47: AT LUKRAIT

It was an hour after noon, still and humid among the overhanging trees and beds of reeds. There was not the least breeze. The only sound near at hand was the hollow slop-slop under the rectangular, flat-bottomed boat as it made its way over tangles of weed, muddy shallows and deeper places. One could more or less tell the depth of the water, thought Maia, by the sound it made under the planking. It was like one of Fordil's zhuas, rim and center—above deep water the boat made a more cavernous sound. One might make a dance out of it. She and Fordil might devise a dance about the swamps and their miles of shady, watery waste. What would the story be? What stories did these people tell among themselves? Anyway, when would she ever see Fordil again?

She was sweating all over, and although she was trying to cool her face with a cloth dipped in the water, the water itself was lukewarm. She felt dirty and untidy. What on earth would they say in Bekla to see her now, the High Counselor's fifteen-thousand-meld bed-girl, with black finger-nails, her golden hair full of dust of ashes, a torn smock and hairy armpits? O Cran! she thought, and what are they going to think when we arrive at this Melvda place and maybe that king's going to be there an' all? Likely they'll put me on scrubbing floors—that's if there are any to scrub.

They had left the village in the boat—a kilyett, as they called it—a little before noon—U-Nasada, Tescon, herself and Luma. All three of the others appeared equally at home when it came to paddling and steering what seemed to her a heavy, clumsy craft, not even quite regular in shape. Tescon had explained to her that Subans, as marsh-dwellers, used two or three different kinds of boat, according to the particular need. For fishing and for short trips—which might be no more than a couple of hundred yards—they used either rafts or else what they called dords — light, oval coracles with a kind of well or hollow keel for carrying gear. For longer journeys, however—especially such as might involve moving through tracts of swamp between villages—the proper craft was the flat-bottomed kilyett, fourteen or fifteen feet long, which drew no more than a few inches and in which one could sleep at a pinch. Unless it was actually stuck on mud, a kilyett could be forced through almost anything in the way of reeds or undergrowth, while if everyone got out it could even be dragged for short distances overland.

The village, she had discovered when they came to leave it, lay on a kind of spit or neck of firm ground between the Valderra to the east and a wide expanse of marsh on the west. It was through this marsh that their journey had at first lain; though how anyone could tell the way was past her comprehension. In and out of the mournful swamps they had wandered, under and between trees festooned with pendent moss and shaggy creepers; over shallow mud beds where the boat had skirred, slowed and grated, until she felt sure they were going to stick fast: across pools and small lakes, heading straight for what looked like impenetrable banks of reeds on the further side, through which, at the last moment, they pushed and crushed their way into the next pool; down corridors of water flanked by boggy thickets, out of which, at their approach, flew great flocks of long-billed waders. Once or twice Maia ventured questions or offered help, but although the Subans always answered her courteously, she soon grasped that she was more hindrance than use and might as well accept that she was about as valuable as a tailor in a smithy.

Together with her anxiety about the future, she was now beginning to feel, more acutely than at any time since leaving Bekla, two further deprivations. One was of the luxury and comfort of the High Counselor's household, which had softened her and to which, she now realized, she had become more accustomed than she had supposed. During the first two or three days she had enjoyed standing up to the journey, never envisaging that anything could go wrong with Kembri's plan. Now, however, it was no longer a matter of bearing hardship with the prospect of reward. Gone forever were the delicious meals, the soft bed, the clothes and jewels, the ready availability of Ogma to do whatever was wanted, the admiration of the Leopards and her own future as a dancer. Oh, and above all, she had lost Occula! "Kantza-Merada blast this damned, dirty sink of web-footed bastards!" she whispered under her breath.

Her other need was simpler and deeper. She wanted a man. Ever since Tharrin, she had hardly been without one for more than a few days. She remembered how once she had been cross with Occula for taking her up short when she had talked about randy goats in the upper city who couldn't go without.

