Stalking through the garden as quietly as he could—his legs were shorter, he had always been a quiet child—he hefted his spear and
“Wana! Wake up, man! This is no time for daydreaming.”
Wanahomen looked up and saw that the leopard had a human face. Unte. I must kill you, he thought.
Then Unte was Unte again, and Wanahomen followed Unte’s arm to see what was the matter.
A party of eight riders on horseback approached along the rocky trail that led through this part of the foothills. From the ledge high above where he and the rest of the Banbarra waited a-horseback, Wanahomen could make out only the voluminous hooded robes that each rider wore: five black, two blood-red, and one the color of sun-bleached bone. The last made him frown.
“Hetawa?” asked Unte.
Wanahomen nodded. “The black are Sentinels—the warrior-priests, deadly without weapons, nightmares with. The pale is a Gatherer.” His lip curled; he could not help it. He had not expected the Hetawa to send a Gatherer. To judge him, perhaps? And execute him on the spot, if they found him wanting? His hands tightened on the reins; the horse grunted. “They can fight almost as well as the Sentinels, but their magic is the greater threat. Never let him touch you. And they outrank the rest, so that one will be the leader. The red—” He frowned. “Those are Sharers. Healers. But why they’re here, I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmm.” Unte reached under his face-veil to scratch his beard. “And how should we welcome these guests, hunt leader?”
Wanahomen heard the amusement in his voice, and smiled to himself. His mother would disapprove, but—
“If they are to be allies,” he said, “it would seem wise to show them our strength, would it not?”
Unte chuckled and nodded, and Wanahomen raised his hand in a signal. All around him he heard his riders shift, alert. He made a circle and then a fist with his hand, and threw back his head to utter the rising Banbarra battle cry of “Bi-yu-eh!”
Come, and break on us.
The warriors surged forward, riding down three different trails toward the canyon floor. On the other side of the canyon, two more lines of riders came too, their calls echoing from the rocky walls. As the Hetawa party stopped and immediately turned back-to-back with the two healers at the center of their formation, two circles of Banbarra horsemen surrounded them, each riding in a different direction to make their numbers difficult to count.
Wanahomen rode down with them, whooping and brandishing his sword and laughing behind his veil. The templefolk would be unnerved, he knew, not just by the number of armed Banbarra who had come out to greet them, but also by the sheer noisy chaos of them. Peace was the Gujaareen way, but there was no peace in the Banbarra—not these strong young warriors of Wana’s, anyhow.
Yes, see us, he thought as he glared at the templefolk. See what you ally yourselves to. If your sensibilities are too weak to bear us, then we don’t need your help!
But after the initial defensive movement, the Hetawa riders did not move, and at last Wanahomen began to tire of the game. So he signaled a halt, and the circling riders stilled their mounts and faced the party. They parted as Wanahomen moved through their ranks to stop before the pale-robed Gatherer.
“Show your face,” he said. “I would know my enemy.”
Most male Banbarra did not speak Gujaareen, but the few who did leaned over to whisper to the rest. They would all know that Wanahomen had demanded the Hetawa party’s leader to bare his face to them—an act of submission in Banbarra eyes.
The Gatherer lifted his hands to his hood and paused for a breath, perhaps noting the whispers among the Banbarra party. But he completed the movement, and as soon as Wanahomen saw the man’s face he flinched in shock.
“You!” Ten years unraveled themselves in an instant and he stood again on the deck of Kite-iyan, watching while his father faced the two Gatherers of Hananja who had come to kill him. One of the Gatherers had been his father’s brother; the stamp of the Sunset was in his face. But the younger one—“You.”
The Gatherer nodded, infuriatingly calm. He was taller and broader now, no longer a sweet-faced youth, but there was no doubt it was the same man. “I. I remember you as well, son of Eninket. Greetings.”
I should kill you right here and now. The thought was beautifully tempting, though he knew it was foolish. But even as he sheathed his sword, he urged his horse Iho forward until she stood alongside the Gatherer’s, so that he sat within reach of the man’s deadly hands.
