Many of the Krasians had already gathered, including the Damaji in their canopied palanquins and many Sharum and dama. Three wooden posts had been erected in the circle, but there were no shackles or ropes to be seen.

There was a commotion and the crowd turned to see Jardir enter the circle, followed by Inevera on her palanquin and his other wives in tow. Leesha counted fourteen of them, but had no idea if that was all. They came and stood next to Leesha and the Hollowers, close enough for Leesha to smell the Damajah’s perfume.

Jardir walked to the posts, waving his hand at the Spears of the Deliverer. The three dal’Sharum needed no urging and no escort, walking out into the square and stripping to the waist. They knelt and touched their foreheads to the cobbles before Jardir, then stood and wrapped their arms around the poles with nothing to hold them in place. The one whose arm Wonda had broken had the limb in a white cast.

Jardir reached into his robe, pulling free a three-tailed whip of braided leather, with sharp pieces of metal woven into the last few inches of each tail.

“What is that?” Leesha asked Abban. She was expecting Jardir to use a simple horsewhip. This seemed more brutal by far.

“It is called the alagai tail,” Abban said. “A dama’s whip. They say being struck by it is like the lash of a sand demon’s tail.”

“How many strokes will they each get?” Leesha asked.

Abban laughed. “As many as they can stand for. Sharum are whipped until they lose their grip on the pole and fall.”

“But…that could kill them!” Leesha said.

Abban shrugged. “Sharum are great warriors, but not known for their intelligence or instinct for self-preservation. They think it a test of manhood to endure as many strokes as possible. Their brethren will be betting to see who endures longest.”

Leesha scowled. “I will never understand men.”

“Nor I,” Abban agreed.

It was brutal to watch, each strike of the alagai tail leaving bright lines of blood on the backs of its victim. Jardir gave each man a stroke before returning to the first, but Leesha didn’t know if it was a kindness, or an attempt to keep them from growing numb to it. She flinched with every blow, feeling as if it were striking her, too. Tears streaked her face, and she wanted nothing more than to flee the awful scene as the backs of the men became huge open wounds that showed their ribs to the world. None of them even cried out or had the sense to fall.

At one point she looked away and saw Inevera watching the proceeding with utter calm. She saw Leesha looking her way, and sneered at the tears on her face.

Something broke in Leesha then, a flare of anger acting as a ward against the suffering of the men. She straightened her back, dried her eyes, and watched the rest of the whipping with the same cool detachment the Damajah showed.

It seemed to go on forever, but at last one of the warriors fell, and then another. Leesha saw warriors exchanging coins over the results, and wanted to spit. When the last man fell, Jardir nodded to her, and Leesha rushed out to the men, pulling out the thread, salves, and bandages she had prepared. She hoped she had enough.

Jardir thumped his spear, making her glance up at him.

“Spread the word to all who would see paradise at the end of the lonely path!” Jardir bellowed, his voice booming through the circle and into the streets. “Any woman who takes a demon in alagai’sharak shall be Sharum’ting, and have all the rights of Sharum accorded her!”

A shocked murmur ran through the assembled warriors, and Leesha saw horrified faces on dama and Sharum alike. Angry protests began, but Jardir silenced them with a roar.

“If any oppose this decree tonight,” he said, baring his teeth, “let them step forward. I promise a quick death with honor. To any who oppose my word tomorrow, I will not be so lenient.” There were many scowling faces in the crowd, but none foolish enough to step forward.

The next day, Abban arrived in the courtyard of the Palace of Mirrors with a dal’Sharum at his side. The warrior’s red night veil was around his shoulders, and his black beard was shot through with gray. There was nothing else remotely weak about the man, but Leesha was still surprised. Few of the Krasian warriors seemed to live long enough for their beards to be touched with gray at all. He walked proudly, but his hard face was pinched, as if he was biting back a scowl.

“May I present Gavram asu Chenin am’Kaval am’Kaji, Drillmaster of the Kaji’sharaj,” Abban said. The warrior bowed at the introduction, and Leesha spread her skirts and dipped a curtsy in response.

The warrior said something in Krasian, too fast for Leesha to follow, but Abban was quick to interpret. “He says, ‘I am here at the Deliverer’s command to train your warriors for alagai’sharak.’ Drillmaster Kaval was instructor to the Shar’Dama Ka and myself when we were in Sharaj,” Abban added. “There is no one better.”

Leesha’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Abban, searching for the elusive truth in the practiced smoothness of his face. He was crippled in sharaj, after all.

Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Do you wish to train?”

Kaval and Abban had a short exchange, again speaking so fast that Leesha, despite understanding many of the words, could still not follow. Abban seemed to argue a point, but Kaval balled a fist, and the khaffit bowed in submission.

“The drillmaster asks that I tell your warriors their wishes are irrelevant. The Shar’Dama Ka has given a command, and it will be followed.”

Leesha scowled and opened her mouth, but Gared cut her off. “S’all right, Leesh.” He put up a hand. “I want to learn.”

“Me, too,” Wonda said.

Leesha nodded and stepped aside as Kaval beckoned the two forward for examination. He grunted in approval at giant Gared, but seemed less impressed with Wonda, though she was as big and strong as most dal’Sharum. He then came back to Leesha.

“I can make a great warrior of the giant,” Abban translated, “if he is disciplined. The woman…we shall see.” He did not look hopeful.

The drillmaster stepped back into the courtyard, his movements quick and graceful. He looked at Gared and barked a command, thumping his chest.

“The drillmaster would like you to attack him,” Abban supplied.

“Din’t need you to translate that,” Gared said. He stepped forward, towering over the drillmaster, but Kaval seemed unimpressed. Gared roared and attacked, but his punches, careful though they were, met only air. He lunged to grapple and found himself on his back a moment later. Kaval twisted his arm until Gared screamed, and then released him.

“He will be even harder on you,” Abban advised Wonda. “Steel yourself.”

“Ent afraid,” Wonda said, stepping forth.

Wonda lasted longer than Gared, her moves smoother and quicker, but the outcome was never in doubt. Twice, Wonda’s blows came close enough that the drillmaster required contact to block them, but he responded once with a backhand to her jaw that sent her reeling and spitting blood, and the next time with a heavy blow to the stomach that doubled the girl over as she vomited the air from her stomach.

Kaval caught her arm before she could recover and twisted her to the cobbles. Wonda kicked him in the face as she went down, connecting solidly, but Kaval was unfazed, his mouth widening to a smile as he twisted her arm. Wonda’s face grew pale and she gritted her teeth, but she refused to cry out.