The Steerswoman's Road (33 page)

The Outskirter provided her alias.

“Fine. You look competent. Small, maybe, but size isn’t
skill. You’ve got something about you, an air, confidence. Bet you could show some
of us a thing or two.”

Bel acknowledged that with a tilt of her head.

“And you—”

When Rowan responded with her own assumed name, Ellen gave
her longer, more careful consideration. “You’re smart, aren’t you? That’s it.
You don’t look like much of a fighter, not at first glance, but I can tell you’re
thinking all the time. I’ll bet you’re good, and I’ll bet it’s because you can
think fast on your feet. I’ll assign you together—you’re a good combination.”

Behind her back, Rowan and Bel exchanged cautionary looks.
Ellen was perceptive and a good judge of people; they would need to stay out of
her sight as much as possible.

The women’s barracks were wide and airy and surprisingly
clean. A ten-year-old girl was industriously scrubbing the wooden floor, and she
paused to look up with wide-eyed hero worship as the women entered. “Take any
free bunk you like; there’s plenty,” Ellen said to her charges. “Down the hall
that way are a few double rooms, for when you need company and privacy at the
same time, so to speak. If you consort with the house servants, use their quarters,
but tell me ahead of time! Absent from barracks during your sleeping time
without me knowing, and that’s bad trouble for you.”

The Outskirter and the steerswoman selected bunks and stowed
their kits, and Ellen continued their orientation. They paid a visit to the
armorer, who declared their equipment in remarkably good condition but issued
them both ceremonial spears and traded the sword Rowan had taken from her
would-be captors for one somewhat lighter. He also gave Bel one of the
admitting amulets. He tucked it directly into her sword-belt pocket, causing
Rowan a moment’s nervousness, but apparently Bel had already discarded the one
she had originally carried.

In a practice session under the eyes of Ellen and the
resident armsmaster, Bel defeated Rowan three times in such quick succession
that the steerswoman was dazed by the Outskirter’s skill. Tested against the
master himself, Rowan held her own, to his surprise. In a bout against Bel, he
declared himself the victim of unorthodox techniques.

Back in Ellen’s cramped quarters, the officer scanned a
list. “Something simple to start with. Night duty on the northeast wall.

You pace the limits, exchange recognition with the guards on
the north and east at each end of your walk. If you see someone acting furtive
or rowdy, one of you bring him to DruM, the other keep your post. Keep an eye
on the lake for any approaching boats. And don’t let the servants walk the
walls; they try to use them as shortcuts, but they’re not allowed.” She looked
up. “Get some rest; report to the night officer here at dusk. That’s all.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rowan replied. Then she cautiously ventured, “But
I doubt we’d be able to get any sleep the first afternoon we try.”

Bel picked it up. “All this is new to me. Perhaps my friend
can show me around a bit? We’ll stay away from any restricted areas you tell us
about.”

“No. I want you rested. If you can’t sleep, talk or daydream
if you like, just do it in your bunks.”

In their absence, the barracks had acquired another inhabitant;
a guardswoman was fast asleep on one of the bunks, the little scrub-girl seated
on the floor beside her, industriously cleaning the woman’s cuirass with an
oily rag. When Bel and Rowan removed their gear, the girl dashed over to show
them the best way to arrange it at the foot of the bed. Bel spared her a grin
and a tousle of the hair, which elicited a shy smile but no words.

When the girl left, Rowan moved to the bed-foot and
retrieved the coiled strand from her sword belt. Bel came closer to watch.

The strand unwound and rewound easily, retaining whatever
shape Rowan bent it in. It was colored fiery orange and dull brown in alternating
segments. Scratching it with one fingernail, Rowan found that the orange was
its inherent hue, the brown painted on. At both ends its cross section showed a
gleaming central core. She could not identify the outer substance, but its
feel reminded her faintly of the gum used to coat the boot soles of steerswomen
and sailors, though it seemed more rigid. It had no taste.

“Should you put your tongue on that thing?” Bel whispered. “It
might be poisonous.”

“Whatever its use, it’s intended to be handled by humans. If
it’s poisonous, it’s not very, and one lick shouldn’t hurt me.” Nevertheless,
she paused to check for any internal reactions. There were none.

