Peter Brett - The Daylight War

‘Hasik is going to kill me if I don’t accept,’ Rojer said, as if testing the words.

‘Rape and kill, yes,’ Abban agreed.

‘Rape and kill,’ Rojer repeated numbly.

‘Bah, he’s no bigger’n Wonda,’ Gared said, slapping one of his great paws on Rojer’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry, I ent gonna let him hurt ya, even if yur acting the fool.’

Rojer was a foot and a half shorter than Gared, but still seemed to look down at him. ‘Don’t shine yourself, Gared. You’re used to being the biggest kid at the swimming hole, but truer is Hasik would have you on the ground in seconds.’

‘And bugger you in front of the other Sharum so all see your shame,’ Abban agreed. ‘He is known for that.’

‘Why you fat little …’ Gared lunged, reaching for the khaffit ’s throat, but Abban stepped smoothly aside on his good leg, then delivered a sharp rap of his camel-headed crutch to the back of the giant Cutter’s leg.

Gared roared in pain and fell to one knee. Stubborn, he turned to grab again, but froze when he found the crutch pointed right at his throat, a thin blade extended from its tip.

‘Ah,’ Abban said, lifting the blade into Gared’s beard, making him gulp. ‘I haven’t been in sharaj since my stones dropped, but even I recall enough sharusahk to put down a brainless oaf, and I have my tricks to keep them down.’

He stepped back, and the blade disappeared into his crutch with a well-oiled click. ‘So listen to me when I offer you wisdom. When Hasik comes to my house without Ahmann to hold his leash, I bow and stay out of his way, no matter what, or who, he does. That one is a killer of killers, and I have seen many. Heed Drillmaster Kaval and you may one day be his match, but it is not this day.’

He looked at Rojer. ‘Learn from your Mistress Leesha. If you do not wish to accept the girls, delay.’

‘How?’ Rojer asked.

Abban shrugged. ‘Say your custom is to be … promised, you say?’

‘Promised,’ Rojer agreed.

‘Say your custom is that you be promised for a year, or that you must first compose some great work of music to bless the day. Say you will not marry until you learn the Krasian tongue, or until the first day of spring. It does not matter what you say, son of Jessum, only that you save face for my master and the girls and give yourself time to get far away from here.’

Rojer and the others followed Abban into Jardir’s huge dining hall. Sunlight streamed in from high windows, filling the room with light. The main section of the marble hall was a collection of long, low tables, surrounded by pillows where hundreds of Sharum , the elite Spears of the Deliverer as well as the personal guards of the Damaji , sat cross-legged, spears and shields at hand as they gorged themselves on bread, couscous, and spits of roast meat, served in beautifully painted pottery by boys clad only in white bidos.

Rojer gave no outward sign, walking as casually as he would through a field of flowers, but he could feel his heart beating wildly as he passed the warriors. There would be no running from this room, no trick of smoke or fiddle that could spirit them past such a host. They would leave at Jardir’s sufferance, or not at all.

Abban led them through the warriors to a stair to the dais where sat the Damaji , Jardir’s sons and heirs, and various other ranking clerics. There was thick carpet on the floor and warm tapestries on the wall. They sat on silken pillows and ate delicately from rich food piled upon moulded silver wares served by women clad in black from head to toe.

The clerics watched with hate-filled eyes as the Hollowers passed and ascended above them to the next dais. There was no change in his casual stride, no hint of it on his face, but Rojer felt his chest constrict as if the air were being slowly squeezed from his lungs. He knew the skill with which the clerics fought, deadlier with open hands than a Cutter with an axe.

On the next and smallest dais, though still a huge space rich with thick carpet and gilded marble, sat Jardir’s own table. The pillows were embroidered in gold, like the gem-studded bowls, pitchers, and plates, which were served by Jardir’s own women, many of them black-veiled dama’ting . Rojer’s stomach twisted at the thought of eating at a table where almost every server was skilled in poisoning. They were all covered from head to toe, but Rojer nonetheless caught sight of Amanvah and Sikvah among them, their shapes and the graceful way they moved etched forever into his mind.

Jardir sat at the head of the table with Inevera at his right, the Damajah clad as ever in diaphanous silk that drew the eye, yet promised a painful death to any man whose gaze lingered too long. At the foot of the table sat Damaji Ashan and Aleverak, their heirs Asukaji and Maji, Jardir’s first- and secondborn sons, Jayan and Asome, kai’Sharum Shanjat, and, of course, Hasik.

Despite the obvious futility, Rojer felt a mad urge to run for his life. Subtly, he slid a finger between the buttons of his motley shirt to touch the cold metal of his medallion. As he did, he felt much of his tension ease.

The medallion was the highest award of bravery from the Duke of Angiers, given to Rojer’s adoptive father Arrick Sweetsong as reward for throwing him and his mother to the corelings and then later lying about it. Even Arrick had been unable to stomach that, and when he gathered his things before being expelled from the duke’s palace, he had left the medallion behind even as he took everything else of value he could get his hands on.

But where Arrick abandoned him, others stood fast that night. Geral the Messenger had thrown his mother a shield, and he and Rojer’s father interposed themselves between mother and child and the demons that poured through the ruin of their front door. They had died, much as Arrick many years later, protecting Rojer.

Leesha had etched the names of all who had given their lives for Rojer into the medal of valour, and it had become his talisman. It was a comfort when fear threatened to overwhelm him, but also a reminder that his remaining days were bought with the lives of everyone who had ever cared for him. He wanted to believe it was because there was something special about him, something worth saving, but in truth he had never seen much evidence that was the case.

Leesha took the pillow to Jardir’s left with Rojer after, followed by Elona, Erny, Gared, and Wonda. Abban took his customary place, kneeling a pace behind Jardir, almost invisible in the backdrop.

Sikvah immediately set a tiny cup of thick coffee in front of him, and as he caught her eye, she winked at him, her lashes thick and black. No one else caught the look, and it was a warm, artful gesture that sent a little thrill through Rojer. But he had practised such looks in front of a mirror enough times not to be taken in. Amanvah and Sikvah might be fond of him, and willing to be his brides, but they did not love him. Did not know him well enough for it to be true even if they believed it.

Neither did Rojer love them. They were brilliant, beautiful creatures, but beneath the surface they were still a mystery to him.

But there was something …

He thought back often on the night they seduced him, but it was not the lovemaking that he recalled. At least, not most often. It was the Song of Waning they had sung for him in duet. There was power in their voices. Power that Rojer, raised by arguably the greatest singer of his time, knew was rare and potent.

Inevera and Elona had done everything in their power to pressure Rojer into accepting the brides. Abban wanted him to dance around the promise. Leesha seemed to want him to turn them down on the spot, though she herself danced Abban’s dance like she was in the centre of a reel.