The Rats and the Ruling sea

43

20 Ilbrin 941

219th day from Etherhorde

With the lookout's cry at dawn, grown men wept with relief.

'Tower ashore! Tower ashore!'

Felthrup's eyes snapped open. Had he heard correctly?

He was in the doorway of the wedding cupboard, under Hercol's chair. Hercol was already on his feet. 'A tower!' he cried softly. 'Thank the sweet star of Rin!'

'We are saved!' said Felthrup. 'Any settlement will have water! They cannot refuse us enough to stay alive!'

'To me, little brother,' said Hercol, and lifted the rat to his shoulder. Felthrup clung tight, revelling in the strength of his three good legs. Just like Master Mugstur, he had seen his battle-wounds healed when he took monstrous shape. Then (a far greater blessing) the Red Storm had nullified the hideous change, restoring him to his true body, just as it had done to Belesar Bolutu. Even with his burning thirst, Felthrup had not felt so strong in years.

The door to Pacu Lapadolma's cabin opened, and Bolutu himself stepped out, his silver eyes shining with anticipation. The dlomic man had lately moved into Pacu's cabin, which like Hercol's cupboard stood inside the magic wall. He wore an amulet about his neck: a lovely sea-green stone, inlaid with gold likenesses of tiger and snake. It was a sacred emblem, he'd explained vaguely: and this was the first time he'd dared display it in twenty years.

He had also taken to wearing a broadsword. Felthrup didn't know where the sword had come from, but he knew why Bolutu kept it at hand, and why he had changed his quarters. The mood on the Chathrand was explosive; men were almost as thirsty for a scapegoat as they were for water. Felthrup himself went nowhere without a guardian. The only thing worse than being the sole dlomu aboard the Great Ship was being its last surviving rat.

Scores of men were already rushing up the Silver Stair, with ixchel flowing past them left and right.. Hercol threw open the stateroom door. 'Thasha! Pathkendle!'

Pazel and Thasha stumbled into the passage, blinking. Ensyl was there as well, riding on Pazel's shoulder. Felthrup leaped into Thasha's arms. 'Wake up, my lady!' he said, wriggling with excitement. Thasha nodded vaguely; she did not seem to know quite where she was.

Bolutu was first up the Silver Stair. As soon as he reached the topdeck a cry of joy burst from his lips.

'Narybir! Ay dorin Alifros, beloved home! That is the Tower of Narybir, Guardian of the East! We have reached Cape Lasung! There is a village beside the tower, and fresh water to spare! And see, there is the inlet we were hunting for!'

The others rushed up the ladderway. A joyful clamour was breaking out above: A village! A village with water to spare!

On the topdeck, Bolutu stood with his half-webbed hands spread wide above his head. Men crowded around him, suddenly indifferent to his strangeness, hanging on his every word. Others gazed with longing from the portside rail.

Felthrup sniffed the wind and shivered with excitement. Forest! He could smell wet bark and pine sap, and a boggy smell like an inland swamp. Then Thasha moved forwards, and Felthrup saw the tower.

'Rin's eyes,' said Hercol beside them.

It stood at the end of the Cape: a magnificent spire of rust-red stone. The surface was irregular and deeply grooved. The tower was broad at its foot, with curving butresses that vanished, rootlike, into the sand. As it rose the structure leaned and twisted, so that from afar it resembled some ancient, wind-guttered candle. A little wall ran along the shore at its base. Inland from the wall stood a grove of rugged pines, and then, perhaps a mile from the tower, a village of low stone houses.

Eastward, the island tapered to a sandy point. Then came a mile of open sea, and beyond it the Northern Sandwall resumed, a ribbon of dunes curving away into the distance.

'Did I not promise you?' said Bolutu, turning to Pazel and Thasha. 'Did I not say that the worst lay behind us?'

'You told us,' said Thasha uncertainly. Pazel stood hugging his coat tight about him, watchful and uneasy. Felthrup caught his eye, and felt a spark of worry ignite in his heart.

'Bolutu!' shouted Taliktrum, looking down from the quarterdeck, where he perched on Elkstem's shoulder. 'Is that a naval installation? Will they confront us with warships if we enter the Gulf?'

'There is a small detachment of Asp warriors, if I recall, sir. But it was never a great fighting base. Narybir is a watchtower; her ships are meant to carry warnings with all possible speed to the City of Masalym, thirty miles across the Gulf, where no doubt an Imperial warship or two lies at anchor. Her signal-lights also send messages to the ships themselves, and keep them from wrecking on the Sandwall.'

