The Daylight War

by Peter V. Brett

  She took a breath. It is only wind. There is nothing other women can bear that you cannot.

  The disguise was necessary, and worth any discomfort, for it allowed her to escape the palace and move through the New Bazaar unmolested. She did not fear for herself – few would dare attack her, and more would leap to her defence if any was needed – but the Damajah could not travel without an entourage, and would draw a gawking crowd like scattered crumbs did birds, risking her most precious secret.

  Without her dice, she needed her mother’s counsel more than ever, a respite from the wind threatening to snap even the most supple palm.

  The New Bazaar of Everam’s Bounty wasn’t yet as big as the Great Bazaar in Krasia, but it grew daily, and would soon rival even that monument of commerce. Abban had put up the first pavilion in the chin village just outside the city proper when Everam’s Bounty first fell to the Deliverer’s forces. Six months later, the New Bazaar had swallowed the village and spilled out into the lands beyond, a focal point for merchants, traders, and farmers throughout the land.

  The merchants and their dama masters had spared no expense protecting their wares, laying out the streets in the shape of a greatward, much like the Hollow tribe to the north, with low walls to add strength to the warding, and guards to patrol and keep the streets clear when night fell. In the day, however, goods filled every inch of free space, with dal’ting, khaffit, and chin loudly hawking their wares.

  Inevera made her way along the wending streets, occasionally stopping in this stall or that kiosk to add to her basket, looking like nothing more than a simple Jiwah Sen shopping for her family’s evening meal. She fell into the role, haggling over bits of produce and a small block of salt as if she, like most women, had to make every draki stretch. She remembered what it had been like for Manvah, trying to feed four on barely enough money for three. It was strangely relaxing – Inevera knew every woman in the Bounty envied the Damajah, but some days she longed to have her greatest worry be convincing merchants to sell items below market value.

  She was almost to her destination when a Sharum guardsman pawed at her behind. It took every bit of her self-control not to break his arm, and several steadying breaths as he and his fellow warriors strode off laughing to keep from killing the lot of them with her bare hands. If she had been in white, she would not have hesitated, and would have been well within her rights. In black, well, who would take the word of a dal’ting over a Sharum?

  I should come to the bazaar more often, she thought. I have lost touch with the common people.

  Her father stood at the entrance to her mother’s pavilion, calling to prospective buyers in a loud voice. Though there was grey at his temples, the years had been kind to Kasaad. His peg leg was gone, replaced with a fine limb of polished wood, jointed and sprung. He still carried a cane, but used it more to wave at onlookers and gesture to his wares than for support.

  Still sober, she marvelled, and when he laughed, a rich booming sound that carried far, it warmed her heart. This was not the jackal laugh he used to share with the other Sharum when they were deep into the couzi. This was the laugh of a man happy and at peace.

  So different was he to the man she knew, it seemed impossible this could be her father – the man who had murdered Soli.

  Inevera could have breathed away the tears in her eyes, but she let them fall, hidden by the sweat on her face and the thick black dal’ting veil. Why should she hold back tears for her brother, or her father? It seemed both men had died that night, and Manvah had gained a new husband, one more worthy of her, if without a Sharum’s honour.

  Her mother’s pavilion had continued to grow over the years, booming into a diversified business that went far beyond simple basket weaving. This was well, as the palm trees that had given her material were now hundreds of miles to the south. There were carpets and tapestries instead, and weavings of greenland material, wicker and corn husk. There was pottery, bolts of cloth, incense burners, and a hundred other things.

  Inevera had offered the dice to Manvah more than once, to use as Dama Baden did to keep ahead of his rivals, but her mother always refused. ‘It would be a sin against Everam to use dama’ting magic to fill my purse,’ she had said, adding with a wink, ‘and it would take away all the fun.’

  ‘Blessings of Everam upon you, honoured mother,’ a boy said as she entered the pavilion. ‘May I assist you in finding anything?’

  Inevera looked at him, and her heart clenched. He still wore the tan of a boy not yet called to Hannu Pash, but it seemed she was looking at Soli, or the boy he had once been. Instinctively, she reached out, tousling his hair the way her brother used to do to her. It was an overly familiar gesture, and the boy seemed taken aback by it.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘You remind me of my brother, taken by the night long ago.’ When the boy looked at her blankly, she rubbed his hair again. ‘I will look first, but I will call you when I am ready to buy.’ The boy nodded, all too happy to run off.

