The Steerswoman's Road (81 page)

“They’ll find it,” Bel assured her.

The blind woman tilted her chin up. “When?”

Bel drew a breath and released it. “That’s what we don’t
know.”

The steerswoman spoke up. “Wizards live longer than common
folk, seem to age more slowly. The full course of Slado’s plan may span five
decades, or more.”

“Or a century?” someone interjected, in annoyance.

Rowan turned to the speaker. “Possibly. But even so, we’re
not now standing at the beginning of things. I cannot yet determine with confidence
when it was that Slado first began his work; however, when I started investigating
the jewels from the Guidestar, Slado’s response was quick. I don’t believe he
would act so immediately if the plan’s completion lay far in the future.”

“You both present all these things as truth; but we have no
way of confirming anything you say.”

Kammeryn suggested to the seyohs, “You must retrace Rowan
and Bel’s reasoning,” and requested that the two women recount exactly, in
narrative instead of poetry, the events they had experienced in the Inner
Lands, and their analyses at each turn. The travelers did so, in detail.

Bel’s jeweled belt was examined, as evidence of the fallen
Guidestar’s existence. Rowan attempted, in layman’s terms, to explain the
mathematics of falling objects, the calculations that had convinced her of the
fallen Guidestar’s existence, and the path it had taken as it fell.

“Did it burn?”

Rowan and Bel both turned toward the speaker, a small man,
whose sparse fringe of hair was braided into a long, thin queue: the seyoh of
the Face People. He was toying with the braid, weaving it through his fingers
desultorily.

“While falling? I don’t know,” Rowan said. “Perhaps.”

“Was such a thing seen?” Bel asked him eagerly.

He dropped his braid and adjusted his patched tunic. The
boots he wore were very long, with his legs bare between their tops and the hem
of his clothing. “It is in a poem,” he said. “A burning thing in the sky.”

Rowan leaned forward slowly and forced herself to speak
calmly, trying to ignore the eerie thrill running down her arms and her back. “Will
you tell us the poem? Or have one of your people tell us, if you can’t?”

“No,” he said definitely. “Our tales are our own. Their
beauty is for us alone.”

“If it really did happen,” she persisted, “if it’s not in
the poem for—for artistic considerations”—she found herself fascinated by his
inexpressive face, his veiled eyes—“it proves our facts. It would help us
convince others.”

He watched her cautiously, but said nothing.

Bel urged him. “Someone saw it happen, someone saw a Guidestar
fall. You would be confirming everything we say: it’s all true, if your poem is
a true one.”

He looked away, then looked back. “It is a true poem. It is
set in the form of true poems.”

“What form is that?” Rowan asked.

He seemed to regard her as a fool. “Alliterative, unrhymed.
Caesura in each line.” Rowan had not ceased to be surprised when she heard sophisticated
terms from Outskirters other than Bel; coming from this most primitive of
barbarians, the words were actually shocking.

While the steerswoman was recovering her balance, Bel suggested,
“Tell us the events, without revealing the secret beauty of the words.”

He tilted his head to study Rowan’s companion, then the steers-woman
herself. His eyes narrowed fractionally; the closest to an actual change of
expression that he had yet displayed. Then he nodded. “There was a great battle
for pasturage,” he began; the other seyohs watched and listened. “The hero who
led it was bold and fierce. But he sent his people back, caused them to
retreat. This was because an omen appeared.

“As the attack began, a light appeared in the sky, over the
enemy’s position. It sped toward the attackers. It went over their heads, and
away, leaving a line of smoke drawn across the sky. The hero believed that this
told his people to go in that direction, to not attack the enemy. He spoke to
his people, to explain the meaning of the omen. It was good. They went that
way, and found free pastures.”

“What was its color?” Rowan asked.

“Like fire. Burning. The smoke was black.”

“In what direction was the line of smoke?”

“From northwest to southeast.”

This coincided with Rowan’s own calculations; she couched
her next question carefully. “If I asked you to, would you tell us where the
hero was when he and his people saw the object fall?” She wished to avoid
placing any seyoh present under the Steerswomen’s ban.

“I would not tell you.” A statement of fact.

