He left them to sharpen the teeth, using splinters of sandstone knapped into wedges, and walked back along the bank to the main logging camp. With six- and eight-feet saws instead of axes, adzes and drawknives they could fell timber and cut it up into logs and planks at twice, maybe three times the pace. Just as well, if all the timber he needed was to be assembled at the downriver station before the winter came on and froze everything up. Carting the stuff, especially over snowed-up passes, would be a complication he could do without.

The whole valley was full of noise and movement. On the hillside, above the belt they'd already cleared and turned into a stubble of tree-stumps and lopped branches, the forest was ringing to the sound of hundreds of axes and the shouts of the lumberjacks and drovers as the teams of horses and oxen were hitched up to the trimmed logs. Below, on the rafting stages, logs were being unhitched and rolled down to the water to be prodded and cajoled together into rafts, while the rafters scampered from log to log, swearing, yelling, getting the job done somehow. We're making this all up as we go along, Temrai reflected with a mixture of wonder and panic. Well, now we've got saws, and we can dig saw-pits. It'd have been interesting to try and build water-powered saws like the ones I saw in the city, but I don't think we've got time. And besides, there's being clever and there's being clever for cleverness's sake.

What worried him most of all was the guesswork. The first week they'd been here, all he and his people had done was count trees, cutting marks in the bark of the ones tall and straight enough to be worth felling, trying to estimate how many good planks and beams each tree would produce, double-guessing how many planks and beams they'd need to build an unspecified number of engines and machines. At the end of the week he'd given up and told them to fell anything that looked halfway useful. It was either going to be far too little or far too much.

There was also the problem of keeping the clan stationary in a generally unsuitable spot for an unprecedentedly long time. Already they'd had to send the herds off upriver to fresh grazing, and too much badly needed manpower with them. That meant detailing yet more men to carting supplies and hunting game in the back end of the forest, away from the noise and disturbance. Add to that the parties he'd had to send away to forage for iron ore and lime, the charcoal-burning details, the contingent sent to guard the women who were gathering and twisting reed for the quite staggering quantities of rope they seemed to be getting through - somehow, there were always enough people left to do the work. This clan is big, he was beginning to realise. There's more of us than I thought.

'I gather the saw worked.' Jurrai had appeared behind him, mud-splashed and dishevelled from supervising the dispatch of the latest log raft. 'That's good. Shall I take the smiths off nailmaking and put them on saws?'

Temrai shook his head. 'I've already seen to all that,' he said. 'The nailmakers are now making arrowheads while the arrowmakers start making the saws. The grinding crews are teaching the spare five to seven year olds how to grind arrowheads, so they'll be available to grind the saws. And I've put the flintcutters onto shaping and dressing grindstones, which means the-Anyway,' he added with a tired grin, 'it's all in hand.' He stopped and looked around at the thousands of busy dots moving about the scarred and unreal-looking landscape. 'We must be mad,' he said, 'even trying to do all this. It took the city people hundreds of years to figure out what they know-'

Jurrai shrugged. 'Good of them to do the boring bit for us,' he said. 'And in the long run it'll serve them right.' He too spent a moment looking about him; maybe he didn't particularly like what he saw. 'Gods alone know what this is doing to us,' he said quietly. 'There's been muttering about it already. People are saying it's not right.'

'I bet,' Temrai grunted. 'What's it this time? Offending the river gods, offending the forest gods, offending the fire gods-'

'All of that,' Jurrai replied cheerfully. 'But what they're saying now is, if the city folk are evil and have got to be put down, why exactly are we running ourselves ragged trying to be like them?'

'Ah.' Temrai smiled, rather sadly. 'I don't know the answer to that one. Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, maybe. They try and wipe us out; we learn by their example.' He rubbed his face between his hands. 'I'm not exactly happy about it myself. Still, it's got to be done. I think we're all agreed on that, down where it matters. And anybody who thinks we can bust through the walls of Perimadeia with a cavalry charge is welcome to see me and tell me how it can be done. I'd love to hear.' He yawned, stretched and stood up. 'Now then,' he said briskly, 'arrowshafts. I'd better go and see how they're getting on with the pole lathes.'

