Tales of the Dying Earth by Jack Vance Page A

there—like crushed flies."
    He turned his watery blue gaze back to Liane. "Return, young man, return—lest your body lie here in its green cloak to rot on the flagstones."
    Liane drew his rapier and flourished it. "I am Liane the Wayfarer; let them who offend me have fear. And where is the Place of Whispers?"
    "If you must know," said the old man, "it is beyond that broken obelisk. But you go to your peril."
    "I am Liane the Wayfarer. Peril goes with me."
    The old man stood like a piece of weathered statuary as Liane strode off.
    And Liane asked himself, suppose this old man were an agent of Chun, and at this minute were on his way to warn him? . . . Best to take all precautions. He leapt up on a high entablature and ran crouching back to where he had left the ancient.
    Here he came, muttering to himself, leaning on his staff. Liane dropped a block of granite as large as his head. A thud, a croak, a gasp—and Liane went his way.
    He strode past the broken obelisk, into a wide court —the Place of Whispers. Directly opposite was a long wide hall, marked by a leaning column with a big black medallion, the sign of a phoenix and a two-headed lizard.
    Liane merged himself with the shadow of a wall, and stood watching like a wolf, alert for any flicker of motion.
    All was quiet. The sunlight invested the ruins with dreary splendor. To all sides, as far as the eye could reach, was broken stone, a wasteland leached by a thousand rains, until now the sense of man had departed and the stone was one with the natural earth.
    The sun moved across the dark-blue sky. Liane presently stole from his vantage-point and circled the hall. No sight nor sign did he see.
    He approached the building from the rear and pressed his ear to the stone. It was dead, without vibration. Around the side—watching up, down, to all sides; a breach in the wall. Liane peered inside. At the back hung half a golden tapestry. Otherwise the hall was empty.
    Liane looked up, down, this side, that. There was nothing in sight. He continued around the hall.
    He came to another broken place. He looked within. To the rear hung the golden tapestry. Nothing else, to right or left, no sight or sound.
    Liane continued to the front of the hall and sought into the eaves; dead as dust.
    He had a clear view of the room. Bare, barren, except for the bit of golden tapestry.

    Liane entered, striding with long soft steps. He halted in the middle of the floor. Light came to him from all sides except the rear wall. There were a dozen openings from which to flee and no sound except the dull thudding of his heart
    He took two steps forward. The tapestry was almost at his fingertips.
    He stepped forward and swiftly jerked the tapestry down from the wall.
    And behind was Chun the Unavoidable.
    Liane screamed. He turned on paralyzed legs and they were leaden, like legs in a dream which refused to run.
    Chun dropped out of the wall and advanced. Over his shiny black back he wore a robe of eyeballs threaded on silk.
    Liane was running, fleetly now. He sprang, he soared. The tips of his toes scarcely touched the ground. Out the hall, across the square, into the wilderness of broken statues and fallen columns. And behind came Chun, running like a dog.
    Liane sped along the crest of a wall and sprang a great gap to a shattered fountain. Behind came Chun.
    Liane darted up a narrow alley, climbed over a pile of refuse, over a roof, down into a court. Behind came Chun.
    Liane sped down a wide avenue lined with a few stunted old cypress trees, and he heard Chun close at his heels. He turned into an archway, pulled his bronze ring over his head, down to his feet. He stepped through, brought the ring up inside the darkness. Sanctuary. He was alone in a dark magic space, vanished from earthly gaze and knowledge.
    Brooding silence, dead space ...
    He felt a stir behind him, a breath of air. At his elbow a voice said, "I am Chun the Unavoidable."

    Lith sat on her couch near the candles, weaving a