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‘Half of which goes right back to the dama in war tax,’ Manvah said, ‘and you always take twenty more for your pockets. The rest goes to keep you in couzi and couscous, and it isn’t enough by far, especially when you bring home half a dozen thirsty Sharum every Sabbath. Couzi is expensive, husband. The dama cut the thumbs from khaffit caught selling it, and they add the risk to the price.’
Kasaad spat. ‘Khaffit would sell the sun if they could pull it from the sky. Now run and buy some to help ease my wait for that half-man.’
Soli finished his basket, rising and slamming it down atop his pile. ‘I’ll go, Mother. Chabin will have some, and he never closes before gloaming is sung.’
Manvah’s eyes tightened, but she did not take them from her weaving. She, too, had begun weaving faster, and now her hands were a blur. ‘I don’t like you leaving when we have a month’s work sitting out in the open.’
‘No one will rob us with Father right there,’ Soli said, but as he looked to his father, trying to lick a last drop from the couzi bottle, he sighed. ‘I will be so swift you won’t even know I’ve gone.’
‘Back to work, Inevera,’ Manvah snapped as Soli ran off. Inevera looked down, realizing only then that she had stopped weaving as she watched the events unfold. Quickly she resumed.
Inevera would not dare look right at him, but she could not help watching her father out of the corner of her eye. He was eyeing Manvah as she turned the basket with her nimble feet. Her black robes had risen as she worked, exposing her bare ankles and calves.
Kasaad put one hand to his crotch, rubbing. ‘Come here, wife, I would …’
‘I. Am. Working!’ Manvah took a palm branch from the pile, breaking fronds from it with sharp snaps.
Kasaad seemed genuinely confused at her reaction. ‘Why would you refuse your husband, barely an hour before he goes into the night?’
‘Because I’ve been breaking my back over these baskets for weeks,’ Manvah said. ‘Because it’s late and the lane’s gone quiet. And because we’ve got a full stock out with no one to guard it but a horny drunk!’
Kasaad barked a laugh. ‘Guard it from who?’
‘Who, indeed?’ a voice asked, and all turned to see Krisha stepping around the counter and into the kiosk.
Krisha was a big woman. Not fat – few in the Desert Spear enjoyed that luxury – but a warrior’s daughter, thickly set with a heavy stride and callused hands. Like all dal’ting, she wore the same head-to-toe black cloth as Manvah. She was a weaver as well, one of Manvah’s principal rivals in the Kaji tribe – less skilled, but more ambitious.
She was followed into the tent by four other women in dal’ting black. Two were her sister-wives, their faces covered in black. The others were her daughters, unmarried, their faces bare. From the looks of them, this drove away more potential husbands than it invited. None of the women was small, and they spread like jackals stalking a hare.
‘You’re working late,’ Krisha noted. ‘Most of the pavilions have tied their flaps.’
Manvah shrugged, not taking her eyes off her weaving. ‘The call to curfew isn’t for the better of an hour.’
‘Cashiv always comes at the end of the day before Dama Baden’s Waxing Party, does he not?’ Krisha said.
Manvah did not look up. ‘My clients do not concern you, Krisha.’
‘They do when you use your push’ting son to steal them from me,’ Krisha said, her voice low and dangerous. Her daughters moved to Inevera, separating her from her mother. Her sister-wives moved deeper into the kiosk towards Kasaad.
Manvah looked up at this. ‘I stole nothing. Cashiv came to me, saying your baskets fell apart when filled. Blame your weavers and not me for the loss of business.’
Krisha nodded, picking up the basket Inevera had just added to the pile. ‘You and your daughter do fine work,’ she noted, tracing a finger along the weave. Then she threw the basket to the ground, stomping down hard on it with her sandalled foot.
‘Woman, you dare?!’ Kasaad shouted in shocked disbelief. He leapt to his feet, or tried to, wobbling unsteadily. He glanced for his spear and shield, but they were back in the tent.
While he was finding his wits, Krisha’s sister-wives moved in unison. Short rattan staves wrapped in black cloth fell into their hands from out of voluminous sleeves. One of the women grabbed Kasaad by the shoulders, turning him into the other’s thrust to his stomach, holding him to make sure he took the full brunt. Kasaad grunted in pain, the wind knocked from him, and the woman followed up the blow with a full swing to the groin. Kasaad’s grunt became a shriek.
Inevera gave a cry and leapt to her feet, but Krisha’s daughters grabbed her roughly. Manvah moved to rise as well, but Krisha’s heavy kick to the face knocked her back to the ground. She gave a great wail, but it was late and there was no answering cry.
