The Outskirter's Secret (26 page)

"Not bad." The healer subjected Rowan's right
hand to the same scrutiny. "Have you washed them yet? Wash them
again. I'll give you some strong soap. Don't let anyone use the
same water after. If it gets worse, I have some salve. And you'd
better throw that thing away."

Rowan followed Mander's directions carefully,
carrying a water sack to the cessfield and pouring the water over
her hands instead of immersing them in the carrier; it would be
used again, and she did not want any possible contamination to
occur. She emptied the remaining water, slung the loose sack over
her shoulder, and turned back to camp; but as she was crossing the
border of dying grass at the edge of the cessfield, she stopped
abruptly, then looked around.

She had noticed at the old encampment that
redgrass suffered from the presence of human waste: grass nearby
bleached, then rotted, exactly as it had done in the place where,
so many weeks earlier, Rowan and Bel had found the dead fox.
Ghost-grass, it was called, and it had ringed the tribe's cessfield
in an area some eight feet wide.

But here, after only one night of camping,
the ring of decay was already three feet wide, affecting not only
the redgrass, but tanglebrush, blackgrass, and a low, bulbous blue
plant she had learned to call mosswort. Rowan attempted to imagine
the extent of destruction that would be caused by a tribe remaining
stationary for two weeks or more, as was usual in good pastures—and
became disturbed.

As she walked back to camp, she considered
that it must be more efficient to dig a pit for waste and confine
its ill effect, rather than set aside a flat area—and so wide a
one, at that. The Outskirters could not have caused more
destruction with their waste if they had actually planned to do so.
And she immediately began to wonder if that was the case.

A question to Chess provided the answer. "The
land is our enemy," the mertutial told her as she stowed the water
carrier onto a nearly loaded train.

"But you can't mean to harm it!"

"Why not?" Chess secured the straps on the
load. "It means to harm us. It tries to kill us every day. We harm
it back."

"But that doesn't make sense."

Chess's only reply was to deliver a sidelong
look of derision. The steerswoman continued, "If you destroy the
grass, how will you feed your herd?"

"By moving on."

Rowan took further questions to Bel, who was
occupied with organizing her own equipment and Rowan's. Bel paused
to consider, head tilted, then nodded. "It's true. The land is our
enemy. Most things in the Outskirts are our enemies. We kill the
goblins, we tear down the lichen-towers, we burn out
tanglebrush."

"When you need to, or simply as a matter of
course?"

"As a matter of course." She passed Rowan her
pack. "We kill a goblin whether it's attacked us or not. If we find
their eggs, we destroy them. If we camp near lichen-towers, we'll
pull them down. It's the right thing to do."

"But you're also harming the redgrass; the
goats need the redgrass!" Then Rowan stopped in realization. "And
they destroy it, themselves," she added, surprised. The goats
grazed the reeds close to the roots; the stubs then died. She found
another question. "How long does it take the redgrass to
recover?"

Bel shrugged into her pack. "Who can say? We
never stay long enough to find out."

Nearby, Kree was counting heads. She came up
short. "Where's Fletcher?"

"Went off to do his prayers," someone
replied, disgruntled, then pointed. "Coming back just now."

Rowan looked, and saw Fletcher approaching at
a cheerful lope, clearly visible across the open landscape.

Kree watched a moment, then made an indulgent
gesture. "Well, if his god protects him, more power to it, and to
him, too."

Another voice spoke, in a barely audible
grumble. "Fletcher finds enough trouble to need a god all to
himself."

Kree's response was a single glance that
rendered the speaker silent. "It's true Fletcher finds trouble."
She pitched her voice for all her warriors to hear. "And I'm glad
of it. Fletcher has a talent for finding trouble before it finds
someone else, and for dealing with it. Whether it's his prayers
that protect him, or his wits, I don't care. The result is the
same. He's one of the strengths of this band."

Fletcher had approached near enough to hear
the comments. "And if you want an example of the usefulness of
prayer," he called out, "here's one."

Rowan saw what he had. "Be careful how you
handle it," she called, and drew nearer. "It irritates the
skin."

Fletcher eyed the object with wild suspicion.
"Mine, or its?" Unlike Bodo's find, Fletcher's was unbroken. It
bulked round and full, wobbling faintly between Fletcher's bony
hands, from the motion of internal fluid.