Another whisper of joy swept the deck. Thirty miles to the mainland — to a city, a city, did you hear him?

'Can we have washed up right in the heart of your blary Empire?' demanded Taliktrum.

'No indeed,' said Bolutu. 'Masalym is the easternmost of the Five Pillars of the Bali Adro Coast. Sail east another hundred miles and you leave the Empire for the Dominion of Karysk and the Ghired Vale, and beyond that I cannot say. Our capital lies in the other direction, two thousand miles to the south-west. Farther still lies my birth city: beautiful Istolym, westernmost of all.'

'Have you ever set foot in this Masalym then?' demanded Elkstem.

The dlomu shook his head. 'Our ship set sail from Bali Adro City. I know the tower before us from paintings only, but it is unmistakable. Trust me, Sailmaster! I know exactly where we are.'

As he spoke these last words he glanced quickly at Pazel and Thasha, and touched the corner of one silvery eye. To the others it looked like a thoughtless gesture, but Pazel understood at once. His masters, the mages of the South. They know where we are too, now. He's just shown them.

'Trust me, all of you!' Bolutu went on joyfully. 'My mission was a famous one, and even if the name of Bolutu Urstorch has been forgotten after twenty years, that of my ship Sofima Rega never shall be. The men of Narybir will welcome us with open arms.'

'And flash a message to that city in an instant, maybe,' said Taliktrum, 'from which one or two — or twenty — gunships will be launched.'

'Aye,' grunted Alyash, who had appeared at the rail. 'A Segral from across the Nelluroq won't be greeted with a shrug, now, will it? They'll want to stop us cold. They'll never let us go on our merry way, traipsin' east to west through their waters. At the very least they'll board us and inspect every last corner of the ship. And what d'ye suppose they'll make of the Nilstone?'

'Better if we had struck land in a wilderness,' said Taliktrum, 'for your purposes, and ours.'

For a moment no one spoke. On Thasha's shoulder, Felthrup began to fidget. He sniffed the air again. 'Don't like it, don't like it,' he murmured.

'You say men live in that village by the tower,' said a sceptical voice in the crowd. 'Do you mean real men, or your sort of thing?'

It was Uskins, looking pale and rather sickly. He was keeping a sheepish distance from the other officers since his blunders in the Vortex. Bolutu glanced at him briefly.

'As it happens I mean both, sir,' said Bolutu. 'Let me say again: in Bali Adro the races live together in peace.'

'But you things rule, don't you?'

'Uskins!' snapped Taliktrum. 'Living creatures are not to be referred to as things. And you in particular must learn to keep your mouth shut. Nothing but foolishness comes out of it.'

'Mr Taliktrum,' said Elkstem nervously, 'they may have flashed that signal already.'

Taliktrum looked at him, startled. The crowd was abruptly tense.

'He's right,' said Alyash. 'What good's a watchtower if it's not quick with its warnings? And even if the mainland can't spot its signal light, there must be boats on the Gulf that can. And they'll relay the message to that city, if it's really there.'

'No,' muttered Felthrup.

'They could be weighing anchor even now!' said an ixchel at Taliktrum's side.

'And our men are in no shape for a fight,' added Uskins.

'Fight?' cried Bolutu. 'My dear sirs, you do not grasp the situation at all! We are a secure and confident people. No power in Alifros need give Bali Adro a moment's fear. We do not attack strangers who arrive on our doorstep! Why should we? Go and get your water, gentlemen! No one is going to take your ship away.'

'Listen to him!' shouted someone, and the crowd rumbled agreement.

'No, no, no,' said Felthrup, who was now practically writhing on Thasha's shoulder.

'Can't you keep that rat quiet?' Alyash snapped at Thasha.

Thasha returned his stare with loathing. 'What's the matter, Felthrup? Don't listen to him. Go ahead, speak up.'

All eyes turned to the rat. Felthrup opened his mouth to speak — but his brain was working too quickly, and his nerves got the better of him. He began to sniff hard and fast, like a monk at his breathing exercises. Then he gasped aloud.

'Grease,' he said. 'Cookfires. Last night's dinner!'

Alyash made a sound of contempt.

'I don't smell a blary thing,' said Elkstem.

