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.
The folk gathered in the square drew back in reverence, making a path. The Guardsman inhaled and backed away in a respectful bow as the party approached the cistern. The cistern servant did the same, and belatedly Nijiri remembered to bow as well.
“Hold, child.” The green-robed woman at the center of the party held up a hand to point at him. The veil obscured all but the faintest outline of her face, but Nijiri’s pulse quickened anyhow at the sound of her voice. Could it be?
He straightened, pointing at himself in disbelief as a meek servant boy should; she nodded. “Come,” she said. She and her acolytes turned away, and he followed quickly.
The acolytes moved to surround him, letting him walk beside the Sister. No one followed them as they left the square. Nijiri glanced back and caught a glimpse of annoyance warring with awe on the Guardsman’s face; the awe won out and the man flashed a rueful but good-natured smile at Nijiri before turning away. Then the Sisters turned down a different street, heading into the crafter’s district. The shops and smithies here had already closed for the day; most crafters worked at night. Only a few people were still about. Some of these glanced at Nijiri and the Sisters, then quickly looked away; most did not even look. They might envy him for being chosen as a dreamseed tithebearer, but no one would show that envy openly. To do so invited Hananja’s displeasure—and the Sisters’.
“Unwise, Gatherer-Apprentice,” said the Sister. Her voice was low and did not carry. She walked at a stately pace, the bells lining the fringe of her robes and veil tinkling in time. “A man intent on pleasure rarely offers much in the way of information, before or after.”
Nijiri felt his cheeks heat. “Sister Meliatua?”
He could not see her face clearly, but he thought she smiled. “You remember.”
He could hardly have forgotten. “It was the only way, Sister. I—” He hesitated then, unsure of how much to tell her.
She did not look at him as they walked. “Ehiru is no longer in custody. He was released just after sun-zenith, whereafter he left the city through the south gate. He had a token of hers, so a guard there told him how to find the Kisuati ambassador. I do not know why he was released.”
So stunned was Nijiri that it took him several breaths to find his tongue. “You… how did you…”
Another possible smile. “I listened, Gatherer-Apprentice, just as I taught you to listen on Hamyan. We of the Sisterhood have contacts both in and beyond Gujaareh who are willing to provide us with useful information.”
Nijiri frowned, making a guess. “Kisuati contacts?”
“And Soreni, and Jellevy, and many others, including some of your brethren. Rabbaneh asked me to assist you. He said you might be in the vicinity of the guard-stations.”
So it was more than luck that she had come along when she did. “Then do you know where I can find my mentor, Sister?”
“No, but the guard at the south gate might, if you can convince him to tell you. You should move quickly, though. I imagine Ehiru will get information from the Kisuati woman and then kill her. After that, who can say where he will go?”
Nijiri frowned. “Gatherers do not ‘kill,’ Sister.”
She smiled again. “I do not actually share my body with tithebearers, Apprentice. I merely give them dreams. Yet when they wake they are spent and sated, their bodies quivering with remembered ecstasy. Do you think the distinction matters to them much, if at all?”
Nijiri flushed. “I suppose not.”
“You must learn to see things from many angles, Nijiri. If anything, that has always been your mentor’s one failing. He sees only Hananja’s Law.” She sighed; bells sang around her veil. “That narrowness of purpose makes him the greatest of your brethren, but it also leaves him ill equipped to handle the schemes of the corrupt.”
Nijiri tried not to think of the look of utter loss that had been on Ehiru’s face when the Sunset Guardsmen took him away. “Then it’s my task to bear that burden for him, Sister.”
She glanced at him, then away. “I see. You know something of corruption yourself. But you’re so young…” It was a question.
He hesitated, but there was something about her that encouraged candor. “I was servant-caste before the Hetawa adopted me. My mother taught me how to satisfy an adult’s lust almost before I learned to walk. It’s something most servant-caste parents teach their children—something they hope the child will never need, but which could spell survival if the time ever comes.” He shrugged, then sobered further. “But I had no trouble as a servant. Only as an acolyte, in the Hetawa.”
She said nothing, though Nijiri paused, fearing her censure. Her silence helped; after a moment he was able to relax and continue.
“All acolytes go on the list,” he explained. “To serve as pranje attendants, I mean, whenever a Gatherer or Sharer goes through the ritual. It’s supposed to be impossible to escape this duty—but there are ways. And which list one ends up on is often a matter of earning the favor of the Teacher who controls that list.”
“You wanted to be on Ehiru’s list?”
