The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(112)

“Always the same thing,” Abban said. “The Kaji dama believe sand demons reside on the third layer of Hell, and wind demons on the fourth. The Majah say the opposite. The Evejah is vague on the point,” he added, referring to the Krasian holy canon.

“What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.

“Those on the lower levels are furthest from Everam’s sight,” Abban said, “and should be killed first.”

The dama were screaming now, and the dal’Sharum on either side were clenching their spears in rage, ready to defend their leaders.

“They’ll fight one another over which demons to kill first?” Arlen asked, incredulous.

Abban spat in the dust. “The Kaji will fight the Majah over far less, Par’chin.”

“But there will be real enemies to fight once the sun sets!” Arlen protested.

Abban nodded. “And when it does, the Kaji and Majah will stand united,” he said. “As we say, ‘By night, my enemy becomes my brother.’ But sunset is still hours away.”

One of the Kaji dal’Sharum struck a Majah warrior across the face with the butt of his spear, knocking the man down. In seconds, all the warriors on each side were locked in combat. Their dama stood off to the side, unconcerned by and uninvolved in the violence, continuing to shout at one another.

“Why is this tolerated?” Arlen asked. “Can’t the Andrah forbid it?”

Abban shook his head. “The Andrah is supposed to be of all tribes and none, but in truth, he will always favor the tribe he was raised from. And even if he didn’t, not even he can end every blood feud in Krasia. You can’t forbid men from being men.”

“They’re acting more like children,” Arlen said.

“The dal’Sharum know only the spear, and the dama the Evejah,” Abban agreed sadly.

The men were not using the points of their weapons … yet, but the violence was escalating quickly. If someone did not intervene, there would surely be death.

“Don’t even think about it,” Abban said, gripping Arlen’s arm as he started forward.

Arlen turned to argue, but his friend, looking over his shoulder, gasped and fell to one knee. He yanked on Arlen’s arm to do the same.

“Kneel, if you value your hide,” he hissed.

Arlen looked around, spotting the source of Abban’s fear. A woman walked down the road, swathed in holy white. “Dama’ting” he murmured. The mysterious Herb Gatherers of Krasia were seldom seen.

He cast his eyes down as she passed, but did not kneel. It made no difference; she took no notice of either of them, proceeding serenely toward the melee, unnoticed until she was almost upon the men. The dama blanched when they saw her, shouting something to their men. At once, the fighting stopped, and the warriors fell over themselves to clear a path for the dama’ting to pass. The warriors and dama quickly dispersed in her wake, and traffic on the road resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Are you brave, Par’chin, or mad?” Abban asked, when she was gone.

“Since when do men kneel to women?” Arlen asked, perplexed.

“Men don’t kneel to dama’ting, but khaffit and chin do, if they are wise,” Abban said. “Even the dama and dal’Sharum fear them. It is said they see the future, knowing which men will live through the night and which will die.”

Arlen shrugged. “So what if they do?” he asked, clearly doubtful. A dama’ting had cast his fortune the first night he had gone into the Maze, but there had been nothing about the experience to make him believe she could actually see the future.

“To offend a dama’ting is to offend fate,” Abban said as if Arlen were a fool.

Arlen shook his head. “We make our own fates,” he said, “even if the dama’ting can cast their bones and see them in advance.”

“Well, I don’t envy the fate you will make if you offend one,” Abban said.

They resumed walking and soon reached the Andrah’s palace, an enormous domed structure of white stone that was likely as old as the city itself. Its wards were painted in gold, and glittered in the bright sunlight that fell upon its great spires.

But they had not set foot on the palace steps before a dama came rushing down to them. “Begone, khaffit!” he shouted.

“So sorry,” Abban apologized, bowing deeply, eyes on the ground, and backed away. Arlen stood his ground.

“I am Arlen, son of Jeph, Messenger from the North, known as Par’chin,” he said in Krasian. He planted his spear on the ground, and even wrapped it was clear what it was. “I bring letters and gifts for the Andrah and his ministers,” Arlen went on, holding up his satchel.

“You keep poor company for one who speaks our tongue, Northerner,” the dama said, still scowling at Abban, who groveled in the dust.

An angry retort came to Arlen’s lips, but he bit it back.

“The Par’chin needed directions,” Abban said to the dirt, “I only sought to guide …”

“I did not ask you to speak, khaffit!” the dama shouted, kicking Abban hard in the side. Arlen’s muscles bunched, but a warning glare from his friend kept him in place.

The dama turned back as if nothing had happened. “I will take your messages,” he said.

“The duke of Rizon asked that I deliver a gift to the Damaji personally,” Arlen dared.