"Banzi, you think men are randy and you're not? Doan' you know it goes far deeper with girls? Men—they talk and boast about it and we doan': and you take all that at face value. But men have a sort of silly notion there's somethin' clever about doin' without. Food, drink, sleep, women—oh, doan' they just love to boast that they're brave, brave soldiers who can go without if they're put to it? So can we. But when did you ever hear a girl boastin' about goin' without? Girls who have to go without bastin' just feel sorry, not proud. One day you'll find out that I'm right."

She'd found out now, she thought. On and off for hours she'd been tormented, not by any longing for this man or that—not for the devouring potency of Kembri, the elegant style of Elvair-ka-Virrion, the lewdness of Sencho—but simply for the thing itself. Her mind kept dwelling on the actual physical sensations, like that of a near-starving per-son obsessed with food; and the recollection of her sufferings—the river crossing, her wounded shin, the leeches— only seemed to sharpen it, as Sencho had once told her that girls were often sharpened by a good whipping. Oh, I'd take just about any man! she thought; that I would!

Lying prone on the raised, flat stern and trying to turn her mind to something else, she began considering the strangeness of coming, in this wilderness, upon so unexpected a person as Nasada. He puzzled her.

It was nothing to do with his having no sexual interest in her. After all, neither had Zuno; nor had Sarget on the night of the senguela, whatever might have been his private feelings. Maia had no general objection to men not showing desire for her. Her dislike of Bayub-Otal stemmed not from this, but from his actual rejection of her advances—that and the contemptuous way in which he had spoken of what he regarded as her degradation in the High Counselor's household. Nasada, on the other hand, she not only liked—and wanted him to like her—but also intuitively trusted as she had never trusted anyone else. This was not simply a matter of his being a doctor and having taken the trouble to come to see her last night.

No, it was an attraction the nature of which she could not really explain to herself. He was wise, yet he didn't talk down to her. He made her feel secure. She wanted to get to know him better, to talk to him, to tell him more about herself, ask him all manner of questions and hear what he had to say in reply; to be—well, to be his friend. He made her feel she was valuable as a person, not just as an expensive and beautiful concubine. She didn't desire him—oh, no, the very idea was out of the question; that would spoil it all; nor did she entertain any hope that he would help her to escape from Suba. Yet he had put new heart into her, and a feeling that she could face the future. If he had not been with her now—if there had been no one but Luma and Tescon—she was not sure but what she mightn't have been driven to some desperate turn.

She came out of these reflections as Tescon spoke.

"Well, Shakkarn be thanked, that's the worst of it, U-Nasada. Here's Dark Entry at last."

For some time they had been paddling cautiously through a watery grove of huge trees stretching out invasive roots under the shallow water, many of which extended for yards and were like submerged rocks on which a boat could ground or even hole itself. As Tescon spoke he made two quick strokes on each side and the kilyett, immediately gaining speed and thrusting its bow into a kind of deep cavern of overhanging branches, came out beyond into slow-moving, open water—the first flowing water Maia had seen since they started. The breadth across to the opposite side—another line of trees and reeds—was about thirty yards. Looking one way and the other as Tescon, back-paddling, turned the boat through a right-angle and headed it into the current, she saw the vista of a long channel, for all the world like a track through a forest, extending away in each direction.

Tescon glanced at her. "This is the Nordesh. Runs clear all the way to Melvda."

She smiled and nodded. He settled back silently, letting the boat drift with the current and using his paddle merely to keep it on course. Luma, further forward, fell once again into the same monotonous drone which Maia had heard the day before. Proper high-spirited bunch, aren't they? she thought.

Wonder where we're going to stop for the night? As she looked up into the green gloom, they approached and passed beneath a great, black turtle, motionless on a branch overhanging the stream.

She fell to wondering how they mated and whether they enjoyed it.