'You ain't a rat, are ye?' said Fiffengurt. 'They can stand on a roof and smell a bean in the basement. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if those smells fetched across the water.'

'No!' wailed Felthrup. 'I can't smell anything! Wake up, wake up!'

He began to squeal pitifully and rub his snout with his paws. Thasha cradled him, whispering soothing words, but he only grew worse, convulsing with dry heaves. He spoke no more, and with a look of concern Thasha bore him away.

Myett whispered something urgently into Taliktrum's ear. He nodded, as though the thought had occurred to him already.

'Mr Elkstem,' he said, 'plot a course through the inlet. We shall go and get our water — quickly — unless there is some coherent objection?'

A roar of approval from the men. Pazel and Hercol exchanged a look. In the swordsman's eyes Pazel saw a reflection of his own unease. Felthrup had an extraordinary way of thinking. His nerves had betrayed him the same way in Simja, when he guessed Ott's trick with Pacu. Some deep part of him seemed to grasp things before he could explain them, even to himself.

But what choice did they have? Without water, the men would soon be more delirious than Felthrup. And then they would start to die.

Mr Fiffengurt took a tally: of the sixteen officers charged with record keeping, eleven reckoned the date to be 20 Ilbrin of the year 941.13 He sent a request to Captain Rose to make the date official: Without that we agree on the date, sir, I fear the men's hearts will go evermore adrift. Rose agreed at once, and the date of the IMS Chathrand 's entrance into the Gulf of Masal was fixed for all time.

Fiffengurt assumed that the day would be remembered for the meeting of two worlds so long divided, and in a sense he was right. It was in any case a day no one aboard was ever able to forget.

They cleared the inlet with nine fathoms to spare. On the leeward side Cape Lasung formed a broad sandy hook, with a number of small, rocky islands clustered near the point commanded by the Tower of Narybir. Several of these inner isles had stone houses and fortifications. But no voices hailed them, from tower or village, and the channel-markers Bolutu had predicted could not be found.

'Where's the fishing fleet?' said Pazel.

'Out on the Gulf, obviously,' said Mr Uskins, as though glad to be addressing someone of lower status than himself. 'Still bringing in the night's catch.'

'Every last boat?' said Pazel dubiously.

'How many do you imagine they have?' said Uskins. 'Even by Ormali standards this hardly represents a-Look there! A ship! Ship on the starboard quarter! What did I tell you, Muketch?'

He had indeed spotted a vessel on the Gulf. But it was no fishing boat. It was a strange, slender brig, eight or ten miles off, appearing and disappearing behind the islands. Telescopes revealed three similar vessels at a greater distance.

They were not making for the Cape. All four were sailing due east — and swiftly, by their spread of sail. Those sails were tattered, however, and one of the brigs had lost its mizzenmast. Strangest of all, Mr Bolutu could make no sense of their blazing red pennants, which were not the colours of Bali Adro. 'The world is vast,' he said, shaking his head.

Perhaps, but the village at the foot of Narybir was tiny. It was hard to imagine danger of any kind lurking in that clutch of meagre cottages, listing fences, crumbling barns. Only the stonework — the mighty tower, the low wall above the water-line, a jetty protecting the fishing harbour — suggested that the outpost had any connection to an Empire.

And still there was no one to be seen. No voices answered their shouts and horns and whistles. Bolutu suggested they fire a cannon in greeting, but Taliktrum forbade it. None of the brigs had yet altered course, and he wished to keep it that way. Why announce their presence to every ship in the Gulf?

'You will get your water and return with all possible speed,' he told Mr Fiffengurt. 'But do not forget the hostages. Attempt any betrayal, and the lives of your people are forfeit.'

They lost depth rapidly. Three miles from the village Fiffengurt brought them up short. 'Furl the mains, Mr Alyash, and heave to. We've not come thousands of miles to split our keel on a blary sandbar.'

Fiffengurt pointed at the jetty. 'We'll load our water there. It's a bit outside the village, but at least it's solid stone. Mr Fegin, we shall bring the water on board with the sixty-foot yawl. See to the placement of casks in her hold, and put a cargo lift together. And for Rin's sake brace her main yard stoutly. When they're full those casks will weigh two thousand pounds apiece.'

'Oppo, Cap — Mr Fiffengurt, sir,' stammered Fegin.

'And have the carpenter get started on a wagon, for moving the casks about on shore.'

