“Good!” exclaimed Tara of Helium, and the two immediately set about the matter Lan-O had suggested. Quickly they found the key and unlatched the door and then, between them, they half carried, half dragged, the corpse of E-Med from the room and down the stairway to the next level where Lan-O said there were vacant chambers. The first door they tried was unlatched, and through this the two bore their grisly burden into a small room lighted by a single window. The apartment bore evidence of having been utilized as a living-room rather than as a cell, being furnished with a degree of comfort and even luxury. The walls were paneled to a height of about seven feet from the floor, while the plaster above and the ceiling were decorated with faded paintings of another day.
As Tara’s eyes ran quickly over the interior her attention was drawn to a section of paneling that seemed to be separated at one edge from the piece next adjoining it. Quickly she crossed to it, discovering that one vertical edge of an entire panel projected a half-inch beyond the others. There was a possible explanation which piqued her curiosity, and acting upon its suggestion she seized upon the projecting edge and pulled outward. Slowly the panel swung toward her, revealing a dark aperture in the wall behind.
“Look, Lan-O!” she cried. “See what I have found—a hole in which we may hide the thing upon the floor.”
Lan-O joined her and together the two investigated the dark aperture, finding a small platform from which a narrow runway led downward into Stygian darkness. Thick dust covered the floor within the doorway, indicating that a great period of time had elapsed since human foot had trod it—a secret way, doubtless, unknown to living Manatorians. Here they dragged the corpse of E-Med, leaving it upon the platform, and as they left the dark and forbidden closet Lan-O would have slammed to the panel had not Tara prevented.
“Wait!” she said, and fell to examining the door frame and the stile.
“Hurry!” whispered the slave girl. “If they come we are lost.”
“It may serve us well to know how to open this place again,” replied Tara of Helium, and then suddenly she pressed a foot against a section of the carved base at the right of the open panel. “Ah!” she breathed, a note of satisfaction in her tone, and closed the panel until it fitted snugly in its place. “Come!” she said and turned toward the outer doorway of the chamber.
They reached their own cell without detection, and closing the door Tara locked it from the inside and placed the key in a secret pocket in her harness.
“Let them come,” she said. “Let them question us! What could two poor prisoners know of the whereabouts of their noble jailer? I ask you, Lan-O, what could they?”
“Nothing,” admitted Lan-O, smiling with her companion.
“Tell me of these men of Manator,” said Tara presently. “Are they all like E-Med, or are some of them like A-Kor, who seemed a brave and chivalrous character?”
“They are not unlike the peoples of other countries,” replied Lan-O. “There be among them both good and bad. They are brave warriors and mighty. Among themselves they are not without chivalry and honor, but in their dealings with strangers they know but one law—the law of might. The weak and unfortunate of other lands fill them with contempt and arouse all that is worst in their natures, which doubtless accounts for their treatment of us, their slaves.”
“But why should they feel contempt for those who have suffered the misfortune of falling into their hands?” queried Tara.
“I do not know,” said Lan-O; “A-Kor says that he believes that it is because their country has never been invaded by a victorious foe. In their stealthy raids never have they been defeated, because they have never waited to face a powerful force; and so they have come to believe themselves invincible, and the other peoples are held in contempt as inferior in valor and the practice of arms.”
“Yet A-Kor is one of them,” said Tara.
“He is a son of O-Tar, the jeddak,” replied Lan-O; “but his mother was a high born Gatholian, captured and made slave by O-Tar, and A-Kor boasts that in his veins runs only the blood of his mother, and indeed is he different from the others. His chivalry is of a gentler form, though not even his worst enemy has dared question his courage, while his skill with the sword, and the spear, and the thoat is famous throughout the length and breadth of Manator.”
“What think you they will do with him?” asked Tara of Helium.
“Sentence him to the games,” replied Lan-O. “If O-Tar be not greatly angered he may be sentenced to but a single game, in which case he may come out alive; but if O-Tar wishes really to dispose of him he will be sentenced to the entire series, and no warrior has ever survived the full ten, or rather none who was under a sentence from O-Tar.”
