By midday he had lost himself in fantasies, hardly bothering to direct Laye-ka as she plodded along the trail between two jagged out-croppings. When Kite-iyan was his again, he would install Tiaanet in his own suite, just as his father had honored his mother. And would not his mother be pleased by his choice of a shunha maiden as firstwife? Sanfi’s lineage was a fine old one, eminently respectable—
Pebbles rattled on a ledge above.
Startled out of daydreaming, Wanahomen scrabbled for his knife and Laye-ka’s reins at once, scanning the heights for movement or an out-of-place shadow.
Nothing.
Laye-ka grunted loudly as if chastising Wanahomen. He ignored her, continuing to scan the ledges as she plodded onward. There was no further movement, but Wanahomen’s nerves were still a-jangle. The rock slopes on this part of the trail were too close and too littered with small caverns and boulders. He should never have allowed his attention to wander in a place so perfect for ambush.
Prompted by instinct, he dismounted and led Laye-ka off the main trail and up a narrow gulley carved by the springtime rains. It ran near the same slope from which he’d heard the pebbles, but there was more cover here than on the other side or the trail itself. He even spied a small cave as he moved behind a set of boulders twice Laye-ka’s height—
—And then he spied a man, crouched in the cave.
Wanahomen whipped his knife up. “Who—” He cut the sentence off in surprise as the stranger put a finger to his lips, then pointed down Wanahomen’s backtrail. In nearly the same breath, Wanahomen heard voices echoing over the hills, coming from the very direction in which the man had pointed.
What— But he tapped Laye-ka’s shoulder in a quick Banbarra signal to be silent and still. She jerked her head once but obeyed, and Wanahomen peered between the boulders to try to see who was coming.
There, two hills back: the gleam of bronze and cloth dyed as green as rain forests. A four of Kisuati soldiers.
Wanahomen glanced back at the man in the cave, who nodded quietly. From this vantage, the man had probably seen them from even farther away. If Wanahomen had not heard and reacted to that pebble-rattle—something he now suspected the man had made to warn him—the soldiers would’ve seen him as they crested the last hill.
The man returned Wanahomen’s gaze with an odd, somehow familiar calm. Something about that calm unnerved Wanahomen, though not as much as the nearness of the soldiers, so for the time being he focused on the greater threat.
That the soldiers were not searching for him was obvious almost at once. They kept their horses at a leisurely walk, the metal-shod hooves making far more noise on the rocky trail than a camel’s toes. They talked loudly in some backcountry Sua dialect that Wanahomen could barely comprehend, but he gathered they were talking about a wager. One of them made some boastful-sounding statement, and their raucous laughter seemed to confirm this guess. Still laughing, they rode out of sight.
Wanahomen did not move for what felt like hours, listening until the last echoes of the horses’ hooves had faded. Then, finally, he turned and climbed up to the cave’s mouth so that he and the man could speak quietly. “Who in the gods’ names are you?”
“Anarim,” said the man, who rose smoothly as a dancer from his crouch. His loindrapes were unadorned black, and shorter than was currently fashionable. He wore no collar, though his skin was paler about the neck and shoulders; usually he did wear one, it was clear. Wanahomen’s sense of familiarity increased—and turned ugly—as he saw black-dyed leather gauntlets about the man’s forearms, shin-guards, and the hilt of a short sword peeking over one shoulder. As if sensing Wanahomen’s sudden fury, the man nodded and said, “A Sentinel of Hananja.”
Wanahomen hissed through his veil and tightened his grip on his knife, prepared to fight to the death. But logic seeped past the red hatred in his mind. The Sentinel could have let the Kisuati find Wanahomen. He could still do it now, simply by raising his voice; the soldiers would be on him before he could mount and get Laye-ka back up to speed.
Very slowly, Wanahomen lowered his knife.
The Sentinel shifted minutely, perhaps relaxing whatever defenses he’d readied. “I hadn’t expected you for another day. You are Charris, once a general of Gujaareh?”
“Cha—” All at once Wanahomen understood; the fury returned. “So Charris has betrayed me.”
