The Daylight War

13

333 AR Summer

28 Dawns Before New Moon

Leesha looked at the darkening sky and had to press a palm to her eye socket, easing a throb of pain. With their late start from Ahmann’s palace, the caravan to Deliverer’s Hollow made little progress that first day — perhaps ten miles. A Messenger might make the trip from Fort Rizon to Deliverer’s Hollow in under two weeks. The Spears of the Deliverer, fearing no demons and travelling at speed even at night, had done it in half that. Even the ride out had been swift as these things go, despite a slow cart to accommodate her parents, unaccustomed to the road.

Leesha’s father had never been robust even when young, and he was far from young now. Erny had back spasms daily on the journey out, and she’d been forced to give him relaxants that made him sleep like the dead. They rode in a far more comfortable carriage for the return, but while he never complained, Leesha saw him rubbing his back when he thought no one was looking, and knew the journey would be hard on him.

‘We should stop soon for the night,’ she told Shamavah, who shared the carriage with Leesha and her parents — at least when she wasn’t out shouting at the other women. Krasian women had their own pecking order, and it did not matter that Shamavah was the wife of a khaffit. All of the women — and the kha’Sharum as well — hopped at her commands, keeping the caravan in proper order.

Still, the heavily laden carts moved at a crawl that seemed to chafe at the jet-black chargers of the dal’Sharum and even the sturdy garrons Gared and Wonda rode. Leesha remembered Ahmann’s warning of bandits and bit her lip. Even in Krasian lands, there were many who would wish her dead. Beyond, the cartloads of food and clothing in the caravan might make them too much to resist for those who had lost everything when the Krasians came and took their homes. The Sharum would deter smaller bands, but there were women and children to hostage, and Leesha knew well that bandits would exploit such weaknesses.

‘Of course.’ Shamavah’s Thesan was almost as flawless as her husband’s. ‘There is a village, Kajiton, just over the next hill, and riders have already been sent to prepare a proper reception.’

Kajiton. The name of the Krasian Deliverer with a Thesan suffix. It said much about the state of Rizon … or Everam’s Bounty, as she had best get used to calling it. Ahmann had given land to his tribes like a man slicing a birthday cake for his family, and while the hamlets had not been taken as brutally as Fort Rizon itself, it was clear from Leesha’s carriage window that the tribes had dug in, and Evejan law taken a firm hold.

There was no sign of any men of fighting age, save for those weak or infirm, and the Thesan women toiling in the fields did so in dresses of dark, sombre colour that covered them from ankle to neck, hair wrapped carefully in scarves. When the dama sang the call to prayer, or even came in sight, they were quick to prostrate themselves. The smell of hot Krasian spices drifted on the air, and a pidgin, part Krasian and part Thesan mixed with hand signs and facial expressions, was emerging.

The duchy she had known was gone, and even if the Krasians were somehow driven off, it was doubtful it would ever return.

‘Proper reception’ turned out to be almost everyone in the village bowing and scraping as they rode past, and the town inn emptied save for the staff. While thousands of people had fled the Krasian advance, forming refugee groups that swelled every hamlet and city north and east of Everam’s Bounty, it was clear that far more stayed behind, or were captured and herded back. There were hundreds of Thesans still in Kajiton alone. The land in Rizon was fertile, and the population was greater than all the other duchies combined.

As they rode into the town square, Leesha saw a large stake at its centre with a woman hanging limply from wrists chained high above her head. She was obviously dead, and the marks on her naked body, as well as the small stones that lay scattered about her, made clear the cause. A sign atop the stake had a single word in flowing Krasian script, but Leesha needed no translator, having seen it often enough in the Evejah.

Adulterer.

The pain in her head flared again, and she thought she might throw up in the carriage. She fumbled in the pockets of her apron, taking a root and a handful of leaves, popping them into her mouth without bothering to brew them into something palatable. They chewed into a bitter cure, but it settled her stomach. It would not do to show the Krasians her weakness.

They pulled up, and children scattered flower petals from the carriage doors to the steps of the inn, acting as if there were not a rotting corpse a few dozen feet away.

‘Children can adapt to anything,’ Bruna used to say, and it was true enough in Leesha’s experience, but no child should have to adapt to this.

