Chapter 4

Si'Wren turned away from the sobbing mother whose daughter had been sacrificed. The fact that she could do nothing for the poor woman left her with a twisting feeling in her gut. As she walked away, bitter tears stung her eyes as she began weeping hopelessly.

Si'Wren jerked suddenly as a flying pebble struck her on the cheek. Stunned, she looked up to see a group of dirt-streaked children gathered around. They had approached her so unexpectedly that she had been unaware of their presence.

As they jeered and threw more pebbles and small stones at her she put up her arms in self-defense, although a larger boy managed to cast some larger rocks that bruised her badly when they struck her shoulders and forearms.

When Si'Wren turned and fled, they chased her, calling vile names. They reviled her Invisible God, crying out, "Stone the idol-breaker!" and "Where is he?--I can't find him!", mocking her as an outcast of the people, a scourge upon the land, and an enemy of the gods.

They followed her as she hastened to return to the cypress bungalow of the field-hands. She continued to shield herself from the stones by holding up her arms. At the door flap to the bungalow, she threw herself through the barrier tarp and ducked within, gasping for breath and weeping from her injuries as they danced without the bungalow, chanting evil rhymes against her.

They were too afraid to enter, until the brash older boy stepped inside with a large rock upheld to smite her with. Quick as a flash, L'acoci seized him by the hair and knocked his own rock against his own head with his own hand.

With a surprised scream the boy staggered and fell over backwards, then jumped up and ran bleeding out of the bungalow, at which point the mob of kids broke and ran. The din of their screams, added to the larger boy's outraged squeals of terror all rapidly diminished as they fled, scattered like a flock of magpies.

L'acoci ignored Si'Wren's weeping as she pushed into her hands a crude clay pot of herbal tea, a bowl of paste made from honey mixed with lard and clay and crumbled leaves and flowers, and a coarse, dirty, wadded-up old rag.

"Ah!" she exclaimed wordlessly, and blanched at her imagined 'error'. L'acoci looked long and meaningfully at Si'Wren, but said nothing and turned away finally without comment.

Feeling guilty about the monosyllabic utterance, although she had not truly spoken any word, Si'Wren, trembling in fear, stepped over to kneel carefully beside a stoically suffering Habrunt, her own concerns temporarily overlooked. Head still reeling from the blows, she forgot her bruises as she flinched at the renewed sight of his terrible injuries.

She changed the bandages polluted by the stink of corruption, and soothed on the paste L'acoci had made, before gently applying the layers of fresh tea-soaked replacement gauze over Habrunt's ruined flesh, exercising special care over the most fearsome gashes. Habrunt trembled in agony at this, but when he realized who she was, he somehow managed to hold still for it, although with much difficulty.

As she worked on Habrunt's terrible wounds, Si'Wren thought with great trepidation about possibly having violated her oath of silence again, but could not help wondering if she actually had or not. Of a truth, she had sworn never to actually speak again, but now it occurred to her that perhaps she might at least intonate. The idea was such as to be normally of no great import, but now seemed so great a revelation that she felt a sense of surprise out of all proportion. The simple fact was, she realized, that one did not need mere words to express one's feelings.

Si'Wren reflected upon this at length, and considered that although she might never again know the joy of singing, she could still hum her favorite melodies, and imagine the words in her mind or merely close her eyes and sway gently to the rhythm.

The thought of this seemed like a great consolation to her.

She began humming softly as she worked gently on Habrunt's wounds, filling the silent, deserted bungalow with the quiet, lovely mood of her melody.

Habrunt sighed, and seemed to relax a little. She noticed this, and felt that he was more than a little eased in his sufferings. So she continued humming, ever so softly.

Presently others began to arrive, a few at a time, all of them female slaves or their children.

With L'acoci hovering over the stew, no one dared bother Si'Wren, kneeling so close nearby.

The ravaged figure of brave Habrunt convalescing on the sleeping rack, fallen from favor, gave them equal pause. Until the day he died, Habrunt would never be the kind of man whom others might dare to mock openly or deal so lightly with.

But Si'Wren hummed more softly anyways, and more quietly, that others might not overhear so readily, to avoid giving them sufficient reason to take open notice of it and perhaps voice false objections out of a spirit of trouble-making. Presently, the others began murmuring amongst themselves over the anticipated victory, and Habrunt and his young nursemaid were ignored and forgotten.

Presently, L'acoci dipped up some stew into a clay bowl and gave it to Si'Wren.

"You must feed him as well as yourself," said L'acoci, as she noticed Si'Wren holding the one bowl in puzzlement.

Si'Wren had clearly expected two bowls, one for herself and another for Habrunt. Hesitantly at first, she began alternating a portion for herself and another for Habrunt, using sea shells for scoops. Habrunt could not bear to move his tortured body, not so much as to lift a finger, but Si'Wren was more than willing to make up for this by helping him. Occasionally, she lifted a cup of water to his lips, and resorted to wiping his beard with the dampened hem of her skirt.

But then, noticing his worsening condition, she took up a rag and dipped it in tea and pressed it to his feverish brow to try to ease the torment that visibly shook his trembling, half-naked body with increasing vehemence.

Slowly, as Si'Wren endured the passing of the hours thus, evening fell and twilight was transformed into the blackness of night and the flicker of the cooking fire in it's cobblestone pit in the cypress bungalow of the field slaves. A mist began to rise from the land, covering all with it's creeping white vapors, obscuring everything under a drifting, gauzy white veil of dimly-cast moonglow.

"Si'Wren," whispered L'acoci, leaning close so that others in the bungalow might not overhear, "I would have a word with you."

Si'Wren beheld the old woman, and waited respectfully.

"Si'Wren," repeated L'acoci, her voice as whisper-dry as a pile of dried leaves as she bent close to Si'Wren's head and Si'Wren sensed the parched lips hovering close to her ear, "I have heard the stories of old, told of moon-madness, shared in the bungalows in times past. I saw when you yourself, as a tiny orphan girl new to the House of the Master, were told such horrible stories by the fireside when the slaves hid in fear of the full moon shining in the blackness of night, with tales told about how the moon drives men, and women, and even little children, to madness. And I see you now, watching over your brave Habrunt, as he lies in the delirium of pain and fever and torments upon his cot. Are you wondering if Habrunt might be in danger of the moon-madness?"

Si'Wren considered this momentarily, and then she shook her head, signaling her answer in the negative. Yes, she believed in moon-madness, but never had she questioned the power of Habrunt's might. She did not believe that a mighty and valiant one such as he would or could ever go moon-mad.

"Good," whispered L'acoci. "Hear me, girl, and mark me no fool. There is no such thing as moon-madness. During the full moon, demons stalk the land, seeking to afflict weakened minds, that people might blame the moon, and call those so afflicted moon-mad, and thereby curse God's creation which He hath called good. For this reason, yes, we must beware the coming of the full moon, but not for it's own sake, but for the madness and evil deception worked by unseen demonic powers, seeking to deceive us mere mortals into thinking that it comes from the full moon. But the full moon itself is nothing to worry about. Know this, girl, and know it well. Behind every evil act of man is the still more evil provocation of a horde of demonic and deceiving fallen powers, for the unseen demons ever lurk, and ever shall until the very end of time itself, seeking the souls of every man, woman, and child upon the face of this accursed soil we walk upon, and the demons are very real, and they are organized into an entire fallen kingdom of the damned, an army of intelligent evil spirits, dedicated to the overthrow of the Invisible God Himself."

Si'Wren considered this, as she regarded Habrunt, and nodded that she understood.

Then L'acoci added, still whispering so faintly that it was as if Si'Wren's own inner consciousness had formed the words, "Si'Wren, far from the demons driving Habrunt mad, he drives them mad. They hate him for his righteousness and goodness."

Then L'acoci was turning away, and Si'Wren realized that the conversation was over, and rejoiced that she had learned this new thing about demons. Now, they could no longer deceive her as before. She would never again fear the full moon, but only be on guard, in prayer, against the evil demons.

Sometime around midnight, Habrunt began to grow delirious from the fever, and she fell into a kind of stupor, sitting on a woven mat and leaning against his sleeping rack with her head leaning close to his, while the bare skin of her face and exposed extremities basked in the fireside glow.

Habrunt began to moan in his sleep from his intense sufferings, and Si'Wren began to hum a melody, so low and muted as to be inaudible to all but herself and Habrunt, and after a short time he stopped his pitiable lamentations for a little while.

In an exhausted somnambulance, Si'Wren lapsed into her slumbers as well, until his groanings woke her once more. Then she patted his forehead with the tea-soaked rag, and from her heart and soul arose in her throat soft compassionate intonations, so low that only his ears could hear her as she leaned close, hovering over him with tender eyes and a softened look.

