“We have your brother and his lieutenants,” Thamos said. “Harm us, and you will never see them again.”
“Icha?” Jayan asked.
Thamos nodded. “And three kai, half a dozen drillmasters, and more than fifty Sharum. Grant me honorable combat, and they will be released.”
Jayan turned to his dal’Sharum. “See how even chin warriors attempt to bargain for their lives like khaffit merchants!”
The Krasian warriors jeered, many around the ring spitting at Thamos.
Jayan turned back to Thamos. “Keep my brother and his men! If they were weak and stupid enough to be captured by chin, they deserve no better. We will come for them soon enough.”
He raised his veil. “But if you wish me to kill you personally for thinking you could cuckold the Shar’Dama Ka, that I will grant.”
Thamos was quick to replace his helm and snatch up his long spear, kicking his horse to circle counter to Jayan as he readied himself.
Neither man hesitated long, kicking their great mustang into nearly identical charges, spears lowered.
At the last moment before they struck, Jayan lifted his spear to take aim at Thamos’ chest. Thamos, unexpectedly, tossed his long spear expertly in the air, catching it in a reversed grip much closer to the head.
Jayan’s spear struck the count full in the chest, but there was a flare of light from the wards on Thamos’ armor, and the weapon shattered.
And then Thamos was in close, able to put force and speed to a series of rapid spear thrusts, poking holes at Jayan’s defenses, searching for an opening.
Jayan tried to ride off and regroup, but the count was the better horseman, his mare herding Jayan’s stallion like a sheepdog, keeping them locked close as the count continued the battering.
Jayan moved his shield with frantic speed, and under its wide shade and his own glass armor, he found shelter enough. But he was on the defensive, and without a spear to strike back. It seemed the count would soon manage to find a seam in his armor and deliver a killing blow.
Jayan shoved against his shield, knocking Thamos back just enough to strike at his mount. The back of the mare’s neck was armored, but its throat was not, and Jayan buried the broken haft of his spear into it.
The giant mustang reared and gurgled, stumbling on hind legs as its forelegs kicked wildly. Thamos kept his seat until the animal began to topple, managing to throw himself clear of its bulk as they struck the ground.
Briar thought it would end there, but Jayan rode back to his lieutenants, dismounting and taking up a six-foot infantry spear.
Thamos was back on his feet as Jayan began striding toward him. He left his ten-foot cavalry spear in the mud, pulling a three-foot Angierian fencing spear from its harness on his back as he waited for his enemy to come.
Jayan growled, his feet set in the stance Briar’s father had taught him long ago. His skittering steps forward were fast and economical, spear resting on his shield arm. His arm was a blur as he pumped the weapon much as the count had on horseback, searching the wooden armor for weaknesses to exploit.
Thamos took most of the barrage on his shield and breastplate, thrusting his own spear low at the gap between the armor plates on Jayan’s thigh.
But Jayan twisted the limb out of the weapon’s path. With his shield hand he grasped the harness straps on Thamos’ back and hauled, driving a knee into his stomach as Thamos was flipped onto his back, momentarily stunned.
But again Jayan let the advantage go, circling while the count shook himself and rose to his feet, growling. He hunched low, tamping feet like a cat.
“I may not see the dawn, but neither will you,” Thamos promised.
Jayan barked a laugh. “You have great balls, chin. When I have killed you, I will cut them off and shove them down your throat.”
Thamos came in fast—faster than Briar would have thought possible. The wards on his armor were glowing now as his fencing spear whipped through the air in thrusts and parries.
Jayan picked them off confidently now, his skittering steps never losing balance. He circled away from one thrust, spinning around to strike Thamos hard in the face with the rim of his shield. The count stumbled back, and Jayan pressed in, delivering hard jabs into his armor that battered and stung, even if they could not penetrate. Thamos was herded like an animal into the center of the ring.
The count struck back with a shield attack of his own, but Jayan was ready for it. He dropped his own shield and reached in to take the biceps of Thamos’ shield arm. He pivoted clockwise, straightening the arm, then thrust hard into the gap beneath Thamos’ helmet.
