The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  I look to Thivan, but he only laughs. “The drillmaster said to show you our ways, not fight your battles. Accept Parkot’s challenge, or go to the back of the line.”

  I look back to Parkot, his hands and feet set in an unfamiliar stance. He is thin like the others, but his place in line says he is fed and rested, while my stomach roils with hunger and my body is a mass of bruises. I can feel the scabbing on my back, thin and stiff, and know that if I exert myself, it will tear once more.

  But a glance at the back of the line offers no comfort. The boys there are pale things, ashen skin lighter than my own pulled tight over visible bones. They stare at me with sunken eyes, and I know that giving in will mean becoming one of them.

  On the other end of the line, Chadan already has his bowl, but he watches me with interest.

  Fight, Micha whispers. Every day, fight.

  I turn to meet Parkot’s eyes. “Step ba—”

  I don’t even finish speaking before Parkot leaps forward, leading with a flurry of punches.

  Remembering Chadan’s deadly mix of strikes, throws, and submission holds, I keep my guard up, evading blows while I take Parkot’s measure. He’s aggressive, looking to power through a fight on pure ferocity.

  A novice fights their opponent, Micha taught, but a master lets their opponent fight themselves. Parkot is wasting energy trying to bring the fight to a quick end. I catch his arm on the next pass, twisting to use the force of his swing against him. He hits the dusty ground hard, and his shoulder comes free of its socket with an audible pop.

  Parkot screams, writhing in the dust and clutching his unnaturally twisted arm. The boys behind him in line recoil in horror, while those in front snigger. My face goes cold. I hadn’t meant to dislocate his shoulder.

  Chikga appears, and the nie’Sharum immediately straighten. I slip into Parkot’s spot in line, hoping to draw less attention. Parkot is still writhing and moaning as the drillmaster drops to one knee to examine him.

  “Everam’s balls, quit whining.” Chikga begins his examination by cuffing Parkot in the face. “Embrace the pain and be silent, or I will show you real pain.”

  Parkot’s face reddens and his jaw clenches, biting back his moans as Chikga lifts his twisted arm. He puts a knee into Parkot’s chest to keep him immobilized as he works the shoulder back into its socket.

  There is another pop, and the arm locks in place. Parkot thrashes once, then goes limp, passed out from pain. Chikga shakes his head and spits in the dust as he gets to his feet. “He’ll have a sore arm when he wakes,” he says to no one in particular, “but it will obey him.”

  His eyes scan the line of boys, coming to rest on me. He notes my place in line, and that Parkot collapsed just a few feet from where I stand. I tense, expecting some sort of punishment, but Chikga says nothing. He turns away and returns to the company of the other drillmasters, who are partaking of a much more appetizing morning repast.

  My reward for almost crippling a boy I just met is a ladle of thick brown gruel in my bowl. It smells rank. Even so, I meet Tikka’s gaze. “Thank you.”

  Tikka’s eyes narrow in suspicion. She raises her ladle threateningly. “You’re not getting more, new boy. Go eat while it’s warm.”

  “Yes, Tikka,” I nod, but it’s hard to contain my surprise.

  Tikka returns to her work, and I realize every bowl has a little less than the one before. Chadan and his entourage received full bowls at the front of the line. Farther down the line, mine is barely half full. What will be left for the ones at the back?

  “That was well done,” Thivan says as we look for a place to sit and eat. “What a laugh, to see Parkot put down like a dog.”

  I’m barely listening, watching the bowls empty as the line dwindles. The second-to-last boy barely has the bottom of his bowl coated, but he immediately puts his face into it, licking up every bit of moisture.

  Tikka flicks her ladle into the last boy’s bowl, but only a single drop strikes the clay.

  “Please, Tikka,” the boy begs.

  “The pot is empty,” Tikka says.

  “Please,” the boy says again. “Just let me lick the ladle. Anything.”

  He reaches for the ladle’s handle, but Tikka wields it deftly, spinning it out of reach and using it to crack the boy on the wrist. He cries out in pain, snatching the hand back. “You want to eat?” Tikka snaps. “Don’t wait at the back of the line.”

