The Steerswoman's Road (37 page)

An idea occurred to Rowan, and she approached it carefully. “You
said that some objects would go up. With a large enough force, I suppose they
might never come down again.”

The concept amused Shammer immensely, and he laughed offensively.
“Silly woman. Everything that goes up, comes down.” But Dhree knit her brows. “It
ought to be possible—”

Shammer glowered at his sister, stressing each word. “It can’t
be done.”

Over lunch, they accused her of murder.

“Don’t play innocent, steerswoman. You’ve killed at least
two of the regular guard.”

“Are they dead or just vanished? Perhaps they took the opportunity
to flee your employ.”

Shammer’s gaze narrowed, and he did not reply. Vanished,
then, Rowan concluded, and not due to her.

Dhree picked up the tale. “One man and one woman. They disappeared
about the time you were captured, or just before.”

Shammer, legs crossed with ankle on knee, flicked a speck of
dirt from one soft leather slipper. “I don’t like loose ends. It’s untidy.”

Rowan was about to truthfully assert her innocence, when she
stopped short. About the time she was captured? Before? Or could it have been
just after?

The missing man, she realized, was the fellow she and Bel
had spotted, the survivor of their ambush. Bel would have eliminated him immediately,
to prevent his identifying her and connecting her with the captured
steerswoman.

And who was the vanished woman? Bel herself, fled? If so,
why bother to kill the man? With him dead, Bel could possibly remain a member
of the guard, needing only to explain Rowan’s absence ...

Then the answer came to her. The vanished guardswoman was
herself, reported missing by Bel, the deed laid at the door of the notorious
steerswoman.

“I believe I know who you’re referring to,” Rowan said to
the wizards. She cast about for a true statement. “Violence is unfortunate. 1 ...
apologize for its necessity.”

That seemed to satisfy them. “Violence is a rather simple
means to some ends,” Dhree remarked.

Shammer indicated to the servant to pour more wine. “One always
does what’s necessary.”

The day passed, but the purpose of the jewels remained a puzzle.
“You said,” Rowan prompted, “that you use their like regularly.” That was the
closest she could come to a direct question.

Dhree caught on. “And that’s all we’ll say about them.”

“It’s difficult for me to speculate without more
information,” Rowan pointed out. “I believe that, together, we may be able to
solve this. Since it’s as much a mystery to you as to me, it’s to both our
benefit.”

“More to ours than to yours,” Shammer commented, “as you’ll
never have the opportunity to use what you learn.” He was seated on the
windowsill, enjoying the afternoon sun.

“Steerswomen never use their information,” Dhree said with
derision. “If they did, they’d be more powerful than they are.”

The steerswoman surprised herself by replying heatedly. “We
do use our information,” she said. “We’re not interested in anything as petty
as power over others, and if you’re planning to kill me or keep me your coddled
prisoner forever, then it’s pointless and stupid to keep me in the dark.”

“A little more respect, please,” Dhree said without anger.

Shammer pulled a droll face at Rowan. “I’m afraid you’ll get
nothing there. My sister is too cautious. Very wise of her, don’t you think?
But that does remind me—” Stepping away from the window, he came to the table,
eyes twinkling. “I think you might find this amusing.” He pushed aside the
charts and papers, reached into a pouch on his belt, and pulled out a small
gleaming object, which he placed before the steerswoman.

It was a tiny silver statuette, as tall as her thumb. The
figure was strangely stylized, and it took her a moment to make sense of it. It
seemed to be a dancer, poised on one foot, one arm arched high above its head.
Its other arm trailed to one side, as if it had been captured in the moment of
executing a graceful turn. The figure was otherwise featureless, its gender
indeterminate, the oversimplification of form lending it an eerie beauty. The
dancer was standing on a flat silver base, from which a silver bar rose, arcing
up in a half circle to where the raised hand touched it.

And attached to one side of the bar, destroying the weird
grace of the sculpture, was Rowan’s blue jewel.

Shammer held up one hand. “Watch.” Carrying the figure to
the window, he placed it on the sunny ledge, and with a dramatic flourish,
stepped aside.

