The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  He peered in at her, and she saw wide dark eyes and heavy curls of black hair. He was a handsome man, possibly vain, and Rowan blessed that, hoping it might make her job easier. “Geller, lady.”

  “Then, good evening, Geller.” She inclined her head with facetious formality. “I’m Rowan.”

  “I know.”

  She groped for something else to say to keep the conversation moving. “Do you enjoy your work for the wizards?”

  He hesitated, then answered truthfully. “Not much, lady. But the war ran over my town. It’s work.” He was watching her intently.

  “Well.” She stepped a bit closer. “I wonder, if you would be so kind, could you show me how to work the lamps in here?”

  “There’s a wheel, by the door,” he said, indicating with a little jerk of his head.

  “I’m afraid I can’t see it.” She did not bother to look, and he saw that. She kept her eyes on his and forced another smile, cringing inwardly.

  There was a very long pause. “I shouldn’t come in there.”

  “No one needs to know.” Suddenly her embarrassment overcame her, and she dropped her eyes, unable to face him, knowing that the gesture would be misread. “Do I have to be more ... obvious?” She raised her eyes again. “I can be, if you wish.”

  But she saw that Geller’s beautiful face was screwed up as if in pain. “Lady ...”

  Rowan stopped short. “Yes?”

  “Please, don’t do this, lady. It’s not ...” He groped for the word. “It’s not fitting.”

  They viewed each other through the grate, he with pity, she with astonishment, then shame.

  At last she nodded slowly. “Thank you, Geller,” she said with dignity. “You’re right. It’s not fitting.” And she walked alone back to her bed.

  When the shift changed at midnight, she attempted the same ruse with the new guard, to identical effect.

  The next morning the servant politely brought her breakfast again. She ignored the food, pacing the limits of her chamber. The knowledge she had gained from the wizards nestled like a seed in her brain; the need to pass it on to someone was agony.

  The servant watched speculatively, then withdrew.

  She could formulate no plans; she could take no action. No decisions were open to her, and there were no means by which to alter her situation. Although they might not yet realize it, she was of no further use to Shammer and Dhree, and they were unable to reveal anything more to her about the jewels. She would have to spend the day with them seeking to learn one last thing: a means to make her escape.

  Eventually she noticed that the guards had not arrived to conduct her to the wizards. The morning wore on, and her breakfast dishes were not removed. She questioned the man at her door, but he knew nothing.

  It was past noon when her escort finally arrived and brought her along the now-familiar route. Surprisingly, when they entered the wizards’ study, the room was empty. The guards did not leave her, and when she spoke they did not reply. When she attempted to make herself comfortable at the table, they indicated that she was required to stand between them.

  All her progress in gaining the wizards’ grudging confidence had been somehow lost, she realized, and with rising apprehension she prepared herself to face the new situation.

  When they entered, Shammer and Dhree remained standing on the opposite side of the room, as if she were dangerous or diseased, watching her with flat gazes of pure hatred. Some moments passed.

  At last Dhree spoke. “We’ll be rid of you tomorrow.”

  “That’s rather soon.” Rowan wanted to start them talking, any sort of conversation, anything to give her some hint as to what might have happened and what she might now expect.

  The wizards regarded her as if she had not spoken, but Dhree amplified, seemingly more for her own satisfaction than from any desire to assist Rowan. “Someone’s coming to”—she sneered the word—“collect you.”

  Rowan nodded slowly. “Someone sent by Slado, or Slado himself?” There was no reply. Shammer shifted uneasily, as if there was something he wished very much to do with his hands.

  Rowan tried again. “If we only have one day left, perhaps we should get down to work. With luck, by the time Slado arrives, you might know as much as he does.”

  They ignored the comment. As if against his will, Shammer said in a toneless voice, “We’ve found more evidence of your handiwork.”

  Her handiwork? What was she supposed to have done? Two disappearances had been blamed on Rowan, both Bel’s doing. The one had been mere fabrication to cover Rowan’s own absence from the resident guard she had joined; the other was Bel’s elimination of the last member of the ambushed squad, to prevent his identifying the Outskirter.

