The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series)

by Rosemary Kirstein

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyrights

  Dedication

  Rowan’s World

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  About the Author

  The

  Lost Steersman

  BY

  ROSEMARY KIRSTEIN

  Published by Rosemary Kirstein

  ISBN MOBI: 978-0-9913546-2-7

  Copyright 2003, 2014 by Rosemary Kirstein

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations within critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Map by Rosemary Kirstein

  Cover design and image by Rosemary Kirstein

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events, is entirely coincidental.

  For

  LAURIE J. MARKS,

  DELIA SHERMAN,

  and

  DIDI STEWART

  “The Fabulous Genrettes”

  Rowan’s World

  For a high-resolution version of this map online:

  www.rosemarykirstein.com/the-books/mapbook3/

  PROLOGUE

  From the steerswoman Rowan

  To Henra, Prime of the Steerswomen, residing at the Archives, north of Wulfshaven, I send greetings.

  Henra—

  I reached the fallen Guidestar.

  I enclose fragments.

  I enclose my logbooks, with sketches, and analysis of other findings I made in the Outskirts. I enclose maps.

  It is absolutely urgent that you examine this material immediately. Matters are far worse than we suspected.

  There is trouble in the Outskirts, and that trouble is going to move out of the Outskirts and enter the Inner Lands, and I cannot guess how it all will end—

  But I think I know how it will begin.

  There will be war.

  And the wizard Slado is behind it. I’m certain.

  This is what I learned:

  We know that the area called the Outskirts moves, and always has been moving; we know that the Inner Lands expands in its wake. But I have discovered that this process is and always has been absolutely dependent upon the intervention of magic.

  The country that lies beyond the Outskirts is stranger than we guessed— poisonous plants, dangerous animals, even monsters. It is hard to enter, difficult to survive in, and impossible for humans to thrive there.

  Magic has always been used to destroy the native life, to clear the way for the Outskirters to enter new land (see pages 535-542 of my logbook, under the heading “Routine Bioform Clearance”). The critical spell was applied in a repeating twenty-year cycle.

  But the Outskirters themselves know no magic. Someone else, some wizard or series of wizards, has been maintaining the magic.

  But no more. Regular use of the spell ceased. decades ago.

  Without Routine Bioform Clearance to destroy the worst of the native life, the Outskirts cannot expand and shift eastward. The land the Outskirters now hold will be required to support a population outgrowing its resources.

  There is already famine among the easternmost Outskirter tribes (see pages 311-321: “The Face People”). They have begun preying on each other.

  When life in the Outskirts becomes unsustainable, all the tribes will begin to move back, toward and into the Inner Lands.

  The Outskirters will do what they need to survive. And they are warriors. I hate to think what will happen to our people, and to theirs …

  Because the last proper usage of Routine Bioform Clearance took place before the previously unknown Guidestar fell to earth, and because we know how concerned Slado was at my discovering that a Guidestar had fallen, I must conclude that Slado is behind all this.

  At first I assumed that the Guidestar’s fall itself somehow destroyed the spell, somehow rendered its magic unusable. But I now know that is not the case.

  Because Routine Bioform Clearance has been used again.

  Not against the wild lands and monsters beyond the Outskirts: against the Outskirts itself. Against the land, and its people. I do not know how many died. Bel and I barely escaped with our lives.

  See my maps for the location and size of the area affected, and pages 601 through 615 of my logbook for descriptions of the attendant phenomena. And, Henra, be aware as you read them that my estimates are conservative.

  That such a power exists in the world, has always existed, and has now been used against human beings— it’s almost inconceivable. I would hardly accept it as true myself had I not witnessed it.

  For your part you must trust my Steerswomen’s training in observation and analysis. You taught me well. The information is correct.

  Slado must be stopped. I do not know how, or by whom. But before anything can be done, he must first be found.

  I think that the Steerswomen are uniquely suited to this task. We may be the only people who can accomplish it.

  I beg you, lady, put every steerswoman residing at the Archives on the problem, immediately. Search our records and charts and, as quickly as is possible, pass word out to the traveling steerswomen. Slado must have left some trail. Once we discover his location, we can deal with the question of what to do next …

  But as I see it. possibilities are three:

  Approach him openly, on the chance that he does not understand the full effects of his actions.

  Infiltrate and subvert his plans covertly.

