Troubled Waters

by Sharon Shinn

  After the queens came a gas-powered smoker car, with King Vernon sitting inside on a raised stage, four attendants below him. Zoe studied the king, thinking he looked very much as she remembered. His body was slight; his hair was dark and a little thin, ruffled in the damp morning wind. His features were finely made and handsome enough, though at the moment he was frowning a little. He must be past fifty by now, Zoe thought, though the years sat on him lightly. He did not look stooped under too many cares or debauched from excessive indulgence in the perquisites of power. He merely looked like a fussy middle-aged man annoyed that rain had marred what should have been a more enjoyable day.

  The king’s car passed to a dutiful level of applause, but the parade watchers expressed more genuine enthusiasm for the vehicle coming right behind his. It was another smoker car, this one carrying two girls standing toward the back and waving at the crowd. The older princesses, Zoe realized. One looked to be about ten and the other thirteen or fourteen; they both wore serious expressions. It was as if they were performing a grave and solemn duty, or one that they endured even though they greatly disliked it.

  The girls’ wagon was almost past her before Zoe realized there was a third person in it, sitting with his back to the driver, his expression closed and sober. Seeing him gave her a sudden and violent start; she stepped back into the crowd so he wouldn’t see her. It was Darien Serlast. Zoe supposed it was a mark of high favor for him to accompany the girls, but he didn’t look happy about it. Perhaps he had thought it was a bad idea for them to be so publicly exposed. Perhaps he had argued against their inclusion in the parade at all. Perhaps he had insisted on being the one to sit with the girls, ready to protect them with his own life if danger threatened from the masses.

  And perhaps she was romanticizing. He might be wearing that scowl because he had been excluded from the king’s car, and for no more noble reason than that.

  At any rate, he did not see Zoe, or change his expression if he did. She felt an odd squeeze in her stomach when a cluster of the crowd put him out of her sight. She told herself the feeling was relief, though it seemed closer to disappointment.

  The last wagon was more gaily decorated than all the rest, a brightly painted wooden platform with flags flying from the front bench and ribbons woven through the spokes of the wheels and into the manes of the horses. The man sitting on a thickly padded bench looked older than Vernon, but more robust and cheerful. He had white hair, a ruddy complexion, and a wide smile, and he was dressed in gorgeously embroidered red and gold robes. He clearly wasn’t bothered by the damp weather or the slow pace; he smiled and waved and now and then tossed coins into the crowd, which caused everyone to scramble after them. Despite his genial expression and apparent generosity, Zoe conceived a dislike of him. He was too satisfied and well-fed. He looked like a man who indulged his appetites, whatever those appetites might be—and had enough money and power to disregard anyone’s attempts to keep his more unseemly behavior in check.

  She shook her head. Where were these thoughts coming from? How could she think she knew what was in Darien’s mind, or in this visitor’s heart? Did she really believe she could judge a man’s character by his smile and his clothes—judge a man’s motives by his frown and his posture? Maybe if you were an elay woman, she scoffed to herself, a creature of air and soul. But you are a coru woman of no special insights and only ridiculous notions.

  After the brightly painted wagon passed by, there were more soldiers, this time in the foreigner’s livery, and then, a few tumblers to amuse the crowd. But Zoe had lost interest. She pushed her way through the throng of people and headed back to the Plaza of Women.

  So many people were watching the parade that the Plaza was practically deserted, though a few hardy shoppers were picking up bargains. Only one of the blind sisters was entertaining a client, so Zoe climbed the five steps and immediately got an audience.

  She handed over a couple of coppers. “What visitor is the king entertaining and how long will he be in the city?”

  The seer nodded; this was common knowledge, not very costly. “He is the viceroy of Soeche-Tas, over the mountains. He and the king have entered into an alliance to share troops in the event of an invasion from Berringey, over the sea.”

  “Is such an invasion likely?”