Nijiri’s step faltered for a moment. Flustered, he fell silent; Meliatua sighed and touched his hand in reassurance.
“I had a mentor, too,” she said, softly. “If we had such rituals, I would’ve wanted to serve her, and no one else. No matter how wrong or selfish that might have been considered by my peers.”
Slowly Nijiri nodded. “Yes. It was like that.”
“You love him. Ehiru.”
Nijiri stopped in his tracks, his blood running cold, and Meliatua stopped too. Before he could stammer some excuse, however, she stepped close, like a lover, resting her palms on his chest. “I was servant-caste, too,” she said gently. “I remember the same lessons as you—but I remember, too, that some of those lessons were wrong, Gatherer-Apprentice. They were all about protecting yourself, making yourself strong enough to survive a servant’s life. There were no lessons about how to love safely, or what to do if you did not.”
Nijiri stared at her, forgetting for the moment that they stood in the middle of an open street, surrounded by her attendants and gods knew who else. He remembered his initial thought that she had, somehow, read his mind, on Hamyan Night—but no. Perhaps it was simply the fact that she understood him.
“I…” He faltered, licked his lips. “I don’t know what to do.”
She shrugged. “You’ve done what you can—put yourself close to him, aided him, let him aid you. In the end, that’s all any of us can do for the ones we love. And he needs you, Nijiri. More than he realizes. Perhaps even more than you do.”
Her hands stroked his chest; inadvertently he put his hands on her waist, since that seemed the only proper way to respond to her touch. “You know, though: being a Gatherer is everything to him. Can you love him, knowing that you’ll always be second in his heart?”
“I have always known that.” Nijiri closed his eyes, remembering nights he’d lain awake, wanting. Knowing he could never have what he wanted. “I’ll take what he can give me, and be satisfied with that. It’s just that…”
A Gatherer belonged wholly to Hananja, the Teachers said. It was true for all four of the paths of Hananja’s service—but the Gatherers were special even among those. No one cared if Teachers or Sharers slipped into each others’ rooms at night, so long as they were discreet about it. Even Sentinels took watchbrothers, and fought harder for them than any others. But among the Gatherers, it was different. Respect, admiration, brotherly love—those were right, acceptable, even encouraged. Only selfish, singular desire was forbidden.
“It’s very hard, Sister,” he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. “I became a Gatherer because I wanted to be strong. Because then I would not need others, and grief would no longer have the power to hurt me. I wanted to be with Ehiru; I wanted to be Ehiru. And now…”
She smiled through her veil—and then very, very gently, pushed him away.
“Now, you’re not a child anymore,” she said. “Now you see: Gatherers are only as strong as other men. Now you know you cannot be Ehiru… but you can be worthy of him. And now you know: there’s no shame in love.”
He could not help a small, bitter smile. “No. But there’s more pain than I expected. And it takes more strength than I realized it would, to endure.”
She watched him a bit longer before inclining her veiled head. “Forgive me for disrupting your peace, then, Gatherer-Apprentice.” She resumed walking and after a moment he forced his legs to move again. His heart took longer to settle, but she remained quiet as they walked, and gradually, it steadied.
“There’s a taxmaster in the Unbelievers’ District who is known to me,” Meliatua said at length. “His booth is just beyond the gate, on the third corner; ask for a half-Jellevite named Caiyera. Tell him you’re my friend, and he’ll tell you the Kisuati woman’s location. But do this soon; his shift ends not long after sunset.”
Nijiri glanced up at the already-reddening sky. “Yes, Sister.”
They had reached another intersection. The street-market here was brisk with people and business; many shoppers came out only once the day’s worst heat had faded. Across the square was a broad street marked by an arch, and some ways beyond that Nijiri could see the south gate, which led to the Unbelievers’ District.
“Don’t linger after dark, Gatherer-Apprentice,” Meliatua said, and he looked at her in surprise. “The beast that stalks the nighttime streets has tasted your soul once already and may crave more. You don’t yet have the skill to fight it.”
Unease warred with pride; Nijiri squared his shoulders. “I was caught by surprise, Sister.”
She smiled again, but something about that smile let him know he was not being mocked. “Of course.” She stepped close again, lifted a hand, and touched his cheek to the tinkle of bells. “Go with Hananja’s blessing, Nijiri, and remember that there is no corruption in love, either.”
She turned away, her acolytes following, and it was only after she’d left him that he comprehended her words. They made him feel—not better. But more sure of himself.
With his sense of purpose renewed, he started toward the gate to go and find Ehiru.