Читать книгу The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy - Peter V. Brett - Страница 49

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The desert road wasn’t really a road at all, simply a string of ancient signposts, some clawed and jagged, others half-buried in sand, keeping a traveller from losing his way. It wasn’t all sand, as Ragen had once said, though there was enough of that to wander for days seeing naught else. On the outskirts ran hundreds of miles of hard, dust-choked flats, with sparse bits of dead vegetation clinging to cracked clay, too dry to rot. Apart from the shadows cast by dunes in the sea of sand, there was no shelter from the beating sun; so hot Arlen could not imagine it was the same body that brought cold light to Fort Miln. The wind blew continually, and he had to cover his face to keep from inhaling sand, his throat raw and dry.

The nights were worse, the heat leaching from the ground moments after the sun dipped below the horizon, welcoming the corelings into a cold, desolate place.

But even here, there was life. Snakes and lizards hunted tiny rodents. Carrion birds sought the corpses of creatures slain by corelings, or that wandered into the desert and could not find their way back out. There were at least two large oases, where a large body of water caused the surrounding soil to grow dense with edible vegetation, and others where a trickle from the rock or a pool of water no wider than a man’s stride supported a host of stunted plants and small creatures. Arlen had witnessed these desert dwellers burying themselves in the sand at night, resisting the cold with conserved heat and hiding from the demons that stalked the sands.

There were no rock demons in the desert, for there was not enough prey. No flame demons, because there was little to burn. Wood demons had no bark to blend into, no limbs to climb. Water demons could not swim through sand, and wind demons could find no perch. The dunes and desert flats belonged to sand demons alone. Even they were sparse in the deep desert, clustering mostly about the oases, but the sight of a fire would draw them from miles around.

Five weeks from Fort Rizon to Krasia, more than half of it through the desert, was more than many of the hardiest Messengers cared to contemplate. Despite Northern merchants offering exorbitant sums for Krasian silks and spices, few were desperate – or crazy – enough to go there.

For his own part, Arlen found the trip peaceful. He slept in his saddle during the hottest parts of the day, carefully wrapped in loose white cloth. He watered his horse frequently, and spread tarps beneath his portable circles at night to keep the wards from becoming obscured in the sand. He was tempted to lash out at the circling sand demons, but his wound had made his grip weak, and he knew that should the spear be pulled from his grasp, a common wind might lose it in the sand more surely than hundreds of years in a buried tomb.

Despite the cries of the sand demons, the nights seemed quiet to Arlen, used to the great roars of One Arm. He slept more peacefully on those nights than any spent outside before.

For the first time in his life, Arlen saw his path extend beyond being a glorified errand-boy. He had always known he was destined for more than messengering; he was destined to fight. But, he now realized it was more than that: he was destined to bring others to fight.

He was certain he could duplicate the warded spear, and was already pondering ways to adapt its wards to other weapons; arrows, staves, slingstones, the possibilities were endless.

In all the places he had seen, only the Krasians refused to live in terror of the corelings, and for that reason Arlen respected them above all. There were no people more deserving of this gift. He would show them the spear, and they would supply him with everything he needed to build them weapons to turn the tide of their nightly war.

The thoughts fled as Arlen caught sight of the oasis. The sand could reflect the blue sky and trick a man into rushing off the road to water that did not exist, but when his horse picked up the pace, Arlen knew it was real. Dawn Runner could smell the water.

Their water had been depleted the day before, and by the time they reached the small pool, both Arlen and his horse were sick with thirst. In unison, they dropped their heads to the cool water, drinking deeply.

When they had drunk their fill, Arlen refilled their water-skins and set them in the shade beneath one of the sandstone monoliths standing silent guard around the oasis. He inspected the wards cut into the stone, finding them intact, but with some signs of wear. The eternally blowing sand scratched at them little by little, wearing down the edges over time. He took out his etching tools, deepening and sharpening them to maintain the net.

While Dawn Runner grazed on scrub grass and the leaves of stunted bushes, Arlen harvested dates, figs, and other fruit from the oasis trees. He ate his fill, and set the rest where they could dry in the sun.

