For the next three days Plain Kate sketched and carved in scrap wood, trying to learn how the bow worked. She kept her head down even though it was a lively time: There were Roamers in the market.
Roamers were wanderers; they lived in tents and traveled from town to town, trading, singing for supper, telling fortunes. Begging, sometimes. Stealing, people said. They had skin like polished walnut, eyes like chestnuts, clothes like a carnival. They lived on the edges of things, and tended to be thin.
Most Roamers were not much welcome in Kate’s little town, which lived too close to hunger to take joy in jugglers, too close to fear to like fortune-tellers. This particular clan, though, came once a year and traded in horses, which was so sensible that even Niki the Baker did business with them. He bought a sturdy pony from the two young men, twins, who tended the little herd. “A dull life she’ll have, driving millstone,” he said, “but she’ll not be beaten.”
Linay, as if driven out by the other strangers, had melted away. Plain Kate put his bow down and worked on Niki’s objarka instead. She found her thoughts chasing one another. There had been a time, in that country, when the Maid of the Wheat was a real woman. When she was led into the last standing quarter of the ripe grain and tied there while the fields were set on fire. Her burning spirit kept the gods fed; her blood was plowed into the ground.
Now they had only one God, and the Wheat Maiden was just a talisman. But women still burned. Plain Kate worked to turn the ends of the objarka’s hair into bearded barley, to turn crosshatch cuts into a woven wheat crown that sat against the smooth forehead. She wished Niki had asked for a horse’s face—the horses in the market were full of life; their hooves clattered on the cobbles like good music. Better than Linay’s tambourine, much better. Kate was sad as evening fell, and the dark-skinned men in their bright colors led the horses away.
When it got too dark to work, Plain Kate went down to the docks to catch dinner. Taggle went ahead of her, with his tail curled in anticipation of fish. The fishing boats were just coming in, the great beacon fire was being lit, and the dock was busy. Plain Kate fished as the stars came out, throwing her line into the darkening water.
Plain Kate caught only one bony bitterling in the first hour, but as the fishermen came by with their barrows, things changed. Where her line went in, the river suddenly swarmed with fish, thick as waves in a whirlpool. Taggle dug in claws and leaned down until his nose almost touched the water. His golden eyes were huge; his teeth clicked with excitement.
The fishermen stopped to look. “Would you look at that,” said Big Jan. He loomed over her in the moonlight. “A body could stand on them.” He nudged Taggle’s twitching rear end with his boot.
The cat fell and twisted as he fell, sinking claws deep into the dock and kicking at the water. Plain Kate grabbed him by the scruff and dragged him out. Taggle dripped and yowled and hissed at Big Jan, who laughed. “Fierce beast you’ve got there, girl,” he said. “Don’t you want to see if he can walk on fish?”
“Leave be, Jan,” said the oldest fisherman, whose name was Boyar. “What happens here, Plain Kate? How did you draw the fish?”
“I didn’t!” she exclaimed. “They’ve just…” She had no explanation. “They’ve just come.”
Big Jan sneered and even Old Boyar looked skeptical, but he said, “Fish, then. Don’t turn your back on blessing.” He eased the dripping cat from her arms so that she was free to fish. Taggle squirmed loose and bolted, swiping at Big Jan’s ankle on the way by.
The fishermen stood a moment, watching as Kate cast her line into the swarm, pulling out fish after fish, big trout that flashed white in the moonlight. “It’s an uncanny thing,” said Old Boyar.
“A witchy thing,” muttered Big Jan.
“Ah, leave off, Jan,” said Old Boyar. “Let’s get the catch in.” He walked away and the other men followed.
A little way downstream, an unfamiliar little boat—a small punting barge—lay tied up at the bank. Moonlight caught at it, and Kate saw something move there, something white. Linay was standing on the deck like a ghost on a battlement. She saw him lift his hand in ironic salute, and remembered his threat: Do not doubt that I can twist things…
She believed him. But she was hungry, and she kept the fish.
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