The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series)

by Rosemary Kirstein

  In the afternoon, she did come across two logbooks covering the relevant period; and unable to restrain herself, she sat down on the low stepladder to scan through them.

  The first was written by Helen, whom Rowan had met briefly at the Archives, and it began with Helen’s embarkation on a sailing ship bound for Southport.

  Rowan had herself originally planned to go to Southport, to “lay low,” as Bel had put it. But laying low could be accomplished in Alemeth as well as in Southport; and Southport had nothing like the Annex.

  Helen had sighted dolphins on her journey, which intrigued Rowan. Dolphins were rare enough to be considered legendary by most common folk. But such an event was hardly magical.

  Rowan passed those pages by.

  Once in Southport, Helen’s entries continued in the standard steerswoman’s fashion: descriptions of the local plant life; Helen’s surprise that the only wild animals present were feral descendants of escaped domestic animals and imported pests, especially cats and rodents …

  Not relevant. Move on.

  Rowan heard the door open. She hesitated, hearing friendly greetings and conversation.

  Mira had been a popular figure. Likely the residents of Alemeth were accustomed to dropping by.

  “I’m not Mira,” Rowan muttered, and she read on.

  Helen’s notes continued with detailed observations of the clearing of some land for a new home at the southernmost edge of the town. The process included the removal of a patch of bushes that clearly, and startlingly, were a form of tanglebrush— a plant Rowan had thought existed only in the Outskirts. How odd …

  Out in the room, the conversation abruptly moderated to whispers. The visitor had apparently been told that the steerswoman was absorbed in work, and he or she was politely attempting to be unobtrusive. Rowan felt a twinge of guilt but continued to read.

  Helen’s sketches showed other plants and three insects, all of which Rowan recognized as native to the Outskirts. And Southport marked the southernmost known human habitation …

  The whispers were continuing.

  Rowan suppressed a sigh. The visitor intended to stay. A guest was being inconvenienced. Rowan, as host, was behaving rudely. Carrying Helen’s book in one hand, Rowan emerged from the stacks and made her way to the hearth.

  “And there she is! Good afternoon to you, lady.” The speaker was a woman of middle age, with the lively face and youthful eyes of an avid gossipmonger.

  They had been introduced briefly the previous day. “Good afternoon”— Rowan sought and found the name— “Lorraine.”

  Pot and teacups were arrayed on the worktable. Steffie lifted the lid, peered inside. “Tea’s up,” he announced and set to pouring and passing.

  The largest and most comfortable of the chairs had been left empty. Rowan took the cue; she draped her sword belt over the wing chair’s back, took a cup from Steffie, and sat, book in one hand, cup in the other. The permanent depression in the seat cushion left by decades of contact with Mira’s bottom in no way matched Rowan’s own bottom. She shifted awkwardly from edge to edge, her teacup rattling. Eventually she brought her feet up onto the wide seat and sat cross-legged; the pose immediately reminded her of Bel, who habitually sat on chairs exactly as she sat on the ground, if the seats were large enough.

  Rowan wished Bel were here.

  Whatever conversation had been ensuing during Rowan’s absence now ceased in her presence. She suspected that the subject had been herself.

  Lorraine rearranged herself in her creaking wicker chair, adopting a waiting expression of cheerful interest. Steffie handed Gwen a cup, then hunkered down by the hearth, sitting on his heels, blowing across his teacup. All were quiet for a long moment that began to teeter on the edge of becoming an awkward silence.

  The steerswoman was expected to take the lead; Rowan quickly tried to think of something to say. “And how are you today, Lorraine?”

  “Oh, busy as always, and isn’t that the way when you’ve got such a family? I’ve been baking to feed a year’s famine, and would you believe I’ll do the same tomorrow? Now, if I hadn’t set this aside— ” she reached to the floor for a large wooden bowl covered with a cloth and offered it to Rowan. “As I was working anyway, then, I thought to myself, wouldn’t them over at the Annex like some of this for their dinner afters?”

