The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath | Page 6

yet to give no glimpse of its crew. It was not
fair to the tavern-keepers of Dylath-Leen, or to the grocers and butchers, either; for not a
scrap of provisions was ever sent aboard. The merchants took only gold and stout black
slaves from Parg across the river. That was all they ever took, those unpleasantly featured
merchants and their unseen rowers; never anything from the butchers and grocers, but
only gold and the fat black men of Parg whom they bought by the pound. And the odours
from those galleys which the south wind blew in from the wharves are not to be described.
Only by constantly smoking strong thagweed could even the hardiest denizen of the old
sea-taverns bear them. Dylath-Leen would never have tolerated the black galleys had
such rubies been obtainable elsewhere, but no mine in all Barth's dreamland was known
to produce their like.
Of these things Dylath-Leen's cosmopolitan folk chiefly gossiped whilst Carter waited
patiently for the ship from Baharna, which might bear him to the isle whereon carven
Ngranek towers lofty and barren. Meanwhile he did not fall to seek through the haunts of
far travellers for any tales they might have concerning Kadath in the cold waste or a
marvellous city of marble walls and silver fountains seen below terraces in the sunset. Of
these things, however, he learned nothing; though he once thought that a certain old
slant-eyed merchant looked queerly intelligent when the cold waste was spoken of. This
man was reputed to trade with the horrible stone villages on the icy desert plateau of
Leng, which no healthy folk visit and whose evil fires are seen at night from afar. He was
even rumoured to have dealt with that High-Priest Not To Be Described, which wears a
yellow silken mask over its face and dwells all alone in a prehistoric stone monastery.
That such a person might well have had nibbling traffick with such beings as may
conceivably dwell in the cold waste was not to be doubted, but Carter soon found that it
was no use questioning him.
Then the black galley slipped into the harbour past the basalt wale and the tall lighthouse,
silent and alien, and with a strange stench that the south wind drove into the town.
Uneasiness rustled through the taverns along that waterfront, and after a while the dark
wide-mouthed merchants with humped turbans and short feet clumped steathily ashore to

seek the bazaars of the jewellers. Carter observed them closely, and disliked them more
the longer he looked at them. Then he saw them drive the stout black men of Parg up the
gangplank grunting and sweating into that singular galley, and wondered in what lands -
or if in any lands at all - those fat pathetic creatures might be destined to serve.
And on the third evening of that galley's stay one of the uncomfortable merchants spoke
to him, smirking sinfully and hinting of what he had heard in the taverns of Carter's quest.
He appeared to have knowledge too secret for public telling; and although the sound of
his voice was unbearably hateful, Carter felt that the lore of so far a traveller must not be
overlooked. He bade him therefore be his guest in locked chambers above, and drew out
the last of the Zoogs' moon-wine to loosen his tongue. The strange merchant drank
heavily, but smirked unchanged by the draught. Then he drew forth a curious bottle with
wine of his own, and Carter saw that the bottle was a single hollowed ruby, grotesquely
carved in patterns too fabulous to be comprehended. He offered his wine to his host, and
though Carter took only the least sip, he felt the dizziness of space and the fever of
unimagined jungles. All the while the guest had been smiling more and more broadly,
and as Carter slipped into blankness the last thing he saw was that dark odious face
convulsed with evil laughter and something quite unspeakable where one of the two
frontal puffs of that orange turban had become disarranged with the shakings of that
epileptic mirth.
Carter next had consciousness amidst horrible odours beneath a tent-like awning on the
deck of a ship, with the marvellous coasts of the Southern Sea flying by in unnatural
swiftness. He was not chained, but three of the dark sardonic merchants stood grinning
nearby, and the sight of those humps in their turbans made him almost as faint as did the
stench that filtered up through the sinister hatches. He saw slip past him the glorious
lands and cities of which a fellow-dreamer of earth - a lighthouse-keeper in ancient
Kingsport - had often discoursed in the old days, and recognized the templed terraces of
Zak, abode of forgotten dreams; the spires