If it were any other man, Abban would have thought the latter, but Ahmann had always been naïvely true about such things, and might well harbor such delusions of grandeur.
It was ridiculous, of course, but the belief in his divinity shared by almost every man, woman, and child in Krasia gave Ahmann such tremendous power that it almost didn’t matter if it was true or not. Either way, Abban served the most powerful man in the world, and if they had not returned to their old friendship, they had at least fallen into its patterns.
But there was a new thread to the pattern now, the Damajah, and Abban was far too skilled a manipulator not to know another one on sight. Inevera twisted Ahmann to her own ends, and those ends were opaque even to Abban, who had made fortunes on his ability to see the desires in others’ hearts.
The Damajah had some unknown power over Ahmann, but it was tenuous. He was Shar’Dama Ka. Dama’ting or no, if he commanded it, the people would not hesitate to tear her apart to please him.
Abban knew better than to come between them, of course. He had survived too long to make so foolish a mistake. The moment Inevera sensed his disloyalty to her, she would crush him like a scorpion beneath her sandal, and not even Ahmann could stop it. Abban was as far beneath the Damajah as she was below Ahmann. Farther.
The only man who can truly handle a woman is a woman, Abban’s father had said to him many times before he died. It was good advice.
Leesha Paper would shake the very foundations of Inevera’s power, perhaps freeing Ahmann of her entirely. And the best part was, the Damajah would never see Abban’s hand in it.
Abban’s smile widened.
Abban was pleased to learn Erny was as formidable a haggler in person as he had been through his Messengers. Abban had contempt for anyone who could not haggle. He excluded only Ahmann from that rule, because it was less that Ahmann could not haggle than that he would not.
The result was a fair price, but after Abban tripled it as Ahmann had commanded, it was a sizable sum. Erny and his wife seemed quite pleased as Abban counted out the gold.
“Stock’s all here,” Erny said, putting the box of Leesha’s flower-pressed paper on the counter and lifting off the lid.
Abban ran his fingers lightly over the top sheet of the colorful paper, feeling the imprint of the artfully arranged flowers embedded in the weave. He closed his eyes and inhaled. “Still smells sweet after all this time,” he said, smiling.
“Keep it dry, and it will last forever,” Erny said, “or close enough for mortal men.”
“Your daughter seems touched by Everam,” Abban said. “Perfect in every way, like a Heavenly Seraph.”
Elona snorted, but Erny glared at her and she fell silent.
“She is,” Erny agreed.
“My master would like to purchase her as a bride,” Abban said. “He has empowered me to negotiate her dower, and will be most generous.”
“How generous?” Elona asked.
“It doesn’t matter!” Erny snapped. “Leesha isn’t for sale like some horse!”
“Of course, of course,” Abban said, bowing to buy himself some time to consider the situation. Erny’s reaction was unexpected, and it was difficult to tell if Abban had given honest offense, or if this was just a haggling tactic to drive up the price.
“Please forgive my poor sense of words,” Abban said. “Your language eludes me at critical times, it seems. I meant no offense.”
Erny seemed mollified at that, and Abban drew his face into the smile that had beguiled thousands of customers into thinking he was their friend. “My master understands that your daughter leads your tribe, and is not some common piece of merchandise,” he said. “He intends her and your tribe great honor, mingling your blood with his own. At his side, your daughter would be first of all the women in the North, and wield influence in both the Deliverer’s court and bed to prevent unnecessary bloodshed as my master comes north.”
“Is that a threat?” Erny demanded. “Are you saying your master will come kill us to take her, if I don’t sell her to you?”
Abban’s face heated. He hadgiven offense, and deeply. The Par’chin had always told him the Krasians were quick to temper, but it seemed the Northerners were no less so if one spoke to them too truly.
Abban bowed deeply, spreading his hands. “Please, my friend, let us begin again. My master makes no threats and wishes to give no offense. Among our people, it is the father’s duty to arrange the marriages of his daughters. Part of the arrangement is that the groom’s family provide the father and bride with dower symbolic of her value. I was given to understand that Northerners shared this custom.”
