Sword-MakerSword Maker
Book 3 of the Sword Dancer series
By Jennifer Roberson




Sword Maker
Table of Contents
Prologue

Part I: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten,
Eleven,
Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen

Part II: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten,
Eleven

Part III: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten,
Eleven,
Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen




Prologue
She is not a woman for idle conversation, having little patience for
small talk,
and even less for excuses and explanations. Including those dealing
with life
and death; mine, or her own. And yet I resorted to both: excuses,
explanations.
Somehow, I had to.
"It wasn't my fault," I declared. "It wasn't. Did I have any choice?
Did you
leave me any choice?" I snorted in derision. "No, of course not--not
you... you
leave no choice or chance to anyone, least of all me... you just stare
me down
across the circle and dare me to take you, to cut you, to chop you down
with my
blade, because it's the only thing that will make you admit you're just
as human
as anyone else, and just as vulnerable. Just as fragile as anyone, man
or woman,
made of flesh and blood... and you bleed, Del... just like anyone else-
-just
like me--you bleed."
She said nothing. Fair hair shone white in firelight, but blue eyes
were nothing
more than blackened pockets in a shadow-clad face lacking definition or
expression. The beauty remained, but changed. Altered by tension,
obsession,
pain.
Behind me, tied to a tree, the stud snorted, stomped, pawed a thin
layer of
slush away from winter-brown turf. Pawing again and again, stripping
away even
the turf until what he dug was a hole.
Horses can't talk, not like humans; they do what they can with ears,
teeth,
hooves. What he told me now was he didn't want to eat. Didn't want to
sleep.
Didn't want to spend the night tied to a bare-branched tree, chilled to
the bone
by a Northern wind that wouldn't--quite--quit. What he wanted was to
leave. To
go on. To head south toward his desert homeland where it is never, ever
cold.
"Not my fault," I repeated firmly. "Hoolies, bascha, you and that
storm-born
sword of yours... what did you expect me to do? I'm a sword-dancer. Put
me in a
circle with a sword in my hands, and I dance. For pay, for show, for
honor--for
all those things most men are afraid to name, for fear of showing too
much...
well, I'm not afraid, Del--all I know is you left me no choice but to
cut you,
coming at me like that with that magicked sword of yours--what did you
expect? I
did what I had to. What was needed, for both of us, if for different
reasons." I
scratched angrily at the scars in my right cheek: four deep-scored claw
marks,
now white with age, cutting through the beard. "I tried like hoolies to
make you
quit, to make you leave that thrice-cursed island before it came to
something
we'd both regret, but you left me no choice. You stepped into that
circle all on
your own, Del... and you paid the price. You found out just how good
the
Sandtiger is after all, didn't you?"
No answer. Of course not; she still thought she was better. But I had
proven
which of us was superior in the most eloquent fashion of all.
Swearing at the cold, I resettled the wool cloak I wore, wrapping it
more
closely around shoulders. Brown hair uncut for far too long blew into
my eyes,
stinging, and my mouth. It also caught on my short-cropped beard
repeatedly, no
matter how many times I stripped it back. Even the hood didn't help;
the wind
tore it from my head again and again and again, until I gave up and
left it
puddled on my shoulders.
"You and that butcher's blade," I muttered.
Still Del said nothing.
Wearily I scrubbed at brows, eyes, face. I was tired, too tired; the
wound in my
abdomen ached unremittingly, reminding me with each twinge I'd departed
Staal-Ysta far sooner than was wise, in view of the sword thrust I'd
taken. The
healing was only half done, but I'd departed regardless. There was
nothing left
for me in Staal-Ysta. Nothing at all, and no one.
Deep in the cairn, flame whipped. Smoke eddied, tangled, shredded on
the air.
Wind carried it away, bearing word of my presence to the beasts
somewhere
northeast of me in darkness. The hounds of hoolies, I called them; it
fit as
well as any other.
I waited for her to speak, even to accuse, but she made no sound at
all. Just
sat there looking at me, staring at me, holding the jivatma across
wool-trousered thighs. The blade was naked in the darkness, scribed
with runes I
couldn't--wasn't meant to--read, speaking of blood and forbidden power
too
strong for anyone else to key, or to control, with flesh, will, voice.
Del could control it. It was part of her personal magic; the trappings
of a
sword-singer.
Sword-singer. More than sword-dancer, my own personal trade. Something
that made
her different. That made her alien.
Whose name was Boreal.
"Hoolies," I muttered aloud in disgust, and raised the leather bota yet
again to
squirt Northern amnit deep into my throat. I sucked it down, gulp after
gulp,
pleased by the burning in my belly and the blurring of my senses. And
waited for
her to say something about drink curing nothing. About how a drinking
man is
nothing more than a puppet to the bota. About how dangerous it is for a
sword-dancer, a man who lives by selling sword and skill, to piss away
his edge
when he pisses liquor in the morning.
But Del said none of those things.
I wiped amnit from my mouth with the back of a hand. Glared at her
blearily
across the guttering fire. "Not my fault," I told her. "Do you think I
wanted to
cut you?" I coughed, spat, drew in breath too deep for the half-healed
wound. It
brought me up short, sweating, until I could breathe again, so
carefully,
meticulously measuring in- and exhalations. "Hoolies, bascha--"
But I broke it off, confused, because she wasn't there.
Behind me, the stud dug holes. And he, like me, was alone.
I released all my breath at once, ignoring the clutch of protest from
my ribs.
The exhalation was accompanied by a string of oaths as violent as I
could make
them in an attempt to overcome the uprush of black despair far worse
than any
I'd ever known.
I dropped the bota and rose, turning my back on the cairn. Went to the
stud, so
restless, checking rope and knots. He snorted, rubbed a hard head
against me,
ignored my grunt of pain, seeking release much as I did. The darkness
painted
him black; by day he is bay: small, compact, strong, born to the
Southron
desert.
"I know," I said, "I know. We shouldn't even be here." He nibbled at a
cloak
brooch: garnet set in gold. I pushed his head away to keep curious
teeth from
wandering to my face. "We should go home, old son. Just head south and
go home.
Forget all about the cold and the wind and the snow. Forget all about
those
hounds."
One day he would forget; horses don't think like men. They don't
remember much,
except what they've been taught. Back home again in the South, in the
desert
called the Punja, he would recall only the grit of sand beneath his
hooves and
the beating heat of the day. He'd forget the cold and the wind and the
snow.
He'd forget the hounds. He'd even forget Del.
Hoolies, I wish I could. Her and the look on her face as I'd thrust
home the
steel in her flesh.
I was shaking. Abruptly I turned from the stud and went back to the
cairn.
Leaned down, caught up the sheath and harness, closed my fist around
the hilt.
In my hand the cold metal warmed at once, sweet and seductive; gritting
teeth, I
yanked the blade free of sheath and bared it in firelight, letting
flame set
steel to glowing. It ran down the blade like water, pausing only
briefly to pool
in the runes I now knew as well as I knew my name.
I was shaking. With great care, I took the sword with me to one of the
massive
piles of broken boulders, found a promising fissure, wedged the blade
into it.
Tested the seating: good. Then locked both hands around the hilt,
meaning to
snap it in two. Once and for all, to break it, for what it had done to
Del.
Samiel sang to me. A small, private song.
He was hungry, still so hungry, with a thirst that knew no bounds. If I
broke
him, I would kill him. Was I willing to run that risk?
I tightened my hands on the hilt. Gritted teeth--shut my eyes--
And slid the blade, ringing, very carefully out of the fissure.
I turned. Sat. Slumped, leaning against the boulders. Cradling the
deadly
jivatma; the one I had made my own.
I rested my temple against the pommel of the twisted-silk hilt. It was
cool and
soothing, as if it sensed my anguish.
"I must be getting old," I muttered. "Old--and tired. What am I
now--thirty-four? Thirty-five?" I stuck out a hand and, one by one,
folded thumb
and fingers absently. "Let's see... the Salset found me when I was half
a day
old... kept me for--sixteen years? Seventeen? Hoolies, who can be
sure?" I
scowled into distance. "Hard to keep track of years when you don't even
have a
name." I chewed my lip, thinking. "Say, sixteen years with the Salset.
Easiest.
Seven years as an apprentice to my shodo, learning the sword... and
thirteen
years since then, as a professional sword-dancer." The shock was cold
water. "I
could be thirty-six."
I peered the length of my body, even slumped as I was. Under all the
wool I
couldn't see anything, but I knew what was there. Long, powerful legs,
but also
aching knees. They hurt when I walked too much, hurt after a sword-
dance. Hurt
when I rode too long, all thanks to the Northern cold. I didn't heal as
fast as
the old days, and I felt the leftover aches longer.
Was I getting soft around the middle?
I pressed a stiff hand against my belly.
Not so you could tell, though the wound had sucked weight and tone. And
then
there was the wound itself: bad, yes, and enough to put anyone down for
a couple
of weeks, but I'd been down for nearly a month and still was only half-
healed.
I scratched the bearded cheek riven by scars. Old, now; ancient. Four
curving
lines graven deeply into flesh. For months in the beginning they'd been
livid
purple, hideous reminders of the cat who had nearly killed me, but I
hadn't
minded at all. Not even when people stared. Certainly not when women
fussed,
worried about the cause. Because the scars had been the coinage that
bought my
freedom from the Salset. I'd killed a marauding sandtiger who was
eating all the
children. No more the nameless chula. A man, now, instead, who named
himself the
Sandtiger in celebration of his freedom.
So long ago. Now the scars were white. But the memories were still
livid.
So many years alone, until Del strode into my life and made a mockery
of it.
I scratched the scars again. Bearded. Long-haired. Unkempt. Dressed in
wool
instead of silk, to ward off Northern wind. So the aches wouldn't hurt
so much.
The sword, in my hands, warmed against my flesh, eerily seductive. The
blade
bled light and runes. Also the promise of power; it flowed up from tip
to
quillons, then took the twisted-silk grip as well. Touched my fingers,
oh so
gently, lingering at my palm. Soft and sweet as a woman's touch: as
Del's, even
Del's, who was woman enough to be soft and sweet when the mood suited
her,
knowing it something other than weakness. An honest woman, Delilah; in
bed and
in the circle.
I flung the sword across the cairn into the darkness. Saw the flash of
light,
the arc; heard the dull ringing thump as it landed on wind-frosted
turf.
"I wish you to hoolies," I told it. "I want no part of you."
And in the dark distances far beyond the blade, one of the beasts
bayed.




Part I


One
Only fools make promises. So I guess you can call me a fool.
At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. The hounds that dogged Del
and me
to Staal-Ysta, high in Northern mountains, were vicious, magic-made
beasts, set
upon our trail by an unknown agency. For weeks they merely stayed with
us, doing
nothing other than playing dogs to sheep, herding us farther north.
Once there,
they'd done much more; they attacked a settlement on the lakeshore,
killing more
than thirty people. Some of them were children.
Now, I'm no hero. I'm a sword-dancer, a man who sells his sword and
services to
the highest bidder. Not really a glorious occupation when you think
about it;
it's a tough, demanding job not every man is suited for. (Some may
think they
are. The circle makes the decision.) But it's a job that often needs
doing, and
I'm very good at it.
But it doesn't make me a hero.
Men, I figure, are pretty good at taking care of themselves. Women,
too, unless
they stick their pretty noses into the middle of something that doesn't
concern
them; more often than not it doesn't, and they do. But children, on the
other
hand, don't deserve cruelty. What they deserve is time, so they can
grow up
enough to make their own decisions about whether to live or die. The
hounds had
stolen that time from too many settlement children.
I owed nothing to Staal-Ysta, Place of Swords, which had, thanks to
Del, tried
to steal a year of my life in the guise of honorable service. I owed
nothing to
the settlement on the lakeshore, except thanks for tending the stud.
But no one
owed me anything, either, and some had died for me.
Besides, my time on the island was done. I was more than ready to
leave, even
with a wound only halfway healed.
No one protested. They were as willing to see me go as I was to depart.
They
even gave me gifts: clothing, a little jewelry, money. The only problem
was I
still needed a sword.
To a Northerner, trained in Staal-Ysta, a jivatma--a blooding-blade--is
a sacred
thing. A sword, but one forged of old magic and monstrous strength of
will.
There are rituals in the Making, and countless appeals to gods; being
Southron,
and apostate, I revered none of them. And yet it didn't seem to matter
that I
held none of the rituals sacred, or disbelieved (mostly) in Northern
magic. The
swordsmith had fashioned a blade for me, invoking the rituals, and
Samiel was
mine.
But he didn't--quite--live. Not as the others lived. Not as Del's
Boreal.
To a Northerner, he was only half-born, because I hadn't properly keyed
him,
hadn't sung to forge the control I needed in order to wield the power
promised
by the blessing, by the rituals so closely followed. But then, clean,
well-made
steel is deadly enough on its own. I thought Northern magic redundant.
And yet some of it existed. I felt it living in the steel each time I
unsheathed
the weapon. Tasting Del's blood had roused the beast in the blade, just
as her
blade, free of the sheath, had roused the trailing hounds.
I did not leave the sword lying in dirt and turf throughout the night.
Old
habits are hard to break; much as I hated the thing, I knew better than
to
ignore it. So I fetched it, felt the ice replaced with warmth, shoved
it home in
its sheath. I slept poorly, when at all, wondering what the hounds
would do once
I caught up to them, and if I'd be called on to use the sword. It was
the last
thing I wanted to do, after what Del and others had told me.
She had said it so plainly, trying to make me see: "If you go out there
tomorrow
and kill a squirrel, that is a true blooding, and your sword will take
on
whatever habits that squirrel possesses."
It had, at that moment, amused me; a blade with the heart of a
squirrel? But my
laughter had not amused her, because she knew what it could mean. Then,
I hadn't
believed her. Now, I knew much better.
In the darkness, in my bedding, I stared bitterly at the sword. "You're
gone," I
told it plainly, "the moment I find another."
Unspoken were the words: "Before I have to use you."
A man may hate his magic, but takes no chances with it.
The stud had his greeting ready as I prepared to saddle him. First he
sidled
aside, stepping neatly out from under the saddle, then shook his head
violently
and slapped me with his tail. Horsehair, lashed hard, stings; it caught
me in an
eye, which teared immediately, and gave me cause to apply every epithet
I could
think of to the stud, who was patently unimpressed. He flicked ears,
rolled
eyes, pawed holes in turf. Threatened with tail again.
"I'll cut it off," I promised. "As far as that goes, maybe I'll cut
more than
your tail off... it might be the making of you."
He eyed me askance, blowing, then lifted his head sharply. Ears cut the
air like
blades. He quivered from head to toe.
"Mare?" I asked wryly.
But he was silent except for his breathing. A stallion, scenting a
mare, usually
sings a song loud enough to wake even the dead. He'd do the same for
another
stallion, only the noise would be a challenge. This was something
different.
I saddled him quickly, while he was distracted, untied and mounted
before he
could protest. Because of his alarm I nearly drew the sword, but
thought better
of it. Better to let the stud run than to count on an alien sword; the
stud at
least I could trust.
"All right, old man, we'll go."
He was rigid but quivering, breathing heavily. I urged him with rein,
heels, and
clicking tongue to vacate the clearing, but he was having none of it.
It was not, I thought, the beasts I'd christened hounds. The stink of
them was
gone; had been ever since I'd left Staal-Ysta. Something else, then,
and close,
but nothing I could name. I'm not a horse-speaker, but I know a little
of equine
habits; enough to discard humans or other horses as the cause of the
stud's
distress. Wolves, maybe? Maybe. One had gone for him before, though he
hadn't
reacted like this.
"Now," I suggested mildly, planting booted heels.
He twitched, quivered, sashayed sideways, snorted. But at least he was
moving;
insisting, I aimed him eastward. He skittered out of the clearing and
plunged
through sparse trees, splattering slush and mud. Breathing like a
bellows
through nostrils opened wide.
It was an uneasy peace. The stud was twitchy, jumping at shapes and
shadows
without justification. Most times, he is a joy, built to go on forever
without
excess commentary. But when he gets a bug up his rump he is a pain in
mine, and
his behavior deteriorates into something akin to war.
Generally, the best thing to do is ride it out. The stud has been a
trustworthy
companion for nearly eight years, and worth more than many men. But his
actions
now jarred the half-healed wound, putting me decidedly out of sorts. I
am big
but not heavy-handed; he had no complaints of his mouth. But there were
times he
tempted me, and this was one of them.
I bunched reins, took a deeper seat, and slammed heels home. He jumped
in
surprise, snorting, then bent his head around to slew a startled eye at
me.
"That's right," I agreed sweetly. "Are you forgetting who's boss?"
Which brought back, unexpectedly, something I'd heard before; something
someone
had said regarding the stud and me. A horse-speaker, a Northerner:
Garrod. He'd
said too much of our relationship was taken up in eternal battling over
which of
us was master.
Well, so it was. But I hate a predictable life.
The stud swished his tail noisily, shook his head hard enough to
clatter brasses
hanging from his headstall, then fell out of his stiff-legged, rump-
jarring gait
into a considerably more comfortable long-walk.
Tension eased, pain bled away; I allowed myself a sigh. "Not so hard,
is it?"
The stud chose not to answer.
East, and a little north. Toward Ysaa-den, a settlement cradled high in
jagged
mountains, near the borderlands. It was from Ysaa-den that reports of
beast-caused deaths had been brought to Staal-Ysta, to the voca, who
had the
duty to send sword-dancers when Northerners were in need.
Others had wanted the duty. But I, with my shiny new Northern title,
outranked
those who requested the duty. And so it was given to me. To the
Southron
sword-dancer who was now also a kaidin, having earned the rank in
formal
challenge.
I tracked the hounds by spoor, though with slush dwindling daily there
was
little left to find. Prints in drying mud were clear, but snowmelt
shifted
still-damp mud and carried the tracks away. I rode with my head cocked
sideways,
watching for alterations, but what I saw was clear enough: the beasts
cut the
countryside diagonally northeast with no thought to their backtrail, or
anything
set on it. Ysaa-den was their target as much as Del had been.
We had come down from above the timberline, now skirting the hem of
upland
forests, slipping down from bare-flanked peaks. Uplands, downlands; all
terms
unfamiliar to me, desert-born and bred, until Del had brought me north.
Only two
months before; it seemed much longer to me. Years, maybe longer. Too
long for
either of us.
The turf remained winter-brown and would, I thought, for a while.
Spring in the
uplands was soft in coming, tentative at best. I knew it could still
withdraw
its favor, coyly turning its back to give me snow in place of warmth.
It had
happened once before, all of a week ago, when a storm had rendered the
world
white again and my life a misery.
The trees were still bare of leaves, except for those with spiky green
needles.
The sky between them was blue, a brighter, richer blue, promising
warmer
weather. Beyond lay jagged mountains scraping color out of the sky.
Pieces of
the peaks lay tumbled on the ground, rounded by time into boulders
scattered
loosely here and there, or heaped into giant cairns like piles of
oracle bones.
Chips and rubble fouled the track, making it hard to read. The stud
picked his
way noisily, hammering iron on stone. Stone, as always, gave.
In the South, spring is different. Warmer, certainly. Quicker with its
favors.
But much too short for comfort; in weeks it would be summer, with the
Punja set
to blazing beneath the livid eye of the sun. It was enough to burn a
man black;
me, it baked copper-brown.
I lifted a hand and looked at it. My right hand, palm down. Wide across
the
palm, with long, strong fingers; creased and ridged with sinew.
Knuckles were
enlarged; two of them badly scarred. The thumbnail was spatulate,
corroded by
weeks in a goldmine when I'd been chained to a wall. In places I could
see bits
of ore trapped in flesh; my days in the North had bleached some of the
color
out, but beneath it I was still darker than a Northern-born man or
woman.
Sunburned skin, bronze-brown hair, eyes green in place of blue. Alien
to the
North, just as Del had been to me.
Ah, yes, Delilah: alien to us all.
Men are fools when it comes to women. It doesn't matter how smart you
are, or
how shrewd, or how much experience you've had. They're all born knowing
just
what it takes to find a way to muddle up your head. And given the
chance, they
do.
I've known men who bed only whores, wanting to make no better
commitment, saying
it's the best way to avoid entanglements. I've known men who marry
women so as
not to buy the bedding. And I've known men who do both: bed whores and
wives;
sometimes, with the latter, their own.
I've even known men who swear off women altogether, out of zeal for
religious
purity or desire for other men; neither appeals to me, but I'll curse
no man for
it. And certainly, in the South, I've known men who have no choice in
the matter
of bedding women, having been castrated to serve tanzeers or anyone
else who
buys them.
But I've known no man who, drunk or sober, will not, at least once,
curse a
woman, for sins real or imagined. A woman; or even women.
With me, it was singular.
But it wasn't Del I cursed. It was me, for being a fool.
It was me, for proving once and for all which of us was better.
Bittersweet victory. Freedom bought with blood.
The stud stiffened, snorted noisily, then stopped dead in his tracks.
I saw movement in the trees, coming down from tumbled gray rocks.
Nothing more,
just movement; something flowing through oracle throws made of stone
instead of
bone. I caught whipping tail, fixed eyes, teeth bared in a snarl. Heard
the wail
of something hunting.
Too late the stud tried to run. By then the cat was on him.
It took us down, both of us. It sprang, landed, sprawled, throwing the
stud
over. I felt him buckle and break, felt him topple. I had time only to
draw my
left leg up, out of the way; he'd trap it, landing on it. Maybe even
break it.
I rolled painfully as the stud went down. Grunted, then caught my
breath sharply
as my abdomen protested. And ignored it, thinking of the stud.
I came up scrambling, swearing at the cat. A big, heavy-fleshed male.
White,
splotched with ash, like a man come down with pox.
I picked up a rock and threw it.
It struck a flank, bounced off. The cat barely growled.
Another rock, another strike. This time I shouted at it.
Teeth sank into horseflesh. The stud raked turf with forelegs,
screaming in pain
and terror.
My hand closed around the hilt. "Oh, hoolies, bascha--not a squirrel, a
cat--"
And the sword was alive in my hands.


Two
Hungry. It was hungry.
And so very thirsty.
I had felt it before, in the sword. Felt them before: hunger and thirst
both,
with equal dominance. Nearly inseparable, indivisible from one another.
Felt them before, in the circle. When I'd run the sword through Del.
Oh, hoolies, bascha.
No. Don't think about Del.
Hot. It was hot--
Better than thinking of Del.
Was it?
Hot as hoolies, I swear.
Sweat broke from pores and ran down forehead, armpits, belly. Beneath
hair and
wool, it itched.
The cat. Think of the cat.
Hoolies, it is hot--
And the sword is so very thirsty.
Oh, bascha, help me.
No--Del isn't here.
Think of the cat, you fool.
Think only of the cat--
The sword is warm in my hands. All I can think of is thirst, and the
need to
quench it with blood.
Sweating, still sweating--
Oh, hoolies, why me?
Thrice-cursed son of a Salset goat--
Watch the cat, you fool!
In my head I hear a song.
Can the cat hear it, too?
Hoolies, it sees me now. Sees the sword. Knows what I want. Turns from
the
stud--poor stud--to me . .
Oh, hoolies, here it comes--lift the sword, you fool... do something,
sword-dancer--
But I don't want this sword. And this isn't a real circle--
Real enough, Punja-mite. Are you ready for the cat?
Am I ready for the sword?
It has happened before, the slowing. The near stoppage of motion in
everything I
look at, as if it waits for me. It happened now, as before, though this
time the
slowing was nearly a true halt, clean and pure, leaving me time and
room to
work, to pick and choose my method; to give the best death to the cat
before he
gave it to me.
It has happened to me before. But never quite like this.
I smelled blood, musk, extremity, as well as morbid fear. Felt nerves
twinge in
my belly as the half-healed wound contracted. I wondered, swiftly and
uneasily,
what the sword was doing. But as I heard the stud's screaming, fear
bled away.
Slowly, oh so slowly, the cat looked up from the stud. There was blood
in his
mouth, blood in his claws, as well as gobbets of horsehair.
In my head, I heard a song. A small, private song, hinting at powerful
things.
Beneath the cat, the stud was thrashing, legs flailing. I heard his
grunts of
extremity.
And the sword sang me a promise: the stud would be released if I gave
it the
power it needed.
Except I ought to be able to take the cat without using any magic. The
sword
was, after all, a sword, and effective enough on its own.
But the stud squealed and thrashed, and in my head I heard the song. A
soft,
subtle song. Yet too powerful to ignore.
I didn't exactly give in to it. I just ignored it. I was too worried
about the
stud to waste any more time on the noise rolling around in my head. And
so,
impatiently, I let go of it altogether.
Not for long. Just long enough to think about something else. To stop
suppressing it. To rescue my poor horse.
And so, all unwittingly, I let it have its moment. I let it have its
lifetime in
the shadow of an instant.
Noise rushed in even as I rushed the cat. No, not noise: music.
Something far
more eloquent than anything so commonplace as noise. More powerful than
sound.
And abruptly I recalled what I had heard on the overlook by the
lakeshore,
kneeling with the sword. When the music of the Canteada had crowded
into my
skull.
How they could sing, the Canteada. A race born of dreams, given
substance by
belief. Who had, Del told me once, given music to the world.
Just as they'd given me some for the moment of the Naming.
For the stud, I thought, it's worth it. The risk is worth the taking
for all the
times he's saved my skin.
Only the thought, for a moment. And a moment was all that was needed.
The cat flowed aside. The stud lurched up, staggered, ran.
The mouth curled back and opened to display impressive fangs. But
slowly, oh so
slowly; didn't he know I sang his death?
White cat with gray-irised eyes, and dappled, silver-splotched coat.
The pelt
would be worth a fortune; I'd take it once he was dead.
--the sword was alive in my hands--
"What's mine is mine," I told him, so he would understand.
The sword was alive.
The cat peeled back lips and screamed.
The sword invited him in. Come closer, it said. Come closer.
It made it all so easy.
The leap was effortlessly smooth. Smiling, I watched it, admiring his
grace.
Watched the hind legs coil up to rake; saw the front paws reach out,
claws
unsheathed; saw the mouth stretch open, the gleam of ivory fangs.
Laughing aloud
in anticipation, I let him think he'd win.
Then took him in the back of his throat and drove the blade through the
base of
his skull.
Elation. Elation. And a powerful satisfaction.
Not mine. Not mine; someone else's. Something else's--wasn't it? It
wasn't me,
was it?
Something inside me laughed. Something inside me stirred, like
awareness
awakening.
Oh, hoolies, what is it?
I smelled burning flesh. Thought it was the cat's. Realized it was my
own.
I shouted something. Something appropriate. Something explicit. To
release shock
and rage and pain.
Wrenched my hands from the hilt as the metal burned white-hot.
Oh, hoolies, Del, you never warned me about this.
I staggered back, hands crossed at the wrists, mouthing obscenities.
Tripped,
fell, rolled, sprawled flat on my back, afraid to block with my hands.
Hoolies,
but they hurt!
I smelled burning flesh. Not my own, the cat's.
Well, that's something, at least. Except he's too dead to feel it.
I lay on my back, still swearing, letting the stream of obscenities
take
precedence over pain. Anything was welcome, so long as it blocked the
fire.
Finally I ran out of breath, if not out of pain, and opened my eyes to
look at
my hands. It was easy to see them; they were stuck up in the air on the
end of
painfully rigid arms, elbows planted in the ground.
Hands. Not charred remains. Hands. With a thumb and four fingers on
each.
Sweat dried on my body. Pain sloughed away. I breathed again normally
and
decided to stop swearing; there seemed no point in it, now.
Still on my back, I wiggled fingers carefully. Gritted teeth,
squinting--and was
immensely relieved to discover the flesh remained whole and the bones
decently
clad. No blisters. No weeping underskin, only normal, everyday hands,
though the
scars and enlarged knuckles remained. My hands, then, not some magical
replacements.
I felt better. Sat up slowly, wincing at the protest in my abdomen, and
wiggled
fingers and thumbs yet again, just to be sure. No pain. No stiffness.
Normal
flexibility, as if nothing had ever happened.
Scowling, I peered at the sword. "What in hoolies are you?"
In my mind was a word: jivatma. Oh, hoolies, bascha... what do I do
now? What I
did was get up. Everything appeared to be in working order, if a trifle
stiff.
Through wool I massaged the sore scar below my short ribs, then forgot
it
immediately; the cat was worth more attention. The cat--and the sword.
I went over to both. I'd stuck the cat pretty good: through his open
mouth and
on through the back of his skull. He lay sprawled on his side, but the
hilt,
thrust into dirt, propped up his head so it was level with the ground.
Two sockets stared up at me. The eyes in them had melted.
For longer than I care to remember, I couldn't look away. Couldn't even
move.
All I could do was stare, remembering the heat of the hilt. I'd begun
to believe
it imagined; now I knew better.
Swords don't melt eyes. Nor do they singe whiskers or char lips into a
rictus.
Swords slice, thrust, cut open; on occasion they will hack, if the
swordsman has
no skill. But never do they melt things.
Something inside me whispered: Maybe jivatmas do.
I looked again at my hands. Still whole. Grimy and callused, but whole.
Only the cat had burned.
Well, parts of him. The parts the sword had touched.
Empty eyesockets were black. I realized there was no blood; the sword
had
swallowed it all.
Oh, hoolies, bascha, I've done what I swore I wouldn't.
In the distance, beasts bayed. Like a pack of hounds they belled. As
they had
for Boreal whenever Del had keyed.
And in answer, the stud snorted.
Stud--
I left the cat and the sword and went at once to the stud. He hadn't
gone far,
just far enough to put distance between himself and the cat, and now he
waited
quietly, sweat running down flanks and shoulders.
Sweat mixed with blood.
"Oh, hoolies," I said aloud, "he got you good didn't he?"
The stud nosed me as I came up to him. Grimly : peeled ragged dark mane
off his
withers--down South we crop manes short; up North, they leave them
long--and saw
the cat had dug in pretty deep across brown withers, though the saddle
had
helped protect the stud a little. I found teeth and claw marks, carving
gouges
in his hide. There were more claw marks low on the stud's right
shoulder from
the cat's hind legs, and few others here and there. All in all, the
stud was
lucky; the cat had been distracted, by me or the sword I've seen half-
grown
sandtigers, in the Punja, take down larger horses much as this cat had
done. But
they finished the job more quickly by tearing open the jugular.
Then again, I--or the sword--hadn't given the cat the chance to finish
the job
properly.
Something like fear pinched deep in my belly. But I ignored it with
effort,
purposefully turning my attention to the stud. "Well, old man," I
consoled him,
"looks like we'll make a pair. You match my cheek, now--maybe I should
name you
Snowcat. To go with the Sandtiger."
The stud snorted messily.
"Maybe not," I agreed.
The death-stink of the cat--and the smell of burned flesh--made the
stud uneasy,
so I tied him to the nearest tree and unsaddled him there, taking
weight off his
sore hide. I knew I'd do no more riding for a day or two, so I set up
camp.
When a horse is the only thing between you and a long walk--or death--a
man
learns to value his mount, and the stud's health and safety came first.
If it
slowed us down, too bad; the hounds, I knew, would wait, and the South
wasn't
going anywhere. So I picked up the remaining bota of amnit. I didn't
dare risk
infection; liquor leaches well enough.
I paused to pat the stud gently, and to check the strength of rope and
knot.
"Easy, old man. I won't lie--this'll hurt. Just don't take it out on
me."
I aimed carefully and squirted, hitting every stripe and bite I could
see.
Ruthless, maybe, but sponging each wound gently would clean out only
one,
because the stud wouldn't let me near enough to do any more once he'd
felt the
bite of the amnit. At least this way I got almost all of them at once.
Squealing, he bunched himself and kicked. A horse--especially a
stallion--cutting loose with both hind hooves is a dangerous, deadly
creature
capable of murder. 'Prudently I moved another pace away, just to be
sure, and
grinned as he slewed an angry eye around to find me. Once found, he
tried a
scooping sideways kick with a single hind hoof, hoping to catch me on
the sly.
When that one missed, he pawed testily, digging craters in the turf.
"You dig a hole, you stand in it," I told him. "I know you're mad--I'd
be,
too--but it's better than dying, you know. So just stand there like a
quiet old
ladies' mare and think about what you'd be facing if didn't have this
stuff." I
paused, checking the contents. "Good waste of liquor, if you ask me.
Might as
well drink the rest."
The stud blinked a baleful eye.
I relented. "Tell you what, old son--I'll give you extra grain. That
ought to
make you feel better."
I dug into one of the pouches and pulled out a fistful of grain, moving
within
striking range to offer it. But the stud wasn't hungry. He lipped
listlessly at
the grain, spilling most of it between slack lips. He didn't even want
sweetgrass, which was beginning to show signs of life now that most of
the snow
was going.
Something pinched again inside my belly. "Better not sicken on me," I
warned,
"after all that amnit wasted." While thinking instead of the sword.
But the stud made no answer.
It came swift and clear and sharp: If he up and dies on me--
No. I cut it off. No sense in borrowing grief.
The stud shifted restlessly, knocking stone against stone. I didn't
want to
leave him just yet, so I leaned against his tree and squirted amnit
into my
throat.
"You've just been out of the South too long, old man... like me. Just
like me;
you're a sandtiger drug out of his desert, swallowing snow instead of
sand. Best
get yourself right back home before the cold stiffens all your joints."
Well, it already had stiffened some of mine. In the North, bones age
faster. In
the South, skin does.
Which means, I guess, I'm growing old inside and out.
Gack. What a thought.
I moved off the tree and rubbed a hand down the stud's backbone,
smoothing
coarse, thick hair. He quivered, expecting amnit; I soothed him with a
few
words.
Over his rump I stared at the cat with its alien steel tongue.
I recalled the emotions I'd felt. The need to quench the sword; how it
had sung
its private song. How I, too easily seduced in my moment of fear for
the stud,
had turned my back on self-made wards and let the song commence. Giving
the
blade its freedom.
For the stud.
Worth it? Maybe. For that moment. For that particular moment.
But what was I to do now? I didn't need it. I didn't want it. Not now.
Not ever.
I'd tasted too much of its power. "Leave it," I said aloud. "You can
get another
sword."
Well, so I could. Somewhere. Someday. Meanwhile, I needed a weapon.
"Leave it,"
I repeated. Hoolies, I wish I could.


Three
A small, soft song. A private, intimate song. Powerful in its promise,
weakened
by neglect.
Deep in sleep, I muttered.
A small, sad song; a trace of desire only hinted at, too shy to speak
of need.
Memories of both.
The stud, stirring, woke me. I sat up, stared hard into darkness,
oriented
myself. Got up and went to the stud, who pawed listlessly at turf.
His head drooped, hanging heavily on the end of a slackened neck. He
shifted
from hoof to hoof. When I touched him, he barely took note.
I was, abruptly, afraid.
Singlestroke and this horse were all I'd ever had. And Singlestroke was
gone.
A small, soft, seductive song, promising me companionship such as no
one had
ever known.
Companionship--and power.
Beneath my hand, he stiffened. I felt the tension in his body; heard it
in his
rattling snort, in the crunching of gravel beneath shod hooves. His
ears lanced
erect, then slapped back against his head.
"Hey--" But abruptly I shut it off.
I hadn't felt it for weeks. At first it was so alien I didn't recognize
it, and
then the strangeness slid away and familiarity took its place. A man
doesn't
forget what it's like to be sick.
Not sick sick. I've been that before, from wound fever or the Northern
malady
called a "cold." And not sick from too much liquor; I've been that,
too, more
often than I care to recall. No. This sickness wasn't of the body but
of the
soul, all wrapped up like a nameday gift in a sash called fear.
And even that was different.
All the hair stood up on my arms. Tickled the back of my neck.
Tightened scalp
against skull. I shivered involuntarily, cursing myself for a fool,
then felt
nausea knot my belly.
Don't ask me what it is. Del called it an affinity for magic. Kem, the
sword-maker, said I was sensitive to the essence of it, whatever that
means. All
I know is it makes me sick and uncomfortable, and very sour in my
outlook. Being
a conspicuously lighthearted, good-humored soul--or at least one
lacking in
personal demons--I don't much like having my sensibilities mangled by
something
as dark and erratic as magic.
If it just didn't make me feel sick.
Maybe it was the cat. I'd eaten too much cat. Too much Northern cat
stuffed into
a Southroner's belly.
But the stud hadn't had any, and he wasn't happy, either.
Or, more likely, the sword. Trust it to make my life miserable in more
ways than
one.
Then again--
"Ah, hoolies," I muttered, as I smelled the stink of the hounds.
I'd forgotten what it was to be up close, to see white eyes ashine in
the
darkness. To smell their stink. To sense the press of numbers crowding
so close
to me.
I had played tracker. Now they hunted me.
The stud knew the stench, too. He, like me, had killed, smashing furred
bodies
beneath cold Southron iron, but liked it no better than I. We weren't
made for
magic, either of us, being bred only to travel the sands beneath a
Southron sun.
Without benefit of magic.
The sword lay sheathed by the fire, set beside my bedding. It was, I
thought
grimly, a mark of decay in habits that I had left my weapon to go to
the stud.
It displayed an unaccustomed trend toward worrying, which has never
been my
vice, as well as pointing up my distinct dislike for the Northern
sword. I mean,
it was a sword, like it or not; it could save my life even if I
disliked it. But
at the moment it couldn't do anything, because I'd left it behind. All
I had was
a knife, and no horse to use for escape. Or attack, if it came to that;
I'd have
to do it on foot.
White eyes shone bright in darkness. In silence the hounds gathered,
wearing
shadows in place of clothes. Black and gray on gray and black; I
couldn't count
their numbers.
It crossed my mind that maybe the stud could be ridden after all, pain
or no
pain. Not far, not far enough to injure him, just far enough; enough to
leave
beasts behind.
But retreat wasn't what I'd come for. It wasn't the promise I'd made.
I sucked in a guts-deep breath. "Come on," I said, "try me."
Sheer bravado, maybe. Nothing more than noise. But it's always worth a
try,
because sometimes it will work.
Sometimes.
They crept out of the shadows into the red-gray glow of dying coals.
Maned,
gray, dappled beasts: part dog, part wolf, part nightmare. Without a
shred of
beauty, or a trace of independence. What they did was at someone's
bidding, not
a decision of their own.
The stud shifted uneasily. He stamped, breaking stone.
"Try me," I repeated. "Have I come too close to the lair?"
They came all at once, like a wave of slushy water. In spate, they
swallowed the
campsite, then ebbed back toward the trees.
But the tide had taken the sword.
Gaping in disbelief, I saw the glint of the pommel, a flash of
moonlight off the
hilt. Saw teeth close on the sheath and shed it, leaving it behind;
apparently
the warding magic inherent in a named blade made no difference to
equally
magical beasts.
Which made me wonder why it existed at all, if it was useless against
the
hounds.
Two of them mouthed the sword awkwardly. One held the hilt, the other
the blade,
busily growling at one another like two dogs fighting over a stick. But
this
stick was made of steel. Magicked, gods-blessed steel.
The others surrounded them like a tanzeer's phalanx of guards. They
headed for
the trees, for the shadows I couldn't pierce.
Hoolies, they wanted the sword.
So much for my own value.
I very nearly laughed. If they wanted the thrice-cursed thing that
much, let
them have it. I didn't want it. It was one way of getting rid of it.
Except I knew better than that. The beasts could never use it, but the
man who
made them could. And that I couldn't risk, since he was the one I
sought.
Very calmly I drew the ward-whistle from beneath my woolen tunic and
stuck it
between my lips. Such a tiny, inconsequential geegaw, but made by
beings I still
had trouble believing in, even though I'd seen--and heard--them myself.
Canteada. I recalled their silvery skin, feathery scalp crests, nimble
fingers
and froglike throats. And I recalled their music.
Music was in the whistle, as was power. And so I waited a moment, to
build up
false hopes, then blew an inaudible blast.
It did its job, as always. They dropped the sword and fled.
Grinning around the whistle, I went over and picked up the blade.
And wished I hadn't touched it.
Shame flooded me. Shame and anger and grief, that I had treated the
sword so
poorly when it was deserving of so much better. What had it done to me?
In disbelief, I spat out the whistle. I hadn't thought those thoughts.
And
wouldn't; of that I was certain. But the thoughts had come from
somewhere. The
feelings had come from somewhere.
I threw the sword down again. It thumped dully against turf, glinting
red-white
in coals and moonlight. "Look, you," I said, "you may not be like any
sword I've
ever known, but it doesn't give you the right to tell me what to think.
It
doesn't give you the right to make me feel guilty, or ashamed, or
angry--or
anything, hear me? Magic, schmagic--I want nothing to do with you and
nothing
will ever change that. As far as I'm concerned, the hounds can have
you...
except I'm not about to let you fall into the hands of someone who can
tap into
whatever power you possess--"
I broke it off abruptly. I realized precisely how stupid I sounded,
talking to a
sword.
Well, talking to a sword isn't so bad; I think we all do it from time
to time,
before we step into a circle. But talking to a magicked blade made me
most
distinctly uneasy; I was afraid it might understand.
I wiped sweaty palms on my clothing. I hadn't imagined the feelings. I
hadn't
imagined the shame.
And, most definitely, I hadn't imagined the power demanding to be
unleashed.
Coiling itself so tightly, like a cat before it springs.
In my head, I heard a song. A small, soft song, promising health and
wealth and
longevity, as if it were a god.
"Jivatmas die," I said hoarsely. "I've seen it before, twice. You
aren't
invincible, and you don't make us immortal. Don't promise me what you
can't."
Notes wavered, then died away. I bent and scooped up the sword.
In my hands, it burned.
"Hoolies--" Flesh fused itself to steel. "Let go!" I shouted. "You
thrice-cursed
son of a goat--let go of my hands!"
Steel clung, caressed, absorbed. I thought again of melted eyes in a
blade-riven
skull.
"Hoolies take you!" I yelled. "What do you want, my soul?"
Or was it trying to give one?
--on my knees, now--
--hoolies, oh, hoolies--stuck to a sword... oh, hoolies, stuck to a
sword--
--and for how long?
Sweat ran down my body. In the cold night air, I steamed. "No one ever
told
me--no one ever said--no one warned me about this--"
Well, maybe they had. I just didn't listen much.
Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked, ducked my head into a shoulder, rubbed
wet hair
away. I stank of sweat, old wool and grime, with the acrid tang of
fear.
I drew in a ragged breath. "What in hoolies am I--"
Fire lit up the sky.
At least, I think it was fire. It was something. Something bright and
blinding.
Something that damped the moon and the stars with a delicate, lace-
edged beauty.
And beauty it was, like nothing I've ever seen. Nothing I've ever
dreamed.
Kneeling with the sword clutched in my hands--or the sword clutching
me--I
stared, mouth open, and let my head tip back so I could see the glory
of
Northern lights. The magic of sky-born steel, rune-wrought by the gods,
baptised
in human blood.
Celebrated by song.
Dancing in the sky was a curtain of luminescence. The colors were muted
magnificence, flowing one into the other. They rippled. Dripped.
Changed places.
Met and melted together, forming other colors. Bright, burning colors,
like fire
in the sky. The night was alive with it.
In my head I heard a song. A new and powerful song. It wasn't one I
knew. It
wasn't from my sword, too new to sing like that. From a sword with a
little age.
From a sword who understood power, being cognizant of its own, and how
to guard
the gift. A sword born of the North, born of ice and snow and storm; of
the cold
winter wailing of a keen-edged banshee-storm.
A sword who knew my name; whose name I knew as well.
Samiel fell out of my hands. "Hoolies," I croaked, "she's alive."


