Part 2 of story started in the preceding message

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Abada shook his head in disbelief as he listened to the front door close.

"I have never seen anything like that, Khavar. Washing away a debt of
seventy thousand lances by selling all you own in order to free your
ushdar. You are very lucky to have your money back--Eshqi would have
been quite within his rights to keep it and invest it."

Khavar shrugged nonchalantly.

"After a man has been in your household for five years, and has saved
your life at least once, you come to trust what he will do, given the
opportunity."

"I suppose," the jurat replied. "Well, now that we have finished with
that, I must get these papers back to my courtroom—"

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and Khavar held up his
hand to forestall Abada.

"I am sorry to hold you here, Abada, but there are a couple of other
matters for which your presence is required."

Khavar waited for a moment as if expecting something, and then laughed
. "Perhaps I should not have let Eshqi go. I have forgotten how to
answer my own front door."

He disappeared, then came back with a young Kaman officer, who looked
askance at the bare room.

"Abada al'Jurat, may I introduce Lieutenant Yazad, Keeper of Saba."

Abada looked over the young man as he shook hands with him. Yazad did
not even seem to be twenty—a very young age for a lieutenant. A small
silver cylinder on a chain hung around the officer's neck.

"Yazad. Yazad," Abada murmured. "I have heard your name before." He
thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "You were the one who
snuck into the Bisselite camp and rescued the body of your commanding
officer."

Yazad dropped his eyes and shrugged. "My scout did the hard work. I
merely went along for the walk."

Abada wagged his finger back and forth in approbation. "Not what I
heard," he scolded. "I recall that you were the one that brought word
of the invasion to Ket before you rode back to rescue the body of…
What was her name again?"

"Saba. Lieutenant Saba," Yazad replied, grief shadowing his eyes for a
moment.

Khavar stepped forward. "And now, as Saba's Keeper, Yazad has taken on
a task at least as difficult, and just as honourable."

"Keeper," Abada murmured. "I am unfamiliar with this term."

"When a soldier dies performing a selfless and heroic act," Khavar
explained, "her fellow soldiers take a single strand of hair from the
body before it is cremated and choose someone to safeguard it." He
gently lifted the small silver cylinder on the chain around Yazad's
neck for a moment. "The Keeper also takes up a collection from his
fellow soldiers in order to pay to have the hero resurrected. All the
priests need is a single hair."

"And now you are Saba's Keeper, Yazad," Abada commented. "An admirable
goal. How much have you raised?"

"Just over twenty thousand lances," Yazad replied, his face glowing.
"My fellow officers and soldiers have been most generous."
"And how much do you need to collect?"

Yazad's cheeks flushed a bit.

"A hundred thousand lances, sir," he replied. His tone turned fierce.
"I will succeed! Word is getting out about Saba's sacrifice, and how
she alerted Ket to the invasion. I am sure I will raise the rest of
the money!"

"A hundred thousand lances?" Aabada's eyebrows shot up. "That is a lot
of money! Do many Keepers succeed in their task?"

Yazad turned away slightly as Khavar wordlessly shook his head.

"What happens to the money you collected if you do not succeed?" the
old Jurat gently asked.

Yazad's mouth worked silently for a moment as he tried to frame a
reply. Khavar interjected, "The money is given to the fallen soldier's
family."

Abada coughed a little self-consciously. "Well, good luck, young man.
I'm sure the gods are on your side."

Khavar grinned at this. "Oh, yes," he said, "the gods have smiled on
Yazad today. Here is my contribution to Saba's fund."

Abada gasped as, for the second time, the Kaman captain pick up his
life savings in the leather backpack and casually gave it away,
handing it to the unsuspecting Yazad.

"You can take the time to count it if you wish," Khavar chuckled, "but
the good Jurat here will testify that that pack contains seventy
thousand lances."

For the second time in ten minutes, Abada saw someone speechless with
surprise.

"But… but… Captain…' Yazad stammered. "Seventy THOUSAND lances?"

"Seventy thousand, Lieutenant," Khavar confirmed. "I believe that
only leaves you with the task of finding about ten thousand lances.
Think you can do that?"

Yazad's mouth open and closed again. Then determination gripped his
slim frame.

"Yes, sir! Saba will be resurrected by the end of the week or I will
clean up the stables for a year!" He saluted sharply, bowed to the
Jurat and turned to exit.

"A moment more, Lieutenant," Khavar called. As the young officer
turned back, Khavar crossed to the sword rack and picked up one of the
sheathed scimitars. The brass sheath was old and scarred, but Khavar
held it with reverence. He drew the blade and riposted and lunged
against an unseen opponent, his stroke controlled and deadly. He
turned over the beautifully tempered and watermarked blade for them to
admire. "It comes down my family line from generation to generation—my
mother told me her grandfather had told her that his great-grandmother
had told him it was forged somewhere beyond the Dramidj Ocean before
the fall of the Baklunish Empire." He glanced up at Yazad. "I read in
your report that Saba lost her blade when she was killed?"

Yazad nodded.

Khavar considered the blade a moment longer, then returned it to its
sheath with a snick and held it out to Yazad. "Give this to her when
she lives again."

"But… sir, I can't take your family sword. What will you do for a blade?"

Khavar waved away the objections. "I have this other scimitar here,"
he said, waving casually at the other sword in a bright gold sheath.
"It is a presentation sword given to me some years ago for something
or other. It will do." He pressed his scimitar into Yazad's hand, and
his smile disappeared. "I have no children, Lieutenant," he said in a
low tone. "When you greet Saba again, tell her she was like a daughter
to me."

Yazad stared at his commanding officer, incomprehension clouding his
eyes. Finally he nodded. Shouldering the sack, he saluted Khavar, who
respectfully returned the salute. Bowing to the jurat, the young
officer left the room. For the second time in ten minutes, the two men
listened to the sound of the closing door echo around the empty room.

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continued...