At Hendet’s tent, Charris drummed his fingers on the taut hide, then thrust his head inside when a voice murmured within. After a few exchanged words, he stepped back from the tent entrance and gestured for Hanani to go in.
Inside the tent, the scent of sickness was already fading. Hendet sat propped up by pillows, her lap and the rug beside her covered in scrolls. She didn’t look up as Hanani entered, her eyes busy scanning a column of numeratics. Inexplicably nervous, Hanani stopped on the rug at the center of the tent and waited, unsure whether it would be more respectful to remain standing or to sit.
“Sit down,” Hendet said, to Hanani’s relief. She sat on her knees, as she had done during so many lessons in the Sharers’ Hall.
Closing the scroll she had been reading, Hendet at last turned a deep, thoughtful gaze on Hanani. It was obvious now that she had been beautiful in her younger days, for she was handsome still, long-necked and graceful of feature, if too gaunt after her illness. And it was equally obvious that the Prince had inherited her temper, for the same coldness was on her face as she gazed at Hanani.
“So the Hetawa inducted a woman,” she said. “To appease the Kisuati, I gather?”
Hanani ducked her eyes. “Yes, lady.”
“To see them so weakened … It should please me. A fitting revenge for what they did to my husband.” Hendet sighed, then eyed Hanani, who had not been quick enough to keep anger from her face. But to her surprise, Hendet grew thoughtful. “Forgive me; they’re family to you. From now on I won’t speak ill of them in front of you.”
Hanani hesitated, frowned more, then finally said the thought that had come to her mind. “I would rather hear the words aloud than hear nothing, and know there are ill thoughts behind your eyes.”
Hendet gazed at her in silence for a long moment before she finally said, “Very well. We’ll speak frankly with one another.” She set aside the scroll and beckoned Hanani closer. Hesitating for only a breath, Hanani moved to kneel beside the older woman’s pallet.
Hendet reached out and touched Hanani’s collar, examining the stones. “You’re an apprentice. A shame; if you were a full Sharer, these would be rubies, not carnelians.”
“Why does that matter, lady?”
“Because you require wealth. Among the Banbarra a woman is as valuable as the inheritance her mother gives her, and that is dependent on what wealth she can build through a lifetime of clever trading. A man may luck his way to wealth through the spoils of raids or battle, or by coaxing a wealthy woman to marry him and bring him into her clan—but for women it’s nothing but wits.” She let go of Hanani’s collar and took hold of her chin, turning her face from side to side.
Hanani endured this examination with some consternation, remembering that the Sister Ahmanat had done the same. What was it these people sought in her face? It would be nice if one of them ever bothered to tell her.
“I’m not a Banbarra woman,” Hanani said, struggling to keep her tone properly neutral. “I’m a servant of the Goddess; I own nothing but the talent She has granted me and the skills that my brothers have trained.”
“Yes, there is that. Be certain you demand proper payment when you heal, girl. Altruism will win you no respect in this tribe.”
Hanani pulled back from Hendet’s fingers, no longer able to contain her affront. “I don’t ask payment for my skills.”
Hendet looked amused. “Who buys those pretty red drapes you wear?”
Hanani started, reflexively looking down at herself. The drapes in question belled around her knees, bunching a little across her lap. They had always been too long for her.
“The dye is expensive,” Hendet continued, “especially in that rich dark shade, which is imported from the east. I know because my husband, Eninket, bought me such finery when he was alive, and few other nobles of Gujaareh could’ve afforded it. Yet the Hetawa adorns all its dozens of healers in cloth worth a small fortune. How, I wonder?”
Hanani touched the soft cloth of her foredrape, troubled on a level that she had never been before. “D-donations,” she said. “I’ve seen people at the tithing halls. They ask if the Hetawa needs any labor done, or they bring offerings of money, food, and goods—”
“Enough to pay for the dye in those drapes, and the stones in your collar? And the food that fed you all these years, and the pallets you’ve slept on, and the craftsmen who built the cisterns and ducts for your daily baths?” Hendet shook her head. “The nobles pay—”
“That has ended!” Hanani gripped the cloth of her drape between her hands. “The Gatherers purged the Hetawa of all who sold dreamblood for profit or gain.”