  ‘All Kasaad’s sons have that look, no matter the wife,’ a voice said, and Inevera turned to see her mother standing before her. Black robes or no, the two of them could never fail to recognize each other. ‘It makes me wonder if Everam in His wisdom has sent back the soul of my firstborn, taken from me too early.’

  Inevera nodded. ‘Your family is blessed with many fine children.’

  ‘You are the clay seller?’ Manvah asked. When Inevera nodded, she went on. ‘As I told your messenger, your price is too high.’

  Inevera bowed. ‘Perhaps we can discuss the matter privately?’

  Manvah nodded, then led her through the pavilion to a stone door. A large building backed the pavilion; there the family lived and the most valuable goods were stored. Manvah led the way to a private office with a desk piled with ledgers and writing implements, two greenland chairs, and a small private space for weaving.

  Manvah turned, holding out her arms, and Inevera fell into them gladly, sharing a crushing embrace.

  ‘It’s been years since you visited,’ Manvah said. ‘I was beginning to think the Damajah had forgotten her mother.’

  ‘Never that,’ Inevera said. ‘If you but say the word …’

  Manvah held up a hand to forestall her. ‘The Deliverer’s court does not need to know the Damajah’s father is khaffit, and I have no interest in tea politics and poison tasters. My sister-wives have given me children and grandchildren, and I see my daughter and her sons often enough, even if I must watch from the crowd.’

  Manvah clapped her hands outside the flap, and soon a young girl brought in a fine silver tea service, the pot steaming. They ignored the chairs, moving to the pillows in the weaving area and setting the tea tray on the floor. Manvah poured, and the two of them, alone in the office, removed their veils and hoods that they might look upon each other. Manvah’s face was more lined than it had been, and there were streaks of grey in her long hair, bound in gold. She was still beautiful, and radiated strength. Inevera felt something in her relax. Here was the one place in the world she could truly be herself.

  Manvah gestured with the spout of the teapot at a pile of pliable wicker strips. ‘It’s not quite the same as weaving palm, but we must all adapt to the new path the Deliverer has taken us on.’

  Inevera nodded, watching for a moment as Manvah took strips and began to work a weave. After a moment, she reached into the pile and began her own basket, her strong fingers growing in confidence as she felt the peace of weaving flow over her once more. ‘Some adaptations are harder than others.’

  Manvah chuckled. ‘And how is dear Kajivah?’

  Inevera hissed as a splinter lodged into her finger. ‘My honoured mother-in-law is well. Still dim as a guttering candle, and still wasting everyone’s time with her inane prattle.’

  ‘Still no luck finding her a husband?’ Manvah asked.

  Inevera shook her head. ‘She wants no man to come between her and her son, and Ahmann thinks no one worthy of her in any event.’


  ‘And your dice have no answers?’ Manvah asked.

  I have no dice, Inevera thought, and needed to breathe and calm herself. ‘I consulted the dice once. They told me Ahmann would accept Dama Khevat as his father-in-law, and that Kajivah could not refuse if he were to ask Ahmann for her hand. Unfortunately, Khevat’s response to the suggestion was that he would rather marry a donkey.’

  Manvah cackled, and Inevera laughed with her. It felt good to laugh. She could not remember the last time she had done it.

  ‘If you cannot find her a husband, assign her a task, like any Jiwah Sen,’ Manvah said.

  ‘This is the mother of the Deliverer,’ Inevera said. ‘I can hardly set her to carrying jugs of water, and any real task would be beyond her.’

  ‘Then give her a false one,’ Manvah said. Her fingers continued to work, but her lips pursed as she stared off at the wall for a moment. ‘Ask her if she will plan the Shar’Dama Ka’s monthly Waxing Party.’

  ‘There is no—’ Inevera began.

  ‘Invent one,’ Manvah cut her off. ‘Convince Kajivah it is a great honour, and will please her son and keep him in Everam’s favour. Assign her a dozen assistants to help her plan food, decorations, music, ceremonies, and guest lists. You’ll hardly ever see her again.’

