The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  They were quiet a moment. “Can you have an argument with him?”

  “Now, while he’s lying wounded?”

  “Well, no, you’ll have to wait. But can you think of something?”

  “I don’t know.” And they both pondered the problem, silently. A voice spoke from behind. “Rowan?” She turned.

  Averryl was standing between two tents, seeming hesitant to come nearer. “He’s awake. He’s asking for you.”

  Rowan was reluctantly impressed by Fletcher’s skill at deceit. He had been told to watch her, or deal with her, or prevent her from accomplishing her mission; and yet, even wounded, he still remembered to maintain the illusion that she was important to him personally.

  Quite suddenly, Rowan saw what she could do. And it required no lies on her part, no need to resign her order. Instead, it required that she remain, perfectly, a steerswoman—and that she have a small degree of sympathetic assistance.

  Rowan said to Averryl, “I am not coming.” The warrior gave her a long gaze of disappointment, but he did not protest. He departed. Bel tilted her head in his direction. “See?”

  Rowan nodded. “Just as you said. Now, listen: this is what I need you to do.”

  44

  Fletcher’s wound was not deadly, but it was two days before he regained the strength to rise. He immediately sought out the steerswoman.

  “Where have you been?” He was pale, faintly unsteady. “Averryl told me some story,” he said, and half laughed, “I couldn’t believe it! Why didn’t you come?”

  It was a question. No steerswoman was permitted to answer a question put to her by someone who was known to have lied to any steers-woman. Rowan did not reply. She returned to her study of a small Outskirter handloom that one of the scouts was practicing on, watching the tiny bone shuttle being carefully threaded through the warp.

  Fletcher knelt beside her, turning a puzzled gaze at the scout, dismissing him, and turning back to Rowan. “Rowan, please, what’s wrong?”

  He had told her countless lies. Her refusal to reply was justified. But he was not aware that she had caught him in any falsehood. It was necessary for her to do so, visibly, and in a fashion that did not hint at the true extent of her knowledge.

  They had been lovers; now they were not. By asking one specific question, Rowan could insure that the entire matter would be perceived as merely a lover’s quarrel.

  “Fletcher, what do you feel toward me?” she asked, and sat calmly looking up at him, waiting for his answer.

  With the question posed in such a way, under such circumstances, he could give only one reply. He gave it, appearing properly confused. “I love you.”

  She smiled at the words, and he warmed to the smile, mistaking its meaning. “That,” she said, with the deepest satisfaction, “is a lie.” And she rose and walked away.

  He stayed where she had left him, looking after her; then abruptly he threw himself to his feet and hurried after her. “What do you mean?”

  She continued walking.

  “Rowan, you can’t be serious!”

  His second statement had not been a question. She said, “I am perfectly serious.” She provided the fact as volunteered information. “But why? What’s wrong?”

  She did not reply. She continued walking; he continued following. They passed Bel, who was occupied in repairing her sword strap. Fletcher turned to her. “Bel, why won’t she answer me?”

  Bel pointed out, with careful indifference, “Steerswomen have to answer any question put to them. Usually.”

  “But,” he said, then stopped short; his face underwent a series of expressions, apparently designed to reflect an internal sequence of arguments and confusions.

  He was supposed to be an Inner Lander, and to know well under what circumstances a steerswoman may refuse to answer. The obvious inference came to him. He spun back to Rowan, throwing up his long arms. “But it wasn’t a lie, it’s true!”

  Rowan turned back to look him in the eyes. She could not feign emotion; but she could prevent emotion from showing in her own expression—completely.

  The face she presented to Fletcher was one of impassivity, utter disinterest. It was not a face he had ever seen on her before.

  His hands dropped, and he stood slack in apparent disbelief. Once more, Rowan turned and walked away.

  He watched her, then suddenly said, as if to himself, “Bel.” He looked about, found the Outskirter still beside him, and pleaded with her. “Bel, she won’t refuse you, ask her why she doesn’t believe me—”

  “No.” Bel was adamant. “This is between you and her, and I’m not about to get in the middle.”

