The Steerswoman's Road (38 page)

Rowan stopped short. “Yes?”

“Please, don’t do this, lady. It’s not ...” He groped for
the word. “It’s not fitting.”

They viewed each other through the grate, he with pity, she
with astonishment, then shame.

At last she nodded slowly. “Thank you, Geller,” she said
with dignity. “You’re right. It’s not fitting.” And she walked alone back to
her bed.

When the shift changed at midnight, she attempted the same
ruse with the new guard, to identical effect.

The next morning the servant politely brought her breakfast
again. She ignored the food, pacing the limits of her chamber. The knowledge
she had gained from the wizards nestled like a seed in her brain; the need to
pass it on to someone was agony.

The servant watched speculatively, then withdrew.

She could formulate no plans; she could take no action. No decisions
were open to her, and there were no means by which to alter her situation.
Although they might not yet realize it, she was of no further use to Shammer
and Dhree, and they were unable to reveal anything more to her about the
jewels. She would have to spend the day with them seeking to learn one last
thing: a means to make her escape.

Eventually she noticed that the guards had not arrived to conduct
her to the wizards. The morning wore on, and her breakfast dishes were not
removed. She questioned the man at her door, but he knew nothing.

It was past noon when her escort finally arrived and brought
her along the now-familiar route. Surprisingly, when they entered the wizards’
study, the room was empty. The guards did not leave her, and when she spoke
they did not reply. When she attempted to make herself comfortable at the
table, they indicated that she was required to stand between them.

All her progress in gaining the wizards’ grudging confidence
had been somehow lost, she realized, and with rising apprehension she prepared
herself to face the new situation.

When they entered, Shammer and Dhree remained standing on
the opposite side of the room, as if she were dangerous or diseased, watching
her with flat gazes of pure hatred. Some moments passed.

At last Dhree spoke. “We’ll be rid of you tomorrow.”

“That’s rather soon.” Rowan wanted to start them talking,
any sort of conversation, anything to give her some hint as to what might have
happened and what she might now expect.

The wizards regarded her as if she had not spoken, but Dhree
amplified, seemingly more for her own satisfaction than from any desire to
assist Rowan. “Someone’s coming to”—she sneered the word—“collect you.”

Rowan nodded slowly. “Someone sent by Slado, or Slado himself?”
There was no reply. Shammer shifted uneasily, as if there was something he
wished very much to do with his hands.

Rowan tried again. “If we only have one day left, perhaps we
should get down to work. With luck, by the time Slado arrives, you might know
as much as he does.”

They ignored the comment. As if against his will, Shammer
said in a toneless voice, “We’ve found more evidence of your handiwork.”

Her handiwork? What was she supposed to have done? Two disappearances
had been blamed on Rowan, both Bel’s doing. The one had been mere fabrication
to cover Rowan’s own absence from the resident guard she had joined; the other
was Bel’s elimination of the last member of the ambushed squad, to prevent his
identifying the Outskirter.

Might Bel have eliminated someone else? To be blamed on
Rowan, the deed would have to have been done at the same time as the earlier
disappearance. Who else presented such immediate danger?

Someone who had seen Rowan and Bel together, certainly. But
the inner guard were a separate corps, and the members of the outer guard whom
Rowan and Bel had met were not likely to he introduced to the captive steerswoman
and would not connect her with the Outskirter.

Who might have had the opportunity to make that connection?
Someone who had seen them together, who might have been likely to see Rowan in
the wizards’ company—and whose absence might have gone unnoticed for two busy
days.

Rowan attempted to dismiss the matter. “Disappearances didn’t
seem to distress you earlier. As you said, one does what’s necessary.”

Shammer took four long steps forward and backhanded her
across the face.

She fell against the closed door, stunned, dazed. The guard
on her left dragged her to her feet with a bruising grip. She staggered against
him, regained her balance, and passed one hand across her face to find a split
lip.

Abruptly, she understood. “Liane.”

Shammer struck with his other hand. The guard on the right
prevented her falling, and the two men supported her emotionlessly.

When she recovered, she said, “If Slado is coming for me, I
think he’ll expect me alive.” Some of the words were slurred.