“Are you hungry, Gatherer?” He kept his voice low, and saw the man’s eyes narrow. “I know your kind, remember. I watched my father break one of you. If you mean to punish me for that, then do it now. You’ll get no other chance.”
For a moment something glimmered in the Gatherer’s eyes—not the mindless hunger Wanahomen had half expected, but a cold anger that was somehow more disturbing for its humanity.
“It was cruel of your father to make you watch while he destroyed Una-une,” the Gatherer said, with a gentle viciousness Wanahomen had never seen in one of his kind. “How terribly it must have scarred you. I’m sorry we didn’t kill him sooner, for your sake.”
Wanahomen bared his teeth in a snarl and restrained himself from reaching for his knife only by a monumental effort of will. “I will never trust you, life-drinking demon!”
Wheeling Iho about, he rode away a few paces to calm himself before turning to face the Hetawa party again. “So. You propose alliance. I see how getting rid of the Kisuati will help you, but what do you offer us, Priest? Last I heard, the Hetawa had no armies.”
The Gatherer nodded. “Fighting has never been our way, in any case. Except in defense of ourselves and others.” He threw an apologetic smile at the nearest black-robed priest, who inclined his hooded head in return. “You know, however, that our support has been essential to the Princes of the past.”
“Oh yes, I know it,” Wanahomen replied. “But you have always charged a price for that support, which I refuse to pay. I will not be your slave as my forefathers were.”
“And we will no longer demand such a thing of you.” The Gatherer’s voice went momentarily softer, and was there shame in it? “The Hetawa has been purged of that corruption. I and my brethren have seen to this with our own hands. We will deal with you fairly. On that you have my word, in Her name.”
The Gatherer’s candor surprised Wanahomen. He had heard about the purges, and privately marveled—but to hear the words aloud, openly, was another thing. A more satisfying thing.
Throwing a glance back at Unte, who had come down into the canyon but hung back silently observing, he said to the Gatherer, “So you offer your influence over our people, and to back my claim to the throne. This is all fine once I’ve taken the city, and once my men and I have spilled our blood in the effort. But allies share the risk, priest, as well as the reward. What can you do for us now?”
“You think we share no risk? If you fail, the Kisuati will destroy us.”
“And yet you can withdraw from this alliance at any time before the final assault, and claim you had no part in it.” Wanahomen gestured east, toward Gujaareh. “You’ve always operated that way, in the shadows, sneaking through windows in the night—but this is war. Commit yourself to the fight, or stay in your temple and pray. And wait for me to destroy you, when I win!”
The Gatherer inclined his head, as if Wanahomen had invited him to share wine. “We can offer supplies and funds—”
Wanahomen laughed. “We’ve stolen more than we need from the Kisuati already. Offer something useful, templeman. Perhaps you could Gather Sunandi Jeh Kalawe, and her general husband?”
The Gatherer’s face hardened. “They have not been judged corrupt.”
Wanahomen had not truly expected him to agree. “Then what?”
The Gatherer was silent for a long moment before finally sighing. “So be it.” He sidestepped his horse a few paces and then stopped, turning back to gaze at the two red-clad priests who had been behind him. “These tw
o are yours until your throne is regained.”
The red priests stiffened. So did Wanahomen. Over the murmuring of his men, he scowled at the Gatherer. “Is this some trick?”
“The Hetawa’s—and Gujaareh’s—greatest asset is our magic,” the Gatherer replied. “A Gatherer would be of little use to you, but Sharers could save the lives of men who might otherwise die in the battles to come.”
Two Sharers. Wanahomen stared at the red priests, torn between excitement and despair. The Gatherer was right: two Sharers could cut their losses greatly. And—his mind leaped to another possibility with shameful speed—a Sharer could save Mother.
And yet …
Two Sharers, thrown at his feet as prizes. Two Hetawa spies, right in the heart of his camp.
He turned to Unte, trying to school himself to nonchalance so that the disappointment would hurt less.
Unte walked his horse forward, gazing thoughtfully at the priests. Wanahomen had taught him a great deal of Gujaareen over the years; he’d probably been able to follow the whole conversation. Still, he spoke in Chakti to Wanahomen. “Am I hearing rightly? Have your people suddenly seen profit in the slave trade?”
