The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (22 page)

Truth eventually declares itself. Always.

At the Mizzen, Rowan stepped inside to secure a table for the evening and discuss the menu.

While she and the owner were conversing, she noticed the higher-level counterpart to Mira’s conclave of gossips. Taking their midday meal together at one table: silk farmers Lasker and Karin; the cooper Dan; Michael, who owned a large ships’ supplies shop; the woman who ran the only bank in town; two men, brothers of nearly identical appearance, who owned competing weaving manufactories; and a dark-haired woman, thin as a blade, who single-handedly produced small amounts of the most extraordinary fabric in the world, woven by some closely guarded process from pure spider silk.

This group routinely took their midday meal together at the Mizzen. Save the spider-wife, as she was called, they represented the most influential employers in the area. The spider-wife was included out of deference to her immense wealth.

The townsfolk collectively referred to them as “the Bosses.” Maysie was generally considered to be one of their number. She was not present.

As if Rowan’s thought of her had invoked her, Maysie entered the Mizzen. Conversation at the Bosses’ table ceased at a noise from the spider-wife, who was the person best situated to notice Maysie’s arrival.

Maysie stood uncertainly in the open doorway, harbor sounds coming in over her shoulder: fresh sounds of water and gull calls and rigging. She had brushed her hair in a different style, swept back from the uninjured left side of her face, falling straight down close to her cheek on the right, where it was gathered in thick braid worn down her breast. Her clothing had improved as well: a deep-yellow shirt of home-quality silk; an indigo cotton skirt with a pattern of small red figures, worn knee length in the Alemeth style; and high brown boots laced up the front.

Prompted by the spider-wife, the rest of the Bosses looked up. Maysie shut the door and walked toward their table. Immediately, each of them found some other part of the room intensely interesting, except the spiderwife, who watched Maysie’s entire approach with an unpleasantly avid curiosity.

At their table, Maysie spoke; Rowan could not from a distance hear what was said. A simple greeting, perhaps. From the Bosses quick glances up, then glances turned away, and some brief words spoken in reply. A pause, which grew long.

Then Karin pointedly addressed one of the weaver brothers; he replied. A general conversation began, clearly on some subject other than Maysie’s arrival and clearly not including her. Only the spider-wife did not participate but tilted her head a bit as her gaze continued to explore Maysie’s face.

Rowan saw Maysie stiffen, then turn and begin to walk away.

At the very moment when Rowan was prepared to despise every one of them, Dan looked about the table in disbelief, looked after Maysie, then half rose, reaching back to pull a chair from another table, his mouth open and about to call to Maysie— but the owner of the bank caught his arm and pulled him down to direct some vehement whispered comment to his ear. He protested; she persisted. The second weaver brother leaned across the table to speak to Dan. And under their urgings the cooper subsided into his seat, retaining, at least, enough conscience to look ashamed.

Maysie had reached the door. Rowan rose to call to her; but of herself Maysie paused. She looked right, then left, then with awkward dignity walked across the room to a small table and sat down, alone.

It came to Rowan that this was one of the bravest acts she had ever witnessed.

There was enough trouble in the world without people making things difficult for each other, she said to herself. There were wild animals, enemies who would come at you with a sword to steal your flocks, snow and cold in winter, drought in summer, falls that would break your bones, disease, wizards to blast you with magic— all things beyond one’s control.

In the face of all this, one would think that those things within one’s control ought not be so directed as to cause misery without reason. One would think, at the very least, that human beings would recognize a sort of camaraderie of survival.

“Excuse me, lady?” Rowan had forgotten the proprietor. “I think we’re done here, am I right?”

“Of course,” she said distractedly; then she remembered. “And here.” She pulled a number of coins from her pocket, pushed them into his hands. “No, really. Since I’ll be bringing a guest, please let me pay for the entire meal. Everyone’s been very generous, but— ”

A bang. Rowan turned. The door had been slammed open against the wall.

Janus stood in a wild pose, arms thrown out, breathless.

Puzzled, Rowan made to wave him over, but his gaze swept past her and straight to the Bosses’ table. He took a half step toward it— they were staring at him, gape mouthed— then he stopped and scanned the room, seeing and ignoring Rowan.

Maysie had turned when everyone else had. When Janus sighted her, hurried toward her, she turned away again quickly.

He reached her side. Rowan saw but did not hear him speak to her; she could not tell if Maysie replied. He leaned down, spoke again urgently, took Maysie’s shoulder and turned her to face him. She ducked her head to the right and down; but stooping to be level with her Janus reached out and pushed the braid back.

The shock on Janus’s face was unlike anything Rowan had ever seen.

It was so complete, so overpowering, that it seemed to drive everything else from him. His face showed no fear, no disgust, no revulsion, not even any visible pity. He did not draw back. He did not so much as wince.

Instead, after a long and painful moment, he went to one knee beside Maysie’s chair and gently folded her into his arms.

She resisted briefly, then surrendered and laid her head on his shoulder and wept. And they remained so, oblivious of everything else.

Across the room, the steerswoman stood stunned.

While Janus had been at sea, monsters had come to town, killing and destroying the lives of people he loved—

And the steerswoman had neglected even to mention the fact.

She could not believe that anyone could be so self-centered, so consumed by personal affairs as to not warn Janus, not tell him, as soon as he arrived, what had happened in his absence. She could not imagine how any person could be so cruel, so unthinking, so lacking in simple human compassion.

But that person existed. That person was herself. It seemed impossible to grasp.

Rowan discovered in herself a sudden, urgent desire to flee and hide in some dark place.

Instead, she crossed the room.

