The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  “Surely you cannot agree to this!” Amadeveram said, turning to the Andrah.

  “I am Andrah, not you, Amadeveram,” the Andrah said. “If the Sharum Ka wishes unity and the Damaji agree, I see no reason to refuse. Like me, the First Warrior relinquishes tribe when he dons his turban.”

  He turned to regard the Damaji’ting for the first time Jardir had seen. “This matter lies more in the realm of women than who carries the first spear,” he said, addressing none of the women in particular. “What do the Damaji’ting say to this proposal?”

  The women turned their backs on the men and clustered together in a buzz of muffled whispers, impossible to understand. In moments, they finished and turned back to the Andrah.

  “The Damaji’ting have no objection,” one of them said.

  Amadeveram scowled, and Jardir knew he had angered the man, perhaps irrevocably, but there was nothing to be done for it now. He had three Kaji wives already, including his Jiwah Ka. That would have to be enough.

  “It’s settled then,” Aleverak said. “My own granddaughter is just fourteen, Sharum Ka, beautiful and unknown to man. She will bear you strong sons.”

  Jardir bowed deeply. “My apologies, Damaji, but the duty of choosing my brides must fall to my Jiwah Ka. She will cast the alagai hora to ensure the blessings of Everam for each union.”

  There was another buzz among the Damaji’ting, and Aleverak’s wide smile vanished in an instant, as did those of many other Damaji. But it was too late for them to take back their support. Amadeveram’s scowl became a look of smug satisfaction.

  “Enough talk of brides!” the Andrah barked. “You have your boon, Sharum Ka. Go now before you disturb my court further!”

  Jardir bowed and left.

  “Are you a fool?” Amadeveram demanded. Jardir had not made it out of the Andrah’s palace before the old Damaji had caught up to him, dragging him into a private room.

  “Of course not, my Damaji,” Jardir said.

  “Only ‘yours’ for a few hours more, it seems,” Amadeveram said.

  Jardir shrugged. “I will still be ruled by the council of Damaji, who speak with your voice. But as Sharum Ka, I must represent warriors of all tribes.”

  “The Sharum Ka does not represent warriors, he rules them!” Amadeveram shouted. “That you are Kaji is proof that Everam wishes the Kaji to rule! You cannot go through with this mad plan.”

  “For the good of all Krasia, I can and will,” Jardir said. “I will not be a weak figurehead for you, like the last Sharum Ka. The warriors need unity if they are to be strong. Becoming one with all of them is the only way to win their devotion.”

  “You are turning your back on your tribe!” Amadeveram shouted.

  “No, I am turning to face the others,” Jardir said. “I implore you, turn with me.”

  “Face our blood enemies?” Amadeveram said, aghast. “I would sooner die in shame!”

  “There was only one tribe in the time of Kaji,” Jardir reminded him. “Our blood enemies are also our blood.”

  “You are no blood of Kaji,” Amadeveram said, spitting at Jardir’s feet. “The blood of the Shar’Dama Ka has turned to camel’s piss in your veins.”

  Jardir’s face grew dark and, for a moment, he considered attacking him. Amadeveram was a sharusahk grand master, but Jardir was younger and stronger and faster. He could kill the old man.

  But he was not Sharum Ka yet. Killing Amadeveram would only unravel Inevera’s plans and cost him the Spear Throne.

  Am I doomed to always have success without pride? he asked himself.

  “The Sharum Ka is dead!” the Andrah cried to the assembled warriors in Sharik Hora. The Sharum filling the rows of the great temple howled at the news, banging spear against shield in a great cacophony meant to announce the First Warrior’s coming to Everam.

  “But we will not cede the night like those to the north!” the Andrah cried when the noise died down. “We are Krasian! Blood of Shar’Dama Ka himself! And we will fight till the Deliverer returns, or the spear falls from the hands of the last nie’Sharum and Krasia is buried in the sand!”

  The warriors hooted at that, thrusting spears in the air.