  Rowan tucked her book between one knee and the chair arm, reached down to set her cup on the floor, and accepted the bowl. It proved to contain a number of small fancy pastries. “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful.” Rowan smiled a bit uncomfortably. Despite her years in the order, she always felt faintly embarrassed by the largesse customarily granted to steerswomen.

  “My pleasure.” Lorraine subsided again, smiling and nodding. Gwen quietly sipped her tea. Steffie rocked on his heels musingly.

  The subject was spent. Rowan cast about for something that might interest this woman. She looked at the bowl in her lap. “Perhaps you’d like one of these with your tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Gwen? Steffie?”

  “None for me.”

  “Later, maybe.”

  A pause.

  “These cups are rather nice.”

  “Been here forever. Don’t know where they came from.”

  “I see”

  Quiet.

  “Steffie, I don’t believe I’ve asked you— what is your real name?”

  “Real name?”

  “Well … ‘Steffie’ is a nickname, isn’t it?”

  “No …”

  “He’s always been just ‘Steffie.’ ”

  “Oh.”

  Silence.

  Rowan’s mind ranged wildly. She was required to be entertaining. Half a dozen fascinating events from her personal experience occurred to her, but she found herself unable to baldly trot them out, like boasts. She wished someone would ask a question or express an opinion. She found she was gritting her teeth. “This morning I noticed that they’re stripping the leaves in one of the mulberry groves,” she said at random.

  Success.

  Lorraine’s mouth dropped to become an open O; Steffie hooted a laugh and cried, “Lasker!”; and Gwen declared with delight, “He’s mad!”

  “Thinks he’ll get the jump on us all,” Steffie said.

  “The jump on Karin, more like.”

  “It’s his pride, that’s what it is,” Lorraine put in, leaning forward, her bright eyes wide with scandal. “He’ll make not a penny extra, cause himself grief with hard work, but he’ll have sales before Karin has promises, and that’s what he’s thinking of.”

  “What a fool.” Steffie grinned. “More work than people when the season comes— why hurry it up?”

  Gwen turned to him. “He’ll want workers quick— you should tell your cousin.”

  “What, him? He gets fed, try to make him lift a finger past that— ”

  The door opened to admit an elderly man with a little girl in tow. Before he could speak, Gwen announced, “Spring silk!”

  “Lasker,” he said immediately, and everyone laughed.

  Lorraine relinquished her seat to him. “It’s a chill spring. Now, who’s got the firewood for him, after that winter we had?”

  The man snorted. “Everyone. Wrap ourselves in blankets and gloat over the coins he’ll give us.”

  “I’m not freezing for Lasker’s worms,” Gwen said.

  Steffie nudged her. “Saw you eyeing that frock in Tarry’s shop.”

  She tossed her head. “Figuring the making. I can do as well myself …”

  “And you can use spring silk!”

  More visitors arrived, singly and in pairs. Each was told the tale of Lasker’s conceit, each expressed an opinion, and the conversation continued under its own impetus.

  At the end of two hours, the little parlor area held eleven persons, standing and sitting, and had gone through three more pots of tea. Looking around, Rowan realized that this was what the room must have been like while Mira lived: an op
en gathering place, for news and entertainment, with Mira in her stuffed chair with the sagging seat, the source and controlling center of it all.

  But in Mira’s place sat Rowan, quiet, attempting to listen politely and wishing that she could return to her work.

  Rowan was perfectly capable of enjoying cheerful company and idle conversation. But she had an ominous feeling that she was going to be required to enjoy it, exactly like this, every single day.

  She realized that the talk had died down, and she wondered if she absolutely must get it moving again or if there were any polite way to clear so many friendly people out of the Annex.

  The problem was solved by Steffie. As if on cue, he slapped his knees, rose, and said, “Well, who’s for a few, then?”

  Some took up the idea; others declined. But all, blessedly, dispersed to their homes or to the taverns, bidding the steerswoman a polite goodbye— after making absolutely certain that she definitely did not wish to join them at the Mizzen or at Brewer’s. Their expressions of puzzlement as they left told Rowan that Mira would have behaved very differently.

