The Warded Man (38 page)

“Par’chin!” a familiar voice called, and Arlen turned to see his friend Abban approach, the fat merchant limping and leaning heavily on his crutch.

Lame since childhood, Abban was
khaffit
, unable to stand among the warriors and unworthy to be a Holy Man. He had done well for himself, though, doing trade with Messengers from the North. He was clean-shaven, and wore the tan cap and shirt of
khaffit
, but over that he wore a rich headcloth, vest, and pantaloons of bright silk, stitched in many colors. He claimed his wives were as beautiful as those of any
dal’Sharum
.

“By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!” Abban called in flawless Thesan, slapping Arlen on the shoulder. “The sun always shines brighter when you grace our city!”

Arlen wished he had never told the merchant his father’s name. In Krasia, the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own. He wondered what they would think if they knew his father was a coward.

But he clapped Abban on the shoulder in return, his smile genuine. “And you, my friend,” he said. He would never have mastered the Krasian tongue, or learned to navigate its strange and often dangerous culture, without the lame merchant’s aid.

“Come, come!” Abban said. “Rest your feet in my shade and wash the dust from your throat with my water!” He led Arlen to a bright and colorful tent pitched behind his carts in the bazaar. He clapped his hands, and his wives and daughters—Arlen could never tell the difference—scurried to open the flaps and tend to Dawn Runner. Arlen had to force himself not to help as they took the heavily laden saddlebags and carried them into the tent, knowing that the Krasians found the sight of a man laboring unseemly. One of the women reached for the warded spear, wrapped in cloth and slung from his saddle horn, but Arlen snatched it away before she could touch it. She bowed deeply, afraid she had given some insult.

The inside of the tent was filled with colorful silk pillows and intricately woven carpets. Arlen left his dusty boots by the flap and breathed deeply of the cool, scented air. He eased down onto the pillows on the floor as Abban’s women knelt before him with water and fruit.

When he was refreshed, Abban clapped his hands, and the women brought them tea and honeyed pastries. “Your trip through the desert passed well?” Abban asked.

“Oh, yes.” Arlen smiled. “Very well indeed.”

They made small talk for some time afterward. Abban never failed in this formality, but his eyes kept flicking to Arlen’s saddlebags, and he rubbed his hands together absently.

“To business then?” Arlen asked as soon as he judged it polite.

“Of course, the Par’chin is a busy man,” Abban agreed, snapping his fingers. The women quickly brought out an array of spices, perfume, silks, jewelry, rugs, and other Krasian craft.

Abban examined the goods from Arlen’s clients in the North while Arlen perused the items proposed for trade. Abban found fault with everything, scowling. “You crossed the desert just to trade this lot?” he asked in disgust when he was done. “It hardly seems worth the trip.”

Arlen hid his grin as they sat and were served fresh tea. Bidding always started this way.

“Nonsense,” he replied. “A blind man could see I have brought some of the finest treasures Thesa has to offer. Better by far than the sorry goods your women have brought before me. I hope you have more hidden away, because”—he fingered one carpet, a masterwork of weaving—“I’ve seen better carpets rotting in ruins.”

“You wound me!” Abban cried. “I, who give you water and shade! Woe am I, that a guest in my tent should treat me so!” he lamented. “My wives worked the loom day and night to make that, using only the finest wool! A better carpet you will never see!”

After that, it was only a matter of haggling, and Arlen had not forgotten the lessons learned watching old Hog and Ragen a lifetime ago. As always, the session ended with both men acting as if they had been robbed, but inwardly feeling they had gotten the better of the other.

“My daughters will pack up your goods and hold them for your departure,” Abban said at last. “Will you sup with us tonight? My wives prepare a table none in your North can match!”

Arlen shook his head regretfully. “I go to fight tonight,” he said.

Abban shook his head. “I fear you have learned our ways too well, Par’chin. You seek the same death.”

Arlen shook his head. “I have no intent to die, and expect no paradise in the next life.”

“Ah, my friend, no one intends to go to Everam in the flower of their youth, but that is the fate that awaits those who go to
alagai’sharak
. I can recall a time when there were as many of us as there are grains of sand in the desert, but now …” He shook his head sadly. “The city is practically empty. We keep the bellies of our wives fat with children, but still more die in the night than are born in the day. If we don’t change our ways, a decade from now Krasia will be consumed by the sand.”

“What if I told you I had come to change that?” Arlen asked.

“The son of Jeph’s heart is true,” Abban said, “but the
Damaji
will not listen to you. Everam demands war, they say, and no
chin
is going to change their minds.” The
Damaji
were the city’s ruling council, made up of the highest-ranked
dama
of each of the twelve Krasian tribes. They served the Andrah, Everam’s most-favored
dama
, whose word was absolute.

Arlen smiled. “I can’t turn them from
alagai’sharak,”
he agreed, “but I can help them win it.” He uncovered his spear and held it out to Abban.

Abban’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the magnificent weapon, but he raised his palm and shook his head. “I am
khaffit
, Par’chin. The spear is forbidden to my unclean touch.”

Arlen drew the weapon back and bowed low in apology. “I meant no offense,” he said.

“Ha!” Abban laughed. “You may be the only man ever to bow to me! Even the Par’chin need not fear offending
khaffit.”

Arlen scowled. “You are a man like any other,” he said.

“With that attitude, you will ever be
chin,”
Abban said, but he smiled. “You’re not the first man to ward a spear,” he said. “Without the combat wards of old, it makes no difference.”

“They
are
the wards of old,” Arlen said. “I found this in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

Abban blanched. “You found the lost city?” he asked. “The map was accurate?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Arlen asked. “I thought you said it was guaranteed!”

