Voyage to the City of the Dead

by Alan Dean Foster

  Etienne had to admit that he was enjoying himself. The multicolored strata they passed as they made the ascent were an unending source of wonderment. Tslamaina was an an­cient world, and its entire history lay exposed within the canyon walls. He wished only that he could see across the canyon, but at the confluence of the Aurang and the Skar it was still well over a thousand kilometers wide.

  At least the road had been wide and clear, with no rough places, and they'd encountered few of the vertical walls with their leg‑straining switchbacks. Wind and water had turned the steep walls here to a manageable slope.

  For the first time he could see the edge of the Guntali Plateau, revealed in the distance from time to time when the high clouds cleared. The uneven rocky rim rose another three thousand meters higher than Turput, sharply defining the original surface of the planet.

  At this altitude the strepanong, dorril, and malming be­came more than distant circling dots, their enormous soaring shapes resolving into living creatures with five‑ to eight­meter wingspans. The great scavengers rode the superheated air that rose from the floor of the Barshajagad and rarely scoured below the two‑thousand‑meter line. This according to the porters, who were nonetheless terrified of them.

  They'd climbed past the last Mai village days ago and since then had seen only an occasional solitary hunting party swathed in heavy clothing. Etienne was enjoying the com­parative silence.

  "Billions of years," he murmured. "That's how long it took the rivers to cut those canyons."

  Lyra turned from her study of the porter's cold weather gear to grin knowingly at him. "Then you're glad we made the detour?"

  He was still unwilling to grant her the small triumph. "Certainly it's more interesting than the section of the Barshajagad we left, but I'd still prefer that we'd kept to our original itinerary."

  "Can't give in gracefully, can you? You can't ever let me win. Why can't you admit when you're wrong?"

  "I will, when I am wrong."

  "Sure. You're the stubbornest man I've ever met, Etienne."

  "Then why did you marry me?"

  "Always the same question. Always testing, never con­tent. One of these days I'm going to..." she turned and walked away, mumbling to herself. She always stopped be­fore finishing that sentence, for which he was grateful. Or at least, it used to be that he was grateful. Ten years now she'd put off finishing that sentence.

  Homat hurried up alongside him as they resumed their climb. "The porters pass on their gratefulness. They are still cold but it leaves their bones."

  "Should be warm enough," Etienne snapped, unaware of the sharpness of his tone. "Took them damn near an hour to change clothes."

  "They are not used to such cold, de‑Etienne." Homat tugged at the rim of his own hood, trying to cover as much of his bald pate as possible. "Nor am I. They dressed as rapidly as they could." He tried to see into Etienne's eyes. "Truly, you and de‑Lyra are not cold?"

  The geologist wore modified lederhosen and a heavier shirt over his mesh briefs. "Not only that, Homat, I'm still on the warm side."

  Homat considered this. "Our bodies do not appear so very different, de‑Etienne, and while you and de‑Lyra have more fur, much of you still is bare skin, as are our bodies. I would not think that you would still be warm here."

  "Different environments induce difference adaptations, Homat."

  "Truly," Homat confessed.

  "If you're through lording it over the natives," Lyra said in terranglo from her position farther up the road, "maybe we can make a little progress before nightfall?"

  "I wasn't `lording it.,"' he shot back angrily, "I was just explaining to Homat that‑‑‑" but she'd already turned away from him to resume her climb. When she did that it made him mad enough to spit wood. Short of grabbing her and forcing her to listen to him, however, there was little he could do, and he didn't want to engage in a shouting match in front of the porters. So he swallowed his anger, convinced it would go straight to the ulcer he was building in his gut, the painful cavity that had his wife's name written all over it.

  It was early evening when they finally crested the last ridge overlooking Turput. Neither of them knew what to expect. A smaller version of Kekkalong, perhaps. They were pleasantly surprised.

