The Outskirter's Secret by Rosemary Kirstein

caught a
tossed wool shirt. "Wash at the creek, or no one will want to
associate with you." The woman vanished again, leaving Rowan only
with impressions of height, long dark hair, and a bundle balanced
on one shoulder.
    Rowan looked at the shirt in her hand, then
held it up for the man to see. She waved it slightly. "How do I
find the creek?"
    He made a satisfied sound, then motioned with
a nod. "On the far side of the camp." He paused. "You can't go
through. I'll lead you around."
    "Thank you."
    His reply was a grunt.
    The tent she had slept in was one of a
cluster of four crowded together, back-to-back. Some of skin, some
of felt, all in shades of gray and brown, they might have been
cloud shadows against the wild color of the surrounding
redgrass.
    As she followed the Outskirter around the
body of the camp, Rowan saw that all the tents were in groups of
four, back-to-back like cornered soldiers. Between the groups she
caught intriguing glimpses of the life within. Spaces between the
clusters seemed to define avenues, annexes, even courtyards; it was
like passing by a village of cloth and leather houses. People
walked along those paths she could see, most of them moving
quickly, as if on some errand; they glanced at her once, then
studiously ignored her.
    As they rounded the south side of the camp,
they passed a group of five children, playing at battle—using real
weapons, Rowan realized. One made boldly to challenge her presence,
but her guard stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and an
admonishing finger in his face, and with gestures directed the
children's attention away from the steerswoman. But he paused among
them long enough to correct one fierce young girl's sword grip; the
others watched the instruction intently, then picked up their
adventure where it had been interrupted.
    The groupings of the tents fell into some
larger pattern: a star, it seemed, though Rowan could not from her
vantage count the points. The wind brought the smell of cooking
again, and she surmised a central open area, with a fire pit.
    When they passed another of the tent city's
points, Rowan found herself at the crest of a little dale, looking
east. Below, the creek reflected the blue of the sky, stable and
peculiar amid the noisy, shimmering red and brown. The motion of
the colors rendered the scene freakish, unreal, the sloping
perspective seemed about to shift without ever quite doing so, and
the tapping of the reeds never ceased, but rose and fell like rain
on the ocean. Rowan gazed down dizzily and felt as if her ears were
tired inside, from the noise.
    Over the sound, half-audible voices came up
from the creek: cheerful, comradely shouts, playful squeals. Her
guard nodded down at the creek. "There you go, Rowan," he said, and
she wondered if the use of her name signified anything. "Don't be
too long, or you'll miss breakfast." And he sat, apparently with
every intention of watching her as she bathed.
    As she descended, slightly unsteady, Rowan
fought an urge to turn back, to lose herself among the tents and
people. Her eyes, and her mind, remained uncomfortable with the
sweep of shuddering colors, the cruel, immobile black, and her body
was uneasy, unable to find its proper balance as she moved down the
slope to the waterside.
    But at the creek, to her surprise, she found
green life: a crowd of scrub pines, and an incongruous patch of
gray-headed thistle. Her eyes rested there as if they were the only
real things in the world.
    The bathers were all women, standing hip-deep
or sitting neck-deep in the cool water. One of them was annoying
the others by skimming her palm across the surface to send up
sheets of spray. Her cohorts soon dealt with the prank by mobbing
her and forcing her head below the surface until she indicated
surrender.
    On the fringes of the group, all alone, was
Bel.
    "Ha," Rowan's companion said. "You took your
time."
    "I didn't know the hour," Rowan replied. She
slipped her sword strap over her head and kicked