The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (22 page)

“And I don’t want you in my bed again. I have another lover now, if you hadn’t noticed.” But for a moment she grew serious, and he saw a shadow of sorrow in her eyes. “Tassa asks, sometimes, why you never visit.”

“He’ll understand when he’s older and learns the ways of your sex. Tell me what you want in exchange for looking after the woman.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Nothing, Wana. The girl interests me, that’s all. It could be valuable to have a magician in my circle of friends.” She smiled at him sidelong.

“You would do better to befriend a jackal. No one raised by the Hetawa can be trusted.”

Yanassa raised her gracefully arched brows at this. “So there’s something you hate more than me? I’m almost pleased to hear it.”

He didn’t hate her, and she knew it. He stopped and sighed.

“Take the woman in hand,” he said. “The man too. I haven’t the time to nursemaid them. The hunt parties of the other tribes will be arriving soon, and I want my men to practice shooting—”

She threw him an exasperated look. “It’s the solstice, Wanahomen. Tonight is the start of the festival, or have you forgotten?”

Damnation. He had. “I see no reason why we can’t prepare and celebrate too. We
are
contemplating war.”

“Even warriors must refresh their spirits.” She eyed him meaningfully and stopped, reaching up to brush her fingers along his cheekbone above the face-veil. “Even you, O great king.”

Perhaps the stresses of the past few days had worn him down, or perhaps Tiaanet had made him crave more of a woman’s softness for a change. He sighed and permitted Yanassa’s touch, even when her fingers teased the veil down enough to reveal his lips, which she stroked with a fingertip. He smiled, just a little, and saw an answering smile on her face. He had always admired her audacity.

Then the moment passed, and Wanahomen took her hand and kissed it before gently pushing it away. Wordlessly—for there was so little they could safely say to one another these days, and these small peaceful exchanges were too fragile to jeopardize—he raised his veil, inclined his head to her, and walked away.

He went first down to the ground level, where like the templefolk he reveled in the chance to bathe after their long journey. When the tribe was in Merik-ren-aferu, he could not help reverting to his
old Gujaareen habit of bathing at waking and sleep. He had even spent some of his precious tradable currency to buy fine soaps and scented oils in Gujaareh, which he preferred over the plain ash-and-fat stuff the Banbarra used. The Banbarra shook their heads at his foolish city habits, for they bathed more frugally and, having an aversion to wasting water, had been known to “wash” by scrubbing off old skin and sweat with dry sand. He did as they did in the desert or the foothills, but when plentiful water was available, he saw no reason not to take advantage of it.

Perhaps that was why, immersed in the pleasure of his daily ritual, he did not hear the attacker’s approach.

He had just climbed out of the pool, glancing warily up at the cliffs to be sure he saw no telltale gleam of a long-eye, when a blur of motion at the edge of the nearby trees warned him. He turned just in time and locked his hands around the wrist of an older man with hate-filled eyes over his veil. The knife he held was inches from Wanahomen’s belly, quivering as he strained to drive it home.

Wanahomen tried to think through the shock of his own thoughts. The man’s eyes were familiar, but—The man snarled and threw his weight behind his knife-arm, forcing it close enough to score a shallow slice across Wanahomen’s abdomen. Wanahomen hissed at the pain and then twisted, shoving the man’s knife-arm off to the side and shifting his weight, pulling where before he had pushed. The man stumbled and went sprawling. Wanahomen kept hold of the man’s wrist, swiftly throwing a leg around the arm and dropping to the ground in a wrestling move he had once learned from the Kite-iyan palace guards. Now the man was pinned, one of Wanahomen’s legs across his chest, the other bracing his arm, which Wanahomen now twisted sharply. The man cried out, dropping the knife, but Wanahomen did not release him.

“Who are you?” he demanded. The man cursed and struggled to get up, but could gain no leverage. Wanahomen pressed his arm
down sharply in warning, and the man cried out as he realized Wanahomen was ready to break the arm at the elbow. “Who are you, coward?”

