The Outskirter's Secret (29 page)

When Rowan first learned that only
Outskirters who had gone walkabout were considered warriors, she
had briefly believed herself immune to a sword challenge. Bel had
disabused her of the notion, explaining that the rule was clear
only concerning Outskirters. Rowan was an Inner Lander. Strictly
speaking, her weapon could simply be confiscated; however, her
acceptance by Kammeryn rendered such an act, at the very least,
rude. But any warrior, by way of compliment, might elect to treat
her as an equal—and Rowan carried too fine a sword for her to
expect to be overlooked.

The other warriors had risen, and Berrion
directed them back. "Let's clear a space." He turned to Rowan. "How
much room do you need?"

She rapidly reviewed the new strategies Bel
had trained into her. "Not much." She needed to keep closer than
her natural instincts would direct her. A smaller fighting space
would encourage her to maintain that proximity.

Not to the death, Bel had told her. At the
worst, she would find herself equipped with a wood-and-metal
Outskirter sword for the duration of her journey. Abruptly, the
idea angered her. She preferred her own sword. She decided that
Jann would have a difficult time relieving her of it.

Word was passed, and from elsewhere in the
camp more people gathered. Bel appeared at Rowan's side as Jann
took position. "I've seen Jann practice," Bel told the steerswoman
quietly. "She's strong. She'll try to overpower you with sheer
strength."

"She may be strong," Rowan said, passing her
friend her logbook, pens, ink stone, and cleaning cloth, "but I
know a few things she doesn't." She unstrapped her sheath.

"Take off anything else you don't need."
Rowan was wearing an Outskirter fur vest over her blouse; she
removed it, and carefully tucked her thin gold Steerswomen's chain
into the neck of her blouse.

Between the tents around the little yard,
spectators arranged themselves, shifting as they jockeyed position
for a clear view.

Another voice spoke in Rowan's ear. "She'll
lead with a sweep from her right to her left. She likes to surprise
people straight off." Fletcher.

It was not the best first move for a
right-handed fighter. Jann would need to leave herself open for an
instant to gain a position with enough momentum. An opponent not
aware of Jann's strength would try to take advantage of the
opening, to be met by unexpected force. With enough speed and a
proper accompanying dodge, Jann could gain an immediate advantage.
"That's good to know," Rowan said by way of thanks; but Fletcher
was gone, as was Bel, back among the observers.

Berrion paced off ten steps, then directed
the fighters each to one end of the measurement. He pulled out a
wooden field knife and held it before him; Rowan received one last
instruction, called out by Bel. "When it hits the ground, not when
he releases it!" A starting signal. Rowan nodded, and assumed a
ready position. Her eyes were already on Jann's, trying to read
intent or the feigning of intent. Jann was doing the same. Neither
woman watched Berrion, but waited for the soft sound of a knife
falling on earth.

It fell point-down, which Rowan had not
expected. She did not hear it at all, but saw Jann hear it, saw the
expected opening about to appear, and swung into it, fully aware
that it was the wrong move for any weapon but her own.

The force of her swing was met by the greater
force of Jann's. But Rowan's sword was not pushed aside, as was
expected, and Rowan was not thrown off balance. Her weapon absorbed
part of Jann's power, flexing slightly. Rowan cooperated with it,
dropping the point, and her blade slithered under Jann's in
passing, hardly breaking Jann's momentum.

With Jann past her, Rowan swung fully around,
angling a down-sweep at the warrior's now-undefended right side,
desperately alert to the need to stop the blow before it actually
contacted and killed Jann. But Jann stopped it herself, one-handed,
the other hand bracing herself on the ground in the half crouch
into which her first maneuver had collapsed. Rowan slipped her
sword around and down, sweeping at Jann's arm and feet; the
Outskirter escaped by executing an astonishing backward roll,
miraculously keeping her sword free and arriving upright on her
feet. Her face showed surprise and pleasure. "Ha!" Rowan saw Jann
instantly reassess her opponent. Whatever advantage of surprise
Rowan had possessed was lost.

Taking two steps forward, Rowan used the free
space for a powerful overhead blow, with so much of her weight
behind it that her right foot left the ground. Jann's blade met
hers and tried to force hers aside. Rowan let it do so, let her
blade move and recover, stepping right as her sword twisted around
Jann's.

