“Well, ho, here’s my turn,” Dan said. They paused. “Can you handle those two?”
Steffie and Gwen were practicing coordinating their steps, using the nursery rhyme as a guide. “I think so,” Rowan said. “They seem to do remarkably well. The gods protect fools and drunkards, people say.”
“Looks like you’ve got one of each there.” And he executed a deep bow. “Good morning to you, lady; and if your head ever recovers, perhaps I’ll get you that dinner after all.”
She nodded, gracious. “Good morning to you, Dan; and I think that it will, by dinnertime.”
He raised a brow. “Dinnertime tonight, that is?”
“I’d expect so.”
“Even if,” and here he looked at the sky innocently, “your friend Janus should show up?”
“I assure you, it will take a great deal more than Janus to keep me from dinner.”
And Dan wandered off around the corner, striding with his hands behind him, a smile on his face.
Rowan turned back to the couple. They had dropped the rhyme as being too complex and were now counting, “One, two, one, two,” under their breaths.
“Come on, you two,” Rowan said.
Her “two” had come at the wrong point. “There, now, I’ve lost my count,” Gwen protested.
“It’s one, and then it’s two,” Steffie told her.
“One and two. Right.” They set off.
Rowan was a moment finding her bearings. Silly, silly; she knew these streets by now. She could draw a map of them. She immediately did so, in her head. But where were they on it? Coming from the southeast … ah, there. “Left here,” she called out.
“Left here.”
“Left, one and two.” They moved between close-set houses, dirt instead of cobbles underfoot.
Rowan kept being distracted. Strange; her mind felt reasonably clear. Perhaps she had had a bit too much to drink; her ears were ringing faintly.
Steffie was humming again, now tonelessly, to himself. Gwen thumped him on the stomach. “Change the note.”
“ ’S not me,” he said. “That’s the tune. Hmm, hmm, hmm.”
“It’s boring.”
“Hmm, hmm, ” Rowan went, idly. Odd … “Steffie are your ears ringing?”
“Hmm, hmm. ” The same note that Rowan heard.
Her steps slowed, halted. “Wait, be quiet a bit.” She blocked her ears; the hum vanished. Unblocked, and—
Steffie had taken it up again; standing still he had more breath and was holding each note as long as he could. “Be quiet.” Rowan said to him. He complied.
A faint, low humming. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Gwen asked.
“Hmm, ” went Steffie, once. When he stopped, the tone continued independently, steady, uninterrupted by any human singer’s breath.
Suddenly, starkly sober, Rowan remembered where she had heard that exact sound before.
Steffie and Gwen were joking at each other, some coy, boozy quarrel. Rowan turned to them. “You have to be quiet.”
“Have to be quiet,” Steffie pronounced solemnly; then poked Gwen in the side. She squealed and grabbed at his hand. “Come off it, then,” she protested.
“No— ” Rowan said.
“Quiet,” Steffie told Gwen. “Mustn’t wake the sleepies.” He made another grab.
“Hey, now!”
Rowan clutched at their shoulders, trying to separate them, trying to shout in a whisper, urgent. “Quiet, be still! It’s a creature, a creature from the Outskirts.” And Rowan remembered, in the Outskirts: Bel, wordlessly urging her silent; Bel, ever brave, now terrified; then both of them waiting, motionless, for hours, as something distantly heard passed them by.
“Creature? Outskirts?” Steffie disentangled himself, gathered himself up to speak paternally. “Now, lady, now Rowan, can’t always be jumping at things— ”
“Creatures?” Gwen was uncomprehending.
“They’re attracted by sound, by noise; you have to be quiet.”
“What, wild animals, right here in town— ”
“Stop it!” Rowan hissed through clenched teeth. “Stop it now, or it will find us!” It would follow their sound, would come for them, would kill them.
The hum grew louder.
“ ’S a drunkard,” Steffie told her, and his perfectly normal tone of voice terrified her. “Singing along, stumbling home, just like us.”