  “And thus, I have chosen a new Sharum Ka to lead alagai’sharak,” the Andrah said. “When he was nie’Sharum, he was made Nie Ka and stood on the walls at twelve, the youngest in a hundred years! He was not there six months before he netted a wind demon that had killed his Watcher and knocked his drillmaster prone. For this, he was brought to the Kaji pavilion, the youngest to come since the Return. He fought so well on his first night of alagai’sharak that he was sent to Sharik Hora, studying five years with the dama to first don his blacks as kai’Sharum, the youngest such since the time of the Deliverer himself!”

  There was a murmur at this among the Kaji, who knew Jardir’s accomplishments well. The Andrah paused a moment to let the sense of excitement travel, then continued. “Two nights ago, he led his warriors in a daring rescue of the Sharach, who stood on the brink of destruction, killing alagai with his bare hands while his men still readied their spears!”

  The murmuring grew to a buzz. There was not a man, woman, or child in all Krasia who had not heard that tale by now.

  “Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, stand before the Skull Throne!” the Andrah commanded, and the warriors cheered and banged spear and shield as Jardir appeared, dressed in his Sharum blacks, his head bare.

  Inevera walked silently at his side as he went to the Skull Throne and prostrated himself, kneeling quickly to lay the Andrah’s Evejah under his forehead as he pressed it to the rug. The holy book was inked with dal’Sharum blood on vellum made from kai’Sharum skin, bound in leather from a Sharum Ka. It would sear his skull if he should utter a lie while touching it.

  “Do you serve Everam in all things?” the Andrah asked.

  “I do, Holiness,” Jardir swore.

  “Will you be His strong arm in the night, giving all honor to the thrones of Sharik Hora?”

  “I will, Holiness.”

  “Are you prepared to hold the reins of alagai’sharak until the Shar’Dama Ka comes again, or you be dead?” the Andrah asked.

  “I am, Holiness.”

  “Then rise,” the Andrah said, lifting the white turban of the Sharum Ka high for all to see. “The night awaits its Sharum Ka.”

  Jardir rose, and the Andrah turned to Inevera. He handed her the turban, and she placed it on Jardir’s head.

  The Sharum roared and stamped their feet, but Jardir barely noticed. Why did the Andrah not put the turban on his head himself, as was the custom? Why give the honor to Inevera?

  “Stop basking in your glory and speak your words,” Inevera whispered, breaking him from his musing. Jardir started, then turned to face the assembled Sharum—nearly six thousand spears. It had been ten thousand not long ago, but the previous Sharum Ka had wasted lives. Jardir promised himself he would not do the same.

  “My brothers in the night,” Jardir said. “This is a glorious time to be Sharum! Alone, the tribes of Krasia make the alagai quail with fear, but when we stand together, there is nothing we cannot do!”

  The warriors roared, and Jardir waited until it died. “But when I look out at you, I see division!” he cried. “The Majah sit across the aisle from the Kaji! The Jama avoid the Khanjin! There is not one tribe who does not see enemies in this room! We are supposed to be brothers in the night, but who among you has volunteered to stand with the Sharach, whose numbers have been decimated?”

  There was silence now, the warriors unsure how to respond. They knew the truth of his words, but tribal hatreds ran deep and were not easily let go even if one wished it—and few did.

  “The Sharum Ka is said to be of no tribe,” Jardir continued, “but to me, that is worse! What loyalty might a tribeless man have? The Evejah tells us that the only true loyalty is that of blood. And so,” he swept a hand back toward the Andrah and the Damaji on their thrones, “I have beseeched our leader
s to join my blood to all of you.

  “With the Andrah’s blessing,” Jardir said, “the Damaji have each agreed to wed me to one fertile daughter of their tribe, to bear me a Sharum son to whom I will be forever loyal.”

  There was a shocked silence, then the room erupted in a roar of approval from every tribe save the Kaji. Clearly, they had believed Jardir would retain his loyalty to their tribe, as all previous Sharum Ka had done, no matter what the Evejah said.

  Let them sulk, Jardir thought. I will win them back in the Maze.

  “And so,” he intoned, quieting the temple once more, “once my Jiwah Ka selects my brides, the Damaji will perform the wedding rites.”

  But then Inevera stepped forward unrehearsed, surprising Jardir no less than the Sharum or assembled leaders. Did she mean to speak? Any woman, dama’ting or no, speaking in Sharik Hora was unheard of.

