The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  She was dizzy with relief. She looked at the ceiling and looked around the room, unbelieving, her mind a flurry of thought with no outlet. It seemed she was safe, for the moment, and she almost surrendered to it, almost rose and walked out, leaving the wizards to lose themselves in their misguided internal disputes.

  But the safety, she knew, was an illusion and would shatter in the end, perhaps under worse circumstances. Better that it shatter now, by her own hand. She turned back to Corvus. “I’ll save you time, effort, and strain on your sources. No wizard helped me. No one fed me information. There is no traitor, and I’m even more dangerous than you think.”

  He gave a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t destroy that fortress. There’s no reason you should care about the jewels, no reason you should take such trouble.”

  “There were reasons enough. At first, curiosity. Later, because my investigation so interested the wizards.”

  He shook his head, disbelieving.

  “Steerswomen never lie, Corvus. And no wizard could have fed me my information, because I know more about this one thing than any of you do, except Slado.” She slapped her own chest, an abrupt, tense gesture. “I know what the jewels are.”

  His brows knit, and he studied her with a narrowing gaze. “Then enlighten me.”

  “A good choice of word.” She drew a breath and began. “Corvus, how many Guidestars are there?”

  He did not hesitate. “Two.”

  “Really? Interesting, if true. I’ll rephrase: How many Guidestars were there, originally?” Catching his puzzled expression, she brushed away his reply. “Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you. Four.”

  She went on, speaking rapidly. “Two is all that we can see, all that we know about. On the celestial equator, immobile, as all can see; but not really, Corvus, not in truth. They do fall, but too high, too fast. They can never reach the ground. They fall in the direction the earth turns, and at the same speed, and so only seem each to hang forever above its one spot on the earth. It’s so obvious, isn’t it, once it’s pointed out?

  “But why are there only two? Humankind has never pressed far enough east or west for one of the pair to sink out of sight below the horizon. What would happen if someone did travel so far? I think I know. As one Guidestar disappeared, another would rise on the opposite side. And it would be that way, all around the sphere of the earth; a traveler would always see two.

  “That is, until some thirty-five years ago. It’s different now. These jewels are part of a fallen Guidestar.”

  His expression answered her next question without her asking. “You didn’t know,” she said.

  A hundred speculations crossed his dark face; he shared none of them. At last he said, reluctantly, “Someone told you this.”

  “No. I only used reason, evidence—” Her mouth twisted. “And a small ability with mathematics.”

  He made to speak, stopped himself, shook his handsome head in disbelief, and began again. “How—” He corrected the phrasing. “I can’t think of any way to bring down a Guidestar.”

  “Why not the same means by which they were lofted?”

  “That was long ago.”

  She leaned back a bit in pleasure. He had admitted that the wizards themselves had set the Guidestars in place. “You think you don’t have that ability any longer? The ability exists, but perhaps you don’t recognize it. The force that destroyed Shammer and Dhree, for instance. Shammer himself said it; such things are tricky, and dangerous. And Dhree: she said it was just a question of multiplying the force used. If their two abilities were combined in one person, perhaps that person would find the problem laughably simple.” She leaned forward and said quietly, “I wonder if Slado is laughing.”

  His eyes were on the window and the harbor outside; his mind was miles away. Then he looked at her sidelong. “One can’t help but wonder at his reasons.”

  It had happened, the change she was looking for, the shift in his demeanor. Clutching at the hope, she spoke to him with simple directness. “I’d tell you, if I knew. And I’ll tell you, when I do know. It’s only a matter of time.”

  He nodded minutely, and for that space of time, at that one place in the world, regarding that one matter, they had ceased to be opponents. “Slado is playing some game of his own.”

  “Yes,” she said urgently. “And it’s a big one, possibly the biggest ever. The Guidestars were originally set there for a reason, and it’s not merely to aid navigation.” She stopped in mild surprise, then continued in wonderment. “The steerswomen are always taught to be able to navigate with and without the Guidestars. I thought it was for the exercise, but it’s something held over from earlier days, isn’t it?”

