I must speak with the Damaji’ting, her hands said.

Enkido bowed. I will inform her, mistress, his hands replied. He knocked at the door, and entered upon a call from Kenevah. A moment later he re-emerged.

The Damaji’ting bids you wait here in the vestibule. He gestured towards a silken divan. May I provide you some refreshment?

Inevera shook her head, dismissing him with a whisk of her hand. The eunuch resumed his marble-like stance outside Kenevah’s door. Inevera was left waiting – in comfort, but full view of any passerby – for almost an hour.

Inevera gritted her teeth. More useless tea politics. Kenevah was not in audience with anyone. She was simply making Inevera wait, publicly, to illustrate that she could.

At last there was a ringing of bells, and Enkido signalled her to enter. Inevera moved through the portal, and the eunuch closed it behind her. Inevera bowed deeply. The Damaji’ting’s office windows were covered in thick velvet curtains, allowing no natural light. Wardlight kept the room aglow.

‘You do not often grace my doorway, little sister.’ Kenevah regarded her with unreadable eyes.

‘There have been pressing matters to attend, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said, ‘and your time is too valuable to waste.’

‘Pressing matters,’ Kenevah grunted. ‘May I ask what those are? Your skills are second to none, and yet you spend little time in the palace, or at court. Even in the healing pavilion, you give only the time required of you and not an instant more. My informants have spotted you all over the city, even in territory controlled by other tribes.’

I’ve been blooding boys, searching for more like Ahmann, Inevera thought.

– Deliverers are made, not born—

She shrugged. ‘I would know the Desert Spear and its people, that I might better serve them.’

‘It gives poor appearances,’ Kenevah said, ‘and it is dangerous to set foot in the territory of other dama’ting.’

‘More dangerous than walking these very halls?’ Inevera asked.

Kenevah pursed her lips. It was not a signal that she had ordered the attempts on Inevera’s life, but it was a clear sign that she was aware of them. ‘If my time is so precious, what brings you to me now?’

Inevera bowed. ‘I have decided to marry.’

Kenevah raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Have you, now? And who is this fortunate dama? Khevat, perhaps? Or will you marry Baden, since you seem to have no real interest in male company?’

Inevera’s throat tightened. Kenevah did indeed have spies everywhere, but how much had she guessed? Her spell to restore her maidenhead was likely still a secret, but Inevera could not hide the fact that no eunuchs were allowed in her chamber save those too old to use their spears. Nie’dama’ting did most of her attendance. It had given her a reputation for liking young girls abed.

‘It is not a cleric, Damaji’ting,’ Inevera said. ‘He is Sharum.’

‘Sharum?’ Kenevah asked in surprise. ‘Curiouser still. The boy you had shuttled into Sharik Hora?’

For an instant Inevera’s dama’ting calm slipped, and she feared her eyes had told Kenevah much when the old woman laughed. ‘Do you think me a fool, girl? Even if you hadn’t caused one holy stench in the Kaji palace after refusing the boy the black, your hours spent haunting the catacombs to observe his training were obvious to all.’

Kenevah held up her hand, holding an ancient set of dice. ‘And I have bones of my own.’

Inevera’s fingers itched to reach for her hora pouch. Her most powerful bones could send a blast of magic at the old woman, killing her instantly. Black veil or no, with no other called by the dice, Inevera could immediately lay claim to the Damaji’ting’s throne, though she would likely have to kill Qeva and a few others to hold it.

I have bones of my own, Kenevah said. It was a reminder of her ability to foretell, but a threat as well. Inevera had a handful of hora she had collected since taking the veil. Kenevah likely had hundreds. No doubt she was protected in ways Inevera could not see, and a failed assassination attempt could have only one result.

She relaxed, and Kenevah nodded, slipping her dice back into their pouch. ‘You did not consult me on the match.’

‘I consulted the dice,’ Inevera replied.

A flash of anger crossed Kenevah’s eyes, though it never touched her face. ‘You did not consult me. What if you read the dice wrong? No Damaji’ting has married in a thousand years. Everam is our husband. Do you truly have no interest in my office?’

‘There is nothing in the Evejah’ting that says I cannot take the black headscarf if I marry,’ Inevera said. ‘That it is rare is irrelevant. The dice have instructed me to bear him sons, and I shall, in accordance with Evejan law.’

‘Why?’ Kenevah demanded. ‘What makes this man so special?’

Inevera shrugged and gave a slow smile. ‘The Evejah’ting says that the right wife is what makes a man special.’

Kenevah’s eyes darkened. ‘Off with you then, if my counsel means so little. I’d thought to guide you in your role as heir, but I can see my time is better spent looking for poison in my tea … or preparing my own.’

Inevera felt stung, but there was nothing for it. That the Damaji’ting was aware of Ahmann at all was a danger. She could say nothing without risking further scrutiny of the man.

Ahmann gripped Inevera’s hand tightly as he led the way to their wedding chamber. She went willingly, but it seemed he would drag her if she did not keep his frantic pace. He moved like a wolf that knew it was being stalked as it brought a kill back to the den.

The men saw this as eagerness, cheering him on as he drew his new bride to the bedchamber and shouting crude suggestions. Warriors loved to boast their sexual exploits, thinking themselves djinn simply for being able to make a woman grunt.

But countless pillow dancing classes had taught Inevera to see and exploit inexperience in a man. Ahmann was still a boy in that regard. He had never so much as seen a woman unclad, much less shared a kiss or caress. He was terrified.

It was adorable.

They were both virgins of a sort, but while Ahmann had no idea what to expect in the pillows, Inevera knew they were going to her place of power. She knew the seven strokes and the seventy and seven positions. She would dance and weave him into her spell, coaching him on to glory without ever letting on that he was not in control.

– Make him a man—

They reached the perfumed and pillowed chamber, carefully prepared by the Brides. Incense smoke scented and thickened the air, and candles cast a dim, flickering glow. There was a broad area of floor for her to dance in, surrounding a pile of pillows on all sides. She would toss him into those pillows, and he would be hers, caught like a fly in a spider’s web.

Inevera smiled beneath her veil as she drew the heavy curtains behind them. ‘You seem ill at ease.’

‘Should I be another way?’ Ahmann asked. ‘You are my Jiwah Ka, and I do not even know your name.’

Inevera laughed. She did not mean it cruelly, but it was clear from the look on Ahmann’s face that he took it as such, and she immediately regretted it.

‘Do you not?’ she asked, slipping off her veil and hood. Since becoming a dama’ting she had regrown her hair, which hung long and thick in ebony waves, banded with gold. Her bido wrap was now secured at her waist alone.