But just what kind of a night, I had no slightest inkling.
The house of Gurjan Tor rose on the outskirts of Ardha, in a dingy and furtive quarter of the city, given over to crooked alleys, grimy wineshops, slums, and hovels.
We ascended by curving ramps to the roof of the building. There rose covered pens in which zaiphs and dhua were tethered. For our purpose, Klygon had selected two especially trained zaiphs. I have elsewhere in these chronicles had occasion to describe the peculiar flying steeds used by the Laonese in lieu of horses. They resemble nothing so much as mailed and glittering dragonflies grown to the size of Percherons. Because of their sparkling, transparent wings and glistening armor-like chitin, you might think them an odd choice for a night mission of the greatest stealth and secrecy, since the slightest glimmer of reflection could easily betray our position to watchful guards. Well, the astute Klygon had anticipated this, and the twin zaiphs he had chosen for our steeds had been painted on their horny parts with a dull, nonreflecting tarry substance. As for heir oval, elongated, glassy wings, these had been dulled and darkened with sooty powder.
We mounted the saddles strapped about the upper thorax of our winged steeds. I gathered the reins in my hand as the zaiph-keepers strapped us in against danger of falling. There came the humming thunder of beating wings. The enormous insects rose from the roof, circled the house of Gurjan Tor once, and they soared off through the night sky in the direction of the Temple precinct.
We did not permit our zaiphs to perch on the Temple roof, for here the Temple Guards kept their own zaiphs penned and the usual keepers were doubtless about; we could hardly have landed without protection. Instead, we guided our mounts to the level above that described by Gurjan Tor as the apartment in which Zarqa the Kalood was imprisoned. Then the zaiphs hovered on throbbing vans while Klygon and I unstrapped ourselves from the saddles and climbed out onto the face of the building. The ornamental sculpture wherewith the Laonese customarily adorn their buildings, sometimes to the point of excess, naturally afforded us a variety of hand-and footholds. Thus neither Klygon nor I found it particularly difficult to climb down the outer wall to a ledge whereon we could stand erect.
As we slithered down the wall toward the ledge, I reflected wryly yet again on the fortunate fact that the Laonese do not suffer from the fear of heights; for what I was then engaged in doing—creeping down the sheer face of a building hundreds of feet above the pavement, clinging by my fingers and toes alone—would have petrified most Earthmen with utter terror.
We gained the ledge in safety and I secured one end of my Live Rope about a heavy caryatid and let the line dangle down to the window of Niamh’s suite.
As I did so I heard a muffled explosion, followed by a shrill cry of fear.
I climbed over the ledge on my belly and seized hold of the line, thinking nothing in particular about the sounds I had heard. Just then my thoughts were filled with the problem of Klygon and how to rid myself of his presence without having to kill him. I was also preoccupied with the problem of clambering down the line, for the Live Rope we had taken from Sarchimus’ tower was slick and glassy and not easy to get a grip on.
Then a ruddy light steamed through the window below my heels and I heard the crackle of flames!
I didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on in Niamh’s suite, but it was obvious some kind of accident had occurred and the possibility that my beloved was in danger spurred me to new feats of agility.
I clambered further down the line toward her window, through which flames now crackled.
Above me on the edge, Klygon knelt, steadying the line.
And then there occurred the most incredible and unexpected sequence of events imaginable. So swiftly did it happen that it was over in seconds, and there was a dreamlike unreality about it all.
As I clung to the line, descending toward Niamh’s window, but still some yards above it, invisible in my black cloak and garments against view from below, something came hurtling out of the night to hover before the window which was my goal.
It was the skysled, with Zarqa mounted upon it!
The sled came to a stop before the window and the gaunt Kalood reached across the sill to touch someone on the shoulder, and I heard a woman scream.
A fraction of a second later the arms of a stalwart young man appeared, lifting the slim body of a girl out onto the sled.
The girl was Niamh!
A moment later, the young man—Prince Janchan—appeared in the window bearing an unconscious woman of remarkable and vivid beauty. From the gemmed coronet and breastplates and girdle she wore, I was certain she could be none other than Arjala herself.
He lifted her into the waiting arms of Zarqa, who deposited her beside Niamh in the rear of the sled.
Then he sprang from the inferno the room had swiftly become and clambered upon the sled himself.
And, so swiftly had all of this taken place, that still I hung there, clinging to the line, frozen with shock, unable to speak or move or even to cry out.
And in the very next instant the sled swung away, bearing left, and flashed from sight.
I hung there helplessly, as Zarqa the Kalood and Prince Janchan flew to safety, bearing away Niamh the Fair—leaving me behind, dangling far above the street, at the mercy of the Assassins, in the city of my enemies in which I no longer had one single friend!
Editor’s Note
The First National Bank of Harritton, Connecticut, holds in its vaults a safe deposit box registered in the name of one of the oldest and most distinguished families of the state. Upon the demise of the last surviving member of this family, pursuant to instructions written into his will, the box was opened by three senior members of the legal firm of Brinton, Brinton, and Carruthers, who discovered therein a number of manuscript journals.
These manuscripts related a narrative of marvels and adventures upon a remote world. Although told in the first person, they were of so fantastic a nature that the lawyers were reluctant to release them for publication, as the will clearly stipulated. I suspect the reason for this reluctance on the part of the lawyers was that if the documents were accepted on face value the weird and uncanny narrative might throw suspicion upon the sanity of their author, which could throw into dispute the divisions of his property as set forth in the will; but this is only a guess on my part.
It was the younger son of the senior member of the firm who brought me into the picture. I had met this young man at several science fiction conventions in Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, and know him as an enthusiast of fantasy in general and of my own novels and stories in particular. He persuaded his father to arrange a meeting with me at my Long Island home where the details of a peculiar arrangement were discussed and the manuscripts were given into my possession.
This young man (whom I will call Tom Anderson, although that is not his name) was well aware of my anomalous position in the genre of imaginative fiction. That is, not only am I an author, but also an editor of fantasy.
In my editorial capacity, it was thought I might well arrange the publications of the journals. Brinton, Brinton, and Carruthers had no objection to releasing the journals for publication but desired that the family name should be kept out of the picture. The family is one of the oldest in Connecticut and has given two governors and three senators to the state, and so distinguished and reputable a name, it was thought, should not be linked with novels of such extravagant imagination.