  Inevera smiled. ‘This is why I come to you, Mother.’

  Manvah finished the base of her basket, and began creating the frame for its walls. ‘Everyone in the city knows the deeds of my grandsons, but there has been no word of my granddaughters. Are they well? Progressing in their studies?’

  Inevera nodded. ‘Your granddaughters are all well, and will soon be dama’ting. Amanvah has already taken the veil and married.’

  ‘And who is the lucky suitor?’ Manvah asked.

  ‘A chin from the Hollow tribe,’ Inevera said. ‘He is nothing to look at – small, weak, and dressed in more colours than a colour-blind khaffit – but Everam speaks to him.’

  ‘The boy who charms alagai with his music?’ Manvah asked. Inevera raised an eyebrow, but Manvah dismissed her with a wave. ‘Everyone in the city speaks of the chin in the Deliverer’s court. The boy, the giant, the woman warrior,’ she looked pointedly at Inevera, ‘and the greenland princess.’

  Inevera turned and spat on the floor.

  Manvah tsked. ‘That bad?’

  ‘I forbade him to marry her,’ Inevera said, not bothering for once to mask the venom in her voice.

  ‘There was your first mistake,’ Manvah said. ‘Never forbid a man anything. Even Kasaad, meek as he is since you stripped him of his blacks, can be stubborn as a mule when forbidden, and your husband is Shar’Dama Ka.’

  Inevera nodded. ‘It is written in the Evejah’ting: Forbid a man something, and he shall desire it tenfold. But my heart spoke before my mind.’

  ‘And how did the Deliverer react?’ Manvah asked.

  Inevera felt her spittle gather again, but swallowed it, breathing deeply. ‘He told me I did not have the right. He said he would make her his greenland Jiwah Ka, with dominion over his Northern wives.’

  Manvah paused her weave, looking up to meet Inevera’s eyes. ‘Did you expect that he would keep his wedding vows when you have not?’

  The words stung, and part of Inevera regretted telling her mother of her infidelity with the Andrah, but she breathed deeply and let the feeling blow by.

  – She will tell you truths you do not wish to hear—

  ‘I at least had the decency to do it in private.’ Inevera bit the words off. ‘He flaunts her, taking her in my own pillow chamber and shaming me before the entire court.’

  ‘I didn’t think I had raised a fool,’ Manvah said, breaking off a long end of wicker with a snap, ‘but it must be so, if you think the distinction matters a whit to a cuckold. You hurt him, and he is returning it on you threefold. This was a bill you should long have expected to come due. But in truth, what difference does it make if he bent some Northern whore? Great men are expected to conquer women, and you remain Jiwah Ka.’

  ‘In title, but no longer in truth,’ Inevera said. ‘I have not taken his seed in almost two Waxings.’

  Manvah snorted. ‘If that is what defines a Jiwah Ka, I stopped being Kasaad’s decades ago. I have not had him since Soli.’

  ‘Kasaad is not the Deliverer,’ Inevera said.

  ‘Then stop your posturing and go to his bed,’ Manvah said. ‘Show him you remember he is Shar’Dama Ka,’ her eyes flicked to meet Inevera’s, ‘and remind him you are his Damajah. The woman is gone, I hear, and without accepting his proposal. Make him forget her.’

  Inevera sighed. ‘It is not so simple. The Northern witch brought more than just her gates of Heaven to Ahmann. She has whispered poison in his ear.’

  ‘Poison?’ Manvah asked.

  ‘It was bad enough she and her harlot mother walked the palace unveiled,’ Inevera said, ‘but now they have brought the notion that our women should fight alagai’sharak like the Northern savages. To please her, Ahmann has decreed that any woman to take an alagai in battle will be Sharum’ting, and accorded all a warrior’s rights.’

  Manvah shrugged. ‘What of it?’

  Inevera gaped. ‘You cannot possibly approve.’

  ‘Why not?’ Manvah asked. She picked at her blacks. ‘You think I like having to wear these? I look at the Northern women and dream of being so free. Of owning my own pavilion, instead of running Kasaad’s. And why should I not? Because Kaji’s clerics saw women as cattle, and worked oppression into the holy verses? It is easy for you to cast a dim eye. You get to strut about the palace in the nude.’

