It was meant to be a likeness of Idris, but somehow it wasn’t quite turning out like her. He was spending as much time puzzling over the lack of resemblance as he was actually carving it.
Anyway, he had little inducement to make a move. He wouldn’t be thanked if he went home before sunset, and even then he might well have to go and beg a bite of supper at Idris’s back door, for no one would buy much soap in the next three or four days-wash-day having just come and gone.
And there was another reason, still more compelling than those, why he preferred to stay out here a mile or more from the town when the current batch of soap was finished. It was the same reason why he preferred this dirty, monotonous job to any other the community might have offered him. If the mood came over him just to sit and think, there was no one to fling mud or stones at him with a shout of “Idle Conrad!”
His mouth tightened at the memory, and he drove it down.
It isn’t fair, he thought rebelliously. I didn’t ask for my head to be stuffed with all these crazy visions!
And yet …
He let the hand holding the soap carving fall to his knee, and gazed out unseeing over the sun-hot countryside. That was a question he had never been able to answer: if one of the wise men came to him one day and said, “Conrad, I can wash from your mind these troublesome visions of yours as your soap takes dirt from a man’s hand; I shall do so?”-what would he reply?
Could he sacrifice his dreams of a world in which no one needed to be jealous of anyone else, because everything was plentiful-a world where even ash-grimed, greasy-garbed Conrad the soapmaker had incredible powers to serve his every whim?
He didn’t know. And since the question was never likely to arise-the wise men were not that wise-there wasn’t much point in worrying about it. He returned to concentrating on his carving. He wanted desperately to make a good job of it; Idris was the only person in Lagwich who seemed to like him, the only person since the death of his mother with whom he had shared the secret of the dreams that came to him when he lay in one of his trance-like intervals and other people thought he was simply being “Idle Conrad”.
And stoned him to make him wake.
Out here, beyond the town’s land, no one cared what he did, and he liked that side of the task. What he detested about it was that his vats were sited much nearer the barrenland than the town itself. Things came from the barrenland, and usually they were dangerous. There had never yet been an emergency for him to cope with, but he had a dreadfully active imagination.
Consequently, when the red and black waving thing came in sight at the bend of the path which curved around the barrenland he jumped to his feet in fright, letting the carving fall. He dived for the bow and arrows he kept propped against a handy rock, fitted an arrow clumsily to the string, and only then looked again to see what had appeared.
He relaxed, tempted to laugh at himself. What he had seen from the corner of his eye proved to be a length of black and red cloth flying from a pole in the hands of a rider with several companions. He thought of the marrying expeditions which he had sometimes seen come from other towns to look for wives. They rode like this, with some flag or banner, and all done up in their finery. Yet marrying expeditions were a spring-time affair, and it was now high summer, and anyway although these men were very well clad they were not as gorgeous as the would-be bridegrooms he had seen …
He waited uncertainly, clasping his bow, while the newcomers reined their horses and conferred. One of them dismounted, raised both hands to show they were empty, and walked to within easy speaking distance. Conrad had a little trouble following his pronunciation, but the sense of his words was clear.
“Greetings! My name is Jervis Yanderman and these are my men. We come in peace. Are you from the village whose smoke we can see yonder?”
Slightly nettled, Conrad gave his own name. “But that’s no village!” he added. “It’s a prosperous town of many hundred inhabitants and a guard of sixty strong men.” He added the last phrase just in case the strangers were less peaceful than Yanderman claimed. “And the name of the town is Lagwich.”
Not that I have any particular liking for the place, he glossed under his breath.
“It’s near the barrenland?” Yanderman said.
“Closer than any other town, they tell me. But we have a strong palisade and a deep ditch with a bridge, and we live safe enough from any danger.”
Yanderman seemed pleased. Looking at him, Conrad decided that he differed in many ways from anyone he had ever seen before. He was bigger than average in all directions-though Conrad’s work involved humping heavy loads and had added muscle to his arms and shoulders, Yanderman was heavier-set as well as being a handspan taller. His companions seemed bigger again, as well as Conrad could judge from this distance.
But it wasn’t his size which was most impressive about Yanderman. It was his thoughtful, relaxed way of moving, as if he were at home in any country he visited, even this one where he was admittedly a stranger. Conrad’s heart began to pound with excitement. It would be a very important occasion, the arrival of these outsiders in Lagwich!
He said, “And you? Are you from Hawgley?” He named the most distant town from which marrying expeditions sometimes came to Lagwich.
Yanderman shook his head. “From Esberg-fourteen days’ journey south of here.”
Conrad felt his mouth fall open. He knew it was foolish-looking, but he couldn’t help it. Sometimes, sitting by the soap-vats, he had wondered how big the world was, and had come to the conclusion that it must be quite small, because the people of his visions seemed so ready to leave it and go to look at others. But if you could travel fourteen whole days and find no end to it, the world couldn’t be as small as that after all. Unless-
He grew aware that Yanderman had said something else which he had failed to catch, and apologised for his lapse of attention.
“We’d like to go to your-town,” Yanderman repeated. “To talk with its lord, or governor, or whatever you call him.”
Conrad looked dubious. “I could take you to the five wise men,” he said after a pause. “Indeed, they’ll certainly wish to see you. I don’t believe anyone has ever come to Lagwich from further away than Hawgley, so this is a great occasion for us.”
“Will you guide us to these-ah-wise men?”
“Surely!”
He wondered for a moment about leaving his soap-whether he ought not to collect a load to take with him. But he dared not risk keeping these important visitors waiting while he did so. He pointed in the direction of the town and set off at once, Yanderman walking beside him and the horsemen following, one of them leading Yanderman’s mount.
There was silence for a while. Then Conrad, plucking up his courage, ventured a question. “Tell me-what’s life like where you come from? I wouldn’t seem inquisitive, but here life’s dull and we see no one from outside, unless a marrying expedition comes in spring, or a peddler, or a man seeking gold in the rocks.”
“Life where I come from?” Yanderman laughed. “Much as it is here, I imagine-only quieter, for we’re further from the barrenland and the things that come from it.”
Conrad was startled, and did not easily hide his disappointment. He said, “But surely …! Uh-the peddlers who come this way with news regale us with stories of a gay exciting life in distant parts.”