Lord of Light

II

One time a minor rajah from a minor principality came with his retinue into Mahartha, the city that is called Gateway of the South and Capital of the Dawn, there to purchase him a new body. This was in the days when the thread of destiny might yet be plucked from out a gutter, the gods were less formal, the demons still bound, and the Celestial City yet occasionally open to men. This is the story of how the prince did bait the one-armed receiver of devotions before the Temple, incurring the disfavor of Heaven for his presumption. . .

Riding into the capital of dawn at mid-afternoon, the prince, mounted upon a white mare, passed up the broad avenue of Surya, his hundred retainers massed at his back, his adviser Strake at his left hand, his scimitar in his sash, and a portion of his wealth in the bags his pack horses bore.

The heat crashed down upon the turbans of the men, washed past them, came up again from the roadway.

A chariot moved slowly by, headed in the opposite direction, its driver squinting up at the banner the chief retainer bore; a courtesan stood at the gateway to her pavilion, studying the traffic; and a pack of mongrel dogs followed at the heels of the horses, barking.

The prince was tall, and his mustaches were the color of smoke. His hands, dark as coffee, were marked with the stiff ridges of his veins. Still, his posture was erect, and his eyes were like the eyes of an ancient bird, electric and clear.

Ahead, a crowd gathered to watch the passing troop. Horses were ridden only by those who could afford them, and few were that wealthy. The slizzard was the common mount — a scaled creature with snakelike neck, many teeth, dubious lineage, brief life span and a vicious temperament; the horse, for some reason, having grown barren in recent generations.

The prince rode on, into the capital of dawn, the watchers watching.

Passing, they turned off the avenue of the sun and headed up a narrower thoroughfare. They moved by the low buildings of commerce, the great shops of the great merchants, the banks, the Temples, the inns, the brothels. They passed on, until at the fringe of the business district they came upon the princely hostel of Hawkana, the Most Perfect Host. They drew rein at the gate, for Hawkana himself stood outside the walls, simply dressed, fashionably corpulent and smiling, waiting to personally conduct the white mare within.

“Welcome, Lord Siddhartha!” he called in a loud voice, so that all within earshot might know the identity of his guest. “Welcome to this well-nightingaled vicinity, and to the perfumed gardens and marble halls of this humble establishment! To your riders welcome also, who have ridden a goodly ride with you and no doubt seek subtle refreshment and dignified ease as well as yourself. Within, you will find all things to your liking, I trust, as you have upon the many occasions in the past when you have tarried within these halls in the company of other princely guests and noble visitors, too numerous to mention, such as —”

“And a good afternoon to you also, Hawkana!” cried the prince, for the day was hot and the innkeeper’s speeches, like rivers, always threatened to flow on forever. “Let us enter quickly within your walls, where, among their other virtues too numerous to mention, it is also cool.”

Hawkana nodded briskly, and taking the mare by the bridle led her through the gateway and into his courtyard; there, he held the stirrup while the prince dismounted, then gave the horses into the keeping of his stable hands and dispatched a small boy through the gateway to clean the street where they had waited.

Within the hostel, the men were bathed, standing in the marble bath hall while servants poured water over their shoulders. Then did they annoint themselves after the custom of the warrior caste, put on fresh garments and passed into the hall of dining.

The meal lasted the entire afternoon, until the warriors lost count of the courses. At the right hand of the prince, who sat at the head of the long, low, serving board, three dancers wove their way through an intricate pattern, finger cymbals clicking, faces bearing the proper expressions for the proper moments of the dance, as four veiled musicians played the traditional music of the hours. The table was covered with a richly woven tapestry of blue, brown, yellow, red and green, wherein was worked a series of hunting and battle scenes: riders mounted on slizzard and horse met with lance and bow the charges of feather-panda, fire-rooster and jewel-podded command plant; green apes wrestled in the tops of trees; the Garuda Bird clutched a sky demon in its talons, assailing it with beak and pinions; from the depths of the sea crawled an army of horned fish, clutching spikes of pink coral in their jointed fins, facing a row of kirtled and helmeted men who bore lances and torches to oppose their way upon the land.

The prince ate but sparingly. He toyed with his food, listened to the music, laughed occasionally at the jesting of one of his men. He sipped a sherbet, his rings clicking against the sides of the glass.

Hawkana appeared beside him. “Goes all well with you, Lord?” he inquired.

“Yes, good Hawkana, all is well,” he replied.

“You do not eat as do your men. Does the meal displease you?”

“It is not the food, which is excellent, nor its preparation, which is faultless, worthy Hawkana. Rather, it is my appetite, which has not been high of late.”

“Ah!” said Hawkana, knowingly. “I have the thing, the very thing! Only one such as yourself may truly appreciate it. Long has it rested upon the special shelf of my cellar. The god Krishna had somehow preserved it against the ages. He gave it to me many years ago because the accommodations here did not displease him. I shall fetch it for you.”

He bowed then, and backed from the hall.

When he returned he bore a bottle. Before he saw the paper upon its side, the prince recognized the shape of that bottle.

“Burgundy!” he exclaimed.

“Just so,” said Hawkana. “Brought from vanished Uratha, long ago.”

He sniffed at it and smiled. Then he poured a small quantity into a pear-shaped goblet and set it before his guest.

The prince raised it and inhaled of its bouquet. He took a slow sip. He closed his eyes.

There was a silence in the room, in respect of his pleasure.

Then he lowered the glass, and Hawkana poured into it once again the product of the pinot noir grape, which could not be cultivated in this land.

The prince did not touch the glass. Instead, he turned to Hawkana, saying, “Who is the oldest musician in this house?”

“Mankara, here,” said his host, gesturing toward the white-haired man who took his rest at the serving table in the corner.

“Old not in body, but in years,” said the prince.

“Oh, that would be Dele,” said Hawkana, “if he is to be counted as a musician at all. He says that once he was such a one.”

“Dele?”

“The boy who keeps the stables.”

“Ah, I see. . . . Send for him.” Hawkana clapped his hands and ordered the servant who appeared to go into the stables, make the horse-boy presentable and fetch him with dispatch into the presence of the diners.

“Pray, do not bother making him presentable, but simply bring him here,” said the prince.

He leaned back and waited then, his eyes closed.

When the horse-boy stood before him, he asked:

“Tell me. Dele, what music do you play?”

“That which no longer finds favor in the hearing of Brahmins,” said the boy.

“What was your instrument?”

“Piano,” said Dele.

“Can you play upon any of these?” He gestured at those instruments that stood, unused now, upon the small platform beside the wall.

The boy cocked his head at them. “I suppose I could manage on the flute, if I had to.”

“Do you know any waltzes?”

“Yes.”

“Will you play me ‘The Blue Danube’?”

The boy’s sullen expression vanished, to be replaced by one of uneasiness. He cast a quick glance back at Hawkana, who nodded.

