Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (37 page)

Rowan set the lantern down, first flattening a place in the
dry grass with her foot. Willam knelt beside it with his stolen clock in hand.
“Four minutes,” he said.

Bel set down the wheat flour and sat on her heels. Rowan leaned
back against the brick wall. Willam remained as he was, watching time flick by.

“Two minutes,” Willam said quietly.

No crickets sang; the insects had departed with the early
snow, four days ago. Some small animal, a mouse perhaps, rustled in the grass,
skittered past Rowan’s feet, pattered briefly in the old floorboards, and was
silent.

Then: “That’s it. The updates are running.”

Rowan had half expected some sort of perceptible effect:
some sound, or sight, some sense of difference. There was none. The night was
cold, starry, quiet.

Bel and Willam rose, collecting their burdens; Rowan took up
the lantern. Trying to move casually, they returned to the street and turned
back toward Jannik’s home.

They walked up the front path; but at the portico, Willam
stepped aside. “Rowan, you and I stay close to the wall,” Will said. “Bel, you
stand here.” He positioned her beside and just under the overhang of the
portico’s roof, facing the street, her back against a supporting pillar.
“That’s an eye,” and he pointed up, at an ornamental glass boss under the small
peak of the portico’s roof; Bel leaned forward to look. “The house saw us. It’s
trying to tell Jannik right now, but it can’t reach him through the jammers. I
can change its memory of us coming and going, but if you stay right here you’ll
be out of its sight, and I won’t have to fix the part in between.”

Will turned to the wall beside the portico, set his sack on
the ground, unknotted it, felt around inside, and extracted an object.

A penknife. Rowan felt an odd impulse to laugh. She had expected
nothing so prosaic.

With Rowan lighting his work, Willam counted bricks from the
ground up, and at twelve he prodded at one with his fin—

gers, then began to prize it with the knife. The brick slid
out, then another, and a third, with soft scrapes that seemed loud in the
night-quiet, and siftings of dust. Will inserted his hand into the opening
revealed and seemed to grope. There came a snick from within, and a small
creak. He waved Rowan closer, to direct the light into the niche.

A small metal door stood open on a little cupboard. Within,
tiny specks of light, like distant red and blue stars, and the sort of small
objects that Rowan had come to associate with magic: rectangular black insects,
thin lines of copper, lengths of stiff, brightly colored string, which Rowan
knew from past experience possessed copper cores.

Willam peered into the niche, gingerly probing with one
finger. He pulled out two of the strings, left them with part of their lengths
hanging outside. “Rowan, step back.”

She did as she was told. Willam cut the strings, and waited,
tensely. Nothing at all occurred.

Willam relaxed. “Good. Now …” He pulled from his sack a
small canvas packet, untied and unrolled it. Inside lay a carefully ordered
collection of tools, as tiny as a jeweler’s. He selected one; but with his
hands and face and the lantern so close to the little cupboard, Rowan could no
longer see what he was doing.

Rowan and Bel both startled when the front door emitted a
quiet
click.

The women traded a quick glance; but Willam was already
sidling up to the door. Staying to one side, he reached out, turned the knob,
and pushed.

Warm yellow light spilled out onto the portico. This,
despite the fact that the windows of the house were dark.

Willam blinked. “I’ll fix that later; we can’t have everyone
seeing it. Bel—”

The Outskirter eyed the door, and the light, suspiciously.
Then she picked up the sack of flour, hefted it, and heaved it into the
opening.

A soft thump as it struck the floor. They waited.

Nothing.

Willam grinned. “Good.” He replaced his tools in the packet,
rolled and tied it. “I’d hate to have done all this and then get crushed by a
simple deadfall.” The packet went back into his sack. “Rowan, remember: when
we’re inside, don’t say a word until I tell you that it’s safe to speak.” And
with no further comment he picked up his sack, stepped under the portico, and
entered.

Rowan gave Bel one more glance; the Outskirter was
wide-eyed. Rowan followed Willam inside.

