Shardik

by Richard Adams

  "What do you call these?" he asked, smiling and touching them.

  "Planella," she answered, and kissed his hand. "We call them planella. And these are trepsis, the red ones."

  "Let's sing to them," shouted a limping, dark-skinned boy at the back of the little crowd. "Come on, let's sing to them!"

  And thereupon he began and the others took up his song, rather breathlessly and in several different keys. Thyval scratched his head.

  "What are they singing, sir, can you make it out?"

  "Hardly at all," replied Siristrou. "They're singing in some other language, not Beklan--although a word or two here and there seems the same. 'Something or other--pulls out--a fish,' I think, 'along the river--' Oh, well, you know the kind of songs children sing everywhere."

  "They'll be wanting some money in a moment, I suppose," said Thyval.

  "Have you managed to get hold of any of their money yet?"

  "No, sir."

  But the song ended and the children, taking each other's hands, ran away, laughing and waving and carrying the lame boy along with them and leaving Siristrou staring after them in the sunshine, with the scent of the planella all about him from the wreath around his neck.

  "Funny sort of a go," muttered Thyval, making to remove his wreath.

  "Don't take it off," said Siristrou quickly. "We mustn't risk doing anything that might offend these people."

  Thyval shrugged his scented shoulders and they set off again, Ankray pointing the way up the slope to a stone house at the top. Although newly built, it was not very large or imposing, thought Siristrou, looking at the upper story, visible over the surrounding wall. In Zakalon such a house might do well enough, perhaps, for a prosperous merchant, a market governor or some such man. It was not a nobleman's house. However, from what Ankray had said, it was plain that the town had begun to grow only recently, no doubt upon the completion of the ferry. The governor, perhaps, if not himself the ferry's designer, might be an old soldier or some similar kind of practical man appointed to get through the early, rough task of building up the working port. Whoever he was, he certainly had little idea of style.

  The gate in the wall--a heavy, cross-ply affair studded with the broad heads of iron nails--was standing half-open and Siristrou, following Ankray as he turned in without ceremony, found himself in a courtyard half resembling that of a farmer and half that of a builder's merchant. Materials of one kind and another were stacked all around the place--sacks of what appeared to be seed corn, raised off the ground on slatted boards, several newly turned ox yokes and some leather straps, an iron rainwater tank half-full, two heaps of stones, sorted large and small, a plough, a stack of logs and another of long poles, ten or twelve rough-cut paddles and a mass of caulking material, some coils of rope and a pile of planks. On the north side of the courtyard, against the south wall of the house itself, stood a carpenter's bench, and here a grizzled, aging man, with something of the look of an old soldier, was holding up an arrow in one hand while with the other he carefully fixed a trimmed goose quill below the notch. A younger man and a small crowd of rather ragged-looking boys were standing around him and it was plain that he was instructing them in fletching, for he was both speaking and illustrating his meaning by thrusting forward the arrow held between his finger and thumb, to demonstrate the effect of this particular style of fixing the flights. One of the lads asked a question and the man answered him, pointing to some feature of the arrow and then patting the boy's shoulder, evidently in commendation.

  As Siristrou came farther into the courtyard, still following Ankray and feeling uncommonly self-conscious with the great wreath tickling the lobes of his ears, they all looked around at him, and at once the younger man stepped out of the little group and approached, clapping sawdust off his hands and calling over his shoulder, "All right, Kavass, just carry on. When you've finished, have a look at those thick blocks that Ankray's brought, will you?"

  Since Ankray did not seem to be going to say anything to announce their arrival, Siristrou, summoning his faulty Beklan, said carefully, "I am here to see the governor."

  "I'm the governor," replied the man, smiling. He inclined his head, raised his hand to his forehead and then, as though a little nervous, wiped it on his sleeve before offering it to Siristrou, who took it instinctively but with a certain sense of bewilderment. Perhaps the word he had used for "governor" was the wrong one? He tried again.

  "The--er--ruler--the ruler of the town."

  "Yes, I'm the ruler of the town. Aren't I, Ankray?"

