The Steerswoman's Road (11 page)

Tyson stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Wait, now.” He
stepped into the main passage and looked down it both ways. Something caught
his attention. He called down the passage. “You! Yes, you, come here a moment,
you’ll do. Come on!” Reeder’s boy rounded the corner hesitantly, his face full
of apprehension.

Tyson went back to the chest and beckoned to the boy. He patted
the lid. “Put your hand on this, boy.”

The lad froze. His gaze flickered among them, from Rowan to
Bel, to the chest, to Tyson. His eyes widened. He glanced at the exit, then
back to the chest. He clearly had no idea what was planned and just as clearly
knew that it meant nothing pleasant for him. He seemed unsure whether to
attempt an escape, or to obey the order of the navigator, who was, after all,
a very large man. His turmoil immobilized him. He paled. He began to pant.

The three watched his performance; then Rowan laughed despite
herself. The others joined in, and Bel clapped him on the back. “Go on, boy.”
He fled.

Bel turned to Rowan. “What do you think, now?”

“I think ...” Rowan reviewed her thoughts again. “I think
that there is a great deal that wizards know, that I don’t.”

When they reached the open air again, night had fallen. A jumble
of clouds in the west were still faintly underlit by the departed sun, and were
crowding toward the zenith. No land was visible, but with a glance toward the
Eastern Guidestar, Rowan offhandedly located herself in her world with perfect
precision. She automatically noted the westward progress they had made since
morning.

When she looked at Tyson, he was doing the same, although
she suspected that his accuracy would be less than hers. Then he scanned the
horizons. “Wind’ll come up before dawn. Rain, as well.” She nodded.

Bel sighed. “The crew will be crowded tonight. Well, we’ll
be warm and dry, at least.”

“Overhead leak somewhere down there,” Tyson commented. “I
hope you’re not under it.”

“Damn.”

He spoke to Rowan. “Lady, does this upset your theories?”

“I had no theories. Only the possibilities of some theories.
There are still possibilities, just somewhat different ones.”

The three stood by the rail for an hour, watching the
progress of the clouds and enjoying inconsequential conversation. Presently the
first mate scurried down into the aft cabin and emerged with Morgan in tow. The
captain viewed the scene, then issued orders to adjust the sail positions,
watching with affected disinterest as he slowly paced the poop deck.

Eventually Bel decided it was time to turn in and made a few
good-natured insults about the cook’s particularity for early hours and
promptness in assistants.

Rowan and Tyson remained, talking idly and companionably.
Presently Tyson put forth an invitation, which Rowan considered carefully, then
declined. Uninsulted, Tyson stayed with her for another hour; then he wished
her good night and retired.

Rowan wandered the deck alone for a while, enjoying the feeling
of the deck as it shifted beneath her feet, the subtle changes of wind strength
and direction. Eventually her mood shifted a bit, and she found herself
regretting her refusal of Tyson’s suggestion. This she remedied by knocking
softly at his cabin door at midnight.

In the morning Reeder’s boy was found dead, lying blue-faced in
a puddle of water next to the wizard’s chest.

“Stupid,” Morgan pronounced, shifting through the papers on
his worktable. “Foolish. Stupid. He was looking for trouble, or he was too
stupid to know when he’d found it. Damn!” He slammed down a fistful of notes
and receipts. “Why bother a wizard’s chest? There was a warning spell on it; he
must have noticed it.”

Rowan sat in a low chair across the cabin, legs stretched
out in front of her. “It wasn’t particularly unpleasant. It can’t have killed
him.”

“No, of course not.” He pointed a finger at her. “He tried
to open it. He ignored the guard-spell and met the protecting spell. I can’t be
held responsible for the idiocy of a boy.”

Her face was impassive. “He was curious. Intrigued.” To herself
she added, Challenged.

Morgan grunted noncommittally. Shifting his papers into apparently
arbitrary piles, he calmed visibly. “Have you gone over the charts with Tyson?”

“Yes.” The hiss of rain overhead grew louder. Someone walked
on the deck above, steps slow and heavy.

“Were there many corrections?”

She shook her head. The steps above paused, apparently at
the taffrail. “There was nothing incorrect on them, but you’ll find quite a few
additions. Some areas where not much was known before.”

