The Desert Spear

the
dama’ting
foresaw his death. Any of the warriors could still kill him for the slightest insolence.
    Surprisingly, Hasik came to his defense.
    “Leave the rat alone,” he said. “He’s my
ajin’pal.
You mock him, you mock me.”
    Manik puffed up at the challenge, but Hasik was young and strong. They eyed each other for a moment before Manik spat in the dust.
    “Bah,” he said. “It’s not worth the trouble of gutting you just to mock a boy.” He turned and strode off.
    “Thank you,” Jardir said.
    “It’s nothing,” Hasik replied, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It is the duty of
ajin’pal
to look out for each other, and you would not be the first boy to fear the pillow dancers more than the
alagai.
The
dama’ting
teach sexcraft to the
jiwah’Sharum,
but the drillmasters give no such lessons in the
sharaji.
”
    Jardir felt his face flush, wondering what lay in store for him in the pillows behind the curtains when the veils were lifted.
    “Do not fear,” Hasik said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I will teach you how to make a woman howl.”
    They finished off the flask, and a wicked smile crossed Hasik’s face. “Come on, rat. I know of some fun we can find in the meantime.”

    “Where are we going?” Jardir asked, stumbling as Hasik led him through the Maze. The couzi made his head spin, and his limbs watery. The walls seemed to move of their own accord.
    Hasik turned, his smile wide. The gap in his teeth where Qeran had hit him on Jardir’s first night in the Kaji’sharaj was a black hole in the moonlight.
    “Going?” Hasik asked. “We’re here.”
    Jardir looked around in confusion, and in that moment, colored light exploded before his eyes as Hasik hit him hard in the face.
    Before he could react, Hasik was upon him, pinning him facedown in the dust. “I promised to teach you to make a woman howl,” he said. “For this lesson, you will be the woman.”
    “No!” Jardir cried, thrashing, but Hasik smashed his face into the ground, making his ears ring. Twisting one of Jardir’s arms behind his back, the heavy warrior held him down with one hand as he pulled down Jardir’s bido with the other.
    “Looks like you get to lose the bido twice in one night, rat!” he laughed.
    Jardir tasted blood and dirt in his mouth. He tried to open himself to the pain, but for once, the power was beyond him, and his cries echoed through the Maze.

    He was still weeping when the
dama’ting
found him.
    She glided like a ghost, her white robes softly stirring the dust with her passage. Jardir stopped his sobbing and stared. Then reality suddenly focused, and he scrambled to pull up his bido. Shame filled him, and he hid his face.
    The
dama’ting
clicked her tongue. “On your feet, boy!” she snapped. “You stand your ground against
alagai,
but weep like a woman over this? Everam needs
dal’Sharum,
not
khaffit
!”
    Jardir wished the walls of the Maze would fall and crush him, but one did not refuse the orders of a
dama’ting.
He got to his feet, palming away his tears and wiping his nose.
    “That’s better,” the
dama’ting
said, “if late. I would hate to have come all the way out here to foretell the life of a coward.”
    The words stung Jardir. He was no coward. “How did you find me?”
    She psshed, waving a hand at him. “I knew to find you here years ago.”
    Jardir stared at her, unbelieving, but it was clear from her stance that his belief mattered not at all to her. “Come here, boy, that I may have a better look at you,” she commanded.
    Jardir did as he was told, and the
dama’ting
grabbed his face, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight. “Young and strong,” she said. “But so are all who get this far. You’re younger than most, but that’s seldom a good thing.”
    “Are you here to foretell my death?”
    “Bold, too,” she muttered. “There may be hope for you yet. Kneel, boy.”
    He did, and the
dama’ting
knelt with him, spreading a white cloth to protect her pristine robes from the dust of the Maze.
    “What do I care for your death?” she asked. “I am here to foretell your life. Death is between you and Everam.”
    She reached into her robes, pulling forth a small pouch made from thick black felt. She loosened the drawstrings, pouring its contents into her free hand with a clatter. Jardir saw over a dozen objects, black and smooth like obsidian, carved with wards that glowed redly in the dark.
    “The
alagai hora,
” she said,