102: THE FRONTIER

Anda-Nokomis, turning in the bow, raised his hand in the traditional Beklan gesture of acknowledgment to the win-ner of a contest. At this same moment, as they still stood side by side with the oar between them, Zen-Kurel, as naturally as a bird might alight on a branch, put his free arm round Maia, drew her to him and kissed her.

She clung to him, both arms round his neck, now laying her face against his soaking wet hair, now returning his kiss again and yet once more as the rain ran down their faces and mingled between their lips.

At last, releasing him, she gasped, "The boat, my darling! We've still got to get to Katria."

"I know. But at least tell me one thing now. I want us to be as we were in Melvda-Rain. I want you to marry me. Will you?"

"Yes, of course! Further to starboard; hard over, quick!"

The river, as it emerged from the forest, was broader, though flowing no less swiftly, for here, as far as they could make out in the falling dusk, it had not yet burst the distant, stony dykes on either side. They were in less danger now, for the trees had gone, there seemed to be no obstacles ahead and for the moment at all events little or no heavy debris in the main channel. The boat, however, had filled with so much rain and grown so heavy that it was actually hanging in the current—moving, certainly, but Maia, looking overside, could see sticks and leaves passing them at twice their speed. They had very little freeboard, too.

"Darling, yes will have to do for now."

"It'll do very well," he answered. "You'd better bail again, I suppose."

"Anda-Nokomis," she called. "Come and help me!"

"Do you think it's safe to leave the bow?"

"Yes: we're moving so slow. Only we got to bail this water out, else we'll never get there 'fore dark."

They both set about bailing, while Zen-Kurel remained at the steering-oar. Maia, in spite of the great flood of joy filling her heart, knew now that she was undoubtedly ill— ill enough to need to go to bed as soon as she could. Her head ached, her throat and ears were horribly painful and she was feeling even more light-headed than when they had entered the forest.

"D'you mind if I have a go at the djebbah, Anda-Nokomis?" she asked, shivering. " 'Fraid I'm took bad: it's the wet and bein' s' tired out. I'll be better once we c'n get warm and dry."

He nodded and passed her the flask, and she took a good, long pull. She could feel the fumes rising consolingly to dull her pain. Leaning forward, she kissed Anda-No-komis on both cheeks. "You've been the best of friends to me, Anda-Nokomis, that you have! When you're back in Melvda-Rain—when you really are Ban of Suba—can we come and be your guests, Zenka and me?"

"Yes," he answered, "you shall. And no one shall speak a word against you."

Yet as he spoke he looked so downcast and low that she felt ashamed, and very sorry that in her happiness she had spoken with so little consideration for his feelings.

"Dear, dear Anda-Nokomis, I'm so sorry about—you know; honest I am! Oh, sometimes, I just about wish I could split myself in two!"

"It would have to be a thousand and two, I think, Serrelinda," he answered with a smile. It was the only joke she ever heard him make.

"Anda-Nokomis," she said (bail and fling, bail and fling, oh Cran! don't I feel bad?), "do you know there was one time when I cursed you, and swore that if ever I could harm you I would? Doesn't seem possible now, does it? Live and learn, that's about it. Fools don't know who their friends are, I reckon."

"When was that?"

"After you'd made me dance the senguela at Sarget's party in the Barons' Palace; that was when."

"But—er—surely you made rather a success of it, didn't you, as far as I recall?"

(As far as I recall. Oh dear, oh dear!) "I know. It was on account of—of something else." The djebbah was really taking effect now: her head was fairly spinning.

"Well, but you did harm him, didn't you?" said Zenka, "and me too, come to that. But it's all dead and done with now."

"My love, I never went to harm you, nor Anda-Nokomis neither."

"What?"

"No, I never! Oh, darling Zenka, I wanted to save you both! Oh, and so many more! Anda-Nokomis, do you remember Gheta at the farm?"