  "Yes, my lord. I've brought the thick blocks and this here foreign prince, just like you said. And that young fellow Shouter, he says to tell you--"

  "Well, tell me that later. Will you let the saiyett know that the prince is here and then ask Zilthe to bring some nuts and wine into the reception room? See everything's as it should be, and take the prince's servant with you and look after him."

  "Very good, my lord."

  Walking beside his host into the house, Siristrou murmured, "If I have the meaning of that word correctly, I ought to tell you that I am not a prince."

  "Never mind," replied the governor cheerfully. "If the people here think you are, it will please them and help you as well."

  For the first time in several days Siristrou laughed and, able now to look directly at his host without seeming over-curious or unmannerly, tried to size him up. At first glance he looked about thirty, but of this it was hard to be sure, for in spite of his cheerful demeanor there was in his manner a kind of gravity and responsibility which suggested that he might be older. Nor was it easy to guess whether he was primarily a practical or a thinking man, for his face suggested to the perceptive Siristrou experience both of danger and--if words must be found--of grief; of suffering, perhaps. To come down to less fanciful matters, he was almost certainly not a nobleman. To begin with, he was not, to tell the truth, particularly clean, although his roughened hands, his sweat and streaks of grime suggested the craftsman, not the oaf. But there was something else about him--a kind of grave ardor, an air suggesting that the world was not yet altogether as he wished it to be and meant to see it become--that was less aristocratic than any amount of dirt. Altogether, thought the diplomatic Siristrou, a somewhat cryptic and paradoxical character, who might need careful handling. The lobe of one of his ears was pierced by an ugly, ragged hole which contained no earring, and his left arm was carried stiffly, as though affected by an old injury. What might his past be and how had he become governor of Zeray? He seemed neither a rough man lining his pocket nor an ambitious man eager to rise. An idealist? The only man who could be found to take the job? Oh well, thought Siristrou, one knew nothing about this entire country anyway and the man, whatever his history, was too small a fish for the net King Luin had sent him to spread. Later there would be others who mattered more, though no doubt the impression he made here would precede him inland.

  They entered a plain, clean room, stone-floored and rush-strewn, where a fire was palely burning, dimmed by the afternoon sunlight. The governor, with another smile, gently lifted the wreath from Siristrou's shoulders and put it on the table beside him. It had not been very soundly made, and was already beginning to fall to pieces.

  "Some of your townspeople's children came up and gave that to me while I was on the way here," said Siristrou.

  "Really--do you happen to know which children they were?" answered the governor.

  "It was little Vasa, my lord," said a girl's voice, "so Ankray tells me, and some of her Ortelgan friends. Shall I pour the wine now?"

  A young woman had entered, with silver cups and a flagon on a tray. As she set them down and, turning toward Siristrou, raised her palm to her forehead, he perceived, with a quickly concealed frisson of pity, that she was not entirely in her right mind. Her wide, smiling eyes, meeting his own with a disconcerting directness out of keeping both in a servant and in a woman, passed, without change of expression, first to a butterfly fanning its wings on the sunny wall
and then to the governor, who reached out and took her two hands affectionately in his own.

  "Oh, Vasa, was it? The prince was lucky, then, wasn't he? Thank you, Zilthe, yes, by all means pour the wine at once. But I'll delay mine for a while--I'm going to wash first, and change my clothes. You see, I mustn't disgrace your visit," he said, turning to Siristrou. "Your arrival in Zeray is of the greatest importance to all of us--to the whole country, in fact. I've already dispatched a messenger to Kabin with the news. Will you excuse me for a short time? As you can see--" and he spread out his hands"--I'm not fit to receive you, but my wife will look after you until I come back. She'll be here directly. Meanwhile, I hope you'll find this a good wine. It's one of our best, though you probably have better in your country. It comes from Yelda, in the south."

  He left the room and the girl Zilthe turned away to mend the fire and sweep up the hearth. Siristrou stood in the sunlight, still smelling the sharp, herbal scent of the planella in the wreath and hearing for a moment, at a distance, the rather arresting call of some unknown bird--two fluting notes, followed by a trill cut suddenly short. It certainly was a surprisingly good wine, as good as any in Zakalon: no doubt King Luin would be delighted with any trade agreement that included a consignment. He must bear it in mind. He looked up quickly as a second young woman came into the room.

