A Swordsman of Mars

Chapter III Kar Havas, Panthan

And thus it was that a few, careless words from the lips of Quindus Varro touched a spark within me that flamed now with clear, steady, unwavering purpose.

His words had laid to rest at least two of the fears that had haunted my thoughts during the flight to his villa. The first of these was the dreadful possibility that the exquisite girl in the portrait might be an imaginary or ideal figure, painted from sheer visionary genius. But now I knew the portrait had a living model. This knowledge allayed the second fear, that which had been uppermost in my mind. I refer to the possibility that the portrait could easily have been painted many years, perhaps many centuries, before it had been hung in the Palace of Perfection. But Quindus Varro had assured me that he had painted the portrait within this same year, so Xana of Kanator, whoever she might be, must still be in the fresh bloom of that radiant loveliness which had so enchanted me.

A third fear yet gnawed within my breast. And that was that the girl of my dreams was already pledged or even wed to another. Such an eventuality was scarcely conceivable to me, for the gods could not play so cruel and despicable a trick upon one who had never knowingly offended them; still and all, the possibility existed, and I knew that I would never rest until I had proved this third of my ffars to be groundless.

During the feverish days which followed I laid my plans with care and cunning. I could not simply do as my impatient heart bid me, and fly to Kanator upon the moment to see in the flesh this entrancing creature. This was impossible for an implacable rivalry has long existed between the cities of Zorad and Kanator; the two realms, so closely similar in wealth and extent and power, are irrevocably divided by an ancient schism, and the Zoradians and the Kanatorians have been hereditary enemies for a thousand generations.

The cause of the hatred which exists between the two mightiest nations of the Xanthus plains is lost in the mists of antiquity. No one today recalls the original dispute which arose between the rival kingdoms. But the hatred exists nonetheless and is no less vehement, for that its origins are long since forgotten.

I could not, for this reason, safely enter the city of my enemies without assuming a disguise or a false identity. For nothing would delight the soul of Lorquas Zed, jeddak of Kanator, more than to discover the princely heir of his ancient foe wandering about the streets of his realm like a moonstruck lover. The moment my flier descended into the landing stages of Kanator, and the emblem of Jad Tedron, Prince of Zorad, was recognized, I would be seized and held captive, either to suffer a lingering and horrible death under the knives of the torturers, or to be held in ransom against a sum so enormous as to beggar my father’s realm, or to be restrained as a means whereby to force from him to cede to the Kanatorians vast territories, the loss of which would forever tip the balance of power between our two realms in favor of Kanator.

I resolved, therefore, to adopt a pseudonym and to enter the city of my foes disguised as a common panthan or soldier of fortune. Our cities had exchanged no embassies since the last outbreak of war between us, which had occurred some twenty years before; therefore it was highly unlikely that any citizen of Kanator would be able to recognize my features. The risk seemed to me well worth the taking, for I knew I could not rest until I had beheld the loveliness of Xana of Kanator in the flesh.

Since I could not make the flight to Kanator in my own private air yacht, which bore at prow and flanks the royal cognizance of Zorad and my own colors, I must procure an unmarked craft. The following morning I descended into the city and entered an establishment where a variety of old or second-hand craft were offered at public sale. After deliberation I settled upon a small, two-man flier of superb trim and balance, which bore no markings. Paying the purchase price on the spot, I maneuvered my new acquisition into a rooftop hangar in a remote, outlying district of the city situated far from my usual haunts, a hangar available at public rental which my aid, Rad Komis, had secured for my purposes only an hour before.

During the next two days I labored on the flier with the knowledgeable assistance of one of the aircraft mechanics who worked in the palace and who had been a trusted and loyal friend to me since childhood. We carefully battered and scarred the sleek hull, a light but durable shell of aluminum and steel, until it looked sufficiently dented and disreputable to the casual glance to pass for such a vessel as might be owned by an unemployed panthan of slender purse. We scraped several sections of the hull and works clean of the metallic grey enamel wherewith the craft was painted, and applied a subtle chemical concoction known to my helper which caused the exposed metal hull to become scabrous and scaly with rust. In no wise did we impair the trim fighting efficiency or flying speed of the snug little craft by these artistic deceptions, which were merely of a cosmetic nature.