A foyer, paneled in old oak, the flour sack resting in the
center of a mat of woven rush, itself showing the effects of many dirty shoe
soles. Hooks along the wall held a hooded oilskin cloak, a heavy one of dark
green wool, and a rough-knit sweater. A brass stand in a corner beside the door
contained two ornamental canes and a bright green umbrella.

Rowan found herself gazing at it in puzzlement, as if some
part of her had believed that no wizard would ever need so simple a thing as an
umbrella.

Willam was doing something to a wall-mounted lamp, reaching
behind the frosted-glass shade. Three creaks, and the foyer went dark.

They waited for their eyes to adjust. Then Willam took the
lantern and silently led Rowan inside.

The hallway lit itself on their arrival. Rowan could not
decide whether this was ominous, or weirdly welcoming.

To one side: a parlor, still dark. Light from the hall lamp
showed it comfortably appointed in dark blue velvet curtains, blue-green couch
and armchairs, low tables, all arranged about a magnificent carved-wood hearth.
To the other side, in deeper shadow, what seemed to be a formal dining room.

Willam ignored the rooms, glancing about the hall, seeking
something. Rowan found it first.

She had seen one such in the fortress of Shammer and Dhree:
mounted on the wall beside the dining room door, a tiny brass wheel.

She did not presume to use it herself, but waved for Will’s
attention, and indicated it. It was he who turned it, and the light in the
hallway dimmed to darkness.

By lantern light, Willam led on.

Down the hall, past dark rooms on both sides, their uses
indiscernible in the gloom. They found the staircase, which also greeted them
with light. It was too far from the foyer’s open door to show from the street.
Willam allowed it to remain, and handed the lamp back to Rowan.

They climbed.

The second-storey hallway lit itself for them. Willam
glanced quickly into the open doors of each room, then returned to the stairs,
and indicated
up.
Rowan followed him.

The light in the third-storey hall was cooler, softer, and
only one door was open.

When they entered the room, there was light again, but not
bright. One lantern, mounted on a stand, sent a yellow splash onto a deep,
comfortable armchair. On the table beside it lay a book, an abandoned tea pot,
a cup and saucer. A small but pleasant brick hearth graced the wall, its mantel
displaying a huge cut-glass vase filled with a riot of dried roses and statice.

A second, smaller lamp stood on the most beautiful desk Rowan
had ever seen.

It was huge, ancient, constructed of rich bird’s-eye maple, with
contrasting geometric inlays of walnut and cherry. Rowan resisted the impulse
to stroke it.

Willam moved behind the desk, and stood by the chair. He
gazed around the room, then gave Rowan a glance whose meaning could not be
misinterpreted: this was the place.

He set his sack on the floor, and opened it; from where she
stood, Rowan could not see it, but she saw what he brought out as he lay each
item on the desk. She watched closely.

A stack of small, flat, white rectangles, like half-sized
playing cards, tied together with a bit of twine. A box, four inches by two by
one, on top of which were mounted two brown wheels, their edges touching each
other; on one end were two copper studs. A shallow paper cone, three inches
across, its back supported by a thin metal cage. An object like a thick coin
was mounted at the center of the cage, and from this trailed two more of the
stiff, bright-colored strands.

The last item Willam brought out seemed by contrast the most
inexplicable: merely a very small, old book, tied closed with a leather thong.

Willam picked up the paper cone by its cage, attached the
free ends of the strands to the copper studs on the box. He arranged the cone
to stand on its coin, open end up.

He laid out the white cards, in a single row. They were each
numbered, simply, on one corner, 1 through 8.

Willam glanced around the room again, spotted something, indicated
it to Rowan. She looked. Against one wall, by a bookcase: a short stepladder.
She fetched it; he gestured that she should place it before the desk, and then
that she should sit on it. She did so, grateful that he had thought of it. She
did not care to stand for the next three hours.

When she was settled, Willam took a seat in the wizard’s own
chair behind the desk. He paused, then nodded to himself, picked up the card
labeled 1, and leaned close to the box.

He touched it on one side; of themselves, the wheels began
to turn against each other. With careful precision he placed the card, edge-on,
at the point where the wheels touched. The wheels caught the card, pulling it
forward between them.