Something seemed to be bothering Habrunt in his sleep as he murmured to himself unintelligibly, but although Si'Wren tried her utmost she could not seem to make it out.

In the delirium of a feverish dream, Habrunt heard a voice calling sweetly in the jungle. It was the voice of some incomprehensible vision, a beauty, a paragon of virtue, a woman like unto no other such as he had ever seen in all of his unfathomable years.

He searched for her, sometimes walking, sometimes running a few steps, expecting any moment to break through the dense foliage of the lush greenery and glimpse the unearthly vision of her eternal spirit, ecstatically alive, wild, and free, as the mysterious woman with a voice like an angel roamed the deep jungle, seemingly heedless of it's wild beasts and other horrors, entirely unharmed, and moreover, unaffected, as if it were her rightful kingdom and the savage beasts her royal subjects.

But every time he managed to brush the vines and fern fronds aside with a burly arm to reveal what was beyond with a sweep of his haunted eyes, he saw only a little brown wren bird, singing from a branch across the little thicket-like clearing.

He turned away, and again he heard her, like the calling of a siren, causing the steaming jungle to throb and tremble invisibly with the incredible sweetness and beauty of that trilling, passionately enthralling voice, piercing his soul like a javelin tipped at the point with the sap of some unknown, virulent love concoction.

Madly, he spun around and charged through the vines, their ropes and boughs whipping at his skin as he ignored the pain, calling desperately and chasing with hastened steps towards her swiftly moving shadow which could barely be glimpsed ahead, highlighted against the glimmerings of sunlight that sparkled like the beams of coruscating, living jewels before his eyes.

There she was! All sparkling bright shimmerings of brilliant golden yellow sunlight flashes. Through the mottled and rippled interplay of light and shadow patterns, he saw her silhouette against the sun, a living vision come to life amidst the dank dark kaleidoscope of jungle, blinding his eyes with her beauty!

He crashed wildly through, stopped to rub his eyes, and looked again, and, disappointed, saw yet again the plain little brown wren bird, there!, on a branch, so small, so insignificant, singing sweetly.

Where! Where was the woman who called to him?!!

He looked around, and staggered off, heartbroken and despairing.

Where was she?

He heard her again, far off, singing, calling like an eternal, winged Holy Angel of the Invisible God, and as he turned to go to her he felt his limbs whipped by the passing branches and weighing like lead, and he slowed helplessly, becoming tired, so deathly tired.

The siren, he thought feverishly, as he staggered and fell headlong, unable to catch himself.

Where was the siren?!!

"Si'Wren," remanded wise old L'acoci in a hushed and quavering crone's voice as dry as dead leaves. "Si'Wren! Come to sleep now. Your brave Slavemaster will live."

As she ceased her crooning, Si'Wren looked up at the withered countenance of old L'acoci by the light of the cooking fire coals with a tired, dreamy stare, and sighed in a heedless shrug. Then she turned her eyes softly back again, looking compassionately down upon her precious Habrunt, who had finally stopped his thrashing, and fallen into a deep slumber again.

Ageless Habrunt as half a man was yet even now all the more to her in his ruin, than any ten ordinary men in their youth and prime could possibly have boasted.

Si'Wren hummed softly to him, as he began his moaning and thrashing again, and she wondered what chaotic dreams passed through his sleeping mind.

So the long night passed.

* * *

The sweat-covered, dirt-streaked slave runner came at a quick jog through the compound front gates and sought first after the whereabouts of Slavemaster Habrunt.

He did not know yet that Habrunt, the former Slavemaster of the House of Rababull, had so recently been deposed and punished. He did not know that Habrunt was slated to be sold for next to nothing, as soon as his wounds were healed. The messenger would speak to no one else at first, and the others were too frightened by the former Slavemaster Habrunt's terrifying fate to even so much as speak of him to the runner.

Not finding Habrunt, the runner ran straight up the front steps into the House, where Old Maskron quickly sprang to his feet and raised his bronze sword in a challenge to yield and declare himself.

The gasping runner took in Old Maskron with a wild-eyed stare, and finally decided he could withhold his dire news no longer.

"Master Rababull is dead!" declared the breathless slave.

"Whaaaat?!" croaked Old Maskron, his eyes going senselessly round and wide.

The clatter of the sword rang loud on the stone steps, as Old Maskron reached out with both hands to seize the runner's tunic by the front to confront him bodily face-to-face and shook him as he howled, "You lie!!!"

"It is no lie!" the runner sobbed in a broken utterance. Then he went on, "Kadrug--giants!--they fell on us from all sides!"

He stopped suddenly, his lungs gasping audibly for air as he stood sniggering like a whipped boy in a torment of anguish, fear, and remorse at what he had seen.

"Master Rababull," he moaned, "and all--of the rest of us..."

He fell silent, staring into emptiness as if at the terrifying aspect of unseen demons.

"Talk!" demanded Old Maskron finally, shaking the other again and infuriated at the runner's balking manner.

"A trap!!" the slave wailed. "They are all--g-gug--dead!! Maskron!--what shall we do for I alone have escaped to tell you?!"

"Do?" croaked his interrogator. Old Maskron shook the weeping runner as he gripped him, staring him down for a long moment while his eyes took on a maddened look.

"Do?! You tell me this, and dare to ask of me, 'What shall we do?!'"

He shook the hapless runner again, a human god damning the dishonored vessel of calamitous news to all the imaginary hells of the soul, and violently cast him backwards as if the man had himself brought this dire fate upon the House of Rababull.

The runner fell backwards and hit the hard, hewn stones of the stairs full stretch against the back of his head, and lay sprawled backwards, head-downwards and facing sightlessly into the heavens on the unforgiving stone steps.

* * *

The fields stood empty. No slaves worked their softly undulating waves of ripening grain.

The water in the irrigation canals was already low and getting lower, the water ways steadily dropping down to unprecedented levels. The silent compound stood with it's great gates closed tight shut and cross-barred through the heavy iron rungs. No confident soldiery patrolled it's upper walkways. They were all dead.

At the top of the front steps of the House proper, no great Master stood confidently facing the world on it's own terms as a favorite of the gods.

Master Rababull was dead.

Prut was dead. Geth the Fieldmaster was dead. All of their able-bodied male slaves were dead, their blood spilled in the fields surrounding the hotly contested sluice gates.

It was not a pretty sight, with the vultures already at work on what the corpse-strippers and ritual mutilators had left.

The compound was filled with quiet groups of motionless women, solemn-faced and terror-stricken. Their children clustered anxiously around them, some quiet, some crying, but none laughing. The few innocent toddlers who occasionally frolicked were quickly spanked into confounded wailing obedience, if not outright silence.

In the long and seemingly vacant cypress bungalow of the field slaves, one sang wordlessly, and almost inaudibly.

Close beside the cooking fire, Si'Wren, forbidden to form words, hummed and sang in sweet soft crooning sounds.

Keeping her voice low, she sat tirelessly beside the sleeping rack where Habrunt lay prostrate, hovering attentively over his tormented form and watching over him with tender devotion.

The others, preoccupied with vastly more important concerns now, could not be bothered to deal with Si'Wren anymore for her imagined blasphemies.

As one made ritually invisible, as well as silent, and an outcast for life, Si'Wren was lost in a world of her own. Clearly, she had eyes for no one but Habrunt. She saw nothing besides this mighty man who, laid low, remained on the rack and languished perpetually before her.

They had done this to him, and behold; they were now dead whereas he, Habrunt, still lived.

* * *

The compound's front gates boomed loudly as someone pounded at the door. In the drifting predawn mists of the interior yard, people cowered and watched from their doorways, peering fearfully across the compound, waiting for Old Maskron to go answer or at least send someone to see who it was.

Old Maskron finally came out to peer through the gray-white veil of dense fog with eyes reddened and pouched from lack of sleep and too many years of heavy drink and overmuch worry, his face a scowling mask.

At the side of Old Maskron, a nervous-looking, handsome young boy of perhaps ten appeared next, dressed in rich robes, his hair polled oddly in a manner which bespoke his noble birth.

Old Maskron clapped the boy on the back.

"Go! See!" Old Maskron growled the terse command.

The boy ran and climbed up the diagonal brace of one of the gates to peer out of a peephole. He was seen talking momentarily, then turned and ran back across the courtyard and up the House front steps.

"They are blood kin of the House of Rababull!" he proclaimed excitedly to Old Maskron.

"What? Impossible!" Old Maskron brandished his bronze sword as he made his arthritic way down the front steps.

