The Core

by Peter V. Brett

  “You do not think the Majah have a right to their anger?” Ashia asked.

  Qeran shrugged. “Murder is the dama way. They call us savages, but Sharum advance in rank when our superiors die on alagai talons, not when we kill them. But that is no excuse for Aleveran to steal supply and warriors from the Deliverer’s army when Sharak Ka has begun, slinking back like cowards to hide behind the walls of the Desert Spear.”

  Hold nothing back.

  “Asome tried to murder me, too, Drillmaster,” Ashia said. “His own wife. The mother of his son. When Asome moved for the throne, Asukaji threw a garrote around my neck. As he did, Dama’ting Melan and Asavi joined forces in an attempt to kill the Damajah.”

  “Who could no more be killed by lesser fools than Aleverak.” Ashia’s words seemed to shake the drillmaster for the first time in their encounter. “Perhaps it is best, then, that Prince Asome’s eyes are turned away from Everam’s Reservoir. Has the Damajah sent you and Kaji to succor here?”

  Ashia shook her head. “I am seeking the khaffit.”

  Qeran did not need to ask who Ashia meant. “I cannot help you there, Princess. I have held hope that my master is alive, but there has been no word since the Battle of Angiers. The son of Chabin is resourceful. If there was a way to get word to me, he would have done it by now.”

  “Perhaps he has,” Ashia said. “Everam informed the Damajah that Abban is alive, in the hands of the Eunuch.”

  “Hasik.” Qeran balled a fist. “I should have broken that mad dog’s skull while he was still a pup in sharaj.”

  “Tell me about his defenses,” Ashia said.

  “He will be difficult to dislodge,” Qeran said. “The Eunuch Monastery is built on a high outcropping over the water, with sheer cliff on three sides and a Laktonian blockade out on the water. Only by the main road can any sizable force approach. It is narrow, with bridges the defenders can collapse, and ambush points where they can attack invaders from cover.”

  “Does he control the land around this stronghold?” Ashia asked.

  Qeran shrugged. “He has scouts throughout the wetlands, but when not out on raids, his men only patrol a perimeter half a day’s ride out, returning at sunset.”

  “They are not active at night?” Ashia asked.

  Qeran spat. “The Eunuchs have abandoned alagai’sharak. Demons cluster thick in their lands, and the fools do nothing.”

  He sighed. “A lot of good warriors will be lost to rescue one khaffit.”

  “You will not be rescuing him,” Ashia said.

  Qeran’s eyes went cold. “Do not mistake my demeanor, Princess. You are not in command here. The Deliverer himself named Abban my master, and I have an oath to protect him. While I breathe, I must put the safe return of Abban asu Chabin am’Haman am’Kaji above my own life, above all things short of Sharak Ka. Neither you nor the Damajah is going to stop me.”

  There was a threat to the words, and Ashia tensed slightly, ready to react should he renew their battle. “You noted yourself that an assault on the monastery would cost the Deliverer’s army countless warriors. The Damajah has foreseen this as well, and sent me as an alternative. I will infiltrate Hasik’s stronghold and find a way to secure the khaffit’s release.”

  Qeran looked doubtful. “Your sharusahk is gifted, girl, but I see through the theatricality. You cannot walk through walls any more than my own Watchers, especially with a babe on your back.”

  “The Damajah has gifted me with magics,” Ashia said. “No Watcher can be as silent as I can be. As invisible. As strong. As fast. Kaji can scream his loudest, and those inches away will only hear it if I will it so. Sheer walls are as broad steps to my hands and feet.”

  “Even so,” Qeran said. “By all accounts, Hasik has over a thousand men—tortured, mutilated, and sadistic. You would take your son, the heir to the Skull Throne, into such a place?”

  “We must walk the edge of the abyss together, if Sharak Ka is to be won,” Ashia said. “The Damajah has foreseen it. The alagai are readying to mount a new offensive. We need no more red blood spilled.”

  “Red blood will spill in any event,” Qeran said, “without reinforcements from Everam’s Bounty.”

  “Your guard is light,” Ashia agreed. “But the foe will come from the lake, will they not? Your ships have command of the water.”

