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 their 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 Melan-dron 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.