The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (37 page)

That wasn’t a bad thing, not really. In a way, it made Steffie glad, to think that Alemeth would go on forever, more or less the same—

But it came to him right then that this was what he liked about Gwen: You never knew.

You never knew what she was thinking or what she was going to do. She might be sweet, or she might go all spiteful; she could say funny things or even mean things; but the thing was, you never knew which it was going to be. You had to stay on your toes, stay sharp, keep up. In the middle of Alemeth, which was mostly always the same, there was this one person who was always different. And if you have to be stuck living out your days in one town, in the middle of all these tame town patterns, then the thing to do— and all of a sudden this made a whole lot of sense to him— the thing to do is to keep one wild thing right by your side.

That’s when, halfway up the hill, he stopped in his tracks, pulled Gwen in, and kissed her, the best way he knew how. She kissed him right back, just as good, then pulled away, taking his hand, leading him, and they went on.

And just when they got to the top, a sentence came into his head, and it was:
She runs because she has to.
He didn’t know where that came from; in fact, it took him a minute to realize that the “she” wasn’t Gwen.

It was Zenna, running across the field.

Running, because she’s made to move free, so she’s got to do it, any way that she can.

And where anyone else would have given up, or wouldn’t even have tried, Zenna went right ahead— and taught herself practically to fly.

22

R
owan found no demon hatchery on Spider Island.

Three days of hard sailing against unfavorable winds and currents had brought Gebby’s garbage-filled catboat to the rocky shores of the island. Luwa, after an initial vicious and vehement argument, had eventually resigned herself to necessity, and the steerswoman was permitted to conduct her investigations.

Rowan stayed well away from the sheds that housed the spiders and the manufactory, as she had promised. Nevertheless, Luwa enforced the promise by escorting the steerswoman personally: a constant, silent presence, neither hindering nor assisting but only watching, with a gaze sharp and narrowed.

Rowan worked systematically, painstakingly, tediously. She paused often to make notes, each time causing an increase in Luwa’s annoyance. After failing repeatedly to enlist the spider-wife’s help, Rowan ignored her.

The steerswoman quickly discovered several types of life-forms usually found only in the Outskirts and beyond: all those Gebby had mentioned and a few others. But there seemed to be nothing larger than the green moths.

The handful of standing pools of water interested Rowan at first, but these were small; and when she very cautiously tasted them, they proved merely to be collected pools of sea spray and one small marsh of murky freshwater, home to a multitude of mosquitoes. Green and blue dragonflies flitted merrily across its surface, glinting in the sunlight.

It was not until close to nightfall that Rowan noticed a distinctive odor, brought to her by a change in the wind: the unmistakable stench of dead demon flesh. She followed it, Luwa trailing behind.

In the lee of a small rise was bare earth, loose soil. Prodding the ground with the tip of her sword, Rowan felt first the crunch of sandy dirt, then something quite different. Scraping, Rowan exposed a few inches of what lay beneath.

She looked up at Luwa. “Dead demons can hardly bury themselves. I assume you did this?”

The spider-wife indicated an affirmative, watching the steerswoman intently.

Rowan said, “When I asked you if you had seen demons on the island, you said that you hadn’t. I doubt that you buried this thing blindfolded. Surely you realize that I must place you under the Steerswomen’s ban.”

A sharp shrug communicated Luwa’s uninterest in the fact.

“How did you manage to kill this demon?”

Luwa declined to reply.

Rowan threw out her hands. “This has nothing to do with your secret techniques,” she said vehemently, “and everything to do with learning as much about these monsters as I possibly can! The more we know about them, the safer we are from them. Surely you want that!” Still no reply. “Luwa, may I point out that you live in Alemeth yourself? You’re as vulnerable as anyone.”

Luwa thought, seemed to reach a decision. She tilted her head. “It was dead when I found it.”

“Could you tell how it had died?”

“No.”

“And
where
did you find it?”

She indicated, past the rise. “Washed up on shore.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Rowan muttered. Possibly the Inland Sea itself had killed the creature. This could be instructive. “Some sort of shovel seems called for,” Rowan pointed out. The spider-wife made no comment.

Rowan strode away from her, back to the shabby shack where Gebby lived, and searched the nearby grounds in the failing light. No shovel was in evidence. She turned to Luwa, now back at her side. “I have every intention of keeping my promise, despite your now being under ban. But I do need a shovel, and I’m certain you have one, and if you don’t want me exploring the sheds looking for it, could you please,” she said between gritted teeth, “
bring
it?”

Gebby fetched it, emerging from the largest shed at Luwa’s shout. Through the doorway behind her, a glimpse of the room beyond revealed only a complex lattice of laths.

The steerswoman pointedly turned her back. “Bring a lamp, too,” Rowan called over her shoulder, and a nod from Luwa confirmed the request.

Back at the site, Rowan set the lamp on a nearby boulder and set to digging. Luwa watched silently, and eventually found a seat on another boulder.

The creature slowly emerged from the dirt. There were no maggots on it, but by some internal process it was well decomposed. Muscles were nearly liquid, split skin curled away from the subsurface fluid sacs, which seemed to have each burst from the inside. Rowan considered the corpse in the lamplight.

What could possibly impel these creatures to leave their native lands?

She knew nothing whatsoever about a demon’s daily life. She had no idea what might motivate it, other than the things that motivated any animal: food, escape from danger, impulse to reproduce. But if any of these applied in this case, why were only demons reaching Alemeth?

Janus knew; she was certain of it.

Rowan noticed the condition of the dirt a few feet away, moved there, dug some more. The shovel immediately encountered something soft. “More than one, so I see.”

