The Steerswoman's Road

by Rosemary Kirstein

  He stood before her like a startled animal, a deer surprised by a hunter, too frightened to flee. “Kammeryn,” he said, and the speaking of the seyoh’s name freed him to turn from Rowan’s eyes. “Kammeryn, you know I’ve never done you any harm. I’ve helped the tribe.” He became again pleading, desperate. “I just want to help again. You’ve got to believe me, we have to get away from here.”

  Kammeryn was impassive. “Answer the steerswoman’s question.”

  The wizard’s man had three swords pointed at his heart, a dozen warriors waiting outside, an entire camp of fighters all around. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped, began again, stopped again. He stood with his long arms loose at his sides, and his gaze went far away, then returned, very slowly. He said, “I’ve told no one.”

  Bel hissed at the confirmation. “Wizard’s man!” She spat, and her grip tightened on her sword, so that its tip became level with Fletcher’s wide blue eyes.

  He stared at it, frozen; then his eyes shifted beyond it, to Rowan’s face. He spoke to her directly, as if explanation was due only to her. “It’s not a tempest,” he said levelly. “It’s the heat that Efraim told us about, the one that used to come before Rendezvous. It’s coming down from the Eastern Guidestar, it’s coming here, and we need to get away.”

  “Can’t you stop it?”

  “Me?” His surprise was extreme. “No.”

  Rowan thought. “Then we’ll wait for it to begin, as proof of what you’re saying.”

  “There’s no time!”

  “Efraim’s people had time,” Bel said.

  He turned to her. “This is different. There’s no buildup, it’s coming all at once.”

  “How do you know about it?” Rowan asked him.

  His mouth opened and closed three times as he tried to answer. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “Then don’t explain,” she spat. “Describe.”

  He struggled to organize his words, then surrendered to the impossibility. “I checked old schedules for repeating events in a twenty-year cycle, and found something called ‘routine bioform clearance.’ The last one recorded was forty-eight years ago. But this morning, it showed up on the upcoming schedule, same code, same label. I wouldn’t have known what it was if I hadn’t been looking before.”

  Bel was in total confusion. “Looking where?” But Rowan’s mind was tearing at the words Fletcher had spoken, pulling them apart and finding the meaning she needed imbedded in his three short sentences.

  Schedule: she had reasoned correctly. The heat was a planned thing, initiated by the wizards.

  Routine: it was usual, expected—until it stopped after the Guidestar fell.

  Checking, finding, looking: one could look at a schedule only if it were written down; could check it, find something on it. But Fletcher carried no papers.

  The magic that warned him when there were enemies nearby could also show him objects even more distant, or permit him to speak with someone who had the schedule at hand. He could scry. Scrying was done by means of an enchanted object. “Fletcher, where is your cross?”

  Of itself, his hand went to his breast; the cross was absent. “I destroyed it.”

  “Why?”

  The hand dropped. “So Slado couldn’t find me.”

  Bel looked to Rowan for explanation; but the steerswoman was thinking too quickly to stop. “Could he see you even when you weren’t scrying at that moment?”

  “Scrying?”

  “Using the cross to find things out.”

  He was startled by her comprehension, almost frightened. “Yes. The link, the cross, it has, it’s like, like a flag, or a beacon.” He stopped to compose himself, then spoke more calmly. “Anyone who knows how to look, can find me.”

  “But they can’t see you now?”

  “No,” he said. “Well, yes, but they can’t tell it’s me. They can’t tell me from anyone else anymore—there’s no flag.”

  Rowan thought of him carrying an invisible banner with an invisible sigil, declaring to all who had the means to see: Wizard’s Man.

  If Slado could see Fletcher, he could see him run, and perhaps see the tribe run with him. Slado would know that Fletcher knew of the heat and had told the tribe. Slado would realize that they all knew far more than they should.

  But Fletcher had dropped the banner.

  He wanted to help, he had once told her. He had used his magic to destroy the enemies of the tribe, used it to watch for danger.

  Rowan wondered what other abilities Fletcher possessed with his link destroyed, what unknown powers of attack and protection.

