Chapter 2 No.2

"Ho so!" breathed Si'Wren with mounting satisfaction, as she kept her voice cautiously low. "One day I will see Him, then. But, why can we not worship images of Him now? Will He not be pleased?"

Nelatha looked around this time, checking wearily over her shoulder before answering, "Sister, if I make an image from dust, so…"

Nelatha took up the water skin and hunkered down into a squatting position, then took up a clump of loose dirt in her fist, and carefully dispensed a little water into her partly opened hand. She put the water skin aside, and worked the moistened handful of dirt with utmost care, making it into a rounded, flattened lump of dark mud. Then with her fingertip she poked three times, and made it into a crude face having two round eyes and a round mouth.

"Behold," Nelatha said gravely, as she held forth in her hand the small, round, flattened visage of an idol made out of mud, "a child's plaything. Pretend that you are a child, Si'Wren, and that this is the doll face you made of Habrunt. As long as Habrunt is not here, you may talk freely to this as much as you like. But when the real Habrunt comes, why talk to dumb clay? Now, unlike Habrunt, who comes and goes, if the Invisible God knows all and sees all, and is so all-knowing that nothing escapes His knowledge, why should you speak to a mere fruitless idol about getting a man, or of many babies, a house, health, and wealth? Why speak to that which sees and hears not, of avoiding meeting savage men or beasts without a strong swordsman to shield and protect you? Why ask that which is itself made of the barren earth, of gaining good crops without needless sweat, thistle, thorn, or pestilence?"

Nelatha waited, watching closely. But Si'Wren only regarded the idol in

Nelatha's palm in open perplexity.

"I… I do not know," Si'Wren stammered uncertainly. She stared at the clump of mud, which had already sagged and cracked a little in Nelatha's upturned palm. Si'Wren somehow felt the wrongness of it, although she could not say why.

"Well?" Nelatha demanded of Si'Wren. "Is there yet no understanding in your stony heart?"

But Si'Wren could only stare at her blankly.

Nelatha propped her fists on her ample hips and frowned crossly at

Si'Wren.

"Speak, foolish one."

"Forgive me, Nelatha. I do not understand this," Si'Wren pleaded, with an apologetic expression. "Why did you not pray directly to the Invisible God?…"

Si'Wren's voice trailed away.

Then understanding struck like a thunderbolt, as Si'Wren suddenly perceived the futility of all graven images in the presence of a real God, even an invisible one.

"Ooh!" she said. "Now I see!"

"Aye! Ohh!" Nelatha mocked Si'Wren imitatively, as her eyes and mouth becoming like wide round circles, to match Si'Wren's expression, which in turn exactly resembled the little round-eyed mud face.

"Si'Wren, if the Invisible God is all-seeing, why should you speak to the dirt which was formerly between your toes, when you can pray directly to He who made the whole world instead? Why bow to idols, which neither see nor hear? The real wonder is why you who are made of dust, are as dense as a rock. Who needs a stone idol, with you around? Stupid, ignorant, half-witted slave that you are sometimes, I can only marvel at how fittingly you were born to such low estate, for your thick-headedness. But that can be cured, and without the use of the rod, or such herbs as these. I may speak of mysteries, Si'Wren, but at least I do not speak falsely. I only faithfully repeat that which the old woman L'acoci taught me in secret, and it must not be repeated, on your life!"

"I swear, Nelatha," Si'Wren eagerly reassured her, "I shall not breathe a word to anyone!"

"Enough for now, then," Nelatha said, in satisfaction. "We will talk again later."

With that, both girls returned to their labors, but now Si'Wren had a new wonder to marvel over. Why, ever again, should she worship a graven image?

The next day was just a little chilly throughout the early hours, and Si'Wren wore a coarsely woven dried grass shawl that was no longer green, but a faded, mottled gray.

Early in the morning swirl of drifting mists, the two girls worked together in silence, safely observing the many inhabitants of the House of Rababull perform their morning routines from an unobserved vantage point. It was as if they, too, were invisible behind the gauzy insect veils stretched across the open tent flap at one end, and it gave Si'Wren much to think about.

Others could be watched or glimpsed briefly as they led the horses from the stables, to brush them, and check their hooves and remove the stinking clots from them with blunt points, and so on, while another group could be observed at length as they filed out to spend the day laboring in the Master's vineyards and grain fields.

They also watched the familiar faces of the womenfolk of the House of Rababull, lifelong slaves every one. Each had her bundle of soiled clothing, and many bore their babies suspended from forehead slings draped down across their backs, and as the women walked past in the direction of the back of the compound, many were accompanied by a number of tiny, naked toddlers. The womenfolk, some of whom were accompanied as well by elder daughters, were taking their bundles of wash out through the two tall narrow rear gates of the walled compound, to the nearby stream where they would pound and slap the soiled garments on the rocks whilst wailing together as one the old, long-familiar tribal ditties.

Si'Wren's memories of such were too vague and distant, to recall her own mother and father. For she was an orphan from earliest memory, a slave taken or sold out of her own mother's arms too long ago to have any recollection of it.

But she was not entirely alone. Did not the House of Master Rababull claim and feed and protect her just like any family member, albeit one of the very lowest possible rank?

As a mere slave, was she not more privileged than the richest of beggars who dwelt in their so-called glorious 'freedom' amongst the flies and dogs and dung of beasts without number, and who called out incessantly as they begged by the wayside in the filth and scum, and despaired of their very lives? They who had freedom and family had it worse than Si'Wren, as they waited and begged and cowered, not knowing whether it be for a shred of food or the bruising end of a staff in the dirty gutters and tilting hovels of the Emperor's numberless narrow city streets and alleyways.

Still, Si'Wren could not help thinking that the washer women had it best of all. To sing, and slap wet rags, and raise babies, and cook. Was this not bliss?

As she remained thus lost in her contemplations over her work, Nelatha turned slowly to face Si'Wren and made as if to speak. Sensing Nelatha's hesitation, Si'Wren paused in her work also, waiting and watching respectfully.

At this, Nelatha reached up and took the water skin bag from it's hook. She tilted down the spout, made from the leg-end of a dumb brute beast, and carefully poured some clear water into an unglazed, shallow clay bowl.

Then Nelatha said, not to Si'Wren, but to Si'Wren's reflection in the shimmering watery surface, "Look, Si'Wren! Open your eyes, and behold Wisdom! Do you not see my reflection in the water, more perfect a likeness than that of any polished shield in the Master's armory? Behold how the clear water is almost totally invisible, and yet can you not see my perfect likeness in it, just like a waking vision? The Invisible God is so, and sees us in like fashion. We do see Him indirectly, Si'Wren, just as we see each other in the water's reflection. For does not all Creation reflect His glory?"

Si'Wren nodded, blinking and smiling timidly as she leaned close beside her beloved slave sister and replied eagerly to Nelatha's watery reflection in the clay bowl, "Aye, Nelatha, it is good to pray to the water, yes?"

"No!" Nelatha slapped Si'Wren's hands away irritatedly, mystifying a crestfallen Si'Wren, whose weeping brown eyes immediately betrayed her shock and confusion.

"Stop looking at me like that. I have no sympathy for fools. Or do you expect me to admire you for your skillfulness with tears? You bow to the ground before Him, yes! But remember; He is in Heaven! Si'Wren, the Invisible One created all things, but He looks down from on high, and sees all things, and has set before us a life of good mixed with bad to see which we might choose, day after day, all of our lives. He sees our hearts, and searches them always, for there he finds the treasure of our souls, and desires to know what we hide there, or whether it be good or whether it be evil."

"Oh, forgive me, Nelatha!" breathed Si'Wren. "It is so difficult to understand this Invisible God. Do even evil things, like scorpions and vipers, show His glory?"

"Don't be silly!" Nelatha said. "Of course not. Well, perhaps they do show His awful terribleness somehow. Of that, I know little. Ugh! How could you even think of such a question?"

Nelatha reached down, and drew with her fingertip in the dirt, a brawny, disembodied male arm extending from a cloud, and holding a thunderbolt.

"Observe," declared Nelatha with hushed emphasis, "the hand of God, from a puff of cloud, and does not fog wet the skin?"

Si'Wren stared, her eyes fastened upon the scene before her.

Nelatha regarded Si'Wren. "What think you?"

Si'Wren stepped back and bowed, and said, "I am overwhelmed, and must think greatly upon what you have said and shown me."

"Aye!" Nelatha whispered. "But tell no one, on your life!"

Nelatha raised her eyebrows significantly, and finally turned away with a satisfied nod, to return to her perpetual labor of grinding herb into powder with pestle and mortar.

* * *

Late the next afternoon, a stranger called from without the compound gate, and the guard answered, and it was breathlessly announced by a runner boy that a caravan was waiting to enter. There was a concerted rush by whoever could free themselves from their duties to go and see, and as the gates were thrown open they beheld the sight of a long line of human porters, with oxen, and riders upon camels and burros, all standing idle.

