20

 

Despite Rowan’s comment to Ellen, they did sleep. The scrub-girl woke them at dusk with an offer of hard rolls and fruit juice.

They found their night’s duty uneventful, its tedium relieved by the ribald comments of their counterparts on the north face, as each pair’s pacing brought them together. The women managed to respond like true soldiers, with earthy insults. Bel also amused herself by singing quietly as she walked, which Rowan enjoyed. The steerswoman rarely sang when others could hear; her own voice, though true in pitch, was plain and colorless.

To one side, the surface of the lake and the overcast sky merged in a black, featureless void. To the other, the fortress presented observers with an array of cupolas, balconies, and courtyards, and windows lit with gentle lights, most of which were extinguished, one by one, as the night proceeded. Rowan studied the configuration of rooftops as she paced.

At midnight their relief arrived, and the two women made their way to the staircase in a corner tower and descended. Sometime during the shift the wall sconces had been lit, and soft, unflickering light streamed from behind opaque shields. Pausing to examine one, Rowan found that she could not remove the shield. Cautiously she thrust one finger behind and encountered something hard and hot. She pulled back quickly. “These might function like the lamps in Wulfshaven Harbor.”

“If Corvus can do it, I suppose Themselves can.”

At the first level, Rowan unexpectedly turned aside, went down a short passage, and turned left, the opposite direction from their route back to the barracks and mess.

Caught unawares, Bel hurried to catch up and fell in beside her. “Where are we going?”

Rowan made a gesture. “So far, we’ve come a bit more than halfway around the keep. I want to complete the circuit, and on a different floor. I noticed something about the layout while we were on guard.”

“And what’s that?”

They were moving down a wide corridor, with doors on the left and a display of muted tapestries on the right, between light sconces, more decorative than those in the stairway. They passed two servants in whispered conversation, who silenced as they approached and resumed when they had gone by.

“From the walls, it looks like the keep is organized in three concentric hexagons. The outer wall and adjacent buildings, such as we saw on our first reconnaissance—that’s the first hexagon.” On the left, space opened into a gallery with arched windows. Noticing that the servants were out of sight, Rowan slipped into it, Bel following.

The windows showed an alley below and a rank of buildings across. Past them, the tower joining the northeastern wall to the eastern could be seen. Rowan turned back. “And now we’re in the second hexagon.”

Bel puzzled over this. “Like rings, inside each other?”

“That’s right.”

“And where are we?”

They continued down the hall. “The front gate and causeway are on the south. We’re now on the east side; counting our movements yesterday, we’ve gone three quarters of the way around.”

“I see. But I’ll never know how you keep direction indoors. What are you doing now?”

Rowan had stopped to look behind the tapestries and found bare stone wall. “There are no doors on this side.”

“And no windows. We can’t even look at the inner ring.” Bel viewed her friend sidelong. “And now that’s what you want to do most.”

“More than that; now I want to go there.”

The corridor angled, following the native geometry of the fortress as a whole. Just past the corner, they finally found a narrow door, tucked between two tapestries.

The door was propped open with a wooden block and led to a cramped staircase winding down. Following it, they found another open door; the room beyond was in blackness. Rowan listened for a moment but heard nothing. She slipped in and stood motionless, waiting for the atmosphere and the sound of her breathing to bring her some sense of the room’s shape.

Bel paused briefly, tucked behind the door’s edge to cover any sudden retreat Rowan might need to make. Nothing happened, and the steerswoman beckoned her in. “No magic lamps here?” Bel complained in a whisper.

“Apparently not.”

Light flared suddenly, pottery crashed, and a girlish voice cried, “Oh!” Then she said angrily, “You startled me!” A foot stamped petulantly. “How dare you?”

Rowan fought an urge to run, knowing it would only cause worse suspicion. Bel had dropped the point of her spear to fighting position, squinting in the light, and Rowan laid a restraining hand on her arm.

The room was brilliantly lit, and a slim girl stood by an opposite doorway, one hand flung back, the other steadying her against a cupboard from which some crockery had fallen. She was of Rowan’s height but fragile-seeming, and young, no older than Willam. A cloud of dark ringlets framed a face with a small, up-tilted nose, pointed chin, and long dark eyes under straight brows. It was a beautiful face, of that characterless perfection that Rowan always equated with having no face at all.

The girl wore a light silk gown, possibly her nightshift, over which was thrown a hooded cloak of startling beauty. Blue satin folds bright as sparkling water fell from her shoulders to sweep the ground, white satin showing at the lining. The cloak needed no ornament other than its elegant construction and the flare of its movement as the girl stepped closer. She viewed Bel with haughtiness and spoke with sarcasm. “My, isn’t she fierce?”

Bel relaxed her posture, and Rowan apologized. “Sorry, child. Instinct and training.”

The girl turned her dark gaze on Rowan. “And what might you two be doing here?”

The room was a kitchen. Rowan managed a wry comradely smile. “Possibly the same thing you’re doing.”

The girl stamped her foot again. “You must speak to me with more respect!”

Taken aback by her outburst, Rowan made to reply, but the girl continued, pacing in anger.

“You guards are all the same, none of you want to treat me correctly. I’m not a servant, remember that, and I’m not one of your cronies.” She stepped close and shook her finger under Bel’s nose. Rowan caught a faint scent of musk and dried sweat. “You should come to attention when I pass in the halls, and—oh!” She threw up her hands. “Those comments! There’ll be no more of that, I tell you. Remember what happened to Clara.”

“Miss,” Rowan managed to interject, “I’m sorry. Nothing of the sort entered our minds. You caught us by surprise, that’s all. No disrespect was intended.”

Catching Rowan’s tone, Bel spoke up. “And, miss, pardon me, but I’m new here, and I don’t know much of anything yet. Please, so I won’t make the same mistake again—who are you?”

The girl regained her control and eyed the Outskirter archly. “I’m Liane.” She tilted her head, gauging reaction, then turned away and wandered, as if idly, down along the preparing tables. “If you’re all that hungry, you may as well help yourselves.” A condescending smile was turned in their direction. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you.”

They leaned their spears near the door and came farther into the room. Liane graciously indicated the cupboards, and Rowan found a cold leg of mutton inside one.

“And, please, what is it that you do?” Bel continued. Liane’s only reply was an expression of self-satisfaction.

The steerswoman had already solved the girl’s puzzle, but was at a loss to express it politely. “She . . . holds a delicate and influential position.”

Liane laughed and clapped her hands. “I like that! Delicate and influential, that’s very true.”

Finding a pewter plate, Rowan arranged careful slices of meat, added some bread, and passed it to Liane. Then she cut more casual chunks for herself and Bel. “I must admit, miss,” she began cautiously, “that I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

Liane stopped with a slice halfway to her mouth. “Why is that?” A pattern of little bruises showed along one arm.

“It seemed to me that you must be a remarkable person, else—” She spread her hands to include the keep at large. “Else how would you be here?”

The girl looked surprised and gratified, and her expression softened. Here, Rowan thought, was possibly the best source of information they could hope for. Liane was young, naive, and in a privileged situation. The high opinion she had of herself was at odds with the attitudes of those around her; she was certainly lonely, and possibly easily flattered.

“Understand,” Rowan said to Bel, “a wizard could have any companion he chooses. Willing or unwilling, I suppose. The field of possibilities is large.”

“Large indeed, and more willing than not. Really, the way some of those people behaved!” Liane fluttered her fingers fastidiously. “Beneath me. I didn’t try to attract attention at all.”

She was altering her speech patterns, Rowan realized, and trying to adopt a form she considered superior. Likely her normal style was more like that of most of the guards. A local girl.

“And despite that, you were chosen, from everyone.” Rowan tried to sound impressed.

“Oh, yes.” Liane sighed ostentatiously. “It was love at first sight, I suppose.”

Bel was more dubious. “With which one?”

The girl feigned surprise. “Why, both of them.” She gave an arch, self-satisfied look. “They’re very close.”

The Outskirter frowned in thought as she tried to work out the logistics.

Rowan manufactured an envious expression. “Some people are born for good fortune.”

“Not all love and fun, I tell you,” the girl stressed seriously, slipping into natural speech, then slipping out again. “Mine is an important responsibility! When they’re distressed, or out of sorts, when their spells go bad and their plans don’t work, who do they turn to?”

There was a large pause before anyone recognized that she expected an answer to so rhetorical a question. Bel surrendered. “You?”

“Yes, indeed! And if I can’t soothe them and cheer them up—” She made a wide gesture. “Everyone suffers.”

“Are they out of sorts now?”

Her expansive mood faltered. She rubbed her nose with the back of one hand: an unconscious gesture, natural and poignant. “They’re very demanding,” she eventually replied.

“Is it this business with the steerswoman?” Rowan queried nonchalantly, remembering Ellen’s comments.

Liane showed disgruntlement and picked up another slice of meat. “Nothing else. I hate her. Everything’s in an uproar, just when we had gotten decently settled.”

“We might get sent out in a search squad,” Bel volunteered.

“I hope you kill her. No,” the girl amended, “that would only make matters worse.”

“It’s not really fair,” Rowan said, trying to voice Liane’s own thoughts. “Shammer and Dhree have just fought a dreadful war. I imagine they’d like to rest and enjoy themselves, rather than worry about some fugitive.”

Bel discovered her role in the conversation and began to play it. “Not at all,” she said to Rowan. “They have a responsibility. If this woman is some criminal, then she ought to be punished.”

“I’m sure they have other matters to attend to. How important can one woman be?”

Brooding on her hatred for the mysterious steerswoman, Liane commented distractedly, “It doesn’t matter if she’s important or not. They still have to catch her. But they don’t have to like it.”

Rowan stopped short. Implications crowded her mind, each demanding attention. Misunderstanding her silence, Bel tried to carry on the investigation. “If they don’t like it, why don’t they stop?”

The girl’s gaze refocused, and she slipped back into her superior manner. “That’s hardly the sort of thing soldiers should worry about. You just do as you’re told, and leave the decisions to your betters. Well.” She pushed away her plate. “Let’s leave the mess for the scullions. It will be a great mystery. Don’t you have to report to someone or go and guard something?”

If they reported to the night officer immediately, the lost time would not be difficult to explain away. Nevertheless, Rowan said, “Perhaps, miss, you’d let us escort you back to your chambers?” She thought it likely that Liane’s rooms were within the central keep.

The girl smiled charmingly, tilting her head. She had apparently decided that she liked this understanding guardswoman. “Well. That’s well spoken, but explaining you would take more trouble than it’s worth. However—” She tapped one cheek thoughtfully, amused with her own idea. “I think that tomorrow I’ll ask if I might be allowed to have a small contingent of my own, a sort of honor guard? Would you two enjoy a job like that?”

Rowan was astonished. “Very much, miss,” she said quite honestly. Bel’s grin possibly seemed feral only to Rowan.

“That’s good. I’d like it, too.” Liane turned away, allowing the cloak to swirl dramatically about her, very conscious of the effect. Pausing at the door, she made a gesture back toward the stairs. “Go on. You’re dismissed.”

 

Ascending the stairs, Rowan’s steps began to slow of their own accord. Halfway up, she discovered that she had stopped climbing.

Bel paused, looking back down at her. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. But wait a bit, I need to think. Something Liane said.” The conversation had yielded possibly important information, and Rowan stood silently as she organized the implications of three offhand comments.

It doesn’t matter if she’s important or not. Possibilities were two: the steerswoman was unimportant:. or there was no way to determine her degree of importance.

They still have to catch her. There was an impetus to do so that was outside of Shammer and Dhree’s control. Possibilities were two: a natural impetus consisting of the real threat she represented; or an artificial impetus.

They don’t have to like it. Shammer and Dhree resented the situation. Possibilities were two, and not mutually exclusive: they resented the waste of their resources; or they resented the existence of the outside impetus.

That resentment itself presented two possibilities: it was justified; or it was unjustified.

If their resentment was unjustified, it implied unrealistic attitudes. At least in the two wizards’ minds, it was justified.

If it was justified, then they believed she was unimportant, and they disliked acting against their own judgment against a threat they did not see as real. The impetus, then, was irresistible—and artificial.

The steerswoman turned to Bel. “Shammer and Dhree are acting under orders.”

She half expected Bel to doubt her and require lengthy justification, but the Outskirter digested the statement, then nodded minutely. “You’re certain.”

“Yes.”

“Who gives orders to wizards?”