Rowan sat back, expelling a slow breath. “You don’t need to.
I can tell you; not precisely, but I can draw a line on a map, and know that
somewhere on that line the hero and his tribe were located when they saw their
omen.”

She scanned the circle, meeting each pair of eyes
individually. “It’s true; someone saw it happen. A Guidestar fell, and the
power of the wizards is real. Bel is one of the wisest people I know, and I
sincerely hope you take her words to heart. You may face disaster otherwise.”

By means of a subtle shift in his body, a calm gaze that indicating
recognition and respect for each seyoh, and a careful, thoughtful pause,
Kammeryn caused attention to turn to himself, and to remain there until he
chose to speak. “I have been traveling with these women for some time,” he told
the seyohs. “I have come to know them, and have thought a great deal on the
things they told me. I believe,” he stressed, “that their ideas are correct in
every particular. I am convinced that the wizards will soon turn their attention
to the Outskirts—if they have not done so already.”

The man with the braided beard protested. “There’s been no
sign of any such thing!”

Kammeryn addressed him calmly. “The wizards have magic. We
cannot guess what form their actions will take, or how their attention might
manifest itself. It is not enough to wait for some obvious sign of hostility.
We must be on guard for events occurring now; any unusual event is suspect.”

“Everything is unusual,” one woman noted, speaking half to
herself. “This meeting is unusual, this Rendezvous. The steerswoman is
unusual.” She jerked her head in the direction of the Face Person and addressed
the group at large. “He’s unusual. I’ve never seen his like before.” The Face
Person watched her with manifest disinterest.

Rowan had never before heard Kammeryn enunciate his position
completely. It pleased her. “Kammeryn is correct,” she said, and added to the
woman who had spoken, “and so are you. All these unusual things may be connected.”

“How can that be?” someone asked.

Rowan sighed. “I don’t know. Not yet.”

The moderator broke the pause that followed. “Bel, what precisely
do you envision us doing?”

“I cannot be precise,” Bel told her. “I don’t know what, precisely,
Slado will do, or his puppet wizards, or their minions, or their soldiers, if
any. But the first thing we must do is make certain that every tribe knows what
we’ve just told you. I’ll do much of that myself; but it will help if each of
your tribes passes the word to each tribe you meet.”

The Face Person sat fractionally higher. “We do not meet
with others, or speak with them. Only at Rendezvous. Other tribes are all our
enemies.”

“The more so if you steal their goats and kill their people,”
the bearded man pointed out, angrily.

But Bel continued. “The second thing we must do, when the
time comes, is to cease being enemies. We will have to work together.”

The bearded man spoke again. “I will not put my people at
the service of another tribe. If I see advantage for my tribe, I will take it.
If it causes another tribe difficulty, that’s their misfortune.”

“If the wizards try to rule us,” Bel said, “or if they try
to harm us, that’s everyone’s misfortune. If we join to defeat them, that’s to
everyone’s advantage.”

The third woman present spoke up for the first time. “But I
see a difficulty,” she said; and from her tone Rowan realized that she did not
in fact see a difficulty, but spoke only to give Bel an opportunity to make
some particular point. “When the time comes to act, how can all the tribes act
with one purpose? Our seyohs may not agree.”

Bel responded smoothly. “We will need one person in command.”
And before anyone could voice the question, she answered it. “Me.”

Three seyohs protested immediately. Three did not; Kammeryn,
who seemed to have expected the idea; the woman who had prompted the statement,
who Rowan now realized was the seyoh of Ella’s tribe; and the Face Person.

“I believe none of this,” the long-bearded man declared. “Perhaps
the wizards are causing trouble in the Inner Lands; perhaps something has
fallen from the sky—but it has nothing to do with my people. Bel’s concerns are
imaginary. Unless this Slado acts directly against my people, my tribe, I will
do nothing. No one will command me.”

The woman who had earlier professed confusion had become definite.
“This is counter to our laws. Each tribe lives or dies by its own skills. Each
tribe answers to the seyoh, and the seyoh is alone.”

The moderator leaned toward Bel, her blind eyes darting
about in anger. “You have a young voice, and you are only a warrior. Can you
think you know better than elders, than seyohs?”