Master Rababull appeared quickly, and more than a few watched fearfully to see if he would lash out at anybody for recklessly opening the gates too soon to the strangers, or contrariwise, for not opening them quickly enough to show his proper hospitality to important visitors. But when his fierce countenance broke out into a toothy welcoming grin, it was sufficient reassurance to all that the good times had come again, and a celebration would no doubt soon be in the making.

The camels were all heavily laden with trade goods, and teams of stout oxen stood patiently in front of great two-wheeled carts, accompanied by attendants almost without number.

Under heavy guard entered also a troupe of exotic, half-veiled, half-naked courtesans accoutered in their virgin colors and finery (hence their perpetual jesting and self-mockery, for they be no virgins), seated each upon her own soft-looking little burro. Many fierce guards accompanied the line of travelers, wielding shining swords and broad hide-covered shields.

With the gates swung wide, the caravan began it's long drawn-out entry into the great inner walled compound of the House of Rababull, accompanied by the loudly proclaimed boastings and pronouncements of the noble Camel Master's crier, and thereby setting up such a din as to put all the House astir. It seemed that everyone had stopped to watch, and all work fell idle as more and more paused and came to gawk.

Master Rababull had girded himself in his finest robes and was by now in a thoroughly good humor as he marched hither and yon across the front courtyard, puffed up with unabashed conceit as his servants voiced loud and shamelessly their praise and admiration for both the Master and his important visitors.

In a seemingly endless procession, the caravan paraded with stately dignity through the front gates in a grand display of riches and home-spun glory. As the long line of great beasts continued to enter the great courtyard in sedate single file, they halted one-by-one and stood waiting patiently for their handlers to unload them.

Strapped securely upon their backs were bulging, tightly bound oilskins and pungent, coarse burr-lap wrapped bundles of herbs, spices, and rare woods with which to make the finest idols, furniture, and fixtures, as well as priceless swatches of the most extraordinary block-printed cloth, and gourds of rare, hard-to-obtain dyes -especially scarlet and purple- and a cornucopia's horn of other riches.

Before he finally left in a few days for other lands, the Trade Master would leave behind his entire treasure trove, having exchanged all for the finest works of Master Rababull's clever craftsmen. The beasts would be heavily laden with countless intricately graven idols adorned with gold, silver, copper, ivory, ebony, black- and red-striped woods, and other rare woods, and gem stones with which to make crudely faceted jewels for their eyes. The precious stones and metals with which the idols were adorned were dug out of Rababull's secret underground gem mines, the precise location of which, under heavy guard within his own lands, was a closely guarded secret known only to Rababull himself and the captives who slaved in the mines.

Now, Master Rababull and Slavemaster Habrunt were everywhere, weaving a web of commands to the servants as everything was seen to.

First, the Camel Master and his entourage must be courteously escorted to the bath house by servants, who would bathe and minister to their every whim, and other servants would follow along with baskets of culinary delights and wine from tall, slender clay vases.

When they were finished with their bath, Master Rababull would hold a huge feast, as was his general custom. He would be sure to invite numerous friends, many of them business associates from in and around the Emperor's city, each with his many fat wives and even more numerous, wickedly spoiled offspring.

Si'Wren watched as one of the caravan travelers shyly approached the Camel Master. The other turned and, before the petitioner had been afforded adequate time to voice his request, nodded his immediate approval as if being reminded of something that he had already been informed of by the meekly beseeching one at an earlier time, no doubt a petition granted during the long journey on the overland trade route.

The Camel Master clapped a reassuring hand on the timid underling's bare right shoulder, whereupon both walked across to Master Rababull and bowed low, to which he courteously bowed also. Woe to any, to whom Master Rababull should ever bow and later become offended by. They would then find that there was a price for such courtesy which was beyond their ability to repay, should their lack of good manners touch upon his ireful eyes.

But for today, it seemed that Master Rababull could see no wrong. His smile easily set the men to working with greater dedication and zeal than any whip. It was known that the whip ever shadowed the smile of Master Rababull. The larger the smile, the longer the shadow cast by the ever-present whip at his side.

While the Camel Master stood near him, looking on and nodding his encouragement, the supplicant began talking animatedly and fearfully to Master Rababull and gesticulating into his own opened mouth, with many repeated dips of the head in impromptu gestures of respect, and making praying motions with his hands beseechingly to Rababull, as he displayed the most genuine and grievous expressions of personal torment.

The man had a toothache.

Rababull showed impatience at first, but then seemed to think better of the man's plight, and peered somewhat distractedly into the unfortunate's mouth. After he had indulged the other with various expressions, by turns, of critical appraisal, agreement, and sympathy, he gave the nod and granted off-handed approval to the man's immediate treatment, as he turned to Habrunt and gave instructions.

Habrunt bowed low when he had heard all, and turned to one of several runner boys who were standing by and sent him out the front gates at a jog. The boy had no doubt been sent to go and call upon Rababull's favorite Physician from the city.

Rababull would probably pay outright for cost of this man's treatment as a gesture of personal favor to the Camel Master, whose successful arrival from across vast and dangerous lands heralded the advent of huge new profits to be made in the market places of the nearby city, and Rababull could well afford to be magnanimous with such riches now seen to be quite safely and literally in his hands.

It was Rababull who had paid for this trading expedition in the first place. Si'Wren remembered it's original departure two years ago as an event of momentous significance and great portent. One never knew whether any of the caravan's members, or the Master's money, might be seen again.

Si'Wren continued working, but paused often to watch as the unloading of the camel train continued, with teams of men laboring tirelessly to transfer the goods into the heavily fortified and well-guarded store rooms behind the stables, on the far side of the courtyard.

Suddenly one of Rababull's slaves came running from the back gate of the compound, which opened out onto the path to the nearby grain fields. The new arrival ran over and abruptly seized another slave by the shoulders and began arguing rather vehemently as he shook the smaller, terrified man in furious anger.

Habrunt stepped over and thrust himself bodily straight into the midst of the exchange, immediately taking charge.

"Aye!" exclaimed Nelatha, shaking her head fearfully. "What a time to come looking for trouble!"

"You said it!" Si'Wren agreed readily, with a frown. "But those two have always been close friends! I wonder what it's all about?"

An argument like that at a time like this was not a good idea, because the only possible winner would be the Master. Rababull could easily become angry at both for acting like spoiled children in front of the newcomers, causing him to be disgraced in front of them, as well as spoiling his own good humor.

But Master Rababull had not even noticed yet, so there was still a chance of settling the matter before it got too far out of hand. He was too busy taking care of the caravan's needs, and a wise Habrunt was determined that it stay that way.

But the argument, surprisingly, heated up again, with the one slave persisting in his accusations and waving his arms even more wildly -if it were possible- than before. Obviously not caring who heard him, he kept imitating the motion of hitting himself in the eye, and then shaking his fist at the other slave.

Then Habrunt, with a visible sense of renewed urgency in his entire manner and physical posture, sent another runner boy scurrying across the yard. The boy quickly returned with Prut, one of Rababull's biggest and most trusted slaves.

Nelatha and Si'Wren, still keeping up a pretense of labor as they watched unseen within the veil of their tent, exchanged dire, fearful looks.

Prut was a powerful man, and whenever he was called in to help take charge of a situation, it usually meant grief to whoever Prut was put after. Prut could lift two times his own weight over his own head, maybe even more, and although not a giant, he was certainly big enough by ordinary standards.

A stone-faced Prut listened to Habrunt's instructions, and then turned and tromped over to a large group of boys who had gathered to help unload the caravan, and as soon as he had relayed Habrunt's instructions, the boys all fanned out searching in all possible hiding places and out-of-the-way corners.

Habrunt, meanwhile, had gone off to the fields, perhaps to go looking for himself. Whatever it was, it was no small matter. He soon came back carrying the agonized, writhing figure of a small boy in his arms, followed by a small crowd of openly angry women and other children.

One-half of the boy's face was covered with blood, emanating from one of his squinting eyes.

This time the interruption did not go unnoticed, and while the distracted workmen finished unloading the caravan, with many a turn of the head, the team of boys that Prut had organized had worked their way through the courtyard and outlying structures as they called anxiously to and fro to one-another, and rapidly expanded the territory of their searches. Others ran out both the front and rear gates and could be heard out in the fields, shouting to one another as they went about poking and beating at the bushes with long sticks.

Finally the hue and cry went up from a number of them, and a concerted chase ensued. Presently, they returned through the rear gates with two of the biggest boys half-walking and half-dragging a lone struggling boy, holding the unwilling youngster firmly by the upper arms and hair to keep him from getting away again.

