The Steerswoman's Road (90 page)

“How can we prevent him suspecting?”

“He’ll have to think nothing has changed.”

“I’ll need to lie.”

“That’s right.” Bel nodded, then caught the steerswoman’s expression.
The Outskirter was briefly angry, then immediately, reluctantly, sympathetic. “Rowan,
I know it’s hard for you to lie—”

“For a steerswoman, impossible.”

“Then resign!” Bel dropped to a seat close beside her. “You
did it before, for perfectly good reasons. It was the only thing you could do.
This is the same. Rowan, you have to do it again.”

The steerswoman said carefully, “I have to make him believe
that absolutely nothing at all has changed?”

“Yes—” Bel began, then broke off as she realized exactly
what would be required of the steerswoman to maintain the deception. Despite
her acceptance of deceit as an often-useful tool, Bel’s honor balked at the
concept. She continued, but with the greatest reluctance. “Do you think you
can?”

“You know me,” Rowan said. “What do you think?”

Bel studied her for a long moment, then turned away to think
for a longer one. “Not you,” she said at last, with a wry expression. “If you
resign the Steerswomen, yes, you can do things like give a false name, pretend
you’re some other person, refuse to answer a question, answer a question with a
lie. But when it comes to how you act, and the look on your face—you can only
deceive when the lie fits in with your natural reactions.”

“In normal, daily activities, perhaps I could fool most
people, or even Fletcher. But even if I did manage to force myself to make love
to him, he could not fail to notice some difference in me.”

Bel’s mouth twisted one way, then the other, as she
considered. “End the romance.”

“I’d need some explanation. Everyone will wonder.”

“No one will wonder.” The warrior gave a short laugh. “In
fact, they’ll think better of you.”

Rowan puzzled. “How so?”

“When you watched Fletcher fight,” Bel said, “you knew what
you were seeing. No one else did. What they all saw, and what I saw, was this:

“Fletcher began by fighting badly, but managing by some
trick or by luck to hold his own; Jaffry got angry and fought worse, and
Fletcher gained some ground; then Jaffry became furious, fought better, and
Fletcher got frightened, lost all control, and made the stupidest, most
ridiculous errors possible, doing things any idiot could see were useless, and
proving that he was entirely incompetent.”

Rowan considered. “And?”

Bel threw up her hands. “Who would want a man like that? Not
me.”

“You’re thinking as an Outskirter.”

“Yes. And so will everyone else. You fought Jaffry not for
Fletcher’s sake, but for the sake of your own honor. Even if Fletcher wasn’t
worthy of you, he was your lover at that time. Jaffry dared to injure your
lover in what should have been a bloodless competition. So you fought him, but
you didn’t call it a blood duel, you named it a sword challenge; then you
defeated him so easily it was laughable, and refused to take his sword,
proving that you weren’t interested in it in the first place. You did it to
shame Jaffry, and it worked. No one will blame you; he
should
be ashamed
for losing control as he did.”

“People will accept this?”

Bel was definite. “Yes.”

“Not Fletcher himself,” Rowan pointed out. “He doesn’t think
as an Outskirter. And he won’t believe I do.”

They were quiet a moment. “Can you have an argument with
him?”

“Now, while he’s lying wounded?”

“Well, no, you’ll have to wait. But can you think of something?”

“I don’t know.” And they both pondered the problem,
silently. A voice spoke from behind. “Rowan?” She turned.

Averryl was standing between two tents, seeming hesitant to
come nearer. “He’s awake. He’s asking for you.”

Rowan was reluctantly impressed by Fletcher’s skill at
deceit. He had been told to watch her, or deal with her, or prevent her from accomplishing
her mission; and yet, even wounded, he still remembered to maintain the
illusion that she was important to him personally.

Quite suddenly, Rowan saw what she could do. And it required
no lies on her part, no need to resign her order. Instead, it required that she
remain, perfectly, a steerswoman—and that she have a small degree of
sympathetic assistance.

Rowan said to Averryl, “I am not coming.” The warrior gave
her a long gaze of disappointment, but he did not protest. He departed. Bel
tilted her head in his direction. “See?”

