Wanahomen felt about his waist for more weapons, then crouched to feel for a leg-or ankle-sheath, finding neither. Satisfied, he straightened again and wrapped his arm around Wutir’s waist in a gesture that might have seemed intimate, if not for the knife he pressed to the man’s throat, and if not for his belly-wound smearing blood on Wutir’s clothing. “Now,” he said, “I think you fail to understand, sir, that Wujjeg was in the wrong. He disobeyed my orders, and I am hunt leader. His death was his own fault.”
“You—” Wutir’s face darkened with fury and disgust as he tried to pull away. “You’re a foreign demon who should’ve been gelded and sold at auction—”
Wanahomen let out a venomous laugh and released Wutir’s waist to reach down between them with one hand. It was an easy matter to yank aside Wutir’s robes and find the drawstring of his pants; even easier to break the string and tear his pants open at the front. Wutir gasped and tried harder to jerk back, but Wanahomen pressed the knife to his throat enough to draw blood. Wutir subsided, gritting his teeth. To take the man’s life, Wanahomen only had to slash.
“But you didn’t geld me,” he said with a fierce grin. To his great amusement, Wutir was not flaccid. The excitement of battle, perhaps, or—“It seems you coveted me instead! Me, a city-born demon. You came upon me naked from the bath and attacked me, meaning to take my flesh in revenge for your nephew. But alas, I have no taste for ugly men, and so—”
He took a thorough grip of Wutir’s penis and wrenched it to one side with all his strength.
Wutir’s scream was most gratifying. Wanahomen swiftly tripped him to the ground, keeping the knife at his throat although he graciously allowed the man to curl into a howling, sobbing knot. As an added insult, he ripped the veil from Wutir’s face and tossed it into the river.
“I owe Yanassa an entertainment.” Wanahomen smiled down at Wutir, waiting to speak until the man had gone hoarse from screaming. “Perhaps I can drop word to her of what you tried to do, and what I did in return. And tonight at the festival, when woman after woman invites you to her tent and you have to refuse every single one of them, the whole tribe will enjoy laughing at your humiliation.”
Wutir managed to glare at him, though his face was shiny with sweat and it was weak as glares went. Wanahomen laughed, stepping away from him at last. Backing away, he crouched near the river and rinsed himself, taking care to sand-scrub the hand that had injured Wutir. No telling what filth the man had down there. Then, laying the knife on a nearby boulder, he reached for his drying clothes and quickly dressed, keeping an eye on Wutir the whole while.
“N-no,” Wutir blurted at last. He was still curled in a ball, his hands clamped between his thighs. “D-don’t tell … the women.”
Wanahomen slipped on his sandals and picked up the knife again, sitting down on the boulder to examine it. Surprisingly, it was a good-quality blade—Huhoja steel, no less, from a southern tribe famous for the stuff. Only a handspan long, but nicely balanced. He could see no smearing of the blade’s sheen that might indicate poison, for which he thanked all the Dreamer’s children. A smarter or more cautious man would’ve hedged his bets by using it; Wutir clearly had no such gifts.
“What other guarantee do I have that there won’t be more of you after me?” he asked. “Every weakling, cowardly member of your clan, hunting me down to take revenge for your ass-stupid nephew? Did your mother send you?”
Wutir shook his head fervently. “D-didn’t know.”
“Ah, good. She’s always struck me as a sensible woman, Shatyrria, in spite of her prejudice toward my mother and me. How do you think she’ll like it when your foolishness makes her the laughingstock of all her powerful friends?” He reached into his purse and pulled out a handful of dates, part of a small supply he’d brought back from Gujaareh. Chewing on one, he wrapped the knife in a scrap of leather from his purse, then regarded Wutir thoughtfully. “Will she disown you, I wonder?”
Wutir only groaned in response. Wanahomen chuckled and got to his feet, putting the knife and the rest of the dates away. Crossing the space between them, he crouched at Wutir’s head. Wutir looked up at him—and cringed, for Wanahomen was no longer smiling. He wanted to kill Wutir so badly that his hands itched for the knife and the slick covering of blood. The fool had come closer to killing Wanahomen than any enemy in years. Now, when Wanahomen’s plans were so near fruition!
