Page 15 of Voyage to the City of the Dead

  "What the hell was that?" Etienne yelled forward.

  "I don't know. Something hit us from below."

  "What's with the scanner?"

  "Nothing. It didn't come from Upriver."

  He did some fast thinking. Whatever had nudged them un‑gently hadn't shown up on the scanner. Therefore it hadn't slipped down toward them. Therefore it must have come up behind them.

  Therefore it sure as hell wasn't a rock.

  Homat was shouting hysterically from astern and Etienne and the Tsla piled out through the rear door into the hot, damp air. Even as he emerged Etienne caught himself wish­ing for his pistol.

  Not that it would have done him any good. He was staring at a slowly rising cliff black as polished obsidian. Within the cliff was a cavern, filled with acres of dripping blueblack streamers like baleen, only thicker and more widely spaced.

  "Lacoti!" Homat was blubbering in fear. Etienne imme­diately understood how they'd missed the creature on the scanner, since it was programed only to acknowledge sub­merged objects which might be dangerous to the boat. The device would blithely ignore anything organic flattened out along the river bottom. The current provided food for the Lacoti, which doubtless rested contentedly in the mud of the Skar, mouth agape to receive whatever nourishment the river chose to provide.

  Unless something disturbed it, of course.

  If the Lacoti had eyes, they were hidden somewhere back of that vast cavernous maw. It was moving toward them, a fact that he perceived right away. He shouted toward the intercom, unafraid but having no wish for a closer view of Lacoti gut. It might be a slow swimmer but it might also be capable of a last second burst of speed. "Lyra, there's some­thing back here that's about half the size of a starship. Move us out of here."

  "What do you think I'm trying to do? I can see it on the rear screen!" Her voice was frantic. "We've got a short or something. I can't get any speed up."

  "Oh hell," he muttered. "Tyl?"

  The Tsla wore a fatalistic expression. "We are not river dwellers and have no experience of such creatures. We can pray."

  Etienne let out a curse and dove into the cabin. Behind him the towering gullet was drawing slowly nearer. Part of the problem stemmed from the fact that it was sucking in water at an enormous rate, creating a suction the hydrofoil was hard put to counter. If they didn't lift up on foils and make some speed they were going to go down the Lacoti's throat like a cork in a sewer. He had no idea what had prodded it out of its bottom lair. Maybe the hydrofoil's en­gine produced a discomfiting vibration. No time now for study.

  He reached the cockpit and shoved Lyra aside. She didn't protest.

  "Emergency override?"

  "I tried it already!"

  He fumbled at the instrumentation. The stern screens were dark now and he could hear the echo of water rushing down a monstrous throat.

  The familiar high whine of the jet filled the air. Lyra was thrown against a wall and the backrest of the pilot's seat pressed hard into Etienne's back. For an instant Etienne was sure he could see a thick black lip overhead as the boat slid down that endless throat. Then they were out in the light again and the stern screen showed the immense mouth re­ceding behind them. It closed and the Lacoti sank like an island. A quick check of the scanner showed it was not pursuing, just as it revealed rocky outcrops, mudpoles, and vegetation growing atop the massive back. The thought that something the size of the Lacoti required camouflage was sobering. The sooner they reached shallower water the better he'd like it.

  He rechecked the readouts before allowing himself along, relieved sigh. "Go check our passengers."

  "Don't give me orders," she snapped as she pushed back her hair and adjusted one fallen halter strap. "I know what to do. I'm just not as mechanically inclined as you, that's all."

  He spoke very carefully, conscious that she was treading a fine line between anger and hysteria. "When you tried the accelerator you forgot to disengage the secondary lock on the autopilot. That's why the emergency override didn't work either."

  "I know that," she murmured. She was mad at herself, he saw, not at him. "I saw that thing in the screen and I got scared. I guess ... I panicked a little."

