Shardik (101 page)

At this moment they became aware of a band of eight or nine quite young children, who were running after them and calling out to attract
their
attention. Two were carrying thick, heavy wreaths of flowers. Siristrou stopped, puzzled, and the children came up, panting.

‘U-Ankray,’ said one, a dark-haired girl of about twelve, putting her hand into the giant’s, ‘is this the foreign stranger - the prince who’s come over the river?’

‘Why, yes, that’s so,’ answered Ankray, ‘and what of it? He’s on his way to see the governor, so just don’t you be hindering of him, now, my dear.’

The little girl turned to Siristrou, raised her palm to her forehead and addressed him in Beklan with a kind of confident joy, which both ar
rested and startl
ed him.

‘My lord,’ she said, ‘when we heard you were here we made wreaths, to welcome you and your servants to Zeray. We brought them to your house, but Lirrit told us you had just set out to see the governor. “But you run,” she said, “and you’ll catch him,” so we came after you to give you the wreaths, and to say, “Welcome, my lord, to Zeray.”’

‘What are they saying, sir?’ asked Thyval, who had been staring at the children in some bewilderment. ‘Are they trying to sell us these flowers?’

‘No, they’re a gift, or so it seems,’ answered Siristrou. Fond of children as he was, the situation was outside his experience and he found himself at something of a loss. He turned back to the dark-haired girl.

“Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’re all very kind.’ It occurred to him that he had probably better try to discover a
little
more. Some further a
cknowledgement of this rather ch
arming courtesy might well be expected of him later by whoever was behind it. ‘Tell me, who told you to bring the wreaths? Was it the governor?’

‘Oh, no, my lord, we picked the flowers ourselves. No one sent us. You see, we were gardening not far from the water-front and then we heard -‘ and she ran off into a chattering, happy explanation which he could not follow, while two of her companions stood on tip-toe to hang the wreaths round his neck and Thyval’s. Most of the flowers were of one kind, small and lavender-coloured, -with a light, sharp scent

‘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
crow
d. ‘Come on, let’s sing to them!
’

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

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

‘Hardly at all,
¹
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 round 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 storey 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-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, foun
d himself in a courtyard half-rese
mbling
that
of a farmer and half that of a builder’s merchant Materials of one kind and another were stacked all round the place - sacks of what appeared to be seed-corn, raised off the ground on slatted boards, several n
ewly-turned ox-yokes and some leath
er straps, an iron rain-water tank half-f, 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, ageing 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 round him and it was plain
that
he was instructing them in fletching, for he was both speaking and
illustrating his meaning by th
rusting 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, evid
ently
in commendation.

As Siristrou came further into the courtyard, still following Ankray and feeling uncommonly self-conscious with the great wreath tickling the lobes of his ears, they all looked round at him, and at once
the
younger man stepped out of
the
little group and approached, clapping saw-dust 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 goi
ng to say anyth
ing 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
,
to tell you -‘

‘Well, tell
me
that later. Will you let the s
aiye
tt 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 demeanour 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 ardour, 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 cars 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 go
vernor of Zeray? He seemed neith
er 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, g
ently
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 towards 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 despatched 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 dire
ctly
. 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, she
ath-like 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, colouring 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, evid
ently
, 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.