The Lost Steersman (Steerswoman Series) (29 page)

Rowan said coolly, “It’s generally not wise to make the attempt.”

“Well.” Gwen shrugged, tossed her head. “Just did it for a lark, really. Needed to find you, anyway. Corey wants you.”

“It’s not a demon?” Steffie was already on his feet.

“No,” Gwen replied. “But if it was, what you should do is go the other way!”

“It’s not like I go looking for ’em.”

“Oh, yes, it is— ”

Rowan interposed herself. “What,” she said, “does Corey want with me?”

Gwen looked her up and down. “There’s someone asking for the steerswoman. Corey figures that means either you or Mira, so he sent me to get you.”

“Why you?” Steffie wondered.

“ ’Cause I saw the stranger first. We were out in Lasker’s north field, hard at work, and I spotted her across Sandy’s Dell. And where were you all day?”

“Helping the steerswoman. She got hurt, if you remember, killing a demon, if you haven’t forgot, saving your neck and everybody else’s, just thought I’d remind you— ”

“The stranger is a woman?” Rowan asked.

“From a distance, seems to be,” Gwen said. “Barbarian, by her outfit. Militia won’t let her pass, and she won’t let them near her— ”

By the time Rowan reached the dell, Steffie had nearly caught up to her.

She found Corey and three of the militia grouped together in rather an admirable array: two pike bearers, weapons braced against the ground, down on one knee; standing tall above them, with bow raised and arrow nocked above their heads, the archer Lilly; and Corey to one side, his own pike held at the center and balanced. A small, efficient configuration.

The focus of all this defensive might was a single figure, standing knee-deep in timothy at the far end of the dell, her back against the forest. Her sword was ready in her hand, her legs were planted wide, and she seemed prepared to fight all comers. She wore high, shaggy boots, leather leggings, a rough woolen vest, a cloak patchworked in goatskin: the garments of an Outskirter—

But it was not Bel.

Rowan recognized the fact immediately, from the woman’s stance, her height, her color. The steerswoman’s disappointment was so deep that for a moment she could do nothing but stand and wait for it to pass.

Steffie arrived at her side, noted her expression, made no comment.

Corey backed up to join them, keeping a sharp eye on the Outskirter. “Wants to get to the harbor, she says. And something about a steerswoman. Hard to talk clear, at this distance. I won’t let her near with her weapon out.”

“She won’t sheathe it.” Some shift in the warrior’s stance made her sword flash, once, in the light. “I can’t imagine Mira having contact with the Outskirters. If she wants a steerswoman, it must be me.”

Corey regarded her with a trace of skepticism; then seemed to reach a decision and nodded. “Right. What do we do?”

“You might lower the pikes to a less threatening angle . . . other than that, nothing. I have to do it.” And she walked past the defenders, out into the dell, wading through the timothy.

Some fifteen feet away from the warrior, Rowan stopped. Blue eyes under a tangle of blond hair watched her warily. With careful slowness, the steerswoman drew her sword and stood with its flat resting on her left forearm.

The warrior’s gaze narrowed, but she remained in battle stance. This was proper neither for a friendly warrior approaching an Inner Lands village, nor for an Outskirter approaching a strange tribe. Rowan suspected that the woman had attempted both methods already, and had been met with only incomprehension and hostility. The steerswoman hoped to reassure her with purely Outskirter protocol.

Etiquette required that Rowan warn of any possible threat nearby. The steerswoman gave a small smile. “Five very nervous townfolk, at twelve by you,” she said, using Outskirter orientation.

The narrowed gaze relaxed a bit toward amusement. “Warrior at ten by you.” The woman had a comrade nearby, watching from the forest.

“You mentioned a steerswoman. Could that be me?”

The woman shifted a bit, a thoughtful weaving motion not much different from Bel’s own habit. Then she reached a decision, relaxed her stance, stooped once to place her sword on the ground before her feet, and stood before the steerswoman unarmed and trusting. “I was given something and told to take it to the harbor here. I was to find a sailing ship going to a place called Southport, and the people on the ship would bring the object to a steerswoman there, named Rowan.”

