The Skull Throne (14 page)

The woman mercifully broke off as Inevera entered the bower. The other women looked as if they were about to be rescued from a coreling. Kajivah might treat every other woman like a servant, but she was wise enough to respect the
dama’ting,
and Inevera most of all.

Usually.

“Where is my son?!” Kajivah demanded, storming over to Inevera. She wore the black robes and white veil of
kai’ting,
but had added a white shawl as well, similar to Ahmann’s mode of dress. “The palace buzzes with gossip, my son-in-law sits the Skull Throne, and I am left the fool.”

Truer witness was never given,
Inevera thought.

Kajivah grew increasingly shrill. “I demand to know what’s happened!”

Demand.
Inevera felt s coil of anger in her center. Had the woman forgotten who she was talking to? Even Ahmann made no demands of her. She imagined herself blasting Kajivah across the gardens like Fahstu at court.

Oh, if it could be so easily done. But while Ahmann would be forgiving if she vaporized the entire council of
Damaji,
he would hunt his mother’s killer to the ends of Ala, and with his crownsight, there would be no hiding the crime.

“Ahmann is hunting a demon on the edge of the abyss,” Inevera said. “The dice favor his return, but it is a dangerous path. We must pray for him.”

“My son has gone to the abyss?!” Kajivah shrieked. “Alone?! Why are not the Spears of the Deliverer with him?”

Inevera reached out, grabbing Kajivah’s chin. Ostensibly it was to force her to make and hold eye contact, but Inevera put pressure on a convergence spot, breaking some of the woman’s energy.

“Your son is the Deliverer,” she said coldly. “He walks in places none may follow, and owes no explanations to you, or even me.”

She released Kajivah, and the woman fell back, weakened. Thalaja caught her and tried to usher her to one of the stone benches, but Kajivah straightened, pulling from her grasp and meeting Inevera’s eyes again.

Stubborn,
Inevera thought.

“Why was Jayan passed over?” Kajivah demanded. “He is Ahmann’s eldest heir, and a worthy successor. The people worship him.”

“Jayan is too young and headstrong to lead in Ahmann’s stead,” Inevera said.

“He is your son!” Kajivah shouted. “How can you …”

“ENOUGH!” Inevera barked, causing everyone to jump, most of all Kajivah. It was rare for Inevera to raise her voice, especially in front of others. But more than anyone else alive, Inevera’s mother-in-law could test her patience. “You have forgotten yourself, woman, if you think you can speak to me so of my own children. I forgive you this once, for I know you are worried for your son, but do not cross me. All of Krasia needs me, and I do not have time to soothe your every anxiety. Ashan sits the Skull Throne by Ahmann’s own command. That is all you need know of the matter.”

Kajivah blinked. How many years had it been since someone dared speak to her like that? She was the Holy Mother, not some common
dal’ting.

But for all the liberties she took and influence she had, Kajivah had no true powers. She was not even
dama’ting,
much less Damajah. Her wealth and servants were a stipend from the throne Inevera could easily rescind in Ahmann’s absence, though there would be others quick to try to gain her favor with gifts of gold.

“Mother.” Inevera and the other women turned to see Asome enter the bower. He had been silent as Enkido in his approach. Asome bowed. “Grandmother. It is good to see you both.”

Kajivah brightened immediately, opening her arms for her grandson. He moved into her embrace and accepted the kisses she gave through her veil with grace and dignity, though the treatment was below his station.

“Tikka,” Asome said, using the informal Krasian word for “grandmother” Kajivah had instilled in all her grandchildren even before they began to speak. Just the sound of it from Asome’s lips made the woman melt into agreeability as if drugged. “Please be gentle with my honored mother. I know you fear for Father, but she is his
Jiwah Ka,
and no doubt her worry is as great as yours.”

Kajivah nodded as if dazed and looked to Inevera, her eyes respectfully down as she nodded. “Apologies, Damajah.”

Inevera wanted to kiss her son.

“But why were you and your brother passed over?” Kajivah asked, regaining something of her resolve.

“Passed over?” Asome asked. “Tikka, Jayan sits the Spear Throne, and I am next in line for the Skull. Asukaji has been made
Damaji
of the Kaji. Your firstborn grandsons are all
kai’Sharum
now, and soon the second sons will take their places as
nie’Damaji.
Thanks to you, the line of Jardir, so close to ending twenty years ago, is set to control all of Krasia for generations.”

Kajivah seemed mollified at that, but pressed still. “But your uncle …”

Asome cupped her chin in his hand much as Inevera had, but instead of touching a pressure point, he laid his thumb on her veil. He touched her lips as gently as a feather, but it silenced Kajivah as effectively as Inevera’s more forceful move.