With the keyed-up little Master at his side, white-haired Old Maskron wobbled and wheezed his way across the courtyard, his sandals scraping audibly in the dust of the dirt, while fearful eyes watched his slow progress to the gates from their ill-concealment on all quarters.

He arrived at the gates and peered out of the peephole.

Long seconds went past as he stood and talked with whoever was outside. He nodded occasionally several times, pausing to listen now and again, his hand idly fiddling with the sword.

Finally, he nodded approval as he turned and ordered several crippled slaves to open the gates. Limping, they reached for the cross bar. With a mighty heave, the heavy oaken cross bar slid sideways out of the iron rungs and into the receiver off to one side.

Old Maskron stepped back and self-importantly ordered them to open the gates with a show of bluster. With a series of ineffectual lurches, the crippled slaves put their backs into it, and slowly the big gates began to creak open.

Suddenly a spear lanced through the air, flying through the space between the opening gate doors, and struck Old Maskron in the chest, it's iron point erupting in a welt of red from the backside of his spine as he collapsed with a single amazed croak of disbelief, dead before he struck the dirt.

In sheer terror, the boy screamed and turned to run. Halfway across the courtyard, he was struck down by a flight of arrows that zinged through the air and thunked sickeningly into his body and became inextricably embedded in his back, which he arched agonizingly even as he tumbled forward to hit the ground with an awful, nerveless slap and slid a half-step in the dust.

At this, the terrified shriekings and screamings of the women and other children suddenly filled the compound's surrounding buildings.

As the war party entered, their men marched quickly past the boy's crumpled figure. A huge half-breed giant fully seven feet tall thrust him through with a spear point and casually levered the honed steel blade out of the boy's body again as he marched past without even so much as breaking his stride.

They broke into all buildings and searched for any males of noble birth. There were none such, of course, except in the House proper.

These they brought out kicking and screaming, one by one, to the top of the front steps.

They were immediately confronted by a tall, fearsome-looking man who appeared to be the leader of the invaders and summarily thrust through with the sword and their lifeless bodies cast down the stone steps.

The more the dead were piled up, the more terrified the living became as they were dragged to the fore and arrived at the stark sight of the growing pile of bodies.

None were of fighting quality. Either too old or too young, they were nonetheless potential claimants or heirs to the Deed of the House of Rababull, and systematically eliminated.

The killing process only stopped when the executioners finally ran out of heirs.

Then, the final prize, virile young Puffat was dragged out between two bedraggled but powerful-looking swordsmen, his gangrenous leg causing him much agony, making pathetic attempts to free himself and loudly protesting his innocence to whatever gods there be.

The snaggle-toothed, smiling executioner listened to him a moment, and then, still smiling, thrust him through with a sword and stepped back, jerking his weapon out of the victim as his body was released by his captors to plummet lifelessly down the blood-spattered steps where it eventually came to rest at the top of the heap of other victims.

There, others with spears were systematically thrusting through any who showed any signs of remaining life.

Technically, the invaders were no longer blood-kin to their victims, because they had murdered them all. This marvelous bit of genius had also portended a direct line of succession that now led straight to their leader, Conabar.

Now Conabar was chiefest blood-heir.

That was the object, that their leader might remain sole heir and possessor of the Deed to the House of Rababull and all of it's holdings and slaves.

He might even move a marker stone or two and get a jump start on his new neighbors. Let them complain if they dared.

Conabar, a distant relation of Master Rababull, had sent word that he would come when called to battle against the common foe, but craftily delayed his coming and stayed home instead. Then he had sent out his scouts, and made his long-awaited move when opportunity presented itself upon the Master Rababull's untimely death. The power play was finally working out, because of his iron patience and the fickle turn of events.

In past times, it had been with much weariness and not a little conniving that Conabar had played up to the endless demands of Master Rababull's contemptuously-worded family obligations, while he had watched and learned and waited for over four hundred years for this singular opportunity to finally present itself.

Kadrug was still in possession of the sluice gates, but what was that to Conabar? He had his own House, and his own fields, to which might be added the holdings of Master Rababull. What could Kadrug do to him? Kadrug's men were spent, whereas Conabar's men were fresh and spoiling for the battle! All he needed to do now was to fight off Kadrug, or better yet, try to make an ally of him. Kadrug, with only the fields to bivouac his fighting forces, could not hold out forever against an entrenched, battle-hardened evil-doer like Conabar, who had the staying power of his riches to bribe others, and such vast holdings to sustain himself and his warriors.

"Long live Conabar!" yelled his men, the noise of their hollering and hooting voices deafening in the confines of the stockade.

Yea, thought Conabar to himself while his men cheered on, long live my ways and my word. Much blood must be spilled this day. But he knew he would live only so long as he kept his back to the wall and his wits about him, and his men remained loyal to him in his occasional absence and his nightly sleep. He would live as long as another like himself did not take similar advantage of him, as he had done to the former Master Rababull.

There was a sudden outcry of several of his men at the back gates. One of them came running and knelt before him on one knee to report that Rababull's many widows had escaped and were even now fleeing into the nearby city.

He scowled. They were to have been for him and his men, but now they might bring trouble instead. Too late now. The Emperor of the city would be too powerful to attack just to get back a few women, any of whom might easily be old enough to be his mother several times over.

With vile oaths and many despicable and filthy curses, and much spitting in the dirt, Conabar ordered the enslavement of all remaining women who were of noble birth and no longer virgin.

As for those women who were freeborn and had not yet known any man, they must be sorted through. The best would be his to keep or to sell off. His men could squabble over the rest.

There was even a tale told of a certain beautiful young slave girl who was an outcast even among her own kind, a redoubtable beauty whose flower of womanhood had only just begun to bud. A woman sworn never to speak for the remainder of her life. As soon as he could find the proper time to investigate this ridiculous old wives' tale, Conabar intended to go and find her.

A woman who was sworn never to talk back to any man, and was allegedly of such incomparable beauty; now there was a rare prize! As for the rumor of idol-breaking, that was a quandary to think about.

But for some reason, they were having trouble locating her.

In the meantime, the men must be given free rein to make merry, lest they riot.

"Red wine!" Conabar called out. "I want the best!"

A warrior clapped his chest and went out to go slap a few slaves around, abusively demanding where the wine vats were, and the women readily granted him his every wish as they pleaded tearfully for their lives and the lives of their children.

The wine was quickly located, and Conabar savored his moment of victory as he thrust skyward the golden goblet of sparkling red wine, the very scent of which, penetrating and ethereal, made his head giddy with newfound power and glory.

Sloshing it's contents in a reckless gesture, Conabar waved his sword in the air and shouted, "Rababull be dead! Long live Conabar House!!"

"WHOO-RAH! WHOO-RAH!" shouted his men, crowding around on all sides as they routed the wine bearer for his plunder and brandished their weapons, toasting Conabar in a crash of armor.

The raucous cheering and noise-making grew to a deafening din in the compound.

* * *

Somewhere past the bungalow of the field slaves, beyond the back gate that let out into the fields behind the compound of the once and mighty House of Rababull who was no more, and yet beyond, out in the tall saw grasses and swaying bulrushes beside a peacefully meandering little stream, Si'Wren crouched low beside a collapsed Habrunt as she listened fearfully. In the distance, the madmen howled their anger and frustration at not finding her, and their mounting desperation at what Conabar would do to them for their failure to deliver one called Si'Wren into the hand of their master was driving them to extremes. They had already run old L'acoci through with a sword, for refusing to tell which way Si'Wren had gone.

Bent over in agony and unable to defend her now, the savagery of his punishments making him the very image of evil and degradation, a crippled Habrunt had counseled Si'Wren to flee, and against his protests found himself dragged along rather than be abandoned to the invaders. He had known what to do, but it was she who had actually accomplished their escape so narrowly in time.

Beside him, a heavily gasping Si'Wren felt deep fear. The way that the men who came searching had looked for Si'Wren, describing her so accurately, and the way her fellow slaves had named her so freely as she listened in the bushes nearby, had chilled her blood.

While the searchers ran off to look elsewhere, she had helped a crippled Habrunt to escape, fearful of being spotted at any moment. It was a relief to rest now, as she and Habrunt cowered together in the bulrushes by the stream.

Then, Habrunt said under his breath, as much an agonized groan as any recognizably human utterance, "The Emperor's Law is broken. If judgements are to be determined, we must go to the Emperor!"

He levered himself laboriously to his feet, and Si'Wren ducked under his shoulder to prop him up. As he indicated the direction of their flight, she helped him to get on his way with surprising strength for a girl her size.

Si'Wren refused to give up so easily. Yea, she only feared the others, but reverenced Habrunt, and whither he led she would surely follow.