  Middle-aged or not, Siristrou retained an eye for a girl and this one caught it sharply. Upon her entry he was aware only of her remarkable grace of movement--a kind of smooth, almost ceremonial pacing, expressive of calm and self-possession. Then, as she came closer, he saw that, though no longer in the first bloom of youth, she was strikingly beautiful, with great, dark eyes and a rope of black hair gathered loosely and falling over one shoulder. Her deep red, sheathlike robe bore across the entire front, from shoulder to ankle, the rampant figure of a bear, embroidered in gold and silver thread against a minutely stitched, pictorial background of trees and water. Forceful, almost barbaric in style, the design, coloring and workmanship were so arresting that for a moment Siristrou was in danger of forgetting the sword for the scabbard, as the saying goes. Work like that, imported to Zakalon, would beyond doubt find a more than ready market. Meanwhile, however, what might be the conventions of this country with regard to women of rank? Free, evidently, for the governor had sent his wife to keep him company alone and therefore no doubt expected him to converse with her. Well, he was not complaining. Perhaps he had misjudged the country after all, though from what little he had seen of Zeray, it would be strange to find a cultured woman here.

  The girl greeted him with grace and dignity, though her Beklan seemed a little halting and he guessed that she, like the gigantic servant, must speak some other as her native tongue. From the window embrasure where they were standing could be seen the sheds and landing stage a quarter of a mile below, fronting the swiftly undulant water of the strait. She asked him, smiling, whether he had felt afraid during the crossing. Siristrou replied that he certainly had.

  "I'm a great coward," she said, pouring him a second cup of wine and one for herself. "However long I live here, they'll never get me across to the other side."

  "I know this side is called Zeray," said Siristrou. "Has the place on the opposite side a name, or is it too new to have one?"

  "It hardly exists yet, as you've seen," she answered, tossing back her long fall of hair. "I don't know what the Deelguy call it--Yoss Boss, or something like that, I expect. But we call it Bel-ka-Trazet."

  "That's a fine-sounding name. Has it a meaning?"

  "It's the name of the man who conceived the idea of the ferry and saw how it could be made to work. But he's dead now, you know."

  "What a pity he couldn't have seen it complete. I drink to him."

  "I, too," and she touched her silver cup to his, so that they rang faintly together.

  "Tell me," he said, finding the words slowly and with some difficulty, "you understand I know nothing of your country, and need to learn as much as I can--what part do women play in--ew--well, life; that is, public life? Can they own land, buy and sell, go to--to law and so on--or are they more--more secluded?"

  "They do none of those things." She looked startled. "Do they in your country?"

  "Why, yes, these things are certainly possible for a woman--say, one with property, whose husband has died--who wishes to stand on her rights and conduct her own affairs, you know."

  "I've never heard of anything like that."

  "But you--forgive me--I lack the word--your way suggests to me that women may have a good deal of freedom here."

  She laughed, evidently delighted. "Don't go by me when you reach Bekla, or some husband will knife you. I'm a little unusual, though it would take too long to explain why. I was once a priestess, but apart from that I've lived a--very different sort of life from most women. And then again, this is still a remote, half-civilized province, and my husband can do with almost anyone, man or woman--especially when it comes to helping the children. I act freely on his behalf and people accept it, partly because it's me and partly because we need every head and every pair of hands we've got."

  Could she once have been some kind of sacred prostitute? thought Siristrou. It did not seem likely. There was a certain delicacy and sensitivity about her which suggested otherwise.

  "A priestess?" he asked. "Of the god of this country?"

  "Of Lord Shardik. In a way I'm still his priestess--his servant, anyway. The girl you saw here just now, Zilthe, was also his priestess once. She was badly injured in his service--that's how she came to be as you see her now, poor girl. She came here from Bekla. She feels safer and happier with us."

