But frostbite could delay me, beyond the midwinter deadline.
The light of her saddle-lantern glinted on one of the small arrow-shaped signs of a travel-shelter. Her antlered pack beast threw back its head and whickered. Magda turned off the trail and trudged down the narrow path, leading toward the dark building she could just see. The road crunched with rutted and frozen sleet, much trampled. As she came through the trees, she saw the loom of two buildings; it was one of the large shelters, with a separate building for animals. Then she swore softly to herself: Through the crack of the door a faint light was visible: the shelter was occupied.
Oh, damn. I should go on. Why take chances? But the next shelter might be another half-day’s ride away; and she was soaked, chilled and freezing. Her cheeks felt numb beneath her hand, and her eyes smarted. Just to get out of the wind for a minute or two. …
While she delayed, her horse and pack animal had made up their own minds; they tugged at the reins, plunging ahead of her inside the dark barn. There was a good, dusty smell of fodder and hay. It seemed warm and pleasant. She set her saddle-lantern in a safe place, and set about unsaddling the horse, off-loading her pack beast. I wouldn’t have the heart to take them out in this storm again. Several horses and pack animals were already chomping on fodder and grain; Magda fed her animals, then sat down by the light of the saddle-lantern and pulled off her boot. She drew a sharp breath of dismay as she saw the whitish patches along the reddened flesh under the wet stocking. I need fire, she thought, and something hot to get the circulation going. She had lived oh Darkover much of her life, and knew the danger signs. There could be no question, now, of camping outdoors.
She would simply have to rely on the traditional neutrality of the travel-shelters, and on the disguise she wore. After all it had excited no comment of question from the traders she had met that other night.
She gathered up her saddlebags and started into the main building. Almost automatically she drew up her cloak collar to cover her bare neck; then, self-consciously, put it down where it belonged. Her Amazon’s dress and short hair were the best protection in this situation; ordinary female dress and manners would make what she was doing unthinkable.
She pushed the door open and stepped into the light of several lanterns. There were two parties of travelers in the long stone-floored room, one at each end, around the fireplaces. As she saw the men near the door, her heart sank; she almost wished she had taken her chances in the woods. They were a party of big, rough-looking men, wearing strangely cut cloaks, and Magda fancied there was something more than impersonal curiosity in their eyes as they turned to look at the newcomer.
The laws of the road meant it was for Magda to speak first. She spoke the formal, almost ritual words, hearing her voice, light and almost little girlish in the huge echoing room:
“As a late-comer I crave leave from those who have come before to share shelter.”
One of the men, huge and burly, with fierce-looking reddish-gold moustaches, spoke the formal greeting, “Be welcome; enter this neutral place in peace, and go in peace.” His eyes rested on her with a look that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t just that the man was unshaven, and his clothes far from clean; that could be bad weather and traveler’s luck. It was something in his eyes. But the laws of the travel-shelter should protect her. She clutched her saddlebags and edged past. Both fireplaces had been preempted, but she could build a small fire near the stone shelving along the center wall. She need not even struggle with tinder; she could borrow a light. (But not, she resolved, from the big man with the moustaches!)
At the far end, five or six figures were gathered; they turned when Magda spoke, and one of them, a tall, thin figure, lean to gauntness, came toward her.
“Be welcome, sister,” the figure said,-and Magda heard the voice in astonishment. A woman’s voice, low-pitched and almost husky, but undeniably a female voice. “Come and share our fire.”
Zandru’s hells, thought Magda, involuntarily calling on a Darkovan God in her dismay, what now?
They’re Free Amazons.
Real ones!
The tall gaunt woman did not wait for Magda’s acquiescence; she said, “I am Camilla n’ha Kyria, and we are traveling on a mission to Nevarsin. Come, lay your things here.” She relieved Magda of her saddlebags, led her to the fire. “You are half frozen, child! You had better get out of those soaked things, if you have dry ones to put on; if not, one of us can lend you something, till your own garments have felt the fire.” She pointed to where the women had strung cords and hung spare blankets over them for privacy; by the light of the lantern they had hung there, Magda saw the stranger, Camilla, clearly. She was tall and emaciated, her face deeply lined with age-and what looked like knife scars-and her hair all gray. She had taken off outer cloak and tunic, wearing only the embroidered linen under tunic of a Thendara woman; beneath it her body was so spare and flat that Magda knew her for what she was: an emmasca, a woman subjected in adolescence to the illegal neutering operation.