The lathe-making detail was busy in a small high-sided combe just over the brow of the nearby hill, which had already been cleared of timber. As he walked over the crest, Temrai could see what looked like a plantation of saplings; except that these saplings had been felled, trimmed and fixed in the ground to act as the springs for the hundred or so arrow-making lathes that Temrai hoped to have up and running in the next day or so. It was very basic stuff, by city standards; the bent sapling had a rope tied round its top, which was in turn wrapped round a spindle mounted on two trestles and then fed through to a hinged treadle. The arrow-turner pressed the treadle down with his foot, pulling in the rope and turning the spindle in one direction. Then the sapling pulled it back, turning the spindle the other way. The end of the spindle was fitted with two prongs which went into the end of the length of branchwood destined eventually to be an arrowshaft; the other end was supported by a tailstock, which held the branch level. As the spindle turned, so did the branch, and the turner pressed a sharp steel blade against it, shearing off spirals of wood and eventually producing a uniformly straight, slender shaft- (But we're mostly using green timber, which at best makes lousy arrows, which'll fly crooked and slow even if they don't break on the bowstring. It's quite possible we're wasting our time and energy doing all this. If only we could take a little more time about it, make sure we get it right. Except we'd all be long dead before it's as right as it should be. All I can do is try and make it the least wrong I can.) 'As to how many arrows we're going to need,' Temrai commented ruefully as they walked between the rows of three-quarters-finished lathes, 'I really don't want to know. Think about it. A man can aim and shoot twelve arrows a minute; one of these machines can make maybe twenty a day, if these men are prepared to work until they drop. We'll never have enough, even if there's enough wood to make the wretched things from. And it's the wrong sort of wood,' he added. 'And it's green. As to where we're going to get the feathers from-'

'I was coming to that,' Jurrai said. 'One of my people says there's a lake up in the next range of hills that's covered in ducks.'

'Ducks,' Tumrai repeated. 'Right.'

'Which isn't a bad idea even if we forget the feathers,' Jurrai went on. 'I gather we've run the last of the deer out into the hills, and if we don't want to have to start culling the milch herd-'

'Don't. All right, how many people do you need to go duck-hunting? Not that I ever heard of anybody fletching arrows with duck feathers, but we haven't got anything else.' True, he reflected as he said the words. Green wood and duck feathers, and we're meant to be a nation of mighty archers. Looks like we're doing our best to lull the enemy into a true sense of security.

At midday the noise and movement stopped, or at least became less obtrusive as the food was handed round and the clan gathered in groups to eat. Temrai had just enough time to bite a mouthful out of the wedge of hard cheese before they descended on him; the puzzled, the exasperated, the querulous, the offended - How do we do this? What were we meant to be doing? What in hell are we going to make that out of? How are we expected to do this and that without the proper tools? Do you seriously expect us to do that with this? He fended off the enquiries and complaints as best he could, smiling, shaking his head, sympathising, promising he'd think of something or it'd all be seen to, until at last they all went away and it was time to start work again. He threw the rest of the cheese to a passing dog, and plodded away to see what was the matter with the raft ropes, which kept breaking.

Ah, well, he comforted himself, the gods must feel like this all the time. And to think I used to envy them.

Halfway through the afternoon, he'd just managed to convince the raft crews that the ropes were fraying because they were putting too much strain on them when he noticed something on the other side of the river; a party of horsemen, up against the skyline, watching what was going on. For a moment, he was seven years old again and terrified; he wanted to run through the camp and warn them, Run for your lives, it's the cavalry! But then he counted them, and thought about it, and called to his cousins Mesbai and Pepotai, who were working their way through the camp enlisting duck hunters.

