The Steerswoman's Road (40 page)

She seated herself, sitting carefully on the edge of the chair,
one hand before her on the table. The other hand was in a sling, its fingers
stiffly splinted, and her face showed the marks of old bruises. She said
nothing, but watched Corvus patiently, and he returned her gaze with an
identical expression.

The wizard was a man of striking appearance, all darkness,
dressed in black and silver. He was tall, lean, and broad of shoulder. His hair
was a cap of gleaming black curls, his short black beard silvered to either
side. His skin was dark, as dark as was ever seen in people, nearly true black.

Among the folk of the Inner Lands, any shade of skin was likely
to be seen, any color of hair, seemingly without rhyme or reason; but that pure
combination of darkness was rare enough to be noticed—and to be prized. Women
of such appearance tended to cultivate an air of depth and mystery. Such men,
being conspicuous, found that high courage and intelligence were expected of
them, and so often actually acquired those traits.

Corvus’s manner contradicted none of those expectations, and
the only lightness in his appearance was the pale sky-blue of his eyes.

The two sat for some time. At last Corvus gave a slight
smile. “You’re forbidden to answer my questions. I’m forbidden to answer the
very questions you are most likely to ask. I find myself wondering how this
problem can be circumvented.”

“I volunteer information, without the necessity of your
asking for it,” Rowan said quickly. “I ask only questions I believe you’re free
to answer.” Then she waited for his reaction; the entire conversation depended
on his acceptance of the conditions. And the conversation had to take place.

He made a small sound of amusement, but his eyes were speculative.
“It’s an odd technique.”

“I’ve used something similar in the past.”

“With Shammer and Dhree, I assume.”

She was startled, but managed a grim smile. “You’ve heard.
No one else here seems to have. I thought perhaps I might have outrun my own
news.”

“My means of acquiring news is, shall we say, less bound by
time and distance.” He leaned back, and the veneer of casual friendliness he
habitually affected seemed to falter somewhat. “Very well. Since the privilege
of asking questions is yours, you should begin.”

“Are Artos’s military preparations necessary?” She was in
Corvus’s home city, and if the wizards planned to attack her, he would
certainly have been told, and possibly would serve as the agent.

“I’d answer if I could, but I don’t know what he’s
expecting.”

Despite her tension, Rowan appreciated his ability to adapt
to the limitations of the conversation. “The duke expects attack. From what direction,
he doesn’t know. The source is likely to be one or more wizards.”

Corvus seemed to consider. “I know of no wizard who might
hold a grudge against Artos.”

He was being willfully obtuse, and Rowan frowned, anger and
frustration battling within her. “The grudge, as you call it, is not against
him, but a dear friend of his. That is to say, myself.”

“You seem to have many friends. Powerful friends, I should
say.” And again he was amused.

Rowan sensed a clue in his words, but could not identify it.
She believed she was missing something. Suspecting that a direct question
would be refused, she tried an oblique approach. “Power is usually seen as the
power that commands others. Of my friends, only Artos has such power.”

“Wizards also have that power, and in addition, the power to
command nature itself.”

She was definitely missing something, something important. “Are
any wizards likely to use this against me?”

“We have more immediate concerns.”

Her confusion became complete. In the midst of this business
directed at herself, was it possible that they would be distracted by other
matters? Could she be so wildly fortunate? “If I asked what those concerns
were, would you be able to answer me?”

He smiled at the careful logic of her question. “It would
depend on the depth of the answer required.”

It was a dead end; there was no way to sidle around that response,
no way to guess what question he might not refuse. She needed his answers, had
to discover whether or not a steerswoman’s curiosity would call down battle on
an innocent town, cause her friends to die for her, and end her own life by the
hand of magic.

She changed direction with one desperate risk. “Has Slado
lost interest in me?”

His smile vanished. In the midst of the homely, familiar
tavern, he seemed a living shadow of gleaming metal and blackness, and she was
sharply aware that the power she feared was present in his person. “No one
should know that name.”

“Shammer and Dhree were indiscreet.”

