The Daylight War Page 2
‘Not quite.’ Inevera turned in time to see Soli’s thick hand close on the wrist of one of the young women holding her. The woman shrieked in pain as Soli yanked up with a cruel twist, then kicked out, sending her sister sprawling.
‘Shut it,’ he told the screaming woman, shoving her back. ‘Touch my sister again and I’ll sever your wrist instead of just twisting it.’
‘We shall see, push’ting,’ Krisha said. Her sister-wives had straightened their robes and were advancing on Soli, staves at the ready. Krisha flicked her wrist, and her own club fell into her hand.
Inevera gasped, but Soli, unarmed, approached them without fear. The first woman struck at him, but Soli was quicker, slipping to the side of the blow and catching the woman’s arm. There was a snap, and she fell screaming to the ground, her staff now in Soli’s hand. The other woman came at him, and he parried one blow from her staff before striking her hard across the face. His movements were smooth and practised, like a dance. Inevera had watched him practise sharusahk when he came home from Hannu Pash on Wanings. The woman hit the ground, and Inevera saw her lower her veil to cough out a great wad of blood.
Soli dropped his staff as Krisha came at him, simply catching her weapon in his bare hand and stopping it cold. He seized her by the collar with the other, turning her around and bending her over a pile of baskets. He slammed her head down for good measure and reached down for the hem of her robes, yanking them up to her waist.
‘Please,’ Krisha wailed. ‘Do as you will to me, but spare my daughters their virginity!’
‘Pfagh!’ Soli spat, his face a mask of disgust. ‘I would as soon fuck a camel as you!’
‘Oh, come, push’ting,’ she sneered, wiggling her hips at him. ‘Pretend I’m a man and have my ass.’
Soli took Krisha’s rattan staff and began whipping her with it. His voice was deep, and carried over the sound of the wood cracking loudly on her bare flesh and her howls of pain. ‘A man need not be push’ting to avoid sticking his cock in a dung-heap. And as for your daughters, I would do nothing that might delay them marrying some poor khaffit and finally putting veils on their ugly faces.’
He took his hand off her neck, but continued whipping, guiding her and the other women out of their kiosk with sharp blows. Krisha’s daughters helped support her sister-wives as the five women stumbled off down the lane.
Manvah got to her feet and dusted herself off. She ignored Kasaad, going over to Inevera. ‘Are you all right?’ Inevera nodded.
‘Check the stock,’ Manvah said. ‘They didn’t have much time. See if we can salvage …’
‘Too late,’ Soli said, pointing down the lane. Three Sharum approached, their black robes sleeveless, with breastplates of black steel hammered to enhance already perfectly muscled chests. Black silk bands were tied around their bulging biceps and they wore studded leather bracers at their wrists. Bright golden shields were strapped to their backs, and they carried their short spears casually, sauntering with the easy grace of stalking wolves.
Manvah grabbed a small pitcher of water and dumped it on Kasaad, who groaned and half rose to his feet.
‘Inside, quickly!’ Manvah snapped, kicking him hard to get him moving. Kasaad grunted, but he managed to crawl into the tent and out of sight.
‘How do I look?’ Soli brushed and tugged at his robes, opening the front further.
It was a ridiculous question. No man she had ever seen was half so beautiful as her brother. ‘Fine,’ Inevera whispered back.
‘Soli, my sweet ajin’pal!’ Cashiv called. He was twenty-five, a kai’Sharum, and easily the handsomest of the three, his beard close-cropped with scented oil and his skin a perfect sun-brown. His breastplate was adorned with the sunburst of Dama Baden – no doubt in real gold – and the centre of his turban was adorned with a large turquoise. ‘I’d hoped to find you here when we came to pick up the night’s …’ He drew close enough to see the chaos in their kiosk, ‘order. Oh, dear. Did a herd of camels pass through your tent?’ He sniffed. ‘Pissing as they went?’ He took the white silk night veil resting loose around his neck and lifted it over his nose. His compatriots did likewise.
‘We had some … trouble,’ Soli said. ‘My fault, for stepping away for a few minutes.’
‘That is a terrible shame.’ Cashiv went over to Soli, taking no note of Inevera whatsoever. He reached out a finger, running it over Soli’s muscled chest where a bit of blood had spattered. He rubbed the blood thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. ‘It seems as though you returned in time to handle things, though.’