* * *

"All bow!"

There was a general sound of the physical movements of many attendants and lawful petitioners as the masses bowed low to virtually scrape the floor with their noses. In addition to the Court Officers representing various royal functions, the riff-raff of the spectators' galleries looked on in gleeful anticipation, as sometimes the judgements could be quite severe.

Under the watchful eyes of the Palace Guard with their weapons at the ready, his Royal Majesty, singular ruler of the fertile gulf plain and self-proclaimed Anointed of the Gods, his Highness the Emperor Euphrates, father of many noble offspring and husband of countless wives, entered at a sedate pace accompanied by various officials and took with unfeigned boredom to the throne, his back against the stone wall and a pageant of armed guards in watchful attendance on either side. He was huge and gross of body, fleshy of face, hair and beard molded into one mass of shining streaming black all streaked with gray. To look up at him from the floor at a time like this was to die.

The proper doctrinal announcements were made by the Royal Crier, a tall thin reedy-looking fellow who could by now have pronounced them in his sleep without interrupting his own dreaming, and the great and terrible Emperor Euphrates was duly installed for the day.

The Public Hearings came first, during which he lounged on his amply padded stone throne and ate purple plums -a favorite delicacy; and gods have mercy upon the slave who dropped and stepped on so much as a single plum in the act of serving them- as he sat in state and heard out the wearisome, endless complaints of his subjects.

'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth' was the customary rule, but men of means could get out of that if enough money was paid to satisfy their legal indebtedness to the Kingdom for whatever offenses.

One pair of contestants were given swords and, under the watchful eyes and ready lances of the Palace Guards, invited to fight it out on the spot in a bloody battle. In the end, both died of their wounds and their survivors fled the palace to grab what they could before the sacred arm of the Emperor's covetous priesthood could contrive a sufficient excuse to come and take all.

* * *

By and large, Emperor Euphrates got around to hearing about the death of Master Rababull, and of the pleas for sanctuary by his many wailing widows and concubines.

According to their general testimony, it seemed that things had been happening at a drastically accelerated pace recently with respect to the affairs of the late Master Rababull, and it was not at all to their liking, these widows of Rababull's.

One named Conabar had taken over the House of Rababull, a blood relation. Conabar's friend was the savage outlaw warlord Kadrug, an enemy of the great Emperor Euphrates.

To this, Emperor Euphrates was characteristically unresponsive. To have enemies was nothing new, and more than a few had dined on a last supper of live coals for speaking the merest word against him.

The usual complaining went on. Conabar wanted to ravish their ailing old bodies. Conabar this. Conabar that. The wailing, the screaming, the emotional invectives presented quite a spectacle. When Emperor Euphrates had just about had enough of their nonsense and was almost ready to waggle a finger and have them all sent away as the pests that they were, he heard the name of Puffat, and at mention of this he abruptly held up his left hand to forestall the womens' chatter.

Raising his bushy eyebrows quizzically, Emperor Euphrates turned to his Chief Adviser, Borla, and held out his right hand to Borla like a peasant in the heat of barter.

"Puffat?" said Emperor Euphrates. "Where before have I heard the name of one called Puffat?"

For he knew he had heard it somewhere, at least once.

Borla, a tall, thin figure who invariably appeared in royal court wearing the darkest of robes, who was fond of keeping his haggard-looking head deeply and perpetually hooded, and who was not Royal Advisor for nothing, astutely put his long left index finger straight up beside the right nostril of his long, thin, protruding nose with a heavy frown, and sniffed not once but several times, somewhat noisily and theatrically. This was not done to insult Emperor Euphrates, but to further magnify His Majesty. Noses had much to do with majesty, as any proper emperor could tell you. It was Borla's formal thinking posture.

Finally, Borla nodded his head in satisfaction, and bowed peremptorily before looking up at his Emperor wisely.

"Puffat," rumbled Borla, who had a very deep voice, "is the offspring of a distant but honorable relation on your mother's sister's daughter's cousin's side, thrice--Ahem!; removed, in each instance."

"Ah! 'Thrice', you say? A most noble number," Emperor Euphrates agreed, raising his eyebrows and then frowning over the more meaningful possible aspects of this curious twist of fate.

"Quite so, your Majesty," agreed Borla dryly and noncommittally.

Emperor Euphrates turned to the widows and waved encouragement with an imploring motion of his right hand, using the common bartering gesture of the market place, and imploring them with a partially raised, cupped hand.

"Say on," said Emperor Euphrates, with a brief, commanding nod of royal encouragement.

One called Puffat, said three or four women, who all began to speak at once and in various overweening affectations and mannerisms -the dreary virtues of long-ago beauties, these- had been extremely sick and in pain beyond torment with the gain-green in his leg, when Kadrug had taken over the sluice gates, and slain Rababull with the edge of the sword when he valiantly went forth to battle.

Meanwhile, the women further alleged, Master Rababull's trusted blood-relation, Conabar, had crept to the House gates unawares and mercilessly slain Old Maskron when that unsuspecting worthy came and opened them.

Then the intruders, acting on their leader Conabar's orders, had promptly searched out and summarily executed all of Master Rababull's remaining children in a pathetic blood-bath.

At this, Emperor Euphrates had somewhat testily held up a forestalling hand, and after their jibber-jabber had died away, he said with a frown, "Eh, about one called Puffat..."

There was a moment of stunned silence, as the women seemed to take a moment to realize that any number of personal complaints would get them nowhere near as much sympathy as whatever they could conjure up about Puffat.

Then all at once the recriminations resumed, centered perfectly on the outrages suffered by one called Puffat.

One called Puffat, the women alleged, was seen crying out in extreme agony on account of the aggravated torments from his gain-green, as he was summarily dragged out and executed by no less a personage than Conabar himself, to eliminate him as a possible contender for the Headship of the House of Rababull.

As the perceptive widows watched him and played on his sympathies like shameless minstrels singing a love song for a handful of coppers, Emperor Euphrates, his eyes growing more fiery with their every word, slowly drew himself more vertically upright whilst sitting in his stone throne, and angrier still as he leaning successively still farther and farther forward until he seemed to ready to fall upon them all, until the widows finally began to quail at the sight of him and one by one, fell silent.

All but one old crone.

Oh yes! she declared, playing it for all she was worth. Old and useless, she would have death or glory, and cannily raised her cracking voice in shameless petition for the lost virtues of Puffat, a many-times thrice-removed relation of the Emperor!

Puffat suffered horribly before execution, declared she, with one squinted eye and one enlarged, red-rimed one in her woeful lamentations to an increasingly wrathful Emperor. Puffat's beautiful brown eyes were put out, wailed she. Puffat's big toes and thumbs were hacked off, gesticulated she, jerking at her own toes and thumbs with either bony hand and a rising croak of wheezing lungs and that unnerving, squinting stare.

Puffat's excruciatingly agonizing gangrenous leg was kicked repeatedly. Puffat this. Puffat that.

"Enough!!"

Emperor Euphrates finally slammed his fist down on the chair arm and jerked himself straight upright in his seat, towering over them all in a furious rage.

In the sudden silence, he glared down at the silent cluster of terrified widows.

"Borla!!" pronounced Emperor Euphrates, grating out his Chief Advisor's name.

"Hmm?" said Borla, somewhat jittery at the rank savagery of his Emperor's expression. But he was nothing, if not competent, and showed no further sign of his nervousness as he quickly recovered himself and fell smoothly into the litany of his accustomed royal pronouncements.

Borla turned to face the audience, and cleared his throat loudly.

"Ahem! His Majesty the Emperor Euphrates, is off-ended," said Borla as he turned significantly to Ampho, the Royal Crier.

"Eh? What was that?" asked the latter, starting upright as if he had been lost in a daze.

Ampho, the Royal Crier, beaked of nose and as thin as a reed, blinked in a rapid fluttering of his rheumy, myopic eyes as if he were suddenly roused out of a deep trance, and perked up his ears anew as he finally managed to take his eyes off the quacking old crone. He raised his bushy eyebrows and turned his hoary-haired and white-bearded countenance in an aside to Borla as he raised his bushy eyebrows alertly.

"Say again?" repeated Ampho.

The Royal Crier's occasional impudence was tolerated by Borla because he always managed to put on quite a show, and also because the Emperor Euphrates was so fond of the old ditherer, who was endeared to his majesty by virtue of having been old and gray-haired at such a time as his Imperial Majesty was still playing naked in the royal mud.

Betraying ill-concealed impatience, Borla repeated himself.

At this, Ampho, raised his voice and replied quickly with an air of self-importance and officiousness, "Ahem! As his Highness wishes!"

