4: VISITORS

Like most men of his sort, Tharrin was kind-hearted (as long as it did not involve taking too much trouble), and quite good company in his own superficial way. No less than a soldier, a poet or a mountaineer, a philanderer needs certain natural qualities, and Tharrin had made a reasonably good job of seducing Maia. That is to say, he had not forced, frightened or hurt her, he had given her pleasure and satisfaction and left her with no regrets and the conviction that this was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her and that she had crossed a great threshold—as indeed she had. The harm, of course, lay not in what Tharrin had actually done, but in what he was and the situation in which he had placed himself and Maia. He might have disappeared one dark night, taking Maia with him—though for her the outlook would have been a poor one indeed. He might have stressed yet again the need for, and then gone on to instruct her in, the strictest secrecy, continuing to make love to her only at safe opportunities. Or he might even have told her firmly that the matter must end where it had begun—and stuck to that. He did none of these things. To have become once more, at his time of life, the lover of an exceptionally pretty, ardent young girl, whom no one else had ever enjoyed, went to Tharrin's unstable head like Yeldashay wine. He showed attentions to Maia. He called her by pet-names.

He bought her a glass necklace from a pedlar, though it was weeks since he had given Morca any trinket. Giving out implausibly that he wanted her opinion about a new fishing-boat he was thinking of buying (there was not so much money in the household as would have bought a pair of oars) he took her with him to Meerzat and gave her a couple of drinks and a meal at "The Safe Moorings." On that occasion he certainly took pains to see that she enjoyed herself, but his real motive—even though he was perhaps unaware of it himself—was to show her off; and in this he was most successful, for he was no stranger to the place and Frarnli, the proprietress, who had had the measure of him for some time, was not one to fail to draw conclusions. Irresponsibility and indiscretion are two lovely berries molded on one stem, so it is hardly surprising that Tharrin, having begun his pleasure with the one, should continue it with the other.

Children are quick to sense any change in domestic atmosphere, and it was not long before nine-year-old Nala perceived—and remarked to Maia upon—something new in the relationship between her and Tharrin. Maia's response was first to threaten and then to cajole her, and sharp little Nala began to turn the situation to her own advantage with a kind of petty blackmail.

But the biggest give-away was Maia herself—her bearing and the impression she made on everyone around her. Unless what has happened is altogether against her own wishes—intimidation or rape—any normal girl is bound to feel herself in love with the first man who possesses her. And while to a man love-making is an end in itself and primarily a matter of recreation, to a girl it appears in the nature of a foundation on which she wants to build. Maia began to make herself useful. She cooked for Tharrin, washed his clothes and went through his implements and other possessions to see whether there was anything she could do to improve them. When Tharrin was at home she was like a sea-anemone with its brilliantly-colored, frond-like tentacles extended. When he was absent she was still happy enough—closing in on herself like a scarlet pimpernel in wet weather. Her behavior to Morca was much improved, and displayed a kind of joyous and quite unconscious condescension, which could hardly have failed to strike any woman, let alone Morca.

Meanwhile, she had taken to love-making like a good dog to work, and in response to Tharrin's experienced, if rather facile instruction, was gaining in reciprocity, confidence and pleasure. Enthusiasm she possessed in abundance, and if she had unthinkingly formed a somewhat mechanical notion of physical love as a matter of method and sensation rather than warmth and feeling, it was scarcely any blame to her, for Tharrin was not really capable of deep emotion. That which he was capable of, however, he performed as genially as a tapster broaches a cask.

It scarcely matters in precisely what way the secret of two illicit lovers leaks out. If it did not happen in one way then it would happen in another, and if not on Tuesday then on Wednesday. Lovers are greatly inclined to the assumption that no one can wish them ill, and that as long as they do not actually utter anything revealing, their looks, gestures and mutual behavior convey nothing to anybody else. Even illiterate lovers are almost invariably careless. Did Morca set a trap—return unexpectedly from borrowing a spool of thread from old Drigga up the lane, and glimpse, through a chink, Tharrin fondling Maia's thighs? Did she need to do even as much as that? Did Frarnli, perhaps, hint to her enough to make it unnecessary? Did Maia talk in her sleep—or merely expose, when washing, a shoulder displaying the marks of teeth, or something of a similar nature which Morca herself, of course, would already have experienced? It is unimportant compared with Morca's bitter, secret and revengeful resentment. Despite her outburst in the cabin on the evening of Maia's return from the waterfall, Morca was by nature inarticulate and little given to overt self-expression. Her way (developed during long years of childhood with a brutal and unpredictable father in whom it had never even occurred to her to confide) was to nurse an injury, like a boil, until it burst; and then to act alone; often with excessive, disproportionate savagery, in a situation which another woman would have resolved by simply having everything out in a good row. Poverty, together with a sour sense of desertion and of her own lost youth, had done nothing to modify or soften this dismal wont.

One fine morning, a few weeks after the mending of the net, Tharrin, slinging over his shoulder the bundle which Maia had put together for him, set off on the twenty-five-mile journey to Thettit-Tonilda, whence he would not be returning for several days. His ostensible purpose was to buy some new tackle for the boat, since it was the time of year when the annual consignment of rope arrived in Thettit from Ortelga. During his time on that island (the time when he had been lying low from Ploron) he had made a friend, an Ortelgan named Vassek, who was usually ready to let him have a fair amount at less than the going price. What he did not need for himself he was able, on his return, to sell locally at a profit. As a result, this particular season had come to be the annual occasion for a little spree.

He would walk to Meerzat, beg a lift in a boat bound across the lake and then, as often as not, talk his way on to some merchant's tilt going to Thettit. The journey back, laden with coils of rope, was harder, but Tharrin had always been a resourceful opportunist.

Maia went with him to see him off at Meerzat, carrying his bundle on one arm. After a mile or so, with no need of more than a glance and a nod between them, he took her hand and led her across a dry ditch and so into a copse, through the midst of which a rill still flowed among the weeds in the bed of the shrunken stream. It was far too shallow to swim but nevertheless Maia, always drawn to any water, pulled off her smock and splashed into the one pool she could find. Watching from the shade, Tharrin—largely for his own anticipatory enjoyment—contained himself for a time before sliding down to lift her out bodily and lay her on the green bank.

Half an hour later she stirred drowsily, one hand fondling the length of his body.

"Oh, Tharrin, whatever shall I do while you're away?"

"It's not for long."

"How long?"

"Six days—seven days. All depends."

"What on?"

"Aha! Pretty goldfish mustn't ask too many questions. I'm a very mysterious man, you know!"

He waited, grinning sideways at her, clearly pleased with himself. Then, as she did not speak. "Don't you think so? Look!"

She stared in astonishment at the big coin held up between his finger and thumb.

"Whatever's that, then? A hundred meld? Must be!"

He laughed, gratified by her surprise. "Never seen one before?"

"Dunno as I have."

"Can now, then."

He flipped it across to her. She caught it and, turning it one way and the other, examined the stylized design of leopards and the obverse image of Frella-Tiltheh the Inscrutable, hand outstretched above the sprouting tamarrik seed. After a minute she made to give it back, but he shook his head.

"It's yours, goldfish."

"Oh, Tharrin, I can't take that! 'Sides, anyone I was to give it to'd reckon I must 'a pinched it—a girl like me."

He chuckled. "Or earned it, perhaps; such a pretty girl. And haven't you?"

She colored. "That's worse, anyone go thinkin' that. Oh, Tharrin, don't tease that way. I don't like it. I'd never, never do it for money!"

Seeing that she was on the verge of serious vexation, he hurriedly pulled the subject back on course.

"You can have five twenty-meld pieces if you'd rather. Here they are, look."

"Tharrin! However much you got, then?"

He jingled the coins, tossing them up and down before her eyes.

"That and more."

"But how?" Then, sharply, "You never stole it, did you? Oh, Tharrin—"

He laid a quick hand on her wrist. "No, fish, no; you can think better of me than that."

She, carefree and pretty as a butterfly in the sunshine, waited silently before at length asking, "Well?"

"I'm a patriot."

"What's that, then?"

"Well, you see, I'm the sort of man who's not afraid to take risks, so I'm rewarded accordingly. They don't take on just anyone to do the kind of work I do, I'll tell you."

She knew that he was serious, yet she felt no alarm on his account; her half-childish thoughts ran all on excitement, not on danger.

"Oh, Tharrin! Risks? Who for? Does mother know?"

