The Skull Throne

‘Umshala.’ She beckoned her sister-wife, Damaji’ting of the Khanjin. ‘Foretell them.’

Eyes widened. Foretellings were private things. The dama’ting were secretive with their magic, and with good reason. But the men needed reminders that there was more than politics at work here. It was Everam’s will that should guide them, not their own petty needs.

The women knelt in a crescent about Umshala’s casting cloth. All of them wore reddened bandages, and the Damaji’ting touched her dice to the wounds, wetting them with blood for the prophecy.

Inevera dimmed the wardlight in the chamber. Not to aid the casting, for wardlight did not affect the dice. Rather, she did it so all would see the unmistakable glow of the hora, pulsing redly with Umshala’s prayers. Hypnotized, men twitched at the flash of light each time she threw.

At last, Umshala sat back on her heels. She turned, ignoring Ashan to address Inevera. ‘It is done, Damajah.’

‘And what have you seen?’ Inevera asked. ‘Did these women stand fast in the night? Are they worthy?’

‘They are, Damajah.’ Umshala turned, pointing to the woman who had been beaten. ‘Save for this one. Illijah vah Fahstu faltered in her strike and fled the demon, causing the death of Chabbavah and the injury of several others. The kill is not hers.’

Illijah’s aura went white with terror, but the other women stood by her, reaching out in support – even the woman who had been badly burned. Inevera gave them a moment for pity’s sake, but there was nothing she could do. The dice cut both ways.

‘Six are raised,’ she said. ‘Rise, Sharum’ting. Illijah vah Fahstu is returned to her husband.’ It was a cruelty, but better than if Inevera had left her fate to Damaji Ichach, who would likely have had her publicly executed for bearing false witness before the throne.

Illijah screamed as Fahstu walked up behind her, grabbing the top of her hair in one thick fist, dragging her backward off her knees. She stumbled, unable to rise fully, as Fahstu dragged her from the room, her wails echoing off the walls as the Damaji watched with cold satisfaction.

Bring me the hand he uses to drag her before the sun sets, her fingers told Ashia.

Ashia’s fingers replied in their customary hidden whisper. I hear and obey, Damajah.

‘Wait!’ one of the women cried, drawing everyone’s attention. ‘As Sharum’ting, I wish to testify on Illijah’s behalf to bring witness against the crimes of Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin.’

Inevera waved, and the guards lowered their spears, preventing Fahstu from leaving the throne room. Illijah was released, and both were escorted back to the throne.

Damaji Ichach threw up his hands. ‘Is this what the Andrah’s court has become? A place for ungrateful women to complain about their husbands like gossiping washerwomen?’

Several of the Damaji nodded with agreement, but Damaji Qezan of the Jama, Ichach’s greatest rival, smiled widely.

‘Surely not,’ Qezan said, ‘but your tribe has brought such drama to the court, we of course must see it through.’ Ichach glared at him, but other Damaji, even some of those who had supported him a moment ago, nodded. They might not be washerwomen, but the Damaji loved gossip as much as any.

‘Speak,’ Ashan commanded.

‘I am Uvona vah Hadda am’Ichan am’Khanjin,’ the woman said, using a man’s full name for the first time in her life. ‘Illijah is my cousin. It is true she ran from the alagai, and is not worthy to stand in the night. But her husband, Fahstu asu Fahstu am’Ichan am’Khanjin, has been forcing her to prostitute herself for years to earn money for his couzi and dice. Illijah is an honourable daughter of Everam and refused his initial demands, so Fahstu beat her so badly she was forced to keep to her bed for days. I witnessed her shame personally.’

‘Lies!’ Fahstu cried, though Inevera could see the truth in his aura. ‘Do not listen to this vile woman’s falsehoods! What proof does she have? Nothing! It is the word of a woman against mine.’

The woman whose arm and face were wrapped to cover her firespit burns moved to stand beside Uvona. Pain lanced across her aura, but she stood straight, and her voice was firm. ‘Two women.’

The other four moved in, the women standing together as one.

‘Six women bear witness to your crime, Fahstu,’ Uvona said. ‘Six Sharum’ting. We went into the night not to claim rights for ourselves, but for the sake of Illijah, that she might be free of you.’

Fahstu turned to Ashan. ‘Andrah, surely you will not take the word of women over a loyal Sharum?’

Umshala looked up as well. ‘I can consult the dice if you wish, Holy Andrah.’

