The Steerswoman's Road (69 page)

“Yes.” Bel reentered the tent, Rowan following.

“But who left it? And for whom?”

“I don’t know.” Bel sat on her bedroll to don her boots. “But
if someone saw you accept it,” she said, “you would have been honor-bound to
accept the person who left it.”

“Some Outskirter man has an interest in me?” It seemed very
unlikely.

Bel shook her head. “No. Well, probably not. But whoever it
was meant for, it’s someone who sleeps in this tent. Which means a member of
Kree’s band, or me, or even you.”

Rowan thought. “The other gifts were all ruined by someone.”
She sat down on her bedroll.

“I know. If someone is leaving you courting gifts and you’re
not interested, you reject the gifts by destroying them. But if you don’t want
anyone to know that you realize you’re being courted, you ignore the gifts.”
Bel completed lacing her boots, then sat back to explain. “That’s what’s
happening here. If the gift isn’t accepted by the time everyone else leaves the
tent, the last person leaving has to destroy it. But that was usually you, and
I knew you didn’t know what to do. So I did it.”

“If I’d taken it, whoever left it could ... claim me?”

“That’s the custom.”

“That was rather a close call, then,” Rowan commented. She
leaned back on her hands, considering the situation with amusement. “Perhaps I
should have taken it. I might like to learn about Outskirter lovemaking
techniques.”

“Ha. The giver might not admit he left it. Or she. They don’t
always.” Bel looked at her, dark eyes laughing.

“What an odd way to manage things.”

“I like it.” Bel grinned in reminiscence. “There are a
hundred ways to play it: you can be subtle, or daring, or cruel, or generous.
You can even use it for revenge, by leaving presents for someone until they’re
accepted, and then never admitting it was you who left them.”

“It sounds devious.”

“Of course.” The aspect pleased Bel.

“Then, whoever is being courted from Kree’s band is not
interested?” Rowan asked.

“Yes. Or it’s too soon.”

“Too soon?”

“You always reject the first gifts. Then they get finer.”

Rowan spent part of the afternoon seated beside the fire pit,
sketching various samples of Outskirts insect life. On her way to return her
materials to Kree’s tent, she passed through a small open yard where four sets
of tents faced each other. In front of one tent, a number of warriors were
seated, conversing. “Rowan!” Jann called from across the area. Rowan changed
course to approach her.

Half of Orranyn’s band was present, with two members of Berrion’s,
including Berrion himself. Jann jerked her chin up at the steerswoman. “I see
you carry your weapon with you all the time. That’s a good idea in the
Outskirts.”

Rowan’s right hand went to her sword hilt, by way of assent;
she had to shift her book to her left to do this. “I’ve heard that’s the case.
And I’ve experienced enough to agree.”

“Let’s have a look at it.”

Rowan mentally juggled her still-unintegrated information on
Outskirter custom and decided there was nothing that suggested she should not
do as asked. She complied.

Jann held the sword, hilt in her right hand, the blade
resting across her left arm, turning it to examine its structure. “It looks
strong,” she commented. “Well made.”

Berrion leaned closer. “No ornamentation. That’s not usual
for Inner Lands swords.”

“It’s a soldier’s sword,” Rowan told him.

“How did you get it?”

Rowan gave a wry grin. “I’m afraid Bel stole it for me, at a
time when I needed one.”

“Ah.”

Jann held it up to let the light play along its length. “I
don’t see any tooling marks, or any pattern in the metal.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how it was constructed.” Except, Rowan
knew, that magic must have been involved.

“Plain, but sure,” Jann said. “It’s a good weapon.”

Rowan came close to saying “thank you,” but recalled that
warriors did not thank each other; these warriors were treating her as an
equal. “It serves me well” was the neutral reply she selected.

Jann rose and passed the weapon back to Rowan. “Let’s see
how well.”

“Pardon me?”

The warrior gave a short laugh. “‘Pardon me,’ now that’s an Inner
Lander phrase, to be sure. I don’t believe that an Inner Lander can hold on to
a sword like that.”

Rowan was confused. “I’ve held on to it so far ...” Then she
understood. “Ah. I see.” The expected sword challenge had come at last.

