“This makes us even, templewoman,” the Prince said, his voice forestalling her. “But no more than that.”
“Even?”
He turned to her, reached up, and pulled down his face-veil. She caught her breath, recognizing at last the man who had tried to save her from the Kisuati soldiers. His expression held none of the contempt he had shown her that day, but neither was there friendliness. He might have favored an enemy or an insect with the same cold regard.
“Now get out,” he said, and turned his back on her.
Shaken into silence, Hanani obeyed.
15
A Call to Arms
The eightday leading to the winter solstice was a time of great peace and contemplation in Gujaareh. In a month, perhaps more, the great river called the Goddess’s Blood would overflow its banks and fill the entire valley. When the waters receded, they would leave behind thick black silt, whose richness made the garden that was Gujaareh blossom at the desert’s heart. Once the storm clouds faded and the land’s fertility was renewed, children born in the prior year could be named at last.
But until the floods began, Gujaareh existed in an arid limbo, waiting. The farmers sat idle, their fourth and last harvest done; craftsmen and artisans finished projects and closed accounts for the year; those with the means went on trips to estates outside the river valley, to avoid the floods’ nuisance. It was at such times that families in Gujaareh came together to celebrate love, good fortune, death, and all the small, mundane joys in between.
The Sisters of Hananja were busiest of all during the days of the solstice. Hardly a street there was, from wealthy highcaste neighborhoods to fishmarket hovels, that did not know the sound of rhythmic bells and a soft stately drum, announcing the procession of a Sister and her attendants. And the sight of a yellow Sisters’ tent—within which these representatives of the Goddess would lay down their tithebearers and conjure for them dreams of purest ecstasy—was a common one during the winter’s short days and long nights.
Likely it was because there were more Sisters about, and more people to watch for them, that two Kisuati soldiers were seen forcing a Sister into an old storehouse. A mob formed with astonishing speed, rescuing the Sister and her apprentice, who had been taken hostage to ensure her cooperation. The angry citizens then gathered around the soldiers with ominous intent. But as the soldiers shouted warnings and drew weapons to defend themselves, the crowd parted before a stocky, serene man with the tattoo of a red poppy on one shoulder.
“We’ve been watching you,” he said to the soldiers, smiling. “Didn’t think you’d be foolish enough to attempt another assault in the open like this, but—Well, here we are.”
One of the soldiers, intuiting something of the man’s intent, screamed and slashed at him with his sword. The watching crowd gasped. Quick as a striking snake, the man ducked the slash and caught the soldier’s sword-wrist, jerking him off balance. The soldier stumbled forward, nearly losing his grip on the hilt, but before he could recover the tattooed man had put two fingers on his eyelids. He fell, asleep, and the man put something small, that hummed faintly, on his forehead.
The other soldier understood at last. Panicking, he fumbled for his own sword, but before he could get it out of its sheath, the man caught hold of his arm. “Peace,” the man said—and that soldier too slumped to the ground.
The tattooed man then returned to the first soldier, laying fingers on his eyelids for several long silent breaths. When the soldier let out a long sigh and did not breathe in again, the crowd murmured its approval. The tattooed man then performed the same ritual on the second soldier, and when he too was dead, the crowd gave a great collective sigh. They fell silent, properly reverent, as the man arranged the soldiers’ bodies into a dignified position, and then stamped a symbol on each forehead. The red poppy, same as the man’s shoulder tattoo.
Just as he finished this, more Kisuati soldiers arrived in a rush, having word of the mob. The new soldiers’ commander pushed through the crowd with his sword drawn and then stopped in disbelief, staring down at the corpses as the tattooed man turned to face him.
“These men have committed violence against citizens of Gujaareh,” the man said. “Most heinously against those who serve our Goddess. They have been judged corrupt and granted peace in accordance with Hananja’s Law.”
“We don’t obey your damned Law, you filthy—” the commander began, pointing his sword at the man. He fell silent as one of his men touched his shoulder; the crowd was murmuring again, its tone this time unmistakably angry. The commander hesitated, then lowered his sword.
