The Desert Spear

his betters was put to death on the spot, and there were many who envied Abban’s place on Jardir’s council and would be glad to see his end.
    “I will send Asome with you,” Jardir said. “Not even the most fanatical cleric will challenge you then.”
    Abban blanched as Asome came forward, but he nodded. “As the Shar’-Dama Ka commands.”

CHAPTER 2
ABBAN
    p.
305-308 AR

    JARDIR WAS NINE WHEN the
dal’Sharum
took him from his mother. It was young, even in Krasia, but the Kaji tribe had lost many warriors that year and needed to bolster their ranks lest one of the other tribes attempt to encroach on their domain.
    Jardir, his three younger sisters, and their mother, Kajivah, shared a single room in the Kaji adobe slum by the dry well. His father, Hoshkamin, had died in battle two years before, slain in a well raid by the Majah tribe. It was customary for one of a fallen warrior’s companions to take his widows as wives and provide for his children, but Kajivah had given birth to three daughters in a row, an ill omen that no man would bring into his household. They lived on a small stipend of food from the local
dama,
and if they had nothing else, they had each other.
    “Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji,” Drillmaster Qeran said, “you will come with us to the Kaji’sharaj to find your
Hannu Pash,
the path Everam wills for you.” He stood in the doorway with Drillmaster Kaval, the two warriors tall and forbidding in their black robes with the red drillmaster veils. They looked on impassively as Jardir’s mother wept and embraced him.
    “You must be man for our family now, Ahmann,” Kajivah told him, “for me and your sisters. We have no one else.”
    “I will, Mother,” Jardir promised. “I’ll become a great warrior and build you a palace.”
    “Of that, I have no doubt,” Kajivah said. “They say I was cursed, to bear three girls after you, but I say Everam blessed our family with a son so great, he needed no brothers.” She hugged him tightly, her tears wet on his cheek.
    “Enough weeping,” Drillmaster Kaval said, taking Jardir’s arm and pulling him away. Jardir’s young sisters stared as they led him from the tiny apartment.
    “It is always this way,” Qeran said. “Mothers can never let go.”
    “She has no man to care for her,” Jardir replied.
    “You were not told to speak, boy,” Kaval barked, cuffing him hard on the back of the head. Jardir bit back a cry of pain as his knee struck the sandstone street. His heart screamed at him to strike back, but he checked himself. However much the Kaji might need warriors, the
dal’Sharum
would kill him for such an affront with no more thought than a man might give to squashing a scorpion under his sandal.
    “Every man in Krasia cares for her,” Qeran said, jerking his head back toward the door, “spilling blood in the night to keep her safe as she weeps over her sorry excuse for a son.”
    They turned down the street, heading toward the Great Bazaar. Jardir knew the way well, for he went to the market often, though he had no money. The scents of spice and perfume were a heady mix, and he liked to gaze at the spears and wicked curved blades in the armorers’ kiosks. Sometimes he fought with other boys, readying himself for the day he would be a warrior.
    It was rare for
dal’Sharum
to enter the bazaar; such places were beneath them. Women, children, and
khaffit
scurried out of the drillmasters’ path. Jardir watched the warriors carefully, doing his best to imitate their carriage.
    Someday,
he thought,
it will be
my
path that others scramble to clear.
    Kaval checked a chalked slate and looked up at a large tent, streaming with colored banners. “This is the place,” he said, and Qeran grunted. Jardir followed as they lifted the flap and strode inside without bothering to announce themselves.
    The inside of the tent smelled of incense smoke, and it was richly carpeted, filled with piles of silk pillows, racks of hanging carpets, painted pottery, and other treasures. Jardir ran a finger along a bolt of silk, shivering at its smoothness.
    My mother and sisters should be clad in such cloth,
he thought. He looked at his own tan pantaloons and vest, grimy and torn, and longed for the day he could don a warrior’s blacks.
    A woman at the counter gave a shriek as she caught sight of the drillmasters, and Jardir looked up at her just as she pulled her veil over her face.
    “Omara vah’Haman vah’Kaji?” Qeran asked.