"Gehta at the farm? What farm? Don't you mean Clystis?"

"No, no!" He looked blank. "Then surely you remember Sphelthon at the ford? Poor boy, he's at peace now, anyway."

"She's light-headed," said Zenka sympathetically. "It's not surprising. We must take care of her once we—"

"I'm not light-headed!" she cried. "It's men that's light-headed! All of you, everywhere! If you'd only seen that poor boy at the ford."

She began to cry. "I never meant you to go to that horrible fortress, or be tormented by that wicked woman. I neverl I never meant to betray you! I didn't do it for the Leopards! I didn't do it to be the Serrelinda! I just wanted to stop you all killing each other! I'd seen what fighting did to people! I wanted Sendekar to get to the river in time to stop your king getting across, only it just didn't work out like that."

Anda-Nokomis put his arm round her.

"You'd better tell us everything, Maia—about Gheta and Sphelthon and all the rest. A great deal seems to have happened on our journey to Suba that I failed to see."

By fits and feverish, tipsy starts, she told them everything—how Gehta had told her of her terror of an invasion of western Urtah; how she had knelt by Sphelthon at the ford; how she had been left alone in Melvda-Rain when the armies were assembling, to reflect on Karnat's plan and what it would mean for her own people.

"But I never let on to any of the Leopards, Zenka," she ended. "I never told Sendekar or Kembri or any of them as it was you that told me. I loved you then and I love you now and that was why I went to the jail that night in Bekla and made them let out the both of you."

Zen-Kurel, leaving the oar to trail in the current, dropped on his knees and kissed her.

"Whether you were right or wrong doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that you didn't do it for yourself or to harm anyone. You did it out of pity, didn't you? I might have guessed that."

"But if you'd known in Melvda-Rain that you were Su-ban—" Bayub-Otal was beginning, when all three of them looked up in surprise, hearing a long, ululating call in the distance. Zen-Kurel, gripping the oar once more, trimmed their course, while Bayub-Otal, helping Maia to her feet, stood looking out over the water.

"Who is it?" asked Zen-Kurel, peering from one bank to the other. "Is it us he's calling to?"

After a moment Maia pointed. Perhaps two hundred yards off and a little astern, in the bare, flat fields stretching away behind the dyke, a man was waving to them and pointing downstream. He was clearly a shepherd, for with him were two dogs and a little group of three or four sheep huddled together. In all the rainswept desolation there was not another soul to be seen.

"Those'll be strays he's been out after," said Anda-Nokomis.

"What's he saying, though?" said Zen-Kurel, cupping his hand to his ear. The man, as best he could, was running after them, plainly agitated. His voice reached them again.

"Boom! Boom!"

"What's he mean?" asked Zen-Kurel. "That's nonsense—boom, boom!"

"I wish it was," said Maia. "he's warning us there's a boom across the river lower down."

"I remember now," said Bayub-Otal. "Some Belishban once told me in Bekla: they keep a boom across the river at the frontier, to stop rafts and boats and make them pay duty. No doubt they stop fugitives, too," he added grimly.

"A boom?" asked Zen-Kurel, "across a river this breadth? What can it be made of, for Cran's sake?"

"There's only one thing it could be made of," said Maia. "Ortelgan rope: probably with bells, to give warning if a boat runs on it at night."

"Can't we cut it, then?"

"They wouldn't have a boom if you could get past it that easy. It'll be nearly as thick as your arm, and winched up level with the surface. There'll be a frontier post with bowmen, for sure."

"But if we stop they'll recognize us," said Bayub-Otal. "This hand of mine—everyone knows what I look like: you too, Maia, come to that. And they'll be Leopard soldiers, probably warned already to look out for us. Anyone in Bekla would guess that since we escaped I'd be trying to get to Suba. If we're brought ashore in Belishba we'll be seized and held; that's certain."

"Perhaps I could bribe them," said Maia.

