The Warded Man

by Peter V. Brett

  Abban examined the goods from Arlen’s clients in the North while Arlen perused the items proposed for trade. Abban found fault with everything, scowling. “You crossed the desert just to trade this lot?” he asked in disgust when he was done. “It hardly seems worth the trip.”

  Arlen hid his grin as they sat and were served fresh tea. Bidding always started this way.

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “A blind man could see I have brought some of the finest treasures Thesa has to offer. Better by far than the sorry goods your women have brought before me. I hope you have more hidden away, because”—he fingered one carpet, a masterwork of weaving—“I’ve seen better carpets rotting in ruins.”

  “You wound me!” Abban cried. “I, who give you water and shade! Woe am I, that a guest in my tent should treat me so!” he lamented. “My wives worked the loom day and night to make that, using only the finest wool! A better carpet you will never see!”

  After that, it was only a matter of haggling, and Arlen had not forgotten the lessons learned watching old Hog and Ragen a lifetime ago. As always, the session ended with both men acting as if they had been robbed, but inwardly feeling they had gotten the better of the other.

  “My daughters will pack up your goods and hold them for your departure,” Abban said at last. “Will you sup with us tonight? My wives prepare a table none in your North can match!”

  Arlen shook his head regretfully. “I go to fight tonight,” he said.

  Abban shook his head. “I fear you have learned our ways too well, Par’chin. You seek the same death.”

  Arlen shook his head. “I have no intent to die, and expect no paradise in the next life.”

  “Ah, my friend, no one intends to go to Everam in the flower of their youth, but that is the fate that awaits those who go to alagai’sharak. I can recall a time when there were as many of us as there are grains of sand in the desert, but now …” He shook his head sadly. “The city is practically empty. We keep the bellies of our wives fat with children, but still more die in the night than are born in the day. If we don’t change our ways, a decade from now Krasia will be consumed by the sand.”

  “What if I told you I had come to change that?” Arlen asked.

  “The son of Jeph’s heart is true,” Abban said, “but the Damaji will not listen to you. Everam demands war, they say, and no chin is going to change their minds.” The Damaji were the city’s ruling council, made up of the highest-ranked dama of each of the twelve Krasian tribes. They served the Andrah, Everam’s most-favored dama, whose word was absolute.

  Arlen smiled. “I can’t turn them from alagai’sharak,” he agreed, “but I can help them win it.” He uncovered his spear and held it out to Abban.

  Abban’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the magnificent weapon, but he raised his palm and shook his head. “I am khaffit, Par’chin. The spear is forbidden to my unclean touch.”

  Arlen drew the weapon back and bowed low in apology. “I meant no offense,” he said.

  “Ha!” Abban laughed. “You may be the only man ever to bow to me! Even the Par’chin need not fear offending khaffit.”

  Arlen scowled. “You are a man like any other,” he said.

  “With that attitude, you will ever be chin,” Abban said, but he smiled. “You’re not the first man to ward a spear,” he said. “Without the combat wards of old, it makes no difference.”

  “They are the wards of old,” Arlen said. “I found this in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

  Abban blanched. “You found the lost city?” he asked. “The map was accurate?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised?” Arlen asked. “I thought you said it was guaranteed!”

  Abban coughed. “Yes, well,” he said, “I trusted our source, of course, but no one has been there in more than three hundred years. Who is to say how accurate the map was?” He smiled. “Besides, it’s not like you were likely to come back for a refund if I was wrong.” They both laughed.

  “By Everam, it is a fine tale, Par’chin,” Abban said when Arlen finished describing his adventure in the lost city, “but if you value your life, you will not tell the Damaji that you looted the holy city of Anoch Sun.”

  “I won’t,” Arlen promised, “but surely they will see the value in the spear, regardless.”

  Abban shook his head. “Even if they agree to grant you audience, Par’chin,” he said, “and I doubt they will, they will refuse to see value in anything a chin brings them.”

  “You may be right,” Arlen said, “but I should at least try. I have messages to deliver to the Andrah’s palace, anyway. Walk with me.”

  Abban held up his crutch. “It is a long way to the palace, Par’chin,” he said.

  “I’ll walk slowly,” Arlen said, knowing the crutch had nothing to do with the refusal.

  “You don’t want to be seen with me outside the market, my friend,” Abban warned. “That alone may cost you the respect you’ve earned in the Maze.”

  “Then I’ll earn more,” Arlen said. “What good is respect, if I can’t walk with my friend?”

  Abban bowed deeply. “One day,” he said, “I wish to see the land that makes noble men like the son of Jeph.”

  Arlen smiled. “When that day comes, Abban, I will take you across the desert myself.”

  Abban grabbed Arlen’s arm. “Stop walking,” he ordered.

  Arlen obeyed, trusting in his friend though he saw nothing amiss. Women walked the street carrying heavy loads, and a group of dal’Sharum walked ahead of them. Another group was approaching from the other direction. Each was led by a dama in white robes.

  “Kaji tribe,” Abban said, pointing with his chin at the warriors ahead of them. “The others are Majah. It would be best for us to wait here a bit.”