  But it seemed everything Inevera did was unheard of.

  “There need be no delay,” she said loudly. “Let the brides of the Sharum Ka step forth!”

  Jardir’s jaw dropped. She had chosen his brides already? Impossible!

  But eleven women strode out onto the great altar of Sharik Hora, kneeling before the flabbergasted Damaji of their tribes. Jardir saw them, and his heart sank.

  They were all dama’ting.

  The palace of the Sharum Ka was smaller than the Kaji palace, but where that housed dozens of kai’Sharum, dama, and their families, this palace was Jardir’s alone. He remembered his years spent sleeping on a filthy cloth on the crowded stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, and gazed in wonder at the splendor of it all. Everywhere he stepped was plush carpet, velvet, and silk. He dined off porcelain plates so delicate he feared to touch them, and drank from golden goblets studded with gems. And the fountains! There was nothing in Krasia more valuable than water, yet even his mother’s bedroom tinkled with fresh flowing water.

  He threw Qasha down onto a pile of pillows, delighting in the sway of her soft breasts, clearly visible through her diaphanous top. Her legs were clad in the same gossamer material, leaving her sex bare, shaved and perfumed. Lust filled him as he fell on her, and he mused that being wed to twelve dama’ting was not the chore he had feared.

  Qasha of the Sharach was by far Jardir’s favorite of his new wives. Almost as beautiful as Inevera, she was far more obedient, dropping her robes at a moment’s notice. Her belly was still flat, but already, six weeks wed, she carried a son—the first that would come from his new brides. He knew he should be taking another now, filling the palace with swollen bellies to tie him to the tribes, but Qasha’s condition only aroused Jardir’s lust for her further. Inevera didn’t seem to care. Far less strict with her dama’ting Jiwah Sen, she let Jardir bed them as he pleased. He liked to keep Qasha close by, for she served him as a proper wife should.

  Laughing, Qasha pushed him onto his back, mounting him wantonly.

  “Everam’s bones, woman!” Jardir cried, gasping as she lowered herself down upon him.

  “Should I seem demure when I am in the pillows with the Sharum Ka?” Qasha asked, rising up and slapping down hard. “Just last night, the Andrah himself spoke of the glory you’ve won in the Maze since ascending. It is an honor to sheathe your spear.” She leaned in close, moving rhythmically.

  “A woman may bear two children in the same womb,” Qasha whispered between perfumed kisses. “Perhaps you can plant yet another son within me.” Jardir started to reply, but she giggled and muffled his words by giving him a full breast to suckle. For long minutes, they sweated and struggled in the only battle to rival alagai’sharak.

  When they were finished, Qasha rolled off him, raising her legs to hold his seed.

  “You were in the palace last night when I left at dusk,” Jardir said after a moment.

  Qasha looked at him, and for an instant fear washed over her lovely face before being replaced with the cold dama’ting mask he had come to expect from his wives whenever he spoke of things other than lovemaking and children.

  “I was,” she agreed.

  “Then when did you see the Andrah?” Jardir asked. “Women with child, even dama’ting, are forbidden to leave the palace at night.”

  “I misspoke,” Qasha said. “It was another night.”

  “Which night?” Jardir pressed. “Which night did you take my unborn son from the safety of my palace without permission?”

  Qasha drew herself up. “I am dama’ting, and owe you no—”

  “You are my jiwah!” Jardir roared, and she quailed in the face of it. “The Evejah grants no exceptions to dama’ting when it commands wives to obedience!” It was bad enough that Inevera flaunted that sacred law as she pleased, but Jardir would be damned if he gave all his wives the same power. He was Sharum Ka!

  “I did not leave the wards!” Qasha cried, holding out her hands. “I swear it!”

  “Did you lie about the Andrah’s words?” Jardir asked, clenching a fist.

  “No!” Qasha cried.

  “Then the Andrah was here, in my palace?” Jardir asked.

  “Please, I am forbidden to speak of it,” Qasha said, casting her eyes down in submission.

  Jardir grabbed her roughly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No one may forbid you anything over me!”

