“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?”