Free The Steerswoman's Road by Rosemary Kirstein Page B

she’s making sense. Do as she says.” The purser hurried off.
    Rowan eyed the mate who had been ashore. The man threw up
his hands. “Not me, lady, I’m fine. Of course, I didn’t watch anyone die,
either.”
    Morgan dismissed the man, who went back to the
still-boarding passengers. The captain and the steerswoman watched the activity
for a while. Then Morgan regarded her a moment, looked off to shore, out to
sea, and gazed up at the rigging. He said reluctantly, “If you have any more
suggestions, lady, I’ll be glad to hear them.”
    Rowan had many questions, but only one suggestion. “I suggest,”
she said, “that we leave.”
    It was some time after noon that Bel shambled on deck. The ship
was well under way, finally past the shallows of Donner and into blue water.
Bel lurched a bit on the shifting deck, from unfamiliarity or her obvious
weariness. Blinking in the bright light, she found Rowan and dropped herself
down to sit on the deck. She leaned back against the rail and closed her eyes,
giving herself to the sunlight. She had shed the boots and was still wearing
the loose yellow blouse she had purchased in Donner. Barefoot, in shirt and
trousers, she could have been any sailor, but for the silver-and-blue belt. She
was small and wiry and tan. She looked able, nimble, and not at all dangerous.
    Rowan had spent the morning arranging her matters as best
she could. She had taken the large chart papers Tyson had given her, folded
them to smaller size, and cut the folds with a knife. After a visit to the sail
locker, and the loan of a needle, a sail-maker’s palm, and some cord, she had a
pamphlet-sized coverless book of thirty-two pages. Some canvas scraps were
transformed into a small shoulder-slung pouch to contain the new book and pens.
    While testing her hastily hung hammock in the women’s crew
quarters, she had noticed that the gum soles of her steerswoman’s boots had
worn down to the leather. The gum was the same type used by sailors everywhere,
to aid in gripping the deck when not working barefoot. She had found the
quartermaster, laid down a new surface on the soles, and brought the boots on
deck to dry.
    Then she had stopped to talk to a pair of crew members new
to the trade, to show them the best way to coil a rope so that it stowed in the
least amount of space but payed out easily. She hoped to find several such odd
jobs to ease the duties of the officers and make herself useful. Done with her
lesson, Rowan sent the two men off and sat next to Bel.
    “How are you taking to your work?”
    The Outskirter opened her eyes, squinting against the
sunlight. “Well enough. The food is strange, but interesting. The cook knows
his job, but he lacks any sense of adventure. He won’t let me experiment.”
    “His loss. You seem to have an instinct for such things.”
    Bel made a sound of disinterest and closed her eyes again. “Do
dragons carry disease?”
    “No. Why do you ask?” Rowan was briefly concerned, then
quickly realized Bel’s problem. “Here. Stand up.”
    “No, please ...”
    Rowan pulled her up, against little resistance. “Trust me,
it’s better this way. Here.” Rowan positioned her by the railing and demonstrated.
“Stand with your side to the rail and hold with one hand, so.” The ship was
crossing the swell of the waves obliquely. “No, open your eyes; you need to
balance.”
    “I can balance with my eyes closed,” Bel said through her
teeth, “when the ground doesn’t move beneath me.”
    “Well, it’s moving now.” Rowan stood facing Bel, with her
back to the bow. “Look past me, to the horizon. Unlock your knees ... there.
Bend them a little. Have you ever ridden a horse?”
    “How will a horse help me on a ship?”
    “It might be a little easier to explain ... never mind. You
have to get rid of the idea that the ship’s deck is the ground; you mustn’t try
to align yourself to it. You need to find your own center of balance. Don’t
make the mistake of just