Another thought came to him: would Tlayesha have surrendered to the blandishments of Prince Dhich’une in the Tolek Kana Pits as easily as Eyil had done? He much doubted it.
Taluvaz removed his loincloth entirely to tie it over his nose. The rest copied him as best they could, although he himself made no claims for this precaution. Simanuya stumbled upon something hard, perhaps the weapon of the long-dead warrior, but no one wanted to reach into the mould to retrieve it. Holding hands and balancing like gymnasts to avoid the splotched walls, they picked their way along the passage in the wake of the monstrous Dlaqo.
The corridor of the moulds was not long. A sullen reddish glow lit the ceiling ahead. The moulds were thinner here, patchy, brownish, and stunted. The walls gradually became bare again: sombre basaltic rock and no more. They took counsel, then approached with all the caution they could muster.
The light streamed up out of a jagged fissure in the floor, Rags and shreds of mould caught upon the stones announced the passage of the Dlaqo, but there was no sign of the creature. If the Gods willed, the monster had fallen blindly over into the pit!
Harsan went to peer down but could not see the Dlaqo. Shattered fingers of stone reached up along a precipice coated with sooty grey ash. Far below, scarlet mingled with black, the embers of Tekumel’s deep-buried inner hearth-fires. A whiff of something sulphurous came to his nostrils; were Lord Vimuhla’s blazing hells this close to the surface, then?
The right wall of the tunnel gaped open: the fiery chasm ran off there, roughly at right angles to their passage, to become no more than a tortuous slit a hundred paces away. That direction was impassable. The other wall promised more: part of the original flooring extended along the brink of the abyss. The corridor continued beyond, a black mouth in the far gloom.
They scouted the edge of the chasm. Mirure murmured something about being hampered by Tlayesha’s makeshift bandage; this she pulled off, lower lip clenched between strong white teeth, and advanced to reconnoiter.
When she returned she said, “We can cross, I think, there on the left. Face the wall, cling with your fingertips, feel with your feet, and watch for sliding stones.”
Harsan was glad to have her take charge. If anyone could negotiate cliffs and mountains, she could. The home of the N’luss tribes lay amongst steep gorges to the northwest of Mu’ugalavya.
She removed her leather leggings and boots, as well as the slashed remains of her brief tunic, slung them all upon the empty weapon-belt at her waist, and went first. She extended a long leg, dug bare toes into cracks and rough places in the rock, and brought her other foot over to find purchase beside the first. She repeated this, smoothly and efficiently, until she stood in the opening of the passage on the far side.
Itk t’Sa followed. The Pe Choi had the advantage of four hands, and her segmented tail added balance. She apparently found littje challenge in the feat and returned to guide Tlayesha, Simanuya, Morkudz, and Taluvaz over the abyss. Harsan brought up the rear.
Was that a sound? Was he too excited by the dangers of this place, or did he hear something behind him, back there in the corridor of the moulds? He could not turn to look back.
It was fortunate that he did not pause. As he stepped upon the last cracked and sundered flagstone extending out from the wall, the one just before it gave way and went sliding and rolling down the slope into the fiery pit. He heard Tlayesha gasp; then strong feminine fingers seized his, and a skeletal chitinous hand took hold of his wrist;
One last teetering step, and Simanuya’s thick arms were around his waist. He fell in a heap on top of the glassblower.
He rolled over and stood up to look back. A figure appeared on the far side of the chasm, then another, and still others. Something big and dark loomed there amongst them; smaller, scuttling forms approached the brink to peer over. He saw the gleam of red copper.
Someone moved forward to the lip of the fissure; a graceful, pleasantly portly man, a head taller than any of the rest with him. It was Jayargo, the priest of Lord Sarku who had brought Eyil into the Splendid Paradise in search of Harsan! The man’s bald, egg-shaped skull showed brick red in the glow of the fire-pit. Harsan looked for Eyil, but she was not with him.
“Ohe, priest Harsan!” Jayargo called affably. “We greet you!”
The man was either fearless or mad. If Harsan had possessed a bow-or if someone in his party had had a missile weapon, an ‘Eye,’ or some other magical device-this priest of the Worm Lord would have required immediate resurrection as one of the Undead!
“Come to us if you can!” Harsan replied. The gap in the ledge precluded that. He saw no winged things in Jayargo’s party, no flying undead Vorodla.
“For the moment we shall not. But there are other entrances to this maze, other doors to your bedchamber! And we know this place better than any of you.” Jayargo’s deep, pleasant, baritone voice took on an organ note of sorrow. “You also go the wrong way to reach your treasure-and unless you accept my aid, you will likely meet strange sleepers in the beds you now go to occupy.”
Something with long, spindling limbs crawled out upon the ledge. It came to the breach, extended a pale prehensile foot, turned a tiny knobbed head to look down. Fingers clawed for a handhold. Then the creature leaped. It missed its footing, and went tumbling down the steep to plummet into the depths. It uttered not a sound.
Jayargo sat down crosslegged upon the brink of the chasm. “Reason it out, priest of Thumis. Let your temple’s famed logic guide you for once! You cannot leave this place alive; there are dwellers here whom even we fear. You cannot find the path to the regions built during the Latter Times, those in which your Man of Gold lies hidden. You-and your woman, and your Pe Choi, and even the wretched glass merchant-can only keep your hides intact by joining with us. Once we have the Man of Gold, we shall all take a beaker of Tsuhoridu together in the Splendid Paradise, ¦ and then we shall say farewell and go to weave our Skeins separately.”
The priest of Sarku had not named the others in their party. Harsan spared a glance behind him. Tlayesha crouched there in the mouth of the passage, Simanuya beside her. Mirure lay prone, face down upon the uneven floor, the line of her blood-crusted wound black upon her shoulder. She would be invisible to those on the opposite side of the abyss. Taluvaz, Morkudz, and Itk t’Sa were not to be seen. They must have gone further into the new tunnel beyond.
Their pursuers assuredly knew of Taluvaz Arrio; they had followed him into Simanuya’s shop easily enough, had they not? Did they believe him to be dead-or, worse, did they consider him powerless? Perhaps the Livyani had nothing to offer: he might well be no more than a courier, a messenger, a finely mannered, aristocratic, foreign diplomat enmeshed in a task that suited him not at all. They probably were aware of Mirure, too, but they might not have seen the Heheganu: “A friend in ambush is better than two comrades at one’s side,” as Zaren used to say. There might be a chance yet. The Livyani had knowledge of these ancient places. With that, and with Mirure’s skills and the Heheganu’s spells (whatever they might be!), it might still be possible to win past this skull-faced priest. Anything was better than the dubious mercies he offered them.
“I have no great liking for Tsuhoridu, priest Jayargo.” Harsan began to crawl backward toward the others, Mirure following. “I admit that I am also tired and would seek those beds you mentioned. Their occupants will simply have to move over and make room for me!”
“You do me and my hospitality an injustice. We may have to rescue you before you can lead us to your relic. La, we may even have to summon you back from the Isles of the Excellent Dead in order to chat with you further!”
Harsan made no further answer. Jayargo sighed, stood up, dusted his pleated kilt, and signalled to his followers. Whatever they were, they began to scramble back into the corridor of the moulds.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The place that was not a place smouldered with scintillations like many torches seen from atop a tower. What might have been draperies shifted and wavered, although there were neither walls nor any breeze to move them. Sparks of cold light swam through the thick, hot air. This was no habitat for humankind, and only sorcery could make it so, even temporarily.
