"We may escape both," said Carey, "if we're very careful. And very
lucky."
He told them what to do.
* * * * *
An hour or so later Carey followed the warriors' track out across the
dry lagoon. He walked, or rather staggered, leading the animals. Arrin
rode on one, her cloak pulled over her head and her face covered in
sign of mourning. Between two of the beasts, on an improvised litter
made of blankets and pack lashings, Derech lay wrapped from head to
foot in his cloak, a too-convincing imitation of a corpse. Carey heard
the shouts and saw the distant riders start toward them, and he was
frightened. The smallest slip, the most minor mistake, could give them
away, and then he did not think that anything on Mars could save them.
But thirst was more imperative than fear.
There was something more. Carey passed the two bodies in the sand
beside the wrecked flier. He saw that they were both dark-haired
Martians, and he looked at the towers of Sinharat with wolfish eyes.
Wales was up there, still alive, still between him and what he wanted.
Carey's hand tightened on the axe. He was no longer entirely sane on
the subject of Howard Wales and the records of the Ramas.
When the riders were within spear-range he halted and rested the
axe-head in the sand, as a token. He waited, saying softly, "For God's
sake now, be careful."
The riders reined in, sending the sand flying. Carey said to them, "I
claim the death right."
He stood swaying over his axe while they looked at him, and at the
muffled woman, and at the dusty corpse. They were six, tall hard
fierce-eyed men with their long spears held ready. Finally one of them
said, "How did you come here?"
"My sister's husband," said Carey, indicating Derech, "died on the
march to Barrakesh. Our tribal law says he must rest in his own place.
But there are no caravans now. We had to come alone, and in a great
sandstorm we lost the track. We wandered for many days until we crossed
your trail."
"Do you know where you are?" asked the Drylander.
Carey averted his eyes from the city. "I know now. But if a man is
dying it is permitted to use the well. We are dying."
"Use it, then," said the Drylander. "But keep your ill-omen away from
our camp. We are going to the war as soon as we finish our business
here. We want no corpse-shadow on us."
"Outlanders?" Carey asked, a rhetorical question in view of the flier
and the un-Dryland bodies.
"Outlanders. Who else is foolish enough to wake the ghosts in the
Forbidden City?"