Free Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 by The Language of Power

find Marel studying her sadly. “A lively lad, and quite a
handful,” he said; and she was a moment realizing that he was not referring to
Reeder. “We thought to bring him into the business; no one else in the family
seems interested in the daily running. His dad and my son were very close.”
    She nodded, but chose not to mention how near she had been
to the events that caused the boy’s death. She was quiet for a long moment;
Marel sat watching her, patiently. In the pause, a stocky, disheveled woman
hurried up to Marel, an open ledger with two bookmarks clutched across her
breast, a sheet of paper filled with close writing in one hand, and a bolt of
cloth jammed awkwardly under one arm; Marel gestured the clerk away without
shifting his gaze.
    When the steerswoman completed her own train of thought, she
returned her attention to Marel, but he spoke before she did. “And now that’s
twice we’ve talked about children being killed by magic, I can’t help noticing.
Is that coincidence?”
    “Nothing else,” she informed him. “In fact, such things are
common enough to make me wonder why Kieran suddenly became the exception. I
can’t help but wonder at his sudden interest in children.”
    Marel mused, pursing his lips. “Age, perhaps. When you can
see the end of your own days coming, you become more interested in the young.
There’s an impulse, I think, when you know that you won’t see the future
yourself, to start recruiting ambassadors …” Rowan made a sound of amusement;
Marel put up a hand. “But no,” he went on, “it wasn’t only children, really. He
became … nicer, in general. Took more of an interest in people …”
    “Suddenly, or slowly?”
    He puzzled, blinked, shook his head. “Not easy to answer. I
noticed it suddenly, myself; but maybe some others noticed little things, slow
trends, earlier. As for me, he came right here one day, asked to talk to me,
confidentially. He told me that I should get ready to absorb some losses,
because a shipment of embroidery and glassware from The Crags had just gone
down in a storm.”
    “And it had, I assume.”
    “Oh, yes indeed. With the warning, I was able to do some creative
borrowing, invested here and there … by the time the news reached Donner in
the normal way, I’d even managed to turn it to my advantage.” The thoughtful
squint appeared. “And I couldn’t help wondering: What’s in it for him?”
    She twitched a smile. “Spoken like a merchant. Perhaps, nothing
more than the pleasure of doing a good turn?”
    He smiled himself, broadly and with deep insincerity. “And
you believe that?”
    “I do not,” she assured him.
    “Nor I.” He became intent. “Lady, in my experience, there
are very few people in the world who do things out of pure goodwill. Maybe he
was one. Probably not.”
    What does one gain from acts of general goodwill? What does
one gain from kindness to children?
    Nothing tangible. Friendship? Amusement, perhaps? Admiration?
Loyalty? “Perhaps he felt regret at murdering Nid’s sister, and was trying to
… atone, somehow?”
    “Twenty-five years later?”
    “That does seem rather long.”
    “A man of slow conscience, perhaps. Still, I first noticed
the change when he did something nice for me personally.”
    “And did he continue to do you favors?”
    “Oh, no. Not directly, that is. When the East Well went dry,
he set it going again, but that was good for everyone. And he suggested we dig
another, right outside Saranna’s old inn. Pulling up old cobbles, quite a job;
but we did it.” He squinted again. “And he had us, that is, he male us change over all the outhouses
around Tilemaker’s Street. From pit-style to pot-style.” He was suddenly
amused. “Old Greydon—he’s dead twenty years now—he decided that he wasn’t going
to do it.”
    Disobeying a wizard—but Rowan was reassured by the humor in
Marel’s green eyes. She gave an anticipatory wry smile. “And what happened?”
    The green