CHAPTER 7

THE EUNUCHS

334 AR

A stab of pain between his legs woke Abban from one of the rare lapses of consciousness that passed for sleep in his new reality. He sat up from the cold ground with a start, his foot joining the agony as he squinted in the firelight.

Hasik took his cock first. Abban had steeled himself, knowing it was coming, but nothing could truly prepare a man for that. He did it with his teeth, and made Abban watch.

Abban begged Everam to let him bleed out, or take a fever and die, but warriors of Hasik’s experience knew their way around wounds. He’d tied it off first, and burned the end.

Dampness between his thighs made Abban think the wound had reopened. His chains clinked as he scrambled to undo the drawstring of his ragged pants and check.

Abban might have prayed for death while it was going on, but now, cock or no cock, he meant very much to live. He pulled back the cloth. There was no fresh blood on the bandages, but they were stained yellow and soaking.

It was nothing new. Abban now pissed through a hollow needle punched into the charred flesh. He had no control, bladder draining steadily throughout the day. He was always wet between the legs now, and stank of piss.

Hasik laughed from the other side of the fire. “You’ll get used to it, khaffit. So used to wet pants they will grow as comfortable as dry. So used to the smell of your own piss you will sniff the air and smell nothing even as everyone around you complains of your stink.”

“That’s hopeful, at least,” Abban said, retying his pants. It wasn’t as if he had anything to change the dressing with. For now he would have to endure the wet.

“Enjoy it while you can, khaffit.” Hasik waved at the lightening sky. “The sun will rise soon. How many has it been?”

Abban grit his teeth, but he knew better than to fail to answer. Hasik fed on his pain and anguish like Sharum fed on magic. But while a certain amount of torture was inevitable, there was nothing to be gained in making it worse.

“Fourteen,” Abban said. “A holy number. Fourteen days since you murdered the Deliverer’s son.”

Hasik laughed. He did so often now, his mood more jovial than Abban had ever seen. “And yours. No doubt you thought the poisoned blade at the end of your crutch was clever. How did it look shoved up Fahki’s ass while he foamed and shook?”

He chuckled again as Abban swallowed, uncharacteristically finding himself with no reply.

There was a crackle of magic and a flash of light. A lone wood demon paced the perimeter of their circle, searching for openings where none were to be found. Even the dimmest Sharum had the basic circle of protection beaten into his head by the time he earned his blacks, and Hasik was turning out to be brighter than he let on.

Hasik lay back on his saddle, hands behind his head. An empty bottle of some chin spirit lay beside him. His cold eyes followed the demon as it paced.

“Why not kill it and have done?” Abban asked. “Isn’t that what Sharum live for?”

Hasik spat in the demon’s direction. “All those years in sharaj and you never learned anything about us, did you, khaffit?”

“I learned that you love carnage more than you hate the alagai,” Abban said. “That you prefer weak foes to strong, particularly the soft chin. But drunk or not, I did not think you a coward, afraid of a single demon.”

He expected the words to get a rise from Hasik, but the warrior was unmoved. “I fear nothing, but I am through with Everam’s foolish war.”

“Now, with Sharak Ka nigh?” Abban probed. Hasik seemed to be in a rare moment of introspection. Perhaps he might learn something of use. Crippled, he could not flee Hasik. His only choice was to find a way to manipulate the warrior into keeping him alive until new opportunities presented themselves.

“The Deliverer was to lead us in Sharak Ka,” Hasik said. “But Ahmann was cast down in shame, and his son was pathetic. Who does that leave? Even if the rumors are true and the Par’chin is still alive, I’ll go to the abyss before I follow him.”

He swept a hand at the demon, watching their words with the blank stare of a camel. “I will fight demons when there is something to gain, but I am through killing them for Everam’s sake. What has the Creator ever done for me?”

Abban shook his head. “If the Creator exists, He is not without humor, that only now should we begin to understand each other.”

“Perhaps it is because we both lack cocks now.” Hasik smacked his lips. “I tell you, khaffit, that was the sweetest meat I ever tasted. I’m tempted to carve off more.”

“No doubt it’s all the pig I’ve eaten,” Abban said. “If you’ve truly turned your back on Heaven and look to the pleasures of Ala, there is none greater.”

Hasik laughed. “Bold words, khaffit. I doubt any meat can give greater pleasure than I had atop your wives and virgin daughters.”

“As you say, those days are behind us both,” Abban said. “We are eunuchs now, and must take pleasure where we can. Find me a pig, and I will prepare a meal you will never forget.”

