ESARIA, NESEREA
Rabyn slips into the light and airy workroom. Nubara follows. 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 massive 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 bloody 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.”