  Qasha thrashed and pulled from his grasp, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She burst into tears, shaking as she covered her face in her hands. She looked so frail and afraid that all the anger fell from him. He knelt and put his hands gently on her shoulders.

  “Of all my wives,” he said, “you are the most favored. I ask only your loyalty. You will not be punished for your answer, I swear.”

  She looked up at him with round, wet eyes, and he pushed back her hair, brushing away tears with his thumb. She pulled back, looking to the floor. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely make out her words.

  “All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night,” she said, “when the master is at alagai’sharak.”

  Jardir choked down a blast of anger. “And when will the palace next be stirred?”

  Qasha shook her head. “I do not know,” she whimpered.

  “Then cast the bones and find out,” Jardir ordered.

  She looked up at him, scandalized. “I could never!”

  Jardir growled, his anger flaring again, as he silently cursed the day he had married dama’ting. Even if she were not carrying his child, Jardir could not strike Qasha, and she knew it. There was a layer of Nie’s abyss reserved for any man who harmed a dama’ting.

  But Jardir refused to be dominated by every one of his wives because he could not discipline as the Evejah taught. There were other ways to frighten her.

  “I tire of your disobedience, jiwah,” he said. “Cast them, or I will send the Sharach to the first layer, and your tribe will be consumed by the night. The boys will be cast from Hannu Pash as khaffit, and the women left to whore for lesser tribes.” He would do no such thing, of course, but she need not know that.

  “You would not dare!” Qasha said.

  “Why should I allow your tribe honor, when you deny me mine?” Jardir demanded.

  She was crying openly now, but Qasha nevertheless reached for the thick bag of black felt every dama’ting carried at all times. Hers was secured to her bare waist with a strand of colored beads.

  Used to the practice by now, Jardir moved to draw the heavy velvet curtains, blocking any hint of sunlight that might break the magic and render the dice useless.

  Qasha lit a candle. She looked at him, fear in her eyes. “Swear to me,” she begged. “Swear that you will never tell the Jiwah Ka that I did this for you.”

  Inevera. Of course Jardir expected his First Wife to be at the center of any intrigue in his palace, but it cut him to hear it. He was Sharum Ka now, and still not fit to know her plans.

  “I swear by Everam and the blood of my sons,” Jardir said.

  Qasha nodded and cast the bones. Jardir watched their evil lig
ht and wondered for the first time if perhaps they were not Everam’s voice on Ala.

  “Tonight,” Qasha whispered.

  Jardir nodded. “Put the bones away. We will speak no more of this.”

  “And the Sharach?” Qasha asked.

  “I would never have vented my rage upon my son’s tribe,” Jardir said, laying a hand on her belly. Qasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, deflating as the tension left her.

  As the sun came to the end of its arc, Jardir left Qasha sleeping on the bed of pillows and donned his blacks and white turban. He chose his favorite spear and shield, and went down to meet his kai’Sharum at dinner.

  They feasted on spiced meat and cool water, served by Jardir’s mother, dal’ting wives, and sisters. His dama’ting wives were no doubt lurking in the shadows, listening in, but they would never deign to serve at his table, jiwah or no. Ashan, his spiritual advisor, sat at the foot of the table, facing him. Shanjat, who had succeeded Jardir as kai’Sharum of his personal unit, sat at Jardir’s right hand, and Hasik, his personal bodyguard, at his left.

  “What were our losses last night?” Jardir asked as they had their tea.

  “We lost four last night, First Warrior,” Ashan said.

  Jardir looked at him in surprise. “The Kaji lost four?”

  Ashan smiled. “No, my friend. Krasia lost four. Two Baiters and two Watchers. All dal’Sharum past their primes and gone to glory.”

  Jardir returned the smile. Since he’d become Sharum Ka, nightly losses had dwindled as demon kills had increased.

  “And alagai?” he asked. “How many saw the sun?”

  “More than five hundred,” Ashan said.

  Jardir laughed. He doubted the true number was half that, with every tribe habitually exaggerating their kills, but it was still a fine night’s work, far more that the previous Sharum Ka had achieved.

  “The tribes in the eighth layer still saw no glory,” Ashan said. “We were considering leaving the Maze gates open longer tonight to ensure there are enough alagai for all to kill.”