in their earlier conversation. 'Has it something to do with Lord Shardik?'
'What have you heard, then, about Lord Shardik?' asked the governor with an air of surprise.
'Your wife spoke of him, and about the festival too. Besides, the ferrymen on the raft this morning had a chant – 'Shardik gave his life for the children.' I should be interested to hear a little more, if you would care to tell me, about the cult of Shardik. I have an interest in such matters and in my own country I have been a – well, a teacher, I think you might say.'
The governor, who was gazing into his silver cup and swirling the wine in it, looked up and grinned.
'That's more than I am, or ever shall be. I'm not particularly handy with words, though fortunately I don't need them to serve Lord Shardik. The teaching, as you call it, is simply that there isn't to be a deserted or unhappy child in the world. In the end, that's the world's only security: children are the future, you see. If there were no unhappy children, then the future would be secure.'
He spoke with a kind of unassuming assurance, as a mountain-guide might speak to travellers of passes and peaks which, for all their lonely wildness, he knows well. Siristrou had not understood all that he said and, finding it difficult to formulate questions in the other's language, fell back on the repetition of words which he had heard him speak. 'You said slaves of neglect and desertion? What does that mean?'
The governor rose, paced slowly across to the window and stood looking out towards the harbour. His next words came hesitantly, and Siristrou realized with some surprise that apparently he had seldom or never had occasion to try to express himself on this subject before.
'Children – they're born of mutual pleasure and joy – or they ought to be. And God means them to grow up – well, watertight, like a sound canoe; fit to work and play, buy and sell, laugh and cry. Slavery – real slavery's being robbed of any chance of becoming complete. The unwanted, the deprived and deserted – they're slaves all right – even if they don't know it themselves.'
Siristrou felt no wish to become too much involved. To show a polite interest in foreign beliefs and customs was one thing; to become a target for the fervour of an uncultivated man was another.
'Well, well – perhaps there are some deserted children who don't mind too much.'
'Which one of them told you mat?' asked the governor, with so droll a simulation of genuine interest that Siristrou could not help laughing. However, he was wondering, now, how best to bring this part of their conversation to an end. He had himself begun it by asking for information, and it would not be civil simply to change the subject. The better way would be first to move on to some other aspect of the matter and thence slide to less tricky ground. Diplomacy was largely a matter of not upsetting people. 'Shardik – he was a bear, you say?' 'Lord Shardik was a bear.' 'And he was – er – coming from God? I'm afraid I don't know the word.' 'Divine?' 'Ah, yes. Thank you.' 'He was the Power of God, but he was an actual bear.* 'This was long ago?' 'No -I myself was present when he died.' 'You?'
The governor said no more and after a few moments Siristrou, now genuinely interested, hazarded, 'A bear – and yet you speak of his teaching. How did he teach?'
'He made plain to us, by his sacred death, the truth we had never understood.'
Siristrou, mildly irritated, refrained from shrugging his shoulders, but could not resist asking, though in a tone of careful sincerity and self-depreciation,
'Wouldn't it be possible for some foolish person to try to argue – of course it would be foolish, but perhaps it might be said – that what took place was all a matter of chance and accident – that the bear was not sent by God -?'
He broke off, somewhat dismayed. Certainly he had said more than he need. He really must be more careful.
The governor was silent for so long that he feared he must have given offence. To have done so would be a nuisance and he would have to set to work to repair the damage. He was just about to speak again when the governor looked up, half-smiling, like one who knows his mind but must needs laugh at his own difficulty in expressing it. At length he said, 'Those beasts of yours that you spoke of – the ones we're going to buy from you – you sit on their backs and they carry you swiftly -' 'The horses. Yes?' 'They must be intelligent – cleverer than oxen, I suppose?' 'It's hard to say – perhaps a little more intelligent Why?'
'If music were played in their hearing and in ours, I suppose their ears would catch all the actual sounds that yours and mine would catch. Yet for all that it's little they'd understand. You and I might weep; they wouldn't The truth – those who hear it are in no doubt Yet there are always others who know for a fact that nothing out of the ordinary took place.'
He stooped and threw a log on the fire. The afternoon light was beginning to fade. The wind had dropped and through the window Siristrou could glimpse that the river was now smooth inshore. Perhaps if tomorrow's crossing were to take place in the early morning it might be less hair-raising.
'I've wandered very far,' said the governor after a little. 'I've seen the world blasphemed and ruined. But I've no time nowadays to dwell on that The children, you see – they need our time. Once I used to pray, 'Accept my life, Lord Shardik'; but that prayer's been answered. He has accepted it*
At this, Siristrou felt that at last he was on familiar ground. To remove the burden of guilt was in his experience the function of most, if not of all, religions. ' You feel that Shardik takes away – er – that he forgives you?'
'Well, I don't know about that' answered the governor. 'But once you know what you have to do, forgiveness matters much less – the work's too important God knows I've done much wrong, but it's all past now.'
He broke off at a sound of movement near the door of the darkening room. Ankray had entered and was waiting to speak. The governor called him over.
'There's some of the children waiting to see you, sir,' said the man. 'One or two of them new ones that come in yesterday – Kavass brought them up here. And that young fellow down at the landing-stage, that Shouter-' 'Kominion?'
'Well, there's some calls him that' conceded Ankray. 'Now the Baron, he wouldn't have -'
'Anyway, what does he want?' 'Says he wants some orders for tomorrow, sir.' 'All right, I'll come and see him, and the rest of them too.'
As the governor turned towards the door, a little boy, aged perhaps six, came wandering uncertainly through it, looked round and came to a halt, staring gravely up at him. Siristrou watched in some amusement.
'Hullo,' said the governor, returning the child's gaze. 'What are you after?' 'I'm looking for the governor-man. The people outside said -'
'Well, I'm the governor-man, and you can come with me if you like.' He swung the child up in his arms just as Melathys came back into the room. She shook her head, smiling.
'Haven't you any dignity, my dearest Kelderek Play-with-the-Children? What will the ambassador think?'
'He'll think I'm one of those swift animals he's going to sell us. Look!' And he ran out of the room with the child on his shoulders.
'You'll dine with us, won't you?' said Melathys, turning to Siristrou. 'It'll be about an hour, and there's no need to leave us. How can we entertain you until then?'
'Why, madam, please don't trouble,' answered Siristrou, happy to find himself once more in the company of this charming girl, whom privately he considered rather too good for her husband, however keen on trade he might be. 'I have a letter to finish to the king of Zakalon. Now that we have really reached your country at last, I mean to send a messenger tomorrow, with an account of our arrival and of all that has befallen. It will be entirely convenient to me to occupy the time until dinner in finishing it. Our king will be anxious for news, you understand.' He smiled. 'I can sit anywhere you like and be in nobody's way.' She looked surprised. 'You're actually going to write the letter? You yourself?' 'Well – yes, madam – if I may.'
'You may indeed – if we can find you anything to write on and with. And that I rather doubt. May I watch for a little while? The only people I ever saw write were the Tuginda and Elleroth, Ban of Sarkid. But where are we to find what you need?'
'Don't put yourself out, madam. My man is here. He can go to my lodgings.'
'I'll sec that he's sent in to you. It will be most comfortable for you to stay in this room, I think. It's turning cold outside and the only other fire's in the kitchen, though Zilthe will be lighting another later, in the further room. When there's company, you see, we can do quite as well as any old village elder. But you're going to make us all rich, aren't you?' – and again she smiled at him as though their lack of luxury were the best of jokes. 'You have children, madam, you told me?' 'Two – they're only babies yet. The eldest isn't three years old.'