In a similar mode to my unobtrusive purchase of the flier, I procured from yet other establishments the plain leather harness and trappings of a down-at-heels panthan, such as might be worn by a warrior of that class. For here again my own trappings and accouterments were of such princely elegance as to be well beyond my powers to disguise. I should perhaps note here that a Martian fighting-man goes nearly naked, as indeed do the inhabitants of Mars in general, regardless of sex or station. A Martian warrior wears about his loins a length of cloth which hangs down before and behind him, boots or high-laced sandals or buskins serve as his footwear, and his waist and upper torso are cinched into a number of buckled straps or leathern belts to which are affixed his weapons and ornaments.

Badges and insignia of rank or family, together with duelling trophies marking victories or kills, often of noble metals set with precious stones, are fastened to these trappings, and the leather itself may be elegantly carved with arabesques or washed in gilt or studded with gems. This suffices for clothing on a planet where there are no genuine seasonal variations in temperature, although a cloak is customarily worn.

To complete my impersonation of a poor panthan, or mercenary swordsman, I purchased trappings of plain, unornamented leather, making certain that the harness I selected was worn and frayed as if from years of actual use. I wound a loincloth of scarlet silk about my lower body, donned plain radium weapons in worn leather holsters, selected a well-crafted and beautifully balanced rapier whose hilt was of polished steel rather than gold and set with semi-precious lapis and agate rather than rare jewels, slung about my shoulders a dark, second-hand cloak of plain and serviceable cloth, and was ready to venture incognito into the city of my enemies.

The flight to Kanator was accomplished that same evening, on the fourth day following my conversation with the misanthropic painter. I had taken my lieutenant, Rad Komis, into my confidence and had divulged to him the nature and purpose of my mission, for on a thousand occasions in the past he had more than proved himself unswerving in his loyalty to me and more than worthy of my trust.

The stalwart young officer, who hailed from Vaxar, a city far to the north of Zorad amidst the Omtolian Mountains, and whose years were precisely equal to my own, considered my thus venturing even in disguise into the city of our hereditary foes a rash and foolhardy venture. This opinion did not, I noticed with warm appreciation, impede him from volunteering to share the adventure at my side; indeed, he implored me for permission to accompany me on this perilous voyage. I declined, however, for the deed was mine alone to undertake: never would it be said of Jad Tedron of Zorad that, in following the private passions of his heart, he risked the life of an honest and worthy friend.

Swearing my accomplice to secrecy, then, I departed from Zorad that evening. My flier hurtled through the skies wherein the two moons glowed like great lamps of colored fire, at a velocity which I calculated would bring me within the vicinity of Kanator shortly before sunrise. For many haads I soared effortlessly above the interminable stretches of ochre moss which carpeted the ancient and desolate barrens which once had been the floor of a primordial ocean. I chose the nocturnal hour of my departure for a triple reason: not only should I avoid chance notice in departing Zorad at this hour, but also I might thereby best elude the attentions of the merciless green hordes of Zarkol who are wont to dwell in the ruined and deserted cities which rise amidst the Xanthian plains and who traverse the dead seabottom in vast cavalcades of chariots drawn by zitidars. And also it seemed to me a good idea to enter Kanator at an hour so early that few would be abroad to observe my arrival.

The flight consumed some hours, which I spent in dreaming on the ravishing loveliness of Xana of Kanator. Some forty xats before the hour of sunrise the speed of my craft slackened and I perceived a splendid metropolis ahead of me, bathed in the glory of the hurtling moons. It was Kanator. And somewhere in that maze of majestic palaces and soaring spires dwelt the exquisite woman to whom already my heart was half given.

I descended to a lower level and entered the city from another direction, so that should any discern my arrival they would not observe me entering Kanator from the direction of Zorad. I traversed the partially collapsed walls at a speed and height and angle of flight that made my arrival as unobtrusive as possible, and descended to moor my flier in a public hangar on the rooftop of a rundown building in what seemed to be a fairly nondescript quarter of the metropolis. I was pleased to see that the attendant paid me not the slightest attention. The fellow merely accepted in the most bored and lackadaisical manner imaginable the coin I silently proffered him for the usual rental fee.

