CHAPTER 9
SHAR’DAMA KA

329 AR

“GO NO FARTHER, TRAITOR, ” Dama Everal said, moving to block the entrance to the Andrah’s throne room. He was the oldest of the Andrah’s sons, almost certain to become Damaji on the death of Amadeveram, and likely Andrah after that. At fifty, he was still robust and black-haired, a sharusahk master said to have no equal.

He was also the last of the Andrah’s sons Jardir would have to kill before he could gut the fat old man.

It was not yet a month since, covered in demon gore, Jardir had announced himself the Deliverer in the Maze. Three-quarters of the Sharum had declared for him on the spot. Half the dama as well, with more converting daily. The remainder rallied to their Damaji, who attempted to defend their own palaces at first, but finally, as Jardir’s power grew, fled through the Undercity and barricaded themselves behind the walls of the Andrah’s palace.

His conquest might have lasted days rather than the weeks it had taken, but each nightfall, Jardir blew the Horn of Sharak, calling his warriors to the Maze. The meanest soldier had a battle-warded spear now, and the alagai greeted the sun in droves.

Free to regroup at night, the Andrah and Damaji had thought this a great advantage, but they had not reckoned with the shame this caused their remaining Sharum, denied alagai’sharak by their leaders while Jardir’s men saw endless glory. Warriors deserted nightly, and were welcomed in the Maze without question. At last, there were not enough to hold even the Andrah’s walls. Jardir’s men had taken the gates shortly after dawn, and breached the palace doors soon after. Now there was only one man between Jardir and his vengeance.

“Your forgiveness, Dama,” Jardir said, bowing to Everal, “but I cannot offer you surrender as I have other men, for who could trust a man not willing to die for his own father? Better that you die with honor.”

“Pretender!” Everal spat. “You are no Deliverer, just a murderer with a stolen spear. You would be nothing without it!”

Jardir stopped short, holding up a hand to halt the warriors behind him.

“Think you truly so?” Jardir asked.

Everal spat at his feet. “Put the weapon down and face me without its tainted magic, if it is not so.”

“Acha!” Jardir said, and tossed the spear to Everal. The dama caught the weapon reflexively, his eyes widening as he realized what he now held.

Something changed in Everal then, a subtle shift in his stance and disposition. The others might not have noticed, but it was as clear to Jardir as if the dama had spoken. Before, he had thought himself a doomed man, determined only to inflict some damage before he died. Now Dama Everal had a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a belief that he might kill Jardir and end the rebellion that had pierced the heart of Krasia.

Jardir nodded. “Now your soul is prepared to meet Everam with honor,” he said, and launched himself at the dama.

Everal was a sharusahk master, but the Evejah forbade clerics the spear, and in all Jardir’s years in Sharik Hora he had never seen that law broken. He expected the dama’s spearwork to be poor and easily defeated.

Seek every advantage, Khevat taught.

But Everal surprised him, spinning the spear about like a whip staff. It moved invisibly fast as the dama came at him, and for a few moments it was all Jardir could do to keep from its path. Everal’s moves were fast and precise, one attack flowing smoothly into the next as one would expect from a man who had spent four decades in Sharik Hora. Everal brought the point into play at last, scoring a line on Jardir’s cheek, and another cut in his arm.

At last, Jardir saw the rhythm behind the dama’s attacks and came in quick to hook his arm around the spear’s shaft and pivot, throwing the dama across the hall where he struck a column and landed heavily.

Jardir waited for Everal to roll to his feet, then laid the spear on the floor. The dama’s eyes widened.

“You are a fool to give up your advantage,” Everal said, but Jardir only smiled, having taken the cleric’s measure. He came in with his arms spread, and Everal met him, more than willing to grapple.

To the untrained eyes of the Sharum, what followed must have appeared a simple struggle that strength would tell, but in truth the hundreds of subtle shifts and twists were sharukin, designed to turn an opponent’s own energy against him.

Little by little, Jardir worked his way toward a death hold. It was in evitable, and he could see in the dama’s eyes that Everal knew it, too.

“Impossible,” Everal gasped as Jardir’s hand came around his throat.

“There is a difference, dama,” Jardir said, “between strength gained fighting air, and strength gained fighting alagai.” He pulled hard, and Everal’s neck snapped with a sound that echoed in the hall.

