The Desert Spear

so that a demon hurled from the very wall Jardir looked over would land within. Jardir felt a flash of excitement for the battle to come, even though he and the other
nie’Sharum
would not be allowed to fight.
    He turned to Abban, but his friend had moved on down the terrace, ignoring the view.
    “We should start clearing the buildings,” Jardir said, but Abban seemed not to hear, limping purposefully away. Jardir caught up just as Abban stopped in front of a great archway, breaking into a wide smile as he looked up at the symbols carved into the arch.
    “Level seven, I knew it!” Abban said. “The same as the number of pillars between Heaven and Ala.”
    “I’ve never seen wards like those,” Jardir said, looking at the symbols.
    “Those aren’t wards, they are drawn words,” Abban said.
    Jardir looked at him curiously. “Like those written in the Evejah?”
    Abban nodded. “They read: ‘Here, seven tiers from Ala to honor He who is Everything, is the humble workshop of Master Dravazi.’ ”
    “The potter you spoke of,” Jardir growled. Abban nodded, moving to push back the bright curtain that hung in the doorway, but Jardir grabbed his arm, pulling Abban to face him.
    “So you can embrace pain when it comes to profit, but not to honor?” he demanded.
    Abban smiled. “I am merely practical, my friend. You cannot spend honor.”
    “You can in Heaven,” Jardir said.
    Abban snorted. “We cannot clothe our mothers and sisters from Heaven.” He pulled his arm free and entered the shop. Jardir had no choice but to follow, walking right into Abban, who had stopped short just within the doorway, his mouth hanging open.
    “The shipment is intact,” Abban whispered, his eyes taking on a covetous gleam. Jardir followed his gaze, and his own eyes widened as well. There, stacked neatly upon great pallets, was the most exquisite pottery he had ever seen. It filled the room—pots and vases and chalices, lamps and plates and bowls. All of it painted in bright color and gold leaf, fire-glazed to a pristine shine.
    Abban rubbed his hands together with excitement. “Do you have any idea what this is worth, my friend?” he asked.
    “It doesn’t matter,” Jardir said. “It isn’t ours.”
    Abban looked at him as if he were a fool. “It isn’t stealing if the owners are dead, Ahmann.”
    “It is worse than stealing, to loot from the dead,” Jardir said. “It is desecration.”
    “Desecration would be casting a master artisan’s life’s work into a rubbish pile,” Abban said. “There is plenty of other debris to use in the barricades.”
    Jardir considered the pottery. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will leave it here. Let it tell the story of the craft of this greatest of
khaffit,
that Everam may look down upon his works and reincarnate his spirit to a higher caste.”
    “What need to tell tales to Everam, if He is all-knowing?” Abban asked.
    Jardir balled a fist, and Abban took a step back. “I will not hear Everam blasphemed,” he growled. “Not even from you.”
    Abban held his hands up in supplication. “No blasphemy intended. I merely meant Everam could see the pottery as well in a
Damaji’s
palace as in this forgotten workshop.”
    “That may be,” Jardir conceded, “but Kaval said everything must be sacrificed to
alagai’sharak,
and that means this, too.”
    Abban’s eyes flicked to Jardir’s fist, still tightly closed, and he nodded. “Of course, my friend,” he agreed. “But if we are truly to honor this great
khaffit
and recommend him to Heaven, let us use his fine pots to carry dirt for the
dal’Sharum
digging the demon pits. It will put the pottery to work in fighting
alagai’sharak,
and show Dravazi’s worth to Everam.”
    Jardir relaxed, his fist falling into five loose fingers once more. He smiled at Abban and nodded. “That is a fine idea.” They selected the pieces most suited to the task and carried them back to the camp. The rest they left neatly stacked, just as they had found them.

    Jardir and the others fell into their work, and the two full days and nights passed quickly as the battlefield for
alagai’sharak
began to form. Each night they took shelter behind their circles, studying the demons and laying their plans. The terraced tiers of the village became a maze of debris piles hiding warded alcoves the
dal’Sharum
would use as ambush points, leaping out to drive the
alagai
over the sides into the demon pits, or to net them long enough