Magda went behind the curtaining blankets, and got out of her wet clothing, slipping into spare trousers and tunic. She was glad of the privacy of the blankets, less because of the rough-looking men at the far end-they could hardly have seen her in the dim shelter-than because of the other women. Had Lady Rohana been right about every detail of her clothing and gear?
A slight woman, with hair the exact color of new-minted copper bars, put her head around the blankets. She said, “I am Jaelle n’ha Melota, elected leader of this band. Are your feet frozen?” She bent down to look carefully at Magda’s feet and toes.
“No, I don’t think so,” Magda said, and Jaelle touched one foot with careful fingers. “No, you were lucky. I was going to say Camilla has some medicine for frostbite, if you need it, but I think even your cheeks are all right; you got out of the wind just in time. Put your stockings on, then, and come to the fire.”
Magda gathered up her wet clothes and hung them on the poles the women had rigged there for drying their own garments. On a small grille over a bed of coals, some small birds were roasting, and they had slung a hook and kettle, in which some kind of hot steaming soup was cooking. It smelled so good that Magda’s mouth watered.
Jaelle said, “May we know your name and Guild-house, sister?”
Magda gave her alias, and said she was from the Guild-house at Temora; she had purposely chosen the farthest city she knew, hoping that the distance would cover any small differences in dress and manners.
“What a night for travel! I do not think there will be so much as a bush-jumper stirring in these hills between here and Nevarsin,” Jaelle said. “Have you journeyed all the way from Temora? Surely your clothes are of Thendara make; that leatherwork and. embroidery is found mostly in the Venza hills.”
There was nothing to do but brazen it out. Magda said, “They are indeed; such warm clothing cannot be bought on the seacoast-it is like trying to buy fish in the Dry Towns. My patroness was generous in providing me with clothing for my journey, and well she might be, sending me into the Hellers at this season!”
“Will you share our meal?”
Prudence dictated having as little to do with the strange women as possible. Yet they seemed to take it so much for granted that it might cause comment and arouse suspicion. Besides, the food smelled too good, after days of powdered porridge, to refuse. She made the usual polite reply: “Gladly, if I may be allowed to contribute my share.”
Jaelle gave the expected answer, “It is not necessary, but will be welcome,” and Magda went to her saddlebags for some confectionery with which she had provided herself for just such an occasion. The woman who was cooking accepted the sweets with a little cry of pleasure. “These, too, are made in the Thendara valley. I have not tasted this sort for years, and I am afraid we shall all be shamefully greedy! Except for Jaelle, who hates sweets like a true Dry-Towner!”
“Shut your silly face,” said Jaelle, turning harshly on the cook, and the older woman brid
led and looked sullen. Magda could see now that all the women were older than Jaelle, though most of them seemed young, except for Camilla. So young; and their elected leader. She is younger than I, I am sure! And beautiful. I don’t think I have ever seen any woman so beautiful! Jaelle, like the rest; wore the shapeless Amazon clothing: loose trousers, tunic; but this did not conceal the slender, feminine body, the delicate poise of the flame-colored head on her shoulders, the features delicate and pale, and so regular that they would have been almost ordinary, except for the eyes, which were very large and framed in thick dark lashes.
“You have met Camilla,” Jaelle said. “That is Sherna”-she pointed to the woman who was cooking their meal-“and that is Rayna, and that is Gwennis. And in a few minutes, we will have something to eat. Oh, and there are two latrine closets in this shelter; we have taken this one”-she pointed-“for our own use, so that you need not go down among the men to…” She spoke, with complete insouciance, a word Magda had never, heard a Darkovan woman speak; she had seen it only in textbooks, for no man would have used it before her.