Ashan scowled, knowing as well as any what answer the dice would bring. ‘Do you wish to confess, son of Fahstu, or shall we clear your name with hora?’

Fahstu blanched, then glanced around, seeking support where there was none. At last he shrugged. ‘What difference does it make what I do with my own wife? She is my property, and no Sharum’ting. I have committed no crime.’

Ashan looked to Ichach. ‘He is your tribesman, Damaji. What say you to this?’

‘I rule in favour of the husband,’ Ichach said without hesitation. ‘It is a wife’s duty to work and support her husband. If he cannot pay his debts, the failing is hers and she should pay the price, even if he decide it be on her back.’

‘Or her knees,’ Damaji Qezan said, and the other men laughed.

‘The Damaji of the Khanjin has spoken,’ Inevera said, drawing looks of surprise. ‘For prostituting his wife, Fahstu shall not be punished.’ A wide smile broke out on Fahstu’s face at the words, even as the eyes of the new Sharum’ting fell. Illijah began to weep once more, and Uvona put an arm around her.

‘However, for the crime of lying to the Skull Throne,’ Inevera went on, ‘he is found guilty. The sentence is death.’

Fahstu’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘Umshala,’ Inevera said.

The Damaji’ting reached into her hora pouch, pulling out a small black lump – a piece of breastbone from a lightning demon. The Damaji’ting knew to avert their eyes, but the rest of the room looked on and was blinded by the flash of light, deafened by the thunder.

When their eyes cleared, Fahstu son of Fahstu lay halfway to the great doors, his chest a charred, smoking ruin. The smell of cooked meat permeated the room.

‘You push fast and too hard, Damajah,’ Qeva said. ‘The Damaji will revolt.’

‘Let them, if they are such fools,’ Belina said. ‘Ahmann will not weep if he returns to find the entire council reduced to a scorch on his throne room floor and his sons in control of the tribes.’

‘And if he does not return?’ Melan asked.

‘All the more reason to cow the Damaji and recruit as many Sharum’ting as possible now,’ Inevera said. ‘Even Abban the khaffit has more soldiers than I.’

‘Kha’Sharum,’ Qeva said derisively. ‘Not true warriors.’

‘Tell that to Hasik,’ Inevera said. ‘The Deliverer’s own bodyguard, brought down and gelded by the khaffit. They say the same about the Sharum’ting, but I would take any of Enkido’s spear daughters over a dozen Spears of the Deliverer.’

They reached Inevera’s private gardens, a botanical maze filled with carefully manicured plants, many cultivated from seeds brought all the way from Krasia. There were medicinal herbs and deadly poisons, fresh fruit, nuts and vegetables, as well as grasses, shrubs, flowers, and trees cultivated for purely aesthetic value.

It was easy for Inevera to find her centre in the gardens, standing in the sun amidst so much flourishing vegetation. Even in the Palace of the Deliverer in Krasia, such a garden would have been impossible to maintain. The land was too harsh. In Everam’s Bounty, it seemed one had but to throw seeds in any direction and they would thrive unaided.

Inevera breathed deeply, only to be thrown from her centre as she caught a hint of the perfume that always signalled an end to tranquillity.

‘Flee while you can, little sisters,’ she said quietly. ‘The Holy Mother waits within the bowers.’

The words were enough to send her sister-wives hurrying from the garden as fast as their dignity would allow. As his Jiwah Ka, Ahmann’s mother was Inevera’s responsibility, a position the women were all too happy to yield.

Inevera envied them. She, too, would have fled had she been able. Everam must be displeased, not to have warned me in the dice.

Only Qeva, Melan, and Asavi dared to remain. Ashia had vanished into the leaves, though Inevera knew she was watching, never more than a breath away.

Inevera breathed, bending to the wind. ‘Best get it over with,’ she muttered, and strode ahead to where the Holy Mother waited.

Inevera heard Kajivah before she saw her.

‘By Everam, keep your back straight, Thalaja,’ the Holy Mother snapped. ‘You’re a bride of the Deliverer, not some dal’ting merchant in the bazaar.’

The scene came into sight as Kajivah reached and snatched a pastry from her other daughter-in-law. ‘You’re putting on weight again, Everalia.’

