Steerswoman - 01 & 02 The Steerswoman's Road Read online

  The Steerswoman’s Road

  Steerswoman, Book, 1 and 2

  Rosemary Kirstein

  1989, 1992, 2003

  ISBN 0-345-46105-3

  A SERVANT OF TRUTH

  If you ask, she will answer. If she asks, you must reply. A steerswoman will speak only the truth to you, as long as she knows it—and you must do the same for her. And so, across the centuries, the steerswomen—questioning, searching, investigating—have slowly learned more and more about the world through which they wander. All knowledge the steerswomen possess is given freely to those who ask. But there is one kind of knowledge that has always been denied them: Magic.

  When the steerswoman Rowan discovers a lovely blue jewel of obvious magical origin, her, innocent questions lead to secret after startling secret, each more dangerous than the last—and suddenly Rowan must flee or fight for her life. Or worse, she must lie.

  As every wizard in the world searches for her, Rowan finds unexpected assistance. A chance-met traveler turned friend, Bel is a warrior-poet, an Outskirter, and a member of a barbaric and violent people. Or so it would seem.

  For Bel, unknowing, possesses secrets of her own: secrets embedded in her culture, in her people, in the very soil of her homeland. From the Inland Sea to the deadly Outskirts, surrounded by danger and deceit, Rowan and Bel uncover more and more of the wizards’ hidden knowledge. As the new truths accumulate, the two women edge closer to the single truth that lies at the center, the most unexpected secret of them all ....

  By Rosemary Kirstein

  The Steerswoman

  The Outskirter’s Secret

  The Lost Steersman (Coming Soon)

  These books are dedicated to

  INGEBORG KIRSTEIN

  who traveled far, to a very strange land indeed, and to

  BRIAN BAMBROUGH

  one good wizard and most importantly, most especially to

  SABINE KIRSTEIN

  who taught her little sister the music of language, and the dance of ideas.

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to thank the following people, whose assistance helped make this book possible:

  Ingeborg and Willi Kirstein, for food, lodging, and financial assistance; Brian Bambrough, for emotional support, gainful employment, and advances upon wages; Shelly Shapiro, for artistic perceptiveness, professional dedication, and personal encouragement; Lisa Bassi, for providing intelligent critiques and poetic inspiration; all my other friends, for their encouragement, comradeship, and patience; and

  Sabine Kirstein, for everything mentioned above, and much more.

  Book One. The Steerswoman

  The Steerswoman is the first novel in the Steerswoman series. Steerswomen, and a very few Steersmen, are members of an order dedicated to discovering and disseminating knowledge. Although they are foremost navigators of the high seas, Steerswomen are also explorers and cartographers upon land as well as sea. With one exception, they are pledged to always answer any question put to them with as truthful a response as is possible within their own limitations. However, they also require anyone of whom they ask questions to respond in the same manner, upon penalty of the Steerswomen’s ban; those under the ban do not receive answers from the steerswomen.

  In this novel, Rowan is a Steerswoman who is interested in some strange jewels which have been found distributed in an unusual pattern. These jewels are made of strange materials bonded onto metal. Some think that such jewels are magically produced.

  Rowan meets Bel, an Outskirter warrior, in a frontier tavern and asks her about a collection of such jewels that she is wearing as a belt. Bel tells her that the belt had been made by her father with jewels found embedded in the Dust Ridge far beyond the Outskirts. Rowan is intrigued by this information and wants to visit the site, but first she needs to return to the Steerswomen Archives. Bel has come to the tavern with friends and plans on returning to the Outskirts with them, but the chance to see the Inner Lands is too good to miss. She suggests that she travel to the Archives with Rowan and then accompany her from there to the Dust Ridge. Rowan agrees and they leave the next day.

