The Steerswoman's Road (21 page)

Rowan watched Will for a moment. “I wonder how one comes to
be able to work magic.”

The Outskirter was surprised. “Everyone knows. You’re born
with the talent.”

“Young Willam doesn’t seem particularly remarkable.”

“Ha. You can’t tell just by looking.”

“Making it easy for anyone to claim magical talent.”

Bel shook her head in mock aggrievedness. “There you go
again, doubting. You doubt that the moon ever existed, you doubt the gods, you
doubt the cards, and you doubt magic. Is there anything you don’t doubt?”

“Quite a lot,” Rowan told her, laughing despite herself. “I
don’t doubt that some things people believe are true, and some are false. And I
don’t doubt that there’s some means to tell the difference.” Then she admitted,
“But I sometimes doubt that I possess the means.” They pulled abreast of an
oxcart loaded with beer kegs, and the conversation was forced to end, lest the
drivers overhear.

The guard turned away to patrol, and Willam caught up with
the women. “He says that last year at this time, the caravan was set on by bandits
right here.” Under his concern, Rowan detected a buried trace of wild boyish
curiosity.

“Then it won’t be, this year,” she decided, knowing that bandits
who worked in groups tended to keep distinct territories and so had to vary
their tactics. Will managed to look both relieved and disappointed. “Not at
this location, that is,” she added, and his expression became too mixed to
interpret.

He was distracted by the group of walkers just ahead of the
beer cart. Four men and a young woman had been trading turns pulling a
two-wheeled luggage cart. Three of the men now positioned themselves between
the poles and jogged in time, moving the cart closer to the front of the line,
their exertions aided by the cheerful “Hup, hup” and handclapping of the woman.
Their remaining companion strolled along at his ease, in parody of haughty
condescension.

“What’s in the cart?” Will wondered.

“Instruments. They’re musicians.”

Will watched them depart, then wandered back to study a farm
wagon carrying a load of provisions and a silent, sad-eyed family of four.

Bel scanned the line ahead and behind, then shook her head
in amazement. “Things go differently in the Outskirts.”

“I imagine so.”

“Everything here is so easy—and comfortable.”

Rowan was taken aback. “Not at all. If these people traveled
each alone, they’d certainly be robbed.”

“What about steerswomen? Aren’t they robbed?”

Rowan paused to form a reply that would not betray her connection
with the Steerswomen if overheard. “They carry little. And what they have of
value—that is, information—is free for the asking.”

“So they’re not molested?”

“Yes, but rarely. So I hear.”

Bel considered. “So these travelers band together and they’re
safe.”

“Safer,” Rowan corrected.

“The Outskirts are never safe.”

Rowan wanted to ask her for more details, but decided it
would seem too odd. Instead she satisfied herself with reviewing the information
she had gleaned from Bel in previous conversations, trying to organize it in
her mind. Bel noted her preoccupation and turned to amusing herself by trying
to keep track of Willam’s wanderings. Presently a pony cart doubled back from
the head of the line, and a lunch of dried meat and bread was passed out to
those whose payment had included the service. The day wore on, pleasantly
enough.

“So.” Damaine, the caravan-master, pulled up beside Rowan. “Only
as far as Taller Ford, hey?” He was a slim, energetic man, dressed in bright
red linen trousers, a square-cut sleeveless shirt, and a broad-brimmed hat. His
dust-brown hair was tied behind the nape of his neck.

Rowan raised her voice to be heard over the creak of the
beer wagon. “I’ll be heading south, and then east. To Alemeth.”

“Alemeth!” He blew air through pursed lips. Then his eyes
glittered. “Silk!”

“That’s right.”

“Then you’ll need transport for your goods.” He began to calculate.
“We’ll probably go by sea, once the deal’s established.”

“It’s off the regular lines.” He had a good knowledge of his
competition’s habits.

“We may hire our own.”

He threw up his hands in mock distress. “Think of the expense!”

“Think of the convenience!” Rowan laughed.

“No, now, where are you based?”