All that afternoon, at the speed of a man strolling, they traveled on down the Nordesh. What with the humidity, the unvarying sameness of the stream and the tunnel of trees above, the journey became almost like a trance. Su-bans, Maia felt, seemed no more conscious of tedium than the water-fowl among which they lived; nor, for the moment, was she disposed to blame them. To her, one part of Suba seemed as monotonous as another and she was in no particular haste to arrive at any destination-Luma, for her part, showed less interest than an animal in what lay around them, sitting with bowed head for half an hour at a stretch, and merely nodding, or murmuring "Shagreh," when anyone spoke to her. Maia wondered why she couldn't go to sleep and be done with it.

The light—such as it was—was at last beginning to fade when, as they drifted round the curve of a long, regular bend, they saw ahead of them another kilyett, smaller than their own, moored against the right bank. At first it seemed to be empty, but on coming closer they saw two youths stretched out in the bottom, either asleep or dozing, Tescon hailed them and they both sat up quickly, one calling out "U-Nasada?"

Nasada answered, whereupon they untied their boat and took up their paddles.

"We're from Lukrait," said one, palm to forehead, as Tescon, who could steer the heavy kilyett to an inch, slid alongside. "Our elder sent us to wait here and guide you in when you came."

"That's still U-Makron, I hope?" asked Nasada and, as the lad nodded, "It must be—oh, two years, I suppose, since I was last at Lukrait."

"And two months and three days," replied the lad, smiling. "You don't remember me, then, U-Nasada?"

The old man frowned, thrust forward his head and stared piercingly at him, making a comical act of it.

Then he smiled and put a hand on the lad's shoulder.

"Yes, I do—you're Bread or Crumb or something, aren't you?"

"Kram." He looked delighted.

"That's it; Kram. I scratched your arm for you, didn't I? But I had to leave before I knew what came of it. Did it work?"

"Yes, it did. For about three days after you'd gone I felt terrible. Everyone said you'd poisoned me—"

"I had."

"My mother was ready to kill you. Then I got well and I've never had a day's fever since."

Nasada nodded. "I thought it would probably suit you. It doesn't suit everybody."

"You mean I'll never have the fever again?"

"Well, that I can't promise," said Nasada. "But if I scratch you again in about another three years, you ought to be safe for a good long time."

Following Kram's boat in the failing light, they now began another bumping, winding course through the swampland.

"Have you seen Anda-Nokomis, then?" asked Tescon. "Was it he who told you we were coming?"

"He and U-Lenkrit arrived late last night," replied Kram. "Too late to try to get through here, I'd have thought, but they managed it. U-Makron saw them, but they left again soon after dawn this morning."

After a pause while they negotiated a wide, reedy mudbank, he added, "We're coming down to Melvda with you tomorrow; and one or two more as well."

"Aren't you too young?" asked Nasada.

"No one's too young to strike a blow for Suba, U-Na-sada," said the second youth. "Besides, Anda-Nokomis told U-Makron that everyone—every single man—who goes will get his reward." He laughed. "So we're not going to miss ours!"

Emerging at length from among the trees, they saw ahead of them the outskirts of a village which to Maia looked much like the one they had left that morning. By the waterside were moored boats, nets spread to, dry, a rickety-looking watch-tower and two fish-breeding ponds closed off by means of wicker hatches. A path led up through trees to the village itself, about two hundred yards away on slightly higher ground.

Nasada told Kram to take the girls straight to their sleeping-quarters while he went to pay his respects to Makron. The lad led them up the path to the village, which Maia could now see was not only larger than the other but also somewhat more prosperous-looking—though that wasn't saying much, she thought. Still, at least there seemed to be fewer sores and rags and more cheerful children. One little girl, aged about nine, ran up to them of her own accord and asked smilingly, "Who are you?" Maia smiled back, but thought it best to leave Luma to answer her in their own dialect.

Their hut, too, was a pleasant change for the better. It was quite spacious, and had been fumigated by burning some sort of herb which had left a clean, sharp smell. The ladder was new and firm, and the floor had been covered with fresh rushes. As they entered, an elderly woman sitting by the window stood up, put a quick question to Kram and, having learned that they were whom she had thought, came forward to greet them. She seemed to have put on her best clothes for the occasion, being dressed not in the usual sheath-like smock, but in a faded, blue, woolen dress a little too large, which could only have come from somewhere beyond Suba. Her gracious, unhurried manner suggested that she was—or felt herself to be—a lady of some standing. Maia hoped she would not converse for long, since all she herself wanted was to wash, eat and sleep.

