“Of course,” Abban said, nodding and smiling now that the haggling had begun.
Jardir paced his pavilion like an animal, waiting for Abban to return.
“What did he say?” he demanded the moment the khaffit entered the tent. “Is it done?”
Abban shook his head, and Jardir took a deep breath to embrace the disappointment and let it pass through him without harm.
“Mistress Leesha is more like dama’ting than I thought,” Abban said. “She has liberty to choose her own husband, though you must still pay a dower for her father’s blessing.”
“I will pay any price,” Jardir said.
Abban bowed. “So you have said,” he agreed, “but I, your humble servant, have nevertheless begun negotiations to minimize the impact on your treasury.”
Jardir waved his hand dismissively. “So I may approach her directly?”
“Her father has given you permission to court her,” Abban said, and Jardir smiled, snatching up his spear and pausing to check himself in a silvered mirror.
“What will you say to her?” Abban asked.
Jardir looked back at him. “I have no idea,” he said honestly. “But this is Everam’s will, so I trust that whatever I say will be the right thing.”
Abban frowned. “I do not think it works that way, Ahmann.”
Jardir looked at Abban, knowing all the words unspoken. Abban was much like the Par’chin in that regard. Polite. Tolerant. And utterly disbelieving.
Jardir looked at his old friend and felt great pity in his heart, understanding at last what it meant to be khaffit. Everam did not speak to them. Abban might use the Creator’s name in every other sentence, but had never truly heard His voice or felt the rapture of submitting to His divine will. Only profit spoke to Abban, and he would ever be its slave.
But that, too, was part of Everam’s plan, for the khaffit saw things no other man did, things essential to Jardir, if he was to win Sharak Ka.
Jardir put a hand on Abban’s shoulder, smiling sadly. “I know you do not, my friend, but if you do not trust in the Creator, hold faith in me.”
Abban bowed. “Of course. But at the very least, avoid mention of your other wives. Her mother tells me that Mistress Leesha’s jealousy is like a storm.”
Jardir nodded, not surprised in the least that such a woman would know her own worth and expect other women to make way for her. It only made him want her more.
Rojer led his apprentices through their exercises halfheartedly. They had improved a little, but whenever Kendall bent to her fiddle case, he could see the tops of the scars that ran across her chest. A mark of honor demon scars might be, but they were also a reminder to Rojer of just how far his apprentices had yet to come before they could be of any real use in the night. He hoped the instructors from the Jongleurs’ Guild arrived soon.
Across the way, the Cutters trained in the Corelings’ Graveyard. There was plenty of work to be done to build the new greatward, but so long as the Krasians were camped in the clearing, none of the Cutters had any interest in doing it. Gared had groups of them patrolling the town, and the rest had gathered at the graveyard to train and stand ready if needed. Leesha would be furious when she saw the work wasn’t getting done, but even after all she had been through, Leesha was too trusting of people.
There was a shout, and Rojer looked up to see the Krasian leader approaching, followed by his two bodyguards, Hasik and Shanjat. They wore their spears and shields on their backs, but while Jardir looked relaxed and serene, the warriors had the look of men surrounded by enemies. Their hands flexed unconsciously for want of a spear.
Jardir headed toward Rojer, and Gared gave a shout as he and a few Cutters hurried to intercept. Jardir’s bodyguards whirled to face them, spear and shield appearing in their hands instantly. The Cutters lifted their own weapons at the sight, and it seemed a clash was inevitable.
But Jardir turned, taking in Cutter and Sharum alike. “We are guests of Mistress Leesha!” he cried. “No blood will be shed between our peoples until she decrees otherwise.”
“Then tell your men to put their spears down,” Gared said, holding an axe in one hand and his warded blade in the other. Dozens of Cutters hurried across the graveyard and gathered at his back, but Hasik and Shanjat seemed unfazed—more than willing to fight the lot of them. Having seen the Krasian warriors fight, Rojer expected they would give far better than they got.
But then Jardir shouted something in Krasian, and his bodyguards sheathed their spears, though they kept their shields out.
“Din’t say put ’em away, I said put ’em down,” Gared growled.
Jardir smiled. “Guests are not asked to leave their knives at the door, Gared, son of Steave.”
Gared opened his mouth to reply, but Rojer cut him off.
“Of course, you are correct,” he said loudly, looking at Gared. “Put up your axe,” he told the giant Cutter.
Gared’s eyes widened. It was the first time Rojer had ever publicly given Gared an order, and it was one the Cutter might well refuse to accept, for if he put up his weapon, every other Cutter would as well.
Their eyes met, and Gared challenged him in that look, but Rojer was a mummer, and his face easily imitated the harsh look of the Painted Man, his voice deepening to the rasp Arlen used to frighten people and distance himself from them.
“Ent gonna tell you again, Gared,” he said, and he felt it as the giant’s will broke. Gared nodded and stepped back, returning his axe to its harness and his blade to its sheath. The other Cutters looked at him in surprise, but they did the same, taking comfort in their numbers.
Rojer turned to face Jardir. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Indeed,” said Jardir, bowing. “I wish to speak with Mistress Leesha.”
“She’s not in town,” Rojer said.
“I see,” Jardir said. “Can you tell me where I might find her?”
“The Core we will!” Gared growled, but Rojer and Jardir both ignored him.
“Why?” Rojer asked.
“She has given me a gift of incredible value in the cloak,” Jardir said. “I wish to bestow a gift of equal value upon her.”
“What gift?” Rojer asked.
Jardir smiled. “That is a matter between Mistress Leesha and myself.”
Rojer considered him. Part of him screamed not to trust this smiling desert demon who had slaughtered and raped so many, but Jardir seemed to have his own code of honor, and he did not think the man would try to harm Leesha while the truce held. And if the gift he offered was truly magic of equal value, they might be fools to refuse it.
“I’ll take you to her if you leave your warriors behind,” Rojer said.
Jardir bowed. “Of course.” The guards gave a cry of protest, as did Gared and a few of the Cutters, but again Rojer and Jardir ignored them. “My intentions toward Mistress Leesha are honorable, and I will of course accept a chaperone while in her presence.”
It seemed an odd choice of words, but Rojer could not find further cause to argue. Soon they were walking the path to Leesha’s cottage. Gared insisted on coming along, and glared at Jardir the whole way, though the Krasian leader seemed thankfully oblivious.
“Why does the mistress not live on your village’s wondrous greatward?” Jardir asked. “I would think her too valuable to risk to the alagai.”