The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(53)
Gehanu saw her horror and took her by the arm, leading her toward the camels and beckoning for Nijiri to follow. “Sowu-sowu, Nefe, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you like I always do. We’ll get you back home fast as skyrers, and then all will be well. Che?”
It was said that the gods favored fools because they were entertaining to watch. Privately thanking whichever god had found her amusing for the time being, Sunandi leaned gratefully against Gehanu. “Ah-che.”
The caravan line had already formed. Six unladen camels trailed at the rear to be sold along the journey. Gehanu ordered three of these saddled for Sunandi and her companions, and as the sun peaked overhead they set off along the dusty, heat-hazed road.
19
A Gatherer shall, under the guidance of the Sentinel path, strengthen body and mind for the rigors of Her service. He shall strike quickly and decisively in Her name, that peace may follow just as swiftly.
(Law)
Rabbaneh landed on a rooftop near the Hetawa plaza, panting and shivering. Too much dreamblood. He’d been Gathering nearly every night since Una-une’s death, and twice on some nights since Ehiru had begun his penance. So many in the city called for a Gatherer’s services; it was cruel to make them wait. He sat down behind a storage shed and leaned his head against its wall, waiting for the giddiness to pass. He was not Ehiru. His dreaming gift had never been strong. It would be good—very good—when things finally returned to normal in the Hetawa.
The sound of footsteps on the stones of the plaza below did not disturb Rabbaneh at first. Dreamblood still sang in his soul, suffusing his mind with its warm glow. Servants heading home after late-night labors, maybe; what did it matter? But gradually awareness penetrated the haze, and he noticed that the walkers were moving briskly, staying close together. Occasionally the rhythm of the steps jarred as one or another jogged a little to keep up. And one set of steps lagged from time to time, its emphasis shifting from one foot to the other and back again. In his mind’s eye Rabbaneh saw the owner of these steps trotting along with his fellows, but periodically glancing around as if to check for observers.
Rabbaneh opened his eyes.
Another Gathering was beyond his capacity at the moment, but he could certainly mark a new tithebearer for a later visit. Rolling to a crouch, he crept to the edge of the rooftop and peered over, hoping to glimpse the culprit’s face.
They were almost across the plaza, headed for a street two blocks to Rabbaneh’s right. He counted three men: two acting as guards for another between them. They were too far away to see clearly. The Dreamer had set, leaving the streets dim and dull beneath Waking Moon’s paltry light, but their noisy footfalls might as well have been a lantern to a Gatherer.
Quietly, along the rooftops, Rabbaneh followed.
The artisans’ district blended into a higher-caste area that lined the most beautiful part of the river. A zhinha neighborhood: the houses here varied wildly from the traditional Gujaareen style, incorporating architecture from a dozen foreign cultures with little care for practicality, only aesthetic distinctiveness. Here Rabbaneh was forced to slow down, for one building had a rooftop of flat sloping plates that was maddeningly difficult to navigate, and another bore so many elaborately carved statues of monsters around its edge that he could find no easy access. Privately cursing fools with more money than taste, he finally found one roof with neat overlapping shells of baked brick. He had to go on hands and toes to distribute his weight and avoid breaking them, but he made it across and onto the proper Gujaareen roof beyond that, which allowed him to catch up. When his quarry stopped, so did he.
The three men stood at the side door of a sprawling house. The size meant the house was surely owned by one of the older zhinha lineages, but Rabbaneh did not recognize the family pictorals decorating the lintel. When the door opened neither did he recognize the man who beckoned the three guests in. Likely just a servant anyhow.
But he did finally recognize the three men when the light from the doorway illuminated their faces. The Superior, and the Sentinels Dinyeru and Jehket.
In Her name and inward sight. Rabbaneh caught his breath.
The door closed behind them. Rabbaneh began searching for a way onto that roof. If he could swing down into a window, or hang from a balcony—
He spotted the danger and froze. Another man stood on the roof of the zhinha house, scratching himself in the shadows of a chimney. Short-shorn hair, short sword on one hip, bronze half-torso armor whose gleam was obscured by a rust-colored evening drape.
A Sunset Guard? That meant the Superior was meeting with someone from Yanya-iyan. Someone who held the sanction of the Prince himself.
Looking around, Rabbaneh’s eyes sifted seven guards from the predawn shadows: a total of three on the rooftop of the house, another three scattered around the rooftops of nearby buildings, a seventh on the ground and standing quietly near the house’s stable.
Not enough. The Guard moved in fours. Where was the eighth?
The faint grit of a footstep behind made Rabbaneh’s skin prickle. He forced himself not to react even though he imagined a fiery line along the center of his back where the Guardsman’s impending stab was doubtless aimed. When instinct told him his enemy was close enough, he struck, twisting about to slap at the flat of the blade. The Guardsman jerked in surprise and struggled to bring the blade around again, but by then Rabbaneh was on him, tackling him to the ground so that the other guards wouldn’t see the struggle. Before the man could cry out, Rabbaneh slapped one hand over his mouth and used the other to set his scarab jungissa humming and lay it on the man’s forehead. He stiffened, paralyzed but still awake; his terror and fury fought the magic. Rabbaneh smiled and forked two fingers toward the man’s eyes. They closed reflexively and Rabbaneh laid his fingers on them, reinforcing the jungissa’s magic with a powerful narcomantic command. It took long, taut breaths, but at last the rigidity went out of the guard’s body; he sagged into sleep.