Possibilities were two. “Either the decision was made by the wizards in concert, with Shammer and Dhree dissenting but forced to follow the majority . . . or there’s some single authority set over all wizards.”

“If there were, why would they ever war against each other?”

Possibilities were two. “If the authority exists, either it doesn’t care or it approves.”

 

They continued up and then along the second-floor corridor, planning to return to their barracks by completing their circuit of the fortress. As they turned the final corner, they saw in the distance the last member of the squad they had ambushed, the man they had tortured. He was alive.

 

 

21

 

They flattened themselves against the wall.

He was descending an open staircase, moving like a recently risen invalid. His bandages were fresh, his clothes and person clean. A solicitous comrade walked beside him, speaking in low tones.

“If he turns this way he’s bound to recognize us,” the Outskirter muttered.

“I doubt he’ll ever forget your face.” There was a door by Rowan’s right hand. She slid closer and tested the latch. It was unlocked. A tap on the shoulder got Bel’s attention, and the two slipped through. Rowan eased the latch silently closed.

The dim corridor they found was warmer than outside, with a faintly muffled feel. Trying to orient herself, Rowan felt a moment’s confusion, and then amazed gratification. Briefly, the danger outside vanished from her thoughts. Rowan called her map to mind. “This is it. We’re in the center.” The ceiling there was lower than elsewhere. Rowan ran her hand along one wall. It was paneled in rich dark wood, kept gleaming by much attention.

“Yes.” Bel looked around. “The inner fortress, nestled within the outer one. Do you think he’ll come in here?”

Rowan shook her head, thinking. “Possibly not.” She made a gesture back toward the door. “That’s the part that most people deal with. Official rooms, residences—everything connected with the outside is conducted there.”

“Then this is important.” They were speaking in whispers.

“But the door isn’t guarded, and it stands in plain sight. This area isn’t really secret or protected. Perhaps it’s just meant to be secluded.”

“Or perhaps there’s something in here that takes care of intruders by itself.”

Fear and excitement fought each other in Rowan. “And that might signify something very important indeed.”

“This hall seems normal enough. In fact, it’s more pleasant here than in the rest of the keep.”

“Perhaps that’s its only purpose. The wizards may keep their private chambers here.”

“And everyone would avoid them.” Bel looked back at the door. “Well, we can’t go back out without being seen. And someone else might come in soon.”

“Yes.” The corridor ran straight for some twenty feet and came to a cross juncture. A single, heavily carved door faced them from the intersection. Rowan approached it cautiously, Bel trailing ten feet behind, watching their back.

Reaching the door, Rowan paused and leaned close. Voices leaked faintly from within. She shook her head once in frustration, then glanced both ways down the crossing corridor. Deserted, with more doors. She added their orientation to her mental map, chose the direction that seemed to have the most options, and indicated that Bel should wait at the intersection.

She took five slow steps, her gum-soled boots dead silent on the carpet, and a door on the right opened. A slight, dark man emerged, his arms full of bundled clothing. Rowan slipped into a more normal pace and made to continue by nonchalantly. Bel stepped back out of sight.

He dropped the bundle. “Say! You can’t be in here!”

Rowan stopped and looked about in puzzlement. “Sorry. Made a wrong turn.” She turned back.

“You, there!” he called after her. “Stop!”

Rowan ignored him. He called again, then set up a cry for guards. A bustle and clatter grew ahead, and abruptly Rowan’s alternatives had vanished.

She was trapped three ways, with the servant behind, the guards ahead, and the door by which she and Bel had entered, with people possibly outside—

She made the only choice she could, and Bel was ahead of her, already at the door. The Outskirter reached for the latch.

There was a faint snap, and Bel spun back as if struck, slamming up against the wall.

A guard-spell!

Rowan felt a hand on her shoulder, turned, and fisted the servant across the face. Then the guards were there, three men, and she was gripped by too many—and too strong—hands.

Bel had recovered her balance and stood weaving slightly, watching dazedly. Rowan wanted to tell her to flee, but it came to her that her friend would do no such thing. One of the guards spotted the Outskirter. “Here, who’s that one?”

They must not both be caught. Rowan’s mind went into a flurry, then clutched at an inspiration.

She struggled wildly, aiming a kick at the man’s crotch. “She’s the only reason you low-lives caught me. You’re all too stupid except her.”

One man laughed harshly. “Not too stupid to know there’s no women in the inner guard.” He called over to Bel. “You! How did you get through that door?”

Rowan spoke before Bel could. “She was chasing me! Slipped in behind me. She’s too damn fast and too damn smart.”

“Is that right?”

Bel wavered on her feet. She seemed hesitant, her reactions oddly slowed. The spell, an aftereffect, Rowan thought. Bel, keep up with me!

Bel, beginning to catch on, approached. “That’s right.”

One of the guards shook Rowan. “So how did you get in?”

She ceased struggling abruptly and leaned her face mere inches from his. She made her voice brittle with spite and disdain. “I got in because your pitiful little guard-spells have no effect on me.”

Someone’s grip faltered. “Gods below, she’s a wizard.”

“No.” Understanding grew on the servant’s face. “I know who she is. She’s that steerswoman.”

“What, the one all them squads were sent for? She’s here?”

“Yes, I’m here.” Her fear lent credence to the sneering anger she feigned. “I’ve been in the midst of you for days. You wouldn’t have caught me at all but for her.” She jerked her head in Bel’s direction.

Her ploy was not working. Bel should have been participating, playing up, filling in the story. Instead, she stood to one side, still dazed, watching with the desperate attention of someone trying to follow a situation suddenly too complex.

Rowan needed a reaction from her, a convincing one, and quickly. Taking advantage of the guard’s weakened grip, she pulled half-free, took one step toward the Outskirter, and spit in her face.

Bel went blank in shock and stood for a moment, stunned. A sound grew inside her; then she released a single furious shriek and went for Rowan’s throat with her bare hands.

Rowan dodged back into the arms of the guards, and one of them stepped forward to fend off Bel’s onslaught. “Ho, hold it there!” He laughed. “They want this one alive, I think.”

“Keep her away from me!” Rowan pressed herself deeper into her captor’s grips.

“We’ll handle the steerswoman, girlie. Calm down!” Bel subsided, looking at the man with a wild eye. “You done good,” he assured her. “Probably a promotion in this for you.”

“So, we take her to Druin?” The man spoke close beside Rowan’s ear. Her heart stumbled. Druin would remember that the women had come in together; the ploy would fail.

“Not this one.” The servant approached and viewed Rowan with a self-satisfied, superior air. “She goes straight to Themselves, and no delay.” He nodded to Bel. “You come, too.”

 

But when the servant emerged from the room to which they had been led, Bel was instructed to return later to make her report. Rowan exchanged one glance with her before passing through the door the servant held wide. The Outskirter’s expression was stony, with what emotion Rowan could not guess. Accompanied by two of the guards, the steerswoman stepped in to meet the wizards.

When she saw them, her first reaction was: Gods below, they’re children!

 

 

22

 

They were not quite children, but they were very nearly so. They might have been twins in their pale, dark-haired similarity. Both were tall and slim, the young man slightly wider across the shoulders; both moved with self-conscious grace, the young woman somewhat more quickly; both looked out from behind identical smooth faces through the same wide-set brown eyes.

The young woman stood by a round oak table, as if she had just risen from one of the two chairs. She wore a blue shift, simple but of beautiful workmanship, as fine as Kundekin-make but without their usual ornamentation. Her thick black hair fell in a braid to her waist. Behind her, a narrow window showed the walls of an interior court, dimly visible in the predawn glow. A lamp—not magical, but oil-burning—stood on the table, soft light falling on a sheaf of papers before her, and on a vase of daffodils. With affected disinterest she watched Rowan and the guards approach.

Her brother, who had just entered through a far door, studied the scene with an air of vast amusement. His hair, the identical color and the identical length, was caught at the nape by a plain silver circle. He crossed to a low chair with its back to the cold hearth and slouched, comfortable as a cat, stretching his long, loose-trousered legs in front of him and steepling his fingers.

Rowan stood between the guards, watching and thinking. She waited for the wizards to speak.

The young man spoke first. “What a lot of fuss she’s caused.”

“She certainly doesn’t look like much,” his sister observed.

Rowan could not remain passive. “Neither do you, I must say.”

“Speak when you’re spoken to!” the young woman spat.

“Yes, do,” her brother amplified. Then he smiled slyly. “But tell us what you mean.”

“You’re very young.”

“Are we?” The sister raised her brows affectedly. “How can you tell? We’re wizards.” She threw out one hand in an airy gesture. “We might be a hundred years old, a thousand!”

It was impossible. Even if a wizard’s power could maintain the semblance of youth, voice and movement gave the two away. They were self-conscious, uncertain. They were feigning behavior designed to cover their inexperience. They overcompensated. Life was new to them. They were young.

“You’re seventeen, about,” Rowan said. “And your brother, not more than a year younger.”

“So you think,” the girl said archly, but her brother’s amusement confirmed Rowan’s guess.

“Try and hide something from a steerswoman,” he said. “But it’s an odd steerswoman, isn’t it, who sneaks around in disguise, claiming to be something she’s not, infiltrating a wizards’ fortress.”

“Strange events create strange results.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a Steerswomen’s adage?”

“No. An observation.”

“Ah, yes. Very observant, the Steerswomen.” He sank a bit deeper into the chair, his body more relaxed, his eyes more alert. “I wonder what else you’ve observed, what else you might know. You weren’t very kind to our minion, you know.” His smile vanished. “I can’t imagine why we should be any kinder to you.”

Rowan felt a chill, but her gaze did not waver from his. “I’m sorry about your man; but I think that you’ll find that sort of thing isn’t necessary in my case.”

The sister came around the table and leaned back against it, in a semblance of nonchalance. “Meaning what?”

Rowan spared one glance for each of her guards. “Meaning,” she replied, “that I won’t try to keep anything from you. Meaning that I’ll give you any information you desire.”

The rhythm of the exchange came to a halt. Her response had been unexpected. Brother and sister exchanged puzzled looks. Finally the young woman said in a light voice, “She’s afraid of what we’ll do to her. She’s a coward.”

“I don’t think so,” Rowan said. “But I’m not stupid. I don’t wish to die, or even to suffer, particularly.” She smiled thinly at their confusion. “Here.” The guards shifted nervously when she reached into the neck of her cuirass; she turned a flat gaze on them, then continued, pulling out the leather pouch where her ring and chain nestled beside the mysterious jewel. As the wizards watched, she placed the ring on the middle finger of her left hand and slipped the chain over her head, its gold glittering against dull leather. “There. Now I’m a true steerswoman again.”

She found, with surprise, that her emotions had relaxed, her body stood at ease. In the clutches of the wizards, she was suddenly like a prisoner freed. She was at home again, the home she carried with her. Her mind was clear, and she knew exactly what to do. Facing the pair, she said calmly, “Ask, and I’ll answer.”

The young man shot his sister a glance. She said stubbornly, “It’s a trick,” and he turned back, watching with narrowed gaze.

“It’s no trick. Steerswomen do not trick people.”

“And you expect us to believe it’s as simple as that? You don your symbols, and you’re suddenly trustworthy?”

“It’s not at all simple,” she told them. “It only seems so from the outside. And you’re free to believe anything you like.”

“Impossible,” the young woman muttered.

“Wizards are under the Steerswomen’s ban,” her brother pointed out.

“Not at all. A person is put under ban once he or she refuses to answer a steerswoman’s questions, or lies to her.” She turned from one young face to the other. “I don’t believe either of you have ever spoken to a steerswoman at all, and you haven’t lied to me yet. The ban can’t apply to you. The only reason I used deceit was my desire to survive. You tried to kill me.”

He snorted. “Not us.”

“You be quiet!” the girl told him. He raised his brows at her speculatively, but said nothing. Rowan made mental note of the exchange.

“Once you knew the soldiers were ours, you came here,” the female wizard continued.

Rowan shrugged.

“Why? Once you defeated them, why not run?”

Rowan thought. “Curiosity.”

The brother was astonished. He threw his head back and laughed.

“It’s true,” she went on. “I know too little; it makes me vulnerable.”

He made a vague gesture. “You know something.”

“I don’t even know which of you is which.”

He smiled up at the ceiling. “I’m Shammer.” His sister made no comment.

Rowan nodded.