“Siddhartha is a prince among men, being of the First,” stated the host.

“‘The Blue Danube,’ on one of these flutes?”

“If you please.”

The boy shrugged, “I’ll try,” he said. “It’s been an awfully long time. . . . Bear with me.”

He crossed to where the instruments lay and muttered something to the owner of the flute he selected. The man nodded his head. Then he raised it to his lips and blew a few tentative notes. He paused, repeated the trial, then turned about.

He raised it once more and began the quivering movement of the waltz. As he played, the prince sipped his wine.

When he paused for breath, the prince motioned him to continue. He played tune after forbidden tune, and the professional musicians put professional expressions of scorn upon their faces; but beneath their table several feet were tapping in slow time with the music.

Finally, the prince had finished his wine. Evening was near to the city of Mahartha. He tossed the boy a purse of coins and did not look into his tears as he departed from the hall. He rose then and stretched, smothering a yawn with the back of his hand.

“I retire to my chambers,” he said to his men. “Do not gamble away your inheritances in my absence.”

They laughed then and bade him good night, calling for strong drink and salted biscuits. He heard the rattle of dice as he departed.

The prince retired early so that he might arise before daybreak. He instructed a servant to remain outside his door all the following day and to refuse admission to any who sought it, saying that he was indisposed.

Before the first flowers had opened to the first insects of morning, he had gone from the hostel, only an ancient green parrot witnessing his departure. Not in silks sewn with pearls did he go, but in tatters, as was his custom on these occasions. Not preceded by conch and drum did he move, but by silence, as he passed along the dim streets of the city. These streets were deserted, save for an occasional doctor or prostitute returning from a late call. A stray dog followed him as he passed through the business district, heading in the direction of the harbor.

He seated himself upon a crate at the foot of a pier. The dawn came to lift the darkness from the world; and he watched the ships stirring with the tide, empty of sail, webbed with cables, prows carved with monster or maiden. His every visit to Mahartha brought him again to the harbor for a little while.

Morning’s pink parasol opened above the tangled hair of the clouds, and cool breezes crossed the docks. Scavenger birds uttered hoarse cries as they darted about loop-windowed towers, then swooped across the waters of the bay.

He watched a ship put out to sea, tentlike vanes of canvas growing to high peaks and swelling in the salt air. Aboard other ships, secure in their anchorage, there was movement now, as crews made ready to load or unload cargoes of incense, coral, oil and all kinds of fabrics, as well as metals, cattle, hardwoods and spices. He smelled the smells of commerce and listened to the cursing of the sailors, both of which he admired: the former, as it reeked of wealth, and the latter because it combined his two other chief preoccupations, these being theology and anatomy.

After a time, he spoke with a foreign sea captain who had overseen the unloading of sacks of grain, and now took his rest in the shade of the crates.

“Good morning,” he said. “May your passages be free of storm and shipwreck, and the gods grant you safe harbor and a good market for your cargoes.”

The other nodded, seated himself upon a crate and proceeded to fill a small clay pipe.

“Thank you, old one,” he said. “Though I do pray to the gods of the Temples of my own choosing, I accept the blessings of any and all. One can always use blessings, especially a seaman.”

“Had you a difficult voyage?”

“Less difficult than it might have been,” said the sea captain. “That smoldering sea mountain, the Cannon of Nirriti, discharges its bolts against heaven once again.”

“Ah, you sailed from the southwest!”

“Yes. Chatisthan, from Ispar-by-the-Sea. The winds are good in this season of the year, but for this reason they also carried the ash of the Cannon much farther than any would think. For six days this black snow fell upon us, and the odors of the underworld pursued us, fouling food and water, making the eyes to weep and the throat to burn. We offered much thanksgiving when we finally outran it. See how the hull is smeared? You should have seen the sails — black as the hair of Ratri!”

The prince leaned forward to better regard the vessel. “But the waters were not especially troubled?” he asked.

The sailor shook his head. “We hailed a cruiser near the Isle of Salt, and we learned of it that we had missed by six days the worst dischargings of the Cannon. At that time, it burnt the clouds and raised great waves, sinking two ships the cruiser did know of, and possibly a third.” The sailor leaned back, stoking his pipe. “So, as I say, a seaman can always use blessings.”

“I seek a man of the sea,” said the prince. “A captain. His name is Jan Olvegg, or perhaps he is now known as Olvagga. Do you know him?”

“I knew him,” said the other, “but it has been long since he sailed.”

“Oh? What has become of him?”

The sailor turned his head to better study him. “Who are you to ask?” he finally inquired.

“My name is Sam. Jan is a very old friend of mine.”

“How old is ‘very old’?”

“Many, many years ago, in another place, I knew him when he was captain of a ship which did not sail these oceans.”

The sea captain leaned forward suddenly and picked up a piece of wood, which he hurled at the dog who had rounded a piling at the other side of the pier. It yelped once and dashed off toward the shelter of a warehouse. It was the same dog who had followed the prince from the hostel of Hawkana.

“Beware the hounds of hell,” said the captain. “There are dogs and there are dogs — and there are dogs. Three different kinds, and in this port drive them all from your presence.” Then he appraised the other once again. “Your hands,” he said, gesturing with his pipe, “have recently worn many rings. Their impressions yet remain.”

Sam glanced at his hands and smiled. “Your eyes miss nothing, sailor,” he replied. “So I admit to the obvious. I have recently worn rings.”

“So, like the dogs, you are not what you appear to be — and you come asking after Olvagga, by his most ancient name. Your name, you say, is Sam. Are you, perchance, one of the First?”

Sam did not reply immediately, but studied the other as though waiting for him to say more.

Perhaps realizing this, the captain continued: “Olvagga, I know, was numbered among the First, though he never spoke of it. Whether you are yourself among the First, or are one of the Masters, you are aware of this. So I do not betray him by so speaking. I do wish to know whether I speak to a friend or an enemy, however.”

Sam frowned. “Jan was never known for the making of enemies,” he said. “You speak as if he has them now, among those whom you call the Masters.”

The seaman continued to stare at him. “You are not a Master,” he finally said, “and you come from afar.”

“You are correct,” said Sam, “but tell me how you know these things.”

“First,” said the other, “you are an old man. A Master, too, could have upon him an old body, but he would not — any more than he would remain a dog for very long. His fear of dying the real death, suddenly, in the manner of the old, would be too great. So he would not remain so long as to leave the marks of rings deeply imprinted upon the fingers. The wealthy are never despoiled of their bodies. If they are refused rebirth, they live out the full span of their days. The Masters would fear a rising up in arms among the followers of such a one, were he to meet with other than a natural passing. So a body such as yours could not be obtained in this manner. A body from the life tanks would not have marked fingers either.

“Therefore,” he concluded, “I take you to be a man of importance other than a Master. If you knew Olvagga of old, then you are also one of the Firstlings, such as he. Because of the sort of information which you seek, I take you to be one from afar. Were you a man of Mahartha you would know of the Masters, and knowing of the Masters you would know why Olvagga cannot sail.”

