Читать книгу The Desert Spear - Peter Brett V. - Страница 13

THREE NIE’DAMA APPROACHED HIM from all sides, and though he could not see her, Jardir sensed that the dama’ting was watching. She was always watching.

He embraced the moment as he did pain, letting all worldly concern fall away. After more than five years in Sharik Hora, the peace came effortlessly when he called it now. There was no him. There was no them. There was no her. There was only the dance.

Ashan came at him first, but Jardir feinted a block, then pivoted and leapt aside to punch Halvan in the chest, Ashan’s kick meeting only air. He caught Halvan’s arm and twisted him to the ground easily. He could have torn the arm from its socket, but it was a greater test of skill to leave his opponents unharmed.

Shevali waited for Ashan to recover before coming at him, the two attacking with a unity that would do any dal’Sharum unit proud.

It mattered little. Jardir’s arms and thighs were a blur, their blocked blows a drumbeat as he followed the rhythm to its inevitable conclusion. On his fifth blow, Shevali left his throat exposed for an instant, and then, as it always was in the end, Jardir and Ashan faced off.

Knowing Jardir’s speed, Ashan attempted to grapple, but the years had put meat on Jardir’s bones. At seventeen, he was taller than most men, and constant training had turned his wiry sinews into lean, packed muscle. No sooner had they closed than Ashan was pinned.

Ashan laughed, his year of silence long past. “One day we will have you, nie’Sharum!”

Jardir gave him a hand up. “You will never find that day.”

“That is true,” Dama Khevat said. Jardir turned as the ring of boys and instructors broke and the cleric strode in, the dama’ting at his side. Jardir felt his face grow cold.

The dama’ting carried black robes.

The dama’ting led him to a private chamber and with her own hands unwrapped his bido, pulling it away. Jardir tried to embrace the feeling of her hands on his bare skin, but she was the only woman who had ever touched him so intimately, and for the first time in years, he could not find peace. His body responded to her touch, and he feared she might kill him for his disrespect.

But the dama’ting made no mention of his arousal as she wrapped a black loincloth in place of his bido, then dressed him in the loose pantaloons, heavy sandals, and robe of a dal’Sharum.

After eight years in a bido, Jardir expected any clothing to feel odd, but he was unprepared for the weight of a dal’Sharum’s armored blacks. Plates and strips of fired clay were held tight in sewn pockets throughout the garb. The plates could absorb a great blow, Jardir knew, but they shattered on impact, and needed to be replaced after every hit.

So distracted was he that he did not notice at first that the veil she tied about his throat was white. When he did, he gasped aloud.

“Did you think your time among the dama meaningless, son of Hoshkamin?” the dama’ting asked. “You will rejoin your dal’Sharum brothers as their master, a kai’Sharum.”

“I am but seventeen!” Jardir said.

The dama’ting nodded. “The youngest kai’Sharum in centuries. Just as you were the youngest to bring down a wind demon, and the youngest to survive alagai’sharak. Who can say what else you may accomplish?”

“You can,” Jardir said. “The dice told you.”

The dama’ting shook her head. “I have seen the fate your spirit reaches for, but it is a path fraught with peril, and you may still fail to reach it.” She drew the white veil about his face. Her touch seemed almost a caress. “You have many tests before you. Bring your focus to the now. When you return to the Kaji pavilion today, one of the Sharum will challenge you. You must—”

Jardir held up a hand, cutting her off. The dama’ting’s eyes flared at his audacity.

“With respect,” Jardir said, recalling the gruel lines of the Kaji’sharaj, “the world of Sharum, I understand. I will break the challenger publicly before any dare follow his example.”

The dama’ting regarded him a moment, then shrugged, a smile in her eyes.

Jardir strode with pride into the Kaji training grounds, followed by Dama Khevat and the dama’ting. The dal’Sharum paused in their training at the sight, and there were murmurs of recognition as they saw Jardir’s face. One of them barked a laugh.

“Look! The rat returns!” Hasik cried, his s’s still whistling after all these years. The big warrior planted his spear with a thump. “It only took him five years to change out of his bido!” Several other warriors laughed at that.

Jardir smiled. It was natural for Sharum to test the mettle of a new kai, and it was inevera that it should be Hasik. The powerful warrior was still larger than Jardir, but he felt no fear as he strode forward.

Hasik stared him down coldly, unafraid. “You may have a white veil loose about your throat, but you are still the son of piss,” he sneered, too low for the others to hear.

“Ah, Hasik, my ajin’pal!” Jardir called loudly. “Do they still call you Whistler? I would be happy to remove a few more teeth and cure your affliction, if you wish.”

All around, Sharum laughed. Jardir looked among them and saw many who had served under him when he was Nie Ka.

Hasik growled and lunged, but Jardir sidestepped, spinning into a kick that knocked the big warrior onto his backside in the dust. He stood patiently as Hasik scowled and scrambled back to his feet unharmed.

“I will kill you for that,” Hasik promised.

Jardir smiled, reading Hasik’s every movement like writing in the sand. Hasik charged in, thrusting hard with his spear, but Jardir pivoted, slapping the point to one side, and Hasik stumbled past, overbalanced. He turned and swung the spear like a staff, but Jardir bent backward like a palm tree in the wind, avoiding the blow without moving his feet an inch. Before Hasik could recover, he whipped upright and grabbed the weapon with both hands, kicking up between his hands and breaking through the thick shaft of wood. He followed through on the kick, taking Hasik in the face.

There was a satisfying crack as Hasik’s jaw shattered, but Jardir did not stop there. He dropped the speartip but held on to the butt, advancing as Hasik struggled back to his feet.

Hasik punched at him, and Jardir marveled that he had once found those punches too fast to follow. After years among the dama, the fist seemed to move at a crawl. He caught Hasik’s wrist and twisted hard, feeling his shoulder pop from its socket. Hasik screamed as Jardir swung the spear butt, shattering the warrior’s knee. Hasik collapsed, and Jardir kicked him over onto his stomach. He was well within his rights to kill Hasik, and those gathered likely expected him to, but Jardir had not forgotten what Hasik had done to him in the Maze.

“Now, Hasik,” he said, as all the dal’Sharum of the Kaji tribe looked on, “I will teach you to be a woman.” He held up the spear butt. “And this will be the man.”

“Watch to ensure he does not fall on his spear in shame,” Jardir told Shanjat as Hasik was hauled off to the dama’ting pavilion, howling in pain and humiliation. “I would not see any permanent harm befall my ajin’pal.”

“As my kai’Sharum wills,” Shanjat said, “though they will have to remove the spear before he can fall on it.” He smirked as he bowed to Jardir and hurried after the injured warrior. Jardir followed Shanjat with his eyes, marveling at how quickly they fell back into old patterns, despite Shanjat having earned the black years ago, and him just this day.

Jardir had planned his revenge on Hasik for years, while he danced sharusahk in his tiny cell in Sharik Hora. It wasn’t enough for the man to suffer defeat; Jardir’s revenge had to be an abject lesson to any who would ever seek to challenge him again. If Hasik had not challenged him, he would have sought the man out and initiated the challenge himself.

By Everam’s infinite justice, every step played out exactly as he had imagined it, but now that his triumph was complete, he found no more satisfaction in it than when he fought Shanjat for his place in the nie’Sharum food line.

“You seem to have things well in hand,” Dama Khevat said, slapping Jardir on the back. “Go to the Kaji pavilion and take a woman before tonight’s battle.” He laughed. “Take two! The jiwah’Sharum will be eager to bed the youngest kai’Sharum in a thousand years.”

Jardir forced himself to laugh and nod, though he felt a clench in his stomach. He had never known a woman. Except for a few glimpses of the jiwah’Sharum that one night in the Kaji pavilion, he had never even seen one without her robes. Kai’Sharum or no, he had one last test of manhood in front of him, and unlike the crushing of Hasik or the killing of alagai, this was one none of his training had prepared him for.

Khevat left him, and Jardir took a deep breath, looking toward the Kaji pavilion.

They are only women, he told himself, taking a tentative step forward. They are there to please you, not the other way around. His second step came with more confidence.

“A word,” the dama’ting whispered, grabbing his attention. Relief and fear clutched him at once. How had he forgotten her?

“In private,” she said, and Jardir nodded, walking to the edge of the training grounds with her, out of earshot from the dal’Sharum in the yard.

He was much taller than her now, but she still intimidated him. He remembered the blast of fire from her flame demon skull, and tried to convince himself that her alagai magics would not work in the day, with Everam’s light shining down upon them.

“I cast the alagai hora before bringing you the blacks,” she said. “If you sleep among the jiwah’Sharum, one of them will kill you.”

Jardir’s eyes widened. Such a thing was unheard of. “Why?” he asked.

“The bones give us no ‘why,’ son of Hoshkamin,” the dama’ting said. “They tell what is, and what may be. Perhaps a lover of Hasik will seek revenge, or some woman with a blood feud with your family.” She shrugged. “But sleep among the jiwah’Sharum at your peril.”

“So I am never to know a woman?” Jardir asked. “What kind of life is that for a man?”

“Don’t exaggerate,” the dama’ting said. “You may still take wives. I will cast the bones to find ones suitable for you.”

“Why would you do this?” Jardir asked.

“My reasons are my own,” the dama’ting said.

“And the price?” Jardir asked. The tales in the Evejah always spoke of a hidden price for those who would use hora magic for more than sharak.

