12. A Good Woman, a Good Man, and a Poet
“It is said that a single king and queen have ruled the fairies since the days of the gods, an immortal pair who are known by many names, but most often called Eenur and Sakuri according to Rhantys, who was reputed to have friends among the Qar. Some stories even claim that these immortal rulers are brother and sister, like the monarchs of old Xis.”
Matt Tinwright had been searching the inner and outer keeps for her a tennight or more, using almost every free moment when he was not at the court or tending Elan’s slow recovery, so it was disappointing that he found her at last only a short way from his hired room near Skimmer’s Lagoon in the outer ward. She had apparently gained a bit of a name for herself among those exiled from the mainland city, refugees who now lived in the most miserable conditions, crammed together in the besieged castle.
When he first saw his mother he did not immediately approach her, but instead followed the tall, bony woman as she walked down Staple Street from shop to dingy shop with a basket in her hand, apparently collecting food for the less fortunate. His mother, Tinwright thought grimly, never had any difficulty finding those she deemed less fortunate than herself. She could scent them like a hunting hound scents its quarry.
Still, he could not help noticing that despite the unarguable rectitude of her cause, she pocketed every fourth or fifth piece of food, loaf of stale bread, or whiskery onion, apparently for herself. She might insist on helping the less fortunate, even when they did not want her assistance, but Anamesiya Tinwright had always been just as firmly determined to help herself.
He approached her at last near the great temple in Market Square where she was shoving bits of food into the hands of the displaced folk living there in a sad camp of tents made from sticks and threadbare blankets. Watching her quick movements and her prominent, sharp nose, Tinwright could not help remembering what his father had called her in one of his less charitable moments—“that damned interfering woodpecker.”
“If it does hurt your teeth,” she was telling an old man as he walked up, “that is your own doing, not my good bread I give you for nothing.”
“Mother?” said Tinwright.
She turned and looked at him. Her bony hand leaped to her breast and the wooden, almond-shaped Zorian vesicle she wore on a cord around her neck. “By the Trigon, what is this? By the blessed Brothers, is that you, Matthias?” She looked him up and down. “Your jacket is good, but it is dirty, I see. ‘Let not your raiment be tattered and oiled,’ as the sacred book says. Have they chased you out of the court, then?”
He felt himself flushing with anger and frustration. “It’s ‘tattered and soiled,’ not ‘tattered and oiled.’ No, Mother, I am very well liked at the court. Kind greetings to you, too. I am glad to see you well.”
She waved her hand toward the half dozen or so men and women crowding around her, all as tattered and soiled as could be. “The gods give me health because I give my best to others.” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the nearest old man. “Chew your food, you,” she said sternly. “Do not bolt it down and then hope to cozen me out of more.”
“Where are you living, Mother?”
“The gods provide for me,” she said airily, which likely meant that she was sleeping where she could, as were so many other refugees from the mainland in this crowded, stinking city within a city. “Why? Do you come to offer me a bedchamber in the palace? Have you grown ashamed of offending the gods with drink and fornication and hope to climb back into their good graces by extending a little charity to the woman who bore you?”
Tinwright took a breath before answering. “You have always been fascinated with the idea of my drinking and fornicating. I wonder if it’s entirely fitting for a mother to talk about such things so often.”
He had the pleasure now of seeing her flush. “You are a wicked child—you always were! I speak only to point out your errors, with no thought for my own good. Of course it means I am always scorned, first by your father, now by you, but I will not hide when I know the gods’ will is not being done.”
“What is the gods’ will, then, Mother?” Tinwright was close to walking away despite the desperation of his need. He should never have come near her. “Tell me, please.”
“It is plain. It is time for you to give up this wasteful life you lead, Matthias. Wine and women and poetry—none of it pleases the gods. Work, boy—real, sober work—that is what you need. The sacred book tells us, ‘He who does not work will have his eyes emptied.’ ”
Tinwright sighed. The sacred book was, of course, the Book of the Trigon, but his mother seemed to have access to a version no one else had ever seen. He was reasonably certain that the original injunction was “He who will not look will have his eyes opened,” but it was useless to argue with her about such things. “May the gods testify, Mother, I did not intend that we should fight. Let us start our talk again. I came to tell you that I have a place for you to stay. It is not in the palace, but it is clean and wholesome.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Truly? You would become a good son at last?”
He clenched his teeth. “I suppose, Mother. May we go so I can show you the place?”
“When I’ve finished here. A dutiful child will not mind waiting.”
It was small wonder that none of her children had stayed long at home, Tinwright thought. He leaned against a column and watched as she finished doling out the rest of her hard bread and stern admonishments to the waiting poor.
The smile that had started to form on his mother’s face when she saw the clean, well-appointed room suddenly went stiff as a dried fish when she spotted the sleeping girl. Her jaw dropped. “By the Sacred Brothers!” She made the sign of the Three on her breast so vigorously it might have been meant to protect her from a hurtling spear. “O my Heavenly Fathers and Mothers, defend me! What is this? What is this?”
“This is Lady Elan M’Cory, Mother…” he began, but Anamesiya Tinwright was already trying to force her way past him, back out the door.
“I’ll have nothing to do with this!” she said. “I am a godly woman!”
“And so is she!” Tinwright tried to catch at her arm and received a backhand smack from one of his mother’s large hands as she struggled to get away. “Blast and curse it, Mother, will you stop and listen to me!”
“I’ll not share a roof with your doxy!” she screeched, still heaving against his restraining grip. Some of the passers by had stopped to watch this interesting show; other neighbors were looking down from upstairs windows. Tinwright blasphemed under his breath.
“Just come inside. Let me explain. For the love of all the gods, Mother, will you stop?”
She gave him a look of fury, her face deathly pale but for pink spots in her cheeks. “I will not help you kill this girl’s baby, you fornicator! I know the folk of that court, with their wicked ways. Your father read books to you when you were young, no matter my warnings—I knew it would spoil you! I knew you would get airs above your station!”
“Gods curse and blast this whole muddle, Mother, you will be quiet and listen! ” He dragged her back inside and closed the door, then leaned against it to keep her from escaping. “This girl is blameless and so am I—well, I have done nothing to her, anyway. There is no baby. Do you understand? There is no baby!”