  On the way, Rowan and Bel discuss the jewels and their distribution. Rowan notes that the jewels are scattered like thrown objects. When she tries plotting various velocities and initial heights on a graph, she begins to suspect that the jewels were thrown from a very high place at great velocity. Bel suggests that they are part of the disappeared moon, but Rowan knows from her prior investigations that the jewels impacted on the surface long after the Moon vanished. One aspect of her graphs disturbs her; she notices that objects thrown from a great height with sufficient velocity will never hit the planet, but will circle it endlessly.

  Early the next day, they are attacked and almost killed by one of five men who had been wearing a wizard’s uniform in the tavern. Later they are almost killed when they are trapped in a burning inn which has been attacked by a swarm of young dragons; the local wizard who normally controls these dragons arrives on the scene only after the building is fully ablaze. At this point, Rowan begins to suspect that some wizard has ordered her death.

  Rowan and Bel manage to slip away from the fire scene with a party from the Morgan’s Chance, the vessel upon which they have obtained passage, and sail away to Wulfshaven and then overland to the Archives. There Rowan and Bel report these events and the Steerswomen make plans to investigate the wizards.

  This novel has the immediacy and impact of Kingsbury’s Courtship Rite. It has the same sense of exotic ambiance, strange customs and struggle to survive in an alien environment. The characters have deepset traits that motivate their actions, yet exhibit a flexible response to their environment. Best of all, this jewel of a story has sequels: The Outskirter’s Secret is at least as good as this novel and The Lost Steersman should be another excellent read.

  1

  The steerswoman centered her chart on the table and anchored the corners around. A candlestick, a worn leatherbound book, an empty mug, and her own left hand held the curling parchment flat. The lines on the paper seemed to be of varying ages, the ones toward the center drawn with cracked, browning ink, those nearer the edges sharp and black. Extent of detail also showed progression. A large body of water, labeled “Inland Sea,” dominated the central portion. The northern shore was depicted with painstaking precision. Farther north and farther east lines became more general, and there was a broad blank space on the right-hand side of the map.

  The innkeeper regarded the woman a moment, then turned his attention to the chart. “Ah, look at that, now, all laid out just like we were birds and all.” He tilted his head for a better vantage. “Here we are, then.” He placed a chubby finger down on the parchment, on a spot north and east of the sea, midway between precision and vagueness. “Here’s this very crossroads, see, and the town, and the tavern itself.” The last was not depicted. The steerswoman made no comment.

  The finger moved northeast, leaving a faint, damp mark. “There, that’s where me and my brothers used to live. Right there; I know that river, see.”

  “And that’s where you found the jewel,” Rowan the steerswoman said.

  “Yes, lady, that’s right. Felling trees, these great big ones here.” With a sweep of his arm he indicated a vast supporting beam visible in the ceiling of the narrow sitting room. “There we were, cutting these great things down—they did the worst of it, I’m not so strong as my brothers.” The innkeeper was an immense square block of a man, of the sort whose padding generally concealed considerable muscle. “So I spot this smaller one, more in my range, like. And I heave back my axe, give it one great bash—and there it
was.”

  Rowan reached across the table and picked up the object that lay there, an irregular lump of wood about the size of her two fists. As she turned it over in her hands, something glinted inside the hollows and depressions carved into its surface: rich colors that fractured and shifted as the light shifted, opalescent—now blue-black, now sky-blue, now a flash of purple, recalling amethyst. The surface was laced with tiny veins of silver. Rowan touched one of the visible faces and found it perfectly smooth, far smoother than a jeweler could have cut it, and with a faintly oily feel.

  Putting the object down on the chart, she reached into the neck of her blouse and drew out a small pouch, hung by a leather cord. She slipped the cord over her head, opened the pouch, and slid its contents out onto the table.

  The innkeeper smiled. “Ah, you’ve got one, too, though not so large and fine as mine.” He picked up the blue shard, about half the size of the thumb he rubbed across it. “Oh, it’s the same, yes.” But it seemed less a jewel than a slice of a jewel. It was flat and thin as a knife blade. Only one surface showed, the other sheathed in some rough-textured, silver-colored metal, as if it had been pulled from or broken from a setting.

