The Steerswoman's Road (3 page)

“—held by this hand. So passed horror.”

Bel paused, then shifted her weight slightly, and the
informality of the movement made it clear that the tale was over. There were
murmurs of appreciation from those gathered and some table-pounding on the
part of her Outskirter cohorts. She hopped down from the chair, with an
unnecessary but clearly welcome assist from the field hand. He made a comment
that Rowan could not discern but that made Bel laugh with plain happiness.

Rowan approached them, torn by reluctance and necessity. “Warrior?”
she called, using the barbarians’ preferred form of address. The woman turned
to her, curious, not annoyed by the interruption. “Might I speak to you?”

“You’re doing it.”

“I’m curious about your belt.”

Bel looked down at it herself, appreciating it afresh. “My
father made it himself, a long time ago. So, there’s not another one like it,
if that’s your interest.”

“Not quite. I wonder about those jewels, where they came
from.” She saw suspicion rise in the other’s eyes. “I’m a steerswoman,” she
hastened to explain.

Suspicion changed to interest. “Ha! I’ve heard of such
before, though I’ve never met any. It means I can ask you anything I please,
can’t I? And you have to answer?”

“If I know the answer, I have to give it,” Rowan admitted.

“That’s not always sensible. There are some answers one may
need to keep to oneself.”

Rowan laughed. “The situation arises less often than you
might think. Still, I’ll answer anything you like, but I’d first like to ask,
if I may. Can you—” She tried not to glance at the field hand. “Can you spare
some time?”

The barbarian considered, weaving minutely. Then, with an
apologetic look toward her friend, she led Rowan to a table to one side.

Rowan briefly recounted her interest in the jewels and displayed
her own shard. “I noticed the first as a charm in a witch-woman’s but in
Wulfshaven. She told me where she’d found it; I was only interested because of
its beauty. But when I came across another, in some arid farmland on the
western curve of the Long North Road, I became more curious. There’s no
similarity in the types of terrain where they’re found, as there ought to be.
And they’re never found in a natural state; always polished, with some metal
setting.”

Bel listened, then, with a new curiosity of her own, removed
her belt and studied it. Rowan leaned forward.

The belt consisted of nine jewels shaped as rough disks,
thickly edged with silver and connected by large silver links. The whole was finished
with a heavy clasp in back. The jewels themselves varied more widely than any Rowan
had seen before. Some had silver veins running from a central vein, as a leaf
might; others had the same fine parallel lines as Rowan’s. There was one type
totally new to her: not blue at all, but a solid rich purple, with rough veins
so thick as to stand in high relief on the surface. “How old is the belt?”

The Outskirter calculated. “My father gave it to me some ten
years ago, when he joined a war band in another tribe, for love of the woman
who led it. I heard he was killed in a raid later. But he had it before as long
as I can remember, which I admit is not many years. Twenty-one.” Something
occurred to her. “No, here; there came a man looking for my father some years
ago. He named him as the Outskirter with the blue belt, and said he’d heard of
him from a tribe we had passed.” She paused, then shook her head. “Many years
ago, well before I was born, my kin told me. So that he had it twenty-five, perhaps
thirty years ago.”

“Did he say where he found the jewels? I have some maps;
perhaps you can point it out?”

“I’ll be glad to try.”

Rowan led the barbarian back to her chamber, then drew out
and displayed her charts. The small-scale map proved useless, as no part of it
was familiar to Bel. The large-scale map was of limited use.

“My father told me he found them on Dust Ridge, out on the
blackgrass prairie,” the Outskirter said. “But I don’t find that here.”

“What direction does it lie from where we are?”

“Due east. At a guess, I’d say three months’ march.”

Rowan measured out a distance with calipers. The location
was situated in the vaguest part of the map, solidly in the Outskirts. She had
no information about the area.

She sat back, silent. Bel watched her with interest, making
no comment. “I’ll have to go there,” Rowan said finally.

“My war band returns tomorrow, in that general direction.
They won’t take you all the way, but you’ll do well to travel with them as far
as you can. It’s no place for casual visitors.”

