The Robin and the Kestrel (33 page)

They had abandoned the usual schemes of fortune-telling and petty pickpocketing. They weren't even involved in horse theft; not here, and not now. They had tied the Clan's fortunes to High Bishop Padrik and his schemes—for just as the Patsonos got their share of the donations resulting from Padrik's "miracles," the High Bishop was taking his share of their income from the House.

And they were completely content with all of this. It apparently had never once occurred to any of them that Padrik and his Priests were observant and clever, and that once they figured out how to reproduce the "miracles"—or managed to find a mage they could coerce into doing the same—they would no longer need the Patsonos. With all the illegal activities the Clan had gotten involved with, it would be child's play to be rid of them.

No one would ever believe that the saintly High Bishop was involved with running a House—and it was doubtful that anyone had anything likely to prove the case. That assumed that the Patsonos would ever make it to a trial, of course . . . .

And with the example of
this
Gypsy Clan to inspire them, how long would it be before the High Bishop persuaded the King himself to legislate against Gypsies and Free Bards?

"Hey!"
someone said suddenly, breaking into her reverie.

And even as she turned away from the table, wine bottle forgotten in her hand, one of the men behind her grabbed her wrist and wrenched her around. "What're yon doin"?" he demanded. "You been
listening!
Who are you?"

"Reba," she said, quickly forcing an expression of vacant stupidity on her face. "Reba, Chief. Gray Tombere, he said come pour wine. Rosa, she say it's warm inside. So I come pour wine. Hey?"

The man examined her for a moment, closely. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

She shrugged, tasting the sour bile of fear but trying to keep any expression at all from showing. Hadn't she heard of a Patsono that was hung for horse theft when she was a child? Could she remember his name? She made a quick, desperate guess. "Born on road, outside Kingsford. Mam's Clan don' like me, much. Pappy was Long Robere—"

"Ah, she must be that brat Long Robere got on the Ladras woman before they hung him," one of the others exclaimed, and laughed. "That's why you think you know her, old man—she's got that look of his."

As Robin nodded vigorously, the man pulled her a little closer, peered into her face as he exhaled wine fumes into her nose, then let go of her, nodding with grudging satisfaction. Of course, this was probably a fellow who did everything grudgingly . . . .

Robin breathed a small sigh of relief as he motioned to her to refill his goblet. "Yah, that's it, girl. You got your pappy's look about you. Long Robere allus was better looking than he was smart."

"Yah, well I heard that he didn't get his name from bein'
tall,"
guffawed another of the men, and as the off-color jokes and comments followed swiftly, Robin turned to get another bottle of wine, too limp with relief to even think straight.

As she turned back to the table, though, the Chief looked directly at her. "You, Reba girl—" he said. "You just get here tonight?"

She didn't know what else to do besides nod. Presumably the Patsonos
had
put it about that their Clan was mustering here. She had better pretend that she answered that call.

"Then you don't know the rules. No hobnobbing with the rootfeet for girls, 'specially not with the Priests. You get your tail down the hall to the girls' room when we're done here," he said sternly. "No Patsono wench runs around loose where
gajin
can find her. Some of these Priests think our women are here for
them.
You get yourself a bed where it's safe—you, Rosa, you show her where, show her where the clothes is, that kinda thing."

Rosa nodded, and Robin's heart sank. But there was no help for it. Until she could get away, she was a Patsono.

Kestrel would be frantic.

And he'd say, "I told you so."

The meeting broke up shortly after that, and Rosa took her firmly by the elbow and led her down a long hallway to a huge room, lit by a bare four lanterns, and filled with cots. Most of them held young women and girls just past puberty; obviously this was a dormitory. The windows were small; too small to climb through.

"Chief wasn't joking," Rosa told her in a whisper, not unkindly. "These Priests, they seem to think we're just like the girls in their own special House. You just got what's on your hack?'

