The Desert Spear

stairs of the palace of the Sharum Ka, which faced the
Sharum
training grounds. At the far end was Sharik Hora, and on the long sides between were the pavilions of the tribes.
    Near the base of his steps, well inside the palace walls, a group of
Sharum
and
dama
surrounded a pair of
khaffit.
Jardir grew angry at the sight. It was an insult to have the feet of
khaffit
sully the grounds of the Sharum Ka’s keep. He opened his mouth to say just that when one of the
khaffit
caught his eye.
    Abban.
    Jardir had not thought of his old friend in years, as if the boy had indeed died the night he broke his oaths. More than fifteen years had passed since then, and if Jardir had changed from the small, skinny boy in a bido he had been, the change in Abban was even more pronounced.
    The former
nie’Sharum
had grown enormously fat, almost as grotesque as the Andrah. He still wore the tan vest and cap of
khaffit,
but under the vest were a bright shirt and pantaloons of multicolored silk, and he had wrapped the tan conical cap in a turban of red silk with a gem set at the center. His belt and slippers were of snakeskin. He leaned on an ivory crutch, carved in the likeness of a camel, with his armpit resting between its humps.
    “What makes you think you are worthy to stand here among men?” Jardir demanded.
    “Apologies, great one,” Abban said, dropping to his hands and knees in the dirt and pressing his forehead down. Shanjat, now a
kai’Sharum,
laughed and kicked his backside.
    “Look at you,” Jardir snarled. “You dress like a woman and flaunt your tainted wealth as if it is not an insult to everything we believe. I should have let you fall.”
    “Please, great master,” Abban said. “I mean no insult. I am only here to translate.”
    “Translate?” Jardir glanced up at the other
khaffit
who had come with Abban.
    But the other man was not
khaffit
at all. It was instantly apparent from his light skin and hair, his clothes, and even more so from the well-worn spear the man carried. He was a
chin.
An outsider from the green lands to the north.
    “A
chin
?” Jardir asked, turning to his
dama.
“You called me here to speak to a
chin
?”
    “Listen to his words,” Ashan urged. “You will see.”
    Jardir looked at the greenlander, having never seen a
chin
up close before. He knew Northern Messengers sometimes came to the Great Bazaar, but that was not a place for men, and his memories of it from childhood were vague things, tainted by hunger and shame.
    This
chin
was different than Jardir had imagined. He was young—no older than Jardir had been when he first donned his blacks—and not a particularly large man, but he had a hard air about him. He stood and moved like a warrior, meeting Jardir’s eyes boldly, as a man should.
    Jardir knew that the Northern men had given up
alagai’sharak,
cowering behind their wards like women, but the sands of Krasia went on for hundreds of miles with no succor. A man who passed through that must have stared
alagai
in the face night after night. He might not be
Sharum,
but he was no coward.
    Jardir looked down at Abban’s sniveling form and bit back his disgust. “Speak, and be quick about it. Your presence offends me.”
    Abban nodded and turned to the Northerner, speaking a few words in a harsh, guttural tongue. The Northerner replied sternly, stamping his spear for emphasis.
    “This is Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook,” Abban said, turning back to Jardir but keeping his eyes on the ground. “Late out of Fort Rizon to the north, he brings you greetings, and begs to fight alongside the men of Krasia tonight in
alagai’sharak.
”
    Jardir was stunned. A Northerner who wished to fight? It was unheard of.
    “He is a
chin,
First Warrior,” Hasik growled. “Come from a race of cowards. He is not worthy to fight!”
    “If he was a coward, he would not be here,” Ashan advised. “Many Messengers have come to Krasia, but only this one has come to your palace. It would be an insult to Everam not to let the man fight, if he wishes it.”
    “I’ll not put my back to a greenlander in battle,” Hasik said, spitting at the Messenger’s feet. Many of the
Sharum
nodded and grunted their agreement despite the
dama’s
words. It seemed there was a limit to the clerics’ powers, after all.
    Jardir considered carefully. He saw now why Ashan had wanted to defer the decision to him. Either choice could have grave repercussions.
    He looked at the greenlander again, curious to