Word was passed, and from elsewhere in the camp more people gathered. Bel appeared at Rowan’s side as Jann took position. “I’ve seen Jann practice,” Bel told the steerswoman quietly. “She’s strong. She’ll try to overpower you with sheer strength.”
“She may be strong,” Rowan said, passing her friend her logbook, pens, ink stone, and cleaning cloth, “but I know a few things she doesn’t.” She unstrapped her sheath.
“Take off anything else you don’t need.” Rowan was wearing an Outskirter fur vest over her blouse; she removed it, and carefully tucked her thin gold Steerswomen’s chain into the neck of her blouse.
Between the tents around the little yard, spectators arranged themselves, shifting as they jockeyed position for a clear view.
Another voice spoke in Rowan’s ear. “She’ll lead with a sweep from her right to her left. She likes to surprise people straight off.” Fletcher.
It was not the best first move for a right-handed fighter. Jann would need to leave herself open for an instant to gain a position with enough momentum. An opponent not aware of Jann’s strength would try to take advantage of the opening, to be met by unexpected force. With enough speed and a proper accompanying dodge, Jann could gain an immediate advantage. “That’s good to know,” Rowan said by way of thanks; but Fletcher was gone, as was Bel, back among the observers.
Berrion paced off ten steps, then directed the fighters each to one end of the measurement. He pulled out a wooden field knife and held it before him; Rowan received one last instruction, called out by Bel.
“When it hits the ground, not when he releases it!” A starting signal. Rowan nodded, and assumed a ready position. Her eyes were already on Jann’s, trying to read intent or the feigning of intent. Jann was doing the same. Neither woman watched Berrion, but waited for the soft sound of a knife falling on earth.
It fell point-down, which Rowan had not expected. She did not hear it at all, but saw Jann hear it, saw the expected opening about to appear, and swung into it, fully aware that it was the wrong move for any weapon but her own.
The force of her swing was met by the greater force of Jann’s. But Rowan’s sword was not pushed aside, as was expected, and Rowan was not thrown off balance. Her weapon absorbed part of Jann’s power, flexing slightly. Rowan cooperated with it, dropping the point, and her blade slithered under Jann’s in passing, hardly breaking Jann’s momentum.
With Jann past her, Rowan swung fully around, angling a down-sweep at the warrior’s now-undefended right side, desperately alert to the need to stop the blow before it actually contacted and killed Jann. But Jann stopped it herself, one-handed, the other hand bracing herself on the ground in the half crouch into which her first maneuver had collapsed. Rowan slipped her sword around and down, sweeping at Jann’s arm and feet; the Outskirter escaped by executing an astonishing backward roll, miraculously keeping her sword free and arriving upright on her feet. Her face showed surprise and pleasure. “Ha!” Rowan saw Jann instantly reassess her opponent. Whatever advantage of surprise Rowan had possessed was lost.
Taking two steps forward, Rowan used the free space for a powerful overhead blow, with so much of her weight behind it that her right foot left the ground. Jann’s blade met hers and tried to force hers aside. Rowan let it do so, let her blade move and recover, stepping right as her sword twisted around Jann’s.
She was now on Jann’s undefended left side, but in no position to strike. She dodged back as Jann recovered.
They began a cycle of sidesteps, circling, feinting. Each studied the other’s stance and motion, seeking strategy. Beyond Jann’s face, Rowan vaguely saw the faces of the watchers, each in turn, as she and Jann completed their circles. She ignored them, focusing on Jann’s expression and the configuration of her body.
She saw the change in Jann’s balance, reasoned which muscles would contract, knew the blow before Jann made it. Rowan did not try to escape it; she met it with full force, slid her blade up to Jann’s hilt, twisted, disengaged, dodged back, spun, struck again, slid again, wrenching her edge against Jann’s metal-edged wooden sword.
Jann recognized Rowan’s strategy. She retreated, trying to protect her weapon’s weakest point. Rowan pressed again. Three times they came face-to-face, hilts together, and Rowan’s speed was such that Jann had no space to recover and reposition.