“Ah,” the dama’ting said. “No longer so innocent as you seem. That is good. The price is that you take me to wife.”

Jardir froze. His face went cold. Take her as his wife? Unthinkable. She terrified him.

“I did not know dama’ting could marry,” he said, fumbling for time as his mind reeled.

“We can, when we wish it,” she said. “The first dama’ting were the Deliverer’s wives.”

Jardir looked at her again, the thick white robes hiding every contour and curve of her body. Her headwrap covered every hair, and the opaque veil was drawn high over her nose, muffling even her voice. Only her eyes could be seen, bright and full of zeal. There was something familiar about them, but he could not even guess at her age, much less her beauty. Was she a virgin? Of good family? There was no way to know. Dama’ting were taken from their mothers early and raised in secret.

“It is a man’s right to see a woman’s face before he agrees to marry her,” he said.

“Not this time,” the dama’ting said. “It matters not if my beauty moves you, or if my womb is fertile. Your future swirls with hidden knives. I will be your Jiwah Ka, or you will spend your days looking for them without my foretellings to aid you.”

Jiwah Ka. She didn’t just want to marry him, she wanted to be first among his wives. A Jiwah Ka had the right to vet and refuse any Jiwah Sen, subsequent wives, all of whom would be subservient to her. She would have absolute control of his household and children, second only to him, and Jardir was not fool enough to think she didn’t intend to control him as well.

But could he afford to refuse? He feared no challenger face-to-face, but war was deception, as Khevat had taught him, and not all men fought their enemies with spear and fist. A poisoned drink, or blade in the back, and he could still go to Everam with little glory to buy his way into Heaven, and none to spare his mother and sisters.

And Sharak Ka was coming.

“You ask that I give everything to you,” he said thickly, his mouth gone dry.

The dama’ting shook her head. “I leave you sharak,” she said. “That is all a Sharum need concern himself with.”

Jardir stared at her for a long time. Finally, he nodded his assent.

The dama’ting wasted no time once the agreement was made. Before a week was through, Jardir found himself before Dama Khevat, watching as she made her vows.

Jardir looked into the dama’ting’s eyes. Who was she? Was she older than his mother? Young enough to give him sons? What would he find when they retired to the marriage bed?

“I offer you myself in marriage in accordance with the instructions of the Evejah,” she said, “as set down by Kaji, Spear of Everam, who sits at the foot of Everam’s table until he is reborn in the time of Sharak Ka. I pledge, with honesty and in sincerity, to be for you an obedient and faithful wife.”

Does she mean those words, Jardir wondered, or is this just a new way to control my life, now that I wear the black?

Khevat turned to him. Jardir started, fumbling for his vow. “I swear before Everam,” he said, forcing the words out, “Creator of all that is, and before Kaji, the Shar’Dama Ka, to take you into my home, and to be a fair and tolerant husband.”

“Do you accept this dama’ting as your Jiwah Ka?” Khevat asked, and something in his tone reminded Jardir of the dama’s words when Jardir first asked him to perform the ceremony.

Are you sure you wish to do this? Khevat had asked. A dama’ting is no ordinary wife you can order about, or beat when she is disobedient.

Jardir swallowed. Was he sure?

“I do,” he said thickly, and the assembled dal’Sharum gave a great shout, clattering their spears against their shields. His mother, Kajivah, clutched at his young sisters, all of them weeping in pride.

Jardir could feel his heart pounding, and part of him wished he was in the Maze, dancing alagai’sharak, rather than the dimly lit, pillowed chamber they retired to.

“Do not fear, alagai’sharak shall still be there tomorrow!” Shanjat had laughed. “You fight a different kind of battle tonight!”

“You seem ill at ease,” the dama’ting said as she drew the heavy curtains behind them.

“Should I be another way?” Jardir asked bitterly. “You are my Jiwah Ka, and I do not even know your name.”

The dama’ting laughed, the first time he had ever heard her do such. It was a beautiful, tinkling sound. “Do you not?” she asked, slipping off her veil and headwrap. His eyes widened, but it was not at the youth and beauty he saw.

He did indeed know her.

“Inevera,” he breathed, remembering the nie’dama’ting who had spoken to him in the pavilion so many years ago.

She nodded, smiling at him, more beautiful than he had ever dared to dream.

“The night we met,” Inevera said, “I finished carving my first alagai hora. It was fate; Everam’s will, like my name. The demon bones are carved in utter darkness, by feel alone. It can take weeks to carve a single die; years to complete a set. And only then, when the set is complete, can they be tested. If they fail, they are exposed to light, and the carving must begin anew. If they succeed, then nie’dama’ting becomes dama’ting, and we don our veil.

“On that night, I finished my set and needed a question to ask. A test to see if the dice held the power of fate. But what question? Then I remembered the boy I had met that day, with the bold eyes and brash manner, and as I shook the demon dice, I asked, ‘Will I ever see Ahmann Jardir again?’

“And from that night on,” she said, “I knew I would find you in the Maze after your first alagai’sharak, and more, that I would marry you and bear you many children.”

With that, she shrugged her shoulders, and her white robes fell away. Jardir had feared this moment, but as the flickering light caught her naked form, his body began to respond, and he knew that he would pass this last test of manhood as he had all the others before it.

“Jardir, you will take your men to the tenth layer,” the Sharum Ka said.

It was a fool’s decision. Three years after he had donned the white veil, every kai’Sharum assembled knew that Jardir’s unit was the fiercest and best trained in all of Krasia. Jardir pressed his men hard, but the dal’Sharum gloried in it, their kill counts exceeding any three other units combined. They were wasted in the tenth layer. It was unheard of for the alagai to penetrate the Maze so deeply.

The Sharum Ka sneered at Jardir, daring dissent, but Jardir embraced the dishonor and let it pass through him. “As the Sharum Ka commands,” he said, bowing low from his pillow to touch his forehead to the thick carpet of the First Warrior’s audience room. As he sat back up, his face was serene despite his disgust at the man before him. The Sharum Ka was supposed to be the strongest warrior in the city. This man was anything but. His hair was streaked with gray, his face deeply wrinkled like a Damaji’s. It had been long years since he had stood in the Maze, and it showed in a belly gone to fat. The First Warrior was supposed to lead the charge in alagai’sharak and inspire the men to glory, not conduct the war from behind his palace walls.

But for all that, so long as he wore the white turban, his will in the night was inviolate.

Dama Ashan, his unit’s cleric, and his lieutenants, Hasik and Shanjat, were waiting outside the Sharum Ka’s palace to escort Jardir back to the Kaji pavilion. He was only a kai’Sharum, but there had already been attempts on his life from jealous rivals, even within his own tribe. The Sharum Ka would not live forever, and with the Andrah having come from the Kaji tribe, it was all but certain one of the Kaji kai’Sharum would be appointed to take his place. Jardir stood in the way of many older kai’Sharum’s hopes of ascension.

The three men were never far from his side ever since Inevera had arranged marriages between them and Jardir’s sisters. Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya had been in rags when Jardir left Sharik Hora three years ago, but now they were Jiwah Ka to his most trusted lieutenants, and had borne nephews and nieces to strengthen those loyalties.

“Our orders?” Shanjat asked.

“Tenth layer,” Jardir said.

Hasik spat in the dust. “The Sharum Ka insults you!”

“Calm yourself, Hasik,” Jardir said softly, and the big warrior immediately quieted. “Embrace the insult and it will pass through you, allowing you to see Everam’s path.”

Hasik nodded, falling in behind Jardir as he strode away from the palace. Hasik had returned from the dama’ting pavilion a changed man three years ago. He was still one of the Kaji’s fiercest warriors, but like a wolf brought to heel, he had given his loyalty fully to Jardir—the only way to preserve his honor after the humiliating defeat.

“The Sharum Ka fears you,” Ashan advised. “As he should. If you continue to gather all the glory, the Andrah may tire of having a weak old man commanding his forces and allow you to challenge him to single combat.”

“And seconds after he shouts ‘begin,’ we will have a new First Warrior,” Shanjat said.

“That isn’t going to happen,” Jardir said. “The Andrah and Sharum Ka are friends from of old. The Andrah will not betray his loyal servant even if the Damaji themselves demand it.”

“So what do we do?” Hasik asked.

“You go home to my sister and thank her for the meal she has no doubt prepared you,” Jardir said. “And when night falls, we go to the tenth layer and pray that Everam sends us alagai to show the sun.”

As always, Inevera was waiting for him when he reached his quarters in the Kaji palace. Her robe was lowered to uncover the breast where his daughter Anjha suckled. Jardir’s sons, Jayan and Asome, clung to her robes, young and strong.

Jardir knelt and spread his arms, and the boys fell into them, laughing as he lifted them high. He set them back down, and they ran back to their mother. The sight of his sons pricked at his serenity for a moment before he could embrace the feeling. It wasn’t just his reputation the Sharum Ka sullied. It was theirs, as well.

“Something troubles you, my husband?” Inevera asked.

“It is nothing,” Jardir said, but Inevera clicked her tongue at him.

“I am your Jiwah Ka,” she said. “You need not embrace your feelings with me.”

Jardir looked at her and let the tight lashes of his control ease.

“The Sharum Ka sends me to the tenth layer tonight,” he spat. “How many warriors will he lose while his best unit guards an empty layer?”

“It is a good sign, husband,” Inevera said. “It means the Sharum Ka fears you and your ambitions.”

“What good is that,” Jardir said, “if he robs me of every future glory?”