“Your knowledge of matters in Mahartha seems greater than my own — oh, newly arrived sailor.”

“I, too, come from a distant place,” acknowledged the captain, smiling faintly, “but in the space of a dozen months I may visit twice as many ports. I hear news — news and gossip and tales from all over — from more than a double dozen ports. I hear of the intrigues of the palace and the affairs of the Temple. I hear the secrets whispered at night to the golden girls beneath the sugar-cane bow of Kama. I hear of the campaigns of the Khshatriya and the dealings of the great merchants in the futures of grains and spices, jewels and silk. I drink with the bards and the astrologers, with the actors and the servants, the coachmen and the tailors. Sometimes, perhaps, I may strike the port where freebooters have haven and learn there the faring of those they hold to ransom. So do not think it strange that I, who come from afar, may know more of Mahartha than you, who may dwell perhaps a week’s faring hence. Occasionally, I may even hear of the doings of the gods.”

“Then you can tell me of the Masters, and why they are to be numbered as enemies?” asked Sam.

“I can tell you something of them,” replied the captain, “since you should not go unwarned. The body merchants are now the Masters of Karma. Their individual names are now kept secret, after the manner of the gods, so that they seem as impersonal as the Great Wheel, which they claim to represent. They are no longer merely body merchants, but are allied with the Temples. These, too, are changed, for your kinsmen of the First who are now gods do commune with them from Heaven. If you are indeed of the First, Sam, your way must lead you either to deification or extinction, when you face these new Masters of Karma.”

“How?” asked Sam.

“Details you must seek elsewhere,” said the other. “I do not know the processes whereby these things are achieved. Ask after Jannaveg the sailmaker on the Street of the Weavers.”

“This is how Jan is now known?”

The other nodded. “And beware the dogs,” he said, “or, for that matter, anything else which is alive and may harbor intelligence.”

“What is your name, captain?” asked Sam.

“In this port, I have no name at all or a false one, and I see no reason for lying to you. Good day, Sam.”

“Good day, captain. Thank you for your words.”

Sam rose and departed the harbor, heading back toward the business district and the streets of the trades.

The sun was a red discus in the heavens, rising to meet the Bridge of the Gods. The prince walked through the awakened city, threading his way among the stalls displaying the skills of the workmen in the small crafts. Hawkers of unguents and powders, perfumes and oils, moved about him. Florists waved their garlands and corsages at the passer-by; and the vintners said nothing, sitting with their wineskins on rows of shaded benches, waiting for their customers to come to them as they always did. The morning smelled of cooking food, musk, flesh, excrement, oils and incense all churned up together and turned loose to wander like an invisible cloud.

Dressed as a beggar himself, it did not seem out of place for him to stop and speak to the hunchback with the begging bowl.

“Greetings, brother,” he stated. “I am far from my quarter on an errand. Can you direct me to the Street of the Weavers?”

The hunchback nodded and shook his bowl suggestively.

He withdrew a small coin from the pouch concealed beneath his tattered garments. He dropped it into the hunchback’s bowl and it quickly vanished.

“That way.” The man gestured with his head. “The third street you come upon, turn there to the left. Then follow it past two streets more, and you will be at the Circle of the Fountain before the Temple of Varuna. Coming into that Circle, the Street of the Weavers is marked by the Sign of the Awl.”

He nodded to the hunchback, patted his hump and continued on his way.

When he reached the Circle of the Fountain, the prince halted. Several dozen people stood in a shifting line before the Temple of Varuna, most stern and august of all the deities. These people were not preparing to enter the Temple, but rather were engaged in some occupation that required waiting and taking turns. He heard the rattling of coins and he wandered nearer.

It was a machine, gleaming and metallic, before which they moved.

A man inserted a coin into the mouth of a steel tiger. The machine began to purr. He pressed buttons cast in the likenesses of animals and demons. There came then a flashing of lights along the lengths of the Nagas, the two holy serpents who twisted about the transparent face of the machine.

He edged closer.

The man drew down upon the lever that grew from the side of the machine cast in the likeness of the tail of a fish.

A holy blue light filled the interior of the machine; the serpents pulsed redly; and there, in the midst of the light and a soft music that had begun to play, a prayer wheel swung into view and began spinning at a furious pace.

The man wore a beatific expression. After several minutes, the machine shut itself off. He inserted another coin and pulled the lever once more, causing several of those nearer to the end of the line to grumble audibly, remarking to the effect that that was his seventh coin, it was a warm day, there were other people waiting to get some praying done and why did he not go inside and render such a large donation directly to the priests? Someone replied that the little man obviously had much atoning to do. There then began some speculation as to the possible nature of his sins. This was accompanied by considerable laughter.

Seeing that there were several beggars waiting their turn in line, the prince moved to its end and stood there.

As the line advanced, he noted that, while some of those who passed before the machine pushed its buttons, others merely inserted a flat metal disc into the mouth of the second tiger on the opposite side of the chassis. After the machine had ceased to function, the disc fell into a cup and was retrieved by its owner. The prince decided to venture an inquiry.

He addressed the man who stood before him in line:

“Why is it,” he asked, “that some men do have discs of their own?”

“It is because they have registered,” said the other, without turning his head.

“In the Temple?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

He waited half a minute, then inquired, “Those who are unregistered, and wish to use it — they push the buttons?”

“Yes,” said the other, “spelling out their name, occupation, and address.”

“Supposing one be a visitor here, such as myself?”

“You should add the name of your city.”

“Supposing one is unlettered, such as myself — what then?”

The other turned to him. “Perhaps ‘’twere better,” he said, “that you make prayer in the old way, and give the donation directly into the hands of the priests. Or else register and obtain a disc of your own.”

“I see,” said the prince. “Yes, you are right. I must think of this more. Thank you.”

He left the line and circled the fountain to where the Sign of the Awl hung upon a pillar. He moved up the Street of the Weavers.

Three times did he ask after Janagga the sailmaker, the third time of a short woman with powerful arms and a small mustache, who sat cross-legged, plaiting a rug, in her stall beneath the low eave of what once might have been a stable and still smelled as if it were.

She growled him directions, after raking him upward and down again with oddly lovely brown-velvet eyes. He followed her directions, taking his way up a zigzagging alley and down an outer stair, which ran along the wall of a five-story building, ending at a door that opened upon a basement hallway. It was damp and dark within.

He knocked upon the third door to his left, and after a time it opened.

The man stared at him. “Yes?”

“May I come in? It is a matter of some urgency . . .”

The man hesitated a moment, then nodded abruptly and stepped aside.

The prince moved past him and into his chamber. A great sheet of canvas was spread out over the floor, before the stool upon which the man reseated himself. He motioned the prince into the only other chair in the room.

