Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (14 page)

The Outskirter gazed on the face of her enemy for a long
time.

Then she passed the paper back to Rowan, unfolded her legs,
and rose. “When I see him again,” Bel said, “I’ll know him.” And she left the
room.

Silence in her wake.

Eventually, Willam said: “I suppose it’s not a good idea to
go after her.”

“No.” Rowan sighed, deep. “You’ve just told her that
hundreds of her people have died, with nothing done to help them, while she was
living comfortably in Alemeth. She needs to be alone.” She handed the drawing
to Willam, said simply: “Slado.”

Will turned in his chair to tilt the drawing to the
candlelight. He studied it grimly. “He doesn’t look like much. You could pass
him on the street and never notice.”

“I don’t know how age has changed him. But I do believe that
I will be able to recognize him.”

Willam shrugged. “He might wear a beard now. And … forty
years later? He should look just a little older than you are.” He turned back.
“This is why you thought people were following you. If you’re investigating
Slado, you’re probably jumping at every shadow.” He passed the page back to
her.

“But you knew,” Rowan said, “you knew that Slado had been
here.”

Will nodded. “Corvus mentioned it, years ago. I didn’t think
much of it at the time. But I’ve learned a lot since then.” He leaned forward,
nearer to Rowan, but past the candle; light was now behind him, his features in
shadow. “Lady, there are only three places in the world where there’s the right
combination of magic to bring down a Guidestar. Donner is one of them.”

“Where are the other two?” the steerswoman asked immediately.

“One is on the other side of the world. No one lives there.
The third one … I don’t know where it is, I just know that it exists.” The
candle flame flickered, then steadied. “And I’m fairly certain that’s where
Slado lives now.”

Stirrings overhead: footsteps down the hall, approaching Rowan’s
door, then passing. A sound outside caused Will to half rise, half turn, to
look out the window. “There are some people about …”

Rowan gestured him back, knelt to reach across and close the
shutter; she did not want him seen in her room. “There’s a caravan leaving at
dawn. A lot of the travelers have been staying here, and they’ll be rising
early. It’s just as well you aren’t sleeping in the stables again; you’d
certainly be discovered.”

He made a sound of amusement. “It wouldn’t be the first
time. I’ve been chased out of a lot of places.” He paused. “I wonder if I can
get rid of the disguise entirely?”

Rowan said, “Is that wise?”

“Well …” He thought. “If there were only those two people
after me …”

“There were only the two,” Rowan said with certainty. “With
you following me so closely, Bel would have noticed anyone else following you.”

“Then it might be a while before their master notices that
they’re gone.”

“If Corvus sent them, I suppose that’s true. But could they
be Jannik’s people? He would notice their absence immediately, I should think.”

“Actually,” he said, with a touch of amusement, “Jannik happens
to be out of town at the moment. And he won’t be back for, oh, three, maybe
four days.”

“Really?” Rowan sat on her heels, folded her hands, tilted
her head. “Is this an example of magical scrying?”

Now Will could not suppress a grin. “No,” he said. “It’s an
example of magical sabotage. I set a group of spells around the dragon fields.
They don’t all activate at once, so Jannik will be a while chasing them down.
Until he finds them all, he can’t control his dragons.”

Rowan’s own amusement vanished. “Will—is the city in danger?”

He was surprised. “No.” He sat straight, spoke earnestly.
“No, the dragons only attack when Jannik tells them to. Without instructions,
they do nothing, or they—they just move around, in patterns, over and over.”

“How odd.” But, as she had thought, Jannik was no protector
of the city after all. “Won’t Jannik wonder who set those spells around his
dragons? If he’s heard that you escaped from Corvus, won’t he suspect you?”

“He’ll suspect Olin.” The wizard whose holding lay north of
Jannik’s. “I made them to look like Olin’s work. I know his style, and it’s
just the sort of trick he likes to play.”

A thought came to Rowan, one that flared warning. “Are you
carrying a link?”

“No,” Willam assured her, seriously. “Anyone could track me,
if I had a link. Well, any wizard could.”