“He cannot be allowed to do that,” Inevera agreed. “You must find glory in the Maze now more than ever. The bones tell me the First Warrior is not long for this world. Your glory must outshine all others when he goes to Everam, if you are to take his place.”

“How am I to do that waving my spear at empty air?” Jardir growled.

Inevera shrugged. “Sharak is yours. You must find a way.”

Jardir grunted, nodding. She was right, of course. There were some things even a dama’ting could not advise upon.

“The sun will not set for hours,” Inevera advised. “A bout of lovemaking and a short sleep will clear your head.”

Jardir smiled and went to her. “I will call my mother to take the children.”

But Inevera shook her head, stepping away from his reaching arms. “Not me. The bones say Everalia is ripe. If you take her from behind with great force, she will bear you a strong son.”

Jardir scowled. Everalia was his third wife. Inevera hadn’t even bothered to show her to him before they were betrothed, saying the Jiwah Sen was selected for her breeder’s hips and the fortune the alagai hora cast, not her beauty.

“Always the bones!” Jardir snapped. “For once I would bed the wife I choose!”

Inevera shrugged. “Take Thalaja if you prefer,” she said, referring to his more beautiful second wife. “She is ripe as well. I simply thought you would prefer a son to another daughter.”

Jardir gritted his teeth. She was the one he wanted, but as Khevat had warned, wife or no, Inevera was dama’ting, and he could not simply take her the way he would another woman. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

Did she really cast the bones for everything? Sometimes it seemed Inevera just used claims of their foretellings to get him to act as she wished, but she had not been wrong yet, and it was true he needed more sons if he was to restore the line of Jardir to its former glory. Did it really matter which wife he took? Everalia was comely enough from behind.

He headed for the bedchamber, pulling off his robes.

They waited.

As cries of battle rang through the outer layers, and wind demons shrieked in the sky, they waited.

As other men went to Everam in glory, they waited.

“No alagai sighted,” Shanjat relayed, signaling back to the nie’Sharum on the wall.

“None will be sighted!” Hasik growled, and there was a rumble of assent from Jardir’s men. Fifty of the best warriors of the Kaji crouched with them in the ambush pocket. Wasted.

“There is still time to find glory, if we join other units,” Jurim said.

Jardir knew he must kill the idea before it could take root in the minds of the others. He thrust his spear butt between Jurim’s eyes, knocking him to the ground.

“I will personally spear anyone who leaves their post without my orders,” he said loudly. The others nodded as Jurim struggled to his feet, clutching his bloodied face.

Jardir looked upon the men, the finest dal’Sharum the Desert Spear had to offer, and felt profound shame. The Sharum Ka’s jealousy was directed at him, but it was the men who suffered. Men bred and born to kill alagai, denied their destiny by an old man afraid of losing power. Not for the first time, Jardir envisioned killing the First Warrior, fair challenge or no, but such a crime would be without honor, and would likely cost his life as well as his legacy.

Just then a horn sounded, and Jardir snapped back to attention. The pattern told him it was a cry for assistance.

“Watchers!” he called, and the two Watchers from his unit, Amkaji and Coliv, sprang forward. They attached the ends of their twelve-foot, iron-shod ladders in an instant, running to the wall. No sooner had Amkaji set the ladder than Coliv was running up it, taking the rungs three at a time, his weight never seeming to fully come down on a foot before he was lifting it again. He reached the walltop in an instant, scanning the terrain. A moment later he signaled that it was safe for Jardir’s ascent.

Jardir had been wary of the Watchers when he first took command of his unit, for they were of another tribe, the Krevakh. But he had come to know their hearts, and Amkaji and Coliv were as loyal to him and as devoted to alagai’sharak as any of his own tribesmen. The Krevakh were wholly devoted to serving the Kaji, as their nemesis tribe, the Nanji, served the Majah.

By law, the two Watchers were embedded with Jardir’s unit day and night, for the Watchers had specialized training in exotic weapons and fighting styles, and had skills essential to any kai’Sharum. Acrobatics. Information gathering. Hit-and-run combat.

Assassination.

As Amkaji held the ladder, Jardir and Shanjat ran up the wall. Coliv held his far-seeing glass out to Jardir.

“Sharach tribe, fourth layer,” he supplied, pointing.

“Learn more,” Jardir ordered, taking the glass, and Coliv ran off, his balance perfect across the narrow wall. Watchers carried neither spear nor shield to weigh them, and Coliv was fast gone from sight.

“The Sharach are a small tribe,” Shanjat said. “They bring barely two dozen warriors to alagai’sharak. Only a fool would put such a small unit in the fourth layer.”

“A fool like the Sharum Ka,” Jardir replied.

Coliv returned a moment later. “A cluster of alagai reached them, and avoided the pit. They have many warriors down, and no reinforcements close enough who are not engaged themselves. They will be overrun in minutes.”

Jardir gritted his teeth. “No, they will not. Ready the men.”

Shanjat laid a hand on his arm. “The Sharum Ka ordered us to guard the tenth,” he reminded him, but when Jardir nodded and did not say more, he broke into a wide smile.

“We will never get to the fourth layer in time, kai’Sharum,” Coliv said, scanning the Maze with his sharp eyes. “Many battles rage in between. The way is not clear.”

“Then lower ropes,” Jardir ordered. “I want every man on the wall now.”

They ran the walltops like nie’Sharum; fifty adult warriors in full battle dress. Treacherous enough for barefoot and agile boys in nothing but their bidos, it was far more so for men in sandals and heavy armored robes, carrying spear and shield.

But these were Kaji dal’Sharum, Jardir’s elite. They ran fearlessly, whooping with delight as they leapt from wall to wall, feeling like boys as the night wind whipped their faces, ready to die like men.

Jardir, running in the lead, felt it more than anyone. The Sharum Ka would be furious with him, but Nie take him before he let an entire tribe die out to appease the First Warrior’s pride.

A trip that would have taken many times as long in the Maze was accomplished in minutes atop the walls, and the Sharach unit quickly came into view. There were more than a dozen alagai in the ambush pocket, cutting off all avenues of escape. At least half the Sharach were down, and those who remained stood on the defensive, back-to-back and shield-to-shield as demons came at them from all sides.

They stood as men before an overwhelming force of alagai, and the sight enraged Jardir’s Krasian heart. He would let no more dal’Sharum die this night.

“Take heart, Sharach!” he cried. “The Kaji come to your aid!” He was the first to set his hook and throw a rope down into the pocket, rappelling the twenty feet in two quick hops. He didn’t even wait for his men, charging in with his warded shield leading, taking a sand demon in the back. The wards flared, and the demon was thrown away from the failing Sharach circle.

Jardir paid the stunned creature no further mind, moving on to the next demon with a thrust of his spear, driving it back with a series of precise strikes to the weakest parts of its armor. Behind him, he heard the roar of his fifty as they poured down the wall, and knew his back was secure.

“Everam watched your stand with pride, brother!” Jardir cried to the Sharach kai’Sharum, whose white veil was red with blood. “See to your wounded now! We will finish your glorious start and see that the Sharach fight another day!”

The third demon Jardir charged turned to face him and caught his spear in its jaws, splintering the wood. The impact threw Jardir off balance, and the creature hooked the edge of his shield on its talon. It flexed its corded arm, and the shield straps snapped. Jardir hit the ground hard, dodging aside as the creature came at him. For a moment, the demon had the advantage, but the Sharach kai’Sharum slammed into it from the side, knocking it away from him.

“The Sharach will fight to the last, my brother!” the kai’Sharum cried, but the sand demon struck back, its tail whipping under the warrior’s guard to knock him down. It tensed to spring for the kill.

Jardir glanced about. His warriors were all engaged, and there was no weapon in reach.

I was born to die on alagai talons, he reminded himself, and growled as he leapt to his feet, intercepting the sand demon in midair as it launched itself at the Sharach kai’Sharum.

The demon was stronger than him by far, but it fought on instinct, knowing nothing of the brutal art of sharusahk. Jardir caught its arm and pivoted, diverting the force of its attack and throwing it fifteen feet into the demon pit at the center of the ambush pocket. The alagai fell away with a howl, trapped until the sun rose to burn it from the world forever.

Another sand demon came at him, but Jardir punched it hard in the throat and kicked at the backs of its knees, grappling the creature and bearing it to the ground, twisting to avoid its teeth and claws while turning the thrashing alagai’s own force against it.

The demon’s gritty armor plates cut through his robes, slicing his skin, and his muscles screamed as they were stretched to their limits, but inch by inch, Jardir twisted farther behind the demon until he reached the desired hold and rose to his feet. He was taller than the creature, and with his arms locked under its pits and behind its head, he easily lifted it off the ground. It kicked and shrieked, but Jardir whipped it about, keeping its hind legs far from his body as he stumbled toward the demon pit.

With a shout, he threw the second demon into the pit, gratified to see that his warriors had already driven most of the other alagai into it as well. The pit floor was a seethe of scale and talon, the wards cut into the walls sparking angrily as they tried to climb out.

“I will watch as the sun takes you all!” Jardir shouted.

He turned back to the battle, flush with victory and ready to fight on, but only a few warriors still fought, and they had their alagai well in hand.

The rest of the men simply stared at him, eyes wide.

Jardir and the Sharach kai’Sharum stood watch over the pit for the rest of the night. Their men stood clustered about them, and there was a great cheer when the sunlight reached the pit. The demons shrieked and smoked before finally bursting into flame, and the men were proud to bear witness as Everam’s light burned them back into the nothingness from which they came.

