The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  They were escorted to the town circle of Fort Rizon, a huge cobbled ring at the center of the city eyed with a great well and surrounded by bustling shops. Leesha saw Rizonan women shopping as well as Krasians, but though they still wore their Northern dresses, the women’s faces were wrapped in cloth that draped over their necklines as they went about in public. Many of them stared wide-eyed at Leesha and her mother, walking about uncovered, as if expecting their dal’Sharum escorts to turn on them at any moment.

  Many of the Krasians had already gathered, including the Damaji in their canopied palanquins and many Sharum and dama. Three wooden posts had been erected in the circle, but there were no shackles or ropes to be seen.

  There was a commotion and the crowd turned to see Jardir enter the circle, followed by Inevera on her palanquin and his other wives in tow. Leesha counted fourteen of them, but had no idea if that was all. They came and stood next to Leesha and the Hollowers, close enough for Leesha to smell the Damajah’s perfume.

  Jardir walked to the posts, waving his hand at the Spears of the Deliverer. The three dal’Sharum needed no urging and no escort, walking out into the square and stripping to the waist. They knelt and touched their foreheads to the cobbles before Jardir, then stood and wrapped their arms around the poles with nothing to hold them in place. The one whose arm Wonda had broken had the limb in a white cast.

  Jardir reached into his robe, pulling free a three-tailed whip of braided leather, with sharp pieces of metal woven into the last few inches of each tail.

  “What is that?” Leesha asked Abban. She was expecting Jardir to use a simple horsewhip. This seemed more brutal by far.

  “It is called the alagai tail,” Abban said. “A dama’s whip. They say being struck by it is like the lash of a sand demon’s tail.”

  “How many strokes will they each get?” Leesha asked.

  Abban laughed. “As many as they can stand for. Sharum are whipped until they lose their grip on the pole and fall.”

  “But…that could kill them!” Leesha said.

  Abban shrugged. “Sharum are great warriors, but not known for their intelligence or instinct for self-preservation. They think it a test of manhood to endure as many strokes as possible. Their brethren will be betting to see who endures longest.”

  Leesha scowled. “I will never understand men.”

  “Nor I,” Abban agreed.

  It was brutal to watch, each strike of the alagai tail leaving bright lines of blood on the backs of its victim. Jardir gave each man a stroke before returning to the first, but Leesha didn’t know if it was a kindness, or an attempt to keep them from growing numb to it. She flinched with every blow, feeling as if it were striking her, too. Tears streaked her face, and she wanted nothing more than to flee the awful scene as the backs of the men became huge open wounds that showed their ribs to the world. None of them even cried out or had the sense to fall.

  At one point she looked away and saw Inevera watching the proceeding with utter calm. She saw Leesha looking her way, and sneered at the tears on her face.

  Something broke in Leesha then, a flare of anger acting as a ward against the suffering of the men. She straightened her back, dried her eyes, and watched the rest of the whipping with the same cool detachment the Damajah showed.

  It seemed to go on forever, but at last one of the warriors fell, and then another. Leesha saw warriors exchanging coins over the results, and wanted to spit. When the last man fell, Jardir nodded to her, and Leesha rushed out to the men, pulling out the thread, salves, and bandages she had prepared. She hoped she had enough.

  Jardir thumped his spear, making her glance up at him.

  “Spread the word to all who would see paradise at the end of the lonely path!” Jardir bellowed, his voice booming through the circle and into the streets. “Any woman who takes a demon in alagai’sharak shall be Sharum’ting, and have all the rights of Sharum accorded her!”

  A shocked murmur ran through the assembled warriors, and Leesha saw horrified faces on dama and Sharum alike. Angry protests began, but Jardir silenced them with a roar.

  “If any oppose this decree tonight,” he said, baring his teeth, “let them step forward. I promise a quick death with honor. To any who oppose my word tomorrow, I will not be so lenient.” There were many scowling faces in the crowd, but none foolish enough to step forward.

  The next day, Abban arrived in the courtyard of the Palace of Mirrors with a dal’Sharum at his side. The warrior’s red night veil was around his shoulders, and his black beard was shot through with gray. There was nothing else remotely weak about the man, but Leesha was still surprised. Few of the Krasian warriors seemed to live long enough for their beards to be touched with gray at all. He walked proudly, but his hard face was pinched, as if he was biting back a scowl.