An underground river fed the oasis, and in years beyond memory, men had dug away the sand and cut the stone beneath, finally reaching the running water. Arlen descended the stone steps into a cool underground chamber and collected the nets stored there, tossing them into the water. When he left, he carried a satisfying catch of fish. He set aside a choice few for himself and cleaned the others, salting them and setting them alongside the fruit to dry.

Taking a forked tool from the oasis stores, he then searched around the stones, at last spotting telltale grooves in the sand. Soon he had a snake pinned with the forked stick, and snatched it by the tail, cracking it like a whip to kill it. There was likely a cache of eggs nearby, but he did not search them out. It would be dishonourable to deplete the oasis more than necessary. Again, he put part of the snake aside for his own use, and set the rest to dry.

In a carved nook in one of the great sandstones, marked with the sigils of many Messengers, Arlen retrieved a cache of tough, dried fruits, fish, and meat left by the previous Messenger, and refilled his saddlebags. Once his harvest dried, he would replenish the nook for the next Messenger to succour here.

It was impossible to cross the desert without stopping at the Oasis of Dawn. The only source of water for over a hundred miles, it was the destination of every desert traveller in either direction. Most of these were Messengers, and therefore Warders, and over the years that exclusive society had marked their passing on the abundant sandstone. Dozens of names were cut into the stones; some were simply scratched print, while others were masterworks of calligraphy. Many Messengers included more than just their names, listing the cities they had visited, or the number of times they had succoured at the Oasis of Dawn.

On his eleventh trip through the oasis, Arlen had long since finished carving his name and those of the living cities and villages he had visited, but he never stopped exploring, and always had something to add. Slowly, using beautiful scrolling letters, Arlen reverently inscribed ‘Anoch Sun’ into the list of ruins he had seen. No other Messenger’s mark in the oasis made such a claim, and that filled him with pride.

The next day, Arlen continued to increase the oasis’ stores. It was a matter of honour among Messengers to leave the oasis stocked better than it was found, against the day when one of their number should stumble in too injured or sunstruck to gather for themselves.

That night, he composed a letter to Cob. He had written many, but they sat in his saddlebag, unsent. His words always felt inadequate to make up for abandoning his duties, but this news was too great not to share. He illustrated the wards on the spear’s tip precisely, knowing Cob could spread the knowledge to every Warder in Miln quickly.

He left the Oasis of Dawn first thing the next morning, heading southwest. For five days, he saw little more than yellow dunes and sand demons, but early on the sixth, the city of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, came into view, framed by the mountains beyond.

From afar, it seemed just another dune, sandstone walls blending with their surroundings. It was built around an oasis much larger than the Oasis of Dawn, fed, the ancient maps said, by the same great underground river. Its warded walls, carved rather than painted, stood proudly in the sun. High above the city flew Krasia’s banner, crossed spears over a rising sun.

The guards at the gate wore the black robes of dal’Sharum, the Krasian warrior caste, veiled against the ruthless sand. While not as tall as Milnese, Krasians were a head taller than most Angierians or Laktonians, hard with wiry muscle. Arlen nodded to them as he passed.

The guards raised their spears in return. Among Krasian men, this was the barest courtesy, but Arlen had worked hard to earn the gesture. In Krasia, a man was judged by the number of scars he carried and alagai – corelings – he had killed. Outsiders, or chin, as the Krasians called them, even Messengers, were considered cowards who had given up the fight, and were unworthy of any courtesy from dal’Sharum. The word chin was an insult.

But Arlen had shocked the Krasians with his requests to fight alongside them, and after he had taught their warriors new wards and assisted in many kills, they now called him Par’chin, which meant ‘brave outsider’. He would never be considered an equal, but the dal’Sharum had stopped spitting at his feet, and he had even made a few true friends.

Through the gate, Arlen entered the Maze, a wide inner yard before the wall of the city proper, filled with walls, trenches, and pits. Each night, their families locked safe behind the inner walls, the dal’Sharum engaged in alagai’sharak, Holy War against demonkind. They lured corelings into The Maze, ambushing and harrying them into warded pits to await the sun. Casualties were high, but Krasians believed that dying in alagai’sharak assured them a place at the side of Everam, the Creator, and went gladly into the killing zone.

