The Skull Throne (3 page)

Jardir kept his face calm, though he doubted it made a difference. The Par’chin was right. He could read the man’s aura, seeing his every feeling, and had no doubt his old friend could do the same. The Par’chin was calm, centered, and meant Jardir no harm. There was no deception in him. Only weariness, and fear Jardir would be too rigid to give his words fair consideration.

“Tell me again why I am here, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “If your goal is truly as you have always said, to rid the world of
alagai,
then why do you oppose me? I am close to fulfilling your dream.”

“Not as close as you think,” the Par’chin said. “And the way you’re doing it disgusts me. You choke and threaten humanity to its own salvation, not caring the cost. Know you Krasians like to dress in black and white, but the world ent so simple. There’s color, and more than a fair share of gray.”

“I am not a fool, Par’chin,” Jardir said.

“Sometimes I wonder,” the Par’chin said, and his aura agreed. It was a bitter tea that his old friend, whom he had taught so much and always respected, should think so little of him.

“Then why did you not kill me and take the spear and crown for your own?” Jardir demanded. “The witnesses were honor-bound. My people would have accepted you as Deliverer and followed you to Sharak Ka.”

Irritation ran like wildfire across the Par’chin’s calm aura. “You still don’t get it,” he snapped. “I’m not the ripping Deliverer! Neither are you! The Deliverer is all humanity as one, not one as humanity. Everam is just a name we gave to the idea, not some giant in the sky, fighting back the blackness of space.”

Jardir pressed his lips together, knowing the Par’chin was seeing a flare across his aura at the blasphemy. Years ago he had promised to kill the Par’chin should he ever speak such words again. The Par’chin’s aura dared him to try it now.

Jardir was sorely tempted. He had not truly tested the crown’s power against the Par’chin, and with it at his brow, he was no longer as helpless as he seemed.

But there was something else in his
ajin’pal’s
aura that checked him. He was ready for an attack, and would meet it head-on, but an image loomed over him,
alagai
dancing as the world burned.

What he feared would come to pass, if they did not find accord.

Jardir drew a deep breath, embracing his anger and letting it go with his exhalation. Across the room, the Par’chin had not moved, but his aura eased back like a
Sharum
lowering his spear.

“What does it matter,” Jardir said at last, “if Everam be a giant in the sky, or a name we have given to the honor and courage that let us stand fast in the night? If humanity is to act as one, there must be a leader.”

“Like a mind demon leads drones?” the Par’chin asked, hoping to snare Jardir in a logic trap.

“Just so,” Jardir said. “The world of the
alagai
has ever been a shadow of our own.”

The Par’chin nodded. “Ay, a war needs its generals, but they should serve the people, and not the other way ’round.”

Now it was Jardir who raised an eyebrow. “You think I do not serve my people, Par’chin? I am not the Andrah, sitting fat on my throne while my subjects bleed and starve. There is no hunger in my lands. No crime. And I personally go into the night to keep them safe.”

The Par’chin laughed, a harsh mocking sound. Jardir would have taken offense, but the incredulity in the Par’chin’s aura checked him.

“This is why it matters,” the Par’chin said. “Because you actually
believe
that load of demonshit! You came to lands that were not yours, murdered thousands of men, raped their women, enslaved their children, and think your soul is clean because their holy book’s a little different from yours! You keep the demons from them, ay, but chickens on the chopping block don’t call the butcher Deliverer for keeping the fox at bay.”

“Sharak Ka is coming, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “I have made those chickens into falcons. The men of Everam’s Bounty protect their own women and children now.”

“As do the Hollowers,” the Par’chin said. “But they did it without killing one another. Not a woman raped. Not a child torn from its mother’s arms. We did not become demons in order to fight them.”

“And that is what you think me?” Jardir asked. “A demon?”

The Par’chin smiled. “Do you know what my people call you?”

The demon of the desert.
Jardir had heard the name many times, though only in the Hollow did any dare speak it openly. He nodded.