Abban coughed. “Yes, well,” he said, “I trusted our source, of course, but no one has been there in more than three hundred years. Who is to say how accurate the map was?” He smiled. “Besides, it’s not like you were likely to come back for a refund if I was wrong.” They both laughed.

“By Everam, it is a fine tale, Par’chin,” Abban said when Arlen finished describing his adventure in the lost city, “but if you value your life, you will not tell the
Damaji
that you looted the holy city of Anoch Sun.”

“I won’t,” Arlen promised, “but surely they will see the value in the spear, regardless.”

Abban shook his head. “Even if they agree to grant you audience, Par’chin,” he said, “and I doubt they will, they will refuse to see value in anything a
chin
brings them.”

“You may be right,” Arlen said, “but I should at least try. I have messages to deliver to the Andrah’s palace, anyway. Walk with me.”

Abban held up his crutch. “It is a long way to the palace, Par’chin,” he said.

“I’ll walk slowly,” Arlen said, knowing the crutch had nothing to do with the refusal.

“You don’t want to be seen with me outside the market, my friend,” Abban warned. “That alone may cost you the respect you’ve earned in the Maze.”

“Then I’ll earn more,” Arlen said. “What good is respect, if I can’t walk with my friend?”

Abban bowed deeply. “One day,” he said, “I wish to see the land that makes noble men like the son of Jeph.”

Arlen smiled. “When that day comes, Abban, I will take you across the desert myself.”

Abban grabbed Arlen’s arm. “Stop walking,” he ordered.

Arlen obeyed, trusting in his friend though he saw nothing amiss. Women walked the street carrying heavy loads, and a group of
dal’Sharum
walked ahead of them. Another group was approaching from the other direction. Each was led by a
dama
in white robes.

“Kaji tribe,” Abban said, pointing with his chin at the warriors ahead of them. “The others are Majah. It would be best for us to wait here a bit.”

Arlen squinted at the two groups. Both were clad in the same black, and their spears were simple and unadorned. “How can you tell the difference?” he asked.

Abban shrugged. “How can you not?” he replied.

As they watched, one of the
dama
called something to the other. They faced off, and began to argue. “What do you suppose they’re arguing about?” Arlen asked.

“Always the same thing,” Abban said. “The Kaji
dama
believe sand demons reside on the third layer of Hell, and wind demons on the fourth. The Majah say the opposite. The Evejah is vague on the point,” he added, referring to the Krasian holy canon.

“What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.

“Those on the lower levels are furthest from Everam’s sight,” Abban said, “and should be killed first.”

The
dama
were screaming now, and the
dal’Sharum
on either side were clenching their spears in rage, ready to defend their leaders.

“They’ll fight one another over which demons to kill first?” Arlen asked, incredulous.

Abban spat in the dust. “The Kaji will fight the Majah over far less, Par’chin.”

“But there will be real enemies to fight once the sun sets!” Arlen protested.

Abban nodded. “And when it does, the Kaji and Majah will stand united,” he said. “As we say, ‘By night, my enemy becomes my brother.’ But sunset is still hours away.”

One of the Kaji
dal’Sharum
struck a Majah warrior across the face with the butt of his spear, knocking the man down. In seconds, all the warriors on each side were locked in combat. Their
dama
stood off to the side, unconcerned by and uninvolved in the violence, continuing to shout at one another.

“Why is this tolerated?” Arlen asked. “Can’t the Andrah forbid it?”

Abban shook his head. “The Andrah is supposed to be of all tribes and none, but in truth, he will always favor the tribe he was raised from. And even if he didn’t, not even he can end every blood feud in Krasia. You can’t forbid men from being men.”

“They’re acting more like children,” Arlen said.

“The
dal’Sharum
know only the spear, and the
dama
the Evejah,” Abban agreed sadly.

The men were not using the points of their weapons … yet, but the violence was escalating quickly. If someone did not intervene, there would surely be death.

“Don’t even think about it,” Abban said, gripping Arlen’s arm as he started forward.

Arlen turned to argue, but his friend, looking over his shoulder, gasped and fell to one knee. He yanked on Arlen’s arm to do the same.

“Kneel, if you value your hide,” he hissed.

Arlen looked around, spotting the source of Abban’s fear. A woman walked down the road, swathed in holy white.
“Dama’ting”
he murmured. The mysterious Herb Gatherers of Krasia were seldom seen.

He cast his eyes down as she passed, but did not kneel. It made no difference; she took no notice of either of them, proceeding serenely toward the melee, unnoticed until she was almost upon the men. The
dama
blanched when they saw her, shouting something to their men. At once, the fighting stopped, and the warriors fell over themselves to clear a path for the
dama’ting
to pass. The warriors and
dama
quickly dispersed in her wake, and traffic on the road resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Are you brave, Par’chin, or mad?” Abban asked, when she was gone.

“Since when do men kneel to women?” Arlen asked, perplexed.

“Men don’t kneel to
dama’ting
, but
khaffit
and
chin
do, if they are wise,” Abban said. “Even the
dama
and
dal’Sharum
fear them. It is said they see the future, knowing which men will live through the night and which will die.”

Arlen shrugged. “So what if they do?” he asked, clearly doubtful. A
dama’ting
had cast his fortune the first night he had gone into the Maze, but there had been nothing about the experience to make him believe she could actually see the future.

“To offend a
dama’ting
is to offend fate,” Abban said as if Arlen were a fool.

Arlen shook his head. “We make our own fates,” he said, “even if the
dama’ting
can cast their bones and see them in advance.”