Soon, Arlen thought, it will be only corelings that die here.

Just inside the main gate was the Great Bazaar, where merchants hawked over hundreds of laden carts, the air thick with hot Krasian spices, incense, and exotic perfumes. Rugs, bolts of fine cloth, and beautiful painted pottery sat beside mounds of fruit and bleating livestock. It was a noisy and crowded place, filled with shouted haggling.

Every other marketplace Arlen had seen teemed with men, but the Great Bazaar of Krasia was filled almost entirely with women, covered head to toe in thick black cloth. They bustled about, selling and buying, shouting at each other vigorously and handing over their worn golden coins only grudgingly.

Jewellery and bright cloth were sold in abundance in the bazaar, but Arlen had never seen it worn. Men had told him the women wore the adornments under their black, but only their husbands knew for sure.

Krasian men above the age of sixteen were almost all warriors. A small few were dama, the Holy Men who were also Krasia’s secular leaders. No other vocation was considered honourable. Those who took a craft were called khaffit, and considered contemptible, barely above women in Krasian society. The women did all the day-to-day work in the city, from farming and cooking to childcare. They dug clay and made pottery, built and repaired homes, trained and slaughtered animals, and haggled in the markets. In short, they did everything but fight.

Yet despite their unending labour, they were utterly subservient to the men. A man’s wives and unmarried daughters were his property, and he could do with them as he pleased, even kill them. A man could take many wives, but if a woman so much as let a man who was not her husband look at her unveiled, she could – and often would – be put to death. Krasian women were considered expendable. Men were not.

Without their women, Arlen knew, the Krasian men would be lost, but the women treated men in general with reverence, and their husbands with near-worship. They came each morning to find the dead from the night’s alagai’sharak, and wailed over the bodies of their men, collecting their precious tears in tiny vials. Water was coin in Krasia, and a warrior’s status in life could be measured by the number of tear bottles filled upon his death.

If a man was killed, it was expected that his brothers or friends would take his wives, so they would always have a man to serve. Once, in the Maze, Arlen had held a dying warrior who offered him his three wives. ‘They are beautiful, Par’chin,’ he had assured, ‘and fertile. They will give you many sons. Promise you will take them!’

Arlen promised they would be cared for, and then found another willing to take them on. He was curious about what might lie under the Krasian women’s robes, but not enough to trade his portable circle for a clay building, his freedom for a family.

Following behind almost every woman were several tan-clad children; the girls’ hair wrapped, the boys in rag caps. As early as eleven, the girls would begin to marry and take on the black clothes of women, while the boys were be taken to the training grounds even younger. Most would take on the black robes of dal’Sharum. Some few would come to wear the white of dama, and devote their lives to serving Everam. Those who failed at both professions would be khaffit, and wear tan in shame until they died.

The women caught sight of Arlen as he rode through the market, and began whispering to one another excitedly. He watched them, amused, for none would look him in the eye, or approach him. They hungered for the goods in his saddlebags – fine Rizonan wool, Milnese jewels, Angierian paper, and other treasures of the North – but he was a man, and worse, a chin, and they dared not approach. The eyes of the dama were everywhere.

‘Par’chin!’ a familiar voice called, and Arlen turned to see his friend Abban approach, the fat merchant limping and leaning heavily on his crutch.

Lame since childhood, Abban was khaffit, unable to stand amongst the warriors, and unworthy to be a Holy Man. He had done well for himself, though, trading with Messengers from the north. He was clean-shaven, and wore the tan cap and shirt of khaffit, but over that he wore a rich headcloth, waistcoat, and pantaloons of bright silk, stitched in many colours. He claimed his wives were as beautiful as those of any dal’Sharum.

‘By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!’ Abban called in flawless Thesan, slapping Arlen on the shoulder. ‘The sun always shines brighter when you grace our city!’

Arlen wished he had never told the merchant his father’s name. In Krasia, the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own. He wondered what they would think if they knew his father was a coward.

But he clapped Abban on the shoulder in return, his smile genuine. ‘And you, my friend,’ he said. He would never have mastered the Krasian tongue, or learned to navigate its strange and often dangerous culture, without the lame merchant’s aid.

