When the Green Star Calls

Chapter 16 SWORDS IN THE NIGHT

In essence, the plan of Prince Janchan was simplicity itself. That is to say, he had no plan at all.

Karn’s notion of attempting to enlist as a wandering mercenary was just the sort of immature, romantic notion an impulsive youngster would dream up. Thus, of course, he had given it no thought at all. All he had in mind to do, at this stage of the game, was simply to get in the city and wander about, picking up what information he could, holding himself in readiness to follow any direction that looked promising.

Entering the city was no problem at all.

The tree-cities of the Laonese, as I have said, lack walls for obvious reasons. The edges of Ardha were the slums, a huddle of sheds and hovels crouching against warehouses and barracks as if for protection. It proved not difficult for Janchan to insinuate a path through these dilapidated leantos. He emerged at length into the city itself, unseen or at least unnoticed, an ordinary figure in his dark woolen cloak with the hood shielding his visage, a figure garbed in the plain leathern trappings of a swordsman. Every noble house retains its own entourage of guardsmen recruited from landless or untitled fighting-men, and Janchan could pass for any one of a thousand such, unless he was asked to show the badge of his allegiance. Had any noted him as he strode swiftly and quietly down the street they would have thought him merely a guardsman out for a night of pleasure in the wineshops and alehouses of the city. In point of fact, Janchan made his way directly to just such an establishment, as soon as he ascertained which portion of the city he had entered.

Having found a street lined with such accommodations, he picked the largest, reasoning that where wine flows freely tongues become loosened and one who keeps his wits about him, his ears open, and the wine cup from his lips, may pick him a quantity of useful information. Since his purse was filled with coins he chose the largest and most luxurious of the lot.

It was an establishment rather unique to the Laonese, called a pleasure garden. Pleasure gardens combine all the most conspicuous conveniences of a wineshop and a house of women, with extensive facilities for gambling and sport on the side. The pleasure garden he chose was called the Garden of Nocturnal Delights, and he entered by an unobtrusive side entrance, inserting a small coin in something remarkably like a Terrene turnstile, and went through, finding himself among miniature flowering trees and winding artificial streamlets, with fountains tinkling somewhere and soft laughter coming from the shadows of the bushes. Colored paper lanterns were strung prettyly in the boughs and from the distant gambling hall he could hear singing and laughter and the sound of musical instruments.

He was making his way through the gardens toward the gaming house which rose in the center of the grove of fragrant trees, when a low, tinkling laugh sounded behind him. He turned swiftly, one hand going to his sword, to look into the amused eyes of a young woman. She was, he perceived, remarkably attractive, her lissome form clothed in light draperies, with quantities of small bells woven in her silvery hair.

“Did you think me an Assassin, swordsman?” She laughed at his discomfiture. “I assure you that such is not the case. Would you like to buy me a cup of wine?”

Janchan was about to decline her offer of companionship, then changed his mind on the spur of the moment; to do so might make him conspicuous.

He forced a smile. “Thank you, I would be delighted.” The girl took his arm, led him to a bench beneath a flowering tree and rang a bell, summoning a servitor, who poured them two goblets of a highly spiced beverage. Janchan could tell the wine had been spiced to conceal the fact that it was watered down. He toasted his companion and drank lightly.

“My name is Kaola.” The girl smiled. “And the price of my company is one gambok for the evening.” Janchan gave his own name and handed her the coin, which she pocketed—although he could have sworn her revealing garments contained no hiding place for so much as a single coin. Sharing the wine, they chatted lightly, and Janchan gave out that he was an unattached warrior who hoped to take service in the entourage of some noble lord here in Ardha, having but recently come hither from another city named Kamadhong. Kaola listened with interest and made intelligent comments; he deduced that the girl was a professional companion, and, as such, must have been trained from childhood. Girls of this class are called thiogiana and are trained to be graceful, witty, accommodating, and charming, skilled in the arts of conversation. They are not exactly prostitutes; their role in Laonese life is more like that of the hetaerae of ancient Greece. She was attractive enough, he thought, with silky, glittering hair and immense and brilliant amber eyes; he began to relax, tossing back the hood of his cloak.

“You should find no difficulty in procuring employment here,” the girl advised him, “for the princes of Ardha strive to outdo one another in the size and impressiveness of their entourages. The city is divided into two groups of rival factions, you will find. One group sides with the Royal Akhmim, our hereditary ruler, while the other, which is called the Temple Faction, gives their allegiance to Holy Arjala.”

“Who is this Arjala?” he asked idly.

“The incarnation of the Goddess and the intended bride of Royal Akhmim,” the girl replied. “Akhmim has himself caused the factional divisions by breaking with tradition; our rulers customarily wed the supreme avatar of the Goddess in each generation, but the Tyrant has spurned his intended for another.”

“Something of this has already come to my ears,” he said. “I have heard that Akhmim desires to wed with the regnant Princess of Phaolon, hoping thus to extend his kingdom…”

Kaola shrugged. “I fear the Great Prince has developed ambitions of empire.” She laughed. “Indeed, he presented his suit to the Phaolonian court and, when rebuffed, mounted an invasion. Ere the attack could be launched, however, the Princess of Phaolon fell into the hands of forest outlaws who sold her to the envoys of Akhmim. He would thereupon have forced his suit upon her, had not Holy Arjala forestalled him by abducting the captive princess, thus bringing about a stalemate.”

