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“Now, wait,” Basom said apprehensively, “I didn’t say anything like that. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Blejjo pointed his fishing pole at the youth. “You ought to be thankful you’ve got Anketam for a supervisor. There’s some supers who’d boot you good for a crack like that.”

Basom cast appealing eyes at Anketam. “I am thankful! You know I am! Why, you’re the best super in the barony! Everybody knows that. I was only kidding. You know that.”

Before Anketam could say anything, the old man said: “You can bet your life that no other super in this barony would put up with your laziness!”

“Now, Blejjo,” said Anketam, “leave the boy alone. He meant no harm. If he needs talking to, I’ll do the talking.”

Basom looked gratefully reprieved.

“Sorry, Ank,” said Blejjo. “It’s just that some of these young people have no respect for their elders.” He looked at Basom and smiled. “Didn’t mean to take it out on you, Bas. There’s a lot worse than you.” Then, changing his tone: “Sure you don’t want to come with us?”

Basom looked apologetic, but he stuck to his guns. “No. Thanks again, but–” He grinned self-consciously. “To be honest, I was thinking of going over to see Zillia. Her dad said I could come.”

Anketam grinned at the boy. “Well, now, that’s an excuse I’ll accept. Come on, Blejjo, this is not a sport for old men like us. Fishing is more our speed.”

Chuckling, Blejjo shouldered his fishing pole, and the two men started down the dusty village street toward the road that led to the river.

* * * * *

They walked in silence for a while, trying to ignore the glaring sun that brought the sweat out on their skins, soaking the sweatbands of their broad-brimmed hats and running in little rivulets down their bodies.

“I kind of feel sorry for that boy,” old Blejjo said at last.

“Oh?” said Anketam. “How so? He’ll get along. He’s improving. Why, he did as good a job of transplanting as any man this spring. Last year, he bruised the seedlings, but I gave him a good dressing down and he remembered it. He’ll be all right.”

“I’m not talking about that, Ank,” said the old man, “I mean him and Zillia. He’s really got a case on with that girl.”

“Anything wrong with that? A young fellow’s got a right to fall in love, hasn’t he? And Zillia seems pretty keen on him, too. If her father doesn’t object, everything ought to go along pretty smoothly.”

“Her father might not object,” said Blejjo, looking down at his feet as they paced off the dusty road. “But there’s others who might object.”

“Who, for instance?”

Blejjo was silent for several steps. Then he said: “Well, Kevenoe, for one.”

Anketam thought that over in silence. Kevenoe was on The Chief’s staff at the castle. Like many staff men–including, Anketam thought wryly, his own brother Russat, on occasion–he tended to lord it over the farmers who worked the land. “Kevenoe has an eye on Zillia?” he asked after a moment.

“I understand he’s asked Chief Samas for her as soon as she’s eighteen. That would be this fall, after harvest.”

“I see,” Anketam said thoughtfully. He didn’t ask how the old man had come about his knowledge. Old Blejjo had little to do, and on the occasions that he had to do some work around The Chief’s castle, he made it a point to pick up gossip. But he was careful with his information; he didn’t go spreading it around for all to hear, and he made it a point to verify his information before he passed it on. Anketam respected the old man. He was the only one in the village who called him “Ank,” outside of Memi.

“Do you think The Chief will give her to Kevenoe?” he asked.