Then, eyeing me with polite inquiry, he turned the subject of our conversation to me.
"But you, sir; obviously, you are not. native to Zanadar either, for never have I met a gentleman of your unique coloring of flesh, hair, and eyes. May one inquire, without offense―?"
"I, too, am a stranger here," I admitted. Then, in a rush of honesty, I went on to say that although born in Rio and tutored at Yale, I had most recently lived in Vietnam before departing for these regions.
These terrene names, of course, were unknown to him. Lukor considered them gravely, then observed: "They must certainly be far distant, these lands whereof I have not heard. I assume the people of your homeland visit these regions but rarely?"
"Most rarely, indeed," I said―truthfully―"in fact, so far as I know, I am the first visitor from my homelands to these parts."
Conversation languished for a bit. I blinked sleepily, lulled by the superb wine and the warmth of the fire. Perhaps I even dozed a bit―after all, I had not slept a wink this night. The next thing I knew, my host was shaking my shoulder.
"The morning is upon us, and I am for my bed; I must be off to the citadel before midday, as I tutor the young lords Marak and Eykor in the sword. Rather than make the long trek to your own quarters, will you not accept the hospitality of my roof?"
I made polite objections, suggested that I was imposing upon him, but nothing would satisfy the Swordsmaster but that I sleep in his house.
And since I did not in fact have other quarters, I accepted his kindness, slid out of my garments, and was soon fast asleep.
Thus calamity led to a fortunate meeting, and I made my first friend in Zanadar. And never again will I question the wisdom of springing to the assistance of a stranger in need, seeing how well the friendship of Lukor was to reward my chivalrous urge.
10. LUKOR THE SWORDMASTER
My host was an elderly gentleman of about sixty years, but slim and strong, straight as a spear shaft, and he moved with the agility and elastic grace of one in the most perfect health and fitness, as might be expected of one whose craft and art is the blade.
He would not hear of my leaving. Word had' gotten about the City in the Clouds of the escape of a wheel slave with tan skin, yellow hair, and blue eyes. I would be seized on sight, and Lukor would not permit the man who had saved his life to fall victim to the first guard that came along. I knew without question that I could trust him, for he was one of those rare individuals whose worthiness and honesty are evident upon the slightest meeting. He bent a sympathetic ear to the tale of my troubles, and vowed that I would have a haven in his house for as long as I desired to stay.
The house of Lukor opened upon a small secluded court to the rear; the front faced on one of the major thoroughfares of the Middle City. It was two stories high, the first story given over to Lukor's living quarters, and the second story, an enormous empty loft, to the fencing school he managed. This was a large high-ceilinged room, one wall lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the other covered with pegs and racks from which depended fencing masks, padded gloves and tunics, and a variety of swords. Sabers, foils, rapiers, cutlasses, swords, and daggers of every description hung there, kept in perfect condition. Not a fleck of rust or speck of dust was to be found.
Lukor had few pupils and his academy barely managed to survive. The sons of a few merchants and innkeepers, with pretensions towards gentility, came to him every other day for brief lessons. And twice a week he made the long trek to the royal citadel in the Upper City where he gave private lessons to a couple of lordly young courtiers too proud to descend to the Middle City for tutelage.
As I could not hope to remain invisible to all eyes, my newfound friend prevailed upon his friend Irivor for cosmetics. Irivor worked backstage at one of the theaters in the Middle City, which produced adventure melodramas featuring considerable swordplay and thus required a resident fencing master to train the actors in the art. Through his colleague, Lukor obtained a bleaching cream which turned my skin milk white, and a hair dye with which my yellow locks were transformed to silken black. Naught could be done to disguise the unusual color of my eyes; however, the rest of me could be made over in the likeness of the average citizen of Zanadar.
On days when Lukor had no pupils, he tested my skill in the mirror-walled fencing room. I was interested to see how the art of the blade, as practiced upon the jungle moon, differed from terrene tradition. We stripped to the waist, our features protected by fencing masks, selected slim rapiers with button-guarded tips, and set to.
As I watched Lukor with a sword in his hand, it was difficult to realize that he was sixty years old; his light, spare frame moved with extraordinary grace and elasticity. He had a wrist of supple steel and an arm that never tired. Within moments the room echoed with the click and slither of steel on steel.
I suppose that any two worlds inhabited by human beings using basically the same kind of sword will invent virtually identical modes of swordplay. At any rate, I saw that the Thanatorians knew the ward of tierce, the coupe, the eight guards, and even the quinte par dessus les armes―which have been common in the art of fence on Earth for centuries. One after another I tried all the tricks I knew, only to watch as Lukor disengaged or parried with magical case. He was immune to double and triple feints, and to the most advanced tactics with which I was familiar.
We broke for a rest period and refreshed ourselves with chilled wine. I, the younger and stronger man, my thews toughened from a week at the slave wheels, found I was covered with a sheen of perspiration and was breathing heavily, while my elderly opponent was calm and unruffled. It was humiliating: I had not touched him once.
As we opened the second bout, I began with a swift glizade. For a moment our blades clashed and rang together, a blur of flashing steel, the large empty room resounding to the chiming song of steel on steel. Then from a low engagement in sixte I stretched forward to lunge in tierce. My blade glided past his parry with a supple twist and I was lucky enough to touch him above the heart.
We disengaged and sprang apart. Lukor was laughing delightedly, his keen eyes sparkling.
"Well played, my young friend! That was superb―my compliments! I had not expected you should be able to touch me at least until the third bout. You have a gift for the fence, and you have obviously studied under a master."
"A lucky stroke, nothing more," I said, attempting to sound modest, although actually I was glowing with satisfaction. He shook his head appraisingly.
" 'Twas luck in part, but only in part. You have a good wrist, a steady arm, and a cool head. You are able to think and plan while engaged, and these are the essentials of a master swordsman. With practice and training you will acquire the only thing you lack at present―which is science. Come―once again?"
I did not manage to touch him in the third bout, and by the fourth I was shaking with exhaustion. We called it a day.
Guards were still combing Zanadar for the runaway slave, and rumor had it that Prince Thuton was particularly anxious that I should be taken. So it was decided that I stay on with my new friend. I felt a trifle uncomfortable at sleeping in his spare bed and eating at his table without being able to repay my debt to him in any way. Lukor, the most tactful and chivalrous of gentlemen, soon became aware of this and so suggested that I lend him assistance with his pupils. There were so few of these that it seemed superfluous to add a second tutor, but he explained that a few novices were always coming in fresh, and while he gave advanced training to his more experienced pupils it would spare him much if he could rely on me to teach the newcomers the rudiments of the art. As my disguise was sufficient to protect me from chance discovery, we decided to pass me off as his nephew, newly come from Ganatol. My new name was Lykon.