The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  Already the Sharum were questioning why the Deliverer had not returned to them. There had been no formal announcement, either of the battle itself or of its sudden end. Yet soon word would spread, and the ambitious would seek to exploit her husband’s absence. The cunning had plotted for this day, and would be quick to act once it was clear the search was in vain. The rash might be quicker still.

  It was clear Abban knew this, approaching the pavilion surrounded by his kha’Sharum warriors. The dal’Sharum still sneered at warriors in tan, but the eunuch spies Inevera had sent to Abban’s compound had been found dead, and that spoke volumes for the khaffit warriors’ skill. She had seen, too, the glow of power in their weapons and equipment, carefully disguised with worn leather and paint to hide their fine quality. Not even the elite Spears of the Deliverer, with their shields and spearheads of warded glass, were equipped better.

  You have grown formidable, khaffit. The thought did not please her, but neither did it worry her as it once had. She had not understood weeks ago when the dice told her Abban’s fate was intertwined with her own, but it was clear now. They were Ahmann’s closest, most trusted advisors and, up until a few hours ago, had been untouchable with vast discretionary powers. But with her husband gone, much of that power would evaporate. Inevera would have to work quickly and carefully to install Ashan, but once the reins were passed it would still be his voice, not hers, that led their people. Ashan was not as wise—or as pliable—as Ahmann.

  Abban was in an even worse position. Formidable though his kha’Sharum were, the crippled merchant would be lucky to live another day once his enemies ceased to fear Ahmann’s wrath should he be harmed. Not long ago the thought of his death would have pleased her greatly. Now she needed him. The khaffit knew every last draki in the Deliverer’s treasury, every debt of the throne, every grain in his silos. More, Ahmann trusted him with schemes and secrets he did not even share with the Damaji. Troop movements. Battle plans. Targets.

  The fat khaffit’s smile as he limped into her audience chamber showed he knew her need, Everam damn him.

  At Abban’s back was the giant kha’Sharum bodyguard that had become his shadow in recent weeks. The deaf man who had been one of the first to answer the Deliverer’s call. He had given up his weapons to enter, but seemed no less formidable as he loomed over the khaffit’s shoulder. Abban was not a short man, even stooping to lean on his crutch, but his bodyguard stood head and shoulders above him.

  “I commanded we meet in private, khaffit,” Inevera said.

  Abban bowed as deeply as his camel-topped crutch allowed. “Apologies, Damajah, but the dal’Sharum no longer have Ahmann to hold their leash. Surely you will not deny me a modicum of security? Earless is deaf as a stone, and will hear nothing of our words.”

  “Even a deaf man may hear,” Inevera said, “if he has eyes to watch a speaker’s mouth.”

  Abban bowed again. “This is so, though of course the Damajah’s veil prevents this, even if my humble servant had learned the art, which I swear by Everam he has not.”

  Inevera believed him—a rare occurrence. Her own eunuch guards had given up their tongues to protect her secrets, and she knew Abban would value a man who could not overhear and be made to betray his many intrigues. Still, it was best not to yield too much.

  “He may guard the door,” Inevera said, turning to saunter to the pillows on the far side of the chamber with a swing to her hips. Abban had never dared ogle her before, but she wondered if he might now, with Ahmann gone. That would be something she could use. She glanced over her shoulder, but Abban was not looking. He made a few quick gestures to the giant, who moved with a silent grace that belied his great size to stand by the door.

  Abban limped over, easing himself carefully down onto the pillows across from her. He kept his inviting smile in place, but a flick of his eyes at his bodyguard betrayed his fears. He knew Inevera could kill him long before the giant could cross the room, and even Earless would fear to strike the Damajah. She could kill the kha’Sharum as well, in any of a hundred ways—not the least of which was a whisk of her fingers to her own bodyguards, Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah, hidden just out of sight.

  There was a silver tea service between them, the pot still steaming. At a nod from her, the khaffit poured and served.

  “You honor me with your summons, Damajah.” Abban sat back with his cup. “May I ask the reason why?”

  “To offer you protection, of course,” Inevera said.