Rowan proceeded to put away the charts. “A good idea, but I
have things to attend to first.” She gave a small grimace. “I’ll have to return
to the Archives and tell the Prime my plans. I’ve neglected my usual route as
it is, following the lead on that charm the innkeeper keeps.”

“This Prime is your leader?”

“Not in any usual sense. She doesn’t command. She’s ... central.
She keeps things in order; she’s a final source. Her opinion carries weight,
and her suggestions are usually followed. But she doesn’t completely control
me, or any steerswoman. Still, I don’t think she’ll be happy to hear I want to
spend all my attention on this one problem ...”

Bel watched as Rowan organized her possessions with practiced
efficiency, packing away those things not necessary in the morning. Presently
the Outskirter spoke. “Where do these Archives lie?”

“West,” Rowan said. She discovered a clean mug and with a
gesture offered Bel some wine from an open jug. “North of Wulfshaven.” She
poured for herself also, and sat. It came to her that Bel probably had no idea
where Wulfshaven was, or what lay to the north of it. “I’m sorry, did you
mention that you had a question?”

“Yes,” the Outskirter replied. “You’re going back? Farther
into the Inner Lands?”

“That’s right. Four weeks’ journey, perhaps, considering the
spring rains I’m likely to meet. Or, I may do better to go south on the Long
North Road, to the sea. I can halve the time, if I happen to meet a ship traveling
in the right direction.”

The Outskirter sipped. “I’ve never seen the sea.” She raised
her cup a little. “Nor tasted wine as good as this. None has made it out as far
as my tribe’s lands.” She looked at Rowan, her head tilted to one side. “What’s
it like, the sea?”

Rowan settled herself into an explanation. “Large,” she
began, but Bel spoke again before she could continue.

“May I travel with you?”

Rowan was taken aback. “That’s not your question?”

“No. I’m curious, the Inner Lands sound so different. I was
going to ask you what life is like there, but if I travel with you, I’ll find
my own answers.”

The steerswoman looked at her again, studying her anew. Dark
eyes, large eyes full of intelligence. An Outskirter with curiosity.

Rowan considered her usual displeasure in traveling with company.
She had done it before, for convenience or added protection in difficult
regions, but she had never found it comfortable. There were always compromises,
the need to consider the other’s personality and quirks. Such things tended to
accumulate, eventually requiring major adjustments in Rowan’s natural
behavior. It became irksome.

But this barbarian, this warrior, seemed somehow cleaner,
more direct than other people Rowan met. But not uncomplicated, not without
depth. Rowan considered the improvised poem. A woman with such a talent was
certainly no common barbarian. Also, she seemed genuinely friendly and was
manifestly no fool ...

Her request made sense; an Outskirter, even traveling alone,
would be considered a threat by any people she might meet. Steerswomen, on the
other hand, were usually welcome everywhere.

Rowan found herself intrigued, interested, and suddenly
pleased with the idea. “We leave in the morning.”

Bel laughed happily, an honest, cheerful laugh. They spent
the evening discussing routes.

In the morning the innkeeper breakfasted with them, resting from
the duties that had roused him well before dawn. “Feast or famine, see. A week
of good business, then they all leave at once. Those barbarians were out early.”

“It’s a long march back to the Outskirts,” Bel said,
examining her gruel as if she had never before seen the like. “It’s best to
cover as much ground in the morning as possible. It makes for a longer rest in
the evening.” With a discerning eye she studied the row of little condiment
jars on the table, experimentally combined two on her meal, and seemed pleased
with the effect.

“Did everyone leave?” Rowan asked the innkeeper.

He jerked his head in the direction of the back rooms. “The
pilgrims are snoring—and making an unholy racket of it, as well. The caravan
was gone before light, and the soldiers just left. Scattered every which way,
they did, on some wizardly errand, I suppose.”

They stood at last before the door. The air was cool with
mist, and the sky was white with the cloud-diffused sunlight. The road south
was deserted, the few shops and houses just beginning to come to life. The
jingle of a donkey cart could be heard, hidden by the mist, and the air was
still in the way that always presaged furious heat for the afternoon.

