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the street ahead. They stepped into a pawnshop, which reminded
Rowan that she ought to see about replacing her sword. She decided not to enter
the shop while Bel was there; tomorrow would do.
But she could not resist, as she passed the open shop front,
glancing inside. Dan was in some discussion with the shopkeeper; Bel leaned
back against the counter, as if idly gazing out into the street. Rowan caught
her eye, as was apparently Bel’s plan, and the Outskirter leaned slightly
forward, so that her face could not be seen by the shopkeeper. So swiftly that
it would have been easy to miss, Bel’s face showed a knit-browed half squint of
uncertain suspicion, and her right hand flashed three fingers. Then she turned
away and joined Dan’s conversation.
Rowan passed on by.
Three. Maybe.
A third watcher?
It was a busy street, with shops and shabby residences
crowded against each other. Many people were about. Rowan mentally subtracted
the obvious residents: half a dozen children; the tinsmith lounging outside his
own shop front; the woman who came out to berate him, apparently his wife;
three men and a woman absorbed in decorating a horse cart with festoons of
flowers and ribbons, for what reason Rowan did not know; and a young woman of obvious
mental deficiency, sitting half sprawled on a doorstep beside a disgruntled
young man of about eighteen, who was feeding her soup.
Rowan cataloged the remaining persons; she would know if she
saw one of them again.
At the next house Rowan found herself trapped for the better
part of two hours. The old couple who lived there answered her questions
cheerfully, but provided no new information; and then they began questioning
her in turn.
As a steerswoman, Rowan was required to answer. Apparently
the couple’s many children and grandchildren had dispersed themselves across
the entire Inner Lands, and after determining that Rowan had not actually met
any of them, the pair interrogated the steerswoman as to details of the areas
in which they had settled.
Eventually, she managed to extricate herself. At least, the
tea had been good this time.
The last address provided by the bricklayer’s grannie
brought the steerswoman to the harborside, and Rowan arrived at a prosperous-looking
three-storey building, clumsily and ostentatiously decorated in the native
Donner style. She climbed the front stairs and entered, leaning aside to allow
three ledger-carrying clerks to brush pass, nattering numbers at each other.
Inside: a murmur of quiet voices, an air of constrained
bustle. The first floor was a single large room, with counters and open storage
areas to the right, cabinets and worktables to the left. Rowan sidled past
persons obviously intent on their duties, trying to sight someone who seemed to
have a spare moment.
The person she found proved to be a secretary. When Rowan
asked after Marel, he led her behind a rank of tall filing racks that obscured
the rear of the room, their pigeonholes bristling bits of colored paper.
Beyond: more light, from broad, unshuttered windows at the
back of the building. A huge open yard was visible outside, with a warehouse
behind. Horse carts were being loaded with new-made crates, the wood
yellow-fresh.
Marel occupied a corner of the main room, with open win—
dows to both sides behind him. He had three tables for his
work, set up on three sides of him with ledgers, loose sheets of figures, and
on one table a bamboo box with many compartments, all empty.
The old man divided his attention among three different
tasks, turning from table to table and back again, and work seemed to progress
at equal speed on each. Rowan and the secretary stood quietly, waiting for him
to take notice of them.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something important,” Rowan
said after introductions were made and the secretary had retired. “I could as
easily come back later, or tomorrow, if that’s better.”
“Not at all.” Marel was bone-thin, but moved with
Rowan that she ought to see about replacing her sword. She decided not to enter
the shop while Bel was there; tomorrow would do.
But she could not resist, as she passed the open shop front,
glancing inside. Dan was in some discussion with the shopkeeper; Bel leaned
back against the counter, as if idly gazing out into the street. Rowan caught
her eye, as was apparently Bel’s plan, and the Outskirter leaned slightly
forward, so that her face could not be seen by the shopkeeper. So swiftly that
it would have been easy to miss, Bel’s face showed a knit-browed half squint of
uncertain suspicion, and her right hand flashed three fingers. Then she turned
away and joined Dan’s conversation.
Rowan passed on by.
Three. Maybe.
A third watcher?
It was a busy street, with shops and shabby residences
crowded against each other. Many people were about. Rowan mentally subtracted
the obvious residents: half a dozen children; the tinsmith lounging outside his
own shop front; the woman who came out to berate him, apparently his wife;
three men and a woman absorbed in decorating a horse cart with festoons of
flowers and ribbons, for what reason Rowan did not know; and a young woman of obvious
mental deficiency, sitting half sprawled on a doorstep beside a disgruntled
young man of about eighteen, who was feeding her soup.
Rowan cataloged the remaining persons; she would know if she
saw one of them again.
At the next house Rowan found herself trapped for the better
part of two hours. The old couple who lived there answered her questions
cheerfully, but provided no new information; and then they began questioning
her in turn.
As a steerswoman, Rowan was required to answer. Apparently
the couple’s many children and grandchildren had dispersed themselves across
the entire Inner Lands, and after determining that Rowan had not actually met
any of them, the pair interrogated the steerswoman as to details of the areas
in which they had settled.
Eventually, she managed to extricate herself. At least, the
tea had been good this time.
The last address provided by the bricklayer’s grannie
brought the steerswoman to the harborside, and Rowan arrived at a prosperous-looking
three-storey building, clumsily and ostentatiously decorated in the native
Donner style. She climbed the front stairs and entered, leaning aside to allow
three ledger-carrying clerks to brush pass, nattering numbers at each other.
Inside: a murmur of quiet voices, an air of constrained
bustle. The first floor was a single large room, with counters and open storage
areas to the right, cabinets and worktables to the left. Rowan sidled past
persons obviously intent on their duties, trying to sight someone who seemed to
have a spare moment.
The person she found proved to be a secretary. When Rowan
asked after Marel, he led her behind a rank of tall filing racks that obscured
the rear of the room, their pigeonholes bristling bits of colored paper.
Beyond: more light, from broad, unshuttered windows at the
back of the building. A huge open yard was visible outside, with a warehouse
behind. Horse carts were being loaded with new-made crates, the wood
yellow-fresh.
Marel occupied a corner of the main room, with open win—
dows to both sides behind him. He had three tables for his
work, set up on three sides of him with ledgers, loose sheets of figures, and
on one table a bamboo box with many compartments, all empty.
The old man divided his attention among three different
tasks, turning from table to table and back again, and work seemed to progress
at equal speed on each. Rowan and the secretary stood quietly, waiting for him
to take notice of them.
“I hope I’m not interrupting something important,” Rowan
said after introductions were made and the secretary had retired. “I could as
easily come back later, or tomorrow, if that’s better.”
“Not at all.” Marel was bone-thin, but moved with
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