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.