The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 25 THE SPY 334 AR WINTER

“They just sit there, watching us.” Jayan paced before the great dockfront window of his command center, previously the lavish office of Dockmaster Isadore. “I wish the cowards would just attack and have done.”

A dozen Laktonian warships stood at anchor halfway between Docktown—now called Everam’s Reservoir—and Lakton, still visible in the light of the setting sun. They might once have been fishing and trade vessels, but all had rock slingers on deck now, with archers stationed on the aft and forecastles.

Worst were the newly built scorpions, based on the Krasian design. With the greenland secrets of fire still largely a mystery, it grated on Abban that the Laktonians had so easily stolen the design.

The ships had held the line for months, guarding an invisible border the Krasians had never approached. But for all their armament, the ships were swift, gliding on the lake winds the way a bird might soar overhead. If they decided to attack, it would be swift. Ships switched out of the formation often, and there was no telling if they were crewed lightly to intimidate, or packed with warriors ready to take the docks and beach by storm.

Other ships came and went from the city on the lake, evacuating the dozens of local fishing villages along the lakeshore and desperately foraging for supplies to replace the lost tithe. Jayan sent his half brothers north and south, slogging through the wetlands with their strange demons to crush the hamlets, but most were deserted by the time Icha and Sharu arrived with their forces.

To the south, Sharu had come to a river too wide and deep to cross, and had sent word that he was returning to Everam’s Reservoir. To the north, no one had heard from Icha and his men in weeks, and even the dama’ting could not divine their fate with assurance.

“They were not cowards when there were ships to reclaim,” Abban reminded. “The chin fear you, Sharum Ka, and well they should. The least of your Sharum could slay a dozen fish men …”

“A score,” Jayan said, “without breathing hard.”

Abban nodded. “It is as you say, Sharum Ka. But do not underestimate the foe. It is not cowardice that stays them.”

“Then what is it?” Jayan demanded.

“There is no profit in attack,” Abban said.

“Pfagh!” Jayan spat. “This is Sharak Sun, not khaffit merchanting.”

“You have said many times the greenlanders are more khaffit than Sharum,” Abban said. “There is no gain in taking back the town when we have so many warriors to defend it, and more within a few days’ march.” He shivered, signaling Earless to put another log on the fire. “Better to let the snow and cold weaken us.”

Jayan grunted. All the Krasians were cold and irritable, remembering the last Northern winter. In Krasia winter temperatures would often dip to freezing at night, but the sun in the desert kept the days hot. In the North it was cold and wet for months with no relief. Winter had only just begun farther inland, but this close to the lake the snows came early, slowing their patrols and playing havoc with the scorpions. If the locals were to be believed, much of the lake would freeze in the coldest months, locking the ports until spring.

“So we are left to sit on our spears in this worthless chin hamlet?” Jayan demanded.

“The Evejah tells of many winters Holy Kaji was forced to wait out in captured lands, ere the winning of Sharak Sun. Conquest is ever thus, Sharum Ka. Months of moving men and supplies, waiting for the perfect moment to strike,” Abban clapped his hands for emphasis, “crushing your enemies.”

Jayan seemed mollified at that. “I will crush them. I will take their eyes and eat them. The fish men will whisper my name in terror for generations.”

“Of that, there is no doubt,” Abban agreed, keeping his eyes down, lest he stare at the milky orb of Jayan’s right eye. He had commissioned a patch of beautifully warded gold, but Jayan refused to wear it. The young Sharum Ka knew his eye unnerved men, and gloried in their discomfort.

“In the meantime, you can spend the winter in luxury,” Abban waved a hand at the lavish chambers, “with warmth and an abundance of fine food, even as the lake dwellers shiver on their frozen vessels, gnawing fish heads to fill empty bellies.” He doubted things were so dire, but it was always wise to exaggerate when flattering the Sharum Ka. “Work has begun again on your palace in Everam’s Bounty, and you have greenland jiwah to warm your bed.”

“I want glory, not luxury,” Jayan said, ignoring the soothing words. “There must be a way to attack. Now, before the winter comes in force.”

Indeed there was, but Abban was not about to let the boy know that. It was a risky plan under the best of circumstances, and Abban would not trust the timing to a boy whose foolish pride had cost them almost the entire captured fleet.

