The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  He was still there, with Kree and three more of her band, including Bel. “What’s happening?”

  Bel nodded toward position seven. “They sent one man in our direction, alone. It looks like they want to talk. Kammeryn sent Fletcher to meet him.”

  This was the source of Jann’s outrage: Kammeryn’s respect for the Inner Lander made even more manifest.

  Fletcher was far beyond sight. His experiences were communicated by relay: outer circle, to inner, to the woman on duty beside Kammeryn.

  The first signal was from Fletcher himself, stating that he had reached outer seven’s position. Outer seven then signaled that Fletcher had passed and was approaching the waiting stranger, and that the two members of Kree’s band who had accompanied him were moving into hidden positions.

  Fletcher’s next signal stated that the proper forms for approaching a member of a strange tribe were being observed.

  There was a long pause as Fletcher conducted his conversation with the unknown person. Then came: “Meeting requested stranger. Approach to camp requested.”

  “For what reason?” Kammeryn said to the relay; and the question was sent across the veldt.

  Reply consisted of that special signal which indicated that no existing signal corresponded to the requested information.

  Kammeryn thought. “Is this man absolutely alone?” The signal went to seven, to six and eight, to a scout posted past eight, to the hidden guards. Confirmation was received from all except the guards, who would break cover only to reply in the negative. “Is there still no sign of more strangers elsewhere around our perimeter?” The question crossed the camp, spread outward in all directions. There was no sign of others. “Ask Fletcher for his own opinion.”

  The necessary terseness of the reply lent the distant Fletcher the illusion of authority. “Comply.”

  An hour later, Fletcher, the guards, and the stranger neared the edge of camp. The stranger was a Face Person.

  When they arrived, Kammeryn stepped forward to meet the man; but Fletcher, with a wry expression, told him, “He’s not looking for you, seyoh.”

  The small man stopped and planted his feet firmly. “I am looking for Rowan, called the steerswoman,” he said.

  Rowan exchanged a glance with Bel, then stepped forward. “I am Rowan.”

  The envoy looked up at her. “You must come and speak to my seyoh.”

  Rowan considered. “Why?” she asked cautiously.

  “I do not know. He says to me, bring the steerswoman.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rowan told him, “but I’ll need a good reason. You must excuse me for being cautious, but I don’t want to walk into some sort of trap.”

  “He promises no danger to you. You may come, and then you may go.” He looked askance at Bel, Fletcher, Kammeryn, the many other watchers all around. “I wish to leave now. I do not like to be here.”

  Rowan turned to Bel. “What’s your opinion?”

  Bel addressed the Face Person directly. “Was it your tribe that we met at Rendezvous?”

  “Rendezvous?”

  “Yes.” Bel became exasperated. “Two weeks ago.”

  “We were there.”

  Bel’s mouth twisted. “I don’t like it,” she told Rowan, “but perhaps this means that their seyoh has changed his mind. He’d want to tell us personally.”

  “That may be the case ...”

  “All right, then. But let’s bring some reinforcements. Kammeryn?”

  The seyoh nodded, scanned the people nearby. “Fletcher,” he said immediately, “and Kree—”

  “No,” the stranger said, brows knit. “Only the steerswoman.”

  There was silence. “Certainly,” Rowan said to the man, “this concerns Bel, as well. And I’m sure you can understand that we’d be more comfortable with just a few of Kammeryn’s people nearby.”

  “No. My seyoh says, only the steerswoman.” He squinted at her. “That is you.”

  The steerswoman sighed, and thought. Bel watched her a moment. “Don’t,” the Outskirter said, definitely.

  “Kammeryn?”

  The seyoh shook his head. “I cannot command you. But I advise that you send this man on his way.” Fletcher contributed no advice; but his eyes showed his evaluation of the idea.

  “A hostage,” a voice said, from behind Rowan.

  She turned. It was Efraim. “You must ask for a hostage,” he stated, “to guarantee the promise. Ask for a woman, or a girl child.”

