Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (28 page)

Down below, a cat-sized dragon wandered toward the edge of
the group, hesitated, scratched the back of its head with a hind foot, and
turned back again. “Willam, I think they’re repeating.”

He made a disgruntled sound. “For all the good it does us.”
Something was missing.

Rowan had been considering the situation very logically; she
almost felt that one ought to be able to state it in terms of pure symbolic
logic. She could not, quite; but the impression persisted, and along with it,
the impression that something was definitely missing.

It happened sometimes, when one worked through a series of
equations, following their progression and alterations to some conclusion, that
one would sense, undeniably, that some—

thing was wrong. A feeling, perhaps, that completion was not
present, that there must be something more. Half a shape, where there ought to
be symmetry, awkwardness instead of elegance; the absence of, for lack of a
better word, beauty.

But the matter at hand was not numbers and symbols; it was
animals, and motion. Still—something was missing.

Lists; lists of actions, if not read from writing, then by
some means memorized, and enacted by these animals. Like perfect actors,
following perfectly a predetermined script. The same evening’s entertainment,
repeated endlessly … “How often is the program changed?”

She sensed Will’s sudden attention, although he was a moment
speaking. Then: “What did you say?”

She continued to study the dragons’ movements. “Because it
must be changed sometimes. Conditions will alter, and the script must be
altered, too, to take that into account.”

She turned to find the wide copper gaze regarding her, with
an expression she was absolutely unable to analyze. From the airy realms of
logic she suddenly came to earth, suddenly felt that she was speaking out of
utter ignorance, and became embarrassed. “I’m sorry—”

“No … ,” he said, slowly, “no, you’re right. The program
would need to be changed.”

She was relieved to find that they were at least using the
same analogy. “How long ago was it altered, do you know?”

He gave this some thought, still watching her closely. “No,
I don’t … The dragons only enter this routine when they’re completely out of
contact with the controller. That’s pretty rare. This may be the only time it’s
happened for decades …”

His tone, and his expression, were still odd. Rowan could
not help asking: “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His brows went up. “You’re just surprising me,
that’s all.”

She did not know how to feel about the statement. “Am I actually
making sense?”

“Yes,” he said, definitely. “A lot. Go on.”

She turned back to the scene below. “Then”—program had
communicated her meaning before; she continued to use the word—“the program was
decided, and the script written, within the last few years, at the least.
Because, as I notice, that small dragon is clambering on top of that rock to
avoid being harassed by those two larger ones … but previously, the dragons
were not in this field at all, were they?”

Willam considered. “The pattern takes the rock into account.
The program has to date at least from when the dragons were moved to this location.
What are you getting at?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Actors, following a script of explicit
stage direction; or dancers, with the dance predetermined, step by step.

Something was missing.

“Oh,” Rowan said, in a small voice. She found she had risen,
was staring down at the dragons, fascinated; watching not each individual
movement, but the whole of it, the sum of the motions, the completeness that
should, but would not be present.

Will was beside her. She did not turn. “What do you see?” he
asked.

^{It ..}
.
Nothing, yet …”

“What are you looking for?”

^{IL ..}
.
A hole …” He did not ask
further, and she was glad of it; this took a great deal of concentration. But
then, he understood what that was like.

“Ah?” An involuntary noise from the steerswoman, very quiet.
She said, half to herself, “I think … that dog-sized dragon—it was acting
oddly for a moment …” It had hissed, twisted, emitted a whistling whine of
displeasure, backed off—from nothing.

Nearby, a smaller dragon suddenly startled, and scampered
away—from nothing. “Willam—” Suddenly excited, she clutched his arm,
pointed—“Those two pony-dragons, with the very brown heads, ten meters in from
the edge.”

“I see them …”

She released his arm. “Watch.”

The pair were side by side, one desultorily scraping at the
earth with a forefoot, the other watching the first with interest.

Simultaneously, both looked over their shoulders, hesitated,
then separated, one to each side, leaving a wide empty gap between.

