The Outskirter's Secret (28 page)

S
couts
habitually ranged beyond the outer circle: a group of loosely knit
individuals, belonging to no war band, and answerable only to the
seyoh himself. It was a position highly respected, owing to the
degree of skill required.

Yet it was a strangely isolate respect; on
matters internal to the tribe, the opinions of the scouts were
rarely solicited. The scouts themselves seemed to prefer it so. All
their skill, and all their attention, was directed outward to the
wilderness. When required to remain in camp, a scout often seemed
out of place, a visitor. He or she might wander the grounds as if
observing the actions of strangers, or fall into long periods of
musing that other tribe members rarely interrupted.

Only Zo, with her love for Deely, maintained
what might be considered a normal connection in the tribe's social
life. When not on duty, Zo traveled by Deely's side, on the edge of
the small herd of children.

On one such occasion, one drizzling morning a
week later, Bel and Rowan were walking with them, Bel and Zo
discussing the geography of an area to the north, which Zo had
scouted some days earlier; it had been passed over by Kammeryn, in
favor of possibly better pastures farther east.

Rowan had begun the questioning, planning to
add the information to her charts. But as Bel began to contribute
questions of her own, Rowan asked less and less, and listened more.
Bel, better informed on the nature of the Outskirts, found
questions that were more astute, more revealing. By listening only,
the steerswoman gained twice as much information: first from the
question, then from the reply.

"There were plenty of brooks, but shallow,"
Zo replied to one of Bel's queries.

"Too much blackgrass, then?" Blackgrass
thrived on damper land.

"It was a mix. If we'd camped there, we
couldn't stay long." Goats could not digest blackgrass. What
redgrass there was would be consumed too quickly to warrant a long
stay.

"And hard work for the herdmasters." Goats
enjoyed the flavor of blackgrass and would eat it despite its lack
of nutrition. Herdmasters would need to watch the flock closely and
discourage foraging in blackgrass patches.

"But safe from goblins. I didn't see a single
sign of them, or their eggs." Goblins preferred dryness, and
warmth; Rowan considered that their fascination with fire might
constitute an extreme expression of instinctive preference.

Rowan was slowly learning the
interconnections between the Outskirts wildlife and vegetation,
beginning to see, through her incomplete information, that they
followed the same rules of interdependence shown by life in the
Inner Lands. "What eats goblins?" she asked.

She had been so long silent that Zo and Bel
looked at her in surprise, as if she had just arrived. They
considered the question. "Flesh termites," Bel supplied.

Zo nodded. "And nothing else."

Flesh termites ate any living creature—except
goats and humans. Humans ate goats. "What eats humans?" In the
Inner Lands it was wolves, and sometimes bears.

Zo made an indifferent gesture.
"Nothing."

"Except where the Face People live," Bel
amended. "There they eat each other."

They resumed their conversation; but Rowan
had stopped listening. She was constructing in her mind a diagram
of rising, interlocking lines: what preyed upon what, what needed
which type of resource. There were too many empty spaces, where her
lack of knowledge forced her to assume unknown interdependencies.
And yet, even so, one side-branch seemed to stand almost isolated.
Goats ate redgrass, humans ate goats and redgrass—"What else eats
redgrass?"

She had interrupted Zo speaking, on a
completely different subject, and received a perplexed look. "Other
than humans and goats," Rowan amplified.

"Humans don't eat redgrass," Zo pointed
out.

"They must do; where does your grain come
from?"

Bel looked at her sidelong. "Humans can't eat
redgrass grain."

"But from what else is bread made?" Every
meal she had had in the Outskirts consisted of some combination of
goat products and bread.

Zo found her ignorance puzzling. "Redgrass
roots."

Rowan spread her hands. "But that's a part of
redgrass . . ."

"Humans can't eat redgrass root," Bel said.
"Not directly."

The Outskirter had spoken with such
uncharacteristic delicacy that Rowan turned her a suspicious gaze.
"Am I," she asked slowly, "about to hear something that I won't
enjoy?"

