The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(39)

The clan leader made no reply, and Sunandi was startled to realize he was staring at her, his face even paler than normal.

“You saw a Gatherer?”

“I told you someone tried to kill me. Though I talked him out of it.”

“No one talks a Gatherer out of killing. At the most they stay their hand for a few days. Then they come after you again.”

She sighed and went over to a bench between two carved plinths. It wasn’t padded—a Bromarte custom intended to keep their traders’ minds sharp even when they were at rest—and she winced as she sat down too hard. Too many months living in luxury. I’m becoming as soft as the Prince.

No. The Prince only seemed soft on the surface. Peacock and pleasure-hound he might be, but no one soft could play such dangerous, terrible games.

“Abeyance,” she said at last. “That’s what the Gatherer granted me while he investigates my story to see if it is true.”

“Then, my sweet Sunandi, you are a dead woman.” Etissero gazed at her solemnly.

She rubbed her face, still sleepy. “Perhaps. The fool planned to go back to his Hetawa and demand the truth from his masters. Hopefully they’ll kill him and solve my problem.”

“If they kill him, another Gatherer will be sent. The Hetawa always fulfills a commission once judgment has been rendered. They consider it a sacred duty.” Etissero folded his hands and sighed. “Damn them. I never thought I’d lose anyone to their evil, let alone two in the span of a month.”

“Don’t put me in an urn already, man—” She paused, frowning as his words penetrated. “Two?”

“My cousin.” Etissero leaned his elbows on the desk and sighed. “You met him. Negotiator in Gujaareh for his wife’s clan; kept an ear to the ground among the merchants and common folk for me. He lived within the city’s walls—liked it there, the fool. Said it was soothing. But several days ago they found him dead in his bed. The innkeeper said it looked as though he had been Gathered. To me it looked more like he’d had a heart-seizure or something else painful in his sleep, but those Gujaareen can always read a death.”

Sunandi frowned at the dark flicker of memory brought on by Etissero’s words. They’d called Kinja’s death a heart-seizure, too. “I remember the man. Large fellow? He kept telling me how much he liked dark women.”

“The very one. Charleron.” Etissero shook his head. “Only the day before, I’d received a letter from him saying he was coming to visit. We never spoke about clan business, but he shared any interesting gossip that he heard with me. This time he’d heard something important that he wanted to tell me in person. Something about a rift between the Hetawa and the Sunset.”

Sunandi inhaled and stared at him.

“Yes, I know. And then he turned up dead. Murdering gualoh.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, pausing for a moment to master himself; Bromarte men did not cry in front of women. “The Hetawa paid for his funeral. Hired mourners and a chantress, bought him a lapis-covered urn, put him in their own special vault above the floodline. Buried him like a king after they killed him. How I hate this city.”

Silence had its own eloquence at times, so Sunandi kept hers.

It lasted only for a moment, however, until the house’s heavy wooden door—a necessity in this district, and double-locked—banged downstairs. Light quick feet on the steps told them that Etissero’s young son Saladronim had returned from his morning shift as a messenger. The boy came up the steps breathless, his cheeks flushed pink and eyes bright. He paused only long enough to offer a quick bow to Sunandi before blurting his news.

“Soldiers, Father. In the marketplace.”

Etissero frowned. Sunandi rose and went to the window. Behind her she heard the trader quizzing Saladronim; the boy’s careful recital of details and observations put a momentary smile on her lips. Kinja had not been the only one to see the merits of sharp-witted children, it seemed.

Below, in the streets, she saw what the boy meant. Amid the drab earth colors of common folk going about their business, flashes of brighter color stood out. A scattering of warriors in bronze half-torso armor moved through the crowd. Their skirts were a rusty red-orange, and their yellow headcloths swung from side to side. Searching. Cold prickled along her spine.

Etissero rose and came to the window beside Sunandi. “That isn’t the city guard. I’ve never seen men wearing those colors before.”

“I have,” Sunandi said. She stepped back from the window, crossing her arms over her breasts to stop herself from shivering. “They are the Prince’s own men, the Sunset Guard. They leave the palace only on his direct orders.”

Etissero raised an eyebrow at her. “If you weren’t Kisuati, you’d be pale now.”

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her fluttering heart. “That Gatherer was sent to kill me. Perhaps the Prince has decided to make certain the job is done properly.”

Etissero nodded slowly. Near the desk, Etissero’s son sat cross-legged on the floor, watching both of them avidly.

“You’ll have to remain here,” the trader said. “No one knows you’re in this house. Stay hidden for a few days and they’ll decide that you must have reached the trade-roads. They’ll move on, and then so can you.”

She frowned at that. “No. Kinja’s information—”