Willam said, in a voice of perplexity, “… What?”

Just beyond, a clutch of six little creatures the size of
rats were writhing and weaving among each other.

They froze. They scattered. They did so in two stages: half
a meter away, a pause, then another full meter. Rowan could not help but cry
out: “Oh, lovely!” She could almost see the heavy footsteps from which they
fled.

She turned to Willam. He was regarding her, drop-jawed. Rowan
said: “Two of Jannik’s dragons are dead.”

Realization dawned, and he closed his mouth, slowly.
“There’s a
hole!”

She was grinning. “Two holes. Two places in the pattern
where a dragon is expected, but does not exist. Willam—do they really only know
each other by their places in the pattern?”

They tested the limits of the problem. They sacrificed
Rowan’s spare shirt to make more shoots. One they tossed toward the edge of the
dragon herd, incrementally closer and closer, to determine the exact range at
which the dragons would continue to ignore it. Retrieving it repeatedly became
increasingly more harrowing, until, at a distance of four meters from the edge
of the herd, three dragons noticed and flamed the shoot to ashes.

Rowan found it rather more difficult to maintain a properly
objective state of mind when the dragons actually spit fire; Willam seemed not
to have this problem. But the steerswoman no longer doubted his calm, and she
found his steadiness steadying.

They scratched a line in the earth, a large curve below
their hill, marking the limit of the dragons’ interest. They attempted to drop
another shoot directly into the hole in the pattern, but this proved
impossible, due to the unpredictable movements of heated air above the dragons.

And through all their tests and observations, and
preparations, the hole continued to move: an emptiness that wandered, paused,
advanced and retreated. They knew it by the creatures around it, with every
other dragon it neared behaving exactly as if the absence were a presence. A
ghost-dragon, invisible.

The hole corresponding to the second missing dragon was much
harder to track. It moved less steadily, it turned unexpectedly, it seemed
sometimes to vanish entirely. Willam soon identified the difficulty: the second
dragon was smaller than the first. Other dragons were less likely to clear a
path for it. Furthermore, it seemed more aggressive than its size warranted,
and confrontations were more common, with the outcome less predictable. The
watchers decided to concentrate on the larger hole.

Stand just outside the perimeter. Wait for the hole to
approach the edge. Run to the hole, and enter it. As quickly as possible,
snatch the nearest small dragon, pull it into the hole, cover its eyes, pick it
up—and run, before the hole moved back into the herd.

Speed was needed, and precision. But it was all so very
logical.

“It looks like it might reach the edge over there, on the
right.”

“If you say so,” Willam said.

She turned to him. “You can’t see it?”

“Sometimes. I lose it every now and again.”

“It takes looking at all the dragons around the hole.” She
turned back, and was a moment finding it again. But there: two large dragons,
heads cocked, as if tracking the passage of an invisible third. Admittedly, the
signs were sometimes subtle. “Very well. I’ll do it.”

Willam stepped directly in front of her. “You will
not.”

“But—” He stood before her, appalled and unmovable. “But,”
Rowan said, “if I’m the one who can see the gap more clearly—”

“No.
I’ll do it.”

“Give me one good reason why.”

He needed to think, but did so quickly. “Dragons are heavier
than they look, and I’m stronger.”

“I’m not weak, and I’m fast, and I have a very good idea of
exactly what I’ll be doing.”

He crossed his arms, regarded her with narrowed gaze. “Then
I won’t go in until you pass on to me that very good idea of what exactly
I’ll
be doing.”

“Willam, I’m the better choice, and you know it.”

He hesitated. “Yes, you are the better choice. But”—he
became stubborn again—“it’s my idea, and my decision, and my responsibility.
We’re here because of me. If something goes wrong, and someone gets burned,
it’s going to be me, and not you. Because all this is my doing.”

It was true; and were their positions reversed, Rowan would
be exactly as insistent, and exactly as right in her claim.

