The day had turned warm early on, and both women had added their heavier outer clothing to the donkey’s burden. They walked in the midst of a faint haze of road dust raised by the travelers ahead of them. Rowan breathed it in as if it were sea air.
She was using her resurrected sense of freedom to engage in her normal activity: she was finding things out. Denied the direct approach of questioning the travelers closely, she was utilizing a combination of close observation and the normal degree of idle curiosity she might be expected to display as Attise. Her restrictions took on the aspect of a game, and she ranged up and down the caravan’s length.
A pair of point riders headed the line, on hard-worked, scruffy ponies. A horse-mounted scout periodically came into view in the distance, signaled them, then disappeared again.
A charabanc drawn by a team of donkeys came next, carrying the well-to-do who did not wish to exert themselves unnecessarily. A party atmosphere suffused the group of strangers, but Rowan found them disinclined to indulge in idle conversation with a walker. She recognized their origins by their accents, and rightly identified one narrow gentleman from the upper Wulf valley as escort to the six oxcarts of tin ingots that followed a few spaces behind. Tin was mined in the hills of the upper Wulf, by one of the two known enclaves of the mysterious Kundekin, and the man’s sentence structure showed the influence of long conversation with those normally reclusive people. Rowan speculated to herself on the effects of so large an import of tin on the metal-poor economy to the east.
The carts were followed by a handful of young horse-mounted travelers, all of a group, jesting with one another. They chatted freely but superficially and seemed more interested in a series of pranks played by one of their number. The most frequent victim was a lone Christer pilgrim, an attractive target due to his air of blind self-confidence and his unvarying reaction of dull puzzlement.
In all, some twenty wagons and carts made up the main body of the line, interspersed with riders and walkers. Some, like the tin importer, were planning to travel all the way to the junction at Five Corners. Others took advantage of the caravan’s protection for local trips, the fee for such participation being minimal. Still others traveled with the caravan for some significant segment of their journey, separating again when necessary; Rowan and Bel belonged to that category.
Rowan watched Will for a moment. “I wonder how one comes to be able to work magic.”
The Outskirter was surprised. “Everyone knows. You’re born with the talent.”
“Young Willam doesn’t seem particularly remarkable.”
“Ha. You can’t tell just by looking.”
“Making it easy for anyone to claim magical talent.”
Bel shook her head in mock aggrievedness. “There you go again, doubting. You doubt that the moon ever existed, you doubt the gods, you doubt the cards, and you doubt magic. Is there anything you don’t doubt?”
“Quite a lot,” Rowan told her, laughing despite herself. “I don’t doubt that some things people believe are true, and some are false. And I don’t doubt that there’s some means to tell the difference.” Then she admitted, “But I sometimes doubt that I possess the means.” They pulled abreast of an oxcart loaded with beer kegs, and the conversation was forced to end, lest the drivers overhear.
The guard turned away to patrol, and Willam caught up with the women. “He says that last year at this time, the caravan was set on by bandits right here.” Under his concern, Rowan detected a buried trace of wild boyish curiosity.
“Then it won’t be, this year,” she decided, knowing that bandits who worked in groups tended to keep distinct territories and so had to vary their tactics. Will managed to look both relieved and disappointed. “Not at this location, that is,” she added, and his expression became too mixed to interpret.
He was distracted by the group of walkers just ahead of the beer cart. Four men and a young woman had been trading turns pulling a two-wheeled luggage cart. Three of the men now positioned themselves between the poles and jogged in time, moving the cart closer to the front of the line, their exertions aided by the cheerful “Hup, hup” and handclapping of the woman. Their remaining companion strolled along at his ease, in parody of haughty condescension.
“What’s in the cart?” Will wondered.
“Instruments. They’re musicians.”
Will watched them depart, then wandered back to study a farm wagon carrying a load of provisions and a silent, sad-eyed family of four.
Bel scanned the line ahead and behind, then shook her head in amazement. “Things go differently in the Outskirts.”