“The Evejah teaches us all
dama’ting
possess the Sight,” Asome said, “the Damajah most of all. If she has allowed my honored uncle to sit the throne, it is likely because she sees Father returning soon, though of course she cannot speak of such things directly.”

Kajivah glanced at Inevera, a touch of fear in her eyes. The Sight was revered in Krasia, the source of
dama’ting
power. Inevera played along, giving Kajivah a measured stare and the slightest hint of a nod.

Kajivah looked back at Asome. “It is bad fortune to speak of fortune.”

Asome bowed with convincing deference as Kajivah mangled the ancient proverb. “Wisely said, Tikka.” He looked at Inevera. “Perhaps there is something my honored grandmother could do to praise Everam and help pray for Father’s safe return?”

Inevera started, Asome’s words reminding her of the advice her own mother Manvah had given her with regard to the Holy Mother. She nodded. “Waning will be upon us in less than two weeks, and with the Deliverer abroad, morale will be low even as the forces of Nie gather once more. A great feast to give heart to our warriors and join the voices of many as one in beseeching Everam for Ahmann’s victory in his latest trial …”

“A wonderful idea, Damajah,” Melan said, stepping forward. Inevera looked at her old rival, thankful for the support.

“Indeed,” Asome said. “Perhaps the Holy Mother could even give the blessings over the food and drink?”

“I was going to see to it personally …” Inevera lied.

As Manvah had predicted, Kajivah leapt at the bait. “Think on it no more, Honored Damajah. Many are the burdens upon you. Let me lift this one, I beg.”

Indeed, Inevera felt a great burden lifting. “One feast may not be enough, I fear. We may have need of another at Waxing, and on until Sharak Ka is won.”

Kajivah bowed, deeper than Inevera had seen in years. “It would be my great honor to see to it, Damajah.”

“I will ask the Andrah to assign a generous stipend from the treasury for the feasts,” Inevera said, knowing Ashan would be as pleased as her to have the woman out of their hair. He would agree to anything and call it a bargain. “You will need help, of course. Florists and chefs, scribes to prepare invitations …”
People who can read and do sums,
she thought derisively, for of course Kajivah could do neither, even after twenty years of palace life.

“I would be honored to assist the Holy Mother,” Melan said.

“I, too, will assist, as my responsibilities will allow,” Asome said, looking pointedly at Inevera. She had no doubt it was a debt he would one day collect upon, but she would pay it gladly. This was a favor beyond price.

“It is settled, then,” she said, giving Kajivah a nod. “All of Krasia will owe you a debt for this, Holy Mother.”

CHAPTER 6

A MAN IS NOTHING

333 AR AUTUMN

Abban leaned heavily on his crutch as he descended the palace steps, gritting his teeth at each stab of pain in his twisted calf. Knives were being sharpened throughout the court of the Deliverer, but sometimes it felt the palace steps were his greatest challenge each day. He could bear most anything for a profit, but embracing pain for its own sake had never been a skill he’d mastered.

Not for the first time, he regretted his stubborn refusal to let the Damajah heal him. It was wise to remind her she could not bribe him with comforts—especially ones she could as easily take away—but the thought of stairs without pain was an image worth killing for. Still, there was something he had wanted far more, and soon he would have it.

Drillmaster Qeran walked beside him, faring far better on the steps. The drillmaster’s left leg was missing at the knee, replaced with a curved sheet of spring steel. The metal bowed slightly with each step, but easily supported the large man’s weight. Already, Qeran was close to the fighting skill he had once claimed before the injury, and he continued to improve.

Abban’s
kha’Sharum
were not allowed at court, but the drillmaster had trained the Deliverer himself, and his honor was boundless. Even in Abban’s employ, he was welcome most anywhere, including the palace. A useful thing for a bodyguard. Now none was fool enough to harass Abban as he passed.

Earless was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, holding open the door to Abban’s carriage. Two
kha’Sharum
sat the driver’s seat, spears in easy reach, and two more at a high bench at the carriage rear, these armed with Northern crank bows. Qeran sprang easily into the carriage, taking Abban’s crutches as the deaf giant lifted Abban into the carriage as easily as a man might pick up his child, sparing him the dreaded steps.

Too big to comfortably fit inside, Earless closed the door and climbed the first step, holding a handle to ride outside. He knocked on the carriage wall, and the drivers cracked the reins.

“Have the
Damaji
accepted Ashan as Andrah?” Qeran asked.

Abban shrugged. “It is not as if the Damajah gives them a choice, with her displays of power. Ashan is her puppet, and none fool enough to challenge her.”

