The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  Selen puts her free hand on her hip. “We shouldn’t buy their rugs and pottery because they didn’t want to die?”

  “Cowardice is reason enough,” the venom in Micha’s voice is surprising, “but the Majah were not afraid to die. It was spite that made them turn their backs on Everam and their brothers in the night.”

  I have no argument. The histories are kinder to the Majah, but Micha lived through the events, while I only read about them in books. “Mother says we cannot blame a whole people for the decisions of their leaders.”

  “Perhaps,” Micha allows. “But leaders who do not reflect the will of their people do not remain in power. Take my word in this. The Majah are not to be trusted.”

  Minda and the others have already disappeared into the marketplace. Without letting go of my hand, Selen starts walking. “Don’t trust anyone. Ay, got it.” I stumble gratefully along after her. Micha’s brows tighten, but she keeps silent pace.

  The first thing that envelops us is the smell, strange and familiar all at once. Colorful spices are piled high in great baskets. I’m drawn to one, breathing deeply. I turn to Micha. “It smells like your cooking.”

  “Powdered hava.” Micha takes a pinch. “It flavors and preserves meat. It is the center of Krasian cooking.” She lifts her veil just enough to sniff at it, then rubs the pinch off her fingers. “But this is not fresh. No doubt they think you greenlanders won’t be able to tell.”

  “Well they did cross the desert with it.” If Micha thinks to dissuade me, she is failing. Now that I am here, there is nowhere else I want to be.

  A Krasian woman appears, clad in the traditional black robe and veil. Her eyes flick over my clothes, but if she disapproves, she gives no sign.

  I’m fluent in modern Krasian, but the woman notes my dark skin and begins speaking quickly in an unfamiliar dialect that is hard to follow at speed. I stand there stunned as she pauses to wait for a reply, trying desperately to formulate a response.

  When the silence stretches on too long, Micha steps in. “We were looking at your hava, but it is not fresh.”

  I know it’s rude, but I allow my sister to take my shoulders and lead me away. I keep my distance from the other vendors as we delve deeper into the little bazaar, taking in the sights and smells as I try to get a feel for the language.

  The sellers are all women in Krasian blacks. They chatter at every shopper that ventures close, and shout entreaties to those who keep back. Most appear to know only a handful of Thesan words, but they use them aggressively, waving arms for emphasis as they hold up items of interest. “My friends! Come! Come see!”

  “This will help you find a husband!” A vendor holds up a colorful silk scarf, and Minda looks up. It’s all the opening the woman needs to draw her in.

  Drawn to a beautiful vase I enter the largest tent, but this time Micha intercepts the vendor, engaging her with a host of questions before the woman can get to me. Left alone for a moment, I am quick to run hands over the beautiful craft. Machines and mass production have become the fashion in exports from New Krasia, but the items the Majah sell are all handmade—rugs, clothing, pottery, and jewelry with vivid colors and tribal patterns.

  There are brilliant bolts of cloth and lamps made of beautifully latticed brass. Cures and curios, furniture and fashion. Copies of the Evejah, the Krasian holy book, along with prayer rugs, candles, and incense. Burning samples fill the air with a heady smoke.

  “Ah!” a voice behind me exclaims. “I did not believe it, but it is true! Princess Olive of Hollow, here in my humble bazaar!”

  I want to scream. For a few brief moments I was allowed to be myself, but even here, my station demands I be singled out.

  But Mother is meeting with the Majah soon. She’ll be furious if I am anything but gracious, so I put on my best court smile as I turn to see a small man in garishly colored silks. He is slender, with nothing of a warrior’s build. He kneels as my gaze falls on him, putting his hands on the tent floor and touching his forehead between them.

  “Rise, please.” I try to imitate the Majah accent, but the inflections feel clumsy on my lips.

  The man takes his head and hands from the floor and rolls back onto his heels, but he keeps his eyes on my feet as he spreads his arms in greeting. “Welcome, Highness. I am Achman am’Sufatch am’Majah. Your presence honors me beyond my worth.”