Bel grinned, and explained how bread was
made.

Redgrass roots were peeled and boiled in
water, at least four times, using fresh water each time. A number
of goats were killed, and the first stomach chamber of each, the
rumen, was set aside. Next, the cook, cook's assistants, and anyone
else who cared to help, took the roots, chewed them without
swallowing, and spit the results directly into the severed rumens.
When each was filled, it was submerged in cold water. The following
day it was cut open, and the resulting paste and fluid was removed.
The fluid was discarded, and the paste was washed and then prepared
in any number of ways to become the various types of Outskirter
bread with which Rowan had become so familiar.

The steerswoman listened silently. "Then,"
she said slowly, "all this time, I've been eating other people's
saliva."

Bel was ostentatiously matter-of-fact.
"That's right."

Rowan considered, then heaved a sigh of
resignation. "It hasn't harmed me so far."

"The rumens are cooked, as well," Zo put in.
She mused on the resulting dish with open longing. "There's never
enough for everyone."

Outskirter culinary delights. Rowan rubbed
her forehead. "I see." But the information only rendered her
analyses more perplexing: humans and goats were even more isolated
from the interdependencies of Outskirter life than she had thought.
The goats, she thought; the goats are the link. "What else, of
itself, eats redgrass?" she asked, then answered herself from the
knowledge she had accumulated: "Nothing."

The tribe found a usable campsite two days
later, and Rowan observed and participated in the same astonishing
camp construction she had witnessed before. The finished camp
struck her even more completely as a mobile village: the streets
were the same, the courtyards and gathering areas exactly where
they had been before. Rowan knew where each war band lived, and
where to find her own adopted home.

Inside Kree's tent, Rowan and Bel assisted in
laying the bright carpet and arranging the various bedrolls. A
train-dragger paused outside while Kree's people retrieved a number
of boxes of stiffened, patterned fabric, which they placed at the
foot of each bedroll. These contained the personal possessions of
each member of the band, those objects not carried while on duty;
few, small, treasured.

The tent was empty when Rowan and Bel awoke
the following morning; Kree's band had left before dawn, to serve
on the inner circle. The two women rose at their leisure, risking
the loss of a hot breakfast for the luxury of rest from the weeks
of travel.

When they finally decided to rise, Rowan
stepped out of the tent briefly to gauge the weather. As she gazed
at the slanting sunlight and the hazy blue above, she felt
something beneath her bare left foot and stooped to pick it up.

It was a long, woven band, such as was
sometimes used to decorate camp clothing. Bright red, pale blue,
and white, it showed a complicated pattern of squares overlaid with
interlocking waves. The design was crisp, bold, and lovely to see,
but by some difference of style Rowan knew it was not Deely's work.
Unlike the other mysterious objects that had been left by the tent,
this one had not been harmed.

She tied the tent flap open to admit the
light and brought the band to Bel, framing a cautious question,
designed to permit Bel to indicate whether or not the subject was
one open to discussion.

Seeing the object, Bel spoke quickly. "Where
did you find that?"

"By the door. And back at the old camp—"

"Did anyone see you take it?" the Outskirter
demanded.

"I don't think so . . ."

Bel hurried to the entrance and cautiously
peered outside. "No one in sight. Now, quick, put it back."

Rowan placed the band on the ground again
just as Chess wandered into view, accompanied by Mander, deep in
discussion. As Rowan stood by, Bel gazed about nonchalantly,
pretended to notice the band for the first time, studied it with
evident indifference, and then, amazingly, ground it into the dirt
under her foot. The two Outskirters paused in their conversation
long enough to watch the performance, then continued on their
way.

Rowan waited until they had departed to
speak. She abandoned any attempt at circumlocution. "And exactly
what was that in aid of?"

"I should have warned you. But from now on,
if you're the last person out of the tent and you find something
left by the entrance, destroy it."

"What was it?"

"A courting gift."

It was the last explanation Rowan might have
imagined. "A courting gift?" All her concerns became ridiculous.
"Left by the tent door? Is that the custom?"