Then he raised and settled his shoulders bravely as he opened his mouth, screwed his eyes shut tightly, tilted his head back, and bawled loudly into the high vaulted stone ceiling, "All keep silence before the great Emperor Euphrates!"

A chorus of Court Officers immediately chanted, "All give ear and keep silence!"

In the sudden silence, the widows shifted their eyes nervously around the crowded court, fearful of the awesome power of the great Emperor Euphrates that so many should automatically kowtow to him with such unfailing ritual precision.

"Mark my words," said Emperor Euphrates. This was spoken for the benefit of the Royal Scribe, one called Ibi, who was also a man of great age like unto Ampho. Off to one side, aged Ibi promptly reached for his marking sticks, and impatiently signaled an apprentice to deliver a fresh clay tablet to him.

"One called Puffat," declared Emperor Euphrates, "has died an honorable death."

"Here ye all! One called Puffat..." Ampho cried out, howling Emperor Euphrates' pronouncements. When he had finished repeating the proclamation, he turned his head to his emperor and waited for the next royal pronouncement.

"One called Conabar," said Emperor Euphrates, "and one called Kadrug, both of whom doth magnify themselves against the Imperial throne and doth conspire unlawfully to slay his relations and diminish his blood line, shall appear before His Majesty, and their entrails shall be read to determine their guilt or innocence."

When Emperor Euphrates paused for breath, Ampho raised his voice and howled the decree loudly. Thus were pronounced both men's death sentences in typically indirect fashion.

Emperor Euphrates's claim to being a divinely appointed ruler and sorcerer depended most frequently and blatantly upon the habitual practice of killing off some victim for who-cares-what offence, and then ceremonially 'reading' the victim's entrails, invariably pronouncing that their guilt and worthiness of death by execution was clearly foretold there.

It was a most convincing and persuasive prophecy, in spite of it's self-fulfilling nature, which others took especial note of in their earnest praises of their beloved Emperor for his great powers of divination, and also, his even greater powers of extinction.

It made him an Emperor to be feared beyond all reason in the eyes of his people. He was always 'right', and if someone was later found by delayed discovery of direct physical evidence to the contrary or some such nonsense to have been innocent of all charges, Emperor Euphrates had their entrails formally brought before him again -which were magically brought forth from the bowels of a living chicken- whereupon he typically reread them, and found the poor soul innocent.

What a truly miraculous display of the supernatural powers of royal divination.

He was always faithful to grant an immediate pardon.

Next, Emperor Euphrates said significantly, to Borla, "What is mine, is mine."

The meaning of this was long-rehearsed by so many repetitions gone before, that Borla knew exactly what Emperor Euphrates meant by it.

Borla bowed low, and straightening, turned to Ampho and pronounced dryly, "The Emperor giveth, and the Emperor taketh away. The former House of Rababull is to be seized from one called Conabar."

Ampho raised his nostrils to the rafters and howled with considerable vigor for one of such advanced years, "It pleases his Majesty the Emperor Euphrates that the House of Rababull, and all it's bond persons, shall become the property of the Emperor, as compensation for the death of one called Puffat, the son of a distant and honorable relation!"

Deceased relations of the Emperor always "died honorably". If they could not be said to have "died honorably", they were first formally disowned, that their affairs might be judged the more harshly.

"Lastly," Emperor Euphrates finished, "a stipend is declared for the widows of one called Rababull." He gave the nod to Borla.

Borla braced himself with an ever-so-slight, momentary lift to his heels and shoulders, and said simply to Ampho, "His Majesty's mercies are everlasting; let the widows become street beggars."

"The widows of the House of Rababull," Ampho bawled appropriately, "have been granted royal permission to beg in the streets without molestation, provided they do not impede pedestrian traffic or interrupt the bar-gaining of the traders and honored thieves."

In other words, they could beg if they kept their silence about it and managed to stick out their alms bowels in the paths of travelers whilst keeping out from underfoot of both man and beast.

After all, it was a great honor to be permitted to beg without offense.

The astonished and indignant widows of the House of Rababull, formerly of such self-serving pride and cruelty towards those pathetic and tormented slaves immediately under their harsh household rule, were herded from the court amidst the jeers and laughter of the throngs by the rude barks and gestures of the stern-faced Palace Guards.

Emperor Euphrates rose to his feet, whereupon Ampho immediately bawled out in a veritable falsetto screech, "All bow!"

This wasn't just good protocol. It was exceedingly difficult to throw a knife, shoot an arrow, or hurl a spear at Emperor Euphrates if one was bowing so low as not to be able to even look at him, or anything else for that matter, except the tiny section of floor being rubbed clean by the tip of one's prostrated nose.

By the same token, any who did not bow were immediately perceived by the watchful guards as the threat they very possibly were, and would immediately be thrust through with lances on the spot.

It was a very good and safe way to exit and enter. Kings and Emperors who were so foolish as to allow the crowds to cheer them on while they gloriously entered or exited ran the risk of being skewered in the process simply because it was so hard for a guard to pick out the one who had smuggled arms past the Royal Checker of Weapons and Headcoverings, both of which must be removed in the Emperor's presence anyways. It was too easy to let fly amidst the mass confusion of bodily movements of such agitated throngs.

This way, no one could move besides His Majesty the Emperor Euphrates himself. Thus, he was safer, because a man had to move before he could use a weapon, and if he tried he would instantly be picked out and dealt with soon enough to assure the Emperor a good long life.

* * *

But a spy warned Conabar, who abandoned the House of Rababull and immediately fled.

Kadrug, seeing that he had not nearly enough advantage of position or force of men to withstand Emperor Euphrates, wisely chose to retreat also and withdrew to the wilds.

Throughout the coming week, rumor had it that Kadrug and Conabar had sued one another for peace and pledged themselves in a blood oath to become allies against Emperor Euphrates, and it was avidly rumored that Kadrug had giants.

Emperor Euphrates had no giants.

* * *

Several days passed, during which time all property transfers were effected from the former House of Rababull to the royal treasury of Emperor Euphrates. The fate of the slave holdings of Master Rababull was of low priority, but they were finally got round to.

* * *

"Well, don't be frightened, step up!"

At the wizened old Court Officer's bidding, a reluctant Si'Wren, whose turn had finally come, stepped forward several awful, final steps to stand, eyes miserably downcast, before the great and terrible Emperor Euphrates.

"Your name, slave?" requested the court officer, a minor underling named Baschal.

Si'Wren, having made a vow to the Invisible God never to speak, remained silent.

If only Habrunt could be here to speak for her, but she had not seen him since being left here by him several days ago, and did not know what had become of him since. She knew him to be useless for work because of his injuries from the merciless whipping. Habrunt's last words had been to reassure her that in a world of such unsurpassing evils, only in the royal household would she be not mistreated, and that only there would she, without his strength to protect her, be safe. He said that she should not worry about him because he knew he would be given his freedom rather than unduly burden the food coffers of the slave quarters as an unprofitable cripple.

Si'Wren was grieved to hear Habrunt speak down on himself in this way. She would never call him useless or unprofitable, no matter what his condition. But unfortunately, it was not for her to decide, so she trusted Habrunt implicitly in everything he said. Si'Wren desperately yearned to see Habrunt, and missed him beyond all reason, but there was no one to turn to now.

"Well, speak up!" the man said gruffly to Si'Wren.

There ensued a momentous wait, perhaps a span of three or four breaths, while the great Emperor Euphrates grew increasingly impatient at first, and then, with a narrowing of his eyes, actually showed genuine interest in her. After all, this one was not only harmless, but an astonishing beauty. She could easily be excused of any number of imagined insults, and made to toe the line readily enough when final judgements were proclaimed.

But the girl -eyes downcast- remained stubbornly silent.

Frowning darkly, Borla finally stepped forward from his position of direct attendance on the Emperor's right hand, and motioned away Baschal with a little impatient flick of his fingers.

Gazing skeptically down upon her from within the deep folds of his hooded robe, Borla grimaced at her distastefully and said, as from a great height, "It seems this rebellious slave has lost her manners, Highness. Perhaps she should lose her life as well!"

At this, Si'Wren's eyes grew wide with fright and surprise, but still she said nothing.

Borla suddenly turned and said sharply to one of the Captains of the Palace Guard, "Give me a sword."

The requested item was promptly produced by a guard, and handed over to Baschal, who promptly took it and handed it over in turn to the Chief Advisor to the Emperor.

"Now," said Borla testily, with no small degree of impatience. "For the last time; what is thy name, girl?"

Si'Wren stood immobile as she regarded the edge of the gleaming sword which Borla held up just beneath her chin at the throat, and slowly shook her head.

