Arlen promised they would be cared for, and then found another willing to take them on. He was curious at what might lay under the Krasian women's robes, but not enough to trade his portable circle for a clay building; his freedom for a family.
Following behind almost every woman were several tan-clad children; the girls' hair wrapped, the boys in rag caps. As early as eleven, the girls would begin to marry and take on the black clothes of women, while the boys would be taken to the training grounds. Mostly would take on the black robes of daVSharum. Some few would come to wear the white of dama, and devote their lives to serving Everam. Those who failed at both professions would be khafflt, and wear tan in shame until they died.
The women caught sight of Arlen as he rode through the market, and began whispering to one another excitedly. He watched them, amused, for none would look him in the eye, or approach him. They hungered for the goods in his saddlebags; fine Rizonan wool, Milnese jewels, Angierian paper, and other treasures of the north, but he was a man, and worse, a chin, and they dare not approach. The eyes of the dama were everywhere.
'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 khafflt, unable to stand amongst 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 khafflt, but over that he wore a rich head cloth, vest, and pantaloons of bright silk, stitched in many colours. 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 colourful 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 labouring 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 colourful 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 afterwards. 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, jewellery, 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 Kraisian tribes. They served the Andrah, Everam's most-favoured 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 khafflt, 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 khafflt'
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 my source, of course, but no one has been there in more than 300 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 sai
d, '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 favour 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 towards 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 khafflt 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 i f the dama 'ting can cast their bones and see them in advance.'
'Well, I don't envy the fate you will make if you offend one,' Abban said.
They resumed walking and soon reached the Andrah's palace, an enormous domed structure of white stone that was likely as old as the city itself. Its wards were painted in gold, and glittered in The bright sunlight that fell upon its great spires.
But they had not set foot on the palace steps before a dama came rushing down to them. 'Begone, khafflt!' he shouted.
'So sorry,' Abban apologized, bowing deeply, eyes on the ground, and backed away. Arlen stood his ground.
'I am Arlen, son of Jeph, Messenger from the north, known as Par'chin,'' he said in Krasian. He planted his spear on the ground, and even wrapped, it was clear what it was. 'I bring letters and gifts for the Andrah and his ministers,' Arlen went on, holding up his satchel.
'You keep poor company for one who speaks our tongue, northerner,' the dama said, still scowling at Abban, who grovelled in the dust.
An angry retort came to Arlen's lips, but he bit it back.
'The Par'chin needed directions,' Abban said to the ground, 'I only sought to guide…'
'I did not ask you to speak, khafflt7' the Dama shouted, kicking Abban hard in the side. Arlen's muscles bunched, but a warning glare from his friend kept him in place.
The dama turned back as if nothing had happened. 'I will take your messages,' he said.
'The Duke of Rizon asked that I deliver a gift to the Damaji personally,' Arlen dared.
'Not in this life, will I let a chin and a khafflt enter the palace,' the dama scoffed.
The response was disappointing, but not unexpected. Arlen had never managed to see a Damaji. He handed over his letters and packages, scowling as the dama ascended the steps.
'I am sorry to say I told you so, my friend,' Abban said.
'They've let me in the palace grounds before,' Arlen grumbled.
'It did not help that I was with you,' Abban agreed, 'but I speak true that the Damaji would not suffer an outsider in their presence even if it was the duke of your Rizon himself. You would have been politely asked to wait, and left forgotten on some silk pillow to lose face.'
Arlen gritted his teeth. He had received the exact treatment on his first visit to Krasia. He wondered what Ragen had done in his place. Had his mentor tolerated such handling?
'Now will you sup with me?' Abban asked. 'I have a daughter, just fifteen and beautiful. She would make you a good wife in the north, keeping your home for you while you travel'
What home? Arlen wondered, thinking of the tiny apartment full of books in Fort Angiers that he hadn't been to in over a year. He looked at Abban, knowing his scheming friend was m
ore interested in the trade contacts he could make with a daughter in the north than in her happiness or the upkeep of Arlen's home, in any event.
'You honour me, my friend,' he replied, 'but I'm not ready to quit just yet'
'No, I rather thought not,' Abban sighed. 'I suppose you will go to see him!'
'Yes,' Arlen said.
'He is no more tolerant of my presence than the dama,' Abban warned.
'He knows your value,' Arlen disagreed.
Abban shook his head. 'He tolerates my existence because of you,' he said. The 'Sharum Ka has wanted lessons in the northern tongue ever since you were first allowed into the Maze.'
'And, Abban is the only man in Krasia who knows it,' Arlen said, 'making him valuable to the First Warrior, despite being khafflt.'' Abban bowed, but looked unconvinced.
They headed for the training grounds located not far from the palace. The city's centre was neutral territory for all tribes, where they gathered to worship and prepare for alagai'sharak.
It was late afternoon, and the camp bustled with activity. Arlen and Abban passed first through the workshops of the weaponsmiths and Warders, the only crafts considered worthy of dal'Sharum. Beyond that stood the open grounds, where drillmasters shouted and men trained.
On the far side was the palace of the Sharum Ka and his lieutenants, the kai'Sharum. Second only to the immense palace of the Andrah, this great dome housed the most honoured of all, men who had proven their valour on the battlefield time and time again. Below the palace was said to be a great harem, where they might pass on their brave blood to future generations.
There were stares and muttered curses as Abban limped by on his crutch, but none dared bar their way. Abban was under the protection of the Sharum Ka.
They passed lines of men doing spear forms in lockstep, and others performing the brutal, efficient movements of sharusahk, Krasian hand combat. Warriors practiced marksmanship or threw nets at running spear-boys, honing their skills for the night's coining battle. Deep in the midst of this was a great pavilion, where they found Jardir pouring over plans with one of his men.
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