Part 19 (1/2)
28.
ESARIA, NESEREA.
Rabyn slips into the light and airy workroom. Nubara folows. Both stand and study the three polished drums, each not quite as tall as is Rabyn. The floor has been swept spotlessly clean, and all the tools removed from the workbench and polished before having been set on the shelves adjoining the bench.
Beside each drum is a high stool, and a pair of wooden mallets is laid on the seat of each stool.
The gray-haired crafter bows. ”They are finished, sire. As you requested.
Exactly as you requested.”
”We will be the judge of that.” Rabyn barely looks at the older man as he steps around him and stops by the first drum. His fingers stroke the polished wood, now so smooth that it reflects the dark-haired Prophet's image as if the drum were a mirror.
Nubara sees his own reflection beside that of the Prophet and smiles, belatedly.”I saw that, Nubara,” Rabyn says easily.
The crafter steps back involuntarily.
”Let us see how these sound.” Rabyn takes the mallets from the stool of the drum closest to the workroom door, then seats himself on the stool. He taps the stretched hide that covers the drum frame. A low rolling boom fills the workroom. He nods and slips off the stool, replacing the mallets. After repeating the process with both of the remaining drums, Rabyn returns to the second drum and reseats himself on the stool with a sly, serpentlike smile.
Nubara frowns, his eyes going from the Prophet to the crafter, who remains standing by the workbench, his head bowed.
Lifting the mallets, the young Prophet tries one rhythm, then a second. Finally, after several other attempts, he nods to himself, and a driving and thundering, rolling beat fills the workroom. Rabyn begins a chant, not exactly a song, but more than a simple refrain, with a thin tenor that is clear and rises above the thunder of the ma.s.sive drum.
Heed, heed, heed, the beating of the drum; break, break, break the heart whose end has come...
The crafter's eyes widen and he swallows, then drops to his knees, clutching at his chest, gasping for air.
... turn, turn, the body into dust!
The rolling thunder that has filled the room dies away, and Rabyn carefully climbs down from the stool and replaces the mallets. ”You will have the workbench and the woods removed, will you not, Nubara? And you will make sure that no one touches the drums.”
”Ah... yes, honored Prophet” The Mansuuran officer licks his lips. ”I... did not know you could do... such.” He looks at the heap of dust on the workroom floor.
He swallows. ”Did you not promise...?”
Rabyn laughs. ”I promised to pay him well, and in gold. For his dislike of me, I have paid him. The golds will go to his ugly daughter, and she will be freed. So will her mother. You will tell them that he developed the b.l.o.o.d.y flux and a pox, and we had to burn his body. I promised him five golds. Give them ten... with great care.”
”Yes, honored Prophet.”
”Remember, Nubara, I am a ruler who keeps his promises.” The serpentlike smile follows. ”All of them.” Rabyn strokes the side of the drum, lovingly. ”A most wonderful drum, and it will do exactly as I wish.”
Nubara looks down at the pale paving stones of the workroom floor, then lifts his eyes to the Prophet, meeting the younger man's glance evenly. ”With drum and Darksong, best you be most careful of what you wish, Prophet”
”I always am sure of that, Nubara. Just like my mother was. Always.”
29.
Anna slowed as she heard voices in the side corridor leading to the receiving room. She glanced back at Lejun and Rickel. The taller blond Rickel nodded and slowed.The Regent listened. A small high voice reached her ears- Secca's.
”... she's not like that. She worries about everyone. You just worry about you.
Lords can't do that. They have to worry about everyone.”
Anna waited.
”You're too young to say things like that, Secca.” The older youth's voice held a sneer. ”You're being silly.”
Anna wanted to slap Jimbob for the patronizing tone, but instead remained silent, waiting to see how Secca would handle the heir.
”You're like all boys. When someone's right, and you don't like it, you tell them they're silly. Or you hit them.”
Anna couldn't help but grin.
”I do not,” replied Jimbob.
”You would,” Secca insisted. ”You're afraid of Lady Anna and your grandsire.”
There was silence in the corridor.
”A lot you know,” Jimbob finally answered.
”You could be nicer. You should be if you want to be the lord like your father was.”
”I'll be lord. It doesn't matter what you think.”
”It matters what Lady Anna thinks, and if you don't get nicer, you'll never be lord.”
”Nice people don't win battles,” snapped Jimbob. ”Lady Anna isn't always nice.
She's killed scores and scores of people. You just see her here in Falcor. It's different in battle. All the lancers say so.”
Have you become two people... nice when it suits you and ruthless the rest of the time? Anna frowned. If you wanted to survive, did you have any choice?
”She's only nasty when people like you make her that way! I don't have to talk to you.” The sound of small footsteps headed toward the corner.
Anna waited and let Secca run almost into her. ”Secca! Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Secca stopped, and looked up. Her eyes were bright, but not tearing. ”Lady Anna.” She bowed. ”I have to get my scrolls for figures. Dythya said we had to bring them every day.”
Anna smiled. ”Don't let Jimbob get to you. He's having trouble understanding that just because he's the heir doesn't mean that the rules are any different for him.”
”He said... you weren't always nice.”
Anna looked straight into the redhead's amber eyes. ”Sometimes, I've had to do things that weren't what I wanted. You will, too. We all do the best we can.