The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (25 page)

“What will that mean for the Prince?” Mni-inh asked.

Yanassa shook her head. “No way to say for sure. But he cannot win back his city without more warriors and aid than he has now.”

As Unte shooed his tribesfolk away to begin preparing for their new guests’ arrival, Hanani saw the Prince turn in her direction. It was impossible to be certain from a distance, and with his veil in place, but where her eyes failed, intuition supplied: he was smiling to himself. She did not know how she knew it, but she was certain.

And when his eyes found hers across the crowd, she was equally certain that his smile grew wider still, and that there was nothing good in it.

It would have to be the templewoman, Wanahomen decided.

There was no better option. Not now, with the Dzikeh on the horizon, over a fourday early thanks to Shatyrria’s scheming. Not even with the bribe he had assembled over the past year—his share of the spoils from raids on Gujaareh and other Kisuati outposts. Unte had guaranteed him at least two votes: his own and that of the leader of the Issayir-Banbarra, who was Unte’s brother. The other tribes varied in their likely willingness to join, especially under the command of a city-born foreigner. Wanahomen had reminded them of their power thanks to the successful raids on Gujaareh, and they were eager for more of the wealth to be had from the campaign—but one strong objection could stir them to refuse out of pride and solidarity. The Dzikeh’s tribe leader, Tajedd, represented that objection.

But with Hanani, Wanahomen could perhaps have him too.

“Put fresh clothing on,” Unte said, turning to clamber down from the lookout point. He grimaced as the movement aggravated his knees. “Tajedd will be looking for any sign of weakness in you. He doesn’t need to see your blood so easily.”

“Yes, Unte.” As surreptitiously as he could, he took hold of Unte’s elbow. “The same goes for you. Shall I fetch one of the Sharers to banish your aches?”

“They can do that? Amazing.” Unte chuckled. “It’s tempting, Wana, but they shouldn’t waste their magic. Nothing can cure old.”

Dreamblood could.
But that thought stirred too many dark memories, and Wanahomen pushed it from his mind as he left.

His mother was waiting for him as he returned to their
an-sherrat
, and he filled his eyes for a moment with the sight of her standing—standing!—at the entrance of her tent, watching the goings-on. He went to her, took her hands, and kissed her on the forehead. She chuckled, though he noted that she did not pull away.

“You’ll make the other women think I indulge you too much,” she said, then frowned, pulling back as she noticed the streak of blood at his midriff. “What has happened?”

“Too much to tell right now.” He squeezed her hands. “But don’t worry. You should rest; the priests said you would need time to recover—”

“Yes, yes, fine.” She sighed, only mildly annoyed at his fussing. “I’ll want a full report later, of course.”

“Of course.” He bowed to her, then headed quickly to his own tent to change. He made sure to don the finest of his indigo robes—the color of nobility among the Banbarra, which Unte had granted him permission to wear some years before. He also tied on the beautiful bronze sword that had traditionally been given to the Sunset Throne’s heir, called Mwet-zu-anyan, the Morning Sun. He did not carry it often, because it was so plainly not a Banbarra weapon—they favored curved blades—and because he feared losing it. But now it was important to show the Banbarra that there was strength to be gained from foreign allies. Even his city-born hands could spill blood.

By the time Wanahomen found Unte again, the Dzikeh party
had entered the canyon. It was difficult to tell from so far, but Wanahomen thought he glimpsed Tassa’s slight form among the corral attendants greeting their guests. The boy loved being in the thick of things. For just a moment he worried that the Dzikeh would scorn Tassa when they saw him; most Yusir gave him no trouble for it, but the Banbarra as a rule were not overly fond of half-breeds. Yanassa had warned him off trying to protect the boy, years ago.
He must find his own way, and you hovering will do him no favors
, she had said, and she had been right. So he’d clenched his fists but done nothing when Tassa came home bloody-nosed and bruised-knuckled, though he’d taught the boy how to fight using all the tricks his own father had shown him, long ago. And he would do nothing now, so long as Tassa could bear it. But if they crossed that line—

Well. Best not to summon Gatherers too early, as they said in Gujaareh. He had enough trouble to deal with already.

