The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  The second exit was a small gate on the north side, facing the body of the lake. Stone stairs led down the cliffs to a wharf, where a jolly gaff-rigged sailing dinghy bobbed, a pleasure boat. The gate was closed by an iron grille, locked, and equipped with the same brass box found at the end of the front causeway. Possibly their amulets would open it, but she dared not try, remembering what the guard had said about a “tally.”

  The women peered through the grille.

  “That’s our best chance, if we need to leave quickly,” Rowan said. “Can you handle that boat?”

  “A simple matter.”

  They retraced their steps to the first courtyard they had found and took a different exit. By asking a passing washwoman, they found the barracks and training area of the resident guard and presented themselves to DruM.

  Rowan repeated their story to him, filling it with many details of the action during the war, altered from the point of view of the observers who had reported it to Hugo, to the point of view of a soldier in its midst. She included a certain number of likely soldierly complaints, including invective at the insanity of using a basilisk in close combat. Long before she had finished, she saw Druin’s gaze wandering in boredom and knew that she had convinced him of their authenticity.

  It took him a moment to realize that she had stopped speaking. “Yes. Well.” He regathered himself, attempting to look official, and succeeding in looking harried. “Of course we can use you. Mustering people out, everybody coming and going—confuses things. And this new business; just makes it all worse.”

  Rowan remembered that he was new at his job. “What happened to Clara?” The guard at the gate had mentioned her as someone Rowan might be expected to know, and so it was desperately necessary to avoid her.

  Wincing, Druin looked off to one side and scratched his beard vigorously. Rowan decided that he had fleas. “Not a good story. Had a little run-in with Themselves.” He gave the word a capitalizing stress. “Lay low when they’re around, that’s all. Don’t attract attention.”

  “Can’t you be more specific? So we won’t do the same thing Clara did?”

  Glancing around as if his comments might be overheard, he said,

  “Could, but I won’t. No good chewing it over. Best forgotten.” He eyed Bel, with evident approval. “Where’d you get her again?”

  “Logan Falls. She did well in the fighting.”

  “I expect so—you’re both here. Shame about Penn. How’d you escape that basilisk?”

  Rowan shrugged. “Can’t imagine. I expect it didn’t notice us, personally, in the confusion. Just lucky.”

  “Mph. Well ...” He scratched his left thigh absently, musing, then called out across the yard. “Ellen! These two are yours.”

  The woman came over, leaving behind a trio of men whom she had been berating for sloppy behavior. At her departure they slinked away unobtrusively. “Good. I’m trying to get another squad together to go after that steerswoman.”

  Hiding a thrill of fear, Rowan knit her brows as if puzzled. Bel managed to appear innocently delighted at the prospect of a hunt.

  Druin was outraged. “What, more? We’re too shorthanded already.”

  “What’s this?” Rowan interjected. “We’re after a steerswoman? Is she some kind of criminal?”

  “Don’t know,” Ellen said indifferently. “We’re supposed to stay clear of them, generally. Always liked them myself. But there’s something about this one that’s got Themselves all in a bother, and touchy, as well.”

  “Now, how can we keep proper security,” Druin complained in exasperation, “with three quarters of our people off chasing the moon, I ask you?”

  “Don’t know. Why don’t you ask Themselves?”

  “Not me.” He made a sound of dry irony, then returned to business. “Well, you show these two around, give them something temporary. We’ll see about more search parties later.”

  Ellen was a big square woman, broad of stomach and blunt of features. Her arms bulked with muscle. Leading the pair through the passages, she studied Bel briefly. “You, what’s your name?”

  The Outskirter provided her alias.

  “Fine. You look competent. Small, maybe, but size isn’t skill. You’ve got something about you, an air, confidence. Bet you could show some of us a thing or two.”

  Bel acknowledged that with a tilt of her head.

