Читать книгу The Desert Spear - Peter Brett V. - Страница 14

“THE CHIN ARE PROVING ideal slaves,” Jayan said. “Even the least of them put such high value on their own lives that they will never muster the courage to resist. Truly it is a great conquest, Father. Your glory knows no bounds.”

Jardir shook his head. “To shift a few grains of sand is no more a sign of great strength than to see the sun a sign of great sight. There is no glory in dominating the weak.”

“Still, it is a great boon to us,” Jayan pressed. “Our victory is complete, and at no cost to ourselves.”

Across the room, Abban snorted at his tiny writing desk.

“You have something to add, khaffit?” Jayan demanded.

“Nothing, my prince,” Abban said quickly, looking up from his ledgers. He stood and braced himself on his camel-headed crutch, bowing deeply. “It was but a cough.”

“No, please,” Jayan said. “Tell us what amused you so.”

Abban’s eyes flicked to Jardir, who nodded.

“There may have been no loss of dal’Sharum, my prince, but there has definitely been cost,” Abban said. “Food, clothing, shelter, transportation. Keeping such a vast army as ours on the move is costly beyond measure. Your father may control the riches of all twelve tribes, and Everam’s Bounty besides, but even his wealth has an end.”

Asome nodded. “The Evejah tells us: When a man’s purse is empty, his rivals grow bolder.”

Jayan laughed. “Who would dare oppose Father? Besides, why should the Shar’Dama Ka pay for anything? We have conquered this land. We can take whatever we wish.”

Abban nodded. “That is so, but a robbed merchant has no capital to replenish his stock. You can take all the chandler’s candles, but if you do not pay at least their cost, you will find yourself sitting in the dark when the last one burns out.”

Jayan snorted. “Candles are for weak khaffit scroll worshippers. They make no difference to warriors in the night.”

“Wood and steel for spears, then,” Abban said patiently, as if speaking to a child. “Cloth for uniforms and fired clay for armor. Leather and oil for saddle harness. These things do not appear from thin air, and if we steal every seed and goat now, there will be nothing to fill our bellies a year hence.”

“I do not care for your tone, pig-eater,” Jayan growled.

“Be silent and attend his words,” Jardir snapped. “The khaffit is offering you wisdom, my son, and you would be wise to take it.”

Jayan looked at his father in shock, but quickly bowed. “Of course, Father.” His eyes shot daggers at Abban.

Jardir looked to Asome, who had stood quietly through all this. “And you, my son? What say you to the khaffit’s words?”

“The unworthy one makes a fair point,” Asome conceded. “There are still those among the Damaji who resent your rise, and they would use any privation of their tribesmen as excuse to sow discord.”

Jardir nodded. “And what would you do to attend this problem?”

Asome shrugged. “Kill and replace the disloyal Damaji before they grow bold.”

“That would sow discord of its own,” Jardir noted. He looked to Abban.

“It’s too costly to keep our army together in the city,” Abban said. “And so they must be dispersed into the hamlets.” Jardir’s sons looked at the fat merchant incredulously.

“Disband our army? What foolishness is this?” Jayan demanded. “Father, this khaffit is a coward and a fool! I beg you, let me kill him!”

“Idiot boy!” Jardir snapped. “Do you think the khaffit speaks words unknown to me?”

Jayan looked at him in shock.

“One day, my sons,” Jardir said, looking from Jayan to Asome and back, “I will die. If you have any wish to survive the days that follow, you must listen for wisdom from every side.”

Jayan turned to Abban and bowed. It was a minuscule thing, barely a nod, and his eyes shot death at the fat merchant for shaming him. “Please, khaffit, do share your wisdom.”

Abban bowed in return, though even with his crutch he could have gone lower. “With the lost granaries, the central city cannot support all of Krasia’s peoples without privation, my prince. But there are hundreds of small villages, arranged around this city like the spokes of a wheel. We will have the greenland duke provide lists, and divide them among the tribes.”

“That is a vast territory to hold,” Asome noted.

