Peter Brett - The Core

At last the women cleared the empty bowls and carcass from the room, and Hasik looked at the chin.

‘You have eaten of my pig,’ he said. ‘There is only one more thing keeping you from joining the Eunuchs.’

The chin looked at one another in confusion as Orman laughed, drawing a knife.

‘A dozen fat slaves, dressed as me,’ Abban promised. ‘One delivered the first day of the month to torture until you kill them in a new and inventive fashion on Waning and begin anew.’

‘I admit, that is a good one,’ Hasik said.

‘Spare me, and I can make it reality,’ Abban said.

Hasik clicked his tongue. ‘There is where it fails, khaffit. What good is pretending vengeance for a year when true vengeance escapes?’

‘Then I will lease my life,’ Abban offered. ‘One slave dressed to look like me each Waning until you collect in full.’

Hasik pursed his lips. ‘The idea has merit. I will take a few months to consider.’

Then he swung the hammer, and Abban screamed.

The Eunuchs and slaves were used to it now, ignoring Abban’s wails and whimpers. Once, when a blood fever from his shattered bones had threatened to kill Abban, Dawn had begged on his behalf.

Hasik had warded Abban’s leg and smeared it with stinking alagai ichor. The demon blood activated the wards and healed Abban. His strength and vigour returned, sweeping away the pain, but the shattered bones of his leg and foot fused into a twisted ruin. Abban doubted even a healer as powerful as the Damajah could make him walk again.

Then Hasik cut the noses from Dawn and her daughters, a permanent warning to all that might take pity on him again.

Hasik was gone by the time Abban mastered his pain enough to crawl into his chair. The camp was full of activity as Abban wheeled to Hasik’s tent, slaves rushing to and fro to service the warriors.

In the past five weeks, the Eunuchs had swollen massively in number. First in fits and starts as Hasik hunted Sharum deserters, catching warriors sometimes in ones and twos, and other times in sizeable bands. The freshest recruits were always the most eager to capture and castrate new members, as if cutting off another man’s cock somehow helped their own healing.

They sacked farms and hamlets as their numbers grew, growing heavy with supply. Then, impossibly, men began to come to them. Sharum that had set off in search of plunder and found ill fortune begging to join, willingly surrendering their genitals in exchange for full bellies and the sense they were once again part of something powerful.

The growth had come with a positive change in Abban’s circumstances. Hasik healed him regularly now, needing Abban’s eyes sharp and his mind unclouded. Once relegated to cook, the khaffit was back on familiar ground, keeping Hasik’s ledgers and acting as quartermaster for his troops and caravan of slaves.

Hasik was lounging on the pillows in his pavilion, eating eggs and bacon.

‘Nie’s black heart, khaffit ,’ Hasik said. ‘Had I known the flesh of pigs was so delicious, I would have turned my back on Everam’s law long ago.’

‘It is a great burden lifted,’ Abban agreed, ‘setting aside the Evejah to eat and drink as you please.’

Hasik tore another bite off the rasher, his lips shiny with grease. ‘Read me the tallies.’

Abban gritted his teeth, wheeling over to his writing desk. ‘You have … three kai’Sharum , one hundred and seventy-two dal’Sharum , eight hundred and seventeen kha’Sharum , two hundred and six chi’Sharum , and four hundred and thirty-six slaves. We have seven hundred and forty-two horses …’

Hasik put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes as if listening to music. The tallies were a burden to a good leader, as Ahmann had been, but to a man like Hasik it read as a list of his personal wealth, and Abban could not deny that in a very short time that wealth had become considerable. So considerable that all the Eunuchs had a taste of the largesse. There were no hungry in the caravan, and all had proper clothes to ward off winter’s chill. The Sharum were well equipped and obedient. Even the chi’Sharum conscripts had weapons to go with their ongoing training.

The canvas flap opened, admitting Orman, now wearing the white veil of a kai’Sharum around his neck. Orman had remained Hasik’s second in command and was, so far as Abban could determine, quite loyal and competent. The Bajin was a small tribe, and Orman would likely never have risen as high there as he had in the Eunuchs.

Orman bowed. ‘Eunuch Ka, there is a messenger. He claims to know you.’

‘A messenger?’ Hasik asked. ‘From who?’

‘From Dama Khevat!’ a kai’Sharum boomed, pushing past the door guard.

Abban immediately recognized the man by the scars on his face, a faded remnant from the night a quarter century ago when he had taken a swipe of a sand demon’s claws in the village of Baha kad’Everam. Magic had kept the man young, but he was an honoured elder of their fathers’ generation.

Jesan, Hasik’s ajin’pal.

Among the Sharum , the bond between ajin’pal was as strong as family. For those near in age it was a sibling bond, but more often it was one of father to son. Nightfathers, they were sometimes called, with a relationship no less complicated than fathers and sons of blood. They were mentors and authority figures.

The two were close when Hasik was the Deliverer’s brother-in-law, a respected member of the royal family. They had not spoken since Hasik’s disgrace.

‘Jesan.’ Hasik got to his feet. The men didn’t reach for weapons as they moved in to each other, but they didn’t need to. Both had been Spears of the Deliverer and were more than capable of killing with their bare hands.

Instead they gripped each other’s shoulders and laughed, embracing.

‘ Khaffit ! Brandy for my ajin’pal !’ Hasik called, leading Jesan to the pillows. Hasik took the centre, where the pile was thickest, gesturing for Jesan to sit at his right and Orman at his left.

Dawn appeared, silently filling a tray and laying it across the arms of Abban’s chair. It was a small blessing that she kept her eyes down, that Abban did not have to meet them as he looked into the gaping hole where her nose had been. She vanished as quickly as she had appeared, and Abban wheeled over to the pillows with the tray.

Hasik took a glass, handing it to Jesan. ‘There is no couzi this far north, but I’ve found the chin distilleries even better.’

‘Just water, thank you.’ Jesan’s voice was tight.

‘Some bacon, perhaps?’ Hasik swept a hand to the plate. ‘Everam could not have made a food so delicious if it was not meant to be eaten.’

Jesan stiffened. ‘Perhaps that is exactly why we were commanded not to eat it.’

‘Oh?’ Hasik’s question seemed casual, but there was challenge in his tone.

Jesan met Hasik’s eyes, breathing deeply. The familiar rhythm was an easy tell that the Sharum was attempting to remain calm. ‘To remind us everyone has a master.’

‘You think I need a reminder of who my master is?’ Hasik asked quietly.

‘I am not the Creator, Hasik,’ Jesan said. ‘Nothing happens, but that Everam wills it. I do not care that you drink couzi. I do not care that you eat pig. I have shed blood with you in the night and that is all that matters. I do not come as some glowering elder, but as your ajin’pal. There are pressing matters to discuss.’