“You’ve tried to poison me for years,” Hasik said. “What makes you think you’ll be more successful now?”

It was true. When they were boys together in sharaj, Hasik beat Abban regularly. Once, Abban paid him back with a drop of sandsnake venom in his gruel. Not enough to kill, but Hasik spent a week embracing pain above the waste pits.

There was no proof it was Abban, but Hasik was no fool. The beatings worsened. After that fateful week, Abban tried countless times to poison Hasik in a more permanent fashion, but the big warrior had learned his lesson. He ignored the food lines, simply picking another warrior at random and taking his bowl at mealtime.

Even among the dal’Sharum, where pride often took the better part of good sense, few dared rise to the challenge. Those who did—often at a bribe from Abban—were gleefully broken in front of the other men.

“You have always been difficult to kill,” Abban admitted. “But that is no reason to stop trying.”

“You are not utterly without spine, khaffit, even if you fear to strike at me yourself.” Hasik spread his arms. “When you are ready, come at me. I will allow you one free blow. You may even poison it, if you wish. I will still have time to gouge your eyes and feed them to you. Still time to suck the tongue from your mouth and bite it off.”

Abban turned out his damp pockets, chains clinking. “I have no poison in any event. But Everam my witness, I can roast a pig that will dizzy you and set your mouth to water at just the smoke. Pigskin hardens into a cracking shell, slick with grease, and the flesh beneath will make you wish you had renounced Heaven sooner.”

“Everam’s beard, khaffit!” Hasik cried. “You’ve convinced me! Today we will find a pig and roast it to commemorate our first fortnight together.”

Hasik reached into his wide belt, producing a small hammer. “But first, there is our dawn prayer.”

The wood demon faded to mist and slipped back to the abyss as they talked. Now the sun crested the horizon, and Hasik at last got to his feet.

The hammer—no Sharum weapon—was a simple worker’s tool stolen casually as they fled the ruin of Jayan’s army after the Battle of Angiers. A lump of iron at the end of a stout stick.

But Hasik wielded that hammer like a dama’ting’s scalpel. He twirled it absently in his fingers, limbering them as he came to kneel by Abban’s feet.

“Please,” Abban said.

“What will you offer me today, khaffit?” Hasik asked.

“A palace,” Abban said. “One to put the greatest Damaji to shame. I will empty my coffers and build towers so high you can speak to Everam.”

“I speak to Him daily,” Hasik said.

The foot of Abban’s crippled leg still had its boot, but the other was long gone, his foot too swollen to fit the leather. Hasik had wrapped the foot in rags to keep it from freezing, though Abban welcomed the numbness of cold over the fresh pain each morning.

“Everam, giver of light and life,” Hasik drew a ward in the air, “I thank you this and each day forward for delivering my enemy unto me. I sacrifice him to you as I promised long ago, one bone at a time.”

Abban howled as Hasik grabbed the purple, bloated appendage, pinning it while he searched for an unbroken bone. He had crushed the toes, then moved on to the bones of Abban’s instep, slowly making his way toward the ankle. Abban never dreamed there were so many bones in a human foot.

“Quit whining, khaffit,” Hasik said with a grin. “Sharum break toes every day with little more than a grunt. Wait until I start on your leg. Your hip. Wait until I take your teeth.”

“It would be more difficult to have these lovely conversations,” Abban said.

Hasik laughed as he brought the hammer down. The pain was unbearable, and as his vision began to close in, Abban welcomed oblivion like a lover.

Abban slowly regained consciousness, slung over the back of Hasik’s great charger like a sack of flour. The beast’s every step sent waves of dizziness and nausea through him to accompany the ever-present pain.

He gave in to it for a time, weeping. He knew the sounds were like music to Hasik, but Abban had never embraced pain as easily as a Sharum.

Still, even the worst pains became bearable over time, especially in the numbing cold. Eventually, the nausea subsided and Abban came back to himself enough to feel the sting of a snowflake striking his cheek.

He opened his eyes, seeing flurries blowing in the wind. North of them great clouds were gathering. There would be a storm soon.

They were making their way along the Old Hill Road, a paved Messenger road that once connected the Free Cities of Thesa to the chin city of Fort Hill, lost nearly a century ago to the alagai. Prince Jayan had used the highway—abandoned for most of its length—to move his warriors north to attack Fort Angiers.

It felt like riding through a tomb. Jayan sacked the Angierian hamlets and farms along the road, their burnt remnants standing in judgment over Abban, who had encouraged the foolish prince in his mad plan.

