the sale.”
It was midmorning the next day when Jardir returned from the dama’ting pavilion, and the boys were already assembled in the gruel line. Jardir sucked in a breath, flexed his right arm, and strode in, heading right for the center of the line. Abban had already taken his place, farther back, and would not help him, as they had agreed.
It is the weakest camel that draws the wolves, he heard his father say, and the simple advice steeled him against his fear.
“To the back with you, cripple!” Shanjat barked, seeing him approach.
Jardir ignored him and forced himself to smile widely. “Everam shine upon you for holding my place,” he said.
The look in Shanjat’s eyes was incredulous; he was three years Jardir’s senior, and considerably larger. He hesitated in that moment, and Jardir took the opportunity to shove him hard, knocking him from the line.
Shanjat stumbled, but he was quick and kept his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he regained his balance. Jardir could have kicked his hands or feet from under him and struck while he was off balance, but he needed more than mere victory if he was to ward off any rumors that his injury had left him weak.
There were hoots of delight, and the gruel line curved in on itself, surrounding the two boys. The shocked look vanished from Shanjat’s face as it twisted in rage, and he came back in hard.
Jardir flowed like a dancer to avoid Shanjat’s initial blows, which were just as fast as Abban had warned. Finally, as expected, Shanjat launched a wild swing that put him off balance when it failed to connect. Jardir stepped to the left, ducking the arm and driving his right elbow into Shanjat’s kidney like a spear. Shanjat screamed in pain as he stumbled past.
Jardir whipped around and followed through with another elbow strike to Shanjat’s back, driving him to the ground. His arm was thin and pale from weeks in the cast, but the bones did feel stronger now, just as the dama’ting had said.
But Shanjat caught Jardir’s ankle, yanking him from his feet and falling on him. They wrestled in the dust, where Shanjat’s weight and greater reach were to his advantage. He caught Jardir in a headlock, pulling his right fist into Jardir’s windpipe with his left hand.
As the world began to blacken, Jardir began to fear he had taken on too much, but he embraced the feeling as he did pain, refusing to give up. He kicked hard behind him, a crushing blow between the legs that made Shanjat loosen his choke hold with a howl. Jardir twisted free and got in close to Shanjat’s joints, where his blows held little force when they could reach Jardir at all. Slowly, laboriously, he worked his way behind Shanjat, striking hard at any vulnerable spots—eyes, throat, gut—as he went.
Finally in position, Jardir caught Shanjat’s right arm and twisted it behind him, driving his full weight into the older boy’s back with both knees. When he felt the elbow lock, he braced it on his own shoulder and heaved the arm upward.
“Aaahhh!” Shanjat cried, and Jardir knew it would be a simple thing now to break the boy’s arm, as Hasik had done to him.
“You were saving my place, were you not?” Jardir asked loudly.
“I will kill you, rat!” Shanjat screamed, beating the dust with his free hand as he twisted and thrashed, but he could not dislodge Jardir.
“Say it!” Jardir demanded, lifting Shanjat’s arm higher. He felt the strain in that limb, and knew it could not withstand much more.
“I would sooner go to Nie’s abyss!” Shanjat cried.
Jardir shrugged. “Bones become stronger after being broken. Enjoy your stay with the dama’ting.” With a heave, he felt bone snap and muscle tear. Shanjat screamed in agony.
Jardir stood slowly, scanning the gathered boys for signs that another meant to challenge him, but while there were many wide-eyed stares, none seemed ready to avenge Shanjat, who lay howling in the dust.
“Make way!” Drillmaster Kaval barked, pushing through the crowd. He looked to Shanjat, then to Jardir. “Hope for you yet, boy,” he grunted. “Back in line, all of you,” he shouted, “or we’ll empty the gruel pot in the waste pits!” The boys quickly flowed back to their places, but Jardir beckoned to Abban amid the confusion, gesturing for his friend to take the place behind him in line.
“Hey!” cried Jurim, the next boy in line, but Jardir glared at him and he backed off, making room for Abban.
