Read Online Walk to the End of the World by Suzy McKee Charnas - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Suzy McKee Charnas
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food. They had eaten nothing since morning, and now that the manna-high had worn off, he was hungry. He hummed part of a song concerning ‘Rovers, red-handed, mad-eyed warders, dreadful and deadly to fems.’
The two Rovers guarding the workroom and warehouse end of the crescent came swinging down the gallery in step, bald-headed and thick-bodied like two rough clay men made from the same mold. That their features could not be discerned in the shadows of the thatch overhead seemed only fitting; their anonymous madness was their most formidable aspect. Servan knew from experience that they were so nearly soulless, like the mechanical men of Ancient legend, that they were a disappointment to kill unless fully aroused
– something that at present was to be avoided.
He thought he knew what Kelmz had in mind. If successful, it would save Servan trouble. If not, he would do what was called for. He never liked to plan too tightly for the future.
The Rovers wheeled and marched back the way they had come. A shadow rose from the darkness behind them, and Kelmz fell silently into step at their backs. They stiffened visibly, but didn’t turn or break stride. Kelmz would be matching their tread so exactly that each of them would hear only his own steps amplified by his companion’s in a manner that he had been taught not to fear, so that he could work as a member of a brace or squad.
Servan would have to tell Kelmz later what an artist he was. His praise would certainly irritate the captain – art was a famishing untrustworthy attribute – and at the same time it would have the virtue of being true. Kelmz had an artist’s luck, too: the Chesters were doing their part well, for no one stepped outside the men’s compound to piss or settle a bet. There was no break in the pounding rhythm of the Penneltons’ dancing.
Smoothly, the captain moved up and put his hands on the Rovers’ shoulders. He wheeled with them and they came back down the gallery, secured by his authoritative touch. If he had hesitated, they would have turned and cut him down. By the time Servan and Eykar gained the gallery themselves. Kelmz and the Rovers were again at the far end of their patrol, backs turned.
The doors to the work-buildings were not locked, for no fem would try to get past a Rover-watch. The two men simply walked in, entering a huge room full of hot, sour air.
The cement floor was cluttered with machines, bins, tables, and chutes. At the far end, layers of stuffed hempen sacks mounted toward the ceiling, presumably containing some of the finished product. Most of the equipment seemed to be idle. A few fems were present, wearing sweat-rags bound around their heads and stained aprons that reached from armpit to knee. Three of them stood nearby, fixing a piece of wire mesh over the opening of a pipe that stuck out of the wall. The pipe and the trough under it seemed to be the prime source of the pervasive sour stink. From this group and others came the murmur of voices; that was surprising. Though normally fems sang at work, the majority of them were held to be incapable of any but the most limited fem-to-master type of speech.
There were no men about at all. This was the first time Servan had ever seen any number of fems together without at least one pair of Juniors overseeing their activities. It made his hair prickle.
Some signal must have been given; suddenly every fem in the place acquired a slight stoop or cringe. The faces of the nearest ones went slack and foolish before his eyes. Witchery? He almost laughed. He had seen a dormful of boys change in just such a way when a Teacher walked in on them unexpectedly in the Boyhouse.
One of the fems tending to the pipe came toward the intruders, her calloused feet rasping on the concrete floor. She knelt to kiss the ground in front of them. There were scars on her lean back. Nobody bothered about pretty appearances in the workrooms of Bayo, it seemed. She had wide shoulders for a fem and a
The two Rovers guarding the workroom and warehouse end of the crescent came swinging down the gallery in step, bald-headed and thick-bodied like two rough clay men made from the same mold. That their features could not be discerned in the shadows of the thatch overhead seemed only fitting; their anonymous madness was their most formidable aspect. Servan knew from experience that they were so nearly soulless, like the mechanical men of Ancient legend, that they were a disappointment to kill unless fully aroused
– something that at present was to be avoided.
He thought he knew what Kelmz had in mind. If successful, it would save Servan trouble. If not, he would do what was called for. He never liked to plan too tightly for the future.
The Rovers wheeled and marched back the way they had come. A shadow rose from the darkness behind them, and Kelmz fell silently into step at their backs. They stiffened visibly, but didn’t turn or break stride. Kelmz would be matching their tread so exactly that each of them would hear only his own steps amplified by his companion’s in a manner that he had been taught not to fear, so that he could work as a member of a brace or squad.
Servan would have to tell Kelmz later what an artist he was. His praise would certainly irritate the captain – art was a famishing untrustworthy attribute – and at the same time it would have the virtue of being true. Kelmz had an artist’s luck, too: the Chesters were doing their part well, for no one stepped outside the men’s compound to piss or settle a bet. There was no break in the pounding rhythm of the Penneltons’ dancing.
Smoothly, the captain moved up and put his hands on the Rovers’ shoulders. He wheeled with them and they came back down the gallery, secured by his authoritative touch. If he had hesitated, they would have turned and cut him down. By the time Servan and Eykar gained the gallery themselves. Kelmz and the Rovers were again at the far end of their patrol, backs turned.
The doors to the work-buildings were not locked, for no fem would try to get past a Rover-watch. The two men simply walked in, entering a huge room full of hot, sour air.
The cement floor was cluttered with machines, bins, tables, and chutes. At the far end, layers of stuffed hempen sacks mounted toward the ceiling, presumably containing some of the finished product. Most of the equipment seemed to be idle. A few fems were present, wearing sweat-rags bound around their heads and stained aprons that reached from armpit to knee. Three of them stood nearby, fixing a piece of wire mesh over the opening of a pipe that stuck out of the wall. The pipe and the trough under it seemed to be the prime source of the pervasive sour stink. From this group and others came the murmur of voices; that was surprising. Though normally fems sang at work, the majority of them were held to be incapable of any but the most limited fem-to-master type of speech.
There were no men about at all. This was the first time Servan had ever seen any number of fems together without at least one pair of Juniors overseeing their activities. It made his hair prickle.
Some signal must have been given; suddenly every fem in the place acquired a slight stoop or cringe. The faces of the nearest ones went slack and foolish before his eyes. Witchery? He almost laughed. He had seen a dormful of boys change in just such a way when a Teacher walked in on them unexpectedly in the Boyhouse.
One of the fems tending to the pipe came toward the intruders, her calloused feet rasping on the concrete floor. She knelt to kiss the ground in front of them. There were scars on her lean back. Nobody bothered about pretty appearances in the workrooms of Bayo, it seemed. She had wide shoulders for a fem and a
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