Peter Brett - The Daylight War

The Watchers were from different tribes, one Nanji and the other Krevakh. Anywhere else in the world, the two men could not have been in the same room as each other without shedding blood.

But tribe meant nothing to Abban’s hundred. He was their tribe. He wondered sometimes if, three thousand years after Ahmann’s reign, the Haman tribe might endure. Had not Nanji and Krevakh been men once, serving at the side of Kaji?

He snorted. Haman? If Ahmann was truly the Deliverer, it should be the Abban tribe. That had a nice sound to it.

The men struck as one body, the first swinging his club at the meat of the newcomer’s thigh, a blow meant for maximum pain and surprise, but minimum damage. While the Sharum recoiled, the other would move in, catching him from behind with the garrotte and allowing his partner open access to attack. Abban had seen them do the dance several times now, and never tired of it.

But the dal’Sharum surprised him, moving as if he had known the men were there all along. He was baiting them, Abban realized as the stranger slipped his leg away from the club and threw his head back just in time to avoid the garrotte. He came back up fast with a punch the Krevakh barely parried in time and a kick that the Nanji managed to turn aside with his wire, though he failed to catch the ankle as it retracted.

The dal’Sharum had a chance to slip the shield onto his arm, but he didn’t bother, leaving it slung over his back. He twirled his spear like a dama ’s whip staff, parrying a club blow from the Krevakh, then spinning to strike the Nanji in the kidney. It came back and caught the Krevakh across the face before the Nanji finally caught it in his loop. He pulled, trying to yank the weapon from the man’s grasp, but the Sharum thrust at the same time, breaking the Nanji’s hold and slamming the butt of the spear hard into the centre of his chest.

As the Nanji dropped, the warrior turned to face the Krevakh fully. The kha’Sharum regarded him coolly, but pressed the hidden button on his club that extended a sharp, poisoned blade. The dal’Sharum attacked, but the Krevakh parried it smoothly and came in hard.

A moment later he was lying on the floor, gasping for air. It happened so fast that it took a moment for Abban’s eyes to catch up to his mind. The warrior had sidestepped the blow and put an elbow in the Watcher’s throat.

Abban hesitated. He had not thought it possible that any single man could defeat his Watchers, much less a common dal’Sharum . Thankfully, he was prepared to handle far more than a single man. He reached under his desk for the hidden bell rope that would bring a dozen kha’Sharum rushing into the room.

‘Please don’t do that,’ the newcomer warned, pointing at Abban with his spear. His voice was a rasp, but it had a familiar ring to it. ‘The more people you send running in, the more likely someone will get seriously hurt.’ He gave Abban a look so intense the khaffit had to suppress a shudder. ‘And I assure you, it won’t be me.’

Abban swallowed deeply, but he nodded, slowly lifting his hands into the air. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘Abban, my true friend,’ the man said, dropping the rasp from his voice. ‘Do you not recognize your favourite fool? This is not the first time you’ve seen me in a Sharum ’s blacks.’

Abban felt his blood turn to ice. ‘Par’chin?’

The man gave a slight nod. One of the Watchers let out a slight groan, struggling to put a knee under himself. The other was climbing shakily to his feet.

‘Out, both of you,’ Abban snapped. ‘Your salaries will be docked for incompetence. Wait outside and make sure my friend and I are not disturbed.’

As the men stumbled out the door, the Par’chin closed it behind them. He turned, removing his turban and veil. Beneath, his head was shaved clean, covered in hundreds of tattooed wards. Abban drew in a breath, covering his shock with a booming laugh and his customary greeting. ‘By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!’

‘You don’t seem surprised.’ The Par’chin looked disappointed.

Abban came around his desk as fast as his crutch would allow, slapping the Par’chin on the back. ‘Mistress Leesha hinted that you were alive, son of Jeph,’ Abban said. ‘I knew then this “Painted Man” could be no other. Would you like some couzi?’ He moved to the delicate porcelain couzi set on his desk. The drink was still illegal in Everam’s Bounty, but Abban displayed it on his desk openly now. After what had happened to Hasik, who would dare say a word? He poured two cups, holding one out to the Par’chin.

‘Not poisoned, is it?’ the Par’chin asked, taking the cup.

It was a fair question. One of the delicate porcelain bottles in Abban’s set was indeed poisoned, a drug Abban took the antidote to daily. Still, he put a hurt look on his face. ‘You wound me, my friend! Why would I wish to harm you?’

The Par’chin shrugged. ‘Been in the bazaar long enough to get caught up. Word is you and Jardir are suddenly pillow friends again. Makes me wonder if you always were, and your public bickering was just a Jongleur’s show. Makes me wonder if you tricked me into retrieving the spear so your friend could steal it.’

‘I warned you,’ Abban said. ‘You cannot claim I did not, Par’chin. Did I not say to you that I would deal in no Sunian artefacts? Warned you what my people would do if you so much as profaned the holy city with your footsteps, much less stole its treasures?’

‘Yet you gave me the map,’ Arlen said.

‘You asked for it, Par’chin,’ Abban pointed out. ‘To be honest, I thought the holy city was a myth, and that you would never find it. But I owed you a debt, and I paid it.’

He paused. ‘Now that I think of it, Par’chin, it is you who have not paid. “A mule load of Bahavan pottery” you promised. Is this why you have come? To pay your debt to me at last?’

The Par’chin laughed, and Abban was struck with how much he had missed the sound. They clicked cups and drank, Abban immediately refilling them for another round. They took their time about it, quietly enjoying each other’s presence after so long. It was not until they tasted cinnamon that they moved to business.

‘Why are you here, Par’chin?’ Abban said. ‘You must know Ahmann will kill you if he finds you, and his senses are sharp.’

The Par’chin waved dismissively. ‘I will be long gone before he can catch my scent.’ He met Abban’s eyes. ‘Will you tell him of this meeting?’

Abban shrugged. ‘I do not see the profit in keeping silent, and I will not lie to my master.’

The Par’chin nodded. ‘Nor would I ask you to. In truth, I want you to give him a message from me.’ From inside his robes, he pulled a small, rolled paper, tied with a simple string. When Abban took the paper, he smiled. ‘I saved you the trouble of breaking the seal and forging a new one. Jardir will know my script.’

Abban chuckled, untying the string. The Par’chin’s handwriting was as florid and beautiful as ever, but the contents of the letter made his stomach sink. He looked at his true friend and shook his head.

‘You do not understand what he has become, Par’chin,’ he said. ‘You are no match for him. This one time I beg you. Run far and never return. Run, and I swear by Everam’s beard I will say nothing of this meeting to Ahmann.’

But the Par’chin only smiled. ‘He couldn’t kill me in the Maze, and then I was only a pale shadow of what I am now. You’d best start looking for a new master.’

‘That pleases me no more than the thought of him killing you,’ Abban said. ‘Is there no other way?’