Habrunt came over and stood listening to them all arguing, and finally raised his finger and pointed at Prut with a terse word to stand guard while he turned and marched with an ominously slow, deliberate reluctance across the courtyard towards Master Rababull. A sense of dread fell upon the entire assembly, and gradually all fell silent, watching as Habrunt resolutely approached Master Rababull.

Up until now, Rababull had been deliberately ignoring the whole fiasco. But when Habrunt finally stepped up to him and bowed low, he turned to listen, still grandly smiling, and after a few barely whispered words from the bowed face of Habrunt, Master Rababull quickly turned, and his smile froze into an expressionless, unreadable, and somehow all-the-more terrifying mask.

Master Rababull was, after all, many hundreds of years old, the better part of a thousand, in fact, and no man's fool. He knew men, and he knew how to deal in kind for kind, and had survived the most evil schemes that men could throw at him by managing to anticipate them sufficiently in advance whilst devising even more evil ones in return.

Together, Master and Slavemaster returned to the silent crowd that had gathered around the two boys, and all of the women, except one old grandmother, fell away like chaff before the wind. The one woman, whose name was Breeka, stood her ground, though old and stooped, and her face was as a gargoyle's, very terrible and unmoving, as if naturally grown from some dark and twisted tree bole.

If Master Rababull's years exceeded six hundred, and his wit be steeped in the tap root of the ungood, this old crone was the very epitome of evil and practically a great-grandmother to him by comparison, with the crime of the hour engendering within her shrunken breast a fearless, savage desire for revenge.

Si'Wren felt cold, numbing fear. Something big was up. Something evil. She knew everyone there. Only the very newest additions to the House of Rababull did she not know by name as well as by face. She watched with dire feelings and the gravest of misgivings as Rababull examined the injured boy who lay moaning and writhing in the arms of his weeping mother.

Then he turned and questioned the two slaves who had argued, each of them the father of one of the two boys around whom the entire matter was centered.

The boy who had previously hidden himself was a known trouble-maker. He was a bully of the worst sort, always picking on others smaller than himself. Si'Wren had never known what to think of him, except to steer clear at every opportunity, for she knew that all too soon, he would be a man and whereas now was only a pest, would then be dangerous to her and the other women. The unruly boy had been disciplined before many times, invariably as much for his actual excesses as for his spiteful and miserable attitude.

Rababull finally took the little trouble-maker by the arm and frog-marched him over to the injured boy. He said something to Habrunt, who responded by holding up the injured boy's head so all could see the ruined eye socket.

Si'Wren felt an agonized pang of sympathetic grief for the injured child. She knew him well, and he had always been so harmless and gentle. Now, the boy's left eye was gone and only a emptily staring, bloody cavity remained where his innocent soul had once looked out on the world. Only his good right eye remained, and that one, coupled with his occasional shrieks, betrayed his continuing agony.

Again, Nelatha and Si'Wren exchanged knowing, fearful looks. Rababull suddenly ordered several men to seize and hold the little bully's father immobile before him as all looked on to see what would happen next.

As Rababull questioned the father of the offending boy, the man, scared witless, jerked his head back anxiously, and replied loudly and emphatically in the negative.

Then he looked at his own boy and nodded his head as he gabbled out his protest of the suggested judgement through lips black-stained from his secret addiction to some foul intoxicating substance, and Si'Wren could easily read the gesture.

Not me-him!…

The father was clearly expressing his opinion that whatever punishment was merited, although it had been charged directly to him as penalty for his own boy's misbehavior, he clearly preferred the boy to suffer for his own wrongdoing.

The boy's voice rose to a hopeless wail as Rababull himself stepped forward without a word and seized the youth, and made a brief motion over the youngster's face with his hands. The boy let out a series of guttural screams, and then, his work done as a Judge, Master Rababull turned and walked back to his unloading without another glance, but he left behind a screaming boy who had been a bully once too often, with his crime to be paid for this time in blood. Both boys now had but one eye.

An eye for an eye.

The suddenly animated crowd turned away with a shared look of satisfaction at the outcome. Did not every free man do that which was right in his own eyes, and his neighbor also, whether it be good or whether it be evil, and the slaves too when they could get away with it?

Even the fathers, both of them, approved. Better a disciplined boy with one good eye remaining, than a criminal offspring with two evil ones. Perhaps the little rascal would not be so much trouble to them in future. If not, there were cases where the other eye had eventually been put out also, rendering the blinded evildoer a more or less harmless beggar for the rest of his miserable life.

Si'Wren thought on this with all of her might. The ignominy of it. The injustice. But what was justice? What, but that which Master Rababull saw fit to declare so?

She had not been alive too long, especially compared to the hundreds of years of her Master, but the boy who had been in the wrong was obviously too young by far to merit such grievous punishment. For one of so tender years, there were always other ways. The good boy could have been set free for the sake of his lost eye, for instance, and the bad boy who had put his eye out could have been taken to the front gate, the better to watch with his two good eyes, the other go free. To Si'Wren's mind, that would have been a perfectly fair and reasonable punishment.

Except that Master Rababull would have lost a valuable slave in the process. The old idol gods whom Si'Wren had known all her life would no doubt have strongly approved of Master Rababull's harsh decision. Would the Invisible God have approved also?

What a question. Si'Wren thought on this, but in the end, she could only reflect that she could not bring herself to agree with Master Rababull's harsh decision. Perhaps in time, she might gain a better idea. It was certainly a question to nag at one's conscience.

Soon enough, as Nelatha had expected, Habrunt sent a runner boy over to the spice tent as Si'Wren and Nelatha watched silently. The runner boy stood before Nelatha and breathlessly announced that he needed fresh salve for the injured eyes of both boys.

Si'Wren could still hear the tormented screams of the boy who had been punished. He was in agony now not only for his eye, but for the unlove and lack of sympathy from those around him. The other boy, his smaller victim, was moaning constantly from his unrelenting agony.

Nelatha turned to Si'Wren and repeated the request, and Si'Wren hastened to fetch what the boy requested, a salve made from a specially combined mixture of herbs which could help ensure that neither boy died from infection and also alleviate much of the suffering they must endure.

While he waited for Si'Wren to give him the salve, the runner boy, whose name was Gafa, spoke glibly to Si'Wren and Nelatha of the boys' fathers requesting that the Physician might see their sons, and of Rababull hesitating at first, but finally relenting.

Human life was cheap, and Rababull's reluctance stemmed from the fact that he already owned both men and their families, which left them nothing further to offer him. Whatever they might promise, was it not already his?

Did they not already owe him their daily labors for the rest of their lives anyway, before any of this happened? If both boys eventually died of their infections, could not Master Rababull's human property breed more children for less than the cost of the Physician's fee?

But, to further his own glory and honor among men, Rababull had finally approved this thing, that others might call him gracious. Anyway, the Physician was already coming for the man with a toothache who had arrived with the caravan, so Rababull could readily afford to kill several birds with one stone.

Si'Wren already had some salve in a jar that had been prepared only a few days ago. She brought this out, gave it a fresh stirring up, and measured some out into a little clay bottle, which she gave to Gafa.

"See that you do not drop it," she instructed little Gafa, using her most good-natured tone of voice to remove any sting from her admonition. "You are fast, Gafa, but enough boys have been punished today and I do not want to see you punished too."

"I promise I will not, Si'Wren," he smiled timidly and nodded. He bowed low in peremptory fashion and hurried off in a rush.

Si'Wren watched him in chagrin, knowing that he could easily stumble, but also that he was invariably expected by those in charge of his duties to do all things as if he could run like the wind.

Several days old was better than fresh, because the herbs would have had time to suffuse, whereas, if she had immediately prepared something from the raw materials, it would not have had time to steep and cure properly. In Si'Wren's world, that which was fresh and new was not necessarily that which was best.

Si'Wren heard a gentle swish of the tent veil behind her, and turning, smiled as she watched Sorpiala enter in all her finery. Sorpiala was holding something close to her breast, an object as long as her forearm, folded up in a swatch of natural burlap. The undyed cloth was the color of cow's milk. It was apparently a rather heavy burden from the way she moved, as she approached Si'Wren and Nelatha and sought to unfold the cover to show it to them both. Within was an exquisitely carved jade goddess with sapphire eyes, still enshrouded in several layers of semi-translucent, gauzy veils.

She started to hand it to Si'Wren, then hesitated, and seemed to make a sudden decision as she turned sharply at the last and held it out in a most abrupt fashion to Nelatha instead, saying, "My arms grow weary; hold this for a moment will you, Nelatha?"

What happened next was over almost in the blink of an eye, but frozen forever in the mind of Si'Wren.

The goddess seemed to be almost in Nelatha's outstretched hands, when somehow Sorpiala's retracted hands seemed to catch at the gauze and jerk it back, and as it fell, Nelatha was left clutching only the loose edges of the silken folds.