“Hananja’s City obeys Hananja’s Law,” the man said.
“Hananja’s City obeys Hananja’s Law,” echoed the crowd, soft and relentless. The soldiers started, looking around in alarm.
“Your people have been tolerable until now,” said the man, “and we have welcomed you for that reason. You are our kin, after all. But if you can no longer accept our hospitality without abusing it, then perhaps it’s time you left.”
The commander caught his breath in fury and affront, but it did not escape his notice that the crowd, which was growing larger by the moment, signified its agreement with a few shouts and raised fists of encouragement. The shouts ended, however, as the tattooed man gave the crowd a mild look. This, far more than the crowd’s agitation, turned the commander’s fury into sharp, iron-cold fear. He realized: if the tattooed man commanded it, the crowd would fall upon him and his men, and tear them apart.
“I would suggest you at least leave this street,” the tattooed man said. His voice was gentle, his eyes genuinely kind; later the commander would recall this with great confusion. He had never been threatened so politely in his life. “Peace is a difficult creed to follow at the best of times, and certain provocations go beyond even a pious person’s self-control. I’ll summon some of my Sharer brethren to help distribute these soldiers’ peace to the crowd, which should calm them. You should go and inform your superiors of what’s happened here.”
The commander’s men looked anxiously at him, hoping for his agreement. The commander stared back at the tattooed man, suspicious. “You want us to tell what happened here?”
The man looked amused. “Of course. The Hetawa has nothing to hide.”
And with that the commander understood: they had planned this.
“We must take our fallen comrades,” the commander said. It was an effort to save face. He was too unnerved for true courage. To his surprise, however, the tattooed man nodded. Then, amazingly, the man folded his arms before his face and knelt, bowing his head. The people in the crowd—even the Sister who had been assaulted—did the same. Silence and stillness, save for the agitated Kisuati, filled the street.
They show respect to two rapists? the commander wondered at first. Then it occurred to him. They show respect to two dead rapists. Because they’re dead.
And in Gujaareh, death was a thing to be celebrated, so long as it brought peace.
Quickly, the commander ordered his men to collect the two bodies and carry them back to the local barracks. Not a single Gujaareen head lifted while the soldiers left with their burden. When the tattooed man rose, so did the others in the crowd.
“Are you certain that was wise, Gatherer?” asked the Sister. She still looked shaken. The tattooed man regarded her for a moment and then touched her cheek. She shivered as the soldiers’ peace passed between them, returning the calm that had been stolen from her.
“Wise or not, it’s done,” the Gatherer said. “A crisis is upon us. Gujaareh must be unified, now, if we’re to survive.”
“If the Kisuati punish the Hetawa for killing those bastards,” snapped a man nearby, “we’ll punish them.” More than one murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.
The Gatherer gazed at him for a moment, then sighed. “If Hananja wills it, then it must be so.”
The man let out a cheer and the crowd joined him, some of its members hugging one another or laughin
g in an excess of good feeling. They had challenged the Kisuati—a small challenge, it was true, but a victory nevertheless. The Hetawa had at last come out of its complacent, complicit silence to champion Hananja’s people before their conquerors. In the days to come, the tale of the Gathering would spread and grow in the retelling, stirring hope and the desire to act where before there had been only simmering frustration. In time—not very long at all—the city would be ready, eager, for a change. And more than willing to fight for it.
In the impromptu celebration that followed, Gatherer Rabbaneh slipped quietly away.
16
A Sharer’s Price
Hanani woke at dawn the next morning hungry, itchy, and in dire need of a toilet. Along the journey from Gujaareh she had grown used to functioning in the rough, but there was much to be said for the Hetawa’s elegant chambers and jars, which made daily necessities comfortable. She had no idea of the Banbarra’s customs in this regard, but it had now become necessary to ask.
