The arena was not the only building in the city that obviously went back to before the disaster. Two miles away on the left rose a gigantic square tower, a monstrous black mass at least half a mile on a side and a thousand feet high. There were no banners on it, no windows or arches in it. Far down at the bottom, Blade could see a large door, metallic silver against the blackness, with a broad wooden staircase painted yellow leading up to it. Nothing else relieved the solid blackness.
Again Idrana noticed where Blade was looking. This time her voice was full of pride as she said, «The House of Fertility. From its secrets, the city rose and will rise farther yet.»
Blade nodded without replying. So that mighty black mass housed the secrets of the city's ability to reproduce? Blade had no doubt that the secrets existed. He had heard so from too many people.
But what were they? He suspected that the people of the disaster had been particularly skilled in biology and chemistry. The legends of bacteriological and chemical warfare in the disaster suggested as much. But what exactly had they learned to do? Had they achieved one of the longstanding dreams of Home Dimension scientists-developing embryos from fertilized eggs in laboratories? Or was their «secret» even more fantastic, something for which Home Dimension lacked even the words? Blade wondered. His curiosity was aroused, and once it was aroused, it seldom went back to sleep. He would ferret out the answer, somehow, sooner or later-if he lived long enough.
A few minutes later the wagon and the patrol turned into a muddy courtyard. Around three sides of the courtyard rose a five-story wooden building, with «barracks» stamped all over it. Armed women were drifting in and out of the door, and more were staring down from the windows at the new arrival. If they were going to imprison him here, in the middle of what looked like half the city's fighting women, Blade knew his chances of escape would be slim.
They were. Eight of the brawniest women Blade had ever seen came tramping up to the wagon. Idrana said nothing, merely jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Blade and Nugun. Four of the women scrambled up into the wagon and picked up Nugun as though he had been a log. The Senar growled deep in his throat and glared around him, but did not try to wriggle or fight. Blade had impressed that on him during the trip-don't provoke the women into killing you, no matter what they do. Stay alive and wait until we're together-that's our best chance for escape. I will not leave you.
«Good luck, Nugun,» called Blade, as the women hauled the Senar away. Idrana glared at him; then the other women were picking him up and lugging him away too. He followed his own advice and did not struggle or swear. But it was a considerable temptation when the women banged him against doorposts and walls in their haste or carelessness.
Quite a few bruises later, they reached the bottom of a flight of stone stairs. Ahead stretched a long corridor, floored and walled with slimy stones. A few oil lamps on iron brackets gave off a sullen yellow light and greasy smoke, the air lay heavy on Blade's nostrils, damp and chill and reeking of mold and long-confined humanity.
Cells opened onto the corridor on either side. As the women carried him past, Blade could see huddled, wretched figures in most of them. Some were men, mostly Senar. Some were women, and some were so gaunt and ragged that it was impossible to tell what they were.
Finally an empty cell appeared on the left. The women tramped into it, dropped Blade with a thump into several inches of moldy straw, cut his bonds, and marched out. As they did, Blade saw the leader making complicated signs with her fingers to the other three. He realized then why the four women had said nothing, and why Idrana had commanded them with gestures. They were deaf-mutes!
It was two days before anybody even bothered to bring Blade food and water. When they did, the food was a loaf of sour, barely edible bread. The water was gray and scummy-looking, as if it might have been dipped out of the ditch around the city's walls. It tasted as bad. But Blade realized he had no alternative — he had to eat and drink what they gave him, or lose strength even more rapidly than he would otherwise. If he lost too much strength, escape would be impossible, even if he found an opportunity. He ate and drank.
He ate the sour bread and drank the murky water for ten days. Twice the guards brought in fresh straw and a bucket of almost-clean water for him to wash himself. But his hair and beard grew and became a tangled mess, and he could feel himself losing strength day by day. To keep his muscles in tone and his reflexes sharp, he did a series of exercises each day. The exercises made his blood race and his breath come faster and gave him at least a moment's illusion of continued health and vitality.
But it was only an illusion. It was obvious that nobody really cared about keeping him in shape to put on a good show in the arena. Or perhaps they were doing this deliberately, fearing that he would try to escape if he retained his strength.
But this hardly made sense. The bars of his cell were too strong and too solidly set to be broken or bent out. The guards who brought him his food and water were always on the alert, standing well back with drawn swords. At most, he could take one or two of them with him. Even if he was incredibly lucky in the cell, he would hardly be so lucky everywhere along the route to the open air. And it would be a miracle pure and simple if he were able both to fight off the guards and find Nugun.
Eleven days, twelve, thirteen. The morning of the fourteenth day came. Blade scratched the fourteenth mark on the wall and settled down to his «breakfast.»
The loaf of bread seemed even more battered and misshapen than usual. It looked as though someone had been using it for a punching bag before sending it down to him. He ripped the heel off the loaf and began to munch on it wearily. Apart from all its other faults, the bread was so hard that it was making Blade's gums raw and sore.
Suddenly his teeth came together on something so hard that it made him start and wince. Carefully he worked thumb and forefinger in between his teeth, grasped the object, and pulled it out.
It was a nut-a plain, ordinary black nut, of a kind that he had seen growing wild in the forests of Brega a dozen times. But it was an unexpected thing to find in a loaf of ration bread. Did it mean anything except that the bakers were careless?
It probably didn't, but he couldn't be sure. Blade waited until none of the guards were within earshot. Then he hurled the nut against the wall as hard as he could. There was a sharp crack. He went over to pick it up, found a hairline split in one half of the shell, and used his fingernails to pry it apart.
A small piece of paper fluttered out. Blade grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the straw, shielded it with his body, and read:
Blade. Wait for day of Great Games in arena. Plans to rescue you made. Fighters of Purple River and army of Rilgon both entering plains. Our sisters already leaving city.
— Truja
The handwriting and signature were unmistakable. Blade read the note over several times until he was sure he had memorized it. Then he tore it up and swallowed the fragments.
So Truja was in the city and working to get him out. Hopefully Nugun was there too, although the Senar was not mentioned in the note. Well and good-or at least well and better than anything he might be able to manage on his own. He would follow Truja's request for that reason-and that reason only.