The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (6 page)

The room was quiet, comfortable, the light from the tall windows slightly dim from the overcast sky. There was a sense of immanence, of the anticipation of work to come, work that mattered, and would be done well. Rowan paused a moment to savor the solitude.

Then she brought the selected logbooks to the table, gathered fresh paper, trimmed two pens, and settled to a seat. She opened a book flat before her, picked up a pen with one hand, the custard tart with the other, dipped the nib, and took a bite.

Sweetness filled her mouth, so strong and pure it seemed to run down her veins to her fingers. She had a sudden vision: wide, wide blue sky, roiling red and brown covering slow, low hills, swirling down a valley to embrace with shuddering color a single quick stream that glittered with speed. She heard a sound— a rattling hiss like rain on rooftops— felt the walls of the room open to the horizon, and she almost put out her arms, merely to feel the pleasure of space, almost turned around to speak to the good comrades standing just behind her . . .

She set her pen down carefully and looked at the pastry in her hand.

Why would a custard tart make her think of the Outskirts?

Fletcher.

I can make a custard tart that you wouldn’t believe
, he had said once, supporting his claim to humble origin as a baker in Alemeth. Whether or not it had been true, Rowan did not know. She would never have the opportunity to ask him, never be able to give him the chance to set right the lies he had told her, to become as true in words as he had always been in act.

It came to Rowan that custard tarts would now forever remind her of Fletcher.

She had no intention of avoiding custard tarts for the rest of her life, nor would it help her to do so. Every accoutrement of her work or habitual action she undertook had the potential to remind her of him. He had been that constant a presence, from the day she first saw his gangling, unlikely form amid a crowd of barbarian warriors, to the quick, shocking instant his life ended.

But it was not that ending that held her now, alone, motionless in the wide, empty room not was it the beginning. It was single, sharp-felt moments in between.

How he had walked among the herds with her, wading the rattling redgrass, spouting now nonsense, now wisdom, both in the same canting Alemeth accent. How they had stood back-to-back awaiting battle, unseen by each other but sensed and known, and trusted. How he sat close behind her as she wrote in her logbooks, playing at distracting her, but waiting quietly and companionably when he saw she needed silence.

How, in the darkness of the tent at night, she listened to his long, sleeping breaths among the breathing of the other warriors and how, in the light-spattered brightness of the daytime tent, and they two alone together, his long, angular body a lattice around hers, they had spoken and not spoken, touched and moved . . .

And this is how people come to believe in ghosts, Rowan told herself: when memory and imagination are this strong. Imagination, inspired by longing, gifted with all the remembered details, abruptly presenting a perfect re-creation— in sound and sight and scent, in the very pressure of the departed one’s breath upon the still air.

Were she a far simpler soul, she might almost believe
This is real
, almost think
He is here, now
, almost expect, at any moment, the sound of his voice just behind her.

Almost wait, and wait, for the touch of his hand on her shoulder—

She found that she had risen; and she discovered in herself a sudden, urgent need to be surrounded by people.

Nonsense. She had practically chased her visitors out.

Rowan stubbornly seated herself again, carefully rearranged her work, picked up her pen, and began a list: names of the writers of the selected logbooks, date ranges, assigned routes.

Halfway through, she idly and unconsciously took another bite of the tart.

She stopped. She set it down again. She sat regarding it.

Then: a few coins from the jar, Mira’s cloak from the hook by the door, her sword— and she was out in the gray and drizzling street, swinging the cloak about her shoulders, pulling the door closed behind her.

4

B
rewer’s Tavern was one left turn and four doors down, with its entrance and windows pulled half closed against the rain. Rowan entered the sea of murmuring voices, found a seat: a high-backed carved wooden chair at the empty end of a long table. Adjusting her sword to one side, she settled herself and with relief allowed the quiet conversations around her to lap gently at the edge of her consciousness.

A sudden pocket of silence formed at the other end of the table. Rowan looked. A group of mild-seeming men were eyeing her with alarm. One glanced at her sword.

The steerswoman gave a small smile. “Its a habit,” she explained simply. “I’ve been traveling in dangerous lands.” The men muttered among themselves, then returned to their drinking.

The tavern was busy, more than half full, with most of the customers gathered together in knots, as if they expected it to get fuller yet and wished to avoid being separated from friends yet to arrive. Two servers moved among the tables, and Brewer himself was pressed into duty, bustling about the room, bent but spry.

A serving girl with a full tray passed by Rowan and paused to place a mug of beer in front of her. She was about to accept payment when Brewer signaled vigorously from the far side of the room. “That’s the steerswoman,” he called, and the girl politely refused Rowan’s coin and went on her way.

“Thank you,” Rowan called after her, then caught Brewer’s eye and raised her mug to thank him as well.

She leaned back, sipping, viewing her surroundings. There was only one room to the establishment, a long, low-raftered hall, whitewashed walls and smoke-blacked wood. Battered furniture of every description crowded the floor, few pieces matching: tables of rough plank and tables of old curly maple, low benches, high stools, chairs, a few worn armchairs. A pair of ancient divans were pushed against adjacent walls in a corner, seeming settled and frowsily comfortable, like elderly uncles. Apparently Brewer’s was the final repository of much of the town’s cast-off furniture; but far from seeming seedy, the effect was oddly pleasant. Rowan suspected that everyone present recognized at least one object in the room, and perhaps was made more comfortable because of it.

She could not imagine surroundings more homely or people more harmless. She felt rather a fool for being armed.

Brewer had worked his way around the room, and now stood passing mugs to the customers at Rowan’s table: one to each of them and one more to Rowan. “Excuse me, but I already have one— ”

He paused long enough to wink. “But you’ll be wanting another.”