There was a stir at the ladders, and a moment later the Dzikeh party began to climb up. First came the tribe’s leader Tajedd, Wanahomen guessed, for this man was into his elder years, though not so far as Unte. That would give Unte the advantage of seniority, which was good. Tajedd was tall and lean and mournful-looking, with shoulders beginning to round into a stoop. He stopped in front of Unte, who stood waiting, and the two leaders exchanged greetings.

The man who came up next set Wanahomen’s hackles all a-rise even though Wutir had forewarned him:
Tajedd brings a special weapon for you.
This new man was not as tall as Tajedd, but what he lacked in stature he made up for in bulk, with yoke-broad shoulders and arms—bared to the elbow, a rarity among concealment-obsessed Banbarra men—that looked muscled enough to hurl boulders. Not one but two swords hung at his side, their scabbards festooned with charms and amulets, and by the ready way he stood, Wanahomen had little doubt the man knew how to use them.

This was the Dzikeh-Banbarra’s hunt leader, no doubt about it.
And by the sharpening of his eyes above their veil, Wanahomen knew the Dzikeh man had marked him for the same.

He will find a reason to challenge you, and then he will kill you.
And though Wanahomen had scoffed at those words when Wutir said them, he saw now the truth of it. Wanahomen was a capable warrior himself, trained by Charris and Kite-iyan’s formidable palace guard—but this Dzikeh was something else altogether. A weapon indeed.

But weapons could always be turned against their masters.

“So this is the cause of our gathering,” Tajedd said, giving Wanahomen a long look. “I’ve heard much about you, Wanahomen of Gujaareh.”

With Shatyrria’s clan doubtless sending him letters every turn of the Waking Moon, Wanahomen was not surprised. “And I you, Cousin,” he said. He saw Tajedd’s eyebrows rise at the word
Cousin
. The Dzikeh hunt leader scowled.

“Wanahomen’s mother consented to become my fourth wife shortly after they first joined our tribe,” Unte said, his voice deceptively mild as always. “Wanahomen is a son of my clan now.”

“I see.” Tajedd regarded Unte as if he would’ve liked to say something about that, but in the end he opted for diplomacy. “I hope that our hunt party may be welcome among the Yusir tribe for the next several days, Unte. We rode hard in hopes of arriving in time for your solstice festival.”

Unte put a hand to his heart in mock astonishment. “So this is why you arrived early? To court our women and eat our food? I might’ve known.” The watching tribesfolk rippled laughter, and after a moment Tajedd joined in. Much of the tension of the gathering dissipated. Wanahomen had always admired Unte’s skill at that.

“Come, then,” Unte said, gesturing broadly for the Dzikeh pair to follow. The rest of the Dzikeh party—Wanahomen guessed they numbered a good eighty warriors—had completed the climb and
were being welcomed by the tribe, offered drink and food and cloths to wash their faces and hands. Wanahomen checked to make certain that his own men were in their places: a few were down among the tribesfolk greeting their guests, but most stood quietly about the perimeters of the encampment, alert for trouble. Ezack remained on the watch-heights; when Wana met his eyes, Ezack nodded. All was well. Satisfied, Wanahomen turned to follow Unte.

Unte’s tent was larger than most, since he often hosted gatherings. Inside, his three slaves must’ve worked like demons to prepare so quickly for the arrival of guests. Unte’s usual mess—half-written scrolls of poetry, half-smoked pipes—was gone, leaving the tent neat and welcoming. A low table had been set out, laden heavily with refreshments and teas. An ornately engraved censer in the corner burned a relaxing blend of herbs.