Using her knife, she found that she could easily strip the
outer layer, peeling off thin curling slivers. She exposed one end of the core,
recognized the color, and again tasted. “Copper,” she confirmed. “But what’s it
for?”

“It might have any number of uses. It’s thin, it’s very
tough, it holds a shape, and it’s probably impervious to weather.” She glanced
at the soldier across the room, who was breathing heavily in sleep, and continued.
“It would be excellent for tying things. Sailors would love it.”

“Nonsense. You know it’s magical.”

Rowan sighed. “Yes. But it’s not
doing
anything
magical.”

“Just like that jewel of yours.”

“True.” And there was nothing more to be learned.

Despite Rowan’s comment to Ellen, they did sleep. The
scrub-girl woke them at dusk with an offer of hard rolls and fruit juice.

They found their night’s duty uneventful, its tedium
relieved by the ribald comments of their counterparts on the north face, as each
pair’s pacing brought them together. The women managed to respond like true
soldiers, with earthy insults. Bel also amused herself by singing quietly as
she walked, which Rowan enjoyed. The steers-woman rarely sang when others could
hear; her own voice, though true in pitch, was plain and colorless.

To one side, the surface of the lake and the overcast sky
merged in a black, featureless void. To the other, the fortress presented
observers with an array of cupolas, balconies, and courtyards, and windows lit
with gentle lights, most of which were extinguished, one by one, as the night
proceeded. Rowan studied the configuration of rooftops as she paced.

At midnight their relief arrived, and the two women made
their way to the staircase in a corner tower and descended. Sometime during
the shift the wall sconces had been lit, and soft, unflickering light streamed
from behind opaque shields. Pausing to examine one, Rowan found that she could
not remove the shield. Cautiously she thrust one finger behind and encountered
something hard and hot. She pulled back quickly. “These might function like the
lamps in Wulfshaven Harbor.”

“If Corvus can do it, I suppose Themselves can.”

At the first level, Rowan unexpectedly turned aside, went
down a short passage, and turned left, the opposite direction from their route
back to the barracks and mess.

Caught unawares, Bel hurried to catch up and fell in beside
her. “Where are we going?”

Rowan made a gesture. “So far, we’ve come a bit more than
halfway around the keep. I want to complete the circuit, and on a different
floor. I noticed something about the layout while we were on guard.”

“And what’s that?”

They were moving down a wide corridor, with doors on the
left and a display of muted tapestries on the right, between light sconces,
more decorative than those in the stairway. They passed two servants in
whispered conversation, who silenced as they approached and resumed when they
had gone by.

“From the walls, it looks like the keep is organized in
three concentric hexagons. The outer wall and adjacent buildings, such as we
saw on our first reconnaissance—that’s the first hexagon.” On the left, space
opened into a gallery with arched windows. Noticing that the servants were out
of sight, Rowan slipped into it, Bel following.

The windows showed an alley below and a rank of buildings
across. Past them, the tower joining the northeastern wall to the eastern could
be seen. Rowan turned back. “And now we’re in the second hexagon.”

Bel puzzled over this. “Like rings, inside each other?”

“That’s right.”

“And where are we?”

They continued down the hall. “The front gate and causeway
are on the south. We’re now on the east side; counting our movements yesterday,
we’ve gone three quarters of the way around.”

“I see. But I’ll never know how you keep direction indoors.
What are you doing now?”

Rowan had stopped to look behind the tapestries and found
bare stone wall. “There are no doors on this side.”

“And no windows. We can’t even look at the inner ring.” Bel
viewed her friend sidelong. “And now that’s what you want to do most.”

“More than that; now I want to go there.”

The corridor angled, following the native geometry of the fortress
as a whole. Just past the corner, they finally found a narrow door, tucked
between two tapestries.

The door was propped open with a wooden block and led to a
cramped staircase winding down. Following it, they found another open door; the
room beyond was in blackness. Rowan listened for a moment but heard nothing.
She slipped in and stood motionless, waiting for the atmosphere and the sound
of her breathing to bring her some sense of the room’s shape.

