‘Surely they cannot all become dama’ting,’ Ahmann said. ‘I must have daughters to marry to my loyal men.’
‘And so you shall,’ Inevera replied. ‘Daughters no man dare harm, who are loyal to you over even their husbands.’
‘And to Everam, over even their father,’ Ahmann muttered.
And to you, most of all, she heard Kenevah say. ‘Of course.’
There was a stirring of the guard, and Ashan came into the room. As personal dama to the Sharum Ka, he was seldom seen on Wanings, off giving services and blessings. Asukaji entered with him, and the boy immediately went to stand beside Asome. They looked more like brothers than cousins, far more similar than Asome and Jayan.
Ashan bowed. ‘Sharum Ka, there is a matter the kai’Sharum wish you to settle.’
Inevera felt every muscle in her body clench. This is it.
Ahmann raised an eyebrow as she rose to accompany him, but he made no move to stop her – not that he could have. They left the palace and descended the great stone stairs to the courtyard, which faced the Sharum training grounds. At the far end was Sharik Hora, and on the long sides between were the pavilions of the tribes.
Near the base of his steps, well inside the palace walls, a group of Sharum and dama surrounded two men. One was khaffit, grossly fat and dressed in brighter silks than a pillow wife. He wore the tan vest and cap of khaffit, but his shirt and pantaloons were of bright multicoloured silk, and the cap was wrapped in a turban of red silk with a gem set at the centre. His belt and slippers were of snakeskin. He leaned on an ivory crutch, carved in the likeness of a camel, with his armpit resting between its humps.
The other was a Northern chin, dressed in worn clothes faded and dusty enough to be taken for a khaffit’s tan, but he carried a spear, something khaffit were forbidden to touch, and had nothing of the deference any sane khaffit would have when surrounded by so many warriors. A Messenger from the green lands. Inevera had seen them in the bazaar, but never spoken to one.
Inevera watched Ahmann, seeing recognition in his eyes as they took in the khaffit.
The voice from his past.
Inevera looked closer, studying the man’s face. She had to look past the thick jowls and cast back years, but at last recalled the boy who had carried Ahmann to the dama’ting pavilion all those years ago. A boy who had visited the pavilion himself years later, and left with a limp the dama’ting were not sure would ever heal. Abban, son of Chabin, the merchant who used to sell couzi to her father. That was reason enough to dislike him.
‘What makes you think you are worthy to stand here among men?’ Ahmann demanded. The anger in his tone surprised her. Perhaps the debt of his past was to be collected, rather than paid. Why else would a khaffit come to the First Warrior’s palace and risk his wrath?
‘Apologies, great one.’ Abban dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead into the dirt.
‘Look at you,’ Ahmann snarled. ‘You dress like a woman and flaunt your tainted wealth as if it is not an insult to everything we believe. I should have let you fall.’
Fall? Inevera wondered.
‘Please, great master,’ Abban said. ‘I mean no insult. I am only here to translate.’
‘Translate?’ Ahmann glanced up and noticed the Northerner for the first time. ‘A chin?’ Ahmann turned to Ashan. ‘You called me here to speak to a chin?’
‘Listen to his words,’ Ashan urged. ‘You will see.’
Ahmann studied the greenlander a long time, then shrugged. ‘Speak, and be quick about it,’ he told Abban. ‘Your presence offends me.’
‘This is Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook,’ Abban said, gesturing to the Messenger. ‘Late out of Fort Rizon to the north, he brings you greetings, and begs to fight alongside the men of Krasia tonight in alagai’sharak.’
Ahmann gasped, and Inevera, too, felt a wave of shock. A Northerner who wished to fight was like a fish asking to swim in hot sand.
The men began to argue over whether the man’s wish should be granted, but Inevera ignored them. ‘Husband,’ she said quietly, touching Ahmann’s arm. ‘If the chin wishes to stand in the Maze like a Sharum, then he must have a foretelling.’
Inevera led the greenlander to a casting chamber. Ahmann insisted on accompanying her, and she could think of no easy way to deny him. He was naïve at times, but her husband was no fool. He sensed her interest in the man, and if the Northerner were indeed his zahven, he could likely sense that, too.
‘Hold out your arm, Arlen, son of Jeph,’ he told the Northerner when she drew her knife. The chin frowned but didn’t hesitate to roll up his sleeve and hold out his arm.
Brave, Inevera thought as she made the cut. The dice seemed to hum in her hands as she shook and threw.
A chill ran down her spine as she read the result.
No …
She pressed her thumb into the chin’s wound. He grunted but did not resist. Inevera wet the dice afresh and threw them again.
And a third time.
The fate of Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook spread out before her, the same on the third throw as it had on the first. Inevera had cast the bones for countless warriors, but never since Ahmann had she seen the like.
Could he be the Deliverer? She glanced at the greenlander. He was not much to look at, neither short nor tall, his hair the colour of sand and his face bare like a khaffit. He wasn’t uncomely, but neither was he as handsome as Ahmann.
But his eyes were hard like her husband’s, and the same potentials buzzed around him like insects drawn to a lamp – futures where men called him Deliverer, where he was martyred, or died alone, or failed, driving humanity into extinction.
If only I could take husbands like Ahmann takes wives. Her mind ran through the possibilities, but in the end it was impossible. Her powers were not infinite, and even a dama’ting could not take two mortal husbands. Just one pushed the boundaries. This greenlander, for all his potential, could not be the leader her people followed, and there could not be two such men, north and south. The land was not big enough for both. They would tear it asunder, losing Sharak Ka in the process.
And so it must be Ahmann.
‘He can fight.’ She put away her dice and daubed the cut, soaking up the welling blood. She administered a salve and bound the chin’s wound with fresh cloth, pocketing the bloody one.
Ahmann and the chin left the chamber immediately, and she could hear her husband shouting orders in the hall. She knelt and drew her dice once more, squeezing the bloody cloth over them.
‘How can Ahmann take the son of Jeph’s power for his own?’ she asked as she threw.
– When the zahven finds power, he will share the secret with his true friends, but die before giving it up.—
Inevera quickly scooped the dice back into the pouch, getting to her feet and exiting the casting chamber. Ahmann was down the hall, about to leave for the training grounds. She caught his arm.
‘The chin will be instrumental in your rise to Shar’Dama Ka,’ she whispered. ‘Embrace him as a brother, but keep him within reach of your spear. One day you must kill him, if you are to be hailed as Deliverer.’
Alarms burned in the city that night, echoed by bells and the screams of women throughout the Undercity. The first wall had been breached.