Forgetting their dignity, abjuring protocol, they left their seats to examine the massive metal bar. Sensitive six-fingered hands caressed the smooth gray substance. The dull silvery sheen was a property of the metal itself.

It looked like sunit. It had the color of sunit. It felt like sunit. When three of the Zanural from northern Po Rabi tried to lift it and could not, they were positive it was sunit.

De-Changrit, who on the Zanur was second in power only to de-me-Halmur himself, removed a small ingot from the money belt that circled his waist. It was a serl, the largest denomination coined by any of the great city-states that lined the shores of the Groalamasan Ocean, newly minted in powerful Chienba. He placed it in one of the gouges cut in the flank of the bar and tried to calculate the worth of the twisted mass in his head. He was a superb businessman and his estimate was very near the mark.

“Several million,” he announced aloud. “At least.” Having already made their own calculations, several of his associates nodded by way of confirmation.

De-Panltatol abruptly sat down on the edge of the dolly, leaning back against the bar for support. He ran one hand gently across the cold metal, lovingly, as if it were a woman reclining in his hammock. There was not a Mai among the Zanur who did not feel the same love for that bar. It represented a great and compact fortune.

When the murmurs and excited conversations began to die down it was Changrit who asked the question uppermost in all minds. “Is there more?”

His tone was respectful now, no longer sarcastic or accusing. Thus vindicated, Panltatol seemed to draw strength from some unknown source. They were no longer laughing at him.

“Honored sirs, I do not know. I found only this one piece, washed up on a rocky and wild shore. But the rumors that drove me to the top of the world always spoke of more in the City of the Dead.”

Many signs were made by the Zanural, for they were as intensely superstitious as the common folk. Daily their lives were punctuated by the performance of rituals designed to ward off unfriendly deities and spirits, which all Mai knew ruled the affairs of each individual from birth to death. At the rear of the chamber a wide-eyed servant hastily dumped more incense in the ritual burner, in case the spirits in attendance that day were possessed of particularly large noses. The air of the chamber was immediately suffused with sweet fragrance.

“No actual City of the Dead exists,” one of the Zanural ventured hesitantly. “It is not a real place.”

De-me-Halmur used his hands eloquently. “No such solid piece of sunit as this exists, yet it sits there before us.”

“More,” Panltatol mumbled. “More in the City of the Dead.”

“How much more?” asked Changrit with becoming avariciousness.

“They say … the rumors say … that the city itself is built of sunit.” Dead silence greeted his declaration, appropriately. “I am sorry I did not go farther.” A thin smile appeared on his withered face. His right arm lay like brown cloth against the cold metal. “I am so tired, honored ones. I must rest a while.”

“Wait!” Changrit rushed forward. With his own arms he supported the oldster, a sign of the esteem in which Panltatol was suddenly held. “How do we find the City of the Dead? How could one retrace your travels?”

“Why, don’t you know?” Panltatol whispered. “There is no City of the Dead. The journey cannot be made. But I made it. I, Bril de-Panltatol, went where it is impossible to go. But you can’t follow, none of you.” He said it with vehemence as he unexpectedly sat up without aid. “You can’t follow because only an insane one could make such a journey. I am mad, you see, and you are not.” A sudden thought made him blink with confusion.

“Very tired.” He leaned back against Changrit again and closed his eyes. They would not open again.

Changrit gently lowered the thin body. “A true Mai. He sacrificed everything in hopes of improving his fortune. I honor him.”

“We all honor him,” de-me-Halmur said, “as we will honor his memory.”

“What of the sunit?” Lust was apparent in the voice of the Zanural who voiced the common thought. All eyes were on the bar.

“You know the law,” de-me-Halmur said sternly, if a trifle reluctantly. “I covet it as much as any of you, but it goes to his family and employees.” He made a protective sign in case certain spirits were listening. “The law is clear.”

Zanural de-Peyetmy was almost in tears. “Couldn’t we bend the law just a little?”

“I am sworn to uphold it, and I will do so. Those who would bend the law ultimately find themselves strangled by it.” Murmurs of assent sounded from around the table.

“Of course,” de-me-Halmur went on, “there is the matter of a death tax.” A few smiles appeared. “Also the fact that de-Panltatol undertook this journey without proper authorization, and we still must deal with the matter of his rude intrusion into the Zanur Chamber.” He studied the bar. “I would say that perhaps half should go into the city treasury.”

