“Where does he want to meet?”
“I brought a map. If you go straight south, he’ll meet you on this line, here. Two day’s travel, at most.”
STAVIA LOOKED AT THE MAPS with an expression of wonder. “These are the maps they’re giving to Michael? But the devastation isn’t on this map. I mean, it’s there, but it’s in the wrong place.”
“Yes,” said Morgot.
“If they go on this trail that’s marked, they’d go directly through it.”
“Yes,” Morgot replied. “They would. If they got that far.”
THEY DID NOT GET THAT FAR. At the end of one day’s travel, still north of the devastation and well away from the road which would have taken them to Emmaburg, in an isolated glen far from any human travel or habitation, the three settled into a spartan camp and drew lots for guard duty. Stephon had first watch. Michael took a whetstone from the donkey pack and set about sharpening his dagger. Patras amused himself with a bit of carving. He was making a daggergrip out of bone. Stephon drank the last of his tea and looked about for a good place to sit while on watch.
“How long do you think this will take?”
“A day or two. We’ve got time.”
“I wish we’d found out about that weapon Besset saw.”
“I think I’ve come to agree with Chernon. Besset was drunk. Seeing things. Stavia didn’t know anything about a weapon.” According to Chernon, Stavia had told him everything she knew about everything, none of which was important.
“Other people have heard….”
“I know. But when you ask them if they’ve seen it, no one has.”
“A myth?”
“Oh, probably not entirely. Probably truth in it.”
“I heard about a weapon once, something called a gun. It could shoot daggers a long way.” Stephon yawned.
“Not much good for what we want. We don’t need to throw daggers a long way to take over the city,” Patras grumbled.
“Anyhow, the dagger I have in mind is a lot closer,” Stephon leered. “I’m planning on using it a lot.”
“On what?” said a voice.
“On any of them I can catch,” Stephon answered, laughing.
“Including that Morgot of yours, Michael, when you’re tired of her.”
Silence fell. It occurred to each of them in the same instant that the voice which had asked, “On what,” had not been one of theirs. They rose, putting themselves back to back near the fire. Daggers and swords slipped from sheaths with a slithering sound, swords in right hands, daggers in left.
“Who’s there?” asked Michael.
“I am,” said the voice again. “Don’t you know me, Michael?” She came out of the dark into the nearer shadows, dressed all in black. Morgot. There was a hood over her head, hiding her hair. “After all we’ve meant to one another, I should think you would have known my voice,” she said gently.
“What are you doing here?”
“Come to ask you, what you are doing here, Commander of the garrison?” There was a stump near where she was standing and she sat upon it, crossing her legs, leaning slightly forward, as she had done time and time again in the taverns, listening to their songs and tales of battle. “Tell me.”
“Garrison business,” he blurted. “None of women’s concern.”
Stephon and Patras became aware of their martial stance, of their beweaponed selves. Somewhat asham-edly, they put the weapons away and stood a little aside. Whatever this was about, it was between the woman and Michael.
“Oh, Michael,” she said. “Dishonor is always our concern.”
“Dishonor,” he grated. “What would you know about that! What would any woman know about that!”
“Much. You are sworn to protect us, Michael. Why are you conspiring against us now?”
The challenge caught him by surprise. It was a moment before he could summon the necessary bluster. “What nonsense are you talking, woman?”
“Let me tell you some history, Michael.”
“We have no time to sit here while you tell stories,” said Stephon, nastily. “Get yourself back to Marthatown, Morgot. You have no business here.”
“Oh, you’ll have time for this story,” she said comfortably. “Sit or stand as you please. But I will tell it.”
“Let her talk,” said Michael, regaining his composure. In his lazy, half-jeering voice, he said, “So, tell your story, Morgot.”
“Three hundred years ago almost everyone in the world had died in a great devastation brought about by men. It was men who made the weapons and men who were the diplomats and men who made the speeches about national pride and defense. And in the end it was men who did whatever they had to do, pushed the buttons or pulled the string to set the terrible things off. And we died, Michael. Almost all of us. Women. Children.
“Only a few were left. Some of them were women, and among them was a woman who called herself Martha Evesdaughter. Martha taught that the destruction had come about because of men’s willingness—even eagerness—to fight, and she determined that this eagerness to fight must be bred out of our race, even though it might take a thousand years. She and the other women banded together and started a town, with a garrison outside. They had very few men with them, and none could be spared, so some of the women put on men’s clothes and occupied the garrison outside the town, Michael. And when the boy children were five, they were given into the care of that garrison.”
“Women warriors?” scoffed Patras. “Do you expect us to believe that?”
“Do or not, as you choose. When enough years went by, it was no longer necessary for the women to play the part, and it was left to the men. Except for those few who chose to return to the city and live with the women. Some men have always preferred that.”
“Cowards,” snorted Stephon.
