Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Asavi, too, cast her eyes over the men for long, tense seconds. At last, she shook her head.

“You men,” she called to the cowering warriors. “Tear the black from these two.”

“No!” Fahki screamed, but the men, his spear brothers a moment before, were deaf to his cries as they moved in. Qeran threw him to the men and one of them caught him with a spear shaft under the chin, choking out any resistance as half a dozen men eagerly tore his Sharum robes from him. Shusten was unable to put up even a token resistance, moaning as the remaining warriors stripped him.

How quickly the fabled loyalty of Sharum fades when put to the test, Abban mused. They would do anything to get back in the dama’ting’s good grace.

“You are khaffit now,” Asavi told the naked men. She looked at Fahki’s shriveled manhood and gave a snort. “Perhaps you always should have been. Return to your fathers in shame.”

One of the warriors knelt before her, placing his hands and forehead on the floor in absolute supplication. “They are brothers, dama’ting, ” he said, “their father is khaffit. ”

“Fitting,” Asavi said. “The fig lands close to the tree.” She turned to regard the other warriors. “As for the rest of you, you will go to Sharik Hora and repent. You will not take food or drink for three days in penance, and if I learn you have so much as touched a cup of couzi—or dice—again, you will share their fate.”

The warriors gaped a moment, until Asavi clapped her hands in a sharp retort that made them all jump. “Now!”

Practically pissing their bidos, the warriors hurriedly backed out of the room, bowing repeatedly and saying “Thank you, Dama’ting,” over and over. They stumbled into one another as they bottlenecked at the stairwell, turning and running up the steps as fast as their sandaled feet could carry them.

Asavi cast one last disgusted glance at the naked men. “Drillmaster, dispose of these pitiful excuses for men.”

Qeran bowed. “Yes, Dama’ting.”

Fahki and Shusten blinked in the dim lamplight as the hoods were pulled from their heads. They were tied to chairs in an underground chamber. Both had been “softened,” as Qeran put it, bruises still swollen and red, not yet gone to purple. Shusten’s arm had been set in plaster and his nose splinted. Both had been dressed in ragged shirts and pants of khaffit tan.

“My prodigal sons return,” Abban said. “Though perhaps not as proud as when I saw you last.”

The boys looks at him, squinting until their eyes adjusted to the light. Qeran stood a step behind Abban, arms crossed, and Fahki’s eyes widened at the sight of him. Abban could see understanding dawn.

Perhaps they are not total fools, he thought, pleased. Warrior sons were bad enough. If they proved fools as well, he would just as soon kill them and have done. He had other sons, though none more by Shamavah, the only wife who truly mattered to him. For her sake, he must try to pull these back into his fold.

“Why are they bound?” Abban asked. “Surely my own sons pose no threat to me. There is no need for such shameful treatment.”

Qeran grunted, pulling a knife as he went over, cutting their bonds. The boys groaned, massaging ankles and wrists to restore blood blow. Shusten looked weak and chastened, but Fahki still had defiance in his eyes.

“Abban.” He spat on the floor, a pinkish froth of blood and saliva. He looked to his brother. “Our father is bitter we proved his betters and rose above his station. He has found a way to bribe a dama’ting to drag us back to his world of commerce and khaffit. ”

“You are khaffit now, too,” Abban reminded him.

“You took our blacks in deception,” Fahki growled. “We are still Sharum in the eyes of Everam, better than all the khaffit scum in Everam’s Bounty.”

Abban put a hand to his chest. “ I took your blacks? Was it me who put cups of couzi and dice in your hands? Was it me who tore the robes from your backs? Your own brothers were happy to do it, to save themselves. Your loss of status is a product of your own foolishness. I warned you what would happen if you kept to dice and drink. The black does not put you above Everam’s law.”

Fahki rolled his eyes. “Since when do you care for Everam’s law, Father? Half your fortune comes from couzi.”

Abban chuckled. “I do not deny it, but I am smart enough not to dice away my profits, or to drink in public.”

He limped over to the third chair in the room, easing himself down and peering at them between the humps of his camel-headed crutch. “As for your being better than khaffit, we shall soon put that to the test. You will be fed and given a night’s sleep. In the morning, you’ll be given a spear and shield and set against one of my kha’Sharum guards. Any one. You may choose.”

Fahki snorted. “I will kill him in less time than it took you to limp your fat carcass across the room, old man.”

Qeran barked a laugh at that. “If you last five minutes, I will give you the robes off my back and my own good name.”

The smug look fell from Fahki’s face at that. “Why do you serve this khaffit, Drillmaster? You trained the Deliverer himself. You sully your good name with every order you take from beneath you. What price did you demand, to sell your honor to a pig-eater?”

Qeran walked over to Fahki, bending low as if to whisper an answer. Fahki, the fool boy, leaned in to hear.

Qeran’s punch knocked him out of his chair and onto the floor. Fahki coughed, spitting a wad of blood and the shards of a broken tooth onto the stone floor.

“Your father may allow you to speak to him with such disrespect …” Qeran said.

“For now,” Abban cut in.

“For now,” Qeran agreed. “But as you say, I am a drillmaster of the Sharum. I have trained countless warriors, and claim their kills as my own. A million alagai have I shown the sun, boy, and I owe you no explanations. For every insolent word you cast my way, I will break a part of you.”

Qeran smiled as Fahki glared at him. “Yes. Come at me. I see it in your eyes. Come and test your mettle. Abban has two sons. Perhaps he won’t miss one.”

“I daresay I don’t need either, if they are fool enough to attack you, Drillmaster,” Abban said.

Fahki breathed deeply, muscles knotted, but he stayed on the ground.

Abban nodded. “The beginning of wisdom. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

Fahki chose the smallest and weakest looking of the kha’Sharum to challenge in the yard the next day. Skinny and bespectacled, the man seemed no match for Fahki, who was tall and thick like his father.

All of clan Haman was summoned to witness the event. Abban had the inner ring around the combatants filled with women, Fahki’s sisters, cousins, aunts, and stepmothers. The kha’Sharum and chi’Sharum watched eagerly, as did all of the workers in Abban’s employ, given time off simply to add to the boy’s humiliation.

Fahki circled warily, spinning his spear in an impressive—if pointless—display. The spectacled kha’Sharum watched him coolly, not bothering to circle. He was Sharach, and carried an alagai -catcher instead of a spear. The long hollow pole ended in a loop of woven cable that the warrior could tighten with a lever on the shaft.

A vendor made his way through the crowd, selling candied nuts.

At last Fahki’s tension reached a breaking point, and he charged, spear leading. The warrior batted the point aside and had the loop around Fahki’s neck in an instant, whipping the pole and turning the momentum of his attack against him. Fahki had to leap head over heels and flip himself onto his back simply to keep from having his neck broken.