The Steerswoman's Road (74 page)

“Herding?”

“Diseases,” the woman said, and Rowan administered another
draft. “Diseases of the goat.”

Mander was interested. “Ah. Well, now, diseases of the goat
have much in common with diseases of humans, did you know that?”

“I could hardly care less.” She spoke a shade more easily,
and her muscles became looser: the alcohol’s effect.

Mander directed her friends to position the arm on the
ground away from her body, and the woman stiffened in anticipation. “Would you
like to know how I chose my job?” Mander asked.

Her eyes were squeezed tight. “I would like you to do your
job, and then leave me alone.”

The healer continued. “It was like this—” He recounted, with
great detail, an immense battle the tribe had faced some ten years before, and
his own role in it. The tale was well delivered, and Mander depicted himself as
a properly valiant warrior. The wounded woman began to relax, showing a certain
amount of grudging interest in the drama of the fight. At the culmination of
the story, Mander received a wound much like the one he now saw before him.

“The healer,” he said, handing Rowan one of the silver
needles to thread for him, “botched the job. A rot set in, and she had to remove
more of the arm two days later. She botched it again, and had to take more. It
was an outrage!” He adjusted his position, nimbly using his bare feet to brace
the wounded arm, and applied pressure. “You can believe that I cursed her! I
cursed her up one side and down the other, down the river and back again. I
wish I could remember all the curses I used; I’m sure I’d go down in legend as
a true poet.

“Eventually she shouted back at me, ‘If you think you can do
better, do it yourself next time!’” He nodded briefly as Bel arrived with the
tools on a cloth and set them down. “I said: ‘Ha! I could do a better job with
my
teeth!’”

The warrior threw her head back and laughed out loud, helpless,
her body completely slack; the laugh became a sudden scream, which silenced as
she fainted.

Mander completed the rest of the job quickly and
efficiently, then spoke quietly to the woman’s friends as he rinsed his hand
and dried it on the towel that Bel held for him. “She won’t lose any more of
that arm,” he told the warriors. “I stole that old healer’s job, and I’ll keep
it until the day I die.” He clapped one of their shoulders in parting. “Because
I’m the best.”

It was full night when Rowan emerged from the infirmary tent.
Bel had left sometime before; Rowan had not seen her depart. Rowan had remained
at Mander’s side, serving, as others did, as his extra hands, until someone had
tapped her on the shoulder and curtly ordered her to get some rest. It was not
until she stepped into the night air that she realized that the person who had
dismissed her was Kree; that Kree had spoken exactly as she would have spoken
to one of her own war band; and that Rowan had accepted the order as completely
and instinctively as Kree’s own warriors did.

The steerswoman wended her way among the tents by memory,
only half-aware that she was guiding herself by a clear mental map of the camp,
hovering in her exhausted mind. The map led her to Kree’s tent; but her bleary
perceptions did not notice the person who was standing outside its entrance,
until he spoke. “Rowan?”

She paused. “Fletcher.” She rubbed tired eyes, as if
clearing them would dispel the night-dark itself. Aware that he was present,
she now sensed him by hearing: his breathing, the creak of leather, small
rustles of fur and cloth, all arranged and configured to the particular height
and shape of his long body. He stood by, quietly occupying the air.

Before she could ask her question, he asked it himself, of
her. “Are you all right?”

She enumerated her small injuries. “And you?”

He shifted. “A little slice down one side; that’s minor. One
of those weasels whacked me on the back. Maybe he cracked a rib; Mander wasn’t
sure. Someone stabbed me in the shin, but not deep.” He spoke without gestures,
and quietly. “A lot of people are dead.”

Rowan nodded. “I suppose we won’t know who, until the morning.”

“There will he more in the morning than there are now.”

Rowan thought of some under Mander’s care who might not last
the night. “Yes. But we gave better than we got, Fletcher.” She remembered him
in his blind warrior’s fury, felling an uncountable number of Face People.
Then another memory came unbidden: that frozen moment before the onslaught,
when Rowan had not known if Fletcher would fight at all. It came to her that it
was not fear of death that had held him in that instant, because when he did
fight, it was with the wild and utter abandon of a man who knew he would not
survive. What thoughts were in his mind as he watched the inescapable assault
approaching, Rowan did not know; but at that moment, Fletcher had been faced
with two options. He had chosen death as the preferable one.

