The Robin and the Kestrel (31 page)

They began to sec the more expensive versions of the Stars on the breasts of wealthy folk in the Cathedral. They even began to see those same expensive Stars coming into Ardana's "chapel" at night. Many of them stayed with Ardana's ladies, gifts from grateful clients.

They were able to gather quite a bit of information about Padrik and his "special healing services" simply by listening. The most important bit of information came by accident—when one of the people Robin suspected was a Priest let it slip that Padrik had some "special helpers" who were the only ones permitted to assist him in planning the "healing services."

After that, they attended every one of the "healing services" until they began to be able to recognize certain faces, despite disguises. They were even able to put a name or two to those faces, by waiting at the entrance and listening carefully while these "postulants" talked among themselves.

That was when Robin realized that the man who specialized in "being possessed by demons" was a regular client at Ardana's!

She was certain enough that she was willing to put it to a test, the fourth night that they played Ardana's chapel, but she waited until that morning so that she could confirm it with Kestrel.

Robin figured that they were due for another "demon possession" at the healing service—probably today—and she was not disappointed. As they brought the man up to the front, spitting and sweating and breathing fire, she nudged Kestrel in the ribs. "Wasn't he the one with Sister Krystal last night?" she whispered.

Kestrel narrowed his eyes with concentration, and finally nodded. "I think so," he whispered back, "but wait until I get a better look at his face."

It wasn't until "the demon had been cast out" that they both got a really clear look at the man, but the smirk he wore as he was "helped" out of the Cathedral only made the identification surer. He had worn that same smirk last night.

The chapel was empty of clients; a good time to consult the statuesque Sister Krystal. "The client last night?" Sister Krystal wrinkled her aristocratic nose with distaste. "His name is Robere Patsono. Is he one of Padrik's 'special helpers' you were looking for?" At Robin's nod, she grimaced. "I wouldn't be the least surprised to find out he was involved with Padrik's 'miracles.' He's always hinting about how important he is to the High Bishop, but he gets very coy about it when one of us tries to find out exactly what it is he does."

"If his name is Patsono, then he
is
one of the ones setting up the miracles," Robin replied grimly.

Someone lit a sweet-scented candle, and the smell of roses filled the chapel. Krystal tossed her long, ash-blond hair over one shoulder, and pursed her lips with speculation. "Do you think you might be able to—well—put a spike in Padrik's wheels?" she asked, hopefully. "Things were better when the Houses and the Guild were legal."

"Things?" Kestrel asked. He looked puzzled, although Robin had a notion what Krystal was talking about.

Krystal's reply confirmed her guesses. She sighed, and closed her gray eyes for a moment. "Now—well, things can happen to a lady, and the only recourse we have is for Ardana to ban them from the House. She can't always do that, even, because if the client is important enough, he could threaten to turn us over to the Cathedral Constables."

"The Guards of Public Morality?" Robin said, with heavy irony. "Very nice. As if they weren't violating the laws themselves. I've seen plenty of
them
in here too."

Krystal shook her head, and toyed with the silken folds of her robe. "Of course you have. But that wouldn't stop them from arresting us if they were ordered to. They don't care; why should they? We aren't important to them.
They
can always find another House."

"Wh-whereas you w-would w-wind up in g-gaol," Kestrel said for her.

"Or the work-house, where they make 'honest women' out of people like me." Krystal tossed her hair, but this time angrily.

That was new. "What's a work-house?" Robin asked.

Sister Jasmine chimed in. "It's a place where they're putting women convicted of something called 'immoral idleness.' Basically, it's if they don't have a husband or father supporting them, or work at a trade or a job. They do plain sewing and laundry for the Cathedral and the Abbey here."

"And get paid what?" Robin wanted to know.

"Nothing!" Jasmine said bitterly. "Their so-called 'wages' are confiscated to pay their fines and room and board."

"I've heard other stories, too, about that so-called 'work-house.' " Krystal's eyes flashed with anger. "It seems the Priests visit there. Very often. I've heard they have all of the advantages of a House, one reserved for the privileged few, but they don't have to pay for any of them. And not only that, but the laundry and sewing get done for nothing too!"

