Maia

"Well, at least that resolves any remaining doubts we may have had," replied Bayub-Otal. "Obviously we can't stay here now."

They cast off. Maia allowed the boat to drift stern forward through the channel between the shore and the islet and then ported the helm to turn the bow and take them out into midstream.

The swift, turbid current was undulant, suggesting an uneven bed below. Certainly, she thought, in such a flood as this the bed itself might be no danger, but could there be rocks? If they struck anything at this speed there would be no hope for them. Standing precariously up, she scanned the river ahead. She could see no breaking water or any other signs of rocks or shoals. Probably every fixed obstacle was many feet under by now.

Having explained to her companions what to look out for, she left them to take turn and turn about in the bow, equipped with an oar to fend off floating timber or any other heavy debris they might encounter.

The task of steering grew increasingly harrowing; the worst strain she'd ever known, she began at last to feel, for she could never relax or let her attention wander for a moment. The boat veered and yawed continually, thrown this way and that by the current, and she was for ever having to alter course to turn the head back downstream. There was no least abatement of the undulant, rocking swell; and the irregular swoop and pitch of the boat, which jolted every time it fell, began to make her feel giddy and sick.

The rain filled her eyes, her ears and nostrils. She seemed to be breathing as much rain as air. But whereas the rain

desired only their suffering, she thought, the river desired their death. Both the men seemed to be feeling the strain hardly less than herself. Notsurprising, she thought: they'd had no sleep all night. Bailing had to be kept up continuously. All morning the unending scoop and fling, scoop and fling went on in front of her as she sat hugging the tiller between arm and body and clenching her teeth to stop them chattering.

They passed many inflowing tributaries. All were in spate, chattering like apes or roaring like wild beasts. The noise in itself was frightening, but some, entering the river directly at right angles, took and spun the boat uncontrollably, so that she sat terrified.fully expecting it to fill and founder as it rolled and tossed like a dead cat in a weir.

And yet it did not. Terebinthia had been honest that far. It was as sound a boat as ever she'd known. Again and again it righted itself, answered the tiller and resumed its headlong course downstream.

It's the speed, she thought: I'm not used to this rocking speed. Who could be? Usually in a boat, if you see something ahead there's time to think what you're going to do: but this is more like falling. Dear Lespa, I'll never keep it up! If only I could have a rest! But there's nowhere we can hope to pull in and stop. Anyway, we've got to get down to Katria 'fore nightfall, else we're done for.

The sun, of course, was invisible. She wondered whether it was yet afternoon. She had no idea how far they might have come; twenty miles? Thirty miles? The flooded, featureless landscape, the unremitting rain beating from astern, and above all the gray solitude, had a stupefying effect. No landmarks, no people, no birds, no sun in the sky. It was like a ghost world from one of old Drigga's tales.

No time, she thought, there's no time in the ghosts' world. Ghosts got nothing to look forward to, that's why. Stop it, Maia! You're going to get Zenka to Katria, remember? They're relying on you, they mustn't see you feeling down.

I don't mind about my house in the upper city-not really. Or all the people cheering, or the clothes and presents an' that. But I do wish I could sit and listen to old Fordil just once more. I never knew anything could be so beautiful.

A poignant, falling phrase from one of Fordil's Yelda-shay teviasalas came into her head, expressing an infinity

of sorrow, the whole world's beauty dying like a sunset. For all she could do, her tears began to fall. Don't make no odds, she thoughtpjvon't be noticed in the rain.

But she was wrong. Zen-Kurel, a strip from his cloak bound round his wounded neck, looked up, bailer in hand.

"Maia, what's the matter?"

His voice was full of plainly sincere concern.

"I'm all right," she said.

"Are you cold?"

"No; not really. Just don't feel quite myself, that's all; bit feverish. It'll pass off. Has your neck stopped bleeding?"

"It must have. That was hours ago."

"Take that off, then, and give me Anda-Nokomis's flask there. I'll clean it up."

"Your hand's trembling," he said after a few moments.

"It's the steering," she answered. "You know, the going on and on." Even as she spoke she realized that they had yawed off course yet again, and put the helm over just as Bayub-Otal called a warning from the bow.

"Why not let me take over for a bit?"