The Desert Spear

a
Damaji’s
favored wife. It was said he dominated trade in the bazaar, due in no small part to his extensive contacts in the North. He was a leech, putting profit above Everam, above honor, and above Krasia.
    “What are you doing here among men,
khaffit
?” he demanded. “I have not summoned you.”
    “He’s with me,” the Par’chin said.
    “He
was
with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed and scurried off.
    “I don’t know why you waste your time with that
khaffit,
Par’chin,” Jardir spat.
    “Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” the Par’chin said.
    Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”
    “Your Thesan is much improved,” the Par’chin noted.
    Jardir grunted. “Your
chin
tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a
khaffit
to practice it while you are away.” He scowled at Abban’s back. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”
    “I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” the Par’chin said.
    “Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,” Jardir said. He had tried many times to find a bride for the Par’chin, to tie him to Krasia and keep him close, as Inevera commanded.
    One day, you will have to kill him,
Inevera’s voice echoed in his head, but he did not wish to believe it. If Jardir could find him a wife, the greenlander would cease to be a
chin
and be reborn as
dal’Sharum.
Perhaps that “death” would fulfill the prophecy.
    “I doubt the
dama
would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless
chin,
” the Par’chin said.
    Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”
    “I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” the Par’chin said.
    Jardir scowled. As close as they were, the greenlander continued to baffle him. Among his people, a warrior’s lusts were as great off the battlefield as on. He had seen no evidence that the Par’chin preferred the company of men, but he seemed more interested in battle than the spoils that rightly came to those who lived to see the dawn.
    “Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you
push’ting,
” he said, using the word for “false woman.” It was not a sin before Everam to lie with another man, but
push’ting
shunned women entirely, denying their tribe future generations—something his people could ill afford.
    “How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.
    “Only a few hours,” the Par’chin said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”
    “And already you come to offer your spear!” Jardir cried loudly for all to hear. “By Everam, the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” The men laughed.
    “Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm around the Par’chin as he mentally reviewed the night’s battle plan, seeking a place of honor for his brave friend.
    “The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”
    “Push Guard, I would prefer,” the Par’chin replied.
    Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
    “Not so dangerous, this night,” the Par’chin said. He produced a rolled cloth, uncovering a spear.
    But not just any spear. Its length was of a bright, silvery metal, and wards etched along the head and haft glittered in the sunlight. Jardir’s trained eye ran along its length, and he felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Many of the wards were unfamiliar, but he could sense their power.
    The Par’chin stood proudly, waiting for him to react. Jardir swallowed his wonder and blinked the covetous gleam from his eyes, hoping his friend had not seen it.
    “A kingly weapon,” he agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on the Par’chin’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”
    “I did not make it,” the Par’chin said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”
    Jardir’s thumping heart came to a stop. Could it be true? He forced himself to laugh.
    “The birthplace of the Deliverer?” he asked. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth,