Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (23 page)

She sang. The room grew immediately attentive, then noisy
with appreciative laughter.

It was an Outskirter song, one familiar to Rowan. Called
“The Queen of Three-side,” it concerned a she-goat who became so outraged at
the inept care rendered by the tribe’s herd master that she began to berate the
man in words. At each new error, she corrected him, at length, in rhyme. The
tune was rollicking, the insults hilarious—and the detailed information on the
proper raising and care of goats, perfectly accurate in every detail.

Looking up at her friend, listening to Bel’s rich, dark
voice made light now by the skittering melody, it came to Rowan, as if she had
forgotten: this, too, was a steerswoman’s life.

For the most part, a steerswoman’s days were equal portions
of hard work and hard traveling, with much solitude. But there were interludes
such as this one, with warmth, good food, good drink, and the goodwill of
strangers.

Rowan’s life recently had lacked these interludes. But
Jannik was occupied with his dragons; no one had been following Rowan after
all; Will’s dangerous mission was two nights away. The steerswoman was
astonished to find herself with nothing to do but enjoy herself. She gave
herself to it.

When Bel climbed down from her chair, to the applause of the
crowd, Rowan amazed her friends by climbing up on it her—

self. She stood a moment, gazing at the faces around as the
crowd quieted; then she sang.

The tune was “Greenwood Sideyo,” an eerie little song, one
of the few well suited to Rowan’s plain voice. The audience was in the mood for
it; they shivered in all the right places, and experimented with strange
harmonies.

When it was over and Rowan climbed down, the applause was as
enthusiastic as Bel’s had been. Bel clapped her back; Willam laughed; then he
thought, shrugged, and rose to his feet.

He did not sing. Instead, he recited a folktale native to
Wulfshaven, concerning two rival Island fishermen, who repeatedly, in
alternation, captured and recaptured the same magic fish. Each fisher used the
wish granted him to cast some misfortune upon his opposite number, and with
each passing day the curses grew more and more unpleasant and bizarre.
Eventually, one fisher decided that he would end the cycle by killing and
eating the fish; but first, as his final wish, he wished upon his enemy
“Perfect misery for the rest of his life.”

The instant he swallowed the last bite, he discovered that
he had been transformed into a woman; that he was now the wife of his enemy;
and that they possessed nine venomous children—with one more on the way.

The tale was familiar to the sailors, but not to the locals,
and was a great success. Someone sent the performers a pitcher of beer. They
shared it with the whole table.

A tug at Rowan’s sleeve; she looked down.

The handkerchief boy, a shy smile on his face, stood by the
steerswoman’s elbow, holding out a folded piece of paper.

Rowan took it from his hand. “Thank you very much,” she
said, seriously.

The boy grinned hugely, and stood wriggling, nearly doubled
over in transports of joy. Then he made his departure, stamping his feet with
each step, apparently merely for the pleasure of the noise.

“A message?” Bel asked.

“Possibly,” the steerswoman said. She unfolded the paper,
and everyone present leaned close to see.

After a long moment, the bricklayer said: “That’s a tree.
Got that in one.”

“Well, yes, several trees. And a number of ..”

“Dogs?” Bel guessed.

“They look … dead,” Willam said.

“I’m not sure they’re dogs,” Rowan said. Apparently the
handkerchief boy had noticed that Rowan enjoyed receiving drawings. This was
his own contribution.

They puzzled over the crude depiction. The swordsmith’s apprentice
pointed. “What’s them black specks in the air?”

“Flies,” Willam decided. “For all the dead dogs.”

“Unpleasant,” Rowan said, with a wince. “But this one animal
seems happy enough.” Indeed it did; not only was it the only creature standing,
it also sported a toothy humanlike grin situated at the very tip of its snout.

“It’s the victor,” Bel declared. “It’s vanquished all the
others.”

“Perhaps the others are only sleeping.” They were scattered
about, stiff-legged; still, the artist was just a child.

“That would be nicer,” Willam said.

“I think it’s a horse,” Bel said. “Either that, or it’s
standing on four wooden blocks.”

“And the other horses lying down.” Rowan had it, and
laughed. “It’s a night scene! The black specks are stars!”

“Stars should be white,” the vagrant said.

“But the paper is white,” Bel said. “White on white wouldn’t
show, so he made the stars black.”

