Soldier at the Door(58)

Mahrree pulled away from his arm and stiffened. She purposely didn’t think about it, just as she didn’t contemplate her own death, because there was nothing do about it but observe its approach and weep.

“I think neither of us has a lot of faith in the Administrators’ school,” he said quietly. “But then again, who knows, maybe they might surprise us with—”

“—engraved invitations to move to Terryp’s ruins in the west?”

Perrin sighed. “Yes, something remarkably well done like that. Mahrree, we have some time to see what happens. But if not . . .” He couldn’t find the words.

“What are you trying to say, exactly?” she prompted.

“I’m not entirely sure myself, but . . .” He exhaled and looked around again. “This morning I told you our most precious possessions were safe with Zenos. But they aren’t—”

“Our babies AREN’T safe?!” Mahrree squealed, twisting absurdly to look behind her as if she could see her children sobbing from miles away.

“Mahrree, Mahrree,” he chuckled, “I mean, they aren’t our possessions.”

Mahrree breathed deeply and patted her chest to catch her breath.

“Sorry,” he kissed her on the cheek. “Zenos is fine with them, I’m sure of it.” His face grew solemn. “But it’s been pressing deep into my mind, ever since I called them our possessions. It’s just that . . . Mahrree, we’re told in Command School about the duties of soldiers and citizens. One thing we had to recite was that sending children to school was the citizens’ responsibility to the government.”

Mahrree blinked at the odd phrase. “Our duty to the government? To hand over our children to their care?”

“That was one of Querul the Second’s statements, and the Administrators never abolished it. After all, citizens earn money which is then taxed and given to the government. In a way, the government—and it doesn’t matter whose—sees themselves as owning the people. They don’t serve us,” he whispered harshly, “but instead, we work for them. Without our taxes, they’re nothing. They’re especially interested in the children, because if they’re successful, then so will be the government. Or perhaps I should say ‘wealthy,’ instead of ‘successful,’” he grumbled in annoyance. “It all comes down to riches and power. You know that. None of this is publicly stated, of course. But Mahrree, that combination of words—children and duty and government—always sounded wrong.”

His wife nodded so vigorously in agreement that, had she been wearing the ludicrous bird hat, it would have launched into flight.

“No government owns our children,” Perrin growled under his breath. “We don’t even own our children! They belong to the Creator. Parents are guides, not possessors. And as their father, I’m responsible to the Creator for leading our family. I answer to no one else.”

She grabbed his arm and kissed his shoulder. “How did I end up with such a man like you?”

Perrin smiled and groaned at the same time. “A man whose talk could be considered dangerous to community’s welfare should the Administrator of Loyalty hear him?”

They both instinctively looked around again the gray landscape for a flash of red. All that looked back at them were black and white cows, none that appeared to be spies in disguise.

“What does that administrator look like, anyway?” Mahrree fretted.

“Ever seen a weasel?”

“Yes.”

“One that’s been in a fight with a dog, in a rainstorm, then rolled in the mud and hasn’t eaten for three days so it’s a bit on the testy side? That’s Gadiman.”

“In other words, someone fun to have over for dinner.”

“Indeed,” he sighed. “I guess what I’m getting at, Mahrree, is maybe in five years if the schools aren’t what we feel is best, we could look at doing something else.” He took a deep breath and looked around again.

“Like what?” Mahrree asked, her interest piqued.

“I’m not sure.”

“Like what we did before the Great War?” Mahrree was all energy now as her history lessons unfolded. “Of course! No one sent their children to school! All the parents took turns and spent a part of each day teaching their children and their neighbors’ children at their homes, then worked with them in their shops and fields. We merely modified that after the end of the war, but . . . why did we do that?”

Her face contorted in trying to remember. She really didn’t expect Perrin to answer, and he couldn’t have supplied one. She squinted in the distance as if reading a far away text for an answer, and the answer came rushing to her.