She was now on Jann's undefended left side,
but in no position to strike. She dodged back as Jann
recovered.

They began a cycle of sidesteps, circling,
feinting. Each studied the other's stance and motion, seeking
strategy. Beyond Jann's face, Rowan vaguely saw the faces of the
watchers, each in turn, as she and Jann completed their circles.
She ignored them, focusing on Jann's expression and the
configuration of her body.

She saw the change in Jann's balance,
reasoned which muscles would contract, knew the blow before Jann
made it. Rowan did not try to escape it; she met it with full
force, slid her blade up to Jann's hilt, twisted, disengaged,
dodged back, spun, struck again, slid again, wrenching her edge
against Jann's metal-edged wooden sword.

Jann recognized Rowan's strategy. She
retreated, trying to protect her weapon's weakest point. Rowan
pressed again. Three times they came face-to-face, hilts together,
and Rowan's speed was such that Jann had no space to recover and
reposition.

Jann was now completely on the defensive,
stepping back and around, again and again, as Rowan dashed forward,
struck, slid and twisted, slithered free, struck again. It was
close fighting one instant, at sword's length another, in a pattern
determined by Rowan's reasoning and her knowledge of both weapons,
knowledge only she held. Rowan began to enjoy herself.

Backstepping, maneuvering, Jann twice left
openings into which a quick fighter could insert a killing blow.
Rowan did not trust her own ability to halt such a blow in time;
she concentrated on destroying Jann's weapon.

There came at last one moment when Rowan
struck and twisted, only to find her edge caught beneath the
loosened metal edging of Jann's sword. She could not escape as
expected and tried to change her motion to a scissoring slide that
would free the metal from Jann's edge. But Jann did not try to pull
back, or dodge out. She brought sudden power from below, forcing
Rowan's sword up. Rowan's hands were thrown up, her entire body
undefended; but at the high point of the motion she felt something
give way, found herself released, fell back into a planned fall,
ready to defend from the ground against the overhand blow that
would follow—

"Yield!" Jann stepped back quickly, to the
far side of the yard. She stood slack a moment, mouth dropped in
amazement, then laughed a long laugh of warrior's delight.
"Steerswoman," she called. "I yield!"

Rowan was on her back on the bare ground,
sword at the ready, prepared to counter one blow, with no way to
recover for the next. She could imagine no less defensible
position.

Jann held up her own weapon and turned it in
the sunlight: from hilt to point, one edge was bare wood. A
battered curl of metal was attached to the point in a wide looping
curve, springing ludicrously in the air.

Cheers filled the area. Hands appeared,
helping Rowan to her feet: Bel's, Fletcher's, Averryl's, and,
oddly, Jaffry's. Rowan's shoulders were clapped more times than she
could count, as the crowd broke ranks to fill the yard.

Jann approached Rowan. "You're a good
fighter, Rowan. I didn't expect that." She showed no regret at
losing, only appreciation of her opponent's skill.

Rowan felt nothing but admiration for the
Outskirter. "As are you," she said. "You certainly had me
jumping!"

"You fight like a spring-hopper. I could
hardly keep up." Jann shifted her sword to her left hand and
offered her right to Rowan.

Rowan clasped it warmly. "I sincerely hope,"
she told Jann, "that I never find myself opposite you in a real
fight."

Jann's glance moved past Rowan's shoulder;
the steerswoman was aware of a tall presence behind her and knew it
to be Fletcher.

In a flickering instant, Jann's open grin
changed from genuine to formal. "Then," she replied, "be careful of
the company you keep."

"
N
ow, put that
down! Can't always be working, girl!"

Rowan looked up. It was old Chess, her face
wrinkled into the unaccustomed lines of a smile. "Saw the fight.
You did good. Hoo, that Jann, she's a fine warrior! Never thought
one like you would set her back. Just goes to show you."

Rowan was seated outside Kree's tent in the
afternoon light, reviewing the notes she had made that morning. She
looked around in startlement, disbelieving that all this sudden
vivacity was directed at herself. No one else was present.