He was short and big in the shoulders; his hair was pure white, and the pupils of his eyes bore the smoky beginnings of cataract invasion. His hands were brown and hard, the joints of his fingers knotted.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Jan Olvegg,” said the other.

The old man’s eyes widened, then narrowed to slits.

He weighed a pair of scissors in his hand.

“‘It’s a long way to Tipperary,’” said the prince.

The man stared, then smiled suddenly. “‘If your heart’s not here,’” he said, placing the scissors on his workstand. “How long has it been, Sam?” he asked.

“I’ve lost count of the years.”

“Me too. But it must be forty — forty-five? — since I’ve seen you. Much beer over the damn dam since then, I daresay?”

Sam nodded.

“I don’t really know where to begin . . .” said the man.

“For a start, tell me — why ‘Janagga’?”

“Why not?” asked the other. “It has a certain earnest, working-class sound about it. How about yourself? Still in the prince business?”

“I’m still me,” said Sam, “and they still call me Siddhartha when they come to call.”

The other chuckled. “And ‘Binder of the Demons,’” he recited. “Very good. I take it, then, since your fortunes do not match your garb, that you are casing the scene, as is your wont.”

Sam nodded. “And I have come upon much which I do not understand.”

“Aye,” sighed Jan. “Aye. How shall I begin? How? I shall tell you of myself, that’s how. . . . I have accumulated too much bad karma to warrant a current transfer.”

“What?”

“Bad karma, that’s what I said. The old religion is not only the religion — it is the revealed, enforced and frighteningly demonstrable religion. But don’t think that last part too loudly. About a dozen years ago the Council authorized the use of psych-probes on those who were up for renewal. This was right after the Accelerationist-Deicrat split, when the Holy Coalition squeezed out the tech boys and kept right on squeezing. The simplest solution was to outlive the problem. The Temple crowd then made a deal with the body sellers, customers were brain-probed and Accelerationists were refused renewal, or . . . well . . . simple as that. There aren’t too many Accelerationists now. But that was only the beginning. The god party was quick to realize that therein lay the way of power. Having your brains scanned has become a standard procedure, just prior to a transfer. The body merchants are become the Masters of Karma, and a part of the Temple structure. They read over your past life, weigh the karma, and determine your life that is yet to come. It’s a perfect way of maintaining the caste system and ensuring Deicratic control. By the way, most of our old acquaintances are in it up to their halos.”

“God!” said Sam.

“Plural,” Jan corrected. “They’ve always been considered gods, with their Aspects and Attributes, but they’ve made it awfully official now. And anyone who happens to be among the First had bloody well better be sure whether he wants quick deification or the pyre when he walks into the Hall of Karma these days.

“When’s your appointment?” he finished.

“Tomorrow,” said Sam, “in the afternoon. . . . Why are you still walking around, if you don’t have a halo or a handful of thunderbolts?”

“Because I do have a couple friends, both of whom suggested I continue living — quietly — rather than face the probe. I took their sage advice to heart and consequently am still around to mend sails and raise occasional hell in the local bistros. Else” — he raised a callused hand, snapped his fingers — “else, if not the real death, then perhaps a body shot full with cancer, or the interesting life of a gelded water buffalo, or . . .”

“A dog?” asked Sam.

“Just so,” Jan replied.

Jan filled the silence and two glasses with a splashing of alcohol.

“Thanks.”

“Happy hellfire.” He replaced the bottle on his workstand.

“On an empty stomach yet. . . . You make that yourself?”

“Yep. Got a still in the next room.”

“Congratulations, I guess. If I had any bad karma, it should all be dissolved by now.”

“The definition of bad karma is anything our friends the gods don’t like.”

“What made you think you had some?”

“I wanted to start passing out machines among our descendants here. Got batted down at Council for it. Recanted, and hoped they’d forget. But Accelerationism is so far out now that it’ll never make it back in during my lifetime. Pity, too. I’d like to lift sail again, head off toward another horizon. Or lift ship. . .”

“The probe is actually sensitive enough to spot something as intangible as an Accelerationist attitude?”

“The probe,” said Jan, “is sensitive enough to tell what you had for breakfast eleven years ago yesterday and where you cut yourself shaving that morning, while humming the Andorran national anthem.”

“They were experimental things when we left home,” said Sam. “The two we brought along were very basic brain-wave translators. When did the breakthrough occur?”

“Hear me, country cousin,” said Jan. “Do you remember a snot-nosed brat of dubious parentage, third generation, named Yama? The kid who was always souping up generators, until one day one blew and he was so badly burned that he got his second body — one over fifty years old — when he was only sixteen? The kid who loved weapons? The fellow who anesthetized one of everything that moves out there and dissected it, taking such pleasure in his studies that we called him deathgod?”

“Yes, I recall him. Is he still alive?”

“If you want to call it that. He now is deathgod — not by nickname, but by title. He perfected the probe about forty years ago, but the Deicrats kept it under wraps until fairly recently. I hear he’s dreamed up some other little jewels, too, to serve the will of the gods . . . like a mechanical cobra capable of registering encephalogram readings from a mile away, when it rears and spreads its fan. It can pick one man out of a crowd, regardless of the body he wears. There is no known antidote for its venom. Four seconds, no more. . . . Or the fire wand, which is said to have scored the surfaces of all three moons while Lord Agni stood upon the seashore and waved it. And I understand that he is designing some sort of jet-propelled juggernaut for Lord Shiva at this moment. . . things like that.”

“Oh,” said Sam.

“Will you pass the probe?” Jan asked.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “Tell me, I saw a machine this morning which I think may best be described as a pray-o-mat — are they very common?”

“Yes,” said Jan. “They appeared about two years ago — dreamed up by young Leonardo over a short glass of soma one night. Now that the karma idea has caught on, the things are better than tax collectors. When mister citizen presents himself at the clinic of the god of the church of his choice on the eve of his sixtieth year, his prayer account is said to be considered along with his sin account, in deciding the caste he will enter — as well as the age, sex and health of the body he will receive. Nice. Neat.”

“I will not pass the probe,” said Sam, “even if I build up a mighty prayer account. They’ll snare me when it comes to sin.”

“What sort of sin?”

“Sins I have yet to commit, but which are being written in my mind as I consider them now.”

“You plan to oppose the gods?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I do not yet know. I shall begin, however, by contacting them. Who is their chief?”

“I can name you no one. Trimurti rules — that is, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. Which of these three be chiefest at any one time, I cannot say. Some say Brahma—”

“Who are they — really?” asked Sam.

Jan shook his head. “I do not know. They all wear different bodies than they did a generation ago. They all use god names.”

Sam stood. “I will return later, or send for you.”

“I hope so. . . . Another drink?”

Sam shook his head. “I go to become Siddhartha once more, to break my fast at the hostel of Hawkana and announce there my intent to visit the Temples. If our friends are now gods then they must commune with their priests. Siddhartha goes to pray.”

