The Steerswoman's Road (94 page)

Now Kammeryn began to speak, quietly, constantly: specific
directions and warnings to guide the steps of those who walked behind. No
tribe member questioned his instructions, or the need to risk travel in the
deadly night. Each sentence the seyoh spoke was repeated by those walking
behind him, passed back to the rear of the tribe, out to those walking among
the close-packed herd; in star-spattered blackness, the tribe was a single,
murmurous animal, surging across the veldt.

One ancient mertutial toward the center of the tribe
stumbled and fell, breaking her hip. People supported her, half carrying her as
she wept in pain, while word was passed forward that she asked to be left
behind. Kammeryn was long in replying to the request; he was still issuing his
instructions. But a few minutes later, between a warning of a large boulder at
the tribe’s left and the exact number of meters to a marshy sink, he inserted
the sentence “Send Chian my farewell.”

At last the sky began to lighten, and the entire span of the
mental map had been crossed. The night’s march was done.

But now the tribe could see to walk. There was no rest. They
continued on.

During the night, the tribe had caught up with most of the
guards ahead, who had been forced by the darkness to wait. Now, as the sun
rose, the scouts themselves were sighted; but they were rested, and begged
permission to move ahead immediately, informing the seyoh that the point scout
had done so already, daring to walk step by careful step, out into the unknown
land. Permission was given, and the scouts set off at a flat run, the lines of
guards reconfiguring more slowly.

Kammeryn was now silent, often walking with eyes closed.
Rowan understood that he was resting his thoughts from the night’s efforts; and
from this, that he was preparing to receive the next reports, for the creation
of another map; and from this, that he intended the tribe to continue traveling
throughout the next night.

Kammeryn’s aide walked close beside him, holding his elbow,
occasionally speaking to warn him of objects underfoot. Her instruction was
insufficient, and Kammeryn stumbled once. On his other side, Rowan reached out
to assist, grasping him by the arm.

The touch sent a shock through the steerswoman. The seyoh’s
arm was thin, the skin loose, the muscles slack. His bones seemed light as a
bird’s, and as she helped him regain his balance, she felt his weight almost
not at all.

Kammeryn was an old man. She had forgotten.

Kammeryn always stood tall and straight, striding about his
camp with a firm step; his dark eyes were clear, his comprehension deep, his
authority unquestioned. He was a man of power.

But his wisdom was the wisdom of years. The years were
marked on his face, and the years had long ago wasted the mass from his body.
His power came from his tribe’s recognition of his wisdom; his strength was
strength of spirit and intellect.

But it was not his spirit alone that had now walked
twenty-four hours with no rest. It was his body. And he was an old, old man.

Reports slowly began to come in again, briefly interrupted as
the outer line paused to deal with a number of goblin jacks. Back in the tribe,
another mertutial succumbed, falling in exhaustion, and died where he lay. His
body was carried to the front of the tribe, segmented by mertutials as the
tribe passed around it, and cast by warriors in the rear positions of the outer
circle.

The herdmaster reported that twenty-three goats had escaped
in the night. The seyoh’s mind was already occupied; he nodded indifferently.

Rowan’s own thoughts began to be claimed by the new information
from the warriors ahead; and before she grew too completely involved, she
slowed her steps and dropped back within the tribe.

Orranyn and his band, with Fletcher within them, were traveling
some thirty feet behind and to the left of the seyoh’s position. Rowan crossed
to them and caught Fletcher’s attention; but before she could speak, Jann interposed
herself.

“No,” the warrior said.

“I just want to talk to him.”

“No. Kammeryn said, keep him apart.”

The night’s march had been hard on Fletcher. It was only a
week since he had been wounded, and his reserves of strength were not great. He
was pale, panting in effort, and limping slightly. He watched the two women
speaking, his bright gaze flickering between them.

“I’m sure Kammeryn didn’t intend to keep me from speaking to
Fletcher,” Rowan said.

“No.”

“Dann, he knows things we might need to know!”

And Fletcher called out to her. “How far have we come?”

And it shocked her to recall: Fletcher was under the Steers-women’s
ban. Rowan could not reply.

