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Inevera breathed deeply, only to be thrown from her centre as she caught a hint of the perfume that always signalled an end to tranquillity.
‘Flee while you can, little sisters,’ she said quietly. ‘The Holy Mother waits within the bowers.’
The words were enough to send her sister-wives hurrying from the garden as fast as their dignity would allow. As his Jiwah Ka, Ahmann’s mother was Inevera’s responsibility, a position the women were all too happy to yield.
Inevera envied them. She, too, would have fled had she been able. Everam must be displeased, not to have warned me in the dice.
Only Qeva, Melan, and Asavi dared to remain. Ashia had vanished into the leaves, though Inevera knew she was watching, never more than a breath away.
Inevera breathed, bending to the wind. ‘Best get it over with,’ she muttered, and strode ahead to where the Holy Mother waited.
Inevera heard Kajivah before she saw her.
‘By Everam, keep your back straight, Thalaja,’ the Holy Mother snapped. ‘You’re a bride of the Deliverer, not some dal’ting merchant in the bazaar.’
The scene came into sight as Kajivah reached and snatched a pastry from her other daughter-in-law. ‘You’re putting on weight again, Everalia.’
She looked to one of the servants. ‘Where is that nectar I asked for? And see they chill it this time.’ She rounded on another servant, holding a ridiculous fan. ‘I didn’t tell you to stop fanning, girl.’ She fanned herself, hand buzzing like a hummingbird. ‘You know how I get. Everam my witness, the entire green land is as humid as the baths. How do they stand it? Why, I have half a mind—’
The woman mercifully broke off as Inevera entered the bower. The other women looked as if they were about to be rescued from a coreling. Kajivah might treat every other woman like a servant, but she was wise enough to respect the dama’ting, and Inevera most of all.
Usually.
‘Where is my son?!’ Kajivah demanded, storming over to Inevera. She wore the black robes and white veil of kai’ting, but had added a white shawl as well, similar to Ahmann’s mode of dress. ‘The palace buzzes with gossip, my son-in-law sits the Skull Throne, and I am left the fool.’
Truer witness was never given, Inevera thought.
Kajivah grew increasingly shrill. ‘I demand to know what’s happened!’
Demand. Inevera felt a coil of anger in her centre. Had the woman forgotten who she was talking to? Even Ahmann made no demands of her. She imagined herself blasting Kajivah across the gardens like Fahstu at court.
Oh, if it could be so easily done. But while Ahmann would be forgiving if she vaporized the entire council of Damaji, he would hunt his mother’s killer to the ends of Ala, and with his crownsight, there would be no hiding the crime.
‘Ahmann is hunting a demon on the edge of the abyss,’ Inevera said. ‘The dice favour his return, but it is a dangerous path. We must pray for him.’
‘My son has gone to the abyss?!’ Kajivah shrieked. ‘Alone?! Why are not the Spears of the Deliverer with him?’
Inevera reached out, grabbing Kajivah’s chin. Ostensibly it was to force her to make and hold eye contact, but Inevera put pressure on a convergence spot, breaking some of the woman’s energy.
‘Your son is the Deliverer,’ she said coldly. ‘He walks in places none may follow, and owes no explanations to you, or even me.’
She released Kajivah, and the woman fell back, weakened. Thalaja caught her and tried to usher her to one of the stone benches, but Kajivah straightened, pulling from her grasp and meeting Inevera’s eyes again.
Stubborn, Inevera thought.
‘Why was Jayan passed over?’ Kajivah demanded. ‘He is Ahmann’s eldest heir, and a worthy successor. The people worship him.’
‘Jayan is too young and headstrong to lead in Ahmann’s stead,’ Inevera said.
‘He is your son!’ Kajivah shouted. ‘How can you …’
‘ENOUGH!’ Inevera barked, causing everyone to jump, most of all Kajivah. It was rare for Inevera to raise her voice, especially in front of others. But more than anyone else alive, Inevera’s mother-in-law could test her patience. ‘You have forgotten yourself, woman, if you think you can speak to me so of my own children. I forgive you this once, for I know you are worried for your son, but do not cross me. All of Krasia needs me, and I do not have time to soothe your every anxiety. Ashan sits the Skull Throne by Ahmann’s own command. That is all you need know of the matter.’
