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  Sanone looked back down at the flames, stirred them with a stick before he spoke. His voice was quiet again, the anger gone. “I have been waiting for you to say that, my friend. We will talk of that, not of the porro, never again must you speak of it. Has the time come for you to leave?”

  “It has. When we fought together we lived in peace together. In the city by the ocean, then here in the valley. In the war against the murgu all else was forgotten. Now the battle is over, the murgu are gone, and my hunters grow restless. Drinking the porro was just a sign. To you this valley is a home. For them it is a trap that keeps them away from the plains and the forests, the freedom to move, stay, do as they will. And there is another reason for me.”

  Sanone saw Herilak’s eyes drop to the knife again and he understood.

  “It is Kerrick. You have spoken to me of the differences that grew between you. Do they still exist?”

  Herilak shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. And that, I think, is what I must find out. He is alive, that I believe, or the murgu would have pressed their attack and we would all now be dead. But is Armun alive—and his son? If they are dead then it is my doing. I must tell him that. I no longer see him as my enemy, I wonder why I ever did. But he may still think of me as one who has wronged him greatly. That must be ended. It should never have happened at all. Now I have come to believe that it was all my doing. My hatred of the murgu filled me full, welled out and embraced any who thought different from me.”

  “Do you still hold those hatreds within you?”

  “No.” He held up the knife. “This is the difference. Despite what I have done to him, despite my treatment of his sammad, he did this. Stopped the murgu and made them send this to us to let us know that he had stopped the attacks.”

  Herilak lowered the knife and looked across the fire. “Tell me, Sanone, have we done all that we promised to do? When our death-sticks died and we came to that city on the shore, Kerrick told us what must be done and all the sammadars agreed to do as he asked. We received new death-sticks only when we agreed that we would stay with you in the city and defend it. Have we done that?”

  “It is finished. The city was well defended until we were forced out. The murgu who followed us you attacked with all the skills of the hunters of the Tanu. Now we are safe, for I believe as you do that this was the message of the knife. If yours is the wish to leave, and the wish of the hunters of the sammads as well, then you must leave.”

  “And the death-sticks?”

  “Yours by right. How do the other sammadars feel of this matter?”

  “In agreement, all in agreement. It takes but your word to release us.”

  “And where will you go?”

  “North!” Herilak’s nostrils flared as he smelled the forests and the snow. “This warm land is not for us, not to spend all of the days of our lives.”

  “Then go now to the others. Tell them what we both now know. That Kerrick released us from the murgu. So there is no more need for you to remain.”

  Herilak sprang to his feet, held the knife high and shouted his pleasure, his voice echoing from the valley walls. Sanone nodded with understanding. This valley was the Sasku home, their refuge, their existence. But for the hunters of the north it was only a trap.

  He knew that before the sun had set again they would be gone. Knew also that when the other sammads went to the forests to hunt as they always had, that Herilak would not go their way. He would go east to the ocean, then south again to the murgu city. His life would not be his own, not until he had offered it to Kerrick to take or refuse.

  It was almost dawn before fatigue closed Kerrick’s eyes. Sleep would not come earlier. He had sat by the dead fire and looked out across the lake. At the calm water and the stars that marched slowly across the sky, tharms of dead warriors in their nightly progression. They moved overhead steadily until they vanished from sight in the waters of the lake. When the moon had set as well and the night darkened, that must have been when he fell asleep.

  He awoke with a start, the grayness of dawn around him, aware of a touch on his shoulder. He rolled over to see the girl, Darras, there.

  “What is it?” He choked out the words, filled with fear.

  “You must come now.” She turned and hurried away and he rose and ran after her, passed her and threw open the skin entrance to their tent.

  “Armun!”

  “It is all right,” her voice spoke from the darkness. “Nothing is wrong. Come see your daughter.”

  He pulled the flap wide and in the faint light saw that she was smiling up at him.

  “I was so worried,” she said. “I had the great fear that the baby would be like me, with my lip, but now that fear is gone.”

  He dropped down beside her, weak with relief, and turned back the skins from the baby’s face. It was wrinkled and red, eyes shut, mewling faintly.

  “It is sick—something is wrong!”

  “No. That is the way babies always look when they are born. Now we will sleep, but only after you put a name to her. It is known that a baby without a name is in very great danger.”

  “What will her name be then?”

  “That is not for me to decide,” she said with firm disapproval. “She is your daughter. You must name her. A girl’s name, one that is important to you.”

  “Armun, that is a name of great importance to me.”

  “That is not done, two of the same name. The best name is of someone who died who was of importance.”

  “Ysel.” The name came to his lips without his bidding; he had not thought of her for years. “She died, I lived. Vaintè killed her.”

  “Then that is a very good name. That she died so that you might live is the most important name I have ever heard. Ysel and I will sleep now.”

  The sunshine was warm, the air fresh, the day new, all of existence as it should be. Kerrick strode with happiness to the shore to wash and plan for the day. There was much to be done before they left. But leave they would, just as soon as Armun was ready. She would decide. He must get everything ready for that day. He splashed water over his face, spluttered and rubbed. Wiped his eyes with his forearm and saw the first rays of sun shining between the trees, striking warmly across the sand.