  He does not tell me his father’s name, as is the custom in Krasia. That, and his flamboyantly colored silks, tell me much. “You are khaffit.”

  Khaffit were the lowest caste in Krasian society—men unfit for service as Sharum warriors. The name was synonymous with coward. But unlike warriors, khaffit were allowed to take on other trades, some of them becoming quite wealthy.

  “Tsst.” Micha’s hiss is low, meant for me alone. The sound she makes if I use the wrong fork at dinner. I look at Achman and realize that in stating the obvious, I am being incredibly rude.

  “Of course.” Achman’s smile does not waver. He speaks his native tongue slowly, no doubt for our benefit. “When I saw the carriage marked with your mother’s mortar and pestle, I did not dare hope you would grace us with a visit. Come, let me offer you tea and shade.”

  “We just want to browse,” I say carefully.

  “Pfagh!” Achman waves a hand at the wares on display as if disgusted at his own stock. “Trinkets for children and chin. There is no need for one such as yourself to waste time with trivialities. Sit, sit! Let my wives and daughters bring our finest wares to you.”

  Chin is Krasian for outsider. Like khaffit, it is often derogatory, effectively synonymous with coward. I’ve never heard Micha use it. She refers to Northerners as greenlanders, instead. I’m not sure if I should be offended on behalf of my mother’s people, or flattered that even in Thesan clothes I appear Krasian enough to be accepted as one of their own.

  Manners give me no choice but to let the merchant escort us into a canvas-walled back area of the tent. Wonda and Speaker Callen follow us in. They have smiles on their faces, but even the Speaker’s eyes are wary. I remember Mother’s talk of assassins, but it seems ludicrous that someone would dare strike at me here. What could they gain by harming me?

  Inside the accommodations are lavish and rich, with an abundance of silk and color. Achman gestures to a semicircle of thick, velvet pillows. “Will you sit?”

  I hesitate, and again Micha steps in, taking a pillow and kneeling gracefully, sitting back on her folded legs. Selen and I mimic her as another woman in black appears. This one has an air of command the others did not. Like Achman, she is short for a Krasian, with a narrow waist but ample curves.

  “My Jiwah Ka, Fashvah,” Achman says, indicating that she is his First Wife, with dominion over the other women in his household. Fashvah bows and says nothing, but I catch her dark eyes watching me from behind her thick black veil.

  Fashvah is followed by half a dozen other black-robed women who lay out a silver tea service, dates, nuts, and honeyed cakes. The teapot steams as delicate ceramic cups are set before us, painted in intricate design. Achman does not bother to introduce the other women, and their bulky robes make it difficult to tell which might be wives and which daughters.

  Achman takes a pillow across from us. Fashvah kneels between me and her husband, pouring my cup first, then his. He raises his tea, and I mirror him, as I have been taught. In Krasian custom, the host welcomes guests in order of rank, inviting them to speak their names and drink.

  “Tsst.” Micha raises a finger, stopping Achman before he can speak a toast. “I am Micha vah Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji.”

  Achman is so quick to put down his cup he spills hot tea on his hand. He gasps but does not complain as he puts his hands back on the floor and touches his forehead between them. “Please accept my apologies, Princess. I did not recognize you.”

  He glances at me, eyes flicking to the
cups. His women stand likewise frozen. Micha is older, but the daughter of one of Father’s lesser wives, whereas my mother rules these lands. Micha has never put her station above mine before. Instinctively I understand that I could dispute her claim, but there are politics at work I do not fully comprehend.

  Achman eyes me, perhaps waiting for me to issue a challenge. When I do not, he nods and Fashvah fills Micha’s cup.

  “Welcome, Princess of the Kaji.” Achman remains supplicant as he raises his refilled cup. “Blessings of Everam upon you.”

  Micha nods. “And you.” She slips the tiny cup behind her veil and tips it back as Achman drinks. She puts the cup down and gives Selen and me a slight nod, her voice too low for any save me to hear. “It is safe to drink, sister.”

  I blink. Micha usurped my place to taste for poison? Perhaps I should be grateful, but instead I feel even more smothered than I do under Captain Wonda’s watchful eye. I barely hear the other toasts as we go through the motions of the tea ceremony.

