Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (3 page)

A smooth silver circle. Its only ornamentation: a twist in
the band. But it was that twist, that precise half-turn, that made all the
difference.

It identified the ring, immediately, as a steerswoman’s, and
altered the ring’s geometry, subtly, from a simple circle into a lovely
paradox.

What seemed to possess two edges had only one. And the two
apparent surfaces—the inside of the ring and the outside—were in fact the same
single surface, doubled back upon itself.

The jeweler had done well: there was no sign of the
alteration. It was perfect. Rowan slipped it on the middle finger of her left
hand.

To the Demon Folk, objects were words, and Rowan did not
blame them for confiscating her own ring—she only wondered, often, what strange
message she had passed on to them. Likely she would never know.

But she felt now, as sometimes she did, that she had perhaps
caught a bit of their way of thinking. Because this ring did speak to her, and
not of its own sad history. In pure silver it innocently declared its strange
truth: smooth, hard, and bright.

Rowan’s own history was written, permanently, on the hand
that bore it: a complexity of tiny scars, the price of inattention. And on her
leg: the deep burn of a stranger’s ignorance. And invisibly, on her spirit: the
wounds of anger, and betrayal, and desperation.

The cost of knowledge was struggle, and pain. But the
reward, always, was clean, clear, bright …

“Need a hankie?”

“What?” Rowan looked up, found her vision blurred. She used
her sleeve to dry her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a long time without my ring.
I’m very glad to have this. Thank you.”

The jeweler studied her, nodded. “You look tired. Where are
you staying?”

“I haven’t decided yet …”

“I’ve got a spare room upstairs.”

“That’s very kind. But I was hoping for something more central.
I’ll be doing a lot of walking.”

“Hm.” The jeweler took herself back to her workbench. “I can
think of any number of people who’d be willing to put up a steerswoman. Or you
could try the Dolphin, smack in the middle of town. Ruffo’s a skinflint, but
you might be able to shame him into it. Do you want this?” She turned back, a
small chip of silver between thumb and forefinger.

“No …” Rowan glanced at her ring again. “You keep it. Perhaps
you can find some use for it.”

“Perhaps I will.” The jeweler considered it speculatively,
then laughed. “There, you see? You’ve paid me after all.”

“Someone has,” Rowan admitted.

The Dolphin was a sprawling establishment, possessing three
wings of differing ages. Centrally, a large and comfortable sitting room faced
the street through tall windows of real glass, behind which a number of
well-dressed patrons were tended by graceful and solicitous servers, all safe
from the drizzling rain.

Directly adjacent: a small entrance, announced by a
life-sized model of a dolphin hung above the door. The detail on this was
excellent, and Rowan surmised that the original artist had actually been
privileged to observe the creatures personally. Unfortunately, later
maintenance had been executed by a lesser hand, whose owner clearly shared
Donner’s local love of clumsy excess decoration. The fish was painted brightly,
red on top, green below, with gold-gilt eyes and an entirely spurious line of
wavelike markings down its length. Rowan felt she ought to apologize to it on
the city’s behalf.

Inside, Rowan found a simpler public room. The proprietor,
one Ruffo, was occupied, and Rowan found a seat nearby and listened.

“Well, back again, getting to be a regular thing, isn’t it.
Just off
Graceful Days,
I suppose? And what’s this? A lady?” Introductions
were performed, at a rather high volume; around the room, heads turned to
watch. By sheer will, Rowan forced herself not to do the same. “Your usual room
is available, as it happens, but as you’ve got company this time, I suspect
you’ll want something a little finer—”

Eventually, the arrangements were completed; Rowan waved
away the server who approached her, then rose and went to introduce herself to
Ruffo.

He was a small, wiry man, dressed in fine green twill
trousers with bright red piping, and a yellow silk shirt that did not complement
his complexion. As mark of his trade, he also wore a white apron, but even this
was of good, heavy linen, and sported a small embroidered red dolphin at the
lower right corner. The apron was starched, and spotless.

When Rowan identified herself as a steerswoman, Ruffo grew
wary. His suspicions were confirmed when she made her request: a small room, if
one could be spared. She made no mention of payment.

Ruffo looked aside, scratched his ear, and embarked on a
series of rambling comments regarding a sudden excess of business due to the
ship’s arrival, a caravan that would depart in two days, and more; he continued
for some time. Rowan merely stood patiently, leaning on her cane.

The handful of patrons in the common room watched closely,
said nothing, but visibly grew more and more outraged on the steerswoman’s
behalf. Finally, Ruffo succumbed to the silent social pressure. Likely the cane
had helped.

A chambermaid wearing an extremely dubious expression escorted
the steerswoman: up a broad, polished staircase; through a tangle of corridors;
down a narrow, worn staircase exactly the same length as the first; down
another corridor; and eventually to a door that opened on a room merely twice
the size of its bed.

A rickety table stood under the window, holding pitcher and
ewer and candlestick. A less rickety but even more ancient chair was tucked
under the table. The maid departed for linens, and Rowan took off her pack, set
it on the floor, and discovered that there remained in the room exactly enough
space for one person to stand.

She thought a moment, exited the room, and continued down
the corridor. Five feet, a turn to the right, and the steerswoman found
herself at a door that opened directly to the outside.

A dirt yard, now hissing with rain and splashing mud;
stables to the right; kitchen entrance to the left, and access to the street
beyond. Excellent.

She shut the door and made her long and tedious way up and
down stairs, back to the common room, where she requested a simple meal. When
it arrived, its quality surprised her: eel in a tart lemon sauce; brown rice
seasoned with scallions; a large mug of vegetable stew; and an entire bottle of
the effervescent pear wine. Rowan nervously asked the price. The server, a
slim, handsome lad of about fourteen, glanced about, gazed at the ceiling as if
doing sums in his head, gave her a wink, and departed.