Kajivah blinked. How many years had it been since someone dared speak to her like that? She was the Holy Mother, not some common dal’ting.
But for all the liberties she took and influence she had, Kajivah had no true powers. She was not even dama’ting, much less Damajah. Her wealth and servants were a stipend from the throne Inevera could easily rescind in Ahmann’s absence, though there would be others quick to try to gain her favour with gifts of gold.
‘Mother.’ Inevera and the other women turned to see Asome enter the bower. He had been silent as Enkido in his approach. Asome bowed. ‘Grandmother. It is good to see you both.’
Kajivah brightened immediately, opening her arms for her grandson. He moved into her embrace and accepted the kisses she gave through her veil with grace and dignity, though the treatment was below his station.
‘Tikka,’ Asome said, using the informal Krasian word for ‘grandmother’ Kajivah had instilled in all her grandchildren even before they began to speak. Just the sound of it from Asome’s lips made the woman melt into agreeability as if drugged. ‘Please be gentle with my honoured mother. I know you fear for Father, but she is his Jiwah Ka, and no doubt her worry is as great as yours.’
Kajivah nodded as if dazed and looked to Inevera, her eyes respectfully down as she nodded. ‘Apologies, Damajah.’
Inevera wanted to kiss her son.
‘But why were you and your brother passed over?’ Kajivah asked, regaining something of her resolve.
‘Passed over?’ Asome asked. ‘Tikka, Jayan sits the Spear Throne, and I am next in line for the Skull. Asukaji has been made Damaji of the Kaji. Your firstborn grandsons are all kai’Sharum now, and soon the second sons will take their places as nie’Damaji. Thanks to you, the line of Jardir, so close to ending twenty years ago, is set to control all of Krasia for generations.’
Kajivah seemed mollified at that, but pressed still. ‘But your uncle …’
Asome cupped her chin in his hand much as Inevera had, but instead of touching a pressure point, he laid his thumb on her veil. He touched her lips as gently as a feather, but it silenced Kajivah as effectively as Inevera’s more forceful move.
‘The Evejah teaches us all dama’ting possess the Sight,’ Asome said, ‘the Damajah most of all. If she has allowed my honoured uncle to sit the throne, it is likely because she sees Father returning soon, though of course she cannot speak of such things directly.’
Kajivah glanced at Inevera, a touch of fear in her eyes. The Sight was revered in Krasia, the source of dama’ting power. Inevera played along, giving Kajivah a measured stare and the slightest hint of a nod.
Kajivah looked back at Asome. ‘It is bad fortune to speak of fortune.’
Asome bowed with convincing deference as Kajivah mangled the ancient proverb. ‘Wisely said, Tikka.’ He looked at Inevera. ‘Perhaps there is something my honoured grandmother could do to praise Everam and help pray for Father’s safe return?’
Inevera started, Asome’s words reminding her of the advice her own mother Manvah had given her with regard to the Holy Mother. She nodded. ‘Waning will be upon us in less than two weeks, and with the Deliverer abroad, morale will be low even as the forces of Nie gather once more. A great feast to give heart to our warriors and join the voices of many as one in beseeching Everam for Ahmann’s victory in his latest trial …’
‘A wonderful idea, Damajah,’ Melan said, stepping forward. Inevera looked at her old rival, thankful for the support.
‘Indeed,’ Asome said. ‘Perhaps the Holy Mother could even give the blessings over the food and drink?’
‘I was going to see to it personally …’ Inevera lied.
As Manvah had predicted, Kajivah leapt at the bait. ‘Think on it no more, Honoured Damajah. Many are the burdens upon you. Let me lift this one, I beg.’
Indeed, Inevera felt a great burden lifting. ‘One feast may not be enough, I fear. We may have need of another at Waxing, and on until Sharak Ka is won.’
Kajivah bowed, deeper than Inevera had seen in years. ‘It would be my great honour to see to it, Damajah.’
