The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett
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unworthy to be a Holy Man. He had done well for himself, though, trading with Messengers from the north. He was clean-shaven, and wore the tan cap and shirt of khaffit, but over that he wore a rich headcloth, waistcoat, and pantaloons of bright silk, stitched in many colours. He claimed his wives were as beautiful as those of any dal’Sharum.
‘By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!’ Abban called in flawless Thesan, slapping Arlen on the shoulder. ‘The sun always shines brighter when you grace our city!’
Arlen wished he had never told the merchant his father’s name. In Krasia, the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own. He wondered what they would think if they knew his father was a coward.
But he clapped Abban on the shoulder in return, his smile genuine. ‘And you, my friend,’ he said. He would never have mastered the Krasian tongue, or learned to navigate its strange and often dangerous culture, without the lame merchant’s aid.
‘Come, come!’ Abban said. ‘Rest your feet in my shade and wash the dust from your throat with my water!’ He led Arlen to a bright and colourful tent pitched behind his carts in the bazaar. He clapped his hands, and his wives and daughters – Arlen could never tell the difference – scurried to open the flaps and tend to Dawn Runner. Arlen had to force himself not to help as they took the heavily-laden saddlebags and carried them into the tent, knowing that the Krasians found the sight of a man labouring unseemly. One of the women reached for the warded spear, wrapped in cloth and slung from his saddle horn, but Arlen snatched it away before she could touch it. She bowed deeply, afraid she had given some insult.
The inside of the tent was filled with colourful silk pillows and intricately woven carpets. Arlen left his dusty boots by the flap and breathed deeply of the cool, scented air. He eased down onto the pillows on the floor as Abban’s women knelt before him with water and fruit.
When he was refreshed, Abban clapped his hands and the women brought them tea and honeyed pastries. ‘Your trip through the desert passed well?’ Abban asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Arlen smiled. ‘Very well indeed.’
They made small talk for some time afterwards. Abban never failed in this formality, but his eyes kept flicking to Arlen’s saddlebags, and he rubbed his hands together absently.
‘To business then?’ Arlen asked as soon as he judged it polite.
‘Of course, the Par’chin is a busy man,’ Abban agreed, snapping his fingers. The women quickly brought out an array of spices, perfume, silks, jewellery, rugs, and other Krasian craft.
Abban examined the goods from Arlen’s clients in the North while Arlen perused the items proposed for trade. Abban found fault with everything, scowling. ‘You crossed the desert just to trade this lot?’ he asked in disgust when he was done. ‘It hardly seems worth the trip.’
Arlen hid his grin as they sat and were served fresh tea. Bidding always started this way.
‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘A blind man could see I have brought some of the finest treasures Thesa has to offer. Better by far than the sorry goods your women have brought before me. I hope you have more hidden away, because,’ he fingered one carpet, a masterwork of weaving, ‘I’ve seen better carpets rotting in ruins.’
‘You wound me!’ Abban cried. ‘I, who give you water and shade! Woe am I, that a guest in my tent should treat me so!’ he lamented. ‘My wives worked the loom day and night to make that, using only the finest wool! A better carpet you will never see!’
After that, it was only a matter of haggling, and Arlen had not forgotten the lessons learned watching old Hog and Ragen a lifetime ago. As always, the session ended with both men acting as if they had been robbed, but inwardly feeling they had gotten the better of each other.
‘My daughters will pack up your goods and hold them for your departure,’ Abban said at last. ‘Will you sup with us tonight? My wives prepare a table none in your north can match!’
Arlen shook his head regretfully. ‘I go to fight tonight,’ he said.
Abban shook his head. ‘I fear you have learned our ways too well, Par’chin. You seek the same death.’
Arlen shook his head. ‘I have no intent to die, and expect no paradise in the next life.’
‘Ah, my friend, no one intends to go to Everam in the flower of their youth, but that is the fate that awaits those who go to alagai’sharak. I can recall a time when there were as many of us as there are grains of sand in the desert, but now …’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The city is practically empty. We keep the bellies of our wives fat with children, but still more die in the night than are born in the day. If we don’t change our ways, a decade from now Krasia will be consumed by the sand.’
‘What if I told you I had come to change that?’ Arlen asked.
‘The son of Jeph’s heart is true,’ Abban said, ‘but the Damaji will not listen to you. Everam demands war, they say, and no chin is going to change their minds.’ The Damaji were the city’s ruling council, made up of the highest-ranked dama of each of the twelve Krasian tribes. They served the Andrah, Everam’s most-favoured dama, whose word was absolute.
Arlen smiled. ‘I can’t turn them from alagai’sharak,’ he agreed, ‘but I can help them win it.’ He uncovered his spear and held it out to Abban.
Abban’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the magnificent weapon, but he raised his palm and shook his head. ‘I am khaffit, Par’chin. The spear is forbidden to my unclean touch.’
Arlen drew the weapon back and bowed low in apology. ‘I meant no offence,’ he said.
‘Ha!’ Abban laughed. ‘You may be the only man ever to bow to me! Even the Par’chin need not fear offending khaffit.’
Arlen scowled. ‘You are a man like any other,’ he said.
‘With that attitude, you will ever be chin,’ Abban said, but he smiled. ‘You’re not the first man to ward a spear,’ he said. ‘Without the combat wards of old, it makes no difference.’
‘They are the wards of old,’ Arlen said. ‘I found this in the ruins of Anoch Sun.’
Abban blanched. ‘You found the lost city?’ he asked. ‘The map was accurate?’
‘Why do you sound so surprised?’ Arlen asked. ‘I thought you said it was guaranteed!’
Abban coughed. ‘Yes, well,’ he said, ‘I trusted my source, of course, but no one has been there in more than 300 years. Who is to say how accurate the map was?’ He smiled. ‘Besides, it’s not like you were likely to come back for a refund if I was wrong.’ They both laughed.
‘By Everam, it is a fine tale, Par’chin,’ Abban said when Arlen finished describing his adventure in the lost city, ‘but if you value your life, you will not tell the Damaji that you looted the holy city of Anoch Sun.’
‘I won’t,’ Arlen promised, ‘but surely they will see the value in the spear, regardless?’
Abban shook his head. ‘Even if they agree to grant you audience, Par’chin,’ he said, ‘and I doubt they will, they will refuse to see value in anything a chin brings them.’
‘You may be right,’ Arlen said, ‘but I should at least try. I have messages to deliver to the Andrah’s palace, anyway. Walk with me.’
Abban held up his crutch. ‘It is a long way to the palace, Par’chin,’ he said.
‘I’ll walk slowly,’ Arlen said, knowing the crutch had nothing to do with the refusal.
‘You don’t want to be seen with me outside the market, my friend,’ Abban warned. ‘That alone may cost you the respect you’ve earned in the Maze.’
‘Then I’ll earn more,’