The Language of Power

by Rosemary Kirstein

  Willam adjusted the flame low, then looked up at her. Underlit, his face was all weird angles and slanting shadow, unrecognizable; not the face of the boy she had known, but that of a man, a stranger. She could not see his eyes. “No,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “I spit spit, the same as you.” He rose, lifting the lamp, and the light rose with him. “But there are some things that, if you wet them, they burn.”

  Rowan looked up at him; he was quite a tall man. “How very odd.”

  “That explains why you don’t bathe.” Bel seemed delighted by Willam’s new talents.

  They undertook the grisly and laborious task of carrying the corpses to the river. The steerswoman carried the lantern, shuttered to emit one small splash of light ahead of her feet. Bel and Willam carried the woman from The Crags, supporting her limp form between them as if she were drunk.

  “We were hoping to question these people,” Rowan said, “to find out why they were following me. But it wasn’t me they were after at all, was it?”

  “No.” Willam’s voice came from behind her, from the dark. “It looks like they wanted me.”

  No one else was about in the street; they were far from any taverns or other places of late entertainment. It was safe to speak. Rowan said: “Why?”

  A pause, long enough for Rowan to wonder whether Will intended to refuse a steerswoman’s question. “I think the other wizards have heard that I’ve left Corvus.”

  Rowan stopped short and turned back, lifted the lamp higher.

  He made a very eerie sight: a tall figure in filthy, blood-streaked rags, and with white hair a wild tangle, supporting what was very obviously not a drunken friend, but a fresh-dead corpse. He looked, in fact, like a ghoul out of some macabre story told to frighten children on just such dark nights as this.

  Only his eyes, the beautiful copper-brown gaze, were familiar, unchanged across the years, but startling in their new setting, as if this strange creature had cruelly snatched them from the face of the boy Rowan had known.

  “Why—” Rowan began; but Bel cut her off.

  “Later,” the Outskirter said, and she shifted awkwardly, pulling the corpse’s limp arm tighter around her shoulder. “A steerswoman’s questions can go on forever, and this woman isn’t getting any lighter. And we have another to do after this.”

  Rowan regathered herself. “Yes, of course.” She turned and led them on.

  Their grim work completed, they returned to the Dolphin, entering by the back door; and immediately upon reaching Rowan’s room, found the atmosphere unbearable, due to Willam’s stink. He excused himself, and when he returned had shed several layers of rags, and many degrees of stench.

  “What were you carrying?” Rowan asked him. She was vigorously swinging the window shutter, urging the remaining traces of the odor to depart.

  This was not entirely successful: the smell still lingered on Will’s clothing. “Some fish heads and part of a dead raccoon,” he said. “I’ve cached it all behind the outhouses.”

  “An excellent choice.” Rowan abandoned her attempts and sat on the bed, shifting herself back to lean against the wall.

  “How’s your leg?” Bel asked.

  “Not pleased with the night’s work,” Rowan said, rubbing her thigh distractedly.

  “What happened to you?” Will asked. “I’ve seen you using that cane sometimes. Were you hurt?”

  A bloody, ragged ghoul, asking after her health; but the copper gaze was openly distressed. “Yes,” Rowan said, “but it’s really not so very bad any longer; it happened more than a year ago.”

  “It’s a long story,” Bel said. “And so is yours, I suspect.” She tilted her head. “Look at you, all grown up—and stinking to the skies!” She ostentatiously held her nose and backed off the single step that the room’s size allowed, waving her other hand before her face. “I’d give you a hug, but I’m afraid it would rub off on me.”

  “Actually,” Will said, “I wish that you would.” He leaned back against the table, regarded the Outskirter with an odd, helpless relief. “I’m so glad to see you alive. After all that trouble in the Outskirts—I just didn’t know what became of you.”

  Bel opened her mouth as if to make some light remark, perhaps an Outskirter’s Ha! She closed it again. She said, simply, “I survived.”

  “We both survived,” Rowan said. The memory was not a pleasant one. “And so have you, just. Those two who attacked you—are you sure they were wizard’s minions?”