  “Very likely.” His mouth twitched; then he spoke a bit reluctantly. “The existence of the Guidestars makes one particular category of spells easier to effect.”

  “Do you need all four? No, I’ll retract the question, I doubt if you can answer.”

  But he did. “Some of the spells in question are simple, and common; for those, one Guidestar would suffice. But there are a few—complicated, and very important ...” He became silent.

  “You don’t use those spells yourself,” Rowan said, “or you would have noticed the missing Guidestar.”

  “That’s true.”

  Rowan did not ask who did use them; she believed that she knew. “Would there be problems if those spells were lost forever?”

  He squinted in thought, and the squint became a wince. “The effects wouldn’t be noticed for some time. Eventually ... I don’t know enough. There could be some very bad results.”

  “Bad for whom?”

  He gave her a piercing look. “Bad for everyone, lady. We wizards do have our uses.”

  She reached across and tapped his arm like a conspirator. “Then Slado has some purpose more important to him than the welfare of the folk and the wizards. He’s your enemy, Corvus.”

  “All wizards are each other’s enemy, in some way,” he admitted.

  Rowan noticed that the tavern was completely silent. Someone had noticed a steerswoman in conversation with a wizard; now many stood watching, and more had left. Corvus sent a long mild gaze around the room, taking in every face, then made a small gesture—and the rest of the crowd departed quietly. Only the barman remained, standing beyond hearing with nervously shifting eyes. Corvus ignored him.

  “That’s a useful skill,” Rowan commented in amusement.

  “Sheer force of personality.” He turned back, studying her speculatively. “When I thought that you’d been helped by a wizard, you could have left it at that,” he pointed out. “We assumed that you yourself presented no threat to us, and we probably would have left you alone.”

  “Am I a threat, Corvus?”

  “You know that you are.”

  “Then I’ll introduce you to someone even more dangerous. A fourteen-year-old boy, the son of a blacksmith, uneducated, untrained, unable even to read. But able, if he so desires, to shatter a wizard’s fortress.”

  His face went blank with amazement. “A boy killed Shammer and Dhree ?”

  He had forgotten the rules, and Rowan’s only reply was her smile of satisfaction. “It’s impossible,” he said carefully. “I’d like to meet this boy, but frankly, I don’t believe that you know what you say.”

  “It’s the truth. And he wants to meet you; in fact, I promised to recommend him to a wizard, if ever I had an opportunity. I recommend him to you now. He’d like to be your apprentice.”

  He shook his head. “We choose from among our own.”

  “A separate people? That’s something else we didn’t know before. But it’s not working very well, is it, if you have to use two wizards for one job. I must assume no one better was available.”

  “That was Slado’s doing.” His expression grew grim at the thought. “It was too soon.”

  “Not by his lights. Part of his game, Corvus; he wanted that holding established right now, immediately. It must be impor
tant to him.” Rowan watched the wizard’s face change as he internally assembled facts known only to him, to some result that he found deeply disturbing. “I won’t ask you what you’re thinking,” Rowan said. “But perhaps you’ll tell me, one day, of your own accord.” She rose. “Come. Young Willam has something he’d like to show you. I think you’ll find it interesting indeed.”

  Some ten years earlier, a clever sailing captain had thought to avoid docking fees by bringing his ship past the public wharves, to a private landing up a narrow corner of the harbor. The ship moved slowly, and sounding leads were thrown every five feet of the way; but on a short starboard tack, between one sounding and the next, the hull met a narrow jagged rock, was breached, and the holds filled with water. The ship remained, half-submerged, more decrepit every year, to become the hated enemy of every riverman, confusing the currents and releasing unexpected debris.

  Willam removed it.

  During his hectic preparations of the previous week, Rowan had been his shadow. She asked no questions, but by some unspoken agreement he abided her presence. She understood little of the proceedings and was annoyed by what she did recognize. They seemed simple processes: distillations and precipitations such as an herbalist might make, but using no plants. At one point she thought he was making tea from some powder, but during the process, when he discovered one hand damp from the brew, he flicked his fingers dry, and the droplets fizzed into sparking flame as they flew.

