The Core

  Tan Shield was lost, sinking beneath the waves like the tentacled demon. Tan Spear and the Isadore were forced to flee the battle, limping back toward Docktown with smaller water demons at their heels. Inevera had lost sight of them, and did not know their fate.

  Qeran bounded over to her. “Damajah—”

  A glance at his aura was all Inevera needed to read his mind. He wanted permission to call a retreat. “I have eyes, Drillmaster.”

  Inevera twisted an earring, signaling Qasha on the Lament.

  “Damajah,” Qasha responded immediately.

  “We must retreat,” Inevera said. “Tan Spear cannot sustain more damage and remain afloat.”

  “Captain Dehlia agrees, Damajah,” Qasha said after a moment. “The glory of the chin sailors knows no bounds this night, but the Lament cannot continue the fight without fresh ammunition and repair.”

  Inevera nodded at Qeran. “Give the order.”

  As the captain darted off, steadier on his metal leg than the sailors with two, Inevera broke the connection and twisted the earring that would signal Sikvah.

  For long moments, there was no reply. At last, Inevera broke the connection, summoning Asukaji.

  “Damajah,” her nephew replied immediately.

  “I cannot reach Sikvah,” Inevera said.

  “You must come quickly, if you can,” Asukaji said. “Sikvah has fallen.”

  —

  Inevera shouted at the eunuch rowers to bend their backs, using hora to leap to the docks before the ship even pulled in. The streets blurred as she ran to the Chamber of Shadows, where Asukaji was waiting. “Is she alive?”

  Her nephew bowed, but there was anger in his aura. “She was not breathing when we brought her to the dama’ting, but still they work their spells over her. Her fate is…inevera.”

  Inevera steeled herself, pushing past. Dama’ting and acolyte alike looked up as she entered the chamber, but none dared speak.

  Inevera saw why, looking into the aura of the woman on the operating table. The spirit of Blessed Sikvah, Sharum’ting Ka of Krasia, had gone down the lonely path, but Umshala had used magic to keep her body alive, for the sake of the life within.

  I will bend, Inevera swore silently, glancing at her sister-wives; the dama’ting and nie’dama’ting working to heal the wounded. I am the Damajah. I must be the ground beneath their feet.

  But even the supplest palm could break in high wind, and what sacrifice was worthier of the Damajah’s tears? “Bottle.”

  A girl still in her bido appeared with a tear bottle. Her lip quivered and her own eyes were wet, but her hands kept steady as she scraped the tears from Inevera’s cheek.

  Inevera cupped the girl’s chin when it was done. “What is your name?”

  “Minnah vah Shaselle, Damajah,” the girl said.

  “We must all take Minnah’s example,” Inevera said loudly. “The sacrifices are countless in Sharak Ka. We shed tears for all of them, but ever our hands must be steady.”

  As one the women bowed, and Inevera strode from the chamber to where Asukaji still waited. He clutched Sikvah’s spear, stained with demon ichor and bright with magic, staring at the blade as if there were secrets it might reveal.

  “Report,” Inevera said.

  “Jurim yet lives, but few of his Wolves remain,” Asukaji said. “The tent greatwards were overrun after Sikvah fell. I took command of the evacuation and held the alagai at the wall until their offensive broke. Sharu is in command now, but I do not think the demons will press again with dawn so near.”

  Inevera nodded. “You have done well, Damaji. Until further notice, our forces are yours to command. Return to the wall and hold it until dawn, then report back.”

  She was about to turn away when she caught the defiance in his aura. She paused, shifting her feet slightly to offer him only her profile, casually moving her hand closer to her hora wand. “Was there something more, nephew?”

  “Did you know?” Asukaji asked quietly.

  “Know what?” Inevera asked.

  “The Deliverer commanded I obey you, Aunt, and so I will.” Asukaji leaned close. “But you dishonor us both by pretending ignorance of what I speak. Did you know my cousin was with child when you gave her the command?”

  Inevera raised her jaw. “I did.”

  “All these weeks.” Asukaji spoke as if he could not believe it. “Battle after battle, in the Maze, on the wall, out beyond the wards. Again and again you put her on the edge of the abyss with an innocent in her belly, just like you did to my sister and Kaji.”

