The Shadowed Sun

by N. K. Jemisin

  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 an
d 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.”

  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.