  Abban looked sincerely surprised, though of course it was an act. “Since when does the Damajah place such value upon poor, honorless Abban?”

  “My husband values you,” Inevera said, “and will be wroth if you are dead upon his return. You would be wise to accept my help. The dice tell me your life will be short indeed without it. My sons hate you even more than the Damaji, and that is a very great deal. And do not think Hasik has forgotten who cut his manhood away.”

  Inevera had expected the words to rattle the khaffit. She had seem his cowardice reveal itself in the face of danger before. But this was the bargaining table, and Abban knew it.

  He has a coward’s heart, Ahmann once told her, but there is steel in Abban to put Sharum to shame, when the haggling has begun.

  Abban smiled and nodded. “It is so, Damajah. But things are no less dire for you. How long will the Damaji let you sit atop the seven steps without your husband? A woman sitting above them is an insult they have never borne well.”

  Inevera felt her jaw begin to tighten. How long since any save her husband had dared speak to her thus? And from a khaffit. She wanted to break his other leg.

  But for all the audacity, his words were true enough, so Inevera let them pass over her like wind.

  “All the more reason we must ally,” she said. “We must find a way to trust, as Ahmann commanded, or both of us may walk the lonely path before long.”

  “What are you asking?” Abban said.

  “You will report to me as you did to my husband,” Inevera said. “Bring your tallies and schemes to me before they are presented to the council of Damaji.”

  Abban raised an eyebrow. “And in return?”

  Inevera smiled, visible through the gossamer lavender veil she wore. “As I said, protection.”

  Abban chuckled. “You’ll forgive me, Damajah, but you have fewer warriors at your command than I, and still not enough to protect me should one of the Damaji or your sons decide to be rid of me at last.”

  “I have fear,” Inevera said. “My sons fear me. The Damaji fear me.”

  “They feared you, yes,” Abban agreed, “but how much of that fear will last when a new backside sits the Skull Throne? Absolute power has a way of emboldening a man.”

  “No power is absolute save that of Everam.” Inevera held up her dice. “With Ahmann gone, I am His voice on Ala.”

  “That, and three draki, will buy you a basket,” Abban said.

  The phrase was a common one in Krasia, but it put Inevera on edge nevertheless. Her mother was a basket weaver with a successful business in the bazaar. No doubt Abban—who controlled half the commerce in Everam’s Bounty—had dealings with her, but Inevera had worked tirelessly to ensure her family remained safely anonymous, out of the politics and intrigues that ruled her world.

  Were they just words, or a subtle threat? Useful or not, Inevera would not hesitate to kill Abban to protect her family.

  Again, Inevera wished she could see into the hearts of men and women as her husband did. The thick canvas walls of the pavilion let her see the khaffit’s aura, albeit dimly, but the subtle variations and patterns of shifting color that Ahmann read as easily as words on a page were a mystery to her.

  “I think you’ll find my words carry more weight than you think,” Inevera said.

  “If you secure your position,” Abban agreed. “We are discussing why I should help you do that. Not every man in the Deliverer’s court is a complete fool, Damajah. I may never enjoy the power I did with Ahmann, but I
could still find protection and profit if I side with another.”

  “I will grant you a permanent position at court,” Inevera said. “To witness firsthand every dealing you can twist into a way to fill your greedy pockets.”

  “Better,” Abban said, “but I have spies throughout the Deliverer’s court. More than even you can root out.”

  “Do not be so sure,” Inevera said. “But very well. I will offer something even you cannot refuse.”

  “Oh?” Abban seemed amused at the thought. “In the bazaar, those words are a threat, but I think you will find I am not so easily bullied as I may appear.”

  “No threats,” Inevera said. “No bullying.” She smiled. “At least not for coercion. They will be a promise, should you break our pact.”

  Abban grinned. “You have my fullest attention. What does the Damajah think my heart desires above all?”

  “Your leg,” Inevera said.

  “Eh?” Abban started.

