The Steerswoman's Road by Rosemary Kirstein Page A

Captain, I’ll go. Excuse me, please.” She exited,
closing the door on his surprised expression. Wrapping her cloak around her,
she climbed the short companionway to the deck.
    The wind was strong but not storming. Rain fell in a solid
pour, weighing down like a hand on Rowan’s head and shoulders. The deck was
near-deserted. Through the shifting gray she could faintly make out the back of
the helmsman, not far from her, placidly manning the wheel. She turned and went
up the steps to the raised poop.
    As she came to the top, the wind caught her borrowed cloak
and whipped it about like a loose sail. She grabbed at the folds and pulled it
close. Its protection closed about her like the walls of a room, water running
off her hood in streams before her face. She had to move her whole body to
direct the hood opening. She saw a lone gray-cloaked figure motionless at the
taffrail, looking off astern, and she moved toward it.
    She spoke, but the noise of water covered her voice. She
touched his shoulder; he seemed not to notice. Using both hands, she turned him
to face her.
    It was Reeder. His face was pale with cold, slick with rain.
Sparse hair lay wet against his forehead, like lines drawn in ink. He looked at
her expressionlessly, eyes blank and bright. His eyes were a beautiful pale
green color; she had never noticed that before.
    Startled, she stepped back. She made to speak, but he turned
away.
    Rowan left him and searched every part of the deck for
Tyson. The downpour limited her vision to the length of her reach, so that her
scope was small, her search detailed. She began from the poop deck, where she
left Reeder, and worked forward, and so at last found him up by the bowsprit.
    He stood far forward at the angle in the railing. Where the
rest of the ship was only dreary, there the violence of the elements showed
itself. The seas were not very high, but the ship moved heavily, and the bow
smashed each crest, with a noise like the absent thunder.
    Tyson faced the seas. Each time the bow met a wave, the impact
sent a stinging sheet of spray over the rail; he did not flinch, but only
blinked against the water. His cloak was soaked through, and he wore his hood
down. He was as wet as if he had been underwater. Rowan guessed he had been
there since dawn.
    She called out to him, but the hiss of rain, the whistle and
rattle of rigging, and the jarring crash of waves covered her voice. She moved
closer and shouted.
    Some sound, if not words, reached him. He turned and she saw
him recognize her—recognize and withdraw, his face a closed door.
    A dash of spray slapped across his back and into Rowan’s
face. She winced and wiped her eyes with her fingers. When she could see, his
expression had changed, and he seemed surprised, as though he had thought
himself alone despite her presence. It was the cold water on her own face, his
realization of her pain and discomfort, that brought him back.
    He grabbed her arm, put his face close, and shouted. The
words came faintly. “Get out of the weather!” Beads of water hung in his beard
like crystals. The cold he had absorbed drew the heat away from her face, out
through her hood.
    She tried to explain. “The Captain,” she began, but she
could not make her voice loud enough. At last she put her hands on his arms and
looked him full in the face, letting him see her utter refusal to leave him
there.
    Thoughts moved behind his eyes. He let her lead him away.
    They went below, down to the galley. Bel was there, dealing
with an immense kettle hung over the brick stove. She looked up in astonishment.
“What happened to him?”
    Rowan brought him into the warmth. Tyson muttered protests. “Don’t
fuss, I’m all right.”
    “You are soaked.” Rowan took his cloak. The shirt beneath
was as wet as his face. “And frozen.” His face was white; he shivered. Bel ladled
soup from the kettle into a mug and passed it to him. He wrapped his hands
around it but did not drink. His eyes found the