  * * *

  —

  “This was made by the great smith Ghazin,” Achman holds a velvet pillow upon which a curved knife sits, “quenched in the blood of heroes of the Maze.”

  Handle and sheath are polished silver, etched with intricate wardings and encrusted with rubies and emeralds.

  “It’s beautiful.” I lift the knife reverently and slide the blade free, tilting it to let the wards play across the steel in the candlelight. It is well balanced and sharp, but all the gems and precious metal make it seem more showpiece than weapon.

  “It is a hanzhar,” Achman says, as if reading my mind. “Honed to a razor’s edge, but hard as diamond.”

  Hanzhar are the blades of dama’ting priestesses, used not for combat but for surgery, and for the drawing of blood for the dice. It reminds me of Favah.

  “I am no dama’ting.” I slide the blade back into its sheath, flipping it in my fingers to return it hilt-first.

  “Tsst,” Micha whispers again.

  Achman holds up his hands. “I am khaffit, Princess, and may not touch such a holy item.”

  Idiot, I curse myself as the merchant holds out the pillow for me to lay the knife upon.

  “It is said your mother casts the dice of foretelling like a dama’ting,” Achman says. “This might make a worthy gift.”

  I shake my head, feeling my shoulders tense at the mention of Mother. If Selen and I go through with our plan, no gift will soothe the duchess’ anger when I return. “Her Grace is not fond of blades beyond the Gatherer’s scalpel.”

  Achman’s smile never wavers as Fashvah takes the blade away. Another woman appears with a jeweled chalice, followed by a series of beautiful rugs woven from fine wool in vibrant tribal patterns. A set of five rings after that, each wrought of silver and delicately warded, connected by fine silver chains to a jeweled bracelet.

  I’ve never seen Selen interested in jewelry before, but she seems transfixed, trying them on and flexing her hand, marveling at the beauty. “How much?” Like mine, her Krasian is careful and succinct.

  “Three hundred draki,” Achman says. “A beautiful bargain for a beautiful princess.”

  Micha barks a laugh. “You do nothing to dispel the reputation of Majah as thieves and cheats, khaffit. This is not worth one-fifth the price.”

  I look to Achman, expecting him to be offended, but instead there is a hint of smile at his lips. What follows is a back-and-forth of shouted Krasian so fast I can barely follow. Selen and I gape as they argue the merits of the piece, then the price in draki, then the exchange rate. Micha calls him a cheat and a thief twice more before grudgingly settling on a value in gold Suns.

  Selen happily counts the coins into Achman’s palm. Hollow Suns are stamped with Mother’s face, and I cannot shake the feeling she is watching, even here.

  “Fresh tea for our guests!” The merchant is smiling as he whispers into the ear of one of his daughters, who returns with a light, flexible veil of warded coins, strung with delicate wire.

  Achman lifts the item for us to admire. I have never worn a veil, but it is breathtakingly beautiful. He smiles at Micha. “Something else to haggle over, Princess?”

  Micha shakes her head, though I’ve known her long enough to see the interest in her eyes. “It is too immodest.”

  “For a common dal’ting, perhaps.” Achman’s eyes twinkle. “But worthy of an elder princess of the Kaji at times when it is good to remind others of her station.”

  “My station in the eyes of Everam is all that matters.” Micha dismisses the item with a wave, but her eyes follow it as Achman returns it to the pillow.

  Next Fashvah presents a small cylindrical box with a domed top. The box is silver, with a molded circle of defensive wards around its circumference, meeting at a ward circle shaped like a shield with a spear behind it. At the shield’s center is a clear gemstone the size of my thumbnail. The negative space around the symbols is painted with brightly colored lacquer.

  Achman removes the domed top, revealing two dangling earrings. He holds them up for me to admire. “The purest yellow gold was used for the filigree, and fourteen sequins—a holy number—surround the nine-carat fire opals…”

  Achman trails off when he sees I am not paying attention, still staring at the open box on the pillow. The little spear behind the shield isn’t molded. It’s a pin, and there is a hinge on the opposite side. “What is this?”

