Sunandi grimaced. “I’d actually hoped to hear you say that. The desert route is faster.”
“You hate the high desert, you spoiled soft thing.”
“I won’t complain. Haste is more important than comfort this time.”
The woman’s smile faded; she examined Sunandi closely. “You’re in real trouble.”
“I am, ’Anu.”
Gehanu did not ask further, though she gave Sunandi’s shoulders a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Then we’ll get you there. Should take only seven days by the oasis road. Where’s that pale girl of yours? She complains more than you do.”
Sunandi lowered her eyes, and the woman caught her breath. “Moon’s Madlight. So that’s it. Then we need to go now, I’m thinking.”
She finally turned to the two Gujaareen. “I’m Gehanu. You?”
Sunandi saw the boy glance uncertainly at Ehiru; Ehiru bowed over one hand and the boy quickly imitated him. He spoke in Sua. “I am Eru, and this boy is Niri. We will work for our passage, mistress.”
Sunandi blinked in surprise. Ehiru had hunched his shoulders and raised the pitch of his voice, making it slightly nasal; he kept his eyes lowered in the manner of a humble lowcasteman. Together with his highcaste accent, it was perfect for the role they’d given him: a once-wealthy Kisuati, now disinherited and humbled for some youthful indiscretion. She could see Gehanu assessing and dismissing him all at once.
“Of course you will, che,” Gehanu snapped. “We all work here. What can you do, boy?”
Nijiri bowed deeper—a perfect Gujaareen servant-caste bow with a hand-inflection indicating that he was unclaimed and willing to accept a new master. When he straightened, he looked at Gehanu with an ingenuous blend of shy hope and fear that was completely at odds with his true manner. “I clean very well, mistress,” he said. “I can do anything else if you show me but once. Except… except cooking.” He looked so crestfallen by this that Sunandi almost laughed.
Gehanu did laugh—once and loudly, but it was clear the boy had charmed her. “We’ll make sure you get nowhere near the cookfire, then.” She glanced around at the caravanners and raised her voice in a thunderous shout. “Move yourselves, you lazy stones, we’re striking out before sun-zenith!” The caravanners ignored her with the air of long practice.
Ehiru nodded toward a group loading sacks into a wagon. “Shall I help, mistress?”
“If you think you can do it without cocking things up.” Gehanu jerked her head toward the wagon, and Ehiru nodded and went to join the loaders. She watched him go, a look of approval on her face. “You, boy; can you sing?”
Nijiri looked startled. “Sing, mistress?”
“Yes. Open your mouth, let sounds come out, occasionally with words.”
The boy’s complexion, almost as pale as a northerner’s, turned a startling pink. “Not well, mistress.”
“Dance?”
“Only prayer dances, mistress. Same as any Gujaareen.”
“It’s a start, and in the south you might actually be a novelty.” She glanced at Sunandi. “You’re a friend. Your pretty-speaking man isn’t, but taking on passengers isn’t something the others would question—if those passengers look like they can pay. Gujaareen servant-castes aren’t permitted to accumulate money. So our young friend here will be a dancer I’m considering for apprenticeship and permanent hire. Che?”
Nijiri looked startled. A sharp needle of cold threaded Sunandi’s spine. She hadn’t made such a stupid, amateur mistake in years. Kinja would have swatted her for it. Lin would have been shocked. It took only one minor inconsistency, any error of logic, to arouse suspicions. There were many among a minstrel band who would gladly earn extra money reporting suspicious strangers to gate guards or tradepost officials. She could have gotten them all killed.
Gehanu saw her horror and took her by the arm, leading her toward the camels and beckoning for Nijiri to follow. “Sowu-sowu, Nefe, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you like I always do. We’ll get you back home fast as skyrers, and then all will be well. Che?”
It was said that the gods favored fools because they were entertaining to watch. Privately thanking whichever god had found her amusing for the time being, Sunandi leaned gratefully against Gehanu. “Ah-che.”
The caravan line had already formed. Six unladen camels trailed at the rear to be sold along the journey. Gehanu ordered three of these saddled for Sunandi and her companions, and as the sun peaked overhead they set off along the dusty, heat-hazed road.
19
A Gatherer shall, under the guidance of the Sentinel path, strengthen body and mind for the rigors of Her service. He shall strike quickly and decisively in Her name, that peace may follow just as swiftly.
Rabbaneh landed on a rooftop near the Hetawa plaza, panting and shivering. Too much dreamblood. He’d been Gathering nearly every night since Una-une’s death, and twice on some nights since Ehiru had begun his penance. So many in the city called for a Gatherer’s services; it was cruel to make them wait. He sat down behind a storage shed and leaned his head against its wall, waiting for the giddiness to pass. He was not Ehiru. His dreaming gift had never been strong. It would be good—very good—when things finally returned to normal in the Hetawa.
The sound of footsteps on the stones of the plaza below did not disturb Rabbaneh at first. Dreamblood still sang in his soul, suffusing his mind with its warm glow. Servants heading home after late-night labors, maybe; what did it matter? But gradually awareness penetrated the haze, and he noticed that the walkers were moving briskly, staying close together. Occasionally the rhythm of the steps jarred as one or another jogged a little to keep up. And one set of steps lagged from time to time, its emphasis shifting from one foot to the other and back again. In his mind’s eye Rabbaneh saw the owner of these steps trotting along with his fellows, but periodically glancing around as if to check for observers.
Rabbaneh opened his eyes.
Another Gathering was beyond his capacity at the moment, but he could certainly mark a new tithebearer for a later visit. Rolling to a crouch, he crept to the edge of the rooftop and peered over, hoping to glimpse the culprit’s face.
They were almost across the plaza, headed for a street two blocks to Rabbaneh’s right. He counted three men: two acting as guards for another between them. They were too far away to see clearly. The Dreamer had set, leaving the streets dim and dull beneath Waking Moon’s paltry light, but their noisy footfalls might as well have been a lantern to a Gatherer.
Quietly, along the rooftops, Rabbaneh followed.
The artisans’ district blended into a higher-caste area that lined the most beautiful part of the river. A zhinha neighborhood: the houses here varied wildly from the traditional Gujaareen style, incorporating architecture from a dozen foreign cultures with little care for practicality, only aesthetic distinctiveness. Here Rabbaneh was forced to slow down, for one building had a rooftop of flat sloping plates that was maddeningly difficult to navigate, and another bore so many elaborately carved statues of monsters around its edge that he could find no easy access. Privately cursing fools with more money than taste, he finally found one roof with neat overlapping shells of baked brick. He had to go on hands and toes to distribute his weight and avoid breaking them, but he made it across and onto the proper Gujaareen roof beyond that, which allowed him to catch up. When his quarry stopped, so did he.
The three men stood at the side door of a sprawling house. The size meant the house was surely owned by one of the older zhinha lineages, but Rabbaneh did not recognize the family pictorals decorating the lintel. When the door opened neither did he recognize the man who beckoned the three guests in. Likely just a servant anyhow.