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.
Leaving the jungissa in place—it would hold the sleep-spell—Rabbaneh returned to the edge of the roof. Six figures still patrolled calmly on the rooftops, the seventh on the ground. He had not been seen.
Grinning to himself, Rabbaneh headed across the roof, moving on fingers and toes again. Carefully he swung himself over the edge and dropped to a window, bracing his toes on the sill. Inside he could hear someone snoring enthusiastically. He dropped again, catching the sill with his hands, grunting just a bit as his knuckles scraped against the wall. He grunted a second time when he dropped to the ground, this time landing in a crouch. Sonta-i, his former mentor, would tsk at all the noise he was making, but it could not be helped. He was not as young, nor as lean, as he had once been, alas.
And this was not a mission to share Hananja’s peace. The rules for spying were surely different.
He went to the corner of the building he’d just descended, and flicked a glance around. One guard still stood near the stables, pacing back and forth. Doubtless the house’s servant-entrance was in there. The main entrance was also within his sight. But Rabbaneh did not need an entrance; a window would do for his purposes. He glanced up and watched awhile, noting that the roof-guards peered down at the ground only occasionally. There was an alley directly across the street that ran behind the zhinha house. If any of the guards happened to glance down while he was crossing, or if the stable-guard turned his way…
Nothing to be done but trust in Hananja. Whispering a quick prayer, Rabbaneh waited until the stable guard paced in the other direction, then darted across the street.
There was no outcry, so he slipped deeper into the shadows and began making a circuit of the house. The first set of windows were useless—bedrooms, with someone sleeping in each. The second set were another matter, for they opened onto the kitchens. Warm, spice-scented air wafted out through the hangings; he could hear servants within preparing food to serve to the guests. Perfect.
He climbed the side of the building quickly, using the window as his starting point and then shifting to a ceramic gutter-pipe that ran from the roof. When he reached the upper set of windows he stopped, finding toeholds along the bracers of the pipe, for he had found what he sought: the Superior’s voice could be heard clearly from inside.
“—No right,” the voice said. Rabbaneh raised his eyebrows; it was nearly a snarl. The Superior rarely displayed such anger in the Hetawa.
“I have every right,” replied a different voice in a venomous tone—also familiar, though Rabbaneh could not place it. “You did no less to my father, and if I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands, you’d be doing the same to me. I consider the return of my brother a step toward repayment for those crimes.”
“You don’t understand him!” said the Superior. “He believes. Her Law is in his blood, in his very soul. Manipulate him like this and he won’t bend to become your tool, he will break.”
“That is possible. But when he breaks, it will be in your direction. He’ll spend his fury on the Hetawa, then turn to me for comfort. And I shall offer it to him gladly, because blood is still stronger than any oath.”
Ehiru, Rabbaneh realized with a chill. They spoke of Ehiru. And that meant the other speaker was not some spokesman, but the Prince himself.
“He doesn’t know what you are.” The Superior’s voice dripped loathing. “If he did, he’d Gather you himself.”
“I am only what you made me,” the Prince said. He spoke so softly that Rabbaneh strained to hear his voice. “What do you think he’ll do to you when he learns that?”
The Superior did not respond, and when the Prince spoke again, his tone had changed. “And my brother is what you made him, so unfortunately I realize he cannot be trusted. Are you certain it was her?”
“Absolutely,” said a third voice. Rabbaneh did not recognize this one at all. “One of my men spotted her in the market. She joined a minstrel caravan that left the city at sun-zenith yesterday. I’ve had the gate men dismissed for failing to detain them.”
“And Ehiru was with her.” The Prince sighed. “I thought Gatherers were honorable.”
“You dare!” The Superior sounded apoplectic. “If Ehiru judges the woman corrupt, he’ll take her. He—”
“I can’t wait for him to make up his mind,” the Prince snapped. “If the woman reaches Kisua, there’s no telling what the Protectors will do. I need them surprised, frightened. Predictable.” He sighed. “Charris, send a messenger pigeon south. Can our troops there overtake the caravan?”
“If the minstrels took the river route, easily. If they went through the desert, it will be more difficult. Every caravan follows its own route. But if they pass through Tesa, my men can catch them.”
“See that they do.” The Prince’s voice had the edge of command.
“Will you kill her right before Ehiru’s eyes?” asked the Superior. “Will you rub his nose in your corruption, and still expect him to serve you?”
There was a moment of silence. “He’ll see it eventually, Superior,” the Prince said, his voice heavy with meaning. “Corruption is all around him, after all.”
The Superior said nothing to this. The third man—Charris—cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence that fell.
“What of the Gatherer after the woman is dead?” Charris finally asked. “Or if he has already killed her?”
“I keep my promises to my brother,” said the Prince. “If he’s killed her, then escort him back here and allow him to return to the Hetawa. All charges against him will be dropped. Won’t they, Superior?”
In a low voice the Superior replied, “Yes.”
“If he has not killed her,” the Prince continued, “then our bargain is forfeit. Capture him and bring him back, but to Yanya-iyan. Unharmed, please. I’ll have another use for him.”
“You dare not.” That from the Superior, seething with fury—and fear, Rabbaneh sensed. “You dare not.”
“I dare far more than you could ever imagine, Superior.” There was a pause; ceramic clinked against ceramic as liquid poured. “Now go scurry back to your little hole, and cower there until I have need of you.”
To Rabbaneh’s amazement the Superior did not react to this contempt. Cloth shifted and sandals shuffled; the meeting was over.
Quickly Rabbaneh climbed down the pipe and dashed back through the alley and across the street to the building next door. The shadows engulfed him just as the door of the zhinha house opened. The Superior emerged, gesturing curtly for his Sentinel attendants to follow, and they headed away into the night.
Climbing up to the roof, Rabbaneh returned to where the guard lay sleeping, the scarab-jungissa still humming faintly on his forehead.
“You’re a fortunate man,” Rabbaneh whispered, removing the stone and laying fingers over the man’s eyes. “You’ll have a pleasant dream of shirking your duty and taking a nap. Your captain will likely punish you, but not with your life. That is because you won’t remember seeing me up here, except as a fragment of a dream.”
He wove the dream into the man’s mind as he spoke. It was not the most ethical application of narcomancy, but perhaps Hananja would forgive the misuse because his intentions were pure. And because the life of a pathbrother was at stake—though only the gods knew what could be done about it at this point.
It was enough that they knew, Rabbaneh decided, and he hurried home to share the knowledge with Sonta-i.