Jardir and the other Sharum lowered their veils, as was proper in the sun. By day, the Sharach, beholden to the Majah, were blood enemies of the Kaji. Jardir eyed the kai’Sharum warily. It would dishonor them both to turn on each other in the neutral ground of the Maze, but such things were not unheard of.

Instead, the Sharach captain bowed. “My people owe you a blood debt.”

Jardir shook his head. “We did nothing that Everam did not command. No dal’Sharum would ever abandon a brother, and all men are brothers in the night.”

“I was there when the Sharum Ka sent you to the tenth, where we should have been,” the Sharach said. “You came far and dared much for us.”

Other warriors, their own pits burning, came across them as they left the Maze. Two blood enemies, standing together. A crowd began to form, and Jardir heard the buzz of their conversation. Again and again, he heard his men and the Sharach tell of how he had fought the alagai unarmed. The tale grew with each telling, and before long men were saying he had killed five demons with his bare hands. Jardir had seen warriors exaggerating deeds before. By nightfall, it would be a dozen he sent into the pit, and a month from now, fifty.

A Majah kai’Sharum approached them. “On behalf of the Majah,” he said, “I thank you for protecting the Sharach. The Sharum Ka was…unwise to put them in such danger.”

The man’s words were near treason, but Jardir only nodded. “The Sharach stood tall,” he said. “It was inevera that they live to fight again.”

“Inevera,” the Majah agreed, bowing lower than one kai’Sharum need bow to another. “Did you truly wrestle six demons into the pit yourself?”

Jardir shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a shout as the elite guard of the Sharum Ka stormed into view, clearing the way for the First Warrior.

“You disobeyed orders and left your post!” the Sharum Ka shouted, pointing at Jardir.

“The Sharach called for aid and we were unengaged,” Jardir said. “The Evejah tells us to protect our brothers in the night above all things.”

“Do not quote the sacred text to me,” the Sharum Ka snapped. “I was teaching it to my sons when your father was in his bido, and I know its truths far better than you! There is nothing that tells you to have your men scale the Maze walls and leave your layer unguarded while you protect one half the Maze away.”

“Unguarded!” Jardir goggled. “There were no demons in the eighth, much less the tenth!”

“It is not your place to disregard orders and seek glory that is not yours, kai’Sharum!” the Sharum Ka shouted.

Jardir’s temper flared. “Perhaps my orders would have been less foolish if the one giving them did not hide in his palace until dawn,” he said, knowing even as he did that he might as well have pulled his spear. Such an insult to the First Warrior could not be allowed to pass. If he were any kind of man, he would grab a spear and attack Jardir now, killing him before all the assembled men.

But the Sharum Ka was old, and men whispered of how Jardir had killed half a dozen demons with sharusahk alone. Jardir could not attack the First Warrior himself, but if the Sharum Ka attacked him, Jardir would be free to kill him and open a succession that might well put him in the Sharum Ka’s palace. He wondered if this was the fate Inevera’s bones had foretold so many years before.

They locked stares, and Jardir knew the Sharum Ka was thinking the same things he was, and did not have the courage to attack. He sneered.

“Arrest him!” the Sharum Ka commanded. Immediately his guards moved to comply.

Jardir’s hands were bound, a grave dishonor, but though he bared his teeth at the guards, he did not resist. There was a rumble of discontent from the assembled warriors, even the Majah. They gripped spears and lifted shields, greatly outnumbering the First Warrior’s guards.

“What are you doing?” the Sharum Ka demanded of the crowd. “Stand down!”

But the rumbling only grew, and men moved to block the exits from the Maze. The Sharum Ka took a tentative step back. Jardir met his eyes, and smiled.

“Do nothing,” Jardir said loudly, without taking his eyes from the Sharum Ka. “The Sharum Ka has given a command, and all Sharum are bound to comply. Everam will decide my fate.”

The grumbling quieted immediately, men clearing the path, and the Sharum Ka’s rage seemed doubled at Jardir’s control of the men. Jardir sneered at him again, daring him to attack.

“Take him away!” the Sharum Ka cried. Jardir kept his back straight and walked proudly as the guards gripped his arms and escorted him from the Maze.

Inevera was waiting in the palace of the Andrah when Jardir arrived.

Did she know of this day years ago, as well? he wondered.

His guards tightened their grip on his arms as she approached, but it was not in fear of anything Jardir might do. It was Inevera that terrified them.

“Leave us,” Inevera ordered. “Tell your master that my husband will meet him in the Andrah’s audience hall one hour hence.”

The guards immediately dropped Jardir’s arms and bowed. “As the dama’ting commands,” one stuttered, and they scurried away. Inevera snorted, pulling her warded blade to cut his bonds.

“You did well this night,” she whispered as they walked. “Stand tall in the coming hours. When the audience with the Andrah comes, you must provoke the Sharum Ka with words while standing in submission. Enrage him, but give him no excuse to attack you.”

“I will do no such thing,” Jardir said.

“You did it in the Maze,” Inevera snapped. “It is trebly important now.”

“You see all,” Jardir acknowledged, “but you understand little, if you think I will lower my eyes to this man. I was daring him to attack me then.”

Inevera shrugged. “Do it that way if you wish, but keep your feet planted and your hands still. He will never dare attack you himself, but if you pose a threat, his men will cut you down.”

“Do you think me a fool?” Jardir asked.

Inevera snorted. “Just enrage him. The rest is inevera.”

“As the dama’ting commands,” Jardir sighed.

Inevera nodded. They reached a pillowed waiting room. “Wait here,” she commanded. “I go now to meet with the Andrah privately before your trial.”

“Trial?” Jardir asked, but she had already slipped from the room.

Jardir had never before been close enough to the Andrah to see the man’s face. It was old and lined, his beard a stark white. He was a round man, clearly given to rich foods. His corpulence was disgusting, and Jardir had to remind himself that this man was once the greatest sharusahk master of his day, having defeated the most skilled Damaji in single combat in order to achieve the Skull Throne. In his days beneath Sharik Hora, Jardir had seen the Kaji Damaji, Amadeveram, a man of some sixty years, leave half a dozen young and skilled dama on their backs in the sharusahk circle.

He looked closer, seeking a sign of that training in the Andrah’s movements, but it seemed his ever-present bodyguards and servants had made the man lax. Even here, he picked at a plate of sugar dates during the proceedings.

Jardir’s eyes flicked to the sides of the Andrah’s throne. At his right hand stood the twelve Damaji, leaders of all the tribes of Krasia. Dressed in white robes and black turbans, they muttered among themselves about being pulled from their business and dragged to the palace when the sun had barely topped the horizon. At the Andrah’s left, two steps back from the throne, stood the Damaji’ting. Like the Damaji, they wore headwraps and veils of black, falling in sharp contrast over their white robes. Unlike the Damaji, they were utterly silent, watching with eyes that seemed to penetrate everything.

Do they too know my fate? Jardir wondered, then glanced at his Jiwah Ka, standing beside him. Or do they only know what Inevera tells them?

“Son of Hoshkamin,” Damaji Amadeveram greeted Jardir, “please tell us your version of last night’s events.” He was Kaji and the Andrah’s First Minister, perhaps the most powerful cleric in all of Krasia save the Andrah himself. The Andrah was said to represent all tribes, but it was he who appointed the Sharum Ka and First Minister, and Jardir knew from his lessons that it had been centuries since an Andrah had filled either position with someone from another tribe. It was considered a sign of weakness.

The Sharum Ka scowled, clearly expecting to have been invited to relate his version first. He stormed over to the tea service laid for him and took a cup. Jardir could tell from the erratic way the steam rose that his old hands were shaking.

“At the kai’Sharum supper this evening, the Sharum Ka gave orders, as he always does,” Jardir began. “My men have found much success in the night and were eager to send more alagai back to Nie as ashes.”

The Damaji nodded. “Your successes have not gone without note,” he said. “And your teachers in Sharik Hora speak highly of you. Go on.”

“We were dismayed to learn we would be sent to the tenth layer,” Jardir said. “Not so long ago, we stood in the first, showing a hundred alagai the sun for every man we lost. Then, recently, we were moved to the second, followed soon after by the third. We took it with pride; there is glory enough for all in the lower levels. But instead of moving us to the fourth, as expected, the Sharum Ka sent the Sharach there, giving us their traditional place in the tenth.”

Jardir saw Damaji Kevera of the Sharach tense, but he was not sure if it was at the dishonor of having his tribe’s “traditional place” be one so lacking glory, or at the sudden change.

He glanced at the Damaji’ting, but they were faceless, and he did not know which of them was Sharach. It mattered little; none of them showed the slightest reaction to his words.

“The men of Sharach are brave warriors,” he said. “They accepted this assignment with pride. But the Sharach do not bring many warriors to alagai’sharak. Even if every man fought as two,” he glanced at Kevera, “and they do, they do not have enough warriors to fully man an ambush point in the fourth.”

The Sharach Damaji nodded, and Jardir felt a surge of relief.

“So what did you do?” Amadeveram asked.

Jardir shrugged. “The Sharum Ka gave an order, and we followed it.”

“Liar!” the Sharum Ka shouted. “You left your post, you son of a camel’s piss!”

The insult, one no man had dared utter since he had broken Hasik, struck Jardir hard. For a split second he considered leaping across the room and killing the man outright, even though it would likely earn him a quick death at the hands of the Andrah’s guards. Instead he embraced the insult and it passed through him, leaving in its wake a cold, calm anger.

