“Tell them to stop!”
“Why should I? I have come to speak with the Masters of Karma, and you tell me that I cannot. I tell you that I can, and will. Let us see which of us is correct.”
“Order them to stop,” said the other, “and I will bear your message to the Masters.”
“Halt!” cried the prince. “But be ready to begin again.”
The man in black mounted the stairs, vanished into the palace. The prince fingered the horn that hung on a cord about his neck.
In a short while there was movement, and armed men began to emerge from the doorway. The prince raised his horn and gave wind to it twice.
The men wore leather armor—some still buckling it hastily into place—and caps of the same material. Their sword arms were padded to the elbow, and they wore small, oval-shaped metal shields, bearing as device a yellow wheel upon a black field. They carried long, curved blades. They filled the stairway completely and stood as if waiting orders.
The man in black emerged again, and he stood at the head of the stair. “Very well,” he stated, “if you have a message for the Masters, say it!”
“Are you a Master?” inquired the prince.
“I am.”
“Then must your rank be lowest of them all, it you must also do duty as doorman. Let me speak to the Master in charge here.”
“Your insolence will be repaid both now and in a life yet to come,” observed the Master.
Then three dozen lancers rode through the gate and arrayed themselves at the sides of the prince. The eight who had begun the deflowering of the garden remounted their horses and moved to join the formation, blades laid bare across their laps.
“Must we enter your palace on horseback?” inquired the prince. “Or will you now summon the other 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?”