The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series)

by Rosemary Kirstein

  “She’s not pining,” Steffie put in. “She’s busy, is all.”

  “Busy with what? She’s doing nothing that I can see.”

  “Looking in the books.”

  “Never seen no good in that. Toss ’em all out, that’s what I say.” And that was Galer again, so whatever he said, everyone else was against it.

  “Now, it wouldn’t be the Annex, would it, if there was no books,” Lark said to him. “Got to have the books.”

  “And got to have someone to look after the books. No books means no steerswoman in Alemeth.”

  “Who says we need a steerswoman in Alemeth?”

  “But then there’d be no one to look after the books!”

  “Well, at least she can tell a story, when she wants,” Belinda said. “Last night, that was better than anything Mira ever told. Rowan should do that more.”

  “Story about foreigners,” Galer grumbled.

  “What, you want to hear all over how Choley got drunk and spent the night in the pigpen?” Which was when one of Belinda’s babies fell right in the tub, not by accident but meaning to. And when Belinda fished him out, he started crying, because he liked it in there and wanted to go back. And then the other one started crying because his brother’d had some fun that he hadn’t.

  “What’s in all them books, anyway?” Choley asked, talking loud over the fussing.

  “Lives,” Steffie said straight off, saying just what Rowan had said to Gwen. “Lives of steerswomen, going way back.”

  “I thought it was maps and things,” Ivy said. “How to go places and what’s there.”

  “Well, that, too.”

  Then Steffie started to explain, about how Rowan was looking for this wizard; and what Routine Bioform Clearance was; and the trouble the Outskirters were having, what with that spell being stopped. It went on for a while, because he wasn’t really good at telling.

  But halfway through it, Steffie started to notice something.

  That high place he’d thought of before— the place he’d have to jump up to, to see it all clear— it seemed to him that he was almost there. Somehow, explaining was making it happen, all by itself.

  So now, almost, he could see everything spread out like a landscape— all the things Rowan said, starting to fit together— and almost, too, he could look even farther, out past all that, to what came next—

  And that’s when he stopped dead in his tracks. Because all of a sudden he was wondering: If the warrior tribes can’t get any new places to live in the Outskirts, what will they do? What can they do?

  Only one thing Steffie could think of. But no … no, he had to have that wrong …

  Then he realized that he’d stopped talking a while ago. And that now he was just standing there, in the middle of the bathhouse, elbow deep in a tub full of blue, saying nothing at all. With everyone looking at him.

  After a while, Galer made a noise, which wasn’t words, but everyone knew exactly what he meant.

  “But— ” Steffie started and wanted to say, But it’s not stuck in the mud at all, it’s just my thoughts moving too fast for my words to catch up. But with everyone staring at him, and his whole head hurting from going so red in the face, Steffie couldn’t get a single word out.

  And then they laughed— like they always did. And everyone went back to work.

  After a bit, Steffie managed to say, “You’ll have to ask Rowan about it. I’m not telling it right …”

  “No right to it,” Choley said. “Just crazy talk. Got yourself all befuddled, spending too much time with that steerswoman. That’s the problem.” He started working the wringer crank, so he grunted when he spoke. “House full of books— ” grunt “— bunch of wild stories— ” grunt “— fancy words and— ” grunt “— fancy manners.” He stopped wringing. “Too good for us, that’s what she’s thinking,” he said to the whole room, his fists on his hips. “Too bloody high and mighty to associate with us at all.”

  Someone snorted. “Oh, and what’s so wonderful about you, makes you think anyone’d associate with you.” It was Laney, one of Maysie’s boys.

  “You’re one to talk!”

  “My jobs just as good as yours.”

  “Says you. At least I stand up to do mine.”

  “When you’re not lying down in the pigpen.”

  “That was just the one time— ”

  “Couldn’t tell that by the smell— ”

  But then Mowrie and Jane and Acker and Leonard showed up at the door, saying how Lasker’s worms had gone up the hill, and everybody stopped talking about Rowan and started talking about that instead.

