It was not hard for Hanani to guess what underlay so many of the looks that had been thrown her way throughout the morning. She had joined a group prayer dance that dawn, and felt many eyes on her back. In the baths, some of the other apprentices had been more pointed than usual in averting their eyes from her nudity. Not all of her fellow Servants thought her responsible for the two deaths, she knew. But it was clear from the looks and whispers that many did.
If she had not already felt so low, the looks would have taken their toll. As it was, nothing could hurt worse than Dayu’s loss.
The Hall of Blessings provided some relief, for the Sharers on duty were too busy to even glance in her direction. The line of petitioners was longer than usual, half again the length of the tithebearers’ line. Nearly everyone in the petitioner line showed some visible injury—a slung arm, a bandaged foot or head. More injuries from the Banbarra raid, she realized, along with the usual accidents of harvest season and daily life in the city. The most injured, like the soldier Hanani had healed the day before, had been treated first. Now there was time and magic enough for the rest.
It would go faster if I were there, she thought as she passed the dais. But there was no peace or point in such thoughts, so she moved on.
The great bronze double doors stood open for public hours, and as she passed from the cool dim Hall to the noise and brilliance of outside, she paused on the steps to let her eyes adjust. The heat was so fierce that her skin tingled with it—pleasantly in this first instant, though soon she would begin to sweat. She put a hand up to shadow her eyes and gazed over the busy, crowded expanse of Hetawa Square. Nearby she saw a handful of devotees sitting on the steps to pray, and beyond them merchants moved about, selling water and cut fruit to passersby. Along the main thoroughfare at the other end of the square, dozens of folk milled and moved on their way to the market or the riverfront or dreams-knew-where else. Too many people, too much chaos, and too many who would stare at her flattened, wrapped breasts, or the red man’s loindrapes strapped around a woman’s broad hips. She had never liked venturing into the city. And yet—
Not one of those busy, brisk-moving people so much as glanced at her, as she gazed down at them from the Hetawa’s steps. Even the ones who would stare, once she joined their bustling flow, wondered only that she was a woman in man’s dress. They did not know what she had done, and moreover they did not care. It was strange, and somehow a relief, to contemplate this.
“You should have an escort, Sharer-Apprentice.”
Hanani glanced up at the small balconies that overlooked the Hetawa steps. The two men who crouched there were each clad in black loindrapes and onyx collars and quiet, deadly stillness. Hanani recognized the one who had spoken to her as Anarim, a senior of the Sentinel path. The other was a Sentinel she did not know; while Anarim focused his attention on her, that one kept his gaze on the steps and streets beyond, alert for any threats to the Goddess’s temple or worshippers.
She bowed to both of them regardless. “I’ve gone into the city to serve petitioners many times, Sentinel. I can find my way.”
“Of that I have no doubt, Apprentice. But that was not why I suggested an escort.” Anarim, like most of his path, was whipcord-lean; it was some effect of the training they did. He had taken this further by being a tall, narrow sort of man, with long fingers and an angular face, and lips as thin as a northerner’s. Those thin lips twitched now in faint disapproval, though he kept his expression blank otherwise. She knew at once the disapproval was not for her. “The Kisuati seem unable to prevent raids and other disruptions within the city’s walls these days. Things aren’t as peaceful as they should be. I, or another of my path, can accompany you.”
Hanani considered, but then shook her head. “I go to humble myself before a stranger, Sentinel Anarim. Bringing a guard might be taken amiss. Besides,” and she gestured at her clothing. “These drapes afford me no small protection. That much hasn’t changed, Kisuati or no.”
“Very well, Apprentice. Go—and return—in Her peace.” Then, to Hanani’s great surprise, Anarim inclined his head to her. She stared, for she was only an apprentice and he was one of the most respected Servants in the Hetawa, a member of the Council of Paths. But when Anarim straightened, he resumed his guardian stance, eyes roving the square for potential threats, and it would have been disrespectful to distract him by speaking of such a small thing.
