The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) (53 page)

Someone touched Hanani’s arm, and she turned to see Hendet beside her. “Sing,” Hendet said, in her low, aristocratic Gujaareen. “For the warriors’ victory. For peace and few casualties, if that pleases you more, and a quick end to this whole mess. Think of it as a prayer—but sing.” And to Hanani’s shock, Hendet too raised her voice in a deeper, though no less barbaric-sounding cry. Something in Sua.

It seemed a strange custom, but Hanani saw the meaning in it. She had no weapon, having refused to carry one even after the Azima incident. Such things had no purpose other than to cause pain, to her mind. But she had killed Azima with her bare hand, hadn’t she? Magic was both a useful tool and a deadly weapon, no different from any knife, for all that it was a gift of the Goddess.

And so, hesitantly, she raised her hand. She closed her eyes, drew in a breath, thrust aside propriety, and joined in the women’s farewell. She called Hananja’s name and made the word a prayer, thinking,
Let there be peace again soon, for me and for all these people, and when You have done that, take no more from me
.

When she ran out of breath and the other women’s songs began to fade, Yanassa clapped her on the shoulder. Bowing over her hands in farewell to Hendet, who returned the bow with regal grace, Hanani and Yanassa ran to the ladders and clambered down to ground level. Tassa waited by the corral, holding the bridle of Hanani’s saddled horse and looking anxious. He and two other boys quickly helped Hanani strap on the saddlebags. Then Hanani mounted Dakha, who stamped her feet, impatient to be off with her fellows. The last of the warriors were beginning to pass, followed
by the farriers and trappers and others who had chosen to travel with the army in support.

Ready at last, Hanani looked down at Yanassa and Tassa, her throat tightening. “Yanassa—”

Yanassa shook her head. “No farewells. It’s unlucky.”

Hanani nodded, but could not resist at least a blessing, if not a farewell. “Walk in Her peace dreaming and waking, Yanassa. Know that I will see you again in one or the other.”

Yanassa smiled. “You’ll see me in waking, foolish girl. Once Wana has his city back, I mean to come there to trade and grow rich, and I promise you, I
will
seek you in your Hetawa. You had better be wearing at least earrings! Now go.”

Swallowing, and straightening her posture as befitted both a woman of worth and a Servant of Hananja, Hanani turned and rode off to join the army’s train.

With the wind at their backs and the smell of greenlands to guide them, the Banbarra army made good time reaching Sabesst, among the western foothills of Gujaareh. Sabesst was a forbidding, boulder-strewn pit of a valley, with steep sides and only the most narrow of passages in or out. Gujaareen myth said that Sabesst was where Merik, the god who had shaped the mountains, had once set down his tools while he took a nap. It was one of the few places in the foothills where an army could form in secret.

Riding at the head of the Banbarra column, Wanahomen led them through the middle of his allies’ camp, trying not to curl his lip at the makeshift corrals, the haphazard tent-rows, the tiny smithy that looked ill prepared to handle even a horseshoeing. The men, at least, were the one positive Wanahomen saw: there were perhaps thrice as many of these soldiers as there were of his Banbarra. But the ones Wanahomen first noticed were a sorry lot. None of the nobles’ men were in formation or drilling as they rode in. Most just came to stare at the foreigners in undisciplined curiosity. All wore varying colors and emblems, showing their allegiance to this or that noble family; there had been not even an attempt to unify them with
a single sash or color. Worse, Wanahomen noted a troubling number of soldiers who were elderly, or little more than boys. Some were too scrawny to lift a sword, or too fat to sit any but the largest horse.

“
This
is what you mean to take against the Kisuati?” Ezack spoke in Chakti, but he wisely kept his voice low in any case, perhaps so that their new allies would not hear the disdain in his tone. “A good number of these should be sent into the desert to die and ease the burden on the rest.”