Four
I denied it. Immediately. Vehemently. With everything I had; I did not
dare
allow myself to believe it might be true, because hopes hauled up too
high have
that much farther to fall.
Oh, bascha. Bascha.
I denied it. Desperately. All the way down through the darkness,
picking my way
with care. All the way down through boulders, slipping and skidding on
rubble.
Through the shadows of looming trees.
Choking on painful certainty: Del is dead. I killed her.
Fire filled the sky. Such clean, vivid colors, rippling like Southron
silks.
Boreal's doing, no other: steel brush against black sky, with artistry
born of
magic.
Doubts, like smoke, blew away, leaving me empty of breath.
--Delilah is alive--
I stopped walking. Stopping sliding. Stopped cursing myself for a fool.
And
stood awkwardly, rigidly clutching a tree. Trying to breathe again.
Trying to
comprehend. Trying to sort out a welter of feelings too complex to
decipher.
--Delilah is alive--
Sweat bathed me. I leaned against the tree and shut my eyes, shivering,
releasing the air I'd finally gulped. Sucking it back in even more
loudly.
Nearly choking. Ignoring the knot in my belly, the cramping of my guts,
the
trembling in my hands.
Trying to understand.
Relief. Shock. Amazement. An overwhelming joy. But also compelling
guilt and an
odd, swelling fear. A deep and abiding despair.
Delilah is alive.
Gods of valhail, help me.
Colors poured out of the sky like layers of ruffled silks: rose, red,
violet,
emerald, a hint of Southron yellow, traces of amber-gold. The blush of
burnished
orange. The richness of blue on black and all the shadings in between.
I scrubbed sweat off my face. Took pains to steady my breathing. Then
silently
followed the brightness down and stepped out of a tree-striped, hollow
darkness
into frost and fog and rainbow, where a sword held dominance. Alien,
rune-wrought steel, naked in Del's bare hands.
Delilah was alive.
She stood as I have seen her stand before, paying homage to the North,
or to the
sword herself. With legs spread, braced; with arms stretched wide above
her
head, balancing blade across flattened palms. Three feet of deadly
steel,
shining whitely in the night; a foot of knotted silver twisted
carefully into a
hilt. Ornate and yet oddly plain, with a magnificent symmetry.
Simplistic in
promised power, lethal in promises kept.
All in white, Delilah. Tunic, trews, hair. And the stark, ravaged face,
devoid
of all save desperation.
Thin fog purled down from the blade. Streamers licked Del's hands,
face,
clothing, frothed around her ankles, spilled out across the ground.
Drops of
moisture glistened, reflecting sword-born rainbows. All in white,
Delilah;
uncompromising white. A blank, stark canvas. Behind her was the night;
uncompromising black. But arrayed above us both were the colors of the
world,
summoned by rune-wrought steel.
White on black, and light. A brilliant, blinding light that made me
want to
squint.
Ghost, I thought; wraith. A spirit made of shadows, lent light by a
playful
demon. Nothing more than a fetch, or a trick of imagination. It wasn't
really
Del. It couldn't really be Del.
Gods, let it be Del--
I felt the touch of wind. It blew softly across the clearing, shredding
sword-born fog, and gently touched my face. The testing fingers of a
blind man;
the subtle caress of a lover's touch. A cold, winter wind, bordering on
banshee.
Letting me taste its strength. Letting me sense its power.
Believe, it told me plainly. I am born of Boreal, and only one commands
her.
Only one can summon her power. To key it, and control it. To make me
substance
out of nothing; to give me life out of proper season.
Winter was in the clearing. It numbed my ears, my nose; stiffened aging
joints.
Lifted the hem and folds of my cloak and snapped it away from my body,
stripping
hair out of my face. Threatening beard with frost-rime and my lungs
with frigid
breath.
Del sang on. A small, soft song. A song of infinite power.
She had traded her soul for that song. As well as humanity.
I turned my back on her. I turned my back on her power. On winter and
on the
wind, fixing my eyes on spring. Thinking of things to come, not on what
had
passed.
Walked out of her light into darkness. Into things I could understand.
Thinking: Del is alive.
Which meant I could be angry.
And so I was, when at last she came riding into my camp. Hoolies, six
weeks. And
all that time: alive. Me thinking her dead. Me thinking I'd killed her.
All
those days and nights. Delilah is alive. I squatted by the fire cairn
and warmed
hands over the coals. I didn't really need to, since Del's sword-
summoned winter
was banished, but at least it was something to do. It gave me something
to look
at instead of staring at her.
Oh, I looked. I looked--and swallowed hard. Glanced away again in
forced, false
negligence, staring blindly at hands that tried repeatedly to tremble;
they
didn't because I wouldn't let them. It took all the strength I had.
She rode a dark dappled horse; roan, I thought, blue, though in the
darkness it
was hard to tell. A tall dark-eyed gelding stepping daintily through
storm-strewn rubble.
The stud, less concerned with pride and appearances, peeled back his
lip and
squealed. He'd teach the gelding his place or know the reason why.
Moonbleached hair was white, scraped back from a too-pale face showing
keen
edges of too-sharp bone. The skull, now strongly visible, was flawless
in its
beauty, but I preferred more flesh on it. She had lost too much to the
circle,
and to its aftermath.
The fire was gone from the sky like so much wine spilled from a cup.
The blade
rode her back in its customary harness, slanting left to right. From
the
downward curve of ornate quillons to the carefully crafted pommel knot,
nearly a
foot of shining steel rose beside her head.
Boreal: jivatma. A sword-singer's blooding-blade.
With it, she'd killed the man who had taught her how to fight. With
mine, I'd
nearly killed her.
Delilah is alive.
The stud stomped, pawed, squealed, arching neck and raising tail. I was
relieved
to see it, because even though, for him, it was muted, the show of
dominance
nonetheless meant he was feeling better. Maybe I'd worried for naught.
About the stud and Del; here she was before me.
With customary prudence, Del reined in her gelding at the edge of the
cairn's
sphere of meager light. Not far enough to calm the stud, but enough to
tell him
the gelding offered no threat to his dominance.
Or did she do it to tell me the same?
Hoolies, that was done with. The circle had made its choice.
All in white, Delilah: in the South, the color of mourning; in the
North, I
didn't know. Belted tunic, baggy trousers. Heavy cloak, free of all
adornment,
save for the moonwashed silver of fur gaiters cross-gartered around her
shins,
and brown leather bracers warding most of her forearms. They shone with
silver
bosses, as did her belt; silver brooches clasped the cloak. Loose hair
tumbled
over her shoulders.
I thought: I can't do this.
And knew somehow I would.
"Well," I said lightly, "what do you offer a wraith?"
"Amnit," she said, "if you have it."
There was nothing in her tone except familiar quietude. No trace of
emotion; I
hoped mine showed the same.
"Oh, a bota or two." I pulled one up from the ground, let it dangle
from my
hand. The leather bag twisted on its thong, then unwound in the other
direction
in a slow, predictable spiral.
She sat silently in her saddle, watching the bota spin. In the poor
light her
eyes were black. Too black in a too-white face.
Oh, hoolies, bascha. What do we do now?
She watched the bota spin.
Wondering what to say?
No, not Del. She hones words as well as weapons, but uses them less
often.
She finally looked at me. "I came because I need you."
Deep in my gut, something spasmed.
Del's voice was steady; she gives little away in speech. "No one will
dance with
me."
Of course. That. Nothing else, for her. Her needs are different from
mine.
The wound ached afresh. I set the bota down, carefully exhaling. "Oh?"
"No one," she repeated. This time I heard it clearly: pain, anguish,
grief. In
Del, always muted. Nearly always hidden. Often not present at all.
Anger stirred. I suppressed it instantly, idly rubbing a bearded chin.
"But you
think I will."
The gelding stomped. Del sat it out, hands only loosely holding reins
across the
pommel of her saddle. Her eyes were very steady. "You are the
Sandtiger.
Southron, not Northern. My dishonor means nothing to you." For only a
moment,
she paused. "After all, you were the victor."
I made no answer at first, letting the words settle. Victor, was I? In
a way; I
had won the dance, and therefore won my freedom. But winning is often
losing;
the taste of victory, in this case, was decidedly bittersweet.
I stared hard at the glow of the cairn. Coals and color ran together,
filling up
my eyes. Quietly, I said, "I very nearly died."
Softly, when she could, "I traveled farther than you."
I looked at her sharply. The residue of fireglow overlay her face,
hiding
expression from me. And then it faded, slowly, and I saw the
expression. Saw the
determination.
I wanted to laugh. Here we were arguing over which of us had come
closer to
dying, and each of us responsible for the other's circumstances.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. And then both emotions spilled
away. In
their place was anger. "I nearly killed you, Del. I stepped into that
circle
hoping only to beat you, to stop you, and yet I nearly killed you." I
shook my
head. "It's different now. Nothing can be the same."
"Sameness remains," she countered quietly. "There are still things I
must do
before my song is sung."
"Like what?" I demanded. "Hunt down Ajani and kill him?"
"Yes," Del answered simply.
Rising so abruptly pulled the new skin around my wound. But it didn't
stop me.
It didn't stop me at all. I took the shortest route: straight across
the fire
cairn directly to her gelding, where I reached up and caught Del's left
wrist
before she could react.
It isn't easy to take Del unaware. She knows me well enough to predict
much of
what I will do, but not so well as to predict everything I will do. And
this
time, she couldn't.
I heard her blurt of shock as I jerked her down out of the saddle.
Heard my
grunt of effort mingled with her sound.
It was awkward. It was painful. She is tall and strong and quick, but
now
weakened by her own wound. She came free in a tangle of stirrups,
cloak, harness
and sword, arms and legs awry. I knew it would hurt; I meant it to
hurt. But at
least it hurt us both.
She came down hard. The gelding snorted and sidled away, leaving us
room as he
avoided further hostilities. I grunted again as my half-healed wound
protested.
Sweat broke out afresh.
Hoolies, this hurts.
But I didn't regret it at all.
The pommel knot of her sword knocked me in the chin, though not hard
enough to
do damage. Not hard enough to loosen my grip. Not hard enough to stop
me as I
dumped her on the ground.
Breathing hard, I stood over her, tucking down toward the right a
little to ward
the wound from more pain. "You stupid, sandsick, selfish little fool,
haven't
you learned anything?"
Del was sprawled on her back with the sword trapped under her. Instead
she went
for her knife.
"Uh-uh, bascha--I don't think so." I slammed her wrist down with my
foot and put
some weight on it.
Enough to hold it still. The knife glinted in moonlight but a handspan
away.
"What--are you going to kill me because I insulted you? Because I
called you a
fool? Or selfish?" I laughed at her expression. "You are a fool,
bascha... a
silly, selfish, sandsick girl feeding off dreams of revenge."
Fair hair slipped free of her throat. I saw fragile flesh move as she
swallowed
heavily. Tendons stood out tautly.
"Oh, no," I said sharply, and bent to snatch her from the ground.
It aborted her efforts entirely, if without any grace. Having felt the
results
of her brothers' teaching before, I wasn't about to allow her the
chance again.
I pivoted hips aside and took the kick she meant for my groin on the
shin
instead, which hurt, but not as much as it might have. Then I filled my
hands
with cloak, tunic and harness leather and yanked her up from the
ground,
half-dragging, half-carrying her thirty or forty feet, where I pressed
her back
against one of the tumbled boulders. I restrained her the only way I
knew how,
which was with all of my weight. Caught between me and stone, Del had
nowhere to
go.
No knife. No sword. Now all she had was words.
"You're scared," she accused. "Swear at me if you like--call me all the
names
you can think of, if it makes you feel better. It doesn't change a
thing. I see
it in your face, in your eyes... I feel it in your hands. You're scared
to
death, Tiger. Scared because of me."
It was not what I expected.
"Scared." Less vehemence, but no less certainty. "I know you, Tiger--
you've
spent the last six weeks punishing yourself for what you did... I know
you,
Tiger--you've spent every day and every night of the past six weeks
scared I was
dead, and scared I was alive. Because if I was dead, you couldn't live
with
it--with killing your Northern bascha?" Only once, she shook her head.
"Oh, no,
not you... not the Sandtiger, who is not quite the uncaring, unfeeling
killer he
likes people to think he is. So you prayed--yes you, just in case--you
prayed I
was alive so you wouldn't have to hate yourself, and yet the whole time
you've
been scared I was alive. Because if I was, and we ever came face-to-
face again,
you'd have to explain why. You'd have to tell me why. You'd have to
find a way
to justify what you did."
I took my weight from her. Turned. Took two disjointed steps away from
her. And
stopped.
Oh, hoolies, bascha. Why does it always hurt so?
Her voice was unrelenting. "So, Tiger... we are face-to-face. There is
time now
for the explaining, the telling, for the justifying--"
I cut her off curtly. "Is that why you came?"
She sounded a little breathless, if no less definite. "I told you why I
came. No
one will dance with me. Not in Staal-Ysta, certainly... and I think
nowhere
else, as well. Women are freer in the North than in the South, but few
men will
dance against a woman, even in practice bouts. And I need it. Badly. I
have lost
strength, speed, fitness... I need you to dance with me. If I am to
kill Ajani,
I must be strong enough to do it."
I swung, intending to say something, but let it die as I saw how she
clung to
the boulder. There was no color in her face, none at all, even in her
lips. She
pressed one arm across her abdomen, as if to hold in her guts. She
sagged
against the stone.
Oh, hoolies, bascha.
"Don't touch me," she said sharply.
I stopped short of her and waited.
She drew in a noisy breath. "Say you will dance with me."
I spread my hands. "And if I don't, you won't let me touch you--is that
it? You
won't let me pick you up from the ground--which is where you'll be in a
moment--and carry you to the fire, where there's food and amnit--"
"Say it," she said, "and we won't have to find out that you can't carry
me,
which would hurt your pride past repairing."
"Del, this is ridiculous--"
"Yes," she agreed. "But we've both been that before."
"If you think I'm going to step into a circle with you after what
happened the
last time--"
"Just say it!" she cried, and something at last broke. She crossed both
arms
against her ribs and hugged herself hard, standing only by dint of
braced legs
and sheer determination. "If I don't go after him--if I don't kill
Ajani--if I
don't honor my oath ..." She grimaced, loosened hair hanging, obscuring
much of
her face but not the ragged tone in her voice. "I have to, I have to...
there is
nothing left for me... nothing at all left for me... no parents, no
brothers, no
aunts and uncles and cousins... not even Kalle is mine--not even my
daughter is
mine--" She sucked in a painful whooping breath. "Ajani is all I have.
His death
is all I have. It's all the honor that's left."
I wondered briefly who she was talking to: me or to herself? But I let
it go,
thinking of something else. "There's more to honor than that." I
intended to
explain thoroughly, but broke it off to catch her as her legs buckled
and she
slid down the boulder to huddle against cold stone. And discovered she
was
right: I couldn't pick her up. So the two of us sat there, cursing
private pain,
hiding it from one another behind sweaty, muttered curses and denials
to
half-gasped questions.
"Dance with me," she said. "Do you want me to beg?"
I gritted it out through tight-shut teeth. "I don't want you to beg. I
don't
want you to dance. I don't want you to do anything but heal."
Del curled one hand into a fist and thumped herself weakly in the
chest. "It's
all I have--it's all I am... if I don't kill Ajani--"
I turned toward her awkwardly, trying not to twist sore flesh. "We'll
talk about
that later."
Her voice was startled. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to peel back some of your layers so I can get a look at your
wound."
"Leave it," she said, "leave it. It is healing without your help. Do
you think
they would have let me go if I was in danger of dying?"
"Yes," I answered bluntly. "Telek and Stigand? And all the rest of the
voca!
Stupid question, bascha... I'm surprised they didn't kick you out
before this.
I'm surprised they didn't kick you out the day I left."
"To do that would have dishonored Staal-Ysta," she said faintly. "I was
the
chosen champion--"
"--who was meant to die in the circle, dancing with me," I finished.
"Telek and
Stigand threw you to the sandtigers, bascha--no joke intended--and they
had no
intention of you surviving the dance. Your death would have satisfied
the honor
of Staal-Ysta, and my victory bought me out of the year you pledged me
to. In
the South we call it two goat kids for a single breeding... it's what
the voca
wanted. You dead and me gone. As it is, we're both gone."
"And Kalle stays behind." Her tone was bitter as she twisted away from
me and
sat up very straight, easing the layers of rucked up wool binding her
sore ribs.
"So, they got what they wanted. I have lost a daughter, who was perhaps
not
meant to be mine... but there is still her father. And Ajani I will
kill."
"Which means we're back where we started." I drew in a deep breath,
caught it
sharply on a twinge, let it out slowly again. "What I started to say
earlier--"
"I did not come for your advice." Del pushed herself up awkwardly,
straightened
with infinite care, walked very slowly toward the roan.
The abruptness of it stunned me. "What?"
She caught the gelding's reins, led him to a tree safely distant from
the stud,
tied him. "I did not come for advice. Only for your dancing."
So cool and clipped. So much like the old Del, with no time for other's
feelings. Full circle, I thought. Back where it all started.
But not quite, bascha. I'm not the same man. Because--or in spite--of
you, I'm
not the same man.


Five
I sat on my bedding by the fire cairn, scratching sandtiger scars,
drinking
amnit, thinking. Thinking; what in hoolies happens now?
So, she wanted to ride with me. For a while. To dance with me in the
circle,
until she was fit enough to challenge Ajani. Which meant she'd intended
all
along to leave me, once she found me. Once she was fit again.
Which meant she was using me.
Well, we all use one another. One way or another.
But Del was using me.
Again.
Without, apparently, considering my own feelings. Or else she had
considered
them, and thought I'd be happier without her. Once she was ready to
leave.
Or else she was merely concocting a wild tale to cover up the real
reason she'd
tracked me down, which had less to do with Ajani and more to do with
me.
No. Not Del. She's nothing if not determined.
Nothing if not obsessed.
Which meant Ajani was still the most important issue, and I was merely
a means
to make her fit enough to kill him.
Which came back to me being used.
Again.
A little part of me suggested it didn't matter, that having Del around
was
enough compensation. Because, of course, she would share my bed again,
and that
ought to be enough to make any man overlook certain things.
Maybe, once, it would've been. But not anymore. I could overlook
nothing.
Because a bigger part of me didn't like being reduced to a means. I
deserved
better.
And a still larger part reminded me with exquisite clarity that Del
hadn't
thought twice about offering me as bait to the voca on Staal-Ysta to
buy a year
off her exile.
Well, she might have thought twice. But she'd still offered easily
enough
without even consulting me.
And it rankled. Oh, it rankled.
I sat on my bedding by the cairn, scratching, drinking, staring.
Waiting for
Delilah.
She puttered with her gelding, unsaddling him, wiping him down, talking
softly,
settling him for the night. Wasting time? Stalling? Maybe. But probably
not; Del
knows what she does and why, and spends no time on what-might-have-
beens after
the fact.
I watched her: white wraith in the cairnglow, white specter against
black trees;
so white-on-white, Delilah: tunic, trews, hair, except for flashing
silver.
Bosses on belt and bracers. Two heavy cloak brooches weighting each
wool-swathed
shoulder.
And the twisted sword hilt, slashed across her back.
Hoolies, what do I do?
Hoolies, what don't I do?
Having no answer for either, I sat by the cairn and sucked amnit,
waiting for
Delilah.
Eventually, she came. With arms full of gear and bedding, she came at
last
toward the cairn. Toward me. And at last I could tell her.
"No," I said calmly.
In mid-step, she hesitated. Then halted altogether. "No?" she echoed
blankly,
clearly confused. Thinking about something else.
"You asked me to dance with you. Well, I can give it to you in
Southron, in
Desert, in Northern. Even in uplander." Humorlessly, I smiled. "Which
'no' do
you want? Which one will you believe?"
Her face was white as ice. Only her eyes were black.
With exquisite care, I set aside my bota. "Did you think I was so well-
trained
that I'd lie down and show you my belly so you could feel good again?"
She stood very still, clutching blankets.
I kept my tone even. Perfectly expressionless, so she would know what
it was
like. "You came fully expecting me to agree. Not to ask, not to
request--to
tell. 'Dance with me, Sandtiger. Step into the circle.'" Slowly I shook
my head.
"I don't disagree with your reasons for wanting Ajani dead. I
understand revenge
as well as or better than anyone. But you forfeited your right to
expect me to
do anything just for the asking. You forfeited the asking."
Del said nothing at all for a very long moment. The meager light from
the cairn
carved lines into her face, but showed me no expression. No expression
at all.
I waited. The circle teaches patience, many kinds of patience. But
never have I
felt the waiting so intensely. Never have I wanted it to end so badly.
And
afraid to know the answer, to know how the ending would be.
Her voice was very low. "Do you want me to leave?"
Yes. No. I don't know.
I swallowed painfully. "You were wrong," I told her.
Del clutched bedding.
"Wrong," I repeated softly. "And until you can see it, until you can
admit it, I
don't think I can help you. I don't want to help you."
Breath rushed out of her mouth. With it, her answer. Her explanation.
Her
excuse, for something requiring none because none could be enough. "It
was for
Kalle--"
"It was for you."
"It was for kin--"
"It was for you."
A painful desperation: "It was for honor, Tiger--"
"It was for you, Delilah."
The full name made her flinch. The movement made her wince. Her
defenses were
coming down: against pain, against truth, against me. The latter, I
thought, was
what counted. It might yet make her whole.
"Pride," I said, "is powerful. You threw mine away very easily. Will
you do the
same with your own?"
Her face was slack with shock. "How did I throw away your pride?"
I was on my feet, oblivious to the pain of a wrenched abdomen. Yanking
her out
of the saddle had taken its toll on us both. "Hoolies, Del, have you
forgotten
entirely? I was a slave for half my life! Not an innocent young
Northern girl
playing at swords and knives, well-loved by her kin, but a human beast
of
burden. A chula. A thing. Something with no name, no identity, no
reason for
being alive except to serve others. Except to service others--what do
you think
I did at night in the hyorts with the women?"
I saw the shock in her face, but it hardly slowed me down. "Do you
think it was
always for pleasure? Do you think it was always merely a man using a
woman?" I
shook hair out of my eyes. "Let me tell you, Delilah, it isn't always a
woman
who gets used... it isn't always a woman who feels dirty and used and
without
value other than what she offers in bed. It isn't always a woman--"
Oh, hoolies, I hadn't meant to say so much, or so brutally. But I
finished it
anyway, since it was begging to be said; since it had to be said, if we
were
ever to recover even a trace of the old relationship. Even that of the
circle.
I steadied my voice with effort. "I won my freedom--and my name--
through
desperation and sheer dumb luck, Del, not to mention pain both physical
and
emotional... and yet you were willing to throw it all away again just
to buy
yourself some time. Is that what I was to you? A means to an end? The
coin to
buy your daughter? A body to barter away? Is that what I was, Delilah?"
She was strung so taut she twitched. And then, jerkily, she bent. Set
down
bedding and gear. Shuddered once, deeply, then caught the hilt of her
sword in
both hands and whipped it out of the sheath.
For a moment, for one incredulous, painful moment, I thought she meant
to kill
me. That I'd gone too far, though I'd barely gone far enough.
The moment passed. Del cradled Boreal. Vertically, and carefully,
pressing blade
between breasts. Briefly, oh so briefly, she closed her eyes, murmured
something, then slowly, painfully lowered herself to one knee. Then
brought down
the other.
Del knelt before me in the dirt. She bent, placed Boreal flat on the
ground,
then crossed her arms across her chest, making fists of her hands. In
deep
obeisance, she bowed, resting forehead against the blade.
She held herself in perfect stillness for a moment of rigid silence,
then raised
herself again. Her eyes were black in the cairnglow, empty of all save
the
knowledge of need. Hers as well as my own.
With frequent checks and taut swallows, she spoke to me in Northern. It
was a
dialect I didn't know, probably born of Staal-Ysta and precise,
required rituals
meant to enhance the mystery of the jivatma. I've never been much
impressed with
the trappings of such things, preferring straightforward, unadorned
talk, but I
made no move to stop her. Clearly she needed it.
Eventually she stopped. Bowed again. Then straightened to look at me,
and
repeated it all in Southron so I could understand.
Appalled, I cut her off almost immediately. "That's not necessary."
She waited. Swallowed. Began again.
I spat out an oath. "I said--"
She raised her voice and overrode me.
"Hoolies, Del, do you think this is what I want? Abasement? Atonement?
I'm not
asking any such thing, you fool... I just want you to understand what
it is you
did. I just want you to realize--" But I broke it off in disgust
because she
wasn't listening.
She ran down eventually. All the forms were followed, the requirements
satisfied. She was a true daughter of Staal-Ysta, no matter what anyone
said; no
matter that she was exiled. She completed the ritual.
She bowed over Boreal once again. Then picked up her sword, rose,
turned
awkwardly from me and walked toward the roan. Stumbling a little.
Catching
herself with effort. All of her grace was banished, yet none of her
dignity.
She had thrown away her pride. Now both of us were even.


Six
She broke through, thrust, cut into me, just above the wide belt. I
felt the
brief tickle of cold steel separate fabric and flesh, sliding through
both with
ease, then catch briefly on a rib, rub by, cut deeper, pricking
viscera. There
was no pain at all, consumed by shock and ice, and then the cold ran
through my
bones and ate into every muscle.
Deep in sleep, I twitched.
I lunged backward, running myself off the blade. The wound itself
wasn't
painful, too numb to interfere, but the storm was inside my body. The
blood I
bled was ice.
I drew a knee up toward my belly, trying to ward the wound. Trying to
turn the
blade that had already pierced my flesh.
"Yield!" she shouted. "Yield!" Shock and residual anger made her tone
strident.
I wanted to. But I couldn't. Something was in me, in my sword;
something crept
into blood and bones and sinew and the new, bright steel. Something
that spoke
of need. That spoke of ways to win. That sang of ways to blood--
I woke up sweating, breathing like a bellows; like the stud run too
hard. The
fire was reduced to coals with only the moon for light, and it offered
little
enough. I looked for Del in the darkness. Saw nothing but deeper
shadows.
Hoolies, did I dream it? Did I dream the whole thing?
I sat up rigidly and immediately wished I hadn't. Deep inside, I ached.
I'd
twisted in my sleep and the half-healed wound protested.
My sword was screaming for blood.
Did I dream the whole thing? Or only part of it?
A twig snapped. Movement. Maybe I didn't dream it.
Hoolies, make it real.
I stared into darkness. So hard my eyes burned, trying to define the
narrow line
between dream and reality.
"I'll make you," she gasped. "Somehow--" And she was coming at me, at
me,
breaking through my weakened guard and showing me three feet of deadly
jivatma.
"Yield!" she cried again.
My sword was screaming for blood.
Del was gone. That I was certain of, hating it. Hating myself for the
wash of
fear, of anguish; the uprush of painful guilt. What I'd said to her
needed
saying. I didn't regret a word of it. But none of what I'd told her was
intended
to chase her away.
Only to give her a choice.
Del always makes her own choices, no matter how painful they are. No
matter how
demanding. She shirks nothing I am aware of, counting the finished task
more
important than the doing. For my angry, obsessed Delilah, the end was
always
more important than how it was accomplished.
Which meant she might well have left, since I'd given her my answer.
Had I? I didn't recall refusing to dance with her, so long as she
admitted her
wrongdoing.
She'd conducted an atonement ritual. Begged my forgiveness. Spoken
freely of
dishonor, and how hers had tainted me. But not once, not once, had she
admitted
she was wrong.
Hoolies, she is stubborn!
Cursing softly, I untangled blankets and pelts from legs, stood
stiffly, cursed
some more. Then heard the roan gelding blowing in the darkness and
realized Del
wasn't really gone, she simply wasn't present.
Well, a woman is due her privacy.
And then I saw the light.
Oh, hoolies, bascha, what are you doing now?
Boreal, of course. Del went nowhere without her. She didn't always use
her,
being disinclined to show off, but when she did it showed. Like now,
with the
light.
Del was up to something.
I am big, but I can move quietly. I learned in childhood, in slavery,
how to
stay motionless for long periods of time. How to be invisible, so no
one notices
you. It saved me from extra whippings, from cuffs and slaps and blows.
It was
something I cultivated out of a need for self-preservation, and it
served me
even in freedom. It served me even now.
Silently I moved, muffling myself in my cloak, and slipped easily
through the
shadows. Pausing now and then, emulating trees; some say I am tall
enough. And
at last I found Delilah kneeling in the darkness. Singing softly to her
sword.
Regardless of what had happened with my sword while killing the cat,
music is
still alien to me. I don't understand it. And I didn't, really, now,
though the
words were clear enough, if sung in Northern instead of Southron. But
the song
was a private song, composed solely for Boreal.
Del sings to her sword a lot. Northerners do that; don't ask me why. In
the
South, we merely dance, letting movement speak for itself. But on
Staal-Ysta I'd
learned it was customary--no, necessary--for a sword-dancer to sing. A
variation
of the dance. Music for the circle.
For Del, it was more than that. It was music for the sword. With it she
keyed
the power and used it, depending on the song to harness Boreal's magic.
Del sang softly, and Boreal came alive.
I've seen it before. Drop by drop, bead by bead, running the length of
the blade
from tip to hilt until the steel is aflame. But this time the light was
dull,
private, as if she purposely damped it down. Her song was barely a
whisper, and
the answer that came the same.
Guilt flickered. Clearly this was a private, personal ritual, meant for
Del
alone. But I didn't leave. I couldn't. Magic I've always distrusted;
now I
distrusted Del.
Deep inside, something spasmed. Something that spoke of unease.
Something that
spoke of fear.
Would it ever be the same? Or had we gone too far?
Del sang her song and the sword came alive.
"Help me," she whispered. "Oh, help me--"
It was Northern speech, not Southron, but I've learned enough to
understand.
Necessity had made me; this moment was no different.
Del drew in a breath. "Make me strong. I need to be strong. Make me
hard. I need
to be hard. Don't let me be so soft. Don't let me be so weak."
She was the strongest woman I knew.
"I have a need," she whispered, "a great and powerful need. A task that
must be
finished. A song that must be ended. But now I am afraid."
Light shirred up the sword. It pulsed as if it answered.
"Make me strong," she asked. "Make me hard again. Make me what I must
be, if I
am to end my song."
Easy enough to ask. Harder, I thought, to live with.
Lastly, softly, she begged: "Make me not care what he thinks."
Oh, hoolies, bascha. Don't do this to yourself.
But it was already done. Boreal was quiescent. Delilah had her answer.
And I had a sword to hate.


Seven
Something bad woke me. Something snatched me out of a dreamless sleep
and forced
me into wakefulness. Into an abrupt, unpleasant awareness.
Something bad that smelled. Something in my face--
I don't know what I shouted. Something loud. Something angry. And, I'll
admit,
something frightened. But then I don't know a man alive who wouldn't
feel afraid
if he woke up from a sound sleep to discover a beast standing over his
head.
Even as I exploded out of my bedding, the hound lunged at my throat. I
smelled
its stench, felt its breath, saw the white glint of shining eyes.
Flailed out
with both arms as I tried to thrust it away.
The hound lunged again, still trying for my throat. Dimly I heard Del,
on the
other side of the cairn, crying out in Northern. She sounded startled
and
furious; I made no answer, having no time to make the effort, but hoped
she'd do
something other than shout. Which, of course, she did, with Boreal at
her beck.
My own sword was buried beneath tumbled bedding. Now I lay on dirt,
hard, cold
dirt, with my head at the cairn stones. The hound might take my throat;
the
coals might take my hair.
No one wants to die. But least of all with no hair.
The beast made no sound. But Del did, and loudly, as she told me to
flatten
myself.
I tried. I mean, no man aware of Boreal's power risks himself so
readily. But
even as I kicked over and tried to dig myself into the dirt, the hound
evaded
the blade. Del's skill was better than that, but my head was in the
way. So were
my flailing hands, locking themselves at a furred throat. I wanted
nothing more
than to try for my knife, but dared not take a hand off the hound, or
I'd lose
my brief advantage.
I felt teeth at my own throat. Snapping, grasping, grabbing. The stench
was
overwhelming. It smelled of rotting bodies.
Something snugged taut against the back of my neck. Something like
wire, or
thong. And then I realized it was my necklet. My string of sandtiger
claws.
Hoolies, it wanted my claws?
But I had no time to wonder beyond my initial surprised response. I
heard Del's
muttered order to watch my head, which I couldn't actually do since my
eyes were
in it, and ducked. But she missed again, though barely; I heard
Boreal's whisper
as steel sang past my head.
"Just do it--" I blurted.
And then the beast was lunging away, evading the blade yet again. It
left me in
the darkness and fled away into the trees.
I lay sprawled on my back, one hand at my throat busily digging through
woolen
wrappings to see if I was whole. To feel if my flesh was bleeding. I
yanked wool
away with some violence, then heaved a sigh of relief as nothing but
skin met my
fingers. No blood or torn flesh at all; only whole, unbitten skin.
Meanwhile, Del ignored me entirely and stepped across my body to follow
the
spoor of the beast. Just in case it might double back. Just in case it
might
have companions. Not a bad idea, but she might have thought of me.
After all,
for all she knew I could be bleeding to death right there on the
ground,
dwindling bit by bit--or bucket by bucket--before her eyes.
Except she wasn't looking. Which sort of ruined the effect.
I felt the thong at my neck, heard the rattle of claws, felt relief
wash quickly
through me. Which meant I was perfectly entitled to be testy, since
there was
nothing wrong with me.
I let Del get four steps. "Don't bother," I said. "It got what it came
for."
She swung back, sword aglint. "What do you mean, 'what it came for'?"
I sat up slowly, still massaging the flesh of my throat. It felt
bruised; no
surprise. "The whistle," I told her hoarsely. "The Canteada ward-
whistle. That's
what it wanted." Not my claws after all, though I didn't tell her that.
I didn't
think she'd understand why I'd worried about it at all.
Del glanced back into the shadows. I knew the beast was gone; the stink
of it
had faded. But she waited, sword at the ready, until her own suspicions
died.
And then she came to me.
"Let me see," she said.
Finally. But I shrugged negligence as she knelt down, setting Boreal
close at
hand. "I'm all right. It didn't even break the skin."
Del's hands were insistent. She peeled back wrappings, shoved my hand
aside,
carefully examined flesh in the thin light of the moon.
It was odd having her so close to me after so long a separation. I
smelled her
familiar scent, felt her familiar touch, saw her familiar face; the
faint frown
between her brows. At moments like this it was hard to recall just what
had come
between us.
And then there were other moments when I remembered all too well.
Ah, hoolies, bascha... too much sand blown out of the desert.
If Del was aware of my scrutiny, she made no sign of it. She simply
examined my
throat carefully, nodded slightly, then took her hands away. "So," she
said,
"they have learned. And we are back where we started."
"Not quite," I muttered. "Too much sand blown out of the desert."
Del frowned. "What?"
For some reason, I was irritated. "We're not back where we started
because too
many things have changed." I shifted position, felt the pull of newly
stretched
scar tissue, tried to hide the discomfort from her. Just as she hid her
own from
me. "Go back to sleep, Del. I'll take first watch."
"You're in no shape for that."
"Neither of us are, but we'll each of us have to do it. I just thought
I might
as well start."
She considered protesting, but didn't. She knew better; I was right.
And so she
went back to her bedding on the other side of the cairn and wrapped
herself in
pelts. All I could see of her was the dim pale glow of her hair.
I sorted out my own tumbled bedding and made sense of it again. And
then I
settled carefully, snugging deep into cloak and pelts, and prepared to
wait
through the night. I wanted to give her till dawn; she'd done the same
for me.
Trouble was, I couldn't.
It didn't take much. Just a glance at Del on the far side of the cairn,
all
bound up in pelts and blankets. The glow of the moon in her hair. The
sound of
her even breathing. And all the feelings recalled.
I sat there rigidly, half sick. Joints ached, my wound throbbed, the
flesh of my
throat complained. Even my head hurt. Because I gritted my teeth so
hard my jaw
threatened to crack.
Just tell her, you fool. Tell her the truth.
Across the cairn, she settled. Hurting at least as much as I, inside
and out.
Deep in my belly, something tightened. Not desire. Something more
powerful yet:
humiliation. And more than a little discomfort. Of the spirit as well
as the
flesh.
Oh, hoolies, fool, just tell her the truth.
Just open your mouth and talk; it's never been very hard.
You made Del ask for atonement. She's at least due an explanation.
But that she hadn't asked for one made me feel even worse.
Something inside of me quailed. Guilt. Regret. Remorse. Enough to break
a man.
But the woman was due the words.
I stared hard out into the darkness. The night was quiet, save for its
normal
song. It was cold--colder in bed alone--but spring promised warmer
nights.
Already the color was different.
You're avoiding the truth, old man.
The woman is due the words. The least you can do is say them out loud
where she
can hear them, instead of inside your head.
Easier thought than said.
I looked at Del again. And knew all too well that even though she was--
and had
been--wrong, I shared the responsibility of putting things to rights.
Of
admitting my own faults. Because when things have gone awry, it takes
two to
straighten them out.
I drew in a deep breath, so deep it made me lightheaded, then blew it
out again.
And finally opened my mouth. This time the words would be spoken
instead of
locked away.
"I was afraid," I told her. "I was scared to death. I was everything
you accused
me of earlier. And it was why I left Staal-Ysta."
I knew she was still awake. But Del said nothing.
"I left on purpose," I continued stolidly. "I wasn't driven out, or
invited out,
or even asked to leave; I was a kaidin, according to all the customs,
and they
had no right to ask it. I could have stayed. They would have let me
stay, to see
if you lived or died... but I couldn't. I saw you lying there in the
circle, cut
open by my sword, and I left you behind on purpose."
Del was very still.
I scraped a tongue across too-dry lips. "They put you in Telek's lodge-
-in
Telek's!--because it was the closest. Because they thought you would
die, and
that your daughter deserved to watch. To hear the funeral songs."
Her breath rasped faintly.
"They stitched me back together--you carved me up pretty good--and gave
me the
gifts bestowed upon a new kaidin. I had, they said, conducted myself
honorably,
and was therefore due the tribute as well as the rank. They patched me
up, gave
me gifts, rowed me across the lake." I swallowed painfully; it was much
harder
than I'd imagined. "I knew you were alive. When I left. I knew. But I
thought
you would die. I thought you would die. I thought--I did--I just... and
I
couldn't--I just couldn't--" I let it trail off. The emptiness was
incredible.
"Oh, hoolies, Del... of all the lives I've taken, I couldn't face
taking yours."
Silence. It hadn't come out the way I'd wanted it to. I hadn't said
everything
that needed saying, that I wanted to say; I couldn't. How could I
explain what
I'd experienced when I'd felt my own sword cut into her body? How could
I tell
her what it was to see her lying on hardpacked dirt like a puppeteer's
broken
toy, bisected by my sword? How could I tell her how frightened I had
been, how
sickened I had been? How much in that moment I had wished myself in her
place?
How could I tell her I was absolutely certain she would die--and I
couldn't bear
to watch it?
And so I had left her. While she lived. So I could remember her alive.
For me, it was very important. It was necessary. It was required, as so
many
things have been required of me. Required by myself.
Silence, while I sat there waiting for her to say something about my
cowardice.
My lack of empathy. My willingness to leave her on Staal-Ysta before
her fate
was known. I'd made her ask my forgiveness; now I needed hers.
And then, at last, a response. But her tone was oddly detached. "You
should have
killed me. You should have finished it. Blooding and Keying in me would
have
made you invincible." Del sighed a little. "The magic of the North and
all the
power of the South. Invincibility, Sandtiger. A man to be reckoned
with."
I drew in a steadying breath. The worst, for me, was over. I think.
"I'm already
that," I said dryly. "I'm everything I want to be right now, this
minute, here.
I don't need magic for that. Certainly not the kind of magic that comes
from
killing people."
Del tightened wrappings, locking the cold away. Locking herself inside,
as she
did so very often. "You should have killed me," she said. "Now I have
no name. A
blade without a name."
There was grief. Anguish. Bitterness. The painful yearning of an exile
for a
land no longer hers. For a world forever denied, except in memories.
I stared blindly into the dark. "And a song that never ends?"
Clearly, it stung. "I will end it," she declared. "I will end my song.
Ajani
will die by my hand."
I let a moment go by. "What then, Delilah?"
"There is Ajani. Only Ajani."
She was cold, hard, relentless. Focused on her task. Her sword had
answered her
plea.
But how much of it was the sword? How much merely Del? How responsible
are any
of us for what we do to survive, to make our way in the world?
How hard do we make ourselves to accomplish the hardest goal?
Quietly, I said, "I'm not going South."
Huddled in bedding, Del was little more than an indistinguishable lump
of shadow
against the ground. But now she sat up.
The moonlight set her aglow as blankets fell back from her shoulders:
pristine
white against dappled darkness. Her hair, unbraided, was tousled,
tumbling over
her shoulders. Curtaining the sides of her face.
She stared at me, frowning. "I did wonder why they told me you were
going to
Ysaa-den. I thought at first perhaps they lied, merely to trouble me--
it was far
out of my way, and yours, if I was to go to the South--but then I found
your
tracks, and it was true." She shook her head. "But I don't understand
why.
You've been complaining about the snow and the cold ever since we
crossed the
border."
I listened to her tone, hearing echoes and nuances; her fight to
maintain
balance. "I don't like it," I agreed. "I didn't like it before we
crossed the
border. But there's something I have to do."
I also didn't like the look of her. The intensity. She was too thin,
too drawn,
too obsessed with Ajani. The sword had cut her flesh, but the man had
hurt her
more.
Del's tone was carefully modulated so as not to show too much. All the
same, it
showed enough. "I thought you'd go south at once."
"No. Not this time."
"I thought the Sandtiger roamed wherever he wanted, unbound by other
desires."
She paused. "At least, he used to."
I shut my eyes, waited a beat, answered her quietly. "It won't work,
Del. You've
pushed me this way and that way like an oracle bone for months, now. No
more.
There are things I have to do."
"I have to go south."
"Who's stopping you? Weren't you the one who spent five years
apprenticing on
Staal-Ysta just so you could go south all by yourself? Weren't you the
one who
went hunting the Sandtiger with only a storm-born sword for
companionship?
Weren't you--"
"Enough, Tiger. Yes, I did all those things. And I have done this
thing: I have
come to you asking your help in making me fit again. But if you are
unwilling to
give it--"
"I'll give it," I interrupted. "I said that already, after you did your
little
ritual. But I can't go south right away, which means if you really want
my help,
you'll have to come along."
"Something has happened," she said suspiciously. "Did Telek and Stigand
force
you to swear oaths? Did they give you a task? Did you make promises to
the voca
in exchange for tending me?"
"No. I have every intention of going home as soon as I've tracked them
to their
lair. It has nothing to do with oaths to Telek and Stigand, or promises
to the
voca. It's just something I want to do." I paused. "And if you don't
like it,
you don't have to come."
"Tracked who--?" She broke it off. "Those beasts? The hounds? Oh,
Tiger, you
don't mean--"
"I made a promise, Del. To myself. I intend to keep it."
Wide-eyed, she stared at me, which didn't make me feel any better. No
man likes
having it thrown in his face that he's lacked responsibility throughout
much of
his life; me making this promise exhibited a new side of the Sandtiger.
Del
didn't exactly say anything, but then she didn't have to. All she had
to do was
stare at me in exactly the way she was.
"Tiger-"
"It's why I'm out here in the middle of a Northern nowhere, Del; why
else? I'm
tracking those hounds. To Ysaa-den or wherever. To whoever--I intend to
find the
sorcerer who set them loose."
"And kill him," she clarified.
"I imagine so," I agreed. "Unless, of course, he's polite enough to
stop on my
say-so."
She hooked hair behind her ears. "So. You're tracking the hounds in
order to
kill their master, and I'm tracking Ajani with much the same end in
mind. What
is the difference, Tiger? Why are you right and I'm wrong?"
"I don't want to argue about this--"
"I'm not arguing. I'm asking."
"My reasons are a bit different from yours," I said testily. "Aside
from
hounding us for more months than I care to remember, those beasts have
also
killed people. And some were children."
"Yes," Del agreed, "as Ajani killed my kin... including all the
babies."
"Oh, hoolies, Del--" I shifted position, wished I hadn't. "What you're
after is
revenge, pure and simple. I'm not saying it's wrong--what Ajani did was
horrible--but I think you've lost sight of reality. What's driving you
now is
misplaced pride and utter obsession--and that's not healthy for
anyone."
"You think I'd be better off in some man's bed, or in some man's house,
bearing
him fourteen sons."
I blinked. "Fourteen might be a bit much. Hard on the woman, I'd
think."
Del bit back a retort. "Tiger, do you deny it? Wouldn't you rather see
me in
some man's bed instead of in the circle?" She paused delicately. "In
your bed,
maybe, instead of in your circle?"
"You've been in my bed," I answered bluntly, "and you've been in my
circle. I
don't know what the first one got you, but the second nearly killed
you."
That she hurt was obvious; that I'd cut too deep equally so. "So it
did," she
sighed finally. "Yes, so it did. As for the first? I don't know. I
don't know
what it got me. I don't know what it should have--do we put a price on
bedding?"
"I'm going north," I told her. "Or wherever it is the hounds go. You
can come,
or not. It's up to you. But if you do, we'll put a price on nothing. No
bedding,
Del. Will that make you happy?"
She stared back at me. "I thought that would be your price."
"For sparring with you?" I shook my head. "Once, yes. Back when we
first met,
and you promised me a bedding in place of coin you didn't have. And you
paid,
bascha. You paid very nicely, eventually... except by that time I
wasn't exactly
counting. Neither, I think, were you--so that debt we'll call
forgiven." I
shrugged. "If you want to come along with me now to get your practice
in so you
can face Ajani, that's fine with me. But things can't be the same, not
after all
that's happened."
"You won't last," she predicted. "This could take weeks, and you don't
do days
very well."
"Bet me," I said.
Slowly Del smiled. "I know you, Tiger. This isn't a fair wager. Not for
you. I
know you."
"Do you? Really? Then let me tell you why it is a fair wager." I held
her eyes
with my own. "When a man's been made a fool of, he doesn't much feel
like going
to bed with the woman who did it. When a man has been used--without his
permission or knowledge--he doesn't much feel like going to bed with
the woman
who did the using." With effort, I kept my tone uninflected. "And when
that
woman, faced with the truth of what she did, adamantly refuses to admit
she was
wrong, he doesn't really care about the bedding any more. Because what
he likes
in that woman is more than just her body and what it can do for him in
bed. What
he likes in that woman is her loyalty and honesty and honor."
Del said nothing. I don't think she could.
"But then you've sort of set aside all those useless attributes in the
last
year, haven't you, Delilah? So I guess what I feel doesn't matter so
much any
more."
Del's face was colorless. "Tiger--"
"Think about it," I said. "And think about me for a change, instead of
your
oaths of honor. Instead of your obsession."
Shock receded slowly. I'd struck a number of chords within her, but
clearly she
was unprepared to deal with what I'd said. And so she returned to the
original
topic. "I still say--I still say--the bet is a waste of time."
I shrugged. "So let's test it."
Her eyes were assessive. "How much are you willing to wager?"
I stared hard at her for a moment. Then pulled my sword from its
sheath.
It felt right. Warm and good and right, like a woman hugging your neck.
Like a fully quenched jivatma making promises to protect you.
All the hairs stood up on my arms. It took all the strength I had to
put the
sword down. In fitful, tarnished moonlight, the new-made jivatma
gleamed.
Color drained from her face. I nodded confirmation of the question she
wouldn't
ask. "Now you know how serious I am."
"But--you can't. You can't wager your sword."
"I just did."
She stared at the weapon lying mutely in front of my knees. "What would
I do
with it?"
"If you won--and you won't--anything you want. He'd be your sword."
"I have a sword." Her left hand went out to touch the harness and
sheath lying
at her side. "I have a sword, Tiger."
"Then sell it. Give it away. Break it. Melt it down." I shrugged. "I
don't care,
Del. If you win, you can do whatever you want."
Slowly she shook her head. "You have no respect for things you don't
understand."
I cut her off. "Respect must be earned, bascha, not bought. Not even
trained, as
it is in Staal-Ysta. Because until tested, respect is nothing but a
word.
Emptiness, Del. Nothing more than that."
Still she shook her head. "That sword was made for you--made by you--"
"It's a piece of steel," I said curtly.
"You completed the rituals, asked the blessing--"
"--and stuck it into you." I shocked her into silence. "Do you really
think I
want a sword that tried to kill you?"
Del looked at Boreal, sheathed by her side. Remembering the circle.
Remembering
the dance.
Her tone was oddly hollow. "I would have killed you."
"You tried. I made you mad, and you tried. Fair enough--it was what I
meant to
do, to throw you out of your pattern." I shrugged. "But I didn't want
to kill
you. I didn't intend to do it. The sword wanted to do it... that
bloodthirsty,
angry sword."
"Angry," she echoed.
"It was," I told her. "I could feel it. Taste it. I could hear it in my
head."
She heard something in my tone. "But--now it isn't angry?"
I smiled grimly. "Not so much anymore. Just like that hound, it got
what it came
for."
Del nodded slowly. "You killed someone, then. After all. You've
quenched your
jivatma."
I squinted thoughtfully. "Not--exactly. Killed something, yes, but not
what you
might expect. And not in the way you told me."
Del, frowning, was very intent. "What have you done, Tiger?"
"Killed something," I repeated. "Cat. White, dappled silver." For some
reason I
said nothing about the pelt, which I'd tucked away into saddle-pouches.
"But I
didn't sing."
"Snow lion," Del said. "You didn't sing at all?"
"I'm a sword-dancer, Del. Not a sword-singer, or whatever it is you
claim. I
kill people with my sword. I don't sing to it."
Del shook her head thoughtfully. "It doesn't really matter if you
didn't sing
aloud. Even a mute can earn a jivatma. Even a mute can sing a song."
I scowled. "How?"
She smiled. "A song can be sung in silence. A song can be of the soul,
whether
anyone hears it or not. Only the sword counts, and it only requires the
soul and
all the feelings in it."
I thought of the song I'd heard on the overlook by the lakeshore. The
song I'd
heard in my head ever since I'd named the blade. Thanks to the
Canteada, I'd
been unable to forget it.
And now it was my sword.
"I don't need it," I declared. "I don't want it, Del."
"No. But it wants you." She pointed to my sword. "To find you, I used
my
jivatma. I painted the sky with my sword--you saw all the colors. You
saw all
the lights. All from a song, Tiger--and you could do the same."
The questions boiled up. "Why did you do it? And how did you find me so
fast?
Especially with that wound... it should have put you down longer than
my own
did." A sudden chill touched a fingertip to my spine. "You didn't do
anything--odd--did you? Make any promises? Any pacts? I know how you
are about
those things."
"What I do is my business."
"Del--what did you do?" I looked harder at the strain etched into her
face.
"What exactly did you do?"
Her mouth was flat and hard. "I have a jivatma."
An answer, of sorts. It told me more than enough. "So, you sang to it,
did you?
Begged more magic of it? Offered up even more of your humanity in
exchange for
arcane strength?"
"What I do--"
"--is your own business; yes, Del, I know, I know... you've always been
at such
pains to make certain I understood that." It was all I could do to keep
my tone
even. "How did you manage it? Magic?" I lifted eyebrows. "Is that how
you caught
up so fast?"
Her face was pensive. "There is no magic about that, Tiger. They told
me you
were bound for Ysaa-den. I know the North well--I took a shortcut."
I waited. She offered nothing further. So I asked. "Why did you paint
the sky?"
After a moment, she shrugged. "I thought it might bring you in."
It was something. From her, it was everything. "But you came to me," I
said.
"After I left you in the clearing. You came to me."
She touched the hilt of her sword. Very gently. "I realized, after I
did it, and
you came, that you wouldn't stay. That I'd have to go to you." Del
smiled sadly.
"A man's pride is a powerful thing."
I scowled balefully, disliking the twinge of guilt. "I've got no use
for
painting the sky."
She laughed a little. "Maybe not. But there are other things. Other
magics
available; you've seen my jivatma."
"Hunh."
Del shrugged. "You swore to me you'd never use it. You'd never kill,
never blood
it. But you have killed, Tiger, and you made your blade a song." She
looked
again at my sword. "Whether you like it or not, there's magic in your
blade.
There's power in your blade. And if you don't learn to control it, it
will
control you."
I looked at Boreal, so quiescent in her sheath. I knew what she could
do. But
only at Del's bidding. If left to her own devices--
No. Don't think about that. Think about something else.
"You," I said, "are sandsick. So now it's your turn to watch."
And as Del, disgruntled, glared, I bundled myself in bedding.


