The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  “Understand,” Rowan said to Bel, “a wizard could have any companion he chooses. Willing or unwilling, I suppose. The field of possibilities is large.”

  “Large indeed, and more willing than not. Really, the way some of those people behaved!” Liane fluttered her fingers fastidiously. “Beneath me. I didn’t try to attract attention at all.”

  She was altering her speech patterns, Rowan realized, and trying to adopt a form she considered superior. Likely her normal style was more like that of most of the guards. A local girl.

  “And despite that, you were chosen, from everyone.” Rowan tried to sound impressed.

  “Oh, yes.” Liane sighed ostentatiously. “It was love at first sight, I suppose.”

  Bel was more dubious. “With which one?”

  The girl feigned surprise. “Why, both of them.” She gave an arch, self-satisfied look. “They’re very close.”

  The Outskirter frowned in thought as she tried to work out the logistics.

  Rowan manufactured an envious expression. “Some people are born for good fortune.”

  “Not all love and fun, I tell you,” the girl stressed seriously, slipping into natural speech, then slipping out again. “Mine is an important responsibility! When they’re distressed, or out of sorts, when their spells go bad and their plans don’t work, who do they turn to?”

  There was a large pause before anyone recognized that she expected an answer to so rhetorical a question. Bel surrendered. “You?”

  “Yes, indeed! And if I can’t soothe them and cheer them up—” She made a wide gesture. “Everyone suffers.”

  “Are they out of sorts now?”

  Her expansive mood faltered. She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand: an unconscious gesture, natural and poignant. “They’re very demanding,” she eventually replied.

  “Is it this business with the steerswoman?” Rowan queried nonchalantly, remembering Ellen’s comments.

  Liane showed disgruntlement and picked up another slice of meat. “Nothing else. I hate her. Everything’s in an uproar, just when we had gotten decently settled.”

  “We might get sent out in a search squad,” Bel volunteered.

  “I hope you kill her. No,” the girl amended, “that would only make matters worse.”

  “It’s not really fair,” Rowan said, trying to voice Liane’s own thoughts. “Shammer and Dhree have just fought a dreadful war. I imagine they’d like to rest and enjoy themselves, rather than worry about some fugitive.”

  Bel discovered her role in the conversation and began to play it. “Not at all,” she said to Rowan. “They have a responsibility. If this woman is some criminal, then she ought to be punished.”

  “I’m sure they have other matters to attend to. How important can one woman be?”

  Brooding on her hatred for the mysterious steerswoman, Liane commented distractedly, “It doesn’t matter if she’s important or not. They still have to catch her. But they don’t have to like it.”

  Rowan stopped short. Implications crowded her mind, each demanding attention. Misunderstanding her silence, Bel tried to carry on the investigation. “If they don’t like it, why don’t they stop?”

  The girl’s gaze refocused, and she slipped back into her superior manner. “That’s hardly the sort of thing soldiers should worry about. You just do as you’re told, and leave the decisions to your betters. Well.” She pushed away her plate. “Let’s leave the mess for the scullions. It will be a great mystery. Don’t you have to report to someone or go and guard something?”

  If they reported to the night officer immediately, the lost time would not be difficult to explain away. Nevertheless, Rowan said, “Perhaps, miss, you’d let us escort you back to your chambers?” She thought it likely that Liane’s rooms were within the central keep.

  The girl smiled charmingly, tilting her head. She had apparently decided that she liked this understanding guardswoman. “Well. That’s well spoken, but explaining you would take more trouble than it’s worth. However—” She tapped one cheek thoughtfully, amused with her own idea. “I think that tomorrow I’ll ask if I might be allowed to have a small contingent of my own, a sort of honor guard? Would you two enjoy a job like that?”

  Rowan was astonished. “Very much, miss,” she said quite honestly. Bel’s grin possibly seemed feral only to Rowan.

