She grunted, pretending to be mollified. “Enough time wasted. Tell me everything you recall about the attack.”
“Seventeen dead in the blast, a dama among them,” Abban said. “Another forty-three wounded, along with severe structural damage to the temple. Many of the heroes’ bones adorning its walls were destroyed.”
“How is that even possible?” Inevera asked. “The blast was in broad daylight—it could not have been hora magic.”
“I believe the chin used thundersticks to effect the blast,” Abban said.
“Thundersticks?” Inevera asked.
“Chin flamework,” Abban said. “Ours is mostly liquids and oil, but the chin have powders. Mostly just light and noise for celebration, but rolled with paper into sticks, they are useful in mining and construction. I have seen Leesha Paper use them to great effect against the alagai.”
Inevera scowled, forgetting herself for a moment. She quickly put her mask back in place, but no doubt the khaffit had said the name intentionally, and watched for her reaction.
“You risk more using that name than you did approaching my pillow chamber unannounced,” she said. “Do not think me such a fool as to miss your hand in my husband’s indiscretions with the Northern whore.”
Abban shrugged, not bothering to deny it. “Leesha Paper is the least of the Damajah’s worries now.”
If only, Inevera thought. “I want detailed notes on the making of these flamework weapons.”
Abban blew out a breath. “That will be a problem, Damajah. I have a few of the sticks themselves, confiscated from the mining operations we took over when the Deliverer claimed Everam’s Bounty, but their making remains a mystery. The chin custom is for their Herb Gatherers to pass the information orally to their apprentices rather than write it down.”
“And none of your bribes and spies have been able to turn one of them into giving up the formula?” Inevera asked. “I’m disappointed.”
Abban shrugged. “It is a rare skill, even amongst the Gatherers, and all deny the knowledge. They are not such fools as to think we won’t turn it against them.”
“I will give you writs of arrest,” Inevera said. “If the women will not respond to bribes, then question them harder. And bring me samples of these thundersticks. This is too powerful a weapon for the chin to hold over us.”
Abban nodded. “Treat them with utmost care, Damajah. Two of my men were killed in a blast when they tried to move a batch that had lain too long in storage.”
“Do we have any suspects in the crime?” Inevera asked.
Abban shook his head. “The flamework has a short fuse, but none were seen running from the building prior to the blast. There were chin amongst the dead. One of them must have lit the fuse and martyred himself.”
“The chin have steel in them, after all,” Inevera said. “A pity they waste it in Daylight War and not alagai’sharak.”
“The Damaji will not stand for this,” Abban said. “Everam’s Bounty will run with blood.”
Inevera nodded. “More will flock to Jayan. There will be no stopping his Sharum from taking control of the city.”
“For its own protection,” Abban said, sarcasm more in his aura than his words.
“Just so,” Inevera agreed.
“All the more reason to send him away,” Abban said.
Inevera looked at him curiously. She would like nothing more, but what could … ? There. She saw it in his aura. Clever Abban had a plan. Or at least, he thought he did.
“Out with it, khaffit,” she snapped.
Abban smiled. “Lakton.”
This was his plan? Perhaps Inevera gave the khaffit too much credit. “You cannot possibly think Lakton is still a priority, with Ahmann gone and a rebellion just outside the palace walls.”
“All the more reason,” Abban said. “The Laktonians make their harvest tithe to the duke in barely more than a fortnight. We need that harvest, Damajah. I cannot stress that enough. If the alagai continue to strike our food supply, it may be the only thing that keeps our armies intact through the winter. The preparations have all been made.”
“And how am I supposed to convince the Sharum Ka and Damaji to send their warriors on a week’s hard march with Sharik Hora still aflame?” Inevera asked.
“Pfagh.” Abban pointed to Inevera’s hora pouch. “Wave the dice around and tell them the dockmasters are behind the attacks. Demand that your eldest son go forth as Everam’s hammer to crush them and take the city.”
Inevera raised an eyebrow. “You suggest I mislead the council of Damaji about what I see in the sacred dice?”
Abban smiled. “Damajah, please. Do not insult us both.”
Inevera had to laugh at that. She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to like the khaffit. The idea had merit.
She reached into her pouch for the dice with her left hand, drawing her curved dagger with her right. “Hold out your arm.”
The khaffit paled visibly, but he did not dare refuse. When the hora were wet with his blood, he watched in horrified fascination as she shook them and they began to glow.
“Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. Should we follow the khaffit’s plan and attack the city on the lake?”
The dice flared as she threw, spinning out of their natural trajectory as the magic took them. It was a familiar sight to Inevera, but Abban gaped as she scanned the symbols for an answer.
—Unless given something to fight, the Sharum will tear themselves apart.—
A surprisingly clear answer, for the dice had been opaque of late, but vexing all the same. They stopped short of endorsing the move.
She shook again. “Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. Will an attack on Lakton be successful?”
—The city on the lake will not fall easily, or without wisdom.—
Inevera stared at the symbols. Wisdom was not easily found in the armies of the Deliverer.
“What do they tell you?” Abban asked.
Inevera ignored him, gathering the dice. “This still leaves us with a rebellion on our hands, and a risk that Jayan will return with increased glory and an even stronger claim to the throne.”
Relief flooded Abban’s aura. He believed her convinced. “You will have an easier time rooting out the rebels with Jayan far away. A chance to secure your own power.” He grinned. “Perhaps we will be lucky, and he will catch a stray arrow.”
Inevera slapped him, her nails drawing blood as the fat khaffit was knocked from the pillows. He held his face in pain, eyes wide with fear.
Inevera pointed at him, calling a harmless but dramatic flare of wardlight from one of her rings. “However he may vex me, have a care when you speak of my oldest son, khaffit.”
Abban nodded, rolling to his knees with a wince and putting his forehead on the floor. “I apologize, Damajah. I meant no offense.”
“If I regret this decision even a little, khaffit, you will regret it ten thousandfold. Now be gone from here. The council will meet soon, and I will not have you seen skulking from my chambers.”
The khaffit gathered his crutch and limped from the room as quickly as his lame leg would allow.
When the door closed behind him, she bent to the dice again. She had not cast for her husband’s fate in over a day, but it would have to wait longer still. With this latest attack and Abban’s mad plan, it was easy to forget it was the first day of Waning. If it was anything like the last, her people would be lucky to survive without Ahmann.
“Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your children need guidance. What will Waning bring to Everam’s Bounty this night, and how can we prepare?”