Abban shrugged. “Hold from whom? No army threatens us, and as my prince says, the chin are ideal slaves. Better to let the Shar’Dama Ka’s armies disperse until needed, saving him the need to provide for them. Instead, they each take a territory to forage on and tax, hunting its alagai at night. They can form greenland sharaji to train the boys in their territories, and leave the women and elderly to plant another crop in the spring. A year from now, the tribes will be richer than they have ever been, with thousands of greenland nie’Sharum. Give the tribes wealth instead of privations, and by the time the novices come of age, the Shar’Dama Ka will control the largest army the world has ever known, fanatically loyal, and, best of all, paying for itself.”

Jardir looked at his sons. “Do you see now the use of khaffit?”

“Yes, Father,” the boys answered, dipping identical bows.

Damaji Ashan entered the throne room, sweeping smoothly onto his hands and knees, touching his forehead to the floor. His white robes were flecked with blood, and there was a grim set to his eyes beneath his black turban.

“Rise, my friend,” Jardir said. Ashan had always been his most loyal counselor, even before his rise to power. Now he spoke for the whole of the Kaji, the most powerful tribe in Krasia, and he had named as his successor his eldest son, Asukaji, Jardir’s nephew by his sister Imisandre. After Jardir himself, there was no man in all the world as powerful.

“Shar’Dama Ka, there is news you must hear,” Ashan said.

Jardir nodded. “Your counsel is always welcome, my friend. Speak.”

Ashan shook his head. “Best you hear the words directly from their source, Deliverer.”

Jardir raised an eyebrow at this, but he nodded, following Ashan out of the manse and onto the frozen city streets. Not far from Jardir’s palace lay one of the chin houses of worship. It was mean and unadorned compared with the great Sharik Hora, but it was an impressive structure by Northland standards—three stories of thick stone, and powerfully warded.

Ashan led the way inside, and Jardir saw that the dama had done more than simply claim the Holy House. Already they were decorating it with the bleached and lacquered bones of the dal’Sharum who had died in battle since leaving the Desert Spear. With the spirits of the honored dead to guard it, no building in the North would be more secure.

Down they went, stone steps leading into a maze of cold catacombs below the structure.

“The chin interred their honored dead here,” Ashan explained as Jardir studied the empty nooks in the walls. “We have since cleaned it of such unworthy filth and turned these tunnels to better purpose.”

As if on cue, a man screamed, his cries of agony echoing through the sunken halls. Ashan paid the sound no mind, leading Jardir through the tunnels to a particular room. Within, several of the Northern clerics—Tenders, as they were called—hung by their wrists, suspended from a ceiling beam in the middle of the room. The tops of their robes were torn away, and their flesh was streaked with the deep cuts of the alagai tail—a whip that could break the will of even the strongest men.

Ashan waved away the dal’Sharum torturers, striding up to one of the prisoners.

“You,” he said, pointing, “repeat what you told me to the Shar’Dama Ka, if you dare.”

The Tender raised his head weakly. One of his eyes was puffed shut, and tears ran freely from the other, streaking the blood and filth on his face.

“Go t’ th’ Core,” he slurred, and attempted to spit at Ashan. It was a weak effort, and the bloody spittle only ran down his lower lip.

In response, the torturer came forward, a pliers in his hands. He gripped the Tender’s face firmly, forcing his mouth open and clamping the pliers on one of his front teeth. The man’s screams filled the room.

“Enough,” Jardir said after a moment. The torturer stopped immediately, bowing and receding to the wall. The Tender hung limply from the shackles at his wrists. Jardir went up to him, looking at him sadly. “I am the Shar’Dama Ka, sent by Everam, who is infinitely merciful. Speak and speak truly, and I will put an end to your suffering.”

The Tender looked up at him, and seemed to regain something of himself. “I know you,” he croaked. “You claim to be the Deliverer, but you are not him.”

“And how do you know that?” Jardir asked.

“Because the Deliverer has already come,” the Tender said. “The Painted Man walks in darkness, and the corelings flee from his sight. He saved Deliverer’s Hollow from the brink of destruction, and he will deal with you in your turn.”

Jardir looked to Ashan in surprise.

“This is not just one man’s word, Shar’Dama Ka,” the Damaji said. “Other chin speak of this warded infidel. You will need to destroy this false prophet, and quickly, if you are to secure your rightful place.”

Jardir shook his head. “You sound like my wife, old friend.”