Eight
It's very easy to fall into old patterns. Del and I had been together
long
enough to develop certain rhythms in our day-to-day existence. Simple
things,
mostly: one of us built and tended the fire, another laid a meal; each
of us
tended our horses. We knew when to rest them, knew when we needed rest,
knew the
best times and places to stop for the night. Much of what we did
required no
conversation, for most was a reflection of things we'd done before.
It was easy to forget. Easy to recall only that we were together. And
then
something, some little thing, would crop up and remind me that for the
space of
six weeks we hadn't been together--and I'd remember the reason why.
We rode toward Ysaa-den, following hound spoor. Saying little to one
another
because we didn't know what to say. At least I didn't. What Del
thought--or
knew, or didn't know--was, as always, her own business, and always
exceedingly
private, unless she chose to share. For the moment, she didn't.
She rode ahead of me. The stud didn't like it, but I was pacing him. I
didn't
want him to overextend himself. So I made him stay behind the blue roan
and
content himself with second place. Trouble was, he wasn't.
Del's back was straight. She rides very erect anyway, but I knew some
of her
exceptional posture had to do with the wound. No matter what she said,
or
didn't--or how much magic she had used--I knew it was hurting her. And
I knew
what an effort it took for her to keep on going.
Boreal cut her back in half from left shoulder to right hip, as Samiel
did my
own. I glared at Boreal, thinking bad things about it. Thinking also
about my
own sword; what did it want me to do? What would it force me to do?
And then I forgot about Samiel, looking again at Boreal. Noting how
quietly she
rode in the leather sheath. How meekly the weapon rested, hiding deadly
blade.
Hiding alien, gods-blessed steel that sang a song of its own, just as
Delilah
did.
And in cold, abrupt clarity, I wondered just how much of Del's
obsession was
born of blade instead of brain.
I knew little of jivatmas other than what Del and Kem had told me. And
even
then, I hadn't put much stock in what they said. It wasn't until my own
new-made
sword had made his bloodthirst known that I'd realized just how
independent a
jivatma could be. Which meant it was entirely possible Del wasn't fully
responsible for her own actions. Hadn't she begged, on more than one
occasion,
for Boreal's aid? For power?
I glared at the hilt riding so high on her left shoulder. Had Del
somehow
willingly subjugated her own personality to the demands of a magicked
sword? Did
she need revenge so badly?
She had sworn oaths. I swear a lot myself, but generally not oaths. At
least,
not the binding kind; the kind that make you do something you'd really
rather
not do. But Del was different. Del took vows and oaths and swearing
much more
seriously. It was what had driven her to become a sword-dancer. To give
up a
child. It was what had driven her south, alone, to search for a
kidnapped
brother.
It was what had driven her to seek out a sword-dancer called the
Sandtiger, who
knew people she didn't, and how to find them.
A man makes of himself many things, depending on his needs and the
shaping of
his life. Me, I'd been a slave. And then a free man seeking power to
make a real
life for himself. A life of his own choosing without demands from other
people.
Well, yes, there were demands. If I hired on to a tanzeer, I was his to
command.
But only if what he wanted agreed well enough with my willingness to do
it. And
there were things I was unwilling to do. Killing people who deserved
it, or who
gave me no other choice, was something I'd come to terms with many
years before.
For a long time, killing was almost enjoyable, because it released some
of my
anger. After a while, having grown up a little, hostility was no longer
so
evident. I was free. No one could ever make me a slave again. I no
longer had to
kill.
Except it was the only thing I was good at.
Sword-dancing was my life. I'd freely chosen it. I had apprenticed
formally and
become a seventh-level sword-dancer, which made me very good. It made
me what I
was. A dangerous, deadly man.
Who hired out his sword to anyone with coin.
By nature, we are solitary souls. After all, it's hard for a hired
killer to
have a normal life. Whores don't mind sleeping with us so long as we
pay them
and they can brag about it--and sometimes our fame is payment enough--
but decent
women don't generally marry us. Because a man who sells his sword for a
living
always walks the edge of the blade, and a woman who wants to grow old
with her
man doesn't like to lose him young.
There are exceptions, of course. Sword-dancers do marry, or take a
woman as
their own without benefit of rites. But most of us don't. Most of us
ride alone.
Most of us die alone, leaving no woman or children to grieve.
There was a reason for it. Domestic responsibility can ruin a sword-
dancer's
soul.
And now here was Del. No longer the same Del. Forever a different Del.
Not
because of the girl she'd borne, though it did make me think of her
differently.
Not because we'd shared a bed so many times in the past. But because of
what she
had done and what I had done; because of what we'd become.
Loyalty is a sacred thing. A thing to be admired. A thing to be
treasured. It
isn't something two people in our profession, where loyalty is so often
purchased, experience very often. Loyalty within a circle is very rare
indeed,
because too often someone dies, or sacrifices pride, which can destroy
a
relationship. But for a while we'd known it. For a while we had lived
it.
But we'd both of us forsworn the virtue in the circle on Staal-Ysta.
Oh, hoolies, bascha, what I'd give for the old days.
But which old days? The ones with her, or without her?
Without was easier. Because with I'd nearly killed her.
Del turned in the saddle a moment, hooking hair behind an ear. It bared
her
face. A fine-drawn face of magnificent planes, and too many of them
visible.
Pain, oaths, and obsession had reshaped youthful flesh into a mask of
brittle
beauty. A cold, hard-edged beauty that made me think of glass.
Glass too often breaks. I wondered when she would.
Just after dawn I awoke, looking for Del. It was something I'd found
myself
doing each morning since we'd joined up together, and it irritated me.
But each
morning I did it anyway. For reassurance.
And each morning I said to myself: Yes, Del is alive. Yes, Del is here.
It isn't a dream after all.
Grunting, I sat up. Tried to stretch muscles and pop joints without
waking her,
because no man likes a woman to see how he's growing older, how the
years are
taking their toll. And then I stood up, slowly, and walked, equally
slowly, over
to the stud. I checked him every morning, just to be sure. The claw
slashes were
healing well, but the hair would come in white. Like me, he'd carry the
scars to
his death.
Still, he seemed in much better spirits--or maybe it was just that the
gelding's
presence made him take more of an interest in life. Whatever it was, he
was more
like his old self. His old, unpleasant self.
I ran my hand down the stud's shoulder, peeling winter hair. It was
nearly
spring; he was beginning to shed his fur.
"Tiger."
I glanced back and saw Del standing beside the fire. She had shed all
her
wrappings and faced me in white woolens, pale hair braided back from
her face
and laced with white cord. She took the sheath and harness into her
hands and
slid Boreal into dawn. Rune-worked steel gleamed. "Will you dance with
me,
Sandtiger?"
I turned from the stud to face her squarely. "You're in no shape to
dance, Del.
Not yet."
"I have to start sometime. It's been much too long."
For some strange reason it made me very angry. "Hoolies, woman, you're
sandsick!
I doubt you could hold a stance for more than a single eyeblink, and
certainly
not against any offense I might show you. Do you think I'm blind?"
"I think you're afraid."
Something deep inside twisted. "That again, then."
"And again, and again." She lifted the deadly jivatma. "Dance with me,
Sandtiger. Honor the deal we made."
Pride made me take a step toward my sword. But only a single step. I
shook my
head at her. "Not this time, bascha. I'm older, a little wiser. You
can't tease
me into the circle. Not any more. I know your tricks too well."
The tip of her sword wavered minutely. And then flashed as she shifted
her grip
and drove the blade straight down, deep into the earth. "Tease you?"
she asked.
"Oh, no." And before I could stop her, Del knelt before her sword. She
tucked
heels beneath buttocks and crossed wrists against her chest. The braid
fell over
her shoulder to dangle above the ground. "Honored kaidin," she said,
"will you
share with me some of your skill?"
I stared at the Northern woman offering obeisance to me, and all I felt
was
anger. A deep and abiding anger so strong it made me sick.
"Get up," I rasped.
All she did was bow her head.
"Get up from there, Delilah."
The full name made her twitch, but it did not force her up.
In the end, knowing from experience the strength of her determination,
I crossed
the clearing to her. She knew I was there; short of being deaf, she
could not
miss my string of muttered oaths. But she didn't rise. She didn't so
much as
lift her head.
I reached out a rigid hand. What I grabbed was Boreal.
"No--" Suppressing a cry, Del fell back. Illness and pain had taken her
strength, stealing away her quickness. In my hands I held the proof.
"Yes," I said clearly. "We made a deal, bascha, and I will honor it.
But not
yet. Not yet. Neither of us is ready." I shook my head wearily. "Maybe
it's just
that I'm older. Maybe it's that I'm wiser. Or maybe it's just the blind
pride of
youth that makes you risk yourself." I scrubbed a hand across my brow,
thrusting
fallen hair aside. "Hoolies, I don't know--maybe it's just sword-
dancers. I used
to do the same."
Del said nothing. She half-knelt on the ground, pressing herself
upright with
one hand while the other clutched her ribs. Color stood high in her
face. Flags
of brilliant crimson against pearl-white flesh.
I sighed. Set Boreal's tip against the ground and pressed her down,
slowly, so
she stood freely upright. Then I gingerly lowered myself to Del's
level,
kneeling carefully, and unbuckled my heavy belt.
Del's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"Showing you something." I dropped the belt, pulled up layers of wool.
Exposed
my rib cage. "There," I said. "See? Your handiwork, Del. A clean,
perfect sword
thrust. And it hurts. It hurts like hoolies. It will for some time to
come,
Del--maybe even forever. Because I'm not as young as I used to be. I
heal
slower. I hurt longer. I learn from my mistakes, because my mistakes
are around
to remind me."
Del's face now was dirty gray. She stared transfixed at the ugly scar.
It was
more vivid than it might be because, coming north, I'd lost much of my
color.
Livid purple against pale brown is not an attractive mix.
"I hurt, bascha. And I'm tired. I want nothing more than to go home, to
go
south, where I can bake myself in the sun and forget about Northern
snow. But I
can't until I'm finished with the job I said I'd do. And in order to
finish the
job, I have to stick around."
Del swallowed hard. "I only want to dance."
I tugged my tunic down. "I won't ask you to show me yours, since I've
got a good
idea what it looks like. It was me who did it, bascha--I know what the
thrust
was. I know what it did to you. If you went into a circle now, you
wouldn't
survive the dance." I picked up my own sword, still on the ground
between us. "I
almost killed you once. I won't risk it again."
"Too much time," she whispered.
With a grunt, I stood up. "You've got all the time in the world, my
Northern
bascha. You're young. You'll heal. You'll recover your strength. You'll
dance
again, Delilah--that I promise you."
"How old are you?" she asked abruptly.
I frowned down at her. "I thought I already told you."
"No. All you ever said was you were older than me." Surprising me, Del
smiled.
"That I already knew."
"Yes, well... I imagine so." Irritated, I scratched my sandtiger scars.
"I don't
know. Old enough. Why? Does it matter? After all this time?"
"You're the one making age an issue, Tiger. I only wanted to know how
old the
old man is."
"How old are you?" I countered, knowing perfectly well. But it's a
question
women hate.
Del didn't flinch. Nor did she hesitate. "In three more days, I will
have
twenty-one years."
"Hoolies," I said in disgust, "I could be your father."
Del's face was serious. "He was forty when he was killed. How close are
you to
that?"
"Too close," I muttered sourly, and went off to appease my bladder.


Nine
Del and I rode steadily northeast for two more days. We took it pretty
easy on
several counts: one, the stud; two, me; and three, Del herself. Neither
of us is
the kind of person who enjoys poor health. Neither of us is the kind of
person
who likes to talk about it, either, which meant we mostly kept our
mouths shut
regarding respective wounds.
But we did notice, of course. I noticed Del, she noticed me. But we
each of us
said nothing, because to say something meant admitting to discomfort,
which
neither of us was prepared to do. Call it pride, arrogance, stupidity;
only the
stud was completely honest, and he made no bones about it. He hurt. And
he told
us.
I patted his neck, avoiding healing claw scores. "I know, old man--but
it'll get
better, I promise."
Del, who rode in front of me amid bare-branched trees, twisted her head
to
mutter over a shoulder: "How do you know? You don't even know where
we're
going."
"We're going to Ysaa-den."
"And if you find no answers there?"
That again. It had briefly been a topic of discussion the day we'd set
out. She
was unconvinced I had made the right decision to follow the hounds to
their
origins. But since all of her decisions were governed by an insatiable
need for
revenge, I'd told her I wasn't so certain she could be trusted to give
me an
unbiased opinion regarding much of anything; she had retreated into
haughty
silence, as women so often do when the man catches them out, and had
said
nothing of it again.
Until now.
I adjusted my posture to the motion of the stud, trying to find a
position that
didn't pull at healing scar tissue. "Del," I said patiently, "you
didn't know
where you were going when you went south to find your brother. I don't
notice
that it stopped you, since before we met up we'd never heard of one
another--well, maybe you'd heard of me--and here we are now, riding
together in
the North. All of which means you didn't much care that you didn't know
where
you were going. You just went."
"That was different."
I nodded wryly to myself; isn't it always different?
Del peered at me over her shoulder, setting her jaw against the pain of
twisting
her torso. "How will you know when you've found whoever--or whatever--
you're
looking for?"
"I just will."
"Tiger--"
"Del, will you just stop trying to grind me into the ground in hopes
I'll give
in to you? I've made up my mind, and I intend to carry out my promise."
I
paused. "With you or without you."
Silence. Del rode on. And then, mostly muffled, "Those beasts were
never after
you."
It was half challenge, half boast. Also truth; it had become fairly
clear months
before the hounds wanted Del's sword, or Del, or both.
But that was then. Things had changed. "They are now."
Del stopped her gelding. Turned more squarely in the saddle, which hurt
her, but
didn't stop her from staring back at me intently. "What?"
"I said, 'They are now.' Why do you think the one stole the ward-
whistle?"
Del shrugged. "That was Canteada-made. Magicked. Lure enough, I think,
without
thinking it was you."
The stud reached out to sample the gelding's bluish rump. I pulled him
back,
chastised him a bit, turned him off diagonally in hopes of interesting
him in
something else, like maybe a tree. "They came once before into my camp.
All of
them. And they tried to take my sword."
"Take it!"
"Steal it," I confirmed. "They weren't much interested in me, just in
the
sword."
Del's frown deepened. "I don't understand."
"What's to understand?" I wrestled with the stud, who was showing signs
of
reacquainting his teeth with the roan's rump. "Originally all they
wanted was
your sword, remember? And then mine... once I'd blooded it. Once I'd
killed that
cat." Memory was a spasming in my belly. "Even once--" But I cut it
off.
Del's brows shot up. " 'Even once' what?"
Memory blossomed more fully. I stood on the overlook by the lakeshore,
staring
down at Staal-Kithra, Place of Spirits, where Northern dead lay
entombed in
Northern earth, honored by barrows and stone dolmens.
I stood by the overlook by the lakeshore, staring down at Staal-Ysta,
Place of
Swords, the island floating in water dyed black by winter's embrace.
And I had
thrust a naked blade into the earth.
Naked when it went in. Rune-scribed when it came out.
A chill pinched my spine. "They've known since I named it."
Del waited.
"They must have," I mused. "They were one large group originally--I
followed the
spoor for days... and then the group split up. Some tracks went on.
Others
circled back ..." I frowned. "Those hounds must have known."
After a moment, she nodded. "Names are powerful things. With jivatmas,
one must
be careful. Names must be closely guarded." And then her expression
softened.
"But you know that. You would never tell anyone the name of your
blooding-blade."
"I told you."
Del was astonished. "Told me! When? You have said nothing of it to me.
Nothing
of its name."
I scowled at the stud's ears. "There on the overlook, above the island.
After I
pulled it free. I just saw the runes, read the name--and told you." I
squirmed
slightly, knowing how foolish it sounded. "I didn't really expect you
to hear. I
mean, I wasn't even sure ' you were still alive--" I cut that off
abruptly. "I
just-said it. There on the overlook... for you." I paused, needing to
explain.
"You'd told me the name of your sword. I thought I should do the same.
So we'd
be even." I exhaled heavily. "That's all. That's why. So we'd be even."
Del didn't say a word.
The memory was so clear. "There it was," I told her. "Spelled out. His
name...
in the runes. Just as you and Kem had promised."
"Runes," Del echoed. "Runes you don't know how to read."
I opened my mouth. Shut it.
It had not occurred to me. The runes had looked so familiar I hadn't
even
thought about it. Not ever. I had just looked at them--and known. The
way a man
knows the shape and texture of his jaw when he shaves every morning.
The way his
body knows the fit of a woman's without requiring lessons.
Oh, hoolies.
Abruptly I unsheathed. Balanced the blade across the pommel of my
saddle and
stared at alien runes.
Stared hard. Until my eyes blurred and the shapes ran together. The
shapes that
had not existed in the blade originally. Not when Kem had given it to
me. Not
when I had dipped it in the water, asking, very cynically, the
blessings of
Northern gods.
Not when I had sheathed it in Northern earth, at the brink of the
overlook.
Only after I had drawn it out.
Del sat next to me on her blue roan. Like me, she stared at the blade.
But she
was smiling, if only a little; all I did was glare.
"So," she said, "once again the Sandtiger walks his own path. Makes his
own
path, as you have made that sword."
My tone was curt. "What?"
"Do you recall when Kem nicked your hand and had you bathe the blade in
blood?"
I nodded sourly; I hadn't liked it much.
"It is part of the Naming ceremony. Ordinarily the runes show
themselves then.
Mine did; all jivatmas do." She paused. "Except, of course, for yours."
I recalled Kem saying something of the sort. I also recalled him saying
something about belief being a requisite; that until I fully believed
in the
magic of a jivatma, its true name could not be known. Which was why, at
that
specific moment, there had been no runes.
But there on the overlook, so frightened Del was dead, I had believed.
Because
it had been the sword, not me, that had tried so hard to kill her.
And so, in that moment of belief, the sword had revealed its true name.
In runes
I couldn't read.
I said something very rude. Very violent. It had to do with things I
would like
to do with the sword. Do to it; things that would give me great
pleasure, great
relief; things that would resolve all potential future problems because
if I did
them--one, or even all of them--there would be no future for the sword.
"Yes," Del agreed. "It is difficult to accept the second soul--
especially when
that soul was once cat, not man. But you will." She smiled; a bit
smugly, I
thought, which was altogether unnecessary as well as unappreciated. "It
knows
you, now. It has told you what it must be. What it wants most of all."
"To kill," I muttered.
Del's tone was even. "Isn't that what you do? Isn't that what you are?"
I stared at the blade. The runes remained. Familiar shapes. But nothing
I could
read.
I looked away from the sword into Del's face. "Samiel," I told her.
Del drew in a startled breath.
"Samiel," I repeated. "You couldn't hear me the first time. Now you
can. Now you
know what it is."
I saw her mouth the name. I saw her look at my sword. I saw her think
of her
own; of what the "honor" entailed.
She turned her horse and rode on.
At sundown, Del watched pensively as I tended the stud, feeding him
handfuls of
grain and talking to him quietly. I didn't think anything of it; people
riding
alone often talk to their horses. And she'd seen me do it before,
though
admittedly not as much. She had talked to her silly speckledy gelding
during the
ride north; now she had the blue roan, but I doubted she'd change her
ways.
She handed me the bota when I returned to the cairn and arranged myself
on my
bedding, wrapping myself in cloak and pelts. Quietly, she said, "You
care for
him very much."
I sucked amnit, swallowed, shrugged. "He's a horse. Good as any other,
better
than most. He'll do in a pinch."
"Why have you never named him?"
I tossed the bota back. "Waste of time, names."
"You named your sword. Both of them; your Southron sword, Singlestroke,
and then
your Northern sword." But she didn't say the name. "And you have a name
yourself, honorably won. After years of having none."
I shrugged. "Just never got around to it. It seemed sort of silly,
somehow. Sort
of--womanish." I grinned at her expression. "He doesn't really need
one. He
knows what I mean."
"Or is it a reminder?"
She asked it mildly enough, implying nothing by it other than genuine
curiosity;
Del isn't one to purposely ask for hostilities, in words or with
weapons. But it
seemed an odd question.
I frowned. "No. I have a couple of good reminders: these scars and my
necklet."
I pulled the leather cord from beneath the woolen tunic and rattled
curving
claws. "Besides, I got him years later, long after I was free."
Del looked at her gelding, tied a prudent distance from the stud. "They
gave him
to me," she said, "to encourage a swifter departure."
Her tone was even enough, but I've learned how to read the nuances.
More than
the wound hadn't healed, and wouldn't for a while.
I let my necklet drop. "You did the right thing."
"Did I?" Now bitterness was plain. "I deserted my daughter, Tiger."
I saw no sense in diplomacy. "You did that five years ago."
It snapped her head around. She stared at me angrily. "What right have
you--"
"The one you gave me," I told her evenly, "when you pledged me to
Staal-Ysta--without my permission, remember?--to buy time with Kalle.
Even
though you'd given her up five years before."
I didn't intend to criticize her for it; it had been her decision. But
by now
she was so defensive she considered any comment at all a questioning of
her
motives. Which meant, as before, she was questioning them herself.
It is not something Del likes to do.
"I had no choice." Her tone was implacable. "I had made oaths. Blood
oaths. All
oaths should be honored."
"Maybe so," I agreed patiently, "and you're doing a fine job... but
losing Kalle
was the price. It was the choice you made."
Del turned her head and looked at me. "Another thing," she said
quietly, "worth
killing Ajani for."
I think there is no way a man can fully share or understand a woman's
feelings
for her child; we are too different. Not being a father--at least, not
as far as
I know--I couldn't even imagine what she felt. But I had been a child
without
kin of any kind, trapped in namelessness and slavery, feeling myself
unwhole.
Del's daughter had a family, even if not of her blood, and I thought
that
relationship justified the price.
Even if the mother did not.
"It's done," I said quietly. "You've been exiled from Staal-Ysta. But
at least
you're alive."
Del stared hard into darkness. "I lost Jamail," she said, "when he
chose to stay
with the Vashni. And now I have lost Kalle. Now I have no one at all."
"You have you. That ought to be enough."
Del's look was deadly. "You are ignorant."
I arched eyebrows. "Am I?"
"Yes. You know nothing of Northern kin customs. Nothing at all of
family. Yet so
quickly you undervalue things I hold very dear."
"Now, Del--"
Del's impatience was manifest. "I will tell you once. A last time. I
will tell
you so you know, and then perhaps you will understand."
"I think--"
"I think you should be quiet and listen to my words."
I shut my mouth. Sometimes you have to let women talk.
Del drew in a steadying breath. "In the North kin circles are very
close. They
are sacred... every bit as sacred as a circle is to a sword-dancer.
Generations
live within a single lodge, sometimes as many as four if the gods are
generous
in portioning out our lives." Briefly she nodded. "When a man marries,
the woman
comes into his lodge--unless he has no kin, and then he goes into hers-
-and so
the circle widens. Children are born, and still the circle widens. And
when
sickness comes and the old ones die, or even the newborn babies, the
circle
grows small again, so we may support one another. So we may share in
the pain
and the grief and the anguish, and not try to withstand it alone."
I waited, saying nothing.
"Brothers and sisters and cousins, aunts and uncles and grandfolk.
Sometimes the
lodges are huge. But always filled with laughter. Always filled with
song. Even
when people die, so the soul departs in peace."
I thought back to the lodges on Staal-Ysta. Big wooden lodges
overflowing with
people. So different from what I knew. So alien in customs.
Del spoke very softly. "When anything of substance happens, kinfolk
always
share. Courtships, weddings, birthings. And deaths. The songs are
always sung."
She paused, swallowing, frowning, then continued. "A father begins one
for the
lost child, and the mother takes it up, and then the brothers, the
sisters, the
aunts, the uncles, the cousins, the grandfolk... until the child is
sung to
sleep forever. If it is a husband, the wife begins. A wife, and the
husband
begins, and so on. The song is always sung, so the newly passed know a
life
beyond the world. So that there is no darkness, but only light. The
light of a
day, the light of a fire... the light of a star in the night, or the
glint from
a jivatma. Light, Tiger, and song, so there is no need for fear." She
drew in an
unsteady breath. "But now, for me, there will be no song. There is no
one to
sing it for me." She controlled her voice with effort. "No one for whom
I may
sing it; Jamail and Kalle are gone."
It called for something. Something of compassion. Something of
understanding.
But I found myself lacking the words, the tact, the necessary
understanding,
because I had known the need for revenge. The need for spilling blood.
And so I blurted the first words I stumbled upon because they were
easiest.
Because they required no compassion--only quiet, deadly passion. "Then
let's rid
the world of these hounds, bascha... let's rid it of Ajani."
Del blinked heavily. But her tone was very steady. "Will you dance with
me,
Tiger? Will you step into the circle?"
I looked at my sword, lying quietly in its sheath. I thought of its
power. I
thought of a man named Ajani, and the woman once called Delilah. "Any
time you
like."
Lips parted. I knew what she wanted. To say here, now, this moment. The
temptation was incredibly strong, but she denied it. And made herself
all the
stronger.
"Not now," she said quietly. "Not even tomorrow. Perhaps the day
after."
She knew as well as I even the day after was too soon. But by the time
that day
arrived, we could put it off again.
Or not.
I rolled forward onto my knees, pulled one of my pouches close, dug
down into
its depths and pulled from it the ash-dappled pelt. I tossed it gently
at her.
Del caught it. Let it unfurl, exhibiting all its glory. And looked to
me for an
explanation.
"Your birthday," I told her. Then, feeling awkward, "I've got no use
for it."
Del's hands caressed it. Much of her face was hidden behind loose hair.
"A fine
pelt," she said softly. "The kind used for a newborn's cradle."
Something pinched my belly. I sat up straighter. "You trying to tell me
something?"
Del frowned. "No. No, of course--" And then she understood exactly what
I meant.
She tossed back pale hair and looked me straight in the eye. "No,
Tiger. Not
ever."
"What do you mean, not ever?" And then I thought about how some women
couldn't
have children, and regretted asking the question. "I mean--no, never
mind. I
don't know what I mean."
"Yes, you do." Del smiled, if only faintly. "I mean, not ever. Only
Kalle. I
made it so."
"What do you mean, you made it--" And, hastily, "No, never mind."
"A pact," she explained simply. "I asked it of the gods. So I could be
certain
of fulfilling my oath. Kalle had delayed me enough already."
I blinked. "That sort of thing isn't binding." I paused. "Is it?"
Del shrugged. "I have not bled since Kalle's birth. Whether it was
that, or the
gods answering my petition, I cannot say. Only that you need have no
fear I will
make you something you have no wish to be."
So. Yet another piece of the puzzle named Delilah clicking into place.
Only Kalle, forever, who was no longer hers. And never could be, now.
Thanks to me.
Thanks to my sword.
Oh, hoolies, bascha... what's to become of you?
What's to become of us?
After a moment I reached out and touched her arm. "I'm sorry, bascha."
Del stared at me blindly, clutching the moon-silvered pelt. And,
eventually,
smiled. "Giving up on the wager already?"
It took me a moment because I'd nearly forgotten. "No," I retorted
sourly, "I'm
not giving up on the wager. But I'll make you wish I had."
She slanted me a glance. "I don't sleep with my father."
Hoolies, she knows how to hurt.


Ten
"Here," Del announced. "It is as good as anywhere else, and we may as
well see
if either of us is capable."
Having been lulled halfway to sleep by the rhythm of the stud and the
warmth of
the midday sun--well, maybe not warmth, exactly; at least, not the sort
I was
used to, but it was warmer--I had no idea what she was talking about.
So I
opened my eyes, discovered Del dismounting, and hastily reined in the
stud.
"Good as anywhere else for what?--and what is it we're supposed to be
capable
of?" I paused. "Or not?"
"Probably not," she observed, "but that had better change."
I scowled. "Del--"
"It's been long enough, Tiger. Ysaa-den is a day away--and we have yet
to
dance."
Oh. That. I was hoping she hadn't noticed. "We could wait a bit
longer."
"We could wait until we've ridden out of the North completely... but
that
wouldn't fulfill your promise." Del squinted up at me, shielding her
eyes with
the edge of a flattened hand pressed against her forehead. "I need it,
Tiger.
And so do you."
Yes, well... I sighed. "All right. Draw a circle. I've got to limber up
a bit,
first."
What I had to do was remind aching joints and stiffened muscles what it
was to
move, let alone to dance. We had ridden northeasterly for six days, and
I was
beginning to think tracking the hounds to their creator was not such a
good idea
after all. It hurt too much. I'd rather be holed up in some smoky
little cantina
with aqivi in my cup and a cantina girl on my knee--no, that would
probably hurt
too much, too. Certainly it would hurt too much if I did anything more
strenuous
than hold her on my knee, which meant why should I bother to hold her
on my knee
at all?
Hoolies, I hate getting old!
Del tied her gelding to a tree, found a long bough and proceeded to dig
a circle
into the earth, thrusting through deadfall, damp leaves, mud.
Pensively, I
watched her, noting how stiffly she held her torso. There was no
flexibility in
her movements, no fluid grace. Like me, she hurt. And, like me, she
healed.
On the outside, if not on the inside.
Del stopped drawing, threw the limb aside, straightened and looked at
me. "Are
you coming? Or do you want a formal, ritualized invitation?"
I grunted, unhooked foot from stirrup, slowly swung a leg over and
stepped down.
The stud suggested we go over to the gelding so he could get in a few
nips and
kicks, but I ignored his comments and tied him some distance from the
blue roan,
who had done his best to make friends. It was the stud who was having
none of
it.
Slowly I unhooked cloak brooches, peeled off wool, draped the weight
across the
saddle. It felt good to be free of it; soon, I hoped, I could pack it
away for
good. I wouldn't feel truly free until we were across the border and I
could
replace wool and fur with gauze and silk, but ridding myself of the
cloak was
something. It allowed me to breathe again.
My hand drifted to the harness worn over the tunic. Fingers tangled
briefly in
beads and fringe, then found their way to leather straps, supple and
soft,
snugged tautly against soft wool. Across my back, slanting, hung the
sheath with
its weight of sword. My hungry, angry sword.
"Tiger."
I shut my eyes. Opened them again, turning, and saw Del in the circle,
all in
white, glowing in the sun. It was a trick of clear, unblemished light
unscreened
by a lattice of limbs, but nonetheless it shook me. It reminded me of
the night
not so long before when she had stood in fire of her own making and all
the
colors of the world. Then I had thought, however briefly, she was
spirit in
place of woman. Looking at her now, blazing so brightly, I wondered if
maybe I
had killed her--
No. No.
You fool.
"Tiger," she said again. Unrelenting, as always.
You sandsick, loki-brained fool.
Del unsheathed. Light took life from Boreal.
She wouldn't sing. She wouldn't. And neither, I swore, would I.
Oh, hoolies, bascha... I don't want to do this.
Del's face was composed. Her tone divulged nothing. "Step into the
circle."
A tremor ran through my limbs. Something pinched my belly.
Bascha, please don't make me.
Del began to smile. Bladeglow caressed her face. It was kind, too kind;
she was
older, harder, colder. The light gave her youth again. Boreal made her
Del
again. The one before exile. And Kalle.
Something tickled the back of my neck. Not an insect. Not a stray piece
of hair,
falling against bared flesh. Something more.
Something that spoke of magic, whispering a warning to me.
Or was it merely fear, setting my flesh to rising?
Fear of my sword? Or of Del?
Oh, hoolies. Bascha.
"Tiger," Del said. "Have you gone to sleep standing up?"
Maybe. And maybe I am dreaming.
I slipped out of my harness. Closed my hand around the hilt and drew
the blade
from its sheath. Hooked the harness over my saddle and walked toward
the circle.
Del nodded, waiting. "It will be good for us both."
My throat tightened. Breathing was difficult. Something stirred in the
pit of my
belly. I bit into my lip and tasted blood. Tasted fear also.
Oh, bascha--don't make me.
"Gently, at first," she suggested. "We both have healing left to do."
I swallowed tightly. Nodded. Made myself step over the limb-carved
line.
Del frowned slightly. "Are you all right?"
"Do it," I rasped. "Just--do it."
She opened her mouth. To comment. Question. Chastise. But she did none
of those
things. She simply shut her mouth and moved away, closing both hands on
Boreal's
hilt. Slipping smoothly into her stance. That it hurt showed plainly in
the soft
flesh around her eyes and the brief tensing of her jaw, but she
banished pain.
Spread her feet. Balanced. Cocked the blade up. And waited.
In a true dance we would put our swords on the ground in the very
center of the
circle, and take up our positions directly across from one another. It
was a
race to the swords, and then a fight. A dance. Combat to name a winner.
Sometimes it was to the death. Other times only to yield. And
occasionally only
to show what dancing was all about.
But this was not a true dance. This was sparring only, a chance to test
one
another's mettle. To learn how fit we were. Or how much we needed to
practice.
I needed it for the beasts. Del for Ajani.
One and the same, perhaps?
She waited quietly. I have seen her wait so before, always prepared,
never
wavering; completely at ease with her sword. It no longer struck me as
odd, as
alien, that a woman could be a sword-dancer. That a woman could be so
good. Del
had made herself both; I had seen--and felt--the results.
Sweat ran down the sides of my face. Tension made me itch. I wished
myself
elsewhere, anywhere, other than where I was.
Del dipped her sword. Briefly. Slightly. Barely. A salute to her
opponent. In
blue eyes I saw concentration. And no indication of fear.
Did it mean nothing at all to Del that she had nearly killed me?
Did it mean nothing at all to Del that I had nearly killed her?
"Kaidin," she said softly, giving me Northern rank. Giving me Northern
honor.
I lifted my sword. Shifted into my stance. Felt the familiarity of it,
the
settling of muscles and flesh into accustomed places. Felt the protest
of scar
tissue twisted into new positions.
Sweat ran into my eyes. Desperation took precedence over other
intentions.
I lowered the sword. Swung around. Stepped out of the circle
completely. And
cursed as my belly cramped.
"Tiger?" Del's tone was bewildered. "Tiger--what is it?"
"--can't," I rasped.
"Can't?" She was a white-swathed wraith walking out of the circle,
carrying
Boreal. "What do you mean, 'can't'? Are you sick? Is it your wound?"
"I just--can't." I straightened, clutching at abdomen, and turned
toward her.
"Don't you understand? The last time we did this I nearly killed you."
"But--this isn't a real dance. This is only sparring--"
"Do you think it matters?" Sweat dripped onto my tunic. "Do you have
any idea
what it's like stepping into the circle with you again, two months
after the
last disastrous dance? Do you have any idea what it feels like to face
you
across the circle with this butcher's blade in my hands?" I displayed
Samiel to
her. "Last time it--he--did everything he could to blood himself in
you... and
now he's even stronger because I did finally blood him." I paused. "Do
you want
to take that chance? Do you want to trust your life to my ability to
control
him?"
"Yes," she answered evenly, without hesitation. "Because I know you,
Tiger. I
know your strengths, your power. Your own share of power, from deep
inside... do
you think I would ever doubt you?"
She should. I would.
I flung damp hair out of my eyes. "Del, I can't dance with you. Not
now. Maybe
never. Because each time I try, I'll see it all over again. You, on the
ground... with blood all over the circle. With blood all over my
sword."
Del looked at my blade. Then at her own. Recalling, perhaps, that
Boreal had
been bloodied also? That someone other than herself had left his share
of blood
in the circle?
She drew in a deep breath. Shut her eyes briefly, as if she fought some
inner
battle; then opened them and looked at me. "I'm sorry," she said
softly. "I
am--different. For a purpose. I put behind me what may be disturbing to
others.
Again, for a purpose; memories can turn you from your path. But--you
should know
it was not easy for me to cut you." She frowned a little, as if the
words hadn't
come out the way she meant them. "You should know that I was afraid,
too... that
you were dead. That I had killed you."
"I can't," I said again. "Not now. Not yet. Maybe never. I know I
promised. I
know you need someone to dance with, so you can face Ajani. But--well
..." I
sighed. "Maybe what you should do is head south. Go on to the border.
Harquhal,
maybe--you should find someone there who will dance with you. Sword-
dancers will
do anything for coin." I shrugged. "Even dance against a woman."
"It will pass," she told me. "Perhaps--if I made you angry?"
I grinned. "You make me angry a lot, bascha--it doesn't mean I want to
settle it
with swords."
"It will pass," she said again.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe what--" I stopped.
Del frowned. "What is it?"
My belly rolled. All the hairs on my arms stood up. A grue rippled
through flesh
and muscle. "Magic," I said curtly. "Can't you smell it?"
Del sniffed. "I smell smoke." She frowned, assessing, identifying.
"Smoke--and
something else. Something more." She glanced around, brow creased. "It
is gone
now--"
"Magic," I repeated. "And no, it's not gone. It's there. It's there,
bascha--I
promise." It was all I could do not to shudder again. Instead I
contented myself
with rubbing fingers through wool to flesh, scrubbing a prickling arm.
"Not the
hounds--not quite the hounds... something different. Something more."
Del stared northeast. "We are but a day away from Ysaa-den--"
"--and in clear, cold air like this, smells travel; I know. But this is
more."
"Smoke," she said again, musingly, and then moved away from the circle.
Away
from me. Like a hunting hound tracking prey, Del sifted through trees
and
shadows until she found a clearing open to the sky, unscreened by
trees.
"There," she said as I came up beside her. "Do you see?"
I looked beyond her pointing hand. There was not much to see other than
the
jagged escarpments of a mountainside, and the blade-sharp spine of the
highest
peak, all tumbled upon itself into bumps and lumps and crevices, some
dark, some
shining white in the sunlight.
"Clouds," I said.
"Smoke," Del corrected. "Much too dark for clouds."
I stared harder at the peak. She was right. It wasn't a cloud I saw,
rolling
down from the heights to swath the peak, but smoke rising from the
mountainside
itself. Ash-gray, gray-black; it trailed against the sky like a damp
cookfire in
the wind.
"Ysaa-den," she murmured.
I frowned. "Then that little mountain village is a lot bigger than I
was told.
That's enough smoke for a city half the size of the Punja--"
Del interrupted. "No, not the village. The name. Ysaa-den."
I sighed. "Bascha--"
"Dragon's Lair," she said. "That's what the words mean."
I scowled up at the mountain. "Oh, I see--now I'm supposed to believe
in
dragons?"
Del pointed. "You should. There it is."
"That's a mountain, Del--"
"Yes," she agreed patiently. "Look at the shape, Tiger. Look at the
smoke."
I looked. At the smoke. At the mountain. And saw what she meant: the
shape of
the mountain peak, so harsh and jagged and shadowed, did form something
like the
head of a lizardlike beast. You could see the ridged dome of the skull,
the
overhanging brows, the undulating wrinkles of dragon-flesh peeled back
from
bared teeth. Only the teeth were spires of stone, as was the rest of
the
monstrous beast.
A mythical monstrous beast.
"There's the mouth," she mused, "and the nostrils--see the smoke? It's
coming
out of both."
Well, sort of. There was smoke, yes, and it kind of appeared to be
coming out of
odd rock formations that did, in a vague sort of way, slightly resemble
mouth
and nostrils--if you looked real hard.
"Dragon," I said in disgust.
"Ysaa-den," she repeated.
I grunted.
Del glanced at me. Tendrils of hair lifted from her face. "Don't you
hear it,
Tiger?"
"I hear wind in the trees."
She smiled. "Have you no imagination? It's the dragon, Tiger--the
dragon in his
lair, hissing down the wind."
It was wind, nothing more, sweeping through the trees. It keened
softly,
stripping hair out of our faces, rippling woolen folds, blowing smoke
across the
sky. And the smell of something--something--just a little more than
woodsmoke.
The back of my neck tingled. "Magic," I muttered.
Del made a noise in her throat that sounded very much like doubt and
derision
all rolled into one. And then she turned and walked past me, heading
back toward
the circle she had drawn in the damp, hard soil of a land I could not
trust.
No more than my own sword.