‘Come, come!’ Abban said. ‘Rest your feet in my shade and wash the dust from your throat with my water!’ He led Arlen to a bright and colourful tent pitched behind his carts in the bazaar. He clapped his hands, and his wives and daughters – Arlen could never tell the difference – scurried to open the flaps and tend to Dawn Runner. Arlen had to force himself not to help as they took the heavily-laden saddlebags and carried them into the tent, knowing that the Krasians found the sight of a man labouring unseemly. One of the women reached for the warded spear, wrapped in cloth and slung from his saddle horn, but Arlen snatched it away before she could touch it. She bowed deeply, afraid she had given some insult.

The inside of the tent was filled with colourful silk pillows and intricately woven carpets. Arlen left his dusty boots by the flap and breathed deeply of the cool, scented air. He eased down onto the pillows on the floor as Abban’s women knelt before him with water and fruit.

When he was refreshed, Abban clapped his hands and the women brought them tea and honeyed pastries. ‘Your trip through the desert passed well?’ Abban asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Arlen smiled. ‘Very well indeed.’

They made small talk for some time afterwards. Abban never failed in this formality, but his eyes kept flicking to Arlen’s saddlebags, and he rubbed his hands together absently.

‘To business then?’ Arlen asked as soon as he judged it polite.

‘Of course, the Par’chin is a busy man,’ Abban agreed, snapping his fingers. The women quickly brought out an array of spices, perfume, silks, jewellery, rugs, and other Krasian craft.

Abban examined the goods from Arlen’s clients in the North while Arlen perused the items proposed for trade. Abban found fault with everything, scowling. ‘You crossed the desert just to trade this lot?’ he asked in disgust when he was done. ‘It hardly seems worth the trip.’

Arlen hid his grin as they sat and were served fresh tea. Bidding always started this way.

‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘A blind man could see I have brought some of the finest treasures Thesa has to offer. Better by far than the sorry goods your women have brought before me. I hope you have more hidden away, because,’ he fingered one carpet, a masterwork of weaving, ‘I’ve seen better carpets rotting in ruins.’

‘You wound me!’ Abban cried. ‘I, who give you water and shade! Woe am I, that a guest in my tent should treat me so!’ he lamented. ‘My wives worked the loom day and night to make that, using only the finest wool! A better carpet you will never see!’

After that, it was only a matter of haggling, and Arlen had not forgotten the lessons learned watching old Hog and Ragen a lifetime ago. As always, the session ended with both men acting as if they had been robbed, but inwardly feeling they had gotten the better of each other.

‘My daughters will pack up your goods and hold them for your departure,’ Abban said at last. ‘Will you sup with us tonight? My wives prepare a table none in your north can match!’

Arlen shook his head regretfully. ‘I go to fight tonight,’ he said.

Abban shook his head. ‘I fear you have learned our ways too well, Par’chin. You seek the same death.’

Arlen shook his head. ‘I have no intent to die, and expect no paradise in the next life.’

‘Ah, my friend, no one intends to go to Everam in the flower of their youth, but that is the fate that awaits those who go to alagai’sharak. I can recall a time when there were as many of us as there are grains of sand in the desert, but now …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The city is practically empty. We keep the bellies of our wives fat with children, but still more die in the night than are born in the day. If we don’t change our ways, a decade from now Krasia will be consumed by the sand.’

‘What if I told you I had come to change that?’ Arlen asked.

‘The son of Jeph’s heart is true,’ Abban said, ‘but the Damaji will not listen to you. Everam demands war, they say, and no chin is going to change their minds.’ The Damaji were the city’s ruling council, made up of the highest-ranked dama of each of the twelve Krasian tribes. They served the Andrah, Everam’s most-favoured dama, whose word was absolute.

Arlen smiled. ‘I can’t turn them from alagai’sharak,’ he agreed, ‘but I can help them win it.’ He uncovered his spear and held it out to Abban.

Abban’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the magnificent weapon, but he raised his palm and shook his head. ‘I am khaffit, Par’chin. The spear is forbidden to my unclean touch.’

Arlen drew the weapon back and bowed low in apology. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said.

