Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (2 page)

“I sent a package through here some months ago. I was wondering
if it managed to get past Donner at all?”

The insult was lost on him. “From and to?” he asked,
scanning the shelves as if whatever system organized them were invisible only
to Rowan.

“From Rowan, Steerswoman, Alemeth. To Henra, Prime, the
Steerswomen’s Archives, north of Wulfshaven.” And because his chair was now
empty, and her left leg was protesting vigorously, she sat.

“A steerswoman, is it?” He studied her with new respect,
which faltered when his glance reached her left hand. “You’ve got no ring …”

“No. I removed it in the course of a demonstration, and
later found that it had been pilfered.”

“Stealing from a steerswoman; some people have no shame! But
that package, I do remember it now. We sent that out on the
Windworthy,
about
five months ago. They were heading to The Crags”—he put up a hand to forestall
Rowan’s protest—“but they were planning to stop and stand off High Island on
the way, and get met by a fishing boat, I forget why. We figured they could
give it to the fishers and just have them pass it up-Islands to Wulfshaven.”

Rowan’s mouth twisted. “An attractive theory. I wonder if it
actually worked?” There was intercourse among the Islands, often enough, but
just as often the fisherfolk found excuse for disputes and occasional furtive
vendettas. But with luck, her package might now be safe at the Archives.

“Here.” Rowan removed a fat letter from inside her vest and,
with a degree of reluctance, entrusted it to the watcher’s care.

He made a show of squinting at the address, then placed it
grandly on a shelf all by itself. “And there.” He turned back. “Trouble with
your leg?” he asked suddenly.

She had been unconsciously kneading her thigh, gently. She
chose the short explanation. “An injury, last year.”

“Ah, that’s bad for a steerswoman, with all the walking you
ladies do. Have a rest here, for a while, if you like. In fact”—he laid a
finger aside his nose—“I think there’s a bit of wine somewhere around, if you
don’t mind sharing the glass.”

“Thank you; that’s very kind.”

“Not at all.”

The watcher’s “somewhere around” would more accurately be
stated as “conveniently to hand”; it was tucked under the crate on which he had
rested his feet. He pulled out a clear bottle and a single fine wineglass, and
took the crate for his own seat.

The steerswoman studied him as he pulled the cork, which
emerged with an encouraging pop, despite the bottle being only half full. “How
old are you?” she asked.

He put up his brows and blinked. “A week away from forty-eight.”
He poured. “And that’s an odd question.”

“Not when it’s followed by the next.” She accepted the
glass, sipped. “Oh, my.” The wine was fine, clear, and effervescent. It tasted,
lightly, of pears. Rowan could almost forgive the watcher for drinking on duty.
She sipped again.

“The next being?” he asked.

She passed the glass back. “Do you remember a wizard named
Kieran?”

He blinked in thought. “I can’t say that I do. What’s his
holding?”

“Actually, Donner.” His surprise was extreme; Rowan continued:
“Forty-two years ago. He was the wizard Jannik’s predecessor here.”

“So that’s why you wanted my age?” He pursed his lips.
“Well, I was just a tyke then. Didn’t notice much beyond my family, my dog, and
my collection of wonderfully ugly bugs. You should have seen them, they were a
spectacle!” He made to drink, but then stopped himself. “But no, no, wait a
bit. I heard something, not then but years later, about the wizard who was here
before Jannik. Some sort of trouble with the townsfolk …”

“You don’t recall the particulars?”

“Sorry.” He sipped the wine, turned the glass a gaze of
respect and, it seemed, gratitude.

“Or perhaps you remember a steerswoman here, at about the
same time?” Rowan asked.

“Ah!” Recognition, and he leaned forward. “A tall, narrow
woman, dark, with curly black hair braided back from her face! She carried a
bow, and caught me in an evil glare when I fingered it once. Can’t remember her
name—no, wait, hold up, here it comes, something with an L L …” He closed his
eyes for a few moments, smiled. “Latitia.”

“That’s her,” Rowan said, although the description had not
identified the woman. Latitia’s logbooks had referred more to the world than to
herself; Rowan was rather pleased to at last have a mental picture of her.

