The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 10 THE CHIN REBELLION 333 AR AUTUMN

Inevera woke to a buzzing in her ear. Never a deep sleeper, and even in less troubling times, she drifted on its bare edge in recent days and came awake swiftly.

The vibration came from one of her earrings, gifts given to her most trusted servants and advisors, a way to contact her, and a way to spy. Ahmann’s had been silent since he fell, the mountain where he had fought the Par’chin far out of range. She wore it still, praying to Everam each dawn that this would be the day it sounded again, signaling his return.

But it was not her husband’s ring that sounded now. Inevera slid a finger along the cartilage of her ear, counting down until she felt the hum. The eighth. No sacred number for the khaffit.

She twisted the ball dangling from the ring until it clicked, changing the alignment of the wards in circumference around the two hemispheres that housed the bit of demon bone. With the link open, she spoke, knowing her words resonated in its twin.

“It is not yet dawn, khaffit,” she said quietly. “This had better be important or I’ll have your—”

“While I do love the artistry of your threats, Damajah, I’m afraid we have no time for them, if you wish to have my news before it reaches the ears of the Damaji.”

Abban’s words were as flip as ever, but his clipped tone left no doubt that his news would put her fragile rule to the test at a time when Krasia could ill afford further instability.

“What is it?” she said.

“I am surrounded by your lovely bodyguards outside, and cannot speak freely,” the khaffit said, “and this news is best discussed in person. Invite me in, please.”

Invite him in. To her private pillow chamber. The one she shared with the Deliverer himself. The khaffit invited death with the very suggestion. Simply entering this wing of the palace carried a hundred sentences far worse, if he should be seen. Was he mad?

No. Abban was many things, but mad was not one of them. If he was here, it was only because he was certain the news could not wait, and was more valuable than his life should he delay. Her fingers gave a quick dance, and a shadow flitted across the room. A moment later, Ashia returned with the khaffit.

“Speak,” Inevera said.

Abban glanced at Ashia, hovering disapprovingly at his side. He looked back at Inevera and inclined his head slightly toward the door.

“You forfeited your life the moment you walked through that door, khaffit,” Inevera said. “If you do not pay me its worth in the next few seconds, Ashia will collect it.”

Abban paled, the usual smug demeanor fallen from his face. Inevera could see the sudden fear that washed over his aura. It was not a mask.

“Speak,” she said again. “Ashia guards my sleep. There is nothing I do not trust her with.”

“The chin are in rebellion,” Abban said.

It took a moment for the words to register. Rebellion? From the greenlanders?

“Impossible,” she said. “Unthinkable. The chin of Fort Rizon broke like slate to the hammer when our armies came, and the villages gave up without a fight. They would not dare oppose us.”

“Slate may break easily,” Abban said, “but it leaves behind a thousand shards that may cut those who do not take care.”

Inevera felt her stomach twist. She breathed, finding her center. “What has happened?”

“The sharaji in seven of the chin villages are ablaze,” Abban said. “All at once, at the sounding of the horns ending alagai’sharak, while all the warriors and eldest nie’Sharum were afield.”

“The children?” Inevera asked. The eldest nie’Sharum, boys of twelve or more, acted as spotters and signal runners for the Watchers in alagai’sharak, but the younger boys, ranging from seven to eleven, should have been asleep in their barracks.

“Taken before the fires were set,” Abban said. “Krasian children as well as chin. The dama watching over them were brutally killed.”

Inevera’s jaw tightened. It all came to the children. Taking them for Hannu Pash had been the hardest demand the Krasians placed upon the chin after they surrendered and placed their foreheads on the ground before the dama.

For their children, the chin would fight. She wondered how long they had been meeting in secret, planning this. More insidious was the matter of the Krasian children, young enough to have their wills broken. Raised as chin, they would make valuable spies for the greenlanders.

Seven fires. Seven villages. Not a fraction of the hundreds of villages throughout Everam’s Bounty, but a significant number. A sacred number. It could not be coincidence.

“Which tribes were struck?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

“Shunjin, Halvas, Khanjin, Jama, Anjha, Bajin, and Sharach,” Abban said. “The seven smallest. Those that would be stung most deeply by the loss of a sharaj and class of nie’Sharum.”

Inevera was not surprised. Their enemies had studied them well.

“Have you caught the men responsible?” Inevera asked.

Abban shook his head. “They are not mine to catch, Damajah. And the Sharum are still fighting the fires, lest they spread. The culprits are vanished into the darkness.”

A darkness they feared before our armies came, Inevera thought. We taught them to stand tall in the night, and they use it against us.

“You say the fires still burn,” Inevera said. “How is it you have this information so quickly? Before the Damaji who rule those villages, or the Andrah himself?”

Abban smiled and gave a shrug. “I have contacts in every village in Everam’s Bounty, Damajah, and pay well for news that can bring me profit.”

“Profit?” Inevera asked.

“There is always profit to be found in chaos, Damajah.” Abban glanced at Ashia. “Even if one must buy back one’s life first.”