‘Ha!’ Abban laughed. ‘You may be the only man ever to bow to me! Even the Par’chin need not fear offending khaffit.’

Arlen scowled. ‘You are a man like any other,’ he said.

‘With that attitude, you will ever be chin,’ Abban said, but he smiled. ‘You’re not the first man to ward a spear,’ he said. ‘Without the combat wards of old, it makes no difference.’

‘They are the wards of old,’ Arlen said. ‘I found this in the ruins of Anoch Sun.’

Abban blanched. ‘You found the lost city?’ he asked. ‘The map was accurate?’

‘Why do you sound so surprised?’ Arlen asked. ‘I thought you said it was guaranteed!’

Abban coughed. ‘Yes, well,’ he said, ‘I trusted my source, of course, but no one has been there in more than 300 years. Who is to say how accurate the map was?’ He smiled. ‘Besides, it’s not like you were likely to come back for a refund if I was wrong.’ They both laughed.

‘By Everam, it is a fine tale, Par’chin,’ Abban said when Arlen finished describing his adventure in the lost city, ‘but if you value your life, you will not tell the Damaji that you looted the holy city of Anoch Sun.’

‘I won’t,’ Arlen promised, ‘but surely they will see the value in the spear, regardless?’

Abban shook his head. ‘Even if they agree to grant you audience, Par’chin,’ he said, ‘and I doubt they will, they will refuse to see value in anything a chin brings them.’

‘You may be right,’ Arlen said, ‘but I should at least try. I have messages to deliver to the Andrah’s palace, anyway. Walk with me.’

Abban held up his crutch. ‘It is a long way to the palace, Par’chin,’ he said.

‘I’ll walk slowly,’ Arlen said, knowing the crutch had nothing to do with the refusal.

‘You don’t want to be seen with me outside the market, my friend,’ Abban warned. ‘That alone may cost you the respect you’ve earned in the Maze.’

‘Then I’ll earn more,’ Arlen said. ‘What good is respect, if I can’t walk with my friend?’

Abban bowed deeply. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I wish to see the land that makes noble men like the son of Jeph.’

Arlen smiled. ‘When that day comes, Abban, I will take you across the desert myself.’

Abban grabbed Arlen’s arm. ‘Stop walking,’ he ordered.

Arlen obeyed, trusting in his friend though he saw nothing amiss. Women walked the street carrying heavy loads, and a group of dal’Sharum walked ahead of them. Another group was approaching from the other direction. Each was led by a dama in white robes.

‘Kaji tribe,’ Abban said, pointing with his chin at the warriors ahead of them. ‘The others are Majah. It would be best for us to wait here a bit.’

Arlen squinted at the two groups. Both were clad in the same black, and their spears were simple and unadorned. ‘How can you tell the difference?’ he asked.

Abban shrugged. ‘How can you not?’ he replied.

As they watched, one of the dama called something to the other. They faced off, and began to argue. ‘What do you suppose they’re arguing about?’ Arlen asked.

‘Always the same thing,’ Abban said. ‘The Kaji dama believe sand demons reside on the third layer of Hell, and wind demons on the fourth. The Majah say the opposite. The Evejah is vague on the point,’ he added, referring to the Krasian holy Canon.

‘What difference does that make?’ Arlen asked.

‘Those on the lower levels are furthest from Everam’s sight,’ Abban said, ‘and should be killed first.’

The dama were screaming now, and the dal’Sharum on either side were clenching their spears in rage, ready to defend their leaders.

‘They’ll fight one another over which demons to kill first?’ Arlen asked, incredulous.

Abban spat in the dust. ‘The Kaji will fight the Majah over far less, Par’chin.’

‘But there will be real enemies to fight once the sun sets!’ Arlen protested.

Abban nodded. ‘And when it does, the Kaji and Majah will stand united,’ he said. ‘As we say, “By night, my enemy becomes my brother.” But sunset is still hours away.’

One of the Kaji dal’Sharum struck a Majah warrior across the face with the butt of his spear, knocking the man down. In seconds, all the warriors on each side were locked in combat. Their dama stood off to the side, unconcerned by and uninvolved in the violence, continuing to shout at one another.

