Lankar of Callisto

We rode first to an encampment of the Jungle Legion, built on the outskirts of the Grand Kumala. It was a collection of log cabins, surrounded by a tall palisade, with a spindle-legged watchtower looming over all, from which the gold flag of Shondakor unrolled its rich fires on the wind. It looked like something left over from F Troop.

There we rested, and Taran and I were given a civilized meal while Barin went in to report the news of my arrival to the komor, as the commandant of the Legion was called. The meal was a simple one, a crockery bowl of meat stew and a fist-sized lump of coarse brown bread, topped off with a mug of cheap red wine. The meat of the stew was unfamiliar to me, and the spices wherewith it was seasoned were curious and alien, but rarely have I downed a meal with such gusto. After nearly a week of munching nuts and sucking raw fruit, a decent meal was a luxury to be savored with relish.

The komor, a heavy-faced man with frank and honest eyes, under close-cropped, grizzled hair, came out to inspect me. His eyes widened at the gray-touched brown of my hair and beard, and the blue gray of my eyes, and my pale, un-Thanatorian complexion. Evidently he had not accepted Barin’s account and had to see the man from Jandar’s world with his own eyes. One look convinced him.

He made me a profound salute whose significance I did not understand until later, when I saw it used at the Shondakorian court and came to realize it was usually given to royalty. I’m afraid I just took it in my stride, giving him a pleasant smile and a nod in return (which must also have impressed him, and, if anything, tended to convince him of my immense aristocratic rank). He backed out of the room respectfully and later sent in the regimental barber, a fat, fussy little man, to comb and trim my hair and beard and shave my cheeks.

Afternoon was upon us; still under escort by Captain Barin, we departed camp and rode straight for Shondakor, not far distant. The city rose beyond a broad river, spanned by an ancient stone bridge. I must confess I thrilled at the sight of it, for it was like some magnificent capital out of fabled antiquity, somehow survived the ages intact. A mighty stone wall surrounded the city proper, and guards strolled about the circumference of this barrier, daylight flashing from .their polished helms and spear blades. The gates were open And we rode through, the gate-captain tossing a salute at Barin, gaping at me, and turning a look of sheer unbelief at the huge purple othode who trotted at my heels.

We paused first at the military headquarters, a low, rambling structure like a fortress, built just within the circuit of the city wall by the main or Ajand Gate, and, in fact, leaning up against the fabric of the wall. There while Barin conferred with various mystified and terribly impressed officers, and courtiers sped further into the city to inform the palace of my arrival, they rapidly outfitted me in something more suitable to wear at court than a ragged loincloth and a captain’s red cloak.

The garment they selected for me was a sort of long-sleeved gown of stiff, crinkly, shiny stuff like silk, darkly gold in color, with a high stiff collar like that worn by Ming the Merciless in the old “Flash Gordon” serials. This outfit seemed to me a trifle effeminate, and I felt a bit uncomfortable in it, but the people here ought to know what was worn at court, so I went along with it without protest. They returned my plain leather baldric and boy-sized sword to Taran, lending me a slim basket-hilted rapier twinkling with topazes, scabbarded on a light baldric adorned with badges and ornaments of precious metals, and shod my feet in buskins of fine, supple leather, dyed imperial purple.

This and a huge purple velvet cloak completed my costume. In the privacy of the robing chamber I tried a few passes with the rapier, swirled my cloak about in high good humor, and felt ready to walk into the costume ball of any world science-fiction convention and carry off first prize.

Taran they crammed into a loose-sleeved whit blouse and trim leather jerkin, belted at the waist and extending down a few inches below the hips, with a bright red loincloth and a pair of ankle-high, soft leather boots, complete with boysized spurs. The boy, who shared my dressing room, crowed with delight over such finery and envied my gold silk gown and purple cloak with glistening eyes. Bozo stuck to the like a shadow all the while: the poor beast was bewildered and highly upset by the strange confinement of rooms and walls, but just to be by my side and hear my voice comforted him, and he behaved himself splendidly. It was amusing to see how the soldiers regarded him with fearful caution, and me with immense awe and respect as his master.

Then we set out for the palace, which rose in the center of the city, facing upon a broad, octagonal stone-paved plaza which was reached by a superb boulevard known as the Processional Way. We rode with banners snapping, daylight sparkling from gems and helms, a man in a gilt cuirass brandishing a slender trumpet clearing the way before us. I assumed him to be the Callistan equivalent of a herald.