None of the above. Something calculated and chill, though powered by lust which was probably honest enough.
Septemius sighed. Oh, he did not want to be involved in this at all.
It was a three-day ride southwest along the shore to Emmaburg, under the best conditions. The fortified sheep camp which Stavia had specified as the end of their southern journey was two days’ farther south and east. At that point, they would be south of the desolation, and a four-day trip toward the northeast would take them around it to Peggytown. Fortuitously, Peggytown would be having carnival shortly after they arrived. The shore route was very little longer than the more usual route—east from Marthatown to the Travelers’ Rest, east and a little south to Mollyburg, and then southwest to Peggytown. All roads in this part of Women’s Country made a circle around the desolation, with Tabithatown and Ab-byville away in the north and Melissaville and the other cities more toward the east.
Septemius had no real worries concerning the route as far south as the sheep camp. He did not like the idea of the four days from there to Peggytown. There was a road, but it was one not much traveled. There were forests and hills and broken lands. To the north was the desolation, and to the south were people he remembered as unpleasant. So he fretted as he drove, wondering if this were not one of those times when any bargain was a bad one, a time of no good choices. From time to time he had to look into the back of the wagon, at old Bowough’s rosy cheeks, to convince himself he had behaved even halfway ethically.
AT THE SHEEP CAMP—WHERE SHE WOULD HAVE met the servitor from Tabithatown if she had not sent him word not to come—Stavia spent her spare time treating several of the women and servitors for various conditions either brought about or exacerbated by their daily occupations. She told one rash-pied woman to return to Emmaburg and stay away from sheep in the future because she was allergic to the oil in the wool. She treated abrasions and cuts received from thorn and rough stone. She had a look at the animals, as well—though there were medics better trained than she in animal troubles, none of them had been south recently—and suggested salves for eye infections and treatments for insect bites. Then, when that was done, she inspected the gardens and fortifications and wrote a generally laudatory report to be sent back to the Council at Emmaburg. The Emmaburg Council had set up the camp, and if all went well the camp would expand and grow into a daughter-town.
“Any trouble with bandits?” she asked.
“Somebody spying on us,” the camp manager told her, rubbing the wrinkles on her forehead as though she might rub them away, then taking a swipe at her graying head where unruly locks broke out of the sensible braid. “South of us. We catch sight of them now and then, shadows sneaking around behind the bushes, mostly around about dusk. A few sheep have disappeared, too, maybe a few more than we can account for. I think we can say definitely more than we can account for. Most of them have been young rams.”
“Could be coyotes?”
“We see coyotes every now and then. They don’t bother the flocks too much in the daytime. They’d prefer to be night raiders, but we bring the sheep back into the folds when it gets dark. No, the sheep that vanish are the ones that graze at the edge of the flock, wander off a bit, then suddenly they aren’t there anymore.” She didn’t sound disturbed by this.
“Ah,” said Stavia unhelpfully.
“Way I figure it is, the ones that get picked off are the ones that don’t stay tight, which are the ones we want to be rid of anyhow.”
“Ah,” Stavia said again, in sudden comprehension, half remembering something she had read, years ago. “Selection! You’re selecting for herding instinct.”
“I’m selecting for sheep that get very uncomfortable if they aren’t jammed up against about four more of their kind,” the manager admitted, still rubbing away at her forehead. Speaking of which, I’ve got something to show you.” She opened the door at her side and went through into a yard Stavia had not yet seen. Against the wall was a pen, and in the pen were some strangely shaped sheep.
“Dogs,” the manager said, giving her a sidelong look.
“What?” Stavia stared at them in disbelief. They were dirty white, woolly, with the convex noses and loppy ears of the sheep she had been staring at for days.
“Dogs. I don’t know where they came from, but one of the herders came in the other day and here were the three of them, mixed right in with the sheep.”
“I thought they were sheep!” Stavia leaned over the pen and the animals stared at her, tails wagging slowly.
“Look almost like sheep, don’t they? Let me tell you. I got real curious, so I kept one female and the male here and let the other female go out with the flock. Told the shepherds to keep an eye on her. Long about dark, they were coming back and a coyote ran out of the bushes, trying to grab off a lamb. That dog was right there, between him and the lamb. Couldn’t budge her. Every time he shifted, there was this dog between him and the lamb.”
“They’re not herders?”
“Didn’t try to do any herding. Nope.”
“Up north they’ve got some herder dogs. I’ve heard about those.”
“Me, too. Lots of times wished I had some.”
“But these are something else? Sheep protectors, sort of. Strange.”
“Before the convulsion there were sheep here, we all know that. Otherwise we wouldn’t have them now. So maybe before the convulsions there were different kinds of sheepdogs here, too. Herding dogs and this other
