“In case of what? We need—no, we must have—a big harvest,” Zaryas pointed out. “Mishbil’s belly has been filled by towns and districts all Averidan over. Our credit is strained to the limit. The time for timidity is past, messirs. We must wager all.”

  No further objections were voiced, but Zaryas could feel the undertow of mulish reluctance urging her along, strong as the outgoing tide. There is in rulership a time to give way—or at least appear to. “However,” she added as if it had just occurred to her, “perhaps it would be as well to continue the canal remodeling.”

  “It would be a pity to idle away these cool winter months.”

  “It can do no harm,” several councillors chimed in, and so it was decided.

  She was pleased with her cunning, and when the Council had bowed and withdrawn crowed, “Didn’t I manage that beautifully?”

  But Xerlanthor’s seat was empty. So that was why he had seemed so meek! Annoyed, she realized he must have slipped out quite early on. She trotted out the private door in search, and glimpsed him on the terrace.

  Tart words trembled on her tongue as she approached him. But she saw he was leaning on the balustrade, staring west, and instead remarked gently, “You can’t see the Neck from here.”

  He started, and then said, “No, I suppose not.”

  “You should try it from the little balcony, though I think the roofs around are too high.” The thin, late-morning sunlight gilded the white-tile roofs but lent only mild warmth. Flecks of mist like beaten egg white floated in the seaward sky, and the air was cool and moist. Old Winter was nominally lord over Mishbil, but the hand of Spring was already everywhere. Zaryas said, “I shouldn’t worry about the dam if I were you. Everyone did their very best. Only time will tell if the best was sufficient.”

  “I’m not worrying about that,” he said irritably. “My plans and calculations are correct, I’m absolutely confident of it—as far as they went. But what if there’s something else?”

  A chilly breeze seemed to trickle down Zaryas’ back. “What?”

  “If I knew I could deal with it,” he sighed. “It must be some other factor, something quite outside, the hydraulic system. Beyond the neat circle of canals and river and dam.”

  For a moment a cold foreboding weighed down her tongue. The unknown and therefore dreadful future lurked round some dark corner before her, waiting. Then common sense reasserted itself. “That’s what happens when you want something too much,” she declared. “If the sky doesn’t tumble before your desire is achieved, the earth might open up. I said so, that first evening, remember?”

  His somber face lightened as he smiled. “Surely I do,” he said. A thick plait of, her hair hung down over the balustrade, and he took it up gently to examine the silver-wire clasp that fastened it. That drew her closer, and she leaned her head against him for an instant, completely happy.

  The moment passed. Three donkeys laden with pottery packed in straw went by on the farther road, and the boy driver waved at them. Zaryas waved back, but Xerlanthor did not move. “You must not think hardly of my folk,” she told him. “If they had the arts of diplomacy they wouldn’t be the farmers and fishers and merchants they are.”

  “They dislike me,” Xerlanthor said with some bitterness. “They always have, though for love of you they pretended otherwise.”

  “Not at all. You must not expect to win their affections with one large gift, impressive though it might be. Little by little is the way—a steady regard.”

  “I’ve limited that regard all my life,” he said, “to magery. And then I met you. Don’t let’s stretch my affections too quickly yet.” With a grave, courtly gesture he saluted her. “You are my sanity, Zaryas. I must make very sure never to lose you.”

  “This summer,” she promised.

  The spring sowing proceeded without further incident. Zaryas spent long days striding up and down flat brown fields, to lend the enterprise her explicit endorsement. Also, she wanted to be certain the precious seed was sown properly.

  Except for those who had pressing magic duties elsewhere the magi lingered in Mishbil. They were of course professionally interested in how the dam would bear up in its first season. As she manipulated scanty food supplies Zaryas often secretly wished they would depart. But the traditions of official hospitality did not allow her to even ask questions about exciting projects elsewhere.

  But on the last day of Olnep the Master Magus himself sought her out. She was visiting a windy and distant farm-holding near the sea, one of those family settlements that combine fishing with farming. Already thin green leaves were veiling the wild sea-plum thickets. The worried farmer showed her the tracks of sand-leopard cubs beside the canal. When out of the corner of her eye Zaryas saw the Master Magus lifting toward them, far over the flat bare fields, she took him for a bird. There were many that day riding the blue spring sky.

