“You won’t report it, will you, Stavvy?”
“No. At least not until you’ve told Chernon whatever your Mom says.”
“I don’t think you ought to report it at all,” Beneda said, examining the almost dust-free path among the rubbish, made by the prints of many feet of different sizes. “Somebody comes here a lot.”
CHERNON WENT DIRECTLY from the armory roof to report to Vice-Commander Michael who was sitting with Stephon and Patras under a spreading tree near the officers’ residence. The slatted chairs and low tables under this tree were part of officers’ country, and when they beckoned Chernon over, he hoped that some of his century were watching. It wasn’t often that century Commanders were seen talking with a boy who was not even a warrior yet.
“You saw her?” Michael asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“And… and what, sir?”
“How did she react?”
“Fine. I mean, she seemed interested.”
“Your sister?”
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, Beneda was interested, too, but I thought you meant Stavia.”
“He did mean Stavia, grub,” smiled Stephon, a tall, angular centurion with a tight, narrow face, heavily lined around the eyes. “Your commander wants to know if you’ll be able to get into her… good graces.” The smile turned chill, like a knife, and his smooth black eyebrows joined forces above his nose.
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”
“You know what this is all about, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Michael told me.”
“What did he tell you?” This with a confiding, easy glance at Michael, who lay back in his chair regarding Chernon under eyelids so heavy they looked almost swollen. When Chernon sought guidance from those eyes, they did not blink.
“He told me….”
“Spit it out, grub.”
“He told me the women know something. Something they’re keeping from us.”
“All the women?” This was the third man, bulky, bearlike Patras.
“No. No, sir. That is, probably not. But the Councilwomen do. And Stavia’s mother is on the Council. And Michael said maybe I can find out something if I get Stavia to visit me at home during carnival, or if I get to visit her….”
“Very good, Chernon,” murmured Michael. “And of course you’ll tell us everything you find out?”
“Of course, sir.”
They waved him away, and he went, his head spinning with the honor and glory of it all. Most boys his age didn’t even get to talk to the officers, much less do a special job for them.
“Not much chance of getting anything from that, is there?” bearlike Patras, furry Patras murmured to the other men as the boy went out of sight. Patras had hair where other men had skin, and even his voice sounded soft and growlly, as though there was fur in his throat as well.
“You never know,” said Michael. “We keep detailing enough of our best-looking men to court the Councilwomen and their daughters, we’re bound to find out something. They can’t all be as tight-mouthed as Morgot is. The kid might pick up on something, or one of the others might.”
“And it might all be for nothing. Jik could be lying through his teeth, just to keep you from killing him.”
“That’s possible. Likely, even.” Michael stretched, smiling his lazy smile. “Next time the fool cheats me on a woman, he’ll lose some vital anatomy over it. Meantime, though, we won’t disbelieve him just because he’s a thief. He’s been to Emmaburg and Annville. He’s been to Tabithatown, which is a damn long way north of here. Jik hears things. If he says he’s heard that the women are hiding something, he’s probably heard just that. Secrets, he says.”
“What kind of secrets, did he say?” Stephon asked.
“Just something going on that we don’t know about. Something to do with the servitors and the Councils,” Michael replied.
“I don’t know why we care what little secrets they have. Why do we put up with them?” Stephon’s lips twisted in a grimace of distaste as he sneered, “Stupid, baaing ewe sheep! Why don’t we just take over the city? We could. Any garrison could. Why don’t we?”
Michael laughed, a burst of genuine amusement. “Oh, what an ambitious warrior he is! There is the little matter of Commander Sandom. Commander Sandom is perfectly comfortable, right where he is.”
“I’ve heard him,” muttered Stephon. “One of the twenty-two asked him the other day why we let the women run things, and old Sandom said, ‘I’m sitting here at my leisure, boy, wearing fabric I got from Women’s Country, drinking beer made from Women’s Country grain. Tonight little Bilby will fix my dinner and he’ll do it with Women’s Country meat and beans and cheese. You want to get out in those fields and dig? Get yourself all muddy and cold? You want to be a shepherd, boy? Let the women run things. They like it, and why should I bother?’”
“He has a point,” said Michael mildly.
“From a lazy man’s point of view, yes,” sneered Stephon. “The trouble is with Sandom, he’s got no ambition.”
“Well, say we did take over. Do you want to get out there and grub in the dirt?”
“Don’t be stupid. I wouldn’t have to. The women do that.”
“Of course they do that,” Michael said. “You think they’d go on doing that if we ‘take over the city’? We ‘take over the city’ and we might have to take over what goes with it. We might find we had to work like women. No amusements except during carnival? You want that? Short rations when the harvest isn’t good? The city takes the cut, you know; we don’t.”
“In the first place, if we were running things, we’d take our amusements when we liked. And we’d set the rations to suit ourselves, too.”
“And you think the women would go on doing all the work?”
Stephon replied, “I think there are ways the women could be encouraged to do what they do now even if we did take over.”
“You’re saying you’ve got it all figured out.”
“I’m saying nothing right now. Except I don’t see why we should stay out here in garrison country when it would be so comfortable inside the
