The Core

by Peter V. Brett

  Hasik smiled. “Was it a good one?”

  Abban nodded. “A…pleasure even the…Damaji fear to…indulge.”

  Hasik stood, crossing his arms. “This I must hear.”

  “A dozen heasah,” Abban said. “Chosen because they look nearly identical to the Damajah, to pillow dance for you.”

  Hasik grew red in the face, and Abban realized his mistake. “And what am I to do with heasah, without my cock?”

  “There are straps heasah sometimes wear, to simulate having a man’s spear,” Abban said. “I did not lie when I said I could give you a cock of gold, smoother, larger, and stiffer than the real thing ever was.”

  “If I wanted to shame myself with such a harness, it would not be the Damajah I would wish to fuck.” Hasik leered at him. “No, it would be you I make howl, khaffit. Louder even than your daughters and wives.”

  He stuck the hammer back in his belt. “Now get back to making my feast.”

  Everam, if I but had a drop of tunnel asp venom, Abban thought, but he knew it was a lie. Here, crippled deep in the green lands with Sharum deserters looting and pillaging, he would be a fool to poison Hasik. The powerful kai’Sharum was his only hope for survival until they reached Krasian lands or Abban’s network in the Hollow.

  “Better a bone at a time than a spear in the back, or a chin noose around my neck,” he muttered.

  And so he roasted the pig with utmost care, glazing the skin to a hard, delicious shell connected to the moist, hot meat by a melted layer of fat. He directed the women as well, teaching them to roll couscous and prepare dishes suited to Krasian palates. There was a Bajin pea dish that could be reasonably approximated with Northern corn, and Abban had them make it in plenty to honor Hasik’s new men.

  Hasik was in good spirits throughout the day. Abban made sure the chin fasted as well, and the smells teased everyone at the farm. By sunset, even the Bajin seemed eager when they were called to the table.

  The Sharum had taken a pair of Northern feasting tables and cut the legs short, laying them end-to-end. Hasik was already kneeling upon a bed of pillows at the table’s head when the others arrived. “Orman.” He gestured to the single pillow to his right. The Bajin leader glared at him but wasn’t willing to challenge Hasik again. He knelt, eyes down. The other warriors followed suit, kneeling on the bare floor four to a side.

  When the warriors settled, Hasik pointed to the foot of the table. “Chin.”

  The three Angierian men kept their distance, circling out of reach until they knelt together at the foot of the table, tense with fear.

  The Bajin scowled, and Orman spoke up. “We are to sup with chin?”

  Hasik’s hand was a blur, gripping the warrior’s beard and pulling hard, smashing his face into the table. He roared and struggled, but Hasik kept the thick hair in his fist, holding him prone until he calmed.

  “Perhaps you thought kneeling at my right gives you leave to question me.” Hasik said. “Do you still succor such foolish thoughts?”

  Orman shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “No?” Hasik asked.

  “No, master,” Orman said.

  Hasik grunted, letting go his beard and acting as if nothing had happened. “Sharum sit.”

  The warriors shifted from kneeling to sitting with military skill. How many hours had they spent drilling it in sharaj? The chin stayed on their knees as Abban had instructed, setting them apart. The Bajin seemed mollified at this.

  No place for me, Abban noted, pleased to be relegated to the kitchen, invisible. He sent the women back and forth, filling the table with steaming platters that held the attention of the hungry men. They inhaled deeply, tasting with their noses as mouths began to water.

  At last they wheeled the animal out, still dripping on the spit. The melting fat pooled in a tray beneath the succulent beast.

  “Prepare your bellies for a wonder you have never dreamed of,” Abban said, smiling at the looks the men cast the pig. Even mighty Sharum could be ensorcelled by the scent of pork. His own belly groaned and grumbled, desperate to partake.

  “Come and sit behind me at my left while I taste this wonder, khaffit,” Hasik said.

  “The kai honors me,” Abban said.

  “Nonsense,” Hasik said. “I merely wish to ensure you continue your fast. You are too fat, Abban. You will see it is for your own good.”

  Abban was so hungry he would have sacrificed another bone for a taste of pork, but it was pointless to argue. Orman, Hasik would settle for humiliating. If Abban questioned him in front of the men, Hasik would have no choice but to kill him.

