"I see you staring out of the windows often, at our Darian wilds. Do you see yew hedges and ivy-grown oak and, um, cattle and sheep in green pastures?"
She looked down at her lap, a little uneasily, because she had not thought she was noticed; but here was her chance. She looked up. "No. I see our Darian wilds."
He smiled a little at the "our." "You're settling in, then? Resigned to too much sun all of the time—except for when there is too much rain? But you haven't seen our winter yet."
"No—no, I haven't. But I'm not resigned." She paused, surprised at how hard it was to say aloud, and her club's first law floated across her mind. "I like it. I'm not sure why, but I like it here."
The smile disappeared and he looked at her thoughtfully. "Do you?" He turned and looked out of the window himself. "There aren't many of us who do. I'm one—you must have guessed that I love the desert. This desert. Even in winter, and the three weeks of jungle after the rain stops and before the sun gets a good hold again. Quite a lot of my griping about being the oldest colonel still active is noise only; I know that if they promoted me they'd almost certainly promote me away from here—to one of the more civilized parts of this uncivilized land. Most of Daria is not like this, you know." He paused. "I don't suppose that means very much to you."
"But it does."
He frowned a little, studying her face. "I don't know whether to say you're very fortunate or very unfortunate. We're strangers here, you know—even I, who've been here forty years. This desert is a little piece of the old Damar. It's not even really under our jurisdiction." He smiled wryly. "Not only can we not understand it, we are not able to administer it." He nodded toward the window. "And the mountains beyond. They stand there, looking at you, and you know you'll never climb them. No Homelander ever has—at least to return to tell the tale."
She nodded. "It is not a comfortable passion."
He chuckled. "No; not a comfortable passion."
"Is that why no one ever mentions it? One hears enough for the other side."
"God! Don't I know it. 'Only four hundred and ninety-six days till I get out of this sand pit.' Yes, I suppose so. It's a strange country, especially this corner of it, and if it gets too much in your blood it makes you strange too. And you don't really want to call attention to it."
She recalled that conversation as she rode; and now she saw Cassie and Beth jogging toward her. She was thinking again of Corlath, and trying to recall what little she knew of the Free Hillfolk. Jack had been reluctant to talk about them, and his evasiveness led her to believe that he knew quite a lot about them, because he was always open about saying he didn't know something. He was trying to spare her, perhaps, from her uncomfortable passion.
Oh, glory, she thought, and with a quick leap her curiosity transformed itself into excitement: I do hope he's there when we get back.
The question of what to tell her friends died painlessly. As soon as their ponies came abreast Beth said: "Is he here yet?"
Harry was expecting a good-morning-and-how-are-you and for a moment didn't know who was meant.
"Corlath," said Cassie. "Jack came to our house to see Daddy before breakfast, told him to go up to the Residency, that they would need him there." Mr. Peterson and Jack Dedham were the only people in the station who knew Hill-speech even passably fluently. Most Darians who had much contact with Homelanders learned Homelander. Harry had picked up a few Darian words, but only a few; no Homelander had thought to write a Darian grammar for general use, and when she inquired further was told that there was no need for her to learn it. The only person who encouraged her, and who had taught her the words she did know, was Jack Dedham, and he had not the time to spare for more. Sir Charles was reasonably articulate in Darian speech, but uncomfortable about it. He felt a responsible commissioner should know the language of those he oversees, but it made him no happier to fulfill his own expectations. He kept an interpreter near at hand.
"Corlath," breathed Beth, as if the name were a charm. "Daddy says that the Hillfolk have never liked us much—"
"We've always known that," put in Cassie.
"—so he'll probably slip in and out again and we'll never even see him."
"I've permission to invite you to lunch," said Harry. "If he's there at all, we'll see him."
"Oh, how wonderful!" said Beth. "Surely even he won't have finished his business before lunch. Let's not ride far; we should see something when he comes, and then we'll know when to ride back. It's very tiresome to have a real king come to visit and not even have an excuse to meet him."
"Do you know anything of the Free Hillfolk?" said Harry. They rode at an angle away from the Residency, where they could keep an eye on it over their shoulders. "I don't. No one will tell me anything."
They both laughed. "The Hillfolk are the best-kept secret in Daria," said Cassie. "I mean, we know they exist. Some of them come here—to the station, I mean—for the spring Fair." Harry looked at her. "Oh, surely Lady Amelia has told you about our pair," Cassie said. "After three months of the rains we come out of hiding and work off our foul temper by holding a Fair—"
"—where we sell to each other all the ridiculous little bags and bonnets and dolls and footstools that we've made during the rains to keep from going mad because we couldn't go out," Beth continued.
"Yes, most of it is nonsense. But everyone is very gay for the first two or three weeks after the rain stops. The weather is cool enough—the only time all year you can go out even at midday; and there're green things growing up from the ground, and everything you own is spread on the roofs and hanging from the windowsills, and they're green too," Cassie added with a grimace. "We decorate the streets and the square with paper flowers and real flowers, and banners and ribbons, and the whole town looks like it's on holiday, with the dresses and blankets hanging out everywhere. We do have real flowers here—besides the eternal pimchie—although nothing like what you're used to at Home, I daresay. Everything grows tremendously for two weeks, so for the third week, Fair week, everything is green and blossoming—even the desert, if you can believe it."
"Then of course the sun kills everything again. That's the fourth week. And you know what it's like here the rest of the time."
"Yes, but the Fair—everyone comes to the Fair. The Hillfolk too, a few of them, although never anyone very special. Certainly never the king. And it's not all the bead purses that our sort has been making in despair. There are always some really lovely things, mostly that the Darians themselves have made. Even the servants aren't expected to do as much, you know, during the rains. After the first few weeks you're far too cross yourself to give many orders to anyone else."
"But mostly the best things come up from the south. It's only Way up here that the weather's so ridiculous, but the south knows about our Fair, and the merchants know that when we break out of winter prison we're so mad with our freedom that we're fit to buy anything, so they come up in force."
"There are Fairs, or celebrations of spring of one kind or another, all around here, but ours is the biggest."
"Well," said Beth, "we've the biggest in things to buy and so forth; and we're the only Homelander station up here. But there're quite a number of Darian villages around here, and they take spring very seriously. Lots of singing and dancing, and that kind of thing. And they tell the most beautiful stories, if you can find someone to translate into Homelander. Which isn't often."
"We have singing and dancing too," said Cassie.
"Yes, I know," said Beth slowly; "but it's not the same. Our dancing is just working it off, after being inside for so long. Theirs means something."
Harry looked at her curiously. "You mean asking the gods for a good year—that kind of thing?"