“So tell me, lady,” the watchman began, using the formal
mode, “what’s your interest in two people from so long ago?” He passed the
glass back.

The steerswoman considered before speaking. “There are gaps
in the Steerswomen’s records from that time,” she said; and this was true.
“Some of Latitia’s lost logbooks were discov—

ered recently in Alemeth, but her information was not complete.
I’m here to remedy that.” Also true. “Working in a city suits me, at the
moment; I’m not quite ready to return to hard roads.” All true, as far as it
went—and caution warned her to take it no further.

“Hm. If you’re looking to fill in news from forty-two years
ago, you’d best be asking the old folks.”

“I’ll do that. But I’d be interested in speaking to anyone
who remembers that time at all.” She drank again, and the watcher refilled the
glass. “Still,” Rowan continued, “I ought to start with the likeliest source.
Who is the oldest person in town, do you know?”

He considered as he poured. “I’m not sure … old Nid,
maybe.”

“Where might old Nid be found?”

“I don’t know him well … I’ve seen him out at the docks up
riverside, watching the eelers at their work. I think his granddaughter’s one
of them. Or, there’s a mug-room where the steves dry out; I’ve noticed him
there a time or two, and he did look like a fixture. Ah, wait, now that I think
of it, hang about—” He closed his eyes again to search his memory; Rowan found
herself wondering what sort of internal filing system he employed. “I believe
…” He opened his eyes. “Yes, I once heard that he used to be mayor; maybe
that could have been around that time.”

This was very good news; a person in such a position would
know a great deal about the town’s doings while he was in office. “It sounds
like Nid’s my man.”

“Sounds like.”

Rowan received directions to the mug-room, and the conversation
continued in a more desultory fashion. At last the steerswoman rose, finding
her leg grateful for the rest; but she paused, and nodded toward the southeast
window. “Isn’t that where Saranna’s Inn used to be?”

He turned to look. “Yes. They’re putting down a plaza there
now. And talking about a fountain, as well. You’ve been here before, have you?
You must have heard about the fire.”

“I know of it.” The steerswoman did not volunteer more. “But
I thought Saranna might have rebuilt …”

“No, we lost the inn and Saranna herself that day, more’s
the pity; we all miss her.” He caught the change in her expression. “Did you
know her?”

The steerswoman was rather long in replying; and then she
sighed. “We met, briefly,” was all she said.

“Well, it’s a shame she’s gone. Still, it could have been
worse. The whole city could have gone up, if Jannik hadn’t been here to stop
those dragons. Took the trouble to move their nesting places, too, farther away
from the city. We’re lucky to have a wizard in Donner …”

He escorted her downstairs, carrying her pack to the street
door, and held it as the steerswoman retrieved her cane, which was thong-tied
at its side. She needed it only occasionally, but she used the cover of the
movements to surreptitiously scan the street.

To the left, a pair of little girls in matching red-flounced
dresses strolled arm in arm; a young woman in working attire hauled a cart of
kindling down the cobbled street; a group of five sailors wandered aimlessly,
gawking at the decorative moldings that each house displayed on every eave and
window ledge.

And to the right—

“Hm.” The watcher had noticed her glance, and followed its direction.
“Don’t recognize those two. Did they come in on the same ship you did?”

“Yes, they did,” Rowan said; and by taking the watcher’s
hand to shake, she managed to turn him back toward her, shifting his attention
away from the couple. “Thank you for the wine,” she said, then donned her pack
and departed, to the left.

First order of business: her letter, dealt with.

Her second order of business took Rowan on a very long but
thankfully flat walk through the streets, northeast from the harbor. She
arrived at Donner’s gracious Tea Shop, with its wide veranda overlooking the
weedy estuary. The veranda was now deserted, but for a collection of
disconsolate, hunch-shouldered gulls lining the railing. It began to rain.

Nearby: a small, shabby shop. Rowan entered, brushed wetness
from her hair, slipped her pack from her shoulders.

The bell on the door called from a back room a small, squat
woman with a bright eye and gnarled hands. After exchanging greetings, Rowan
drew a silk handkerchief from her right vest pocket and opened it. “Can you
size this to my finger?”

The jeweler studied the item Rowan passed, then turned up a
sharp gaze. “Now, this is a steerswoman’s ring.”

