“What do they want?”
Morgot paused before answering, as though to choose among possible answers. “Oh, the usual thing seems to be a little rape and abuse, steal the wagons and the animals, take any food, sometimes kill whoever’s along.”
“Where do they come from?”
“Garrisons, mostly. Men who won’t return to Women’s Country because it’s considered dishonorable but who can’t stand the discipline of the garrison either. They’re mad at everyone, but maybe a little angrier at women than at anyone else. And they feel guilty for having left the garrisons, which makes a dangerous combination. They link up with one another, maybe with some Gypsy women, and create a gang.”
“Why didn’t we bring an escort of warriors?” Stavia looked from face to face in the firelight. They seemed not to have heard her. “Morgot?”
“Don’t worry about it, Stavvy. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
Stavia was sure she would not sleep, but when her eyes opened, it was on morning light. Joshua was brewing tea. “Get yourself up, girl. Take those little beasties down to water so they won’t have a cold bellyful when we start off.”
Morgot was sitting at the edge of the stream looking little older than Stavia, her skin gleaming like ivory as she rubbed it with a rough cloth and ladled water over herself. “Good, daughter,” she said approvingly. “Let’s get a quick start and be at the Travelers’ Rest before dark.”
They breakfasted quickly, then drowned the fire and departed. Looking back, Stavia could see the haze of their smoke still hanging in the grove, like fog. Far down the valley was another foggy plume, dust stirred up on the roadway. Gypsies? A band of itinerant metal scavengers? Or a traveling show? Both Morgot and Joshua looked at it, without comment.
They went between bare hills and down long slopes, coming at evening to a grove almost like the one they had camped in the night before, tall, untidy trees with bark and leaves hanging in shredded curtains of aromatic gray. Here, however, was a long, low building half of stone and half of timbers, steep-roofed and heavy-doored. Outside the wall were half a dozen wagons: a couple of brightly painted ones—show people; three laden with bits of metal and lopsided ingots from the hermit mines and smelters in the mountains; plus one wagon very much like their own.
Over the gate the words were spelled out in twisted twigs. TRAVELERS’ REST. The gate opened on a courtyard with stables; the door upon a huge common room floored in wide boards and full of suppertime smells. From across the broad, low room two women came toward Morgot, greeting her with sober looks, casting quick glances at Stavia.
“My daughter,” Morgot announced. “This is Joshua. They were company for me on the trip.”
The women nodded, introduced themselves. “Melanie Hangessdaughter Triptor Susantown. Jessica Hangess-daughter Triptor Susantown. Sisters of Susantown. We’ve ordered supper. If you’ll join us?”
Joshua excused himself to go unhitch and stable the donkeys, saying he would dine in the servitors’ quarters. Stavia wavered. She could go with him or stay, opting finally to stay, regretting later that she had. The talk was all of trade, of grain quotas, of the movement of dried fish and root crops. Individually, parsnips could be interesting. By the ton they were not. Once her hunger was assuaged, she curled into the inglenook beside the fire, drifting off into quiet as their voices went on and on.
“… we can manage if it’s reduced by one third, at least,” she heard Morgot say.
“Agreed,” one of the sisters said.
“We’ll send our agents.”
“And we ours.”
“Done then. Thank you, sisters.”
Then Morgot was shaking her. “Come, Stavia. It’s time we went to our beds.”
She sounded so tired, Stavia thought, so very tired. When they were side by side in their bed upstairs, she put her arm comfortingly over Morgot’s side, hearing a murmur in return.
“Sleep well, Stavvy.” “Sleep well, Morgot.”
THEY RETURNED by a different road. About noon, Joshua halted the donkeys and sat as though listening, rubbing his forehead between fingers and thumb of one hand.
“What?” asked Morgot.
“Something happened. Something changed. Somebody headed this way….”
“Shall we go back?”
“No. I don’t feel so.” He clucked to the donkeys and they set off once more. Toward evening, when it came near time to make camp, Joshua leaned back into the wagon and said softly, “Morgot!”
“Hmm.”
“I think we’ve bought trouble.”
“I thought you felt this road would be clear?”
“I think it was. Perhaps this morning someone had decided to go somewhere else and then during the day, they decided to come here. I don’t know. I wouldn’t feel it until they decided to do it. Things change sometimes. Besides, there’s been much movement among the trees along the ridge this last mile or two. No birds. A very great and unusual silence.”
“Oh, Lady.”
“Well, we are interested in finding out, are we not?”
“What do you think?”
He shut his eyes, as though concentrating, his forehead wrinkled. “I’d say half a dozen of them. No more than that.”
“What shall we be? Bait or fleeing prey?”
“What are you two talking about?” Stavia begged. “Who decided to do what? Are we going to be attacked?”
“Likely, yes. We’re discussing whether to flee and hope they can’t catch us or camp and let them come find us. Bait them in.”
“Bait them in!” Stavia’s voice squeaked, a treble peep, like a terrified mouse.
“It rather depends on Stavia, doesn’t it?” Joshua said.
Morgot nodded. “Stavvy, I want your oath.”
Stavia gulped and trembled, going into one of those fits of self-consciousness which required that the actor Stavia take over before the usual Stavia did or said something hideously gauche. Oaths were given only on the most important occasions. Oaths were not daily activities. “Why? What?” she blurted.
“Whatever happens, you are to say nothing about it afterward.”
“You don’t need the oath for that. If you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t.”
“No. That’s not good enough. Your oath on it.”
She shivered. The actor Stavia said