Wanahomen shared his disdain, but dared not let himself dwell on it. These soldiers, poor as they were, were all he had. “Many are hired men,” he said, and then amended himself when Ezack looked confused. The concept of fighting for pay was unknown to the Banbarra. “Not true warriors. More like slaves: they obey anyone who can feed them.”

Ezack made a sound of disgust. “They have slaves fight for them? And you call
us
barbarians.”

Looking farther, Wanahomen spied a few signs of hope. Not all of the soldiers had come forward as the Banbarra arrived. A good number remained back among the tents, watching. These men were fitter, and there was something more than bored curiosity in their eyes. They watched Wanahomen in particular, as he was the only one in indigo at the head of the column; the other war leaders were back with their own men. They knew who he was supposed to be.

“There,” Wanahomen said to Ezack, taking care not to look toward the men of whom he spoke. “
Those
are the warriors—men of the military caste, and others who were once of Gujaareh’s army. I’d hoped we would see at least a few. They’ll make up for the rest.”

Falling silent, Ezack assessed these men more thoughtfully, and straightened a little as if self-conscious.

Up ahead was a cluster of large field-tents, each in the elaborate Gujaareen style—woven of yellow cloth, tasseled in leather and gold thread, three times the size of even the finest Banbarra tent.
With eyes trained by ten years in the desert, Wanahomen could not help feeling contemptuous of such excess. The field-tents took hours to set up and break down, and probably had had to be transported on multiple pack animals. The thin, shining cloth was pretty, but it would let in cold air at night and heat by day.

Still, he schooled his expression as the tent-drapes stirred and his allies emerged to greet him. There were more of them than he’d expected to see—nearly twenty people in all, of varying ages and castes, though most were richly dressed and dignified in bearing.

“So these are war-leaders among your folk?” asked another of his men.

“More like tribe-leaders.”

“Your people don’t smile enough,” Ezack said. “I can’t tell what they’re thinking on those stone faces. Some of this lot look like they want to kill you.”

Wanahomen smiled. “Some of them probably do.”

“Oh, so they have sense, then.”

Ignoring this, Wanahomen raised one fist to signal the column halt. Instantly his seconds raised their fists as well, and the war-leaders of their respective regiments, and their seconds, until within a span of breaths the entire mass of a thousand men had halted to a one. Pleased by this display of discipline—it would go over well with the military-castes—Wanahomen dismounted and went forward.

He knew many of their faces from his days as his father’s chosen heir, though he recalled only a handful of names. The rest, as far as he could tell, were minor or impoverished nobility, wealthy merchants, even a handful of well-known crafters and artisans. The sight of such a mix of folk both pleased and troubled him; each had probably brought additional resources for the army, but what did their presence really mean? How many were spies for Kisua—or worse yet, for other lands, keeping an eye on the affairs of what had once been the world’s most powerful kingdom? He worried too that
the hardships of the occupation had become more dire for his people than he’d thought. Only great suffering, or righteous anger, could prompt so many Gujaareen to cast aside Hananja’s Law.

But that’s a blessing for me. Come, then: follow me and I’ll put your pain to good use.

“Greetings,” Wanahomen said. He reached up to remove his headcloth and veil and was gratified to see the instant recognition in several pairs of eyes. He had always looked like his father, save for the height and deeper coloring of his shunha heritage. Given that his father had been a dancer’s son and lowcaste-pale because of it, he was always glad for that small advantage.

“My Prince,” said one of them, an older man who immediately knelt in manuflection. Most of the others followed suit—though not all, Wanahomen noted. He smiled at each of the ones who had not knelt and saw challenge on some of those faces, outright hostility in others.

“My friends,” he said, speaking directly to those. “There’s no need to call me
Prince
—not yet. Not until I sit before the Aureole and have received the blessing of our Goddess. Until then I am simply Wanahomen, a fellow citizen who shares your dream of a free Gujaareh.” To those who had knelt, he nodded. “Please rise.”

There was a shuffle among the group as they rose, murmuring among themselves, and finally a man Wanahomen had never met stepped forward. “I am Deti-arah, shunha, of Mun-arah’s lineage,” said the man. “You are most welcome, Pr—Lord Wanahomen. If you’ll join us in the tent, we have much to discuss.”

