“You sound like Abban,” Jardir muttered.
“Eh?” she asked, though he knew she heard full well.
“Enough,” he said. “It is done and there is nothing for it. Now put on a decent robe and veil before you put impure thoughts into the minds of my men.”
“Bold as ever,” Inevera said, but she smiled behind her translucent veil, seeming more amused than irritated. “The Evejah commands women to wear veils so no man covet what is not his, but you are the Deliverer. Who would dare covet your woman? I have nothing to fear if I walk naked through the streets.”
“Nothing to fear, perhaps, but what advantage comes with the baring of your sex like a whore for any man to see?” Jardir asked.
Inevera’s eyebrows tightened, though her face remained serene. “I bare my face that none might mistake me. I bare my body that your power might be increased, for having such manly lusts that even the leader of the Damaji’ting must be prepared to service you instantly.”
“Another deception,” Jardir said wearily, sitting upon the throne.
“Not at all,” Inevera purred, sliding into his lap. “I am fully prepared to stand responsible for the lusts of Shar’Dama Ka.”
“You make it sound a task,” Jardir said. “A tedious price of power.”
“Not so tedious,” Inevera said, tracing a finger down his chest. She undid the fastenings of his pantaloons and moved to mount him.
Jardir could not deny the lust her beauty roused in him, but he felt, too, the Skull Throne under him, and he looked up as Inevera sheathed herself upon him, much as she had ridden the Andrah. Killing the man had done nothing to excise the image from his mind. It haunted him like a spirit denied passage to the next life.
Did Inevera truly feel passion at his touch, or were her moans and gyrations just another mask, like the opaque veil she had cast aside? Jardir honestly did not know.
He stood up, lifting her off him. “I am in no mood for such games.”
Inevera’s eyes widened, but she held her temper. “This says differently,” she purred, squeezing his stiffened member.
Jardir pushed her away. “It does not rule me,” he said, redoing the fastenings at his waist.
Inevera gave him the look of a coiled snake, and for a moment he thought she would attack him, but then her dama’ting serenity returned. She shrugged as if his refusal was no matter, glided from the dais, hers hips swaying hypnotically as she descended.
Hasik touched his forehead to the marble floor before the dais of the Skull Throne.
“I have brought the khaffit, Deliverer,” he said with distaste. When Jardir nodded, the guards opened the door and Abban limped in. When he drew close to the dais, Hasik shoved Abban forward, meaning to drive him to his knees, but Abban was quick with his crutch and somehow managed to keep his feet.
“Kneel before Shar’Dama Ka!” Hasik roared, but Jardir raised a hand to stay him.
“If I am to die, at least allow me to do it on my feet,” Abban said.
Jardir smiled. “What makes you think I wish to kill you?”
“Am I not another loose thread to be clipped?” Abban asked. “Like the Par’chin before me?” Hasik growled and his grip tightened on his spear as his eyes filled with murderous rage.
“Leave us,” Jardir said, whisking a hand at Hasik and the other guards. As they complied, Jardir descended from the dais to stand before Abban.
“You speak things best left unspoken,” he said quietly.
“He was your friend, Ahmann,” Abban said, ignoring him. “But then, I suppose I was once, as well.”
“The Par’chin showed you the spear,” Jardir realized suddenly. “You, a simpering fat khaffit, laid eyes on the Spear of Kaji before me!”
“I did,” Abban agreed, “and I knew it for what it was. But I did not steal it from him, though I could have. A simpering fat khaffit I may be, but I am no thief.”
Jardir laughed. “No thief? Abban, that is all you are! You steal relics from the dead and cheat men in the bazaar every day!”
Abban shrugged. “I see no crime in salvaging what no man claims is his, and haggling is just another form of battle, with no dishonor to the victor. I speak of killing a man—a friend—that you might take what is his.”
Jardir snarled and his arm shot out, taking Abban by the throat. The fat merchant gasped and clutched at Jardir’s fingers, but he might as well have tried to bend steel. His knees buckled, putting his full weight on the arm, but still Jardir held him up. Abban’s face began to turn purple.
“I will not have my honor questioned by a khaffit,” he said. “My loyalty is to Krasia and Everam before friends, however brave they may be.
“Where are your loyalties, Abban?” he asked. “Do you even have any, beyond protecting your own fat skin?” He released Abban, who fell to the floor, gasping for air.
“What does it matter?” Abban choked out after a moment. “With the Par’chin dead, Krasia has no use for me.”
“The Par’chin is not the only greenlander in the world,” Jardir said, “and no Krasian knows of the green lands like Abban the khaffit. You are of use to me yet.”
Abban raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked, the fear leaving his voice.
“I don’t have to answer your questions, khaffit,” Jardir said. “You will tell me what I wish to know either way.”
“Of course,” Abban said with a nod, “but it might be easier to simply answer my question than to call your torturers and sift the knowledge from my screams.”
Jardir considered him a moment, then shook his head and chuckled despite himself. “I had forgotten that you find your courage when there is a scent of profit in the air,” he said, reaching out a hand to pull Abban to his feet.
Abban bowed with a smile. “Inevera, my friend. We are all as Everam made us.” For a moment, the years fell away, and they were to each other as they once had been.
“I am going to begin Sharak Sun, the Daylight War,” Jardir said. “As Kaji before me, I will conquer the green lands and unite them all for Sharak Ka.”
“Ambitious,” Abban said, but there was doubtful condescension in his tone.
“You do not think I can do this?” Jardir asked. “I am the Deliverer!”
“No, Ahmann, you are not,” Abban said quietly. “If it was anyone, we both know it was the Par’chin.”
Jardir glared at him, and Abban glared right back, as if daring Jardir to strike him.
“So you won’t help me willingly,” Jardir said.
Abban smiled. “I never said that, my friend. There is great profit in war.”
“But you doubt I can succeed,” Jardir said.
Abban shrugged. “The Northland is far bigger than you think, Ahmann, and more populous than Krasia by far.”
Jardir scoffed. “You doubt any ten, any hundred Northern cowards can match even one dal’Sharum?”
Abban shook his head. “I would never doubt you about great things like battle. But I am khaffit, and doubt small things.” He looked at Jardir pointedly. “Like the food and water supplies you would need to cross the desert. The men you would need to leave behind to hold the Desert Spear and captured territory. The wagonloads of khaffit to serve the army’s needs, and women to sate their lusts. And who would protect the women and children you leave behind? The dama? What will they turn this city into while you are gone?”