In Her name and inward sight. Rabbaneh caught his breath.
The door closed behind them. Rabbaneh began searching for a way onto that roof. If he could swing down into a window, or hang from a balcony—
He spotted the danger and froze. Another man stood on the roof of the zhinha house, scratching himself in the shadows of a chimney. Short-shorn hair, short sword on one hip, bronze half-torso armor whose gleam was obscured by a rust-colored evening drape.
A Sunset Guard? That meant the Superior was meeting with someone from Yanya-iyan. Someone who held the sanction of the Prince himself.
Looking around, Rabbaneh’s eyes sifted seven guards from the predawn shadows: a total of three on the rooftop of the house, another three scattered around the rooftops of nearby buildings, a seventh on the ground and standing quietly near the house’s stable.
Not enough. The Guard moved in fours. Where was the eighth?
The faint grit of a footstep behind made Rabbaneh’s skin prickle. He forced himself not to react even though he imagined a fiery line along the center of his back where the Guardsman’s impending stab was doubtless aimed. When instinct told him his enemy was close enough, he struck, twisting about to slap at the flat of the blade. The Guardsman jerked in surprise and struggled to bring the blade around again, but by then Rabbaneh was on him, tackling him to the ground so that the other guards wouldn’t see the struggle. Before the man could cry out, Rabbaneh slapped one hand over his mouth and used the other to set his scarab jungissa humming and lay it on the man’s forehead. He stiffened, paralyzed but still awake; his terror and fury fought the magic. Rabbaneh smiled and forked two fingers toward the man’s eyes. They closed reflexively and Rabbaneh laid his fingers on them, reinforcing the jungissa’s magic with a powerful narcomantic command. It took long, taut breaths, but at last the rigidity went out of the guard’s body; he sagged into sleep.
Leaving the jungissa in place—it would hold the sleep-spell—Rabbaneh returned to the edge of the roof. Six figures still patrolled calmly on the rooftops, the seventh on the ground. He had not been seen.
Grinning to himself, Rabbaneh headed across the roof, moving on fingers and toes again. Carefully he swung himself over the edge and dropped to a window, bracing his toes on the sill. Inside he could hear someone snoring enthusiastically. He dropped again, catching the sill with his hands, grunting just a bit as his knuckles scraped against the wall. He grunted a second time when he dropped to the ground, this time landing in a crouch. Sonta-i, his former mentor, would tsk at all the noise he was making, but it could not be helped. He was not as young, nor as lean, as he had once been, alas.
And this was not a mission to share Hananja’s peace. The rules for spying were surely different.
He went to the corner of the building he’d just descended, and flicked a glance around. One guard still stood near the stables, pacing back and forth. Doubtless the house’s servant-entrance was in there. The main entrance was also within his sight. But Rabbaneh did not need an entrance; a window would do for his purposes. He glanced up and watched awhile, noting that the roof-guards peered down at the ground only occasionally. There was an alley directly across the street that ran behind the zhinha house. If any of the guards happened to glance down while he was crossing, or if the stable-guard turned his way…
Nothing to be done but trust in Hananja. Whispering a quick prayer, Rabbaneh waited until the stable guard paced in the other direction, then darted across the street.
There was no outcry, so he slipped deeper into the shadows and began making a circuit of the house. The first set of windows were useless—bedrooms, with someone sleeping in each. The second set were another matter, for they opened onto the kitchens. Warm, spice-scented air wafted out through the hangings; he could hear servants within preparing food to serve to the guests. Perfect.
He climbed the side of the building quickly, using the window as his starting point and then shifting to a ceramic gutter-pipe that ran from the roof. When he reached the upper set of windows he stopped, finding toeholds along the bracers of the pipe, for he had found what he sought: the Superior’s voice could be heard clearly from inside.
“—No right,” the voice said. Rabbaneh raised his eyebrows; it was nearly a snarl. The Superior rarely displayed such anger in the Hetawa.
“I have every right,” replied a different voice in a venomous tone—also familiar, though Rabbaneh could not place it. “You did no less to my father, and if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, you’d be doing the same to me. I consider the return of my brother a step toward repayment for those crimes.”