The Damaji were clustered at the foot of the dais to the Andrah’s throne. They looked up as one when Jardir’s men smashed in the doors. The Andrah cowered and cringed on the Skull Throne, gripping the arms so tightly his knuckles showed white.

Jardir looked at the cluster of old men with a predatory eye. Evejan law gave each of them the right to challenge him to single combat on his way to the dais. Jardir did not fear the Damaji, but he had no wish to kill them.

“Kill them if you must,” Inevera had said, “but your conquest will be more complete if you break their will for the fight.” She had even told him what to offer.

“Damaji,” he said. “All of you are loyal servants of Everam, and I wish no quarrel with you. I ask only that you step aside.”

“And what will become of us, after you sit the Skull Throne?” Kevera of the Sharach asked. As Damaji to Krasia’s smallest tribe, it was his place to offer the first challenge.

Jardir smiled. “Nothing, my friend. You Damaji fear for your palaces? Keep them, and minister to your tribes as you always have. I ask only a symbolic gesture of support.”

Kevera’s eyes narrowed. “And that is?”

“My second son by Qasha is nie’dama,” Jardir noted.

Kevera nodded. “A promising one.”

Jardir smiled. “I would ask that you keep him ever at your side, that he may learn at your sandals.”

“And one day succeed me,” Kevera stated more than asked.

Jardir shrugged. “If that is inevera.”

Jardir eyed the other Damaji as they digested the offer, and again marveled at the completeness of Inevera’s planning. His dama’ting wives had been fertile, and the dice never failed to predict the right moments to conceive. Each bride had presented Jardir with two sons and a daughter by their fourth year of marriage, and their bellies had continued to swell afterward. He had a nie’dama son in every tribe now, to take the black turban when the current Damaji died, even as his own wives would do on the passing of their tribe’s Damaji’ting. Inevera had laid the groundwork for him to assume power more than a decade ago. It was…unsettling.

The Damaji continued to consider. Their titles were not hereditary, but to a man they had sons and grandsons among their tribes’ dama, and it was not uncommon for the black turban to be passed along bloodlines. Still, retaining their own power would take some of the sting from his ascension, and if it grated on the Damaji to give up aspiration for their sons, it remained preferable to seeing them put to the spear, as Kaji had done to the sons of his defeated enemies. Jardir could easily do that as well, and they knew it. There was no need for him to offer his own sons as hostages, save in a sincere gesture of unity.

For the lesser tribes, this was enough.

“Shar’Dama Ka,” Kevera of the Sharach said, bowing and stepping aside.

The others followed suit, parting before him like ala before the plow: The Bajin, Anjha, Jama, Khanjin, Halvas, and Shunjin all let him pass without challenge. Jardir tensed as he approached the Krevakh and Nanji Damaji. The Watcher tribes were intensely loyal, and practiced their own schools of sharusahk, said to be the deadliest in all the Desert Spear. Jardir felt Everam’s will thrumming in him, and did not fear any man, but he kept on guard, respecting their skills.

He needn’t have worried. The Watcher Damaji were much as their Sharum, preferring to observe and advise, not lead. They stepped aside, leaving only the three most powerful Damaji standing between him and the Skull Throne: Enkaji of the Mehnding, Aleverak of the Majah, and Amadeveram of the Kaji. These men ruled thousands and lived in lavish excess. Their tribes had dozens of dama, including their own sons and grandsons. They would not surrender so easily.

Enkaji of the Mehnding was a powerfully built man, still robust at fifty-five. He was known as a man of great cleverness as well, leader of a tribe filled with battle engineers. His tribe may have been smaller, but Enkaji was wealthier than the Majah and Kaji Damaji combined, and it was no secret the Damaji had long meant to pass that wealth to his eldest son.

Their eyes met, and Jardir thought for a moment the man might actually challenge him. He was readying for the fight when the Damaji laughed ruefully and spread his hands in an exaggerated bow as he cleared the path to the dais.

Aleverak of the Majah was next. The ancient Damaji was nearly eighty, but nonetheless he bowed and assumed a sharusahk stance. Jardir nodded, and the Sharum and Damaji at his back spread wide to give the men room to fight.

