"Does she think you're pregnant?"
"She says she can tell in six weeks or so."
"Do you want to be pregnant?"
"Sure. I mean, I have to start sometime, right?"
"But do you really want to be pregnant? By Barten?"
"It would be the prettiest baby, Stavvy. I have always hated this hair. And freckles. I hate freckles. Barten's baby will have dark hair and blue eyes and skin the color of spun wool."
"You can't be sure of that, Myra."
"Well, it's a good chance."
"I'm just saying, don't count on it. The baby may have hair and freckles just like you, and it wouldn't be a good idea to let it know you were disappointed."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Stavia, you are not the only person in this family ever to have taken child-rearing courses! I swear to God, some days you sound just like Morgot. You're only eleven and I wish to God you'd act like it!"
Stavia was so astonished that she stopped short, letting Myra walk on by herself. It was true. She did sound like Morgot. It struck her for the first time that she even thought of herself as a kind of Morgot. A smaller version. It seemed unfair that Myra had reminded her she was only eleven. It was true, but it didn't mean anything, except physiologically. She had no breasts. She had no menses as yet. Presumably these would come. When she lay in her bed at night, touching herself for her own pleasure, she thought of Chernon, longing for the years to pass until.... She flushed, aware of the heat in her body. That meant she was quite normally sexual. And she did have a womanly mind.
Her thoughts flowed on: If it was true that Morgot and Stavia were much alike, then Morgot would understand Stavia's giving Chernon the books, understand and approve of it....
The thought abruptly drained out of her, like irrigation water flowing down through some hidden gopher hole, all her easy, consoling rationales pouring away to leave only a soggy certainty behind. She, Stavia, might be as like Morgot as one twin to another or as mother and daughter could be, but Morgot would not approve giving books to Chernon. Morgot would quote the ordinances. Morgot would say, "If he wants books, let him return to Women's Country and he may have all the books he likes...."
It was true. Joshua had books. Many. And so did little Minsning, and so did any other servitor who wanted them.
But not the warriors. A man who chose the warrior's lot chose to fight for his garrison and his city. A warrior needed all his powers of concentration. Having other, irrelevant thoughts in his head could be risky. Also, it could be dangerous for a warrior to know too much about certain things. Metallurgy, for instance. A warrior might obtain an unfair advantage if he had learning that other warriors didn't. Out of loyalty to his garrison, a warrior might make some device which could return them to the time of convulsions. Only equal match between equal warriors at arm's length could decide things fairly without imperiling others, without threatening devastation....
She could hear Morgot's voice. But she could also hear Chernon's. "Please, Stavia. I want them so bad! There's things I need to know...."
When he pleaded with her like that, he melted her. As though she were no better than Myra, turning to mush when some man begged her. "Please, Stavvy." His eyes were as clear as Jerby's, childlike still. His hair was soft gold, like Beneda's. He looked so much like Beneda, too, with that lovely, bony face, all planes and angles.
No. She could not say anything to Morgot. And Chernon must be told firmly that he could have all the books he wanted if he would only come back.
Except that he wouldn't let her talk about that. He had begged for books where he was, not where he might someday be.
She stamped her foot angrily, biting her cheek on one side and bearing down until it hurt. She couldn't stop giving Chernon books now. Not now. But it wasn't really wrong, not yet. He wasn't really a warrior yet. Not until he was fifteen....
"Shit," she murmured at the stones beneath her feet. "Oh shit."
THOUGH EVERY SCHOOLGIRL in Women's Country learned Iphigenia at Ilium, it was actually produced and acted by the Councilwomen of each city. Thus it was Councilwoman Stavia who stood on the stage of the winter theater at Marthatown's center with half a dozen of her fellow Council member-players, working their way through the first rehearsal of this year's production. The evenings were still too cold to rehearse outdoors in the summer theater, so here they all were in the wide, low ceilinged room which had been designed to be warmed by bodies alone. With only the cast and stage crew present, there weren't enough people to raise the temperature noticeably, and Stavia shivered under her coat.
They had tried Cassandra's entrance three different ways, none of which pleased the director.
"Enter Cassandra from stage left," the director said plaintively. She was an old Council member but a new director, and she had not yet come to terms with the job.
CASSANDRA Mother! Andromache! I've come to say good-bye.
HECUBA Cassandra! You? Still here? Oh, girl, I am so weary of farewells, saying good-bye to living and to dead! Long, sad farewells when there's no good to come. There is not sleep enough to heal farewells, and now you're here when I had thought you'd gone.
CASSANDRA Others have gone, but Agamemnon stays. He says he has some trouble with the sails, so long left furled upon this Trojan shore they're full of rot.
ANDROMACHE Any housewife could have told him that. All seaside towns hold mildew like a sponge.
HECUBA Such a humble thing to thwart a tyrant's purpose.
IPHIGENIA Strength often comes from unexpected sources, perhaps most often from the humble things....
ACHILLES Is that Polyxena?