The Sentinel’s face registered surprise for an instant, and then went impassive again. “Ah. You are Wanahomen, whom Charris serves.”
“I am Wanahomen who will kill Charris next I see him,” he snapped. Charris, conspiring with the Hetawa against him! The only thing greater than Wanahomen’s anger in that moment was the hurt that throbbed underneath it. Charris, you damned old fool, I trusted you with my life!
The Sentinel regarded him for a long moment. “So that is why he asked to meet in secret. You have no love for the Hetawa.”
Wanahomen stared at the man, and only just remembered to keep his voice low when his rage found words. “The Hetawa killed my father. They opened the gates of the capital and let foreigners walk in to conquer us! As far as I’m concerned, all Gujaareh should rise up and throw your kind into the sea.”
“As I recall, it was your father who set Kisua against Gujaareh.” The Sentinel’s tone, like his expression, was almost inhumanly neutral. There was no hint of censure in his manner, yet Wanahomen felt his words like a slap to the face.
“He never meant for Gujaareh to be conquered,” he snapped, turning away and pacing in the tight confines of the cave. “Whatever mistakes my father made, he acted in Gujaareh’s best interests. And I don’t have to defend him to you!” Though he’d been doing precisely that. Furious with himself now, Wanahomen rounded on the Sentinel and pointed with his knife at that revoltingly calm face. “Tell me why you were meeting my man here.”
The Sentinel regarded the knife for a moment before answering. “I bring a message from my superiors.” Moving slowly, he pointed off toward a wall of the cavern, where a small shoulder-pouch lay atop a folded travel cloak. “For you.”
Frowning to cover his surprise, Wanahomen went to the pouch, keeping the man in sight. When he flicked the pouch open, a scroll sealed with a knotted-cord binding—the generic pattern used by city officials—slipped out. Stamped along the scroll’s edge were the pictorals of Wanahomen’s recent lineage, ending with those comprising his given name.
“General Charris requested an audience on your behalf with the Superior,” the Sentinel said when Wanahomen threw him a suspicious look. “The response is contained therein.”
Wanahomen stared at the scroll, then burst out laughing. “An audience with the Superior? Gods, if I didn’t know any better I’d accuse Charris of senility. Why would I possibly meet with anyone from the Hetawa?”
“You want your throne back. For that you will need our help.”
Wanahomen nearly dropped his knife.
“An alliance,” he said, after a long and stunned breath. “Charris actually believes he can forge an alliance between the Hetawa and the Banbarra?” He could hardly believe his own words.
“The alliance would be with you,” the Sentinel replied, “though it may of course include others you deem appropriate.” He paused, then added, “It is not so far-fetched a notion. The Hetawa created the monarchy, after all, and supported it for centuries.”
“Yes.” Wanahomen’s hand tightened on the scroll. “Until your kind enslaved mine with dreamblood. An alliance requires trust, Servant of Hananja, and I’ll never trust you or your murdering brethren. Charris should have known better.”
He threw the scroll on the ground, and was irrationally annoyed that the Sentinel showed no sign of affront. Instead the man said, “Then you refuse the alliance?”
“I cannot refuse the impossible,” Wanahomen snapped. He turned away and peered between the boulders again at the trail, which was now clear. He would have to find another way through the hills, since the easiest route was the way the Kisua
ti soldiers had gone. They must have begun patrolling the hills after the last Banbarra raid, perhaps hoping to forewarn the city or harry the raiders next time.
“I’ll convey that to our council,” the Sentinel said behind him. “Though they will doubtless send at least a representative to the designated place, in case you should change your mind.” There was a pause. “You should know, if you expect trust of your allies, that the shunha lord Sanfi cannot be trusted, either.”
Wanahomen threw a scowl at the Sentinel over his shoulder. “You’ve been watching me?”
“We’ve been watching Sanfi. He’s been gathering his coalition of nobles for some time—long before your Banbarra began their attacks. You’re useful to his plans, but only for now.”
Two could play the stone-faced game. Wanahomen folded his arms and said, “Explain.”
The Sentinel lifted an eyebrow minutely. “You will not trust this information.”