“Stupid children,” he said spitefully. “I was against them
from the first.”

“Then you’re wiser than Slado.”

He watched her, all friendliness vanished from his demeanor.
“They died, you know.” He tilted up his chin and waited for her reaction.

Maintaining her calm, she replied, “Yes, I thought they
might have. I’m sorry. They were pitiful, in their way.”

“And everyone is wondering who’s responsible. We know you
didn’t do it.”

“No, I didn’t kill them. But I am responsible.”

“Only a wizard could have destroyed that fortress. Whoever
it was will give himself away soon enough.”

His meaning came to her at last. “You believe that one of
your number is a traitor.”

“We know it. You’d save us a lot of trouble if you revealed
his name.”

Rowan was stunned.

Corvus continued. “We now know that all your dangerous cleverness
was an illusion, and everything you know about those jewels was fed to you. You
were told to look for them.” He tapped the tabletop to stress his point, then
spoke tightly. “You’re serving someone, steers-woman, and it’s only a matter of
time before we discover who, and deal with him in our own way.”

She could not believe her luck. To confirm it, she observed,
“So you’re watching each other, and I’m simply beneath your notice.”

Wrapping his hand around his tankard, he relaxed. She was no
danger to him; the threat came from her wizardly master. He regained a measure
of his former manner, watching her a bit wryly.

She needed more. “You know about the jewels. Shammer and
Dhree didn’t. Are you in Slado’s confidence?”

He seemed indifferent. “I have my own sources.”

“Do you know what the jewels are? Why they’re so important?”
His expression grew dissatisfied.

“I doubt your sources will help you there, if Slado chooses
to keep the information to himself.”

“It’s a matter of time,” he said again, patiently.

She was dizzy with relief. She looked at the ceiling and
looked around the room, unbelieving, her mind a flurry of thought with no
outlet. It seemed she was safe, for the moment, and she almost surrendered to it,
almost rose and walked out, leaving the wizards to lose themselves in their
misguided internal disputes.

But the safety, she knew, was an illusion and would shatter
in the end, perhaps under worse circumstances. Better that it shatter now, by
her own hand. She turned back to Corvus. “I’ll save you time, effort, and
strain on your sources. No wizard helped me. No one fed me information. There
is no traitor, and I’m even more dangerous than you think.”

He gave a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t
destroy that fortress. There’s no reason you should care about the jewels, no
reason you should take such trouble.”

“There were reasons enough. At first, curiosity. Later,
because my investigation so interested the wizards.”

He shook his head, disbelieving.

“Steerswomen never lie, Corvus. And no wizard could have fed
me my information, because I know more about this one thing than any of you do,
except Slado.” She slapped her own chest, an abrupt, tense gesture. “I know
what the jewels are.”

His brows knit, and he studied her with a narrowing gaze. “Then
enlighten me.”

“A good choice of word.” She drew a breath and began. “Corvus,
how many Guidestars are there?”

He did not hesitate. “Two.”

“Really? Interesting, if true. I’ll rephrase: How many Guidestars
were there, originally?” Catching his puzzled expression, she brushed away his
reply. “Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you. Four.”

She went on, speaking rapidly. “Two is all that we can see,
all that we know about. On the celestial equator, immobile, as all can see; but
not really, Corvus, not in truth. They do fall, but too high, too fast. They
can never reach the ground. They fall in the direction the earth turns, and at
the same speed, and so only seem each to hang forever above its one spot on the
earth. It’s so obvious, isn’t it, once it’s pointed out?

“But why are there only two? Humankind has never pressed far
enough east or west for one of the pair to sink out of sight below the horizon.
What would happen if someone did travel so far? I think I know. As one Guidestar
disappeared, another would rise on the opposite side. And it would be that
way, all around the sphere of the earth; a traveler would always see two.

“That is, until some thirty-five years ago. It’s different
now. These jewels are part of a fallen Guidestar.”

His expression answered her next question without her
asking. “You didn’t know,” she said.

A hundred speculations crossed his dark face; he shared none
of them. At last he said, reluctantly, “Someone told you this.”

