The Steerswoman's Road (19 page)

Somewhat later the merchant spoke up casually. “I’ve been
through your town, with my master. Late last year. Do you know Corey, the
blacksmith there?”

Will had prepared for that sort of thing. “No, I didn’t
often get into the town proper. There was a lot of work on the farm, and not
much time for what my dad calls ‘foolishness.’ But when I was little, my mother
sometimes sent me in to the weaver’s there. Perhaps you met him? He’s a tall
thin man, with dust-colored hair. Michael.” Will had carefully studied the town
as he passed through, thinking it would be a good place to claim as his home,
once he was far enough from it.

She looked at him. “No.” Then she turned away, and Will was
briefly disturbed. He could not tell if she had made up that business about the
blacksmith just to test him, or if she believed him about the weaver. It gave
him a turn; his own father was a blacksmith.

At one of the crossroads they came across a party of
tinkers, with racks of wares on display. Attise halted the party and made a
great show of examining everything the tinkers had, though her utter disinterest
was deadeningly obvious. The tinkers saw that immediately and matched her for
bland disdain. Willam found the whole thing tiresome.

But at one point she was studying a beautiful embroidered
blouse, and she turned to him almost casually. “What do you think of this?”

The weight of the fabric in his hands, the stiff, intricate
embroidery, brought a rush of familiarity to Willam, and a touch of
homesickness. It was the work of the Kundekin, the kind of lovely handwork with
which those mysterious craftspeople filled their idle hours. But for all its
beauty, it was common in their opinion, mere exercise to sharpen the eye and
hand. Near their enclave in The Crags it could be got cheaply. It was
practically given away, else their closets would be full of the stuff. The
tinker was charging twenty times its worth.

Wiliam felt brief pleasure at seeing such a familiar item,
then a small shock when he realized that Attise had chosen to ask
him
about
it.

He saw that she was giving him that
look
again. He
said nothing, but she returned the blouse to the tinker. “I believe,” she said,
“that I’ll do better by going directly to the source.” Her mouth made a smile,
but her eyes did not, and she turned away.

As they continued down the road, Willam’s mind was spinning.
Attise suspected he was lying, that he was not what he claimed, even knew he
was from The Crags. But she was doing nothing, saying nothing. Why? Was he
truly so obvious? Was she sneering at him, inside? At that thought Will
flushed, first in embarrassment, then in anger. Sala threw him one speculative
glance, threw Attise the identical glance, then became lost in her own
thoughts.

They made a camp that night in a stand
of
oak off the
west side of the road. Sala efficiently scouted the area, pronounced it safe,
and set to making a small fire to dispel the cool of night. Attise settled down
to study her damnable map and let her bodyguard arrange their sleeping rolls.

Wiliam hung back from the fire. It wouldn’t do to bring the
charms in his pack close to the flames. He was not certain how much distance
was actually required, but if he erred, it would best be on the side of
caution.

He carried his pack some twelve feet away past a small crowd
of ferns and began to pull out its contents. Finding his sleeping roll near the
bottom, he spread it out on the ground.

Sala watched in puzzlement. “Here, boy, what are you doing?”
Will looked up sheepishly. “Well ... I thought two ladies might not like a man
to spend the night so close ...”

Sala laughed in good-natured derision at his manly conceit. “I
think our virtue is safe with you. Come here, you’ll be glad of the fire later
tonight.” Will grinned with seeming embarrassment, gathered his gear untidily
in his arms, and set it up close to Sala’s roll. The charms he left behind,
masked by the ferns. He could retrieve them in the morning.

But when he looked up from his arrangements, he saw that Attise
had abandoned her study and was giving him that look. “Wiliam,” she said
slowly. “Obviously we don’t feel any threat from you. But you don’t return that
regard.”

“What?”

She pointed with her chin toward the ferns. “Whatever you
left back there will certainly be safer close to hand.”

Will was speechless, wavering between denial and disbelief.

Attise tilted her head. “Why don’t you let me see it? If it’s
so valuable, perhaps I’ll want to buy it.” Her face was blank, but her eyes
watched him.