Of the ten large vessels that survived the Sharum’s burning, four had been stolen back by the Laktonians, and two more burned beyond repair. One was lost to a tide of water demons that had claimed several smaller vessels, as well. Abban had sent the remainder to a hidden bay guarded by his own men, where they studied sailing and shipmaking lore pulled from books, bribes, and the tongs of his torturers.

A Sharak horn sat both men up straight. Abban looked out the window and saw the cause immediately. “Sharum’s Lament.”

Jayan hissed, grabbing his spear and running to the window as if he meant to try and throw it a quarter mile to the sleek fighting vessel that swept in from the north, using the fading light to hide its approach.

Captain Dehlia had renamed Gentleman’s Lament after taking it back from the Krasians. The flag still had a silhouette of a woman staring off into the distance, but the rejected suitor had been replaced with the silhouette of a Sharum on fire. The ship attacked regularly, testing their defenses and giving credence to its name. It had been Dehlia and the Sharum’s Lament that stole the scorpion, allowing the Laktonians to copy the design.

Every time Sharum’s Lament came in sight, it meant grief and loss for the occupiers, and impotent rage for Jayan. Most often the ship would pull up on the edge of range, loosing flamework from its slinger or a deadly hail of arrows—sailing off before the Mehnding could calibrate their weapons to return fire.

Jayan had tried moving chin to the docks and buildings closest to shore, but somehow the captain caught wind of the plan, attacking elsewhere to draw Jayan’s forces while other ships effected a daring rescue of their conveniently placed brethren.

Every time they attempted to prepare for or counter Sharum’s Lament, Captain Dehlia seemed to know their plans and change tactics. There was no telling now if she was simply sailing in to harry, or moving with cunning purpose.

Abban watched carefully as the ship sailed along the shoreline, just out of range. She would veer sharply inward only when approaching her target. All along the docks and shores, Mehnding scrambled and held their breath, knowing they would have only a few moments to target and fire. Jayan had promised a palace to the team that could sink the cursed ship.

But then the ship turned, and Abban felt his sphincter tighten. “Nie’s black heart.”

“Eh?” Jayan asked, turning to look at Abban even at the slinger arm came forward, launching a heavy missile their way.

“Sharum Ka!” Abban cried, throwing himself on the man.

Jayan was heavily muscled, but even he could do little to resist Abban’s bulk as he bore the man to the floor. He punched Abban as they struck the carpet, sending him rolling away. “How dare you lay your unclean hands upon me, you pig-eating camel scrotum! I will kill—”

At that moment there was a crash as something struck the great window. The warded glass Abban had installed held against the blow, but the entire building shook from the impact.

Jayan looked from the window and back to Abban, who managed to get his good knee under him. Again he looked at the window, clouded with bits of wood clinging to the surface, and back to Abban. “Why?”

The young Sharum Ka was not known for articulation, but Abban understood him well enough. Why would a cowardly khaffit risk his own life for someone who had abused and derided him for years?

“You are Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Blood of the Deliverer, and the hope of our people while your father remains locked in battle with Nie. Your life is worth far more than mine.”

Jayan nodded, a rare thoughtful look about him.

The words were nonsense, of course. Abban would happily let the boy take a spear for him. More than once he had pondered having the fool killed himself. He might have, if not for the risk of the Damajah’s wrath.

But if the Sharum Ka were killed in his presence and Abban survived, Hasik would come for him. It might be that Qeran or Earless could stop him in time, but it wasn’t something Abban was willing to bet his life upon. Hasik would be all too willing to die if it meant he could take Abban with him, and that sort of man was not the kind to gamble against.

“You saved me, khaffit,” Jayan said. “Continue to serve, and I will not forget, when I take my father’s throne.”

“I haven’t saved anyone yet,” Abban said, looking at the fluid and debris still clinging to the warded glass. “We must get out.”

“Bah!” Jayan said. “You did not lie when you said your warded glass was proof against any blow. What have we to fear?”

He turned, just as the Sharum’s Lament launched another projectile, a flaming stinger, from one of her starboard scorpions.

“We must get out!” Abban cried as the missile arced their way. He made a quick series of gestures to Earless, who leapt across the room, scooping Abban up in his arms.

There was a deafening boom and a flare of light to singe the eyes of even a desert dweller as the missile struck the liquid demonfire clinging to the window. Still the warded glass held, blunting the shock and heat of the blast.

Abban drew a ward in the air. “Everam be praised.” The logical part of his mind knew the glass was performing exactly as it should, but in his coward’s heart, it was a miracle. “Go!” he cried, swinging an arm toward the door. For all the strength in the glass, the building that held it in place was only wood. Already smoke was beginning to seep through the floorboards.

