The Steerswoman's Road (12 page)

Rowan and Bel found a place on the poop, out of the way of the
increasing activity. Bel sat comfortably on the deck with her back against the
aft railing. She had donned her shaggy boots and cloak, to ward off the chill
sweeping down from the windy gray sky.

The previous day Rowan had made her farewells with Tyson.
After the death of Reeder’s boy, he had become ever more distant and solitary,
shunning Rowan and conversing with the captain and crew only at need. Rowan
could find no comfortable way to approach him, no way to learn why the child’s
death had affected him so personally. They parted as strangers.

Now Rowan stood near Bel, watching the maneuvers with interest.
Although Morgan strode about the deck with an air of nonchalance, his glance
was sharp, and his orders quick and precise. The heavy ship wallowed with all
the grace he could muster and, in one lovely, astonishing move, sidled up to
the wharf, its sails lulling the instant it barely nudged the dock. Morgan
allowed himself a small smile, then turned away as if the matter concerned him
not at all.

Wulfshaven was a deep harbor, and unloading and disembarking
was a far simpler affair than at Donner. A railed gangplank bridged the
shifting gap between the wharf and the ship’s starboard side. With no luggage
to unload, Rowan and Bel simply walked across the plank, and so arrived at last
in Wulfshaven.

The steerswoman led the way, skirting a small crowd consisting
of a well-dressed portly man leading a nattering group of less elegant fellows:
a merchant, with clerks in tow. A number of smaller vessels were docked along
the length of the wharf, some of them sailboats in such bad repair that their
status had clearly been shifted from transportation to permanent abode.
Children hooted and chattered and clattered past to investigate the
Morgan’s
Chance.

The wind picked up briefly as they reached the end of the
wharf. Rowan had returned Tyson’s cloak; she shivered.

“Do you want my cloak?” Bel offered.

“And leave you with just that blouse? No, I’ll get another
soon enough.” She led Bel left, along a broad, weather-beaten esplanade. “How
soon? Are we going somewhere in particular?”

“I have friends here. We’ll spend the night with one of themMaranne,
a healer. I lodged with her during my training. I think you’ll like her.” Shops
lined the shore side of the esplanade. They passed a chandlery, a sail loft,
and a ropewalk.

“I thought the Archives were north of here.”

“They are. One doesn’t train at the Archives.” Rowan stopped
suddenly beside a filigreed iron pole. “What’s this?” The pole stood twice as
tall as a man and was surmounted by a translucent white sphere. Bel paused
while the steerswoman circled, studying it.

Rowan pulled aside a passerby, a fisherman by his dress, and
put a question to him. He replied with surprise. “You’re new here? That’s a
lamp. They’re all along the harbor.”

Rowan looked down the street and saw another at the next corner,
and the next; they lined the business street along the harbor, clustering
around the open square that fronted the Trap and Net tavern farther down. “But
there’s no opening,” she said. “How can they light the wicks?”

The fisherman beamed with an air of civic pride. “No wicks.
They’re magic. A gift from Corvus.” He hurried on his way. “Come see them at
night!” he called back. “There’s nothing like it!” The women watched as he
continued down to the Trap and Net, where he noisily greeted a crowd of cronies
outside.

“Corvus?” Bel asked.

“The local wizard,” Rowan said, turning back to the lamp. “Blue.

Though he was Red when I was here last.” Abandoning her inspection,
she led the Outskirter down the street, brooding. “Why would Corvus give
Wulfshaven such a gift?”

“Out of friendship?” Bel’s gait had naturally acquired a bit
of a roll during their voyage, and she weaved slightly as she tried to compensate
for nonexistent waves. “I know the steerswomen don’t like wizards, but surely
the wizards do a great deal of good? This Corvus, doesn’t he help the town at
all?”

Rain sprinkled the street briefly, then stopped. A woman pushing
a pastry cart paused and viewed the shifting sky with annoyance. “Yes,” Rowan
admitted, angling around the cart. “He’ll predict the weather, sometimes, and
always if there’s a heavy gale. And if the fishing is poor, he’ll give advice
that’s always true. Still—” Spotting something ahead, she walked faster to the
next corner.

A small man was working at the next lamppost, stooping down
to deal with something at its base. On the ground beside him lay a leather
shoulder satchel, and he periodically removed and replaced items in it with an
air of confidence and satisfaction.

