Lin Carter - The City Outside the World (7 page)

The woman was needed because it was traditional, and they took the evening meal in the little garret, for the Martians do not customarily eat together in the common room with strangers, save at certain feasts.

After the meal, when the woman left, the old man left them at wine and went forth into the town to speak to the caravan men. Ryker would have done this, but Melandron curtly bade him tend Valarda, and there was nothing else lor him to do but acquiesce.

She turned her eyes to him once, then, and looked into
his
own for virtually the first time since they had shared that kiss together under the starlight.

And at what he saw in the mysterious golden eyes of the dancing girl he had rescued from the mob in Yeolarn, Ryker felt a weight lift from his heart, and the blood sang within his veins, and there was no need for him to drink wine, for he was already drunk.

For the strange light that shone in her eyes when she looked at him he thought he knew. He had seen that light once before in the eyes of a woman, and it was like the glow that glimmers in Paradise.

7. The Jest of Kiki

While the people
only feast together in family groups or during certain festivities, it is traditional for them to drink together, rather than apart. And this was particularly true in towns like Yhakhah which are under Water Truce, for technically the Truce does not include travelers until they have drunk water and wine in common with strangers. It was the only form of water-sharing which does not place the Martian equivalent of blood-brotherhood upon two chance-met travelers, yet the obligation to hold the Truce is somewhat similar. And woe to him who breaks it.

Thus, although they were weary from the day's travel, they went down into the common room to drink with the caravan men, and to listen to the latest gossip. The relayer of this was a scrawny, bright-eyed little man with a comic puckered mouth and a nubbin of a nose, called a Juhangir. The Juhangir is the People's version of a medieval troubadour, itinerant clown, juggler and entertainer, all rolled into one in an amalgam uniquely Martian.

Between snatches of song and sketches of comic patter, the Juhangir relays the latest news and gossip, some of it months, even years, old, gathered by him during his lifelong, endless journey from town to town, city to city, camp to camp.

The Martians have no daily newsfax or stereovision commentators, they have only the wandering gossip mongerers they call Juhangir.

This particular clown, a little man named Goro, had

gathered his gossip in many far places, but had—Ryker was sincerely relieved to find out—heard naught of the latest events in Yeolarn. The big Outlander had tensed himself for the bad news that a
zhaggua
(whatever that meant to the People) had nearly been torn apart by a mob in Yeolarn, until a
F'yagh
rescued her, killing a priest with his power-guns.

Ryker breathed a sigh of relief when Goro finished, collected a few coins from the audience, and bowed himself away to his cubby. If gossip of their adventures had already reached Yhakhah, it could have been bad for them.

For there were priests here, even here.

After the skinny-shanked clown was through, a dancing girl came on. She looked hardly more than twelve or thirteen, her breasts scarcely budded, and she danced with coltish grace, but with none of the breathtaking artistry of Valarda. Her dance was frankly obscene, a naked wriggling invitation, and she simpered and giggled while undulating her bare tummy and loins before the grinning men. It was a disgusting thing to see, thought Ryker, although he was no prude and once he might have found it crudely exciting.

If they needed to replenish their dwindling store of coins here in Yhakhah, he thought to himself, Valarda could earn a fortune. The awkward nymphet barely wrung enough from her audience to buy a bauble, and went off to her grubby pallet accompanied by a leering, swaggering lout who would pay her scarcely more for a more intimate form of entertainment.

The room was large and long and low ceilinged, walled and roofed with stone, and floored with ancient, subtly colored tiles most likely thieved from one of the Dead Cities. It had a carved stone fireplace at one end, its

He gasped and half-rose. In the next instant warm, supple limbs twined about him, pressing him down, and a mouth was upon his own. He returned the kiss avidly, hungrily, his hands gliding down a curved back to slim thighs, his heart drumming.

Then he froze incredulously, scarce daring to think.

He caught slim shoulders, pried the body from his own, and slid his hands up between them.

Instead of soft, yielding roundness, he touched the smooth, hard breast of a boy.

Roaring a furious oath in a voice half-strangled with fury, he jerked free and pulled away.

"You little imp!" he yelled, "I'll tan your bottom for you, if I ever get my hands on you!"

Doubled over with crowing laughter, Kiki scrambled from the cubicle, pausing momentarily at the part in the curtains to dart a mischievous, green-eyed glance at the contorted, crimsoning face of the outraged Earthling.

Then, with an impudent wiggle of his bare bottom, the grinning boy was gone.

His fury subsiding, Ryker sank back. Then it struck him funny in a sour way, and he grimaced, chuckling. The little rascal!—and he had taken it for granted that slim, vibrant body, bare against his own, was Valarda! And that eager, voluptuous mouth—

He scrubbed the back of his hand against his lips furiously. Maybe it served him right for thinking the dancer could go for a hairy, hulking Outworlder like himself.

But he resolved to get even with Kiki somehow. The urchin would bait him mercilessly for days over the success of his jest, otherwise.

Houm was a fat, merry man with a greasy, obsequious smile which contrasted curiously with his lordly ways. His

fawning smiles, however, reached no further than his lips, and his small, slitted eyes were shrewd and coldly calculating.

He affected princely raiment and seemed forever to be stuffing sweetmeats in his mouth. And he wore altogether too many rings on his pudgy fingers for Ryker's liking:

Ryker did not like the man. Neither did he entirely trust him.