"My dear," said the old lady, taking her hands, "Anda-Nokomis told us—we were most pleased—that you—"

Suddenly she stopped, catching her breath. "Oh!" Still holding Maia's hands, she stared at her intently, with an air of amazement. "Anda-Nokomis told us, but I never imagined—of course, it's more than sixteen years now—"

"Excuse me, säiyett," said Tescon, who had followed them into the hut, "but U-Nasada asked me to explain to you that Maia hasn't been told anything about this yet. He's going to have a talk with her later this evening."

"Oh, I see." The lady, who in any case had recovered herself almost at once, took this smoothly in her stride. Still gazing at Maia, however, with a kind of mannerly-controlled wonder, she went on, "We're very glad you'll be staying with us tonight. You too, my dear," she added politely to Luma, who put her palm to her forehead but made no reply. "One of my girls will bring you some hot water" (I can't believe it! thought Maia), "and then she'll get your supper. Please don't hesitate to ask for anything else you want. My name's Penyanis, by the way," she added smilingly. "I'm U-Makron's wife. I hope you're not too tired after your journey?"

Although her Suban accent would have marked her out instantly in Bekla, Maia could nevertheless understand her well enough—better than she could understand Luma— and guessed that in years gone by she must have spent some time in one of the cities of the empire. She herself, of course, had virtually no experience of talking to ladies of consequence, but for the few minutes until the hot water arrived she did her best and felt she had come out of it at least passably; perhaps because the old lady seemed almost bemused merely by looking at her, and on that account hardly concerned to pay any very close attention to anything she actually said. Soon she took her leave, hoping they would be comfortable and once more begging Maia to ask for anything she lacked.

An hour later Maia was feeling, if not altogether at ease, at least less uncomfortable than at any time since leaving Bekla. Her shin seemed almost to have stopped hurting. She had washed from head to foot with soap, combed her hair and cleaned her teeth with a frayed stick. The supper, though nothing more than fish, eggs, and fruit, had been good and Penyanis's maid had served it well. The wine, too, had been a delightful surprise, for it was Yeldashay— even Sencho might have appreciated it—and there was plenty of it. Having thanked and dismissed the maid, she refilled her cup and stood at the window looking out into the twilight, where supper fires were burning behind the huts and lamps shone from windows. In the cool, mud-smelling mist beyond, the frogs were rarking far and near, and a belated heron flew slowly over, with backbent neck and trailing legs. "Go on—fly to Serrelind," she said aloud.

"Tell Kelsi her sister's in a mess and needs her." And oh! wouldn't she just about be glad, she thought, to see Kelsi come walking up through the village now, in her sacking smock and bare feet?

Whom she actually saw a moment later was Nasada, deep in conversation with an even older man who was walking beside him, leaning on a stick. At once she waved, called out "U-Nasada!" and then, mischievously, "Shagreh?"

He looked up and raised his hand. "We're coming to see you."

"Luma, help U-Nasada and the other gentleman up the ladder."

"Shagreh."

A minute later they were in the room and Luma, at a few murmured words from Nasada, had left it.

Nasada smiled at Maia, nodding approvingly.

"Well, you don't look as if you'd come twenty miles down the Nordesh. You look as if you'd just come from your upper city in a litter."

She curtseyed, tossing back her combed hair.

" Tisn't true, U-Nasada, and I reckon you know that; but it's nice to have anyone say it, specially you."

Nasada turned to his companion. "Were you ever in the upper city, Makron? It must be a dangerous place, don't you think, with girls like this about?"

"I've never been to Bekla, Nasada," answered the old man. "But now I've seen her I don't think I need to."

