Read Online The Outskirter's Secret by Rosemary Kirstein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rosemary Kirstein
Tags: Rowan, bel, inner lands, outskirter, steerswoman, steerswomen, blackgrass, guidestar, outskirts, redgrass, slado
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accumulated weight.
"Well. The weather makes fools of us all, so
they say." The rabbits were two bucks, fat and well fed. She
wondered if she would be able to start a cooking fire in the damp;
they had dined on cold food for the last three days. Rowan began
designing a fire shelter, and mentally tallied the number of birch
trees she had noticed in the area. Birch bark burned when wet.
"Some people can guess the coming weather,
sometimes," Bel said, muffled under the cloak. "You're usually
good."
"Perhaps it works differently in the
Outskirts." The Steerswomen had no more reliable information about
weather than did the folk. There were rules, usually dependable,
but rules were not principles, and so could not be trusted.
"Red sky at night, sailor's delight," Rowan
mused as she slit one buck with her field knife. The rain had
broken briefly at sunset the previous evening, and the sky had
gifted them with a wild glory of orange and poppy red. And the rain
had returned with darkness.
Bel watched Rowan at work, then rose. "Let me
do that."
"No, I'd rather. I'm deathly bored." Study of
rabbit anatomy was a small diversion.
"I know." The Outskirter reached among her
gear and pulled out a sheathed sword, one of two she carried
alongside her pack. "Look at this instead, then tell me what you
think of it." Puzzled, Rowan took it from her hand and relinquished
her place in the drizzle to Bel.
The sheath was cured hide, similar to that of
Bel's other sword; small differences in markings told Rowan that
this was not the weapon Bel commonly used, but a new
acquisition.
"Where did you get it?"
"At Five Corners, a week before I met up with
you."
The hilt was of horn, and the guard. Rowan
drew the sword. It was black, edged with dull-colored metal. She
felt the flat. "It's wood."
"Except for the edge."
Workable metal was at a premium in the
Outskirts. "An Outskirter sword?"
"That's right."
There were no trees in the Outskirts. "Where
did the wood come from?" The grain, barely visible black on black,
curled wildly in tiny interlocking swirls.
"It's a tanglebrush root." Bel gathered a
handful of rabbit entrails and flung them far in a fast sidearm
motion. Rowan thought briefly of scavenging raccoons. "Tanglebrush
sends down one large root, about so long." Bel demonstrated with
bloody hands; something over four feet. "If you burn off the bush,
you can dig up the root. Then you cure it with slow heat."
Rowan hefted the weapon. It seemed well
balanced, though the width of its cross section made it move
through the air more sluggishly than a metal sword of similar
length. "You have a steel sword."
Bel nodded broadly. "And you won't find many
like it among the tribes. I won it from someone, who won it from
someone else—it must have come from the Inner Lands, a long time
ago. And that's why you have to learn how to fight against a
tangleroot sword. People will try to win your sword from you."
Rowan traced small figures-of-eight in the
air; her elbow and the sword's point were splashed with running
drops off the edge of the tarp. "They'll try to confiscate it?" She
wiped the blade and set to admiring the weapon's design: an
interesting solution to problems of scarcity.
"They won't sneak up on you and snatch it.
That is, no one in any tribe that we travel with will." Bel severed
her rabbit's neck and held up the head and attached skin, taking
pleasure in the neatness of her work. "It's a formal tradition. If
you covet someone's weapon, you have the right to challenge him to
a duel."
Rowan disliked the idea. "Not to the
death?"
"No. That's wasteful." Bel balled up the head
and pelt and tossed it after its viscera. The skin spread in the
air as it lofted, like a flying squirrel. "To disarmament, to a
killing blow stopped at the last moment, or to surrender. The
winner gets the choice of weapons."
The better fighter acquired the superior
weapon. Rowan nodded thoughtfully and turned to careful study of
the sword, considering weight,
"Well. The weather makes fools of us all, so
they say." The rabbits were two bucks, fat and well fed. She
wondered if she would be able to start a cooking fire in the damp;
they had dined on cold food for the last three days. Rowan began
designing a fire shelter, and mentally tallied the number of birch
trees she had noticed in the area. Birch bark burned when wet.
"Some people can guess the coming weather,
sometimes," Bel said, muffled under the cloak. "You're usually
good."
"Perhaps it works differently in the
Outskirts." The Steerswomen had no more reliable information about
weather than did the folk. There were rules, usually dependable,
but rules were not principles, and so could not be trusted.
"Red sky at night, sailor's delight," Rowan
mused as she slit one buck with her field knife. The rain had
broken briefly at sunset the previous evening, and the sky had
gifted them with a wild glory of orange and poppy red. And the rain
had returned with darkness.
Bel watched Rowan at work, then rose. "Let me
do that."
"No, I'd rather. I'm deathly bored." Study of
rabbit anatomy was a small diversion.
"I know." The Outskirter reached among her
gear and pulled out a sheathed sword, one of two she carried
alongside her pack. "Look at this instead, then tell me what you
think of it." Puzzled, Rowan took it from her hand and relinquished
her place in the drizzle to Bel.
The sheath was cured hide, similar to that of
Bel's other sword; small differences in markings told Rowan that
this was not the weapon Bel commonly used, but a new
acquisition.
"Where did you get it?"
"At Five Corners, a week before I met up with
you."
The hilt was of horn, and the guard. Rowan
drew the sword. It was black, edged with dull-colored metal. She
felt the flat. "It's wood."
"Except for the edge."
Workable metal was at a premium in the
Outskirts. "An Outskirter sword?"
"That's right."
There were no trees in the Outskirts. "Where
did the wood come from?" The grain, barely visible black on black,
curled wildly in tiny interlocking swirls.
"It's a tanglebrush root." Bel gathered a
handful of rabbit entrails and flung them far in a fast sidearm
motion. Rowan thought briefly of scavenging raccoons. "Tanglebrush
sends down one large root, about so long." Bel demonstrated with
bloody hands; something over four feet. "If you burn off the bush,
you can dig up the root. Then you cure it with slow heat."
Rowan hefted the weapon. It seemed well
balanced, though the width of its cross section made it move
through the air more sluggishly than a metal sword of similar
length. "You have a steel sword."
Bel nodded broadly. "And you won't find many
like it among the tribes. I won it from someone, who won it from
someone else—it must have come from the Inner Lands, a long time
ago. And that's why you have to learn how to fight against a
tangleroot sword. People will try to win your sword from you."
Rowan traced small figures-of-eight in the
air; her elbow and the sword's point were splashed with running
drops off the edge of the tarp. "They'll try to confiscate it?" She
wiped the blade and set to admiring the weapon's design: an
interesting solution to problems of scarcity.
"They won't sneak up on you and snatch it.
That is, no one in any tribe that we travel with will." Bel severed
her rabbit's neck and held up the head and attached skin, taking
pleasure in the neatness of her work. "It's a formal tradition. If
you covet someone's weapon, you have the right to challenge him to
a duel."
Rowan disliked the idea. "Not to the
death?"
"No. That's wasteful." Bel balled up the head
and pelt and tossed it after its viscera. The skin spread in the
air as it lofted, like a flying squirrel. "To disarmament, to a
killing blow stopped at the last moment, or to surrender. The
winner gets the choice of weapons."
The better fighter acquired the superior
weapon. Rowan nodded thoughtfully and turned to careful study of
the sword, considering weight,
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