“Very well.” Dhree recovered her composure and ostentatiously turned her back, giving her attention to the vase of daffodils. “Then answer our questions, steerswoman.” She toyed with one of the golden blooms. “To begin with, why are you being hunted?”

Rowan stopped, stunned. “You don’t know.” Not a question, a statement.

Dhree carefully showed no reaction. Shammer watched from his chair, head tilted insolently.

If they had sent their soldiers against her, and they did not know why, then her conclusion had been right: they had been ordered to do so. Who could give commands to wizards?

“You seem to be held in low esteem,” Rowan hazarded.

“What do you mean?” Dhree asked, controlling anger, and her brother smiled at her discomfort.

“You’re being treated like servants,” Rowan said.

“If we were held in low esteem, we wouldn’t be here at all,” Shammer drawled.

Meaning that they were there by permission, that leave had been granted to them, the right to claim and defend their holding. Granted by whom?

“Possibly true.” Rowan opened the sack again. “Then perhaps you can make something of this.” She passed Dhree the enigmatic chip of blue.

“What is it?”

“It’s the reason you were told to capture me.”

The wizard took it in her hand, glanced at it once, twice; then, astonishingly, she flung it down on the table. She whirled on Rowan in outrage. “Don’t be stupid, steerswoman, and don’t play games.” She stepped close and glared down at her. Rowan noticed how fine the wizard’s skin was, and how clean her hair. She smelled faintly of rosemary. Her voice hissing spite, she said, “Do you really think you can fool wizards?”

The steerswoman was not intimidated. “If you’re going to tell me it’s a decorative object, I won’t believe you. I’ve been told that already, by someone who was clearly trying to deceive me. I know it’s magic.”

“Of course it’s magic! But it’s common, we use them every day, in any number of spells. I could show you a hundred like it—”

“No. Not quite.” Her brother had risen and moved to the table; he was turning the jewel over and over in his hand.

“What do you mean?” Dhree hesitated, then reluctantly came to his side.

He indicated. “Look at the coating. It’s constructed differently.”

“That’s your area.”

“Of course it is. You’re theory, and I’m execution. Well, dear sister,” he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm, “theorize.”

She studied it, touching it with one forefinger. “Is that coating inactive?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then it’s protective.” Her aspect had altered. Gone was the bravado, the venom. She showed the clear concentration of an intelligent mind involved in solving a problem. Other considerations had vanished. Rowan felt an odd, sad touch of kinship with her.

“Protective from what, I wonder,” her brother said.

The young woman stared at the jewel, but her attention was turned inward. “Environment,” she said at last.

“Ours don’t need this protection. And they survive any sort of weather.”

“Then a different environment entirely. Desert, perhaps.” She looked at him. “You’ve worked with the Grid.”

He shook his head. “They’re nothing like this.”

Rowan fought to keep her excitement from her face. Information, she thought.

Dhree turned her attention back to the steerswoman. “Where did you get this?”

“That one, from an irrigation ditch in farmland by the eastern curve of the Long North Road. And there are many more, scattered across the countryside in a broad line that runs southeast from there clear into the heart of the Outskirts. If you have a map, I’ll show you exactly.”

Brother and sister, side by side, gazed at her suspiciously. Then Dhree gestured to one of Rowan’s guards, who hesitated, then stepped back to the door to call the servant.

“Maps, Jaimie,” Dhree instructed when he arrived. “Covering the lands north of the Inland Sea. The librarian will know which.” She paused. “And bring another chair for this table.”

 

It was a strange collaboration.

At times Rowan forgot where she was and with whom she was dealing. She presented her information as completely as if she were speaking to steerswomen, and as long as she was the person speaking, she could become lost in the work itself.

It was only when she felt a question about to escape her that she stopped short and remembered: If she asked a question, they might refuse to answer. On their refusal, she could no longer reply to their questions, and all progress would cease.

And her first question was about the maps.

Shammer took one from the group presented by the servant and unrolled it on the tabletop. At first Rowan could not orient herself to it; it seemed to be a work of art, executed in a style delicate and beautiful, like a watercolor painting. Then abruptly, with a small internal shock, she recognized along the right edge the course of the river Wulf. Southwest she found the city of the Crags, with the fjords depicted in maddening detail. The center of the map was dominated by an immense sweep of mountains, the same that lay on the western limit of all the large-scale maps in the Archives.

And, west of the mountains, past the mountains, on the other side of those mountains which no living person had been known to cross: A string of lakes like jewels on a necklace. A range of weird, twisted hills. A river broader than the Wulf, longer than the Greyriver, writhing northeast to southwest and vanishing at the map’s edge.

She stood silent. Her hands hung limp at her sides. She forgot to breathe. She suddenly remembered a long conversation she had once had with a Christer, as he tried to describe to her the sensation of holy epiphany.

And she said to herself: Don’t ask them. Don’t ask.

Where had the information come from? Who had been there? Who had seen it? How had they traveled?

Who had drawn that map, with so steady a hand, such elegant colors? How precise were the measurements? Were there communities beyond the mountains? Were there wizards?

Shammer released the edges, and the map rolled closed again. “Wrong one.” He swept it to the floor impatiently.

Rowan wanted to rescue it and cherish it as if it were a living thing.

The wizard pulled out another chart, read the legend on its outer edge, and spread it on the table. “This one, I think.” Dhree tilted her head at it and nodded.

From where Rowan stood, across from the wizards, the map was upside down. That should not have mattered, but the style was so different from that used by the Steerswomen that she was momentarily confused again.

It seemed that the mapmaker considered roads to be no more important than the natural features of the land. Rowan located a brown-and-green shape that she finally understood to be the salt bog, and managed to locate the eastern curve of the Long North Road nearby, dimly marked by a faint gray line. Again she felt that internal shift as the chart became comprehensible.

“Here.” She indicated. “There are a number of farms between the Eastern Curve and the salt bog. They’re irrigated from this brook—” Astonishingly, one of the irrigation ditches, probably the largest, was marked. “That’s where my jewel was found. I began to ask, and then search for more . . .” Dhree handed her a stick of charcoal. Rowan overcame her reluctance to deface the map and drew, from memory, the location of each finding. “And finally, I heard that there are a large number deep in the Outskirts.” She drew a narrow oval, encircling the northern findings, sweeping southeast, and terminating in the middle of a huge area colored dull brown. Leaning closer, she found a jagged line crossing the oval at its far end. It was labeled Tournier’s Fault.

“That must be what the Outskirters call Dust Ridge.”

Shammer made a face. “What a bother, walking all that way, just to see more of something you’ve already seen.”

“It might be important.” Dhree knitted her brows in a frown of thought.

“Perhaps you should go there, Sister.”

“Perhaps I will, if we can’t get any answers from Slado.” Her face impassive, Rowan grasped at the name.

“And how soon did you realize you were being hunted?” Dhree asked.

“It was after I left Five Corners to return to the Archives.” She described the soldiers at the inn. “One of them accosted me on the road later. I don’t know who controls that area, but the soldiers were Red.”

“That’s Olin,” Shammer told his sister. “Such a stupid man. He always does too much, or too little. Or nothing, when the mood takes him.”

“He’s insane,” Dhree said, half to herself. “Really, that basilisk . . .”

“Still, as she was crossing his holding with her questions, I suppose he’s the one who’s started all this.”

“Maybe not. I can’t imagine he’d place any more importance on this jewel than we did.”

“The only importance the jewel seems to have,” Rowan pointed out, “is the degree of attention it provokes.” She took a risk. “I expect Olin was also acting under orders.”

Shammer’s only response was a twitch of his lips, and the muttered word “Orders.”

Rowan tread carefully. “It’s interesting. I always assumed that wizards are ones who give orders, not take them.”

“Don’t become too interested.” But both their faces showed the hate they held for the one who gave them orders. They would disobey if they could. And that meant that they could not.

 

Discussion continued. They dined—a late dinner, or early supper, Rowan could not tell which. The day had dawned overcast, and the shift of Rowan’s sleeping time had skewed her usually reliable time sense. The courtyard outside showed no shadows.

Rowan explained that the jewels were a recent phenomenon. “The earliest date I can pinpoint for their appearance is about thirty-five years ago. I have that date for only two of the findings; the others are indeterminate but don’t contradict it. And it’s interesting that the farms between the Eastern Curve and the salt bog are relatively new. None existed before thirty years ago.”

Dhree drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “And why was that, do you know?”

“Demons in the salt bog was the rumor. But only rumor. No one living there had ever seen one.”

“That’s odd. Demons are never found in the Inner Lands.”

Shammer thought briefly. “It’s possible. They need salt water.”

Rowan puzzled. “But there are none on the shores of the Inland Sea.”

A wry smile. “It’s the wrong sort of salt.”

Rowan put that aside for later consideration.

 

Eventually exhaustion overtook her, and the wizards decided to consider her information and continue in the morning.

They wondered what to do with her. “We certainly can’t keep her in the dungeon. Considering, that is, all the help she’s giving us.” Shammer spoke as if amused, but behind his air Rowan could still read suspicion and wariness. He was off-balance.

Dhree, musing on the jewel, did not look up. “One of the inner guest rooms. We need bars on the windows, a strong bolt, and an opening in the door for the guard to watch her.”

“So we do. That’s a day’s work on the window for a mason.” He pursed his lips, fidgeting with the end of his queue. “I’ll do it myself. An hour or so.” He departed, humming, possibly relieved to be leaving the theoretical discussion for work more direct and practical. Rowan was left with Dhree.

“What happened to your entourage?”

Rowan was puzzled. “ ‘Entourage’?”

The wizard pushed aside the charts and jewel. “Yes, those mercenaries who fought for you during your attack. Our man reported that his squad was badly outnumbered.”

Rowan’s mouth hung open for a moment; then she laughed long and without restraint. Dhree frowned.

“Your man,” Rowan said when she had recovered, “assumed I would never show up here to give the lie to his story. I had two assistants, no more.”

A muscle in Dhree’s cheek twitched. “And the three of you overcame our trained soldiers?”

“That’s the case.”

“Where are your hirelings now?”

Rowan neglected to correct the term and answered only the question. “Not here,” she said regretfully, internally limiting “here” to its most circumscribed definition.

“How unfortunate for you.”

 

Her prison was a small, comfortable room, luxurious in its appointments. The bed was goose down, with silk sheets and satin coverlet, curtained with lace. A comfortable chair stood by the hearth, where a small blaze had been kindled. Bare spaces on the wall and the off-center arrangement of furniture betrayed the removal of certain items, possibly objects useful to visiting fellow wizards, dangerous or forbidden to common folk. An empty bookcase occupied one corner. Her guard politely instructed her in the use of the magical lamps that illuminated the room; a small brass wheel on the wall by the door, when turned, caused the light to dim and go out according to her wish.

When he left, Rowan settled before the fire, fighting sleep to give herself the time she needed to think. She was a steerswoman again.

She had used that fact as both tactic and technique.

It was a tactic of delay. Cooperating with her captors was buying her time, the time she needed to devise an escape.

And it was a technique of manipulation, far more effective than any web of lies; with every true sentence she spoke, the wizards gifted her, by their reaction and response, with information they would never betray to direct questioning.

Each new fact was like a card, and she sat late into the night, mentally shuffling and spreading them, watching the interlocking patterns appear and dissolve. The branching of possibilities began to narrow, and the patterns started repeating, but she played them, over and over, fighting not only to recognize, but to understand.

When at last she turned down the lamps and took herself to bed, she had managed to reduce all her still-incomplete knowledge down to one fact, true and inescapable: Something was wrong, and her whole world was at that moment in the very act of altering. It was changing from something she now recognized as badly misunderstood into something whose new nature she could not even guess.

She slept without dreaming.

 

 

23

 

Except for the fact of being a prisoner, Rowan could find no complaint for the treatment she received. Breakfast was excellent, and the servant who brought it inquired after her comfort during the night. Despite her assurances, he offered extra bolsters, a softer quilt, a finer bed robe; when his list of suggestions eventually worked its way down to musicians to divert her, she stonily called it to a halt and requested his personal absence.

She chose from the selection she found in the wardrobe, grateful at least for the fresh clothing. Presently her door was unlocked, and she was conducted back into the presence of the wizards, and the business was picked up from the previous day.