Inevera gave a wave, and Ashia withdrew, vanishing again into the shadows. She did not leave the room, but after a moment even Inevera lost track of her.

“How long until the Damaji hear of this?” Inevera asked.

Abban shrugged. “An hour, at most. Likely less. There will be blood, Damajah. Rivers of it, when they fail to find the guilty parties.”

“What makes you so certain they will fail?” Inevera asked, though she did not disagree.

“Six months and more since we conquered them, Damajah, and the local dama do not so much as speak the chin language, much less understand their ways,” Abban said. “Instead we force our language on them, our ways.”

“The ways of the Evejah,” Inevera said. “Everam’s ways.”

“Kaji’s ways,” Abban said. “Interpreted by corrupt Damaji to their own ends over the centuries.”

Inevera pressed her lips together. She had listened in many times as Abban whispered blasphemy into her husband’s ear, and in truth she often agreed with his words, but it was a different thing to ignore words she was never supposed to have heard than to ignore them spoken to her face.

“Have a care with your blasphemy, khaffit,” she said. “I know your value, but I will not be so tolerant as my husband.”

Abban smiled, giving a shallow bow. “My apologies, Damajah.” There was no hint of the fear that had taken his aura a few moments earlier. Inevera would indeed tolerate much from Abban. More and more she understood the insidious nature of the khaffit. So long as he was loyal, she would overlook most anything.

And Abban knew it.

“Your husband and I went to a village called Baha kad’Everam when we were nie’Sharum, Damajah.”

Inevera had heard of the khaffit village. The pottery master Dravazi had lived there, and many of his works adorned her palace. “The Bowl of Everam lost contact with the Desert Spear many years ago. Taken by demons, I believe.”

Abban nodded. “Clay demons, to be precise. They infest the place. Would have killed me, if not for Ahmann. They nearly killed the Par’chin years later, when I sent him there on an errand.”

“Why are you telling me this, khaffit?” Inevera kept her serene exterior, but she was paying close attention. Abban couldn’t know that her dice had told her the Par’chin was as likely the Deliverer as her husband. Her own mother was the only person she had trusted with the information, though Ahmann had later guessed it with the aid of his crownsight.

The fact that both would-be Deliverers had visited some obscure, distant village in connection with Abban was too great a coincidence to ignore. Everam’s hand was in it. She would have to learn everything there was to know about the place.

Not for the first time, she wondered at Everam’s plan for Abban. The dice had been vexing vague on the subject.

“Fascinating creatures, the clay demons,” Abban said. A touch of fear rippled across his aura. “They blend, you see. Their armor is the exact texture and color of Baha’s adobe. You can stare right at one—on the steps, clinging to the walls, peeking from the rooftops—and not see it until it moves.”

“The hora see things the eyes cannot,” Inevera said.

Abban nodded. “Inevera, I pray it so. For the greenlanders in Everam’s Bounty outnumber us six to one. They are the adobe, and the chin who seek to strike terror in our hearts with these attacks are clay demons. The dama will not see them until they move again, and shame will force them to look for others to punish, that they might save face.”

“A move that will only deepen the wedge and strengthen the chin resolve,” Inevera mused.

“If we do not step carefully, these attacks will worsen,” Abban said. “Seek and kill the true culprits, but every greenlander we harm beyond those who held the torches will be a martyr to their cause.”

—They are aided from the north.—

Inevera sat vexed on her bed of pillows beside the Andrah as the Damaji angrily strode into the throne room. Her sons and nephew already waited below them as the other men were granted entry.

She spent close to an hour casting after Abban was dismissed and the runners sent, but that was the only useful bit of information to be gleaned about the rebels.

—They are aided from the north.—

It was easy to assume that meant the Hollow tribe. They stood to gain the most from something like this, especially if the Par’chin had survived. But it was seldom wise to assume more than the dice told. The rebels could as easily be supplied and funded by any of the Northland dukes. Euchor of Miln, perhaps, or Rhinebeck of Angiers. Even Lakton, mostly to the east, was north of Everam’s Bounty, and they had already been warned by Leesha Paper that they would be the next Krasia would conquer. Would Duke Reecherd and his dockmasters be fool enough to provoke the attack?

No. It was the Hollow. It had to be, hadn’t it? Or was she letting her hatred of Leesha Paper color her judgment? It would be just like the Northern whore to smile to their faces and light fires behind their backs, and Inevera would welcome the excuse to kill the witch and Ahmann’s child growing in her belly.

There were times she hated the dice. They had ever been vague hints and riddles, even to Inevera, who was more gifted in their reading than any dama’ting in three thousand years. The more important the question, the more the answer would shift the course of the future, the more the dice grew opaque. She had cast thrice daily, seeking her husband’s fate, but the bones told her nothing more than they had in the mountain valley where Ahmann fell, and even that was more than they would tell of the rebels.

Perhaps Everam’s plan required the chin rebellion, or a civil war in Krasia, and knowledge of how to stem them before the time was right would run counter to inevera. Or perhaps she had displeased Him, and Everam had chosen another to speak through.