“You don’t understand him!” said the Superior. “He believes. Her Law is in his blood, in his very soul. Manipulate him like this and he won’t bend to become your tool, he will break.”
“That is possible. But when he breaks, it will be in your direction. He’ll spend his fury on the Hetawa, then turn to me for comfort. And I shall offer it to him gladly, because blood is still stronger than any oath.”
Ehiru, Rabbaneh realized with a chill. They spoke of Ehiru. And that meant the other speaker was not some spokesman, but the Prince himself.
“He doesn’t know what you are.” The Superior’s voice dripped loathing. “If he did, he’d Gather you himself.”
“I am only what you made me,” the Prince said. He spoke so softly that Rabbaneh strained to hear his voice. “What do you think he’ll do to you when he learns that?”
The Superior did not respond, and when the Prince spoke again, his tone had changed. “And my brother is what you made him, so unfortunately I realize he cannot be trusted. Are you certain it was her?”
“Absolutely,” said a third voice. Rabbaneh did not recognize this one at all. “One of my men spotted her in the market. She joined a minstrel caravan that left the city at sun-zenith yesterday. I’ve had the gate men dismissed for failing to detain them.”
“And Ehiru was with her.” The Prince sighed. “I thought Gatherers were honorable.”
“You dare!” The Superior sounded apoplectic. “If Ehiru judges the woman corrupt, he’ll take her. He—”
“I can’t wait for him to make up his mind,” the Prince snapped. “If the woman reaches Kisua, there’s no telling what the Protectors will do. I need them surprised, frightened. Predictable.” He sighed. “Charris, send a messenger pigeon south. Can our troops there overtake the caravan?”
“If the minstrels took the river route, easily. If they went through the desert, it will be more difficult. Every caravan follows its own route. But if they pass through Tesa, my men can catch them.”
“See that they do.” The Prince’s voice had the edge of command.
“Will you kill her right before Ehiru’s eyes?” asked the Superior. “Will you rub his nose in your corruption, and still expect him to serve you?”
There was a moment of silence. “He’ll see it eventually, Superior,” the Prince said, his voice heavy with meaning. “Corruption is all around him, after all.”
The Superior said nothing to this. The third man—Charris—cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence that fell.
“What of the Gatherer after the woman is dead?” Charris finally asked. “Or if he has already killed her?”
“I keep my promises to my brother,” said the Prince. “If he’s killed her, then escort him back here and allow him to return to the Hetawa. All charges against him will be dropped. Won’t they, Superior?”
In a low voice the Superior replied, “Yes.”
“If he has not killed her,” the Prince continued, “then our bargain is forfeit. Capture him and bring him back, but to Yanya-iyan. Unharmed, please. I’ll have another use for him.”
“You dare not.” That from the Superior, seething with fury—and fear, Rabbaneh sensed. “You dare not.”
“I dare far more than you could ever imagine, Superior.” There was a pause; ceramic clinked against ceramic as liquid poured. “Now go scurry back to your little hole, an
d cower there until I have need of you.”
To Rabbaneh’s amazement the Superior did not react to this contempt. Cloth shifted and sandals shuffled; the meeting was over.
Quickly Rabbaneh climbed down the pipe and dashed back through the alley and across the street to the building next door. The shadows engulfed him just as the door of the zhinha house opened. The Superior emerged, gesturing curtly for his Sentinel attendants to follow, and they headed away into the night.
Climbing up to the roof, Rabbaneh returned to where the guard lay sleeping, the scarab-jungissa still humming faintly on his forehead.
“You’re a fortunate man,” Rabbaneh whispered, removing the stone and laying fingers over the man’s eyes. “You’ll have a pleasant dream of shirking your duty and taking a nap. Your captain will likely punish you, but not with your life. That is because you won’t remember seeing me up here, except as a fragment of a dream.”
He wove the dream into the man’s mind as he spoke. It was not the most ethical application of narcomancy, but perhaps Hananja would forgive the misuse because his intentions were pure. And because the life of a pathbrother was at stake—though only the gods knew what could be done about it at this point.
It was enough that they knew, Rabbaneh decided, and he hurried home to share the knowledge with Sonta-i.