Earless put his head down, charging the heavy door and kicking it from its hinges. The door hit Hasik, who was racing for the scene, but Abban wasted no time on it, gesticulating for Earless to move with all speed. The deaf giant held Abban like a child as he raced down the steps and through the great room below to the back door.

“Fire!” Abban screamed as they raced through the great room. “Flee!”

It wasn’t until they were outside that Abban realized Jayan had been fast on their heels. Abban quickly gestured for Earless to let him down, realizing it must have seemed to all that they had cleared an escape path for the Sharum Ka.

Others joined them, including Khevat, Asavi, Jayan’s bodyguard, and Qeran. “You had Earless carry you?” the drillmaster asked in disgust, his voice too low for the others to hear. “Where is your shame?”

Abban shrugged. “Where my life is concerned, Drillmaster, I have none.”

“I will put my spear in that witch’s heart and fuck the hole!” Jayan cried.

“I will hold her down as you mount her,” Hasik agreed. There was blood in his hair, but he looked ready as ever for a fight.

“Why would I need you to hold her, idiot,” Jayan snapped, “if I had already put my spear in her heart?”

“I …” Hasik began.

“The Sharum Ka does not want your excuses, Whistler!” Abban cried, relishing the moment. “It should have been you, not a pair of khaffit, clearing the path for him.”

Hasik looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him, and Abban wished the moment could last forever. But then it was gone, and Hasik was baring teeth at him.

“We are blind back here,” Jayan said. “Go to the docks and find out what’s happening.” He pointed, and Hasik ran off like a loyal dog.

“You and the clerics should not remain here, Sharum Ka,” Qeran said. “Please allow the Spears of the Deliverer to escort you to a safer location where you may direct …”

“There!” Asavi shrieked suddenly. All eyes turned to her as she pointed to a Sharum exiting the building amidst the smoke and confusion, his night veil raised against the fumes. There was a satchel over his shoulder, black like his robes. The warrior froze, along with everyone else, the moment seeming to last forever.

“Don’t just stand there!” the dama’ting shrieked. “Stop him or the streets will run with blood!”

That got people moving, but the warrior was quickest of all, shoving a dama aside and moving for the clearest path of escape.

Right Abban’s way.

It made sense. Abban was a fat cripple, and far less likely to impede the spy than the Sharum and dama, and only a fool would venture too close to a Bride of Everam. A good shove would put Abban on the ground, right in the pursuers’ path.

But while it was true that Abban was fat and one of his legs wasn’t worth a coreling’s piss, his cultivated mannerisms were designed to make the infirmity appear far worse than it truly was.

He gave a terrified shriek, shifting his weight to his good leg as the warrior came in. But as the Sharum shoved, Abban caught his wrist, tripping him with his crutch and bringing them both to the ground.

That should have been the end of it, but the warrior somehow kept a measure of control, landing on top and forcing the brunt of the impact onto Abban. In that moment, his veil fell away, and Abban got a look at him.

He was young, almost too young for the black. His face was smudged with dirt, but still his skin was light for a Krasian, if darker than most greenlanders. His features, too, bore traits from both. A half-breed? There was a generation of those coming, but all save a few were still in their mother’s bellies, and the others busy screaming and soiling their bidos.

As Abban gaped, the half-breed drew back, then slammed his forehead between Abban’s eyes. There was a flash of light, and a muted thud as the back of his head struck the boardwalk. Abban watched dizzily as Earless moved in to grab the warrior, but again the half-breed was quicker, delivering a kick to the kha’Sharum’s knee. He took the wind from Abban as he sprang away, just as Earless fell hard atop him. The two of them rolled in a tangle, and there were angry shouts from the warriors hindered in their pursuit.

When Abban’s vision finally cleared, the spy was running full speed for the docks, half a dozen Sharum on his tail and more looking up at they rushed past.

Surprisingly, Qeran was first among the pursuers, gaining quickly on the spy. His leg of spring steel was not always ideal, but in a dead sprint there were few two-legged men who could hope to match him.

The spy seemed to know it, too. He veered off to catch a rain barrel and throw his full weight against it, spinning it into their path. The barrel moved slowly at first, wobbling even as the spy ran on, but as the weight of the collected water shifted, it moved with sudden swiftness, splashing water as it rolled into the pursuing Sharum.

