The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (18 page)

“It’s with the adults that I can’t bear it. Guess I’ll just have to get used to it . . .”

“Nonsense.” Rowan spoke with feeling. “It’s they who should get used to it— which they would all the sooner if they exercised the simple courtesy of looking you in the eye.”

Her vehemence caused Maysie to do exactly that herself.

Rowan had not had the opportunity to survey the damage previously, and was relieved to see that Maysie’s right eye had not been blinded. It would require care in the future, however, as evidently the eyelid could no longer completely close. But the mouth could, fortunately, and although the healer’s repairs had of necessity drawn what remained of Maysie’s nose toward the damaged side of her face, it was still recognizably a nose. The skin on her cheek, forehead, and chin showed the twists and ridges typical of healing burns, tight and stiff.

“You look at me like Jilly does.”

“For much the same reason, I suppose.”

“It doesn’t bother you.” The expression on the left side of Maysie’s face was one of puzzlement.

Rowan repressed an urge to push Maysie’s hair back, behind her shoulders, into some neater and more dignified arrangement. Such an act would be intrusive. “I’d be far more bothered if you had died.”

Maysie looked away, and made no comment.

“Well.” Rowan rose, gathered three buns in one hand, one in the other. “Can you manage that basket by yourself? I’m off to the harbor.”

Maysie’s voice betrayed a tinge of amusement. “Still waiting for Janus?”

Rowan almost said, out of sheer habit,
He’s not my sweetheart.
She was becoming predictable. But honesty compelled her to admit, “Actually, yes. But I’m also hoping for the
Beria
. I’d heard that she was coming in for Lasker’s spring silk.”

The two women parted, and Rowan continued to the water, munching one of the egg buns as she walked.

No sight of Janus at the harbor, but there was sail on the horizon. Rowan recognized the
Beria
, but the ship was having difficulty. The wind was not favorable for an approach to the harbor.

Rowan stood at the end of the biggest wharf, finishing her breakfast and studying the wind and the amount of canvas Beria showed. A full dozen swooping and hovering seagulls divided their attention between Rowan’s buns and a crab boat unloading its catch nearby, unable to decide which presented better prospects. The steerswoman delighted them by splitting her last bun and tossing the pieces high in the air.

The
Beria
began bringing in sail; the captain had decided to stand off until evening. There was plenty to occupy Rowan until then.

As she passed the crab boat on her way back down the wharf, two of the crabbers began a wry conversation, concerning delayed sailors and the constancy of lovelorn women, carefully pitched to be audible as Rowan passed. She gritted her teeth and forebore to comment.

The steerswoman spent the day following a false trail through the works of two different steerswomen, gave it up, found more books from her selected period of time, and laboriously studied the entries.

It was around supper time that Gwen and Steffie showed up. Rowan was surprised that they had stopped by at all, so clearly were they exhausted. When she said so, Gwen dropped herself into the wicker chair, saying, “If I go home, my dad’ll have me doing dinner for the whole family. Like he can’t cook himself. Like I haven’t been working as hard as him.”

Steffie had been about to settle himself on the bench; but at this comment he stood again, obviously on his way to the pantry. Rowan, a bit guiltily, jumped to her feet and took the job from him. “I hope you don’t mind cold; I didn’t think.” The pantry was nearly bare; she would see about fixing that tomorrow. But she was able to assemble cured ham, cheese, and some nearly stale but edible bread. She wished to do better than just water to drink, then remembered Brewer’s daily contribution. She had not thought to bring it in; it would still be by the door.

It was. And so were two other things.

She brought them all in, and set the bucket on the table.

“What’s that?” Steffie asked, as Gwen dipped mugs.

“A letter.” The Beria must have come in, and someone from the ship or the docks had completed the delivery. Rowan suspected a child; an adult would have knocked on the door. “And a package.”

The letter was satisfyingly fat, with
Rowan, Steerswoman, The Annex, Alemeth
written large and round and neat. Rowan recognized the Prime’s handwriting, and had the letter open even before she settled into Mira’s old chair.

After the opening greeting, Rowan found an acknowledgement of Rowan’s report on her travels in the Outskirts and the Guidestar fragments Rowan’s package had contained; a description of the systematic search being conducted by the residents of the Archives for any clue of Slado’s whereabouts; confirmation that Rowan should stay in Alemeth to continue independent researches, at least until such time as Mira’s replacement could be selected.

Rowan nodded satisfaction at the details of the search. There were seven members of the Steerswomen living at the Archives, and the records there were already precisely organized and cross-referenced. Rowan felt certain that significant progress would be made soon.

But it was clear that this was a reply to Rowan’s first communication only. At the time it was written, her news and suggestion about Janus had not been received.

The letter continued in a more personal tone, with surprise at the state of the Annex, sympathy for Rowan’s predicament, and regret at Mira’s passing. The words were formal, but Rowan thought to detect a sort of plaintive perplexity on Henra’s part that Mira would conduct herself in so irresponsible a fashion. Reading the passage again, Rowan understood that Mira had once been a dear friend of Henra’s.

It gave Rowan pause. Henra would never have befriended the Mira Alemeth had known. Mira had changed.

Reading on, Rowan found news of the residents:— Berry’s eyesight continued to deteriorate, but old Hugo was thrilled with the new project and was displaying more energy than he had in years— and comments on the state of the gardens.

Tucked in among these, and stated in an offhand matter, was the fact that the next Academy, which ought to have taken place while Rowan was in the Outskirts, had been postponed, due to a period of ill health that the Prime had suffered. A new date, five years from the planned one, had been set.