  Or worse, Abban thought. He took a deep breath. For now, he was worth less than a warrior, but once Hasik tasted the pig, Abban knew his value would soar.

  Still Hasik did not give permission to eat. He clasped his hands and closed his eyes. The others at the table immediately did likewise.

  “Blessed Everam,” Hasik said, “He who honors the strong. We thank you for the feast before us. It may be against your law to sup on the flesh of pigs, but you have shown me your laws are for the weak.”

  He paused. “I was weak, once. Driven by pleasures of the flesh even when they brought pain and misfortune upon me again and again. I made the weakest part of me my ruler.” He straightened. “Now that part of me is severed, and I am free at last. Free to see the world around me without weakness. I see for the first time the grains in the dunes, and know I am stronger for it.”

  He looked at the Bajin. “No doubt you would all put a spear in me given the chance, but you will see now how you, too, are free. How we have become strong.”

  He looked to Orman. “Are there other Sharum in the area?”

  Orman nodded. “A dozen Khanjin have taken a farm down the road.”

  “You and your men will soon have a chance to visit your shame on your night brothers.” Hasik smiled. “You will find nothing eases your torment like sharing it.”

  The Bajin remained grim-faced, but Abban could see the words stoked a new hunger in their eyes. Hasik was not wrong.

  Hasik looked at the chin, switching to their language. “Everam smiles on you, chin. In the new order, even you may claim honor. The choice is yours. You can be slaves, or you can learn to fight and join us.”

  The younger men froze, turning to look at their patriarch. He hesitated, but only for a moment. He bowed as Abban taught him, placing his hands on the floor and touching his forehead between them.

  “We will fight.”

  “Then let us seal it with a feast!” Hasik called. He lifted the haunch Abban had carved him, and the skin crackled as he bit into it and tore away a mouthful of flesh. His eyes widened, and then it was chaos as the men tore into the food.

  Abban watched in pain as they stuffed themselves, but he kept his mask in place, giving Hasik a look pathetic enough to satisfy him as he mocked the starving khaffit with his glistening fingers and lips.

  There was Northern ale, and it flowed freely as they ate. Soon the Bajin were laughing, and even the chin seemed to relax. When the plates had been emptied and filled and emptied again, they began to slow, eating more for pleasure than hunger. Hasik lounged back on his bed of pillows as they sang warrior songs.

  At last the women cleared the empty bowls and carcass from the room, and Hasik looked at the chin.

  “You have eaten of my pig,” he said. “There is only one more thing keeping you from joining the Eunuchs.”

  The chin looked at one another in confusion as Orman laughed, drawing a knife.

  CHAPTER 8

  MONASTERY

  334 AR

  “A dozen fat slaves, dressed as me,” Abban promised. “One delivered the first day of the month to torture until you kill them in a new and inventive fashion on Waning and begin anew.”

  “I admit, that is a good one,” Hasik said.

  “Spare me, and I can make it reality,” Abban said.

  Hasik clicked his tongue. “There is where it fails, khaffit. What good is pret
ending vengeance for a year when true vengeance escapes?”

  “Then I will lease my life,” Abban offered. “One slave dressed to look like me each Waning until you collect in full.”

  Hasik pursed his lips. “The idea has merit. I will take a few months to consider.”

  Then he swung the hammer, and Abban screamed.

  The Eunuchs and slaves were used to it now, ignoring Abban’s wails and whimpers. Once, when a blood fever from his shattered bones had threatened to kill Abban, Dawn had begged on his behalf.

  Hasik had warded Abban’s leg and smeared it with stinking alagai ichor. The demon blood activated the wards and healed Abban. His strength and vigor returned, sweeping away the pain, but the shattered bones of his leg and foot fused into a twisted ruin. Abban doubted even a healer as powerful as the Damajah could make him walk again.

  Then Hasik cut the noses from Dawn and her daughters, a permanent warning to all that might take pity on him again.

  Hasik was gone by the time Abban mastered his pain enough to crawl into his chair. The camp was full of activity as Abban wheeled to Hasik’s tent, slaves rushing to and fro to service the warriors.