Hendet sighed, long and wearily, and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. She was newly recovered from a life-threatening illness; Hanani knew she should’ve urged Hendet to stop talking and rest. But she could not bring herself to speak, and Hendet eventually focused on her again.
“The Banbarra worship no gods,” she said after a moment. “Did you know that? Or rather, they call on all gods with equal fervor—but no one in particular. I’ve heard them pray to Hananja; swear by Shirloa, Lord of Death; dance to call the night-spirits of the Vatswane. I have seen them burn sacrifices to their ancestors and be possessed by animal gods, and now and again they paint themselves in stripes, like the Dreamer. Do you think them faithless to all those gods?”
Hanani stared at her, trembling inside. Hendet glanced at her and laughed softly. It did not feel malicious. Just pitying, which was worse.
“The Banbarra worship that which made the world, in any and all forms it takes,” Hendet continued. “But they do not worship people. Or rather, they trust people to be people—even the ones who claim themselves holy. Sometimes I cannot help but wonder if they have the right of it, these ‘barbarians.’ They at least never dupe themselves.”
“I have not been duped,” Hanani said, tightly.
“You never had to be. You believe, unquestioning; that is enough.” Her pity had become exasperation; she shook her head at Hanani’s rigid stance. “Think, Sharer-Apprentice. What of all the nobles who had already grown dependent on dreamblood? They can’t stop, or they go mad and die. And what of those who come asking for it willingly, knowing the risks? Dreamblood gives sweeter pleasure than timbalin paste; it’s more powerful than any wine or smoke. If those who can afford it want it, why should your Hetawa turn them away?”
Hanani stared back at her, unable to speak, unable to think past the dawning horror in her mind. Yet beneath the horror lay shame at her own naïveté. It was so obvious. She should have known.
“The Hetawa does great good in Gujaareh,” Hendet said, more gently. “Without it, the orphaned and the ill would be left to fend for themselves, and most of our people would be as ignorant as the folk of other lands—illiterate, superstitious, and worse. Our very lives are made longer and healthier through priests’ magic. This is why Gujaareh does not begrudge the Hetawa its little schemes and airs, provided your superiors don’t overstep the bounds of propriety. And this, foolish girl, is why you should ask payment from the Banbarra. You’ve always been paid for your work, whether you realized it or not.” She shrugged. “But do as you please; I’ve given you my advice.”
“Thank you,” Hanani said, more out of polite habit than anything else. It was very hard not to hate Hendet in that moment.
Hendet inclined her head, though she smiled thinly, as if guessing Hanani’s hatred. “And if you would hear more advice, sell that collar of yours.”
Hanani started, putting a hand to her collar. “Sell it?”
“You need belongings. Proper clothing. A chamber pot, a decent bed. You’re hungry, aren’t you? No one eats free here. Give your collar to Charris, and have him take it to a tribesman named Nefri. He’ll keep an accounting for you, and give you fair value for it. Tell your mentor to do the same. I’ve given you each a tent out of my own wealth; in the eyes of the tribe this means I’ve claimed you as kin. That will force them to treat you with s
ome respect, provided you do nothing to offend them.”
Do what you must to survive. Hanani fingered the stones of her collar and bowed her head, hating herself now for even thinking of following Hendet’s advice. But Hendet knew these people, and Hanani did not.
“Why?” she asked. “Why help us, if you hate the Hetawa so?”
Hendet smiled. “Because you’re my son’s allies. And because I too have made hard choices in order to survive and ensure my son’s future.” She looked Hanani up and down, then added, “And because in spite of everything, it pleases me to see a woman in the Hetawa. Now go; I have much to do.”
Obediently Hanani got to her feet. After another moment’s hesitation she bowed to Hendet; Hendet inclined her head in regal acceptance of this. With her mind full of questions, Hanani left.
17
The Negotiation of Steel
Wanahomen found three of his men crouched at the northeastern lookout, passing a long-eye between them and sniggering like virgin boys. “I-Dari,” one of them called, spying him. “Come and see.”
