100: MIST AND RAIN

The mist lay everywhere, far and near; filling the savage, desolate miles of the forest of Purn; obliterating the wasteland where Elleroth's camp now stood empty; lying thick upon the two rivers, blotting out rocks and rapids, reed-beds and the silent backwaters where flotsam circled for hour after hour in the rotating eddies. It covered the Nybril confluence, changing it to a seemingly illimitable expanse of featureless, deserted water, whence even the fowl had stolen away to shelter (for water will not run off a duck's back for ever and saturated feathers are fatal).

Nybril lay beneath the mist as though submerged. The whole promontory had disappeared under the silent, gray mass rolling over walls and housetops, creeping down the steep streets until each corner and crevice of the town had been penetrated, as a cavity is filled with putty pressed home. By nightfall those few still on the streets were hurrying either to their own houses or else to some equally welcome destination—for the taverns were doing brisk business as people drank and made merry over the commencement of Melekril and the coming of the rains.

The mist penetrated every room where a fire was not burning, hanging in the air, surrounding each lamp-flame with a dull, foggy nimbus. By its very nature it seemed to cast a blight, so that honest warmth became thick and close, and shelter constrictive: yet to this the merry-makers paid no heed.

Out of the mist, slowly, grew the rain: at first no more than a moisture suspended in the air, sinking onto roofs, copings and leaves until everything was damp to the touch; then droplets, minute particles like a powder of water, felt by the hurrying home-goers on foreheads, ears and the backs of hands; and at last as a fine mizzle, drifting out of the east on the gentle but ceaseless wind rolling the mist onward into Belishba and beyond to Katria and Terekenalt.

In Maia's upstairs room at "The White Roses," where Anda-Nokomis, Zen-Kurel and she were preparing to leave, the rain, as darkness fell, had become just heavy enough to be heard on the roof above. They had eaten a meal, paid their score and bought from the landlord enough food—mainly bread, cheese and dried fruit—to last for about two days.

"That's going to be enough, you reckon?" asked Maia when Anda-Nokomis brought it upstairs and divided it to be stowed in the packs which Zen-Kurel had persuaded Tolis to leave with them upon his departure.

"I don't know," he replied. "I can only tell you what the landlord said. By the way, here are the seven hundred meld you left with him: I have counted them. According to him, it's about seventy miles down the Zhairgen to the southern border of Katria. During summer the rafts usually take three days over it, stopping off at night. But he says that now the rains have begun we ought not to attempt it at all. He tried to dissuade me, but when he saw that was no good, he said our only hope was to keep going night and day. He said if we didn't do it in a day and a half at the most we'd have no chance, because after only a few hours the river floods and becomes completely unnavigable. No boat can live in it, he said."

He paused, listening as the light rain pattered overhead and dripped down outside the windows. "The eastern provinces have already had this for hours, of course: their rain's coming down both rivers now."

"Why don't you stay here in Nybril, Maia?" asked Zen-Kurel. "I think both Anda-Nokomis and I would rather feel you were safe."

She smiled, and he half-returned it, as though despite himself. "If that boat's to get to Katria I reckon you're going to need me."

Zen-Kurel seemed about to reply, but she cut him short. "Anda-Nokomis, we ought to be going. The man downstairs is right; sooner the better, else we'll have no chance."

"You want actually to take the boat out tonight?"

"Once the rain's really settled in the mist lifts; you know that. There'll be a bit of a moon most of the night. Even behind clouds that'll give enough light for us to drift a fair old way by morning, long 's we keep a good look-out and stay offshore. We'll have to take it steady, of course, but it might make all the difference."

"Mightn't we run aground or hit something in the dark?"

"Well, that'll be all according," she answered, "but if that landlord was right about one thing, it's that every hour's one less and there aren't all that many."

Bayub-Otal was silent, considering. Standing thus, gawky and pondering, in the middle of the room, he looked so characteristic, so comically typical of the Anda-Nokomis she had come to know and feel affection for, that she burst out laughing, jumped up and took his hands.

