Lin Carter - The City Outside the World Read online

  Like sandstorms in the desert countries back home, Ryker knew, the airborne deluge of whirling dust can be, and often is, deadly. The talcum-soft powder seeps through cloth with ease, and works into your lungs, bringing the coughing sickness they call yagh.

  He had seen a man die of it once, and it was not a nice thing to watch. Houm evidently felt the same way, and hastily guided the caravan off course to the west as soon as the storm showed visibly, a sooty smudge against the sky.

  Why west? Ryker wondered silently to himself. He would have thought it best to have driven north, to the cliff wall of the great plateau, where surely they could take refuge from the whirlwind in one of the deep, narrow ravines that cleft the wall of stone asunder in a thousand

  places. But Houm seemed to know where he was going, and before long Ryker got a surprise.

  As they urged their lopers across the desert with all the speed they could coax or coerce or cudgel out of the troublesome creatures, riding before the wind which yammered in their ears like a screeching devil horde, they came upon a city in the sands, lost and forgotten for ages.

  It was one of the Dead Cities, Ryker knew. There were many such as this scattered across the dusty face of Mars, abandoned as the wells ran dry or the inhabitants dwindled to a handful. It was just that he had not known there was one this far north, this near the Pole. For they were in the Dustlands of Meroe, near the narrow isthmus which connects Casius and its sister plateau to the west, Boreosyrtis. And the city was only some thirty-eight miles or so south of the maximum winter limit of the polar ice.

  Which meant the city was … old.

  A chill ran tingling up Ryker’s spine at the sight of it, the fallen walls mouldering in deep-drifted dust, the riven minarets which leaned and some of which lay fallen, broken into sections, and the long stone quays, crusted with fossilized barnacles, which thrust out from the dock-front into the dead, empty Dustlands.

  This city had been already old before the oceans died.

  Ryker gaped, and muttered a dazed oath. A city that old should have been one of the wonders of Mars, famed afar, crawling with tourists, rifled by three generations of archaeologists. And he hadn’t even known it was there!

  But Houm had, evidently.

  They entered the lost city well ahead of the duststorm, and sought refuge in a large domed structure whose walls were still intact and where, presumably, they would be safe from the dangers of the tempest. They stabled the

  wains and beasts within an inner court, high walled and secure enough.

  Houm acted as if he knew this place well, and that did not seem odd to Ryker until he got a good look at the interior of the domed citadel. Its furnishings were intact, although greatly worn by age and neglect. The tapestries and wall hangings were ragged and their brilliant hues were dimmed by the ages, but Ryker knew enough about such things to guess that they would still bring a rich price in the back alleys of Syrtis. And the low couches and tabourets, inlaid with carven plaques of mellow ivory, glistening purple winestone and rare carnelian, which stood undecayed by time and unmolested by men, were fabulous antiques.

  Why, then, had not Houm looted the dead city long ago, since he must have been here before? It was curious. It was more than curious, it was suspicious.

  But, to be honest, Ryker didn’t know what to be suspicious about.

  For the present, he resolved to keep his mouth shut and to act unconcerned. But he grimly vowed to keep his eyes and ears open.

  The storm was soon over. In fact, it never struck at all, but faded as its furies ebbed and the winds died, the shrieking whorls of deathly dust subsiding, dissipating before they even reached the city.

  At its first appearance, Ryker had half a notion that it was too low on the horizon to be one of those deathstorms that rage for days on end and bury men and beasts alive. But Houm seemed fearful and ordered them to run for cover, and Houm knew this part of the North Country better than did Ryker, so the Earthling forgot about his first intimation until it was proven accurate.

  Odd, then, that Houm had panicked so, since even Ryker, a stranger to these parts, had guessed from the first that the storm would subside as swiftly as it had arisen. It was almost as if the fat, beringed merchant had seized upon a convenient pretext for diverting the caravan from its announced route and entering the lost city.

