Night had fallen, humid and thick, by the time Cet went to the woman. Her companions were already abed, motionless on pallets the crew had laid on deck. One of the Sentinels was asleep; the other stood at the prow with the ship's watchman.
The woman still sat on her bench. Cet watched her for a time, wondering if the lapping water and steadily passing palm trees had lulled her to sleep, but then she lifted a hand to brush away a persistent moth. Throwing a glance at Ginnem — who was snoring faintly on his bench — Cet rose and went to sit across from the woman. Her eyes were lost in some waking dream until he sat down, but they sharpened very quickly.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Namsut." Her voice was low and warm, touched with some southlands accent.
"I am Cet," he replied.
"Gatherer Cet."
"Does my title trouble you?"
She shook her head. "You bring comfort to those who suffer. That takes a kind heart."
Surprised, Cet smiled. "Few even among the Goddess's most devout followers see anything other than the death I bring. Fewer still have ever called me kind for it. Thank you."
She shook her head, looking into the passing water. "No one who has known suffering would think ill of you, Gatherer."
Widowed twice, raped, shunned. He tried to imagine her pain and could not. That inability troubled him, all of a sudden.
"I will find the brigands who hurt you," he said, to cover his discomfort. "I will see that their corruption is excised from the world."
To his surprise, her eyes went hard as iron though she kept her voice soft. "They did nothing to me that two husbands had not already done," she said. "And wife-brokers before that, and my father's creditors before that. Will you hunt down all of them?" She shook her head. "Kill the brigands, but not for me."
This was not at all the response that Cet had expected. So confused was he that he blurted the first question that came to his mind. "What shall I do for you, then?"
Namsut's smile threw him even further. It was not bitter, that smile, but neither was it gentle. It was a smile of anger, he realized at last. Pure, politely restrained, tooth-grinding rage.
"Give me a child," she said.
In the morning, Cet spoke of the woman's request to Ginnem.
"In the upriver towns, the headman's wife rules if the headman dies," Cet explained as they broke their fast. "That is tradition, according to Namsut. But a village head must prove him or herself favored by the gods, to rule. Namsut says fertility is one method of proof."
Ginnem frowned, chewing thoughtfully on a date. A group of women on the passing shore were doing laundry at the riverside, singing a rhythmic song while they worked. "That explains a great deal," he said at last. "Mehepi has proven herself at least able to conceive, but after so many dead children the village must be wondering if she too is cursed. And since having a priest for a lover might also connote the gods' favor, I know now why Mehepi has been eying me with such speculation."
Cet started, feeling his cheeks heat. "You think she wants—" He took a date to cover his discomfort. "From you?"
Ginnem grinned. "And why not? Am I not fine?" He made a show of tossing his hair, setting all the tiny bells a-tinkle.
"You know full well what I mean," Cet said, glancing about in embarassment. Some of the other passengers looked their way at the sound of Ginnem's hair-bells, but no one was close enough to overhear.
"Yes, and it saddens me to see how much it troubles you," Ginnem said, abruptly serious. "Sex, Gatherer Cet. That is the word you cannot bring yourself to say, isn't it?" When Cet said nothing, Ginnem made an annoyed sound. "Well, I will not let you avoid it, however much you and your stiffnecked Servant brethren disapprove. I am a Sister of the Goddess. I use narcomancy — and yes, my body when necessary — to heal those wounded spirits that can be healed. It is no less holy a task than what you do for those who cannot be healed, Gatherer, save that my petitioners do not die when I'm done!"
He was right. Cet bent at the waist, his eyes downcast, to signal his contrition. The gesture seemed to mollify Ginnem, who sighed.
"And no, Mehepi has not approached me," Ginnem said, "though she's hardly had time, with three such devoted attendants..." Abruptly he caught his breath. "Ahh — yes, now I understand. I first thought this was a simple matter of a powerful senior wife plotting against a weaker secondwife. But more than that — this is a race. Whichever woman produces a healthy child first will rule the village."
Cet frowned, glancing over at the young woman again. She had finally allowed herself to sleep, leaning against one of the canopy-pillars and drawing her feet up onto the bench. Only in sleep was her face peaceful, Cet noticed. It made her even more beautiful, though he'd hardly imagined that possible.
"The contest is uneven," he said. He glanced over at the headwoman Mehepi — acting headwoman, he realized now, by virtue solely of her seniority. She was still asleep on one of the pallets, comfortable between two of her men. "Three lovers to none."
"Yes." Ginnem's lip curled. "That curse business was a handy bit of cleverness on Mehepi's part. No man will touch the secondwife for fear of sharing the curse."
"It seems wrong," Cet said softly, gazing at Namsut. "That she should have to endure yet another man's lust to survive."
"You grew up in the city, didn't you?" When Cet nodded, Ginnem said, "Yes, I thought so. My birth-village was closer to the city, and surely more fortunate than these people's, but some customs are the same in every backwater. Children are wealth out here, you see — another miner, another strong back on the farm, another eye to watch for enemies. A woman is honored for the children she produces, and so she should be. But make no mistake, Gatherer: this contest is for power. The secondwife could leave that village. She could have asked asylum of your Temple Superior. She returns to the village by choice."
Cet frowned, mulling over that interpretation for a moment. It did not feel right.
"My father was a horse-trader," he said. Ginnem raised an eyebrow at the apparent non-sequitur; Cet gave him a faint shrug of apology. "Not a very good one. He took poor care of his animals, trying to squeeze every drop of profit from their hides."
Even after so many years it shamed Cet to speak of his father, for anyone who listened could guess what his childhood had been like. A man so neglectful of his livelihood was unlikely to be particularly careful of his heirs. He saw this realization dawn on Ginnem's face, but to Cet's relief Ginnem merely nodded for Cet to continue.
"Once, my father sold a horse — a sickly, half-starved creature — to a man so known for his cruelty that no other trader in the city would serve him. But before the man could saddle the horse, it gave a great neigh and leapt into the river. It could have swum back to shore, but that would have meant recapture. So it swam in the opposite direction, deeper into the river, where finally the current carried it away."
Ginnem gave Cet a skeptical look. "You think the secondwife wants the village to kill her?"
Cet shook his head. "The horse was not dead. When last I saw it, it was swimming with the current, its head above the water, facing whatever fate awaited it downriver. Most likely it drowned or was eaten by predators. But what if it survived the journey, and even now runs free over some faraway pasture? Would that not be a reward worth so much risk?"
"Ah. All or nothing; win a better life or die trying." Ginnem's eyes narrowed as he gazed contemplatively at Cet. "You understand the secondwife well, I see."
Cet drew back, abruptly unnerved by the way Ginnem was looking at him. "I respect her."
"You find her beautiful?"