  In the past five weeks, the Eunuchs had swollen massively in number. First in fits and starts as Hasik hunted Sharum deserters, catching warriors sometimes in ones and twos, and other times in sizable bands. The freshest recruits were always the most eager to capture and castrate new members, as if cutting off another man’s cock somehow helped their own healing.

  They sacked farms and hamlets as their numbers grew, growing heavy with supply. Then, impossibly, men began to come to them. Sharum that had set off in search of plunder and found ill fortune begging to join, willingly surrendering their genitals in exchange for full bellies and the sense they were once again part of something powerful.

  The growth had come with a positive change in Abban’s circumstances. Hasik healed him regularly now, needing Abban’s eyes sharp and his mind unclouded. Once relegated to cook, the khaffit was back on familiar ground, keeping Hasik’s ledgers and acting as quartermaster for his troops and caravan of slaves.

  Hasik was lounging on the pillows in his pavilion, eating eggs and bacon.

  “Nie’s black heart, khaffit,” Hasik said. “Had I known the flesh of pigs was so delicious, I would have turned my back on Everam’s law long ago.”

  “It is a great burden lifted,” Abban agreed, “setting aside the Evejah to eat and drink as you please.”

  Hasik tore another bite off the rasher, his lips shiny with grease. “Read me the tallies.”

  Abban grit his teeth, wheeling over to his writing desk. “You have…three kai’Sharum, one hundred seventy-two dal’Sharum, eight hundred seventeen kha’Sharum, two hundred and six chi’Sharum, and four hundred thirty-six slaves. We have seven hundred forty-two horses…”

  Hasik put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes as if listening to music. The tallies were a burden to a good leader, as Ahmann had been, but to a man like Hasik it read as a list of his personal wealth, and Abban could not deny that in a very short time that wealth had become considerable. So considerable that all the Eunuchs had a taste of the largesse. There were no hungry in the caravan, and all had proper clothes to ward off winter’s chill. The Sharum were well equipped and obedient. Even the chi’Sharum conscripts had weapons to go with their ongoing training.

  The canvas flap opened, admitting Orman, now wearing the white veil of a kai’Sharum around his neck. Orman had remained Hasik’s second in command and was, so far as Abban could determine, quite loyal and competent. The Bajin was a small tribe, and Orman would likely never have risen as high there as he had in the Eunuchs.

  Orman bowed. “Eunuch Ka, there is a messenger. He claims to know you.”

  “A messenger?” Hasik asked. “From who?”

  “From Dama Khevat!” a kai’Sharum boomed, pushing past the door guard.

  Abban immediately recognized the man by the scars on his face, a faded remnant from the night a quarter century ago when he had taken a swipe of a sand demon’s claws in the village of Baha kad’Everam. Magic had kept the man young, but he was an honored elder of their fathers’ generation.

  Jesan, Hasik’s ajin’pal.

  Among the Sharum, the bond between ajin’pal was as strong as family. For those near in age it was a sibling bond, but more often it was one of father to son. Nightfathers, they were sometimes called, with a relationship no less complicated than fathers and sons of blood. They were mentors and authority figures.

  The two were close when Hasik was the Deliverer’s brother-in-law, a respected member of the royal family. They had not spoken since Hasik’s disgrace.

  “Jesan.” Hasik got to his feet. The men didn’t reach for weapons as they moved in to each other, but they didn’t need to. Both had been Spears of the Deliverer and were more than capable of killing with their bare hands.

  Instead they gripped each other’s shoulders and laughed, embracing.

  “Khaffit! Brandy for my ajin’pal!” Hasik called, leading Jesan to the pillows. Hasik took the center, where the pile was thickest, gesturing for Jesan to sit at his right and Orman at his left.

  Dawn appeared, silently filling a tray and laying it across the arms of Abban’s chair. It was a small blessing that she kept her eyes down, that Abban did not have to meet them as he looked into the gaping hole where her nose had been. She vanished as quickly as she had appeared, and Abban wheeled over to the pillows with the tray.

  Hasik took a glass, handing it to Jesan. “There is no couzi this far north, but I’ve found the chin distilleries even better.”

  “Just water, thank you.” Jesan’s voice was tight.