  And, now that they were here, Houm seemed in no particular hurry to depart. In fact, it seemed to Ryker as if the clever little trader was seeking every excuse that came to mind to linger here a bit longer.

  First he demanded the wainmasters inspect their wheels and grease the axels and gears, as if he feared the dust had clogged them. This made good sense, for if one or another of the wagons had broken down in the middle of the desert of Meroe, it would have been a costly, even a dangerous hindrance. But the wainmasters reported no accumulation of dust.

  Whereupon Houm found one reason after another for lingering overnight in the town. The beasts, he said, were too wearied to reach the isthmus before nightfall; and it was better they camp here now, than be caught short on time in the Dustlands. It all seemed very suspicious to Ryker

  The upper floor of the citadel was divided into many rooms, which were assigned for sleeping and eating. Kiki and Melandron and the girl were given one of them. Ryker joined them at the meal, being off-duty for a time.

  And there was another strangeness he observed.

  When they had taken their first look at the incredibly ancient town, Ryker had been struck with awe, and had stared about him with wonderment. He had chanced to notice the reaction of Valarda and her grandsire at the same moment, being near thier wain.

  The emotions legible in thier wide eyes and stricken

  features had puzzled him at the time. For they seemed struck dumb with shock and horror and with another emotion he could only name with the name of … sorrow.

  Now, why should these ancient ruins, which had stood collapsed in this same state of advanced decay for millions of years, virtually unchanged in the dry, weatherless atmosphere of Mars, have caused them such consternation ?

  It was almost as if they somehow remembered the city from an ancient time, when it was new and whole and beautiful… .

  But that was crazy, of course.

  Over the meal, he could not help noticing how withdrawn and crestfallen the two seemed. They barely said a word and when they did it was to mutter in that unknown dialect of theirs whereof he was ignorant. But he read with deep sorrow the sadness and despair which were written in Iheir faces, and it was a mystery to him. He sought an analogue for their strange sorrow and realized at length that it was akin to the tragic horror one would feel, seeing again an old friend you had not visited in years, to find him hideously wasted and aged by some horrible and hopeless disease.

  Now, why in the world should the appearance of this ancient city affect them so strongly?

  Ryker shook his head numbly, his wits baffled. There were too many mysteries here, and he didn’t like it.

  After the meal they went down into the great rotunda that was the main hall of the citadel, to share water and wine.

  And here Valarda danced again.

  Houm begged it of her, waving his wine goblet jovially, and the men grinned wolfishly, echoing his wish. Nor

  could Valarda deny them their request, for Houm had made this a condition for their joining his caravan, and her own grandsire had promised it on her behalf.

  So, while the men drank another round, and old Melandron went into his pitch, praising her beauty and the grace and seductiveness of her body, in a sing-song voice—a ritual he had evidently repeated many times in many wineshops—Valarda retired to oil her body and dust it down with the glittering powder traditionally worn by one of her profession.

  Ryker liked this little, but there was nothing he could do about it. The girl had not “shared a cloak” with him, which would have given him a proprietary right to refuse that she bare herself before the men. So he had to grin and endure
it.

  Little Kiki had gone back to their room to fetch down drum and pipe and begging bowl, so Ryker had nothing to do but sit and watch. And drink the strong, sour wine.

  Valarda danced like the pure flame of a candle wavering in the wind, like a plume of golden desert dust floating before the breeze, and, as before, the room grew silent until all you could hear above the squeal of Kiki’s pipe and the thump and pitter of the old man’s drum was the hoarse breathing of men caught by the throat in the grip of desire.

  She was very beautiful.

  Her dance was a naked and wanton temptation, a thing of sheer lust, the quintessence of animal passion.

  Ryker’s throat was dry and his heart pounded painfully, and there was a throbbing in his head that was not caused by wine.

  Her beauty was such that it clenched at his loins, and roused a male hunger within him. It was torture for him to see the allure of her nakedness, and to know that other men felt it, too.

