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."
48: THE GOLDEN LILIES
The kilyett was drifting on down the Nordesh. The warmth of the early sun had not yet pierced the foliage or drawn out the humid vapors from the swamps. It was cool, even chilly, along the water under the green tunnel, through which could be glimpsed, here and there, patches of lightly cloudy sky. Off to the left, at the edge of a shallow among the bordering trees, a flock of ibis were stalking and stabbing in the splashy mud with their curved, dark-red bills.
Behind came two smaller kilyetts carrying Kram, his friend and four or five other young men from Lukrait. All were armed with fish-spears and light, fire-hardened wooden shields. Unlike Beklan soldiers, none had any body-armor. They could not afford it, Maia supposed, for Gelt iron was there for the buying and she remembered having heard tell that Kembri himself had once made unavailing attempts to stop Gelt selling to Terekenalt.
Green and blue dragonflies were hovering and darting across the water, and several times, from one side or another, came a sudden, light pattering, rather like hail. Maia, turning towards the sound, was never quick enough to spot what had made it; nor could she anticipate where it was likely to come from next.
After watching her for a while with some amusement, Nasada laid a hand on her arm and silently pointed ahead of them towards the mouth of a side-channel leading away between tall reeds. Looking along its length as they drew level she saw, all in a moment, the still surface come alive as a shoal of little silver fish leapt a foot or two clear of the water, falling back again with the pattering noise she had heard.
"Margets,we call them. You don't have them on Serrelind?"
"No, Nasada, not as I ever saw. They're pretty."
"They always jump like that at sunset and often in the early part of the morning, too: never in the heat of the day. They like still, narrow water."
"Oh, I remember now; Bayub-Otal was on about them once."
"A few years ago, when I was living away from Suba, I found I missed that noise. To me, it's the sound of traveling alone down these waterways. The sound of solitude-- the sound of arriving in time for supper, too."
"You lived away from Suba? Where; in Bekla?"
"No; on an island called Quiso, in the Telthearna. That's up in the north, you know, beyond the Gelt mountains."
"What took you up there, then, Nasada?"
"Oh, I wanted to learn more about doctoring from a certain wise woman. There's a female priesthood on Quiso-- it's part of the cult of Shardik, you know. I learned a lot from them--well, from the Tuginda, anyway."
They talked on for a time; about his wanderings up and down the marsh country, and of her life on the shores of Lake Serrelind. She found herself avoiding any mention of what he had told her the previous evening, and h
e for his part spoke no more of it. After a while, feeling drowsy, she went back to the stern and lay down on the smooth wood, listening to the lapping of the water, the splash of the paddles and the intermittent, raucous cries of the birds in the swamps.
The night before, she had soon fallen asleep, tired out with the day's journey and feeling quickly the effect of the drug. Their departure that morning had been hurried-- breakfast, followed by thanks and farewells to Makron and Penyanis, with little or no time to ponder on what she had learned. She could not get the strange business sorted out in her mind; could not decide what she really thought about it.
Was she glad or sorry that she bore this extraordinary resemblance to the legendary Nokomis? Did she now feel any more sympathy for Bayub-Otal? And her freedom-- she was supposed to be free: she was no longer a slave. Yet how free was she? As far as she could understand, they meant to make a sort of princess out of her--for their own purposes. She imagined herself telling Occula; and that young lady's reactions. "Princess of frogs, banzi? Hope you enjoy it. Personally, I'd rather take over from Nennaunir at six hundred meld a night." Free? Well, there's some might call it that, she thought. But if ever I had any least chance of getting out of Suba, I reckon this lot's going to make it next to impossible.
The truth was that Maia, inexperienced and living largely without reflection, through her senses and emotions, was not really capable of weighing one thing with another and reaching a considered view.
Such was her respect for Nasada that if only he had told her what she ought to think, she would most probably have found herself thinking it. But he had deliberately not done so. Life had so far afforded her virtually no practice in exercising the power of choice: nor was it doing so now. With her, things simply happened; and by a mixture of patience, cunning and pluck one made the best of them. Unconsciously (and quite un-like Occula) she had come to think of life in this way.
Yet also strong in her--and of a piece with her habit of responding impulsively and living in the immediate moment--was the peasant's quickly-injured pride and resentment of anything felt as condescension; "Who the hell do they think they are?" Poor Milvushina, for all her helplessness and misery, had been enough to spark it off, let alone Bayub-Otal. One thing Maia certainly felt now, more than all her confusion and perplexity, was tart annoyance that apparently she was not wanted for herself, but only on account of her random resemblance to this Nokomis, whom she had never seen and who had died more than sixteen years before. I don't care if she was the most wonderful dancer in the world, she thought. I'm not her, I'm me!