Rowan spoke as she approached him, but he cut her off cheerfully.
“Hold on a bit, now, this won’t take a moment,” he said, and continued with
his work. Rowan could see that he had opened a small panel, disguised by the
filigree, and was involved with something inside.

“There.” He shut the panel and locked it with a tiny key dangling
by a cord from his wrist. Looking up, he appraised the two women. “Now, how can
I help you?”

“I’m wondering about these new lamps,” Rowan began.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” He slapped the pole familiarly. “You
must be strangers.” He gave Bel’s clothing a second, squint-eyed inspection. “We
just arrived by ship,” Bel explained. “From Donner.”

“Donner, is it?” His face lit up. He stood and dusted his
hands on his trouser legs. “Well, I have family in Donner. My little niece, of course
she’s not so little now, she married a fellow who—”

Rowan interrupted. “I’m sorry, I’ll be glad to give you any
news I have from Donner, but first I’d like to ask you about these lamps.”

“Well, Corvus, that’s our wizard, he gave them—”

“Specifically,” Rowan continued, “I’d like to know how they
work.”

“Oh, no.” He clicked his tongue. “I can’t help you there.
Guild rules, you see.”

“Guild? What guild is that?”

“Why, the new Lamplighters Guild. See, when Corvus gave
them, he had to teach us the spells to make them work. All very secret, sworn
to secrecy, every one of us—” His eyes caught the glint of her gold chain, and
his speech ended with a trailing “Er ...” He sent a confirming glance toward
the silver ring on her left hand, then winced. “I’m sorry, lady, truly I am.
But I can’t tell you.”

Rowan gazed at him for a long moment. At last she said, “As I
don’t have much time to spare, you needn’t go into detail. The general idea
will suffice.” And she waited, suddenly quite still.

The man agonized. “I just can’t.”

Rowan simply stood, silent. Bel looked from her face to the
lamplighter’s in perplexity. Finally Rowan turned without a word and began to
walk away.

“Lady, please, wait a moment—”

She stopped, then slowly turned around, but did not
approach. “I need to know something—” he began.

“No.”

Understanding dawned on Bel’s face, and she watched the man
with interest.

“Not for myself,” he continued, “but for the Guild. I, that
is, they ought to know, is your ban now just on me, or will it hold for the
whole Guild?”

Rowan took her time replying. “The ban holds for any individual
who refuses questions.” She made to turn away again, but Bel called to her.

The Outskirter was viewing the lamplighter with concern. “Rowan,
this man has family in Donner.” Rowan said nothing, and Bel went on. “They
might have been in the fire at the inn—”

“A fire?” He said in shock, “My niece, she works in an inn.
And her son, too—”

“Do you know the name?” Bel asked.

“No, no I don’t.” His face showed agony. “But I know the
street, Tilemaker’s Street.” He looked helplessly at the steerswoman, who
waited patiently for Bel, saying nothing.

At last Bel said, “Rowan, do you know if Saranna’s Inn was
on Tilemaker’s Street?”

“Yes, I do know,” Rowan replied. “I’ll wait for you at the
next corner.”

Down the street she found a street vendor’s stall and
interested herself in a display of bone flutes and pipes. They were of remarkable
workmanship. Rowan tested a flute but lacked the skill to produce any sound at
all. She had better luck with the pipes, managing to elicit a mellow hoot from
the low register.

Eventually Bel joined her, and Rowan led them along a cobbled
street that climbed and twisted up one of the hills above the harbor. They
walked in silence, and when Rowan glanced at her, she saw that the Outskirter
was deep in angry thought. Finally Bel said only, “Family is important. Rowan,
that was cruel!”

They turned up a side street so narrow that the overhanging
second stories sometimes had planks laid from one window to the opposite
neighbor’s. Some were decorated with bright flower boxes. “Bel,” Rowan said
carefully. “Suppose you discovered that another tribe had stolen half your herd
and refused to give you what was yours?”

Bel stopped in outrage. “We’d kill them!”

Rowan turned back to her. “Kill them? How cruel.” And she
continued on her way, leaving Bel to catch up.