  Might Bel have eliminated someone else? To be blamed on Rowan, the deed would have to have been done at the same time as the earlier disappearance. Who else presented such immediate danger?

  Someone who had seen Rowan and Bel together, certainly. But the inner guard were a separate corps, and the members of the outer guard whom Rowan and Bel had met were not likely to he introduced to the captive steerswoman and would not connect her with the Outskirter.

  Who might have had the opportunity to make that connection? Someone who had seen them together, who might have been likely to see Rowan in the wizards’ company—and whose absence might have gone unnoticed for two busy days.

  Rowan attempted to dismiss the matter. “Disappearances didn’t seem to distress you earlier. As you said, one does what’s necessary.”

  Shammer took four long steps forward and backhanded her across the face.

  She fell against the closed door, stunned, dazed. The guard on her left dragged her to her feet with a bruising grip. She staggered against him, regained her balance, and passed one hand across her face to find a split lip.

  Abruptly, she understood. “Liane.”

  Shammer struck with his other hand. The guard on the right prevented her falling, and the two men supported her emotionlessly.

  When she recovered, she said, “If Slado is coming for me, I think he’ll expect me alive.” Some of the words were slurred.

  Cold confirmation came from across the room. “Unfortunately.”

  Shammer, his eyes full of murder, took two careful steps back, then turned away.

  Regaining her balance, Rowan composed herself slowly. All advantage had been lost. She tilted up her chin. “So I’ll meet Slado. How interesting.”

  With his back to her, Shammer said, “You’ll meet him and die.” He gestured. “Get her out of here.”

  “One moment.” Dhree came a bit closer. “I understand that your little game of last night was quite the joke among our inner guard. Pitiful.”

  “It was the best I could manage.”

  “I think you’ll find that your new guards are, shall we say, above temptation? Still ..” Her expression turned speculative, interested. “Perhaps you’ve been a little lonely? Perhaps tonight you could use some ... company?” She studied Rowan’s reaction, eyes glittering cold amusement. “What do you think, Brother?”

  “No.” He half turned, his eyes blank. “She might enjoy it.”

  The guard at her door was female, a tall angular woman who watched her with the pitiless eye of a bird of prey. Above temptation, as Dhree had said; the rule against women in the inner guard had been altered.

  She tried to clean the blood from her face and clothes, but found there was no water in her ewer. The woman at the door ignored her request, and Rowan did the best she could with spit and a silk handkerchief.

  In the evening the guard changed shift, but no food was brought, and the remains of her breakfast had vanished. She sat long at the window, silent, watching the light fade, then the starlight glitter on the roofs and cupolas. And slowly her mind became as still as her body, for there were no plans she could make, no routes to investigate. Options had vanished. Possibilities were zero. She sat in the darkness, unsleeping.

  When the shift changed
at midnight, her guard was Bel.

  24

  The Outskirter grinned up through the grille. “I’ve been promoted.”

  Rowan stared down at her, astonished, then urgent. “Bel, let’s get out. Now.”

  Bel glanced in both directions, then walked a few feet to peer down the intersection in the corridor. She returned. “Not yet.”

  “Someone’s coming?”

  “No.”

  “Unlock the door.”

  Bel did so, but when Rowan pulled it open and made to leave, the Outskirter stopped her with a gesture. “We have to wait.”

  “Why?” Rowan spoke urgently. “Bel, I know the layout here now, and you know the internal guard movements. If we can get to one of those exits we found, we might have a chance.” Rowan did not know how early Slado or his minion would arrive, or how long she and Bel would need to slip out of the fortress; they had to move, now.

  “No, we’ve got something better. We’ve got a plan.” Bel peered closer. “What happened to your face?”

  “Shammer. Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

  “Willam and me.”

  Rowan drew a breath. “He didn’t leave? He was supposed to leave.”

  “I needed him here. We’ve set up a diversion.”