"Where did you find it?"

"About a kilometer from the edge of camp,
toward position seven." Fletcher gingerly placed the object on the
ground, where its shape flattened somewhat. "There I was," he said,
"settling down for a friendly chat with the Almighty Lord, and I
practically put my knee down on this thing. Wouldn't have noticed
it otherwise. I like to think I was guided." He acquired a piously
smug expression, then dropped it with a laugh. "Well, maybe not. At
the best, I was prevented from landing square on top of it."

Rowan suppressed the urge to cut the object
open immediately; the contents might be corrosive. This was
Kammeryn's tribe, and any possibly dangerous action ought first to
be cleared with him. Bel went to fetch the seyoh. "Did you hear
anything?" Rowan asked Fletcher as she stooped down to peer at the
presumed demon egg.

He raised his brows. "Such as?"

"Humming. A single tone, sustained. It's the
sound demons make."

"Nothing. I hummed myself, a bit. But nothing
else."

Bel arrived, with Kammeryn in tow. The seyoh
examined the demon egg without touching it, conversed briefly with
Rowan and Bel, then made the suggestion that Rowan had hoped
for.

She took over. "We should clear this area,"
she said. "If the surface irritates, the contents might do so as
well, and to a greater extent. There's liquid inside; it'll
spread."

Clearing the area consisted simply of
continuing preparations for the day's travel, then directing people
to step back from the object. Bel acquired a wool rag from a
mertutial, then covered the egg and steadied it with her hands,
leaving an opening in the covering on the far side. Reaching
across, the steerswoman sliced into the exposed surface with her
field knife, turning away her face to avoid any splashes.

The opening tore; the object collapsed.
Inside: only a clear fluid that spilled and sank into the ground
immediately, exactly as would water.

Rowan was disappointed. "Nothing more?" She
had hoped to find a demon embryo. But Bel removed the cloth, and it
was true: there were no other contents. Rowan leaned forward
cautiously and sniffed the ground. The scent was of seawater, with
an additional sour tang that she had smelled only once before; but
the overlying musky trace was entirely unfamiliar.

Rowan sat up. "Fletcher?" He approached.

She did not like to upset him; but she needed
to know. "Does this smell like your swamp?"

He tested it. "Yes."

Rowan and Bel walked that morning with
Kammeryn.

"According to the wizards Shammer and Dhree,"
Rowan said, "demons need salt water, and a salt water different
from that found in the Inland Sea. North in the Inner Lands, there
is an area called the salt bog; I've been there, and the water
smelled a bit like that egg. There are legends that demons once
existed in the salt bog, but no one in living memory has ever seen
one."

"If they need special water," Bel added,
"that would explain why they're so rare. And why we see signs of
them now that we're moving closer to Fletcher's swamp."

"Perhaps the Face People have some experience
of them." Kammeryn mused. "Face People, demons, wizards. You bring
strange things, steerswoman."

Rowan was taken aback. "I bring nothing," she
told him, "but information."

During the morning, messages were regularly
relayed from the scouts. No sign was found of demons. The most
skillful scout, a woman named Maud, was sent much farther ahead
than was usual, specifically to search for the creatures. Garvin
was pulled from his band to serve temporarily as her contact, at
which Jann commented: "Now we're short. What a bother: I suppose
it's Fletcher's talent for trouble, again." Orranyn's band had been
moved up within the formation and was now dragging train. With
Garvin absent, burly Merryk was both dragging train and carrying a
pack.

Rowan was unable to tell whether Jann's
observation was by way of complaint. "Surely it's better to find
out about things before they cause problems."

The warrior sighed aggrievedly. "Of course it
is. But the thing is," she said, glowering, "Fletcher's not a good
warrior." Merryk shot her a cautioning glance; the bald statement
was of the sort that caused Outskirters to take quick offense.
Fletcher, however, was well out of earshot.

Jann continued. "You'd think that it would be
the skillful warrior who finds danger first; we're trained that way
all our lives. If there are strangers, or monsters, we ought to
spot them. But we don't; a gangling fool like Fletcher does. It's
like an insult."