“We do,” Elona cut in before Erny could reply.
“Some folk might do that sort of thing,” Erny corrected, “but that’s not how I raised my Leesha. Your master wants to marry my girl, he ’ll have to court her just like anybody else, and if she decides she wants him, then he can come and ask my blessing on it.”
It seemed backward to Abban, but it made little difference. He bowed once more. “I will make your terms clear to my master. I expect he will begin to court your daughter immediately.”
Erny’s eyes widened. “I didn’t…ow!” he cried as Elona dug her nails into his arm most unsubtly. Abban noted the move with interest. His wives were by no means docile, but they would never dare unman him so in front of a customer.
“Ent hurtin’ anyone, he comes bringin’ flowers,” Elona said. “You said yourself it’s Leesha’s choice.”
Erny looked at her a long moment, then he sighed and nodded. He took the box cover and slipped it back over Leesha’s paper.
“It’s a heavy box,” he said. “You want me to get a boy to carry it for you?”
Abban bowed. “Please.”
“I think the boys are all busy,” Elona said, “and I could use a stroll. I’ll carry the paper.”
Again Abban was confused. In Krasia, it was expected that women do such labor, but from the way Erny goggled at his wife, Abban could tell he was shocked.
He watched Elona as she came around the counter, taking in her beauty, even with her youth fading. Perhaps she was a pillow-wife, given light work to be kept close at hand should her husband’s lust be aroused. Many Krasian men kept such, but Abban had never tolerated that sort of laziness, expecting his youngest and most beautiful wives to work as hard as the rest.
As they walked down the isolated path from Erny’s shop, Abban turned to her. “I pray to Everam my misunderstanding of your ways gave you and your husband no lasting offense.”
Elona shook her head. “We ent much different from you, only here, fathers approve marriages, but mothers arrange them. Erny ent blessing anything until the dower’s set.”
Abban stopped short, finally understanding. “Of course. I regret that my master’s mother, Kajivah, is still in Everam’s Bounty with his wives. May I negotiate in her stead?”
Elona nodded, but she raised an eyebrow. “He has other wives?”
“Of course,” Abban said. “Ahmann Jardir is the Shar’Dama Ka.”
Elona frowned. “Tell him if he’s wise, he ’ll never so much as mention his other wives to my daughter. Girl gets jealous like a thundercloud.”
Abban nodded. “I will be sure to advise him, thank you. I assume your daughter is a virgin?”
“Course she is,” Elona snapped.
Abban bowed. “Please, take no offense. In Krasia, a man’s First Wife will inspect prospective brides personally, but if that is not your custom, your word will suffice.”
“It sure as the Core ent our custom to let anyone but husbands and Herb Gatherers look between our legs,” Elona said, “so don’t you or your master go getting any ideas about sampling the milk.”
“Of course,” Abban said, nodding and smiling now that the haggling had begun.
Jardir paced his pavilion like an animal, waiting for Abban to return.
“What did he say?” he demanded the moment the khaffit entered the tent. “Is it done?
”
Abban shook his head, and Jardir took a deep breath to embrace the disappointment and let it pass through him without harm.
“Mistress Leesha is more like dama’ting than I thought,” Abban said. “She has liberty to choose her own husband, though you must still pay a dower for her father’s blessing.”
“I will pay any price,” Jardir said.
Abban bowed. “So you have said,” he agreed, “but I, your humble servant, have nevertheless begun negotiations to minimize the impact on your treasury.”
Jardir waved his hand dismissively. “So I may approach her directly?”
“Her father has given you permission to court her,” Abban said, and Jardir smiled, snatching up his spear and pausing to check himself in a silvered mirror.
“What will you say to her?” Abban asked.
Jardir looked back at him. “I have no idea,” he said honestly. “But this is Everam’s will, so I trust that whatever I say will be the right thing.”
Abban frowned. “I do not think it works that way, Ahmann.”