Hasik spat. “Pigs everywhere in the green lands, until you want to eat one.”

“Turn left at the next fork,” Abban said.

Hasik looked back at him. “Why?”

Chains clinked as Abban gestured at a distant line of smoke drifting above the trees. “Jayan kept his foragers within a mile or two of the road, but my maps show Messenger paths to hamlets and isolated farmsteads beyond his reach.”

“Good news,” Hasik said. “I may not need to cut anything off you for my supper.”

“I fear you would find it all marble and little meat in any event,” Abban said.

Hasik chuckled as he turned his charger onto the dirt path leading into the woods. Trees were thick on either side, and even in daytime they rode in shadow deep enough to have Abban wary of alagai.

They encountered several farms along the way, oases of cleared land amid the forest. Each was a wreckage, burned out and abandoned, livestock taken and fields picked clean.

Abban was not surprised. Thousands of dal’Sharum, Jayan’s finest, were lost in the slaughter at the gates of Fort Angiers. When the defeat became known, the chi’Sharum turned on their masters or fled, and the remains of Jayan’s army, perhaps ten thousand Sharum, scattered to the wind. Everam only knew if they would re-form into any sizable force, but there were doubtless enough deserters to plague the chin lands for years.

“The chin flame weapons allowed them to hold the gate,” Hasik said, “but they do not have the strength to guard their lesser wells.”

“Yet,” Abban said.

“Today is all that matters, khaffit,” Hasik said. “Tomorrow I may yet see how much meat is truly on your bones.”

The next farm they came upon was not deserted. Abban smelled smoke, but it was not the acrid stench of all-consuming flame. This was sizzling fat and Northern spices, woodsmoke from a warm hearth.

But it was not Northerners they encountered. At least not entirely. Two Sharum moved along the fences protecting the fields and yard, keeping the wards clear of snow. Others stood over a handful of chin working in the yard. They leaned casually on their spears, but the greenlanders were wise enough not to test how quickly they could be put to use. There was noise from the house and the stables.

“They look to be settling in,” Abban said.

“We were not made for these Northern winters, khaffit,” Hasik said, though Abban had never seen him show the slightest bother at the cold.

“Perhaps it would be wise to…” Abban began, but Hasik ignored him, kicking his charger into a trot.

Hasik had opened the gate and ridden into the yard before there was a shout. Nine Sharum came running out to surround his horse, a circle of spears pointed inward.

Hasik spat on the ground. “No one on watch. Who leads this rabble?”

“We’ll have your father’s name first, warrior,” one of the Sharum said. He was bigger than the others and had an air of command about him, though the veil around his neck was as black as any other.

“I am Hasik asu Reklan am’Kez am’Kaji.”

“Jayan’s dog,” the lead warrior said, “left with no one to heel.” The others laughed.

Hasik joined their laughter. “True enough, though I have my own dog now.” He swept a hand over Abban.

All eyes glanced his way, and Abban wilted further under the collective stare. No doubt the men had only just noticed him. Sharum focused foremost on potential threats.

“The Deliverer’s khaffit,” the first warrior said. “Not so proud anymore. Is it true he can turn sand and camel shit to gold?”

“Indeed he can,” Hasik said. “He can sell water to the fish men, and wood to cutters.”

The warrior tilted his head, meeting Abban’s eyes. “It did not save him.”

Hasik showed his teeth. “Nothing could, on my day. Now we have given our names. I ask again for yours.”

“Orman asu Hovan am’Bajin,” the man said. “Welcome to my csar. It is no prince’s palace, but there are slaves and food is plentiful.”

“The Bajin are not returning to Everam’s Reservoir?” Hasik asked.

“Not these Bajin,” Orman said. “Who leads there, now? Qeran? I’ve no desire to become a privateer and spend my life on the water.”

“The monastery, then,” Hasik said. “Dama Khevat still rules there?”

Orman shook his head. “For now, perhaps, but he hasn’t the men to hold it. The fish men will be eager to reclaim the monastery with Jayan’s forces broken. It is the key to striking at Everam’s Reservoir. Why spend a week walking that freezing, demon-infested highway to join a hopeless battle when there is warmth and comfort here? The green lands are soft and ripe for plunder.”

“Wise words.” Hasik glanced about the yard. “Do you have pigs?”

Orman nodded. “The chin slaves eat them. Need to feed your khaffit?”

“He can feed off his fat,” Hasik said. “I thought I would taste one, myself.”

