He signaled Nijiri with a nod, and together they approached the bed.
Too late Ehiru heard the whisper of movement that the woman’s stirrings had covered—shifting cloth, a careful step. In the same moment he heard the forceful release of a held breath and felt its warmth tickle the hairs on his right arm. He reacted without thinking, throwing himself forward just as something cold and sharp grazed his back, leaving a thin thread of fire along his skin.
Nijiri’s blurt—“Brother!”—broke the silence. Ehiru abandoned stealth as he sensed his attacker closing in. Off balance, he caught himself against the edge of the bed and kicked out. His foot struck flesh and shoved something backward; he heard a muffled curse and garlic-tinged breath wafted past his face. In the bed the woman jerked upright, gasping.
Then Nijiri lunged past him, a blurred silhouette batting and shoving at another silhouette half his size. Something gleamed brighter against the shadows: a knife, poised to stab Nijiri’s side. Ehiru struck first, his fist meeting bone; the knife clattered to the floor. In the same instant Nijiri made some sort of sharp movement and the smaller silhouette fell against the bedroom hanging, ripping it in a loud snarl of cloth. Nijiri closed in swiftly—
Lantern-light flared, painful in the dimness, and shocked them all to stillness.
“What in the names of the thousand Sun-spawn is going on here?” demanded the woman.
9
A Gatherer shall enter buildings in concealment, and approach the bearer of the Goddess’s tithe in stealth. Thus is peace maintained into dreaming.
For several seconds after being jolted out of sleep, Sunandi could not comprehend the tableau before her. Lin lay on the floor, coughing and clutching at her throat. A slim, pale Gujaareen youth not far past the age of adulthood crouched over her in a striking stance, staring at Sunandi in almost comical surprise. Another man—bigger, older, dark as a Kisuati and somehow familiar—stood in the foreground half-turned to her, his eyes wide with shock and anger.
Then the fog of sleep lifted and details struck. Lin’s knife on the floor. The intruders’ black-dyed clothing. A moontear-embossed ornament on the man’s nearer hip: the emblem of the Hetawa.
Dearest Dreamer. Niyes had been right.
“ ’Nandi—”
Lin’s croak startled her out of shock. She threw aside the sheet, heedless of her own near-nudity—she wore only a light shift—and reached beneath the pillow to pull out the dagger she kept there. She snatched it from its sheath and leaped to her feet. “Get away from her!”
The man tensed as if to fight—and then some unidentifiable shadow crossed his face, replacing the anger with a strange, somehow detached calm. He straightened and then, shocking Sunandi nearly out of her skin, went down on one knee in formal manuflection.
“Forgive me. This should have gone peacefully.” The man’s voice was deep and so soft that she strained to hear him. He flicked some signal at the youth; the youth took Lin by the arm to help her up. Lin jerked her arm free and stumbled back to glare at both of the strangers. Her breath still wheezed alarmingly through her throat, though she seemed to be recovering. Sunandi edged over to her, knife still at the ready; with her free hand she pulled Lin’s hand away from her throat. An angry red mark spread across the girl’s larynx.
“I did not strike to kill,” the youth said, almost apologetically. He too was soft-spoken, though his voice was higher-pitched. “I meant only to silence her.”
“Nijiri,” the man said, and the youth fell silent.
Reaction set in as Sunandi’s fear eased, though anger replaced it. She shivered uncontrollably as she stepped around the bed, pulling Lin with her to put some distance between them and the strangers. The killers.
“Is this the piety of Gujaareh?” she demanded. Her voice sounded harsh and loud compared to theirs. “I was told the Gatherers of Hananja had honor. I never dreamed you would allow yourselves to be used like this.”
The man flinched suddenly as if her words had been a blow. “Used?”
“Yes, damn you, used. Why even bother pretending to serve Hananja’s Law? Why delay? Kill me and be done with it—unless you mean to talk me to death?”
“ ’Nandi!” Lin’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
It was not the wisest thing to say, true, but something in her words had jarred the older one; she had to keep talking. He was the greater danger, she saw at once. Not just physically; there was something else about him that set her nerves a-jangle every time their eyes met.
Perhaps the fact that he wants to kill me.
The Gatherer went still. His hand drifted away from his side, the fingers curling in an odd gesture—first and middle fingers forked, the rest folded neatly out of the way. For some reason that gesture sent a chill prickling along Sunandi’s skin.
“I was trying to put you at ease,” he said. “But I can calm you once you’re asleep, if you prefer.”
“Gods! No!” She took an involuntary step back. He did not lower his hand.
“Explain your statement, then,” he said. The youth frowned at him in sudden surprise. “That we are being used.”
“Are you mad? Get out before I shout for the guards. You’re the worst assassins I have ever seen!”
“We are not assassins.”
“You are. Doing it in the name of your bloodthirsty goddess changes nothing. Are you the one who’s been killing the prisoners? Did you kill Kinja, too?”
The man’s face changed subtly—still calm, but no longer detached. She thought she read anger in his eyes.
“I have never Gathered anyone named Kinja,” he said. He began to pace around the bed, every step silent, his eyes never leaving hers. The youth followed him—less gracefully, but with the same soundless menace. “No one I have ever Gathered has been imprisoned, except within his own suffering flesh or blighted mind. I offer Her peace in exchange for pain… fear… hatred… loneliness. Death is a gift, to those who suffer in life.”
He stopped, breaking the spell of voice and movement, and with sudden, chilling clarity Sunandi saw that the Gatherer had closed the distance between them until he stood only a few feet away. His hand was still poised in that odd gesture; this time he meant to strike. And when he did, no knife or half-grown bodyguard would stop him.
The fear spiked into terror—and then receded as Kinja’s training reverberated through her mind.
“Two days ago I saw a corpse,” she said. The Gatherer paused. “A man who had died in his sleep some while before. His face… I have never seen such anguish, Gatherer. In Kisua we tell tales of your kind, you priests who bring dreams of death. They say the dreams are not always pleasant. They say that sometimes, if one of your kind loses control, the victim dies irusham—wearing the mask of horror. Do you still want to tell me you know nothing of that?”
The Gatherer froze, the deadly intent in his eyes giving way to something unreadable.
“I know of it,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
“Then do you truly expect me to believe,” she said, softening her own voice, “that you arrive here to kill me not even a fourday later, and it has nothing to do with the Prince’s plans for war?”
The Gatherer frowned, and she realized she’d made an incorrect assumption somewhere. There was no mistaking the confusion on his face. Just then the youth stepped forward, apparently unable to keep silent. He did not quite step in front of the man, but his stance radiated protectiveness.