The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (9 page)

Rowan made no attempt to assist him, feeling even more smugly lazy by contrast. “Quite possibly. But I’m afraid I can’t yet face the interrogation that will certainly come after our little public scene at Brewer’s. They’re all agog, I’m sure.”

“No doubt. But unless you leave town immediately, you’ll have to find some way to deal with them.”

She closed her eyes and tilted her face up to the wonderful light. “I’m strategizing,” she said.

“So I see.” She heard the second plank surrender. “And what do you— ” He caught himself. “I mean to say, how— damn.” She opened her eyes to find him scowling to himself. “This,” he said, “is not the most natural way of carrying on a conversation. I need to get used to talking without asking a single question. Perhaps I should practice in front of a mirror. But first I’ll need to buy a mirror . . .”

“I suppose that you’ve gotten out of practice since Mira died. Or did you not associate with her at all?”

A glance away, a glance back; and he was suddenly giving the problem of the third plank far more concentration than it might reasonably warrant. The steerswoman said cautiously, “What?”

He sighed, stopped working, settled back to sit. “Actually, we associated quite a bit. I was a regular member of the conclave. However,” and he winced, “I neglected to mention to her that I was under the Steerswomen’s ban.” He had, at least, the grace to look ashamed.

“Surely she must have known.” Even though word of a person being placed under ban by a traveling steerswoman might take a year or more to make its way back to the Archives, and longer still to double back out to the other steerswomen on the road, eventually the news did manage to become general. And any steerswoman at a permanent posting, such as the Annex, would have the opportunity to maintain regular communication with the Archives. “The Prime certainly would have included the fact in one of her letters to Mira.”

“You’re assuming that Mira was a person who read her letters.” He returned to his work, rather more desultorily. “Or cared about their contents. Possibly she did know. But if she did, she must not have cared.”

Rowan suppressed a derisive snort. “That would be typical.”

“Mm. Don’t be too hard on Mira.”

“There’s no excuse for her neglecting the Annex as she did.”

“No . . . nevertheless.”

“Would you have done the same in her place?”

“Of course not. I would have been a model of rectitude. My analects would blaze with brilliance and stun with conciseness. Total strangers would come for miles merely to browse my catalogs. Literate persons everywhere would worship me as a god.” Rowan laughed; Janus shifted to deal more seriously with the last plank. “In fact,” and he paused as it clattered free, “I was more than a little envious of Mira. Sometimes I think that I wouldn’t mind having a job like hers myself.” He considered the plank thoughtfully, then held the board with one of the protruding nails tip down on a bit of scrap iron. He picked up a hammer and banged at the surrounding wood.

He had extracted three nails in this fashion before he glanced at Rowan again. She could not tell what he saw in her expression, but it caused him to set his tool aside and watch her curiously.

At last she said, “Would you actually like a job like Mira’s?”

The question puzzled him. He made a vague gesture with one hand. “Hundreds of books, information immediately to hand with no effort, a chance to create and maintain order, total safety— not to mention money to live on and a rather nice house . . . of course I would— ” He stopped. The steerswoman waited patiently while he passed through several abortive attempts to speak without using questions. At last he settled on: “I’ve resigned from the Steerswomen.”

“True.”

“And I’m under ban, as you no doubt have noticed.”

“Also true. Now, do you remember the circumstances under which the Steerswomen’s ban can be lifted?”

“There are none.”

“Think.”

He thought. He shook his head, spread his hands, tilted back to sit, regarding her.

“Very well. Consider this.” She took a moment to put it together. “Imagine you’re me. And I’m . . . oh, some local fisher— ”

“Young Dionne,” he supplied.