  But Steffie wasn’t listening. He was thinking again. And what he was thinking was that the problem wasn’t him spending too much time with the steerswoman; it was everyone else not spending enough.

  It wasn’t until nightfall that Steffie got a chance to stop by the Annex again.

  Rowan looked up when he came in, said hello politely enough, and went back to her papers.

  Steffie watched her for a while. There she sat, all alone, one hand turning the pages of a book, and her eyes moving fast over the pages.

  After a bit, Steffie said, “There’s a tent party out at the dell.”

  “Another celebration?”

  That made him stop and count, because there had been a few parties since she’d been here. “Well, a little one. Lasker’s worms have gone up the hill, see. Generally that happens later in the year, when the work stops, and before it starts up again. But with Lasker’s spring silk, his worms are spinning right now. So there’s some people ready to celebrate, and the rest of us thought, well, why not?”

  The steerswoman hmm’d. “Why not, indeed? Have a nice time, Steffie. Please don’t feel you have to come in at any particular time tonight, or tomorrow, for that matter. I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, you know.” And she kept paging through that book.

  Then Steffie said, “You know, it’d be good if you came, too.”

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  “You should come along.”

  “My work— ”

  “You keep yourself too much apart,” he told her. It felt odd, telling a steerswoman what she ought to be doing; but someone should, and it had to be him, because it surely wasn’t going to be anyone else. “I don’t know how long you’re figuring to stay in Alemeth, lady,” he went on, more formal, “but I think it’ll be better all around if you can get along with people.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “I have no problem getting along with people,” she said, a little stiff. “I’ve managed to get along with, and even like, some of the strangest people you could ever imagine.”

  “Well.” That put him in his place. He almost let it go, but suddenly, he just couldn’t. “Well, nobody here is strange at all. Maybe what you need is to learn to get along with people who aren’t strange. We’re all very common here, and we don’t like it being held against us.” There.

  He’d shocked her, all right; but not the way he thought. “Is that really what people are thinking?”

  Tell the truth to a steerswoman— even if it’s not good news. “Yes. Some of them.”

  “But I never— ” she started, then stopped. “I certainly didn’t intend— ” She stopped again. She stared off to one side for a while. And just then it came to Steffie that there were a lot of things about herself that Rowan didn’t know or notice— the same as everyone else. “You’re right,” she said at last. “I had no idea. It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more … sociable.”

  Good. “Well, if it’s sociable you want,” he told her, “a tent party’s just the place.”

  She looked down at her books again, like she was mad at them. When she looked up, he saw something crinkling her eyes. “Dancing and drinking?” she asked.

  “Plenty of both.”

  “And absolutely nothing important going on?”

  “If you try to do something important,” he said proudly, “we’ll stop you.”

&n
bsp; She laughed out loud; and it was strange to hear from her, the freest laugh she’d ever made. She pushed her chair back. “Then we’re wasting time.” But she still took the time to close her book, wipe her pen clean, and put her cup in the kitchen basin. On her way back, she picked up her sword and strapped it on. “Let’s go.”

  Steffie eyed the sword and tried not to wince. One step at a time. She’d put it aside soon as someone asked her to dance, he suspected. “Right, then.” And they stepped out into the street.

  There were no streetlamps this far from the harbor; a few houses with open windows sent candle-dim shadows out onto the cobbles, and there was starshine. It made the house-shapes look like sleeping bears, quiet but still looming. Steffie knew his way well enough in the dark, from the shape of the shapes, and he was ready to take Rowan’s arm to lead her; but she strolled along easy as you please, even a half step ahead of him, like it was her leading him.

  When they got to the last houses, and the crest of the little dell, she stopped for some reason or other, and he did too, all by himself at the same moment.

  Way up, little clouds moved, dashing across the winking stars and showing one Guidestar, then the other, then neither. The air was exactly the best temperature: cool enough to feel but not any cooler.