Zen-Kurel shook his head. "They all hate Katrians too much, my darling. They'd only take all you'd got and then send us back to Bekla; there or Dari."

No one spoke for more than half a minute, while the boat, rain-heavy again now, drifted on in the dusk.

The only sounds were the creak of the steering-oar and the rain on the timbers.

"Here's what we'll do," said Maia suddenly, "and you'd just better listen, the both of you, 'cos there's no time to think of anything else. There's the guard-houses now, look, only just down there. See the lights?"

Zen-Kurel looked where she was pointing. "Gods! One each side! Who'd have thought it? And look, further down still there's a village; can you see? That must be in Katria!"

"Will you only listen?" she said again. "It's ten to one there'll be no one actually outside in all this rain. That means we won't be spotted until we hit the boom. Then I reckon it'll go taut and ring a bell. Each of you get hold of an oar, now. I'll take the boat over towards the left bank and run her on the boom sideways on, best as I can. Then you'll both have to jump for it. The oars'll hold you up, near enough, to go down a hundred yards and get ashore."

"But what about you?" asked Zen-Kurel.

"Soon as you've gone I'll dive in and swim under water far 's I can. I'll be there 'fore you, no danger. Might give you a hand out, even." She gave each of them a quick kiss. "Now grab your oars and get over that side, 'cos here it comes.'

She leant hard on the steering-oar, turning the boat to port as they drifted down towards the guard-huts facing each other on opposite sides of the river. The smoke from their chimneys hung low over the roofs and lamps were alight inside. She could hear male voices, but there was not a soul to be seen. Good!

On either side, sticking up out of the flood water between the huts and the river, were two stout posts.

Their tops were cloven, and in these grooves ran, as she expected, a thick rope. Upon the river side of each hung a bell as big as her head. She couldn't see how the ends of the rope were secured; probably to iron rings, she supposed, but all she was looking at was the river between. About ten feet out on each side the rope, sagging, disappeared into the water. How far would it be under in the middle, then? Could she have hoped to sail over it? Hardly; they'd have thought of that. It wouldn't have been worth the risk to try: if it had turned out wrong her men would never have been able to reach the bank from midstream.

Anyway, it was too late to change now.

Ahead she could see a regular undulation where the river flowed over the rope. With all her strength she shoved the handle of the oar over to starboard. The boat turned and checked broadside on to the stream: then the starboard beam drifted gently against the rope. The boat listed but the rope gave only slightly—less than she'd expected.

"Now!" she cried, and in the same moment heard both the bells ringing. Anda-Nokomis and Zenka, clutching their oars, flung themselves over the starboard side.

Maia remained standing in the tilted stern, clutching the steering-oar to keep her balance. This was the bit she hadn't told them about. She unbuttoned her tunic, letting it hang open, and ripped her shift to the waist.

A voice was shouting "Turn out! Turn out!" Soldiers, one or two with torches, others stringing their bows, were pouring out of both guard-huts, peering into the rain as their eyes adjusted to the almost-gone light.

"Help!" she cried. "Help me! Oh, Cran, I'll drown if you don't help me!"

"What the hell d'you think you're doing, girl?" shouted one of the men; the tryzatt, she supposed.

"Where've you come from?"

"I didn't know about the rope!" she shouted. "Oh, please help me!"

"Well, you know now," answered the tryzatt. "You mean you're alone?"

"Yes: I took the boat to run away from home. Please help me!"

"My stars, just look at her!" shouted another of the soldiers.

"Can you swim?"

"A little, yes. Oh, but I'm so frightened!"

No one had spotted her men yet; she mustn't look in their direction for fear of drawing attention to them.

By now they might have had almost long enough to get ashore and out of bowshot.

At this point the matter was taken out of her hands. A sudden, sharp impulse of the current tilted the boat yet further, though still it hung against the ropes. Water came pouring over the starboard side. It was going to sink.