There was a creak as the person above shifted. Morgan
nodded. “Good. I’d like to review them with you. Where’s Tyson, do you know ?”

“On deck.”

“In this? Have someone find him. And bring the charts.” He
caught himself. “Pardon me, lady. I’ll get them.”

Rowan rose. “No, Captain, I’ll go. Excuse me, please.” She exited,
closing the door on his surprised expression. Wrapping her cloak around her,
she climbed the short companionway to the deck.

The wind was strong but not storming. Rain fell in a solid
pour, weighing down like a hand on Rowan’s head and shoulders. The deck was
near-deserted. Through the shifting gray she could faintly make out the back of
the helmsman, not far from her, placidly manning the wheel. She turned and went
up the steps to the raised poop.

As she came to the top, the wind caught her borrowed cloak
and whipped it about like a loose sail. She grabbed at the folds and pulled it
close. Its protection closed about her like the walls of a room, water running
off her hood in streams before her face. She had to move her whole body to
direct the hood opening. She saw a lone gray-cloaked figure motionless at the
taffrail, looking off astern, and she moved toward it.

She spoke, but the noise of water covered her voice. She
touched his shoulder; he seemed not to notice. Using both hands, she turned him
to face her.

It was Reeder. His face was pale with cold, slick with rain.
Sparse hair lay wet against his forehead, like lines drawn in ink. He looked at
her expressionlessly, eyes blank and bright. His eyes were a beautiful pale
green color; she had never noticed that before.

Startled, she stepped back. She made to speak, but he turned
away.

Rowan left him and searched every part of the deck for
Tyson. The downpour limited her vision to the length of her reach, so that her
scope was small, her search detailed. She began from the poop deck, where she
left Reeder, and worked forward, and so at last found him up by the bowsprit.

He stood far forward at the angle in the railing. Where the
rest of the ship was only dreary, there the violence of the elements showed
itself. The seas were not very high, but the ship moved heavily, and the bow
smashed each crest, with a noise like the absent thunder.

Tyson faced the seas. Each time the bow met a wave, the impact
sent a stinging sheet of spray over the rail; he did not flinch, but only
blinked against the water. His cloak was soaked through, and he wore his hood
down. He was as wet as if he had been underwater. Rowan guessed he had been
there since dawn.

She called out to him, but the hiss of rain, the whistle and
rattle of rigging, and the jarring crash of waves covered her voice. She moved
closer and shouted.

Some sound, if not words, reached him. He turned and she saw
him recognize her—recognize and withdraw, his face a closed door.

A dash of spray slapped across his back and into Rowan’s
face. She winced and wiped her eyes with her fingers. When she could see, his
expression had changed, and he seemed surprised, as though he had thought
himself alone despite her presence. It was the cold water on her own face, his
realization of her pain and discomfort, that brought him back.

He grabbed her arm, put his face close, and shouted. The
words came faintly. “Get out of the weather!” Beads of water hung in his beard
like crystals. The cold he had absorbed drew the heat away from her face, out
through her hood.

She tried to explain. “The Captain,” she began, but she
could not make her voice loud enough. At last she put her hands on his arms and
looked him full in the face, letting him see her utter refusal to leave him
there.

Thoughts moved behind his eyes. He let her lead him away.

They went below, down to the galley. Bel was there, dealing
with an immense kettle hung over the brick stove. She looked up in astonishment.
“What happened to him?”

Rowan brought him into the warmth. Tyson muttered protests. “Don’t
fuss, I’m all right.”

“You are soaked.” Rowan took his cloak. The shirt beneath
was as wet as his face. “And frozen.” His face was white; he shivered. Bel ladled
soup from the kettle into a mug and passed it to him. He wrapped his hands
around it but did not drink. His eyes found the fire and rested there.

Bel watched him silently, then turned to Rowan for answers.
Rowan told her about Reeder’s boy, and Bel listened, eyes wide.

“People should be careful with magic,” the Outskirter said. “He
ignored the warning. It was a stupid thing for him to do.”

“Boys are stupid,” Tyson said bitterly. “It’s in them to be
stupid, and to do stupid things. That’s how they learn. Adults should know
better.”

