Peter Brett: The Daylight War

‘You would think I did the whole unit’s work myself,’ Soli grumbled. His fingers moved even faster. ‘I do not drink couzi, Father,’ he called. ‘The Evejah forbids it.’

Kasaad snorted, tipping back another cup. ‘Manvah! Prepare your sharik son some tea, then!’ He tipped the couzi bottle to his cup again, but this time only a few drops fell. ‘And bring me another couzi.’

‘Everam give me patience,’ Manvah muttered. ‘That was the last bottle, husband,’ she called.

‘Then go and buy more,’ Kasaad snapped.

Inevera could hear her mother’s teeth grind. ‘Half the tents in the bazaar are already closed, husband, and we must finish these baskets before Cashiv arrives.’

Kasaad waved a hand in disgust. ‘Who cares if that worthless push’ting has to wait?’

Soli drew a sharp breath, and Inevera saw a smear of blood on his hand, cut from the sharp edge of a palm frond. He gritted his teeth and wove on.

‘Forgive me, honoured husband, but Dama Baden’s factor will not wait,’ Manvah said, continuing her own weave. ‘If Cashiv arrives and the order isn’t ready, he will go down the lane and buy his baskets from Krisha again. Without this order, we won’t have money to pay our war tax, much less buy more couzi.’

‘What?!’ Kasaad shouted. ‘What have you been doing with my money? I bring home a hundred draki a week!’

‘Half of which goes right back to the dama in war tax,’ Manvah said, ‘and you always take twenty more for your pockets. The rest goes to keep you in couzi and couscous, and it isn’t enough by far, especially when you bring home half a dozen thirsty Sharum every Sabbath. Couzi is expensive, husband. The dama cut the thumbs from khaffit caught selling it, and they add the risk to the price.’

Kasaad spat. ‘ Khaffit would sell the sun if they could pull it from the sky. Now run and buy some to help ease my wait for that half-man.’

Soli finished his basket, rising and slamming it down atop his pile. ‘I’ll go, Mother. Chabin will have some, and he never closes before gloaming is sung.’

Manvah’s eyes tightened, but she did not take them from her weaving. She, too, had begun weaving faster, and now her hands were a blur. ‘I don’t like you leaving when we have a month’s work sitting out in the open.’

‘No one will rob us with Father right there,’ Soli said, but as he looked to his father, trying to lick a last drop from the couzi bottle, he sighed. ‘I will be so swift you won’t even know I’ve gone.’

‘Back to work, Inevera,’ Manvah snapped as Soli ran off. Inevera looked down, realizing only then that she had stopped weaving as she watched the events unfold. Quickly she resumed.

Inevera would not dare look right at him, but she could not help watching her father out of the corner of her eye. He was eyeing Manvah as she turned the basket with her nimble feet. Her black robes had risen as she worked, exposing her bare ankles and calves.

Kasaad put one hand to his crotch, rubbing. ‘Come here, wife, I would …’

‘I. Am. Working!’ Manvah took a palm branch from the pile, breaking fronds from it with sharp snaps.

Kasaad seemed genuinely confused at her reaction. ‘Why would you refuse your husband, barely an hour before he goes into the night?’

‘Because I’ve been breaking my back over these baskets for weeks,’ Manvah said. ‘Because it’s late and the lane’s gone quiet. And because we’ve got a full stock out with no one to guard it but a horny drunk!’

Kasaad barked a laugh. ‘Guard it from who?’

‘Who, indeed?’ a voice asked, and all turned to see Krisha stepping around the counter and into the kiosk.

Krisha was a big woman. Not fat — few in the Desert Spear enjoyed that luxury — but a warrior’s daughter, thickly set with a heavy stride and callused hands. Like all dal’ting , she wore the same head-to-toe black cloth as Manvah. She was a weaver as well, one of Manvah’s principal rivals in the Kaji tribe — less skilled, but more ambitious.

She was followed into the tent by four other women in dal’ting black. Two were her sister-wives, their faces covered in black. The others were her daughters, unmarried, their faces bare. From the looks of them, this drove away more potential husbands than it invited. None of the women was small, and they spread like jackals stalking a hare.

‘You’re working late,’ Krisha noted. ‘Most of the pavilions have tied their flaps.’

Manvah shrugged, not taking her eyes off her weaving. ‘The call to curfew isn’t for the better of an hour.’

‘Cashiv always comes at the end of the day before Dama Baden’s Waxing Party, does he not?’ Krisha said.

Manvah did not look up. ‘My clients do not concern you, Krisha.’

‘They do when you use your push’ting son to steal them from me,’ Krisha said, her voice low and dangerous. Her daughters moved to Inevera, separating her from her mother. Her sister-wives moved deeper into the kiosk towards Kasaad.

Manvah looked up at this. ‘I stole nothing. Cashiv came to me, saying your baskets fell apart when filled. Blame your weavers and not me for the loss of business.’

Krisha nodded, picking up the basket Inevera had just added to the pile. ‘You and your daughter do fine work,’ she noted, tracing a finger along the weave. Then she threw the basket to the ground, stomping down hard on it with her sandalled foot.

‘Woman, you dare?!’ Kasaad shouted in shocked disbelief. He leapt to his feet, or tried to, wobbling unsteadily. He glanced for his spear and shield, but they were back in the tent.

While he was finding his wits, Krisha’s sister-wives moved in unison. Short rattan staves wrapped in black cloth fell into their hands from out of voluminous sleeves. One of the women grabbed Kasaad by the shoulders, turning him into the other’s thrust to his stomach, holding him to make sure he took the full brunt. Kasaad grunted in pain, the wind knocked from him, and the woman followed up the blow with a full swing to the groin. Kasaad’s grunt became a shriek.

Inevera gave a cry and leapt to her feet, but Krisha’s daughters grabbed her roughly. Manvah moved to rise as well, but Krisha’s heavy kick to the face knocked her back to the ground. She gave a great wail, but it was late and there was no answering cry.

Krisha looked down at the basket on the floor. It had resisted her stomp, returning to its original shape. Inevera smiled until the woman leapt on top of it, jumping three times until the basket collapsed.

Across the kiosk, Krisha’s sister-wives continued to beat Kasaad. ‘He shrieks like a woman,’ one laughed, again striking him between the legs.

‘And he fights even worse!’ the other cried. They let go of his shoulders, and Kasaad collapsed to the floor, gasping, his face a mix of pain and humiliation. The women left him and went to work kicking over the stacks and smashing baskets with their rattan staves.

Inevera tried to pull free, but the young women only tightened their grips. ‘Be still, or we will break your fingers so you can weave no more!’ Inevera stopped struggling, but her eyes narrowed and she shifted slightly, readying herself to stomp hard on the instep of the one closest to her. She glanced at Manvah, but her mother shook her head.

Kasaad coughed blood, pushing himself up onto his elbows. ‘Harlots! When the dama hear of this …!’

Krisha cut him off with a cackling laugh. ‘The dama ? Will you go to them, Kasaad son of Kasaad, and tell them you were drunk on couzi and beaten by women? You won’t even tell your ajin’pal as he buggers you tonight!’