Sitting up, she looked about the large, empty tent she had been given the night before. Charris, a Gujaareen man near Mni-inh’s age who said he served the Prince, had given her a single thin pallet on which to rest and ordered her not to go wandering about the Banbarra camp alone. She had no plans to do so—but what was she to do if he wasn’t about? Stiff from lying on the pallet, she rose, went to the tent entrance, and peeked out.
Only a few Banbarra were up and about so early. She spied, at the cluster of tents across the path from hers, a thin man with easternese features busy preparing a meal. The whiff of cooking food from nearer by caught her attention, and she slipped out of the tent to look around. In the fire circle created by her tent, Hendet’s, Mni-inh’s, and a fourth tent that she assumed was the Prince’s, Charris sat tending meat on a small spit.
Shivering with the early-morning chill, Hanani stepped into the circle and bowed to him. “Good morning, sir. Did you dream well last night?”
He started at her voice, then looked faintly amused. “I never remember my dreams, little Sharer,” he said. He did not smile, but there was a quality to his manner that reminded her very much of Mni-inh; she found herself relaxing automatically. “The Hetawa dismissed me as hopeless before I’d even seen my third flood.”
Hanani smiled and crouched near the fire, though this put uncomfortable pressure on her bladder. “I could help you with that if you like,” she said. “But in the meantime, sir, I hope you could help me acquire some necessities.”
He nodded as if he’d expected this. “Clothing, yes. You can’t go around here dressed like that.”
Thrown, Hanani glanced down at herself. She wore her everyday uniform—the collar of carnelian beads, the red loindrapes, her breast-wrappings. “What’s wrong with my clothing?”
“Women wear more, here, than in Gujaareh. And they don’t dress like men.”
“My status as a Servant of Hananja—”
“I understand it,” Charris said with a faint smile, “but the Banbarra will not. A woman who dresses as a man will be treated as a man, and here men who are strong may abuse or even kill weaker men with few consequences. These people don’t believe in peace as we do. Respect that.”
She sighed. “Very well. I’ll put on my formal robe. First, though, is there somewhere I may relieve myself? And bathe? It has been … several days.” She hunched in shame.
He looked surprised, then chuckled, though his laugh had a wistful edge. “Ah, for the days when a few missed baths troubled me so! Well, for now I’ll take you down to the ground level. Is your companion likely to wake anytime soon?”
“Yes,” Mni-inh said, stepping around his tent. He looked as bleary and stiff as Hanani, though he nodded politely to them both. “I slept better on sand and gravel while we were traveling; at least that was softer than solid rock. These people’s hospitality leaves much to be desired.”
“They haven’t killed you yet,” Charris said with a shrug. Mni-inh smiled, but Hanani realized the man was completely serious. He set the spit farther back from the fire, pulled out several clay pots that had been warming, and got up. “Come with me.”
He led them back to the ladder they’d climbed the day before. Here Hanani forgot all about her bladder, for it was much, much more frightening to climb down the ladder than it had been to climb up. She managed the trick by closing her eyes and hugging herself to the ladder as best she could, trying not to feel the chilly morning breeze that skated up her back as her feet searched for the next rung below. It helped a little that Mni-inh kept up a steady stream of curses all the way down, distracting her from her own fear.
At last they reached the ground level, none the worse except for their nerves, and Charris led them to a stand of trees a good ways from the river, where a neat latrine had been dug. This was what the tribe’s slaves used, Charris explained; he did not say what more fortunate citizens did instead. Afterward he led them through the trees to a grassy riverbank, just around the canyon’s curve from the encampment cliffs. The river had formed a small shallow pool here.
“There’s another pool right over there,” he said, pointing over a hill and looking at Hanani, “for you.”
