brick the Martians somehow manufacture on a desert world where water is more precious than rubies, and a lot scarcer. They were low roofed, the buildings, hunched and blear windowed, built every which way, in a tangle of meandering, narrow streets and dark alleys choked with refuse.
It was not pretty. But the patina of age had mellowed it and softened its harsh lines and enriched the dim colors of it, until in a way it was beautiful, in the way a very old woman can be beautiful: it had character.
The dim gold of the ancient marble, the dusty red-brown of the brickwork, the tawny lucency of the horn-paned windows, blended with the rich umber of the beaten soil, and the copper and ochre of the Dustlands that ringed it in.
Two, perhaps three, caravans were assembling in Yhakhah when they rode in under an evening sky of dusky crimson, or were resting here for the next leg of a long, slow journey that might carry them halfway around this world. The wineshops were roaring with song and odor-
ous with cooked meats; drunken men lounged about or brawled or jested, lean, rangy men, caravan guards for the most part, half outlaw, with the look of wolves about them.
Slatternly oasis women loitered in doorways, or called hoarse, obscene invitations from windows. Naked urchins played in the streets or stood, sucking dirty thumbs, staring owlishly as they rode by.
Ryker had donned a hooded cloak, drawn close to hide his inches and his face. In a pinch he could pass for a warrior of the People. He had done it before and played the part now to perfection, swaggering when he had dismounted in the innyard, hooking his thumbs in his leather belt, which was worn over the kaftanlike cloak, drawn close to conceal the thermalsuit which would have revealed him at a glance as an Outworlder. Earthsiders could come and go with impunity here, true, but there was no point in calling attention to themselves. There might be eyes, even here, alert for a dancing girl, an old man and a child, who were accompanied by an Earthman.
Four of the first inns they tried were filled to capacity, but the fifth could house them. The surly innkeeper grudgingly informed Melandron one attic room was free. They must all sleep together, but they had done it before, in the cave, and could do it now.
Again, Ryker could not help but notice how Valarda held herself aloof, like a princess, and let her grandsire engage a room for them, and hire an oasis woman to prepare and serve their meals. He wondered about it to himself. On Mars, as in the desert countries back on Earth, youth abases itself before age. And if old Melandron was indeed her grandfather, as she had said he was, it should have been Valarda who performed these tasks, while the
old man sunned himself in the yard, accepting wine with dignity.
But she treated him more like a retainer, and he deferred in her as he would to a queen.
They were weary from the long day's journey, and said little; and besides, the old witch of an oasis woman was there, cooking the meat over a hibachilike pot suspended ovcr a pan of green chemical fire, and it would not do to discuss their business before a stranger.
The woman was needed because it was traditional, and they took the evening meal in the little garret, for the Martians do not customarily eat together in the common room with strangers, save at certain feasts.
After the meal, when the woman left, the old man left them at wine and went forth into the town to speak to the caravan men. Ryker would have done this, but Melandron curtly bade him tend Valarda, and there was nothing else lor him to do but acquiesce.
She turned her eyes to him once, then, and looked into his own for virtually the first time since they had shared that kiss together under the starlight.
And at what he saw in the mysterious golden eyes of the dancing girl he had rescued from the mob in Yeolarn, Ryker felt a weight lift from his heart, and the blood sang within his veins, and there was no need for
It was not pretty. But the patina of age had mellowed it and softened its harsh lines and enriched the dim colors of it, until in a way it was beautiful, in the way a very old woman can be beautiful: it had character.
The dim gold of the ancient marble, the dusty red-brown of the brickwork, the tawny lucency of the horn-paned windows, blended with the rich umber of the beaten soil, and the copper and ochre of the Dustlands that ringed it in.
Two, perhaps three, caravans were assembling in Yhakhah when they rode in under an evening sky of dusky crimson, or were resting here for the next leg of a long, slow journey that might carry them halfway around this world. The wineshops were roaring with song and odor-
ous with cooked meats; drunken men lounged about or brawled or jested, lean, rangy men, caravan guards for the most part, half outlaw, with the look of wolves about them.
Slatternly oasis women loitered in doorways, or called hoarse, obscene invitations from windows. Naked urchins played in the streets or stood, sucking dirty thumbs, staring owlishly as they rode by.
Ryker had donned a hooded cloak, drawn close to hide his inches and his face. In a pinch he could pass for a warrior of the People. He had done it before and played the part now to perfection, swaggering when he had dismounted in the innyard, hooking his thumbs in his leather belt, which was worn over the kaftanlike cloak, drawn close to conceal the thermalsuit which would have revealed him at a glance as an Outworlder. Earthsiders could come and go with impunity here, true, but there was no point in calling attention to themselves. There might be eyes, even here, alert for a dancing girl, an old man and a child, who were accompanied by an Earthman.
Four of the first inns they tried were filled to capacity, but the fifth could house them. The surly innkeeper grudgingly informed Melandron one attic room was free. They must all sleep together, but they had done it before, in the cave, and could do it now.
Again, Ryker could not help but notice how Valarda held herself aloof, like a princess, and let her grandsire engage a room for them, and hire an oasis woman to prepare and serve their meals. He wondered about it to himself. On Mars, as in the desert countries back on Earth, youth abases itself before age. And if old Melandron was indeed her grandfather, as she had said he was, it should have been Valarda who performed these tasks, while the
old man sunned himself in the yard, accepting wine with dignity.
But she treated him more like a retainer, and he deferred in her as he would to a queen.
They were weary from the long day's journey, and said little; and besides, the old witch of an oasis woman was there, cooking the meat over a hibachilike pot suspended ovcr a pan of green chemical fire, and it would not do to discuss their business before a stranger.
The woman was needed because it was traditional, and they took the evening meal in the little garret, for the Martians do not customarily eat together in the common room with strangers, save at certain feasts.
After the meal, when the woman left, the old man left them at wine and went forth into the town to speak to the caravan men. Ryker would have done this, but Melandron curtly bade him tend Valarda, and there was nothing else lor him to do but acquiesce.
She turned her eyes to him once, then, and looked into his own for virtually the first time since they had shared that kiss together under the starlight.
And at what he saw in the mysterious golden eyes of the dancing girl he had rescued from the mob in Yeolarn, Ryker felt a weight lift from his heart, and the blood sang within his veins, and there was no need for
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