The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  It was a flawed arrangement, not a true collaboration at all. In every situation, one or the other had to be dominant, and the necessity of communicating across the gaps in their understanding slowed the pace of learning. As the discussion moved from mere fact to speculation, Rowan found the pair more and more isolated in their intellectual corners.

  They considered the question of the jewels’ distribution.

  “As you can see,” Rowan began, indicating the narrow oval drawn on the map, “there’s a definite direction to the findings, with the largest concentration, I believe, here.” Dust Ridge. “This is one of the findings with a date that I’m certain of. Since the opposite end of the trail seems to have the same date”—the farms by the salt bog—“I’m considering the likelihood of a single event or agent being responsible for the entire dispersal.”

  Dhree frowned in thought. “Such as a man, walking along, throwing the jewels as he went?”

  “The path begins on one side of the salt bog. There was another finding not far from the other side, and in line with the first, and with Dust Ridge.” Rowan indicated again. “No man could walk through the bog.”

  “He flew,” Shammer said easily. “Only a wizard would possess the jewels to begin with, and flying’s no difficult matter for one of us.”

  “You say the jewels are common. If the wizard in question was using them while he flew, or carrying them, perhaps there was a flaw in his spell, and he fell.”

  The young man pursed his lips. “He wouldn’t use them in a flying spell. They’re not strong enough.”

  Dhree paused briefly, then objected. “It ought to be possible.”

  “He’d fly ten feet off the ground, at walking speed, with little real protection. Small children could pick him off with stones. But he might have been flying by other means, and carrying the jewels.”

  Rowan considered. “If he dropped them as he flew, he must have been flying very fast; at Dust Ridge, the jewels hang halfway up a cliff.”

  Both wizards had difficulty visualizing that. The steerswoman elaborated. “If a man is riding on a fast horse, and he drops a coin, it doesn’t hit the ground directly under the point where he dropped it.”

  Dhree caught on. “He and the coin share the same velocity, until the influence of the motivating force is removed from the coin. It falls, losing horizontal speed, gaining vertical speed.” She took a sheet of paper and a pen. “How high up were the jewels found?”

  “Halfway up the cliff. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that.” In sudden inspiration, Rowan turned back to the map and found Tournier’s Fault. There, along the line marking the cliffs, she found dimly marked measurements. There were no units assigned to the number; were they feet? Miles? But she indicated them to Dhree, and the wizard tilted her head to read, closed her eyes briefly in thought—and then, astonishingly, drew a rough version of the very graph Rowan had used in her argument with Arian, a chart showing the range and interrelationship between possible height, speed, and falling time for falling objects.

  Dhree showed the chart to her brother, who used an affected disdain to cover his incomprehension. Dhree was wise to his behavior. She tapped the chart. “Here. The normal falling path was interrupted by the cliff—”

  Twisting his mouth, he said, “Tell me what I need to know.”

  In exasperation, she indicated a point along one of the scales. “Here’s your range of speed.”

  He glanced at it once, then shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “Nonsense! It’s just a question of finding a strong enough force—”

  “It may be lovely in theory, but it simply can’t be done. Forces like that can’t be controlled.”

  “It ought to be possible. If you can find a usable spell, scale up its strength—”

  “You can’t simply scale things up without considering the effect on the materials and spells involved. In extremes the results become unpredictable.”

  “If the theory exists, there must be a way to implement it. You’re approaching this backward—”

  He tilted his chin up. “One of us is.”

  The course of this argument was very familiar, Rowan noted with amusement, remembering Arian. Seeking a way out of the impasse, she tried the opposite approach. “Shammer.” When he turned to her, she continued. “Forget all this for a moment. Suppose you wanted to lodge a cluster of objects halfway up a cliff; try to think of the sort of spell you would use.”

  Response was immediate. “I wouldn’t need a spell at all. Close up, a very good catapult would do the job.”

  “Imagine that you weren’t close up.”

  He blinked. “Any number of means.”

  “And I assume that they’re all magical.”

  “You assume correctly.” His fingers drummed on the tabletop, and his face acquired the introspective, concentrated look of a person involved in work of the imagination. “I could use a spell that would fling the objects hard enough to leave the ground and strike the cliff. But it’s tricky—and dangerous. I’d have to arrange the spell so that it would activate in my absence.” He smiled wryly. “In other words, I’d set it up, then run like the devil. With that sort of thing, it’s not a good idea to get in the way.”

  The phrase jogged at Rowan’s memory. Where had she heard it? Then it came to her: Wiliam.

  Dhree spread her hands. “Then that’s the answer.”

  “No.” He frowned, dissatisfied. “The spell isn’t directional—it works in a sphere. The objects would go in every direction: up, down, all around.” Reaching across the table, he pulled the chart closer and studied the narrow oval. He tapped it with one long finger. “You wouldn’t get anything like this.”

  An idea occurred to Rowan, and she approached it carefully. “You said that some objects would go up. With a large enough force, I suppose they might never come down again.”

  The concept amused Shammer immensely, and he laughed offensively. “Silly woman. Everything that goes up, comes down.” But Dhree knit her brows. “It ought to be possible—”

  Shammer glowered at his sister, stressing each word. “It can’t be done.”