Cold confirmation came from across the room. “Unfortunately.”

Shammer, his eyes full of murder, took two careful steps
back, then turned away.

Regaining her balance, Rowan composed herself slowly. All advantage
had been lost. She tilted up her chin. “So I’ll meet Slado. How interesting.”

With his back to her, Shammer said, “You’ll meet him and
die.” He gestured. “Get her out of here.”

“One moment.” Dhree came a bit closer. “I understand that
your little game of last night was quite the joke among our inner guard.
Pitiful.”

“It was the best I could manage.”

“I think you’ll find that your new guards are, shall we say,
above temptation? Still ..” Her expression turned speculative, interested. “Perhaps
you’ve been a little lonely? Perhaps tonight you could use some ... company?”
She studied Rowan’s reaction, eyes glittering cold amusement. “What do you
think, Brother?”

“No.” He half turned, his eyes blank. “She might enjoy it.”

The guard at her door was female, a tall angular woman who
watched her with the pitiless eye of a bird of prey. Above temptation, as Dhree
had said; the rule against women in the inner guard had been altered.

She tried to clean the blood from her face and clothes, but
found there was no water in her ewer. The woman at the door ignored her
request, and Rowan did the best she could with spit and a silk handkerchief.

In the evening the guard changed shift, but no food was
brought, and the remains of her breakfast had vanished. She sat long at the
window, silent, watching the light fade, then the starlight glitter on the
roofs and cupolas. And slowly her mind became as still as her body, for there
were no plans she could make, no routes to investigate. Options had vanished.
Possibilities were zero. She sat in the darkness, unsleeping.

When the shift changed at midnight, her guard was Bel.

The Outskirter grinned up through the grille. “I’ve been promoted.”

Rowan stared down at her, astonished, then urgent. “Bel, let’s
get out. Now.”

Bel glanced in both directions, then walked a few feet to
peer down the intersection in the corridor. She returned. “Not yet.”

“Someone’s coming?”

“No.”

“Unlock the door.”

Bel did so, but when Rowan pulled it open and made to leave,
the Outskirter stopped her with a gesture. “We have to wait.”

“Why?” Rowan spoke urgently. “Bel, I know the layout here
now, and you know the internal guard movements. If we can get to one of those
exits we found, we might have a chance.” Rowan did not know how early Slado or
his minion would arrive, or how long she and Bel would need to slip out of the
fortress; they had to move, now.

“No, we’ve got something better. We’ve got a plan.” Bel
peered closer. “What happened to your face?”

“Shammer. Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

“Willam and me.”

Rowan drew a breath. “He didn’t leave? He was supposed to
leave.”

“I needed him here. We’ve set up a diversion.”

Rowan thought rapidly, then shook her head. “There are too
many guards here. They won’t all run to it, and those who don’t will know to
head straight for me. I’m too important a prisoner.”

Bel smiled rather uncertainly. “You’ll be the last thing on
their minds. And it doesn’t matter if they run to it or run from it, so long as
they run. But here—” She reached behind and pulled something from under her
cuirass. She passed it to Rowan inside, and closed the door.

It was a bundle of cloth. Rowan shook it out, and a breathtaking
swirl of silvery blue spilled from her hands, sweeping the floor. Liane’s
cloak.

“It’ll be a good enough disguise in the confusion,” Bel
continued. Yellow light from the grille played on the garment. “It won’t work.
They know she’s dead.”

“The wizards?”

“That’s right.”

“Then they’re keeping it to themselves. As far as the outer
keep is concerned, she’s off visiting. I thought it was odd.”

Rowan crushed one handful of satin folds, feeling the weight
and beauty of the cloak, thinking of the vain, lonely girl who had worn it. “What
is Will going to do? Do we signal him, or he us?”

“Neither. We wait. You have to stand by the window and watch
the Western Guidestar. When it goes dark, count one hundred. Then we move.”

“And what happens?”

“Something.” The Outskirter winced. “I’m not certain what—he
didn’t explain it well. People will panic, so we’ll have to keep our wits about
us.”

Magic. Aside from lighting fires in wet wood, creating
patterns and pretty sparkles in the process, what exactly was Willam capable of
doing?