  ‘I am hardly nude, Mother,’ Inevera said. Manvah looked at her, and she cast her eyes down, knowing dissembling did not work with her mother. Inevera dressed as she did to tweak the noses of the Damaji and remind them of her power, but there was no point denying that she gloried in it, as well.

  ‘You never approved of alagai’sharak when it was Soli at risk,’ Inevera said. ‘Should we add our daughters to the fight as well as our sons?’

  ‘I hated alagai’sharak when it was a meaningless sacrifice of our men to the Andrah’s pride,’ Manvah said. ‘But have not your precious dice told you Ahmann is the Deliverer, sent by Everam to lead us through Sharak Ka?’

  ‘They said he might be,’ Inevera reminded her.

  Manvah levelled a look at her. ‘You’d best pray he is, or you have wasted the last quarter century of your life. And did they not say Sharak Ka was coming in any event? Alagai kill women as well as men, daughter. Do not let the fact that allowing us to defend ourselves is a Northern notion blind you to its power. You remember Krisha and her ugly sister-wives beating your father. There are women built to fight. Let them. Nie, encourage them. Make the Northern custom your own and you will steal the fruit from this mistress of the Hollow’s tree.’

  ‘There will be uproar,’ Inevera said.

  Manvah nodded. ‘There will be shouting in public, and cold anger in private. A handful of idiots with flaccid cocks will pick a few women at random to vent their rage upon. But none will dare oppose the Shar’Dama Ka publicly, and soon enough it will become accepted.’ She smirked. ‘As when you began baring your sex in public.’

  Inevera feigned a shocked look, and Manvah winked at her. ‘But the women of Krasia worship you for it, even if they dare not admit it aloud. Give them this, and you will own their hearts forever.’

  Inevera moved quickly through the bazaar after her meeting with her mother. She hated leaving Manvah. Each time it hurt anew, knowing it might be months before she could visit again. But she had been gone too long already, and did not wish to raise suspicion that might lead back here. Manvah and Kasaad were secrets even Ahmann was not privy to. Qeva might remember, but the dice had said the Kaji Damaji’ting would never betray her.

  But then, in a coincidence so great it was hard to believe it occurred without the aid of her dice, she saw him, strutting her way through the bazaar in his familiar sleeveless robe and black steel b
reastplate with its sunburst of hammered gold.

  Cashiv.

  He looked no different than he had all those years ago, which said much for his prowess in battle. His face had the immortal look of the Spears of the Deliverer, so charged with magic each night that they moved a few hours back towards their prime, though their eyes and expressions remained those of older men. In the older warriors like Kaval it took longer for the signs to tell, but the younger ones moved quickly and stayed there. Cashiv was close to fifty, but he had the look of a man in his thirties, still strong and full of fight.

  A step behind, he was flanked by two other Sharum, both young and beautiful of body and old of eye. Inevera recognized them both, and for a moment almost expected to see Soli among them.

  It had been years since she had thought of the warrior. Dama Baden was a strong voice in the Deliverer’s court, but Inevera had not seen his favourite kai’Sharum since he had cursed her for sparing Kasaad’s life. Had he ever forgiven her?

  She froze. Inevera was a common name, and she did not know if Cashiv even knew his dead lover’s sister was now the Damajah. But if he were to see her here …

  Dama Baden was not a man she wanted to know where the Deliverer’s mother-in-law was hidden. He might not be foolish enough to threaten her openly, but it was a weakness Inevera could not afford.

  I will have to kill him, she realized. Quickly, before he can tell the others …

  She readied herself, only to have Cashiv and the others pass by without taking the slightest notice of her. One of the warriors said something, and Cashiv brayed a laugh as they turned a corner.

  Inevera blew out a breath. They had not seen her.

  Of course not, idiot, she realized. You’re all in black.

  Inevera waited in Ahmann’s bedchamber for his return. She wore her pillow dancing silks and jewellery, including a new circlet of white-gold coins, adding wards copied from Ahmann’s crown to protect her from a mind demon’s intrusion to those that gave her wardsight and enhanced senses. She could see the glow of magic as it drifted in whorls across the floor like sand devils, drawn by the many wardings around the room.