  “Shall we speak at last, Asukaji, about which of us has more wronged Ashia?”

  Asukaji bared his teeth. “I know what I did, Aunt. I attempted to kill my sister out of jealousy, and Everam smote me down for the crime. But the Deliverer healed me. Forgave me. Yet still you seek to punish me.”

  “Punish you?” Inevera was incredulous.

  “You would not let me aid my sister and nephew. You put Sikvah and her unborn child on the front lines, rather than give me command of Sharak.”

  “You have an exaggerated sense of your own worth, nephew,” Inevera said. “You were raised in Sharik Hora. What do you know of leading troops in the Maze? Of sharak? A few weeks of fighting in the night, and you think yourself equal to your sister and cousin, who spent years in Sharum training with Drillmaster Enkido. Your father was a great man, and you assume you must be the same, even as you helped your lover murder him. Sikvah was more qualified than you. That is why she was given command.”

  It was her turn to lean in, advancing as Asukaji shrank back. “Sharak Ka is not about your pride, boy. Your cousin, your sister can see that, but it seems you cannot. The alagai do not simply come to kill warriors. They come to kill the corrupt and the innocent alike. The First War asks sacrifice of us all.”

  “Yet it falls to me even so,” Asukaji says. “While Sikvah is doomed to half life, in the vain hope we can save the child.”

  “Inevera,” the Damajah said. “Will you stand here and bemoan that fate as well, or will you go and hold the wall?”

  “If the alagai come at it again in force, there will be multiple breaches,” Asukaji said. “We cannot hold another night without significant repair and reinforcement.”

  “Repair what you can,” Inevera said, “but there is no reinforcement to be had. We cannot risk pulling more warriors from Everam’s Bounty, and the Hollow Tribe has its attention turned to the North. We must trust in ourselves, in Everam and the Shar’Dama Ka, to deliver us a miracle.”

  CHAPTER 39

  WHISTLER’S MIND

  334 AR

  The sound of Dawn’s scream jolted Abban awake on the hard bench of his cell.

  It was like this every morning, now. Hasik had seen the value in keeping Abban in good health. He needed the khaffit for his tallies, but never let him forget the unpayable blood debt between them. Abban had not escaped his punishment. As they agreed, he was leasing it to another, one day at a time.

  Soon after, Dawn entered his cell, bearing the breakfast tray. Her face was a scarred ruin, with a gaping hole where her nose had been, jaw swollen from the teeth Hasik had pulled. A ragged bit of cloth covered her missing eye. The littlest fingers of both hands were gone, and she shuffled, favoring one foot.

  The woman kept her eyes down, and Abban was thankful for that. She had been nothing but kind to him, and he repaid her with treachery. Hasik knew how it cut at him, which was why he had her bring Abban’s breakfast each morning. So Abban could look upon the woman and be forced to accept that he would rather she suffer instead of him.

  “Feeling hungry, khaffit?” Hasik asked, appearing at the door to the small office that was Abban’s work space and cell combined. There was a writing desk, a sleeping pallet, and a small privy—little more than a curtained alcove containing a board with a hole in it that opened to a pit that went Everam only knew where.

  Abban was not allowed to leave save in Hasik’s company, and the guards outside
the door had proven impossible to influence once Hasik cut the ear from a Sharum who dared bend to listen to a whispered word from the khaffit.

  Hasik ate meals with him, ensuring he was the only personal interaction Abban was allowed.

  Which, of course, was the greatest torture of all.

  Dawn set the trays and quickly shuffled from the room.

  “If I cut much more off that one, she won’t be much use as a servant,” Hasik said.

  “You are master here,” Abban said. “You could always show mercy.”

  “Bah!” Hasik said. “Easier to kill her and start fresh with one of her daughters.”

  Abban shuddered, and Hasik laughed, shoving the tray at him. “Eat up, khaffit! You’re barely fat anymore!”

  The food was not much to look at. A cup of sour, watered wine, a crust of hard, gritty bread. A cut of meat left overlong in the coldhouse, a green apple picked too early from the tree. And yet Abban ate better than many in the monastery, if the tallies were true.