  The steerswoman made a vague gesture. “We can’t tell how large yours is, imbedded in wood. All the others I’ve seen are like my own, small and one-sided. I suspect that what you have is actually several jewels, nestled together.” She turned back to the map. “Can you recall which side of the tree it was found in?”

  He was surprised. “Side? No side, lady. It was inside like I said.”

  “Yes, but wasn’t it closer to one side than the other?” She tapped the object. “It wasn’t directly in the center, or the pattern of the grain would run around it in a circle. It was off-center. I need to know in what direction.”

  “Ten years back? Who can tell one side of a tree from another, ten years back?”

  Rowan leaned back in her chair, contemplating a moment. She was an unprepossessing figure, of average height, and of average build for her height. Her traveling clothes, a rough linen blouse and trousers, were dusty and perhaps a bit tattered. Her hair, cut short for convenience, was the color of dark wet sand, save where the sun had bleached pale streaks. She possessed no outstanding beauty, and yet her face fascinated, not by any great perfection of feature but by its intelligent, constantly shifting expression. It seemed as if the actions of her mind were immediately reflected on her face, giving her a strange air, part vulnerability, part arrogance. One could not tell if she was helplessly incapable of guile, or if she simply considered it beneath her.

  “The jewel showed at the first strike of your axe?” she asked the innkeeper.

  “Yes, lady.”

  “Which way were you facing? Were there landmarks about? What did you see?”

  “See?” He was blank a moment, searching his memory; then his face lit up. “I saw the Eastern Guidestar. The sun was just setting, see, the stars just showing, and as I get ready to swing, I look up and see the Eastern Guidestar shining through the branches like an omen. I remember thinking that.”

  Rowan laughed, slapped her hand down on the table, and rose. “Does that tell you something, lady?”

  “Indeed it does.” She had gone to where her pack lay against an armchair, and was opening her tubular map case. She pulled out another chart, smaller than the first, and brought it back to the table. “Here.” She pushed the lump to one side and spread the new chart on top of the first. “Do you see that this is a more detailed map of this small area?” She indicated the land around his finger-smudge.

  “Yes ...”

  She nodded. “Here’s the river, as you said, and it must have been around here that you felled the tree.”

  He squinted along her finger. “Could be, yes ...”

  “Were there any other landmarks? What did you pass on the way there?”

  “We crossed a brook ...

  “Could it be this one?” With a series of questions she narrowed the possibilities until both she and the innkeeper were satisfied. She marked the position with a small star. Next she questioned him closely about the terrain and the other types of vegetation nearby, adding symbols and notes. At last she said, “And you were facing the Eastern Guidestar, which is southeast from there,” and drew a small arrow by the star, pointing southeast. The innkeeper saw that there were perhaps a dozen such stars on the map, three of them accompanied by arrows. All the arrows pointed southeast.

  The steerswoman picked up the wooden shape again, giving her attention not to the jewels but to the wood itself. She ran her fingernail lightly along the grain. “Did you use the tree that held this in constructing any part of this building?”

  “Why, yes. The great mantelpiece over the fireplace in the common room.”

  She tossed the lump to him. “Show me.” The terse command was tempered by her evident delight. The innkeeper could not imagine why the prospect of examining a mantelpiece would please her so. He led her down the short paneled corridor, passing a wide-eyed chambermaid who hastened to get out of their way, either out of respect for her master, or for the woman who followed him.

  The common room was a wide low chamber that ran the entire length of the inn. In the far corner, a door led to the kitchen and service area, with kegs of various brews and wines nearby. Rowan and the innkeeper entered from another door in the same wall. A massive fieldstone fireplace filled the area between the two doors. The opposite wall held the entrance and a rank of windows, all flung open to admit the weak spring sunlight. As an attempt to dispel the native gloom of the chamber, this was a failure, and only served to offset the dark comradely warmth that prevailed.