Jardir bowed deeply. “You honor me, Damaji,” he said, assuming a stance of his own. He was impressed the old man was still alive, much less still possessed of his warrior’s spirit. He deserved an honorable death.

“Begin!” Amadeveram shouted, and Jardir shot forward, meaning to grapple and end the battle swiftly and bloodlessly. He might yet force a submission from the Damaji’s living lips.

But Aleverak surprised him, twisting sharply and much more quickly than Jardir would have believed possible. He caught hold of Jardir’s arm and used his own momentum against him.

Feeling his joints scream, Jardir had no choice but to go limp and follow the Damaji’s throw. He landed on his back, and the gathered crowd gasped in amazement. Aleverak advanced quickly, driving a bony heel down at Jardir’s throat, but Jardir caught the foot in both hands, twisting in opposite directions as he got his feet under him.

Aleverak accepted the twist, leaping into it and again using Jardir’s own strength against him as he kicked Jardir in the mouth with his free foot. Again Jardir found himself hitting the marble floor, with Aleverak still on his feet.

Everyone watched the battle with great interest now. A moment ago the fight had been about giving an old man an honorable death—a footnote in the tale of Jardir’s ascension. But suddenly everything Jardir had built was in jeopardy. His sons were still too young to properly defend themselves if his enemies bared knives at them without Jardir’s protection. The Andrah leaned forward on this throne, watching intently.

Aleverak charged again, but Jardir managed to get his feet back under him in time and met him head-on. This time, he kept his feet firmly planted, giving the old man no energy to turn back on him. Aleverak’s blows were amazingly quick, but Jardir still blocked the first two. The third he let go through, accepting the punch in exchange for the opportunity to lock on to the Damaji’s arm.

Aleverak offered Jardir no energy for a throw of his own, but whereas the ancient Damaji was little more than tough skin over sharp bone, Jardir was thick with muscle, a warrior in his prime. He did not need to steal energy to throw a man who weighed little more than his age.

Jardir flexed and pivoted sharply, hurling Aleverak away from him. The Damaji twisted with the move, never losing his balance even as he was thrown, and Jardir knew he would land on his feet and come right back in.

Jardir kept hold of Aleverak’s arm, ducking under it to aid his twist and putting a foot into the old man’s back as he hit the floor. He pulled hard, and the snap of Aleverak’s shoulder echoed up to the great domed ceiling above. Bone tore through the Damaji’s white robes, which quickly ran red.

Jardir moved to finish him quickly before pain could unman him, but Aleverak never screamed, never offered submission. Jardir met the ancient Damaji’s eyes and saw a focus that denied all pain as Aleverak struggled back to his feet. His honor was boundless as he took a new stance, his left arm leading as his right hung twisted, limp, and bloody.

“You cannot prevent my ascending to the Skull Throne, Damaji,” Jardir said as they slowly circled. “And most of your tribe has already sworn to me. See reason, I beg. Is a grave for you and your sons so preferable to being advisor to the Shar’Dama Ka?”

“My sons will no more turn our tribe over to you without a fight than I will,” Aleverak said. Jardir knew it was true, but he was loath to kill Aleverak all the same. Too many honorable men had died already, and with Sharak Ka coming, Ala had none to spare. His thoughts flashed back to the Par’chin, lying facedown in the sand, and shame brought mercy to his lips.

“I will let your sons offer one challenge to mine, on your death,” Jardir offered at last. “Let them decide among themselves who it will be.”

There was a buzz of angry chatter among the surrendered Damaji at that, but Jardir glared at them. “Silence!” he roared, and they all fell still. He turned back to Aleverak.

“Will you be at my side, Damaji, as Krasia rises back to glory?” he asked. The Damaji was growing paler by the second from blood loss. If he did not acquiesce, Jardir would kill him quickly, that he might die on his feet.

But Aleverak bowed, glancing to his bleeding shoulder. “I accept your offer, though that challenge may come sooner than you think.”

It was true. Jardir’s Majah son, Maji, was only eleven, and would prove no match to one of Aleverak’s sons should the Damaji die from his wound. “Hasik, escort Damaji Aleverak to the dama’ting for healing,” Jardir ordered.

