began producing a low, steady note, and a moment later every deteriorated Jaybird in the stadium joined in with a shrill “ eee ” sound; though a ground-rumbling roar now instead of a buzz, it was the same insistent two-tone note that had aided Rivas’s acquiescence to his new masters earlier that day… but now it only deepened his frown. He glanced at Sister Sue and saw that she was watching him, and he looked away quickly.
As suddenly as it had started the sound stopped, and in the moment that the last harsh echoes were rebounding away among the high tiers, Rivas took an involuntary step forward, as if the sound had been something physical he’d been pushing against.
The shepherds slung their staves through their belts and climbed nimbly down from the towers, and Rivas watched the one his group and a couple of others were clustered around. When the man got to the ground he straightened up, hiked his staff free and then strode up to Sister Sue and spoke to her quietly.
She indicated Rivas with a nod of her head and then whispered to the bearded shepherd for nearly half a minute. The expression on the man’s tanned, craggy face didn’t change, but he slowly lifted his head to stare at Rivas, and when Sister Sue had finished he walked over to the new member.
“Welcome to your real family, Brother Boaz,” he said in a deep voice.
Rivas glanced around uneasily, then nodded. “Uh, thank you.”
“How old are you?”
“…Eighteen? I think eighteen.”
The shepherd raised an eyebrow and looked more closely at Rivas’s face and hair. “Hmm. Take off your knapsack, please, and let me have it.”
Rivas looked over at Sister Sue, who smiled and nodded. With evident reluctance he reached up, slipped the canvas straps off his shoulders, shrugged the knapsack off and held it out toward the shepherd.
The man took it, stepped back and began undoing the buckles. Around the arena the other shepherds were also busy taking stock of new recruits, and, except for the low mutter of those conversations, the wind in the ragged high tiers was the only sound.
“Or thirty-one,” said Rivas.
The shepherd looked up. “What?”
“Maybe I’m thirty-one years old.”
The man had got the flap open, but paused to squint at him. “Maybe thirty-one, eh? Have you ever… been with us before?”
“No, sir. I ran away from home yesterday. My father’s a tenant farmer for Barrows. The Currency brandy estates.”
“Let me get this straight,” said the shepherd curiously as he pulled a large cloth-wrapped bundle out of the knapsack. “You leave home at thirty-one and call it running away?”
Rivas was breathing deeply now, clearly trying to resist panic. “No, eighteen,” he said tensely. “That’s right, eighteen. For sure.”
The shepherd opened his mouth to ask another question but shut it again when he saw what was wrapped up in the cloth—Rivas’s second-best pelican.
The gaze he now turned on Rivas was full of suspicion. “What the hell is this?”
After a pause Rivas said, almost in a whisper, “Somebody’s pelican.”
“Somebody’s? It’s not yours?… Damn it, answer me!”
“No, sir.” Rivas rubbed his hand across his mouth. “I have one, but not as nice as that.”
“Well, Brother Boaz, music is one of the things we have to sacrifice.” He opened his hand and the instrument fell to the ground with a discordant bwang , and then he lifted a heavy boot and stamped the thing flat.
The shepherd started to turn away, then froze, and an instant later he had whirled back to face Rivas again. “Say, what’s your name?”
For a moment Rivas’s apprehensive frown left his face and, proud of knowing the answer, he said, “Brother Boaz.”
“No, damn it, I mean before, what was your—”
A strident trumpet note suddenly split the air, and a voice from the far side of the arena shouted through a megaphone, “Make yourselves ready for the Lord!”
The shepherd craned his neck and saw that an
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