N. Jemisin - The Killing Moon

Surprised, Nijiri followed her gaze and focused on his fellow revelers. It took him a moment to fathom the Sister’s meaning, but now that she had pointed it out, the signs were obvious. A darting glance from a man who wore rich scholars’ robes, at Nijiri—at his shoulder, which bore his new, just-healed Gatherer tattoo—and then away. A young zhinha woman, laughing at some joke by her companion, faltered silent for an instant as Nijiri and Meliatua passed. When she resumed laughing, it sounded forced. A tall soldier with a face like sandy foothills nodded gravely to Nijiri; there was a terrible sorrow in his eyes.

Meliatua shook her head. “And another measure of comfort is offered up to Hananja. They make proper sacrifices without meaning to.”

“No one has ever looked at me with fear before,” Nijiri said, troubled. “But then, I am a Gatherer now.”

“Only the ignorant fear Gatherers on sight,” the Sister said. “The rest know when to fear. There are no Gatherings on Hamyan Night.”

This was true, and it was why Ehiru had been willing—after days of inactivity—to come out tonight. He was willing to train Nijiri, pray and spar with him, do everything an apprentice Gatherer needed him to… except Gather. That, however, was a different problem. “Then why do they fear me?” he asked.

“Observe, Apprentice, as your mentor commanded. Learn. Listen. ”

So he did, falling silent as they wended their way through the crowded courtyard. At first he heard only snatches of words amid the babble. Gradually his ears sifted sentences from the mass, then finally snippets of conversation.

“—The shipping manifest didn’t even show the extra cargo—”

“—Murdered in his cell. No marks, but his eyes—”

“—Bromarte. They usually hire the Feen to fight for them, but this time—”

“—Nothing natural, I tell you. He was gibbering when they pulled him out—”

“—Those military-castes. Tight-lipped bastards—”

“Rumors,” Nijiri said at last. Above, the Dreamer’s red band edged into Yanya-iyan’s oval sky; they had circuited the courtyard for nearly an hour. “And gossip. But not of the mindless sort I expected. They speak of corruption, and madness, and war.”

She nodded. “Just so. Not the stuff of comfort.”

“That does not explain their fear of me , Sister.”

“Doesn’t it? Corruption and madness and war. Gatherers take the corrupt and those madmen who cannot be cured. War is anathema to Hananja, and thus to Her Servants.” She turned to him, stopping abruptly and dropping her voice. “It may not be possible to find an explanation tonight. For now, it is enough that we have noticed. If She wishes us to understand further, She will let us find the means.”

He frowned, remembering more rumors whispered among the Hetawa acolytes. “Can you not fathom it now, Sister? I know little about your path, but I have heard of your—er, powers—” He faltered when she smiled.

“Careful, Gatherer-Apprentice. Inunru the Founder had no part in founding the Sisterhood. The Hetawa accepts us—grudgingly—because we supply the city with dreamseed, but never call us a ‘path’ in front of your Superior unless you want to annoy him.” She nodded toward the left, and Nijiri glanced through the crowd to glimpse the Superior accepting a cup from a passing servant. Nijiri quickly looked away before their eyes could meet.

“For another, I possess only Outer Sight.” She touched the scars on her face: two parallel lines of raised dots along her cheekbones and crossing the bridge of her nose. “Deciphering the realm of waking is my specialty, not dreaming omens. I can see the fear in these people and guess at its causes. I can investigate, to pierce the obfuscations and misdirections so common in the waking world. But to know for certain? That much will be beyond me until my fertile years end.”

He groped for a suitable reply to this, then was surprised again as she disengaged her arm from his. “Sister?”

“Your mentor commanded you to observe and learn,” she said, “not spend the evening consorting with a woman of dubious orthodoxy. And I have duties of my own on this night.”

He flushed abruptly, realizing what those duties must be. She was a young Sister, perhaps only ten years older than himself, still nubile. The Sisters of Hananja served Her in many ways, but they never shirked their primary mission. There would be much dreamseed to collect on a night like Hamyan.

He inclined his head to her as he would to an equal, a silent acknowledgement of her rank in his eyes. “May She dream of your good fortune, Sister.”

“And yours, Gatherer-Apprentice.” She bowed to him—deeply, flattening both hands—and then turned away into the milling crowd. He gazed after her in wonder.

“If not for your vows she might have stayed with you tonight,” said a voice behind Nijiri, and for the second time he turned to face a stranger. This one was a man of Nijiri’s height, with eyes a startling shade of near-golden brown. It was impossible to guess this man’s age. His skin was smooth and youthful, his thicket of long rope-braids—not a wig, Nijiri realized with some surprise—black and free of silver. But he felt older than he looked, as he watched Nijiri with all the patience and confidence of a waiting lion. And there was something fleetingly familiar about him…

“Young men your age are especially rich in dreamseed, I’m told,” the stranger continued. “She might have drawn her quota for the night from you alone.”

Nijiri bowed, carefully respectful while he tried to place the man’s rank and that niggling familiarity. “Doubtless she will find others who have need of her skills.”

“And you have no need? How old are you?”

“I have seen sixteen floods.”

The man smiled. “Then you have need, young Gatherer! Does it trouble you that you could ease those needs right now, if not for your oath? Or are you hoping you still can, if you catch her in some discreet place along the way home?”

His words were offensive, and he knew it. Nijiri could see that in the man’s smile. For a moment he was flustered. He should, as one sworn to Hananja, remind the man of his vows—but a highcaste might take that as an implication of ignorance or stupidity. And yet to say nothing would make Nijiri faithless to Her… He wavered in indecision, his stomach knotting.

“We all have such needs, my lord. But directing them toward the service of Hananja is the sacrifice we of the Hetawa offer every day, with great joy.”

The Gatherer Rabbaneh stepped out of the milling throng, his face carved into its usual smile, a cup in one hand. Before Nijiri could register relief, Rabbaneh handed his cup to Nijiri and dropped smoothly to one knee, crossing both arms before his face and turning his palms outward as if to shield himself from a blinding glare. A manuflection; Nijiri had heard of the custom from his Teachers, but never seen it performed outside of lessons. It was the highest gesture of respect, offered only to those specially marked by the gods—

Dream of Inunru!

The strange man— the Prince of Gujaareh— laughed good-naturedly at the look of horror on Nijiri’s face, then waved a hand at Rabbaneh. “Stop that. I put aside the Aureole so I could walk among my people for a while without all that foolishness.”

Rabbaneh rose and adopted the more traditional bow of respect instead. He was still smiling as he straightened. “You must forgive me, my lord. I meant only to model the proper behavior for Nijiri. His actions reflect upon the whole Hetawa now, and especially my path.”

“Oh, he was perfectly polite, Rabbaneh. A credit to his Teachers.”