  Now he stood, his bow in his hand, Corvus at his side, on the west bank of the river. The wizard had seen none of Will’s preparations but had watched with interest from the bank as the boy scuttled about the wreck, one of Artos’s regulars his dazed-looking, cautious assistant.

  The day was hot and thick with damp, the sky a white dome of haze. Downriver, the harbor docks were crowded with spectators. “Is there any danger for those people?” Artos asked.

  Will shook his head distractedly. “Not at this distance. I didn’t use that much.”

  The duke was suspicious and uncertain, but did not protest. Behind him, Bel was tending a merry little blaze, three rag-tipped arrows on the ground beside her.

  Rowan stood, a wide-legged, stable stance, waiting for the ground to become the rolling sea she remembered from the fortress. She had not seen Will’s magic at the last violent moment, had had her back to it as she ran. This time she intended to watch.

  Wiliam made a gesture to Bel, and the Outskirter lit one arrow, turned it to even the flame, and handed it to the boy. He stepped up to the water, waded into it up to his knees, and nocked the arrow. With the smooth ease of a true archer, he aimed and let fly in the same movement.

  The bolt ended in a pile of straw braced against an afterhouse on the tilted deck, and the straw flared. Will ran back to shore. Bel stiffened, bracing herself, but Rowan stood looser, preparing her body to absorb the motion.

  Nothing happened. There was a long pause, and people began to look at each other in perplexity.

  “I, I’m sure I did it right—” Willam stuttered. He reached to Bel for another arrow.

  Corvus put a hand on his shoulder. “The charm in that straw was the first you set?”

  “Yes ...”

  “They absorb water.”

  “I didn’t let it get wet—”

  “The air is damp, and you set it hours ago. And even before that, if it wasn’t properly protected, it might have drawn water from the air. Are all the charms the same?”

  “No. I use two kinds. One releases easiest by fire, and the other by, by a blow, or if another charm nearby is released.”

  “You use the one kind to activate the other?”

  “That’s best.” They were oblivious to all else, lost in discussion of magic.

  Corvus gave a small, almost kindly smile. “But enough heat will release the other sort, too, won’t it?”

  Willam looked in amazed realization from the wizard’s face to the ship, where the afterhouse was rapidly catching fire. He said in a vague voice, “You’d better get down.”

  Corvus dropped prone with no hesitation, Willam beside him. Artos and Bel exchanged glances and more slowly made to imitate them. The little band of Artos’s regulars looked about in confusion, some laughing nervously.

  And the spell released.

  It was like thunder from the sky, like standing next to a lightning-strike. Time seemed to slow as Rowan’s thoughts sped more quickly, and she saw the rapid action with perfect clarity.

  Water sped away from the wreck, moving out in a circular wave so violent that it broke in an instant, the stable surface around it like stone by comparison. Spray dashed straight up in a fountain impossibly high.

  The ship separated into a hundred pieces, and each piece seemed to flee in its own direction: the bowsprit hurried across the river, the deck shattered and flew up into the air, the sides of the hull seemed to seek earth, pushing the water flat, then down, and Rowan briefly saw the shallow river bottom.

  The poop deck became a cloud of splinters that rushed toward her. She turned and dropped to the ground, bits of wood pattering against her back like hail.

  There was a long, echoing quiet, and a second wave of water dashed against the shore like a breaker.

  Bel let out a delighted hoot and went to pull Willam to his feet. “That was wonderful!”

  Artos and Corvus rose more cautiously, and something seemed to pass between them as they viewed each other. Rowan stood up, splinters falling off her to the ground.

  Bel was thumping Willam’s back, and he took her congratulations quietly, wearing the same expression he wore when he had viewed the destroyed fortress. He looked like a man who had been told some shocking news, secretly knowing that he was to blame.