Eleven
With a name as dramatic as Dragon's Lair, you might expect Ysaa-den to
be an
impressive place to live. But it wasn't. It wasn't much more than a
ramshackle
little village spilling halfway down the mountainside. There were
clustered
lodges like those on Staal-Ysta, but smaller, poorer. Not as well-
tended. There
was an aura of disrepair about the whole place; but then the villager
who'd come
to the island had said something about the inhabitants losing heart
because of
the trouble with the hounds.
I sniffed carefully as Del and I rode into the little mountain village.
There
was plenty to smell, all right, and not all of it good, but the stench
had less
to do with hounds than with sickness, despair, desperation. Also the
odd tang
I'd noticed back by the circle Del had drawn. Smoke--and something
more.
It was midday. Warm enough to shed our cloaks, even this high in the
mountains.
And so we had shed them earlier, tying them onto our saddles, which
left
harnesses and hilts in plain sight. And that is what brought so many
people out
to watch us ride into the village: Northern swords in Northern harness.
It meant
maybe, just maybe, we were the sword-dancers sent from Staal-Ysta. The
saviors
Ysaa-den awaited.
I am accustomed to being stared at. Down south, people do it because,
generally,
they know who I am. Maybe they want to hire me, buy me aqivi, hear my
stories.
Maybe they want to challenge me, to prove they are better. Or maybe
they don't
know me at all, but want to meet me; it happens, sometimes, with women.
Or maybe
they'd stare at any man who is taller than everyone else, with
sandtiger scars
on his face. All I know is, they stare.
Here in the North, my size is not so unusual, because Northern men are
very
nearly always as tall, or taller. But here in the North I am many
shades darker
in hair and skin. And still scarred. So they stare.
In Ysaa-den also, they stared. But I doubt they noticed size, color,
nationality. Here they stared because someone had loosed magic on the
land, and
it was killing them. And maybe, just maybe, we could do something to
stop it.
By the time we reached the center of the village, the lodges had
emptied
themselves, disgorging men, women, children, dogs, chickens, cats,
pigs, sheep,
goats, and assorted other livestock. Del and I were awash in Ysaa-den's
inhabitants. The human ones formed a sea of blue eyes and blond hair;
the
others--the four-legged kind--serenaded us with various songs, all of
which
formed a dreadful racket. Maybe Del could have found something
attractive in the
music, since she was so big on singing, but to me all it was was noise.
Just as
it always is.
We stopped, because we could ride no farther. The people pressed close,
trampling slushy snow into mud and muck; then, as if sensing the stud's
uneasiness and their lack of courtesy, they fell back, shooing animals
away,
giving us room. But only a little room. Clearly they were afraid that
if given
the opportunity to leave, we'd take it.
Del reined in the roan to keep him from jostling a child. The mother
caught the
little girl and jerked her back, murmuring something to her. Del told
the woman
quietly it was all right, the girl was only curious; no harm was done.
I looked at her sharply as she spoke, hearing nuances in her tone. She
was
thinking, I knew, of Kalle, of her daughter on Staal-Ysta. And would,
probably,
for a long time. Maybe even every time she looked at a blonde, blue-
eyed girl of
about five years.
But Del would learn to live with this just as she'd learned with
everything
else. It is one of her particular strengths.
She glanced at me. "It was your promise." In other words, she was
leaving the
introductions and explanations to me.
Uncomfortable, I shifted in the saddle, redistributing weight. Down
south I'm
happy enough to talk with villagers or tanzeers, to strike bargins,
suggest
deals, invent solutions to problems--but that's down south, where I
know the
language. And also where they pay me for such things. Coin is a
tremendous
motivator.
The thing was, I wasn't south. I didn't know the people, didn't know
the
language--at least, not very well--didn't know the customs. And that
sort of
ignorance can make for a world of trouble.
"They're waiting," Del said quietly.
So they were. All of them. Staring back at me.
Well, nothing for it but to do the best I could. I sucked in a deep
breath. "I'm
hunting hounds," I began in Southron-accented Northern--and the whole
village
broke into cheering.
It was noise enough to wake the dead. Before all I'd heard was the
racket of
animals; now there was human noise to contend with, too. And it was
just as bad.
Hands patted my legs, which was all anyone could reach. I couldn't help
it: I
stiffened and reached up for my sword; realized, belatedly, all the
hands did
was pat. It was a form of welcome, of joy; of tremendous gratitude.
Del's roan was surrounded. She, too, was undergoing the joyful welcome.
I
wondered what it felt like for her, since she hadn't come to Ysaa-den
to help
anyone. She'd come for her own requirements, which had nothing to do
with
hounds. Only with Ajani.
If anyone noticed I wasn't Northern, which seemed fairly likely, it
wasn't
brought up. Apparently all that mattered was that Staal-Ysta had heard
of their
plight, answered their pleas, sent us to settle things. No one cared
who we
were. To them, we were salvation with steel redemption in our sheaths.
I looked out across the throng. Since they expected us to save them, I
saw no
point in wasting time. So I got right to the point. "Where are these
beasts
coming from?"
As one they turned to the mountain. To the dragon atop their world. And
one by
one, they pointed. Even the little children.
"Ysaa," someone murmured. And then all the others joined in. The world
rolled
through the village.
Ysaa. I didn't need a translation: dragon. Which didn't make any sense.
There
were no dragons. Not even in the North, a place of cold, harsh
judgments.
Dragons were mythical creatures. And they had nothing to do with
hounds.
"Ysaa," everyone whispered, until the word was a hiss. As much as the
dragon's
breath, creeping down from the gaping stone mouth.
Then, having named it, they all turned once more to me. Bright blue
eyes were
expectant; clearly, they wanted something. Something to do with the
dragon.
I glanced at Del. "This is ridiculous." In Southron, not Northern; I
have some
diplomacy. "I came here to find whoever was sending out the hounds, not
discuss
bedtime stories."
"Well," she said lightly, "if it is ridiculous, your task will be that
much
simpler."
"Why?" I asked suspiciously.
"Why do you think?" she retorted. "They want you to kill the dragon."
I peered up at the dragon-shaped mountain. It was a pile of stone,
nothing more.
"If that's true," I told her, "this job will be very easy."
All right, it was a stupid thing to say. If I have learned anything in
this
business, it is never to underestimate your opponent. But the idea of a
mountain
being an enemy was enough to irritate even me, even-tempered as I am;
people who
allow religion or mythology to control their lives are begging for
trouble. It
just doesn't happen that way. We're born, we live, we die--gods don't
have
anything to do with it any more than dragons do.
And I'd come hunting hounds.
Now, inside a lodge, Del shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said.
"No
other sword-dancers from Staal-Ysta ever reached them. Only you. And so
now you
can fulfill your promise, as you said." She paused. "Isn't that what
you told
me? That you took on the task of aiding Ysaa-den in the name of your
new-won
rank?"
Well, yes. Sort of. I mean, I had, but all I'd been after was a chance
to track
down the hounds. At the time, it had provided a means of escape. A
means of
putting behind me what I'd done to Del. Because the only way I could
deal with
her death was to hide from it in a job.
Trouble was--well, no, not trouble--Del wasn't dead. Which meant I no
longer
needed the job, because there was nothing to hide from.
The people of Ysaa-den--with all their animals--had escorted us en
masse to the
headman's lodge. It was the biggest, but also the emptiest; he'd lost
half of
his family to, he told us, the dragon.
I sighed, hung onto my patience, went about my business. Del and I
settled our
horses in the guest pen behind the lodge--the stud didn't like it much,
threatening the sapling fence with iron-shod hind hooves until I told
him to
mind his manners--then joined the headman inside, where I tried to
bring up the
hounds. But he waved them off like so much unnecessary baggage. What he
wanted
to talk about was the dragon.
I listened for a moment or two, knowing better than to cut him off too
soon--you
always have to humor people impressed by their own authority--then
mentioned
something about a long journey. He took the hint; he bowed himself out
of the
lodge, leaving us alone. To rest and refresh ourselves.
At least the empty lodge was quiet. The thought of living with
multitudinous
people and animals was not something I cared to consider.
The headman's dwelling, like the lodges on Staal-Ysta, was built of
wood with
mud, twigs, and cloth stuffed into the cracks between the logs. It
provided
shelter from the worst of the cold and wind, but nonetheless remained a
bit
chilly on the inside despite the fire laid at one end of the lodge,
beneath the
open smoke hole, which let air in as well as letting smoke out. An open
corridor
ran the length of the rectangle, lined on either side by wooden roof
supports
evenly spaced about ten feet apart. Beyond the supports were the
compartments
the inhabitants called their own; small, cramped spaces more like
stalls than
rooms. It was a place of enforced closeness. Del had spoken of kin ties
and
blood loyalties strengthened by living customs; I could see why. If
they didn't
learn to live with one another, they'd end up killing each other.
Del went into the first empty compartment she came to. No doubt the
headman
expected us to use another--his own well-appointed one, I'm sure, down
at the
far end--but Del has never been one for unnecessary ceremony. She
untied her
bedding, spread pelts over hard-packed earth, sat down. And took out
her
jivatma.
It was a ritual I had witnessed many times. For anyone who lives by the
sword,
the care of a blade is an important part of survival. Del and I had
spent many
an evening beneath the moon, cleaning, honing and oiling our swords,
tending the
little nicks, or inspecting and repairing harness and sheaths. But now,
here, in
this place, it seemed odd to watch her yet again tending her sword. I
don't know
why. It just did.
In the distance, beasts bayed. I heard the mournful howls, echoing in
rocky
canyons; the eerie keening of magic-made hounds drifting down from the
dragon to
thread its way throughout Ysaa-den, sliding through chinks in the
lodges and
ghosting down the smoke hole. I shivered.
"Hoolies," I blurted irritably. "How can you people live in a place
this cold? I
have yet to see a truly warm day, or a piece of ground without some
kind of snow
on it. How can you stand it, Del? All this cold and snow and drab,
gray-white
days? There's no color here!"
Her head was bent over her work. The laced braid swung, back and forth,
gently,
as she tended the blade. With abrupt discomfort, I recalled the wager
we'd made
regarding solitary nights in different beds.
And then recalled other things. Behavior I couldn't condone.
Explanations I
couldn't accept.
Del didn't even look up. "There is color," she said at last. "Even in
winter.
There are the subtle colors of snow--white, gray, blue, pink, all
dependent upon
sun and shade and time of day--and the richness of the mountains, the
lakes, the
trees. Even the clothing of the children." She flicked a glance at me.
"There is
color, Tiger. You have only to look for it."
I grunted. "I prefer the South. The deserts. Even the Punja. At least
there I
know what's what."
"Because there are no dragons?" Del didn't smile, just ran her
whetstone the
length of the blade. "But there are cumfa, and danjacs, and
sandtigers... not to
mention lustful tanzeers, murderous borjuni, and warrior tribes like
the
Vashni."
Standing wasn't accomplishing much except sore knees and tired back; I
dropped
my roll of bedding and perched my rump upon it, addressing her final
comment.
"They gave your brother a home."
"The remains of him," she said. The whetstone rang out more loudly than
usual.
"You saw what he was to that old man."
So I had. I am a man for women, having no desire for men in my bed, but
I'd seen
clearly what there was between Del's brother and the old Vashni
chieftain who'd
taken him in.
And had thought, at the time, that at least the boy had found someone
to love
after being stripped of manhood and tongue. Someone to love him.
"But you would have brought him back anyway," I said. "Isn't that what
you
intended, to get him out of the South?"
"Of course. And I would have. But--he chose otherwise."
"I don't think he had a choice, Del. I think he knew it was best for
him to
remain with the Vashni, where he was accepted for himself."
"Accepted because he belonged to the old man."
I knew what she meant by the emphasized word. In the South, where women
are
little more than brood mares or ornaments, men often seek more
stimulating
companionship with their own sex. In bed as well as anywhere else. And
then, of
course, there was the slave trade--
I broke off the thought. "Maybe so," I agreed. "And maybe, by then, it
was what
he wanted."
Del stopped honing. "But what happens?" she asked. "What happens when
the old
man is dead? Does Jamail become the slave of a new chieftain? Does he
then serve
the new man as he served the old?"
"I don't know," I told her. "Short of going back down there to find
out, we
never can know."
"No," she said sharply. Then, more quietly, "No. You are right: he made
his
choice. Just as I made mine with Kalle."
I expected something more. But she gave me nothing save the muted ring
of
whetstone on steel. Another kind of song.
One I understood.
We had privacy until sundown. And then the headman and several other
villagers
came into the lodge and very politely invited us to dinner. Since Del
and I had
nothing better to do--and both of us were hungry--we accepted.
Given a choice, I'd have preferred the meal inside a lodge; as a matter
of fact,
it was sort of what I'd expected. But apparently the Northerners took
the first
breath of spring as a promise of temperate nights as well as days; when
dinner
proved to be a village-wide gathering under the naked sky, seated on
pelt-covered ground, I wrapped myself so close in my cloak it was next
to
impossible to move, though I left enough room for my eating arm to do
its work.
One thing I'm good at is eating. And you never spit on a gift meal
unless it's
served by an enemy.
The headman, whose name was Halvar, was very aware of the honor our
presence did
Ysaa-den; he was also very aware of his own responsibilities in hosting
us
properly. While Del and I chewed roast pork, bread, tubers, and
swallowed mugs
of ale, Halvar entertained us with the history of the village. I didn't
pay much
attention, since I had trouble following his accent, and since I kept
hearing
references to the dragon, which told me mythology ran rampant in Ysaa-
den. And
I've never cared much for mythology. Just give me a clean sword made of
true-honed steel--
"Tiger."
It was Del; no surprise. I glanced over, picking a string of pork rind
from
between my teeth. "What?"
Briefly, she frowned. Then made a graceful one-handed gesture that
somehow
managed to indicate the entire gathering. "Because we go tomorrow to
face the
dragon, the village of Ysaa-den would like to make a song in our
honor."
"I don't sing," I answered promptly.
"They don't want to hear you sing, Tiger. They want to sing for us."
I swallowed the freed bit of pork and washed it down with ale. Shrugged
a single
shoulder. "If they want to. You know I'm not big on music."
Del changed languages adroitly, switching to accented Southron and
smiling
insincerely for Halvar's benefit. "It's considered an honor. And if you
have any
manners at all--or good sense--you will tell them how honored we are."
"They can sing us to sleep, for all I care." I swallowed more ale.
Del's smile fell away. "Why are you being so rude? These people believe
in you,
Tiger... these people are trying to tell you how much it means to them
that
you've come to save the village. You are the Sandtiger--someone out of
Southron
legends. Now perhaps you can become the man of Northern legends as
well. Someone
who cares for the troubles of others, who tends the helpless and weak--
"
I had to interrupt before she got in any deeper. "Appealing to my pride
won't
work."
"It has before."
I ignored that. "Maybe because I just can't understand why a village
full of
adults persists in telling stories instead of discussing things
rationally." I
gestured with my head toward the looming mountain. "It's a heap of
stone, Del;
nothing more. If the hounds are up there, I'll go--but why keep telling
me
there's a dragon?"
Del sighed and set down her own mug. All around us the people stared;
we spoke
in Southron, not Northern, but undoubtedly the tenor of our discussion
was
obvious, even if the words weren't.
"Tiger, weren't you listening to anything Halvar told us about how
Ysaa-den came
to be?"
"I heard it, yes... but I didn't catch one word in ten, bascha. His
uplander is
all twisty, and I don't speak it that well anyway."
Del frowned a little. "Mountain dialect; yes, it might be difficult for
you. But
that doesn't excuse your rudeness--"
"--in not taking his story literally?" I shook my head. "I'm not here
to waste
my time on a storyteller's fancy, Del. They're all a bunch of liars
anyway, if
you ask me--spinning tales for coin when they should be spending their
time
doing real work. I mean, how hard is it to make up stories? And then to
be paid
for it--"
"Tiger." Del's tone cut me short. "We are not discussing skjalds, who
hold high
honor in the North--and how would you know if being a skjald is
difficult or
easy? What does a man who kills other men know of telling stories?"
I slanted her a glance. "Last time I looked, you carried your own share
of
death-dealing, Delilah."
It shut her up for a moment. And then she looked at Halvar, who waited
patiently, and managed a weak smile. But there was nothing weak about
her tone
of voice. "This man and his village have offered to pay us high honor,
Sandtiger. You will listen to the song, and you will wait quietly for
its
conclusion, and then you will thank Halvar and everyone of Ysaa-den for
their
kindness and graciousness. Do you hear?"
"Of course," I said, affronted. "What do you think I am, anyway? Some
fool who
fell off the goat wagon this morning?"
"No," Del said coolly. "Some fool who fell off one thirty-eight or
thirty-nine
years ago and landed on his head."
"Thirty-six!" I retorted, stung. And swore as she smiled sweetly and
informed
Halvar we would be very honored by the song.
At least, I think that's what she said. You never can be too sure with
uplander.
It's hilly as the North itself. But whatever it was she said pleased
Halvar
mightily; he called out something unintelligible--to me--and people
scattered to
lodges, returning moments later with skin drums, pipes, tambors,
finger-bells,
wooden sticks, and other things I didn't recognize.
Musicians, obviously. The rest, who had only their voices, gathered
children
into laps or lovers into arms and prepared to make us a song.
The sun was gone, swallowed by the mountains. The dragon smoked
sullenly in the
dusk, emitting a faint red glow from deep in its "throat." I scowled up
at it,
noting that darkness did not entirely alter its shape into a more
sanguine
beast, as expected--if anything, it looked more dragonlike than ever--
and
realized the odd smell remained. Much of it was covered by other
aromas--roast
pork, sour ale, unwashed bodies, babies who needed clean wrappings,
animals too
closely confined--but it remained underneath it all, drifting down from
the
dragon-shaped mountain to shroud Ysaa-den in a musty, malodorous pall.
Not woodsmoke. Woodsmoke has a clean, sweet scent, depending on the
wood. And
not dung smoke, either, goat, cow or otherwise--I have reason to know,
having
gathered dung in my days as a slave--which has a pungency all its own.
This was
different.
"Hounds," I said sharply.
Halvar broke off his introduction to the song. Del looked at me
crossly.
"Hounds," I repeated, before she could say anything, or call me names
again.
"That's what it smells like. Or, better yet, that's what they smell
like." I
lifted my chin in the mountain's direction. "The smoke."
Del frowned. "Eggs gone bad?" she suggested.
I considered it. "A little," I agreed. Then, upon further reflection,
"but more
like rotting bodies."
I said it quietly, so only Del could hear. It made her curt with me
anyway. And
then she turned from me to Halvar again. Pointedly, and told him to
begin the
long-delayed song.
He was more than ready. Trouble was, he needed one more thing from each
of us.
And asked it.
Del's face changed. I saw the color go out of it, very slowly; how her
eyes,
equally slowly, dilated. She shook it off quickly enough, but the
damage had
been done. When she spoke to the headman it was in her clipped, sword-
dancer's
tone of voice, all business, with little personality in it. I have
heard her use
it before. I had not expected her to use it with Halvar, whom she
seemed to
like.
I stirred within the folds of my cloak. "What?"
Del waved a hand at me, as if it would be enough.
"What?" I repeated, with a bit more emphasis. "There are two of us
here,
bascha--what did he ask?"
She shot me a deadly glance. "Names," she answered curtly. "The names
of living
kin, so that should we fail tomorrow, and die, our kinfolk can be told.
So
funeral songs may be sung."
It was unexpected. Equally discomfiting. "Well," I said finally, "I
guess that
means less work for Halvar, then, if anything does happen. Since
there's no one
to tell for either of us."
Del didn't answer at once. And then when she did it was very quietly,
with an
odd lack of emotion. She spoke uplander to Halvar, explaining the truth
of
things. I didn't catch all of the words, but I did catch his
expression.
He looked at Del. At me. Then drew in a breath and addressed the
gathered
villagers, adult and child alike.
I heard Del's hiss of shock. And then she was trying to override
Halvar's little
speech, telling him no repeatedly. But he was adamant; I heard the word
for
honor.
Trust him to hit on the right word. It shut her up immediately.
"What?" I asked irritably.
Del was tight as wire. "I told him." Her teeth were gritted. "I told
him. That
there are no names. There are no kin. Only the Sandtiger and Delilah,
with
blooding-blades for kinfolk and the circle for our lodge."
I waited a moment. "And?"
Del sucked in a deep breath, held it, released it. Slowly. Silently.
"So," she
said, "they will sing. They will make a song for all our lost ones, a
song of
farewell, because they had no kin to sing it to for them when they
died, to
guide them into the light." She swallowed visibly. "As you and I have
no kinfolk
to sing the songs for us."
I heard the first voice. Halvar's: the headman's privilege. And then a
woman's
voice: his wife's. And another and another, until all the village was
singing.
Voices only; no pipes, no drums, no sticks, no tambors, no chiming
finger-bells.
Only voices.
Voices were enough.
Wrapped tightly in my cloak, I sat beneath a star-blotched Northern sky
and
thought only of the South. Of the desert. Of the Punja.
Where a woman had borne a boy--a strong, healthy boy--and left him to
die in
burning sands beneath a blazing sun.


Twelve
The stench was worsening. Halvar, riding a little ahead of Del, who
rode ahead
of me, seemed not to notice, which told me either he had no sense of
smell, or
he'd grown so accustomed to the stink he no longer noticed it. To me,
it seemed
impossible, in view of the magnitude of the odor. Hoolies, I could
taste it. It
made me want to spit.
I leaned over in my saddle, making sure I didn't threaten the stud, and
spat.
Twice. He waggled an ear, shook his head, walked on.
We climbed relentlessly toward the dragon, which was making its
presence known
through smell and smoke. Both filled up nose and mouth, lingering
unpleasantly
in lungs, causing a tight, dull headache that made me irritable as well
as
impatient. There had been no sign of hounds since Del and I reached
Ysaa-den,
though we'd heard them. And no sign of any dragon; as we climbed, our
closeness
to the rock formations and crumbling spires caused them to lose their
eerie
shapes and became nothing more than stone and earth, which is what I'd
said the
thing was all along. I felt suitably vindicated; unfortunately, no one
wanted to
share in my victory.
As we climbed, Halvar entertained us with stories about the dragon and
Ysaa-den.
Trouble was, I was too far behind the headman and Del to hear
everything over
the noise of hoof on stone; moreover, his mountain dialect rendered his
uplander
mostly unintelligible. Which didn't particularly bother me, if you want
the
truth; I was content to match the rhythm of the stud's steady climbing
and spent
my time looking around watchfully. Part of me waited for hounds. Now
that I no
longer wore the Canteada ward-whistle, the stakes were a bit different.
But I
still had a sword, and so did Del.
So did Halvar, but it was an old, ill-tended bronze sword, of no use to
anyone,
let alone a headman untrained in fighting. I had the feeling Halvar
would be
more hindrance than help, if it came to making a stand. But you can't
just pat
the village leader on the head when trouble arises and send him off to
mother
and father; the hounds had eaten Halvar's, and anyway he was too nice a
person
to dismiss so easily. There would have to be some show of dignity and
honor in
the name of the headman's pride.
From the heights came a mournful wailing howl that changed, midway, to
a vicious
growling snarl. Halvar halted his mount.
"Far enough," he said, so emphatically even I understood it. "I am
headman, not
hero; such things are for sword-dancers and sword-singers trained on
Staal-Ysta."
Which meant Halvar was more than a nice person; he was also pretty
smart.
We were two-thirds of the way up the mountain. The track had changed to
trail
some time back; now it began to resemble little more than a trough
formed by
melting snow. I asked Halvar why, if they so feared the dragon and its
hounds,
the villagers even bothered to climb far enough to make a trail.
Halvar stared back at me blankly a moment. Then he looked at Del.
She sighed. "He explained all that, Tiger. As we climbed."
I didn't like being made to feel guilty. "I told you I don't understood
his
lingo very well. And besides, one of us had to keep an eye out for
hounds."
Del didn't answer right away. She looked up the mountain toward the
"mouth,"
which still spewed fitful drifts of smoke. "The hounds weren't always
here," she
said finally. "Halvar says the first one appeared about six months ago,
maybe
seven. Apparently it killed one of the villagers; no one is certain,
because the
man was never found. But after that, more and more of the beasts
appeared... and
more and more villagers disappeared. There is a track here because the
village
holy man suggested the dragon might be appeased with gifts, and so the
villagers
began to climb up to the dragon to make offerings. Unfortunately, the
dragon was
not appeased; more people disappeared. So they sent to Staal-Ysta and
begged for
help." She paused. "You are what they got."
I wanted to respond to her overly bland tone of voice, which is
infuriating at
times, but Halvar pointed up the mountain and said something to Del I
couldn't
understand. It sounded like a warning to me. Whatever it was, Del
didn't much
like it; she snapped out something to Halvar that made him redden. But
he tapped
the hilt of his useless bronze sword and repeated what he'd said
before. This
time I caught part of it. Something about jivatmas.
"What?" I asked, as usual.
Del looked at Halvar. "He says we would be wise to leave our swords
sheathed.
That the village holy man has decreed magic a danger to Ysaa-den
because the
dragon feeds on it."
"Oh?" It sounded suspicious to me. "And how does he know that?"
"He set wards when the hounds first appeared," she explained. "Or so
Halvar
says. And the wards, instead of protecting the village, drew the
hounds. Who
stole them."
"Stole what, the wards? Is he sandsick? What would hounds want with
wards?"
Del didn't smile. "Maybe the same thing they wanted with the whistle."
And my sword? My newly-quenched jivatmal They hadn't been even remotely
interested in the thing until I'd blooded it; only in Boreal, who
reeked of
blood and power.
I looked at Halvar with a bit more respect. "Tell him we appreciate the
warning."
Del stared. "Tiger--"
"And ask him if he will send someone each day to feed and water the
horses;
we're leaving them here and going the rest of the way on foot. I'd send
them
back down with him, but I don't like the idea of being completely
horseless; at
least this way they're in range, if we need them." I looked again at
the smoking
"mouth," easily an hour's hike from where we were. "Sort of."
"Each day?" Del echoed. "How many do you plan to spend tromping around
the
mountains?"
"Two," I answered succinctly. "If I can't beat a mountain by then,
hounds or no
hounds, I'm not worth the coin they're paying me."
"They're not."
I frowned. "Not what?"
"Paying you."
I frowned harder. "What do you mean, not paying me? This is what I do
for a
living, bascha. Remember?"
"But you took on this task as a duty to your rank as a kaidin." Her
expression
also was bland, but I know that look in her eye. "They didn't hire the
Sandtiger, nor did Staal-Ysta send him. A new-made kaidin answered the
plea of a
village in need, and swore to help in any way he could." She raised
pale brows.
"Isn't that what you told me?"
"Hoolies, Del, you know I'm a sword-dancer. I don't do anything for
free." I
paused. "At least, not anything dangerous."
"Then perhaps you should explain that to Halvar, who is headman of a
village
which probably has no coin at all--oh, perhaps one or two coppers, if
you insist
on counting--but survives against all odds because people make a living
out of
the ground and from the livestock, in coin of wool and milk and pork...
except
you would not consider that a living, would you? If it isn't gold or
silver or
copper, it's not worth the effort."
I sat the stud and stared at her, taken aback by the vehemence of her
contempt.
This wasn't the Del I knew... well, yes, I guess it was. It was the old
Del, the
one who'd used words as well as a weapon as we'd crossed the Punja on
the way to
Julah.
Was this the Del I'd wanted back, just so we could reestablish some of
the old
relationship?
Was I sandsick?
Del reined back the blue roan, who showed signs of wanting to nose the
stud.
"So, do we turn back now? Do you explain to Halvar that this was all a
big
misunderstanding, so that he will be forced into offering what little
coin
Ysaa-den has? Will you hold a village for ransom, Tiger, in the name of
your
avarice?"
The dragon snorted smoke. One of the beasts bayed.
"Nice little speech," I remarked finally. "You really know how to
manipulate a
person, don't you? Too bad you're not willing to consider that I had no
intention of asking for money in the first place--you just jumped to
the
conclusion that I'm a no-good, low-down sword-for-hire with no sense at
all of
humanity, only a well-developed sense of greed." I smiled at her with
eloquent
insincerity. "Well, I won't give you the satisfaction of thinking you
convinced
me... I'm going to do what I please, regardless of what you think, and
let you
try to figure out the truth of my intentions. I'm also going to suggest
you take
your own advice: never assume anything. It can get you into trouble."
I climbed down from the stud and led him off the remains of the track
to a stout
young tree, where I tied him and explained I'd be back in two days, if
not
before.
He nosed me, then banged his head against my ribs, which hurt, and
which left me
less regretful about leaving him. As a matter of fact, it left me
downright
displeased; I thumped him on the nose and told him he'd just lost his
ration of
grain for the day.
Of course, I didn't tell Halvar that, which meant the stud would get
his share
from whoever came to tend him, but he didn't have to know that. It
would do him
good to suffer until nightfall.
I glanced at Del, who still sat her roan. "Well? You coming?"
She tipped back her head and stared up at the crown of the mountain,
frowning
faintly. Her hair, still laced and braided, dangled against her spine.
The line
of her jaw cut the air like a blade. I saw her lips part; she said
something to
herself, mouthing it in silence, and I wondered what was in her mind.
Ajani?
Delay?
Or maybe a Southron sword-dancer who taxed her dwindling supply of
patience.
Hoolies, she didn't have to stay. I wasn't forcing her to. She could
turn around
with Halvar and ride back down the mountain to Ysaa-den. Or ride clear
to the
South. To Harquhal and beyond, maybe even to Julah; or to the Vashni,
who had
her brother; hoolies, there was no place in the world Del couldn't go
if she put
her mind to it.
Except Staal-Ysta.
Del slid a leg over her saddle and stepped down carefully, sparing her
midriff
as much as she could. It would be days, possibly even weeks, before
either of us
could move freely again, without awareness of stiffness and pain. It
was
possible neither of us would ever fully recover fluidity of motion,
since
respective sword blades had cut muscle as well as flesh.
Then again, it was possible only I wouldn't; Del was twenty-one. The
young heal
faster, neater, better.
And maybe she needed it more.
I unpinned my cloak, rolled it, fastened it onto my saddle. No doubt
come night
I would regret leaving it behind, but its weight and muffling folds
would hinder
me during the climb. Hopefully the task could be accomplished before it
got cold
enough for me to need the warmth of its weight.
Hopefully.
Well, one can always hope.
Del tied off the roan--outside of the stud's reach--and chatted briefly
with
Halvar. Like me, she shed her cloak and put it away. Sunlight glinted
off the
hilt of her jivatma; I saw Halvar stare at it in something akin to
reverence. No
doubt any village full of people who believed in dragons also told
bedtime
stories about Northern blooding-blades and the men who bore them. Now
they could
add a whole new raft of tales about the pale-haired woman who summoned
a
banshee-storm with only a name and a song.
"Let's go," I said irritably. "We're burning daylight."
"So is the dragon," Del observed, as smoke issued from "mouth" and
"nostrils."
This time sound came with it: a low-pitched, hissing rumble, as if the
dragon
belched.
"Beware the fire," Halvar said, clearly enough for me.
I looked up the mountain. "If there's fire," I pointed out, "someone
has to tend
it. Which means there's more up there than rock and hounds... likely a
man as
well.'"
Halvar looked at me strangely.
"It makes sense," I said defensively; I hate it when I'm doubted. "Do
you really
think there's a dragon up there, fire-breathing and all?"
Still Halvar stared. And then he looked at Del as if hoping she could
explain.
"No," Del said quietly, "he thinks no such thing... Tiger, I am sorry
you have
been so left out of the conversation--I didn't realize it was so hard
for you to
understand. No one in Ysaa-den believes there's a real dragon up there-
-no one
is so foolish as to believe in a mythical creature--but a sorcerer. A
specific
one, in fact: Chosa Dei."
"Who?"
"Chosa Dei," she repeated. "He is a legendary sorcerer, Tiger; surely
you must
have heard of him, even in the South."
"No." Emphatically. "Del--"
"He has not been seen for hundreds of years, ever since a fight with
his
brother, Shaka Obre--who is also a sorcerer--but Halvar tells me Ysaa-
den has
lain in his shadow for nearly ninety years. They believe it is Chosa
Dei who
troubles them now, awakening; he is the 'dragon,' not this pile of
stone."
"Have you heard of this sorcerer?"
"Of course." Del was dead serious. "He was one of my favorite stories
when I was
a child. I know all about Chosa Dei... and all his fights with his
brother, and
how they spent all their magic trying to kill one another--"
"Are you completely sandsick?" I gaped at her inelegantly. "You're
standing here
telling me you believe a man out of childhood stories is living in that
mountain, blowing smoke out stone tunnels just to pass the time?"
Del smiled. "No," she said in Southron. "But it would be rude to tell
Halvar so,
and ruin the history of his village."
I blinked. "Then why are we here?"
She slipped a thumb beneath a harness strap and resettled her sword.
"Because a
newly-named kaidin made a promise he's sworn to keep."
I opened my mouth to respond. Rudely, of course; she was throwing
things I'd
said back in my own face. But before I could say a word something
interrupted.
A keening, rising howl, echoing eerily. And a gout of malodorous smoke,
fanned
by heated wind.
No matter who it was, someone--something--was killing people. And I was
here to
stop it.
"Come on," I said curtly.
Del fell in behind me.
Conditioning is important to a sword-dancer. Because if you lack
stamina, speed
and wind, you risk losing the dance. And, much of the time, if you risk
losing
the dance, you also risk losing your life.
Which means a sword-dancer worth his salt always stays in condition.
Unless he's been recently wounded, which changes things altogether.
I suppose two months isn't recent. But it felt like it, It felt like
yesterday
every step I took--no, let's make it today. Like maybe a moment ago.
All I know
is, it hurt to climb the mountain.
I knew I was a fool to go charging up a rockpile where there wasn't any
air to
breathe and I had no lungs to breathe it. I knew I was a fool to even
consider
taking on anything with my sword, be it human or animal. And certainly
I was a
fool to be doing it with Del, who was in no better shape than I. It's
nice to
have backup--it's great to have backup--but only if they're healthy.
We huffed and puffed and coughed and swore and muttered all the way up
the
mountain. We also slid, staggered, fell down, gagged on the stink of
the
dragon's breath. And wished we were somewhere else, doing something
else; Del no
doubt thought of Ajani, while I dreamed of a cantina. A cantina in the
South,
where the days are warm and bright. And there are no mountains to
climb.
The dragon snorted smoke. A rumble accompanied it. And then a
relentless hiss
spitting wind into our faces. It ripped the hair from my eyes and
inserted hot
fingers into the weave of my heavy wool tunic.
I slipped, slid, climbed. Threw a question over my shoulder toward the
woman who
climbed behind me. "Who is this man again?"
"What man?--oh." Del was breathing hard. She spoke in brief, clipped
sentences,
sparing no breath for more. "Chosa Dei. Sorcerer. Supposed to be very
powerful--till he lost an argument."
"With his brother."
"Shaka Obre." Del sucked in a breath. "There are stories about both of
them...
tales of great and powerful magic... also ambition. Chosa Dei is the
example
parents put up before greedy children. 'Look, oh look, beware of
wanting too
much, or you will become like Chosa Dei, who dwells in Dragon Mountain.
' " It
faded into a cough.
"So now everyone in Ysaa-den thinks their mountain is Dragon Mountain,
and that
Chosa Dei dwells in it."
"Yes."
"Sounds like they're taking after the old man and his taste for
ambition. I
mean, saying their village lies in the dragon's shadow is an attempt to
claim
some fame, isn't it? Just like Bellin the Cat."
It was Del's turn. "Who?"
"Bellin the Cat," I repeated. "You know, that silly boy back in
Harquhal who
wants to be a panjandrum. Who wants to make a name." I sucked more air.
"The kid
with all the axes."
That, Del remembered. "Oh. Him."
"So, it seems to me Ysaa-den's a little like him--" I bit off a curse
as a foot
slipped and nearly deposited me on my face. "I mean, isn't it a little
silly to
adopt a story as truth just to gain a little fame?" I brushed dirt from
my
clothes and went on.
"If you lived in Ysaa-den, what would you do?"
I thought it over. "True."
Del slid, caught at rock, climbed upward again. "After all, what does
it hurt?
No one really knows where Dragon Mountain lies--there are countless
maps with
countless mountains called after Chosa Dei's prison--and no one really
knows if
Chosa Dei ever existed. He's a legend, Tiger. Some believe it, some
don't."
"Which are you, Delilah?"
Del laughed once. "I told you, stories about Chosa Dei and his battles
with
Shaka Obre were favorites when I was young. Of course I want to
believe. But it
doesn't mean I do."
I wondered, not for the first time, what childhood for Del had been
like. I knew
bits and pieces only, because that was all she'd shared, but it wasn't
hard to
put a few of them together.
I imagined a pretty but strong-minded girl who preferred boys' doings
to girls'.
And who, as the only daughter, was allowed the freedom to be a boy,
even
symbolically, because it was probably easier for father and uncles and
brothers.
Easier for a mother who knew she was outnumbered. No skirts and dolls
for Del;
she'd been handed a sword in place of a cooking spoon.
I'd asked her once what she would be if she hadn't become a sword-
dancer. And
she had said probably married. Probably bearing babies. But it was
impossible
for me to think of Del in those terms, to even imagine her tending a
lodge, a
man, a child; not because I didn't think she could, but because I'd
never seen
it. All I had ever seen was a woman with a sword, tending to men in the
circle.
For six long years, it was all Delilah had been. But I wondered. Even
if she
didn't, I did. I couldn't help myself.
What would become of Del once Ajani was dead?
Yet more importantly: what would Del become once Ajani was dead?
"Tiger--look."
I looked. Was too out of breath to speak.
"Almost there," Del gasped, nearly as winded as I. "Can't you feel the
heat?"
Heat, yes, if you're a Northerner. To a Southroner, it was merely a
gentle
warming, like the breeze of a spring day. What I noticed was, it stank.
"Hoolies," I muttered, "if this man's that powerful a sorcerer, why
can't he
live in a place that smells better?"
"No choice," Del croaked. "It was a spell put on him by Shaka Obre."
"Ah. Of course. I forgot." I topped off the last bit of mountain and
arrived at
the dragon's lip. Heat and stench rolled out to bathe me in dragonish
breath.
"Hoolies, this place stinks!"
Del came over the edge and paused to catch her breath. I saw her
expression of
distaste as the odor engulfed her as well. It's hard enough trying to
suck wind
back into laboring lungs, but when it smells this bad the task is that
much
harder.
Smoke rolled out of the "mouth." I steeled myself and went over for a
closer
look.
From below, it looked like a dragon. The shape of earth and rock, the
arrangement of the same--from below, it looked dragonish. But from up
top, from
the opening in the rock, it was only a large odoriferous cave extending
back
into the mountain. The spires of rock forming "teeth" were nothing more
than
stone columns shaped by ancient rain and the wind moaning incessantly
through
the cavern's entrance, bearing the stench of rotting bodies and a trace
of
something more.
Does magic have a smell?
"No hounds," Del observed.
No hounds. No dragon. No Chosa Dei.
"Wait a moment," I muttered, frowning down at the ground. I bent,
squatted,
looked more closely at turfy ground and the tracks pressed into it.
"Pawprints,"
I said, "going straight into the cave."
Del took an involuntary step back, one hand drifting up toward the hilt
riding
above her left shoulder. "It couldn't be their den--" But she let it
trail off.
"Leave her sheathed," I suggested, thinking of Halvar's warning, "and
yes, I
think it could be... if I believed they were really hounds. It's what
I've
called them--the Hounds of Hoolies--for lack of a better name, but I
never
believed they were. And I don't think beasts live in dens." I shrugged.
"Although I suppose they could."
We stared at one another, not liking the idea. Not liking the vision
I'd
painted. I thought it pretty disgusting; Del didn't say anything.
She edged closer to the entrance. She didn't draw Boreal, but her right
hand
hooked in her harness as if to stay close just in case. And I didn't
really
blame her.
"Tiger, do you think--"
But I didn't hear her finish. A blast of malodorous wind came roaring
out of the
cavern; with it came an overwhelming presentiment of power.
I itched, because all my hairs stood up on my arms, my thighs, the back
of my
neck. Even my bones tingled; my belly climbed up my throat. It was all
I could
do not to vomit. "Del--oh, hoolies--Del--"
"What is it? Tiger, what is it?"
I staggered back from the opening, trying not to retch. I also tried to
wave Del
off, but she followed anyway. "Don't, bascha--wait--can't you feel it?"
Maybe. Maybe not. But Del unsheathed Boreal.
It drove me to my knees. "I said wait--oh, hoolies, bascha--I think I'm
going to
be sick."
But I wasn't. I couldn't be. There wasn't time for it.
I got up, staggered a step or two, swung back around toward the cavern.
"In
there," I gasped. "I swear, it's in there--"
"What is, Tiger?"
"The thing we've been chasing. Sorcerer. Demon. Thing; I don't know! I
just know
it's in there. It's got to be--and that's where we have to go."
Del looked at the cavern. Looked back at me.
"I know," I said testily. "Do you think I like the idea?"
Del's jivatma gleamed: pale salmon-silver. In answer, the dragon
roared.
At least, it sounded that way; it was wind keening through the cavern,
whining
in cracks and crannies, then whooshing out of the opening to splatter
our faces
with stink.
"Come on," I said unhappily, stepping into the cave. "Let's get this
over with."
The weight of rock was oppressive. I stopped dead on the threshold.
"What?" Del asked; it fell away into dimness.
I waited, saying nothing. The feeling did not go away.
Del opened her mouth, then shut it.
Behind me yawned the sky. I wanted nothing more than to spin away from
the cave
and go out into the sky. To take myself from the dark. To walk on the
dragon's
spine in the cold, clear air with the sun on my face. Even the Northern
sun.
Still Del waited. Somewhere, so did the hounds.
I sweated. Shoved hair out of my eyes. Sucked a breath and spat,
cursing myself
for the weakness.
"Do you need light?" Del asked.
I looked at her sharply, saw comprehension in her eyes. She knew. She
remembered, even though she hadn't been there. She recalled the result
too well.
"No," I rasped.
"All I'd have to do is sing. My jivatma will give us light."
I glanced at Boreal: thin silver promise in dimness. Light spilled into
the
mouth of the cavern from the day beyond, but it died too quickly to
gloom. It
lent the cavern an eerie insubstantiality, a sense of things unseen.
The walls
were pocked with shadows.
Light would alter everything. But we couldn't afford it now. "No," I
told her
curtly. "Let's not offer any more magic to the hounds."
She waited a moment. "Do you really think--"
"I haven't the faintest idea." I was snappish in discomfort. "I just
figure it
won't hurt anything not to take any chances."
Breath boomed in the dragon's throat. The sound was deafening as air
rushed by
us toward the entrance. The roar sounded almost real, though both of us
knew it
wasn't. It was nothing more than wind and smoke being blown or sucked
out of the
cave into the vast freedom beyond.
"Will you be all right?" Del asked.
"Leave it alone," I snapped. I took a step toward the darkness, then
came to an
abrupt halt. "It's gone."
"Gone?"
"That feeling... it's faded. A moment ago I could almost taste it, and
now it's
faded away." I frowned, turning in a slow revolution. "It was here...
it was
here--" I stabbed a finger downward, "--filling up this place... it was
like a
cistern choked with sand, spilling through all the cracks--only what I
felt was
magic--" I shook my head, frowning. "Now it's all gone."
Wind whined through the cavern. With it came the stink, and the wail of
a
distant hound.
I shut my hand on my sword hilt and slid the blade into freedom. "To
hoolies
with those hounds." And led the way into darkness.


