The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (8 page)

So lost in memory was Wanahomen as he walked the heart of Hananja’s City—again, at last, this time without the obscuration of Banbarra clothing if not as his true self—that he missed the Kisuati soldiers until it was almost too late. He had been ensnared by Yafai Garden’s perfume, which was heavy with moontears and jasmine and reminded him of past evenings in Yanya-iyan playing dicing games with his father and Charris. By the time he glanced up to see two soldiers begin beating a Gujaareen man to death, he was almost on top of them.

Their victim was a fruit seller, who had spread a blanket near the garden gate and laid out small piles of figs and edaki melons and thick green dyar-a-whe to entice passers-by. The city’s Law decreed that merchants could sell their wares only in designated market areas: that kept things orderly. But on days like this, when the street’s bricks were hot enough to bake bread and a bite of cool refreshing fruit would be welcome to anyone, most city guardsmen would have looked the other way.

The Kisuati soldiers had not. The merchant groveled before them, his voice a high plea. “—A week’s labor!” was all Wanahomen
heard him say, as one of the men shoved him again with a foot. “My family will have no money—” And then his protest turned to a gasp as one of the soldiers stepped on the pile of figs.

“A week’s labor? This?” The soldier spoke with a thick plainsland Kisuati accent. “I am a farm man. My week’s labor would fill this garden! Ah, only in Gujaareh could lazy folk grow so rich.” He glanced at his companion and grinned. “Shall we teach this
tingam
the value of hard work?” He stepped on another piece of fruit, which squelched ripely; his companion laughed.

A proper Gujaareen man would have gone stoic at that point, and endured whatever abuse the soldiers heaped on him in silence. It was the only sensible, peaceful thing to do; the soldiers were bored, and it was painfully obvious that resistance would only incite them to uglier behavior. But it seemed the merchant truly was concerned for his family’s finances—or perhaps he simply wasn’t feeling peaceful. Before the soldier could step on the edaki, the merchant moved to cover that pile with his body.

What followed was utterly predictable, yet still jarring to see—even for Wanahomen, who had witnessed far worse in the years since he’d left Gujaareh. The soldiers began to kick the man in earnest, first stomping on his back and shoulders in lieu of the fruit and then kicking him in the ribs and side when he did not move.

Wanahomen stopped on the corner opposite the ugly tableau. There were a few other folk on the street; Wanahomen could see them pointing and murmuring to one another. One of them might eventually muster the courage to intervene… or perhaps they would simply stand by and watch as the poor fool was kicked to death. Either way, Wanahomen dared not get involved himself. He had entered the city wearing a disguise: a clean but plain loinskirt and headcloth, worn sandals, and a cheap bronze collar. A common laborer’s attire. Under the loinskirt was one of his Banbarra knives, however, strapped to his upper thigh, and there were Banbarra
jewelry-pieces in his purse. If he confronted the soldiers they might arrest him, and almost surely find the knife and jewels. That would lead to dangerous questions.

Though it galled Wanahomen to turn away, however pragmatic a choice it might be—

“What are you
doing
?” demanded a voice, and Wanahomen’s head whipped around in pure incredulous reflex.

A woman stood before the soldiers. The soldiers had stopped kicking the merchant to stare at her. Wanahomen could not help staring himself. The woman—girl, really, only a few years past the age of adulthood—wore men’s clothing, from noticeably hemmed loindrapes to a collar that must have been made for broader shoulders than hers. Beneath the collar, her breasts had been bound tightly in white wrappings, like those used for bodies awaiting cremation. This did nothing to hide their fullness, but the whole getup looked too strange to be erotic. Her pouf of brown-gold hair had been pulled back in a severe northerners’ knot that did nothing to adorn her face, and she wore no makeup, not even kohl to ease the sun’s glare.

But it was the carnelian of her collar, and the deep, bloodlike red of her loindrapes, that puzzled Wanahomen the most. She looked like a Sharer of Hananja, but women did not become Sharers, or any other kind of Servant.