Janchan listened to this news with a careful pretense of casual interest; actually, his heart was beating with excitement. The girl expanded on her information, seeing his interest.

“Arjala, as titular Goddess, can do as she pleases. She sent the Temple Guard into the palace, carried the princess off under pretense of offering her sanctuary in the Temple; she holds her captive there, well-treated, I am told, while attempting to force Akhmim to a showdown. Meanwhile, her agents have divided the city into rival factions, the one side claiming the Tyrant’s wedding will extend the power of Ardha to imperial glory, the other warning that his break with tradition will anger the Gods. It is all very amusing; Akhmim seethes with rage, but cannot openly move against the Goddess Incarnate; the Goddess loathes Akhmim, but must wed him in order to attain the queenly power she desires. Neither side gains supremacy in this stalemate, and the only winner is the city of Phaolon itself, which would else have fallen to our siege long since.”

“A remarkably complicated situation,” Janchan said indifferently. “How long can this stalemate endure?”

The girl shrugged bare shoulders. “Not long, I venture. Holy Arjala has but recently allied herself with the Assassins’ Guild, which is very powerful in this city. It is rumored that for this alliance she promised Gurjan Tor, the chief of the Assassins, the full revenues of the Temple for one year. Obviously, the Goddess hopes to tip the balance of power through a judicious series of murders, robbing the Royal Faction of a few of its most important adherents… more wine?”

Janchan nodded and held out his goblet. But at that very instant an inarticulate cry reached his ears from beyond the hedges. And instant later he heard the scuff of sandals upon the walks strewn with wood chips, and the familiar clash of sword against sword.

He sprang to his feet, overturning the tray of drinkables. Snatching out his sword and tossing back his cloak so that it should not encumber his arms, he forced his way through the hedge and found himself looking upon a tense scene.

A burly, heavy-faced warrior in a long japon of yellow silk stood with his back against a tree-trunk. Blood leaked from a wound in his right shoulder and his right arm dangled limp and useless. In his left he clenched a stout sword with which he held at bay three masked men in black who were attempting to come at him from three sides at once.

The quarrel was none of Janchan’s business, of course. But the prince could hardly stand by and watch what amounted to murder in cold blood. His innate sense of chivalry demanded that he lend his sword to the defense of the wounded and outnumbered man. So, without pausing for a moment to weigh any cautious considerations, he sprang from the hedge and engaged the blade of the nearer black-garbed swordsman.

The heavy-set man in yellow cast him a surprised glance, then smiled grimly.

“Welcome, friend!” he boomed heartily. “Feel free to enjoy yourself, if you feel in need of a bit of exercise—it does wonders for the appetite, they say.”

Janchan laughed, his agile point scratching his opponent on one black-clad shoulder. “I was wondering if this was a private argument, or if anyone might join in; your words assure me of my welcome.”

The other chuckled. But then their three assailants redoubled their efforts and neither Janchan nor the injured man had breath enough for further jests. The black-masked men fought in complete silence, and were experienced swordsmen of considerably skill. But Janchan’s unexpected entry into the ambush had taken them by surprise, and the Phaolonian princeling was lucky enough to disarm his opponent at the onset, and to drive his point through the sword-arm of the second, while the injured man readily dispatched the third, without great difficulty.

Having enough of the combat, the three melted into the shadows and took to their heels. Janchan turned to see to the injured man, who was breathing heavily and evidently suffering considerable pain from his shoulder-wound.

“I appreciate your assistance, my friend,” the other grunted. Before Janchan could reply, two men in yellow tunics came pelting up the garden walks to assist their comrade. Bundling him in a heavy cloak they led him into the gaming house, but before this he wrung Janchan’s hand in thanks and pressed a small crystal token upon him.

“From your unadorned trappings, I perceive your loyalties to be unengaged. Meet me tomorrow at the morning meal, and I will requite your gracious assistance in any manner I may.”

They assisted their wounded comrade away, leaving Janchan with a bemused smile. He had made a friend, obviously; but he had no idea who he might be. Shrugging, he turned to reenter the alcove where Kaola awaited him.

“Marvelous!” The girl laughed, eyes sparkling. “You have the knack for winning influential friends, swordsman. Or is it possible you do not know that the man you rescued from the three Assassins was Unggor, the captain of Akhmim’s personal guard?”

Chapter 17 THE MESSENGER OF HEAVEN

Janchan spent that night in a public house, where for a coin of small value he rented a cubicle and a sleeping pallet. With dawn he hurried to the palace quarter and, sought the guard barracks, where the crystal token Unggor had given him gained him quick entry to the captain himself, whom he found propped on pillows, his burly shoulder swathed in bandages.

Unggor’s heavy face lightened at the sight of him, and he hailed him with loud welcome, ordering breakfast for the two of them and bidding Janchan be seated.

“My aides bore me away to safety too swiftly last night for me to thank you adequately for coming to my assistance as you did; permit me, then, to offer you my thanks now.”

“You need say nothing.” Janchan smiled. “I have always thought three against one to be rather unfair odds. How is your wound?”

Unggor shrugged, then winced at the pain. “A trifle, although it will be days before I can use my sword-arm with ease.” Gesturing to the heavily-laden tray a subordinate set on a low taboret between them, he invited Janchan to help himself, which the princeling did without ceremony, being famished. Smoked fish and spiced meat and cheese were a Spartan repast, but appetite made a sauce that rendered the simplest meal delicious, he found. While they ate, they looked each other over candidly.