Rowan nodded. “Just as you said. Now, listen: this is what I
need you to do.”

Fletcher’s wound was not deadly, but it was two days before
he regained the strength to rise. He immediately sought out the steerswoman.

“Where have you been?” He was pale, faintly unsteady. “Averryl
told me some story,” he said, and half laughed, “I couldn’t believe it! Why
didn’t you come?”

It was a question. No steerswoman was permitted to answer a
question put to her by someone who was known to have lied to any steers-woman.
Rowan did not reply. She returned to her study of a small Outskirter handloom
that one of the scouts was practicing on, watching the tiny bone shuttle being
carefully threaded through the warp.

Fletcher knelt beside her, turning a puzzled gaze at the
scout, dismissing him, and turning back to Rowan. “Rowan, please, what’s
wrong?”

He had told her countless lies. Her refusal to reply was
justified. But he was not aware that she had caught him in any falsehood. It
was necessary for her to do so, visibly, and in a fashion that did not hint at
the true extent of her knowledge.

They had been lovers; now they were not. By asking one specific
question, Rowan could insure that the entire matter would be perceived as
merely a lover’s quarrel.

“Fletcher, what do you feel toward me?” she asked, and sat
calmly looking up at him, waiting for his answer.

With the question posed in such a way, under such circumstances,
he could give only one reply. He gave it, appearing properly confused. “I love
you.”

She smiled at the words, and he warmed to the smile, mistaking
its meaning. “That,” she said, with the deepest satisfaction, “is a lie.” And
she rose and walked away.

He stayed where she had left him, looking after her; then abruptly
he threw himself to his feet and hurried after her. “What do you mean?”

She continued walking.

“Rowan, you can’t be serious!”

His second statement had not been a question. She said, “I
am perfectly serious.” She provided the fact as volunteered information. “But
why? What’s wrong?”

She did not reply. She continued walking; he continued following.
They passed Bel, who was occupied in repairing her sword strap. Fletcher turned
to her. “Bel, why won’t she answer me?”

Bel pointed out, with careful indifference, “Steerswomen
have to answer any question put to them. Usually.”

“But,” he said, then stopped short; his face underwent a
series of expressions, apparently designed to reflect an internal sequence of
arguments and confusions.

He was supposed to be an Inner Lander, and to know well under
what circumstances a steerswoman may refuse to answer. The obvious inference
came to him. He spun back to Rowan, throwing up his long arms. “But it wasn’t a
lie, it’s true!”

Rowan turned back to look him in the eyes. She could not
feign emotion; but she could prevent emotion from showing in her own expression—completely.

The face she presented to Fletcher was one of impassivity,
utter disinterest. It was not a face he had ever seen on her before.

His hands dropped, and he stood slack in apparent disbelief.
Once more, Rowan turned and walked away.

He watched her, then suddenly said, as if to himself, “Bel.”
He looked about, found the Outskirter still beside him, and pleaded with her. “Bel,
she won’t refuse you, ask her why she doesn’t believe me—”

“No.” Bel was adamant. “This is between you and her, and I’m
not about to get in the middle.”

He gazed down at her, aghast, then looked around again. The
wool-weaving warrior was nearby. “Gregaryn—”

“No.” Gregaryn gathered up in his equipment and rose. “You
can do your own dirty work,” he announced, then departed, shaking his head.

Fletcher stood completely still. He blinked, then scanned
the camp. All eyes were on him, all embarrassed at his behavior. Fletcher shook
his head as if to clear it of a bad dream, and went after the steerswoman
again. He stopped a mertutial in passing, asked her to ask his question of
Rowan, and was again refused. He tried a warrior and was refused, and then
another—no one would assist him.

During the two days Fletcher had lain weak from his wound
and from blood loss, Bel had carefully explained to every tribe member that
Rowan had terminated her romance with him; that she was deeply upset about it
and wished to be let alone on the subject; that it would be extremely unkind
for anyone to abuse the laws of the Steers-women to force Rowan into discussing
the matter against her will; and that Fletcher, as a mere Inner Lander, would
be unlikely to face the disappointment with a proper degree of warrior’s
dignity, or with honorable respect for Rowan’s own decision.

