Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“And then?” Jayan asked.

“Then we execute all three,” Ashan said. “Rebels, sympathizers, and even the chin children, to remind the greenlanders of the futility of resistance, and its consequence. We will make the other chin nie’Sharum watch, and the next time, the boys themselves will fight their rescuers.”

Inevera kept her center, even as Ashan deviated from her script. Killing a handful of children was still a mercy compared to the wholesale slaughter Jayan favored, but she did not know if she could allow it when the time came.

“Very well,” Jayan said. “As you command, I will send the Watchers.”

I. It was a dangerous word. Jayan was assuming control of the search regardless. As Sharum Ka, it was his duty and right, but Inevera had intended the Watchers to report to the throne—her—to avoid unintended brutality.

She breathed, keeping her center. Sacrifices must be made. She had spies enough in the Sharum Ka’s court, and her Krevakh and Nanji sister-wives could put their dama’ting on alert to pass on anything they heard.

Ashan gave her seven breaths to speak, and then struck his staff of office. “It is settled. Send your Watchers, Sharum Ka. We expect regular reports on your progress.”

Jayan threw a smug glance at Asome and turned on his heel, striding for the door where Hasik, his new bodyguard, waited.

Three days passed, with no sign of the rebels or the stolen nie’Sharum, and Abban could sense a black mood on the streets. In the bazaar, it was worse.

Dal’ting, khaffit, and chin had begun to find a level of comfort with one another in the marketplace, but all that changed with the attacks on the sharaji and kidnappings. Krasians gave the chin a wide berth now, eyeing them with mistrust. They kept their purses closed as well, starving the chin of trade.

Dama patrols in the marketplace had increased markedly, with the dama not even bothering to hang the alagai tails from their belts or lean on their whip staves. The weapons were always in motion, if only to clear the path around them of chin, or to get the attention of one they sought to question.

And those questionings, the thing everyone in the bazaar from the lowest chin to Abban himself dreaded, were coming more and more frequently. The Sharum had been forbidden to kick in doors and search everywhere, but the dama were taking any excuse to conduct searches, and their jurisdiction was wide.

Abban watched from the flaps of his pavilion as a pair of Kaji dama tore the back of a chin woman’s dress open in the middle of a market street, whipping her with their staves for not being properly veiled.

It had been around her neck, simply slipped during the bustle of the day and not hurriedly replaced.

Abban closed the flap to muffle her screams.

“I pray to Everam we find the rebels soon,” he said. “This is bad for business.”

“If it can be done, the Krevakh will do it,” Qeran said. “It was my honor to serve with many of them in alagai’sharak. No better trackers exist on Ala.”

The drillmaster still looked uncomfortable in the marketplace, but Abban could no longer afford the luxury of leaving him in his compound to train recruits. He depended on Qeran’s status and experience to keep him alive.

They retired to Abban’s private office. The khaffit opened a hidden panel on his writing desk, removing a sheaf or parchment and handing it to Qeran. “I have some plans I need you to review before I present them to the throne.”

Qeran raised an eyebrow. Unlike most Sharum, drillmasters were literate, needing to keep lists and tallies in the running of sharaji, and to understand the equations to calculate tensile strength and load in the building of fortifications. But compared to even the least of Abban’s wives and daughters, this put him slightly above a trained dog. Abban would not have trusted him with even the simplest clerical task, and they both knew it.

The unexpected request aroused Qeran’s curiosity, and the man laid the papers on the desk and began to rummage through them. He spread out the map, squinted at the tallies, and his eyes widened.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asked.

“It is, and you will speak of it to no one,” Abban said.

“Why do you have this, and not the Sharum Ka?” Qeran asked.

“Because the Sharum Ka was a figurehead until a fortnight ago,” Abban said. “But fear not. Soon he will think all this was his own idea.”

The next morning, Abban rode in his palanquin to the palace. His finest kha’Sharum surrounded the muscular chin slaves who carried the poles, guarding him from all sides. The curtains, heavy things with a layer of metal mesh that could stop a spear, were pulled tight, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

The Damajah always made him nervous, even if he was wise enough not to show it. She had a way of putting him off guard, a sense she was looking right through him, seeing his dissembling as easily as she might a streak of dirt on his face.

How would she see his plans without Ahmann to bless and implement them?

BOOM!

Even through the thick curtains the sound was horrific. Abban was thrown into the lacquered ceiling as the palanquin fell. He could hear the shouts of his men, and as the palanquin came to an abrupt and jarring stop, he found himself face-to-face with one of his bearers, thrust through the curtain as the whole vehicle fell on him. He groaned, eyes glazed.

Ignoring the man, Abban reached for his cane, struggling against his lame leg to put his feet under him.

“Master!” one of his guards called. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine!” Abban snapped, sticking his head out the curtain atop the carriage. “Help me out of …”

He stopped short, gaping.

Sharik Hora was burning.

Everyone had been thrown from their feet, even this far from the blast. Closer to where the fires raged, passersby lay bloodied in the street, struck by debris that had once been the great walls and stained-glass windows of the largest temple to Everam in the green lands.

Qeran was the first back to combat readiness, berating the others to their feet as he moved to Abban’s side. Tempered in the heat of battle, the drillmaster was able to put his feelings aside and maintain the chain of command, but even he had a look of horror as his eyes touched the burning temple.

“What could have done such a thing?” he asked. “A dozen flame demons could not spew such a blaze.”

“ Chin flamework,” Abban said. Another mystery he had yet to unravel. “Get the men up. We must make double pace to the palace now. Send Watchers to find out what happened and report en route.”

Inevera regarded the khaffit as he drank cool water and lay on the pillows in her receiving chamber. He was pale, covered in ash, and smelling of smoke. One of his eyes had filled with blood, and his clothes were torn and bloodied. Runners had already confirmed Sharik Hora was burning.

“What happened?” she demanded, when the silence began to grate on her.

“It appears the chin are bolder than we credit them for,” Abban said. “The sharaj burnings were a distraction, drawing our attention to distant villages while they struck at our heart.”

“An odd coincidence that you should be there to witness the event,” Inevera said. “Especially after being the first to come to me with news of the rebellion.”

Abban looked at her flatly. “I am flattered the Damajah thinks me capable of such a complex weave of deceit, but I am not such a martyr as to get in range of a blast just to add credence to some mysterious plot. Every inch of me aches, my ears still ring, and my thoughts are cloudy.”