The Skull Throne
Page 33

Asavi strode in, continuing the beating. Shusten attempted to crawl away, but a kick to his thigh collapsed his leg. The next kick was to his balls and even Qeran winced at the whimper Shusten gave at the blow, blood bubbling from his broken nose.
A bit of the spray of blood and snot spotted Asavi’s robe, and she gave a growl, pulling the curved knife from her belt.
“No, dama’ting!” Fahki, Shusten’s elder brother, cried, rushing to interpose himself. “Mercy, for Everam’s sake!”
Fahki was unarmed, hands open in supplication. He was careful to avoid touching the dama’ting, but Asavi moved like a dancer, slipping a leg in his path. Her cry was quite convincing as Fahki stumbled into her, bearing them both to the dirty wooden floor.
“Your cue, Drillmaster,” Abban said, but Qeran was already moving. He threw open the curtain, careful not to reveal Abban’s presence, and strode into the room.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Qeran roared, his voice like thunder in the low-ceilinged room. He snatched Fahki by the collar of his robe, hauling him off the dama’ting.
Asavi glared at him. “Are these drunkards your men, Drillmaster?” she demanded.
Qeran bowed deeply, slamming Fahki’s head into the floorboards in the process. “No, Dama’ting. I was taking my meal in the establishment above and heard the commotion.” Still holding Fahki, who choked and gagged at the grip on his collar, he reached a hand out to Asavi.
The dama’ting took the offered hand and he pulled her to her feet, turning to cast a glare over the men cowering against the walls. “Shall I kill them for you?”
It seemed a ludicrous statement, a single warrior threatening to kill close to a dozen men, but it was a threat all took very seriously. One did not take on the red veil of a drillmaster easily, and Qeran was well known to all the warriors of the Kaji, a living legend in both alagai’sharak and the training grounds.
Asavi, too, cast her eyes over the men for long, tense seconds. At last, she shook her head.
“You men,” she called to the cowering warriors. “Tear the black from these two.”
“No!” Fahki screamed, but the men, his spear brothers a moment before, were deaf to his cries as they moved in. Qeran threw him to the men and one of them caught him with a spear shaft under the chin, choking out any resistance as half a dozen men eagerly tore his Sharum robes from him. Shusten was unable to put up even a token resistance, moaning as the remaining warriors stripped him.
How quickly the fabled loyalty of Sharum fades when put to the test, Abban mused. They would do anything to get back in the dama’ting’s good grace.
“You are khaffit now,” Asavi told the naked men. She looked at Fahki’s shriveled manhood and gave a snort. “Perhaps you always should have been. Return to your fathers in shame.”
One of the warriors knelt before her, placing his hands and forehead on the floor in absolute supplication. “They are brothers, dama’ting,” he said, “their father is khaffit.”
“Fitting,” Asavi said. “The fig lands close to the tree.” She turned to regard the other warriors. “As for the rest of you, you will go to Sharik Hora and repent. You will not take food or drink for three days in penance, and if I learn you have so much as touched a cup of couzi—or dice—again, you will share their fate.”
The warriors gaped a moment, until Asavi clapped her hands in a sharp retort that made them all jump. “Now!”
Practically pissing their bidos, the warriors hurriedly backed out of the room, bowing repeatedly and saying “Thank you, Dama’ting,” over and over. They stumbled into one another as they bottlenecked at the stairwell, turning and running up the steps as fast as their sandaled feet could carry them.
Asavi cast one last disgusted glance at the naked men. “Drillmaster, dispose of these pitiful excuses for men.”
Qeran bowed. “Yes, Dama’ting.”
Fahki and Shusten blinked in the dim lamplight as the hoods were pulled from their heads. They were tied to chairs in an underground chamber. Both had been “softened,” as Qeran put it, bruises still swollen and red, not yet gone to purple. Shusten’s arm had been set in plaster and his nose splinted. Both had been dressed in ragged shirts and pants of khaffit tan.
“My prodigal sons return,” Abban said. “Though perhaps not as proud as when I saw you last.”
The boys looks at him, squinting until their eyes adjusted to the light. Qeran stood a step behind Abban, arms crossed, and Fahki’s eyes widened at the sight of him. Abban could see understanding dawn.
Perhaps they are not total fools, he thought, pleased. Warrior sons were bad enough. If they proved fools as well, he would just as soon kill them and have done. He had other sons, though none more by Shamavah, the only wife who truly mattered to him. For her sake, he must try to pull these back into his fold.
“Why are they bound?” Abban asked. “Surely my own sons pose no threat to me. There is no need for such shameful treatment.”
Qeran grunted, pulling a knife as he went over, cutting their bonds. The boys groaned, massaging ankles and wrists to restore blood blow. Shusten looked weak and chastened, but Fahki still had defiance in his eyes.
“Abban.” He spat on the floor, a pinkish froth of blood and saliva. He looked to his brother. “Our father is bitter we proved his betters and rose above his station. He has found a way to bribe a dama’ting to drag us back to his world of commerce and khaffit.”
“You are khaffit now, too,” Abban reminded him.
“You took our blacks in deception,” Fahki growled. “We are still Sharum in the eyes of Everam, better than all the khaffit scum in Everam’s Bounty.”
Abban put a hand to his chest. “I took your blacks? Was it me who put cups of couzi and dice in your hands? Was it me who tore the robes from your backs? Your own brothers were happy to do it, to save themselves. Your loss of status is a product of your own foolishness. I warned you what would happen if you kept to dice and drink. The black does not put you above Everam’s law.”
Fahki rolled his eyes. “Since when do you care for Everam’s law, Father? Half your fortune comes from couzi.”
Abban chuckled. “I do not deny it, but I am smart enough not to dice away my profits, or to drink in public.”
He limped over to the third chair in the room, easing himself down and peering at them between the humps of his camel-headed crutch. “As for your being better than khaffit, we shall soon put that to the test. You will be fed and given a night’s sleep. In the morning, you’ll be given a spear and shield and set against one of my kha’Sharum guards. Any one. You may choose.”
Fahki snorted. “I will kill him in less time than it took you to limp your fat carcass across the room, old man.”
Qeran barked a laugh at that. “If you last five minutes, I will give you the robes off my back and my own good name.”
The smug look fell from Fahki’s face at that. “Why do you serve this khaffit, Drillmaster? You trained the Deliverer himself. You sully your good name with every order you take from beneath you. What price did you demand, to sell your honor to a pig-eater?”
Qeran walked over to Fahki, bending low as if to whisper an answer. Fahki, the fool boy, leaned in to hear.