“Doorie! Oh, how wonderful. We haven’t had word from her in months, months!” The Queen held out her hands, seeing that they trembled a little, to unroll the tight scroll and lay it flat on the little table by her cushions.
“Dear Mother and most honored Queen,” she read. “Today the Gift of Potipur turns northward. We have found an island chain in center River where men and Treeci live. Many of the men here have seen Southshore with their own eyes. It is there, about a month’s sail farther south. There is no question. It is a huge land, empty of men, so these men believe.
“We do not know when or where we will strike land on Northshore, though it will be at least two months, one hundred long days, from now, and probably some distance west of Thou-ne from where we departed. Send a message to me through all the Melancholies of Northshore from Thou-ne at least so far as Vobil-dil-go.
“I have learned that the fliers have found some herdbeasts. They have a plan to raise the herdbeasts on the steppes until there are great herds and then kill all humans. Two fliers were blown to an island in a mighty storm, and I overheard them. I have not told anyone of this but you.
“The Noor must make plans at once to leave for the south. If the Thraish go on with their plans, the plan we have so long depended upon will be only another kind of grave.
“I have found the answer to Grandfather’s riddle.
“Your loving and obedient daughter, Medoor Babji.
“P.S. I think I am pregnant.”
“Ah,” said Strenge, looking perplexed, gulping a little, hardly knowing which part of the message to think of first. “Well, if she only thinks she is pregnant, it happened after she left.”
“Rape,” snarled the Queen.
“I think not,” Strenge said soothingly. “She would not have used those words had it resulted from rape. No. I have had seeker birds from those who were with the troupe in Thou-ne, and they tell me Medoor Babji was fascinated by the boat owner, Thrasne.”
“That is not a Noor name!”
“No. And Noor do not own boats. Shh, shh, Fibji. We have children among our near-kin who are not wholly Noor.”
The Queen snarled. Strenge petted her and she wept in pain, anger, and frustration.
When she had finished weeping, he said, “And now, Queen of the Noor, you must hear evil news.” He took the just received message bone from his sleeve, turning it in his hands for some moments, a sour expression on his face.
“Well?”
“It’s from one of our people long enslaved in the Chancery,” he replied in a strained, tight voice. “From a sentinel post near the Red Talons. Things are taking a nasty turn, Fibji.”
She took the paper and read from it. “Oh, by all the gods. We heard from the scribe that the leader of the crusade was readying for racial persecution. Now some faction in the Chancery plots our extermination in order to settle our lands with paler skins! Have there been any reports of such action against us?”
“We’ve had no reports, but the Melancholies may not realize what’s going on. There’s always the chance of more or less random harassment in the cities.”
“Get some inquiries out, Strenge. It’s unlikely there’s been time for the Chancery to act on this, but they may move more swiftly than usual.”
“No matter how swiftly or how slowly, Fibby, we must act now, no matter what they do. One message told you a persecution is being built as a fire is laid, with fuel added each place the crusade stops. Another says that now Gendra Mitiar connives at persecution. If her connivance succeeds, our people may find it impossible to gather coin on Northshore. Now comes word from your daughter to say Southshore exists. It is actual, real. It is accessible, too, without such arduous effort as to make it impractical.”
“Then why haven’t people gone there?”
“Why should they? The journey is very long. There are vast unsettled stretches on Northshore, to say nothing of the steppes. The Towers have long forbidden exploration of the River.”