  He gazed down at her, aghast, then looked around again. The wool-weaving warrior was nearby. “Gregaryn—”

  “No.” Gregaryn gathered up in his equipment and rose. “You can do your own dirty work,” he announced, then departed, shaking his head.

  Fletcher stood completely still. He blinked, then scanned the camp. All eyes were on him, all embarrassed at his behavior. Fletcher shook his head as if to clear it of a bad dream, and went after the steerswoman again. He stopped a mertutial in passing, asked her to ask his question of Rowan, and was again refused. He tried a warrior and was refused, and then another—no one would assist him.

  During the two days Fletcher had lain weak from his wound and from blood loss, Bel had carefully explained to every tribe member that Rowan had terminated her romance with him; that she was deeply upset about it and wished to be let alone on the subject; that it would be extremely unkind for anyone to abuse the laws of the Steers-women to force Rowan into discussing the matter against her will; and that Fletcher, as a mere Inner Lander, would be unlikely to face the disappointment with a proper degree of warrior’s dignity, or with honorable respect for Rowan’s own decision.

  Fletcher now confirmed Bel’s evaluation.

  He ranted, raved, railed; he brought into use all his skill, all his expressiveness of body, face, and voice. He stormed about the camp, following the steerswoman, asking and then begging for reply. Then he was shouting, first at her, then at anyone nearby, and then, finally, to the universe at large.

  Rowan thought it rather an impressive display.

  Eventually he exhausted himself and dropped abruptly to a seat on the ground, shaking and gasping from the exertion. Mander, who had been drawn from his tent by the noise of Fletcher’s carryings-on, examined his stitched wound angrily, then gave him a stern lecture, delivered with scant sympathy, on the necessity of rest and recuperation.

  Fletcher sat listening dizzily, seeming dazed. Possibly he was; the difference at this point was immaterial. Rowan and Bel left him sitting by the fire pit, Mander at his side, mertutials giving the pair a very wide berth as they moved about, preparing dinner.

  Rowan gathered her belongings together, wondering where to move them. While she was at work, Jann provided the answer.

  Rowan was surprised, and then was not. “But how does Jaffry feel about it?”

  Jann’s wide mouth tilted wryly. “He’ll get over it. Things got out of hand, and he deserved what you gave him.” And she hesitated, then continued with some reluctance. “I got out of hand myself. We’re both lucky it got no worse.”

  “Well.” Rowan set to rolling up her bedding. “Perhaps I understand things a bit better now. I have no real grudge against Jaffry. He’s a fine young man, and a fine warrior.”

  “That’s well said.” Jann clapped Rowan’s shoulder, then helped her carry her belongings outside. “Fletcher isn’t worth your attention,” the warrior assured her as they crossed the camp. “He fooled you for a while, that’s all. He’s fooled a lot of people.” And they walked past Fletcher himself; he was in an argument with Averryl. Seeing them, the wizard’s minion stopped in midsentence and watched Rowan pass, with apparent sorrow and longing, until she was out of sight.

  By evening, Fletcher had descended to the low tactic of sending Deely as his go-between.

  The weaver stood outsi
de Orranyn’s tent and waited, undecided, apparently uncertain of the propriety of his own mission. The steerswoman went out to speak to him.

  He addressed her without preamble. “Rowan, don’t you like Fletcher anymore?” He seemed relieved to have gotten the sentence out.

  She responded with the truth, spoken gently for Deely’s benefit. “No, I don’t.”

  He shifted on his feet and looked down, sorrowful and uncomfortable. “But why not?”

  “Because he lied to me. You’re not supposed to lie to a steers-woman.”

  This had been explained to him several times in the past, by several people. She wondered to what extent he understood or accepted the custom.

  Rowan attempted to forestall further questions. “Deely, you know that sometimes people who are in love have fights.”

  “Yes ..”

  “Well, it’s very sad, but it’s also very hard on the people. Sometimes it hurts them to talk about it. I don’t love Fletcher anymore, and I want him to leave me alone. Please don’t make me talk about this, Deely—I really don’t want to.”