  “I can heal your leg,” Inevera said. “Right now, if you wish. A simple matter. You could throw your crutch on the fire and walk out on two firm feet.” She winked at him. “Though if I know sly Abban, you would limp out the way you came, and never let any know until there was profit in doing so.”

  A doubtful look crossed the khaffit’s face. “If such a simple matter, why didn’t the dama’ting heal me when it was first shattered? Why cost the Kaji a warrior by leaving me lame?”

  “Because healing is the costliest of hora magics,” Inevera said. “At the time we did not have warded weapons to bring us an endless supply of alagai bones to power our spells. Even now, they must be rendered and treated, a difficult process.” She circled a finger around her teacup. “We cast the dice for you, all those years ago, to see if it was worth the price. Do you know what they said?”

  Abban sighed. “That I was no warrior, and would provide little return on the investment.”

  Inevera nodded.

  Abban shook his head, disappointed but unsurprised. “It is true you have found something I want. I do not deny this is something my heart has longed for.”

  “Then you accept?” Inevera asked.

  Abban drew a deep breath as if to speak, but held it instead. After a moment, he blew it out, seeming to deflate as he did. “My father used to say, Love nothing so much you cannot leave it at the bargaining table. I know enough of the ancient tales to know that magic always has its price, and that price is ever higher than it appears. I have leaned on my crutch for twenty-five years. It is a part of me. Thank you for your offer, but I fear I must refuse.”

  Inevera was becoming vexed and saw no reason to hide it. “You try my patience, khaffit. If there is something you want, be out with it.”

  The triumphant smile that came over Abban’s face made it clear this was the moment he had been waiting for. “A few simple things only, Damajah.”

  Inevera chuckled. “I have learned nothing is simple where you are concerned.”

  Abban inclined his head. “From you, that means everything. First, the protection you offer must extend to my agents, as well.”

  Inevera nodded. “Of course. So long as they are not working counter to my interests, or caught in an unforgivable crime against Everam.”

  “And it must include protection from you,” Abban went on.

  “I am to protect you from myself?” Inevera asked.

  “If we are to work together,” Inevera noticed he did not say that he would work for her, “then I must be free to speak my mind without fearing for my life. Even when it is not things you wish to hear. Especially then.”

  She will tell you truths you do not wish to hear, the dice had once told Inevera of her mother. There was value in an advisor like that. In truth, there was little value in any other kind.

  “Done,” she said, “but if I choose not to act on your advice, you will support my decisions in any event.”

  “The Damajah is wise,” Abban said. “I trust she would not act wastefully once I have given her the costs.”

  “Is that all?” Inevera asked, knowing it was not.

  Abban chuckled again, refilling their teacups. He took a flask from the inner pocket of his vest and added a splash of couzi to the drink. It was a test, Inevera knew, for the drink was forbidden by the Evejah. She ignored the move. She hated couzi, thought it made men weak and foolhardy, but thousands of her people smuggled the tiny bottles under their robes.

  Abban sipped at his drink. “At times I may have questions.” His eyes flicked to the hora pouch at her waist. “Questions only your dice can answer.”

  Inevera clutched the pouch protectively. “The alagai hora are not for the questions of men, khaffit.”

  “Did not Ahmann pose questions to them daily?” Abban asked.

  “Ahmann was the Deliverer …” Inevera caught herself, “… is the Deliverer. The dice are not toys to fill your pockets with gold.”

  Abban bowed. “I am aware of that, Damajah, and assure you I will not call upon you to throw them frivolously. But if you want my loyalty, that is my price.”

  Inevera sat back, considering. “You said yourself magic always comes with a price. The dice, too, can speak truths we do not wish to hear.”

  “What other truth has value?” Abban asked.

  “One question,” Inevera said.

  “Ten, at least,” Abban said.

  Inevera shook her head. “Ten is more than a Damaji has in a year, khaffit. Two.”

  “Two isn’t enough for what you ask of me, Damajah,” Abban said. “I could perhaps manage with half a dozen …”

  “Four,” Inevera said. “But I will hold you to your word not to use this gift frivolously. Waste the wisdom of Everam with petty greed and rivalries, and every answer will cost you a finger.”