"Well, I suppose we shouldn't go on talking about her like this, us two old storks," said Nasada. "I'd better introduce you. This is U-Makron, elder of Lukrait—Maia of Serrelind."

Maia curtseyed again and raised a palm to her forehead. "Thank you very much for the beautiful wine, U-Makron."

"Oh,, you liked it?" he said. "That's good. King Karnat sent it to me a year or two back, but we're not really expert in such things here, you know. I'm glad to have been able to give it to someone who appreciates it. Still, I dare say you've been used to better in Bekla?"

She shook her head and smiled. "None better, sir."

There were several stools in the room. She motioned to them to sit down, rinsed two cups and poured more of the wine. The elder inquired about her escape from Bekla and the dangerous Valderra crossing, and went on to deplore the discomfort of Suba to anyone not used to its mists and marshes. To all of this she replied as she hoped he would wish.

"And—er—you grew up in Tonilda?" he asked at length. "On Lake Serrelind? That's near Thettit, isn't it? You've really lived there all your life?"

"Almost all sixteen years of it, U-Makron!" she smiled.

"Something over sixteen years since you were born?" said he, sipping his wine with a thoughtful air.

"Well, I myself never saw Nokomis, you see, though my wife did." He paused. "She tells me it's more than strange. I'm glad to have had this chance of seeing you. I wish you luck: but I must leave you now. I've got to talk to the young men before they go to Melvda tomorrow." She stood up, and he took her hands. "We shall meet again before you go. I feel honored to have met you, Maia of Serrelind, bringer of good fortune—as I'm sure you are."

"Good-night, U-Makron." (And I wonder what he'd call me if he knew how I lived in Bekla?) As Makron went down the ladder Nasada picked up one of the lamps and put it down by Maia's bed.

"You've had a long day: why don't you lie down? You'll be more comfortable."

She did so. He remained standing, sipping his Yeldashay and looking down at her.

"You'd like a man in that bed, wouldn't you?"

She looked up quickly, angry for a moment; but his tone was entirely matter-of-fact and there was no mockery in his eyes.

"Yes, I would."

"Natural enough, wouldn't you say, for someone who's lonely and anxious in a strange place? Who likes being alone in the dark?"

"I never thought of it that way, U-Nasada: I just like— oh, well, I just enjoy basting, I suppose."

"Great Shakkarn!" he said. "Any reason why you shouldn't? People do, or none of us would be here, if you come to think of it."

"Well, that's one thing, U-Nasada, but—" She stopped.

"Well, what's another thing?" He sat down beside the bed. She pondered, and as she did so realized with delight that he was in no hurry and glad for her, too, to take her time.

"Well," she said at length, "I suppose I meant that in Bekla men just used me, really, same as they might use a hawk or a dog, for sport; and I enjoyed it—or a lot of it I did—'cos it meant they admired me and wanted me. It was a sight better 'n working in a kitchen, too, wasn't it? But some of them despise you as well—for what you are, I mean—even though it's none of your own choosing; and that just about makes me mad. It's crazy, really, U-Na-sada. You're supposed to like it, because that's what they want—to think they've made the girl enjoy it: but then there's some people, if you act natural they just despise you, like Lenkrit and the others that night when I took my clothes off to cross the river."

"Well, I don't despise you," he said. "In fact, if you want to know, I very much admire the way you seem to be able to stand up to anything and still keep your spirits up. But Lenkrit, yes; I'm glad you reminded me of him. Can you remember what Lenkrit said when he first saw you? I'd be interested to know."

"Let me think. Only I was that frightened that morning— Far as I can remember, Bayub-Otal said to Lenkrit as he must be forgetful—something like that—and to look at me again. And then Lenkrit said something about he wondered he hadn't seen it before, only the light was that bad."

"And that's all?"

"Far's I can recollect. No, wait! I remember now, he asked Bayub-Otal whether I was his sister; that's right."

"But you don't look much like him, do you?"

She laughed. "I don't reckon old Sencho'd have given fifteen thousand meld for me at that rate, do you?"