  "I understand. But Shardik--that's the second time today I've heard his name. 'Shardik gave his life for the children, Shardik saved them.'" Siristrou had always had an excellent phonetic memory.

  She clapped her hands, startled. "Why, that's Deelguy you're speaking now! Wherever did you hear that?"

  "The ferrymen were singing it on the raft this morning."

  "The Deelguy? Were they really?"

  "Yes. But who is Shardik?"

  She stood back, faced him squarely and spread her arms wide.

  "This is Shardik."

  Siristrou, feeling slightly embarrassed, looked closely at the robe. Certainly the workmanship was quite unusual. The huge bear, red-eyed and rippling like a flame, stood snarling before a man armed with a bow, while behind, a group of ragged children were crouching upon what appeared to be a tree-lined river bank. It was certainly a savage scene, but to its meaning there was no clue. Animal worship? Human sacrifice, perhaps? He feared he might be getting drawn into deep water--and his command of the language was still so deficient. One must at all costs avoid wounding the susceptibilities of this high-spirited girl, who no doubt had great influence with her husband.

  "I hope to learn more about him," he said at length. "That is certainly a splendid robe--most beautiful workmanship. Was it made in Bekla, or somewhere nearer here?"

  She laughed again. "Nearer here certainly. The cloth came from Yelda, but my women and I embroidered it in this house. It took us half a year."

  "Marvelous work--marvelous. Is it--er--sacred?"

  "No, not sacred, but I keep it for--well, for occasions of importance. I put it on for you, as you see."

  "You honor me, and--and the robe deserves the lady. There--in a language I've been learning for only two months!" Siristrou was enjoying himself.

  She answered nothing, replying to him only with a glance sharp, bright and humorous as a starling's. He felt a quick pang. Injured arm or no injured arm, the governor was younger than he.

  "Robes like this--not so fine as yours, of course, but of this kind--could they be traded to my country, do you think?"

  Now she was teasing him, rubbing her hands and bowing obsequiously, like some greasy old merchant flattering a wealthy customer.

  "Why, surely, kind sir, not a doubt of it. Very most delighted. How many you like?" Then, seriously, "You
'll have to ask my husband about that. You'll find he can talk to you most knowledgeably about anything that's made or sold from Ortelga to Ikat. He's mad about trade--he believes in it passionately--he calls it the blood that circulates in the body of the world; and many other terms he has for it--especially when he's drinking this Yeldashay wine. Have some more." And again she picked up the flagon. "What is the name of your country?"

  "Zakalon. It's very beautiful--the cities are full of flower gardens. I hope one day you'll visit it, if only you can overcome your reluctance to crossing the strait."

  "Perhaps. It's little enough traveling I've ever done. Why, I've never even been to Bekla, let alone to Ikat-Yeldashay."

  "All the more reason to become the first woman to go to Zakalon. Come and make our ladies jealous. If you like ceremony, you must come for the great--er--midsummer festival, if those are the right words."

  "Yes, they are. Well done! Well, perhaps--perhaps. Tell me, sir--"

  "Siristrou--saiyett." He smiled. He had just remembered "saiyett."

  "Tell me, U-Siristrou, do you intend to remain here for a few days, or are you going to press straight on to Kabin?"

  "Why, that's really for the governor to say. But in the first place, obviously, I shall have to see to bringing my men and--and beasts over from--from--er--Belda-Brazet--"

  "Bel-ka-Trazet."

  "--from Bel-ka-Trazet. And then I myself am not altogether in the best of health after the journey. It will be a few days, I think, before we're ready to start for Kabin. The wilderness and desert were very trying and the men need rest and perhaps a little--I don't know the word--you know, play, drink--"

  "Recreation."

  "That's it, recreation. Excuse me, I'll write it down."

  Smiling, she watched him write, shaking her head.

  "Then if you are here five days from now," she said, "you and your men will be able to see our spring festival. It's a very happy occasion. There'll be any amount of--recreation, and a most beautiful ceremony on the shore--at least, it means a lot to us, especially to the children. Shara's Day--that's the time to see the flames of God burning bright as stars."