‘Why is this tolerated?’ Arlen asked. ‘Can’t the Andrah forbid it?’

Abban shook his head. ‘The Andrah is supposed to be of all tribes and none, but in truth, he will always favour the tribe he was raised from. And even if he didn’t, not even he can end every blood feud in Krasia. You can’t forbid men from being men.’

‘They’re acting more like children,’ Arlen said.

‘The dal’Sharum know only the spear, and the dama the Evejah,’ Abban agreed sadly.

The men were not using the points of their weapons … yet, but the violence was escalating quickly. If someone did not intervene, there would surely be death.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Abban said, gripping Arlen’s arm as he started forward.

Arlen turned to argue, but his friend, looking over his shoulder, gasped and fell to one knee. He yanked on Arlen’s arm to do the same.

‘Kneel, if you value your hide,’ he hissed.

Arlen looked around, spotting the source of Abban’s fear. A woman walked down the road, swathed in holy white. ‘Dama’ting,’ he murmured. The mysterious Herb Gatherers of Krasia were seldom seen.

He cast his eyes down as she passed, but did not kneel. It made no difference; she took no notice of either of them, proceeding serenely towards the melee, unnoticed until she was almost upon the men. The dama blanched when they saw her, shouting something to their men. At once, the fighting stopped, and the warriors fell over themselves to clear a path for the dama’ting to pass. The warriors and dama quickly dispersed in her wake, and traffic on the road resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

‘Are you brave, Par’chin, or mad?’ Abban asked, when she was gone.

‘Since when do men kneel to women?’ Arlen asked, perplexed.

‘Men don’t kneel to dama’ting, but khaffit and chin do, if they are wise,’ Abban said. ‘Even the dama and dal’Sharum fear them. It is said they see the future, knowing which men will live through the night and which will die.’

Arlen shrugged. ‘So what if they do?’ he asked, clearly doubtful. A dama’ting had cast his fortune the first night he had gone into the Maze, but there had been nothing about the experience to make him believe she could actually see the future.

‘To offend a dama’ting is to offend fate,’ Abban said as if Arlen were a fool.

Arlen shook his head. ‘We make our own fates,’ he said, ‘even if the dama’ting can cast their bones and see them in advance.’

‘Well, I don’t envy the fate you will make if you offend one,’ Abban said.

They resumed walking and soon reached the Andrah’s palace, an enormous domed structure of white stone that was likely as old as the city itself. Its wards were painted in gold, and glittered in the bright sunlight that fell upon its great spires.

But they had not set foot on the palace steps before a dama came rushing down to them. ‘Begone, khaffit!’ he shouted.

‘So sorry,’ Abban apologized, bowing deeply, eyes on the ground, and backed away. Arlen stood his ground.

‘I am Arlen, son of Jeph, Messenger from the North, known as Par’chin,’ he said in Krasian. He planted his spear on the ground, and even wrapped it was clear what it was. ‘I bring letters and gifts for the Andrah and his ministers,’ Arlen went on, holding up his satchel.

‘You keep poor company for one who speaks our tongue, Northerner,’ the dama said, still scowling at Abban, who grovelled in the dust.

An angry retort came to Arlen’s lips, but he bit it back.

‘The Par’chin needed directions,’ Abban said to the ground, ‘I only sought to guide …’

‘I did not ask you to speak, khaffit!’ the dama shouted, kicking Abban hard in the side. Arlen’s muscles bunched, but a warning glare from his friend kept him in place.

The dama turned back as if nothing had happened. ‘I will take your messages,’ he said.

‘The Duke of Rizon asked that I deliver a gift to the Damaji personally,’ Arlen dared.

‘Not in this life will I let a chin and a khaffit enter the palace,’ the dama scoffed.

The response was disappointing, but not unexpected. Arlen had never managed to see a Damaji. He handed over his letters and packages, scowling as the dama ascended the steps.

‘I am sorry to say I told you so, my friend,’ Abban said. ‘It did not help that I was with you, but I speak true that the Damaji would not suffer an outsider in their presence, even if it was the Duke of your Rizon himself. You would have been politely asked to wait, and left forgotten on some silk pillow to lose face.’

