked up the letter, whose paper was of high quality, and read the address:
Rowan, Steerswoman,
or
Zenna, Steerswoman
The Annex, Alemeth.
“That explains it. It must have come through the harbormaster’s office. They’ve remembered my name, and found out I was staying here.” Rowan did not recognize the handwriting, but it was very clear, and formal, likely the work of a professional scribe. There was no point of origin indicated on the envelope. She turned it over. “Ah.” Only a seal, with a signet showing a crest: a ship, and a wolf’s head.
Rowan held it up to show Willam. He recognized it. “Artos.” The duke, in Wulfshaven. “And I guess I know what it’s about.”
“I suppose I do, as well.” News of Willam’s escape was bound to catch up with him sometime. And Rowan had specifically requested that Artos befriend Willam, so that the apprentice would not lose touch with the common folk. She set the letter back on the table. “Did you spend much time with Artos?” she asked Willam as they left the room.
Will looked regretful. “At first, some,” he said. “Later . . . things got busy . . .” He could be no more specific in the company of Gregori and Enid.
Rowan led the others down the angled hall, up the narrow back staircase. Gregori found the tangled and inconvenient route amusing. Enid peered at the walls suspiciously, as if being indoors, on land, was an experience entirely new to her. Rowan knew this was not the case.
In the broad main hallway upstairs, they had room to walk more comfortably. “Quiet tonight,” Gregori noted. Sound from the common room ought to have reached them by now.
“Perhaps everyone in town is still recovering from the feast. I should think that would take a couple of days.”
“Not for my people. They’ll eat a whole boar with all the trimmings, and want the same again for breakfast. . .”
They reached the main staircase, and began descending. Halfway down, a man stood, gazing down into the common room. He looked up, greatly startled, when he saw them, glanced back down, turned back again, seemed about to speak as they passed him.
A muffled voice from below caught his attention. He hesitated, then said, with what seemed like resignation: “Well, that’s it, you’d better get in there, too.”
Rowan was almost at the bottom of the stair. Enid had lagged. The man reached up, took Enid by the arm, pulled her down beside him. “Hey!” she said, pulling back.
“What’s going on?” Gregori asked.
“Nobody knows,” the man said, and he shook Enid by the arm, not unkindly, but to get her attention. He spoke quietly, urgently. “You—all of you, just stay quiet, and don’t look for trouble.”
And a thought came to Rowan, clearly: she should leave, should get out of here, now, quickly—but too late. There was someone else already behind her, a hand on her back, turning her, urging her forward; she was already entering the room—
“And where did they come from?” a voice asked.
The common room was quiet; but it was not empty.
Every seat was taken, with a few people standing, as well, between the tables or back near the walls. The chairs in front of the hearth had been pulled away, creating an open space that seemed almost a stage.
Two men were there. One stood slightly aside: a dark, heavyset man, whose wiry black hair was worn woven into a complicated braid down his back. By Lorren and Eamer’s description, and by the air of concern, responsibility, and authority with which he regarded the entire room, Rowan identified Joly, mayor of Donner.
The other man paced; not nervously, but patiently, as if prepared for a long wait. He seemed mildly concerned, faintly disappointed. He was small, round, white-haired, dressed in green and silver.
Jannik.
The wizard paused and looked up as the guard urged Rowan and her companions into the room. “I said, where did they come from?”
The guard shuffled his feet, and was a moment finding his voice. “Must’ve come in the back door. Sir.”
“Well, post someone there; we have enough spectators as it is.” Jannik gestured vaguely at the newcomers. “Find someplace to stand, out of the way.” He returned to pacing.
Get out, Rowan’s instincts told her again. But the wizard was uninterested in her; he had dismissed her; she was merely a member of a crowd. She could not flee without drawing attention to herself.
Wait. Find out what’s going on. Stay calm.
She composed herself. Rowan had no talent for feigned emotion. She resorted instead, as she often had in the past, to attempting to erase from her outward demeanor every trace of emotion. This she had learned to do; and at the moment it was the best she could manage.
It took such concentration that for a period she did not see at all clearly, only knew that Gregori was urging her to a standing place far back on the left wall, well away from the hearthside where Jannik continued his patient pacing, and Joly, composed but wary, watched him.
Rowan found herself among unfamiliar faces that glanced at her incuriously. Some people were standing, some sitting with half-empty mugs and tea cups on the tables around, and the remains of a few late or early meals. No one drank; no one ate.
Willam was beside Rowan. She tried not to look at him, for fear that her face would betray the significance of his presence. He remained half-seen, a tall shape beside her, a glimpse of white hair high in the corner of her right eye.
Rowan took slow and deep breaths, and began to calm, began to assemble the scene before her, began to search, unobtrusively, for Bel.
There. The far side of the room. Against the wall. The Outskirter managed to appear as disturbed and confused as everyone else in the room, but Rowan recognized Bel’s stance: relaxed, easy, but balanced and alert. If action became necessary, Bel would be ready.
Rowan picked out other persons known to her: Ruffo, seated not far from Rowan; the mate from Graceful Days, and her husband, the ship’s navigator, whose hand she held; two day maids; most of the serving staff; the head groom.
Ona was seated at a table to the front, among three other women near her age, who all resembled her strongly. Naio stood beside her.
Rowan heard Gregori ask, quietly, “What’s on?”
Someone nearby replied, in a whisper: “No one knows. He came in, told everyone to stay put, and wait while—” Jannik paused, and without turning raised one finger; the person who spoke silenced. The wizard smiled thinly, then resumed pacing.
No one else spoke; but there were many glances, between friends, between strangers, and small shrugs of confusion. Naio rested his hand briefly on Ona’s shoulder, and she looked up at him, then caught sight of Rowan across the room. She gave the steerswoman a small nod of acknowledgment; then something occurred to her. She blinked in thought, then quickly looked away.