  She looked into his familiar face, so clever, so expressive, and saw it now naked, open, desperate. She read her answer there: he had none. He was without magic, without even a sword. He had made himself helpless, in order to help.

  Rowan turned to the seyoh. “Kammeryn—”

  How much of the conversation Kammeryn had understood she did not know. But he had understood what mattered to the tribe. “Yes,” he said to her, then spoke to Fletcher. “Where must we go? And how quickly?”

  Fletcher gasped, almost sobbing with relief. “Due east. The heat will be in a band, north to south. We’re near the eastern edge. It’ll come three days from now. We can get out, if we hurry.”

  “How wide a band?” Rowan asked him. He provided the area, with longitudes and latitudes of the limits; she had not known he was familiar with the terms. With this information, she saw that escape was possible.

  If the tribe moved now. “Kammeryn, we can’t wait.”

  “Yes.” And with three steps he was at the tent entrance, throwing the flap aside.

  His aide and Orranyn were outside, with faces of confusion. “Take down this tent,” Kammeryn commanded Orranyn as he exited, followed by Fletcher, the Outskirters, and Rowan. Kammeryn strode into the camp, urgent, leaving his followers behind. “Reyannie!” he called. An old man hurried up: the mertutial in charge of breaking camp. Kammeryn turned to him. “How soon will we be packed?”

  “An hour ...” The old man was perplexed.

  “Why have you been so slow?”

  “We were confused ...”

  “Stop being confused.” The seyoh stopped and scanned the camp, once. “Abandon half the tents.” He walked away, around the fire pit. The mertutial’s jaw dropped. “Seyoh?”

  “We’ll take four warrior’s tents,” Kammeryn announced to the tribe at large, “and two mertutial’s. That’s all.” He called back. “Orranyn!”

  “Seyoh?”

  “Forget my tent. Fletcher!”

  Fletcher’s head came up, hopeful. “Seyoh?”

  For an instant Kammeryn hesitated; then he became decided. “Stay exactly where you are. Orranyn, I want half your people watching him, with their swords drawn, and the rest in reserve. You, Berrion! Take your band to twelve-side; I want four lines of guards ahead of us when we move.”

  Orranyn was still standing aghast. “Fletcher is a prisoner?”

  “Yes.” Kammeryn turned back toward him, impatient. “Do it now.” Orranyn assigned the guard, and Fletcher was circled by armed warriors. Among them: Efraim, stolid and unquestioning; Jaffry, intent; and Jann, watching Fletcher with eyes of glittering black ice. Rowan said to the seyoh, “You don’t need guards—”

  But Kammeryn was still in motion. “I want Lonn.” Chief herd-master. Someone was sent for her. “Relay!” One appeared. “New reports?”

  “None.”

  “How many scouts on duty are within range?”

  “Gregaryn, at ten.”

  The herdmaster arrived.

  “Have your people pull their flocks into a tight formation,” the seyoh told her. “We’ll be moving quickly. Once we’re moving, if any animal can’t keep up, leave it behind.”

  “I’ll need more people.”

  “Take any mertutial. Except Anniss,” he added, naming the woman in charge of the children. Kammeryn’s movements had brought them to the cook tent. “Take Chess.”


  The cook stopped her packing. “Someone needs to do this.”

  “We’re leaving the cook tent.”

  “How will we pull the food?” The cook tent converted to a train.

  “Abandon the food. All of it. We’ll slaughter fresh when we need it. Someone, kill this fire!” The nearby mertutials were leaving with the herdmaster; Hari and Sithy rushed to obey their seyoh’s command.

  Kammeryn spoke to the relay as they continued around the fire. “This is a forced march. Pass the word outward. Have Gregaryn cross forward and find Lona at twelve and pass the word to her, then head back toward ten. Lona will find Amarys at two, and tell him. All of them are to double their distance from the tribe; other people will be sent to their old positions. Go.” The relay went.

  “Kree.” Kammeryn was once again beside his tent, where Fletcher stood slack-limbed among the warriors, with Rowan, Bel, and Kree nearby.