  “That’s good. I’d like it, too.” Liane turned away, allowing the cloak to swirl dramatically about her, very conscious of the effect. Pausing at the door, she made a gesture back toward the stairs. “Go on. You’re dismissed.”

  Ascending the stairs, Rowan’s steps began to slow of their own accord. Halfway up, she discovered that she had stopped climbing.

  Bel paused, looking back down at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. But wait a bit, I need to think. Something Liane said.” The conversation had yielded possibly important information, and Rowan stood silently as she organized the implications of three offhand comments.

  It doesn’t matter if she’s important or not. Possibilities were two: the steerswoman was unimportant; or there was no way to determine her degree of importance.

  They still have to catch her. There was an impetus to do so that was outside of Shammer and Dhree’s control. Possibilities were two: a natural impetus consisting of the real threat she represented; or an artificial impetus.

  They don’t have to like it. Shammer and Dhree resented the situation. Possibilities were two, and not mutually exclusive: they resented the waste of their resources; or they resented the existence of the outside impetus.

  That resentment itself presented two possibilities: it was justified; or it was unjustified.

  If their resentment was unjustified, it implied unrealistic attitudes. At least in the two wizards’ minds, it was justified.

  If it was justified, then they believed she was unimportant, and they disliked acting against their own judgment against a threat they did not see as real. The impetus, then, was irresistible—and artificial.

  The steerswoman turned to Bel. “Shammer and Dhree are acting under orders.”

  She half expected Bel to doubt her and require lengthy justification, but the Outskirter digested the statement, then nodded minutely. “You’re certain.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who gives orders to wizards?”

  Possibilities were two. “Either the decision was made by the wizards in concert, with Shammer and Dhree dissenting but forced to follow the majority ... or there’s some single authority set over all wizards.”

  “If there were, why would they ever war against each other?” Possibilities were two. “If the authority exists, either it doesn’t care or it approves.”

  They continued up and then along the second-floor corridor, planning to return to their barracks by completing their circuit of the fortress. As they turned the final corner, they saw in the distance the last member of the squad they had ambushed, the man they had tortured. He was alive.

  21

  They flattened themselves against the wall.

  He was descending an open staircase, moving like a recently risen invalid. His bandages were fresh, his clothes and person clean. A solicitous comrade walked beside him, speaking in low tones.

  “If he turns this way he’s bound to recognize us,” the Outskirter muttered.

  “I doubt he’ll ever forget your face.” There was a door by Rowan’s right hand. She slid closer and tested the latch. It was unlocked. A tap on the shoulder got Bel’s attention, and the two slipped through. Rowan eased the latch silently closed.

  The dim corridor they found was warmer than outside, with a faintly muffled feel. Trying to orient herself, Rowan felt a moment’s confusion, and then amazed gratification. Briefly, the danger outside vanished from her thoughts. Rowan called her map to mind. “This is it. We’re in the center.” The ceiling there was lower than elsewhere. Rowan ran her hand along one wall. It was paneled in rich dark wood, kept gleaming by much attention
.

  “Yes.” Bel looked around. “The inner fortress, nestled within the outer one. Do you think he’ll come in here?”

  Rowan shook her head, thinking. “Possibly not.” She made a gesture back toward the door. “That’s the part that most people deal with. Official rooms, residences—everything connected with the outside is conducted there.”

  “Then this is important.” They were speaking in whispers.

  “But the door isn’t guarded, and it stands in plain sight. This area isn’t really secret or protected. Perhaps it’s just meant to be secluded.”

  “Or perhaps there’s something in here that takes care of intruders by itself.”

  Fear and excitement fought each other in Rowan. “And that might signify something very important indeed.”

  “This hall seems normal enough. In fact, it’s more pleasant here than in the rest of the keep.”

  “Perhaps that’s its only purpose. The wizards may keep their private chambers here.”

  “And everyone would avoid them.” Bel looked back at the door. “Well, we can’t go back out without being seen. And someone else might come in soon.”