“Then put in no words for me,” said Jan, as he poured out another drink. “I do not know whether I would live through a divine visitation.”

Sam smiled. “They are not omnipotent.”

“I sincerely hope not,” replied the other, “but I fear that day is not far off.”

“Good sailing, Jan.”

“Skaal.”

Prince Siddhartha stopped on the Street of the Smiths, on his way to the Temple of Brahma. Half an hour later he emerged from a shop, accompanied by Strake and three of his retainers. Smiling, as though he had received a vision of what was to come, he passed through the center of Mahartha, coming at last to the high, wide Temple of the Creator.

Ignoring the stares of those who stood before the pray-o-mat, he mounted the long, shallow stairway, meeting at the Temple entrance with the high priest, whom he had advised earlier of his coming.

Siddhartha and his men entered the Temple, disarming themselves and paying preliminary obeisances toward its central chamber before addressing the priest.

Strake and the others drew back a respectful distance as the prince placed a heavy purse in the priest’s hands and said, in a low voice:

“I’d like to speak with God.”

The priest studied his face as he replied, “The Temple is open to all. Lord Siddhartha, where one may commune with Heaven for so long as one wishes.”

“That is not exactly what I had in mind,” said Siddhartha. “I was thinking of something more personal than a sacrifice and a long litany.”

“I do not quite follow you . . .”

“But you understand the weight of that purse, do you not? It contains silver. Another which I bear is filled with gold — payable upon delivery. I want to use your telephone.”

“Tele . . .?”

“Communication system. If you were of the First, such as I, you would understand my reference.”

“I do not . . .”

“I assure you my call will not reflect adversely upon your wardenship here. I am aware of these matters and my discretion has always been a byword among the First. Call First Base yourself and inquire, if it will put you at ease. I’ll wait here in the outer chamber. Tell them Sam would have words with Trimurti. They will take the call.”

“I do not know. . .”

Sam withdrew the second purse and weighed it in the palm of his hand. The priest’s eyes fell upon it and he licked his lips.

“Wait here,” he ordered, and he turned on his heel and left the chamber.

Ili, the fifth note of the harp, buzzed within the Garden of the Purple Lotus.

Brahma loafed upon the edge of the heated pool, where he bathed with his harem. His eyes appeared closed, as he leaned there upon his elbows, his feet dangling in the water.

But he stared out from beneath his long lashes, watching the dozen girls at sport in the pool, hoping to see one or more cast an appreciative glance upon the dark, heavily muscled length of his body. Black upon brown, his mustaches glistened in moist disarray and his hair was a black wing upon his back. He smiled a bright smile in the filtered sunlight.

But none of them appeared to notice, so he refolded his smile and put it away. All their attention lay with the game of water polo in which they were engaged.

Ili, the bell of communication, buzzed once more, as an artificial breeze waited the odor of garden jasmine to his nostrils. He sighed. He wanted so for them to worship him — his powerful physique, his carefully molded features. To worship him as a man, not as a god.

But though his special and improved body permitted feats no mortal man could duplicate, still he felt uneasy in the presence of an old war horse like Lord Shiva — who, despite his adherence to the normal body matrix, seemed to hold far more attraction for women. It was almost as if sex were a thing that transcended biology; and no matter how hard he tried to suppress the memory and destroy that segment of spirit, Brahma had been born a woman and somehow was woman still. Hating this thing, he had elected to incarnate time after time as an eminently masculine man, did so, and still felt somehow inadequate, as though the mark of his true sex were branded upon his brow. It made him want to stamp his foot and grimace.

He rose and stalked off toward his pavilion, past stunted trees that twisted with a certain grotesque beauty, past trellises woven with morning glory, pools of blue water lilies, strings of pearls swinging from rings all wrought of white gold, past lamps shaped like girls, tripods wherein pungent incenses burnt and an eight-armed statue of a blue goddess who played upon the veena when properly addressed.

Brahma entered the pavilion and crossed to the screen of crystal, about which a bronze Naga twisted, tail in teeth. He activated the answering mechanism.

There was a static snowfall, and then he faced the high priest of his Temple in Mahartha. The priest dropped to his knees and touched his caste mark three times upon the floor.

“Of the four orders of gods and the eighteen hosts of Paradise, mightiest is Brahma,” said the priest. “Creator of all. Lord of high Heaven and everything beneath it. A lotus springs forth from your navel, your hands churn the oceans, in three strides your feet encompass all the worlds. The drum of your glory strikes terror in the hearts of your enemies. Upon your right hand is the wheel of the law. You tether catastrophes, using a snake for rope. Hail! See fit to accept the prayer of your priest. Bless me and hear me, Brahma!”

“Arise . . . priest,” said Brahma, having forgotten his name. “What thing of mighty importance moved you to call me thus?”

The priest arose, cast a quick glance upon Brahma’s dripping person and looked away again.

“Lord,” said the priest, “I did not mean to call while you were at bath, but there is one among your worshipers here now who would speak with you, on a matter which I take to be of mighty importance.”

“One of my worshipers! Tell him that all-hearing Brahma hears all, and direct him to pray to me in the ordinary manner, in the Temple proper!”

Brahma’s hand moved toward the shutoff switch, then paused. “How came he to know of the Temple-to-Heaven line?” he inquired. “And of the direct communion of saints and gods?”

“He says,” replied the priest, “that he is of the First, and that I should relay the message that Sam would have words with Trimurti.”

“Sam?” said Brahma. “Sam? Surely it cannot be . . . that Sam?”

“He is the one known hereabouts as Siddhartha, Binder of the Demons.”

“Await my pleasure,” said Brahma, “singing the while various appropriate verses from the Vedas.”

“I hear, my Lord,” said the priest, and he commenced singing.

Brahma moved to another part of the pavilion and stood awhile before his wardrobe, deciding what to wear.

The prince, hearing his name called, turned from the contemplation of the Temple’s interior. The priest, whose name he had forgotten, beckoned him along a corridor. He followed, and the passage led into a storage chamber. The priest rumbled after a hidden catch, then drew upon a row of shelves that opened outward, doorlike.

The prince passed through this doorway. He found himself within a richly decorated shrine. A glowing view-screen hung above its altar/control-panel, encircled by a bronze Naga, which held its tail in its teeth.

The priest bowed three times.

“Hail, ruler of the universe, mightiest of the four orders of gods and the eighteen hosts of paradise. From your navel springs forth the lotus, your hands churn the oceans, in three strides —”

“I acknowledge the truth of what you say,” replied Brahma. “You are blessed and heard. You may leave us now.”

“?”

“That is correct. Sam is doubtless paying you for a private line, is he not?”

“Lord . . .!”

“Enough! Depart!”

The priest bowed quickly and left, closing the shelves behind him.

Brahma studied Sam, who was wearing dark jodhpurs, a sky-blue khameez, the blue-green turban of Urath and an empty scabbard upon a chain belt of dark iron.