Krisha looked down at the basket on the floor. It had resisted her stomp, returning to its original shape. Inevera smiled until the woman leapt on top of it, jumping three times until the basket collapsed.
Across the kiosk, Krisha’s sister-wives continued to beat Kasaad. ‘He shrieks like a woman,’ one laughed, again striking him between the legs.
‘And he fights even worse!’ the other cried. They let go of his shoulders, and Kasaad collapsed to the floor, gasping, his face a mix of pain and humiliation. The women left him and went to work kicking over the stacks and smashing baskets with their rattan staves.
Inevera tried to pull free, but the young women only tightened their grips. ‘Be still, or we will break your fingers so you can weave no more!’ Inevera stopped struggling, but her eyes narrowed and she shifted slightly, readying herself to stomp hard on the instep of the one closest to her. She glanced at Manvah, but her mother shook her head.
Kasaad coughed blood, pushing himself up onto his elbows. ‘Harlots! When the dama hear of this …!’
Krisha cut him off with a cackling laugh. ‘The dama? Will you go to them, Kasaad son of Kasaad, and tell them you were drunk on couzi and beaten by women? You won’t even tell your ajin’pal as he buggers you tonight!’
Kasaad struggled to rise, but one of the women gave him a quick kick to the stomach, and he was knocked onto his back. He did not stir.
‘Pfagh!’ the woman cried. ‘He’s pissed himself like an infant!’ They all laughed.
‘That gives me an idea!’ Krisha cried, going over to a scattered pile of baskets and hiking up her robes. ‘Why get ourselves in a sweat breaking these abysmal baskets when we can just soil them instead?’ She squatted and let her water flow, swinging her hips from side to side so the stream hit as many baskets as possible. The other women laughed, hiking their robes to do likewise.
‘Poor Manvah!’ Krisha mocked. ‘Two males in the family, and not a man among them. Your husband is worse than a khaffit, and your push’ting son is too busy sucking cock to even be here.’
‘Not quite.’ Inevera turned in time to see Soli’s thick hand close on the wrist of one of the young women holding her. The woman shrieked in pain as Soli yanked up with a cruel twist, then kicked out, sending her sister sprawling.
‘Shut it,’ he told the screaming woman, shoving her back. ‘Touch my sister again and I’ll sever your wrist instead of just twisting it.’
‘We shall see, push’ting,’ Krisha said. Her sister-wives had straightened their robes and were advancing on Soli, staves at the ready. Krisha flicked her wrist, and her own club fell into her hand.
Inevera gasped, but Soli, unarmed, approached them without fear. The first woman struck at him, but Soli was quicker, slipping to the side of the blow and catching the woman’s arm. There was a snap, and she fell screaming to the ground, her staff now in Soli’s hand. The other woman came at him, and he parried one blow from her staff before striking her hard across the face. His movements were smooth and practised, like a dance. Inevera had watched him practise sharusahk when he came home from HannuPash on Wanings. The woman hit the ground, and Inevera saw her lower her veil to cough out a great wad of blood.
Soli dropped his staff as Krisha came at him, simply catching her weapon in his bare hand and stopping it cold. He seized her by the collar with the other, turning her around and bending her over a pile of baskets. He slammed her head down for good measure and reached down for the hem of her robes, yanking them up to her waist.
‘Please,’ Krisha wailed. ‘Do as you will to me, but spare my daughters their virginity!’
‘Pfagh!’ Soli spat, his face a mask of disgust. ‘I would as soon fuck a camel as you!’
‘Oh, come, push’ting,’ she sneered, wiggling her hips at him. ‘Pretend I’m a man and have my ass.’
Soli took Krisha’s rattan staff and began whipping her with it. His voice was deep, and carried over the sound of the wood cracking loudly on her bare flesh and her howls of pain. ‘A man need not be push’ting to avoid sticking his cock in a dung-heap. And as for your daughters, I would do nothing that might delay them marrying some poor khaffit and finally putting veils on their ugly faces.’
He took his hand off her neck, but continued whipping, guiding her and the other women out of their kiosk with sharp blows. Krisha’s daughters helped support her sister-wives as the five women stumbled off down the lane.
Manvah got to her feet and dusted herself off. She ignored Kasaad, going over to Inevera. ‘Are you all right?’ Inevera nodded.
‘Check the stock,’ Manvah said. ‘They didn’t have much time. See if we can salvage …’
‘Too late,’ Soli said, pointing down the lane. Three Sharum approached, their black robes sleeveless, with breastplates of black steel hammered to enhance already perfectly muscled chests. Black silk bands were tied around their bulging biceps and they wore studded leather bracers at their wrists. Bright golden shields were strapped to their backs, and they carried their short spears casually, sauntering with the easy grace of stalking wolves.