The men scattered, some throwing themselves out of the way, others slipping in the wet as they sought to dodge. One man was tripped by the barrel itself.

Only Qeran kept the pursuit, leaping over the barrel in a spring any cat would envy. He landed in a roll, using his momentum to come back to his feet still running.

Two warriors farther down attempted to slow the spy, but he threw some kind of dust at them, and the men fell away, clutching their faces and screaming.

The dock was littered with barrels, ropes, nets, and other materials, and the spy used it all, zigzagging to use every bit of cover and terrain to slow pursuit.

Still the drillmaster gained. Qeran had dropped spear and shield for speed, but it did not matter. Not even a sharusahk master could long keep his feet against Qeran in close quarters.

Abban smiled, limping quickly toward them for the best possible view, and to be first to question the spy before the others did something rash. Jayan and the clerics followed, but he had a lead, and all moved slowly, riveted by the scene.

As Qeran’s reaching fingers brushed the cloth of the spy’s robe, he turned suddenly, whipping the shield off his back and slamming it into the drillmaster, arresting his momentum and knocking him back. The shield was an old design, dating back at least five years, before the combat wards were returned. Another curiosity.

Qeran caught himself quickly and came back in, but the spy twisted fast to the ground, trying to hook the drillmaster’s leg and take him down.

Qeran was wise to the trick, leaping above the sweeping leg, but the spy was not taken unaware. He kept his momentum and whipped the shield around, striking its heavy edge into the drillmaster’s metal leg as he came down.

The spring steel recoiled, and Qeran landed uncharacteristically off balance. The spy took full advantage, and they traded a quick flurry of parries and blows. The man was small and impossibly fast, never giving the Drillmaster a moment to find his balance. He hit Qeran in the face with the shield, then leapt to kick the drillmaster full in the chest.

Qeran fell back hard, not seriously harmed, but the spy wasted no more time on him, turning and running down the dock.

Ahead, Mehnding warriors from the scorpion and slinger teams had clustered to block his path. The spy looked back, but behind him more than a score of warriors charged past Qeran, Hasik at their lead. It was the first time Abban could recall when he wanted the cursed eunuch to succeed.

The spy turned down a less-used dock, leading out to a section of cove too rocky and shallow for all but the smallest vessels. There were a handful of these tied at the dock, simple rowboats even a Sharum could use, but it seemed unlikely the spy could even untie one in time, much less row out of spear range before he was killed. He sprinted for the end of the dock instead. Did he mean to swim?

Hasik mere steps behind, the spy turned sharply, leaping into one of the boats. Hasik lost seconds adapting to the change, but he leapt from the dock, spear ready to skewer the man before he could cut the ties.

“Demonshit,” Abban muttered. Hasik was not known for leaving men alive for questioning.

But the spy never attempted to cut the moorings, hopping two steps across the boat’s benches and jumping right out into the water.

Abban held his breath, but the spy did not sink, seeming to bounce off the surface of the water into another leap, where he landed with only a splash about his ankles. He ran three more steps, then turned sharply to the left, still running on the surface of the water.

Hasik struggled to keep his balance on the rocking boat, throwing his spear with surprising accuracy. The spy saw it coming, ducking by mere inches.

“Everam guide me!” Hasik cried, leaping from the boat much as the spy had. Miraculously, he, too, landed on his feet, seeming as surprised as any. With a howl, he took off in pursuit even as other Sharum jumped into the boat to follow.

Hasik took two steps, then dropped like a stone with the next. The other Sharum fared little better, two of them thrown into the water by the wildly rocking boat. A third made the leap, skidding on whatever Hasik and the spy had landed upon, but he lost his balance, pitching into the water. Sharum threw spears at the spy, still running on water, but he was fast getting out of range. At last he slung his shield and leapt, arms outstretched as he cut the water and began swimming.

The Sharum’s Lament had launched a boat in the confusion, three men rowing with remarkable speed. In moments, they had intercepted the spy and pulled him aboard as spears fell short in the water, lost.

There was a horn, and the Sharum’s Lament let loose a barrage at the warriors clustered on the dock, killing dozens with burning pitch and stingers, even destroying a slinger and two scorpions. The Mehnding, having left their engines to keep the spy from escaping, were unprepared to return fire.

As they watched helplessly, the launch returned and the warship made one last pass, swinging close for a final starboard barrage, crew jeering. As it turned, they saw Captain Dehlia standing atop the aft rail, baring her breasts as she jeered at them. All around her, the men and women of her crew turned and dropped their pantaloons, slapping their buttocks as the ship sailed away.