“Stumbling home,” Gwen sang, like a line from a song.
“Watch you don’t stumble,” Steffie told her. “I’ll just have to … catch you!”
“Hey, stop, you! Off, then!”
“No!” Rowan shouted; but she mustn’t shout; she mustn’t speak. She tugged at them again. The hum could be heard over their voices.
“Hah, stop, you say now— ”
“No poking!”
“No poking, you say now—
“Nasty man! But I know your weak spot …
“Hey, no! Hey, come off it— ”
They would not listen. They were not going to be silent. They were going to die.
The steerswoman could do nothing but save herself.
Her gaze helplessly locked on the couple, Rowan began to back away, slowly, carefully, silently.
In the midst of playing at Gwen, Steffie glanced up once at Rowan; looked up again, in surprise that she was so far away; looked up again, puzzled, then caught her expression.
What he saw on her face made him freeze.
The hum continued, louder.
“Aha!” Finding that Steffie had ceased to defend himself, Gwen attacked. He clutched her arms roughly, no game now. “Hey!” He pulled her to the wall, turned her, pinned her against himself, gripped one hand across her mouth. She struggled, her cries muffled. He shook her viciously once, and his eyes never left Rowan’s face.
Now frightened, Gwen subsided. Rowan ceased backing away.
They stood motionless. Overhead, a flood of bats streamed home from the sea marshes, northward.
Rowan could not place the hum’s direction. The walls of the houses, whitewashed wood on one hand, stone on the other, confused it. The wood seemed to suck in the sound, the stone echo it back. Rowan tilted and wove her head slowly, trying to find a focus.
Across the street, his back against a shuttered window, Steffie silently mouthed at her, What do I do?
Rowan gestured slowly, both hands up, forbidding: Stay perfectly still. Steffie nodded minutely.
She looked up the street, down. They were one house from the corner in one direction, three houses in the other, with the view past it clear for another six.
The hum grew, and perceptibly now continued to grow, acquiring faint overtones that she had not heard in the Outskirts. The creature must be very near.
She tried to gauge its speed by the change in volume. Slower than a man might walk, she thought. It must be up the next street, somewhere around the near corner.
How well could it hear? In the Outskirts it had never been close enough to see, and Bel had still been afraid; but the land there was open. Here among the houses, could the beast locate purely by sound what it could not see?
There were obstacles here, places to flee to, places to hide. If they moved now, could they make it down the street, around the corner? She could tell how fast the creature moved; she could guess its direction; she knew it was near, but not how near.
She cautiously waved to Steffie, beckoning him across the street toward her, moving herself away from the corner, agonizingly soft-footing each step. Steffie began to move carefully, lifting Gwen so that her feet just cleared the ground. Rowan wondered how long he could keep that up.
Gwen was frightened and confused; her feet tried to find purchase. She shifted in Steffie’s arms and one shoe hissed against the dirt. Rowan halted and stiffened in fear; seeing her do so, Steffie froze.
The lowest note was abruptly clear, new overtones blooming above it, themselves half heard, like fever noise; and in the narrow street
the air became a substance of sound. The creature had cleared the corner.
Her back to the stone wall, Rowan could not see it; in the center of the street, Gwen and Steffie could. They looked.
Terror on Steffie’s face as swift and shocking as a blow, and then his expression was utterly blank, as if his fear had gone beyond what his body could express. He stood empty, head tilted back, lips parted; but he did not let go of Gwen.
Above his hand, Gwen’s eyes grew wide, and she cringed back into Steffie’s arms. Rowan feared that Gwen would scream; she fainted instead. Steffie continued to hold her upright, motionless.
If they made no sound, Rowan thought, if the creature had never seen a human before, if they stayed utterly still, would it think them an object, would it pass them by?
Cold stone against her back, Rowan waited for her first sight of a demon.