But Fletcher always scraped by, Chess had told her. He had
scraped by again, this time saving not only his own life, but the lives of many
in his tribe. And it was his tribe, his own. He was no mere adopted Inner Lander.
He was a warrior.

Rowan felt pride on his behalf. “You fought well,” she told
him. She said no more than that, but the tone of her voice said what her words
did not.

When he replied, it was with a voice of quiet amazement. “After
we cleared out that bunch by the fire pit,” he said, “and everything got still,
there I was, standing around in a daze. And Averryl, he steps up to me, looks
me in the eye and says, ‘You did good,’ and wanders off again.” There was no
parody, no humor in his voice. “That’s all. Just: ‘You did good.’”

Rowan smiled. “Bel is much the same.”

Fletcher stirred. “Well,” he said, half to himself, “let’s
see what else I can do good.” And he strode off through the quiet camp without
another word.

Late the previous night, Bel had been awakened with the word
that one of the scouts had discovered signs of another tribe. Before dawn, she
had been escorted to the limit of Kammeryn’s defended pastures, then left to continue
alone.

In speaking with the new tribe’s council, her discourse on
the wizards, the fallen Guidestar, and her mission were considerably aided by
the poem she had composed. Their seyoh was impressed, and although she accepted
Bel’s information only as hypothesis, she guaranteed cooperation should the
wizards’ threat ever materialize. They parted on friendly terms.

But when Bel attempted to return to Kammeryn’s tribe, she
found herself approaching the rear of what was obviously an attack formation.

“I couldn’t see a way to get around them to warn Kammeryn,
not in time for it to make much difference,” Bel told Rowan, as they lay on
their bedrolls in the darkness. Despite her exhaustion, Rowan was unable to
sleep; the battle continued to reenact itself behind her eyes.

Bel continued. “I went back to the other tribe. I was going
to point out that these attackers probably would give them trouble after defeating
Kammeryn’s people, and it might be in their best interest to help us out now.
But as it turned out, they’d met them before, and suffered fairly badly. They
were ready to join forces with us, to get rid of them.”

“We’re lucky you arrived when you did.”

“No, you’re not.” Bel turned over onto her stomach and
rested her chin on cupped hands. “We could have arrived sooner. But the Face
People would have seen us and run. We didn’t want to chase them away, we wanted
to kill them. We deployed so that they would be trapped between us and you. And
waited until they attacked, so they were in the open, and off-balance.”

Rowan sighed. “I would have preferred them chased away, if
it saved lives.” At last report, there were at least ten dead from Ella’s
tribe, and perhaps twenty from Kammeryn’s. Many on both sides were wounded.
Others were still missing, status unknown.

“Chasing them wouldn’t have saved lives. They’d have come
back later, when we weren’t prepared. This way was best.”

Rowan ran the strategy in her mind. “Of course. You’re
right.”

Somewhat later, when her internal reenactment had progressed
to the scenes in the infirmary tent, Rowan spoke aloud. “How often does this
sort of thing happen?”

She received no reply; Bel was asleep.

The tribe lost seventeen people. Among those whom Rowan knew
well: Kester, surprised among his flock on nine-side; Mare, of Kree’s band,
fallen in the furious battle at position twelve; Elleryn and Bae, of Berrion’s
band, which had been covering the outer circle on nine-side; Cherrasso, of
Orranyn’s band, who had been positioned at inner ten; and Dee, a mertutial
relay who had maintained her post as the Face People struck the camp itself.

Also gone was Eden, Kammeryn’s aide, but not fallen in
battle. She had been assisting Mander through the long night, and near dawn had
lain down to rest beside her son Garvin, who had been slightly wounded. In the
morning Garvin could not wake her; age and exhaustion had taken her in her
sleep.

Of the scouts: Zo was assumed lost until she staggered into
camp the following day, suffering the effects of a blow to the head. She would
be ill for days, but would recover. Of Maud, who had been ranging the area on
nine-side, and whose disappearance had been the first sign of battle, there was
no sign.

