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Jardir beckoned to Abban amid the confusion, gesturing for his friend to take the place behind him in line.
    'Hey!' cried Jurim, the next boy in line, but Jardir glared at him and he backed off, making room for Abban.
    Kaval kicked at Shanjat. 'On your feet, rat!' he shouted. 'Your legs aren't broken, so don't expect to be carried to the dama'ting after being bested by a boy half your size!' He grabbed Shanjat's good arm and hauled the boy to his feet, dragging him off toward the healing pavilion. The boys still in line hooted and catcalled at his back.
    'I don't understand,' Abban said. 'Why didn't he just yield''
    'Because he's a warrior,' Jardir said. 'Will you yield when the alagai come for you''
    Abban shuddered at the thought. 'That's different.'
    Jardir shook his head. 'No, it isn't.'
    Hasik and some of the other older boys began training on the Maze walls not long after Jardir lost his cast. They lost their bidos in the Maze a year later, and those who survived, Hasik among them, could be seen strutting about the training grounds in their new blacks, visiting the great harem. Like all dal'Sharum, they had as little as possible to do with nie'Sharum after that.
    Time passed quickly for Jardir, days blending together into an endless loop. In the mornings, he listened to dama extolling the glories of Everam and the Kaji tribe. He learned of the other Krasian tribes and why they were inferior, and why the Majah, most of all, were blind to Everam's truths. The dama spoke, too, of other lands, and the cowardly chin to the north who had forsaken the spear and lived like khaffit, quailing before the alagai.
    Jardir was never satisfied with their place in the gruel line, always focused on moving up to where the bowls became fuller. He targeted the boys ahead of him and sent them to the dama'ting pavilion one by one, always bringing Abban in his wake. By the time Jardir was eleven, they were at the front of the line, ahead of several older boys, all of whom gave them a wide berth.
    Afternoons were spent training or running as practice targets for dal'Sharum netters. At night, Jardir lay on the cold stone of the Kaji'sharaj floor, his ears straining to hear the sounds of alagai'sharak outside, and dreaming of the day he might stand among men.
    As Hannu Pash progressed, some of the boys were selected by the dama for special training, putting them on the path to wear the white. They left the Kaji'sharaj and were never seen again. Jardir was not chosen for this honor, but he did not mind. He had no desire to spend his days poring over ancient scrolls or shouting praise to Everam. He was bred for the spear.
    The dama showed more interest in Abban, who had letters and numbers, but his father was khaffit, something they did not take to, even though the shame did not technically carry to a man's sons.
    'Better you fight,' the dama told Abban at last, poking his broad chest. Abban had kept much of his bulk, but the constant rigor of training had hardened the fat to muscle. Indeed, he was becoming a formidable warrior, and he blew out a breath of relief when it became clear he would not be called to the white.
    Other boys, too weak or slow, were cast out of the Kaji'sharaj as khaffit' forced to return to the tan clothes of children for the rest of their lives. This was a worse fate by far, shaming their families and denying them hope of paradise. Those with warrior's hearts often volunteered as Baiters, taunting demons and luring them into traps in the Maze. It was a brief life, but one that brought honor and entrance into Heaven for those otherwise lost.
    In his twelfth year, Jardir was allowed his first look at the Maze. Drillmaster Qeran took the oldest and strongest of the nie'Sharum up the great wardwall'a sheer thirty feet of sandstone looking down on the demon killing ground that had once been an entire district of the city, back in ancient times when Krasia was more populous. It was filled with the remnants of ancient hovels and