“I just meant she might be lonesome,” Rejoice offered. “Since she’s got no sister-wives yet to be company with.”
“That’s woman’s lot,” he said indifferently. “Because she’s the spout and wellspring of error and sin, that’s woman’s lot.”
There was a short silence. “Have another piece of bread and preserves,” said Rejoice. “The bees and the sugar beets both did real well last year. I made more preserves than I think we’ll need. I’ll send a jar home with you, for your… for Humility.”
SEPTEMIUS BIRD SAT AT EASE ON THE WAGON seat, letting Chernon drive the donkeys, which by this, the fourth day of their travel, he was doing rather well. Old Bowough Bird lay on a mattress in the wagon behind them, Kostia and Tonia beside him, stubbornly present despite Septemius’ repeated insistence that they remain in Marthatown. He had remembered his former trip to the south, and he had been of no mind to risk the twins even to what little he remembered of that place. Women had been in short supply, as he recalled. By now, if things had gone on as it seemed they would, the situation might be growing somewhat desperate. He had intended to say something of this to young Stavia, but had not had the opportunity. He was still debating whether to try and warn her through this callow youth at his side. Septemius was slightly ashamed of himself, but he could not bring himself to much like young Chernon, though the boy was polite enough, within his rather self-engrossed limits.
No, he decided, better to tell Stavia herself when they met. “Where will Stavia meet you?” he asked now, a question he realized came tardily. “You never said.”
Chernon roused from his musing. “Oh, we’ve agreed on a signal. I’ll drop off before you get to the camp. When you arrive, you tell her how far back you left me, and she’ll be able to find me.” Stavia had started on the trip days before Bowough Bird had been well enough to travel, and by the time Chernon arrived, she would already have spent some time in the fortified sheep camp toward which they were traveling. She had assured Chernon that she had put off the servitor who was to have been with her, and that she would be alone. What good to her a servitor might have been, Chernon could not imagine. It was widely supposed in the garrison that returnees through the gate were gelded by the women doctors, and Chernon more than half believed it. At least, they got no sons, for every boy in Women’s Country came to a warrior father. Some said the servitors were used to beget girls, but Chernon doubted it. His unauthorized reading had taught him enough elementary biology to make him question that supposition.
Well, whatever use the servitors were, there wouldn’t be one with Stavia.
As though reading his mind, the older man said, “She didn’t travel alone down here, did she?”
“She told me she would be perfectly safe.”
“And you accepted her assurances?”
“In Women’s Country it is usual to do so,” Chernon said, only slightly sarcastically.
“But she’ll be at this sheep camp we’re headed for?”
“That’s what she planned.”
Septemius fretted. He didn’t like this, not any of it. If only the twins had consented to stay where they were. They could have lived a time in the itinerants’ quarters outside the eastern wall and attended the Women’s Country schools. The Councils of the various towns encouraged such participation on the part of female itinerants, and did not even mind if the women passed on their learning to itinerant menfolk, though they did not allow the copying of books. Nonetheless, the girls had insisted upon coming, and he would not risk them by staying near the badlands for any length of time.
“It may not be as safe as Stavia believed,” he said at last. “When you are traveling together, take great care.” He could not keep himself from sounding worried, at which the boy seemed to bridle, resenting it. They rode along for some time in virtual silence and increasing discomfort.
“Would you like us to tell your fortune, Chernon?” Kostia called. “Can we lay out the cards for you?”
“What cards are these?” he asked, drawn away from a continuing daydream in which he and Stavia were the central figures, glad of any excuse not to let Septemius’ anxiety infect him with similar concerns. He had been uncomfortable since he left the garrison, but he did not really want to examine the causes of this vexing agitation. Thinking about it led him down roads he preferred not to travel. It had occurred to him, very briefly, that his manipulation of Stavia might be rather like things Barten used to do, but he had set the notion hastily aside as a fault which he could not possibly be guilty of. He was not tricking Stavia out of the city entirely for his own purposes; she had been going anyhow. He was not risking her life or health for his own gratification; he had no diseases, and had no intention of acquiring any. Michael had promised that when the time came that the warriors took over Marthatown, Stavia would belong to Chernon, if he still wanted her. Chernon supposed that he would still want her, and this assumption made his conscience clear. He was doing nothing, planning nothing which would not continue in the future time. In the end, she would be glad of it. Michael had assured him of that.
That nine tenths of his conscious thought was occupied with lustful anticipation, he did not deny, nor did he make any effort—once darkness came and the physical effects of his imaginings were not so obvious—to curb fantasies which were inventive, expectant, and extremely pleasurable. Oh yes, he wanted her,
