As the winter wore on, Corson grew increasingly bored with her lot in Chiastelm.
She never tired of Steifann’s company, but the endless routine of chores that ordered life at The Jugged Hare always began to wear on her restless spirit after a time. The work itself was not so burdensome as the tedium of doing the same tasks day after day, like an ox at a treadmill, always plodding over the same circle of ground. There was the occasional fight with a truculent customer to relieve the monotony, but that did nothing to satisfy Corson’s wanderlust.
When the captain of the city guard heard that she was in town, he offered her a position on the night watch-a post she’d held before, from time to time.
Patrolling the streets and wharves looking for trouble was work more congenial to Corson’s nature than marketing, or chopping wood, but serving in a garrison of guards reminded her of her years in the army-years she would rather forget.
And she far preferred Steifann’s bed to the municipal warders’ barracks.
Corson decided to forego the job, but she let it be known that she was for hire as a courier or armed escort in the vicinity of Chiastelm. Most coastal trading was carried on by ship, but there were merchants enough on the roads-and bandits enough-to ensure regular employment for such as Corson. The pay was not of the best, but the brief journeys eased Corson’s sense of confinement, and the harsh weather through which she had to ride made her appreciate the comforts of the Hare all the more, each time she returned. At every homecoming she swore she wanted no more of riding all day in the winter wind and standing watch in the snow at night, with her feet freezing in her boots; she’d be happy to sit by the fire peeling potatoes till spring.
But as the weeks passed, and spring seemed as far away as ever, Corson would feel again that the walls of the tavern were closing in around her. She wanted to be in the open, where there was room for her long limbs to move freely, where the very air she breathed wasn’t shared with a dozen other people. Everyone and everything seemed to be in her way, and she found it hard to control her quick temper. She knew, at such times, that there would be trouble if she didn’t get away soon.
At the close of the day, when the last customers were gone, and the tavern scrubbed and secured, Steifann and the others often sat in the warm kitchen for a while, drinking ale, quarreling amiably, and eating any food that was left in the place. Corson usually enjoyed these times, but it had been several weeks since she’d last been away, and tonight the room seemed unbearably close and stifling to her. Everything her friends said she’d heard them say many times before, on nights exactly like this one, and she suddenly felt that she couldn’t bear to hear them said again. Only by maintaining a sullen silence did she keep herself from snapping angrily at the others for no reason.
If only, for this one night, she could be traveling with Nyc again, through some wild, lonely place where anything might happen
… I never knew what that one would say next, she thought wistfully, the addlepated chit! Nyc was unpredictable, always changing-like quicksilver, the mirrorlike living metal Corson had once seen an alchemist use at a fair. And she could be as dangerous as that pretty poison as well, Corson reminded herself, Nyctasia was by turns sorceress and scholar, noblewoman and vagabond, benefactor and deceiver, stranger and friend. Corson had known her as an arrogant aristocrat and as a humble healer. She had thought nothing of letting Corson risk life and liberty in her service, yet she’d nursed Corson through a desperate illness with patience and selfless devotion. She might be flattering and affectionate one moment, then sharp-tongued and mocking the next. She was capable of quite convincingly impersonating a pickpocket, a penniless student, a common tavern-singer, a pert messenger-boy, or any other guise that would suit her purpose. Nyctasia was the will-of-the-wisp that could never be clearly seen, that disappeared when you thought you’d caught it. She was sly and perplexing and altogether exasperating. She was an insufferable vexation, and Corson missed her.
There was no mystery about Steifann, but Corson did not want to discover any.
His frank, forthright nature and steady reliability were the very qualities that made Corson trust him as she trusted no one else, and made her return to the Hare as often as she could. If she ever found Steifann changed, she’d feel that the earth had given way beneath her, that she was falling helplessly, with nothing to catch hold of. There would be no stability or certainty in all the world.
Corson knew that if she chose to settle down in Chiastelm she’d have a secure home, and a steadfast friend in Steifann, yet she could not bring herself to make that choice, for all of Steifann’s urging. That same unchanging dependability that she valued in him was also what drove her away from him to seek the unknown and untried. “And when I was with Lady Quicksilver, I was missing Steifann all the while,” she thought glumly. “What ails me? I must be under a curse, that I can never be content.”
It did not improve her mood when Destiver came by to pass the time and cadge a late meal. Corson had seen a good deal more of Destiver than she liked, over the winter, and she made no secret of her displeasure, but she could see for herself that Destiver was no rival for Steifann’s affections. Indeed, Destiver seemed far more interested in carrying on a long-standing flirtation with Annin.
“We’re closed to custom for the night,” said Corson. “Go away.”
Destiver ignored her and poured herself some ale. Pushing Trask out of the way, she sat down next to Annin and kissed her hand.
“Don’t mind Corson,” said Annin, grinning. “She’s just jealous of all my swains, aren’t you, pet?”
Corson was in no humor for games, but she did her best. “Of course I am,” she said heavily. “Who wouldn’t be?” She drank deeply of her ale and tried to look less wretched than she felt.
“So am I,” Destiver declared. “Wildly, desperately jealous. It drives me mad.”
She pulled Annin closer and nuzzled her bare shoulder.
“So am I!” Trask mimicked. He threw himself at Annin’s feet, exclaiming, “Annin, my beloved, let me carry you away from-”
Annin kicked him. “Spurned!” he cried, crawling hastily out of reach. “I die.”
He collapsed with his head in Giniver’s lap. “Console me, fair maid,” he suggested.