  “May I present Gavram asu Chenin am’Kaval am’Kaji, Drillmaster of the Kaji’sharaj,” Abban said. The warrior bowed at the introduction, and Leesha spread her skirts and dipped a curtsy in response.

  The warrior said something in Krasian, too fast for Leesha to follow, but Abban was quick to interpret. “He says, ‘I am here at the Deliverer’s command to train your warriors for alagai’sharak.’ Drillmaster Kaval was instructor to the Shar’Dama Ka and myself when we were in Sharaj,” Abban added. “There is no one better.”

  Leesha’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Abban, searching for the elusive truth in the practiced smoothness of his face. He was crippled in sharaj, after all.

  Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Do you wish to train?”

  Kaval and Abban had a short exchange, again speaking so fast that Leesha, despite understanding many of the words, could still not follow. Abban seemed to argue a point, but Kaval balled a fist, and the khaffit bowed in submission.

  “The drillmaster asks that I tell your warriors their wishes are irrelevant. The Shar’Dama Ka has given a command, and it will be followed.”

  Leesha scowled and opened her mouth, but Gared cut her off. “S’allright, Leesh.” He put up a hand. “I want to learn.”

  “Me, too,” Wonda said.

  Leesha nodded and stepped aside as Kaval beckoned the two forward for examination. He grunted in approval at giant Gared, but seemed less impressed with Wonda, though she was as big and strong as most dal’Sharum. He then came back to Leesha.

  “I can make a great warrior of the giant,” Abban translated, “if he is disciplined. The woman…we shall see.” He did not look hopeful.

  The drillmaster stepped back into the courtyard, his movements quick and graceful. He looked at Gared and barked a command, thumping his chest.

  “The drillmaster would like you to attack him,” Abban supplied.

  “Din’t need you to translate that,” Gared said. He stepped forward, towering over the drillmaster, but Kaval seemed unimpressed. Gared roared and attacked, but his punches, careful though they were, met only air. He lunged to grapple and found himself on his back a moment later. Kaval twisted his arm until Gared screamed, and then released him.

  “He will be even harder on you,” Abban advised Wonda. “Steel yourself.”

  “Ent afraid,” Wonda said, stepping forth.

  Wonda lasted longer than Gared, her moves smoother and quicker, but the outcome was never in doubt. Twice, Wonda’s blows came close enough that the drillmaster required contact to block them, but he responded once with a backhand to her jaw that sent her reeling and spitting blood, and the next time with a heavy blow to the stomach that doubled the girl over as she vomited the air from her stomach.

  Kaval caught her arm before she could recover and twisted her to the cobbles. Wonda kicked him in the face as she went down, connecting solidly, but Kaval was unfazed, his mouth widening to a smile as he twisted her arm. Wonda’s face grew pale and she gritted her teeth, but she refused to cry out.

  “The drillmaster will break her arm if she does not submit,” Abban warned.

  “Wonda,” Leesha said, and the girl finally had the sense t
o let out a cry.

  Kaval released her and said something to Abban in a grudging tone.

  “Perhaps I can make something of her, after all,” Abban translated. “Please leave us, so we may train without distraction.”

  Leesha looked at Gared and Wonda, and nodded. “Why don’t you join Rojer and I for tea, Abban.”

  “I would be honored,” Abban said, bowing.

  “But first,” Leesha said, her voice hardening, “make it clear to Master Kaval that there will be the Core to pay if I come back to find warriors too injured to fight tonight.”

  Abban’s wives tried to serve them, but Amanvah hissed and they backed off. She clapped her hands, and Sikvah scurried to prepare the tea. Leesha wrinkled her nose. The girl might be Jardir’s niece, but even she was little more than a slave.

  “They’ve been doing this since yesterday,” Rojer said. Amanvah said something in Krasian, and Abban nodded to her.

  “It is our place to service Rojer’s needs,” he translated. “We will suffer it from no other.”

  “I could get used this,” Rojer said with a grin, stretching back and putting his hands behind his head.

