He bowed. ‘Damajah. How may this humble khaffit be of service to you?’
Inevera drew close to him. She was too close for Hasik to overhear their words, but at her back was Shanvah. By all accounts the kai’Sharum’ting was every bit as deadly as Ahmann’s brutal bodyguard.
‘Have your metalworkers made any further progress?’ Inevera asked. ‘The last batch of alloy they sent was worthless.’
Abban shrugged. ‘Alloying the metals is simple enough, but finding the right mixture is a slow process. The fires of Ala may have introduced agents we have not anticipated.’
‘We need more,’ Inevera said.
‘I see that,’ Abban said. ‘Coating a throne requires a great deal of metal. Will you do the steps next?’
‘What I do with it is not your concern, khaffit,’ Inevera said. Her voice was serene, but there was a warning in it nonetheless.
Abban bowed. ‘As you say, Damajah. Nor is it my concern what you do with your eunuchs, though I am told by the city guard that three of them were found dead, washed up on the shore of the river.’ He smiled at her, and knew immediately he had taken the game too far.
At a gesture from Inevera, Shanvah stepped in. Her punch was little more than a flicker, but pain blossomed in his face and he found himself falling onto his back.
Abban clutched his nose, eyes widening at how quickly his hand was covered in blood. He pulled a kerchief from his vest pocket, but that, too, became saturated. ‘The Shar’Dama Ka has said he will kill any man that strikes me.’
‘Sharum’ting are not men, khaffit.’ Inevera smiled, her full lips turning up beneath her translucent veil as she swept a hand at the chamber doors. ‘But by all means, hobble out and tell Ahmann that you insulted me and I had Shanvah strike you. Let us see what he will do.’
When Abban did not move, she snatched the kerchief from his hand, holding the blood-drenched cloth before his eyes. ‘This is the least of what will happen the next time you are insolent with me.’
Abban swallowed as she and the warrior woman strode into her private pillow chamber. He might not fear the Damaji, but Ahmann’s First Wife was another matter entirely. His plot to install Leesha Paper as her rival had failed, and now he had made an enemy he would wish on no one.
When the door to the pillow chamber closed behind the women, Hasik honked a laugh. ‘Not so bold now, eh, khaffit?’
Abban looked at him coldly. ‘Open the door, dog, or I will tell Ahmann this bloodied nose came from you.’
Rage blossomed across Hasik’s face, soothing the pain in Abban’s own. Abban hid his smile as the huge warrior opened the door. Hasik would come soon to collect payment for the indignity, but this time Abban looked forward to it.
My metalworkers have made another attempt at reproducing the sacred metal, Abban wrote to Ahmann later in the day. Send a strong-backed messenger you trust to retrieve the Damajah’s sample at day’s end.
And Ahmann, as he often did, sent Hasik.
Abban’s daughter Cielvah was working alone in the front of his pavilion in the New Bazaar when the warrior was spotted coming their way. Curfew was looming and the bazaar nearly empty, most of the pavilions and storefronts closed for the night. Abban watched through a pinhole as Hasik entered the tent. Cielvah was young and beautiful, intelligent with skilled hands. She had a bright future, and Abban loved her dearly. Something Hasik had known when he raped her. It was never about Cielvah. It was about hurting Abban.
The girl gasped when she saw Hasik. She scurried behind the counter and down a short hallway where she disappeared through a canvas flap. Like a cat after a mouse, Hasik followed, leaping nimbly over the counter in pursuit and disappearing through the flap an instant after the girl.
Abban heard a door slam, and counted to ten before following, taking his time with the walk. His leg still pained him even after so many years, and he saw no need to tax it.
Hasik was still struggling when he entered the room, shutting the heavy door behind him. The pavilion abutted a large warehouse, and Hasik had unwittingly stepped inside. Two Sharach kha’Sharum had the situation well in hand with their alagai-catchers. The hollow poles were twice the length of Hasik’s arms, threaded with woven steel cable, the end loops tight around his neck. Hasik grasped one in each fist, trying to keep them from tightening, but it was useless against the skilled Sharach warriors. When he pulled they pushed, and vice versa, all the while tightening the cords. Abban watched in pleasure as Hasik’s struggles slowed, and he dropped to his knees, face reddening.
Cielvah came over to him, and Abban put an arm around her. ‘Ah, Hasik, how good of you to visit! I trust you remember my daughter Cielvah? You took her virginity last spring. I have promised her a front seat to what I do to you in return.’
Still unmarried, Cielvah did not have a veil to lift as she spat in the Sharum’s face. Hasik tried to lunge at her, but the Sharach held him fast, choking him back down to his knees. Abban raised a hand, and another of his kha’Sharum, standing invisibly in the shadows, came forward. The Nanji were renowned for their skill at torture, and the small man was no exception. He moved with easy grace, silent as death save for the ring of the sharp, curved blade he drew. Hasik’s eyes bulged at the sight, but he was not allowed air to protest.
The small man considered. ‘This would be easier if he were on his back.’ His voice was low and quiet, barely a whisper. ‘And his limbs held tight.’
Abban nodded, clapping his hands loudly. The Sharach twisted their poles, throwing Hasik flat onto his back as the doors opened and a number of black-clad women entered — Abban’s wives and daughters. Many wore marriage veils, while others, like Cielvah, had their faces uncovered. More than one of them had fallen prey to Hasik’s attentions over the years.
Four of the women carried alagai-catchers of their own, and in short order they had looped Hasik’s wrists and ankles, pulling tight. The Sharum was strong as only a warrior who regularly felt the magical rush of killing alagai could be, but the women had numbers and leverage, and he was held fast, even without the Sharach. The two kha’Sharum eased tension of their nooses, that all might better enjoy Hasik’s screams and frantic, impotent thrashing as the Nanji sliced open his pantaloons.
The women all laughed at the sight of Hasik’s limp member as it was revealed. Abban, too, chuckled, knowing the presence of the women multiplied Hasik’s pain and humiliation a thousandfold. ‘This pathetic thing is what my women fear when you visit my pavilion?’
‘Dogs have tiny members as well, Father,’ Cielvah said. ‘That does not mean I wish to be humped by one.’
Abban nodded. ‘My daughter has a point,’ he told Hasik. He nodded to the Nanji. ‘Cut it off.’
Hasik shrieked, thrashing again, but it did him no good as the women held him fast. ‘I am the Deliverer’s ajin’pal! He will not let you get away with this, khaffit!’
‘Tell him, Whistler!’ Abban laughed using the mocking nickname Hasik had been given after Qeran knocked out one of his teeth for calling Abban a pig-eater’s son when they were boys in sharaj. ‘Tell the whole world a khaffit cut your manhood away, and watch as they snigger at your back!’
‘I will kill you for this!’ Hasik growled.
Abban shook his head. ‘I am of more value to the Deliverer than you, Hasik.’ He gestured to the three kha’Sharum. ‘In his wisdom, he has given me warriors to see to my protection.’ He smiled. ‘And to protect the honour of my women.’