As their discussions continued, Rowan began to see the inefficiency in the wizards’ division of labor. Dhree was quick to follow dense theoretical matters, but when Rowan pointed out practical considerations, she had difficulty altering her ideas to accommodate them. Shammer was able to recognize detail and devise immediate solutions to practical problems; but in questions of theory he first waited for Dhree to reach her own conclusions, then laboriously explain them to him.

It was a flawed arrangement, not a true collaboration at all. In every situation, one or the other had to be dominant, and the necessity of communicating across the gaps in their understanding slowed the pace of learning. As the discussion moved from mere fact to speculation, Rowan found the pair more and more isolated in their intellectual corners.

They considered the question of the jewels’ distribution.

“As you can see,” Rowan began, indicating the narrow oval drawn on the map, “there’s a definite direction to the findings, with the largest concentration, I believe, here.” Dust Ridge. “This is one of the findings with a date that I’m certain of. Since the opposite end of the trail seems to have the same date”—the farms by the salt bog—”I’m considering the likelihood of a single event or agent being responsible for the entire dispersal.”

Dhree frowned in thought. “Such as a man, walking along, throwing the jewels as he went?”

“The path begins on one side of the salt bog. There was another finding not far from the other side, and in line with the first, and with Dust Ridge.” Rowan indicated again. “No man could walk through the bog.”

“He flew,” Shammer said easily. “Only a wizard would possess the jewels to begin with, and flying’s no difficult matter for one of us.”

“You say the jewels are common. If the wizard in question was using them while he flew, or carrying them, perhaps there was a flaw in his spell, and he fell.”

The young man pursed his lips. “He wouldn’t use them in a flying spell. They’re not strong enough.”

Dhree paused briefly, then objected. “It ought to be possible.”

“He’d fly ten feet off the ground, at walking speed, with little real protection. Small children could pick him off with stones. But he might have been flying by other means, and carrying the jewels.”

Rowan considered. “If he dropped them as he flew, he must have been flying very fast; at Dust Ridge, the jewels hang halfway up a cliff.”

Both wizards had difficulty visualizing that. The steerswoman elaborated. “If a man is riding on a fast horse, and he drops a coin, it doesn’t hit the ground directly under the point where he dropped it.”

Dhree caught on. “He and the coin share the same velocity, until the influence of the motivating force is removed from the coin. It falls, losing horizontal speed, gaining vertical speed.” She took a sheet of paper and a pen. “How high up were the jewels found?”

“Halfway up the cliff. I’m afraid I can’t be more specific than that.” In sudden inspiration, Rowan turned back to the map and found Tournier’s Fault. There, along the line marking the cliffs, she found dimly marked measurements. There were no units assigned to the number; were they feet? Miles? But she indicated them to Dhree, and the wizard tilted her head to read, closed her eyes briefly in thought—and then, astonishingly, drew a rough version of the very graph Rowan had used in her argument with Arian, a chart showing the range and interrelationship between possible height, speed, and falling time for falling objects.

Dhree showed the chart to her brother, who used an affected disdain to cover his incomprehension. Dhree was wise to his behavior. She tapped the chart. “Here. The normal falling path was interrupted by the cliff—”

Twisting his mouth, he said, “Tell me what I need to know.”

In exasperation, she indicated a point along one of the scales. “Here’s your range of speed.”

He glanced at it once, then shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Nonsense! It’s just a question of finding a strong enough force—”

“It may be lovely in theory, but it simply can’t be done. Forces like that can’t be controlled.”

“It ought to be possible. If you can find a usable spell, scale up its strength—”

“You can’t simply scale things up without considering the effect on the materials and spells involved. In extremes the results become unpredictable.”

“If the theory exists, there must be a way to implement it. You’re approaching this backward—”

He tilted his chin up. “One of us is.”

The course of this argument was very familiar, Rowan noted with amusement, remembering Arian. Seeking a way out of the impasse, she tried the opposite approach. “Shammer.” When he turned to her, she continued. “Forget all this for a moment. Suppose you wanted to lodge a cluster of objects halfway up a cliff; try to think of the sort of spell you would use.”

Response was immediate. “I wouldn’t need a spell at all. Close up, a very good catapult would do the job.”

“Imagine that you weren’t close up.”

He blinked. “Any number of means.”

“And I assume that they’re all magical.”

“You assume correctly.” His fingers drummed on the tabletop, and his face acquired the introspective, concentrated look of a person involved in work of the imagination. “I could use a spell that would fling the objects hard enough to leave the ground and strike the cliff. But it’s tricky—and dangerous. I’d have to arrange the spell so that it would activate in my absence.” He smiled wryly. “In other words, I’d set it up, then run like the devil. With that sort of thing, it’s not a good idea to get in the way.”

The phrase jogged at Rowan’s memory. Where had she heard it? Then it came to her: Willam.

Dhree spread her hands. “Then that’s the answer.”

“No.” He frowned, dissatisfied. “The spell isn’t directional—it works in a sphere. The objects would go in every direction: up, down, all around.” Reaching across the table, he pulled the chart closer and studied the narrow oval. He tapped it with one long finger. “You wouldn’t get anything like this.”

An idea occurred to Rowan, and she approached it carefully. “You said that some objects would go up. With a large enough force, I suppose they might never come down again.”

The concept amused Shammer immensely, and he laughed offensively. “Silly woman. Everything that goes up, comes down.”

But Dhree knit her brows. “It ought to be possible—”

Shammer glowered at his sister, stressing each word. “It can’t be done.”

 

Over lunch, they accused her of murder.

“Don’t play innocent, steerswoman. You’ve killed at least two of the regular guard.”

“Are they dead or just vanished? Perhaps they took the opportunity to flee your employ.”

Shammer’s gaze narrowed, and he did not reply. Vanished, then, Rowan concluded, and not due to her.

Dhree picked up the tale. “One man and one woman. They disappeared about the time you were captured, or just before.”

Shammer, legs crossed with ankle on knee, flicked a speck of dirt from one soft leather slipper. “I don’t like loose ends. It’s untidy.”

Rowan was about to truthfully assert her innocence, when she stopped short. About the time she was captured? Before? Or could it have been just after?

The missing man, she realized, was the fellow she and Bel had spotted, the survivor of their ambush. Bel would have eliminated him immediately, to prevent his identifying her and connecting her with the captured steerswoman.

And who was the vanished woman? Bel herself, fled? If so, why bother to kill the man? With him dead, Bel could possibly remain a member of the guard, needing only to explain Rowan’s absence . . .

Then the answer came to her. The vanished guardswoman was herself, reported missing by Bel, the deed laid at the door of the notorious steerswoman.

“I believe I know who you’re referring to,” Rowan said to the wizards. She cast about for a true statement. “Violence is unfortunate. I . . . apologize for its necessity.”

That seemed to satisfy them. “Violence is a rather simple means to some ends,” Dhree remarked.

Shammer indicated to the servant to pour more wine. “One always does what’s necessary.”

 

The day passed, but the purpose of the jewels remained a puzzle. “You said,” Rowan prompted, “that you use their like regularly.” That was the closest she could come to a direct question.

Dhree caught on. “And that’s all we’ll say about them.”

“It’s difficult for me to speculate without more information,” Rowan pointed out. “I believe that, together, we may be able to solve this. Since it’s as much a mystery to you as to me, it’s to both our benefit.”

“More to ours than to yours,” Shammer commented, “as you’ll never have the opportunity to use what you learn.” He was seated on the windowsill, enjoying the afternoon sun.

“Steerswomen never use their information,” Dhree said with derision. “If they did, they’d be more powerful than they are.”

The steerswoman surprised herself by replying heatedly. “We do use our information,” she said. “We’re not interested in anything as petty as power over others, and if you’re planning to kill me or keep me your coddled prisoner forever, then it’s pointless and stupid to keep me in the dark.”

“A little more respect, please,” Dhree said without anger.

Shammer pulled a droll face at Rowan. “I’m afraid you’ll get nothing there. My sister is too cautious. Very wise of her, don’t you think? But that does remind me—” Stepping away from the window, he came to the table, eyes twinkling. “I think you might find this amusing.” He pushed aside the charts and papers, reached into a pouch on his belt, and pulled out a small gleaming object, which he placed before the steerswoman.

It was a tiny silver statuette, as tall as her thumb. The figure was strangely stylized, and it took her a moment to make sense of it. It seemed to be a dancer, poised on one foot, one arm arched high above its head. Its other arm trailed to one side, as if it had been captured in the moment of executing a graceful turn. The figure was otherwise featureless, its gender indeterminate, the oversimplification of form lending it an eerie beauty. The dancer was standing on a flat silver base, from which a silver bar rose, arcing up in a half circle to where the raised hand touched it.

And attached to one side of the bar, destroying the weird grace of the sculpture, was Rowan’s blue jewel.

Shammer held up one hand. “Watch.” Carrying the figure to the window, he placed it on the sunny ledge, and with a dramatic flourish, stepped aside.

The figure began to dance.

It knew only one move, the completion of that swirl promised by the curve of its back and the sweep of its hands. It spun, slowly, then faster, sunlight glittering off its body.

Rowan watched, appalled and entranced. “Is it alive?”

He laughed with delight and, for once, completely without affectation. “No, not at all! It’s magic, dear lady.”

Dhree made a noise of exasperation, but her eyes showed admiration and affection. “You’re showing off.”

“Yes, indeed, and I love it.”

 

He gave Rowan the dancer to keep, so amused was he by her astonishment. Later, back in her comfortable prison, she studied it, speculating and generalizing.

The jewel did finally seem to have a use; in some fashion it imparted life to the silver figure. Perhaps that was the overall purpose of such jewels: to animate the inanimate. What might be accomplished by such animation, what purpose the power might be put to, remained open, indefinite. The jewels might be useful in any number of spells.

The figure stood on her windowsill, innocently graceful, weirdly evocative, dancing in the light of the falling sun.

Through the window, across and below, Rowan could see the guards on the west wall in conversation with another pair, probably their evening replacements. Shortly, the first two left, and the new guards watched with odd interest until they were out of sight. Then the shorter guard shifted her weight, tilted her head up at her partner, and by those two characteristic moves, Rowan recognized Bel.

This section of the perimeter had not previously been Bel’s assignment; Rowan wondered if the new arrangement represented the promised promotion. The woman who accompanied the Outskirter was of the tall, broad-shouldered type that seemed to dominate the female contingent of the wizards’ resident guard. The two stood casually scanning the area, then consulted briefly. The tall woman stooped to deal with something buried in the shadow of the edge, and Bel strolled to the near edge, to look left and right, then down.

She was facing Rowan’s window; the tall woman’s back was turned. Rowan tried to signal, using broad gestures, but failed to attract the Outskirter’s attention. Turning around, Rowan scanned the room for something more eye-catching.

Shammer’s dancer was on the sill. She thought of using the jewel to catch the sun’s light, but realized it was too small, and its natural color too dark. On a low table by the hearth were the plate and glass from her dinner, brought in on a silver tray. She quietly moved the crockery and took the tray to her window.

Bel had walked to the corner tower and was returning, carrying what looked like a wooden bucket filled with straw. She gave it to the guardswoman, who acknowledged her with a glance, and returned to her work.

Using the tray, Rowan mirrored the sunlight onto Bel’s face. Bel’s head jerked up, and she looked to the window, then stepped closer to the edge of the wall.

Had Bel been a steerswoman, Rowan could have conversed with her using the wood-gnome language of hand gestures, exaggerated for distance. As it was, the sum total of Rowan’s communication consisted merely of I am here. What use Bel might make of the information, she had no idea.

Bel did not acknowledge but, appallingly, stepped back and tapped her companion on the shoulder. The woman looked up, and with one hand Bel indicated the steerswoman.

In shocked instinct, Rowan ducked back out of sight. What was Bel doing? Could she gain something by pointing out the prisoner to her new partner?

When she had calmed herself, Rowan looked out again. Both women were gone. She immediately regretted her reflex; whatever Bel’s purpose, Rowan could trust her. The important fact was that Bel was still at large, and still in the confidence of the resident guard.

If Rowan could manage to get out of her room, she could find Bel, and both could escape, possibly by water. Willam would have begun on his way to the Archives, if he was following her instructions. She hoped that he was.

Rowan could not count on Shammer and Dhree’s continued indulgence. As soon as nothing more could be learned from her, she would be useless to them.

She had only one man guarding her. If he was eliminated, she had a slim chance of making her way out of the inner ring of the fortress—

And then what?