“I imagine so.”
“Everything here is so easy—and comfortable.”
Rowan was taken aback. “Not at all. If these people traveled each alone, they’d certainly be robbed.”
“What about steerswomen? Aren’t they robbed?”
Rowan paused to form a reply that would not betray her connection with the Steerswomen if overheard. “They carry little. And what they have of value—that is, information—is free for the asking.”
“So they’re not molested?”
“Yes, but rarely. So I hear.”
Bel considered. “So these travelers band together and they’re safe.”
“Safer,” Rowan corrected.
“The Outskirts are never safe.”
Rowan wanted to ask her for more details, but decided it would seem too odd. Instead she satisfied herself with reviewing the information she had gleaned from Bel in previous conversations, trying to organize it in her mind. Bel noted her preoccupation and turned to amusing herself by trying to keep track of Willam’s wanderings. Presently a pony cart doubled back from the head of the line, and a lunch of dried meat and bread was passed out to those whose payment had included the service. The day wore on, pleasantly enough.
“So.” Damaine, the caravan-master, pulled up beside Rowan. “Only as far as Taller Ford, hey?” He was a slim, energetic man, dressed in bright red linen trousers, a square-cut sleeveless shirt, and a broad-brimmed hat. His dust-brown hair was tied behind the nape of his neck.
Rowan raised her voice to be heard over the creak of the beer wagon. “I’ll be heading south, and then east. To Alemeth.”
“Alemeth!” He blew air through pursed lips. Then his eyes glittered. “Silk!”
“That’s right.”
“Then you’ll need transport for your goods.” He began to calculate. “We’ll probably go by sea, once the deal’s established.”
“It’s off the regular lines.” He had a good knowledge of his competition’s habits.
“We may hire our own.”
He threw up his hands in mock distress. “Think of the expense!”
“Think of the convenience!” Rowan laughed.
“No, now, where are you based?”
They entered into a cheerful discussion of the relative merits and costs of the competing modes of bulk transportation. Rowan found her mathematical ability coming into play naturally, and was able to calculate rates and mileages with offhand ease that startled Damaine and gave him occasional pause. The conversational give-and-take was both lighthearted and cutthroat. Soon Rowan realized, with some surprise, that this occupation was one she could he good at, and even enjoy. She and the caravan-master ended up laughing in admiration of each other’s expertise.
One of the guards up ahead hallooed, waving his hat at his master. Damaine acknowledged with his own signals, then cupped his hat behind one ear to catch the explanation. Walking down among the cart noise, Rowan could not make out what was said.
“Hmph.” Damaine turned to her. “Did I see you writing letters last night?”
She nodded. “Yes, keeping my master posted.” In fact, the letters served to report her movements and any new information to the Prime. Arian had provided Rowan with a deviously clever mathematical cipher that permitted her to conceal her information economically within very few paragraphs. There was no particular reason at this point to s
uspect her letters might be intercepted; she had detected no sign of scrutiny since she had left the Archives. Still, it was a reasonable precaution.
The address to which she sent them was a nonexistent one far in the upper Wulf valley, ostensibly her point of origin. But to reach that area, her letter would have to pass through Wulfshaven itself, and a notation on the address suggested it be routed through the offices of a small herring fleet. Such interim destinations were common with letters traveling long distances, trusted to the hands of a succession of strangers. However, one of the clerks in the offices was a failed steers-woman who had maintained friendly relations with the residents of the Archives. The plan called for her to reroute the messages.
Rowan had managed to send one communication from a small village the travelers had passed through on the road south to the caravan route. It consisted merely of assurances that she had met with no problems yet. How long it would take to reach its destination, Rowan had no idea.
She had spent the last few evenings enciphering the news of her and Bel’s encounter with Willam. She said to Damaine, “When we reach the next town, I’ll see if I can find someone going west who might be willing to carry a letter.”
“Well, you won’t have to wait,” he replied, gesturing up the length of the caravan. “There’s a steerswoman up ahead, coming this way. You can pass the letters through her.”
