The Daylight War by Peter V. Brett
In the centre of the pavilion were neat, growing stacks of finished products: spears, shields, ladders, hooks and lines, alagai-catchers, as well as the smaller – though no less deadly – weapons Watchers concealed about their persons. Scorpion stingers by the gross, and the giant cart-driven bows to launch them.
The drillmaster selected a spear at random from a pile, setting his peg leg firmly and putting it through a series of spins and thrusts. ‘It’s so light.’
Abban nodded. ‘The greenlanders have a tree called the goldwood, and true to its name, it is worth its weight in precious metal. Goldwood is lighter and stronger than the rattan used for Sharum spears in Krasia, and needs less lacquer to harden the wards carved along its length.’
Qeran tested the tip against the meat of his palm, smiling broadly as the point slid in easily with only the barest pressure. ‘What metal is this, to hold such an edge?’
‘No metal,’ Abban said. ‘Glass.’
‘Glass?’ Qeran asked. ‘Impossible. It would shatter on the first blow.’
Abban pointed to a cold anvil in one of the forge stalls, and Qeran did not hesitate, limping over and bringing the spear down on it hard enough to break even a steel blade. But there was only a ringing in the air, and a notch in the anvil.
‘A trick we learned from the Hollow tribe,’ Abban said. ‘Warded glass – lighter and stronger than steel, and hard enough to hold the sharpest edge. We silver the glass to obscure its nature.’
He took Qeran to another stall, handing him a ceramic plate. ‘These plates are what dal’Sharum currently wear in the pockets of their robes.’
‘I am familiar,’ Qeran said drily.
‘Then you know they break on impact, proof against one blow at most, and often making a powerful hit all the worse with shrapnel,’ Abban said.
Qeran shrugged.
Abban gave him a second plate, this one of clear, warded glass that glittered in the light of the forge. ‘Thinner, lighter, and strong enough to break a rock demon’s claw.’
‘The Deliverer’s army will be unstoppable,’ Qeran breathed.
Abban chuckled. ‘No ordinary dal’Sharum could afford such armament, Drillmaster, but nothing is too good for the Spears of the Deliverer.’ He winked. ‘Or my Hundred. Your recruits will be better equipped than all but the Shar’Dama Ka’s elite.’
Abban saw the glitter of greed that shone in the drillmaster’s eyes at that, and smiled. One more gift, and he will be mine.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘No drillmaster in my employ will hobble on a cheap peg.’
Abban watched in satisfaction as Qeran paced before the khaffit and chin he had selected for training. The drillmaster’s peg had been thrown on the fire, replaced by a curved sheet of warded spring steel. It was simple, elegant, and gave him the potential to regain almost all the combat ability he had lost. He still used his spear for balance, but was becoming more sure-footed by the moment.
The men had been stripped down to bidos, their robes and other clothing burned. The khaffit wore tan, the chin a cloth the colour of green olives.
‘I do not care what titles the paltry excuses for drillmasters in sharaj gave you,’ Qeran shouted. ‘You are all nie’Sharum to me, and will be until you have proven yourselves. If you do well, you will be rewarded. A warrior’s robes and veil. Fine weapons and armour. Better food. Women. If you shame me,’ he stopped, looking just over the heads of the crowd, seeming to stare in all their eyes at once, ‘I will kill you.’
The men stood stock-still, backs arched and chests thrown forward, more than a few sweating and pale, even in the cool morning air. Qeran turned to Abban and nodded.
‘Now,’ Abban murmured to his nephew Jamere, but the young dama was already striding forward. He was tall but not thin, having never partaken in the dietary restrictions of the Evejah. Neither was he fat, moving with the fluid grace that marked Evejan clerics. Jamere had lived in Sharik Hora most of his life, and had copied or pilfered the secret sharusahk manuals of almost every tribe, mastering forbidden techniques. Skills he was all too happy to sell his uncle.
‘Kneel before Dama Jamere!’ Kaval barked, and the men fell immediately to their knees, none hesitating to put their palms in the dust.
Jamere held up his hands. In one, he held the writ Ahmann had signed, and in the other, the Evejah. ‘Loyal nie’Sharum! Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, Shar’Dama Ka and Everam’s voice on Ala, has given you to his servant Abban. It was Abban who brought the Deliverer’s eyes to you, giving men cast from Everam’s light a chance at redemption, a chance to prove your loyalty.’
He swept his gaze over the assembled men. ‘Are you loyal?’
‘Yes, Dama!’ they shouted as one.
‘Everam is watching!’ Jamere cried, sweeping his hands up to the sun. ‘Those who serve with loyalty and faith will see their rewards both on Ala and in Heaven. Those who break their oaths or fail in their duty will suffer greatly in their final hours before He casts their spirits down into Nie’s abyss.’
Abban suppressed a snicker. The fanatical light in his nephew’s eyes was nothing but a practised act, like that of a Northern Jongleur. The man was utterly faithless, and had been since before he was called by the clerics.
But the fear in the eyes of the men showed that his veil was perfect. Even Qeran seemed cowed as Jamere held out a copy of the Evejah.
‘Your spear hand,’ Jamere commanded, and the drillmaster laid his right hand on the worn leather.
‘Do you swear to serve Abban asu Chabin am’Haman am’Kaji?’ Jamere asked. ‘To protect him and obey him and no other save the Deliverer himself, from now until your death?’
Qeran hesitated. His eyes flicked to Abban, his brows bunching together in outrage. When the three men had met earlier to rehearse the oath-taking, no one had mentioned the drillmaster would be included. It was one thing for Abban to demand oaths from khaffit and chin, but another to expect one from a dal’Sharum drillmaster of Qeran’s stature.
Abban smiled in return. Make your choice, Drillmaster, he thought. Everam is watching, and you cannot take it back. Serve me, or go back to walking on a cheap peg and sleeping in your own vomit.
Qeran knew it, too. Abban had given him a path to glory, but glory had its price. The drillmaster looked to the waiting nie’Sharum, knowing that every second of hesitation would be a doubt he would have to beat from the men.
‘I swear to serve Abban,’ he growled at last, meeting Abban’s eyes, ‘until my death, or the Deliverer relieve me of the oath.’
Abban reached into his vest, producing a flask of couzi. He lifted it in salute to the warrior and drank.
13
Playing the Crowd
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 wel
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
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.’