Janus was stroking Maysie’s hair, speaking softly to her. His own hair sparkled with water droplets, his skin was damp, his shirt tucked in sloppily. He had run from the bathhouse as soon as he had heard.

Rowan felt she ought to speak. She could think of nothing to say. She stood, mute, beside them, then reached to pull another chair close for Janus.

He took it blindly, one-handed, the other hand still holding Maysie close. He sat on its edge. Maysie’s weeping was nearly silent. His voice was a gentle whisper, repeating, “I know, I know.” He rocked her slightly in his arms.

Just when Rowan understood that there was nothing she could do but go, he looked up at her. His face was blank with pain.

Rowan said, “Demons. From the wild lands.” At the back of her mind, all her information ordered itself into a clear and logical explication of the events and the nature of the monsters.

She did not deliver it. Janus knew all that he needed at this moment. She said instead, “I’m sorry—”

“Go away.” And he closed his eyes.

She left them.

13

A
t the east end of the harbor a short expanse of open water lay between the wharves and the shallows. Beyond, the shoreline rustled with sea oats; beyond this, scrub blended into forest. There, the land narrowed, becoming a woody spit that terminated in a single, angled crag: a long outstretched arm indicating the unseen, unknown southern shore of the Inland Sea.

Rowan sat on the last wharf with her legs folded beneath her, gazing at the spit. By sitting exactly here, looking in precisely this direction, the town of Alemeth behind her, she could almost feel herself back in the Outskirts. A clean, uncomplicated place, where she knew how to act, knew what to do. A place where whatever errors she might make would cause pain to no other person than herself.

She wished Bel were here. Bel was like the wilderness, in her own way . . .

Three days had passed since Janus’s arrival. Rowan had spoken to no one of the events in the Mizzen, and no one had asked her about it. But with Janus so vigorously shunning her, and Rowan so obviously distressed, unable even to work, there was surely no lack of fodder for gossip.

Let them speculate. Let them have their entertainment. She did not care.

She had wounded an already fragile soul, and lost Janus’s friendship, probably forever.

She felt footsteps on the wharf, rocking it a bit. She did not recognize the steps and did not turn, but of itself her mind passed through a list of possibilities and settled on one as most likely.

Steffie paused behind her, then sat down nearby, just outside of her range of vision.

Rowan continued gazing at the water and the woods beyond; perhaps Steffie was doing the same.

After many minutes, the steerswoman spoke. “Do you know how many kinds of stupidity there are?”

She sensed him thinking. The question was rhetorical, but he treated it as real. “No. But I bet you do.”

Of course. She was a steerswoman. She was supposed to provide answers to all questions. Rowan said, “Infinite.” And then, because she could not know for certain if this was absolutely accurate, she amended: “To the best of my ability to discern at this time.” Her voice sounded toneless.

They returned to silence. She did not need to turn to see his puzzled regard; but he did not break the silence, nor try to fill it with idle chatter. In this, Rowan thought, he was being very kind.

She spoke again. “I’m extremely intelligent.”

Surprise that she would state this. “Well . . . yes.”

“But what I lack is wisdom.”

He pondered. “Not the same thing?”

“Oh,” she said with sincerity, “no.”

Wind ruffled the water toward them, tiny ripples from no visible source, as if a minuscule unseen ship were approaching. “Steffie, do you think that Mira was wise?”

His reply was not immediate. “Don’t know. Sometimes, maybe. Or maybe she was all the time but only showed it sometimes. But, you know, come to think of it, she could be mean, once in a while. Seems to me, if someone was wise, they’d also be kind.”

She sighed, but the intake of breath was more forceful than she expected, and it surprised her— almost a quiet gasp. “Oh,” she said, “that’s true. To the best of my ability to discern. At this time.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean forward to study her face. Eventually, she returned his gaze. “You’re not mean,” he informed her.

“Not intentionally. I have that much, I suppose.”

“Well, that’s a lot. ’Cause some people
are
mean, on purpose.”

“I’ve noticed . . .”

“So, what you do when you’ve done something bad by mistake is go and say you’re sorry.”

“I’ve tried. If he sees me coming, he walks off before I can reach him. If I manage to approach him, he jumps when he sees me, then leaves.” She sighed. “If I corner him, he stands staring as if he were afraid of me. If I address him, he says nothing. If I persist, he says . . .”— and she turned back to the water— “‘Go away.’ ”

Silence for a time. “Well . . . if it helps any, Janus has been acting funny all around. To everybody.”

“It doesn’t help.”

“And Michael says he’s been trying to buy ship’s supplies on credit. Stocking his boat again already.”

“Even worse.” Janus was being driven back to the sea, away from humanity.

Long silence from Steffie. Then: “Funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Well, makes no sense, does it?”

“On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense. Unfortunately, I can’t, sail away from myself.”

“No . . . no, I mean”— and his voice was puzzled— “it’s got to be not just you, doesn’t it?”

“True.” It was, in fact, everything Janus feared— pain, danger, horror— all of it coming true, coming to Alemeth. And Maysie— Rowan had not known that Maysie was so dear a friend to Janus, but it must be so. And Rowan had given him no warning, allowed it to strike him like a blow, drive him to his knees—

But Steffie was still speaking. “ ’Cause it’s too big, isn’t it? It just doesn’t fit. There’s nothing you could do just by mistake, on your own, to make Janus go all spooky like this . . .”

She turned around to regard him. “Steffie,” she said, “do you even know what it is that I did?”

His mouth was set in a determined line, chin forward, his dark gaze stubborn. “No,” he said. “And I don’t need to. Unless you want to say. But it can’t be just you, because you’d have to have done something big— really bad and big and on purpose. And you don’t do things like that. Not you.”