Corson suddenly strode to the door and threw it open. She stood in the doorway with her back to the others, drawing deep breaths of the cold night air and staring out over the roofs of the town at the limitless black sky. Trask’s antics usually amused her, but now she was heartily sick of them, and of all the rest. She felt trapped by everything familiar.
“Corson, you rutting idiot, close that door! You’ll freeze us all.” Steifann came over and kicked the door shut himself. “You’ll catch a chill,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “And then you’ll have to drink that foul, scalding brew you gave me. Here, I’ll keep you warm.”
“There’s not air enough for a sparrow in here,” Corson complained, pushing him away and immediately regretting it.
“Ah, you’re just looking for a fight,” said Steifann. “What you need is a job.
She’s bored,”‘ he explained to the others. “She hasn’t killed anyone for weeks.”
Destiver looked up. “I could take you on for a few days. I’m shorthanded just now.”
“What did you do, keelhaul someone?” Corson sneered.
“Not yet-but I will, as soon as I get my hands on that drunken bastard Hrawn.
It’s not the first time he’s played us this trick. I warned him I’d have the skin from his back if he let us down again.”
No one asked why Destiver did not simply rid herself of such an unreliable crewman. They all knew that her evasion of the trade laws left her little choice as to the sailors she hired. The wonder was that she managed to control her crew of outlaws and outcasts at all. “What do you say?” she asked Corson. “It’s only a short run up the coast to Eske, to pick up some cargo.” Destiver considered Corson a demented and dangerous animal, but she thought the same of most of her crew, so this did not deter her.
Corson so desperately wanted a change that she was almost tempted by the offer, but the prospect of being under Destiver’s command for even a few days was intolerable to her. “Try at the Crow’s Nest, why don’t you? Isn’t that where you get most of the scum you sail with?” The Crow’s Nest was a cheap dockside inn which was not choosy about its guests. Criminals and fugitives of every sort could usually be found there.
“High and mighty, aren’t you? You were glad enough to get onto my ship, not so long ago.”
“And gladder still to get off of it! I don’t need-”
“Oh, our Corson’s a favorite with the gentry nowadays, didn’t you know?” Annin interrupted. “She hasn’t much time for common rabble like us. Rhaicimes and wealthy Midlanders seek her out, to hear her tell it.”
Corson flushed angrily. “It’s true! I could better myself if I chose.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” said Trask. “I was meant for better things myself than serving in an ale-house. Why don’t you get me a position in a noble household, Corson, since you consort with gentlefolk? I could be a page, a squire, a herald!” He pictured himself in silk doublet and hose, a jeweled dagger swinging at his hip as he hurried-in a dignified way-through halls of pale marble, bearing an important message from His Lordship to the chamberlain.
“You!” snorted Steifann. “You’d still be selling your skin on the docks if I hadn’t taken you in. You don’t even know your parents, you misbegotten foundling.”
“Well then, I might be an earl’s son for all you know,” Trask pointed out. “You should treat me with more respect.”
“Asye, first it’s Corson getting above herself, and now this ungrateful little guttersnipe,” Steifann said indignantly. He turned to Annin. “I suppose you think you should be lady-in-waiting to the Empress now.”
“Not I. I should be Empress myself.”
“You’re my Empress,” said Destiver. “And I your slave.”
“Fool,” said Annin complacently.
Steifann drained his tankard and poured himself another. “I know how people better themselves, and it’s hard work that tells, not currying favor with a lot of Rhaicimes. Who,” he added, glaring at Corson, “probably don’t exist anyway.”
Corson only shrugged disdainfully, somehow resisting the temptation to hit Steifann with a chair. It was almost as if she could hear Nyctasia admonishing her, “Now, Corson, don’t be so hasty.”
Warming to his subject, Steifann took a long swig of ale, sat back, and began to tell everyone for the thousandth time how he, a lowly sailor, had become the owner of a prosperous tavern, all thanks to his own wits and sweat. But before he was very far into the tale, he was interrupted by a loud, insistent knocking at the back door.
Trask, who was already half asleep, roused himself and sat up. “Shall I-?”
Steifann shook his head. “It’s some drunk, that’s all.”
“The house is closed,” called Annin. “Try at the Flagon and Embers.”
The knocking grew to a pounding, and they heard someone shouting against the wind, something about a message. Steifann cursed and got up to unbar the door.
“Come in, then, and be quick about it. What’s your business at this Hlann-forsaken hour?” His manner grew more courteous, however, when he saw that their visitor was sober and well dressed, and that he wore the livery of the Ondra, the most influential of the powerful merchant families of Chiastelm. “Er
… will you have a drink?” Steifann offered. “Did you say you’ve a message for me?”
“No,” said the man curtly, glancing around the kitchen. When he saw Corson he advanced and made her a bow. “Do I address Corson brenn Torisk?”
Corson hesitated. She was either in a great deal of trouble, she thought, or she was about to make a great deal of money. But since there was only one messenger the prospects were favorable, so she stood and returned his bow. “At your service, sir.”
“I have the honor, madame, to serve Ioseth, son of Ondra. He desires an interview with you, Mistress Corson, on a matter of some importance, which will not admit of delay. I’m to bring you at once, if you would be so obliging. You will find him most appreciative, I assure you.”
Definitely money, Corson decided. “I shall be with you directly, sir,” she said grandly. “Fetch my cloak, Trask.”
“At once, milady,” Trask muttered, but he did as he was bid. With a triumphant look back at the others, Corson swept out of The Jugged Hare, at the invitation of the head of the house of Ondra.