  “I can’t think of anyone else who would be after me.”

  Bel climbed on the bed beside Rowan, and folded her legs. She studied Willam, dark eyes curious. “And how did you know you’d find us in Donner?”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t know you were here at all, until Rowan bought me lunch!” He laughed. “That was a shock, I’ll tell you!

  “And you stayed close by after that,” Rowan said.

  “I was trying to decide whether I should let you know who I was . . .”

  “Why would you not?”

  Bel answered for him. “Because he’s in trouble, and he didn’t want it spilling over onto his friends. It’s a kind thought, Will, but if you’ve run off from Corvus, you’re going to need help. I think we just proved that. You didn’t even know those two were following you, did you?”

  “No,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “What made you leave Corvus?” Bel asked.

  Willam was a few moments replying; and during those moments, his expression grew dark. He said at last: “Routine Bioform Clearance.” He noticed the chair tucked under the table, pulled it out, turned it, and sat.

  “Hardly routine, as Slado uses it,” Rowan said; and Willam nodded silently.

  When Slado had turned the spell called Routine Bioform Clearance against the Outskirters themselves, only Fletcher’s warning had saved Rowan and Bel, and the tribe with which they had been traveling. They and the entire tribe had fled, and for months after, Rowan kept dreaming of that flight, of three days of nearly ceaseless movement, by daylight and darkness, across the dangerous Outskirts.

  And after: the dark, half-buried tent; the tribe members crowded against each other; the screaming wind, and screaming wind again, as tornadoes, one after another, tore across the landscape.

  Willam, and Corvus, knew of these events because Rowan had informed Corvus herself—

  “Willam,” Rowan said, “in my letter to Corvus last year, I did say that Bel and I both escaped from the magic heat. That we both survived.” What then was the cause of his concern for Bel in particular?

  “Yes,” Will said. “But you also said that you’d left Bel behind in the Outskirts.”

  “But—” Rowan began; then, of itself, the answer came to her. “Oh, no . . .”

  Quiet in the room. Eventually, the Outskirter said, almost inaudibly, “He did it again?”

  “Yes. Last summer.” Willam leaned toward her, the memory of pain on his face. “And Bel, I didn’t know where you were—”

  “He did it again?”

  Willam startled; and the very small room became a great deal smaller.

  “Where?” Bel demanded, her dark eyes darker now, and hard.

  “North. Much farther north than the first time—”

  “And people? Were there tribes there?”

  Willam hesitated; he was not glad to tell it. “Yes. Three tribes. They all died.”

  Bel became utterly still.

  Willam waited, but when Bel did not speak, he went on. “Corvus knew it was going to happen . . . he said he’d seen the Clearance listed on the upcoming schedule—I told him that we had to do something, we had to stop it! But he wouldn’t. And I . . . I couldn’t.” Willam looked down at his two hands, clenched them. “I watched. From the Eastern Guidestar. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it. Everything calm, everything normal, and all the people down there, shining like stars . . . they do that, when you look at them right, they shine just like stars . . . And then the land, lit up like it was bu
rning. And afterwards, everything growing dark . . . and all the little stars gone . . .” He opened his hands, dropped them to his lap, looked up at Bel helplessly. “And I didn’t know where you were.”

  The Outskirter stared, past Willam, past the walls of the room; stared as if blind. Rowan nearly laid a hand on Bel’s arm, to try to comfort her, but stopped herself.

  Not wise. Not when Bel was like this.

  When Bel spoke again, her words were slow, her voice carefully controlled. “Willam,” she said, “do you know where Slado is?”

  “No.” Earnestly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

  “Does Corvus?”

  “Yes . . . but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “And Corvus . . . he could have stopped the magic heat. If he’d tried.”

  “Not without Slado noticing—”

  “He’s a coward.”

  Willam did not respond immediately; and this won him a glare from the Outskirter. “The wizards . . .” Will said uncomfortably, “. . . they don’t think like we do. Things don’t mean the same to them as they do to us. I think there are some things they don’t understand at all.” He turned to Rowan. “Corvus is trying to find out more, to figure out what Slado is trying to accomplish, with all this, this trouble. But he’s moving so slowly! He’s being so cautious, he’s not willing to risk anything. But we can’t just wait and see, not while people are dying!”