  “Yes.” The corridor ran straight for some twenty feet and came to a cross juncture. A single, heavily carved door faced them from the intersection. Rowan approached it cautiously, Bel trailing ten feet behind, watching their back.

  Reaching the door, Rowan paused and leaned close. Voices leaked faintly from within. She shook her head once in frustration, then glanced both ways down the crossing corridor. Deserted, with more doors. She added their orientation to her mental map, chose the direction that seemed to have the most options, and indicated that Bel should wait at the intersection.

  She took five slow steps, her gum-soled boots dead silent on the carpet, and a door on the right opened. A slight, dark man emerged, his arms full of bundled clothing. Rowan slipped into a more normal pace and made to continue by nonchalantly. Bel stepped back out of sight.

  He dropped the bundle. “Say! You can’t be in here!”

  Rowan stopped and looked about in puzzlement. “Sorry. Made a wrong turn.” She turned back.

  “You, there!” he called after her. “Stop!”

  Rowan ignored him. He called again, then set up a cry for guards. A bustle and clatter grew ahead, and abruptly Rowan’s alternatives had vanished.

  She was trapped three ways, with the servant behind, the guards ahead, and the door by which she and Bel had entered, with people possibly outside

  She made the only choice she could, and Bel was ahead of her, already at the door. The Outskirter reached for the latch.

  There was a faint snap, and Bel spun back as if struck, slamming up against the wall.

  A guard-spell!

  Rowan felt a hand on her shoulder, turned, and fisted the servant across the face. Then the guards were there, three men, and she was gripped by too many—and too strong—hands.

  Bel had recovered her balance and stood weaving slightly, watching dazedly. Rowan wanted to tell her to flee, but it came to her that her friend would do no such thing. One of the guards spotted the Outskirter. “Here, who’s that one?”

  They must not both be caught. Rowan’s mind went into a flurry, then clutched at an inspiration.

  She struggled wildly, aiming a kick at the man’s crotch. “She’s the only reason you lowlives caught me. You’re all too stupid except her.”

  One man laughed harshly. “Not too stupid to know there’s no women in the inner guard.” He called over to Bel. “You! How did you get through that door?”

  Rowan spoke before Bel could. “She was chasing me! Slipped in behind me. She’s too damn fast and too damn smart.”

  “Is that right?”

  Bel wavered on her feet. She seemed hesitant, her reactions oddly slowed. The spell, an aftereffect, Rowan thought. Bel, keep up with me!

  Bel, beginning to catch on, approached. “That’s right.” One of the guards shook Rowan. “So how did you get in?”

  She ceased struggling abruptly and leaned her face mere inches from his. She made her voice brittle with spite and disdain. “I got in because your pitiful little guard-spells have no effect on me.”

  Someone’s grip faltered. “Gods below, she’s a wizard.”

  “No.” Understanding grew on the servant’s face. “I know who she is. She’s that steerswoman.”

  “What, the one all them squads were sent for? She’s here?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” Her fear lent credence to the sneering anger she feigned. “I’ve been in the midst of you for days. You wouldn’t have caught me at all but for her.” She jerked her head in Bel’s direction.

  Her ploy was not working. Bel should have been participating, playing up, filling in the story. Instead, she stood to one side, still dazed, watching with the desperate attention of someone trying to follow a situation suddenly too complex.

  Rowan needed a reaction from her, a convincing one, and quickly. Taking advantage of the guard’s weakened grip, she pulled half-free, took one step toward the Outskirter, and spit in her face.

  Bel went blank in shock and stood for a moment, stunned. A sound grew inside her; then she released a single furious shriek and went for Rowan’s throat with her bare hands.

  Rowan dodged back into the arms of the guards, and one of them stepped forward to fend off Bel’s onslaught. “Ho, hold it there!” He laughed. “They want this one alive, I think.”

  “Keep her away from me!” Rowan pressed herself deeper into her captor’s grips.