But the message was clear: he, at least, believed she was not at fault for the deaths. She walked away, unsure of how to feel—but feeling better, nevertheless.
The tithebearer’s name had been Bahenamin, and he had been a wealthy member of the merchant caste. His family lived on the edge of the nobles’ district, near Yafai Garden—the western half of the city, across the river. Although she could have shown a footcarriage-man her Hetawa moontear-token and been carried anywhere she wished, she hesitated to do this. The token was meant to be used only on Hetawa business. Did apologizing for a death that she might have caused qualify? She had no idea, but she had no desire to try justifying it to the Council. She walked.
As always, the crowds and traffic were a jarring contrast to the quiet order of the Hetawa complex. Hanani joined the flow on the thoroughfare, which immediately forced her to move at a pace that would have been unacceptable in the Hetawa except in emergencies. As she passed through a market the traffic slowed, thickening into a packed, jostling knot for no reason that she could discern other than the sheer peaceless nature of this human river: rivers inevitably had rapids. Here she was elbowed and pushed, her sandaled feet stepped on, and someone sloshed beer on her arm. When people saw her red drapes they moved aside, but in most cases they simply didn’t see her. Not for the first time did Hanani wish that one of her foremothers had caught the eye of some handsome, tall highcasteman for a night or two.
Traffic thinned near the riverfront, thank the Dreamer, though this was largely because of the smell. The fishmongers were hard at work near the city’s northernmost bridge, selling dried seaweeds and the morning’s catch from their boats. Previous days’ catches were here too, rotting in special sealed urns beneath the bridge. When ripe, the slurry enriched the soil for farms on the outskirts of the Blood river valley, which lay beyond the reach of the floodwaters that annually renewed Gujaareh’s fertility. But though the slurry urns had been sealed with pitch and wax and hekeh-seed paste, enough of the noxious stench escaped that the very air made Hanani’s eyes water. She held her breath and hurried across the bridge, pausing only when a group of stray caracals darted across her path, chasing one of their number who carried a fish head.
At last she reached the Yafai Garden district. Bahenamin’s house was a tall Kisuati-style building with bluewood lintels, on a corner across from the garden itself. His lineage’s pictorals had been carved into a staff set near the house’s entrance. Leopard-spotted butterflies hovered over the bricks of the house’s walkway, dancing on the heat haze; Hanani took care not to step on any of the lovely creatures. But to her surprise, the door opened before she could reach it, and a servant girl stepped out, a drape of deepest indigo—the mourning color—in her hands. The girl wore a short sheath dress of woven blue patterns, rather than going bare-breasted as most servants did on hot days; a family in mourning kept to formal clothes in case of callers.
Hanani waited while the servant finished wrapping the drape around the lineage staff—then she spied Hanani and stopped as well, blinking in surprise. “Greetings, stranger. Have you business here?”
Hanani bowed, turning her hands palm-up in greeting. “I’ve come from the Hetawa. I wish to speak with the family of Merchant Bahenamin.”
“This is his house, may he dwell in Her peace forever.” The servant then stared at Hanani for a breath longer, looking her up and down with a familiar confused expression. “From the Hetawa, you said?”
“Yes,” Hanani replied, waiting. The loindrapes were announcement enough, or they should have been, of her identity. As additional reassu
rance to those who might doubt, Hanani always took care to also wear the collar of small, polished carnelians that had been given to her upon her joining the Sharer path. Between that and the drapes, and whatever rumors ran in the city, most people knew her on sight: the lone woman permitted to pursue one of the four holy paths of Goddess-service.
It took a moment in the servant’s case, but then Hanani at last saw recognition flow across her face. Only then did she add, “I’m Hanani, an apprentice of the Sharer path.”
The servant finally remembered her manners and bobbed her head. “Please come inside, Sharer-Apprentice.”
