The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (9 page)

Wanahomen sat while Sanfi poured something into each of the two cups. “Forgive me,” Sanfi said, shifting back to Gujaareen now that they were past the introductions. “I brought no servants from my greenlands estate, so you must make do with my poor efforts.”

“I’ve been long among barbarians,” Wanahomen replied. “Your courtesy alone is enough for me. And if they knew how I have been living, your servants would doubtless turn up their noses and declare me too corrupt to be worthy of their care.”

“Corrupt acts, in moderation, are a necessity of power,” Sanfi replied, pushing a cup toward him. “Even the Hetawa recognizes
that, or did in the days before the taint invaded their own ranks. I’m no priest, but it seems to me your purpose is pure.”

It was uncomfortable, engaging in such talk while sitting out in the open. The street in front of Sanfi’s house was not busy, but neither was it deserted: passersby and neighbors appeared now and again, some of them nodding to Sanfi as they went about their business. But no respectable shunha would invite a stranger into his home without first sharing refreshment with him outside. To break tradition would invite suspicion.

“It pleases me to hear that,” Wanahomen said. Then, as was traditional, he lifted the cup and took a sip. Beer, bitter-tart and as thick as honey, slid over his tongue. He closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure.

Sanfi chuckled. “You
have
been long without, to make that sound.”

“Too long. My companions of these days scorn the small niceties that we of Gujaareh appreciate so much. We’re soft in their eyes, and to win their respect I must scorn softness as well.”

“The mark of a good leader.”

“A necessity of survival, nothing more.” Wanahomen took another sip of beer, savoring the fruity warmth of it. “My mother conveys her greetings.”

“Ah—then she is well?”

“Well enough.” Wanahomen gazed into his cup. It was not the shunha way to acknowledge sickness. Sanfi would hear the solemnity in Wanahomen’s voice, and understand. “She misses my father.”

Sanfi nodded. “As do we all. But I see his strength and wit in you, my young friend”—he did not say Wanahomen’s name, mindful of passing ears—“and that should give your mother great comfort.”

“I hope so. Is your own family well, and your estate in the greenlands?”

“Well enough.” Wanahomen frowned and glanced up at the man, but Sanfi was gazing at a fig tree nearby. “My estate thrives: the date palms are fruiting, and our third harvest is already done. My daughter is here. You’ll be able to meet her shortly.”

So something was wrong with Sanfi’s wife. Odd that he’d brought his daughter with him, though; Wanahomen would have expected a good shunha daughter to stay home and care for her mother. Unless there was more than one daughter? But no, he’d heard Sanfi had only the one child.

Best not to pry. “Trade is good, I hope?”

“Tolerable, given the circumstances. The Kisuati favor us shunha in their dealings. Things do not go as well for our fellow nobles of the zhinha, but that can’t be helped. The Kisuati scorn them almost as much as they do northerners.”

“Indeed.” Wanahomen set down his cup, tracing a finger along its delicate edge. The cup was deceptively simple, lacking in any sort of design or tint other than its natural red coloring, but the fired clay was thin and the cup’s shape had an elegant flare. The potter had been a superb craftsman, and Sanfi must have paid a great deal for a set that would make him seem at once humble and tasteful. “One might wonder, given such favor, why a shunha lord would then have any desire to meet with me.”

Sanfi threw him an amused look, though he lowered his voice and leaned closer to speak. “Kisua aims to make itself, rather than Gujaareh, the crossroads for world trade. We now have unrestricted access to southern marketplaces and merchants, oh yes, a great boon. But the Protectors set higher taxes on goods from the north and east—especially if they come through our ports rather than those of Kisua. They restrict quantity and set higher demands for quality, which increases the cost to prohibitive levels. Some goods they forbid outright, on the spurious grounds that our land is already too corrupted by barbarian influences… but in reality, nearly all
Gujaareh’s trade has been curtailed. So under Kisuati rule, I have more headaches and less money, and I’m tired of it.” He shrugged and poured more beer for Wanahomen. “Forgive me if I seem purely self-serving.”

Wanahomen shook his head, adopting the same low tone. “Self-interest too has its place in any peaceful society. But how many of the shunha feel as you?”

Sanfi snorted. “Any with brains and eyes. Think: the zhinha are already impoverished. The shunha, in truth, are not far behind. The merchants are getting into smuggling and other forms of illicit trade; half the military caste has turned mercenary, trading their flesh for money in the east. How long before all those families begin firing retainers and turning out servants? How long before even the Hetawa is too poor to feed those in need? Then we will see children starving on our streets, murder in our alleyways, despair on every corner… just like Kisua itself.” Sanfi took a deep draught of his own cup, setting it down with a sigh. “No, Kisuati rule is not good for any of us.”

Wanahomen thought of the Kisuati soldiers, and the woman in Sharer garb. “No,” he agreed softly. “It is not.”

Sanfi threw Wanahomen a half-smile then, and put a stopper in the flask. “Come inside now, where we may talk away from this damnable heat.”

Wanahomen rose, taking the cups so that Sanfi could carry the flask. The house seemed dim inside after the fading sunlight without, especially once Sanfi closed the heavy wooden door behind them. Wanahomen’s eyes adjusted as Sanfi led the way into the home’s elegant greeting room, where ceiling apertures had been cranked open to allow in fresh air and more light.

And here Wanahomen stopped, as the light illuminated the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“My daughter, Tiaanet,” Sanfi said. And though Wanahomen
could feel Sanfi’s eyes drinking in his reaction, he could not help but stare. She gazed at him boldly, as was proper for a woman of her caste, but there was something intriguingly reserved about her manner. When she crossed the room to them, he could not look away, entranced by the sway of her body beneath the thick brocade Kisuati gown.