  “A simple trinket box, Your Highness,” Achman says. “There is nothing special about it.”

  “What does it do?” I press.

  The merchant shrugs, taking the box and pulling free the little spear. The cylinder opens, and the silver floor falls away. “May I?” He indicates my upper arm.

  Micha tenses, but I hold out my arm and allow Achman to close the cuff around my biceps and reinsert the pin. It is snug, but not so tight it restricts me when I flex the muscle. I lift the armlet, marveling at how the colors dance in the light. “I love it. How much?”

  “For this?” Achman waves a hand dismissively. “Keep it as my gift to you, Highness.”

  “Oh, I could never,” I say.

  “I insist,” Achman says.

  “No, I must…”

  “Tsst.” Micha’s hiss sends a shiver down my spine, and I let the protest die on my lips.

  “Thank you.” My smile is genuine as I remove the cuff and reassemble the beautiful box.

  “It is nothing,” Achman says. “I would not have considered it a worthy gift, but if it caught your eye when so many treasures passed without remark, it must be so. May it protect you tomorrow night when you travel beyond the great wards.”

  The smile fades from my face. “I won’t be going on the hike with the others. Mother won’t allow it.”

  Achman nods. “The duchess is wise. Nie’s hold may have weakened in your lands, but She is not gone. In Desert Spear, Sharum still battle and bleed in the Maze each night.”

  My eyes widen, and even Micha looks up. “The desert alagai were not destroyed by the Deliverer’s hand?” She uses the Krasian word for coreling.

  “Alas, no.” Achman draws a ward in the air. “The dama tell us it is because Everam wishes the Majah to remain strong while our greenland cousins grow fat and lax, and perhaps it is so. Others whisper it is the Creator’s punishment for our retreat from Sharak Ka.”

  “Inevera,” Micha says. The word means “Everam’s will,” mysterious and unknowable. She could be agreeing with either theory, but considering her attitude toward the Majah tribe, there is little doubt which she believes. Still, there is no satisfaction in her eyes. The news that demons still plague her homeland obviously does not sit well with her. “Perhaps the Shar’Dama Ka will send aid, if a peace can be made.”

  A hush falls in the tent as she speaks the name. Shar’Dama Ka. Ahmann Jardir, first among the warrior-
priests, who sits atop the Skull Throne and commands the greatest army in the world.

  My father.

  “Perhaps,” Achman agrees, but in the silence that follows there is no sense that this is something the Majah desire. Why did they abandon my father and the green lands, returning to the desert fifteen summers ago? Was it cowardice? Spite? Or was there something more?

  Tension grows thick in the hot air of the tent. It’s too much to bear, and I blurt the first thing I can think of to break it.

  “I’ll take the earrings.” My eyes flick to Micha. “And the veil as well.”

  6

  BOYS

  At evening bell, the merchants close their shops and the Krasians retreat to their colored wagons. Everyone needs their rest, for tomorrow is Solstice, the longest and busiest day of the year. In every city and town across Thesa and Krasia there will be celebrations, but here in Pumpforge, it is even more special.

  Tourists gather around the central fountain of the market square, pitching tents and laying out blankets. Groups won’t leave for the hike until dawn, but camping in the market square to be ready for an early start has become part of the tradition. Selen is quick to stake a fine spot for her small tent, but she returns soon after.

  Flamework lights up the night sky as festival crackers bang and flash on the cobbles between the tents. Jongleurs juggle and play their instruments.

  Everyone else is watching the entertainment, but all I can see are the other children as they gather, dance, laugh. Young couples hold hands, snuggled close, and I wonder how it feels to hold someone, or to be held. They seem such simple things, but I ache for them.

  “Reckon that’s the last of it,” Wonda says, as the sky falls dark and the flamework crew begins to pack their implements. “Not as good as the ones your mum used to make, but a good show.”

  One more thing Mother was perfect at.

  “Time to head inside,” Wonda says. “Busy day tomorrow. Going to be dancing and games at the Solstice Festival, and Callen’s smiths promised a lesson on how to make armor.”