"I’ll get it," Valentine said.

He returned to Dondak-Sajamir. The Su-Suheris was reluctant to see him, but Valentine persevered.

"I understand now your loathing of Gitamorn Suul," he said.

Dondak-Sajamir smiled coolly. "Is she not hateful? I suppose she refused your application."

"Oh, no," said Valentine, taking the cube from his cloak and placing it before the major-domo. "She granted that willingly enough, knowing that you had refused me and her permission would be worthless. It was her other rejection that wounded me so deeply."

"And which was that?"

Serenely Valentine said, "This may sound foolish to you, or even repellent, but I was powerfully overcome by her beauty. To human eyes, I must tell you, that woman has extraordinary physical presence, a nobility of bearing, a luminous erotic force, that — well, no matter. I threw myself before her in an embarrassingly naive way. I made myself open and vulnerable. And she mocked me cruelly. She scorned me in a way that was like a blade twisting in my vitals. Can you understand that, that she would be so merciless, so contemptuous, toward a stranger who had only the warmest and most profoundly passionate feelings for her?"

"Her beauty escapes me," said Dondak-Sajamir. "But I know her coldness and arrogance quite well."

"Now I share your enmity for her," Valentine said. "If you will have me, I offer myself to your service, so that we can work together to destroy her."

Dondak-Sajamir said thoughtfully, "Yes, this would be a fine moment to bring about her downfall. But how?"

Valentine tapped the cube that rested on the major-domo’s desk. "Add your countersignature to this pass. I’ll then be free to enter the inner Labyrinth. While I’m there, you launch an official inquiry into the circumstances under which I was admitted, claiming that you gave no such permission. When I’ve returned from my business with the Pontifex, summon me to testify. I’ll say you rejected my application, and that I got the pass, already fully countersigned, from Gitamorn Suul, never suspecting it might be forged by someone meaning to spite you by admitting me. Your accusation of forgery, coupled with my testimony that you had declined to approve my application, will be her ruination. What do you say?"

"A magnificent plan," replied Dondak-Sajamir. "I could have devised nothing better!"

The Su-Suheris slipped the cube into a machine that gave it a brilliant pink glow superimposed over Gitamorn Suul’s yellow one. The pass now was valid. All this intrigue, Valentine thought, was nearly as much of a strain on the mind as the intricacies of the Labyrinth itself; but it was done, and done successfully. Now let these two plot and scheme against each other as they wished, while he made his way unimpeded toward the ministers of the Pontifex. They were apt to be disappointed with the way he fulfilled his promises to them, for he intended, if he could, to sweep both the bickering rivals from power. But he did not ask pure and total saintliness of himself in his dealings with those whose chief role in the government appeared to be to impede and obstruct.

He took the cube from Dondak-Sajamir and inclined his head in gratitude.

"May you come to have all the power and prestige you deserve," said Valentine unctuously, and departed.

—8—

THE GUARDIANS OF THE innermost Labyrinth seemed astounded that anyone from outside had contrived to gain entry to their realm. But though they subjected the pass-cube to a thorough scanning, they grudgingly conceded that it was legitimate and sent Valentine and his companions inward.

A narrow, snub-snouted car carried them silently and swiftly down the passages of this interior universe. The masked officials who accompanied them did not seem to be guiding it themselves, nor would that have been an easy task, for in these levels the Labyrinth branched and rebranched, curved and recurved. Any intruder would quickly become hopelessly bewildered amid these thousand twistings, twinings, sinuosities, and tangles. The car, though, appeared to be floating over a concealed guidance track that controlled its journey, along a swift if not particularly straightforward route, deeper and deeper into the coils of sequestered alleys. At checkpoint after checkpoint Valentine was interrogated by disbelieving functionaries almost unable to comprehend the notion that an outlander had come calling on the ministers of the Pontifex. Their endless thrusts were wearying but futile. He waved his pass-cube at them as though it were a magic wand. "I am on a mission of the highest urgency," he said again and again, "and will speak only with the supreme members of the Pontifical court." Arming himself with all the dignity and presence at his command, Valentine brushed aside every objection, every quibble. "It will not go well for you," he warned, "if you delay me further."

And finally — it felt as though a hundred years had passed since Valentine had juggled his way into the Labyrinth at the Mouth of Blades — he found himself standing before Shinaam, Dilifon, and Narrameer, three of the five great ministers of the Pontifex.

They received him in a somber and clammy chamber made of huge blocks of black stone, with a lofty ceiling and ornamentation of pointed arches. It was a heavy, oppressive place more suitable as a dungeon than a council-chamber. Entering it, Valentine felt all the weight of the Labyrinth bearing down on him, level upon level, Arena and House of Records and Court of Globes and Hall of Winds, and all the rest, the dark corridors, the cluttered cubicles, the multitudes of toiling clerks. Somewhere far above, the sun was shining, the air was fresh and crisp, a breeze blew out of the south, bearing the perfume of alabandinas and eldirons and tanigales. And he was here pinned beneath a giant mound of earth and miles of tortuous passageways, in a kingdom of eternal night. His journey downward and inward in the Labyrinth had left him feverish and drawn, as though he had not slept for weeks.

He touched his hand to Deliamber and the Vroon gave him a tingling jolt of energy, shoring up his ebbing strength. He looked to Carabella, who smiled and blew him a kiss. He looked to Sleet, who nodded and grinned grimly. He looked to Zalzan Kavol, and the fierce grizzled Skandar made a quick juggling motion with all his hands by way of encouragement. His companions, his friends, his bulwarks throughout all this long and strange travail.

He looked toward the ministers.

Maskless, they sat side by side on chairs majestic enough to be thrones. Shinaam was in the center, the minister of external affairs, of Ghayrog birth, reptilian-looking, with chilly lidless eyes and busily flicking forked red tongue and hair of a coarse snaky appearance that moved in slow wriggles. To his right was Dilifon, private secretary to Tyeveras, a frail and spectral figure, hair as white as Sleet’s, skin parched and withered, eyes blazing like jets of fire out of the ancient face. And on the other side of the Ghayrog was Narrameer, the imperial dream-speaker, a slender and elegant woman who must surely be of great age, for her association with Tyeveras went back as far as the long-ago era when he was Coronal. Yet she seemed to be barely of middle years. Her skin was smooth and unlined, her auburn hair was lustrous and full. Only by the remote and enigmatic expression of her eyes could Valentine detect any hint of the wisdom, the experience, the accumulated power of many decades, that was hers. Some sorcery at work, he decided.

"We have read your petition," said Shinaam. His voice was deep and crisp, with the merest trace of a hiss in it. "The story you bring strains our credulity."

"Have you spoken with the Lady my mother?"

"We have spoken with the Lady, yes," the Ghayrog replied coolly. "She accepts you as her son."