“No. I only used reason, evidence—” Her mouth twisted. “And
a small ability with mathematics.”

He made to speak, stopped himself, shook his handsome head
in disbelief, and began again. “How—” He corrected the phrasing. “I can’t think
of any way to bring down a Guidestar.”

“Why not the same means by which they were lofted?”

“That was long ago.”

She leaned back a bit in pleasure. He had admitted that the
wizards themselves had set the Guidestars in place. “You think you don’t have
that ability any longer? The ability exists, but perhaps you don’t recognize
it. The force that destroyed Shammer and Dhree, for instance. Shammer himself
said it; such things are tricky, and dangerous. And Dhree: she said it was just
a question of multiplying the force used. If their two abilities were combined
in one person, perhaps that person would find the problem laughably simple.”
She leaned forward and said quietly, “I wonder if Slado is laughing.”

His eyes were on the window and the harbor outside; his mind
was miles away. Then he looked at her sidelong. “One can’t help but wonder at
his reasons.”

It had happened, the change she was looking for, the shift
in his demeanor. Clutching at the hope, she spoke to him with simple directness.
“I’d tell you, if I knew. And I’ll tell you, when I do know. It’s only a matter
of time.”

He nodded minutely, and for that space of time, at that one
place in the world, regarding that one matter, they had ceased to be opponents.
“Slado is playing some game of his own.”

“Yes,” she said urgently. “And it’s a big one, possibly the
biggest ever. The Guidestars were originally set there for a reason, and it’s
not merely to aid navigation.” She stopped in mild surprise, then continued in
wonderment. “The steerswomen are always taught to be able to navigate with and
without the Guidestars. I thought it was for the exercise, but it’s something
held over from earlier days, isn’t it?”

“Very likely.” His mouth twitched; then he spoke a bit reluctantly.
“The existence of the Guidestars makes one particular category of spells easier
to effect.”

“Do you need all four? No, I’ll retract the question, I
doubt if you can answer.”

But he did. “Some of the spells in question are simple, and
common; for those, one Guidestar would suffice. But there are a
few—complicated, and very important ...” He became silent.

“You don’t use those spells yourself,” Rowan said, “or you
would have noticed the missing Guidestar.”

“That’s true.”

Rowan did not ask who did use them; she believed that she
knew. “Would there be problems if those spells were lost forever?”

He squinted in thought, and the squint became a wince. “The
effects wouldn’t be noticed for some time. Eventually ... I don’t know enough.
There could be some very bad results.”

“Bad for whom?”

He gave her a piercing look. “Bad for everyone, lady. We wizards
do have our uses.”

She reached across and tapped his arm like a conspirator. “Then
Slado has some purpose more important to him than the welfare of the folk and
the wizards. He’s your enemy, Corvus.”

“All wizards are each other’s enemy, in some way,” he admitted.

Rowan noticed that the tavern was completely silent. Someone
had noticed a steerswoman in conversation with a wizard; now many stood
watching, and more had left. Corvus sent a long mild gaze around the room,
taking in every face, then made a small gesture—and the rest of the crowd
departed quietly. Only the barman remained, standing beyond hearing with
nervously shifting eyes. Corvus ignored him.

“That’s a useful skill,” Rowan commented in amusement.

“Sheer force of personality.” He turned back, studying her
speculatively. “When I thought that you’d been helped by a wizard, you could
have left it at that,” he pointed out. “We assumed that you yourself presented
no threat to us, and we probably would have left you alone.”

“Am I a threat, Corvus?”

“You know that you are.”

“Then I’ll introduce you to someone even more dangerous. A
fourteen-year-old boy, the son of a blacksmith, uneducated, untrained, unable
even to read. But able, if he so desires, to shatter a wizard’s fortress.”

His face went blank with amazement. “A boy killed Shammer
and Dhree ?”

He had forgotten the rules, and Rowan’s only reply was her
smile of satisfaction. “It’s impossible,” he said carefully. “I’d like to meet
this boy, but frankly, I don’t believe that you know what you say.”