There was much to be done in the city of Deifoben . To Kerrick seemingly far more than there ever needed to be done when the city was called Alpèasak and Vaintè was eistaa. Kerrick remembered those lazy, heat-filled days with regret that he had not observed more, learned more how the immense city was governed. Although he now sat in the eistaa’s place, against the wall of the ambesed where the sun first struck in the morning, he could never rule from here as she had done. Where she had had assistants, aides, scientists, fargi beyond counting — he had a few willing but inept Sasku. If a task was simple, and could be repeated, they could be taught and it would be done. But none of them ever understood the skein of intermeshed life that made the city a single complex unit. He knew little enough about it himself, but at least he knew it was there. Each part dependent upon the others in ways unknown. And now the city was wounded. It was self-healing for the most part — but not always. A great stretch of growth along the shore, untouched by the fire, had simply turned brown and died. Trees, vines, undergrowth, walls and windows, warehouses and living quarters. Dead. And there was absolutely nothing that Kerrick could do about it.
What could be done was to care for the animals, or a good number of them at least. The giant nenitesk and onetsensast in the outer fields needed no attention since they could forage in what was still natural swamp and jungle. The deer and greatdeer grazed easily enough, as did some of the murgu meat animals. But others had to be fed with fruit, and this was easy enough to arrange. Still others were simply beyond his understanding. And died. Some were not missed. The riding tarakast were vicious and could not be approached. Yilanè had ridden them, could control them, but he could not. They did not graze, so might be carnivores. Yet when they were given meat they screamed and stamped it into the dirt. And died. As did the surviving uruktop in a swampy outlying field. These eight-legged creatures had been bred to carry fargi, seemed suitable for nothing else. They looked at him with glazed eyes when he approached, did not run or attack. They refused all food, even water, and in their dumb, helpless way fell down and perished one by one.
In the end Kerrick decided that this was a Tanu city and no longer a Yilanè one. They would keep what suited them and not be too troubled about the rest. This decision made the work a little easier, but it was still dawn to dusk every day, with conferences many times late into the night.
Therefore he had good reason to forget the season in the frozen north, to lose track of the passing days in this hot and almost changeless climate. Winter ended without his being aware, and late spring had come before he gave serious thought to the sammads. And Armun. It was the arrival of the first Sasku women that gave him pause to remember, to feel a certain guilt about his forgetfulness. It was easy to forget the seasons in this hot climate. Kerrick knew that the manduktos understood many things and he sought out Sanone for help.
“The leaves here never fall,” Kerrick said, “and the fruit ripens year round. It is difficult to keep track of the time of year.”
Sanone was sitting cross-legged in the sun, soaking in the warmth. “That is true,” he said. “But there are other ways of marking the seasons of the year. This is done by watching the moon as it waxes and wanes and keeping track of when this happens. You have heard of this?”
“The alladjex talks of it, that is all I know.”
Sanone sniffed his disapproval of primitive shamanism and smoothed out the sand before him. He was versed in all the secrets of the earth and sky. With his index finger he carefully scratched a moon-calendar into the sand.
“Here and here are the two moons of change. Death of Summer, Death of Winter. Here the days get longer, here the nights begin to grow blacker. I looked at the moon when it rose last night and it was new — which means we are here in its travels.” He pushed the twig into the ground and sat back on his heels, well satisfied with the diagram. Kerrick voiced his ignorance.
“To you, mandukto of the Sasku, this means many things. Unhappily, wise Sanone, I see only sand and a twig. Read it for me, I implore you. Tell me if now, far to the north, has the ice broken and have the flowers opened?”
“They did that here,” Sanone said, moving the twig back in the circle. “Since then the moon has been full and full again.”
Kerrick’s remorse grew at this revelation. But when he thought about it some more he realized that summer had just begun, there would still be time. And there were so many things here that had to be done first. Then one night he dreamt of Armun and touched her split lip with his tongue and awoke shaking and determined to start at once to reach her, bring her here. The baby too, of course.
Good as his intentions were the tasks that had to be finished to make Deifoben inhabitable never seemed to end. One day ran into another, stretched on through the long days of summer, until, suddenly, it was autumn again. Kerrick was torn two ways then. Angry at himself for not making the time to leave and go north for Armun. Yet feeling a relief that it would be impossible to go now since he would never get there and back before the winter snows. He would plan better now, finish his work by early spring, have Sanone remind him of the passing days. Then go north and bring her here. At least she was safe, she and the baby; that gave him a feeling of security whenever he missed her the most.
Kalaleq was not frightened by the sudden appearance of the Tanu. He had met them before — and was also well aware that he was now in their hunting grounds. But he could see that the woman was afraid of him.
“Be without fear, snow-hair,” he called out, then laughed aloud to show how friendly he was. This had little good affect for the woman stepped back, still fearful, and raised her spear. As did the child with her. The baby on the travois began to cry lustily. Kalaleq lowered his eyes, unhappy that he had caused distress, then saw his hands and knife dripping with blood from the slaughter of the fur-creature that lay before him. He quickly dropped the knife and put his hands behind his back, smiling what he hoped was a friendly smile.
“What did you say?” Angajorqaq called out, pushing aside the skins that hung in the open doorway as she emerged from the hut — stopping rigid when she saw the newcomers there.
“Look how their hair shines! Their skins, so white. Are they Tanu?” she asked.
“They are.”
“Where are the hunters?”
“I have no knowledge — I see but these.”
“A woman, a child, a baby. Their hunter must be dead if they are alone and they will grieve. Speak to them, make them at ease.”
Kalaleq sighed heavily. “I have no skill in their tongue. I can say only meat and water and goodbye.”
“Do not say goodbye yet. Offer water, that is always nice.”
Armun’s first fear was eased when the furry-faced one dropped his knife and stepped back. He was a Paramutan, if he were here on the shore, one of the hunters who lived always in the north by the sea. She had heard of them but had never seen one before. Slowly she lowered the point of her spear, yet still gripped it tightly when another one of them emerged from the hut. But it was a woman, not another hunter, and she was greatly relieved. The two of them talked in incomprehensible, high-pitched voices. Then the hunter smiled broadly and spoke a single word.
“Waw-terr.” The smile faded when she did not respond and he repeated it. “Waw-terr, waw-terr!”
“Is he saying water?” Harl asked.
“Perhaps he is. Water, yes — water.” She nodded and smiled as well and the dark woman slipped back into the tent. When she emerged again she was carrying a black leather cup; she held it out. Harl stepped forward and took it, looked inside — then drank.
“Water,” he said. “Tastes terrible.”