endure so
nobody carried off the royal cutlery.
I wish our characters had more curiosity in them. I could have used a closer
look at the damage we had done. They were putting up scaffolding and erecting a
wooden curtain-wall already. The glimpses I did catch awed me. I had only read
about what the later versions of those fireball throwers could do. The face of
the Palace looked like a model of dark wax that someone had stuck repeatedly
with a white-hot iron rod. Not only had stone melted and run, some had been
vaporized. We had been released much earlier than usual. It was only
mid-afternoon. I tried to walk too fast, eager to get away. Subredil refused to
be rushed. Ahead of us stood quiet crowds who had come to stare at the Palace.
Subredil murmured something about “ . . . ten thousand eyes.”
Black Company GS 8 - Water Sleeps
9
I erred. That mass of people had not come just to examine our night’s work and
marvel that the Protector’s dead men could be so frisky. They were interested in
four Bhodi disciples at the memorial posts that stood a dozen yards in front of
the battered entrance, outside the growing curtain-wall. One disciple was
mounting a prayer wheel onto one of the posts. Another two were spreading an
elaborately embroidered dark red-orange cloth on the cobblestones. The fourth,
shaved balder and shinier than a polished apple, stood before a Grey who was
sixteen at the oldest. The Bhodi disciple had his arms folded. He looked through
the youngster, who seemed to be having trouble getting across the message that
these men had to stop doing what they were doing. The Protector forbade it.
This was something that would interest even Minh Subredil. She stopped walking.
Sawa clung to her arm with one hand and cocked her head so she could watch, too.
I felt terribly exposed standing out there, a dozen yards from the silent
gawkers.
Reinforcements for the young Grey arrived in the person of a grisled Shadar
sergeant who seemed to think the Bhodi’s problem was deafness. “Clear off!” he
shouted. “Or you’ll be cleared.”
The Bhodi with folded arms said, “The Protector sent for me.”
Not having gotten Murgen’s report yet, Sahra and I had no idea what this was
about.
“Huh?”
The disciple preparing the prayer wheel announced its readiness. The Sergeant
growled, swatted it off the post with the back of his hand. The responsible
disciple bent, picked it up, began remounting it. They were not violent people,
the Bhodi disciples, nor did they resist anything, but they were stubborn.
The two spreading the prayer rug were satisfied with their work. They spoke to
the man with folded arms. He bowed his head slightly, then raised his eyes to
meet those of the elder Shadar. In a voice loud but so calm it was disturbing,
he proclaimed, “Rajadharma. The Duty of Kings. Know you: Kingship is a trust.
The King is the most exalted and conscientious servant of the people.”
Not one witness had any trouble hearing and understanding those words.
The speaker settled himself on the prayer rug. His robes were an almost
identical shade. He seemed to fade into a greater whole.
One of the secondary disciples passed him a large jar. He raised that as though
in offering to the sky, then dumped its contents over himself. The Shadar
sergeant looked as rattled as the youngster. He peered around for help.
The prayer wheel was back in place. The disciple responsible set it spinning,
then backed off with the two who had spread the prayer rug.
The disciple on the rug struck flint to steel and vanished in a blast of flame
just as I recognized the odor of naphtha. Heat hit me like a blow. I was in
character strongly enough to whimper and grab Subredil with both hands. She
resumed moving, eyes wide, stunned.
The man inside the flames never cried out, never moved till all life was gone
and the charred husk left behind toppled over.
Crows circled
nobody carried off the royal cutlery.
I wish our characters had more curiosity in them. I could have used a closer
look at the damage we had done. They were putting up scaffolding and erecting a
wooden curtain-wall already. The glimpses I did catch awed me. I had only read
about what the later versions of those fireball throwers could do. The face of
the Palace looked like a model of dark wax that someone had stuck repeatedly
with a white-hot iron rod. Not only had stone melted and run, some had been
vaporized. We had been released much earlier than usual. It was only
mid-afternoon. I tried to walk too fast, eager to get away. Subredil refused to
be rushed. Ahead of us stood quiet crowds who had come to stare at the Palace.
Subredil murmured something about “ . . . ten thousand eyes.”
Black Company GS 8 - Water Sleeps
9
I erred. That mass of people had not come just to examine our night’s work and
marvel that the Protector’s dead men could be so frisky. They were interested in
four Bhodi disciples at the memorial posts that stood a dozen yards in front of
the battered entrance, outside the growing curtain-wall. One disciple was
mounting a prayer wheel onto one of the posts. Another two were spreading an
elaborately embroidered dark red-orange cloth on the cobblestones. The fourth,
shaved balder and shinier than a polished apple, stood before a Grey who was
sixteen at the oldest. The Bhodi disciple had his arms folded. He looked through
the youngster, who seemed to be having trouble getting across the message that
these men had to stop doing what they were doing. The Protector forbade it.
This was something that would interest even Minh Subredil. She stopped walking.
Sawa clung to her arm with one hand and cocked her head so she could watch, too.
I felt terribly exposed standing out there, a dozen yards from the silent
gawkers.
Reinforcements for the young Grey arrived in the person of a grisled Shadar
sergeant who seemed to think the Bhodi’s problem was deafness. “Clear off!” he
shouted. “Or you’ll be cleared.”
The Bhodi with folded arms said, “The Protector sent for me.”
Not having gotten Murgen’s report yet, Sahra and I had no idea what this was
about.
“Huh?”
The disciple preparing the prayer wheel announced its readiness. The Sergeant
growled, swatted it off the post with the back of his hand. The responsible
disciple bent, picked it up, began remounting it. They were not violent people,
the Bhodi disciples, nor did they resist anything, but they were stubborn.
The two spreading the prayer rug were satisfied with their work. They spoke to
the man with folded arms. He bowed his head slightly, then raised his eyes to
meet those of the elder Shadar. In a voice loud but so calm it was disturbing,
he proclaimed, “Rajadharma. The Duty of Kings. Know you: Kingship is a trust.
The King is the most exalted and conscientious servant of the people.”
Not one witness had any trouble hearing and understanding those words.
The speaker settled himself on the prayer rug. His robes were an almost
identical shade. He seemed to fade into a greater whole.
One of the secondary disciples passed him a large jar. He raised that as though
in offering to the sky, then dumped its contents over himself. The Shadar
sergeant looked as rattled as the youngster. He peered around for help.
The prayer wheel was back in place. The disciple responsible set it spinning,
then backed off with the two who had spread the prayer rug.
The disciple on the rug struck flint to steel and vanished in a blast of flame
just as I recognized the odor of naphtha. Heat hit me like a blow. I was in
character strongly enough to whimper and grab Subredil with both hands. She
resumed moving, eyes wide, stunned.
The man inside the flames never cried out, never moved till all life was gone
and the charred husk left behind toppled over.
Crows circled
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