“Why are you hurting that man?” she asked, and now Wanahomen could hear the shock in her tone. She stood at the garden path’s entrance; perhaps she had come through the garden, unable to see the beating through the fronds and flowers until she emerged right on top of it. “What kind of—How could you—” She trailed off, apparently too horrified to finish any thought.

The soldiers looked at each other.

Leave
, Wanahomen thought at the woman. In spite of himself he had slowed his pace; at his sides his hands clenched.
Just turn away, and pray they don’t follow.

“Sharer—” This from the merchant, who coughed as he looked up; his breathing was labored, and blood spotted his face. “Sharer, you mustn’t—Never mind these gentlemen. Yes?” He looked up at the soldiers, mustering a fawning smile. “They were just correcting me; I broke the Law. You should go on back to the Hetawa, it’s all right.”

“
This
is not within the Law,” said the woman, and Wanahomen wondered if she was sun-addled or just a fool. The Kisuati claimed to respect Hananja’s Law, but Wanahomen had made other clandestine trips into the city over the years, talked to traders and mercenaries who’d told him how things really were. Other beatings. Extortion. Disappearances. Nothing too blatant—they were not
openly
hypocrites—but enough that wise folk knew better than to cross the city’s occupiers.

Perhaps that was why, though he’d meant to move on, Wanahomen found himself stopping.

“You should listen to this fellow,” said the more talkative of the Kisuati soldiers, putting his foot on the merchant’s back again. The merchant cringed, but the soldier did nothing worse for the moment. “We keep order, yes? Keep the peace. You like peace? Go away, and give thanks to Hananja that such good men are keeping your city safe.” He grinned.

“I…” Some realization of the danger seemed to have penetrated the woman’s shock at last. She swallowed and darted a look around. If she sought help, Wanahomen noted, none was forthcoming; none of the onlookers met her eyes. No—as Wanahomen glanced at the other watchers, one woman bent to her young son and whispered in his ear. The boy darted off down a side street, probably going to fetch help of some kind. It could not possibly arrive in time.

“I c-cannot go,” the woman said. She swallowed and lifted her chin, though her stammering and trembling negated any courage that she meant to display. “I am a Servant… Let, let this merchant
come with me. Keep his wares, his money if you wish, but let him go.”

A look of annoyance crossed the face of the talkative soldier. Scowling, he raised a fist and stepped toward the woman—

—The woman tensed, bracing herself to take the blow—

—Wanahomen pivoted toward them and was halfway across the street before he even realized he had begun walking—

—People on the other side of the street shouted; the merchant cried out, “No!” and—

—The quieter soldier glanced around. Seeing that the watching crowd had grown to twenty or so, he reached out and caught the other man’s arm. Wanahomen was near enough that he heard the soldier murmur in Sua: “
Wait. Too many people around. The general might hear.
”

That stopped the other soldier. He glared down at the girl, but after another breath’s hesitation lowered his hand. Instead he leaned forward and whispered something in the girl’s ear.

She stiffened, staring at him in fresh horror. The soldier grinned and stepped back, then with a final scathing glance at the merchant turned—and spotted Wanahomen. Wanahomen stood in the middle of the street, only a pace or two away. He had stopped when the soldier aborted his blow, but he was far too close to pretend he had been merely passing by. He froze, uncertain whether to fight or flee.

“
Nkua ke-a-te ananki, ebaa tingam?
” asked the other soldier, who apparently spoke only Sua.
What would you have done, sleeping sheep? Baa at us?

Though Wanahomen knew common Sua well enough to understand the words, the contempt in the soldier’s tone was plain enough to set his temper ablaze all on its own. He held himself rigid, however—or tried to. Too many years among the Banbarra. The urge to draw his knife and repay the soldier’s insult with blood was so strong that his hands shook with it.

The talkative soldier snorted. “Look: he quakes where he stands!” He shook his head and clapped his comrade on the shoulder. “Come. Our shift is almost over. At least we’ve made the time pass quicker.”