Jann was now completely on the defensive, stepping back and around, again and again, as Rowan dashed forward, struck, slid and twisted, slithered free, struck again. It was close fighting one instant, at sword’s length another, in a pattern determined by Rowan’s reasoning and her knowledge of both weapons, knowledge only she held. Rowan began to enjoy herself.
Backstepping, maneuvering, Jann twice left openings into which a quick fighter could insert a killing blow. Rowan did not trust her own ability to halt such a blow in time; she concentrated on destroying Jann’s weapon.
There came at last one moment when Rowan struck and twisted, only to find her edge caught beneath the loosened metal edging of Jann’s sword. She could not escape as expected and tried to change her motion to a scissoring slide that would free the metal from Jann’s edge. But Jann did not try to pull back, or dodge out. She brought sudden power from below, forcing Rowan’s sword up. Rowan’s hands were thrown up, her entire body undefended; but at the high point of the motion she felt something give way, found herself released, fell back into a planned fall, ready to defend from the ground against the overhand blow that would follow
“Yield!” Jann stepped back quickly, to the far side of the yard. She stood slack a moment, mouth dropped in amazement, then laughed a long laugh of warrior’s delight. “Steerswoman,” she called. “I yield!”
Rowan was on her back on the bare ground, sword at the ready, prepared to counter one blow, with no way to recover for the next. She could imagine no less defensible position.
Jann held up her own weapon and turned it in the sunlight: from hilt to point, one edge was bare wood. A battered curl of metal was attached to the point in a wide looping curve, springing ludicrously in the air.
Cheers filled the area. Hands appeared, helping Rowan to her feet: Bel’s, Fletcher’s, Averryl’s, and, oddly, Jaffry’s. Rowan’s shoulders were clapped more times than she could count, as the crowd broke ranks to fill the yard.
Jann approached Rowan. “You’re a good fighter, Rowan. I didn’t expect that.” She showed no regret at losing, only appreciation of her opponent’s skill.
Rowan felt nothing but admiration for the Outskirter. “As are you,” she said. “You certainly had me jumping!”
“You fight like a spring-hopper. I could hardly keep up.” Jann shifted her sword to her left hand and offered her right to Rowan.
Rowan clasped it warmly. “I sincerely hope,” she told Jann, “that I never find myself opposite you in a real fight.”
Jann’s glance moved past Rowan’s shoulder; the steerswoman was aware of a tall presence behind her and knew it to be Fletcher.
In a flickering instant, Jann’s open grin changed from genuine to formal. “Then,” she replied, “be careful of the company you keep.”
26
“Now, put that down! Can’t always be working, girl!”
Rowan looked up.
It was old Chess, her face wrinkled into the unaccustomed lines of a smile. “Saw the fight. You did good. Hoo, that Jann, she’s a fine warrior! Never thought one like you would set her back. Just goes to show you.
Rowan was seated outside Kree’s tent in the afternoon light, reviewing the notes she had made that morning. She looked around in startlement, disbelieving that all this sudden vivacity was directed at herself. No one else was present.
Chess held up her hands. “I brought something.” Two small pottery jugs, one small-mouthed, one large.
Rowan set aside her book. “What is it?” she asked cautiously; it might be a gift, or something peculiar for a steerswoman to examine.
The old woman crinkled her nose roguishly. �
��Erby,” she said, then jerked her head toward the tent. “Let’s take it inside.”
Rowan began to recognize a universal behavior. “Is it liquor? I didn’t know Outskirters made alcohol.” She gathered her materials and reluctantly followed the enthusiastic mertutial into the tent.
“Alcohol, ha! This is not just alcohol, young woman.” Chess pushed aside a couple of bedrolls and settled herself familiarly onto the carpet. “This,” she announced, “is the stuff, the stuff itself, of celebration!” Chess was being entirely too loquacious to suit Rowan; the steerswoman suspected that something was afoot.
The old woman set the jugs down and directed Rowan to a seat opposite her. When Rowan hesitated, she fussed. “Now, a good fight like that deserves celebration, don’t you think? Come on, come on!” Her waving encouragement became ludicrous.
Not wishing to offend Outskirter customs, Rowan complied, cautiously. “What is it? How is it made?”