Maia plunged forward and under water. Although she kept her eyes open, she could see nothing. The current was swift and full of frightening drags and counterflows in which she was tugged helplessly one way and another. Obviously she was going downstream, but in which direction—right or left—she had no idea. She swam on for as long as her breath would hold, then came up, turned her head and looked quickly behind her.

Her heart sank. She must have gone from side to side, for she was no more than thirty or forty yards down from the rope, if that. On either shore there seemed to be something like twenty men, all gazing intently downstream. At that very moment one of them saw her and pointed.

"There she is, look!"

"Come in to the bank, girl," shouted the tryzatt, "else we'll have to shoot, and I mean it!"

She dived again, trying, in the swirling mirk, to swim to her left. Her head seemed splitting, now, and she felt so feverish and ill that she hardly knew what she was doing. Yet when she came up once more she was much further downstream and closer in to the left bank, where the water was lying almost level with the top of the dyke.

"There she is!" came the cry again. She looked round. Two or three soldiers, their bows in their hands, had run along the bank from the guard-hut and were approaching her. She was utterly spent, yet she turned and swam on. She had not gone ten yards before a swift "Whaup!" sounded close to her ear. A moment later she saw the arrow floating a foot or two ahead.

I can't do any more: I'm drowning: I'll have to come ashore. Lespa be praised, they haven't seen Zenka and Anda-Nokomis: they must have got away. I shan't even be able to try to escape: I'm as sick as ever I've been in my life. O Zenka, just when we'd found each other again! I'm so sorry, my darling!

With a few last, failing strokes she reached the dyke wall. The top was only a few inches above her. She put her hands on it, pushed feebly upward and got her chin on the coping, but she could do no more.

Trying to pull herself up and out she sank back, sobbing with pain, with the grief of loss and the bitterness of defeat. And now, in her delirium, it seemed as though Queen Fornis herself was standing on the bank, her green eyes staring as once in the archery field. "Two of them I did myself!" What cruelty would be devised for her?

Two soldiers were striding towards her through the nightfall. Their footsteps came crunching over the loose shingle and as they drew closer she could see the Leopard cognizances on their shoulders.

"Ah, my lass! Not so clever after all, were you?" said one. "That's the end of that little game, then. Come on, now, up with you!" He stopped, gripping her wrists and dragged her roughly over the wall.

"It's not all that far back, Yellib," said the other. "We can carry her easy enough." They had her between them now, holding her by the arms and legs.

"Stop!"

Both men started and looked round. Anda-Nokomis, soaking wet from head to foot and almost as tall as the splintered oar he was still carrying, was stalking towards them. As he strode up they stood rooted to the spot. Authority surged from every inch of him as menace from a crouching wolf.

"You are violating the frontier!" Without taking his eyes from them, he indicated Maia with a gesture like that of Frella-Tiltheh pointing to the tamarrik seed. "You have no business here! Leave that girl instantly and get back where you belong!"

They obeyed him, laying her down on the soggy, granular shingle. As they straightened up, however, one of them found his voice.

" 'E's only one man, ain't he?"

"That's right," said the other. Then, to Anda-Nokomis, "Who are you, anyway?"

"How dare you question me?" thundered Anda-Nokomis. "I am the Ban of Suba, and if you do not immediately take yourselves back over the frontier—"

In that moment an arrow, flying out of the half-dark, struck him with terrible force just where neck met shoulder, burying itself four inches deep. A great spout of blood gushed out. Anda-Nokomis staggered and fell to the ground as a third soldier came running up, triumphantly waving his bow.

But now, from a little distance away, came cries of anger and attack, running feet and threats uttered in a foreign tongue. The newcomer pulled at his comrades' arms.

"Come on, here's the basting Katriaris! We'd best get the hell out of it, quick! Have to leave the girl, else they'll have us!"

And thereupon all three turned and disappeared upstream.