  "It could have happened to anyone," he said softly. He didn't want to say that. What he wanted to do was let off tension by calling her a stupid, senseless little fool. But he didn't. He was gentle and understanding. It was possibly the most intelligent thing he'd done since they'd stepped off the shuttle at Steamer Station many months ago.

  What really confused him was that he didn't know why he did it.

  "I'm going to run a complete checkout," he told her. "That thing corning up underneath our keel gave us a pretty good jolt. I want to make sure it didn't bust something loose."

  She nodded. "I'll have a look in the hold."

  She was gone for several minutes, returned sooner than expected. Her expression was grim.

  "Etienne, we've suffered a fatality."

  "What?" He spun the seat around and stared at her in disbelief. "How'? We made it clear in time."

  "One of the porters. Her name was Uon. When you hit the accelerator I was thrown against the wall. Everyone out back was knocked to the deck. But Uon was standing up top, near the mast. When we shot forward she lost her footing and fell. Cracked her skull, looks like. She's dead."

  Fingers tightened on the back of the seat. "I didn't have any choice," he growled. "Another second's delay and we'd have become a meal."

  "I already explained that to Tyl and the others. They understand completely. They've ... made a request."

  He didn't look up. "What do they want?"

  "They'd appreciate it if we could stop hereabouts for the night so they can give Uon a proper sendoff. I didn't get the details but apparently there's a lot of ritual involved. They want to anchor somewhere inshore."

  "I suppose we can find a quiet place. Least we can do. I'm really sorry, Lyra."

  "It was my fault as much as anyone's." She smiled slightly. "They've accepted it with somber grace. They adjust to death very well."

  Now he looked up. "Maybe better than we? If that's a sign of social maturity I'm willing to concede the point."

  But his concession didn't make her feel any better.

  They found a small cove, no more than an oversized pot­hole that the Skar's swirls and eddies had etched into the riverbank. The night sky was a dull starless gray thanks to the solid cover of clouds that stretched like a fluffy awning from one rim of the Guntali to the other.

  Lyra overcame her sorrow by burying herself in her stud­ies, trying to record every slightest nuance of the Tsla funeral ceremony which was performed on the open rear deck of the hydrofoil. This involved the use of torches, some special powder carried by Tyl, and much chanting and singing. Hav­ing no desire to participate or watch, Homat had relinquished his bedmat for the privacy of the bow. He lay there mur­muring spirit rhymes as he leaned over the side to watch the phosphorescent motocrullers, tiny, superfast clamlike bi­valves that made whirlpools of light beneath the shade af­forded by the ship.

  Having considerably less interest in native rituals than his wife, Etienne had retired to the comfort of their cabin. The expression on her face when she burst in on him startled him out of his reading. She stumbled against him and he put both hands on her shoulders to steady her. She looked ill.

  "What's wrong, Lyra, what's the matter?" She'd left the door open behind her and the steady chant of the Tsla filtered in to the bedchamber.

  "Sendoff ritual," she whispered, choking on the words. She pushed past him, toward the head. The recorder dangling from her neck bounced against her chest.

  Curiosity overcame his apprehension as he left the cabin and headed astern. The rear deck was lit by the flicker of torch­light, illuminating the source of Lyra's distress. His reaction was less violent than hers. Not that he was delighted by the sight, but since he held no high hopes for the Tsla he was far less disgusted and disappointed than his wife.


  The Tsla were deeply engaged in the funeral ritual and only Tyl broke away long enough to greet him. He looked concerned. This was mitigated somewhat by the blood drip­ping from his mouth and snout.

  "Lyra left us in a hurry. I hope we did not offend her."

  Etienne summoned unsuspected reserves of diplomacy. "My wife sees you and your people as being nobler than any of us have a right to be. It's a failing many humans are heir to."

  Tyl's nose twitched and those big soulful eyes turned toward the doorway. "I see. But you feel differently?"

  "After a fashion. I don't approve, but neither do I con­demn. Neither would Lyra, if she hadn't lost sight of her scientific training."

