The Outskirter's Secret by Rosemary Kirstein

have to. I fight one, that's law."
Bel's hand swept the circle again. "Choose your champion, if you
have one, if there's one among you can stand on two feet alone!"
The warriors had not moved.
    "You insult my customs," Bel spat out, "you
insult my people, my tribe, my blood, my heroes and forebears. You
insult the Outskirts, you insult its air with your fetid carrion
breath!" She whirled in the flickering light, confronting the
impassive faces, a wild storm awaiting release. " Choose , you vermin, you rodents, you
dung-worms!"
    From his position among the seated warriors,
Hanlys cleared his throat experimentally. "Pardon me, lady?"
    Rowan could scarcely believe that she was
being addressed. "Yes?"
    He gestured. "We don't need this."
    "Excuse me?"
    He indicated Bel, somewhat apologetically.
"Can't you control your friend?"
    Rowan discovered that now it was she who was
insulted. "She's not my servant," she said, voice flat, "and she's
not my dog, either. She's a free woman and a warrior." The
steerswoman was suddenly, coldly calm. She stepped back to her
place among the warriors and sat. "I won't interfere with your
traditions." She said to Bel, "I wish you good luck."
    A single "Ha!" expressed Bel's opinion of
luck.
    Murmurs passed between the faces, and Hanlys
looked even more uncomfortable. "Well." He caught Rowan's eye and,
with a little shrug, rose. "I'm sorry for this, lady."
    "No need. It's between you and her."
    He winced. "Not quite." His gaze flicked
around the circle, and he made a rapid series of small
gestures.
    Whether Bel understood the signals or merely
recognized their import, Rowan could not tell, but the Outskirter
suddenly spun and reached for her weapon. Then all warriors were on
their feet, and one pair of hands clutched for her sword arm,
another stopped her left hand an instant before it reached the
hilt, and someone grabbed her from behind with an arm around her
throat, lifting her from her feet. Bel thrashed wildly, kicking
out, and connected with one man's chest, another's stomach, and
then disappeared in a mass of struggling forms.
    None had drawn a weapon.
    Rowan found herself standing alone, aghast,
as a writhing crowd worked its way away from the fireside, out
between the standing tents, off toward the edge of camp. Bel's was
the only voice raised, in furious, inarticulate shouts. Then all
vanished from sight.
    Rowan followed the mob to the limit of the
encampment. There it struggled to a halt, reconfigured, and a
thrashing thing was expelled into the darkness. It came back
instantly, flailing wildly: Bel, striking out with both fists
toward any person within reach. She received the same treatment as
before, as both arms were captured, by several people, and rendered
harmless. She was turned about forcibly, and again ejected. She
came back. The process was repeated.
    "Lady? Rowan?"
    Rowan turned. Jermyn stood before her, one
arm looped through the straps of two packs: Rowan's and Bel's. In
his other hand was Bel's sword, now sheathed.
    He glanced once at the melee and had the
grace to look deeply ashamed. "You'd better take these."
    "Will they hurt her?" Rowan almost believed
it might be better if they tried to.
    "No. You both helped us. But they won't let
her come back."
    Rowan took the equipment, looking up into a
face made large, eyes made small, by tears. She suddenly wished not
to leave him here, among false comrades who mocked his pain. She
wanted to ask him to come away.
    But before she could speak, he stepped back.
"Thank Bel for the song," he said, and was gone.
    Rowan made her way to the edge of camp and
circled around the mob. Bel stood, darkness at her back, frustrated
for the dozenth time. She shook with fury, eyes full of murder.
    "Bel."
    The Outskirter turned to her with a choked
shriek of hatred. Rowan fell back a step, then recovered, and stood
quietly, holding out the pack and sword.
    Bel was a moment in recognizing her friend;
then she took the gear without a word, spun away, and