  “Seyoh.”

  Kammeryn paused, and Rowan thought, A wizard’s man has served over a year as a warrior in Kree’s band, and Kree has reported nothing amiss.

  But Kammeryn’s tone was reassuring. “I need three of your people to serve as extra relays. Send the rest as extra scouts, to cover twelve-side between the outer circle and the regular scouts’ new positions. Make one of those people Averryl.” Kammeryn wished to keep Fletcher’s closest friend out of sight, away from any influence the wizard’s minion might effect.

  “Yes, seyoh,” Kree replied with relief.

  Behind the seyoh, and all around, the camp was partly collapsed, only those tents to be abandoned still standing. People shouted instructions to each other, and urgent words. Trains began to appear, and pack carriers.

  “Bel, Rowan.”

  “Seyoh?” Bel answered.

  “Kammeryn?” Rowan found herself waiting for command, as completely as if she were one of his own.

  He gazed at the two a moment. “Stay by me.” Then he strode off again, Rowan on one side, Bel on the other.

  They stopped by the dead fire. “Scouts on hand?” Kammeryn called.

  “Here, seyoh!” Zo approached.

  “Quinnan is the only scout on six-side?”

  “Yes, seyoh. He’s out of contact.”

  “Take enough food for yourself and for him, for six days.” The scout blinked in thought. “He’s only a day away, seyoh.” Kammeryn nodded. “You and he go northwest. Find Dane and

  Leonie.”

  Rowan gasped: she had forgotten the children on walkabout.

  Fletcher made a noise, a wild cry of horror. “The children!” He stood with his arms splayed. “My god, it’s too late, they’ll never get out in time!” His voice was high, uncontrolled.

  Kammeryn ignored him. “From Quinnan’s position, you and he will have two days to find Dane and Leonie. Travel as fast as possible, by night as well, if you can. If you don’t find them in that time,” and he put all the force of his command into the words, “you will turn around and come back, Rowan—”

  “Seyoh?”

  “Tell Zo what to expect.”

  The steerswoman provided the information quickly: a concise desription of the effect, to the extent it was understood, the time factors, and the distances. Zo listened wide-eyed, nodding sharply at each sentence. Behind them, Fletcher was speaking, saying over and over, “My god, the children ...” His ring of guards watched silently.

  Kree came up, with two of her band. “We’re your relays, seyoh.”

  “Take your positions.”

  Rowan felt a bump at her knee and looked down. Hari had brought her pack and was giving Bel hers. Goats began crossing the camp, escaping from the new herders driving them inward. Train-draggers and pack-carriers were ranged about the fire pit, waiting.

  “Seyoh,” Hari said, “I’ll pack your things for you.”

  “I need nothing.” Kammeryn looked about and signaled; the signal was caught by the relays and sent outward. The seyoh was already walking, along with Rowan and Bel. With a surge like a wave, the tribe followed.

  46

  “Kammeryn, I don’t think you need to keep a guard on Fletcher,” Rowan said.

  The seyoh did not reply. Bel sent Rowan a narrow glare, but said nothing.

  “He doesn’t mean us harm, not now. I’m sure of it,” Rowan continued. “Whatever he did before, whatever his original purpose for being here at all—it’s changed. He’s helping us.”

  “Helping himself,” Bel said.

  “He could have run!” Rowan said. “Only he knew, and he could have simply gathered a few supplies and taken to his heels.”

  “And been alone. With no way to replenish his supplies. No friends to help him fight goblins. He’s using us; we’re just damned lucky that we can use him back.”

  “Now is not the time to discuss this,” Kammeryn said. He looked at neither woman; his eyes were focused directly ahead, but with a distant look, as if on an internal vision far more urgent than the real. “Save your breath for walking.”

  And they had been walking, all that cool, bright morning, traveling eastward, with a south wind rattling the redgrass across the land before them. High, small clouds chased each other across the sky, and the breeze carried an iron scent of water from somewhere beyond sight, and the sweet odor of lichen-towers; and over all, the dusty cinnamon-and-sour-milk smell of the redgrass itself. A typical morning on the veldt of the Outskirts; and a tribe, typically, on the move.

