Abban bowed and pulled a small vial from his belt. He threw it to Jardir. “Dama Qavan of the Mehnding asked me to give you that,” he said.
Jardir caught the vial and looked at it curiously. “He asked you to give this?”
“The contents, anyway,” Abban said. “Mixed in your food or drink.”
Inevera snatched the vial from Jardir and pulled the stopper, sniffing the contents. She put a drop on the tip of her finger, tasting it.
“Tunnel asp venom,” she said, spitting. “Enough to kill ten men.”
Jardir tilted his head at Abban “What did he pay you?”
Abban smiled, lifting a jingling sack of coins. “A Damaji’s ransom.”
Jardir nodded. Damaji Enkaji of the Mehnding had proven a vocal supporter of him in public, but this was not the first assassination attempt to come from one of his minions.
“I’ll have Dama Qavan arrested and put to the question,” Ashan said.
“It’s a waste of time,” Abban said. “He won’t betray his Damaji to your torturers. He is better left alone.”
“No one asked your opinion, khaffit!” Damaji Aleverak growled, making Abban jump. “We can’t let the man live to further plot against the Shar’Dama Ka.”
“Perhaps the khaffit has a point, husband,” Inevera interrupted, drawing the outraged glare Aleverak always gave when the woman dared speak her mind before the Skull Throne. “Abban can tell Qavan you ate the poison without so much as a cramp, and seed the tale in the bazaar to spread it everywhere. Project such invincibility, and even the bravest assassin may reconsider his course.”
“The Damajah is wise,” Abban said with a bow. They were two of a kind, he and Inevera, always twisting others to their wishes. Jardir saw the khaffit’s eyes flick to her, just for an instant, drinking of his wife’s wantonly displayed beauty. He swallowed a flare of anger. Inevera said it should make him feel powerful to flaunt something other men coveted, but even after two years the opposite still held true.
But like it or not, both Abban and Inevera had skills Jardir needed, skills that the dama and Sharum sorely lacked. Abban’s tallies and Inevera’s dice gave only brutal truth, while every other man in Krasia fell over himself to say only what they thought Jardir wished to hear, even if the words held no truth at all.
Jardir had grown to depend on them, and both knew it, continuing to dress outlandishly, adorned with golden trinkets, as if daring Jardir to punish them.
“Damaji Enkaji is powerful, Deliverer,” Abban reminded him, “and his tribe’s engineering skills are essential to your preparations for war. You already slight him by denying him a place in your inner council. Perhaps now is not the time to follow a trail that may lead to him and force you to act publicly.”
“Savas is not yet old enough to become Damaji of the Mehnding,” Inevera added, speaking of Jardir’s Mehnding son. “They will not follow a boy still in his bido.”
They were right. If Jardir killed Enkaji before Savas earned the white robe, the black turban would simply pass on to one of Enjaki’s sons, who would bear Jardir the same animosity their father did, if not more.
“Very well,” he said at last, though it sickened him to play Inevera and Abban’s games. “Spin your web over Qavan. Now on to the tallies.”
“As of this morning, there are 217 dama, 322 dama’ting, 5,012 Sharum, 17,256 women, 15,623 children, including those in Hannu Pash, and 21,733 khaffit living in the Desert Spear,” Abban said.
“That isn’t enough warriors if we are to march in another summer,” Jardir said. “Only a few hundred come out of Hannu Pash each year.”
“Perhaps you should delay your plans,” Abban suggested. “In a decade, you could double your forces.”
Jardir felt Inevera’s hand squeeze his leg, her long nails digging into flesh, and shook his head. “We delay too long as it is.”
Abban shrugged. “Then you will have to march with the warriors you have next year. Not six thousand.”
“I need more,” Jardir insisted.
Abban shrugged. “What can I do? It’s not as if dal’Sharum are stores of grain hidden in the bazaar, with merchants waiting for the price to go up before bringing them out.”
Jardir looked at him so sharply that Abban flinched.
