What home? Arlen wondered, thinking of the tiny apartment full of books in Fort Angiers that he hadn’t been to in over a year. He looked at Abban, knowing his scheming friend was more interested in the trade contacts he could make with a daughter in the North than in her happiness or the upkeep of Arlen’s home, in any event.
“You honor me, my friend,” he replied, “but I’m not ready to quit just yet.”
“No, I rather thought not,” Abban sighed. “I suppose you will go to see him?”
“Yes,” Arlen said.
“He is no more tolerant of my presence than the dama,” Abban warned.
“He knows your value,” Arlen disagreed.
Abban shook his head. “He tolerates my existence because of you,” he said. “The Sharum Ka has wanted lessons in the Northern tongue ever since you were first allowed into the Maze.”
“And, Abban is the only man in Krasia who knows it,” Arlen said, “making him valuable to the First Warrior, despite being khaffit.” Abban bowed, but looked unconvinced.
They headed for the training grounds located not far from the palace. The city’s center was neutral territory for all tribes, where they gathered to worship and prepare for alagai’sharak.
It was late afternoon, and the camp bustled with activity. Arlen and Abban passed first through the workshops of the weaponsmiths and Warders, whose crafts were the only ones considered worthy of dal’Sharum. Beyond that stood the open grounds, where drillmasters shouted and men trained.
On the far side was the palace of the Sharum Ka and his lieutenants, the kai’Sharum. Second only to the immense palace of the Andrah, this great dome housed the most honored of all, men who had proven their valor on the battlefield time and time again. Below the palace was said to be a great harem, where they might pass on their brave blood to future generations.
There were stares and muttered curses as Abban limped by on his crutch, but none dared bar their way. Abban was under the protection of the Sharum Ka.
They passed lines of men doing spear forms in lockstep, and others practicing the brutal, efficient movements of sharusahk, Krasian hand combat. Warriors practiced marksmanship or threw nets at running spear boys, honing their skills for the night’s coming battle. Deep in the midst of this was a great pavilion, where they found Jardir going over plans with one of his men.
Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir was the Sharum Ka of Krasia, a title that translated into Thesan as “First Warrior.” He was a tall man, well over six feet, wrapped in black cloth and wearing a white turban. In some way Arlen did not fully understand, the title Sharum Ka was a religious one as well, signified by the turban.
His skin was a deep copper color, his eyes dark as his black hair, oiled back and hanging down his neck. His black beard was forked and impeccably trimmed, but there was nothing soft about the man. He moved like a raptor, swift and sure, and his wide sleeves were rolled back to reveal hard, muscular arms, crisscrossed with scars. He was not much past thirty.
One of the pavilion guards caught sight of Arlen and Abban as they approached, and bent to whisper in Jardir’s ear. The First Warrior turned from the chalked slate he was studying.
“Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms with a smile and rising to meet them. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke in Thesan, his vocabulary and accent much improved since Arlen’s last visit. He caught Arlen in a firm embrace and kissed his cheeks. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”
Upon his first visit to Krasia, the First Warrior had taken an interest in Arlen as an oddity, if nothing more, but they had bled for one another in the Maze, and in Krasia, that meant everything.
Jardir turned to Abban. “What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he asked disgustedly. “I have not summoned you.”
“He’s with me,” Arlen said.
“He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed deeply and scurried off as quickly as his lame leg would allow.
“I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.
“Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” Arlen said.
Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”
“Your Thesan is much improved,” Arlen noted.
Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it when you are away.” He watched Abban limp away, sneering at his bright silks. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”
Arlen glanced across the yard at a black-swathed woman carrying water. “I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” he said.
“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift.” Jardir grinned.
“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” Arlen said.
Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”
Arlen wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew better than to argue. Krasians had a way of becoming violent if you challenged their boasts, and it might even be so. Jardir seemed equal to a Damaji, at least. Warriors obeyed him without question, even over their dama.
But Arlen had no desire to join Jardir’s tribe or any other. He made the Krasians uncomfortable; a chin who practiced alagai’sharak and yet kept company with khaffit. Joining a tribe would ease that discomfort, but the moment he did, he would be subject to the tribe’s Damaji, embroiled in their every blood feud, and never allowed to leave the city again.
“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” he said.
“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” Jardir said, laughing and punching Arlen’s shoulder. Arlen wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he nodded anyway.
“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.
“Only a few hours,” Arlen said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”
“And already you come to offer your spear! By Everam,” Jardir cried to his fellows, “the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” His men joined in his laughter.
“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm on Arlen’s shoulder and moving away from the others. Arlen knew Jardir was already trying to decide where he would best fit in the night’s battle. “The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”
Pit Warders were among the most important of the Krasian soldiers, warding the demon pits used to trap corelings, and assuring that the wards activated after the demons fell in. It was risky work, for if the tarps used to disguise the pits didn’t fall in and reveal the wards fully, there was little to prevent a sand demon from climbing out and killing the Warder as he tried to uncover them. There was only one position with a higher mortality rate.
“Push Guard, I would prefer,” Arlen replied.
Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
Arlen understood the sarcasm, even through Jardir’s thick accent. Letters meant little to him. Few dal’Sharum could even read.
“Not so dangerous, this night,” Arlen said. Unable to contain his excitement, he unrolled his new spear, holding it up to the First Warrior proudly.
“A kingly weapon,” Jardir agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”