With a dull clunk the goddess thumped heavily on the hard dirt surface of the tent floor and broke clean in half. Si'Wren thought she had seen it already coming apart into two halves in mid-air, but that was absurd. Why would Sorpiala bring a broken idol to show them? Anyway, Si'Wren had not seen it clearly and could not truly be sure.

"Oh, forgive me, Sorpiala!" Nelatha wailed as she stared, eyes wide in abject terror, at Sorpiala.

"What? Oh, it was only a mistake," said Sorpiala, already trying to console Nelatha.

She turned and smiled brief reassurance at Si'Wren also, to show that offense had been neither perceived nor taken.

Si'Wren blinked, and, remembering her manners, bowed low, uttering quickly, "I am most grieved, Sorpiala," in a formal utterance of deepest consolation which gesture alone seemed appropriate to such an unhappy event.

"No, it is nothing," Sorpiala said, bending down and picking up the two broken halves herself to gather up in the folds of the gauze and burlap again. "Do not worry."

She turned as if about to go, and then paused and looked directly at

Si'Wren.

"Si'Wren, you know, I am not so sure that a goddess which can be dropped and broken is anything worth believing in. Do you suppose some time, you could tell me about your Invisible God?"

Si'Wren, caught off guard, smiled hurriedly.

"Why, certainly, Sorpiala," she said. She nodded her head and bowed in a gesture of respect. "I would be most honored."

"Very well, then, since you seem to know all about it…" Sorpiala said mysteriously, and bowed in perfunctory fashion. Then before Si'Wren could say a word, Sorpiala turned and stepped out still clutching broken goddess wrapped in burlap.

Si'Wren turned away and looked at Nelatha, who was bent over her work again, grinding and grinding with anxious energy. Nelatha's eyes looked terrified and miserable.

"Do not worry, Nelatha," said Si'Wren. "Did she not say it was an accident?" But Nelatha did not say so much as a word to Si'Wren.

After staring at Nelatha a moment longer, Si'Wren finally turned away, feeling glum, and began to busy herself grinding a new batch of herbs with the stone mortar and pestle.

Preparations for the caravan feast had already begun. Many of the Master's fattest livestock were being shepherded into the compound by their handlers to be slaughtered. Big iron cauldrons had been put on to boil, for scalding the hides to scrape off the hair. Knives were sharpened for killing, bleeding, and skinning the animals. By tonight, all things would be ready for the big feast. But Si'Wren refused to eat any of the meat, for it was a strange and barbaric new custom.

Si'Wren watched Master Rababull as he marched to and fro in the wide courtyard, ordering men about and personally seeing to every detail. The magnificent curls of his long locks swayed rhythmically across his powerful back and shoulders, while his coarse dangling beard stood out more stiffly.

Master Rababull was older by far than what might have been Si'Wren's personal preference, but he was nevertheless a powerful and wealthy man. She secretly hoped that another, younger man might choose her one day soon. Many men already had their eyes on her; this she could not help but notice. She had dreams of a large family with many children and in-laws, but not, hopefully, as just the umpteenth wife of some fat old curser.

Master Rababull, Si'Wren knew, already had many wives, and she was wise enough in spite of her youth to realize that it would be no fun spending the remainder of one's life in direct competition with an army of female rivals for so much as the merest bit of time now and then with one's own husband.

Si'Wren watched Master Rababull turn to make his way across the wide courtyard yet again in long hurried strides. Always so serious, even about the business of his many pleasures, such as now with the anticipated celebration.

As Si'Wren watched incuriously, Master Rababull stopped abruptly mid-way across the courtyard as he was interrupted respectfully but unexpectedly by yet another slave, who approached rapidly and bowed low, clearly needing advice or authority in the furtherance of something.

After the incident with the two boys who had each lost an eye, Master Rababull was not in the best of moods. Clearly impatient, he stood frowning distractedly as he heard the man out.

Si'Wren looked beyond, musing that Master Rababull had been headed towards the huge, sprawling, open-air mansion which was the actual House of Rababull, with it's many rooms and beautiful central garden with a stone fountain that was surrounded on all sides by a wide border of smooth paving stones.

There, cushions were being laid out so that all of the guests would be well taken care of when they arrived. He must be sure there was enough of everything for everybody, and that included floor cushions. None must have any visible stains or dirt marks on them. Otherwise, some guest might be insulted.

When it came to fixed seating, invariably the master of the house himself must unerringly decide in advance who should sit closest to himself, and who sat on whose right hand, even unto those who must sit progressively farther and farther from his own seat of honor. It was a daunting task to so order the hierarchy of the ranks of gluttony, that none should be insulted by a lower seat than they properly deserved. Greater men than Rababull had literally lost their heads in sudden revenge at the sword hands of their former guests for not paying greater attention to the exacting particulars of such a seemingly insignificant detail as the proper seating of all guests according to favor, rank, or privilege. The absence of one important guest, or unanticipated arrival of another, was always sure to throw everything into a bewildering chaos of renewed choices over who must come before who.

To avoid this, Master Rababull chose to let almost the entire house be used to party in, while he refused to call any seat his own but wandered about seeing to everyone else's comforts or pleasures, so that there should be no one spot that could be called better than any other. An offended brother was more difficult to win back than many cities, but Master Rababull was already so old and he was no doubt well schooled in such matters.

Rababull finished his impromptu consultation, and the anxious slave, having obtained his Master's decision, stepped back with a low bow and hurried off.

Then as Rababull turned to continue across the courtyard toward the House, Si'Wren watched as graceful Sorpiala hailed Master Rababull in her musical voice and pulled him aside with what he obviously regarded as yet another unwanted distraction. And as Si'Wren looked on unseen from the spice tent, Sorpiala unwrapped the broken goddess and revealed it to Master Rababull, talking in a low but animated voice.

Wise Sorpiala, who could always be so proper at even the worst of times. There she was, soothing a time-conscious Master Rababull's undoubtedly offended wrath over the expensive, broken goddess. Such a large piece of jade was surely worth a king's ransom. Si'Wren found it somewhat amazing the way Sorpiala could resort to her unrivaled feminine charms to soothe the Master's outrage so confidently. Sorpiala was clearly greatest in favor with Master Rababull over all other women in his Household.

Si'Wren looked down at her little clay vase as she carefully filled it, momentarily distracted. For herself, she would never behave like that. A proper woman must be modest in all ways possible.

Then Si'Wren paused and looked up again to further observe Sorpiala and the Master, and started in shock as she suddenly realized that Master Rababull was glaring fiercely in her direction, as if he could see through the screening veil of the tent with the eyes of a wrathful god.

Oh no! What could be wrong?! Please, Si'Wren begged her own heart, oh please let Sorpiala's charms soothe Rababull's off-endedness. Let no punishment befall her for the sake of the broken goddess.

Suddenly Rababull broke away from Sorpiala and began marching straight for the spice tent like an avenging destroyer.

Si'Wren looked over at Nelatha, whose head was bent industriously over her work. Nelatha did not even realize yet that Master Rababull was almost upon them both. Si'Wren had just enough time to see Sorpiala scurrying away on swift, dainty little footsteps, leaving the broken goddess in two pieces on the ground as she made fast her escape-with a smirk on her face.

Si'Wren's voice froze in her throat as she felt terror. Master Rababull's face looked so terrible and angry! She was too scared to warn Nelatha, too confused to think of what to say!

Master Rababull did not bother to come around to the back of the tent where it was most expedient to enter. He simply stepped up to the front of it, seized the flaps in both fists, and jerked savagely, ripping them apart.

Nelatha let out a terrified little 'Eeeek!' as he stepped in and loomed hugely over her, his trunk-like legs sending mortar, pestle, and all crashing noisily in a dust heap. Master Rababull reached down and dug his clawed fingers into Nelatha's long tangled locks like talons of steel and with a single lifting motion of one bulging arm he twisted his rippling torso and heaved upwards as he jerked Nelatha bodily to stand before him. Then with his other arm he reached out and seized Si'Wren's hair and yanked her painfully before him also.

Standing over them with eyes glaring like lightning and a voice like thunder, Rababull looked fiercely from one terrified girl to the other as he shouted, "I was told a tale of a wicked slave who threw down one of my goddesses, and broke her to pieces, Nelatha!"

But Nelatha, utterly speechless, could only shrink back helplessly from that terrible stare.

Obtaining no response from Nelatha, Master Rababull turned his awful look onto a quailing Si'Wren and snarled down at her, "And another was heard to speak praises of the Forbidden One, the Invisible God!"

He held both paralyzed girls in his iron grip for a long, moment of dreadful silence. Around her, Si'Wren realized that all the compound had heard Master Rababull's furious voice and involuntarily stopped what they were doing to watch. Then Master Rababull turned himself around with both girls still helplessly in tow and dragged them physically from the tent by their hair.