"Ah! That'd be telling. No, 'course she doesn't: only you. And you just keep it quiet, too. I don't want to be sorry I told you."

" 'Course I will. But what's it all about, then?"

"And that'd be telling, too. But I'm a secret messenger; and I'm paid what I'm worth."

"But darling, surely you'll need the money for this trip, won't you?"

"What's a hundred meld to a man like me? Come on, you just put them away safe now, else they'll get scattered all over 'fore we're done."

Obediently Maia put them away before returning to more immediate things.

She left him in high spirits on the jetty at Meerzat, chatting with an acquaintance who was taking his boat out as soon as he had got the cargo aboard; and strolled home at her leisure, stopping more than once to pick flowers or chase butterflies; for it was Maia's way to pursue pleasure quite spontaneously in anything that might happen to take her fancy.

It was a little after noon when she came up the lane towards the cabin. The sanchel on the bank had almost finished flowering, its orange blossoms turned to soft, fluffy seeds like long sprays of thistledown, which the first winds of autumn would send floating across the waste. There were three blooms left at the end of a long, out-thrust branch. Maia climbed up the bank to reach them, clutching the branch and almost overbalancing as she leant outwards.

Suddenly she stopped trying to reach the blooms and released the bent branch, staring towards the cabin and the patch of rough grass where the chopping-block stood beside the hen-coops.

Under a clump of sycamores on the edge of the patch, a cart was standing in the shade. Two bullocks, side by side, were in the shafts, shaking and tossing their heads under a cloud of flies. It was not they, however, which arrested her attention, but the cart itself. She had never seen one like it. It was unusually solid, rectangular, narrow and entirely covered not by any sort of tilt or hood, but by a timber roof as stout as its sides. It was unpainted and bound about with four iron hoops bolted to the timber. Unless there was some window or opening at the front (which from where she was standing she could not see) it had none; but near the top of the one side half-facing her was a long, narrow slit. At the back was a door, closed and fitted with a hasp and staple, in which a heavy padlock was hanging open.

Maia was mystified and much intrigued. She could imagine neither the use of such a vehicle—for some special use it must obviously have—nor why it should be visiting their home. Who owned it? Why had he come?

Obviously, whoever he was, Morca must know, and presumably he was indoors with her now, unless they were out looking at cattle or something like that. To dwellers in remote places, any visitor or unexpected event brings welcome variety to the monotony of the day's routine. Maia felt excited.

Jumping down from the bank, she ran across the lane and in at the door.

The only person to be seen in the room, however, was Morca, sitting on a stool by the fire, plucking a fowl. Handfuls of feathers, brown and white, lay round her feet. Some had found their way into the fire, and Maia wrinkled her nose at the acrid smell.

Morca rose clumsily, smoothing her sacking apron over her belly, laid the fowl on one side and stood looking at her daughter with a smile.

"Well—you got back all right, then?" she asked. "You're not too tired? Did Tharrin catch the boat? On his way now, is he?"

Something in her manner puzzled Maia and made her hesitate before replying. Morca was no more—indeed, was even less—given than most peasant mothers to asking her daughters polite questions about their welfare, and Maia— just as unused to receiving them—hardly knew how to answer.

"Tired? Oh, no, I'm fine, no danger," she said after a moment. "Mum, what's that cart—"

"And he got the boat all right, did he?" interrupted Morca. "He's gone off?"

"Well, 'course he did," answered Maia with a touch of impatience. "Why wouldn't he?" Then, impudently, "Hadn't, I shouldn't be here. The cart, mum, what's that queer-looking cart outside? Who's brought it?"

"Ah!" said Morca, still smiling. "Strikes me some people’s left their eyes outside in the sun, or maybe they're just not very bright today. Haven't you seen—"

"What's up with that curtain, then?" asked Maia suddenly, looking across at the screened-off sleeping place on the other side of the room. "Hens got in behind it or something?"

"Oh, cat's been asleep in there all morning," answered Morca quickly. "But never you mind that now, Miss Maia; just look behind you at what's laying on the table. Walked right past it, didn't you?"

"On the table? Oh!" Maia, having turned about, stood staring, fingers on either side of her open mouth.