Suddenly he hated this woman, hated her silences, her
disdain, her air of superiority. She was toying with him! She believed him not
at all, and she had spent the day teasing his lies out of him. It was all a
game, to make him squirm for her amusement.

And for that one moment, his fury made him rash. He drew
himself up slowly and stood, and let her look at him for a long moment,
matching her gaze unwaveringly with his own. “Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll
be glad to show you. Perhaps you will want to buy one.” He sneered that word,
with a sudden release of his helpless anger. “But you’ll have to step away from
the fire to see them. It isn’t safe, otherwise. They’re magic, and fire
releases the spell.”

He knew how events should run. They would be impressed, like
the people at home. They might even be frightened; they would try to make peace
with him.

But it did not happen that way. Instead Willam suddenly realized,
quite clearly, that he was in terrible danger.

Bel’s sword was in her hand. She spoke carefully. “Don’t
move, boy. Not a single move.”

Rowan sat, her map abandoned in her lap. Her sword was by
her right hand, but she did not take it. She stayed completely still, her eyes
never leaving the boy’s, her body alert and ready for any change in the
tableau.

Willam had traveled from The Crags, by his accent, his manners,
his recognition of the distinctive work of the Kundekin. She knew which wizard
held that city, and he was the most infamous. Appalled, she breathed, “Abremio.”

The boy jerked at the sound of that name. His young face was
pale, and he trembled, but his beautiful copper-coin eyes did not waver from
Rowan’s face. At last, through clenched teeth, he said to them, “Do it, if you’re
going to.”

Bel was in sudden motion, and Willam made half a step back
toward the ferns, and then she was on him. One hand gripped his shirtfront
and swung him off balance; the other brought her sword around. Then he was
sprawled, half-suspended from her clenched fist, the point of her sword at his
throat.

“I say we don’t bother to question him first,” Bel said
mildly. Rowan was beside them, her own sword in hand. She stood between the
stand of ferns and the locked pair, blocking the way. “Wait.”

“He’s a wizard!”

Rowan gripped Bel’s arm, delaying the thrust that would have
followed the words. She said to Willam, “Boy, were you boasting? Tell us, and
on your life, you’d better believe I’ll know if you lie.”

He gasped, astonished, “I’m not a wizard!”

“Then he serves one,” Bel said.

“What did you leave in the ferns?” Rowan said; she saw him
glance in that direction and hesitate. “You haven’t the time to think of a lie.
Answer!”

“It—it is magic, but—”

“I knew it!” Bel snarled.

“But it’s nothing! It’s—it’s just—” His face worked, then,
as if it pained him to admit the truth. “A real wizard would call them just toys
....” He looked up at Rowan, astonished—pleading, and he seemed to be a person
unused to pleading. “Please, let me go. I’m not worth his notice.”

“His notice ...” Rowan paused in puzzlement, then began to
piece together the evidence of the boy’s words and reactions. How must all this
look to him?

Bel was equally confused. “Whose notice?”

Then, nodding slowly, Rowan lowered her sword. “Abremio’s.
Let him go, Bel. He doesn’t serve Abremio.” She smiled a little. “But he thinks
that we do.”

Bel released Willam in astonishment. “Us?”

He lay on the ground, rubbing his chest. “I thought, when
you named him ...”

“I thought I was naming you,” Rowan said wryly.

“Me?” It came out a childish squeak.

“Who knows what guise a wizard might travel in?”

Bel watched Willam with suspicion. “It still might be him.”
She stepped around, so that he had a woman with a sword on either side.

Rowan studied him. His panic had eased a bit once he knew
they were no minions of that wizard; he was waiting with a combination of
confusion and wariness.

She considered the clues. “You’re afraid of Abremio’s attention.
Is he likely to be looking for you? Did you steal something from him, perhaps?”

He sat up, cautiously. “No. He stole something from me.”

“What was that?”

“My sister.”

“This Abremio steals women?” Bel asked. She directed her
query not to Willam but to Rowan, and the steerswoman saw that the boy took
careful note of that. Abruptly she realized that she and Bel had ceased to be
innocent travelers in his eyes. In acting to protect themselves, they had
compromised the only protection they had. There was no longer an easy
explanation for their movements. She cursed herself silently.

