“I’ll bet they got into that flock,” Cappy had admitted at last, after they’d spent most of one evening denying it could have happened. “I’ll bet they did.”
“We wasn’t supposed to take ’em,” said Doots. “We wasn’t supposed to go ourselfs and we sure wasn’t supposed to take those dogs. Papa’s gonna chastise us half to death.”
“Well I wasn’t exactly gonna tell Papa what we done,” Cappy said. “I may be wicked, but I ain’t dumb.”
“Everbody’s wicked,” Rel announced. “Everbody’s got the devil in him, specially women. We ain’t no wickeder than anybody else. Specially not if we get ’em back.”
They lay now behind a long ridge of wind-gnawed stone at the northern edge of the badlands, observing the sheep which moved on the grasslands below. There were three flocks, each guarded by three or four shepherds with horns hung around their necks for sounding alarms, spindles twirling constantly in their hands. The flocks were tight as a virgin’s duty place. The dogs might be right down there in the middle of a flock, but from here nobody could tell. All they could see from where they were were the flowing blots of dirty white and the dark figures of the guards, robed down to their feet and with their hoods up over their heads, hiding their faces. Could be devil women. Could be some of their captives—cursed men bound as servitors to the devil forever. Nothing to do with one of those but kill him, if you caught one and had the chance. Devil women, though, you could tie them down and tame them after a while. Drive the devil out with duty and chastisement, so the Elders said.
A motion to the west, toward the fortified camp, drew their attention, and they saw a woman striding toward the flocks, leading a donkey along behind. No question about this one being a woman. Hair halfway down her back, uncovered, little light shirt on her showing her shape, no decency to her at all. Decent women didn’t permit themselves to do anything that’d stir a man, and they sure didn’t do it on purpose. Decent women hid themselves and shaved their heads and walked kind of bent over. Not this one. She stopped at the westernmost flock and spoke for a time with one of the shepherds, then moved eastward to stop at each of the others before leading her pack animal on toward the east and north.
“Holy All Father,” breathed Cappy. “Wouldn’t you like to have the chastisement of that one?”
“Have to keep her hid,” whispered Doots. “Papa’d have her in a wife-house before you’d even got your cock up.”
“Would not,” Cappy snarled, pointing at himself. “Got it up already, just watchin’ her walk across there.”
“That’s wickedness in you comin’ out,” Rel commented, adding hopefully, “you think she’s comin’ back?”
“Probly. I think if she’s around, she’s probly lookin’ for somethin’ out there. Probly be lookin’ for whatever it is tomorrow. Next day maybe. Maybe for days. We could get out there, ahet of her.”
Doots shifted uncomfortably. “Have to keep her hid!”
“Well, sure,” Cappy acknowledged breathlessly. “I may be wicked, but I ain’t dumb.”
STAVIA FELT EYES ON HER. IT WAS A PRICKLING, unpleasant feeling, and she wanted to turn and scan the stony ridge to the south of her to see who might be watching from there. However, if she did so, particularly if she used her field glasses (for exploration use only, and heaven help the woman who broke a pair), whoever it was would know that she knew. Better pretend she was unaware, scout off away from them, circle to the north, and reenter the camp well before dark. She moved purposefully on, eyes on the ground, stopping here and there to dig up things that looked either collectible or totally unfamiliar. There was a particular weed the shepherds had recommended as a possible insecticide, and another one that sick sheep seemed to seek out. A vermifuge, perhaps? These she took with plenty of soil, wrapping the entire plant in oiled paper to retain moisture. She’d pot them up when she got back to camp and have the next wagon transfer them to the botanical officer in Emmaburg, if any. If not, they could go on to Marthatown.
Morgot had told her to keep her eyes open for something called “costimy.” Triangular leaf, yellow cinquefoil blossom, trailing habit, reputed to be an excellent treatment for lung congestion. It was also, from what she had been able to find so far, invisible and possibly nonexistent. Or it bloomed in the early spring or late fall when no one was around looking for it.
She still felt eyes. Resolutely, not looking behind her, she moved toward the north. Away from them. She had gone a full mile before her skin stopped prickling. Either they couldn’t see her at this distance or they had gone away. She turned, casually, scanning the horizon. Nothing there. She moved behind a bush and used her glasses. Still nothing. No movement. There could have been an army up there in those pinnacles, completely unobserved. Canyons, towers, boulders—everything wind-smoothed and carved into fantastic shapes. She tucked the glasses away and went back to the donkey.
Enough for today. She’d head back to the camp and confirm the manager’s opinion that somebody… somebodies were watching.
IT WAS TWO DAYS LATER THAT SEPTEMIUS BIRD AR-rived at the sheep camp, Kostia and Tonia on either side of him on the seat of the wagon, the doors open to allow Bowough a view of the passing countryside, and Septemius himself more cheerful than at any time in the past several days. He had, as a matter of fact, brightened up considerably when Chernon left them, half a