Perhaps the Northern whore’s child is inevera, as well. The thought nauseated her. She was almost thankful when the Damaji began to shout, drawing her thoughts back into the present.

“I have said from the beginning that we were too gentle pacifying the chin,” Damaji Qezan groused. “We let them bend when they should have been broken.”

“I agree,” Damaji Ichach said, as if to remind Inevera how bad things had gotten. If Qezan and Ichach were agreeing, the sun might as well rise in the west.

Of the Andrah’s court, the dice had been more forthcoming. Ashan she could control, for now. Her sons would look at the rebellion not as a crisis, but as a chance to find glory in its defeat. The Damaji, however, were old men grown to comfort in Everam’s Bounty’s largesse. The danger to their new holdings terrified them more than the children of Nie.

“We should burn the villages where the attacks took place to the ground,” Damaji Enkaji said. “Hang the butchered bodies of every man, woman, and child from the trees and let the alagai feast on them.”

“Simple words, Damaji, when it was not your lands attacked,” Damaji Chusen said. The attack against the Shunjin had taken place in his tribe’s new capital.

“The chin would not dare attack Mehnding lands,” Enkaji boasted, and Inevera wondered at that. The rebels had avoided the lands of the five most powerful tribes—Kaji, Majah, Mehnding, Krevakh, and Nanji—but if they were being aided by the north this was only the beginning.

“Food is scarce enough after the alagai burned the fields on Waning,” Ashan said. “We cannot burn more fields—or butcher those who tend them—if we wish to see the spring.”

“What is to stop the chin from burning fields next?” Semmel of the Anjha asked. “Even the great tribes do not have men to protect the land from its very inhabitants.”

“You cannot let this go unpunished, Andrah,” Aleverak said. “The chin attacked us in the night, when all men are brothers, killing dama and burning sacred ground. We must respond, and quickly, lest we embolden the enemy.”

“And we shall,” Ashan said. “You are correct this cannot be tolerated. We must find those responsible and execute them publicly, but we will only feed the rebel ranks if we hold all the chin responsible for the actions of a few.”

Inevera hid her smile. Ashan had said the words exactly as she had instructed him, though his first reaction to the attacks had not been far from that of Enkaji.

“Your pardon, Andrah, but all the chin are responsible,” said Damaji Rejji of the Bajin. “They are hiding the rebels and the children. What difference if they set a fire or offer their cellar as a hiding place?”

“We must show them their defiance comes at a price,” Jayan said, thumping his spear. “A high price, paid by all, so that the next rebels are turned over by their own people in fear of our wrath.” Many of the Damaji nodded eagerly at the words, turning back to Ashan with skeptical eyes.

“My brother is correct,” Asome said loudly on cue, drawing their gazes. “But the trail is still warm, and we would be fools to muddy it. We can decide how to punish the collaborators once we have executed the rebels and recovered the missing children.”

Jayan looked at him with open mistrust, but he took the bait. “That is why I will take the Spears of the Deliverer and kick in every door, dig out every cellar, and put every relative of the boys taken under question. We will find them.”

The Damaji were nodding again, but Asome tsked loudly and shook his head. “My brother would cut a tree down to harvest its fruit.”

Jayan glared at him. “And what does my wise dama brother propose instead?”

“We send the Watchers,” Asome said, nodding to the veiled Damaji of the Krevakh and Nanji tribes. They never spoke in council, each beholden to a greater tribe. The Krevakh served the Kaji, and the Nanji the Majah.

The Watcher tribes trained in special weapons and combat, and controlled the Krasian spy network. Many of their interrogators spoke the chin tongue, and had contacts throughout Everam’s Bounty. Even their lesser Sharum could move without being seen, and pass barriers as easily as alagai drift up from the abyss.

“Find the children, and we will find the rebels and their sympathizers,” Asome said.

“And then?” Jayan asked.

“Then we execute all three,” Ashan said. “Rebels, sympathizers, and even the chin children, to remind the greenlanders of the futility of resistance, and its consequence. We will make the other chin nie’Sharum watch, and the next time, the boys themselves will fight their rescuers.”

Inevera kept her center, even as Ashan deviated from her script. Killing a handful of children was still a mercy compared to the wholesale slaughter Jayan favored, but she did not know if she could allow it when the time came.

“Very well,” Jayan said. “As you command, I will send the Watchers.”

I. It was a dangerous word. Jayan was assuming control of the search regardless. As Sharum Ka, it was his duty and right, but Inevera had intended the Watchers to report to the throne—her—to avoid unintended brutality.

She breathed, keeping her center. Sacrifices must be made. She had spies enough in the Sharum Ka’s court, and her Krevakh and Nanji sister-wives could put their dama’ting on alert to pass on anything they heard.

Ashan gave her seven breaths to speak, and then struck his staff of office. “It is settled. Send your Watchers, Sharum Ka. We expect regular reports on your progress.”