The count stood shaking a moment, then dropped limply to the ground.
At last Qeran gave the signal, and the slinger teams let loose another volley, casks of heated tar that shattered against the hulls of the enemy ships making their final press for the port.
Marring the wards.
The effect was immediate. Abban saw the glow of water demons as they came streaming toward the vulnerable ships, and caught a rare glimpse of the creatures as they broke the surface here and there to break hulls with tentacle and snapping claw. A few braved the open air long enough to slither onto the ships, sweeping the decks as easily as a wedge of Sharum.
The surface of the lake turned to a churning froth, men and women screaming as they were pulled under.
Then, as they looked on in horror, a huge demon came close to the surface. The water heaved in great spumes as tentacles the size of Sharik Hora’s minarets rose around one of the largest vessels, wrapping about the hull and squeezing. The deck splintered in the crush, hapless sailors flailing as they were sucked down. In moments, the entire ship vanished beneath countless tons of water.
Khevat turned his dark glare on Abban. “Is this your doing, khaffit?”
Abban swallowed, but after what he had just witnessed, there was little the cleric could do to frighten him.
He straightened, steeling himself. “It was, dama. Do not blame Drillmaster Qeran. He argued most vehemently against the plan, and Jayan was never told.”
Khevat only stared. It was a negotiation tactic Abban knew well, giving one’s adversary the rope for his own hanging, but Khevat was a sharusahk master, and the ranking cleric in Everam’s Reservoir. If he decided to kill Abban here and now, there was nothing Abban could do to stop him.
Best to convince him otherwise.
“Look,” Abban said, pointing to the chaos on the water. As instructed, Qeran and his captured ships retreated with all speed when the demons began their feeding frenzy. “Most of our captured ships are safely away, and the enemy fleet is destroyed. Already the few that remain are fleeing back to their floating home. Even the Sharum’s Lament runs from us, and I daresay Captain Dehlia is not showing her breasts this time.”
“You gave our enemies to the alagai,” Asavi said, her voice low, dangerous. “Gave them to Nie.”
“I did,” Abban said. “There was no other choice, if we were to defeat the attack and escape with enough ships to end the stalemate. Should I have left our men to die?”
“They are Sharum,” Khevat said. “Their souls are prepared, and they know the price of war.”
“As do I,” Abban said. “I know the price, and I paid what I must for victory. These men attacked in the night, on Waning. They are no brothers of ours, no enemies of Nie. Indeed, they do her bidding, and so I gave them to her.”
He pointed a finger at Khevat, a simple action that was nevertheless reason enough for a dama to kill a khaffit by Evejan law. “I paid the price for our men, and I paid it for you.”
“For me?” Khevat asked.
“And the Sharum Ka, and even Qeran, who would have refused the order had he not sworn an oath to obey me. All of you may go to the Creator with no weight on your souls. The soulless khaffit has spared you responsibility. Let Everam judge me, when I finally limp to the end of the lonely path.”
Khevat stared at him a long time, and Abban wondered just how soon he woul
d be standing before the Creator. But then the dama turned to Asavi, a question in his eyes.
The dama’ting searched him with her eyes, and it was all Abban could do not to squirm under her gaze.
At last she nodded. “The khaffit speaks the truth. He is already doomed to sit outside the gates of Heaven until Everam takes pity and grants him another life. It is inevera.”
Khevat grunted, moving to the window and laying a hand on the glass as he watched the ships burn.
“These men were no brothers of ours,” he agreed at last. “We did not make them attack in the night. Inevera.”
Abban blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
CHAPTER 27
DAMA IN THE DARK
334 AR WINTER
“They said I was cursed by Everam, to bear three daughters after Ahmann,” Kajivah told the crowd, waving a hand at Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya. The Holy Mother was clad in plain black wool. She wore the white veil of kai’ting, but unlike the other women of Ahmann’s blood, Kajivah had taken to wearing a white headwrap, as well.
