The Master lowered his staff.
“You will know the real death,” said the Master, “when the wardens of Karma have made dog meat of your horse soldiers.”
The prince coughed, stared disinterestedly at his bloody spittle. “In the meantime, let’s discuss politics,” he suggested.
After the sounds of battle had ended, it was Strake—tall, dusty, his hair near matching the gore that dried on his blade — Strake, who was nuzzled by the white mare as he saluted his prince and said, “It is over.”
“Do you hear that, Master of Karma?” asked the prince. “Your wardens are dog meat.”
The Master did not answer.
“Serve me now and you may have your life,” said the prince. “Refuse, and I’ll have it.”
“I will serve you,” said the Master.
“Strake,” ordered the prince, “send two men down into the town — one to fetch back Narada, my physician, and the other to go to the Street of the Weavers and bring here Jannaveg the sailmaker. Of the three lancers who remain at Hawkana’s, leave but one to hold the Shan of Irabek till sundown. He is then to bind him and leave him, joining us here himself.”
Strake smiled and saluted.
“Now bring men to bear me within the Hall, and to keep an eye on this Master.”
He burned his old body, along with all the others. The wardens of Karma, to a man, had passed in battle. Of the seven nameless Masters, only the one who had been fat survived. While the banks of sperm and ova, the growth tanks and the body lockers could not be transported, the transfer equipment itself was dismantled under the direction of Dr. Narada, and its components were loaded onto the horses of those who had fallen in the battle. The young prince sat upon the white mare and watched the jaws of flame close upon the bodies. Eight pyres blazed against the predawn sky. The one who had been a sailmaker turned his eyes to the pyre nearest the gate—the last to be ignited, its flames were only just now reaching the top, where lay the gross bulk of one who wore a robe of black, a circle of yellow on the breast. When the flames touched it and the robe began to smolder, the dog who cowered in the ruined garden raised his head in a howl that was near to a sob.
“This day your sin account is filled to overflowing,” said the sailmaker.
“But, ah, my prayer account!” replied the prince. “I’ll stand on that for the time being. Future theologians will have to make the final decision, though, as to the acceptability of all those slugs in the pray-o-mats. Let Heaven wonder now what happened here this day—where I am, if I am, and who. The time has come to ride, my captain. Into the mountains for a while, and then our separate ways, for safety’s sake. I am not sure as to the road I will follow, save that it leads to Heaven’s gate and I must go armed.”
“Binder of Demons,” said the other, and he smiled.
The lancer chief approached. The prince nodded him. Orders were shouted.
The columns of mounted men moved forward, passed out through the gates of the Palace of Karma, turned off the roadway and headed up the slope that lay to the southeast of the city of Mahartha, comrades blazing like the dawn at their back.