She looked to one of the servants. ‘Where is that nectar I asked for? And see they chill it this time.’ She rounded on another servant, holding a ridiculous fan. ‘I didn’t tell you to stop fanning, girl.’ She fanned herself, hand buzzing like a hummingbird. ‘You know how I get. Everam my witness, the entire green land is as humid as the baths. How do they stand it? Why, I have half a mind—’

The woman mercifully broke off as Inevera entered the bower. The other women looked as if they were about to be rescued from a coreling. Kajivah might treat every other woman like a servant, but she was wise enough to respect the dama’ting, and Inevera most of all.

Usually.

‘Where is my son?!’ Kajivah demanded, storming over to Inevera. She wore the black robes and white veil of kai’ting, but had added a white shawl as well, similar to Ahmann’s mode of dress. ‘The palace buzzes with gossip, my son-in-law sits the Skull Throne, and I am left the fool.’

Truer witness was never given, Inevera thought.

Kajivah grew increasingly shrill. ‘I demand to know what’s happened!’

Demand. Inevera felt a coil of anger in her centre. Had the woman forgotten who she was talking to? Even Ahmann made no demands of her. She imagined herself blasting Kajivah across the gardens like Fahstu at court.

Oh, if it could be so easily done. But while Ahmann would be forgiving if she vaporized the entire council of Damaji, he would hunt his mother’s killer to the ends of Ala, and with his crownsight, there would be no hiding the crime.

‘Ahmann is hunting a demon on the edge of the abyss,’ Inevera said. ‘The dice favour his return, but it is a dangerous path. We must pray for him.’

‘My son has gone to the abyss?!’ Kajivah shrieked. ‘Alone?! Why are not the Spears of the Deliverer with him?’

Inevera reached out, grabbing Kajivah’s chin. Ostensibly it was to force her to make and hold eye contact, but Inevera put pressure on a convergence spot, breaking some of the woman’s energy.

‘Your son is the Deliverer,’ she said coldly. ‘He walks in places none may follow, and owes no explanations to you, or even me.’

She released Kajivah, and the woman fell back, weakened. Thalaja caught her and tried to usher her to one of the stone benches, but Kajivah straightened, pulling from her grasp and meeting Inevera’s eyes again.

Stubborn, Inevera thought.

‘Why was Jayan passed over?’ Kajivah demanded. ‘He is Ahmann’s eldest heir, and a worthy successor. The people worship him.’

‘Jayan is too young and headstrong to lead in Ahmann’s stead,’ Inevera said.

‘He is your son!’ Kajivah shouted. ‘How can you …’

‘ENOUGH!’ Inevera barked, causing everyone to jump, most of all Kajivah. It was rare for Inevera to raise her voice, especially in front of others. But more than anyone else alive, Inevera’s mother-in-law could test her patience. ‘You have forgotten yourself, woman, if you think you can speak to me so of my own children. I forgive you this once, for I know you are worried for your son, but do not cross me. All of Krasia needs me, and I do not have time to soothe your every anxiety. Ashan sits the Skull Throne by Ahmann’s own command. That is all you need know of the matter.’

Kajivah blinked. How many years had it been since someone dared speak to her like that? She was the Holy Mother, not some common dal’ting.

But for all the liberties she took and influence she had, Kajivah had no true powers. She was not even dama’ting, much less Damajah. Her wealth and servants were a stipend from the throne Inevera could easily rescind in Ahmann’s absence, though there would be others quick to try to gain her favour with gifts of gold.

‘Mother.’ Inevera and the other women turned to see Asome enter the bower. He had been silent as Enkido in his approach. Asome bowed. ‘Grandmother. It is good to see you both.’

Kajivah brightened immediately, opening her arms for her grandson. He moved into her embrace and accepted the kisses she gave through her veil with grace and dignity, though the treatment was below his station.

‘Tikka,’ Asome said, using the informal Krasian word for ‘grandmother’ Kajivah had instilled in all her grandchildren even before they began to speak. Just the sound of it from Asome’s lips made the woman melt into agreeability as if drugged. ‘Please be gentle with my honoured mother. I know you fear for Father, but she is his Jiwah Ka, and no doubt her worry is as great as yours.’

Kajivah nodded as if dazed and looked to Inevera, her eyes respectfully down as she nodded. ‘Apologies, Damajah.’

Inevera wanted to kiss her son.

‘But why were you and your brother passed over?’ Kajivah asked, regaining something of her resolve.

