The Language of Power

by Rosemary Kirstein

  Someone spoke, immediately. “I’ve seen her,” Ruffo said.

  Jannik smiled a broad smile. “There, you see? How simple. Ruffo, where is she?”

  “She rode out,” the innkeeper said. “Yesterday morning.”

  “Rode out?” Jannik’s brows knit. “To where?”

  “Well, I don’t know that. Just riding around, for pleasure was what I heard . . .”

  “Now, that’s almost certainly not true,” Jannik said, speaking as if to a child. “It was a ruse. Did you see what direction she went?”

  “No, just out of the yard. On one of my best hire-horses, too, and for free, and if she’s as false as you say, she won’t be bringing it back, I’ll bet, and who’s going to pay for that?”

  The wizard lost his smile. “I do hope that you’re not actually looking to me for remuneration?”

  Ruffo’s bravado faltered, and he sputtered: “No, no, sir, I meant nothing by it—”

  “He’s just rattling on,” Joly said to Jannik calmly. “He does that; it’s just his way.”

  “Of course. Everyone knows how Ruffo rambles.” Jannik scanned the crowd. “Who else saw her go?”

  No one replied, but one of the serving girls began to jitter. The other punched her in the arm to settle her.

  Jannik did not fail to notice, and fixed the pair with a sharp eye. “Yes?”

  The jittering girl was beyond speech. Her companion screwed up her own courage. “We seen them go. We was helping out Sherrie, cleaning one of the back suites upstairs. Watched from a window. Out of the yard and north on Branner’s Road, they went.”

  This interested the wizard. “ ‘They’? Someone was with her?”

  The girl blinked, but could not deny it now. “That’s so. Some fellow with her. No one I know.”

  “What did he look like?”

  And the girl looked the wizard straight in the eye and said: “Small. Dark. Pretty little thing he was, too. I think she picked him up in one of the fun-houses.”

  The wizard spread his hands and addressed the crowd at large. “Now, there, do you see? Is that proper behavior for a real steerswoman? Consorting with a prostitute?”

  “I guess a steerswoman needs her fun, the same as anyone else,” Gregori said.

  This inspired a glare from the wizard. “And have you seen her?”

  “No.”

  Jannik was suspicious, but let it pass. “Who else?”

  Someone stirred uncertainly at a back table toward the right of the room. The wizard said nothing, but tilted his head, eyes narrowed.

  A middle-aged gentleman, well dressed, and a complete stranger to Rowan, rose formally and cleared his throat. “I saw them pass by my establishment, early yesterday morning. West, on Iron-and-Tin Street.”

  “Hm. And this, small, dark man . . . I don’t suppose he is an employee at your own, ah, ‘establishment’?”

  “No,” spoken definitely, “he was not.” A moment’s thought; Rowan was impressed by the man’s composure. “But I wouldn’t put it past him to claim to be. He came to me, two days ago, looking for work. I turned him down. The way he said it, that he’d do anything at all for money: it made me feel that he might be an altogether unsavory sort. I run a wholesome house, sir.”

  “ ‘Anything at all for money,’ ” the wizard mused. “I find that interesting. Very likely this minion of Olin lured him to work with her, promising some reward. I wonder if he survived the experience?”

  Jannik waved the bawdy-house owner back to his seat, and turned away. “They were seen to leave; has anyone seen them return?”

  There was no reply.

  “The timing does fit . . . Jannik said. “It was yesterday that the one dragon did escape, briefly. A very close call, it was, too. We were lucky. But I do wonder. I wonder about all those questions she was asking . . .” He paused; seemed to come back to himself; and, regarding the crowd, he sighed a sad and patient sigh. “Now, do you see? These people are working, not just against me, but against all of us.” Abruptly and inexplicably, he looked up at the ceiling. A number of people in the crowd, Rowan included, could not help but do the same. “Hm,” the wizard said, with apparent satisfaction. “Well.” He addressed the people again. “I have no more time to waste here. I do need to go to the dragon fields, immediately, to try to rectify the damage, and restore the protective spells. And”—he glanced upward again, gave a small smile—“I need to get there rather more quickly than the usual means will provide.”

