“Do not be so sure,” Inevera said. “But very well. I will offer something even you cannot refuse.”
“Oh?” Abban seemed amused at the thought. “In the bazaar, those words are a threat, but I think you will find I am not so easily bullied as I may appear.”
“No threats,” Inevera said. “No bullying.” She smiled. “At least not for coercion. They will be a promise, should you break our pact.”
Abban grinned. “You have my fullest attention. What does the Damajah think my heart desires above all?”
“Your leg,” Inevera said.
“Eh?” Abban started.
“I can heal your leg,” Inevera said. “Right now, if you wish. A simple matter. You could throw your crutch on the fire and walk out on two firm feet.” She winked at him. “Though if I know sly Abban, you would limp out the way you came, and never let any know until there was profit in doing so.”
A doubtful look crossed the khaffit’s face. “If such a simple matter, why didn’t the dama’ting heal me when it was first shattered? Why cost the Kaji a warrior by leaving me lame?”
“Because healing is the costliest of hora magics,” Inevera said. “At the time we did not have warded weapons to bring us an endless supply of alagai bones to power our spells. Even now, they must be rendered and treated, a difficult process.” She circled a finger around her teacup. “We cast the dice for you, all those years ago, to see if it was worth the price. Do you know what they said?”
Abban sighed. “That I was no warrior, and would provide little return on the investment.”
Inevera nodded.
Abban shook his head, disappointed but unsurprised. “It is true you have found something I want. I do not deny this is something my heart has longed for.”
“Then you accept?” Inevera asked.
Abban drew a deep breath as if to speak, but held it instead. After a moment, he blew it out, seeming to deflate as he did. “My father used to say, Love nothing so much you cannot leave it at the bargaining table. I know enough of the ancient tales to know that magic always has its price, and that price is ever higher than it appears. I have leaned on my crutch for twenty-five years. It is a part of me. Thank you for your offer, but I fear I must refuse.”
Inevera was becoming vexed and saw no reason to hide it. “You try my patience, khaffit. If there is something you want, be out with it.”
The triumphant smile that came over Abban’s face made it clear this was the moment he had been waiting for. “A few simple things only, Damajah.”
Inevera chuckled. “I have learned nothing is simple where you are concerned.”
Abban inclined his head. “From you, that means everything. First, the protection you offer must extend to my agents, as well.”
Inevera nodded. “Of course. So long as they are not working counter to my interests, or caught in an unforgivable crime against Everam.”
“And it must include protection from you,” Abban went on.
“I am to protect you from myself?” Inevera asked.
“If we are to work together,” Inevera noticed he did not say that he would work for her, “then I must be free to speak my mind without fearing for my life. Even when it is not things you wish to hear. Especially then.”
She will tell you truths you do not wish to hear, the dice had once told Inevera of her mother. There was value in an advisor like that. In truth, there was little value in any other kind.
“Done,” she said, “but if I choose not to act on your advice, you will support my decisions in any event.”
“The Damajah is wise,” Abban said. “I trust she would not act wastefully once I have given her the costs.”
“Is that all?” Inevera asked, knowing it was not.
Abban chuckled again, refilling their teacups. He took a flask from the inner pocket of his vest and added a splash of couzi to the drink. It was a test, Inevera knew, for the drink was forbidden by the Evejah. She ignored the move. She hated couzi, thought it made men weak and foolhardy, but thousands of her people smuggled the tiny bottles under their robes.
Abban sipped at his drink. “At times I may have questions.” His eyes flicked to the hora pouch at her waist. “Questions only your dice can answer.”
Inevera clutched the pouch protectively. “The alagai hora are not for the questions of men, khaffit.”
“Did not Ahmann pose questions to them daily?” Abban asked.
“Ahmann was the Deliverer …” Inevera caught herself, “… is the Deliverer. The dice are not toys to fill your pockets with gold.”
Abban bowed. “I am aware of that, Damajah, and assure you I will not call upon you to throw them frivolously. But if you want my loyalty, that is my price.”
Inevera sat back, considering. “You said yourself magic always comes with a price. The dice, too, can speak truths we do not wish to hear.”
“What other truth has value?” Abban asked.
“One question,” Inevera said.
“Ten, at least,” Abban said.
Inevera shook her head. “Ten is more than a Damaji has in a year, khaffit. Two.”
“Two isn’t enough for what you ask of me, Damajah,” Abban said. “I could perhaps manage with half a dozen …”
“Four,” Inevera said. “But I will hold you to your word not to use this gift frivolously. Waste the wisdom of Everam with petty greed and rivalries, and every answer will cost you a finger.”