Kaval kicked at Shanjat. “On your feet, rat!” he shouted. “Your legs aren’t broken, so don’t expect to be carried to the dama’ting after being bested by a boy half your size!” He grabbed Shanjat’s good arm and hauled the boy to his feet, dragging him off toward the healing pavilion. The boys still in line hooted and catcalled at his back.
“I don’t understand,” Abban said. “Why didn’t he just yield?”
“Because he’s a warrior,” Jardir said. “Will you yield when the alagai come for you?”
Abban shuddered at the thought. “That’s different.”
Jardir shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”
Hasik and some of the other older boys began training on the Maze walls not long after Jardir lost his cast. They lost their bidos in the Maze a year later, and those who survived, Hasik among them, could be seen strutting about the training grounds in their new blacks, visiting the great harem. Like all dal’Sharum, they had as little as possible to do with nie’Sharum after that.
Time passed quickly for Jardir, days blending together into an endless loop. In the mornings, he listened to dama extolling the glories of Everam and the Kaji tribe. He learned of the other Krasian tribes and why they were inferior, and why the Majah, most of all, were blind to Everam’s truths. The dama spoke, too, of other lands, and the cowardly chin to the north who had forsaken the spear and lived like khaffit, quailing before the alagai.
Jardir was never satisfied with their place in the gruel line, always focused on moving up to where the bowls became fuller. He targeted the boys ahead of him and sent them to the dama’ting pavilion one by one, always bringing Abban in his wake. By the time Jardir was eleven, they were at the front of the line, ahead of several older boys, all of whom gave them a wide berth.
Afternoons were spent training or running as practice targets for dal’Sharum netters. At night, Jardir lay on the cold stone of the Kaji’sharaj floor, his ears straining to hear the sounds of alagai’sharak outside, and dreaming of the day he might stand among men.
As Hannu Pash progressed, some of the boys were selected by the dama for special training, putting them on the path to wear the white. They left the Kaji’sharaj and were never seen again. Jardir was not chosen for this honor, but he did not mind. He had no desire to spend his days poring over ancient scrolls or shouting praise to Everam. He was bred for the spear.
The dama showed more interest in Abban, who had letters and numbers, but his father was khaffit, something they did not take to, even though the shame did not technically carry to a man’s sons.
“Better you fight,” the dama told Abban at last, poking his broad chest. Abban had kept much of his bulk, but the constant rigor of training had hardened the fat to muscle. Indeed, he was becoming a formidable warrior, and he blew out a breath of relief when it became clear he would not be called to the white.
Other boys, too weak or slow, were cast out of the Kaji’sharaj as khaffit— forced to return to the tan clothes of children for the rest of their lives. This was a worse fate by far, shaming their families and denying them hope of paradise. Those with warrior’s hearts often volunteered as Baiters, taunting demons and luring them into traps in the Maze. It was a brief life, but one that brought honor and entrance into Heaven for those otherwise lost.
In his twelfth year, Jardir was allowed his first look at the Maze. Drillmaster Qeran took the oldest and strongest of the nie’Sharum up the great wardwall—a sheer thirty feet of sandstone looking down on the demon killing ground that had once been an entire district of the city, back in ancient times when Krasia was more populous. It was filled with the remnants of ancient hovels and dozens of smaller sandstone walls. These were twenty feet high, with pitted wards cut into their surfaces. Some ran great distances and turned sharp corners, while others were just a single slab or angle. Together they formed a maze studded with hidden pitfalls, designed to trap and hold the alagai for the morning sun.
“The wall beneath your feet,” Qeran said, stamping his foot, “shields our women and children, even the khaffit,” he spit over the side of the wall, “from the alagai. The other walls,” he swept his hands out over the endlessly twisting walls of the Maze, “keep the alagai trapped in with us.” He clenched his fist at that, and the obvious pride he felt was shared by all the boys. Jardir imagined himself running through that maze, spear and