The local dama awaited them, looking like he was carved from solid oak. His beard was iron grey and his eyes the blue of slate. Kaval, leading the procession, reined and leapt from his horse with an agility that belied the grey streaks in his beard, bowing to the dama and exchanging a few words. The cleric gave a shallow bow as Leesha stepped down from her carriage.

‘So this is the Northern witch who has beguiled Shar’Dama Ka,’ he muttered to Kaval in Krasian.

The scent of the petals under her feet did not cover the smell of death, and pain and outrage made her feel murderous. Now he presumed to judge her as well? It was all Leesha could do not to pull the knife from her belt and bury it in his throat.

Instead she gave him the imperious stare she had learned from Inevera. ‘The Northern witch understands you, Dama,’ she said. ‘What is your name, that I may tell Ahmann of your words of welcome?’

The cleric’s eyes widened in shock. In Krasia, unmarried women spoke only when spoken to, and would not dare take such a tone with a dama, who could — and often would — kill them for such an affront.

But Leesha had spoken the words in Krasian, showing she knew their ways, and her use of the Deliverer’s given name showed a familiarity that would make all but the most powerful Damaji wet their robes.

The dama hesitated, pride and the instinct for self-preservation at war on his face. In the end he bowed again, this time so deeply his long beard swept the dust. ‘Dama Anju. Apologies, Holy Intended. I meant no disrespect.’

‘In my land, those who mean no disrespect remember to speak respectfully,’ Leesha said. She kept her words simple, her Krasian far from fluent. ‘Now remove that woman’s body and return it to her family to lay to rest according to their own custom. This is the wedding day of the Deliverer’s eldest daughter to Rojer asu Jessum am’Inn am’Hollow, and its presence is an offence.’

She was not entirely within her rights to speak for Rojer, but by calling him ‘am’Hollow’ — rather than the proper ‘am’Bridge’ for his birth city of Riverbridge — she had named him as Hollow tribe, which made them family in the eyes of the Krasians.

Dama Anju’s eyebrows began to twitch. Only dama’ting dared take such a tone and order dama about, and then only because it was clearly stated in the Evejah that it was death and a denial of Heaven to harm or physically hinder one in any way. Leesha was no dama’ting, but her tone made it clear she believed her position as holy intended accorded her the same rights.

The dama stopped breathing, and Leesha knew she had pushed him too far. She watched his face redden as his anger built and reached into her apron for a pinch of Bruna’s blinding powder. He would come at her in a moment, and she would put him down before everyone.

Anju began to move his feet.

‘Do not,’ Kaval warned, his voice a soft murmur.

The dama looked to the drillmaster and saw Kaval’s hand was on his spear. There were other sounds, and Anju turned to see the dal’Sharum of Leesha’s escort had done the same. Wonda had her bow trained on him, and Gared had his axe and machete in hand.

Anju eased into a more submissive posture, but his face was swollen and his breath quick and shallow. Leesha could not resist twisting the knife, meeting his eyes boldly. ‘To honour this holy occasion, it would please the son of Jessum if you released seven chin slaves, one for each pillar of Heaven.’

The impotent rage she saw in the dama’s slate eyes was bittersweet. The barest taste of what you deserve, she thought.

Leesha swept away before Anju could respond further, heading for the inn. In her wake, she heard her orders being carried out, and kept her face serene, showing nothing of what she felt.

She was learning.

‘Here we go again,’ Leesha groaned as the singing stopped.

Rojer and his wives were a week married, but still the sounds from Rojer’s carriage were a constant pendulum between the young women’s singing and their wails of passion.

Sikvah began to cry out not long after, and Amanvah soon joined her. Leesha put her head in her hands, massaging her temples. The headache cycle had continued all week. The pain had receded, but there was tightness in the muscles around her left eye, a constant threat that it could return in force at any moment. ‘Night, can’t those tramps shut it for five minutes?’

‘Not likely.’ Elona sighed wistfully. ‘Ent nothing like the dangle of an eighteen-year-old boy. They harden every time the wind blows, and get right back up ten minutes after you put them down.’

‘Seems more like every three hours,’ Leesha muttered.

Elona laughed. ‘Still gets my respect, and I don’t give it easy. That cock’s got two young brides to please and from the sound of it, he lasts a lot longer than most boys his age … and some a good deal older.’ Her eyes flicked to Erny, who looked like he wanted to crawl between the seat cushions. ‘I take it back. You might have done well to keep that one for yourself.’