Hasik moved to the old man’s side, but Aleverak held up a hand. “I will see this through, and Everam decide if I live or die this day.” The steel in his voice held Hasik at bay, and Jardir nodded, turning to Amadeveram, the last Damaji between him and the cowering Andrah.

Amadeveram was younger than Aleverak, but still a man in his seventies. Jardir knew better than to underestimate him, though, especially after the fine showing of the older cleric.

“Me, you will have to kill,” Amadeveram said. “I will not be bought with honeyed promises.”

“I am sorry, Damaji,” Jardir said, bowing, “but I will do what I must to unite the tribes.”

“Murder me now, or when your son comes of age,” Amadeveram said, “it is still murder.”

“You will be dead by then anyway, old man!” Jardir snapped. “What does it matter?”

“The sovereignty of the Kaji tribe matters!” Amadeveram shouted. “We have held the Skull Throne for a hundred years, and will hold it a hundred more!”

“No,” Jardir said, “you will not. I bring an end to tribes. Krasia will be one again, as it was in the time of Kaji himself.”

“That remains to be seen,” Amadeveram said, assuming a sharusahk pose.

“Everam will welcome you,” Jardir promised, bowing. “You have a Sharum’s heart.”

Less than a minute later, Jardir looked up at the cowering Andrah atop the dais. “You are an insult to the skulls of the brave Sharum that support your fat backside,” Jardir told him. “Come down and let us end this.”

The Andrah made no effort to rise, instead seeming to shrink farther into the great chair. Jardir scowled, taking the Spear of Kaji and climbing the seven steps to the Skull Throne.

“No!” the Andrah cried, curling into a ball and hiding his face as Jardir raised his spear.

For more than a dozen years, since seeing the fat man with his wife in their marriage bed, Jardir had envisioned killing the Andrah every single day. Inevera’s dice had told him he would one day have his vengeance, and he had clung to that prophecy desperately. Only alagai’sharak offered him distraction, and each sunrise the Andrah still lived was a blow to his honor. How many times had he practiced the speech he would recite to the man at this moment?

But now, disgust welled in Jardir’s throat like bile. The pathetic ball of flesh before him had commanded all of Krasia for Jardir’s lifetime and more, and yet he had not even the courage to look his death in the face. He was less than khaffit. Less even than the filthy pigs khaffit ate. He was not worthy of a speech.

The kill brought none of the satisfaction it had in Jardir’s fantasies. It was more of a mercy to rid the world of such a man.

The Andrah’s white outer robe was stained with blood when Jardir pulled it on over his Sharum blacks. He felt the eyes of all in the throne room lying heavily upon him, but he straightened under the weight and turned to face them.

Aleverak lay on the floor now, with Dama Shevali putting pressure on his wound. Amadeveram lay dead halfway down the steps. Jardir bent to the Damaji and pulled the black turban from his head.

“Dama Ashan of the Kaji, step forth,” he commanded. Ashan came to the foot of the steps and knelt, placing both hands and his forehead on the floor. Jardir lifted away his friend’s white turban, replacing it with the Damaji’s black.

“Damaji Ashan shall lead the Kaji,” Jardir announced, “and may pass the black turban to his sons by my sister Imisandre.” He embraced Ashan like a brother.

“The Daylight War is over,” Ashan said.

Jardir shook his head. “No, my friend. It has yet to begin. We shall rebuild our forces, fill the bellies of our women, and make ready for Sharak Sun.”

“You mean…?” Ashan asked.

“North,” Jardir agreed, “to conquer the green lands and levy their men for Sharak Ka.” There was a gasp from the remaining Damaji, but none dared question him.

A moment later the Sharum guarding the entrance gasped and hurriedly parted. In through the gap flowed the Damaji’ting and Jardir’s wives. It was against Evejan law for any man to harm a dama’ting, and so his power over the women was limited, but they had their own intrigues in the dama’ting pavilion, and it seemed Inevera had proven as adept there as in manipulating the politics of men. Each of his wives wore a black headscarf with a white veil over her dama’ting white robe, showing that she was heir to succeed her tribe’s Damaji’ting. Jardir had no idea how Inevera had done it.