  The envoy seemed to recognize Efraim as one of his own kind and gaped at him in outraged betrayal. “No!”

  “They will never harm you, if we have their woman.”

  The threat decided the envoy. He thrust out his chin. “You refuse. I will leave now,” he announced, and turned to depart.

  “Wait,” Rowan called. He halted, watching with narrowed gaze. The steerswoman said to her friends and to Kammeryn, “I think I should go.”

  “No,” Bel said, all glower.

  Fletcher was equally suspicious. “Why only you? Why can’t you bring at least Bel, or me, or someone?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t think this fellow can tell me. But I’m curious; there’s something about the seyoh of that tribe ..” Trying to identify the source of her impression, Rowan reconstructed in her mind the meeting of the seyohs at Rendezvous. She had it. “At the meeting,” she said to Bel, “he never refused my questions.”

  Bel considered the fact irrelevant. “And?”

  “He refused yours, and Kammeryn’s—everyone’s at some point; but never mine.”

  “You’re willing to trust him simply because he answered all your questions?” Bel clearly considered the notion mad.

  “Well,” Rowan said, “yes. Some of those questions were ones he wasn’t pleased to answer; but he did, and only at my request. Why would he now, suddenly, wish me ill?”

  Bel glared and planted her fists on her hips. “Now he regrets saying anything at all, and wants to kill you to keep his secrets quiet. You know that he and his tribe, and all the Face People have come Out of the Face to prey on the rest of us. He doesn’t want the news spread.”

  Rowan shook her head. “But you know it, and the other seyohs. That can’t be his motivation.” She spoke to the nervous envoy. “I’ll come back with you.”

  But Kammeryn stepped between them and addressed the man. “We will send two warriors with the steerswoman,” he announced. “They will wait outside your camp. They won’t enter.”

  “No. Only her.”

  The seyoh set his mouth. “One warrior, who will stop and wait on this side of your inner circle.”

  “No.” The envoy dismissed Kammeryn. “Do you come?” he asked Rowan.

  She drew a breath and spread her hands apologetically to her friends. “Yes,” she told the Face Person, “I come.”

  The Face People’s camp looked deserted. The only signs of human presence were sounds: a few quiet voices, rising from somewhere beyond her sight, or perhaps from within the tents. The fire pit, when she and her escort reached it, was doused but still warm, cooking implements set nearby, as if abandoned the instant Rowan entered the camp.

  At the seyoh’s tent, she finally found more people: guards at either side of the entrance. Recalling her first meeting with Kammeryn, she relinquished her weapons to them without their needing to ask.

  Inside were the familiar Outskirter furnishings: patterned rug and cushion, stiff fabric box, a bedroll folded out of the way against one wall. The decoration was simpler than in Kammeryn’s tribe, and shades of blue and red predominated; Rowan surmised abundances of lichen-towers and flatwort out on the Face.

  The seyoh of the tribe sat on the carpet, again toying with his queue, pretending nonchalance. He glanced up at her once, then gestured her to a seat.

  Rowan searched for an appropriate opening statement to make under such circumstances; she failed, and reverted to Inner Lands politeness. “And how may I help you?”

  “I will ask you some things,”
the seyoh declared, seeming to address the statement to his braid. He paused, then spoke less definitely.

  . and you will answer with the truth, always?” He puzzled, studying the knotted end of the queue.

  She found his habit annoying. “That’s correct,” she replied. “Because I require that people always speak the truth to me, I’m bound to always speak the truth to them. Because I require them to answer any question I ask, I must answer any question they should ask. It’s the way my honor works, and the honor of all steerswomen.”

  He considered this. “You know that the names of all Outskirters are guarded. If I asked you the names of persons in the tribe with which you travel, if I dared to do such a thing, would you then answer me?”

  The steerswoman sat quite still. If he did ask, and she supplied the names, he or one of his men could use the information to gain entry to the camp, under the deception that the owner of the name had trusted him and gave it freely. He could attempt to assassinate Kammeryn, or the children; or to signal his own tribe when conditions favored an attack.

