“While I do love the artistry of your threats, Damajah, I’m afraid we have no time for them, if you wish to have my news before it reaches the ears of the Damaji.”
Abban’s words were as flip as ever, but his clipped tone left no doubt that his news would put her fragile rule to the test at a time when Krasia could ill afford further instability.
“What is it?” she said.
“I am surrounded by your lovely bodyguards outside, and cannot speak freely,” the khaffit said, “and this news is best discussed in person. Invite me in, please.”
Invite him in. To her private pillow chamber. The one she shared with the Deliverer himself. The khaffit invited death with the very suggestion. Simply entering this wing of the palace carried a hundred sentences far worse, if he should be seen. Was he mad?
No. Abban was many things, but mad was not one of them. If he was here, it was only because he was certain the news could not wait, and was more valuable than his life should he delay. Her fingers gave a quick dance, and a shadow flitted across the room. A moment later, Ashia returned with the khaffit.
“Speak,” Inevera said.
Abban glanced at Ashia, hovering disapprovingly at his side. He looked back at Inevera and inclined his head slightly toward the door.
“You forfeited your life the moment you walked through that door, khaffit,” Inevera said. “If you do not pay me its worth in the next few seconds, Ashia will collect it.”
Abban paled, the usual smug demeanor fallen from his face. Inevera could see the sudden fear that washed over his aura. It was not a mask.
“Speak,” she said again. “Ashia guards my sleep. There is nothing I do not trust her with.”
“The chin are in rebellion,” Abban said.
It took a moment for the words to register. Rebellion? From the greenlanders?
“Impossible,” she said. “Unthinkable. The chin of Fort Rizon broke like slate to the hammer when our armies came, and the villages gave up without a fight. They would not dare oppose us.”
“Slate may break easily,” Abban said, “but it leaves behind a thousand shards that may cut those who do not take care.”
Inevera felt her stomach twist. She breathed, finding her center. “What has happened?”
“The sharaji in seven of the chin villages are ablaze,” Abban said. “All at once, at the sounding of the horns ending alagai’sharak, while all the warriors and eldest nie’Sharum were afield.”
“The children?” Inevera asked. The eldest nie’Sharum, boys of twelve or more, acted as spotters and signal runners for the Watchers in alagai’sharak, but the younger boys, ranging from seven to eleven, should have been asleep in their barracks.
“Taken before the fires were set,” Abban said. “Krasian children as well as chin. The dama watching over them were brutally killed.”
Inevera’s jaw tightened. It all came to the children. Taking them for Hannu Pash had been the hardest demand the Krasians placed upon the chin after they surrendered and placed their foreheads on the ground before the dama.
For their children, the chin would fight. She wondered how long they had been meeting in secret, planning this. More insidious was the matter of the Krasian children, young enough to have their wills broken. Raised as chin, they would make valuable spies for the greenlanders.
Seven fires. Seven villages. Not a fraction of the hundreds of villages throughout Everam’s Bounty, but a significant number. A sacred number. It could not be coincidence.
“Which tribes were struck?” she asked, already guessing the answer.
“Shunjin, Halvas, Khanjin, Jama, Anjha, Bajin, and Sharach,” Abban said. “The seven smallest. Those that would be stung most deeply by the loss of a sharaj and class of nie’Sharum.”
Inevera was not surprised. Their enemies had studied them well.
“Have you caught the men responsible?” Inevera asked.
Abban shook his head. “They are not mine to catch, Damajah. And the Sharum are still fighting the fires, lest they spread. The culprits are vanished into the darkness.”
A darkness they feared before our armies came, Inevera thought. We taught them to stand tall in the night, and they use it against us.
“You say the fires still burn,” Inevera said. “How is it you have this information so quickly? Before the Damaji who rule those villages, or the Andrah himself?”
Abban smiled and gave a shrug. “I have contacts in every village in Everam’s Bounty, Damajah, and pay well for news that can bring me profit.”
“Profit?” Inevera asked.
“There is always profit to be found in chaos, Damajah.” Abban glanced at Ashia. “Even if one must buy back one’s life first.”
Inevera gave a wave, and Ashia withdrew, vanishing again into the shadows. She did not leave the room, but after a moment even Inevera lost track of her.
“How long until the Damaji hear of this?” Inevera asked.
Abban shrugged. “An hour, at most. Likely less. There will be blood, Damajah. Rivers of it, when they fail to find the guilty parties.”
“What makes you so certain they will fail?” Inevera asked, though she did not disagree.
“Six months and more since we conquered them, Damajah, and the local dama do not so much as speak the chin language, much less understand their ways,” Abban said. “Instead we force our language on them, our ways.”
“The ways of the Evejah,” Inevera said. “Everam’s ways.”
“Kaji’s ways,” Abban said. “Interpreted by corrupt Damaji to their own ends over the centuries.”
Inevera pressed her lips together. She had listened in many times as Abban whispered blasphemy into her husband’s ear, and in truth she often agreed with his words, but it was a different thing to ignore words she was never supposed to have heard than to ignore them spoken to her face.
“Have a care with your blasphemy, khaffit,” she said. “I know your value, but I will not be so tolerant as my husband.”
Abban smiled, giving a shallow bow. “My apologies, Damajah.” There was no hint of the fear that had taken his aura a few moments earlier. Inevera would indeed tolerate much from Abban. More and more she understood the insidious nature of the khaffit. So long as he was loyal, she would overlook most anything.
And Abban knew it.
“Your husband and I went to a village called Baha kad’Everam when we were nie’Sharum, Damajah.”
Inevera had heard of the khaffit village. The pottery master Dravazi had lived there, and many of his works adorned her palace. “The Bowl of Everam lost contact with the Desert Spear many years ago. Taken by demons, I believe.”
Abban nodded. “Clay demons, to be precise. They infest the place. Would have killed me, if not for Ahmann. They nearly killed the Par’chin years later, when I sent him there on an errand.”
“Why are you telling me this, khaffit?” Inevera kept her serene exterior, but she was paying close attention. Abban couldn’t know that her dice had told her the Par’chin was as likely the Deliverer as her husband. Her own mother was the only person she had trusted with the information, though Ahmann had later guessed it with the aid of his crownsight.
The fact that both would-be Deliverers had visited some obscure, distant village in connection with Abban was too great a coincidence to ignore. Everam’s hand was in it. She would have to learn everything there was to know about the place.