  “Who knows? But the king and the viceroy have signed trading alliances in the past and might make more agreements in the future. This is just a way to cement their friendship.”

  That called for another small coin. “What other agreements might they make?”

  “There is some talk that the king might marry one of the viceroy’s daughters.”

  Zoe frowned. An argument about the viceroy’s daughter had cost her father his place at court. “I thought that was a plan the king abandoned ten years ago. Surely the woman is already some other man’s wife.”

  “Ah, but the viceroy has an abundance of daughters. Eight or nine—the reports vary.”

  Zoe had remembered another obstacle. “And I thought the king recently promised his wives that he would not take another bride.”

  A sly smile lit the woman’s plain, doughy face. “He promised he would not take a bride unless they approve of his choice,” she said.

  “And do they?” Zoe asked.

  The seer was still smiling. “I have to assume they do not, since the deal has not been finalized.”

  Zoe couldn’t help a snort of laughter. “I foresee another hasty trip to the Plaza of Men in the morning. The queens will make the king promise that he will not take a Soechin bride. They will have some reason to dislike all of the viceroy’s daughters, I am sure.”

  “I expect you might be right!” the seer said with a laugh.

  “Perhaps this time the wives will insist the king make his own vows at the booth of promises instead of allowing Darien Serlast to speak on his behalf,” Zoe said.

  “It is possible.”

  Zoe toyed with a quint-silver coin, running it back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. “But who is Darien Serlast?” she asked at last, giving the coin to the seer. “What kind of power does he wield in the court?”

  But the seer shook her head, letting a small smile come to the corners of her mouth. She reached out, found Zoe’s hand, and dropped the quint-silver back onto Zoe’s palm. When Zoe started to ask another question, the seer merely put a finger to her lips as if to enjoin silence. Then she drew a scarf up over her head and refused to speak another word.

  TEN

  It was still raining the next day when Zoe made her way to work. Her shoes were drenched and the hems of her trousers were soaked through when she stepped inside the cobbler’s shop. She left wet footprints all the way to the counter.

  “There won’t be much business today,” Ilene grumbled when two hours had passed and only three customers had stepped inside. “No one comes out in weather like this.”

  “Just as well,” Zoe said from her perch on a stool behind the counter. She was yawning so hard she thought she might topple off. “It was too wet to sleep last night, so I’m having a hard time staying awake.”

  Ilene gave her one quick, uncertain look. “Yes—I thought about you around midnight when the rains came down so heavily. What do you do on such nights? Where do you stay?”

  “Usually I find shelter in a borrowed tent,” Zoe said. “Of course, right now all the river folk are huddling under this enormous tarpaulin the king’s men have put up for us. But when it rains that hard, the water just comes sluicing down the ground.”

  “I hate to think of you so damp and wretched,” Ilene said.

  It was the first time the cobbler’s wife had shown any concern about Zoe’s accommodations. Zoe was moved but a little amused. “I don’t mind so much,” she said. “I like being outdoors. I like being close to the river. I even like the rain—coru girl that I am. I might feel differently when the cold weather comes, but I might have found a more permanent place by then.”

  Ilene’s face showed
sudden decisiveness. “You should stay here,” she said. “On stormy nights. You can sleep in the workroom. It’s dry and warm, and there’s a sink where you can wash up.”

  “Why, Ilene! That’s so kind!” Zoe exclaimed. “But are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course I’m sure. I know you won’t steal anything, and why shouldn’t you stay down here? It’s not luxurious, I know, but it has to be better than camping on the ground in the rain.”

  “It will seem palatial to me,” Zoe said with a smile.

  “You could stay here every night, if you wanted to,” Ilene said, with such studied nonchalance that Zoe realized she was making an extraordinary offer. “Not just during the bad weather.”

  “Let’s first see how well we like the arrangement on rainy days,” Zoe said gently. “I’m so used to my freedom now that I’m not sure how well I will sleep under a roof. And you may find it makes you uneasy to know I am roaming around below you. You might find that I intrude on your private life.”