"You afraid, Anda-Nokomis? 'Cos I am, tell you that! Come on, let's be going."

He glanced at Zen-Kurel, who shrugged and picked up his pack.

The big room downstairs was crowded and full of babble and laughter. Two groups of drinkers were bellowing different songs, taunting their rivals and trying to drown each other. Maia and her companions edged their way through the crush, reaching the door unhindered. Anda-Nokomis already had his hand on the latch when a big, fair-bearded man with a broken nose caught Maia by the shoulder.

"Don' want to be going out there, lass! Pissing down! Whyn't stay here 'n have nice drink with me?"

"All right," she smiled. "Tomorrow night I will."

"No good t'morrow night: place'll be drunk dry!"

"Then here's your health!" she answered; took his half-empty wine-cup out of his hand, quickly drained it and tossed it into the air above his head. Then, as he made a clumsy grab to catch it, she slipped past him, through the opened door and out into the misty darkness.

The rain was falling more heavily now and the mist, as she had foreseen, was growing gradually less dense. Drawing their cloaks round them and raising the hoods, they climbed the rocky lane, crossed the market-place and came to the town gates. When Bayub-Otal put his head round the door of their lodge the watchmen were sitting snug by the fire with a jug of mulled wine, playing some game on a board marked out in charcoal on the table. One of them, grumbling, got up and reached for the keys hanging on the wall.

"Off to Almynis, I suppose, are yer, like the rest of 'em? Won't be home till morning if I know anything about it. All right for them as can afford it, eh? Stuffin' good money up some painted shearna's tairth."

Anda-Nokomis made no reply as the man went stumping outside. Stooping over the chain of the gate, he looked back at them over his shoulder. "Come on, then, let's have it! 'Zact money, too: none of your ten-meld pieces; I can't change 'em."

"Have what?" asked Zen-Kurel brusquely.

The man clicked his tongue with impatience. "Two meld each after dark: you know that as well as I do."

"I certainly don't—" Zen-Kurel was beginning, when Maia broke in.

"Here is ten meld, but we don't want any change. Have a drink with us, just to start off Melekril."

"Well, there's a good-hearted lass!" he said, pocketing the coin and drawing the chain. But as she passed him he drew her on one side and muttered, "I'm sorry to see you off to Almynis, a young girl like you: I've a daughter no older. Why don't you find yourself a good husband and forget these tricks? She's hard as stone, that one. You mark my words, she'll cheat you and you'll only wish you'd never seen her."

She would have liked to reassure him, to tell him he needn't worry on her account; but there was not time. Taking his rough hand in both of hers, she bent and kissed it quickly; then turned away and rejoined the others. She never knew whether the man had been within his rights in demanding the money.

The moon gave no more than the dimmest, suffused light from behind the clouds, and they had to pick their way slowly along the track running parallel with the walls. The baked, high-summer earth was slippery with the rain which had not yet turned it to mud, and patches of mist were still hanging on the high ground between the gates and the steep descent towards the Flere. Once they came over the top, however, and within sight of Terebinthia's house below, the going grew a little easier. The place was blazing with light, which glittered among the veils of rain drifting across the hillside. They could hear the music and laughter half a mile off.

Maia, knowing no other way, led them along the wall, on to the now-soggy lawn beside the river and so up the garden to the door. When she rang the bell the huge Deelguy opened at once. Looking past him she caught a glimpse of the big room crowded with men, some with girls on their knees, all gazing at something out of sight beyond; probably a kura, she supposed. The giant bowed, spreading his hands.

"You comming in, yoss?"

"No!" she replied firmly. "Tell your säiyett that Maia Serrelinda is here. Say I've brought the money and we want to go straight to the boat."

He was back almost at once. "She say you gowing the money, then I take you."

"No!" she said. "Tell her we'll pay the money when we've got the boat."

