He was not surprised when, in the last level above the living town, armed men came out of the shadows and stopped him.
They were lean, dark men, very wiry and light of foot, and their faces were the faces of wolves—not primitive wolves at all, but beasts of prey that had been civilized for so many thousands of years that they could afford to forget it.
They were most courteous, and Stark would not have cared to disobey their request.
He gave his name. "Delgaun sent for me."
The leader of the Valkisians nodded his narrow head. "You're expected." His sharp eyes had taken in every feature of the Earthman, and Stark knew that his description had been memorized down to the last detail. Valkis guarded its doors with care.
"Ask in the city," said the sentry. "Anyone can direct you to the palace."
Stark nodded and went on, down through the long-dead streets in the moonlight and the silence.
With shocking suddenness, he was plunged into the streets of the living.
It was very late now, but Valkis was awake and stirring. Seething, rather. The narrow twisting ways were crowded. The laughter of women came down from the flat roofs. Torchlight flared, gold and scarlet, lighting the wineshops, making blacker the shadows of the alley-mouths.
Stark left his beast at a serai on the edge of the canal. The paddocks were already jammed. Stark recognized the long-legged brutes of the Dryland breed, and as he left a caravan passed him, coming in, with a jangling of bronze bangles and a great hissing and stamping in the dust.