  “Oh, Damajah,” Abban said, “my greed is never petty.”

  “Is that all?” Inevera asked.

  Abban shook his head. “No, Damajah, there is one more thing.”

  Inevera brought the scowl back to her face. It was art, but easy enough. The khaffit could try even her temper. “This bargain is beginning to outgrow your worth, Abban. Spit it out and have done.”

  Abban bowed. “My sons. I want them stripped of the black.”

  There was commotion in the Krasian camp when Abban limped away from the audience. Inevera caught sight of Ashan striding toward her rapidly.

  “What has happened?” Inevera asked.

  Ashan bowed. “Your son, Damajah. Jayan has told the warriors his father has disappeared. The Sharum Ka acts as if it is foregone conclusion that he will sit the Skull Throne on our return.”

  Inevera breathed, finding her center. This was expected, though she had hoped for more time.

  “Bid the Sharum Ka to lead the search for his lost father personally, and leave a handful of warriors to maintain a camp. The rest of us must ride for Everam’s Bounty with all haste. Leave behind anything that may slow us.”

  They pressed for home as fast as the animals would allow. Inevera sent Sharum to kill alagai as soon as the sun set and used their power-rich ichor to paint wards of stamina on the horses and camels to strengthen them enough to continue on in the night.

  It was a risk, using hora magic so openly. The quick-minded might glean some of the mysteries the dama’ting had guarded for centuries, but it could not be helped. The dice advised she return as quickly as possible—and warned it might not be fast enough.

  There were countless divergences over the coming days, a struggle that threatened to rend the fragile peace Ahmann had forged among the tribes and cast them back into chaos. How many feuds had been set aside on the Deliverer’s order, but still nursed in the hearts of families that had stolen wells and blooded one another for generations?

  Despite her precautions, Jayan and the Spears of the Deliverer reached Everam’s Bounty before them. The fool boy must have given up the search early and ridden cross-country with his warriors, pushing their powerful mustang to their limits and beyond. Her
trick with the ichor to strengthen the animals could be replicated by warriors who killed demons in the night, the wards on their spears and the steel-shod hooves of their mounts absorbing power even as they turned the alagai’s strength back on them.

  “Mother!” Jayan cried in shock, turning to see Inevera, Ashan, Aleverak, and Asome storm into the throne room where he had gathered the remaining Damaji and his most trusted lieutenants.

  Inevera’s group was followed by the twelve Damaji’ting, Qeva of the Kaji and Ahmann’s eleven wives from the other tribes. All were loyal to Inevera and her alone. Ashan was shadowed by his powerful lieutenants, Damas Halvan and Shevali, all three of whom had studied with the Deliverer in Sharik Hora. Ashan’s son Asukaji, speaking for the Kaji in his absence, waited with the other Damaji.

  Abban limped into the throne room as fast as his crutch would allow, practically unnoticed in the commotion. He slipped quietly into a dark alcove with his bodyguard to observe.

  It was good that she had pushed her entourage. Jayan had clearly expected more time to rally the Damaji to his favor. He had barely been in the Bounty a few hours, and had not yet had the audacity to climb the seven steps to sit the Skull Throne.

  It would not have been claim enough if he had, with the Deliverer’s inner council and the most powerful Damaji absent, but he would have been far more difficult to unseat without open violence. Inevera loved her son for all his faults, but she would not have hesitated to kill him if he’d dared such a blatant grab at power. Ahmann had curtained off the great windows of the throne room that he might use his crownsight and give Inevera access to her hora magic in the day. The electrum-coated forearm of a mind demon hung from her belt, warm with pent energy.

  “Thank you for gathering the Damaji for me, my son,” Inevera said, striding right past his gaping face to ascend the steps and take her customary place on the bed of pillows beside the Skull Throne. Even from a few feet away, the great chair throbbed—perhaps the most powerful magic item in existence. Below, the holy men and women assembled as they had for centuries, the Damaji to the right of the throne, and the Damaji’ting to the left. She breathed a bit of relief that they had arrived in time, though she knew the coming struggle was far from over.