46: SUBA

Coming to herself, Maia's first sensation was of a humid, fenny odor of mud and old leaves, and a damp air so heavy as to seem hard to breathe. She could feel soft ground beneath her, warm and molded by the pressure of her body; and then the throbbing of her wounded shin. It must be daylight now, for there was red behind her closed eyelids. Recalling the crossing, she realized that they must have carried her out of the river: so now she was on the other side of the Valderra—in Suba. This knowledge came flooding into her like icy water, bringing with it a sense less of danger than of being utterly adrift, beyond all possible benefit of past experience or common sense. Had Kembri envisaged that she might be taken into Suba? Probably he had supposed that if Bayub-Otal had any intention of crossing the Valderra, he would find it impossible because of the watch on the fords.

Not even at Puhra, when Occula had revealed to her that she had been sold into slavery, had she felt so helpless to envisage how she stood or what was likely to befall her. What sort of a place was this?

Would the Subans be friendly, or would she be entirely dependent on the protection of Bayub-Otal? This King Kamat—the arch-enemy of Bekla— was she likely to cross his path?

She knew the answers to none of these questions. The prospect of opening her eyes—of showing that she had regained consciousness and thereby returning once more to all the stress and anxiety of the past few days—frightened her. As long as she remained unmoving, with closed eyes, she had a respite. She lay still; but listened intently.

Some sort of movement was going on near-by. A shadow fell across her eyelids. Then it seemed that two people were kneeling—or sitting, or crouching-—beside her. Someone felt her pulse; she was careful to keep her wrist limp and let it drop when it was released. A voice she did not know, but could now recognize as Suban, said, "And how did she come by that burn on her shoulder, Anda-Nokomis?"

Bayub-Otal's voice replied, "Oh, in Bekla, too. That's what their priests call questioning."

"I don't think she's in any danger," said the first voice. "Pulse is steady—breathing's easy—no recent injuries ex-cept the shin there. Fine-looking girl, isn't she? And the resemblance—as you say, it's amazing. How was she on the journey?"

"Like a falcon," replied Bayub-Otal. "She never complained, either."

"You say you lost poor young Thel in the river?"

"I'm afraid so."

There was a pause.

"Well, you'd better put her to bed, Anda-Nokomis: I think she's nothing more than tired out; certain amount of fear and strain, too, I suppose."

"She can't have been free from fear for days," said Bayub-Otal.

"But she didn't say so?"

"No."

The voice uttered a sympathetic murmur. "Don't worry, Anda-Nokomis; I'd expect her to recover by tomorrow."

This exchange made Maia feel a good deal less apprehensive. The voice, which was slow, deliberate and rather deep, sounded like that of quite an old man. Obviously he was friendly towards both herself and Bayub-Otal: and she was not going to be made to get up and go on; or not just yet, anyway. To go to bed and stay there—that was more than enough for the moment. Sooner or later she would have to let them see she was conscious, so it might as well be now.

She moaned slightly, drew a couple of deep, sighing breaths, opened her eyes and looked round her.

She was lying near the edge of a long, more-or-less triangular patch of rough grass, bordered on either side by dense trees. The point of the triangle was behind her, to her right, and here a track came out from among the trees, leading on past her to a cluster of stilted huts about a hundred yards off. Near these stood a little crowd of dirty, rough-looking people—men, women and children—-all staring in her direction. They did not seem to be talking much and were showing no particular excitement. In fact, she thought, they rather resembled cattle in a field gazing at a stranger.

Lenkrit and Pillan were standing a few yards away, together with two or three other men—obvious Subans; short, swarthy and broad-featured—all barefooted and dressed in the same sort of garment; rough, shapeless smocks made out of some kind of smooth, grayish skin unknown to her.

Bayub-Otal was kneeling beside her, together with an old man with a lined, brown face, deep-sunk eyes and a shock of gray hair. Round his neck, on a leather cord, was a bone amulet in the shape of a fish with gaping, toothed jaws. This, in fact, was the first thing Maia saw as she opened her eyes, for since its owner was bending over her it was hanging forward almost into her face. A good deal of the fetid, muddy odor, she now realized, came from him: at least, it was all around, but it would have been less strong if he had not been there. His look, however, was kind enough. Meeting it, she felt still less afraid, and for one strange, here-and-gone moment even had the notion that she had seen it somewhere before. It expressed not only concern but also a kind of firm, undemanding patience, suggesting that by and large he expected to find people suffering and that even if he could not do a great deal about it he was in no particular hurry to leave them and be off about his own affairs. Nevertheless, he was a somewhat startling figure with whom to be confronted at close quarters, and Maia involuntarily drew back a little, turning her gaze towards Bayub-Otal.

He, though looking as tired as she felt, smiled down at her reassuringly.

"You've nothing to be afraid of, Maia. We're in Suba. No one can take you back to Bekla from here."

