Yrann turned toward the back of the dais. Curtains hung there. She held one aside, beckoning till Raft came to her side. Gently she guided him to a little alcove in the wall.
She pressed something into his hand. And stepped back, letting the curtain drop.
Wait, the music said. Wait now.
He was in utter darkness. But he knew what it was that he held. His free hand investigated cautiously. And recoiled from vicious, razor-sharp metal.
He pulled at the curtain. Yrann's harp-oboe shrilled sharp warning. The velvet fell back.
Then soft footsteps fading into stillness. A rustle. He sensed that Yrann had gone.
But he knew unmistakably now why she had brought him here.
Working his lips as though he tasted something unpleasant, Raft leaned back against the wall. Yrann had helped him, if only for her own purposes. Now the idea was to get out of the castle, somehow.
On the curtain before him a ghostly, pale movement was visible. His eyes had adjusted now, and he could make out a shadow, man-shaped, cast on the fabric—the shadow of a man whose hand held a long-bladed dagger.
His own shadow. He turned. Behind him was no wall, but one of the familiar oval doors. But its glow was dimmed, and the crawling flecks of light were very faint.
He located the brightest one and laid his hand upon it.
The oval panel lifted and was gone. Instantly a blaze of light dazzled him.
His weapon ready, Raft waited, blinking. But there was nothing alive in the room before him. Only a fantastic glitter of brightness and shining metals, a richness of flamboyant color that contrasted strangely with the gloom of the chamber behind him.
Struck by a new thought, he stepped back, through the curtain, and swung it into place. The material was opaque. No hint of light filtered through. If Yrann, or anyone else, entered, his hiding-place would not be betrayed by an oval glow on the dark hanging.
Satisfied on that scorn, Raft again entered what he saw to be Darum's treasure-vault.
If he expected a hoard of gold and diamonds, he was disappointed. There were diamonds, highly polished and many-faceted, but they seemed to hold equal place with quartz crystals that were used for the same purpose of jewelry and decoration. There was metal here, curious alloys in which hints of rainbow colors rippled, like oil on water. And weapons, many weapons.
The blades were of good quality, which was to be expected, for manganese, beryllium, and chromium were found in Brazil. There must be deposits of the elements here in Paititi. Certainly there was silver, for delicately shaped and engraved vases of it, burnished and shining, were set in a row around the walls.
It was the loot of a strangely alien civilization. Some of the objects the cat people found beautiful were ugly to Raft's eyes. One set of very plain, sleek metals reminded him of Brancusis. His gaze followed arcs and curves that were curiously satisfying and oddly suggestive, though he realized he could probably never completely understand the principles that underlay the art-forms of this race.
There were more utilitarian objects. Many of them were dueling-gloves, with their razor-keen triple talons curving out viciously from the fingers. Raft picked up one of these, jeweled and ornate, and drew it on his hand. The claws ran the full length of his fingers, he found, and instinctively his hand tensed and curved.
Encrusted as it was with gems, the glove could be used as a handy substitute for brass knuckles. Which would probably shock the cat people, Raft thought sardonically, as he slipped the gauntlet into a capacious pocket he had discovered in his garments.
There were a number of maps, engraved in metal, and jewel-framed, too heavy to be portable, but interesting. One seemed to show Paititi. Raft could make nothing of the symbols, but he located Parror's castle, and the great gulf into which the torrent poured.
Thoughtfully he traced the river back to its source, where a tiny ring of zircons surrounded a few cryptic markings. The Garden of Kharn, eh? Where Parror was heading, with his captive Craddock.
Another map showed the castle itself, and was made with a dozen thin metal sheets that lifted on hinges. Raft studied this closely. What he wanted was a way out. Unfortunately, he found orientation difficult, until he managed to identify his own prison apartment. After that, it was easier.
Finally he drew back, nodding. Yes, he thought he could find his way now.
Yrann's music came urgently to his ears.
Raft whirled toward the door. Nothing. But the song kept on, warning, shrill.
He moved forward. The shape of a familiar object on a shelf caught his glance.
It was a revolver, a small, ornate weapon of mother-of-pearl and silver filigree. Beside it lay a heap of cartridges. Raft swept the cartridges into his pocket and lifted the gun, staring at the initials on the butt. TDF—Thomaz da Fonseca, the aviator who had crashed in Paititi. His revolver, then.
It was not Raft's own heavy, powerful Colt, but it was far better than a dagger. He slipped his finger through the guard, saw that it was unloaded, and deftly thrust shells into the chamber. Then he stepped across the threshold and waited, his hand on the curtain before him.
Yrann's music had changed. It was softer now, welcoming. But under it ran a counterpoint of menace, a soft susurrus of treachery and evil.
"Parror had escaped me, Yrann," the king's low voice said. "There was another man from outside in his castle, I found traces. But they are gone. We could find no tracks."
The wordless song was questioning.
"They are still in Paititi. I had guards at the gate to the unseen road. Parror will not get at the Flame till I am willing. Nevertheless, I do not know where he is, now."
Tenderness breathed across the strings—and hidden hatred.
Darum sighed.
"I was ready. I was ready for anything I might find. I even thought Parror might take the unseen road to outside, and I was ready to pursue him even there. But how can I find him when he has vanished with this other man?"
Raft rubbed his jaw reflectively. He knew where Parror had gone. If he told the king, would that help?
Yrann played lightly, and now slumber breathed out from the hollow crying of the pipes.
"Yes," the king said. "Yes, there is always this, Yrann. The world does not come intoour chamber here." He sighed. "There is nothing here but our love."
Sleep, the music said. Sleep, my lover and my king. Only sleep—and wake no more.
But Darum sensed no menace. His breathing grew quieter. Drowsiness crept through the curtain, taking Raft in a warm embrace. Yrann's music was magic.
Dark magic, Raft thought angrily. He shook his head savagely.
After a time Yrann's arm crept through the soft barrier, touching Raft, pulling him forward. The glare of light from behind him struck full on Yrann's face—or what should have been a face. With a wordless sound she pulled her veil in place. Raft felt her gaze go from him to the treasure chamber. But the harp was silent. It asked no question.
The curtain remained looped back, and the light struck out to the dais, where Darum lay asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. He stirred uneasily. Yrann's fingers rippled across the strings, and the king was silent once more.
Yrann touched the little revolver hesitantly. Then she pulled the dagger from Raft's bent, where he had placed it, and thrust it into his hand. She pushed him forward, pointing to the dais.
Raft halted. The veiled face was lifted to his. He shook his head slowly and emphatically.
"No," he said under his breath. "Even if that would save my life, I don't think I could do it."
Yrann's hand poised over the harp-strings, somehow threateningly. The tableau held for a moment. Then she must have seen that he meant what he said. She made a dreadful snarling sound deep in her throat and snatched the dagger from Raft's grip, whirling toward the sleeping king. Her draperies swirled as she bent and plucked at Darum's shirt, tearing the thin silk open. Darum murmured and stirred in his music-drugged sleep. Yrann swung the dagger high, poised it.