  Houm watched with his head tipped on one side and an amiable, avuncular smile on his fat face. But the hot glitter in his little eyes belied the kindly paternalism in his smile. It was the gleam of greed.

  Two men sat with Houm on his carpeted pallet, and they were men that Ryker had not seen with the caravan before, and that was odd. One was tall and lean and curiously elegant, although wrapped in a disreputable cloak like-a beggar. His features were hard, fierce, aquiline: there was breeding in them, and pride. The other man was small and hunched and spindle shanked, and he hid his face in the shadow of his hooded cloak. Ryker eyed them curiously, wondering where they had been hidden all this while. He could have sworn that he knew at sight every last member of the caravan, even the painted, pampered, simpering boy slave Houm kept apart for his own pleasure.

  Finally he asked Raith about it. The tall guardsman sat next to him, and they had become good comrades ever since Ryker had knocked him down and ended the hazing.

  “They’re new,” Raith shrugged.

  “What do you mean, ‘new’?”

  The warrior shrugged, incuriously. “Came riding in an hour ago, when you were having meat. I was on guard and saw them. Old Houm was waiting for them, I think. At least, he seemed mighty relieved when they turned up, and glad to see them.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Ryker asked.

  “I don’t know the tall one,” admitted Raith. “But the little fellow with him is a Juhangir …”

  An alert, wary flame leaped up in Ryker’s colorless eyes.

  “Named Goro? The one who entertained back at Yhakhah?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Ryker said nothing, but now he was no longer curious.

  Now he was afraid.

  It took him quite a while to get to sleep that night, with so many small, annoying mysteries on his mind. Finally he did manage to drift off, although his sleep was shallow and troubled by shadowy and ominous dreams.

  An hour or so before dawn he came fully awake, suddenly, tingling all over with apprehension. Something had disturbed his light slumbers. But, what?

  He threw back the fold of his cloak of furs and raised himself on one arm, looking around. The energy gun was ready in his hand.

  But he saw nothing, nothing at all. The bare, empty room of the ancient citadel, rubbish in the corners, the faded hues of curious antique murals—naught else was visible in the dim green glow of chemical flame. The metal pan stood on the floor by the door, shedding its emerald illumination evenly over the room. By this night light, which the Martians leave burning when they sleep, believing that green light repels the night-wandering apparitions and vampiric demons of the dark which throng their old mythology, he saw nothing suspicious.

  It was merely a superstition, of course, but a night light sometimes comes in handy. As now, for instance, Ryker could see that no one was there.

  From beyond the half-open door he heard the distant mutter of men in the suites below, being awakened to replace the guards. From the courtyard beyond his unshuttered window, he heard the beasts stirring in their sleep, and the restless clatter of their splayfooted feet against the worn old tiles.

  The early morning was so still that he could hear even these faint, far, familiar sounds.

  What, then, had startled him into awakening so suddenly?

  Then he felt the night-chill against his heart. And knew that his garments were disarranged—and not by him.

  His thermals were held together by pressure seams, which could not easily be opened. But something had opened them, laying naked the flesh above his heart.

  A dim premonition stirred within him, then.

  For around his neck in a leather bag he wore the black seal he had found in the ancient tomb.

  Now, why on Earth—or on Mars—would anybody be interested in that?

  9. “ZHAGGUA!”

  Perhaps it had not been anyone after the black seal at all, he reasoned to himself. For, after all, it still lay snug and safe in the little leather bag he wore suspended about his neck on a thong. To make certain of this, he opened the bag, took out the carven piece of heavy black crystallike stone and examined it closely by the green glow. Then he put it away.

  Perhaps his thief in the night had simply been that—a thief. Thieves seek valuables—currency, coins, gems. And Ryker’s pockets were bare of these things, God knew! He grinned sourly, shrugged, and lay back in the folds of his cloak, composing himself to snatch what little of the night was left before he must rise to the duties of the day.

  But he had drunk deeply of the strong wine the night before, watching Valarda dance naked before the men, and the pressure of his kidneys goaded him reluctantly from the room to seek a privy.

