By the time Blade had finished considering this, the elevator car was slowing down. Finally it stopped, and the door swished open. A reception committee was waiting for them in the chamber outside-a warrior, white-haired and stooping, and two men in the flowing robes and broad hats of civilians. Both wore badges pinned to the brims of their hats-one appeared to be a gilded pen, the other a gilded vial.
«You are honored, Blade-Liza,» said Pen-Jerg. «The First Warrior, the First Scribe, and the First Surgeon of the Tower of the Serpent are all here to receive you and prepare you for Queen Mir-Kasa. This is an additional honor that I had not expected even for you.»
Blade was not sure how to react, so he contented himself with a bow as deep as he could manage. That appeared to be enough. The three men returned his bow, and led him and Pen-Jerg into a chamber beyond. This one was furnished with luxurious couches, a sunken bath with every imaginable extra, and a large desk. The First Scribe sat down at the desk, opened a plate in the corner of the top, and unfolded a small microphone on a long boom. Then he pressed a button, and lights flashed on all over the top of the desk.
«Speak toward this recorder, Blade-Liza. To take down your account of who you are and what you have done this way is not our custom. Normally a person being presented to Her Splendor has all the details of his life already recorded in the Metal Mind. But you are from-let us say, someplace other than the Towers of Melnon. There is much that we would know of one from our own Tower that we do not know of you. And without its being known, we cannot be altogether sure that you are fit to meet Queen Mir-Kasa or receive any honors or status among us. Speak, Blade-Liza. The First Surgeon will attend your-wounds while you do. Then there will be food and drink for you.»
Blade nodded. Apparently there were a few more hurdles to get over before his status among these people would be secure. Well, he should have expected it. And at least he came from a profession where lying with a straight face was a survival skill you learned early-or you didn't live to learn it afterward. He had both offered and broken cover stories a good deal more difficult than anything he was likely to need with these people.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the First Surgeon laying out his instruments and dressings on one of the couches. He cleared his throat, and began.
«My name is Richard Blade, Blade-Liza among the people of the Towers of Melnon. I was born in England, in-«
Chapter EIGHT
Blade talked into the microphone for the better part of an hour. Sometimes he had to stop and grit his teeth at the pain as the surgeon probed his wound, or smeared salve over it, or took stitches in the flesh with what felt like a sailmaker's needle. But the man seemed to know his business, and at the end of the hour the wound was cleaned, stitched up, bandaged, and no longer hurting much.
Blade managed to get through that entire hour's interrogation by the First Scribe without any obvious slips. He played his cards very close to his chest, volunteering no information, and answering only the most direct questions as briefly as possible. But he had to be careful there, since answering too briefly would be likely to arouse suspicion. Admittedly the First Scribe seemed fairly unsophisticated and unsuspicious, for all his rank. But Blade was too familiar with the range of poses a trained interrogator could take to trust any of them on outward signs.
He was also very careful to say as little as possible about English methods of war or the organization of English society. Those seemed to be the two areas where people in Melnon were most likely to cry heresy and try to burn you at the stake-or at least send you down among the Low People. When the topics did come up, Blade tried to give the impression that he really hadn't been especially happy with the way things were in England. In fact, he implied that he was very happy to have finally arrived where society was properly organized and fought its wars the way he had always wanted to fight. Again he had to be careful, since he didn't want to show more enthusiasm than he could make sound authentic. But he managed to keep a straight face, and the First Scribe showed no signs of suspicion.
If answering questions about the «Low People» of England was ticklish, asking about the «Low People» of the towers was even more so. Blade kept his mouth entirely shut on that subject, as much as he would have liked to learn more about it. But luck was with him again. Before he left the recreation chamber, he had learned a good deal about the relative position of High and Low in at least the Tower of the Serpent. Much of it he needed to know, but would never have dared ask. However, the method of learning it left something to be desired.
By the time the interrogation was completed, Blade's throat was dry. He asked for a drink.
«Certainly,» said the First Warrior. «What is your desire? We have water, wine, fujol, wolmnas-«going on to list about twenty names. Blade supposed they were all things to drink, but they made as much sense to him as if they had all been in medieval Sanskrit. He held up a hand to stop the flow of hospitality.
«Water will be fine,» he said. He wanted a clear head if he was going before Queen Mir-Kasa. Almost as important, it was harder to slip drugs or poisons into water than into something that might conceal their taste with its own. No doubt a psychiatrist sitting in some paneled office in London would call this attitude paranoid. Blade preferred to think of it as common-sense survival.
The First Warrior nodded. «Again, you show the wisdom of a hero. Wine or other strong drinks inflame the blood and slow the healing of wounds. But water purges inner imbalances and speeds the healing. Is that not right, Surgeon?»
«It is.»
The First Warrior stepped to the desk and reached over the scribe's shoulder to press a button in a complex rhythm. There was a moment's delay, then a beep and a red light that flashed three times. «Your water will come shortly,» said the First Warrior. «And I asked that bath servants come also, and a clothing worker. Queen Mir-Kasa may wish to see you as you are, for she cares little for things which stand between her and her curiosity. Such is the nature of women, and of queens. But she may also wish you fitly garbed.»
«Indeed,» said Blade. It was a word he had found useful in half a dozen different dimensions, to register agreement on topics that he did not entirely understand. But he made yet another mental note. Queen Mir-Kasa sounded like a strong-minded and self-willed woman. Good or bad? No way of telling at the moment.
The various servants called for must have been only a few chambers away, because they arrived less than two minutes later. There were four of them, all women, all naked as babies except for tight-fitting masks over their mouths and noses and elbow-length gloves. In fact, they were quite unnaturally naked. Except for a sort of Indian scalp-lock, every speck of body hair had been shaved off. And their bare skins glistened unnaturally with some sort of grease or oil with an unmistakably antiseptic smell. Blade found himself looking at them with barely controlled distaste, although all four were young and all four had more than presentable figures.
One of them carried a green enameled tray with a large jug and a small cup on it. The other three carried large sacks that bulged, no doubt, with bathing gear and clothing. Blade rose, stepped up to the water-bearer, and without thinking about it picked up the jug and poured himself a cupful of water.
There was a sudden metallic clatter that made Blade stop with the cup half-way to his lips. The girl had dropped the tray and jug to the floor, and was standing as if turned to stone. Her eyes were wide with unmistakable terror, as they shifted from the spreading wetness on the rug, to Blade, to the First Warrior, and back again. The First Warrior's face also seemed frozen, but his expression was obviously one of almost apoplectic rage. With an effort, he seemed to calm himself and shake his head, more in sorrow than in anger.