But the even purring of the fans went on incessantly, and the poor, priest-ridden fool who owned it all scowled straight in front of him, his brows lined deep in thought.
It is a strange malady, that which seizes men whom fate has elevated to a throne.

It acts as certain Indian drugs are known to do--deprives its victim of the power to act, but intensifies his ability to think, and theorize, and feel.

Howrah, with untold treasure in his vaults, with an army of five thousand men, with the authority and backing that a hundred generations give, could long for more--could fear the loss of what he did have--but could not act.
The priests held him fear-bound.

His brother held him hate-bound.

His women--and not even he knew, probably, how many of them languished in the secret warren inside those palace walls--kept him restless in a net of this-and-that-way-tugged intrigue.