And Candace said, "Don't make trouble for us, Mara. You are thinking of going to the Towers, aren't you? Please don't."

That ended the session.

Now Mara spent her days in the fields with Meryx and went about with Juba, even to court sessions; she was with Candace when she organised provisions for the slaves, and was often with Orphne. One day Juba took her with him when he went to see the guards on the water supply — where she and Dann had come into the town, and been arrested. As she had thought, the officer in charge was a friend of the Mahondis; though nothing was said, or even hinted, she knew that when the two men talked, everything that was said carried other meanings.

She asked Juba, "The Hadrons that are our friends — what do they get

out of it?"

"A good question. You see, they are ashamed — that is, the young ones are. They are bitter because the Hadrons in power are degenerate. They hope that when they take power themselves, they can restore Hadron to what it once was. Because once it was well governed, though it is hard to believe that now. We spend most of the time trying quietly to put right what the Hadrons have got wrong."

Meanwhile, a great excitement: Kira had become pregnant. The father was Jan, Candace's younger son. Mara could see, going about with Meryx and with Juba, how much the news affected them: a despondency had gone, a look of discouragement.

Kira summoned a session of the Kin to announce it formally, and they were all embracing and laughing. Jan was congratulated, but seemed uncomfortable with it.

And then Kira sent a message that she had miscarried. She stayed in her room and would not see anybody, not even Ida, who wept continuously, so that Orphne had to stay with her, day and night.

Kira summoned Mara, who found her sitting in her cool room, fanning herself with a pretty, pert little fan, not like Ida's great trailing fan, and not seeming particularly unhappy. The trouble was, Kira's style — her manner, her way of walking and laughing, everything about her — was pert and even impertinent; she was full of little stratagems and tricks. Kira did not like her life. She did not believe in a future for Chelops, and had agreed to have a baby for Ida because in return Ida had said that if there was ever a possibility, she would help Kira travel North, provided the baby was left with her. She wanted to find out from Mara how to prepare herself for travelling, but she had no idea at all of the hardships and dangers of travelling.

Ida sent for Mara, and begged her to have a baby, and Mara said, "If I did have a baby, what makes you think I'd want to give it up?"

"But I'd be so good to it, I have so much — oh Mara, do think about it. Look at yourself: you're better now, you could do it."

Mara certainly had breasts again, but her blood flow had not resumed. Candace had asked her to say when this happened.

"Are you going to make me have a child?" Mara asked Candace.

"You might have noticed that we don't make anyone do anything."

"But you want me to have a child?"

"You talk as if it would be easy. But yes, we'd like you to try."

Kira summoned a session. Everyone was there.

Jan spoke first. "Before you start, Kira — no, I'm not going to try again. Yours is not the first miscarriage. You forget Ida miscarried with my seed."

And his brother said, "And that goes for me. I'm not going through that again: all the expectations, and the hoping, and then — nothing. Three of the courtyard girls have lost my attempts at a child."

Kira said, "I wasn't thinking of either of you. I don't want another mis-carriage — once is enough. I am invoking the old law. It has never been repealed, has it?"

This law was that a man could have two wives, a woman two husbands, if everyone agreed. This law had been made when it first became evident that fertility was lower, there were fewer children, and many miscarriages. So morality changed to suit a necessity. For a while it had worked: there had been more babies born, but then it was evident this was only a temporary improvement. The new law had caused a lot of unhappiness, and slowly fell out of use.

The fact was, Kira had fallen in love with Juba, and by now everyone knew it.

Juba sat quietly beside his wife, Dromas, and said, "I'm not going to pretend I'm not flattered, Kira..." — here he took Dromas's hand — "but why me? I'm old enough to be your grandfather."

Kira said, "You have a son, Juba. Your son doesn't have a son. Meryx is the only young man among the Kin."

Meryx had tried to father a child with one of the courtyard girls, but had failed.

Dromas had to agree with this mating, and she was composed, dignified, but did not hide her hurt. She said, "We have been married twenty years. But Kira, you know I am not going to say no. I couldn't, could I, if there's a chance of a child? I couldn't live with myself if I said no." — and here she smiled, attempting humour in this very tense atmosphere — "I couldn't live with Juba either."

"Oh yes you could, always," said Juba, and kissed her hand.

At this Kira's eyes filled with tears, and she said, "So what are you going to lose? None of us young women will know what it is to say, 'I have been with my man for twenty years.'"

"I know," said Dromas. "And that is why I am saying yes. But I want to say something else. None of you will know what it is to be with a man all of your youth, and to have a child with him — you have no idea of what it is you are asking me to do and what it will cost me."

This was Kira's cue to withdraw, and perhaps say she would try with one of the field slaves. But she sat on, her face wet with tears, her eyes bright and defiant.

"Then you may start your month tomorrow," said Dromas, taking her hand away from Juba's.

The custom was that when a couple were trying for a child — that is when everyone had given their permission — they were given a room, well away from everyone else, and they were excused their ordinary duties for a month.

"Why a full month?" said Mara — and as she spoke, knew she was destroying Kira's dream of a month of love. "We know — don't we? — that the eggs can only reach each other for a week in the middle of the cycle."

"I'm prepared to let it be a week, Kira," said Juba, "and if it doesn't work the first time we can try another week later." To soften this, because Kira looked mortified, and angry, and miserable, all at once, "I'm so busy, Kira. For me to stop working for a month — it is a real difficulty."

"Bitch," said Kira to Mara, as they all went out, "bitch, bitch, bitch."

"But it's true," said Mara. "Someone would have said it, if I didn't."

"But it was you who said it," said Kira.

The week of love — as the women of the courtyard were calling it — began shortly after this discussion. They were all gossiping about this passion: falling in love belonged to the past, to stories and fables and history. They had liaisons with each other, sometimes with permanent partners — lovers was not a word much in use — or more often temporary ones. They did not break their hearts when someone wanted a change, and said, "I want a fling with." — whoever. In the courtyard they chattered and giggled and discussed each other's likes and dislikes, their bodies, their needs — for they varied very much. One might say, "When I've finished with you I'm going to try." — whoever it might be; and the cool answer might be, "Oh suit yourself." It was as if deep feelings, or any feelings, had left these women, as if some silent agreement had been come to: We are not going to want, or yearn, or fret, or need, or suffer over that ridiculous thing, love. They all frankly said that choosing only women meant there would be no heartbreaks over miscarriages and infant deaths or not conceiving when they tried. "I don't want to know if I'm infertile," they said. "Who cares, anyway?"