  To Imehei’s still form stretched out in the water. Nadaske was already at his side, sitting in frozen Yilanè immobility.

  The day was no longer bright. Kerrick walked over slowly, in silence, stood in silence and looked down at the immobile Imehei. He was breathing slowly through his half-opened mouth. A bubble of saliva formed, then vanished. Nadaske moved one eye to look at Kerrick, then away again.

  “Attention to speaking,” Kerrick voiced and waited until Nadaske was looking at him again before he spoke.

  “In some few days we will be leaving. We will hunt, leave you meat.”

  “Do not. It will turn green and stink. I will fish, there will be enough for both of us. Why do you not leave now?”

  Armun and the baby, the unconscious Imehei here with his unwelcome burden of eggs: there was an unwelcome similarity here that Kerrick did not wish to point out.

  “The time is not appropriate, preparations to be made. Meat will be brought.”

  Nadaske was silent again and there was nothing more that Kerrick could do here, nothing more to say. He went slowly back to his own encampment. Ortnar was awake and supervising Harl, who was fixing arrowheads to their shafts.

  “More arrows will be needed,” Ortnar said. “When we hunt and travel arrows that miss cannot always be searched for. Now that the baby is born we can leave.”

  “Only when Armun is ready. But we must make the preparations so we can go as soon as she says. And this we must consider as well—where shall we go?”

  “Tighter, the thong tighter or the arrowhead will be lost. Use your teeth.” Ortnar shuffled about until he was facing north, then pointed with his chin. “That is the only way to go. I know the path well. And I think I know of a place where we can stay as long as we
have the death-sticks. With them we cannot go to the snows for they die in the cold. Nor do we want to stay close to the city of the murgu. Now I will show you what I have been thinking of.”

  He used his speartip to scratch a line in the sand, then stabbed the lower end of it. “This is the shore of the ocean and at the bottom the city of the murgu. Now we are here.”

  He circled the lake into the sand. Then drew the spear up along the line and pushed it down again on the shoreline. “Here is a place I know of. We hunted there once. It is as far north from this lake as this lake is north of the city. Is that far enough?”

  “It will have to be. Close or far they can find us if they want to. If they seek us out we can run to the snows and they will be right behind us every step of the way. What did you find when you hunted there?”

  “A river of sweet water, then a shallow lagoon filled with flying birds. Then, beyond the water, there is an island. On the other side of it there is more water and narrow islands again along the ocean. I thought this. If we go to the large island we can kill the dangerous murgu there. The hunting and fishing is very good. But the large island is not on the ocean. If the murgu sailing creatures go along the shore, even if they land, they will not know we are there. It is the best I can think of now.”

  “It is a far better plan than I could have made. We will go there—as soon as Armun is ready. Until then we must hunt and smoke meat, make ekkotaz. The less time we take to hunt when we are on the move the faster we will get to this place.”

  From the tent behind him there came the sudden loud cry of a baby. Arnwheet came running over and took his hand, looked up with worried eyes. Kerrick smiled down at him and rubbed the tangle of his hair.

  “Do not worry. All babies sound like that. You now have a sister and she must be very strong to cry like that.”

  Arnwheet looked doubtful, but relieved. “I wish to talk with my friends.”

  When he said “friends” he moved his arms to say the same thing in Yilanè. It was obvious that they were of far greater interest to him than any little sister.

  “Yes, go to them, Nadaske will like that. But you will not be able to talk to Imehei. He sleeps in the water. It is a thing that only Yilanè do and it is hard to explain.”

  “I will ask Nadaske, he will be able to tell me.”

  Perhaps he will, Kerrick thought, then turned and shrugged off his worries. There was much to be done here.

  enotankè ninenot efendasiaskaa gaaselu.

  UGUNENAPSA’S

  SECOND PRINCIPLE

  * * *

  We all dwell in the City of Life.

  FIVE

  When Ambalasei woke this morning she was not rested, still felt as tired as she had when she had closed her eyes at dusk the evening before. She was not at all pleased with this for she knew that she was no longer a fargi fresh from the sea. Or even a young Yilanè, for that matter, filled with the fresh juices of life. She was old, and for the first time that she could remember she felt old. What was the Yilanè lifespan? She did not know. Once she had attempted to do research on this topic but eventually had been forced to admit failure. No records were ever kept about major occurrences: no individual Yilanè would even hazard a guess as to how old she was. Ambalasei had recorded events for ten years, using the constellations in the night sky to mark the passage of each year. But some of the Yilanè she was recording had left the city, some had died—and eventually she had lost her records. How long ago had this been? She did not know—for she had not even kept a record of this.

  “It is not in the nature of the Yilanè to take note of the passage of time,” she said, then pulled a water-fruit to her and drank deep.

  Nevertheless she was old. Her claws were yellow with age, the skin on her forearms hung in wrinkled wattles. It must be faced. Tomorrow’s tomorrow would continue to be like yesterday’s yesterday, but on one of those tomorrows she was not going to be around to appreciate it. There would be one Yilanè less in this world. Not that anyone would care, other than herself, and she would be past caring. She champed her jaw with disgust at this morbid thought so early on a sun-drenched day, reached out and pressed hard on the gulawatsan where it clung to the wall. The creature made a highly satisfactory blare of deafening sound and very soon after that Ambalasei heard Setèssei’s claws on the flooring, hurrying close.