  Kammeryn’s people were her friends; she would not willingly cause them to come to harm.

  Years earlier, while she had been a candidate at the Steerswomen’s Academy, there had been a rumor in circulation among the students: the tale of a steerswoman who had been captured by bandits and required to explain in detail the defenses of a nearby village. Since the steerswoman could not know if the person asking had previously lied to a steerswoman, she had no right to refuse and was faced with a choice.

  The rumor had several alternative endings: the steerswoman answered, resulting in the town’s destruction and causing her to take her own life in remorse; she answered, then escaped to warn the town; she answered with a lie, and on her release immediately resigned the order (or again took her own life, in yet another version); she refused to answer and was tortured and killed by the bandits.

  The tale was generally regarded as apocryphal: there was no way to verify the events. Nevertheless, it caused a great deal of discussion among the students, as a hypothetical case, and they debated the options with the fierce, fresh, intellectual enthusiasm of the young.

  But eventually, interest in the topic waned. It was an unlikely occurrence. Steerswomen meeting bandits were usually simply attacked, as would be any other of the common folk. They responded by fleeing or defending their lives by sword. In situations of smaller harm, such as personal intrigue, the steerswoman first told the questioner that all parties concerned would be informed of the entire conversation, and the question was usually withdrawn.

  Rowan’s own experiences had been more extreme, and she had responded to the wizards’ threat to her life by resigning the Steers-women, leaving her free to assume a false identity and deceive as necessary. But she had suffered during that period. While a steers-woman, she was a living embodiment of the principle she held highest; while not a steerswoman, the lack of that principle left a wound in her spirit, as sharp as physical pain.

  She said to the seyoh, “If you asked for the names, I would first ask if you planned to use them to cause harm.” A person intending harm would not be likely to admit to it; and she would catch him in an obvious lie, place him under the Steerswomen’s ban, and be free to deny him the information.

  He avoided the trap. “And if I did, and said so?”

  She became angry. “Then,” she said fiercely, “this is what I would do: I would answer your question, but I would delay my reply for the space of time it took for me to challenge you to a blood duel, and either win or die.”

  He raised his eyes and regarded her calmly. “A dead woman cannot answer. A dead man needs no reply. This is clever, but dangerous. You would do this to protect your friends?”

  “No.” She felt that she was thinking as an Outskirter, and that it was absolutely correct to do so. “I would do it as revenge against you personally, for daring to try and force me to betray my own honor.”

  And to her utter amazement, he smiled. “Ha,” he said, and pounded the carpet with his fist, twice. He seemed to enjoy the action; possibly it served him in place of laughter.

  Then he rose, crossed the tent, and returned carrying a box of stiff, woven fabric, somewhat larger than was usual. He placed it before her, opened it, and removed an object from within. He said to her, and it was a strange phrase to hear stated in such a prosaic tone, “Here is a wondrous thing.” He closed the box, placed the object on the lid, and leaned back.

  The steerswoman sat stunned. “Skies above,” she breathed.

  A squat cone on a short base, standing a foot and a half tall and perhaps two feet in diameter, made of tarnished, dented metal. Its surface was studded with smaller objects, some attached directly to the face of the cone, some placed on the ends of rods.

  She forgot the Face Person, the tent, the fact that she was sitting in the middle of a possibly hostile camp. The object stood before her, startlingly incongruous, impossibly present.

  Fascinated, Rowan moved closer, rising to her knees to do so. The seyoh spoke. “You may touch it; it is harmless.”

  She did so, hesitantly, then probingly. The rods and objects were attached securely, but four of the six rods were bent at an angle. She tested and could not straighten them. The objects on the rods’ tips were damaged; one had glass shards where there must once have been a small glass boss.

  She tilted the cone to see the base. The metal was cool on her palm, but it was not iron or steel, or brass; the entire thing shifted too easily, was too light to be constructed of those materials.