“Yes.

“You might have told me that immediately.”

Silence.

Rowan’s exasperation became complete. Straightening, she said to the woman with feeling, “Are you merely naturally uncooperative, or do you actually hope to accomplish something by this?”

The spider-wife made a feral grin, showing teeth as wide spaced and twisted as Gebby’s. “A little of both. And also, there’s the entertainment of it.”

It occurred to Rowan then to wonder how many generations of spiderwives, mistress and apprentice, there had been. The narrow, knob-jointed woman seated before her, half lit in lamplight, seemed a shadowy vision of Gebby’s future— in both physical shape and sour spirit.

Rowan stifled her temper. “You don’t want people to come here,” she said stiffly. “That’s understandable. If the demons have merely washed ashore, there’s no reason for anyone to do so. So, tell me— how many of these monsters are buried here?”

The spider-wife took time to think. “Eight, I think. And bits of another or so.”

“
Eight?
” Rowan stood stunned. Then: “I want to know exactly when each one arrived.”

Luwa’s squint glinted in lamplight. She drew up her bony knees, rearranging her fine green silk skirt, and wrapped her arms around them. “One, about a week ago. Two more a day or so later. The rest, and the bits, yesterday.”

Rowan tossed the shovel to her in a rough motion. “Show me those,” the steerswoman demanded. “The most recent.”

These had only begun to decompose. Still, their skin was loose, peeling back, fluid sacs burst. No obvious wounds on the ones most whole. And the various demon bits: rough-edged shreds of muscle, as if torn by talons, and severed limbs. Rowan opened one of the whole demons; its stomach was full. “Eating each other,” Rowan muttered, “and dying in our poisonous sea.”

Five arriving, all at once.

Rowan slowly rose. All around, sounds: the hiss of waves against the beach beyond the rise, the whistle of wind in blackgrass, crickets. Beyond the pool of lamplight: a shadowed landscape, silver edged in starlight. Far above, one Guidestar, the Western, had entered the shadow of the world, passing into darkness.

Five. “That,” Rowan said slowly, “is a lot of demons.” And not starving, not weak: dining upon one another, traveling stronger, more easily— and in greater numbers.

And reaching this island yesterday.

Rowan stepped back from her dissection clumsily, quickly— as if the dead creature were living, about to attack.

“I have to get back,” she said. She turned to the spider-wife, spoke urgently. “To Alemeth. I have to get back
right now.
”

23

D
amn
.

Steffie tried again. Lie back— no, curl up, tucked up against Gwen’s back nice and cozy, pull up the blanket, shut the eyes, breathe deep, sort of float along . . .

“Damn.” It was just no good. Every time he tried to drift off he got this feeling, like someone was standing over him in the dark, just waiting till he fell asleep so he could pinch him all of a sudden. Or kick him.

It never happened. But it always felt like it was
going
to happen.

He sat up. There was dim light from some of the boats. It was the good side of the harbor down there, which meant that the people staying on the boats had money to light through the night, if they wanted. Seemed that some of them did, tonight. So there was dim silvery light coming down from the stars through the leaves above and dim gold light coming up from the boats. Just enough to see by, if you already knew what was there.

What was there was just the little twisty branches close overhead, the little twisty trunks all around, an old pile of hay added to over years and years, the old tarp, the blanket, and a cushion and Gwen.

It used to seem like a forest to Steffie and Gwen when they were little and came up here to play. But really it was just brambles and bushes, grown over together with the space underneath, if you knew the way in.

It was a nice place. It was their own place, sort of sweet and secret.

Gave him the creeps, tonight.

He sat in the dim, listening to the water splashing at the wharves, and the leaves making soft noises all around. He liked that sound; something like bird feathers, like birds all crowding cozy together for the night, to sleep.

Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t, not any way.

“Jumpy,” he said out loud. “Nerves.” His voice didn’t wake Gwen, probably because she’d got hold of the one cushion she’d brought and was sleeping with it over her head. It looked like a good idea to Steffie. He wished they had another one.

Far off, a dog set up a noise. Not exactly a howl. Just one note, held low and steady. It went on for a long time. “You and me both,” Steffie muttered when it stopped; then it started up again.

Actually, it was kind of a pretty sound, deep and pure, almost like a person singing. The dog had a good voice, for a dog.

Steffie rustled around in the old leaves and tried to make up something like another pillow under the blanket. Then he lay down and tried again.

After a bit, he sat up and stayed like that, looking down at Gwen in the shadows, her head buried under the cushion and both arms wrapped over it, holding it in place.

She
seemed happy enough.

He pulled the cushion out of her arms. She went on sleeping. He went on watching.

She started tossing and turning. Then she came part awake and began to grope around with one hand, grumbling, her eyes still closed. Steffie leaned close over her. “What’s bothering you?” he asked her quietly.

“Grmph.”

“ ’Cause something’s bothering me, too. And maybe that dog.”

She found the cushion and snatched it away from him, with her eyes still closed. She flopped back down and put it over her head. Then she sighed and went quiet, straight back to sleep.

Steffie stuck his fingers in his ears.

Peaceful. Restful. Like someone’d lifted something heavy, and maybe even itchy, off his shoulders.

He took his fingers out.

And all of a sudden he was shaking Gwen, saying, “Wake up, wake up,” only not very loud, because it was hard to get it out. And he was shaking all over himself, and all of a sudden he was freezing cold.

Gwen fought him off in her sleep, until he took away the cushion and grabbed her by both arms. Then she came awake by herself, already mad, already jumpy, and fighting.