“I’ll decide whether to trust it later. For now I want to hear.”
“You know that once—before the Sunset dynasty—we were like Kisua and the southern tribes, ruled by the most respected of our elders.” The Sentinel shrugged. “Having the Kisuati Protectorate in control for the past ten years has reminded Gujaareh of that history. Sanfi leads the push to recreate a Gujaareen Protectorate.”
Wanahomen narrowed his eyes. “The common folk of Gujaareh want a champion chosen by the Goddess to rule them, not a circle of doddering old rich people. They can see how much good—or how little—Kisua’s Protectorate does its own land; orphan children prostitute themselves on street corners, and their slaves starve amid fields of grain.”
The Sentinel lowered his eyes. “For the long-term preservation of peace, we’ve kept secret your father’s true goals. No one in Gujaareh knows that King Eninket meant to slaughter thousands of soldiers to gain immortality. Yet the secrets that have come out—the murder of a Kisuati ambassador, the torture of three Gatherers, the conspiracy with northerners, the Reaper …” He shook his head. “The excesses of a Protectorate are distant and half-forgotten. The excesses of a Prince are a fresh wound. You cannot blame the people for thinking this way.”
He could, Wanahomen mused grimly, but it would do him no good to do so. “I see.”
“And even a Protectorate must have a leader. Sanfi is young for it yet, but he thinks long-term.”
“I made contact with Sanfi a year ago. It was only sensible for him to make plans before that,” Wanahomen said. The words sounded weak even to his own ears; he clenched his fists, scowling. Such plans, such plans! Not easily dismantled. And would any man who himself hungered to rule give up that idea simply because the true king had come along?
No. Such a man would not.
If I marry Tiaanet, Sanfi will gain influence through me. Then he could assassinate me and claim that he’d meant to put a Prince on the throne, but alas …
The Sentinel was watching him in silence, no doubt reading the turmoil in Wanahomen’s body language; Wanahomen had heard they could do such things. To cover this, he turned to face the man. “The petty schemes of the nobility are nothing to me. You forget my father raised me to deal with such things.”
The Sentinel inclined his head. “As you wish.” He picked up his cloak and the pouch, tying the latter across his chest. “Please inform Charris that there’s no longer any need for us to meet. In peace, Wanahomen, son of the King.”
He left the scroll on the cavern floor where Wanahomen had thrown it. Wanahomen scowled at him, but the Sentinel walked out and began climbing a trail that led to higher ground. Perhaps he had a mount hidden somewhere.
And good riddance. “Son of the King”! He speaks of alliance and yet will not even give me my proper title! Ignoring the small voice within him, which pointed out that the title was currently meaningless and Servants of Hananja always told the truth, Wanahomen waited until the Sentinel’s footsteps had faded. Then he went to pick up the scroll. He dared not leave it in the cavern where it might be found.
Damn them to shadows, anyway. I don’t need them. I’ll use Sanfi as he meant to use me, then kill him myself.
But Tiaanet would not make a particularly willing bride if he murdered her father.
Forcing silent the murmur of unease in his mind, Wanahomen shoved the scroll into a pocket. Then he went to Laye-ka, signaling for her to kneel so he could mount. After a moment’s thought to determine a new route, he resumed the journey to the desert, his thoughts now convoluted and grim.
10
Sonta-i
They brought Merchant Danneh to the Hetawa on the morning of the Festival of New Beer. Hanani heard the revelry from the square outside when the Hall doors opened to admit four Sentinel-Apprentices, who carried Danneh’s palanquin. The apprentices set the palanquin on the dais and removed its canopy to reveal Danneh.
The merchant was asleep but fitfully so, her face beaded with sweat as she shifted and made small fevered sounds. Beneath their lids her eyes moved with frenetic speed, as if the sights that tormented her in dreaming were too many and too swift for her to follow. Danneh’s servant, who had come with them, put hands to her mouth, fighting tears.
“She will not wake?” Nhen-ne-verra, the Sharer on duty, knelt beside Danneh as the Sentinels stepped away.
