It was nearly four o'clock in the morning. I must find some haven in which to hide before daylight exposed my alien coloring to all eyes.
I decided to dump my guard clothing. The first guard I passed might be suspicious of my presence. I was unfamiliar with the ranks in the guards of Zanadar, and I did not know password or salute. I retained the common leather tunic and girdle, which are worn by most Thanatorian warriors, as well as cloak, buskins, and baldric. But I got rid of my copper helmet and the blazon of the city, tossing them into a convenient trashcan. The cloak was a simple, unmarked garment of dark wool, with a cowl which I drew up to hide my hair and shadow my face. Then I set forth to explore the winding ways of the City in the Clouds.
As the skies brightened with dawn, I was passing down a broad avenue, keeping well to the shadows and avoiding the gaze of the chance passerby, when I glimpsed a dramatic tableau.
A dark alley thrust from one side of this broad boulevard, like the tributary of some mighty river. It ended in an enclosed courtyard. And there a lone man battled for his life against a growling circle, of oafish opponents.
I have always favored the underdog and I have never avoided a good fight. And besides, I could not in all conscience turn aside and pretend I had not seen a fellow human battling valiantly against impossible odds.
He was an elderly man, thin and slender, of middle height, with a short, neatly trimmed beard of iron gray and a leonine mane still streaked with black. He had cool, thoughtful eyes and a good jaw, and he stood with his back to the wall, not even deigning to cry for help, his agile, flickering blade holding at bay a dozen coarse-faced bullies armed with cutlass and cudgel. His blade had already accounted for four of the bravos, who lay dead at his feet, and as I came on the scene he evaded the backhanded blow of the biggest of his foes, sliding past the other's guard with a supple twist of the wrist, his blade flashing in and through the other's burly chest, and out again with a practiced recovery.
As the hulking bully swayed a moment on his feet, gurgling blood before crashing to the pave, I sprang on the scene with drawn rapier. I must have seemed like some apparition melting out of nothingness, so swift and silent had been my approach. Indeed, the man closest to me turned with a start, eyes goggling, as I sprang from the alley's mouth to drive my steel through his shoulder. His cutlass rang on the cobbles and his hoarse cry of astonishment and pain drew the attention of his fellows to the fact of my presence.
Surprise is always a strong advantage in any battle, and I managed to slay two of the mob before a sufficient number engaged my blade. Unlike my last experience in sword combat―my humiliating defeat at the hands of Prince Thuton―in which I was burdened with an unfamiliar Yathoon whip-sword, this time I fought with a slender rapier I had taken from the guard's body―a weapon much more to my liking. I engaged their blades and was soon fighting for my life.
The elderly man to whose aid I had come cast me a merry glance from bright, appraising eyes, and smiled grimly.
"I know not from whence you have sprung, friend, but you are most welcome indeed!" he greeted me.
I grinned recklessly. "My sense of chivalry will doubtlessly be the death of me yet, sir, but I thought you might not be so selfish as to keep this fight all to yourself."
He laughed. "I am unselfish to a fault―so pray help yourself!"
And then we were both too busy for any further jesting. We fought back to back for a while, each accounting for two more of the bullies. Eventually, and just before my arm began to tire, the foemen decided they had had enough, and disengaged. We permitted them to flee without pursuit, and then turned to salute each other.
"Your assistance was most timely, indeed, sir, and I thank you for it," my companion said with a smile and a nod of the head.
"Not at all; I have always thought twelve against one most unequal odds, and, besides, I felt the need of a little practice," I replied―having learned by now that on Thanator a warrior always depreciates his own skill and prowess.
"I was returning home from a late performance at the theater and had unwisely bade my companions goodnight, thus proceeding alone through an area not entirely safe. The street gang doubtless mistook me for a man of substance, and I doubt not they would have been heartily disappointed had they succeeded in cutting me down, only to find my purse perhaps leaner than their own," the elderly gentleman explained.
"And no leaner than mine own." I grinned. "Had both of us fallen, they would have had all that work for nothing."
"My home is not far. Will you share the hospitality of a warm hearth and a cup of wine, sir?" he asked in a courtly manner.
"I should be most glad to do so, as the night grows cold and I am far from my home," I said gratefully.
We strode through a passageway into another court where a red and black sorad tree lifted glistening leaves against the first light of dawn. Here my companion unlatched a door and gestured for me to proceed him.
"Be welcome, my friend, to the poor home of Lukor the Swordmaster, proprietor of the Academy Lukor and its sole tutor in the gentlemanly art of the blade," he said, offering me a comfortable chair before the fire. I introduced myself as Jandar, but did not mention a home city, saying only that I was a traveler from a faroff land. My host was too polite to ask further information.
It was a bare, spartan room, scrupulously neat and of immaculate cleanliness. The few articles of furniture were of the finest quality and the artworks, if inexpensive, were of superior skill. These were obviously the quarters of a gentleman of bachelor habits, aristocratic breeding, and slender fortunes. The Swordmaster took my cloak and his own, hung them in a closet, and left the room, inviting me to make myself comfortable before the fire.
In a moment he returned, bearing a wine service of fine if well-worn silver, two tall goblets and a chilled carafe of a light, dry wine of most excellent vintage, as well as a small platter of cold spiced meats, unfamiliar candied fruit, and the most delicious, crusty biscuits―a repast most welcome to one who had scooped greasy stew from a slave trough for the past few days.
We drank to each other's health and relaxed in the flickering warmth of the fire. It was a snug, cozy little room, mullioned windows bright with dawn, the air spicy with the scent of some subtle incense. I felt very comfortable and relaxed.
"So you are a swordmaster, sir? I should have guessed as much from the ease with which you were holding your own against a dozen foes."
"Aye, my friend. My name is not completely unknown among the masters of the art, I must confess; although the young nobles of this city, alas, regard the finer elements of swordplay as superfluous and frivolous pedantry! But permit me to return the compliment: your own performance was not without agility and adroitness, if a bit soft from lack of practice, if you will pardon the observation―the eye of the professional is too exacting, and I fear I display in. civility towards one whom I can only regard as my gallant rescuer!"
I smiled and said something to the effect that I had enjoyed insufficient leisure in recent weeks to keep in practice. "I gather from your words," I continued, "that the Academy Lukor is new to this city, and that Zanadar is not your native homeland?"
"Quite so: I am a Ganatolian," he said, naming a small city between Shondakor and Narouk, in the eastern foothills of the White Mountains. "There are already two schools of the sword in my native city, hence I adjourned to the realm of the warlike Sky Pirates, hoping to find a virgin field for my craft. Alas, my pupils have been few and my earnings insufficient to permit even the hiring of a second instructor."