dama looked up at the warriors. “Confiscate everything of value in his pavilion,” he said, “and bring it to the temple. Use his women, if you like, and then have them sold. Put any sons to the spear.” Amit howled, thrashing against the men who held his arms until one of the warriors clubbed him in the back of the head with his spear, dropping him senseless to the ground.
The dama looked down at Amit in disgust. “Haul this filth to the Chamber of Eternal Sorrow,” he told the dal’Sharum , “that the Damaji might take their time in flaying the skin from his misbegotten bones.”
Abban let the tent flap fall and retreated into his pavilion, pouring himself a cup of couzi.
A few moments later, the tent flap rose and fell again.
“The Par’chin nearly broke Dama Kavere’s knee,” Jamere said. “He wants more than couzi to account for it.”
Abban nodded, expecting as much. “You were supposed to volunteer to stall Kavere when I stumbled, not the Par’chin,” Abban reminded.
Jamere shrugged. “He beat me to it,” he said, “and would hear no protest.”
“Well don’t let it happen again,” Abban snapped. “The Par’chin is valuable to me, and I would be most displeased to lose him.”
“Do you think he’ll find Anoch Sun?” Jamere asked.
Abban laughed. “Don’t be stupid, boy,” he said. “Those maps have been copied and re-copied for three thousand years, and even if they still manage to point him the right way, the lost city, if it even exists, is buried deep beneath the sands. The Par’chin is a good-hearted fool, but a fool nonetheless.”
“He’ll be angry, when he returns,” Jamere observed.
Abban shrugged. “At first, perhaps,” he began.
“But then you’ll wave some other ancient scroll in his face, and he’ll forget all about it,” Jamere guessed, stealing a swig out of Abban’s couzi bottle, not bothering with a cup.
Abban smiled, giving the boy the various bribes he would need when he returned to Sharik Hora. He watched Jamere go with a mix of pride and profound regret.
The boy could really have been something, if he wasn’t set to waste his life as a dama .
Brayan’s Gold
By Peter V. Brett
324AR
“Hold still,” Cob grunted as he adjusted the armor.
“Ent easy when a steel plate’s cutting into your thigh,” Arlen said.
It was a cool morning, dawn still an hour away, but Arlen was already sweating profusely in the new armor—solid plates of hammered steel linked at the joints by rivets and fine interlocking rings. Beneath, he wore a quilted jacket and pants to keep the plates from digging into his skin, but it was scant protection when Cob tightened the rings.
“All the more reason to make sure I get this right, Cob said. “The better the fit, the less likely that will happen when you’re running from a coreling on the road. A Messenger needs to be quick.”
“Don’t see how I’ll be anything near quick wrapped in bedquilt and carrying seventy pounds of steel on my back,” Arlen said. “And this corespawned thing’s hot as firespit.”
“You’ll be glad for the warmth on the windy trails to the Duke’s Mines,” Cob advised.
Arlen shook his head and lifted his heavy arm to look at the plates where he had painstakingly fluted wards into the steel with a tiny hammer and chisel. The symbols of protection were powerful enough to turn most any demon blow, but as much as he felt protected by the armor, he also felt imprisoned by it.
“Five hundred suns,” he said wistfully. That was how much the armorer had charged—and taken months in the making. It was enough gold to make Arlen the second-richest man in Tibbet’s Brook, the town where he had grown up.
“You don’t go cheap on things that might mean your life,” Cob said. He was a veteran Messenger, and spoke from experience. “When it comes to armor, you find the best smithy in town, order the strongest they’ve got, and bugger the cost.”
He pointed a finger
The dama looked down at Amit in disgust. “Haul this filth to the Chamber of Eternal Sorrow,” he told the dal’Sharum , “that the Damaji might take their time in flaying the skin from his misbegotten bones.”
Abban let the tent flap fall and retreated into his pavilion, pouring himself a cup of couzi.
A few moments later, the tent flap rose and fell again.
“The Par’chin nearly broke Dama Kavere’s knee,” Jamere said. “He wants more than couzi to account for it.”
Abban nodded, expecting as much. “You were supposed to volunteer to stall Kavere when I stumbled, not the Par’chin,” Abban reminded.
Jamere shrugged. “He beat me to it,” he said, “and would hear no protest.”
“Well don’t let it happen again,” Abban snapped. “The Par’chin is valuable to me, and I would be most displeased to lose him.”
“Do you think he’ll find Anoch Sun?” Jamere asked.
Abban laughed. “Don’t be stupid, boy,” he said. “Those maps have been copied and re-copied for three thousand years, and even if they still manage to point him the right way, the lost city, if it even exists, is buried deep beneath the sands. The Par’chin is a good-hearted fool, but a fool nonetheless.”
“He’ll be angry, when he returns,” Jamere observed.
Abban shrugged. “At first, perhaps,” he began.
“But then you’ll wave some other ancient scroll in his face, and he’ll forget all about it,” Jamere guessed, stealing a swig out of Abban’s couzi bottle, not bothering with a cup.
Abban smiled, giving the boy the various bribes he would need when he returned to Sharik Hora. He watched Jamere go with a mix of pride and profound regret.
The boy could really have been something, if he wasn’t set to waste his life as a dama .
Brayan’s Gold
By Peter V. Brett
324AR
“Hold still,” Cob grunted as he adjusted the armor.
“Ent easy when a steel plate’s cutting into your thigh,” Arlen said.
It was a cool morning, dawn still an hour away, but Arlen was already sweating profusely in the new armor—solid plates of hammered steel linked at the joints by rivets and fine interlocking rings. Beneath, he wore a quilted jacket and pants to keep the plates from digging into his skin, but it was scant protection when Cob tightened the rings.
“All the more reason to make sure I get this right, Cob said. “The better the fit, the less likely that will happen when you’re running from a coreling on the road. A Messenger needs to be quick.”
“Don’t see how I’ll be anything near quick wrapped in bedquilt and carrying seventy pounds of steel on my back,” Arlen said. “And this corespawned thing’s hot as firespit.”
“You’ll be glad for the warmth on the windy trails to the Duke’s Mines,” Cob advised.
Arlen shook his head and lifted his heavy arm to look at the plates where he had painstakingly fluted wards into the steel with a tiny hammer and chisel. The symbols of protection were powerful enough to turn most any demon blow, but as much as he felt protected by the armor, he also felt imprisoned by it.
“Five hundred suns,” he said wistfully. That was how much the armorer had charged—and taken months in the making. It was enough gold to make Arlen the second-richest man in Tibbet’s Brook, the town where he had grown up.
“You don’t go cheap on things that might mean your life,” Cob said. He was a veteran Messenger, and spoke from experience. “When it comes to armor, you find the best smithy in town, order the strongest they’ve got, and bugger the cost.”
He pointed a finger
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