"Habrunt!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Habrunt!"

Habrunt came running with two boys trailing close behind him as they struggled to keep up on their skinny little legs. As he approached he slowed to a stop and immediately knelt down on one knee and clasped his fist rigidly across his chest to signify his immediate readiness to obey Master Rababull, come what may. That he had already taken in the plight of Si'Wren seemed inevitable, but he betrayed no sign of it.

The two runner boys finally caught up and, terrified by the mask of rage on Master Rababull's features, immediately threw themselves face-first flat in the dirt and lay trembling as they fearfully hid their eyes.

"I come at thy bidding, oh master," Habrunt intoned in his deepest and most servile do-or-die manner.

Master Rababull stared at Habrunt deliberately for a long moment, before speaking.

"Slavemaster, I have found corruption, in the spice tent, of all places," said Rababull. His allusion to the spice tent was especially ironic, as spices were commonly used to cure infections in the living, and to embalm the dead to delay the onset of corruption and rottenness as long as possible. Of course, only those who could pay were so embalmed. Most could not afford it.

Speaking as to the earth, Habrunt declared emphatically, "Speak, Lord, and it shall be my will!"

"My prize green goddess has been broken. For this crime, let Nelatha be slain," said Rababull.

Nelatha's eyes closed as she keened silently in helpless terror.

"And let this little one-" Master Rababull's voice faltered, so strong and so deep were his feelings for her. "Let this foolish one who spoke so rashly against her Master's gods, never speak again, only-let her live."

With that, he hurled both girls to fall prostrate before his kneeling, perplexed Slavemaster.

"Master," Habrunt protested, "perhaps, with sufficient time for reproof and correction-"

"You will carry out my commands immediately or you will be next!" said

Master Rababull harshly.

"I hear and obey, Master," intoned Habrunt, clasping his right fist hard across his chest again as he bowed low in formal acknowledgment.

Screeching hysterically, Nelatha helplessly protested her innocence, as

Si'Wren remained trembling, too shaken to speak.

Habrunt straightened himself up to full stature, and looked stoically upon the two prostrate girls, his stiffened legs like the trunks of oaks. Nelatha clutched desperately at his ankles as she continued to beg for mercy, but his wooden face seemed not to hear her pleadings.

Speaking as if to no one in particular, in a voice as that of one already dead, he thrust out his right arm empty-handed, and commanded loudly, "Fetch me a sword!"

Both boys, too scared to think, ran at once into the House. Their squeaky voices could be heard begging desperately for a sword, any sword. Si'Wren heard the laughter of some guest, an early arrival, as he commented upon the humor of sacrificing a human being instead of a mere animal to commemorate the beginning of the feast. Moments later, both boys reappeared flying down the front steps and came running at breakneck speed across the courtyard in returning to a motionlessly waiting Habrunt, his right arm still stiffly out-held, open-handed.

While all of this was happening, an increasing number of onlookers had stopped to watch, with the late-comers asking others in hushed voices what was going on. Upon hearing, each cast by turns horrified looks of revulsion, disgust, and loathing for Si'Wren and Nelatha, together with shock, disbelief, and horror at the two pieces of the broken jade statue, still lying where they had been cast aside by an enraged Master Rababull. There was no danger of the valuable pieces of jade being stolen; to touch the broken jade now would mean certain death. No one was bold enough to say anything directly to Habrunt or the two hapless girls.

Some of those watching displayed a certain sickening delight at the sight of a motionlessly waiting Habrunt and the two prostrate girls kneeling with faces downcast in the dust at his feet.

As the two runner boys dashed across the courtyard to return with the swords to Habrunt, more people came out of the House to stand at the head of the front steps to see what had occasioned their unusual mission.

"Master, here are two swords," one of his runner boys gasped, nearly out of breath as they both bowed low and held the shining blades out to Habrunt. But he stood a moment, staring down at the dirt before him, as if he had not heard.

"One will do," Habrunt said finally, as he looked up, and reached for one of the shining blades.

With the sword in his fist he stood looking down at Nelatha and she suddenly paused in her terrified protests, looking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks as she searched his face with glazed eyes, mutely imploring him to do or say something to save her.

But Habrunt's countenance was terrible to look upon, so stone-faced and determined was he now.

"Pray, Nelatha," he said only, too afraid of Master Rababull to risk more open defiance of either his Master or any temple god.

Nelatha nodded again, jerkily, and bowed her head.

Then, as Nelatha prayed in a series of hysterically rising whispers,

Habrunt slowly raised the sword high into the air in front of a numbed

Si'Wren, held it trembling in his great fist, and then brought it down

in a mercifully swift flashing arc.

Nelatha's prayers were suddenly cut short, and a collection of gasps was heard from the watching crowd. Habrunt held out the sword behind him without looking, and the visibly shaking runner boy took it back, dripping with Nelatha's blood.

Habrunt's eyes, shot through with grief and an inconsolable look of self-condemnation and awfulness of purpose, looked upon Nelatha's slain body momentarily. He was no longer Habrunt the kind Slavemaster, to whom one might look when trouble raised it's ugly head, but had become an unwilling angel of death instead.

Habrunt finally turned to Si'Wren, who knelt still before him, utterly speechless and motionless. Looking dazed, she gazed long upon the bloody corpse of once-cheerful Nelatha, divided in half at the neck, like the broken jade goddess.

Master Rababull, who was still watching, had said let her never speak again, but live. What could that possibly mean? thought Si'Wren.

Habrunt reached down and almost lovingly slid his trembling, work-roughened fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck with his left hand. As Habrunt tilted Si'Wren's head back her face was lifted up and her tear-streaked cheeks were revealed beneath eyes looking ever-trustingly up into his, in absolute surrender to his will, signifying that she had not the slightest thought of resisting her fate.

But Habrunt could not do what was commanded of him, and hesitated.

There were any number of alternatives, all contrary to Master

Rababull's wishes and hence instantly fatal, but he had a sword.

He could do much with a sword…

Suddenly a third runner boy suddenly came hurrying past them both and bowed in perfunctory manner as he quickly announced a breathlessly gasped utterance to Rababull.

"Master, the great Physician is here!"

As Si'Wren lifted up her eyes slowly, her soul quailed at the sight of Habrunt's upraised fist, yet still she stared submissively into his tormented eyes, showing that never would she strive against nor resist he to whom she looked up as to a light in the spiritual darkness for all of her life however brief. If Habrunt could but know it, Si'Wren trusted him even more than she ever did Master Rababull or any living human being.

Then, Habrunt lowered his right fist slowly, as well as his head, although his left fist remained clenched tightly immobile in Si'Wren's crush of locks.

"Master, may I speak?" said Habrunt to the ground, as he maintained his steady grip upon the unresisting girl whose eyes his own had no strength to meet.

"Speak!" commanded Rababull impatiently. He was barely able to contain himself in his rage and impatience to get it over with.

Habrunt hesitated further, and dared not look up at his Master as he spoke.

"Most gracious and noble Master, was not this one greatly in thy favor before?" pled Habrunt.

He was taking a terrible risk, to speak so boldly of Master Rababull's former personal fondness for Si'Wren. Master Rababull had but to say the word, and the remains of Habrunt could end up in the dirt beside Nelatha.

"What is it?" said Master Rababull, somewhat irritably now, rather than in a full rage. It seemed Habrunt had struck his mark with the unerring accuracy of a master archer, as usual.

"Master, I am but a coarse and brutal man, and thou alone art high and noble and altogether good. Invisible Gods deserve invisible praise, from invisible voices. If it be your pleasure, let this little one show with what purity of purpose she might have served her foolish Invisible God, by swearing a vow never to speak instead. The more she speaks, the more her Invisible God may be viewed as false."

There was a moment of silence, as Master Rababull thought on this.

"Well spoken, Slavemaster," Master Rababull finally said, his voice almost back to normal, almost relieved, in fact. "Let her never speak-forever! If she speak but once, let all bear witness to the falsehood of her Invisible God by the falseness of her broken vow, and her life be forfeit! Let her so swear!"

Habrunt had not bargained for this! But what could he do? What was determined now was not as vile as what had been declared before, hence, was not enough justification to turn his sword in furious rebellion against the House of Rababull.

Grief-stricken, he lowered his eyes to Si'Wren, and said resolutely, "Little one, do you swear by your God never to say one word for the rest of your days, so long as you shall live and breathe and have life in you, and to suffer death to yourself and dishonor to your Invisible God if you should ever fail to do so?"

Si'Wren realized that here was the chance, not only to redeem herself but her newfound Invisible God as well.

"I swear it," Si'Wren said.

"She has so sworn, Master," Habrunt immediately declared to Master

Rababull.

"Let it be so," rasped Master Rababull. "A fitting conclusion to the matter."

