The Outskirter's Secret (41 page)

Rowan leaned forward slowly and forced
herself to speak calmly, trying to ignore the eerie thrill running
down her arms and her back. "Will you tell us the poem? Or have one
of your people tell us, if you can't?"

"No," he said definitely. "Our tales are our
own. Their beauty is for us alone."

"If it really did happen," she persisted, "if
it's not in the poem for—for artistic considerations"—she found
herself fascinated by his inexpressive face, his veiled eyes—"it
proves our facts. It would help us convince others."

He watched her cautiously, but said
nothing.

Bel urged him. "Someone saw it happen,
someone saw a Guidestar fall. You would be confirming everything we
say: it's all true, if your poem is a true one."

He looked away, then looked back. "It is a
true poem. It is set in the form of true poems."

"What form is that?" Rowan asked.

He seemed to regard her as a fool.
"Alliterative, unrhymed. Caesura in each line." Rowan had not
ceased to be surprised when she heard sophisticated terms from
Outskirters other than Bel; coming from this most primitive of
barbarians, the words were actually shocking.

While the steerswoman was recovering her
balance, Bel suggested, "Tell us the events, without revealing the
secret beauty of the words."

He tilted his head to study Rowan's
companion, then the steerswoman herself. His eyes narrowed
fractionally; the closest to an actual change of expression that he
had yet displayed. Then he nodded. "There was a great battle for
pasturage," he began; the other seyohs watched and listened. "The
hero who led it was bold and fierce. But he sent his people back,
caused them to retreat. This was because an omen appeared.

"As the attack began, a light appeared in the
sky, over the enemy's position. It sped toward the attackers. It
went over their heads, and away, leaving a line of smoke drawn
across the sky. The hero believed that this told his people to go
in that direction, to not attack the enemy. He spoke to his people,
to explain the meaning of the omen. It was good. They went that
way, and found free pastures."

"What was its color?" Rowan asked.

"Like fire. Burning. The smoke was
black."

"In what direction was the line of
smoke?"

"From northwest to southeast."

This coincided with Rowan's own calculations;
she couched her next question carefully. "If I asked you to, would
you tell us where the hero was when he and his people saw the
object fall?" She wished to avoid placing any seyoh present under
the Steerswomen's ban.

"I would not tell you." A statement of
fact.

Rowan sat back, expelling a slow breath. "You
don't need to. I can tell you; not precisely, but I can draw a line
on a map, and know that somewhere on that line the hero and his
tribe were located when they saw their omen."

She scanned the circle, meeting each pair of
eyes individually. "It's true; someone saw it happen. A Guidestar
fell, and the power of the wizards is real. Bel is one of the
wisest people I know, and I sincerely hope you take her words to
heart. You may face disaster otherwise."

By means of a subtle shift in his body, a
calm gaze that indicating recognition and respect for each seyoh,
and a careful, thoughtful pause, Kammeryn caused attention to turn
to himself, and to remain there until he chose to speak. "I have
been traveling with these women for some time," he told the seyohs.
"I have come to know them, and have thought a great deal on the
things they told me. I believe," he stressed, "that their ideas are
correct in every particular. I am convinced that the wizards will
soon turn their attention to the Outskirts—if they have not done so
already."

The man with the braided beard protested.
"There's been no sign of any such thing!"

Kammeryn addressed him calmly. "The wizards
have magic. We cannot guess what form their actions will take, or
how their attention might manifest itself. It is not enough to wait
for some obvious sign of hostility. We must be on guard for events
occurring now; any unusual event is suspect."

"Everything is unusual," one woman noted,
speaking half to herself. "This meeting is unusual, this
Rendezvous. The steerswoman is unusual." She jerked her head in the
direction of the Face Person and addressed the group at large.
"He's unusual. I've never seen his like before." The Face Person
watched her with manifest disinterest.

Rowan had never before heard Kammeryn
enunciate his position completely. It pleased her. "Kammeryn is
correct," she said, and added to the woman who had spoken, "and so
are you. All these unusual things may be connected."