Lying across the table—otherwise bare and unusually clean—was a cream-colored dress made of some smooth, softly-shining material, its bodice embroidered with blue and green flowers. Displayed thus in the center of the squalid, smoky room it appeared marvelously beautiful and so inexplicably out of place as almost to seem unreal— a vision or an illusion. Maia, gazing at it speechlessly, felt a kind of alarm. If something like this could materialize out of nowhere, then almost anything could happen. But what?

Walking over to the table, she looked at the dress more closely. Of course, she thought with some chagrin, she could hardly expect to be much of a judge of such things. The effect of its beauty was to subdue her, making her feel grubby and ignorant.

"D'you like it?" asked Morca from behind her.

"Like it?" echoed Maia abstractedly. The question seemed to have no meaning. It was rather as though her mother had asked her whether she liked the lake or the stars. Tentatively, she put out a hand towards the thick, creamy material of the skirt.

"Better not touch it just yet, Maia dear," said Morca. "Not until you've had a wash. There's some nice hot water ready for you on the fire, look."

Her mother's unusually amiable and coaxing manner— certainly she did not normally go out of her way to encourage the girls to wash—following upon the apparition of the strange cart and the dress, completed Maia's bewilderment. She sat down on the bench beside the table.

"What's it all mean, then, mum? Who's brought that cart and what for? Where is he now? Did he bring this dress and all?"

Morca waddled to the hearth, took up the pannikin and began ladling hot water into the tub.

"Well, it's good news for you right enough," she said. "There's two of 'em. They sell fine clothes to rich people, that's what. Clothes the like of that over there."

"Sell fine clothes?" Maia, ceasing for a moment her contemplation of the dress, turned, frowning in puzzlement, and looked at her mother. "I don't understand. What are they doing here? They can't think to be selling such things to the likes of us. Anyway, where are they?"

"Oh—I reckon they're gone down to the lake for a bit of a cool-off," said Morca. "They'll be back soon, I expect, so you'd best just hurry, hadn't you?"

"Hurry? What d'you mean, hurry?" Then, petulantly, "Why can't you explain so's I c'n understand?"

"Yes, I should do, shouldn't I?" answered Morca. "Well, I said it was good news for you—all depending on whether you fancy it, I suppose. These men have come from Thettit, that's where, and their work's selling clothes the like of that to the sort of folk who can afford to buy them— the Governor and his captains and their ladies, I dare say. Seems they were in 'The Safe Moorings' yesterday and Frarnli told them you were near enough the prettiest girl in these parts. So they've just come out this morning to see for themselves, haven't they?"

"Come from Meerzat this morning? I never saw them on the road."

"Very like they might have gone by while you just happened to be off the road," replied Morca, putting down the pannikin and looking up at her sharply. Maia bit her lip and made no reply.

"You never heard tell the way fine clothes are sold?" went on her mother. "Dresses like that aren't sold in shops or markets, you know, like the soft of things we buy— raisins and pitch and that. Oh dear, no! The merchants who deal in these things take them to rich folks' houses in special covered carts like that one outside, and then show them privately, that's what they do."

"Well, what if they do?" retorted Maia, resentful of this instruction.

"When they go to the rich folks' houses, miss, they take a pretty girl with them, and the way of it is, she puts on the dresses so the rich folks and their wives—or maybe their shearnas, for all I know—can see the way they look when they're on, and whether they fancy them. Well," she added, as Maia stood staring at her with dawning comprehension, "d'you like the idea? There may be good pickings, I dare say. Anyway, they've waited a goodish time now to have a look at you."

"You mean—you mean they want me to do that kind of work?"

"Well, I'm telling you, aren't I?" snapped Morca. "That's if they like the look of you, of course. Do it right and I dare say you might make more money than me or your stepfather ever did—that's if you can keep yourself out of trouble. You'd best get stripped off and washed, my girl, that's what; and then into that dress—there's a silk shift goes with it, look, laid on the bed there—and then I'll call them in and you can ask them all your silly questions for yourself."

"But—but would I go on living here, or what? Does Tharrin know? He can't do, else he'd have said something—"

"All I know is they spoke to Frarnli and then they came out here. If you don't fancy it, don't do it, Miss Particular. I dare say there's plenty of other girls'll jump at the chance; and the money, too." And thereupon Morca, shrugging her shoulders, sat down again, picked up the half-plucked fowl and began pulling out handfuls of feathers with an air of detachment.

