The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  “Bel, Margasdotter, Chanly says to me that we must work together, and fight with all tribes side by side. To hear it, it sounds like a good thing.

  “But if battle comes, or magical attack, perhaps Bel will see that three tribes will live if she sends one into danger, knowing it may die.” His head jerked in anger, and he spoke vehemently. “That tribe will not be mine!”

  “I see.” Stated so, it made sense; but only from the one tribe’s perspective. “But don’t you understand,” she went on, “that if the wizards, or Slado himself, come to the Outskirts themselves, that your tribe’s help may make a difference to the outcome? And that if the other Outskirters’ resistance fails, you and your tribe will suffer?”

  He grunted. “So Bel has said. But she is an Outskirter. She will protect her own and let others suffer. I do not trust her. I promise nothing to her. But you—” Rowan found herself held in a gaze like deep, black water. “You are different.”

  “How so?”

  He sat long in thought; and it came to Rowan that he would attempt to express a very abstract idea, and that the small words with which he was most familiar would prove insufficient tools.

  “In the morning,” he said hesitantly, “the sun comes up. This is good to know, for you must rise, and do things. But if you sleep in your tent, someone must come and tell you: The sun has come up.”

  “Yes ...”

  He became more sure. “To sleep or to rise, to do the work of your day or to wait—to decide this, you must first know one thing: that the sun is up. In life, this is always true. In order to do, you must know.”

  The steerswoman understood. “True.” In order to choose between alternatives of action, or inaction, one must first possess the relevant information.

  “But you do not always know what is needed for you to know. You must learn far more than you need to know.”

  “True.” Once the choice of action was made, most facts acquired were revealed as superfluous to it, and unrelated to the subject; but one must first acquire those facts, in order to recognize that. “You, steerswoman,” the seyoh said, “you know a great deal.”

  “Yes ..”

  He looked down, then around, as if the walls of the tent had vanished and he could clearly see his tribe about him. “My people suffer. I wondered why. I did not have enough knowledge to say.” He turned back to her, intent. “And then, at the meeting of the seyohs, you tell me. You know more than I.”

  “About this one subject, yes, I do ...”

  “Who is to say to you what is needed, or not needed, for you to know? And so you ask, always. Only foolish persons would not answer; because it is your way that once you understand, you give understanding to all who ask it of you.”

  “I’m a steerswoman,” she confirmed.

  “And you showed to me that you would rather die than serve as a tool for others to cause harm.” His earlier questions had been a test.

  He indicated the Guidestar fragment. “And so I show you this, and tell you what I know. Perhaps it will help you, and me, and my tribe. Perhaps not. Who can say? Only you, who know the most, can discover. And when you discover, you will tell all.”

  She left the camp in high spirits.

  She was accompanied to the camp’s limits by one escort, and to a distance of a mile out by a second: grim, small men, virtually indistinguishable from each other. Rowan found herself admiring them, for the sake of their seyoh.

  When she was left to continue alone, she knew that there were other watchers hidden, somewhere in the nearby grass. The fact did not at all disturb her. And when a figure rose from the grass directly ahead, she expected no trouble whatsoever.

  It fact, it was Fletcher. She regarded him, amused. “Have you been out there all along?” she asked.

  “Hiding like a fool-you bug, up till now.” He looked very nervous indeed. “Let’s get out of here.”

  She smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right. They don’t plan any harm.”

  “So you say.” He led the way back. “If they don’t mean harm, why are they watching us so damn hard?”

  Bel said, “Natural caution.” Where Bel had appeared from, Rowan had no idea; but there she was, walking alongside. “If my tribe was so close to another, I’d have a full war band scattered in hiding, as well.”

  “Or two,” Fletcher said, all attention fiercely on the surroundings. Bel glowered. “I counted eleven; so I guessed twelve.”

  “I counted eighteen. I guess two dozen.”

  “Not that many.” Bel was disparaging. “Your imagination is running away with you.”

  He spoke between his teeth. “I could hear the buggers breathing.”