"You're proud of that, aren't you?"

She nodded.

"I'm not surprised. Why shouldn't you be? And Bayub-Otal?"

"Well, then he kind of cut Lenkrit off short. But I was that upset and moithered with everything—you ever had a knife held at your throat, Nasada, have you?—tell you the truth I wasn't really taking in all that much of it."

"What do you know about Bayub-Otal? Do you know about his father and mother, and how he grew up?"

"Oh, he told me all about that, yes: how his mother was sent to Urtah as a dancing-girl, and how the King—High Baron—whatever 'twas—fell in love with her and hid her away in Suba to save her from his wife. And about the fire—why, Whatever's the matter, U-Nasada?"

To her horror, she saw tears running down his rough, wrinkled cheeks. For an instant he actually sobbed.

"You're very young, Maia: young people are often unfeeling—until they've learned through suffering themselves. It wasn't really so very long ago. Nokomis—she was like moonlight on a lake! No one who saw her dance ever forgot her for the rest of his life. All Suba worshipped her, even those who never actually saw her. When she died, the luck ran out of Suba like sand out of a broken hour-glass. You never saw Nokomis—"

"Well, how could I?" she answered petulantly. "I wasn't even born when she died."

"As far as any of us here can make out, you were born more or less exactly when she died. The night of the tenth Sallek?"

Maia stared. "What do you mean, my lord? Why do you say it like that?"

He drank off his wine and put the cup down on the table. "And then," he said, as if continuing, "last night I asked you whether you were sure about your father. You were." He paused. "So that just leaves us with the will and power of the gods, doesn't it?"

"The gods? I don't know what you're on about, U-Nasada, honest I don't."

"Arid you say Sencho paid fifteen thousand meld?" he went on. "Well, for what it's worth, that's what Nor-Zavin, the Baron of southern Suba, paid her parents for the daughter they'd called Astara. I happen to know that. I'm not sure who first nicknamed her Nokomis, but I suppose that doesn't really matter."

It may seem incredible that no inkling had dawned earlier in Maia's mind. Yet just so will a person often fail to perceive—resist, even, and set aside—the personal implications of a dream plain enough to friends to whom it is told.

"U-Nasada, are you saying that I look like Nokomis?"

He paused, choosing his words. At length he answered, "To someone like myself, who remembers her well, it would be quite unbelievable—" he smiled—"if it weren't here before my eyes."

She reflected. "Then why doesn't everybody see it? Tescon, say, or Luma?"

"Because they're too young. It's more than sixteen years, you see, since Nokomis died. But as well as that, you have to realize that Suba isn't Bekla. This is a wild, marshy country and most people seldom travel far. Everyone in Suba knew the fame of Nokomis—she was a legend—but thousands never actually saw her. No one in that little village we left this morning, for instance, had ever seen Nokomis. But Penyanis, Makron's wife—she saw her more than once. How did she take it when she met you this evening?"

"She seemed—well, kind of mazed, like."

"And Makron—well, did you think it strange that they didn't ask you to have supper with them?"

"I never really thought."

"Anda-Nokomis had already told them what to expect, you see. They have some old servants, some of whom would also remember Nokomis, and they thought it better not to set the whole place buzzing with tales of witchcraft and magic and so on. I suppose—"

She blazed out, interrupting him. "But why didn't Bayub-Otal himself tell me all this in Bekla? Why? Or Eud-Ecachlon, come to that? Cran and Airtha! I went to bed with Eud-Ecachlon! I—"

"I doubt whether Eud-Ecachlon ever saw a great deal of Nokomis. In fact he may quite possibly never have seen her at all. Younger boys are brought up rather secluded in Urtah, you know. He'd have been—let me see—scarcely nine when Nokomis left Kendron-Urtah in fear of her life, so in any case he wouldn't have a very clear memory of what she looked like. As for Bayub-Otal, this is really what I came to talk to you about." He paused. "What do you think of Bayub-Otal?"

She said nothing.

"You can trust me, Maia."