"Very well," said Borla, as he withdrew the sword and held it up for the death stroke. "His Majesty can be quite reasonable at times. You've obviously chosen to die for your insolence, and it is His pleasure to grant you your wish..."

"Withhold thy hand," said Emperor Euphrates suddenly.

Borla hesitated, his arm tensed for the downswing, and regarded his Emperor in a look of self-evident deference.

"As you wish, Highness," said Borla, as he bowed low and handed the sword back to the underling again. "What is thy pleasure, Sire? Name it, and I shall not hesitate..."

"Bring her to me," said Emperor Euphrates.

The Emperor's words echoed throughout the absolute, dead silence of the throne room as a thousand spectators looked on in shocked horror, and Si'Wren gasped involuntarily as Borla's heavy hand dropped firmly onto her slender shoulder, filling her pounding heart with sudden dread.

Escorted forward, Si'Wren kept her eyes dutifully lowered as she sought not to behold her Emperor, whom she had never ever seen before in her whole short life, let alone heard the remotest details of the daily existence of. She vaguely recalled her first, distant impression of his great bearded countenance, his fleshy features, and his eyes so full of overwhelming intelligence and power upon first entering the judgement hall.

As soon as Borla halted, Si'Wren stopped and stood utterly motionless beside him, eyes downcast as her great and terrible Lord leaned slightly forward on his throne. Borla kept his hand on her shoulder.

More curious than offended, Emperor Euphrates regarded the shy but stubborn slave girl as Borla looked on intently from within his hooded visage. Indeed, the whole court seemed to hold it's breath.

"Come here, child," said Emperor Euphrates, as he wiggled an index finger to beckon her nearer.

In the midst of that frozen silence of so many disbelieving and incredulous faces, Si'Wren kept her eyes downcast and remained immobile.

"Come," bid her Lord and Emperor again.

After another long hesitation, Si'Wren finally shuffled forward, a step at a time, while the fierce-looking Borla let his hand fall without impediment from her shoulder to slip away unnoticed.

Si'Wren stopped again, instinctively realizing that she had seen no one, throughout all earlier court proceedings, approach so close before, especially with such menacing guards looking on from all sides.

"Closer," Emperor Euphrates commanded. "Why so shy? Let me get a good look at you. That's it. Now tell me, why do you not speak when commanded?"

Eyes downcast, Si'Wren shook her head, giving her answer to this and also clearly showing her ability to hear and understand quite plainly, and remained standing utterly silent and resolute before him.

Emperor Euphrates peered narrowly at the stubborn girl.

"Do you not know that it is death to disobey your Emperor? Speak, I command you."

But Si'Wren could not break her vow again, as she had done that terrible night when Habrunt came to rescue her. She must never speak again, no matter what, lest she dishonor her Invisible God.

Raising his eyebrows in frustration, Emperor Euphrates looked up at the throng and proclaimed, "Is this child a deaf and dumb mute? Is there any present who knows why this child refuses to obey her Emperor?"

Off to the left, one of Sorpiala's consorts stepped several quick steps forward and fell down prostrate on her face with the muffled cry, "Aye, Highness!"

"Ah," nodded Emperor Euphrates approvingly. "What say you?"

"She is neither deaf, nor dumb, nor mute, but has been sworn to a vow of silence by her former master, on her very life, as fitting punishment for being a filthy idol-breaker!" declared the young woman, turning her head about quickly as she swept the royal court with her flashing eyes.

A general gasp of horror rose up from the crowd, with many individual exclamations of outright shock and disbelief.

"You so bear witness?" formally asked Emperor Euphrates.

"Aye!" the woman said with ill-disguised spite, looking up from the floor. She was obviously relishing the opportunity to inform everyone of the horrible crime and subsequent vow. "If the evil girl should speak but once in a lifetime, her disloyalty to her own vow shall constitute faithful witness against her and her forbidden god, the Invisible One, that they are both false, and she is to be immediately executed! So sward she herself in front of her former owner; one called Master Rababull."

Emperor Euphrates digested this new bit of information in ruminative silence for a moment without showing the slightest sign of what his personal opinion might be of it.

"Very well," said Emperor Euphrates finally. "It is most unusual, but a vow is a vow."

Then, looking around the court, he said, "Who else bears witness?"

Sorpiala unthinkingly raised her hand and responded, "Aye!" as she stepped forth and -bowing low- remembered too late that it was dangerous to fool with the truth so, when her own consorts were so well aware that both Si'Wren and the other one, Nelatha, had actually been falsely accused by Sorpiala's own scheming manipulations. Let even one of her consorts be so much as threatened with the tiniest scratch, and Sorpiala's lies could be mercilessly exposed to save their own skins.

Well, it didn't really matter, did it? Sorpiala reassured herself silently. Was she not a past master of the connive, being just over one hundred years old, yet still in outward appearance seeming no more than a young woman just entering her prime?

"Two witnesses!" declared Emperor Euphrates formally. "Are there three?"

Sorpiala turned and gave the nod to another one of her most trusted consorts, who immediately and unthinkingly said "Aye!" and bowed low.

Emperor Euphrates nodded formally to the third witness, as he returned his eyes to the silent, fearful girl who stood before him without the slightest peep or murmur of protest against those testifying against her.

"There we have it," said Emperor Euphrates conclusively. "Scribe, mark the names of the accusers for the record. We have three witnesses who say this girl is guilty of breaking idols. How say you?" said Emperor Euphrates, turning his head.

A heartsick Si'Wren, having remained motionless as each deadly 'Aye!' was pronounced, realized suddenly that Emperor Euphrates had spoken this time directly to herself, and her eyes grew wide as she stared back at him in fear.

"How say you, child? Hut!--"

Emperor Euphrates looked away and frowned impatiently at himself, remembering that she was sworn to silence and evidently would prefer to face the sword rather than to go back on her vow. A most remarkable girl, really.

Anticipating some unforseen lack, Borla as Chief Advisor nonetheless wisely waited for Emperor Euphrates to correct himself.

Emperor Euphrates opened his mouth to begin again.

Then he shut his mouth, a veritable study in consternation, and looked up at the audience once more, automatically shifting his inscrutable gaze to Sorpiala, whom he instinctively perceived, wielded some sort of secret power of coercion over the other two witnesses.

"What is this child's name?" he asked Sorpiala.

"She is called, Si'Wren, Emperor," responded Sorpiala elegantly.

"Ah!" Emperor Euphrates returned his intelligent eyes to confront Si'Wren face-to-face. "Stand closer, child," and then, with a beckoning, drawing wave, "Come hither..."

Si'Wren approached the throne haltingly, until she stood so close as to be almost nose-to-nose when he finally leaned forward and murmured to her in an almost inaudible tone of voice that the other women could not overhear.

"Si'Wren," said Emperor Euphrates gently, in a low, confiding tone, "do not fear. For I, myself, have destroyed many false idols, but you ought to obey your Emperor, and only indicate to myself, your Lord; are you an idol-breaker?"

Si'Wren took a moment to find an answer in a mindful of terrors, and shook her head once emphatically.

Negative!

Emperor Euphrates' eyes widened almost imperceptibly at this. Then, thinking further of it, he added, "Have you in fact sworn a vow of silence to the Forbidden One?"

With a pent-up sigh of weariness, defeat, and resignation to her doom, Si'Wren nodded in the affirmative this time. Then, she remembered that it was not a vow of absolute silence, but merely that she should not speak, so she added, lips pressed tightly shut, "Um-hmm."

At this, Emperor Euphrates leaned back ever so slowly, and creased his eyebrows in a bushy frown as he thought this over until he had adequately perceived the precise nature of the vow as demonstrated and interpreted by the girl herself. For while she had not actually spoken, she had in fact made a noise.

A quandary! Pondering this mightily, he worried, for there was something about this whole case that was most distinct and unusual. What was it? He pondered this at length while the whole court waited and watched, scratching at his beard, and finally arrived at an understanding.

This young girl's open and forthright responses to his inquiries seemed too emboldened by the light of inner truth. Furthermore, she had remained utterly adamant in upholding her vow of silence in the face of certain death for disobeying so openly and blatantly his commands to speak, vow or no vow.

The other one, contrariwise, had an attitude.

That was it.

One called Sorpiala exhibited an attitude that was like the undeclared and unpunished crime of having stolen a three-day old fish, a crime whose very nature declared itself to all who happened to venture downwind of the evildoer. It was exactly like that; a stink in the discerning nostrils of the mighty and terrible Emperor Euphrates, whose mercy customarily extended to the tolerance of such attitudes, although it was his desire that only pure worship and obedience should ever be seen or demonstrated in his subjects. He tolerated their impious and disrespectful attitudes usually because ones such as Sorpiala simply did not realize how much their sage Emperor saw and forgave. Often they did not so much as realize that they even had attitudes with which to offend him.

