And not even that-if the legend beneath the circled snake bore any truth. A is Ister. I act for God!
The thought brought Blade a new awareness of his own peril. Lord L had warned him to expect a longer stay in Dimension X this time. In escaping from Thyrne to Pat-
mos he had gained a little time and not much else; Hectoris would come, and the false priest, Ptol, and Blade did not care to think of his fate if he were taken alive.
Juna and the child were carried ashore by soldiers. The officer touched Blade on the shoulder and said, «You will come with us, please. It is the wish of the Goddess Juna, and of our king and queen. Any time you are ready, sir.»
The fellow was polite enough. He was obviously bored and had better things to do. He fiddled with a drooping yellow mustache and regarded Blade with sheer ennui, obviously in no hurry, awaiting Blade's pleasure. The escort, a half dozen soldiers carrying dress lances with ribbons bedecking them, looked on with equal boredom. Blade nodded and shrugged his huge shoulders. If this was being a prisoner it might not be so bad. He glanced to where Juna was being helped into a two-wheeled 'cart drawn by a dozen men in gray breeches and blouses. They stood as docilely as the horses they replaced, their heads drooping, gazing at the sand glittering in the sun's first rays. Men as beasts of burden. In that moment Blade understood a little of the Patmosian truth-it was a slave society.
Blade took a tentative step toward the cart, his fists clenched and ready. He vowed to keep a curb on his temper, and meant to keep it so, but it was just as well that the officer stepped aside with a smile and a slight bow.
«I would have a last word with the goddess,» said Blade.
«By all means, sir. But if you would be brief? It is a long ride to the prison and it is nearly time for first music.»
Blade made no sense of the last word. The sound of «prison» was enough. He was frowning as he pushed through the soldiers to reach Juna in the cart. She was still holding the little girl.
He seized a cart stake and shook it. «What is all this talk of prison?»
She glinted a row of dainty white teeth at him. The first sunlight burnished her hair like a golden helmet, but revealed lines of fatigue, and little pools of shadow beneath the violet-gray eyes. He knew her to be near exhaustion and still thought her as lovely a woman as ever he had seen-if only she were not such a bitch! Or a goddess.
Juna tugged her cloak over her breasts. «It will not be for long, Blade. Trust me.»
«Trust you? That is exactly what I do not do, woman!» He was angry again, but kept his voice down.
She raised a finger and glanced around at the guards. They, in all their finery, appeared as bored as their officer. One said, «We are going to miss first music.»
Juna said, «It will not be so bad, Blade. Go quietly and see for yourself. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth closed-if that is possible. Soon you will begin to understand and many of your questions will be answered. As for trusting me-what else can you do?»
She had him there. Blade took it with as good a grace as he could manage. A sub-officer gave a command and the men in harness obeyed dumbly, putting their shoulders to harness attached to the long tongue of the cart. Blade nodded toward them. «Who are they-these men who serve as horses?»
Juna shrugged. «The Gray People? Pay them no attention. They are of no importance. They-they are only the Gray People.»
The cart moved off. Juna waved. «Goodbye, Blade. I will see you as soon as I can arrange matters. Meantime-heed my words and bind your temper.»
The officer in charge, still courteous, waited until the cart vanished from sight among the dunes of white sand. Then he touched Blade's aim.
«By your leave, sir. We have already missed first music and I would not like to miss the second. Nor would my men.»
Blade followed to where a second, and smaller, cart stood concealed by dunes. Six of the men in gray breeches and blouses waited in the harness. Blade nodded to them and looked at the officer.
«Slaves?»
The officer, who said that his name was Osric, touched a dainty finger to his perfumed mustache and smiled. «There are no slaves in Patmos, sir. These are. Gray People, eaters of penthe. They are happy and content and would not change their lot if they could. If you would be so kind as to enter the cart, sir, we can be on our way.»
Blade shrugged and obliged. The officer followed him into the cart and they lurched away as their escort fell into place on either side. Blade saw how they straggled along, out of step and with lances tilted every which way, and thought again that Patmos was doomed if these were the men who must face Hectoris and his hordes. They could not even march! He made a sour face and forgot these sad soldiers as he concentrated on the journey into Cybar. Observation! He must see, really see, everything and store it away in his memory file.
The cart left the dunes and began to follow a lane of red cobbles. The lane ran arrow-straight through vast fields of flowers that stretched away on either side as far as Blade could see. The odor was overwhelming, the same mingle of fragrances that Blade had sniffed at sea. The stalks reminded him of sunflowers, tall and sturdy, but each stalk supported a dozen dish-sized blooms of various colors-blues and yellows, reds and greens, brown and purple and orange. Blade breathed deeply and again felt sleepy and lethargic. The world was a softer and warmer place, the sun more comforting and pleasant than he had ever known it, and he began to experience a well-being, a stultifying low key happiness, that he had never known before in a difficult existence. His fears of the future vanished, his anxieties fell away, and he found himself smiling broadly at the officer. Osric, thought Blade, was not such a bad fellow after all. He had been wrong to be surly and rude to the man. The chap was only doing his job, and being very nice about it, too.
Blade grinned and asked about the flowers. Osric smiled in return, twirled his splendid mustache, and pointed out women in gray smocks working in the flower patches.
«Loci gatherers,» explained Osric. «Gray People, of course, but only unmarried girls are permitted in the fields. The loti is crushed and refined and made into penthe.»
«Penthe?» Blade was not breathing so deeply of the heavenly air now. Suspicion mounted in him and he breathed through his mouth and did not inhale deeply. He had already guessed that Patmos was a slave culture-was it also a drug culture?
Osric waved a languid hand and the cart stopped. «You shall see for yourself,» said Osric. He made a sign to his sub-officer and said to Blade, «It is halfway through first music, and that is penthe time for the gray people.»
It was only then that Blade became consciously aware, for the first time, of the music. So subtle, so sweetly insidious, that he had taken it for the sea wind. Now, as he cocked a conscious ear and really listened, he found that it was the wind, a continuous zephyr soughing over the land and bearing music to blend with the wondrous effluvium and drug the senses.
At that moment Richard Blade came alert to his danger and began to fight back. He understood the purpose of the flowers and the music, and the deadly beguilement thereof. And became aware also that Osric, for all his Ianguid airs and ennui, was watching him closely. The better, Blade thought, to report back to Juna.
Blade masked his thoughts and played the simpleton. He said, «Why are we stopping? And whence comes the music?»
Osric smiled and flicked a finger at his mustache. It was apparent that he had been instructed to answer Blade's questions, at least to a point. To lift a hand to point to the horizon seemed to tax his strength, yet Osric managed it. Blade, following that limp hand, saw a black cone on the far, far edge of flower fields. The cone was flattened at the top, scooped out, and scalloped at the sides and ringed with snow. A faint coil of dark smoke drifted from the crater as Blade stared. A volcano. Still very much alive, if the smoke told truth. Patmos, in addition to all else, was a volcanic isle.