But what explanation was there for Willam? He had threatened
the use of magic and was frightened at the thought of attracting Abremio’s
attention. “Why does Abremio care about you?”

He thought carefully before replying. “Why does he care about
you?” he asked.

He was as cautious as they. Bel smiled despite herself. “We
don’t know that he does,” she replied.

He looked from one to the other. “I don’t know for sure,
either. But if he doesn’t care, it’s because he doesn’t know I exist.”

“You’re a danger to him?” Rowan asked.

“No. Not yet.” His composure was returning as they spoke.
Then an idea occurred to him, and he looked suddenly intrigued. “But you are,
aren’t you?”

Bel’s sword was across his throat again, the guard close
under his left ear. “Boy,” she said in a perfectly reasonable tone, “I want you
dead. My friend”—she nodded up at Rowan—“doesn’t agree. But she’s a sensible
person, actually. She won’t risk our lives on a kindhearted whim.”

“The odds are against you,” Rowan pointed out, “unless you
can convince us that you’re harmless to us.”

His fear had returned. “I am!”

“The more we know about you, the better we’ll be able to
judge that. The less you know about us, the less risk you are.”

“Don’t ask questions,” Bel clarified. “Answer them.”

He took a deep shaky breath and looked up at Rowan. “I won’t
betray you. Because I think we’re all on the same side. I’ll tell you anything
you want.”

She considered. It was difficult to believe that this big
clumsy-looking boy, so obvious in his deceptions, could represent any direct
threat. He looked more than a little foolish, sitting awkwardly on the ground,
his possessions scattered about him; the warrior beside him could dispatch him
as simply and negligently as she might snap the neck of a snared quail.

And yet

“The package you left in the ferns contains something magical?”
she asked.

“That’s right. Charms. They’re useful, in a small way. But
they can be dangerous, if you’re not careful.” He held up his right hand for
them to see. As Rowan had noticed before, the hand lacked its last two fingers.
The underside of the arm was also scarred, as from an old burn, and his right
eyebrow was faintly ragged. Abruptly the pattern made sense, and she realized
that at some point in the past he had flung that arm across his face to protect
his eyes from sudden fire.

“Why were they given to you?” Bel asked.

“They weren’t.” He looked stubborn, as if he had often had
to defend that statement. “I made them.”

“You said that you’re not a wizard,” Rowan pointed out. “No.
Not yet.”

“Are you an apprentice?”

“No.” He looked earnest. “But I’d better become one, don’t
you think?”

“Easily said, less easily accomplished,” Rowan observed. Wizards
sometimes acquired apprentices; but where those young people came from, no one
knew. They were never of the folk in the wizard’s own holding. They appeared,
apparently from nowhere, and more often than not vanished abruptly, never to be
seen again. Only very rarely was it possible to make a clear connection between
the disappearance of a known apprentice in one part of the Inner Lands and the
sudden appearance of a new wizard in some other region. Even in those cases,
the apprentice’s antecedents were either untraced, or untraceable.

The boy went on. “I have to find a Red wizard. Abremio’s
Blue; so is Corvus, nowadays. I don’t want anything to do with the Blues.”

“What makes you think that any wizard would accept you?” she
asked.

“Well ...” Willam spoke grimly. “I suppose he’d have to. It
wouldn’t do to have one of the folk walking around doing magic, would it? He’d
either have to take me in, or kill me.”

Bel leaned closer. “Then he’ll kill you.”

From his position he could not comfortably look her in the
eye, but his expression was defiant. “Maybe not.”

But Rowan had reached her conclusions. She gestured to Bel
to relax her guard, but the Outskirter was wary and did not comply. Will
watched the silent argument in confusion.

Rowan casually sat down on the ground next to them, placing
her sword across her lap. “You’re going to become a wizard so that you can kill
Abremio, for taking your sister.”

It was an obvious conclusion, but Willam startled a bit when
she stated it. Bel gave one delighted “Ha!” and released him again, stepping
back to sheathe her own sword. She sat down herself, pulling her cloak under
her, and viewed Willam with approval. “Can your magic do this?” she asked.