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any vulnerable spots—eyes, throat, gut—as he went.
    Finally in position, Jardir caught Shanjat’s right arm and twisted it behind him, driving his full weight into the older boy’s back with both knees. When he felt the elbow lock, he braced it on his own shoulder and heaved the arm upward.
    “Aaahhh!” Shanjat cried, and Jardir knew it would be a simple thing now to break the boy’s arm, as Hasik had done to him.
    “You were saving my place, were you not?” Jardir asked loudly.
    “I will kill you, rat!” Shanjat screamed, beating the dust with his free hand as he twisted and thrashed, but he could not dislodge Jardir.
    “Say it!” Jardir demanded, lifting Shanjat’s arm higher. He felt the strain in that limb, and knew it could not withstand much more.
    “I would sooner go to Nie’s abyss!” Shanjat cried.
    Jardir shrugged. “Bones become stronger after being broken. Enjoy your stay with the
dama’ting.
” With a heave, he felt bone snap and muscle tear. Shanjat screamed in agony.
    Jardir stood slowly, scanning the gathered boys for signs that another meant to challenge him, but while there were many wide-eyed stares, none seemed ready to avenge Shanjat, who lay howling in the dust.
    “Make way!” Drillmaster Kaval barked, pushing through the crowd. He looked to Shanjat, then to Jardir. “Hope for you yet, boy,” he grunted. “Back in line, all of you,” he shouted, “or we’ll empty the gruel pot in the waste pits!” The boys quickly flowed back to their places, but 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