Sam, in turn, studied the other, who stood with blackness at his back, wearing a feather cloak over a suit of light mail. It was caught at the throat with a clasp of fire opal. Brahma wore a purple crown, studded with pulsating amethysts, and he bore in his right hand a scepter mounted with the nine auspicious gems. His eyes were two dark stains upon his dark face. The gentle strumming of a veena occurred about him.

“Sam?” he said.

Sam nodded.

“I am trying to guess your true identity. Lord Brahma. I confess that I cannot.”

“This is as it should be,” said Brahma, “if one is to be a god who was, is and always shall be.”

“Fine garments, those you wear,” said Sam. “Quite fetching.”

“Thank you. I find it hard to believe that you still exist. Checking, I note that you have not sought a new body for half a century. That is taking quite a chance.”

Sam shrugged. “Life is full of chances, gambles, uncertainties. . .”

“True,” said Brahma. “Pray, draw up a chair and sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Sam did this, and when he looked up again, Brahma was seated upon a high throne carved of red marble, with a matching parasol flared above it.

“That looks a bit uncomfortable,” he remarked.

“Foam-rubber cushion,” replied the god, smiling. “You may smoke, if you wish.”

“Thanks.” Sam drew his pipe from the pouch at his belt, filled it, tamped it carefully and struck it to fire.

“What have you been doing all this time,” asked the god, “since you left the roost of Heaven?”

“Cultivating my own gardens,” said Sam.

“We could have used you here,” said Brahma, “in our hydroponics section. For that matter, perhaps we still could. Tell me more of your stay among men.”

“Tiger hunts, border disputes with neighboring kingdoms, keeping up the morale of the harem, a bit of botanical research — things like that — the stuff of life,” said Sam. “Now my powers slacken, and I seek once more my youth. But to obtain it again, I understand that I must have my brains strained. Is that true?”

“After a fashion,” said Brahma.

“To what end, may I ask?”

“That wrong shall fail and right prevail,” said the god, smiling.

“Supposing I’m wrong,” asked Sam, “how shall I fail?”

“You shall be required to work off your karmic burden in a lesser form.”

“Have you any figures readily available as to the percentage that fails, vis-á-vis that which prevails?”

“Think not less of me in my omniscience,” said Brahma, stifling a yawn with his scepter, “if I admit to having, for the moment, forgotten these figures.”

Sam chuckled. “You say you have need of a gardener there in the Celestial City?”

“Yes,” said Brahma. “Would you like to apply for the job?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Perhaps.”

“And then again, perhaps not?” said the other.

“Perhaps not, also,” he acknowledged. “In the old days there was none of this shillyshallying with a man’s mind. If one of the First sought renewal, he paid the body price and was served.”

“We no longer dwell in the old days, Sam. The new age is at hand.”

“One would almost think that you sought the removal of all of the First who are not marshaled at your back.”

“A pantheon has room for many, Sam. There is a niche for you, if you choose to claim it.”

“If I do not?”

“Then inquire in the Hall of Karma after your body.”

“And if I elect godhood?”

“Your brains will not be probed. The Masters will be advised to serve you quickly and well. A flying machine will be dispatched to convey you to Heaven.”

“It bears a bit of thinking,” said Sam. “I’m quite fond of this world, though it wallows in an age of darkness. On the other hand, such fondness will not serve me to enjoy the things I desire, if it is decreed that I die the real death or take on the form of an ape and wander about the jungles. But I am not overly fond of artificial perfection either, such as existed in Heaven when last I visited there. Bide with me a moment while I meditate.”

“I consider such indecision presumptuous,” said Brahma, “when one has just been made such an offer.”

“I know, and perhaps I should also, were our positions reversed. But if I were God and you were me, I do believe I would extend a moment’s merciful silence while a man makes a major decision regarding his life.”

“Sam, you are an impossible haggler! Who else would keep me waiting while his immortality hangs in the balance? Surely you do not seek to bargain with me?”

“Well, I do come from a long line of slizzard traders — and I do very badly want something.”

“And what may that be?”

“Answers to a few questions which have plagued me for a while now.”

“These being . . .?”

“As you are aware, I stopped attending the old Council meetings over a century ago, for they had become lengthy sessions calculated to postpone decision-making, and were primarily an excuse for a Festival of the First. Now, I have nothing against festivals. In fact, for a century and a half I went to them only to drink good Earth booze once more. But, I felt that we should be doing something about the passengers, as well as the offspring of our many bodies, rather than letting them wander a vicious world, reverting to savagery. I felt that we of the crew should be assisting them, granting them the benefits of the technology we had preserved, rather than building ourselves an impregnable paradise and treating the world as a combination game preserve and whorehouse. So, I have wondered long why this thing was not done. It would seem a fair and equitable way to run a world.”

“I take it from this that you are an Accelerationist?”

“No,” said Sam, “simply an inquirer. I am curious, that’s all, as to the reasons.”

“Then, to answer your questions,” said Brahma, “it is because they are not ready for it. Had we acted immediately — yes, this thing could have been done. But we were indifferent at first. Then, when the question arose, we were divided. Too much time passed. They are not ready, and will not be for many centuries. If they were to be exposed to an advanced technology at this point, the wars which would ensue would result in the destruction of the beginnings they have already made. They have come far. They have begun a civilization after the manner of their fathers of old. But they are still children, and like children would they play with our gifts and be burnt by them. They are our children, by our long-dead First bodies, and second, and third and many after — and so, ours is the parents’ responsibility toward them. We must not permit them to be accelerated into an industrial revolution and so destroy the first stable society on this planet. Our parental functions can best be performed by guiding them as we do, through the Temples. Gods and goddesses are basically parent figures, so what could be truer and more just than that we assume these roles and play them thoroughly?”

“Why then do you destroy their own infant technology? The printing press has been rediscovered on three occasions that I can remember, and suppressed each time.”

“This was done for the same reason — they were not yet ready for it. And it was not truly discovered, but rather it was remembered. It was a thing out of legend which someone set about duplicating. If a thing is to come, it must come as a result of factors already present in the culture, and not be pulled from out of the past like a rabbit from a hat.”

“It seems you are drawing a mighty fine line at that point, Brahma. I take it from this that your minions go to and fro in the world, destroying all signs of progress they come upon?”

“This is not true,” said the god. “You talk as if we desire perpetually this burden of godhood, as if we seek to maintain a dark age that we may know forever the wearisome condition of our enforced divinity!”

“In a word,” said Sam, “yes. What of the pray-o-mat which squats before this very Temple? Is it on par, culturally, with a chariot?”

“That is different,” said Brahma. “As a divine manifestation, it is held in awe by the citizens and is not questioned, for religious reasons. It is hardly the same as if gunpowder were to be introduced.”

“Supposing some local atheist hijacks one and picks it apart? And supposing he happens to be a Thomas Edison? What then?”