Rowan learned this over breakfast, which she took early.
Kree’s band had risen before dawn; they were scheduled to guard on six-side
that day. Rowan had chosen to rise with them. Her dreams had been as full of
visions of battle and blood as had been her restless hours before sleep. Rowan
did not wish to prolong the experience.

An exhausted mertutial, one of Chess’s assistants, told the
news as he served them a cold breakfast. Kree thanked him, then turned to
business. She counted heads. “Where’s Averryl?”

“Here.” He approached from the center of camp. Rowan had
last seen him assisting Mander; presumably he had done so all night. Kree
disapproved. “I told you to get some rest.”

“I did. For two hours, when things got slow. I’m ready.”

“We don’t know how many Face People are still out there. We
might need to fight again.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

Kree made a sound of disgruntled resignation. “And Fletcher?”
He, too, had not returned to the tent the previous night.

“He knew we were going out early. I expect he’s off for some
early prayers.”

“Off and back again.” Fletcher approached, his form a narrow
shadow against star-dusted blue.

“Good.” Kree settled down to give out assignments. “We’ll be
short on the inner half, with Mare gone,” she began.

“No, you won’t.” Bel emerged from the tent, rubbing her
fists against still-sleepy eyes. “It’s been almost a year since I served on the
circles,” she said, and yawned, “but I think I remember how to do it.”

Kree paused long. Someone commented, “She doesn’t know our
signals.”

“That’s true,” Kree said. “Averryl, take her aside and show
her some signals.” No one protested when Rowan moved closer to watch.

The mertutial who had served them was gone. Rowan had not
touched her breakfast. She passed it to Bel.

Light slowly grew, the flat pastel of predawn. People and objects
seemed to wear the pale colors like paint on their surfaces and skins. The only
tones that held any depth were the sea gray of Averryl’s eyes; the rich earth
brown of Bel’s; and the fragmenting, shifting blue of the jewels on Bel’s belt,
glittering as she moved, testing the shapes of the signals she learned.

Pieces of the fallen Guidestar, Rowan thought. She found herself
gazing up at the Eastern Guidestar, Averryl’s lesson forgotten. The Guidestar
stood in its assigned place in the sky, glowing brilliantly, reflecting the
light of the unrisen sun.

It came to Rowan that Kree was taking rather long to get her
band in motion. She looked at the chief, at the moment the chief herself
glanced up, sighting something toward the center of camp. Kree stood.

“Fletcher.” He glanced up. She beckoned, and he rose to
follow her. The members of the band looked at each other in perplexity, then
trailed along behind.

Kree led Fletcher to the fire pit, where Kammeryn stood musing
over the fire tenders’ preparations. The seyoh nodded once to her in greeting,
and to Fletcher, then adopted a studiously casual pose that caused all within
sight to drop conversation to watch. The interaction that would follow was
clearly intended to seem personal, while constituting a public display.

Seeing this, Fletcher visibly shied, found an instant to
send Rowan one bleak glance, then composed himself and stood waiting. Rowan
became aware that Jann had joined the crowd and was watching with an expression
that included a certain degree of anticipation of satisfaction.

The seyoh spoke. “Fletcher, at the time of the attack, you
were assigned to watch the steerswoman. Her presence here was meant to serve
as a guarantee that Bel would not betray us to another tribe.”

Kammeryn’s black eyes were carefully mild. Fletcher’s
sky-blue gaze was held by them as if at swordpoint. He nodded mutely.

“Your orders were that if we were attacked, you must kill Rowan,
as payment for betrayal.” Kammeryn glanced about at the watching Outskirters,
then turned back to Fletcher. “My orders were based upon the facts that I had
at hand. They were good orders.

“But when the attack took place, you were there. I was not.
You saw what was happening. I did not. With what you saw, and what you knew,
you decided to spare Rowan’s life.

“Your decision was correct.”

Fletcher’s tense posture slacked, and he stood loose-boned
and amazed. At the edge of her vision, Rowan saw Jann’s face as a pale shape,
her mouth a dark spot above a dropped jaw.

The seyoh continued. “Had you followed your orders blindly,
the result would have been a pointless loss of life. Your judgment in this was
more complete than mine. I would like to believe that all my warriors use their
intelligence when faced with the unexpected, that they consider all the facts
at hand. Thank you for proving my belief correct.”