I’d better not talk much. Among themselves, at least, they don’t use the euphemisms thought polite for women!
She noticed, too, that a roughly printed sign hung on the outside of the latrine the women had preempted, warning the men away. The trained anthropologist made another assumption at the back of her mind: They expect me to know how to read. And some of them, at least, can write. That, too, was a faint shock.
“Here, come and eat.” Sherna ladled hot soup into Magda’s own cup; divided one of the roast birds with a knife and handed her a share. Like the others, Magda sat on her unrolled blankets to eat. She told herself not to be nervous; she had eaten in Darkovan company often enough before this.
The Amazon Jaelle had pointed out as Gwennis-Magda thought she must be about thirty, a slender pretty woman in a blue linen under tunic asked, “May we know the nature of your mission, Margali, if it is not secret?”
Magda had begun to suspect that among strange bands of Amazons this kind of polite interrogation was customary. In any case, after accepting the invitation to share their fire and meal, she could not retreat into churlish silence. I was a damn fool. I should have camped in the woods. But outside the walls of the shelter she could still hear the howling of the storm, giving her the lie.
“It is not secret, no; but it is a family matter of my patroness.”
Rayna, a tall, slender woman with hair so curly that it frizzled all about her head like a small halo in the firelight, said, “And no doubt you will be proud to name her for us?”
Lady Rohana foresaw this. Bless her; I’d never have dared to name her without her permission. “It is my privilege to serve the Lady Rohana Ardais on a mission to Sain Scarp.”
Camilla, who was sitting next to Jaelle on her rolled-out blankets, pursed her lips and glanced quickly at the rough-looking men, now sitting around their fire and talking loudly as they gobbled food from a big kettle.
Magda thought, Can those men be bandits? Is it possible they are from Sain Scarp? The thought set her to prickling with her “hunch” again; she did not hear Jaelle speaking to her and had to ask her to repeat what she had said.
“I said: the Lady Rohana, is she still so very lame from that fall she took from her horse? Poor old woman, and so soon after losing her husband, too; “what a tragedy!”
After an incredulous moment, Magda realized what was happening. Nothing to do but brazen it out boldly. She set down her plate with a good display of offended pride.
“You have had later news than mine, or you are testing me, sister.” She spoke the customary address with heavy irony. “When last I saw the Lady Rohana she was hearty and strong, and to call her old would have been grave insult; I do not think she is twenty years older than I. As for her husband”-she rummaged quickly in her mind for his name-“I have not been privileged to meet dom Gabriel, but she spoke of him as alive and well. Or is there another Lady Rohana in the Ardais Domain whom I have not been privileged to know and serve?”
Jaelle’s lovely face looked troubled now, and contrite. She said, “You must not be angry with me, Margali; the Lady Rohana is my kinswoman, and the only one of my kin who has been kind to the family disgrace. As you can guess, her honor is dear to me, and I would not hear her name bandied about without her leave. I beg you, give me pardon.”
Magda said stiffly, “You had better see the safe-conduct I carry.”
“Oh, please”-Jaelle looked very young now-“don’t trouble yourself. Sherna, pour her some wine. Drink with us, Margali. Don’t be angry!”
Magda accepted the wine, sweat breaking out on her palms; she wiped them furtively on her tunic. Just my luck. But I managed that one. What else are they going to throw at me? She sipped the wine, nibbling at some sweets and the nuts Rayna was passing around; they had been pickled in something tart and highly spiced, and she noticed that Jaelle, who had refused Magda’s confectionery, ate the spiced nuts with relish.
She’s young. But I’d better not underestimate her!
A burst of noise from the men around the other fire interrupted her, and she twisted around to look at them. They were drinking hard, passing a bottle from hand to hand and laughing uproariously; loud enough to drown out the howling of the storm outside. She strained her ears to listen, thinking, if they are from Sain Scarp, they might know something of Pedro. …
Camilla’s hand came down on her wrist like a vise; Magda almost cried out with the pain of it. “For shame,” said the old Amazon, in a voice that cut like a knife. “Is this how Temora House teaches her daughters to behave, shameless girl, staring at drunken men like some harlot of the streets? Turn your back on them, you ill-mannered brat!”