According to Fletcher the links allowed one to request in—

formation from the Guidestars, and to view schematic charts,
among other magical uses. “If those people were Jannik’s, could they have used
a link to pass a message to him?”

“Not while the jammers are up.” He saw her confusion. “The
spells that I set. They don’t just stop commands to the dragons, they stop
every kind of magical message. While Jannik is in the dragon fields, he’s out
of communication entirely.”

Magic.

Rowan struggled with the idea of an escaped apprentice being
able to thwart the power of a full wizard. “You’re certain?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Well,” she said, “perhaps the beggar can be safely retired
after all.”

Will said, with feeling: “That would be nice.”

Rowan surprised Dan by knocking on his door and requesting
some spare clothing. Bel was not there; nor did Rowan expect her to be. Rowan
explained Bel’s absence, briefly, reassured Dan as best she could, and, because
she would not see him again before the caravan departed at dawn, bid him
good-bye.

Back in her room, Rowan found Willam engaged in the task of
shedding layers of rags, which seemed rather a long process; he was still
completely clothed. Somewhere within the rags on the floor, a fragment of dead
raccoon must have adhered. Exposed to the air, the smell was so appalling that
two night maids paused outside Rowan’s door to hold a muttered conversation.
Will and Rowan stood silent while this went on, and when the maids left, Will
slipped out again to dispose of the offending material.

“I’m afraid the stink has sunk into my skin,” he said, as Rowan,
amused at his modesty, stood at the door with her back turned as he changed.

“You can’t magically get rid of it?”

“No. Well, yes, I could. I mean, one could. But soap and
water is actually easier. I’m done.”

She turned back. “Cleaner, but no less disreputable, I’m
afraid.” Dan’s clothing, while suited to Will’s height, flapped about his body
loosely; and he was barefoot.

“I see that it’s been a while since you did any
blacksmithing,” Rowan said. At fourteen, Will had been stocky, and had shown
all the signs of growing toward burliness. The structure of his bones still
suggested that mass and strength ought to be his natural configuration; but
Willam the man was clearly not a person who engaged in regular heavy labor.

Still, his shoulders were wide, and the folds of Dan’s shirt
fell across lean muscles on the chest and arms. The sleeves were too short;
Willam’s wrists showed, and seemed very strong. The steerswoman tilted her
head. “But,” she continued, “apparently you’ve decided to remain an archer.”

He grinned. “You can’t hide anything from a steerswoman.
Corvus—” he began; then he looked down at his outfit, assessing his own
appearance, and pushed the sleeves up past his elbows. His right forearm showed
an old burn along its length, and his right hand lacked the last two fingers.
“Corvus used to tell me that practicing archery was a waste of time. Now I’m
glad I kept it up.” He moved back to the chair, and pulled it out to sit again.
“A bow is useful, when you’re traveling alone.”

His movements, too, were those of a person at home in his
body, expecting and trusting its strength, a quality usually found in those who
were physically powerful. Will had learned this in his youth, and the signs
still remained. But in the slim twenty-year-old man, the effect was now
incongruous, seemingly inexplicable, and striking: an easy physical confidence,
and a grace that spoke of strength.

“I’ve recently learned the value of a good bow, myself,” Rowan
said, leaning back against the door. She considered his appearance, indicated
the white hair. “You should get rid of that, as well.”

Will tugged at one tangled lock, and his grin became a grimace
of distaste. “I think there are parts of it that will never unravel. And I’d
hate to face a barber like this; I just don’t know what he’d find in there. I
don’t suppose a steerswoman carries scissors?”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s … not a wig?”

“No …”

And despite the fact that it was merely folk rumor, that the
Steerswomen could never verify the phenomenon, Rowan could not help but blurt
out: “What frightened you?”

“Nothing.” He laughed. “Or, nothing that did this. I changed
it myself. I could have done any color, but white is the easiest to do, and the
easiest to keep up.”

Comprehension. “But you couldn’t change the color of your
eyes.” The beggar’s blindfold had hidden the unfortunately memorable
copper-brown, a color not unnatural, but very rare. Rowan had seen it in no one
else.

