The Skull Throne

“That is as much a weakness as strength,” Qeran said, “if one must give up protection to strike a blow.”

“Perhaps,” Akas said, “but what a blow! The speartip split the rock demon’s scales as easily as plunging into water. Observe.”

He took the spearhead back to the anvil, using a different clamp to secure it vertically, point down. Again he lifted the sledge and struck hard. There was a great clang, and Abban and Qeran both gaped to see the speartip embedded over an inch into the iron. Again Akas struck, and again, each blow hammering the spearhead in like a nail into wood. On the fourth blow, the anvil split in half.

Qeran moved to the anvil, touching the cracked metal reverently. “The Andrah must hear of this. Every warrior must have one. Sharak Ka will be ours!”

“The Andrah already knows,” Abban lied, “as do the Deliverer and Damajah. On your life and hope of Heaven, Qeran, you will speak of it to no other. Just the thin sliver used in the glass is worth more than a Damaji’s palace, and there is not enough to equip even a fraction of our forces.”

Abban’s lips curled in a smile as Qeran’s own fell away. “But that doesn’t mean my drillmaster and his most trusted lieutenants should not have these.”

The drillmaster’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Come, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “If you stand there gaping, we shall be late for our appointment.”

Drillmaster Qeran kept pace with Abban as they strode through the new bazaar, a huge district of Everam’s Bounty determined to recapture—and exceed—the vast glory of the Great Bazaar of Krasia.

Already, there had been great strides. The Northerners had not taken well to Evejan law, but they understood commerce, and there were as many chin as there were dal’ting and khaffit working and shopping in the hundreds of kiosks and stalls lining the streets. To Abban, it felt almost like home, save without the ever-present heat and dust.

Evejan law meant little in the bazaar. For every merchant loudly hawking wares, another was quietly whispering of items and services forbidden by the Evejah, or otherwise prohibited by the dama. Gambling. The flesh of pigs. Couzi. Weapons. Books. Relics from before the Return. All could be found in the bazaar if one had money to pay and knew whom and how to ask.

For the most part, this was permitted. Indeed, some of the biggest consumers of illegal goods were the dama and Sharum themselves, and no one would dare arrest them. Women and khaffit were less fortunate, and were occasionally condemned and made public examples of by the dama.

Standing well over six feet tall, armed with spear and shield and Everam only knew how many hidden weapons, Qeran still looked uncomfortable. His eyes flicked everywhere, as if expecting ambush at any moment.

“You seem nervous, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “How is it a man who stands fast before the alagai in darkness should fear to walk a street in the brightness of day?”

Qeran spat on the ground. “This place is as much a Maze as any used to trap alagai.”

Abban chuckled. “That is so, Drillmaster. The bazaar is made to trap purses instead of demons, but the idea is much the same. Customers are drawn in easily, but find egress more difficult. Streets twist and dead-end, and armies of merchants are ready to pounce on the unwary.”

“It’s easy to know who the enemy is in the Maze,” Qeran said. “Men are brothers in the night, and alagai don’t come offering gifts and lies.” He looked around warily, dropping a hand to his purse as if to reassure himself it was there. “Here, everyone is an enemy.”

“Not when you’re with me,” Abban said. “Here, I am Andrah and Sharum Ka both. Even now, people mark us together. Return tomorrow, and they will fall over themselves to find your favor, in hopes that you might bring good word of them to me.”

Qeran spat again. “I have wives to shop the bazaar for me. Let us be about out business and be gone from this place.”

“Soon enough,” Abban said. “You know your part?”

Qeran grunted. “I have been breaking boys and building men from the pieces since before you were born, khaffit. Leave it to me.”

“No lectures about the sacred black?” Abban asked.

Qeran shrugged. “I have seen the boys. They are lax. Weak. Jurim and Shanjat spoiled them to turn them against you, and it will take a firm hand to turn them back. They will need to feel as nie’Sharum again.”

Abban nodded. “Do this for me, Drillmaster, and you will be compensated beyond dreams of avarice.”

Qeran dismissed the offer with a wave of disgust. “Pfagh. You have given me back sharak, son of Chabin. This is the least I can give in return. A man is nothing without the respect of his sons.”

“This is the place,” Abban said, pointing to an eating establishment. The front porch was filled with patrons at low tables, taking midday meal, smoking, and drinking bitter Krasian coffee. Women scurried to and fro, bringing a steady stream of full cups and bowls from inside, returning with empties and jingling purses full of draki.

Abban led them into the alleyway, rapping his crutch on a side entrance. A boy in tan opened the door, deftly catching the coin Abban flipped him as he escorted them down a rear stair.

The clatter of dice and shouted bets filled the air, a sweet haze of pipe smoke. They stopped behind a curtain, watching as a group of Sharum drank couzi over a dicing table piled high with coin.

“The dama’ting should … ah,” Abban said, spotting Asavi coming down the main stair. Her white robes stood out in the dark basement, but the men, intent on the wards carved into the dice faces, did not notice her approach until she was upon them.

“What is this?!” Asavi shouted, and the Sharum all jumped. One of the men—Abban’s son Shusten—whirled toward her, spilling his cup. The dama’ting pretended to step back, but gave the sleeve of her robe a masterful flick, catching the spill.

There was a tense silence as Asavi regarded her sleeve, none of the warriors even daring to breathe.

Asavi touched the wetness, bringing her fingers to her nose. “Is this … couzi?” She shrieked the last word, and the men nearly pissed their bidos. Even Abban felt terrified, though he himself had arranged the meeting. It was a scene not unlike the one thirty years past, when his father, Chabin, accidentally spilled ink on a dama’s robe, and was put to death on the spot. He swallowed a lump at the memory. Perhaps it was fitting his sons should take a similar lesson.

“Forgive me, dama’ting!” Shusten cried, snatching a cloth of dubious cleanliness and reaching out to grab her sleeve, blotting ineffectually at the stain. “I will clean …”

“How dare you?!” Asavi cried, pulling her sleeve free of his grasp. She caught his wrist, pulling the arm straight and whirling to slam her open palm into the back of Shusten’s elbow. His arm broke with an audible snap, much as Chabin’s neck had.

Shusten screamed, but it was choked off as the dama’ting struck again, this time at his throat. “You will clean it with your blood, fool!” She bent forward, kicking her right leg back and curling it up and over her head, kicking him in the face.

“Beautiful,” Qeran whispered, watching her art. Abban glanced at him. He would never understand warriors.

Shusten fell back, nose shattered, and crashed into the dicing table, sending coin and couzi scattering in all directions. The Sharum broke away, far less worried about their money than the dama’ting’s wrath.