At Robin's nod, she made a
tsk
ing sound. "Not the first time other Clan's have turned Patsono get out on the road with nothing," Rosa said. "Well, no matter. There's clothes in the closet there we all share; ugly, but nice make. Servants here take away dirty ones, we never have t'do no wash. You gotta take a bath every three days, though, that's a rule."

"Why all the rules?' Robin asked, in a whine. "Why the ugly clothes, hey?'

"T'make us fit in. Can't look like Gypsy, or the High Bishop might get in trouble." Rosa shrugged. "It's worth it; we're getting real money for makin' him look like a saint. Once you start helping with the services, you'll start getting the money, too."

She led Robin to a cot on the far side of the room—too far to get to the door without waking someone up. There were blankets there already, and a pillow. She patted the cot, and Robin obediently sank down onto it, trying not to show her dismay.

"I'll take you to services in the morning," Rosa said, full of self-importance. "You'll see what we do. Trust me, you'll like it! Even with the rules. This is the best!"

"Oh, yes," Robin mumbled, as Rosa went off to her own cot, unaware of Robin's irony. "This is really the best . . . ."

Jonny's anger evaporated the moment Robin flung the door open and vanished down the hall, but his indignation remained. He hadn't thought she'd storm off like that! But he stayed where he was, at least in part because he was just as stubborn as she was, and was not going to humiliate himself by running after her. He was certain that she would be back in a moment; in two, at most.

She knew he was right; she wasn't stupid. Once she got over being mad about the way he'd ordered her not to go, she'd realize he was right. The idea of trying to pose as some relative of these people was the height of insanity. Surely, if the Clan was as small as she claimed, they knew every single member, just because she was a Gypsy, that wouldn't make her a believable Patsono!

She would come back. He would apologize for trying to order her around. That was
his
mistake, and he should have known better. Once he got a chance, he could explain that he was only worried about her, that he was afraid that her bravery (better not call it "foolhardiness") would be stronger than her fear, and she would end up in trouble—

No, that doesn't sound right—better say that she would be so intent on finding the truth that she might find herself in some situation she hadn't expected.

He didn't even sit down; he stayed where he was, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting for her to come back. Waiting to hear her footsteps, returning. Waiting for her to appear in the open doorway.

And kept waiting, staring at the wood of the hallway outside the door.

When it finally dawned on him that she really wasn't coming back, it was too late, of course. She was long out of reach; he had no idea where this Gypsy enclave was, so he didn't even have a clear idea of where she was heading.

His initial reaction was a resumption of his anger. He stormed over to the doorway, slammed the door and threw himself down onto the bed. And there he waited, certain she would not be able to get into this Gypsy enclave—

She has no sense of responsibility, dammit! The only people she thinks are important are Free Bards and Gypsies—she doesn't care about anyone else. She's as bad as Padrik! He thinks nonhumans are nonpersons, and she thinks the same of anyone outside her little circle . . . .

Hours passed; the anger burned itself out. Fear replaced it, turning him sick with anxiety for her. By the time the bells tolled for midnight, he was certain something terrible had happened to her. Maybe the Gypsies had turned her over to the Cathedral Guards; maybe they had taken matters into their own hands. Maybe she had been arrested for being out on the street after midnight. Maybe a common thief had knocked her unconscious, or even killed her!

Maybe someone had attacked her and she had used magic to defend herself, and now she was facing a judge for
that.

He sat on the bed until the candle burned out. He was sleepless with tension, waiting to see if dawn would bring her back. His throat ached; his stomach twisted and churned, sending bile into the back of his throat. His skull throbbed with headache, and his eyes burned with fatigue. And above it all was helplessness—the knowledge that she was in a situation he couldn't discover, with people he didn't understand, and that his damnable stuttering speech would keep him from even asking a stranger about her.

When dawn came without her, his heart plummeted further, and he flung himself off the bed to stare at the rising sun with weary, aching eyes. There had to be
something
he could do!

