He did learn one useful fact by listening to the crew talk. Kloret hadn't lied. Thrayket IV of Gohar was dead, and before the ship returned from Shell Island he would be buried in the Imperial Tomb along with three hundred years of his ancestors. From the captain on down, the crew were quite irritated at having to miss the funeral. They were partly consoled by not having to miss the coronation of His Radiance Harkrat II, with all the feasts and gifts and dancing in the streets while the public fountains ran with wine.
If Harkrat lives to be crowned, thought Blade, then decided that was being too pessimistic. Kloret might be ready to plunge Gohar into civil war if he thought it would give him advantages he could gain no other way. As long as he thought he could control the prince by blackmail, he would use other and safer methods of accumulating the power he wanted.
One thought of Kloret led to another. For the first time Blade began to wonder why he was alive and on his way to Shell Island, rather than dead and dropped into the sea with stones tied to his body. He knew he'd be guessing, but he also knew he had to think through what Kloret might have in mind for him. Against a man like the Prime Minister, it wasn't safe to sit and wait for facts to drop on you out of the sky.
Thrayket was dead, and there would be confusion in Gohar even if Harkrat took the throne without any delay or trouble. No one would be likely to notice that the Man from the Future was gone, at least until he failed to show up at the funeral and the coronation. Harkrat and Elyana would probably notice it, but Kloret had his ways of keeping them silent.
When Blade's absence finally was noticed, Kloret would claim complete innocence of any knowledge, or perhaps hint that Blade had fled for dishonorable reasons. Kloret could do his best to blacken Blade's reputation by accusing him of rape or theft of something valuable, which would conveniently turn up missing. Harkrat and Elyana and their supporters might not swallow the Prime Minister's story, but wouldn't dare call it a lie either.
So Blade would be out of sight, for most people out of mind, and discredited in the eyes of many of those who remembered him. No one would be able to trace him to Shell Island, since the sailors of the ship carrying him didn't know who he was.
Meanwhile, he would be alive on Shell Island. So Kloret wanted him alive, and Blade could think of at least three good reasons why this was so:
One. Other Englishmen might come to Gohar, learn what happened to the Historian Blade, and take a gruesome vengeance. Kloret couldn't be sure this was actually likely or even possible, but he couldn't be sure there was no danger at all. Kloret would prefer to play it safe, so that if he ever faced a squad of angry Englishmen with death rays, he could say with perfect truth: «My hands are clean of the blood of Richard Blade.»
Two. Kloret might have hopes of using Blade in his future plottings, or winning him over as an ally. He might think that a promise to make Blade co-ruler of Gohar once he'd usurped the throne would overcome Blade's scruples. Being able to claim that the Man from the Future saw clearly that he, Kloret, was destined to rule Gohar would be helpful.
Three. If he couldn't get Blade's help, he might still persuade or frighten Blade into telling him about the future of Gohar. Above all, he'd want to know what would happen in Mythor. Live Blades may not talk, but dead Blades cannot.
Kloret wanted him alive, and that meant his chances of survival on Shell Island were fairly good. An active, tough man, diving day after day and week after week, could earn more than enough to keep himself healthy and alert. If he didn't make enemies among the guards or his fellow prisoners, he could last as long as he'd need to.
Blade suspected that he would need no more than a few months. He hoped it would be no more than a few weeks. There wasn't much time to lose if he was to escape in time to help Harkrat and Elyana.
Chapter 13
Shell Island was only five days from Gohar if the winds cooperated. On Blade's voyage they didn't, and it took his ship ten. About noon on the ninth day Blade heard men moving on deck, and the ship drifted to a stop. Then a boat came bumping alongside and loud-voiced men scrambled aboard. The pilot to guide the ship through the twisting channel to Shell Island was aboard.
All that afternoon the ship tacked back and forth, masts and rigging creaking and groaning and the sailors cursing at the extra work. As the sky began to turn red, they gave Blade the largest meal he'd ever eaten on board-meat, a huge bowl of porridge, bread with oil and spices, even some dried fruit. He couldn't help thinking of «the condemned man's last meal,» but in spite of this he fell asleep more easily than he'd expected.
Blade awoke with another painful headache, a dry mouth, salt-caked lips, and a stomach rumbling with hunger and quivering with nausea. He felt as if he'd been on a truly awesome binge and was now paying the price in the form of an equally impressive hangover.
Unfortunately, there was gritty sand and small pebbles under him, a hot sun blazing on his bare skin, and a salt-scented wind blowing across his body. Not far off sea birds were crying, and waves rolled in on a beach.
Blade turned his head so that he wouldn't be dazzled by the sun, then opened his eyes. Even then he couldn't see anything for a while. Finally he saw that he was lying at the foot of a sand dune on the narrow gravel and sand beach between the dune and the water. Small waves splashed and died on the sand twenty yards away.
The sand dune cut off Blade's view toward the land, but to seaward he could make out a line of white as waves broke over a half-submerged reef. From the position of the sun, it was midmorning, a few hours before noon.
He'd been drugged at dinner, then dumped on Shell Island during the night. At least he couldn't see any reason to believe he wasn't on Shell Island, and he was certain he'd been drugged. He sat up, tried to stand, and found that his legs wouldn't stay under him. The movement made his stomach rebel, and up came the remnants of last night's dinner.
Now his stomach felt better, though not his head. Gradually the headache also faded, and the second time he tried to stand he found he could do it. He still decided to stay where he was for a little longer. The prisoners of Shell Island were often hostile to newcomers until they'd proved themselves in a few fights. Blade knew he might have to fight the moment he left the shelter of the dune, couldn't afford to lose, and wanted to be completely fit.
He stretched out on a patch of the softest sand he could find in the shade of the dune and tried to relax and breathe deeply. Now he found himself wondering why he'd been dumped here, on an isolated beach of Shell Island. Normally prisoners for the island were taken to a fort on the southern tip and registered before they were turned loose. The Goharans were advanced enough to have invented bureaucracy and bureaucrats who insisted on keeping useless statistics.
It occurred to Blade that he might be more useful to Kloret if he wasn't registered. If nobody except his fellow prisoners, who wouldn't know who he was, knew that he was on Shell Island, this reduced the chances of any of his friends or any of Kloret's enemies tracing him. Of course the ship's crew might be a link between Gohar and Shell Island, so those sailors were probably doomed. If ever there was a believer in the rule «Dead men tell no tales,» it was Kloret.