This time the Deelguy returned with Terebinthia, who was wearing a very low-cut sleeveless, scarlet dress and a heavy necklace of penapa stones. "Don't be silly, Maia. Come in and have a drink."

"I'm sorry, säiyett, but the river's rising and we're in a hurry. If you'll come down to the boat-house with us—or send your man, I don't mind which—I'll hand over the money once we've got the boat and seen as she's all she should be."

"Then you can go without, you little cow," said Terebinthia.

"That would be a pity, säiyett. I've got all your money here and what's more, I've got two armed men to defend me. So I'd have to go away, wouldn't I? and do all that talking as you were so anxious about this afternoon. I wouldn't want that, would you?"

For fully ten seconds Terebinthia glared at Maia, who returned her stare unwaveringly. Then she snapped, "Very well. Braishdil, fetch my cloak and a pair of clogs. Come with us yourself and bring a torch."

The boat, as far as Maia could see, was as she had been that afternoon. Having checked the oars and all the other equipment, she nodded to her friends to climb in. Then, carefully turning her back on them, she paid out the money on a bench, the Deelguy holding the smoky, flaring torch as Terebinthia counted it, biting each coin.

"You're going to your death, you know, Maia," said Terebinthia finally, having dropped the last hundred-meld piece into her scrip. "That's your own affair, of course, but in many ways I wish you weren't. You'd much better stay here. You'd soon make a lot more than ever you did at Sencho's, you know."

"I'm sorry, säiyett. We just see things different, that's all."

"Evidently," replied Terebinthia. "But I'm afraid the truth is that you won't be seeing anything at all soon, Maia. I've been perfectly straight with you: that's a good boat. But if it was twice as strong, it wouldn't get to Katria in the rains. So just remember, I told you to think better of it and you wouldn't. Braishdil, push it out."

She watched silently as the great, lumbering fellow dragged the boat free from those against it as easily as he might have pulled a piece of firewood out of a pile, drew it forward and pushed it out into the dark water along the verge. As soon as it was clear of the bank she called, "That'll do!" The man left them and followed her out through the side door of the boat-house. They heard the chain fastened and then saw the torch bobbing back up the garden until it was lost to view. They were alone in the darkness, the river and the falling rain.

Their thick, soldiers' cloaks were drenched. Maia could feel hers wet against her shoulders and the upper part of her back.

"What do you want us to do now, Maia?" asked Anda-Nokomis from the bow.

"We've got to get across to the other bank, without drifting down no more 'n what we can help. If we get into that stew out in the middle below the town, we're finished."

"How's it to be done?"

"Row across as quick as we can and hope the current in the center doesn't turn us downstream too hard."

"I'm afraid rowing isn't my strong point, Maia."

O Lespa! she thought. She'd forgotten that; his hand! Of course she could row, but if they weren't to be swept down in midstream the steering was going to be important and she'd rather have had the doing of that herself. Still, there were no two ways about it, and no sense, either, in making him feel worse than he must already. She got up and went forward to the rowing-seats amidships.

"Zenka," she said—it had slipped out before she'd thought about it—"give me one of those oars and take the other yourself. You go that side, 'cos you'll pull stronger n' me, and that'll help to keep her head from turning downstream. Anda-Nokomis, you take the tiller and keep her pointing half-upstream as steady as you can."

"The trouble is," he said, having stumbled to his seat in the stern, "I can't see anything out there."

"You'll just have to go best you can, by the light from the house behind. But you'll be able to tell when we've got across, near enough, 'cos the current'll slacken. Any-way, you ought to be able to make out the bank, just about, before we get to it. Here, wait, Zenka! Careful! Let me put that rowlock in for you! If that was to fall overboard we'd really be in trouble. Right; now you pull how you like, only hard: I'll work in with you, don't worry."

It was a heavy boat to get under way, but Zen-Kurel handled his oar better than she'd dared to hope.

Pulling her own, she kept her eyes on the light from Terebinthia's house and within half a minute saw it swing over to her right. Good; the bow was heading upstream.