"Perhaps," Rowan ventured, "it's because he
has less ability with the usual Outskirter skills that he's
developed—" She sought the word. "—more observativeness, perhaps.
The ability to notice the incongruous."

"Or maybe his god protects him," Bel said,
then knit her brows at Rowan's dubious expression. "You're too
quick to deny the gods, Rowan," Bel admonished the steerswoman.

"I'm not quick at all," Rowan began, prepared
to expand upon the subject; but Jann forestalled the explication
that would have followed. She turned to Bel, speaking hotly.

"His god, ha! Did you hear what he said, that
he found that egg by almost putting his knee on it? He kneels to
pray, Bel; you should think of that. No warrior kneels to anyone.
Not even to the gods." She trudged in silence for a long moment,
then spoke as if to herself. "There are bad gods and better gods.
You fight the bad ones and deal with the better ones. But any man
who abases himself, even to gods, is no Outskirter."

Bel agreed easily. "That's true."

Rowan was taken aback. "Didn't you once say
that one ought to respect other people's religions?"

"Yes. Because a person's religion is a part
of his own way of honor. But this is different. When you belong to
a tribe, the whole tribe is depending on you to do your part. You
have to do it right, or someone could die. Your first honor is to
protect the tribe." She thought long; high above, a pair of
hawkbugs swooped, fighting for territory. Bel continued, uncertain.
"I don't understand Fletcher's god; it doesn't sound right to me.
If he were in the Inner Lands, I wouldn't think twice about it.

"But this is the Outskirts, and Fletcher is
calling himself one of us. If he follows this god, then whatever he
does, he does for different reasons than we do." She became
decided. "In the Outskirts, it's Outskirter ways that succeed. If
Fletcher wants to be an Outskirter, then he ought to be one
completely."

They walked in silence for a while. "It seems
to me," Rowan hazarded, "that whatever his motivations, Fletcher is
doing more good than harm."

From behind them, Jaffry made one of his rare
contributions. "So you say."

When noon meal was passed out, Rowan took the
opportunity to drop back in the crowd, eventually falling in near
Fletcher and Averryl.

She greeted them, then addressed Averryl.
"How are you? Are you feeling fit to fight? And if that counts as
an Outskirter insult, please accept my apology in advance."

Fletcher laughed out loud; Averryl did not,
but his gray eyes crinkled. "It's no insult. And you'd have to do a
great deal, steerswoman, for me to take any insult. I owe you and
Bel my life." He still carried no load; but his steps were easier,
his right arm swinging freely to their rhythm. His left arm he
carried close to his body, occasionally flexing his hand
unconsciously. The middle two fingers, slack, did not follow the
motions of the others.

Fletcher was walking with his sword drawn,
its hilt tucked under his right arm and its length braced along the
forearm. He had a whetstone in his left hand and was idly honing
the weapon. "A metal sword," Rowan observed, with surprise.

"Yes, indeed." He took a moment to study the
edge. "Lovely thing, isn't it? Got it in Alemeth. Saved my pennies
and commissioned the swordsmith three streets over to make it for
me. Went and watched him at his work every day." He grinned.
"Bothered him no end." He walked without looking at his direction,
and the warrior in front of him threw wary glances at the exposed
blade waving at her back. Fletcher ignored her, giving careful
attention only to the maintenance of his fine weapon, as he strode
along in his loose-legged lope.

All Fletcher's actions carried excessive
movement: wide-armed gestures, turns of the body when a shift of
the eyes would do—sloppy, undisciplined motions. It was impossible
to imagine him being a superior fighter.

"Why have you never been challenged for your
sword?" Rowan asked unthinking, then immediately regretted the
statement. It contained an implied insult; that, if challenged, he
would certainly lose.

He took no offense. "I was challenged about
as soon as I arrived." The precision of his honing suffered as he
warmed to his story. "There I was," Fletcher began, "settling into
my first day in camp, and a huge strapping barbarian steps right up
to me and starts complimenting me on my weapon. And I'm trying to
thank him without thanking him, because my grandfather warned me
about that. But if he'd warned me a little better, I would have
known what this fellow was leading up to; it's all part of the
form, see. So, I finally get the idea, everyone needing to explain
it to me first, and I still wasn't all that certain they weren't
just having me on."