The house, when they entered its foyer, was far cooler and more comfortable than the late-afternoon swelter without. The foyer opened directly into the family’s modest atrium, where small shrubs and plants surrounded a handsome, good-sized date palm. The tree’s canopy kept the atrium in striped shade. Beneath this tree, a nest of cushions and blankets had been built. Here reclined a heavyset, graying woman in a deep indigo Kisuati wrap. Her face, Hanani saw when the servant girl went to speak to her, was lined and puffy, the whites of her eyes red from weeping. But they fixed keenly on Hanani while the servant spoke, and after a moment the woman beckoned Hanani over.
Hanani came into the garden and bowed over both hands. “Thank you for the honor of your hospitality.”
The servant girl hastened to set another cushion down. The woman nodded and said, “Please sit, Sharer-Apprentice, and be welcome. My name is Danneh. In waking I was Bahenamin’s firstwife.”
Hanani sat, and the servant girl withdrew on some unseen signal from Danneh.
“I’ve come to offer apology,” Hanani said, once a peaceable amount of silence had passed. Inwardly Hanani held herself rigid, though she had already decided that she would accept whatever words the woman flung at her, endure whatever rage. “I feel I have some responsibility for your husband’s death. It was my assistant who took his donation that day.”
Danneh frowned. “The child who died with him?”
“Yes. He was an acolyte, contemplating the Sharer path. He had been trained, and the procedure was common, but …” She shook her head, groping for some explanation that made sense. Nothing did. “Something went wrong. The fault is mine.”
But Danneh’s frown deepened. “I was told it was an accident.”
“My assistant was only thirteen, too young to bear a task of such importance—”
“No.” Danneh shook her head. “The age of choice is twelve. Thirteen is old enough for a child to take some responsibility for his own deeds. You trusted him to do the task? You had no expectation that he would fail?”
“I …” Of all the reactions Hanani had prepared herself to endure, this was not one. “I trusted him, lady.”
“Was that his first time?”
“No, lady. He’d done it before, many times. All acolytes learn to draw and give forth dream-humors, regardless of the path they ultimately choose.”
Danneh sighed. “Then it was an accident. Or—” She gave Hanani a sudden shrewd look. “Has someone sent you here to make this apology?”
“N-no.” That damnable stammer; it appeared whenever she was nervous. “No one sent me, but …”
“But they blame you. Of course they would.” Danneh shook her head and smiled faintly. “The Hetawa’s only woman. I thought you would be taller.”
Hanani shifted a little on the cushion, unsure of how to respond to that statement. “I had hoped to know more of your husband,” she said.
It was too sharp a verbal turn, a clumsy transition in the conversation. Danneh’s smile faded at once, and Hanani silently berated herself for making such a graceless error. But then Danneh took a deep breath and nodded.
“Know more of him,” she said. “Yes. That would please me. It would—”
To Hanani’s alarm, the woman’s eyes abruptly welled with tears. Danneh looked away and put her hand to her mouth for several breaths, fighting back a sob. Hanani reached out to touch her other hand and was even more unnerved when the woman caught hold and gripped her hand fiercely. But the contact seemed to help Danneh regain control.
“Forgive me,” she said, after a few deep breaths. “I know I should go to the Hetawa, ask for peace. But it feels … better, somehow, to let the grief run unstanched.”
“Yes,” Hanani agreed, thinking of her own long nights since Dayu’s death. Some of that must have made its way into her voice, because Danneh then mustered a watery smile.
“Tell me, then, what do you want to know of my Hena?”
Hanani considered. “Was Bahenamin a devout man?”
Danneh had never let go of Hanani’s hand, though her grip had eased. Almost absently she petted Hanani’s hand, perhaps seeking comfort in the physical because the intangible caused her such pain. “Not very. He gave his donations every month, made offerings on Hamyan Night, no more than that. Though he had gone to the Hetawa this time to pray.”
“Why this time in particular?”
“Dreams.” Danneh sighed and dabbed her eyes with a cloth. “He’d been having bad dreams.”
Hanani’s skin prickled as if a sudden cool breeze had blown through the atrium, though the fronds of the date palm were still.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Every Gujaareen child learns to deal with troubling dreams.”