“Your people are fools, Par’chin, as are you if you think me the same as the
alagai.
You may not murder and you may not rape, but neither have you forged unity. Your Northern dukes bicker and vie for power even as the abyss opens up before them, ready to spew forth Nie’s legions. Nie does not care about your morals. She does not care who is innocent and who is corrupt. She does not even care for Her
alagai
. Her goal is to wipe the slate clean.

“Your people live on borrowed time, Par’chin. Loaned to you against the day of Sharak Ka, when your weakness will leave them meat for the Core. Then you will have wished for a thousand murders, a thousand thousand, if that’s what it took to prepare you for the fight.”

The Par’chin shook his head sadly. “You’re like a horse with blinders on, Ahmann. You see what supports your beliefs, and ignore the rest. Nie doesn’t care because She doesn’t ripping
exist.
”

“Words do not make a thing so, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “Words cannot kill
alagai
or make Everam cease to be. Words alone cannot unite us all for Sharak Ka before it is too late.”

“You talk of unity, but you don’t understand the meaning of the word,” the Par’chin said. “What you call unity I call domination. Slavery.”

“Unity of purpose, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “All working toward one goal. Ridding the Ala of demonkind.”

“There is no unity, if it depends on one man alone to hold it,” the Par’chin said. “We are all mortal.”

“The unity I have brought will not be so easily cast aside,” Jardir said.

“No?” Arlen asked. “I learned much during my visit to Everam’s Bounty, Ahmann. The Northern dukes have nothing on your people. Your
dama
will not follow Jayan. Your
Sharum
will not follow Asome. None of the men will follow Inevera, and your
Damaji
would as soon kill one another as eat at the same table. There is no one who can sit the throne without civil war. Your precious unity is about to crumble away like a palace made of sand.”

Jardir felt his jaw tighten. His teeth whined as he ground them. The Par’chin was correct, of course. Inevera was clever and could hold things together for a time, but he could not afford to be gone for long, or his hard-forged army would turn on itself with Sharak Ka only just begun.

“I am not dead yet,” Jardir said.

“No, but you won’t be returning anytime soon,” the Par’chin said.

“We shall see, Par’chin.” Without warning, Jardir reached out through the crown, Drawing hard on the Par’chin’s magic. Caught off guard, the Par’chin’s aura exploded in shock, then distorted as Jardir hauled in the prize.

Power rushed through Jardir’s body, knitting muscle and bone, making him strong. With a flex, the bandages around his chest ripped and the plaster about his legs shattered. He sprang from the bed, crossing the room in an instant.

The Par’chin managed to get his guard up in time, but it was a
Sharum’s
guard, for he had not been trained in Sharik Hora. Jardir easily slipped around it and caught him in a submission hold. The Par’chin’s face reddened as he struggled for air.

But then he collapsed into mist, as he had in their battle on the cliff. Jardir overbalanced when the resistance ended, but the Par’chin reformed before he hit the floor, grabbing Jardir’s right arm and leg, throwing him across the room. He struck the window so hard even his magic-strengthened bones snapped, but the warded glass did not so much as crack.

There was a thin flow of magic on the surface of the wards, and Jardir instinctively Drew on it, using the power to mend his bones even before the pain set in.

The Par’chin vanished from across the room, appearing in close, but Jardir was wise to the trick. Even as the mist began to reform he was moving, dodging the Par’chin’s attempted hold and striking two hard blows before he could melt away again.

They struggled thus for several seconds, the Par’chin disappearing and reforming before Jardir could do any real damage, but unable to strike in turn.

“Corespawn it, Ahmann,” he cried. “Ent got time for this!”

“In this, we agree,” Jardir said, having positioned himself correctly. He threw the room’s single chair at the Par’chin, and predictably, the man misted when he could as easily have dodged.

Your powers are making you lax, Par’chin,
he thought as he sprang the open distance to the stairwell.

“You ent goin’ anywhere!” the Par’chin growled as he reformed, drawing a ward in the air. Jardir saw the magic gather, hurtling at him, a blast that would knock him away from the stairs like a giant hammer. With no time to dodge, he embraced the blow, going limp to absorb as much of the shock as possible.