Inevera, watching from the royal tier as the Holy Mother gave the blessing over the Waning feast, wished she could be anywhere else. She had heard the idiot woman give this speech a thousand times.
“But I always said Everam blessed me with a son so great, he needed no brothers!” The crowd erupted in a roar of approval at the words, warriors stomping feet and clattering spears on shields as their wives clapped and children cheered.
“We thank Everam for the food we are about to partake of, richer fare than many of us knew before Ahmann led us from the Desert Spear into the green lands,” Kajivah went on. “But I wish to thank the women who worked so hard preparing the feast as well.”
More applause. “We honor the Sharum’ting who stand tall in the night, but there are other ways to give honor to the Creator. The wives and daughters who keep the bellies of our men full, their houses clean, their cribs full of children. We honor today the men who protect us from the alagai, but also the women who brought them forth and suckled them, who taught them honor and duty and love of family. Women who are modest and humble before Everam, providing the foundation our fighting men depend upon.”
The cheering increased, with women wailing in love and devotion. Inevera saw more than one woman openly weeping, and couldn’t believe it.
“Too many of us are forgetting who we are and where we come from, lowering our veils and coveting the immodest dress of the Northern women. Women daring to wear colors, as if they were the Damajah herself!” Kajivah swept a hand at Inevera, and there were boos and hisses. Inevera knew they were directed at immodest women, but she could not help but prickle at the sound of hisses to her name.
“The Damajah was wise in giving the Holy Mother this task,” Ashan said. “The people love her.”
Inevera was not so sure. It seemed harmless enough, asking Kajivah to plan feasts. It kept her busy and out of Inevera’s way. But somehow the fool woman was winning the hearts of the people with her uneducated ways and conservative values. It was a time of change for their people. They could not continue the insular ways they had developed over centuries in the Desert Spear if they were to win Sharak Sun.
Kajivah showed no sign of slowing, warming to a sermon like a dama who’d caught the Sharum with dice and couzi. For a woman with an empty head, Kajivah could talk for hours if unchecked.
Inevera stood, and instantly the crowd fell silent, women falling to their knees and putting hands on the floor as the men, from Damaji to Sharum, bowed deeply.
The sight used to comfort her. A reminder of her power and divine status. But there was power, too, in leading the cheers of the crowd. Too much, perhaps, for a simple woman like Kajivah.
“The Holy Mother is indeed humble,” Inevera said. “For none has worked harder to prepare this grand feast than Kajivah herself.” The crowd roared again, and Inevera grit her teeth. “We can do her no greater honor than sitting to it. In Everam’s name, let us begin the feast.”
“I fear we may have opened a djinn bottle with that one,” Inevera said.
Her mother, Manvah, sipped her tea. It was her first visit to the royal chambers, but if she was impressed by the opulence around her, she gave no sign.
“Having dealt with the woman directly, I would have to agree,” Manvah said. Manvah’s pavilion in the new bazaar provided many of the implements used in the Waning feast, earning her an invitation. Her khaffit husband, Kasaad, had been asked not to attend.
It had been a risk, slipping her in for a private audience, but Inevera needed her mother now more than ever. The eunuch who ushered her through the secret passages had been drugged. He would wake with no memory of the woman, and with her veil in place Manvah would look like any other woman as she slipped out from the passage into the public section of the palace.
“I thought her a poor haggler at first, but after enduring a few of her tantrums, I see I undercharged.” Manvah shook her head. “I’m afraid I advised you poorly in this case, daughter. I will deduct it from your debt.”
Inevera smiled. It was a joke between them, for Manvah made Inevera, the Damajah, weave palm for her whenever her daughter came to her for advice.
“They aren’t an act,” Inevera said. Manvah had taught her early how a proper tantrum could aid in haggling, but it was always calculated. A good haggler never lost their temper.
Kajivah had no control over hers.
“Yet the people love her,” Manvah said. “Even dama’ting hop when she speaks.”
“Nie take me if I can understand why,” Inevera said.