They entered into a cheerful discussion of the relative
merits and costs of the competing modes of bulk transportation. Rowan found her
mathematical ability coming into play naturally, and was able to calculate
rates and mileages with offhand ease that startled Damaine and gave him
occasional pause. The conversational give-and-take was both lighthearted and
cutthroat. Soon Rowan realized, with some surprise, that this occupation was
one she could he good at, and even enjoy. She and the caravan-master ended up
laughing in admiration of each other’s expertise.

One of the guards up ahead hallooed, waving his hat at his
master. Damaine acknowledged with his own signals, then cupped his hat behind
one ear to catch the explanation. Walking down among the cart noise, Rowan
could not make out what was said.

“Hmph.” Damaine turned to her. “Did I see you writing
letters last night?”

She nodded. “Yes, keeping my master posted.” In fact, the letters
served to report her movements and any new information to the Prime. Arian had
provided Rowan with a deviously clever mathematical cipher that permitted her
to conceal her information economically within very few paragraphs. There was
no particular reason at this point to suspect her letters might be intercepted;
she had detected no sign of scrutiny since she had left the Archives. Still, it
was a reasonable precaution.

The address to which she sent them was a nonexistent one far
in the upper Wulf valley, ostensibly her point of origin. But to reach that
area, her letter would have to pass through Wulfshaven itself, and a notation
on the address suggested it be routed through the offices of a small herring
fleet. Such interim destinations were common with letters traveling long
distances, trusted to the hands of a succession of strangers. However, one of
the clerks in the offices was a failed steers-woman who had maintained friendly
relations with the residents of the Archives. The plan called for her to
reroute the messages.

Rowan had managed to send one communication from a small
village the travelers had passed through on the road south to the caravan
route. It consisted merely of assurances that she had met with no problems yet.
How long it would take to reach its destination, Rowan had no idea.

She had spent the last few evenings enciphering the news of
her and Bel’s encounter with Willam. She said to Damaine, “When we reach the
next town, I’ll see if I can find someone going west who might be willing to
carry a letter.”

“Well, you won’t have to wait,” he replied, gesturing up the
length of the caravan. “There’s a steerswoman up ahead, coming this way. You
can pass the letters through her.”

Rowan’s thoughts froze, then went into a flurry, trying to
guess who it might be. Who was on this road; who was traveling west at this
time?

And how could Rowan avoid meeting her?

She thought of Janus, assumed lost, and she hoped
desperately that it was him. But Damaine had not said “steersman.” She resisted
the temptation to ask Damaine if it was a man or a woman approaching. Steersmen
were so rare and notable that it was unlikely the guard ahead would simply use
the general term. Also, she reminded herself, as Attise she should not care
which it was.

She tried to let none of her thoughts reach her face. “Good,”
she said to Damaine. Steerswomen were frequent and reliable letter carriers.
To refuse would have been too conspicuous.

Somewhat later, she crossed the line in front of the beer
cart and joined Bel and Willam, who were idly chatting with the Christer pilgrim.
Will glanced in annoyance as she gestured Bel aside. Since he had decided they
were allies, he took mute exception to their excluding him from any
consultations, but he never protested, for fear of losing their indulgence.
Bel handed him the donkey’s lead and stepped back behind the wagon with Rowan.

“There’s a steerswoman up ahead.”

Bel tilted her head. “And she’ll recognize you?”

“Almost certainly. There aren’t that many of us, and the
older ones, the ones I haven’t met, are working the limits of the Inner Lands
far from here. Very likely, it’s someone I trained with.”

“And she won’t know anything of your doings.”

“It will take some explaining. And, there’s the chance she’ll
give me away before I can explain at all.”

Bel nodded. “Then you’ll have to avoid her.”

“Exactly.”

Bel scanned the length of the caravan. “There are enough
people for you to lose yourself, if you know when she’s passing by. I’ll scout
ahead and warn you.”

“And you’ll give her a letter.” Rowan explained the custom
to Bel. “I’ll have to step aside to add a note and to address it. Then you can
run it up to her.”

Bel smiled at a happy thought. “Let’s have Willam do it. It
will make the poor fellow feel useful.”

Rowan could not help laughing. “That’s a good idea.”