  Thivan and the others laugh as the boy walks away dejected. I feel ill at the sight of his ribs, visible through thin skin stretched tight over bone. I realize I recognize him from last night. He kicked me in my own ribs just a few hours ago.

  Yet looking at him now, I can’t help but feel pity. He must have been desperate to gain some level of status before hunger caused him to be cast out. What happened to me isn’t his fault.

  I step into his path and the boy comes up short, fear in his eyes. “What is your name?”

  “Faseek,” the boy says.

  “Take my gruel, Faseek.” I push the clay bowl into his hands. “I’m not hungry.”

  Faseek gapes at me for a moment, then bobs his head. “Thank you.”

  “That was stupid,” Thivan sneers as Faseek runs off with his prize. “Now you’re going to go hungry.”

  I turn to him. “No, I’m not, Thivan. You’re going to give me your bowl.”

  He freezes, and I smile, nodding at Parkot, still passed out on the ground. “Unless you want to end up next to Parkot?”

  * * *

  —

  “Boy, come with me.” Tikka does not slow as she passes by.

  I throw back the remaining gruel and hand the empty bowl to Thivan. One of his eyes is fast swelling. He glares at me with the other, but now he knows better than to show his teeth.

  Tikka is a Krasian term of affection for grandmothers. I don’t fully understand her place in sharaj, but until I do, it seems wise to obey as if she were a drillmaster. I hop to my feet and fall into step behind her. She takes me to a stone alcove where a bowl of steaming water sits beside a cake of soap, some folded cloth, and a razor.

  “Sit,” Tikka points to a mat on the floor. I do, and she sits upon a bench behind me, throwing a cloth over my shoulders.

  Tikka massages warm soap onto my scalp through the patchwork of hair, and it feels heavenly. I tense as she lifts the razor, drawing a sharp breath as the cold metal scrapes along my skin.

  I’m horrified at the sensation. I’ve always been so proud of my hair. Black and thick, it shone like the polished obsidian of a rock demon’s armor. So dark it gave life to even the simplest ornaments. And long enough to reach my waist braided.

  Now it’s all gone, the last wisps falling in sudsy clots onto the cloth. The sensation of her fingers running over the skin around my skull is alien—pleasurable and discomfiting at the same time. I turn my head and lean over, looking at my reflection in the water bowl.

  A stranger looks back at me. Their eyes are familiar, but without hair, my whole face looks different, especially now when it is puffed and bruised. I don’t know who I am anymore, but Princess Olive is gone.

  Tikka gives me a moment to stare, then pulls my head back so she can continue her work. “Every boy stares the first time. You’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t suppose I have a choice,” I say.

  Tikka snorts. “You should be higher in line.”

  I look over my shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

  Tikka’s hands are surprisingly strong as she twists my head to face front. “I’ve been watching boys fight in the gruel line longer than you’ve been alive, boy. I know when someone’s holding back.”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I say. “I could have crippled Parkot.”

  “Phagh, he would have done as much to you.” She scrapes another patch of hair, flicking it off
the razor and onto the cloth. “You should be behind Chadan in line, with a full bowl every meal.”

  “Why not in front of him?” I ask.

  “Tsst,” Tikka says. “You are not ready for that, and you’ll find no allies against him. Your family name is feared among the Majah, but it is not loved as his.”

  “He made all this clear to me last night.” The words come through gritted teeth.

  “That is good,” Tikka says. “Now that the other boys know he is your better, Chadan has no need to bully you, and he does not enjoy it as some others do. He won’t lift a finger if you challenge anyone below him. So long as you defer to him, you will not go hungry.”

  Don’t offend her, Thivan warned, but I have no idea what offends a woman who will let children go hungry in front of her. I’ve heard tales of beggars, but they always seemed distant things. After guiding her people through the privations of war, Mother would sell her own crown before she allowed an empty belly in Hollow.