  Hasik ate like a greenland prince, his plate piled high with boiled shellfish in melted butter. The smell of it was maddening as the brutal warrior gorged himself.

  “Nie’s tits, it never ceases to amaze me, how well the khaffit eat,” Hasik said. “The dama told us you were a cursed people, but for centuries now you have feasted on swine and bottom feeders, drinking couzi and laughing at your betters.”

  “The dama want control,” Abban said. “What better way to get it than denying pleasure to their followers, save that which they claim Everam allows?”

  Hasik burped, tossing another empty shell into the pile. They only had one boat left—the rest destroyed by the Laktonians and demons—but rather than use it to scout or expand his power, Hasik had the crew casting nets and laying traps for bottom feeders.

  “Have your scouts had any success finding the tunnel to the chin’s secret cove?” Abban asked. Hasik’s warriors killed the chin attacking the basement, but never found how they got in, reporting a maze of natural caverns beneath the monastery.

  “I do not trust them with the search,” Hasik said. “Whoever controls that tunnel controls my fortress. I will find it myself.”

  Abban looked up, his food forgotten. “You search the tunnels below the keep alone?”

  “I find…peace in the solitude,” Hasik said.

  Abban blinked. “Peace is good, when it can be found, but the tunnels may be rife with alagai.”

  “If so, they have not been fool enough to challenge me,” Hasik said.

  “Alagai are not known for their wisdom,” Abban said.

  “What do you care, khaffit?” Hasik asked. “If the demons have me, you will be free at last.”

  Abban sniffed. “You’ll forgive me if I do not trust in the mercy of your kai.”

  Hasik laughed. “Nor should you! At best, they will keep you here, chained to the tallies, but some of the men have new appetites to replace the loss of their manhood. I have heard them speculating on what a man grown fat on rich khaffit food would taste like.”

  Abban tried to suppress his shudder, but Hasik caught it, his grin widening. He sucked the last bit of meat from the shells, then stomped around the room while Abban ate, shuffling papers with greasy fingers as if he had any idea what the symbols upon them meant.

  Abban pretended not to notice, eating quickly. Hasik delighted in knocking food to the ground just to torment the crippled khaffit. When the meal was finished, Hasik rang the bell and Dawn limped back in to take the trays. A guard appeared in the doorway with Abban’s wheeled chair.

  Hasik took the chair and brought it to Abban’s side. “Come, khaffit, bring the tallies. We have a meeting.”

  Abban knew better than to question it, thankful simply for a brief release from the cell. He slung a small satchel with his writing kit over a shoulder, took his crutches and pushed himself upright, limping into the chair Hasik deliberately kept out of easy reach.

  The cruel warrior was known to pull the chair away suddenly as Abban tried to sit, but had no patience for the game today. Abban eased himself down and before he was even settled, Hasik was pushing him swiftly out of the room.

  It was a bright summer day, almost pleasant, save for the ever-present stink of the fortress’ dirty inhabitants. Foremost was the smell of piss. Fifteen hundred men continually wetting themselves within the walls raised an abysmal stench. Hasik promised Abban would grow used to the smell, but it struck him anew whenever he was allowed a brief excursion from his cell.

  But the reek of the Eunuch Monastery was more than just urine. The warriors trained hard, kept their weapons sharp, but discipline was not a hallmark of Hasik’s men. Freed as they were from the need for pleasures of the flesh, few of the men bothered to bathe, trim hair and nails, or clean their clothes. Sharum and slave alike were uniformly filthy, eyes sunken as supplies waned.

  Hasik had taken the Shepherd’s chambers from Dama Khevat when they claimed the monastery, locking Abban in one of the smaller offices. Khevat had been relegated to the back room of a smaller chapel on the far side of the compound.

  As they made their way into in Khevat’s sphere of power, Abban saw something closer to discipline. Gelded men still stared blankly into the distance when there was no task before them, but Khevat had forced the warriors to keep their uniforms in some semblance of order, grimy though they were.

  Guards hopped to open the doors, bowing to Hasik as he wheeled Abban into Khevat’s office, where the dama waited with the Deliverer’s son Icha.

