At this early hour few were up, and the streets were empty under the blaze of morn. The beaked reptile bore the light chariot down a magnificent avenue lined with palaces or villas such as Ryker had only seen before moldering in decay, bitten deep by the teeth of time. But these were fresh and new and in excellent repair.
Then—and for the first time—did he truly realize in the depths of his heart that he had been transported by some weird, uncanny magic back into the ancient past of immemorial Mars. The sensation was a difficult one to convey. Something of what Ryker felt as he drove down that empty boulevard past splendid edifices of gleaming, fulvous marble in a vehicle drawn by some incredible beast of fable, you or I would feel, were we suddenly and miraculously transported to the Ishtar Gate of Babylon in the days when Nebuchadnezzar reigned, or that holy sacred city at the headwaters of the Nile which Akhnaten the Heretic Pharaoh had built to the glory of his god Aton, or gorgeous Persepolis before the mighty Macedonian conqueror put it to the torch.
And in that moment he knew that, no matter what Zarouk said or the gaunt fanatic, Dmu Dran, believed, these people were no worshippers of Evil and Old Night. Surely, deviltry and black sorcery could not flourish here, in surroundings so lovely, so impossibly gorgeous, that they took his breath away and left him numb and shaken with awe.
Whatever Zhagguaziu—the Fire Devil—actually was, if he was anything at all beyond a mere myth, the folk who worshipped him were not sinful fiends, but a graceful, courteous, beauty-loving people with an immensely advanced civilization and a culture rich with appreciation of the arts and of gracious living. How, then, could the god they worshipped be a demon of evil?
The answer was that he couldn’t.
The hall in which Valarda received him was smaller than he might have expected, and incredibly beautiful.
The floor and walls were covered with glistening ceramic tiles, durable and gleaming as fine porcelain, and ornamented with geometrical arabesques quite unlike the ordinary native decorative arts. If they resembled anything in particular, it was the complex and intricate designs on Islamic tiles from the Middle Ages.
Carpets of sleek fur were scattered about the floor of the large, high-ceilinged room. That they were the hides of hitherto unknown beasts was unquestionable, since fur-bearing mammals were all but extinct on the Mars he knew. Brick-red and carnation and dark bronze were the furs, and to tread upon their softness was like walking on clouds.
Despite the modest proportions of the room—for it was little more than an antechamber to the enormous pillared rotunda wherein Valarda generally held her court—quite a number of personages were crowded therein. This was the largest gathering of the Lost Nation that Ryker had ever seen close up, and he looked about him curiously. One and all were dressed in abbreviated garments which left plenty of naked flesh bare, the only exception to this fashion being old Melandron himself. The sage was robed in soft, clinging stuff which looked like velour.
Some of the younger nobles had the same soft, effete, underdeveloped look to them that he had observed in Lord Thoh’s retinue when it had surprised him at the entrance to the underground road. But many of the older lords were heavier of build, with stronger character in their faces, and the look of competence and virility about them. The women, even the older women, were singularly beautiful.
Even in so lustrous a company, Valarda shone out like a diamond among pebbles. Her shimmering cataract of silken black hair was held in the same openwork coronal of gold filigree she had worn on the parapet. Her tawny limbs, svelte and nearly nude, flashed with priceless gems. Suspended between her shallow, firm breasts an immense, purple jewel blazed like a captive star. It was a rare ziriol, he knew, and its value was incalculable.
This time the face she turned to him was serene, resolute and untroubled. She was in control of her emotions, and the calm emotionlessness of her features, if they masked an inner turmoil of guilt or indecision, revealed no trace of this to the observing eye.
She sat on a low, carven bench of sparkling crystal, and, alone of that company, she was seated. Ryker had suspected her rank to be of the highest, and Thoh’s term for her— “Priestess” it translated to—suggested as much. Now her supremacy among this company was obvious. And Ryker relaxed a little. It never hurts to have a friend on the throne.
Standing near Melandron, Ryker was surprised and relieved to see Herzog. The old scientist had been less seriously injured in his fall through the hidden trapdoor than Ryker had first feared, and from the lively expression on his face and the sprightly manner in which he held himself, he seemed to have made a full recovery.
“Ryker, my boy!” he sang out as the tall Earthling came into the chamber amidst his escort of guards. He wove his way through the throng and came over to grin happily up at the younger man.
“Hey, Doc, you’re all in one piece, eh?” grinned Ryker. “That’s good news! What’s going on here, anyway?”
The old Israeli sobered. “Good news and bad news,” he muttered. “We’re to be judged, my boy, and it don’t look good.”
He nodded to where Lord Thoh stood, accoutered like a peacock in bejewelled finery that would have made Haroun Al-Raschid blush with envy. “That fellow over there is no friend of ours, let me tell you. Seems this place is split into two factions—politics, business as usual, even here!—-and he leads the one that wants to go out and fight against our old friend, Zarouk, and his desert bandits, using the ancient weapons of science magic the ancestors of these people used long ago. Well, sir, the other faction, led by the Lady herself, thinks they better stick to the old laws against bloodshed—”
Ryker drew a breath. “So it is their law, then! I about had it figured that way, from the fact that the Stone Giants never took a life. Wonder if Zarouk knew about the law all the time? It sure would explain how he dared come into Zhiam with such a small force, when for all he knew he would be facing thousands of armed warriors.”
“Yes,” Doc nodded, “and the trouble is, see, Valarda—she’s not only descended from the royal blood of these people, but the chief priestess of the Fire Devil—is holding her sway with quite a bit of difficulty, here. She’s had to compromise, fact is. Had to give in to Thoh on this one point, just to hold her coalition together.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Ryker.
Doc looked apologetic, as if he hated to be the bearer of bad news.
“Well … I mean we’re already sentenced to death, both of us,” he admitted. “The only question they have yet to decide is—how.”
22. Down There
That night in his cell, Ryker had a visitor. It was about the last visitor he could have expected, considering the death sentence that had been passed against him and the old Israeli.
He was aroused from his fitful, uneasy slumbers by the clink of metal against metal, and the scrape of sandal leather against gritty stone.
Raising himself up on one elbow, he blinked through the gloom to see two robed and hooded figures at the door. The brilliant light from the crystal lamps which illuminated the corridor outlined their shadowy forms.
“Ryker!” whispered a faint voice. That voice he knew, and to hear again its husky music sent a quiver through his nerves which he could neither suppress nor deny. He got up quietly, so as not to disturb Doc, who lay snoring loudly against the wall, and padded over to the cell door on bare feet.