Wanahomen nodded and turned to Ezack. “Have the men make camp,” he said in Chakti. “Choose someplace more suitable; I don’t like the layout of this valley.” Not least because it was full of people he did not trust.

Ezack frowned. “Beyond it, our fires and tents might be seen. If you mean to keep this army secret—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Wanahomen looked around the valley. So many thousands of folk, all willing to fight for him. He could not help smiling, and repeating the words in Gujaareen so that all of them would understand. “At this point the Kisuati have no hope of stopping us, even if they know exactly where we are.”

“Ah.” Ezack, who’d frowned in concentration as he parsed the Gujaareen, looked pleased at that. “Well, then.” He straightened, giving the signal to turn about. The column did so and began heading back the way it had come. There had been a likely-looking hill just before they’d entered Sabesst: Wanahomen suspected that was where Ezack meant to go.

But before they left, four of the warriors from the front-most rank reined their horses and leaped down, taking up guard positions at Wanahomen’s back. One was Yusir-Banbarra and one was Charris, which did not surprise Wanahomen; the other two were Banbarra from other tribes, which did. He glanced at them in surprise, then looked up to see Ezack watching him. Ezack’s eyes crinkled in a smile before he turned his own horse and rode away.

“Your allies seem quite imposing,” Deti-arah said. He glanced nervously at the men flanking Wanahomen. Charris could still cut a striking figure when he wanted, but even he looked small compared to the other three, whom Ezack seemed to have chosen for their size alone.

Wanahomen stifled the urge to laugh. He would have to commend Ezack later. “They can be.”

Deti-arah nodded. “Well, then.” He stood aside and gestured for Wanahomen to precede him. Wanahomen did so—and the Banbarra bodyguards immediately moved to follow. As he had suspected, this unnerved Deti-arah even further.

“My lord—” Deti-arah glanced meaningfully at the Banbarra.

Wanahomen affected an innocent look. “Surely you have guards of your own, Lord Deti-arah?”

“I do, my lord, but—”

“Well, then.” Smiling genially, Wanahomen gestured for the Banbarra to follow him, and went into the tent. A moment later, looking irritated, Deti-arah followed, along with several of the other nobles. The tent quickly became crowded with Charris and the three Banbarra in attendance, but Wanahomen walked to the central table easily; people in the tent made way for him.

A tall, slim young woman stood at the table within the tent, glaring down at what appeared to be a map-scroll. Wanahomen managed to keep his own eyebrows from rising at the sight of her, for she had pulled her hair back into a severe braid and wore a martial costume—leather half-armor loosened to accommodate her small breasts, a man’s loinskirt, boots, and archery gloves, with a sheathed dagger on one hip. She raked Wanahomen with a wary, assessing glance as he came in; after a moment she gave him a vaguely respectful nod.

“Iezanem,” said Deti-arah, gesturing to the woman. “Of zhinha caste and the lineage of Zanem.”

“Zhinha
and
military caste, my lord,” she corrected Deti-arah. “In principle my mother’s caste takes precedence, but I’ve chosen to embrace both insofar as I can. My father passed on to me what skills he could. You are Wanahomen.”

Deti-arah looked more annoyed still, though it was hard to say what had offended him most: Iezanem’s claim of two castes, her forwardness in not waiting to be introduced, or just her presence. She was the palest Gujaareen woman Wanahomen had ever seen, with hair the color of rusted iron-clay and a dusting of freckles—and sunburn patches—across the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t pretty, either, with narrow hips, lips so thin that they vanished when she spoke, and a nose too broadly Gujaareen for the northerner rest of her. Small wonder she was so belligerent, then: even among the zhinha she would have endured scorn for her looks. But there was
something about the combination of strength and defensiveness in her manner that obliquely reminded Wanahomen of Hanani and predisposed him to smile at her—which caused her to blink in wary surprise.