“All the horsies fast asleep,” Willam said, “except for one
happy fellow, just enjoying the starry night.”

“Well. I’m very much relieved; the alternative was just too
grim.” The steerswoman carefully refolded the drawing and placed it in her vest
pocket.

“Everyone’s trying to help,” Bel observed.

Eventually, the evening faded, and the crowd dwindled. The
bricklayer departed, then the apprentice. Even the vagrant finally left, with a
parting kiss of Bel’s hand; and at last only the evening’s most stubborn
revelers remained.

“Ruffo may throw us all out soon,” Rowan commented.

“In a city this size, you’d think there would be something
to keep us occupied until dawn,” Bel said.

“There are some gaming rooms,” Will said. “Four of them, but
one is illegal, and nasty; you wouldn’t want to know what goes on in there. Two
of the others are considered honest.” He raised his brows. “There are also two
bawdy-houses, if you’re interested. I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. And there’s
one unregistered pub, with only hard liquor. Most of the people who go there
are hiding from spiteful spouses.”

He seemed to know the city well. “How long have you been
here?”

“I was here for two weeks at first, checking out Jannik’s routine,
and what the city was like. It’s amazing what you see, when no one thinks that
you can see at all. And for some reason they always act as if you’re deaf,
too.” He sipped from his mug. “And then, I went to the dragon fields and set my
spells. They didn’t start up at once, I used a delay, so I got back here in
time to watch Jannik leave.”

Rowan called over one of the servers to ask the time, and
was informed that it had gone past midnight. The friends decided to go to the
stables and cache Will’s charms.

But when they arrived, there was a light inside, and a
voice. Rowan listened. “It seems to be only one person.” The words, and the
tone, were of the sort used when addressing animals.

“Can you distract him?” Bel asked.

“I think so,” Rowan said, then smiled. “In fact, I have the
perfect excuse.”

Wiliam and Bel slipped around to the back of the building; Rowan
entered by the open double doors.

She followed the light and the voice down the rows of
stalls, eventually reaching an open stall on the left, two-thirds of the way
down.

Inside, a man was at work on a horse, crooning to it in a
happy voice. Rowan said, “Hello?”

“Ho, ha!” He startled, peered at her. “What’s on, then? It’s
late!”

“I’m sorry to bother you …” Rowan stepped farther into the
light. “I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”

“Questions in the middle of the night?”

“Well, we both seem to be up and about; I thought there’d be
few distractions.” She became distracted herself, by the horse. “Oh, that’s a
lovely animal!”

“Yes, she is, isn’t she?” the groom said with deep pride. It
was a mare, white-haired but dark-skinned, so that her face seemed tipped in
black at the nose, around the eyes, inside the swiveling, curious ears. Her
white mane was shot through with black strands, with her tail more black than
white. Rowan reached out to stroke the mare’s nose; the horse permitted this,
nuzzling her fingers, then her palm, then abruptly biting, hard. “Ow!”

“Hey, you!” This to the horse. “Now, now, be nice. Sorry,”
he said to Rowan. “She’s back home, expects her treat.” He dug in a pocket,
inspiring immediate intense interest from the mare, and handed Rowan a lump of
sugar. “Here.”

More cautious now, Rowan placed it carefully in the center
of her palm. With gentle delicacy, the mare’s soft lips sought and found the
gift. Greatly pleased, the animal then leaned her entire head against Rowan
chest, and shoved playfully. The steerswoman laughed, shoved back, stroked the
mare’s neck, rubbed her ears.

“See?” The groom came forward to run his cloth down the
mare’s chest. “She likes you. She’s a darling, isn’t she? Give us a kiss.”
Rowan was relieved to find that this, too, was addressed to the horse, who
turned her head and nibbled sloppily on the man’s nose and chin. The groom
wiped his face on his sleeve, and returned to brushing the mare’s flanks.
“Questions, you said?”

“Yes,” Rowan replied. “I’m a steerswoman—” Up and past the
man’s shoulder, Rowan noted a shadow shifting, just above the farthest stall.
“And I’m interested in some events taking place forty-two years ago—”

“Oh, I wasn’t born yet, then.” The shadow resolved into Willam,
apparently being boosted up from below by the unseen Bel. Will grasped a
crossbeam, pulled himself onto it, lying prone to reach one hand back down.