From somewhere within her clothing, Chess drew two shallow mugs. “Always the questions, I never stop being amazed! Well.” She held up the small-mouthed jug, eyes sparkling in nests of wrinkles. “This,” she announced, “comes from redgrass root, same as bread. You make it like you start to make bread, then stop, and let it sit for a good long time.” She poured a measure into each cup: clear, colorless fluid.
“And this”—she took up the wider jug—“used to be goat milk.” She waved one finger in a saucy negation, an appalling effect in one her age. “But it’s not anymore!” She added the contents to both cups: pale white liquid, with small floating yellow clots.
Rowan peered into her cup dubiously. “There’s something going on in there.” The clumps were shifting, and more were visibly coalescing.
Chess emitted an Outskirter’s “Ha.” She took a sip. “Something going on, for sure, and it’ll keep going on inside.” She smacked her lips, then gestured at the steerswoman. “Now you.”
“Well ...
“Come on, come on! A fighter like you can’t be afraid of a little drink!”
Rowan took a very little drink. Her tongue was instantly coated with a sour, cheesy ooze. The fluid component of the erby converted to fumes before it reached her throat, and a cold, airy gap abruptly came into being between her mouth and the back of her head. She coughed.
Chess slapped her knee. “What a fight! I never saw anyone move like that!”
Rowan waited for her tongue to reappear. “Thank you,” she said. “Who was your mentor?” Chess drank again.
“Formally speaking, as you know it, I had none,” Rowan began; at Chess’s urging she took another cautious sip. It was necessary to pause and swallow the gooey clots separately from the liquid. “Specifically,” Rowan tried to continue, then swallowed again to clear her mouth, “Bel instructed me in how to fight against Outskirter weapons.” The airy space had spread to the floor of her brain; the top of her skull seemed completely disconnected from her body, a decidedly peculiar sensation.
“That Bel!” Chess enthused. “I never saw her fight, but I can tell, just from the way she walks, from the way she carries herself. No one should ever cross her. She’ll slice you up and enjoy herself doing it.” She drank again.
“I’ve seen her do exactly that,” Rowan replied.
Chess waved at her. “Come on, do another. I did one, now you.” The regularity of the procedure disturbed Rowan; it definitely possessed a formal aspect ...
Dubiously, she sipped again. There were more clots in her cup than had been there at first, and the liquid itself had become stronger. It survived long enough to pass down her throat, and began to define for her the specific shape and configuration of her stomach. “It’s ... it’s very interesting ...”
The entrance darkened as someone passed into the tent. Rowan was surprised at the difficulty she had in recognizing Bel. She greeted her friend with relief. “Bel, come in! Chess has brought some—Chess, what is it called?”
“Erby,” the old woman supplied. “And you should join us.”
“How far are you into it?” Bel asked.
“Three sips each,” the mertutial replied, and Rowan’s suspicions coalesced.
Bel shook her head. “I think I’ll decline.” She ambled over to her pack, began to rummage inside it.
Rowan blinked at the old woman, seeing her with difficulty through expanding and dispersing spots of blue light. Chess was smiling a thin, happy smile, perfectly content. “Bel,” Rowan began. “Excuse me, Chess—Bel ... what exactly have I gotten myself into?”
Bel turned back, suppressing a grin. “You’ve gotten yourself into Outskirter customs.” She approached. “Pardon us, Chess, while I instruct this foreigner.” Bel stooped down beside Rowan. “Drinking erby muddles your mind and puts you at a disadvantage. When people agree to drink with each other, they agree not to gain an advantage. If one person drinks, another has to, at the same time.
“If you’re in a group, you pick one person, catch his or her eye, and drink; the other person has to drink, too. You make sure to pick a different person each time, and spread the effects. If it’s just two people,” and her grin escaped control, “you have to drink anytime the other person does. And she has to drink when you do. You stay even.”
Chess ostentatiously took a large sip. Rowan hesitated, then did the same. The cheesy substance insulated her tongue from the effects of the alcohol, half of which ventilated her throat again; the other half found a new route to her brain, by way of her eyeballs. “I see,” Rowan said, although literally, she could not, quite. Bel was a shadow against faintly blue light. “How does one ever stop?” She decided that the need for this information would soon be urgent.