  Assassinate him.

  Henra, if you had seen what I have seen, you would not be shocked by this last option. Whether it will ultimately prove wise, or necessary, or even possible, remains to be seen. But I happen to know just the woman for the job …

  Bel has remained among the Outskirters. She will rejoin me at a future date. I cannot be certain when, and I find myself half at a loss without her. I’ve come to depend on her friendship, her quick mind, and her sword. But Bel thinks that it may be possible to prevent the conflict Slado i
s forcing upon us. To that end, she is warning and organizing the tribes … I hope that she is right, and that Outskirters and Inner Landers can stand together against what may come next.

  But so much remains unknown. And I still cannot imagine what it is that Slado hopes to accomplish …

  I apologize for writing so briefly, and so urgently, with such alarming news. But a ship is sailing today, and this letter and package must sail with it.

  I also enclose a second letter, which I feel that you ought to forward, as discreetly as possible, to the wizard Corvus.

  I realize that he is under the Steerswomen’s ban for withholding information requested of him in the past, and I am thus not permitted to answer any question he asks of us— but by strict interpretation of the ban, one can volunteer information unasked. I did so for Corvus once before. I think that the Steerwomen should do it again. If Slado is still hiding his actions from Corvus and the other wizards, then those acts must be against the wizards’ interests as well as ours.

  We may find ourselves working on the same side as wizards, an astonishing thought in itself. But, for the hope of any possible future assistance from Corvus, we must let him know what is happening now …

  I leave this to your judgment. Evaluate my findings, then read the letter and decide for yourself. We may be too late: it’s possible that Corvus has already thrown in with Slado and Slado’s plans. I can only hope he has not …

  I am now in Alemeth, at the Annex, and intend to remain for several months. at the least. I know this was not planned, and I apologize for abandoning my assigned route.

  But this matter must supersede all other concerns. At the Annex, I might be able to make progress on the question myself.

  Although, unfortunately, the situation here is not the best …

  1

  The paper was wrinkled and torn down one side; the ink was smudged, and the lines weren’t exactly steady. There was something that looked sort of like a street, but it looked like this street only if you already knew that it was. The little square blocks on both sides were buildings, but there was only one of them labeled at all …

  Steffie watched sidelong while Gwen, her arms all full of dirty dishes, looked from the paper up to the face of the steerswoman. “It’s a map,” Gwen answered to the question she’d just been asked.

  “I can see that,” the steerswoman said. “But what I cannot see is what it is for.”

  “Mira carried it,” Steffie put in. He went back to sweeping, bringing up a cloud of dust off the old rag rug. “All the time. She said it helped her find her way.”

  “To where?”

  “To the tavern.”

  The steerswoman blinked at him. “The tavern,” she said, “is around the corner.”

  “Well, yes.” He grinned and kicked up the carpet’s edge. “I guess she mostly used it to get back from the tavern, of an evening. When she’d had a few, see? She used to make a big show of pulling it out, and say, ‘When you can’t tell where you’re going, get a Steerswomen’s map.’ And that since she was a steerswoman herself, and she made that map, she could always trust it to get her home.”

  That got him a blank stare. And then the steerswoman shook her head and sighed through her nose. “Well.” She looked at the map again. “I suppose Mira must have been a steerswoman— ” and then she looked up and around at the room “— but I can’t help myself doubting it.”

  Too damn right, Steffie thought— except, the other way around.

  Gwen traded a glance with Steffie, like she was thinking just what he was thinking, and then carried off her dishes. The steerswoman gave up on the map and went back to sifting through the piles of loose papers on the table. And Steffie kept on sweeping.

  When the news had gotten around town that there was a steerswoman at the Annex again, everyone was glad enough. What with old Mira gone, it had been like there was a big hole right in the middle of Alemeth. And even though the new steerswoman said she could only stay for a little while, people pretty much expected things to go back to normal.

  But the last thing Gwen and Steffie expected was to be put to work.

  Steffie stopped at the edge of the rug, wondering if it would be enough to just sweep away the dirt that showed on top; but with a whole day of the new steerswoman’s company behind him, he figured Better Not, put the broom aside, and set to rolling the thing up. Gwen clattered the last load of dishes into the tin bathtub and said, not being quiet about it, “If you find any more than these, I won’t wash them!”