At that moment, Master Rababull's attention was diverted as he was approached by the Camel Master. His face remained stern and obnoxious to look upon, which unintended visage of evil, coupled with the sight of several slaves carrying away the remains of Nelatha, and the sight of all the spilled blood in the dust, made the all-observant Camel Master extraordinarily nervous, although he tried rather desperately not to show it and failed miserably.

The Camel Master spoke briefly to Master Rababull about something, and when he had politely heard out the man, Master Rababull turned to Habrunt.

"Go to now, Slavemaster, and take this silent one with you," said Master Rababull. "The good Physician must not be kept waiting, for he will have need of her herbal skills."

As Habrunt listened to the footsteps of Master Rababull and the obsequiously over-attentive Camel Master receding across the dusty courtyard, he let out a sigh, sickened by what he had done, and by his own feelings on the matter.

Harsh, unforgiving punishment must ever hang over Si'Wren's head now, all because of a broken piece of green rock! Would that Si'Wren was but stone herself, that she might suffer nothing further. How she trembled so.

He took Si'Wren gently by the hand, indicating that she should rise to her feet.

"I am sorry, little one," he rumbled in a low voice when she had risen to stand upright beside him, speaking so quietly to her that the other slaves still watching could not discern his words. "Return with me now to the spice tent and bring what you need, quickly! If any should tempt you to speak, hold your silence, on your life!"

Si'Wren nodded mutely, waiting for him to lead the way.

Habrunt regarded her a moment, his face unreadable. Then he composed himself, and in a quiet, firm voice, said, "Come."

He scattered the onlookers, the gleeful and the merely curious alike, with a wrathful look, and walked Si'Wren to the wrecked spice tent to help shield her from their otherwise ruinous persecutions. At what had once been the spice tent Si'Wren trembled at the sight of the damage. Not only was the tent ruined. Priceless herbs and salves had been scattered and spilled. The powders of many different sun-dried and painstakingly ground-up plants had been intermingled in the dirt, and the bugs were already starting to get into things.

Such was the measure of her Master Rababull's outrage, that he cared so little for the damage to the spice tent, his own property, in the course of executing his punishments. The thought of this, and of the severed body of Nelatha, made Si'Wren afraid to even think of ever facing her master again, and the fear that possessed her now stifled any desire to speak, on top of the fact that she had already sworn an oath not to talk anyways.

"Take what you need," Habrunt said, his face grim. "Hurry!"

His words brought her out of her momentary confusion, and Si'Wren worked quickly to sort out only that which was needful. Perhaps she could come back and clean up the rest of the mess later.

When she was ready, she turned and dipped her head in a little nod as a signal to Habrunt.

Without a word, he turned and led the way. He took her across the big open compound near to the place where the long caravan of heavily laden beasts stood chewing their cuds along one high stone wall, just inside the front gates of the sprawling compound.

He proceeded with Si'Wren still in tow, her small hand engulfed in his huge one as he approached to where a large number of onlookers was gathered idly around some unseen activity, and as he approached the outskirts of the crowd he barked commandingly, "Step aside!" and "Make way there!"

So speaking, Habrunt shouldered through their midst. When he reached the center of the crowd, he stood with Si'Wren before the old Physician, who was already busy at his work with the man with a toothache from the caravan.

Onlookers were conversing with one another in hushed voices from a respectful distance, still too fearful to speak directly to Habrunt or his young prisoner. When a slave met such a fate as Nelatha's, it was dangerous to risk even the slightest unintentional aggravation. Better to let well enough alone. None dared say so much as a single word to grim-looking Habrunt or the timid one he escorted.

Nelatha was dead. Habrunt, supremely miserable, hid his grief and pretended to ignore them all. When he looked once into Si'Wren's eyes, he found only continued fear and bewilderment. Well, he had at least done her this little kindness, and spared her the dread of her original sentence. Perhaps she did not, even now, realize what had been pronounced upon her head, before he interceded so recklessly.

That he had actually succeeded in sparing Si'Wren life and limb from punishment was beyond his wildest expectations, but now she must forever remain in constant danger of forgetting herself and speaking out of turn for the rest of her life. Had he really helped her, or only prolonged her suffering, before the final, inescapable, damning judgement? Why could he not have thought of a better alternative for Si'Wren?

"Your pardon, great Physician," he said, boldly stepping forward.

"Aye, what is it?" the white-bearded old Healer asked with a wry and good-natured impatience, scarcely bothering to look up from his work.

Many bystanders and well-wishers were already there, looking curiously on at his work as they stood idly by in whispering attendance at every hand.

"She has brought you the herbs you requested," said Habrunt.

"Good!" the Physician said, studying his patient critically. "Not a moment too soon."

The Physician took advantage of Habrunt's momentary distraction to set his mind afresh upon his work, for he was in a crucial part of the operation, and the patient would never be so ready as he was at that very moment.

Already in position, he reached in carefully, and clenched down, and seemed to set himself, and with a nod to those helping him to hold tightly onto the patient, he pulled hard with a pair of crude iron pliers or tongs, and yanked out a stinking, rotten, bloody molar from the jaw of the patient, whose gopher hole of a mouth emitted an agonized outcry. There ensued a veritable chorus of gasps and utterances from the crowd.

"There!" the Physician patted the shoulder of the sufferer, as expressions of relief could be heard from the onlookers on all sides. "Now, if I may have the herbs I was promised?"

The Physician turned to look directly at Habrunt.

Habrunt looked down at Si'Wren, and said, "Attend, little one!" in a mild pretense at impatience.

Taking her cue, Si'Wren raised her eyebrows quickly and nodded as she stepped forward and bowed wordlessly, holding out to the old doctor the proffered items which she had brought.

"Ah yes," said the Physician, nodding as he sniffed and tasted the various samples with evident satisfaction. "Whoever prepared these has done well!"

He turned and said to the dental patient, "You must rinse with this tea of borage leaf, or the grass that the cattle eat if you run out too soon. Perhaps also, a little dandelion. Blend it with a pinch of this barberry herb," he held out in his weathered palm a small leather pouch noosed at the neck with a cord of dried gut which Si'Wren had furnished him, "and flush the socket faithfully for seven days. It will stop the pain and bleeding almost immediately, and you will suffer little or no infection."

Besides the herbs he was dispensing, the verbal prescription which the sage Physician had just uttered was known to stop bleeding, and the anesthetic effect of mere words was already well-known to mothers the world over in the eternal pooh-poohing of their childrens' many little wounds of life.

The man from the caravan tried to grin and nod and bow his agonized thanks all at the same time while moving respectfully backwards to go and do as instructed. The other members of the caravan gathered close around him to escort him carefully away. One held up a wine flask, making obvious his intention to get his comrade drunk, which would afford obvious immediate relief but no doubt add to his later miseries when he should awaken with a biting hangover the next day.

Seizing the opportunity, Habrunt leaned conspiratorially close, and when the Physician inclined his ear Habrunt whispered so low that none could hear what was said.

As he listened, the Physician's expression became, by turns, first shocked, then angry, and finally-resigned and infinitely saddened.

He turned his head once, to look critically at the two one-eyed boys waiting on the sidelines. If he felt anything, it no longer showed on his wise old face as he studied their identical physical maladies. Finally, he nodded, turning away from a still-whispering Habrunt and cutting off the other in mid-sentence.

He was an iron-willed, dutiful man who knew how to do what must be done when called upon to make decisions. It was not his business to judge the Master of this House if he, too, did what he saw fit. But he sighed, a heavy, tired gesture, as if all the evils of the world were a weight upon his shoulders alone.

Out of a vague sense of fairness, he decided to examine the smaller boy first, the gentle one who had been innocently victimized, while saving the bully, on Habrunt's judicious advice, until second.

The Physician called for the two boys with their missing single eyes to be brought to him. Then, while Si'Wren watched with passionate sympathy, the Physician prepared to go to work on them.

"Eh-" the Physician hesitated, nodding indistinctly in the direction of the two injured boys, "-which one did you say first?"

Habrunt made an end of niceties and reached forth an arm, simultaneously barring the one while favoring the other with one and the same gesture.

"Ah!" the Physician nodded.

The guilty boy tearfully begged to be helped first or at least at the same time, but was firmly commanded by his own father to wait his proper turn.

Waiting patiently until after the interruption was settled, the Physician beckoned gently to the innocent, smiling in a fatherly fashion.

"Come, child," he beckoned with a kindly nod of his wise old head.

The little boy hesitated, and Habrunt nodded encouragingly.

"Trust him," Habrunt advised the boy in a quiet but stern tone of voice. "He is a great Physician, who has been paid much money and come a long ways to treat you. You must obey his commands without question."

Still somewhat fearfully, but more obediently now, the boy stepped forward and, at a slight gesture from the Physician, stood motionless before him.

"Face this way," he smiled, crinkling his eyes. Then he said, "Now that way." He regarded the boy with just a suggestion of teasing admonition, and said, "Hold still now."