  “Ambalasei begins her labors early. Do we visit the Sorogetso again today?”

  “We do not. Nor do I labor. I shall indulge myself in a day of contemplation, enjoying warmth-of-sun, pleasures of mentation.”

  “Ambalasei is wisest of the wise. Fargi work with their bodies, only Ambalasei has uniqueness of mentality to labor with thoughts alone. Shall I paint your arms with designs of delicacy to show all that that labor of limbs is beneath you?”

  “Excellence of thought: appropriateness of suggestion.”

  When Setèssei hurried off for her pots and brushes she looked back with pleasure to see that Ambalasei had found a spot in the sun, had sat back on her tail and was relaxing in the warmth. This was very good. But when she turned around again she found her path blocked by a thin Yilanè whom she knew far too well.

  “I heard a great sound from the place where Ambalasei works/sleeps. I wish to speak with her,” Far< said.

  “Forbidden/wrong/disastrous,” Setèssei said with added modifiers of firmness of commands.

  “It is a matter of some importance.”

  “It is a matter of greater importance that Ambalasei be not spoken to by anyone this day. This is an order spoken by me for Ambalasei. Do you wish to ignore this order?”

  Far< began to speak, remembered the wrath of Ambalasei, changed her mind and signed negation.

  “Very wise,” Setèssei said. “Now go through the city and tell the others you meet to make clear to all that none shall approach or speak to great Ambalasei while the sun is in the sky this day.”

  The sun was very comforting; Ambalasei relaxed and enjoyed it to the utmost. A period of time passed before she was aware of the light touches on her arms and opened her eyes to look with approval upon the designs being traced there.

  “This is a day of great importance, Setèssei. Already cessation of physical labors, inauguration of cerebration has produced important results. I must now look upon this city I have grown and take note of its fecundity.”

  “I have ordered with some firmness that you are to pass through the city undisturbed.”

  “You are the perfect assistant Setèssei. You recognize my desires even before I do.”

  Setèssei lowered her head in humble acceptance, her crest flaring with color. This day must be remembered for never before had Ambalasei spoken in this manner to her. Approval of labors/acceptance of assistance was all she required.

  Her thirst slaked, her arms painted, Ambalasei strode forth into the city of Ambalasokei that she had created on this hostile shore. As she passed through it she observed and took note of its growth and none spoke nor approached her.

  From the thick trunk of the spreading central tree the city stretched out in all directions. Within the embrace of its branches and roots hundreds of other life forms grew, interacted, proliferated. Water was drawn up from the roots to the protective canopy of leaves above, was tapped by the water-fruits, fed to commensal plants, drunk by symbiotic animals. Ambalasei walked on the living mat of the floor kept clean by the hungry insects below. Saw the fruit groves that fed the small flock of elinou in their fenced enclosure. Her slow progress took her to the riverbank and the strong dock where the uruketo lay, looking at her blankly with a large bone-ringed eye. On she went to the wall of thorns, now flourishing and high, a thick protection against any intruders.

  Here she turned away from the water and followed the living wall across the isthmus to the other shore. The nets were being brought in and a gigantic eel was just being dragged ashore. It moved its body in slow coils, but represented no danger since it had been stunned with the toxin Ambalasei had provided. Into the c
ity again and past a sealed doorway. Seeing this she stopped, immobile, resting on her tail for a long while. When she looked at the door that had never been opened its significance became immediate and her thoughts went far beyond it. The sun moved in its slow arc across the sky until the shadow of a tree enveloped her and she became aware of the chill. With this she stirred to life, went into the sunlight again. When the heat had warmed her she walked on. She passed a grove where wild flowers grew between the trees, stopped and thought about their significance, their novelty. Of course—there were no other groves of decorative flowers as one found in other Yilanè cities. Perhaps flowers were like arm-painting, too frivolous and unimportant for the very serious Daughters. She walked on and made her slow way to the ambesed. Here, where the heart of the city should have pulsed with life, she found only emptiness. There, on the warmest part of the sun-facing wall, where the eistaa should have sat, there was only rough bark. With even slower tread she crossed over and leaned her back against the bark in this, the chosen spot. Stood wrapped in thought until a flicker of motion penetrated her concentration. She turned one eye towards the Yilanè who was passing through the ambesed.

  “Attention to speaking!” she roared in her cracked voice. The Yilanè stopped, startled, turned to face her.

  “To disturb you is forbidden . . .”

  “Your talking-not-listening is all that disturbs me. Silence and attention to orders given. Find Enge instantly. Tell her presence required imperative. Go.”

  The Daughter of Life began to speak of Ugunenapsa’s principles concerning the giving of orders, saw the grim shaping of Ambalasei’s body, thought better, closed her mouth and hurried away.

  Ambalasei relaxed and enjoyed pleasure of cogitation, lack of physical labors, until a movement penetrated her thoughts. Enge stood before her, arms curved in expectancy of orders.