The floater-cars followed the line of the outer mound for an hour or so, and came at last to the Mouth of Blades.

This was no more than a timber-roofed opening giving access to a tunnel disappearing into the earth. A line of ancient rusty swords was set in concrete across its front, forming a barrier more symbolic than actual, since they were spaced far apart. How long, Valentine wondered, does it take to turn swords rusty in this dry desert climate?

The guardians of the Labyrinth waited just within the entrance.

There were seven of them — two Hjorts, a Ghayrog, a Skandar, a Liiman, and two humans — and all were masked after the universal manner of the officials of the Pontifex. The mask too was mainly symbolic, a mere strip of some glossy yellow stuff angled across the eyes and bridge of the nose of the humans and in equivalent places on the others; but it created an effect of great strangeness about these people, as it was meant to do.

The guardians stolidly confronted Valentine and his party in silence. Deliamber said quietly to him, "They will ask a price for admission. All this is traditional. Go up to them and state your business."

To the guardians Valentine said, "I am Valentine, brother to the late Voriax, son of the Lady of the Isle, and I have come to seek audience with the Pontifex."

Not even so bizarre and provocative an announcement as that stirred much reaction from the masked ones. The Ghayrog said only, "The Pontifex admits no one to his presence."

"Then I would have audience with his high ministers, who can bear my message to the Pontifex."

"They will not see you either," replied one of the Hjorts.

Valentine said, "In that case I will make application to the ministers of the ministers. Or to the ministers of the ministers of the ministers, if I must. All I ask of you is that you grant admission to the Labyrinth for my companions and me."

The guardians conferred solemnly among themselves, in low droning tones, evidently going through some ritual of a purely mechanical sort, since they barely seemed to be listening to one another. When their mutterings died away the Ghayrog spokesman swung about to face Valentine and said, "What is your offering?"

"Offering?"

"The entry-price."

"Name it and I’ll pay it." Valentine signaled to Shanamir, who carried a purse of coins. But the guardians looked displeased, shaking their heads, several of them actually turning away as Shanamir produced some half-royal pieces.

"Not money," the Ghayrog said disdainfully. "An offering. "

Valentine was baffled. In confusion he looked toward Deliamber, who moved his tentacles, waving several of them up and down in a rhythmic tossing gesture. Valentine frowned. Then he understood. Juggling!

"Sleet — Zalzan Kavol—"

From one of the cars they brought clubs and balls. Sleet, Carabella, and Zalzan Kavol stationed themselves before the guardians and, at a signal from the Skandar, began to juggle. Motionless as statues, the seven masked ones watched. The entire proceeding seemed so preposterous to Valentine that he was hard put to keep a straight face, and several times had to choke back giggles; but the three jugglers performed their routines austerely and with the utmost dignity, as though this were some crucial religious rite. They went through three complete patterns of interchange and stopped with one accord, bowing stiffly to the guardians. The Ghayrog nodded almost imperceptibly — the only acknowledgment of the performance.

"You may enter," he said.

THEY DROVE THE FLOATERS between the blades and into a sort of vestibule, dark and musty, that opened into a wide sloping roadway. A short distance down that and they intersected a curving tunnel, the first of the rings of the Labyrinth.

It was high-roofed and brightly lit, and could well have been a market street in any busy city, with stalls and shops and pedestrian traffic and vehicles of all shapes and sizes floating along. But a moment’s careful inspection made it clear that this was no Pidruid, no Piliplok, no Ni-moya. The people in the streets were eerily pale, with a ghostly look that told of lifetimes spent away from the rays of the sun. Their clothing was curiously archaic in style, and of dull, dark colors. There were many masked individuals, servants of the pontifical bureaucracy, unremarkable in the context of the Labyrinth and moving in the crowds without attracting the slightest attention for their maskedness. And, thought Valentine, everyone, masked and maskless alike, had a tense and drawn expression, a strange haunted look about the eyes and mouth. Out in the world of fresh air, under the warm and cheerful sun, people on Majipoor smiled freely and easily, not only with their mouths but with their eyes, their cheeks, their entire faces, their whole souls. Down in this catacomb souls were of a different sort.

Valentine turned to Deliamber. "Do you know your way around in this place?"

"Not at all. But guides should be easily come by."

"How?"

"Halt the cars, get out, stand around, look befuddled," the Vroon said. "You’ll have guides aplenty in a minute."

It took less than that. Valentine, Sleet, and Carabella left their car, and instantly a boy no more than ten, who had been running along the street with some younger children, whirled about and called, "Show you the Labyrinth? One crown, all day!"

"Do you have an older brother?" Sleet asked.

The boy glared at him. "You think I’m too young? Go on, then! Find your own way around! You’ll be lost in five minutes!"

Valentine laughed. "What’s your name?"

"Hissune."

"How many levels must we go, Hissune, before we reach the government sector?"

"You want to go there?"

"Why not?"

"They’re all crazy there," the boy said, grinning. "Work, work, shuffle papers all day long, mumble and mutter, work hard and hope you’ll get promoted even deeper down. Talk to them and they don’t even answer you. Minds all mumbly from too much work. It’s seven levels under. Court of Columns first, Hall of Winds, Place of Masks, Court of Pyramids, Court of Globes, the Arena, and then you get to the House of Records. I’ll take you there. Not for one crown, though."

"How much?"

"Half a royal."

Valentine whistled. "What would you do with so much money?"

"Buy my mother a cloak, and light five candles to the Lady, and get my sister the medicine she needs." The boy winked. "And maybe a treat or two for myself."

During this exchange a goodly crowd had gathered — at least fifteen or twenty children no older than Hissune, some younger ones, and some adults, all clustered together in a tight semicircle and watching tensely to see if Hissune got the job. None of them called out, but out of the corner of his eye Valentine saw them straining for his attention, standing on tiptoes, trying to look knowledgeable and responsible. If he refused the boy’s offer, he would have fifty more the next moment, a wild clamor of voices and a forest of waving hands. But Hissune seemed to know his business, and his blunt, coolly cynical approach had charm.

"All right," Valentine said. "Take us to the House of Records."

"All these cars yours?"

"That one, that, that — yes, all."

Hissune whistled. "Are you important? Where are you from?"

"Castle Mount."

"I guess you’re important," the boy conceded. "But if you come from Castle Mount, what are you doing on the Blades side of the Labyrinth?"

The boy was clever. Valentine said, "We’ve been traveling. We’ve just come from the Isle."

"Ah." Hissune’s eyes widened just for an instant, the first breach in his jaunty street-wise coolness. Doubtless the Isle was a virtually mythical place to him, as far off as the farthest stars, and despite himself he showed awe at finding himself in the presence of someone who had actually been there. He moistened his lips. "And how shall I call you?" he asked after a moment.