Hasik and two of the Sharum were still clinging to the rowboat when Abban reached the place where the spy had leapt from the dock. The Sharum who attempted to follow Hasik and the spy out into the lake had not resurfaced.

It was no surprise. Krasians were not swimmers, and the heavy armor plates sewn into their black robes pulled those who fell into the lake’s cold waters down faster than they could shed the weight.

Abban tried to imagine what it must be like. He had been choked enough in sharaj to know how it felt to black out from lack of breath, but to do it surrounded by dark water, not even knowing which way was up …

He shuddered.

Qeran was standing on the dock, anger simmering on his features. Sharum were ruled by their pride, and the spy had made him look a fool in front of dozens of onlookers. No doubt Qeran would kill the first inferior to look at him wrong.

But khaffit or no, Abban was no inferior, and he needed his drillmaster, not some moping child.

“You did well,” he said quietly, coming to stand next to the man.

Qeran grimaced. “I failed. I should be—”

“Proud,” Abban cut the drillmaster off before he could make some masochistic proclamation. “You outshone the other Sharum in the chase. Such speed! Such skill! Your new leg puts the old to shame.”

“It was still not enough,” Qeran growled.

Abban shrugged. “Inevera. Nothing happens, but that Everam wills it. Whatever the spy stole from the Sharum Ka’s manse, the Creator wanted our enemies to have it.”

It was nonsense, of course, but inevera had always been a balm and a crutch to disgruntled Evejans.

“Like He willed that my leg be lost?” Qeran asked through gritted teeth. “That I drown in couzi and my own filth until a fat, crippled khaffit proves my better and puts a boot to my neck? And now, it is inevera that I can’t even hold a chin spy when I have him in my grasp.”

The drillmaster spat into the water. “It seems Everam wills nothing but humiliation upon me.”

“There is glory to come, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “Glory enough for all in Sharak Sun and Sharak Ka. Bad enough I found you wallowing on the floor bemoaning fate. I did not pull you out of it so you could wallow on your feet.”

Qeran looked at him sharply, but Abban met his stare. “Embrace the pain, Sharum.”

The drillmaster’s nostrils flared, but he nodded. Abban turned to bow as Jayan approached.

The Sharum Ka looked out over the dark lake. “How did the spy run across the water like that?” He turned to Asavi. “I thought you said the chin do not use hora magic.”

“It was no magic, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, drawing the attention of all. “I have heard of this phenomenon from men returned from the chin villages in the wetland. They build little islands called crannogs, reachable only by stone paths hidden just under the surface of the water. The steps are irregular, easy enough for one who knows the path, but difficult for a demon … or man, to follow.”

Jayan grunted, digesting the information as he watched the first of the Sharum be hauled back onto the dock. The man shivered, coughing water and soaking the deck, but he seemed well enough.

Until a tentacle whipped from the water, wrapping about his leg. The man had barely a moment to scream before it was cut off with a splash and he was yanked back into the water.

Hasik froze, eyes searching the dark surface for sign of the water demon, but the other Sharum began to shout and wave his free arm as he clutched at the boat with the other. “Everam’s balls, throw me the line! Quickly!”

Of course, the commotion drew the demon right to him. A tentacle wrapped around his throat, and his cries were choked off as he was pulled under.

Hasik used that exact moment to attempt to pull himself into the boat. The small craft tipped from his weight, threatening to capsize, but somehow Hasik managed to roll in and shift his weight to right it.

All the boats at anchor were water-warded, and Hasik no doubt thought himself safe until a tentacle wrapped around his ankle. The warrior had already lost spear and shield to the lake, but he clutched at his waist, pulling a curved warded dagger as the boat capsized and he was pulled under.

There was a hush as everyone assembled stared at the surface of the water, watching as the ripples where the warrior disappeared began to fade. Sharum were fearless against the demons of land and air. It was fair to say the demons feared them more than the other way around. But water demons, mysterious nightmares that pulled their victims down to drown, terrified them.

Abban was no different, but he could not bring himself to weep at Hasik’s fate. He wanted the man to suffer, but after all Hasik had done to make his life an abyss, it was good, too, to have an end.

But then there was a flash, like lightning under the water. It came again, and again, then all went dark. A moment later Hasik broke the surface, gasping for air. He was naked, having discarded his armor lest it pull him down, but he still held the knife. He stuck it in his teeth as he clumsily paddled toward the dock.