“We spent half the night in the tenth,” Jardir said, not even turning his head to acknowledge that the man had spoken. “The Watchers saw no alagai in our layer, or the ninth, or the eighth. Still we waited.”

“Liar!” the Sharum Ka shouted again.

This time Jardir did turn to him. “Were you there, First Warrior, to deny the truth of my words? Were you even in the Maze at all?” The Sharum Ka’s eyes widened, then a look of rage came over him. The truth of the words struck harder than any blow could.

The Sharum Ka opened his mouth to retort, but there was a hiss from the Andrah. All eyes turned to the man.

“Peace, my friend,” the Andrah told the Sharum Ka. “Let him tell his tale. You will have the last word.”

It struck Jardir then just how close these men were. Both had held their respective palaces for nearly four decades. Jardir had held some hope that the Andrah might still desire a strong Sharum Ka, but seeing his bloated form gave him grave doubts. If the Andrah himself had forgotten the warrior way, could he condemn his loyal Sharum Ka for the same offense?

“There was a horn call for aid,” Jardir said. “Since we were unengaged, I scaled the wall to see if we could answer it. But the call came from the fourth layer, and many battles raged in between them and our position. I was about to descend back into the Maze when the Watcher I sent returned with news that the Sharach were being overrun, and would soon pass from this world.”

He paused. “All dal’Sharum expect to die in the Maze. A dozen warriors, two dozen, even a hundred in a night, what does it matter when we do Everam’s work?

“Yet there is a difference between losing men and losing a tribe. What honor would I have if I stood idly by?”

“You said yourself the way was blocked,” Amadeveram noted.

Jardir nodded. “But my Watcher made it there, and I remember running the walltops with my men as nie’Sharum. I asked myself, Is there anything a boy can do that a man cannot? So we ran the walls, praying to Everam that we would be in time.”

“And what did you find when you arrived?” Amadeveram asked.

“Half the Sharach were down,” Jardir said. “Perhaps a dozen remained, none without injury himself. They faced a like number of alagai, and with their pit revealed, the demons knew to avoid it.”

Again, Jardir looked to the Sharach Damaji. “The remaining men stood tall in the night. The blood of Sharach, who stood with the Shar’Dama Ka himself, runs strong in their veins.”

“And then?” the Damaji pressed.

“My men joined our Sharach brothers, and we routed the alagai, throwing them in the pit and showing them the sun.”

“It is said you slew several yourself,” Amadeveram said, pride evident in his voice, “using sharusahk alone.”

“It was only two I sent to the pit that way,” Jardir said. He knew his wife was scowling behind her veil, but he did not care. He would not lie to his Damaji, or claim glory that was not rightfully his.

“Still, no small feat,” Amadeveram said. “Sand demons have many times a man’s strength.”

“My years in Sharik Hora taught me strength is relative,” Jardir replied, bowing.

“This makes him no less a traitor!” the Sharum Ka snarled.

“How did I betray?” Jardir asked.

“I gave an order!” the Sharum Ka cried.

“You gave a fool’s order,” Jardir replied. “You gave an order that wasted your best warriors while condemning the Sharach to destruction. And still I complied!”

The Majah Damaji, Aleverak, stepped forward. He was an ancient man, older even than Amadeveram. He was like a spear, stick-thin but tall and straight despite close to seventy years.

“The only traitor I see is you,” Aleverak snapped at the Sharum Ka. “You are supposed to stand for all the Sharum in Krasia, but you would sacrifice the Sharach just to quell a rival!”

The Sharum Ka took a step toward the Damaji, but Aleverak did not back off, striding forward and assuming a sharusahk stance. Unlike Jardir, a mere kai’Sharum, a Damaji could challenge and kill a Sharum Ka, opening a succession.

“Enough!” the Andrah cried. “Back to your places!” Both men complied, dropping their eyes in submission.

“I won’t have you fighting in my throne room like…like…”

“Men?” Inevera supplied.

Jardir almost choked at her audacity, but the Andrah merely scowled and did not reprimand her.

The Andrah sighed, looking very tired, and Jardir could see the weight of years upon him. Everam grant I die young, he prayed silently.

“I see no crime here,” the Andrah said at last. He looked pointedly at the Majah. “On either side. The Sharum Ka gave orders as he should, and the kai’Sharum made a decision in the heat of battle.”

“He insulted me before my men!” the Sharum Ka cried. “For that alone, I am within my rights to have him killed.”

“Your pardon, Sharum Ka, but that is not so,” Amadeveram said. “His insult gives you the right to kill him yourself, not to have him killed by other men. If you had done so, the matter would be closed. May I ask why you did not?”

There was a pause as the Sharum Ka groped for a response. Inevera nudged him gently.

Jardir glanced at her. Have we not won? his eyes asked, but hers were hard in response.

“Because he is a coward,” Jardir announced. “Not strong enough to defend the white turban, he hides in his palace and sends others to fight on his behalf, waiting for death to find him like a khaffit instead of seeking it in the Maze like a Sharum.”

The Sharum Ka’s eyes bulged, and veins stood sharply on his face and neck as he gnashed his teeth. Jardir tensed, expecting the man to leap upon him. In his mind’s eye, he imagined all the ways he might kill the old man.

But there was no need, for the Sharum Ka gripped his chest and fell to the floor, twitching and foaming at the mouth before lying still.

“You knew that would happen,” Jardir accused when they were alone. “You knew if I enraged him enough, his heart would give way.”

Inevera shrugged. “What if I did?”

“Fool woman!” Jardir shouted. “There is no honor in killing a man in such a way!”

“Ware your tongue,” Inevera warned, raising a finger. “You are not Sharum Ka yet, and never will be without me.”

Jardir scowled, wondering at the truth of her words. Was it his fate to be Sharum Ka? And if so, could fate be changed? “I will be lucky to even remain a kai’Sharum after this,” he said. “I killed the Andrah’s friend.”

“Nonsense,” Inevera said, smiling wickedly. “The Andrah is…pliable. The post is empty now, and you have won glory that even the Majah acknowledge. I will convince him that he can only gain face by appointing you.”

“How?” Jardir asked.

“Leave it to me,” Inevera said. “You have other concerns. When the Andrah places the white turban on your head, your first announcement will be an offer to take a fertile wife from each tribe as a symbol of unity.”

Jardir was scandalized. “Mix the blood of Kaji, the first Deliverer, with lesser tribes?”

Inevera poked him hard in the chest. “You will be Sharum Ka, if you stop acting the fool and do as you’re told. If you can produce heirs with ties to each tribe…”

“Krasia will unite as never before,” Jardir caught on. “I could invite the Damaji to select my brides,” he mused. “That should gain me favor.”

“No,” Inevera said. “Leave that to me. The Damaji will choose for politics. The alagai hora will choose for Everam.”

“Always the bones,” Jardir muttered. “Was Kaji himself bound to them?”

“It was Kaji who first gave us the wards of prophecy,” Inevera said.

The next day, Jardir found himself in the Andrah’s throne room once more. The Damaji murmured to one another as he entered, and Damaji’ting watched him, inscrutable as ever.

The Andrah sat on his throne, toying with the white turban of the Sharum Ka. The steel under the cloth rang with a clear note as the Andrah flicked it with a long, painted nail.

“The Sharum Ka was a great warrior,” the Andrah said as if reading his mind. He rose from his throne, and Jardir immediately sank to his knees, spreading his arms in supplication.

“Yes, Holiness,” he said.

The Andrah waved a dismissive hand at him. “You do not remember him as such, of course. By the time you were in your bido, he already had more years than most Sharum ever see, and could no longer stand toe-to-toe with the alagai as a young man.”

Jardir bowed his head.

“It is a failing of the young to think a man’s worth lies only in the strength of his arm,” the Andrah said. “Would you judge me so?”

“Your pardon, Holiness,” Jardir said, “but you are not Sharum. The Sharum are your arm in the night, and that arm must be strong.”

The Andrah grunted. “Bold,” he said. “Though I guess any man who took a dama’ting to wife would have to be.”

Jardir said nothing.

“You sought to provoke him into attacking you,” the Andrah said. “No doubt you thought such was the way a brave man should die.”

Again, Jardir said nothing.

“But if he had attacked you, it would have only shown that he was a fool,” the Andrah said. “And Everam has little patience for fools.”

“Yes, Holiness,” Jardir said.

“And now he is dead,” the Andrah said. “My friend, a man who showed countless alagai the sun, dead on the floor in disgrace because you could not show him the respect he was owed!”

Jardir swallowed hard. The Andrah looked ready to strike him. This was not going as Inevera had promised, and she was conspicuously absent from the audience. He scanned the room for support, but the eyes of the Damaji were downcast as the Andrah spoke, and the Damaji’ting simply watched him as if he were a bug.

The Andrah sighed and seemed to deflate, waddling back to his throne and sitting heavily. “It pains me to see a man who achieved such glory in life die in shame. My heart cries for vengeance, but the fact remains the Sharum Ka is dead, and I would be a fool to ignore the fact that for the first time in centuries, the Damaji are in agreement over who should succeed him.”

Jardir glanced at the Damaji again. He might have imagined it, but it seemed as if Amadeveram nodded slightly to him.

“You will be Sharum Ka,” the Andrah said curtly. “The night will belong to you.”