Jardir looked at Abban, knowing all the words unspoken. Abban was much like the Par’chin in that regard. Polite. Tolerant. And utterly disbelieving.
Jardir looked at his old friend and felt great pity in his heart, understanding at last what it meant to be khaffit. Everam did not speak to them. Abban might use the Creator’s name in every other sentence, but had never truly heard His voice or felt the rapture of submitting to His divine will. Only profit spoke to Abban, and he would ever be its slave.
But that, too, was part of Everam’s plan, for the khaffit saw things no other man did, things essential to Jardir, if he was to win Sharak Ka.
Jardir put a hand on Abban’s shoulder, smiling sadly. “I know you do not, my friend, but if you do not trust in the Creator, hold faith in me.”
Abban bowed. “Of course. But at the very least, avoid mention of your other wives. Her mother tells me that Mistress Leesha’s jealousy is like a storm.”
Jardir nodded, not surprised in the least that such a woman would know her own worth and expect other women to make way for her. It only made him want her more.
Rojer led his apprentices through their exercises halfheartedly. They had improved a little, but whenever Kendall bent to her fiddle case, he could see the tops of the scars that ran across her chest. A mark of honor demon scars might be, but they were also a reminder to Rojer of just how far his apprentices had yet to come before they could be of any real use in the night. He hoped the instructors from the Jongleurs’ Guild arrived soon.
Across the way, the Cutters trained in the Corelings’ Graveyard. There was plenty of work to be done to build the new greatward, but so long as the Krasians were camped in the clearing, none of the Cutters had any interest in doing it. Gared had groups of them patrolling the town, and the rest had gathered at the graveyard to train and stand ready if needed. Leesha would be furious when she saw the work wasn’t getting done, but even after all she had been through, Leesha was too trusting of people.
There was a shout, and Rojer looked up to see the Krasian leader approaching, followed by his two bodyguards, Hasik and Shanjat. They wore their spears and shields on their backs, but while Jardir looked relaxed and serene, the warriors had the look of men surrounded by enemies. Their hands flexed unconsciously for want of a spear.
Jardir headed toward Rojer, and Gared gave a shout as he and a few Cutters hurried to intercept. Jardir’s bodyguards whirled to face them, spear and shield appearing in their hands instantly. The Cutters lifted their own weapons at the sight, and it seemed a clash was inevitable.
But Jardir turned, taking in Cutter and Sharum alike. “We are guests of Mistress Leesha!” he cried. “No blood will be shed between our peoples until she decrees otherwise.”
“Then tell your men to put their spears down,” Gared said, holding an axe in one hand and his warded blade in the other. Dozens of Cutters hurried across the graveyard and gathered at his back, but Hasik and Shanjat seemed unfazed—more than willing to fight the lot of them. Having seen the Krasian warriors fight, Rojer expected they would give far better than they got.
But then Jardir shouted something in Krasian, and his bodyguards sheathed their spears, though they kept their shields out.
“Din’t say put ’em away, I said put ’em down,” Gared growled.
Jardir smiled. “Guests are not asked to leave their knives at the door, Gared, son of Steave.”
Gared opened his mouth to reply, but Rojer cut him off.
“Of course, you are correct,” he said loudly, looking at Gared. “Put up your axe,” he told the giant Cutter.
Gared’s eyes widened. It was the first time Rojer had ever publicly given Gared an order, and it was one the Cutter might well refuse to accept, for if he put up his weapon, every other Cutter would as well.
Their eyes met, and Gared challenged him in that look, but Rojer was a mummer, and his face easily imitated the harsh look of the Painted Man, his voice deepening to the rasp Arlen used to frighten people and distance himself from them.
“Ent gonna tell you again, Gared,” he said, and he felt it as the giant’s will broke. Gared nodded and stepped back, returning his axe to its harness and his blade to its sheath. The other Cutters looked at him in surprise, but they did the same, taking comfort in their numbers.
Rojer turned to face Jardir. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Indeed,” said Jardir, bowing. “I wish to speak with Mistress Leesha.”