Uncontrollably, the tears sprang to her eyes. She sat sobbing on the spongy, warm ground, her wet hair hanging round her shoulders, her mouth and nose running down her chin. Bayub-Otal put his arm round her, then rolled up his cloak and, placing it behind her head, pressed her gently back until she was once more lying down.

"Let her cry if she wants to, Anda-Nokomis," said the shaggy man. "It'll do her good. She couldn't very well cry before, could she?"

"Well, she didn't, anyway," replied Bayub-Otal.

Tescon came up the track from the direction of the village and spoke to Lenkrit.

"They've got a hut ready for us now, sir, and some food."

"What about Maia?" asked Lenkrit.

"One of the women's going to look after her, sir."

"Do you think she can walk, Anda-Nokomis, or shall we carry her again?" asked Lenkrit.

The shaggy man, stretching out a hand, helped Maia to her feet. Her sense of not wanting to go on, of not being able to face anything new, had returned. She felt all reluctance; yet she let him give her his arm and went with him across the grass, past the staring, muttering group and on between the huts.

Hard-trodden earth; wood-smoke; a peering face at a window, scraggy fowls pecking here and there, a fishing-net spread to dry, the crying of a baby, tattered garments hanging on a line. He helped her up a short, rough ladder into a murky hut where her feet sounded hollow on the boards, and here an old woman spoke to her—something about food—she could hardly understand a word She heard Bayub-Otal replying that she was exhausted and needed sleep. The old woman, clucking and nodding sympathetically, knelt beside a pallet on the floor, drew back the coverlet and pummeled a couple of dirty cushions. Maia, smiling as best she could and wiping her running nose on her arm, lay down and shut her eyes. After a minute she asked for water, and as soon as she had drunk it—it tasted muddy—she fell asleep. Not even the excitement of the villagers below disturbed her, as Lenkrit, their baron, told them that the stranger who had forced the ford with him by night was none other than Anda-Nokomis, the defrauded and rightful Ban of Suba.

Not long afterwards all four of the Subans—even Pillan could hardly stay on his feet—having eaten, went to bed and slept as soundly as Maia.

Maia herself woke about the middle of the afternoon. She no longer felt exhausted, but her shin was painful and she had a headache. The room was close and stuffy and the muddy smell seemed everywhere—in the air, in her mouth, on her very skin. For some time she lay unmoving, conscious only of her discomfort. At length, when some creature stirred in the thatch above—a dry, stealthy rustle followed by a brief scuttling—she turned her head quickly in the direction of the noise. Sometimes, as she well knew, things fell out of thatch and landed on you. As she did so she saw Bayub-Otal standing with his back to her, gazing out of the window opening. Hearing her move, he looked round and smiled.

"Feeling better?"

She nodded and tried to smile back, but her heart was like lead. She sat up, pressing fingers over her aching eyes.

"Are you feverish?" he asked. "Tell me—really—how you feel."

"I'm all right, my lord: only I've got a headache and my shin feels that bad."

"Try to eat something: you'll feel better. People often get headaches when they first come to Suba—it's the marsh air—but it soon passes off."

"I'd like to wash, my lord. Reckon that'd make me feel better than anything."

He sat down on a rickety stool under the window.

"Suban people mostly wash out of doors: I'll call a girl, shall I, to show you wherever it is they go here?"

"Oh. Well—well, at that rate, my lord, I think I'd rather eat first."

"Just as you like." He smiled again. "Just as you like, Maia. You're not a slave anymore, now."

He called from the window and after a little the old woman clambered up into the room, carrying a flask and a clay bowl. These she put down, smiled toothlessly at Maia, mumbled a few words to Bayub-Otal and disappeared again.

"She's gone to get you some bread and fish. People eat a lot of fish here; there's not much else, you see. This will be fish soup, I expect— akrow, they call it." He filled the bowl from the flask. "Yes, it is. It's good, too. I had some myself earlier on."

She took the bowl from him. The liquid was pale yellow, not much thicker than water and surfaced with tiny, iridescent circles like a clear gravy. White fragments of fish were floating in it. Seeing her hesitate, he shook his head.

"You just gulp it down. No spoons here. Pick out the big bits with your fingers, but watch for bones."

She tilted the bowl to her lips. The soup was hot enough, and its taste not unpleasant. It left a coating of grease on her lips and the roof of her mouth.

The old woman returned with wine, black bread and two crisp-skinned, baked fish on a plate.

"Would you like me to break these up for you?" he asked. "It can be awkward till you've got the knack."

He laughed. "I'm rather good at it; or I used to be."

He was plainly in good spirits. She watched as he slit each fish along one side with his knife, took out tail, backbone and head in one piece and threw it out the window.

"And that, too, you eat with your fingers," he said, handing the fish to her. "Makes it taste much better, I assure you."

For the life of her she could not bring herself to take it in good part. The room seemed stifling and her headache, if anything, worse.

"Are the people all so poor?"

"Oh, no, these people aren't poor: they just haven't got any money."