Thirteen
Down the dragon's gullet--or so Halvar might have said. The ceiling
dropped, the
walls closed in, the darkness was nearly complete. Except for a sickly
red glow
that crept out of the depths of the dragon to illuminate our way.
A lurid carnelian light that reminded me of new blood.
The fear, for the moment, was gone. Movement provided the opportunity
to set it
aside, to think about something else. But I couldn't quite forget it.
It waited
for me to remember so it could creep out again.
The throat fell away into belly; we left behind the gullet and entered
a larger
chamber. Del and I stopped short, then tightened grips on hilts.
"What in hoolies is that?"
Del shook her head.
I scowled blackly. "I thought you knew Northern magic."
"I know about Northern magic... but I don't know what that is."
"That" was a curtain of flame. A lurid carnelian flame that stretched
from floor
to ceiling across the width of the cavern. It resembled nothing so much
as a
curtain hung for privacy, dividing room from room. Opaque, yet oddly
vibrant, it
shimmered against the blackness. Sparks burned bright, then died,
pulsing
against a net.
But it wasn't hot. It was cold.
Suspicion bloomed. "You know," I said lightly, "what that reminds me
of--what
that reminds me of a lot--is the light from Bor--from your sword." I
caught
myself in time.
Del flicked me a narrowed glance; I was not forgiven. "I don't think
it's the
same thing."
"How do you know? You yourself said you don't know what that is. For
all you
know, it could be exactly the same."
"But not from the same source." Del edged closer. Red light shirred off
her
blade, altering its color. Salmon-silver was dyed amber-bronze.
I looked at my own sword. It had not, up till now, shown any
inclination to take
on a particular color. The phenomenon was familiar--I'd seen numerous
jivatmas
keyed, and all displayed a signature color, but mine never had. It was
bright
and shining silver, but so was every other sword save those born of
Northern
magic.
Which left me wondering suddenly if perhaps mine wasn't blooded. Wasn't
really
quenched.
And yet it had to be. It showed too many symptoms. Displayed too much
of its
power. Even the hounds knew it.
Del frowned at the curtain. "Maybe some kind of ward? Something to keep
people
out?"
"But why? What is there to hide? Why would wards be here?"
Del abruptly smiled. "Chosa Dei," she answered. "It's Chosa Dei's
prison."
"Oh, right. Of course; I was forgetting." I squinted against the
brilliance of
the curtain, looking around, searching for some clue. "I don't suppose
there's
some way around this thing... some tunnel or passageway."
Del shrugged, saying nothing. Like me, she examined the chamber.
I heard the dragon rumble. Swung and stared as the curtain rippled. The
glow
intensified, and then the curtain parted. Hot smoke belched out.
Del and I, of course, ducked; flame--or whatever--licked toward us
both. The
curtain wavered in the wind, then shredded on a roar as the smoke was
sucked out
of the chamber into the tunnel beyond.
The stench drove me to my knees. I forgot all about flaming curtains or
passageways and concentrated on holding my breath so I wouldn't lose my
belly.
Del. half-shrouded by smoke, sounded no better off; she hacked and
gagged and
swore, though only briefly, in her twisty Northern tongue. I helped out
with
Southron, with a dash of Desert thrown in.
Then wished I hadn't; swearing made me suck air.
"Agh, gods--" I spat. "This is enough to make a man sick."
"Coal," Del said intently. "I know it now: coal... and something else.
Something
more. Something that smells--"
"--like rotting bodies; I told you before." The curtain sealed itself
as smoke
died away. For the moment the dragon slept, or else merely held its
breath. I
stood up, wished for aqivi to wash away the foul aftertaste, yanked my
now-filthy tunics back into place. And clutched my sword in one hand.
"What's
this 'coal' you mentioned?"
Del got up, brushed gritty dark dust from her no-longer-pristine white
clothing,
scowled at the curtain. "Coal," she repeated. "It's a fuel. It's sort
of like
rock, but it burns. We lived in the downlands, where wood is plentiful;
I saw
coal only once. It comes from high in the mountains, in the uplands
above the
timberline."
"Well, if it smells this bad, I don't see how anyone uses it."
"I told you, there's something more--"
The curtain flowed briefly aside and emitted another belch. Smoky wind
rushed
through the chamber in its way to the dragon's throat. I swore, waving
madly,
and tried to peer through the rent in flame.
In shock, I sucked a breath. "Hoolies, I saw people!"
Del looked at me sharply; no need for her to ask.
"I did," I declared. "Through the curtain--I swear, I saw people. Men,
I think,
doing something around a fire. A real fire, bascha--not this magical
curtain." I
strode to the "flame," tried to peer through it again. "When the smoke
comes
through, it thins. You can see right through it. All we have to do is
wait--"
"--then walk right in?" Del's brows arched. "Are you so sure that's
wise?"
"Of course I'm not sure. I can't foretell the future, bascha; how in
hoolies am
I supposed to know what is and isn't wise? But Halvar said there was no
other
way into the dragon; here we are with nothing better to do, and two
magical
swords. So we may as well get this thing finished before the place
smells any
worse."
"I'm not so sure--"
I thrust up a silencing hand. "Hear it? That's the rumble--any moment
the
curtain will part...just use your jivatma, Del. Isn't that what it's
for?"
"This isn't a circle, Tiger... you don't know--"
"Shut up and use your sword... Del--now--"
I thrust a swordtip into the curtain of cold flame as it thinned and
blew apart,
and prodded gently, none too sure what sort of response I might get.
The tip
sliced through easily enough, as if the curtain was made of air.
Colored, cold
air, shaped to look like a flame.
I slid the sword a bit farther, risking myself carefully. Felt a
prickling in
fingers and hands; then it spread to encompass forearms. I took a
single step
forward, closed nose and mouth against stench, felt the curtain snap
shut
against flesh.
The sensation was odd, but not threatening. I moved forward carefully,
aware of
a dampening of sound, a dying of the light. Everything was red.
"You coming?" I asked it thickly around the breath I held.
Her tone sounded no better. "Yes, Tiger, I'm coming." She sounded
exasperated.
Like maybe she didn't think we were doing the right thing. Like maybe
she
thought I was being foolish.
As if she were humoring me; never her strong point.
I wanted to retort, but I was much too busy.
Almost through--almost--
Something knew I was there.
"Tiger--wait--"
--oh--hoolies--
"Del!"
The dragon swallowed me whole.


Fourteen
They had been beating me again. I could feel it clear to the bone.
I lay facedown on the stone, legs and arms asprawl. Cold, hard stone,
biting
into flesh. Bruising cheekbone and brow. Cutting into one hip.
They had been beating me again, just as the Salset had.
I twitched. Sucked air. Gagged. Tried not to throw up. Lay very, very
still, to
soothe my unhappy belly. To give it no reason to protest.
Hoolies, but I hurt.
Listened to the silence. Heard nothing in the darkness. Nothing save
ragged
breathing; I held it: the sound stopped. Began to breathe again and
took comfort
in the sound.
Awakening muscles spasmed. A leg jerked, then a hand. Beneath me, metal
grated.
The sound of iron fetters.
They had chained me again.
I surged up frantically, smashed my head against the low ceiling,
sprawled on
hands and knees. Then lunged backward against the wall and slid down it
to land
limply in a pile of flesh and bones. Squeezed my eyes tight-shut. Sat
there
breathing raggedly while I tried to find the Sandtiger and whatever
will he had
left.
Some, after all. It allowed me to deal with the fear. To push it back
again, if
only for a moment. It allowed me to open my eyes.
Saw the sword against the stone: dim glint in dimmer light.
Sword?
Astonished, I stared. Then scrambled for it, found it, dragged it
chiming across
the stone. Sat down awkwardly on uneven rock and held the sword in both
hands.
Not Singlestroke.
Not Singlestroke?
And why do I have a sword if I'm in Aladar's mine?
The blade was ice in my hands. Vision blurred; I shook it off, then
wished I
hadn't tried. The motion jarred my head.
Hoolies, but I hurt.
I leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat from my eyes, shoving
damp hair
aside. Beard stubble caught on wool; on wool, not on flesh. Not on the
nakedness
of a slave.
All around me the rock waited with a vast complacency. Dim carnelian
light
washed the walls with illumination. It bathed the blade with blood.
I shifted, caught my breath, eased myself more carefully into another
position.
Even my ears hurt, filled with a stuffy ringing. I smelled something
remarkably
foul; also my own aroma, fear and exertion combined. What I needed was
a bath.
What I wanted was out of here.
Down the tunnel something whined.
I'm not in Aladar's mine.
Then where am--ah, hoolies.
I know where I am.
Claws scratched stone. Panting crept down the tunnel.
I think I don't want to be here.
Whining echoed in emptiness.
Hoolies--where is Del?
With Aladar, of course--no, no, you're not in Aladar's mine. You're not
even in
the South. Where you are is in the dragon with hounds hard on your
trail.
Panting crept through the dimness. A snapping growl accompanied it.
Pick a direction and go.
I couldn't stand up straight because of the low tunnel ceiling. All I
could do
was scuttle, hunched halfway over, clutching a Northern sword and
trying not to
trip on steel too long for use in the confines of the tunnel. The tip
scraped
from time to time, screeching against stone; pulling it back from the
wall
usually resulted in a banged elbow, unless I was very careful.
It's hard to be very careful when you're running for your life. Careful
can get
you killed.
Oh, Delilah. Where are you?
Don't let her be dead again.
A howl pierced the dimness. I couldn't tell from which direction.
I smacked my head, bit my lip, spat out blood, and cursed. Felt the
prickling on
my neck; the pinch of fear in my belly. And lurched to a dead stop,
having
reached the end of the tunnel.
Hoolies, get me out of here. It's too much like Aladar's mine--
I broke it off abruptly. Smelled the stink of hounds.
--end of the tunnel--
But it wasn't the end of the world. The tunnel swelled into a hollow
bulb large
enough to stand up in. Wide enough for my sword. I straightened and
struck a
stance, cursing the tautness of scar tissue that pulled against my
midriff.
I hadn't been in a circle since the one where I'd faced Del. I hadn't
even
sparred since the fight I'd danced with Del. Conditioning was a word
that no
longer applied to me.
But I'd been worse off before.
Of course, I'd also been younger--
A hound entered the bulb through the narrow neck.
At least, the hound tried to; I took its head with one blow.
There is something to be said for standing in an enclosed space while
fighting
vicious beasts. Because while I'd sooner be out of the mountain, in
bright,
clean sunlight again, I discovered there were advantages to fighting
just as I
was. Because each time I killed a hound, the body dropped to the floor.
The pile
was forming a plug against the beasts still in the tunnel. And it gave
me a
chance to breathe. To hoard my dwindling strength.
To wet my thirsty jivatma.
Eventually, they stopped. When they did, so did I. And I realized there
were no
more; at least, no more in the tunnel. The rest were somewhere else.
Winded, I stood sucking air, trying to clear my head. Sparks danced at
the edges
of vision, bursting like tiny flamelets. I leaned over, bracing
forearms across
bent knees, and tried to catch my breath. While beast-blood flowed over
my
boots.
When I could, I straightened, arched carefully backward, tried to
unknot the
kinks. Tried to stretch knurled scar tissue that threatened to crack
with the
strain.
Something echoed in the tunnel.
I snapped back into position, wincing, with jivatma at the ready.
Before me was
a piled blockade of bleeding bodies. Through the gaps I heard a voice,
distorted
by rock and distance; by the twists and turns of the dragon.
"--long I have waited?"
And Del's voice, softly: "Six hundred and forty-two years."
A pause, and surprise. "How can you know that?"
"They tell stories about you, Chosa."
Chosa. Chosa Dei? But he was only legend. A man made out of stories.
"What else do they say about me?"
"That you are an ambitious, vengeful man."
Uh-oh, bascha. Not the best thing to say.
"And what do they say about you?"
"That I am very like you."
I heard a hint of laughter. "But I am not a woman, and you are not a
man; yes?"
"Sword-dancer," she answered quietly. "Sword-singer, as well. Staal-
Ysta
trained, Chosa... you do know of Staal-Ysta?"
"Oh, I know; yes, of course I know; I know many things, yes? I know
Staal-Ysta--I know of jivatmas--I know many things, yes? As I know what
you are,
yes? Exactly what you are. It's you I've been waiting for. I need you
very
badly, you and your jivatma--I've needed you for years--"
My cue, I thought. But my way was blocked by beasts.
Hastily I cleaned the blade on my dirty tunic and set the sword aside
by the
entrance. Without regard for the slime and putrid blood, I caught and
dragged
bodies aside, dumping them one on the other. Not all were in one piece;
I kicked
the bits aside. As soon as I cleared an exit, I caught up the sword and
ran.
Trouble was, the moment I moved the voices faded, stolen away by
tunnels and
crannies. I stopped short, crouching to save my head, and listened.
Heard
nothing but my own breathing. No more Del. No more Chosa Dei.
It couldn't be Chosa Dei.
I swore and went on awkwardly, hating the size of the tunnel. Hating
myself for
my height. Wishing I had the kind of power that could blast the
mountain apart,
taking Chosa with it. Chosa and his hounds.
"--so I had to have the whistle, yes? I had to have the wards. I have
to have
all the magic. It's what I do: collect. And I have to have it all; of
course,
all, what else? There's no point to it, otherwise; the purpose is
defeated, yes?
There is no value to any magic if everyone has a little."
I stopped short, breathing hard, but Del made no answer. Or else I
couldn't hear
it in the maze of the dragon's entrails. I sucked breath and ran on
again,
bootsteps echoing in the tunnel.
"--were a means, nothing more. I have no particular liking for beasts;
I'm not a
man for pets. But I had to start somewhere, so I fashioned myself a--
hound, I
think you said, yes? Well, then, a hound. A good and loyal dog ready to
die at
my command. Of course, then I needed more; harvesting jivatmas is
difficult. A
single beast wasn't up to the task, so I had it bring me another human.
Who in
turn could bring me another. Villagers all, yes? Until I had enough,
and sent
them after jivatmas."
I took the left branch. Its ceiling was higher; I ran.
Hoolies, hoolies, bascha--what have you gotten yourself into?
The voice boomed by my side. "--no, no, not 'make'--I do better than
that.
Making is very simple; I unmake, yes? That is my personal gift; the
magic of
Chosa Dei. I take what has been wrought and drain it of its power. I
unmake it
most carefully, then reshape it to personal needs."
I stopped short as the voice died out, fading behind me gently like a
candle
carried away. I spun in place, sword tip scraping the wall. Nothing lay
behind
me. Nothing but emptiness.
Oh, bascha. Bascha.
The voice echoed far down the tunnel, "--know what you are? Do you know
what you
are?"
I listened as I ran, but heard nothing of Del's answer.
"--think you have denied yourself the awareness, afraid to admit the
truth, yes?
I can smell that sword; I can taste it--I have tasted it all along.
There is no
hiding it from me, in sheath or in a song. Nor can you hide it now; I
can unsing
what you sing, unmake what you make."
This time I heard Del's voice: "Why?"
The sorcerer's tone was gentle. "So I may unmake the wards. So I may
unmake my
prison." The tone abruptly altered; Chosa Dei was angry. "So I may
unmake my
brother, who put me in this place!"
The tunnel branched yet again. I started through it; stopped. It
branched yet
again. The dragon was full of tunnels, and Chosa was in them all.
Oh bascha, bascha. How in hoolies do I find you?


Fifteen
Rock bit into my knees. Blade clanged down. I realized I had fallen.
Behind me, the beast growled.
I lurched up, caught weapon, whirled. Spitted him as he leaped, then
jerked the
blade free and struck again as a second hound appeared, lunging out of
ruddy
shadows. Behind him was a third.
Blood sprayed freely as I scythed through rib cage and spine, shearing
the third
hound in half. I felt a flicker of pleasure; the jolt of victory.
And then I recalled Chosa's words: that the beasts had once been human.
Villagers from Ysaa-den. Sword-dancers from Staal-Ysta.
Bile rose. Briefly, only briefly, the hilt slipped in my hand. And then
I
smelled the stink. Felt the blood crusting on my face. And knew if I
had
hesitated the unmade men would have killed me.
Chosa Dei had Del. He no longer needed me. He no longer needed my
sword; he had
the one he wanted. Had the one he required to set himself free of his
prison so
he could find his brother and unmake Shaka Obre, who had had the
abiding good
sense to put Chosa away in a mountain where he could harm nothing and
no one.
For six hundred and forty-two years.
Six hundred and forty-one; for the last six months or so, Chosa Dei had
been
busy.
And where, I wondered fleetingly, is Shaka Obre now?
Chosa Dei's voice slipped through cracks, "--and a woman is stronger,
yes? A
woman has greater needs. A woman has greater will. A woman, when she
decides to
be, is much more dedicated. Much more determined, yes? More focused on
her
need."
Del's voice echoed oddly. "Some might say, more obsessed."
"But yes--yes, of course! Obsession is necessary. Obsession is
required.
Obsession is the master when compassion undermines." I heard Chosa
laugh. "Now I
understand. Now I comprehend. More than a jivatma. More than a
blooding-blade.
More than a sword-dancer's weapon; it is your second soul. It is a
second you--"
"No!" Del snapped. "I'm more than just a sword. More than just a
weapon. More
than a need for vengeance--"
Chosa sounded startled. "What is greater than vengeance when it has
brought you
so far? It has shaped you; it has made you--"
"I made me! I made this jivatma. It didn't make me."
"It unmade you," Chosa answered, "to make you something else, yes? To
make you
what you required; vengeance is powerful." The sorcerer's voice altered
subtly.
"Tell me the sword's name."
One thing she's not, is stupid.
"Chosa Dei," Del answered promptly. "Now go unmake yourself--"
The voices faded again. Del and Chosa were gone.
Oh, hoolies, bascha--can't you sing out again? Just to give me a little
clue?
Chosa's voice boomed loud; a trick of the tunnels again. "You will tell
me the
name, yes? While you still have both feet, both hands? While you still
have both
your breasts?"
I called him every name I could think of. But I did it silently.
Except for raspy breathing and echoing bootsteps as I ran.
Branch upon branch upon branch. But the light was growing brighter. The
stench
even more offensive. And Chosa Dei's threats were imperative; I heard
the whine
and snarl of gathering hounds. The wheezing of a bellows.
Bellows?
Light slashed briefly through a crack in the tunnel wall, glinting off
my blade.
I stopped short, muttered a curse as sore muscles complained, put out
my hand
toward the crack. Warm air and smoke wisped through; that, and ruddy
light.
I pressed myself against the wall, jamming my face into the crack. I
saw light
and fire and smoke; all three made my eye water. Tears ran down my
face.
I swore, changed eyes, tried to see specifics.
Saw men tending a fire. Men tending a forge; Chosa Dei was playing at
smith.
Rock bit into my forehead as I slumped against the wall. I couldn't
believe what
I'd seen. Couldn't trust my eyes. But a second look confirmed it: Chosa
Dei had
a forge. Men were tending a bellows. He had been stealing jivatmas, and
now he
wanted Del's. So he could break free of the wards set by Shaka Obre.
Chosa Dei had more than a forge. He had a crucible. He was melting down
jivatmas. Unmaking them, for their magic; to use for his own designs.
And now he wanted Boreal. Now he needed a banshee-storm and all the
wild magic
of the North in order to burst his bonds. To bring the mountain down so
the
dragon could fly again.
The voice came through the crack. "--was powerful, once. I can be
again. But I
need the wild magic. I have to restore myself; to banish diminishment,
yes? To
make myself whole again, so I can unmake my brother."
Del's answer was lost in the roar of newborn flame fanned into life by
the
bellows. I saw it sucked up, then out; saw it pass through the curtain
that Del
and I had faced. And at last I had my bearings.
Now all I had to do was find a way out of the tunnels and into the
second
chamber on the far side of the curtain.
Where I would do--what?
Hoolies, I don't know. Cut Chosa's gehetties off--if sorcerers have
gehetties--and give them to Del as a trophy.
If she was alive to receive them.
If she was in one piece.
Hang on, Delilah. The Sandtiger's on his w--
The hounds began to chorus.
Chosa Dei's voice rose above it. "--can unsing any song. I can unmake
any sword.
Shall we try it, yes?"
--don't let her die again--
Running. Stumbling. Swearing. Coughing in the smoke. Squinting against
the
light--light... hoolies, the tunnel floor was broken. The cracks were
open
fissures leading straight down into the chamber behind Shaka Obre's
wards.
I threw myself to the tunnel floor and stuck my head into one of the
fissures.
Held my breath against odor and smoke as tears sprang into my eyes.
Blinked my
vision clear; saw, in the instant before tears returned, the glint of
Del's
jivatma. Saw the circle of beasts pressing close.
And Chosa Dei below me.
If I could drop my sword straight down, I could split his head like a
melon.
Then again, I might miss. And give him another jivatma.
You can't tell much about a man when all you can see of him is the top
of his
head and shoulders. Eyes will tell you a lot; so will expression and
posture. I
could see none of those things. Only dark hair and dark-swathed
shoulders.
But I could see Del clearly.
She was completely ringed by beasts. Within the circle, she stood
unmoving;
carefully, utterly still. In her arms was Boreal: diagonal slash from
left to
right, cutting across her breasts. Forgeglow lighted the steel.
Wardglow turned
it red.
Del could change the color. She only had to sing.
But Chosa Dei could unsing her songs. Del had no weapon to use.
Leaving me with mine.
Hoolies, what do I do?
Chosa Dei spoke again. "Shall I show you how I unmake a man? How I
remake him
into a beast?"
Del said nothing.
"Yes, I think I shall."
Transfixed, I stared in disbelief. Del stood imprisoned by hounds,
helpless to
stop the sorcerer. Thus free to do as he wanted, Chosa Dei called over
one of
the men who tended the forge and dismissed the other three. The fourth
one
knelt, and Chosa put hands on his head.
Part of me screamed at the man to escape, to pull away, to get free of
Chosa
Dei. But he did none of those things. He just knelt in silence, staring
blankly,
as Chosa put hands on him.
"No," Del said quietly.
Chosa's voice was as quiet. "Oh, I think yes."
He unmade the man. Don't ask me how. All I know is the shape of the man
altered
somehow, was altered somehow, slowly and subtly, until the nose was
thrust
outward, the jaw pushed backward, the shoulders folded inward, hips re-
bent into
haunches--the man was no more a man but a thing in bestial form.
Eyes shone whitely. A tail was pulled out of buttocks. He--it--the
thing--bent
upon the rock floor with the joints and hair of a hound, and nothing at
all of
humanity.
"No," Del repeated, but the tone was shaped by horror.
"Unmade," Chosa said. "Now he will join the others. And perhaps he will
take
your throat."
Oh, hoolies. Oh, gods--
I shut my eyes a moment, then forced myself to look.
Smoke gushed up from the forge. Most of it was sucked through the
curtain as the
wards allowed it to go. The rest dispersed in the chamber, escaping
through
cracks, fissures, and holes.
Cracks, fissures, and holes; mouthing obscenities, I pressed my face
more
tightly against the fissure and looked for the proper sign. Saw it
almost
immediately; lunged up and ran down the tunnel all of twelve paces
farther,
where the hole greeted me. My entrance into the chamber.
It was the largest of them all; I knew from watching the smoke. The
greatest
amount had been sucked through here, but it wasn't saying much. Del
couldn't get
through, maybe, but I doubted I could. Unless I was stark naked and
painted with
alia salve.
Flesh quailed; so did spirit. The idea of dropping down unannounced--
and
bare-butted--to face a sorcerer was not a pretty thought. A lot of me
didn't
like it.
Especially my gehetties.
So, I'd compromise. Half of my clothes would come off.
I knelt by the hole and set the sword aside, then unhooked the wide
leather belt
with its weight of ornamental bosses, which could catch and scrape and
grate.
Then off came the harness itself, stripped over arms and head without
undoing
the buckles. And finally both tunics, which I dropped aside without
thought.
Cool tunnel air chafed bare chest and arms and set the flesh to rising.
First to test briefly: I eased boots and legs down into the hole
punched through
the rock, then braced forearms and elbows on either side and channeled
my weight
through shoulders. I lowered myself carefully. Felt hips catch briefly;
a twist
eased them through. But above them the spread of my rib cage and
shoulder
sockets promised to wedge me painfully if I didn't take steps to avoid
it.
Hoolies, but it hurt--I pulled myself up again, blowing noisy breath
between
gritted teeth, and clambered out of the hole once more.
Chosa's voice drifted up: "My beasts are growing hungry. Tell me the
name of
your sword."
Come on, Del; hang on... I'm doing what I can.
A quick glance showed me jagged protrusions in the rock wall. I knew
I'd have to
jump when it came right down to it, but I wanted to shorten the
distance. The
easiest way was to use belt and harness to lower myself through the
hole as far
as I could go, then drop the rest of the way.
I'd risk breaking a leg. But I was risking so much anyway it didn't
really
matter.
I snugged the belt around the most promising stone protrusion, then
buckled it
firmly. I cut the sheath free of the harness, which left me with a
crisscross
affair of leather straps, and quickly severed the thong stitching. Then
looped
everything through the belt and dangled it down the hole.
Not very much. But something.
Meanwhile, there was the sword. I couldn't very well carry it down with
me as I
worked my way through the hole; the extra bulk would end the attempt.
And I
didn't dare tie it to my body with shredded bits of tunic; if I lost it
by
accident, Chosa would have a new jivatma. And I sort of wanted to keep
it until
I could stick it in him.
So I very carefully placed it beside the hole opposite my planned
entry, and
began to ease myself down.
In the tunnel, a beast bayed.
I froze. I didn't particularly relish the thought of being attacked
while wedged
in the hole; I prefer a fair fight. So I pulled myself up again,
grabbed the
sword, and made it as far as my knees as the hound leaped out of
shadow.
I was getting tired of this. I'd just as soon not have to do it.
On knees, I battled the hound. My balance was off, and my leverage, but
clean
steel still parts beast flesh. The spray of blood slicked my chest and
dribbled
down my belly to the drawstring of my trews.
Which gave me an idea.
In the dimness, I saw eyes. The shine of white hound eyes. But this
beast turned
tail and ran, which was a welcome change.
Again I set the blade carefully beside the jagged hole. Then scooped up
dripping
handfuls of beast blood and slapped it all over my chest and sides,
paying
particular attention to the rib cage beneath my armpits, where the
spread of
bone and muscle was greatest, and to the shoulder joints themselves
where they
met my upper arms.
Hoolies, but I stink.
No more time to waste--
I slid boots over the lip, took an extra wrap in the harness straps
around my
left wrist, and lowered myself down.
Hips slid through again, though fabric snagged a little. And my waist,
all slick
with blood even though it didn't need it. And then my lower ribs. The
upper ones
stuck fast.
It is a particularly vulnerable sensation to be stuck like a cork in a
bottle.
From the waist down I was completely accessible, but I couldn't see
past my rib
cage.
There was still slack in the harness straps. I braced my right arm
against the
lip of the hole and pushed, trying to twist myself free. Layers of skin
peeled
away, stinging in protest. And finally I slipped free, leaving bits of
me on
stone teeth. My shoulder joints lost flesh also, then obligingly added
my own
blood to the slime already present.
It was enough to loosen the cork; I dropped, felt the straps tauten,
winced as
the loop snugged around my left wrist. All of my weight hung from it; I
wished I
weighed a bit less.
My head was level with the bottom of the hole. I peered down past my
body and
tried to judge the distance. It was still dangerously far from the
floor--about
seven of me hooked together--and the landing would be on rock. If I
didn't break
a leg, I'd probably break my head.
The sword still lay in the tunnel. Carefully I began pulling myself
back up
one-armed, sliding my right arm up through the hole. All I needed was a
little
lift; then I'd snatch the sword, hold it vertically, and drop straight
down to
the floor.
To get my bearings, I glanced down. And saw Chosa Dei with a hound.
Hoolies, he was eating it!--no, no he wasn't... he was--hoolies, I
don't know...
something, something disgusting... he knelt down before it and put his
hands on
its head... he said something to it, did something to it--and the hound
began to
change.
It melted. I have no better word for it. The beast melted from this
known shape
into something else. Something vaguely human, but without humanity.
He was unmaking the beast. Making the man again.
Hanging from my harness, I was very nearly sick. I had not, until that
moment,
realized the full implication of Chosa Dei's powers. If he was free, if
he got
free... once he unmade his brother, what would he do to others? By
"collecting"
all the magic, would he then remake the world?
Chosa Dei rose, leaving the half-made thing on the floor where it
twitched and
spasmed and died. "Someone is here," he said. "Someone else is here...
hiding in
the tunnels. Hiding in my mountain." He swept the chamber with a
glance. "And he
has a second jivatma, fully quenched and blooded."
Hoolies. Oh, hoolies--
"There!" Chosa cried, and pointed directly at me.
I saw Del's upturned face. I saw the mass of hounds. Knew what I had to
do.
Unmake Chosa Dei.
Straining upward, I thrust my right hand up through the hole and
scrabbled at
the lip. Touched the blade, traced it back to the hilt, lurched up to
lock
fingers around it. Began to think of a song as I dropped back through
the hole
to dangle on my harness.
Beneath me swarmed the hounds, waiting for me to fall.
A song. Think of a song. Of something personal. Of something powerful.
Of
something no one but the Sandtiger fully comprehends.
I thought of the South. I thought of the desert. And then I thought of
the Punja
with its deadly simooms and sciroccos, the scouring wind-blast of sand
that
could strip a man bare of flesh, polishing his bones. I thought of the
sun and
the sand and the heat and the power of a storm blowing the Punja here
and there,
feckless as a goat kid, going where it was told. Because there is a
greater
power than merely heat and sand. There is also the desert wind. A hot
dry wind.
A wind composed of a violence equal to Chosa Dei's.
Scorching desert windstorm stripping everything down to the bone.
Scirocco and
simoom. But also called samiel.
Inside, I sang a song. Of blooding, of quenching, of keying. Of
unmaking a
sorcerer who thought only Del's jivatma was capable of great power.
Your mistake, Chosa. Now come grapple with me--
I sliced through the harness and dropped.


Sixteen
I landed in squirming bodies full of teeth and claws and foul breath.
Thanked
them for breaking my fall. Then disengaged myself, though my body
remained where
it was.
Heat--sand--sun... the blast of a samiel--
The blast of Samiel, loosed to cleanse the mountain of beasts and
sorcerer.
Scorching, scouring sun--blistered, weeping flesh--cracked and bleeding
lips--
Del and I had lived it. But Chosa wouldn't survive.
The chanting of the Salset, gathered to celebrate the changing of the
year...
the high-pitched whining of the shukar praying to his gods... the hoots
and
shrieks of desert borjuni, riding down a caravan... the clash and
clatter of
Hanjii with gold rings in nose and ears...
Music; all of it music; the song of desert life. The music of the
Punja; the
music of my life.
--dull chiming of the chains binding me into the mine--
--chink of chisel on rock; the crumble of falling reef thick with the
promise of
gold--
--squealing and snorting and stomping as the stud protests my wishes--
A personal, powerful song no one else can sing.
--the sobbing of a boy with a back afire from the lash, trying to hide
his pain;
trying to hide humiliation--
No one else knew these things.
--the song of a blued-steel blade; the song of
Singlestroke, gifting me with freedom; with life and pride and
strength--
And the scream of an angry cat flowing down from a pile of stones.
Only I knew these things.
Only I could sing my life.
Only I could unmake Chosa Dei--
Scirocco. Simoom. Samiel.
Try your best, Chosa Dei--you can't unsing this song.
Dimly I heard the hounds. The whine of Boreal. The snatch of Delilah's
song as
she hewed through flesh and bone.
Dimly I heard Chosa Dei, but I couldn't make out his words. Everything
in my
head was part of my personal song.
Everything in my song was part of Samiel.
Take him. Take him. Take him.
Dimly, Del shouted.
Take him--take him--take him--
Del was shouting at me.
--take him--take him--
--unmake him--
"Tiger--Tiger, no... you don't know what you're doing--"
--sing him into your song--
"Tiger, it's forbidden--"
Samiel splintered ribs.
Flesh, blood, muscle and bone; Samiel wanted it all.
"Tiger--Tiger no--"
Samiel sang his song.
All I could do was listen.
Muscles spasmed. Arms and legs jerked; so did my head. I smacked it
against the
chamber floor.
Why is my head on the floor?
Why is any of me on the floor?
Opened eyes: saw chamber ceiling. Saw several chamber ceilings, until I
could
focus again.
Hoolies, what's wrong with me?
I sat up, wished I hadn't, lay back down again.
Hoolies. Oh, hoolies.
What have I been doing?
Much as I'm a man for keeping my aches to myself, I emitted a raspy
groan. As
well as a favorite obscenity, followed by a string of lesser favorites,
until I
ran out of breath.
By then Del was back.
"So," she said, "you survived."
I waited a beat. "Did I?"
Del's face was blood-spattered. Hair hung in ruddy ribbons. "I had my
doubts at
first when I saw you weren't breathing. But I punched you in the chest
and you
started right up again."
Thoughtfully, I rubbed a sore spot. It was right over my heart. "Why
did you
punch me?"
"I told you: you weren't breathing. It was your own fault, and I was
angry." She
shrugged. "It seems a valuable trick, this punching in the chest."
I explored my blood-crusted chest which seemed to be sore in more than
one
place. There were bite wounds and claw welts in addition to stinging
scrapes.
"Why wasn't I breathing?"
"Because you were a stupid, senseless, deaf, dumb and blind fool... a
man so
full of himself he has no time for others, and gives no heed to others
when
they're trying to save his life, since he seemed bent on losing it. And
you
nearly did; Tiger, you are a fool! What did you think to accomplish?
Sacrificing
yourself or your sanity is not a useful thing. Not a useful thing; did
you spare
no thought for me? Did you think I wanted you dead just to pay you back
for
nearly killing me?"
From the floor, I stared up at her. Her anger was truly awesome. "What
did I
do?" I asked.
"What did you do? What did you do?"
I nodded. "What did I do?"
Del pointed. "That."
It was hard to see from the floor. So I very slowly and very carefully
levered
myself up and leaned on one elbow. Looked at where she was pointing.
Someone--something--was dead. The remains were sprawled on the floor.
"I did that?"
Del lowered her arm. "You have no idea, have you? You truly don't know
what you
did."
"Apparently I killed someone. Or something; what is that?"
"Chosa Dei," she answered. Then, ominously: "Chosa Dei's body. His
spirit is
somewhere else."
"Hoolies, not here, I hope. I'd just as soon not tangle with him again
any time
soon." I sat up all the way. Glanced around the chamber. "I see you did
in the
hounds."
"I did. You did. What is important is that they are dead. I think all
of them
are dead." She shrugged. "Not that it matters now, since Chosa Dei is--
gone."
I rolled shoulders gently, rubbed at tension in my neck. "Well, it's
what we
came to do. Now Ysaa-den is safe, and so are all the jivatmas."
"Oh?" Del asked. "Are you so certain of that?"
"He's dead, isn't he? Isn't that Chosa Dei?"
"His body," she repeated. "His soul is in your sword."
I stopped breathing again. "His soul is where?"
"In your sword," she answered. "What do you think you did?"
"Killed him." I paused. "Didn't I? I took him through the ribs. It
should have
killed him."
"Not that. I don't mean that. I mean what you did when you sang."
A chill washed across flesh. "What?"
Del's eyes sharpened. "You sang. Don't you remember? You dropped down
from the
roof of the chamber into a mass of hounds, and all the way you sang.
You didn't
stop once." She shrugged. "It wasn't very good--you have a truly
terrible
voice--but that doesn't matter. What matters is that you meant it. What
matters
is that it worked. You unmade Chosa Dei, but you also remade your
sword."
"What?"
Del spelled it out. "You requenched, Tiger. Just like Theron did."
Theron. I thought back months and months and recalled the Northern
sword-dancer
who had come south hunting Del. He had a jivatma, as she did; a true-
made,
true-quenched jivatma. But he had addressed a new need and requenched
his
Northern blade in the body of a magician. It had given him an edge. It
had
nearly defeated Del. Nearly defeated me.
"Well," I said finally. "I didn't do it on purpose."
Del turned on her heel and walked away. I think she was still angry,
though I
didn't really know why. I had just saved her life. I had just saved the
world.
I smiled wryly at that. Then worked my way to my feet and went over to
the body.
Well, it was sort of a body. It was charred and shrunken and crisped,
collapsed
upon itself. It was half the size of me. It was smaller even than Del.
Does a soul take up that much room?
It was odd looking down on the remains of a man I'd never seen, but
killed.
There were no recognizable features, no normal hair, nothing that spoke
of a
man. He was a shape, nothing more; it left a bad taste in my mouth.
From the pile of loose cloth and crisped flesh gleamed the hilt of my
requenched
jivatma. Chosa Dei's new prison.
"I'll break it," I said. "I'll melt it." I glanced at the crucible.
"I'll melt
it into slag, then get me a Southron sword."
Del spun. "You can't?"
"Why not? I don't want to lug around a sword with him in it."
Del's face was white. "You have to lug it around. You have to carry it
forever,
until we find a way to discharge it. Don't you understand? Chosa Dei is
in
there. If you destroy the sword, you'll destroy his prison. You're his
ward now.
His own personal ward. Only you can keep him imprisoned."
I very nearly laughed. "Del, this is ridiculous. Are you really going
to stand
there and tell me that Chosa Dei is in my sword, and that if I
personally don't
guard him, he might get out again?"
Under the blood, she was white. "Always," she said, "always. Always you
must
doubt."
"You've got to admit it sounds pretty farfetched," I told her. "I mean,
you were
the one who told me Chosa Dei was only a legend, something someone made
up for
stories."
"I was wrong," she declared.
I stared at her. Here I'd been trying to get her to admit such a thing
for the
last two weeks with regard to her behavior on Staal-Ysta, and she still
hadn't
done it. But she was more than willing to say the three magical words
when it
came to Chosa Dei--or whoever he was.
I itched all over from sweat and crusted, smelly blood. Thoughtfully, I
scratched through my beard to complaining flesh beneath. "Let me see,"
I said.
"You expect me to spend the rest of my life making sure Chosa Dei stays
put."
"No, not your whole life. Only until the sword can be discharged."
I frowned. "How do we do that? And what exactly is it?"
Del lifted her own sword, still clasped in her right hand. "There is
power in
here," she said. "Wild magic, and controlled magic--the control comes
from a
proper blooding and keying, as well as strength of will. But there is a
way of
discharging the power, of channeling it elsewhere, so the sword is a
sword
again." She shrugged. "Magic is magic, Tiger--it has a life of its own.
That's
why, when Theron died, you could use his jivatma. The magic had been
discharged."
That, I didn't much like. "So, you're saying if I died, my sword would
discharge
its magic--along with Chosa Dei."
Del's brows arched. "That is one way, yes. But then you would be dead;
what
sense is there in discharging a sword if you won't be alive to use it?"
I didn't even bother to reply to that. "Is there another way?"
"Yes. But it was not a thing taught on Staal-Ysta."
"Where is it taught?"
Del shook his head. "I think it would take someone who understood the
magic of
jivatmas. Someone also who understood Chosa Dei, and the threat he
represents.
Because Chosa Dei himself is powerful; if the discharging were not done
properly, he might free himself."
"He'd have no body," I pointed out. "This one is sort of a mess."
Del shrugged. "He'd find another. It might even be yours, since by then
he'll
know you so well."
Flesh froze. "What?"
Del sighed, frowning, as if frustrated by my ignorance. "Chosa Dei is
no longer
alive, no more than Baldur is in my sword. But his spirit is there, and
his
soul; the things he most believes in. You will feel it, Tiger. You will
feel
him. After a while you will know him--you will have to--and he will
know you."
I scowled. "Does he know he's in this sword?"
Del shrugged. "But even if he doesn't, it doesn't really matter. Chosa
Dei
unmakes things to reshape them to his desires. He will try the same
with your
sword."
"What if I gave it to someone else?"
Del smiled crookedly. "What blooded, named jivatma allows anyone else
to touch
it?"
"If I told him Samiel's name, he could."
One of her shoulders twitched. "Yes. You could. And then he could touch
your
sword. But not being you, he could hardly control the magic. Nor
control Chosa
Dei."
I said something brief and very explicit.
Del ignored it. "I wonder..." she murmured.
"Wonder? Wonder what? What are you nattering about now?"
Her face was pensive. "Shaka Obre."
"Chosa's brother? Why?"
"Because maybe, just maybe, he might be able to help."
"He's a story, bascha."
"So was Chosa Dei."
I scowled. Considered it. "I don't need any help from a wizard."
"Tiger--"
"I can handle this on my own."
Pale brows arched. "Oh?"
"Just give me a little time. I'll work something out. Meanwhile, let's
get out
of here."
I made it three steps. "Tiger."
I swung back. "What?"
Del pointed at my sword, still mostly buried in Chosa's remains.
"Oh." I went over, bent down, didn't quite touch the hilt. "What's
supposed to
happen?"
"I don't know."
"That's helpful," I told her. "I thought you knew all this stuff."
"I know some 'stuff,' " she agreed. "But you've done something no one
else has
ever done."
"No one?"
"No one. An-ishtoyas seeking the blooding-journey always take sponsors
with them
to prevent disasters like this."
"So what you're saying is, I'm on my own."
Mute, Del nodded.
Being best at something is often entertaining. But being first is a
little
different; it can be dangerous. And I've never been quite cocky enough
to risk
myself like that.
I sucked in a deep breath, stretched out my hand--
"May I suggest something?" Del inquired.
My hand jerked back. "What?"
"Make certain you are stronger. Now. This moment. If Chosa senses any
weakness,
he will use it for himself."
I cast her a baleful glance. Then straightened and kicked the sword out
of the
crispy, shrunken pile of cloth, bones, and flesh.
Steel clanged across the stone floor. Nothing happened. The sword just
lay
there.
Except the blade was dull.
Frowning, I stepped across the remains and stared down at the sword.
The hilt
was the same as always--bright, brilliant steel--but the blade was
smudgy dull
gray, almost black. The tip itself was black, as if it had been burned.
"All right," I said. "Why?"
Del stood next to me, sword in hand. She looked down at her own blade,
which was
a pale salmon-silver. When keyed, it burned richer and brighter.
Nothing
approaching black. No jivatma I'd ever seen had ever been this color.
"I don't know," she said. "No one knows what the color will be until
the jivatma
shows it."
"But you think this is it."
Del sighed a little. "I think so. It comes on the heels of quenching
and
keying."
"I don't like black or gray. I'd prefer something brighter. Something
more
desertlike."
Del stared at me in amazement.
Defensively, I shrugged. "Well, we all have our preferences. Mine isn't
gray and
black."
"Maybe it's what happens when you requench."
I stood staring down at the dull-bladed sword, hands on hips, chewing a
bloody
lip. Then, with an impatient twitch of shoulders, I bent and picked it
up.
Nothing happened. Nothing at all. The sword felt cold and dead.
I frowned. "What's it supposed--"
"Tiger!"
This time I landed flat on my rump on the floor with my knees bent up,
feet
flat, bracing myself upright, and stared in astonishment at the sword
lying but
three feet away.
Still gray and black. But the black was a little higher.
Del's hand was over her mouth. After a moment, she spoke through her
fingers.
"Are you all right?"
"Did you have to punch me again in the chest?"
"No."
"Then I guess I'm all right." It hurt more this time to stand up, but I
managed
it with a minimum of fuss. And then I stood there for a moment or two,
trying to
banish disorientation, and scowled at the sword. "He's angry."
"Who?"
"Samiel. Chosa Dei is just shocked. He didn't realize he was dead--or
whatever
it is he is."
Del took a step forward. "Does he know?"
"Know what?"
"Where Shaka Obre is?"
"Oh, for hoolies--" I glared. "I said I'd handle this, bascha--without
Shaka
Obre's help."
"It was a thought," Del commented.
I walked to the sword. "Right now all I want to think about is
leaving."
"How?" Del asked. "Don't you remember what happened the last time we
tried to go
through the wards?"
I remember very well. You don't often forget waking up in the middle of
a tunnel
in a mountain shaped like a dragon. "But now Chosa Dei is dead, so the
wards are
out of a job. Besides, I think if we used a piece of this Northern
magic you're
always talking about, we ought to be able to figure out a way."
"Only if you can figure out how to pick up your sword."
Basically, it was easy. All I had to do was show Chosa Dei who's boss.
Del and I crossed to the "curtain." Further study told us nothing more
than we
already knew: the thing was a ward set by Shaka Obre, intended to keep
Chosa Dei
imprisoned. It let out the smoke, let people in--though where they
wound up was
not quite certain, as I could testify--and prevented Chosa's escape.
Prevented our escape.
Sweat ran down my temples. "Now," I suggested, gripping the hilt with
both
hands.
Del frowned at me. "You don't look--"
The blade shook; I shook. "Now. Not tomorrow."
Del turned, raised her sword, glanced across at me. I mimicked her
posture;
together we sliced through the curtain as if it were nothing but silk.
Wards wisped into smoke. The prison was breached at last.
After six hundred and forty-two years, Chosa Dei was free of his
mountain.
But until we found Shaka Obre, I'd never be free of Chosa.
Seventeen
We sat in the headman's lodge in Ysaa-den, repairing what we could of
battered
flesh and spirits. We were alone, as always, being honored with
solitude. With
one another's help we had washed blood and grime and stink off,
replacing
missing or ruined clothing with articles given us by Halvar and his
wife. Now I
sat on a warm pelt with eyes scrunched closed, legs crossed, gritting
teeth as
Del tended puncture wounds and tooth tears with herbal paste.
"Sit still," she commanded as my eyes snapped open.
"It hurts."
"I know it hurts. It will hurt worse if you let these bites get
infected.
Especially this one here."
She did it on purpose. I flinched, swore at her; swore at her harder as
she
merely smiled and smeared more salve into a bite very low on my belly.
Del had
peeled the loosened waistband of my trews away, baring scraped and
bitten skin,
and now took pleasure in poking and prodding.
"I can do it," I said. "For that matter, Halvar's wife can do it; she
offered."
"Everyone in Ysaa-den offered, Tiger; you're a hero. They will give you
anything
you ask, if they can." Del sat back on her heels. "Am I to suppose you
want
their two copper pennies, now?"
She wore blue in place of filthy white, a cool soft blue that
heightened the
color of her eyes. Pale lashes, pale hair, paler skin; she was, no
doubt,
feeling every bit as tired and battered as me. But somehow she didn't
look it.
"No," I answered testily. "All I want is to be rid of this sword, so I
can live
in peace. Or, more immediately, a warm bed and a bota of aqivi; since
this is
the North, I'll take amnit."
"You'll get your amnit. You'll even get your bed. As to the warmth of
it, that
will depend on how many women you put in it."
I grunted. I was so full of bruises, bites, scrapes, scratches and claw
scores I
doubted I could provide much pleasure for a bedpartner. Especially
since what I
most wanted to do was sleep.
"The meal first," Del reminded, as my eyes drooped closed. "It's a
celebration."
"Can't they celebrate without me?"
"No. Then they would have no one for whom to sing their song of
salvation and
gratitude."
I grunted again. "There's you."
"But I didn't kill Chosa Dei."
"You killed half the hounds."
"Who once were villagers." Del's tone was serious. "I think we need not
tell
that part of the story. Let them think the hounds simply killed their
kinfolk,
instead of being remade into beasts who killed more people, including
kin and
friends." She stroked hair from her eyes. "It would be a kindness."
It would also be a lie, but one I understood. "Give me the tunics,
then, so we
can go get some food. My belly's screaming at me."
Del handed me first the undertunic of soft-combed undyed wool; then, as
I
dragged it on, she presented the green overtunic. It rattled with
intricate
beadwork: bronze, copper, and amber.
"This is too much," I muttered. "He's giving away his best."
"A measure of his respect and gratitude." Del's tone, as it can be, was
bland.
Frustrated, I glared at her. "I would have come anyway. It had nothing
to do
with Ysaa-den or their troubles; it had to do with the hounds. If
they'd gone
somewhere else, I'd have gone somewhere else."
"But they didn't, and neither did you." Del got up slowly, suppressing
a wince
of discomfort. She wore her sword as usual, hanging in harness across
her back.
"They're waiting for us, Tiger. We're the guests of honor."
I frowned, rising carefully. Little by little I was losing my links
with the
South. First Singlestroke, broken fighting Theron. Then my Southron
silks and
gauzes, traded for Northern leather and fur. And lastly my harness,
discarded in
Chosa Dei's mountain. Bit by bit by bit, scattered along the way.
I gathered up my jivatma, lacking sheath as well as harness, and
followed Del
out of the lodge. There was nothing, nothing about her even remotely
Southron.
Northern bascha to the bone, no matter where she was. I was being
altered, while
Del remained the same.
Time to go home, I said.
But I said it to myself.
Hot food, fiery amnit, and warm wishes all conspired to make it
extremely
difficult for me to stay awake during the celebratory meal. The evening
air was
growing chilly, but in addition to new wool clothing I also wore two
pelts. I
sat like a furry lump on yet a third pelt, managing to keep my eyes
open a slit
as Halvar regaled--in uplander--the village with my exploits.
Well, our exploits; Del was not left out.
"Stay awake," she hissed, sitting on the pelt next to mine.
"I'm trying. Hoolies, bascha--what do you expect? Aren't you tired
after
everything we did?"
"No," she answered cruelly. "I'm too young for it."
I chose to ignore that, since I knew very well she was lying. Maybe she
wasn't
yet sleepy, but certainly she was sore. It showed in all her movements.
It
showed when she sat very still. "How much longer do we have to sit out
here?"
"Until the celebration is finished." Del watched Halvar, half-following
his
words even as she spoke to me. "We've eaten, and now Halvar's retelling
the
story. Once that's done, they'll all sing a song of deliverance. Then
everyone
will sit around retelling the story, marveling at the accomplishment,
and drink
to your health." She paused, observing me. "But since, from the look of
you, I
doubt you can manage that, you'll probably be able to slip away."
I nodded, stifling a yawn. It took all the strength I had.
Halvar said something to Del, glanced past her to me--Del had wound up
beside
the headman to translate--and repeated to me whatever it was he'd said
to Del,
just to be polite. I caught one word out of twenty: song.
I nodded. "Sing, then. I'm listening."
Del slanted me a disapproving glance, then spoke briefly to Halvar. In
response
the headman grinned, turned to the gathered villagers all wrapped in
warmest
furs, and announced something. Yet again I saw musical instruments
brought out.
I sat there with a polite smile pasted onto my face and tried to look
interested
as Ysaa-den launched into song. My own bout with singing in order to
defeat
Chosa Dei had not resulted in improved comprehension or appreciation;
it all
sounded like noise to me, though admittedly with a pattern. I suppose
it was
even pretty, if you like that kind of thing.
Del apparently did. She sat all wrapped in white fur with her eyes
fixed on
distances, losing herself in the music. I wondered if it took her back
to her
childhood, when her kinfolk had gathered to sing. And I wondered,
suddenly, if
she had ever sung to anything or anyone other than her sword.
At the end of the song Halvar turned yet again to us and said
something. This
time Del looked surprised.
"What?" I asked, rousing.
"He's bringing the holy man out to throw oracle bones."
"So, the old man likes to gamble."
Del waved a hand. "No, no--to really throw the bones, as they were
meant to be
thrown. Before people began using them for wagering."
I wanted to say something more, but the old holy man had appeared. He
stopped
before us, bowed to us both, then sat down on the spotted pelt Halvar
carefully
spread. He was a very old man, as holy men often are, having stuffed so
much
ritual into a single life. With the Salset there'd been the shukar,
sort of a
holy man/magician; I wondered if Northern customs were the same.
The old man--white-haired, blue-eyed and palsied--seemed to be waiting
for
something. And then one of the younger men brought a low tripod and set
it
carefully before him. Onto the triple prongs was placed a platter of
polished
gold. Its rim, curving upward gently, was worked in Northern runes.
I blinked. "I thought you said Ysaa-den had only two copper pennies."
"In coin," Del agreed. "That's an oracle stand and platter. Each
village has
one... unless it's stolen, or traded away." She shrugged. "Some of the
old ways
die when the need to survive is greater."
The old man took a leather pouch from beneath his furs and carefully
untied the
drawstring. He poured the contents into one palm: a handful of polished
stones.
They were opaque but oddly translucent; pale, pearlescent white showing
green
and red and blue as the old man spread them in his hand. One was fiery
black,
but alive with so many colors I couldn't name them all.
I frowned. "Those aren't really bones. Those are stones. Oracle bones
are
bones."
"Bones of the earth," Del said. "They've been carefully carved and
polished."
I grunted. "Maybe so, but they're not the sort of oracle bones I'm used
to."
"These work," she agreed.
I opened my mouth to protest--yet another story--but didn't say
anything. Even
though I didn't believe in foretelling, I knew perfectly well what Del
would
throw in my face if I said anything rude about the old man and his
stones. She'd
mention Chosa Dei, whom even she thought was a story until he'd nearly
killed
her.
So I didn't give her the chance.
The old man threw his stones onto the golden platter. They rattled and
slid, as
expected, falling into random patterns. Only to the man who uses them
to
foretell, the patterns are never random. That much even I knew.
He threw seven times before he spoke. And then he said a single word.
This time Del frowned.
"Jhihadi," the old man repeated.
Del glanced at Halvar, ignoring me entirely. "I don't understand."
Halvar shook his head, mystified as Del.
"Jhihadi," the old man said, and swept the stones into his hand.
A great silence lay over the gathering. No doubt everyone had expected
profound
words of wisdom, or a promise of good health. Instead, the holy man of
Ysaa-den
had given them a word none of them knew.
"Jhihadi," I said quietly, "is a Southron word."
"Southron?" Del frowned. "Why? What has a Southron word to do with us?"
"Actually, it's Desert, not pure Southron... and it might have
something to do
with the fact that I am, after all, Southron." I smiled benignly.
"Although,
knowing the word, I doubt it indicates me personally." I grinned at
her, then
shrugged. "He must mean something else, or someone else; he is old,
after all,
and those are just pretty stones."
"Why?" she asked suspiciously. "What does 'Jhihadi' mean?"
"Messiah," I said plainly.
Braids whipped as she turned instantly and faced the holy man. She
asked him
something courteously, but I heard the underlying doubt. The need for
an
explanation.
Obligingly, the old man threw the stones again. And again they fetched
up into
varied patterns, none of which I could read.
He studied them, then nodded. "Jhihadi," he repeated. And then added
something
in uplander, ending in yet another Desert word.
"Iskandar?" I said sharply. "What's Iskandar got to do with this?"
Del looked at me blankly. "I don't know what that is."
"An old story," I said dismissively. "Iskandar is a place, named after
a man who
was supposedly a messiah. I don't know how much truth there is to the
tale--you
know how stories can get all twisted up." We stared frowning at one
another,
thinking about Chosa Dei. "Anyway, Iskandar was where this supposed
messiah met
his death."
Del's eyes were intent. "Was he murdered? Executed?"
I grinned. "Nothing so romantic. His horse kicked him in the head; he
died ten
days later. Which is why there are questions about his identity, since
a true
messiah shouldn't be physically vulnerable." I shrugged. "I don't know
much
about it, really, since it's not the sort of thing I pay much attention
to... I
just know that on his deathbed he promised to come back. But since that
was
hundreds of years ago and Iskandar lies in ruins, I have my doubts
about this
jhihadi the old man's talking about."
Del still frowned, locking brows together. "He says we're going there."
"Iskandar?" I didn't bother to hide my amusement. "Then the old man
must be
sandsick."
Del chewed her lip. "If Ajani's there--"
"He won't be. I promise, bascha... Iskandar is a ruin; no one goes
there. Not
even Ajani would, unless he likes to talk with ghosts."
"Then why would the holy man say so?"
After a judicious glance around at the gathered villagers, I couched my
words
politely. "Shall we just say that sometimes people try to protect
pronouncements
by insisting they're true when they're not?"
"He isn't lying," Del declared.
I winced. Here I'd been so careful to speak diplomatically, and now Del
was
being too blunt.
"No," I agreed. "Did I say he was?"
"You said--"
"I said perhaps he was mistaken. Now, are we done yet? Can we go to
bed?"
Del turned back to the holy man and asked something in uplander.
Accordingly, he
threw the stones once again. Then told her what he read.
"Well?" I prodded, when she didn't translate for me.
"Oracle," she said. "There is an Oracle."
"Those are oracle bones--"
"No, not bones--oracle. A man is foretelling the coming of the
jhihadi." Del's
expression was blank as she stared at me. "A man who is not a man, but
neither
is he a woman." Now she frowned. "I don't understand."
"You're not supposed to, bascha. That's what these people trade on;
they make
coin off interpretation." I smiled at the holy man, inclined my head
respectfully, then did the same to Halvar. "Now can we go to bed?"
Plainly, Del was irritated. "Oh, Tiger, I swear--you have become an old
man.
What happened to the days when you would sit up all night swilling
amnit or
aqivi, trading lies in cantinas?"
"I met you," I retorted. "I joined up with you and got the hoolies beat
out of
me more times than I can count." I stood up slowly and rewrapped pelts
around my
shoulders. "Is that answer enough for you?"
Del, taken aback, said nothing in return. I went off to bed.
Some time later I sat bolt upright in the darkness. Beside me, the
sheathless
sword was glowing. It was red as wind-whipped coals; hot as a smithy's
forge.
Hot as Chosa Dei's fire in the entrails of the dragon.
"No," I said clearly, and wrapped hands around the grip.
Shock jerked me rigid. Then I began to shake. It wasn't the heat of the
sword,
but the power surging through it. Raw, angry power, totally
uncontrolled.
"No," I said again, moving onto my knees. Pelts fell away until I knelt
half
naked, wearing nothing but borrowed trews. I'd learned it was warmer
sleeping
naked under fur, but while in Ysaa-den I'd altered the habit a little.
It seemed
the courteous thing, although only Del shared the lodge.
Power ran through my hands, then crept the length of my arms until
elbows and
shoulders ached. "Hoolies take you," I gritted. "I already beat you
once. I can
do it again."
It hurt. Hoolies, it hurt... but I wouldn't give in to it. I can be
stubborn
that way.
Chosa Dei wasn't pleased. I sensed him in the sword, testing the
confines of his
prison. I wondered if he knew what had happened, if he understood his
plight; if
he realized he was dead. For a man such as he, accustomed to stealing
lives as
well as magic, it would be a horrific discovery to learn his life had
been
stolen, along with his remade magic.
He tested the blade again. I exerted my own strength of will. Felt
rising
curiosity; felt a need to understand.
And also felt Samiel trying to reabsorb the magic the sorcerer had
borrowed.
How long? I wondered wearily. How long will this go on?
Power hesitated, then abruptly ran out again, leaving my arms numb.
Slowly I
unlocked my hands from around the grip and set the sword down again. I
trembled
with reaction; sweat bathed face and ribs.
Chill came rushing in, the kind that eats at bones. Shakily I crawled
beneath
pelts again, seeking leftover warmth. I snugged fur around my chin,
then tried
to relax arms and hands. When the shaking wouldn't stop, I thrust my
hands
between drawn-up knees and held them tightly in place. Waiting for the
reaction
to diminish.
A hand touched my rigid left shoulder, though I could only just feel it
through
the pelts. "Tiger--are you all right?"
I sucked in a gut-deep breath, then blew it out again. Trying to steady
my
voice. "I thought you were still out with Halvar and all the others."
"It's very late. Nearly dawn. I've been in bed for hours."
Hours. Then she'd seen what had happened.
"Are you all right?" she repeated.
"Just leave me alone," I told her. "Let me go back to sleep."
"You're shaking. Are you cold?"
"Go back to bed, Del. You're keeping me awake."
Shock reverberated. The hand went away. In a moment so did Del,
crawling back
beneath her pelts all of three feet away from my own.
I lay there sweating, shaking, trying to still my hands while my arms
threatened
to cramp. I felt the strain in shoulder blades, traveling down to tie
up my
back. I didn't want to cramp; hoolies, don't let me cramp... I'd almost
rather
be knifed. At least the pain is cleaner.
Concentrate--concentrate... slowly, the trembling subsided. I took my
hands from
between my knees and felt the tendons slacken. The ghost pain of
threatened
cramp flowed slowly out of back and shoulders; at last I could fully
relax. The
relief was overwhelming.
I let out a rushing breath of gratitude. Then rolled over onto my left
side,
resettling pelts, and saw Del watching me.
She sat cross-legged on her bedding, one pelt wrapped around her body.
There was
not much light in the lodge, only a little from the coals. But pale
hair and
paler face caught the light and magnified it; I could see her face
fairly well.
I could see the expression on it.
"What?" I croaked.
She didn't answer at first, as if caught in some faraway place. She
just stared
at me fixedly, focused solely on my face.
With more emphasis: "What?"
Something glistened in her eyes. "I was wrong," she said.
I stared back, speechless.
"I was wrong," she repeated.
I watched the tears spill over.
"Wrong," she said huskily. "All the reasons: wrong. All the excuses:
wrong. For
nothing other than selfishness, I betrayed your thrust."
Finally I could force something past my tight throat. "There was Kalle-
-"
"Wrong," Del declared. "A daughter is a daughter, and worth many
sacrifices, but
to use you as I did--to make you coin with which to barter--" Her voice
failed
her abruptly. She swallowed painfully. "What I did was no different, in
its own
way, than what Ajani did to me. He took away my freedom... I tried to
take away
yours."
Any number of responses jumped into my mouth. Each and every one of
them was
meant to diminish the truth of what she said, to somehow dismiss what
she had
done. So she would feel better. So she wouldn't cry any more. So I
wouldn't feel
guilty, even though I wasn't to blame.
I choked all of them back. To give in to the impulse was to dilute the
power of
her admission.
I took a deep breath. "Yes," I agreed. "What you did was wrong."
Del's tone was oddly empty. "I have done nothing I am ashamed of, save
that. I
have killed men. Many men. Men who got in my way, in the circle and
out. I
excuse none of those deaths; all were necessary. But what I offered
Staal-Ysta,
even for only a year, was not necessary. It was not my right to offer.
It was
not my life to give."
"No," I said softly.
Del drew in a noisy breath. "If you want me to go, I will. You have
finished the
task you set out to do. You have fulfilled your promise. It is left to
me to
finish mine; to end my song. Ajani is not your responsibility."
No. He never had been. But I know I hated the man at least half as much
as Del,
for what he'd done to her.
I thought about riding alone again. Just the stud and me. No female
complications. No mission of vengeance. No obsession. Just riding
through the
South trying to scare up work. Trying to make a living. Growing older
by the
day, with nothing to show for it.
And no Northern bascha with whom to pass the time, in argument or in
the circle.
I cleared my throat. "I've got nothing to do."
"After what I have done--"
"I'll get over it."
It was abrupt. Off-handed. Casual. It was also enough. We're neither of
us good
at putting feelings into words.
Del pulled furs into place and lay down on her bedding again. Her back
was
toward me, right shoulder jutting toward the roof. "I would like that,"
she
said.
I lay there thinking about it, overwhelmed with new feelings. But I was
exhausted from the sword, and it took too much effort to think about
emotions.
Del had made her admission. Del had fulfilled the task I required of
her. So now
all I had to do was just shut my eyes and let it go, sliding away.
Tumbling into
darkness. The pain was gone for good, and the lure of sleep beckoned.
Beckoned.
Beckoned--
It was pleasant drifting there, just at the edge of the eddy... at the
point of
dropping off--
"You're not old," Del said. Very low, but distinct.
Sleep retreated a moment. I smiled and yanked it back.
Going home, I thought, and slid off the edge of the world.