  “And you—”

  When Rowan responded with her own assumed name, Ellen gave her longer, more careful consideration. “You’re smart, aren’t you? That’s it. You don’t look like much of a fighter, not at first glance, but I can tell you’re thinking all the time. I’ll bet you’re good, and I’ll bet it’s because you can think fast on your feet. I’ll assign you together—you’re a good combination.”

  Behind her back, Rowan and Bel exchanged cautionary looks. Ellen was perceptive and a good judge of people; they would need to stay out of her sight as much as possible.

  The women’s barracks were wide and airy and surprisingly clean. A ten-year-old girl was industriously scrubbing the wooden floor, and she paused to look up with wide-eyed hero worship as the women entered. “Take any free bunk you like; there’s plenty,” Ellen said to her charges. “Down the hall that way are a few double rooms, for when you need company and privacy at the same time, so to speak. If you consort with the house servants, use their quarters, but tell me ahead of time! Absent from barracks during your sleeping time without me knowing, and that’s bad trouble for you.”

  The Outskirter and the steerswoman selected bunks and stowed their kits, and Ellen continued their orientation. They paid a visit to the armorer, who declared their equipment in remarkably good condition but issued them both ceremonial spears and traded the sword Rowan had taken from her would-be captors for one somewhat lighter. He also gave Bel one of the admitting amulets. He tucked it directly into her sword-belt pocket, causing Rowan a moment’s nervousness, but apparently Bel had already discarded the one she had originally carried.

  In a practice session under the eyes of Ellen and the resident armsmaster, Bel defeated Rowan three times in such quick succession that the steerswoman was dazed by the Outskirter’s skill. Tested against the master himself, Rowan held her own, to his surprise. In a bout against Bel, he declared himself the victim of unorthodox techniques.

  Back in Ellen’s cramped quarters, the officer scanned a list. “Something simple to start with. Night duty on the northeast wall.

  You pace the limits, exchange recognition with the guards on the north and east at each end of your walk. If you see someone acting furtive or rowdy, one of you bring him to DruM, the other keep your post. Keep an eye on the lake for any approaching boats. And don’t let the servants walk the walls; they try to use them as shortcuts, but they’re not allowed.” She looked up. “Get some rest; report to the night officer here at dusk. That’s all.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rowan replied. Then she cautiously ventured, “But I doubt we’d be able to get any sleep the first afternoon we try.”

  Bel picked it up. “All this is new to me. Perhaps my friend can show me around a bit? We’ll stay away from any restricted areas you tell us about.”

  “No. I want you rested. If you can’t sleep, talk or daydream if you like, just do it in your bunks.”

  In their absence, the barracks had acquired another inhabitant; a guardswoman was fast asleep on one of the bunks, the little scrub-girl seated on the floor beside her, industriously cleaning the woman’s cuirass with an oily rag. When Bel and Rowan removed their gear, the girl dashed over to show them the best way to arrange it at the foot of the bed. Bel spared her a grin and a tousle of the hair, which elicited a shy smile but no words.

  When the girl left, Rowan moved to the bed-foot and retrieved the coiled strand from her sword belt. Bel came closer to watch.

  The strand unwound and rewound easily, retaining whatever shape Rowan bent it in. It was colored fiery orange and dull brown in alternating segments. Scratching it
with one fingernail, Rowan found that the orange was its inherent hue, the brown painted on. At both ends its cross section showed a gleaming central core. She could not identify the outer substance, but its feel reminded her faintly of the gum used to coat the boot soles of steerswomen and sailors, though it seemed more rigid. It had no taste.

  “Should you put your tongue on that thing?” Bel whispered. “It might be poisonous.”

  “Whatever its use, it’s intended to be handled by humans. If it’s poisonous, it’s not very, and one lick shouldn’t hurt me.” Nevertheless, she paused to check for any internal reactions. There were none.

  Using her knife, she found that she could easily strip the outer layer, peeling off thin curling slivers. She exposed one end of the core, recognized the color, and again tasted. “Copper,” she confirmed. “But what’s it for?”