"Fine, Anda-Nokomis!" she panted. "Keep it like that!"

Even as she spoke the port bow began to meet the midstream current. The lights swung back again until they were once more astern; then until they were almost directly on her left. The water gurgled and knocked against the side, racing down in the dark. They were being swept downstream fast.

"Right, Anda-Nokomis, right!" she cried. "Hard over to your right!"

It was very frightening. She had never imagined they would go down so fast. At this rate they would be well below Nybril in a matter of minutes and into the central boil of the confluence. She could see the speckled lights of the town rushing past on her left. The rain was blowing straight into her face from astern.

"Harder, Zenka!" She herself had never pulled so hard. As she well knew, she was pulling for her life.

Ah, but they were gradually forcing their way across the current! She could feel it; and besides, the lights, even as they fell so fast behind, were gradually moving over towards her right until at length she was looking straight at them. Then, slowly—very slowly it seemed—the current began to slacken and the chattering of the water against the side below her grew less until it had almost died away. They were drifting down, but far more gently and in smooth water.

She slumped over her oar, drawing deep, shuddering breaths. The sweat was pouring off her and her heart was thumping. She retched, but nothing came. Zenka had stopped rowing too, and seemed to be waiting to be told what to do. She wiped the rain out of her eyes and sat up straight.

"Anda-Nokomis, can you—can you see the bank?"

"I'm not sure," he answered, "but there's something ahead; rushes, perhaps."

They took a few more cautious strokes.

"At least it's answering now," said Anda-Nokomis. "It didn't, out there."

"It did, only you couldn't feel it; hadn't, we wouldn't be here."

She thrust her oar straight down into the water and at the full extent of her arm touched bottom. At the same moment the low moon, breaking for a moment through a rift in the clouds, showed them the left bank about twenty yards away. Turning to look astern before the moon disappeared again, she could see—or thought she could see—that they were about four or five hundred yards below Nybril, with the confluence, already become a terrifying, foaming caldron, lying between. Now that she was no longer rowing, she could hear the noise of it; a deep, sullen thunder, not loud but continuous, like the rolling of agreatdrum.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I got to rest for a bit: I'm tot'lly all in. Anda-Nokomis, try to keep her drifting gently close to the bank. And Zenka, you go up in the bow with that oar and just keep on feeling ahead for rocks or shoals an' that. There's anchors fore and aft: keep them ready to throw out. Give a shout if you want me. I won't be very long, honest."

And with this poor Maia crawled into the cubby-hole and lay down, utterly spent. But the big, soft mattress, on which so many jolly jinks must have been enacted, afforded her little solace. Already the rain, blowing in from astern, had soaked it. Miserably, she crawled as far forward as she could and curled up, knees to chin. It made little difference. She could almost have wrung out her cloak, while her sopping tunic and shift clung round her like warm slime. She could feel the shape of her diamonds and of Randronoth's casket pressing against her body.

After an unavailing wriggle or two she tugged off her tunic and, having felt carefully round the seams of the pockets to make sure they were still holding, dumped it beside her and drew up her wet cloak for a blanket.

She had one consolation, however. They were moving smoothly, without listing or checking. Terebinthia had charged her somewhere between two and three times its value, but at least she had spoken no more than the truth when she had told her the boat was a good one.

Now and then, without distinguishing what was said, she could catch Zenka's voice speaking to Anda-Nokomis and feel the boat slightly changing course. But there were no sudden thuds or alarms and after a while her tension—for she had been fully expecting them to hit something or other in the dark—gradually diminished. She had not meant to sleep, yet soon, lacking all power to resist, she was dead to the world; and for some three or four hours the exhausted girl remained unstirring.

Meanwhile their progress was slow, for both Bayub-Otal and Zen-Kurel were only too well aware of their own lack of skill and experience. Offshore, to their right, the current was swifter—they could hear it and could just make out, too, the froth of broken water in midstream—but they were unwilling either to disturb Maia or to run any risks which they might not be able to handle themselves. The inshore water seemed blessedly free of obstacles and for this they were content to settle. The need for continuous vigilance was strain enough in itself.