Part II


One
"Tiger," she said, "you're whistling."
"No, I'm not."
"Not now, no--but you were."
"I don't whistle, bascha--too much like music."
"Whistling is music," she pointed out, "and you were doing it."
"Look," I said patiently, "I don't sing, I don't hum, I don't whistle.
I don't
do anything even remotely connected with music."
"Because you're tone-deaf. But that doesn't mean you can't do any of
those
things. It just means you do all of them badly." She paused. "And you
do."
"Why would I whistle? I've never done it before."
"Because, thanks to the Canteada and your jivatma, you have a better
understanding of what power music holds... and maybe because you're
happy."
Well, I was happy. I'd been happy ever since Del had made her
admission. Happier
ever since we'd traded uplands for downlands and then downlands for
border
country; before an hour was up we'd be out of the North for good.
But I don't know that it made me whistle.
I drew in a deep breath, then exhaled in satisfaction. "Smell that?
That's air,
bascha... good, clean air. And warm air, too . . no more frozen lungs."
"No," she agreed, "no more frozen lungs... now we can breathe Southron
air and
have our lungs scorched."
I just grinned, nodded, rode on. It felt good to be aboard the stud
again,
riding down out of hills and plateaus into the scrubby borderlands
between the
North and Harquhal. It felt so good I didn't even mind Del's steadfast
silences,
or the dry irony of her tone when she did speak. All I knew was that
with each
stride closer to the border, I was closer to home. To warmth and sun
and sand.
To cantinas and aqivi. To all the things I'd known so well for the last
twenty-some-odd years of my life, once I was free to know them.
"Hah!" I said. "See? There's the marker now." Without waiting for an
answer, I
booted the stud into a startled, lunging run and galloped the distance
remaining
between me and the South. I sent him past the stone cairn, then rolled
him back,
held him in check, watched Del negotiate the same distance at a much
more
decorous pace.
Or was it reluctance in place of decorum?
"Come on, Del," I called. "The footing's good enough. Let that blue
horse run!"
Instead she let him walk. All the way to the cairn. And then she reined
in, slid
off, looped his reins around the pile of stones. Saying nothing, Del
walked a
short distance away and turned her back to me, staring steadfastly
toward the
north.
Oh. That again.
Impatiently I watched as she unsheathed, balanced blade and hilt across
both
hands, then thrust the sword above her head as if she offered it to her
gods. It
brought back the night she'd called colors out of the sky and painted
the night
with rainbows. It brought back the night I'd realized she wasn't dead;
that I
realized I hadn't killed her.
Impatience faded. Del was saying good-bye to her past and her present.
No more
Staal-Ysta. No more Kalle. No more familiar life. As much as I was
pleased to
see the South again, it wasn't the same for her. It never could be,
either,
regardless of circumstances.
The stud stomped, protesting inaction. I stilled him with a twitch of
the reins
and a single word of admonishment; for a change, he paid attention.
Then he
swung his head around as far as he could swing it, staring toward
still-invisible Harquhal, and snorted. With feeling.
"I know," I told him. "Just a moment or two more... you can wait that
long, even
if you don't like it."
He shook his head, clattered bit shanks, slashed his tail audibly. It
needed
cutting badly; I knew almost instantly because the ends of coarse
horsehair
stung me across one thigh.
"Keep it up," I suggested. "I'll cut your gehetties off, too, and then
where
would you be?"
Del came back down to the blue roan and pulled reins free of the rock,
leading
him toward me. She still carried a naked blade, and showed no signs of
putting
it away.
I frowned. Reined in the stud as he seriously considered greeting the
roan with
a nip. Tried to ask a question, but was overridden by Del.
"It's time," she said simply.
Eyebrows rose. "Time?"
Sunlight glinted off Boreal. "Time," Del agreed, "to face one another
in a
circle."
It had been three weeks since the last time the subject had come up,
just before
reaching Ysaa-den. Del said nothing about sparring, and I'd been
content to let
the matter rest. I'd hoped it could rest forever.
I glanced down at the hilt of my own jivatma, riding quietly next to my
left
knee in a borrowed sheath buckled onto my saddle. Halvar had been
generous
enough to give me the sheath he'd used for his old bronze sword; it
didn't
really suit me, since it was only a scabbard and not the sheath-and-
harness as I
preferred, but I'd needed something to carry the weapon in. I couldn't
lug it
around bare-bladed.
"I don't think so," I told her.
Del's brow furrowed. "Are you still afr--"
"You don't know this sword."
She looked at the hilt. Considered what I'd said. Sighed a little and
tried
valiantly to hang onto waning patience. "I need to practice, Tiger. So
do you.
If we're to earn a living while we try to track down Ajani, we've got
to get fit
again. We've got to spar against one another to recover timing,
strength,
stamina--"
"I know all that," I said, "and you're absolutely right. But I'm not
stepping
into a circle against you so long as Chosa Dei's in this sword."
"But you can control it. You can control him; I've seen you. Not just
that night
in Halvar's lodge, but all the other times on the way here--"
"--and it's all those other times that make me refuse now," I told her
plainly.
"This sword wasn't exactly easy to control before I requenched it in
Chosa
Dei... do you think I really want to risk losing whatever control I've
learned
while you and I spar?" I shook my head. "Chosa Dei wanted your sword.
He wanted
to drain the magic, to reshape it--remake it--for his own specific
needs. As far
as I can tell, I think he still does."
Del was plainly startled. "How can he still--?" She shook her head,
breaking it
off. "He's in a sword, Tiger."
"And do you, not knowing what he's capable of, really want to risk
letting him
make contact with Boreal?"
"I don't think--" She stopped. Frowned. Stared pensively at Samiel's
hilt poking
up beside my knee. Then made a gesture of acknowledgment. "Maybe you're
right.
Maybe if your sword and mine ever met, he'd steal my jivatma's magic.
And
then--" She broke off again, staring at me in realization. "If he bound
your
magic and mine together, what would that make him? What kind of man
would he
be?"
I shook my head. "There's no way of knowing what could happen. Your
jivatma is
different from others, bascha. You've known that all along, though you
say
little about it. But it's become obvious even to me, now that I've seen
a few
others. Now that I know how they're made, and what goes into them." I
shrugged.
"You blooded her in Baldur and completed your rituals, sealing all your
pacts
with those gods you revere so much, and then you sang your own personal
song of
need and revenge." I looked down at her steadily. "I think it gave your
jivatma
a more intense kind of power."
Del said nothing; silence was eloquent.
I spread both hands, reins threaded through fingers. "When I
requenched--when I
keyed the way you're supposed to, finally--I sang of specific, personal
things,
just like you did. And my sword, like yours, is different, only it's
because of
Chosa Dei, not any special pacts." I shook my head. "I don't understand
it yet.
Maybe I never will. But I do know that heat and cold don't mix. One
always has
to win. And I think it's the same with our swords."
Del was clearly troubled. "It was a mistake... it never should have
happened...
in Staal-Ysta, we are taught never to requench--"
"I didn't have a whole lot of choice, now, did I?"
"No, no--I am not blaming you." But still she frowned. "I am thinking
of the
reason why requenching is forbidden. I am thinking about a sword-dancer
who,
whenever he desires, requenches his jivatma. And how he himself can
'collect'
the enemy's personal power, just as Chosa Dei collected magic by
unmaking
things." Del looked at my sword. "I am thinking about a man--or a
woman--who
forgets honor and promises and becomes addicted to power. Addicted to
requenching."
"Are you saying nothing stronger than custom keeps sword-dancers with
jivatmas
from requenching each time they kill?"
"Custom," she answered, "and honor."
I made a sound of derision. "That's some kind of control! What you're
telling me
is a sword-dancer sick and tired of all these customs and honor codes
could
become a renegade. Ride all over the North and South requenching as he
goes."
"No one would do--"
"Why not?" I interrupted. "What's to keep him from it? What's really to
keep him
from it, if habit isn't enough?"
"A sword-dancer who did such a thing would be formally denounced by the
voca and
declared outlaw," she said. "A blade without a name. He would owe
swordgild to
Staal-Ysta and be subject to discipline by any sword-dancer who
challenged him."
I triple-clucked my tongue at her in mock sorrow. "Such a frightening
prospect,
bascha. Enough to make me go to bed and pull the covers over my head."
Color bloomed in her face. "Just because no one in the South has an
honor at
all, or assumes responsibility--"
"That's not it," I told her. "That's not my point. What I'm saying is,
these
swords are dangerous. Whatever magic turns a normal sword into a thing
laden
with the power to suck a soul from a person is nothing to take lightly.
In the
wrong hands a jivatma could become a devastating weapon." I smiled
sardonically.
"And yet the an-kaidin on Staal-Ysta continue to hand them out." I
shifted in
the saddle. "Don't know as how that's very wise, Delilah."
"No one except a kaidin is gifted with a jivatma. Or the one who
chooses instead
to be a sword-dancer." She shrugged, spreading a hand. "By the time of
choice,
the an-ishtoya has proven his or her honor; that is what rank is for.
It is a
selection process, a way of enforcing the honor codes of Staal-Ysta. It
isn't
undertaken lightly, Tiger; they don't give a blooding-blade to anyone
unless
it's quite certain he--or she--knows how to invoke the magic properly,
and that
he is fully committed to upholding the honor systems."
"Del," I said patiently, "I have a jivatma."
It sank in. Del stared at me wide-eyed. And then waved a dismissive
hand. "Yes,
of course, but it's because you were worthy of one."
"Was I? Haven't I requenched?"
She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it slowly. Frowned more
deeply,
pulling smooth, creamy forehead into lines of tension and concern. It's
never
easy to come face-to-face with the weakness in lifelong beliefs. I
know; I used
to disbelieve in magic altogether.
"Del," I said quietly, "I'm not intending to requench again, if that's
what
you're worried about. I'd just as soon never key this thing again--I'm
sword-dancer, not sorcerer. All I'm saying is, it seems kind of odd
that this
kind of power is given away freely with very few restraints. Honor is
one thing,
bascha--and I don't doubt it counts for something on Staal-Ysta--but
not
everyone in the world understands the value in such a thing. Certainly
most
people--everyone I know--would be more than willing to use any
advantage at
hand, if it meant the difference between living and dying."
Del stared up at me from the ground. "Are you telling me you believe I
will cast
off my honor and defeat Ajani unfairly?"
I grinned. "I believe you will do whatever it takes to kill him.
Because what
you're doing is in the name of honor, which sort of balances out the
effort."
She shrugged one shoulder slightly. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But how I
kill Ajani
has nothing to do with your unwillingness to meet me in a circle."
I sighed. "It does, but I guess you can't see it right now. So let's
just say
that I, being a Southroner and entirely lacking in honor or scruples,
don't have
the slightest understanding of what this sword is capable of. And
that's why, in
addition to other things, I don't want to dance with you."
"Chosa Dei," she murmured.
I tapped the pommel knot. "Right here, bascha... and growing angrier by
the
moment."
Del looked down at the sword in her hand. "I have to dance," she said.
"It's why
I went looking for you."
It cut deep. Right through flesh, muscle, belly wall, into the hidden
places.
For four weeks I had mostly put aside thoughts of personal things
because we
were busy hunting hounds, but now it was fresh again. Now it hurt
again.
It was especially painful in view of the things she'd told me in
Halvar's lodge.
"Well, then," I said finally, "why don't you head on down the road to
Harquhal,
all of twenty miles south or so, where I'm sure you'll find someone
there who
can give you a proper match."
Del stared up at me for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable.
For a
woman with only twenty-one years to her name--and that just barely--she
was very
good at hiding what she felt.
Abruptly she resheathed, turned to her roan, stepped up into the
stirrup. Swung
a leg over and settled, gathering loose rein.
Hoolies, I thought, she's going. After all this--after settling things
at last,
she's really going to go--
Del walked her horse to mine. "I lied," she said plainly.
Oh, hoolies, bascha... now you've got me confused.
"From the beginning, I lied."
"About what?" I asked warily.
"About the dancing. About why I came looking for you."
"Oh?"
Del nodded. "You are the kind of man--or were--who would take lightly a
woman's
devotion. A woman's admission of admiration. A woman's need for you.
You would
take it lightly, and hurt her, because she would have offered something
of
value--the truth of what she felt--and you would see nothing of value
in it."
"I would?"
"Men," she said. "You, once, certainly; I recall what you were like."
"But I wouldn't any more?"
Her face was oddly expressionless. "Not around me. Not in reach of my
sword."
I grinned, then hid it away behind an arch expression. "So, you're
saying--I
think--you didn't come looking for me just because of my dancing."
"No."
It brought me up short. I frowned. "No, you didn't come looking for me
just
because of my dancing; or no, that's not right?"
Del smiled. She smiled. "I came looking for you because of your
dancing,
yes--you are the Sandtiger--but also because of you. Just you, Tiger;
now, I
have said it aloud. I hope you treat it kindly."
It meant something. It meant a lot--but I couldn't show anything of it.
Some
things are just too private. "So, am I to take this to mean you're
devoted to
me? That you need me?"
Del turned her horse southerly. "Don't assume anything, Tiger. It can
get you
into trouble."


Two
It was warm in Harquhal. A faint afternoon breeze blew sand at our
faces,
lodging grit in our teeth. For once I didn't mind the crunching; it
meant I was
home again.
Del, however, did. She rode her roan in through the gates and blew her
lips free
of dust, brushing at blue woolen tunic and muttering in uplander.
Something to
do with dust and sand. Something to do with dislike. And something, I
think,
with a bath.
But a bath would have to wait. "Harness," I said briefly, and headed
off down
the street.
Harquhal is the kind of place that attracts sword-dancers. It's a
border town,
which means two cultures come together, and not always peaceably. This
means
there is often work for those of us who hire on to protect, retrieve,
or bestow,
depending on circumstances, and depending on the employer. Which means
where
there are sword-dancers, there are also swords-smiths and craftsmen
dedicated to
the art.
The man I went to see had been recommended by three different sword-
dancers in
three different cantinas. There is nothing at all accomplished by being
hasty
about accoutrements that can possibly save a life. I took my time,
asked around,
downed a few cups of aqivi just to reacquaint my tongue. Del made no
complaint,
but I could feel her growing impatience. She wanted to ask about Ajani,
but I'd
talked her out of it. First I wanted a proper harness and sheath, so
that if we
ran into trouble I'd be better prepared.
Although she did comment, eventually, that with all the aqivi in me I'd
be lucky
to remain standing, let alone dance.
"I don't want to dance," I told her. "I'd just as soon avoid dancing
altogether,
if I can; there's no need to be hostile."
"We want to kill a man. I don't think we can avoid it."
"You want to kill him. Ajani's not my problem. My problem, right now,
is finding
a man who can give me exactly what I want in the way of a proper
harness."
Which had led me to ask yet a third sword-dancer, who gave me the same
name. So
we went to see him.
He was a typical Southroner: brown-haired, brown-eyed, burned dark by
the sun.
He wore the plain clothing of the tradesman--gauzy tunic, baggy trews,
robe--and
no ornamentation. Which meant he didn't take an inordinate amount of
pride in
his appearance, unlike some gifted men, but, more likely, in his
craftsmanship.
He stood behind a table. The shop was small, jammed with flats of
skins, racks
of wood, trays full of wire, thong, tools. He watched Del and me come
in through
the curtained doorway and nodded greeting. It was very brief to Del,
intended
mostly for me; the man, the Southroner. Nothing much had changed while
I'd been
North.
I stopped at the table and looked the man dead in the eye. "It's a very
special
sword."
Juba smiled. Undoubtedly he had heard the exact same words before,
uttered by
countless sword-dancers intent upon the blade that earned them a
living. Only in
this case, what I said was understatement.
"Very special," I repeated, "and in need of precise attention." I set
the
sheathed sword on the table in front of Juba. "Don't touch," I said.
Again, Juba smiled. It was not a condescending smile, or one of
disbelief--he
was too professional to let his thoughts show so plainly--but it was a
smile of
subtle acknowledgement: Let the customer say what he will. Juba will be
the
judge.
Only the hilt was visible above the lip of Halvar's sheath. It was
bright,
twisted-silk steel devoid of excess ornamentation. The sword was simply
a sword.
"Jivatma" I said, and Juba's brown eyes widened. "What I want," I
continued, "is
a true sword-dancer's harness, cut to my size, and a diagonal scabbard
as well.
Split sheath, of course--six-inch cut at the lip--so when I hook it out
of the
scabbard the blade rides free. While sheathed I want it snug--I can't
abide
rattling--but I need it to come to hand easy. No snags or awkward
motion."
Juba nodded slightly. "Cadda wood," he said. "It's light, but very
strong. And
suede lining inside. Outside I will encase it in danjac hide, then lace
and wrap
it with thong, with a bit of wire for strength." He paused. "Do you
want
ornamentation?"
Some sword-dancers like to hang coin or rings or bits of jewelry from
their
sheaths, to prove they've been successful. Some even like to take
something from
the loser--dead or alive--as a kind of trophy. Me, I've always kind of
thought
that sort of thing was asking for trouble. While it's true not too many
thieves
want to tangle with a man who earns his living with a sword, I've never
known a
bandit yet who wouldn't do whatever he could to separate a man from his
wealth.
Which meant that a sword-dancer who got drunk, or fell in with a
scheming
cantina girl, or who simply lost track of his wits, was asking to be
robbed.
I started to shake my head.
"Yes," Del said. "Can you copy this?"
She had waited so quietly behind me, saying nothing to Juba or me, that
I'd
nearly forgotten she was there. But now she came forward, asking Juba
for clay
slate and stylus. He set the slate out on the table, passed her the
stylus,
watched in pensive silence as she scraped out the design.
"There," she said at last. "Can you work those into the leather? From
top to
bottom, like so--twisting around and around and around... can you do
this?"
Juba and I stared at the slate. Del had painstakingly carved elaborate
runes
into the unbaked clay, then blown the dust away. The shapes were
intricate and
precise, and like nothing I'd ever seen.
Except on Samiel's blade.
Juba frowned, then looked at me. "Do you want those?"
His tone expressed doubt; he was, after all, a Southroner, and Del a
Northern
woman... but his job was to please the customer. He'd let me decide.
I glanced sidelong at Del. She offered nothing save silence again, but
I felt
the tension in her body. She wouldn't ask me to say yes, because it had
to be my
choice. But clearly she wanted me to let Juba put in the runes.
What the hoolies... "Put them on."
Juba shrugged and nodded. "I must measure you," he said, "and also
measure the
sword. But if you won't allow me to touch it--"
"I'll help," I told him. "Measure me first, then we'll get to the
sword."
He worked quickly and competently, wrapping thong this way and that way
around
me, then tying knots on it to mark his place. When he was done, all I
saw was a
leather thong full of knots, but Juba knew the language.
Then he looked at the sword.
I slid it clear of Halvar's sheath, dropping the scabbard aside. Now
the blade
was naked. It was black at the tip, a smudgy dull black extending three
fingers
up the blade, as if it had been dipped. Runes caught light like water.
Juba sucked in a breath. Desire darkened his eyes. I saw his fingers
twitch.
"Jivatma," I repeated. "Did you think the Sandtiger lies?"
I did it on purpose. Not to brag, although there's always a little of
that; but
to make certain he understood who he was making the harness for. If a
sword-dancer like the Sandtiger was pleased by Juba's work, it could
improve his
reputation and increase business one hundredfold. If he didn't like the
workmanship, Juba might be finished.
But I did it also because I knew there was a chance that Juba, left
alone, might
yet touch the sword. Might try to pick it up. And I recalled much too
well the
pain of Boreal before Del had told me her name.
"Measure it," I said. "If you need it moved, I'll do it."
Swiftly Juba drew out yet another leather thong and measured the sword,
tying
knots here and there. I moved it as instructed, holding the thong for
him when
he needed to make contact. When he was done, he nodded. "It will fit. I
promise.
It will be as you have said."
"And the runes," Del said intently.
Juba looked at her for the second time. This time he looked at her, and
saw what
she was. Saw past the Northern beauty. Saw past the independence. Saw
beyond the
cool demeanor to the woman who lived inside.
And looked away again, being a Southron fool. "How soon?" he asked.
I shrugged. "As soon as you can. I don't like carrying my sword by
hand, and I
can't abide a belt or baldric."
No, of course not; no true sword-dancer carried his weapon in anything
but
harness-and-sheath. I wasn't about to change the custom and risk
looking like a
fool.
Juba thought about it. He might ask for better payment if I wanted it
so
quickly; then again, my name ought to be enough. "Two days," he
offered.
"Tomorrow evening," I said.
Juba considered it. "Not enough time," he explained. "There is much
work for me,
with so many going to Iskandar. I would be honored to make by best
harness and
sheath for the Sandtiger, but--"
"Tomorrow evening," I said. "What's this about Iskandar?"
He shrugged, already digging through piles of leather. "They say the
jhihadi is
coming."
I grunted. "They say the same thing every ten years or so." I sheathed
my sword
and picked it up. With Del on my heels, I went out the curtained
doorway.
"You heard him," she said as soon as we were outside. "He mentioned
Iskandar and
the jhihadi... are you going to pretend it's nonsense when a Southroner
brings
it up."
"Iskandar is a ruin," I said yet again. "There's no reason for anyone
to go
there."
"Except maybe if the messiah is coming."
"All sorts of rumors get started, bascha. Are we supposed to believe
them all?"
Del didn't answer, but her mouth was set firmly.
"And now," I began, "suppose you tell me what these runes are all
about."
She shrugged. "Just runes. Decoration."
"I don't think so, bascha. I know you better than that. You were too
precise,
which makes me nervous. I want to know what kind of runes--what do they
say?--and what they're supposed to do."
Del didn't offer an answer. We were just outside Juba's shop; I stopped
dead,
swung to face her, very nearly stepped on her toes. She looked into my
face and
probably saw how serious I was; she took a step back and sighed.
"A warning," she told me. "Wards against tampering. Also your name, and
who you
are... and your Northern rank."
"I'm a Southroner."
She took it in stride. "Southron rank, as well," she continued evenly.
"Seventh-level, as you have said; I have forgotten nothing."
"You forgot to ask me if I wanted such things on my scabbard."
Del was plainly troubled. "You yourself told me how dangerous a jivatma
can be
in the wrong hands. You pointed out that even a Northerner, if he felt
strongly
enough, might reject the teachings of Staal-Ysta to gain additional
power."
"But what has that to do with my sword?"
"Protection," she said quietly. "If an unscrupulous sword-dancer wanted
power
for himself, he could not do better than to steal your jivatma."
"You mean--" I stopped. "Do you mean the runes are to protect me?"
"Yes."
"No one can even touch my sword without knowing his name, Del. Isn't
that
protection enough?"
She didn't avoid my gaze. "You drink," she said. "You have begun to
drink
already, and you will drink more before the night is through, to
celebrate your
homecoming. I have seen you do it before." She shrugged. "A man who
drinks often
does and says foolish things."
"And you think I might tell someone the name of this sword, thereby
allowing
him--or her--to touch it. To use it. Possibly even to requench it, if
he or she
knew the proper way."
Del's eyes were bleak. "Chosa Dei is no longer a story," she said. "He
is a
truth, and others will come to know it. You yourself have said you
don't know
what the sword is capable of; would you have an enemy gain your sword
and Chosa
Dei all at once? Do you know what that would mean?"
"It would free Chosa Dei," I said grimly.
"And more." Creases marred her brow. "A man wanting skill and strength
could do
worse than to quench a blade in you."
I hadn't thought about it, to tell the truth. But now I did. I thought
about it
hard, scowling down at the scabbarded jivatma.
Me, at risk. Me, a source of skill and strength. The kind of "honored
enemy"
others might find attractive.
Hoolies, I was the Sandtiger... whatever anyone really thought of me no
longer
mattered. I had a reputation for being very good--well, I am--and
anyone who
wanted to improve a blooding-blade might indeed seek me out.
"But by putting on these runes, aren't we telling everyone who might be
interested that I'm a good target?"
Del shook his head. "They say your name and who you are, yes; they also
serve as
wards. A man would be a fool to tamper with your sword."
I wasn't convinced.
Del tried again. "Chosa Dei will do everything he can to free himself.
Anyone
who tried to use this sword would be asking for death... or worse.
Asking for
possession."
"Like the loki. Isn't it?" I shook my head. "I thought we were free of
that sort
of thing forever, since the Canteada entrapped them in the circle...
and now
there's this to face."
Del stroked a strand of fair hair behind her left ear. "It is well that
only
Northerners trained on Staal-Ysta understand the power of the jivatmas
and how
they can be used... a Southroner has no knowledge of such things. It is
therefore unlikely a Southroner will try to steal your sword."
True. It made me feel like a little better. "So--you think Northern
runes will
warn away unscrupulous Northerners." I grinned. "I thought you once
told me all
Northerners are honorable people."
Del didn't see the humor. "Ajani is Northern," she said.
"But he isn't a sword-dancer."
"Nor is he an honorable man." Del's tone was intensely bitter. "Do you
think he
has become what he has become through ignorance and stupidity? Do you
think he
has no way of learning things he considers important? And wouldn't you
consider
the habits and training of a sword-dancer important, if you knew your
life could
be threatened by such?"
"Del--"
"Do you think he would be so foolish as to ignore a story of how a
named blade
is blooded? Or to ignore the chance to steal one from someone like the
Sandtiger, who is a seventh-level sword-dancer in addition to a kaidin!
Do you
think--"
"Del."
She shut her mouth.
"All right," I said soothingly, "all right; yes, I understand; no, I
don't
disagree. He's not stupid and he's not ignorant. All right? Can we go
on now?" I
plucked at heavy wool. "Can we go see someone about trading all this
weight in
on dhoti and burnous?"
"You don't know him," she said steadfastly. "You don't know Ajani at
all."
No, I didn't. And I couldn't. Until Delilah found him.
I sighed, closed a big hand on her shoulder, aimed her down the street.
"Come
on, bascha. Let's shed this wool. Then we can set about finding people
who might
know where Ajani's been keeping himself."
"No more delays," she said. "No more delays."
It had taken six years. Del was, finally, at the end of her patience.
And I
couldn't really blame her.
"I promise," I told her. "We'll find him."
Del looked me in the face. Her eyes were something to behold. Bluest
blue, and
beautiful, but also incredibly deadly.
And I recalled, looking at her, something Chosa Dei had said to her in
the
chamber. Something even Del had agreed with, speaking of herself;
thinking of
her oath.
Obsession is necessary. Obsession is required. Obsession is the master
when
compassion undermines.