“I greet you, Prince of the Sunset, Avatar of our Goddess,” she said. Her voice was low and rich like dark sweet wine, tightening everything from his throat to his belly and below as well. But then she knelt before him, startling him out of the spell. Gujaareen women did not kneel. They were goddesses; it was wrong. Wanahomen opened his mouth to protest but then stopped as Tiaanet raised her arms, crossing them before her face with her fists closed and turned outward. A manuflection, the highest display of respect that one could offer to mortals favored by the gods. The last time Wanahomen had seen a manuflection performed had been at Yanya-iyan a lifetime ago, as he watched supplicants approach his father.

But I am Prince now, not my father.
And when was it appropriate for a goddess to kneel? Only when a higher god stood before her.

Sanfi put a hand on Wanahomen’s shoulder, and he flinched out of staring at the woman. “Ten families of the shunha, and eighteen of the zhinha, have agreed to support our cause,” he said. “For the Prince’s son—for
you
, my Prince, they will commit their troops and resources. Between them and your Banbarra allies, the total will be small compared to the Kisuati army… but a small force can be effective under the right circumstances. The Sunset Throne could be yours again.”

Then you could have a woman like this.
The words were not spoken, but hung in the air between them, an implicit promise. And as Wanahomen gazed down at Tiaanet’s bent head, he heard again her dark-wine voice naming him Prince, and saw himself seated on the oxbow throne with the Aureole of the Setting Sun behind his
head. Tiaanet would sit beside him as his firstwife, and their children would cover the steps below, living ornaments to his glory and her perfection. It was the sweetest vision he’d ever experienced outside Ina-Karekh.

“There is an old, old tradition in guest-custom, my Prince,” Sanfi said, his voice soft at Wanahomen’s shoulder. “It has long fallen into disuse even in Kisua, but it seems fitting to revive it now. Once, long ago, a pact between men was sealed by more than hands.”

Tiaanet lifted her eyes, gazing into what Wanahomen feared was his soul. She reached for his hand and took it—the softness of her skin was almost a painful shock—and got to her feet.

“We can discuss the details later,” Sanfi said. He released Wanahomen’s shoulder as Tiaanet stepped back, pulling Wanahomen with her. “In the morning. Rest well, my Prince.”

What—?
Wanahomen mustered enough wit to throw a look back at Sanfi, certain he had misunderstood. But Sanfi was smiling, and now Tiaanet’s hand was on his cheek, pulling his face back to her. When she saw that his attention was once again hers, she nodded and resumed backing away, leading him along.

They reached her room and shut the hanging, and in her arms Wanahomen was Prince again, if only for a single night.

Hanani was still trembling when she reached the Hetawa. The sun had set by that time, for she had detoured through two markets rather than take the faster route through the artisans’ district. Most artisans worked nights when it was cooler, which made the district relatively quiet—they would be just waking—but Kisuati soldiers would be on patrol there nevertheless: they were everywhere in the city. She was safer on the market streets, where there were more people around as the stalls began to shut down for the night.

She was glad that Anarim was no longer on duty as she trotted up the Hetawa’s steps. His replacement barely gave her a glance. Had Anarim known that Kisuati soldiers were openly assaulting people in the city? No, if so he would have commanded, not suggested, the escort. She had heard rumors—they all had—but she’d thought that the Kisuati were at least trying to maintain a discreet semblance of respect for the Law and Wisdom that governed Gujaareen society. If the Sentinels did not know things had changed, then perhaps the Gatherers did not know either.

It was her duty to tell them.

She stopped in the shadow of one of the Hall’s pillars, putting her
hand to her breast as if that might slow her racing heart. She did not want to tell the Gatherers. Her reluctance was irrational, irresponsible—but just thinking of those moments brought back the sound of blows striking the merchant’s flesh, the cruel eyes of the soldiers, the sour taste of her own fear. It had been her duty to intervene. Yet she understood, now, that if there had been fewer people on the street, the soldiers would have beaten her as well—or done worse. What should she have done, what could she have said, to stop them? Even now she could think of nothing, and somehow that was the worst of it. She was sworn to uphold the Law, yet she could think of no peaceful resolution to such an impasse. A Sharer should have known a way.

Perhaps Teacher Yehamwy is right about me. Perhaps that man was right—I’m not strong enough to serve Her.

But that thought filled her with anguish and shame, and such feelings were inappropriate in the sight of the Goddess. So with a deep breath she straightened, intending to return to her cell where she might pray and regain peace—

“Sister?” An acolyte came ’round the pillar and squinted at her in the dimness, then caught his breath as he got a good look. “Oh—forgive me, Sharer-Apprentice. I thought… well.” He shifted from foot to foot in embarrassment. “They were looking for you earlier.”

Hanani blinked in surprise. “They?”

“The Superior and his guests. He sent some of us around to find you, but no one knew where you’d gone.”

Hanani’s belly tightened in a new kind of unease. “How long ago?”

“Just after sunset, not long.” The boy squinted harder at her face. “Are you all right?”

Hanani realized that she had wrapped her arms around herself, as if cold. She unfolded her arms and straightened. “Yes. Yes. I’ll go now.”

She hurried away, from the boy’s curiosity as much as anything else.

The Superior’s office was on the fourth level of the administrative wing that abutted the Hall of Blessings. She reached the office winded from the stairs and had only a moment to compose herself before one of the voices murmuring within came closer, and the heavy curtain opened. “Ah, here she is.”