But the blow never came. The Crown of Kaji warmed and flared with light, absorbing the power. Without thinking, Jardir drew a ward in the air himself, turning the power into a bolt of raw heat. Enough to turn a dozen wood demons to cinders.

The Par’chin held up a hand, Drawing the magic back into himself. Jardir, dizzied by the sudden drain, stared at him.

“We can do this all night, Ahmann,” the Par’chin said, melting away and reappearing between Jardir and the stairwell. “It won’t get you out of this tower.”

Jardir crossed his arms. “Even you cannot hold me forever. The sun will come, and your demon tricks and
hora
magic will fail you.”

The Par’chin spread his hands. “I don’t have to. By dawn, you’ll stay willingly.”

Jardir almost laughed, but again the Par’chin’s aura checked him. He believed it. He believed his next words would sway Jardir, or nothing would.

“Why have you brought me here, Par’chin?” he asked a final time.

“To remind you of the real enemy,” the Par’chin said. “And to ask your help.”

“Why should I help you?” Jardir asked.

“Because,” the Par’chin said, “we’re going to capture a mind demon and make it take us to the Core.

“It’s time we brought the fight to the
alagai.
”

CHAPTER 2

VACUUM

333 AR AUTUMN

Inevera wasted no time when they returned to the Krasian camp. Even as Ashan quietly selected warriors to begin the search and ordered others to break camp, she summoned Abban to her private audience chamber in the pavilion of the Shar’Dama Ka.

Already the
Sharum
were questioning why the Deliverer had not returned to them. There had been no formal announcement, either of the battle itself or of its sudden end. Yet soon word would spread, and the ambitious would seek to exploit her husband’s absence. The cunning had plotted for this day, and would be quick to act once it was clear the search was in vain. The rash might be quicker still.

It was clear Abban knew this, approaching the pavilion surrounded by his
kha’Sharum
warriors. The
dal’Sharum
still sneered at warriors in tan, but the eunuch spies Inevera had sent to Abban’s compound had been found dead, and that spoke volumes for the
khaffit
warriors’ skill. She had seen, too, the glow of power in their weapons and equipment, carefully disguised with worn leather and paint to hide their fine quality. Not even the elite Spears of the Deliverer, with their shields and spearheads of warded glass, were equipped better.

You have grown formidable,
khaffit. The thought did not please her, but neither did it worry her as it once had. She had not understood weeks ago when the dice told her Abban’s fate was intertwined with her own, but it was clear now. They were Ahmann’s closest, most trusted advisors and, up until a few hours ago, had been untouchable with vast discretionary powers. But with her husband gone, much of that power would evaporate. Inevera would have to work quickly and carefully to install Ashan, but once the reins were passed it would still be his voice, not hers, that led their people. Ashan was not as wise—or as pliable—as Ahmann.

Abban was in an even worse position. Formidable though his
kha’Sharum
were, the crippled merchant would be lucky to live another day once his enemies ceased to fear Ahmann’s wrath should he be harmed. Not long ago the thought of his death would have pleased her greatly. Now she needed him. The
khaffit
knew every last draki in the Deliverer’s treasury, every debt of the throne, every grain in his silos. More, Ahmann trusted him with schemes and secrets he did not even share with the Damaji. Troop movements. Battle plans. Targets.

The fat
khaffit’s
smile as he limped into her audience chamber showed he knew her need, Everam damn him.

At Abban’s back was the giant
kha’Sharum
bodyguard that had become his shadow in recent weeks. The deaf man who had been one of the first to answer the Deliverer’s call. He had given up his weapons to enter, but seemed no less formidable as he loomed over the
khaffit’s
shoulder. Abban was not a short man, even stooping to lean on his crutch, but his bodyguard stood head and shoulders above him.

“I commanded we meet in private,
khaffit,
” Inevera said.

Abban bowed as deeply as his camel-topped crutch allowed. “Apologies, Damajah, but the
dal’Sharum
no longer have Ahmann to hold their leash. Surely you will not deny me a modicum of security? Earless is deaf as a stone, and will hear nothing of our words.”

“Even a deaf man may hear,” Inevera said, “if he has eyes to watch a speaker’s mouth.”