‘That particular herd of camels is unlikely to come back,’ Soli agreed.
‘Their work is done, though,’ Cashiv said sadly. ‘We’ll have to buy our baskets from Krisha again.’
‘Please,’ Soli said, laying a hand on Cashiv’s arm, ‘we need this order. Not all the stock was ruined. Might we sell you half, at least?’
Cashiv looked down at the hand on his arm and smiled. He waved dismissively at the clutter of baskets. ‘Pfagh! If one’s been pissed on, they all have. I will not take such tainted goods to my master. Dump a bucket on them and sell them to khaffit.’
He moved in closer, putting his hand back on Soli’s chest. ‘But if it’s money you need, perhaps you can earn it carrying baskets at the party tomorrow instead of selling them.’ He slid his fingers up under Soli’s loosened robe to caress his shoulder. ‘You could return home with the price of the baskets three times over, if you … carry well.’
Soli smiled. ‘Baskets are my business, Cashiv. No one carries better.’
Cashiv laughed. ‘We’ll be by tomorrow morning to collect you for the party.’
‘Meet me in the training grounds,’ Soli said. Cashiv nodded, and he and his fellows sauntered off down the lane towards Krisha’s kiosk.
Manvah laid a hand on Soli’s shoulder. ‘Sorry you had to do that, my son.’
Soli shrugged. ‘Some days you’re the cock, and some days you’re the bum. I just hate that Krisha won.’
Manvah lifted her veil just enough to spit on the ground. ‘Krisha won nothing. She has no baskets to sell.’
‘How can you know that?’ Soli asked.
Manvah chuckled. ‘I set vermin in her storage tent a week ago.’
After helping restore the kiosk, Soli escorted them back to the small adobe building where they kept their rooms just as the dama sang the gloaming from the minarets of Sharik Hora. They had salvaged most of the baskets, but several needed repair. Manvah had a large bundle of palm fronds on her back.
‘I’ll need to hurry to make muster,’ Soli said. Inevera and Manvah threw their arms around him, kissing him before he turned and ran into the darkening city.
Inside, they unsealed the warded trapdoor in their apartment and headed down into the Undercity for the night.
Each building in Krasia had at least one level deep below the ground, these linking to passageways leading to the Undercity proper, a vast honeycomb of tunnels and caverns that ran for miles. It was there the women, children, and khaffit took refuge each night while the men fought alagai’sharak. Great blocks of cut stone denied demons a clear path from Nie’s abyss, and they were carved with powerful wards to keep those that had risen elsewhere at bay.
The Undercity was an impregnable refuge, designed not only to shelter the city’s masses, but to be a city in and of itself should the unthinkable happen and the Desert Spear fall to the alagai. There were sleeping quarters for every family, schools, palaces, houses of worship, and more.
Inevera and her mother had only a small basement in the Undercity, with sleeping pallets, a cold room for food, and a tiny chamber with a deep pit for necessaries.
Manvah lit a lamp, and they sat at the table, eating a cold dinner. When the dishes were clear, she set out the palm fronds. Inevera moved to help.
Manvah shook her head. ‘To bed with you. You have a big day tomorrow. I won’t have you red-eyed and sluggish when the dama’ting question you.’
Most were simply deemed fertile and given their first headscarf, but a few would walk away from the pavilion betrothed, or given a new vocation. Others, mostly the poor and illiterate, were purchased from their fathers and trained in pillow dancing, then sent to the great harem to service Krasia’s warriors as jiwah’Sharum. It was their honour to bear new warriors to replace those who died battling demons in alagai’sharak each night.
Inevera had woken filled with excitement, donning her tan dress and brushing out her thick black hair. It fell in natural waves and shone like silk, but today was the last day the world would ever see it. She would enter the dama’ting pavilion a girl, but leave a young woman whose hair would be for her future husband alone. She would be stripped of her tan dress and emerge in proper blacks.
‘It may be equinox, but the moon is in full,’ Manvah said. ‘That is a good omen, at least.’
‘Perhaps a Damaji will take me into his harem,’ Inevera said. ‘I could live in a palace, with a dower so great you would never need to weave again.’
