The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(52)

She slowed as they came to an area where the crowds thinned to flow around a knot of camels, piles of packaged goods, and small animals in cages. A menagerie of folk—she noted Gujaareen, Kisuati, Bromarte, Kasutsen, Soreni, and what looked like a Jellevy dancer—swarmed around and over the caravan like ants, checking harnesses and loading the camels. Sunandi spied a tall, broad woman with the fierce features of a far-southerner standing at the epicenter of the chaos. Before Sunandi could call out, the woman turned and noticed her.

“Nefe!” she cried, opening her arms and beaming. “How long has it been, you brat? Come here and take your punishment.”

Sunandi smiled and went to the woman, who wrapped big arms around her in a mighty hug that picked her up several inches off the ground. She oofed but endured the hug, chuckling in spite of herself as the woman finally released her and gave her a narrow-eyed look, still gripping her by the shoulders. From the corner of her eye she could see the Gatherers staring.

“You need something again. Ah-che.” The woman made a face. “You never come around unless you do.”

“Because you haven’t run me off yet.” Sunandi gestured toward the two Gujaareen. “My companions and I need passage to Kisua. Quickly, and quietly.”

The woman glanced at the men and grunted in disinterest before turning her attention back to Sunandi. “You know I’ll take you, Nefe, but it won’t be a comfortable journey. We’re going the desert route, not the river way. Nothing along the river but poor villages that can’t afford to pay us. At least in Tesa we’ll make a profit.”

Sunandi grimaced. “I’d actually hoped to hear you say that. The desert route is faster.”

“You hate the high desert, you spoiled soft thing.”

“I won’t complain. Haste is more important than comfort this time.”

The woman’s smile faded; she examined Sunandi closely. “You’re in real trouble.”

“I am, ’Anu.”

Gehanu did not ask further, though she gave Sunandi’s shoulders a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Then we’ll get you there. Should take only seven days by the oasis road. Where’s that pale girl of yours? She complains more than you do.”

Sunandi lowered her eyes, and the woman caught her breath. “Moon’s Madlight. So that’s it. Then we need to go now, I’m thinking.”

She finally turned to the two Gujaareen. “I’m Gehanu. You?”

Sunandi saw the boy glance uncertainly at Ehiru; Ehiru bowed over one hand and the boy quickly imitated him. He spoke in Sua. “I am Eru, and this boy is Niri. We will work for our passage, mistress.”

Sunandi blinked in surprise. Ehiru had hunched his shoulders and raised the pitch of his voice, making it slightly nasal; he kept his eyes lowered in the manner of a humble lowcasteman. Together with his highcaste accent, it was perfect for the role they’d given him: a once-wealthy Kisuati, now disinherited and humbled for some youthful indiscretion. She could see Gehanu assessing and dismissing him all at once.

“Of course you will, che,” Gehanu snapped. “We all work here. What can you do, boy?”

Nijiri bowed deeper—a perfect Gujaareen servant-caste bow with a hand-inflection indicating that he was unclaimed and willing to accept a new master. When he straightened, he looked at Gehanu with an ingenuous blend of shy hope and fear that was completely at odds with his true manner. “I clean very well, mistress,” he said. “I can do anything else if you show me but once. Except… except cooking.” He looked so crestfallen by this that Sunandi almost laughed.

Gehanu did laugh—once and loudly, but it was clear the boy had charmed her. “We’ll make sure you get nowhere near the cookfire, then.” She glanced around at the caravanners and raised her voice in a thunderous shout. “Move yourselves, you lazy stones, we’re striking out before sun-zenith!” The caravanners ignored her with the air of long practice.

Ehiru nodded toward a group loading sacks into a wagon. “Shall I help, mistress?”

“If you think you can do it without cocking things up.” Gehanu jerked her head toward the wagon, and Ehiru nodded and went to join the loaders. She watched him go, a look of approval on her face. “You, boy; can you sing?”

Nijiri looked startled. “Sing, mistress?”

“Yes. Open your mouth, let sounds come out, occasionally with words.”

The boy’s complexion, almost as pale as a northerner’s, turned a startling pink. “Not well, mistress.”

“Dance?”

“Only prayer dances, mistress. Same as any Gujaareen.”

“It’s a start, and in the south you might actually be a novelty.” She glanced at Sunandi. “You’re a friend. Your pretty-speaking man isn’t, but taking on passengers isn’t something the others would question—if those passengers look like they can pay. Gujaareen servant-castes aren’t permitted to accumulate money. So our young friend here will be a dancer I’m considering for apprenticeship and permanent hire. Che?”

Nijiri looked startled. A sharp needle of cold threaded Sunandi’s spine. She hadn’t made such a stupid, amateur mistake in years. Kinja would have swatted her for it. Lin would have been shocked. It took only one minor inconsistency, any error of logic, to arouse suspicions. There were many among a minstrel band who would gladly earn extra money reporting suspicious strangers to gate guards or tradepost officials. She could have gotten them all killed.