Abban bowed again. “This is so, though of course the Damajah’s veil prevents this, even if my humble servant had learned the art, which I swear by Everam he has not.”

Inevera believed him—a rare occurrence. Her own eunuch guards had given up their tongues to protect her secrets, and she knew Abban would value a man who could not overhear and be made to betray his many intrigues. Still, it was best not to yield too much.

“He may guard the door,” Inevera said, turning to saunter to the pillows on the far side of the chamber with a swing to her hips. Abban had never dared ogle her before, but she wondered if he might now, with Ahmann gone. That would be something she could use. She glanced over her shoulder, but Abban was not looking. He made a few quick gestures to the giant, who moved with a silent grace that belied his great size to stand by the door.

Abban limped over, easing himself carefully down onto the pillows across from her. He kept his inviting smile in place, but a flick of his eyes at his bodyguard betrayed his fears. He knew Inevera could kill him long before the giant could cross the room, and even Earless would fear to strike the Damajah. She could kill the
kha’Sharum
as well, in any of a hundred ways—not the least of which was a whisk of her fingers to her own bodyguards, Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah, hidden just out of sight.

There was a silver tea service between them, the pot still steaming. At a nod from her, the
khaffit
poured and served.

“You honor me with your summons, Damajah.” Abban sat back with his cup. “May I ask the reason why?”

“To offer you protection, of course,” Inevera said.

Abban looked sincerely surprised, though of course it was an act. “Since when does the Damajah place such value upon poor, honorless Abban?”

“My husband values you,” Inevera said, “and will be wroth if you are dead upon his return. You would be wise to accept my help. The dice tell me your life will be short indeed without it. My sons hate you even more than the
Damaji,
and that is a very great deal. And do not think Hasik has forgotten who cut his manhood away.”

Inevera had expected the words to rattle the
khaffit.
She had seem his cowardice reveal itself in the face of danger before. But this was the bargaining table, and Abban knew it.

He has a coward’s heart,
Ahmann once told her,
but there is steel in Abban to put
Sharum
to shame, when the haggling has begun.

Abban smiled and nodded. “It is so, Damajah. But things are no less dire for you. How long will the
Damaji
let you sit atop the seven steps without your husband? A woman sitting above them is an insult they have never borne well.”

Inevera felt her jaw begin to tighten. How long since any save her husband had dared speak to her thus? And from a
khaffit.
She wanted to break his other leg.

But for all the audacity, his words were true enough, so Inevera let them pass over her like wind.

“All the more reason we must ally,” she said. “We must find a way to trust, as Ahmann commanded, or both of us may walk the lonely path before long.”

“What are you asking?” Abban said.

“You will report to me as you did to my husband,” Inevera said. “Bring your tallies and schemes to me before they are presented to the council of
Damaji.
”

Abban raised an eyebrow. “And in return?”

Inevera smiled, visible through the gossamer lavender veil she wore. “As I said, protection.”

Abban chuckled. “You’ll forgive me, Damajah, but you have fewer warriors at your command than I, and still not enough to protect me should one of the
Damaji
or your sons decide to be rid of me at last.”

“I have fear,” Inevera said. “My sons fear me. The
Damaji
fear me.”

“They
feared
you, yes,” Abban agreed, “but how much of that fear will last when a new backside sits the Skull Throne? Absolute power has a way of emboldening a man.”

“No power is absolute save that of Everam.” Inevera held up her dice. “With Ahmann gone, I am His voice on Ala.”

“That, and three draki, will buy you a basket,” Abban said.

The phrase was a common one in Krasia, but it put Inevera on edge nevertheless. Her mother was a basket weaver with a successful business in the bazaar. No doubt Abban—who controlled half the commerce in Everam’s Bounty—had dealings with her, but Inevera had worked tirelessly to ensure her family remained safely anonymous, out of the politics and intrigues that ruled her world.

Were they just words, or a subtle threat? Useful or not, Inevera would not hesitate to kill Abban to protect her family.

Again, Inevera wished she could see into the hearts of men and women as her husband did. The thick canvas walls of the pavilion let her see the
khaffit’s
aura, albeit dimly, but the subtle variations and patterns of shifting color that Ahmann read as easily as words on a page were a mystery to her.

