They had, none of them, addressed a single word to Zarqa, although the older man, their leader, soon realized he was now conscious again. Perhaps they were afraid to speak to the winged creature armed with a lightning bolt, who might be either a horrible flying monster from the upper sky or a blessed messenger of the gods; more likely, thought Zarqa with grim humor, they did not think so inhuman a creature capable of speech. At any rate, while they bound him, Zarqa kept his silence. The touch of an alien mind might be too shocking an experience for men already possessed with superstitious awe.
They handled him with gingerly care, removing the black arrow from the joint of his wing, and placing his broken arm in a rude sling which they bound against his breast so that it would not be jolted causing him pain in travel. Then they put him in the hastily-improvised stretcher, bound him in with a couple of straps, and began making their way down the limb. Zarqa fainted twice during the passage, and, as it happened, was unconscious at the end of the journey.
It occurred to him that he was rather ineffectual. In attempting to rescue the boy Karn, he had himself become a captive.
And so they bore Zarqa the Kalood down to the limb upon which their zaiphs were tethered and bundled him into a wain drawn by a team of enormous moths called dhua. The wain had obviously been intended to carry the bodies of the beasts they had hoped to take in their hunt.
Instead, they had taken a far stranger and rarer prey.
The hunters mounted; their dragonfly steeds arose on thrumming fans of sparkling opal. They left the branch one by one and soared between the trees and came circling down in the inner precincts of Ardha. And the heart of Zarqa sank within him as he discerned the nature of the enormous building in whose courtyard they landed.
It was the Temple of the Gods, and the Arjala of whom the hunters had spoken must be the priestess or prophetess of the Temple. And who in all Ardha should know better than she that he was no amphashand?
Part 4
THE BOOK OF JANCHAN OF PHAOLON
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.”