“So it is. And I am a steerswoman.”

“But this isn’t yours.”

“It is now. Its owner resigned, and I lost my own. I seem to
have inherited it.”

“Hm. Can you prove you’re a steerswoman?”

“What sort of proof would suffice? I can show you my charts.
You can read my logbook, if you like, or look at the soles of my boots.”

The jeweler twisted her mouth in amusement. “I could do all
that. Well, I don’t suppose you’ve stolen all your gear; those boots fit you
too well.” She considered the ring again. “An hour. Will you wait, or come back?”

“I’ll wait, if you don’t mind. And may I pay you?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “No, don’t bother. Nice of you
to ask, though.”

Rowan tried on a few sizing rings, and the jeweler set to
work. Finding no chair about, the steerswoman eased herself to sit on the floor
by her pack, with her back against the wall, needing first to unstrap her
sword. This she laid across her lap.

The jeweler glanced up. “Either you’re stronger than you
look or you inherited that sword, as well.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” It was a bit chill on the
floor; Rowan adjusted her cloak around her knees. “I hope to trade it for a
lighter one.” Her own sword was lost, and she missed it deeply; although plain
to the eye, it had possessed subtle superiorities that she had learned to
exploit well. She wondered if she would ever regain the level of skill it had
allowed her.

The jeweler informed her of the location of the city’s two
swordsmiths, and of a pawnshop where weapons were sometimes found, and
continued with her work, using incongruously heavy clippers to precisely cut a
tiny section from the circle of the ring.

Outside, voices: happy exclamations, as if two long-lost
friends were meeting by chance. Rowan thought the performance at least
overdone, if not entirely unnecessary, and suppressed a surge of annoyance.

The jeweler noticed the turn of her head. “Someone you
know?”

“They traveled on the same ship I did,” Rowan said.

The jeweler crimped the ring around a sized rod, then used a
pair of tongs to hold it in the heat of the tiny furnace at the back of the
room. She was making a speedy job of it. Before the opportunity was lost, Rowan
asked: “Have you lived here all your life?”

“I was born right upstairs.”

She seemed the right age, barely. “Do you remember a wizard
named Kieran?”

The woman suddenly straightened up from the furnace door
and, to Rowan’s amazement, tilted back her head, closed her eyes, and flung out
both hands. “The Lion!” she announced. “The Eagle! The Winged Horse, and the
Brothers, and the Sisters!”

“The constellations,” Rowan said, bemused.

The jeweler dropped her arms, and returned to heating, her
face now transformed with childlike happiness. “Oh, yes, I learned them all.
What a wonder, to know the stars have names!”

“And … how does this relate to Kieran?”

“Oh, he loved the children, such a sweet old man. Once a
month, just over at the tea shop”—she pointed with her free hand—“right at
midnight, he’d have a little party, with cakes and sweet tea, and only children
invited. And all the lanterns made red, so you could see the stars, he said. He
taught us the star names, and told us their stories …”

Rowan was astonished. This was absolutely contrary to her understanding
of the nature of wizards. “You weren’t afraid of him?”

“Some were, you know how children can be. And some of the
parents, they wouldn’t let their little ones come at all. But living right
here, I never missed a single party. Me and about a dozen others, more or less,
showed up every month, until the old wizard passed away.”

Rowan considered this information silently. The jeweler continued
her work.

“How did he die, do you know?” Rowan asked.

“Old age.” A pause. “Well, I’m assuming. He looked to me to
be about a hundred years old … Collecting information, are you?”

“It’s what we do.”

The conversation lapsed; Rowan leaned her head back against
the wall. Her hair was still damp, but the room was warm, and she felt herself
settle into comfort, listening to the quiet creaks and clinks as the jeweler
worked, the hiss of rain, the distant cries of gulls …

She did not realize that she had dozed off until a hand on
her shoulder woke her. She startled violently, and found the jeweler equally
startled. “Jumpy, aren’t you? But we’re done.”

Rowan rubbed her eyes, and clumsily regained her feet; her
leg had stiffened while she slept. She winced. “Let’s see.” The jeweler laid it
in Rowan’s palm. The steerswoman picked it up, turned it over and over.