She ate the bread and fish, sucked her fingers and wiped them on the coverlet, which from the look of it was not going to take any harm from a little thing like that. When she had eaten a few figs and swallowed down some of the rough wine, her headache grew duller and she began to feel drowsy again.

He watched her, sitting on his stool. "Poor Maia! How many days is it now since we left Bekla?"

She knew that. "This is the sixth day, my lord." 

"Don't call me that anymore. Call me Anda-Nokomis, like everybody else. Six days—so it is. I don't wonder you're tired out. I'm sure there are very few girls who could have done it at all. You'll need at least another day's rest: but don't worry, Maia—I'll leave you in good hands, I promise."

She stared at him, frightened. "Leave me?" He got up and once more stood looking out the win-dow.

After a few moments he replied rather hesitantly, "Well, as far as I'm concerned, you see, it's become very urgent. I've got to get down to Melvda-Rain as soon as I possibly can, and so has Lenkrit. He tells me his son will be there already, with the men from upper Suba. I've no idea what Karnat's planning to do. If he was one of our own people it would be different, but with allies there's always the risk of misunderstanding and ill-feeling. He's got to be able to trust us; he's got to believe that we mean what we say."

Maia could make little of this, except that he meant to go away and leave her behind. Her silent incomprehension seemed to recall to him that he was speaking to her in particular. He came back across the room and sat beside her on the floor.

"I'll explain," he said. "King Karnat of Terekenalt has his army in camp about thirty or forty miles south of here, at a place called Melvda-Rain. We—that's to say the Su-bans—are joining him as allies, which means that Lenkrit and I, as Suban leaders, need to get down there at once. We're leaving now—before dark. We're going by water— all traveling's by water in Suba. We'll get there about mid-day tomorrow. Once we get clear of these eastern marshes it's more or less straight all the way, down the Nordesh. You'll be following as soon as possible—" 

"Me, my lord—-I mean Anda-Nokomis: why me?"

"Oh—well—" He hesitated. "I won't explain now: but I'll see to it that you're told before you get to Melvda." 

"If I've got to go, Anda-Nokomis, can't I go with you?" 

"You're not fit to travel tonight, Maia, that's certain. You need more rest and sleep. I've suggested you start tomorrow, in the afternoon. Lenkrit's leaving Tescon, so that you'll be able to travel with someone who's not entirely a stranger; and I've found a sensible, steady girl to go with you."

"No one else? Just those two?"

He was silent, thinking. "Yes, of course there ought to be an older man as well. I don't know who'd—"

Suddenly he looked up, smiling. "Well, of course! U-Nasada's going to Melvda—he can easily wait and go with you! There couldn't be anyone better."

"U-Nasada?"

"The old man you saw this morning—the doctor. You'll be safer with him than you would be with forty soldiers. Everyone in Suba knows and respects Nasada, you see. He goes everywhere—all over the place."

"Is he a priest?" To Maia, as to everyone in the empire, healing was associated with religion, or at least with magic.

"I believe he was once: I remember hearing that he started as a priest, so I suppose strictly speaking he still is. But ever since I can remember, he's been known simply as a doctor. Everyone looks up to him because he gives his skill for nothing; or for very little, anyway. It's not every doctor who understands our illnesses in Suba, you see—the marsh-fevers, the agues and all the rest of it. Very few doctors want to come here. It's not like any other province, and there's nothing to be made out of people who've got no money. Nasada knows more about Suba than anyone else; and no one's going to make trouble for him. They're only too glad to see him coming."

"Does he live here: in this village, I mean?"

"He doesn't really live anywhere: he's nearly always on the move. It was a piece of good luck for us that he happened to be here last night."

She could not find it in herself to respond to his cheerfulness. Her own feelings were not far removed from despair. She might as wen, she thought, have been swept away with Thel in the Valderra. Used though she had always been to making the best of things, what was there now to make the best of? She recalled something Occula had once said: "Wherever else you go, banzi, keep out of Suba. You want the blood running out of your tairth, not your venda." Suba was a by-word for every sickness of the stomach and bowels. This headache and malaise— might it be the bloody flux that was coming on her now? She had heard tell, too, of the marsh-fever, that could knock down a strong, healthy girl like a blow from a fist and kill her in a few hours. Her body—her beautiful body! She thought of Sencho fondling and grunting with pleasure in the cool, scented, fly-screened cleanliness of the garden-room. "The marsh for frogs," ran the saying, "and Suba for the Subans." Kembri would learn soon enough, after last night, that she had been taken across the Valderra.

She would be written off as dead.

Bayub-Otal stood up with the air of a busy man unable for the moment to spare her more time. "Well, I may see you again, Maia, before I go: but anyhow we won't be apart for long. I'll ask the girl to come and ,see you. Her name's Luma, by the way." Stooping, he touched her hand for a moment and was gone down the ladder.