Jayan threw a smug glance at Asome and turned on his heel, striding for the door where Hasik, his new bodyguard, waited.

Three days passed, with no sign of the rebels or the stolen nie’Sharum, and Abban could sense a black mood on the streets. In the bazaar, it was worse.

Dal’ting, khaffit, and chin had begun to find a level of comfort with one another in the marketplace, but all that changed with the attacks on the sharaji and kidnappings. Krasians gave the chin a wide berth now, eyeing them with mistrust. They kept their purses closed as well, starving the chin of trade.

Dama patrols in the marketplace had increased markedly, with the dama not even bothering to hang the alagai tails from their belts or lean on their whip staves. The weapons were always in motion, if only to clear the path around them of chin, or to get the attention of one they sought to question.

And those questionings, the thing everyone in the bazaar from the lowest chin to Abban himself dreaded, were coming more and more frequently. The Sharum had been forbidden to kick in doors and search everywhere, but the dama were taking any excuse to conduct searches, and their jurisdiction was wide.

Abban watched from the flaps of his pavilion as a pair of Kaji dama tore the back of a chin woman’s dress open in the middle of a market street, whipping her with their staves for not being properly veiled.

It had been around her neck, simply slipped during the bustle of the day and not hurriedly replaced.

Abban closed the flap to muffle her screams.

“I pray to Everam we find the rebels soon,” he said. “This is bad for business.”

“If it can be done, the Krevakh will do it,” Qeran said. “It was my honor to serve with many of them in alagai’sharak. No better trackers exist on Ala.”

The drillmaster still looked uncomfortable in the marketplace, but Abban could no longer afford the luxury of leaving him in his compound to train recruits. He depended on Qeran’s status and experience to keep him alive.

They retired to Abban’s private office. The khaffit opened a hidden panel on his writing desk, removing a sheaf or parchment and handing it to Qeran. “I have some plans I need you to review before I present them to the throne.”

Qeran raised an eyebrow. Unlike most Sharum, drillmasters were literate, needing to keep lists and tallies in the running of sharaji, and to understand the equations to calculate tensile strength and load in the building of fortifications. But compared to even the least of Abban’s wives and daughters, this put him slightly above a trained dog. Abban would not have trusted him with even the simplest clerical task, and they both knew it.

The unexpected request aroused Qeran’s curiosity, and the man laid the papers on the desk and began to rummage through them. He spread out the map, squinted at the tallies, and his eyes widened.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

“It is, and you will speak of it to no one,” Abban said.

“Why do you have this, and not the Sharum Ka?” Qeran asked.

“Because the Sharum Ka was a figurehead until a fortnight ago,” Abban said. “But fear not. Soon he will think all this was his own idea.”

The next morning, Abban rode in his palanquin to the palace. His finest kha’Sharum surrounded the muscular chin slaves who carried the poles, guarding him from all sides. The curtains, heavy things with a layer of metal mesh that could stop a spear, were pulled tight, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The Damajah always made him nervous, even if he was wise enough not to show it. She had a way of putting him off guard, a sense she was looking right through him, seeing his dissembling as easily as she might a streak of dirt on his face.

How would she see his plans without Ahmann to bless and implement them?

BOOM!

Even through the thick curtains the sound was horrific. Abban was thrown into the lacquered ceiling as the palanquin fell. He could hear the shouts of his men, and as the palanquin came to an abrupt and jarring stop, he found himself face-to-face with one of his bearers, thrust through the curtain as the whole vehicle fell on him. He groaned, eyes glazed.

Ignoring the man, Abban reached for his cane, struggling against his lame leg to put his feet under him.

“Master!” one of his guards called. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine!” Abban snapped, sticking his head out the curtain atop the carriage. “Help me out of …”

He stopped short, gaping.

Sharik Hora was burning.

Everyone had been thrown from their feet, even this far from the blast. Closer to where the fires raged, passersby lay bloodied in the street, struck by debris that had once been the great walls and stained-glass windows of the largest temple to Everam in the green lands.

Qeran was the first back to combat readiness, berating the others to their feet as he moved to Abban’s side. Tempered in the heat of battle, the drillmaster was able to put his feelings aside and maintain the chain of command, but even he had a look of horror as his eyes touched the burning temple.

“What could have done such a thing?” he asked. “A dozen flame demons could not spew such a blaze.”

“Chin flamework,” Abban said. Another mystery he had yet to unravel. “Get the men up. We must make double pace to the palace now. Send Watchers to find out what happened and report en route.”

Inevera regarded the khaffit as he drank cool water and lay on the pillows in her receiving chamber. He was pale, covered in ash, and smelling of smoke. One of his eyes had filled with blood, and his clothes were torn and bloodied. Runners had already confirmed Sharik Hora was burning.

“What happened?” she demanded, when the silence began to grate on her.

“It appears the chin are bolder than we credit them for,” Abban said. “The sharaj burnings were a distraction, drawing our attention to distant villages while they struck at our heart.”

“An odd coincidence that you should be there to witness the event,” Inevera said. “Especially after being the first to come to me with news of the rebellion.”