For attitude was like human will, a contrary condition under the best of circumstances or at the best of times. But in his royal court, Emperor Euphrates viewed attitude as an innately unpardonable offense, and only rightly to be forgiven absenting any other lawful infractions. It was an offense against he whose majesty respected no person. It was an offense, moreover, against his very person, yea, he who was favored by the gods, and who favored or condemned, in turn, whoever it was his royal pleasure to favor or condemn.

Emperor Euphrates said quietly to Si'Wren, "Fear not, and see to it that henceforth you do not break your vow of silence, but only go and stand over there," he indicated the right-hand, far edge of his royal dias, which was about ten steps distant, "and tarry there until I bid you draw neigh unto me again."

He waited while Si'Wren backed uncertainly away to his right, and an ever astute Borla reached out carefully to halt and steady her when she would have backed clear off the edge of the raised dias and fallen flat.

"You, you, and you," Emperor Euphrates bid the three women, "step two paces forward and remain where you are."

Mystified, the three exchanged ill-concealed expressions of alarm as they complied with Emperor Euphrates' commands.

"You," Emperor Euphrates pointed out the third of Si'Wren's three accusers. "Come hither."

He nodded and raised a forestalling hand to wave off the nearest guard, who had automatically raised a spear to point it at her as the slender woman stepped forward.

Abruptly, Borla suddenly thundered, "Silence!" as he spotted the first woman whispering to Sorpiala urgently and confidentially.

The woman let out a tiny, terrified "Eeep!" and gulped as she fell silent with anguished, desperate eyes. Sorpiala merely held her peace, and looked straight ahead in a penetrating look of ruthlessness, evidently determined to stand her ground and see this vile thing through to the bitter end, no matter what.

The woman initially called forth had also frozen at Borla's sudden bark to be silent, and Emperor Euphrates repeated his command that she approach the throne. Now she, the third-in-line of Si'Wren's accusers, who had not dared to volunteer herself, but only had spoken up at Sorpiala's initial bidding, hastened forward to fall flat at the very feet of Emperor Euphrates under the watchful eagle eyes of a dozen nearby guards, who automatically leaned ever so slightly forward on the staves of their upright spears in poised and menacing vigilance.

Emperor Euphrates leaned forward over the prostrate woman and could be seen whispering to her in a low indistinct voice, to which she answered fearfully now and again. Finally, he gave a little wave of the hand, temporarily dismissing her to the far left side of his royal dias.

She arose and stepped back, literally gasping for air in her newfound terror, for she instinctively realized what was coming and desperately yearned that she might not have accused Si'Wren in the first place.

"You," Emperor Euphrates pointed out the second of Si'Wren's three accusers, "Come hither."

Outwardly confident before all, Sorpiala smoothly and adroitly copied the first woman's awkward approaches and fell at Emperor Euphrates's feet. Another whispering conference ensued.

Finally, he dismissed her to his left, and did likewise with the last of Si'Wren's accusers, the one who had voluntarily and initially spoken first of her own free volition. When he had heard all, he dismissed her in like manner, and sat in silence.

Emperor Euphrates remained motionless for a long time and said nothing, staring straight ahead as if in a trance.

The entire assemblage of the court waited upon him, many of them quite familiar with this process from past experience. Others who were less experienced in the ways of the court, Si'Wren and her three accusers being numbered among these, experienced deep agitation as they also waited.

Finally, Emperor Euphrates blinked and seemed to come out of his trance as he heaved a sigh and seemed to nod to himself.

Then he turned his head and regarded Si'Wren's third accuser, the one whom he had questioned first.

"Tell me," he commanded her. "What should be the punishment for such a one as remains silent when commanded to speak, and for the crime of idol-breaking?"

Utterly terrified, the woman's round eyes flicked to Si'Wren and back to her Emperor again, before finally blurting out, "Oh great and divine Emperor, it may be that I have erred most grievously, and that what she has done be no wrong thing at all, although it was also rumored that she was a believer in the Invisible God--if that be a crime. Perhaps--perhaps she should even be forgiven in case she has actually done nothing!"

At this, Sorpiala and the other woman suddenly exchanged conspiratorial looks, and Sorpiala fairly hissed her disapproval with an insucking of air.

Emperor Euphrates ignored the scandalous behavior as he regarded the woman directly being questioned. Then his eyes moved to Sorpiala.

"How say you?" he asked her. "What punishment would you prescribe for such an idol-breaker as stands accused before you?"

"Why--I do not know, Highness," Sorpiala wheedled. "She has already been punished. Perhaps," she dropped her eyes and barely suppressed a gloating smile, "might I but whisper in your ear--"

Dropping his eyes to grant a less than sincere approval, Emperor Euphrates nodded as he said, "Come forward, then."

At this, Sorpiala -pridefully imagining herself as a strong contender to become the new queen of the kingdom of Emperor Euphrates, and Si'Wren as her first victim- readily tip-toed to the Emperor's side and leaned forward upon the upraised balls of both tiny feet.

"Perhaps one called Si'Wren should suffer..." said Sorpiala dramatically, and leaning forward, she began to whisper at long length in his ear.

Sorpiala pronounced dire punishments, worse than anything she had ever seen or heard of anywhere in her hundred years upon the earth.

"Ah!" said Emperor Euphrates, nodding like a master thief who has joined hand-in-hand with a cunning new ally. "But this one has already been punished with a vow of silence under pain of death, has she not?"

"It was not enough, Highness!" said Sorpiala, her exotic almond eyes moving sideways as she pronounced her personal opinion upon the matter.

Emperor Euphrates nodded, and appeared exceeding thoughtful.

Sorpiala suppressed a look of triumph. Finally, she was at long last about to have the supremacy over Si'Wren, the little wretch!

Emperor Euphrates looked to the last woman, Si'Wren's initial accuser.

She spoke up before even being asked.

"Idol breakers should..."

Emperor Euphrates listened at length, taking no formal notice of her lack of proper respect in crudely omitting to use even one of his many glorious titles of formal address.

When she had finished speaking, Emperor Euphrates nodded, eyes heavily lidded in judicious contemplation. Finally he heaved a long, heavy sigh of resignation as he looked up and gave the nod to the Royal Crier.

Tall, thin Ampho, the Royal Crier, pointed his beaked nose straight in the air and opened his yawning mouth as he bawled loudly to the ceiling, "All keep silence before the great Emperor Euphrates!"

A chorus of court attendants' voices dutifully chanted, "All give ear and keep silence!"

Emperor Euphrates sighed. Ah, the grandeur of formalities! Who needed those foolish idols anyways? He'd broken one of the silly things himself once, right in front of everybody, and had the devil's own time talking himself out of it.

That had been only two hundred years ago, and he still winced every time he thought about it.

Even Borla had been temporarily at a loss what to advise. It simply was not a thing to be done, ever. You could deliberately destroy the idols of your enemies, but that was an entirely different proposition and not the same thing at all. This had been a stupid blunder, obvious to all.

Finally, on Borla's advice, he had called in the Royal Sorcerer, also known as the Fort Rune Tale Heir, since it was an inherited position. He was a filthy, huge, grossly obese individual of exceptionally obnoxious character who went by the unlikely moniker of Fatoo the Dread, and the obliging fellow was persuaded to conjure up a bit of hocus-pocus to make a bigger and better statue of the idol appear in a cloud of ashes and smoke, right where the old one had smashed.

Fatoo had done him one better, nearly breaking his own foot when he'd accidentally dropped the new statue on it in the process of letting it fall from it's place of concealment beneath the voluminous skirts of his bulging belly, after poofing up a huge cloud of noxious, stinking smoke. No wonder the fellow always smelled so bad. It was rumored that he never bathed, either, and there was no need of chicken entrails to figure that out.

Fatoo had meant to stoop halfway into a squat and 'give birth' to the idol while the spectators' view of him was temporarily obstructed by smoke. At least the replacement idol had been provided with a nice cushion for it's unexpected fall, and all of the moaning and groaning which Fatoo had suddenly exhibited had been a very mystical and convincing performance and well worth the ordeal, especially since it was Fatoo's foot and not the Emperor's.

Better yet, Fatoo had limped for such a long time afterwards that the Royal Sorcerer's hobbled gait had provided a convenient stigma with which to draw away any possibly adverse attention from Emperor Euphrates' blunder in breaking the original idol in the first place. It was all so simple; Fatoo's limp was a sign from the gods. So much for idols.

Emperor Euphrates finally looked up, and cleared his throat noisily.