“They have tricky combination locks on them. If anyone other than a priest opens one, it will blow up and take him along with it.”

“And I notice you were unable to suppress the rediscovery of the still, though you tried. So you slapped on an alcohol tax, payable to the Temples.”

“Mankind has always sought release through drink,” said Brahma. “It has generally figured in somewhere in his religious ceremonies. Less guilt involved that way. True, we tried suppressing it at first, but we quickly saw we could not. So, in return for our tax, they receive here a blessing upon their booze. Less guilt, less of a hangover, fewer recriminations — it is psychosomatic, you know — and the tax isn’t that high.”

“Funny, though, how many prefer the profane brew.”

“You came to pray and you are staying to scoff, is that what you’re saying, Sam? I offered to answer your questions, not debate Deicrat policies with you. Have you made up your mind yet regarding my offer?”

“Yes, Madeleine,” said Sam, “and did anyone ever tell you how lovely you are when you’re angry?”

Brahma sprang forward off the throne. “How could you? How could you tell?” screamed the god.

“I couldn’t, really,” said Sam. “Until now. It was just a guess, based upon some of your mannerisms of speech and gesture which I remembered. So you’ve finally achieved your lifelong ambition, eh? I’ll bet you’ve got a harem, too. What’s it feel like, madam, to be a real stud after having been a gal to start out with? Bet every Lizzie in the world would envy you if she knew. Congratulations.”

Brahma drew himself up to full height and glared. The throne was a flame at his back. The veena thrummed on, dispassionately. He raised his scepter then and spoke:

“Prepare yourself to receive the curse of Brahma . . .” he began.

“Whatever for?” asked Sam. “Because I guessed your secret? If I am to be a god, what difference does it make? Others must know of it. Are you angry because the only way I could learn your true identity was by baiting you a little? I had assumed you would appreciate me the more if I demonstrated my worth by displaying my wit in this manner. If I have offended you, I do apologize.”

“It is not because you guessed — or even because of the manner in which you guessed — but because you mocked me, that I curse you.”

“Mocked you?” said Sam. “I do not understand. I intended no disrespect. I was always on good terms with you in the old days. If you will but think back over them, you will recall that this is true. Why should I jeopardize my position by mocking you now?”

“Because you said what you thought too quickly, without thinking a second time.”

“Nay, my Lord. I did but jest with you as any one man might with another when discussing these matters. I am sorry if you took it amiss. I’ll warrant you’ve a harem I’d envy, and which I’ll doubtless try to sneak into some night. If you’d curse me for being surprised, then curse away.” He drew upon his pipe and wreathed his grin in smoke.

Finally, Brahma chuckled. “I’m a bit quick-tempered, ‘tis true,” he explained, “and perhaps too touchy about my past. Of course, I’ve often jested so with other men. You are forgiven. I withdraw my beginning curse.

“And your decision, I take it, is to accept my offer?” he inquired.

“That is correct,” said Sam.

“Good. I’ve always felt a brotherly affection for you. Go now and summon my priest, that I may instruct him concerning your incarnation. I’ll see you soon.”

“Sure thing. Lord Brahma.” Sam nodded and raised his pipe. Then he pushed back the row of shelves and sought the priest in the hall without. Various thoughts passed through his mind, but this time he let them remain unspoken.

That evening, the prince held council with those of his retainers who had visited kinsmen and friends within Mahartha, and with those who had gone about through the town obtaining news and gossip. From these he learned that there were only ten Masters of Karma in Mahartha and that they kept their lodgings in a palace on the southeastern slopes above the city. They made scheduled visits to the clinics, or reading rooms, of the Temples, where the citizens presented themselves for judgment when they applied for renewal. The Hall of Karma itself was a massive black structure within the courtyard of their palace, where a person applied shortly after judgment to have his transfer made into his new body. Strake, along with two of his advisers, departed while daylight yet remained to make sketches of the palace fortifications. Two of the prince’s courtiers were dispatched across town to deliver an invitation to late dining and revelry to the Shan of Irabek, an old man and distant neighbor of Siddhartha’s with whom he had fought three bloody border skirmishes and occasionally hunted tiger. The Shan was visiting with relatives while waiting his appointment with the Masters of Karma. Another man was sent to the Street of the Smiths, where he requested of the metal workers that they double the prince’s order and have it ready by early morning. He took along additional money to ensure their cooperation.

Later, the Shan of Irabek arrived at the Hostel of Hawkana, accompanied by six of his relatives, who were of the merchant caste but came armed as if they were warriors. Seeing that the hostel was a peaceable abode, however, and that none of the other guests or visitors bore arms, they put aside their weapons and seated themselves near the head of the table, beside the prince.

The Shan was a tall man, but his posture was considerably hunched. He wore maroon robes and a dark turban reaching down almost to his great, caterpillar-like eyebrows, which were the color of milk. His beard was a snowy bush, his teeth shown as dark stumps when he laughed and his lower eyelids jutted redly, as though sore and weary after so many years of holding back his bloodshot orbs in their obvious attempt to push themselves forward out of their sockets. He laughed a phlegmy laugh and pounded the table, repeating, “Elephants are too expensive these days, and no damn good at all in mud!” for the sixth time; this being in reference to their conversation as to the best time of year to fight a war. Only one very new in the business would be so boorish as to insult a neighbor’s ambassador during the rainy season, it was decided, and that one would thereafter be marked as a nouveau roi.

As the evening wore on, the prince’s physician excused himself so as to superintend the preparation of the dessert and introduce a narcotic into the sweetcakes being served up to the Shan. As the evening wore further on, subsequent to the dessert, the Shan grew more and more inclined to close his eyes and let his head slump forward for longer and longer periods of time. “Good party,” he muttered, between snores, and finally, “Elephants are no damn good at all. . .” and so passed to sleep and could not be awakened. His kinsmen did not see fit to escort him home at this time, because of the fact that the prince’s physician had added chloral hydrate to their wine, and they were at that moment sprawled upon the floor, snoring. The prince’s chief courtier arranged with Hawkana for their accommodation, and the Shan himself was taken to Siddhartha’s suite, where he was shortly visited by the physician, who loosened his garments and spoke to him in a soft, persuasive voice:

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he was saying, “you will be Prince Siddhartha and these will be your retainers. You will report to the Hall of Karma in their company, to claim there the body which Brahma has promised you without the necessity of prior judgment You will remain Siddhartha throughout the transfer, and you will return here in the company of your retainers, to be examined by me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” whispered the Shan.

“Then repeat what I have told you.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” said the Shan, “I will be Siddhartha, commanding these retainers. . .”

Bright bloomed the morning, and debts were settled beneath it. Half of the prince’s men rode out of the city, heading north. When they were out of sight of Mahartha they began circling to the southeast, working their way through the hills, stopping only to don their battle gear.

