Read Online The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) by N. K. Jemisin - Free Book Online
Authors: N. K. Jemisin
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the soldiers stepped on the pile of figs.
“A week’s labor? This?” The soldier spoke with a thick plainsland Kisuati accent. “I am a farm man. My week’s labor would fill this garden! Ah, only in Gujaareh could lazy folk grow so rich.” He glanced at his companion and grinned. “Shall we teach this
tingam
the value of hard work?” He stepped on another piece of fruit, which squelched ripely; his companion laughed.
A proper Gujaareen man would have gone stoic at that point, and endured whatever abuse the soldiers heaped on him in silence. It was the only sensible, peaceful thing to do; the soldiers were bored, and it was painfully obvious that resistance would only incite them to uglier behavior. But it seemed the merchant truly was concerned for his family’s finances—or perhaps he simply wasn’t feeling peaceful. Before the soldier could step on the edaki, the merchant moved to cover that pile with his body.
What followed was utterly predictable, yet still jarring to see—even for Wanahomen, who had witnessed far worse in the years since he’d left Gujaareh. The soldiers began to kick the man in earnest, first stomping on his back and shoulders in lieu of the fruit and then kicking him in the ribs and side when he did not move.
Wanahomen stopped on the corner opposite the ugly tableau. There were a few other folk on the street; Wanahomen could see them pointing and murmuring to one another. One of them might eventually muster the courage to intervene… or perhaps they would simply stand by and watch as the poor fool was kicked to death. Either way, Wanahomen dared not get involved himself. He had entered the city wearing a disguise: a clean but plain loinskirt and headcloth, worn sandals, and a cheap bronze collar. A common laborer’s attire. Under the loinskirt was one of his Banbarra knives, however, strapped to his upper thigh, and there were Banbarrajewelry-pieces in his purse. If he confronted the soldiers they might arrest him, and almost surely find the knife and jewels. That would lead to dangerous questions.
Though it galled Wanahomen to turn away, however pragmatic a choice it might be—
“What are you
doing
?” demanded a voice, and Wanahomen’s head whipped around in pure incredulous reflex.
A woman stood before the soldiers. The soldiers had stopped kicking the merchant to stare at her. Wanahomen could not help staring himself. The woman—girl, really, only a few years past the age of adulthood—wore men’s clothing, from noticeably hemmed loindrapes to a collar that must have been made for broader shoulders than hers. Beneath the collar, her breasts had been bound tightly in white wrappings, like those used for bodies awaiting cremation. This did nothing to hide their fullness, but the whole getup looked too strange to be erotic. Her pouf of brown-gold hair had been pulled back in a severe northerners’ knot that did nothing to adorn her face, and she wore no makeup, not even kohl to ease the sun’s glare.
But it was the carnelian of her collar, and the deep, bloodlike red of her loindrapes, that puzzled Wanahomen the most. She looked like a Sharer of Hananja, but women did not become Sharers, or any other kind of Servant.
“Why are you hurting that man?” she asked, and now Wanahomen could hear the shock in her tone. She stood at the garden path’s entrance; perhaps she had come through the garden, unable to see the beating through the fronds and flowers until she emerged right on top of it. “What kind of—How could you—” She trailed off, apparently too horrified to finish any thought.
The soldiers looked at each other.
Leave
, Wanahomen thought at the woman. In spite of himself he had slowed his pace; at his sides his hands clenched.
Just turn away, and pray they don’t follow.
“Sharer—” This from the merchant, who coughed as he looked up; his breathing was labored, and blood spotted his face. “Sharer, you mustn’t—Never mind these gentlemen.
“A week’s labor? This?” The soldier spoke with a thick plainsland Kisuati accent. “I am a farm man. My week’s labor would fill this garden! Ah, only in Gujaareh could lazy folk grow so rich.” He glanced at his companion and grinned. “Shall we teach this
tingam
the value of hard work?” He stepped on another piece of fruit, which squelched ripely; his companion laughed.
A proper Gujaareen man would have gone stoic at that point, and endured whatever abuse the soldiers heaped on him in silence. It was the only sensible, peaceful thing to do; the soldiers were bored, and it was painfully obvious that resistance would only incite them to uglier behavior. But it seemed the merchant truly was concerned for his family’s finances—or perhaps he simply wasn’t feeling peaceful. Before the soldier could step on the edaki, the merchant moved to cover that pile with his body.
What followed was utterly predictable, yet still jarring to see—even for Wanahomen, who had witnessed far worse in the years since he’d left Gujaareh. The soldiers began to kick the man in earnest, first stomping on his back and shoulders in lieu of the fruit and then kicking him in the ribs and side when he did not move.
Wanahomen stopped on the corner opposite the ugly tableau. There were a few other folk on the street; Wanahomen could see them pointing and murmuring to one another. One of them might eventually muster the courage to intervene… or perhaps they would simply stand by and watch as the poor fool was kicked to death. Either way, Wanahomen dared not get involved himself. He had entered the city wearing a disguise: a clean but plain loinskirt and headcloth, worn sandals, and a cheap bronze collar. A common laborer’s attire. Under the loinskirt was one of his Banbarra knives, however, strapped to his upper thigh, and there were Banbarrajewelry-pieces in his purse. If he confronted the soldiers they might arrest him, and almost surely find the knife and jewels. That would lead to dangerous questions.
Though it galled Wanahomen to turn away, however pragmatic a choice it might be—
“What are you
doing
?” demanded a voice, and Wanahomen’s head whipped around in pure incredulous reflex.
A woman stood before the soldiers. The soldiers had stopped kicking the merchant to stare at her. Wanahomen could not help staring himself. The woman—girl, really, only a few years past the age of adulthood—wore men’s clothing, from noticeably hemmed loindrapes to a collar that must have been made for broader shoulders than hers. Beneath the collar, her breasts had been bound tightly in white wrappings, like those used for bodies awaiting cremation. This did nothing to hide their fullness, but the whole getup looked too strange to be erotic. Her pouf of brown-gold hair had been pulled back in a severe northerners’ knot that did nothing to adorn her face, and she wore no makeup, not even kohl to ease the sun’s glare.
But it was the carnelian of her collar, and the deep, bloodlike red of her loindrapes, that puzzled Wanahomen the most. She looked like a Sharer of Hananja, but women did not become Sharers, or any other kind of Servant.
“Why are you hurting that man?” she asked, and now Wanahomen could hear the shock in her tone. She stood at the garden path’s entrance; perhaps she had come through the garden, unable to see the beating through the fronds and flowers until she emerged right on top of it. “What kind of—How could you—” She trailed off, apparently too horrified to finish any thought.
The soldiers looked at each other.
Leave
, Wanahomen thought at the woman. In spite of himself he had slowed his pace; at his sides his hands clenched.
Just turn away, and pray they don’t follow.
“Sharer—” This from the merchant, who coughed as he looked up; his breathing was labored, and blood spotted his face. “Sharer, you mustn’t—Never mind these gentlemen.
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