She did not know the usual movements of the inner guards. The only place she could be certain of finding Bel was the women’s barracks at the proper sleeping time for those on Bel’s new shift. As it was a day shift, Bel would sleep at night. The barracks could easily be full of guards.

Rowan might do better to try to slip away by herself. She disliked the idea, but Bel was in no immediate danger. If Rowan could get out, she might contrive to send a message.

The first step was to get past her guard. Once out, she could make her decisions based on what she encountered.

She needed to get the man inside her room, and alone. And some way to deal with him, once he was inside. She scanned the room, questioning each object: Is this a weapon?

Nothing was, so she set a trap.

She lay fully clothed on her bed past nightfall, leaving her lamps dark, letting her fire die, permitting the guard to assume that she already slept. Just before his evening replacement was due to arrive, she rose silently in the dark.

The armchair was heavier than she had guessed, but she could not let it drag as she moved it. Tilting it back, she found its center of gravity and managed to lever it off the ground and lift it, its lower edge propped against her thighs. Walking carefully and awkwardly, she brought it to the side of the door and lowered it painfully to the floor.

A tall coat-rack was moved nearby, three feet behind the door’s edge. The guard’s grilled opening was too small for the rack to be seen through it.

The low rectangular table by the hearth was easy to move, but presented more of a problem; she would need to hoist it over her head and hold it there, adjusting it silently. The chair gave one soft creak as she climbed it, and she froze, fearing that the guard would enter to discover her standing on it, the table clutched in her arms, a pose more than suspicious. She heard the man shift slightly, but he said nothing and did not investigate, apparently dismissing the sound.

The light from the grille did not fall on herself or any of her arrangements. Trying to keep her breathing quiet, she turned the table with its feet in the air and, using her own head as a balance point, slipped the edge onto the door’s heavy upper sill. Her calculation had been perfect, and the opposite end of the table came down and rested easily, propped on the top of the coat-rack. It would be stable, she hoped, until the swing of the opening door or a blow of her hand struck the rack. Descending, she moved the chair clear of the events she hoped would follow.

Presently the evening guard arrived, and the two men exchanged a few words. Nothing was said about suspicious noises.

Rowan returned to her bed and sat, composing herself. All that remained was to get her guard to enter. There seemed to be only one way to make certain that if he entered, he would enter alone. She balked at the thought, trying to find an option that did not require behavior so—embarrassing.

There was none. Resigning herself to necessity, she rose, stepped to the grille, and stood casually, her own trap looming above her head. “Excuse me.”

The new guard turned, not surprised; he had heard her approach. She smiled. “I’m sorry, I just can’t sleep. I hope you don’t mind if we talk?”

He wavered, confused, caught between duty and traditional respect for steerswomen. “Talk, lady? What about?”

“Oh, nothing in particular, just to pass the time. It’s a long lonely night ahead.” She permitted him to see how carefully she studied his face. “What’s your name?”

He peered in at her, and she saw wide dark eyes and heavy curls of black hair. He was a handsome man, possibly vain, and Rowan blessed that, hoping it might make her job easier. “Geller, lady.”

“Then, good evening, Geller.” She inclined her head with facetious formality. “I’m Rowan.”

“I know.”

She groped for something else to say to keep the conversation moving. “Do you enjoy your work for the wizards?”

He hesitated, then answered truthfully. “Not much, lady. But the war ran over my town. It’s work.” He was watching her intently.

“Well.” She stepped a bit closer. “I wonder, if you would be so kind, could you show me how to work the lamps in here?”

“There’s a wheel, by the door,” he said, indicating with a little jerk of his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t see it.” She did not bother to look, and he saw that. She kept her eyes on his and forced another smile, cringing inwardly.

There was a very long pause. “I shouldn’t come in there.”

“No one needs to know.” Suddenly her embarrassment overcame her, and she dropped her eyes, unable to face him, knowing that the gesture would be misread. “Do I have to be more . . . obvious?” She raised her eyes again. “I can be, if you wish.”

But she saw that Geller’s beautiful face was screwed up as if in pain. “Lady . . .”

Rowan stopped short. “Yes?”

“Please, don’t do this, lady. It’s not . . .” He groped for the word. “It’s not fitting.”

They viewed each other through the grate, he with pity, she with astonishment, then shame.

At last she nodded slowly. “Thank you, Geller,” she said with dignity. “You’re right. It’s not fitting.” And she walked alone back to her bed.

When the shift changed at midnight, she attempted the same ruse with the new guard, to identical effect.

 

The next morning the servant politely brought her breakfast again. She ignored the food, pacing the limits of her chamber. The knowledge she had gained from the wizards nestled like a seed in her brain; the need to pass it on to someone was agony.

The servant watched speculatively, then withdrew.

She could formulate no plans; she could take no action. No decisions were open to her, and there were no means by which to alter her situation. Although they might not yet realize it, she was of no further use to Shammer and Dhree, and they were unable to reveal anything more to her about the jewels. She would have to spend the day with them seeking to learn one last thing: a means to make her escape.

Eventually she noticed that the guards had not arrived to conduct her to the wizards. The morning wore on, and her breakfast dishes were not removed. She questioned the man at her door, but he knew nothing.

It was past noon when her escort finally arrived and brought her along the now-familiar route. Surprisingly, when they entered the wizards’ study, the room was empty. The guards did not leave her, and when she spoke they did not reply. When she attempted to make herself comfortable at the table, they indicated that she was required to stand between them.

All her progress in gaining the wizards’ grudging confidence had been somehow lost, she realized, and with rising apprehension she prepared herself to face the new situation.

When they entered, Shammer and Dhree remained standing on the opposite side of the room, as if she were dangerous or diseased, watching her with flat gazes of pure hatred. Some moments passed.

At last Dhree spoke. “We’ll be rid of you tomorrow.”

“That’s rather soon.” Rowan wanted to start them talking, any sort of conversation, anything to give her some hint as to what might have happened and what she might now expect.

The wizards regarded her as if she had not spoken, but Dhree amplified, seemingly more for her own satisfaction than from any desire to assist Rowan. “Someone’s coming to”—she sneered the word—”collect you.”

Rowan nodded slowly. “Someone sent by Slado, or Slado himself?” There was no reply. Shammer shifted uneasily, as if there was something he wished very much to do with his hands.

Rowan tried again. “If we only have one day left, perhaps we should get down to work. With luck, by the time Slado arrives, you might know as much as he does.”

They ignored the comment. As if against his will, Shammer said in a toneless voice, “We’ve found more evidence of your handiwork.”

Her handiwork? What was she supposed to have done? Two disappearances had been blamed on Rowan, both Bel’s doing. The one had been mere fabrication to cover Rowan’s own absence from the resident guard she had joined; the other was Bel’s elimination of the last member of the ambushed squad, to prevent his identifying the Outskirter.

Might Bel have eliminated someone else? To be blamed on Rowan, the deed would have to have been done at the same time as the earlier disappearance. Who else presented such immediate danger?

Someone who had seen Rowan and Bel together, certainly. But the inner guard were a separate corps, and the members of the outer guard whom Rowan and Bel had met were not likely to be introduced to the captive steerswoman and would not connect her with the Outskirter.

Who might have had the opportunity to make that connection? Someone who had seen them together, who might have been likely to see Rowan in the wizards’ company—and whose absence might have gone unnoticed for two busy days.

Rowan attempted to dismiss the matter. “Disappearances didn’t seem to distress you earlier. As you said, one does what’s necessary.”

Shammer took four long steps forward and backhanded her across the face.

She fell against the closed door, stunned, dazed. The guard on her left dragged her to her feet with a bruising grip. She staggered against him, regained her balance, and passed one hand across her face to find a split lip.

Abruptly, she understood. “Liane.”

Shammer struck with his other hand. The guard on the right prevented her falling, and the two men supported her emotionlessly.

When she recovered, she said, “If Slado is coming for me, I think he’ll expect me alive.” Some of the words were slurred.

Cold confirmation came from across the room. “Unfortunately.”

Shammer, his eyes full of murder, took two careful steps back, then turned away.

Regaining her balance, Rowan composed herself slowly. All advantage had been lost. She tilted up her chin. “So I’ll meet Slado. How interesting.”

With his back to her, Shammer said, “You’ll meet him and die.” He gestured. “Get her out of here.”

“One moment.” Dhree came a bit closer. “I understand that your little game of last night was quite the joke among our inner guard. Pitiful.”

“It was the best I could manage.”

“I think you’ll find that your new guards are, shall we say, above temptation? Still . . .” Her expression turned speculative, interested. “Perhaps you’ve been a little lonely? Perhaps tonight you could use some . . . company?” She studied Rowan’s reaction, eyes glittering cold amusement. “What do you think, Brother?”

“No.” He half turned, his eyes blank. “She might enjoy it.”

 

The guard at her door was female, a tall angular woman who watched her with the pitiless eye of a bird of prey. Above temptation, as Dhree had said; the rule against women in the inner guard had been altered.

She tried to clean the blood from her face and clothes, but found there was no water in her ewer. The woman at the door ignored her request, and Rowan did the best she could with spit and a silk handkerchief.

In the evening the guard changed shift, but no food was brought, and the remains of her breakfast had vanished. She sat long at the window, silent, watching the light fade, then the starlight glitter on the roofs and cupolas. And slowly her mind became as still as her body, for there were no plans she could make, no routes to investigate. Options had vanished. Possibilities were zero. She sat in the darkness, unsleeping.

 

When the shift changed at midnight, her guard was Bel.

 

 

24

 

The Outskirter grinned up through the grille. “I’ve been promoted.”

Rowan stared down at her, astonished, then urgent. “Bel, let’s get out. Now.”

Bel glanced in both directions, then walked a few feet to peer down the intersection in the corridor. She returned. “Not yet.”

“Someone’s coming?”

“No.”

“Unlock the door.”

Bel did so, but when Rowan pulled it open and made to leave, the Outskirter stopped her with a gesture. “We have to wait.”

“Why?” Rowan spoke urgently. “Bel, I know the layout here now, and you know the internal guard movements. If we can get to one of those exits we found, we might have a chance.” Rowan did not know how early Slado or his minion would arrive, or how long she and Bel would need to slip out of the fortress; they had to move, now.

“No, we’ve got something better. We’ve got a plan.” Bel peered closer. “What happened to your face?”

“Shammer. Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

“Willam and me.”

Rowan drew a breath. “He didn’t leave? He was supposed to leave.”

“I needed him here. We’ve set up a diversion.”

Rowan thought rapidly, then shook her head. “There are too many guards here. They won’t all run to it, and those who don’t will know to head straight for me. I’m too important a prisoner.”

Bel smiled rather uncertainly. “You’ll be the last thing on their minds. And it doesn’t matter if they run to it or run from it, so long as they run. But here—” She reached behind and pulled something from under her cuirass. She passed it to Rowan inside, and closed the door.

It was a bundle of cloth. Rowan shook it out, and a breathtaking swirl of silvery blue spilled from her hands, sweeping the floor. Liane’s cloak.

“It’ll be a good enough disguise in the confusion,” Bel continued. Yellow light from the grille played on the garment.

“It won’t work. They know she’s dead.”

“The wizards?”

“That’s right.”

“Then they’re keeping it to themselves. As far as the outer keep is concerned, she’s off visiting. I thought it was odd.”

Rowan crushed one handful of satin folds, feeling the weight and beauty of the cloak, thinking of the vain, lonely girl who had worn it. “What is Will going to do? Do we signal him, or he us?”

“Neither. We wait. You have to stand by the window and watch the Western Guidestar. When it goes dark, count one hundred. Then we move.”

“And what happens?”

“Something.” The Outskirter winced. “I’m not certain what—he didn’t explain it well. People will panic, so we’ll have to keep our wits about us.”

Magic. Aside from lighting fires in wet wood, creating patterns and pretty sparkles in the process, what exactly was Willam capable of doing?

Rowan stepped to the window and studied the stars quickly. The Hunter’s shoulder had slipped behind the Western Guidestar. The Hound’s nose would have to approach within five degrees before the Guidestar would wink out. That would be near half past one o’clock. They had more than an hour.

Rowan returned to the door and looked down through the grate. Bel had resumed her position as guard. “I only know the one exit from the inner chambers,” Rowan told her. “But from there, there are any number of routes to a few ways out of the fortress. If the confusion’s going to be general, we might do well to head for that staircase leading to the dock on the northeast side. We could escape by water.”