Wanahomen, who had been watching the Gatherer, shook his head. The priest’s eyes narrowed when Unte spoke; he apparently knew enough Chakti to recognize the word slave when he heard it. “Not slaves, but hostages to seal our alliance. To be freed when our goal is achieved.”
Unte shifted in his saddle and sighed. “I’ve never been much for hostage-taking. Too much trouble for too little profit. Still, if they can do magic as he says, they would be valuable.”
Wanahomen forced himself to say it. “They could also pass on our secrets to the Hetawa. We would have to take them to our encampment; they would later be able to reveal its location.”
Unte smiled. “I’ve never yet known a city dweller who could find his own feet on the sand without a desertman’s aid. And what reason would they have to spy on us? We have the same enemy.”
It was true. But it had not escaped Wanahomen’s notice that this was the only possible reason for the Gatherer to bring the two Sharers along: for all his dissembling, the Gatherer had intended to offer them as prizes from the beginning. “I simply don’t trust them, Unte.”
“You trust no one, my soul-son. Tell that pretty-faced fellow we’ll take them.”
Wanahomen started. “Are you—” He cut off his own question and bowed his head in submission when Unte threw him a mild look. “Yes, Unte.”
He gestured for two of his men to ride forward and flank the Sharers. But one of the black-clads leaped off his horse and moved to block the Banbarra, radiating menace, and one of the red priests yanked back his hood and called sharply—“Nijiri!”
The Gatherer—Nijiri, Wanahomen committed to memory—sighed. “I’m sorry, Mni-inh. But I would not have your apprentice go with them alone, for all that she agreed to this.”
“She agreed—” The Sharer looked at his companion incredulously. “Hanani, is this true?”
The other Sharer seemed too stricken to speak—as was Wanahomen, whose thoughts were suddenly afire with suspicion. She?
But it was unmistakably a woman’s voice, trembling with fear, that finally answered. “I … Yes, Brother. But I did not realize …” The knuckles of her already-pale hands, on the pommel of her saddle, had gone whiter still. “I thought …”
“I told you there would be risk, Apprentice.” The Gatherer’s face was utterly without emotion. “The Prince thinks you’re a spy. Perhaps he’ll be less inclined to think so now that he sees you weren’t prepared for this.” And the Gatherer looked at Wanahomen.
Damnation. Wanahomen set his jaw, hating the Gatherer even more. The man knew full well what sending a Gujaareen woman into a Banbarra camp meant. Even sending the male Sharer along with her would do little good; Sharers did not fight. It would fall to Wanahomen to protect her. We’re in the middle of a war, shadows damn you! I haven’t got time to bodyguard a useless city woman!
But there was no other choice; Unte had commanded it, and the Hetawa’s cooperation would no doubt hinge on how well the hostages were treated.
Sighing in irritation, Wanahomen rode forward, stopping when he faced the Sentinel—or Sentinel-Apprentice; the young man looked hardly old enough to have joined a path. He could barely see the youth’s eyes within the hood, but he stared them down anyhow, and after a long moment the youth sighed and stepped aside.
Bringing Iho near the woman’s horse, he reached up and tugged down her hood. It was her—the Sharer-girl he’d met in the city. She looked up at him fearfully; with his face-veil in place he probably looked like any other Banbarra to her.
“Go with them,” he ordered her in Gujaareen, jerking his head toward his men. She started, animal panic in her eyes; for a moment he thought she might flee. But then she took a deep breath and assumed a mask of calm that would have been perfect if not for the brightness of her eyes. Nodding, she rode over to join the men. Her companion, a man of late middle years who had shiny, almost northerner-straight hair, scowled at Wanahomen but also rode over, staying protectively close to the girl.
“The alliance is sealed, then?” The Gatherer spoke to Unte, but his eyes flicked to Wanahomen.
“Between Gujaareen Hetawa and Banbarra of the Yusir tribe, it is,” said Unte in thickly-accented Gujaareen. Wanahomen nodded as well, remembering the Sentinel’s words from that day in the hills: the alliance would be with you.
