I announced myself an admirer of his art, come to view such masterpieces as the portrait named “Xana of Kanator,” which I had but recently seen for the first time, and, perchance, to purchase a canvas or two, if the price did not exceed my modest means.
At the mention of my purchasing a painting, the old man warmed to something resembling good humor, and even displayed some rudimentary sense of hospitality, affably bidding me ascend to the second story where he maintained his studio, and, once I had entered, whisking dusty cloths and plaster forms from a low bench to provide me with a seat.
This Quindus Varro was a man of severely advanced years such as are seldom encountered on Mars, where a man may keep the trim, supple figure and unlined face of youth for centuries, and where by far the greater portion of inhabitants succumb to violent deaths before age wrinkles their lineaments or whitens their hirsute adornments. He was remarkably ugly, too, which further served to set him apart from the common run of humankind upon this planet, where perfection of form and beauty of features are many times more common than on my native world. For a nose he displayed a swollen proboscis whose broken veins and sanguine hue suggested an overfondness for intoxicants. His face and wattled neck were a mass of sagging wrinkles, and his seamed brow was furrowed by cares or by the years under untidy snowy locks. His rheumy eyes were sharp and keen, however, and his tongue sharper yet. And, however unkempt his gown and person, I noticed that his brushes were scrupulously clean, his pots of paint immaculate, and the various tools and implements of his art were kept in perfect condition.
“You admire my ‘Xana,’ eh, Jad Tedron! Mediocre, my dear sir; oh, charming enough for its kind, I’ll grant you; but it pales into insignificance before some of my recent work. Come, let me show you the canvas upon which I am presently at work—”
Assuming an air of polite interest mingled with indifference, my beating heart belied, I interrupted to ask if he employed living models, or worked from imagination alone.
“In the case of your ‘Xana of Kanator,’ for instance,” I finished. “Is there such a woman, and, if so, where did you find her?”
Quindus Varro shrugged peevishly. “Oh, she was a high-born lady of Kanator. I did her portrait within the year, you know. This painting upon which I am currently at work, by the way, should interest a connoisseur of your taste and discernment profoundly: the delicate use of line, the subtle balance of color—”
I disengaged myself from Quindus Varro as soon as could decently be managed, purchasing a small, superb, deftly composed miniature, for which I paid easily twice what it was worth, and returned to my flier just as the swifter of the twin moons in its rapid traversement of the sky dipped below the horizon.
My heart palpitated within my bosom; my breath came in light, fast panting. “Xana of Kanator” had a living model! And now I knew where and how to find her, which was the sole purpose which would motivate my entire existence from this point of time forward into the unknown and mysterious future . . .
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.