  “We’ll handle the steerswoman, girlie. Calm down!” Bel subsided, looking at the man with a wild eye. “You done good,” he assured her. “Probably a promotion in this for you.”

  “So, we take her to Druin?” The man spoke close beside Rowan’s ear. Her heart stumbled. Druin would remember that the women had come in together; the ploy would fail.

  “Not this one.” The servant approached and viewed Rowan with a self-satisfied, superior air. “She goes straight to Themselves, and no delay.” He nodded to Bel. “You come, too.”

  But when the servant emerged from the room to which they had been led, Bel was instructed to return later to make her report. Rowan exchanged one glance with her before passing through the door the servant held wide. The Outskirter’s expression was stony, with what emotion Rowan could not guess. Accompanied by two of the guards, the steerswoman stepped in to meet the wizards.

  When she saw them, her first reaction was: Gods below, they’re children!

  22

  They were not quite children, but they were very nearly so.

  They might have been twins in their pale, dark-haired similarity. Both were tall and slim, the young man slightly wider across the shoulders; both moved with self-conscious grace, the young woman somewhat more quickly; both looked out from behind identical smooth faces through the same wide-set brown eyes.

  The young woman stood by a round oak table, as if she had just risen from one of the two chairs. She wore a blue shift, simple but of beautiful workmanship, as fine as Kundekin-make but without their usual ornamentation. Her thick black hair fell in a braid to her waist. Behind her, a narrow window showed the walls of an interior court, dimly visible in the predawn glow. A lamp—not magical, but oilburning—stood on the table, soft light falling on a sheaf of papers before her, and on a vase of daffodils. With affected disinterest she watched Rowan and the guards approach.

  Her brother, who had just entered through a far door, studied the scene with an air of vast amusement. His hair, the identical color and the identical length, was caught at the nape by a plain silver circle. He crossed to a low chair with its back to the cold hearth and slouched, comfortable as a cat, stretching his long, loose-trousered legs in front of him and steepling his fingers.

  Rowan stood between the guards, watching and thinking. She waited for the wizards to speak.

  The young man spoke first. “What a lot of fuss she’s caused.”

  “She certainly does
n’t look like much,” his sister observed. Rowan could not remain passive. “Neither do you, I must say.”

  “Speak when you’re spoken to!” the young woman spat.

  “Yes, do,” her brother amplified. Then he smiled slyly. “But tell us what you mean.”

  “You’re very young.”

  “Are we?” The sister raised her brows affectedly. “How can you tell? We’re wizards.” She threw out one hand in an airy gesture. “We might he a hundred years old, a thousand!”

  It was impossible. Even if a wizard’s power could maintain the semblance of youth, voice and movement gave the two away. They were self-conscious, uncertain. They were feigning behavior designed to cover their inexperience. They overcompensated. Life was new to them. They were young.

  “You’re seventeen, about,” Rowan said. “And your brother, not more than a year younger.”

  “So you think,” the girl said archly, but her brother’s amusement confirmed Rowan’s guess.

  “Try and hide something from a steerswoman,” he said. “But it’s an odd steerswoman, isn’t it, who sneaks around in disguise, claiming to be something she’s not, infiltrating a wizards’ fortress.”

  “Strange events create strange results.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a Steerswomen’s adage?”

  “No. An observation.”

  “Ah, yes. Very observant, the Steerswomen.” He sank a bit deeper into the chair, his body more relaxed, his eyes more alert. “I wonder what else you’ve observed, what else you might know. You weren’t very kind to our minion, you know.” His smile vanished. “I can’t imagine why we should be any kinder to you.”

  Rowan felt a chill, but her gaze did not waver from his. “I’m sorry about your man; but I think that you’ll find that sort of thing isn’t necessary in my case.”

  The sister came around the table and leaned back against it, in a semblance of nonchalance. “Meaning what?”

  Rowan spared one glance for each of her guards. “Meaning,” she replied, “that I won’t try to keep anything from you. Meaning that I’ll give you any information you desire.”