The Desert Spear. Peter Brett V.

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СКАЧАТЬ been no word from the village of Baha kad’Everam in some months, and we fear the alagai may have breached their wards,” Qeran went on. “The Bahavans are khaffit, true, but they are descended from the Kaji, and the Damaji has decreed that we cannot abandon them.”

      “Cannot abandon the valuable pottery they sell us, he means,” Abban murmured. “Baha is home to Dravazi the master potter, whose work graces every palace in Krasia.”

      “Is money all you think of?” Jardir snapped. “If they were the lowliest dogs on Ala, they are still infinitely above the alagai, and should be protected.”

      “Ahmann!” Kaval barked. “Do you have something to add?”

      Jardir snapped back to attention. “No, Drillmaster!”

      “Then hold your tongue,” Kaval said, “or I will cut it out.”

      Jardir nodded, and Qeran went on. “Fifty warriors, volunteers all, will take the weeklong trek to Baha, led by Dama Khevat. You will go to assist them, carrying their equipment, feeding the camels, cooking their meals, and sharpening their spears.” He looked to Jardir. “You will be Nie Ka for this journey, son of Hoshkamin.”

      Jardir’s eyes widened. Nie Ka, meaning “first of none,” meant Jardir was first of the nie’Sharum— not just in the gruel line, but in the eyes of the drillmasters, as well—and could command and discipline the other boys at will. There had not been a Nie Ka in years, since Hasik earned his blacks. It was a tremendous honor, and one not given, or accepted, lightly. For with the power it conveyed, there was also responsibility. He would be held accountable by Qeran and Kaval for the failings of the other boys, and punished accordingly.

      Jardir bowed deeply. “You honor me, Drillmaster. I pray to Everam that I do not disappoint.”

      “You’d better not, if you wish to keep your hide intact,” Kaval said as Qeran took a strip of knotted leather and tied it around Jardir’s bicep as a symbol of rank.

      Jardir’s heart thudded in his chest. It was only a strip of leather, but at the moment, it felt like the Crown of Kaji, itself. Jardir thought of how the dama would tell his mother of this when she went for her weekly stipend, and swelled with pride. Already he began to bring back honor to the women of his family.

      And not only that, but a true test of manhood, as well. Weeks of travel in the open night. He would see the alagai up close and come to know his enemy as more than chalk on slate, or something glimpsed at a distance while running the walltop. Truly, it was a day of new beginnings.

      Abban turned to Jardir after the nie’Sharum were dismissed to their tasks. He smiled, punching Jardir’s bicep and the knotted strip of leather around it. “Nie Ka,” he said. “You deserve it, my friend. You’ll be kai’Sharum soon enough, commanding true warriors in battle.”

      Jardir shrugged. “Inevera,” he said. “Let tomorrow bring what it will. For today, this honor is enough.”

      “You were right before, of course,” Abban said. “My heart is sometimes bitter when I see how khaffit are treated, and I gave voice to that bitterness before. The Bahavans deserve our protection, and more.”

      Jardir nodded. “I knew it was so,” he said. “I, too, spoke out of turn, my friend. I know there is more to your heart than a merchant’s greed.”

      He squeezed Abban’s shoulder, and the boys ran to their tasks preparing for the expedition.

      They left at midday, fifty Kaji warriors, including Hasik, along with Dama Khevat, Drillmaster Kaval, a pair of Krevakh Watchers, and Jardir’s squad of elite nie’Sharum. A few of the warriors, the eldest, took turns driving provision carts pulled by camels, but the rest marched on foot, leading the procession through the Maze to the great gate of the city. Jardir and the other boys rode the provision carts through the Maze so as not to sully the sacred ground.

      “Only dama and dal’Sharum may put their feet down on the blood of their brothers and ancestors,” Kaval had warned. “Do so at your peril.”

      Once they were out of the city, the drillmaster smacked his spear against the carts. “Everyone off!” Kaval barked. “We march to Baha!”

      Abban looked at Jardir incredulously. “It is a week’s travel through the desert, with only our bidos to protect us from the sun!”

      Jardir jumped down from the cart. “It is the same sun that beats upon us in the training ground.” He pointed to the dal’Sharum marching ahead of the supply carts. “Be thankful you have only your bido,” he said. “They wear the black, absorbing the heat, and still, each man carries shield and spear, and his armor beneath. If they can march, so can we.”

      “Come, don’t you wish to stretch your legs, after all those weeks we spent in cast?” Jurim asked, slapping Abban’s shoulder with a smirk and hopping down.

      The rest of the nie’Sharum followed, marching as Jardir called the steps to keep pace with the carts and warriors. Kaval trailed behind, keeping watch, but he left command to Jardir. He felt a surge of pride at the drillmaster’s trust.

      The desert road was a string of ancient signposts along a path of packed sand and hard clay. The ever-present wind whipped hot sand over them; it collected on the road, making footing poor. The sun heated the sand to the point that it burned even through their sandals. But for all that, the nie’Sharum, hard from years of training, marched without complaint. Jardir looked at them and was proud.

      It quickly became clear, however, that Abban could not keep the pace. Lathered in sweat, his limp grew increasingly pronounced on the uneven footing, and he stumbled frequently. Once, he staggered into Esam, who shoved him violently into Shanjat. Shanjat shoved him back, and Abban hit the ground hard. The other boys laughed as Abban spat sand from his mouth.

      “Keep moving, rats!” Kaval called, thumping his spear against his shield.

      Jardir wanted to help his friend to his feet, but he knew it would only make matters worse. “Get up!” he barked instead. Abban looked at him with pleading eyes, but Jardir only shook his head, giving Abban a kick for his own good. “Embrace the pain and get up, fool,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “or you’ll end up khaffit like your father!”

      The hurt in Abban’s eyes cut at him, but Jardir spoke the truth. Abban knew it, too. He sucked in a breath and got to his feet, stumbling after the others. He kept up for some time, but again began to drift to the back of the line, frequently bumping into other boys and being shoved about. Kaval, ever watching, took note and moved up to walk next to Jardir.

      “If he slows our march, boy,” he said, “it is you I will take the strap to, for all to see.”

      Jardir nodded. “As you should, Drillmaster. I am Nie Ka.” Kaval grunted and left it at that.

      Jardir went to the others. “Jurim, Abban, get on the carts,” he ordered. “You’re fresh from the dama’ting pavilion, and not ready for a full day’s march.”

      “Camel’s piss!” Jurim snarled, pointing a finger in Jardir’s face. “I’m not riding the cart like a woman just because the pig-eater’s son can’t keep up!”

      The words were barely out of Jurim’s mouth before Jardir struck. СКАЧАТЬ