The Daylight War (68 page)

And it was murder, despite the honeyed words she’d used to make bitter betrayal easier to swallow. The greenlander was a godless grave robber, but he had not been raised to Everam’s truths, and she would have robbed the grave of Kaji herself had she known where it lay and what it contained. Already she counselled Ahmann to return there as soon as possible.

She reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I am sorry for your loss, husband. He was an honourable man.’

Ahmann pulled his shoulder roughly from her grasp. ‘What would you know of honour?’

He stormed away from her, going into the small shrine to Everam where he said his private prayers. Inevera did not attempt to follow, but she turned her earring, breathing deeply as she listened to her husband weep.

Was Ahmann the Deliverer? If such a man was made and not born, would she ever know for sure if she had succeeded, short of him killing Alagai’ting Ka, the Mother of All Demons?

Surely Inevera had seized advantages for him, but if it was anyone, it had to be him. He had excelled at every test in his life, and even if he took it by force, the spear
had
come to him as if by fate. Any other man would have stabbed the greenlander without a second thought, but for all his power and station, Ahmann still wept over the betrayal.

Would he have seized the moment, if she had not commanded it? Even if she had never met him? If he was the strong but illiterate and racist animal that the Kaji’sharaj usually produced, would he have befriended the Par’chin all the same, and killed him when it was time? Was there something divine in Ahmann that would have clawed its way to power no matter how low his station?

She did not know.

‘Today,’ Ahmann said as Inevera helped him into his armoured robes.

It was almost half a year since he took the spear, the last press for the Palace of the Andrah. He could have taken the city sooner if he had wished for vast bloodshed, but Ahmann was content to wait and let men come to him, as more did each day.

‘We have more men inside the palace than he does now,’ Ahmann said. ‘They will open the gates at dawn, killing the last remaining
Sharum
who hold to the old ways. By noon I will sit the Skull Throne. I will send a runner when it is safe for you and your
Jiwah
Sen
to enter.’

Inevera nodded as if this were great news, though she had listened in on his secret meetings with his generals and confirmed his conclusions with the
dice. She had needed to say or do little once the spear was in Ahmann’s hands. She had groomed him to conquer and lead, and he took to those things like a bird to the sky.

Ahmann left to meet his men, and Inevera called her little sisters. They stripped her of her white silken robes, and she stepped into the steaming bath where Everalia and Thalaja waited to scrub her skin and massage her with scented oil.

‘Bring me my red pillow dancing silks,’ she told Qasha, who hurried to comply.

‘Clever,’ Belina said, smiling. ‘You will wear them under your whites, the quicker to help our husband celebrate his rise.’

Inevera threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh, little sister. I am never wearing my whites again.’

Inevera lay on the pillows beside the Skull Throne of Sharik Hora. The temple of heroes’ bones itself was their palace now, and there was old magic here. Not as flashy as that given by demon bones, but no less potent. Millions of men had died proudly to decorate this place, their spirits bound to the stone.

Knowing their ancestors were watching made her feel all the more wanton, lying on a bed of silk pillows clad only in transparent silk. The pants were slit up each leg, gathered with gold at the cuffs, and would flash long strips of bare leg as she moved. The top was a long strip of silk that barely covered her breasts, and did nothing to hide them. It was tied in a simple knot beneath her shoulder blades, the long ends streaming loose along her arms and fastened to golden bracelets. Her hair was oiled and bound in gold.

But there was power in that, too. Ahmann hated seeing his wife displayed so, but it was good to remind him publicly that even as Shar’Dama Ka, his power was not infinite. Thus, he was forced to pretend it was his choice.

It was an important lesson, and unless she missed her guess, she was about to teach it again. Before them stood Kajivah, Ashan, Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya, along with Ahmann’s nieces Ashia, Shanvah, and Sikvah.

‘
Hannu
Pash
has called my son Asukaji to take the white, Holy Deliverer,’ Ashan was saying, ‘but my daughter Ashia, blood of your blood, has been given blacks by the
dama’ting
. It is an insult.’

‘You should cherish your daughters, Ashan,’ Ahmann said. ‘If they enter the Dama’ting Palace, you may never see them again. There is no dishonour in being
dal’ting
.’ He gestured to Kajivah.

Ashan bowed deeply to the woman. ‘I mean no disrespect, Holy Mother.’

Kajivah bowed in return. ‘There is none taken, Damaji.’ She turned to her son, and even though he sat seven steps above her, it seemed she was looking down at him.

‘There is no dishonour in
dal’ting
,
my son, but there is burden. Burden your sisters and I carried for many years. Would you have the law defend a husband who strikes a child of your blood?’

Ahmann turned to Inevera, but she cut him off before he could speak. ‘The dice did not call them.’ The words were quiet, for him alone, a benefit from sitting on high with him. ‘Would you take a cripple as
Sharum
?’

Ahmann scowled, but kept his voice equally low. ‘Are you saying my nieces are no better than cripples?’