Descending to the street I located a public house and purchased a cup of wine, carefully scrutinizing the bill of fare so as to be certain of purchasing the least expensive vintage, which was in keeping with my pretense of being an unemployed panthan of lean and slender purse. No one paid me any particular notice as I sat in a dim corner, quietly nursing my drink, while thinking through the next step in my plan to find Xana of Kanator.

Fate, however, soon took a hand in the arrangement of my fortunes.

The other men in the room were an ordinary lot: disreputable loafers, seedy tradesmen, repair mechanics and lower-class working men of a variety of common occupations for the most part, probably including in their number a few petty criminals. They tended to be sullen, weary, and rather quiet on the whole—with one exception. This individual was a hulking, loudmouthed oaf, his coarse features inflamed by drink, who noisily bragged of his amatory conquests and in general made a nuisance of himself.

He had eyed me up and down in a rude, insulting manner when I first entered and quietly ordered wine, and had roughly jostled my arm as I strode past him to the grimy table. I had dismissed this as accidental on his part and thought no more of it, but soon, bored by the inattention of his dull, indifferent audience, who morosely nursed their drinks, shrugging at his boastful monologue, he let his restless and truculent little red-rimmed eyes prowl about the room in search of a readier source of amusement.

My eye caught his as he glanced about. There may have been a small smile on my lips at that moment, I cannot say. At any rate, he stiffened like a predator scenting its prey and directed a surly glare in my direction.

“What are you grinning at, fellow?” he demanded in a belligerent tone of voice. Heads craned to see whom he was addressing in this manner. I shrugged casually and mildly observed that I had not been aware of smiling.

A man may change his leather, but it is difficult to disguise his breeding. I fear my accent and diction revealed me as a man of birth and education, for the ugly oaf sneered and loudly repeated my words in an exaggerated burlesque of my refined pronunciation. This roused a few chuckles from the crowd, whereupon, basking in the applause and sensing a new victim ripe for the bullying, the man came swaggering over to where I sat and glowered down at me, his surly face heavy with menace.

“I say you’re grinning at me,” he growled. “I don’t like it when strangers who have no business in this district sit and grin at me!”

“I meant no offense. I was not even aware I smiled,” I said, careful to keep my tone of voice and the expression on my face neutral. It seemed wisest to avoid this encounter so as not to draw undue attention to myself which might give occasion for speculation as to who I was and where I had come from. But it took an effort of will for me to placate this bully with soft words when my immediate natural inclination was to rise and smash him to the floor with a single blow.

Suddenly, as is often the case with those heavily intoxicated, his manner changed like lightning. One moment he was surly and scowling; in the next he was scarlet and trembling with rage.

“On your feet when you exchange words with Curan Gor, you smoothfaced puppy!” And with those words he slapped me across the face with a savage blow of one massive hand.

All sound ceased; the room became deathly silent. In the next instant those who sat nearby unobtrusively rose to their feet and sidled away from Guran Gor and me, leaving that portion of the room empty. I sat there, pale as death, cold with fury, my face stinging from the blow. The huge man towered over me, hands hovering near the pommel of his sword. He breathed heavily between open, pendulous lips, and from time to time the tip of his tongue would snake out to wet his lips.

There was nothing to do but to fight him.

I sprang from my chair in one lithe, whip-like blur of motion. One fist I balled and drove thudding into the pit of his belly with all the strength of the steely sinews of arm and shoulder. He sagged forward, eyes goggling, and as he did so I brought a terrific uppercut from the floor. My fist caught him on the point of the jaw with an audible crack, like the sound of a sapling suddenly broken. It was a terrific blow and it lifted him an inch or two off the floor. He went floundering backwards, crashing among the tables, and lay sprawled like a dead man.

The tense, watching crowd relaxed, shuffled, eyed me with dull and wary approval, and returned to its drinks again. The man who served us wine emerged from his station wiping his hands on a scrap of dirty cloth, took up the unconscious hulk of Guran Gor by the feet and dragged him out a side door into the alley, returning to give me a passive, noncommittal look before busying himself with the serving of drinks again. The confrontation was over almost before it began, and the room returned to normal.