“That still leaves a nice fortune.” Changrit had retaken his seat on de-me-Halmur’s left. “No family could be disappointed to receive such an inheritance. Now that the law has been dealt with, how are we to deal with this remarkable story?”

“A great journey,” one of the other Zanural announced portentously. “One to be enshrined in memory and song. I myself will commission a song cycle to commemorate it.”

“A thoughtful gesture,” de-me-Halmur agreed, thankful for the Zanural’s support. His proposal meant that de-me-Halmur would not have to pay for the requisite memorial. Other Zanural cursed themselves for not thinking to make the clever political move.

“Now who shall volunteer to help equip a new expedition to journey to the top of the world in search of this rumored City of the Dead?”

Suddenly every member of the council sought to shrink in his seat. One, bolder than the rest, said sharply, “I would not venture more than a thousand legats Upriver for all the sunit on Tslamaina.”

“Nor would I,” de-me-Halmur agreed. “De-Panltatol was quite right. None of us is mad. The very idea of setting foot on the Guntali Plateau is a concept only a disturbed mind could conceive. To attempt to retrace his wild path would be impossible.” He gestured toward the bar and the body lying next to it. “We must be satisfied with this.”

“Not necessarily.” All eyes turned in surprise to Changrit. De-me-Halmur waited warily for any suggestion his rival might make. Each had much respect for the other, so much so that they never employed assassins. Such methods they left to cruder Mai while they dueled with words and gestures.

“It is true that any journey far up the Skar is daunting, let alone one to the top of the world. One might undertake such an expedition only to perish within sight of one’s goal. It is more likely any travelers would end up staring at the inside of a Na’s belly instead of the City of the Dead.” Zanurals executed signs indicating anxiety.

“Or else they would find themselves deceived by the Tsla. We do not have the means for accomplishing such a journey, but there are those who do.”

“I don’t see them here,” another Zanural called. Laughter punctuated his observation.

Changrit gave him a withering look until the laughter had subsided. “A good merchant knows his responsibility to the Zanur, to his city-state. He knows also his own limitations. I am quite aware of mine as you must be of yours.

“But there is something new come recently to Tslamaina. I speak of the visitors from the sky.”

Uncertain mutterings were silenced by de-me-Halmur. “I’ve heard much of them. What is it you propose, Changrit?”

“I can propose nothing unless recent information I have received from my agents can be confirmed. Call for the ambassador to Losithi.”

There followed a long delay, made palatable by a regal midday meal, while Ror de-Kelwhoang, ambassador to Losithi, was summoned from his offices in the Ministry. He arrived in due course, breathless and puzzled.

“For what reason have I been summoned in such haste, honored Zanural?”

There was much respect among the members for the skills of the elderly Kelwhoang, just as there was in the Zanur of Losithi. Po Rabi’s main rival in trade and commerce, it lay several hundred legats to the southwest and controlled the western end of the Skatandah Delta, the great marshland formed by the emptying of the Skar River into the Groalamasan.

Midway between the two city-states but slightly nearer Losithi lay the station established by the strange visitors from the sky. Their science was much advanced and gain was to be made there for those who knew how to ferret it out. The visitors were carefully courted by diplomats from Losithi as well as Po Rabi.

“Tell the Zanur,” Changrit instructed the ambassador, “what you told me several weeks ago concerning the visitors from the sky. The new visitors.”

“New visitors?” De-me-Halmur frowned, as did several other Zanural. “You mean that more of the large bug-creatures have arrived on Tslamaina?”

Kelwhoang looked toward his sponsor Changrit uncertainly, but received a gesture of openness by way of reply.

“All are friends here today, Kelwhoang. Speak freely.”

The ambassador nodded. “There came upon us a day rainy and cold, which forced me to—”

De-me-Halmur interrupted him. “Our time is valuable, Kelwhoang. Spare us the poetry.”

“Forgive me, Moyt. I was taken aback by this sight.” He indicated the monstrous bar of sunit.

“Understandable. Your attention to potential profit marks you well in our sight. Still, make your tale concise.” Kelwhoang gestured in agreement. “Members of the Zanur. As you know, I make it my business during the long journey between our city and Losithi to take note of all of interest that transpires within the Delta. The visitors from the sky keep to their building-that-walks-the-water, but I have cultivated my acquaintance with them.