  “I’m not Mira,” Rowan informed the empty room.

  There were teacups in every corner; Rowan gathered and washed them. Six different varieties of pastry, each with one bite taken, were discovered beneath various articles of furniture; the little girl had tested each and found them wanting. Rowan cleared them away, placed the bowl with its single remaining custard tart on the worktable next to her sword, wiped her hands on a cloth, and looked around.

  The room was quiet, comfortable, the light from the tall windows slightly dim from the overcast sky. There was a sense of immanence, of the anticipation of work to come, work that mattered, and would be done well. Rowan paused a moment to savor the solitude.

  Then she brought the selected logbooks to the table, gathered fresh paper, trimmed two pens, and settled to a seat. She opened a book flat before her, picked up a pen with one hand, the custard tart with the other, dipped the nib, and took a bite.

  Sweetness filled her mouth, so strong and pure it seemed to run down her veins to her fingers. She had a sudden vision: wide, wide blue sky, roiling red and brown covering slow, low hills, swirling down a valley to embrace with shuddering color a single quick stream that glittered with speed. She heard a sound— a rattling hiss like rain on rooftops— felt the walls of the room open to the horizon, and she almost put out her arms, merely to feel the pleasure of space, almost turned around to speak to the good comrades standing just behind her …

  She set her pen down carefully and looked at the pastry in her hand.

  Why would a custard tart make her think of the Outskirts?

  Fletcher.

  I can make a custard tart that you wouldn’t believe, he had said once, supporting his claim to humble origin as a baker in Alemeth. Whether or not it had been true, Rowan did not know. She would never have the opportunity to ask him, never be able to give him the chance to set right the lies he had told her, to become as true in words as he had always been in act.

  It came to Rowan that custard tarts would now forever remind her of Fletcher.

  She had no intention of avoiding custard tarts for the rest of her life, nor would it help her to do so. Every accoutrement of her work or habitual action she undertook had the potential to remind her of him. He had been that constant a presence, from the day she first saw his gangling, unlikely form amid a crowd of barbarian warriors, to the quick, shocking instant his life ended.

  But it was not that ending that held her now, alone, motionless in the wide, empty room not was it the beginning. It was single, sharp-felt moments in between.

  How he had walked among the herds with her, wading the rattling redgrass, spouting now nonsense, now wisdom, both in the same canting Alemeth accent. How they had stood back-to-back awaiting battle, unseen by each other but sensed and known, and trusted. How he sat close behind her as she wrote in her logbooks, playing at distracting her, but waiting quietly and companionably when he saw she needed silence.

  How, in the darkness of the tent at night, she listened to his long, sleeping breaths among the breathing of the other warriors and how, in the light-spattered brightness of the daytime tent, and they two alone together, his long, angular body a lattice around hers, they had spoken and not spoken, touched and moved …

  And this is how people come to believe in ghosts, Rowan told herself: when memory and imagination are this strong. Imagination, inspired by longing, gifted with all the remembered details, abruptly presenting a perfect recreation— in sound and sight and scent, in the very pressure of the departed one’s breath upon the still air.

  Were she a far simpler soul, she might almost believe This is real, almost think He is here, now, almost expect, at any moment, the sound of his voice just behind her.

  Almost wait, and wait, for the touch of his hand on her shoulder—

  She found that she had risen; and she discovered in herself a sudden, urgent need to be surrounded by people.

  Nonsense. She had practically chased her visitors out.

  Rowan stubbornly seated herself again, carefully rearranged her work, picked up her pen, and began a list: names of the writers of the selected logbooks, date ranges, assigned routes.

  Halfway through, she idly and unconsciously took another bite of the tart.

  She stopped. She set it down again. She sat regarding it.

  Then: a few coins from the jar, Mira’s cloak from the hook by the door, her sword— and she was out in the gray and drizzling street, swinging the cloak about her shoulders, pulling the door closed behind her.

