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

sort of design or tint other than its natural red coloring, but the fired clay was thin and the cup’s shape had an elegant flare. The potter had been a superb craftsman, and Sanfi must have paid a great deal for a set that would make him seem at once humble and tasteful. “One might wonder, given such favor, why a shunha lord would then have any desire to meet with me.”
    Sanfi threw him an amused look, though he lowered his voice and leaned closer to speak. “Kisua aims to make itself, rather than Gujaareh, the crossroads for world trade. We now have unrestricted access to southern marketplaces and merchants, oh yes, a great boon. But the Protectors set higher taxes on goods from the north and east—especially if they come through our ports rather than those of Kisua. They restrict quantity and set higher demands for quality, which increases the cost to prohibitive levels. Some goods they forbid outright, on the spurious grounds that our land is already too corrupted by barbarian influences… but in reality, nearly allGujaareh’s trade has been curtailed. So under Kisuati rule, I have more headaches and less money, and I’m tired of it.” He shrugged and poured more beer for Wanahomen. “Forgive me if I seem purely self-serving.”
    Wanahomen shook his head, adopting the same low tone. “Self-interest too has its place in any peaceful society. But how many of the shunha feel as you?”
    Sanfi snorted. “Any with brains and eyes. Think: the zhinha are already impoverished. The shunha, in truth, are not far behind. The merchants are getting into smuggling and other forms of illicit trade; half the military caste has turned mercenary, trading their flesh for money in the east. How long before all those families begin firing retainers and turning out servants? How long before even the Hetawa is too poor to feed those in need? Then we will see children starving on our streets, murder in our alleyways, despair on every corner… just like Kisua itself.” Sanfi took a deep draught of his own cup, setting it down with a sigh. “No, Kisuati rule is not good for any of us.”
    Wanahomen thought of the Kisuati soldiers, and the woman in Sharer garb. “No,” he agreed softly. “It is not.”
    Sanfi threw Wanahomen a half-smile then, and put a stopper in the flask. “Come inside now, where we may talk away from this damnable heat.”
    Wanahomen rose, taking the cups so that Sanfi could carry the flask. The house seemed dim inside after the fading sunlight without, especially once Sanfi closed the heavy wooden door behind them. Wanahomen’s eyes adjusted as Sanfi led the way into the home’s elegant greeting room, where ceiling apertures had been cranked open to allow in fresh air and more light.
    And here Wanahomen stopped, as the light illuminated the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
    “My daughter, Tiaanet,” Sanfi said. And though Wanahomencould feel Sanfi’s eyes drinking in his reaction, he could not help but stare. She gazed at him boldly, as was proper for a woman of her caste, but there was something intriguingly reserved about her manner. When she crossed the room to them, he could not look away, entranced by the sway of her body beneath the thick brocade Kisuati gown.
    “I greet you, Prince of the Sunset, Avatar of our Goddess,” she said. Her voice was low and rich like dark sweet wine, tightening everything from his throat to his belly and below as well. But then she knelt before him, startling him out of the spell. Gujaareen women did not kneel. They were goddesses; it was wrong. Wanahomen opened his mouth to protest but then stopped as Tiaanet raised her arms, crossing them before her face with her fists closed and turned outward. A manuflection, the highest display of respect that one could offer to mortals favored by the gods. The last time Wanahomen had seen a manuflection performed had been at Yanya-iyan a lifetime ago, as he watched supplicants approach his father.
    But I am Prince now,