‘Never able to go out in the sun again,’ Manvah said, too low to be heard by those around them, ‘or speak to anyone but your sister-wives, waiting on the pleasure of a man old enough to be your great-grandfather.’ She shook her head. ‘At least our tax is paid and you have two men to speak for you, so there’s little chance you’ll be sold into the great harem. And even that would be a better fate than to be found barren and cast out as nie’ting.’
Nie’ting. Inevera shuddered at the thought. Those found infertile would never be allowed to don the black, left in tans their entire life like khaffit, faces uncovered in shame.
‘Perhaps I’ll be chosen to be dama’ting,’ Inevera said.
Manvah shook her head. ‘You won’t be. They never choose anyone.’
‘Grandmother says a girl was chosen the year she was tested,’ Inevera said.
‘That was fifty years ago, if it was a day,’ Manvah said, ‘and Everam bless her, your father’s honoured mother is prone to … exaggeration.’
‘Then where do all the nie’dama’ting come from?’ Inevera wondered, referring to the dama’ting apprentices, their faces bare, but in the white of betrothal to Everam.
‘Some say Everam Himself gets his Brides with child, and the nie’dama’ting are their daughters,’ Manvah said. Inevera looked at her, raising an eyebrow as she wondered if her mother was joking.
Manvah shrugged. ‘It’s as good an explanation as any. I can tell you none of the other mothers in the market has ever seen a girl chosen, or recognized one by her face.’
‘Mother! Sister!’ A wide smile broke out on Inevera’s face as she saw Soli approaching, Cashiv at his back. Her brother’s blacks were still dusty from the Maze, and his shield, slung over one shoulder, had fresh dents. Cashiv was as pristine as ever.
Inevera ran and embraced Soli. He laughed, picking her up with one arm and swinging her through the air. Inevera shrieked in delight, not afraid for a moment. Nothing could frighten her when Soli was near. He set her down gentle as a feather and went to embrace their mother.
‘What are you doing here?’ Manvah asked. ‘I thought you would already be on your way to Dama Baden’s palace.’
‘I am,’ Soli said, ‘but I couldn’t let my sister go to her Hannu Pash without wishing her all the blessings in Ala.’ He reached out, tousling Inevera’s hair. She swatted at his hand, but as ever, he was too quick and snatched it back in time.
‘Do you think Father will come to bless me as well?’ Inevera asked.
‘Ah …’ Soli hesitated. ‘So far as I know, Father is still sleeping in the back of the kiosk. He never made it to muster last night, and I told the drillmaster he had a belly fever … again.’ Soli shrugged helplessly, and Inevera lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see her disappointment.
Soli stooped low, lifting her chin with a gentle finger so their eyes met. ‘I know Father wants every blessing for you that I do, even if he has difficulty showing it.’
Inevera nodded. ‘I know.’ She threw her arms around Soli’s neck one last time before he left. ‘Thank you.’
Cashiv looked at Inevera as if noticing her for the first time. He smiled his handsome smile and bowed. ‘Blessings to you, Inevera vah Kasaad, as you become a woman. I wish you a good husband and many sons, all as handsome as your brother.’
Inevera smiled and felt her cheeks flush as the warriors sauntered off.
At last, the line began to move. The day wore on slowly as they stood in the hot sun, the girls and their mothers admitted one at a time. Some were inside for mere minutes – others, nearly an hour. All left wearing black, most looking both chastened and relieved. Some of the girls stared hard at nothing, rubbing their arms absently as their mothers steered them home.
As they drew close to the head of the line, Inevera’s mother tightened her grip on the girl’s shoulders, nails digging hard even through her dress.
‘Keep your eyes down and your tongue still save when spoken to,’ Manvah hissed. ‘Never answer a question with a question, and never disagree. Say it with me: “Yes, Dama’ting.”’
‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera repeated.
‘Keep that answer fixed in your mind,’ Manvah said. ‘Offend a dama’ting and you offend fate itself.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Inevera swallowed deeply, feeling her insides clench. What went on in the pavilion? Hadn’t her mother gone through the same ritual? What was she so afraid of?
A nie’dama’ting opened the tent flap, and the girl who had gone in before Inevera emerged. She wore a headscarf now, but it was tan, as was the dress she still wore. Her mother gentled her shoulders, murmuring comfort as they stumbled along, but both were weeping.