“If that is your wish,” Orman said, “providing you can pay. We have women, as well. Chin women, not much to look at, but under the veils one is as good as any other, yes?”

One of the men whispered in Orman’s ear. The warrior tossed his head and barked a laugh, then met Hasik’s eyes. “They remind me Jayan’s dog was gelded. Women not much good to you, are they?”

Abban tsked, shaking his head. “You will regret that, son of Hovan.”

The man glanced at him. “What…?”

But then he was gasping and doubling over, grasping at the handle of the knife Hasik had thrown, embedded now in his crotch.

The other warriors surged in. They speared Hasik’s charger in the throat, but Hasik wore armor of warded glass beneath his robes, and their weapons skittered off. He was rolling off the beast, spear in hand, even as it reared. Abban was thrown clear, landing heavily on the ground in a blast of pain.

Hasik was a blur amid the warriors. Then the warriors were a blur.

Then everything went dark.

Abban woke on a hard wood floor. A fire burned in the hearth a few feet away, stealing the numbness from his wounds and bringing back the pain afresh. There was a woman bent over him, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth.

“You’re alive.”

“I am alive,” Abban agreed. “Though at the moment I wish otherwise.”

“Well I thank the Creator for it,” the woman said. “The new master said any who die will be guided on the lonely path by my family.”

Abban squinted in the light. “New master? Hasik?”

The woman nodded. “He killed three of the Bajin. Cut the stones from the rest.” She spat. “No less than they deserve.”

“The change in rule may seem a relief now,” Abban said, “but you may come to think the Bajin a blessing by comparison.”

“There are no blessings left for us,” the woman said, “in this age of false Deliverers. All we can hope for is to survive.”

“There is always hope in survival,” Abban said. “I have glimpsed the lonely path more than once, but here I lie, still breathing on Ala.”

“The master says you are his chef,” the woman said. “The men will slaughter a pig for you to roast. A celebration for his new tribe.”

“A tribe of eunuchs.” Abban attempted to sit up. “I don’t suppose you have something I can use to poison the meat?”

“If we had, I’d have used it long ago.” The woman held out a hand to pull him to a sitting position. “I’m Dawn.”

“A beautiful name,” Abban said. “I am Abban asu Chabin am’Haman am’Kaji. I’ll need your help if I am to prepare a feast. I fear I will not be able to stand without crutches, and poorly even then.”

“We have a chair with wheels my grandfather used before he passed,” Dawn said.

“Creator be praised,” Abban said. “If you can help me into it, I would thank you. If Hasik wants a feast, we would be wise not to keep him waiting.”

Dawn nodded, leaving the room briefly and returning with the wheeled chair. It was handmade and crude, but sturdy enough to hold Abban’s considerable bulk.

“How many warriors does Hasik have now?” Abban asked as she wheeled him to the kitchen. Three women, one older and two younger, were already at work preparing the evening meal. A few had bruises, and all kept their eyes down.

“Six still able to fight,” Dawn said, “though all walk tenderly now. Two more with broken bones. Three left out in the snow.”

A shriek and a flash of light drew Abban’s attention to the window. It was dark, with snow blown up against the panes. No doubt the Sharum were out clearing the area of demons, eager for the healing magic to soothe their wounded groins.

They won’t grow back, Abban wanted to tell them. Magic would heal the wounds and broken bones, but it would not grow back what was severed.

“And your family?” Abban asked.

“Seven.” Dawn nodded to the other women. “My mother and daughters, my son-in-law, my husband and father-in-law.”

“Did the Bajin kill anyone?” Abban asked, reaching out to sniff at the spices on the rack.

Dawn shook her head. “They didn’t speak a word of Thesan, but it was clear they wanted slaves, not killing.” One of the younger women sobbed at that, and her sister moved to comfort her.

“Survival is hope,” Abban said.

“You’re not like the others,” Dawn said. “You and the new master speak our language, and they treat you…”

“I am khaffit,” Abban said. “A coward. In the eyes of warriors, I am worth no more than you. It will be all our lives if the feast is not satisfactory. Let us look at the pigs.”

Abban shivered as Dawn wheeled him out into the evening snow, crossing the lamplit yard to the slaughterhouse. Sharum flitted about in the darkness beyond, illuminated here and there in a flash of wardlight.

The Bajin had killed most of the other animals, but the pigs they disdained. There were seven of them, fat and healthy. Abban’s mouth watered at the sight.