Inevera shook her head. ‘I am saying they were meant for other things. One need not take orders to be great, beloved. Witness yourself. If you wish, I will take the girls into the Dama’ting Palace and train them, as you were trained in Sharik Hora.’

Ahmann looked at her a moment, then nodded, turning back to the others. ‘The girls shall be taken into the Dama’ting Palace as
dal’ting
,
and trained. They shall emerge as
kai’ting
,
and once married wear a white veil with their black headscarves and robes, as shall my mother and sisters from this day forth. As with the
dama’ting
,
any man caught striking a
kai’ting
will lose either the offending limb or his life.’

‘Deliverer—’ Ashan began.

Ahmann cut him off with a subtle wave of his spear. ‘I have spoken, Ashan.’

Inevera rose as the
Damaji
fell back, humbled. She clapped once, rubbing her hands together as she took in the three girls, still so young and pliable. In truth, she had no idea what she would do with them, but that was sometimes the way.

Plant
the
seeds
you
have
,
the Evejah’ting said.
For
they
may
bear
unexpected
fruit.

Inevera escorted the girls out of the great chamber through her own personal entrance. There, just inside the door, stood Qeva and Enkido, who would have heard, by way of precise acoustics, every word in the main chamber.

‘The girls will be taught letters, singing, and pillow dancing for four hours each day,’ Inevera told Qeva. ‘The other twenty, they belong to Enkido.’

Ashia gasped at that, and Shanvah clutched at her. Sikvah began to cry.

Inevera ignored them, turning to the eunuch. ‘Make something worthy out of them.’

L
eesha felt the roiling in her stomach calm as the familiar outskirts of the Hollow came into sight. It was good to be home. The refugee villages, each on its own greatward, were coming together with incredible speed.

But then a shout, and the caravan came to an abrupt halt. Leesha stuck her head out the window and saw a company of Wooden Soldiers at the border of the central greatward. Fifty of them stood blocking the road on heavy destriers, their lacquered wooden armour polished and shining in the sun. A rustling in the scrub to the side of the road heralded archers, lightly armoured in leather, each with a drawn bow and two more arrows in hand.

Behind them were hundreds of Cutters, some with spears, but others with the original implements of their craft. Some were faces she knew. Most were not.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Kaval shouted, and Leesha knew the idiot was reaching for his spear. She wrenched the door to her carriage open, tripping in her haste and ending up sprawled on the ground. She momentarily clutched her stomach in fear, but gritted her teeth and pushed herself up.

‘Mistress Leesha!’ Wonda cried, vaulting down from her horse. Leesha made her feet before the girl reached her and waved her off. As she expected, the Krasian men all had spears in hand, and the bowmen looked ready to cut them down and ask questions later.

‘Put up your weapons!’ she shouted. Her voice did not have
hora
magic to augment it, but the ability to boom was another thing Leesha had got from her mother. All eyes turned her way. No one made a move to disarm.

‘Who are you, to order the soldiers of Count Thamos?’ one of the mounted soldiers asked. He rode a fine destrier rather than one of the sleek Angierian coursers that carried the other Wooden Soldiers, and his cloak was held in place with gold chain. There was a captain’s tuft on his helm.

‘I am Mistress Leesha Paper, Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow,’ Leesha said, ‘and I’d appreciate being spared the trouble of sewing up wounds from overeager men with itchy bow fingers.’

‘
Cutter’s
Hollow,’ the captain corrected. ‘And you’re late. Your sand Messenger arrived over a week ago, and said nothing about you bringing half the Krasian army with you.’

Kaval chuckled at that. ‘If one hundredth of the Deliverer’s army was on the road, the thunder of our footsteps alone would knock you off your horse, boy.’

The captain bared his teeth, and Leesha stormed into the road to stand between them. ‘Keep your tongue still, Drillmaster, I won’t have you shame my homecoming.’

Gared and Wonda moved to flank her, Wonda on foot, and Gared towering above the biggest mounted soldiers atop his heavy garron. The Wooden Soldiers began to whisper among themselves at the sight of him. Gared’s reputation preceded him. Another thing her mother had been right about. She wished she could get the sight of them stuck together like dogs out of her head.

‘Who in the Core are you?’ Gared demanded of the captain. The big man’s anger was palpable. ‘Don’t care to have spears pointed at me and mine on ground we bled for. You’d best lower them before they get shoved up your arse.’

The captain smiled. ‘You’re in no position to make threats, Mr Cutter. You don’t command here any more.’

‘Ay?’ Gared put his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. The Cutters standing behind the Wooden Soldiers broke ranks at the sound, flowing to either side around the count’s men. They were led by Dug and Merrem Butcher, and Leesha saw others she knew in the van. Yon Gray and his son and grandsons, all looking of an age with one another. Samm Saw, Ande Cutter, Tomm Wedge and his sons. Evin Cutter and his gigantic wolfhound.