  Rowan thought rapidly, then shook her head. “There are too many guards here. They won’t all run to it, and those who don’t will know to head straight for me. I’m too important a prisoner.”

  Bel smiled rather uncertainly. “You’ll be the last thing on their minds. And it doesn’t matter if they run to it or run from it, so long as they run. But here—” She reached behind and pulled something from under her cuirass. She passed it to Rowan inside, and closed the door.

  It was a bundle of cloth. Rowan shook it out, and a breathtaking swirl of silvery blue spilled from her hands, sweeping the floor. Liane’s cloak.

  “It’ll be a good enough disguise in the confusion,” Bel continued. Yellow light from the grille played on the garment. “It won’t work. They know she’s dead.”

  “The wizards?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then they’re keeping it to themselves. As far as the outer keep is concerned, she’s off visiting. I thought it was odd.”

  Rowan crushed one handful of satin folds, feeling the weight and beauty of the cloak, thinking of the vain, lonely girl who had worn it. “What is Will going to do? Do we signal him, or he us?”

  “Neither. We wait. You have to stand by the window and watch the Western Guidestar. When it goes dark, count one hundred. Then we move.”

  “And what happens?”

  “Something.” The Outskirter winced. “I’m not certain what—he didn’t explain it well. People will panic, so we’ll have to keep our wits about us.”

  Magic. Aside from lighting fires in wet wood, creating patterns and pretty sparkles in the process, what exactly was Willam capable of doing?

  Rowan stepped to the window and studied the stars quickly. The Hunter’s shoulder had slipped behind the Western Guidestar. The Hound’s nose would have to approach within five degrees before the Guidestar would wink out. That would be near half past one o’clock. They had more than an hour.

  Rowan returned to the door and looked down through the grate. Bel had resumed her position as guard. “I only know the one exit from the inner chambers,” Rowan told her. “But from there, there are any number of routes to a few ways out of the fortress. If the confusion’s going to be general, we might do well to head for that staircase leading to the dock on the northeast side. We could escape by water.”

  Her back to the door, Bel shook her head. “That won’t do. It’s the wrong direction. We go out the main gate, over the causeway.”

  Rowan’s heart froze. “Bel, that’s the worst possible choice. We’d be visible for too long. We’d have to deal with the guards inside the gate, and stop to work the spell at the end of the causeway. We couldn’t possibly move fast enough.”

  “It’s the only way. It’s all arranged. We’ll deal with the guards as best we can, and Willam will take care of the spell.”

  “Can he do that?” Rowan was dubious.

  “He says so.” Bel spared a sidelong glance over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you stand by the window?”

  “In a bit. I saw you, on the wall yesterday. Why did you point me out?”

  “I wanted Willam to have some idea of your location.”

  Rowan stopped short, then laughed. The face of a boy, she realized, was little different from the face of a woman somewhat older than he. With a woman’s shaped leather cuirass, the disguise would be impenetrable. “What was he doing?”

  “Placing his charms. They have to be a certain distance from each other. He’s been working like a madman, making more of them during the last two days.”

  “Do you think it will work?”

  Bel shrugged. “I’m no wizard.” She paused. “Rowan?”

  “Yes?”

  “When those guards cornered us ..” The Outskirter hesitated again. “You spat in my face.”

  Rowan was ashamed. “I thought we weren’t very convincing,” she explained. “I wanted to make you angry.”

  Another pause. “It worked.”

  “Do you hold it against me?”

  “No.” Bel shifted slightly. “But never do it again.”

  Rowan returned to the window and stood the rest of her watch with the best patience she could muster.

  Outside, the day’s overcast had long passed, and the stars hung crystalline in a black midnight sky. Between rooftop and turret, Rowan sighted a section of the lake, where small waves scattered the starlight, sending white sparkles dancing on the invisible water. The world seemed to exist in black and white and shades of pale gray, clear and without distractions. On the wall in the distance, seen but faintly, a pacing guardsman paused and gazed out at the same quiet scene Rowan was viewing, untroubled, peaceful. Eventually his head tilted up, and he and she saw in the same instant the nightly vanishing of the Western Guidestar.