For his own part, though, the merchant from Bakrah seemed eager to have them ride north with his caravan, and was happy to have so stalwart a warrior as Ryker to join his outriders. These were needed to guard the caravan against the possibility of marauders, for danger was always present in these northerly regions, which were far beyond the territories protected by the rule of the great High Clan princes. Outlaw bands might well lurk among the ravines of Casius to ambush passersby; and even slavers were not unknown north of Syrtis.

One more outrider was a welcome addition to Houm's troop of guards, even if he was a
F'yagh.
The fat man measured Ryker's tall, brawny frame, noted his hard, suspicious eyes and the way the tips of his calloused lingers never strayed far from the well-worn gun butts, and nodded approvingly.

The chief of Houm's guards was a rangy, wolfish warrior called Xinga. If anything, the desert rider looked even more of a ruffian than the lean, leathery men he commanded. But he looked capable enough. Xinga assigned Ryker to the right guard of the caravan's front, and Ryker gave a surly nod of assent. He did not like to be separated from Valarda, but had no say in the matter.

At least, his assignment would keep him out of reach of Kiki's knowing grins for the day. The boy had burst into fits of giggling every time he saw the grumpy expression

on Ryker's face, and the big man had flushed crimson each time this happened, and yearned to up-end the child and apply the palm of his strong right hand to that bare and impudent little bottom.

The caravan departed from the oasis town of Yhakhah at midday as scheduled, and headed north along the old stone-paved way which bordered the Nilosyrtis.

For some time they rode with the broad acres of blue, rubbery-leafed plants to their right hand, and the highlands of Casius dead ahead, marching across the world from horizon to horizon like a wall built by captive titans.

There were some twenty-five covered wains comprising the main body of the caravan, and they looked for all the world like pictures of the ancient covered wagons the pioneers had used to cross the western plains Ryker had seen in history tapes. The wains were not made of wood, however, since nothing resembling a tree is to be found on water-poor, oxygen-starved Mars. Instead, the capacious, high-sided wagons were constructed from panels of thick, tar soaked canvas, fastened together with metal joints and hinges. The People weave this cloth from plant fibre, and it is remarkably tough and durable. These wains were loaded with merchandise: wines from the south in ceramic casks; liqueurs, syrups, dyes and perfumes; bolts of rare silks, colored cloths, and the gorgeous tapestries and carpets of Shiaze, Yukara and Diome.

Houm carried carven ivory and jewelry and tradeware of copper and bronze as well, for gifts to the northern chieftains of the towns and encampments he planned to visit.

The guards were a rough lot, clad in tunics and jerkins of black leather with long cloaks of fur. Some wore helmets of metal, others high hats of black felt, or turban-

like headdresses of colored cloth. Hoops of gold dangled in their earlobes, and their leather trappings were adorned with small plaques of precious metal and jewelled ornaments.

This ostentatious display was not a display occasioned by vanity, but a simple precaution. There are no banking institutions on Mars, or at least none that will deal with the natives, and no safety deposit boxes, either. The People either carry their wealth on their person, or conceal it in lheir homes, or bury it in the dead sea bottoms or on the highlands far from other men, returning to dig it up months or even years later. This being so, treasure maps, generally spurious ones, are easy to buy on Mars, but are purchased mainly by the gullible. The People need no maps to find their hidden caches. Nature has given them an innate sense of location which is uncannily accurate.

Ryker took a lot of hazing from the guards, who disliked having one of the despised
F'yagha
amongst them. He endured their insults in grim silence, but when the punishment became tentatively physical it was a different matter. Despite the fact that he wore power-guns, while they were only armed with swords, dirks, spears and targes, they dared to lay their hands upon him.

These weapons, he knew, were mostly for show. Their real weapons hung over their shoulders—slim, hollow, long black tubes which were used like blowguns, and thin flat quivers of needlelike darts used in the tubes, and poison tipped, as like as not. Guns were no deadlier than those long black tubes, he knew, and he would lose face with the men if he went for them.

Instead he waded in with balled fists and battered his chief tormentor to his knees in a few seconds. It was not hard, as the People have no knowledge of the fine art of the prize ring. His opponent, a long-legged fellow called

Raith, climbed painfully to his feet and swayed awhile, fingering a loose tooth and spitting blood. Then he came over to Ryker, slapped him on the shoulder a time or two, and called him a dirty name, grinning.

Ryker grinned back, and called Raith by an even deadlier insult. The other men hooted, slapped their thighs, and relaxed. And he was accepted—for a time, at least.

That night they made camp under the jewelled skies, having drawn the wagons into a huge ring. Green flames lit the gloom, meat sizzled on spits, and leathern bottles of fire-hearted wine were passed from hand to hand. After drinking, they drew apart to eat in private.

Then, posting guards about the perimeter of the circle, they bedded down in their cloaks and slept.

Ryker, as a very junior newcomer, had the first watch, as did Raith, in punishment for letting himself be beaten by a mere
F'yagh.
He leaned on his tall spear, and watched the stars wheel across the sky, and thought of Valarda. His need for her was like an ache deep in his groin.

He had been a long time without a woman. And men like him have strong need for women, as other men need wealth or fame or power.

That night, his watch done, he slept deep and there were no dreams.

8. The Dead City

by the following
afternoon they reached the foothills of the Casius. The vast plateau obliterated half the sky, cutting the world in two. Once, perhaps, it had been a small northern continent near the Pole, like Greenland hack on Earth. Now it was only a bleak, barren expanse of stony desolation, although pod-lichen lived in the clefts, and rock lizards, too, and probably
slioths.

Here they were forced to take refuge from a duststorm, one of the rare phenomena which occur often enough to remind visitors from Earth, gasping on the thin, dry air, that Mars truly does have an atmosphere, and even winds at times.

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.