  Rowan felt a vibration in the pit of her stomach, like a note too deep to be heard, but loud enough to be sensed. She noticed a discomfort among the people; some of them looked about, perplexed.

  Across the room, Willam, still counting, was looking at the ceiling.

  “So,” Jannik continued, and began to stroll across the hearthside again, “I’ll be taking my leave, shortly, for a period.”

  Rowan’s ears were ringing—no; the sound was outside her head. Like the highest notes of a demon-voice . . .

  The people stirred, uneasy, as the noise increased. In the center of the room, Bel froze in the perfect motionlessness required in the presence of a demon; but it was no demon-voice.

  Jannik spoke, now needing to raise his voice. “If the so-called steerswoman returns to Donner, whoever sees her will inform the city guard.” Outside, a sudden rush of wild wind spun dust into the open street windows. “And the city guard”—Jannik turned to the mayor, spoke above the noise— “will hold her until my return.”

  Willam had transferred his gaze to the street door. Rowan did the same; and an instant later, it blew open, slamming against the wall, admitting furious wind. Door and windows spilled hard, white light into the room.

  People cried out, shielded their eyes against dust and brightness. Some rose, tried to flee back from it. The wizard commanded: “Stay where you are!” The people froze; only Ona moved. Her face blank with her pain, she raised her head and stared blindly into the whiteness and the wind.

  The light from the door dimmed. The noise subsided. The wind died. The dust began to settle.

  Jannik smiled. “My transportation has arrived.” And the stunned crowd, in scattered movements, slowly turned back toward the small, round, white-haired man. “I’ll be leaving now—but I want you to remember something . . .”

  He took a more formal pose, and his gaze moved across every person in the room. “I am your protector. I am the only thing that stands between this city and the dragons, and between this city and Olin’s evil tricks. If you involve yourself in matters of magic, you set yourself against me.

  “If you cannot behave correctly out of loyalty to the city, and gratitude toward me”—he paused; his blue eyes were hard, bright, sharp—“then do it out of fear.”

  He walked again, slowly, along the edge of the crowd, looking into each individual face as he passed. “Naio was working against me.” The woman before him leaned back in fear. “It does not matter if he intended to or not.” Another step, another face, an elderly man who trembled visibly. “Anyone meddling in the matters of wizards is my enemy.” He had reached the end of the room; he doubled back. “I’ve shown you the results of meddling.” A young woman covered her face as he walked by, then buried it against the shoulder of the older woman beside her. “I hope you never have to see such a thing again.”

  At the center, he paused before Reeder, who stared with open, unblinking hatred, and Bel, standing calmly beside him. “You should remember,” Jannik told the people, “what this extremely intelligent woman told you.” He passed on. “And you should remember what you’ve seen here tonight.

  “Naio,” he said, and now his eyes were on Rowan, and she fought to keep her hatred from showing, “was an example.” He moved to the next person. “I don’t like having to make examples—” He moved on. “But I will if I must.” He had reached the left edge of the crowd, chose a single face, a burly man ashen with fear. The wizard stepped close, looked up, addressed the man quietly but clearly. “As often a
s is necessary.” Jannik turned back. “And do not expect me to be so selective, so fair and just, the next time. I frankly cannot be bothered. I will make an example of anyone I choose, any time I choose, merely to make you understand!”

  He moved his gaze across the entire crowd, slowly. “Anyone,” he said again. Then he looked left.

  “You, for instance,” he said to Rowan. “You’ve been entirely too calm through all of this.” He laid his hand on her chest. “You’re dead.”

  17

  Gray . . .

  Gray again, and shadows . . .

  Gray, and shadows, and a roar like water, like the Dolphin Stair. . .

  Gray again, and shadows, moving—

  Rowan breathed in.

  Light and dark spattered across her vision. The breath she had taken escaped . . .

  Rowan breathed in.