20
Tell me, Mother Moon O tell me
Ai-yeh, yai-yeh, e-yeh
When will Brother Sleep come calling?
Ai-yeh, an-yeh, e-yeh
On the night of river-dancing?
Ai-yeh, o-yeh, e-yeh
In the peace of Moonlight-dreaming?
Ai-yeh, hai-yeh, e-yeh
Tell me, Mother Moon O tell me
Ai-yeh, kuh-yeh, e-yeh
Who will bring my brother home?
Ai-yeh, si-yeh, e-yeh
Though I welcome him with singing
Ai-yeh, nai-yeh, e-yeh
Must I sing my song alone?
(Wisdom)
On the first day out of the city, the caravan crossed a tributary of the Goddess’s Blood, passing through a village called Ketuyae. There Nijiri had gotten his first glimpse of how the folk of the upriver towns lived. The rhythmic work songs of the washing women lingered in his mind, as did less pleasant memories of human wretchedness. Some of the structures used as homes in Ketuyae were little more than lean-tos made of mud and sticks and palm leaves. The village was too tiny to merit a satellite temple of Hananja; Nijiri saw only a single overworked Sharer whose hut was barely finer than the lean-tos. There were no public crypts for the dead, just patches of ground where bodies—not even burned!—had been crudely shoveled into the earth. He saw no clean well, no bathhouse. He couldn’t tell the highcastes from the servants. When he asked a fellow member of the caravan how children in the village were schooled, he got only a shrug in response.
Now Ketuyae was a fond memory. They had been traveling hard for two days since, passing first through arid rocky foothills and then into the vast, windswept dunes of the Empty Thousand. The desert was not actually a thousand miles wide, Nijiri understood, but it was hard to believe otherwise when from the back of his camel he could see nothing but sand and heat-haze in every direction. The remaining four days of the journey felt as though they might as well be a thousand years.
He had lost himself in unhappy contemplation of the grit in his eyes, the heat, and the rivulets of sweat tickling his back when he was shocked out of misery by cold water splashing onto his face and neck. He yelped and glanced around to see Kanek, one of Gehanu’s sons, grinning at him from another camel with an open canteen in his hands.
“Wake up, city boy.” Kanek was grinning. “We’re almost there.”
“There…?” Nijiri blinked away water, trying to comprehend. They couldn’t be at Kisua yet. And why was Kanek wasting water?
“The oasis at Tesa, city boy. See?”
He pointed ahead. Nijiri followed the arm and saw what at first seemed to be just another mirage glinting against the horizon. Then he noticed the palm trees spiking toward the sky, and buildings squatting around their trunks.
Kanek splashed more water at him. “We’ll get to bathe soon, and drink all we want, and wash our clothes so we no longer smell like dungheaps. So wake up!”
His good humor was infectious and Nijiri started splashing water at Kanek in return, giving him a good wetting before Gehanu turned and glared them back to discipline from several camels ahead. Still, the spirits of the whole caravan seemed to lift as the news spread. Nijiri glanced around for Ehiru, wondering if he dared splash his brother—and his fine mood dissipated at once. Ehiru’s camel plodded along near the rear of the caravan, moving more slowly than its fellows. Atop it, Ehiru rode with his head down and headcloth hanging ’round his face, giving no sign that he had heard the news.
“Go wake your friend,” Kanek said, following Nijiri’s gaze. “I think he’s still in the desert.”
Nijiri nodded and reined in his camel, dropping back through the caravan column until he rode abreast with Ehiru. “Brother?” he said. He kept his voice low, though none of the other caravanners were close enough to overhear anyhow.
Ehiru’s head lifted slowly; he focused on Nijiri as if from a great distance. “Nijiri. All is well?”
Obviously not, Brother. “Have you not heard? We will reach Tesa soon.”
“So soon? Good.”
He spoke softly, but Nijiri heard the detachment in his voice. This was how the change always began, with the pranje; the Gatherer’s attention gradually turned inward to focus on the coming struggle, sparing little for the nonessentials of personality or emotion. That would be the only sign on the surface, at first. But somewhere within Ehiru, in the formless space between flesh and soul, the umblikeh that kept him whole was dry and cracking. Without dreamblood to nourish it, that tether would fray, loosening his soul to swing uncontrollably between waking and dreaming. Eventually the tether would snap and Ehiru’s soul would fly free into death—but not before he had lost all ability to tell vision from reality.
