The Skull Throne

It was clear Abban knew this, approaching the pavilion surrounded by his kha’Sharum warriors. The dal’Sharum still sneered at warriors in tan, but the eunuch spies Inevera had sent to Abban’s compound had been found dead, and that spoke volumes for the khaffit warriors’ skill. She had seen, too, the glow of power in their weapons and equipment, carefully disguised with worn leather and paint to hide their fine quality. Not even the elite Spears of the Deliverer, with their shields and spearheads of warded glass, were equipped better.

You have grown formidable, khaffit. The thought did not please her, but neither did it worry her as it once had. She had not understood weeks ago when the dice told her Abban’s fate was intertwined with her own, but it was clear now. They were Ahmann’s closest, most trusted advisors and, up until a few hours ago, had been untouchable with vast discretionary powers. But with her husband gone, much of that power would evaporate. Inevera would have to work quickly and carefully to install Ashan, but once the reins were passed it would still be his voice, not hers, that led their people. Ashan was not as wise – or as pliable – as Ahmann.

Abban was in an even worse position. Formidable though his kha’Sharum were, the crippled merchant would be lucky to live another day once his enemies ceased to fear Ahmann’s wrath should he be harmed. Not long ago the thought of his death would have pleased her greatly. Now she needed him. The khaffit knew every last draki in the Deliverer’s treasury, every debt of the throne, every grain in his silos. More, Ahmann trusted him with schemes and secrets he did not even share with the Damaji. Troop movements. Battle plans. Targets.

The fat khaffit’s smile as he limped into her audience chamber showed he knew her need, Everam damn him.

At Abban’s back was the giant kha’Sharum bodyguard that had become his shadow in recent weeks. The deaf man who had been one of the first to answer the Deliverer’s call. He had given up his weapons to enter, but seemed no less formidable as he loomed over the khaffit’s shoulder. Abban was not a short man, even stooping to lean on his crutch, but his bodyguard stood head and shoulders above him.

‘I commanded we meet in private, khaffit,’ Inevera said.

Abban bowed as deeply as his camel-topped crutch allowed. ‘Apologies, Damajah, but the dal’Sharum no longer have Ahmann to hold their leash. Surely you will not deny me a modicum of security? Earless is deaf as a stone, and will hear nothing of our words.’

‘Even a deaf man may hear,’ Inevera said, ‘if he has eyes to watch a speaker’s mouth.’

Abban bowed again. ‘This is so, though of course the Damajah’s veil prevents this, even if my humble servant had learned the art, which I swear by Everam he has not.’

Inevera believed him – a rare occurrence. Her own eunuch guards had given up their tongues to protect her secrets, and she knew Abban would value a man who could not overhear and be made to betray his many intrigues. Still, it was best not to yield too much.

‘He may guard the door,’ Inevera said, turning to saunter to the pillows on the far side of the chamber with a swing to her hips. Abban had never dared ogle her before, but she wondered if he might now, with Ahmann gone. That would be something she could use. She glanced over her shoulder, but Abban was not looking. He made a few quick gestures to the giant, who moved with a silent grace that belied his great size to stand by the door.

Abban limped over, easing himself carefully down onto the pillows across from her. He kept his inviting smile in place, but a flick of his eyes at his bodyguard betrayed his fears. He knew Inevera could kill him long before the giant could cross the room, and even Earless would fear to strike the Damajah. She could kill the kha’Sharum as well, in any of a hundred ways – not the least of which was a whisk of her fingers to her own bodyguards, Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah, hidden just out of sight.

There was a silver tea service between them, the pot still steaming. At a nod from her, the khaffit poured and served.

‘You honour me with your summons, Damajah.’ Abban sat back with his cup. ‘May I ask the reason why?’

‘To offer you protection, of course,’ Inevera said.

Abban looked sincerely surprised, though of course it was an act. ‘Since when does the Damajah place such value upon poor, honourless Abban?’

‘My husband values you,’ Inevera said, ‘and will be wroth if you are dead upon his return. You would be wise to accept my help. The dice tell me your life will be short indeed without it. My sons hate you even more than the Damaji, and that is a very great deal. And do not think Hasik has forgotten who cut his manhood away.’

Inevera had expected the words to rattle the khaffit. She had seen his cowardice reveal itself in the face of danger before. But this was the bargaining table, and Abban knew it.