Bel paused briefly, tucked behind the door’s edge to cover
any sudden retreat Rowan might need to make. Nothing happened, and the
steerswoman beckoned her in. “No magic lamps here?” Bel complained in a
whisper.

“Apparently not.”

Light flared suddenly, pottery crashed, and a girlish voice
cried, “Oh!” Then she said angrily, “You startled me!” A foot stamped petulantly.
“How dare you?”

Rowan fought an urge to run, knowing it would only cause
worse suspicion. Bel had dropped the point of her spear to fighting position,
squinting in the light, and Rowan laid a restraining hand on her arm.

The room was brilliantly lit, and a slim girl stood by an
opposite doorway, one hand flung back, the other steadying her against a cupboard
from which some crockery had fallen. She was of Rowan’s height but
fragile-seeming, and young, no older than Willam. A cloud of dark ringlets
framed a face with a small, up-tilted nose, pointed chin, and long dark eyes
under straight brows. It was a beautiful face, of that characterless perfection
that Rowan always equated with having no face at all.

The girl wore a light silk gown, possibly her nightshift,
over which was thrown a hooded cloak of startling beauty. Blue satin folds
bright as sparkling water fell from her shoulders to sweep the ground, white
satin showing at the lining. The cloak needed no ornament other than its
elegant construction and the flare of its movement as the girl stepped closer.
She viewed Bel with haughtiness and spoke with sarcasm. “My, isn’t she fierce?”

Bel relaxed her posture, and Rowan apologized. “Sorry,
child. Instinct and training.”

The girl turned her dark gaze on Rowan. “And what might you
two be doing here?”

The room was a kitchen. Rowan managed a wry comradely smile.
“Possibly the same thing you’re doing.”

The girl stamped her foot again. “You must speak to me with
more respect!”

Taken aback by her outburst, Rowan made to reply, but the
girl continued, pacing in anger.

“You guards are all the same, none of you want to treat me
correctly. I’m not a servant, remember that, and I’m not one of your cronies.”
She stepped close and shook her finger under Bel’s nose. Rowan caught a faint
scent of musk and dried sweat. “You should come to attention when I pass in the
halls, and—oh!” She threw up her hands. “Those comments! There’ll be no more of
that, I tell you. Remember what happened to Clara.”

“Miss,” Rowan managed to interject, “I’m sorry. Nothing of
the sort entered our minds. You caught us by surprise, that’s all. No disrespect
was intended.”

Catching Rowan’s tone, Bel spoke up. “And, miss, pardon me,
but I’m new here, and I don’t know much of anything yet. Please, so I won’t
make the same mistake again—who are you?”

The girl regained her control and eyed the Outskirter
archly. “I’m Liane.” She tilted her head, gauging reaction, then turned away
and wandered, as if idly, down along the preparing tables. “If you’re all that
hungry, you may as well help yourselves.” A condescending smile was turned in
their direction. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you.”

They leaned their spears near the door and came farther into
the room. Liane graciously indicated the cupboards, and Rowan found a cold leg
of mutton inside one.

“And, please, what is it that you do?” Bel continued. Liane’s
only reply was an expression of self-satisfaction.

The steerswoman had already solved the girl’s puzzle, but
was at a loss to express it politely. “She ... holds a delicate and influential
position.”

Liane laughed and clapped her hands. “I like that! Delicate
and influential, that’s very true.”

Finding a pewter plate, Rowan arranged careful slices of
meat, added some bread, and passed it to Liane. Then she cut more casual chunks
for herself and Bel. “I must admit, miss,” she began cautiously, “that I’ve
always wanted to meet you.”

Liane stopped with a slice halfway to her mouth. “Why is
that?” A pattern of little bruises showed along one arm.

“It seemed to me that you must be a remarkable person, else—”
She spread her hands to include the keep at large. “Else how would you be here?”

The girl looked surprised and gratified, and her expression
softened. Here, Rowan thought, was possibly the best source of information they
could hope for. Liane was young, naive, and in a privileged situation. The high
opinion she had of herself was at odds with the attitudes of those around her;
she was certainly lonely, and possibly easily flattered.