  Rowan could not help but laugh; she could not ask for two more dedicated guardians. “Really, both of you, everything is fine. And I’ve heard and seen the most amazing things.” She prepared to relate the entire experience, too excited to wait until they reached camp.

  But Fletcher had come to a dead halt ahead of her and stood j ittering. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

  Bel scanned the veldt. “What?”

  He ignored her. “Look, you,” he said to the redgrass ahead, “I understand. I sympathize with your, your natural caution. But if you think we’re going to walk within two meters of you, you’re damn well mistaken!” He made a wild gesture of dismissal. “Clear off!”

  There was a pause, then a louder clatter among the chattering of the redgrass, and a line of motion, departing. Rowan and her companions continued on their way. Twenty feet later, Bel looked back, and Rowan did the same: the Face Person was now standing, looking after them with a bemused expression.

  Bel said to Fletcher, “I hadn’t noticed him.”

  “Spotted him earlier. Kept an eye on him.” He drew a long breath. “Ladies,” he said tightly, “please, let’s just get out of here.”

  42

  Rowan filled four pages of her logbook with drawings and descriptions of the Guidestar fragment; the pages were growing few, she dared use no more than that. She sat by the fire, upwind from the cooking smoke, intermittently pausing in her writing to hold up her palms to the warmth. Fletcher sat beside her, making a show of reading over her shoulder purely to annoy her; but Rowan thought that behind the joke, he was very much interested in what she was doing.

  Someone spoke his name: “Fletcher.”

  He looked up. Rowan did the same; shading her eyes against the sun, she saw Jaffry, dark and still, standing above them.

  The young man pitched his voice somewhat louder: all could hear. “Your sword needs a better master.”

  Fletcher sighed, but his reply matched Jaffry’s tone. “And you think that’s you?”

  “I know it.”

  “Well.” Unfolding himself, Fletcher stood. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  “Who’s to signal the start?” someone asked. The duty fell to a chief Rowan did not know well: Garris, tall and angular, with eyes like two straight lines behind high cheekbones.

  People began to arrange themselves. Averryl spoke quietly to Fletcher. “You won’t have your left-hand advantage.” Jaffry also fought from the left.

  “I know.” Fletcher unstrapped his sword in its sheath and handed it to Averryl.

  “Jaffry’s a good all-around fighter, but you have a long reach, and more weight.”

  “Right.” Fletcher untied his vest, removed it, and slipped off the wool shirt he wore beneath, passing both to his friend.

  “Watch where you throw your limbs.” At this, Fletcher grinned. “And you should take that thing off, too. It’ll get in the way.” Fletcher’s cross.

  Rowan had seen him without it only when making love. Fletcher paused a moment, and Rowan thought to see a quick flash of fear on his face. It vanished; he slipped the thong over his head, handed it to Averryl, and spoke without humor. “Please don’t fuss with it. It’s sacred.” And he drew his weapon from the sheath Averryl was holding.

  Jaffry had also shed most of his clothing. Rowan took
a moment to study his physique. Each muscle was clearly defined, but of no great bulk. “Smooth moves,” Rowan said to Fletcher. “He’s probably a very fluid fighter, very controlled.”

  “I’ve seen him. He is.” And Fletcher grinned again. “Perhaps I can make him angry.” He put his right hand in the small of her back and drew her up for a kiss. “Wish me luck.”

  Rowan recalled Bel’s response when Rowan had wished her luck, and provided it for Fletcher: “Ha.”

  But when the fighters took their positions, she felt less certain. Fletcher had fought and survived the attack of the Face People; but she had not closely watched him fighting, could not extract the memories from her own experiences in the wild heat of battle. She did not know if his skill, even with a steel blade, was sufficient to defeat Jaffry.

  It would be a shame if Fletcher lost his fine sword; despite her wish to be confident in her lover, and her recognition of his very real skills, she could not dispel the suspicion that Fletcher needed every possible advantage to survive as an Outskirter.