‘Passed over?’ Asome asked. ‘Tikka, Jayan sits the Spear Throne, and I am next in line for the Skull. Asukaji has been made Damaji of the Kaji. Your firstborn grandsons are all kai’Sharum now, and soon the second sons will take their places as nie’Damaji. Thanks to you, the line of Jardir, so close to ending twenty years ago, is set to control all of Krasia for generations.’

Kajivah seemed mollified at that, but pressed still. ‘But your uncle …’

Asome cupped her chin in his hand much as Inevera had, but instead of touching a pressure point, he laid his thumb on her veil. He touched her lips as gently as a feather, but it silenced Kajivah as effectively as Inevera’s more forceful move.

‘The Evejah teaches us all dama’ting possess the Sight,’ Asome said, ‘the Damajah most of all. If she has allowed my honoured uncle to sit the throne, it is likely because she sees Father returning soon, though of course she cannot speak of such things directly.’

Kajivah glanced at Inevera, a touch of fear in her eyes. The Sight was revered in Krasia, the source of dama’ting power. Inevera played along, giving Kajivah a measured stare and the slightest hint of a nod.

Kajivah looked back at Asome. ‘It is bad fortune to speak of fortune.’

Asome bowed with convincing deference as Kajivah mangled the ancient proverb. ‘Wisely said, Tikka.’ He looked at Inevera. ‘Perhaps there is something my honoured grandmother could do to praise Everam and help pray for Father’s safe return?’

Inevera started, Asome’s words reminding her of the advice her own mother Manvah had given her with regard to the Holy Mother. She nodded. ‘Waning will be upon us in less than two weeks, and with the Deliverer abroad, morale will be low even as the forces of Nie gather once more. A great feast to give heart to our warriors and join the voices of many as one in beseeching Everam for Ahmann’s victory in his latest trial …’

‘A wonderful idea, Damajah,’ Melan said, stepping forward. Inevera looked at her old rival, thankful for the support.

‘Indeed,’ Asome said. ‘Perhaps the Holy Mother could even give the blessings over the food and drink?’

‘I was going to see to it personally …’ Inevera lied.

As Manvah had predicted, Kajivah leapt at the bait. ‘Think on it no more, Honoured Damajah. Many are the burdens upon you. Let me lift this one, I beg.’

Indeed, Inevera felt a great burden lifting. ‘One feast may not be enough, I fear. We may have need of another at Waxing, and on until Sharak Ka is won.’

Kajivah bowed, deeper than Inevera had seen in years. ‘It would be my great honour to see to it, Damajah.’

‘I will ask the Andrah to assign a generous stipend from the treasury for the feasts,’ Inevera said, knowing Ashan would be as pleased as her to have the woman out of their hair. He would agree to anything and call it a bargain. ‘You will need help, of course. Florists and chefs, scribes to prepare invitations …’ People who can read and do sums, she thought derisively, for of course Kajivah could do neither, even after twenty years of palace life.

‘I would be honoured to assist the Holy Mother,’ Melan said.

‘I, too, will assist, as my responsibilities will allow,’ Asome said, looking pointedly at Inevera. She had no doubt it was a debt he would one day collect upon, but she would pay it gladly. This was a favour beyond price.

‘It is settled, then,’ she said, giving Kajivah a nod. ‘All of Krasia will owe you a debt for this, Holy Mother.’

6

A Man Is Nothing

333 AR Autumn

Abban leaned heavily on his crutch as he descended the palace steps, gritting his teeth at each stab of pain in his twisted calf. Knives were being sharpened throughout the court of the Deliverer, but sometimes it felt the palace steps were his greatest challenge each day. He could bear most anything for a profit, but embracing pain for its own sake had never been a skill he’d mastered.

Not for the first time, he regretted his stubborn refusal to let the Damajah heal him. It was wise to remind her she could not bribe him with comforts – especially ones she could as easily take away – but the thought of stairs without pain was an image worth killing for. Still, there was something he had wanted far more, and soon he would have it.

Drillmaster Qeran walked beside him, faring far better on the steps. The drillmaster’s left leg was missing at the knee, replaced with a curved sheet of spring steel. The metal bowed slightly with each step, but easily supported the large man’s weight. Already, Qeran was close to the fighting skill he had once claimed before the injury, and he continued to improve.

Abban’s kha’Sharum were not allowed at court, but the drillmaster had trained the Deliverer himself, and his honour was boundless. Even in Abban’s employ, he was welcome most anywhere, including the palace. A useful thing for a bodyguard. Now none was fool enough to harass Abban as he passed.