Half a dozen men were dispatched to the Street of the Smiths, whence they returned bearing heavy canvas bags, the contents of which were divided into the pouches of three dozen men who departed after breakfast into the city.

The prince took counsel with his physician, Narada, saying, “If I have misjudged the clemency of Heaven, then am I cursed indeed.”

But the doctor smiled and replied, “I doubt you misjudged.”

And so they passed from morning into the still center of day, the Ridge of the Gods golden above them.

When their charges awakened, they ministered to their hangovers. The Shan was given a posthypnotic and sent with six of Siddhartha’s retainers to the Palace of the Masters. His kinsmen were assured that he remained sleeping in the prince’s quarters.

“Our major risk at this point,” said the physician, “is the Shan. Will he be recognized? The factors in our favor are that he is a minor potentate from a distant kingdom, he has only been in town for a short period of time, has spent most of that time with his kinsmen and he has not yet presented himself for judgment. The Masters should still be unaware of your own physical appearance —”

“Unless I have been described to them by Brahma or his priest,” said the prince. “For all I know, my communication may have been taped and the tape relayed to them for identification purposes.”

“Why, though, should this have been done?” inquired Narada. “They should hardly expect stealth and elaborate precautions of one for whom they are doing a favor. No, I think we should be able to pull it off. The Shan would not be able to pass a probe, of course, but he should pass surface scrutiny, accompanied as he is by your retainers. At the moment, he does believe he is Siddhartha, and he could pass any simple lie-detection test in that regard — which I feel is the most serious obstacle he might encounter.”

So they waited, and the three dozen men returned with empty pouches, gathered their belongings, mounted their horses and one by one drifted off through the town, as though in search of revelry, but actually drifting slowly in a southeasterly direction.

“Good-bye, good Hawkana,” said the prince, as the remainder of his men packed and mounted. “I shalt bear, as always, good report of your lodgings to all whom I meet about the land. I regret that my stay here must be so unexpectedly terminated, but I must ride to put down an uprising in the provinces as soon as I leave the Hall of Karma. You are aware of how these things spring up the moment a ruler’s back is turned. So, while I should have liked to spend another week beneath your roof, I fear that this pleasure must be postponed until another time. If any ask after me, tell them to seek me in Hades.”

“Hades, my Lord?”

“It is the southernmost province of my kingdom, noted for its excessively warm weather. Be sure to phrase it just so, especially to the priests of Brahma, who may become concerned as to my whereabouts in days to come.”

“I’ll do that, my Lord.”

“And take especial care of the boy Dele. I expect to hear him play again on my next visit.”

Hawkana bowed low and was about to begin a speech, so the prince decided upon that moment to toss him the final bag of coins and make an additional comment as to the wines of Urath — before mounting quickly and shouting orders to his men, in such a manner as to drown out any further conversation.

Then they rode through the gateway and were gone, leaving behind only the physician and three warriors, whom he was to treat an additional day for an obscure condition having to do with the change of climate, before they rode on to catch up with the others.

They passed through the town, using side streets, and came after a time to the roadway that led up toward the Palace of the Masters of Karma. As they passed along its length, Siddhartha exchanged secret signs with those three dozen of his warriors who lay in hiding at various points off in the woods.

When they had gone half the distance to the palace, the prince and the eight men who accompanied him drew rein and made as if to rest, waiting the while for the others to move abreast of them, passing carefully among the trees.

Before long, however, they saw movement on the trail ahead. Seven riders were advancing on horseback, and the prince guessed them to be his six lancers and the Shan. When they came within hailing distance, they advanced to meet them.

“Who are you?” inquired the tall, sharp-eyed rider mounted upon the white mare. “Who are you that dares block the passage of Prince Siddhartha, Binder of Demons?”

The prince looked upon him — muscular and tanned, in his mid-twenties, possessed of hawklike features and a powerful bearing — and he felt suddenly that his doubts had been unfounded and that he had betrayed himself by his suspicion and mistrust. It appeared from the lithe physical specimen seated upon his own mount that Brahma had bargained in good faith, authorizing for his use an excellent and sturdy body, which was now possessed by the ancient Shan.

“Lord Siddhartha,” said his man, who had ridden at the side of the Lord of Irabek, “it appears that they dealt fairly. I see naught amiss about him.”

“Siddhartha!” cried the Shan. “Who is this one you dare address with the name of your master? I am Siddhartha, Binder of—” With that he threw his head back and his words gurgled in his throat.

Then the fit hit the Shan. He stiffened, lost his seating and fell from the saddle. Siddhartha ran to his side. There were little flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were rolled upward.

“Epileptic!” cried the prince. “They meant me to have a brain which had been damaged.”

The others gathered around and helped the prince minister to the Shan until the seizure passed and his wits had returned to his body.

“Wh-what happened?” he asked.

“Treachery,” said Siddhartha. “Treachery, oh Shan of Irabek! One of my men will convey you now to my personal physician, for an examination. After you have rested, I suggest you lodge a protest at Brahma’s reading room. My physician will treat you at Hawkana’s, and then you will be released. I am sorry this thing happened. It will probably be set aright. But if not, remember the last siege of Kapil and consider us even on all scores. Good afternoon, brother prince.” He bowed to the other, and his men helped the Shan to mount Hawkana’s bay, which Siddhartha had borrowed earlier.

Mounting the mare, the prince observed their departure, then turned to the men who stood about him, and he spoke in a voice sufficiently loud to be heard by those who waited off the road:

“The nine of us will enter. Two blasts upon the horn, and you others follow. If they resist, make them wish they had been more prudent, for three more blasts upon the horn will bring the fifty lancers down from the hills, if they be needed. It is a palace of ease, and not a fort where battles would be fought. Take the Masters prisoner. Do not harm their machineries or allow others to do so. If they do not resist us, all well and good. If they do, we shall walk through the Palace and Hall of the Masters of Karma like a small boy across an extensive and excessively elaborate ant hill. Good luck. No gods be with you!”

And turning his horse, he headed on up the road, the eight lancers singing softly at his back.

The prince rode through the wide double gate, which stood open and unguarded. He set immediately to wondering concerning secret defenses that Strake might have missed.

The courtyard was landscaped and partly paved. In a large garden area, servants were at work pruning, trimming and cultivating. The prince sought after weapon emplacements and saw none. The servants glanced up as he entered, but did not halt their labors.

At the far end of the courtyard was the black stone Hall. He advanced in that direction, his horsemen following, until he was hailed from the steps of the palace itself, which lay to his right.

He drew rein and turned to look in that direction. The man wore black livery, a yellow circle on his breast, and he carried an ebony staff. He was tall, heavy and muffled to the eyes. He did not repeat his salutation, but stood waiting.

The prince guided his mount to the foot of the wide stairway. “I must speak to the Masters of Karma,” he stated.

“Have you an appointment?” inquired the man.

“No,” said the prince, “but it is a matter of importance.”

“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, if 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 . . .”

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?”

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 turned 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.