“She’s not in town,” Rojer said.
“I see,” Jardir said. “Can you tell me where I might find her?”
“The Core we will!” Gared growled, but Rojer and Jardir both ignored him.
“Why?” Rojer asked.
“She has given me a gift of incredible value in the cloak,” Jardir said. “I wish to bestow a gift of equal value upon her.”
“What gift?” Rojer asked.
Jardir smiled. “That is a matter between Mistress Leesha and myself.”
Rojer considered him. Part of him screamed not to trust this smiling desert demon who had slaughtered and raped so many, but Jardir seemed to have his own code of honor, and he did not think the man would try to harm Leesha while the truce held. And if the gift he offered was truly magic of equal value, they might be fools to refuse it.
“I’ll take you to her if you leave your warriors behind,” Rojer said.
Jardir bowed. “Of course.” The guards gave a cry of protest, as did Gared and a few of the Cutters, but again Rojer and Jardir ignored them. “My intentions toward Mistress Leesha are honorable, and I will of course accept a chaperone while in her presence.”
It seemed an odd choice of words, but Rojer could not find further cause to argue. Soon they were walking the path to Leesha’s cottage. Gared insisted on coming along, and glared at Jardir the whole way, though the Krasian leader seemed thankfully oblivious.
“Why does the mistress not live on your village’s wondrous greatward?” Jardir asked. “I would think her too valuable to risk to the alagai.”
Rojer laughed. “If all the Core rose up tonight, you’d be safer in Leesha’s cottage than anywhere else in the world.”
Jardir found that hard to believe, but as they came close to the cottage, he found the path laid with a walkway of stone wards, each large enough to stand upon without marring it.
Jardir stopped short, looking at the stones in amazement. He squatted, pressing against the stone with his hand. “Everam’s beard. It must have taken a thousand slaves to carve these.”
“We ent a bunch of filthy desert slavers like you,” Gared muttered. Jardir’s first impulse was to kill the man, but that was no way to impress the mistress. He embraced the insult instead and gave it no further thought, returning his focus to the path.
“The wards were poured, not carved,” Rojer said, “made from a mixture of stone and water called crete, which hardens as it dries. Leesha cut them into the groun
d herself, and free men poured the stone.”
Jardir scanned the path ahead in amazement. “These are combat wards. And linked.”
Rojer nodded. “Any demon that sets foot on this path might as well step into a sunbeam.”
Jardir realized he had been arrogant and naïve to scoff before. For all their savage ways, not even Sharik Hora held the power of some of the Northern woman’s wardings.
The yard was no less stunning, filled with more crete walkways that wove a complex wardnet around the cottage and its environs. A large garden bloomed brightly, the herbs and flowers arranged in neat groupings, their lines forming yet more wards. Jardir couldn’t recognize many of them, but he saw enough to know that these did far more than banish or kill corelings.
Stronger than ever, he felt Everam’s will thrumming within him. This woman was destined to be his bride. With her and Inevera behind him, what in the world could he not accomplish?
Leesha listened to the comforting rhythm of Wonda chopping firewood as she prepared lunch. The simple task helped give her mind clarity as she went over the night’s events and compared the men she had met with the tales of the refugees and Arlen’s words of warning.
It was not that she did not trust the accounts, but Leesha preferred to form her own opinions. Many of the refugees spoke hearsay and exaggeration, and Arlen’s heart could be hard and unforgiving at times. Something had happened to him in Krasia, some hurt done he could not forgive, but since he would not speak of it, Leesha could only guess as to what it was.
Whatever else might be true of the Krasians, they were warriors without equal. Leesha had seen that instantly as she watched them fight. The Cutters were generally larger and more heavily muscled, but they moved with none of the precision that marked the dal’Sharum. The fifty camped in the clearing could cut a swath of destruction across the Hollow before they were pulled down, and if the rest of Jardir’s army had half their skill, the Hollowers would stand little chance against them, even with all the secrets of fire she could muster.
The Desert Spear Page 55