"Th-that's s-slavery!" Kestrel said, after a moment of appalled silence.

Krystal shrugged, and her hair slipped coquettishly over one eye. "That's the privilege of power," she replied. "And it's why so few of us have actually been
caught
in a raid. We don't want to end up in the workhouse, so we all have ways to escape. If we have to—" she faltered, then continued. "—well, one way to make certain Padrik wouldn't want you is to make certain you aren't pretty anymore."

She might have said more, but Ardana appeared with a client in tow, a rather ordinary and dumpy little man, dressed like a middle-class merchant, with merry eyes. There was nothing about him to fire the imagination, and Robin could not for a moment imagine why Krystal's face lit up with a truly welcoming smile when she saw him. But the lady rose immediately and hurried over, leaving Robin and Kestrel to pick up their instruments and resume playing.

But Robin had everything she needed; anything else Krystal could have told her was of secondary importance, and minimal value. Most of it Robin had already deduced.

It made perfect sense to find the Patsono Clan mired up to their necks in this sordid business. They specialized in being involved in sordid undertakings.

It had never been anything on this scale, though; mostly petty trickery and fraud.

Even among the Gypsies a Patsono was watched carefully, and valuables kept out of easy filching reach. All Gypsies tended to cheat ordinary housebound folk—who they called
gajo,
or in the Outsider tongues, "rootfeet" from their habit of never leaving a place for as long as they lived. It was not considered cheating so much as a combination of good bargaining and education . . . if the rootfeet learned to be careful, to watch their purse strings or to examine what they bargained for, then they got a cheap lesson in the ways of real life. Sometimes that cheating extended to a bit of outright theft, if the mark appeared to deserve such attentions. Robin had picked a pocket or two in her time. She considered it justice, not thievery; those whose purses she lightened were either far too wealthy for their own good, or they had been particularly noxious, like the bullies in Westhaven.

But Gypsies, as a rule, never made fellow Gypsies or Free Bards the targets of such thievery and trickery. The Patsono Clan had fleeced or robbed both quite as often as they'd victimized rootfeet.

The only question in Robin's mind was—why? Why were they doing this? What were they getting out of it? Why had they suddenly decided to throw in with a rootfoot—and not just any rootfoot, but a High Bishop? The Gypsies had no shared interests with Churchmen, not even a common religion.

She had personal experience with a Patsono or two; if there was one trait besides dishonesty they all had in common, it was a distinct aversion to cooperate with
anyone.

There was only one way to find out that "why," and that was to do so in person.

Kestrel isn't going to like this, Robin,
she told herself, as she devoted half her attention to her playing, while the other half was wrapped up in thinking up a way to get her into the black heart of the Patsono Clan. So
while you're at finding a way into Patsono, maybe you'd better find a way to talk him into accepting this . . . .

Kestrel didn't like it. Not at all.

"You're
what?"
Anger had completely obliterated Jonny's stutter. He had listened to her careful explanation in relative calm, but the moment she had told him that she was going into the Clan enclave, he had exploded.

"I'm going to pretend I'm a distant cousin of one of the Patsono's," she explained again, patiently. "That's not at all hard; unless you go through a formal handfasting, there are plenty of Gypsies who don't bother with formalizing relationships, not even when there are children. There usually aren't when there's no handfasting, unless the woman is wealthy in her own right and wants a child. Gypsy women are all taught how to prevent conception."

"So how would you be some kind of relation then?" he shot back, eyes wide with emotion, although she could not tell whether it was anger or something more complicated.

"Because sometimes a woman can choose to have a child, and not care who the father is so long as he isn't a rootfoot," she said, trying not to show her exasperation at having to state the obvious. "And sometimes women are just stupid or careless. It doesn't matter! All I have to do is claim my father is one of the Patsonos, name some city I know the Patsonos were in, and give a vague description of the man. Patsonos have no imagination to speak of; of the entire Clan, at least a quarter of the men are named Robere, another quarter are called Tammio, and the rest are a mix of Berto, Albere, and Tombere. If I say my father's name was Robere and I
don't
try to claim any special privileges or demand one of the Roberes recognize me as his offspring, there shouldn't be any problems or questions. Among the Clans it's basically up to you and maybe the Clan Chiefs to keep track of who you're related to."