And far away, across the houses: a hoot, a whoop, and an odd warble, voices laughing.
Someone was drunkenly singing his way home: Lasker, with his friends in tow. The voice of the demon steadied, then began to fade back. The creature had chosen a new direction.
No! Lasker could not know to stay silent; Rowan could not shout to tell him.
She ran.
Away from the demon, down the street, left at the next corner, two blocks and left again, up toward the demon’s street. She stopped at the tailor’s shop at the corner, thrust two fingers into her mouth and let out a shrill, piercing whistle.
It echoed, clearly, hollowly. In the pause that followed, only the demon’s hum, now distant, but not retreating. Rowan whistled again. The hum began to approach.
The tailor’s door banged open. “Here, you— ”
She clutched the man’s shoulders, shook him. “Get help. People with weapons. There’s a monster in the streets.”
“What— ”
She meant to shake him again, but her hands acted of themselves. They slapped his face, spun him around, beat him on the back, shoved him. “Run! Run that way, run from the sound!”
The overtones returned; the demon was near. Rowan dashed out into its street and across. A shadowy dark shape two blocks away moved at the edge of her vision; she cut into another side street, ran ten feet down, stopped.
She whistled— and stood shuddering, sweat cold on her face and back, waiting.
She had to draw it away from town. And away from the dell, without crossing the center of town. East.
Wood houses here, muffling the sound. She could not tell if the demon was moving; it did not seem to be retreating. She whistled again.
The hum grew. Rowan backed away.
She needed to bring the demon toward her, keeping far enough ahead of it; but she did not know the margin of safety. She stepped back softly, mental eyes scanning an imagined map of the streets.
And then, far off, to her left southwest of her a whistle, shriller, stronger than her own. Someone else was drawing the demon.
Rowan had an ally. And now, a plan, if her comrade was a person of intelligence.
They could protect each other, drawing the demon toward them by turns, running ahead of each other down the side streets. They could take it out of town.
And then? They would end up alone with it, in the sea marsh, with no obstacles to dodge behind.
Possibly help would arrive by then. No time to wonder now.
Streets were less regular here. Rowan chose her route, a zigzag toward the east, staying north of the demon’s assumed location, hearing her unknown friend call the creature again. When she guessed she was past that person’s position, she whistled herself, needing to try twice, out of clumsy fear.
How smart an animal was a demon? she wondered. How stupid? A few times through this pattern, would it grow frustrated and simply choose the the last-heard target?
The distant whistle came again, southeast. Her ally understood. Rowan chose a path, moved.
Buildings grew fewer. She kept close to them, sidling, picturing the demon’s route and her own. They were coming to the manufactories; there was less chance of an early riser meeting the creature.
Her friend— he or she must be moving toward the warehouses south along the harbor. The fishers rose early.
Rowan whistled.
Across the distance, above and beneath the creature’s humming; a strangled wail became a shriek, and then silence.
Rowan wondered who had died. There was a long pause, and only the voice of the demon.
And then: the whistle, nearer to her, and sooner, than it had come before.
Yes. Draw it away from the harbor. She angled down the length of a long shed, down another, paused to check the loudness of the demon’s voice, heard that it was approaching. She and her comrade were now nearly in a straight line from each other. They needed more lateral distance between them, to safely cover each other.
No help for it. Get the demon away from the harbor. Rowan whistled, listened, waited for the demon’s approach.
The creature’s tone stayed steady.
The next whistle should come southeast, just behind a warehouse storing metal scraps, right next to the rope-walk.
No whistle. The demon’s voice continued unaltered, then dropped abruptly as it turned some corner.
It had chosen, and it had not chosen Rowan.
She tried to guess her ally’s position, tried to visualize his or her options for escape. Long buildings, there, warehouses. An easy retreat by going closer to the harbor, but further in, nearer Rowan, a mere two streets away—
Cul-de-sac. Two huge, angled warehouses with what might seem an alley between but ending in a shared loading dock.
