«Well, Richard Blade of the English,» he said again.

Blade found the strength to return the smile. «Are you a man or just a talking animal? You don't seem to be able to say very much.»

The smile on the man's face slipped for a moment. Blade felt that he had scored. «I do not need to say very much, Blade. But if I wanted to hear you talk, it would be easy. Oh, it would be so easy.» The man licked his lips. It was obvious what he had in mind as a «so easy» way of making Blade talk.

«But I am not free to do what the ghosts of my soldiers would like me to do. No, I am not free. The men of Rulam want to see you in the arenas. They greatly want to see you in the arenas. They have given me many firestones and many lesser slaves for you. Oh, they have paid me well. The Ivory Tower will be richer because of you. That is not something you enjoy hearing, is it? I know you have been teaching the Zungans how to fight a new way. It is a good way, too. When you are dying, you can think that it is a good way. Oh, yes, I am a generous man. Even my enemies can have their last thoughts.»

The man rambled on like this for quite some time. Before too much longer Blade was sure that he was dealing with a madman. Or, more accurately, that he was being dealt with by one. But he still paid close attention to every one of the man's words, searching them for any clues as to where he was and who the man might be. While he listened, he also looked around him.

He was lying on his back on a wooden bedframe covered with a thin straw mattress. His wrists and ankles were tied with heavy iron chain to staples set in the bed. The chain would be too heavy to break, but could the staples be pulled out?

He could move his head enough to see that the walls and ceiling of the room were of heavy timber, darkened with age and smoke. Possibly he was in a peasant's cottage, but it looked too well built for that. The door was low, no more than five feet high, and as massive as the walls. The floor seemed to be bare earth covered with straw-straw that had not been changed for a long time, his nose told him.

There was only one light in the room, a guttering rush light dangling from the ceiling. By its feeble glow Blade again examined the man standing over him from head to toe. He appeared to be unarmed, although a large black leather purse dangled from a black silk sash around his ample midriff. But now Blade could make out more closely what was dangling on the man's chest. It was a model of a cylindrical tower, with the windows and doors clearly shown. It was a beautiful and delicate piece of carving, with the yellow-white sheen of old ivory.

Blade remembered what he had heard of the ruling Priests of the Ivory Tower in Kanda. Was this man one of them? It seemed likely. And it was obvious he resented turning a man who had killed Kandan soldiers over to the Rulami as a gladiator. Was there anything more to this resentment? Could something more perhaps be made of this resentment, until Kanda and Rulam were at least mildly at-odds over Blade's disposal? Blade realized that he was grasping at straws, but also realized that for the moment there was nothing much better that he could do.

How long the silver-robed man continued his half-incoherent monologue Blade had no way of guessing. The longer it continued, the more Blade was certain that the man was someone high up among the Priests of the Ivory Tower. He spoke with authority, if not arrogance, and his comments on the Rulami were seldom charitable.

Eventually the man ran out of things to say or perhaps out of breath. He raised his arms in what might have been a parting blessing-or perhaps only a stretching of cramped muscles. Then he said, «Farewell, Blade. I do not think I will be seeing you again, for you will never see Kanda, and I seldom leave it. Certainly I will never go to Rulam and walk among the barefaced women of that city. But you-you will find favor in their eyes, I think.» He turned and went out. A moment later Blade heard the clank as a chain was attached to the outside of the door, and the click of a key turning in a lock. He was truly a prisoner.

The light was still burning, so Blade examined his chains more closely. The staples were heavier than he had thought at first. He tried a few tentative pulls, but soon realized that there was little hope of getting enough power from the strength of only one arm. And there was even less hope of bringing two arms to bear on one staple. The chains were too short.

Then he tried the iron wrist and ankle bands to which the chains were attached. Perhaps he could find a flaw in one of them? But the iron was solid, and all his jerking only made his wrists and ankles raw and red.

Very well, he was not going to escape from this particular prison. As long as his captors were not going to kill him here and now, he didn't really need to escape. Not for the first time his fighting qualities seemed to have destined him for a career as a gladiator. He would wait until he reached Rulam, and then look for ways of escape. At least as a gladiator he would be certain to have easy access to weapons. After deciding that, he was able to drift off to sleep. He would need to conserve his strength.

A metallic clink from the door woke him with a start. The light still burned, dimmer now but showing the chamber still empty. Somebody was outside, working at the chain and lock. Somebody sent to kill him? The Ivory Tower priest had not sounded very happy about sending him up to Rulam. Perhaps he was going to cheat the Rulami by having Blade «killed while attempting to escape.»

The clinking came again the sound of a key turning in the lock. Then the rattle of the chain being pulled through its fastenings. And finally to creak of seldom-oiled hinges as the door swung open.

The figure that slipped into the room on noiseless feet was dressed in the same silver robes and black sash as the Ivory Tower priest. But its head was completely concealed by a red hood drawn tight over the face so that only the eyes showed. It came across the room and stood over Blade, staring down at him. Blade tried to read the expression in the eyes, but could not. Yet he felt this one's examination was of quite a different kind from that of the other priest. It was less hostile, more openly curious.

Then the figure raised its arms, and the silver sleeves fell back, revealing slim hands in red gloves. The hands went up to the hood and jerked it suddenly back. Blade's eyes opened in amazement. He would have sat up and stared if the chains had let him. From out of the red hood, the face of a young woman stared at him.

Young, and also beautiful. Long ash-blonde hair framed a finely chiseled face, with wide blue eyes and an impudently up-tilted nose. The eyes were roaming over Blade's naked body, lingering here and there with unmistakable interest. Blade could not help grinning as he almost read the woman's mind. This seemed to be a trip for meeting women who wanted to make love in strange places.

In a single graceful motion she knelt down beside Blade and brought her mouth close to his right ear. «Blade, listen to me,» she whispered. «I am Sarnila, daughter to the High Priest of Kanda.»

Blade looked a question at her. She nodded. «Yes, the man in the silver robes who was talking to you earlier. He does not want to turn you over to the Rulami. He wants to have you killed and make it look like an attempt to escape. I have come to help you really escape before my father's killers arrive.»

Blade frowned. In a whisper as low as hers, he said, «Why should I trust you? You are the High Priest's daughter. Why should you want me to escape?»

Something like a shudder of revulsion passed over Sarnila's delicate features. «And I am also his mistress.» She looked at Blade. «Yes, I see you think of this as a Rulang or a Zungan would. But it is nothing unusual in Kanda, at least not for the upper priests. They can have families when they are younger, but when they are older they are supposed to be celibate.» Sarnila looked as if she wanted to spit on the floor. «But they are still men. And their daughters can be relied on not to talk. So they make their daughters their mistresses and keep them almost as slaves. There are a hundred or more young women in Kanda who have never known any man but their fathers. Their old, fat, half-impotent fathers!» This time she did spit on the floor.