AS HE and Lal Vak followed the page into Thoor Movil’s large and luxurious apartments, Jerry saw that the party was a small and select one, consisting of about twenty men. Three of them, Shiev Zovil, Manith Zovil, and Thoor Movil, wore the blue of royalty. The others, with the exception of the Earthman, wore the orange of nobility.
Four gaming boards set on a large swinging table served the gapun players. These boards contained numbered holes, and the game consisted of rolling Martian money—small engraved pellets of gold silver, and platinum—into the holes, the first pellet into the highest numbered hole winning the entire stake from each roll.
Pulcho, which was being imbibed by the gamblers, was being poured by a dozen brown slaves.
As Jerry knew Thoor Movil for his enemy, he was surprised when the latter did them honor by rising to receive them. The brown prince found a place for Lal Vak first, then he turned to Jerry with a sarcastic smile, and said in the hearing of all the company: “You are our latest and most distinguished gambler, since you wear the darkest clothing of anyone present.”
Jerry returned his sarcastic smile with a cheery one. “That I am the latest is plain to be seen,” he said, “but I protest that I am not the most distinguished. You do me too great an honor.”
“How so?” asked Thoor Movil.
“It is Your Highness who is our most distinguished gambler, since you have the darkest skin of any present.”
The two princes, Shiev and Manith, laughed uproariously and some of the nobles ventured to smile, but most of them looked exceedingly grave. And gravest of all was Lal Vak.
“Is it customary in your country for a guest to insult his host?” asked Thoor Movil, fingering his sword hilt.
“On the contrary,” Jerry replied, “I should say that it is as great a rarity as for a host to insult his guest.”
Thoor Movil’s frown deepened, but Manith Zovil interposed. Taking Jerry’s arm with one hand, and that of the brown prince with the other, he said, “Come. You two are delaying the game. Let us on with the play.”
Before they could seat themselves, however, a tall, broad-shouldered player who wore the orange and black of the nobility, rose and said: “I, for one, do not care to play, so long as this commoner is present. His appearance is offensive enough, but his manners are a stench and an abomination to sensitive nostrils.”
Jerry paused and regarded him coldly. “I have not the honor of your acquaintance.”
At this, Lal Vak plucked at his arm, and said in English:
“Beware. This is the trap Thoor Movil has set for you. This man is the most dangerous swordsman in all Kalsivar.”
“I am Arsad, Rad of Dhoor,” said Jerry’s newfound enemy. “You are standing in my way.”
Recalling his preceptor’s warning to avoid a quarrel at any cost, Jerry stepped aside.
But again the fellow turned and faced him. “Have I not said that you stand in my way?”
With this, Arsad struck the Earthman a sharp blow on the cheek with the back of his hand.
Jerry saw red, and he struck out straight from the shoulder, his fist landing full on the mouth of his adversary. Arsad stumbled backward and crashed across the gaming table, sending the gapun boards flying. For a moment he lay there as if dazed. Then he sprang up with a roar, spat out three teeth and a mouthful of blood, and whipped out his sword.
Jerry felt a jeweled hilt thrust into his hand, Manith Zovil, Crown Prince of Nunt, had again befriended him, this time by lending him his sword.
Swiftly Jerry came on guard parrying a thrust for his heart. He found his own return thrust parried with ease, and soon realized that he was up against a master swordsman. But Arsad must have come to recognize this at the same time, for he began to fence very cautiously.
Meanwhile, the spectators, who had formed a ring around the two contestants, were treated to such an exhibition of swordsmanship as they had not seen for many a day. For, though Arsad was known as one of the best swordsmen on Mars, Jerry had likewise been regarded one of the best swordsmen in the American Army.
Arsad had not exhausted all his tricks. And Jerry learned a new one just after he had parried a particularly long lunge to his body. For the Rad of Dhoor, in recovering, turned the edge of his saw-toothed blade against Jerry’s side, and as he drew it back, cut a deep gash from which the blood spurted freely. It was a trick which could not have been performed with any but a saw-toothed Martian blade.
Clutching his side to stanch the flow of blood, the Earthman now took the offensive with such vigor that time and again his opponent was forced to give ground in order to save himself. Still Arsad remained unwounded.
But the Martian had, by this time, discovered that he was in danger of losing his life. Snatching his turbanlike head-cloak from his head, he hurled it into Jerry’s face, blinding him for an instant. Then he lunged.
Jerry’s earthly muscles saved his life by a split second, as he leaped back a full ten feet. Then he brushed the blinding fabric aside and gave a fierce leap forward, sword out, straight at the charging Arsad. In sheer surprise the latter tripped and fell, an easy target for the Earthman’s point.
But instead of administering the coup de grace, Jerry struck the sword from the hand of his tricky opponent, then presented his point to his breast.
“Wait! Would you kill an unarmed man?”
“Unless you yield!”
But Arsad sprang backward, and to one side; he seized the weapon which the Earthman had beaten from his hand, and coming up to catch Jerry with his blade low, slashed swiftly for his neck.
Jerry dived straight forward, under that whistling blade, at the same time extending his point. The sword of Arsad flashed harmlessly over his back, but his own plunged clear through the body of the Martian, projecting a full two feet from his back.
With a look of horrified unbelief on his face, the Rad of Dhoor dropped his sword and slumped to the floor.
