Rosemary Kirstein - Steerswoman 04 (36 page)

One event. One fact.

The steerswoman said: “I’m here because power rests on
knowledge. And no knowledge should be secret.”

“Good.” Bel took a chair, pulled it near, climbed up to stand
on its seat. “Now,” she said to the people, “listen to me.” And the Outskirter
said, to Rowan’s astonishment:

“Once upon a time …”

Bel told it all.

From its innocuous beginning, with Rowan discovering, in the
course of her travels, the odd, flat, blue jewel; and becoming curious, as a
steerswoman does; and asking questions; and finding at first as her only
answer, the sudden interest of every wizard in the world

Somewhere later in the tale, Rowan thought: I would have
told it differently. She would have begun with the fallen Guidestar, spoken
next of the destruction of the Outskirts, and what would result from it. She
would have given them information.

But Bel, Rowan knew, was an artist. For her own people Bel
had composed an epic poem, now circulating among the Outskirter tribes, moving
across the land with a life of its own. The steerswoman was surprised that Bel
had come to know Rowan’s people so well that she could have constructed this:
the Inner Lands version of the same tale, cast in familiar form, calling forth
all the ways and manners of proper tales, drawing one in, moving the heart.

Rowan saw now that truly, this was the only way the story
could be told. The information was intact, but participation in its unfolding
made the knowledge each listener’s personal possession.

The people listened.

At the point when Bel reached her and Rowan’s first meeting
with the fourteen-year-old boy with the talent for magic, the steerswoman
realized that Willam was still in place, standing behind her, his hands on her
shoulders. And it seemed to her now that it was more than protection; it was a
declaration of affiliation. He
is with us. This is his story, too.

Rowan closed her eyes, leaned her head back against him.
When she opened them again, he had stooped down to study her face. “Do you want
to sleep?”

She did not. She wanted to hear the tale, all of it. Perhaps
Bel would continue, she thought, perhaps not stop at the present, but tell on:
through all the struggles ahead, beyond the pain and terror that lay waiting in
every dark adventure. Rowan wondered how it would end.

Willam was still regarding her, with solicitous patience.
The steerswoman said: “I’m so very tired.”

He helped her to her feet, and the tale-teller paused, and
all the listeners watched as Willam gently led the steerswoman away.

Rowan woke.

The room was quiet, and the light: a soft candle glow that
did not flicker, but pulsed, once, twice, then steadied.

She was not alone. She said, uncomprehending: “Reeder?”

“Don’t be alarmed.” He looked up from his hands, which he
had been studying idly. “I’m only here to ensure that you don’t stop breathing
in your sleep.”

Rowan rubbed grit from her eyes. “But, Willam, and Bel—”

“Your friends are occupied in discussions with Joly and the
council, and the other remaining witnesses. My presence was not needed, as I’ve
already made my position clear.”

Rowan remembered, and sought words to adequately express her
emotion. “Thank you for not betraying me.”

He permitted himself a small twitch of a smile. “Thank the
Outskirter.”

She studied him. He seemed himself again: controlled, held
at distance. Although, she noted, the disapproval he usually exuded was absent.

He accepted her scrutiny, perfectly composed. “You ought to
go back to sleep. You have”—he picked up something from the table, something
that trailed a string; he tilted the object to the candlelight—“four hours
left.”

Willam’s tiny clock. Reeder set it down, and turned back.
“Ah, yes, and I’m to ask you how you feel.”

She took inventory. She felt, for the most part, a heavy
weariness, as if she had been swimming for some long distance. Her ears still
rang, but only faintly, a high, distant whine. The skin of her chest, below the
collarbone and above her breasts, stung as if from some abrasion. She shifted a
bit, pulled her collar forward, and looked down.

Still there: five lines on her skin, like the hand of a
skeleton. She wondered if the marks were permanent.

Reeder watched with eyebrows lifted, as if mildly surprised
that so dignified a person as herself would make so intimate an inspection in
the presence of a stranger.

Her left leg ached dully; however one could hardly expect it
to do otherwise, after two days’ riding. Rowan was surprised that it was no
worse.

But her right heel hurt. She sat up to examine it.

