STUDYING assiduously under the efficient tutelage of Lal Vak, Jerry rapidly learned to read and write the Martian language.
The scientist also instructed him in Martian manners and customs, and described to him the immense city without.
“Raliad,” Lal Vak told him, “is truthfully called the ‘City of a Million Gardens.’ Here every house, from the imperial palace down to the lowliest hovel, has its roof garden. It is so immense that, within its confines live more people than make up the entire nation of Xancibar, whence I come. Its resident population is well over a hundred million, and its floating population daily numbers at least twenty-five million more. More canals verge here than in any other six cities on the planet, and the canals are the main arteries of travel and commerce.”
Some five days before the date set for his trial, Jerry was enjoying his evening meal in company with Lal Vak, when the latter told him:
“I have arranged a surprise for you. Her Imperial Highness, the Sovil, when I told her that you had mastered our language, and that you had a petition for her ears, graciously consented to grant you an interview.”
“Great! When do we start?”
“Patience, and finish your meal,” smiled Lal Vak. “We have plenty of time. A guard will be sent for you at the appointed hour, for you are still a prisoner, you know. To show proper respect for Her Highness, I think we had best dress you for the audience.”
“This Army uniform is getting rather seedy looking,” said Jerry.
“On Mars we dress according to our stations in life. I understand that you are of noble blood.”
“On the contrary,” Jerry replied, “there are no nobles in the nation from which I came. We have our great men—our leaders in finance, in war, in science, and in the arts—but no nobility.”
“That I know. Yet Dr. Morgan told me he was descended from the nobility of another nation—Ireland, I believe he called it. This will entitle you to wear orange, trimmed with black, on Mars.”
“True. I had forgotten that my first American ancestor was an Irish viscount. But he renounced his title, so that lets me out.”
“It doesn’t change the blood.”
“That’s true, but I think I’ll be loyal to his ideas, just the same.”
“Then you will have to wear the plain black of a commoner.”
Lal Vak summoned a servant, and ordered that a suit of commoner’s clothes be brought. Some time later, Jerry surveyed himself in the burnished gold mirror. He wore a cincture of glossy black velvet, which left his legs bare. On his feet were black boots of soft leather.
There was a broad belt of woven silver links about his waist, from which depended an empty sword scabbard on his left, and a dagger sheath on his right. The weapons had been removed because of his status as a prisoner. His arms and torso were bare, save for a pair of silver wrist guards, a pair of armlets of the same metal, and a medallion which depended from around his neck. On his head was a black turban, held in place by a band and chin strap of finely woven silver links. This turban was made of a tenuous but extremely strong and windproof material, which could be unbound and dropped about his shoulders to form a cloak that would reach to his knees.
A few moments later the guard flung open the door and a page entered.
“Her Imperial Highness, Junia, Sovil of Kalsivar, commands the presence of Lal Vak and Jerry Morgan.”
They returned his salute, and followed him out into the hallway, where two armed guards fell in behind them.
The page led them to the nearest runway, where they took a multiped vehicle to the second floor above them. Here they walked back along an almost identical hallway, and Jerry realized, as they paused before a blue-curtained door guarded by two warriors, that Junia’s apartment was directly above his own.
The page went in first, to announce them, then returned and bade them enter. In a large, magnificently furnished room, Junia reclined on a swinging divan of blue plush, surrounded by a bevy of her ladies.
As Jerry stood before her and rendered the royal salute by holding both hands before his eyes, he caught his breath at sight of her loveliness.
“I shield my eyes in the glory of Your Highness’s presence,” he said.
She returned the salute by raising one slender hand before her eyes—the salute rendered to those of other than royal blood. Then she turned to Lal Vak.
“You have made a mistake, I believe,” she said. “This afternoon you requested an audience for a nobleman from another world, and I granted it. Now you bring a commoner before me—an affront which even the Zovil, my brother, would not have dared.”
“I can explain in a few words, Your Highness,” said Lal Vak. “Jerry Morgan’s noble ancestor renounced his title. Though nothing can rob him of his noble blood, he hails from a country where there are no titles, and so prefers to appear as a commoner.”
“It is a churlish preference I should expect in him, after his actions when first we met. It seems he would add insult to injury.”