  “Just don’t get too used to it,” Leesha said. “It isn’t going to last.” She saw Amanvah’s eyes tighten at that, but the girl said nothing.

  Sikvah returned soon after with the tea. She served silently, eyes down, and then retreated to where Amanvah stood by the wall. Leesha took a sip of her tea, swirled it around her mouth for a moment, and then spit it back into the cup.

  “You added a pinch of blackleaf powder to the mix,” she said to Sikvah, putting the cup back on the table. “Clever. Most people wouldn’t have tasted it, and at that dosage, it would take weeks to kill me.”

  Rojer gasped, and spit his tea all over himself. Leesha caught his cup as it fell, and ran a finger along the porcelain rim, tasting the residue. “Nothing for you to worry over, Rojer. Seems they’re not quite so eager to be rid of you.”

  Abban carefully put his cup back on the table. Amanvah looked at him and said something in Krasian.

  “Ah…” Abban said to Leesha. “You make a serious accusation. Do you wish me to translate?”

  “By all means,” Leesha laughed, “though I’ve no doubt she understood every word.”

  Abban spoke, and Amanvah shrieked, running over to Leesha and shouting at her.

  “The dama’ting calls you a liar and a fool,” Abban supplied.

  Leesha smiled and held up her cup. “Tell her to drink it, then.”

  Amanvah’s eyes blazed as she snatched the cup from her without waiting for translation. The liquid was still hot, but she lifted her veil and quaffed it in one gulp. She glared at Leesha with a look of smug triumph, but Leesha only smiled.

  “Tell her I know she can just take the antidote tonight,” she said, “but if it’s the same one we use in the North, it will give her bloody shits for a week.” The color drained from the tiny patch of skin visible around Amanvah’s eyes even before Abban finished translating.

  “The next time you try something like this, I’ll tell your father,” Leesha said, “and if I know him at all, your shared blood won’t keep him from stripping that pretty white robe off your back and tanning your hide, if he doesn’t kill you outright.”

  Amanvah glared at her, but Leesha simply waved a dismissal. “Leave us.”

  Amanvah hissed something. “It is not your place to dismiss us,” Abban translated.

  Leesha turned to Rojer, who looked like he was going to be sick. “Send your brides to their chambers, Rojer.”

  “Go!” Rojer barked, waving his hand. He didn’t even make eye contact. Amanvah’s brows met in a harsh V, and she spat something in Krasian at Leesha before she stormed off with Sikvah on her heels. Leesha memorized the words, filing the curse for future reference.

  Abban laughed. “It’s no wonder the Damajah fears you.”

  “She doesn’t seem afraid now,” Leesha remarked. “Bold as brass, trying to kill me in broad day.”

  “After Ahmann’s last decree, it is little surprise,” Abban said. “But take heart, they do you great honor. In Krasia, if no one is trying to kill you, it is because you are not worth killing.”

  “Maybe it’s time to leave,” Rojer suggested, when Abban left. “If they’ll even let us.” He could not deny he had been tempted by Amanvah and Sikvah, but now all he could imagine was knives hidden under the soft silk pillows of their chambers.

  “Ahmann would let us go if I asked him to,” Leesha said, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Leesha, they tried to kill you!” Rojer said.

  “Inevera tried, and failed,” Leesha said. “Running off now would be just as good for her as if I’d died. I refuse to be driven off by that…that…”

  “Witch?” Rojer supplied.

  “Witch,” Leesha agreed. “She’s got too much power over Ahmann as it is. I’m not giving up his ear without a fight.”

  “Are you sure it’s his ear you’re after?” Rojer asked. Leesha glared at him, but he met her gaze coolly. “I’m not blind, Leesha,” he said. “I see how you look at him. Not like a Krasian wife, perhaps, but not like a friend, either.”

  “How I feel about him is irrelevant,” Leesha said. “I have no intention of becoming part of his harem. Did you know Kaji had a thousand wives?”

  “Poor bastard,” Rojer agreed. “Reckon one is more than enough for most men to handle.”

  Leesha snorted. “You’d do well to remember that yourself. Besides, Abban and Ahmann both know Arlen, and both claim to be his friend.”