Filled with nervous excitement and perplexity, Maia stood looking at the dress with its pattern of big flowers like open, gazing eyes. In her fancy they became the eyes of the rich lords and their ladies, all staring at her as she paced slowly down the length of some great, stone hall— she'd heard tell of such places—in Thettit or Ikat Yeldashay. There would be food and drink in plenty, no doubt—admiration—money—how was she to know? How would Tharrin come into it?—as of course he must, somehow. One question after another rose in her mind. One thing was certain, however. She, Maia, could not simply say no and thereupon forget the matter and go out with the buckets to the lake—her usual chore at this time of day. Here, clearly, was a wonderful opportunity; yet a disturbing one too—to step into the unknown. No doubt the men themselves would be better able than Morca to answer her questions.

At this moment a happy thought came to her. Of course, she need agree to nothing now; she could merely find out from the men as much as possible, ask them to give her a few days to think it over, and get Tharrin's advice when he came home!

Walking over to the tub by the fire, she stepped into the warm water and then, raising her arms, pulled both smock and shift over her head and tossed them aside.

"I'll just give you a hand, dear," said Morca. "There's a nice little keech of tallow here and I'll mix some ashes into it for you."

Maia, naked, stooped for the pannikin and poured warm water pleasurably over her shoulders.

"Where's Kelsi and Nala, then?" she asked. "Isn't it just about time for dinner?"

"Ah, I dare say they won't be long now," answered Morca comfortably. "Just turn round, dear, and I'll soap your back down. My, you are getting a fine big girl, aren't you? Turn a few heads in Thettit, I wouldn't wonder."

She certainly seemed to have recovered her good humor, adding hot water from the cauldron, soaping each of Maia's feet, as she lifted them, with a handful of tallow and wood-ash, and making her turn this way and that until at length she stepped out to towel herself dry, back and front, in the mid-day sunshine pouring through the open door. When she was ready Morca, having washed her own hands, helped her into the silk shift and the amazing dress.

It felt strange; heavy and enveloping. Maia's sensation was of being altogether encumbered and swathed in the thick, smooth material falling from shoulders to ankles. Awkwardly, and filled now with a certain sense of self-doubt, she tried a turn across the room and stumbled as the skirt swung against her knees like a half-full sack—or so it felt. Looking down, she saw the blue and green flowers curving outward over her bosom, while their stems seemed gathered again at her waist by the corded girdle binding them together. "Oh, that's clever!" she thought. "That's pretty! Who'd ever 'a thought of that, now?" Clearly, there was more in this clothes business than she had ever imagined.

"It feels sort of heavy, mum," she said. "I dunno as I'm going to be able to manage this—not without they show me."

"Oh, they'll show you, no danger," replied Morca. "There now, drat! We've got no salt, look! What's left's all damped out! Slip the dress off, Maia dear, and just run up to old Drigga and borrow a handful, will you?"

Maia stared. "Damp? At this time of year?"

Morca shrugged. "I must have left it too near the steam or something, I suppose. Never mind. Won't take you more than a minute or two, will it?"

"That's a job for Nala, more like," said Maia. "Running errands."

"Well, she's not here, is she?" retorted Morca. "Sooner you're gone, sooner you'll be back again, won't you? Come on, now, I'll just help you out of the dress."

When Maia returned a quarter of an hour later with half a cupful of old Drigga's salt, the visitors had evidently returned from the lake. While still some little distance up the lane she could hear their voices raised in conversation with Morca, but as she came in at the door they stopped talking and turned to look at her.

They were certainly not at all what she was expecting. In her mind's eye she had unconsciously formed a picture of tall, dignified men—she was not sure how old they would be—but certainly well-dressed and-groomed; exotic, perhaps—dark-skinned, with pointed beards and gold rings in their ears, like the merchants in tales and ballads. Looking at these men, however, her first thought was that they would have appeared rough in a crowd of drovers at Meerzat market. One, certainly, was tall, and looked strong as a wrestler: his long, black hair, however, was lank and dirty, the bridge of his nose was broken, and down one of his cheeks ran a ragged, white scar. His hands looked like those of a man accustomed to rough work. His companion, younger, and hardly taller than Maia herself, was standing a little behind him, his back to the fire, picking his blackened teeth with a splinter of wood. He had sandy hair and a slight cast in one eye. He leered at Maia, but then at once looked away, dropping the splinter. A length of thin cord was wound round his waist like a belt and in this was stuck an iron spike. His feet, in metal-toed wooden clogs, fidgeted with a shuffling sound on the earth floor.