And yet—
Never be quick to kill, Wanahomen. His father’s voice came to him through the bloodlust. It offends Hananja—and in any case there are other, better ways to destroy an enemy.
“Understand this,” Wanahomen said. He kept his voice soft, so that Wutir would cease his whimpering and pay attention. “Everyone will see you stumble back to camp later today, barely able to walk. They may wonder what happened; think up whatever excuse you like while you lie here. No one will believe it, of course. They’ll see the blood on your robes, and the blood on mine, and they’ll know who did this to you, if not what or why. But I can choose to say nothing … for now.”
He leaned closer, taking a great risk. If Wutir had another weapon on him in some hidden place … But some messages were best delivered like this, eye to eye.
“Your mother hopes to convince the other Banbarra tribes not to support my cause,” he said. “And with her uncle leading the Dzikeh tribe, she may succeed. I need every tribe’s warriors under my command if we’re to have a chance against the Kisuati in Gujaareh. So you will tell me all Shatyrria’s plans.”
Wutir’s eyes widened. “B-betray my clan? Are you mad?”
“I’ve told you what will happen if you don’t. Would your clan keep you, after that?”
Wutir moaned and began to weep. Among the Banbarra, a man was nothing without the ability to sire children. Fertility was wealth to them, bodies sacrosanct; things that meant nothing in Gujaareh were life and death here. No woman would acknowledge him as her lover. No hunt leader would take him into his troop. He would be useless, a pet at best and a slave at worst, doomed to obscurity and a life of squalor.
“Show me that you understand,” Wanahomen said.
Wutir nodded, turning his face away as the tears spilled down his face. Wanahomen rose and returned to the boulder, feeling a stir of pity beneath his contempt.
“Satisfy me,” he said, “and perhaps in a few days I’ll let the Gujaareen healers see to you. The man, not the woman, for the sake of your dignity. They can make even your sorry stick straight again, however bad the damage is.”
Wutir nodded again, his body slumping in defeat.
“Speak, then,” Wanahomen said, and Wutir spoke. When at last Wanahomen knew everything, he headed back toward the camp ledges, raising his veil to conceal his troubled thoughts. Shatyrria had moved faster than anticipated, he understood now, and that meant the Dzikeh-Banbarra would be a serious problem whenever they arrived. He would have to devise some means of dealing with them quickly.
He spared no further thought for Wutir, left shivering on the ground behind him.
18
The Negotiation of Silence
Amid all the bizarre configurations of Gujaareen society—birth-castes and chosen-castes, lineages and by-blows, servants who were not slaves and pleasure-givers who were not whores—the shunha were the one group that made sense to Sunandi Jeh Kalawe. Gujaareh was awash in foreign influences, from northern architecture to western music and eastern textiles. Its language was a stew so tainted with the flavors of other tongues that it now bore only the faintest resemblance to the Sua its people had once spoken. Half the time Sunandi couldn’t tell a Gujaareen from a member of any other race; they had mingled even themselves so thoroughly with foreign peoples that only they could make sense of the aesthetic mess.
The shunha were the stones around which this churning social river flowed. While their fellow nobles, the zhinha, led the drive to spread Gujaareen trade and power ever farther, it was the shunha who kept that drive from forging too far or too fast and overtaxing t
he land’s resources. And if they were sometimes derided as old-fashioned or stagnant, that did not change the fact that Gujaareh could never have become as great as it was without their steadfast, sensible restraint.
But Sunandi never allowed herself to forget that for all their adherence to Kisuati tradition, the shunha were still incontrovertibly, insanely Gujaareen.
Lord Sanfi and his daughter Tiaanet had come to the palace Yanya-iyan at Sunandi’s invitation, as she had continued the habit from her years as an ambassador of dining with all the notables of the city. The meal had gone well and both her guests had behaved with perfect decorum—yet there had been something off about the pair from the very beginning. It was a subtle thing, but persistent, and by the end of the meal Sunandi was sure of only one thing: that she did not like Sanfi. Not at all.
“It would be easier for you,” Sanfi said, “if you had kept one of the old Prince’s children alive.”