The Gatherer inclined his head. “We await your attack, then. When the time comes, our fighters and magic will support you during the battle to follow. Will it be soon?”
“Yes,” Wanahomen replied.
“Just after the solstice,” added Unte, much to Wanahomen’s chagrin.
“Walk in Her peace until then,” the Gatherer said, and nodded to the Sentinels. They closed ranks about him obediently, and the six of them turned their horses back the way they’d come. Unte gave a quick signal and the Banbarra riders moved aside, letting the Hetawa party go.
Once they had vanished over the farthest hill, Unte turned to Wanahomen and sighed. “Well, that’s done.”
“There’s still the vote, Unte.”
Unte looked at Wanahomen in surprise, a hint of amusement in his expression. “So you don’t blithely assume success there? I would never have thought your confidence so lacking.”
“I’m as confident as always, Unte, but I would never presume to predict the actions of the leaders of the six tribes. If the vote doesn’t go as I hope …” He looked after the diminishing figures of the Hetawa party, uneasy.
Unte smiled. “Well, we’ll simply have to hope that it does. This alliance will help. Shall we go home?”
Nodding obedience, Wanahomen gave the signal for them to ride out for Merik-ren-aferu, with the Sharers as hostages at the center of their formation.
14
Merik-ren-aferu
She was among barbarians.
Gatherer Nijiri had left her among barbarians.
She was among barbarians and they would torture her, kill her, send her soul forth to flail through the horrors of the shadowlands …
This was the cycle of Hanani’s thoughts for the four days that it took them to journey to the Banbarra encampment. The Banbarra set a hard pace, riding at a trot from before dawn until just before noon, pausing for several hours while the sun was hottest, and then riding from afternoon past sunset. Hanani’s muscles, already sore from the days of riding that had brought them from the city, stopped protesting on the second day, and by the third day she was just numb. She healed her own sores, but they always came back.
Their hosts were anything but friendly. Each Banbarra warrior wore similar flowing tunics and robes in a variety of colors, elaborately wrapped headcloths, and cloth veils across the bottom halves of their faces, even in sleep. They rarely offered names, so Hanani had difficulty telling one from another. The one Nijiri had dubbed “the Prince” barely spoke to them
except to bark orders; he seemed more annoyed by their presence than anything else. The other Banbarra followed his lead in their interactions with Hanani and Mni-inh, though Hanani caught a few of them throwing speculative glances at her from time to time. She had no idea—and did not want to know—what interested them so.
It was the tribe’s leader, Unte, who spoke to them most often, coming over to pepper them with questions in fluent, though hard-to-understand, Gujaareen. Both he and the Prince wore outer robes and veils of shining indigo, and Unte was shorter, so they could at least see him coming and brace themselves before he began. How did they like the desert? Mni-inh, who was still seething over Nijiri’s decision, answered that one with rather less diplomacy than he should have: “We don’t.” But his surliness only seemed to amuse the man. How long had they served the Hetawa? Was it true they could dream while wide awake, or put anyone to sleep in the middle of the day? How did they heal?
Mni-inh struggled to answer the questions as best he could, but Hanani had been unable to bring herself to react to the man’s friendliness. Her mind and heart were frozen, as they had been since the Gatherer reminded her that she had agreed to face a trial. She had expected … Well, she’d had no idea what to expect. But not this.
Unte seemed comfortable with her silence, however, every now and again offering her what seemed to be a bow of respect. Mni-inh, Hanani noticed, did not get the same bow.
On the evening of the fourth day, just as the sun had begun to make Hanani’s head beat fiercely, she saw that the scrubby land sloped gradually toward a great uneven crack in the earth. They continued forward, plainly angling to pass through this canyon rather than detour around. But just as they descended the trail that led them between the canyon’s great jagged walls, Hanani smelled water. It was faint—nothing like the thick, earthy, river smell of Gujaareh—but after so many days of sand and sun her nose seemed to wake up at the first whiff of moisture. Dakha, whom Hanani realized must have caught the scent some ways back, kept trying to urge the horses in front of her to go faster. Those horses, used to the journey, kept the same steady, ground-eating pace they’d employed all along.