  Rowan began counting, swung the blue cloak about her body, and stepped to the door. “Twenty,” she said to Bel.

  The Outskirter jogged to the left intersection of the corridor, looked both ways again, and came back.

  “Forty,” Rowan said.

  Bel took a deep breath, released it, and shook her arms to relax the muscles. She seemed calm and cheerful.

  It was otherwise for Rowan, and she felt a stepwise increase in tension with every number her mind shaped. “Fifty,” she said. “Do we really have to wait this long?”

  “One hundred was what Wiliam told me. I hope you’re both counting at the same pace. Is it sixty yet?”

  Rowan paused for five counts. “It’s seventy.” Under the rhythm of the counting, she discovered herself reviewing alternative routes to the front gate; she had information to use, she realized, and that knowledge served to steady her. “Eighty.”

  Bel pulled the door open, and Rowan slipped through. “Lock it again. It might throw them off. Ninety.”

  The Outskirter looked up at her, eyes aglitter. “I have a sword for you. I left it behind a tapestry outside the door with the guard-spell.”

  “Good. I’ll need it. One hundred.”

  They followed the corridor, Rowan three steps ahead, wrapped and hooded in Liane’s cloak, Bel following behind like an escort. They went left, then right, seeing no one. At the top of a broad stair, Bel stopped Rowan with a touch on the arm, then indicated. Listening, they could hear measured steps and muttered voices below. Two people; one walked away, and the other remained at the bottom, out of sight.

  Close to Rowan’s ear, Bel whispered, “There’s always one guard at that post.”

  “What’s keeping Wiliam?”

  “There’s no way to know. That man is inner guard; he probably knows about Liane. I’ll have to catch him off-guard. You stay here.” Bel paused a moment, thinking, then began running noisily down the stairs, footsteps startlingly loud. �
�You! Come here, lend a hand—”

  “What? What are you doing here?”

  Standing silently, waiting for Bel to do her job, Rowan was half distracted by a short, faint vibration beneath her feet. She looked down at the carpet.

  “I’m guarding that steerswoman—something’s wrong!”

  “Wait here, I’ll get help.”

  “There’s no time, you’ll have to do—”

  There was another vibration, stronger; Rowan looked up, and an instant later she heard distant thunder.

  “What was that?” And the man made one more sound, a wet choking cough.

  Rowan knew what it was. She flew down the stairs to find Bel pulling the point of her spear from the prone man’s throat. “Was that noise from the north?” Bel asked. Far off, someone shouted, a long muffled sentence.

  “Yes,” Rowan replied. Their way to the gate led south.

  “About time.” Bel abandoned her spear for the dead man’s. “Let’s go.”

  Rowan resumed her place in the lead, struggling to maintain a relaxed, casual pace. Halfway to the door with the guard-spell, they were surprised by a bleary-eyed servant who peered from a room in perplexity. “Themselves are up to something,” Bel explained, offhand, as they passed. “Go back to sleep.” The man gaped at her, then vanished with a look of fear.

  Again the thunder rolled, louder. Wordless shouts came from behind, and the two women understood simultaneously that the time had come to run.

  As Rowan reached the door to the outer keep, the floor suddenly bucked once, then shuddered, like a ship hit by heavy seas. The air was full of a roaring rumble. Nearby, someone screamed. Pulling the door open, Rowan pushed Bel through, and in an instant the Outskirter handed her the hidden sword.

  There was thunder to the north, and the floor writhed unbelievably beneath their feet. Bel was thrown to the ground, but Rowan stood balancing wildly. About her, half-dressed people had appeared, clinging to the walls, crying to their gods and their families.

  Abruptly and simultaneously, all the lamps went out. In the darkness Rowan found Bel and dragged her to her feet. Fading thunder left the air filled with shouts; then a crowd of organized footsteps approached, stumbled against the fallen, and reorganized with curses: soldiers. The squad swept noisily past Rowan and Bel, hurrying north. Bel made an anguished sound. “We have no light.”