Unggor was a grizzled veteran in his middle years, heavy-set and burly-shouldered, with keen dark eyes and a massive jaw marked with an old knife-wound. His demeanor was gruff and curt, but he was obviously a man who repays his debts willingly.

“In what way can I requite your kindness in helping to fight off the Assassins?” he inquired. Janchan shrugged and laughed.

“You can offer me employment, to be frank. I have been two days here in Ardha and my purse is somewhat deflated.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Unggor said. “You are a personable young man and an adroit hand with a blade. You seem intelligent and well-spoken, and I suspect a man of breeding. Where have you served before coming to Ardha, and in what capacity?”

“Kamadhong, where I was a lieutenant in the monarch’s guard,” Janchan said.

“And why did you leave so favored a position?”

Janchan grinned ruefully. “The colonel of the guard had a mistress who was wont to cast lingering glances on young lieutenants who were not exactly ugly. I fear she cast one glance too many on this lieutenant, for my commission was canceled rather abruptly and it was intimated to me that Kamadhong could do without my presence. I came hither, hoping to repair my fortunes.”

Unggor was watching him thoughtfully.

“Why to Ardha, rather than Phaolon, which would have been a briefer journey for you to undertake?” he inquired keenly.

“Briefer, yes, but perhaps costly in the long run. For rumor had it among the guardsmen of Kamadhong that the Jewel City would ere long suffer siege or invasion at the hands of the Ardhanese.”

“All the easier, then, to procure employment,” Unggor said shrewdly. “A city in danger of war pays well for swordsmen.”

Janchan was sweating under his garments, but maintained a frank and casual manner. The captain of the King’s Guard was no fool, and mere gratitude would not prove sufficient to allay his suspicions. It might have occurred to him that the assassination attempt had been a ruse, designed to enable an agent of his enemy to procure a position within the palace.

Janchan met his gaze openly. “I prefer to enlist on the winning side,” he said. “I am chivalrous enough to lend my sword to an unequal struggle, but heroism has its limits and in war I prefer to stand with the victor.”

Unggor burst out laughing, and slapped his knee with his good hand.

“An honest answer, and one I understand.” He grinned. “Well, swordsman, unfortunately the Royal Guard is reserved to those of noble Ardhanese birth; but I am free to choose my own personal entourage, and you may join my retinue if you desire. Clothing and quarters are paid for by our royal master, and your salary is ten gampoks the quarter. What say you to this?”

“A hungry man is a willing worker,” Janchan observed. “My Captain, I am yours to command!”

Janchan entered the royal service without further ado and was assigned quarters in the guard barracks near the palace enclosure that same morning. Unggor’s chief lieutenant, a tall, dour-faced warrior call Ultho, saw that he was equipped with full kit and mess tokens and bedding, and left him to his own devices until the noon muster. Janchan had a small cubicle to himself in the central hall of the barracks, and its furnishings consisted of a woven-reed pallet and a small taboret, with a wall cupboard for his gear. This gear consisted of a gilt cuirass and plumed helm, a long surcoat of yellow silk with the black emblazonry of Akhmim on its breast, and a change of tunics, likewise yellow and black. When he was on guard mount or parade duty, he would draw from the armory buckler, spear, and war boots.

The personal entourage of the captain of the Royal Guard was a handpicked squad of about a dozen warriors, drawn from all levels of Ardhanese society, the prime requisite of their position being weapons expertise, war experience, and their personal loyalty to their chief. Janchan found this refreshingly informal after the tight aristocratic caste system familiar to him from his days in Phaolon; the Jewel City had a rigid aristocracy in which name and breeding counted for everything, and one’s station in society was a matter of birth rather than excellence. There were certain elements to the Ardhanese civilization he found preferable to the static culture of Phaolon, he was forced to admit.

His duties were neither arduous nor complicated. Every third day he stood night-guard before the apartments of his captain, and was required to accompany Unggor when he went abroad in the city or attended the court, to shield him against the ever-present danger of assassination. Thus Janchan had several opportunities to observe at close hand the Tyrant of Ardha, whom he had never seen. This Akhmim, who had been such a fanatic enemy of the Phaolonians, was a tall, gaunt man with cold eyes and a vicious mouth, with a sharp tongue and suspicious manner. He chafed visibly at the stalemate into which the wiles of Arjala had placed him, and Janchan accompanied Unggor to many palace councils devoted to plans for the disruption of the Temple Faction.

This Arjala, he learned, was hereditary archpriestess of the Temple, and was considered the avatar or reincarnation of the Goddess, and had been from birth. The Goddess in question was rarely worshiped in Janchan’s homeland, Phaolon, and he was thus unfamiliar with her cult. She was a nameless divinity, like most of the higher Gods of the Laonese, who consider that to know the True Name of any being gives one a certain degree of control over that entity. Hence most personal names used by the people of the Green Star World are in the nature of pseudonyms, their True Names being closely-guarded secrets. To know the True Name of a God would be an impiety of the highest degree, of course.

To be the Goddess Incarnate, and thus supreme head of the Ardhanese religion, would be power enough to suit the most ambitious appetite, Janchan thought. But Arjala would not be satisfied until her temporal authority matched her spiritual power, and the queenship of Ardha was her dearest desire. At present, she and Akhmim were evenly matched in their power struggle; but before many days had passed, this balance of power was to change in a surprising manner…

The Flower Boat Festival drew near, and the palace guardsmen were issued special adornments for the occasion. This event celebrated the birth of the Divine Dynasty which ruled both The World Above and The World Below; the Festival consisted of processions, feasts, regattas, and religious rituals. As Akhmim had very special reasons for wanting to flaunt the royal authority before the rival factions, he spared no expense to insure that his procession should outshine all others, especially that to be led by Holy Arjala.