Maia dragged herself to her hands and knees. Specks of light were floating before her eyes and all manner of water sounds, real and unreal, coming and going in her ears. Slowly she gained her feet.

Anda-Nokomis had fallen on one side. His blood was pouring over the gravelly shingle. She staggered across to where he lay, knelt beside him and took his head on her arm.

"Anda-Nokomis."

He stared past her, and she laid one hand against his cheek.

"Anda-Nokomis, it's Maia! It's your Maia here!"

Suddenly his eyes saw her, he recognized her. His terrible, blood-slobbering mouth moved and seemed to smile. He was trying to speak. She bent her head and kissed him.

"Anda-Nokomis—"

He grasped her wrist. Quite clearly, he whispered, "When Suba's free, you and I, we'll—" Then his hand dropped and his head fell sideways on her arm.

Someone was standing beside her. She looked up. It was Zenka. There were others all around—soldiers, some of them, and rough-looking villagers like those she'd seen in Suba, carrying clubs and mattocks, their hair and beards beaded with the rain.

"Maia! I brought them as quick as I could Oh, gods, what's happened? Anda-Nokomis—"

She clutched him round the legs, sobbing hysterically. Then everything grew indistinct, and she fell unconscious across the blood-drenched body of the Ban of Suba.

They carried her up the slope from the river to the houses—Zhithlir, southernmost village of Katria. The women and children crowded at the doors, staring silently as they slipped and staggered along the mud-churned street towards the Elder's house. Zen-Kurel limped beside Maia, himself scarcely able to keep up with the soldiers.

"You'll give her a bed and look after her, won't you?"

"Don't worry, sir," answered the Katrian tryzatt. "She couldn't have struck luckier, as it happens. There's an army doctor here on his rounds of the frontier posts."

"Lucky?" said Zen-Kurel. "Yes, she's always been lucky, tryzatt, you know. The gods are with her, else I wouldn't be here now." He turned and looked back at those carrying the body of Anda-Nokomis, the arrow still embedded above his collar-bone.

"Henever had any luck, poor man. Not once."

"Oh, really, sir? That's bad, now," replied the tryzatt stolidly, riot knowing what else to say.

Zen-Kurel looked round him at the pall of wood-smoke, the dripping thatch of the roofs and the muddy alleys channeled with rivulets. Every hut, he now saw, had fastened to its door a wreath of yew or of cypress. The soldiers were wearing black ribbons at their shoulders, and from the roof of the Elder's house, as they approached it, a black flag drooped like a great, dead crow hung on a post.

"What's this, tryzatt? That flag, the wreaths—"

The tryzatt turned to stare.

"You mean you haven't heard, sir?"

"Heard what?"

"The king, sir. King Kamat was killed in battle four days ago, over on the western border. They've brought the body back to Kenalt for burning tomorrow."

Stunned, Zen-Kurel made no reply, halting a moment and then wandering on a few paces apart. Yet by the time they reached the Elder's house he had recovered himself sufficiently to be able to give an account of how the Ban of Suba and himself had escaped from Bekla, thanks to the heroic help of none other than Maia Serrelinda, who had brought them safely through Purn and then down the Zhairgen to the frontier.

They heated water for him, gave him wine and food and prepared him a bed. Throughout the night, however, he sat watching beside Maia. Towards morning she woke, still weak and feverish but clear-headed, spoke to him and wept bitterly for Anda-Nokomis. She told him, too, how in the misery of her heart she had reflected that if love could not express itself in fulfillment it could do so only in sacrifice. "But it wasn't me," she sobbed, "it wasn't me, in the end, as made that sacrifice!"

At this Zen-Kurel wept too. "He insisted on waiting for you on the shore. He said I was the one who must go for help, because they'd take more notice of a Katrian."

"If he hadn't done what he did, they'd 'a come too late."

Maia remained low and grief-stricken for several days.

But she was a strong, healthy girl, the doctor said, and with rest and care would be right enough in a week or two.