  “Princess!” he called. His thin old voice sounded exactly like a bird’s whistle. “News!”

  The Master Magus especially was far too important to run minor errands. Zaryas took a deep breath as the Magus carefully eased himself to earth. “I must return to the capital,” he said, panting. “Shan Varim King has died.”

  Zaryas could not speak. The farmer, who had inquisitively lingered within earshot, cried, “May the White Queen receive him! How did it happen?”

  “Varim was old,” the Magus replied briefly. “The Collegium of Counsellors, which I head, must meet to choose a new King,” he added to Zaryas. “I shall initiate mourning in Mishbil immediately,” Zaryas said. All of a sudden her throat ached with tears. “Varim was King all my life. It’s like being told the Dragon spread his wings and flew off. May he journey safe to the Dead-lands.”

  “I have seen three Kings of the Shan,” the Magus said heavily. “Offer, my dear, that we may once again choose a King rightly. And—” He hesitated and then continued, “It weighs on me, though, that I won’t be here.”

  “Nonsense,” Zaryas said. “Don’t worry about i us, all will be well here. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.”

  There was time to say little more. Many of the magi departed with their Master, for at such times there is need all Averidan over for familiar authorities and Orders. In Mishbil, banners of coarse mourning black were hung from every window and thin black streamers tied to cattle-yokes and the prows of ships. All the King’s representatives, from Zaryas down to the most minor bureaucrats, wore loose black linen sur- I coats over their everyday clothes. At the official sacrifice on behalf of the Collegium, the worthies of Mishbil looked like a flock of crows. Parties, I picnics, and festivals were banned, not that anyone in Mishbil had the time or provisions for them anyway. !

  For when the Shan King passes, his subjects lose more than a ruler. The King bridges the gap between past and present, linking the Shan with their fathers and forefathers. Who else can judge what tradition and custom truly are except the Shan King? Until a new monarch is chosen and crowned Averidan drifts, helpless as a ship without a rudder. Zarvas could not shake the uneasy feeling that she now ruled alone. There was no Shan King behind her to advise or amend now, if she lost confidence or failed in any w av.

  “But how does the Collegium choose the next Shan King?” Xerlanthor asked her once.

  “You ought to know more than I,” Zarvas said. “Your Master heads the Collegium. But don’t tell me about it. Everyone know s it’s an arcane and hidden rite, not at all for common inquiry.”

  “It’s nothing to be shy about,” he declared. “Merely a political process. I wonder who it’ll be.”

  Though sowing was nearly done there was plenty to do. The pearl-fishing season opened without its usual festival but with rather more than the usual number of sacrifices to Ennelith for calm seas and safe sailing. Now it was really spring ships from other countries, faraway Oorsevesh and Colb in the south, put into harbor for provisions and water, and sometimes to hire Viridese pilots for the sail north through the treacherous shoals to the City. Zaryas graciously received these foreigners and spent happy hours with Xerlanthor examining their trade-goods—greasy green-black ivory in chunks tall as a man, jars of oil-fruit to be processed into nard, black and yellow carpets reeking of odd perfumes and spirally embroidered in red thread with the names of strange devils.

  All this time with almost imperceptible slowness water collected behind the dam. The Spring that was awakening seeds planted in the valley crept inland, melting mountain snows and softening cold weather with rain in the distant uplands. The Bilcad, spine of the Dragon, sustainer of Mishbil, shed its winter torpor and swelled silver in its bed again. When Zaryas went with Xerlanthor to the Neck she could see from week to week the mud-colored pool mounting. First it grew high enough to fill the span between the two bluffs. Then as the pool spread it crept up to fill the canals, invading land farther and farther upstream.

  In mid-Ynbas when the first barley seed came up everyone was absurdly pleased. Suddenly red headbands and wristlets became quite fashionable again. Xerlanthor received several requests for house-geomancy, which he did not deal in at all. “Quackery!” he exclaimed. “Once the house is built the influence of the earth currents on it is forever set. No rearrangement of furniture or window-hangings can alter it!”

