Peter Brett – The Daylight War (страница 33)

Finally, Qeva seemed satisfied. She grunted and began to ring the cymbals in a continuous pattern, snapping her hips to match. Inevera fell into the rhythm, and soon it was second nature. She found herself smiling.

But then the dama’ting began to move, stepping around her dais with lithe grace, never ceasing the rhythm of the cymbals or her hips. It was beautiful. Mesmerizing. And when Inevera tried to imitate her, she walked right into Melan, bringing them both down in a heap.

‘Idiot!’ Melan snapped.

Qeva leapt from the dais, slapping Melan hard on the face, her cymbals rang with the impact. ‘The fault is yours, Melan! The Damaji’ting assigned you to teach her the ways of the nie’dama’ting! What have you taught her? She did not know so much as cobra’s hood or the first turn of the hips.’

She lifted a finger and put it in Melan’s face. ‘You must learn to take your responsibility seriously. Until Inevera can keep pace with the class, you are denied the Chamber of Shadows.’

All the other girls gasped, and Melan’s eyes bulged.

‘Point those wilful eyes at me a moment longer,’ Qeva said, ‘and you will find yourself living in the great harem, a plaything of the Sharum.’

Melan dropped her eyes, bowing deeply. ‘Yes, Dama’ting.’

After sharusahk, the girls lined up by the kitchens where a pair of aging eunuchs gave each a ladle of thin porridge. Inevera could see in the eyes of Melan and the other girls that they meant to shove her to the back of the line, so she gave way freely. There was nothing to be gained in pointless confrontation. It was best to appear meek as she learned the ways of the nie’dama’ting.

Inevera’s bowl was less than half full, the final watery remains of the porridge pot. Even so, she barely had time to gulp it down before Melan came for her.

‘It is nearly dawn,’ Melan said. ‘The dama’ting leave for the pavilion shortly, and Nie take us if we are late.’

‘The pavilion?’ Inevera asked.

Melan looked at her as if she were an idiot. ‘The Sharum will be returning from the Maze at dawn, and the injured are taken to the pavilion. We assist the dama’ting in the healing.’

Inevera remembered the screams of injured Sharum filtering through the canvas walls the day before, and imagined men all around her, covered in blood, howling as she helped the dama’ting cut and stitch their flesh.

She felt suddenly dizzy, and her face flushed hot. The thin porridge rose back up her throat.

Melan slapped her hard in the face. Porridge and bile flew in a spray, spattering the stone floor as the crack echoed off the chamber walls. Every girl in the room looked up at that, their gazes cold. There were no dama’ting present, and the eunuchs were mute as ever.

‘Everam’s balls, find your centre!’ Melan snapped. ‘The dama’ting take nothing so seriously as the healing. Already the Chamber of Shadows is denied me. If so much as a drop of Sharum blood falls because of your weakness, the dama’ting will have it from my hide a hundredfold.’ She moved in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘And if that happens, I will cut off your nipples and make you eat them.’

Inevera stared at her as the words sank in. Melan gave her no time to respond, grabbing her arm and pulling her back towards the Vault. The girls quickly washed their hands and faces, donning their white robes and lining up once again. Melan led the way back to the Vault doors, where they met the dama’ting who guided them out of the palace and through the Undercity to the catacombs beneath the Kaji dama’ting pavilion, where they waited for the dama to sing the dawn from the minarets of Sharik Hora.

Assisting the dama’ting in their healing was every bit as bloody and horrid as Inevera had feared. Her ears rang with the shouts and screams, half from Sharum too lost in agony to embrace their pain, and half from Melan and the dama’ting, cursing her slowness.

Once, while carrying a jug of instruments soaking in a harsh fluid that made couzi smell mild, she tripped and spilled a few drops. Melan punched her full in the face for that, with Qeva and another dama’ting looking on. Neither woman said a word, more interested in the instruments Inevera carried than her swelling cheek.

On the table before them, a warrior thrashed and flailed as they tried to cut the black robes away from a deep gash in his abdomen. The Brides tossed shattered bits of ceramic armour plates into a palm basket where they clattered, wet with blood.

Qeva threw a pair of silk cords to Melan. ‘Pin him.’