  "I am sorrowed," Tyl continued. "It is part of the ritual. It must be done the same day, as soon after death as possible, because otherwise..."

  Etienne cut him off. "The reasons are self‑explanatory, Tyl." He was unable to keep his eyes from the scene on the deck. "It's only that the customs are very different among my own folk."

  "I can sympathize." He gestured backward with a hand. "Uon was much loved by her friends. We could not think of sending her soul on to eternity without properly displaying that affection."

  "We feel likewise, only among our kind we choose to express such love for the departed in more metaphysical and less immediate terms."

  "Customs are different among all peoples. Now if you will excuse me, I must participate or Uon's soul will not count me among its friends."

  Etienne pointed. "You have blood on your face."

  Tyl wiped at it. "The result of ritual contact. She struck the deck very hard."

  Etienne left the ceremony to return to the cabin, closing the door behind him. Lyra sat on the bed, staring blankly at a xenological chip unscrolling on the viewer. He doubted she saw the words. He sat down behind her and put both hands on her shoulders.

  "I know how you feel," he said helplessly. "It's never pleasant to have one's illusions shattered."

  "Such hopes," she muttered disconsolately. "I had such hopes for them. They seemed to have progressed so far without the corresponding technological traumas."

  "They have progressed far," he found himself saying, to his own considerable surprise. "But it's still an alien culture, Lyra. You can't let yourself lose sight of that, let your sci­entific observations be compromised by your feelings for them personally. You can't anthropomorphize their culture any more than you can their physiognomy."

  "If I did that," she replied, "it was out of hope."

  "I realize that, which is why you're going to make your report on Tsla funeral custom as detailed and informative as any other part of your records. The balance it will provide is important. It will help confirm your objectivity. Otherwise all the rest of your work among these people will be disre­garded."

  "You're right, of course." She put the chip reader aside, fiddled with her recorder as she leaned back against him. "I don't have any choice, do I?"

  "As Lyra Redowl you do. As visiting xenologist repre­senting the interests of every xenologist who couldn't make this trip, you do not."

  She nodded, then stood. "It was unprofessional of me to run away like that. I know better. Among the new one must always expect a shock or two."

  "It's easier for me. Rocks are rarely shocking."

  She smiled, not because his sally was funny but because he bothered to try and make it so.

  "We're only human, Lyra."

  "Yes, and the Tsla are not. For a moment I'd forgotten that. I won't forget again."

  "Don't let this push you too far in the other direction. Whatever you think personally about their customs, they're still good people, and our friends. Tyl is what he's always been: a learned and compassionate friend."

  "Among his own kind, yes. Etienne, you've been right and I've been wrong."

  He turned away, embarrassed by her admission as he often was when he won some small portion of their private war. There was a contradiction there he didn't understand.

  She started toward the hall and the stern deck, muttering as she went. "After all, one can make the argument that ceremonial necrophilia is no more barbaric than any of a half dozen other funeral rituals observed among pristine primitive cultures. Among the Canuh, for example.. ." Her voice faded as she slipped further into scholarly preoccupation.

  He felt sorry for her at the same time that he was glad he hadn't chosen to share her discipline. He made a mental note to inform Tyl sometime soon that in the event he and Lyra should meet with a fatal accident, they were to be buried in accordance with human custom only.

  Still, several days passed before Lyra could bring herself to talk with Tyl or any of the surviving porters. They sensed her distress and kept their distance, no easy thing to accom­plish within the confines of the hydrofoil. They busied themselves with learning the art of trolling, something they could not do on the unnavigable waters of the upper Aurang.

  They were now five thousand kilometers north of Steamer Station, with an unknown distance yet to cover. Unknown because the satellite responsible for the photogrammetric mapping of Tslamaina had rather neglected this portion of the northern hemisphere in favor of detailing the much more heavily populated areas around the equator and the Groal­amasan Sea.

