He brushed at the stucco with his left hand, flaking away a patch his kick had loosened. The writing on the granite slab was Rankan but of a form so old that the doubled consonants and variant orthography made all but a few words unintelligible to the caravan master.
"Why, this is wonderful, my friend," said the Napatan with a smile brighter than the mauve glow as he bent over the cleared patch.
Tjainufi beamed and added, "There is no good deed save a good deed done for one who has need of it."
"We're not outa the woods yet," said Samlor with a dour glance at the walls around them. If they had to clear all the stucco, or even half, if their luck were average (which it probably wouldn't be), it was going to take a lot longer than the caravan master wanted to spend in this place.
"No, that's all right," explained the Napatan with the uneasy hint of mindreading which he had displayed before. "I'll use a spell of release and the covering will come away at once. He must use the ancient writings because they focus the power with which the years have embued them."
Maybe that was what Setios used to do with them, Samlor thought as his companion knelt before his upright staff again, but he'd bet Setios hadn't much use for them or anything else in the world just now.
Khamwas was whispering to himself and his gods. Samlor looked at him, looked at the dagger-saw that the watered steel blade was only that, only metal; probably all it ever was, except in his mind.
"Star?" he called toward the rectangular opening. "You all right, sweetest?"
He could barely hear the reply, ". . all right. .," but a couple of the pastel jellyfish were drifting over him in placid unconcern. She'd be fine, Star would.
If any of them were, she'd be fine.
Samlor squatted and squeezed up dust from the floor on the tip of his left index finger. It was colorless (save for the mauve light it reflected) and much too finely ground for him to be able to tell the shape of the individual crystals.
A caravan master has plenty of opportunity to examine decorative stones, jewels and bits of glass cut and stained to look like jewels in the dim light of a bazaar. The dust could be anything, powdered diamond even; but most likely quartz, spread in a smooth layer across all the flat surfaces in the room.
Except for streaks-shadows, almost-stretching from the reading stand and the legs of the bronze censer. The dust seemed to have been sprayed violently from the direction of the pentacle in which Khamwas was almost standing. "K-" Samlor began in sudden surmise. The Napatan had been whispering, but now his voice rose in a crescendo. Khamwas' eyes lifted also; they were wide open but obviously not fixed on anything in the room.
Stucco shattered away on all sides, raining over Khamwas and the caravan master who reached for the ladder with his left hand and swung his blade at anything which might have slipped behind him as he crouched.
Nothing had. The choking flood of sand and lime-dust filling the air as the walls cleared themselves made Samlor pause where the attack he feared would only have driven him to swifter motion.
The slow tumble of the mauve light-source continued, though the mineral-laden air absorbed the illumination. A ball a few feet in diameter glowed in place of the urchin's sharply limned spines and carapace. As dust settled out, the glow spread and paled while the features of the source at its heart slowly regained definition.
"Khamwas." said the caravan master. His eyes were slitted and a fold of his cloak covered his mouth and nose, a response made reflexive by years of dry storms whipping across his caravan routes. "Where did Setios keep his demon in a crystal bottle?"
"The gods preserve me from such knowledge, friend!" said the Napatan as his eyes swept the upper levels of the walls which could already be viewed with sufficient clarity. He filtered the air through his cape; a desert-dweller himself, Khamwas must have more experience with dust storms than Samlor did. "Believe me, Setios was mad to keep such a thing by him, and you and I would be even madder to carry it off ourselves."
"That's not what I mean," the caravan master said. He raised his voice, so that it could be heard through the muffling cloth and because he was at a desperate loss to know what he should do next. He would have climbed out of this place at once, except for his fear of what might follow him to where Star stood shivering.
No wonder the child had been terrified into a near coma. She must have known. .
"Here it is!" cried Khamwas, brushing the reading stand as he swept closer to a wall. "Here it is!" he repeated, then sneezed.
The wails of the sunken room were formed entirely of inscribed stones, but the pieces had little commonality beyond that. Some were squared columns, set with one face flush and the other three hidden even now that the stucco had fallen away.
A few bore symbols which were not writing at all. One of them was a small block of peridotite, polished smooth before a single diagonal was cut across its coarse crystals. The block had marked the victim's place in a temple of Dyareela. Samlor could not imagine anyone removing it from its original location-or being willing to have it close to him thereafter.
The Napatan was brushing his left palm across the face of a slab of gray.granite, cleaning it of dust that had settled there after the spell of release. The stele was about three feet high and half that across. Figures-presumably gods- filled the upper portion, and there were about twenty vertical lines of script beneath them.
"To the blessings of Harsaphes," Khamwas said, his index finger pausing midway down one of the later columns. "Harsaphes, not Somptu as I'd always assumed, and the ruins of the temple of Har-"
"Khamwas, listen to me!" Samlor shouted. He gripped the scholar with his left hand, though that meant dropping his cloak while there was still dust in the air. "You say something happened to magic a little bit ago. Would that have broken the crystal that held Setios' demon?"
"The townsman," said the manikin who was not in the least affected by the chokng atmosphere, "is not the one who is eaten by the crocodile."
And men who leave magic alone, translated Samlor as he whirled toward glimpsed motion, aren't destroyed by its creatures.
A hand was emerging from a slab of limestone on the far wall. It was tenuous enough that the settling dust coexisted with the limb, which was so thin that it would have been skeletal were it not for the gleam of a scaly integument. The three fingers each bore a claw an inch long and sharp as shattered glass.
"Get up the ladder!" Samlor shouted as he leaped for the apparition behind the watered steel blade of his dagger. The hilt was adequate for his big hand when he slashed with it, though it was shaped wrong and would have been uncomfortably short had he chosen to thrust-
Which would have done as much good; as much, and no more.
The clawed hand twisted to grip the blade while an arm as wire-thin as the hand continued to extend from the wall. Steel parted the limb like smoke, and the claw slipped through the whisking dagger as if it in turn had no substance.
Another hand was reaching through the stone beside the first. The blur above and between them was growing into a narrow reptilian face.
"Get out\" the caravan master shouted again when a glance toward the ladder showed him that Khamwas stood where he had. He had crossed the top of his staff with his left forearm.
"No, run!" Khamwas replied. He had been chanting under his breath, and his face spasmed with the effort of breaking back into normal speech. "I released it again, but I can hold it for long enough."