"And now I'm going to take you to the other girls," said Ida. "Just so they can set eyes on you. They are all going mad with curiosity, because you come from down there. You don't have to tell them everything now, because you are going to have to tell us all everything tomorrow."

Mara was soon sitting among other young women, each one, she thought, as fresh as a flower, making her heart ache because she was so ugly, and she was given some curds to prepare. They asked her questions but did not understand what she told them. They had grown up in Chelops, and had never known hardship. When she said, "Sometimes we had only one cup of water to last for days," they did not believe her, thought she was making it up. When she said, "For years we ate roots and flour made into paste with water and cooked on the stones," they exchanged pretty glances and little grimaces of disbelief. She said, "We didn't wash at all, we couldn't, there wasn't any water," and they raised their eyebrows and shook their heads, and smiled at each other. They were being kind to her, as if she were a foolish child or a pet animal.

That night she asked Ida if she could use the room she had rested in, instead of sleeping in one of the big rooms that had in them several girls. All those kisses and cuddles, and pattings and strokings — she couldn't do all that, she wasn't used to it. Besides they would soon discover what she was wearing: the coins that would buy her freedom and Dann's. Ida said, "I can't understand anyone wanting to sleep by themselves," but said she could use that room. There was plenty of space. As for Ida, she always asked one of the girls to sleep on another bed in her room, preferably Kira.

Next day Mara was taken by Ida into a large room that had several people waiting for her. She knew Ida, Kira and Orphne, and then saw Juba, who had been the magistrate that day in court. He greeted her with a friendly, ironical little smile. A tall, lean, older woman, with a face that Mara seemed to remember was like her mother's, opened with the ritual, "And now, what have you seen, Mara?"

Mara knew they did not mean what had she seen here, in Chelops, and started, again, with the scene in Rustam where she and Dann were being interrogated. She began to feel embarrassed, because it was taking so long, and began to shorten the tale; but the woman like her mother, who was Candace, said, "No, we want to know it all — everything. We will go on tomorrow, and so there's no hurry at all."

And Mara talked, remembering more and more, details she had not known she had noticed: like the way water-starved skin shrinks into a rough, ridgy dryness, or how when they were hungry the milk beasts licked earth that had bits of old grass in it, or how very hot and thirsty people will sit panting with their mouths open, like birds when they are hot. And when she told about the old ruined cities on the hills above the Rock Village she saw in her mind's eye one of the painted people from a later layer of the cities: she had thought that she — or he, it was hard to tell — wore a headdress; but no, it was braided and woven hair — she knew because she was looking at a woman's head whose hair was the same, a marvel of inventive arrangement. This girl was Larissa. As she talked Mara was listening for names and trying to work out relationships. Next to Juba was a comfortable, greying lady, called Dromas; the two held hands. A young man with a fine, gentle, humorous face was Meryx, and he was their son. Two middle-aged men, Jan and John, were Candace's sons. The only young woman from that courtyard of merry and carefree females was Larissa — why she, and not the others? There were half a dozen people who sat silent and listened.

Mara was still talking about the ruined cities. She said, "I was lucky — wasn't I? — living with that story, those stories, so close to me. If I had been brought up near that horrible city up there on the ridge, I would have learned nothing about who lived there." A wave of the old longing gripped her and she said, "Please, please, can I go to school?"

Candace said, "Yes, you will — but first, your story. We need to know. It isn't often we have someone here who has seen all the changes down there in the south. You see, we make up a history of what has happened — as far as we can hear about it. And we have people who learn it all and they preserve it, and make sure it is handed on down to someone younger, and we teach it to the young people. We call these people Memories. So please, Mara, go on."

And Mara went on talking. It was quite late when Candace said, "That's enough for tonight."

Mara was in the room she had chosen, by herself. She had never in her life been alone to sleep, and she felt such a freedom, such an exultation in being alone. It was not a large room, and in it was only a low bed, and a jar for water and a cup, and a little glow of light from a wick floating in oil — but she was as happy as she had ever been.

Next day they asked her to go to the young women's courtyard, but she begged to be with Orphne, to learn what she could of herbs and healing; and besides, she felt, when with Orphne, as if she were being fed with cheerfulness, for that young woman's pleasure in everything she did, in her own competence, was truly infectious. Oh, if only I could be like her, Mara was thinking.

Next evening, again, the same people assembled. Mara went on with her tale until it ended with her and Dann's sliding down the chalky hillside, and bathing in the pools and washing their garments. Juba did raise his eyebrows, and allow himself a frown, but he then waved his hand as if to say, Enough, it's forgotten. The incident had certainly not been generally forgotten: the story of how two refugees had polluted the Chelops main water source and got away with it was being told to the extent that Juba had sent out warnings that the penalty for going anywhere near the water was still a death sentence.

"And now," said Candace, "what do you want to ask us?"

Mara said, "When you found out I am female, and brought me here, it was because all the female slaves are checked, for breeding purposes. Then you discovered I am Kin. But Dann is Kin, too, and you left him with the other slaves." She sounded reproachful, more than she had meant.

"He has run away," said Candace. "We can't find him."

"Oh no, no, no," said Mara, remembering how, with earlier disappearances of Dann, it had been as if half of her were torn away.

"We are looking for him," said Meryx. "But the other slaves say he was talking of going North."

Mara kept her counsel. She did not believe Dann had left without her. He was hiding somewhere. Probably somewhere in those Towers. And how was he doing? She had all this food and water and comfort and cleanness, she was being petted and favoured — but he?

She said, "The Mahondis control all the food-growing and supplies?"

"Yes." And Meryx made a little bow to her. "Here is the Controller of Food — in person."

"You control the guards, the police, the watchmen, and the army?"

"Yes," said Juba.

"But the Hadrons control the water?"

"Yes," said Candace.

"Or they believe they do?" asked Mara.

A pause. Some glances were exchanged. Then Juba leaned forward and said, "Exactly. And it is important they go on thinking they do."

"All right," said Mara.

Now Juba said, "Mara, we are going to ask you to do something important for all of us. We want you to work for a while with the poppy and the ganja." She felt so disappointed, she felt they were rejecting her; and, seeing her face, they leaned forward, with smiles and nods, to reassure her. "You must have seen how important it is, when you visited the Hadrons." Mara still sat silent, but she was thinking.

"The difference between the Hadrons and us," said Meryx, "is that they use poppy and ganja and we don't." Mara nodded.