"She probably doesn’t," said Korinaam. Harpirias had never seen him look so uncomfortable. "I do. — If we may, prince, may we speak of something else?"

Once more Harpirias was reminded of how very alien his traveling companion actually was. They might have political equality everywhere on Majipoor, yes; their queen was officially regarded as a Power of the Realm, and all that; but nevertheless they were different, different in unknowable ways, a race whose strange pliant bodies functioned along principles unique to themselves and whose minds — whose minds, Harpirias thought, were capable of regarding the simple notion that the female body has an entrance as a vile obscenity.

How did Metamorphs make love? he wondered.

Harpirias realized that he didn’t know. And didn’t want to find out.

He parted from Korinaam outside the lodging house and stood for a while in the plaza, looking up at the sky. It had turned a dark metallic gray, like a sheet of cold iron. A few whirling snowflakes floated overhead.

A storm was coming on; it was starting to snow; and yet this was the eve of the midsummer hunting festival! As he watched, the force of the snowfall increased appreciably. Already a thin white dusting had begun to cover the old and darkened ice of the plaza floor. Midsummer! Midsummer! Harpirias felt the hard little flakes striking his upturned cheeks. How strange this all is, he thought. Wherever he turned he found himself amidst strangenesses. He would have quite a story to tell, if ever he returned from this place.

The girl came to him again that night. The snow had stopped by then, after a considerable fall. Boys with brooms of straw were out in the plaza, clearing the places where high drifts were blocking access to doorways.

Harpirias had found out from Korinaam at dinnertime how to say "What is your name?" in the Othinor language, and he asked it of her when she arrived.

"Ivla Yevikenik," she told him.

He pointed to her and repeated it. She nodded and tapped her breast. "Ivla Yevikenik," she said again.

"Harpirias," he said, pointing to himself.

"Harpirias."

So they had that much established, at least.

She seemed to think that because he could speak one sentence in her language, he now was completely fluent in it. A torrent of baffling chatter came from her; and he ended it only by laughing and hitting the side of his head with his fingertips, as though to say that there was nothing but emptiness inside. She appeared to understand that. But she wanted to talk, even so. For a long while they struggled to communicate, each laboriously explaining words to the other, without accomplishing anything; and then at last they gave up and headed toward the pile of furs.

She murmured the word that he heard as "Shabilikat" again, just as Harpirias was about to enter her. He did not repeat it this time.

Afterward, when they lay naked and panting together waiting for his strength to reassert itself, she began to speak again to him, softly, almost tenderly. Phrases of endearment, he supposed. Or, perhaps, gratitude for his willingness to surrender to Toikella’s requirements. That made Harpirias a little uneasy. Her gratitude was not what he wanted.

The girl is actually quite attractive, he told himself. I am not doing this as a favor to anybody but myself.

Was that true? Not really, he knew. But he wished very much to feel that it was.

In the middle of the night she insisted on going out into the plaza with him. Which seemed crazy to him, but there was no doubt of her meaning, for she arose and dressed herself, and held his clothing out to him with a clear indication that he should put it on, and then took him by the hand and led him from the building.

All was silent outside. The night was clear and cold, with three small moons in the sky and a brilliant sprinkling of stars. She began to tell him something in pantomime, the same set of gestures over and over, pointing to the canyon wall and then going up on tiptoes as if pointing over it, and gradually Harpirias divined that she wanted him to describe the world beyond that great stone wall for her.

One of the brooms with which the boys had been sweeping the plaza lay discarded nearby. He picked it up and used the end of its handle to inscribe a map of Majipoor in the newly fallen snow, the two main continents side by side with the Isle of the Lady between them and the sun-cursed desert continent of Suvrael below.

Did she understand what he had drawn? How could he tell?

"This is where we are," he said, pointing with the broom handle to the northeastern tip of Zimroel and speaking with exaggerated precision, as though that would help her understand. "The Khyntor Marches, we call this region." He glanced at her to see if the name had registered; but her face showed only intense curiosity, no comprehension. He pushed up a ridge of snow to indicate the mountain range that cut the Marches off from the rest of the western continent.

"Down here," he said, "this is the city of Ni-moya. Big, big, big city. Many, many millions of people." He felt like an idiot, speaking to her this way. He sketched in the River Zimr, running from west to east across the upper third of the continent, and poked the handle into the snow at the river’s mouth to mark the city of Piliplok . "Seaport," he said. "Very big. Lots of Skandars live here." Harpirias tried to demonstrate the concept of having four arms. "Shan-dan. And this river here, running up from the south — that’s the Steiche. Metamorphs live here, in the jungles. You can’t imagine what a jungle is, can you? Very hot. Rain all the time. Huge trees. That’s where the Metamorphs come from. People like Korinaam. Metamorphs. Korinaam."

Useless. Preposterous.

But she encouraged him with nods and eager grins to go on. He drew in more of the major cities of Zimroel for her, as well as he could remember them from his school days, Pidruid and Tilomon and Narabal over on the western coast, and Dulorn more or less where it belonged inland, and a few more. Then he moved over to the other great circle he had drawn, the one representing the continent of Alhanroel, and knelt in the snow, reaching his arms out to swoop up a heap of it that would stand for Castle Mount.

"This is where I live," he said. "Big, big mountain, this high, tremendous mountain reaching to the stars, cities all around its sides. Castle on top. Cos-tie. The castle of the Coronal. Coro-nal. King of the world. Lord Ambinole, the Coronal of Majipoor."

He was beginning to freeze, now, on this fine summer night. His ears and the tip of his nose were burning. But he was determined not to abandon this geography lesson so long as she was paying attention, and Ivla Yevikenik was definitely paying attention, staring at him in a rapt, captivated way. Harpirias poked with the broom for her again and again, drawing the River Glayge with the Labyrinth of the Pontifex at its southern end, the cities of Alaisor and Treynone and Stoien, and the ancient stone ruins that had once been the Metamorph capital, Velalisier. And would have gone on until morning, naming all that there was to name, every one of the Fifty Cities and much else besides, except that after a few minutes more she came up beside him and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. She had had enough geography for now.

"Shabilikat," she said, and led him inside.