Her mother, seated on the stool, had finished plucking the fowl and was now drawing it, flinging the guts into the fire as she worked. Maia looked about for the dress, but it was nowhere to be seen.

"Here she is back, then, your fine young lady," said Morca, standing up and wiping her hands on her apron. "What d'you think, then; will she do for you?"

"Here's the salt, mum," said Maia, embarrassed and not knowing what else to say.

"The salt? Oh, ah, to be sure, the salt," answered Morca. "Right; well, put it down on the side there, Maia, that's a good girl. These are the gentlemen, then, as are ready to make your fortune if you want."

"Oh, yer, that's right, that's right," said the sandy-haired man, speaking in a kind of quick, low gabble. "Make y' fortune, that's right."

Maia waited for one or the other to say more, but neither did so. A silence fell, the tall man merely glowering bleakly down at her, while the other continued his shuffling from side to side.

"Well, then, we'll just have a drink on it," said the shorter man at length. "D'you want to step outside for a minute or two, missus, or how d'you want to settle?"

Maia now realized even more clearly that she must talk to Tharrin before agreeing to anything. Little as she knew about the ways of the world, it was plain that these men must be—could only be—the servants or underlings of the real dress-merchants themselves. She had not known her mother was such a fool.

Obviously, she would have to find out for herself who and where their master was and tell them to say that Tharrin would take her to see him in a few days' time.

Lucky I've got a bit of a head on my shoulders, she thought. Mother's no help; I'll just have to handle this myself. I've got to show them I'm a smart girl, that's what.

"Do you want me to put the dress on now?" she asked, speaking directly to the taller man.

"What? The dress? No!" he answered in a kind of growl; and resumed his silence.

"Oh, no; no, no," said the other, withdrawing one hand from beneath his clothes. "Nice girl like you, do very well, very well. Yer, yer."

"You understand, of course," said Maia, assuming an air and feeling very self-possessed and business-like as she recalled the words of a cattle-dealer who had come to see Tharrin a week or two before, "you understand that I can't just rightly conclude the matter at this moment? I shall need to have a word with my partner—I mean my stepfather—and see you again. Where shall I be able to find you?"

That was good, she thought—"be able to find you."

The shorter man burst into a high-pitched laugh, but made no reply.

"That's all right, dear," said Morca. "The gentlemen understand very well. They've just asked us to have a drink with them before they go back to Meerzat, so let's all sit down nice and comfortable, shall we, and take it easy?"

For the first time Maia noticed that four battered pewter goblets were standing on the table, already filled. They certainly did not belong to the house. Suddenly it occurred to her that this might be some sort of custom, like striking hands, or earnest money (she knew about that), which might later be held to have committed her. Ah, but I've got my wits about me, she thought. Mother's only thinking of the money, but there's a lot more to it than that. I'm not going to lose my head or rush into anything.

"Very pleased, I'm sure," she said primly. "But this is quite without any—er—without any promising, of course. A drink, but not to say a bargain yet: that's right, isn't it?" She smiled graciously at the sandy-haired man—the other seemed just a grumpy fool, she thought—and sat down on the bench.

"Oh, no, no," he gabbled, seating himself beside her. "Oh, no bargain, no!" The tall man remained standing, but Morca sat down opposite, picking up a cup in each hand. Maia noticed that she was sweating heavily and that her hands were trembling. The sultry weather, she thought; she had seen enough of pregnancy to know that it sometimes had this kind of effect.

"Feeling a bit queer, mum?" she asked. "You all right?"

"Oh, well, this'll put me right," answered Morca with a laugh. "It'll pass off quick enough. Now here's yours, sir, and this one's for you, Maia—"

Stooping, the tall man, without a word, leant over and took out of her hand the goblet she was offering to Maia. Morca bit her lip—and no wonder, thought Maia; we may be poor, but at least we've got better manners than that— and then gave her one of the remaining two goblets which the sandy-haired man pushed across the table.

"Well, here's good health to us all!" said Morca rather shrilly.