"How can that be?" someone asked.

Rowan sighed. "I don't know. Not yet."

The moderator broke the pause that followed.
"Bel, what precisely do you envision us doing?"

"I cannot be precise," Bel told her. "I don't
know what, precisely, Slado will do, or his puppet wizards, or
their minions, or their soldiers, if any. But the first thing we
must do is make certain that every tribe knows what we've just told
you. I'll do much of that myself; but it will help if each of your
tribes passes the word to each tribe you meet."

The Face Person sat fractionally higher. "We
do not meet with others, or speak with them. Only at Rendezvous.
Other tribes are all our enemies."

"The more so if you steal their goats and
kill their people," the bearded man pointed out, angrily.

But Bel continued. "The second thing we must
do, when the time comes, is to cease being enemies. We will have to
work together."

The bearded man spoke again. "I will not put
my people at the service of another tribe. If I see advantage for
my tribe, I will take it. If it causes another tribe difficulty,
that's their misfortune."

"If the wizards try to rule us," Bel said,
"or if they try to harm us, that's everyone's misfortune. If we
join to defeat them, that's to everyone's advantage."

The third woman present spoke up for the
first time. "But I see a difficulty," she said; and from her tone
Rowan realized that she did not in fact see a difficulty, but spoke
only to give Bel an opportunity to make some particular point.
"When the time comes to act, how can all the tribes act with one
purpose? Our seyohs may not agree."

Bel responded smoothly. "We will need one
person in command." And before anyone could voice the question, she
answered it. "Me."

Three seyohs protested immediately. Three did
not; Kammeryn, who seemed to have expected the idea; the woman who
had prompted the statement, who Rowan now realized was the seyoh of
Ella's tribe; and the Face Person.

"I believe none of this," the long-bearded
man declared. "Perhaps the wizards are causing trouble in the Inner
Lands; perhaps something has fallen from the sky—but it has nothing
to do with my people. Bel's concerns are imaginary. Unless this
Slado acts directly against my people, my tribe, I will do nothing.
No one will command me."

The woman who had earlier professed confusion
had become definite. "This is counter to our laws. Each tribe lives
or dies by its own skills. Each tribe answers to the seyoh, and the
seyoh is alone."

The moderator leaned toward Bel, her blind
eyes darting about in anger. "You have a young voice, and you are
only a warrior. Can you think you know better than elders, than
seyohs?"

Bel gave no ground. "In this matter, yes.
I've met wizards, and dealt with them. You have not. I've been at
the steerswoman's side throughout her investigation, and I'm still
at her side. I know exactly what she knows. Only Slado himself
knows more about his plans than we do. Even the wizard in
Wulfshaven knew nothing until Rowan herself told him. The other
wizards know even less.

"And I'm continuing with Rowan, until we
reach the Guidestar. What she sees, I will see. I know more than
any of you, and I'll soon know even more."

"You ask too much," the blind woman said.

Kammeryn replied, "She does not. I know her.
She is wiser than you think, and stronger. If she calls me, I will
follow."

The seyoh of Ella's tribe added, "It's true
that Bel is only a warrior. But this will be a war—what sort, we
cannot know yet, but war nevertheless. If we need to become like an
army, we must."

The Face Person shifted, and all eyes turned
toward him; but he did not speak.

A silence followed, and the moderator
gathered her dignity. "We met in order to hear Bel and her
companion speak. We have done so. This is something each seyoh must
decide alone—"

"I have decided!" the man with the long beard
announced.

The moderator made a gesture. "Then let us
each take time to consider our decisions. Let us meet again
tomorrow, to tell them to these two, and to each other."

T
he two women
returned to Kree's tent, walking silently, separately considering
the events of the meeting.

When they arrived, they discovered that the
tent was not empty. Three people were seated inside, with three
pairs of the little erby jugs on the floor around them; and one
pair of jugs was already empty.

"Rowan!" Fletcher made a loose gesture of
welcome. "Bel! Come in, sit down, have a drink. We've made a new
friend."

