“We will divide the city by tribe, and set each Damaji to oversee excavation of his section, advised by his most learned dama and Warders. Every relic uncovered is to be catalogued and presented to me each day.”

Ashan nodded. “It shall be made so, Deliverer,” he said, and he moved off to instruct the other Damaji.

Over the next week, the tribes ransacked the ancient city, breaking through walls, looting tombs, and removing whole sections of warded walls and pillars. There had been little sign of the Par’chin’s passing when they arrived, but the Krasians took no such care to leave the city intact. Rubble piled everywhere, and whole sections of street and buildings collapsed as the tunnels beneath them were compromised.

Each afternoon, the Damaji came before Jardir and piled high their findings. Hundreds of new wards, many of them designed to harm demons or to create other magical effects. Painted weapons and armor, mosaics, and paintings of ancient battles, some even of Kaji himself.

Each night, they fought. Demons still came thick to the city, and as the sun set Jardir’s men put aside their work and took up spear and shield. With powerful wards on even the weakest kha’Sharum’s spear, the alagai died by the thousands, and soon there were none left to haunt the sacred sands. Sharum continued to patrol, but it seemed the city was scoured clean, like a sign from Everam of the rightness of their path.

“Deliverer,” Ashan said, entering the tent with Asome and Asukaji. “We’ve found it.”

Jardir had no need to ask what “it” was, putting down his maps of the green lands and throwing on his white robe. He had not yet made it to the tent flap when Inevera appeared at the head of his dama’ting wives, their very presence confirming Ashan’s claim. The women fell silently in behind as he walked through the city.

“Which tribe had the honor?” Jardir asked.

“The Mehnding, Father,” Asome said. He was sixteen now, a man in his own right, and moved with the grace one expected of a sharusahk master. His soft voice seemed all the more dangerous coming from the tall, lean frame in its white robe, like a spear wrapped in silk.

“Of course,” Jardir muttered. How fitting that his least loyal Damaji should find the tomb of Kaji.

Enkaji was waiting with Jardir’s Mehnding son Savas, still in his nie’dama bido, when they arrived.

“Shar’Dama Ka!” the Damaji cried, prostrating himself on the dusty floor of the burial chamber. “It is my honor to present Kaji’s tomb to you.”

Jardir nodded. “Is it intact?”

Enkaji stood, sweeping his arm out toward the great sarcophagus, the stone lid of which had been removed.

“The Par’chin did his looting well, I’m afraid,” Enkaji said. “The spear is missing, of course, but you have reclaimed that.” He gestured to the dusty rags worn by the skeleton within. “If ever these scraps were the sacred Cloak of Kaji, I cannot say.”

“And the crown?” Jardir asked as if the item were of no import, though all knew it was.

Enkaji shrugged. “Taken. The Par’chin—”

“Didn’t have it with him when he came to the Desert Spear,” Jardir cut him off.

“He must have hidden it somewhere,” Enkaji said.

“He’s lying,” Abban whispered in Jardir’s ear.

“How do you know?” Jardir asked.

“Trust a liar to know,” Abban said.

Jardir turned to Hasik. “Seal the tomb,” he commanded. Hasik signaled the Sharum in the hall, and they heaved the great stone back into place.

“What is this?” Enkaji asked as the torchlight from the hall winked out. Only a few guttering torches ensconced in the tomb still gave flickering light.

“Put them out,” Jardir ordered. “The Damajah will cast the bones to learn who has stolen Kaji’s crown.”

Enkaji paled, and Jardir knew then that Abban had spoken truth. He advanced on the Damaji, backing him up until his back struck the tomb wall.

“For every minute that the crown is not in my hands,” he promised, “I will castrate one of your sons and grandsons, starting with the eldest.”

Moments later Jardir held the Crown of Kaji, found in the burial chamber of one of Kaji’s great-grandsons.

It was a thin circlet of gold and jewels, worked into a pattern of unknown wards that formed a net around the wearer’s head. It seemed delicate, but all Jardir’s strength couldn’t make the slightest bend in the gold.

Inevera bowed and took the crown, slipping it over his turban. Though light as a feather, Jardir nevertheless felt a great weight lay upon him as it settled at his brow.

“Now, we can invade the green lands,” he said.

SECTION 2

OUTSIDE FORCES

CHAPTER 12

WITCHES

LEESHA’S PARENTS’ HOME CAME into sight. It was a modest house, considering her father’s means, but it served her family well enough, built against the back wall of her father’s paper shop. The path leading to the front door was warded.

Not that Rojer was paying much attention. He walked slightly behind Leesha, so he could gaze at her without her noticing. Her pale skin was a sharp contrast to her night-black hair, and her eyes were the color of sky on a clear day. His eyes drifted over her curves.

Leesha turned to him suddenly, and Rojer started, quickly raising his eyes.

“Thanks again for doing this, Rojer,” Leesha said.

As if Rojer could refuse Leesha anything. “It’s hardly a chore to sit through a meal, even if your mother’s cooking could try a coreling’s teeth,” he said.

“For you, maybe,” Leesha said. “If I show up alone, she ’ll plague me until I’m ready to spit over when I’m going to find a husband. With you there, she may at least cover her fangs. Perhaps she ’ll even take us for a pair and draw off entirely.”

Rojer looked at her, his heart stopping. He slipped into his Jongleur’s mask, face and voice betraying not a bit of what he was feeling, and asked, “You wouldn’t mind your mother thinking us a pair?”

Leesha laughed. “I’d love it. Most of the town would accept it, too. Only you and Arlen and I would know how ridiculous it is.”

Rojer felt like she had slapped him, but his heart resumed beating, and with his mask in place Leesha noticed nothing.

“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Rojer said, changing the subject.

“Arlen?” Leesha asked, and Rojer winced. “Arlen! Arlen! Arlen!” she said, laughing. “It’s just his name, Rojer. I’m not going to pretend he doesn’t have one, however mysterious he wants to seem.”

“I say let him seem as he likes,” Rojer said. “Arrick always said, if you rehearse an act you never mean the audience to see, sooner or later they’ll see it. All you need is one slip, and his name will be on every lip in town.”

“So what if it is?” Leesha asked. “The ‘Painted Man’ isn’t comfortable in town because folk treat him differently. Admitting he has a name might go a ways toward fixing that.”

“You don’t know what he’s left behind him,” Rojer said. “Could be some folk might get hurt if his name got out, or others might come hunting him with some account to settle. I know what it’s like to live like that, Leesha. The Painted Man saved my life, and if he doesn’t want his name out, I mean to forget I know it, even if it means giving up the song of the century.”

“You can’t just forget things you’ve learned,” Leesha said.

“Not all of us have as much space upstairs as you,” Rojer said, tapping his temple. “Some of us fill right up, and forget the old things we have no use for.”

“That’s nonsense,” Leesha said. Rojer shrugged.

“Anyway, thank you again,” Leesha said. “I’ve no end of men volunteering to stand in front of demons for me, but not one who’ll stand in front of my mother.”

“Reckon Gared Cutter would do both,” Rojer said.