“Young Dionne it is. And you say to me, ‘Young Dionne’— not to be confused with Old Dionne, I suppose— ‘Young Dionne, I’ve heard that you have a special location you go to get the best catch,’ and I reply, ‘Well, yes, indeed, that’s a fact, and well known it is, my catch being the best to be had in town, and I’m pleased to admit it. Now, I’ve just gone and hit a nice little run of smelt— ’ ” He laughed out loud at her exaggerated imitation of the Alemeth accent. “And then you say,” Rowan went on, “ ‘Where is this special place?’ ” She paused to give him opportunity to anticipate her direction. “And I say, ‘Oh, there’s many’d like to know that, have to keep it to myself, now, don’t I, sorry, lady, but there you are.’ ” She paused again, purely for effect. “And you say, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, Dionne, but you’re now under the Steerswomen’s ban.’ And then I say, ‘No, never mind, I take it all back, here’s how you get there— ’ and proceed to tell you exactly where to go.” She paused a third time. “Now, Dionne is not under ban, correct?”

Hesitantly, “Correct.”

“The question becomes: Was she ever under ban?”

He was even longer replying. “I’d say, no, not technically . . .”

“Really? I’d say yes . . . technically. For a few moments. The ban was placed, briefly, and then, as I see it, lifted— and here’s the significant part— when Dionne provided the answer to the question she had previously refused.” He made a protesting gesture; she forestalled any accompanying comment. “Janus, perhaps you weren’t an active steersman long enough for something like that to happen to you, but it has to me, more than once. I thought nothing of it at the time. But I’m thinking of it now, and it seems to me that the principle has been established: the Steerswomen’s ban can be lifted— and by a very specific action.”

“Rowan— ” and he made a frustrated noise— “as we say in Alemeth: I’m not buying this.”

“What an interesting turn of phrase. And why not?”

He made to speak, stopped, began again. “I thought it was traditional to offer the person three chances to answer the question.”

“It is. I’ve shortened the story. Assume that the three chances were offered. The principle remains.”

He made to scratch his head in frustration, but found himself foiled by his gloves. Instead of removing them, he abstractedly readjusted their fit, finger by finger; it seemed a habitual action. “And I suppose that as you see it, my telling you everything last night now entitles you to singlehandedly remove the ban from me.”

“Well, no. Interpreting things strictly, you’d have to provide Ingrud herself with the answers that you previously refused.”

“ ‘Interpreting things strictly?’ ” He threw up both hands. “Rowan, your analysis lacks rigor from beginning to end! You’ve taken a borderline situation, extracted a spontaneous detail from it, arbitrarily declared the detail a principle; which so-called principle you now, in all steerswomanly assiduousness, decide to apply strictly— and what are you grinning at?”

She was forbidden to reply, but the grin remained. Eventually, Janus provided the answer himself. “Marrane will be thumping the ceiling any moment now.”

“ ‘Keep it down, please, people are trying to sleep,’ ” Rowan quoted.

“ ‘The argument will still be there in the morning.’ ” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands folded. “Rowan, I won’t go traipsing off cross-country to find Ingrud, just to simplify conversation with you.”

“Of course not. You might take years to find her. What I suggest is that we put the matter to the Prime. If she agrees that the principle is sound, she might also allow a substitute for Ingrud. Herself, possibly, for formality’s sake. You provide the Prime the same information you refused Ingrud. A letter would do, I suppose.” After two years in the Outskirts, it seemed to Rowan strange, marvelous, and immensely civilized that such ease of communication with the distant Archives could exist. The entire matter might be resolved in less than six months.

“Even if Henra concedes that your, shall we say, extremely dubious idea is valid, that doesn’t set me in Mira’s place. The Annex is tended by a steerswoman.”

“No problem there; once the ban is lifted, I see no reason you can’t rejoin.”

“That isn’t done.”

“Of course it is. Not often. But I’ve done it myself.”

He was stunned. “Rejoined? You resigned and rejoined? When? Why?”

She thumped the deck with her fist in frustration, setting the salvaged nails rattling; one of them gave a lively jump and disappeared down the gap left by the old boards. It clinked twice on its way down and rolled to a stop far below.

Janus looked after it. “Damn. I really must learn to watch what I say.” He looked up at her. “I’ll never know now. I’m sure there’s a story there, and now I’ll never hear it.”