These will sell for a thousand draki apiece, to the right buyer. He shook his head at the useless thought. The bazaar was far away, and it was inevera whether Abban would ever see it again.

Live in the now, he reminded himself, or there will be no future.

Three chin men were in the slaughterhouse, all of them bruised and moving stiffly. Two were in their prime, the other older but still sturdy.

“That one.” Abban pointed to the best of the lot. The plump young hog squealed as the chin men slaughtered it. Abban left the men to the work, Dawn pushing him back to the kitchen that they might plan a menu.

Hasik found them in the yard. “It is good to see you awake, khaffit. I have not forgotten your promise to me.” He seemed almost jovial, as if every man he gelded lessened his own shame that much more.

“I always keep my promises,” Abban said. “It will take a night and a day to roast the pig properly.”

Hasik nodded, touching the diamond in the center of his kai’Sharum turban. There was a kernel of demon bone within, and when next he spoke, his voice boomed through house, yard, and barn. “The Eunuch tribe fasts until sunset! Any caught touching food before I give word at tomorrow’s feast will lose his tongue as well as his cock.”

“You’ll recall how such taunts ended for me,” Abban noted.

Hasik shrugged. “One day I will be weak, and man or alagai will kill me. Until then, I am strong, and will taunt as I please.” He looked out into the night. “Already the wounds to their flesh have healed. A fast and a feast will help them begin to accept their new lives.”

Abban nodded. “The kai is wise. It will be a meal they never forget.”

“It had better,” Hasik said, “Or the chin women will roast you next.”

Abban passed out in the barn, cradled by the wheeled chair, basking in the heat of the coals and the scent of roasting pig. It was the closest he’d been to comfortable in all the weeks of his captivity.

Which only made the white-hot spike of agony that woke him all the worse.

His eyes snapped open to see Hasik kneeling before him with his small hammer, dawn light coming through the barn door. While Abban slept, he had freed the khaffit’s foot from the chair, placed it on a block, and broken another bone for Everam.

Hasik laughed as Abban screamed. “I never tire of that sound, khaffit! I want you to know what it means to wake in anguish every day.”

“You…” Abban coughed.

“What was that, khaffit?” Hasik asked.

“…didn’t…” Abban labored for breath, every word heavy on his tongue. “…even…let…me…offer…my…bribe.”

Hasik smiled. “Was it a good one?”

Abban nodded. “A…pleasure even the…Damaji fear to…indulge.”

Hasik stood, crossing his arms. “This I must hear.”

“A dozen heasah,” Abban said. “Chosen because they look nearly identical to the Damajah, to pillow dance for you.”

Hasik grew red in the face, and Abban realized his mistake. “And what am I to do with heasah, without my cock?”

“There are straps heasah sometimes wear, to simulate having a man’s spear,” Abban said. “I did not lie when I said I could give you a cock of gold, smoother, larger, and stiffer than the real thing ever was.”

“If I wanted to shame myself with such a harness, it would not be the Damajah I would wish to fuck.” Hasik leered at him. “No, it would be you I make howl, khaffit. Louder even than your daughters and wives.”

He stuck the hammer back in his belt. “Now get back to making my feast.”

Everam, if I but had a drop of tunnel asp venom, Abban thought, but he knew it was a lie. Here, crippled deep in the green lands with Sharum deserters looting and pillaging, he would be a fool to poison Hasik. The powerful kai’Sharum was his only hope for survival until they reached Krasian lands or Abban’s network in the Hollow.

“Better a bone at a time than a spear in the back, or a chin noose around my neck,” he muttered.

And so he roasted the pig with utmost care, glazing the skin to a hard, delicious shell connected to the moist, hot meat by a melted layer of fat. He directed the women as well, teaching them to roll couscous and prepare dishes suited to Krasian palates. There was a Bajin pea dish that could be reasonably approximated with Northern corn, and Abban had them make it in plenty to honor Hasik’s new men.

Hasik was in good spirits throughout the day. Abban made sure the chin fasted as well, and the smells teased everyone at the farm. By sunset, even the Bajin seemed eager when they were called to the table.

The Sharum had taken a pair of Northern feasting tables and cut the legs short, laying them end-to-end. Hasik was already kneeling upon a bed of pillows at the table’s head when the others arrived. “Orman.” He gestured to the single pillow to his right. The Bajin leader glared at him but wasn’t willing to challenge Hasik again. He knelt, eyes down. The other warriors followed suit, kneeling on the bare floor four to a side.

When the warriors settled, Hasik pointed to the foot of the table. “Chin.”

