‘Because the last girl called by the dice sits before you now as Damaji’ting,’ Kenevah said. ‘It has always been so, since the time of Kaji. The dice indicate you may succeed me.’

‘I will be Damaji’ting?’ Inevera asked, incredulous.

‘May,’ Kenevah reiterated. ‘If you live long enough. The others will watch you, and judge. Some of your sisters in training may try to curry your favour, and others will seek to dominate you. You must be stronger than them.’

‘I—’ Inevera began.

‘But you must not appear too strong,’ Kenevah cut in, ‘or the dama’ting will have you quietly killed before you take your veil, and let the dice choose another.’

Inevera felt her blood run cold.

‘Everything you know is about to change, girl,’ Kenevah said, ‘but I think you will find in the end that the Dama’ting Palace is not so different from the Great Bazaar.’

Inevera cocked her head, unsure if the woman was joking or not, but Kenevah ignored her, ringing a golden bell on her desk. Qeva and Melan entered the chamber. ‘Take her to the Vault.’

Qeva took Inevera’s arm again, half guiding, half dragging her from the couch.

‘Melan, you will instruct her in the ways of the Betrothed,’ Kenevah said. ‘For the next twelve Wanings, her failures will be your own.’

Melan grimaced, but she bowed deeply. ‘Yes, Grandmother.’

The Vault was not in any of the seven wings of the palace. It was set below, in the underpalace.

Like almost every other great structure in the Desert Spear, the Palace of the Dama’ting had as many levels below as above. The underpalace was colder in both temperature and décor than the structure above. There was no hint of the paint, gilding, and polish of the palace proper. Away from the sun, the Undercity was no place for garish displays of luxury. No place to be too comfortable.

But the underpalace still offered more splendour than the few adobe rooms Inevera and her family called home. The soaring ceilings, great columns, and archways gave even the bare stone grandeur, and the wards carved into their faces were works of art. Even away from the sun it was comfortably warm, with soft rugs running along the stone floors, wards stitched into the edges. If alagai somehow entered this most sacred of places, the Brides of Everam were secure.

Dama’ting patrolled the halls, occasionally passing them by. These nodded at Qeva and walked past, but Inevera could feel their eyes boring into her as they went.

They descended a stairwell, continuing through several more passages. The air grew warmer, and moist. Carpets vanished, and the marble floor became tiled and slick with condensation. A burly dama’ting stood watch over a portal, staring openly at Inevera as a cat stares at a mouse. Inevera shuddered as they passed into a wide chamber with dozens of pegs along the walls. Most held a robe and a long strip of white silk. Up ahead, Inevera could hear the sound of laughter and splashing.

‘Take off your dress and leave it on the floor to be burned,’ Qeva said.

Inevera quickly removed her tan dress and bido – a wide strip of cloth that kept the ever-present sand and dust of the bazaar from her nethers. Manvah wore one of black, and had taught Inevera to tie it in a quick, efficient knot.

Melan undressed, and Inevera saw that under her robe and silk pants she, too, wore a bido, but one far more intricate, woven many times over from a strip of silk less than an inch wide. Her head was wrapped in silk as well, covering her hair, ears, and neck. Her face remained bare.

Melan untied a small knot at her chin and began undoing her headwrap. Her hands moved with quick, practised efficiency, reversing what Inevera could see was an intensely complicated weave. As she worked, her hands twisted continually to wrap the silk neatly about them, keeping it taut.

Inevera was shocked to see that the girl’s head was shaved bare, olive skin smooth and shiny like polished stone.

The headwrap ended in the tight braid of silk that ran down Melan’s spine. The girl’s hands continued their dance behind her head, undoing dozens of crossings in the silk until two separate strands reached her bido. Still the acolyte’s hands worked.

It’s all one piece, Inevera realized, staring in awe as Melan slowly unwove her bido. The air of a dance only increased as Melan began to step over the uncrossing strands, her bare feet tamping a steady rhythm. The silk crossed her thighs and between her legs dozens of times, layering weaves one atop another.

Inevera had made enough baskets to know good weaving when she saw it, and this was a masterwork. Something so intricately woven could be worn all day and never come loose, and someone unskilled would likely make a botch of it and never get the weave undone.

‘The woven bido is like the web of flesh that safeguards your virginity,’ Qeva said, tossing Inevera a great roll of thin white silk. ‘You will wear it at all times, save for ablutions and necessaries, done here in the lowest chamber of the Vault. You will not leave the Vault under any circumstances without it, and you will be punished if it is woven improperly. Melan will teach you the weave. It should be simple enough for a basket weaver’s daughter to master.’

Melan snorted at that, and Inevera swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the girl’s bald head as she came over. She was a few years Inevera’s senior, and very pretty without her headwrap. She held out her hands, each wrapped in at least ten feet of silk. Inevera mimicked her, and they stepped over the strip of silk between their hands, bringing it to rest across their buttocks.

‘The first weave is called Everam’s Guardian,’ Melan said, pulling the silk taut and crossing it over her sex. ‘It crosses seven times, one for each pillar in Heaven.’ Inevera copied her, and managed to keep up for some time before Qeva cut in.

‘There is a twist in the silk, begin again,’ the dama’ting said.

Inevera nodded, and both girls undid the weave and started afresh. Inevera knitted her brows, doing her best to mimic the weave perfectly. Kenevah had said Melan would bear the weight of her mistakes, and she did not want the girl punished for her clumsy hands. She managed to keep up all the way to the headwrap before the dama’ting broke in.

‘Not so tight,’ Qeva said. ‘You’re tying a bido, not trying to keep a Sharum’s broken skull together. Do it again.’

Melan gave Inevera a look of annoyance that made her face flush, but again they reversed course, undoing their bidos entirely before beginning anew.

By the third repetition, Inevera had the feel of the weave. Its flow came naturally to her, and soon she and Melan stood in identical silk bidos.

Qeva clapped her hands. ‘There might be something to you after all, girl. It took Melan months to master the bido weave, and she was one of the quicker studies. Isn’t that so, Melan?’

‘As the dama’ting says.’ Melan gave a stiff bow, and Inevera got the sense that Qeva was taunting her.

‘Into the bath with you,’ Qeva said. ‘The day grows long and the kitchens will soon open.’

Inevera’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. It had been many hours since she had eaten.

‘You’ll eat soon enough.’ Qeva smiled. ‘Once you and the other girls finish serving supper and scrubbing out the crockery.’

She gave a laugh and pointed towards the source of the steam and splashing sounds. Melan undid her bido quickly and headed that way. Inevera took longer, trying not to tangle the silk, then followed, her bare feet slapping the tile.