  He thought very hard, then reached out and patted her on the shoulder with clumsy sympathy. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

  His concern was total, and sweet in its simplicity. Rowan wished she could comfort him. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Three days passed, with the only unusual event being the departure of Dane and Leonie on their walkabout. The two children slipped away before dawn, following Outskirter custom. Any rites or celebrations would wait for their return.

  Rowan spent the days in camp, going about her usual business, covertly studying Fletcher’s behavior from a distance. Bel stayed close beside the wizard’s minion when not on duty herself, watching for signs of evil intent.

  Neither woman noticed anything amiss.

  “He’s not very active,” Bel told Rowan over breakfast one morning, at a moment when no one was paying them attention, “but Kree ordered him to stay put, so he can recover. He hasn’t been able to go out on the circles with the rest of the band.”

  “I haven’t seen anything.” Rowan paused when Chess approached, waiting as the old mertutial passed mugs of broth to the two women. Fletcher had been staying in camp, in Kree’s tent. The weather had been fine, and on all three days the wizard’s man had rolled up the sides of the tent, so that he might rest in the sunshine. He had been completely visible to any passerby.

  He now sat with the rest of his band, picking at his breakfast with little interest. He seemed to sense Rowan’s attention and looked her way. She removed her gaze an instant before he caught it.

  “Well,” Bel said, “Kree’s putting him back to work today.” The statement was innocent enough to permit Chess to overhear.

  The cook grunted. “He must be feeling better,” she said, and jerked her chin once in Fletcher’s direction. “First time he’s done that in days, too. But he’s late today. Hope his god doesn’t mind.”

  Rowan glanced back. Fletcher had abandoned his food and was walking away, out between the tents, toward the edge of camp. “Off on his prayers,” Rowan said without thinking; and it was suddenly necessary to restrain herself from clutching at Bel to gain her attention.

  Bel had noted Rowan’s sudden tension. When Chess was gone, she said quietly, “What is it?”

  Rowan leaned very close. “Fletcher is certainly no Christer.”

  “And?”

  “Then, what’s he doing, Bel? What’s he doing right now?”

  Bel’s wide eyes grew wider, and she clearly wished to look back in the direction Fletcher had gone. “Not praying,” she said.

  “I sincerely doubt it.” They finished their breakfast in silence, and after, with careful nonchalance, strolled to the edge of camp.

  Fletcher was nowhere in sight; it was his habit to tuck himself behind some natural obstruction or another when attending to his presumed devotions.

  “He goes off alone, almost every single day,” Rowan said, studying the single stand of tanglebrush that likely provided Fletcher his present privacy. “And he has done, all the time he’s been in the Outskirts. If he’s not a Christer, why would he need to be alone?”

  Bel smiled thinly. “He’s doing something other people shouldn’t see.”

  Rowan was angry at herself for not suspecting this peculiarity long before. “Can you get close enough to see him, without him spotting you?”

  “Yes.” Bel scanned the sky, gauging the wind. “I’ll have to swing around from the north.” Then she winced. “Sometimes he’s fantastically good at seeing people in hiding. And sometimes he can’t see past his own nose.”

  Rowan frowned in thought. “Magic,” she said at last. “When I went to talk to the seyoh of the Face People tribe, and you and Fletcher followed me, Fletcher knew where the watchers were hiding, even when you didn’t, despite the fact that you’re a better Outskirter. But earlier—” She paused in her speech, waiting for a pair of water-carrying mertutials to pass. “But earlier, when Efraim’s old tribe attacked us, Fletcher had no idea at all that anyone was about.”

  Bel nodded, eyes narrowed in thought.

  “What was the difference between those events?” Rowan asked her.

  Bel replied immediately. “The first time, you were standing right next to him. The second time, he was hiding in the grass, and so was

  I. We couldn’t see each other. Whatever he does, he only does it when no one’s watching.”

  “And no one can see him right now.” Rowan’s mouth twisted in dissatisfaction. “I don’t think you’ll be able to get close to him.”

  “I’d like to try.”

  Such an attempt might be dangerous; but the only destructive magic Rowan had ever witnessed had been loud, visible, and required hours of preparation.