If she'd thought that would mollify him, she was proven wrong.
"Shouldn't,"
he scoffed, lip curling in mockery. "Shouldn't cause any problems or questions. Oh, grand. What if it does?"

"It won't as long as you aren't with me," she retorted, her own temper fraying. "Which you won't be. You couldn't pass for a Gypsy no matter how hard you tried, and by now I'm sure there are plenty of Clans who've heard of Robin and her
gajin vanderei.
But when I go in alone, there won't be any reason to connect me with—"

"What?"
he yelped again. "You're doing no such—"

Her frayed temper snapped. "How
dare
you? You are
not
my master, you do
not
tell me what I will or will not do!" she hissed. "
I
rule my own actions!"

And with that, she whirled, yanked the door to their room open, and stalked away, down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard, walking as quickly as she could and still preserve her dignity. Once she reached the courtyard, she sprinted across it, and dove into the street beyond.

Evidently her angry defiance caught Kestrel oil-guard; if he tried to follow her, he was too late about it, for she quickly lost herself in the early-evening crowds. She wrapped her warm woolen shawl around her shoulders and her head, and slipped through the slower-moving strollers with the agility of an otter in a stream. She knew exactly where she was going now, thanks to those evenings at Ardana's. According to the clients, Padrik's "special helpers" had a little enclave of their own on Church property. There was a walled courtyard on the opposite side of the Cathedral from the market-square, a courtyard that had a guest-house meant for groups of visitors. That was where the "special helpers" and their wagons were, so that was where Robin would go.

Moving at a brisk walk, she kept herself warm, and covered the distance between the inn and the Cathedral in very short order. She actually made better time than she had expected to, emerging into the deserted market-square before she realized that the crowds had thinned to nothing.

She looked up, and could not suppress a gasp; she stopped dead in her tracks to stare.

She had never seen the Cathedral at night; its impact was as great as the first view by daylight had been. The carvings were darker shadows, silhouettes against the colored glass of the windows, and every window shone with its own light. The colors gave the illusion of floating in the darkness of the Cathedral, and now she saw what she had missed before—that the windows themselves, framed as they were by the carvings, formed the simple shapes of stylized flowers and leaves. The Cathedral was a huge bouquet of flowers, made of light . . . .

A cold breeze whipped around her ankles, then blew up her skirt, and woke her to her self-appointed mission. She shook herself out of her trance and hurried across the cobble-stoned square. The windows of the houses surrounding the square were also alight, but this was familiar, homey light, and she concentrated on them rather than on the seductive and hypnotic beauty of the Cathedral. As they had peddled their God-Stars she had amused herself by imagining what lay beyond those windows; now, at least in part, she was able to see how the wealthy of Gradford spent that wealth.

It was often lovely, certainly expensive, but after spending time in the Royal Palace in Birnam, no longer impressive. In fact, the taste in this town tended towards the overblown, over-ornamented. Many of those who had decorated the interiors of these houses seemed determined, not to echo, but to outdo the Cathedral. Where one of the carvings of the sea-tower boasted a single strand of kelp, the gilded ceiling-moldings featured a dozen intertwined strands in a fraction of the space, and fish peeking through the kelp to boot. Where there was a pair of ribbon-tails in mating-flight on the air-tower, the frame of an enormous mirror had three dozen, all getting in one another's way, and looking less like a mating-flight than an absurd crashing bird-orgy. It would surely have embarrassed T'fyrr. Wallpaper or painted murals featured the same carvings as the towers, but painted in lifelike color—which did not improve the composition any, and made the paintings look overcrowded.

She sighed and shook her head. Sad, that so much money should be squandered on such bad taste. Perhaps this new trend towards austerity would creep over into the furnishings and decorations in these homes . . . if it did, for once Padrik's influence would be of excellent benefit.