Название | The Desert Spear |
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Автор произведения | Peter Brett V. |
Жанр | Героическая фантастика |
Серия | |
Издательство | Героическая фантастика |
Год выпуска | 0 |
isbn | 9780007301904 |
“And to Everam, over even their father,” Jardir muttered.
“Of course,” Inevera said, and he could sense his wife’s smile behind her veil. He was about to retort when Ashan came into the room. His son Asukaji, the same age as Asome, trailed behind him in his nie’dama bido. Ashan bowed to Jardir.
“Sharum Ka, there is a matter the kai’Sharum wish you to settle.”
“I am with my sons, Ashan,” Jardir said. “Can it not wait?”
“Apologies, First Warrior, but I do not think it can.”
“Very well,” Jardir sighed. “What is it?”
Ashan bowed again. “I think it best the Sharum Ka see the problem for himself,” he said.
Jardir raised an eyebrow. Ashan had never been reluctant to give his assessment of anything before, even when he knew Jardir would disagree.
“Jayan!” he called. “Fetch my spear and shield! Asome! My robes!”
The boys scurried to comply as Jardir stood. To his surprise, Inevera rose as well. “I will walk with my husband.”
Ashan bowed. “Of course, dama’ting.”
Jardir looked at her sharply. What did she know? What had the cursed bones told her about this night?
Leaving the children behind, the three of them were soon on their way, descending the great stone stairs of the palace of the Sharum Ka, which faced the Sharum training grounds. At the far end was Sharik Hora, and on the long sides between were the pavilions of the tribes.
Near the base of his steps, well inside the palace walls, a group of Sharum and dama surrounded a pair of khaffit. Jardir grew angry at the sight. It was an insult to have the feet of khaffit sully the grounds of the Sharum Ka’s keep. He opened his mouth to say just that when one of the khaffit caught his eye.
Abban.
Jardir had not thought of his old friend in years, as if the boy had indeed died the night he broke his oaths. More than fifteen years had passed since then, and if Jardir had changed from the small, skinny boy in a bido he had been, the change in Abban was even more pronounced.
The former nie’Sharum had grown enormously fat, almost as grotesque as the Andrah. He still wore the tan vest and cap of khaffit, but under the vest were a bright shirt and pantaloons of multicolored silk, and he had wrapped the tan conical cap in a turban of red silk with a gem set at the center. His belt and slippers were of snakeskin. He leaned on an ivory crutch, carved in the likeness of a camel, with his armpit resting between its humps.
“What makes you think you are worthy to stand here among men?” Jardir demanded.
“Apologies, great one,” Abban said, dropping to his hands and knees in the dirt and pressing his forehead down. Shanjat, now a kai’Sharum, laughed and kicked his backside.
“Look at you,” Jardir snarled. “You dress like a woman and flaunt your tainted wealth as if it is not an insult to everything we believe. I should have let you fall.”
“Please, great master,” Abban said. “I mean no insult. I am only here to translate.”
“Translate?” Jardir glanced up at the other khaffit who had come with Abban.
But the other man was not khaffit at all. It was instantly apparent from his light skin and hair, his clothes, and even more so from the well-worn spear the man carried. He was a chin. An outsider from the green lands to the north.
“A chin?” Jardir asked, turning to his dama. “You called me here to speak to a chin?”
“Listen to his words,” Ashan urged. “You will see.”
Jardir looked at the greenlander, having never seen a chin up close before. He knew Northern Messengers sometimes came to the Great Bazaar, but that was not a place for men, and his memories of it from childhood were vague things, tainted by hunger and shame.
This chin was different than Jardir had imagined. He was young—no older than Jardir had been when he first donned his blacks—and not a particularly large man, but he had a hard air about him. He stood and moved like a warrior, meeting Jardir’s eyes boldly, as a man should.
Jardir knew that the Northern men had given up alagai’sharak, cowering behind their wards like women, but the sands of Krasia went on for hundreds of miles with no succor. A man who passed through that must have stared alagai in the face night after night. He might not be Sharum, but he was no coward.
Jardir looked down at Abban’s sniveling form and bit back his disgust. “Speak, and be quick about it. Your presence offends me.”
Abban nodded and turned to the Northerner, speaking a few words in a harsh, guttural tongue. The Northerner replied sternly, stamping his spear for emphasis.
“This is Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook,” Abban said, turning back to Jardir but keeping his eyes on the ground. “Late out of Fort Rizon to the north, he brings you greetings, and begs to fight alongside the men of Krasia tonight in alagai’sharak.”
Jardir was stunned. A Northerner who wished to fight? It was unheard of.
“He is a chin, First Warrior,” Hasik growled. “Come from a race of cowards. He is not worthy to fight!”
“If he was a coward, he would not be here,” Ashan advised. “Many Messengers have come to Krasia, but only this one has come to your palace. It would be an insult to Everam not to let the man fight, if he wishes it.”
“I’ll not put my back to a greenlander in battle,” Hasik said, spitting at the Messenger’s feet. Many of the Sharum nodded and grunted their agreement despite the dama’s words. It seemed there was a limit to the clerics’ powers, after all.
Jardir considered carefully. He saw now why Ashan had wanted to defer the decision to him. Either choice could have grave repercussions.
He looked at the greenlander again, curious to see his mettle in battle. Inevera had foretold he might conquer the green lands one day, and the Evejah taught men to know their enemy before battle was joined.
“Husband,” Inevera said quietly, touching his arm. “If the chin wishes to stand in the Maze like a Sharum, then he must have a foretelling.”
No wonder she had come. She knew there was something special about this man, and needed his blood for a true divination. Jardir narrowed his eyes, wondering what she was not telling, but she had offered him an escape from a difficult situation and he would be a fool not to take it. He turned back to Abban, still hunched in the dirt.
“Tell the chin that the dama’ting will cast the bones for him. If they are favorable, he may fight.”
Abban nodded, turning back to the greenlander and speaking his harsh Northern tongue. A flash of irritation crossed the chin’s face—a feeling Jardir knew well, having been a slave to the bones for more than half his life. They exchanged words for some time before the chin gritted his teeth and nodded in acceptance.
“I will take him back to the palace for the foretelling,” Inevera said.
Jardir nodded. “I will accompany you through the ritual, for your own protection.”
“That will not be necessary,” Inevera said. “No man would dare harm a dama’ting.”
“No Krasian man,” Jardir corrected. “There is no telling what these Northern barbarians are capable of.” He smirked. “I will not risk having your impeccable virtue sullied by leaving you alone with one.”
Jardir knew she was snarling under her veil, but he did not care. Whatever went on between her and the greenlander, he was determined to see