“I think you’ll find my words carry more weight than you think,” Inevera said.

“
If
you secure your position,” Abban agreed. “We are discussing why I should help you do that. Not every man in the Deliverer’s court is a complete fool, Damajah. I may never enjoy the power I did with Ahmann, but I could still find protection and profit if I side with another.”

“I will grant you a permanent position at court,” Inevera said. “To witness firsthand every dealing you can twist into a way to fill your greedy pockets.”

“Better,” Abban said, “but I have spies throughout the Deliverer’s court. More than even you can root out.”

“Do not be so sure,” Inevera said. “But very well. I will offer something even you cannot refuse.”

“Oh?” Abban seemed amused at the thought. “In the bazaar, those words are a threat, but I think you will find I am not so easily bullied as I may appear.”

“No threats,” Inevera said. “No bullying.” She smiled. “At least not for coercion. They will be a promise, should you break our pact.”

Abban grinned. “You have my fullest attention. What does the Damajah think my heart desires above all?”

“Your leg,” Inevera said.

“Eh?” Abban started.

“I can heal your leg,” Inevera said. “Right now, if you wish. A simple matter. You could throw your crutch on the fire and walk out on two firm feet.” She winked at him. “Though if I know sly Abban, you would limp out the way you came, and never let any know until there was profit in doing so.”

A doubtful look crossed the
khaffit’s
face. “If such a simple matter, why didn’t the
dama’ting
heal me when it was first shattered? Why cost the Kaji a warrior by leaving me lame?”

“Because healing is the costliest of
hora
magics,” Inevera said. “At the time we did not have warded weapons to bring us an endless supply of
alagai
bones to power our spells. Even now, they must be rendered and treated, a difficult process.” She circled a finger around her teacup. “We cast the dice for you, all those years ago, to see if it was worth the price. Do you know what they said?”

Abban sighed. “That I was no warrior, and would provide little return on the investment.”

Inevera nodded.

Abban shook his head, disappointed but unsurprised. “It is true you have found something I want. I do not deny this is something my heart has longed for.”

“Then you accept?” Inevera asked.

Abban drew a deep breath as if to speak, but held it instead. After a moment, he blew it out, seeming to deflate as he did. “My father used to say,
Love nothing so much you cannot leave it at the bargaining table.
I know enough of the ancient tales to know that magic always has its price, and that price is ever higher than it appears. I have leaned on my crutch for twenty-five years. It is a part of me. Thank you for your offer, but I fear I must refuse.”

Inevera was becoming vexed and saw no reason to hide it. “You try my patience,
khaffit.
If there is something you want, be out with it.”

The triumphant smile that came over Abban’s face made it clear this was the moment he had been waiting for. “A few simple things only, Damajah.”

Inevera chuckled. “I have learned nothing is simple where you are concerned.”

Abban inclined his head. “From you, that means everything. First, the protection you offer must extend to my agents, as well.”

Inevera nodded. “Of course. So long as they are not working counter to my interests, or caught in an unforgivable crime against Everam.”

“And it must include protection from you,” Abban went on.

“I am to protect you from myself?” Inevera asked.

“If we are to work together,” Inevera noticed he did not say that he would work
for
her, “then I must be free to speak my mind without fearing for my life. Even when it is not things you wish to hear. Especially then.”

She will tell you truths you do not wish to hear,
the dice had once told Inevera of her mother. There was value in an advisor like that. In truth, there was little value in any other kind.

“Done,” she said, “but if I choose not to act on your advice, you will support my decisions in any event.”

“The Damajah is wise,” Abban said. “I trust she would not act wastefully once I have given her the costs.”

“Is that all?” Inevera asked, knowing it was not.

Abban chuckled again, refilling their teacups. He took a flask from the inner pocket of his vest and added a splash of couzi to the drink. It was a test, Inevera knew, for the drink was forbidden by the Evejah. She ignored the move. She hated couzi, thought it made men weak and foolhardy, but thousands of her people smuggled the tiny bottles under their robes.