  Over lunch, they accused her of murder.

  “Don’t play innocent, steerswoman. You’ve killed at least two of the regular guard.”

  “Are they dead or just vanished? Perhaps they took the opportunity to flee your employ.”

  Shammer’s gaze narrowed, and he did not reply. Vanished, then, Rowan concluded, and not due to her.

  Dhree picked up the tale. “One man and one woman. They disappeared about the time you were captured, or just before.”

  Shammer, legs crossed with ankle on knee, flicked a speck of dirt from one soft leather slipper. “I don’t like loose ends. It’s untidy.”

  Rowan was about to truthfully assert her innocence, when she stopped short. About the time she was captured? Before? Or could it have been just after?

  The missing man, she realized, was the fellow she and Bel had spotted, the survivor of their ambush. Bel would have eliminated him immediately, to prevent his identifying her and connecting her with the captured steerswoman.

  And who was the vanished woman? Bel herself, fled? If so, why bother to kill the man? With him dead, Bel could possibly remain a member of the guard, needing only to explain Rowan’s absence ...

  Then the answer came to her. The vanished guardswoman was herself, reported missing by Bel, the deed laid at the door of the notorious steerswoman.

  “I believe I know who you’re referring to,” Rowan said to the wizards. She cast about for a true statement. “Violence is unfortunate. 1 ... apologize for its necessity.”

  That seemed to satisfy them. “Violence is a rather simple means to some ends,” Dhree remarked.

  Shammer indicated to the servant to pour more wine. “One always does what’s necessary.”

  The day passed, but the purpose of the jewels remained a puzzle. “You said,” Rowan prompted, “that you use their like regularly.” T
hat was the closest she could come to a direct question.

  Dhree caught on. “And that’s all we’ll say about them.”

  “It’s difficult for me to speculate without more information,” Rowan pointed out. “I believe that, together, we may be able to solve this. Since it’s as much a mystery to you as to me, it’s to both our benefit.”

  “More to ours than to yours,” Shammer commented, “as you’ll never have the opportunity to use what you learn.” He was seated on the windowsill, enjoying the afternoon sun.

  “Steerswomen never use their information,” Dhree said with derision. “If they did, they’d be more powerful than they are.”

  The steerswoman surprised herself by replying heatedly. “We do use our information,” she said. “We’re not interested in anything as petty as power over others, and if you’re planning to kill me or keep me your coddled prisoner forever, then it’s pointless and stupid to keep me in the dark.”

  “A little more respect, please,” Dhree said without anger.

  Shammer pulled a droll face at Rowan. “I’m afraid you’ll get nothing there. My sister is too cautious. Very wise of her, don’t you think? But that does remind me—” Stepping away from the window, he came to the table, eyes twinkling. “I think you might find this amusing.” He pushed aside the charts and papers, reached into a pouch on his belt, and pulled out a small gleaming object, which he placed before the steerswoman.

  It was a tiny silver statuette, as tall as her thumb. The figure was strangely stylized, and it took her a moment to make sense of it. It seemed to be a dancer, poised on one foot, one arm arched high above its head. Its other arm trailed to one side, as if it had been captured in the moment of executing a graceful turn. The figure was otherwise featureless, its gender indeterminate, the oversimplification of form lending it an eerie beauty. The dancer was standing on a flat silver base, from which a silver bar rose, arcing up in a half circle to where the raised hand touched it.

  And attached to one side of the bar, destroying the weird grace of the sculpture, was Rowan’s blue jewel.

  Shammer held up one hand. “Watch.” Carrying the figure to the window, he placed it on the sunny ledge, and with a dramatic flourish, stepped aside.

  The figure began to dance.

  It knew only one move, the completion of that swirl promised by the curve of its back and the sweep of its hands. It spun, slowly, then faster, sunlight glittering off its body.

  Rowan watched, appalled and entranced. “Is it alive?”

  He laughed with delight and, for once, completely without affectation. “No, not at all! It’s magic, dear lady.”

  Dhree made a noise of exasperation, but her eyes showed admiration and affection. “You’re showing off.”

  “Yes, indeed, and I love it.”

  He gave Rowan the dancer to keep, so amused was he by her astonishment. Later, back in her comfortable prison, she studied it, speculating and generalizing.

  The jewel did finally seem to have a use; in some fashion it imparted life to the silver figure. Perhaps that was the overall purpose of such jewels: to animate the inanimate. What might be accomplished by such animation, what purpose the power might be put to, remained open, indefinite. The jewels might be useful in any number of spells.

  The figure stood on her windowsill, innocently graceful, weirdly evocative, dancing in the light of the falling sun.

  Through the window, across and below, Rowan could see the guards on the west wall in conversation with another pair, probably their evening replacements. Shortly, the first two left, and the new guards watched with odd interest until they were out of sight. Then the shorter guard shifted her weight, tilted her head up at her partner, and by those two characteristic moves, Rowan recognized Bel.

