Ahmann nodded. ‘That is good. You will leave behind men to guard the Sharach lands in Everam’s Bounty as they march to claim more in the land of the lake men.’

Abban wanted to laugh aloud at the stricken look that crossed Chusen’s face. Every warrior he left behind would mean less spoils for his tribe, and might mean Damaji Fashin of the Halvas passing him in the order from the Skull Throne. He glanced at Fashin, and saw the Damaji smiling openly at the decree, though he was wise enough to say nothing.

Abban’s mind began to wander as Ahmann went over the details of the plan with them – at least, the details they needed to know. The meat of the plan, including the exact timing and location of their strike, would be given when there was no chance for the fools to bungle it.

He eyed the Skull Throne, wondering what the point of covering it in electrum had been. It seemed such an enormous waste.

Abban had given the Damajah the entire mine’s electrum as commanded. He’d expected the metal to disappear, put to some secret purpose, or at the least to reappear as a suit of armour for Ahmann. Instead, it had been dumped over his throne, a meaningless show of power.

Or was it? He snuck a glance at the Damajah. The woman was not given to empty displays. There were few who could display better, but it was never meaningless.

It mattered little. Abban had delivered the metal, but he had not been idle in locating more, starting with the mine where Rennick first encountered the alloy – a gold mine marbled with veins of silver that still yielded a fair bit of electrum each year. Abban had bought the mine through an intermediary, and throughout Everam’s Bounty his agents were tracking and buying the jewels and coins made from it. Already, he had amassed a considerable amount of the precious metal, using it to replace the retractable blade on his crutch and hammering some into filigree for the weapons and armour of his most trusted kha’Sharum.

The audience was soon over. Ahmann was first to leave, followed quickly by Jayan, Asome, and the Damaji. Abban turned to follow in their wake.

‘Abban,’ the Damajah called, and Abban froze. Ahead, Hasik closed the great doors and stood in front of them with his arms crossed, blocking his path.

Abban turned to watch Inevera descend from the Skull Throne’s dais, his eyes quickly moving to avoid the hypnotic sway of her hips and lock on her eyes.

You have your own beautiful wives, he reminded himself. This one displays her wares openly, but the price of looking is too high.

He bowed. ‘Damajah. How may this humble khaffit be of service to you?’

Inevera drew close to him. She was too close for Hasik to overhear their words, but at her back was Shanvah. By all accounts the kai’Sharum’ting was every bit as deadly as Ahmann’s brutal bodyguard.

‘Have your metalworkers made any further progress?’ Inevera asked. ‘The last batch of alloy they sent was worthless.’

Abban shrugged. ‘Alloying the metals is simple enough, but finding the right mixture is a slow process. The fires of Ala may have introduced agents we have not anticipated.’

‘We need more,’ Inevera said.

‘I see that,’ Abban said. ‘Coating a throne requires a great deal of metal. Will you do the steps next?’

‘What I do with it is not your concern, khaffit,’ Inevera said. Her voice was serene, but there was a warning in it nonetheless.

Abban bowed. ‘As you say, Damajah. Nor is it my concern what you do with your eunuchs, though I am told by the city guard that three of them were found dead, washed up on the shore of the river.’ He smiled at her, and knew immediately he had taken the game too far.

At a gesture from Inevera, Shanvah stepped in. Her punch was little more than a flicker, but pain blossomed in his face and he found himself falling onto his back.

Abban clutched his nose, eyes widening at how quickly his hand was covered in blood. He pulled a kerchief from his vest pocket, but that, too, became saturated. ‘The Shar’Dama Ka has said he will kill any man that strikes me.’

‘Sharum’ting are not men, khaffit.’ Inevera smiled, her full lips turning up beneath her translucent veil as she swept a hand at the chamber doors. ‘But by all means, hobble out and tell Ahmann that you insulted me and I had Shanvah strike you. Let us see what he will do.’

When Abban did not move, she snatched the kerchief from his hand, holding the blood-drenched cloth before his eyes. ‘This is the least of what will happen the next time you are insolent with me.’

Abban swallowed as she and the warrior woman strode into her private pillow chamber. He might not fear the Damaji, but Ahmann’s First Wife was another matter entirely. His plot to install Leesha Paper as her rival had failed, and now he had made an enemy he would wish on no one.

When the door to the pillow chamber closed behind the women, Hasik honked a laugh. ‘Not so bold now, eh, khaffit?’

Abban looked at him coldly. ‘Open the door, dog, or I will tell Ahmann this bloodied nose came from you.’

Rage blossomed across Hasik’s face, soothing the pain in Abban’s own. Abban hid his smile as the huge warrior opened the door. Hasik would come soon to collect payment for the indignity, but this time Abban looked forward to it.

My metalworkers have made another attempt at reproducing the sacred metal, Abban wrote to Ahmann later in the day. Send a strong-backed messenger you trust to retrieve the Damajah’s sample at day’s end.

And Ahmann, as he often did, sent Hasik.

Abban’s daughter Cielvah was working alone in the front of his pavilion in the New Bazaar when the warrior was spotted coming their way. Curfew was looming and the bazaar nearly empty, most of the pavilions and storefronts closed for the night. Abban watched through a pinhole as Hasik entered the tent. Cielvah was young and beautiful, intelligent with skilled hands. She had a bright future, and Abban loved her dearly. Something Hasik had known when he raped her. It was never about Cielvah. It was about hurting Abban.

The girl gasped when she saw Hasik. She scurried behind the counter and down a short hallway where she disappeared through a canvas flap. Like a cat after a mouse, Hasik followed, leaping nimbly over the counter in pursuit and disappearing through the flap an instant after the girl.

Abban heard a door slam, and counted to ten before following, taking his time with the walk. His leg still pained him even after so many years, and he saw no need to tax it.

Hasik was still struggling when he entered the room, shutting the heavy door behind him. The pavilion abutted a large warehouse, and Hasik had unwittingly stepped inside. Two Sharach kha’Sharum had the situation well in hand with their alagai-catchers. The hollow poles were twice the length of Hasik’s arms, threaded with woven steel cable, the end loops tight around his neck. Hasik grasped one in each fist, trying to keep them from tightening, but it was useless against the skilled Sharach warriors. When he pulled they pushed, and vice versa, all the while tightening the cords. Abban watched in pleasure as Hasik’s struggles slowed, and he dropped to his knees, face reddening.

Cielvah came over to him, and Abban put an arm around her. ‘Ah, Hasik, how good of you to visit! I trust you remember my daughter Cielvah? You took her virginity last spring. I have promised her a front seat to what I do to you in return.’

Still unmarried, Cielvah did not have a veil to lift as she spat in the Sharum’s face. Hasik tried to lunge at her, but the Sharach held him fast, choking him back down to his knees. Abban raised a hand, and another of his kha’Sharum, standing invisibly in the shadows, came forward. The Nanji were renowned for their skill at torture, and the small man was no exception. He moved with easy grace, silent as death save for the ring of the sharp, curved blade he drew. Hasik’s eyes bulged at the sight, but he was not allowed air to protest.