Orranyn came around the guards and joined Jann. “Rowan,” he
said carefully, “do you want to ask Kammeryn if you may speak to the prisoner?”

Her mouth moved once in realization; then she said, “No.”
She dared not distract the seyoh from his work. She drew a breath, expelled
it. “Orranyn,” she said, “you might be interested to know that, by my
estimation, the tribe has traveled one hundred and twenty kilometers.” And she
hurried forward to rejoin Kammeryn.

Up front, Bel had slipped off her pack and was carrying it below
one arm, while she rummaged inside with the other hand. “Here,” she said to
Rowan, handing her something.

Rowan looked at the object: a box wrapped in silk cloth. “Your
cards?”

“And here.” A spare knife. “Put them in your pack. And
these.” The three remaining handleless knife blades the travelers brought from
the Inner Lands.

“In my pack?”

“Yes. I’m losing mine; it’ll slow me down.” Bel indicated
the land ahead with a jerk of her chin. “I’m moving up to work as a scout. They
lost the point man overnight.”

Rowan groped back over one shoulder to thrust the items into
her pack. “I’ll feel much better knowing it’s you out on point,” she said.

“Ha,” Bel said, still rummaging. “I’m not going to be point.
I’ll take someone else’s place;
they’ll
move to point.”

Kammeryn spoke. “Relay.”

“Seyoh?”

“Bel is point scout.”

The relay gave Bel one appraising glance, then sent the
signal forward. Bel grinned, thumped Rowan on the shoulder, and was off, moving
at a tireless jog, her pack still in her hands. Thirty feet away, she swung the
pack three times over her head and sent it flying off over the redgrass, then
disappeared among the brushy hills.

Kammeryn was not yet so occupied as to be unaware of conversations
nearby. Rowan hazarded addressing him. “Seyoh, you might be interested to know
that I can do the same as you. I can interpret the reports coming in, I can
visualize the landscape, and I can keep track of the tribe’s progress.”

“Are you current on the reports?”

“For the most part.”

“Tell me about the brook we’re approaching.”

No brook was visible. “It’s now ten and one half kilometers
away, oriented northeast to southwest. At the point we’ll meet it it will be
too deep to wade, unless we change direction now. We can’t change direction
because of that hill ahead of us at position ten, five kilometers away. We
must go to the brook, and travel along it for one and one half kilometers,
where the water is just over a meter deep. We’ll know the place by the young lichen-towers
the scouts crushed to mark it.”

The old man smiled into the distance. “Stay by me. Keep up
with all the reports.”

“Yes, seyoh.”

Just past noon they came to a doused fire pit, with slabs of
half-cooked goat meat hung across it. The fire had been started by members of
the far outer circle, checked by the following circles, doused by the innermost.
Kammeryn called a halt. The tribe settled down to eat, the stronger ones
bringing food to those more exhausted; and for the most part it was now
warriors serving mertutials, and mertutials thanking the warriors for the
service. Rowan brought the partly raw goat meat to Kammeryn herself.

The tribe rested for four hours, and most people slept; but
Kammeryn did not, nor Rowan. When the tribe prepared again to march,

Rowan noticed that five warriors had lost their packs and
were instead carrying small children strapped to their backs. Asleep, the
children stirred fitfully as they were hoisted up on the warriors. Some fell
back to sleep; two began weeping continuously but softly, too tired for louder
complaint.

By midafternoon, hazy clouds climbed in from the south, crossing
and then filling the sky. The clouds deepened; horizons dimmed, then vanished.
A fine drizzle more mist than rain began.

Soon, no further reports could be received, and well before
nightfall, the tribe was again traveling by night tactics—without stars by
which to check true direction.

Kammeryn was again issuing instructions continuously to the
tribe. Rowan listened intently, matching each word against her own knowledge,
constructing her own version of the imagined chart. The work was difficult, and
soon absorbed her completely. All her concentration was required to maintain
the clarity of her vision and her route. Other considerations faded; her very
identity seemed diminished.