The treasury was opened, and the Royal Guards were outfitted with stunning accouterments; each was to wear a cuirass of solid xorons, which are sparkling yellow crystals.

Their helms were to be fashioned entirely of the precious black metal the Laonese call arbium, and they were to wear cloaks of woven metal adorned with rows of alternately yellow and black sequins of precious metal. The cumulative effect should be stunning; each guardsman would be wearing the equivalent of the wealth of a subprovince. As for Akhmim, the monarch himself would ride in the procession in a shell-like chariot drawn by matched dhua and carved from pure sparkling kaolon. Janchan’s comrades felt certain the processions of their rivals would make a poor showing against so ostentatious a display; in particular, the Temple procession was expected to suffer by comparison.

Matters turned out otherwise, though, as they often do.

The day of the Festival dawned bright and clear. Trumpets rang from spire and tower; banners unrolled on the breeze their rich heraldic imagery; children strewed the streets of Ardha with blossoms. Glittering in the dazzle of sunlight, the Royal procession rolled from the palace enclosure and entered the major avenue of the city, which was known as the Ptolian Way.

At the same moment the gates of the Temple were thrust ajar and Holy Arjala rode forth in a mighty chariot covered with sparkling jewels. She was a stunningly handsome woman, her white-gold mane floating behind her like a silken banner, her breasts cupped in hollowed, enormous rubies. She bore the attributes of the Goddess, a jewel-studded Wheel and a stylized Thunderbolt of precious azure jaonce. In her train walked a hundred virgins, a hundred priests, and her personal guard of a hundred warriors, robed in scintillant mail. Vast bowls of incense were borne to either side of the procession, their fumy vapors fragrant on the fresh morning air.

Before the chariot of Arjala walked her archpriest and pontiff, a towering man of impressive mien and stentorian voice.

Both processions wound their way slowly from opposite sides of Ardha toward the great Forum of the Ptolian Kings at the heart of the metropolis. The procession of Akhmim amazed the populace with its display of costly gems and metals; the procession of Arjala, however, struck awe and wonder into its heart, but for an entirely different reason. They met at the center of the enormous stone plaza, and a gasp of amazement went up from the Royal Faction when they beheld what rode with Arjala in her jewel-studded chariot. Silence fell over the immense throng. Akhmim paled and bit his lip with vexation.

Into the silence the deep voice of Arjala’s pontiff boomed out a proclamation, timed for maximum effect.

“Behold, O King of Ardhal Behold, O our beloved and faithful subjects! The Lords of The World Above have honored the Holy Goddess Arjala above all mortals and the hour of Her divine apotheosis is come! The Divine Ones now command that the ceremonial nuptials of King and Goddess be celebrated without delay… and in token of this, behold the blessed messenger of the Gods who hath descended to The World Below to bear the commandment!”

There could be no doubt even in the minds of Akhmim’s most loyal faction, for there, bearing the sacred torch that was his emblem, a winged and terrible amphashand rode behind Arjala.

And only Janchan knew him for Zarqa the Kalood!

Chapter 18 DANGEROUS MISSION

Arjala had stage-managed her apotheosis with a superb sense of drama. When her huntsmen brought to her the captive Kalood, she knew at once what the creature was, for she had read the ancient legends of his race, and, although she had always considered the Winged Men to be merely creatures of myth, she was clever enough to revise her opinions when evidence appeared to the contrary.

The Kalood was enough like the amphashands her religion taught were the blessed messengers of the Gods to pass for one with a bit of makeup. In fact, it now seemed likely the amphashands of legend were based on early Laonese memories of the last surviving Kaloodha. For the sacred scriptures described these heavenly messengers as winged men in golden armor, taller and nobler than mortal men, and with imposing beards and flowing manes. The golden armor was evidently mistaken for the leathery, pale-gold hide of the naked Kaloodha, and the beards must be purely the result of human imagination, for Zarqa’s folk, like himself, were completely hairless. With the great Flower Boat Festival only twelve days away, the Goddess instantly perceived what a dramatic coup it would be to ride in procession with a heavenly messenger accompanying her. She instantly began spouting commands. Her physicians were to work night and day to heal the injuries Zarqa had suffered from her huntsmen, and strict secrecy was imposed on the entire Temple staff, who were sternly warned not to utter a word concerning this gift that had come down from the skies, on peril of their lives. As they well knew the fiery temper of their divine mistress, and had more than once felt the lash of her wrath, they complied. Thus, no slightest hint of the coming revelation reached the ears of Akhmim’s spies.

The day of Festival dragged through somehow. The regatta of flower-decorated boats, the aerial races of zaiph-drawn chariots, the ceremonial games and dances. And through them all, Akhmim seethed and simmered, seated in the high cupola of honor, with the smug, smiling Arjala at his side. He was forced to defer to her at every turn, and his humiliation was almost more than he could bear, as were the gloating glances she cast at him from time to time, and the demure but pointed remarks she made concerning their coming nuptials. There was absolutely nothing he could do except nod and smile; but once the Festival was over and he had returned to the palace, he paced his council chamber like a raging beast, summoning his councillors, among whom came Unggor, with Janchan in his train.

