sight of them.
“Hold,” Jardir commanded as the man tried to escape. Immediately the khaffit fell to his knees, pressing his face into the dirt.
“O great Shar’Dama Ka,” the man said, groveling. “I am unworthy of your notice.”
“Have no fear, my brother,” Jardir said, laying a gentle hand on the terrified man’s shoulder. “I have no tribe. No caste. I stand for all Krasia, dama, Sharum, and khaffit alike.”
The tension in the man seemed to ease at Jardir’s words. “Tell me, why do you wear the tan, brother?”
“I am a coward, Deliverer,” the man said, his voice tightening with shame. “My will broke on my first night in the Maze. I cut my tether, and I…ran from my ajin’pal.” He began to weep, and Jardir let it run its course. Then he squeezed the man’s shoulder, making him look up.
“You may walk behind me on my tour of the bazaar,” he said, and the man gasped in shock. “The earless one, as well,” Jardir told Abban, who made more signs to the giant. The two men fell obediently in behind Abban and Jardir, followed by all who had witnessed the event, man and woman. Even the vendors left their wares unattended to walk behind the Deliverer.
Everywhere he looked, Jardir saw more and more fit men in the tan, each with his own reasons for being denied the black. None dared lie to him when pressed as to why.
“I was sickly as a child,” one said.
“I cannot see colors,” another said.
“My father bribed the dama to overlook me,” a third dared admit.
“I need lenses for my eyes,” many told him, and others had been thrown from the sharaj simply for being left-handed.
Jardir squeezed the shoulder of each one, and gave them permission to follow him. Before long, a huge crowd trailed him, sweeping everyone it passed up in its wake. Finally, Jardir looked back at them all, a throng of thousands, and nodded. He leapt atop a vendor’s cart to stand above the crowd, looking over the women and khaffit.
“I am Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir asu Kaji!” he cried, holding up the Spear of Kaji. “I am Shar’Dama Ka!” The crowd roared in response, startling Jardir with a strength and power he had never dreamed existed.
“Everam has charged me with destroying the alagai,” Jardir shouted, “but to do that I need Sharum!” He swept his hand out over the crowd. “I see among you fit men who were denied the spear as children, forcing you to live in shame and poverty as your brothers and cousins walked in Everam’s glory. Putting shame upon your parents and children, as well.”
The men Jardir had asked to follow him were nodding and agreeing with his words. “We have the magic to destroy the alagai now,” he said. “Our spears skewer them by the hundreds, but we have more spears than men to carry them. And so I offer you all this second chance! Any able-bodied khaffit who wishes to join in alagai’sharak may present himself to the training grounds tomorrow, where every tribe shall raise a khaffit’sharaj to train you. Those who complete the training shall be named kha’Sharum, and given warded weapons to buy your way back to glory and Heaven for yourselves and your families!”
There was a shocked silence as his words sank in. Men who had spent their lives under the heel of the Sharum, bent and toiling under the weight of their caste, began to straighten their backs. Jardir could see into their minds, it seemed, as they imagined the glory that might await them, the chance for a better life.
“Sharak Ka is coming!” Jardir shouted. “There is honor enough for all in the Great War. Who among you will swear to fight it alongside me?”
The first man Jardir had asked to follow him, the one who had run from his ajin’pal in the Maze, pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling.
“Deliverer,” he said, “my heart has been heavy since my failure in the Maze. I beg you for a second chance.” Jardir reached down with the Spear of Kaji, touching his shoulder.
“Rise, kha’Sharum,” Jardir said.
The man did as he was bade, but before he had risen fully, a spear struck him in the back. Jardir caught him before he could fall, looking deep into his eyes as he coughed a gout of blood.
“You are saved,” Jardir told him. “The gates of Heaven will be open to you, brother.”
The man smiled as the light left his eyes, and Jardir set him down, looking at the spear jutting from his back. It was one of the short, close-quarter weapons favored by Nanji Watchers.
Jardir looked up and saw three Nanji approaching, holding short spears in one hand and weighted lines in the other. Though it was day, their night veils were drawn, hiding their faces.
“You go too far, Sharum Ka, offering spears to khaffit,” one of the warriors called.
“We must end your life,” another agreed.
They began to advance, but several khaffit broke from the crowd, moving to stand protectively in front of Jardir.
The Nanji laughed. “It was foolish of you to leave your palace without a bodyguard,” one said. “These khaffit cannot protect you.”
It wasn’t surprising that the warriors thought the women and khaffit no threat, but Jardir, having felt the crowd’s power just a moment before, wasn’t so sure. Even so, he would ask no one to die needlessly for his sake.
Project invincibility, Inevera said, and even the bravest assassin may reconsider his course.
“Clear their path!” Jardir shouted as he leapt down from the cart. The startled men stepped aside immediately.
“You think three warriors can kill me?” Jardir laughed. “If a hundred Nanji skulk in the shadows, I would need no more bodyguard than now.” He rested the point of the Spear of Kaji down in the dirt and threw out his chest, inviting attack. “I am Shar’Dama Ka!” he cried, feeling the rightness of the words. “Strike at me if you dare!”
The Nanji approached, but Jardir could see hesitation in them now. His very presence unnerved them. Their spears shook in their hands, and they glanced to one another uncertainly as if to decide which should lead the attack.
“Strike or kneel!” Jardir roared. He brought up the Spear of Kaji, and the bright metal caught the sunlight and seemed to flare with power.
One of the Nanji warriors dropped his spear and fell to his knees. “Traitor!” the one next to him cried, turning to stab at him, but the third was quicker, darting in and putting his spear through the aggressor’s chest.
There was a creak behind Jardir. A whisper of sandal on canvas. Knowing Nanji tactics, he turned around, looking up at the true assassin, crouched hidden atop the pavilion behind him. This Watcher should have struck while Jardir was distracted by the others, ensuring a kill.
Their eyes met, but Jardir said nothing, waiting. After a moment, the man threw down his spear and somersaulted down after it, kneeling at Jardir’s feet.
Jardir went to the fallen man, pulling the spear free of his back and holding it up for all to see. “This is not khaffit blood!” he cried. “This is the blood of a warrior, the first kha’Sharum, and I will lacquer his skull and add it to my throne to remember him always.” He looked out at the khaffit. “Will any step forth to take his place?”
There was a dissonant moan, and the seven-foot deaf giant pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling at Jardir’s feet. Others quickly followed, and there was a frantic press to kneel before Jardir. As Jardir touched each in turn, Abban seized an opportunity to speak.
“Fear not, those of you who cannot carry a spear from age or infirmity!” he cried. “Fear not, you women, you children! The Deliverer needs more than just Sharum! He needs weavers to make nets and smiths for spearheads. Canvas for the kha’Sharum pavilion, and food for its warriors. Come to my pavilion on the morrow, if you wish to put aid to Krasia’s glory and bring honor to your families!”
Jardir frowned, knowing Abban acted as much to profit from cheap labor as to aid in the war, but he did not contradict him. The labor would be needed if they were to march in a year.
The crowd began to chant his name as Jardir continued to touch men with the Spear of Kaji and name them kha’Sharum. Soon it thundered from the bazaar, echoing throughout the city.
“Jardir! Jardir! Jardir!”
“Masterfully done,” Abban said in his ear when he had touched the last khaffit. “You’ve bought ten thousand warriors and twice as many slaves for naught but a taste of self-respect.”
“Is that all you see with your merchant’s heart?” Jardir asked, looking at him. “A business transaction?”
