. gings; lacking only their shields, which they had left outside. They had come to say good-bye, and as far as they were concerned it was plainly a keen disappointment, not lacking the bitter ingredient of a feeling that she had let them down. After all, the Serrelinda-if she couldn't get anything done as she had a mind to, who could? Probably they'd already been boasting to their comrades that the thing was as good as fixed.
So they stood fidgeting and ill-at-ease, these strapping fellows, on the polished floor of her parlor, perhaps secretly wondering whether even now, maybe, if only one of them could manage to say the right thing-
"I'm sorry, Brero. I went to see Lord Eud-Ecachlon myself: I'd have seen the High Baron if I'd thought it'd have made any difference."
"Yes, of course, saiyett."
"Surely it won't be very long, will it? One Beklan's worth six o' those rotten old Palteshis any time. I tell you what, Brero: you bring me back that woman's head and I'll give you five thousand meld for it, I swear I will. Oh, I'm sure you'll be back soon: why, it might be no more than a week!"
"Well, we'd all like to think so, saiyett, of course. A lot can happen in a week, can't it, one way or the other? But you'll be safe enough; don't worry, we'll see to that."
Suddenly she was on her feet, taking his hands, taking the others' hands in turn, looking into their eyes with the most earnest desire to convince them.
"Oh, Brero, I really did do everything I could to keep you with me, honest! I'm not as powerful as you think, and that's the truth. I've got enemies, you know, and I'm not sure they aren't worse than yours, 'cos you can see yours."
He was embarrassed. "You mustn't take on this way, saiyett. You've always done the right thing by us; and we've enjoyed lookin' after you." (Murmurs of corroboration.) "D'you remember that young chap that day in the Caravan Market, him as bought all the flowers and soaked you wet through? And how I had to pull the wheel over his foot to get rid of him! Ah! we had some good times, didn't we?"
She gave them two hundred and fifty meld each. She had had it ready. They'd been expecting something, of course, but not as much as that: it was equivalent to about
six months' pay. She gave each of them a keepsake, too- or perhaps it was a talisman for good luck and safety, was it? After all, she'd touched them, hadn't she, and if the Serrelinda wasn't lucky, who was? For Brero, a little onyx bull no bigger than his thumb; and for the other two, an Airtha in malachite and a silver Canathron to be worn as a charm (for the third fellow was Lapanese). No meanest curmudgeon could have argued that all this wasn't generous, and as they thanked her she felt that at least she had convinced them that she was not indifferent to their fortunes and welfare.
"We'll have to be going now, saiyett," said Brero a minute or two later. "The muster's at noon, you see. You did say, didn't you, that you'd be needing your jekzha?"
She nodded. "That's right. The wise man-the doctor from Suba-he's going north to Quiso, you know, and there's a caravan leaving this morning: I'm taking him down to join it."
"You do know, saiyett, don't you, that the caravans have to assemble at the Blue Gate today-outside it, I believe-because the muster's in the market? Anyway, I've hired two porters to pull you down there. They're waiting now." He grinned. "They won't be like us, of course, but I dare say you'll get there, one way or another."
When they had gone, she went outside and stood for a little while on the terrace, watching the shadow of the gnomon just perceptibly moving on her bronze sundial. The sundial had been a gift from Bodrin, the wealthy metal-master of Gelt, who had had it set up with precision by two of his own craftsmen. Although she enjoyed possessing such a marvel-there were very few in Bekla, and it always impressed even the most aristocratic visitors-she had never really understood it, and had once made Sarget burst out laughing-no common occurrence-by inquiring whether it worked equally well by moonlight. There were three lines of verse carved round the base, and these at least she had mastered-"Time is a flower, In Tiltheh's power: Pluck thou the hour." She read them now, and they gave her little comfort. Reckon I'd alter that, she thought. "Waiting's a task, The gods do ask. Wear then thy mask." Still, that wouldn't mean much, would it, not to anyone 'ceptin' me?
The hired porters were aging men in torn, dirty clothes.
