The Skull Throne. Peter Brett V.

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      Fahki chose the smallest and weakest looking of the kha’Sharum to challenge in the yard the next day. Skinny and bespectacled, the man seemed no match for Fahki, who was tall and thick like his father.

      All of clan Haman was summoned to witness the event. Abban had the inner ring around the combatants filled with women, Fahki’s sisters, cousins, aunts, and stepmothers. The kha’Sharum and chi’Sharum watched eagerly, as did all of the workers in Abban’s employ, given time off simply to add to the boy’s humiliation.

      Fahki circled warily, spinning his spear in an impressive – if pointless – display. The spectacled kha’Sharum watched him coolly, not bothering to circle. He was Sharach, and carried an alagai-catcher instead of a spear. The long hollow pole ended in a loop of woven cable that the warrior could tighten with a lever on the shaft.

      A vendor made his way through the crowd, selling candied nuts.

      At last Fahki’s tension reached a breaking point, and he charged, spear leading. The warrior batted the point aside and had the loop around Fahki’s neck in an instant, whipping the pole and turning the momentum of his attack against him. Fahki had to leap head over heels and flip himself onto his back simply to keep from having his neck broken.

      A twist of the pole, and Fahki was on his stomach. Abban nodded to his daughter Cielvah, and the girl stepped forward, carrying a short leather lash.

      ‘Apologies, brother,’ she said, pulling Fahki’s pantaloons and bido down. The boy thrashed, but the kha’Sharum tightened the noose and kept him prone.

      Abban looked to Shusten, standing by his side. His son had his eyes on the ground, unable to watch, but he flinched with every sound of the lash, and wept at his brother’s humiliation.

      ‘I trust, my son, this lesson is not lost on you,’ Abban said.

      ‘No, Father,’ Shusten said.

      Abban nodded. ‘Good. I hope your brother is as wise. If you prove worthy, Qeran will train you and Fahki properly, and you will rise to kha’Sharum.’

      The Sharach warrior escorted Fahki over to Abban at the end of his pole. The boy’s face was red with shame under the tear-streaked grime of the yard. Abban nodded to the warrior, who released Fahki and stood at attention.

      ‘This is Lifan,’ Abban said, gesturing to the Sharach. ‘He will be your tutor.’

      Shusten looked at him. ‘You said Drillmaster Qeran …’

      ‘Would teach you to fight, yes,’ Abban said. ‘If you prove worthy. Lifan will tutor you in reading, writing, and mathematics. Lessons your mother began, abandoned when you were called to Hannu Pash. You will hop to his every command. When you can read without moving your lips and do sums without your fingers, we shall discuss whether you will be allowed to hold a spear again.’

      

       7

       More Sack Than Sense

      333 AR Autumn

      Jardir gaped at the Par’chin, seeking signs of deceit – or madness – in his aura. But the Par’chin was calm, focused, and very serious.

      Jardir opened his mouth, then closed it again. The Par’chin laughed.

      ‘If this is some jest, Par’chin, it will be the end of my patience …’

      The son of Jeph remained relaxed, waving him down. In a show of trust, he backed away till his back struck the window, then slid down to sit on the floor amidst the broken bits of his chair. ‘No jest. Know it’s a lot to wrap your thoughts around. Plenty of questions, ay? Take your time, and start throwing them when you’re ready.’

      Jardir stiffened, unsure. The heat of battle was fading, but his muscles were bunched for action, knowing the Par’chin could be upon him the moment he let down his guard.

      But in his heart, he did not believe it. The Par’chin was many things, but he was not a liar. His casual posture reminded Jardir of the countless hours they had spent interrogating each other, talking about everything under the sun as they fought to understand each other’s language and culture. The Par’chin’s relaxed demeanour had always put Jardir at ease in a way he never was with his own people.

      He looked to the bed, but like the chair it was a wreckage, broken by the force of his leap. Instead he backed to the window opposite the Par’chin, sliding to the floor to mirror him. He remained alert to attack, but the Par’chin was right. There was nothing to be gained in fighting each other before dawn came to even the odds.

      Rivalries must be put aside when night falls, the Evejah said.

      ‘How can we get to the abyss?’ Jardir asked, picking a question at random out of the many swirling in his thoughts. ‘You can mist as the alagai do, but СКАЧАТЬ