The Desert Spear

“I will not be bought with honeyed promises.”
    “I am sorry, Damaji,” Jardir said, bowing, “but I will do what I must to unite the tribes.”
    “Murder me now, or when your son comes of age,” Amadeveram said, “it is still murder.”
    “You will be dead by then anyway, old man!” Jardir snapped. “What does it matter?”
    “The sovereignty of the Kaji tribe matters!” Amadeveram shouted. “We have held the Skull Throne for a hundred years, and will hold it a hundred more!”
    “No,” Jardir said, “you will not. I bring an end to tribes. Krasia will be one again, as it was in the time of Kaji himself.”
    “That remains to be seen,” Amadeveram said, assuming a
sharusahk
pose.
    “Everam will welcome you,” Jardir promised, bowing. “You have a
Sharum’s
heart.”

    Less than a minute later, Jardir looked up at the cowering Andrah atop the dais. “You are an insult to the skulls of the brave
Sharum
that support your fat backside,” Jardir told him. “Come down and let us end this.”
    The Andrah made no effort to rise, instead seeming to shrink farther into the great chair. Jardir scowled, taking the Spear of Kaji and climbing the seven steps to the Skull Throne.
    “No!” the Andrah cried, curling into a ball and hiding his face as Jardir raised his spear.
    For more than a dozen years, since seeing the fat man with his wife in their marriage bed, Jardir had envisioned killing the Andrah every single day. Inevera’s dice had told him he would one day have his vengeance, and he had clung to that prophecy desperately. Only
alagai’sharak
offered him distraction, and each sunrise the Andrah still lived was a blow to his honor. How many times had he practiced the speech he would recite to the man at this moment?
    But now, disgust welled in Jardir’s throat like bile. The pathetic ball of flesh before him had commanded all of Krasia for Jardir’s lifetime and more, and yet he had not even the courage to look his death in the face. He was less than
khaffit.
Less even than the filthy pigs
khaffit
ate. He was not worthy of a speech.
    The kill brought none of the satisfaction it had in Jardir’s fantasies. It was more of a mercy to rid the world of such a man.

    The Andrah’s white outer robe was stained with blood when Jardir pulled it on over his
Sharum
blacks. He felt the eyes of all in the throne room lying heavily upon him, but he straightened under the weight and turned to face them.
    Aleverak lay on the floor now, with Dama Shevali putting pressure on his wound. Amadeveram lay dead halfway down the steps. Jardir bent to the
Damaji
and pulled the black turban from his head.
    “Dama Ashan of the Kaji, step forth,” he commanded. Ashan came to the foot of the steps and knelt, placing both hands and his forehead on the floor. Jardir lifted away his friend’s white turban, replacing it with the
Damaji’s
black.
    “Damaji Ashan shall lead the Kaji,” Jardir announced, “and may pass the black turban to his sons by my sister Imisandre.” He embraced Ashan like a brother.
    “The Daylight War is over,” Ashan said.
    Jardir shook his head. “No, my friend. It has yet to begin. We shall rebuild our forces, fill the bellies of our women, and make ready for Sharak Sun.”
    “You mean…?” Ashan asked.
    “North,” Jardir agreed, “to conquer the green lands and levy their men for Sharak Ka.” There was a gasp from the remaining
Damaji,
but none dared question him.
    A moment later the
Sharum
guarding the entrance gasped and hurriedly parted. In through the gap flowed the
Damaji’ting
and Jardir’s wives. It was against Evejan law for any man to harm a
dama’ting,
and so his power over the women was limited, but they had their own intrigues in the
dama’ting
pavilion, and it seemed Inevera had proven as adept there as in manipulating the politics of men. Each of his wives wore a black headscarf with a white veil over her
dama’ting
white robe, showing that she was heir to succeed her tribe’s
Damaji’ting.
Jardir had no idea how Inevera had done it.
    Belina, his Majah wife, separated herself from the others to rush to Aleverak’s side. Jardir could recognize any of his wives at a glance, even in their full robes. Qasha could not hide her curves, nor Umshala her height. Belina had a walk that marked her as clearly as her face. The Majah
Damaji’ting
followed after her, seeming more the student than the mistress.
    For a moment there was no sign of Inevera, but then he heard