Gebby regarded Rowan as if the process used to discover this information had been wholly magical. “I din’t tell you,” she said, slowly. “Din’t tell nothing ’bout no island.”
Rowan pushed the plate of beef across to her. The girl picked one slice up cautiously but did not eat. “Of course not,” Rowan said. “You can tell your employer that with perfect honesty.” She phrased her next statements carefully, again, more interested in reaction than answer. “I’m very interested in the comings and goings of a man named Janus. Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”
“Don’t know him.”
The reply was immediate and casually delivered; the girl was telling the truth. Very well. “I assume you arrived here in a boat of some kind …” She could not come up with a useful circumlocution, so she asked outright, “Does the boat have a copper hull?”
“Huh?”
“Under the waterline. Is the boat plain wood below, or is there something covering the hull?”
“Dunno what you mean.”
“Very well. One more picture.” This time Rowan took her logbook, flipped to the appropriate page. “Look at this.”
Gebby tilted her head. “Wossit, a tree?”
“No, it’s an animal.”
“Huh. Where’s its head?”
“It hasn’t got one.”
“Never seen it.” Gebby began on the beef slice, chewing thoughtfully.
Disappointing— but still, a pocket of Outskirts life, right on the Inland Sea … and the fact that Gebby did not know Janus did not rule out his visiting the island in secret …
The steerswoman needed to see for herself. She must visit Gebby’s island.
If Rowan left now, the entire town would assume that she had been a false steerswoman, a trickster and confidence artist.
But the demons were coming from somewhere. The fact that Gebby did not recognize the drawing meant little. The creatures might breed in a secluded part of the island, in a pocket of the proper salt water; they might not be dangerous until grown; they might be instinctively impelled to leave when they matured— they might be able to survive immersion in the waters of the Inland Sea long enough to reach Alemeth.
And if Gebby’s island was the only source of demons, then it could be possible to eliminate the creatures entirely. It would be a hazardous affair, certainly, but with enough help, depending upon what Rowan found …
She really did need to go there.
Rowan gritted her teeth. People would assume that she had run—
But, she thought, but— she had refused to allow their misconceptions to drive her from Alemeth; was it any more legitimate to allow them to keep her from leaving when she ought?
She was abruptly ashamed, and angry at herself for even considering the matter. She was a steerswoman; she would do exactly as steerswomen do, nothing more nor less.
But she did need Gebby’s cooperation. And the girl was protecting something.
What, in Alemeth, required secrecy?
“Gebby, listen carefully.” The steerswoman stressed the next words. “I am not in the least bit interested in spiders.”
Steffie missed the connection. “What?” But Gebby sat slack, gaping astonishment.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Rowan continued, “the spiderwife is welcome to keep her methods secret. But I do need to go to the island.”
“You can’t!”
“I think we should let— ” Rowan tried to recall the spiderwife’s name, realized that she had never heard it used— “your employer decide. Where is she now, do you know?”
“At the island. I got the boat. I get stuff, and go back.”
“Then you’ll just have to take me back with you.”
“You show up, she’ll kill you!”
Rowan wondered if this was literally true. No matter. “She won’t be able to,” she said simply.
“Then she’ll kill me.”
“I won’t permit it.”
“Then she’ll throw me out.”
“Considering the treatment you get, I don’t understand why you stay with her at all.”
“ ’Cause I’m next. When she goes, I’ll be the spiderwife.” The scrawny girl’s eyes glittered. “I’ll have all the money and the soft clothes and the pretty house in town. People, they’ll want to be nice to me, and they’ll listen all polite when I talk. ’Cause I’ll be the one does what nobody knows how. And— and anyone in the whole world, they want the spider cloth, it’s me sells it to ’em. And they’ll pay lots. And I’ll brush my hair in a twist, and wear blue silk every day, and if I grow up ugly, it don’t matter, ’cause all the boys will come calling anyway. Maybe you, even.” This to Steffie.
He snorted. “Not me.”
“I’ll be rich.”
“Then it’s Maysie’s boys’ll be after you.”
“Good. I like ’em pretty.”
“Hope you plan to take a bath before then.”
“I see you have your future all mapped out,” Rowan said. “And I don’t intend to jeopardize it. I’ll stay away from the area where you work. I will not ask you about the methods you use.” And this was hard for her to say— because now she did want to know: how such a thing as a spider could be coaxed to give up its silk, how the adhesiveness of the strands was neutralized, how anything so fine as spider silk could be handled and woven into cloth …
More urgent matters were at hand. She could forgo inquiries about spiders.
“All I plan to do,” the steerswoman continued, “is examine the island itself, study the plants and animals, and see what sort of creatures other than spiders might live there. I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll bring my own food. If the island is very small, I may only need to stay for a few days.” She neglected to mention that if demons were found, she would need to return with help.
Gebby remained stubborn. The girl shook her head. “You can’t.”
“At the very least, take me there and let me talk to— Gebby, what is the spiderwife’s name?”