  Neat narrow streets paved with gray flagstone ran down to the fast moving Aurang and continued on the far shore. Both banks were lined with wooden water wheels that turned steadily in the swift current. Instead of the blocky Mai architecture they'd come to associate with civilization on Tsla­maina, they saw buildings designed with flowerlike domes and elegant arches. Graceful winding walls connected the main structures, and fluted slate tiles drained rainwater from the roofs. Small observation towers bloomed amid the larger edifices. Excepting the towers, nothing rose higher than three floors.

  Above the town the Aurang split into a series of gentle cataracts where dim figures worked with long fish sweeps. Terraces heavy with fruit bushes stepped toward heaven. At the far end of the formation Etienne identified as a hanging valley, a wide waterfall crashed into the riverbed.

  Most magical of all were the sounds made by the profusion of bells and wind chimes that inhabited every house and shop, dangled from windows and rafters and projecting beams. The tinkling and clanging and bonging were audible even above the rush of the Aurang. There were bells of metal and ceramic, of glass and clay and wood, bone bells and stone chimes.

  "Isn't it magnificent, Etienne?" Behind Lyra Homat made an impolite noise while Etienne elected to reserve judgment. Alien beauty could be deceptive.

  "Very aesthetic appearance," he grudgingly admitted. But he found it hard to resist the multicolored town after the bland whites and yellows of Mai communities. It seemed as if every building in Turput was painted a different color. The town, like the air above it, was alive with rainbows.

  They started down the ridge. As they neared the town they saw one could enter from any direction without encountering an obstruction. There was a single small gate, an afterthought of wooden logs and planks. One could walk around it as easily as through it. It also offered them their first Tsla.

  Lyra and Etienne were not familiar with Tsla character­istics and so could not tell how old he was, but both scientists received an impression of age. In height he stood midway between Etienne's and Lyra's. The resemblance between Tsla and human, and for that matter between Tsla and Mai, ended there.

  His toga‑and‑cape attire could not conceal the fact that he was covered everywhere save on the forearms and fore­legs with a short, soft brown fur. The head rested on a neck that was curved forward, giving a false impression of age. Ears were short round stubs set atop the head. The six fingers were shorter and stubbier than those of Mai or human while the eyes displayed a dewy luster.

  Most prominent of all the facial features was the quarter ­meter long flexible snout like that of the terran tapir. It bobbed and dipped with an independent life of its own, no doubt conveying subtleties of expression discernible only to an­other Tsla. Twin nostrils were visible through the fur at the tip.

  It strained Etienne's laboriously memorized Tsla to trans­late the Tsla's greeting. "I am Sau, Keeper of the Gate of Hospitality." To Etienne's relief the Tsla switched to fluent Mai. "Word of thy coming has preceded thee. You are the visitors said to come from another world."

  Lyra nodded sagely. Her affinity for languages reached far beyond Etienne's, and she wasn't hesitant about trying the local dialect. "We are they, Keeper. Your gate must be of hospitality, for it protects nothing but air."

  "A conceit." The Tsla spread both hands to the air, show­ing bare skin up to the elbow. "Most visitors seem to expect a gate, so one was made. Higher towns than Turput have need of real gates. We do not."

  The language of the Tsla was slow and languorous, a startling contrast to the fast‑paced singsong of the Mai. Etienne found himself impatient for the Keeper to continue.

  "Thee are welcome here. We hope that thy visit will honor us."


  Polite, open, with none of the double meanings the Mai attached to such phrases of greeting. Despite his initial reservations Etienne found himself developing a fondness for the Tsla. There was a graciousness about this creature no Mai had displayed, not even the obsequious Ambassador Ror de‑Kelwhoang of Po Rabi.

  "Follow me and I will take you to a place of rest. Thy friends," he added with a barely perceptible hint of distaste as he indicated the porters, "are also welcome."

  "Most generous of thee," Lyra replied properly as the Tsla turned to lead them into the town.

  Their escort kept up a fair pace, moving with deliberation so as not to tire the visitors. Instead of lifting each foot and then setting it ahead and down, the Tsla moved with a gait more shuffle and slide. The cape covering the creature's broad back was dark brown split by a single yellow stripe running down the middle. This simple motif was present on the toga as well. Etienne found himself unexpectedly pleased by the sight of another intelligent creature with hair. Baldness was the norm not only among the Mai but the thranx as well.