  From the base hung a number of thick, stiff strings; and these she had seen before. When she and Bel had infiltrated the fortress of the wizards Shammer and Dhree, Rowan had managed by stealth to examine the contents of one of a number of wooden boxes being unloaded from a delivery cart: rolls of semirigid strands of a brightly colored, unidentifiable substance, with copper cores within, like magically coated jeweler’s wire. These were the same. “This is wizard-made,” she said.

  “Wizards are legends, so I had always believed,” the seyoh said. “I thought this merely made by men with strange knowledge.”

  She could not take her eyes from the thing in her hands. “We’re both right,” she replied distantly. “Wizards are men, with very strange knowledge indeed.”

  The connection between cone and base was crushed and flattened to one side. She peered up at the joining. It seemed designed to rotate. The base itself was hollow to a shallow depth, stopped by a flat surface etched with lines of copper. Not the pattern itself, but the intricacy nudged at her memory; it was vaguely reminiscent of the sort of decorations found on clothing made by the Kundekin, a reclusive craftspeople dwelling in the Inner Land. But more importantly, the spell that controlled the magical gate guarding the wizards’ fortress had been activated by a wooden disk and a ceramic recess, both of which had lines not much different from these.

  The magical gate had opened of its own accord; and Rowan knew that this was one use of magic, to animate the inanimate. Likely this object, as part of a Guidestar, did something, undertook some action; and as she had suspected, the Guidestars themselves somehow acted.

  “I’m tempted,” she said, “to try to take it apart.”

  “I have tried, myself, often. It does not admit my prying.”

  Rowan noted scratches and scorings on the surface. “Did you use a metal knife?” He had done. He showed it to her, and its edge was chipped.

  The inner surface around the open base was of a substance something like very hard ceramic, bearing innumerable dark lines where the knife had been drawn across the material. She cautiously inserted her hand into the base; it was smooth on the sides, and the back of her hand was scratched by the copper-etched face, which seemed to have short bits of wire thrust through from the opposite side.

  She removed her hand and looked inside again. The copper lines served to connect the short bits of wire to each other. The positioning of the wire ends suggested the placem
ent of objects on the opposite side, tantalizingly; there were obvious sets of pairs, the outlines of rectangles and parallelograms. Using her fingers, she tried to feel the edges of the copper-etched face. The seyoh watched, then wordlessly passed his chipped knife to her. She inserted the blade and ran it around the sides, finding no purchase. “Have you tried to break it open?” A sledgehammer and anvil might have been useful.

  “Yes. I failed.”

  The steerswoman stood the object back on its base, atop the Outskirter box. She drew away her hands and sat regarding it.

  A piece of the fallen Guidestar. This thing had once dwelt in the sky, forever falling around the world, forever missing the ground, forever seeming to hang at one point on the celestial equator. And it now sat before her. “How did you get it?”

  “I found it myself, as a young boy. There was more: a great hole in the ground where it had struck, and some more metal in the earth. I was tending the flock and discovered it, and ran to tell my seyoh.

  “I thought straightaway that it was a piece of the light of omen, that it had fallen from the sky. My seyoh agreed, and saved this part of it. We carried it with us always.” He made a small, disparaging sound. “He revered it, and said we were to do the same. I am no such fool. It is a only a thing. Wondrous, but still a thing.”

  “But you still keep it.”

  He nodded. “It is strange. It inspires strange thoughts.”

  She pulled her gaze from the object and turned to study the seyoh, speculatively. “You seem to regard that as good.”

  He smiled, slightly. “I thought long on it, as a child and as a warrior. I thought in a strange fashion. It is useful, to think strangely. You see the world in a different way, become hard to fool. It enabled me to rise among my people and become seyoh.”

  “I see.” Inspiration from the sky; originality. “Why did you not mention this at Rendezvous?”

  He grunted. “All Outskirters are my enemies. On the Face, to live is to cause someone else to die; by the sword, by hunger. And this is true elsewhere in the Outskirts; but it happens more slowly and is harder to see. I wish that among those living people shall be all the members of my tribe.