Rowan stepped to the window and studied the stars quickly.
The Hunter’s shoulder had slipped behind the Western Guidestar. The Hound’s
nose would have to approach within five degrees before the Guidestar would wink
out. That would be near half past one o’clock. They had more than an hour.

Rowan returned to the door and looked down through the
grate. Bel had resumed her position as guard. “I only know the one exit from
the inner chambers,” Rowan told her. “But from there, there are any number of routes
to a few ways out of the fortress. If the confusion’s going to be general, we
might do well to head for that staircase leading to the dock on the northeast
side. We could escape by water.”

Her back to the door, Bel shook her head. “That won’t do. It’s
the wrong direction. We go out the main gate, over the causeway.”

Rowan’s heart froze. “Bel, that’s the worst possible choice.
We’d be visible for too long. We’d have to deal with the guards inside the
gate, and stop to work the spell at the end of the causeway. We couldn’t
possibly move fast enough.”

“It’s the only way. It’s all arranged. We’ll deal with the
guards as best we can, and Willam will take care of the spell.”

“Can he do that?” Rowan was dubious.

“He says so.” Bel spared a sidelong glance over her
shoulder. “Shouldn’t you stand by the window?”

“In a bit. I saw you, on the wall yesterday. Why did you
point me out?”

“I wanted Willam to have some idea of your location.”

Rowan stopped short, then laughed. The face of a boy, she realized,
was little different from the face of a woman somewhat older than he. With a
woman’s shaped leather cuirass, the disguise would be impenetrable. “What was
he doing?”

“Placing his charms. They have to be a certain distance from
each other. He’s been working like a madman, making more of them during the
last two days.”

“Do you think it will work?”

Bel shrugged. “I’m no wizard.” She paused. “Rowan?”

“Yes?”

“When those guards cornered us ..” The Outskirter hesitated
again. “You spat in my face.”

Rowan was ashamed. “I thought we weren’t very convincing,”
she explained. “I wanted to make you angry.”

Another pause. “It worked.”

“Do you hold it against me?”

“No.” Bel shifted slightly. “But never do it again.”

Rowan returned to the window and stood the rest of her watch
with the best patience she could muster.

Outside, the day’s overcast had long passed, and the stars
hung crystalline in a black midnight sky. Between rooftop and turret, Rowan
sighted a section of the lake, where small waves scattered the starlight,
sending white sparkles dancing on the invisible water. The world seemed to
exist in black and white and shades of pale gray, clear and without
distractions. On the wall in the distance, seen but faintly, a pacing guardsman
paused and gazed out at the same quiet scene Rowan was viewing, untroubled,
peaceful. Eventually his head tilted up, and he and she saw in the same instant
the nightly vanishing of the Western Guidestar.

Rowan began counting, swung the blue cloak about her body,
and stepped to the door. “Twenty,” she said to Bel.

The Outskirter jogged to the left intersection of the
corridor, looked both ways again, and came back.

“Forty,” Rowan said.

Bel took a deep breath, released it, and shook her arms to
relax the muscles. She seemed calm and cheerful.

It was otherwise for Rowan, and she felt a stepwise increase
in tension with every number her mind shaped. “Fifty,” she said. “Do we really
have to wait this long?”

“One hundred was what Wiliam told me. I hope you’re both
counting at the same pace. Is it sixty yet?”

Rowan paused for five counts. “It’s seventy.” Under the
rhythm of the counting, she discovered herself reviewing alternative routes to
the front gate; she had information to use, she realized, and that knowledge
served to steady her. “Eighty.”

Bel pulled the door open, and Rowan slipped through. “Lock
it again. It might throw them off. Ninety.”

The Outskirter looked up at her, eyes aglitter. “I have a
sword for you. I left it behind a tapestry outside the door with the
guard-spell.”

“Good. I’ll need it. One hundred.”

They followed the corridor, Rowan three steps ahead, wrapped
and hooded in Liane’s cloak, Bel following behind like an escort. They went
left, then right, seeing no one. At the top of a broad stair, Bel stopped Rowan
with a touch on the arm, then indicated. Listening, they could hear measured
steps and muttered voices below. Two people; one walked away, and the other
remained at the bottom, out of sight.