“What are the games? I do not understand,” said Tara “I have heard them speak of playing at jetan, but surely no one can be killed at jetan. We play it often at home.”
“But not as they play it in the arena at Manator,” replied Lan-O. “Come to the window,” and together the two approached an aperture facing toward the east.
Below her Tara of Helium saw a great field entirely surrounded by the low building, and the lofty towers of which that in which she was imprisoned was but a unit. About the arena were tiers of seats; but the thing that caught her attention was a gigantic jetan board laid out upon the floor of the arena in great squares of alternate orange and black.
“Here they play at jetan with living pieces. They play for great stakes and usually for a woman—some slave of exceptional beauty. O-Tar himself might have played for you had you not angered him, but now you will be played for in an open game by slaves and criminals, and you will belong to the side that wins—not to a single warrior, but to all who survive the game.”
The eyes of Tara of Helium flashed, but she made no comment.
“Those who direct the play do not necessarily take part in it,” continued the slave girl, “but sit in those two great thrones which you see at either end of the board and direct their pieces from square to square.”
“But where lies the danger?” asked Tara of Helium. “If a piece be taken it is merely removed from the board—this is a rule of jetan as old almost as the civilization of Barsoom.”
“But here in Manator, when they play in the great arena with living men, that rule is altered,” explained Lan-O. “When a warrior is moved to a square occupied by an opposing piece, the two battle to the death for possession of the square and the one that is successful advantages by the move. Each is caparisoned to simulate the piece he represents and in addition he wears that which indicates whether he be slave, a warrior serving a sentence, or a volunteer. If serving a sentence the number of games he must play is also indicated, and thus the one directing the moves knows which pieces to risk and which to conserve, and further than this, a man’s chances are affected by the position that is assigned him for the game. Those whom they wish to die are always Panthans in the game, for the Panthan has the least chance of surviving.”
“Do those who direct the play ever actually take part in it?” asked Tara.
“Oh, yes,” said Lan-O. “Often when two warriors, even of the highest class, hold a grievance against one another O-Tar compels them to settle it upon the arena. Then it is that they take active part and with drawn swords direct their own players from the position of Chief. They pick their own players, usually the best of their own warriors and slaves, if they be powerful men who possess such, or their friends may volunteer, or they may obtain prisoners from the pits. These are games indeed—the very best that are seen. Often the great chiefs themselves are slain.”
“It is within this amphitheater that the justice of Manator is meted, then?” asked Tara.
“Very largely,” replied Lan-O.
“How, then, through such justice, could a prisoner win his liberty?” continued the girl from Helium.
“If a man, and he survived ten games his liberty would be his,” replied Lan-O.
“But none ever survives?” queried Tara. “And if a woman?”
“No stranger within the gates of Manator ever has survived ten games,” replied the slave girl. “They are permitted to offer themselves into perpetual slavery if they prefer that to fighting at jetan. Of course they may be called upon, as any warrior, to take part in a game, but their chances then of surviving are increased, since they may never again have the chance of winning to liberty.”
“But a woman,” insisted Tara; “how may a woman win her freedom?”
Lan-O laughed. “Very simply,” she cried, derisively. “She has but to find a warrior who will fight through ten consecutive games for her and survive.”
“‘Just are the laws of Manator,'” quoted Tara, scornfully.
Then it was that they heard footsteps outside their cell and a moment later a key turned in the lock and the door opened. A warrior faced them.
“Hast seen E-Med the dwar?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Tara, “he was here some time ago.”
The man glanced quickly about the bare chamber and then searchingly first at Tara of Helium and then at the slave girl, Lan-O. The puzzled expression upon his face increased. He scratched his head. “It is strange,” he said. “A score of men saw him ascend into this tower; and though there is but a single exit, and that well guarded, no man has seen him pass out.”
Tara of Helium hid a yawn with the back of a shapely hand. “The Princess of Helium is hungry, fellow,” she drawled; “tell your master that she would eat.”