Qeran nodded. He knew the Damajah well. “The
Sharum
do not like it. They believe the Sharum Ka should have taken his father’s place. They fear a
dama
on the throne will take focus away from
alagai’sharak.
”

“What a tragedy that would be,” Abban said.

Qeran looked at him coldly, not amused. “If Jayan calls, the spears will flock to him. It would be easy for him to put Ashan’s and the
Damaji’s
heads up on spears and take the throne.”

Abban nodded. “And easier still for the Damajah to reduce him to ash. We waste our time, Drillmaster, pondering shifts above our station. We have our duty.”

They arrived at Abban’s compound, a high, thick wall heavily manned with armed
kha’Sharum.
The gates opened before them as the drivers gave the proper signal, revealing the squat, blocky buildings within.

The compound was strong and secure, but Abban was careful—on the surface at least—to give it no quality others might covet. There was no aesthetic to the architecture, no gardens or fountains. The air was thick with the smoke of forges and the sound of ringing hammers. Men labored everywhere, not an idle hand to be seen.

Abban breathed deep of the reeking air and smiled. It was the smell of industry. Of power. Sweeter to him than any flower’s perfume.

A boy scurried up as Earless deposited Abban back on the ground. He bowed deeply. “Master Akas bids me inform you the samples are ready.”

Abban nodded, flipping the boy a small coin. It was a pittance, but the boy’s eyes lit up at the sight. “For swift feet. Inform Master Akas we will join him shortly.”

Akas managed Abban’s forges, one of the most important jobs in the entire compound. He was Abban’s cousin by marriage, and was paid more than most
dama.
One of Abban’s best
kha’Sharum
Watchers lurked in his shadow, ostensibly for his protection, but as much to deter or report anything hinting of treachery.

“Ah, Master, Drillmaster, welcome!” Akas was in his fifties, his bare arms thick with muscle in the way of those who worked the forge. Despite his age and size, he moved with the nervous excitement of a younger man. A
khaffit
like Abban, he was without a beard, though a rough stubble clung to his chin. He stank of sweat and sulfur.

“How is production?” Abban asked.

“The weapons and armor for the Spears of the Deliverer are on schedule,” Akas said, gesturing to pallets piled with spearheads, shields, and armor plates. “Warded glass, indestructible so far as we can determine.”

Abban nodded. “And for my Hundred?” He used the term for the hundred
kha’Sharum
Ahmann had given him, but in truth they were one hundred twenty, with close to a thousand
chi’Sharum
to supplement them. Abban wanted all of them armed and with the best equipment money could buy.

Akas scratched at his stubble. “There have been … delays.”

Qeran crossed his arms with a glower, not even needing a cue from Abban. Akas was a big man, but not fool enough to mistake the gesture. He put up his palms placatingly. “But progress has been made! Come and see!”

He darted over to a group of pallets, these shields and spearheads shining like mirrors. He selected a spearhead and brought it over to a squat, heavy anvil.

“Warded glass,” Akas said, holding up the spearhead, “silvered as you requested to hide its true nature from the casual observer.”

Abban nodded impatiently. This was not news. “Then why the delay?”

“The silvering process weakens the glass,” Akas said. “Watch.”

He put the spearhead on the anvil, holding it in place with banded clamps. Then he took up a long, heavy sledge, the handle three feet long and the head thirty pounds at least. The master smith swung the hammer with practiced smoothness, letting its weight and momentum do more work than his considerable muscles. It came down with a sound that resonated through the forges, but Akas did not stop, putting all his strength behind two more swings.

“A waste to make that man
khaffit,
” Qeran said. “I could have made a great warrior of him.”

Abban nodded. “And had no weapons or armor for him to wield. The sagas may tell tales of cripples working the forge, but it is a strong man’s labor, and not without honor.”

After the third blow, Akas unclamped the spearhead and brought it over for inspection. Abban and Qeran held it to the light, turning it this way and that.

“There,” Qeran said, pointing.

“I see it,” Abban said, staring at the tiny flaw in the glass, near the point of impact.

“Ten more blows like that, and a crack will form,” Akas said. “A dozen, and it will break.”

“Still stronger by far than common steel,” Qeran said. “Any warrior would be lucky to have such a weapon.”

“Perhaps,” Abban said, “but my Hundred are not just any warriors. They have the greatest living drillmaster, the richest patron, and should have equipment to match.”

Qeran grunted. “I’ll not argue, though mirrored shields bring some advantage over clear glass. We used mirrors to herd
alagai
in the Maze. They are easily fooled by their own reflections.”

“That’s something, at least,” Abban said, looking back to Akas. “But you spoke of progress?”

Akas broke into a wide, conspiratorial smile. “I took the liberty of making a set with the new alloy.”