"Well, tell you the truth, not a great lot."

He took her hand. "I think I know why, but I'd like you to tell me."

"Well, I can't make him out, U-Nasada, and that's the truth. He's not like any ordinary man. In Bekla he didn't want to make love to me and yet he wouldn't let me alone. And then he kept on saying sort of spiteful things—nasty, contemptuous things—about—well, about me being a bed-girl," (she was crying now) "as if I could help that! And about me being with Sencho and taking lygols and all such things as that. As if all the girls didn't take lygols! That's the real reason why I was what you called—what was it?— defensive just now, when we were talking about basting. He was always so sort of scornful and sneering in his talk, like. And then, when he'd as good as ordered me to dance the senguela in the Barons' Palace—I couldn't never have done it if he hadn't made me, but afterwards everyone thought the world of me—and I wanted to show him how grateful I was and I as good as told him I'd like him to make love to me, he—he just said—" And here poor Maia rolled over on the bed, sobbing with the recollection of that humiliating mortification and beating her fists on the pillow.

"How very disappointing," said Nasada, "for an ardent, warm-hearted girl like you! Anda-Nokomis really is a fool sometimes. Obviously you must have felt very upset. But he had his reasons, hadn't he? as you can no doubt see now."

Maia was half-expecting him to go on to say something like "I wonder, at that rate, that you went straight to him when you'd escaped from the temple." But he did not.

"Bayub-Otal," he continued at length, "he's had enough to make him feel bitter, if ever a man had. His mother a renowned beauty, the most famous and idolized dancer in the empire, his father the High Baron of Urtah. When he's ten his mother dies—murdered, so most people believe—and he himself's maimed so that he can never hope to be a warrior or try to compete normally with other lads. But his beloved father doesn't disown him: no., just the reverse. He gives him everything to live for. He promises him the rule of Suba—something at which he can hope to succeed, for he's got a gift of authority and a good head on his shoulders. The boy starts as he means to go on. He puts everything into learning about the province he's going to rule. And then Fornis—with no legal right in the work!— trades it off to Karnat while she seizes Bekla."

"But what's all this got to do with me, U-Nasada?"

"He's not even worth murdering," went on Nasada, ignoring her. "That wouldn't be politic, would it?—it'd only antagonize his aging father, and the Leopards aren't too sure of Urtah anyway. So he's left to moon about between Urtah and Bekla. With any luck he'll go to the bad with drink or women or something, and then the Leopards'll be able to say 'Look at the former heir of Suba lying there in the gutter!' "

"What's that to me, U-Nasada?"

"However, he doesn't go to the bad. He puts on an act of being at a loose end, under cover of which he manages to enter into secret negotiations with King Karnat. And then one day the gods send him a sign. Quite unexpectedly—and it's an enormous shock, of course—he comes upon a girl who looks almost exactly like his fabled mother as he remembers her. Only as it happens she's enslaved— to the most disgusting libertine in Bekla. She's loaned out to be basted for money, too. He finds this—well, a trifle distasteful, shall we say? But when, in his rather diffident, prickly way—for naturally, after all he's been through, he's become distinctly stand-offish and sensitive—he does his best to get to know her better, this is—oh, very naturally: no one's to blame—misunderstood and taken the wrong _way. The poor girl's looking for money to buy her freedom, but of course this isn't at all what Bayub-Otal has in mind. How can he explain? March up to her and say 'It's most peculiar, but do you know, you look exactly like my mother?' Would that go down well, I wonder?"

For the first time since they had begun talking, Maia laughed.

"But that's not his only problem," went on Nasada. "The resemblance is so uncanny that doubts and questions begin to arise in his mind. Surely the only possible explanation is that he and she must be related in some way? This is something he obviously can't set aside, but of course it doesn't alter—oh, no, it only strengthens—his determination to get her out of Bekla if he can, and make her a free and honored woman."

There was a long silence. Nasada got up, filled Maia's cup and his own with the last of the wine, sat down again and drank deeply. "Well, it's made me quite dry—saying all that."