Tajedd settled on the cushions at one side of the table with a contented groan, reaching immediately for a flask of cactus-fruit wine—a traditional drink for travelers who had been in the high desert. The hunt leader settled beside him, waiting for his tribe leader to refresh himself first, as was proper.

Wanahomen settled across from the Dzikeh hunt leader. “You have the advantage of knowing my name,” he said politely.

“I do,” the hunt leader replied, and said nothing more. Wanahomen had the impression that he smiled behind his veil.

Unte lifted an eyebrow at this. “Are we at war, then, that names aren’t given freely? Are we wary of one another, to keep our faces veiled in-tent?” He pulled down his own veil and looked boldly at the two Dzikeh. “I was unaware of this, if so.”

Tajedd quickly pulled down his veil, revealing a face as thin and mournful as the rest of him, though he gave them a broad smile. He had several missing teeth. “Not at war, Cousin, of course not. And neither of us has come in fear. Yes, Azima?”

The Dzikeh hunt leader scowled as his name was given, but then
he reached up to pull away his veil. Wanahomen did the same so that they might reveal their faces to one another in the same moment. In Azima’s case, this meant a face of hard planes and pitiless angles, though he had the large eyes of a westerner. This raised him, and Tajedd by proxy, a notch in Wanahomen’s esteem: the man was a half-breed too.

“I see nothing to fear here,” Azima said to Wanahomen, and smiled.

Wanahomen returned the smile, thinking behind his eyes,
I would so enjoy killing you.
But he could not do that. Azima would be infinitely more useful to him alive.

While Tajedd tasted the wine and, as was polite, recited a poem in praise of it and his hosts, Wanahomen signaled one of Unte’s slaves, who crouched nearby. When the man came over, Wanahomen murmured in his ear: “Fetch the healer-woman. Tell her someone in Unte’s tent needs a minor wound healed.” The slave nodded and slipped out.

When Tajedd was done, Wanahomen inclined his head to show his approval. “Is it a long journey from your tribe’s
an-sherrat
to here?” he asked. Unte poured wine for himself. Wanahomen inclined his head to Azima graciously, indicating that Azima, as guest, should drink next. Azima’s lips twitched; he did not reach for the wine-flask. He would not drink, and that meant Wanahomen couldn’t either. Wanahomen was honestly surprised: did the man really believe such simple pettiness would infuriate him?

Then again, Banbarra weren’t given to the kinds of intrigues that Wanahomen kept expecting, even after ten years among them. He had grown up watching Gujaareen noblemen offer ten layers of insult with a shift in tone and an out-of-place bow. Banbarra were so direct that he found them refreshing, even when they meant to be rude.

“A full month, give or take an eightday,” Tajedd said. He seemed
oblivious to Azima’s behavior, but Wanahomen knew otherwise. “That’s with trained warriors, moving at hunt-pace.”

“A difficult journey,” Unte agreed.

Wanahomen chuckled. “Well, our women will no doubt help your men forget the hardships of the journey.” He poured himself a cup of tea, preempting Azima’s stupid game with the wine. “They like new faces. Though you may have some competition; there are novelties aplenty around camp these days.”

Unte was watching Wanahomen thoughtfully, no doubt sensing he was up to something. He had grown to trust Wanahomen over the years, granting him wide latitude in the politics of the tribe, but Wanahomen knew he would tolerate no open insult to the Dzikeh. The Banbarra might be unfriendly toward strangers, but among their own they took guest-custom very seriously. Wanahomen was counting on this.

“You refer to yourself?” Tajedd asked, and then perhaps to reduce the implication of insult he added, “Though if you are of Unte’s clan…”

“No, not myself,” Wanahomen replied. He gave them a self-deprecating smile. “My novelty wore out long ago. No, I mean that we have two Gujaareen priests among us, given as a gift by their Hetawa to seal our alliance. You’ll see them about—pale, soft people, typical city-dwellers. We had to put them in Banbarra clothing, since their own was indecent.”