The yawning serving girl handed them packages of trail food,
and Rowan reached in her pocket for some coins for the innkeeper. He pushed
back her hand. “No, lady, business has been good; and I’d have to be doing
poorly indeed to make a steerswoman pay for lodging.”

Embarrassed, she thanked him quietly and put her money away.
She was always disturbed by such moments, always gratified and always vaguely
ashamed. She felt she would never get used to it.

Bel stood expectantly silent a moment under the innkeeper’s
gaze, then resignedly pulled out a small silver coin and handed it to him. “Tell
your cook to put tarragon in the stew,” she advised, then ambled off without a
backward glance. Rowan hurried to catch up, then fell in step beside her.

Bel and Rowan had chosen to travel south from the inn at
Five Corners, down to the mud flats and the dreary port of Donner on the mouth
of the Greyriver. The road was broad and well established, as it represented
the southern end of the Long North Road, one of the few major caravan routes.
It was presently deserted, and the travelers walked alone as the darker north
forest gradually gave way to a wood of silver birches, bare but for handfuls
of tiny bright green leaves at the very ends of the branches. The Outskirter
watched everything about her with lively interest.

“Is this very different from the land where you live?” Rowan
asked.

Bel nodded, a broad movement. “Mostly in the color. The
farther into the Outskirts you travel, the duller the colors grow. Trees are
green, while they last, but they thin out quickly. And the animals are fast to
find any greengrass that makes its way that far.”

A clearing appeared on the left-hand side of the road, and
they found themselves passing a meadow aburst with dandelions. On the far edge
stood a small cabin, a corral nearby holding a crowd of white goats.

There was a faint rustling in the greengrass nearby. The
movement caught Bel’s eye. “Ha!” A stone was in her hand and out of it in an instant;
it contacted with a faint thump.

She went to the spot and came up with a small rabbit. She
waved it happily at Rowan and laughed. The steerswoman found herself laughing,
also; Bel’s pleasure was neither innocent nor childlike, but it was wonderfully
direct. They continued on, Bel expertly gutting their dinner as she walked.

“What kind of dangers do you meet here?” the Outskirter
asked.

“Wolves,” Rowan said. “But they’re not common, and they tend
to stay clear of the road, save at night. On the other hand, bandits are attracted
for the same reason the wolves stay away. The road’s not well traveled this
time of year, so we’ve less danger of bandits.”

“But more of wolves?”

“Somewhat. Rarely, a goblin band will find its way to these
parts. When we get to the mud flats we may have to watch for dragons; it’s a
breeding ground. Still, they’ll be small ones. I understand the local wizard
considers them his job. Unusual responsibility on the part of a wizard.”

Bel digested all of that. “It’s a very rich land, and a soft
one. A raid wouldn’t risk much, and could stand to gain a lot.”

Rowan stopped dead in surprise. In her enjoyment of Bel’s
company she had forgotten what the woman was. She hurried to catch up again. “Of
course, the people cooperate against any large dangers. They can be
surprisingly well-organized.”

“We’ll deal with that if it comes up.”

“They’ll hardly extend their hospitality to you if they
think you may be an advance scout for a war band.”

“They won’t hear of it from me.”

Rowan stepped in front of her. “Steerswomen are trusted. I
can’t let you abuse my goodwill. I can’t guide you around the countryside if
you’ll be using my assistance to find the best way to destroy what you see.”

Bel looked up at her with nothing more than mild surprise. “Oh,
very well. I won’t use what I learn.” She stepped around Rowan and continued
down the road, leaving the steerswoman behind again.

Confused by the barbarian’s nonchalance, Rowan caught up
once more. “I don’t know if I made myself clear. I’m going to need some kind of
assurance from you. I don’t know anymore if I should trust what you say.”

Bel studied her face for a long time, great dark eyes unreadable.
At last she said with careful casualness, “I’m interested in traveling to different
lands and seeing things I haven’t seen before. I suppose that includes local
customs. Now, when I say a thing, I mean it. But that may not hold true for
others I meet. I suppose I must ... make allowances for differences in customs ...
and manners.” She smiled benignly up at Rowan. “So I won’t kill you for that
insult.”