  Fight, Micha whispers, and my next words come in a rush. “Why must anyone go hungry?”

  “It’s a mercy.” Tikka’s hands continue their steady work. “Some boys do not have the hearts of warriors. They are safer as khaffit than in a demon’s belly.”

  “How can they learn their hearts,” I ask, “if the smallest and weakest are never allowed to grow strong?”

  “Heart doesn’t keep alagai talons at bay,” Tikka says. “I’ve watched a lot of boys walk into the Maze over the years. Some come back blooded, as men. Others, usually the smallest and the weakest, don’t come back at all.”

  “And if they die begging on the street, instead?” I ask.

  “Inevera,” Tikka says, but I see in her eyes it isn’t so simple.

  “You could fill every bowl equally if you wanted,” I say.

  “If I wished to turn the drillmasters’ eyes off the boys and onto me.” Tikka’s voice is sharp. “Boys in the gruel line may fear me, but I assure you Chikga does not.”

  I am an idiot, blaming an old woman for not standing up to the drillmasters when I myself fear to. “Of course you are correct, Tikka,” I say. “I apologize.”

  Tikka snorts again. “You’re really not like the other boys.” She takes up the cloth to wipe away the remaining suds and shorn hair. “I remember our short years in the green lands. For a moment, we all wondered what a generation raised in plenty could have made of us.”

  “Am I a disappointment?” I ask, surprised to discover I care what she will say.

  Tikka shakes her head. “I wish all our children could live so. But you will need to harden yourself, if you are to survive here.”

  25

  GRUEL

  “We’re allowed a quarter turn at the privy pits before training.” Thivan’s tone is more respectful now. I suppose a black eye will do that. I expected him to begin avoiding me, but apparently the drillmaster’s order still carries weight.

  The privy pits aren’t anything close to private, just a foul trench to stand or squat over. Many of the boys are doing just that, bidos around their ankles as they hug their knees and strain.

  “Keep your guard near the pits,” Thivan warns. “Sometimes the other drillmasters will send their nie’Sharum on a raid during privy time.”

  “A raid?” I ask. “What could they possibly steal?”

  “Glory!” Thivan laughs. “Come back with a rival’s bido, it’s a shame his brothers will never let him forget. Kick one into the pits and you become a legend.”

  I struggle to keep my face calm. “You kick each other into the privy pits for fun? Do you have any idea how sick that could make someone?”

  Thivan shrugs. “The weak are not meant for the Maze. The alagai will not warn us before they strike. Drillmaster Chikga says we must always be ready. If a boy is caught unprepared at the pits…inevera.”

  Everam’s will. That boys are taken and put in this place. Beaten and starved and exposed to sickness, all to test their manhood against some impossible scale.

  Nevertheless, I take the advice, stepping away from Thivan and the others to find an open space over the pit. I hold my breath against the stench.

  The idea of exposing myself to anyone was a nightmare not long ago, but the other boys do it without a thought, some of them talking amiably as they make water. I don’t want to draw attention, so I lower my bido and take myself in hand.

  No one even looks my way, but still it takes a while to go. My muscles are tense, ready to fight anyone who comes within striking distance, but the act requires I relax.

  I manage at last, but I’m thankful the missed dinner and sparse breakfast don’t leave me with an urge to do more. I’m not ready to remove my bido entirely and risk someone seeing more than I wish.

  His own business tended, Thivan is waiting for me a safe distance from the pits. My nose curls at the stench, and I can no longer hold back the question that’s been on my mind since I arrived.

  “Are there baths?”

  Thivan snorts. “Are we women? Go to the sweat room if you need to scrape yourself off.”

  I don’t know what a sweat room is, but I don’t care for the sound of it. I’m about to ask more when the drillmaster’s horn summons us to the training grounds. I look around as the boys line up, finding a noticeable absence. “Where is Chadan?”

  “Training with his father and the nie’dama,” Thivan says. “He will be a kai when raised to the black.”