Two surgeons, who had been sent for at the beginning of the duel, now came forward. One pronounced Arsad dead. The other dressed Jerry’s wound by drawing it together and covering it with a thick gum called jembal which quickly hardened into a flexible, porous covering that was antiseptic, permitted drainage, and kept out infection. A slave took the bloody sword from Jerry’s hand, cleansed it, and returned it to him.
His wound dressed, the Earthman returned the sword to the Zovil of Nunt. “For the second time I am indebted to Your Highness.”
“A trifle,” Manith Zovil replied. Then taking a cup of pulcho from a slave who waited nearby, he handed it to the Earthman. “Drink,” he commanded. “It will help to restore your strength. You have lost much blood.”
Jerry tossed off the beverage and felt refreshed. In the meantime, the body of Arsad had been taken away, and all traces of the duel removed by the slaves. The gapun boards were replaced on the table, and several of the nobles resumed their interrupted gaming, drinking and laughter as if nothing had happened.
Most boisterous of all was Shiev, Zovil of Kalsivar. The crown prince was a slight, spare youth, and something of a fop. That he had drunk overmuch pulcho was plainly evident.
“Come,” he cried, beating on the board with a handful of platinum pieces. “Let us on with the game. I would see if this black-clad commoner can play gapun as well as he can fence.”
“If it pleases your highness,” said Jerry, “I should prefer not to play tonight. I have lost much blood, and feel the need of repose.”
Shiev flushed. “You refuse the honor—refuse to play with the heir to the throne of Kalsivar? You are exceedingly impudent for a commoner.”
“And you are exceedingly ungracious for a prince.”
His words were like a bombshell in the room. The face of Shiev Zovil went deathly white. His hand flew to his sword hilt, but ere he could draw the weapon, Manith Zovil had interposed.
“Wait, Shiev,” he said. “This man is from another world, and does not know our customs.”
“Then he needs teaching.”
“Not with the sword,” Manith answered. “He has demonstrated that on the body of Kalsivar’s greatest swordsman.”
“Now, by the wrath of Deza!” exploded Shiev. “Are you intimating that I fear to fight this clumsy oaf? Have a care how you presume on our hospitality, or it may be that only your ashes will be back to Nunt.”
“Do not presume too much on the fact that I have come to woo Her Highness, your sister. I am your royal equal, and my sword shall answer further insinuations from you.”
At this, Shiev lurched drunkenly to his feet and whipped out his blade. Manith Zovil drew his own weapon, but to Jerry’s surprise, Lal Vak stepped between them.
“Before you go on with this duel, Highnesses,” said the white-haired scientist, “I beg you to pause and consider the consequences. Many things are done in the heat of anger that bring regret when the blood cools. If you fight, one of you may be killed. You are both brave men and fearless, and this does not weigh with either of you. But no matter which one dies, there will be an immediate result—a war between Kalsivar and Nunt that will cost millions of lives and use up the resources of both nations.”
At this, the nobles immediately sided with Lal Vak, and begged the two princes to sheathe their swords. Jerry, who had joined those attempting to cool the wrath of Manith Zovil, noticed there was one man in the room who held aloof from all this—as soon as he saw that the swords were to be sheathed, he added his voice to those of the others in crying for peace.
The two princes were brought to the point of saluting each other, though the eyes of both still flashed ominously. Then Manith Zovil saluted his dark-skinned host, thanked him for his hospitality, and took his departure. Jerry and Lal Vak did likewise, and came upon the prince as he waited for a multiped vehicle on, the signal platform.
“Again I have Your Highness to thank for interposing in my behalf,” said Jerry. “Won’t you join Lal Vak and me in our apartment for the rest of the evening?”
“Sorry, but I am going now to take leave of Numin Vil and quit this country,” replied Manith. “Junia is glorious, worth fighting and dying for, but I am not of the stuff that can brook these constant insults from her popinjay brother.
“As for the obligation, my friend, there is none. I only did that which any man worthy of the name might do under similar circumstances. This is not the first time Shiev Zovil has insulted me, and I am convinced that it is because his cousin has poisoned his mind against me. Unfortunately, I can find no pretext for seeking a quarrel with Thoor.”
At this moment, a multiped vehicle stopped at the platform. Manith Zovil bade Jerry and Lal Vak farewell when they reached their platform, and invited them to visit him in his own palace. He would be leaving, he said, as soon as he could pay his respects to Numin Vil.
When they arrived at their apartment, followed by Jerry’s two guards, Lal Vak suggested that the Earthman retire immediately, as he would need rest after losing so much blood. As for himself, he was going to visit a friend in another part of the palace, and would probably return quite late.
The scientist gone, Jerry removed his head-cloak, and was about to do the same with his other clothing, when a guard drew back the curtain and announced: “A page from Her Highness, Nisha Novil.”
Jerry replaced his headpiece, and said: “Let him enter.”
A brown-skinned page stepped into the room, saluted, and said: “Her Highness, Nisha Novil, commands the immediate presence of Jerry Morgan.”
“Bear my excuses to Her Highness,” replied Jerry. “Tell her that I am weakened from loss of blood—that I . . .
“This is a command, Jerry Morgan. There can be no excuses.”
Jerry pondered for a moment, and heartily wished that Lal Vak was here to advise him what to do. Because Nisha Novil was the sister of Thoor Movil, he sensed a trap of some sort. Yet the page would accept no excuse—apparently had been so instructed.
He turned to the page, and said: “I am ready. Conduct me to Her Highness.”