At some uncertain time during the long night Bayub-Otal dropped the stern anchor, went forward to Zen-Kurel and suggested a rest and a bite. Having lowered the bow anchor as well, they sat down side by side, legs stretched out, backs against the forward wall of the cubby—little shelter from the relentless rain—and ate a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

"How long till morning, do you suppose?" asked Zen-Kurel in a whisper.

"Three hours, perhaps."

"Is Maia still asleep?"

"I think so."

"She deserves it: we ought to let her sleep as long as she can."

For a time they were silent. Bayub-Otal pulled out his flask and they each took a mouthful of djebbah.

At length he said, "She's saved us again and again since Bekla. Without her we'd have died in the forest."

"That or been killed by the Ortelgans."

"We wouldn't have this boat, either. And that brothel woman—Maia had to overpay her; I'm certain of that— they took so long over it. First and last, she's spared herself nothing whatever on our account, that's about what it comes to."

"It's like Deparioth and the Silver Flower," said Zen-Kurel.

"Oh, do they know that in Katria, too?"

"Oh, yes, naturally. Well, it was in the Blue Forest that the traitors abandoned Deparioth, of course—left him to die—and the magic girl came to save him. I kept thinking about that while we were in Purn."

"But Zenka, you said you hated her. You wanted to kill her."

For some time Zen-Kurel made no reply. At last he replied, "What I know now is that I've never really stopped loving her: I only thought I had. Oh, yes, I wanted to stop loving her; of course I've hated her for what she did in Suba. I still don't understand it, but now I don't think any more that it was just deliberate, cold-hearted deceit and treachery. There was something—something behind it that I don't understand. O Cran, how I've hated her! But what I've discovered is that you can hate someone like poison and still not be able to stop being in love with them."

Bayub-Otal said nothing and after a few moments Zen-Kurel went on, "Her beauty—her courage—what she is— they're too strong for my hatred, I suppose, if you like to put it that way. I've never known a girl like her—never dreamt there could be one. Whatever she thought she was doing that night in Suba, there must have been some good reason. It's like the gods, really: in my mind, I mean."

"Like the gods? What do you mean?"

"Well, the gods often inflict terrible, even shameful suffering on us, don't they? And there's no accounting for it. But people still go on worshipping them because of things like sunsets and music. She's like that: or I am, whichever way you like to put it. I couldn't stop loving her—I mean, admiring and longing for her—not if she were to cut my throat."

"She still—she still loves you, you know," said Bayub-Otal rather falteringly, after a pause.

"Why, did she say so? I can't believe that."

"No, but the night you took those men back to Elleroth I thought she was going to go out of her mind; and it was entirely on your account. In fact I told you as much when you got back; you remember?"

"But that might not necessarily—" He stopped. "Well, but even if—I mean, how can I—after all that's happened—"

Suddenly they both sprang to their feet, Zen-Kurel nearly falling his length on the drenched, slippery planking. The boat was swinging round in the current, rotating by the bow.

For the next few moments they were at a total loss, with no idea what could have happened or what to do. Then the boat, having turned stem to stern, fetched up with a jerk in the running flood as the bow anchor rope went taut and held.

Maia woke instantly. The first thing of which she was conscious was the wet. She was wet through from head to foot—hair, ears, eyelids, hands, sandals. She was lying in a soaking wet hollow the shape of her body. For some reason, however, the rain no longer seemed to be blowing in upon her, though she could hear it beating on the planking above her head.

Something was wrong. That jerk; she'd felt that all right— that was what had woken her. But they were not aground; they were at the full extent of a rope, as she could feel by the wavering of the boat. What in Cran's name was going on?

Without stopping to put on her tunic or cloak, she elbowed her way out into the little well astern and stood up, facing forward. Immediately she felt the rain full in her face. So they must be pointing upstream.