The steerswoman was glad that she had seen something like
the paper cone before, when she had dismantled a magic box while in Alemeth.
So, she was not surprised at what happened next.

The cone said, in the voice of the wizard Jannik: “Access.”
Rowan was, however, startled when the room replied. From somewhere above came a
voice, genderless, inflected in civilized tones, but seeming to possess no personality,
no soul, no life. It said: “Password, please.”

Rowan found she was clutching the sides of the stepladder in
a desperate grip, to prevent herself fleeing the room. There will be more than
this, she told herself firmly, and stranger still. She forced herself to
breathe smoothly, seeking calmness, detachment, and clarity of observation.

Willam had caught the card again as the wheels released it,
and without hesitation took up 2, and fed it to the turning wheels. “Equinox,”
Jannik said; then card 3: “Crocus.”

Card 4 caused the cone to utter: “Solstice.” Card 5: “Wild
rose.”

Willam used card 2 again, repeating: “Equinox”; then, card
6: “Chrysanthemum.”

Card 4 again: “Solstice,” and Rowan found herself running
through a list of plants associated with winter.

With card 7, the voice of Jannik said “Mistletoe”; but
Willam glanced at the box sharply. On the second syllable, the wizard’s voice
had wavered, warbled slightly. Will’s eyes narrowed.

“Not recognized,” the room said.

Willam repeated the entire process. Rowan again found
herself admiring his concentration and patience.

When card 7 was being pulled between the wheels again, Will
left his hand hovering above. In the middle of the word, he touched the moving
card, briefly, precisely. The warbled syllable was steadied, somewhat. Then he
waited, for what seemed to Rowan a long moment, but perhaps was not.

“Accepted,” the room said. “Scan, please.” Willam nodded,
then took up the little book, untying the thong.

As he did so, a small, square inlay on the top of the desk
slid aside. From inside emerged, unfolding, a thin metal jointed construct,
insectlike, that first rose up and then angled toward Willam, and Rowan could
think of nothing but the tail of a scorpion

She was on her feet, and Willam glanced up, startled, not at
the arm but at her. He held up one hand, his expression urgent, cautioning; he
was not at all concerned by the strange device now pointing at him.

Rowan blinked, regained control, nodded. Willam looked significantly
toward the door, then at her, questioningly.
Do you want
to
leave?

Rowan settled down on the footstool again, in a marked manner.
Willam gave her a very long, evaluating look. Rowan attempted to communicate
both contrition and reassurance, which she found not at all easy with that
poisonous-looking object pointing directly at her friend. But Will was
reluctantly satisfied, and turned back to his work.

He opened the little book; but apparently the book itself
was unimportant, as he set it aside after removing something that had been
tucked protectively between its pages.

The object was about an inch square, as thin and flimsy as a
slip of paper, although its color was of metal: silvery, shimmer—

ing, with rainbows refracting weirdly within, at a depth
that seemed a bit greater than its actual surface.

Willam studied it closely, looked at its back, oriented it
carefully, and held it up, less than an inch from the pointed end of the metal
arm.

He waited. Nothing whatsoever occurred. He became disturbed,
and then thoughtful. He examined the slip of silver again, back and front,
considered, blinked, then shrugged in something like resignation.

Holding the slip by one corner between the thumb and forefinger
of his left hand, he placed it over his own left eye, in the fashion of an eye
patch, and leaned his face close to the point of the arm—a sight that caused
Rowan to grit her teeth.

Red light emerged from the pointed tip, played across the
slip of silver.

The room said: “Recognized,” and the arm backed, bent,
folded, retreated, down into its enclosure. “Good evening, Jan-n ik.”

Willam leaned back in the chair, pleased, then put away the
silver slip and took up card 8.

The paper cone uttered in words oddly inflected, as if each
one had been magically snatched from a different conversation: “Manual, input,
only.”

“Confirmed,” the room said.

Willam relaxed, grinned across at Rowan. “We can talk now,”
he said

The desk unfolded.

Willam startled hugely, but held up a hand to Rowan, said,
“Wait—”