  The signal came, and Jaffry swung, then with a pivot of wrists converted to an overhand blow; Fletcher moved to parry the apparent maneuver, adjusting at the last second to meet the actual one. He let his sword be driven down, then slithered it from beneath Jaffry’s, stepped left, and found his own blow expertly parried. His blade was pushed farther aside than one would expect for so long and strong a weapon; he was not surprised, but followed it, with a half step to clear himself for Jaffry’s next swing. The action looked awkward, but achieved its purpose. His sword was in place to meet Jaffry’s next thrust, and when it did Fletcher discovered a small, unexpected clear space to step into, at the last moment. It gave him a tiny piece of maneuvering room, for a tiny maneuver that sent Jaffry’s weapon out of line for one brief moment.

  But the young man recovered and compensated instantly, apparently without thought, without breaking his own rhythm. Fletcher had defended himself, but gained no advantage.

  Near Rowan, Chess grunted once. “Look at him,” she said around an expression of reluctant admiration. “He’s doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Scraping by.” And it was true.

  Jaffry moved with pure grace, with perfect oneness of body and weapon, his will and intellect directing the whole as a unit. Rowan could see as clearly as if drawn on a chart: lines of force, from mind to muscle, from muscle to weapon, the edge making flashing, clattering connection with his opponent’s; and back from muscle to bone, from bone to earth. The young man stood in the center of two directions, the perfect pivot point, with the world on one side, the foe on the other. Jaffry’s strength was in grace, in balance, in his unconscious comprehension of the physics of action.

  Fletcher understood his sword, and what he wanted it to do—and nothing else.

  He thought with the edge and the point of his blade. He sent his weapon where he wanted it to go, and his body followed or did not follow, depending on his stance and direction of motion, sometimes flinging wild counterbalances of arm, leg, throwing his weight into a blow, then with a dodging twist leaving both body and sword to continue of their own momentum, wherever that might lead—as long as the blade went where it needed to go.

  And it did. It seemed too long a weapon to be directed so lightly, to move so quickly. But it did what he asked of it.

  Fletcher, all odd moves, scraped by, again and again.

  He took a wild step back, made a feint at the length of his reach. Jaffry saw opportunity to force Fletcher’s blade down, and made his move; but Fletcher miraculously slipped his weapon free, spun it up and over, struck hilt-to-hilt, twisted his blade once, disengaged. And he repeated the maneuver, finding entry where there should be none

  Rowan saw the logic of the move and smiled a small smile of satisfaction: it was precisely what she would have done in Fletcher’s place.

  Rowan began to enjoy the fight. She studied the action, imagined the next moves, and saw them come into being as Fletcher again struck the weak point on Jaffry’s blade before escaping easily from what ought to have been a perfect trap.

  Jaffry entered a set drill, a holding maneuver. He was thinking, hard. Fletcher’s strategies were obvious to the young man, their execution incomprehensible. Rowan realized with pleasure that she had an advantage over Jaffry in understanding Fletcher’s style.

  Then she realized of what her advantage consisted, and felt a sudden, cold shock. Unconsciously, she took a step forward. Bel pulled her back.

  Jaffry set another trap, maneuvering Fletcher’s parries inexorably toward a configuration that would permit one perfect flick of the blade to disarm him. Fletcher willingly entered the trap, springing his weapon free at the last instant.

  Fletcher’s move looked awkward, seemed impossible—but worked.

  In the midst of a crowd of watching, enthusiastic people, in the center of a village of skin tents, out on a grassy plain in the heart of the wildest land—Rowan felt that there were two worlds present, separate but contiguous. One was a world of people, going about the living of their lives; persons known, admired, loved, two of whom were now engaged in a contest of skill. The other was the world of pure action: force, motion, mass, momentum. The worlds did not match.

  Rowan stood dead still, staring in her mind’s eye at the link between those two worlds. They did not match because the link itself was a lie.

  She wished to deny the lie’s existence. She wished to ignore the irrefutable world of fact and action.

  She was a steerswoman. She stepped into the world of fact, holding the lie in her hands—and watched.

  The fighters ceased to exist as persons; they consisted only of the actions they made. It did not matter who fought or why. She shivered, once, unconsciously, then gave herself to pure reason.