'Sir, that is pointless labour!' said Bolutu, laughing. 'There are surely wagons in the village. And these are sea-faring folk. They will come out in the hundreds to help fellow sailors in need.'

'All right,' said Fiffengurt, 'don't have him build it just yet, Fegin. But let the plans be drawn up all the same. Meanwhile we shall launch the pilot boat, and go looking for these timid folk.'

The pilot boat could carry twelve. Six of those, at Taliktrum's insistence, were Turachs. Besides Bolutu, Fiffengurt also asked Hercol, Pazel and Thasha to come ashore, for no clear reason except that he trusted them. The last member of the landing party, Alyash, he included for the opposite reason: because he didn't trust Ott's man to be left alone on the ship.

'In some ways,' added Fiffengurt quietly to Pazel as the Turachs rowed for shore, 'the ixchel made our lives easier. The most dangerous men on Chathrand are all locked in her forecastle.'

Except for one, thought Pazel, looking back at the gargantuan, battle-scarred ship. Taliktrum had ordered a search for Arunis, deck by deck, but somehow the mage had eluded them. What's he hiding for? Did he find out, somehow, about Bolutu's allies? Could they be closer than we think?

The jetty began at the foot of the tower, and was built of the same red stone. It swept in a graceful curve out into the Gulf, shattering the waves from the inlet, and leaving the water within its embrace almost becalmed. Stairs descended to the water in three places, and at one of these they moored the boat. From there, it was a short, awkward jump onto the weedy stairs.

As he climbed Pazel felt terribly dizzy. The very stillness of the jetty was to blame, he knew: after months at sea only constant motion felt natural. They'd be gone again before he got his land-legs.

His comprehension didn't stop him from slipping, however. He might have tumbled right off the wet stones if Thasha's arm hadn't shot out to catch him. Her eyes snapped to his own, and for a moment the Thasha he knew rose within them. She gave him a slight, teasing smile, her parched skin wrinkling. He felt more relief at the sight of that smile than he had to be saved from falling. But even as they stepped onto the jetty the haunted look was creeping back over her face. He clasped her hand, tightly. Stay with me, he thought.

They reached the top of the jetty. Pazel looked up at the soaring tower, its bone-like barrenness, the hundreds of narrow windows gaping darkly overhead. Then one of the soldiers cried out in surprise and pointed.

Four humans stood watching them, where the jetty met the shore. Two men, two women. All four naked. They were lean, sun-darkened, their hair long and tangled. They were motionless as deer.

For a startled instant no one said a word. Then Fiffengurt turned to Bolutu with an exasperated gesture. 'Speak, man, speak!' The dlomic man cupped his hands to his lips.

'Waelmed!' he shouted. 'Peace te abbrun ye, en greetigs hrom ecros ke Nelroq!'

The four figures turned and ran. One of the women gave an odd, keening cry. Then all four vanished around one of the rootlike buttresses of the tower.

The others in the party scowled in bewilderment. What Bolutu had shouted was almost Arquali, and yet unlike anything they had ever heard.

'What in the tar-bottomed Pits was that gibberish?' said Fiffengurt.

'That was their language, Quartermaster,' said Bolutu promptly, 'and my own. I'm happy to tell you that our Imperial Common Tongue, which we call dlomic, is first cousin to your Arquali, for the simple reason that your empire was founded by exiles from Bali Adro, many centuries ago. Didn't I say Pazel's Gift would not be needed? Give yourselves a week or two, and you'll understand almost anyone you meet. You speak a dialect of dlomic, my friends, and have done so all your lives.'

'Exiles?' said Thasha faintly.

'Human exiles,' said Bolutu, 'but in Bali Adro every child — human or dlomu or otherwise — learns Imperial Common. Your histories don't reach back that far, m'lady, but ours do, and they leave little doubt. Your great Empire began as a colony of our own.'

He spoke with humility, as if he knew his words would shock. They did, of course. But no one exclaimed, or asked questions. They had gone beyond shock in recent weeks, and thirst was making it hard to think or care about anything else.

Yet in some part of his mind Pazel was still fearful and confused. 'Why did they run off, if you were speaking their language?' he asked.

'They didn't understand a word!' said Alyash vehemently. 'They're savages, obviously.'

'In these parts? Nonsense!' said Bolutu. 'I expect they were swimming, and we startled them.' His silver eyes glanced at them sidelong. 'You should see yourselves. I might run too, if you popped suddenly out of the sea.'