Plan after plan was offered, discussed, and ultimately rejected. Akhmim was not above having Arjala poisoned or done away with in some similar manner; then it was pointed out to him that she had already purchased the allegiance of the powerful Assassins’ Guild, and there was no one else to do the deed but one of the Assassins.

One of the royal councillors, however, had a plan that merited some thought. This was a plump, placid, Buddha-like little man, the Lord Onqqua, who served as chamberlain to the Tyrant.

“Sire, if it is impossible to do away with Arjala herself, it has yet to be demonstrated impossible to do away with her amphashand,” he purred in a buttery voice.

Akhmim shot him a keen glance from cold, slitted eyes.

“Go on,” he grated in a harsh voice. The fat little chamberlain rubbed his jeweled fingers together judiciously.

“I will warrant that few of us are so credulous as to entertain any belief that this peculiar winged creature is actually an amphashand. Whatever it may be, it is a living monster, doubtless some inhabitant of the upper skies, either sold to Arjala or captured by her. The creature has the light of intelligence in its eyes; I studied it carefully, during the pontiff’s oration. But whether it is merely a manlike and winged beast or some species of intelligent being, it doubtless desires its freedom. Well, I submit that we should set it free.”

“What good would come of that?” snapped Akhmim peevishly.

The chamberlain spread his hands with a benign smile.

“Why, the poor creature would fly away home… leaving Arjala without an amphashand to support, by its very existence, her claim to apotheosis. Helpless to display the winged monster before the people, to further dazzle and impress them, it becomes her word against ours—her interpretation of the message, I should say. For who is to say that Arjala had correctly understood the commandment borne to her by the blessed messenger of The World Above?”

“Well, who is to say she hasn’t?” Akhmim snarled.

“We are, Sire; or, rather, you are. For we can give it out that on the very night of the great Festival, the amphashand left the quarters of Arjala and flew into your own chambers, with the word that in her haste and impatience the Holy Arjala perverted or misinterpreted or failed to fully understand the essential meaning of the message the blessed one bore to her from the Gods. The meaning of her apotheosis is that the Gods desire to raise her at once among them; that is, Sire, that she must die…”

A gleam came into the eyes of Akhmim.

“Not bad, Onqqua… really, not bad at all… but will anyone swallow it?”

The Buddha-like little man smiled gently.

“Everyone will, Sire—since Arjala will not be able to produce the winged messenger in person and thus refute your claim that he left her to visit you.”

Akhmim rubbed his long chin and smiled a reluctant smile.

“I perceive considerable merit in your plan, Onqqua; yes, there is much to it. However, with the Assassins pledged to the support of the Temple, who is to steal into the Temple precincts and release the flying monster?”

“Preferably, someone unknown to the Temple priests; any common citizen may enter the major shrines at any hour of day or night without question. Once that has been accomplished, it will require tact, intelligence, stealth, and cunning to traverse the private regions of the complex and locate the suite wherein the flying monster is imprisoned. Thus, I suggest we recruit one whose face will not be known to the Temple staff, and certainly one who has not identified himself with the Throne Faction.”

“Yes, it becomes better and better, my lord chamberlain,” the Tyrant said, smiling craftily. “Now—where can we find such a man?”

“He stands before you, O King,” said Janchan of Phaolon.

The Temple rose on the opposite side of the city from the palace enclosure. The streets were packed with carousing citizens, and every wineshop and alehouse and pleasure garden was crowded with celebrants on this Festival night. Janchan found it difficult to find a zaiph for public hire, but eventually he haled one, paid its driver and, settling back in the rear saddle, let himself be flown across Ardha to where the squat Temple reared its height among lesser structures.

Tipping the driver liberally, and affecting a drunken stagger, Janchan drew the gaudy festival cape closely about him and lurched up the steps and into the central nave. Coils of incense floated on the air; votive lamps glowed like burning eyes through the gloom; the vast dome above echoed to the shuffle of many feet, the drone of priests, the mumbled prayers of hundreds of worshipers.

He worked his way around the subsidiary shrines which lay beyond the central nave, separated from the main hall by an arcade of ornate columns. Eventually he found one devoted to the Spider God that was dark and deserted. Without a moment’s hesitation he whisked off his bright cape and tucked it beneath the black jerkin it had concealed. Then he drew the cowl tight about his features, pulled black gloves on his hands, and jumped up, clinging to the interstices of the further wall. He began to climb it, hand over hand.

It was not such a difficult feat as it sounds. The marble was pierced in ten thousand places in an elaborate fretwork that was like stone lace. Slipping through to the other side of the fretwork wall he began to ascend the outer surface of the enormous dome. There was very little danger of being seen, for the worshipers who thronged the cathedral-like nave beneath his heels were rapt on their devotions, and he would be hard to see, a crawling shadow in the dim gloom above their heads.

By the time he had ascended to the height of the third story, he crawled out along a spar of stone and descended the body of an enormous mythological caryatid, coming to the floor of a corridor. This part of the Temple, the King’s councillors had told him, was private. Somewhere in this story or the one above he was most likely to find the winged creature locked away.

And the Princess Niamh as well… but Akhmim knew nothing of his hopes in that direction. For Janchan had boldly planned to accomplish the freeing of two captives this night, not one!