Bel’s form weaved in the air. “If one person doesn’t take a sip, the other has nothing to match. If the second person also doesn’t take a sip, the first has nothing to match. Then it’s over.”
“Ah.” Experimentally, Rowan drank again, saw Chess do the same. “But,” Rowan said, “but, what if one person never stops?”
“Oh, she will,” Bel assured her, “one way or the other.”
Bel seemed to vanish; Rowan watched as Chess charged both cups again, from each jug. “Why,” Rowan asked, “don’t you just put it all in one jug? Is it,” she searched for the word, “a ritual?”
“Ritual, perhaps; a ritual of necessity,” Chess replied. Rowan was amazed that the elderly mertutial could enunciate so clearly. “If you put it all together at once, it’ll turn itself into cheese and vapors. Can’t drink it then.”
“Well,” Rowan said. “Well.” She studied her cup; her vision began to clear, although it acquired a liquid quality. The air on her body seemed tangible; her skin prickled. Her eyes possessed no bodily connection whatsoever to her face. “So this is how Outskirters celebrate?”
“Sometimes,” Chess informed her, then gestured with her own mug, “when you’re with a friend you can trust.” She sipped, smacked her lips again.
Conforming to custom, Rowan drank. “Well,” she said again, then forgot her planned statement: Chess, something about Chess. She found it. “I certainly can trust you, Chess. You cook everything I eat. If you wanted to kill me, you’d have done it by now.” After the fact, she hoped the comment did not constitute an insult.
But Chess considered the statement seriously. “Yes, indeed I could have, Rowan the clever fighter! I couldn’t fight you with a sword!” She blinked. “Not now, that is.”
“You were a fighter,” Rowan observed, “once.” Of course she had been; all mertutials had been, once.
“One of the best, if you believe it.”
Rowan was relieved to discover a basis for conversation. “How many people,” she asked, “have you killed in your life?” She would be interested in the answer.
The mertutial let out a gust of breath. “Hoo. Plenty.” She sipped; Rowan sipped. “By the time I was twenty,” Chess continued, “I’d killed twenty. I decided then to make thirty by thirty; but by the time I was thirty, counting seemed silly. You can’
t kill people just to keep up a tally.”
“No, indeed,” Rowan said. “You might need to kill a friend, to maintain the numbers.”
This was apparently the wisest thing Chess ever heard. She nodded, and tapped Rowan’s knee. “True, true,” she said. “You have to be careful who you kill.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“But twenty by twenty,” Chess went on, “that’s something. Because I didn’t kill anyone at all before going walkabout. So, you see, that’s twenty in six years.”
“A truly remarkable achievement.” Rowan was proud of the phrase. She drank again.
“I started off strong,” Chess said, after matching Rowan. “I took down three when I went walkabout.”
Walkabout. Rowan decided that she wanted to know about walkabouts. “How did that happen?”
“Well.” Chess arranged herself to tell a story. “It was me and Eden, two young girls, off alone on the veldt ...” Rowan struggled to imagine it: Chess, with her remarkable collection of wrinkles, straggled hair and all, once a young, strong girl. Abruptly, an isolated corner of her mind, a calm and intelligent segment, caught up the concept and gifted her with a mental image brighter and clearer than the true one before her eyes: Chess would have been a small girl with wiry cords of muscles, quick of reflexes, determined of will. One little package of danger and death, never faltering ... And Eden
Chess began to recite:
“Odd Eden, awkward and tall,
Chess chided, cheering;
‘Fear no foe, make no fault,
We will be warrior women together ...’”
Rowan listened, as Chess and Eden spent days crossing the fearsome wilderness: two children, alone in the Outskirts. They stayed within signal distance, but the signals passed were for recognition only: I am here. Each, alone, found and faced small, single dangers.
Until the day they crossed, unknowing, pastures held by another tribe. Eden sighted a guard, tried to angle away; the children had no quarrel with the strangers. But for reasons unknown, the guard decided to attack, and Eden found herself pursued. By the time she determined that escape was impossible, by the time she turned to face her enemy, Chess was at her side.
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