“Luwa.” The girl pushed the plate away. “I won’t.” She rose.
“Haven’t you heard what’s been happening in town?” Rowan half rose, pushed the logbook toward the girl again, stabbed at the picture with her finger. “These animals, these demons, have been coming into Alemeth and hurting people and killing them— ”
“Din’t hear nothing. Don’t talk to people. Luwa don’t like me to.”
“It’s possible the creatures may come from your island— ”
“I never seen ’em— ”
“They may be hard to find when they’re small, and they might not make any noise until they grow— ”
“Won’t do it, won’t take you— ”
“Don’t you care?” Steffie said. The girl and the steerswoman both turned to him. “People hurt and dying— don’t you care at all?”
Gebby thrust her chin forward. “Don’t none of ’em ever care about me. Animals eat ’em, so what, I say.”
By this statement, Gebby lost whatever right she had to Rowan’s sympathy. “Very well.” The steerswoman sat. “Since I know that the island exists, and the general area where it must be located, I’ll simply have to mount my own search. With so much area to cover, I’ll probably need assistance. Perhaps a number of the fishers might be willing to help.”
Steffie caught the idea. “Oh, sure. ’Specially if you mention it’s the spiderwife’s place you’re looking for. Bet you could get a whole fleet going.”
“Yes, that would be efficient. Unfortunately, I doubt the fishers would be as considerate as I am, nor as able to control their curiosity. They’d likely be clambering over everything, poking everywhere.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Lot of people making spider cloth, spreading the money around. Might just try to go there myself.”
“You can’t!” Gebby was desperate. “That’s bad. The spiders is Luwa’s work, and her money, and we work hard, and you’d be taking it away, and that’s not fair!”
/> “True. Under normal circumstances, it would be wrong of me. These are not normal circumstances.”
Rowan closed her logbook, began gathering her pens and blank paper. “You have exactly two options,” she went on. “Either dozens of people scour the seas, stumble on your island, and pry into every aspect of your work— or you take me there, I look for demons, and if I do not find them, I leave quietly. There are no other choices.”
“And if lots of people go looking, who do you think Luwa will blame?” Steffie pointed out.
“She’ll blame me either way.”
“Then,” the steerswoman said, “which would you rather have her blame you for?”
Gebby half grumbled, “Luwa was right. Talk to nobody you don’t got to, she said. See where it got me? All for a bug.”
“I need an answer.”
The girl’s entire body radiated hatred. “I’ll take you. Let Luwa sort it out.
“Then I’ll just get my pack.”
Upstairs she loaded appropriate clothing into her pack, brought it back downstairs. In the main room, she retrieved her map case, rolled a collection of sea charts. “I’ll need to get some provisions. I don’t want to throw off your rationing. Where do you get your food?” The maps went into their case.
“Michael’s. He’s the only one knows about me and the island. He told me ’bout the bugs— look what that got me …”
“Then I’ll use someone else; it’s best no one connect us. Also, we shouldn’t be seen together. I’ll meet you at your boat. How will I know it?”
“Har. By the smell.”
“Very well,” Rowan said, bemused. “I’ll go ahead now, and try to get myself aboard your boat without being observed. You come later.”
Gebby seemed to be turning over in her mind various methods by which to circumvent Rowan’s wishes. Apparently, nothing suited, and she gave up the effort. “You got a long wait. I got to buy things.”
“Even better. A delay will help. People will be less likely to connect our departures.” The steerswoman slid the map case down into her pack, tied down the flap.
“What should I tell people?” Steffie asked. “They’ll ask where you’ve gone. I won’t want to say about this island.”
“That’s true.” Rowan considered. “Just say that I’ve gone looking for the source of the demons.”
“You know what they’ll think.”
“I do.” She shouldered her pack. “I’ll deal with their misconceptions when I return.”
“And when will that be?”
“Gebby, how long will it take to reach the island?” An inarticulate grumble from the girl. Rowan sighed. “I’ll know the distance as soon as I arrive, there’s no reason to hide it from me now.”
“He don’t need to know.”
“Oh, very well. ‘I’ll get two weeks’s worth of supplies. If I’m gone any longer, you’ll just have to split your own rations with me.” She turned back to Steffie. “I’m afraid I don’t know how long it will be before you see me again …”
“Right.” He stood before her, uncomfortable; then, to her surprise, he took her hand and shook it formally. “I’ll keep an eye on the Annex for you, lady. And look out for that Outskirter friend of yours, too.”
“Thank you.” She laughed a bit. “Steffie, I will be coming back.”
“Right.” He released her hand, stepped back. “Of course you will. In a while. We just don’t know when.”
19
There were three kinds of books in the Annex, Steffie found out.
First, there were the ones that Rowan had mostly worked with; and those were the ones all bound alike, in dark red leather. They were all the same shape and mostly the same thickness, too. Except some of them were bound in green instead of red, and they were taller than the red ones. But he thought of them as the same as the red ones, because the green ones were like all the other green ones in the same way the red ones were like all the other red ones.
