It only had to make his slaves move--to
swing their swords and throw away their own precious lives in the face
of any possible enemy, the better to save his own precious hide.
He watched as the temple priests prepared the shoulder litter, putting
the solid ebony war god and trophy bones on the platform and brushing
off the dust.
The temple was a miniature copy of the Emperor's, barely large enough
to permit two or three priests to move about and conduct family
ceremonials. The Emperor himself would not trouble himself to lend
assistance, Master Rababull knew. To the Emperor, any fight amongst his
subjects over what he would consider petty water rights was a mere
squabble, too far beneath his dignity to so much as notice.
Indeed, Master Rababull reflected sourly, from the Emperor's point of
view, a new landlord might be more successful with the harvest and
produce greater taxes. Why waste the lives of the Royal Guard, over
such? Master Rababull had seen it before, from the sidelines, as it
were. That was how little the Emperor cared for his own, although it
was seldom proclaimed in so many words.
The temple was built out of stone pillars on a raised mound of
flat-topped, hard-beaten earth, a level berm six steps above the
surrounding compound courtyard, with heavy carved cedar timbers for a
roof.
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