“Well, when I took the baby to the wall walk to show to his warrior father, Barten said….”
Morgot took a deep breath. “Myra. Almost a year ago I told you never to repeat to me Barten’s opinions about our ways here in Women’s Country. We do not assert the opinions of warriors in Women’s Country, particularly opinions on matters about which they know nothing. It’s not merely bad manners, it shows a fundamental lack of respect—for me, for the Council, for our ordinances. You have done it twice. Once more and it will go to the Council.”
“You wouldn’t!” Myra was white with anger. “You wouldn’t!”
“Because you are my daughter? It is precisely because you are my daughter that I would. If you cannot accept admonition from me, then it is time others tried with you. Young women often do not get along with their mothers. Adolescence is a time for establishing separations and independence. Sometimes daughters need to change houses. It is acceptable to do so, not in the least frowned upon, scarcely a matter for comment. But it does require Council notice.” Morgot sounded as though she were delivering a rehearsed speech, and Stavia realized with a pang that she was doing exactly that. This was something Morgot had planned to say, something she had probably lain awake in bed as she practiced saying it.
“You’d throw me out!” Myra howled.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Myra, she didn’t say anything about throwing you out!” Stavia exploded. “She just said if you won’t take correcting from her, maybe you’d be happier somewhere else.”
“I’ll thank you to keep out of this, you little bitch.”
Stavia started to explode once more, but her mother’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. “No, Stavia. Don’t dignify that with an answer.”
The speech making had stopped. Now Morgot was herself again, a very angry self, speaking with a dangerous calm. “Myra, if you are fond of Barten, which you seem to be, think on this. You are drawing unkind attention to him by your rather consistent failure of courtesy. At some point, someone may blame him for what you are doing and saying. Do you want that?”
“I don’t care! You can’t discipline him the way you’re trying to get at me. You can’t touch him. He’s a warrior, and he’s out of Women’s Country, and I wish to hell I was, too.”
“I see.” Morgot’s face was perfectly blank, perfectly quiet. Seeing it, Stavia wanted to scream. Myra had just said something unforgivable, and Stavia didn’t even know what it was. She shuddered as Morgot went on. “Well, I’ll consider that, Myra. We may talk about it again when I get back.” Morgot turned and left the room.
Myra turned a furious face at Stavia, obviously trying to think of something cutting to say.
Stavia didn’t give her a chance; she snatched up the teapot and two cups and fled. Joshua would be in his own warm room at the corner of the courtyard, and Stavia badly wanted to be there, or anywhere else, rather than in a room with Myra.
“I don’t understand her,” she mumbled while Joshua shaved himself, wielding the ancient straight-edged razor with much practiced skill. Only warriors wore beards. Servitors were clean shaven. Razors, like anything else made of good steel, were treasured possessions. Most of Women’s Country’s tiny steel production went into things like razors and scalpels and other medical equipment. The warriors did very well with bronze manufactured by their own garrison foundry.
“I’d overlook a lot of what she says,” Joshua advised, taking a sip from the cup she had brought him. In the mirror his wide, hazel eyes gave her a kindly glare. His face had high, strong cheekbones and a wedge-shaped jaw. His long, brown hair swung from side to side in its servitor’s plait as he turned his face before the mirror, searching for unshaven patches. “She’s just had a baby. She’s probably having postpartum depression. Then, you’ve got to keep in mind what kind of person that little bastard Barten is. One of his worst qualities is that he likes to whip people around emotionally. He’s jerking Myra this way and that every time he sees her. It’s an expression of power for him, I think. Either that or someone’s put him up to it, and that thought does keep coming into my mind. Myra’s trying to nurse the baby and keep up her studies, too. She’s up two and three times a night, and we both know she was never much of a scholar. Give her six months, and I think she’ll level off.”
“Not if Barten keeps after her the way he is.”
Joshua got a peculiar expression on his face and began to rub his brow as though it hurt, “Is there something particular he’s agitating her about?”
“He wants her to espouse warrior values. He wants her to leave Women’s Country.”
“And become a whore?” Joshua put down the razor and turned to face her, two tall wrinkles between his eyes, one hand still rubbing.
“He tells her he can keep her, her and the baby. Somewhere off in the wilds.”
Joshua’s mouth turned down, angrily. “You told Morgot this.”
“I promised Myra I wouldn’t.”
“But you’re telling me?”
“I didn’t promise I wouldn’t tell you.”
“You know I’ll tell Morgot.”
“What you do is what you do,” she said uncertainly. Why did she feel she had laid some kind of spell on Barten? Or cursed him, like Iphigenia had cursed her father? “I kept my promise.”
“Oh, Stavia,” he laughed ruefully. “Really.” He wiped his face with a towel and then thrust his long arms into the sleeves of his long sheepskin coat with the bright yarn embroidery down the front. “Let’s go see what the market has to offer.”
They left the house, Joshua with the large shopping sack over one shoulder and Stavia with a flat basket for things that shouldn’t be crushed. It was late April, a sunny day chilled by small sea winds that came down from the Arctic, gusting with intermittent ice.