They rejoined Will and the pilgrim. Rowan pulled from her
baggage the folio of letter paper that she carried in place of her
steers-woman’s logbook. Bel picked up her conversation with the Christer and
gestured for Will to stay with her as Rowan stepped to the side of the road.

There was no time to melt sealing wax. Rowan made do by
folding the paper several times over and tying it with a bit of ribbon. She
spit onto her ink stone, mixing a bit of powder, and addressed it, propping the
folio against her knee.

She had to hurry back up the line to reach Bel and Willam,
waving the paper a bit to dry the ink. She wondered briefly if she looked too
undignified at the moment to be a proper merchant.

“Will.”

He turned to her.

“Here, be careful of the ink. I need you to run up ahead and
pass this on to a steerswoman who’s coming this way.”

He opened his mouth to speak, very probably to ask why she
did not simply wait until the steerswoman reached her. Rowan gave him a warning
look, and he closed his mouth again. In the presence of the Christer, he could
not ask for her justifications. Resigning himself to his mysterious mission, he
shifted his pack to a more snug position, tightened one of the ropes that
served as a strap, took the letter, and headed off.

He did not exactly run, Rowan noticed, but extended his
stride to a smooth ground-devouring lope. Piecing the clues together, she decided
that fire was not the only thing that might threaten the safety of the charms
in his pack.

The pilgrim noticed. “Is there something wrong with his
legs?”

“I don’t know,” Rowan replied.

The Christer looked after the boy, then began to hold forth
with a long, boring, and largely spurious list of medical recommendations.

It was half an hour later when Will rejoined them, by the simple
expedient of standing still as they caught up to his position. “She’s going to
be camping with the caravan tonight. I thought you might like to know.”

Rowan was taken aback. “What?”

The pilgrim had left their company, and the boy felt free to
speak. “She fell in with the musicians up ahead. I think she’s a musician
herself.”

The name spoke itself before Rowan could stop it. “Ingrud.”
He was surprised. “You know her?”

She managed to prevent herself from explaining further and
lapsed into one of her silences. Bel took over. “Let’s say we know of her. And
that we have to avoid her, or at least Attise does.”

He glowered. “I wish you’d told me.”

Rowan turned on him. “What did you do?”

“Well ...” he began defensively. Ahead, a few heads turned
in their direction at the loudness of his protest. He continued, quieter but
vehement. “Steerswomen are good sources of information. You can ask them
anything, and they have to answer, no matter what. I thought—” He stepped
closer and spoke still more quietly. “I thought, with what you’re doing, you’d
want to know something about what the land is like farther up this road. And a
merchant would want to know, anyway.”

“She’s going to come looking for me?”

“I told her you had some questions ...”

Rowan threw up her hands in exasperation, furiously turned
away to calm herself, turned back before she could, and pointed one finger a
bare inch from his face. “Don’t do that,” she said in a low, vicious voice. “Don’t
go off making plans for us on your own initiative—”

Angry, he spoke louder. “Well, if I knew a little more about
what you’re—”

Bel slapped his shoulder once, very hard. Caught off-stride,
half-turned, he stumbled, and Rowan stepped out of his way—

—then abruptly countered her instincts in panic and stepped
back in to grab him—

—and countered instinct again to change her sudden clutch
into a smooth interception, a catch with some give in it. Like catching a
tossed egg

She ended with both knees on the ground, one arm across Willam’s
chest, the other gripping his left shoulder from behind. His right arm was
flung around her neck, a fistful of cloth on her back clutched in his
half-hand. His left arm was thrown forward, to ward off the ground or to
cushion his fall.

They froze. Willam held his breath. Rowan waited.

Eventually she said, carefully, “Is anything going to
happen?”

He looked at her, eyes wide. “No,” he replied. He sounded
not at all certain.

Bel stood to one side, puzzled, but the look on their faces
had stopped her from offering help. Instead she intercepted two little girls,
locked in deep converse, who were about to trip over the pair.

Rowan cautiously helped Will up. Speaking close to his ear,
she said urgently, “Can’t you do something to make those things safer?”