Lal Vak was about to reply, but Jerry forestalled him.
“I fear Your Highness misapprehends my intentions. Since I came to apologize for those same blundering acts of mine, I wore the black of a commoner in token of humility.”
“Why, this is better,” she said, with a faint smile. “I had not expected so quick a wit in one whose blunders have been so lamentable.”
“It is charitable of you to allow them to pass as blunders.”
“Had I not accounted them so, you would not have been granted this interview,” said Junia.
“You lead me to hope that the forgiveness for which I have come to sue will be granted.”
“It is already granted.”
“I am profoundly grateful,” he said with almost undue eagerness.
She said no more, but her brown eyes dropped, and a slow blush suffused the lovely features.
For a moment Jerry stood thus, unconscious of everything about him save the allure of this maiden. Then Lal Vak touched his arm, and the spell was broken.
“Come,” he said softly. “The interview is ended.”
As one in a daze, Jerry saluted and withdrew, accompanied by the scientist and followed by the two guards.
Lal Vak speaking English so the two guards who followed would not understand, said, “I saw that look which passed between you two. If you would live, even to the day of the trial, you must never attempt to see her again; never let any one know the depth of feeling which you have betrayed and to which she involuntarily responded this evening.
“To know that I should never see her again would be to lose all zest for life. But why do you say I must put her from my mind?”
“Because to do otherwise will be to align yourself against forces that can only compass your destruction. Already you have made one powerful enemy, whose name I believe I can guess. And now, would you align Manith Zovil, your friend and protector, and even the Vil himself against you?”
At this moment they entered their apartment, and the two guards took up their positions before the door.
“As I have previously told you,” Lal Vak went on, “Manith is the Zovil of Nunt, one of the major powers of Mars with which Kalsivar is on friendly terms. He was sent here by his father, Lom Harr, Vil of Nunt, for the express purpose of courting Junia Sovil. And I have been given to understand that the two young people are not at all averse to the idea.”
“That does put me in an awkward position. I can’t prosecute my own interests without interfering with those of my friend and benefactor.”
“Precisely. And although we have not definitely discovered the identity of your secret enemy, I believe that he will come out into the open very shortly. Strangely enough, what he believes to be his own interests, are opposed to those of Manith Zovil, as well as to your recently awakened desires.”
“And his name?”
“Thoor Movil, whose father was the Vil’s brother, but whose mother was a sovil of the ancient royal family of the brown race. He urged your instant execution on the day Manith saved you. There are but two people between him and succession to the throne of Kalsivar-Shiev Zovil, Junia’s brother, and Junia herself. If he could accomplish the death of one and marry the other, his succession would be assured, save for one thing—that no man of the brown race has occupied that throne since the conquest by the white race, five thousand years ago. However, it appears that Sarkis the Torturer is the tool of Thoor Movil, as he demands, that Kalsivar shall be ruled by a man of the ancient brown royalty.
“The entire plot is clear enough to me, but Numin Vil would not believe me. And Thoor Movil would quickly set his assassins on my trail if the Vil should fail to act against me.”
“And just where do I fit in?”
“I have tried to make it plain,” said Lal Vak, “that Thoor Movil is both fearless and unscrupulous. What, then, would happen to you if you were to reveal your true feelings toward Junia, and such revelation were to come to his ears? He would treat you as a pestiferous insect which one crushes beneath his foot.”
At this instant one of the guards at the door drew back a curtain and announced: “A messenger from His Highness, Thoor Movil.”
Lal Vak paled beneath his coat of tan. “It has come, and sooner than I expected,” he told Jerry in English. Then he spoke to the guard in the Martian tongue: “Admit him.”
A brown-skinned page entered.
“His Highness, Thoor Movil, is entertaining His Imperial Highness, Shiev Zovil, at gapun,” announced the page, “and commands the attendance of Lal Vak and Jerry Morgan.”
“Await us outside while we make ready,” Lal Vak told the page. The latter stepped out beyond the curtains, and the scientist spoke in English: “Let me warn you, my son, that Thoor Movil bids you to a more dangerous game than that of gapun. You will best be able to defeat him by being scrupulously careful to offend no one, and by passing unnoticed any insults save only those which may amount to an actual challenge, and which no Martian gentleman may ignore and retain his honor.”