And while Ehiru struggled to keep his mind intact, his soul would be hungry, so hungry, for the peace that dreamblood could give him. If his control faltered even once—
If he falters, I must Gather him.
Was he ready for that? Barely trained as he was, far from home, under the duress of time? No, of course he wasn’t. And even if he could somehow make himself ready, could he then keep perfect peace in his heart, as a Gatherer should?
More heavily than he needed to, Nijiri put a hand on Ehiru’s.
“It may be some hours yet before we reach the oasis, Brother,” he said, to distract himself. “Are you hungry?” He rummaged among his robes and found one of the cloth sachets of food that had been given out at the last rest hour. “I have a hekeh-seed cake left over from breakfast. Gehanu soaks them in honey…” He peeled the sticky treat free and held it out.
Ehiru glanced at it, shuddered as if the sight made him queasy, and looked away. Nijiri frowned. “What is it, Brother?”
Ehiru said nothing.
A vision, then. Too soon; it had been only three fourdays since Ehiru had given his last tithe to the Sharers. Nijiri kept his tone even and said, “Tell me what you saw, Brother, please.”
Ehiru sighed. “Insects.”
Nijiri grimaced and began to rewrap the cake. Most visions were harmless. But like pain with the body, unpleasant visions served as a warning for the mind, indicating imbalance or injury. It was a thing that Sharers could deal with on a temporary basis—siphoning off the excess dreambile, adding sufficient dreamichor to restore the inner equilibrium, perhaps other things; Nijiri had never learned much more than basic healing techniques. But only dreamblood could cure it. “There aren’t any. But I’ll hold this until the vision has passed, if you like.”
“No,” Ehiru said. He reached over and broke off a piece of the cake, lifted it to his mouth without looking, and ate it, chewing grimly. “It was only a vision.
Eat the rest yourself.”
Nijiri obeyed, shifting to ease the ache in his buttocks. If he never rode another camel, he would die in peace. “We can rest properly tonight, Brother,” Nijiri said. He hesitated and then added, “And you can draw dreamblood from me, just enough to stave off—”
“No.”
Nijiri opened his mouth to protest, but Ehiru forestalled him with a small pained smile. “My control was weak the last time you offered; now it is gone altogether. I have no wish to kill you, my apprentice.”
His choice of words chilled Nijiri despite the desert heat. “Gathering is not killing, Brother.”
“Either way, you would be dead.” Ehiru sighed, lifting his head to gaze toward the distant oasis. “In any case, there may be another way.”
“What?”
Ehiru nodded toward the middle of the caravan. A light palanquin of balsawood and linen bobbed amid the river of cloth-wrapped heads, carried by sturdy young men on the smoothest-gaited of the camels. From within the palanquin came the sound of a racking, weary cough.
“Their matriarch,” Ehiru said very softly. “I have heard such a cough before. I would guess she suffers hardened lungs, or perhaps the sickness-of-tumors.”
“Dreambile could cure the latter if she has the strength to bear it,” Nijiri said, trying to recall his Sharer-lessons. He had seen the old woman during their rest hours. She was a cheerful little creature who had probably been spry before her illness, seventy floods at least. Her old body would be slower to respond to the healing power of the humors, but the effort wasn’t hopeless. “I know nothing of hardened lungs, though…” He trailed off, seeing suddenly what Ehiru meant. “… Oh.”
Ehiru nodded, watching the palanquin. “She could have visited the Hetawa before the minstrels left Gujaareh, but she didn’t.”
She does not want to be healed! Nijiri stifled excitement. It was the best of all possible circumstances. And yet Ehiru’s angry words from a few nights before, after Nijiri had recovered from the Reaper attack, lingered in his mind. “So… you’ve changed your mind about testing yourself?” He did not say facing the pranje, for one did not speak of such things while among layfolk, even quietly.
The Killing Moon (Dreamblood) Page 17