He has a coward’s heart, Ahmann once told her, but there is steel in Abban to put Sharum to shame, when the haggling has begun.

Abban smiled and nodded. ‘It is so, Damajah. But things are no less dire for you. How long will the Damaji let you sit atop the seven steps without your husband? A woman sitting above them is an insult they have never borne well.’

Inevera felt her jaw begin to tighten. How long since any save her husband had dared speak to her thus? And from a khaffit. She wanted to break his other leg.

But for all the audacity, his words were true enough, so Inevera let them pass over her like wind.

‘All the more reason we must ally,’ she said. ‘We must find a way to trust, as Ahmann commanded, or both of us may walk the lonely path before long.’

‘What are you asking?’ Abban said.

‘You will report to me as you did to my husband,’ Inevera said. ‘Bring your tallies and schemes to me before they are presented to the council of Damaji.’

Abban raised an eyebrow. ‘And in return?’

Inevera smiled, visible through the gossamer lavender veil she wore. ‘As I said, protection.’

Abban chuckled. ‘You’ll forgive me, Damajah, but you have fewer warriors at your command than I, and still not enough to protect me should one of the Damaji or your sons decide to be rid of me at last.’

‘I have fear,’ Inevera said. ‘My sons fear me. The Damaji fear me.’

‘They feared you, yes,’ Abban agreed, ‘but how much of that fear will last when a new backside sits the Skull Throne? Absolute power has a way of emboldening a man.’

‘No power is absolute save that of Everam.’ Inevera held up her dice. ‘With Ahmann gone, I am His voice on Ala.’

‘That, and three draki, will buy you a basket,’ Abban said.

The phrase was a common one in Krasia, but it put Inevera on edge nevertheless. Her mother was a basket weaver with a successful business in the bazaar. No doubt Abban – who controlled half the commerce in Everam’s Bounty – had dealings with her, but Inevera had worked tirelessly to ensure her family remained safely anonymous, out of the politics and intrigues that ruled her world.

Were they just words, or a subtle threat? Useful or not, Inevera would not hesitate to kill Abban to protect her family.

Again, Inevera wished she could see into the hearts of men and women as her husband did. The thick canvas walls of the pavilion let her see the khaffit’s aura, albeit dimly, but the subtle variations and patterns of shifting colour that Ahmann read as easily as words on a page were a mystery to her.

‘I think you’ll find my words carry more weight than you think,’ Inevera said.

‘If you secure your position,’ Abban agreed. ‘We are discussing why I should help you do that. Not every man in the Deliverer’s court is a complete fool, Damajah. I may never enjoy the power I did with Ahmann, but I could still find protection and profit if I side with another.’

‘I will grant you a permanent position at court,’ Inevera said. ‘To witness firsthand every dealing you can twist into a way to fill your greedy pockets.’

‘Better,’ Abban said, ‘but I have spies throughout the Deliverer’s court. More than even you can root out.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ Inevera said. ‘But very well. I will offer something even you cannot refuse.’

‘Oh?’ Abban seemed amused at the thought. ‘In the bazaar, those words are a threat, but I think you will find I am not so easily bullied as I may appear.’

‘No threats,’ Inevera said. ‘No bullying.’ She smiled. ‘At least not for coercion. They will be a promise, should you break our pact.’

Abban grinned. ‘You have my fullest attention. What does the Damajah think my heart desires above all?’

‘Your leg,’ Inevera said.

‘Eh?’ Abban started.

‘I can heal your leg,’ Inevera said. ‘Right now, if you wish. A simple matter. You could throw your crutch on the fire and walk out on two firm feet.’ She winked at him. ‘Though if I know sly Abban, you would limp out the way you came, and never let any know until there was profit in doing so.’

A doubtful look crossed the khaffit’s face. ‘If it’s such a simple matter, why didn’t the dama’ting heal me when it was first shattered? Why cost the Kaji a warrior by leaving me lame?’

‘Because healing is the costliest of hora magics,’ Inevera said. ‘At the time we did not have warded weapons to bring us an endless supply of alagai bones to power our spells. Even now, they must be rendered and treated, a difficult process.’ She circled a finger around her teacup. ‘We cast the dice for you, all those years ago, to see if it was worth the price. Do you know what they said?’

Abban sighed. ‘That I was no warrior, and would provide little return on the investment.’

Inevera nodded.