'Quick as you like,' he said, 'get twenty men and go up round the back of that rise there-' He pointed to where the riders were. 'Don't do anything, just get the other side of them, make sure they don't notice you until you're in position, then come up on the crest and let them see you. If they move off, shadow them but don't make contact. Got that?'

Pepotai, a short, square youth with a long, wispy beard, nodded. 'We can bring 'em in if you like,' he said. 'Or shoo 'em off, if you'd rather.'

'No.' Temrai shook his head emphatically. 'I don't want that. For all they know, we love them dearly and wouldn't dream of hurting them. Let's keep it that way for now. Plenty of time for the other stuff later.'

When they'd gone, he allowed himself another look across the river. Ten riders from the city, sent to keep an eye on him, try and work out what he was up to down here among the tree-stumps. If Maxen was still alive, there'd have been none of this respectful watching from afar. Instead, the first they'd have known of it would have been heavy cavalry cascading down on all sides, flooding the camp, shooting, slashing, burning before anybody had a chance to get to a bow or a horse. There's another thing I've got to do, he decided, post lookouts on all the approaches, and along the riverbank, too. Maxen'd have blocked the river by now, and slaughtered the men downstream . . . An unpleasant thought, that. A few men up there armed and ready, just in case they did try anything? Or would that be counterproductive, put them on their guard by showing men-at-arms as well as peacefully industrious lumberjacks?

Gods above, I shall be glad when this is all over, and we can go back to doing what we were always meant to do. He turned his back on the obtrusive presence of the city and walked away.

CHAPTER NINE.

The man knocked, came in, hooked up the chandelier and went away again. Alexius, who had been asleep, yawned and sat up. Couldn't be that time already, could it? Well, presumably it was. He lit a candle from the small lamp, found his place in the book he'd been reading, and tried to concentrate.

When we consider the essential universality of the Principle, observing it as a whole and not merely the sum of its multifarious perceptible effects (which by definition cannot be taken to be true paradigms of the larger image, diluted as they are by the material and the purely fortuitous), we can at last begin tentatively to approach a state of awareness in which the infinite and the individual gradually cease to be capable of differentiation . . .

It wasn't much better the second time he tried to read it; it was still like trying to catch a runaway goose in a thicket of brambles. He didn't put the book down, but he allowed the page to go out of focus. Not long afterwards, he was asleep again- -And standing on the city walls, up on the top platform of one of the towers that guarded the Drovers' Gate, looking out across the place where the river forked out towards the plains. In the distance the clouds met the horizon; there was a keen wind blowing them towards the sea, like a young sheepdog rounding up the flock, but these were clouds of dust.

Standing beside him, for some reason, were Bardas Loredan the advocate, Vetriz and her brother and a man he didn't know; another Islander by his rather appalling taste in clothes, but a city look to him nevertheless. They were staring out at the clouds of dust like spectators at a horse race or a lawsuit. After a while, Vetriz nudged her brother in the ribs.

'Two gold quarters on this lot,' she said.

Her brother pulled a face. 'No chance,' he replied.

'Give you ten to one.'

He shook his head. 'I don't take sucker bets,' he said.

'But on past form-' Vetriz started to say. Venart shook his head and grinned. 'Oh, well,' Vetriz said, smiling angelically, 'it was worth a try.'

The curious thing, Alexius couldn't help noticing, was that the dust clouds were now rising up out of the sea- ('Gannadius? Is that you?'

'In your dream, I know. I would have come here in a dream of my own, but I have to stay awake this evening. Official reception for the archimandrite of Turm, you know. I promise I'll be as unobtrusive as possible.') -And that they were not so much dust clouds as sails; thousands of grey-black sails, fat in the harsh wind that was now blowing directly in Alexius' face, making the sails crowd in at terrific speed; and the woman Vetriz was saying, 'Three gold fives at twenty-five to one,' and was finding no takers.