"That's it," the physician smiled and nodded his approval again encouragingly, as he inspected carefully. "Aye, I see."

The boy fairly trembled all over, and Si'Wren watched with the others, mourning the suffering of both boys and temporarily forgetting her own miseries.

The Physician had turned to rummaging in his kit bag, and now he pulled out a beautiful unglazed clay jar with dark-colored berry stains all over the rim and sides. The jar was stoppered with a cracked and discolored wooden cork.

It seemed only right and proper to the old Physician that the noble-born Master Rababull, no doubt put on the spot at times by the mischief of those beneath him, should be the proper court of final recourse, and in the Physician's view of things, what must be done must be done. Too bad about the gentle boy's suffering, but right was right, and the bully had received his just recompense.

"No, that's not it," he said, frowning as he sniffed at the contents.

Although the Physician might secretly have wished for a fairer and less vindictive world, he could but observe that well had the gods fated Rababull to be Master.

Could even one of his servants have inflicted such drastic punishment, and have done it so impartially and without undue hesitation, as he had just done? The Physician sagely reflected that another could not have done it at all. Perhaps instead, the other fellow would have become too emotionally involved and done too much.

Or a man of more timid nature might have betrayed cowardice and chosen to talk it off haughtily and do nothing at all, thereby engendering a smoldering spirit of outrage and rebellion in his own subjects. If the master could not settle the matter to the adequate satisfaction of all, who could?

But there was more to it than that. What Master Rababull had done was to make all fear him, and justly so. It was no doubt a telling reason as to why the man was still alive after so many hundreds of years in such a deceitful and vicious world.

Anyway, why question what was obviously the will of the gods? Even most fools knew better than to do that.

He rummaged around some more in the bag.

"Ah!"

He pulled out a soft leather pouch as large as his gnarled hand, and measured some powder out into his palm. He looked up at the boy, seeming to estimate his diminutive size and stature visually, and then poured out a good deal more, peering down and studying the exactness of the amount with a frown as he openly took the time to gage it's weight against that of the young boy.

"A little wine is needful," he said, raising his hoary, bewhiskered old head and looking around vaguely at no one in particular.

At the sight of the Physician waiting patiently with the powder already measured out into his sweaty palm and ready to be administered, Habrunt turned to one of his boys and clapped his hands sharply with a terse nod.

"Do not keep the great Physician waiting!" he admonished sternly. "Get white wine if you can, or red if you must."

"Aye, Master Habrunt!"

The boy raced off at a dead run, presently to return staggering under the weight of one of the flasks meant for the party-goers.

The Physician took a small cup from his purse, dropped in the powder, and Habrunt assisted directly by taking over from the boy and pouring in the clear, fragrant fruit of the vine. Si'Wren watched as the powder was commingled to the stained brim with the crystal clear liquid, for the boy had brought white wine.

Then, in front of the trembling boy, the Physician solemnly uttered a few gravely-spoken nonsense syllables, and passed his free hand before him as he gazed deep into his one good eye, and put the cup into his grasp.

"Drink!" he smiled encouragingly, crinkling his eyes again in the most engaging and kindly manner, although it screwed up his whole face into a mass of hairy wrinkles. "Drink every drop, and praise the gods. It is all you have to do."

The boy took it, held it up, and then began to drink. It was -in Si'Wren's knowledgeable estimation- possessed of an almost intolerably bitter taste, but the fine white wine would no doubt commute the bitterness with it's rare ethers. The boy gasped for air, and declared bluntly, "It burns in my stomach!"

"Finish it," Habrunt urged firmly.

"Hut!" said the Physician, stopping the boy before he could obey.

The Physician took the cup from the boy, swirled it's contents expertly to stir up the remaining powder from the bottom, and reached it up to the child's lips as he soothingly breathed the words, "Drink quickly now!"

The boy gulped down the rest.

"Now-sit," the Physician said, taking the cup from the boy's hands.

Obediently, the child tried to sit down, and would have fallen clear over backwards had his mother not anxiously enveloped him in her arms and ample bosom as she crouched quickly behind him.

In a shy, soft voice, the boy exclaimed breathlessly, "It's bitter!"

"Aye, it is, isn't it?" the Physician nodded. Then, staring deep into the boy's one good eye, the Physician said, "Look, deep, into my eyes…"

The boy seemed to fall into a swoon.

Without another word, the Physician took over from the boy's mother, and laid the unconscious boy out flat on the ground and began immediately to treat his ruined eye socket.

Habrunt quietly oversaw everything that the Physician was doing for as long as he could, the better to assist if needed, but as Slavemaster, he had many duties, and presently he was called away by a runner boy with yet another message from Master Rababull. Habrunt was a man of many responsibilities.

Before going, he turned to Si'Wren and leaned close to whisper into her ear, "Fear not, only keep silence lest any watching should find occasion to bring an accusation against you. If any should do so, true or not, remain silent and abide until I return, when I shall make judgement upon them."

Then he turned and marched away without so much as a backward glance.

Si'Wren watched him go for a moment, and then feigned utter unconcern for her Slavemaster as she resorted to watching the Physician again. None must realize how desperately she looked to Habrunt or cared for him now. For he had not only saved her life but had won her trust, and somewhere in all this was bound up her heart and soul as well. This she was anxious that none should learn of and mock.

At long last, finishing with his ministrations to the first boy's missing eye, the weary old Physician turned finally to the bad boy who had lost his own eye as punishment.

Eventually the Physician was done, and both boys were given over to the care of their mothers, and Si'Wren, having no mother or father, bowed low to the Physician after being dismissed by him, and decided to return to the ruined spice tent.

By this time the sun had just dropped below the horizon, and it was fast turning to dusk. The first of the party-goers had already arrived, and the celebration was already beginning.

Arriving at the spice tent, she stared at the unbelievable destruction and felt tears stream down her cheeks. Master Rababull had been virtually a god to her! She had worshiped the very ground he had walked on.

Fog drifted through the courtyard, transforming the torches in their fixed stanchions on the nearby walls, into glowing orbs like spirits, or like the moon above. Aye, the spirit of the moon was upon the land tonight, the spirit of madness. Gloomily, Si'Wren reflected that the celebrants were to be spared the sight of the slain young woman's body. Of course! That would spoil their fun. Such must never be even dreamed of. Si'Wren wiped ineffectually at her tears, smearing her wet cheeks. What should she do?

She stared at the wreckage of the spice tent, and wondered helplessly if she was expected to spend the entire night if necessary cleaning it up. No one had said anything about what was to be expected of her now. Should she abandon her work, or what?

Close by, she suddenly heard extremes of laughter. Abruptly she turned from the wrecked tent and walked toward the rear gate. When she arrived, she found it guarded by two brawny slaves standing beneath the torches of the closed and barred gate. They ignored her contemptuously, no doubt having already been informed of her evil belief in the Invisible God, and of her complicity in the destruction of the priceless green jade goddess.

She turned and walked back through the grounds toward the front, turning aside into the shadows whenever possible to avoid meeting others. The smells of cooking food came to her, and she realized that she had already missed her supper as hunger gnawed at her insides.

At the front gate, as she had anticipated, the guards were admitting the celebrants, under Slavemaster Habrunt's watchful eye. Habrunt seemed too busy to notice her. Did he, too, secretly despise her now? Si'Wren held back, until the guards were preoccupied with the arrival of yet another dignitary and his extended family, and when the attention of all seemed temporarily diverted, she walked forward quickly and slipped out of the front gates and into the wide path.

She turned sharply, and walked away from the direction of the nearby city, into the gathering darkness of the wilds. Cold fog enveloped her, and in what seemed like no time at all the torch light behind her was swallowed up in the swirling mists.

She walked on, oblivious of her surroundings, looking neither to the rear nor to the right or left. What did it matter if some foul beast should leap out and seize her in it's jaws? It would be a blessed fate, compared to what she must face if she should return to the House of Rababull now.

She heard something behind her, and looking around anxiously, thought she saw a large shadow, as that of a man, following her, too far back to make it out for sure. Si'Wren's heart began pounding fearfully as she stared, eyes widening in fear.

Abruptly she turned, and began to walk quickly, looking for some place to turn off the road and hide. When she glanced back again, the figure was gone. Slowing, she stopped and stared behind her again, to see if it had been her imagination. Then her ears pricked, as she thought she heard the distant scrape of a sandal on the path.

She turned and began walking swiftly away from the House of Rababull, deeper and deeper into the night. Whenever she looked back, she saw and heard nothing. Was someone there?

"Hello?" she called out, looking back again.

But there was no answer.

Still staring behind her as she began to walk away, Si'Wren suddenly blundered straight into a tree, and screamed as two of the tree's branches seized hold of her.