Rowan’s thoughts froze, then went into a flurry, trying to guess who it might be. Who was on this road; who was traveling west at this time?
And how could Rowan avoid meeting her?
She thought of Janus, assumed lost, and she hoped desperately that it was him. But Damaine had not said “steersman.” She resisted the temptation to ask Damaine if it was a man or a woman approaching. Steersmen were so rare and notable that it was unlikely the guard ahead would simply use the general term. Also, she reminded herself, as Attise she should not care which it was.
She tried to let none of her thoughts reach her face. “Good,” she said to Damaine. Steerswomen were frequent and reliable letter carriers. To refuse would have been too conspicuous.
Somewhat later, she crossed the line in front of the beer cart and joined Bel and Willam, who were idly chatting with the Christer pilgrim. Will glanced in annoyance as she gestured Bel aside. Since he had decided they were allies, he took mute exception to their excluding him from any consultations, but he never protested, for fear of losing their indulgence. Bel handed him the donkey’s lead and stepped back behind the wagon with Rowan.
“There’s a steerswoman up ahead.”
Bel tilted her head. “And she’ll recognize you?”
“Almost certainly. There aren’t that many of us, and the older ones, the ones I haven’t met, are working the limits of the Inner Lands far from here. Very likely, it’s someone I trained with.”
“And she won’t know anything of your doings.”
“It will take some explaining. And, there’s the chance she’ll give me away before I can explain at all.”
Bel nodded. “Then you’ll have to avoid her.”
“Exactly.”
Bel scanned the length of the caravan. “There are enough people for you to lose yourself, if you know when she’s passing by. I’ll scout ahead and warn you.”
“And you’ll give her a letter.” Rowan explained the custom to Bel. “I’ll have to step aside to add a note and to address it. Then you can run it up to her.”
Bel smiled at a happy thought. “Let’s have Willam do it. It will make the poor fellow feel useful.”
Rowan could not help laughing. “That’s a good idea.”
They rejoined Will and the pilgrim. Rowan pulled from her baggage the folio of letter paper that she carried in place of her steers-woman’s logbook. Bel picked up her conversation with the Christer and gestured for Will to stay with her as Rowan stepped to the side of the road.
There was no time to melt sealing wax. Rowan made do by folding the paper several times over and tying it with a bit of ribbon. She spit onto her ink stone, mixing a bit of powder, and addressed it, propping the folio against her knee.
She had to hurry back up the line to reach Bel and Willam, waving the paper a bit to dry the ink. She wondered briefly if she looked too undignified at the moment to be a proper merchant.
“Will.”
He turned to her.
“Here, be careful of the ink. I need you to run up ahead and pass this on to a steerswoman who’s coming this way.”
He opened his mouth to speak, very probably to ask why she did not simply wait until the steerswoman reached her. Rowan gave him a warning look, and he closed his mouth again. In the presence of the Christer, he could not ask for her justifications. Resigning himself to his mysterious mission, he shifted his pack to a more snug position, tightened one of the ropes that served as a strap, took the letter, and headed off.
He did not exactly run, Rowan noticed, but extended his stride to a smooth ground-devouring lope. Piecing the clues together, she decided that fire was not the only thing that might threaten the safety of the charms in his pack.
The pilgrim noticed. “Is there something wrong with his legs?”
“I don’t know,” Rowan replied.
The Christer looked after the boy, then began to hold forth with a long, boring, and largely spurious list of medical recommendations.
It was half an hour later when Will rejoined them, by the simple expedient of standing still as they caught up to his position. “She’s going to be camping with the caravan tonight. I thought you might like to know.”
Rowan was taken aback. “What?”
The pilgrim had left their company, and the boy felt free to speak. “She fell in with the musicians up ahead. I think she’s a musician herself.”
The name spoke itself before Rowan could stop it. “Ingrud.” He was surprised. “You know her?”