Too restless with anxiety to stay in the room any longer, he tried to think where the best place might be to hear any news. Ardana's? No, she wouldn't be open for business yet. The Warren? Maybe; but he didn't want to venture in there unless he absolutely had to.

Finally he could only arrive at one answer; the Cathedral. Criminals were often displayed near there, in the stocks—though what she could possibly do to get herself arrested as a common criminal—

She could manage. Just by not going along with a Constable if he stopped her to question her, I suppose—

There was always gossip, the circulation of rumors among the merchants. By now he and Robin were a familiar sight, and many of the other merchants were friendly with the two of them. Maybe one of them would have heard something.

But I am supposed to remain "mute" . . . .

He changed, splashed some water on his haggard face, and hurried down to the stable to get the wagon. The sooner he got to the square, the better.

The sun was barely above the level of the rooftops; the courtyard was still in shadow, and frost covered the cobblestones. He was too early for the stable hands and had to wait, pacing, in the frigid courtyard. He could have gone back to the common room to eat while he waited, but he could not even bear the thought of food at the moment. His stomach was so knotted up he was nauseous.

He took the reins of the horses and mounted to the driver's seat as soon as they brought up the wagon. It took all of his self-control to keep from galloping the horses down the street, to the market-square; he wanted to be there so badly that it seemed to take hours for the horses to walk the short distance to the market, and every momentary halt made him want to scream at those blocking the street. It took as much control to set up when he got there, as if everything was as usual; to smile and mime prices and sell the God-Stars as if nothing was wrong.

And there were no rumors, no gossip. Not even about a strange Gypsy being arrested for vagrancy or resisting arrest. Nothing. The other merchants seemed to think that Robin was ill, or resting—several of them took the time to come up and tell him to give his wife their best wishes, or to ask if anything was seriously wrong with her.

The only difference between today and all the previous days they had been here was the number of street preachers in the square itself. They were multiplying like rats this morning.

And this morning their sermons all focused on the same subject; the perfidy of women.

They were not preaching
at
Kestrel, not the way they'd preached at Robin the afternoon she had been alone; the description of him on their license said that he was deaf as well as mute, and most of them read the description and gave him a bored glance before beginning their harangues. Usually the street preachers ignored him entirely. But perhaps because the sun was concentrated here all morning, making this little corner of the square marginally warmer than the rest, there was never a moment between sunrise and Prime Service that there wasn't a preacher delivering a speech within earshot; sometimes there were two or even three, their speeches overlapping and creating aural chaos from Kestrel's point of view.

What was very different this morning, was that their speeches were so similar that they could have been reading from the same pre-written script.

Women are easily corrupted, and spread their corruption gladly. Women are by nature treacherous and scheming. Women are weak, and cannot resist temptation of any sort. Women have no grasp of true faith. Women are inferior, and nearer to the nature of animals than of angels . . . .

Kestrel wondered why none of the women listening seemed disturbed, or even insulted. If it had been
him—

—or Robin
—

—he would
not
have been standing there, listening to some fool claim he was some breed of lesser creature and needed a keeper to prevent him from doing wrong!

Why were they listening to this abuse, and saying, doing nothing? Did they believe it? And why was all this poison specifically directed against women pouring out
now?
What had happened to trigger it?

His anxiety mounted for a moment, if that was possible, as he wondered if Robin could have done something to cause this outburst of venom.

But no; why would they need to prepare people for the punishment of someone they had already
caught
in dubious activity? They wouldn't; more than that, with someone as unimportant as Robin, they'd simply fling her into a gaol-cell, and walk away.

So it couldn't be Robin; it must be that something else had happened, involving some woman of standing and importance. Or was there something
about
to happen?

As the sun rose and the square filled, his questions remained unanswered. And he began to wonder about something else. Could he have underestimated Robin? Could she have gotten herself into the Patsono Clan after all—and had she learned something that had made her stay there with them?