How well did her comrade know these streets? As well as a steerswoman?
Rowan ran toward the voice of the demon.
And behind her, north: distant shouting voices, rattles as of weaponry, footsteps heavy and quick. Help. But they would arrive too late.
She reached the warehouses, the streets broad and sandy. The lemon dawn sky was high and wide above her; the demon’s tone, unechoed and erased of overtones, now sounded deceptively distant. But she could hear a series of soft thumps, in quadruple rhythm: the four-footed steps of the creature. Rowan flattened herself against the front of the first building, edged her way to the corner with painful slowness, and looked down the alley.
The creature stood just over five feet tall: a gray-mottled vertical column of flesh, strange muscles shifting beneath the skin as it raised first one, then each other low-kneed, flat-footed leg, its body weaving in a circular motion as it walked. Its four arms splayed out, horizontal from the top of its body, then angling downward at sharp-jointed elbows. It had no head, no visible face or eyes, no apparent difference between front or back or sides. Rowan could not tell in which direction the creature was looking, but the direction it was moving was certain: down the cul-de-sac toward the loading dock.
Up against the dock there stood an empty, tall-wheeled wagon. And backed up against that, with nowhere further to run, Rowan’s ally: Steffie.
Rowan whistled.
The demon stopped and threw its arms high; in panicked instinct, Rowan ducked back behind the building’s edge. A short, sharp jet of clear fluid barely missed her, spattering far out into the dirt of the street. An instant’s terror as she realized how close the spray had come, but she was already thinking, noting the spot where the jet had come to earth: about sixty feet. That was the demon’s range.
She scanned the ground at her feet, gathered up a rusted horseshoe, a half brick, a palm-sized clamshell. The voices and running footsteps were nearer, a few streets away, and Rowan called out to them over the demon’s humming; but she did not wait. She took a breath, ducked forward, hurled the brick with all her strength.
The creature, some forty feet away from Steffie, was raising its arms. The brick caught it above one rear knee, and it staggered, weird arms flailing. Rowan dodged back before it could recover to spray again.
Nine people pounded into the street behind Rowan
, six men and three women, armed with pikes, swords, bows: a contingent of the town’s militia. “Here!” Rowan called to them.
“What’s this, then?” one man demanded, as his squad milled to a confused halt around him.
“It’s a demon, a creature from the Outskirts,” Rowan told him quickly. She tried to recall his name and failed. “It’s dangerous— No, you, get back!” She clutched the back of one militia woman’s shirt, pulling her away from the alley’s entrance, eliciting a cursing complaint from the woman. Rowan ignored her, turned back to the leader. “It’s in there, it’s got Steffie trapped against the loading dock. He has no weapon; we’ve got to lure it out and kill it.” She stopped to catch her breath. “It may be on its way out now. It follows sound.”
“How big a beast is this?”
“So high.” Rowan demonstrated, and prepared to explain further; but the leader cut her off with, “Right, lady, we’ll take it from here.” And he gestured his people to advance.
Rowan spun him viciously around. “Wait, you don’t know what you’re walking into!”
He threw off her hand. “Here, you!”
There came another sound from the alley, at first like a man’s voice, then changing to an animal shriek it seemed no living human could possibly emit. The cry ceased, and Rowan said, “No …” once, then, “No!” again when the nearest of the militia ran into the alley’s mouth, then: “No! Get back!”
The three fighters who had advanced fell back, staggering, crying in pain, one of them screaming in full voice as she fell prone, struggling to scrabble away. Someone ran forward to assist, shouted, and stumbled when another jet caught his leg. Limping, he dragged his comrade aside, and Rowan’s hands and others’ pulled, helped, leaned the woman against a wall.
The woman was now making sounds like a dog being beaten, writhing helplessly. Half her chest was raw flesh and red bone. Her rescuer’s left leg was blood from hip to ankle.
The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) Page 10