The Outskirter's Secret (23 page)

"They're said to be smaller than usual. Their
men stand about my height. No one has ever seen their women."

Rowan interrupted. "There must be women."

"I only know what I was told." Bel continued:
"They're vicious fighters, and they're very crafty at keeping
hidden. They talk little, and they take offense easily. Once one of
their tribes broke truce at Rendezvous."

The other Outskirters present were appalled.
"What was the reason?" Kree asked, clearly unable to conceive of
such a thing.

"I wasn't told. And," Bel finished, "they eat
their dead."

Kree let out a breath through her teeth,
disgusted. She turned to Fletcher. "Does that match the man you
killed?"

He twisted his mouth and made a wide gesture
of assent. "Looks like. He was small, sort of scrawny." Fletcher,
when speaking, could not be immobile; of themselves, his quick
hands sketched a shape in the air, an invisible Face Person. "You
could see how his muscles lay on his bones"—he indicated the
imaginary figure thoughtfully—"with nothing between them and the
skin. I'd have said he looked sickly, but he moved like a flash,
and one time he got hold of my arm"—his own arm and hand
demonstrated—"and I thought his fingers would squeeze straight
through. He fought like a madman, like he didn't care if he lived
or died."

Rowan indicated the equipment. "That looks
about the level of handicraft that Bel mentioned." She turned to
Kammeryn. "Some days ago, Bel and I discovered that we were being
trailed by someone. He fled before we saw him. We think it was the
same man."

"Then he's no longer a danger. No other
scouts have sighted strangers; he was alone."

Fletcher apologetically corrected his seyoh.
"I didn't see this fellow coming until he was on me. And Bel did
say they're good at hiding."

"I'll send word for the scouts to be more
wary. But—and meaning no insult, Fletcher—you are a young warrior.
You still have much to learn. Someone more experienced might have
sighted him sooner."

Fletcher blew out his cheeks. "Well. I might
not have seen him at first, but I saw him in time."

"You seem to be good at that," Kree reassured
him. Rowan noted that the reassurance seemed necessary; Fletcher
sent Kree a small, wry glance of gratitude.

Kammeryn leaned back, then nodded at Kree.
"Please step outside and speak to Eden; tell her to have the
warning relayed to the outer circle."

As Kree rose to leave, Fletcher followed; but
Kammeryn stopped him with a gesture. "Bel and the steerswoman are
undertaking a journey to the east. I believe that part of their
route will cross the same area you traveled in your walkabout. I'd
like you to tell them about the land they'll be going into."

Fletcher had paused half-risen; he stared at
Kammeryn, mutely, then glanced once after the departing Kree. He
looked very much as if he wished to escape.

Rowan was puzzled. "Anything you tell us
might help a great deal," she said.

He gazed at her, motionless in his awkward
position. Then, with slow unwillingness, he settled down again and
waited. Rowan drew out her charts, Bel shifting nearer to see.

Fletcher was oddly tentative as he leaned
forward to study the map. He tilted his head to view the notations,
as no Outskirter had: he could read. His gaze and his finger went
to one particular feature. "Tournier's Fault," he read aloud. "Dust
Ridge. What is it?"

"It's a cliff, if Bel's information is
correct. And it's where we're going."

"Why do you have it marked so clear?" His
finger swept back across the blank expanse of the map. "How do you
only know about that one place?"

Rowan briefly explained about having seen a
wizard's map. "I couldn't recall all the details, since it was some
weeks after seeing their map that I had any chance to try to make a
copy. But since I was particularly interested in Dust Ridge, I
managed to impress that section in my mind. I'm sure the distance
is correct, and its length, and its configuration. I need to know
what lies between there and here."

Fletcher looked away and sat silent for a
long moment, then reluctantly brought his attention back to the
map. He drew a breath. "More rivers," he said, and indicated; a
small, inexpressive movement, very different from the wild, wide
gestures Rowan had come to expect of him. "Scores of rivers here."
He did not elaborate, neither by words nor gestures, but paused
again, waiting.