Earless was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, holding open the door to Abban’s carriage. Two kha’Sharum sat the driver’s seat, spears in easy reach, and two more at a high bench at the carriage rear, these armed with Northern crank bows. Qeran sprang easily into the carriage, taking Abban’s crutches as the deaf giant lifted Abban into the carriage as easily as a man might pick up his child, sparing him the dreaded steps.

Too big to comfortably fit inside, Earless closed the door and climbed the first step, holding a handle to ride outside. He knocked on the carriage wall, and the drivers cracked the reins.

‘Have the Damaji accepted Ashan as Andrah?’ Qeran asked.

Abban shrugged. ‘It is not as if the Damajah gives them a choice, with her displays of power. Ashan is her puppet, and none fool enough to challenge her.’

Qeran nodded. He knew the Damajah well. ‘The Sharum do not like it. They believe the Sharum Ka should have taken his father’s place. They fear a dama on the throne will take focus away from alagai’sharak.’

‘What a tragedy that would be,’ Abban said.

Qeran looked at him coldly, not amused. ‘If Jayan calls, the spears will flock to him. It would be easy for him to put Ashan’s and the Damaji’s heads up on spears and take the throne.’

Abban nodded. ‘And easier still for the Damajah to reduce him to ash. We waste our time, Drillmaster, pondering shifts above our station. We have our duty.’

They arrived at Abban’s compound, a high, thick wall heavily manned with armed kha’Sharum. The gates opened before them as the drivers gave the proper signal, revealing the squat, blocky buildings within.

The compound was strong and secure, but Abban was careful – on the surface at least – to give it no quality others might covet. There was no aesthetic to the architecture, no gardens or fountains. The air was thick with the smoke of forges and the sound of ringing hammers. Men laboured everywhere, not an idle hand to be seen.

Abban breathed deep of the reeking air and smiled. It was the smell of industry. Of power. Sweeter to him than any flower’s perfume.

A boy scurried up as Earless deposited Abban back on the ground. He bowed deeply. ‘Master Akas bids me inform you the samples are ready.’

Abban nodded, flipping the boy a small coin. It was a pittance, but the boy’s eyes lit up at the sight. ‘For swift feet. Inform Master Akas we will join him shortly.’

Akas managed Abban’s forges, one of the most important jobs in the entire compound. He was Abban’s cousin by marriage, and was paid more than most dama. One of Abban’s best kha’Sharum Watchers lurked in his shadow, ostensibly for his protection, but as much to deter or report anything hinting of treachery.

‘Ah, Master, Drillmaster, welcome!’ Akas was in his fifties, his bare arms thick with muscle in the way of those who worked the forge. Despite his age and size, he moved with the nervous excitement of a younger man. A khaffit like Abban, he was without a beard, though a rough stubble clung to his chin. He stank of sweat and sulphur.

‘How is production?’ Abban asked.

‘The weapons and armour for the Spears of the Deliverer are on schedule,’ Akas said, gesturing to pallets piled with spearheads, shields, and armour plates. ‘Warded glass, indestructible so far as we can determine.’

Abban nodded. ‘And for my Hundred?’ He used the term for the hundred kha’Sharum Ahmann had given him, but in truth they were one hundred and twenty, with close to a thousand chi’Sharum to supplement them. Abban wanted all of them armed and with the best equipment money could buy.

Akas scratched at his stubble. ‘There have been … delays.’

Qeran crossed his arms with a glower, not even needing a cue from Abban. Akas was a big man, but not fool enough to mistake the gesture. He put up his palms placatingly. ‘But progress has been made! Come and see!’

He darted over to a group of pallets, these shields and spearheads shining like mirrors. He selected a spearhead and brought it over to a squat, heavy anvil.

‘Warded glass,’ Akas said, holding up the spearhead, ‘silvered as you requested to hide its true nature from the casual observer.’

Abban nodded impatiently. This was not news. ‘Then why the delay?’

‘The silvering process weakens the glass,’ Akas said. ‘Watch.’

He put the spearhead on the anvil, holding it in place with banded clamps. Then he took up a long, heavy sledge, the handle three feet long and the head thirty pounds at least. The master smith swung the hammer with practised smoothness, letting its weight and momentum do more work than his considerable muscles. It came down with a sound that resonated through the forges, but Akas did not stop, putting all his strength behind two more swings.