Manvah grabbed a small pitcher of water and dumped it on Kasaad, who groaned and half rose to his feet.
‘Inside, quickly!’ Manvah snapped, kicking him hard to get him moving. Kasaad grunted, but he managed to crawl into the tent and out of sight.
‘How do I look?’ Soli brushed and tugged at his robes, opening the front further.
It was a ridiculous question. No man she had ever seen was half so beautiful as her brother. ‘Fine,’ Inevera whispered back.
‘Soli, my sweet ajin’pal!’ Cashiv called. He was twenty-five, a kai’Sharum, and easily the handsomest of the three, his beard close-cropped with scented oil and his skin a perfect sun-brown. His breastplate was adorned with the sunburst of Dama Baden – no doubt in real gold – and the centre of his turban was adorned with a large turquoise. ‘I’d hoped to find you here when we came to pick up the night’s …’ He drew close enough to see the chaos in their kiosk, ‘order. Oh, dear. Did a herd of camels pass through your tent?’ He sniffed. ‘Pissing as they went?’ He took the white silk night veil resting loose around his neck and lifted it over his nose. His compatriots did likewise.
‘We had some … trouble,’ Soli said. ‘My fault, for stepping away for a few minutes.’
‘That is a terrible shame.’ Cashiv went over to Soli, taking no note of Inevera whatsoever. He reached out a finger, running it over Soli’s muscled chest where a bit of blood had spattered. He rubbed the blood thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It seems as though you returned in time to handle things, though.’
‘That particular herd of camels is unlikely to come back,’ Soli agreed.
‘Their work is done, though,’ Cashiv said sadly. ‘We’ll have to buy our baskets from Krisha again.’
‘Please,’ Soli said, laying a hand on Cashiv’s arm, ‘we need this order. Not all the stock was ruined. Might we sell you half, at least?’
Cashiv looked down at the hand on his arm and smiled. He waved dismissively at the clutter of baskets. ‘Pfagh! If one’s been pissed on, they all have. I will not take such tainted goods to my master. Dump a bucket on them and sell them to khaffit.’
He moved in closer, putting his hand back on Soli’s chest. ‘But if it’s money you need, perhaps you can earn it carrying baskets at the party tomorrow instead of selling them.’ He slid his fingers up under Soli’s loosened robe to caress his shoulder. ‘You could return home with the price of the baskets three times over, if you … carry well.’
Soli smiled. ‘Baskets are my business, Cashiv. No one carries better.’
Cashiv laughed. ‘We’ll be by tomorrow morning to collect you for the party.’
‘Meet me in the training grounds,’ Soli said. Cashiv nodded, and he and his fellows sauntered off down the lane towards Krisha’s kiosk.
Manvah laid a hand on Soli’s shoulder. ‘Sorry you had to do that, my son.’
Soli shrugged. ‘Some days you’re the cock, and some days you’re the bum. I just hate that Krisha won.’
Manvah lifted her veil just enough to spit on the ground. ‘Krisha won nothing. She has no baskets to sell.’
‘How can you know that?’ Soli asked.
Manvah chuckled. ‘I set vermin in her storage tent a week ago.’
After helping restore the kiosk, Soli escorted them back to the small adobe building where they kept their rooms just as the dama sang the gloaming from the minarets of Sharik Hora. They had salvaged most of the baskets, but several needed repair. Manvah had a large bundle of palm fronds on her back.
‘I’ll need to hurry to make muster,’ Soli said. Inevera and Manvah threw their arms around him, kissing him before he turned and ran into the darkening city.
Inside, they unsealed the warded trapdoor in their apartment and headed down into the Undercity for the night.
Each building in Krasia had at least one level deep below the ground, these linking to passageways leading to the Undercity proper, a vast honeycomb of tunnels and caverns that ran for miles. It was there the women, children, and khaffit took refuge each night while the men fought alagai’sharak. Great blocks of cut stone denied demons a clear path from Nie’s abyss, and they were carved with powerful wards to keep those that had risen elsewhere at bay.
The Undercity was an impregnable refuge, designed not only to shelter the city’s masses, but to be a city in and of itself should the unthinkable happen and the Desert Spear fall to the alagai. There were sleeping quarters for every family, schools, palaces, houses of worship, and more.
Inevera and her mother had only a small basement in the Undercity, with sleeping pallets, a cold room for food, and a tiny chamber with a deep pit for necessaries.
Manvah lit a lamp, and they sat at the table, eating a cold dinner. When the dishes were clear, she set out the palm fronds. Inevera moved to help.