  This section of the perimeter had not previously been Bel’s assignment; Rowan wondered if the new arrangement represented the promised promotion. The woman who accompanied the Outskirter was of the tall, broad-shouldered type that seemed to dominate the female contingent of the wizards’ resident guard. The two stood casually scanning the area, then consulted briefly. The tall woman stooped to deal with something buried in the shadow of the edge, and Bel strolled to the near edge, to look left and right, then down.

  She was facing Rowan’s window; the tall woman’s back was turned. Rowan tried to signal, using broad gestures, but failed to attract the Outskirter’s attention. Turning around, Rowan scanned the room for something more eye-catching.

  Shammer’s dancer was on the sill. She thought of using the jewel to catch the sun’s light, but realized it was too small, and its natural color too dark. On a low table by the hearth were the plate and glass from her dinner, brought in on a silver tray. She quietly moved the crockery and took the tray to her window.

  Bel had walked to the corner tower and was returning, carrying what looked like a wooden bucket filled with straw. She gave it to the guardswoman, who acknowledged her with a glance, and returned to her work.

  Using the tray, Rowan mirrored the sunlight onto Bel’s face. Bel’s head jerked up, and she looked to the window, then stepped closer to the edge of the wall.

  Had Bel been a steerswoman, Rowan could have conversed with her using the wood-gnome language of hand gestures, exaggerated for distance. As it was, the sum total of Rowan’s communication consisted merely of “I am here.” What use Bel might make of the information, she had no idea.

  Bel did not acknowledge but, appallingly, stepped back and tapped her companion on the shoulder. The woman looked up, and with one hand Bel indicated the steerswoman.

  In shocked instinct, Rowan ducked back out of sight. What was Bel doing? Could she gain something by pointing out the prisoner to her new partner?

  When she had calmed herself, Rowan looked out again. Both women were gone. She immediately regretted her reflex; whatever Bel’s purpose, Rowan could trust her. The important fact was that Bel was still at large, and still in the confidence of the resident guard.

  If Rowan could manage to get out of her room, she could find Bel, and both could escape, possibly by water. Willam would have begun on his way to the Archives, if he was following her instructions. She hoped that he was.

  Rowan could not count on Shammer and Dhree’s continued indulgence. As soon as nothing more could be learned from her, she would be useless to them.

  She had only one man guarding her. If he was eliminated, she had a slim chance of making her way out of the inner ring of the fortress—And then what?

  She did not know the usual movements of the inner guards. The only place she could be certain of finding Bel was the women’s barracks at the proper sleeping time for those on Bel’s new shift. As it was a day shift, Bel would sleep at night. The barracks could easily be full of guards.

  Rowan might do better to try to slip away by herself. She disliked the idea, but Bel was in no immediate danger. If Rowan could get out, she might contrive to send a message.

  The first step was to get past her guard. Once out, she could make her decisions based on what she encountered.

  She needed to get the man inside her room, and alone. And some way to deal with him, once he was inside. She scanned the room, questioning each object: Is this a weapon?

  Nothing was, so she set a trap.

  She lay fully clothed on her bed past nightfall, leaving her lamps dark, letting her fire die, permitting the guard to assume that she already slept. Just before his evening replacement was due to arrive, she rose silently in the dark.

  The armchair was heavier than she had guessed, but she could not let it drag as she moved it. ‘Tilting it back, she found its center of gravity and managed to lever it off the ground and lift it, its lower edge propped against her thighs. Walking carefully and awkwardly, she brought it to the side of the door and lowered it painfully to the floor.

  A tall coatrack was moved nearby, three feet behind the door’s edge. The guard’s grilled opening was too small for the rack to be seen through it.

  Th
e low rectangular table by the hearth was easy to move, but presented more of a problem; she would need to hoist it over her head and hold it there, adjusting it silently. The chair gave one soft creak as she climbed it, and she froze, fearing that the guard would enter to discover her standing on it, the table clutched in her arms, a pose more than suspicious. She heard the man shift slightly, but he said nothing and did not investigate, apparently dismissing the sound.

  The light from the grille did not fall on herself or any of her arrangements. Trying to keep her breathing quiet, she turned the table with its feet in the air and, using her own head as a balance point, slipped the edge onto the door’s heavy upper sill. Her calculation had been perfect, and the opposite end of the table came down and rested easily, propped on the top of the coatrack. It would be stable, she hoped, until the swing of the opening door or a blow of her hand struck the rack. Descending, she moved the chair clear of the events she hoped would follow.

  Presently the evening guard arrived, and the two men exchanged a few words. Nothing was said about suspicious noises.

  Rowan returned to her bed and sat, composing herself. All that remained was to get her guard to enter. There seemed to be only one way to make certain that if he entered, he would enter alone. She balked at the thought, trying to find an option that did not require behavior so—embarrassing.

  There was none. Resigning herself to necessity, she rose, stepped to the grille, and stood casually, her own trap looming above her head. “Excuse me.”

  The new guard turned, not surprised; he had heard her approach. She smiled. “I’m sorry, I just can’t sleep. I hope you don’t mind if we talk?”

  He wavered, confused, caught between duty and traditional respect for steerswomen. “Talk, lady? What about?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular, just to pass the time. It’s a long lonely night ahead.” She permitted him to see how carefully she studied his face. “What’s your name?”