She managed to prevent herself from explaining further and lapsed into one of her silences. Bel took over. “Let’s say we know of her. And that we have to avoid her, or at least Attise does.”
He glowered. “I wish you’d told me.”
Rowan turned on him. “What did you do?”
“Well ...” he began defensively. Ahead, a few heads turned in their direction at the loudness of his protest. He continued, quieter but vehement. “Steerswomen are good sources of information. You can ask them anything, and they have to answer, no matter what. I thought—” He stepped closer and spoke still more quietly. “I thought, with what you’re doing, you’d want to know something about what the land is like farther up this road. And a merchant would want to know, anyway.”
“She’s going to come looking for me?”
“I told her you had some questions ...”
Rowan threw up her hands in exasperation, furiously turned away to calm herself, turned back before she could, and pointed one finger a bare inch from his face. “Don’t do that,” she said in a low, vicious voice. “Don’t go off making plans for us on your own initiative—”
Angry, he spoke louder. “Well, if I knew a little more about what you’re—”
Bel slapped his shoulder once, very hard. Caught off-stride, half-turned, he stumbled, and Rowan stepped out of his way—
—then abruptly countered her instincts in panic and stepped back in to grab him—
—and countered instinct again to change her sudden clutch into a smooth interception, a catch with some give in it. Like catching a tossed egg
She ended with both knees on the ground, one arm across Willam’s chest, the other gripping his left shoulder from behind. His right arm was flung around her neck, a fistful of cloth on her back clutched in his half-hand. His left arm was thrown forward, to ward off the ground or to cushion his fall.
They froze. Willam held his breath. Rowan waited.
Eventually she said, carefully, “Is anything going to happen?”
He looked at her, eyes wide. “No,” he replied. He sounded not at all certain.
<
br /> Bel stood to one side, puzzled, but the look on their faces had stopped her from offering help. Instead she intercepted two little girls, locked in deep converse, who were about to trip over the pair.
Rowan cautiously helped Will up. Speaking close to his ear, she said urgently, “Can’t you do something to make those things safer?”
He gazed about with a stunned expression, like someone amazed to be alive. “No,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know. I was never able to find out.”
She urged him into a slow walk. They began to drop back as their fellow travelers continued at a steadier pace. Bel tugged the donkey back into motion and fell in with them.
“If the charms are this dangerous, perhaps you should get rid of them,” Rowan said.
He shook his head, partly in dissent, partly to clear it. “I don’t know that the spells would have escaped. Sometimes they do, if you drop them. Not always. It’s just hard to be sure. I’ve never carried so many at once. If one releases, they all will, this close to each other.”
Bel had caught the substance of the conversation. “What would have happened?”
Shock and guilt on his face, Willam looked up the line of travelers and wagons, then down it, then at the surrounding landscape. It came to Rowan that it all would have been affected in some terrible way. “Nothing good” was all he said.
Bel looked pleased. “Then you ought to be more careful. A good weapon should be treated with respect.”
He nodded vaguely, then came back to himself. “The steers-woman,” he said.
It took Rowan a moment to remember that he was not referring to her. “Ingrud,” she amplified. “I’ll try to keep out of the way tonight. When you or Sala see her, tell her that I’ve changed my mind. She’ll be too occupied to think much of it.”
Rowan sat in darkness on the edge of the camp, on the far side of the charabanc, her back against one tall wheel. The team of donkeys that had pulled it during the day were contentedly grazing around her and tugging at their staked tethers, her own beast among them. Behind her, travelers and drivers were gathered into cheery groups. Some were dancing.
Listening, Rowan identified the instruments: a pair of three-stringed viols, a bass flute, a bodhran, and a banjo, all led in a mad swirl by Ingrud’s squeeze-box. The music was an ancient dance tune, “Harrycoe Fair.” Nearby, someone was trying to dredge the nonsense lyrics from memory and making a bad job of it.
Steerswoman - 01 & 02 The Steerswoman's Road Page 16