The Desert Spear

to a giant pit in the ground, one of several in the village, where men and women toiled together, harvesting sandstone with shovel, pick, and saw. The folk were broad of shoulder and packed with muscle, quite unlike the
khaffit
Jardir knew from the city. Children worked alongside them, loading carts and leading the camels that hauled the stone up out of the pits. All wore tan clothes—man and boy alike in vest and cap, and the women and girls in tan dresses that left little to the imagination, their faces, arms, and even legs mostly uncovered.
    “These are strong people,” Jardir said. “By what rule are these men
khaffit
? Are they all cowards? What about the girls and boys? Why are they not called to marriage or
Hannu Pash
?”
    “Their ancestors were
khaffit
by their own failing, perhaps, my friend,” Abban said, “but these people are
khaffit
by birth.”
    “I don’t understand,” Jardir said. “There are no
khaffit
by birth.”
    Abban sighed. “You say all I think of is merchanting, but perhaps it is you who does not think of it enough. The
Damaji
want the stone these people harvest, and a healthy stock to do the work. In exchange, they instruct the
dama
not to come for the
khaffit’s
children.”
    “Condemning the children to spending their lives as
khaffit,
as well,” Jardir said. “Why would their parents want that?”
    “Parents can behave strangely when men come to take their children,” Abban said.
    Jardir remembered his mother’s tears, and the shrieks of Abban’s mother, and could not disagree. “Still, these men would make fine warriors, and their women fine wives who breed strong sons. It is a waste to see them squandered so.”
    Abban shrugged. “At least when one of them is injured, his brothers don’t turn on him like a pack of wolves.”

    It was another six days of travel before they reached the cliff face overlooking the river that fed the village of Baha kad’Everam. They encountered no more
khaffit
villages along the way. Abban, whose family traded with many of the villages, said it was because an underground river fed many oases near the city, but it did not stretch so far east. Most of the villages were south of the city, between the Desert Spear and the distant southern mountains, along the path of that river. Jardir had never heard of a river underground, but he trusted his friend.
    The river before them was not precisely underground, but it had eroded a deep valley over time, cutting through countless layers of sandstone and clay. They could see its bed far below, though the water seemed only a trickle from such a height.
    They marched south along the cliff until the path leading down to the village came into sight, invisible until they were almost on top of it. The
dal’Sharum
blew horns of greeting, but there was no response as they made their way down the steep, narrow road to the village square. Even there in the center of town, there were no inhabitants to be found.
    The village of Baha kad’Everam was built in tiers cut into the cliff face. A wide, uneven stair led up in zigzag, forming a terrace for the adobe buildings on each level. There were no signs of life in the village, and cloth door flaps drifted lazily in the breeze. It reminded Jardir of some of the older parts of the Desert Spear; large parts of the city were abandoned as the population dwindled. The ancient buildings were a testament to when Krasians were numberless.
    “What happened here?” Jardir wondered aloud.
    “Isn’t it obvious?” Abban asked. Jardir looked at him curiously.
    “Stop staring at the village and take a wider look,” Abban said. Jardir turned and saw that the river had not appeared to be a trickle merely because of a trick of height. The waters hardly reached a third of the way up the deep bed.
    “Not enough rain,” Abban said, “or a diversion of the water’s path upriver. The change likely robbed the Bahavans of the fish they depended on to survive.”
    “That wouldn’t explain the death of a whole village,” Jardir said.
    Abban shrugged. “Perhaps the water turned sour as it shallowed, picking up silt from the riverbed. Either way, by sickness or hunger, the Bahavans must not have been able to maintain their wards.” He gestured to the deep claw marks in the adobe walls of some of the buildings.
    Kaval turned to Jardir. “Search the village for signs of survivors,” he said. Jardir bowed and turned to his
nie’Sharum,
breaking them into groups of two