The cacophony increased, and Leesha shook her head. ‘They’re exaggerating. No one wails like that.’

‘Well of course,’ Elona said. ‘Any new bride with half a mind knows to make her husband feel like king and explorer both, charting new territory to rule.’ She looked at Leesha. ‘Still, I think there’s a bit of green in your eyes. Missing your Krasian lover?’

Leesha felt her face redden, and Erny looked at the door as if considering leaping from the moving carriage. ‘It’s not like that, Mother. I just don’t trust them. They’re spinning a spell around Rojer, but they’re still loyal to Inevera. A fool could see it.’

‘Clearly not,’ Elona said, ‘since the professional fool is missing it, though you’re right enough. It’s what I’d do. You, too. Did you leave the demon of the desert with a single seed in his pods before you left?’

Leesha sighed and put her head out the window, breathing deeply of the fresh air as they trundled down the road. ‘I’ll just be glad when we’re safe in the Hollow. We’ll be leaving Everam’s Bounty tomorrow.’

‘Good riddance,’ Elona said, spitting from her own window.

‘Ay,’ Leesha said, ‘but the Sharum that keep us so safe here will attract attention we don’t want outside the borders. Bandits and duke’s men will be looking at our caravan hungrily, and Ahmann was right that twenty warriors might not be enough.’

‘He offered more,’ Elona noted.

Leesha nodded. ‘But twenty warriors, however skilled, can only cause so much mischief in the Hollow. Any more begins to be a problem, and we have problems enough. Have you seen a single boy over the age of six since we left the city?’

Elona shook her head. ‘They’ve all been taken for Hanna Pats, or whatever.’

‘Hannu Pash,’ Leesha said. ‘Training and indoctrination. They’ll speak Krasian like natives before long, and hold to the Evejan ways. In ten years, they will have an army that can crush the Free Cities like a child crushes an anthill.’

‘Creator above,’ Rojer gasped, gulping at the skin of cool water Sikvah brought to his lips. Amanvah stroked his sweat-matted hair, cooing softly as she nibbled his ear.

He had thought the Krasian women repressed, and perhaps they were in public, but alone with their husbands, it was a different tale. In the privacy of their carriage, Amanvah and Sikvah removed their plain robes, dressing in bright silks as garish as a Jongleur’s motley. Half the cloth was so thin it was transparent, and the rest not much thicker, lined with thread-of-gold, lace, or embroidery. They still wore veils, but these were ornamental — colourful, diaphanous silk starting at the tip of their noses and ending just past their lips. Their hair was uncovered, oiled, and bound in gold.

‘Our husband wields his spear better than a Sharum,’ Amanvah said. Blood had marked her a virgin on their wedding day, but she was no less skilled at ‘pillow dancing’ than Sikvah.

‘Jongleurs get a lot of practice,’ Rojer said. ‘Women used to throw themselves at my master, and I daresay I learned a trick or two, but — no offence — the two of you do things that would make the whores in Duke Rhinebeck’s brothel blush.’

Sikvah laughed. ‘The women of your Northern duke’s harem were not trained in the Dama’ting Palace.’

Rojer shook his head. ‘And I can’t shake the feeling that you’re still holding back.’

Amanvah kissed his ear so softly he shivered. ‘There are seventy and seven ways to lie with a man,’ she whispered, ‘and we have years to share them all with you.’

Amanvah and Sikvah had proven to be nothing like he imagined. He thought them much alike at first, but the more he got to know them, the more he saw how unique they were. Amanvah was taller, with smaller breasts and long, lithe limbs. Sikvah was more rounded at the hips, with thicker arms and legs. Both women were incredibly muscular, definition showing in every move. It was the stretching they did every morning. They called it sharusahk, but it was nothing like the violent wrestling Rojer had seen the Sharum and the Painted Man teach.

Where Amanvah was unflappable, Sikvah was easily roused to emotion. He had expected Amanvah, in her white robes, to be the more conservative of the two, but Sikvah was always the first to gasp at indiscretion.

‘Sleep now, husband,’ Amanvah said. ‘You must regain your vigour. Sikvah, the curtains.’