IPHIGENIA That is Cassandra, great Achilles. Look closely. That one is still alive.
CASSANDRA Ghosts! Who are these ghosts?
ANDROMACHE You see them too?
CASSANDRA Is that Achilles? And the child Andromache, is that your son?
ANDROMACHE It was my son. Odysseus had him slain.
CASSANDRA (Weeping) Alas. Such is the fate of warriors' sons....
VERY FEW MOTHERS in Women's Country ever spoke of their boy children as "warriors' sons." Myra had been an exception. When her first baby had been born, Myra had used the phrase on every possible occasion. She never spoke of him as "my little Marky," or even just as "Marcus." He was always, "My little warrior son...."
He had been born with a full head of dark hair and deep blue eyes. These resemblance's to Barten had been mentioned to everyone at least ten times a day. When within a month all the dark hair fell out and the eyes turned hazel, Myra had considered the change a personal affront, arranged by some human agency.
Morgot seldom lost her patience as completely as she did over this issue. In such chilly weather as they were having at the time, the family spent long hours together in the big, warm kitchen, listening to Myra's continuous complaints. When Margot could bear it no longer, she said, "Myra, if you say one more word about that baby's hair or eyes, I'm going to go to the Council and suggest it be given in fosterage. If you're going to go on and on like this, the poor child will grow up self-conscious and unhappy and it will be your fault." Morgot was pale and thin lipped with anger.
"I only said...."
"You only said that the midwife committed some kind of scientific indecency by modifying the child's heritage, though that is utterly impossible, or that the birthing center mixed up the babies. Which you know is ridiculous, because Marcus never left the room where you were from the moment he was born, and you brought him home yourself a day later!" Morgot opened the iron door on the front of the tile cook-stove and put two split logs inside, positioning them carefully, obviously trying to gain control of herself.
"Besides," Stavia offered, "Marcus is a very cute baby." She picked up the broom and swept bits of bark from the tile hearth, turning to warm herself at the exposed coals before Morgot shut the door and narrowed the air supply. The kettle on top of the stove had begun to steam and the air in the room was almost summery with moisture and the scent
of herbs. "The baby looks a lot like Jerby. There's a definite family resemblance."
"This family," snorted Myra in disgust.
"Yes, our family. The Margotsdaughters! And what's the matter with that? Barten is good-looking, but he's a rattlesnake. I'm sure he's fun to have sex with, but otherwise he's a serpent. Everyone says so... " She burrowed into a cupboard among the herb-tea canisters, looking for the one with fruit peel in it.
"Chernon says so, you mean," Myra sneered.
Stavia felt herself turning red, heat rising inside her as though she had a furnace in her belly. "Chernon says everyone in the garrison says so. What I mean is, if Marcus doesn't look like Barten, maybe Marcus won't act like him, and you should be happy over that." With shaking fingers, Stavia measured tea into the pot and poured boiling water over it.
Myra subsided into outraged and sulky silence. Her romantic dream of motherhood had been riven into sharp-edged fragments by late-night feedings, constant diaper washing, and a baby who persisted in looking and acting like a baby, not like a young hero. She had more than half convinced herself that when she took this child to his warrior father at age five, Barten would probably reject it.
Morgot shook her head and went back to packing food into a heavy canvas sack. She and Stavia were to leave on the following morning for a short trip in the direction of Susantown. "Stavia, are your clothes and necessaries packed?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then Joshua said he'd like your company while he does the shopping."
"Is Joshua going with us tomorrow?"
"I think it's a good idea, yes. There have been a few Gypsy attacks on the road to Susantown within the last few months."
"Fine lot of help he'd be," snorted Myra. "A servitor!"
"Are you quoting Barten again?" her mother asked dangerously.
"Well, when I took the baby to the wall walk to show to his warrior father, Barten said...."
Morgot took a deep breath. "Myra. Almost a year ago I told you never to repeat to me Barten's opinions about our ways here in Women's Country. We do not assert the opinions of warriors in Women's Country, particularly opinions on matters about which they know nothing. It's not merely bad manners, it shows a fundamental lack of respect, for me, for the Council, for our ordinances. You have done it twice. Once more and it will go to the Council."
"You wouldn't!" Myra was white with anger. "You wouldn't!"
"Because you are my daughter? It is precisely because you are my daughter that I would. If you cannot accept admonition from me, then it is time others tried with you. Young women often do not get along with their mothers. Adolescence is a time for establishing separations and independence. Sometimes daughters need to change houses. It is acceptable to do so, not in the least frowned upon, scarcely a matter for comment. But it does require Council notice." Morgot sounded as though she were delivering a rehearsed speech, and Stavia realized with a pang that she was doing exactly that. This was something Morgot had planned to say, something she had probably lain awake in bed as she practiced saying it.
"You'd throw me out!" Myra howled.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Myra, she didn't say anything about throwing you out!" Stavia exploded. "She just said if you won't take correcting from her, maybe you'd be happier somewhere else."
"I'll thank you to keep out of this, you little bitch."