"Yes." Bel reentered the tent, Rowan
following.

"But who left it? And for whom?"

"I don't know." Bel sat on her bedroll to don
her boots. "But if someone saw you accept it," she said, "you would
have been honor-bound to accept the person who left it."

"Some Outskirter man has an interest in me?"
It seemed very unlikely.

Bel shook her head. "No. Well, probably not.
But whoever it was meant for, it's someone who sleeps in this tent.
Which means a member of Kree's band, or me, or even you."

Rowan thought. "The other gifts were all
ruined by someone." She sat down on her bedroll.

"I know. If someone is leaving you courting
gifts and you're not interested, you reject the gifts by destroying
them. But if you don't want anyone to know that you realize you're
being courted, you ignore the gifts." Bel completed lacing her
boots, then sat back to explain. "That's what's happening here. If
the gift isn't accepted by the time everyone else leaves the tent,
the last person leaving has to destroy it. But that was usually
you, and I knew you didn't know what to do. So I did it."

"If I'd taken it, whoever left it could . . .
claim me?"

"That's the custom."

"That was rather a close call, then," Rowan
commented. She leaned back on her hands, considering the situation
with amusement. "Perhaps I should have taken it. I might like to
learn about Outskirter lovemaking techniques."

"Ha. The giver might not admit he left it. Or
she. They don't always." Bel looked at her, dark eyes laughing.

"What an odd way to manage things."

"I like it." Bel grinned in reminiscence.
"There are a hundred ways to play it: you can be subtle, or daring,
or cruel, or generous. You can even use it for revenge, by leaving
presents for someone until they're accepted, and then never
admitting it was you who left them."

"It sounds devious."

"Of course." The aspect pleased Bel.

"Then, whoever is being courted from Kree's
band is not interested?" Rowan asked.

"Yes. Or it's too soon."

"Too soon?"

"You always reject the first gifts. Then they
get finer."

Rowan spent part of the afternoon seated
beside the fire pit, sketching various samples of Outskirts insect
life. On her way to return her materials to Kree's tent, she passed
through a small open yard where four sets of tents faced each
other. In front of one tent, a number of warriors were seated,
conversing. "Rowan!" Jann called from across the area. Rowan
changed course to approach her.

Half of Orranyn's band was present, with two
members of Berrion's, including Berrion himself. Jann jerked her
chin up at the steerswoman. "I see you carry your weapon with you
all the time. That's a good idea in the Outskirts."

Rowan's right hand went to her sword hilt, by
way of assent; she had to shift her book to her left to do this.
"I've heard that's the case. And I've experienced enough to
agree."

"Let's have a look at it."

Rowan mentally juggled her still-unintegrated
information on Outskirter custom and decided there was nothing that
suggested she should not do as asked. She complied.

Jann held the sword, hilt in her right hand,
the blade resting across her left arm, turning it to examine its
structure. "It looks strong," she commented. "Well made."

Berrion leaned closer. "No ornamentation.
That's not usual for Inner Lands swords."

"It's a soldier's sword," Rowan told him.

"How did you get it?"

Rowan gave a wry grin. "I'm afraid Bel stole
it for me, at a time when I needed one."

"Ah."

Jann held it up to let the light play along
its length. "I don't see any tooling marks, or any pattern in the
metal."

"I'm afraid I don't know how it was
constructed." Except, Rowan knew, that magic must have been
involved.

"Plain, but sure," Jann said. "It's a good
weapon."

Rowan came close to saying "thank you," but
recalled that warriors did not thank each other; these warriors
were treating her as an equal. "It serves me well" was the neutral
reply she selected.

Jann rose and passed the weapon back to
Rowan. "Let's see how well."

"Pardon me?"

The warrior gave a short laugh. " 'Pardon
me,' now that's an Inner Lander phrase, to be sure. I don't believe
that an Inner Lander can hold on to a sword like that."

Rowan was confused. "I've held on to it so
far . . ." Then she understood. "Ah. I see." The expected sword
challenge had come at last.