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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.