Abban looked at her flatly. “I am flattered the Damajah thinks me capable of such a complex weave of deceit, but I am not such a martyr as to get in range of a blast just to add credence to some mysterious plot. Every inch of me aches, my ears still ring, and my thoughts are cloudy.”

That last concerned Inevera. She needed Abban, now more than ever. His body was of little use to her, but his mind …

She might have been a tunnel asp, the way the khaffit fell back as she moved to examine him. He squeaked like a woman.

“Be still and comply,” she snapped. “I am Damajah, but am still dama’ting.”

Though Inevera seldom treated any other than Ahmann, she had lost none of her skill at healing after decades in the dama’ting healing pavilion. The khaffit’s dilation, the slow way he tracked her fingers, the long pauses in his speaking, all were indicative of head trauma.

She reached into her hora pouch for her healing bones, a collection of warded mind demon fingers, coated in a thin sheen of electrum to focus their power and shield them from the sun. She deftly manipulated the wards with her fingertips until the configuration was right, and then activated them.

The blood drained from his eye, and minor scrapes on his face crusted and dried in an instant. Still Inevera kept the power flowing, making sure there was no swelling or damage to the brain.

At last Abban gasped and pulled back. His eyes had regained their familiar twinkle.

He laughed aloud. “It is no wonder the Sharum say the magic is stronger than couzi. I haven’t felt so sharp and strong in twenty years.”

He looked at his leg curiously, then moved to stand, leaving his crutch on the pillows. For a moment he seemed steady, but when he bent his knees to give a delighted hop, the leg buckled. It was only thanks to a lifetime of practice that he managed to fall back onto the pillows and not the floor.

Inevera smiled. “You refused my offer to heal your leg, khaffit. I may offer again some day, but never for free.”

Abban nodded, grinning in return. “The Damajah would do well in the bazaar.”

Indeed, Inevera had grown up in the bazaar, but it was more than she wanted Abban—or anyone—to know. Her family depended on their anonymity for their safety, and already there were too many who might know the secret.

“Am I to take that as some kind of compliment, that you think me as worthy as some khaffit merchant’s daughter?” she snapped.

Abban bowed. “It is the greatest compliment I am worthy to give, Damajah.”

She grunted, pretending to be mollified. “Enough time wasted. Tell me everything you recall about the attack.”

“Seventeen dead in the blast, a dama among them,” Abban said. “Another forty-three wounded, along with severe structural damage to the temple. Many of the heroes’ bones adorning its walls were destroyed.”

“How is that even possible?” Inevera asked. “The blast was in broad daylight—it could not have been hora magic.”

“I believe the chin used thundersticks to effect the blast,” Abban said.

“Thundersticks?” Inevera asked.

“Chin flamework,” Abban said. “Ours is mostly liquids and oil, but the chin have powders. Mostly just light and noise for celebration, but rolled with paper into sticks, they are useful in mining and construction. I have seen Leesha Paper use them to great effect against the alagai.”

Inevera scowled, forgetting herself for a moment. She quickly put her mask back in place, but no doubt the khaffit had said the name intentionally, and watched for her reaction.

“You risk more using that name than you did approaching my pillow chamber unannounced,” she said. “Do not think me such a fool as to miss your hand in my husband’s indiscretions with the Northern whore.”

Abban shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Leesha Paper is the least of the Damajah’s worries now.”

If only, Inevera thought. “I want detailed notes on the making of these flamework weapons.”

Abban blew out a breath. “That will be a problem, Damajah. I have a few of the sticks themselves, confiscated from the mining operations we took over when the Deliverer claimed Everam’s Bounty, but their making remains a mystery. The chin custom is for their Herb Gatherers to pass the information orally to their apprentices rather than write it down.”

“And none of your bribes and spies have been able to turn one of them into giving up the formula?” Inevera asked. “I’m disappointed.”

Abban shrugged. “It is a rare skill, even amongst the Gatherers, and all deny the knowledge. They are not such fools as to think we won’t turn it against them.”

“I will give you writs of arrest,” Inevera said. “If the women will not respond to bribes, then question them harder. And bring me samples of these thundersticks. This is too powerful a weapon for the chin to hold over us.”

Abban nodded. “Treat them with utmost care, Damajah. Two of my men were killed in a blast when they tried to move a batch that had lain too long in storage.”

“Do we have any suspects in the crime?” Inevera asked.

Abban shook his head. “The flamework has a short fuse, but none were seen running from the building prior to the blast. There were chin amongst the dead. One of them must have lit the fuse and martyred himself.”

“The chin have steel in them, after all,” Inevera said. “A pity they waste it in Daylight War and not alagai’sharak.”

“The Damaji will not stand for this,” Abban said. “Everam’s Bounty will run with blood.”

Inevera nodded. “More will flock to Jayan. There will be no stopping his Sharum from taking control of the city.”

“For its own protection,” Abban said, sarcasm more in his aura than his words.

