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carefully to install Ashan, but once the reins were passed it would still be his voice, not hers, that led their people. Ashan was not as wise—or as pliable—as Ahmann.
    Abban was in an even worse position. Formidable though his kha’Sharum were, the crippled merchant would be lucky to live another day once his enemies ceased to fear Ahmann’s wrath should he be harmed. Not long ago the thought of his death would have pleased her greatly. Now she needed him. The khaffit knew every last draki in the Deliverer’s treasury, every debt of the throne, every grain in his silos. More, Ahmann trusted him with schemes and secrets he did not even share with the Damaji. Troop movements. Battle plans. Targets.
    The fat khaffit’s smile as he limped into her audience chamber showed he knew her need, Everam damn him.
    At Abban’s back was the giant kha’Sharum bodyguard that had become his shadow in recent weeks. The deaf man who had been one of the first to answer the Deliverer’s call. He had given up his weapons to enter, but seemed no less formidable as he loomed over the khaffit’s shoulder. Abban was not a short man, even stooping to lean on his crutch, but his bodyguard stood head and shoulders above him.
    “I commanded we meet in private, khaffit, ” Inevera said.
    Abban bowed as deeply as his camel-topped crutch allowed. “Apologies, Damajah, but the dal’Sharum no longer have Ahmann to hold their leash. Surely you will not deny me a modicum of security? Earless is deaf as a stone, and will hear nothing of our words.”
    “Even a deaf man may hear,” Inevera said, “if he has eyes to watch a speaker’s mouth.”
    Abban bowed again. “This is so, though of course the Damajah’s veil prevents this, even if my humble servant had learned the art, which I swear by Everam he has not.”
    Inevera believed him—a rare occurrence. Her own eunuch guards had given up their tongues to protect her secrets, and she knew Abban would value a man who could not overhear and be made to betray his many intrigues. Still, it was best not to yield too much.
    “He may guard the door,” Inevera said, turning to saunter to the pillows on the far side of the chamber with a swing to her hips. Abban had never dared ogle her before, but she wondered if he might now, with Ahmann gone. That would be something she could use. She glanced over her shoulder, but Abban was not looking. He made a few quick gestures to the giant, who moved with a silent grace that belied his great size to stand by the door.
    Abban limped over, easing himself carefully down onto the pillows across from her. He kept his inviting smile in place, but a flick of his eyes at his bodyguard betrayed his fears. He knew Inevera could kill him long before the giant could cross the room, and even Earless would fear to strike the Damajah. She could kill the kha’Sharum as well, in any of a hundred ways—not the least of which was a whisk of her fingers to her own bodyguards, Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah, hidden just out of sight.
    There was a silver tea service between them, the pot still steaming. At a nod from her, the khaffit poured and served.
    “You honor me with your summons, Damajah.” Abban sat back with his cup. “May I ask the reason why?”
    “To offer you protection, of course,” Inevera said.
    Abban looked sincerely surprised, though of course it was an act. “Since when does the Damajah place such value upon poor, honorless Abban?”
    “My husband values you,” Inevera said, “and will be wroth if you are dead upon his return. You would be wise to accept my help. The dice tell me your life will be short indeed without it. My sons hate you even more than the Damaji, and that is a very great deal. And do not think Hasik has forgotten who cut his manhood away.”
    Inevera had expected the words to rattle the khaffit. She had seem his cowardice reveal itself in the face of danger before. But this was the bargaining table, and Abban knew it.
    He has a