"Because of the seriousness of the accusations, I, Emperor Euphrates, chosen of the gods, even I, shall now declare the outcome before all."

He paused, and looked round upon all present. Ampho remained frozen, as if he were no more than a dumb idol himself. Borla was merely silent and watchful as always. Let them all watch and learn.

Emperor Euphrates looked upon Si'Wren, and smiled as he inclined his head graciously.

"I have examined the soul of one called Si'Wren," Emperor Euphrates declared, "and find no fault in her."

Surprised gasps arose on all sides.

Then, with a dire and accusing glare Emperor Euphrates looked to Si'Wren's three accusers and went on without further hesitation, "I have mercifully examined all three witnesses in great detail without the customary and usual questioning by torture, and have found none of them to be in agreement with each other in the slightest particulars."

Si'Wren felt shock. She wasn't expecting him to say that!

But Si'Wren's three accusers were terror-stricken as Emperor Euphrates went on.

"Your punishments be upon your own heads!" he suddenly pronounced, finally declaring imperial judgement. Then he became as one made of stone, as he gave the nod to Borla.

"On your own heads..." Borla repeated, stepping forward in front of Si'Wren's three shocked accusers as he rubbed his hands together thoughtfully, for he had overhead everything.

The absolute silence, which had ruled for but a heartbeat, was shattered by wailing protests from Sorpiala and her one vengeful consort.

"Guards!" Borla commanded, taking proper charge of his duties, and not without a certain satisfaction, for he fully appreciated the virtually divine means by which Emperor Euphrates invariably seemed to discern truth where others -including Borla himself- invariably failed miserably.

He quickly barred the guards' access to little Si'Wren with an outstretched arm, while the guards, stupid oafs, laid off and left her alone, to go for her three terrified accusers instead.

"This one said, 'Let her be forgiven'," said Borla, with a brief wave of summary dismissal. "Therefore, she is forgiven."

"Oh thank you Sire!" gibbered the terrified woman, immediately falling down before him.

Borla ignored the prostrate woman groveling before his feet, as he regarded the next one.

"This one said..."

As Borla repeated the proposed punishments of Sorpiala back at her, she shrieked, "NAAAAAAAAA!..." with a wide-eyed look of insane terror, backing away in a series of quick, shuffling half-steps and retreating blindly backwards into the ready hands of two burly guards approaching from behind her.

What Sorpiala had sentenced was too elaborate to be carried out in court, so the guards dragged her away, struggling and shrieking out a prolonged series of thin shrill screams, long and utterly soul-despairing. The bloodcurdling screams were partially obscured by her removal to the halls, but therefrom emerged the echoes of her departing wails, as of a living soul descending into the very pit of deepest, darkest hell itself.

"And now this one..." said Borla finally, extending his arm out to one side and holding out his hand without looking.

Hastily, the ceremonial arms-bearer stepped forward and planted Borla's sword in his hand. Like the late and unlamented Master Rababull, the ability to unflinchingly execute the harshest judgements was one of the most terrifying things about men like Borla. Si'Wren longed to beg Emperor Euphrates to have mercy upon her accusers, to forget their awful, unreasoning hatred, but could only remain utterly and eternally silent, lest she betray her vow.

While four separate burly guards kept an iron grip on her to immobilize her, the third one, screaming like one possessed, suffered her own intended punishments before the Emperor and all the general assemblage at the hand of Borla himself as Si'Wren shut her eyes and wished she could shut her ears also as she turned her head away and felt sick to her stomach.

Sorpiala's unmerciful consort fainted in the process of receiving her punishment, and was dragged away unconscious to the slave quarters, to be revived for the finishing of her intended punishments.

At last, Borla handed the bloody weapon back to the ceremonial arms-bearer.

Si'Wren and the woman who had ordained mercy stood beside one another throughout the entire ordeal of the punishments. On impulse, Si'Wren turned and hugged the woman, who embraced her desperately in return.

"What is to become of these, your Highness?" Borla inquired dutifully, bowing low even as he indicated Si'Wren and the other woman with an extended palm.

Emperor Euphrates, who had remained motionless and impassive before the excited crowd throughout the entire phase of the punishments, softened his gaze as he finally permitted himself to formally take notice of the two women again.

"One called Si'Wren," said Emperor Euphrates, "fainted not in her hour of trial. I, even I, have not observed so great courage, as was found in this little one! Borla, you have been rightfully bested in Royal Court by this brilliant child."

"A thousand pardons, Highness," responded Borla.

He bowed low, and while Borla was bowing, he was unable to see Emperor Euphrates incline his great head as he smiled at Si'Wren merrily.

The girl's eyes flashed with momentary astonishment, as she remained in respectful attendance and stood awaiting his word, and Borla rose again to full stature with a grand flourish.

Borla continued observantly, "Of a truth, Highness, this mere babe in her innocence has scorned fearlessly the edge of the sword and bested Borla in all of his wisdom and power, even as his munificent Highness has declared. For verily do I perceive that she has indeed kept her vow honorably, a fact which your esteemed self has astutely discerned without the slightest hesitation, whereas worthless Borla himself had failed to understand, even after ample opportunity was afforded him to discover this with his own two eyes."

This was true, which was why Emperor Euphrates was an emperor, and Borla only a chief advisor. However, a normally brief, succinct, and to-the-point Borla did know when to praise his Emperor with more than the usual flourish.

"And what say you, Borla, of the former Master of the House of Rababull?" prompted Emperor Euphrates.

"Rababull was a fool!" declared Borla succinctly.

"Verily, Borla," intoned Emperor Euphrates.

"To have so punished a mere child, an underage girl who hath no breasts," Borla went on. "Is it not harsh and unfatherly? Those of tender years are known for their perpetual blunders, short-sightedness, and pure love of rank foolishness. How easily might the girl rather have been corrected instead by any number of more suitable lesser punishments. Even for having broken a nobleman's idol, a proper ransom might have been paid to redeem her of her crime. I mean..."

Emperor Euphrates nodded approvingly, waiting for Borla to go on.

Borla cast about for the proper words, seeking to assuage the harshness of his legal status, seeing how obviously fond his Emperor Euphrates was of the girl.

"I mean..." Borla hesitated. "After all," he shrugged innocuously, with an engaging show of teeth, "it could not have been a very powerful idol, for all of that, if it could not even prevent itself from being broken by a mere girl."

"Customarily, the subject is sacrificed to the idol," remarked Emperor Euphrates in round-about congruence, "and not the other way around. It is a powerful sign, is it not?"

"It is all of that, Highness," Borla agreed, displaying more of his uncharacteristic crocodile grin.

Borla's grin faded, as his astute mind went on to other considerations.

"Now about the vow...?" Borla went on suggestively, and paused.

Emperor Euphrates shrugged.

"What of it?"

"Well, what is to be done with her, Highness?"

Emperor Euphrates paused for a long moment, while the entire court looked on. Then finally his look brightened.

"Let her become a Royal Scribe in my court," said Emperor Euphrates.

"My Emperor," protested Borla in confusion, "truly, forbidden to speak, your royal secrets shall indeed be safe with this fearless child, but if she can neither read nor write, of what use can she be?"

"Then have her trained, Borla!" said Emperor Euphrates.

"But--" Borla halted, trying to imagine all the difficulties of this impossible task.

Then his hooded figure bowed even lower, scraping neigh unto the floor.

"Behold thy servant Borla, who diligently seeks a right finish to all royal affairs! Thy judgements are Wisdom incarnate for I perceive that thou hast pronounced fitting judgement, as always."

Borla turned, and gazed forbiddingly upon the remaining woman, Sorpiala's other consort, standing close beside Si'Wren.

"And--as for this one, Highness?" he inquired in a mercilessly flat tone of voice.

Shaking uncontrollably, the hopelessly terrified woman would not let go of Si'Wren. The woman, having already been spared punishment, still did not know what her ultimate fate might be and clung fearfully to Si'Wren, who steadfastly refused to push the woman away.

Emperor Euphrates, seeing this, said merely, "Oh, let her go free," and waved her off with a disinterested nod of dismissal.

"The gods praise thee, merciful Emperor!" the woman gasped as she fell on the floor at his feet. Emperor Euphrates nodded patronizingly with a gratified look at the outcome of events. Then he raised his eyes to look beyond the prostrate woman, and gaze upon the surpassing beauty of Si'Wren, and his eyes fairly twinkled with doting joy.

Si'Wren smiled as she shut her eyes and bowed in meek formal obeisance to Emperor Euphrates.

Unbeknownst to all, she also gave silent, prayerful thanks to a most inscrutable, but eternally wise and most mysterious Invisible God.