Rowan exchanged a glance with Bel. "Try to
re-create the route you took," Bel suggested. "That would be
easiest."

He nodded, then proceeded to trace a route
across the unmarked chart, describing the terrain he had
encountered, using the fewest possible words. Rowan notated every
landmark he had passed and, using her knowledge of geological
patterns, sketched in likely approximations of surrounding
areas.

Kree rejoined them, entering quietly to sit
beside Kammeryn. Fletcher seemed not to notice her.

At one point, the width of the observed area
widened. Rowan asked why. "Went further north on the way back" was
his terse reply.

As the trail continued east, Fletcher became
even less communicative, using ever shorter phrases and sometimes
single words: "Hills." Rowan had to prompt him for expansions and
explanations. Bel and the other Outskirters watched in silence,
then patiently, Bel with growing puzzlement.

At last Fletcher ran out of words completely,
his finger resting at a place where Rowan had assumed several small
rivers converging. Fletcher sat as quietly as if he were alone.

"What's there?" Rowan asked at last,
cautiously.

"Swamp."

"How far does it extend?"

"Fifty kilometers." His route began to arc
north, leaving the swamp.

"No, hold a moment." Rowan recalled the demon
she and Bel had heard. "This swamp, was the water fresh?"

He did not wish to reply. "Sour . . ."

"Was it like seawater? Have you ever tasted
seawater?" As an Inner Lander, he might have done.

"Different." His finger wanted to leave the
swamp behind. Rowan surmised some dreadful event having occurred in
that location.

But his statement could be considered to
correspond with the wizard Shammer's description of a demon's
needs, and Rowan was very interested. "Did you encounter any
dangerous creatures in this swamp?"

He did not reply, and only by looking up from
the chart did Rowan realize that he had been reduced to gesture: he
nodded.

Kammeryn spoke. "If the steerswoman is going
to pass near there, she will need to know what she might meet."
There was no admonishment in his words.

After a moment's hesitation, Fletcher
neutrally delivered straightforward descriptions of a number of
unpleasant creatures: round-backed beetles some three feet high,
equipped with pincers, fore and aft; wasplike swarmers whose sting
induced dizziness and temporary blindness, but which ignored
persons unless disturbed; a man-sized soft lizard that dwelt in a
lair beneath the mud in shallow water, springing on its prey by
means of a trapdoor, and possessing huge jaws with a triple row of
needle-sharp teeth.

Rowan's original planned route crossed
directly through the swamp. She amended it.

Fletcher had used more words in his
descriptions than he had spoken during the entire previous hour;
the act seemed to release some internal pressure, and his manner
became easier as he traced the rest of his route, which had swung
north past the swamp to end in an arid area. "And then I turned
around," he finished.

Bel's perplexity had grown during his
descriptions, and now reached the point of suspicion. "Where were
you going, that you traveled so far from your tribe?"

His answer was again terse. "Walkabout."

"That's a long walkabout." Bel was frankly
dubious.

He paused, and Rowan expected him to revert
to silence again; instead, he slipped back into his old manner: an
eloquent wince, an apologetic half smile, a wide gesture made by
hands more natural in motion than in stillness. "Well, I wasn't all
that certain I wanted to come back."

Kree spoke. "We're glad you did." Again, the
reassurance.

The steerswoman could resist no longer. "What
is 'walkabout'?"

It took a moment for the Outskirters to
decide who was to reply.

"It's a rite, a tradition," Bel said. "It's
one of the things you do to become an adult and a warrior. The
candidates go out into the wilderness for six weeks. You choose a
direction, walk in as straight a line as you can, and deal with
whatever you meet."

"Alone in the Outskirts?" She looked at
Fletcher's route drawn across the chart; it was far more than six
weeks' travel. Assuming that the tribe had been located farther
west at the time of Fletcher's journey, the walkabout might have
taken months. "It sounds impossible to survive."

"Not completely alone," Bel continued.
"Candidates go out in pairs, but they keep a distance between each
other. They're not allowed to associate, or communicate."

"Or assist?"

"If your partner rescues you, it means you
fail the test."