Manvah shook her head. ‘To bed with you. You have a big day tomorrow. I won’t have you red-eyed and sluggish when the dama’ting question you.’
Inevera looked at the long line of girls and their mothers before her, each awaiting their turn in the dama’ting pavilion. The Brides of Everam had decreed that when the dama sang the dawn on spring equinox, all girls in their ninth year were to be presented for HannuPash, to learn the life’s path Everam had laid out for them. HannuPash could take years for a boy, but for girls it was accomplished in a single foretelling by the dama’ting.
Most were simply deemed fertile and given their first headscarf, but a few would walk away from the pavilion betrothed, or given a new vocation. Others, mostly the poor and illiterate, were purchased from their fathers and trained in pillow dancing, then sent to the great harem to service Krasia’s warriors as jiwah’Sharum. It was their honour to bear new warriors to replace those who died battling demons in alagai’sharak each night.
Inevera had woken filled with excitement, donning her tan dress and brushing out her thick black hair. It fell in natural waves and shone like silk, but today was the last day the world would ever see it. She would enter the dama’ting pavilion a girl, but leave a young woman whose hair would be for her future husband alone. She would be stripped of her tan dress and emerge in proper blacks.
‘It may be equinox, but the moon is in full,’ Manvah said. ‘That is a good omen, at least.’
‘Perhaps a Damaji will take me into his harem,’ Inevera said. ‘I could live in a palace, with a dower so great you would never need to weave again.’
‘Never able to go out in the sun again,’ Manvah said, too low to be heard by those around them, ‘or speak to anyone but your sister-wives, waiting on the pleasure of a man old enough to be your great-grandfather.’ She shook her head. ‘At least our tax is paid and you have two men to speak for you, so there’s little chance you’ll be sold into the great harem. And even that would be a better fate than to be found barren and cast out as nie’ting.’
Nie’ting. Inevera shuddered at the thought. Those found infertile would never be allowed to don the black, left in tans their entire life like khaffit, faces uncovered in shame.
‘Perhaps I’ll be chosen to be dama’ting,’ Inevera said.
Manvah shook her head. ‘You won’t be. They never choose anyone.’
‘Grandmother says a girl was chosen the year she was tested,’ Inevera said.
‘That was fifty years ago, if it was a day,’ Manvah said, ‘and Everam bless her, your father’s honoured mother is prone to … exaggeration.’
‘Then where do all the nie’dama’ting come from?’ Inevera wondered, referring to the dama’ting apprentices, their faces bare, but in the white of betrothal to Everam.
‘Some say Everam Himself gets his Brides with child, and the nie’dama’ting are their daughters,’ Manvah said. Inevera looked at her, raising an eyebrow as she wondered if her mother was joking.
Manvah shrugged. ‘It’s as good an explanation as any. I can tell you none of the other mothers in the market has ever seen a girl chosen, or recognized one by her face.’
‘Mother! Sister!’ A wide smile broke out on Inevera’s face as she saw Soli approaching, Cashiv at his back. Her brother’s blacks were still dusty from the Maze, and his shield, slung over one shoulder, had fresh dents. Cashiv was as pristine as ever.
Inevera ran and embraced Soli. He laughed, picking her up with one arm and swinging her through the air. Inevera shrieked in delight, not afraid for a moment. Nothing could frighten her when Soli was near. He set her down gentle as a feather and went to embrace their mother.
‘What are you doing here?’ Manvah asked. ‘I thought you would already be on your way to Dama Baden’s palace.’
‘I am,’ Soli said, ‘but I couldn’t let my sister go to her HannuPash without wishing her all the blessings in Ala.’ He reached out, tousling Inevera’s hair. She swatted at his hand, but as ever, he was too quick and snatched it back in time.
‘Do you think Father will come to bless me as well?’ Inevera asked.
‘Ah …’ Soli hesitated. ‘So far as I know, Father is still sleeping in the back of the kiosk. He never made it to muster last night, and I told the drillmaster he had a belly fever … again.’ Soli shrugged helplessly, and Inevera lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see her disappointment.
Soli stooped low, lifting her chin with a gentle finger so their eyes met. ‘I know Father wants every blessing for you that I do, even if he has difficulty showing it.’
Inevera nodded. ‘I know.’ She threw her arms around Soli’s neck one last time before he left. ‘Thank you.’
Cashiv looked at Inevera as if noticing her for the first time. He smiled his handsome smile and bowed. ‘Blessings to you, Inevera vah Kasaad, as you become a woman. I wish you a good husband and many sons, all as handsome as your brother.’
Inevera smiled and felt her cheeks flush as the warriors sauntered off.