  4

  Brewer’s Tavern was one left turn and four doors down, with its entrance and windows pulled half closed against the rain. Rowan entered the sea of murmuring voices, found a seat: a high-backed carved wooden chair at the empty end of a long table. Adjusting her sword to one side, she settled herself and with relief allowed the quiet conversations around her to lap gently at the edge of her consciousness.

  A sudden pocket of silence formed at the other end of the table. Rowan looked. A group of mild-seeming men were eyeing her with alarm. One glanced at her sword.

  The steerswoman gave a small smile. “Its a habit,” she explained simply. “I’ve been traveling in dangerous lands.” The men muttered among themselves, then returned to their drinking.

  The tavern was busy, more than half full, with most of the customers gathered together in knots, as if they expected it to get fuller yet and wished to avoid being separated from friends yet to arrive. Two servers moved among the tables, and Brewer himself was pressed into duty, bustling about the room, bent but spry.

  A serving girl with a full tray passed by Rowan and paused to place a mug of beer in front of her. She was about to accept payment when Brewer signaled vigorously from the far side of the room. “That’s the steerswoman,” he called, and the girl politely refused Rowan’s coin and went on her way.

  “Thank you,” Rowan called after her, then caught Brewer’s eye and raised her mug to thank him as well.

  She leaned back, sipping, viewing her surroundings. There was only one room to the establishment, a long, low-raftered hall, whitewashed walls and smoke-blacked wood. Battered furniture of every description crowded the floor, few pieces matching: tables of rough plank and tables of old curly maple, low benches, high stools, chairs, a few worn armchairs. A pair of ancient divans were pushed against adjacent walls in a corner, seeming settled and frowsily comfortable, like elderly uncles. Apparently Brewer’s was the final repository of much of the town’s cast-off furniture; but far from seeming seedy, the effect was oddly pleasant. Rowan suspected that everyone present recognized at least one object in the room, and perhaps was made more comfortable because of it.

  She could not imagine surroundings more homely or people more harmless. She felt rather a fool for being armed.

  Brewer had worked his way around the room, and now stood passing mugs to the customers at Rowan’s table: one to each
of them and one more to Rowan. “Excuse me, but I already have one— ”

  He paused long enough to wink. “But you’ll be wanting another.”

  “Eventually, yes …”

  “It’s here when you want it— Hey, no, you!” Something by the entrance caught his outraged attention. He dropped his empty tray with a clatter and hurried off at his best speed. One of the men at the table nudged his neighbor; the signal was passed down, finally reaching a severely inebriated man at the end, who roused himself with a sleepy smile, saying, “Here we go, then, here we go.” All rearranged their chairs to acquire the best view of the proceedings.

  Brewer had reached the door. “Out, out, then!” he shouted. “Out with you!”

  The cooper was standing in the entrance, ostentatiously confused. “What?”

  “You!” Brewer flapped his apron at the man, as if chasing geese. “You coming by here, some gall you have— ”

  “What, me? Passing by, wanted a drink— Hey, ho, stop! Do you flap at all your customers? No surprise your business is so poor-”

  “Poor, this? But that’s no thanks to the likes of you, telling tales, coaxing folk down to your brother’s place.”

  “Now, Brewer, the Mizzen is a fine old inn, no reason not to say so—”

  “Saying so in my place to my customers, while they’re already having the best time to be had in Alemeth— ”

  “I think it’s Maysie’s house for that, you know,” someone called out, and the room responded with laughter.

  Something nagged at Rowan’s mind; she could not place it.

  The cooper drew himself up to his full burly height. “Now, look at this.” He held it up. “Plain copper coin, as good as anyone’s here, I should think. If you want it joining its friends in your till, you’ll bring me a mug of your beer, which I freely admit is the best in town. In fact, with two beers for the same coin, I won’t mention to everyone here how my brother’s got a good dozen ducks on the spits at the Mizzen, sizzling since morning and just about done now— ”

  Brewer threw up his hands. “Two beers, and you shut up entirely!”