The Warded Man
Page 83
“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 their 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.
“The dal’Sharum know only the spear, and the dama the Evejah,” Abban agreed sadly.
The men were not using the points of their 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.