The girl did not come at once, however, and Maia, dropping off into a half-dream, seemed to herself to be walking round the pain in her shin, which had become a kind of heavy, carved block, like those in the Slave Market at Bekla. Somewhere Nennaunir, cool and inaccessible, was standing at the top of a staircase among sycamore trees.

She woke slowly, and lay sweating as the dream gradually dispersed. The flies buzzed in the dusky room and a gleam of red sunlight, slanting through a crack, dazzled a moment in her eyes. After a time she became aware of a curious, droning sound, something like the wind against the edge of a shutter, but varying in tone, rather as though some large flying insect were in the room. Raising herself and looking round her, she saw a girl sitting cross-legged on the floor near the ladder-entrance. Her back was half-turned towards Maia and she was gazing idly downward. The droning—a kind of humming murmur—came from her. It was repetitive, a succession of five or six sustained notes, predictable as the song of a bird. There was no clear beginning or end to the cadence and the singer, indeed, appeared ho more conscious of making it than she might be of breathing or blinking. With one forefinger she was slowly tracing an invisible pattern on the boards, but this movement, too, seemed recurrent, a kind of counterpart of her drone. On the one wrist which Maia could see was a notched, rather ugly wooden bracelet, stained unevenly in blue and green. Her dirty feet were bare and her hair was gathered in a plait tied with a ragged strip of leather.

This, surely, must be the girl of whom Bayub-Otal had spoken. Watching her, Maia began thinking how best to go about making use of her for her own comfort and relief in this dismal place. Yes, and for her instruction, too, for there must be plenty she would need to learn. It was a pity she had nothing to give her, for it was important that the girl should not think her stuck-up or feel impatient with her for not knowing Suban ways.

The thought of pestilence came scuttling and creeping back into her mind: her very life might well depend on the girl. There must be ways of protecting oneself—things to do and things to avoid. If only she could contrive to avoid getting ill, then one day, somehow or other, the opportunity might arise to escape: though how—and here her despair returned, so that she shivered in the stuffy room— she could form no least idea. Better to think no more about that, but get on with what was immediately to hand.

She tried to impart a friendly tone to her voice. "Are you Luma?"

She had expected the girl to start or jump up, but on the contrary she gave no immediate sign of having heard her. Then, rather as though reluctantly turning aside from something else which had been absorbing her attention, she lifted her finger from the floor, raised her head, blinked, smiled and nodded. She had dark, heavy-lidded eyes, a broad nose and full lips; and might, thought Maia, have been quite a pretty girl—something after the style of the Deelguy—if it had not been for her sallow, mottled skin and a weeping sore at one corner of her mouth, which she licked nervously before replying.

"Luma." She nodded and smiled again. Maia guessed her to be about seventeen.

"I hope you're going to be able to teach me how you do things here," she said "Only I've never been in Suba in my life, see, and where I've come from it's all different."

The girl spread her hands, smiled again and said something that sounded like "Shagreh."

"Anda-Nokomis said you're going to come with me to Melvda-Rain," said Maia. "Do you know it? Have you been there before?"

The girl nodded. This was better than Maia had hoped for.

"You have? What's it like?"

"Shagreh," said the girl, smiling. Then, as Maia paused, puzzled, she said, in a thick Suban accent, "You'd like some food?"

"What? Oh—no; no, thank you," answered Maia. "I had something not long ago."

The girl, however, appeared to take this for an assent, for she got up and was plainly about to go down the ladder. Maia called her back.

"What I really want," she said, standing up and smiling, "is to wash." The girl looked at her nervously, scratching at one armpit and apparently wondering what she had done wrong. "I want to wash," repeated Maia. Still getting no response, she began to mime the act of stooping and splashing water over her neck and face.

At all events there was nothing wrong with her mimicry. The girl's face tit up with comprehension.

"Oh, wash!" she said, laughing with pleasure at having grasped Maia's meaning. She paused, still smiling.

At length she added, "You want— now?"

"Yes, please," said Maia. "You wash out of doors here, don't you?" She pointed through the door opening. "Will you show me where it is?"

Luma nodded, raised her palm to her forehead and stood aside for Maia to go first down the ladder.

Outside, a light breeze was blowing, stirring loose wisps of thatch under the eaves and rippling the tall, yellow-brown grass beyond the huts. As they set off together, a little group of staring, pot-bellied children, some naked, others in rags, fell in at their heels and followed until Luma, turning and clapping her hands as though they had been chickens, sent them scattering.

It was early evening; an hour, certainly, when any village might be expected to be ceasing from labor, changing the rhythm of the sun for the gentler rhythms of nightfall, supper and firelight. Even so, Maia was struck by the listlessness which seemed to fill the whole little settlement, as though (she thought) they were all under water, or in one of those dreams in which people can move only like beetles crawling over each other on a branch. Everyone she saw appeared languid and apathetic—nowhere a song or a burst of laughter. The very birds, it seemed, were not given to singing, though now and then, as they approached the further end of the village, the harsh cry of some water-fowl—coot, perhaps, or jabiru—echoed from the surrounding swamp.