A steerswoman could not deny fact. “Very well.” He relaxed,
relieved.

They cut a section of cloth from Willam’s bedroll, to cover
their victim’s eyes. They discussed the moves, planned, rehearsed. Throughout
this, Willam was very intent, with an edge of nervousness that worried the
steerswoman. But finally, and rather abruptly, Will became perfectly calm,
utterly composed. The steerswoman recognized this as the exact moment when
Willam understood, completely, what he would do. No more discussion was needed.

They watched the hole, and waited.

Twice it moved toward the edge of the herd; twice it turned
back, with Willam already in position, left behind at the perimeter. Once it
seemed to march confidently to the very edge, and paused there for a long
moment; but also at the edge a waist-high dragon and another as tall as Rowan’s
shoulder stood on either side of the hole, one eye of each pointed toward the
perimeter. They would not fail to catch the moment of out-ofpattern motion when
Willam dashed to the hole.

Rowan and Willam sidled along, just outside the limit of the
dragons’ interest, alert for another opportunity. They both saw it coming, and
wordlessly moved into position.

Rowan intended to signal Willam with a slap on the shoulder
when the moment arrived; she slapped air. He was already moving.

Three long steps and he was in the hole.

Willam stepped to the far end of the gap. Three smaller dragons
were near, walking away, not quickly; Willam was quick. He grabbed one by the
tail, pulled back mightily. The dragon slid back, claws scoring the earth. A
flicker of attention from dragons farther in, but now all motion was only
within the limits of the hole.

Willam’s dragon writhed, twisted its head, but Will had it by
the neck with both hands, pointing its snout away from him. He straddled the
creature and forced it to the ground.

He leaned on the neck, hard. The dragon flamed, and Will
turned his face from the heat, freed one hand, pulled the scrap of blanket from
his belt. When the fire stopped, Willam pushed the cloth over the creature’s
face, held it in place—and the dragon went limp.

All of this took place in mere instants.

But in those same instants, other events occurred.

To the right, deep in the herd, sudden movement: two
dragons, backing away from something. They neared the edge; they reached it;
they could go no farther. They hissed, flailed their tails, and parted, one to
each side, continuing along the edge, still retreating.

From nothing.

It was the second hole, the vicious smaller ghost, chasing
these others. The one on the left was scrambling, backing, toward Willam.

He did not see it. He would not see it in time. It would cut
off his escape. Rowan thought to shout warning, but they had not tested
shouting, she did not know what shouting would cause.

Five steps, at a run, and Rowan was in the hole with Willam.

He looked up, startled, then terrified. She clutched his
shoulder. In a whisper: “Don’t move,” and again, without voice: Don’t
move,
don’t
move …

Then the dragon was directly behind them.

It was taller than Rowan. She stood frozen as it eyed her,
head cocked.

No. It does not really see me, Rowan told herself, it does
not, it does not … Its action was part of its script. It would not attack—as
long as they stayed inside the hole.

Willam was down on one knee, motionless, the captive dragon
limp beneath him. The blocking dragon wove its head, took a step, and another,
toward them.

Rowan glanced over her shoulder. Ahead, a dragon as tall as
her shoulder looked her way. It hesitated, rumbled in its throat, and shifted
slightly aside.

Making way. The hole was about to move, inward.

Rowan shook Willam’s shoulder, urgently. He glanced about,
eyes wide, then pushed his captive forward on the ground, following the two
hesitant steps Rowan took.

The dragon behind still approached, sparing a hissing whis—

tle of annoyance at another that had crowded too near. Two
dragons behind, now.

In the other direction, a small dragon prodding at the
ground with its nose lifted its head, startled, made to flee, hesitated.

There was nothing to frighten it, no threat here. But with
sudden urgency it scrambled away, paused, and looked back.

Its head was cocked, one eye centered directly on Rowan.
Then the head tilted farther, and the eye was watching, tracking—nothing.

The hole was still moving. It was large, Rowan and Will were
still within it, but not for long.