  From here, the lights of the town looked small— not distant, exactly, but one and one and one, each alone. Down below, among the trees, the lights of torches flickered from their own sputtering and flickered more when people passed in front of them. Everything you could see twinkled, but everything you could feel was solid, like the ground beneath your feet and the cool air on your skin. And flowers, Steffie could smell flowers, and that seemed exactly perfect.

  Then he wished that he knew what kinds of flowers they were, but the steerswoman must have been thinking the same, because she said, “Roses … rhododendrons … honeysuckle …”

  “Daisies,” he added. And it would have been a good time to move on, but neither of them did.

  And it came to Steffie what a fine thing it was: not so much to go to the celebration but to be going there, to be on the way.

  And that was why they had both stopped, so they could go on being on the way, for just a bit longer. So they could stand here in the quiet dark, with the stars all above, the little lights down among the trees, and the happy voices and bits of music floating up, all of it like a present you look at for a long time before opening up.

  Then Steffie heard a little noise— a rustle in the bushes behind, another off to the side— and he just managed to hold back laughing, so as not to give it all away. Sideways in the dark, he watched the steerswoman.

  She’d heard it, too, he could tell. She had moved her head just a little bit, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she was going to play along.

  But all of a sudden Steffie couldn’t breathe; it was like all the air had been sucked up to the stars, because there was something about the way she had cocked her head …

  And then there was this shout inside his head, which was himself telling himself to shout out loud, to stop what was going to happen—

  And he did shout, but it was lost in the other shouts, the whoops and squeals—

  And then they were all around — shining shapes, little green-glowing hands flapping, eyes and mouths just dark holes in shining green faces, arms and legs just lines of light— and more of them coming, bursting out of the bushes.

  And then another noise, a hiss not made by any voice, and a glitter, sweeping back, starting forward; and he half reached, half threw himself across the space between and grabbed Rowan’s shoulder and yanked, hard.

  He thought she’d fall down, right on top of him, but she did some wild trick in the dark, arms and legs every which way— then she was free, crashing off into the night, with him scrambling to his feet behind her.

  The voices had gone to high shrieks; the little shapes were stumbling through the bushes, away, fanning out; and Steffie gasped one big gasp, which was the end of the shout he’d started: that’s how fast it all happened.

  But the steerswoman was still after them, each one of them like a shining lamp showing the way. She made no sound now, she was silent as death, and that sword, she had that sword held up over her head—

  And then she’d caught up to the slowest two, and Steffie yelled again, “No!”

  And he was right next to her, somehow. He threw both his arms around the one she held high; he pulled back with everything he’d got. “No! Let them go!”

  She’d swung half around. “What are you doing?”

  “Leave them! Let them go!”

  “Those creatures— ” But they were gone now, just wails far off. “That light— ”

  “It’s moths!”

  The stars made her eyes hard and bright, like her sword. “Moths? Those things? So huge? No— ”

  Steffie yanked again, talked fast. “No, not moths— it was moth-stuff. The children, they catch the moths, see, and squash them; then they paint themselves with the stuff, and run around at night, scaring people. It’s a joke, it’s fun!”

  “Paint themselves …” It was like the words made no sense to her.

  “Because it glows.”

  “Glows …”

  “The moths,” he said, “the moth stuff, it glows!”

  She looked at him like he’d just now showed up. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, it just does!” He was still holding on to her sword arm. It was loose now, but it wasn’t a moment ago; it had been all tense, and ready to kill. He was terrified by the picture in his head. He let go and stepped back fast. “Damn it, woman, you can’t swing at everything you see!”

  She drew herself up. “I do not swing at everything I see.” She sheathed her sword. “But when apparently monstrous creatures seem to attack me, I do make an attempt to defend myself.”

  “You fool, they were children,” he said, and damn all proper form and respect to steerswomen.