Fletcher now confirmed Bel’s evaluation.

He ranted, raved, railed; he brought into use all his skill,
all his expressiveness of body, face, and voice. He stormed about the camp,
following the steerswoman, asking and then begging for reply. Then he was
shouting, first at her, then at anyone nearby, and then, finally, to the
universe at large.

Rowan thought it rather an impressive display.

Eventually he exhausted himself and dropped abruptly to a
seat on the ground, shaking and gasping from the exertion. Mander, who had been
drawn from his tent by the noise of Fletcher’s carryings-on, examined his
stitched wound angrily, then gave him a stern lecture, delivered with scant
sympathy, on the necessity of rest and recuperation.

Fletcher sat listening dizzily, seeming dazed. Possibly he
was; the difference at this point was immaterial. Rowan and Bel left him
sitting by the fire pit, Mander at his side, mertutials giving the pair a very
wide berth as they moved about, preparing dinner.

Rowan gathered her belongings together, wondering where to move
them. While she was at work, Jann provided the answer.

Rowan was surprised, and then was not. “But how does Jaffry
feel about it?”

Jann’s wide mouth tilted wryly. “He’ll get over it. Things
got out of hand, and he deserved what you gave him.” And she hesitated, then continued
with some reluctance. “I got out of hand myself. We’re both lucky it got no
worse.”

“Well.” Rowan set to rolling up her bedding. “Perhaps I understand
things a bit better now. I have no real grudge against Jaffry. He’s a fine
young man, and a fine warrior.”

“That’s well said.” Jann clapped Rowan’s shoulder, then
helped her carry her belongings outside. “Fletcher isn’t worth your attention,”
the warrior assured her as they crossed the camp. “He fooled you for a while,
that’s all. He’s fooled a lot of people.” And they walked past Fletcher
himself; he was in an argument with Averryl. Seeing them, the wizard’s minion
stopped in midsentence and watched Rowan pass, with apparent sorrow and
longing, until she was out of sight.

By evening, Fletcher had descended to the low tactic of sending
Deely as his go-between.

The weaver stood outside Orranyn’s tent and waited, undecided,
apparently uncertain of the propriety of his own mission. The steerswoman went
out to speak to him.

He addressed her without preamble. “Rowan, don’t you like
Fletcher anymore?” He seemed relieved to have gotten the sentence out.

She responded with the truth, spoken gently for Deely’s benefit.
“No, I don’t.”

He shifted on his feet and looked down, sorrowful and uncomfortable.
“But why not?”

“Because he lied to me. You’re not supposed to lie to a
steers-woman.”

This had been explained to him several times in the past, by
several people. She wondered to what extent he understood or accepted the
custom.

Rowan attempted to forestall further questions. “Deely, you
know that sometimes people who are in love have fights.”

“Yes ..”

“Well, it’s very sad, but it’s also very hard on the people.
Sometimes it hurts them to talk about it. I don’t love Fletcher anymore, and I
want him to leave me alone. Please don’t make me talk about this, Deely—I
really don’t want to.”

He thought very hard, then reached out and patted her on the
shoulder with clumsy sympathy. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

His concern was total, and sweet in its simplicity. Rowan
wished she could comfort him. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

Three days passed, with the only unusual event being the departure
of Dane and Leonie on their walkabout. The two children slipped away before
dawn, following Outskirter custom. Any rites or celebrations would wait for
their return.

Rowan spent the days in camp, going about her usual
business, covertly studying Fletcher’s behavior from a distance. Bel stayed
close beside the wizard’s minion when not on duty herself, watching for signs
of evil intent.

Neither woman noticed anything amiss.

“He’s not very active,” Bel told Rowan over breakfast one
morning, at a moment when no one was paying them attention, “but Kree ordered
him to stay put, so he can recover. He hasn’t been able to go out on the
circles with the rest of the band.”

“I haven’t seen anything.” Rowan paused when Chess approached,
waiting as the old mertutial passed mugs of broth to the two women. Fletcher
had been staying in camp, in Kree’s tent. The weather had been fine, and on all
three days the wizard’s man had rolled up the sides of the tent, so that he
might rest in the sunshine. He had been completely visible to any passerby.