It was, of course, an elaborate disguise. Once inside, Qeran gaped. Hundreds of chin slaves laboured to haul and mortar fine cut stone into the true wall – already waist-high – just inside the palisade. Others cleared rubble from the remains of the shoddy greenland homes that had previously populated the area. Great pavilions had been raised, some venting great plumes of smoke. The sounds of ringing metal, smashing stone, and shouting workers filled the compound.

‘You’re building a fortress,’ Qeran said.

‘A fortress from which we will arm and armour the forces of Sharak Ka,’ Abban said. ‘A fortress that must be protected, especially now, when it is weakest.’

For perhaps the first time since Abban had come upon him in a drunken stupor, Qeran smiled, his trained eyes dancing along the palisade and the foundation of the inner wall. ‘Leave that to me. Your kha’Sharum will be patrolling in shifts by nightfall.’

‘That will do for now, but it will not be enough,’ Abban said. ‘My agents have purchased many slaves from the auction block, and their labours have made them hard, but they are not warriors. You must train them as well.’

‘I have never been comfortable with Shar’Dama Ka’s decision to arm the chin,’ Qeran said. ‘The Evejah tells us to disarm our enemies, not train them.’

‘Your comfort is irrelevant, Drillmaster,’ Abban said. ‘The Shar’Dama Ka has spoken. These are not enemies, they are slaves, and I do not mistreat them. They sleep in warmth with full bellies, many of them beside their own families, safe from predation.’

‘You are a fool to trust them,’ Qeran said.

Abban laughed in spite of himself, forced to stop walking and clutch his crutch for balance. He wiped a tear from his eye as he looked at Qeran, who scowled, unsure if he were the butt of the joke. ‘Trust?’ He chuckled again. ‘Drillmaster, I do not trust anyone.’

Qeran grunted at that, and they continued their tour. Abban led him to the armourer’s pavilion, where metal rang and the forges burned hot. Even with fanned vents along the walls, the air inside was stifling, thick with smoke, heat, and the steam of quenching troughs. Artisan stalls ran the length of the pavilion – forges of metal or glass, blacksmiths, grinders, woodworkers, fletchers, weavers, and warders.

Each stall was run by several women in the thick black robes of dal’ting, seemingly oblivious to the damp heat. Qeran, too, showed no sign of discomfort, though he had taken on the rhythmic breathing of a Sharum embracing pain.

Abban took a deep breath of the hot, foul air and let out a contented breath, as if tasting the finest tobacco from his hookah. It was the atmosphere of profit.

In the centre of the pavilion were neat, growing stacks of finished products: spears, shields, ladders, hooks and lines, alagai-catchers, as well as the smaller – though no less deadly – weapons Watchers concealed about their persons. Scorpion stingers by the gross, and the giant cart-driven bows to launch them.

The drillmaster selected a spear at random from a pile, setting his peg leg firmly and putting it through a series of spins and thrusts. ‘It’s so light.’

Abban nodded. ‘The greenlanders have a tree called the goldwood, and true to its name, it is worth its weight in precious metal. Goldwood is lighter and stronger than the rattan used for Sharum spears in Krasia, and needs less lacquer to harden the wards carved along its length.’

Qeran tested the tip against the meat of his palm, smiling broadly as the point slid in easily with only the barest pressure. ‘What metal is this, to hold such an edge?’

‘No metal,’ Abban said. ‘Glass.’

‘Glass?’ Qeran asked. ‘Impossible. It would shatter on the first blow.’

Abban pointed to a cold anvil in one of the forge stalls, and Qeran did not hesitate, limping over and bringing the spear down on it hard enough to break even a steel blade. But there was only a ringing in the air, and a notch in the anvil.

‘A trick we learned from the Hollow tribe,’ Abban said. ‘Warded glass – lighter and stronger than steel, and hard enough to hold the sharpest edge. We silver the glass to obscure its nature.’

He took Qeran to another stall, handing him a ceramic plate. ‘These plates are what dal’Sharum currently wear in the pockets of their robes.’

‘I am familiar,’ Qeran said drily.

‘Then you know they break on impact, proof against one blow at most, and often making a powerful hit all the worse with shrapnel,’ Abban said.

Qeran shrugged.

Abban gave him a second plate, this one of clear, warded glass that glittered in the light of the forge. ‘Thinner, lighter, and strong enough to break a rock demon’s claw.’

‘The Deliverer’s army will be unstoppable,’ Qeran breathed.

Abban chuckled. ‘No ordinary dal’Sharum could afford such armament, Drillmaster, but nothing is too good for the Spears of the Deliverer.’ He winked. ‘Or my Hundred. Your recruits will be better equipped than all but the Shar’Dama Ka’s elite.’

Abban saw the glitter of greed that shone in the drillmaster’s eyes at that, and smiled. One more gift, and he will be mine.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘No drillmaster in my employ will hobble on a cheap peg.’

Abban watched in satisfaction as Qeran paced before the khaffit and chin he had selected for training. The drillmaster’s peg had been thrown on the fire, replaced by a curved sheet of warded spring steel. It was simple, elegant, and gave him the potential to regain almost all the combat ability he had lost. He still used his spear for balance, but was becoming more sure-footed by the moment.

The men had been stripped down to bidos, their robes and other clothing burned. The khaffit wore tan, the chin a cloth the colour of green olives.

‘I do not care what titles the paltry excuses for drillmasters in sharaj gave you,’ Qeran shouted. ‘You are all nie’Sharum to me, and will be until you have proven yourselves. If you do well, you will be rewarded. A warrior’s robes and veil. Fine weapons and armour. Better food. Women. If you shame me,’ he stopped, looking just over the heads of the crowd, seeming to stare in all their eyes at once, ‘I will kill you.’

The men stood stock-still, backs arched and chests thrown forward, more than a few sweating and pale, even in the cool morning air. Qeran turned to Abban and nodded.

‘Now,’ Abban murmured to his nephew Jamere, but the young dama was already striding forward. He was tall but not thin, having never partaken in the dietary restrictions of the Evejah. Neither was he fat, moving with the fluid grace that marked Evejan clerics. Jamere had lived in Sharik Hora most of his life, and had copied or pilfered the secret sharusahk manuals of almost every tribe, mastering forbidden techniques. Skills he was all too happy to sell his uncle.

‘Kneel before Dama Jamere!’ Kaval barked, and the men fell immediately to their knees, none hesitating to put their palms in the dust.

Jamere held up his hands. In one, he held the writ Ahmann had signed, and in the other, the Evejah. ‘Loyal nie’Sharum! Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, Shar’Dama Ka and Everam’s voice on Ala, has given you to his servant Abban. It was Abban who brought the Deliverer’s eyes to you, giving men cast from Everam’s light a chance at redemption, a chance to prove your loyalty.’