When Rowan first learned that only Outskirters who had gone
walkabout were considered warriors, she had briefly believed herself immune to
a sword challenge. Bel had disabused her of the notion, explaining that the
rule was clear only concerning Outskirters. Rowan was an Inner Lander. Strictly
speaking, her weapon could simply be confiscated; however, her acceptance by Kammeryn
rendered such an act, at the very least, rude. But any warrior, by way of
compliment, might elect to treat her as an equal—and Rowan carried too fine a
sword for her to expect to be overlooked.

The other warriors had risen, and Berrion directed them
back. “Let’s clear a space.” He turned to Rowan. “How much room do you need?”

She rapidly reviewed the new strategies Bel had trained into
her. “Not much.” She needed to keep closer than her natural instincts would
direct her. A smaller fighting space would encourage her to maintain that
proximity.

Not to the death, Bel had told her. At the worst, she would
find herself equipped with a wood-and-metal Outskirter sword for the duration
of her journey. Abruptly, the idea angered her. She preferred her own sword.
She decided that Jann would have a difficult time relieving her of it.

Word was passed, and from elsewhere in the camp more people
gathered. Bel appeared at Rowan’s side as Jann took position. “I’ve seen Jann
practice,” Bel told the steerswoman quietly. “She’s strong. She’ll try to
overpower you with sheer strength.”

“She may be strong,” Rowan said, passing her friend her logbook,
pens, ink stone, and cleaning cloth, “but I know a few things she doesn’t.” She
unstrapped her sheath.

“Take off anything else you don’t need.” Rowan was wearing
an Outskirter fur vest over her blouse; she removed it, and carefully tucked
her thin gold Steerswomen’s chain into the neck of her blouse.

Between the tents around the little yard, spectators
arranged themselves, shifting as they jockeyed position for a clear view.

Another voice spoke in Rowan’s ear. “She’ll lead with a
sweep from her right to her left. She likes to surprise people straight off.”
Fletcher.

It was not the best first move for a right-handed fighter.
Jann would need to leave herself open for an instant to gain a position with
enough momentum. An opponent not aware of Jann’s strength would try to take advantage
of the opening, to be met by unexpected force. With enough speed and a proper
accompanying dodge, Jann could gain an immediate advantage. “That’s good to
know,” Rowan said by way of thanks; but Fletcher was gone, as was Bel, back
among the observers.

Berrion paced off ten steps, then directed the fighters each
to one end of the measurement. He pulled out a wooden field knife and held it
before him; Rowan received one last instruction, called out by Bel.

“When it hits the ground, not when he releases it!” A
starting signal. Rowan nodded, and assumed a ready position. Her eyes were
already on Jann’s, trying to read intent or the feigning of intent. Jann was
doing the same. Neither woman watched Berrion, but waited for the soft sound of
a knife falling on earth.

It fell point-down, which Rowan had not expected. She did
not hear it at all, but saw Jann hear it, saw the expected opening about to
appear, and swung into it, fully aware that it was the wrong move for any
weapon but her own.

The force of her swing was met by the greater force of Jann’s.
But Rowan’s sword was not pushed aside, as was expected, and Rowan was not
thrown off balance. Her weapon absorbed part of Jann’s power, flexing slightly.
Rowan cooperated with it, dropping the point, and her blade slithered under
Jann’s in passing, hardly breaking Jann’s momentum.

With Jann past her, Rowan swung fully around, angling a
down-sweep at the warrior’s now-undefended right side, desperately alert to the
need to stop the blow before it actually contacted and killed Jann. But Jann
stopped it herself, one-handed, the other hand bracing herself on the ground
in the half crouch into which her first maneuver had collapsed. Rowan slipped
her sword around and down, sweeping at Jann’s arm and feet; the Outskirter
escaped by executing an astonishing backward roll, miraculously keeping her
sword free and arriving upright on her feet. Her face showed surprise and
pleasure. “Ha!” Rowan saw Jann instantly reassess her opponent. Whatever
advantage of surprise Rowan had possessed was lost.

Taking two steps forward, Rowan used the free space for a powerful
overhead blow, with so much of her weight behind it that her right foot left
the ground. Jann’s blade met hers and tried to force hers aside. Rowan let it
do so, let her blade move and recover, stepping right as her sword twisted
around Jann’s.