“Everam’s beard,” Jayan muttered, a sentiment echoed all around as Hasik was thrown a line and hauled himself onto the dock, very much alive. There were puckered wounds all over his skin where the demon’s tentacles had latched on, but they were already beginning to close from the magic he’d absorbed in the killing.

As he stood, one of the Sharum who helped pull him up gaped at the sight of Hasik’s crotch, smooth like a woman’s with only a scar and a metal tube where his manhood should be.

Hasik growled, taking the warrior’s neck in his mighty arm and flexing, breaking it with a loud crack. He turned from the others as he stripped the man’s robes, and the remaining warriors gave him a wide berth as he quickly pulled on the pantaloons and robe. Jayan made no mention of the killing, so his advisors, too, remained silent on the matter.

“I will see to your bodyguard’s wounds,” Asavi said.

Jayan caught her arm as she passed, his eyes angry. “Hasik can wait until you tell us what he almost died for.”

Everyone froze. It was death to touch a dama’ting so. She could demand his hand be cut off, or he be killed, and Evejan law would demand it be carried out.

But Jayan was Sharum Ka, firstborn son of the Deliverer, and likely the next leader of Krasia. Abban wondered if any would dare so much as take the dama’ting’s side, much less try to carry out a sentence should she deliver it.

Asavi seemed to know it, too, her eyes scanning the reaction of the witnesses. If she demanded punishment and was refused, it would weaken her greatly in the eyes of Jayan’s council. Khevat and the other dama grated on the new, more vocal role of the dama’ting since Inevera’s display in the throne room.

She reached out with her free hand instead, seeming only to tap Jayan on the shoulder, but Abban could spot a pickpocket three stalls down the market, and saw the sharp jab of her knuckle.

Jayan’s hand dropped away limp, as if he had decided of his own volition to let her go, but his eyes said otherwise.

“The Sharum Ka is right to be concerned,” Asavi said, her voice serene, “but they are words for your private council chambers, not the open docks.”

“I have no council chambers!” Jayan snapped. “The water witch set them afire.”

Abban bowed. “There are other manses claimed by your loyal kai, some with a view of the docks, while safely out of slinger range. I will bring you a list to choose from, and see your lieutenant recompensed while we move your possessions. In the meantime, I have a warehouse nearby with a richly appointed office where you may relax until arrangements are made.”

Jayan shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking to his shoulder, but he simply grunted. “That will be acceptable, khaffit. Lead the way.”

By the time they made it to the warehouse, Jayan was sweating and pale with pain. He collapsed to the pillows, accepting tea with one hand, his other still limp at his side. Khevat and the other men pretended not to notice, but all were aware that something was wrong.

There was a glow from the corner of the room as Asavi sent magic through Hasik, finishing the healing the kill had started. There was a whispered plea to her, but Asavi, eyes flicking between his legs, only shook her head sadly. Hasik looked at Abban, eyes full of hatred, and Abban let him see just the hint of a grin.

“Would the Sharum Ka like me to see to his arm now?” Asavi asked. The other men glanced at her uncomfortably, then back to pale and sweating Jayan. All knew what was coming. Asavi had not been able to take her due in public, so she would have it thrice over behind the curtain.

“If the d-dama’ting wishes,” Jayan managed through gritted teeth.

“I could leave it, if you prefer,” the Bride said. “There is time to save it if I act quickly. If not, it will wither and die.”

Jayan’s one good eye bulged, and he began to shake.

“The Brides of Everam do not need clerics and warriors to punish those who would lay hands upon us, son of Ahmann,” Asavi said. “Our blessed Husband has given us power enough to see to our own protection. It is a lesson you would do well to remember.”

She looked around the room, boldly meeting the eyes of the other men, even Khevat. “All of you.”

They were bold words for a woman, and many of the men—Khevat especially—bristled, but none was fool enough to contradict her. She gave them a moment, then nodded, gliding over and helping Jayan slip his robe from one shoulder. The spot where the dama’ting had struck was black now, and the shoulder swollen. She took the limb tenderly, stretching and turning it as she massaged it back to life. Soon Jayan was wriggling his fingers again, and not long after making a fist.

“The limb will recover fully in a few days,” she said.

“Days?!” Jayan demanded.

Asavi shrugged. “Kill alagai, and the magic will speed the healing.”