Sunandi, sipping fresh-made palm wine and relaxing on cushions after their meal, said nothing. She had learned, throughout the evening’s conversation, that Sanfi responded better to Anzi than herself in discussions of controversial topics. He got more defensive when Sunandi questioned his stances, and showed more temper when she pointed out flaws in his reasoning. Most likely he had some prejudice against women: it was a common failing in Gujaareen men. Perhaps, she mused, that was why Sanfi’s daughter Tiaanet had been largely silent ’til now.
Her Anzi, who had no such problem, had taken the lead in the conversation: he had grown used to playing off her most subtle cues over the years. “There are still a few children of the Sunset here in the capital,” Anzi said. He took a deep draw from his pipe, which Sunandi permitted him to smoke in their apartments only after meals like this. Evening had fallen, humid but cooling, and in the palace courtyard below, a hired chantress offered a lilting paean to the dusk. “If they swore off all claim to the Gujaareen throne and pledged allegiance to us, we let them live.”
“Not those,” Sanfi said, his tone laden with scorn. “The ones in the city are mostly daughters, and sons too young or foolish to have any clout. No one would follow them.”
“There have been female Princes in Gujaareh’s past,” Sunandi said, turning her cup in her fingers.
“True. But they all had to work harder to earn respect and power than a man would have.” Sanfi leaned forward to pour more wine for Sunandi, the picture of solicitousness. “A son of the lineage could be more easily made into a figurehead. Dress him in fine robes, put the Aureole behind him, and the people will be so happy to have their Avatar back that much of the unrest you’ve seen lately would ease. Even if, in fact, Kisua remained in control.”
Did the man think them such fools, Sunandi wondered as she nodded thanks and sipped more wine, that they had not thought of such a possibility long ago? Sunandi herself had suggested using one of the Prince’s sons to the Kisuati Protectors’ Council. Unfortunately, after the Hetawa’s purges and the necessary power consolidation were done, those of the Prince’s older offspring with sense had fled north or west into exile, or protected themselves through marriages and alliances with Kisua’s elite. The few who remained were all but useless—children, wastrels, or worse.
And the one who might have served best, who had a respectable lineage, his father’s favor and, by all accounts, the wit and bearing of a true Prince … no one had seen or heard from that son since the day of the old Prince’s death. Though after her conversation with Nijiri, Sunandi now had an inkling of what the boy had been up to.
Just as well. If he had stayed in the city, most likely I would’ve had to kill him.
“And have you a candidate in mind for this figurehead?” asked Anzi, amused.
“No, no, not at all.” Sanfi laughed, though there was an insincere edge to the sound. Beside Sanfi, his daughter did not smile. “And frankly, it’s too late these days for Kisua to put forward a figurehead who wouldn’t be a laughingstock. Your people, I’m afraid, have lost much credibility in Gujaareh these last few years. That tax on exports to the north, for example—”
“A necessity,” Sunandi said, smiling although she would have preferred not to. Firstly because it was impertinent of Sanfi to bring it up, but also because the Protectorate had insisted on the tax over Sunandi’s protests that it would further alienate the wealthier families of the land. The occupation of Gujaareh had grown increasingly unpopular back in Kisua, and the Protectorate now sought to increase profit from that occupation so as to appease its angry citizens. But even with the tax, Gujaareh had not yielded up the riches that the Protectors had expected. Deprived of imported northern luxuries, Gujaareen did not accept the southern goods that Kisua offered in replacement; they did without. Forced to buy Kisuati timber for construction, they stopped building. Pressured to bind their servant caste into contracts that more closely resembled Kisuati slavery—a highly profitable enterprise in Kisua—the damned Gujaareen had started shipping their servants to relatives overseas. Now labor costs in the city and larger towns had tripled, and it was only a matter of time before there were shortages of food, cloth, and everything else.
Sunandi herself had been surprised by all of it, because there had been no warning. Her spies would’ve known if there had been any sort of collusion—a concerted effort on the part of the merchants or farmers, perhaps, or a revolt among the servants. But as far as she could tell, the whole kingdom had suddenly, spontaneously, decided to turn contrary in every possible way. They did not fight back. They did not protest. But neither did they obey.