“Unless we can get the ban lifted.”

He thought a moment. “I can live without the story.” He forced the last nail from its home, moved it and its mates far away from the gap.

He reached for the next loose plank, but Rowan planted her foot on it. “Where’s the harm in trying? Where’s the harm in at least asking the Prime if it can be done?”

“Even if the ban were lifted,” he said slowly, his expression held so carefully neutral it pained her to see it, “I can’t live as a steersman.”

“No, that’s not the problem— ” He made to rise and turn away; she leaned forward, caught one of his arms. “No, hear me out. You can’t live on the road. You can’t— ” She briefly sought a gentler way to phrase it, failed, and stated mere fact: “You can’t live in danger. You’re unable to bear hardship and fear. You need safety, stability . . .

“But, Janus, the Annexes aren’t merely tended by elderly steerswomen; the custodians are chosen from among the steerswomen who can’t travel. Age is the usual reason for that, but there are many others— ”

“Deficiency of character is not on the list.”

It stopped her. She attempted to reorganize her argument, found it difficult to hold, difficult to delineate. She spoke with less certainty. “I . . . can’t view it as a deficiency . . . It’s . . . just a fact, a discovery. Like finding that you have a trick knee or that you’re going blind. It’s nothing you have a choice in.”

“It’s not comparable.”

Rowan released him, leaned back, rubbed her forehead. “I think it is. If you had known beforehand, or found out during training and tried to keep it from our teachers, it would have been different.” She sighed, spread her hands. “But I’m not certain, one way or the other, yet. The idea needs more analysis, and perhaps by better heads than mine. And that’s precisely why it needs to be put to the Prime.”

This time he did rise and stepped to the port railing, there to stare out at the open sea.

She rose and went to him. “Janus, the only thing you did wrong was not telling Ingrud about it immediately.” She was sorry to upset him so; but it might prove worth it in the end. “And I think, I do think that I understand, at least, why you couldn’t. Perhaps the Prime will understand as well. But we won’t know unless we ask. She may decide it’s accurate to regard your . . . inability in the same way as any steerswoman’s at the Archives; like Sarah or Hugo or Berry— ”

“Berry?” He spun. “Something’s happened to Berry?”

Berry was their own age, and had lived and studied beside them for four years of training. Berry was dear to them both.

But with Janus under ban, Rowan was forbidden to answer even this simple question.

And he knew it; but still, he asked again, helplessly, “Rowan, please, what’s happened to her?”

He reached for her shoulders as if to shake her; she stepped back, startled. But just as quickly he dropped his hands, shook his head. “She’s alive,” he said to no one. “If she’s living at the Archives, she is alive.” He shut his eyes tightly.

Rowan was disturbed. His reaction seemed too extreme. “Janus— ”

“And what happened to
you
?” He opened his eyes, his gaze suddenly wide, wild. “What happened to your hand, to make all those scars? When, when did it happen?” And once started, all the simple, unasked questions came tumbling free, unstoppable. “Where have you been? Where are you going next? What have you been doing? What did you discover?” He wrapped his arms around himself tightly. “Did you see . . .” and he was no longer looking at her but off, away, to some imaginary far horizon “. . . what no one else has ever seen?”

They stood silent for a long time. Water thunked; rigging snapped. Somewhere ashore, three women’s voices were raised in noisy argument, as incomprehensible as the conversation of birds.

Eventually, Rowan said cautiously: “It’s a good thing you stopped. Had you gone on much longer, I’d be unable to converse with you on any topic whatsoever.” And impossible, now, for her to tell him of the wizard Slado, of the urgency of her mission and so, impossible also for her to recruit his assistance.

He stood on the deck in the sunlight, wrapped in his own embrace as if in some great physical pain. Then, slowly, he unwound himself, regarding his own hands as he spread the fingers stiffly.

It came to Rowan that Janus needed her help far more than she needed his.