Immediately Sikvah moved to pull the heavy velvet curtains over the translucent ones covering the carriage windows. It seemed ‘First Wife’ was more than just a title. Amanvah took the lead in everything from conversation to seduction, ordering Sikvah around like a servant. Sikvah never resisted in the slightest, performing every task as if it had been her idea all along. She spoke little save when spoken to, unless Amanvah was out of the room, or her attention turned elsewhere. It was then Sikvah truly came to life.

He smiled, feeling himself drift off to sleep as his wives began a soft lullaby in Krasian. He was used to taking naps during the day, a common Jongleur trick allowing them to stay fresh and alert for nighttime performances. Most folk couldn’t read worth spit, and there was little to do once the sun set and the supper plates were cleared.

‘When others’ work ends, ours begins,’ Arrick used to say.

He woke with a jolt as the carriage came to a halt. He lifted one of the heavy curtains, and shut it quickly against the glare. It was late afternoon and they were outside a modest inn. Amanvah and Sikvah had pulled plain robes and veils over their colourful silks.

‘Ent it a bit early to be stopping for the night?’

‘This is the last village before we pass from Everam’s Bounty, beloved,’ Amanvah said. ‘Shamavah thinks it best to rest and restock before moving on. If you wish to sleep further, please do so while the khaffit unload our things.’

That would give him a lot of time. His wives did not travel light. Rojer rubbed the sleep from his face. ‘Ay, that’s all right. My legs could use a stretch.’ He moved to put his clothes on, and immediately both women began to assist.

He soon hopped from the cart and walked about a bit, beginning the ritual of stretches and tumbles he used to keep his skills sharp. The ritual was a show in itself, full of cartwheels and running flips, rolls and backbends.

As usual, the miniature performance began to draw attention. Passersby, Krasian and Thesan alike, stopped to watch, and when he began walking on his hands, a few children ran after him, cheering.

Instinctively, Rojer led them towards the centre of the cobbled square, circling to clear himself a wide space. The ring he created quickly filled with people — local villagers, and the Sharum, khaffit, and dal’ting of whatever tribe had claimed the place. A dama watched him coldly, but did not seem foolish enough to interfere with the Deliverer’s son-in-law.

Amanvah and Sikvah were watching him, too. Sikvah laughed and clapped along with the rest of the crowd at his antics, perhaps the most enthusiastically of all. Amanvah was the exact opposite, her eyes cold as she watched him.

‘Only thing worse than a woman who laughs at every pratfall,’ he heard Arrick say, ‘is one who doesn’t think anything’s funny.’

He moved over to them. ‘Husband, what are you doing?’ Amanvah asked.

‘Playing the crowd,’ Rojer said. ‘Just watch. Sikvah, please fetch my bag of marvels.’

‘Immediately, husband,’ Sikvah said, bowing and vanishing into the crowd. Amanvah continued to stare at him, but Rojer winked at her and went back to warming the crowd. He kept it simple, not sure which of his bawdy jokes and songs might offend the Krasians. Music in Krasia was limited to the private bedroom or praise to Everam. His wives had taught him some of these, but the fanaticism of the lyrics made him uncomfortable. Until his translation of the Song of Waning was complete, Rojer kept things instrumental, soon getting even the Krasians to stomp and clap to a beat.

When it came time for magic, obedient Sikvah was the perfect assistant, obeying his every command without hesitation. If only she weren’t clad in featureless black robes and veil. Wear your pillow dancing silks, love, and we’d have the best act in Thesa.

The crowd was his effortlessly. Even the dama laughed in spite of himself a few times. Only Amanvah was unmoved.

The sky was darkening when the performance ended. Rojer was still rising from his final bow when his First Wife turned on her heel and strode into the inn. Sikvah came to him immediately.

‘Your Jiwah Ka apologizes for not being here to greet you, but the holy daughter is moved to prayer over your fine performance,’ she said, as if this were natural.

Hated it, she means, he thought. I’ve stepped in something, and I don’t even know what.

‘Gone off to her secret room?’ Rojer asked. Sikvah nodded.