  The temperature had fallen to the point where Homat was obliged to don long clothing in order to be comfortable in the ninety degree heat of midday. Of greater concern was the sharp narrowing of the Barshajagad. Towering walls had closed in on the river, compressing its volume into a much smaller channel, and the increasingly swift current was becoming powerful enough to slow their progress even though the water could gain a grip only on the two submerged hydrofoils. They encountered no white water, however, and the scanner indicated the river bottom still lay far below their keel.

  But Etienne found it difficult to concentrate on such things; he was hypnotized by the canyon walls, seven thousand meters that dropped in places sheer to the river, a gorge unmatched even on gas giants with surfaces solid enough to withstand continual erosion by high winds. All that remained of the sky was a narrow strip directly overhead, masked by perpetual cloud cover, a faint gray band delineating the limits of the real world.

  Each time the river bent, the rock cliffs seemed to swallow any hope of retreat. The hydrofoil seemed very small indeed as it fought that steadily intensifying current. The Redowls worked in relays now, unable to trust navigation to the au­topilot. If they lost speed while they both slept and the river caught hold of them, it would crush the duralloy hull against one of the granite walls as easily as eggshell.

  Chapter Eleven

  Two days of this saw their speed dangerously reduced. Lyra entered the cockpit rubbing her eyes, took one clear look at her husband's and said, "Etienne, we can't keep this up. We're both exhausted and we've no way of knowing how much longer this stretch is."

  He coughed into his fist. "I thought the damn track would start widening out again by now. It doesn't make sense. This much water moving downstream at this speed ought to have worn a broader canyon. But it hasn't."

  "What's the current reading currently?" She half smiled, half yawned as she squinted toward the instrumentation, wishing it could produce a cup of post‑Ethiopian katfe. Un­fortunately the nearest cup of real hot stimulant was light­years distant.

  "Have a look for yourself." He touched a button without taking his eyes off the river.

  She blinked at the readout. "That's incredible," she said quietly.

  "Yes, incredible. No boat was ever designed to travel against such a current."

  "What about continuing on repellers?"

  "Don't tempt me. Sweet of you to suggest it, but it's too risky. We could try it for a few hours, but that's all they're designed for. Hopping rapids and avoiding waterfalls, not steady travel. We'd run down the batteries and probably find ourselves stuck in an identical position farther Upriver. Can't chance it." He muttered an obscenity.

  "We can't quit here! We've come too far."
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  She leaned against the console. "I know how much this meant to you, Etienne. But it's not worth risking our lives for."

  He looked at her then. "You think we have a life?"

  A new voice interrupted them. "I overhear. There may yet be a way. I have had long to think on it and would not have thought it possible, had I not seen what thy spirit boat can accomplish."

  Etienne didn't turn to confront their visitor. "What way, Tyl?„

  "Do thee remember the crevice splitting the east wall, that we passed the previous day?"

  "No. I was too busy looking over the bow to do any sightseeing."

  "I was working on my notes," Lyra added.

  "I have been watching the Barshajagad, marveling long, but always watching. There was a trail along the east wall. It terminates at this crevice. I have been this way once be­fore. I saw no reason to mention the trail, to distract thee from thy work. We were to travel by boat, not by foot. But now I see that I must mention this other possibility or all will end."

  "A trail? I didn't ... no, wait a minute," Lyra murmured. "I did see something. I thought it was an old high‑water line."

  "It is a trail, Learned Lyra. A trading trail."

  "Where does it go?" she asked him.

  "Up. Up to a high plateau. Not the Guntali. Higher than Turput but lower than that. High enough so that Tsla can live upon it. Up above the Topapasirut. The trail is steeper and more dangerous than the one that climbs to Turput."

  "How much more dangerous?"

  "Enough to restrict travel. But it rises beyond the Topapasirut."

  Etienne gestured ahead, at the narrow, impossibly deep canyon. "I thought that this place was the Topapasirut."

  Tyl executed a gesture full of amused negativity. "No. If you would take the measure of the adversary that still lies ahead, thee must climb beyond its reach. That is, if thee think thy spirit boat can go no farther."