He looked Jurim in the eyes, lightly touching his chest with the point of the Spear of Kaji. “Have you insulted me, Jurim?” he asked softly.
Jurim’s eyes widened. He looked frantically at Wonda, and then back at Jardir. He squirmed under the speartip, though its touch was feather-light, and began to shake. He knew his life might depend on his answer, but to lie to the Deliverer would cost him his place in Heaven.
Jurim collapsed, falling to his knees and weeping. He pressed his forehead into the dirt and wailed, clutching at Jardir’s feet. “Forgive me, Shar’Dama Ka!”
Jardir kicked him, taking a step backward and broadening his gaze to take in the warriors on either side of Jurim. Immediately they, too, fell to their knees and ground their foreheads into the dirt, wailing.
“Silence!” Jardir snapped, and the men quieted instantly. He pointed to Wonda. “That woman killed more alagai this night than the three of you combined, and so her honor is worth the three of your lives.”
The men cowered, but they did not dare to speak in their defense. “Go to the temple and pray through the night and the coming day,” Jardir said. “You will take your spears and go into the night tomorrow, shieldless and clad only in black bidos. When you are pulled down, your bones will go to Sharik Hora.”
The men shuddered with relief and wept, kissing Jardir’s feet, for in those words, he had promised them the only things a Sharum truly feared to lose: a warrior’s death, and entry into Heaven’s paradise. “Thank you, Deliverer,” they said over and over.
“Go!” Jardir snapped, and the men ran off instantly.
Jardir looked back at Leesha, whose face was a sandstorm. “You just let them go?” she demanded. Jardir realized that their exchange had been in Krasian, and she had likely understood only a fraction of what was said.
“Of course not,” Jardir said, switching back to her tongue. “They will be put to death.”
“But they thanked you!” Leesha said.
“For not castrating them and stripping them of the black,” Jardir said.
Wonda spat on the ground. “Would serve the coresons right.”
“No, it would not!” Leesha said. Jardir could tell she was still upset, but he had no idea why. Should he have killed them personally, in her sight? The greenlanders had different rules for their women, and he had no idea how they handled such matters as this.
“What else do you require?” Jardir asked. “They did not succeed in violating or even harming the girl,” he nodded respectfully to Wonda, “so it is not expected that they should compensate her for her virginity.”
“Ent a virgin, anyway,” Wonda said. Leesha looked at her sharply, but the girl only shrugged.
“But it’s required they pay with their lives?” Leesha demanded.
Jardir looked at her curiously. “They will die with honor. They will go naked into the night tomorrow, with only their spears to protect them.”
Leesha’s eyes bulged. “That’s barbaric!”
It was then Jardir understood. The greenland taboo was death. He bowed. “I had thought the punishment would please you, mistress. I can have them whipped, if you prefer.”
Leesha looked to Wonda, who shrugged. She turned back to Jardir. “Very well. But we require to bear witness, and I to treat the men’s wounds when the punishment is complete.”
Jardir was surprised at the request, but he hid it well, bowing deeply. The customs of the greenlanders were fascinating. “Of course, mistress. It will be done at sunset tomorrow, for all the Sharum to see and remember. I will administer the lashes myself.”
Leesha nodded. “Thank you. That will suffice.”
“This time,” Wonda growled, and Jardir smiled to see the fierceness in her eyes. Three Spears of the Deliverer it took just to hold her, and none of them able to do the deed! With further training, even kai’Sharum would fall before her. Looking at her, he came to a decision, one that he knew might well tear his army asunder, but Everam had chosen him to lead Sharak Ka, and he would lead as he saw fit.
He gave the woman a warrior’s bow. “There will not be another, Wonda vah Flinn am’Cutter am’Hollow. On this, you have my word.”
“Thank you,” Leesha said, laying a hand on his arm, and Jardir’s spirit leapt at the touch.
There was a loud knocking on the door.
“Whozzat?” Rojer cried, starting awake and looking about. His room was dark, though he could see cracks of light at the edges of the velvet curtains.
The bed was a wonder unlike anything Rojer had felt since his time in Duke Rhinebeck’s brothel. The mattress and pillows were stuffed with goose feathers, and the sheets smooth and soft beneath a down comforter. It was like sleeping on a warm cloud. Hearing nothing more, Rojer was unable to resist its pull as his head fell back into the pillow’s embrace.
The door opened, and Rojer cracked an eye as one of Abban’s wives, or perhaps one of his daughters—Rojer could never tell the difference—entered. She was clad as they all were in loose black robes that hid everything save her eyes, which were cast down in his presence.
“You have a visitor, son of Jessum,” the woman said.
She moved to throw back the heavy velvet curtains and Rojer groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes as light streamed in through the windows of his richly appointed bedroom. Leesha might have a whole floor of the giant manse, but Rojer had still been given a full wing of the second floor, more rooms than the entire inn his parents had run in Riverbridge. Elona had been furious to learn of the largesse the Krasians had heaped upon him, having only gotten a bedroom and sitting room herself, luxurious though they were.
“What hour is it?” Rojer asked. He felt he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two.
“Just after sunrise,” the woman said.
Rojer groaned again. He hadn’t slept an hour. “Tell whoever it is to come back later,” he said, flopping back into the mattress.
The woman bowed deeply. “I cannot, master. Your visitor is the Damajah. You must see her at once.”
Rojer sat bolt upright, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.
The whole palace was astir by the time Rojer felt presentable enough to leave his chambers. His Jongleur’s paintbox had taken the circles from beneath his eyes, and his bright red hair was brushed and tied back. He wore his best motley.
The Damajah, he thought. What in the Core does she want with me?
Gared was waiting for him in the hall, and fell in behind him. Rojer could not deny that he felt safer with the big Cutter, and by the time he made it to the stairs, Leesha and Wonda were descending from above with Erny and Elona in tow.
“What does she want?” Leesha asked. She had gotten no more sleep than him, but she showed it less, even without paint and powder.
“Search my pockets,” Rojer said. “You’ll find no answers.”
They all followed Rojer down the stairs, making him feel as if he were leading them to a cliff. Rojer was a performer, used to being the center of attention, but this was different. He put his hand to his chest, clutching his medallion through his shirt. The hard shape gave him comfort as he followed the gestures of Abban’s women into the main receiving hall.
As before, Rojer felt his face heat at the sight of the Damajah. He had bedded dozens of village girls and more than one cultured Angierian royal, all of them fetching or pretty or even beautiful. While Leesha surpassed them all in beauty, she seemed almost unaware of that fact, making no effort to take advantage of her power.
But the Damajah knew. The perfect curve of her chin and gentle shape of her nose behind her transparent veil. The wide exotic eyes with long sweeping lashes, and the oiled black curls that spilled in rivulets down her shoulders. Her diaphanous robe covered everything and nothing, showcasing the smoothness of her arms and curving thighs, the round fullness of her breasts and the darkness of her areolae, her hairless sex. The air about her was sweet with perfume.
But more, her every gesture, every stance, every expression, brought all these things into a harmony that sang to every man in her presence. What Rojer did to demons with his fiddle, the Damajah did to men with her body. He felt himself stiffen, and was thankful for the looseness of his motley pants.
She stood in the receiving hall, two girls standing behind her, covered in the Krasian fashion Inevera disdained, though their robes were fine silk. One was clad in the white of a dama’ting, the other in black. Long
