The Desert Spear by Peter V. Brett

of the line, and the other boys gave way to Jardir like mice before a cat, allowing them to have the first bowls. A few glared at Abban resentfully, but none dared give challenge.
    Jurim had no such luxury, and Jardir watched him coldly, still remembering the older boy’s honking laugh as Abban fell. Jurim walked a bit stiffly, but there was nothing of the limp that marred Abban’s once straight stride. The boys in the gruel line glared at him, but Jurim strode right up to his usual spot behind Shanjat.
    “This place is taken, cripple,” Esam, another of the
nie’Sharum
under Jardir’s command, said. “To the back of the line with you!” Esam was a fine fighter, and Jardir watched the confrontation with some interest.
    Jurim smiled and spread his hands as if in supplication, but Jardir saw the way he positioned his feet and was not fooled. Jurim leapt forward, grappling Esam and bearing him to the ground. It was over in a moment, and Jurim back in his rightful place. Jardir nodded. Jurim had a warrior’s heart. He glanced at Abban, who had already finished his bowl of gruel, having missed the fight entirely, and shook his head sadly.
    “Gather ’round, rats,” Kaval called after the bowls were stacked. Jardir immediately went to the drillmasters, and the other boys followed.
    “What do you suppose this is about?” Abban asked.
    Jardir shrugged. “They will tell us soon enough.”
    “A test of manhood is upon you all,” Qeran said. “You will pass through the night, and we will learn which of you has a warrior’s heart and which does not.” Abban inhaled sharply in fear, but Jardir felt a burst of excitement. Every test brought him that much closer to the coveted black robe.
    “There has been no word from the village of Baha kad’Everam in some months, and we fear the
alagai
may have breached their wards,” Qeran went on. “The Bahavans are
khaffit,
true, but they are descended from the Kaji, and the
Damaji
has decreed that we cannot abandon them.”
    “Cannot abandon the valuable pottery they sell us, he means,” Abban murmured. “Baha is home to Dravazi the master potter, whose work graces every palace in Krasia.”
    “Is money all you think of?” Jardir snapped. “If they were the lowliest dogs on Ala, they are still infinitely above the
alagai,
and should be protected.”
    “Ahmann!” Kaval barked. “Do you have something to add?”
    Jardir snapped back to attention. “No, Drillmaster!”
    “Then hold your tongue,” Kaval said, “or I will cut it out.”
    Jardir nodded, and Qeran went on. “Fifty warriors, volunteers all, will take the weeklong trek to Baha, led by Dama Khevat. You will go to assist them, carrying their equipment, feeding the camels, cooking their meals, and sharpening their spears.” He looked to Jardir. “You will be
Nie Ka
for this journey, son of Hoshkamin.”
    Jardir’s eyes widened.
Nie Ka,
meaning “first of none,” meant Jardir was first of the
nie’Sharum—
not just in the gruel line, but in the eyes of the drillmasters, as well—and could command and discipline the other boys at will. There had not been a
Nie Ka
in years, since Hasik earned his blacks. It was a tremendous honor, and one not given, or accepted, lightly. For with the power it conveyed, there was also responsibility. He would be held accountable by Qeran and Kaval for the failings of the other boys, and punished accordingly.
    Jardir bowed deeply. “You honor me, Drillmaster. I pray to Everam that I do not disappoint.”
    “You’d better not, if you wish to keep your hide intact,” Kaval said as Qeran took a strip of knotted leather and tied it around Jardir’s bicep as a symbol of rank.
    Jardir’s heart thudded in his chest. It was only a strip of leather, but at the moment, it felt like the Crown of Kaji, itself. Jardir thought of how the
dama
would tell his mother of this when she went for her weekly stipend, and swelled with pride. Already he began to bring back honor to the