“Stavia, Barten says there may be a war!”
Stavia jerked, splashing the tea onto the table. The terrible word was nonsense. “War! What do you mean, war?”
“With Susantown. The garrison at Susantown plans to attack us.”
“That’s ridiculous. We have a trade agreement with Susantown.”
“But the garrison thinks the agreement is a ruse, or something. Our garrison has spies there, and they told Barten’s Commander.”
“Michael? Vice-Commander Michael? Jerby’s father?”
“Stavia. Are you paying any attention? I’m telling you there may be a war.”
Morgot’s voice came from the doorway, calm and calming. “I’d heard something about that, yes.”
“But we have a trade agreement,” Stavia asserted again, telling them both how nonsensical the idea was. “An agreement!”
“Sometimes these things happen,” said Morgot in a weary voice. “We make agreements, treaties, we do our best, and somehow, everything goes wrong. I suppose the Commanders had spies in Susantown?”
“Barten told me that his centurion, Stephon, did.”
“Most of the garrisons do maintain their own intelligence systems. Well, just be thankful we have strong men to defend us. We are thankful, aren’t we, Stavia?”
Stavia nodded, scarcely aware she had moved. Oh yes. She was thankful they had warriors to defend them. Before her, on the table, she moved the cup of cooling tea, stretching the spilled liquid into a long, curved shape, like a knife. Chernon. And war. Except that Chernon was too young. They wouldn’t make him fight. Not yet. He had ten years yet before he would have to fight. Or he could come home….
“When,” Morgot was asking, “do they anticipate an attack?”
“No one knows exactly. Sometime within the next few months. Whenever they find out, they’ll march on Susantown at once. Before the Susantown warriors can get here and threaten us.”
“Very wise. The garrison Commanders are excellent tacticians, Michael and Stephon, particularly. Well, I suppose Barten can hardly wait for his first action.”
“Why… why Barten won’t go,” Myra faltered. “He’s not… he’s not twenty-five yet.”
Morgot nodded briskly. “Oh yes. Twenty-five last month. I know because we were straightening out some garrison records a week or two ago, and it came up then. There were more than a hundred boys born in the year Barten was, too many for a century, so a few of them were put over into the year following. Some of the twenty-fours are actually twenty-five and eligible for battle. No one pays any attention unless there is a threat of war, but then, of course, the Commanders want every available man.”
“But he’s too young,” cried Myra in a panicky voice.
“Myra, you’re not listening. Surely you realize that there are not precisely one hundred little boys born every year. One year in my mother’s time we even had two centuries with the same number, we had so many. Barten is twenty-five, even though he’s with the twenty-four century. Come now. You don’t want to spoil his pleasure by being negative. You’ll need to find out from him what device you should make for him to wear into battle.”
“Device?”
“Hasn’t he asked you to sew him some device to wear over his breastplate? I thought all lovers did that. Ah well, maybe things have changed since my youth. I remember making one for Michael. Three wasps on a field of gold. For speed, you know. And endurance.” She shook her head and wandered out of the kitchen.
“You’ll need to ask him what device he’d like to have,” Stavia said, breaking the silence, breaking the frozen concentration on Myra’s face, breaking her own pain and preoccupation.
“I don’t think he realized he’d be going with them,” faltered Myra. “He said how much he wanted to, of course.”
“Of course!” Of course.
“I must go to find Barten. He was going to meet me later, but I must find him. Now….” She was gone, half running, her hands dangling in front of her helplessly, like flippers.
Stavia went to find her mother. “Did you really sew a shirt for Michael?” It was not the question she wanted to ask. It wasn’t even what she wanted to talk about, but the thing she needed to know was too close, too dangerous even to mention.
“I did. I was seventeen years old, and he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen in my life. He was just twenty-five. He told me I was his love and his heart’s delight.”
“Michael did?” Stavia was disbelieving.
Morgot laughed. “He did. Of course, he was younger then. More given to romantic excess.”
“Is he Myra’s father?”
“Oh, my dear, no. No, I didn’t get pregnant with Myra until a year or two later, and Michael wasn’t her father.”
“Who was her father?”
“Stavia!”
“I’m sorry. I just….”
“You’re curious, I know. However, we don’t consider it good manners to discuss our fathers, Stavvy. It has no relevance in Women’s Country. You know that. We don’t ask. It was decided a long, long time ago that we’d all get along better here in Women’s Country if we just didn’t talk about that. Who Myra’s male biological progenitor was doesn’t matter at all unless she gets involved with some warrior who’s too closely related to her. If that were the case, of course I would tell her.” Morgot sounded stilted and rehearsed, and Stavia realized that this, too, was a speech she had planned to give, if not to Stavia, then to Myra. “Or, if I didn’t, the assignation mistress would tell her. We do keep records.”
“Myra’s gone to find Barren.” But she, Stavia, could not go to Chernon because he had told her to go away. Though he would not make her go away if she brought books, if she did what he wanted. He would be nice to her if she always did what he wanted.
“Well, of course Myra’s gone to Barten. She’ll want to spend every possible minute with him.” Morgot’s voice became suddenly strange, shut up, as though there were an almost closed door between them.
The last two nights of carnival Myra stayed up all night sewing Barten a shirt. It had two green trees and a mountain on it—symbolic of