The figure began to dance.

It knew only one move, the completion of that swirl promised
by the curve of its back and the sweep of its hands. It spun, slowly, then
faster, sunlight glittering off its body.

Rowan watched, appalled and entranced. “Is it alive?”

He laughed with delight and, for once, completely without affectation.
“No, not at all! It’s magic, dear lady.”

Dhree made a noise of exasperation, but her eyes showed admiration
and affection. “You’re showing off.”

“Yes, indeed, and I love it.”

He gave Rowan the dancer to keep, so amused was he by her astonishment.
Later, back in her comfortable prison, she studied it, speculating and
generalizing.

The jewel did finally seem to have a use; in some fashion it
imparted life to the silver figure. Perhaps that was the overall purpose of
such jewels: to animate the inanimate. What might be accomplished by such
animation, what purpose the power might be put to, remained open, indefinite.
The jewels might be useful in any number of spells.

The figure stood on her windowsill, innocently graceful,
weirdly evocative, dancing in the light of the falling sun.

Through the window, across and below, Rowan could see the
guards on the west wall in conversation with another pair, probably their
evening replacements. Shortly, the first two left, and the new guards watched
with odd interest until they were out of sight. Then the shorter guard shifted
her weight, tilted her head up at her partner, and by those two characteristic
moves, Rowan recognized Bel.

This section of the perimeter had not previously been Bel’s
assignment; Rowan wondered if the new arrangement represented the promised
promotion. The woman who accompanied the Outskirter was of the tall,
broad-shouldered type that seemed to dominate the female contingent of the
wizards’ resident guard. The two stood casually scanning the area, then
consulted briefly. The tall woman stooped to deal with something buried in the
shadow of the edge, and Bel strolled to the near edge, to look left and right,
then down.

She was facing Rowan’s window; the tall woman’s back was
turned. Rowan tried to signal, using broad gestures, but failed to attract the
Outskirter’s attention. Turning around, Rowan scanned the room for something
more eye-catching.

Shammer’s dancer was on the sill. She thought of using the jewel
to catch the sun’s light, but realized it was too small, and its natural color
too dark. On a low table by the hearth were the plate and glass from her
dinner, brought in on a silver tray. She quietly moved the crockery and took
the tray to her window.

Bel had walked to the corner tower and was returning,
carrying what looked like a wooden bucket filled with straw. She gave it to the
guardswoman, who acknowledged her with a glance, and returned to her work.

Using the tray, Rowan mirrored the sunlight onto Bel’s face.
Bel’s head jerked up, and she looked to the window, then stepped closer to the
edge of the wall.

Had Bel been a steerswoman, Rowan could have conversed with
her using the wood-gnome language of hand gestures, exaggerated for distance.
As it was, the sum total of Rowan’s communication consisted merely of “I am
here.” What use Bel might make of the information, she had no idea.

Bel did not acknowledge but, appallingly, stepped back and
tapped her companion on the shoulder. The woman looked up, and with one hand
Bel indicated the steerswoman.

In shocked instinct, Rowan ducked back out of sight. What
was Bel doing? Could she gain something by pointing out the prisoner to her new
partner?

When she had calmed herself, Rowan looked out again. Both
women were gone. She immediately regretted her reflex; whatever Bel’s purpose,
Rowan could trust her. The important fact was that Bel was still at large, and
still in the confidence of the resident guard.

If Rowan could manage to get out of her room, she could find
Bel, and both could escape, possibly by water. Willam would have begun on his
way to the Archives, if he was following her instructions. She hoped that he
was.

Rowan could not count on Shammer and Dhree’s continued indulgence.
As soon as nothing more could be learned from her, she would be useless to
them.

She had only one man guarding her. If he was eliminated, she
had a slim chance of making her way out of the inner ring of the fortress—And
then what?

She did not know the usual movements of the inner guards.
The only place she could be certain of finding Bel was the women’s barracks at
the proper sleeping time for those on Bel’s new shift. As it was a day shift,
Bel would sleep at night. The barracks could easily be full of guards.