Rowan began to ask what it meant if one
failed to rescue one's partner; she stopped herself. Beside her,
once again immobile, sat Fletcher: an energetic, expressive man
reduced to quiet and stillness. His walkabout partner had not been
summoned to add his or her information to Fletcher's. Fletcher's
partner had not survived.

Rowan forced herself back to her map. "This
helps us a great deal. We can follow most of Fletcher's route,
swinging north here"—avoiding the deadly swamp—"and turning
southeast here, where you went north. It's not the most direct
line, but at the least we'll know what to expect. After that, we'll
simply strike out across the land," and she unconsciously quoted
Bel, "and deal with whatever we meet."

Bel leaned forward to study the result, then
nodded with satisfaction. The chart had begun to resemble a true
traveler's map, and the gap between known route and goal was
suddenly, miraculously, manageable. Success seemed less a hope, and
more a likelihood.

"Good." Kammeryn made a gesture, and Rowan
passed him the map. When the seyoh took it, he turned it around,
but not to read the notations—he was illiterate. Rowan saw that he
had adjusted its directions to correspond with reality: Kammeryn
was seated facing south, and held the map with south on top.

His gnarled finger moved, indicated. "The
tribe," he said, "will stay with you to this point, and continue,
so." The tribe's route continued due east as the travelers' wended
southeast. "We'll try to pause here . . . and later here; all
depending, of course, on whether the grass is good. We'll move
further north here"—far above the swamp—"there will be too much
blackgrass and not enough red. You should be able to rejoin us
near," and he traced a circle, "this area."

Mastering her surprise, Rowan hurried to mark
the tribe's projected positions.

Fletcher was astonished. "We're changing our
route for the steerswoman?"

Kammeryn's glance denied him the right to
question his seyoh; Fletcher managed to suppress what should have
been a splay-armed gesture of acquiescence into a mere flutter of
fingers on his knees.

Bel was delighted. "That's good! We can
travel lighter, and harder, if we know we have people to return
to."

Amazed, Rowan shook her head. "I hardly know
how to thank you," she told Kammeryn.

His eyes were thoughtful. "Don't," he said.
"When you return, our tribe will see you first, and hear first what
you found."

"But—" It was Fletcher, his confusion
overcoming his etiquette. With a nod, Kammeryn gave permission for
his question, and Fletcher fairly burst out, "But why are they
going? What's there?"

Kammeryn leaned back, considering, and Kree's
sidelong expression told Rowan that Fletcher would receive no
answer. But the seyoh surprised her. "We are finished here," he
said. "Ask that question of the steerswoman when you leave."

Rowan gathered her materials, and Bel and
Fletcher rose to go; but Kree stopped them and turned back to
Kammeryn, small bright eyes intent. "That's not a good idea."

He made a show of surprise. "How so?"

She was hesitant to explain in front of the
strangers; but the seyoh waited. "You've circumvented the council's
choice," Kree finally said, "and they won't like it if you throw
your own decision in their faces. It's better the tribe doesn't
know. They don't need to be told why you choose to send us where
you do."

"I don't see how we can prevent it. The
steerswoman is sworn to tell the truth, if she's asked."

Kree knit her brows. "She should do as you
tell her."

Rowan remained half-risen, one knee on the
ground, pen and ink stone in one hand, charts in the other. "I
can't. If he tells me to be silent, or to lie, I can't do it."

Kree addressed the steerswoman. "Understand,
I'm in favor of your being here. Mine was one of the voices that
spoke for you in the council. But it's important that the council
show unity to the tribe. If you go about telling everything, it
will come out that some of the council did not want to accept
you."

"I can't help that. And if it's true, how can
it hurt for it to be known?"

"The tribe doesn't want to see its leaders
divided."

"It's better to see what is, rather than what
one wishes were so." Rowan became very aware that one side of the
tent was completely open, that any passing person could overhear
everything that Kree wished to keep secret. She was also aware that
no person had passed by since the meeting began. Apparently, custom
or law prevented eavesdropping. Fletcher himself seemed both
appalled to be privy to such dissension, and avidly interested.