“What foolishness are you up to now?” he asked, coming over to join them. Ezack grinned and handed the long-eye to him, pointing down toward one of the pools at ground level. Wana put the viewer to his eye, focused it on the spot, and started. The men read his expression and laughed.
“She could birth an army with those hips,” Ezack said.
“And feed them all with those breasts!” laughed another man.
It was true, Wanahomen judged, permitting himself a small smile as the female Sharer, nude after bathing, stood to fetch her clothing and afforded him a particularly good view of her virtues. She was nothing special in her features, coloring, or bearing, but there really was something to be said for certain qualities of lowcaste breeding in Gujaareh.
“I’d heard Gujaareen women had no shame,” Ezack said, taking the long-eye for another look, “but I had no idea it was like this. Look at her, bathing with that man of hers without any modesty at all. Are they lovers?”
Wanahomen shook his head. “Men of the Hetawa use magic to stifle the natural impulses; they’re hardly even men. I imagine the girl is the same.”
“She looks woman enough to me!”
“I can’t wait to get my hands on her,” said one of the men, and Wanahomen’s amusement vanished.
“Unte’s made it clear they aren’t to be harmed,” he said, keeping his tone nonchalant.
“I don’t want to harm her,” the man replied, and even Ezack joined in on laughing at that—though, as he noted Wanahomen’s face, Ezack’s laughter faded quickly.
“My mother has claimed her as a member of our clan,” Wanahomen said, and then smiled when all three men stared at him in surprise. “She always said she wanted a daughter. I suppose I’ve been a trial.”
He turned to leave before they could question him, because he had no answers in any case. He had no idea why Hendet had chosen to give tents to the two Sharers. Rather, he understood the reason—it would afford them a greater degree of status, and therefore safety, in the tribe—but the fact that she had done it still angered him. He would never forgive the Hetawa. Let their priests fend for themselves, as he and his mother had been forced to do.
“That was neatly done,” said a voice as he hopped down from the lookout’s ledge. He stiffened, then turned to face the Banbarra woman who had spoken to him.
“Yanassa,” he said, with careful formality. “The morning pales to your brightness.”
She smiled, gesturing to indicate that he was to walk beside her. Sighing inwardly, he did so.
“Tassa informs me,” she said, “that the two strangers worked some sort of magic last night on your mother. Is this true?”
The question eased his mood somewhat. Hendet had awoken that morning feeling better than she had in years. Wanahomen had helped her wash and dress, reveling in her returning strength, her fierce appetite, the brightness of her eyes. “The Hetawa’s magic is a gift from our Goddess,” he said. “If nothing else about them is reliable, that much is.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Yanassa said. “I’ve heard all sorts of odd rumors about the strangers, particularly the woman. They say she walks about wearing nearly nothing, and doing whatever her male companion—or any male—says.” She shook her head, sighing. “I suppose one of us women will have to take her in hand before the men get the wrong idea.”
Wanahomen stopped walking, frowning at her in suspicion. It would indeed ease much of the burden on him if Yanassa looked after the Hetawa girl. But that would put him in debt for the favor, and he had learned years ago that Yanassa did nothing that did not benefit Yanassa.
“What do you want?” he asked, abandoning politeness.
She gave him a disapproving pout. “Will you never learn proper manners? Ten years among us and still you behave like a city man.”
“I won’t come to your bed again, Yanassa. I told you that two years ago: it was the last time.”
“And I don’t want you in my bed again. I have another lover now, if you hadn’t noticed.” But for a moment she grew serious, and he saw a shadow of sorrow in her eyes. “Tassa asks, sometimes, why you never visit.”
“He’ll understand when he’s older and learns the ways of your sex. Tell me what you want in exchange for looking after the woman.”
She sighed and shook her head. “Nothing, Wana. The girl interests me, that’s all. It could be valuable to have a magician in my circle of friends.” She smiled at him sidelong.
“You would do better to befriend a jackal. No one raised by the Hetawa can be trusted.”
Yanassa raised her gracefully arched brows at this. “So there’s something you hate more than me? I’m almost pleased to hear it.”
