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he was out of sight, Berris took the half-made buckle and melted it down, with some filings he had, and ran it into a plain bar. He would have done the same with the other buckle, but at the last moment he stopped, he could not bear to kill so much of his own work in one morning. Then he damped down the fire, hung up his leather apron, and saw that everything was locked up. He knew he should be glad that the plan was working and his father would be Chief so soon; but yet he felt heavy and sad, partly because of Tarrik, and partly because of his own failures, and partly because there had been so much magic going on round him for the last few hours.
    Tarrik was worse than usual at the Council. To start with, he was late—not that he was often anything else, and anyhow they could always get on perfectly well without him—but still, unless he was there, none of their doings had any sacredness: they were only, as it were, parts of his body.
    Today they were talking about a great plan that had been started the year before by Yellow Bull, the eldest son of Harn Der, who lived south in the marshes. He had gone over all the ground, punting himself through those queer, half-salt, weed-choked channels that spread inland for miles, alone in a flat boat, living on snared birds and eggs and muddy-tasting fish. He stood before the Council now, a rough-skinned, wild-eyed young man, wearing mostly fur, very eager to have his plan followed, very bad at explaining it. He wanted them to make a secret road through the marshes, building on piles between the islands, digging deep drains towards the sea, and making strong places here and there with walls and towers. There was firm ground a few feet down in many places, and their draining for the road would leave acres of dry pasture, where neither horses nor cattle had ever grazed before. And there were great, wild islands, that needed only to be cleared to get them new lands, where they would be free from attackfor ever, out of the reach of the Red Riders, and beyond … Yellow Bull did not know himself how his road should end. It went on and on, getting less real every mile that it went. Whenever he dreamt, it was this: of pushing and winding among endless reed-banks, with the smell of rotting stems always in his nostrils and the mud bubbling among the hidden roots. And his road would follow Yellow Bull through the reeds with great armies marching on it; and yet he would be alone. But Yellow Bull could not tell the Council his dreams, he could not say how much he wanted the road.
    And the Council could not decide if it was worth while. Harn Der thought it would be, but saw all the difficulties and dangers there must be. It would take a lifetime, and all the labour there was in Marob—lives and years. The Chief had been more interested in this than in anything that had been before the Council since the Red Riders had been beaten behind the northern hills four seasons ago. He had been most eager to keep it a secret for Marob, have some hidden and guarded entrance, and let no stranger in on to it. He had asked and thought about its end.
    Today Yellow Bull and those who cared about the road had hoped to get orders from the Chief; for this, in the end, must be his doing; they had no power to bring such a change to Marob. They had told the Chief, and he had promised to be there. Now there was no sign of him. Even his best friends were angry. At last he came, not by his own door, but from the main road, with a broken-stringed bow in his hand, enough to bring bad luck to anything. He came quite slowly, as if he had not kept them waiting long enough already. Yellow Bull stood with his hand and knife up at the salute, looking very fine and strong and rugged. Harn Der looked from one to the other, and thought very well of his son; and he was not the only one there to think that.
    In the very middle of the Council room there was a great, ten-wicked silver lamp, hanging down on a chain. As he