She struggled helplessly as she was held in a vise-like grip by a laughing young man, whose alcohol-laden breath caused her to choke and gag.

Another man, as brawny as the first, towered above her.

"I've caught me a night spirit!" laughed the man, holding onto her tenaciously.

"Make her give you a wish before you let her go," jested the second.

"She'll give us more than that, and no one the wiser," said the first in an evil, crafty tone of voice.

Si'Wren jerked instinctively to free herself from her attacker, and found her diminutive physical power to be as nothing compared to his godlike strength.

He spun her around, and she bit him in the hand.

"Ouch! You filthy whore!"

He slapped her, a stunning backhand to the cheek, and she felt her head jerked backward by the blow. The young man's foul spittle-laden breath assailed her, together with the stink of his alcoholic excesses.

"Help me!" Si'Wren shouted, knowing she was too far from the front gates to be heard now.

Her captor laughed, enjoying her fear.

Then she screamed out in hopelessness and despair, "Habrunt!!!"

"She calls her Slavemaster," said the one, gripping her tightly. "He favors her. You're going to die for sure, pretty one, after we've had our way with you."

"Oh God, please help me!!" Si'Wren screamed like a lost soul, sensing her doom upon her as supreme fear overcame her and she crumpled, sagging nervelessly in the man's irresistible grasp.

"Shut up!" he gritted tightly, striking her a series of stunning blows across the face delivered alternately with the open palm and the bony back of his hand.

"Aye, she must die alright," said the second. "Her very identity must be hid, lest Rababull's Slavemaster should find out. Hurry and let us be done quickly with her, before someone else comes along!"

"Wise words-spoken too late to do you any good!" suddenly declared a deep voice.

Si'Wren whirled her head around, and watched disbelieving as out of the shadows of the mists stepped the shadowy and indistinct figure of a powerfully built man with a golden bronze sword gleaming in his hand.

"Habrunt!" Si'Wren shrieked desperately as, reeling from the blows, she struggled anew and stared.

"We've got swords!" the first young man declared nervously and self-importantly, "and our fathers are high-born. You're a slave! You better run along home, before we decide to report you to your master."

Habrunt said nothing.

"The girl is not half as willing as the others," the second one said offensively.

"Aye, she's worthless, like you," the first one laughed contemptuously. "Here, see for yourself!" Still gripping Si'Wren by the upper arms, he suddenly flung her forward in the direction of Habrunt, so violently that she stumbled and fell to her knees before him.

"We didn't want her anyways," the second chipped in, emboldened by

Habrunt's continued silence. "She's far too ugly."

Habrunt stepped forward until he had come just past Si'Wren's kneeling figure, with her head still downcast in shame, and then he halted again, standing protectively between Si'Wren and her two tormentors now.

"What is she to you, anyways?" said the first young man. He was already growing nervous because of Habrunt's refusal to reply. "Here," the young man said, dipping into his money satchel, "I'll pay you for her; twenty, no, thirty pieces of silver! You can keep her in the bargain. What's the matter with you? My money's as good as anyone else's! Go on, take it!"

Habrunt took another menacing step forward, as he slowly raised his gleaming sword.

"Take it!" the young man repeated, in a high voice. He waved his sword in the air in a series of menacing arcs, which Habrunt seemed not to notice. "Keep the girl and take all of it! What do you want of us?!"

"Aye! Leave us out of it! You'll be sorry for this! Our fathers-"

Habrunt's sword abruptly flashed in the night in a swift series of arcs, to the accompaniment of a succession of metallic clangs followed by several meaty whacks and the cut-off screams of the two young men.

There was no more sound for a moment, except for the sliding of a sword blade on the clothing of they who had been destroyed. Then she heard the sound of footsteps, as Habrunt turned back to her. In his right hand was the money pouch that had been offered to him, and in his other was his sword. He switched hands, and hurled the money pouch into the night. Far off the trail, Si'Wren heard the distant clink of the money when it landed. Their swords quickly followed, and Si'Wren heard the swish of grass as they landed unseen in the darkness.

She remained kneeling in despair, waiting for Habrunt to pronounce judgement upon her. Now what was to become of her, for her broken vow of silence?

Then she felt his hands touch her shoulders, so gently that the fear with which she was shaken was transformed into surprise and numbed disbelief.

"Little one," said Habrunt, his voice heavy but full of compassion.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh Habrunt," Si'Wren lamented, her voice a whimper. "I have betrayed my vow of silence to the Invisible God! I am worthless, and now I shall be punished by the Master!"

But Habrunt knelt down beside her, and shook his head slowly.

"Not so," he said. "Come."

He helped her rise to her feet, and began leading her back towards the

House compound.

"But I did!" she persisted, leaning on him for support as she walked, for she seemed to be hurt worse than she had first supposed. "In the very confession of my sin, I betray my vow of silence, my sworn oath given before the Invisible God, to you and Master Rababull!"

"Then stop talking," Habrunt said mildly, still leading her confidently through the night, as the moon cast it's glow through the swirling mists.

"How can you say that?" Si'Wren said. Then she blurted out, "Have you no sense of right and wrong?"

"I am as good a keeper of the law as any," said Habrunt.

"Aye, and you slew those two evil men, who would have taken me upon their lusts, and cast me aside afterward as lifelessly as you have done unto them instead."

"Because they struck you without cause," Habrunt replied. "And also, lest they betray the truth of your broken vow of silence."

To Si'Wren, Habrunt's second remark seemed an astonishing thing to say.

"Then-" she hesitated in confusion, "you shall be as guilty as I! You must not do this thing."

"It is already done. If not for my foolishness, you had not taken such a vow in the first place."

"But-I did vow."

"Aye. Tell me this, little one; who shall speak of it when we return, seeing how you have taken this vow of silence?"

"I-" This time, Si'Wren could not think of what to say, so perplexing and marvelous were his words.

"Aye," Habrunt assented. "I am as guilty as you. But am I not Slavemaster of the House of Rababull? My word is final. Not even Master Rababull can overturn my decision, for behold, I have covered the sins of yourself, that by my own guilt you may be counted innocent before all. Who then shall gainsay me in this? The Invisible God? Aye, and may He ever be the right and true judge of all, more so than even the high and mighty noble Master Rababull. Methinks the Invisible One shall but praise me in the justice of what has transpired tonight."

Si'Wren listened mystified to all of this, and when she had heard all, she found that Habrunt's strange words eased her conscience, having such an effect upon her that she found herself wishing to be loosed from Master Rababull and bound to Habrunt instead. But to imagine such was rank foolishness, for Habrunt and all that he had or ever would have; did they not already belong to Master Rababull? One might as well wish for the moon.

Still reeling from the blows she had received, Si'Wren planted a misstep in his path as she staggered into Habrunt, and would have fallen if he had not caught her.

Without the slightest sign of visible effort, Habrunt dipped down and scooped her up into his arms, cradling her tenderly as he looked down into her beaten face.

His anger was gone now, and he was thinking about what must be said when he returned with her to the compound. Since he was not a talkative man in the first place, it would not seem out of character if he said nothing at all and let others do all the talking amongst themselves. That way, they could freely invent their own explanations to their hearts' content and might even think of a better answer than he could.

The two young men would be missed, but those who went a wandering so drunkenly into the wilds of the land as if to a fool's paradise would be said by many to deserve the sorry fate they had so evidently brought upon themselves. Even knowing the truth, Habrunt could readily agree to this.

He had checked them out when they had left earlier of their own accord, taking two of the traveling harlots from the caravan with them as playthings. Habrunt had thought poorly of the midnight excursion even then, before he had the slightest inkling that it was to eventually involve Si'Wren. However, the two young men were freeborn and of age, and it would have been rank insubordination for Habrunt to have uttered the slightest contradiction to their plans.

It was when Si'Wren had slipped out, that he had commanded a nearby guard to take over, so he could follow her.

An expert tracker, Habrunt had been alert enough to notice the trail signs and discovered the two hapless slave girls which the two young men had taken with them, a short distance from the gates. There in the dark, by the colorless light of a full moon obscured by heavy night mists, Habrunt had located the remains of the two unfortunate harlots from the caravan.

He almost wished he hadn't, because of what he found.

The women had evidently been abused and mistreated most evilly, as by devils, and then murdered and discarded like playthings to be tossed into the bushes by the wayside. For Habrunt, the manner of their deaths was even now something to live on in his nightmares.

Since their money and the valuable swords they had brought were unlikely to be found and would be noticed to be missing, the deaths of the two young men could easily be credited to bandits. Habrunt held his own sword awkwardly as he cradled Si'Wren in his arms.

It was his own absence, and the badly beaten physical condition of Si'Wren, which must somehow endure the gainsayings of others, and which concerned him the most now. Let them talk on, and wonder, and dream but once of a fitting explanation according to their own dim lights, and by their own mouths would they deceive themselves.