  Perhaps Fletcher’s abilities differed from those of the boy Willam. But if Fletcher had access to a more quickly acting destructive spell, he certainly would have used it when the Face People had attacked Kammeryn’s tribe. The wizard’s man had been clearly and obviously in a state of terror at that time. Had he been able to summon magic to insure his survival, he would have done so. The only options open to him had been to fight by sword, or to run; he had fought.

  The steerswoman drew a breath. “Do you suppose, if he notices you by magic alone, that he’ll be able to actually recognize you?”

  “Who can say?” Bel thought. “I’ll put together some excuse to be there. Practicing Efraim’s Face People techniques, perhaps, using them to play a joke on Fletcher.”

  But when Bel returned, she reported only failure.

  “I got to within three meters of him,” Bel told Rowan much later in Orranyn’s tent; the band was on duty on the outer circle. “All I saw was him kneeling, with his eyes closed and his hands folded. Looking—” She searched for the proper word, then supplied it with distaste. “—humble.”

  Rowan made a dissatisfied sound. “He knew you were there.” She gave herself to thought. Very little was known about the functioning of magic spells in general, and less of magical means of perception in particular. She considered, instead, natural perception, and animals with particularly sharp senses: cats with their vision; dogs with hearing, smell; frogs, which could capture small, rapidly moving insects ...

  “Perhaps,” she ventured, “he sensed you approaching.”

  Bel caught the idea. “Then tomorrow, he won’t. Because I’ll already be in place, waiting for him.”

  The next morning, Rowan was awakened at dawn by hands shaking her. She flailed out in startlement. “What?”

  “Get up,” Jann told her urgently. “Get your clothes, and your sword, and get outside!” And the warrior was gone.

  The tent was already empty. Rowan threw herself into her clothing and hurried outside.

  War bands were congregating by the dead fire pit; Kammeryn was in place, with relays nearby. Rowan read the reports as they came in, all of them the same, single gesture: negative, ne
gative, negative ..

  She looked about for Bel; the Outskirter was nowhere in sight. The rest of Kree’s band stood near Kammeryn, all of them seeming intent and prepared. Among them was Fletcher, his face as grim and determined as his comrades’, standing with his muscles twitching, like a frightened horse.

  Rowan found Jann and sidled over to her unobtrusively. “What’s going on?”

  But it was another warrior who replied. “Fletcher says he saw someone, hiding. He says”—the woman was dubious—“that the stranger is inside the inner circle.”

  Now Jann spoke. “I don’t believe it. Our people are too good for that. It can’t happen.” Her eyes were not on her chief, or on her seyoh; she watched Fletcher.

  Orranyn thumped her on the arm. “Pay attention, you!” Rowan knew from the tone it was not a sudden anger but exasperation of long standing.

  “Orranyn, it can’t happen—”

  “Fletcher’s been too right too often for us to ignore him. If you can’t bear to lose a little sleep for safety’s sake, then think about crossing over.” The war band stood shocked by the statement. Orranyn pretended indifference to their reaction; he was reaching the limit of his indulgence of Jann’s obsession.

  But Jann was not the only person watching Kree’s band. “Where’s Be!?” Jaffry asked, and as he spoke, Rowan watched Kree, across the fire pit, put the same question to each of her warriors. When the question reached Fletcher, he reacted with surprise so extreme that he seemed to have been struck. Then he spoke to Kree, pleadingly; she interrupted him, sternly, clearly indicating that he should be most concerned with the duties immediately at hand. When Kree turned away, Fletcher’s eyes sought and found Rowan, and he looked at her in seeming distress, spreading his hands in a gesture intended to communicate helplessness. It was very eloquent, and very clever, and Rowan hated him far worse than she ever had yet.

  Rowan might easily have been too conservative in her estimation of Fletcher’s power. Bel might already be dead, by magic; she might be cast to sleep forever under an evil spell; she might have been transformed into some strange creature; she might be crouched in hiding out in the pastures, unable to move for fear of attracting attack, with all Kammeryn’s tribe convinced that she was an enemy, and Fletcher’s magic insuring that all eyes would see her as one.