Rojer was used to having a single small room at an inn, but Amanvah always demanded a minimum of three — a common, one for Rojer, and a private one for her alone to retreat to whenever she wished. Amanvah accepted nothing less than the finest rooms, richly appointed with her own things. Each night the khaffit carried in heavy rugs, lamps and incense burners, silk sheets, and a collection of paints and powders that would make even a Jongleur’s jaw drop. Here, the innkeeper and his family had been put out of their own rooms to accommodate the daughter of Ahmann Jardir.

As they retired, Rojer saw the door to Amanvah’s room shut tight, with Enkido standing guard. Even if he knew what was bothering Amanvah, even if he knew what to say, there would be no getting past the giant eunuch to tell her.

Food was brought up by the innkeeper’s daughter, a meaty woman in her late forties who kept her eyes down and hopped at their every word. With no men to see, Sikvah changed back into her bright embroidered silks, serving him attentively as he ate and only taking quick nibbles of her own food at his urging.

‘Would you like your bath soon, husband?’ she asked when he was finished eating. ‘Your amazing performance must have tired you.’

It was like this every night. Amanvah would go quiet at some point, and then excuse herself and vanish into her secret room for hours. Sikvah would swoop in, attending his every need and burying him in flattery until she returned.

Normally Sikvah’s attention was indeed an effective distraction, but Rojer had never seen Amanvah so disapproving. There was an argument brewing, and he wanted to get into it and have done.

‘What in the Core is she doing in there?’ he grumbled.

‘Communing with Everam,’ Sikvah said, beginning to clear the bowls.

‘Dicing,’ Rojer said.

Sikvah seemed offended at his tone. ‘The alagai hora are no game, husband. Your Jiwah Ka consults the dice to help guide your path.’

Rojer tightened his lips, not entirely liking the sound of that, but he said nothing. He found himself craving a cup of wine badly, though he doubted there was any to be had. Alcohol was one of the first things the dama abolished in the hamlets. He imagined what his master Arrick’s reaction would have been to that. He might have wept, or saved himself the trouble and tied his own noose.

Just then Amanvah’s door opened. You could tell a lot from how a person opened a door — every Jongleur who ever worked a stage knew that. Amanvah did not open it in the tentative way of one chastened, nor the aggressive way of one in full fume. It was a calm, decisive action. She had her mask in place, and still wore her white robes.

Corespawn it, Rojer thought, putting his Jongleur’s mask on as Amanvah came to sit across from him, her eyes calm but piercing. He shifted slightly to feel the weight of the medallion on his chest.

‘This is what it means to be a Jongleur?’ Amanvah asked. ‘To dance on a ball and pretend to fall on your face to get peasant children to laugh?’

Rojer kept his face smooth, though the words made him want to bare his teeth. It was no more than he had heard from self-involved Royals in Angiers, looking down their noses at his kind even as they hired them for their balls and parties, but the words cut deeper coming from his own wife.

Night, what have I gotten myself into?

‘You didn’t seem to mind performing for the Sharum and dama in Everam’s Bounty,’ Rojer noted.

‘That was in the Deliverer’s court, praising Everam before honoured guests and loyal Sharum!’ Amanvah hissed. Sikvah moved quickly away, busying herself around the room. ‘Your honour was boundless that day, husband, but you cannot mean to compare it to debasing yourself playing the fool for khaffit and chin.’

‘Khaffit,’ Rojer said. ‘Chin. These words have no meaning to me. All I saw in that square were people, and each and every one of them deserves a little joy in their life.’

Amanvah’s mask was a good one, but Rojer caught the pulse of a vein in her forehead and knew he had niggled her. Point to me.

Amanvah stood. ‘I will be in my chamber. Sikvah, tend to Rojer’s bath.’

Sikvah bowed. ‘Yes, Jiwah Ka.’ Amanvah swept out of the room.

‘Shall I draw your bath, husband?’ Sikvah asked.

Rojer looked at her, incredulous. ‘Of course. And cut my stones off while you’re at it.’

Sikvah froze, and Rojer immediately regretted it for the frightened look on her face. ‘I … I do not …’

‘Forget it,’ Rojer cut in, getting to his feet and putting on his motley cloak. ‘I’m going downstairs a bit.’

Sikvah looked at him in concern. ‘Is there something you need? Food perhaps? Tea? I will fetch whatever you wish.’

Rojer shook his head. ‘I just need a walk and a few moments alone with my thoughts.’ He gestured towards the bedroom. ‘Warm the bed for me.’