“I can’t help admiring the way you handled Guran Gor just now,” said a voice at my elbow. I looked up as a bony little man with the sharp, cunning eyes of a ferret came to my table.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My name is Ulvius Spome,” he said unctuously. “Let me buy you a drink and let’s get acquainted. I might have a job for a fellow who can handle himself as ably as you, but that depends on whether or not you can use a sword as well as you can use your fists.”

Shrugging, I indicated an empty chair, into which he slid, calling loudly for service. He ordered a bottle of decent vintage and sat back, examining me narrowly with a little smile on his thin lips. His eyes slid over me, weighing, measuring, calculating. I felt clammy and unclean as those cold, shrewd eyes crawled over me — it was as if they left behind a trail of slime upon my flesh.

“I am pretty good with a sword,” I said. “What kind of a job did you have in mind?”

He poured the wine with a practiced twist of the wrist.

“Easy, now, let’s get acquainted a little before we talk business. From the cut of you I would figure you for a panthan, right? And from the dismal slop you've been drinking, I’d say it’s been a long time since you worked and that you could probably use a bit of change about now, right?”

“On both counts,” I admitted.

“What’s your name, and where are you from?”

“My name is Kar Havas,” I said without a moment’s hesitation, giving the first name that came into my head. Kar Havas had been a boyhood friend of mine, killed in an accident with his flier many years before. “I am a native of Vaxar in the land of Omtol, but I have been working for some years now in Amdor,” I added, mentioning a small, insignificant city northeast of Vaxar in the eastern foothills of the mountain country.

Ulvius Spome nodded, then inquired why I had happened to leave my former place of employment.

I laughed in a self-conscious manner. “I became attached to the retinue of a noble house in Amdor, whose master was possessed by a deathly fear his rivals and enemies were planning his assassination. Actually, these enemies existed only in his fearful imagination. It was a snug and secure berth and I could have stayed there for many years to come, but my master’s wife began acting as though she found me rather attractive . . .”

Ulvius Spome sniggered. “I get it! So you flew out of there before your master put something or other in your drink, or maybe a knife between your ribs, eh?”

“Something like that,” I smiled. “Today, doubtless my former master has a new bodyguard; presumably, he chose one even uglier than himself!”

The little ferret-eyed man burst into a peal of raucous laughter, and poured more wine into my cup, before getting down to business.

It transpired that he wanted me to display my abilities with the sword be fore one Han Hova, who was gamesmaster of the great arena of Kanator and who managed the gladiatorial combats which formed the most popular sport among the citizens. These gladiatorial contests, so like the gory festivals held in the Roman Colisseum, are a depraved practice into which the Kanatorians have sunk in recent years, since their resounding defeat at the hands of Zorad in the war I have mentioned earlier. The custom of lolling on the rows of an amphitheatre while men fight to the death against savage beasts and other men for your amusement is a loathsome and bestial vice to which, among the many peoples of Barsoom, only the bestial green hordes are customarily addicted.

They are a race of cruel and fiendish monsters, devoid of the slightest trace of sentiment or mercy or friendship or love, and count little better than wild beasts in the estimate of the red Martian civilizations. To learn that Kanator had developed a thirst for these savage spectacles was a clear sign of the decadence into which she has sunken under the dynastic house of Zed. For, while we Zoradians delight in contests of skill between trained swordsmen, and in air races and similar contests between teams of thoat-trawn chariots, we hold in the utmost abhorrence the very concept that a battle to the death between brave men is even to be considered a form of entertainment.

This being the case, my gorge rose at the thought of partaking in such disgusting spectacles, and would have curtly declined had it not occurred to me that if the citizenry attended these games in such vast numbers as Ulvius Spome swore was so, I might find it far easier in this way to discover the whereabouts of Xana of Kanator. And besides, as I was accounted among my fellow-Zoradians a swordsman of superlative skill, it seemed very likely that I should have little or naught to fear as regards the safety of my person during such combats as might ensue in the games.

Therefore, I decided to tentatively accept the offer of Ulvius Spome, although I distrusted his motives and did not in the least like his appearance. We promptly made an appointment to meet at the gates of the great arena of Kanator the following morning, where he promised to arrange for me to display my swordsmanship before the eyes of this Han Hova.