  The steerswoman didn’t even look up from the worktable. “If we find any more,” she said, in exactly the same kind of voice, “throw them away!”

  Gwen snatched up a bucket and went to the front door, growling to Steffie as she passed him, “If I’d wanted to wash dishes, I’d have stayed at home.”

  Steffie watched her go, then tried to shift the rolled rug to the back door by kicking it along the floor. No good: it was too heavy. He gave up and hefted the thing over one shoulder and carried it out, coughing from the dust in his face and trailing bits of dirt behind, some of which were big enough to rattle when they hit.

  Just before he reached the door, he heard the steerswoman mutter, “It’s just as well Mira and I never met. I’m sure we wouldn’t approve of each other.”

  That was for sure, Steffie thought.

  Outside, the yard was the same old tangle of weeds, cast-off furniture, and broken crockery. The only clear area was the muddy path to the outhouse. It crossed through three different permanent puddles; whenever she used the path, Mira had always put on a pair of huge, old boots that she kept on the back stairs just for that.

  The boots were still there, crusted with dry mud. Steffie sat down beside them.

  Crazy old woman, he thought. He missed her.

  Steffie had been just a tyke when he’d first heard about how a steerswoman always has to answer whatever question you ask, no matter what. Seemed funny, so he decided to test it out, just to see. So he walked right up to old Mira, in the middle of the street, and started asking her every personal question he could think of— all the nasty and rude things that make a little boy snicker but no grown-up in her right mind would ever answer.

  But Mira had just looked him straight in the eye and answered each and every one— some of them at length and with lots of details— while her friends stood by laughing and making saucy remarks, which Mira didn’t mind one bit, either. Pretty soon it was little Steffie who was squirming, going red as a petunia, and finally fleeing.

  Except, he came back. And he kept coming back. He followed her like a shadow.

  The next thing he knew, here he was, all grown up to twenty-one years, still spending most of every day at the Annex. And what kept him coming back was Mira.

  No one else was like Mira. No one was as honest or as unafraid. She did not care at all what people thought about her. She kept her house a mess; and she ate and drank what she liked, carried on, and talked about things no decent old woman would think of. She used to say that she had spent most of her life being decent and working hard, and she was tired of it. She figured she had earned the right to have some fun.

  Sometimes someone would get Mira to talk of her times on the road; and Steffie had to admit that the way Mira told it, it didn’t sound very nice: being cold and often hungry, usually alone, and always with work to do, never any real rest. And often in the middle of talking, her voice would trail off, and she’d look off into the distance or down at the ground, sort of sad and far away—

  Then she’d suddenly jump up— they were usually in the tavern— grab someone, like old Brewer, and haul him out to the floor. Then skinny Belinda would pull out her fiddle; Brewer’s fat son would start clapping a rhythm; Janus, so usually quiet and courtly, would start making up the most scurrilous lyrics— and the two old people would set to dancing, stamping their rickety bones around the floor, always off the beat, and everyone laughing, Mira the loudest of all …

  For as long as
Steffie had been alive, it was Mira who lived in the Annex, and it was Mira and Mira’s ways that meant “steerswoman.”

  He couldn’t figure out this Rowan person at all.

  The rug was still slung on his shoulder. He heaved it off into the yard, and it thumped to the ground in a cloud of dust. Out in the light of day, he could see it was hopeless. It would be a job of a year to get it clean. He gave it up.

  When he came back into the room, he felt at first that it was altogether empty, like a snail shell found on the beach, its little dweller dead and gone. It was proper for it to be empty.

  But there was that Rowan, sitting at the worktable as Mira never did, poring over those books, as Mira never had done. It felt wrong; it felt like an insult.

  She did have the right to be there. This was the Annex, and she was a steerswoman: so she said, and she wore the little gold chain and the twisty silver ring, like they all did. But she did not look like a steerswoman to Steffie, not at all; she looked dangerous.

  She sat at the old table, where the sun slanted down, dusty, through the high front windows. There was a pile of loose papers on the table and three stacks of books, each book looking exactly like the others, all bound in red leather.

  Her right hand was on top of the papers, holding them down, and that hand was splotched with ink stains, new ones and old ones together. Her left hand, the one with the silver ring, was holding the book open; that hand looked like it had been through a little war all by itself, because it had small scars crisscrossed all over it, maybe a dozen of them.