there into hinterlands that were like unknown possibilities in her own mind.
As often as she turned to gaze back, she resolutely made herself look forward and confront what waited for her. Behind, all heights, distances, perspectives: before, Zone Four.
And Ben Ata. She found the thought in her mind that this great lump of a man so newly introduced in her life must balance in some way those far blue heights of Zone Two — but she did not smile. She did not seem now a creature who could laugh. What she did observe in herself, though, was a most unfamiliar impulse towards silliness. Never before in her whole life had she met any being, woman, man, or child, without an opening of her self to them, for the flow of intimacy to start at once — and now arts and tricks she had known nothing of were working in her without her volition, or so she believed. She would meet Ben Ata so, and so, and so — and she was imagining little glances, smiles, evasions, offers of herself. And she was revolted.
At the frontier she saw, as she had expected, a figure on a horse, and it was not Ben Ata, nor was it Jarnti. On a fine chestnut mare was a strong dark-haired powerful woman, with her hair done up in braids like a coronet round her head. Her eyes were straight and honest. But they were wary, and her whole being expressed a need for acceptance that was being kept well in check. Before her, on the heavy saddle that was Zone Four’s indispensable horse furniture, were set two glittering metal oblongs: she had brought a shield for Al·Ith.
‘I am Dabeeb, Jarnti’s wife,’ she said. ‘Ben Ata sent me.’
The two women sat on their horses facing each other, in open and friendly examination.
Dabeeb saw a beautiful slender woman, her hair flowing down her back, with eyes so warm and kind she could have wept.
Al·Ith saw this handsome female who in her own Zone would have been put, at first sight, in positions of the most responsible and taxing kind — and yet here she had on her every mark of the slave.
Her eyes never left Al·Ith’s face, for she was watching for signs of rebuke, or dismissal. Even punishment … yet she was, as it were, tripping over herself in eagerness and liking.
‘Are you wondering why I am here, my lady?’
‘No … oh, please don’t! My name is Al·Ith …’ and this reminder of the ways of this Zone made her whole self sink and shrink.
‘It is hard for us,’ remarked Dabeeb. But she spoke in a small stubborn self-respecting way that made Al·Ith take note of it.
‘I have not heard the name Dabeeb before.’
‘It means something that has been made soft by beating.’
Al·Ith laughed.
‘Yes, that is it.’
‘And who chose that name for you?’
‘It was my mother.’
‘Ah — I understand.’
‘Yes, she liked her little joke, my mother did.’
‘You miss her!’ exclaimed Al·Ith, seeing the tears in Dabeeb’s eyes.
‘Yes. I do. She understood things the way they are, that’s what she was like.’
‘And she made you very strong—the one-who-has-been-made-soft by beating.’
‘Yes. As she was. Always give way and never give in. That’s what she said.’
‘How is it you are here alone? Isn’t it unusual for a woman to travel alone?’
‘It is impossible,’ said Dabeeb. ‘It never happens. But I think Ben Ata wanted to please you … and there is something else. Jarnti had already got ready to come and fetch you … ‘
‘That was kind of him.’
A shrewd flash of a smile. ‘Ben Ata was jealous — ’ with the swiftest of glances to see how this was being taken. And she sat, head slightly lowered, biting her lip.
‘Jealous?’ said Al·Ith. She did not know the word, but then remembered she had read it in old chronicles. Trying to work out what it could mean in this context, she saw that Dabeeb had gone red, and was looking insulted: Dabeeb believed that Al·Ith meant Jarnti was not on her level.
‘I don’t think I have ever been jealous. We do not expect to feel that emotion.’
‘Then you are very different from us, my lady.’
The two women rode together down the pass. They were assessing each other with every sense, visible and invisible, they had.
What Dabeeb felt made her exclaim, after a short distance, ‘Oh, I wish I were like you, if only I could be like you! You are free! Will you let me come with you when you go home again?’
‘If it is permitted.’ And they both sighed, feeling the weight of the Order.
And Al·Ith was thinking that this woman had in her a core of strength, something obdurate, enduring: sufferings and pains that she, Al·Ith, had never imagined, had made her thus. And so she was curious, and eager to learn more. But she did not know how to ask questions, or what to ask.
‘If you, a woman, can ride to meet me, and with Ben Ata’s permission, does that mean that women now will be more at liberty?’
‘Ben Ata permitted it. My husband did not.’ And she gave a short shrewd laugh that Al·Ith already knew was characteristic.
‘So what will he do about it?’
‘Well. I am sure he will find a way to make himself felt.’ And she waited for Al·Ith to join her in a certain kind of laugh.
‘I don’t think I know what you mean.’ But as she saw the humorous patience on Dabeeb’s face, she understood.
‘Have you ever thought of rebelling?’
Dabeeb lowered her voice and said, ‘But it is the Order … is it not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I find there is a great deal I don’t know that I thought I did. For instance, can you tell when a woman is pregnant?’
‘Yes, of course, can’t you?’
‘Always until now. But not now. Not here.’
Dabeeb instantly understood this, for she nodded, and said, ‘I see. Well, you are not pregnant, I can assure you.’
‘Well, that is something.’
‘You plan not to get pregnant?’ And again her voice was lowered and she gave furtive glances all about her, though they were now at the foot of the escarpment and on the point of starting their ride across the watery fields and there was not a soul in sight.
‘I think we use the word plan differently.’
‘Will you teach me?’