“Just so,” Inevera agreed.

“All the more reason to send him away,” Abban said.

Inevera looked at him curiously. She would like nothing more, but what could … ? There. She saw it in his aura. Clever Abban had a plan. Or at least, he thought he did.

“Out with it, khaffit,” she snapped.

Abban smiled. “Lakton.”

This was his plan? Perhaps Inevera gave the khaffit too much credit. “You cannot possibly think Lakton is still a priority, with Ahmann gone and a rebellion just outside the palace walls.”

“All the more reason,” Abban said. “The Laktonians make their harvest tithe to the duke in barely more than a fortnight. We need that harvest, Damajah. I cannot stress that enough. If the alagai continue to strike our food supply, it may be the only thing that keeps our armies intact through the winter. The preparations have all been made.”

“And how am I supposed to convince the Sharum Ka and Damaji to send their warriors on a week’s hard march with Sharik Hora still aflame?” Inevera asked.

“Pfagh.” Abban pointed to Inevera’s hora pouch. “Wave the dice around and tell them the dockmasters are behind the attacks. Demand that your eldest son go forth as Everam’s hammer to crush them and take the city.”

Inevera raised an eyebrow. “You suggest I mislead the council of Damaji about what I see in the sacred dice?”

Abban smiled. “Damajah, please. Do not insult us both.”

Inevera had to laugh at that. She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to like the khaffit. The idea had merit.

She reached into her pouch for the dice with her left hand, drawing her curved dagger with her right. “Hold out your arm.”

The khaffit paled visibly, but he did not dare refuse. When the hora were wet with his blood, he watched in horrified fascination as she shook them and they began to glow.

“Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. Should we follow the khaffit’s plan and attack the city on the lake?”

The dice flared as she threw, spinning out of their natural trajectory as the magic took them. It was a familiar sight to Inevera, but Abban gaped as she scanned the symbols for an answer.

—Unless given something to fight, the Sharum will tear themselves apart.—

A surprisingly clear answer, for the dice had been opaque of late, but vexing all the same. They stopped short of endorsing the move.

She shook again. “Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. Will an attack on Lakton be successful?”

—The city on the lake will not fall easily, or without wisdom.—

Inevera stared at the symbols. Wisdom was not easily found in the armies of the Deliverer.

“What do they tell you?” Abban asked.

Inevera ignored him, gathering the dice. “This still leaves us with a rebellion on our hands, and a risk that Jayan will return with increased glory and an even stronger claim to the throne.”

Relief flooded Abban’s aura. He believed her convinced. “You will have an easier time rooting out the rebels with Jayan far away. A chance to secure your own power.” He grinned. “Perhaps we will be lucky, and he will catch a stray arrow.”

Inevera slapped him, her nails drawing blood as the fat khaffit was knocked from the pillows. He held his face in pain, eyes wide with fear.

Inevera pointed at him, calling a harmless but dramatic flare of wardlight from one of her rings. “However he may vex me, have a care when you speak of my oldest son, khaffit.”

Abban nodded, rolling to his knees with a wince and putting his forehead on the floor. “I apologize, Damajah. I meant no offense.”

“If I regret this decision even a little, khaffit, you will regret it ten thousandfold. Now be gone from here. The council will meet soon, and I will not have you seen skulking from my chambers.”

The khaffit gathered his crutch and limped from the room as quickly as his lame leg would allow.

When the door closed behind him, she bent to the dice again. She had not cast for her husband’s fate in over a day, but it would have to wait longer still. With this latest attack and Abban’s mad plan, it was easy to forget it was the first day of Waning. If it was anything like the last, her people would be lucky to survive without Ahmann.

“Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. What will Waning bring to Everam’s Bounty this night, and how can we prepare?”

She shook and threw, reading the meanings behind the symbols as easily as words on a page.

—Alagai Ka and his princelings will not come to Everam’s Bounty this Waning.—

Curious. Her eyes scanned the rest of the symbols and she started. For the first time in weeks, the one day she had not cast for Ahmann’s fate, the dice gave her a glimpse.

And her world collapsed.

—They go to defile the corpse of Shar’Dama Ka.—

Abban watched the Andrah’s closed circle of advisors—Asome, Asukaji, Aleverak, and Jayan—from the safety of his small writing desk in the shadow of the Skull Throne. The open circle, including all twelve Damaji, would not be called until Inevera took her place and the internal debate finished. Already Abban could hear them bickering in the hall.

Both circles tended to ignore Abban unless he spoke, and some of them even then. Abban was wise enough to encourage this, speaking only when spoken to, a rare thing now that Ahmann was gone.

Inevera had been in her chamber a long time. What in Nie’s abyss could be keeping her? There were riots in the streets, and the Damaji were close to losing control.

“First they strike us at night,” Aleverak shouted, “and now on the first day of Waning, profaning the bones of our heroes and the very temple of Everam! It is outrageous!”