“It’s not your fault.” Rowan put a hand on his shoulder and
studied his face. “He was down there already. He was looking for mischief. It’s
horrible, but he found it himself.”

He turned to her. “He would have left it alone, after the
guard-spell warned him. But he saw us. And I—I dared him.”

She had no answer. It was true.

“Perhaps he thought he’d be immune,” Bel said. “Perhaps he
fancied himself a sailor.” The idea set off in Tyson some chain of thought
that forced his eyes closed in pain.

The room was thick with dampness and cooking scents. The air
was dark and close. The fire painted their faces with warm light. Rowan
remembered such a light, such air, such faces.

She had been a very young girl, perhaps five years old. The
harvest was in, and it was very late at night. There was still much to do, and
the family had brought their work by the firelight.

Her mother and father were husking fist-sized ears of maize.
A morning rain had soaked the ears, and they gave off a visible steam in the
heat. Her aunt, a narrow, fragile-looking woman, was sorting beans, and her
uncle sat close to the firelight, squinting as he carefully repaired a wicker
basket.

Young Rowan was shelling peas, very bored. She absently
counted the number of peas in each pod, wondering if they would go past ten.
Ten was all she knew.

The adults’ conversation seemed not to pertain to her, and
she accepted it as a dull background to a dull job. Presently there was a
lull, and her aunt began to sing a little song in a high thin voice. Rowan
became more interested and stopped counting to listen.

The song was about a bird. Rowan liked that, as she was fond
of birds, and there were so few around. The bird, a swallow, flew alone in an
empty sky. In the morning it came close to earth and flew very fast, skimming
the fields. Later it began to rain, and the swallow passed a barn. Looking
inside, it saw that all the animals were in their stalls, warm and safe. At
night, it flew high above an empty castle and looked down on the towers,
circling around. At last it found a nest and slept, while the mysterious moon
crossed the skies. Rowan thought it was a fine song.

But when it was finished she happened to look over at her uncle
and saw that he was silently crying. He had stopped his work and closed his
eyes. Tears ran down his weathered cheeks.

Rowan was surprised. There was nothing to cry about. The only
thing that had happened was that her aunt had sung a song. The other adults
ignored her uncle. That upset Rowan; someone was unhappy, no one was paying
attention, and it was not right.

Then it came to her that somehow the song was not about a
bird but about sorrow. She was confused. There was nothing in the song except
the bird, and what it had done. Still, she knew it was so.

Later, after she had been put to bed, she crept outside and
stood alone in the back yard. With her back to the house, she could see out to
the edge of the cultivated land, past the funeral groves, where the desert
began. The sky above was wide and empty; she thought of a tiny bird high up in
that sky, looking down on her. She tried to remember the song and sang it to
herself. As she sang it, her own eyes filled with tears, although she could not
see why they should.

It came to her that there were reasons behind events,
reasons she did not know, and that the world contained many things that were
other than what they seemed. She thought that perhaps if she could fly very
high, she might see a great deal.

Rowan still knew the song and sometimes sang it to herself.

She took off the cloak she was wearing and wrapped it around
Tyson’s shivering shoulders. He did not look at her, but he leaned back
slightly, accepting its warmth.

With a glance toward Bel, Rowan stepped out of the galley
into the passageway. She wound her way among the passages, back to Tyson’s
cabin. Inside, she went into his sea chest and found a warm shirt of white
wool. With that, and her arms full of his charts, she emerged to encounter a
very surprised purser’s mate, his hand raised to knock. Offering no
explanation, she told the man about Reeder, doubtless still at the taffrail in
the rain. He hurried off, and she went back to join her friends.

The first sign of the approach to Wulfshaven was not a view
of the mainland itself, but of one and then a series of small islands that
swept south from the still-distant mouth of the great river Wulf. The islands
were mostly unclaimed, bare earth and rock, but as the
Morgan’s
Chance
neared the port itself, there were more signs of human hands. Occasionally
an island would actually be inhabited, usually by a lone fisherman feeding the
land by the offal of his or her trade. More often one of the regularly planned
dumps of garbage or a deposit of other fertilizing substances had brought to
life some still-deserted island, creating isolated spots of green, lonely but
promising.