Maia took a sip of tepid, yellow wine. The taste was strong and strange to her, though perhaps a little like the licorice sweetmeats she had once or twice tasted at Meerzat. It was not altogether pleasant, but it was certainly heady; of course (she told herself), as Tharrin had once said, girls of her age had to be at it for a while before they could really enjoy the taste of certain wines; but it would not do, before these men, to appear childishly inexperienced.

"It's very nice," she said, making herself take a longer draft. "Yeldashay, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're very nice, yer, very nice girl," said the sandy-haired man, touching his goblet to hers. Raising one hand, he stroked Maia's shoulder; then dropped his arm, laughed and looked away. Maia, to cover her confusion, took another mouthful of the wine. At least that was better than the man's breath, which had quite disgusted her. And no wonder, she thought, with those teeth. I wonder whether his employer knows he behaves like this when he's out working for him? Still, I'd better not risk offending him, I suppose—he might say something against me when he gets back. She edged a foot or two away along the bench.

"That's a lovely dress you brought with you, isn't it?" she said, to resume the conversation. "The flowers are beautifully embroidered. Do you carry the dresses round in that cart? I suppose that's what it's for, is it—so they can lie unfolded, and it's shut-in on top to keep out the dust an' that?"

"Oh, yer, that's the way, that's the way," answered the man. "There's lots in the cart now, plenty of others— prettier than that, too."

"Prettier than that?" asked Maia. "Really?"

"Oh, yer, yer," he said, draining his goblet. "Want to come and see? Finish up what you got left, and I'll show y' if you like."

"I'll finish it when I come back," said Maia. "I'd like to see the dresses."

"Go on, you can drink up that little drop, dear," urged Morca.

"Too strong for you, is it?" laughed the man. "Not had any the like of that before, eh? Like it when you're older, when you're older, that's it."

"I like it now!" retorted Maia indignantly.

With this she finished the wine, swallowing with an effort which she did her best to conceal. Then, standing up, she led the way across to the door.

The tall man followed her closely, stooping under the lintel as he came out. The leaves hung unmoving in the hot, noonday air and the lake, level to the horizon, reflected a cloudless sky. The birds had fallen silent. Even the oxen under the trees seemed to have ceased their restless stamping and tossing. The stillness was so deep that Maia's ears could just catch, far off, the sound of the falls. I'll go down there and cool off this afternoon, she thought. Where's Kelsi and Nala got to, anyway? Reckon it must be well past dinner-time. Like to see the dresses, though.

Crossing the waste patch, she caught her foot in a tangle of bindweed, stumbled and almost fell.

Recovering herself, she realized that she was feeling dizzy. That wine had certainly gone to her head. She wished the dealers had not come while Tharrin was away. The sandy-haired man had quite upset her with his wretched fidgeting and pawing. Still, I suppose I'll have to learn, now, how to deal with that sort of nonsense, she thought. Bound to come across the likes of him now and again, I dare say.

Coming up to the cart she swayed, closing her eyes and biting on her thumb to bring herself round.

Unspeaking, the tall man lifted her bodily, turned her round and sat her down on the iron step below the cart door.

The sycamore leaves had become a green, mottled blur flowing up and over her head. She tried shutting her eyes, but at once opened them again, sickened by the sensation of turning a kind of floating somersault.

"I'm—I'm—trying to—" she said gravely to the sandy-haired man, who had taken the padlock out of the staple and was opening the door. She bent forward, head between her knees, and as she did so the door swung outwards behind her, its corner just brushing her left shoulder.

"All right, Perdan?" said the sandy-haired man. The other nodded and pulled Maia to her feet.

"Right, miss," said the sandy-haired man. "Now you just have a look, have a look inside now, and tell us what you can see. Out loud, now, so's we can all hear."

Maia, finding herself facing the cart, stared into the sliding, trickling gloom of its interior. She could see nothing— neither dresses nor anything else. The oblong space, insofar as she was capable of perceiving it, looked completely empty. She began to speak, but then found that for some reason she could only do so very slowly, word by word.

"I—come—over—funny," she said. "Want—mother— tell—her—"

As her surroundings misted and dissolved, she felt herself lifted once more and pushed forward supine into the long, narrow body of the cart. Before the door had shut upon her she was already lying senseless, stretched full length on the floor.