“I assumed as much.” Rowan moved to the opposite side of the
mare, to keep the man’s attention in her direction. “But it occurred to me that
you might know of some elderly stable hand, perhaps not working any longer, who
might have been on hand during that time.”

“Hm.” The man paused in his work, resting his arms across
the mare’s back. Behind him, Will was now standing on the beam, his sack in
hand, scanning the rafters above. “Hum,” the groom said. “Andry, maybe. Old as
the hills, he is, and he worked here when I first came.”

Rowan recognized the name. “Does he live on Iron-and-Tin

Street?” Up above, Will caught her glance, flashed a
grin—then stopped short.

“Matter of fact, I think he does.” The groom stooped to wipe
at the mare’s rear hocks.

Rowan looked away quickly, then could not resist looking
back; the groom could not see her face. Willam was now lying on the beam again,
gesturing urgently to Bel down below.

“You should ask old Andry,” the groom said.

“Um …” Rowan recovered. “Actually, I suppose you haven’t
heard yet, but he passed away”—it took her a moment to calculate, with her
sleep pattern skewed—“yesterday morning.” Will passed the sack back down, shot
one wild, wide-eyed glance at Rowan; then, moving urgently, he shifted his
body, hung from his hands, dropped out of sight.

“Well, no surprise there. On the one hand, I’m sorry he’s
gone. On the other hand, he was a sour old thing, and wasn’t above using a
stick, on horses and stable hands both. Still, it’s a shame. No one should die;
then he’d have the time he needed, to mend his ways.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Rowan said distractedly, casting
about for a polite way to depart immediately.

“Hey-oh!” Bel’s voice called from the stable doors. “Good,
someone’s still up.” She arrived, slightly out of breath, looked at Rowan in
apparent surprise. “And you’re here, too, that’s good.” She addressed the groom
cheerily. “Now, I just had a notion, in the middle of the night, while drinking
my last beer, which is often the case, isn’t it? It came to me that my friend
the steerswoman, here, has been working far too hard, and could use some
recreation, so I thought: Why don’t we hire a pair of horses and spend a day in
the countryside?”

“Hire a pair?” The man shrugged. “Plenty for hire, here. Are
you a good rider?” Rowan was completely at sea, and could only watch the
exchange, trying not to let her confusion show.

“I’m terrible!” Bel declared, as if proud of the fact. “I
hope you can find me some animal old enough to be gentle, but not so old that
it will die under me. But Rowan, here”—she clapped the steerswoman’s
shoulder—“she’s good with horses. Let’s get the best you have for her. In
fact”—and here she eyed the mare—“I like this one. How much, to hire him and
another for the day?”

“Her,” Rowan corrected, which was the only contribution she
could muster.

“Her. She’s beautiful. I like the idea of the steerswoman up
on a beautiful white horse.”

“That’s not a white horse,” the groom informed Bel. “That’s
a gray horse. And she only boards here, she’s not for hire.”

“Really? Well, perhaps I can talk to her owner, and make
some private arrangements.” And Rowan experienced a quick sinking sensation in
the pit of her stomach.

“Ha!” The groom’s expression was wry. “You’re welcome to try
it. This is the wizard Jannik’s own horse.”

“Oh, well, I won’t bother him, then,” Bel said, agreeably.
“Now, then—” And she and the groom began to discuss prices, Bel haggling hard,
in no apparent hurry; while Rowan stood, listening to them, trying to remain
calm, and wishing very much that she could get out of there, quickly.

The arrangements were completed, subject to the head groom’s
approval in the morning. Bel bid the man a good night, and led the steerswoman
at a leisurely pace down the row of stalls and out the door.

The instant they emerged, Will, who had tucked himself
beside the door, grabbed Bel’s arm, pulled her aside, did the same to Rowan,
half-pushed them both around the corner and into the shadows. He swung Bel
around, clutched her shoulder, hissed to her, urgently, “Is it? Was I right?”
His eyes were wide. The Outskirter nodded. “It’s his horse.”

He leaned back, flung out one arm as if to pound the wall behind
him, stopped himself just in time. “Jannik’s back.”

“We found your spells,” Bel said. “He’s neutralized them
all.”