Masters, with whom I wish to hold conversation?"
Close to eighty men stood upon the stair facing them, blades in hand. The Master seemed to weigh the balance of forces. He decided in favor of maintaining things as they were.
"Do nothing rash," he stated, "for my men will defend themselves in a particularly vicious fashion. Wait upon my return. I shall summon the others."
The prince filled his pipe and lit it. His men sat like statues, lances ready. Perspiration was most evident upon the faces of the foot soldiers who held the first rank on the stairway.
The prince, to pass the time, observed to his lancers, "Do not think to display your skill as you did at the last siege of Kapil. Make target of the breast, rather than the head.
"Also," he continued, "think not to engage in the customary mutilation of the wounded and the slain—for this is a holy place and should not be profaned in such a manner.
"On the other hand," he added, "I shall take it as a personal affront if there are not ten prisoners for sacrifice to Nirriti the Black, my personal patron—outside these walls, of course, where observance of the Dark Feast will not be held so heavily against us . . ."
There was a clatter to the right, as a foot soldier who had been staring up the length of Strake's lance passed out and fell from the bottom stair.
"Stop!" cried the figure in black, who emerged with six others — similarly garbed—at the head of the stairway. "Do not profane the Palace of Karma with bloodshed. Already that fallen warrior's blood is—"
"Rising to his cheeks," finished the prince, "if he be conscious — for he is not slain."
"What is it you want?" The figure in black who was addressing him was of medium height, but of enormous girth. He stood like a huge, dark barrel, his staff a sable thunderbolt.
"I count seven," replied the prince. "I understand that ten Masters reside here. Where are the other three?"
"Those others are presently in attendance at three reading rooms in Mahartha. What is it you want of us?"
"You are in charge here?"
"Only the Great Wheel of the Law is in charge here."
"Are you the senior representative of the Great Wheel within these walls?"
"I am."
"Very well. I wish to speak with you in private—over there," said the prince, gesturing toward the black Hall.
"Impossible!"
The prince knocked his pipe empty against his heel, scraped its bowl with the point of his dagger, replaced it in his pouch. Then he sat very erect upon the white mare and clasped the horn in his left hand. He met the Master's eyes.
"Are you absolutely certain of that?" he asked.
The Master's mouth, small and bright, twisted around words he did not speak. Then:
"As you say," he finally acknowledged. "Make way for me here!" and he passed down through the ranks of the warriors and stood before the white mare.
The prince guided the horse with his knees, turning her in the direction of the dark Hall.
"Hold ranks, for now!" called out the Master.
"The same applies," said the prince to his men.
The two of them crossed the courtyard, and the prince dismounted before the Hall.
"You owe me a body," he said in a soft voice.
"What talk is this?" said the Master.
"I am Prince Siddhartha of Kapil, Binder of Demons."
"Siddhartha has already been served," said the other.
"So you think," said the prince, "served up as an epileptic, by order of Brahma. This is not so, however. The man you treated earlier today was an unwilling impostor. I am the real Siddhartha, oh nameless priest, and I have come to claim my body—one that is whole and strong, and without hidden disease. You will serve me in this matter. You will serve me willingly or unwillingly, but you will serve me."
"You think so?"
"I think so," replied the prince.
"Attack!" cried the Master, and he swung his dark staff at the prince's head.
The prince ducked the blow and retreated, drawing his blade. Twice, he parried the staff. Then it fell upon his shoulder, a glancing blow, but
Close to eighty men stood upon the stair facing them, blades in hand. The Master seemed to weigh the balance of forces. He decided in favor of maintaining things as they were.
"Do nothing rash," he stated, "for my men will defend themselves in a particularly vicious fashion. Wait upon my return. I shall summon the others."
The prince filled his pipe and lit it. His men sat like statues, lances ready. Perspiration was most evident upon the faces of the foot soldiers who held the first rank on the stairway.
The prince, to pass the time, observed to his lancers, "Do not think to display your skill as you did at the last siege of Kapil. Make target of the breast, rather than the head.
"Also," he continued, "think not to engage in the customary mutilation of the wounded and the slain—for this is a holy place and should not be profaned in such a manner.
"On the other hand," he added, "I shall take it as a personal affront if there are not ten prisoners for sacrifice to Nirriti the Black, my personal patron—outside these walls, of course, where observance of the Dark Feast will not be held so heavily against us . . ."
There was a clatter to the right, as a foot soldier who had been staring up the length of Strake's lance passed out and fell from the bottom stair.
"Stop!" cried the figure in black, who emerged with six others — similarly garbed—at the head of the stairway. "Do not profane the Palace of Karma with bloodshed. Already that fallen warrior's blood is—"
"Rising to his cheeks," finished the prince, "if he be conscious — for he is not slain."
"What is it you want?" The figure in black who was addressing him was of medium height, but of enormous girth. He stood like a huge, dark barrel, his staff a sable thunderbolt.
"I count seven," replied the prince. "I understand that ten Masters reside here. Where are the other three?"
"Those others are presently in attendance at three reading rooms in Mahartha. What is it you want of us?"
"You are in charge here?"
"Only the Great Wheel of the Law is in charge here."
"Are you the senior representative of the Great Wheel within these walls?"
"I am."
"Very well. I wish to speak with you in private—over there," said the prince, gesturing toward the black Hall.
"Impossible!"
The prince knocked his pipe empty against his heel, scraped its bowl with the point of his dagger, replaced it in his pouch. Then he sat very erect upon the white mare and clasped the horn in his left hand. He met the Master's eyes.
"Are you absolutely certain of that?" he asked.
The Master's mouth, small and bright, twisted around words he did not speak. Then:
"As you say," he finally acknowledged. "Make way for me here!" and he passed down through the ranks of the warriors and stood before the white mare.
The prince guided the horse with his knees, turning her in the direction of the dark Hall.
"Hold ranks, for now!" called out the Master.
"The same applies," said the prince to his men.
The two of them crossed the courtyard, and the prince dismounted before the Hall.
"You owe me a body," he said in a soft voice.
"What talk is this?" said the Master.
"I am Prince Siddhartha of Kapil, Binder of Demons."
"Siddhartha has already been served," said the other.
"So you think," said the prince, "served up as an epileptic, by order of Brahma. This is not so, however. The man you treated earlier today was an unwilling impostor. I am the real Siddhartha, oh nameless priest, and I have come to claim my body—one that is whole and strong, and without hidden disease. You will serve me in this matter. You will serve me willingly or unwillingly, but you will serve me."
"You think so?"
"I think so," replied the prince.
"Attack!" cried the Master, and he swung his dark staff at the prince's head.
The prince ducked the blow and retreated, drawing his blade. Twice, he parried the staff. Then it fell upon his shoulder, a glancing blow, but
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