“No thing happens, but Everam wills it.” Damaji Asukaji’s forearms had disappeared up the wide opposite sleeves of his robes, clutching his elbows as he had taken to doing now that he and Asome were forced to stand apart. Leader of the largest tribe in Krasia, his smooth faced betrayed a boy of but eighteen. “It is a sign we must not ignore. The Creator is angry.”

“This is what comes of being gentle with the chin after their cowardly attacks on the sharaji!” Jayan said. “Our show of weakness has only emboldened them to further aggression.”

“For once, I must agree with my brother,” Asome said. “The attack on Sharik Hora cannot go unanswered. Everam demands blood in response.”

Everam, Abban prayed as he penned their words, set a cup of couzi before me now, and I will give one of my wives to the dama’ting.

But as ever, the Creator did not listen to Abban. All of them, Jayan, Asome, Asukaji, were children forced into roles beyond their experience. They should have had Ahmann’s guiding hand for decades to come. Instead, the fate of the world might rest upon their shoulders.

He suppressed a shudder at the thought. “He shall have a lake full of it.” None had noticed the Damajah exit her private chamber. Even Abban had been unaware, though she stood mere feet from him. He only glanced at her a moment, but it was long enough to note she had applied fresh makeup, though it did not mask entirely the puff around her eyes.

The Damajah had been weeping.

Everam’s beard, he thought. What in Heaven, Ala, and Nie’s abyss could make that woman weep? Had she been a lesser woman, he might have attempted to offer comfort, but he respected the Damajah too much for that, and turned back to his parchment, pretending not to notice.

The others, oblivious, had no need to pretend. “Have you found the rebels at last, Mother?” Jayan asked.

Abban did not have Ahmann’s ability to see into hearts, but such skills were hardly necessary to read the eager gleam in the young Sharum Ka’s eyes. Jayan stood to win threefold this day. Once for appearing right when all his rivals were wrong, once for the glory he stood to gain when he quelled the rebellion, and once for his brutal nature, which already relished the prospect of inflicting pain and suffering on the chin.

“The rebels are puppets.” Inevera rolled her dice thoughtfully in her hand. “Vermin placed in our silos by our true enemies.”

“Who, Mother?” Jayan could not hide the eagerness in his voice. “Who is to blame for these cowardly attacks?”

Inevera called a touch of power from the dice, causing them to glow. They cast her face in an ominous light that lent the will of Everam to her answer. “Lakton.”

“The fish men?” Ashan gaped. “They dare strike at us?”

“They were warned by Leesha Paper,” Inevera could not keep the venom from her voice at the name, “that we might attack as soon as spring. No doubt the dockmasters seek to sow discord to keep our armies at home.”

It was perfectly plausible, if patently false—at least so far as Abban knew. He suppressed a smile as the others accepted the accusation without question.

“I will crush them!” Jayan clenched a fist in the air. “I will kill every man, woman, and child! I will burn—”

Inevera rolled the dice in her fingers, manipulating the symbols, and their soft glow became a flare of light that cut Jayan’s words short as he and the others turned away, blinking spots from their eyes.

“Sharak Ka is coming, my son,” Inevera said. “We will need every able man that can lift a spear before it is done, and food for their bellies. We cannot afford to punish all in their lands for the actions of Lakton’s foolish princelings. You will keep to the Deliverer’s plan.”

Jayan crossed his arms. “And what plan is that? Father told us he meant to march just over a month from now, but no plan was ever discussed.”

Inevera nodded to Abban. “Tell them, khaffit.”

Jayan and the others turned incredulous looks his way.

“The khaffit?!” Jayan demanded. “I am Sharum Ka! Why does this khaffit know of battle plans when I do not? I should have been advising Father, not some pig-eater.”

“Because Father spoke to Everam,” Asome guessed, “and did not need your ‘advice.’ ” He glanced to Abban. “He only needed the tallies.”

Something about the cold assessment of Asome’s stare frightened Abban in ways Jayan’s aggression did not. He used his crutch to stand, then left it leaning on his desk. The men would give more weight to his words if he stood on his own two feet to deliver them. He cleared his throat, molding the clay of his face into a look of nervous deference to put his “betters” at ease.

“Honored Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “The losses to our food stores during the last Waning are greater than the Deliverer wished known. Without a fresh supply, Everam’s Bounty will starve before spring begins to bud.”

That got everyone’s attention. Even Ashan leaned toward Abban now, rapt. “Sixteen days from now is the date the Laktonians observe the chin holy day first snow. The beginning of winter.”

“What of it?” Jayan snapped.

“It is also the day the chin deliver their harvest tithe to the dockmasters of Lakton,” Abban said. “A tithe that would keep our army fed until summer. The Deliverer made a bold plan to capture the tithe and the chin lands in one move.”

Abban paused, expecting an interruption at this point, but the closed circle remained silent. Even Jayan hung on his next words.

Abban signaled Qeran, who pulled out the carpet Abban’s wives had carefully woven to match the maps of the chin lands to the east, setting the run on the floor and unrolling it with a kick. Abban limped over as the others moved to stand around it.

