The Desert Spear

Qasha drew herself up. “I am dama’ting, and owe you no—”

“You are my jiwah!” Jardir roared, and she quailed in the face of it. “The Evejah grants no exceptions to dama’ting when it commands wives to obedience!” It was bad enough that Inevera flaunted that sacred law as she pleased, but Jardir would be damned if he gave all his wives the same power. He was Sharum Ka!

“I did not leave the wards!” Qasha cried, holding out her hands. “I swear it!”

“Did you lie about the Andrah’s words?” Jardir asked, clenching a fist.

“No!” Qasha cried.

“Then the Andrah was here, in my palace?” Jardir asked.

“Please, I am forbidden to speak of it,” Qasha said, casting her eyes down in submission.

Jardir grabbed her roughly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No one may forbid you anything over me!”

Qasha thrashed and pulled from his grasp, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She burst into tears, shaking as she covered her face in her hands. She looked so frail and afraid that all the anger fell from him. He knelt and put his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Of all my wives,” he said, “you are the most favored. I ask only your loyalty. You will not be punished for your answer, I swear.”

She looked up at him with round, wet eyes, and he pushed back her hair, brushing away tears with his thumb. She pulled back, looking to the floor. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely make out her words.

“All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night,” she said, “when the master is at alagai’sharak.”

Jardir choked down a blast of anger. “And when will the palace next be stirred?”

Qasha shook her head. “I do not know,” she whimpered.

“Then cast the bones and find out,” Jardir ordered.

She looked up at him, scandalized. “I could never!”

Jardir growled, his anger flaring again, as he silently cursed the day he had married dama’ting. Even if she were not carrying his child, Jardir could not strike Qasha, and she knew it. There was a layer of Nie’s abyss reserved for any man who harmed a dama’ting.

But Jardir refused to be dominated by every one of his wives because he could not discipline as the Evejah taught. There were other ways to frighten her.

“I tire of your disobedience, jiwah,” he said. “Cast them, or I will send the Sharach to the first layer, and your tribe will be consumed by the night. The boys will be cast from Hannu Pash as khaffit, and the women left to whore for lesser tribes.” He would do no such thing, of course, but she need not know that.

“You would not dare!” Qasha said.

“Why should I allow your tribe honor, when you deny me mine?” Jardir demanded.

She was crying openly now, but Qasha nevertheless reached for the thick bag of black felt every dama’ting carried at all times. Hers was secured to her bare waist with a strand of colored beads.

Used to the practice by now, Jardir moved to draw the heavy velvet curtains, blocking any hint of sunlight that might break the magic and render the dice useless.

Qasha lit a candle. She looked at him, fear in her eyes. “Swear to me,” she begged. “Swear that you will never tell the Jiwah Ka that I did this for you.”

Inevera. Of course Jardir expected his First Wife to be at the center of any intrigue in his palace, but it cut him to hear it. He was Sharum Ka now, and still not fit to know her plans.

“I swear by Everam and the blood of my sons,” Jardir said.

Qasha nodded and cast the bones. Jardir watched their evil light and wondered for the first time if perhaps they were not Everam’s voice on Ala.

“Tonight,” Qasha whispered.

Jardir nodded. “Put the bones away. We will speak no more of this.”

“And the Sharach?” Qasha asked.

“I would never have vented my rage upon my son’s tribe,” Jardir said, laying a hand on her belly. Qasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, deflating as the tension left her.

As the sun came to the end of its arc, Jardir left Qasha sleeping on the bed of pillows and donned his blacks and white turban. He chose his favorite spear and shield, and went down to meet his kai’Sharum at dinner.

They feasted on spiced meat and cool water, served by Jardir’s mother, dal’ting wives, and sisters. His dama’ting wives were no doubt lurking in the shadows, listening in, but they would never deign to serve at his table, jiwah or no. Ashan, his spiritual advisor, sat at the foot of the table, facing him. Shanjat, who had succeeded Jardir as kai’Sharum of his personal unit, sat at Jardir’s right hand, and Hasik, his personal bodyguard, at his left.

“What were our losses last night?” Jardir asked as they had their tea.

“We lost four last night, First Warrior,” Ashan said.

Jardir looked at him in surprise. “The Kaji lost four?”

Ashan smiled. “No, my friend. Krasia lost four. Two Baiters and two Watchers. All dal’Sharum past their primes and gone to glory.”

Jardir returned the smile. Since he’d become Sharum Ka, nightly losses had dwindled as demon kills had increased.

“And alagai?” he asked. “How many saw the sun?”

“More than five hundred,” Ashan said.

Jardir laughed. He doubted the true number was half that, with every tribe habitually exaggerating their kills, but it was still a fine night’s work, far more that the previous Sharum Ka had achieved.

“The tribes in the eighth layer still saw no glory,” Ashan said. “We were considering leaving the Maze gates open longer tonight to ensure there are enough alagai for all to kill.”

Jardir nodded. “An extra ten minutes. If that is not enough, add another ten tomorrow. I will be on the walls tonight, inspecting the new scorpions and rock slingers.”

Ashan bowed. “As the Sharum Ka commands.”

After the meal, they left for Sharik Hora, where the Damaji praised their successes and blessed the coming night’s battle. As the warriors left for the Maze, Jardir held his two lieutenants back.

“You will wear the white turban tonight, Hasik,” Jardir said.

A wild light came to Hasik’s eyes. “As the Sharum Ka commands.” He bowed.

“You cannot be serious!” Ashan said. “To have a dal’Sharum impersonate the Sharum Ka is a violation of our sacred oaths!”

“Nonsense,” Jardir said. “There are tales in the Evejah of Kaji playing such games frequently, when he did not wish his movements known.”

“Forgive me, First Warrior,” Ashan said, “but you are not the Deliverer.”