  Careful that Hasik should not see, Abban touched a hidden fold in his pantaloons, where a tiny paper lay concealed. He would need to be quick, if he dared deliver it. He had tried to find the courage many times in recent months. As yet, it remained beyond him.

  Of late, Hasik had kept his torments and indignities to small things, inflicting the worst of it on Dawn. Abban had his uses, especially to a leader who could not read, write, or count past his fingers and toes. But if Khevat betrayed him…

  Abban broke into a sweat, wondering what the brutal warrior would cut off next.

  Khevat glanced at Abban. The dama had always terrified him, looking down his nose at Abban like a beetle crawling on shit. An insect he could crush at will, should the whim take him.

  But the prideful disdain had left Khevat’s gaze since Hasik cut his manhood away.

  It was the great equalizer among them, that every male in the monastery, from dama to slave, elder to child, suffered that ultimate indignity—a permanent reminder of Hasik’s power. Pride was a distant memory for most of them. Only the most savage Sharum adapted—just the sort of animals Hasik wanted in his band.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Eunuch Ka.” Khevat gave a polite bow.

  Hasik grunted in amusement. Khevat had lorded over him as a child as well, and he never tired of the man’s submission. “Of course, Dama. How may we help you?”

  “You have heard the scouts sent to Docktown,” Khevat said. “The alagai press them hard.”

  “What of it?” Hasik scoffed. “They are days of hard ride to the south. We are safe here.”

  “I would not be so sure of that,” Khevat said, “but in any event, they need assistance.”

  “They have it,” Hasik said. “The Damajah herself has come to Everam’s Reservoir, and with Ahmann gone, she has invited the fish men into her pillow chamber.”

  Khevat’s jaw tightened, a vein in his neck throbbing. The words were blasphemy, but Hasik was provoking him purposely, and the old dama knew not to take the bait.

  “Where was Docktown when these walls were under assault from the chin?” Hasik demanded. “Where was the infinite mercy of the Damajah when the khaffit shamed me before the Deliverer’s court? We owe them nothing.”

  “If not from loyalty to the throne, we might still consider a more…mercenary arrangement.” Khevat’s voice was tight. “They are well supplied, Eunuch Ka, and we could use the stores before the cold comes.”

  Not long ago, the da
ma would have shouted the words, calling Hasik a fool and punctuating it with a touch of threat.

  After the cutting, no one was stupid enough to shout at Hasik.

  “Bah!” Hasik spat on the floor. “The cold is months away! It cannot be so bad. Tell him, khaffit.”

  Khevat’s knuckles whitened at his counsel being summarily dismissed for the word of a khaffit. Abban knew he must tread carefully. He made a show of spreading his writing kit on Khevat’s desk, giving the tension time to diffuse. He set the inkwell and licked the end of his pen before dipping and opening the ledger.

  Even then, he made a show of scanning the tallies, though he knew them all by rote. Slowly, the tempers in the room began to cool.

  “The honored dama has a point, Hasik. Your men have raided these lands too well. The few chin hamlets that remain barely produce enough to fill their own bellies, let alone ours.”

  “I’ll speak to the men,” Hasik growled. “The chin do not eat before us.”

  Irritation flashed across Khevat’s eyes, but he kept his voice calm. “If the slaves starve, there will be nothing for any of us to eat, Hasik.”

  Hasik’s eyes narrowed, perhaps considering if he should take umbrage at the use of his name. “I will not spend Eunuch lives on the Damajah, nor will I crawl before her Pillow Throne and beg for the scraps off her table.”

  Abban cleared his throat. “Perhaps there are answers closer to home.”

  Hasik put the back of his hand to his forehead. “Have I sunk so low that the only voice on my side is that of a khaffit? Come, Abban, tell us your brilliant plan. Perhaps you think we should sack Angiers, again?”

  Abban took a deep breath. Of the many failures of his life, the attack on Angiers had been by far the costliest, for him, and for the Krasian empire. “Nothing so bold, Eunuch Ka. I have simply found that healthy slaves with security to work produce greater tithes than those who get gruel and the whip.”

  “There is no security in this world, khaffit,” Hasik said. “Not for men and certainly not slaves.”

  “I believe Abban means the alagai.” It was strange to hear Khevat use his name and not his caste.