"U-Nasada," said Maia at length, "are you telling me that Bayub-Otal loves me?"

"Certainly not. He's the only person who could say anything like that."

"Well, then, do you know whether that's what he feels? Has he said anything to you?"

"No, he hasn't—nothing of that kind at all. But as I keep on telling you, Maia, he's a very reticent, diffident sort of man; reserved and constrained—with good rea-son."

"Then how do you know all this as you've been telling me?"

"Well, partly because he's told me a certain amount himself, and partly because I know him and I know Suba. And then again, you see, I'm old, and when you're old, if you'll believe me, you often find that you see quite a lot of things without actually being told, because of all you've learned and experienced yourself."

As she remained silent, perplexed, he added, "I'm not talking about love. That's nothing to do with me and I'm not trying to give you any advice one way or the other. I can't say whether or not it comes into the business at all. All I've tried to do is explain to you how you're situated here in Suba and the reason for what you've very naturally seen as Anda-Nokomis's strange behavior towards you."

"I can't hardly take it in at all."

"I'm not surprised. I can't myself; yet here you are, before my eyes."

After a little she asked, "Where are we going?"

"To Melvda-Rain. 'Rain' means a meeting-place, you know."

"What for?"

"You may well ask. Karnat's there, with his army from Terekenalt. And Anda-Nokomis has promised him the help of three thousand Subans, to be commanded by himself and Lenkrit. They're assembling now."

"What for?"

"I don't know," he answered. "But I should imagine to cross the Valderra and defeat the Beklan army, wouldn't you? What else?"

"But why are we going to Melvda-Rain, then, you and me?"

"I, because I'm a doctor. You, because of what I've just told you. Anda-Nokomis thinks that the mere sight of you at Melvda is bound to have a tremendous effect."

"You mean they'll think I'm Nokomis come back?"

"Some of them may really think that. They're simple folk, most of them. But they'll think you're magic, anyway. Perhaps you are—how would I know?"

"You mean I'll be made to go where there's fighting?"

"Oh, Lespa, no! They wouldn't take you across the Valderra: not at first, anyway; you're far too precious. It'll be quite enough for them to see you at Melvda. You'll be their magic luck."

Maia said no more. Her heart was surging with excitement and fear, dismay and wonder. After some time Nasada said, "The agreement between Karnat and Anda-Nokomis is that if Karnat takes Bekla with the help of the Subans—and he can hardly hope to do it without—he'll give back the rule of Suba to Anda-Nokomis. Such things don't really concern me, but I do know that much."

"Then what does concern you in all this, U-Nasada?"

He looked surprised. "Why, there's going to be a lot of work for me, of course. People are going to get hurt."

"Oh, U-Nasada! Like—like on the river bank? Oh, no! No!"

"On the river bank? When you came over the Valderra, you mean, the night before last?"

"Yes; then. There was a boy—one of the soldiers—he came from near my home in Tonilda. Lenkrit killed him— he was crying for his mother on the bank! The blood— the smell—oh, I can't tell you how dreadful it was!"

She began to weep again. He stroked her cheek gently.

"I hate war as much as you do: but there's no stopping this, I'm afraid. Go to sleep now, Serrelinda. A good night's sleep makes everything look better. Would you like another of my night-drinks?"

"Yes, please."

As he was preparing it she asked, "U-Nasada, what are their clothes made of here? I've never seen anything like them anywhere else."

"They're the cured, treated skins of a fish called ephrit — stitched together, you know. Same idea as leather, really, except that it's fish-skin; comfortable enough once you're used to it."

"Is that why they all smell?"

He laughed. "Yes. So do I, when I'm traveling and working among them. After all, I'm Suban and it helps ordinary people to trust me and feel I'm one of them— which I am. But I changed into a robe for you—I. even washed!—for the same reason, I suppose. Here you are, now. Drink it up, and I'll call Luma. Do you think you'll be all right?"

"As long as I can count on you, U-Nasada, I'm sure I will."