  “It is not as though our private life was ever that noisy or exciting,” Ilene said with such uncharacteristic tartness that Zoe dissolved into laughter. Ilene watched her, finally letting a small smile curve her mouth. “Well, it wasn’t,” she added.

  Zoe managed to contain herself, though she still felt suffused with merriment. “In any case, I thank you deeply for your generosity, and I will definitely take you up on your offer tonight!”

  “And who knows?” Ilene said, as if her next observation logically flowed from their previous exchange. “Barlow might be back before the rain ends.”

  Zoe spent the next three nights sleeping on her mat in the back room, wedged between Melvin’s workbench and one long wall of tools. She drowsed in the imperfect dark, inhaling the aromas of hide and tannin and dye, listening to the skittering of rain across unfamiliar surfaces. This situation was infinitely preferable to huddling under the huge tarp with hundreds of damp, discontented squatters. And yet, the instant the rain stopped and the viceroy rode out of the city, she was happy to return to the river flats under the open sky.

  “If the offer still stands, I would love to be able to sleep here whenever there is inclement weather,” she told Ilene when she gave the older woman her sincerest thanks.

  In return, Ilene handed her a key to the front door that was locked only after the shop was closed for the day. “Come even if it starts raining at midnight,” she said.

  Zoe was astonished and humbled. “Ilene! A key! I’m so honored.”

  Ilene was embarrassed enough to try a joke. “I’ll just have the lock changed if I decide I can’t trust you.”

  “Oh, I can imagine how dreadful that would be to discover in the middle of the night in the middle of a storm!”

  Ilene smiled. “I don’t think it will happen.”

  Impulsively, Zoe gave her a hug. “I don’t think it will, either.”

  From that day on, no matter where she went, she wore the key on a cord around her neck, just as she wore her coin-encrusted shawl around her shoulders. Poor as she was, these were the two objects that conferred on her specific and complementary kinds of wealth: independence and safety. She knew very few on the river who could claim resources to equal her own.

  In the middle of the following nineday, Zoe was in the back room, hunting through a bin of discarded shoes for a dye match, when there was a commotion at the front of the shop. First there was the sound of many booted feet, then came the singing of a trumpet. Astonished, she spun around to gape at Melvin and Ilene. He was already laying down his hammer and she was smoothing back her stringy hair.

  “What’s going on?” Zoe demanded.

  “The king,” Ilene said. “From time to time he has been a patron of our shop.” And, holding her head in what she clearly imagined was a regal pose, she swept past the gold curtain into the front sales area to greet her exalted customer.

  “You can come, too,” Melvin said. “Not every day a river girl gets to meet the king.”

  But Zoe had no intention of exposing herself to curious royal eyes. She could hardly believe she had been lucky enough to be out of sight when he first arrived. “Oh—I couldn’t—I would be too nervous—and say something stupid—” she stammered.

  Melvin grinned. “Ilene does all the talking anyway,” he said. He pointed at a small rectangle of glass set into the wall between the workroom and the sales area. “Looks like a mirror from the front, but it’s a window from this side,” he told her. “You can watch. See what it’s like to have the king as a customer.”

  Then he, too, stepped past the curtain just as she realized that Ilene had probably used this disguised window to observe Zoe when she was first employed. Well, Zoe had nothing to hide from Ilene. But she would gladly skulk back here and watch King Vernon through the trick piece of glass.

  A tall stool was helpfully set under the window to enable easy spying. Zoe could hear Ilene welcoming the king to the shop; she could hear the sound of the customer’s chair scraping across the floor as someone adjusted its angle. There were more footsteps, possibly the guards and the herald distributing themselves around the room. A self-important voice—the herald, Zoe guessed—announced, “King Vernon has come to be fitted for a pair of boots.”