Belina, his Majah wife, separated herself from the others to rush to Aleverak’s side. Jardir could recognize any of his wives at a glance, even in their full robes. Qasha could not hide her curves, nor Umshala her height. Belina had a walk that marked her as clearly as her face. The Majah Damaji’ting followed after her, seeming more the student than the mistress.

For a moment there was no sign of Inevera, but then he heard the Sharum gasp and saw men stiffen in fear. He looked up and saw his First Wife enter the room—but as only he should see her. Her brightly colored scarf and veil were diaphanous, as were the gossamer wisps of material that seemed to float about her like smoke, leaving nothing of her beauty to the imagination. Her night-black hair was netted in gold and oil-scented. Her arms and legs tinkled with jewelry of gem and warded gold. She wore no mark of caste or rank. Only her hora pouch, secure at her belt, marked her as more than a wealthy Damaji’s most favored pillow dancer.

Inevera held all eyes as she glided into the room—both the dumbstruck gapes of the men, and the cold assessment of the Damaji’ting. Jardir’s face heated as she went to him, and against his will, he felt stirrings best left to the bedchamber. He tried to retain his composure, but she went right up to him, pulling aside her veil to kiss him deeply. She draped her soft body about him as if she were posing for a statue, marking him before all like a bitch marked a corner.

“What in Nie’s abyss are you playing at?” he whispered sharply.

“Reminding them that the Shar’Dama Ka is not bound by the laws of men,” Inevera said. “Take me right on the Skull Throne with all watching, if you wish. None will dare protest.” She slipped a hand between his legs and caressed him softly. Jardir gasped.

“I would protest,” he hissed, pushing her out to arm’s length. Inevera shrugged, smiling widely and caressing his face.

“All Krasia rejoices in your victory today, husband,” she said loudly for the room to hear.

Jardir knew he should respond in kind, making some bold speech, but such political posturing sickened him still, and he had other concerns.

“Will he live?” Jardir asked, nodding to Aleverak. The Damaji had lost great pools of blood, and his arm was a twisted ruin.

Belina shook her head. “Doubtful, husband,” she said, bowing her head as a proper wife—something his dama’ting wives had never done before.

“Save him,” Jardir murmured to Inevera.

“To what end?” Inevera breathed through her veil for his ears alone. “Aleverak is stubborn and too powerful. Better to remove him.”

“I promised him that when he dies, his heir may challenge Maji for the Majah palace,” Jardir said.

Inevera’s eyes bulged. “You did what?!” Everyone glanced her way, but the look was gone in an instant, and her body eased once more. She pulled away and sashayed down the dais steps, the sway of her hips, visible through her diaphanous robe, drawing the gaze of every man in the room. Jardir’s honor howled for him to gouge out every eye for feasting on what should be his alone.

Belina and the Majah Damaji’ting both bowed deeply and moved from Inevera’s path. “Damajah,” they greeted her in unison.

Aleverak had passed out from the loss of blood by the time Inevera finished examining the wound. She stood and looked to the Sharum. “Draw every curtain and close every door,” she commanded, and as several warriors rushed to comply, she had the others encircle her and the injured Damaji with their backs to her, holding up and interlocking their shields to bathe her and Aleverak in darkness.

In the darkened room, Jardir could see the faint glow of alagai hora pulsing through the living wall, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of Inevera’s chanted prayers. The glow throbbed for several minutes as the men in the room stood in awe.

Inevera gave a command, and the circle of dal’Sharum broke. Warriors rushed to open curtains, restoring light to the room, and there, lying calm next to Inevera, was Damaji Aleverak. Stripped to the waist, his flesh had lost its gray pallor, and he breathed comfortably. Gone were any signs of his wound, the bone or bleeding or even a scar. There was only smooth flesh across his shoulder.

Smooth flesh where there should have been an arm. The limb was nowhere to be seen.

“Everam has accepted Damaji Aleverak’s arm as a token of his submission,” Inevera announced loudly. “Aleverak is forgiven for doubting the Deliverer, and if he walks Everam’s true path from now on, he will rejoin his lost limb in Heaven.”

She went back to Jardir, draping herself over him once more. “My husband must cool his blood after such a victory as today’s,” she said loudly, addressing the entire room. “Leave us, that I may tend him in private, as only a wife can.”

