“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 sufficient to stagger him. He circled around the white mare, pursued by the Master. Dodging, keeping the horse between himself and his opponent, he raised the horn to his lips and sounded it three tunes. Its notes rose above the fierce noises of the combat on the palace stair. Panting, he turned and raised his guard in time to ward off a temple blow that would surely have slain him had it landed.
“It is written,” said the Master, almost sobbing out the words, “that he who gives orders without having the power to enforce them, that man is a fool.”
“Even ten years ago,” panted the prince, “you’d never have laid that staff on me.”
He hacked at it, hoping to split the wood, but the other always managed to turn the edge of his blade, so that while he nicked it and shaved it in places, the grain held and the staff remained of a piece.
Using it as a singlestick, the Master laid a solid blow across the prince’s left side, and he felt his ribs break within him. . . . He fell.
It was not by design that it happened, for the blade spun from out his hands as he collapsed; but the weapon caught the Master across the shins and he dropped to his knees, howling.
“We’re evenly matched, at that,” gasped the prince. “My age against your fat . . .”
He drew his dagger as he lay there, but could not hold it steady. He rested his elbow on the ground. The Master, tears in his eyes, attempted to rise and fell again to his knees.
There came the sound of many hooves.
“I am not a fool,” said the prince, “and now I have the power to enforce my orders.”
“What is happening?”
“The rest of my lancers are arrived. Had I entered in full force, you’d have holed up like a gekk in a woodpile, and it might have taken days to pull your palace apart and fetch you out. Now I have you in the palm of my hand.”
The Master raised his staff.
The prince drew back his arm.
“Lower it,” he said, “or I’ll throw the dagger. I don’t know myself whether I’ll miss or hit, but I may hit. You’re not anxious to gamble against the real death, are you?”