“I’ll stay with my mentor,” Hanani said. Mni-inh had already stripped and waded into the water; Hanani began to do the same. Charris looked startled, quickly turning his back as Hanani undressed. She puzzled over this reaction while she bathed, carrying her clothing into the water with her to wash as well. Charris was Gujaareen, after all; in Gujaareh it was not uncommon to see men and women naked in public, particularly on hot days. And this was for bathing, which was not remotely titillating. But when she got out and sat down on a rock to finger-comb her hair while her clothing dried, Charris made a sound very like one of irritation and walked off into the trees.
Mni-inh sat down beside her, glancing in the direction Charris had gone. Wet and freed of its usual braid, his hair had turned into a snarl of oily-looking ringlets threaded liberally with white. Having finished her own hair, Hanani moved behind him to help him pull out the tangles.
“I think,” he said while she worked, “that you’re going to have to be a woman again, Hanani.”
She paused, her hands wrist-deep in his hair, and wondered whether he was joking. “My fertile cycle has already peaked for the month, Brother, but I’m quite certain I’m still a woman.”
“Not truly,” he said. “We discouraged that in you, making you dress like us and live as we do in the Hetawa. For you to become one of us—and for some of our members to accept you—that was necessary. But here, I think, you’ll need to do the opposite.”
Hanani resumed finger-combing his hair, troubled. She had always felt womanly, whatever that meant. Her life as a Servant of Hananja felt natural and right; did that not mean that it suited her—suited women? Still, she had never minded dressing as a man, or being called sir in formal situations, because those things made her a Servant of Hananja in the eyes of her brethren and the people. Without those male trappings—
never know true womanhood
—Could she even be a Servant anymore?
Her hands faltered in Mni-inh’s hair.
Mni-inh sighed, misreading her stillness. “If only that damned Nijiri had let me know what he was planning. I can’t believe he’s put us into this kind of danger.” He reached back and took one of Hanani’s hands. “I’ll do my best to protect you, Hanani. But I want you to understand—whatever happens, we’re both going to have to do whatever it takes to survive and return to Gujaareh.”
His talk of survival unnerved her. “Gatherer Nijiri wouldn’t have left us among these people if he believed they would harm us, Brother.”
Mni-inh’s voice hardened. “Gatherer Nijiri would do exactly that, if it served his purposes. Death is just another kind of peace to a Gatherer, remember; they don’t think as Sharers do. But listen to me.” He squeezed her hand. “You aren’t without defenses, Hanani, even now. You’ve guessed it, haven’t you? Most apprentices figure
it out at about your level. Those who heal can harm just as easily. The technique is the same, except for your intent. And the result.”
She drew back from him, more unnerved than ever as she realized what he meant. He was her mentor, her elder brother, her father in all but blood. He had always taught her right from wrong. But this—It went against everything she had ever learned. It felt so wrong she had no words to describe it.
“But o-our oath, Brother,” she said. “We are n-never to do harm.”
“If someone tries to harm you, you’d damn well better harm them, Hanani.” He turned to face her; when she tried to look away he squeezed her hand again. “There can be no peace without safety. That’s why Gujaareh keeps an army, after all—and that’s why I’m telling you, ordering you, to protect yourself if it comes to that. Your duty is to heal those in need, and you won’t be able to fulfill that duty if you’ve been killed by some savage, or by the corrupt among our own people.” He scowled up at the cliff face, and belatedly Hanani realized he meant the Prince. “Promise me you’ll do what you must to survive.”
She was saved from the necessity of a response when a rustling in the trees behind them announced Charris’s return. They both got up, Mni-inh quickly tying off his hair and Hanani reaching for her clothes. They were still damp, but would dry soon now that the sun had risen.
Charris kept his eyes averted while they dressed. “Lady Hendet is awake, and asks to see you.”
Hanani paused while winding her breast-wrappings over one shoulder. Mni-inh reached for his drapes and said, “Is there some problem?”
“No. She just wants to see you. You,” he added, risking a look up and meeting Hanani’s eye. “Not both of you.”
Hanani blinked in surprise, but when she glanced at Mni-inh he only nodded. They finished dressing in silence, and then followed Charris back up to camp.
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 14