There was a shocked murmuring among the men at this. It was unheard of for a woman, even a Damaji’ting, to give such orders to Damaji. They looked to Jardir, but when he did not contradict her, they had no choice but to comply.

“Are you an idiot?” Inevera snapped, when they were alone. “Putting your control of the Majah—not to mention your son—at risk, and for what?”

Jardir noted how she put Maji second. “I do not expect you to understand why it had to be done.”

“Oh?” Inevera asked, her tone venomous. “Is your Jiwah Ka such a fool, then? Why should she be unable to understand the wisdom here?”

“Because it is a matter of honor!” Jardir snapped. “And you have shown you do not waste a moment’s thought on such foolish things.”

Inevera glared at him for a moment, and then turned away, her dama’ting serenity back in place. “It is no matter. Aleverak’s heirs can be dealt with in time.”

“You will not interfere in this,” Jardir said. “Maji will just have to prove the stronger.”

“And if he fails?” Inevera asked.

“Then Everam does not wish him to lead the Majah,” Jardir said.

Inevera looked ready to respond, but only shook her head. “It isn’t a total loss. Word of your crippling Aleverak but allowing him to live and serve you still will only add to your legend.”

“You sound like Abban,” Jardir muttered.

“Eh?” she asked, though he knew she heard full well.

“Enough,” he said. “It is done and there is nothing for it. Now put on a decent robe and veil before you put impure thoughts into the minds of my men.”

“Bold as ever,” Inevera said, but she smiled behind her translucent veil, seeming more amused than irritated. “The Evejah commands women to wear veils so no man covet what is not his, but you are the Deliverer. Who would dare covet your woman? I have nothing to fear if I walk naked through the streets.”

“Nothing to fear, perhaps, but what advantage comes with the baring of your sex like a whore for any man to see?” Jardir asked.

Inevera’s eyebrows tightened, though her face remained serene. “I bare my face that none might mistake me. I bare my body that your power might be increased, for having such manly lusts that even the leader of the Damaji’ting must be prepared to service you instantly.”

“Another deception,” Jardir said wearily, sitting upon the throne.

“Not at all,” Inevera purred, sliding into his lap. “I am fully prepared to stand responsible for the lusts of Shar’Dama Ka.”

“You make it sound a task,” Jardir said. “A tedious price of power.”

“Not so tedious,” Inevera said, tracing a finger down his chest. She undid the fastenings of his pantaloons and moved to mount him.

Jardir could not deny the lust her beauty roused in him, but he felt, too, the Skull Throne under him, and he looked up as Inevera sheathed herself upon him, much as she had ridden the Andrah. Killing the man had done nothing to excise the image from his mind. It haunted him like a spirit denied passage to the next life.

Did Inevera truly feel passion at his touch, or were her moans and gyrations just another mask, like the opaque veil she had cast aside? Jardir honestly did not know.

He stood up, lifting her off him. “I am in no mood for such games.”

Inevera’s eyes widened, but she held her temper. “This says differently,” she purred, squeezing his stiffened member.

Jardir pushed her away. “It does not rule me,” he said, redoing the fastenings at his waist.

Inevera gave him the look of a coiled snake, and for a moment he thought she would attack him, but then her dama’ting serenity returned. She shrugged as if his refusal was no matter, glided from the dais, hers hips swaying hypnotically as she descended.

Hasik touched his forehead to the marble floor before the dais of the Skull Throne.

“I have brought the khaffit, Deliverer,” he said with distaste. When Jardir nodded, the guards opened the door and Abban limped in. When he drew close to the dais, Hasik shoved Abban forward, meaning to drive him to his knees, but Abban was quick with his crutch and somehow managed to keep his feet.

“Kneel before Shar’Dama Ka!” Hasik roared, but Jardir raised a hand to stay him.

“If I am to die, at least allow me to do it on my feet,” Abban said.

Jardir smiled. “What makes you think I wish to kill you?”

“Am I not another loose thread to be clipped?” Abban asked. “Like the Par’chin before me?” Hasik growled and his grip tightened on his spear as his eyes filled with murderous rage.

“Leave us,” Jardir said, whisking a hand at Hasik and the other guards. As they complied, Jardir descended from the dais to stand before Abban.

“You speak things best left unspoken,” he said quietly.