The nie’dama’ting regarded the scene serenely, then turned to Inevera and her mother. She was perhaps thirteen, tall with a sturdy build, harsh cheekbones, and a hooked nose that made her look like a raptor. ‘I am Melan.’ She motioned for them to enter. ‘Dama’ting Qeva will see you now.’
Inevera took a deep breath as she and her mother removed their shoes, drew wards in the air, and passed into the dama’ting pavilion.
The sun filtered through the rising canvas roof, filling the great tent with bright light. Everything was white, from the tent walls to the painted furniture and the thick canvas flooring.
It made the blood all the more startling. There were great splashes of red and brown marring the floor of the entranceway, as well as a thick trail of muddy red footprints heading through partitions to the right and left.
‘That is Sharum blood,’ a voice said, and Inevera jumped, noticing for the first time the Bride of Everam standing right before them, her white robes blending almost perfectly with the background. ‘From the injured brought in at dawn from alagai’sharak. Each day, the canvas floor is cut away and burned atop the minarets of Sharik Hora during the call to prayer.’
As if on cue, Inevera heard the cries of pain surrounding her. On the other side of the thick partitions, men were in agony. She imagined her father – or worse, Soli – among them, and winced at every shriek and groan.
‘Everam take me now!’ a man cried desperately. ‘I will not live a cripple!’
‘Step carefully,’ Dama’ting Qeva warned. ‘The soles of your feet are not worthy to touch the blood honoured warriors have spilled for your sake.’
Inevera and her mother eased their way around the stained canvas to come before the dama’ting. Clad from head to toe in white silk with only her eyes and hands uncovered, Qeva was tall and thick of frame like Melan, but with a woman’s
curves.
‘What is your name, girl?’ The Bride of Everam’s voice was deep and hard.
‘Inevera vah Kasaad am’Damaj am’Kaji, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing deeply. ‘Named after the First Wife of Kaji.’ Manvah’s nails dug into her shoulder at the addition, and she gasped involuntarily. The dama’ting seemed not to notice.
‘No doubt you think that makes you special.’ Qeva snorted. ‘If Krasia had a warrior for every worthless girl who has borne that name, Sharak Ka would be over.’
‘Yes, Dama’ting,’ Inevera said, bowing again as her mother’s nails eased back.
‘You’re a pretty one,’ the dama’ting noted.
Inevera bowed. ‘Thank you, Dama’ting.’
‘The harems can always use a pretty girl, if she’s not put to good use already,’ Qeva said, looking at Manvah. ‘Who is your husband and what is your profession?’
‘Dal’Sharum Kasaad, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said, bowing. ‘And I am a palm weaver.’
‘First Wife?’ Qeva asked.
‘I am his only wife, Dama’ting,’ Manvah said.
‘Men think they take on wives as they prosper, Manvah of the Kaji,’ Qeva said, ‘but the reverse is true. Have you tried to secure sister-wives, as prescribed in the Evejah, to help with your weaving and bear him more children?’
‘Yes, Dama’ting. Many times.’ Manvah gritted her teeth. ‘Their fathers … would not approve the match.’
The Bride of Everam grunted. The answer said much about Kasaad. ‘Is the girl educated?’
Manvah nodded. ‘Yes, Dama’ting. Inevera is my apprentice. She is most skilled at weaving, and I have taught her to do sums and keep ledgers. She has read the Evejah once for each of the seven pillars of Heaven.’
The dama’ting’s eyes were unreadable. ‘Follow me.’ She turned away, heading deeper into the pavilion. She gave no mind to the blood on the floor, her flowing silk robes gliding easily over it. Not a drop clung to them. It would not dare.
Melan followed, the nie’dama’ting stepping nimbly around the blood, and Inevera and her mother trailed after. The pavilion was a maze of white cloth walls, with many turns that were upon them before Inevera even knew they were there. There was no blood on the floor here, and even the cries of the injured Sharum grew muffled. Around one bend, the walls and ceiling shifted suddenly from white to black. It was like stepping from day into night. After turning another bend, it became so dark that her mother, in her black dal’ting robes, was nearly invisible, and even the white-clad dama’ting and her apprentice became only ghostly images.