This stopped making sense when he thought about it too hard, but seemed to make a lot of sense when he didn’t.
The second kind were all different sizes, and no one of them looked anything like any other one. Some were plain; but some were beautiful, bound in the kind of leather that your hand wanted to keep holding, all worked in with little twists and sometimes colors. He decided that they were all the same kind, being books-that-no-one-tried-to-make-look-like-each-other.
Basically, he just wanted to clear the stacks of books off the floor by the table, the ones he knew Rowan was done with. And the ones on the floor in the aisles. And as long as he was doing it, he’d like to do it in some kind of sensible way. Someone else could fix them right later.
So at first he figured that he’d put the either-red-or-green ones all together, and set aside all the really different ones. It seemed like a good place to start, since there were more red or greens than the other kind. And they also had names written on the spines, so he could put all the ones with the same name together, too.
And once he’d finished with the books on the floor, it seemed kind of natural to just keep going. Just putting all the names together and all the really different ones separate from the other kind.
Gave him something to do. Other than keep an eye on the Annex and an ear out for anything Janus was up to. Rowan had asked Steffie to sleep at the Annex, too, while she was gone. In case Bel came by.
But there he was, all night at the Annex, and no one to talk to, with Gwen still mad at him for siding with Rowan. So, he picked up a couple of books, put them on the shelves— and once he was doing it, no reason to stop, really.
It was funny. He could tell where Rowan had been before him: here and there, up and down, back and forth, there were places where all the red and greens with the same names were together already. He kept coming across them. It was like Rowan was a ghost, and he was following her footsteps.
He was doing that when he found the third kind of book, in one of the big boxes pushed back down at the end of the third and fourth aisles.
These books were even more different.
They were light in his hand, most of them. They were in rough shape, battered and dirty. Each of them had some kind of strap or string that tied them closed. The edges of the covers went far past the paper and even curled over, so that when the book was closed there were no paper edges showing anywhere. On a couple of them, the covers weren’t stiff at all, so that the books drooped and tried to wrap themselves around his hand when he held them up.
The paper was thinner than what the other kinds of books used, and the writing was smaller— a lot smaller sometimes, especially toward the back of the book. It made the pages crowded and harder to read. One was even written through twice— once the normal way and once turned around sideways, with the words going across the other writing. It sent him cross-eyed to even try reading it.
He held one of them in his hand, trying to think where to put them, other than just off by themselves somewhere. And he’d have to lay them on their sides, because some of them looked like they wouldn’t stand up too well.
And, sort of by itself, his hand put the one book up on a shelf, next to one of the green ones; and sure enough, it flopped right over. Not made to stand up, he thought.
His other hand picked up a green book. He looked at it. Made to stand up. Made to sit on a shelf.
Fair enough. Made sense. He put it back. He picked up the floppy book again—
And all of a sudden he’d sat himself right down on the floor, and he was looking at that book with his jaw dropped.
It shouldn’t be here.
The Annex was not the place for books like this one.
All the red or green books were copies. That was why they were so all-alike— so they would fit easy on shelves. And why they were written so neat— so they’d be easy to read. And why they were sturdy— so they could last a long time, hundreds of years, maybe. They could be all that because they happened afterward.
These other ones�
� he stopped to count them: nine of them— these were the real ones, the first ones, the ones other copies were made from. These were the very books steerswomen carried themselves, out on the road. So they were dirty and battered from being dragged around the world; and they were made light, to carry easy; and when the steerswomen got close to the end and they saw they had just a few pages left, they wrote smaller, to fit in more.
And they shouldn’t be here. The Annex was a place you stored extra copies of things. These books were not extra anythings. They were one-and-onlys.
They should be in the Archives. The women there would make copies, and send those copies to keep here in the Annex.
They shouldn’t be here! They just shouldn’t, and there was no excuse for it—
— and somewhere out in the main room a woman’s voice said, “Who’s a bloody stupid old cow?”
Steffie sat still. Not Gwen’s voice. He got up and looked around the end of the aisle.
Two people were there, one being Dan the cooper. He was shifting some things from a handbarrow that was stopped right outside the front door, to a place inside, next to the coat hooks.
And the other was a woman, standing in the middle of the room, looking at Steffie sort of tilt headed and sidelong. She was young and smallish and thin, with long black hair. Her skirt was long, all the way to the floor, which was longer than most people wore them in Alemeth, and she was using crutches to stand.
“What?” he asked her. If that was Bel, she didn’t look much like Rowan said.
“You said that somebody was a bloody stupid old cow. I can’t help wondering who? Not Gwen, I hope.”
And how did she know Gwen? “No …” He came out of the aisle, feeling awkward and sort of shy with a stranger standing in the middle of a house he knew so well. He tried to figure how to explain why he’d said what he’d said, without it taking forever and a day to go through it all.
The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) Page 23