STAVIA HAD JUST TURNED THIRTEEN WHEN HERALDS had come from the battlefield to bring word that the armies of Marthatown and Susantown were arranging themselves for honorable battle. The herald had entered Women’s Country through the Battlefield Gate after much blatting of trumpets and thunder of drums, and a deputation of the Council had gone down to the plaza to near the word.
From a space on the second level of the colonnade, Stavia had seen Morgot come into the plaza from the east, where the Council Chambers were, her hastily donned ceremonial robe swaying around her and the dark blue matron’s veil blowing in the light wind. Even at that distance, Stavia could see the whiteness of Morgot’s eyes, so pale that they appeared to look blindly at the world. How strange, to appear so blind and see so much.
“But, I look like that, too,” Stavia told herself. “I have eyes just like that.”
Chernon told her he liked her eyes, but Stavia wasn’t sure she liked them herself. “Cassandra eyes,” her drama teacher had called them when she asked if Stavia wanted to play the part of the luckless prophetess.
“It’s a small part, but it would give you some performance experience. Then next year, perhaps you’ll be ready for the part of Iphigenia.”
“Just because of my eyes?” Stavia objected.
“No. Not just because of your eyes. Because you seem to understand what the play is about.”
That had come as a surprise to Stavia, though she hadn’t said anything to contradict it. There was no question what the play was about. It was about… well, it was about what it was about. Troy. The women.
“I’ll do Cassandra, if you want me to.”
“Suit yourself, Stavia.” Her teacher had seemed somewhat disappointed, as though she had expected some other response. “There are never enough parts to go around.”
Morgot had said performance experience was important.
“When you are grown, you may be asked to serve on the Council,” she told Stavia. “Half of what we do is performance. Ritual. Observances. If we are seen to be in control, the people are calm and life moves smoothly. Nothing upsets the citizenry more than to believe its administrators are uncertain or faltering. Doing nothing with an appearance of calm may be more important than doing the right thing in a frantic manner. Learn to perform, Stavia. I have.”
So now in the plaza, Morgot moved calmly. She seemed to feel Stavia’s eyes upon her, for she turned, searching the colonnades, lifting her hand in a gesture of recognition. Stavia lifted her own in response, then dropped it again as the trumpet blatted once more and the herald stood forward to deliver his message. The armies had met one another halfway between the two cities. The garrisons were arrayed so, facing one another. Challenges had been uttered. Single combat had taken place. This one of Marthatown was wounded. That one of Susantown was dead. Single combat did not satisfy the garrison of Susantown. The rituals of combat were proceeding.
Soon the general battle would commence. The safety of the Marthatown women was assured. Susantown garrison would have no opportunity to attack Marthatown.
The head of the Council replied, an old voice, but strong, tolling among the plaza walls. “Honor of the city… protection of the women… protection of the children… glory awaiting…” Morgot stepped forward to present the honor ribbons which the women of the city had prepared. Oh, they glowed, those honors. Ribbons of purple for single combat. Ribbons of crimson for wounds suffered. Ribbons of gold for meritorious conduct in the face of the enemy. The herald bowed. The Councilwomen bowed. The Battle Gate opened wide and the herald departed, honor bearers behind him, musicians behind them, blametty blam, ta-ra ta-ra.
Morgot turned and looked up once more, finding Stavia among the watchers, beckoning. Meet me. Stavia went down the steps among the cluck and mutter of the crowd. Women, girls, little boys, no serving men. Serving men were never present when garrison matters were under review. Never when warriors were present, in order to show the warriors proper respect. Though the herald was not, strictly speaking, a warrior. There were a number of men beyond the wall who were not, strictly speaking, warriors.
“Morgot, what about the musicians? And the cooks?”
Morgot turned a tired face on her, the lines around her eyes seeming deeper than usual, and the pale, slightly protuberant orbs touched with a pinkness, an irritation, as though she had not been sleeping well or had been weeping. “What musicians, daughter?”
“The ones with the trumpets and drums. They aren’t warriors, are they?”
“They are in one sense, in that they chose to remain outside the wall. They aren’t in that they’ve made themselves useful in some noncombatant way, and are thus likely to have a long and unthreatened life. Why do you ask?”
Stavia hesitated.
Morgot sighed. “You’re thinking about Chernon. What has he told you?”
“That he will stay. That he can’t let his fellows down now, because of the war.”
Morgot looked stricken. “Because of… Oh, Lady! Poor Sylvia. Oh, Stavia, he really said that? But there are always wars.”
“He says perhaps later. He still has time.”
“But if Chernon… Habby is fifteen, you know, next month. He’s the same age as Chernon, almost exactly. Sylvia and I got pregnant at the same time. My second, her first. Lady, if Chernon is influenced in that way, perhaps Habby could be, too.”
“Why did there have to be a war just now?”
Morgot shook her head, swallowed, then did it again, as though something were stuck in her throat. “I don’t know, Stavia. Things happen. Populations get edgy. Particularly when food gets short. Ever so often, they just happen. I suppose it was time.”
“What if Chernon…
