Jardir shook his head. ‘Kaji forbids-’
Abban threw back his head and laughed. ‘He forbade it because his men were slaughtered in Rusk by a force they outnumbered five to one after spending the night before celebrating a battle that had not yet been won! It was a decree meant for uneducated sheep with weapons, not two men sharing a cup during the day at the centre of their stronghold.’
Jardir looked at Abban sadly. He could see in the man’s aura that he not only did not understand, he thought Jardir the fool in this exchange. ‘This, my friend, is why you are khaffit.’
‘Why?’ Abban asked. ‘Because I do not treat every single utterance of Kaji as the direct word of Everam? You are Shar’Dama Ka now, Ahmann, and I’ve known you a long time. You are a brilliant man, but you have said and done many a stupid and naïve thing over the years.’
Such words might have got him killed in open court, but Ahmann could see his friend spoke from his heart, and could not fault him for that. ‘I make no claims to divine infallibility, Abban, mine or Kaji’s. You are khaffit because you are unable to see that the reasons for Kaji’s decree do not matter. What matters is your obedience and submission. Your sacrifice.’
He pointed to the cup. ‘Everam will not damn me to Nie’s abyss if I drink that, Abban, nor Kaji’s spirit grow restless. But remembering the lesson of the defeat at Rusk is well worth the sacrifice of couzi, just as remembering the betrayal of Kaji’s half brother is worth the taste of pig, no matter how succulent you claim it to be.’
Abban looked at him a moment, shrugged, and drank again. ‘The Par’chin is the man I knew, and he is not. I never felt for a moment he would harm me, or let harm come to me, but he was nonetheless … unsettling.’
‘The rumours are true?’ Jardir asked. ‘He has warded his flesh with ink?’
Abban nodded. ‘Much as you have with scars.’
Jardir shook his head. ‘My wards are made of my own flesh. I have not profaned the temple of my body with-’
‘Please,’ Abban said, holding up a hand to cut him off while rubbing his other hand against his temple. ‘My head hurts enough already.
‘The Par’chin did not spare his face, as you did,’ Abban continued, ‘but he was never handsome as you. I suppose even the Damajah has a limit to how much she will … sacrifice.’
Jardir felt his jaw tighten. ‘I have been most tolerant of you today, Abban, but there is a limit.’
Abban’s aura went cold, and he bowed as much as he could without rising. ‘I apologize, my friend. I meant no dishonour to you or your Jiwah Ka.’
Jardir nodded, whisking a hand to dismiss the matter. ‘You once told me that if one of us were the Deliverer, it was the Par’chin. Do you still think it so?’
‘I do not know that there is such a thing as a Deliverer at all.’ Abban drank again. ‘But I have looked into the eyes of thousands of hagglers, and in all my years met only two men I judged to be true. One of them was the Par’chin, and the other, Ahmann, was you.
‘Ten years ago, our people were splintered. Weak. Unable to control even our own city. Great warriors, perhaps, but fools, also. Spending and spending, but never turning a profit. Our numbers were dwindling, women had no rights to speak of, and khaffit were beneath contempt.’ He held up his couzi cup. ‘Drinking couzi could get you executed.
‘You might have stolen the throne, but you brought wisdom to it. United our people and made them strong again. Fed the hungry. Gave women and khaffit paths to glory. Our people owe you a great debt. Would the Par’chin have done as well? Who can say?’
Jardir frowned. ‘So what would honourless Abban do? Is there profit in my fighting the Par’chin?’
‘What does it matter?’ Abban asked. ‘You and I both know you are going to accept his challenge.’
Jardir nodded. ‘It is inevera. But I would hear your counsel all the same.’
Abban sighed. ‘I wish the Par’chin had never made this challenge. I wish he had taken my advice and run to the ends of Ala and beyond. But I saw in his eyes he means to fight you, Domin Sharum or no. If that is so, you are better off with a private battle over one held before all with untold thousands of bystanders ready to join the slaughter.’
‘This is why we have Domin Sharum,’ Jardir said. ‘For when wishes come to naught. I will go, and I will fight the Par’chin with all I have, and he me. One of us will walk away, and upon his shoulders rest the fate of humanity. Let Everam decide who it shall be.’
Jardir looked at Inevera as she lay waiting for him in their bedroom. They had not spent a night apart since they had reconciled, weeks ago. His other wives clamoured for his attention, but Inevera’s power over them was absolute, and none dared come to his pillow chamber uninvited.
Jardir could see the love and passion radiating from his wife, and steeled himself for what was to come. He could only hope she would forgive him.
‘The Par’chin is alive,’ he said, blurting the words and letting them hang in the air much as the khaffit had done.
Inevera straightened in an instant, her aura losing its warmth and invitation as she stared at him. ‘Impossible. You told me you put your spear between his eyes and left his body on the dunes.’
Jardir nodded. ‘That was all true, but it was the butt of the spear. He was alive when we dumped him on the dunes.’
‘He was what?!’ Inevera shouted so loudly Jardir wondered if even her sound-blocking hora magic could keep it from echoing throughout the palace. The anger in her aura was terrifying to behold, like looking over the edge of Nie’s abyss.
‘I told you I would not murder my friend,’ Jardir said. ‘I took the spear as you said, but had mercy on the Par’chin, leaving him alive to face the coming night on his feet that he might die a warrior’s death on alagai talons.’
‘Mercy?’ Inevera was incredulous. ‘The dice made clear you will not take your place until he is dead. How many thousands of lives will we pay for that “mercy”?’
‘Take my place?’ Jardir asked. The words tickled something in his memory, and he probed deeper with his crownsight. ‘Of course. The Par’chin.’
‘Eh?’ Inevera asked.
‘You lied to me when you said I was the only man with the potential to be the Deliverer. I had thought you hiding an heir, but it was the Par’chin, wasn’t it? Did the dice command I kill him at all, or was that simply you?’
She did not need to open her mouth for him to see it was so.
‘No matter,’ he said. ‘He is alive, and has challenged me to Domin Sharum. I have already accepted.’
‘Have you gone mad?’ Inevera demanded. ‘You accepted without even letting me cast the dice?’
‘To the abyss with your dice!’ Jardir snapped. ‘It is inevera. Either I am the Deliverer, or I am not. The alagai hora are no different from Abban’s tallies, tools for educated guessing.’
Inevera hissed, and he could see he had gone too far. She might lie to him about their meanings, but in her heart the dice were the voice of Everam.
‘And perhaps they were right,’ he conceded. ‘Perhaps the Par’chin is the Shar’Dama Ka. The Sharum in the Maze followed him without question when he first brandished the Spear of Kaji. A spear he bled and risked his life for. A spear he used to kill the most powerful demon Krasia had ever known, one that had brought short the lives of thousands of dal’Sharum. It was he that found the holy city of Kaji, not me.’
‘You are Kaji’s heir,’ Inevera said.
Jardir shrugged. ‘Kaji took Northern wives when he conquered the green lands. I have seen his blood run true in places like Deliverer’s Hollow. After three thousand years, the son of Jeph could be as much Kaji’s heir as I. Perhaps my part in Everam’s great plan is simply to bring the unified armies of Krasia to him, and then die.’