  Arlen squinted at the two groups. Both were clad in the same black, and their spears were simple and unadorned. “How can you tell the difference?” he asked.

  Abban shrugged. “How can you not?” he replied.

  As they watched, one of the dama called something to the other. They faced off, and began to argue. “What do you suppose they’re arguing about?” Arlen asked.

  “Always the same thing,” Abban said. “The Kaji dama believe sand demons reside on the third layer of Hell, and wind demons on the fourth. The Majah say the opposite. The Evejah is vague on the point,” he added, referring to the Krasian holy canon.

  “What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.

  “Those on the lower levels are furthest from Everam’s sight,” Abban said, “and should be killed first.”

  The dama were screaming now, and the dal’Sharum on either side were clenching their spears in rage, ready to defend their leaders.

  “They’ll fight one another over which demons to kill first?” Arlen asked, incredulous.

  Abban spat in the dust. “The Kaji will fight the Majah over far less, Par’chin.”

  “But there will be real enemies to fight once the sun sets!” Arlen protested.

  Abban nodded. “And when it does, the Kaji and Majah will stand united,” he said. “As we say, ‘By night, my enemy becomes my brother.’ But sunset is still hours away.”

  One of the Kaji dal’Sharum struck a Majah warrior across the face with the butt of his spear, knocking the man down. In seconds, all the warriors on each side were locked in combat. Their dama stood off to the side, unconcerned by and uninvolved in the violence, continuing to shout at one another.

  “Why is this tolerated?” Arlen asked. “Can’t the Andrah forbid it?”

  Abban shook his head. “The Andrah is supposed to be of all tribes and none, but in truth, he will always favor the tribe he was raised from. And even if he didn’t, not even he can end every blood feud in Krasia. You can’t forbid men from being men.”

  “They’re acting more like children,” Arlen said.

  “The dal’Sharum know only the spear, and the dama the Evejah,” Abban agreed sadly.

  The men were not using the points of th
eir weapons … yet, but the violence was escalating quickly. If someone did not intervene, there would surely be death.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Abban said, gripping Arlen’s arm as he started forward.

  Arlen turned to argue, but his friend, looking over his shoulder, gasped and fell to one knee. He yanked on Arlen’s arm to do the same.

  “Kneel, if you value your hide,” he hissed.

  Arlen looked around, spotting the source of Abban’s fear. A woman walked down the road, swathed in holy white. “Dama’ting” he murmured. The mysterious Herb Gatherers of Krasia were seldom seen.

  He cast his eyes down as she passed, but did not kneel. It made no difference; she took no notice of either of them, proceeding serenely toward the melee, unnoticed until she was almost upon the men. The dama blanched when they saw her, shouting something to their men. At once, the fighting stopped, and the warriors fell over themselves to clear a path for the dama’ting to pass. The warriors and dama quickly dispersed in her wake, and traffic on the road resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “Are you brave, Par’chin, or mad?” Abban asked, when she was gone.

  “Since when do men kneel to women?” Arlen asked, perplexed.

  “Men don’t kneel to dama’ting, but khaffit and chin do, if they are wise,” Abban said. “Even the dama and dal’Sharum fear them. It is said they see the future, knowing which men will live through the night and which will die.”

  Arlen shrugged. “So what if they do?” he asked, clearly doubtful. A dama’ting had cast his fortune the first night he had gone into the Maze, but there had been nothing about the experience to make him believe she could actually see the future.

  “To offend a dama’ting is to offend fate,” Abban said as if Arlen were a fool.

  Arlen shook his head. “We make our own fates,” he said, “even if the dama’ting can cast their bones and see them in advance.”

  “Well, I don’t envy the fate you will make if you offend one,” Abban said.

  They resumed walking and soon reached the Andrah’s palace, an enormous domed structure of white stone that was likely as old as the city itself. Its wards were painted in gold, and glittered in the bright sunlight that fell upon its great spires.

  But they had not set foot on the palace steps before a dama came rushing down to them. “Begone, khaffit!” he shouted.

  “So sorry,” Abban apologized, bowing deeply, eyes on the ground, and backed away. Arlen stood his ground.

  “I am Arlen, son of Jeph, Messenger from the North, known as Par’chin,” he said in Krasian. He planted his spear on the ground, and even wrapped it was clear what it was. “I bring letters and gifts for the Andrah and his ministers,” Arlen went on, holding up his satchel.

  “You keep poor company for one who speaks our tongue, Northerner,” the dama said, still scowling at Abban, who groveled in the dust.

  An angry retort came to Arlen’s lips, but he bit it back.

  “The Par’chin needed directions,” Abban said to the dirt, “I only sought to guide …”

  “I did not ask you to speak, khaffit!” the dama shouted, kicking Abban hard in the side. Arlen’s muscles bunched, but a warning glare from his friend kept him in place.

  The dama turned back as if nothing had happened. “I will take your messages,” he said.

  “The duke of Rizon asked that I deliver a gift to the Damaji personally,” Arlen dared.