Luma appeared to feel no particular obligation to talk and Maia, after a few attempts to do so herself, walked on beside her in silence. At length she asked "How many people are there in the village? About how many, I mean?"

Luma smiled and nodded.

"How many?" persisted Maia, pointing to the huts.

"How many you think?" replied Luma, with an air of deferring to higher wisdom.

"I don't know. Three hundred?"

"Shagreh, shagreh." Luma nodded corroboratively.

"Or five hundred, perhaps?"

"Shagreh."

They had now left the huts and were walking between clumps of grass and rushes, on a path that wound between shallow pools and mud that was half water. Here the marshy smell was mingled with the scent of some kind of wild herb, peppery and sharp, and now and then with a sweeter fragrance, as though somewhere near there must be a bed of marsh lily or roseweed. In places, split logs had been laid together, flat side up, to pave the path, and over these Luma led the way, her bare feet pressing down the wood so that now and then the warm, stagnant water rose nearly to her ankles. The light was fading and as they went on the croaking of frogs, which at first had been intermittent, became continuous, spreading round them on every side.

Passing through a thicket of plumed reeds and club-rushes taller than themselves, the two girls came to a still, open pool about thirty yards broad—some backwater of the Valderra, Maia supposed, for it did not seem to be flowing. In several places here the short-turfed, level bank had been cut into, to form a succession of regular inlets, each a few yards long and about three feet deep. In four or five of these, girls, either naked or stripped to the waist, were splashing and washing themselves. One, looking up, called a greeting to Luma.

Even on the Tonildan Waste Maia had possessed a towel of sorts and (as will be remembered) Morca used to make soap from tallow and ashes. Such refinements, however, seemed unknown here. Luma, pointing and smiling, be-came unexpectedly articulate.

"This is a good place. Not many others—" (Here Maia lost her drift.) "You needn't worry; none of the men come here. Have their own place."

Stooping, she pulled off her dull-gray, curiously supple smock (Maia could still form no idea from what it could be made), stepped into one of the inlets and began sluicing her head and shoulders with her hands. Maia, strolling a little way along the bank, looked down into the dark, smooth water. She could not see the bottom: it must be all of eight or ten feet deep and it was weedless. She dipped one hand in. It felt pleasant—somewhere between cool and lukewarm; if anything, a shade warmer than Serrelind at this time of year. In fact, it was just what she needed. She undressed and, kneeling above the water, became conscious once again of the beauty of her own body. She bent over the calm surface. It was not a perfect reflection— since leaving Fornis's house she had had no sight of a mirror—but as near as she could tell, neither her black eye nor her bruised lip were still noticeable. Looking at her breasts, she smiled to remember how Meris, on the night of the Rains banquet, had shown her jealousy of their firm prominence.

"Ah!" she whispered. "I've still got myself: that ought to be good for something, even in Suba."

Rising quickly to her feet, she plunged into the water and struck out, delighted to be swimming once again. Any road, she thought, this is something that hasn't changed. Water's where I'm at home. Water loves me.

She duck-dived a foot or two into the green gloom, swam on until she was breathless and came up through a surface glowing and reddened by the setting sun.

The splash and smack of the water filled her ears: there was no other sound. It was close, protective, a helmet of sound!—only herself and the water—like old days on Serrelind, with the evening light fading before supper-time. She swam a dozen strokes, then turned on her back and floated, looking up at the pink-tinged clouds.

Suddenly she became aware of a turmoil of high-pitched screeching coming from the bank. Luma and the other girls were gathered in a cluster, some clothed, some still undressed, but all waving at her, gesturing and calling shrilly. Since they were all shouting together—and in their Suban dialect, at that—she could make out very little, but what was clear enough was that they wanted her to come back at once. Whatever it was all about, it was evidently urgent and important to them. What a pity, she thought, just as she was enjoying herself. Still, she was in their hands: it wouldn't do to upset them.

She struck out for the bank and as she did so felt a sharp little stab at the back of one knee, like a needle or the bite of a horsefly. This was followed, a moment later, by a similar pain in her ankle. Each, if there had not been two at once, might almost have been—ow! there was another, in her thigh—one of those little pangs that everybody feels at times, but which seem to have no perceptible cause. Reaching the bank, she stretched up her arms to pull herself out, but before she could do so two of the girls had caught her hands and hauled her bodily on to the grass. They were all chattering together.

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"How could I have known?"

"She's a foreigner, she wasn't to know—"

"Stupid thing to do—"

"Take her back quickly, Luma!"

Maia, sitting up on the grass and looking down at her ankle, saw, just above the heel, a glistening, liver-colored strip some three or four inches long and not quite as thick as a rat's tail. As it compressed and then extended itself with an oozing, undulant motion, she realized with horrified disgust that it was alive. And now that she could see it, she could also feel that it had pierced her skin and was sucking.

Overcome with nausea, she was about to pluck at it when Luma caught her wrist.

"No, säiyett, no!"