This was unprecedented; Henra must have been very ill indeed. Rowan studied the handwriting and the tone of the entire letter; but the Prime seemed now merely herself, as ever, and Rowan assumed that she had recovered. Still, it was disturbing news.

Eventually, the letter devolved into reports on the recent antics of the wood gnomes. The Prime ended with the wry observation that when one starts gossiping about the animals, one really has run out of things to say.

Signature and date followed— but there was an addendum, apparently written in haste.

The Prime had selected Mira’s replacement. The person would follow as soon as arrangements could be made. Henra was pleased with her own choice, as, she commented mysteriously, it used one problem to solve another.

That was all. Rowan checked the back of the sheets for further information, found none.

Trust the Prime to tease her with a mystery.

But this was not good news. With an official custodian already selected, it was unlikely that the person would be removed to make a place for Janus. But, at the least, perhaps the ban could still be lifted.

“You going to open that package?”

Rowan looked up.

“Unless it’s personal,” Gwen added. Supper was finished, and both of them had remained in place, watching her curiously.

Rowan could hardly blame them. Packages from faraway places are rare and fascinating. Only the Prime’s handwriting had sent her to the letter first.

“I can’t think of any reason why it should be.” The address was merely:
The Annex, Alemeth.
Most likely, it was intended for Mira. “Here.” Rowan brought it to the table, set it down. “You do it; I’ll clear these dishes.” As she turned away, she already heard the rustling of wrapping paper

She was at the basin when she heard the yelp.

“What’s it?” Steffie was asking. “Something sharp?”

“It
bit
me!”

Rowan glanced back: a small object on the table, dark wood, bright copper—

She abandoned the dishes. “Wait, don’t touch it again!”

Gwen was shaking one hand as if from a bee sting; Steffie stood protectively in front of her, eyeing the package with suspicion.

It was a small box, about four inches square. It still lay on its wrapping: layers of oilcloth, paper, and a second cloth, grayish in color. This last seemed to have an odd texture, which Rowan confirmed with her fingers; somehow dry and slick at the same time.

“Booby-trapped?” Steffie hazarded. “That’s a bad trick to play on someone.”

“I’m sorry; I hadn’t expected it would be anything like this.” The box was carved decoratively, with copper lines inlaid on the highlights of the pattern. Rowan had seen that unique style before. “I think this box may be magic.”

Gwen and Steffie stood dumbfounded. “What you felt may have been a protective spell,” Rowan went on. She flattened the paper surrounding the box. “Fortunately— ” And she touched the lid—

A
snap
, and a sting.

Rowan jumped back, shaking her hand sharply. “That shouldn’t happen— ”

“Happened to me,” Gwen pointed out.

“But it shouldn’t to me.” The stinging tingle had vanished almost immediately, as had a quick, sharp scent. The eeriness of the sensation remained. “I should be immune . . .” Puzzled, Rowan stooped to bring the box to eye level. “It does seem to be a guard spell . . . but Steerswomen are immune to the usual sort. Steerswomen, and sometimes sailors, especially officers.”

She had twice in her life circumvented guard spells, once without knowing beforehand that the spell was there at all. So dependable had been her immunity then, that now, although with immense caution, she reached out with one extended finger to lightly touch the box again.

Rowan discovered that Steffie and Gwen were helping her to her feet; she did not recall falling. “I’m all right,” she said, and in saying so discovered that she was not. Her words were slurred, her thoughts were slowed, and she had the disturbing feeling that if she did not breathe consciously, she would cease to do so at all.

Gwen pulled a chair over, and Rowan sat. “That really shouldn’t happen,” Rowan repeated stupidly.

“A steerswoman should be able to open that box?” Gwen asked.

“Yes.”

Gwen opened her mouth to say more— then stopped short, blinked, closed it again.

“Let’s get a sailor,” Steffie said.

“What?”

“A sailor. You said, steerswomen and sailors. Maybe a sailor can open it.”

“No . . .” Her head began to clear. “It must be different from the usual sort of guard spell.”

“Something to get you no matter who you are?”

“But then, why have a guard spell at all? Why not something that immediately kills?” She stood again, approached the box, but made no attempt to touch it.

It was, in fact, a lovely little thing.

The carving was intricate, with decorative trellises along the sides. On the top: a depiction of a woman striding through forest. The woman had short hair, tousled by an unseen wind, her cloak streamed behind her, and the end of a tube protruded from the top of the pack she carried. Her boots were plain and high.

“A steerswoman.” The intention could hardly be made plainer.

“I’ll bet Mira could open it,” Gwen said.

“Possibly,” Rowan replied, distractedly. How had she lost her own immunity? What had changed?

“What do we do with it?”

A good question: it certainly was not convenient to have it sitting in the center of the table, where any passerby would naturally investigate it.

“Well, it managed to get here safely enough.” The box was still resting on its wrappings. She touched the inner wrapping again: no effect. Holding the edges, she picked it up, with the box resting in its center. Still no effect. She glanced about, and carried it back between two aisles of shelves, where the low stepladder stood against the back wall.

She set down the box, then stooped beside it, regarding it with distaste in the gloom.

“Does that Slado wizard know you’re here?”

She looked up; Steffie had followed her into the aisle. He had spoken quietly.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “That’s an interesting possibility.”

Possibilities were two— no, three: It was meant for Rowan; it was meant for whichever steerswoman was custodian of the Annex; it was meant for Mira.

Could a guard spell be made so specific that only one person could get past it? “I don’t suppose you heard of Mira’s having any dealings with wizards?”

“No. She hated ’em.”