The Master took a strand of his beard between two fingers and twirled it. «This is as it may be. Yet it seems to me that you must die, in one way or another. If you do not take the drugs, we must-«

Blade gently shook his head, until the Master broke off and looked at him, both suspicious and curious. Good. The Master of the Hashomi was a man willing to argue and capable of weighing the merits of a case put before him. Blade was not completely surprised to find that the Master was such a man. He'd always heard the Master spoken of as a wise leader as well as a mighty warrior. Such leaders could usually use their heads as well as their sword arms. He would still move cautiously, though. Strange orders of warrior adepts like the Hashomi sometimes had equally strange leaders, as deadly and ultimately as deaf to argument as the sands of the desert.

«There is another possibility, if you are willing,» said Blade. «I am an exile from my homeland, with small chance of returning. The fanatical rulers of our land have suppressed the British agents. Some have remained, in the vain hope of rebuilding the Order in secret. They will not succeed, not in Britain and not in their lifetimes.

«I would not spend the rest of my years living like a rat in a cellar. If the British agents are to rise again, it will be with the aid of other warriors, their kin in spirit. Warriors such as the Hashomi. So I came to your valley in peace, and I would stay here in peace.»

«Your arrival at the bridge was not the most peaceful sort,» said the Master.

«No, it was not. That was not my choice. I do not know what level of skill the Hashomi who guarded the bridge that night have reached. I would say that it was not high. They may be brave and good with their swords, but I cannot say much for their ability to think.»

The Master refused to be baited into giving a definite answer to Blade's question. His lips wrinkled in a sour smile that showed Blade's thrust had gone home. Then he spoke soberly, picking his words with care.

«You, Richard Blade of the British agents, think that you are worthy to join the Hashomi, as you stand before me here and now?»

Blade wanted to say «Yes,» but something told him that would be pushing matters too far too fast. So he shrugged.

«I have been wounded, and that takes strength from a man. I must regain all the strength I had the day I came upon your Hashomi at the bridge. When I have done that, I will perhaps be worthy to join the Hashomi.»

«You will submit to a proper testing of your worth?» The note of hope in the Master's voice rang encouragingly in Blade's ears. He felt like grinning. The Master wasn't going to let a willing and gifted fighting man slip out of his grasp, even if he had to bend a few rules of the Hashomi to do it.

«That depends on what you mean by a proper testing,» said Blade. He wasn't going to let himself be trapped into promising to attempt the impossible.

«You must face Hashomi fighters again,» said the Master. «You must show everything you have learned as a British agent. If you are superior to the Hashomi, certain things may become possible that would not be possible otherwise.»

«What if I am not superior to the Hashomi? What if I am only-different?» Blade was equally unwilling to be caught in a «win or die» situation if he could avoid it.

The Master's fist clenched again. His voice did not change, but Blade sensed the impatience beginning to build up in the man. He decided to end this argument over the testing as quickly as he could without too much danger to himself.

«Very well. I will go against the Hashomi.»

«Barehanded,» interrupted the Master. «Barehanded, and your opponent will have a sword.»

Blade shook his head. Talk about attempting the Impossible! «No. Think of the wounds a sword can inflict. I could win, slay my opponent, and still die myself. Even if I did not die, what could I teach the Hashomi if I had to spend the rest of my life with one leg or one arm? If I must fight unarmed a man with a sword, you risk losing my knowledge regardless of how the fight comes out. That does not seem the wisest course of action. I would be ready to go against two of the Hashomi together, if they have only their knives and the drug-staves.»

«Two Hashomi, chosen by me?»

«Yes.»

«They will be chosen for their skill and speed, I warn you.»

«I would not ask that it be otherwise,» said Blade. «You must give me a proper testing, and I must pass it. Otherwise you are setting aside the ways of the Hashomi to no good purpose.»

«That is true,» said the Master. «Yet the ways of the Hashomi have only one aim, and that is to make the Hashomi fit for war. If this is not done, how can we pass the tests the future holds for us? If we fail, what good will it be to us that we have failed according to the ways of our fathers?» He raised a hand in a farewell salute to Blade. «In three weeks time, will you be strong again?»

«I expect to be.»

«Very well. In three weeks, then.» The Master turned and strode across the terrace, quickly vanishing among the buildings of the hospital.

Blade found it easier to breathe after the Master was out of sight. He'd won himself at least three weeks more of life for certain. If he passed his testing, he'd win more life, perhaps freedom of movement, perhaps even the favor of the Master.

That was not altogether a good thing. The Master's favor could protect him, but it would also mean the Master's eye on him and the Master's keen mind analyzing all his actions.

It was not necessarily safe to have someone like that watching you, even if for the moment he might be on your side.

Blade was ready to fight any reasonable number of Hashomi within two weeks. As far as he was concerned the third week was a waste of time. He had nothing to do but pace up and down the terrace or around and around his hospital room like a caged tiger. The guards at the far end of the tunnel were unfailingly polite, but flatly refused to let him pass. The only way he could hope for the freedom of movement he needed was to pass the testing, and that was that.

At least there seemed to be no possible danger as long as he was in the hospital. Except for the Master himself, no armed Hashomi ever seemed to enter it. The most lethal weapons on hand were the surgeons' instruments.

Of the forty-odd people in the hospital, ten were old men, wrinkled and gray, and twenty were equally elderly women. They were brisk, efficient, and clearly knew their business. Once Blade was on the way to recovery, they seemed ready to treat him as if he was no more than a prize animal.

The rest of the hospital staff were younger women, few of them over twenty and most of them quite attractive as far as Blade could see. Blade sensed one or more of them watching him almost every moment he was out of his room. He was never able to ask one of them what they were looking for, though. Every time he tried, the girl would smile shyly and then dart away.

Blade wondered if orders had come from the Master to keep him in a sort of isolation booth until the time came for him to be tested. The idea made sense. Blade was where no man with his mind intact and free of drugs had been since the Hashomi were founded, centuries before. The Master wasn't prepared to risk destroying him out of hand-or risk letting him find out too much about the Hashomi.

The duel of wits with the Master would be going on long after the testing was over and done with. Blade knew he could not relax for a moment as long as he was within the valley, and perhaps not even in this Dimension. If the Hashomi had reached out across the desert to establish their agents in Dahaura, he might be in some danger even if he escaped to the city.

But that was a thought for a future that might never come unless he passed his testing against the two picked Hashomi. Blade put the matter out of his mind and settled down to eight hours a day of conditioning and unarmed combat exercises. He was careful to do them in the privacy of his room, for he wanted his skill and strength to be as much of a surprise as possible.