Magda pulled her hand free of the wiry old fingers. Her eyes filled with tears of outrage and humiliation. She said in a whisper, “I was only wondering if they are bandits …”
“Whatever they are, they are nothing to us.” The old woman spoke with firm finality. Magda rubbed her wrist, wondering if there would be a bruise.
I’m doing everything wrong. I’d better keep my mouth shut, and go to bed as soon as I can. She lay back on her unrolled blankets, pretending sleep. The drunken laughing and singing of the bandits went on. Around the women’s fire there was a little more soft-voiced conversation, some quiet laughing and joking-they were teasing Sherna about something that had happened at midsummer-feast. Magda understood none of it. The women waterproofed their low suede ankle-boots, tidied saddlebags, cleaned and put away eating utensils and began to ready themselves for bed.
Someone said, “I wish Rafi were here with her harp; we could have a song, better than that noise!” She flicked a quick, oblique glance over her shoulder at the drunken crew at the far end, but, Magda noted, did not turn to look. Amazon etiquette?
Camilla said, “Rafi was with me when we punished those two women in Thendara city. You are newcome to us, Rayna, Sherna, you have not heard? You, Margali, you came here from Thendara; has the tale made the rounds yet in the marketplace?”
“What tale?” Magda did not dare to pretend sleep too deep to answer.
“You have not heard, either? Well, it came to our ears that in the Golden Cage-you know of the Golden Cage?” she asked, waiting, and Magda nodded. The Golden Cage was a notorious brothel not too far from the Terran Zone; she knew that it was patronized by spacemen and Empire tourists sometimes.
“It came to us that there were two entertainers”-she spoke the polite term with irony-“who had cut their hair short and were nightly presenting an exhibition of a particularly indecent sort-I am sure that every one of you can imagine the details-which the old freak running the place announced as ‘Love Secrets of the Free Amazons.’ So Rafaella and I-”
“Dear aunt,”, said Jaelle, yawning, “I have known since my fourteenth year, and so have we all, that there are lovers of women in this world, and that there are pretended lovers of women, and that some men have nothing better to do w
ith their manhood than indulge in naughty fantasies about them. Do you think we are so bored that you must entertain us with dirty stories, Camilla dear?”
“Then you haven’t heard how we punished those bitches for pretending to be Amazons, and bringing scandal and disgrace to our name? Can you guess, Margali?”
Magda said “No,” not trusting herself to say any more. This is being told for my benefit. Somehow I’ve given myself away. That old emmasca has eyes like a gimlet.
Camilla said, savoring the words, her eyes lingering on Magda, “Why, Rafi and I went there by night when their leering audience had gone, we dragged those shameless wenches out into the main square, we stripped them naked and shaved their heads bald as an egg, and their private parts, too, and smeared them in pitch, and rolled them in wood shavings.”
“I should have been there,” said Jaelle, her eyes glistening with savage relish. “I would have put a torch to them and watched them sizzle!”
“Oh, well, we left them there in that state to be found by the guard; somehow I do not think, after being so shamed, that they will pretend to be Amazons for their filthy charades. What do you think, Margali?”
Magda tried to make her voice steady, but there was a lump in her throat, and she knew what caused it: stark fear. She said, “Probably not; but I have always heard that a grezalis follows her trade because she is too stupid to learn any other, so it may have been a lesson wasted.”
“You were too hard on them,” said Sherna. “It is the foul old pervert who runs the place that I would have treated so. He staged that filthy show; it was not the women’s fault.”
“On the contrary, I think you were too, easy on them,” Jaelle said. “Shaming such women is useless; if they were not dead to shame, they would never have been in such a place.”
“All women are not made harlots of their free will,” Sherna argued; “they must earn their bread somehow!”
Camilla’s voice was harsh, rasping like a file. “There is always an alternative,” she said, in a voice that effectively shut off comment.