"Let me go!" She struggled, retching and crying. She could now feel at least two more of the loathsome creatures on her legs and body. Why were the girls preventing her from pulling them off? It must be some horrible, crazy superstition: they were sacred; or else she, as a stranger, had to give them blood—something like that. She screamed, struggling in hysterical frenzy. Four girls were holding her down now, one to each arm and leg.

An older woman, swarthy, with discolored teeth, was bending over her, trying to speak. From sheer breathlessness Maia became silent and listened.

"Akrebah,säiyett: akrebah only come in the deep water. You should have stayed in one of the pools by the bank. If you try to pull them off they break; the head stays fastened on, then it has to be cut out. You have to touch them with a smoldering twig, then they let go."

The woman's look was direct and down-to-earth, but at least there was nothing contemptuous or unkind in it. She did not think her a fool for not knowing. Blinking back her tears, Maia did her best to pull herself together.

"You mean I got to go back to the village 'fore they can be took off?"

The woman nodded. "It's not much, really, long's you let them alone. But if you'd stayed out in that deep water, you'd have had thirty or forty—they're like flies. Then you'd have been real bad."

"How was I to know she didn't know?" Luma was indignant. "Even the children know about akrebah!"

Maia, determined to do what she could to recover the respect of these girls—one or two of whom clearly thought her either a born fool or else a spoiled lady too fine to blow her own nose—walked back to the huts uncomplaining and trying her best not to hurry. Clearly, she was just beginning to scratch the surface of Suba, a country where one had to beware of water, the natural blessing and plaything of mankind. No doubt she had more to discover. The air, of course (which she was drawing into her lungs), was tainted: that was common knowledge. How about the earth? It was difficult to see how fire could be, but perhaps burns turned putrid here.

As the woman had said, the removal of the leeches turned out to be a matter of no great difficulty. At the first hut they came to, behind which a fire was burning in an iron basket, matters were explained to the woman and her husband (who was eating his supper). The man, with a few perfunctory words of sympathy, broke off his meal and disappeared, Maia stripped yet again and the goodwife, taking a glowing twig, went to work so quickly and deftly that she felt almost nothing. About to dress again, she became aware that her hostess, who had slipped indoors, had brought something in a clay bowl which she was now offering to her.

"What is it?" she asked rather shrinkingly.

They all laughed. "Where's she from, then?" asked the woman. But on being told "Bekla," she said "Well, if they're all as pretty as she is, p'raps Bekla may be good for something after all. You haven't got no akrebah then, in Bekla?" she asked Maia.

"Dunno as we have," replied Maia, smiling. "Maybe you could spare us a few, could you?"

They laughed again, more kindly this time. Maia felt bold to ask once more what was in the jar.

"It's what we put on bites and that," said Luma. "To clean the place, like."

The woman dipped two fingers into the sharp-scented unguent, but then seemed restrained by a kind of doubt about actually touching Maia's naked body.

"Shagreh?" she asked rather hesitantly.

Maia nodded. "Shagreh."

A minute later she was dressed, the husband had come back and she was thanking them both, again silently regretting that she had nothing to give. However, they did not seem to expect anything. Everyone appeared pleased and clearly felt that the business of helping the poor, ignorant stranger had been adroitly handled.

Returning to her hut in the dusk, she and Luma were met by the old woman who, having greeted Maia palm to forehead, told her that Anda-Nokomis and Lenkrit had already left for Melvda-Rain.

"He couldn't wait, but said to give you his blessing, säiyett, and U-Nasada will go with you tomorrow."

"Thank you," replied Maia rather distantly. She was not sorry to have missed the departure of Bayub-Otal. Other things were on her mind; chiefly the business of self-pres-ervation. She was as good as a prisoner: nor was there here a single man of wealth or standing whom she might set out to attract with a view to acquiring a protector. No, all she could do for the time being was devote her wits to the business of not getting struck down by any of the hundred and one plagues that stalked this swamp.

Turning to Luma, she took her by the shoulders.

"Listen," she said, speaking firmly and unsmiling, "make a fire, bring the biggest pot you have, fill it with water and boil it. Do you understand?"

It took her some time to convince the girl that she meant what she said. Apparently everything here was governed by the time of day, and this was neither the time for lighting fires nor for boiling water. Luma had not expected to be set to work at this time. What did the young säiyett want water for? Hadn't she just bathed? Finally Maia had to threaten to take the matter to U-Nasada and also to report it to Anda-Nokomis as soon as they reached Melvda. At this Luma sulkily fetched the old woman and together, grumbling, they lit a fire and boiled three or four gallons of water. This Maia made them carry up the ladder into the hut. Although a good deal of it was spilled on the way, enough was left for her purposes.

As best she could, she washed herself (including her hair) from head to foot, and then her clothes and sandals. After this she put her wet clothes back on her wet body and felt a good deal better. She had already thought about the next problem—supper. She called Luma in from beside the fire, where she was sitting with the old woman. It was clear enough that she had forfeited any liking the girl might originally have felt for her, but she was past caring.