“It was Shar’Dama Ka’s intention to send the Sharum Ka and the Spears of the Deliverer, along with two thousand dal’Sharum, overland in secret,” he traced a path over the open territory with the tip of his crutch, avoiding the Messenger road and chin villages, “to take the village of Docktown, here, the morning of first snow.” He tapped the large town at the lake’s edge with his crutch.

Jayan’s brow furrowed. “How will capturing a single village give us the city on the lake?”

“This is no simple village,” Abban said. “Closest to the city proper, seventy percent of Lakton’s docks are in Docktown, and all will be brimming with ships waiting to be loaded with the tithe once the talliers have counted it. Take the city on first snow, and you can take the tithe, the fleet, and the closest landfall to the city. Without the stores, or ships to go in search of more, the fish men will be ready to offer you the head of their duke, and his dockmasters besides, in exchange for a loaf of bread.”

Jayan clenched a fist at the thought, but he was not satisfied. “Two thousand dal’Sharum is enough to take any chin village, but not enough to hold and guard any length of shoreline through the cold months. We will be surrounded by enemies that outnumber us greatly.”

Abban nodded. “This is why the Deliverer, in his wisdom, planned to send a second force of five thousand dal’Sharum up the main road a week after to conquer the Laktonian villages one by one, levying them for Sharak Ka. They will act as spearhead, clearing the path for forty dama and their apprentices, ten thousand kha’Sharum, and twenty thousand chi’Sharum who will settle the land in their wake, sending for their families and assisting the local dama in instituting Evejan law. Before any true snow falls, you will have seven thousand of your finest dal’Sharum at hand.”

“Enough to smash anyone fool enough to stand against us,” Jayan growled.

Asukaji slipped his hands from his sleeves and he and Asome began speaking rapidly in their personal sign language. Normally the code was so subtle it could easily be missed by someone staring right at them, but now there was too much to say, and too little time. Fortunately, the others in the room were distracted.

Abban could not begin to follow the conversation, but he could easily guess its content. They were debating the relative advantages and disadvantages of having Jayan out of Everam’s Bounty fighting Sharak Sun for an extended time, and whether they could stop it in any event.

They must have decided not, for the two men, the most likely to oppose the plan, remained silent.

Aleverak turned to Ashan. “What says the Andrah to this plan? It is wise to send the bulk of our forces on the attack when we have a growing rebellion at home?”

Ashan’s eyes flicked to Inevera’s. They, too, had a silent language, but he caught the slightest hint of her lips moving, and knew that she had given him a hora ring as well.

“The dice have spoken, Damaji,” Ashan said. “The dockmasters have been financing the attacks to keep us from taking the offensive against them. We must show them the futility of this strategy.”

“In the meantime, Waning is upon us,” Inevera said. “Alagai Ka and his princelings will walk the Ala tonight. Even the chin know what that means. Put them under curfew and muster every able warrior, including the Sharum’ting. The dice tell me the First Demon will turn his eyes elsewhere this cycle, but we must not relax our guard. Even the least of his princes can turn the mindless alagai into a cohesive force.”

There was none of the usual arrogance in Jayan’s bow, even at the command to include women in the fighting. He was wise enough to keep quiet when all was going better than he could possibly have imagined. “Of course, Mother. It will be done.”

“If every able body is needed, I propose the dama be allowed to fight, as well,” Asukaji said.

“I agree,” Asome said immediately, a rehearsed scene if ever Abban had seen one.

“Preposterous!” Aleverak sputtered.

“Out of the question,” Ashan said.

“So we are in such dire need of warriors that you will take women over those trained in Sharik Hora?” Asome demanded.

“The Deliverer forbid it,” Ashan said. “The dama are too important to risk.”

“My father forbid it last Waning,” Asome corrected, “and only for that cycle. He forbid the Sharum’ting then as well, but tonight they will muster to the Horn of Sharak. Why not the dama?”

“Not all the dama are young, strong men as you and my son, nephew,” Ashan said.

“None should be forced to fight,” Asukaji amended, “but those who wish it should not be denied Everam’s glory in the night. Sharak Ka is coming.”

“Perhaps,” Ashan said. This time, he did not so much as glance at Inevera. “But it is not here yet. The dama will remain behind the wards.”

Asome pressed his lips together, and again, Abban was reminded how young he was. Jayan cast a hint of smirk his way, but Asome arched his back, holding hard to his pride and pretending not to see.

“It is decided,” Inevera said. “On the first dawn following Waning, Jayan and his warriors will depart to strike a crushing blow in Everam’s name.”

Jayan bowed again. “Docktown will the ours and Lakton in a submission hold before they even know we are close.”

Inevera nodded. “Of that I have no doubt. We will need a strict accounting of all your expenses, however, and of the captured harvest.”

“Eh?” Jayan asked. “Am I a khaffit, to be spending my time with ledgers and lattices when my men are shedding blood?”

“Of course not,” Inevera said. “That is why Abban will accompany you.”

“Eh?” Abban asked, feeling his stomach drop into his balls.