They headed for shore, through the cool spray of the breakers striking the jetty's seaward face. The village was out of sight behind the wall along the shore, except for a few roofs and steeples in poor repair. Little sand-coloured crabs ran before them. Grey pelicans swept by overhead.

Pazel was frowning. 'It doesn't add up,' he whispered to Thasha. 'The way they just froze, staring at us. And then ran off without a word.'

Thasha blinked, as though struggling to focus on his words. 'Their hair was still dry,' she managed finally. 'They hadn't been swimming.'

Pazel squeezed her hand tighter. The behaviour of the humans was certainly strange, but Thasha's troubled him even more. Her awareness of him, and for that matter of all that surrounded her, came and went like the sun through drifting clouds. Often her gaze turned inwards, as though her body were forgotten, and she was living in some distant country of the mind. But at other times her eyes jumped and darted, chasing things invisible to his eyes. Was it the Nilstone at work? She had touched it with the hand he held now, the one she'd maimed years ago in the garden of the Lorg. He ran a finger over the scar. It was warm to the touch.

Her hand twitched as though he'd found a ticklish spot. She gave him a look that was briefly clear, and once more that hint of a smile played over her lips.

'Oggosk can't do much to us now,' she said.

Pazel nodded, avoiding her gaze. It was true: they were free. The ixchel were no secret; Oggosk had run out of blackmail. But the witch had had a reason for her threats, something she believed absolutely. What Thasha is to do, she must do alone. You can only get in her way.

They reached the jetty's end. Fiffengurt stepped ashore, knelt, and kissed the sand at his feet.

'Hail Cora, proud and beautiful,' he said, and the others mumbled an affirming 'Hail.' It was a ritual never to be skipped: the commander's greeting to Cora, Goddess of the earth, at the end of any particularly deadly voyage. Failure to do so, it was thought, could bring disasters ashore to match those just avoided at sea.

As Fiffengurt rose, something caught his eye. He chuckled, pointing. Scattered on the earth were several piles of blue-black mussel shells, still wet from the sea. A few had been cracked open. Pazel looked down, and saw the little shells clinging thickly to base of the jetty, right at the water-line.

'So that's what they were up to,' he said. 'But why didn't they bring a basket? How were they going to carry them home?'

'No clothes, no baskets, no tools,' said Alyash, frowning. 'Right free spirits, ain't they?'

'It is strange — I confess it,' said Bolutu sharply. 'But there are strange folk everywhere. Come, let us go and clear this matter up.'

Suddenly a cry, faint but urgent, reached them from the Chathrand. They turned and looked at her, but could see nothing amiss. The sound did not come again.

'We must find that water,' said Hercol. 'The crew's patience is at an end.'

The tower doors were shut; a bolt as thick as Pazel's upper arm lay across them, with locks at either end the size of dinner plates. Sand buried the foot of the ramp leading up to the doors. 'This makes no sense at all,' said Bolutu, 'unless the tower became unsafe while I was gone. But what am I saying? It has stood for a thousand years! Why should it weaken in the last twenty?'

The path to the village ran along the outside of the sea-wall, and was overgrown with trefoil and gorse. A mile ahead, near the quay with its crumbling docks and outbuildings, it passed through a stone archway. 'There should be a common well,' said Bolutu, but the confidence was gone from his voice.

They made for the village. But they had not gone twenty paces when one of the Turachs grunted, 'Look there!'

A man had stepped from the archway. He was naked like the other four, and like them strangely crouched and shuffling. He darted back through the gate before Bolutu could call to him.

Bolutu rushed along the track, no longer able to hide his concern. Fiffengurt shouted after him: 'Wait for us, damn it, don't you dare-'

Bolutu did not wait. He broke into a run, sandals slapping along the dusty track. The others followed him in some confusion, not certain whether more haste or less was called for. Hercol drew Ildraquin from its sheath.

A sudden shout came from their left, echoing off the stones. It was a man's voice, but it uttered no words. It was simply a hoot, challenging and somehow derisive.

'Where are you, blast it?' cried Fiffengurt, turning in place.

'There, sir!' said a Turach, pointing upwards. A child's face, wild of hair and eye, ducked quickly behind the sea-wall.

'We should double back,' said Alyash. 'I don't fancy walkin' alongside that wall. They could rain stones down on us, or worse.'

