"They paid it, sire."
"Triple it."
"I am sure they would pay it, for --"
"Make it tenfold. Set it so high they can not pay it. "
"But Serene One, that is the point. The gold with which they pay is chemically pure. Our doctors of temporal wisdom tell us that this gold is made, transmuted. There is no limit to the tax they can pay. In fact," he went on hurriedly, "it is our opinion, subject always to the correction of superior wisdom" -- he bowed quickly -- "that this is not a religion at all, but scientific forces of an unknown sort!"
"You are suggesting that these barbarians have greater scientific attainments than the Chosen Race?"
"Please, sire, they have something, and that something is demoralizing your people. The incidence of honorable suicide has climbed to an alarming high, and there have been far too many petitions to return to the land of our fathers.
"No doubt you have found means to discourage such requests?"
"Yes, Serene One, but it has only resulted in a greater number of honorable suicides among those thrown in contact with the priests of Mota. I fear to say it, but such contact seems to weaken the spirit of your children."
"Hm-m-m. I think, yes, I think that I will see this High Priest of Mota."
"When will the Serene One see him?"
"That I will tell you. In the meantime, let it be said that my learned doctors, if they have not lived too many years and passed their usefulness, will be able to duplicate and counteract any science the barbarians may have."
"The Serene One has spoken."
The Prince Royal watched with great interest as Ardmore approached him. The man walked without fear. And, the Prince was forced to admit, the man had a certain dignity about him, for a barbarian. This would be interesting. What was that shining thing around his head? -- an amusing conceit, that.
Ardmore stopped before him and pronounced a benediction, hand raised high. Then -- "You asked that I visit you, Master."
"So I did." Was the man unaware that he should kneel?
Ardmore glanced around. "Will the Master cause his servants to fetch me a chair?"
Really, the man was delightful -- regrettable that he must die. Or would it be possible to keep him around the palace for diversion? Of course, that would entail the deaths of all who had watched this scene and perhaps more such expedient deaths later, if his delicious vagaries continued. The Prince concluded that it was not the initial cost, but the upkeep.
He raised a hand. Two scandalized menials hastened up with a stool. Ardmore sat down. His eye rested on the chess table by the Prince. The Prince followed his glance and inquired, "Do you play the Battle Game?"
"A little, Master."
"How would you solve this problem?"
Ardmore got up and stood over the board. He studied it for a few moments, while the Oriental watched him. The courtiers were as silent as the pieces on the board -- waiting.
"I would move this pawn -- so," Ardmore announced at last.
"In such a fashion? That is a most unorthodox move."
"But necessary. From there it is mate in three moves -- but, of course, the Master sees that.",
"Of course. Yes, of course. But I did not fetch you here for chess," he added, turning away. "We must speak of other matters. I learn with sorrow that there have been complaints about your followers."
"The Master's sorrow is my sorrow. May the servant ask in what manner. his children have erred?"
But the Prince was again studying the chessboard. He raised a finger; a servant was kneeling beside him with writing board. He dipped a brush in ink and quickly executed a group of ideographs, sealing. the letter with his ring. The servant bowed himself away, while a messenger sped out with the dispatch.
"What was that? Oh, yes -- it is reported that they lack in grace. Their manner is unseemly in dealing with the Chosen Ones."
"Will the Master help an humble priest by telling him which of his children have been guilty of lapses from propriety and in what respects that he may correct them?"
This request, the Prince admitted to himself, was awkward. In some manner this uncouth creature had managed to put him on the defensive. He was not used to being asked for details; it was improper. Furthermore there was no answer; the conduct of the priests of Mota had been impeccable, flawless, in every fashion that could be cited.
Yet his court stood there, waiting, to hear what answer he would make to this crude indecency. How went the ancient lines? " ... Kung F'tze confounded by the question of a dolt!"
"It is not meet that the servant should question the master. At this moment you err in the fashion of your followers."
"Your pardon, Master. Though the slave may not question, is it not written that he may pray for mercy and help? We are simple servants, possessing not the wisdom of the Sun and of the Moon. Are you not our father and our mother? Will you not, from your heights, instruct us?"
The Prince refrained from biting his lip. How had this happened? By some twist of words this barbarian had put him in the wrong again. It was not safe to let the man open his mouth! Still -- this must be met; when a slave cries for mercy, honor requires an answer.
"We consent to instruct you in one particular; learn the lesson well and other aspects of wisdom will come to you of themselves." He paused and considered his words. "The manner of address used by you and your lesser priests in greeting the Chosen Ones is not seemly. This afront corrupts the character of all who see it."
"Am I to believe that the Chosen Race disdains the blessing of the Lord Mota?"
He had twisted it -- again! Sound policy required that the ruler assume that the gods of the slaves were authentic. "The blessing is not refused, but the form of greeting must be that of servant to master."
Ardmore was suddenly aware that he was being called with urgency. Ringing in his head was the voice of Thomas: "Chief! Chief! Can you hear me? There's a squad of police at every temple, demanding the surrender of the priests -- we're getting reports in from all over the country!"
"The Lord Mota hears!" It was addressed to the Prince; would Jeff understand also?
Jeff again -- "Was that to me, Chief?"
"See to it that his followers understand." The Prince had answered too quickly for Ardmore to devise another double meaning in which to speak to Thomas. But he knew something that the Prince did not know he knew. Now to use it.
"How can I instruct my priests when you are even now arresting them?" Ardmore's manner changed suddenly from humble to accusatory.
The face of the Prince was impassive, his eyes alone gave away his astonishment. Had the man guessed the nature of that dispatch? "You speak wildly."
"I do not! Even while you have been instructing me in the way that I must instruct my priests, your soldiers have been knocking at the gates of all the temples of Mota. Wait! I have a message to you from the Lord Mota: His priests do not fear worldly power. You have not succeeded in arresting them, nor would you, did not the Lord Mota bid them to surrender. In thirty minutes, after the priests have cleansed themselves spiritually and girded themselves for the ordeal, each will surrender himself at the threshold of his temple. Until then, woe to the soldier who attempts to violate the House of Mota!"
"'At's telling 'em Chief! 'At's telling 'em! You mean for each temple priest to hold off thirty more minutes, then surrender -- is that right? And for them to be loaded for bear, power units, communicators, and all the latest gadgets. Acknowledge, if you can."
"In the groove, Jeff." He had to chance it four meaningless syllables to the Prince, but Jeff would understand.