“Wutir,” the man finally gasped. “Wujjeg’s uncle!”

So that was it. In disgust, Wanahomen sighed and threw the man’s arm away from him, scooping up the knife as he got to his feet. He was filthy now from scrabbling in the dirt, and bleeding at the middle, but that did not trouble him half so much as the fact that he was naked. Banbarra did not reveal themselves to others lightly, and to be naked before an enemy was the greatest humiliation. Doubtless Wutir had counted on that to make Wanahomen clumsier in defending himself.

But he was Gujaareen, not Banbarra. And as Wutir rolled to his feet, Wanahomen stepped closer and laid the confiscated knife against his throat. Wutir froze, eyes widening over his veil. “Hands up,” Wanahomen said, and reluctantly Wutir raised his hands.

Wanahomen felt about his waist for more weapons, then crouched to feel for a leg-or ankle-sheath, finding neither. Satisfied, he straightened again and wrapped his arm around Wutir’s waist in a gesture that might have seemed intimate, if not for the knife he pressed to the man’s throat, and if not for his belly-wound smearing blood on Wutir’s clothing. “Now,” he said, “I think you fail to understand, sir, that Wujjeg was in the wrong. He disobeyed my orders, and I am hunt leader. His death was his own fault.”

“You—” Wutir’s face darkened with fury and disgust as he tried to pull away. “You’re a foreign demon who should’ve been gelded and sold at auction—”

Wanahomen let out a venomous laugh and released Wutir’s waist to reach down between them with one hand. It was an easy matter to yank aside Wutir’s robes and find the drawstring of his pants; even easier to break the string and tear his pants open at the front. Wutir gasped and tried harder to jerk back, but Wanahomen pressed
the knife to his throat enough to draw blood. Wutir subsided, gritting his teeth. To take the man’s life, Wanahomen only had to slash.

“But you didn’t geld me,” he said with a fierce grin. To his great amusement, Wutir was not flaccid. The excitement of battle, perhaps, or—“It seems you coveted me instead! Me, a city-born demon. You came upon me naked from the bath and attacked me, meaning to take my flesh in revenge for your nephew. But alas, I have no taste for ugly men, and so—”

He took a thorough grip of Wutir’s penis and wrenched it to one side with all his strength.

Wutir’s scream was most gratifying. Wanahomen swiftly tripped him to the ground, keeping the knife at his throat although he graciously allowed the man to curl into a howling, sobbing knot. As an added insult, he ripped the veil from Wutir’s face and tossed it into the river.

“I owe Yanassa an entertainment.” Wanahomen smiled down at Wutir, waiting to speak until the man had gone hoarse from screaming. “Perhaps I can drop word to her of what you tried to do, and what I did in return. And tonight at the festival, when woman after woman invites you to her tent and you have to refuse every single one of them, the whole tribe will enjoy laughing at your humiliation.”

Wutir managed to glare at him, though his face was shiny with sweat and it was weak as glares went. Wanahomen laughed, stepping away from him at last. Backing away, he crouched near the river and rinsed himself, taking care to sand-scrub the hand that had injured Wutir. No telling what filth the man had down there. Then, laying the knife on a nearby boulder, he reached for his drying clothes and quickly dressed, keeping an eye on Wutir the whole while.

“N-no,” Wutir blurted at last. He was still curled in a ball, his hands clamped between his thighs. “D-don’t tell… the women.”

Wanahomen slipped on his sandals and picked up the knife
again, sitting down on the boulder to examine it. Surprisingly, it was a good-quality blade—Huhoja steel, no less, from a southern tribe famous for the stuff. Only a handspan long, but nicely balanced. He could see no smearing of the blade’s sheen that might indicate poison, for which he thanked all the Dreamer’s children. A smarter or more cautious man would’ve hedged his bets by using it; Wutir clearly had no such gifts.

“What other guarantee do I have that there won’t be more of you after me?” he asked. “Every weakling, cowardly member of your clan, hunting me down to take revenge for your ass-stupid nephew? Did your mother send you?”