‘I will ask the Andrah to assign a generous stipend from the treasury for the feasts,’ Inevera said, knowing Ashan would be as pleased as her to have the woman out of their hair. He would agree to anything and call it a bargain. ‘You will need help, of course. Florists and chefs, scribes to prepare invitations …’ People who can read and do sums, she thought derisively, for of course Kajivah could do neither, even after twenty years of palace life.
‘I would be honoured to assist the Holy Mother,’ Melan said.
‘I, too, will assist, as my responsibilities will allow,’ Asome said, looking pointedly at Inevera. She had no doubt it was a debt he would one day collect upon, but she would pay it gladly. This was a favour beyond price.
‘It is settled, then,’ she said, giving Kajivah a nod. ‘All of Krasia will owe you a debt for this, Holy Mother.’
6 (#ulink_ab913b94-f0a3-53b2-b3ba-98a7ca3e0028)
A Man Is Nothing (#ulink_ab913b94-f0a3-53b2-b3ba-98a7ca3e0028)
333 AR Autumn
Abban leaned heavily on his crutch as he descended the palace steps, gritting his teeth at each stab of pain in his twisted calf. Knives were being sharpened throughout the court of the Deliverer, but sometimes it felt the palace steps were his greatest challenge each day. He could bear most anything for a profit, but embracing pain for its own sake had never been a skill he’d mastered.
Not for the first time, he regretted his stubborn refusal to let the Damajah heal him. It was wise to remind her she could not bribe him with comforts – especially ones she could as easily take away – but the thought of stairs without pain was an image worth killing for. Still, there was something he had wanted far more, and soon he would have it.
Drillmaster Qeran walked beside him, faring far better on the steps. The drillmaster’s left leg was missing at the knee, replaced with a curved sheet of spring steel. The metal bowed slightly with each step, but easily supported the large man’s weight. Already, Qeran was close to the fighting skill he had once claimed before the injury, and he continued to improve.
Abban’s kha’Sharum were not allowed at court, but the drillmaster had trained the Deliverer himself, and his honour was boundless. Even in Abban’s employ, he was welcome most anywhere, including the palace. A useful thing for a bodyguard. Now none was fool enough to harass Abban as he passed.
Earless was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, holding open the door to Abban’s carriage. Two kha’Sharum sat the driver’s seat, spears in easy reach, and two more at a high bench at the carriage rear, these armed with Northern crank bows. Qeran sprang easily into the carriage, taking Abban’s crutches as the deaf giant lifted Abban into the carriage as easily as a man might pick up his child, sparing him the dreaded steps.
Too big to comfortably fit inside, Earless closed the door and climbed the first step, holding a handle to ride outside. He knocked on the carriage wall, and the drivers cracked the reins.
‘Have the Damaji accepted Ashan as Andrah?’ Qeran asked.
Abban shrugged. ‘It is not as if the Damajah gives them a choice, with her displays of power. Ashan is her puppet, and none fool enough to challenge her.’
Qeran nodded. He knew the Damajah well. ‘The Sharum do not like it. They believe the Sharum Ka should have taken his father’s place. They fear a dama on the throne will take focus away from alagai’sharak.’
‘What a tragedy that would be,’ Abban said.
Qeran looked at him coldly, not amused. ‘If Jayan calls, the spears will flock to him. It would be easy for him to put Ashan’s and the Damaji’s heads up on spears and take the throne.’
Abban nodded. ‘And easier still for the Damajah to reduce him to ash. We waste our time, Drillmaster, pondering shifts above our station. We have our duty.’
They arrived at Abban’s compound, a high, thick wall heavily manned with armed kha’Sharum. The gates opened before them as the drivers gave the proper signal, revealing the squat, blocky buildings within.
The compound was strong and secure, but Abban was careful – on the surface at least – to give it no quality others might covet. There was no aesthetic to the architecture, no gardens or fountains. The air was thick with the smoke of forges and the sound of ringing hammers. Men laboured everywhere, not an idle hand to be seen.
Abban breathed deep of the reeking air and smiled. It was the smell of industry. Of power. Sweeter to him than any flower’s perfume.
A boy scurried up as Earless deposited Abban back on the ground. He bowed deeply. ‘Master Akas bids me inform you the samples are ready.’