  She saw that one fighter was slowly gaining advantage over the other, and that the other could wrest that advantage from the first, by using certain specific maneuvers. She saw some of those maneuvers become manifest. The opponent faltered, regathered. A moment later, in the midst of her calculations, she caught sight of one fighter’s face.

  For the first time in Rowan’s experience that face, ever before calm and controlled, displayed a pure, unequivocal emotion. It was hatred. The steerswoman coldly added that fact to her analyses.

  The fighter had been growing more angered throughout the contest. Now his anger had crested and broken, and its source stood clear: hatred. For the sake of hate, he was attempting to fight far beyond his own level of skill. He found the new level; he entered it; he inhabited it. He began to take brilliant risks. The risks paid.

  The second fighter had noticed the hatred and faltered at the force of it. The first took that moment to shift his body, to change to a tight upstroke.

  Just in time, the stroke was parried; but it was a stupid parry, too close, with no room to recover and respond. It was an utterly foolish maneuver, driven by panic. It was a move of reflex. It failed.

  With cold clarity, Rowan reasoned under what specific alterations of parameters that particular parry would have been successful.

  The steerswoman was vaguely aware of a rise of sound from the spectators. Beside her, Bel stiffened. “He shouldn’t draw blood!”

  Rowan had not noticed. “What?”

  Bel relaxed somewhat. “It’s only a nick. It can happen in a sword challenge, by accident.”

  What Rowan had noticed was a further disintegration of one fighter’s style, an even greater focus in the other’s. The blood had been no accident.

  One of the fighters was failing; he was being driven back. The other man pursued, pressed, sending his opponent’s sword into wilder and wider defenses.

  And then they were close again; and the failing man ought to have pulled back. He was fighting in utter panic, Rowan understood. He had completely reverted to trained reflex; he possessed some instinct that told him that in this close situation he should move closer yet. He did so. The instinct was wrong. His opp
onent made one small, quick motion.

  The fighters paused; a pause seeming offhand, innocent, held in an almost gentle silence.

  Fletcher released his sword, and it dropped to the ground. He took a half step back, then turned away. In the crowd, someone cried out, then someone else. Fletcher took one more step, then fell to his knees, arms wrapped tight about his body, hissing between his teeth in a choked, rising tone, “Christ!” And Jaffry drew his blade back to strike again.

  “No!” There was a hiss, a flurry of motion, a clash; and Bel stood between the two men, with Jaffry’s sword stopped against her own. She faced him from behind the crossed blades. “Have you gone mad?”

  Jaffry halted. Trembling, he stared at her with wild eyes. “I’ll kill him.”

  “It’s not a blood duel!”

  “It should be!”

  “Then call it as one—if you can justify it!” She stepped closer; he permitted it. “Justify it, Jaffry,” she said. “Do you want revenge? Revenge for what?” Behind her, Fletcher was doubled over, gasping. Averryl broke from the crowd to rush to his friend; Jaffry pulled away from Bel and made for Averryl, who froze at the madness in the young man’s face.

  Bel interposed herself again. With a visible internal shock, Jaffry recognized her for the first time, and her face held him fascinated. He did not blink, did not move. He shuddered, rhythmically, as if to his heartbeat.

  Averryl was at Fletcher’s side, supporting him, calling out for Man-der. Fletcher was making small, strange sounds and attempting to collapse.

  “A blood duel for a wrong done,” Bel said to Jaffry, “or for an insult too great to let pass: that’s warrior’s honor. But where’s the insult? Or the wrong?” And she fairly spat the next words in fury: “Justify! Or call this murder.” She tried to push his sword aside with hers; he resisted. She spoke more carefully. “You cannot murder a warrior of your own tribe.”

  Jann called out, “Fletcher’s no warrior!” Jaffry’s head jerked at her voice, but his eyes stayed on Bel.

  “He is,” Bel told her. “Your tribe named him so, and your seyoh. You can’t have him fight and risk death for your tribe, then call him no warrior. Perhaps he’s not the best warrior, but he is one, and he’s yours.” She turned back to Jaffry and looked up at him, dark eyes on dark eyes. Her fury melted. She said quietly, sadly, “Jaffry ... there’s no honor in this.”