Yet it was clear that even with the Protectors’ caution, something vital had been damaged in the city. Sunandi glimpsed some of the citizens forming water-brigades to combat the fires, but far more simply milled about in aimless confusion, their faces haunted and lost. Along the main avenues some of the citizens loitered with their fellows while watching the Kisuati soldiers move through their streets, but most sat or stood or rocked alone. In the pleasure quarter the Kisuati had found several raucous parties under way, with music and dancing in the streets. Gaudily painted timbalin-house women and youths beckoned to the soldiers, some lifting loindrapes to show nothing underneath and some wearing nothing to begin with, all of them smiling and friendly. But Sunandi had seen the haze of drugs or dreamseed in their eyes; she had heard the edge of fear in their sweet invitations. And among the whores she spied the yellow-clad figures of Hananja’s Sisters, standing silent watch amid the revelry. Then she understood: Gujaareh’s pleasure-givers offered themselves to the conquerors so that Gujaareh’s weaker citizens might remain unmolested.
“They’ll strike at any Kisuati-looking face,” Anzi had warned Sunandi, when he heard of her plan to tour the city. “All our people will be targets for their vengeance—a pretty woman like you even more so.” Clever of him to slip in that flattery, she reflected. Transparent, but clever. Well, he was handsome enough. Perhaps when the dust had settled and Gujaareh was firmly in hand… But not yet.
See them, Anzi. Do you still fear vengeance? This city’s spirit has been wounded, perhaps mortally. Gujaareh waits to see if death comes.
They entered the Hetawa square.
Here alone something of Gujaareh’s old peace lingered. The square was crowded with people of all castes and professions, some of them carrying bundles or pushing carts of belongings. The street directly in front of the Hetawa had been turned into a makeshift infirmary, with pallets laid out on the cobblestones. Family members and Hetawa acolytes moved among the pallets, tending burn victims and wounded soldiers. Other folk lingered nearby, some scratching notices on the walls of nearby buildings, some huddled on the steps of the Hetawa itself. Yet despite the crowding of the square, Sunandi perceived a curious stillness in the atmosphere—an intangible sense of comfort that could be glimpsed on nearly every face. For a moment she puzzled over the feeling, and then abruptly understood: there was no fear. Gujaareh had been defeated, Gujaareh might die as an individual nation, but Gujaareh was not afraid. Not here, at its heart.
In spite of herself, Sunandi smiled.
She headed across the square. On the steps she stopped and turned to the soldiers. “Wait here.”
The troop-captain, possibly acting on orders from Anzi, stared at her. “Impossible, Speaker. To let you go in there alone—”
“Do you imagine the Servants of Hananja would take her hostage? Or harm her in any way?” said a quiet voice nearby, speaking in heavily accented Sua. They turned to see a stocky red-haired man on the steps, watching them with a faint smile. Something about him stirred an immediate sense of recognition in Sunandi, though she could not recall seeing his face.
“Perhaps such things are done in barbarian lands,” the man said, “but not here.”
The captain bristled, but Sunandi threw him a stern glance and he subsided. “You must forgive us, sir,” she said to the man. “It’s a soldier’s job to worry about even the most unlikely possibilities.” She spoke in Gujaareen; his eyebrows rose in surprise and amusement.
“So it is. But I assure you, some things are not possible—not in the sight of Hananja. And if they were…” He glanced at the captain and although his smile never vanished, there was a momentary hardness in his eyes which, abruptly, Sunandi recognized. “There are only eight of you here. If we wanted Speaker Jeh Kalawe as a hostage, it would be simple enough to take her.”
The captain looked ready to draw his sword, though the man’s gentle warning had clearly had its impact. He glanced around at the square crowded with Hananja’s faithful—most of whom were watching the tableau—then set his jaw and fixed his eyes straight ahead. Sunandi let out a held breath and turned to the man.
“It would seem my reputation in Gujaareh is greater than I thought,” she replied. “Though of course it must be nothing to yours, Gatherer…?”
“Rabbaneh,” said the man. He inclined his head to her, then turned to walk up the steps, gesturing for her to follow. “Nijiri notified us shortly after his return that you’ve been judged innocent of corruption. He suspected you might return to Gujaareh—though not so soon—and wanted to be certain you received no… unwanted blessings, shall we say?” He chuckled. “Very diligent, is our Nijiri.”
She returned a sour smile, not entirely certain she liked this Gatherer’s sense of humor. “For which I’m quite grateful.”
“So are we all.” He glanced over at her, examining her carefully. “I understand you and the others who were at Soijaro have mostly recovered.”
Sunandi shivered at the memory. “A few died. Those already wounded or ill, several elders, a handful of others. But all the rest—yes, we have recovered, at least physically. I can’t say how well any of us sleep at night.” She sighed and made herself smile. “If nothing else, the tales of that monstrous event should keep Kisua safe for many years. The northern soldiers nearly fell over themselves getting back on their boats and fleeing home.”
Rabbaneh’s eyes were solemn, clearly seeing through her attempt at levity, but he smiled as well. “A peaceful result, then. Good.”
The double doors of the Hetawa’s main pylon had been thrown open. A line of people filed through it, spilling out onto the steps. Inside, the line ran down the length of a vast colonnaded hall whose ceiling was nearly out of sight above. But though the hall awed Sunandi, it was the sight of the titanic nightstone statue that made her stop and gape like a wonder-struck child.
While she stared, Rabbaneh stopped to wait, somehow radiating both nonchalance and possessive pride without uttering a word. After several long breaths, Sunandi swallowed and tore her eyes away from the Goddess with an effort. “I thought Yanya-iyan magnificent when I first saw it,” she said. “I should have guessed that in Gujaareh, the Hetawa would be the greatest wonder.”
“Yes,” the Gatherer replied with a smile. “You should have guessed.”
He headed into the shadows that ran behind the columns, walking sedately toward the back of the hall. Sunandi hurried to follow, trying not to stare at the columns and their carved tales, the sconces where moontear vines spilled down the walls in full bloom, the faceted glass of the massive windows. Between the columns she could glimpse other Hananjan priests in red-dyed loindrapes, guiding people into alcoves on the other side of the hall. Collecting tithes to heal the wounded, she realized. Of course.
The Gatherer stopped at a heavy curtain that led into what was clearly a different area of the Hetawa—the corridors, grounds, and buildings kept hidden from the public eye. Here Sunandi hesitated. But Rabbaneh smiled again, this time sincerely and with no hint of mockery. “Nijiri has told us many tales of his travels in the eightday since his return, Speaker,” he said. “He’ll be glad to see you again, I think.”
She was not so certain of that. Nor was she certain she wanted to see him, now that she had come.
“We found Ehiru’s body in Kite-iyan,” she said. She noticed that one of her hands was fidgeting, unnecessarily smoothing a fold of her dress, and stopped herself. “The Prince was there, and the other… the Reaper too.”