“It’s simple enough,” Manvah said. “It is a time of great upheaval for our people, leaving many without sure footing. Kajivah gives them that, speaking in a way the masses can understand. She walks among them, knows them. You spend your time here in the palace, far removed.”
“If she were not the Deliverer’s mother, I would poison her and be done,” Inevera said.
“Ahmann would not appreciate that upon his return,” Manvah said. “Not even you could hide such a thing from the divine sight of Shar’Dama Ka.”
“No.” Inevera dropped her eyes. “But Ahmann is not coming back.”
Manvah looked at her in surprise. “What? Have your dice told you this?”
“Not directly,” Inevera said. “But they made reference to the corpse of Shar’Dama Ka, and I can see him in no futures. Barring a miracle of Everam, our people must go on without him until I can make another.”
“Make?” Manvah asked.
“Of all the mysteries the dice have revealed to me,” Inevera said, “none struck so hard as the knowledge that Deliverers are made, not born. The dice will guide me to his successor, and how to shape him.”
Inevera expected Manvah to gasp as she had, but in typical fashion, Manvah absorbed the information with a grunt and went on. “Who will it be, then? Not Ashan, surely. Jayan? Asome?”
Inevera sighed. “The moment I cast the dice for Ahmann, a boy of nine, I saw the potential in him. I would have thought it a fluke, but after years of searching I found it in another, the Par’chin, who was younger than Asome. Never before or since those two have I seen a boy or man with even the hope of following the Deliverer’s path. One of my sons may yet need to take the throne, but they will only be holding it for the one to come next.”
“None rise willingly from a throne once it is sat,” Manvah said.
“And so it is my hope to hold them off as long as I can,” Inevera said. “There is still time, Everam willing. Neither boy has proven himself in any significant way. Without deeds, neither of them can wrest power from the Andrah. My concern this day is how to keep Kajivah in check.”
“I hate to suggest it,” Manvah said, “but the answer may well be spending more time with her.”
Inevera stared at her blankly.
“And making your raiment a touch more modest.” Only the corners of Manvah’s mouth were touched by her smile, but it was u
nmistakable.
Ashia watched impassively as Asome cut his hand, squeezing blood over Melan’s dice.
Her husband had done this often since word of the impending attack on Docktown had come to them. Asome’s hands were covered in bandages.
Asome and Asukaji still stared at the process in fascination. Growing into womanhood in the Dama’ting Palace, Ashia had seen the casting ritual countless times, but even she found her eyes drawn to it. There was beauty in the alagai hora, and mystery. She tracked the dice as Melan threw, breath held in anticipation of that exquisite moment when the dice were struck from their natural trajectory, moved by the hand of Everam.
She knew in her heart the power came from the bones and the wards, but Ashia did not believe any but the Brides of Everam could summon His hand. To any other, they would just be dice.
But for all their power and closeness to Everam, Ashia did not covet white robes and dama blood. She, too, felt Everam’s touch. It thrummed through her when she killed alagai. Not the magic, though that was a heady sensation of its own. She felt it even that first night, when she killed with an unwarded spear. There was a sense of rightness, an utter calm and surety that she did His good work. It was her purpose in life. The gift of Sharum blood.
Melan looked up, veiled face glowing red in the wardlight. “Tonight. The divergence is now, or it will never be. When Jayan returns, he will come for the Skull Throne. If you do not act tonight, he will take it.”
For an instant, Ashia lost her center, swept away by a memory.
“Let him defeat you,” the Damajah told Ashia.
“Eh?” Ashia asked. She had only just been raised to Sharum’ting, she and her spear sisters to be sent to the young Sharum Ka for the first time.
Inevera had claimed the young women as her bodyguard, but they were still Sharum, and subject to Jayan. He was to “assess” them this night, to deem their worthiness and where he would position them in alagai’sharak.
“Jayan is proud,” Inevera said. “He will seek to dominate you in front of your sisters, to ensure you do not threaten him. He will challenge you to spar under the guise of assessing your sharusahk, but the fight will be very real.”