  “For now,” Qeran said. “We smashed their fleet, and my privateers have harried their attempts to resupply. They are half starved, but still have more boats in reserve. They know Prince Jayan’s army was shattered, know we are vulnerable. They will attack. Soon.”

  “How are their spies getting through, if you patrol the lakeshore?” Ashia asked.

  Qeran laughed. “There are hundreds of miles of shoreline, Princess! This is not some oasis you can see across on a clear day. In the deep, there is no sign of land in any direction.”

  Ashia shuddered at the thought of so much water. How could something so sacred as water make her feel such fear?

  “And the Laktonians have a turncoat spy,” Qeran said.

  “Tell me about him.” Ashia could already guess what he would say.

  “Barely more than a boy,” Qeran said. “Small for a warrior, but not so much as to draw attention. Moved like a desert hare, impossibly fast.”

  “But not faster than you.” Ashia nodded at Qeran’s metal leg.

  “It was a near thing,” Qeran said. “He moved into a fierce attack when I drew close. Basic sharukin, but his speed and strength made him formidable, nonetheless. Lack of formal training makes him…unpredictable.”

  “He didn’t defeat you.” Ashia felt a tinge of doubt.

  “In a manner of speaking.” Qeran did not look pleased to admit it. “He wasn’t fighting to win, only to distract long enough to resume running. He dove into demon-infested water and swam to a Laktonian vessel.”

  “Did you notice anything else, when you were in close?”

  “He stank,” Qeran said. “Like the poultices dama’ting place on alagai wounds. His skin was light, and his features muted. There was a Sharum deserter living in one of the hamlets north of here. Relan am’Damaj am’Kaji. He died with his family in a fire more than a decade ago, but there is rumor that one son survived.”

  Damaj. The name sent a tingle down Ashia’s spine. The Damajah’s family name.

  He is the lost cousin.

  Qeran went to his desk and took a sheet of paper from atop a pile, handing it to Ashia. The poster offered a hundred thousand draki for the living spy, and ten thousand for just his head. Below was stamped an artist’s approximation of his face, a fair likeness to the boy she’d met on the road.

  “All the more reason not to deplete your men further.” Ashia folded the paper and put it in her robe. “How far north is this monastery?”

  “Nearly a week’s ride, through difficult terrain,” Qeran said. “The road is watched, and the wetlands are thick with muck that can break a warrior’s ankle as easily as their mount’s. The bogs have their own alagai. Their spit is not as impressive as a flame demon’s, but it burns and paralyzes. Many of our wetland spies, even trained Watchers, do not return.”

  “I will manage,” Ashia said. “Can you provide me with a map?”

  “I can do better,” Qeran said. “My flagships are too visible, but after nightfall I can secrete you aboard a smaller, more inconspicuous vessel and sail you under cover of darkness out of the harbor. They can set you ashore just outside Hasik’s patrol range.”

  “Thank you, Drillmaster, that is most helpful,” Ashia said.

  “Have you ever been on a boat before?” Qeran asked.

  “On the oasis in the Desert Spear.” Ashia’s eyes flicked down. “Once.”

  “Your Hannu Pash celebration,” Qeran nodded. “I was there. Until last year, it was my only time on a boat as well.”

  He leaned in. “This lake is nothing like the oasis. The water comes in waves that keep boats in constant motion. I have seen it churn the stomachs of Sharum and
dama alike, leaving great men emptying their stomachs over the rail.”

  “My master taught me to endure worse,” Ashia said.

  Qeran nodded. “Perhaps. You will be given the captain’s quarters. Only he will know of your presence, and nothing of your identity. A spy, I will tell him. He will not question it. Keep to your cabin and the crew will not even know you are there. We cannot risk an encounter with the blockade ships, so they will put you ashore some distance south of the monastery.”

  “That will allow me to scout the area,” Ashia said, “and build safe warrens to hide from alagai and pursuit.”

  “Pursuit?” Qeran quirked his lips. “I thought you could walk up walls, silent as a shadow.”

  “On the way in, perhaps,” Ashia said. “On the way out, I will be hauling a fat, crippled khaffit with me.”