Her back to the door, Bel shook her head. “That won’t do. It’s the wrong direction. We go out the main gate, over the causeway.”

Rowan’s heart froze. “Bel, that’s the worst possible choice. We’d be visible for too long. We’d have to deal with the guards inside the gate, and stop to work the spell at the end of the causeway. We couldn’t possibly move fast enough.”

“It’s the only way. It’s all arranged. We’ll deal with the guards as best we can, and Willam will take care of the spell.”

“Can he do that?” Rowan was dubious.

“He says so.” Bel spared a sidelong glance over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you stand by the window?”

“In a bit. I saw you, on the wall yesterday. Why did you point me out?”

“I wanted Willam to have some idea of your location.”

Rowan stopped short, then laughed. The face of a boy, she realized, was little different from the face of a woman somewhat older than he. With a woman’s shaped leather cuirass, the disguise would be impenetrable. “What was he doing?”

“Placing his charms. They have to be a certain distance from each other. He’s been working like a madman, making more of them during the last two days.”

“Do you think it will work?”

Bel shrugged. “I’m no wizard.” She paused. “Rowan?”

“Yes?”

“When those guards cornered us . . .” The Outskirter hesitated again. “You spat in my face.”

Rowan was ashamed. “I thought we weren’t very convincing,” she explained. “I wanted to make you angry.”

Another pause. “It worked.”

“Do you hold it against me?”

“No.” Bel shifted slightly. “But never do it again.”

Rowan returned to the window and stood the rest of her watch with the best patience she could muster.

Outside, the day’s overcast had long passed, and the stars hung crystalline in a black midnight sky. Between rooftop and turret, Rowan sighted a section of the lake, where small waves scattered the starlight, sending white sparkles dancing on the invisible water. The world seemed to exist in black and white and shades of pale gray, clear and without distractions. On the wall in the distance, seen but faintly, a pacing guardsman paused and gazed out at the same quiet scene Rowan was viewing, untroubled, peaceful. Eventually his head tilted up, and he and she saw in the same instant the nightly vanishing of the Western Guidestar.

Rowan began counting, swung the blue cloak about her body, and stepped to the door. “Twenty,” she said to Bel.

The Outskirter jogged to the left intersection of the corridor, looked both ways again, and came back.

“Forty,” Rowan said.

Bel took a deep breath, released it, and shook her arms to relax the muscles. She seemed calm and cheerful.

It was otherwise for Rowan, and she felt a stepwise increase in tension with every number her mind shaped. “Fifty,” she said. “Do we really have to wait this long?”

“One hundred was what Willam told me. I hope you’re both counting at the same pace. Is it sixty yet?”

Rowan paused for five counts. “It’s seventy.” Under the rhythm of the counting, she discovered herself reviewing alternative routes to the front gate; she had information to use, she realized, and that knowledge served to steady her. “Eighty.”

Bel pulled the door open, and Rowan slipped through. “Lock it again. It might throw them off. Ninety.”

The Outskirter looked up at her, eyes aglitter. “I have a sword for you. I left it behind a tapestry outside the door with the guard-spell.”

“Good. I’ll need it. One hundred.”

They followed the corridor, Rowan three steps ahead, wrapped and hooded in Liane’s cloak, Bel following behind like an escort. They went left, then right, seeing no one. At the top of a broad stair, Bel stopped Rowan with a touch on the arm, then indicated. Listening, they could hear measured steps and muttered voices below. Two people; one walked away, and the other remained at the bottom, out of sight.

Close to Rowan’s ear, Bel whispered, “There’s always one guard at that post.”

“What’s keeping Willam?”

“There’s no way to know. That man is inner guard; he probably knows about Liane. I’ll have to catch him off-guard. You stay here.” Bel paused a moment, thinking, then began running noisily down the stairs, footsteps startlingly loud. “You! Come here, lend a hand—”

“What? What are you doing here?”

Standing silently, waiting for Bel to do her job, Rowan was half distracted by a short, faint vibration beneath her feet. She looked down at the carpet.

“I’m guarding that steerswoman—something’s wrong!”

“Wait here, I’ll get help.”

“There’s no time, you’ll have to do—”

There was another vibration, stronger; Rowan looked up, and an instant later she heard distant thunder.

“What was that?” And the man made one more sound, a wet choking cough.

Rowan knew what it was. She flew down the stairs to find Bel pulling the point of her spear from the prone man’s throat. “Was that noise from the north?” Bel asked. Far off, someone shouted, a long muffled sentence.

“Yes,” Rowan replied. Their way to the gate led south.

About time.” Bel abandoned her spear for the dead man’s. “Let’s go.”

Rowan resumed her place in the lead, struggling to maintain a relaxed, casual pace. Halfway to the door with the guard-spell, they were surprised by a bleary-eyed servant who peered from a room in perplexity. “Themselves are up to something,” Bel explained, offhand, as they passed. “Go back to sleep.” The man gaped at her, then vanished with a look of fear.

Again the thunder rolled, louder. Wordless shouts came from behind, and the two women understood simultaneously that the time had come to run.

As Rowan reached the door to the outer keep, the floor suddenly bucked once, then shuddered, like a ship hit by heavy seas. The air was full of a roaring rumble. Nearby, someone screamed. Pulling the door open, Rowan pushed Bel through, and in an instant the Outskirter handed her the hidden sword.

There was thunder to the north, and the floor writhed unbelievably beneath their feet. Bel was thrown to the ground, but Rowan stood balancing wildly. About her, half-dressed people had appeared, clinging to the walls, crying to their gods and their families.

Abruptly and simultaneously, all the lamps went out. In the darkness Rowan found Bel and dragged her to her feet. Fading thunder left the air filled with shouts; then a crowd of organized footsteps approached, stumbled against the fallen, and reorganized with curses: soldiers. The squad swept noisily past Rowan and Bel, hurrying north. Bel made an anguished sound. “We have no light.”

Throwing one hand against the door, Rowan oriented herself, her internal map twisting in her mind. She exulted. “We don’t need it. This is better.” She guided Bel’s hand to her shoulder. “Slowly.”

“We can’t see where to go.”

“I know the route.” She led the way, keeping measured stride, desperately matching her movement with the vivid image in her mind. One of the terrified residents stumbled against her, and she shoved him away roughly.

Pausing, she shuffled sideways, groping with her left foot to find the edge of the stairway she knew would be there. “Down.”

A handful of people pushed past them, their voices a chaos of panic. Some took the stairs, stumbling, crying, and they broke around Rowan and Bel like a swirl of water. Rowan clutched the banister and stepped carefully, Bel still gripping her shoulder.

Reaching the bottom, Rowan saw a moving light in the distance, bouncing weirdly, approaching amidst the sounds of many feet. It was another squad of soldiers, their leader carrying a brilliant glowing object: a magic lamp like the wall sconces, but mobile. The beam played across the small crowd, swept once across Rowan, then returned to her. Thinking quickly, she turned her back to them and clung to Bel as if afraid, hiding her sword with her body, letting the light catch Liane’s silver-blue cloak.

“The wizards’ dolly,” Bel shouted above the noise of panic-stricken civilians. She waved them on. “I’ll take care of her.”

The light swung away. Someone shouted to the growing crowd in an authoritative voice, “Stay where you are. Stay out of the way. It’s being dealt with. Stay where you are.” Protests and begging questions were ignored as the squad hurried on.

In a sea of babbling voices, Rowan thought furiously. Her dead reckoning had brought them but a few turns from the front gate, but that gate was guarded at the inside. How could they get past?

She could hear the now-buried nervousness in the people’s voices, the panic lying just below the surface. None of them knew what was happening, and all were afraid. She briefly felt pity for them, and then an idea came to her.

Drawing a deep breath, she let out a long wailing shriek, feeling Bel startle beside her. “We have to get out!” Rowan screamed. She stepped into the crowd, clutching, and found someone. She shook him wildly, shouting into his face, “It’s magic, something’s happening! We’ll all be trapped!” He tried to twist away in panic, and Rowan heard those nearby begin to echo her words, voices rising.

She shoved her unwilling assistant forward brutally. “That way! The front gate is that way!” Her hands found more people, and she pushed them, shouting, emitting the most bloodcurdling screams she could manufacture.

Panic spread. Rowan quieted herself and pulled back against the wall, out of the way. Someone took up the shout “This way!” and ran staggering, calling others after him. With a goal for their fear, the people fell into loose organization, helping each other as they stumbled toward escape.

Rowan felt sudden fear. “Bel?”

“Here.” The Outskirter’s voice came from nearby, to Rowan’s left.

Relief. “We stay at the back.” She found Bel’s hand and reoriented herself. “Come on.”

The group found its own stumbling way to the gate, and Rowan and Bel followed, more by tracking the sounds than by the steerswoman’s skill. A burst of starlight ahead, and a babble of voices, and the crowd met the four startled guards at the gate.

The sergeant had a torch of real fire and grim presence of mind. “Calm down. No one’s leaving.”

There was a chorus of protests, and Bel shouted wildly, “It’s magic, something magic’s got loose! It’s killed the wizards!”

Rowan took it up. “It’s out of control!” She thought that might even be true.

“It isn’t,” the man replied against the cries of the people, but his face showed that he doubted. His men tried to herd the crowd back, but a woman broke through suddenly and ran down the causeway, one of the guards following, cursing. She threw herself against the spell-locked iron bars at the end, and he gripped her brutally and dragged her away.

A streak of fire flew toward the magic gate and lodged there, spitting sparks. There was a burst of light, a loud crack, and the stone and iron flew apart in a hundred pieces. The woman collapsed in a bizarre cloud of cloth and blood, and the soldier clutched at his face and fell, screaming. A shadowed shape ran to the gate from the road.

“Now!” Bel shouted, pushing through the stunned crowd. Following, Rowan broke through in time the see the sergeant’s head fall from his body, and Bel’s swing, out of control, ending in a bystander’s chest. Rowan stabbed her blade in a disbelieving guard’s face, wrenched it free, then turned to see the last guard stepping back, stiff-legged, briefly unmanned by surprise. The crowd fell back.

Rowan and Bel ran along the causeway. Halfway across, they were met by Willam; he carried his bow and three arrows, their heads aflame. Stopping, he gave two arrows to Bel. “Hold these.”

Rowan pulled at him. “Are you mad? They won’t be distracted forever—they may be coming now.”

Bel wrenched her away from him with furious strength. “Shut up.” Abruptly, Rowan’s mind reorganized itself, and she turned to look back at the fortress.

She saw Will’s first arrow end in the last guard’s chest, and the man clutched at it, shrieking.

The dark towers were outlined by a glow of fire in the north quarter. Ordered shouts and chaotic cries came to her ears. With a look of desperate concentration, Willam set his feet carefully and lifted his head toward the overhang of the main entrance. His burning arrow flew high, slowed, arched, and fell. By its light, Rowan had seen its goal: the window of an observation post, now unmanned. He’ll never make that shot, she thought, then knew with certainty that he would.

The last arrow lofted, painfully slow at the top of its flight, then clattered against the sill and rolled in. There was a pause, then flickering light as something inside caught fire.

“Now run!” the boy screamed, and the three ran madly, staggering past the pile of bones and raw meat, clambering over the remains of the ruined gate. Just as they reached the road, Rowan felt something like a huge invisible hand smash against her back, pick her up, fling her forward in a crowd of flying rock, and flail her body once against a wall of stone.

 

She came to with a dark shape crouched over her: the Outskirter. Bel looked over her shoulder. “She’s alive.” There was no response from Willam.

Rowan sat up and found that parts of her body were numb: her left arm and hand, the left side of her chest, the inside of her right forearm. Her right knee throbbed; her back stung as if scored. As she pulled herself to her feet with the Outskirter’s help, the grip of her left hand failed, seemingly because some of the fingers bent backward.

She limped over to where Willam stood silent, at the end of a road that now stopped abruptly at the edge of a cliff. Rowan looked out at the fortress.

The causeway was gone, along with the front entrance and the entire front face. Beyond stood a maze of half-ruined walls, and then standing walls, open rooms clinging to their sides like barnacles, all seen by the glow of fire in the ruins of the west quarter, where horses screamed.

As she watched, two of the distant suspended rooms collapsed to the ground like silent sighs.

An immeasurable force, set loose by a boy. A giant fist that smashed, a giant hand that flung stone through the air . . . “Did you know it would do this?”