The situation struck her as oddly familiar, but she had not
the freedom of thought to analyze the impression. She gave herself to the
work, and it owned her, utterly. In her mind, the tribe slowly inched its way
across the land.

When they reached the last known position of the innermost line,
they encountered one warrior of Berrion’s hand, waiting alone in the hazy
light. The woman fell in with the tribe, as expected. But when, only one
kilometer farther along, they found another single waiting warrior, Rowan
understood that a different tactic was being used.

The warriors ahead had stationed themselves along the route
Kammeryn had selected. For the rest of the evening and partly into the night,
the tribe met them, hailing from the darkness, one after another, at
approximately one-kilometer intervals.

But later, after fifteen warriors had been met, the tribe
walked over a kilometer without meeting anyone.

Kammeryn called a halt; everyone behind sank immediately to
seats on the ground, drawing up their hoods against the soft rain. The seyoh,
his aide, and Rowan remained standing.

Kammeryn called for a volunteer. Garris sent one of his warriors
forward.

The woman was given careful, precise directions, and alone
walked ahead at a slow pace, step by measured step, into the wet darkness.
While the tribe waited, word came forward to Kammeryn that another mertutial
had succumbed to age and exhaustion, and one infant. The mertutial was cast,
the infant buried.

An hour later, the volunteer returned; she had found no one.
Kammeryn issued new instructions and sent her off at a slightly different
angle.

She was never heard of again.

The tribe slept, waiting for the dawn. Rowan and Kammeryn
spent the night speaking to each other in strange, short sentences, consisting
purely of measurements and the names of natural features, as they mutually
reconfirmed their understanding of the land ahead.

The rain stopped shortly before sunrise, and in the morning
light Kammeryn recognized that the tribe had wandered north off its route. He
and Rowan amended their information, and the tribe slowly resumed travel.

The waiting lines of guards ahead were met, slowly, and sent
ahead again. The new reports began.

Eventually the scouts began to be heard from, and at last
the point scout herself. Rowan accepted the information provided and integrated
it; and somewhere within, a small part of herself recalled that it was Bel
whose words she now heard. That small part of Rowan found a moment to be
pleased, and grateful. Bel was ahead, discerning what dangers the tribe must
avoid; Rowan was behind, observing, integrating, planning, waiting for her own
wider knowledge to be called upon. The configuration struck the steerswoman as
perfectly natural, and correct.

They traveled until noon, when they found food again. They ate,
and rested briefly. They walked on again, people shambling, stumbling in
exhaustion. When night came, their seyoh permitted a three-hour rest.

Kammeryn did not sleep; Rowan wished to, desperately, but
followed his example, realizing that once she released her detailed
understanding of the invisible land ahead, she would be hours, perhaps a full
day, regaining it. Kammeryn did not dare to slack his attention, for the sake
of his tribe; Rowan refused to rest her own.

She found she must stand, or fall asleep. She and the seyoh
walked together in the dark, pacing back and forth on a twenty-foot line they
both knew to be flat.

After three hours they woke the tribe; and through the
rattling redgrass, across the rolling veldt, under a thousand stars and the two
bright, untwinkling beacons of the Guidestars, Kammeryn led his people on
through the remainder of the night.

Just before first light, Rowan stopped short, realizing that she
had walked the last ten paces alone.

She turned around, unconsciously adjusting the map in her
mind to take that fact into account. She walked back, forcing herself to see
and hear what was immediately present.

The leading edge of the tribe had stopped, the rest slowly
easing to a halt. There was a clot of activity directly before Rowan.

Kammeryn’s aide was stooping to the ground, speaking to someone.
“Give us a name.” Rowan could hear Garris shouting for Mander. She stepped
closer.

Kammeryn was half-prone, attempting to rise; his aide would
not permit it. “Mander’s coming,” she said. “Seyoh, give us a name.” Kammeryn
attempted to speak, but failed. Behind, the tribe members, helplessly, one by
one, dropped to seats on the ground.

The healer approached, Chess following close behind him. By
starlight, Mander looked into Kammeryn’s face and said immediately, “He’s going
no farther.” Kammeryn no longer tried to rise, and was breathing in long
breaths, slow but shallow.