Danneh’s training showed as the girl composed herself. “No, Sharer,” she said. “When I returned from delivering her message to the Hetawa last night, she had fallen asleep again. I thought perhaps she had finally found peace enough to rest, but when morning came and she did not rise, I went into her bedchamber to find her like this. I’ve tried to wake her many times.”
Nhen-ne-verra nodded, pursing his lips as he pulled up Danneh’s eyelids—Hanani caught a glimpse of the woman’s eyes rolling wildly in their sockets—then opened Danneh’s mouth to sniff her breath. “No recent drink or food. Has she any enemies?”
The servant looked horrified. “None who would poison her!”
“I’m simply eliminating possibilities, child.” He tilted Danneh’s head up and massaged her throat, checking her pulse and the glands in her neck that signaled disease. All part of the traditional ritual of examination, Hanani knew—and all wrong for this situation.
She mounted the first step of the dais. “Nhen-ne-verra-brother.”
Nhen-ne-verra did not look up from his work. “You are under interdiction, Apprentice.”
Hanani bit her lip against the sting of the reminder, though he’d spoken kindly. “This woman—” She swallowed. “I met her a four-day ago. She sent word to me about this. Brother—” She cut herself off, fists clenching. She would not beg. She would not.
Nhen-ne-verra finally glanced at her over his shoulder. He was half easternese, pale of skin with long limp hair that had gone shockingly white in his elderhood—but his eyes were as black and stern as those of any shunha. “Very well. But you may not enter healing sleep. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Brother.” Quickly, before he could change his mind, Hanani crouched on the other side of Danneh’s litter. Throwing a glance at the servant, she lowered her voice. “Brother, there’s a dream—”
“Yes, the Superior has informed the Sharer path-elders, of whom I am one.” Nhen-ne-verra threw a half-smile at her abashed look. “You must admit it is intriguing, Apprentice. I cannot help but feel some excitement at the prospect of being able to examine this mysterious dream at last.”
Remembering the oily feel of the shadow in the dream she had shared with Gatherer Nijiri, Hanani shuddered. “Brother …” But she could not say what was in her mind. Take care would be an insult, implying that she thought him too old or incompetent to perform his duty. Dayuhotem died of it was even worse, for Nhen-ne-verra was a Sharer with over forty floods’ experience; there could be no comparison between his skill and that of a child. So she bit her lip again and said nothing more.
He seemed to understand. “I’ll be fine, Hanani. But perhaps you should go and fetch your mentor for me, if he’s not on s
leep shift right now. It would be sensible to have another Sharer here, just in case.”
It was an acolyte’s task to run errands and fetch, and humiliation coiled in Hanani’s belly. But it was a way to help, and at the moment it was better than nothing. Nodding quickly to Nhen-ne-verra, she hurried off in search of Mni-inh.
Her mentor was just finishing a training session on wound-binding in the Sentinels’ Hall. He spied her as he emerged from the naproom trailed by sleepy-eyed boys, who wandered off toward their next dream-implanted lesson. “Ah, Hanani. If you’re—” He read her face. “What is it?”
When she explained, he sobered at once. “I’ll go now. Find an acolyte and tell him to summon the Superior.”
That threw her. “The Superior, Brother?”
“And Yehamwy, if he’s not teaching right now.” He read her stricken face and sighed. “Witnesses, Hanani. If the healing is difficult, I want them to see and realize Dayu wasn’t incompetent, just confronted with something that could tax even an experienced Sharer’s ability. I know you’d rather not use your friend to prove a point …”
Hanani shook her head, pushing aside an irrational sense of guilt. Gatherer Nijiri had said such tactics would be ineffective in clearing Hanani’s reputation, but she understood Mni-inh’s desire to try. She hoped it would work too. “It’s what Dayu would want, Brother.”
Mni-inh nodded, then let her go and hurried toward the Hall of Blessings. Hanani caught one of the acolytes emerging from Mni-inh’s lesson and sent him in search of the Superior. Yehamwy’s class was nearby in the Gatherers’ Hall, so she hastened across the courtyard to the smallest of the Hetawa complex’s buildings to deliver that message herself.
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