  “That’s not what people believe,” Zaryas argued. “And it would look so well. Oblige a few silly people; go and tell them to move their beds away from the windows. Everyone in town will think you’re wonderful. Remember what I said, about a steady regard?”

  “Serve them right if I prescribe expensive rebuilding,” he grumbled, but conceded the point.

  No one was more delighted with the barley than Zaryas. “I couldn’t be prouder if I’d sown every field myself,” she told Xerlanthor one day. “Do you think we’ve pulled it off?”

  From where they stood on the dam’s broad top a delicate pale green mist could be seen hovering over the bare fields to the northeast and southeast. Each individual new blade of barley was short and fine as an eyebrow hair, but from a distance the hundreds of sprouted grains could be perceived clearly. Best of all, the fields watered by the newly .filled canals were plainly greener and lusher than the ones farther out. “Wait a few months,” Xerlanthor boasted. “Grain must have water to set seed. By that time all the canals will be restored to service. The harvest should be phenomenal.”

  “And will Xantallon get some of the credit for that?” Zaryas teased him.

  “Whyever for?” Xerlanthor said. “What would his work be but for mine?”

  “Oh, you’re impossible,” Zaryas laughed. It was easy to make light of the proud words. The tide of Spring, of renewed life and luck, was rising. Zaryas was certain deep in herself of her excellent fortune, even before she called on the Mistress.

  Chapter 11: Mid-Ynnem

  In common with the rest of her race Zaryas had complete confidence in the wishes granted at the Temple of the Sun. So she was calm as she wended her way past the great seashell gate of the Sodality of Ennelith, and through the tiny interlocking courtyards. No one demanded to know her business, or interfered with her progress in any way, though the impression of unraveling a bewildering maze, or exploring some secret inner realm, was very strong. No locks are. put into the doors of the Sodality, for Ennelth is strong enough to guard her own. But Zaryas did not hesitate. The Goddess would know her by now, since she had called on the Mistress-before.

  The inmost cypresswood door was ajar. Zaryas tapped politely on it before peering in. The Mistress was seated at a desk near a wide window. Outside a green-blue sea curled endlessly up the gravelly beach, and two seagulls quarreled over a bit of stale bread.

  The Mistress rose and smiled in welcome. “Princess.”

  Zaryas took the proffered hand. “I’m here personally, Mistress, not on Mishbil’s affairs.”

  “Indeed!” The Mistress still held Zaryas’ hand between her own warm palms. “You’re with child!”

  With a blush Zaryas pulled her hand free. “Are you sure? You can tell by my touch?”

  “I represent the Goddess’ power,” the Mistress reminded her. “Did our potions fail you?”

  “Not at all,” Zaryas said. “Xerlanthor forbade them, he said he is unable to father children. I wished for them anyway, at the Sun. Temple, and also sacrificed to Ennelith. Is it irreverent to ask if I benefit from a miracle?”

  This mistress considered the question carefully before replying, “Ennelith has immutable rules, that no persuasion will swerve. Experiences like yours aren’t, unheard of, but they result from some special operation of the Goddess’ laws, not a specific dispensation of them. Did Xerlanthor ever confide to you a reason for his infertility?”

  “I didn’t know there was one,” Zaryas said. “Doesn’t it just happen?”

  “Oh, no, there is always a cause.” The Mistress consulted many scrolls from the racks lining the walls of the room while an acolyte in pale blue linen poured tea for Zaryas. The seagulls had eaten the bread and were now disputing a clump of jetsam near the tide-line. At last the Mistress said, “There are many reasons in our records why a man might not father children. This might fit your case. ‘When the male suffers from a thinness of his seed, he may only sire children rarely, after persistent attempts with one partner.’”

  The mechanics of the miracle did not interest Zaryas at all. It was more exciting to look forward to Xerlanthor’s surprise and delight. “I shall tell him myself first,” she decided, “but not the rest of Mishbil. There’s no need to disclose all these details.”