  “And that’s why you left him, and came here,” Rowan said.

  Willam’s urgency subsided. He looked distressed, then ashamed, and Rowan surmised that the decision had not been an easy one. “There’s a chance,” he said, “that I can find out more, right here in Donner.”

  Bel’s eyes narrowed. “What chance? Why Donner?”

  Rowan took her shoulder sack from the table. “Here,” she said, and pulled out her logbook, opened it, drew out one loose sheet, and passed it to Bel.

  The Outskirter took it suspiciously, regarded it briefly, then looked up at Rowan. “Kieran’s apprentice,” Rowan said, “at eighteen years of age, as drawn by a local girl.”

  Puzzlement; then comprehension. Bel looked again. And all that had been absent on Rowan’s first viewing—the meaning of this stranger’s face; the sense of identification; the knowledge of what he had done; the hatred—all of it was there, in Bel’s eyes.

  The Outskirter gazed on the face of her enemy for a long time.

  Then she passed the paper back to Rowan, unfolded her legs, and rose. “When I see him again,” Bel said, “I’ll know him.” And she left the room.

  Silence in her wake.

  Eventually, Willam said: “I suppose it’s not a good idea to go after her.”

  “No.” Rowan sighed, deep. “You’ve just told her that hundreds of her people have died, with nothing done to help them, while she was living comfortably in Alemeth. She needs to be alone.” She handed the drawing to Willam, said simply: “Slado.”

  Will turned in his chair to tilt the drawing to the candle-light. He studied it grimly. “He doesn’t look like much. You could pass him on the street and never notice.”

  “I don’t know how age has changed him. But I do believe that I will be able to recognize him.”

  Willam shrugged. “He might wear a beard now. And . . . forty years later? He should look just a little older than you are.” He turned back. “This is why you thought people were following you. If you’re investigating Slado, you’re probably jumping at every shadow.” He passed the page back to her.

  “But you knew,” Rowan said, “you knew that Slado had been here.”

  Will nodded. “Corvus mentioned it, years ago. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But I’ve learned a lot since then.” He leaned forward, nearer to Rowan, but past the candle; light was now behind him, his features in shadow. “Lady, there are only three places in the world where there’s the right combination of magic to bring down a Guidestar. Donner is one of them.”

  “Where are the other two?” the steerswoman asked immediately.

  “One is on the other side of the world. No one lives there. The third one . . . I don’t know where it is, I just know that it exists.” The candle flame flickered, then steadied. “And I’m fairly certain that’s where Slado lives now.”

  Stirrings overhead: footsteps down the hall, approaching Rowan’s door, then passing. A sound outside caused Will to half rise, half turn, to look out the window. “There are some people about . . .”

  Rowan gestured him back, knelt to reach across and close the shutter; she did not want him seen in her room. “There’s a caravan leaving at dawn. A lot of the travelers have been staying here, and they’ll be rising early. It’s just as well you aren’t sleeping in the stables again; you’d certainly be discovered.”

  He made a sound of amusement. “It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been chased out of a lot of places.” He paused. “I wonder if I can get rid of the disguise entirely?”

  Rowan said, “Is that wise?”

  “Well . . .” He thought. “If there were only those two people after me . . .”

  “There were only the two,” Rowan said with certainty. “With you following me so closely, Bel would have noticed anyone else following you.”

  “Then it might be a while before their master notices that they’re gone.”

  “If Corvus sent them, I suppose that’s true. But could they be Jannik’s people? He would notice their absence immediately, I should think.”

  “Actually,” he said, with a touch of amusement, “Jannik happens to be out of town at the moment. And he won’t be back for, oh, three, maybe four days.”

  “Really?” Rowan sat on her heels, folded her hands, tilted her head. “Is this an example of magical scrying?”

