"Then I regret that you have made this trip for nothing," replied the other. "An appointment is necessary. You may make arrangements at any Temple in Mahartha."
He then struck upon the stair with his staff, turned his back and began to move away.
"Uproot that garden," said the prince to his men, "cut down yonder trees, heap everything together and set a torch to it."
The man in black halted, turned again.
Only the prince waited at the foot of the stair. His men were already moving off in the direction of the garden.
"You can't do that," said the man.
The prince smiled.
His men dismounted and began hacking at the shrubbery, kicking they way through the flower beds.
"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?"
"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 . . ."