Rowan was in no mood for celebration. "No,
thank you," she said. "I'm afraid Bel and I have some things on our
minds. And I've already had one experience with erby; I don't care
to repeat it."

"Ah." He laid a finger aside his nose. "Ah,
but you should. Wouldn't be sociable, otherwise."

Averryl spoke, with a shade of intoxicated
precision. "You want to talk to our friend."

Rowan stepped further inside to see the
stranger: a small man, hair cut short, dressed in a motley tunic
with visible gaps, and bare-legged—

Bel said, "A Face Person." The same man they
had seen sitting all alone in the avenue between camps.

"You wanted to know why the Face People are
so far west," Fletcher said, nodding stolidly. "He told us he'd
tell you."

Bel wavered, her thoughts clearly still on
the meeting of seyohs. Then she nodded, at some inner observation.
She strolled over to the group and joined them; Rowan followed,
somewhat reluctantly.

Bel addressed the stranger immediately. "I'm
Bel. I've fought some of your people. They were very good
fighters."

"My people. My tribe," the small man said.
His face, deeply lined, might have been carved from brown Inner
Lands wood. He thumped his chest with one hand.

Averryl was interested. "Your own tribe? It
was you who attacked us?"

"Yes," he confirmed. Rowan became disturbed
by the direction of the conversation. By contrast, Averryl and Bel
seemed deeply impressed, even admiring.

"If we hadn't had you outnumbered," Averryl
told the Face Person, "if we hadn't joined forces with another
tribe . . ." Apparently from the effects of the alcohol, he lost
track of his thoughts. He paused to recover them.

Bel finished the statement. "And if I hadn't
seen you in time to organize a resistance, we would have stood no
chance at all. Your tribe was fearsome!"

Outskirter compliments, Rowan thought: We're
very impressed that you almost destroyed us. Have a drink.

"You have to catch up," Fletcher announced.
He stretched back and found two more mugs apparently set aside in
anticipation of the women's arrival. "Here." He poured. "Four sips
each."

They took their mugs, and the Face Person
glowered across at them. "Women shouldn't drink. It is bad for the
child in the womb."

"They're not pregnant," Fletcher assured him,
then caught Rowan's eye and assumed an expression of panic. "Good
god, you're not, are you?"

Rowan laughed. "No." She could hardly know so
soon. However, she had carefully waited for the proper time in her
cycle; additionally, Fletcher had introduced her to the use of a
peculiar Outskirter device, coyly referred to as a "glove." She
considered the eventuality extremely unlikely, and took a sip of
the erby.

The small man still did not approve.

"Now," Averryl protested, "you wouldn't deny
a warrior a drink, would you?"

"They are warriors?" The man was dubious.

Bel took a large draft and leaned forward to
look him boldly in the eye. "I killed fourteen of your friends,"
she told him. He wavered, and his gaze flicked to Rowan.

"Perhaps that many, myself," she admitted. "I
was far too occupied to keep a running tally."

The Face Person studied her. "Women shouldn't
fight," he said.

"Yes, yes, we know," Fletcher said
dismissively. "Bad for the child in the womb."

The stranger turned to him in surprise and,
as if against his will, emitted one short laugh, like the bark of a
dog. Then the wooden face split, and he laughed long and loud,
pounding the ground with one fist.

Rowan exchanged an amused glance with
Fletcher; he was, she decided, a very useful man indeed.

She spoke to the Face Person. "I'm Rowan."
She took another sip; Bel did the same.

There was still laughter in his eyes.
"Efraim. Fearsome women," he commented wryly. The humor had
humanized him. He was no longer an anonymous danger, another
depredation of the Outskirts; he was a small gnomish man of wiry
strength and taciturn pride, who had survived the most dreadful
battle of Rowan's life. "You are the steerswoman," Efraim said to
Rowan.

"That's right." She and Bel sipped again; the
liquor seemed to Rowan considerably less authoritative than it had
been on her first experience. "Did Fletcher and Averryl tell you
what that means?"

"You have questions?"

"Yes. I also answer any question put to
me."

"And you tell the truth."