  “Some bacon, perhaps?” Hasik swept a hand to the plate. “Everam could not have made a food so delicious if it was not meant to be eaten.”

  Jesan stiffened. “Perhaps that is exactly why we were commanded not to eat it.”

  “Oh?” Hasik’s question seemed casual, but there was challenge in his tone.

  Jesan met Hasik’s eyes, breathing deeply. The familiar rhythm was an easy tell that the Sharum was attempting to remain calm. “To remind us everyone has a master.”

  “You think I need a reminder of who my master is?” Hasik asked quietly.

  “I am not the Creator, Hasik,” Jesan said. “Nothing happens, but that Everam wills it. I do not care that you drink couzi. I do not care that you eat pig. I have shed blood with you in the night and that is all that matters. I do not come as some glowering elder, but as your ajin’pal. There are pressing matters to discuss.”

  “Of course.” Hasik leaned back in the pillows, sipping the brandy he had offered to Jesan. “Please go on.”

  “Dama Khevat congratulates your successful efforts in recapturing deserters from the Battle of Angiers,” Jesan said.

  That’s one way of putting it, Abban thought.

  Hasik nodded. “The men lost heart when the Sharum Ka and his finest warriors were killed storming the gates of Angiers.” The lie came easily to his lips. Abban, the only living witness to the truth—that Hasik killed Jayan himself—was wise enough to keep silent on the matter.

  “Your honor was taken from you unfairly, brother,” Jesan’s eyes flicked to Abban with disgust, “but you can restore it. The Monastery of Dawn is under renewed attack from the chin. We cannot hold without aid.”

  “How is this possible?” Hasik asked. “Khevat had a thousand warriors, not to mention the remnants of the Sharum Ka’s forces.”

  “Twenty-five hundred made it back from the Battle of Angiers,” Jesan said, “but it was deep in the cold months. With the lakeshore frozen solid, we did not have sufficient supply. Dama Khevat sent them on to Everam’s Reservoir.

  “But then came an unexpected thaw. Chin saboteurs opened the main gate for a secret raid by the fish men, who braved the icy waters under cover of darkness to land a sizable force.”

  “Everam’s beard,” Abban breathed. The monastery was built on a gr
eat bluff, with only one narrow land route to the main gates and treacherous stairs leading up from the docks. The walls were nearly impregnable, but if the gate had been opened…

  “By the time we discovered the treachery, we were outnumbered,” Jesan said. “But the Deliverer’s son Icha rallied the men and we threw back the foe, reclaiming the gates and docks.”

  “Of course.” Hasik sipped his brandy. “They are only chin.”

  “But the attacks did not stop,” Jesan continued. “The fish men stole our ships, sailing out of range of the stingers and rock slings. Khevat put all the chin slaves to death, but still the fish men found allies within our walls. Chi’Sharum from Everam’s Bounty snuck hundreds through a hidden tunnel in the basements, starting fires and opening the gates again.”

  “The greenlanders are tenacious,” Hasik said.

  “Khevat had all the chin put to death,” Jesan said, “Sharum and slave alike. The walls still hold, but there are less than three hundred Sharum left, half of them too injured to fight.”

  “Can they not speed their healing killing alagai?” Orman asked.

  Jesan shook his head. “The chin Holy Men did their warding too well. Alagai avoid the place.”

  Jesan offered a scroll, sealed with the wax stamps of Dama Khevat and Ahmann Jardir’s third son, Icha. The two were the ranking Krasians north of Everam’s Bounty. Hasik took the scroll and handed it to Abban, for of course he could not read.

  Abban unrolled the parchment. “Greetings Hasik asu Reklan am’Kez am’Kaji, in the year of Everam 3785, from Dama Khevat asu…”

  Hasik whisked a hand. “I know who Khevat and that snot-nosed brat are. Get to the meat of it.”

  Jesan bristled as Abban scanned the page, quickly filtering out the endless formalities. “You and your men are ordered to abandon your lawless ways and return to Sharak Sun. Your sins will be forgiven, and your status restored.”

  “Ordered?” Hasik asked.

  “That is what it says,” Abban said.

  Hasik looked to Jesan, who swallowed, breathing steadily. “Ordered by who, Jesan? As you say, I have forgotten my master.”