Bel gave no ground. “In this matter, yes. I’ve met wizards,
and dealt with them. You have not. I’ve been at the steerswoman’s side throughout
her investigation, and I’m still at her side. I know exactly what she knows.
Only Slado himself knows more about his plans than we do. Even the wizard in
Wulfshaven knew nothing until Rowan herself told him. The other wizards know
even less.

“And I’m continuing with Rowan, until we reach the Guidestar.
What she sees, I will see. I know more than any of you, and I’ll soon know even
more.”

“You ask too much,” the blind woman said.

Kammeryn replied, “She does not. I know her. She is wiser
than you think, and stronger. If she calls me, I will follow.”

The seyoh of Ella’s tribe added, “It’s true that Bel is only
a warrior. But this will be a war—what sort, we cannot know yet, but war nevertheless.
If we need to become like an army, we must.”

The Face Person shifted, and all eyes turned toward him; but
he did not speak.

A silence followed, and the moderator gathered her dignity. “We
met in order to hear Bel and her companion speak. We have done so. This is
something each seyoh must decide alone—”

“I have decided!” the man with the long beard announced.

The moderator made a gesture. “Then let us each take time to
consider our decisions. Let us meet again tomorrow, to tell them to these two,
and to each other.”

The two women returned to Kree’s tent, walking silently, separately
considering the events of the meeting. When they arrived, they discovered that
the tent was not empty. Three people were seated inside, with three pairs of
the little erby jugs on the floor around them; and one pair of jugs was already
empty.

“Rowan!” Fletcher made a loose gesture of welcome. “Bel!
Come in, sit down, have a drink. We’ve made a new friend.”

Rowan was in no mood for celebration. “No, thank you,” she
said. “I’m afraid Bel and I have some things on our minds. And I’ve already had
one experience with erby; I don’t care to repeat it.”

“Ah.” He laid a finger aside his nose. “Ah, but you should.
Wouldn’t be sociable, otherwise.”

Averryl spoke, with a shade of intoxicated precision. “You
want to talk to our friend.”

Rowan stepped further inside to see the stranger: a small
man, hair cut short, dressed in a motley tunic with visible gaps, and
bare-legged—

Bel said, “A Face Person.” The same man they had seen
sitting all alone in the avenue between camps.

“You wanted to know why the Face People are so far west,”
Fletcher said, nodding stolidly. “He told us he’d tell you.”

Bel wavered, her thoughts clearly still on the meeting of
seyohs. Then she nodded, at some inner observation. She strolled over to the
group and joined them; Rowan followed, somewhat reluctantly.

Bel addressed the stranger immediately. “I’m Bel. I’ve fought
some of your people. They were very good fighters.”

“My people. My tribe,” the small man said. His face, deeply
lined, might have been carved from brown Inner Lands wood. He thumped his chest
with one hand.

Averryl was interested. “Your own tribe? It was you who attacked
us?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. Rowan became disturbed by the direction
of the conversation. By contrast, Averryl and Bel seemed deeply impressed,
even admiring.

“If we hadn’t had you outnumbered,” Averryl told the Face
Person, “if we hadn’t joined forces with another tribe ...” Apparently from the
effects of the alcohol, he lost track of his thoughts. He paused to recover
them.

Bel finished the statement. “And if I hadn’t seen you in
time to organize a resistance, we would have stood no chance at all. Your
tribe was fearsome!”

Outskirter compliments, Rowan thought: We’re very impressed
that you almost destroyed us. Have a drink.

“You have to catch up,” Fletcher announced. He stretched
back and found two more mugs apparently set aside in anticipation of the women’s
arrival. “Here.” He poured. “Four sips each.”

They took their mugs, and the Face Person glowered across at
them. “Women shouldn’t drink. It is bad for the child in the womb.”

“They’re not pregnant,” Fletcher assured him, then caught Rowan’s
eye and assumed an expression of panic. “Good god, you’re not, are you?”

Rowan laughed. “No.” She could hardly know so soon. However,
she had carefully waited for the proper time in her cycle; additionally,
Fletcher had introduced her to the use of a peculiar Outskirter device, coyly
referred to as a “glove.” She considered the eventuality extremely unlikely,
and took a sip of the erby.