The corridor was empty. It was also poorly lit, only a few fat tapers were surmounted by wavering flames, and these were too few and too far apart to do little more than merely alleviate the darkness. He slunk down the corridor on stealthy feet, using his mind to call telepathically to Zarqa.

When Onqqua had vocalized his plan to free the Kalood, and Akhmim had wondered aloud where they might find a loyal man unknown to the Temple Faction, Janchan had volunteered his services on the spur of the moment. At first the councillors were incredulous; then they realized that since he had only been in the service of Unggor for some twelve days, no one was likely to have even noticed his very existence as of yet. Akhmim, eyeing him shrewdly, demanded why a foreigner new to Ardha should so willingly volunteer for so dangerous a mission, since his loyalties were new and untested. Janchan had replied, with seeming candor, that he could hope for no better way to come to the favorable attention of the highest men in the realm than by succeeding in this task. He managed to get across the impression that he was an unscrupulous and ambitious young soldier-of-fortune, who meant to rise in the ranks as rapidly and as high as possible, and didn’t fear to risk his skin in the ascent.

It was really this last point that won Akhmim’s approval for the scheme. The Tyrant, an ambitious man of few scruples, admired these same qualities in others; or, at least, could understand them, as he shared the same himself.

And so it was arranged. Raiment was chosen for him, money laid out, archivists roused from slumber to unroll maps of the Temple precincts for his quick scrutiny. He determined to attempt the deed that very night. To delay the attempt even another hour meant to stand idly by while the balance of power dipped ever more in Arjala’s favor.

Akhmim liked that idea, too. With dawn, as his people stirred with aching heads and fuzzy tongues after the excesses of the night, they would rise to find his royal proclamation of Arjala’s misconception of the heavenly decree blazoned on every wall and placard…

Suddenly, Janchan froze motionlessly.

A sound of muffled sobbing came to him from beyond the door at which he had paused. Janchan knew that Zarqa was unequipped with vocal apparatus; yet there was desperation in that muffled weeping. On impulse he put his eye against the grating and peered within.

And saw Niamh the Fair, the long-sought Princess of Phaolon!

Chapter 19 WHEN COMRADES MEET

The door was a heavily carved and ornamented slab of wood—but it was barred from the outside! It was the work of an instant to slide back the bar, open the door, and slip within, closing it behind him.

Sprawled on a silken divan, Niamh glanced up suddenly. Her enormous and brilliant eyes widened with astonishment at the sight of this grim, black-clad phantom which had materialized out of the gloom. Then it raised black-clad hands to strip away the cloth that hid its features from her. And, to her utter amazement, they were the features of a man well known to her.

“Is is—can it be—?” she faltered.

The lithe young swordsman cast himself at her feet.

“It is Janchan of the Ptolnim who kneels at your feet, my Princess! Your servant—and your slave.”

The girl was dazed, like one who wakens from sleep, yet is unsure as to whether she still dreams.

“Prince Janchan… here?” she murmured in bewilderment.

“But one of the many of your court, my Princess, who have vowed themselves to unending quest until you are set free and returned to your throne unharmed,” he said.

She raised slim wrists to press back her floating, silvery hair.

“But… how have you come here, into the very citadel of my enemies?”

“My Princess—there is no time for questions now, and even less for answers! We must quickly leave this place, before my presence is discovered. Have you a cloak and hood to hide yourself?”

She gestured toward a wardrobe across the dim-lit room, saying there might be one within. He sprang to his feet and searched through its contents swiftly, drawing out a long, night-blue narjeeb which he bade her don, and quickly.

“I search for yet a second captive, who may be somewhere hereabouts,” he said tersely. “Know you aught of a winged, gold-skinned man—”

“Do you mean the Kalood whom Arjala calls her amphashand?”

“The very same,” Janchan said, grinning with relief. “Where is he held?”

The princess indicated a room on the story above. Janchan thought swiftly; to attempt to gain the upper story with the princess at his side might prove dangerous, and her presence an encumbrance to him if he should have to fight a guard. Perhaps it would be better to leave her here, bolting the door as before, and return to bear her to safety once Zarqa was freed. In swift, curt phrases he appraised her of his plan, and she agreed, tossing the voluminous narjeeb aside so it could be donned instantly at need.

“Does your chamber always go unguarded?” he asked. She answered that two guards stood at her door night and day, and that if they were missing tonight, it must be that Festival services must be overcrowded this night of all nights, drawing them to temporary duties elsewhere.

“And what of the Lord Chong?” he asked. “Was he captured with you, and is he imprisoned nearby?”

An expression of acute suffering passed across her perfect features; her exquisite eyes dimmed with tears.

“He… died, defending me, when we attempted our escape from the outlaws,” she said in a low voice whose words he could hardly hear.

“Died? Gods—what a loss! The nation shares your sorrow at the demise of your champion, my Princess! But now I must be gone, for there is yet much to do and the night is all too short.”

He saluted her and swiftly left the chamber, his heart high, exultant. He had hoped to find and free both Niamh and Zarqa… and it seemed the Gods were with him on this venture, in all truth!

The stairway leading to the floor above was as deserted as the corridor. Janchan ascended it, one hand on the hilt of his weapon. Without particular difficulty, he found the suite Niamh had indicated. The door thereof, also a massive slab of carved wood, was sealed with a heavy bar, which he slid aside.

Within he found Zarqa shackled to a bedpost. The sad-eyed Kalood evinced no surprise at his appearance, having detected the approach of Janchan through his telepathic senses.