Three
She sat herself down on my knee and traced out the scars on my cheek.
"Soooo,"
she purred, "you came."
I opened one eye. "Was I supposed to?"
"Oh, yes. Everyone said you would. And now you are here."
I opened the other eye. It didn't change the view: black-haired, brown-
eyed
woman, perching her rump on my thigh. Leaning up against me to show off
abundant
charms, hardly hidden by loose, gauzy blouse.
"Kima," she told me, smiling. "And you are the Sandtiger."
I cleared my throat. "So I am." I shifted a little, trying to find a
more
comfortable position. Kima was no lightweight, and I was still a bit
sore from
my travail in Chosa's mountain. "Who said I would come?"
Kima waved a hand. "Everyone," she said. "All the other girls and I had
a wager
as to which of us would get you."
Cantina girls are notorious for wagering, and for vulgarity. But then,
when
you're a man in dire need of a woman after too long alone in the Punja,
you
don't really care. It used to be I'd just nod at whatever they said,
not being
particularly interested in anything other than physical charms; now I
frowned at
Kima.
"Why was I coming?"
"Because all the sword-dancers are." She snuggled up next to my chest,
butting
the top of her head against my chin. "I know your kind, Sandtiger...
the lure of
coin is powerful. It brings you all out of the desert."
Yes, well, occasionally. Actually, more than occasionally; it's sort of
part of
our lifestyle. Hard to live without coin.
I reached past Kima, managed to snag my cup, carried it carefully to my
mouth.
Downed three swallows, then lost the cup to Kima. "How much did you win
because
you managed to 'get' me?"
Her giggle was low and throaty. "Haven't won yet. Have to take you to
bed."
I sat--and Kima sat--in a corner of the cantina, snugged into a little
alcove.
I've never been one for sitting plop out in the middle of the place,
since it's
hard to keep an eye on everyone in the cantina. But give me a corner
table, or
one pushed into an alcove, and I'm a happy man.
I was not unhappy now, although I've been happier. I couldn't help
thinking of
Del, gone off to reserve a room at an inn up the street. What would she
think of
Kima?
Kima traced scars again, sliding fingernails through my beard. The
other hand
slid lower, then lower still; I sat upright so suddenly I nearly dumped
her on
the floor. "Sorry," I murmured as she spilled aqivi down her blouse.
She considered being affronted. Then took note of the fact the wet
blouse
displayed still more of half-hidden charms in a rather unique way. She
leaned
against me again. "First the son, and now the father. He might be
younger, but
you're bigger."
I grunted inattentively, trying to reach around her so I could pour
more aqivi
into the recovered cup. And then her words sank in. "What?"
She smiled, applied tongue tip to scars, pouted prettily as I pulled
away. "Your
son," Kima said. "He was here, too."
"I don't have a son."
Kima shrugged. "He said he was your son."
"I don't have a son." I tipped her off my knee. "Are you sure he said
my name?"
She stood over me, hands on hips. Breasts strained against wet gauze.
"Do you
mean to take me to bed or not?"
Del's cool voice intruded. "Don't keep her waiting, Tiger. She might
get out of
the mood." She paused. "Then again, probably not; do cantina girls have
moods?"
Kima swung around and came face to face--well, no, not exactly face to
face; Del
was a head taller--with the cold, hard truth: when Del is in the room,
no other
female exists. It's height, coloring, sword. It's also grace and
danger. Plus a
lot of their things.
Clearly, Kima knew it at once. She decided to fight her way, since she
couldn't
compete with Del. "He's taking me to bed! I'm going to win the wager!"
Del smiled coolly. "By all means."
"Wait a minute," I said, scenting trouble. "Right now I don't much care
about
who's taking who to bed--that can wait till later... what I want to
know--"
Del interrupted. "You never could wait before."
I smacked down the brimming cup. Aqivi ran over my hand. "Look, bascha-
-"
Kima looked Del up and down. "You don't belong in here. What are you
doing here?
There's no room for another girl. And you can't have him."
Del's smile widened. "I already have."
Women can be nasty... I stood up, scraping my stool so hard it fell
over against
the wall, and looked Del dead in the eye, which isn't a problem for me.
"Can you
just wait a minute? I'm trying to find out something."
Del assessed Kima. "Five coppers, perhaps."
"No, no--" I began, but Kima was swearing in outrage.
By this time the turmoil was of interest to the rest of the cantina. I
overheard
wagers being laid on which of the women would win. Or if either would
be worth
it.
Which made me want to swing Del around bodily so all could see what she
was; the
wager would be ended before it was properly begun. Then again, putting
Del on
display was not a thing I wanted to do, since it was hardly a
compliment to
treat a woman as an ornament.
Besides, she'd probably kill me.
I turned back to Kima. "You said--"
"Go with her!" Kima cried. "Do you think I care? Do you think you're
worth it?
I've had sword-dancers better than you. I've had sword-dancers bigger
than
you--"
"How do you know?" Del asked.
I swore. "Will you just--? Del, wait... Kima!" But she was gone,
flouncing
across the cantina. It gave me leave to turn back to Del. "Do you have
any idea
what you just did?"
"If you want her that--"
"That's not it!" I scraped a hand through my hair, attempting to
control my
tone. "What I was trying to find out was what she meant about a man
claiming to
be my son."
"Your son?" Del's brows rose as she hooked a stool with a boot and
pulled it out
from under the table. "I didn't know you had a son."
"I don't--oh, hoolies, bascha, let's just forget about it. Let's just
sit here
and drink."
Del eyed my mug. "You've been doing that already."
I righted my stool and sat down. "Did you get us a room?"
"Two rooms; yes."
I blinked. "Two rooms? Why?"
"To make it easier for you. So you can win your wager."
"To hoolies with the wager." I was a bit put out. I was feeling a bit
kindlier
toward Del of late, since she'd finally admitted she was wrong, and
wasn't of a
mind to make the wager stick. It really was a silly sort of thing,
anyway, and I
didn't see the sense in continuing the farce. After all, we were both
healthy
people with normal appetites, and it had been quite some time since
we'd shared
a bed.
Del smiled. "Giving up so easily?"
"I figure we've taken that wager about as far as we can go with it."
Del's tone was very solemn. "It was undertaken properly."
"I don't care. I don't care. Let's forget the wager."
Now her face matched her tone. "We can't. I think two rooms would be
best. And
not just for the wager... I need the time alone. I need the time to
focus."
"Focus?" I frowned. "I don't quite understand."
"For the kill." Del's attitude was matter-of-fact.
"So? You'll just kill him. It's what you've come to do. It's what
you've been
meaning to do for six whole years."
Del frowned. "Before, it would have been easy. But now ..." Her voice
trailed
off. She looked at the table, picked at knife and sword scars, flicked
bits of
wood away with a grimace of distaste. "I'm different now. The task is
the same,
but I'm a different person." She didn't look at me. "I've been
changed."
"Del--"
Pale-lashed lids lifted. Blue eyes stared at me. "There was a time when
it would
have taken no effort at all, my task. When it was my whole world. When
it was
all I thought of. And the doing would have been sweet, because it was
all I
wanted."
I waited in silence, transfixed by her intensity.
"But you have changed me, Tiger. You have blundered into my life and
changed the
way I think. Changed the way I feel." Her mouth tightened slightly.
"It's not
what I wanted. It was never what I wanted. But now you are here, and I
find
myself confused. I find myself distracted--and distraction can be
dangerous."
Distraction could be lethal.
"And so I will ask the gods and my sword to aid me in this. To help me
focus
myself, so I can complete my task without additional confusion. Without
the
distraction."
I stared at her intently. "Didn't you try that before? The night we met
up
again?"
Color came and went in her face. "You saw?"
"I saw." I wasn't proud of it. "Del, I didn't know what to think. I
didn't know
what you were doing, out there in the trees with that magicked sword.
So I went
to see for myself."
She wasn't pleased. "And I will ask it again. Again and again, if need
be. I
must regain my focus."
"If you mean to strip all the humanity away just to make yourself
capable of
killing Ajani, maybe it's not worth it."
Blue eyes flickered minutely. The mouth went hard and flat. "I have
sworn
oaths."
I sighed. "All right. I give up. Do what you have to do." I eyed her
askance,
assessing her commitment. "But if distance is what you want, don't play
games
with me. I hate women who play games."
"I never play games."
She never had; that was true. It didn't mean she couldn't.
I shoved the jug across the table. "Drink."
Del appropriated my cup. "Do you really have a son?"
"I told you before, bascha: not as far as I know."
"Yes, I remember... it's not something you think about."
"And I don't plan to talk about it--at least, not with you." I
recaptured the
jug and drank straight out of it, gulping aqivi down.
Del sipped her share. "But you could," she observed.
I scowled. "I could, yes. I could have several sons. I could have many
sons;
why? Do you want to go find them all?"
"No. But they--or even just he--might want to find you." She glanced
across at
Kima, now sitting on another man's knee. "He obviously knows who you
are, if
he's bragging about you in cantinas."
I thought about it. Maybe if I had a famous father I'd brag about him,
too--but
I wasn't so sure I liked being the subject. It's one thing to be
bragged about;
it's another thing having a total stranger claim himself close kin. The
closest
of kin.
Del sipped delicately. "The innkeeper asked a fortune. When I
threatened to take
our business elsewhere, he gave me leave to go, saying the inn was
nearly full,
and it was the same all over Harquhal because of the Oracle. That
everyone's
coming here."
Still thinking of my "son," I shifted attention with effort. "What?"
"The Oracle," she repeated. "Do you recall what the holy man in Ysaa-
den
foretold?"
"Oh. That." I waved a dismissive hand. "There's no reason for us--or
anyone
else--to go to Iskandar. Oracle or no."
Del studied her cup. "People are going," she said.
"I thought you just said people are coming here."
"First," she agreed. "Do you know where Iskandar is?"
"Someplace off over there." I waved my hand again: northeasterly.
"A little more that way." Del mimicked my gesture, but indicated a
slight shift
in direction to north-northeast. "The innkeeper said Harquhal is the
last true
settlement before Iskandar, so people are stopping here to buy
supplies."
"Iskandar is a ruin."
"That's why they're buying supplies."
I upended the jug and drank more aqivi. Then thumped the jug back down.
"And I
suppose this chatty innkeeper believes in this Oracle. Believes in this
messiah."
Del shrugged. "I don't know what he believes. I know only what he told
me, which
is that people are going to Iskandar."
I couldn't hide my disgust. "Because the jhihadi is coming again."
She turned her cup in circles, watching her fingers move. "People need
things,
Tiger. For some it is religion, for others it is the dreams born of
huva weed. I
say nothing about what is good and bad, or right and wrong--only that
people
need in order to survive." Her voice was very quiet. "For me, after
Ajani's
attack, I needed revenge. That need helped me to live." Now her gaze
left the
cup and came up to meet my own. "You have needed, too. It's how you
survived
your enslavement. It's how you survived Aladar's mine."
I didn't answer for a long moment. And then when I did, I said nothing
about
myself or the months spent in the mine. "So, you're saying that people
need this
Oracle to be right. Because they need a jhihadi."
Del lifted a shoulder. "A messiah is a very special kind of sorcerer,
is he not?
Can he not do magical things? Can he not heal the sick and cure the
lame and
make rain to replenish a land sucked dry by years of drout?"
I grunted. "Is that what he's supposed to do?"
Del shifted on her stool. "When I walked to the inn, I heard talk on
the street
of the Oracle. When I came back the same way, I heard talk of the
jhihadi." She
shrugged. "The Oracle has foretold the coming of a man who can change
sand to
grass."
"Sand to grass? Sand to grass?" I frowned. "What for, bascha?"
"So people can live in the desert."
"People do live in the desert. I live in the desert."
Del sighed a little. "Tiger, I am only telling you what I heard. Have I
said I
believed any of it? Have I said I believed in Oracles or jhihadis?"
Not exactly. But she sounded halfway convinced.
I shrugged, started to say something, was interrupted by an arrival. A
man stood
by our table. Southroner, by the look of him; dark-haired, dark-eyed,
tanned
skin. About forty or so, and showing all his teeth. Some of them were
missing.
"Sandtiger?" he asked.
I nodded wearily; I wasn't in the mood.
The smile widened. "Ah, so I thought! He described you very well." He
bowed
briefly, flicked a glance at Del, looked immediately back to me. "May I
have
more aqivi sent over? It would be an honor to buy you a jug."
"Wait," I suggested. "Who described me so well?"
"Your son, of course. And he was quite complimentary--" He frowned
minutely.
"Although he said nothing of a beard."
I wasn't concerned about the beard. Only about my "son." Evenly, I
asked. "What
was his name? Did my 'son' give you a name?"
The man frowned briefly, considered it, then shook his head. "No. No,
he didn't.
He said merely he was the Sandtiger's cub, and told us stories about
your
adventures."
"Adventures," I echoed. "I'm beginning to wonder about them myself." I
pushed
back my stool and rose. "Thanks for the offer, but I have an
appointment.
Perhaps tomorrow night."
The man was clearly disappointed, but made no protest. He bowed himself
out of
my way and went back to his friends at another table.
Del, still seated, smiled. "Does the girl win her wager, then?"
"What girl--oh. No." I scowled. "I'm going to the inn. Do you want to
come?"
"Tired already? But you've only had one jug of aqivi." Del rose
smoothly. "It
was like this in Ysaa-den, too... perhaps age has slowed you down." She
shoved
her stool back under the table. "Or is it knowing you have a son?"
"No," I said testily, "it's carrying this sword."
Del went out of the cantina ahead of me and stepped into the dark
street. "Why
should carrying that sword make you feel tired?"
"Because Chosa Dei wants out."
Del gestured. "This way." Then, as we walked, "It's getting worse,
then."
I shrugged. "Let's just say, Chosa has finally realized what sort of
prison he's
in."
"You have to be stronger, Tiger. You have to be vigilant."
"What I have to be, bascha, is rid of Chosa Dei." I sidestepped a
puddle of
urine. "Where is this inn with the chatty innkeeper?"
"Right here," Del answered, turning away from the street. "I told him
you would
pay."
"I'd pay! Why? Don't you have any coin?"
Del shook her head. "I paid swordgild to Staal-Ysta. I have nothing at
all."
It silenced me. I'd forgotten about swordgild, the blood-money owed
Staal-Ysta
if a life were ended unfairly. The voca had taken everything from Del:
money,
daughter, lifestyle. I'd nearly taken her life.
We went inside the inn and called for the innkeeper, who came out from
behind a
curtained divider. He took my coin, nodded his thanks, then welcomed me
warmly.
"It is an honor having the Sandtiger as a guest."
I muttered appropriate things, then added an extra coin. "I want a bath
in the
morning. And I want the water hot."
"I will see to it myself." Then, as I turned toward the curtain, "I
have given
you the same room I gave your son. I thought it might please you. And
he liked
hot water, too."
I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Never mind," Del said.
"I don't have--"
"Never mind, Tiger." And pushed me through the curtain.


Four
With knees doubled up nearly to chin, I sat gingerly in hot water. It
wasn't
particularly comfortable--the innkeeper's cask was too small--but at
least I
could get wet. Part of me, anyway; the rest would have to be hand-
washed instead
of soaking clean.
Del came in without knocking, carrying a bundle. "A pretty sight," she
observed.
And then, half-hiding a smile--but only half-heartedly--she suggested a
larger
cask. "You don't really fit in this one."
I scowled at her blackly. "I'd like a bigger cask. I'd love a bigger
cask. This
is all there is."
She perched herself on the edge of my fragile bed, observing my cramped
position. "If you had to get out of that quickly, I don't think you
could."
"I'm not going anywhere quickly. What I'm doing is taking a bath." I
scratched
an itching ear. "What are you doing here? I mean, didn't you rent two
rooms for
the express purpose of being apart?"
Del ignored the gibe. "I brought you some clothes," she said, and
dumped out the
bundle she carried.
I tried to straighten; couldn't. "What clothes?" I asked suspiciously,
envisioning more wool. "What have you done, Del?"
"I bought supplies," she answered. "Including Southron garb. Dhoti--
here--and
burnous. See?"
I saw. Suede dhoti, as mentioned, a russet-colored robe with leather
belt, and a
dull orange silk burnous to wear over it all. Also a pair of soft
leather riding
boots. "How do you know my size?"
"I know you snore, I know you drink, I know you like cantina girls... I
know
many things about you." Del allowed the silk to slide out of her hand.
"You're
going to shave, aren't you?"
"I'd planned on it, yes. Why? Do you want me to keep all this hair?"
She tipped her head to one side. "You've worn a beard for so long I've
forgotten
what you look like without one."
"Too long," I muttered. "Too much time, too much hair, too much wool."
I tried
to reposition myself in the cask, barked my shin on sharp wood. "I
thought you
said you had no money. How did you buy all this stuff?"
"I told them you would pay." Del shrugged elegantly as I sputtered a
protest.
"The shopkeepers know you, Tiger. They are honored by your business.
They said
they would be most happy to wait for you to pay them--so long as it was
later
today."
"I don't exactly have a whole lot of money, bascha... and less, now,
than
before." I crammed buttocks against wood, hissed as a splinter bit.
"You can't
go all over Harquhal promising people coin in my name. I might not have
any."
Del shrugged. "I'm sure you can win more. Other sword-dancers are
arriving
daily... I think most if not all of them would be happy to meet the
Sandtiger in
a circle."
"I'm in no shape to meet anyone in a--ouch." I swore, worked a splinter
free,
shifted position. Eventually pulled my legs out and draped them over
the rim.
Cooling water sloshed across my belly.
Del surveyed my posture. "You're dripping water on the floor."
"I can't help it--my knees were cramping up." More comfortable now, I
ran a
string of brown soap across my chest, loosening wool-bound hair. "So,
you think
we can win some coin, do you? Even though we're both out of condition?"
"We wouldn't be out of condition if you'd get in a circle." Del smiled
blandly.
"I've asked you how many times?"
"No." I scrubbed more vigorously and snagged a hair beneath a
fingernail,
snapping it right out of my chest. "Ouch--Del, do you mind? Can I have
my bath
in private?"
She stood up, slid out of her harness, set Boreal on the bed. "If
you're going
to shave," she said, "let me do it. You'll cut your own throat."
"Never have before... and I've been shaving this face longer than
you've been
alive."
Del lifted one shoulder. "I used to shave my father. He wasn't much
older than
you." Without my permission--and ignoring my muttered oath--she came
over to the
stool beside the cask and picked up my knife, freshly honed to scrape a
jaw
clean of beard. "Soap your face," she suggested.
Hoolies, it's not worth arguing... I dutifully lathered up, then tipped
my head
back as ordered. Tried not to screw up my face as Del set blade to
flesh.
"Hold still, Tiger." Then, as I held still, "Do these scars hurt any
more?"
"The sandtiger scars? No, not any more. Not for a long time." I paused.
"But if
you cut them, I think they might."
"I'm not going to cut them." Del sounded absent-minded as she
concentrated on
shaving between the claw welts, which didn't go far toward making me
feel any
safer. "They're getting whiter and thinner with age," she observed.
"But they
must have hurt badly when the cat first striped you."
"Like hoolies," I agreed. "Then again, I was in no shape to really
notice. He
got me other places, too, and his claws weren't budded. The poison made
me
pretty sick for a couple of weeks. I was lucky to survive."
"Which you did because of Sula."
Yes, because of Sula. Because of the Salset woman who wouldn't let me
die. She
had gone against the suggestion of the shukar and the rest of the tribe
that the
troublesome chula be allowed to die. Because they all knew that in
killing the
sandtiger, I'd also gained my freedom.
I stirred. Sula brought back memories I preferred to forget. "Are you
done?"
"Not even half begun."
Her laced braid hung forward over one shoulder, swinging as she worked.
The ends
of it brushed my chest.
It was, rather suddenly, intensely difficult to breathe. I shifted, sat
a bit
more upright, shoved myself down again. "Del, do you think--"
"Just hold still."
She had no idea how difficult that was, in view of the circumstances.
"You said
you wouldn't play games."
She blinked blue eyes. "What?"
"Games," I said in frustration. "What do you think this is?"
"I'm shaving you!"
"Give me back my knife." I leaned forward, caught her wrist, stripped
the knife
free with my left hand. "If you think I haven't lived thirty-five or
thirty-six--or however many years it is!--without learning a few female
tricks,
you're younger than I thought."
Which, once said, didn't make me much happier. I sat in cool water and
glared,
holding a wet knife dripping soap and bits of beard.
Del stood with hands on hips. "And if you think I would tell you I
wanted two
rooms, and then tease you like this--"
Frustration made me testy. "Women do that sort of thing all the time."
"Some women, perhaps. Not all of them. Certainly not me."
I scratched violently at my scalp. "Maybe not. Maybe not on purpose,
but it
doesn't disguise the fact--"
"--that you have no self-control?"
I glared. "You could take it as a compliment."
She thought about it. "I could."
"So? Can I shave my own face?"
Someone knocked on the door.
"Go away," I muttered, but Del turned her back on me and went to open
the door.
A stranger stood there. A Southroner. He wore a sword in harness.
"Sandtiger?"
he asked.
Warily, I nodded. Wishing I had my sword in hand instead of on the
stool;
feeling foolish for wishing it. But a naked man often feels foolish. Or
at least
vulnerable.
He grinned, showing white teeth in a swarthy face. "I am Nabir," he
said. "I'd
like to dance with you."
Nabir was young. Very young. Maybe all of eighteen. And I'll wager his
knees
didn't ache.
"Ask me tomorrow," I growled.
A frown creased his brow. "I won't be here tomorrow. In the morning I
leave for
Iskandar."
"Iskandar. Iskandar! What's in Iskandar?"
Nabir appeared somewhat taken aback by my outburst. "The Oracle says
the
jhihadi--"
"--is coming to Iskandar; that I know. I think everybody knows." I
scowled at
the boy. "But why do you care? You don't look religious."
"Oh, I am not." He made a quick, dismissive gesture. "I am a sword-
dancer.
That's why I'm going."
I scratched idly at my scars, now bare of beard. "Why is a young,
admittedly
nonreligious sword-dancer going to Iskandar? There's nothing to do
there."
"Everyone's going," he said. "Even the tanzeers."
I gazed blankly at Del. "Tanzeers," I echoed.
"Ajani," she said intently.
Frowning, I looked back at Nabir, waiting so patiently. "You said
everyone is
going... sword-dancers, tanzeers--who else?"
He shrugged. "The sects are going, of course, even the Hamidaa and
khemi. And
they're saying some of the tribes as well: the Hanjii, the Tularain;
also
others, I think. They want to see the Oracle foretell in the flesh."
"Power shift," I murmured. "The tanzeers'll never let him survive,
unless he
works for them." I straightened in the cask and waved a hand at Nabir.
"Go down
to the nearest cantina--I forget its name--and have a drink on me." I
arched a
brow. "And tell Kima I sent you."
"Will you meet me?" Nabir persisted. "It would be an honor to dance
with the
Sandtiger in the circle."
I looked harder at his face--his young, still-forming face--and also at
his
harness. His new, stiff harness, squeaking as he moved.
"In a year," I told him. "Now go have that drink."
Del closed the door behind him, then turned to me. "He's young. New.
Untried. He
might have been worth it for the practice. And at least you wouldn't
hurt him;
some other sword-dancer might, just to initiate him."
"I can't take the risk, bascha. If I step into a circle, it will be
against
someone good. Someone up to the challenge of dancing against Chosa
Dei."
Del's unspoken comment was loud in the little room.
I shook my head. "Someone who isn't you."
"There will have to be someone," she said. "Several someones, in fact.
You are
badly out of condition. If you had to dance to the death--"
"I'm not stupid enough to hire myself out to kill anyone at the moment.
And
besides--"
"Sometimes you have no choice."
"--and besides--" I smiled "--you're out of condition, too."
"Yes," Del agreed. "But I intend to dance just as soon as I find an
opponent."
I watched her move toward my bed. "What--right now?"
"It makes no sense to waste time." Del retrieved harness and sword and
slipped
it on as she headed to the door. "Perhaps Nabir will do... no, don't
get
up--you've still got half your face to shave."
"He's a boy!" I shouted, sloshing awkwardly in my cask.
Del's tone was bland. "Not so much younger than me."


Five
Del was right: she knew me very well. The suede dhoti fit in all the
right
places without chafing, as did the soft horseman's boots--I've always
been
partial to sandals, but these were very comfortable--and the dull
orange burnous
poured into place like water over the belted desert robe. I was a
Southroner
again.
But I didn't waste much time admiring the clothing. I grabbed up my
sword in its
borrowed sheath and left the inn quickly, calling back over my shoulder
to the
innkeeper that someone else could have the water now. By the time he
started to
answer, I was out of the door.
It's not hard to find a sword-dance, especially in a border town like
Harquhal
that thrives on competition. All you have to do is look for the largest
gathering of people--particularly men in harness--and you will find
what you're
looking for.
I found Del very easily, since she's the kind of woman who draws
attention. She
waited quietly within the human circle, the gathering of men and women
waiting
to see the dance. Someone was carefully drawing a circle in the dirt,
taking
pains to make the line uniformly deep. It didn't really matter--in a
sword-dance, the true circle is in your mind since lines are quickly
obscured by
displaced dust and dirt--but it was all part of the ritual.
Her expression was unaggressive, as was her posture. But Del is very
tall for a
woman--tall even for Southron men--and her posture is very erect. Even
standing
quietly by the circle she invited shrewd assessment from everyone
waiting to
watch. Especially with a Northern sword riding in harness across her
back.
I looked for Nabir and found him waiting across the circle from Del.
All his
hopes were in his face as was his Southron arrogance. He had no doubt
he would
beat the Northern woman; I was only surprised she'd gotten him to
agree.
Then again, when you're young and proud and new, any dance is welcome.
No doubt
Nabir thought it worth the trouble to dance against a woman since he
was assured
of a victory before so many watching sword-dancers, some of them his
heroes.
I almost felt sorry for him.
I did a rapid, precise assessment. He was shorter than Del by four
fingers,
which probably didn't please him, and he lacked the hard fitness that
would come
with maturity and experience. He wasn't soft, but neither was he
mature. He
still had some growing to do. He was, I judged, seventeen, eighteen,
maybe
nineteen. Which meant many things, all of them important to a sword-
dancer,
particularly one with a vested interest in the opponent.
I am a seventh-level sword-dancer, which translates, in my case, to
seven years
worth of apprenticeship. But the seven years--with accompanying rank--
is never a
sure thing. Only those apprentices showing a certain amount of promise
are even
passed to the fourth level, let alone the seventh; Nabir, by age alone,
couldn't
be much more than a second-year apprentice, possibly a third. Because
the rank,
though denoted by the term year, has little to do with time as measured
by the
seasons. An apprentice's "year" is completed only when particular
skills are
learned, and that can take much longer than twelve months.
I had finished seventh-level in seven years. It was very symmetrical. A
source
of pride. Something for the stories, for the legend. But now, looking
at Nabir,
I wondered what his reasons were for becoming a sword-dancer. Unlike
mine, I
thought, fueled by hatred and a powerful need for freedom. That need
had been
more than physical. It had also been emotional. Mental. And it had been
enough
to make me the Sandtiger.
Whom Nabir had wanted to meet.
Not for the first time I wished for a true harness-and-sheath. I stood
there
holding a scabbarded sword in the midst of other sword-dancers properly
accoutered, feeling oddly out of place. Lacking, somehow. But it wasn't
just the
style, which was a badge of our profession. It was also convenience;
I'd rather
carry a blade across my back than have to lug it around by hand.
The circle was finished. I considered stepping up beside Del to tell
her she was
being a silly, sandsick fool; decided against it when I realized it
might throw
off her concentration and contribute to her loss, if she lost. And she
might. No
matter how much she crowed--albeit quietly--about youth being an
advantage in
the healing process, she still wasn't completely recovered from the
wound I'd
dealt her. Hoolies, her conditioning was terrible! She'd be fortunate
if she
lasted long enough to put on a decent showing.
Then again, she wasn't precisely on her own. She did have Boreal.
Someone moved close beside me. Male. In harness: sword-dancer. Smelling
of huva
weed and aqivi; also a satisfactory visit to Kima's bed, or to another
very like
hers.
"So, Sandtiger," he said, "have you come to see the debacle?"
I knew him by his voice. Low, raspy, half-throttled, catching at odd
times and
on odd consonants. It wasn't affectation. Abbu Bensir had no choice in
the
matter of his voice, since a sword-shaped piece of wood had nearly
crushed his
throat twenty-some-odd years before. He had lived only because his
shodo--sword-master--had cut open flesh and windpipe to let air into
his lungs.
While that same shodo's newest apprentice looked on in horror at what
he'd done
to a sixth-level sword-dancer.
"Which debacle?" I asked. "The one about to begin in the circle, or the
dance
you'll ask of me?"
Abbu grinned. "Are you so certain I will ask you?"
"Eventually," I answered. "Your throat may have recovered--mostly--but
your
pride never will. It was your own fault I nearly killed you--the shodo
warned
you I was awkward--but you ignored him. All you wanted to do was knock
the
former chula on his buttocks so he'd remember what he'd been."
"What he was," Abbu said plainly. "You were a chula still, Sandtiger...
why deny
it? It took you all of your seven years to rid yourself of the shame--
if you've
managed it yet." He pursed weed-stained lips. "I hear you got caught by
slavers
last year and thrown into a tanzeer's mine... has that worn off yet?"
I kept my tone even. "Did you come to watch this dance, or simply to
breathe
huva stink in my face?"
"Oh, to watch the dance... to see the boy humiliate the woman who has
no place
in a Southron circle." He shrugged, folding arms across a black-swathed
chest.
"She is magnificent to look at--she would fill a man's bed--but to pick
up a
man's weapon and enter a man's circle is sheerest folly. The Northern
bascha
will lose--not too badly, I hope; I would not want to see her cut--and
then I
will commiserate with her." He grinned at me, dark brows arching
suggestively.
"I will show her a few tricks with the sword--in bed and out."
I had been in the North four, maybe five months. I'd also spent a year
or so
with Del. Enough time to discover I'd learned a thing or two about
myself.
Enough time to realize I didn't much like the ignorance of Southron
men. More
than enough time to feel my own share of disbelief at Abbu's bland
certainty
that a woman good enough for bedding wasn't good enough for the circle.
Then again, not every woman was Del. No other woman was Del. She'd
chosen the
circle and the sword for things other than equality.
Which didn't make her wrong.
I looked out at Del. She wasn't fit. Wasn't ready. But she was still
distinctly
Del.
I glanced sidelong at Abbu Bensir. "Care to make a little wager?"
"On this?" He stared at me in unfeigned disbelief, then narrowed pale
brown
eyes. "What do you know about the boy? Is he that good?--or that bad?"
No question regarding the woman. Good enough for the wager.
I lifted a single shoulder. "He came to me this morning and begged a
dance. I
refused; he accepted the woman instead. That's all I know."
Abbu frowned. "A woman in place of the Sand-tiger..." Then he shook his
head.
"It makes no difference. Yes, I will wager on this. What do you offer?"
"Everything in this." I tapped the coin-pouch dangling from my belt.
"But you've
caught me between jobs, Abbu. There isn't much left."
"Enough to equal a Hanjii nose-ring?" Abbu reached into his own pouch
and drew
forth a ring of pure Southron gold, hammered flat into a circular
plate.
It brought back memories: Del and I, in a circle, but only to the win.
We'd
danced in front of the Hanjii, a tribe who believed in eating the flesh
of
enemies. Also a tribe which placed great emphasis on male pride and
honor; Del's
subsequent defeat of me--thanks to a well-placed knee in a very
vulnerable
area--had resulted in the two of us becoming guests of honor in a
religious
ritual called the Sun Sacrifice. Left in the Punja without food, water
or
mounts, we'd very nearly died.
But did I have anything in my pouch equal to a Hanjii nose-ring? "No,"
I
answered truthfully; I never lie about money. People can get hostile.
Abbu pursed his lips, then shrugged. "Ah, well, another time--unless
you still
have that bay stud--?"
"The stud?" I echoed. "I still have him, yes--but he's not part of the
stakes."
Light brown eyes assessed me. "Growing sentimental in your old age,
Sandtiger?"
"He's not part of the stakes," I repeated quietly. "But I will offer
you
something of value... something you've been wanting for more than
twenty years."
I smiled as color crept into his swarthy face. "Yes, Abbu, I'll meet
you in a
circle--if the woman loses."
"If the woman loses--" He very nearly gaped. "Are you sandsick? Do you
want to
give the wager away?" Eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why do you bet on
the woman?"
I nodded toward the circle, where Del and Nabir were bending in the
center to
place blades on the ground. "Why don't you watch and find out?"
Abbu followed my own gaze. As I had, he assessed Nabir as a potential
opponent.
But he didn't assess Del as anything but a potential bedmate.
All to the good for me.
Abbu flashed me a glance. "We are not friends, you and I, but I have
never
thought you a fool. Yet you wager on a woman?"
I smiled blandly. "Someone has to, or there would be no bet."
Abbu shrugged. "You must want to meet me very badly."
I didn't answer. Nabir and Del had stripped out of footwear and
harness,
positioning themselves outside the circle directly opposite one
another. It was
to be a true dance, a dance of exhibition; a dance of bladeskills
matched for
the joy of competition. There was no need for anyone to die, which is
the true
nature of the dance. Shodos taught no one to go out in the world and
kill. They
taught only the grace and skill necessary to master a Southron sword;
that most
of us later hired ourselves out was a perversion of the true dance. It
was also
one of the few ways of earning a living in a land comprised of hundreds
of tiny
domains ruled by hundreds of desert princes. When power is absolute,
you find
your freedom--and a living--any way you can.
Abbu Bensir was right: we had never been friends. When I had been
accepted as an
apprentice, he was a sixth-level sword-dancer already hiring himself
out. He had
agreed to spar with wooden swords as a favor to the shodo, but he had
been
stupid enough to be careless, believing too implicitly in skills
learned years
before. He was older than I and complacent; he had nearly died of it.
Since then we had met from time to time, as sword-dancers do in the
South. We
had behaved very much like two dogs who recognize strength and
determination in
one another; we had circled each other warily, repeatedly, judging and
testing
by word and attitude. But we had never entered the circle. He was an
acknowledged master, if unimaginative; I had, after seven years of
apprenticeship and more than twelve of professional sword-dancing,
established a
reputation as a formidable, unbeatable opponent. Bigger, stronger,
faster in a
land of quick, medium-sized men. And I hadn't yet lost a dance that
required
someone to die.
Of course, neither had he.
Which meant he wanted me badly. Now I was worth the effort.
"She is magnificent," Abbu murmured.
Yes, so she is.
"But much too tall."
Not for me.
"And hard where she should be soft."
Strong instead of weak.
"She is made for bedding, not for the circle."
I slanted him a glance. "Preferably your bed?"
"Better mine than yours." Abbu Bensir grinned. "I'll tell you if she
was worth
it."
"Big of you," I murmured. "In a manner of speaking."
He might have replied, but the dance had begun. He, like me, watched
attentively, assessing posture, patterns, styles. It's something you
can't avoid
when you watch others dance. You put yourself in the circle and judge
how you
would have done it, criticizing the others. Nodding or shaking your
head,
swearing under your breath, muttering derisively. Occasionally
bestowing praise.
Always predicting the victor and how badly the other will lose.
My belly clenched as I watched. There was no doubt in my mind
whatsoever that
Del was the superior sword-dancer--far superior--but she was, to me,
all too
obviously out of condition. She was slow, stiff, awkward, employing
none of her
remarkable finesse. Her blade patterns were open and sweeping, which is
alien to
the woman whose true gift is subtlety. Her stance lacked the lithe,
eloquent
power so often overlooked by men accustomed to brute strength in
opponents. She
gave Nabir none of the Del I knew, and yet she would beat him badly. It
was
obvious from the start.
Which gave me grounds for relief.
Abbu was glowering. "The boy is a fool."
"For dancing with a woman?"
"No. For giving in too easily. See how he defers to her? See how he
allowed her
to direct the dance?" Abbu shook his head. "He's afraid to hurt her,
and so he
has given her the circle. He has given her the dance. And all because
she's a
woman."
"You wouldn't?" I asked as blades clanged in the circle. "Are you
telling me you
could ignore her sex and simply fight her, dancer to dancer?"
Abbu glowered more darkly.
I nodded. "So I thought."
"And you?" he challenged. "What would the Sandtiger do? He was a woman
himself
for half his life--"
I closed my hand on his wrist. "If you are not very careful," I began,
"our
dance will be right now. And this time I will open your throat with
steel
instead of wood."
A roar went up from the crowd. It had nothing to do with Abbu and me,
but with
the outcome of the dance. Which meant Del had won. They'd have cheered
for
Nabir; for her, they'd award only silence once they were over their
shock.
Abbu, swearing, jerked his wrist free. "You are soft," he accused. "Do
you think
I can't see it? Your color is bad, your bones too sharp, the look in
your eye is
dull. You are not the Sandtiger I saw dance eighteen months ago. Which
means you
are old, sick, or injured. Which is it, Sandtiger?" He paused. "Or is
it all of
them?"
I showed him all my teeth. "If I am sick, I'll get better; injured, I
will heal.
But if I am old, you are older; look in a mirror, Abbu. Your life is in
your
face."
I didn't exaggerate. His swarthy face was sharply graven at mouth and
eyes, and
there was gray in his dark brown hair. The nose had been broken at
least once,
retaining a notch across the bridge that had, in my apprenticeship,
boasted a
Punja-bred hook. He was, I knew, past forty; in our profession, old.
And he
looked every year of it.
But then, so do I. The desert is never kind.
Del, in the circle, said something to Nabir. Knowing her, it was
something
diplomatic. Something to do with victory in the future; she is not a
woman to
grind a man's pride in the dirt unless he demands it. And Nabir hadn't,
not
really. Oh, he'd been certain of his victory, but then I'd known a
certain other
young sword-dancer who'd felt much the same upon receiving his blued-
steel,
shodo-blessed sword. And who'd lost his first dance to an experienced
sword-dancer who had no time to humor the whims and pride of an
arrogant young
man; I'd deserved to lose. And I had.
Now, so had Nabir.
He took it badly, of course. So had I. It remained to be seen if Nabir
would
learn from the loss or let it fester in his spirit. Admittedly he had
more to
flagellate himself with--he'd lost his first dance to a woman--but if
he was
smart he'd think twice about underestimating his opponent. Too many
variables
entered into a dance, certainly more than sex. And if Nabir didn't
learn how to
deal with them, how to adapt, he'd be killed the first time he entered
a circle
to dance to the death.
When the boy refused to answer Del, she turned away and walked out of
the
circle. She still wore blue wool tunic and trews, now stained with
sweat; she
needed to switch to Southron clothing. A lifted arm scrubbed dampness
from her
face and stripped it free of loosened hair. Her movements were stiff,
lacking
grace. She bent, scooped up harness and boots, let the crowd fall back
from her.
She was flushed, a little shaky, obviously tired. But she hid the
magnitude of
it from everyone save me.
I was so glad to have the dance over I didn't think about anything
else.
"The boy was a fool," Abbu declared.
"Yes."
"And I a fool for risking so much on him."
I smiled. "Yes."
Abbu pulled the Hanjii nose-ring from his pouch. "I pay my debts,
Sandtiger. I
won't have it said I don't."
"Now I don't need to, Abbu."
He glared at me sourly as he handed over the nosering, then stared past
at Del's
retreating back. "There is much she could learn, if a man took the time
to teach
her."
A man had. Men had, Northerners all, an-kaidin from Staal-Ysta. And a
bandit
named Ajani. But I said nothing of it to Abbu Bensir, who wouldn't
understand.
"Oh, I don't know, Abbu--seems to me she's already learned a lot."
"She could be better. Faster, smoother ..." He flicked an expressive
hand. "She
is a woman, of course, with a woman's failings, but there is talent in
her.
Promise. And she is tall enough and strong enough..." Then he shook his
head.
"But it would be folly to teach a woman. To attempt to teach a woman."
"Why?"
He was very sure of himself. "She would cry the first time her shodo
spoke to
her harshly. She would give up the first time she was cut. Or she would
meet a
man and lose all interest. She would cook his food, keep his hyort,
bear his
children. And she would set aside the sword."
I raised eyebrows in nonchalant challenge. "Isn't that what a woman's
for?
Cooking food, keeping a hyort, having a man's children?"
Still frowning, Abbu glanced at me impatiently. "Yes, of course, all of
those
things--but have you no eye, Sandtiger? Or do you see nothing but the
woman,
instead of the woman's skill?" His gaze was very level. "When I saw you
dance
the first time--your first real dance, not when you nearly killed me--I
knew
what you would be. Even though you lost. And I knew there would be two
names
spoken in the Punja, instead of just mine." He hitched one shoulder. "I
was
willing to share, and so I do. Because I am not a blind fool. Because I
acknowledge talent when I see it, even in a woman. So should you."
This was not the Abbu Bensir I remembered. He had always been supremely
certain
of his talent, technique, presence. But then, he was an excellent
sword-dancer.
He did have superb technique. And certainly he had presence, ruined
nose and
all; shorter than I, and slighter, with more distinctly Southron
features, Abbu
Bensir nonetheless still claimed the unspoken ability to dominate those
around
him.
But he'd never been known for his humility or fair-mindedness.
Certainly not
when it came to his dealings with women. He was, after all, Southron,
and the
women he knew were cantina girls, or silly-headed serving-girls in the
employ of
various tanzeers or merchants.
He certainly didn't know any woman worth the time to instruct in the
ways of
handling a sword. I doubt the idea had ever occurred to him, any more
than it
had to me--prior to meeting Del. But I had met Del, and I'd changed.
Would Abbu
Bensir do the same?
Not if I had anything to say about it. Better to let him remain the
arrogant
Southron male.
"I recognize talent when I see it," I told him. "I acknowledge it. Are
you
forgetting I wagered on her?"
"You did it to provoke me," Abbu declared. "We are oil and water,
Sandtiger...
it will always be so between us." He stared past me, watching the crowd
slowly
disperse. Then his eyes flickered back to me. "You have the nose-ring,
Sandtiger. Now I will have the woman."
He brushed by me easily as he turned, black gauze underrobe rippling.
He wore a
harness and blade, Southron blade, glinting in the sunlight. An old,
honorable
sword, attended by many legends.
I watched him go, striding away in the fluid gait of a man well-content
with his
life. A man who, I was certain, entertained no doubts of himself.
Or of the woman he followed.


