and Abban limped in. When he drew close to the dais, Hasik shoved Abban forward, meaning to drive him to his knees, but Abban was quick with his crutch and somehow managed to keep his feet.
“Kneel before Shar’Dama Ka!” Hasik roared, but Jardir raised a hand to stay him.
“If I am to die, at least allow me to do it on my feet,” Abban said.
Jardir smiled. “What makes you think I wish to kill you?”
“Am I not another loose thread to be clipped?” Abban asked. “Like the Par’chin before me?” Hasik growled and his grip tightened on his spear as his eyes filled with murderous rage.
“Leave us,” Jardir said, whisking a hand at Hasik and the other guards. As they complied, Jardir descended from the dais to stand before Abban.
“You speak things best left unspoken,” he said quietly.
“He was your friend, Ahmann,” Abban said, ignoring him. “But then, I suppose I was once, as well.”
“The Par’chin showed you the spear,” Jardir realized suddenly. “You, a simpering fat khaffit, laid eyes on the Spear of Kaji before me!”
“I did,” Abban agreed, “and I knew it for what it was. But I did not steal it from him, though I could have. A simpering fat khaffit I may be, but I am no thief.”
Jardir laughed. “No thief? Abban, that is all you are! You steal relics from the dead and cheat men in the bazaar every day!”
Abban shrugged. “I see no crime in salvaging what no man claims is his, and haggling is just another form of battle, with no dishonor to the victor. I speak of killing a man—a friend—that you might take what is his.”
Jardir snarled and his arm shot out, taking Abban by the throat. The fat merchant gasped and clutched at Jardir’s fingers, but he might as well have tried to bend steel. His knees buckled, putting his full weight on the arm, but still Jardir held him up. Abban’s face began to turn purple.
“I will not have my honor questioned by a khaffit,” he said. “My loyalty is to Krasia and Everam before friends, however brave they may be.
“Where are your loyalties, Abban?” he asked. “Do you even have any, beyond protecting your own fat skin?” He released Abban, who fell to the floor, gasping for air.
“What does it matter?” Abban choked out after a moment. “With the Par’chin dead, Krasia has no use for me.”
“The Par’chin is not the only greenlander in the world,” Jardir said, “and no Krasian knows of the green lands like Abban the khaffit. You are of use to me yet.”
Abban raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked, the fear leaving his voice.
“I don’t have to answer your questions, khaffit,” Jardir said. “You will tell me what I wish to know either way.”
“Of course,” Abban said with a nod, “but it might be easier to simply answer my question than to call your torturers and sift the knowledge from my screams.”
Jardir considered him a moment, then shook his head and chuckled despite himself. “I had forgotten that you find your courage when there is a scent of profit in the air,” he said, reaching out a hand to pull Abban to his feet.
Abban bowed with a smile. “Inevera, my friend. We are all as Everam made us.” For a moment, the years fell away, and they were to each other as they once had been.
“I am going to begin Sharak Sun, the Daylight War,” Jardir said. “As Kaji before me, I will conquer the green lands and unite them all for Sharak Ka.”
“Ambitious,” Abban said, but there was doubtful condescension in his tone.
“You do not think I can do this?” Jardir asked. “I am the Deliverer!”
“No, Ahmann, you are not,” Abban said quietly. “If it was anyone, we both know it was the Par’chin.”
Jardir glared at him, and Abban glared right back, as if daring Jardir to strike him.
“So you won’t help me willingly,” Jardir said.
Abban smiled. “I never said that, my friend. There is great profit in war.”
“But you doubt I can succeed,” Jardir said.
Abban shrugged. “The Northland is far bigger than you think, Ahmann, and more populous than Krasia by far.”
Jardir scoffed. “You doubt any ten, any hundred Northern cowards can match even one dal’Sharum?”
Abban shook his head. “I would never doubt you about great things like battle. But I am khaffit, and doubt small things.” He looked at Jardir pointedly. “Like the food and water supplies you would need to cross the desert. The men you would need to leave behind to hold the Desert Spear and captured territory. The wagonloads of khaffit to serve the army’s needs, and women to sate their lusts. And who would protect the women and children you leave behind? The dama? What will they turn this city into while you are gone?”
Jardir was taken aback. Indeed, in his dreams of conquest in battle, such things had seemed too inconsequential to matter. Inevera had been masterful in manipulating his rise, but somehow he doubted she considered such things, either. He looked at Abban with new respect.
“My coffers would open wide to someone who could care for such small things,” he said.
Abban smiled, bowing as low as his crutch would allow. “It would be my pleasure to serve the Shar’Dama Ka.”
Jardir nodded. “I want to march in three summers.” He put his arm around Abban, drawing him close like a friend and putting his lips within inches of Abban’s ear.
“And if you ever try to cheat me like some mark in the bazaar,” he added in a low voice, “I will tan your skin and use it as a dung sack. That is a promise you should remember.”
Abban paled and nodded quickly. “I will never forget it.”
CHAPTER 10
KHA’SHARUM
JARDIR HISSED, EMBRACING THE CUT.
“Am I hurting you?” Inevera asked.
“I’ve taken far worse in the Maze,” Jardir scoffed. “But if you should slip at a tendon…”
Inevera snorted. “I know the course of a man’s flesh far better than you, husband. This is no different than carving alagai hora.”
Jardir looked at the silver tray that held the thin strips of flesh she had sliced from the palm of his hand. He let the sting pass through him as Inevera packed herbs into the wounds. “I fail to see the need for this.”
“According to the Canon we took from one of the Northern Messengers in the dungeon, the greenlanders believe the Deliverer will have marked flesh that corelings cannot abide,” Inevera said. She let go of his hand, allowing him to raise it before his eyes, marveling at the precision of the ward she had cut into the skin.
“Will they work?” he asked, flexing his hand experimentally.
Inevera nodded. “When I am through, your touch will bring more harm to the alagai than a thrust from the Spear of Kaji itself.”
Jardir felt a thrill run through him. The thought of wrestling a demon on its own terms and killing it with his bare hands was intoxicating.
Inevera had just finished binding the hand when Damaji Ashan entered the throne room, followed by his son Asukaji and Jardir’s second son, Asome. Both young to be wearing the white robes of dama, but they were Blood of the Deliverer, and none dared question it.
“Deliverer,” Ashan greeted him, bowing. “The khaffit,” he spat the word as if it had a foul taste, “is here with the tallies.” Jardir nodded, and Abban limped into the room on his ivory camel crutch while Inevera draped herself at Jardir’s feet. Damaji Aleverak followed Abban in, the empty right sleeve of his robe pinned back. Jardir’s son Maji, in his nie’dama bido, shadowed his steps. They joined Ashan, Asukaji, and Asome to the right of the Skull Throne.