“I am Rowan.”

The Outskirter’s mouth twitched. “This isn’t Southport.”

“I was on my way there and got delayed. You can give what you have to me, in person.”

“Can you prove who you are?”

“I can give you three names,” Rowan replied, “three names I believe are known to you.”

The warrior nodded. “And the first of those names will be ‘Bel.’ ”

“Yes. I’ll give you the others, but I’d like to step closer.” Outskirters guarded their second and third names carefully. Knowledge of a warrior’s three names was confirmation of connection, and that person’s tribe would be duty bound to render assistance.

But Bel’s own names meant far more. They would soon become a password among all the Outskirter tribes. And the time was not right to give that password to the Inner Lands folk.

Instead of waiting for a reply, Rowan placed her own sword on the ground and stepped over it to approach the woman: also not strictly according to form, but the level of trust implied was so great that the warrior immediately stepped forward herself. The two women met in the center, both their weapons completely out of reach.

Rowan said quietly, “Bel, Margasdotter, Chanly.”

“This is yours.” The object was already in the warrior’s hand, and she passed it to Rowan.

A rolled goatskin, bound with thongs. Rowan untied the thongs immediately. The skin fell open. She held it spread and found on its smoother side a message, written with blue ink in letters childishly large:

Ive don what I can and things wil move with out me for a wile. Im coming to meet you in South Port. Stay wher you are or I wont find you.

Then, lest there be some confusion on the point:

This is from Bel.

A final line was added at the bottom of the skin, apparently a last-minute recognition of contingency:

Or leve a message.

Rowan discovered that she was laughing out loud, and managed to restrain herself from embracing the messenger. “It’s from Bel!” she said foolishly, waving the goatskin at the woman. After so long apart, even this symbolic contact with her longtime traveling companion filled Rowan with relief and joy. She could hear Bel’s voice in the words; the letters were written in Bel’s own hand . . .

The messenger watched her with the sort of fond amusement that showed she had herself, at some time in the past, experienced a similar emotion. “Have you seen Bel?” Rowan asked her. “Is she well?”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ve never seen her. This thing has been passed from tribe to tribe, the way Bel’s tale is being passed.” She went on, a shade hesitantly. “And you’re the steerswoman in the tale.”

Rowan detected a trace of incipient awe in her tone. Bel was apparently on her way to acquiring mythic proportions among the Outskirters and, by association, so was Rowan. She grinned uncomfortably; spoke as casually as possible. “That’s me.”

The woman glanced past Rowan’s shoulder at the pikes and the nocked arrow. “Bel says that the wizard Slado will force my people to fight yours and that what we need to do instead is all of us join to fight Slado and his wizards, together.”

“That’s right.”

“But you don’t trust your own people.”

Rowan winced. “No. Not yet. They don’t yet understand.” She rolled the goatskin.

“If Bel comes to speak to them, they will.” Utter confidence.

Bel’s tale was cast as an epic poem, set in a form Outskirters used only for true tales. The truth of it, the language and form used, and the specific emotions addressed combined to stirring, compelling effect— to other Outskirters. Rowan doubted that it would similarly move Inner Landers. “I think that that job may fall to the Steerswomen.”

After further conversation, the warrior declined Rowan’s offer of shelter for the night; and the two women parted, one to the forest, one to the groves.

“A message from a friend,” Rowan called out as she neared the militia. She held up the goatskin.

Steffie was intensely interested. “From that one you mentioned, that Bel?” he asked when she arrived.

“Yes.” She passed him the skin; he opened it, peered at the words. “She’s on her way here,” Rowan informed Corey. “Let’s try to be a little more hospitable when she arrives, shall we? I wouldn’t like Alemeth to gain a bad reputation among travelers.”

“When will she get here?” Steffie asked.