He walked away past Wanahomen, deliberately bumping Wanahomen’s shoulder with his own. The soldier wore bronze epaulets and Wanahomen’s shoulder was bare; the blow hurt like nightmares. That did not trouble Wanahomen half so much as the Sua-speaking soldier, who planted a hand on Wanahomen’s chest to shove him in passing. Wanahomen stumbled back, though he managed to keep his feet with an effort.

The soldiers walked on, laughing between themselves. Before Wanahomen, the red-draped girl exhaled in relief, then crouched beside the merchant. Others came forward as well, so solicitous, so helpful, now that the danger was past. For an instant Wanahomen curled his lip in the same contempt that the soldiers must have felt—but his was compounded by shame that his people could be so weak.

But he had no right to get angry at them, he reminded himself. They had no weapons, no training for battle. They had spent their lives in the service of peace, and most had never even witnessed violence before the Kisuati’s arrival. It had been the duty of the army and the Guard and the Hetawa to protect them—and the duty of Gujaareh’s Prince as well. It was not their fault if they were helpless now.

Which only added to Wanahomen’s bitterness as he turned away.

“Wait.”

Frowning, Wanahomen turned. The red-draped girl. She stepped around the merchant to come to him. Up close, he saw that despite the masculine dress she was pretty, in a lowcaste sort of way: small but sturdy-built, her face broad and high-boned, with skin the ocher of ripe pears.

“You tried to help me,” she said. “It wasn’t the peaceful thing to do, I suppose, but… I thank you, nevertheless.” She bowed over one hand; the other was already stained with the merchant’s blood. “If you wait a moment, I can heal your arm. This man needs my help first, but it won’t take long.”

Wanahomen stared at her; it took him a breath or two to reconcile her words with her obvious femininity. “You really are a Sharer?”

She blinked and then ducked her eyes. “Sharer-Apprentice. Yes. My name is Hanani.”

This was too much. The Kisuati had already inflicted their violent ways on his land, and now they were infecting the women of Gujaareh with their mad notions of a woman’s proper place. Times had grown dire indeed if even the Hetawa had been forced to compromise its ancient traditions.

But if things are so dire in Gujaareh, who is to blame for that?
whispered Wanahomen’s heart, again.

He scowled, and if he spoke more sharply than he should have, it was because guilt and anger made uneasy allies.

“You’re a fool,” he said. The woman flinched back from the coldness in his voice, looking hurt; Wanahomen did not care. “If you truly are of the Hetawa, run back to it and never step outside its doors again. Servants of Hananja should be stronger than you.”

He turned away, ignoring the mutter of his conscience and the feel of her gaze against his back, and walked off.

*  *  *

By the time Wanahomen entered the nobles’ district, some of his temper had cooled. He reached his destination just as the sun began to set, painting the walls of the city in rich strokes of red-gold and amber. Before him stood a sprawling house, two floors high and the whole block wide. In style it was mostly Gujaareen, with walls of baked white clay and pathways paved with round river stones, but there were foreign touches here and there: a roofed side-area where
the family greeted guests, lintels of dark southern wood. Kisuati touches, for this was a shunha house, and the shunha never forgot their origins.

A man of perhaps fifty floods sat fanning himself at a table under the guest-area roof, a flask and two cups waiting before him. After a moment’s silent observation from the corner—making certain there were no soldiers or other undesirables watching—Wanahomen came to the house and stopped at the edge of the sitting area. He bowed over one hand, which was more than the man’s rank merited relative to his, less than the common laborer he appeared to be should have offered. In formal Sua he said, “My greetings, sir.”

“Welcome, stranger,” said the man with equal formality, looking him up and down—and then his eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps not a stranger. Well, well. I was expecting your spokesman.”

Wanahomen inclined his head. “My spokesman informed me you could be trusted, Lord Sanfi. I decided to come myself, given that.”

“A great risk.”

“Agreements between men are best made face-to-face. So my father taught me, in waking.”

Lord Sanfi nodded, then gestured toward the table’s other seat. “Then sit, stranger-who-is-not,” he said, “and share welcome with me. Your throat must be dry after your long journey.”