“He was your friend, Ahmann,” Abban said, ignoring him. “But then, I suppose I was once, as well.”

“The Par’chin showed you the spear,” Jardir realized suddenly. “You, a simpering fat khaffit, laid eyes on the Spear of Kaji before me!”

“I did,” Abban agreed, “and I knew it for what it was. But I did not steal it from him, though I could have. A simpering fat khaffit I may be, but I am no thief.”

Jardir laughed. “No thief? Abban, that is all you are! You steal relics from the dead and cheat men in the bazaar every day!”

Abban shrugged. “I see no crime in salvaging what no man claims is his, and haggling is just another form of battle, with no dishonor to the victor. I speak of killing a man—a friend—that you might take what is his.”

Jardir snarled and his arm shot out, taking Abban by the throat. The fat merchant gasped and clutched at Jardir’s fingers, but he might as well have tried to bend steel. His knees buckled, putting his full weight on the arm, but still Jardir held him up. Abban’s face began to turn purple.

“I will not have my honor questioned by a khaffit,” he said. “My loyalty is to Krasia and Everam before friends, however brave they may be.

“Where are your loyalties, Abban?” he asked. “Do you even have any, beyond protecting your own fat skin?” He released Abban, who fell to the floor, gasping for air.

“What does it matter?” Abban choked out after a moment. “With the Par’chin dead, Krasia has no use for me.”

“The Par’chin is not the only greenlander in the world,” Jardir said, “and no Krasian knows of the green lands like Abban the khaffit. You are of use to me yet.”

Abban raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked, the fear leaving his voice.

“I don’t have to answer your questions, khaffit,” Jardir said. “You will tell me what I wish to know either way.”

“Of course,” Abban said with a nod, “but it might be easier to simply answer my question than to call your torturers and sift the knowledge from my screams.”

Jardir considered him a moment, then shook his head and chuckled despite himself. “I had forgotten that you find your courage when there is a scent of profit in the air,” he said, reaching out a hand to pull Abban to his feet.

Abban bowed with a smile. “Inevera, my friend. We are all as Everam made us.” For a moment, the years fell away, and they were to each other as they once had been.

“I am going to begin Sharak Sun, the Daylight War,” Jardir said. “As Kaji before me, I will conquer the green lands and unite them all for Sharak Ka.”

“Ambitious,” Abban said, but there was doubtful condescension in his tone.

“You do not think I can do this?” Jardir asked. “I am the Deliverer!”

“No, Ahmann, you are not,” Abban said quietly. “If it was anyone, we both know it was the Par’chin.”

Jardir glared at him, and Abban glared right back, as if daring Jardir to strike him.

“So you won’t help me willingly,” Jardir said.

Abban smiled. “I never said that, my friend. There is great profit in war.”

“But you doubt I can succeed,” Jardir said.

Abban shrugged. “The Northland is far bigger than you think, Ahmann, and more populous than Krasia by far.”

Jardir scoffed. “You doubt any ten, any hundred Northern cowards can match even one dal’Sharum?”

Abban shook his head. “I would never doubt you about great things like battle. But I am khaffit, and doubt small things.” He looked at Jardir pointedly. “Like the food and water supplies you would need to cross the desert. The men you would need to leave behind to hold the Desert Spear and captured territory. The wagonloads of khaffit to serve the army’s needs, and women to sate their lusts. And who would protect the women and children you leave behind? The dama? What will they turn this city into while you are gone?”

Jardir was taken aback. Indeed, in his dreams of conquest in battle, such things had seemed too inconsequential to matter. Inevera had been masterful in manipulating his rise, but somehow he doubted she considered such things, either. He looked at Abban with new respect.

“My coffers would open wide to someone who could care for such small things,” he said.

Abban smiled, bowing as low as his crutch would allow. “It would be my pleasure to serve the Shar’Dama Ka.”

Jardir nodded. “I want to march in three summers.” He put his arm around Abban, drawing him close like a friend and putting his lips within inches of Abban’s ear.

“And if you ever try to cheat me like some mark in the bazaar,” he added in a low voice, “I will tan your skin and use it as a dung sack. That is a promise you should remember.”

Abban paled and nodded quickly. “I will never forget it.”