“Well. That’s the problem,” Rowan said. “Travel through the Outskirts doesn’t have regular shipping routes or times, as sea travel does. And there are any number of possible events that could delay her. From what the warrior told me, Bel could show up tomorrow; she could arrive a month from now. All I know is that she is coming.”

“What, another barbarian?” This from one of the pike bearers.

“Yes,” Rowan said carefully, “I do have friends among the Outskirters . . .

“They’re killers, all of them.”

“They live in a dangerous country. If you need to use violence to survive, then you use it. As perhaps you have noticed lately.”

The pikeman looked off to one side. “Well, never did need it much, until you came along— ”

“Here!” Corey stopped him. “All of you off and back to work, now. Whole thing’s over.”

They dispersed with reluctance. Lilly paused before leaving. “Shouldn’t we set some sort of guard?” she asked Corey. “That one might come back and kill us in our sleep.”

Rowan spoke up. “Had she wanted to do that, she would have done it last night and not given you even this much warning. She merely came to deliver the message.”

“Outskirters attacked the town once,” Lilly said, turning a flat gaze on her. “My gran said.”

“Not the same sort of Outskirter,” was all Rowan said.

“Oh?” The syllable spoke volumes.

“Yes.”

Corey stepped between them. “Rowan knows about Outskirters— she just showed us that. Now, she’s been helping us with these demons, so I’m ready to take her word on this, too. And if you’re not, then your memory’s not so good, is it?”

Lilly shifted her glare to Corey. “You’re only my boss when there’s trouble. Rest of the time, you just work with the worms, same as me.”

“Well, that’s good. ’Cause it’s when there’s trouble that you need someone doing your thinking for you. So go take care of Lasker’s worms, and I’ll go take care of Karin’s, and we’ll both be doing what we should.”

Lilly departed with ill grace. The steerswoman watched her out of sight.

“Rowan.” She turned back. Corey managed to look both determined and uncomfortable. “All I need to know about you,” he said, “I already seen. You protect. That’s the thing I care about. Wouldn’t have this job if I didn’t; the extra pay’s not big enough to matter.

“But it’s the
only
thing I care about. Now, I’ll keep an eye out for your barbarian friend, and no one’ll shoot her soon as they see her. But if I should find out that you’ve invited trouble in for dinner, then you can be sure that it’s trouble you’ll get on your own self. Just thought I’d say that. Just in case.”

“Perhaps you should be saying that to Janus.”

“Well, maybe I’ll do exactly that. ’Cause it’s something everybody ought to keep in mind.” And he left them.

“Didn’t like that much,” Steffie commented, when Corey was out of earshot.

“Nor did I.” They went down the dusty path between Karin’s and Lasker’s fields. “But I can’t blame Corey . . . although I rather wish I could. Just for someone to be mad at.”

He made an amused noise. “Not fair, is that? Everybody else gets to be mad for whatever reason they like, but a steerswoman’s stuck with just the truth. But I didn’t mean Corey. Nor Lilly— she’s a good shot, but she’s not what you’d call clever. I meant Kylan.”

She thought. “Do you mean that pike bearer who spoke?”

“That’s him. What he said, it sounded like . . . like he was just about to go down a road, so to speak, that would get him to a wrong place.”

As usual, she found Steffie’s use of language both awkward and apt. “Yes. One more step and he would have been blaming me for the demons.”

They reached the end of the path, where it joined Old High Street. It was past dinnertime, and the day was dimming; light from Karin’s second shed leaked out in stripes from gaps in the siding.

No one was in sight. Rowan stopped and turned to Steffie. “You’ve lived here all your life, Steffie, so you tell me: How likely is it that the general populace will rise up in a group and run me out of town?”

The question did not inspire immediate protest; but his face scrunched into an immense wince, and he stood shifting his shoulders in frustration. “Rowan,
I
don’t know. Everyone’s different. I’d have to add up everybody in town, and everything I know about every one of them . . .”