“I could have. But it’s harder. And you need perfectly clean
water, every few days. That’s hard to find on the road.”

Reasoning that it might be useful if no clue remained to connect
the former beggar with the present Willam, Rowan decided to use her field knife
on the worst parts of the tangled hair herself. She had Will turn the chair and
stood behind him, lifting the candle high to survey the task at hand. It was
daunting indeed. “I believe,” she said over his head, “that some portions of
that raccoon have migrated.”

“It’s possible.”

Rowan set down the candle and picked up her comb, but found
herself stymied: there seemed to be no place to begin. She lay the comb down
again. “The last time we were together,” she said, “it was every wizard in the
world, looking for me. Now it seems our positions are reversed, aren’t they?”

Will was silent for a long moment. “Maybe not.”

“If not yet, then soon.” Mastering her distaste, she thrust
her fingers directly in amid the greasy, gritty tangles, attempting to sort
them. “Surely by now they all know you’ve escaped.”

“Maybe … But it’s not the sort of thing Corvus would advertise.
It makes him look a little foolish.”

More or less at random, Rowan selected a knot on the right
side and began cutting it away, her blade crunching audibly against embedded
bits of grit. “That’s good to hear. You may have some time before the rest of
them join the search.” She placed the severed lock on the table, selected
another.

Small movements of his head under her hands betrayed his uneasiness.
“Actually … they might not care. The rest of the wizards don’t take me very
seriously.”

With the first cut made, the rest began to move more
quickly. Rowan concentrated on matching length. “Why would they not?”

“I’m not Krue.”

“I don’t know that word …”

“It’s the name the wizards use for themselves. Not just the
wizards that you see, that the common folk know about, but all of the
wizard-people.”

Rowan had known that the wizards considered themselves a
separate people; it was interesting to learn their name. “How do you spell
that?” She moved the candle to the other side of the table, hoping to better
light her work. It was too low, and cast confusing shadows. She began again,
using touch more than sight.

“I don’t know,” Will said. “I’ve never seen it written
down.”

The texture of Will’s hair seemed to have altered along with
the color. Between her fingers, it felt both stiffer and finer than its
previous appearance had suggested, and slightly brittle. “But the other wizards
didn’t believe you were capable of learning magic?” Rowan asked. “Because
you’re not Krue?”

He paused, long enough for her to add two more tangled locks
to the pile on the table. Eventually, she prompted him. “Will?”

“The other wizards don’t believe that Corvus would even try
to teach me magic,” he said. “Because I’m not Krue.”

And now Rowan herself paused, comb in one hand, knife in the
other. “But they knew you existed?”

^{ll ..}
.
Yes …”

“How did Corvus explain your presence?”

And Willam said immediately, as if it were a practiced
phrase: “Corvus told me that they all assume he just kept me around as a
catamite.”

Rowan laughed. “A convenient explanation.” But she could see
why they might assume so. After all, Willam had been only fourteen years old when
he entered Corvus’s service, and quite an attractive boy. “And,” Rowan began,
meaning to say: And
did
Corvus
never correct that impression?

She noticed that Willam had become very still beneath her
hands.

She wondered—but no. She forced the question aside. Willam
was a grown man, and it was not her business. A steerswoman’s privilege ought
not to be used to pry into private matters. And whatever the facts may have
been, Willam was now beyond the wizard’s reach.

For the moment. “Well,” Rowan said, beginning again to work
at the tangled hair, “Corvus knows you’re here—assuming that those minions had
a link and used it.” Will said nothing. “How soon do you think it will be
before he sends more people after you?”

Will was rather long replying. “I don’t think he sent anyone
after me at all.”

Rowan stopped short. “If not Corvus, then who?”

“Probably Abremio. He and Corvus are always spying on each
other.”

“But Corvus himself … He would just … let you go?” She
found this very hard to believe.

“Yes.”

“But, surely—” Surely an escaped apprentice, especially one
who was a member of the common folk, would be far too great a threat to the
wizards’ power

Rowan abandoned her work, came around, sat on the edge of
the bed. She studied Willam’s face carefully. “But Corvus
was
teaching
you magic?”