The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(46)

“I would ease this for you if I could,” the Gatherer whispered to her through the roaring, “but I have no peace left to share. I still have love, though. Take it, daughter of Kalawe. As much as you need.”

There will never be enough, she thought bitterly, and let the grief close about her like a fist.





16





Four are the tributaries of the great river. Four are the harvests from floodseason to dust. Four are the great treasures: timbalin, myrrh, lapis, and jungissa. Four bands of color mark the face of the Dreaming Moon.

Red for blood.

White for seed.

Yellow for ichor.

Black for bile.

(Wisdom)





Nijiri had seen six floods by the time of his adoption into the House of Children. Long before that, however, he’d begun learning the ways of the servant caste into which he’d been born. He still remembered his mother’s first lessons in the proper way to walk: back bent, strides short but brisk to convey humility and purpose. Never look a higher-caste in the eyes. When waiting, keep eyes forward but see nothing, show nothing—neither impatience nor weariness—no matter how long one has been standing. “They will see you, but not see you,” she had told him. “When they need you, you will have already come. What they need, you will have already done. If they no longer need you, you will not exist. Do these things, and you may have what freedom our caste allows.”

Those lessons had served him well in his quest to become a Gatherer. Servants were servants, after all. And today he’d had no trouble getting into the first guard-station by pretending to be a wine-seller’s boy. So convincingly did he stammer and stoop that the guardsmen did not question his shorn hair or the pouch on his hipstrap, and not once did they look into his face as he spun his tale. His master had too much left of sweetwine chilled with fruit juices; would they not buy it to give to their prisoners? He would discount the price if so. The guards had been too interested in cheap wine to watch their tongues, laughingly telling him that they had no prisoners but would buy his wine for themselves. Nijiri left promising to bring it and never returned.

The ruse had worked on the second guard-station as well, though they’d actually had a prisoner. After noting the number of guards and the location of the exits, it had been a simple enough matter for Nijiri to pass through the alley beside the building, where he stood on a storage urn to peer through the slotted window. The man within had the filthy, half-starved look of an unclaimed or mistreated servant who had probably turned thief to survive; he was not Ehiru.

But this discovery troubled Nijiri deeply, for it meant that his first two guesses as to Ehiru’s location had been wrong. Neither of the stations’ men had been of the Sunset Guard, either. If Ehiru had been in either place, he was now gone.

What if I’ve lost him? What if they have taken him to the prison—or had him killed?

No. He could not allow himself to think such things.

The worst of the afternoon heat had faded by the time Nijiri stopped at a public cistern to drink. So dispirited was he that he did not, at first, sense the pressure of a gaze against his back. A handful of people loitered in the cistern-square, drinking from the provided cups or watering horses at the animal trough. It was only when the soldier touched his shoulder that Nijiri became aware of the man’s proximity. He jumped and whirled, spilling his cup and exerting every ounce of will not to drive his fist through the man’s throat in reflex.

“Jumpy,” the man said with a chuckle. He was tall, handsome, tawny-skinned, with neatly woven braids—probably from a well-to-do family of the military caste. And he wore the rust and gold of the Sunset Guard.

Nijiri’s heart sped up.

Then he remembered to be a servant. He dropped the cup and bowed deeply. “Please forgive me, lord. Did I wet you? Forgive me.”

“You didn’t wet me, boy. And even if you had, it’s only water.”

“Yes, lord. How may I serve? Will you have water?” This earned him a foul look from the cistern servant, who’d probably been hoping for tips.

The Guardsman laughed. “No, no, boy. Will your master be needing you back soon? Does he object to you lending out your service?”

Nijiri straightened a bit from his bow, keeping his shoulders hunched. His mind raced; he could not let this chance slip past. There had to be some way to probe the Guardsman for information, if Nijiri could only hold his interest. “Er, no, lord,” he said. Vague memory prompted him to add, “So long as there is no loss in it for him, lord.”

“Of course.” The Guardsman reached into his belt pouch and drew out a thick silver coin, flashing it and then putting it away. “For your master. I won’t keep you long.” He inclined his head toward a nearby alley, narrow and shadowed.

Forgetting humility for an instant, Nijiri stared at him in confusion. But abruptly a memory of Hamyan Night returned to him, and with it the Prince’s words. Someone would have made a pleasure-servant of you.

Grace of the Goddess and all Her divine brethren. Here too? For a moment he fought back fury.

He was opening his mouth to mutter some excuse when the rhythmic tinkle of bells caught his attention. Across the cistern-square, a small party entered from a side street: four figures robed in gauzy yellow hekeh surrounding a fourth in pale green. Sisters of Hananja.