  “That’s the proper way,” the Mistress agreed, for the custom is to announce births, not conception. With a swoop of silken sleeves she enfolded Zaryas in a congratulatory embrace. “Ennelith’s blessings on you both—or should I say, all three of you?”

  “I’ll come back with an offering very soon,” Zaryas said, returning the hug. A genial communion with all mothers, all the fruitful and giving forces of nature, filled her as she took her leave. How pleasant and appropriate it would be to bear a child, and just around harvest time, too. She felt a healthy appetite for food and exercise. Her braids bobbed with the speed of her step as she danced out a side entrance onto the beach road. To her mild surprise the afternoon did not reflect her lightheartedness. The stony beach was dull, and the sea sullen for lack of sunlight. The gulls were gone. She craned her neck to look at the Sun. Long low clouds were scudding up from the west, blotting out the light. That was unusual in Mishbil at any time of the year, but not alarming. Still, it would be best to get home. Smugly, she told herself it was a duty to take good care of herself now.

  By the time she had walked down the beach to where the Bilcad ran into the sea the overcast cloaked the sky from east to west. The river-quays seethed with uneasy sailors and merchants, out to see the strange weather and speculate about its significance. “What does it mean, princess?” a candy vendor asked her.

  “We must ask the herognomers,” Zaryas replied. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Neither have I,” the vendor said. “And I’m sixty, come next Olbas.”

  “If this were the northern or western provinces,” a sailor remarked, “I’d say it looked like rain. But it can’t be.”

  The unheard-of clouds hung over the city until dusk hid them from view. Nervously Zaryas ordered sacrifices made to every deity and supernatural guardian, and consulted weather-wise seamen and herognomers. “It’s simply clouds,” the air-wizards reported. “The air-currents have shifted east of us, drawing the weather after them.”

  “Why?” Zaryas demanded.

  “They were warmed by the ocean currents,” the herognomers said. Impatiently Zaryas would have asked why the ocean currents had suddenly decided to be warm, but the Harbor Master interrupted with a question about how this would affect fishing, and so she forgot the query.

  Chapter 11: 20 Ynnem

  Very early next morning, while Mishbil still slept, the rain began to fall. Round gleaming drops large and heavy as ripened grapes tinkled and clattered intermittently on sandy earth and baked-clay .roof tiles. Then with a rush and a roar the heavens opened and poured down their juices. Thornbushes, unaccustomed to such epiphanies, sagged down over their sodden roots. The gutters that ran down every street ran now with more than street-cleaning water. Every unmended roof or misaligned drain joyously proclaimed its defect, usually by dropping cold water down necks or into linen closets.

  Zaryas was dreaming the Eye Pool had turned into a fountain overnight, drenching everyone in the marketplace, when Xerlanthor shook her awake. “It’s raining,” he announced.

  “It can’t be. Where was it last year, when we needed extra water?” She yawned. The unusual darkness of cloud had made her oversleep.

  “It hasn’t rained in Mishbil in living memory. We should enjoy it while we can.”

  Somewhere in the house there must have been a leak, for an irregular patch of dampness was spreading across the plaster ceiling. Like all houses in Mishbil, this one was made of mud-brick, plastered and painted. A strange moist odor pervaded the air, the smell of wet earth, wet plaster, wet clothing, wet tiles, wet wood, wet shoes. The constant murmur of falling droplets was very odd and a little disturbing. “It’s positively indecent,” Zaryas declared as she dressed. “All this water for free, for no effort at all. If it rained here every day no one would work on canals or dams.”

  “If it rained here every day,” Xerlanthor said, “they wouldn’t be necessary.”

  At the heaviness of his tone her heart almost seemed to stop beating. “Will your dam hold up under all this water?”

  He was slow to reply. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain too long.”

  “I can’t believe it will,” Zaryas said. They wrapped up in cloaks and went out to see the strange phenomenon. Mishbil looked utterly foreign. Streets and buildings were dark and wet. Passersby huddled under garments or roundels of thin-beaten greenish copper—gongs taken off their stands. Vapor rose from the earth, and the Eye Pool quivered with dancing drops.