He stood silent, expressionless, looking at his work; then he nodded minutely.

Bel came up behind them. “It’s a good job, don’t you think?” She grinned whitely in a face blackened with dirt and soot.

Rowan touched the silent boy’s shoulder and for a moment was amazed that he was mere flesh and blood, merely human. There was no magic to be seen in him. He was only a boy of the common folk, but he had done what seemed impossible. “Willam . . . will you stay with us?”

He turned to her, copper eyes blankly reflecting distant fire. “For a while. Where are we going?”

In this flickering quiet, in the silence after the shock, the world seemed vague, and her mind slowed. She groped for an answer.

“To the Outskirts?” Bel asked.

Of its own accord, information ordered itself in the steerswoman’s mind and gave her replies without conscious effort. “I told Shammer and Dhree I was going there. They may have passed it on.”

“To the Archives?” Willam suggested.

“I need to get my information to them, but I won’t do it in person. If the wizards think I’ve gone there, they might harm it.” Clinging to the framework of her ordered knowledge, her thoughts took shape again, and she knew what to do. “We need a defended position. Arms, and someone to direct them, someone who won’t fail to stand by me.”

“Where do we find that?”

“Wulfshaven. Artos.”

 

 

25

 

The city of Wulfshaven held its breath.

One week earlier, Artos had unexpectedly ordered his soldiers to battle-readiness. Word was sent to those on leave, and they came into town from their furloughs, faces wary and perplexed. The citizens they passed questioned them, but they had no answers to give.

Two days later, Artos called his reserves to active duty, and those men and women kissed their spouses, children, and parents, and set up their encampments on the lawns of his mansion and in open fields around the city limits. The sentries on the perimeter were not concentrated in any one direction.

The day after that, a troop of cavalry was sent north, followed by another of foot soldiers. Their destination was not known, but message-runners sent to their position returned only a day later.

And the next day, word came that Artos was no longer in his mansion but kept residence in the small fort that barracked his regulars.

Daily business proceeded, but with many glances over the shoulder and much speculation in taverns and in private.

In the Trap and Net, as everywhere, speculation was very active and very quiet. Wary glances were directed at the door as each new customer arrived, and when at last it was a steerswoman who entered, one of the drinkers hailed her with a gesture, saying to his companions, “Now we’ll learn something, I reckon.”

But Rowan ignored the summons and stepped quietly to a corner table overlooking the harbor, where two men with tankards before them sat alone in friendly conversation. She stood without speaking until one of them looked up at her. “I’ve been waiting,” she said then.

The wizard Corvus examined her with a mild gaze. “I rather thought you might be,” he admitted. “It must be very boring.”

There was a long pause. “Hardly.”

He laughed. “Then you are easily amused. Why don’t you join me?” He spoke to his companion, whom Rowan recognized as a local fisherman. “Selras, would you excuse us? I believe I have some business with the steerswoman.”

The fisherman absented himself politely, but with a perplexed expression. He would have a tale to tell that night, Rowan thought, of a wizard and a steerswoman who against all custom and expectation had business with each other. She wondered to whom he would tell it, and what the ending might be.

She seated herself, sitting carefully on the edge of the chair, one hand before her on the table. The other hand was in a sling, its fingers stiffly splinted, and her face showed the marks of old bruises. She said nothing, but watched Corvus patiently, and he returned her gaze with an identical expression.

The wizard was a man of striking appearance, all darkness, dressed in black and silver. He was tall, lean, and broad of shoulder. His hair was a cap of gleaming black curls, his short black beard silvered to either side. His skin was dark, as dark as was ever seen in people, nearly true black.

Among the folk of the Inner Lands, any shade of skin was likely to be seen, any color of hair, seemingly without rhyme or reason; but that pure combination of darkness was rare enough to be noticed—and to be prized. Women of such appearance tended to cultivate an air of depth and mystery. Such men, being conspicuous, found that high courage and intelligence were expected of them, and so often actually acquired those traits.

Corvus’s manner contradicted none of those expectations, and the only lightness in his appearance was the pale sky-blue of his eyes.

The two sat for some time. At last Corvus gave a slight smile. “You’re forbidden to answer my questions. I’m forbidden to answer the very questions you are most likely to ask. I find myself wondering how this problem can be circumvented.”

“I volunteer information, without the necessity of your asking for it,” Rowan said quickly. “I ask only questions I believe you’re free to answer.” Then she waited for his reaction; the entire conversation depended on his acceptance of the conditions. And the conversation had to take place.

He made a small sound of amusement, but his eyes were speculative. “It’s an odd technique.”

“I’ve used something similar in the past.”

“With Shammer and Dhree, I assume.”

She was startled, but managed a grim smile. “You’ve heard. No one else here seems to have. I thought perhaps I might have outrun my own news.”

“My means of acquiring news is, shall we say, less bound by time and distance.” He leaned back, and the veneer of casual friendliness he habitually affected seemed to falter somewhat. “Very well. Since the privilege of asking questions is yours, you should begin.”

“Are Artos’s military preparations necessary?” She was in Corvus’s home city, and if the wizards planned to attack her, he would certainly have been told, and possibly would serve as the agent.

“I’d answer if I could, but I don’t know what he’s expecting.”

Despite her tension, Rowan appreciated his ability to adapt to the limitations of the conversation. “The duke expects attack. From what direction, he doesn’t know. The source is likely to be one or more wizards.”

Corvus seemed to consider. “I know of no wizard who might hold a grudge against Artos.”

He was being willfully obtuse, and Rowan frowned, anger and frustration battling within her. “The grudge, as you call it, is not against him, but a dear friend of his. That is to say, myself.”

“You seem to have many friends. Powerful friends, I should say.” And again he was amused.

Rowan sensed a clue in his words, but could not identify it. She believed she was missing something. Suspecting that a direct question would be refused, she tried an oblique approach. “Power is usually seen as the power that commands others. Of my friends, only Artos has such power.”

“Wizards also have that power, and in addition, the power to command nature itself.”

She was definitely missing something, something important. “Are any wizards likely to use this against me?”

“We have more immediate concerns.”

Her confusion became complete. In the midst of this business directed at herself, was it possible that they would be distracted by other matters? Could she be so wildly fortunate? “If I asked what those concerns were, would you be able to answer me?”

He smiled at the careful logic of her question. “It would depend on the depth of the answer required.”

It was a dead end; there was no way to sidle around that response, no way to guess what question he might not refuse. She needed his answers, had to discover whether or not a steerswoman’s curiosity would call down battle on an innocent town, cause her friends to die for her, and end her own life by the hand of magic.

She changed direction with one desperate risk. “Has Slado lost interest in me?”

His smile vanished. In the midst of the homely, familiar tavern, he seemed a living shadow of gleaming metal and blackness, and she was sharply aware that the power she feared was present in his person. “No one should know that name.”

“Shammer and Dhree were indiscreet.”

“Stupid children,” he said spitefully. “I was against them from the first.”

“Then you’re wiser than Slado.”

He watched her, all friendliness vanished from his demeanor. “They died, you know.” He tilted up his chin and waited for her reaction.

Maintaining her calm, she replied, “Yes, I thought they might have. I’m sorry. They were pitiful, in their way.”

“And everyone is wondering who’s responsible. We know you didn’t do it.”

“No, I didn’t kill them. But I am responsible.”

“Only a wizard could have destroyed that fortress. Whoever it was will give himself away soon enough.”

His meaning came to her at last. “You believe that one of your number is a traitor.”

“We know it. You’d save us a lot of trouble if you revealed his name.”

Rowan was stunned.

Corvus continued. “We now know that all your dangerous cleverness was an illusion, and everything you know about those jewels was fed to you. You were told to look for them.” He tapped the tabletop to stress his point, then spoke tightly. “You’re serving someone, steerswoman, and it’s only a matter of time before we discover who, and deal with him in our own way.”

She could not believe her luck. To confirm it, she observed, “So you’re watching each other, and I’m simply beneath your notice.”

Wrapping his hand around his tankard, he relaxed. She was no danger to him; the threat came from her wizardly master. He regained a measure of his former manner, watching her a bit wryly.

She needed more. “You know about the jewels. Shammer and Dhree didn’t. Are you in Slado’s confidence?”

He seemed indifferent. “I have my own sources.”

“Do you know what the jewels are? Why they’re so important?”

His expression grew dissatisfied.

“I doubt your sources will help you there, if Slado chooses to keep the information to himself.”

“It’s a matter of time,” he said again, patiently.

She was dizzy with relief. She looked at the ceiling and looked around the room, unbelieving, her mind a flurry of thought with no outlet. It seemed she was safe, for the moment, and she almost surrendered to it, almost rose and walked out, leaving the wizards to lose themselves in their misguided internal disputes.

But the safety, she knew, was an illusion and would shatter in the end, perhaps under worse circumstances. Better that it shatter now, by her own hand. She turned back to Corvus. “I’ll save you time, effort, and strain on your sources. No wizard helped me. No one fed me information. There is no traitor, and I’m even more dangerous than you think.”

He gave a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous. You didn’t destroy that fortress. There’s no reason you should care about the jewels, no reason you should take such trouble.”

“There were reasons enough. At first, curiosity. Later, because my investigation so interested the wizards.”

He shook his head, disbelieving.

“Steerswomen never lie, Corvus. And no wizard could have fed me my information, because I know more about this one thing than any of you do, except Slado.” She slapped her own chest, an abrupt, tense gesture. “I know what the jewels are.”

His brows knit, and he studied her with a narrowing gaze. “Then enlighten me.”

“A good choice of word.” She drew a breath and began. “Corvus, how many Guidestars are there?”

He did not hesitate. “Two.”

“Really? Interesting, if true. I’ll rephrase: How many Guidestars were there, originally?” Catching his puzzled expression, she brushed away his reply. “Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you. Four.”

She went on, speaking rapidly. “Two is all that we can see, all that we know about. On the celestial equator, immobile, as all can see; but not really, Corvus, not in truth. They do fall, but too high, too fast. They can never reach the ground. They fall in the direction the earth turns, and at the same speed, and so only seem each to hang forever above its one spot on the earth. It’s so obvious, isn’t it, once it’s pointed out?

“But why are there only two? Humankind has never pressed far enough east or west for one of the pair to sink out of sight below the horizon. What would happen if someone did travel so far? I think I know. As one Guidestar disappeared, another would rise on the opposite side. And it would be that way, all around the sphere of the earth; a traveler would always see two.

“That is, until some thirty-five years ago. It’s different now. These jewels are part of a fallen Guidestar.”

His expression answered her next question without her asking. “You didn’t know,” she said.

A hundred speculations crossed his dark face; he shared none of them. At last he said, reluctantly, “Someone told you this.”

“No. I only used reason, evidence—” Her mouth twisted. “And a small ability with mathematics.”

He made to speak, stopped himself, shook his handsome head in disbelief, and began again. “How—” He corrected the phrasing. “I can’t think of any way to bring down a Guidestar.”

“Why not the same means by which they were lofted?”

“That was long ago.”

She leaned back a bit in pleasure. He had admitted that the wizards themselves had set the Guidestars in place. “You think you don’t have that ability any longer? The ability exists, but perhaps you don’t recognize it. The force that destroyed Shammer and Dhree, for instance. Shammer himself said it; such things are tricky, and dangerous. And Dhree: she said it was just a question of multiplying the force used. If their two abilities were combined in one person, perhaps that person would find the problem laughably simple.” She leaned forward and said quietly, “I wonder if Slado is laughing.”

His eyes were on the window and the harbor outside; his mind was miles away. Then he looked at her sidelong. “One can’t help but wonder at his reasons.”

It had happened, the change she was looking for, the shift in his demeanor. Clutching at the hope, she spoke to him with simple directness. “I’d tell you, if I knew. And I’ll tell you, when I do know. It’s only a matter of time.”

He nodded minutely, and for that space of time, at that one place in the world, regarding that one matter, they had ceased to be opponents. “Slado is playing some game of his own.”

“Yes,” she said urgently. “And it’s a big one, possibly the biggest ever. The Guidestars were originally set there for a reason, and it’s not merely to aid navigation.” She stopped in mild surprise, then continued in wonderment. “The steerswomen are always taught to be able to navigate with and without the Guidestars. I thought it was for the exercise, but it’s something held over from earlier days, isn’t it?”

