Now Panduv stood on the top-walk of the triple stage, thinking warily of these things. Was it an omen, to consider her start? Had the white woman lied, saying Panduv would not need the tomb and that her life would be long? Was it only that some fate hung over Panduv, a death that was not expected, and would leave nothing to be buried? Obliteration by flames, or water—Panduv felt an instant’s awful fear. To the Lowlanders, with their religion of eternal renewings (alien to Panduv as anything of theirs), physical death was nothing. (Why else, that one, so calm in the face of it?) But to a Zakorian, only a holy burning or drowning in sacrifice was vahd. The gods provided for all such victims, as for men who fell in war. For the rest of the dead, without the model of their corpse to remember by, the shade would be formless and amnesiac. And if the cadaver was shelterless, how could the shade achieve a refuge? Death was a dim, bleak country anyway. Every aid was needful, there.
The theater was nearly empty, rehearsals concluded. Up in the crimson roof the lamps had been doused by those monkey-boys who could scale the pillars. The poled sections of scenery had been run off along their, grooves into the wings—the wheels below, into which the poles were locked, had screeched throughout the rehearsal so the actors laughed and complained and the manager despaired. Behind Panduv, there remained only the great bole, part primeval tree, part column, abandoned on stage until tomorrow. It was a tall drum of solidly carpentered wood, braced with gilded bronze, and painted. Jointed and hinged lengthways, it stood currently wide. The play had a diversion: A manifestation of the love-goddess Yasmat. A magical tree carved into a column was to be split by divine lightning. The goddess would step forth, to be fawned on by leopards and birds. In a dance, she then demonstrated the omnipotence of sexual love. The goddess must at no time speak, that would be blasphemous. She might only be portrayed by perfect beauty and exceptional talent. Panduv had been engaged for the role at a staggering fee. Her worth was further attested by the shockproofed structure of the column, and the cushioning of its interior. However, the cranky crane, having deposited the column-drum, promptly broke down. It had been altogether a disquieting night.
Nor yet over.
The leading actor of the Alisaarian troop appeared on the apron, and came stealthily and quickly up the stages to Panduv, taking her into his arms when he reached her.
“Yasmat,” he groaned in her ear.
“Delay a while,” she said. “We can go to the clothes room.”
“No. Let’s go in there. Yes, into the column. It’s comfortable enough. Black on black, my Yasmat. Oh, don’t make me wait any longer—”
It was Zastis, the nerves of both alight. She allowed him to prop her in the dark column and himself against her, pulling shut the hinged sections . . .
Yet even as they clung and plunged, upright and frenzied, in the close-bound, hidden dark, she had an idea they made love in a grave. And that, once all the business of the night was over, she must propitiate
Yasmat for being given, especially flippantly, the goddess’ name.
The night ran its course. With accidents and pleasures. With lovemaking and merrymaking. With clandestine messengers bearing deeds, packed harlotries and taverns, street fights near the docks. With a sumptuous dinner in the Guardian’s palace, whose guests ranged from indigenous merchant-princes through a pack of nobles from Sh’alis, to charioteers and philosophers.
Toward sunrise, tiring, the night left everything lying, flotsam on a beach, and seeped with Star-set into the west.
The flowerseller moved with earliest morning along Gem-Jewel Street. Few were about but slaves. Women drew water from the fountain. A wine-shop or two had organized its brooms. Hawks sailed high and pigeons fanned their wings on the rooftops.
A snatch of talk came from an upper window.
“The sea’s gone out again, the fishmonger said, further than before.”
“So. It always comes back. The tides are high.”
“And it sings to itself at night. They heard it, as far as the High Gate.”
“So. Let the sea do what it wants.”
“Hey, girl! Give me some flowers. What are you asking for those lilies?”
But the girl shook her hooded head. “Not for sale. Already bought.” And went on.
It was true, her flowers were of the best, fresh with dew and dawn, from the hills, doubtless, behind Tomb Street, where the other flower gatherers went.
Why should it occur to anyone the flower seller had not picked a single bloom herself, but paid to take this pannier of lilies, wall-rose and white aloe, from a one-armed woman near the Shalian temple?
She had been industrious, Velva, and extravagant. All her coins were gone now.
Turning into an alley by the lacemakers, she reached the gate of a house wall, and sat down there.
Soon she heard the sound of the zeeba, and the man, calling his wares. Then he had paused on the street to serve customers; then, as Velva had done, turned into the alley. On either side the patient zeeba hung a cibba-wood cask, and through the man’s belt was stuck a copper ladle, filmed with white. He was a milk vendor. Since it was possible to learn so much about the habits of the woman who lodged in this house, she being of such interest to all, it was easy to find out that milk was bought here once every three days,
“Clean milk, sweet milk,” he called, winking at Velva where she sat with her flowers.
It would be sweet today, wonderfully sweet. Which no one would think odd. In the hot weather, the milk was often sugared or salted against curdling.
“Does the lady take flowers ever?” said Velva, to the milk vendor.
“Well, she might.”
Timidly, “Would you let me come in with you, and ask the servant? They’re fresh-look—to stand in vases or make garlands.”
“Oh, you’ve heard the Lydian calls here, too.”
Velva lowered her eyes. The man stole near and rubbed his hand on her belly. “If I praise you to the servant, and you sell your flowers, what do I get?”
Eyes lowered, Velva said, “What a kind man always gets at Zastis.”
When they reached the downstairs entry, the man, having opened the door, hallooed up the steps. The zeeba chewed the long dry grass of the garden, and Velva, pitying it, unseen by the man, fed it two of her precious flowers.
Just so one thing must be devoured to sustain another. It was the gods’ law.
Borne to the satin beaches on the black thoroughbred, in the arms of the Lydian, she had exalted and clutched at happiness, knowing it would not last. She had hoped he might want her again, for a while, from time to time. But all the city worshiped him. She was an inn sloven. It might have to do for her lifetime, that one night.
She was resigned, but she loved.
From the vantage of that love, she heard he shared the witch’s bed. It was the gossip from one end of the city to the other, tickled and aggravated: That he should be wasted on a Lowlander, that the arrogant Lowland mare should have yearned after him. But she had been his Zastis pairing, it seemed, even before he sought Velva. Yes, he had asked the way to the witch’s house ... but she had been unavailable, and something of less significance was substituted, Velva herself. Next on this knowledge came the story of the sword-wound in the practice court. It informed Velva of a thing already sensed and dreaded. The Lowland woman was Death. As the giant snake would crush, the lesser inject with venom—it was her nature. She would drain him and destroy him, he would perish miserably, before his hour, the mock of men, uncherished by gods.
But not if Velva succeeded at her task today, not then.
There was the quiet noise of sandaled feet on the stair, the servant girl coming down with her pitcher.
The milk vendor said to Velva, jokingly, “You won’t get to see him, if you were thinking of that. He wasn’t with her last night. The Guardian had a dinner for the Lydian. He couldn’t say no to it.”