The cuisine on
Graceful Days
had been hearty, but
artless. Rowan dined with deep pleasure, and, when her plates were cleared
away, gathered up her bottle and glass, and took herself to a seat at a table
closer to the fire.

The room slowly emptied of diners, until all that remained
were a handful of locals by the hearth, and the occupants of the table directly
behind Rowan. There, over one and then a second pitcher of ale, the
conversation continued: loud, enthusiastic. One could not help but listen, and
Rowan resigned herself to doing so. Eventually she heard:

“Now, didn’t I tell you—finest ale to be had in Donner, and
I know my ale. But, alas, even the best ale only comes to visit, never to stay.
If you’ll excuse me …” And Rowan heard the scrape of a chair, and the side
door opening, then closing.

The room grew instantly quieter, and the patrons by the fireplace
seemed to sigh in relief. Rowan waited a few moments; then she leaned back in
her chair, and spoke quietly, without turning. “Bel, what exactly do you think
you’re doing?”

From behind her, the reply, as quiet, was amused. “I’m doing
exactly what we planned. I’m watching your back.”

“With Dan constantly at your side?”

“I’ve decided that he makes good cover.”

The steerswoman brought her glass to her lips, sipped twice.
No one was taking note of the conversation. She said: “He is large, loud, and
attracts a great deal of attention.”

“Perfect. The best place to hide something is in plain
sight.

And the best way to hide something in plain sight is to put
it near something large, and loud, and distracting.”

“I’m not attempting to hide!”

“I don’t mean you, I mean me. I’m keeping a low profile.”

“By maintaining a high one?”

“That’s right. Wherever Dan and I go, everyone watches us.
No one can accuse me of sneaking around.”

“You’re using him.”

“So I am. And he’s enjoying it. He thinks it’s an
adventure.”

“I don’t want him to enjoy it!” Rowan glanced about; no one
had noticed her sudden vehemence. She moderated her voice, and studied her
wineglass as if idly. “Bel, at some point, possibly soon, this may well become
dangerous. Dan isn’t a fighter or an adventurer; he’s just a cooper from
Alemeth. He doesn’t have the resources to deal with real danger.”

“Yes he does; he has me. If anyone makes a move on him, I’ll
kill them. Really, Rowan, it’s all very simple.”

“This was not in the plan.” Rowan found she was grinding the
heel of her hand into her forehead. She stopped herself. “Bel—”

“Rowan, I’m better at this than you are. You do your job;
I’ll do mine. I think it’s lucky that Dan needed to come to Donner at the same
time we did. I’m going to go on taking advantage of him for as long as I can.
In a couple of days, he’ll head upriver after his order of lumber, and you can
stop worrying about him then.”

At this point Dan himself entered the room, deep in conversation
with someone he had met outside. Rowan and Bel quickly exchanged directions to
each other’s rooms, and the steerswoman addressed herself to the rest of her
wine.

Much later, in her tiny room, as the steerswoman sat nodding
over her notes and logbook, a soft sound startled her alert.

She sat, speculating. It repeated: a quiet knock on the
door. Rowan cautiously opened it. Bel slid inside and closed the door silently
behind her.

She was smaller than Rowan, but muscular, and sturdy. Her
hair was thick and brown, worn short over a wide forehead. Her nose was strong,
her mouth small and mobile. But what one noticed first and last about Bel were
her eyes: very dark, and large. On a person of her size they seemed completely
to dominate her face, and whenever Rowan thought of Bel, the image she always
had was of those great, dark eyes, looking up.

The dark eyes now regarded Rowan’s chamber with astonishment.
“Is this a room, or a closet?”

“I suspect it’s served as both,” Rowan said. “Have you
learned something?”

“Yes, good news.” Bel reached past Rowan, tested the
mattress with one hand, and sat down. “I heard some locals talking. It seems
that the wizard Jannik is out of town.” She attempted a bounce. The bed did not
bounce with her. “Ow.”

Rowan leaned back against the door, thinking. Bel caught her
expression. “Rowan, that is
good
news. We may get by without being
noticed at all.”

Rowan crossed her arms. “I suppose it must be coincidence—”

Bel threw up her hands. “Of course it’s coincidence!”

“—but I do find it suspiciously convenient—”

“He’s been gone for two days! If he were trying to lull you
into a false sense of security, and lay a trap, he would have had to know
already that you were coming here. Two days ago, you were on
Graceful Days.
Before
that, you were in Alemeth, where no one has had contact with the rest of the
world for months.”

“No one that we know of—”

“You know everyone in Alemeth. There are no wizard’s minions
there!”

“And perhaps Jannik needs no minion to report my movements
to him. He can watch me from the sky, through a Guidestar.”

Silence. “But he can’t tell it’s you,” Bel said at last.
“Fletcher said, from so high up you can’t tell one person from another.”

“Yes. Still … magic.” The steerswoman spoke it like a
curse word.

Bel studied her long. “How’s your leg?”

“Tired.”

“So are you. That’s why you’re jumping at shadows.” She
rose. “Get some rest. I have to go; Dan and I are planning on making an amazing
number of very peculiar noises in our room for the next hour or so. With luck,
we’ll be everyone’s favorite topic of conversation tomorrow, and no one will
bother to wonder about some steerswoman.”

Rowan laughed, quietly. “Oh, very well.” She checked the corridor
outside, left and right, then stood aside to let Bel through.

Something occurred to her: she said, as Bel passed, “And
will any of those peculiar noises be genuine?”

The short, strong woman paused in the light from the door,
tilted her head, considered. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said; then she turned
and slipped silently away into the dark.

Wizards and Steerswomen: there existed
in the world no two categories of people more completely opposite.