The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1)(65)

Instead she said, “Forgive me for questioning your decision.”

Gehanu shrugged. “If it comforts you, I doubt she’ll accept his offer. We asked her if she wanted to go to the Hetawa while we were in Gujaareh, and she said no. Didn’t want to be healed—just wants to let life happen as it may. I can’t imagine an eightday would have changed her mind. She’ll stay around for as long as she can, just to plague me.”

Sunandi smiled in spite of herself. “That would be good.”

“Good? You don’t know the woman. Enough about that. I’m glad you came, because I had something else to tell you.”

“Oh?”

Gehanu nodded, setting the pipe down on its stand. She began to rummage in her robes. “The village headman had a message that he wanted sent to Kisua. Since you speak for Kisua…” She pulled her hand out of a fold and opened it to reveal a tiny scroll. Sunandi caught her breath; it was the same type of scroll that Kinja had always used in communicating with Kisua’s network of spies. She hadn’t realized that network extended to Tesa. Kinja must have cultivated the village headman on his own.

She took the scroll and opened it, scanning the coded hieratics quickly. “Strange.”

“Another stray secret?”

“I’m not certain. It says that some of the Shadoun have seen odd things some ways east of Tesa, in the high desert. Tracks where there should be none—camels and horses, many in number and carrying heavy enough to leave lasting marks. Two trackers went east to follow, but never returned. I don’t understand why the headman thought this was significant.”

Gehanu frowned. “The Shadoun tribe have lived in the high desert for generations. For one tracker to go astray is unusual. Two is bad.”

“They could have been tracking a trade caravan too poor to pass through Tesa. Some poor fools who got lost. A marauder band that killed them, maybe.”

“A lot of marauders, if so. And with a lot of provisions; you can’t bring that many horses into the high desert without a reliable source of water and feed. That doesn’t sound like poor lost caravanners.”

“Soldiers, then?” Sunandi shook her head. “No. The Empty Thousand is neutral territory between the Protectorate and the Gujaareen Territories. It belongs to the desert tribes, really, though mostly because no one else wants it. Neither land is permitted to send soldiers into it. Neither land could—there’s nothing out there but sand. Soldiers need barracks, horses need stables…”

She trailed off even as Gehanu’s eyes widened, both of them realizing the truth in the same moment.

“And a means of resupply,” Gehanu said.

Sunandi nodded, her mind numbed by the implications. “A garrison. Near one of the smaller oases, most likely. But how big a garrison, housing how large a force? There can’t be many. A force of any great size would have left permanent tracks as it moved through the desert. But then…” She drummed her hands on her legs, thinking. “It doesn’t have to be a large force. Just enough to strike Kisua’s defenses from an unexpected direction in advance of Gujaareh’s real armies. With such surprise they could take the northernmost cities of the Protectorate, establish a foothold before our army could get back to fight them.” Her hand trembled and she clenched it around the scroll. “Even with Kinja’s warning, I never dreamed the Prince was this mad.”

Gehanu watched her, nibbling her bottom lip a bit. “I’ll send word around the camp. We’ll leave well before dawn, and move with as much speed as possible.”

Sunandi nodded. “The sooner we can get this news to Kisua, the better.”

“Not only that.” Gehanu gave her a small pained smile. “Those trackers went missing because there’s an army out there trying not to be noticed, killing anyone it finds. If some of those recent tracks came from messengers bringing orders to that army from the city—the city where someone tried to kill you—I think maybe they will be trying hard to find us. Che?”

The evening desert chill had set in, but that had nothing to do with Sunandi’s shiver. “Ah-che,” she whispered.

“Ti-sowu.” Gehanu smiled again, turning to a saddlebag that sat nearby. She flipped it open and pulled out two cups, followed by a polished gourd engraved with decorative carvings. “Here. You need to sleep tonight.”

Sunandi raised her eyebrows as Gehanu gave her a cup and poured a generous amount from the gourd into it. Paniraeh wine, a potent spirit made only in the far southern countries. In spite of herself, she smiled down at the little cup. “I’ll need more than this if I’m to sleep anytime soon.”

“I promised I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” Grinning, Gehanu produced a second bottle from the bag, then nodded toward the already-opened one. “That one is yours.”





THIRD INTERLUDE





Now that you have heard the greater stories I must begin the lesser—for I see that you have grown weary and distracted. No, don’t apologize. We are men of the Hetawa, after all; sleep is no hindrance. There, take the couch. Sleep if you wish. I’ll weave the tale into your dreams.

It began with a madman. In the days when Gujaareh was new—we had only flesh healing in those days—the castes of the city began to take shape. Those sonha nobles who had settled here from Kisua split into two groups: the shunha, who wished to uphold the ways of Kisua as much as possible, and the zhinha, who wished to make Gujaareh something new. The former kept to themselves and preserved the most important lore of our motherland, while the latter mingled with outlanders and adopted many of their ways. Each group needed the other, for without this mingling of tradition and progression Gujaareh could never have established herself as a powerful trading nation so quickly. Yet each group scorned the other too, for the divisions between them were deep.