It had been bandaged while she slept. She did not remove the
light wrapping, but considered the sensation of what lay beneath. It felt like
a burn.

“He didn’t even touch me there,” she said.

“If you’re inclined to make a more complete inspection, of
all your body parts, please inform me. I prefer to be absent.”

“My other body parts seem all to be in the right places,” Rowan
said, settling back thoughtfully.

“Fortunate. I’m to speak sternly to you if you show no
inclination to rest; please assume that I’ve done so.”

Rowan rubbed her face. “I don’t think I could sleep …” Although,
really, she ought to.

“I suggest that you lie still and close your eyes.
Eventually, sheer boredom will work its effect.” He leaned back in the chair,
crossed his legs, adjusted the lay of his trouser leg. “If you feel someone
shaking you, it will only be me, reminding you that air is necessary for life.”

“I don’t believe I’ll ever forget that again.”

She slept; it felt like forever.

She was aware, in her sleep, of a hand about to touch her.
She woke a moment before it did.

Bel, with a satisfied smile, leaning back. “I see your
instincts are all in place.”

Rowan sat up, pushed her hair back. “How soon?”

“We have an hour to go. You should change your clothes, and
wash up. You smell like a horse that’s been struck by lightning.” She paused.
“Will doesn’t want you going into Jannik’s house.”

“My wits are back,” Rowan said, leaning forward to reach for
her pack; Bel rose, and put it on the bed. “I’ll probably limp, but I’m certain
I can run, if we should need to.”

The Outskirter nodded. “That’s what I told him. But that’s
not it. He still doesn’t want anyone else taking the risk. Especially now,
especially you, after what Jannik did.”

Rowan found a clean blouse, pulled her own over her head,
and tossed it aside. “I am definitely coming.”

She noticed Bel regarding her chest, narrow-eyed. “It looks
far worse than it is,” Rowan informed her. The steerswoman’s gold chain lay
draped across the skeletal hand, as if a ghost were trying to snatch it away.

“If you say so …”

The image reminded Rowan: “My ring.” She rose, finding her
heel painful but endurable, and reached into her pocket. Nothing. She searched
further; a hole …

Bel held the ring up, between thumb and forefinger. “Someone
found it on the floor in the common room.”

Rowan took the ring, slipped it on her scarred left hand.
“Good,” Bel said. “Now you’re yourself again.”

Rowan addressed herself to the ewer and pitcher, the soap and
towel, that lay waiting on the table. Bel sat on the end of the bed, and pulled
up her knees. She watched the steerswoman. “I’ve given Joly my names.” Rowan
stopped short.

Bel, Margasdoter,
Chanty. An Outskirter possessed
three names, the first used casually, the matronym and line name very
sparingly. Knowledge of an Outskirter’s names was proof of connection, and
could protect one from attack by that person’s tribe.

But Bel’s own names meant far more. They were known now to
all tribes, a password among all the Outskirters. “You don’t think it’s too
soon for that?” Rowan asked.

“He’s the leader of this city. His people will meet my
people one day. When they do, they will know each other.” Bel unfolded herself,
and climbed off the bed. “Someone’s bringing food, and strong tea. The boots
are Enid’s.” She reached past Rowan to take Willam’s magic clock from the
table. “I’ll go tell the others that you’re up, and they should get into
position.”

Rowan was at sea. “Others?”

“We’ve enlisted some help,” Bel said. “We need it.”

Rowan washed, dressed. Tea was brought in, and toast, and
eggs. The serving girl, with an almost proprietary air, insisted that Rowan eat
immediately. “I won’t take no, and that’s a fact.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said, bemused. She recognized the young
woman from the dining room, three mornings ago, and from the incidents in the
common room. “You were very brave,” Rowan told her.

The servant chuffed, and shifted her shoulders, pleased at
herself. “And Jinny nearly giving it away, the goose. Had to think fast, or
she’d have spilled. Think your hair will go white, like what happened to your
friend? And is he planning to stay in town, do you know?”

“No. On both counts.”

“That’s a shame. I’ll break the news to Jinny.”

