Free The Desert Spear by Peter V. Brett

push back the bright curtain that hung in the doorway, but Jardir grabbed his arm, pulling Abban to face him.
    “So you can embrace pain when it comes to profit, but not to honor?” he demanded.
    Abban smiled. “I am merely practical, my friend. You cannot spend honor.”
    “You can in Heaven,” Jardir said.
    Abban snorted. “We cannot clothe our mothers and sisters from Heaven.” He pulled his arm free and entered the shop. Jardir had no choice but to follow, walking right into Abban, who had stopped short just within the doorway, his mouth hanging open.
    “The shipment is intact,” Abban whispered, his eyes taking on a covetous gleam. Jardir followed his gaze, and his own eyes widened as well. There, stacked neatly upon great pallets, was the most exquisite pottery he had ever seen. It filled the room—pots and vases and chalices, lamps and plates and bowls. All of it painted in bright color and gold leaf, fire-glazed to a pristine shine.
    Abban rubbed his hands together with excitement. “Do you have any idea what this is worth, my friend?” he asked.
    “It doesn’t matter,” Jardir said. “It isn’t ours.”
    Abban looked at him as if he were a fool. “It isn’t stealing if the owners are dead, Ahmann.”
    “It is worse than stealing, to loot from the dead,” Jardir said. “It is desecration.”
    “Desecration would be casting a master artisan’s life’s work into a rubbish pile,” Abban said. “There is plenty of other debris to use in the barricades.”
    Jardir considered the pottery. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will leave it here. Let it tell the story of the craft of this greatest of khaffit, that Everam may look down upon his works and reincarnate his spirit to a higher caste.”
    “What need to tell tales to Everam, if He is all-knowing?” Abban asked.
    Jardir balled a fist, and Abban took a step back. “I will not hear Everam blasphemed,” he growled. “Not even from you.”
    Abban held his hands up in supplication. “No blasphemy intended. I merely meant Everam could see the pottery as well in a Damaji’s palace as in this forgotten workshop.”
    “That may be,” Jardir conceded, “but Kaval said everything must be sacrificed to alagai’sharak, and that means this, too.”
    Abban’s eyes flicked to Jardir’s fist, still tightly closed, and he nodded. “Of course, my friend,” he agreed. “But if we are truly to honor this great khaffit and recommend him to Heaven, let us use his fine pots to carry dirt for the dal’Sharum digging the demon pits. It will put the pottery to work in fighting alagai’sharak, and show Dravazi’s worth to Everam.”
    Jardir relaxed, his fist falling into five loose fingers once more. He smiled at Abban and nodded. “That is a fine idea.” They selected the pieces most suited to the task and carried them back to the camp. The rest they left neatly stacked, just as they had found them.
    Jardir and the others fell into their work, and the two full days and nights passed quickly as the battlefield for alagai’sharak began to form. Each night they took shelter behind their circles, studying the demons and laying their plans. The terraced tiers of the village became a maze of debris piles hiding warded alcoves the dal’Sharum would use as ambush points, leaping out to drive the alagai over the sides into the demon pits, or to net them long enough to trap them in portable circles. Supply depots were warded on every level; there the nie’Sharum would wait, ready to run fresh spears or nets to the warriors.
    “Stay behind the wards until you are called for,” Kaval instructed the novices, “and when you must cross them, do so quickly, heading directly from one warded area to the next until you reach your destination. Keep ducked low behind the wall, using every bit of cover.” He made the boys memorize the makeshift maze until they could find the warded alcoves with their eyes closed, if need be. The warriors would set bonfires to