Jardir spread his hands and leaned forward on his knees, pressing his forehead into the thick woven carpet before the throne. “I will be your strong arm in the night,” he swore.

“I will make the announcement at Sharik Hora tonight,” the Andrah said. “You may go.”

Jardir touched his forehead to the floor again, remembering Inevera’s instructions. Already the Damaji were beginning to murmur. If he was going to speak, it must be now.

“Holiness,” he began, watching the Andrah’s eyes return to him with irritation, “I ask your blessing, and that of the Damaji, to take a fertile wife from each tribe, as a show of unity among the Sharum.”

The Andrah goggled at him, as did the Damaji. Even the Damaji’ting stirred, betraying their sudden interest.

“That is an unusual request,” the Andrah said at last.

“Unusual?” Amadeveram demanded. “It is unheard of! You are Kaji! I will not bless your wedding to some—”

“You need not,” Aleverak cut in, smiling openly. “I am more than willing to perform the ceremony, should the Sharum Ka wish a Majah wife.”

“You would be happy to dilute the pure blood of Kaji, I have no doubt,” Amadeveram growled, but Aleverak did not rise to the bait, simply grinning.

“I will bless a wedding to a daughter of Sharach, as well,” Damaji Kevera of the Sharach said. Within moments the remaining Damaji followed suit, all of them eager to have a permanent voice in the First Warrior’s court.

“Surely you cannot agree to this!” Amadeveram said, turning to the Andrah.

“I am Andrah, not you, Amadeveram,” the Andrah said. “If the Sharum Ka wishes unity and the Damaji agree, I see no reason to refuse. Like me, the First Warrior relinquishes tribe when he dons his turban.”

He turned to regard the Damaji’ting for the first time Jardir had seen. “This matter lies more in the realm of women than who carries the first spear,” he said, addressing none of the women in particular. “What do the Damaji’ting say to this proposal?”

The women turned their backs on the men and clustered together in a buzz of muffled whispers, impossible to understand. In moments, they finished and turned back to the Andrah.

“The Damaji’ting have no objection,” one of them said.

Amadeveram scowled, and Jardir knew he had angered the man, perhaps irrevocably, but there was nothing to be done for it now. He had three Kaji wives already, including his Jiwah Ka. That would have to be enough.

“It’s settled then,” Aleverak said. “My own granddaughter is just fourteen, Sharum Ka, beautiful and unknown to man. She will bear you strong sons.”

Jardir bowed deeply. “My apologies, Damaji, but the duty of choosing my brides must fall to my Jiwah Ka. She will cast the alagai hora to ensure the blessings of Everam for each union.”

There was another buzz among the Damaji’ting, and Aleverak’s wide smile vanished in an instant, as did those of many other Damaji. But it was too late for them to take back their support. Amadeveram’s scowl became a look of smug satisfaction.

“Enough talk of brides!” the Andrah barked. “You have your boon, Sharum Ka. Go now before you disturb my court further!”

Jardir bowed and left.

“Are you a fool?” Amadeveram demanded. Jardir had not made it out of the Andrah’s palace before the old Damaji had caught up to him, dragging him into a private room.

“Of course not, my Damaji,” Jardir said.

“Only ‘yours’ for a few hours more, it seems,” Amadeveram said.

Jardir shrugged. “I will still be ruled by the council of Damaji, who speak with your voice. But as Sharum Ka, I must represent warriors of all tribes.”

“The Sharum Ka does not represent warriors, he rules them!” Amadeveram shouted. “That you are Kaji is proof that Everam wishes the Kaji to rule! You cannot go through with this mad plan.”

“For the good of all Krasia, I can and will,” Jardir said. “I will not be a weak figurehead for you, like the last Sharum Ka. The warriors need unity if they are to be strong. Becoming one with all of them is the only way to win their devotion.”

“You are turning your back on your tribe!” Amadeveram shouted.

“No, I am turning to face the others,” Jardir said. “I implore you, turn with me.”

“Face our blood enemies?” Amadeveram said, aghast. “I would sooner die in shame!”

“There was only one tribe in the time of Kaji,” Jardir reminded him. “Our blood enemies are also our blood.”

“You are no blood of Kaji,” Amadeveram said, spitting at Jardir’s feet. “The blood of the Shar’Dama Ka has turned to camel’s piss in your veins.”

Jardir’s face grew dark and, for a moment, he considered attacking him. Amadeveram was a sharusahk grand master, but Jardir was younger and stronger and faster. He could kill the old man.

But he was not Sharum Ka yet. Killing Amadeveram would only unravel Inevera’s plans and cost him the Spear Throne.

Am I doomed to always have success without pride? he asked himself.

“The Sharum Ka is dead!” the Andrah cried to the assembled warriors in Sharik Hora. The Sharum filling the rows of the great temple howled at the news, banging spear against shield in a great cacophony meant to announce the First Warrior’s coming to Everam.

“But we will not cede the night like those to the north!” the Andrah cried when the noise died down. “We are Krasian! Blood of Shar’Dama Ka himself! And we will fight till the Deliverer returns, or the spear falls from the hands of the last nie’Sharum and Krasia is buried in the sand!”

The warriors hooted at that, thrusting spears in the air.

“And thus, I have chosen a new Sharum Ka to lead alagai’sharak,” the Andrah said. “When he was nie’Sharum, he was made Nie Ka and stood on the walls at twelve, the youngest in a hundred years! He was not there six months before he netted a wind demon that had killed his Watcher and knocked his drillmaster prone. For this, he was brought to the Kaji pavilion, the youngest to come since the Return. He fought so well on his first night of alagai’sharak that he was sent to Sharik Hora, studying five years with the dama to first don his blacks as kai’Sharum, the youngest such since the time of the Deliverer himself!”

There was a murmur at this among the Kaji, who knew Jardir’s accomplishments well. The Andrah paused a moment to let the sense of excitement travel, then continued. “Two nights ago, he led his warriors in a daring rescue of the Sharach, who stood on the brink of destruction, killing alagai with his bare hands while his men still readied their spears!”

The murmuring grew to a buzz. There was not a man, woman, or child in all Krasia who had not heard that tale by now.

“Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, stand before the Skull Throne!” the Andrah commanded, and the warriors cheered and banged spear and shield as Jardir appeared, dressed in his Sharum blacks, his head bare.

Inevera walked silently at his side as he went to the Skull Throne and prostrated himself, kneeling quickly to lay the Andrah’s Evejah under his forehead as he pressed it to the rug. The holy book was inked with dal’Sharum blood on vellum made from kai’Sharum skin, bound in leather from a Sharum Ka. It would sear his skull if he should utter a lie while touching it.

“Do you serve Everam in all things?” the Andrah asked.

“I do, Holiness,” Jardir swore.

“Will you be His strong arm in the night, giving all honor to the thrones of Sharik Hora?”

“I will, Holiness.”

“Are you prepared to hold the reins of alagai’sharak until the Shar’Dama Ka comes again, or you be dead?” the Andrah asked.

“I am, Holiness.”

“Then rise,” the Andrah said, lifting the white turban of the Sharum Ka high for all to see. “The night awaits its Sharum Ka.”

Jardir rose, and the Andrah turned to Inevera. He handed her the turban, and she placed it on Jardir’s head.

The Sharum roared and stamped their feet, but Jardir barely noticed. Why did the Andrah not put the turban on his head himself, as was the custom? Why give the honor to Inevera?

“Stop basking in your glory and speak your words,” Inevera whispered, breaking him from his musing. Jardir started, then turned to face the assembled Sharum—nearly six thousand spears. It had been ten thousand not long ago, but the previous Sharum Ka had wasted lives. Jardir promised himself he would not do the same.

“My brothers in the night,” Jardir said. “This is a glorious time to be Sharum! Alone, the tribes of Krasia make the alagai quail with fear, but when we stand together, there is nothing we cannot do!”

The warriors roared, and Jardir waited until it died. “But when I look out at you, I see division!” he cried. “The Majah sit across the aisle from the Kaji! The Jama avoid the Khanjin! There is not one tribe who does not see enemies in this room! We are supposed to be brothers in the night, but who among you has volunteered to stand with the Sharach, whose numbers have been decimated?”

There was silence now, the warriors unsure how to respond. They knew the truth of his words, but tribal hatreds ran deep and were not easily let go even if one wished it—and few did.

“The Sharum Ka is said to be of no tribe,” Jardir continued, “but to me, that is worse! What loyalty might a tribeless man have? The Evejah tells us that the only true loyalty is that of blood. And so,” he swept a hand back toward the Andrah and the Damaji on their thrones, “I have beseeched our leaders to join my blood to all of you.

“With the Andrah’s blessing,” Jardir said, “the Damaji have each agreed to wed me to one fertile daughter of their tribe, to bear me a Sharum son to whom I will be forever loyal.”

There was a shocked silence, then the room erupted in a roar of approval from every tribe save the Kaji. Clearly, they had believed Jardir would retain his loyalty to their tribe, as all previous Sharum Ka had done, no matter what the Evejah said.

Let them sulk, Jardir thought. I will win them back in the Maze.

“And so,” he intoned, quieting the temple once more, “once my Jiwah Ka selects my brides, the Damaji will perform the wedding rites.”

But then Inevera stepped forward unrehearsed, surprising Jardir no less than the Sharum or assembled leaders. Did she mean to speak? Any woman, dama’ting or no, speaking in Sharik Hora was unheard of.

But it seemed everything Inevera did was unheard of.