Wutir shook his head fervently. “D-didn’t know.”

“Ah, good. She’s always struck me as a sensible woman, Shatyrria, in spite of her prejudice toward my mother and me. How do you think she’ll like it when your foolishness makes her the laughingstock of all her powerful friends?” He reached into his purse and pulled out a handful of dates, part of a small supply he’d brought back from Gujaareh. Chewing on one, he wrapped the knife in a scrap of leather from his purse, then regarded Wutir thoughtfully. “Will she disown you, I wonder?”

Wutir only groaned in response. Wanahomen chuckled and got to his feet, putting the knife and the rest of the dates away. Crossing the space between them, he crouched at Wutir’s head. Wutir looked up at him—and cringed, for Wanahomen was no longer smiling. He wanted to kill Wutir so badly that his hands itched for the knife and the slick covering of blood. The fool had come closer to killing Wanahomen than any enemy in years. Now, when Wanahomen’s plans were so near fruition!

And yet—

Never be quick to kill, Wanahomen.
His father’s voice came to him through the bloodlust.
It offends Hananja—and in any case there are other, better ways to destroy an enemy.

“Understand this,” Wanahomen said. He kept his voice soft, so that Wutir would cease his whimpering and pay attention. “Everyone will see you stumble back to camp later today, barely able to walk. They may wonder what happened; think up whatever excuse you like while you lie here. No one will believe it, of course. They’ll see the blood on your robes, and the blood on mine, and they’ll know
who
did this to you, if not what or why. But I can choose to say nothing… for now.”

He leaned closer, taking a great risk. If Wutir had another weapon on him in some hidden place… But some messages were best delivered like this, eye to eye.

“Your mother hopes to convince the other Banbarra tribes not to support my cause,” he said. “And with her uncle leading the Dzikeh tribe, she may succeed. I need every tribe’s warriors under my command if we’re to have a chance against the Kisuati in Gujaareh. So you will tell me all Shatyrria’s plans.”

Wutir’s eyes widened. “B-betray my clan? Are you mad?”

“I’ve told you what will happen if you don’t. Would your clan keep you, after that?”

Wutir moaned and began to weep. Among the Banbarra, a man was nothing without the ability to sire children. Fertility was wealth to them, bodies sacrosanct; things that meant nothing in Gujaareh were life and death here. No woman would acknowledge him as her lover. No hunt leader would take him into his troop. He would be useless, a pet at best and a slave at worst, doomed to obscurity and a life of squalor.

“Show me that you understand,” Wanahomen said.

Wutir nodded, turning his face away as the tears spilled down his face. Wanahomen rose and returned to the boulder, feeling a stir of pity beneath his contempt.

“Satisfy me,” he said, “and perhaps in a few days I’ll let the Gujaareen healers see to you. The man, not the woman, for the sake of
your dignity. They can make even your sorry stick straight again, however bad the damage is.”

Wutir nodded again, his body slumping in defeat.

“Speak, then,” Wanahomen said, and Wutir spoke. When at last Wanahomen knew everything, he headed back toward the camp ledges, raising his veil to conceal his troubled thoughts. Shatyrria had moved faster than anticipated, he understood now, and that meant the Dzikeh-Banbarra would be a serious problem whenever they arrived. He would have to devise some means of dealing with them quickly.

He spared no further thought for Wutir, left shivering on the ground behind him.

Amid all the bizarre configurations of Gujaareen society—birth-castes and chosen-castes, lineages and by-blows, servants who were not slaves and pleasure-givers who were not whores—the shunha were the one group that made sense to Sunandi Jeh Kalawe. Gujaareh was awash in foreign influences, from northern architecture to western music and eastern textiles. Its language was a stew so tainted with the flavors of other tongues that it now bore only the faintest resemblance to the Sua its people had once spoken. Half the time Sunandi couldn’t tell a Gujaareen from a member of any other race; they had mingled even themselves so thoroughly with foreign peoples that only they could make sense of the aesthetic mess.