Free The Shadowed Sun (Dreamblood) by N. K. Jemisin

sir.”
    “Welcome, stranger,” said the man with equal formality, looking him up and down—and then his eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps not a stranger. Well, well. I was expecting your spokesman.”
    Wanahomen inclined his head. “My spokesman informed me you could be trusted, Lord Sanfi. I decided to come myself, given that.”
    “A great risk.”
    “Agreements between men are best made face-to-face. So my father taught me, in waking.”
    Lord Sanfi nodded, then gestured toward the table’s other seat. “Then sit, stranger-who-is-not,” he said, “and share welcome with me. Your throat must be dry after your long journey.”
    Wanahomen sat while Sanfi poured something into each of the two cups. “Forgive me,” Sanfi said, shifting back to Gujaareen now that they were past the introductions. “I brought no servants from my greenlands estate, so you must make do with my poor efforts.”
    “I’ve been long among barbarians,” Wanahomen replied. “Your courtesy alone is enough for me. And if they knew how I have been living, your servants would doubtless turn up their noses and declare me too corrupt to be worthy of their care.”
    “Corrupt acts, in moderation, are a necessity of power,” Sanfi replied, pushing a cup toward him. “Even the Hetawa recognizesthat, or did in the days before the taint invaded their own ranks. I’m no priest, but it seems to me your purpose is pure.”
    It was uncomfortable, engaging in such talk while sitting out in the open. The street in front of Sanfi’s house was not busy, but neither was it deserted: passersby and neighbors appeared now and again, some of them nodding to Sanfi as they went about their business. But no respectable shunha would invite a stranger into his home without first sharing refreshment with him outside. To break tradition would invite suspicion.
    “It pleases me to hear that,” Wanahomen said. Then, as was traditional, he lifted the cup and took a sip. Beer, bitter-tart and as thick as honey, slid over his tongue. He closed his eyes and sighed in pleasure.
    Sanfi chuckled. “You
have
been long without, to make that sound.”
    “Too long. My companions of these days scorn the small niceties that we of Gujaareh appreciate so much. We’re soft in their eyes, and to win their respect I must scorn softness as well.”
    “The mark of a good leader.”
    “A necessity of survival, nothing more.” Wanahomen took another sip of beer, savoring the fruity warmth of it. “My mother conveys her greetings.”
    “Ah—then she is well?”
    “Well enough.” Wanahomen gazed into his cup. It was not the shunha way to acknowledge sickness. Sanfi would hear the solemnity in Wanahomen’s voice, and understand. “She misses my father.”
    Sanfi nodded. “As do we all. But I see his strength and wit in you, my young friend”—he did not say Wanahomen’s name, mindful of passing ears—“and that should give your mother great comfort.”
    “I hope so. Is your own family well, and your estate in the greenlands?”
    “Well enough.” Wanahomen frowned and glanced up at the man, but Sanfi was gazing at a fig tree nearby. “My estate thrives: the date palms are fruiting, and our third harvest is already done. My daughter is here. You’ll be able to meet her shortly.”
    So something was wrong with Sanfi’s wife. Odd that he’d brought his daughter with him, though; Wanahomen would have expected a good shunha daughter to stay home and care for her mother. Unless there was more than one daughter? But no, he’d heard Sanfi had only the one child.
    Best not to pry. “Trade is good, I hope?”
    “Tolerable, given the circumstances. The Kisuati favor us shunha in their dealings. Things do not go as well for our fellow nobles of the zhinha, but that can’t be helped. The Kisuati scorn them almost as much as they do northerners.”
    “Indeed.” Wanahomen set down his cup, tracing a finger along its delicate edge. The cup was deceptively simple, lacking in any