The chains were of glassteel and thus unbreakable, but the bedpost itself was of wood and Janchan hacked through it with his sword with some little labor. Then it was an easy matter to slide the chains off. Zarqa rubbed his lean wrists gratefully.

My captors have imprisoned me in surroundings of considerable luxury, as you can see, he said. Still, the caged dhua longs for its freedom, however golden the bars.

Janchan smiled; Arjala had certainly lodged her heavenly prisoner in a sumptuous cell, for the walls were hung with jeweled draperies of rare silks, and goblets and dishes of sweetmeats and fruits stood about on taborets of precious woods inlaid with ivory mosaics. In a terse, low tone and few words Janchan apprised the Winged Man of the situation, and of his plans.

“So you must fly from here, recover the skysled, and return to take us aboard,” he said urgently. “I hope your wing-wound has healed so that you are air-worthy by now, for it is hopeless to trust that we three can find our way out of the Temple precincts on foot, as easily as I got in.”

Zarqa nodded solemnly. The Temple physicians have lavished the extent of their healing arts upon my wing-joint, and, although my wings are stiff and lame from inactivity, I will, I trust, be able to fly a brief distance. But how will I recognize the window of the princess’ suite?

“We will leave a lamp burning within it,” Janchan said. “One more thing occurs to me. With the two of us aboard, and Karn, and now the added weight of the princess, will the skysled be able to fly? I have no idea of its weight capacity…” His voice trailed off at sight of the expression on Zarqa’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Normally glum, the Kalood’s visage wore an expression of deepest sorrow.

You will not, I fear, have to worry about weight, the Winged Man telepathed. The boy crept away in the night—the same night you left us. Perhaps I should have anticipated some such thing, for it was obvious how deeply he missed not being permitted to accompany you on this adventure.

“Well, where is he?”

The Kalood gave an eloquent shrug. I fear his spirit has fled to The World Above, as you would say. With dawn, when I discovered him missing, I searched through most of the tree. I found the signs of a struggle, and a great quantity of blood; but I did not find Karn.

This was indeed grim news, and Janchan’s heart saddened.

“You are not sure he’s dead, though; he might, after all, have escaped victorious, and the blood you found could be the blood of the thing he fought.”

Perhaps you are right. I certainly hope so. But, in any case, we have no idea where to begin looking for him, and to carry the Princess of Phaolon to safety must be our chiefest concern. With a roused and angry city stirred up like a zzumalak-nest on news of the rescue of the princess, we could hardly afford to hover about, searching for the lost boy.

“I suppose you are correct,” Janchan said glumly. “Still, it is not right to just fly off and leave him to his own devices. After all, through him both you and I were freed from the captivity of Sarchimus…”

I agree, the Kalood said sadly, and I like the notion of leaving without certain knowledge that he is alive or dead no more than you. But I cannot help feeling that, somehow, he would understand. And, at all costs, we must get the princess free of the toils of Arjala.

Janchan nodded; there was no question of this. They went over to Zarqa’s window, which was barred with an ornamental grille of worked metal. Between the two of them it was not very difficult to pry the bars loose, employing the sawed bedpost as a lever. Soon they had widened sufficient space for the gaunt Kalood to squeeze through the bars.

Standing on the sill, Zarqa tested his wings gingerly once or twice, nodded his satisfaction, bade the prince farewell, and sailed off into the night.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Janchan thought to himself that everything was going according to his plan—thus far, at any rate.

Chapter 20 THE THING AT THE WINDOW

Janchan stole from Zarqa’s suite, barring the door behind him, and crept cautiously down the hall, and down the staircase, retracing his steps again to Niamh’s door.

But this time, things were a trifle different.

Two guards stood to either side of the barred door. Whatever the reason why they had left their post before his earlier visit to the princess, here they were back again, and two ugly and dangerous-looking louts they were.

Temple Guards, he knew, were eunuchs trained in the more obscure techniques of hand-to-hand fighting, since bladed weapons were forbidden by religious law to Temple servitors. Ordinary guards in the Temple ranks circumvented this churchly fiat by going armed with whips or staves or cudgels. But not the Temple eunuchs, who fought with their bare hands.

Both men were bald and very heavy, and taller by a full hand-span than the lithe young princeling. Their hands were enormous and muscular and bore ridges of calloused skin. They wore loose felt vests over their hairless chests, and baggy pantaloons, secured at their thick waists with voluminous cummerbunds.

From the curve of the stairs he watched them, thinking fast. He could think of no reliable way of getting past them. He certainly couldn’t talk his way through that wall of living flesh, and he was not at all certain he could get past them, even if he used his sword. He was reluctant to attempt a battle in any case—not because they were two to his one, but because they would undoubtedly raise a loud outcry, summoning help from below.

On impulse, he went back to the floor on which Zarqa had been imprisoned. Assuming the number of apartments along the hall was the same on this floor as it was on the floor below, he conceived of the daring scheme of climbing down the outer wall of the Temple and entering Niamh’s suite via the window.

Cautiously, he stole into the suite that was directly above Niamh’s; luckily, it was unoccupied. Even more to, the point, the window was unbarred. Obviously, the grille had been affixed to Zarqa’s window because of the danger of his escaping through flight. Ordinarily, it seemed, there was no reason in barring windows so high off the branch.