When the wizard’s pacing brought him back in Rowan’s direction, Ona’s gaze again shied off, as she tried very hard, and continued to try, never to look in the steerswoman’s direction again.
Rowan desperately hoped that this was obvious only to her.
She must try to be more natural herself. Puzzlement would be the most natural emotion, and most people here were both puzzled and wary.
But if at this moment Rowan showed any emotion at all, it would be fear. She could not let that be seen. She closed her eyes a moment, attempted to become more clear, more truly calm. She managed to achieve a peculiar detachment. When she opened her eyes, she did what everyone else was doing: she watched the wizard.
He was a small man, about Rowan’s own height, and not quite portly. His short hair was white, as was his beard, which was close, trim, and pointed. He wore dark green trousers, with silver piping; a white blouse, silk; a green-and-silver embroidered vest tight across the stomach, loose elsewhere. On the armchair nearby, a cloak, light enough to be purely decorative, spilled a bright glory of green satin and white raw silk.
Jannik paused his pacing, turned to address Joly. “Who else of the council are still missing?”
Joly said, “Irina and Marel.” His voice was deep. There was no subservience in his stance. He seemed not afraid, but grimly alert.
“Would the messengers have reached them by now?” Jannik asked him.
“Yes,” Joly said. “Assuming they are at home.” Rowan found herself admiring his calm, his immense dignity. She wondered, suddenly and irrelevantly, at his history.
The wizard considered, mildly annoyed. He glanced at the crowd. “Well. You may as well make yourselves comfortable. This may take a while.” Jannik began pacing again, with such perfect nonchalance that Rowan understood that it was all for show. The wizard was, in fact, enjoying himself.
A few people shifted uneasily: what, under these circumstances, might constitute making oneself comfortable?
Halfway around the room, near the street door, Beck blinked a few times, thought, gave the tiniest of shrugs, took a tray from the limp hands of a nearby serving girl, and began to collect empty mugs and dishes. His smooth efficiency astonished Rowan.
He had worked his way to the table in front of her before Jannik took notice. “What are you doing?” He seemed both aggrieved and amused.
Beck stopped, looked at the wizard, looked at the tray in his hands, and by way of reply, lifted it slightly to show exactly what he was doing.
“Well, stop it,” Jannik said, and went back to pacing.
Beck shrugged—and, in a move conducted with perfect naturalness, casually handed Rowan the loaded tray, jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen door, and turned away, exactly as if instructing and dismissing some minor member of the serving staff.
Rowan stood a moment stunned. Then, as smoothly as possible, she turned and began sidling through the tables, carrying her load to the kitchen.
The door was before her, and open. At the far end of the kitchen, invisible from Jannik’s perspective, the undercook, crouched under a preparing table, was beckoning urgently. If Rowan could reach the kitchen, she could lay low until this was over. Whatever might be afoot, it would be best for all present if the steerswoman were absent.
“You.” Rowan did not need to wonder whom the wizard was addressing. She was merely ten feet from the kitchen. She stopped, looked back.
Jannik looked mildly annoyed. “What did I just tell that boy? Put that down.”
The people around Rowan seemed not to recognize her. She must seem merely a new hireling, behaving stupidly.
Across the room, Bel was wearing a similar expression. But all eyes watched Rowan.
The steerswoman set the tray down on the nearest table. While doing so, using the tray as a shield, she slipped her ring from her hand, and put it into her pocket.
Her chain was already well concealed, under her vest. If no one spoke up, she would remain anonymous.
No one spoke up. No one spoke at all. The people waited, silent, watching as a bird watches a snake. And Jannik paced.
After a space of time, Joly, with careful precision, crossed
to the armchair where Jannik’s cloak lay, picked it up, rearranged it to lie across and down the chair back, and sat. Jannik paused to watch him, almost fondly, seeming charmed by the man’s audacity. On his part, Joly displayed not the slightest trace of fear, only a dignified determination.
This show of calm seemed to reassure the crowd. Some relaxed slightly. One woman spoke quietly to a table companion, inspiring a sudden sharp glance from Jannik.
The woman silenced instantly, but Jannik continued to regard her for a moment, with an odd fascination. Then the wizard smiled a small smile, and paced away again.
Rowan noticed that Jannik had acquired, from somewhere, a pair of black gloves. She had not seen him don them; he was wearing them now.
The street door opened, held by a very nervous girl. Stepping past her, Marel entered. The wizard glanced up. “Ah, good, Marel. Welcome to my little gathering. Someone give him a chair, please: he’s elderly.” There was a commotion outside. Jannik said to the messenger: “What’s going on?”
The girl stuttered, sputtered, was unable to reply, overcome at being addressed by a wizard. Jannik tilted his head at her. Some braver soul seated near the door spoke up: “It’s Reeder. He wants to come in.”
“Reeder?”
“Marel’s son,” Joly said.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. By all means, let the fellow in.” Reeder entered, uncharacteristically disheveled, breathless. The guard from outside, holding his arm, directed him to a standing place near the door and set him free. Reeder threw the man a wild glance, then scanned the room, finding Naio, and Ona, and eventually Rowan.
Jannik had already dismissed Reeder. He said to the guard, “Is there any sign of Irina yet?”
The guard was nervous. “She—the boy we sent—”
“Yes?”
“—Her family say she’s up at her orchards. Sir.”
“And is she?”
“Uh . . .”
“Never mind. Go out, close the door, don’t let anyone else in. I think we have enough here. Let’s see . . .” He turned back, strolled to the hearth, paused as if waiting for the crowd’s attention. This was entirely unnecessary; no one was looking at anything else.
The Language of Power Page 24