While the others stood undecided, Thasha pulled Pazel forwards, towards the gate. There was an urgency in the way she tugged him, as though she both needed and feared what lay ahead. Hercol came after them. Despite the others' protests the three were soon running after Bolutu, who was by now a good distance ahead.

Long before they could reach him he gained the archway. There he paused, and spread his hands as if in delight. He turned and flashed them a smile, the white teeth very bright in the black face, and then he vanished through the archway.

They were a hundred yards from the opening when they heard him scream. It was a sound of horror, or of pain. Hercol redoubled his speed, his black sword held aloft. Pazel and Thasha followed as fast as their legs would carry them.

An ambush, thought Pazel. Aya Rin, we're probably too late.

They reached the archway and skidded to a halt. They were not too late: there at twenty paces stood Bolutu, in a little square formed by dilapidated structures of stone. There was a round stone basin at the centre — a basin with water, Pazel saw with a flash of pure longing. And before Bolutu stood two of his own kind — two dlomu, blacker than black, their eyes four bright silver coins. An old man and a young. They wore tattered work clothes, wool caps pulled low over their silver hair, boots of sunbleached leather. They held no weapons, and showed no sign of threat.

Bolutu stood by the basin, gazing at them. His mouth was open, and his face was clenched like that of a man told something so ghastly that he was struggling to spit it from his mind. The other two were speaking to him gently, insisting that there was nothing to fear. 'Don't worry,' they said, again and again. 'Don't worry, they obey us, they're tame.'

'Tame?' cried Bolutu, his voice almost unrecognisable.

'Of course,' said the younger dlomu. 'We knew they could be-'

He broke off with a frightened shout. He had spotted the three newcomers in the archway. 'Gods unseen!' he shouted. 'Look at them, Father, look!'

Bolutu gestured desperately: Don't come in here, stay back. But Hercol marched boldly through the gate and into the village, and Pazel and Thasha followed. The dlomu backed away from them.

'A miracle,' said the old man, trembling. 'A miracle. Or a curse.'

'Bolutu,' said Pazel, 'for Rin's sake tell them we're friends.'

Bolutu looked at his hands.

The father and son glanced behind them, as though tempted to run. The younger man pointed at Pazel. 'Did you hear it, Father?' he cried, his voice breaking with excitement.

'Don't… say it,' murmured the old man.

'Belesar,' said Hercol to Bolutu, 'speak to us this instant! Why are they so afraid? Why are you?'

Bolutu turned to face them. He clutched at the amulet around his neck. He was shaking uncontrollably. 'No,' he said, his voice little more than a whisper. 'No. Rin. No.'

Pazel felt Thasha grope for his hand. She stepped forwards, towards the three motionless figures, and Pazel walked beside her.

The younger dlomu was steadying his father, but his eyes never left the newcomers. He struggled to speak again.

'It's just that we've never — I mean, Father has, as a child, but I've never seen-'

'What?' said Pazel, 'A human? But we just saw them — we saw six of them.'

The young dlomu shook his head. Then he locked eyes with Thasha, who had drawn nearer still. Releasing Pazel, she put out the hand that had touched the Nilstone. Slowly, cautiously. A blind girl groping for his face.

'Say it,' she told him. 'You've never seen-'

'A woken human,' said the other, softly.

Thasha's face paled, and her eyes went wide and cold. Pazel reached for her arm, even as he grappled with the horror of what he'd just heard. She was trying to speak but could only gasp. He thought suddenly of Felthrup's terror on the quarterdeck, and knew that something like it was stirring in his mind.

Hercol gave a warning shout: across the little square, between two crumbling structures, a small human crowd was gathering. Some were dressed, after a fashion — scraps of leggings, torn and filthy shirts — but most wore nothing at all. They stood bunched together, or bent low, staring at the newcomers, obviously afraid. One man was biting his finger. Two or three uttered wordless moans.

Thasha clutched desperately at Pazel's arm. 'I didn't mean to,' she said. 'It was never supposed to happen. You believe me, don't you?'

He pressed her head against his chest. I love her, he thought. And then: Who is she? What is this thing I love?

The older dlomu stepped towards the crowd of men. He whistled and clapped his hands. At the sound, the whole group shuffled forwards, slow and fearful and close together. When they reached the old man they pawed at him, clung to his shirt. One by one their eyes returned to Pazel and Thasha and Hercol, and there was no human light in those eyes, no consciousness but the animal sort, that fearful otherness, that measureless sea.