He stripped the bed of its satin spread, which he quickly cut into long strips with his blade, knotting these together into a makeshift rope. It was lengthy enough, he thought; it remained to be seen, however, whether or not it was strong enough to bear his weight without tearing or coming untied.

Winding one end around a pilaster of marble, he tossed the rest of the line out the open window, swung over the sill, took a firm hold of it, and let go with his feet.

Giddily, he swung through space, far above the paved forum below. Looking down, he was disconcerted to discover how high in the air he actually was. But he was not much disconcerted by the giddy height; like all Laonese, Janchan was immune to acrophobia.

Slowly he swung down, hand over hand..

The wind caught his cloak and spread it like black wings.

The pavement swung to and fro, two hundred feet under his heels.

The descent was not as difficult as it might have been. For one thing, the outer wall of the Temple was covered with carved ornament, which afforded him a variety of footholds. For another, he did not have to climb far, as the stories at this height were only about twenty-five feet apart.

At length his heel rasped against the stone of Niamh’s sill. Wooden shutters locked away the night wind, but he broke them open easily enough, and climbed in to greet the astonished girl.

The excitement of the promised rescue whipped color into her cheeks and brought a sparkle to her eyes. She laughed a bit excitedly.

“Last time you came in by the door; this time, by the window. What will it be next time—the flue of the chimney?”

He grinned, but laid a finger across his lips, enjoining her to silence.

“The guards are back outside your door,” he whispered. “Have you a lamp?”

“A lamp?” She frowned uncertainly.

He nodded and she fetched one, a hollowed sphere of lucent alabaster, filled with oil. At his gesture, she lighted the wick and he took it in both hands to set it on the windowsill, handing her the sword to hold.

A sound behind them—the rasp of sandal-leather.

They turned. The door stood open, and within the portal stood a tall woman between the two eunuchs. It would be hard to say which party was the most surprised.

The woman was superb and voluptuous, with full breasts cupped in sparkling blue jaonce and a girdle of strung pearls clasping her waist and draped across her swelling thighs. A bright red gem glittered in her navel, and her silky hair, faintly luminous with gold highlights, was woven through with small metal bells which chimed sweetly as she tossed her head, tiara flashing.

She stared at them incredulously. Under arched brows, her eyes were wells of amber flame, and her lips were full, moistly scarlet. She was remarkably beautiful, but her face was cold, proud, imperious, and lacked the softness and warmth that could have made it womanly.

It was, of course, Holy Arjala. Janchan was never to know what had impelled her to come to Niamh’s chamber on this night of Festival; suffice it to say that she had come at the worst possible time. For now her nostrils flared, her face whitened with fury, and she gestured with a small ceremonial jeweled whip.

The huge eunuchs lumbered forward, their calloused hands swinging from anthropoid shoulders, lamplight gleaming on their oiled torsos.

Janchan was disarmed. He had handed his sword to Niamh, while taking up the lamp. And now it was out of reach, for at the sight of the Goddess Incarnate the princess had shrunk back against the window.

He had nothing to fight with but the heavy bowl of alabaster, filled with liquid fire. So he hurled it at the first eunuch just as the huge creature sprang at him with a soundless snarl, massive paws flashing for his throat, to crush and maim.

The bowl caught him on the skull like a hammer-blow and shattered his skull. It, too, shattered, and rivulets of flaming oil ran across the floor in every direction. The heavy draperies with which the walls were hung went up in a sheet of flame; the heavily waxed parquet flooring ignited in a flash, and within a few seconds the room was a roaring inferno.

Arjala had leaped to the left of her eunuch when the lamp struck him, and she was now within reach of Janchan. She whirled on him, her face ablaze with fury, and struck out with the little jeweled whip. He seized it, twisted it from her hand, and flung her from him. She reeled back and fell against a table, striking her head. She lay there, stunned, a trickle of blood leaking down between her breasts from a small cut on her brow.

The second eunuch still lived, but there was nothing he could do, for a wall of seething flame now divided him from his mistress and the two they had surprised in attempting to escape.

He turned and ran from the room. But he did not call out to rouse the guards on the lower levels, which was peculiar. The answer flashed into Janchan’s mind, and he grinned slightly.

The Temple surgeons had cut more from the two eunuchs than just their gender. Janchan uttered a grim, ironic laugh. All of this mess had come about because he thought it too dangerous to try to cut down the guards with his blade, because he feared they would yell for assistance and rouse the place.

But they had been tongueless mutes, all the while!

They were doomed, of course. The room was a blinding furnace by now. Waves of heat baked them, singeing the floating silken locks off the princess and scorching the edges of Janchan’s cloak. They could escape the flames only by leaping from the window to the distant tiles far below. It was certain death; still, it was faster and cleaner than what they would face if they stayed here. For here they would be burned alive.

Suddenly, Janchan thought of the dangling satin cord whereby he had climbed down from the floor above! It still dangled before the open window, and by it perhaps they could climb to a higher level. It might thrust them into the hands of Temple Guards, for the halls must be alive with them by now, but even capture was preferable to death.

He bent to take up the limp body of Arjala. Enemy or not, he could not leave her here to die in the flames. That was too terrible a death to envision for one so beautiful, and he was too innately chivalrous to leave the helpless woman to such a doom.

Behind him, Niamh crouched against the window, staring into the flames.

Suddenly, from behind, a great clawed hand touched her shoulder, and she whirled about to stare into a weirdly inhuman face that peered down at her like something from a nightmare.

As its claws clutched her by the shoulders she screamed.