Arlen gritted his teeth. He wondered what Ragen had done in his place when he had visited the Desert Spear. Had his mentor tolerated such handling?

‘Now will you sup with me?’ Abban asked. ‘I have a daughter, just fifteen and beautiful. She would make you a good wife in the North, keeping your home for you while you travel.’

What home? Arlen wondered, thinking of the tiny apartment full of books in Fort Angiers that he hadn’t been to in over a year. He looked at Abban, knowing his scheming friend was more interested in the trade contacts he could make with a daughter in the North than in her happiness or the upkeep of Arlen’s home, in any event.

‘You honour me, my friend,’ he replied, ‘but I’m not ready to quit just yet.’

‘No, I rather thought not,’ Abban sighed. ‘I suppose you will go to see him?’

‘Yes,’ Arlen said.

‘He is no more tolerant of my presence than the dama,’ Abban warned.

‘He knows your value,’ Arlen disagreed.

Abban shook his head. ‘He tolerates my existence because of you,’ he said. ‘The Sharum Ka has wanted lessons in the Northern tongue ever since you were first allowed into the Maze.’

‘And, Abban is the only man in Krasia who knows it,’ Arlen said, ‘making him valuable to the First Warrior, despite being khaffit.’ Abban bowed, but looked unconvinced.

They headed for the training grounds located not far from the palace. The city’s centre was neutral territory for all tribes, where they gathered to worship and prepare for alagai’sharak.

It was late afternoon, and the camp bustled with activity. Arlen and Abban passed first through the workshops of the weaponsmiths and Warders, whose crafts were the only ones considered worthy of dal’Sharum. Beyond that stood the open grounds, where drillmasters shouted and men trained.

On the far side was the palace of the Sharum Ka and his lieutenants, the kai’Sharum. Second only to the immense palace of the Andrah, this great dome housed the most honoured of all, men who had proven their valour on the battlefield time and time again. Below the palace was said to be a great harem, where they might pass on their brave blood to future generations.

There were stares and muttered curses as Abban limped by on his crutch, but none dared bar their way. Abban was under the protection of the Sharum Ka.

They passed lines of men doing spear forms in lockstep, and others performing the brutal, efficient movements of sharusahk, Krasian hand combat. Warriors practised marksmanship or threw nets at running spear-boys, honing their skills for the night’s coming battle. Deep in the midst of this was a great pavilion, where they found Jardir poring over plans with one of his men.

Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir was the Sharum Ka of Krasia, a title that translated into Thesan as ‘First Warrior’. He was a tall man, well over six feet, wrapped in black cloth and wearing a white turban. In some way Arlen did not fully understand, the title Sharum Ka was a religious one as well, signified by the turban.

His skin was a deep copper colour, his eyes dark as his black hair, oiled back and hanging down his neck. His black beard was forked and impeccably trimmed, but there was nothing soft about the man. He moved like a raptor, swift and sure, and his wide sleeves were rolled back to reveal hard, muscular arms, crisscrossed with scars. He was not much past thirty years old.

One of the pavilion guards caught sight of Arlen and Abban as they approached, and bent to whisper in Jardir’s ear. The First Warrior turned from the chalked slate he was studying.

‘Par’chin!’ he called, spreading his arms with a smile and rising to meet them. ‘Welcome back to the Desert Spear!’ He spoke in Thesan, and his vocabulary and accent was much improved since Arlen’s last visit. He caught Arlen in a firm embrace and kissed his cheeks. ‘I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!’

Upon his first visit to Krasia, the First Warrior had taken an interest in Arlen as an oddity, if nothing more, but they had bled for one another in the Maze, and in Krasia, that meant everything.

Jardir turned to Abban. ‘What are you doing here among men, khaffit?’ he asked disgustedly. ‘I have not summoned you.’

‘He’s with me,’ Arlen said.

‘He was with you,’ Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed deeply and scurried off as quickly as his lame leg would allow.

‘I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,’ Jardir spat.

‘Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,’ Arlen said.

Jardir laughed. ‘Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!’

‘Your Thesan is much improved,’ Arlen noted.

Jardir grunted. ‘Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practise it when you are away.’ He watched Abban limp away, sneering at his bright silks. ‘Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.’