'This is most bizarre.' Bardas Loredan was talking to him, though he was looking straight out to sea. 'I know you, of course, by sight. I suppose almost everybody in the city does. But why am I having a dream about you? I suppose you must symbolise magic or something.'

'With respect,' Alexius replied, 'I'm the one having a dream about you. And it isn't magic, it's philosophy.'

'Oh.' Loredan shrugged. 'I'm sorry, but all that stuff's way above my head. Gorgas is the mystic in our family, aren't you?'

The man Alexius didn't know stared straight ahead, and nodded. 'And for your information,' he added, 'this is my dream and you're just figments of my-'

Vetriz woke up with a start.

Light was beginning to seep in through the shutters, and the face beside her on the pillow was glowing pale gold, the intensity of the light showing up the marks and flaws on the skin. With his eyes shut and the frown that people tend to wear when they're deep asleep, he looked older, somehow rather cruel. Vetriz yawned and brushed the hair out of her eyes.

'Gorgas,' she said.

'Go 'way.'

'Gorgas. It's time to get up.'

'Mbz.'

Vetriz slid out of bed and opened the shutters. Below the window, the sea was dark blue, almost black, with a smudge of red and gold where the clouds joined the water. From her window, Vetriz could look directly down on her and her brother's three ships, moored slightly apart from the other ships in Haya Morone, the best anchorage on the Island. She struggled into her gown, knotted the belt and pulled a comb through her hair.

'Gorgas,' she said, 'you really do have to get up now. Venart's ship's in the harbour. He could be here any minute.'

The big, thickset man in the bed opened one eye. 'You silly cow, why didn't you tell me?' he snapped, swinging his legs out and groping for his clothes. 'Didn't I tell you-?'

'Hurry.' Vetriz turned away from him, wondering what the hell she'd seen in the man the night before. It wasn't, after all, the sort of thing she usually did. 'And there's no need to be rude. He's got to get through customs and see to the unloading, anyhow. You needn't panic,' she added scornfully.

Gorgas Loredan didn't say anything to that; he was preoccupied with pulling his boots on over his extremely large feet. Vetriz didn't want to look at him now. Last night's wine jug was on the windowsill; she tilted it, but it was empty.

Her head hurt. Served her right for behaving like a slut.

Not that she was afraid that Venart actually might get violent if he came back early. In the unlikely event of the door flying open to reveal him standing there with drawn sword and a face like thunder, all she'd have to do was giggle or say, 'Ven, what do you think you're doing with that thing?' and he'd get frightfully embarrassed and back away, growling, like a dog from a red-ants' nest. And besides, if he came right in and killed Gorgas Loredan in front of her eyes, it wasn't exactly likely to ruin her life. What she couldn't face was the prospect of Ven nagging and rebuking and drawing his breath in through his teeth in a pained manner for the next six months, and insisting on taking her with him or leaving her in the charge of their gods-accursed aunt.

'Are you dressed yet?' she said. 'I thought it was women who were meant to be slow in the mornings.'

'It's all right, I'm going,' the voice behind her replied. 'Is there a side door to this place?'

'I'll show you,' Vetriz replied. 'Come on.'

And yet last night, it had all seemed so meant, somehow; at the dinner party, where she'd been boasting about how she'd met the Patriarch of the city - such a strange man, though really quite sweet - and been to a real swordfight in the lawcourts . . . and her neighbour had nudged her in the ribs and pointed to the top of the men's table and said, 'Don't look now, but see that big, chunky one at the end? His brother's a swordfighter in Perimadeia.' And then she'd said the name, and it was the same man she'd seen, and the same man who'd been in that very funny dream she'd had at the Patriarch's palace, or whatever it was called.... And the wine had been passed round three or four times too often, and the man she'd gone with had been dying to give her the slip and go off with that Morozin trollop (good luck to both of them) and then . . .