  “Not in this life will I let a chin and a khaffit enter the palace,” the dama scoffed.

  The response was disappointing, but not unexpected. Arlen had never managed to see a Damaji. He handed over his letters and packages, scowling as the dama ascended the steps.

  “I am sorry to say I told you so, my friend,” Abban said. “It did not help that I was with you, but I speak true that the Damaji would not suffer an outsider in their presence, even if he was the duke of your Rizon himself. You would have been politely asked to wait, and left forgotten on some silk pillow to lose face.”

  Arlen gritted his teeth. He wondered what Ragen had done when he visited the Desert Spear. Had his mentor tolerated such handling?

  “Now will you sup with me?” Abban asked. “I have a daughter, just fifteen and beautiful. She would make you a good wife in the North, keeping your home for you while you travel.”

  What home? Arlen wondered, thinking of the tiny apartment full of books in Fort Angiers that he hadn’t been to in over a year. He looked at Abban, knowing his scheming friend was more interested in the trade contacts he could make with a daughter in the North than in her happiness or the upkeep of Arlen’s home, in any event.

  “You honor me, my friend,” he replied, “but I’m not ready to quit just yet.”

  “No, I rather thought not,” Abban sighed. “I suppose you will go to see him?”

  “Yes,” Arlen said.

  “He is no more tolerant of my presence than the dama,” Abban warned.

  “He knows your value,” Arlen disagreed.

  Abban shook his head. “He tolerates my existence because of you,” he said. “The Sharum Ka has wanted lessons in the Northern tongue ever since you were first allowed into the Maze.”

  “And, Abban is the only man in Krasia who knows it,” Arlen said, “making him valuable to the First Warrior, despite being khaffit.” Abban bowed, but looked unconvinced.

  They headed for the training grounds located not far from the palace. The city’s center was neutral territory for all tribes, where they gathered to worship and prepare for alagai’sharak.

  It was late afternoon, and the camp bustled with activity. Arlen and Abban passed first through the workshops of the weaponsmiths and Warders, whose crafts were the only ones considered worthy of dal’Sharum. Beyond that stood the open grounds, where drillmasters shouted and men trained.

  On the far side was the palace of the Sharum Ka and his lieutenants, the kai’Sharum. Second only to the immense palace of the Andrah, this great dome housed the most honored of all, men who had proven their valor on the battlefield time and time again. Below the palace was said to be a great harem, where they might pass on their brave blood to future generations.

  There were stares and muttered curses as Abban limped by on his crutch, but none dared bar their way. Abban was under the protection of the Sharum Ka.

  They passed lines of men doing spear forms in lockstep, and others practicing the brutal, efficient movements of sharusahk, Krasian hand combat. Warriors practiced marksmanship or threw nets at running spear boys, honing their skills for the night’s coming battle. Deep in the midst of this was a great pavilion, where they found Jardir going over plans with one of his men.

  Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir was the Sharum Ka of Krasia, a title that translated into Thesan as “First Warrior.” He was a tall man, well over six feet, wrapped in black cloth and wearing a white turban. In some way Arlen did not fully understand, the title Sharum Ka was a religious one as well, signified by the turban.

  His skin was a deep copper color, his eyes dark as his black hair, oiled back and hanging down his neck. His black beard was forked and impeccably trimmed, but there was nothing soft about the man. He moved like a raptor, swift and sure, and his wide sleeves were rolled back to reveal hard, muscular arms, crisscrossed with scars. He was not much past thirty.

  One of the pavilion guards caught sight of Arlen and Abban as they approached, and bent to whisper in Jardir’s ear. The First Warrior turned from the chalked slate he was studying.

  “Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms with a smile and rising to meet them. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke in Thesan, his vocabulary and accent much improved since Arlen’s last visit. He caught Arlen in a firm embrace and kissed his cheeks. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”

  Upon his first visit to Krasia, the First Warrior had taken an interest in Arlen as an oddity, if nothing more, but they had bled for one another in the Ma
ze, and in Krasia, that meant everything.

  Jardir turned to Abban. “What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he asked disgustedly. “I have not summoned you.” “He’s with me,” Arlen said.

  “He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed deeply and scurried off as quickly as his lame leg would allow.

  “I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.

  “Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” Arlen said.

  Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”

  “Your Thesan is much improved,” Arlen noted.

  Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it when you are away.” He watched Abban limp away, sneering at his bright silks. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”

  Arlen glanced across the yard at a black-swathed woman carrying water. “I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” he said.

  “Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift.” Jardir grinned.

  “I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” Arlen said.

  Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”

  Arlen wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew better than to argue. Krasians had a way of becoming violent if you challenged their boasts, and it might even be so. Jardir seemed equal to a Damaji, at least. Warriors obeyed him without question, even over their dama.

  But Arlen had no desire to join Jardir’s tribe or any other. He made the Krasians uncomfortable; a chin who practiced alagai’sharak and yet kept company with khaffit. Joining a tribe would ease that discomfort, but the moment he did, he would be subject to the tribe’s Damaji, embroiled in their every blood feud, and never allowed to leave the city again.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” he said.