Abban nodded, flipping the boy a small coin. It was a pittance, but the boy’s eyes lit up at the sight. ‘For swift feet. Inform Master Akas we will join him shortly.’
Akas managed Abban’s forges, one of the most important jobs in the entire compound. He was Abban’s cousin by marriage, and was paid more than most dama. One of Abban’s best kha’Sharum Watchers lurked in his shadow, ostensibly for his protection, but as much to deter or report anything hinting of treachery.
‘Ah, Master, Drillmaster, welcome!’ Akas was in his fifties, his bare arms thick with muscle in the way of those who worked the forge. Despite his age and size, he moved with the nervous excitement of a younger man. A khaffit like Abban, he was without a beard, though a rough stubble clung to his chin. He stank of sweat and sulphur.
‘How is production?’ Abban asked.
‘The weapons and armour for the Spears of the Deliverer are on schedule,’ Akas said, gesturing to pallets piled with spearheads, shields, and armour plates. ‘Warded glass, indestructible so far as we can determine.’
Abban nodded. ‘And for my Hundred?’ He used the term for the hundred kha’Sharum Ahmann had given him, but in truth they were one hundred and twenty, with close to a thousand chi’Sharum to supplement them. Abban wanted all of them armed and with the best equipment money could buy.
Akas scratched at his stubble. ‘There have been … delays.’
Qeran crossed his arms with a glower, not even needing a cue from Abban. Akas was a big man, but not fool enough to mistake the gesture. He put up his palms placatingly. ‘But progress has been made! Come and see!’
He darted over to a group of pallets, these shields and spearheads shining like mirrors. He selected a spearhead and brought it over to a squat, heavy anvil.
‘Warded glass,’ Akas said, holding up the spearhead, ‘silvered as you requested to hide its true nature from the casual observer.’
Abban nodded impatiently. This was not news. ‘Then why the delay?’
‘The silvering process weakens the glass,’ Akas said. ‘Watch.’
He put the spearhead on the anvil, holding it in place with banded clamps. Then he took up a long, heavy sledge, the handle three feet long and the head thirty pounds at least. The master smith swung the hammer with practised smoothness, letting its weight and momentum do more work than his considerable muscles. It came down with a sound that resonated through the forges, but Akas did not stop, putting all his strength behind two more swings.
‘A waste to make that man khaffit,’ Qeran said. ‘I could have made a great warrior of him.’
Abban nodded. ‘And had no weapons or armour for him to wield. The sagas may tell tales of cripples working the forge, but it is a strong man’s labour, and not without honour.’
After the third blow, Akas unclamped the spearhead and brought it over for inspection. Abban and Qeran held it to the light, turning it this way and that.
‘There,’ Qeran said, pointing.
‘I see it,’ Abban said, staring at the tiny flaw in the glass, near the point of impact.
‘Ten more blows like that, and a crack will form,’ Akas said. ‘A dozen, and it will break.’
‘Still stronger by far than common steel,’ Qeran said. ‘Any warrior would be lucky to have such a weapon.’
‘Perhaps,’ Abban said, ‘but my Hundred are not just any warriors. They have the greatest living drillmaster, the richest patron, and should have equipment to match.’
Qeran grunted. ‘I’ll not argue, though mirrored shields bring some advantage over clear glass. We used mirrors to herd alagai in the Maze. They are easily fooled by their own reflections.’
‘That’s something, at least,’ Abban said, looking back to Akas. ‘But you spoke of progress?’
Akas broke into a wide, conspiratorial smile. ‘I took the liberty of making a set with the new alloy.’
The alloy was electrum, a rare natural mix of silver and gold that was in short supply and valuable beyond imagining. The Deliverer had already confiscated all the known metal for the Damajah’s exclusive use. Abban had secured his own source, and had agents seeking more, but the consequences would be dire if the Damajah caught him hoarding the sacred metal.
‘And?’ Abban asked.
Akas produced a spearhead and shield from beneath a cloth. Both shone bright as polished mirrors. ‘As strong as the warded glass, at least. We cannot melt or break either one. But the new alloy lends … other properties.’
Abban kept the twitching smile from his lips. ‘Do go on.’