The street doubled back on itself, and when they rounded one
last corner, suddenly the area before them opened up. The sea was visible,
patched with light and dark by the heavy clouds that moved above. Before them,
the roofs of Wulfshaven were a confusion of green-tiled shapes sweeping down to
the harbor below.

Rowan stopped before a house on the corner, a haphazard construction
of whitewashed brick. Suddenly all the previous unpleasantness was swept away
in a river of bright memories. The handful of years in the life of a taciturn
farm girl from the northlands, years of struggle and confusion lanced with
sudden comprehension and delight, years that ended with the arrival at the
Archives of a young woman of confidence, depth, and inner strength—those years
were contained in this town, these streets, and one little attic room in this
very house.

“Are we going in?”

Rowan smiled. “Give me a moment,” she said. “It’s been a
long time.”

Inside, the ceiling was festooned with tied bundles of dried
herbs sending out dozens of evocative odors. The room was dark, the shutters
pulled to against the coming rain, and a small fire flickered in the hearth. A
heavyset blond woman approached them. “How may I help you?”

Rowan quelled her disappointment. “Is Maranne about? I’m an
old friend.”

“No, she’s off in the east quarter. Pulling a tooth and
delivering some coltsfoot tea. I’m afraid she’ll be quite late.”

“Do you mind if we wait and sit by the fire? There’s rain on
the way.”

The blond woman looked at the pair uncertainly: one slightly
damp woman, not dressed for the weather, and another in outlandish garb.

“Rowan used to live here,” Bel said.

The woman brightened. “Rowan? Maranne speaks of you often—you’re
that steerswoman. Come, I’ll make us some tea.” She closed the door against the
distant clatter of hooves on the cobbles and led them to the fire. Chairs were
drawn and a kettle hung. The blond woman scanned the ceiling for likely
candidates. “I don’t remember you, but I remember when the Academy was here.
Oh, that was a time! People from all over, all those teachers, and experts in
this and that. It takes the strangest mix to make a batch of steerswomen.” She
found some peppermint hanging by the window, then added a tiny sprig of
comfrey.

“I remember you,” Rowan said. “You’re Joslyn. Your father
was the cooper.”

Joslyn was pleased. “There’s an example of steerswoman’s memory.”
The sound of hooves outside became audible again, and with it a shouting voice.
“Now, what’s that?” She opened the window.

The sound stopped, and an instant later the door slammed
open and a large form filled the doorway. “Rowan! I knew it!”

The man crossed the room, and suddenly Rowan found herself
engulfed in strong arms and the sweep of his cloak. Joslyn said faintly, “My
word, it’s the duke!”

Rowan tried to extract herself. His hug was no comradely embrace,
as he had often given her, nor even a lover’s embrace, but something full of
desperate relief. “I knew it couldn’t be true!” he railed. “Damn Corvus and his
scrying!”

“Artos!” She managed to pull away. “What is this?”

Bel eyed them from her chair. “You know this duke, then?”

He spun aside and pounded a nearby table violently. “That
lowborn bastard! How could he tell me such a thing?”

“Tell you what? Artos, calm down,” Rowan pleaded, knowing
well that the duke was one man who could never be calm.

But he did stop, all his native energy held still for a
moment while he looked at her and said in a smaller voice, “He said you were
dead.” She was astonished. “Corvus?”

“Yes!” He spun away and paced, more quickly than a man his
size ought to in so small a room. “He said that he was scrying and saw that you’d
been killed. In Donner, by dragons! He said, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, but your
pet steerswoman is dead.’” Artos stopped and held up his hands to ward off a
reaction. “I know, I understand, you’re nobody’s pet. Those were his words,
not mine. But it looks like his scrystone was mistaken.” He paused, then
smiled. “Did I mention how glad I am to see you?”

Rowan laughed happily. “Yes, I’m glad to see you, too.”

Bel spoke from her place by the fire. “The scry-stone was
not far off, at that. We very nearly were killed by dragons.”

Artos turned to her, seeing her for the first time. He took
in her clothing, her sword, and the piebald cloak draped on the chair behind
her, with a speculating gaze. “This is Bel, my friend, an Outskirter,” Rowan
explained. She turned to Bel. “You should stand when the duke enters.”

“He’s no duke of mine, and he’s already entered.” Bel did
stand, but it was to swing the bubbling kettle out of the fire. “Perhaps this
duke would like some tea?”