  All of a sudden she was dead quiet in the dark; and then it was her grabbing at his arm. “Steffie— ”

  “Too bloody right!”

  “If you hadn’t been here— ”

  “Good thing I was!”

  They stood there in the dark, her looking off into the brush where the children had run. “I’ll …” She gathered herself together. “I’ll have to do something, explain to the children somehow, apologize …”

  He started to pull back roughly, then didn’t. “Well …” She was sorry, and frightened at herself. She was used to danger, and she thought she’d seen it.

  Steffie softened. “No likely chance at that, I expect,” he told her. “Story’ll be all over town in a minute. No child will come within a mile of you.”

  She dropped her hand. “Then I’ll have to explain to the parents …”

  “Right.” Then he remembered where they were on the way to. “Half the town’s at the dell now. Good a time as any.”

  She didn’t seem like she much wanted to go, anymore, not that he could blame her. But she drew a big breath and let it out slow. “You’re right.” And she turned to go on, but then stopped herself. Very slowly, like it was a hard thing to do, she unstrapped her sword belt and stood with the sheathed weapon in her hands. “You go ahead,” she told Steffie. “I’ll join you shortly.” And she began to walk back toward the Annex.

  Steffie fell in beside her. “No. I’m going with you.”

  “Really, it’s not necessary …”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “You’re not safe out alone.”

  She stopped short and looked up at him. “Do you know,” she said, “I’ve been told that before.” And she looked down at her sword again. “But never for this reason.”

  8

  Woman,” Dan declared, “you couldn’t dance to save your life.”

  “I,” the steerswoman said with cautiously precise enunciation, “sincerely hope it never comes to that.”

  She wasn’t exactly drunk, merely unmoored, drifting a bit. Object
s seemed to exist separately from any previous context. The dim dawn light painting the houses seemed to come from inside the surface of the walls, very pale and inexplicable: a pretty sight.

  She had thought it would be impossible to make it up to the townspeople after what she had done, or nearly done, to the children; instead, she discovered herself to be the center of a new and treasured anecdote.

  She only needed to tell the tale once; after that, it told itself, all around the party. She found she could trace its route by the pockets of laughter bursting out here and there. Apparently, the scare the children received was regarded as their just desserts by many. Rowan had stopped reminding them that the danger had been real, after being cheerfully told, again and again, that no one had been hurt, that all came out well in the end, and why in the world wasn’t she dancing?

  Everyone asked her to dance, even people she had never met; and it came to her that she had turned some corner in the town’s attitude. She was no stranger anymore. She was a local figure with a place and a history, someone at whom, and with whom, one could laugh.

  And so she had danced, not caring how foolish she might look. The dances of Alemeth were not the careful, ordered patterns of her home village so far away; and that, she decided, was a virtue. One made it all up as one went along, depending purely upon inspiration.

  Unfortunately, she and her various partners had acquired their inspirations from incompatible sources. Toes had suffered.

  “Almost as bad as Mira,” Gwen declared muzzily. She was walking with Steffie’s arm about her, her unbalanced steps now shoving all her weight left against his shoulder, now dragging his weight with her to the right, resulting in a rather interesting two-person stagger. Dan and Rowan walked on either side of the couple, bracketing them to fend off imminent collisions, which somehow never quite occurred.

  “I’m not Mira,” Rowan said with dignity, “and I shall prove it if I have to become the best dancer in Alemeth.”

  “I’d teach you,” Dan began, “but …”

  “But he’s not much better,” Steffie finished.

  “True, true.” Sadly.

  They ambled on through the close, mazy streets. All the houses were quiet, their occupants either home abed, dancing in the dewy dell, or on their way between the two, in either direction. As the group passed the baker’s, a sleepy-eyed little girl wandered out, hair in a tangle, bucket in hand. Dan sang at her in a surprisingly tuneful voice: a nursery rhyme about the man in the missing moon. She grinned shyly, and watched the group out of sight.