Sikvah did not seem pleased with the instructions, but Rojer’s command was clear, and he had learned she would not refuse such a tone without good reason and a nod from Amanvah, of which she had neither. ‘As you wish, husband.’

He left the room, finding Enkido and Gared just outside in the hall. The gold-shackled eunuch stood straight and stiff before Amanvah’s door, giving no reaction as Rojer exited the room.

In contrast, Gared lounged on a chair tilted on its back legs, tossing cards at a hat a few feet away. His weapons rested against the wall in easy reach.

‘Ay, Rojer. Figured you were off to bed by now.’ He winked, and then laughed as if he had just made a clever joke.

‘You don’t have to stand watch all night, Gar,’ Rojer said.

Gared shrugged. ‘Don’t, but I usually wait till you’re off to bed before I sneak off to find my own.’ He nodded at Enkido. ‘Dunno how that one does it, standing like a tree all night. Don’t think he sleeps.’

‘Come downstairs with me,’ Rojer said. ‘I’m off to rummage under the bar and see if anything stronger than tea escaped the local dama’s glare.’ Gared grunted and stood. Rojer collected the cards with practised speed, snapping and shuffling them as he headed down the stairs.

The taproom was empty save for the innkeep, Darel, who was sweeping the floor. As at all the inns they had visited on the Messenger road through Everam’s Bounty, the other guests had been ejected for the night to accommodate Leesha’s caravan. She and her family, Gared, Wonda, Rojer, and his wives were all given their own rooms, as were the full dal’Sharum and their wives. The women, children, and kha’Sharum slept in the carts circled outside.

Darel was a fit man, but well past fighting age, with more grey in his beard than his natural sand colour. ‘Honoured masters.’ He bowed. ‘How may I serve you?’

‘Cut that demonshit, for starters,’ Rojer said. ‘Just us chin here.’

The man relaxed visibly, heading behind the bar as Rojer and Gared took stools. ‘Sorry. Never know who’s watching, these days.’

‘Honest word,’ Gared said. ‘Like worrying you got a ward wrong somewhere.’

‘Got anything real to drink?’ Rojer asked. ‘I’ve a powerful thirst, and not for water. Been so long, a bottle of disinfectant will do.’

Darel hawked into a clay spittoon. ‘Dama smashed all my wine casks the day they came to town. Used the stronger stuff to make a pyre to burn everything “sinful” in town. Took my granddaughter’s stuffed doll. Said its dress was indecent.’ He spat again. ‘Girl loved that doll. Lucky they din’t take her, too, I guess.’

‘It bad as all that?’ Rojer asked.

The innkeeper shrugged. ‘First week was rough. Dama came with a paper from the demon of the desert that said the town belonged to his tribe now. Some folk disagreed, and the Sharum put ’em down hard. Most fell in line after that.’

‘So you just let ’em take over?’ Gared growled.

‘We ent fighters like you Hollow folk,’ Darel said. ‘I saw the biggest man in town have his arm broke like a twig by a dama half his size, just for refusing to bow. Needed to look after me and mine, and couldn’t do that dead.’

‘No one’s blaming you,’ Rojer said.

‘S’not so bad once you learn the rules,’ Darel said. ‘Most of the Krasian holy book is the same as in the Canon, and like us, some of them are preachier than others,’ he cracked a smile as his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘and some are hypocrites.’ With that, he produced a small clay flask and two tiny cups. ‘You boys ever try couzi?’

‘Huh-uh,’ Gared grunted.

‘Heard stories,’ Rojer said.

Darel chuckled. ‘For all their talk of the sin of spirits, them sand folk brew a drink that’ll take the varnish off your porch.’

Rojer and Gared took the cups he offered, looking at them curiously. Even in his crippled hand, Rojer could hold his easily. The one Gared held looked like something a child might use to serve tea to a doll. ‘It’s barely a mouthful. Do you taste it or toss it?’

‘Toss the first couple,’ Darel advised. ‘Gets easier after that.’ They touched cups and threw them back, eyes widening. Rojer had been drinking since he was twelve and thought himself used to the worst burn alcohol could bring to bear, but this was like drinking fire. Gared started coughing.