Chess held up her hands. "I brought
something." Two small pottery jugs, one small-mouthed, one
large.

Rowan set aside her book. "What is it?" she
asked cautiously; it might be a gift, or something peculiar for a
steerswoman to examine.

The old woman crinkled her nose roguishly.
"Erby," she said, then jerked her head toward the tent. "Let's take
it inside."

Rowan began to recognize a universal
behavior. "Is it liquor? I didn't know Outskirters made alcohol."
She gathered her materials and reluctantly followed the
enthusiastic mertutial into the tent.

"Alcohol, ha! This is not just alcohol, young
woman." Chess pushed aside a couple of bedrolls and settled herself
familiarly onto the carpet. "This," she announced, "is the stuff,
the stuff itself, of celebration!" Chess was being entirely too
loquacious to suit Rowan; the steerswoman suspected that something
was afoot.

The old woman set the jugs down and directed
Rowan to a seat opposite her. When Rowan hesitated, she fussed.
"Now, a good fight like that deserves celebration, don't you think?
Come on, come on!" Her waving encouragement became ludicrous.

Not wishing to offend Outskirter customs,
Rowan complied, cautiously. "What is it? How is it made?"

From somewhere within her clothing, Chess
drew two shallow mugs. "Always the questions, I never stop being
amazed! Well." She held up the small-mouthed jug, eyes sparkling in
nests of wrinkles. "This," she announced, "comes from redgrass
root, same as bread. You make it like you start to make bread, then
stop, and let it sit for a good long time." She poured a measure
into each cup: clear, colorless fluid.

"And this"—she took up the wider jug—"used to
be goat milk." She waved one finger in a saucy negation, an
appalling effect in one her age. "But it's not anymore!" She added
the contents to both cups: pale white liquid, with small floating
yellow clots.

Rowan peered into her cup dubiously. "There's
something going on in there." The clumps were shifting, and more
were visibly coalescing.

Chess emitted an Outskirter's "Ha." She took
a sip. "Something going on, for sure, and it'll keep going on
inside." She smacked her lips, then gestured at the steerswoman.
"Now you."

"Well . . ."

"Come on, come on! A fighter like you can't
be afraid of a little drink!"

Rowan took a very little drink. Her tongue
was instantly coated with a sour, cheesy ooze. The fluid component
of the erby converted to fumes before it reached her throat, and a
cold, airy gap abruptly came into being between her mouth and the
back of her head. She coughed.

Chess slapped her knee. "What a fight! I
never saw anyone move like that!"

Rowan waited for her tongue to reappear.
"Thank you," she said.

"Who was your mentor?" Chess drank again.

"Formally speaking, as you know it, I had
none," Rowan began; at Chess's urging she took another cautious
sip. It was necessary to pause and swallow the gooey clots
separately from the liquid. "Specifically," Rowan tried to
continue, then swallowed again to clear her mouth, "Bel instructed
me in how to fight against Outskirter weapons." The airy space had
spread to the floor of her brain; the top of her skull seemed
completely disconnected from her body, a decidedly peculiar
sensation.

"That Bel!" Chess enthused. "I never saw her
fight, but I can tell, just from the way she walks, from the way
she carries herself. No one should ever cross her. She'll slice you
up and enjoy herself doing it." She drank again.

"I've seen her do exactly that," Rowan
replied.

Chess waved at her. "Come on, do another. I
did one, now you." The regularity of the procedure disturbed Rowan;
it definitely possessed a formal aspect . . .

Dubiously, she sipped again. There were more
clots in her cup than had been there at first, and the liquid
itself had become stronger. It survived long enough to pass down
her throat, and began to define for her the specific shape and
configuration of her stomach. "It's . . . it's very interesting . .
."

The entrance darkened as someone passed into
the tent. Rowan was surprised at the difficulty she had in
recognizing Bel. She greeted her friend with relief. "Bel, come in!
Chess has brought some—Chess, what is it called?"

"Erby," the old woman supplied.

"And you should join us."

"How far are you into it?" Bel asked.

"Three sips each," the mertutial replied, and
Rowan's suspicions coalesced.

Bel shook her head. "I think I'll decline."
She ambled over to her pack, began to rummage inside it.