  The confluence of several bands of travelers had provided the inn with a crowd of surprising size. In one corner, a caravan guide was regaling a merchant who had three lovely young companions—daughters, by the merchant’s evident disapproval of their bright-eyed attentiveness. Nearby, some of the other caravan members were conversing with five soldiers in red surcoats, apparently in the service of some or another wizard currently aligned with the Red. Close by the fire, a group of pilgrims were receiving an impromptu lecture from their leader; a local wag stood close behind his chair, parodying the man’s pontifical gestures and expressions, while the pilgrims watched in a dumbfounded fascination that the unknowing leader seemed to attribute to his own rhetorical brilliance.

  Far to the left of that group, Rowan identified a band of no less than a full dozen Outskirters. War-band size, she realized with some concern. But they seemed, at the moment, cheerful and unthreatening, oblivious to the ring of silent watchfulness around them, a ring that was slowly being frayed by the friendly, the brave, and the simply curious.

  Seeing that nothing undue was about to transpire, she turned her attention to the fireplace and the mantelpiece, which was high up, safely out of casual arm-reach. It held a display of oddments and fancy mugs.

  Rowan found a tall stool by the fire. She tested it with a fingertip, and it wobbled perceptibly. Seeing her intent, a local farmer leaped up. “Here, lass, I’ll give a hand.” He moved it to where she indicated and patted the seat, saying, “Up you go, lass, be glad to hold you,” with a grin and an overly familiar wink.

  “A little respect, man. That’s a steerswoman,” the innkeeper protested. The farmer backed off in surprise.

  “It doesn’t mean I couldn’t use a hand,” Rowan said, half annoyed, half amused. She climbed to the top of the stool while the farmer carefully steadied it, his friends chortling at some expression on his face, invisible to Rowan.

  Ignoring them, she turned and carefully examined the squared-off end of the mantel, her face close to the wood, her hands moving over the grain.

  The innkeeper watched in perplexity, then eyed the group around the fire, as if debating whether to betray his ignorance with a question. His quandary was solved by a serving girl, who, bustling by, noticed the steerswoman for the first time. “Here, what are you doing?” she called.

&nb
sp; Rowan looked down. “Counting rings,” she said with a grin, then returned to her work. The innkeeper’s flapping gesture sent the girl back to the customers, and then he cleared his throat experimentally. His comment was forestalled by an explosion of loud voices from the near corner, and heads turned in the direction of the Outskirters.

  One of the barbarians, a particularly burly specimen with a shaggy red beard, had risen and was leaning across the table to reply to a local who had joined the group. But he spoke with laughter and had leaned forward to pour more wine into the man’s cup. “Ha! Stories! We’ve tales enough, and more than enough. I shouldn’t wonder you’d ask, living in these soft lands. Sit in a tavern with good wine and good ale, and hear someone else’s miserable adventures.”

  The band of Outskirters was becoming more infiltrated as surrounding people edged a little nearer at the possibility of a story.

  “As for us,” the barbarian continued, sitting down, “when we want something unusual we come to small taverns and sit under dry roofs, drink wine, and gawk at the local dullards.” He spoke good-naturedly; certainly none of his comrades seemed to find the present company objectionable. One Outskirter woman at the end of the table sat shoulder-to-shoulder with a handsome field hand. He spoke to her in quiet tones; she gave occasional brief replies, a small smile on her face, eyes looking now to the left, now to the right.

  “We’ll bring a goblin, next time,” a second barbarian volunteered, speaking around a mouthful of roast venison. “He’ll have stories, or perhaps he’ll do a clever dance.”

  “I’ve seen the goblins dance,” said a farmer with brooding eyes. “I don’t care to make closer acquaintance.”

  “Nasty beasts,” the first Outskirter agreed. “Singly and in troops. Only last month our tribe was beset by a troop, and at night, too, the worst time to deal with them. Garryn’s pyre, remember?” His friends nodded. “We had to bum him at night. Ha, there’s a story—” He received a shove from his comrade. “What!”