“There need be no delay,” she said loudly. “Let the brides of the Sharum Ka step forth!”

Jardir’s jaw dropped. She had chosen his brides already? Impossible!

But eleven women strode out onto the great altar of Sharik Hora, kneeling before the flabbergasted Damaji of their tribes. Jardir saw them, and his heart sank.

They were all dama’ting.

The palace of the Sharum Ka was smaller than the Kaji palace, but where that housed dozens of kai’Sharum, dama, and their families, this palace was Jardir’s alone. He remembered his years spent sleeping on a filthy cloth on the crowded stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, and gazed in wonder at the splendor of it all. Everywhere he stepped was plush carpet, velvet, and silk. He dined off porcelain plates so delicate he feared to touch them, and drank from golden goblets studded with gems. And the fountains! There was nothing in Krasia more valuable than water, yet even his mother’s bedroom tinkled with fresh flowing water.

He threw Qasha down onto a pile of pillows, delighting in the sway of her soft breasts, clearly visible through her diaphanous top. Her legs were clad in the same gossamer material, leaving her sex bare, shaved and perfumed. Lust filled him as he fell on her, and he mused that being wed to twelve dama’ting was not the chore he had feared.

Qasha of the Sharach was by far Jardir’s favorite of his new wives. Almost as beautiful as Inevera, she was far more obedient, dropping her robes at a moment’s notice. Her belly was still flat, but already, six weeks wed, she carried a son—the first that would come from his new brides. He knew he should be taking another now, filling the palace with swollen bellies to tie him to the tribes, but Qasha’s condition only aroused Jardir’s lust for her further. Inevera didn’t seem to care. Far less strict with her dama’ting Jiwah Sen, she let Jardir bed them as he pleased. He liked to keep Qasha close by, for she served him as a proper wife should.

Laughing, Qasha pushed him onto his back, mounting him wantonly.

“Everam’s bones, woman!” Jardir cried, gasping as she lowered herself down upon him.

“Should I seem demure when I am in the pillows with the Sharum Ka?” Qasha asked, rising up and slapping down hard. “Just last night, the Andrah himself spoke of the glory you’ve won in the Maze since ascending. It is an honor to sheathe your spear.” She leaned in close, moving rhythmically.

“A woman may bear two children in the same womb,” Qasha whispered between perfumed kisses. “Perhaps you can plant yet another son within me.” Jardir started to reply, but she giggled and muffled his words by giving him a full breast to suckle. For long minutes, they sweated and struggled in the only battle to rival alagai’sharak.

When they were finished, Qasha rolled off him, raising her legs to hold his seed.

“You were in the palace last night when I left at dusk,” Jardir said after a moment.

Qasha looked at him, and for an instant fear washed over her lovely face before being replaced with the cold dama’ting mask he had come to expect from his wives whenever he spoke of things other than lovemaking and children.

“I was,” she agreed.

“Then when did you see the Andrah?” Jardir asked. “Women with child, even dama’ting, are forbidden to leave the palace at night.”

“I misspoke,” Qasha said. “It was another night.”

“Which night?” Jardir pressed. “Which night did you take my unborn son from the safety of my palace without permission?”

Qasha drew herself up. “I am dama’ting, and owe you no—”

“You are my jiwah!” Jardir roared, and she quailed in the face of it. “The Evejah grants no exceptions to dama’ting when it commands wives to obedience!” It was bad enough that Inevera flaunted that sacred law as she pleased, but Jardir would be damned if he gave all his wives the same power. He was Sharum Ka!

“I did not leave the wards!” Qasha cried, holding out her hands. “I swear it!”

“Did you lie about the Andrah’s words?” Jardir asked, clenching a fist.

“No!” Qasha cried.

“Then the Andrah was here, in my palace?” Jardir asked.

“Please, I am forbidden to speak of it,” Qasha said, casting her eyes down in submission.

Jardir grabbed her roughly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No one may forbid you anything over me!”

Qasha thrashed and pulled from his grasp, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She burst into tears, shaking as she covered her face in her hands. She looked so frail and afraid that all the anger fell from him. He knelt and put his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Of all my wives,” he said, “you are the most favored. I ask only your loyalty. You will not be punished for your answer, I swear.”

She looked up at him with round, wet eyes, and he pushed back her hair, brushing away tears with his thumb. She pulled back, looking to the floor. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely make out her words.

“All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night,” she said, “when the master is at alagai’sharak.”

Jardir choked down a blast of anger. “And when will the palace next be stirred?”

Qasha shook her head. “I do not know,” she whimpered.

“Then cast the bones and find out,” Jardir ordered.

She looked up at him, scandalized. “I could never!”

Jardir growled, his anger flaring again, as he silently cursed the day he had married dama’ting. Even if she were not carrying his child, Jardir could not strike Qasha, and she knew it. There was a layer of Nie’s abyss reserved for any man who harmed a dama’ting.

But Jardir refused to be dominated by every one of his wives because he could not discipline as the Evejah taught. There were other ways to frighten her.

“I tire of your disobedience, jiwah,” he said. “Cast them, or I will send the Sharach to the first layer, and your tribe will be consumed by the night. The boys will be cast from Hannu Pash as khaffit, and the women left to whore for lesser tribes.” He would do no such thing, of course, but she need not know that.

“You would not dare!” Qasha said.

“Why should I allow your tribe honor, when you deny me mine?” Jardir demanded.

She was crying openly now, but Qasha nevertheless reached for the thick bag of black felt every dama’ting carried at all times. Hers was secured to her bare waist with a strand of colored beads.

Used to the practice by now, Jardir moved to draw the heavy velvet curtains, blocking any hint of sunlight that might break the magic and render the dice useless.

Qasha lit a candle. She looked at him, fear in her eyes. “Swear to me,” she begged. “Swear that you will never tell the Jiwah Ka that I did this for you.”

Inevera. Of course Jardir expected his First Wife to be at the center of any intrigue in his palace, but it cut him to hear it. He was Sharum Ka now, and still not fit to know her plans.

“I swear by Everam and the blood of my sons,” Jardir said.

Qasha nodded and cast the bones. Jardir watched their evil light and wondered for the first time if perhaps they were not Everam’s voice on Ala.

“Tonight,” Qasha whispered.

Jardir nodded. “Put the bones away. We will speak no more of this.”

“And the Sharach?” Qasha asked.

“I would never have vented my rage upon my son’s tribe,” Jardir said, laying a hand on her belly. Qasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, deflating as the tension left her.

As the sun came to the end of its arc, Jardir left Qasha sleeping on the bed of pillows and donned his blacks and white turban. He chose his favorite spear and shield, and went down to meet his kai’Sharum at dinner.

They feasted on spiced meat and cool water, served by Jardir’s mother, dal’ting wives, and sisters. His dama’ting wives were no doubt lurking in the shadows, listening in, but they would never deign to serve at his table, jiwah or no. Ashan, his spiritual advisor, sat at the foot of the table, facing him. Shanjat, who had succeeded Jardir as kai’Sharum of his personal unit, sat at Jardir’s right hand, and Hasik, his personal bodyguard, at his left.

“What were our losses last night?” Jardir asked as they had their tea.

“We lost four last night, First Warrior,” Ashan said.

Jardir looked at him in surprise. “The Kaji lost four?”

Ashan smiled. “No, my friend. Krasia lost four. Two Baiters and two Watchers. All dal’Sharum past their primes and gone to glory.”

Jardir returned the smile. Since he’d become Sharum Ka, nightly losses had dwindled as demon kills had increased.

“And alagai?” he asked. “How many saw the sun?”

“More than five hundred,” Ashan said.

Jardir laughed. He doubted the true number was half that, with every tribe habitually exaggerating their kills, but it was still a fine night’s work, far more that the previous Sharum Ka had achieved.

“The tribes in the eighth layer still saw no glory,” Ashan said. “We were considering leaving the Maze gates open longer tonight to ensure there are enough alagai for all to kill.”

Jardir nodded. “An extra ten minutes. If that is not enough, add another ten tomorrow. I will be on the walls tonight, inspecting the new scorpions and rock slingers.”

Ashan bowed. “As the Sharum Ka commands.”

After the meal, they left for Sharik Hora, where the Damaji praised their successes and blessed the coming night’s battle. As the warriors left for the Maze, Jardir held his two lieutenants back.

“You will wear the white turban tonight, Hasik,” Jardir said.

A wild light came to Hasik’s eyes. “As the Sharum Ka commands.” He bowed.

“You cannot be serious!” Ashan said. “To have a dal’Sharum impersonate the Sharum Ka is a violation of our sacred oaths!”

“Nonsense,” Jardir said. “There are tales in the Evejah of Kaji playing such games frequently, when he did not wish his movements known.”

“Forgive me, First Warrior,” Ashan said, “but you are not the Deliverer.”

Jardir smiled. “Perhaps. But what is the Evejah, if not something the Shar’Dama Ka left for us to learn from?”

Ashan frowned. “What if Hasik is discovered?”

“He won’t be,” Jardir said. “With his night veil, the sling teams will not recognize him, for they have seldom seen me save at a distance. Hasik, however, will be seen on the walltops by all, and there will be no question among the Sharum that I was in the Maze tonight.”

“If you are wrong, he will be put to death,” Ashan warned.

Jardir shrugged. “Hasik has killed hundreds of alagai. If that is his fate, he will wake in paradise.”

“I am not afraid, Sharum Ka,” Hasik said.