"Luma," she said, "will you bring me some supper now, please?"

"Shagreh." Abruptly, the girl turned to go. Maia called her back.

"I want three hard-boiled eggs" (holding up three fingers) "and five tendrionas with the skins left on. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

"No eggs, säiyett." Explanations were clearly about to follow, but Maia checked them.

"If there are hens there are eggs. That man was eating eggs for his supper. You boil me three eggs. Shagreh?"

"Shagreh, säiyett."

Even in Suba, thought Maia, it would surely be difficult to contaminate shelled eggs and rinded fruit. It was a poor enough supper, but better than getting infection of the bowels.

She was finishing her meal by the dimmest and smokiest of lamplight when she heard someone on the ladder. "Luma?" she called. There was no immediate reply, but after a short pause a man's voice asked, "Can I come in?"

Maia, carrying the lamp over to the entrance, recognized Nasada. Putting out a hand, she helped him up into the room. As she did so she noticed, to her surprise, that he was now dressed like any Beklan, in a clean, if much mended, robe, and that the muddy smell which she had noticed that morning was no longer perceptible. The hand clasping hers, too, though rough and hard, was dean.

She looked at him rather timidly in the flickering light, not sure how she should address him, for in spite of his short stature arid squat build he possessed a peculiar dignity which made her feel—as she certainly had not for many months past—younger than her sixteen years. She wondered why he had come; not, she felt intuitively, for the reason which would have brought many men. As this thought crossed her mind it was followed by another and stranger one, namely that although the one thing she would have thought she would have leapt at was for some influential man to show himself attracted to her, for some reason she would have felt disappointed if this man had done so.

"Why, your dress is wet—wet through," he said, looking her up and down from under his bushy eyebrows. "Did you go in the water in it, or what?"

She laughed. "Oh, no, U-Nasada. I've just washed everything and I've nothing else to put on, see?"

"Well, then, we must get you something," said he decidedly. "It's not healthy to have wet clothes here, even though you mayn't feel uncomfortable. The girl should have lent you something."

He called to Luma, but neither she nor the old woman appeared to be within earshot.

"It doesn't matter, U-Nasada," said Maia. "I only washed them for fear of infection. They'll dry off soon enough."

"You're afraid of infection here?"

With anyone else, she would have been worried that he would think she was slighting his country or his people. But there was something reassuring in his plain directness. He had asked the question because he wanted a truthful answer.

"Very much, yes."

"I heard you'd been in the water. Well, you weren't to know: it must have been upsetting for you. Is that what's made you worry about infection?"

She nodded. "Well, yes—partly."

"I don't wonder. You'd better let me have a look at those leech-bites. It's not likely you've taken any harm, but it's best to be sure." He smiled. "I'm a sort of doctor, you see; the only sort there is here, anyway."

"I know. Bayub-Otal—Anda-Nokomis—told me."

"I'll get the girl to come in."

"What for, U-Nasada? I don't mind if you don't."

Suddenly she felt absurdly light-hearted. It was all so unexpected. With this man she could be her natural self. Not only was he not seeking anything from her; he would not, she felt sure, criticize or judge her—not even in his own mind—whatever she might say. In a word, she trusted him. She felt more at ease than at any time for days past— than at any time, indeed, since she had last been with Occula. It was a reassuring feeling, a feeling of release; and being Maia, she acted on it with characteristic, impulsive gaiety.

"It's kind—it's very kind of you to have come," she went on. "Oh, this is so wet, I can't pull it off. D'you mind helping me?" She laughed. She couldn't help thinking it was funny that he should have supposed that she might want another girl to be present. It did not occur to her that perhaps he himself might have preferred it.

If so, he made no more of it, but helped her off with the damp, clinging dress and shift as smoothly as even Terebinthia could have done.

"You feel quite easy and natural with nothing on, do you?"

"Oh, that's what U-Lenkrit asked me on the river bank." She found herself pouring out to him the story of the Olmen crossing, for it still rankled.

"So that was all the thanks I got," she ended.

"Well," he said, "they were the ones who lost dignity there; not you."

"Lost dignity, U-Nasada? That seems a funny old way of looking at it."

"Well, maybe," he answered, smiling at her in the most relaxed way as she sat naked before him.

"Anyway, I'd better have a look at the bites. How many were there, do you know?"

"Well, three for certain—the ankle here, and the back of the knee, and this thigh. But might be one or two more for all I know."

"None between your legs—I mean, in the private parts? Only that can be serious, especially if it goes unnoticed: we'd better make sure. You don't mind that, either? My hands, I mean?"

Lying down on the bed, she answered, "I shan't bite, U-Nasada."

"Bite? Like the akrebah, you mean?"

"No; like the Sacred Queen's dog." And while he examined her she told him the story of Fornis's unhesitant handling of the guard-hound which could have bitten either of her hands through.