Darel just smiled, filling their cups again. Once more they tossed them back, and this time, as he said, it was easier. Or maybe their tongues and throats were just numb.

Gared sipped the third cup thoughtfully. ‘Tastes like …’

‘… cinnamon,’ Rojer finished, swishing the liquid in his mouth.

‘The Krasians are like couzi,’ Darel pulled at his whiskers, ‘or this corespawned itchy beard they make all the men grow. Take some getting used to, but not so bad after a while. They let me keep my business so long as I pay my taxes and keep to the rules, and if I arrange a marriage for my granddaughter by the time she bleeds, I don’t have to worry about the white witches arranging one for her.’

He paled suddenly, looking sharply at Rojer.

Rojer smiled and held up his scarred hand. ‘Keep your pants dry. I may have married a dama’ting, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less scary to me. Might want to get out of the habit of calling them white witches, though. “An act practised in private will eventually be seen”, as my master used to say.’

‘Ay,’ Darel agreed. ‘Fair and true.’

‘You were saying?’ Rojer prompted. ‘Krasians aren’t so bad?’

‘Find that hard to swallow,’ Gared said. ‘Like saying it’s not so bad having a boot on your back.’

Darel poured himself a cup of couzi, tossing it back with a practised quickness. ‘Ent saying I don’t miss the old days, and plenty have it worse than me, but generally, you remember when to bow and keep your nose clean, the Krasians leave you be. You have a dispute with your neighbour, it still goes to the Town Speaker first, and then he takes it to the dama if it ent something he can settle on the spot. The dama are generally fair, but they take all that ear-for-an-ear business in the Canon literally. Know a feller lost a hand for stealing a chicken, and another who raped a girl, and had to watch the same done to his sister.’

Gared balled a fist. ‘And that ent so bad?’

Darel threw back another cup. ‘It’s bad, ay, but I don’t steal chickens and rape girls. Reckon there’ll be a lot less of that in the future, too. Evejan law is harsh, but can’t deny it gets results.’

‘And them taking all the boys?’ Gared asked. ‘I had a son, I wouldn’t stand for that.’

Darel swished his third cupful in his mouth, swallowing thoughtfully. ‘Got a grandson they took. Ent happy about it, but they let him come home every month on new moon. Waning, they call it. Boys’re getting it rough, coming home with bruises and broken bones, but no worse’n the Krasian boys. They’re picking up the language and rules quicker than the rest of us, and the dama says that the ones who earn the black will be full citizens, with all the rights of a Sharum lord. And the ones who don’t are kicked out as khaffit.’ He smiled, scratching his neck. ‘Which ent too different from my lot, ’cept without the itchy beard.’

Rojer sipped his fourth — or was it his fifth? — cup of couzi. His head was beginning to spin. ‘How many boys did they take from … where are we, anyway?’

‘Used to be Appleton,’ Darel said. ‘Now it’s some long bunch of sand words. We just call it Sharachville, ’coz that’s our tribe now. There were thirty boys here the right age for Hannu Pash or whatever.’

Rojer had to steady himself on Gared as they climbed back up the steps. He had drunk a big mug of fresh water and chewed a sourleaf, but he doubted his wives would be fooled if he stumbled over his own feet on the way to bed. Fortunately, Rojer was Arrick Sweetsong’s apprentice and had a lot of practice pretending to be sober when he was anything but.

‘They’re building an army bigger than all the Free Cities combined,’ he said quietly. ‘Lakton doesn’t have a chance.’

‘Gotta do something,’ Gared said. ‘Find the Painted Man, fight, something. Can’t just sit back and let ’em take everything south of the Hollow.’

‘First thing is to warn folk in Lakton what’s coming,’ Rojer said. ‘Got some ideas about that, but I need a night’s sleep and maybe a pot to sick up in first.’

It took all his mummer’s skills and acrobatics to keep steady as he walked by Enkido. If the giant eunuch took any notice of him, he did not show it. Inside, Amanvah was still in her private chamber, the evil glow of wardlight shining from under the door. He made his way into bed without a problem. Sikvah was waiting for him, but she said nothing as he collapsed face-first into the pillows. He felt tugging as she pulled off his boots and clothes, but while he did not resist, neither did he have strength to assist. She stroked his back gently, cooing as he fell fast asleep.