The Outskirter's Secret (50 page)

"How can we prevent him suspecting?"

"He'll have to think nothing has
changed."

"I'll need to lie."

"That's right." Bel nodded, then caught the
steerswoman's expression. The Outskirter was briefly angry, then
immediately, reluctantly, sympathetic. "Rowan, I know it's hard for
you to lie—"

"For a steerswoman, impossible."

"Then resign!" Bel dropped to a seat close
beside her. "You did it before, for perfectly good reasons. It was
the only thing you could do. This is the same. Rowan, you have to
do it again."

The steerswoman said carefully, "I have to
make him believe that absolutely nothing at all has changed?"

"Yes—" Bel began, then broke off as she
realized exactly what would be required of the steerswoman to
maintain the deception. Despite her acceptance of deceit as an
often-useful tool, Bel's honor balked at the concept. She
continued, but with the greatest reluctance. "Do you think you
can?"

"You know me," Rowan said. "What do you
think?"

Bel studied her for a long moment, then
turned away to think for a longer one. "Not you," she said at last,
with a wry expression. "If you resign the Steerswomen, yes, you can
do things like give a false name, pretend you're some other person,
refuse to answer a question, answer a question with a lie. But when
it comes to how you act, and the look on your face—you can only
deceive when the lie fits in with your natural reactions."

"In normal, daily activities, perhaps I could
fool most people, or even Fletcher. But even if I did manage to
force myself to make love to him, he could not fail to notice some
difference in me."

Bel's mouth twisted one way, then the other,
as she considered. "End the romance."

"I'd need some explanation. Everyone will
wonder."

"No one will wonder." The warrior gave a
short laugh. "In fact, they'll think better of you."

Rowan puzzled. "How so?"

"When you watched Fletcher fight," Bel said,
"you knew what you were seeing. No one else did. What they all saw,
and what I saw, was this:

"Fletcher began by fighting badly, but
managing by some trick or by luck to hold his own; Jaffry got angry
and fought worse, and Fletcher gained some ground; then Jaffry
became furious, fought better, and Fletcher got frightened, lost
all control, and made the stupidest, most ridiculous errors
possible, doing things any idiot could see were useless, and
proving that he was entirely incompetent."

Rowan considered. "And?"

Bel threw up her hands. "Who would want a man
like that? Not me."

"You're thinking as an Outskirter."

"Yes. And so will everyone else. You fought
Jaffry not for Fletcher's sake, but for the sake of your own honor.
Even if Fletcher wasn't worthy of you, he was your lover at that
time. Jaffry dared to injure your lover in what should have been a
bloodless competition. So you fought him, but you didn't call it a
blood duel, you named it a sword challenge; then you defeated him
so easily it was laughable, and refused to take his sword, proving
that you weren't interested in it in the first place. You did it to
shame Jaffry, and it worked. No one will blame you; he should be
ashamed for losing control as he did."

"People will accept this?"

Bel was definite. "Yes."

"Not Fletcher himself," Rowan pointed out.
"He doesn't think as an Outskirter. And he won't believe I do."

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."

F
letcher'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 steerswoman. 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 Steerswomen 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 outside 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 steerswoman."

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.