She left when Rowan settled down to the meal; and it
occurred to the steerswoman that she would not have many more of the Dolphin’s
exceptional meals. Breakfast tomorrow, if all went well, and then all three of
them must leave.

As she poured more tea, her glance fell on the letter, still
sitting where she had left it. And because speculation on the coming events
would do her no good, and she could use a distraction, she opened it, and
arranged the pages to read while she finished eating.

The envelope had been addressed by a scribe; but the
contents were in Artos’s own hand, cramped but neat.

As Rowan expected: the news of Willam’s escape—but also,
many sad apologies on Artos’s part.

Rowan had asked him to befriend Willam, and try to watch
over him as best he could; the duke confessed that he had failed in this, that
his good intentions had faltered in the face of his own duties, and the many
requirements of Willam’s. They had drifted apart.

Had Artos suspected that all was not well, had he realized
that, for whatever reasons, life under the wizard’s hand had become unbearable
to Willam, every resource at the duke’s command would have been called upon,
nothing would have been too much to ask. Artos would have moved heaven and
earth to help the apprentice escape.

Now, Artos said, Wiliam was alone, out in the wide world,
fleeing. No one knew where he was, nor how to help him. Artos blamed himself.

Rowan wished that her words could fly through the air, to
Wulfshaven, to whisper in Artos’s ear, to tell him that their friend was not
alone after all.

A knock on the door. “Rowan?”

The steerswoman folded the letter, set it aside, and rose to
open the door.

Bel, her dark eyes intent, standing with the combination of
ease and alertness that Rowan knew so well from the moments just before the
Outskirter entered battle; and Wiliam beside her, his wide copper gaze serious,
determined—and deeply, immensely calm.

Will held up one hand; the little clock dangled from it. He
said: “It’s time.”

They walked through the quiet streets of the city of Donner.

It was cold, as if near to winter, and the autumn
constellations were winter-sharp, a spangling of stars high above the rooftops.
Street doors were closed, window shutters pulled tight against the chill; and
most of the city was asleep.

Rowan carried a lantern, partly shuttered, in one hand. Bel
carried a sack of wheat flour from the kitchen stores at the Dolphin, slung
across her shoulders. Willam carried his knotted burlap sack.

Bel’s sword was slung at her back, in the fashion of the Outskirters.
The sword at Rowan’s waist was borrowed from the city guards’ armory. Whatever
weapons Willam possessed, if any, were not visible.

Only Bel’s footsteps sounded against the cobbles, a small
sound, seeming to vanish into the cold sky. Rowan and Willam, in gum-soled
boots, moved silent as ghosts.

Up ahead, at a distance: one of the city guard, behaving
exactly as if on duty as night watchman. When he reached East Well he shuttered
his own lantern, leaned against the well, and withdrew from inside his cuirass
a small bottle. He unstopped it, sipped. Its presence served as an excuse for
his lingering.

He was a lookout, one of many.

When Jannik had departed from the Dolphin, he had done so by
soaring away into the sky in a magic cart that Willam called a “flier.”

The cart could bring Jannik back from the dragon fields in
less than ten minutes. During the updates, Willam could not magically spy on
the wizard’s movements. He would not know if Jannik returned unexpectedly.

Bel had designed a warning relay.

One person was posted in the tower of the harbormaster’s office,
watching the sky to the northwest, in the direction of the dragon fields.
Should she spy the bright lights of the flier, she was to shine a signal
lantern at the street below. The man posted there would shine his own light to
another person at an intersection farther along, and he to another, and
another. The guard at the well was the last link, and would signal Bel, waiting
outside the wizard’s house.

The flier was fast, but it could not outrun a flash of
light.

Someone had lent Bel a wooden whistle of the sort used by
the barge tenders. It would be loud enough to hear from inside the house.

As they passed the well, the three friends nodded to the
guard, as one did when passing a stranger. The man quickly hid his bottle and
nodded back with a trace of guilt.

All for show. No uninvolved citizen need know what would
happen this night.

At the intersection they turned right, and passed by the wizard’s
house. At the abandoned ruins next door they paused, glanced about, then
stepped into the yard and positioned themselves against the remains of one wall.