  Bel: weirdly shallow looking, two-dimensional, too bright. Her lips were moving.

  Rowan exhaled, all at once, too quickly, leaving her so empty that at once she breathed in, just as quickly, and colors faded, and grayed . . .

  Hands on her, a dizzying movement; then she was sitting up. The roar of water, and behind it, the humming voices of a hundred demons.

  Bel’s face, close, and Rowan was being shaken by the shoulders. She lost Bel’s face, found it again.

  Beside Bel, someone. A stranger.

  No: copper eyes. Willam. He seemed surprised. How odd . . .

  There was something she ought to do. She could not recall what it was.

  Gray rose again . . .

  Bel shook her, violently, shouted in her face, her voice tiny, distant: “Breathe!”

  Rowan breathed in.

  She kept breathing in, one continuous inhale; she wished that her body, the whole of it, was entirely hollow; that she might continue to breathe in, endlessly, to fill every corner of herself with air.

  When she could fit no more, it all went out again, by itself. She missed it; she was empty.

  It took her a moment to know what to do.

  She breathed.

  Willam was gone . . .

  Bel said something. Rowan heard, but could not match words to sounds. Rowan looked at her, utterly uncomprehending; but from somewhere, she heard, quite clearly, Willam’s voice, calling out urgently and inexplicably: “Where are the sailors?"

  Abruptly, colors paled, and Rowan struggled weakly, for no reason she could identify.

  Bel shook her again. “Breathe,” the Outskirter told her; Rowan breathed.

  She concentrated on breathing, in, out. It took all her will and intelligence to continue to breathe.

  Bel turned, spoke to someone behind her. The person departed.

  There were many faces, all around and above. Rowan was sitting on the floor.

  “How do you feel?” Bel asked her. The steerswoman was dimly surprised that the words now made sense. But it took her time, several long breaths, to gather enough reason in herself to find the answer, and more to find the words to state the answer.

  “My feet hurt.” As if some cruel person were twisting both her ankles, and jabbing a knife into her heel.

  “Wait.” Bel turned away; the pain in Rowan’s ankles vanished, and she suddenly found herself in control of her own legs. She drew up her knees. Her heel still hurt.

  “See?” someone said, one of the people standing. “See, that was all a lie, what the wizard said.”

  Someone was behind Rowan, had been all along, supporting her where she sat. She looked up and back, and found a pale, dark-haired person whose name she could not retrieve.

  Bel took Rowan’s face in her hands, turned the steerswoman’s head back, looked closely at her eyes. “Do you know where you are?”

  Rowan was breathing more smoothly, now; but the act was sweet, and precious, and she would not burden it with words. She shook her head.

  “Do you know who you are?”

  Rowan nodded in Bel’s hands. She felt cold, and damp, and suddenly wanted fresh air on her body, directly on her skin. The idea was irresistible. She tried to stand.

  They helped her, as far up as the chair, and she sat, unable to rise further. She groped awkwardly at the buttons on her vest. Bel pushed her hands aside, and undid them, and removed the vest.

  The steerswoman shivered, chilled by her sweat-drenched blouse. She wished she could remove it. Bel untied the lacings at Rowan’s throat, opened the collar wide; it helped.

  Bel stopped short and muttered something. Rowan looked down.

  On the skin of her chest, red marks of broken surface blood vessels: five lines, in a fan shape.

  “Bel,” Rowan said, only because she was able to, only because the Outskirter was the one known familiar thing here, and it seemed to her important that she put names to things.

  Bel looked up, grinned weakly. “That’s right. How do you feel?”

  The answer took some time. “Slow. Empty.” She looked at her hands, then tried to push her sleeves up to her elbows. She could not do it.

  Bel did it for her; the cold air was sharp on her forearms, but welcome. “Will thinks you’ll be all right,” Bel said.

  Rowan nodded, distantly. “He was here . . .”

  Bel looked right; Rowan followed her gaze, finding that her head moved in a wide, dizzying arc, and she struggled to orient correctly to vertical.