“Eventually, yes . . .”

“It’s here when you want it— Hey, no, you!” Something by the entrance caught his outraged attention. He dropped his empty tray with a clatter and hurried off at his best speed. One of the men at the table nudged his neighbor; the signal was passed down, finally reaching a severely inebriated man at the end, who roused himself with a sleepy smile, saying, “Here we go, then, here we go.” All rearranged their chairs to acquire the best view of the proceedings.

Brewer had reached the door. “Out, out, then!” he shouted. “Out with you!”

The cooper was standing in the entrance, ostentatiously confused. “What?”

“You!” Brewer flapped his apron at the man, as if chasing geese. “You coming by here, some gall you have— ”

“What, me? Passing by, wanted a drink— Hey, ho, stop! Do you flap at all your customers? No surprise your business is so poor-”

“Poor, this? But that’s no thanks to the likes of you, telling tales, coaxing folk down to your brother’s place.”

“Now, Brewer, the Mizzen is a fine old inn, no reason not to say so—”

“Saying so
in
my place
to
my customers,
while
they’re already having the best time to be had in Alemeth— ”

“I think it’s Maysie’s house for that, you know,” someone called out, and the room responded with laughter.

Something nagged at Rowan’s mind; she could not place it.

The cooper drew himself up to his full burly height. “Now, look at this.” He held it up. “Plain copper coin, as good as anyone’s here, I should think. If you want it joining its friends in your till, you’ll bring me a mug of your beer, which I freely admit is the best in town. In fact, with two beers for the same coin, I won’t mention to everyone here how my brother’s got a good dozen ducks on the spits at the Mizzen, sizzling since morning and just about done now— ”

Brewer threw up his hands. “Two beers, and you shut up entirely!”

“Not a word? Who comes to a tavern just for drink?” He pushed the coin into Brewer’s hand and backed away. “Now, I have to say a good day to my friends, don’t I?— like the steerswoman there. Hey-oh, Rowan, and good afternoon to you . . .”

“Dan,” Rowan acknowledged. The cooper reached her table and pulled up a chair.

“I see you’ve come out of hiding,” he said, a broad smile on his broad face. He sat. “A musty old room like that’s no place for a person like yourself. You should get a little sunshine, see a little life— and what about that dinner we planned together?”

Rowan sipped her beer, its mate still untouched before her. “With more work, that musty old room won’t be quite so musty. And as I recall,” she added, “the dinner was not planned but only suggested.”

He was not put off. “Then may I also suggest,” he said, folding his hands, “duck?”

“Perhaps another time— ” She broke off. Laughter, off to her right, at the far corner of the room. The steerswoman sat, listening, puzzling.

Dan watched her. “Lady? Rowan?”

His voice caught her attention, but for a moment she found no words. Then she stood, abruptly, catching at the back of her chair to prevent it falling, suddenly clumsy. “Excuse me.” Pushing her second beer toward Dan, she said, “Help yourself,” and left, half sidling, half scrambling through and around the chairs and tables toward the back of the room.

The laughter had died down at the corner table, and the occupants were now conversing quietly, except for one dark man, his chair tilted back against the wall. Gloved hands steadied a mug on his knee. He watched her entire approach across the room, his expression unreadable.

Arrived, Rowan discovered that she had not the slightest idea what to say.

Apparently, neither did he. As the silence lengthened, his companions at the table grew still, then puzzled. “What’s this?” she heard one of them ask another; she ignored them.

At last, the dark man winced. “I’ve been wondering when we’d run into each other. I heard that you were in town.” He looked away, uncomfortable. “I admit I’ve been avoiding you. I’ve been trying to plan out what to say when we finally did meet. I’m afraid I couldn’t come up with anything.” He looked back. “Rowan, please-say something.”

“Janus.”

He grinned weakly. “Well, you remember my name, at least.”

The words spoke themselves: “Why did you resign?”

The grin vanished. “I assume Ingrud sent word back to the Archives.”

“I met her on the road.”

“How was she?”

The steerswoman opened her mouth to reply, and closed it just in time. She said nothing; the sensation was almost physically painful.

Her silence had a similar effect on him; he looked as if he had been struck. Then he nodded slowly. “I see. I’m sorry about Ingrud. I treated her . . . well, ‘badly’ hardly covers it.” He became intent. “Will you give me a chance to explain?”

Again she stopped herself just before speaking; but Janus had already raised one hand. “I’m sorry— I’ll phrase that differently.” He took a deep breath, then released it. “Rowan, my old friend, I’m very sorry that I’ve acted so stupidly. I regret it deeply, and I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to explain myself.” He studied her, tilt headed, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Will someone please find the steerswoman a chair? I think her knees are about to give.”

Rowan sensed a movement to her left, heard the scrape of a chair behind her; but at that moment, her emotions resolved themselves, and she found herself not moving back, but forward, with what was without a doubt a very large and idiotic grin on her own face. Janus rose and met her halfway, and then they were laughing, pounding each other on the back, shouting for joy.

“Janus, you incredible imbecile. Gods below, it’s good to see you alive!”

“I wasn’t all that certain you would be glad to see me . . .

“Of course I am!” All of a sudden, this strange town, where she had been feeling so awkward, was transformed. She had been so long in the Outskirts that the Inner Lands itself felt foreign; and she had not been aware of this until now. But here was a friend, and somehow that gave balance to the world.

She pulled back to look at him. “How long has it been?” It felt like decades, half a lifetime. She counted. “Six years.” She stopped short. “You look terrible.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

“You’re so thin!” And his beard, she noted, was prematurely salted with gray.