She was now on Jann’s undefended left side, but in no
position to strike. She dodged back as Jann recovered.

They began a cycle of sidesteps, circling, feinting. Each
studied the other’s stance and motion, seeking strategy. Beyond Jann’s face,
Rowan vaguely saw the faces of the watchers, each in turn, as she and Jann
completed their circles. She ignored them, focusing on Jann’s expression and
the configuration of her body.

She saw the change in Jann’s balance, reasoned which muscles
would contract, knew the blow before Jann made it. Rowan did not try to escape
it; she met it with full force, slid her blade up to Jann’s hilt, twisted,
disengaged, dodged back, spun, struck again, slid again, wrenching her edge
against Jann’s metal-edged wooden sword.

Jann recognized Rowan’s strategy. She retreated, trying to
protect her weapon’s weakest point. Rowan pressed again. Three times they came
face-to-face, hilts together, and Rowan’s speed was such that Jann had no space
to recover and reposition.

Jann was now completely on the defensive, stepping back and
around, again and again, as Rowan dashed forward, struck, slid and twisted,
slithered free, struck again. It was close fighting one instant, at sword’s
length another, in a pattern determined by Rowan’s reasoning and her knowledge
of both weapons, knowledge only she held. Rowan began to enjoy herself.

Backstepping, maneuvering, Jann twice left openings into
which a quick fighter could insert a killing blow. Rowan did not trust her own
ability to halt such a blow in time; she concentrated on destroying Jann’s
weapon.

There came at last one moment when Rowan struck and twisted,
only to find her edge caught beneath the loosened metal edging of Jann’s sword.
She could not escape as expected and tried to change her motion to a scissoring
slide that would free the metal from Jann’s edge. But Jann did not try to pull
back, or dodge out. She brought sudden power from below, forcing Rowan’s sword
up. Rowan’s hands were thrown up, her entire body undefended; but at the high
point of the motion she felt something give way, found herself released, fell
back into a planned fall, ready to defend from the ground against the overhand
blow that would follow

“Yield!” Jann stepped back quickly, to the far side of the
yard. She stood slack a moment, mouth dropped in amazement, then laughed a long
laugh of warrior’s delight. “Steerswoman,” she called. “I yield!”

Rowan was on her back on the bare ground, sword at the
ready, prepared to counter one blow, with no way to recover for the next. She
could imagine no less defensible position.

Jann held up her own weapon and turned it in the sunlight:
from hilt to point, one edge was bare wood. A battered curl of metal was
attached to the point in a wide looping curve, springing ludicrously in the
air.

Cheers filled the area. Hands appeared, helping Rowan to her
feet: Bel’s, Fletcher’s, Averryl’s, and, oddly, Jaffry’s. Rowan’s shoulders
were clapped more times than she could count, as the crowd broke ranks to fill
the yard.

Jann approached Rowan. “You’re a good fighter, Rowan. I didn’t
expect that.” She showed no regret at losing, only appreciation of her opponent’s
skill.

Rowan felt nothing but admiration for the Outskirter. “As
are you,” she said. “You certainly had me jumping!”

“You fight like a spring-hopper. I could hardly keep up.”
Jann shifted her sword to her left hand and offered her right to Rowan.

Rowan clasped it warmly. “I sincerely hope,” she told Jann, “that
I never find myself opposite you in a real fight.”

Jann’s glance moved past Rowan’s shoulder; the steerswoman
was aware of a tall presence behind her and knew it to be Fletcher.

In a flickering instant, Jann’s open grin changed from
genuine to formal. “Then,” she replied, “be careful of the company you keep.”

“Now, put that down! Can’t always be working, girl!”

Rowan looked up.

It was old Chess, her face wrinkled into the unaccustomed
lines of a smile. “Saw the fight. You did good. Hoo, that Jann, she’s a fine
warrior! Never thought one like you would set her back. Just goes to show you.

Rowan was seated outside Kree’s tent in the afternoon light,
reviewing the notes she had made that morning. She looked around in
startlement, disbelieving that all this sudden vivacity was directed at
herself. No one else was present.

Chess held up her hands. “I brought something.” Two small
pottery jugs, one small-mouthed, one large.

Rowan set aside her book. “What is it?” she asked
cautiously; it might be a gift, or something peculiar for a steerswoman to examine.