  Ilene answered, calm as you please, “We are honored to have the chance to serve his majesty again. Sire, if you would remove your shoes, my husband will measure your feet.”

  It had taken this long for Zoe to settle herself on the stool and cautiously peer through the glass. Its odd construction made the view a little murky, as if she were watching the participants through a haze of smoke, but she could see well enough to count bodies and read faces. Yes—five liveried soldiers were pushed up against the shelving units. A slim and supercilious man was strutting across the floor, clutching a trumpet in one hand and sneering at the crowd of curious onlookers who had clustered just outside the front door. The king was sitting in the deep-cushioned customer’s chair, one stockinged foot extended toward Melvin, who knelt before him with tapes and rulers in hand. Ilene and two others stood near the customer’s chair, intently watching the serious business of determining the size of the king’s foot.

  Zoe took a moment to stare at Vernon. He looked much as he had on the parade route, though less damp, of course, and in a slightly better humor. Close up, it was easier to see the marks of age on his face—creases around the corners of his mouth and vertical lines between his eyebrows—and they deepened as he offered his hosts a royal smile.

  “I very much liked the black shoes I purchased here last year,” he said. “Quite comfortable and yet stylish. Now I need boots—brown, I think, and with a fashionable buckle.”

  “Will these boots be for riding or walking?” Ilene asked, her voice very professional. “If for walking, will you be indoors or outdoors? Do you want them to be understated or ornate? With boots, we recommend a slight heel so the shape is pleasing, but the heel could be made higher if you like.”

  Instead of being annoyed by the flurry of questions, the king seemed to enjoy giving his attention to each separate consideration. “I will be wearing them outdoors, but they shouldn’t look too casual, even so,” he said. “I should be able to wear them inside if I like. And I would prefer a taller heel if it could be discreetly made.”

  He had more to say, but Zoe lost interest. One of the men standing beside Ilene had shifted his weight, which put him in her line of sight. Darien Serlast.

  She caught her breath and jerked her head back. She should not have been surprised to see him; she was beginning to get the impression that none of the royal family ever set foot outside of the palace confines without Darien Serlast in tow. But this was the closest she had been to him since she slipped away from his opulent vehicle more than a quintile ago. She could not help staring at him now, reacquainting herself with the details of his appearance: His narrow face. His stern expression. His gray eyes—quick, impatient, taking in everything. They flicked toward the mirror and held a moment, as
if he could see through the frosted baffle, and then moved on.

  “What do you think, Darien?” the king was asking. “A higher heel than that? It would give me an advantage the next time we entertain the viceroy. He is taller than I am, which I do not like.”

  “You may ask your wives how easy it is to walk in a tall heel,” Darien said. “I don’t know that it would give you much advantage to wobble and fall down.”

  “True,” said the king. He bestowed another royal smile on Ilene. “A hunti man is a good advisor because he is always practical,” he said.

  “I myself would choose comfort over looks, but we can make boots for you that combine both,” Ilene answered as she proffered a tray. “Take a look at our buckles here—each one is available in gold and silver and figured brass. Do you see one you like?”

  The king appealed to his advisor. “Is gold too elaborate for footwear? I must admit, I like that buckle.”

  “It would be suitable for a court shoe, but not a riding boot,” Darien said seriously. “I would opt for the brass.”

  “Yes, that was my second choice.”

  Zoe had a hard time containing her amazement. This was Darien Serlast’s weighty role? Advising the king about fashion? She had imagined him guiding Vernon through thorny issues of diplomatic policy, helping him think through new laws and their corresponding punishments. But picking out boot buckles and recommending against a certain type of sole? She never would have pictured Darien Serlast acting in such a capacity.

  “Will this be a winter boot?” Ilene was asking now. Melvin had finished measuring the king’s right foot and now was working on the left one, methodically laying his tape around the ankle, across the toes, from front to back, and writing notations in a little notebook. “We can line the inside with fleece for additional warmth—but it then becomes unsuitable for summer wear.”