  “It might have any number of uses. It’s thin, it’s very tough, it holds a shape, and it’s probably impervious to weather.” She glanced at the soldier across the room, who was breathing heavily in sleep, and continued. “It would be excellent for tying things. Sailors would love it.”

  “Nonsense. You know it’s magical.”

  Rowan sighed. “Yes. But it’s not doing anything magical.”

  “Just like that jewel of yours.”

  “True.” And there was nothing more to be learned.

  20

  Despite Rowan’s comment to Ellen, they did sleep. The scrub-girl woke them at dusk with an offer of hard rolls and fruit juice.

  They found their night’s duty uneventful, its tedium relieved by the ribald comments of their counterparts on the north face, as each pair’s pacing brought them together. The women managed to respond like true soldiers, with earthy insults. Bel also amused herself by singing quietly as she walked, which Rowan enjoyed. The steers-woman rarely sang when others could hear; her own voice, though true in pitch, was plain and colorless.

  To one side, the surface of the lake and the overcast sky merged in a black, featureless void. To the other, the fortress presented observers with an array of cupolas, balconies, and courtyards, and windows lit with gentle lights, most of which were extinguished, one by one, as the night proceeded. Rowan studied the configuration of rooftops as she paced.

  At midnight their relief arrived, and the two women made their way to the staircase in a corner tower and descended. Sometime during the shift the wall sconces had been lit, and soft, unflickering light streamed from behind opaque shields. Pausing to examine one, Rowan found that she could not remove the shield. Cautiously she thrust one finger behind and encountered something hard and hot. She pulled back quickly. “These might function like the lamps in Wulfshaven Harbor.”

  “If Corvus can do it, I suppose Themselves can.”

  At the first level, Rowan unexpectedly turned aside, went down a short passage, and turned left, the opposite direction from their route back to the barracks and mess.

  Caught unawares, Bel hurried to catch up and fell in beside her. “Where are we going?”

  Rowan made a gesture. “So far, we’ve come a bit more than halfway around the keep. I want to complete the circuit, and on a different floor. I noticed something about the layout while we were on guard.”

  “And what’s that?”

  They were moving down a wide corridor, with doors on the left and a display of muted tapestries on the right, between light sconces, more decorative than those in the stairway. They passed two servants in whispered conversation, who silenced as they approached and resumed when they had gone by.

  “From the walls, it looks like the keep is organized in three concentric hexagons. The outer wall and adjacent buildings, such as we saw on our first reconnaissance—that’s the first hexagon.” On the left, space opened into a gallery with arched windows. Noticing that the servants were out of sight, Rowan slipped into it, Bel following.

  The windows showed an alley below and a rank of buildings across. Past them, the tower joining the northeastern wall to the eastern could be seen. Rowan turned back. “And now we’re in the second hexagon.”

  Bel puzzled over this. “Like rings, inside each other?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And where are we?”

  They continued down the hall. “The front gate and causeway are on the south. We’re now on the east side; counting our movements yesterday, we’ve gone three quarters of the way around.”

  “I see. But I’ll never know how you keep direction indoors. What are you doing now?”

  Rowan had stopped to look behind the tapestries and found bare stone wall. “There are no doors on this side.”

  “And no windows. We can’t even look at the inner ring.” Bel viewed her friend sidelong. “And now that’s what you want to do most.”

  “More than that; now I want to go there.”

  The corridor angled, following the native geometry of the fortress as a whole. Just past the corner, they finally found a narrow door, tucked between two tapestries.

  The door was propped open with a wooden block and led to a cramped staircase winding down. Following it, they found another open door; the room beyond was in blackness. Rowan listened for a moment but heard nothing. She slipped in and stood motionless, waiting for the atmosphere and the sound of her breathing to bring her some sense of the room’s shape.