It was an hour later that food was brought, an officer and several warriors accompanying the bearer. The former examined the room carefully, but there was no sign that aught amiss had occurred there. The wound that had sent E-Med the dwar to his ancestors had not bled, fortunately for Tara of Helium.
“Woman,” cried the officer, turning upon Tara, “you were the last to see E-Med the dwar. Answer me now and answer me truthfully. Did you see him leave this room?”
“I did,” answered Tara of Helium.
“Where did he go from here?”
“How should I know? Think you that I can pass through a locked door of skeel?” the girl’s tone was scornful.
“Of that we do not know,” said the officer. “Strange things have happened in the cell of your companion in the pits of Manator. Perhaps you could pass through a locked door of skeel as easily as he performs seemingly more impossible feats.”
“Whom do you mean,” she cried; “Turan the panthan? He lives, then? Tell me, is he here in Manator unharmed?”
“I speak of that thing which calls itself Ghek the kaldane,” replied the officer.
“But Turan! Tell me, padwar, have you heard aught of him?” Tara’s tone was insistent and she leaned a little forward toward the officer, her lips slightly parted in expectancy.
Into the eyes of the slave girl, Lan-O, who was watching her, there crept a soft light of understanding; but the officer ignored Tara’s question—what was the fate of another slave to him? “Men do not disappear into thin air,” he growled, “and if E-Med be not found soon O-Tar himself may take a hand in this. I warn you, woman, if you be one of those horrid Corphals that by commanding the spirits of the wicked dead gains evil mastery over the living, as many now believe the thing called Ghek to be, that lest you return E-Med, O-Tar will have no mercy on you.”
“What foolishness is this?” cried the girl. “I am a princess of Helium, as I have told you all a score of times. Even if the fabled Corphals existed, as none but the most ignorant now believes, the lore of the ancients tells us that they entered only into the bodies of wicked criminals of the lowest class. Man of Manator, thou art a fool, and thy jeddak and all his people,” and she turned her royal back upon the padwar, and gazed through the window across the Field of Jetan and the roofs of Manator through the low hills and the rolling country and freedom.
“And you know so much of Corphals, then,” he cried, “you know that while no common man dare harm them they may be slain by the hand of a jeddak with impunity!”
The girl did not reply, nor would she speak again, for all his threats and rage, for she knew now that none in all Manator dared harm her save O-Tar, the jeddak, and after a while the padwar left, taking his men with him. And after they had gone Tara stood for long looking out upon the city of Manator, and wondering what more of cruel wrongs Fate held in store for her. She was standing thus in silent meditation when there rose to her the strains of martial music from the city below—the deep, mellow tones of the long war trumpets of mounted troops, the clear, ringing notes of foot-soldiers’ music. The girl raised her head and looked about, listening, and Lan-O, standing at an opposite window, looking toward the west, motioned Tara to join her. Now they could see across roofs and avenues to The Gate of Enemies, through which troops were marching into the city.
“The Great Jed is coming,” said Lan-O, “none other dares enter thus, with blaring trumpets, the city of Manator. It is U-Thor, Jed of Manatos, second city of Manator. They call him The Great Jed the length and breadth of Manator, and because the people love him, O-Tar hates him. They say, who know, that it would need but slight provocation to inflame the two to war. How such a war would end no one could guess; for the people of Manator worship the great O-Tar, though they do not love him. U-Thor they love, but he is not the jeddak,” and Tara understood, as only a Martian may, how much that simple statement encompassed.
The loyalty of a Martian to his jeddak is almost an instinct, and second not even to the instinct of self-preservation at that. Nor is this strange in a race whose religion includes ancestor worship, and where families trace their origin back into remote ages and a jeddak sits upon the same throne that his direct progenitors have occupied for, perhaps, hundreds of thousands of years, and rules the descendants of the same people that his forebears ruled. Wicked jeddaks have been dethroned, but seldom are they replaced by other than members of the imperial house, even though the law gives to the jeds the right to select whom they please.