The longer Sunandi remained in Gujaareh, the more she was beginning to realize that something critical, some delicate balance that kept Gujaareh stable—and safe—had been disrupted. But Sunandi had no intention of explaining this to Sanfi.
Instead she said, “We’ve seen already what happens when the northfolk are permitted to acquire superior weaponry and goods. Why, Anzi tells me that after the war, when the northern troops were rounded up, they had more Gujaareen bows than those of their own design! They brought those bows to our shores, to draw Kisuati blood.”
“Gujaareen bows are famous the world over,” Sanfi said with a shrug. “Our merchants are just as happy to sell them to Kisua as the north. Come, now, Speaker—we all know that isn’t the reason for the tax.”
“It may not be,” said Sunandi, still smiling although she allowed an edge to creep into her voice. She was tired of this man, who seemed to believe his charm was sufficient to excuse his insolence. “But it is the only reason that should matter to you.”
Sanfi’s smile faded. For an instant anger flickered in his eyes, along with a high gleam that would have unnerved Sunandi deeply had they been alone. She had seen that look in other men’s eyes during her lifetime, and knew it for what it was: hatred.
But before Sanfi could voice that hatred—or act on it—Tiaanet surprisingly broke the silence. “It should matter to all of us, Speaker,” she said. Her voice was deep for a woman’s, husky; Sunandi imagined she broke hearts with her words alone. “I’ve heard the Protectors are less than pleased with the revenue losses in Gujaareh, especially since the Banbarra raids began. Does that not bode ill for Gujaareh’s governance—and governess?”
Silence fell over the chamber. Anzi stared at Tiaanet, stunned at her audacity, while Sanfi whirled to glare at her. Sunandi, after a moment’s astonishment, realized the evening had suddenly become much more interesting.
Clever little leopardess! Your father is a fool to keep you leashed.
In a silent acknowledgement of the verbal parry, Sunandi inclined her head to Tiaanet. Tiaanet returned the nod, solemn as ever.
“Your daughter is well informed, Lord Sanfi,” Sunandi said. She could not help smiling. Sanfi threw her a look of consternation, but when he realized that she was far from offended, he relaxed.
“As the heir to her mother’s esteemed lineage should be,” he said, though he shot Tiaanet an expressionless glance. And—again a great strangeness—Tiaanet
lowered her eyes as if in shame.
She may have just saved her father from political suicide. He should be proud of her; she should be smug. That is the Kisuati, and shunha, way. What in the gods’ names is wrong with these two?
Setting down her own cup, Sunandi politely waved away Anzi’s offer to refill it. “And she’s right, in essence. But rest assured, Lord Sanfi; if the Protectors grow too displeased, the security of my position will be the least of Gujaareh’s worries.”
“What would likely happen?” Sanfi took a sip from his cup, perhaps to appear casual. But he was too tense; Sunandi could see that he was listening intently.
“I am here as a courtesy, Lord Sanfi,” she said. “I’m known in Gujaareh, and—more or less—respected. I respect your people in turn. Because of that, this occupation has gone more gently than it could have.” She swirled the liquid in her cup, from the corner of her eye watching him watch her. “But if the Protectors remove me, it will mean they’ve lost interest in gentleness. They will take direct control of the capital and the larger towns. They would then institute harsher measures to maintain control. Even higher taxes. Summary executions and mandatory slavery. Conscriptions to the Kisuati army. Rationing.”
Sanfi frowned. “And what of the Hetawa?”
Sunandi raised an eyebrow, wondering what had made him think of that. “I’ve made it clear to the Protectors that the Hetawa has cooperated with us thus far. In token of that cooperation, and the favor your Gatherer Ehiru did us in dealing with Eninket, I believe the Protectors would allow the Hetawa to continue operating as usual—for the time being, at least.”
Sanfi sniffed. “You would do well to watch them more closely, Speaker. They once ruled Gujaareh, after all, and bent every other power in this land to their will. Your people are unfamiliar with magic. It can be a formidable weapon in certain hands.”
The Shadowed Sun: Dreamblood: Book 2 Page 16