  Qeran chuckled. “A weight I know well.”

  —

  An hour before dawn, Briar watched the strange woman pause outside Docktown to reapply her disguise.

  It was curious. Briar thought it a ploy to fool greenlanders, but it seemed it was for her own people as well.

  He veered from the road to get ahead of her, finding one of the numerous streams this close to the water. He stripped off his clothes, folding them into a tight bundle and stowing it in a compartment of his satchel. He rolled away the filthy wraps on his hands, staring at the wards on his palms. Impact. Pressure. Spear and shield to the Wardskins.

  Was that his tribe now? Or was it Elissa and Ragen? Lakton? The Hollow? His father’s people? Pulled in so many directions, Briar was losing sense of who he was.

  But for now, he could put all that aside. For now, there was a mystery.

  He waded into a cold pool, breathing in the discomfort until his body acclimated. He used a bar of soap, scrubbing off sticky hogroot sap and the dirt that clung to it. When he was finished, he drew a clean set of dal’Sharum blacks from his satchel and changed.

  He smelled of hogroot, even now. He ate so much of it the scent was on his breath, in his sweat, even his saliva. But the clean robes were thick enough to mask it.

  A bazaar had been built on the edge of Docktown, and Briar knew it well. He was perusing the bread carts as she came down the road, a simple Sharum among many, finding a morning meal.

  The spy blended as easily as he, just an older woman carting a child on her morning shopping. She chatted amiably with the dal’ting vendors, casual questions and leading statements that quickly informed her about the town and the Laktonian resistance.

  Briar shook his head. He had never been good at that part of scouting. He preferred to lurk unseen and listen.

  She moved unhurried from the bazaar to the town proper, flitting seemingly at random from shop to vendor, but it was obvious to Briar she was headed for the docks, and it was easy to get ahead of her.

  Briar knew the docks as well as his Briarpatch, but there was something different, this time. Posters with a drawing of his face hung at the entrance to every pier, offering unfathomable wealth to whomever should catch him.

  It was a kind of glory, seeing his face everywhere. Captain Dehlia papered the walls of her cabin on Sharum’s Lament with waxed copies of her wanted posters. She squealed with delight whenever one of her raids netted a fresh one with the bounty raised.

  Their hatred is like meat to me, Briar, she said of it. Let them lament they cannot catch me.

  But Briar took no pleasure in being hated. Making a difference for his mother’s people meant betraying his father’s. He might have relatives in this very town, and it did not fill him with pride that they would know of him only as a traitor.

  Still, he pulled down one of the signs and stowed it in his robe as he followed the woman toward the far pier. She was heading for Tan Spear. Captain Qeran’s ship.

  Briar swallowed his first real sense of fear since entering the town. Captain Qeran terrified Briar, on the lake and off. If a more dangerous man existed, Briar did not know of him.

  Rather than answer questions, this added more. Was the woman an elite spy sent from Krasia to serve Captain Qeran? She would be underestimated by the greenlanders, as well. Given time, she could get close enough to kill almost anyone.

  But those very same skills might be used in a more immediate way, to eliminate Qeran and open a path for new leadership.

  Briar slipped under an abandoned pier and stripped off his clothes, stowing his spear, shield, and satchel out of sight before slipping into the water. He swam with smooth, efficient strokes, passing right under the noses of the guards patrolling the beach and flagship pier. Even Sharum sailors couldn’t swim. Most of them avoided even looking at the waves for too long.

  The spy was still waiting for permission to come aboard when Briar climbed the anchor rope in the shadow of the great vessel. Captain Dehlia had taught Briar all the common boat designs, and how best to take advantage of their weaknesses.

  He was just able to squeeze through the tiny rope port into the unattended winch room. From there he made his way to the cabin below the captain’s. A sailor, likely just off duty, slept soundly in a hammock, rocked slowly by the waves. He did not wake as Briar climbed a beam to press his ear to a certain spot in the ceiling.

  There was a scrape of metal against the deck. “You’re wearing armor under your robe,” Qeran said above.