He didn’t hate her, and she knew it. He stopped and sighed.
“Take the woman in hand,” he said. “The man too. I haven’t the time to nursemaid them. The hunt parties of the other tribes will be arriving soon, and I want my men to practice shooting—”
She threw him an exasperated look. “It’s the solstice, Wanahomen. Tonight is the start of the festival, or have you forgotten?”
Damnation. He had. “I see no reason why we can’t prepare and celebrate too. We are contemplating war.”
“Even warriors must refresh their spirits.” She eyed him meaningfully and stopped, reaching up to brush her fingers along his cheekbone above the face-veil. “Even you, O great king.”
Perhaps the stresses of the past few days had worn him down, or perhaps Tiaanet had made him crave more of a woman’s softness for a change. He sighed and permitted Yanassa’s touch, even when her fingers teased the veil down enough to reveal his lips, which she stroked with a fingertip. He smiled, just a little, and saw an answering smile on her face. He had always admired her audacity.
Then the moment passed, and Wanahomen took her hand and kissed it before gently pushing it away. Wordlessly—for there was so little they could safely say to one another these days, and these small peaceful exchanges were too fragile to jeopardize—he raised his veil, inclined his head to her, and walked away.
He went first down to the ground level, where like the templefolk he reveled in the chance to bathe after their long journey. When the tribe was in Merik-ren-aferu, he could not help reverting to his old Gujaareen habit of bathing at waking and sleep. He had even spent some of his precious tradable currency to buy fine soaps and scented oils in Gujaareh, which he preferred over the plain ash-and-fat stuff the Banbarra used. The Banbarra shook their heads at his foolish city habits, for they bathed more frugally and, having an aversion to wasting water, had been known to “wash” by scrubbing off old skin and sweat with dry sand. He did as they did in the desert or the foothills, but when plentiful water was available, he saw no reason not to take advantage of it.
Perhaps that was why, immersed in the pleasure of his daily ritual, he did not hear the attacker’s approach.
He had just climbed out of the pool, glancing warily
up at the cliffs to be sure he saw no telltale gleam of a long-eye, when a blur of motion at the edge of the nearby trees warned him. He turned just in time and locked his hands around the wrist of an older man with hate-filled eyes over his veil. The knife he held was inches from Wanahomen’s belly, quivering as he strained to drive it home.
Wanahomen tried to think through the shock of his own thoughts. The man’s eyes were familiar, but—The man snarled and threw his weight behind his knife-arm, forcing it close enough to score a shallow slice across Wanahomen’s abdomen. Wanahomen hissed at the pain and then twisted, shoving the man’s knife-arm off to the side and shifting his weight, pulling where before he had pushed. The man stumbled and went sprawling. Wanahomen kept hold of the man’s wrist, swiftly throwing a leg around the arm and dropping to the ground in a wrestling move he had once learned from the Kite-iyan palace guards. Now the man was pinned, one of Wanahomen’s legs across his chest, the other bracing his arm, which Wanahomen now twisted sharply. The man cried out, dropping the knife, but Wanahomen did not release him.
“Who are you?” he demanded. The man cursed and struggled to get up, but could gain no leverage. Wanahomen pressed his arm down sharply in warning, and the man cried out as he realized Wanahomen was ready to break the arm at the elbow. “Who are you, coward?”
“Wutir,” the man finally gasped. “Wujjeg’s uncle!”
So that was it. In disgust, Wanahomen sighed and threw the man’s arm away from him, scooping up the knife as he got to his feet. He was filthy now from scrabbling in the dirt, and bleeding at the middle, but that did not trouble him half so much as the fact that he was naked. Banbarra did not reveal themselves to others lightly, and to be naked before an enemy was the greatest humiliation. Doubtless Wutir had counted on that to make Wanahomen clumsier in defending himself.
But he was Gujaareen, not Banbarra. And as Wutir rolled to his feet, Wanahomen stepped closer and laid the confiscated knife against his throat. Wutir froze, eyes widening over his veil. “Hands up,” Wanahomen said, and reluctantly Wutir raised his hands.
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 15