Ashan snorted. “Fools seldom are,” he muttered. “But where will you go,” he asked Jardir, “while others think you on the wall?”

“Ah,” Jardir said, taking Hasik’s black turban and tying the veil, “that is for me to know.”

The streets of Fort Krasia were quiet at night, the true men all gone to battle, and the common khaffit, women, and children locked in the Undercity. Like all the city’s palaces, the palace of the Sharum Ka had its own walls and wards, its lower levels connected to the Undercity in several places. The palace was as safe from alagai as any in the world, and that was if a demon could even get past Krasia’s outer walls, which, as far as Jardir knew, had never happened.

Jardir kept to the shadows, his dal’Sharum blacks making him invisible in the darkness. Even if someone had been there to see, none would have marked his passing.

The gates of his palace were closed, but his years as a nie’Sharum had taught him to scale walls with ease. In a twinkling he was dropping into the darkness on the lee side.

Nothing seemed amiss as he crossed the compound to the palace. The windows were dark, and the keep was silent. Still, Qasha’s words nagged at him. All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night.

Jardir moved about dark and silent in the halls of his own home like a thief, using all the skills he had learned stalking alagai in the Maze. He did not leave so much as a curtain stirring in his wake as, one by one, he checked the audience halls and receiving rooms—anywhere that might be fitting for a gathering of those bold enough to defy curfew—but he found no one.

As it should be, he mused. They are all in lower levels, barred from within, as is the law. You were a fool to come. Ashan was right. You play games with your duty in order to satisfy your own curiosity. Men are dying in the night while you skulk about your own home.

He was about to leave, heading back to the Maze, when he caught a sound coming from his bedchambers. The noise grew louder as he padded closer. He peeked around a curtain and saw two kai’Sharum bearing the white sash of the Andrah’s personal guard standing before the door to his bedroom. The sounds became clearer, and he realized what they were.

Inevera’s cries.

Rage flared in him, hotter than he had ever imagined possible. Before he even realized he was moving, his fist was shattering the spine of one of the kai’Sharum. The man grunted, but it was quickly silenced as he struck the floor and Jardir crushed his throat with a stomp of his heel.

The other warrior spun deftly, moving with the grace one would expect from a Sharum trained in Sharik Hora, but Jardir’s rage knew no bounds. The warrior tried to grapple, but Jardir ducked his outstretched arms and came up behind him, gripping the man’s chin with one hand and the back of his head with another. A sharp twist, and the man was falling to the carpet, dead.

Jardir spun, kicking hard against the door. It was barred from within, but he only gritted his teeth and kicked again, this time knocking out the braces and sending the door slamming inward.

He pulled up short at the scene before him, feeling as if he had taken a spear in the chest. He had expected to find the Andrah holding Inevera down, forcing himself upon her, but just the opposite, his wife, nude, rode the fat man as wantonly as Qasha had ridden him that morning. The Andrah looked up at him fearfully, but he was pinned by Inevera’s soft weight. She turned to him, and in his rage he wasn’t sure if he imagined it, or if a bit of a smirk touched the corners of her mouth as she took the last bit of honor from him.

If his anger was a furnace before, it was the fifth layer of Nie’s abyss now. He strode to the rack on the wall, selecting a short, stabbing spear. When he turned back, the Andrah had struggled out from under Inevera. He stood naked in Jardir’s bedchamber, his flaccid member all but hidden in the shadows of his massive belly. The sight filled Jardir with disgust.

“Stop! I command you!” the Andrah cried as Jardir charged, but Jardir ignored him, striking the man across the jaw with the butt of the spear.

“Not even you can deny a husband his rights in this!” Jardir cried as the Andrah hit the floor. “I do Krasia a favor this night!” He raised the spear to impale the man.

Inevera grabbed his arm. “Fool!” she cried. “You will ruin everything!”

Jardir pivoted to backhand Inevera across the face, knocking her away. “Have no fear, faithless jiwah,” he said, turning back to the Andrah. “My spear will find you soon enough.”

He raised the spear again and the Andrah screamed, but then everything turned orange and red, and Jardir was struck by an incredible force, knocking him away from his victim. The plates of fired clay sewn within his heavy warrior’s garb took the brunt of the blast, but when he recovered from striking the wall, he found his robes in flames. With a shout, he tore them off.

He looked to Inevera, holding the fire demon skull she had brought to their first meeting in Sharik Hora. She stood naked before two men with no shame, knowing that even now, her beauty had no equal. Hatred and arousal swirled in him, warring for dominance.

“Stop this foolishness!” she snapped.

“I take no more orders from you,” Jardir said. “Burn down this whole palace if you wish, I will still kill that fat pig and take you on his corpse!” The Andrah whimpered, but Jardir snarled, silencing him.

Inevera did not even flinch, producing a small object in her other hand. It looked like a lump of coal until the ward carved upon it flared, and Jardir realized that it, too, was alagai hora. The blackened piece of bone crackled, and silver magic leapt from it, like a bolt of lightning, to strike Jardir.

Jardir was lifted from his feet and thrown back into the wall, his body racked with agony beyond anything he could imagine. He tried to open himself to it, but the pain ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving only a stark terror in its wake. He turned back to Inevera, but she raised the stone again, and the lightning struck a second time, and again after that when he still managed to put his feet under him. He struggled to rise a third time, but his limbs did not respond to his commands, muscles spasming uncontrollably.

“Finally, we understand each other,” Inevera said. “I am Everam’s will, and you had best put aside thoughts of resisting me. If bedding a fat pig gets you the white turban, then you should be thanking me for my sacrifice, not trying to ruin things.”

“Fat pig?!” the Andrah demanded, rising to his feet at last. “I am—!”

“—alive because I wish it,” Inevera said, raising the demon skull. Flames licked from its jaws, and the Andrah blanched.

“I needed your support of Jardir until he won over the Sharum and Damaji of the other tribes,” she said, “but now that Qasha is with child, the Sharum will see that he is brother to all of them in day as well as night. You can never depose him now.”

“I am the Andrah!” the man shouted. “I can raze this palace with a wave of my hand!”

Inevera laughed. “Then you will have civil war. And even if you did kill Ahmann, what of his dama’ting wives? Will you rape and slaughter them, as is the custom? The Evejah is clear about the fate of any who would dare harm a dama’ting.”

The Andrah scowled, having no reply.

“The gates of Heaven are closed,” she said, slinging silk across her shoulders to cover her nakedness. “Perhaps they will open again the next time I need a proclamation from you, or perhaps I will send Ahmann to write it in your blood. But until then, take your withered old spear back to your palace.”

Not even bothering to dress, the Andrah gathered his clothes in his arms and scurried from the room.

Inevera approached Jardir, kneeling beside him. The lump of demon bone she had used to throw lightning disintegrated, and she brushed the ash from her hand bemusedly. “You are strong,” she said. “Few men could rise after one strike, much less three. I’ll have to use a larger bone when I carve a new one tonight.”

She reached out to him, gentling his hair and caressing his face. “Ah, my love,” she said sadly. “How I wish you had not seen this.”

Jardir fought with his tongue, which felt as if it had swollen to fill his entire mouth. “Why?” he finally managed to croak.

Inevera sighed. “The Andrah was going to have you executed for killing his friend with such dishonor. I did what was needed to save your life and gain you power. But fear not. The day is fast approaching when you will take his throne, and on that day, you may cut the manhood from him yourself.”

“Did…” Jardir began, unable to manage more. He swallowed hard, trying to lubricate his tongue, but even that seemed beyond him.

Inevera rose and brought him water, running it over his lips and massaging his throat to help him swallow. She used her silk wrap to dry his mouth, revealing one of her breasts. He wondered how, even now, he could desire her, but it was undeniable.

“Did you know it would come to this,” he asked, “when you had me kill the Sharum Ka?” Again he called upon his limbs to move, and again they failed to respond.

Inevera sighed again. “You have lived but twenty winters, my love, and even you can recall a time when Krasia had ten thousand dal’Sharum. The eldest Damaji can recall when it was ten times that, and the ancient scrolls show our numbers in the millions before the Return. Our people are dying, Ahmann, because they lack a leader. They need more than a strong Sharum Ka, more than a powerful Andrah. They need Shar’Dama Ka, before Nie scatters the last of us to the sands.”

Inevera paused, breaking eye contact, and it seemed she considered her next words carefully. “I didn’t ask the dice if I would ever see you again, that first night,” she admitted. “I asked if there was a man in all Krasia who could pull us from attrition and lead us back to glory, and they pointed to a boy I would find weeping in the Maze, years hence.”

“I am the Deliverer?” Jardir asked, his voice hoarse and disbelieving.

Inevera shrugged. “The dice never lie, but neither do they give absolutes. There are futures where men believe you so, and unite behind you, and others where they unite behind another, or not at all.”

“Then what good are they?” Jardir asked. “If that is inevera, fate will decide it.”

“There is no fate as you understand it,” Inevera said, “save that Sharak Ka, the final battle, is coming, and soon. We dare not let the future go unguided. I have watched you since you first took the bido, my sweet. You are Krasia’s best hope of salvation, and I will seize for you every advantage, even at the cost of my body’s honor, or your own.”

Jardir looked at her with wide eyes. Words failed him as surely as his limbs continued to do. Inevera bent and kissed his forehead, her lips soft and cool. She rose to her feet, looking down sadly as he continued to twitch helplessly on the floor.

“Everything I do, I do for you, and for Sharak Ka,” she said, and left the room.