  I understand then why Chadan is so much better than the others, why he was able to turn my strength against me. The dama have long maintained control over the Sharum by withholding the secrets of their most powerful sharukin. If Chadan is training with the dama, he is far more dangerous than I thought.

  The rest of us are split into pairs to practice the forms from morning sharusahk against a live opponent. I am paired with one of the lesser of the dozen or so boys in Chadan’s entourage. Menin is tall, and stands high enough in the gruel line to maintain a thick build. His head is shaved like the other boys’, but a carpet of hair is already spreading across his chest, limbs, and back. Unwashed like all the boys, he smells terrible, the thick curls of his body hair holding the scent of his sweat and musk.

  “I bet you looked pretty as a girl,” Menin growls as he takes a stance opposing me and waits for Chikga to signal us to begin.

  I take a stance that mirrors his. “Better than looking like a hairy dog’s arse.”

  Menin scowls, and I hope I have read him well as the drillmaster shouts for us to begin.

  My lessons from Micha were rooted in dama’ting sharusahk—quick, elegant, and precise. Skilled in healing and medicine, the priestesses put their focus on where to strike, choosing convergence points where a properly struck blow can stun, cripple, or kill. Their target chosen, the dama’ting guide their opponents into position to make those points vulnerable.

  For practitioners with a high level of skill, the dama’ting style gives distinct advantages, but the application is so complex it is little more than a dance for novices.

  Wonda’s lessons were always more practical, a cold application of force and leverage targeting whatever one’s opponent leaves unguarded until there is an opening to grapple and force a submission.

  The style the drillmasters teach in sharaj is philosophically akin to Wonda’s, but far more aggressive. Menin keeps his defenses tight, offering little free energy even as his fists move at a blur to probe my upper defenses. His stomping advance keeps him in perfect balance as he searches for openings in my lower guard for a kick or trip.

  Lighter and faster, I avoid his blows with minimal contact, but my own punches are blocked with wrists and forearms that instantly turn into return strikes. Menin blends defenses with counters so smoothly it seems like he never stops attacking. Parkot’s rapid punches in the gruel line make more sense now, but where Parkot had only fury, Menin has c
ontrol and is more deadly by far.

  But after my years of rivalry with Selen—tall, quick, and clever—Menin’s moves soon become predictable. Twice, he tries to stomp on my thigh, just above the knee, to force a hyperextension. The third time I offer the target, then take hold of his leg as he raises it for the kick. I lock the joint, bend my knees and twist with my full weight, forcing him to throw himself off balance to keep me from breaking the captured limb. He hits the dust hard, but I keep hold of the leg, twisting steadily until he cries out and slaps the ground in submission.

  “On your feet!” Chikga was watching the match with interest, and kicks Menin hard in the stomach when he does not rise quickly enough. “A dozen laps around the training grounds for losing to a half-blood push’ting!”

  None of the lesser boys will face me after that, so I watch the older boys spar. They are faster, more creative, and dangerous. The strongest after Chadan is Gorvan, a particularly vicious brute. More than once, Gorvan leaves an opponent bloody, or maintains a hold after they tap out, simply out of sheer enjoyment of dominance. He was the first to strike last night when Chadan threw me to the other boys. Gorvan kept laughing as he hit me again and again.

  “Weapons!” Chikga calls when sparring is over. “I want a spear and shield in every hand!”

  I go to the racks, stocked with wooden practice weapons. The round shields are unwarded, thicker and heavier than those the Sharum use. The spears are lengths of stiff but flexible rattan, their points blunted for use in the practice yard.

  I reach for one, but am shoved aside so violently I stumble. Something hooks my ankle, and I crash into the dusty ground.

  “That one is mine, push’ting.” Gorvan takes the spear and looms over me, waiting to see what I will do.

  Everyone else is waiting, as well. Chadan has returned to join the others for weapons work, and it seems the entire sharaj is holding their breath. With Menin’s defeat I can enter the gruel line far ahead of Thivan, but still well behind Gorvan. This fight could determine much, come supper. Even Chikga is watching, though he feigns disinterest.