Stavia started to explode once more, but her mother's hand on her shoulder stopped her. "No, Stavia. Don't dignify that with an answer."
The speech making had stopped. Now Morgot was herself again, a very angry self, speaking with a dangerous cairn. "Myra, if you are fond of Barten, which you seem to be, think on this. You are drawing unkind attention to him by your rather consistent failure of courtesy. At some point, someone may blame him for what you are doing and saying. Do you want that?"
"I don't care! You can't discipline him the way you're trying to get at me. You can't touch him. He's a warrior, and he's out of Women's Country, and I wish to hell I was, too."
"I see." Morgot's face was perfectly blank, perfectly quiet. Seeing it, Stavia wanted to scream. Myra had just said something unforgivable, and Stavia didn't even know what it was. She shuddered as Morgot went on, "Well, I'll consider that, Myra. We may talk about it again when I get hack." Morgot turned and left the room.
Myra turned a furious face at Stavia, obviously trying to think of something cutting to say.
Stavia didn't give her a chance; she snatched up the teapot and two cups and fled. Joshua would be in his own warm room at the corner of the courtyard, and Stavia badly wanted to be there, or anywhere else, rather than in a room with Myra.
"I don't understand her," she mumbled while Joshua shaved himself, wielding the ancient straight-edged razor with much practiced skill. Only warriors wore beards. Servitors were clean shaven. Razors, like anything else made of good steel, were treasured possessions. Most of Women's Country's tiny steel production went into things like razors and scalpels and other medical equipment. The warriors did very well with bronze manufactured by their own garrison foundry.
"I'd overlook a lot of what she says," Joshua advised, taking a sip from the cup she had brought him. In the mirror his wide, hazel eyes gave her a kindly glare. His face had high, strong cheekbones and a wedge-shaped jaw. His long, brown hair swung from side to side in its servitor's plait as he turned his face before the mirror, searching for unshaven patches. "She's just had a baby. She's probably having postpartum depression. Then, you've got to keep in mind what kind of person that little bastard Barten is. One of his worst qualities is that he likes to whip people around emotionally. He's jerking Myra this way and that every time he sees her. It's an expression of power for him, I think. Either that or someone's put him up to it, and that thought does keep coming into my mind. Myra's trying to nurse the baby and keep up her studies, too. She's up two and three times a night, and we both know she was never much of a scholar. Give her six months, and I think she'll level off."
"Not if Barten keeps after her the way he is."
Joshua got a peculiar expression on his face and began to rub his brow as though it hurt. "Is there something particular he's agitating her about?"
"He wants her to espouse warrior values. He wants her to leave Women's Country."
"And become a whore?" Joshua put down the razor and turned to face her, two tall wrinkles between his eyes, one hand still rubbing.
"He tells her he can keep her, her and the baby. Somewhere off in the wilds."
Joshua's mouth turned down, angrily. "You told Morgot this."
"I promised Myra I wouldn't."
"But you're telling me?"
"I didn't promise I wouldn't tell you."
"You know I'll tell Morgot."
"What you do is what you do," she said uncertainly. Why did she feel she had laid some kind of spell on Barten. Or cursed him, like Iphigenia had cursed her father. "I kept my promise."
"Oh, Stavia," he laughed ruefully. "Really." He wiped his face with a towel and then thrust his long arms into the sleeves of his long sheepskin coat with the bright yarn embroidery down the front. "Let's go see what the market has to offer."
They left the house, Joshua with the large shopping sack over one shoulder and Stavia with a flat basket for things that shouldn't be crushed. It was late April, a sunny day chilled by small sea winds that came down from the Arctic, gusting with intermittent ice. Stavia tucked her trousers into her boots and buttoned her padded coat tight at the neck.
"It's cold!" she complained, tucking her hair under her earflaps and tying them under her chin. "We've done nothing but stove wood for months, and it's supposed to be spring!"
"It's just a little delayed, is all. We still have plenty of our wood allotment left."
"For another month, maybe," she remarked in a dismal tone.
"That'll be enough," he said comfortingly. "Relax, Stavia."
They strode along a street lined with house walls, broken only by high kitchen windows whose eveni
ng candles served to light the street after dusk and double doorways with wooden grills. There were no windows at all in the higher stories, no openings from which heat could be lost. Inside the houses, grilled openings in the upper floors let heat rise from stoves in the lower rooms. All the windows were of double glass. There were insulated shutters to close across them in the coldest weather. Each pair of houses shared a common wall between them to further reduce the heat loss, and the courtyards shared a common wall as well.
Some of the doors stood open and one could look along the sides of the houses to the courts where reflecting pools gleamed in summer, where vegetable gardens burgeoned and potted flowers glowed with fresh color. Now they looked desolate, littered with winter's windblown trash.
"I thought we'd stop at the garden-craft shop," Joshua told her. "We haven't planned a thing for the courtyard yet this spring. We can start some things in the kitchen now. We need vegetable seeds, and flowers. Wella's shop always has flower sets...."