  But this tribe was fleeing.

  As noon approached, Rowan remembered that the tribe had brought no prepared food. She checked the figures that Fletcher had given her, checked them again, and was distressed. The time the tribe had in which to escape was barely sufficient. Preparation of a meal, including the slaughtering of goats, would lose the tribe some three hours of travel.

  But noon arrived, and passed, and no halt was called.

  From behind, Rowan heard a slow murmur of conversation, heard it work its way back toward the last walkers, leaving in its place a spreading silence.

  She glanced back to where Fletcher traveled, still within his ring of grim guards. The faces of persons nearby had lost their perplexity at Fletcher’s confinement; Fletcher’s true nature was now known by all, and the reason for the tribe’s forced march. Rowan tried to catch Fletcher’s eye, to exchange some recognition or offer some reassurance. But he was looking elsewhere. She returned to comparing her calculations with the passage of land behind the tribe.

  There was no meal that day. Only one person complained, a child, who was silenced with a sudden, brutal blow. By that act, the other children immediately recognized the urgency of the situation. No child of speaking age complained again for the rest of the march.

  Throughout the day, reports were received from the warriors ahead, the doubled inner and outer circles, the augmented, distant scouts. They held more information, and more precise, than was usual; and by afternoon Rowan realized that the reports had evolved to such a degree of precision that they were now expressed in meters, with every rock and rill and gully described and located exactly among all other features.

  Rowan began to wonder at the necessity of this; but even as she wondered, her trained instincts began unconsciously to use the information, constructing for her a mental map of her surroundings. It consisted of a kilometer-wide band, extending ahead to a distance of fifty kilometers, the location of the farthest scout. The map shifted as the tribe moved, coming into existence with the report of the point scout, amended and expanded by the warriors that followed.

  As the map grew clearer in her mind, Rowan became more interested, and then fascinated, staring blindly ahead. The map was like a living thing, moving, even breathing, in waves of information. With knowledge of this detail, she felt she could walk the veldt blindfolded.

  She emerged from her absorption to see Kammeryn beside her. He walked confidently in his usual measured pace, but his eyes looked only inward. Rowan realized that he was doing the same as she had been, but doing so co
mpletely, with all his attention and concentration. It came to Rowan that the information, and its detail, were of desperate importance.

  When night fell, and darkness ended further reports, she understood. The tribe slowed slightly, but did not stop.

  Now Kammeryn began to speak, quietly, constantly: specific directions and warnings to guide the steps of those who walked behind. No tribe member questioned his instructions, or the need to risk travel in the deadly night. Each sentence the seyoh spoke was repeated by those walking behind him, passed back to the rear of the tribe, out to those walking among the close-packed herd; in star-spattered blackness, the tribe was a single, murmurous animal, surging across the veldt.

  One ancient mertutial toward the center of the tribe stumbled and fell, breaking her hip. People supported her, half carrying her as she wept in pain, while word was passed forward that she asked to be left behind. Kammeryn was long in replying to the request; he was still issuing his instructions. But a few minutes later, between a warning of a large boulder at the tribe’s left and the exact number of meters to a marshy sink, he inserted the sentence “Send Chian my farewell.”

  At last the sky began to lighten, and the entire span of the mental map had been crossed. The night’s march was done.

  But now the tribe could see to walk. There was no rest. They continued on.

  During the night, the tribe had caught up with most of the guards ahead, who had been forced by the darkness to wait. Now, as the sun rose, the scouts themselves were sighted; but they were rested, and begged permission to move ahead immediately, informing the seyoh that the point scout had done so already, daring to walk step by careful step, out into the unknown land. Permission was given, and the scouts set off at a flat run, the lines of guards reconfiguring more slowly.

  Kammeryn was now silent, often walking with eyes closed. Rowan understood that he was resting his thoughts from the night’s efforts; and from this, that he was preparing to receive the next reports, for the creation of another map; and from this, that he intended the tribe to continue traveling throughout the next night.