“You healed Hasik in an instant,” Jayan pressed.

“Hasik did not lay hands upon me,” Asavi noted.

“Fine, fine!” Jayan said sullenly, cradling the limb with his good hand. “Now will you tell us what all that business on the docks was about?”

“Your enemies gather and make plans,” Asavi said. “The dice have long foreseen this.”

“Any fool can guess that,” Jayan snapped.

“The dice also told me to stop the thief who stank of demon root, or thousands would die,” Asavi said.

“Demon root?” Jayan said.

“A dama’ting healing herb,” Asavi said. “They call it hogroot here in the North. The spy reeked of it.”

“Why did you not speak of this sooner?” Khevat demanded. “We could have had guards sniffing everyone to enter the palace of the Sharum Ka.”

“The dice said nothing of the palace,” Asavi said, “or the Sharum Ka. The thief could have been anyone, anywhere. The dice foretold we would meet when I caught his scent, and what I must do. Had I spoken of it to anyone, fate may have changed, and the thief evade me as well.”

“He did evade you,” Khevat noted. “All your vaunted hora magic, and you could not so much as stop a simple thief?”

“That was no simple thief, my dama,” Abban said, bowing. “He evaded the dal’Sharum as if they waded in deep sand, and lasted ten seconds against the greatest living drillmaster. And fearless, running knowingly out amongst the water demons. And let us not forget he had the Sharum’s Lament to set fire to the palace as distraction.”

“But what was he after?” Qeran mused.

“There’s no way to know for sure,” Abban said. “Only a few lives were lost in the burning of the palace, but the building is lost. We cannot say just what papers are missing amongst the ashes, but it is easy to guess.”

“Troop numbers,” Qeran said. “Supply trains. Our maps. Our plans.”

Abban bowed to Jayan. “We have copies of everything, Sharum Ka. Nothing has been lost. But we must assume our enemies now know all.”

Asavi knelt on the floor, drawing everyone’s attention. While they spoke, the dama’ting had quietly laid out her casting cloth. Now she took out the hora, casting all in their eerie glow.

“Guesswork,” Asavi said. “Everam may show us a clearer path, now that the divergence is past.”

All were silent as she threw, many of them seeing it for the first time since their Hannu Pash. When it was over, the Bride looked up, the hora light casting her white veils in red as if soaked with blood.

“It does not matter what the spy took,” Asavi said. “Three duchies unite against us, and your enemies have what they need to attack.”

Jayan’s eyes took on an eager light. “Where? When?” A sane commander might be concerned at an impending attack, but the young Sharum Ka saw only a chance for glory, a chance to prove himself worthy of the Skull Throne.

The dama’ting looked back at the dice, eyes flicking over unreadable patterns. Abban had always mistrusted the dice. He could not deny there was magic about them, giving information that could be uncannily accurate, but it seemed their reading was as much art as science, and they did not tell all.

“They will attack from land and water,” Asavi said.

“Oh?” Jayan asked. “Will they use weapons, perhaps? And warriors? If that is the best your dice can …”

Asavi held up the dice and they flared with power, casting the entire room in red light. It seemed they would sear the fingers from the dama’ting, but she held them easily, even as the men shrank away from the glow.

All were silent a moment. Abban looked at Qeran, nodding him forward.

The drillmaster looked as if he were being asked to climb into an alagai pit, but he went without hesitation or complaint, kneeling before Asavi and putting his hands on the floor. He bent forward, pressing his forehead between them.

Asavi looked at him a moment, and nodded. “Speak, Drillmaster.”

“Honored and wise dama’ting,” Qeran began carefully. “It is not for we humble men to question the word of Everam. But if there is anything the dice may tell of where to position our forces, it could mean the difference between victory and defeat.”

“The dice do not speak of such things,” Asavi said, “because our enemies watch us for hint we see their intent. If their spies note our movements, they will change their plans, negating the prophecy.”

She held up a finger. “But while they will not say where, they do tell us when. They will attack on Waning.”

Khevat blinked. “Impossible. They would not dare …”

“They will,” Asavi said, “for the very reason you doubt. They think the Waning will distract us. Make us weak.”

Jayan scowled. “My father said the chin had honor, if of a lesser sort, and were humble before Everam. But it cannot be so, if they would dare attack on the day we prepare for the rise of Alagai Ka.”

“That is only the beginning of their offense to Everam,” Asavi said, drawing all eyes back to her.

“They will attack in the night.”