  She could make no sense of what she saw. She identified, slowly, elements: tables, chairs, people, some standing, some kneeling or crouched on the floor. Some action was taking place—

  The action had sense, order. Abruptly, as if with a snap, she recognized it.

  Willam was kneeling on the floor beside a still figure, his hands, one atop the other, pushing down on the center of the man’s chest, rhythmically. The man’s head had been pulled back, and someone was breathing into his mouth—

  It was the drill known well to every sailor, the actions to take to foil death itself, to pull back into the arms of life a person dead from drowning.

  “He needs air,” Rowan said, stupidly.

  “Yes . . . ,” Bel said. And his heart, too, Rowan thought: his heart must remember what to do.

  She realized that Bel’s fingers were tight on her wrist, counting Rowan’s pulse. At that thought, Rowan’s heartbeat became discernible to herself, and she realized that it had been all along. But it seemed to be everywhere, in every part of her body. It was too forceful, and it was far too slow.

  As Rowan watched, the man at the victim’s head stopped, looked up, put his hand gently on Willam’s shoulder.

  Will twisted, shaking it off. “No. It’s like drowning, but it’s not exactly like. He could still come back.”

  If too much time had not passed, Rowan thought; but Will—and she remembered this, oddly, since she remembered nothing else—Will had been counting.

  The man helping Willam gave up his place to a woman, a woman bleached and browned by sun. The man leaned back, watching Willam and the woman at work, then looked across at Rowan.

  Salt-and-pepper hair, weather-darkened face. “Gregori,” Rowan said. Identify, identify: match words to reality. The woman was—“Enid.” The man on the floor: “Naio.”

  Gregori lifted Naio’s hand, felt for the pulse, then studied the fingertips. He touched Enid’s arm, once, and the woman stopped and sat back.

  Will said again, immediately: “No.”

  “Lad . . .”

  “No.”

  Gregori held up Naio’s hand for Willam to see, then displayed the other. Rowan did not know why; from where she sat she could only see that the fingernails were black.

  Willam stopped. His head dropped. Then he sat back as if falling back, and covered his face in his hands.

  Enid moved away. Someone replaced her, but not to breathe for Naio; this woman laid one hand on Naio’s cheek, and with the other gently stroked his long hair.

  “Ona,” Rowan said.

  Movement behind her, then beside her, then passing her; but the man did not get far.
Someone stood in his way, reached out gently to stop him.

  An old man, and a younger one.

  Marel, and Reeder.

  “No,” Marel said.

  “Let me—”

  “No . . .” Marel held Reeder by the arms, looked into his eyes, bright green to pale green. The two men were exactly the same height; Rowan was faintly surprised by this.

  Marel said, quietly but distinctly: “Son . . . that’s his wife."

  The pale green eyes were blank with pain. Then Reeder closed them. Marel pulled a chair near, and Reeder folded down into it, and sat still and slack. Marel put one hand on his shoulder; and after a moment Reeder half turned, leaned, lay his face against his father. The old man held his son.

  “You survived,” someone said: a deep voice.

  Rowan turned to see, but there were many eyes on her, and she could not tell who had spoken.

  But a different voice spoke. “Because she’s a steerswoman, she truly is. Steerswomen and sailors, so they say.” A small man, in a shirt so yellow it burned Rowan’s eyes.

  What was it about steerswomen and sailors? “But,” Rowan said, “the boots.” She looked down. She was in her stocking feet.

  Bel, kneeling before her, glanced back over her shoulder, and Rowan saw the boots standing behind the Outskirter. Their high shanks were flopped over.

  Bel half turned, reached out, and tugged at one. It did not move. Rowan looked more carefully, concentrating.

  The gum soles had melted to the floor.

  Incredibly, someone laughed; laughed and kept laughing, utterly unrestrained.

  The deep voice said: “She’s mad!”

  “No.” Willam, now standing beside her, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. “That’s normal. She’ll be giddy, she can’t help it.” He stooped to her level. “Rowan,” he said, “can you hear me?”