  CHAPTER 23

  SHARUM’S LAMENT

  334 AR

  Ashia’s stomach had not churned this way since the first months of her pregnancy. She could spend hours perched on a ceiling beam. Execute tumbles and rolls that would leave a greenland Jongleur dizzy. Dance atop a rolling log.

  But the open water was nothing like Qeran’s ship, docked at harbor. The cabin rocked gently from side to side, a constant, uneven motion that made chaos of her equilibrium. The lake, like pregnancy, was an unforgiving reminder that while there was much one could control with the proper training, some things were in Everam’s hands.

  Her footing was the real concern. She paced back and forth, eyes closed, trying to learn the rhythm of the lake. She did not wish to be caught out of balance should she be called upon to fight during the voyage.

  Thankfully, the prospect was unlikely. Qeran’s men escorted her onto the ship Evejan Justice at sunset, when the glare on the water kept any from seeing her too closely. It was a small three-mast vessel, sleek and dangerous, with a crew of thirty hardened dal’Sharum. It was no great trade ship with a full hold, nor a warship of value. The sort hopefully not worth the effort of capturing.

  “Captain Rahvel has already vacated his quarters for the voyage,” Qeran said. “He is an honored drillmaster.”

  Simple words, but coming from Qeran they had weight. He was sending some of his most trusted men to see her to her destination. Meals were to be left outside her door, but otherwise she would not be disturbed until they were close to the drop point.

  Kaji had it worse than her. Ashia expected the ship’s rocking to lull him to sleep, but instead the poor boy turned deathly pale and vomited on her.

  “Sick,” he groaned into her shoulder.

  “Yes, my heart, I know.” She kissed his head. “It is the motion of the waves. You will grow accustomed and feel better soon.”

  She could only hope.

  But even that was not the worst of it. A small porthole, too small for even Ashia to squeeze through, let her see the water, glittering in the starlight. Miles of it, in every direction. There was no sign of land.

  More, there were flashes of light in the water, like lightning in the clouds. Each time they flared, the ship rocked.

  Water demons, testing the wards on the hull.

  Ashia fought alagai every night, but water demons were something beyond her. Nightmare creatures of tooth and tentacle, unseen, unknowable. She had learned to swim in the dama’ting baths, and could hold her breath for over ten minutes, but this was different. She could not fight beneath the waves or strike the demons from afar. She could do nothing but sit as her stom
ach roiled and her child screamed, hoping the wards held.

  Please, Everam, she prayed. Giver of light and life, we walk the edge of Nie’s abyss in your name. Grant that we make it safely to our destination and complete our mission.

  As if in answer, one of the many rings in Ashia’s ear began to vibrate.

  The Damajah.

  Ashia froze. She had thought herself far beyond Inevera’s reach, and part of her was glad. For the first time in her life, she felt in charge of her destiny, of Kaji’s.

  Ashia’s hand trembled slightly as she twisted the earring until the wards aligned with a click. “Damajah.”

  “I have learned to amplify the range of your earring,” Inevera said. “It requires great concentration and tremendous magic. I will not contact you often.”

  “I hear and understand, Damajah.”

  “Good,” Inevera said. “Report.”

  “I have reached Docktown and met with Drillmaster Qeran,” Ashia said. “The situation there is dire, Damajah. Without reinforcements, the greatest living drillmaster is concerned the Laktonians may retake the docks.”

  “I am aware of the situation,” Inevera said. “I have already ordered reinforcements.”

  “You have ordered, Damajah?”

  “Circumstances with your husband have changed,” Inevera said. “I am fully in command of Krasia until your uncle returns.”

  Ashia blinked—her stomach, her sick child, the flashing of the water wards all forgotten. The news changed everything.

  “So I am…free to return?” Ashia’s voice was very small.

  There was no reply.

  “Damajah?”

  “You must complete your mission,” the Damajah said. “The dice are clear. Only then may you return, or Sharak Ka may be lost.”

  “With the khaffit, or not at all.” She made it sound like a Sharum’s boast, and once it would have been heartfelt, but Qeran’s words echoed in her mind.

  Hasik has over a thousand men, tortured, mutilated, and sadistic. You will take your son, the heir to the Skull Throne, into such a place?