"Anda-Nokomis, what's happened?"

"We'd stopped for a rest, Maia. We had both anchors down, and I think the stern one must have pulled out."

Quickly she turned, found the stern anchor rope in the dark and pulled on it. At least the anchor had not carried away. It was still on the other end, though not touching bottom.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"I can't say: three or four hours, perhaps."

"And the river's been rising all the time," she said.

"That's why the anchor came adrift: likely it never had a proper grip of the bottom to start with. We must raise the other one and then turn her downstream again."

Yet try as they would, they could not pull up the bow anchor. All three of them hauled until they had actually dragged the heavy boat two or three feet upstream against the current, but still the anchor would not budge.

At length Zen-Kurel stood back, panting, and at once the boat drifted back downstream and fetched up at the full extent of the rope.

"We'll have to cut it, Maia."

"No!" she said. "Not till I've been down to have a go at freeing it."

Zen-Kurel took her by the wrist. "Maia, I won't allow it."

She turned on him with icy anger. "Will you please let me go?" He did so. "Thank you. Now listen. If I know anything about it, it's probably hooked itself under a log or something o' that. If I do manage to clear it, you'll feel the jerk as the boat lifts, 'cos she's down by the bow now: that's on account of the river rising. Then she'll start to drift, and you'll have to pull me back. Not too sharp, though, or you'll catch me with the anchor like a fish on a hook."

"Shouldn't we drop the other anchor first?" asked Anda-Nokomis.

"No," answered Maia decisively. "We're not risking this happening twice. You shouldn't have anchored at all, Anda-Nokomis: not in this current, with the river rising. You should've tied up to the bank."

Without another word she slipped off her sandals, leaned well out over the bow, gripped the taut rope with both hands, took a deep breath and went overside.

At once she felt the strength of the current. It fairly jerked at her arms. Her hair streamed backwards and she could feel the flow over her shoulders and along the length of her back. Lose the rope and you're done for! Hand over hand, down and down. Eyes shut, free hand feeling ahead. Pain across the forehead and under the eyes. I'll get the basting thing up if it kills me! She found the shank of the anchor and felt soft, water-soaked twigs brushing against her face and shoulders like a swarm of long-legged insects.

Then—ah! just as she'd supposed—a thick branch; absolutely unyielding, yes, and therefore sticking out from a sunken tree-trunk, probably, but no need to find out about that. One fluke of the anchor neatly under it, snug as fingers round the handle of a basket. Hadn't even pierced the wood. O Cran, I can't hold my breath any longer! I can't!

Push it down by the shank, turn it away from you—I'm drowning, drowning, I can't hold my breath: let it out then, girl, but once you do there's no more—it's clear, it's free!

She almost lost hold of the rope as the anchor leapt upward, jerked by the buoyancy of the released boat above. With the last remnant of her consciousness she got both hands to it and felt them pulling her up. Give me air, O Cran, just give me some air and I'll never ask for any least thing else, ever again!

Her head and shoulders came clear of the surface and she drew in her breath. It was over. She could breathe.

They gripped her under the arms and dragged her aboard. For a good half minute she lay prone on the planking, vomiting water and drawing one breath after another.

At length she stood up.

"What's happening? Who's got the tiller?"

"I have," answered Bayub-Otal from the stern. "I've turned us downstream and I'm keeping as near in to the bank as I can."

"You're too brave for your own good, Maia," said Zen-Kurel. "Please don't try anything else like that."

She was about to answer when she became unthinkingly aware that something was still amiss. The boat, though now free, was lower in the water and moving very sluggishly. She made her way aft. She could hear the bilge slopping in the dark. Gods! she thought. No wonder the damned mattress was sodden to pulp!

The well of the boat, astern of the cubby-hole, was awash with the rain. She put one foot into it. It was over her ankle and halfway up her shin.

"Zenka!" she called. "Come and help me bail!"

