The Blood-stained Belt Read Online Free PDF

money-pouches against
pickpockets but, with the looks that we were getting, they could
also have been fingering their daggers. I pressed back against the
wall trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while Sharma gave a
final snort – it sounded about as loud as a horse clearing its
nostrils on a winter’s morning -- and moved off, saying over his
shoulder, 'What a bunch of losers! I’ve had enough! I'll be at the
other side of the square.'
    Listening to
the speaker, I thought that old Aggam, the supreme anti-monarchist,
would have approved of the sentiments that were being expressed. By
coincidence, just then, I thought that I saw Aggam standing nearby
partly concealed by a pillar. Thinking I was mistaken – hoping that
I was mistaken, in fact -- I looked again. Sure enough, it was
Aggam. He gave me a glare of recognition and then returned his
attention to the speaker, giving me the opportunity to sneak
another look at him. He was more animated than I had ever seen him.
In fact, he was even more animated than when he went after one of
his pupils with his stick. Aggam caught me looking at him, glared
at me with narrowed eyes, turned his thin lips down in disapproval,
and then directed his attention back to the speaker. I studied him
surreptitiously, not wanting the old fool to think that I had any
interest in him. By Zabrazal – he was more of a desiccated old
sourpuss than ever! Suddenly, agreeing with some reactionary
statement, Aggam punched his stick into the air and let out a
holler of appreciation that was so loud that I jumped to one side,
thinking that he was coming after me. I recognised the stick only
too well. It was the same one that he used in the schoolroom, the
stick that he called 'The Corrector'. Feeling uneasy, I sidled to
the edge of the crowd, suspecting that even here in public Aggam
was capable of laying about my shoulders if he thought that I
wasn’t showing enough devotion to the ancient cause of the priestly
rulers. However, even while I was moving away from him, I thought
happily that this time old Aggam, the scourge of the schoolroom and
the terror of our youthful days, would find himself outnumbered,
out-argued, and out-maneuvered.
    Two days later
the Assembly convened on a grassy slope on the outskirts of
Sininda. Standing on a platform high enough to be seen by everyone,
Izebol began the proceedings by sacrificing a white goat on an
altar. After he declared that the omens were good, he launched
straight into berating the People of Keirine in general for being
unfaithful to Zabrazal. Raising his priestly rod in both hands, he
declaimed, ‘Fools! You want to become like the nations around you,
abandoning your god for the false glitter of earthly splendour.’
Although this was greeted with a roar of dissatisfaction from the
crowd, Izebol was unmoved. He just folded his arms across his chest
and stood his ground, chin lowered, bull-like head thrust forward,
glowering at the delegates. When he could be heard again, he cried
that a king would turn out to be an oppressor who would tax the
nation beyond endurance and would strip it of its resources.
Furthermore, cried Izebol, a king would conscript the young men for
his army and for his road gangs and would demand that the prettiest
young women should serve him as maids and concubines. Rising to a
crescendo, Izebol almost spat out his final denunciation when he
called out, 'Fools! You are going to choose your own oppressor!
Ha!’
    In response, a
stocky man of about forty years of age with broad shoulders and
strong thighs stood up. His hair, thick and tawny, was
unfashionably long and unruly as if he brandished it in the face of
convention. He wore a soldier’s jerkin and stood with his legs
planted firmly apart like a man who knew how to weather a gale.
Izebol looked at him calmly from under glowering brows and called
out, ‘You may speak, Jainar.’
    Sharma
whispered, ‘That’s Jainar of Orifinre. They say that he might be
elected king if