Nor did it prove to be true. After that one specific statement, Klerus wandered off into a rambling lecture on the history of the Kingdom of Pendar. It went on for many minutes, with the Lanyri appearing occasionally around the fringes. It was only when he came to talking of the first Lanyri invasion that Klerus again spoke more plainly and directly.

«The Lanyri rule is strong and harsh but it is just. If a people submit peacefully, they soon come to share in the might of the Lanyri empire. But if they resist, and are defeated…»

«Are they always defeated?» put in Blade.

«Always. The Lanyri infantry is invincible.»

Blade could have mentioned things he had heard to the contrary. But once again he balked at involving Guroth-yet. «So they are defeated. And then what?»

Klerus spread his damp, pudgy hands. «They are overrun, and all who resist perish. But those who surrender in good time are spared. They may even come to rise to great heights under Lanyri rule. Penniless, wandering warriors have become kings or the ministers of kings under the rule of the Lanyri.»

Klerus could hardly have been more frank if he had given Blade an illuminated scroll with his proposition written on it. Join me, betray Pendar, and I will make you my right-hand man to rule over the ruins. Join those fools who would resist the invincible Lanyri, and perish with them.

Guroth, it seemed, was right. Perhaps not entirely. Perhaps there were fine details the captain hadn't understood. But if ever a man had the air of wanting support in treason, it was Klerus. Obviously he took Blade for a «penniless, wandering warrior» who had found an opportunity to pass himself off as the long-awaited Pendarnoth. Klerus was determined to show him that there was a better horse to ride to glory and wealth than the Golden Steed. Perhaps Klerus didn't even believe in the Pendarnoth or the Golden Steed? That might be worth finding out.

«The word 'Pendarnoth' means 'Father of the Pendari,' «said Blade. He spoke as he might have to a small child, deliberately seeking to be offensive. «I do not know what kind of father I would be, if I helped bring my 'children' into slavery.»

Klerus' face froze as hard as something that fat and flabby could do. «Do you truly believe in the gods' aid to men?» He said that in a tone that implied only a simpleton could do so.

Blade shrugged. «I have been a warrior all my life, Klerus. Not a philosopher, and certainly not a politician. I have learned not to ask questions that none can answer. And I have learned that a good sharp sword can cut off all sorts of arguments.» His eyes met Klerus'. Blade was trying to look open and frank and honest without being too obvious about it. If he could strike just the right note, he would be far along the way to convincing Klerus that he was indeed a simpleton. In the eyes of men like Klerus, only simpletons were honest. Wise men were always ready for a little treachery.

Klerus shrugged in his turn. For a moment Blade thought the High Councilor was going to indulge himself in some parting remark. But he managed to restrain himself, raised his hands in the prayer gesture, and went out.

That was the start of his relations with Klerus, although Blade wasn't quite sure how he would describe it. He had managed to avoid giving Klerus any promises of support, that was certain. He had also managed to avoid an open clash with the High Councilor. At least he hoped so, since that was even more important. Possibly he had even convinced Klerus that the Pendarnoth was a simpleton who could be ignored.

He decided to stop worrying about Klerus for the moment. The next thing to do would be to find out how much freedom of movement he had. Was he confined to his rooms, for all practical purposes a prisoner in a gilded cell? Did he have the run of the palace? Or could he roam all over Pendar, assuming he wanted to?

Chests inlaid with ivory and gilded bronze held a wide selection of rich clothing. Much of it was silk, and nearly all of it was so heavily embroidered with gold thread and lace that the underlying color was almost invisible. Where there was metal, it too was gold or gilded. But at least he was able to pick up some practical weapons. A curved double-edged sword three feet long went into a scabbard on his belt, and a straight foot-long dagger into a wrist sheath.

Now that he was dressed and armed to standards that satisfied him, should he summon a servant to guide him through the palace? Better not. It would be impossible to tell whether or not a servant was a spy for Klerus-or for Klerus' opponents. Without touching the bell cord, he went to the door to the corridor and opened it.

Several servants who happened to be passing by promptly fell on their faces as Blade appeared. He grimaced. It was going to be rather hard to walk around the palace freely if everybody promptly fell on the floor when they saw him. Was this perhaps a way of keeping him in his room? He stepped out into the corridor and looked down at the servants:

«Rise, my friends. I am neither a god nor a king. The way to honor me is on your feet, not on your bellies.»

One of the men raised his head a little and murmured, «The priests have told us that the Pendarnoth shall be worshiped in this fashion. It is not fit that the eyes of those not cleansed shall look upon the face of the Pendarnoth.»

Blade nodded. «And by whom is one cleansed?»

«By the priests, O Pendarnoth.»

«And all the servants who wait upon me in my chambers are thus cleansed, I suppose?»

The man swallowed. Blade realized he was pushing the man toward ticklish ground. But for the moment he had to go on pushing. This was too important to let slip by. He repeated his question, putting a note of command in his voice. The man turned pale, and Blade saw beads of sweat break out on his brown face. Finally he licked his lips and said, «Yes. They are chosen-from the worthiest only.»

Blade's lips curled in a thin smile. There was only one more question to ask, the crucial one. «And who chooses the worthiest, my friend?» The man gasped and Blade saw his jaw clamp tight, as though he were facing torture. Perhaps he was-or at least the danger of it. Blade decided not to push things farther. Instead he merely smiled again and said, «I think I know who does the choosing. The High Councilor Klerus keeps his hand in everything, doesn't he?»

The man started violently. For a moment Blade thought he was actually going to be sick with fright. The look on the man's face spoke as loudly and clearly as any words could have done. Forgetting any possible fear of the priests, he leaped to his feet and vanished down the corridor at a dead run. The other men and women hesitated a second, then did the same. Blade was left standing alone in the empty corridor.

Part of the situation was now as clear to Blade as if it had been engraved in gold on the floor at his feet. Klerus (who else?) was determined to surround him with spies and limit his movements as much as possible. However, that might well be something that any veteran of palace politics would see fit to do. What bothered him more was the obvious mortal terror Klerus inspired in the servants. There was something ugly about that.

Should he go back or go on? Damn it, if he went back he would have given the first victory to Klerus! He wasn't going to do that, no matter how many servants he inconvenienced. He turned to the left and strode away down the corridor.

Most of the servants had obviously been briefed by the priests or perhaps by Klerus. They went down on their faces or at least knelt with their eyes on the floor as Blade passed. He made no effort to argue with them. The first encounter had taught him that was futile.

The palace seemed to be a complete maze inside, with corridors branching off for no apparent reason at the oddest points. With no one to guide him and no one to bar his path, Blade wandered freely for what seemed like hours. In the process, he built up a fairly good notion of what lay where in the palace. Although the servants did not dare look upon his face, neither did they dare refuse to answer his questions about where he was or what lay behind a particular door.