“There could be fishes,” she told Beneda.
“There are fishes in the big marsh, too,” said Beneda. “Teacher Linda told me.”
“Vain hope,” sniffed Sylvia, overhearing her. “They’ve been telling us there are fishes in the marsh for twenty years now, but nobody’s caught any. Still too contaminated.”
“It might take several more decades before they’ve multiplied enough to be harvestable,” Morgot said. “But there are some new things living there. When I was by there last, I saw a crawfish.”
“A crawfish!”
“I’m pretty sure it was a crawfish. I’ve seen them in some of the other marshes. With armor on the outside. With lots of legs and two bigger claws in front?”
“A crawfish,” Sylvia marveled. “My grandmother used to tell me a funny story about one of her grandmother line eating crawfishes.”
“The thing I saw didn’t look good to eat,” Morgot remarked, making a face. “Very hard on the outside, it was.”
“I think the meat’s inside.”
Deliberately, Morgot rinsed the cup from the overflow spout and set it down. The fountain attendant came forward politely to take it, replacing it with a clean one. “Condolences, matron.”
“Thank you, servitor. We can always hope, can’t we?”
“Certainly one can, matron. I will pray to the Lady for your son.” The man turned away and busied himself with his cups. He was very old, perhaps seventy or more, a grandsir with white hair and a little tuft of beard. He winked at Stavia, and she smiled at him. Stavia liked grandsirs. They had interesting stories to tell about garrison country and warrior sagas and how the warriors lived.
“Best get along,” said Morgot, looking at the sun. The dial above the fountain said almost noon. She picked Jerby up once more.
“I want to walk!” he announced, struggling in her arms. “I’m not a baby.”
“Of course you aren’t,” she said lamely, putting him down once more. “You’re a big boy going to join his warrior father.”
His thickly clad little form led them down the long hill and into the ceremonial plaza. Once there, Morgot knelt to wipe Jerby’s face with a handkerchief and set the ear-flaps of his hat straight. She gave Myra a look, then Stavia. “Stavia, don’t disgrace me,” she said.
Stavia shivered. It felt as though Morgot had slapped her, even though she knew that wasn’t what her mother meant. Disgrace Mother? On an occasion like this? Of course not! Never! She wouldn’t be able to stand the shame of doing something like that. She reached down inside herself and gave herself a shake, waking up that other part of her, making it come forward to take over—that other Stavia who could remember lines and get up on stage without dying of embarrassment. Real Stavia, observer Stavia, who was often embarrassed and stuttery and worried about appearing wicked or stupid, watched the whole thing as from a shocked dream state, feeling it all, but not making a single move. It was the first time she could remember purposely making her everyday self step aside, though it had happened occasionally before, in emergencies, all by itself.
“Morgot! What an unkind thing to say to the child!” Sylvia objected. “Even now!”
“Stavia knows what I mean,” Morgot replied. “She knows I want no tantrums.”
Observer Stavia reflected gloomily that she hadn’t had a tantrum for at least a year. Well, part of a year. She had been so guiltily miserable after the last one, she might never have one again, even though sometimes she desperately felt like screaming and rolling around and saying, no, she wouldn’t do whatever it was they expected her to do because they were always expecting her to do something more or be something more until it didn’t feel like there was enough of her left to go around. Still, it wasn’t really fair of Mother to bring that up now, and she longed to say so.
Actor Stavia, however, kept her role in mind and merely held her face still as she moved at Morgot’s side. Myra was on the other side, holding one of Jerby’s hands as the little boy stalked sturdily along, taking two steps to Myra’s one. They stopped before the Gate of the Warriors’ Sons, and Morgot went forward to strike its swollen surface with the flat of her hand to make a drum-gong sound, a flat, ugly thum-hump.
A trumpet blew somewhere beyond the gate. Morgot swept Jerby up into her arms and retreated to the center of the plaza as the gate swung open, Myra and Stavia running at either side. Then there were drums and banners and the crash of hundreds of feet hitting the stones all at the same time, blimmety blam, blam, blam. Stavia blinked but held her place. Warriors. Lines of them. High plumes on their helmets and bright woolen skirts coming almost to their knees. Bronze plates over their chests, and more glistening metal covering their legs. To either side, groups of boys in white tunics and leggings, short-hooded cloaks flapping. One tall man out in front. Tall. And big, with shoulders and arms like great, stout tree branches.
Everything became still. Only the plumes whipping in the wind made any sound at all. Mother walked forward, Jerby’s hand in hers.
“Warrior,” she said, so softly Stavia could barely hear her.
“Madam,” he thundered.
His name was Michael, and he was one of the Vice-Commanders of the Marthatown garrison. First came Commander Sandom, and under him were Jander and Thales, then came Michael—Michael, Stephon, and Patras commanding the centuries. Stavia had met Michael two or three times during carnivals. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen,