Melan took one of the cords, handing the other to Inevera. ‘Be swift, and do exactly as I do.’ She wound the cord around her fists with perhaps a forearm’s length between.

Inevera had no time to ponder those instructions before Melan moved in, impossibly fast and graceful as she wrapped the cord around the warrior’s wrist, twisting back and using leverage to hold his arm out straight. He tried to resist, but Melan knew the angles where his arm was weakest and kept control.

‘Now!’ she shouted, as the man grabbed at her awkwardly with his other hand. Inevera rushed in, attempting to do as Melan had. She caught the Sharum’s wrist in a twist of silk, but she did not know precisely where to step or how to shift her weight as Melan had. The warrior caught her with a backhand blow that made Melan’s punch feel like a kiss.

Inevera hit the floor hard and Qeva hissed, stabbing two stiffened fingers into the man’s shoulder joint. His arm spasmed and lost its strength long enough for Inevera to recover her cord and pin him once more. Qeva glared at Melan in irritation, and Melan in turn glared at Inevera silently as they held the warrior prone. The dama’ting forced a sleeping draught down his throat, and he soon went limp. The Brides began to cut, oblivious to the blood and other, fouler fluids that stained their pristine white robes.

‘This will not do,’ Qeva said after a time.

‘He needs hora magic, if he is to survive,’ the other Bride agreed. She looked at Melan. ‘Take him to the catacombs.’

Melan nodded, and she and Inevera heaved at the poles of the stretcher that hung limp at the sides of the operating table. The warrior easily outweighed the two girls combined, but Inevera was no stranger to hard work, and her steps did not falter. Asavi scurried ahead to open the trapdoor, and the dama’ting led them down into the darkness.

Asavi waited until Inevera and Melan had descended the steps, then pulled the door shut behind them, leaving them in perfect pitch until Qeva produced her glowing bit of demon bone, lighting the way to a stone chamber with another operating table. There was a steel door cut into the rock wall, and Qeva took a key from around her neck and opened it, revealing what looked like an assortment of coal lumps and blackened bones. Alagai hora. She selected a modestly sized lump and closed the door with a click as the locking mechanism re-engaged.

‘Suction,’ Qeva said, and Melan fetched a device of tubes and bellows, operated by a foot pedal. Inevera pumped the pedal evenly as Melan inserted one of the tubes into the warrior’s open wound, siphoning the blood into a glass chamber.

The dama’ting cleaned the edges of the wound, first clearing the blood and then shaving the surrounding area. As they worked, Asavi prepared brushes and a bowl of ink.

‘Inevera, step close,’ Qeva said. Asavi took her place at the pedal, and Inevera approached the Brides, taking care to stay out of their way.

Qeva did not look at her as she spoke. ‘First, the siphon ward, drawn at the north edge of the wound.’ She dipped a brush in the ink and drew a strange symbol. Inevera watched intently, expecting the ink to glow, but there was no effect. ‘Next, the wards for strength, endurance, and blood.’ She drew quickly, moving her brush clockwise along the Sharum’s flesh, putting wards at each compass point around the wound.

‘Now they must be connected,’ Qeva said, drawing the same ward four times in the gaps between the others, forming an octagon.

When she was done, she gestured to the other dama’ting, who held forth the lump of demon bone from the cabinet. As soon as the bone was brought close to the wound, the wards Qeva had drawn did indeed glow, flaring fiercely to life.

‘The wards are not magic,’ Qeva said, ‘but they leach magic from the demon bone and turn the alagai’s power to Everam’s purpose.’

As Inevera looked on open-mouthed, the Sharum’s flesh began to knit back together, the wound closing like two cupped hands of water brought together as one. In moments the wound was gone without so much as a scar. The new flesh looked paler, untouched by the sun or ever-blowing sands, healthier even than the skin around it.

‘Praise be to Everam,’ Inevera whispered, awestruck. ‘With such magic, no Sharum need ever die again.’

Qeva shook her head sadly. ‘If only it were so. Even hora magic cannot cure the most serious wounds, and such power is not without its price.’ She gestured to the lump of demon bone, which was crumbling away in the other dama’ting’s hand. ‘Healing is the most taxing of magic, and not used lightly. The alagai may be an endless scourge, but harvesting their bones is costlier in lives than the bones can save. We must use the power sparingly.’