The three Angierian men kept their distance, circling out of reach until they knelt together at the foot of the table, tense with fear.

The Bajin scowled, and Orman spoke up. “We are to sup with chin?”

Hasik’s hand was a blur, gripping the warrior’s beard and pulling hard, smashing his face into the table. He roared and struggled, but Hasik kept the thick hair in his fist, holding him prone until he calmed.

“Perhaps you thought kneeling at my right gives you leave to question me.” Hasik said. “Do you still succor such foolish thoughts?”

Orman shook his head slowly. “No.”

“No?” Hasik asked.

“No, master,” Orman said.

Hasik grunted, letting go his beard and acting as if nothing had happened. “Sharum sit.”

The warriors shifted from kneeling to sitting with military skill. How many hours had they spent drilling it in sharaj? The chin stayed on their knees as Abban had instructed, setting them apart. The Bajin seemed mollified at this.

No place for me, Abban noted, pleased to be relegated to the kitchen, invisible. He sent the women back and forth, filling the table with steaming platters that held the attention of the hungry men. They inhaled deeply, tasting with their noses as mouths began to water.

At last they wheeled the animal out, still dripping on the spit. The melting fat pooled in a tray beneath the succulent beast.

“Prepare your bellies for a wonder you have never dreamed of,” Abban said, smiling at the looks the men cast the pig. Even mighty Sharum could be ensorcelled by the scent of pork. His own belly groaned and grumbled, desperate to partake.

“Come and sit behind me at my left while I taste this wonder, khaffit,” Hasik said.

“The kai honors me,” Abban said.

“Nonsense,” Hasik said. “I merely wish to ensure you continue your fast. You are too fat, Abban. You will see it is for your own good.”

Abban was so hungry he would have sacrificed another bone for a taste of pork, but it was pointless to argue. Orman, Hasik would settle for humiliating. If Abban questioned him in front of the men, Hasik would have no choice but to kill him.

Or worse, Abban thought. He took a deep breath. For now, he was worth less than a warrior, but once Hasik tasted the pig, Abban knew his value would soar.

Still Hasik did not give permission to eat. He clasped his hands and closed his eyes. The others at the table immediately did likewise.

“Blessed Everam,” Hasik said, “He who honors the strong. We thank you for the feast before us. It may be against your law to sup on the flesh of pigs, but you have shown me your laws are for the weak.”

He paused. “I was weak, once. Driven by pleasures of the flesh even when they brought pain and misfortune upon me again and again. I made the weakest part of me my ruler.” He straightened. “Now that part of me is severed, and I am free at last. Free to see the world around me without weakness. I see for the first time the grains in the dunes, and know I am stronger for it.”

He looked at the Bajin. “No doubt you would all put a spear in me given the chance, but you will see now how you, too, are free. How we have become strong.”

He looked to Orman. “Are there other Sharum in the area?”

Orman nodded. “A dozen Khanjin have taken a farm down the road.”

“You and your men will soon have a chance to visit your shame on your night brothers.” Hasik smiled. “You will find nothing eases your torment like sharing it.”

The Bajin remained grim-faced, but Abban could see the words stoked a new hunger in their eyes. Hasik was not wrong.

Hasik looked at the chin, switching to their language. “Everam smiles on you, chin. In the new order, even you may claim honor. The choice is yours. You can be slaves, or you can learn to fight and join us.”

The younger men froze, turning to look at their patriarch. He hesitated, but only for a moment. He bowed as Abban taught him, placing his hands on the floor and touching his forehead between them.

“We will fight.”

“Then let us seal it with a feast!” Hasik called. He lifted the haunch Abban had carved him, and the skin crackled as he bit into it and tore away a mouthful of flesh. His eyes widened, and then it was chaos as the men tore into the food.

Abban watched in pain as they stuffed themselves, but he kept his mask in place, giving Hasik a look pathetic enough to satisfy him as he mocked the starving khaffit with his glistening fingers and lips.

There was Northern ale, and it flowed freely as they ate. Soon the Bajin were laughing, and even the chin seemed to relax. When the plates had been emptied and filled and emptied again, they began to slow, eating more for pleasure than hunger. Hasik lounged back on his bed of pillows as they sang warrior songs.

At last the women cleared the empty bowls and carcass from the room, and Hasik looked at the chin.

“You have eaten of my pig,” he said. “There is only one more thing keeping you from joining the Eunuchs.”

The chin looked at one another in confusion as Orman laughed, drawing a knife.