  “That’s not what he told us,” Rojer said. “About Jardir, anyway.”

  “I know,” Leesha said. “And I want to learn the truth.”

  “What about Amanvah and Sikvah?” Rojer asked. “Do we send them away?”

  “So they can kill Sikvah for lying about her virginity and failing to kill me?” Leesha asked. “Not a chance. We took responsibility for her.”

  “That was before she tried to kill you,” Rojer said.

  “See the light, Rojer,” Leesha said. “If I told Wonda to put an arrow in Inevera’s eye, I have no doubt she would do it, but the crime would be mine. Better we have them here where we can watch them and perhaps learn something useful.”

  It was deep in the night when Leesha awoke to the sound of shouting. There was a pounding at her door, and she lit a lamp and she pulled on a robe of Krasian silk that Jardir had sent to her. It was cool and deliciously smooth against her skin.

  She opened her door to see Rojer standing there, looking haggard. “It’s Amanvah,” he said. “I can hear her wailing in her chambers, but Sikvah won’t even open the doors.”

  “I knew it,” Leesha muttered, cinching her robe tighter and tying on her pocketed apron. “All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s go see to her.”

  They went down into Rojer’s wing, and Leesha pounded on the door to the chambers the two Krasian girls had claimed. She could hear Amanvah’s muffled wails through the door, and Sikvah shouted in Krasian for them to go away.

  Leesha frowned. “Rojer,” she said loudly, “run and fetch Gared. If this door isn’t open by the time you get back, have him break it down.” Rojer nodded and ran off.

  As expected, the door cracked open a moment later, and a terrified Sikvah peeked out. “Everything sunny,” she said, but Leesha shoved past her into the room, following Amanvah’s voice toward the privy chamber at the back of the room. Sikvah shrieked and tried to interpose herself, but again Leesha ignored her and tried the door. It was locked.

  “Where is the key?” she demanded. Sikvah ignored her, babbling in Krasian, but Leesha had had enough. She slapped the girl hard on the cheek, the crack echoing through the room.

  “Stop pretending you don’t understand me!” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot. You say one more word in Krasian and the Damajah’s anger will be the least of your worries.”

  Sikvah did not reply, but the terrified look o
n her face made it clear she had understood.

  “Where. Is. The. Key?” Leesha asked again, biting off each word with a show of teeth. Sikvah quickly reached into her robes, producing it.

  Leesha was through the door in an instant. The richly appointed privy stank of waste and vomit, only made worse by the jasmine burning in the incense brazier, a sickly combination that would have made most anyone heave. Leesha ignored the stench, going straight to Amanvah, lying on the floor next to the commode, wailing and moaning. Her hood and veils were cast aside, and her olive skin seemed almost white.

  “She’s dehydrated,” Leesha said. “Bring a pitcher of cold water and set a kettle on the fire.” Sikvah ran off, and Leesha continued to inspect the girl, as well as the contents of the commode. Finally, she sniffed at the cup on the vanity table, tasting the residue.

  “You brewed this poorly,” she told Amanvah. “You could have used a third as much fleshroot and still safely counteracted the blackleaf.” The young dama’ting said nothing, staring blankly as she labored for breath, but Leesha knew she heard and understood every word.

  She took a mortar and pestle from her apron, hands darting from pocket to pocket without so much as a glance as she filled it with the proper mixture of herbs. Sikvah brought the hot water, and Leesha brewed a second potion, bidding Sikvah to hold her mistress up as she forced it down the girl’s throat.

  “Open the windows to blow in some fresh air,” Leesha told Sikvah, “and bring pillows. She’ll need to stay by the commode for the next few hours as we hydrate her.”

  Rojer and Gared stuck their heads in, and Leesha promptly sent them to bed. She and Sikvah tended Amanvah until her insides calmed and they could carry her to the bed.

  “Sleep’s the best thing for you now,” Leesha said, putting another potion to Amanvah’s lips. “You’ll wake in twelve hours and then we’ll try to get some rice and bread into you.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Amanvah whispered, her accent thick like her mother’s, but every word clear. “My mother would not be so kind to one who tried to poison her.”