Rowan might do better to try to slip away by herself. She disliked
the idea, but Bel was in no immediate danger. If Rowan could get out, she might
contrive to send a message.

The first step was to get past her guard. Once out, she
could make her decisions based on what she encountered.

She needed to get the man inside her room, and alone. And
some way to deal with him, once he was inside. She scanned the room,
questioning each object: Is this a weapon?

Nothing was, so she set a trap.

She lay fully clothed on her bed past nightfall, leaving her
lamps dark, letting her fire die, permitting the guard to assume that she already
slept. Just before his evening replacement was due to arrive, she rose silently
in the dark.

The armchair was heavier than she had guessed, but she could
not let it drag as she moved it. ‘Tilting it back, she found its center of gravity
and managed to lever it off the ground and lift it, its lower edge propped
against her thighs. Walking carefully and awkwardly, she brought it to the side
of the door and lowered it painfully to the floor.

A tall coatrack was moved nearby, three feet behind the door’s
edge. The guard’s grilled opening was too small for the rack to be seen through
it.

The low rectangular table by the hearth was easy to move,
but presented more of a problem; she would need to hoist it over her head and
hold it there, adjusting it silently. The chair gave one soft creak as she
climbed it, and she froze, fearing that the guard would enter to discover her
standing on it, the table clutched in her arms, a pose more than suspicious.
She heard the man shift slightly, but he said nothing and did not investigate,
apparently dismissing the sound.

The light from the grille did not fall on herself or any of
her arrangements. Trying to keep her breathing quiet, she turned the table with
its feet in the air and, using her own head as a balance point, slipped the
edge onto the door’s heavy upper sill. Her calculation had been perfect, and
the opposite end of the table came down and rested easily, propped on the top
of the coatrack. It would be stable, she hoped, until the swing of the opening
door or a blow of her hand struck the rack. Descending, she moved the chair
clear of the events she hoped would follow.

Presently the evening guard arrived, and the two men exchanged
a few words. Nothing was said about suspicious noises.

Rowan returned to her bed and sat, composing herself. All
that remained was to get her guard to enter. There seemed to be only one way
to make certain that if he entered, he would enter alone. She balked at the
thought, trying to find an option that did not require behavior so—embarrassing.

There was none. Resigning herself to necessity, she rose,
stepped to the grille, and stood casually, her own trap looming above her head.
“Excuse me.”

The new guard turned, not surprised; he had heard her approach.
She smiled. “I’m sorry, I just can’t sleep. I hope you don’t mind if we talk?”

He wavered, confused, caught between duty and traditional respect
for steerswomen. “Talk, lady? What about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular, just to pass the time. It’s a
long lonely night ahead.” She permitted him to see how carefully she studied
his face. “What’s your name?”

He peered in at her, and she saw wide dark eyes and heavy
curls of black hair. He was a handsome man, possibly vain, and Rowan blessed
that, hoping it might make her job easier. “Geller, lady.”

“Then, good evening, Geller.” She inclined her head with
facetious formality. “I’m Rowan.”

“I know.”

She groped for something else to say to keep the
conversation moving. “Do you enjoy your work for the wizards?”

He hesitated, then answered truthfully. “Not much, lady. But
the war ran over my town. It’s work.” He was watching her intently.

“Well.” She stepped a bit closer. “I wonder, if you would be
so kind, could you show me how to work the lamps in here?”

“There’s a wheel, by the door,” he said, indicating with a
little jerk of his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t see it.” She did not bother to look, and
he saw that. She kept her eyes on his and forced another smile, cringing inwardly.

There was a very long pause. “I shouldn’t come in there.”

“No one needs to know.” Suddenly her embarrassment overcame
her, and she dropped her eyes, unable to face him, knowing that the gesture
would be misread. “Do I have to be more ... obvious?” She raised her eyes
again. “I can be, if you wish.”

But she saw that Geller’s beautiful face was screwed up as
if in pain. “Lady ...”