Well. It hadn't been that bad then, but now she wanted it over, done with and put away neatly. She closed the door after Captain Gorgas Loredan - nearly trapped the hem of his cloak in it, now that'd have added a redeeming touch of comedy to an otherwise rather dreary episode - and went through to the courtyard to have a bath.

It was nearly midday when Venart finally came home, looking tired and rather cross.

'I know we're descended from pirates,' he grumbled as he kicked off his boots, 'and I'm all for keeping alive old traditions. I just think the customs office shouldn't feel obliged to rob me blind just out of a sense of cultural identity, that's all. Is there any food?'

'Of course there is,' Vetriz replied. 'What do you think I've been doing while you were away, throwing wild orgies?'

'You might as well,' he said, massaging his feet. 'Better to blow the lot in dissipation and decadent frivolity than see it all go down the throats of those sharks down at the pool. I'll be lucky to break even on that malted barley, what with the tariff they stung me for.'

'Bread, cheese and an apple do you? Or are you going to insist on hot soup?'

'Anything that isn't fish,' Venart said, with feeling. 'If any fish comes in this house for the next six weeks, I'm leaving. There is nothing, I repeat nothing, to eat in Psattyra but raw bloody fish, unless you count the raw yellow fungus stuff as food, which I don't.'

'You poor lamb,' Vetriz said absently. 'Have a lie down for an hour while I get you something.'

The headache wore off quite quickly, helped on its way by willow bark steeped in rosewater and an orange, and the bath more or less removed Captain Loredan's fingerprints from her person. Even so, she felt tired and listless - not enough sleep, only yourself to blame. No wonder you had nightmares, mixing mead, cider and strong wine.

Not exactly nightmares. A proper nightmare would have been better, somehow.

Bardas Loredan woke up sweating and cursing, saw the light through the shutters and scrambled for his clothes. His head was splitting; filthy, rotten, cheap, industrial-grade red wine on an empty stomach. Now then; if he really hurried, he could get to the Schools in time to be only a quarter of an hour late. Damn that wretched, weird, crazy girl for making him need a drink.

In the event, he was only ten minutes late; rather an achievement, all things considered, and he should have received the congratulations and admiration of his class rather than all those frosty stares.

'All right,' he said, 'settle down, sorry I'm late. Now then, the footwork of the Old fence. Positions, please; not like that, Master Iuven, not unless you intend to confuse your opponent by falling over. Front foot in line with the blade, back foot square, come on, we've done this a hundred times . . .'

Why should I dream about him, after all these years? And that foreign girl and her brother from the tavern? And the Patriarch, of all people? That is definitely the last time I try and economise on a heavy-drinking session.

The girl, the sullen, unnerving pain-in-the-bum who was the cause of all this, was fencing magnificently today. Her movements were beginning to take on that deadly, graceful poise that all the best advocates had, something he'd seen in others but never himself. He'd always tended to associate it with a perverse pleasure in the act of killing and he didn't really hold with it, but it certainly boded well for the girl's future in the profession. For his part, he'd always fenced exactly like what he was, a highly skilled and intelligent coward who knew that his only way of staying alive was to kill someone else.

'Hello.' Athli had materialised behind him while he was watching the class do semicircles. 'How did your tete-a-tete with little Miss Hatchet-face go last night? Did you still respect each other in the morning?'

'Please don't be arch at me, Athli, I have a slight headache. And for your information, you couldn't have been further from the mark if you tried. I don't know what that bloody woman's after, but I'm delighted to say it's not me.'

'You sure about that?'

'Convinced. As far as she's concerned, I'm just someone who's teaching her how to carve people up. Talking of which, you just watch her this morning. I hate to say this, but she's going to be good.'

'Teacher's pet, huh?'

'Oh, go away and count something, there's a good girl.' A thought occurred to him. 'There's one thing you could usefully do,' he added. 'Go and smile bewitchingly at Governor Modin. He doesn't love me any more, and I can't be doing with aggravation from the likes of him. You could do that little girl standing on one foot and twirling a lock of hair between your fingers act, like you used to do for that dirty old man from the palm-oil people.'