“Something I said?” he asked.
“The bazaar,” Jardir said. “I haven’t been there since the day Kaval and Qeran took us from our homes.” He stood up, drawing a white outer robe over the Sharum blacks he still wore. “Show it to me now.”
“Me?” Abban asked. “You wish to walk the street next to a khaffit?”
“Is there anyone better suited?” Jardir asked. Everyone else in the room turned to stare at Jardir in horror.
“Deliverer,” Ashan protested, “the bazaar is a place for women and khaffit…”
Aleverak nodded. “That ground is not worthy of the Shar’Dama Ka’s feet.”
“I will decide that,” Jardir said. “Perhaps there is yet some worthiness to be found there.”
Ashan frowned, but he bowed. “Of course, Deliverer. I will prepare your bodyguard. A hundred loyal Sharum—”
“No bodyguard is necessary,” Jardir cut in. “I can protect myself from women and khaffit.”
Inevera stood, helping Jardir arrange his robes. “At least let me throw the dice first,” she whispered. “You will draw assassins like a dung cart draws flies.”
Jardir shook his head. “Not this time, jiwah. I feel Everam’s hand today without that crutch.”
Inevera did not seem convinced, but she stepped aside.
A weight lifted off Jardir as he strode from the palace. He could not remember the last time he had left its walls in daylight. He had loved the feel of the sun, once. His back straightened as he walked, and something in Jardir…hummed. He felt a rightness to his actions, as if Everam Himself guided them.
Time seemed to stop as Jardir and Abban walked through the Great Bazaar, merchants and customers alike freezing in place as they passed. Some stared in wonder at the Deliverer, and others stared in greater shock at the khaffit by his side. Whispers grew in their wake, and many began to drift after them.
The bazaar ran along the lee side of the city’s inner wall for miles to either side of the great gate. Seemingly endless tents and carts, great pavilions and tiny kiosks were arrayed, not to mention countless roving food and trinket vendors, porters to carry purchases, and great crowds of shoppers, haggling for bargains.
“It’s bigger than I remember,” Jardir said in surprise. “So many twists and turns. The Maze seems less daunting.”
“It is said no man may walk so far as to pass every vendor in a single day,” Abban said, “and more than one fool has been left trying to find their way clear of it when the dama sound the curfew from the minarets of Sharik Hora.”
“So many khaffit,” Jardir said in wonder, looking out at a sea of shaved faces and tan vests. “Even though I hear them in the tallies every morning, the number never truly struck me. You outnumber everyone else in Krasia.”
“There are benefits to being denied the Maze,” Abban said. “Long life is one of them.”
Jardir nodded. Another thing he had never considered before. “Does your heart ever miss it? Beneath the cowardice, do you ever wish you had seen the inside of the Maze?”
Abban limped quietly for a long time. “What does it matter?” he asked at last. “It was not meant to be.”
They walked a bit farther, when Jardir stopped suddenly, staring. Across the street stood a giant khaffit, easily seven feet tall and rippling with muscle under his tan vest and cap. He had a huge barrel of water slung under each long arm, seeming no more strained than if he were holding a pair of sandals.
“You there!” Jardir called, but the giant did not reply. Jardir strode across the street to him, grabbing him by the arm. The khaffit turned suddenly, startled, and nearly dropped the water barrels before he caught himself. “I called to you, khaffit,” Jardir growled.
Abban put a hand on Jardir’s arm. “He did not hear you, Deliverer. The man was born without hearing.” Indeed, the giant was moaning and pointing frantically toward his ears. Abban made a few quick gestures with his hands that calmed him.
“Deaf?” Jardir asked. “Did that cause him to fail at Hannu Pash?”
Abban laughed. “Children with such faults are never called to Hannu Pash in the first place, Deliverer. This man was khaffit the moment he was born.”
Another khaffit, a fit-looking man of some thirty-five years, came out of a booth, stopping short in shock at the