“Very likely.” His mouth twitched; then he spoke a bit reluctantly. “The existence of the Guidestars makes one particular category of spells easier to effect.”

“Do you need all four? No, I’ll retract the question, I doubt if you can answer.”

But he did. “Some of the spells in question are simple, and common; for those, one Guidestar would suffice. But there are a few—complicated, and very important . . .” He became silent.

“You don’t use those spells yourself,” Rowan said, “or you would have noticed the missing Guidestar.”

“That’s true.”

Rowan did not ask who did use them; she believed that she knew. “Would there be problems if those spells were lost forever?”

He squinted in thought, and the squint became a wince. “The effects wouldn’t be noticed for some time. Eventually . . . I don’t know enough. There could be some very bad results.”

“Bad for whom?”

He gave her a piercing look. “Bad for everyone, lady. We wizards do have our uses.”

She reached across and tapped his arm like a conspirator. “Then Slado has some purpose more important to him than the welfare of the folk and the wizards. He’s your enemy, Corvus.”

“All wizards are each other’s enemy, in some way,” he admitted.

Rowan noticed that the tavern was completely silent. Someone had noticed a steerswoman in conversation with a wizard; now many stood watching, and more had left. Corvus sent a long mild gaze around the room, taking in every face, then made a small gesture—and the rest of the crowd departed quietly. Only the barman remained, standing beyond hearing with nervously shifting eyes. Corvus ignored him.

“That’s a useful skill,” Rowan commented in amusement.

“Sheer force of personality.” He turned back, studying her speculatively. “When I thought that you’d been helped by a wizard, you could have left it at that,” he pointed out. “We assumed that you yourself presented no threat to us, and we probably would have left you alone.”

“Am I a threat, Corvus?”

“You know that you are.”

“Then I’ll introduce you to someone even more dangerous. A fourteen-year-old boy, the son of a blacksmith, uneducated, untrained, unable even to read. But able, if he so desires, to shatter a wizard’s fortress.”

His face went blank with amazement. “A boy killed Shammer and Dhree?”

He had forgotten the rules, and Rowan’s only reply was her smile of satisfaction. “It’s impossible,” he said carefully. “I’d like to meet this boy, but frankly, I don’t believe that you know what you say.”

“It’s the truth. And he wants to meet you; in fact, I promised to recommend him to a wizard, if ever I had an opportunity. I recommend him to you now. He’d like to be your apprentice.”

He shook his head. “We choose from among our own.”

“A separate people? That’s something else we didn’t know before. But it’s not working very well, is it, if you have to use two wizards for one job. I must assume no one better was available.”

“That was Slado’s doing.” His expression grew grim at the thought. “It was too soon.”

“Not by his lights. Part of his game, Corvus; he wanted that holding established right now, immediately. It must be important to him.” Rowan watched the wizard’s face change as he internally assembled facts known only to him, to some result that he found deeply disturbing. “I won’t ask you what you’re thinking,” Rowan said. “But perhaps you’ll tell me, one day, of your own accord.” She rose. “Come. Young Willam has something he’d like to show you. I think you’ll find it interesting indeed.”

 

Some ten years earlier, a clever sailing captain had thought to avoid docking fees by bringing his ship past the public wharves, to a private landing up a narrow corner of the harbor. The ship moved slowly, and sounding leads were thrown every five feet of the way; but on a short starboard tack, between one sounding and the next, the hull met a narrow jagged rock, was breached, and the holds filled with water. The ship remained, half-submerged, more decrepit every year, to become the hated enemy of every riverman, confusing the currents and releasing unexpected debris.

Willam removed it.

During his hectic preparations of the previous week, Rowan had been his shadow. She asked no questions, but by some unspoken agreement he abided her presence. She understood little of the proceedings and was annoyed by what she did recognize. They seemed simple processes: distillations and precipitations such as an herbalist might make, but using no plants. At one point she thought he was making tea from some powder, but during the process, when he discovered one hand damp from the brew, he flicked his fingers dry, and the droplets fizzed into sparking flame as they flew.

Now he stood, his bow in his hand, Corvus at his side, on the west bank of the river. The wizard had seen none of Will’s preparations but had watched with interest from the bank as the boy scuttled about the wreck, one of Artos’s regulars his dazed-looking, cautious assistant.

The day was hot and thick with damp, the sky a white dome of haze. Downriver, the harbor docks were crowded with spectators. “Is there any danger for those people?” Artos asked.

Will shook his head distractedly. “Not at this distance. I didn’t use that much.”

The duke was suspicious and uncertain, but did not protest. Behind him, Bel was tending a merry little blaze, three rag-tipped arrows on the ground beside her.

Rowan stood, a wide-legged, stable stance, waiting for the ground to become the rolling sea she remembered from the fortress. She had not seen Will’s magic at the last violent moment, had had her back to it as she ran. This time she intended to watch.

Willam made a gesture to Bel, and the Outskirter lit one arrow, turned it to even the flame, and handed it to the boy. He stepped up to the water, waded into it up to his knees, and nocked the arrow. With the smooth ease of a true archer, he aimed and let fly in the same movement.

The bolt ended in a pile of straw braced against an after-house on the tilted deck, and the straw flared. Will ran back to shore. Bel stiffened, bracing herself, but Rowan stood looser, preparing her body to absorb the motion.

Nothing happened. There was a long pause, and people began to look at each other in perplexity.

“I, I’m sure I did it right—” Willam stuttered. He reached to Bel for another arrow.

Corvus put a hand on his shoulder. “The charm in that straw was the first you set?”

“Yes . . .”

“They absorb water.”

“I didn’t let it get wet—”

“The air is damp, and you set it hours ago. And even before that, if it wasn’t properly protected, it might have drawn water from the air. Are all the charms the same?”

“No. I use two kinds. One releases easiest by fire, and the other by, by a blow, or if another charm nearby is released.”

“You use the one kind to activate the other?”

“That’s best.” They were oblivious to all else, lost in discussion of magic.

Corvus gave a small, almost kindly smile. “But enough heat will release the other sort, too, won’t it?”

Willam looked in amazed realization from the wizard’s face to the ship, where the after-house was rapidly catching fire. He said in a vague voice, “You’d better get down.”

Corvus dropped prone with no hesitation, Willam beside him. Artos and Bel exchanged glances and more slowly made to imitate them. The little band of Artos’s regulars looked about in confusion, some laughing nervously.

And the spell released.

It was like thunder from the sky, like standing next to a lightning-strike. Time seemed to slow as Rowan’s thoughts sped more quickly, and she saw the rapid action with perfect clarity.

Water sped away from the wreck, moving out in a circular wave so violent that it broke in an instant, the stable surface around it like stone by comparison. Spray dashed straight up in a fountain impossibly high.

The ship separated into a hundred pieces, and each piece seemed to flee in its own direction: the bowsprit hurried across the river, the deck shattered and flew up into the air, the sides of the hull seemed to seek earth, pushing the water flat, then down, and Rowan briefly saw the shallow river bottom.

The poop deck became a cloud of splinters that rushed toward her. She turned and dropped to the ground, bits of wood pattering against her back like hail.

There was a long, echoing quiet, and a second wave of water dashed against the shore like a breaker.

Bel let out a delighted hoot and went to pull Willam to his feet. “That was wonderful!”

Artos and Corvus rose more cautiously, and something seemed to pass between them as they viewed each other. Rowan stood up, splinters falling off her to the ground.

Bel was thumping Willam’s back, and he took her congratulations quietly, wearing the same expression he wore when he had viewed the destroyed fortress. He looked like a man who had been told some shocking news, secretly knowing that he was to blame.

Corvus took in the group with a long, slow gaze. His eyes ended on Artos. “I suppose, if I tried to kill these two, you and your men would do your best to prevent me.”

“You’d have to use some powerful magic,” Artos said evenly.

The wizard nodded, and he looked a bit sad. “I don’t want to hurt them. Rowan.” He turned to her. “Steerswomen are very good at discovering reasons. If there’s a reason I shouldn’t eliminate you and this boy, it’s one that I ought to know.”

She did not hesitate. “You won’t do it,” she said, “because it would do you no good.”

He raised his brows in surprise, and she continued.

“Willam and I are nothing special, nothing unique. Killing us would solve nothing.” She approached him, her boots pushing splinters into the ground. “That’s why I told you that no wizard was helping me; that’s why I didn’t hide behind your misconceptions. I’m just a steerswoman, Corvus, and a common one at that. Four years past my training, wandering about the world with no better mind than my sisters.”

She stood before him, studying his face, urging him to understand. “As long as you wizards thought I was unique, you hunted me. I’ve managed to avoid you, or escape from you so far; perhaps I can do so for many years. It doesn’t really matter; in the end, I think, you’d kill me if you really wanted to.

“But what then? Do you think the Steerswomen themselves are remarkable? Will you destroy the Archives? I don’t doubt that you can do so, easily enough.

“But the Archives don’t make us what we are. Will you hunt every steerswoman? We’re scattered throughout the known world, and we’d go into hiding. It would take a long time, but perhaps you’d destroy us all, yes, and the new ones we’d train in secret.”

Looking up into his dark face, his pale eyes, she saw that he was disturbed. “But there’s one more thing, Corvus,” she told him. “There’s Willam.”

Bel shifted, eyed Willam, then led him by the elbow to Rowan’s side. The three stood together facing the wizard: warrior, thinker, and child.

“He’s just a boy,” Rowan said. “Of the common folk. All he has is his eyes, his hands, his reason, and his courage. You can’t destroy that, and you can’t command it. He’s not unique, and he’s not trained. He’s no steersman, he’s the son of a blacksmith—but he knows, and I know, secrets you claim for your own. And if it weren’t we two, if it weren’t now, it would be someone else, sometime soon . . .

“How will you stop us, all of us? Will you break us down to barbarism? Will you kill every son of a blacksmith? Every merchant who uses a simple formula to calculate profits? Every farmer who can add? Every chambermaid who dares to look at the stars and wonder?

“Will you? Then, wizard, who will you rule?”

Corvus spoke, his voice was very quiet. “I don’t want to do any such terrible things. I want the world to be as it’s always been. It’s not a bad world, really, as a whole.”

She gave no ground. “The world is changing. You know it and I know it, but neither of us knows why. Watch what happens, Corvus, and when the time comes, choose your side. But remember us, that’s all. Remember.”

 

Corvus accepted Willam as apprentice.

It was against tradition, against common and wizardly wisdom. Corvus gave no reason, and Rowan’s mind filled with a hundred speculations, each more dreadful than the last. But she satisfied herself at last with the recognition of one simple fact: It was what the boy wanted.

As they turned to leave, Willam stopped, suddenly recognizing his departure for what it was. He paused in realization, then rushed to embrace Bel, his head bending down against hers, and she held him quietly for a while.

When he came to Rowan, he took her undamaged hand in both of his. His eyes were full of amazement and gratitude. “Will I see you again?”

“It might be years. It’s a long way to the Outskirts. And no means to guess what may happen between here and there. Or after.”

“You’re still going?”

Her mouth twisted. “There’s something I’d like to see.”

He looked displeased, and it came to her that he disliked the idea of her traveling about without his protection. She laughed despite herself, and he became a bit sheepish.

“Well,” he said, “I won’t forget you, or what you said to Corvus. Don’t you forget me, either. I made a promise to you.”

It took her a while to remember. “That if the wizards kept their secrets for some mean reason, you’d defy them and answer what I asked.”

“That’s right.” He nodded shakily. “I’ll stand by it. You have my word.”

The pair walked away, up the riverbank in the hazy air, to the road that led back to Wulfshaven Harbor, Rowan, Bel, and Artos watched in silence.

“Artos,” the steerswoman said at last, her eyes still on the boy. “Stay by him. Be his friend. Don’t let him forget what he is.”

“A common man. So he’ll become a wizard with the true common touch?”

“If we must have wizards, that’s the kind we need.”

They turned away, but for Bel, still watching, her face uncertain. “You’re not pleased with this?” Rowan asked.

“I ought to be. I’m not. I’m worried for him. But I do think it’s a good thing. A wizard with one of the common folk as apprentice; I wonder how that will affect Corvus?”

“I wonder how Corvus will affect Willam?” Rowan countered.

Bel released a pent-up breath and looked up at her. “Well, he said he’d help us, one day, and I believe him. We have his promise.”

But the steerswoman took a long time in replying. “Wizard’s words,” she said. “A wizard’s promise.”

 

END