  Bel paused briefly, tucked behind the door’s edge to cover any sudden retreat Rowan might need to make. Nothing happened, and the steerswoman beckoned her in. “No magic lamps here?” Bel complained in a whisper.

  “Apparently not.”

  Light flared suddenly, pottery crashed, and a girlish voice cried, “Oh!” Then she said angrily, “You startled me!” A foot stamped petulantly. “How dare you?”

  Rowan fought an urge to run, knowing it would only cause worse suspicion. Bel had dropped the point of her spear to fighting position, squinting in the light, and Rowan laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  The room was brilliantly lit, and a slim girl stood by an opposite doorway, one hand flung back, the other steadying her against a cupboard from which some crockery had fallen. She was of Rowan’s height but fragile-seeming, and young, no older than Willam. A cloud of dark ringlets framed a face with a small, up-tilted nose, pointed chin, and long dark eyes under straight brows. It was a beautiful face, of that characterless perfection that Rowan always equated with having no face at all.

  The girl wore a light silk gown, possibly her nightshift, over which was thrown a hooded cloak of startling beauty. Blue satin folds bright as sparkling water fell from her shoulders to sweep the ground, white satin showing at the lining. The cloak needed no ornament other than its elegant construction and the flare of its movement as the girl stepped closer. She viewed Bel with haughtiness and spoke with sarcasm. “My, isn’t she fierce?”

  Bel relaxed her posture, and Rowan apologized. “Sorry, child. Instinct and training.”

  The girl turned her dark gaze on Rowan. “And what might you two be doing here?”

  The room was a kitchen. Rowan managed a wry comradely smile. “Possibly the same thing you’re doing.”

  The girl stamped her foot again. “You must speak to me with more respect!”

  Taken aback by her outburst, Rowan made to reply, but the girl continued, pacing in anger.

  “You guards are all the same, none of you want to treat me correctly. I’m not a servant, remember that, and I’m not one of your cronies.” She stepped close and shook her finger under Bel’s nose. Rowan caught a faint scent of musk and dried sweat. “You should come to attention when I pass in the halls, and—oh!” She threw up her hands. “Those comments! There’ll be no more of that, I tell you. Remember what happened to Clara.”

  “Miss,” Rowan managed to interject, “I’m sorry. Nothing of the sort entered our minds. You caught us by surprise, that’s all. No disrespect was intended.”

  Catching Rowan’s tone, Bel spoke up. “And, miss, pardon me, but I’m new here, and I don’t know much
of anything yet. Please, so I won’t make the same mistake again—who are you?”

  The girl regained her control and eyed the Outskirter archly. “I’m Liane.” She tilted her head, gauging reaction, then turned away and wandered, as if idly, down along the preparing tables. “If you’re all that hungry, you may as well help yourselves.” A condescending smile was turned in their direction. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you.”

  They leaned their spears near the door and came farther into the room. Liane graciously indicated the cupboards, and Rowan found a cold leg of mutton inside one.

  “And, please, what is it that you do?” Bel continued. Liane’s only reply was an expression of self-satisfaction.

  The steerswoman had already solved the girl’s puzzle, but was at a loss to express it politely. “She ... holds a delicate and influential position.”

  Liane laughed and clapped her hands. “I like that! Delicate and influential, that’s very true.”

  Finding a pewter plate, Rowan arranged careful slices of meat, added some bread, and passed it to Liane. Then she cut more casual chunks for herself and Bel. “I must admit, miss,” she began cautiously, “that I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  Liane stopped with a slice halfway to her mouth. “Why is that?” A pattern of little bruises showed along one arm.

  “It seemed to me that you must be a remarkable person, else—” She spread her hands to include the keep at large. “Else how would you be here?”

  The girl looked surprised and gratified, and her expression softened. Here, Rowan thought, was possibly the best source of information they could hope for. Liane was young, naive, and in a privileged situation. The high opinion she had of herself was at odds with the attitudes of those around her; she was certainly lonely, and possibly easily flattered.