Arlen glanced across the yard at a black-swathed woman carrying water. ‘I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,’ he said.

‘Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,’ Jardir grinned.

‘I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,’ Arlen said.

Jardir waved his hand. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!’

Arlen wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew better than to argue. Krasians had a tendency to become violent if you challenged their boasts, and it might even be so. Jardir seemed equal to a Damaji, at least. Warriors obeyed him without question, even over their dama.

But Arlen had no desire to join Jardir’s tribe or any other. He made the Krasians uncomfortable; a chin who practised alagai’sharak and yet kept company with khaffit. Joining a tribe would ease that discomfort, but the moment he did, he would be subject to the tribe’s Damaji, embroiled in their every blood feud, and never allowed to leave the city again.

‘I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,’ Jardir said, laughing and punching Arlen’s shoulder. Arlen wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he nodded anyway.

‘How long have you been in the city, my friend?’ Jardir asked.

‘Only a few hours,’ Arlen said. ‘I just delivered my messages to the palace.’

‘And already you come to offer your spear! By Everam,’ Jardir cried to his fellows, ‘the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!’ His men joined in his laughter.

‘Walk with me,’ Jardir said, putting his arm on Arlen’s shoulder and moving away from the others. Arlen knew Jardir was already trying to decide where he would best fit in the night’s battle. ‘The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,’ he said. ‘You could fill in there.’

Pit Warders were among the most important of the Krasian soldiers, warding the demon pits used to trap corelings, and assuring that the wards activated after the demons fell in. It was risky work, for if the tarps used to disguise the pits didn’t fall in and reveal the wards fully, there was little to prevent a sand demon from climbing out and killing the Warder as he tried to uncover them. There was only one position with a higher mortality rate.

‘Push Guard, I would prefer,’ Arlen replied.

Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. ‘Always the most dangerous duty for you,’ he chided. ‘If you are killed, who will carry our letters?’

Arlen understood the sarcasm, even through Jardir’s thick accent. Letters meant little to him. Few dal’Sharum could even read.

‘Not so dangerous, this night,’ Arlen said. Unable to contain his excitement, he unrolled his new spear, holding it up to the First Warrior proudly.

‘A kingly weapon,’ Jardir agreed, ‘but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.’ He put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. ‘Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.’

‘I did not make it,’ Arlen said. I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.’

‘The birthplace of the Deliverer?’ Jardir laughed. ‘The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.’

Arlen shook his head. ‘I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘I can take you there.’

‘I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,’ Jardir replied. ‘I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.’

‘I think I will convince you when night falls,’ Arlen said.

Jardir smiled patiently. ‘Promise me that you will not try anything foolish,’ he said. ‘Warded spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.’

‘I promise,’ Arlen said.

‘Good, then!’ Jardir clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come, my friend, the hour grows late. You shall sup in my palace tonight, before we muster outside Sharik Hora!’

They supped on spiced meats, ground peas, and the paper-thin layers of bread the Krasian women made by spreading wet meal on hot, polished rocks. Arlen had a place of honour next to Jardir, surrounded by kai’Sharum and served by Jardir’s own wives. Arlen never understood why Jardir paid him so much respect, but after his treatment at the Andrah’s palace, it was most welcome.

The men begged stories of him, calling for the tale of One Arm’s crippling, though they had heard it many times. Always it was tales of One Arm, or Alagai Ka, as they called him. Rock demons were rare in Krasia, and as Arlen complied, his audience sat entranced by the tale.

‘We built a new scorpion after your last visit, Par’chin,’ one of the kai’Sharum told him as they sipped their nectar after the meal. ‘It can punch a spear through a sandstone wall. We will find a way to pierce Alagai Ka’s hide yet.’

Arlen chuckled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you will not see One Arm tonight,’ he said, ‘or ever again. He has seen the sun.’

The eyes of the kai’Sharum bulged. ‘Alagai Ka is dead?’ one asked. ‘How did you manage this?’

Arlen smiled. ‘I will tell you the tale after tonight’s victory,’ he said. He stroked the spear next to him gently as he did, a gesture the First Warrior did not miss.