“Hena tried, but the usual tricks didn’t work. He said something was waiting for him. Stalking him, as a lioness does its prey. That was why he went to the Hetawa: he feared the gods might be angry with him for some reason.”
Something was waiting for him. Movement in the dark. A lurking malevolence.
“Was he a strong dreamer?” Hanani asked. Her hand must have trembled in Danneh’s, but Danneh did not seem to notice.
Danneh shook her head, smiling a little to herself in remembered fondness. “The Hetawa passed him over at four floods. They didn’t even offer him lay training; he had no talent for dreaming whatsoever.”
“And he had this dream only once?”
“Twice on two nights. The third night he didn’t sleep; the fear kept him up. The next day I pressed him to go to the Hetawa, and finally he did.” Danneh sighed. “I didn’t think much of it, to be honest. I thought the Sharers would take his nightmares and give him a good night’s sleep, and that would be the end of it. He’d been to a funeral a few days before—Khanwer, a shunha lord with whom he’d often had business dealings. Seeing a friend die can push any man near the shadowlands for a time …” She fell silent again, but Hanani saw the knowledge in her eyes. He died of that dream.
It was a truth Hanani felt too now, with instinctive certainty, though she said nothing aloud. What woman wanted to know that the small, seemingly unimportant thing she had noticed—noticed without concern—had made her a widow? What woman would not blame herself in such a case?
And more troublingly, what did it mean that Hanani had felt something waiting for her in the space between dreams that day, just as Bahenamin apparently had before his death?
“Thank you,” Hanani said instead. “Perhaps that will help me and my brothers to determine how this happened.” Then, greatly daring, she squeezed Danneh’s hand in return. “May Hananja grant you peace in waking, until you can see him again in Ina-Karekh.”
Danneh smiled before finally letting her go. “You’re a good child,” she said. “The Servants of Hananja chose well.”
Sensing that the conversation had reached a graceful end, Hanani nodded shyly and got to her feet. “I would like to return,” she ventured. “To hear more of Bahenamin. And if you prefer not to go to the Hetawa for your grief, then perhaps when next I receive a tithe from a Gatherer, I could return.”
“I would like that too,” Danneh said, “but not for the dreamblood.”
The woman’s smile warmed Hanani into a smile of her own, as Hanani bowed one last time in farewell. “Then I shall definitely return,” she said. “In peace, Merchant Danneh.”
“In peace, child.”
Outside, Hanani descended the steps slowly, her thoughts churning like a floodseason sky. Because of this, she did not see the servant girl offer a full bow of respect to her back before closing the house door.
6
Occupation
So lost in memory was Wanahomen as he walked the heart of Hananja’s City—again, at last, this time without the obscuration of Banbarra clothing if not as his true self—that he missed the Kisuati soldiers until it was almost too late. He had been ensnared by Yafai Garden’s perfume, which was heavy with moontears and jasmine and reminded him of past evenings in Yanya-iyan playing dicing games with his father and Charris. By the time he glanced up to see two soldiers begin beating a Gujaareen man to death, he was almost on top of them.
Their victim was a fruit seller, who had spread a blanket near the garden gate and laid out small piles of figs and edaki melons and thick green dyar-a-whe to entice passers-by. The city’s Law decreed that merchants could sell their wares only in designated market areas: that kept things orderly. But on days like this, when the street’s bricks were hot enough to bake bread and a bite of cool refreshing fruit would be welcome to anyone, most city guardsmen would have looked the other way.
The Kisuati soldiers had not. The merchant groveled before them, his voice a high plea. “—A week’s labor!” was all Wanahomen heard him say, as one of the men shoved him again with a foot. “My family will have no money—” And then his protest turned to a gasp as one of the soldiers stepped on the pile of figs.
“A week’s labor? This?” The soldier spoke with a thick plainsland Kisuati accent. “I am a farm man. My week’s labor would fill this garden! Ah, only in Gujaareh could lazy folk grow so rich.” He glanced at his companion and grinned. “Shall we teach this tingam the value of hard work?” He stepped on another piece of fruit, which squelched ripely; his companion laughed.