'I never-' Athli sounded offended, then relaxed. 'All right,' she said. 'Quits?'

'Quits. But if you could try soothing Modin for me, it'd be a help. Apparently I've been abusing the governors' trust by doing individual coaching after hours without permission.'

Athli nodded. 'All right,' she said. 'I'll tell him a dying-grandmother story and offer to pay money.'

'Just so long as you don't pay money.'

Athli grinned. 'Trust me,' she said, 'I'm a lawyer.'

It was quite true, she reflected after she'd sorted out Governor Modin, about the standing on one leg and twirling a lock of hair (and fancy him having noticed). I shouldn't really do that sort of thing, only it does make things easier sometimes, when there simply isn't time to win an argument or make a case on its merits. I suppose all's fair in love and litigation . . .

'Excuse me.'

She turned round and managed not to squeak with surprise. She wanted to say, 'Should you be up?' or, 'Oughtn't you to be in bed?' but of course she didn't. What she did say was, 'Patriarch, what can I do for you?'

'I'm sorry to trouble you,' the Patriarch said, 'but are you Master Loredan's clerk? The man on the door pointed you out to me.'

'That's right,' she said. So the rumours had been true, she said to herself; he must have been ill, because he looks awful, poor man. 'Would you like to see him? He's teaching a class right now, but I'm sure it'd be no problem if-'

The Patriarch smiled. He had a nice smile. She was taken aback; usually he seemed so dignified and grand when he was taking part in some ceremony or civic function. But then he would, wouldn't he?

'That's all right,' he said, 'it's not urgent. Would it be in order for me to wait until the midday break?'

'If you're sure you don't mind . . .' Athli felt rather flustered. She now had the responsibility of keeping a frail dignitary amused and comfortable for the next hour. Would she have to stand there making small talk, or would he rather just sit in a quiet corner and read a book? Always assuming she could find him a chair; further assuming he wanted to sit down. Damnation, Athli thought. My mother didn't raise me to be a diplomat.

'No, not at all.' The Patriarch gestured for her to lead the way. (If he opens doors for me I'll die of embarrassment.) 'I do hope I'm not being a nuisance. I'm afraid I'm rather ignorant of the workings of this establishment.'

After she'd offered him everything she could think of, he finally agreed to accept a chair next to a pillar and a view of the class. 'And if I could trouble you for a drink of water,' he added, 'that would be very kind. I'm afraid I woke up this morning with rather an unpleasant headache.'

Oh, gods, where am I going to find him something to drink out of? 'No trouble at all,' she said firmly. 'I won't be a moment, if you're sure you're all right there.'

'Perfectly comfortable, thank you,' Alexius replied. 'You really are most kind.'

Once he'd got rid of the clerk - a sweet girl, but inclined to fuss; or maybe she's afraid I'll turn her into a frog - Alexius slumped into the chair and caught his breath. He felt dreadful, quite apart from his headache, and he knew he shouldn't have come; but it would have been equally impossible not to, after the dream he'd had last night.

Loredan's brother. He felt an irrational surge of resentment towards Gannadius for not being there, although he knew perfectly well that his colleague had a meeting he couldn't get out of that would last until the middle of the afternoon. But he desperately wanted to know what Gannadius had made of the dream, and whether he'd seen the same things. Still, that couldn't be helped. More important to speak to Loredan himself, something he should really have done long before now, except that he couldn't face having to tell Loredan what he'd done. But there really wasn't any choice in the matter now. Heaven alone knew what he was going to say.

He opened his eyes and found he was looking at Loredan's back, masking the group of energetic-looking young people who were hopping and prancing round in a semicircle in response to his brisk commands. He'd decided he'd seen enough of that when the semicircle turned and he could see the faces of the students- Hell and damnation! Her!