  Now Will could not suppress a grin. “No,” he said. “It’s an example of magical sabotage. I set a group of spells around the dragon fields. They don’t all activate at once, so Jannik will be a while chasing them down. Until he finds them all, he can’t control his dragons.”

  Rowan’s own amusement vanished. “Will—is the city in danger?”

  He was surprised. “No.” He sat straight, spoke earnestly. “No, the dragons only attack when Jannik tells them to. Without instructions, they do nothing, or they—they just move around, in patterns, over and over.”

  “How odd.” But, as she had thought, Jannik was no protector of the city after all. “Won’t Jannik wonder who set those spells around his dragons? If he’s heard that you escaped from Corvus, won’t he suspect you?”

  “He’ll suspect Olin.” The wizard whose holding lay north of Jannik’s. “I made them to look like Olin’s work. I know his style, and it’s just the sort of trick he likes to play.”

  A thought came to Rowan, one that flared warning. “Are you carrying a link?”

  “No,” Willam assured her, seriously. “Anyone could track me, if I had a link. Well, any wizard could.”

  According to Fletcher the links allowed one to request information from the Guidestars, and to view schematic charts, among other magical uses. “If those people were Jannik’s, could they have used a link to pass a message to him?”

  “Not while the jammers are up.” He saw her confusion. “The spells that I set. They don’t just stop commands to the dragons, they stop every kind of magical message. While Jannik is in the dragon fields, he’s out of communication entirely.”

  Magic.

  Rowan struggled with the idea of an escaped apprentice being able to thwart the power of a full wizard. “You’re certain?”

  He nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “Well,” she said, “perhaps the beggar can be safely retired after all.”

  Will said, with feeling: “That would be nice.”

  Rowan surprised Dan by knocking on his door and requesting some spare clothing. Bel was not there; nor did Rowan expect her to be. Rowan explained Bel’s absence, briefly, reassured Dan as best she could, and, because she would not see him again before the caravan departed at
dawn, bid him good-bye.

  Back in her room, Rowan found Willam engaged in the task of shedding layers of rags, which seemed rather a long process; he was still completely clothed. Somewhere within the rags on the floor, a fragment of dead raccoon must have adhered. Exposed to the air, the smell was so appalling that two night maids paused outside Rowan’s door to hold a muttered conversation. Will and Rowan stood silent while this went on, and when the maids left, Will slipped out again to dispose of the offending material.

  “I’m afraid the stink has sunk into my skin,” he said, as Rowan, amused at his modesty, stood at the door with her back turned as he changed.

  “You can’t magically get rid of it?”

  “No. Well, yes, I could. I mean, one could. But soap and water is actually easier. I’m done.”

  She turned back. “Cleaner, but no less disreputable, I’m afraid.” Dan’s clothing, while suited to Will’s height, flapped about his body loosely; and he was barefoot.

  “I see that it’s been a while since you did any blacksmithing,” Rowan said. At fourteen, Will had been stocky, and had shown all the signs of growing toward burliness. The structure of his bones still suggested that mass and strength ought to be his natural configuration; but Willam the man was clearly not a person who engaged in regular heavy labor.

  Still, his shoulders were wide, and the folds of Dan’s shirt fell across lean muscles on the chest and arms. The sleeves were too short; Willam’s wrists showed, and seemed very strong. The steerswoman tilted her head. “But,” she continued, “apparently you’ve decided to remain an archer.”

  He grinned. “You can’t hide anything from a steerswoman. Corvus—” he began; then he looked down at his outfit, assessing his own appearance, and pushed the sleeves up past his elbows. His right forearm showed an old burn along its length, and his right hand lacked the last two fingers. “Corvus used to tell me that practicing archery was a waste of time. Now I’m glad I kept it up.” He moved back to the chair, and pulled it out to sit again. “A bow is useful, when you’re traveling alone.”

  His movements, too, were those of a person at home in his body, expecting and trusting its strength, a quality usually found in those who were physically powerful. Will had learned this in his youth, and the signs still remained. But in the slim twenty-year-old man, the effect was now incongruous, seemingly inexplicable, and striking: an easy physical confidence, and a grace that spoke of strength.