  After they entered the town, each Tsla they encountered marked their passage by duplicating the Keeper's raising of hands, as if they were caressing the air. The Mai muttered among themselves and packed into a tight knot behind the humans. Etienne wondered at their paranoia, which was typically Mai. There was no suggestion of treachery here.

  Clusters of Tsla children followed a polite distance be­hind, wiggling curious stubs of snouts as they took the scent of the peculiar strangers. Before too long the Keeper halted outside a long barnlike building with a gently curving roof. It resembled a broken olla set on its side against the earth.

  "This is the Trade Place," one of the porters said. "I was here once before, though I did not stay long."

  The Keeper beckoned them to enter. Inside it was dark and cool. Off to the right they found a row of interconnected chambers with skylights set into the curving ceiling. The glass was well‑fashioned, with few bubbles. It was a good twenty degrees warmer in the room than it had been out in the hallway.

  "For thy friends," the Keeper announced, "and for thee as well if you so desire."

  "No, thanks." Etienne watched the Mai pile joyfully into the big room and stand with their faces turned up to the sunlight. They divested themselves of their burdens without being told. "I think we'd prefer the type of room you use yourselves."

  "As thee wish." The Keeper took them back out into the hall and led them farther into the building to a smaller room full of the aroma of fresh incense.

  "If this suits thee, I must leave now."

  "It suits," Etienne said.

  Lyra was running a hand over the near wall. "Look at this, Etienne. The entire inside wall is glazed, like a big pot!"

  He let his fingers touch the slick surface. "Watertight and cool in summer, reflects the heat of a fire in winter." The single skylight did not trap the heat as did those in the porters' room. A window at eyelevel allowed a view outside to the paved street.

  After a time a second Tsla joined them. He was taller than the Keeper and stood a little straighter while still dis­playing the curved upper spine. He wore a similar toga and cape arrangement, but this one was black with two gold stripes dividing it.

  "I am Tyl. I have the honor to be thy host and guide during thy visit to Turput." He made no secret of his own curiosity regarding the strangers. "Anything thee wish thee have but to ask and if it can be provided it will."

  "We can't stay long," Etienne replied, chosing to ignore his wife's radiant expression. She was in xenosociological heaven. "We left our boat down on the Skar and we have to return there soon."

  "Never mind that now. Tyl, we want to see everything we can. It's true we have little time, but I want to learn as much as possible about thy people and their customs, their way of life. That is my job."

  "Worthy scholarship," said Tyl. He had an unexpectedly deep voice that came rolling out in breathy, rounded sylla­bles from beneath the flexible snout. "If thy time is con­strained thee must listen close as well as look. Tomorrow, if arrangements can be made, I will take thee to the temple of Moraung Motau."

  "Maybe we'd like to see something else first."

  "Etienne! Don't be impolite. You've been too long among the Mai. I swear, you're starting to act like a riverfront merchant."

  He was too tired to bicker with her, simply turned away and examined the wall while she continued to converse with Tyl.

  "If thee prefer," their host said, "there is a little time left to the day. We could begin now."

  "Not on your‑ thy‑life." Etienne headed for a padded bench that obviously was designed to serve as a couch or bed or both. "I'm worn out."

  "Well I'm not," Lyra snapped. "You may show me around if thee wish, Tyl."

  "My greatest honor."

  Etienne thought of a suitably sarcastic rejoinder but found it hard to find a reason for spiting the Tsla's courtesy. He said nothing as they departed. The sound of chimes and bells was like a sedative and the couch‑bed surprisingly comfort­able. Before he knew it he was sound asleep.

  Light from a candle set in a glass dish on a high shelf awakened him. No doubt it had been lit carefully while he slept by some conscientious servitor.

  "Wake up, I said."

  He rolled over, found himself staring up at his wife's excited face. He rubbed tiredly at his heavy eyes. "What is it?"