"Well," he said at length, "I'm as good as certain you've got nothing to worry about, though it might be as well to make sure tomorrow. My eyes are every bit as old as I am, you see, and though doctors often have to work by lamplight, it's not ideal. You're not to go putting those wet clothes back on: you're to get into bed now, Maia of Serrelind. That was my other reason for coming—to make sure you get a good night's sleep. Will you take a sleeping-draft if I make one? It's not very strong."

"Yes, I'll do whatever you say, U-Nasada." She drew up the ragged coverlet and put a cushion under her head.

"Comfortable?"

"I never noticed this morning—I was that tired—but it's a deal more comfortable than I reckoned. What's in this mattress, then?"

"Dried sedge and rushes are what they mostly use here. A few feathers, perhaps. Better than straw, I've always found."

He pulled up his sleeve, disclosing round his forearm a broad leather strap with six or seven small pockets, each of which contained a stoppered, bronze phial. Seeing Maia stare, he unbuckled it and handed it to her.

"Never seen anything like that before?"

"No, I never." Maia was fascinated by the novelty of the contrivance and the neatness of its workmanship.

"I made it myself. It comes in useful."

"You ought to make some more. You could sell them in Bekla: get rich."

He laughed. "Perhaps I will one day. Tell me about Bekla. Is that where you learned not to be ashamed of showing people that you're beautiful?"

She told him how she had been enslaved; about Occula, Lalloc, Terebinthia and the High Counselor.

She found herself longing to tell him the truth about Kembri and her flight from Bekla, and with a little encouragement might even have done so. He listened silently, however, sitting hunched on the three-legged stool and scarcely moving except now and then to trim the smoking lamp.

"And are you tired of all your adventures?" he asked at length. "You're young to have had so many."

"Oh, U-Nasada, it's the danger I'm so tired of," she answered. "You can't imagine how tired! Danger—it scares you—it wears you out."

"You're not in danger now."

"No: but I wish I knew what was going to happen."

"I think I can help you there: we'll talk tomorrow evening. It's too late now—time to sleep."

Searching, he found a clay cup, into which he poured the contents of one of the phials, mixing it with water from the covered jar by the bed.

"This is just dried okra leaves, really. There's some tessik mixed in, but only a touch." He smiled. "You'll wake up in the morning, I promise."

She drank it down. It was bitter and sabulous, leaving grains on her tongue.

"Did you like being at the High Counselor's?" he asked.

Maia realized that if Bayub-Otal or Lenkrit had asked this question, she would unthinkingly have replied "I was a slave-girl." But for some reason that was not good enough for this man. He deserved a better answer--chiefly because he had not asked the question contemptuously, as they would have done. He knew very well, she thought, that there were some things about the High Counselor's which she had enjoyed; and he wasn't blaming her for it, either.

"I didn't like being shut up indoors so much." He waited. "Oh, but the clothes, U-Nasada, and the food! A girl like me, see, couldn't ever have expected to live like that. The upper city—you've no idea—oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

He was not in the least offended. "And did you enjoy giving him pleasure?"

"Well, I did after Occula'd taught me the right way to look at it. It was work, see? I didn't get much real, bodily pleasure myself—well, you couldn't, could you?—but I did enjoy feeling he was rich and powerful and could have anything he liked, and that what he liked was me. He was. a brute, really—a filthy beast, everyone knew that. If I hadn't suited him, he'd just have got rid of me. But he didn't; that's the truth of it, U-Nasada. I mean, that was what I liked."

"Did you always live by Lake Serrelind—before Bekla, I mean?"

"Yes, all my life."

"You're quite sure?"

She frowned, puzzled. "Yes, of course. Why?" Then she laughed. "Dare say that's why I took to Bekla, d'you reckon? Country girl never been anywhere before?"

"And your father—he died when you were still quite a little girl?"

"No, I was nine when he died: I remember him well. I liked Dad: he was always good to me. It was only after he died, really, that Mother got so bad-tempered and sour."

"I suppose there's never been any doubt that he was your father? Has anyone ever told you anything else?"

If she had not taken such a liking to him—and if she hadn't been beginning to feel so drowsy—she would have resented this.

"Never." She giggled. " 'Course, I wasn't just exactly there at the time, was I?"

He laughed too; then shrugged, evidently dismissing the subject. "Feeling sleepy?"

"M'm, very. Thank you, U-Nasada. I don't feel half so bad about everything now. You'll see I don't get ill, won't you?"

"Well, that's what I promised Anda-Nokomis. If only you do what I tell you, there's no reason at all why a healthy girl like you should get ill here. Suba's not half as bad as it's painted, you know, to people who understand it. Shall I tell Luma to bring her bed in? You won't wake, but you may as well have her here. Looking after you's what she's been told to do."

"Yes, ask her." But before the Suban girl had dragged her mattress and blankets up the ladder, Maia was sleeping so soundly that she did not stir even when Luma stumbled over her sandals in the dark.