The alloy was electrum, a rare natural mix of silver and gold that was in short supply and valuable beyond imagining. The Deliverer had already confiscated all the known metal for the Damajah’s exclusive use. Abban had secured his own source, and had agents seeking more, but the consequences would be dire if the Damajah caught him hoarding the sacred metal.

“And?” Abban asked.

Akas produced a spearhead and shield from beneath a cloth. Both shone bright as polished mirrors. “As strong as the warded glass, at least. We cannot melt or break either one. But the new alloy lends … other properties.”

Abban kept the twitching smile from his lips. “Do go on.”

“When we charged the equipment, the warriors made some startling discoveries,” Akas said. “The shield did more than block
alagai
blows. It absorbed them. The warrior took a full lash of a rock demon’s tail without shifting his feet an inch.” Qeran looked up sharply at that.

“Once charged, the
alagai
could not even approach the shield for the length of a spear. The warrior had to turn the shield aside just to strike.”

“That is as much a weakness as strength,” Qeran said, “if one must give up protection to strike a blow.”

“Perhaps,” Akas said, “but what a blow! The speartip split the rock demon’s scales as easily as plunging into water. Observe.”

He took the spearhead back to the anvil, using a different clamp to secure it vertically, point down. Again he lifted the sledge and struck hard. There was a great clang, and Abban and Qeran both gaped to see the speartip embedded over an inch into the iron. Again Akas struck, and again, each blow hammering the spearhead in like a nail into wood. On the fourth blow, the anvil split in half.

Qeran moved to the anvil, touching the cracked metal reverently. “The Andrah must hear of this. Every warrior must have one. Sharak Ka will be ours!”

“The Andrah already knows,” Abban lied, “as do the Deliverer and Damajah. On your life and hope of Heaven, Qeran, you will speak of it to no other. Just the thin sliver used in the glass is worth more than a
Damaji’s
palace, and there is not enough to equip even a fraction of our forces.”

Abban’s lips curled in a smile as Qeran’s own fell away. “But that doesn’t mean my drillmaster and his most trusted lieutenants should not have these.”

The drillmaster’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Come, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “If you stand there gaping, we shall be late for our appointment.”

Drillmaster Qeran kept pace with Abban as they strode through the new bazaar, a huge district of Everam’s Bounty determined to recapture—and exceed—the vast glory of the Great Bazaar of Krasia.

Already, there had been great strides. The Northerners had not taken well to Evejan law, but they understood commerce, and there were as many
chin
as there were
dal’ting
and
khaffit
working and shopping in the hundreds of kiosks and stalls lining the streets. To Abban, it felt almost like home, save without the ever-present heat and dust.

Evejan law meant little in the bazaar. For every merchant loudly hawking wares, another was quietly whispering of items and services forbidden by the Evejah, or otherwise prohibited by the
dama.
Gambling. The flesh of pigs. Couzi. Weapons. Books. Relics from before the Return. All could be found in the bazaar if one had money to pay and knew whom and how to ask.

For the most part, this was permitted. Indeed, some of the biggest consumers of illegal goods were the
dama
and
Sharum
themselves, and no one would dare arrest
them.
Women and
khaffit
were less fortunate, and were occasionally condemned and made public examples of by the
dama.

Standing well over six feet tall, armed with spear and shield and Everam only knew how many hidden weapons, Qeran still looked uncomfortable. His eyes flicked everywhere, as if expecting ambush at any moment.

“You seem nervous, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “How is it a man who stands fast before the
alagai
in darkness should fear to walk a street in the brightness of day?”

Qeran spat on the ground. “This place is as much a Maze as any used to trap
alagai
.”

Abban chuckled. “That is so, Drillmaster. The bazaar is made to trap purses instead of demons, but the idea is much the same. Customers are drawn in easily, but find egress more difficult. Streets twist and dead-end, and armies of merchants are ready to pounce on the unwary.”

“It’s easy to know who the enemy is in the Maze,” Qeran said. “Men are brothers in the night, and
alagai
don’t come offering gifts and lies.” He looked around warily, dropping a hand to his purse as if to reassure himself it was there. “Here, everyone is an enemy.”

“Not when you’re with me,” Abban said. “Here, I am Andrah and Sharum Ka both. Even now, people mark us together. Return tomorrow, and they will fall over themselves to find your favor, in hopes that you might bring good word of them to me.”

Qeran spat again. “I have wives to shop the bazaar for me. Let us be about out business and be gone from this place.”

“Soon enough,” Abban said. “You know your part?”

Qeran grunted. “I have been breaking boys and building men from the pieces since before you were born,
khaffit.
Leave it to me.”