  Corvus took in the group with a long, slow gaze. His eyes ended on Artos. “I suppose, if I tried to kill these two, you and your men would do your best to prevent me.”

  “You’d have to use some powerful magic,” Artos said evenly.

  The wizard nodded, and he looked a bit sad. “I don’t want to hurt them. Rowan.” He turned to her. “Steerswomen are very good at discovering reasons. If there’s a reason I shouldn’t eliminate you and this boy, it’s one that I ought to know.”

  She did not hesitate. “You won’t do it,” she said, “because it would do you no good.”

  He raised his brows in surprise, and she continued.

  “Willam and I are nothing special, nothing unique. Killing us would solve nothing.” She approached him, her boots pushing splinters into the ground. “That’s why I told you that no wizard was helping me; that’s why I didn’t hide behind your misconceptions. I’m just a steerswoman, Corvus, and a common one at that. Four years past my training, wandering about the world with no better mind than my sisters.”

  She stood before him, studying his face, urging him to understand. “As long as you wizards thought I was unique, you hunted me. I’ve managed to avoid you, or escape from you so far; perhaps I can do so for many years. It doesn’t really matter; in the end, I think, you’d kill me if you really wanted to.

  “But what then? Do you think the Steerswomen themselves are remarkable? Will you destroy the Archives? I don’t doubt that you can do so, easily enough.

  “But the Archives don’t make us what we are. Will you hunt every steerswoman? We’re scattered throughout the known world, and we’d go into hiding. It would take a long time, but perhaps you’d destroy us all, yes, and the new ones we’d train in secret.”

  Looking up into his dark face, his pale eyes, she saw that he was disturbed. “But there’s one more thing, Corvus,” she told him. “There’s Willam.”

  Bel shifted, eyed Willam, then led him by the elbow to Rowan’s side. The three stood together facing the wizard: warrior, thinker, and child.

  “He’s just a boy,” Rowan said. “Of the common folk. All he has is his eyes, his hands, his reason, and his courage. You can’t destroy that, and you can’t command it. He’s not unique, and he’s not trained. H
e’s no steersman, he’s the son of a blacksmith—but he knows, and I know, secrets you claim for your own. And if it weren’t we two, if it weren’t now, it would be someone else, sometime soon ...

  “How will you stop us, all of us? Will you break us down to barbarism? Will you kill every son of a blacksmith? Every merchant who uses a simple formula to calculate profits? Every farmer who can add? Every chambermaid who dares to look at the stars and wonder?

  “Will you? Then, wizard, who will you rule?”

  Corvus spoke, his voice was very quiet. “I don’t want to do any such terrible things. I want the world to be as it’s always been. It’s not a bad world, really, as a whole.”

  She gave no ground. “The world is changing. You know it and I know it, but neither of us knows why. Watch what happens, Corvus, and when the time comes, choose your side. But remember us, that’s all. Remember.”

  Corvus accepted Willam as apprentice.

  It was against tradition, against common and wizardly wisdom. Corvus gave no reason, and Rowan’s mind filled with a hundred speculations, each more dreadful than the last. But she satisfied herself at last with the recognition of one simple fact: It was what the boy wanted.

  As they turned to leave, Wiliam stopped, suddenly recognizing his departure for what it was. He paused in realization, then rushed to embrace Bel, his head bending down against hers, and she held him quietly for a while.

  When he came to Rowan, he took her undamaged hand in both of his. His eyes were full of amazement and gratitude. “Will I see you again?”

  “It might be years. It’s a long way to the Outskirts. And no means to guess what may happen between here and there. Or after.”

  “You’re still going?”

  Her mouth twisted. “There’s something I’d like to see.”

  He looked displeased, and it came to her that he disliked the idea of her traveling about without his protection. She laughed despite herself, and he became a bit sheepish.

  “Well,” he said, “I won’t forget you, or what you said to Corvus. Don’t you forget me, either. I made a promise to you.”

  It took her a while to remember. “That if the wizards kept their secrets for some mean reason, you’d defy them and answer what I asked.”