  There was a dry well in the courtyard where the slidars were tethered, he remembered. He headed downstairs for it. But at the head of the stairway he froze motionless, straining his ears, his gun out and ready.

  There were men ascending the stairs, many men, moving with furtive stealth, keeping as quiet as was possible.

  Ryker knew this by blind, unreasoning instinct. He had

  been pursued and hunted in his time, and men walk in a different way when they are trying to creep up on someone without being seen or heard, than when they are just trying not to awaken their sleeping comrades.

  He melted into the shadows then, and when the band of men reached the head of the stair he was nowhere to be seen.

  It was out in the open at last. The time of lies and cunning wiles and impostures was over with. Whatever (his thing really was, however ugly, it was about to reveal itself.

  Dawn broke dim gold in the east, and the caravan was in an uproar. During the early morning a band of desert warriors had come riding into the dead city, bearing with them an Earthling captive. The presence of the captive, an old man with white hair, surprised no one. The surprise was that the warriors had ridden in without the alarm being sounded.

  For Houm himself, and the two strangers who had shared his carpet with him at the drinking of wine last night, were dressed and awake and waiting at the gate to welcome the newcomers.

  Word flew from mouth to mouth that the tall, hawk-faced stranger of the night before, who had watched Valarda dance with cold, searching, yet avid eyes, was Prince Zarouk himself, the desert marauder of the south of whom all had heard much, and little that was to their taste.

  But further surprises were in store.

  Down from the third story of the citadel came a band of Zarouk’s tall, long-legged warriors, grinning wolfishly.

  With them they bore three captives—the dancing girl, the old man, and that imp of a boy!

  The three were dragged forth into the gold light of dawn, and it could be seen that their arms and wrists were bound behind their backs by tight leathern thongs. See-_ ing them, the Prince strode forward, a cold smile on his thin, bearded lips. Houm stood smirking, fingering his ; little queue of a goatee. Silence fell—tense, tight, expectant.

  The girl’s head was sunk upon her breast, the pale oval of
her perfect face veiled beneath the black wings of her long hair.

  Zarouk reached out and took her by the throat.

  “Raise your head, slut!” he snarled. “Open your eyes, that all men may see you as you are, and may know the vile thing you be.”

  Valarda lifted her face into the light and looked upon the caravan men and the desert raiders with great golden eyes.

  A shudder as of loathing ran through the crowd. And men began to speak a word, first in a whisper, then in a mutter, then and at last in a growling chant.

  “Zhaggua … Zhaggua … ZHAGGUA!”

  There was fear in their voices, aye, and contempt, and also hatred. They did not so much utter the despised name as spit it in her face like phlegm.

  But Valarda neither flinched nor let the slightest flicker of emotion shadow her expression of pride and disdain. No haughty French aristocrat ever faced the guillotine during the Terror with such proud disdain, nor with such courage.

  Zarouk chuckled, enjoying the drama of the moment. He showed his white teeth in a leering smile, and his eyes gloated on the three captives. He flung up his head in a bold gesture.

  “What shall we do with this zhaggua and her pack?”

  lie cried. “Dmu, what says The Book? What is the end decreed most fitting for such vermin, and most pleasing to the Timeless Ones?”

  Forth from the throng of tall, robed desert warriors there came shuffling into view a small, old man with the shaven pate and silver ear-sigils of a native priest, his gaunt, bent, wasted form wrapped in dark, dusty robes, his hands lucked into his voluminous sleeves.

  The men made way for him a bit uneasily. Priests are respected on Mars, but not exactly loved. Few even of the devout feel comfortable in their presence. Perhaps they stand too close to the eternal mysteries of creation and judgment and doom, and the gates of life and death, for ordinary men to enjoy their company.

  “The Death of the Slow Fire, lord Prince,” the old priest said in a thin, quavering sing-song voice. And his rheumy, lusterless eyes brightened as he said this.