The Skull Throne

“Perhaps,” Ashan said. This time, he did not so much as glance at Inevera. “But it is not here yet. The dama will remain behind the wards.”

Asome pressed his lips together, and again, Abban was reminded how young he was. Jayan cast a hint of smirk his way, but Asome arched his back, holding hard to his pride and pretending not to see.

“It is decided,” Inevera said. “On the first dawn following Waning, Jayan and his warriors will depart to strike a crushing blow in Everam’s name.”

Jayan bowed again. “Docktown will the ours and Lakton in a submission hold before they even know we are close.”

Inevera nodded. “Of that I have no doubt. We will need a strict accounting of all your expenses, however, and of the captured harvest.”

“Eh?” Jayan asked. “Am I a khaffit, to be spending my time with ledgers and lattices when my men are shedding blood?”

“Of course not,” Inevera said. “That is why Abban will accompany you.”

“Eh?” Abban asked, feeling his stomach drop into his balls.

CHAPTER 11

DOCKTOWN

333 AR WINTER

“Damajah, there must be some mistake,” Abban said. “My duties here—”

“Can wait,” Inevera’s voice in his ear cut him off. That she had refused to see him, deigning only to speak via hora ring, said more than any words about the finality of the decision.

“You have made your case too well, khaffit,” the Damajah continued. “We must have the Laktonian tithe to keep our forces strong, and we both know Jayan is more likely to shit in the Laktonian grain for spite than he is to tally and ship it back to Everam’s Bounty. You must see to that.”

“Damajah, your son hates me,” Abban said. “Out beyond your reach …”

“It may be you who catches a stray arrow and does not return?” Inevera asked. “Yes, that is true. You will need to take care, but so long as you handle the aspects of war he does not wish to, Jayan will see the value in letting you live.”

“And his bodyguard Hasik, who my own men castrated?” Abban asked.

“It was you let out that djinn, khaffit,” Inevera replied. “It is up to you to find a way to close it. Hasik’s passing would fill no tear bottles.”

Abban sighed. With Qeran and Earless at his side at all times, Hasik was unlikely to strike at him, and he could make himself useful enough to Jayan to ingratiate for a short time. Undoubtedly, there was a fortune to be made in Lakton. Many fortunes, for one with a sharp eye.

“So I may return with the tithe?” he asked. He could last a few weeks, surely.

“You may return when Lakton flies a Krasian flag, and not before,” Inevera said. “The dice say wisdom will be needed in the taking, and of that, my son’s court has little. You must guide them.”

“Me?” Abban gaped. “Conduct war and give orders to the Deliverer’s son? These things are above my caste, Damajah.”

Inevera laughed at that. “Khaffit, please. Do not insult us both.”

As Inevera had predicted, Waning had brought no unusual levels of attack from the alagai, but even the rebels amongst the chin were not fool enough not to weaken the defenses in the dark of new moon. Dawn after the third night came all too soon.

“As soon as the road is secure, I want daily updates on every operation,” Abban told Jamere.

Jamere rolled his eyes. “You’ve told me that seven times now, Uncle.”

“A dama should know that seven is a holy number,” Abban said. “Holier still is seven times seventy, and that is how many times I will tell you, if that is what it takes to penetrate your thick head.”

There were few dama in the world a khaffit could take such a tone with—lacking a wish to journey the lonely path—but Jamere was Abban’s nephew. He had become arrogant and insufferable since being raised to the white, but Abban would never have taken the boy in if he had not been clever. Clever enough to understand his life of ease was entirely dependent on keeping his uncle happy. He would leave the running of the business to the women of the family, Abban’s sisters and wives, and act as a figurehead to sign papers and threaten any who dare encroach on Abban’s territory in his absence.

“By Everam and all that is holy, I swear I shall send you missives daily,” Jamere said with a cocksure bow.

“Everam’s balls, boy,” Abban chuckled. “I trust that promise least of all!”

He hugged the boy, as close to a son as any of his own spawn, and kissed his cheeks.

“Enough filling tear bottles like wives at dusk,” Qeran snapped. “Your new walls are strong, Abban, but they will be put to the test if the Sharum Ka must come and collect you.”

The drillmaster sat atop one of the giant greenland horses. There was no sign of the drunken cripple Abban had found in a pool of his own piss mere months ago. Qeran’s right stirrup was specially designed to fit his metal leg, and he handled the animal expertly, unhindered.

“Every. Day,” he whispered in Jamere’s ear one last time.

Jamere laughed. “Go, Uncle.” He gave Abban a gentle shove toward his camel, steadying the ropes of the cursed stepladder with his own weight as Abban struggled to climb.

“Shall I have them fetch a winch?” Jamere asked.

Abban put the foot of his crutch down on the young cleric’s fingers, putting weight on them as he ascended another step. Jamere gasped and pulled his hand away as the weight lifted, but he was still smirking as he shook the pain from it.

Abban reached the top of the beast’s back at last, strapping himself in. Unlike Qeran, Abban could not ride a horse for any length of time without pain beyond his ability to endure. Easier to lounge in the canopied seat atop his favorite camel. The animal was stubborn, as apt to bite or spit as obey, but it was as fast as a Krasian charger when whipped, and speed would be of the essence in an overland march.

He kept his eyes ahead until the procession was through the gates, then paused, turning back to give one last longing look at the thick walls of his compound. It was the first place he’d felt secure since Ahmann led his people from the Desert Spear. The crete was hardly dry on the walls, his guards only just accustomed to their routines, and already he had to leave the place behind.

“Not as pretty as a Damaji’s palace,” Qeran said at his side, “but as strong a fortress as the Desert Spear.”

“Return me to it alive, Drillmaster,” Abban said, “and I shall make you richer than a Damaji.”

“What need have I for wealth?” Qeran asked. “I have my honor, my spear, and Sharak. A warrior needs no more.”

The Drillmaster laughed at Abban’s worried look. “Fear not, khaffit! I have sworn to you now, for better or worse. Honor demands I return you safely, or die in the attempt.”

Abban smiled. “The former, if you please, Drillmaster. Or both, if need be.”

Qeran nodded, kicking his horse and starting the procession. Behind them followed Abban’s Hundred, kha’Sharum handpicked and trained by Qeran. The Deliverer’s decree granted him one hundred warriors and one hundred only, but Abban had taken one hundred twenty in case some failed or were crippled in training.

Thus far all had excelled, but the training had only just begun. Abban would return them when the Skull Throne demanded it and not a moment before. He wished he could take them all to Lakton, and his five hundred chi’Sharum as well, but Jamere and Abban’s women needed men to guard his holdings, and it would not do to show his full strength to Jayan’s court. At least a few of them could count past a hundred.