He was beside her in moments. She felt so angry and harassed by all that had been allowed to go wrong that she simply put one of the wooden bailers into his hand and herself took up the other without a word.

Can't take your eye off them for a minute. Silly bastards sit there for hours in this rain and never even think of bailing! Why the hell did I ever come? They deserve to drown.

The rain was falling yet more heavily now, pouring over them, rattling on the boat and hissing on the water. Every time she turned to empty the bailer overside it stung her ear and cheek, so that at length she could stand it no longer and asked Zen-Kurel to change places: but soon it felt as bad on the other cheek.

There seemed no end to the bailing. In all seriousness— for there was still very little to be seen—she began to wonder whether the rain could actually be gaining on them and filling the boat. Her right arm grew so tired that she had to change the bailer to her left hand and work that much more clumsily. She knew her pace was slackening, but there was no pause in the steady rhythm with which Zen-Kurel bent and flung.

"Here, let me take over, Maia," said Bayub-Otal from behind her. "You go and steer for a bit."

At that moment the bow struck full tilt against something hard and unyielding. There was a shuddering thump of wood against wood,.

Zen-Kurel, first to collect himself, stood up and went forward.

"We've hit the bank!"

"But that's impossible! The bank's here on my left," called back Bayub-Otal.

"I can't help it. It can only be the bank. It's revetted with wooden stakes."

Maia felt herself giving way to bewilderment and near-desperation. The darkness and rain were like a curse, destroying whatever they tried to do. The bilge water was inexhaustible. She was aching in every muscle. Now, to crown it all, the bank had apparently become bewitched and altered its position in the dark. Another knock like that would probably stave in the bow. I must keep my head and think straight, else we're going to drown and that bitch Terebinthia'll have been proved right.

"Zenka!" she called. "Is there soft ground behind the stakes?"

"Too soft! It's all mud."

"Hook the anchor in behind the stakes, then, and hitch the rope as short as you can. We'll just have to wait for daylight. We can't risk another bang like that."

Zen-Kurel did as she had said. Once more the boat pivoted, the stern swung over to fetch up against the bank and sure enough Maia found at her left hand a line of thick, wooden stakes, driven side by side into the bed of the river. Their tops were only an inch or two clear of the surface. She plumbed again with the oar, but this time could find no bottom. So the stakes—which were stout and firm—must be something like ten or twelve feet long at least. Each one was nearly as broad across the top as the width of her hand: a stout structure, whatever it might be.

This was something altogether outside Maia's experience. She could only suppose that they must have run into some sort of mole or jetty projecting into the stream. But why would there be such a thing in this solitude, with no lights, no voices, no signs of a village or even a house? At a loss, she felt afraid. Yet she was still more' afraid of her own fear. Once I lose my head we're finished! Having dug in the stern anchor in the same way that she had told Zenka to secure the other, she went back to bailing, helped by Bayub-Otal.

"Maia," said Zen-Kurel, "I'm going to find out what sort of place this is."

"No, don't, Zenka!" she cried. "You'll never find your way back and anyway, what good can it do when all we want's to get away as soon as we can?"

But as usual there was no stopping Zen-Kurel. Clambering over the side, he vanished into the dark.

After a few minutes she shouted, "Zenka! Can you hear me?"

"I'm here," he replied, so close that she jumped. The beating of the rain had prevented them from hearing him returning. A moment later he was back on board and had taken the bailer from her.

"This is an island," he said, "and as far as I can make out, it's no more than eight or nine yards across. There's nothing on it at all, and yet it's revetted right the way round with these stakes."

"I can't believe it!" she said. "We'll wake up in a minute and find ourselves back in—Anda-Nokomis, where would you like to find yourself back in?"

"Melvda-Rain," he answered, still bailing.

He'd never had any basting tact, she thought. Not that this was much of a time or place for it. She said no more.

Little by little, half-light began to creep into the cloud-thick eastern sky, disclosing as dreary a prospect as could well have been found in all the world, and immediate surroundings as strange as any to be imagined.