  "Etienne, Tyl took me through half the town, by torch­light. The system of government these people have devel­oped is unique to sentients in this technological classification! These Tsla are a xenological wonder. Do you know that the spiritual administrators‑and they're not priests, more the equivalent of primitive psychoanalysts‑actually hold half the seats of government?"

  "That's interesting." He began to roll over but she put a hand out to restrain him. He looked irritatedly back over his shoulder.

  "Etienne, listen to me! This social structure is unprece­dented. This is a presteam civilization, yet the people are socially advanced enough to pay extraordinary attention to something as sophisticated as mental health. They don't de­fine it quite like that, of course, but it comes out the same. They may be the stablest primitive alien society yet en­countered, and they do this without holding any unwarranted illusions about themselves.

  "No wonder the Mai fear and suspect them! The Tsla are so much better balanced. The Tsla have come to terms with the health of their minds earlier than most peoples do with the condition of their bodies. Even Martinson's work on Alaspin is proof of it. This discovery, Etienne, it's worth all the trouble of making the expedition." She stood and began to pace the room.

  "The Tsla are special, unique. There's more than a chip monograph here, there's an entire volume."

  "I'm thrilled for you." He let out a helpless yawn. "Do keep in mind that we have half a river left to explore."

  She started to comment, changed her mind in midthought.

  "You're exhausted, Etienne. We'll discuss this in the morn­ing."

  "You should be exhausted too."

  "I know, but I can't hold back the enthusiasm. I'm run­ning on adrenalin, Etienne, and I have to share this with someone. Who else if not you?" She hesitated and added in an odd tone of voice, "Tyl would be interested."

  "Tyl strikes me as a good listener." Etienne pulled the light blanket up around his neck.

  "He is, and a good talker as well. From all I was able to discern he's regarded very well by his fellow Tsla. I watched him perform his evening prann. Beneath all those robes and cloaks they wear, some of these people are very impressive physical specimens, Etienne. Much more impressive than the Mai."

  "Makes sense. The climate up here's less benign and working steep terraces requires more strength than tending to a floodplain."

  "Yes. Much more in the way of physical strength," she murmured.

  I'll in glad you had such a profitable evening. Now if you don't mind, I really was enjoying my sleep."

  "Sorry. Inconsi
derate of me." She tiptoed backward from the room. "I'll leave you now, Etienne, and I'll try not to wake you when I return. I have to find Tyl."

  "Sure," he mumbled, already half‑conscious again, "go find Tyl."

  He felt much refreshed the next morning. The sun was shining brightly through the skylight and window and a basin of clear cold water was waiting for him by the foot of his bed. It was the best night's sleep he'd had since leaving Steamer Station.

  He splashed water off his face, dried himself with his shirt, and looked around.

  "Lyra?" The other couch‑bed was empty. He raised his voice a little. "Lyra!"

  She entered through the arched doorway a moment later, already fully dressed and wide awake. He frowned at her.

  "Didn't you get any sleep?"

  "Sure did. Slept like Lazarus, got up at dawn. This is such a wonderful place, Etienne. I know it's an unprofessional thing to say, but there's no comparing these people to the Mai, Homat being an exception. From what Tyl tells me there's next to no crime among the Tsla. We can leave our possessions anywhere in town without fear they'll be stolen. That's another byproduct of their concern for mental health. They've learned to cope with their baser instincts not only better than the Mai, but better than many people I know."

  "That's quite a judgment to make on the basis of half a night's conversation with one native, Isn't it an unwritten rule that all primitive cultures have their hidden eccentrici­ties? I'm sure the Tsla's will appear in due course." He hunted for his lederhosen.

  "Maybe so, but I haven't seen any evidence of it yet and I've been looking. Hurry up. Tyl's waiting for us."

  "Waiting for us? Why?"

  She didn't try to mute her exasperation. "To guide us to the temple of Moraung Motau, remember?"

  "Sorry. Still full of sleep. What about something to eat?"

  "That's waiting too. I've already sampled the local cook­ing. It's blander than the Mai's but perfectly palatable. Don't worry about Homat and the others. They've already eaten and they're stretched out under their skylights, soaking up the ultraviolet."