Six
By the time I reached the cantina, Abbu Bensir had already cornered
Del. Well,
not cornered exactly; she was sitting in a corner, and he was sitting
with her.
She sat with her back to the wall, just as I always did. This allowed
her to see
me as I approached, although she gave no indication of it. It also
allowed me to
approach without Abbu knowing, since his back was to me. So I took
advantage of
it, pausing just behind him. Listening to his approach.
"--you could become much better," he said confidently. "With my help,
of
course."
Del didn't answer.
"You must admit," he went on, "it's unusual to find a woman with your
potential
and dedication. Here in the South--"
"--women are treated as slaves." Del didn't smile. "Why should I be
yours?"
"Not my slave, my student."
"I've already been an ishtoya. I've already been an-ishtoya."
Now he was confused. "I am Abbu Bensir. Any Southron sword-dancer can
tell you
who I am, and what I am capable of. Any Southron sword-dancer... all of
them
know me."
For the first time since my arrival, Del looked at me. "Do you know
him?"
Abbu sat upright, then twisted his head around.
Saw me, scowled, sent me a silent message to leave, then turned back to
Del.
"Ask anyone but him."
I grinned. "But I do know you. And what you're capable of."
"Which is?" Del asked coolly.
Abbu shook his head. "He will not give you a fair answer. He and I are
old
rivals in the circle. He will not bespeak me well."
"And you're a liar," I said pleasantly. "I'd tell her the truth, Abbu:
that
you're a superb sword-dancer with much to teach anyone." I paused. "But
I'm more
superb than you."
Del very nearly smiled. Abbu merely glared. "This is a private table."
"The lady was here first. Why don't we ask her?"
Del made an impatient gesture; she has no tolerance for such things.
I hooked a stool over, sat down, smiled disarmingly at Abbu. "Have you
told her
your scheme yet?"
"Scheme?" he echoed blankly.
I glanced at Del. "He plans on flattering your skill, since women are
gullible
creatures... he'll tell you what he thinks you want to hear, even if he
doesn't
agree... and then he'll take you into the circle, just to keep you
interested--"
I grinned, "--and then take you straight to bed."
Abbu's pale eyes glittered.
"It won't work," I told him. "I already tried."
"And failed," Del declared.
Abbu, who is not stupid, frowned. He looked at Del. At me. Then
demanded his
nose-ring back.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because it was won under false pretenses. You and the woman know one
another."
I shrugged. "I never said we didn't. It didn't come up, Abbu. I offered
a wager.
You accepted a wager. The nose-ring was fairly won." I smiled. "And I
need it to
pay my debts."
Del was staring at me. "You bet on the dance?"
"I bet on you."
"To win."
"Of course to win; do you think I'm a fool?"
Abbu swore under his breath. "I am the fool."
"For wanting to teach a woman?" Del's tone was cool again. "Or for
betting on
the wrong person?"
Kima arrived with a jug. "Aqivi," she announced, and smacked it down on
the
table.
Abbu Bensir stared across the lip of the jug at Del in obvious
challenge. I have
seen it before--Abbu, much as I hate to admit it, has success with
women--but I
didn't consider it much of a risk. He wasn't the type of man who would
interest
Del. He was too arrogant, too abrupt, too certain of superiority based
solely on
his gender.
He was, most of all, too Southron.
"What can you teach me?" Del asked.
I kicked her under the table.
Abbu considered it. "You are tall," he said, "and strong. You have as
good a
reach as any Southroner--except perhaps the Sandtiger. But you would do
better
to make your patterns smaller. More subtle." He reached across the
table, tapped
Del's left wrist. "You have the necessary strength here--I saw it--to
support
the smaller patterns, but you don't use it. You were much too open
earlier. It
slowed your response time and left opportunities to defeat you. That
you won had
less to do with your better skill than with the boy's inexperience." He
smiled
briefly. "I would not do the same."
It was an accurate summation of Del's dance. That he also suggested
smaller
blade patterns did not please me, because it showed me he'd judged her
very
well. Del usually does employ smaller, tighter patterns, but she was
out of
condition and hadn't employed her usual techniques.
And if anything would impress Del, it was a man judging her on her
merits
instead of by her gender.
"Here," I said abruptly, "no need to let good aqivi go to waste." I
grabbed the
jug, started splashing liquor into the cups Kima put down.
Abbu watched me sidelong. In profile, his nose was a travesty--but it
lent him
the cachet of hard-edged experience. Unlike Nabir, he was not a boy on
the
threshold of manhood; Abbu Bensir had stepped across many years before.
He had
the lean, lethal look of a borjuni, though he was sword-dancer instead
of
bandit.
What he thought of me, I couldn't say. I was considerably taller and
heavier,
also younger--but Abbu Bensir was right. I hadn't quite recovered
strength,
stamina, or health from the wound Del had given me, and it showed.
Certainly it
showed to an experienced sword-dancer who knew very well how to judge
what
counted.
He eased himself back on his stool and tipped aqivi down his throat.
"So," he
said idly to Del, "has this big desert cat told you of our adventures?"
"Adventures?" I echoed blankly; Abbu and I had not, to my knowledge,
ever shared
much more than a cantina.
Predictably, Del said no.
Of course it was what he wanted. With an adroit flick of fingers, Abbu
slipped
the neck of his underrobe and let it fall open. His throat was now
bared,
showing the pale scar left by the shodo's knife. "My badge of honor,"
he said.
"Bestowed on me by none other than the Sandtiger."
Del's brows rose.
Abbu's tone was expansive. "It was quite early in his career, but it
was a
dramatic signal to the South that a new sword-dancer was about to be
born."
"There was nothing 'about to be' about it," I said sourly. "It took me
seven
more years."
"Yes, but it served notice to those of us able to judge such things as
talent
and potential." He paused. "To those few of us."
"Did it?" Del asked coolly.
"Oh, yes," Abbu said. "He was a clumsy seventeen-year-old boy with
hands and
feet too big for his body--and his brain--but the potential was there.
I knew
what he would become... so long as his inborn submissiveness and all
his years
as a chula didn't destroy him before he truly began."
Del's lids didn't flicker. "Abbu Bensir," she said softly, "be careful
where you
walk."
He is not a stupid man; he changed tactics instantly. "But I am not
here to talk
about the Sandtiger, whom you undoubtedly know much better than I do."
There was
a glint in his eyes. "I came to offer my services as a shodo, even
briefly. I
think you could benefit."
"Perhaps I could," Del said. And then looked me dead in the eye. "If
you kick me
one more time--"
I overrode her by raising my voice and talking to Abbu. "Won't you be
going to
Iskandar like everyone else?"
"Eventually. Although I think it is nonsense, this talk of a jhihadi."
Abbu
shrugged, swallowed aqivi. "Iskandar himself, the stories say, promised
he would
return to bring prosperity to the South, to turn the sand to grass. I
see no
signs of that." He shook his head. "I think it is nothing more than a
foolish
man who fancies himself an oracle... a zealot who requires attention
before he
dies. He will rouse the tribes, undoubtedly--that, I hear, is begun--
but no one
with any sense will pay mind to it."
"Except the tanzeers." I shrugged as Abbu frowned over his tankard.
"They won't
believe the Oracle's foretellings, but if they have any intelligence at
all
they'll recognize that this Oracle--and the proclaimed jhihadi, if one
ever
appears--could siphon off some of their power."
"An uprising," Abbu said thoughtfully, "couched in the name of
religion."
"People will do amazing things in the name of faith," I remarked. "Wrap
it in
the trappings of holy edict, and even assassination is revered."
"I don't understand," Del interjected. "What you say of religion, yes--
that I
have seen myself--but how would it affect the South?"
I shrugged. "The South is made up of hundreds of desert domains ruled
by any man
strong enough to hold it. He comes in, establishes his dominance, names
himself
tanzeer to gain a little glitter--and rules."
She blinked. "So easily?"
"So easily," Abbu confirmed in his broken voice. "Of course, any man
who decided
to do it would require a large force of loyal men... or a large force
of hired
men loyal to his coin." He grinned. "I myself have engaged in
establishing
several such new reigns."
Del's tone was bland. "But you yourself have never attempted to set up
your own
domain."
He shrugged. "Easier to take the money and leave, then move on to the
next
desert bandit who has notions of naming himself tanzeer."
Del glanced at me. "Have you done it as well?"
"Never from the beginning," I told her. "I have hired on to protect the
tanzeer
already in place, but I've never gone in and set up a brand-new
domain."
She nodded thoughtfully. "So a tanzeer is not born... he becomes a
prince only
through force of arms."
I shook my head. "A tanzeer is born if his family has held the domain
long
enough. And some of these desert 'princedoms' have been in existence
for
centuries, handed down to each heir--"
"--who must himself be strong enough to hold it," Del finished.
"Of course," Abbu rasped. "There have been many newly proclaimed
tanzeers,
inheriting at an untimely age, who simply could not muster the forces
needed to
defend against usurpers." He smiled. "That is the easiest way of
enlarging a
domain."
"Stealing from someone else," she said.
"All of the domains were stolen," Abbu countered. "Once, surely, the
South
belonged to no one, it simply was--and then men strong enough to do so
selected
for themselves the domains they wanted... and so on and so on until the
land was
sectioned off from the sea to the Northern border, and to the east and
west as
well."
"Sectioned off," she echoed. "Is there no free land left at all?"
Abbu shrugged. "Domains exist where the land is worth having. There is
water, or
a city, or an oasis, or mountains--a place worth having becomes a
domain. What
no one wants is free."
"The Punja," I said. "No one rules the Punja. Except the tribes,
maybe... but
they have more respect for the land. They don't divide it up and sit on
it. Nor
do they give in to the rule of any man proclaiming himself a tanzeer.
They just
go with the wind, blowing here and there."
"Much like a sword-dancer." Del turned her cup on the table. "So, the
Oracle--who gains disciples among the tribes--offers threat to the
tanzeers."
"By rousing the tribes, yes," Abbu agreed.
"But the Oracle is only a mouthpiece," I said. "It's the jhihadi who
offers the
true threat. Because if the stories were to come true--that sand will
be turned
to grass--it means all of the South would be worth having. Each man
would be a
tanzeer unto himself, and the authority of those petty princes holding
the
present domains would collapse."
"So they will try to kill him." Del's tone was matter-of-fact. "No
matter who he
is, no matter why he's come; even if it's all a lie--the tanzeers will
have him
killed. Just in case."
"Probably," I agreed.
Abbu smiled a little. "First they would have to find him."
"Iskandar," Del said. "Isn't that where he's supposed to appear?"
Abbu shrugged. "That's what the Oracle says."
"You're going," she pointed out.
Abbu Bensir laughed. "Not for the Oracle. Not for the jhihadi. I'm
going for the
dancing. I'm going for the coin."
Del frowned. "Coin?"
Abbu nodded. "Where there are people gathering, there will be wagering.
Where
there are tanzeers, there will be employment. Easier to find both in
one place
rather than scattered across the South."
"In uplander, a kymri," I explained. "We don't have many here in the
South...
but Abbu is right. If this Oracle rouses enough people, they will all
go to
Iskandar. So will the tanzeers. And so will sword-dancers."
"And bandits?" she asked.
"Borjuni, yes," Abbu agreed. "Even whores like Kima."
"I want to go," Del said.
I sighed. "Seems as good a place as any to learn something of Ajani's
whereabouts."
But Del wasn't looking at me. She was looking at Abbu. "And I want you
to teach
me."
I nearly choked on aqivi. "Del--"
"Tomorrow," she declared.
Abbu Bensir merely smiled.


Seven
"Why?" I asked, standing in the doorway. "What are you trying to
prove?"
Del, inside her tiny room at the inn, barely glanced at me as she sat
down on
the edge of her slatted cot to pull off boot and fur gaiter. "Nothing,"
she
answered, unwrapping leather garters.
"Nothing? Nothing?" I glared. "You know as well as I do you don't need
Abbu
Bensir to teach you anything."
"No," she agreed, peeling gaiter from boot.
"Then why--"
"I need the practice."
I stood braced in the doorway, watching her tug off the boot. She
dropped it to
the floor, then turned to the other boot. Once again, she started with
the
gaiter. Her bare right foot was chafed at the edges; the rest of it was
white.
"So," I said, "you're using him for a sparring partner."
Del unlaced the garter. "Is he as good as he says he is?"
"Yes."
"Better than you?"
"Different."
"And was it you who put that scar on him?"
"No."
She tilted her head slightly. "So, he is a liar."
"Yes and no. I didn't give him the scar itself, but I did provide the
reason for
making it necessary."
Del looked up at me. "He doesn't hate you for it. He could--another man
might--but he doesn't."
I shrugged. "We've never been enemies. Just rivals."
"I think he respects you. I think he knows you have your place in the
South--in
the pecking order of sword-dancers--and he has his."
"He is an acknowledged master of the blade," I said. "Abbu Bensir is a
byword
among sword-dancers. No one would be foolish enough to deny him that to
his
face."
"Not even you?"
"I've never considered myself a fool." I paused. "You're really going
to spar
with him?"
"Yes."
"You could have asked--"
"--you?" Del shook her head. "I did ask you. Several times."
"I'll spar," I said defensively. "Just not with my jivatma. We'll go
find some
wooden practice swords--"
"Steel," Del said succinctly.
"Bascha, you know why I don't want--"
"So you don't have to." She stripped gaiter free of boot. "So I'll use
Abbu
Bensir instead."
"But he thinks he's teaching you."
"He may think whatever he likes." Del tugged at her boot. "When a man
won't do
what you want him to in the way you want him to, you find new names for
the same
thing. If it satisfies Abbu Bensir's pride to believe he is teaching
the
gullible Northern bascha, let him. I will still get my practice. I will
still
improve my fitness." She looked at me squarely. "Which is something you
need,
too."
I ignored that; we both knew it was true. "How long is this to go on?"
"Until I am fit."
Frustration boiled up. "He only wants to get you into his bed."
Del rose, began to unhook her harness. "I am having a bath brought for
me. If
you truly believe I would be the kind to tease you, you would do well
to leave."
On cue, one of the innkeeper's sons rolled the cask from out of my
room. It was
empty, of course, which meant Del had paid extra for clean water. But
she had no
money.
Frustration rose another notch. "Am I paying for this, too?"
Del nodded.
I glared. "Seems like I'm paying for an awful lot, yet getting nothing
for it."
"Oh?" Pale brows rose. "Is courtesy and generosity dependent upon how
soon and
how many times I will go to bed with you?"
I moved aside as the boy rolled the cask through the doorway. I waited
impatiently for him to drop the cask flat and depart; once he had, I
turned back
to Del.
I stood directly in front of her now, halting as she turned from the
cot to
match me stare for stare. Barefoot, she gave up an extra finger's-worth
of
height to the five additional I always claimed. But it didn't diminish
her.
I drew in a steadying breath. "You're not making this any easier."
Del shut her teeth. "I'm not trying to make it anything. I'm trying to
end my
song."
I tried to keep my tone even. "How many men have you killed?"
Del's eyes narrowed. "I don't know."
"Ten? Twenty?"
"I don't know."
"Guess," I suggested.
She opened her mouth. Shut it. Then gritted between her teeth: "Perhaps
twenty
or so."
"How many in a circle?"
"In a circle? None. All have been in defense of myself." She paused.
"Or in
defense of others. Even you."
"And some for plain revenge. Ajani's men; you've killed some of them,
haven't
you? A few months ago?"
"Yes."
"And did each of those deaths require such intense focus?"
Del's mouth flattened. "I know what you are saying. You are saying I am
wrong to
require such behavior, such focus; that if I have already killed, one
more death
will be no less difficult."
I shook my head. "I'm saying I think you might be punishing yourself.
That by
demanding such rigorous behavior of yourself, you think you can make up
for the
deaths of your kinfolk."
The innkeeper's son banged the bucket of water as he brought it through
the
door, slopping water over the rim. Whatever Del might have said died
before it
was born, and I knew nothing would come of it now. The moment was gone.
"Soak well," I suggested flatly. "I have to go pay all your debts."
Mutely, Del watched the boy pour water into the cask. If she looked
after me, it
was too late. I was out of the room. Out of the inn. And very much out
of
temper.
It took me three cantinas to find him. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe
he was
shy. Or maybe he just wanted to do his drinking in a quieter, smaller
place,
lacking the huva stink and clamor of the cantina Kima worked.
But I did find him. And, having found him, I stood in the dimness of
dusk inside
the door and watched him from afar.
Nabir was, I decided, a handsome, well-set-up boy. In time he would
grow into
his potential and offer decent skills to anyone in the circle. Probably
decent
company, too, although at the moment he was plainly black of mood. More
out of
sorts than I'd been, if caused by the same woman.
He slouched on his stool at a table in the back of the common room,
hitched up
against the wall. His head was thrown back indolently, but there was
nothing
indolent about him. He was scowling. Black hair framed a good if
unremarkable
face; thick black brows met in a self-derisive scowl over the bridge of
his
nose. It was a straight, narrow nose, with only the suggestion of a
hook. More
like mine, in fact, than Abbu's, which displayed--or had once--the
characteristic hook of a bird of prey. In some desert tribes, the hook
of a
man's nose denotes greater prowess as a warrior; don't ask me why. One
of those
fashions, I guess, like the Hanjii with their disfiguring nose-rings,
or the
Vashni with their necklets of human finger bones.
Before him on the table lay the harness and sword. It was at that he
scowled so
fiercely. Next to it sat a jug of liquor and a cup, but he drank
nothing. Just
sat and scowled and sulked and considered giving up his new profession.
I made my way through the tables and paused as he glanced up. I saw the
recognition, the acknowledgement, the dilation of dark brown eyes. He
sat up so
hastily he nearly overset his stool, which would have damaged his pride
even
more.
I waved him down when he would have risen, and sat down on another
stool. "So,"
I said, "quitting already?"
Anger flared, died; was replaced by humiliation. He couldn't meet my
eyes.
I kept my tone conversational. "It's difficult, getting started. You
don't know
if anyone will dance with you, so you don't ask. And then when you
summon up
enough courage to ask an acknowledged master, a seventh-level
sword-dancer--because, you think, losing to him will be expected, and
therefore
easier--he refuses. You leave wondering if anyone will ever dance with
you--anyone other than another former apprentice only just getting
started--and
then a woman comes to you and says she will dance with you." I shifted
on the
stool. "At first you are insulted--a woman!--and then you recall that
she was
the woman with the Sandtiger; a woman who carries a sword and goes in
harness,
just as you do. You see she is tall and strong and foreign, and you
think she
should be in a hyort somewhere cooking food and nursing a baby; and you
think
you will put her in her place. In the name of your hard-won sword and
your
prickly Southron pride, you accept the woman's invitation." I paused.
"And you
lose."
"I am ashamed," he whispered.
"You lost for one reason, Nabir. One." I leaned forward and poured
liquor into
his cup: aqivi. "You lost because she won."
Lids flickered. He stared briefly at me, then looked back at his
rejected sword
and harness.
I drank. "You lost because you could not divide yourself from the
arrogance of
your sex, and from the knowledge of hers."
He frowned.
I put it more plainly yet. "She won because she was better."
Color swept in to stain his swarthy desert face. "How can a woman be
better--"
"--than a man?" I shrugged. "It might have something to do with her
training,
which began before yours. Formal training, that is; but she, like you,
played
with wooden swords when she was a child."
His jaw clenched. "I am a second-level sword-dancer."
I sipped. Nodded. "Something to be proud of. But I ask you this: why
did you
leave before you accomplished the other levels? There are seven, you
know."
Dark eyes glittered. "I was ready to leave."
"Ah. You wearied of the discipline." I nodded. "And you kept hearing
the song of
coins going to other sword-dancers instead of yourself."
Black brows dove between his eyes. "There is no dishonor in leaving
when I did.
There are those who leave after a single year."
I nodded. "And most of them are dead."
His chin came up. "Because they accepted an invitation to dance to the
death."
"So will you."
He shook his head. Black hair caught on the dropped hood of his indigo
burnous.
"I am not so foolish as to think I am good enough for that."
"But that's where the real money is." I shrugged as he stared intently.
"Tanzeers always pay handsomely when they want someone killed."
"I'd rather--"
"--avoid it; I know. But what happens when a sword-dancer is hired to
kill you?"
Eyes widened. "Me?"
"Of course. If you serve this tanzeer--" I flicked my left hand, "--
then that
tanzeer--" my right hand, "--will eventually desire you to be put out
of his
way. And so someone like me, or someone like Abbu Bensir--or someone
like
Del--will be hired to invite you into a circle where the dance will end
in
death."
"I can refuse." But his certainty was fading.
"You can refuse. Several times, in fact. But then you will get the
reputation of
a coward, and no tanzeer will hire you for anything." I shrugged. "Kill
or be
killed."
Nabir frowned. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Oh, maybe because I'd hate to see you quit a profession you might be
suited
for." I sipped again. "All you need is a little practice."
He blinked. "With--you?"
"With me."
"But--I'm not good enough for you."
At the moment, he probably was. But I didn't tell him that. "You were
good
enough to ask me to dance, weren't you?"
"But I knew I would lose. I just thought--" He sighed. "I just thought
that if I
was seen in a circle with the Sandtiger, it might help my name a
little. I knew
I would lose, of course, but I'd lose to the Sandtiger. Everyone loses
to you."
"Arid you'll lose in practice, too," I pointed out. "But at least
you'll learn a
little something." And I'd get my conditioning back. "So, shall we
begin
tomorrow?"
Slowly, Nabir nodded. "What about--" He broke it off, thought about it,
began
again. "What about the woman? Is she truly a sword-dancer?"
I grinned. "If you're concerned your reputation--and pride--has been
dealt too
harsh a blow to survive, I wouldn't worry about it. Del's beaten me."
"You?"
"Only in practice, of course." I rose, put down his cup. "Thanks for
the aqivi.
I'll see you first thing in the morning."
He pushed himself to his feet. "Sandtiger--"
"Oh, yes--you won't be needing that." I pointed to his blade. "We'll be
using
wooden swords."
He blinked. "Wooden? But I haven't sparred with wooden blades since my
first
year."
"I know; me neither--and it's a considerably longer time for me than
for you." I
shrugged. "I'd hate to get carried away and cut your belly open. At
least with a
wooden sword, all I can do is break a few ribs." I grinned at his
stricken
expression. "Now go find yourself a woman--maybe that pretty little
cantina girl
across the way who's been eyeing you so much--and forget about Northern
baschas."
"She's beautiful," he blurted.
I didn't need to ask which woman he meant; I've seen that expression
before.
"First lesson," I said. "Forget about such things. When you're in the
circle,
even against a woman--" I paused, "--even a woman like Del--you have to
think
about the dance. And only about the dance."
"It isn't a woman's place to be in a circle."
"Maybe not." I didn't feel like giving him any of Del's arguments
against that
line of reasoning; it would take too long. "But if you meet one there,
are you
willing to die just because she has breasts instead of gehetties!"
"Gehett--" He figured it out. It was enough to startle him into
thinking about
it. After a moment he nodded. "I will try not to think of the woman. I
will try
not to see the woman. I will try to do as you."
Hoolies, I wish when I was in the circle with Del I could only see the
woman.
Like Abbu Bensir. Like Nabir. Like all the other men who'd seen--or
met--her in
a circle.
Because then I'd forget the blood.


Eight
We met out in the open, away from the center of town. I wanted privacy
for the
boy's sake, and for my own; one needn't tell the competition one isn't
what one
should be.
"Draw the circle," I told him.
Nabir's dark eyes widened. "Me?"
I nodded solemnly. "The privilege of rank," I said, "is that you can
have others
do tedious things like digging in the dirt."
He waved a hand. "No, no--I only meant... I thought you would do it to
make
certain it was right."
"It's not too terribly difficult to draw a circle," I said dryly. "I
think a
second-level sword-dancer can manage it."
Which reminded him, as I meant it to, that he had some status of his
own; as a
matter of fact, if there was a first-level apprentice here, Nabir could
assign
the task to him.
But there wasn't. So Nabir took wooden sword in hand and asked me what
size
circle I wanted.
"Practice," I answered. "No sense in dancing our legs off yet."
Especially since
even a practice circle seven paces in diameter would test me. "We'll
move to a
sparring circle next, and then a full-fledged dancing circle once I
think you're
ready."
He opened his mouth. "But--" And broke it off. So, his discipline
wasn't
completely eroded.
"I know," I said. "You were going to tell me you danced in a dancing
circle
yesterday. So? You lost. We'll do it my way."
Nabir flushed, nodded and proceeded to draw a meticulous circle in the
dirt. He
knew the dimensions as well as I--seven long paces in diameter for a
practice
circle, ten for sparring, fifteen for a full-fledged dancing circle--
and had a
steady hand, which meant his line didn't waver very much. It's one of
the things
a first-year apprentice learns: how to draw a clean circle. It helps to
fix the
confines in the mind, which is where the true circle must exist if an
apprentice
is to succeed. It sounds easy. It isn't.
Nabir finished and looked at me expectantly, dusty blade in hand.
"Sandals," I suggested. "Or were you going to give me yet another
advantage?"
Again he colored. I knew what he felt--couldn't he remember anything in
front of
the Sandtiger?--but holding him by the hand wouldn't help him one bit.
He had to
get over being too impressed by me, or it would hurt his concentration.
Although, I'll admit, the boy's regard made me feel good. It's always
nice to
know someone is impressed by what you've accomplished.
Even if Del wasn't.
Nabir stripped out of his sandals and dropped them outside the circle,
along
with his indigo burnous, cream-colored underrobe, belt. In leather
dhoti he was
mostly naked suddenly, showing a lean Southron frame beneath dark
Southron
flesh. Tendons flexed visibly as he moved, since every bit of skin was
stretched
taut. Lean as he was, there was still an undulating section of muscle
between
shortribs and the top of his dhoti.
I frowned thoughtfully. "What tribe are you?"
He stiffened visibly. Color moved through his face, staining
cheekbones, setting
dark eyes aflame. "Does it matter?"
There was belligerence in his tone. I shrugged. "Not really. I was only
curious... you just don't fit any of the tribes I know. And yet there
is tribal
blood in you--"
"Yes." He cut me off. "I have no tribe, Sandtiger... none that will
have me."
Jaws clenched tautly. "I am a bastard."
"Ah, well, some of the best people I know are bastards." I grinned.
"Myself
included--maybe. Hoolies, at least you know."
Nabir stared at me across the circle he'd drawn so carefully. "You
don't know if
you're true-born or bastard?"
"It happens," I said dryly. "Now, shall we get about our business?"
Nabir nodded. "What's first?"
"Footwork."
"Footwork! But I learned footwork nearly two years ago!"
"Didn't learn much, did you?" Then, more kindly, "Or maybe you've just
forgotten."
It did exactly as I expected. It shut the boy up.
Practicing something as rudimentary as footwork was good for us both.
It's one
of the basics in sword-dancing, part of the foundation that must be
laid down if
you're to learn anything, or progress. Clumsiness makes for a sloppy
sword-dancer and little future; it also makes for a dead one, and no
future at
all. There just isn't any sense in skimping on the essentials when a
few extra
hours a day spent practicing footwork can mean the difference between
survival
and death.
But it had nonetheless been a long time since I had broken the practice
routine
down far enough to include footwork techniques. Del and I, prior to the
dance on
Staal-Ysta, had sparred together every day, or very nearly; footwork
was not one
of the things we practiced because, for us, it came naturally after so
many
years. It was all part of the sparring. But Nabir required a new
attitude, and
one way of developing one is to start all over again.
Well, in a manner of speaking. I couldn't spend that much time with
him. I'm a
sword-dancer, not a shodo; I didn't have the years to invest. Hoolies,
I didn't
even have the days. Del would be pushing to move on to Iskandar as soon
as she
felt sparring with Abbu no longer necessary.
Which meant I needed to get as much out of the practice sessions with
Nabir as I
could. And that meant working a lot harder than I was used to, even in
good
health.
By the time I called a halt, both of us were dripping. Harquhal is a
border
town, not a desert town; it was only just spring, even in the South,
and the
temperature was still mild. But we sweated, and we stank; I'd need
another bath.
He stood in the center of the circle, nodding weary satisfaction. Hair
was
pasted to his scalp, except where it curled damply against his neck.
"Good," he
gasped. "Good."
Well, maybe for him. I hurt.
"I am remembering some little things the shodo taught very early. The
sort of
things he said could mean the difference between a thrust through the
ribs or a
cut on the side."
Good for him, I thought ironically. I'd had both nearly three months
before. And
from the same sword.
Speechless, I nodded. I stood hands on hips, wooden sword doubled up in
one
fist, trying not to pant.
"So Sandtiger, is this the new--ishtoya!"
Broken male voice, not Del's. I turned abruptly and wished I hadn't.
Saw Abbu
Bensir standing outside the circle. Next to my clothes, and the
Northern jivatma
sheathed in cadda wood, leather, and runes.
So, he'd learned a Northern word between yesterday and today. No doubt
he
expected me to react. So I took great care not to.
"New sword, new harness," I said lightly.
"Poor old Singlestroke ..." Abbu shook his head. "It must have been a
great
blow. After all, it isn't often a chula wins his freedom, let alone a
shodo-blessed sword. And then to have it broken ..." Again he shook his
head.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Nabir stiffen as he heard the word
chula. I
lifted a single eloquent shoulder. "The new sword's better."
"Is it?" Abbu glanced down at the hilt, exposed above the lip of the
danjac hide
sheath. "Northern, from the look of it. And here I thought a desert-
bred
Punja-mite like yourself would never carry a foreign sword."
"We all change," I said offhandedly. "We get older, a little wiser...
we learn
not to judge people and things by homelands, language, gender."
"Do we?" Abbu grinned. "So we do. Yes, Sandtiger, the woman is much
better than
I expected. But there is still much I can teach her."
"Wait till she warms up." I showed him my teeth. "Better yet, wait
until she
sings."
Abbu wasn't listening. He was staring thoughtfully at my midriff, bared
by the
shedding of underrobe and burnous. Like Nabir, I wore only a dhoti. It
hid
nothing at all of the knurls, nicks, and scars gained from nineteen
years of
dancing. Nothing of the lash marks from sixteen years of slavery. And
nothing at
all of the stripes earned from a dying sandtiger who had, in that
dying, given
me my freedom.
But Abbu Bensir had seen all of it before, since a sword-dancer wears
only a
dhoti in the circle. My story was no secret, nor was the evidence
hidden, since
I wore it in my skin.
No, he'd seen all that before. What he looked at now was something he
hadn't
seen: the ugly, livid scar tissue left behind by Boreal.
He flicked a quick glance at my face. "I see," he remarked
thoughtfully.
"Let me guess," I said dryly. "Now you plan to invite me into a
circle."
Abbu shook his gray-dusted head. "No. When you and I meet, you will be
the man I
saw eighteen months ago. I want no unfair advantage because you are
recovering
from--that." He frowned, locking black brows together. "I've seen men
dead of
less."
I arched brows. "Big of you."
It was Abbu's turn to display teeth. "Yes." Then the frown came back.
He looked
again at the healing wound. "You went north," he said. "I heard you
went north."
"To the North; yes." I shrugged. "Why? I don't know a sword-dancer yet
who stays
put in one place."
Abbu flipped a dismissive hand. "No, no, of course not. But I have
heard stories
about Northern magic... about Northern swords..."He scowled at me in
consideration. "Steel cuts," he said quietly. "It doesn't burn. It
doesn't
blister. It doesn't eat skin away."
It hadn't burned. It had frozen. In a way I'd been very lucky. Boreal's
banshee-bite had eaten away enough outer flesh to leave a depressed
knot the
size of a man's fist, but the icy steel had also frozen blood and inner
tissue,
preventing significant blood loss. The jivatma had missed anything
vital, thank
valhail. But had Del cut into me with a Southron blade, even missing
the vitals,
I'd have bled to death in the circle.
"Does it matter?" I asked. "It's healing."
"Don't you understand?" Abbu persisted. "If a sword could do that in
the
circle--"
"No." I said it flatly, leaving no room for doubt. "It's best if the
circle is
left as we learned it."
"A sword-dancer with a blade capable of doing that would be worth his
weight in
gold, gems, silks..." Abbu shrugged. "He could name his price."
"Maybe found a domain of his own?" I grinned. "Believe me, Abbu, you
don't want
to pay the price of lugging around a Northern jivatma."
He looked down at my belongings once more: at the visible hilt of a
foreign
sword. At the alien runes looping the sheath from split lip to brass-
footed tip.
"Jivatma" he breathed, pronouncing the syllables oddly. "I heard her
say that
word. Only once. But once said, it was loud." Abbu looked away from the
sword
and back at me with effort. "As one sword-dancer to another--as a
student who
shared the teachings of your shodo--I ask permission to make the
acquaintance of
your sword."
It was stilted, formal phraseology. It was also a ritual performed by
every
sword-dancer who wanted to touch another sword-dancer's weapon. Killers
we may
be, more often than not, but the true dance is founded in elaborate
courtesy. A
few of us remember.
Nabir, who had, out of his own sense of courtesy, remained in the
circle and
left the two experienced sword-dancers to their conversation, now came
closer.
He had, after all, met the bared steel of Del's blade. I figured he had
as much
right to ask me about it as Abbu.
"Did you and Del spar with steel? With your own blades?"
Abbu frowned. "Of course."
"Then you saw her jivatma."
"Saw. Didn't touch." His smile was twisted. "Something about her--
forbade it."
I glanced sidelong at Nabir. His eyes were fixed on the hilt glinting
brightly
in the sunlight. The blade itself was hidden in rune-warded sheath.
Sighing, I walked the rest of the distance and dropped the wooden
practice blade
beside the puddle of silk and gauze. Scooped up the harness, beckoned
Nabir
closer, slid Northern steel out into Southron moonlight. Shed harness
and
sheath, then displayed the sword in its entirety, resting blade in left
hand
while the other balanced the hilt at the quillons.
Sunlight poured across runes like water. The pristine brilliance was
blinding.
Except for one thing.
"What's the matter with it?" Nabir asked. "Why is the tip all charred?"
Charred. I hadn't put it like that. But it was true: the blade looked
like about
five inches of it had been thrust into a conflagration.
Well, in a way it had. Only the fire had been Chosa Dei.
"It's like hers," Abbu said intently. Then nodded slowly. "So, it's
true. There
is magic in Northern swords."
"Only some of them. Del's, yes; trust me. But this one--well, this one
isn't
quite sure what it wants to be yet. Trust me on that, too."
"May I?" Abbu put out a hand.
I grinned. "He wouldn't like it."
Abbu frowned. "He who? Who wouldn't like it?"
"Him. The sword."
Abbu glared. "Are you telling me your sword has feelings?"
"Sort of." I pulled the hilt away as Abbu's hand threatened imminent
capture.
"Unh-unh--I didn't give you permission." Quickly I bent, scooped up the
harness,
resheathed the sword. Tucked it into the crook of my left arm. "Take my
word for
it, Abbu--you don't want to know."
He was red-faced. Pale brown eyes turned black as pupils dilated. "You
offend me
with this idiocy--"
"No offense intended," I countered swiftly. "Believe me, Abbu, you
don't want to
know."
"I know too much," he snapped. "I know you went to the North and got
the sense
frozen out of your head, along with the guts removed from your belly."
He
flicked a disdainful glance at my still-naked midriff with its sword-
born scar.
"And I have better things to do than stand here listening to your
babble."
"So don't," I suggested mildly, which didn't please him any more.
Abbu said something beneath his breath in Desert, which I understood--
and
spoke--as well as he, then turned on his heel and marched away, black
underrobe
flapping.
I sighed. "Ah, well, no harm done. We're no less fond of each other
than we were
before."
Nabir's expression was unreadable as I reached down to gather up wooden
blade,
boots, underrobe, and belt. He waited until I was finished tucking
things here
and there.
"Is it true?" he asked.
"Is what true?"
"That." He nodded toward my sword. "Is it alive?"
I didn't laugh, because it would offend his dignity. And I tried very
hard not
to smile. "There's a wizard in here," I said solemnly.
After a long moment, he nodded. "I thought there might be."
I opened my mouth. Shut it. Swallowed the hoot of laughter trying very
hard to
escape. Not because there wasn't a wizard in my sword, but because of
Nabir's
reaction.
Finally I managed an inoffensive smile as I turned away from the
circle. Away
from Nabir, "Don't believe everything you hear."
"I don't have to," he said. "I saw it."
It stopped me dead in my tracks. Slowly I turned back. "Saw it?"
Nabir nodded. "You were making Abbu Bensir think you lied. You knew he
would
disbelieve you. And he did. He went away thinking you a fool, or
sandsick... a
man who says his sword is alive." He shrugged. "I heard the words, too-
-but I
saw what you did." His youthful mouth twisted. "Or what you didn't do."
Now he had me intrigued. "What didn't I do?"
Nabir's tone was calm. "Let him touch the sword."
I passed it off with a shrug. "I just don't like others touching my
sword."
"May I?"
"No--and for the same reason."
Nabir's dark eyes were steady. "Student to shodo, I respectfully
request--"
"No," I said again, knowing I was trapped. "We're not really student
and shodo,
so the forms don't apply."
His young features were almost harsh. There are tribes in the South
very feral
in nature, and it shows in the flesh. Bastard-born, maybe, but Nabir
had more
than a splash of Punja-bred fierceness. It altered him significantly.
"If the forms do not apply," he said quietly, "I have no desire to
dance with
you."
"No?"
"No. And you need me to dance with you." Nabir smiled in beguiling
innocence.
"You aren't helping me, Sandtiger. You're helping yourself. You are
slow and
stiff and awkward from that wound, and you're afraid you won't get your
fitness
back so you can dance against men like Abbu Bensir. And if you can't--"
"All right," I said, "all right. Yes, I'm out of condition. I'm slow
and stiff
and awkward, and I hurt like hoolies. But I earned the pain, Nabir... I
earned
the slowness, the stiffness, the clumsiness. Yours may be inbred."
It wasn't nice. But he'd cut too close to the bone in shedding his awe
of me.
"So," he said softly, "you put the dull blade against the newborn
whetstone and
fashion an edge again."
"Does it matter?" I asked. "You'll be better for it yourself."
Nabir nodded. "Yes. But you might have asked me."
I sighed wearily. "I might have. But you'll learn when you get to my
age that
pride can make you do and say strange things."
"You are the Sandtiger." He said it with an eloquent simplicity that
made me
ashamed.
"I was a slave," I said flatly. "You heard the word when Abbu said it:
chula.
And I was very nearly your age before I gained my freedom. Believe me,
Nabir,
all those years of the past don't make for an easy future, even when
you're
free."
"No," he agreed, very softly.
I sighed heavily and scrubbed at my forehead beneath still-damp, itchy
hair.
"Look," I said, "I can't tell you his name. So you can't touch him. I'm
sorry,
Nabir--but like I told Abbu, you're better off not knowing."
"That is the answer, then? His name?"
"Part of it," I agreed. "The rest is better left unexplained." I
started to turn
away. "Are you coming? I'm for a jug of aqivi."
Solemnly, he came. And then, "Am I really slow and stiff and clumsy?"
I considered lying. Discarded the idea; he was worth the truth. "Yes.
But that
will change." I grinned. "A few more circles with me, and you'll be the
Sandtiger's heir-apparent."
Nabir smile was slow, but warm. "Not so bad a thing."
"Only sometimes." I slapped him on his back. "How was the little
cantina girl?"
Nabir forebore to answer. Which meant either he liked the girl too much
to say,
or he hadn't had the courage.
Ah, well, give it time... young manhood can be awkward.


Nine
Across our wooden blades, Nabir's face was stiff. "She won't marry me."
As interruptions go, it was terrific. I straightened out of my crouched
stance
and lowered my sword, frowning. "Who won't--" I blinked. "The little
cantina
girl?"
Nabir, nodding, lowered his own blade-shaped piece of wood. His eyes
were very
fierce.
It was, I thought, an interesting time to bring it up. We were in the
middle of
a sparring session, having progressed from the practice circle after
two days.
"Why do you want her to?" I asked.
Nabir drew himself up. Sweat ran down his temples. "Because I love
her."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Thought over how best to discuss the
situation
with the boy, whose prickly tribal pride--bastard-born or not--
sometimes
required diplomacy. Not that he could have harmed me, if it went so
far; but I
had no desire to hurt his feelings.
I scrubbed a forearm across my brow, smearing hair out of my eyes.
"Don't take
offense, Nabir--but is she your first girl?" .
His entire body went stiff. "No," he declared. "Of course not; I have
been a man
for many years."
I waited patiently. Eventually his gaze shifted.
"Yes." The word was muffled.
So. Now I understood.
"Water break," I suggested.
He followed me out of the circle, took the bota as I slapped it into
his hands,
sucked down several swallows as I folded myself onto my gauze and
silks,
nestling buttocks into sand. I set aside the wooden blade and hooked
elbows
around crooked-up knees.
"So," I said lightly, "you slept with the girl. And you liked it. You
like it
very much."
Nabir, still standing, nodded. He clutched the bota tightly.
"Nothing wrong with that." I squinted up at him. "But you don't have to
marry
her."
"I want to."
"You can't marry every girl you sleep with."
Obviously, it had not occurred to him that other women might enter into
it. He
had discovered the magic in a woman's body--and in his own--and thought
it was
supposed to be that way--with this woman--for the rest of his life.
Poor boy.
"She won't have me," he said tightly.
A blessing, undoubtedly. But I asked, since he expected it. "Why not?"
Muscles twitched in his jaw. "Because I am a bastard. Because I have no
tribe."
Better yet, because he had little coin and fewer prospects. But I
didn't say it.
"Look at it this way, then," I said. "It's her loss, not yours."
"If I could rejoin the tribe--" Abruptly, he altered his sentence. "If
I could
prove myself worthy, they would overlook my birth."
"Who would?"
Nabir scowled, handed down the bota. "The elders."
"Which tribe?"
Nabir shook his head. "I shouldn't speak of it. I have said too much."
I didn't really want to spend too much time trying to decipher Nabir's
past, or
foretell his possible future. I scratched at sandtiger scars. "Well," I
said
finally, "it's their loss, too. Meanwhile, we have a lesson to finish."
"If I could be worthy of the tribe, I'd be worthy of her," he
persisted. "She
said so."
More likely she'd said anything she could think of, just to put him
off. It also
might be true; a cantina girl hoping for a better life would fix her
dreams on
someone of greater stature, not a bastard-born halfbreed with nothing
to offer
but himself. For a girl who sold herself nightly to men of all ilk,
Nabir's
regard--and his presence in her bed--would not be enough. She'd have to
know
there was more.
Right now, there wasn't.
I sucked water, replugged the bota. "A sword-dancer really shouldn't
think about
marriage, Nabir. It dulls the edge."
"We have no edge at all." He grinned, lifting his blade. "See? Only
wooden."
I smiled. "Still after me to use real swords, are you?"
"My shodo told me wood was useful for only so long. That to develop a
true
understanding of the dance, a true sword is required. Because without
the risk,
nothing is learned."
Yes, well... Nabir's shodo had never known my jivatma. "Maybe so," I
agreed,
"but right now I prefer wood."
Nabir looked beyond me. "It's her," he said obscurely.
The cantina girl? I turned. No. Del.
She had, at last, traded Northern wool for Southron silks. Rich blue
burnous
rippled as she walked, hood puddled on her shoulders. Already the sun
had
bleached her hair a trifle blonder, and her skin was pinker than
normal. In
time, it would turn creamy gold. The hair would pale almost to white.
Del crossed the sand smoothly, hilt shining behind her left shoulder.
Her
sessions with Abbu Bensir had removed some of the tension from her
body, as if
she understood she was doing something definite toward reaching her
goal, since
she needed to be fit to meet Ajani. I was glad to see her moving
better, feeling
better, but I wasn't pleased by the source. If she'd been willing to
meet me
with wooden blades, like Nabir, I could have done the same. Hoolies, I
could
have done more.
Del stopped beside the circle. "Tiger is the only sword-dancer I know
who
practices his dancing by sitting on the ground."
Nabir's eyes widened; how could I stand for this?
"Not true," I replied equably. "Nabir can tell you I've thwacked him
upside the
head more times than you can count--I'm giving him a breather."
Nabir frowned; it wasn't true. Del, who saw it, smiled crookedly,
interpreting
it easily. But she said nothing, looking critically at the wooden blade
the boy
held. "Do you ever plan to use steel?"
Nabir opened his mouth.
"No need," I answered for him. "You know as well as I the fundamentals
are
better taught with wood than with steel."
"He doesn't need the fundamentals... at least, not independent of
steel. There
is no risk with a wooden blade, and nothing is learned without risk."
I glared at her sourly as Nabir snapped his head around to stare at me.
"I told
you why," I said. "As long as we're speaking of risk, what about the
kind of
risk the boy would face if I did use my sword?"
"What of it?" Del returned. "It's as much for you to learn control as
for him to
learn technique."
Nabir cleared his throat. "I would like to face steel."
"Then face me." Del slipped the burnous easily and left it lying in a
puddle at
her feet. Beneath it she wore a soft cream-colored leather tunic, cap-
sleeved
and belted, that hit her mid-thigh. She'd worn something similar the
first time
I'd seen her. Though there was nothing indecent about the tunic--it was
completely unrevealing--it was still considerably less than Southron
women wore.
Even in bed.
Nabir, who had seen her in Northern tunic and trews and boots, stared.
There was
a lot of limb showing, since she is long of legs and arms, and
therefore a lot
of flesh. A lot of creamy Northern flesh stretched over exquisite
Northern
bones.
I, who also had seen her in nothing less than tunic and trews and boots
for
longer than I cared to recall, stared, too. But with less shock than
Nabir; she
is very impressive, yes, but also exceedingly frustrating.
Nabir swallowed heavily. "I've already danced against you."
"And lost," she said. "Shall we see what Tiger has taught you?"
I watched her unhook her harness, preparing to add it to her pile once
she'd
unsheathed. I got up. "I don't think so, Del."
She was unsmiling. "His choice."
"Yes," Nabir said instantly.
I ignored the boy, staring instead at Del. "You're doing this to force
my hand.
To make me use my sword."
"You can't spend your life being afraid of it," she said. "I don't deny
it's
worth your concern, but you have to learn to control it. Best to do it
now
rather than in a dance to the death, or in a dangerous situation where
hesitation might kill you."
Nabir frowned. "I don't understand."
"You shouldn't," I said curtly. "This has nothing to do with you."
"Then what does it--"
"This." I bent, scooped up harness, stripped the sheath from my sword.
"This is
what it has to do with, Nabir: Blooding-blade. Named blade. Jivatma.
And one
more thing: Chosa Dei. Whose soul is in this blade."
"So is yours," Del said steadily. "Do you think only Chosa Dei went
into that
sword when you requenched? You sang yourself into it, Tiger, as much as
Chosa
Dei. That, coupled with your determination and strength, will overcome
any
attempt he might make to steal the power from you."
"Chosa Dei," Nabir echoed.
I looked at him sharply. "Do you know Chosa Dei?"
"Of course." He shrugged. "In stories about how the South became the
South."
My turn to frown. "What?"
Again he shrugged. "I heard as a child that once the North and the
South were
the same. That there was no desert, only grasslands and mountains. And
then
Chosa Dei grew jealous of his brother--I forget his name--and tried to
steal
what his brother had."
"Shaka Obre," I muttered.
Nabir, cut off, blinked. "What?"
"His brother." I flapped a hand. "Go on."
"Chosa Dei grew jealous. He wanted what his brother--Shaka Obre?--had.
And when
his brother would not give it up, Chosa tried to steal it."
"What did he try to steal?"
Nabir shrugged. "The South. Chosa already held the North, but he wanted
the
South, too, because he always wanted whatever his brother had. He tried
many
magics, but none of them worked. Until he learned how to collect the
power in
things, and how to reshape it." Nabir frowned. "It was a true threat.
So Shaka
Obre set wasting wards around the land, knowing Chosa wouldn't dare
destroy what
he wanted so badly--only he was wrong. Chosa was willing to risk
destroying the
land. He thought if he couldn't have it, his brother shouldn't,
either."
"But it didn't work." Del, sounding reflective; did she know the
ending, too?
I decided to forestall them both. "Oh," I said, "I see. Chosa tried to
take the
South, and Shaka Obre's wasting wards kicked in. Which laid waste to
the land
and turned it into a barren desert--most of it, anyway." I didn't
believe a word
of it. "But if that's all true, why didn't Shaka Obre transform the
ruined South
back into what it was?"
Nabir took up the tale again. "He wanted to. But Chosa was so angry
that he put
a spell on his brother and locked him away somewhere."
"Chosa was the one locked away," I declared, as if it refuted the
story.
"I don't know," Nabir said testily. "I only know what I heard, which is
that
Chosa Dei's brother built wards to imprison his brother inside a
dragon. But
that by the time the spell was tripped, Chosa's magic finally
succeeded. Shaka
Obre was also imprisoned."
I looked from him to Del. They wore identical expressions. "Why is it,"
I began
again, "that everyone knows these stories but me? Northerner,
Southroner--it
doesn't seem to matter. Who told you these tales?"
"Everyone," Del answered. "Mother, father, uncles, brothers... everyone
just
knew."
I looked at Nabir. "What about you?"
"My mother," he answered promptly. "Before--" But he cut it off
abruptly.
I let it go. "No one ever told me."
Del's voice was soft. "No one tells stories to slaves."
No. So they don't.
Another thing I'd lost.
I pushed by Nabir and walked into the circle. "All right," I said, "all
right.
If you want true steel so much, I'll give you true steel. But you're
putting
your life at stake."
Nabir hesitated only a moment. Then he reached down, traded wooden
blade for
steel, straightened erect again. And walked into the circle.
His quiet faith was implicit. "You're the Sandtiger."
I'm a fool, I thought. An aging, sandsick fool.
Who doesn't know any stories except the ones he makes up himself.


Ten
The sword knocked me to my knees. Not Nabir's; mine.
"See?" I shouted at Del, who waited quietly by the circle.
Nabir, who had backed away instantly the moment my blade had delivered
its
somewhat dramatic message, stood at the very inner edge of the circle.
That he
wanted to step out was obvious; that he wouldn't, equally so. Habits
die too
hard.
"I see," Del observed. "I see also that you let it do that."
"Let it! Let it? Are you sandsick?" I rose awkwardly, off-balance,
muttering
curses about sore knees, and stared at her belligerently. "I didn't let
it do
anything, Del. One moment I was sparring with Nabir, the next I'm in
the sand. I
didn't have a whole lot of choice."
"Look at it," she said.
I looked. It was a sword. The same old sword it had always been; at
least, since
I'd requenched it inside the mountain.
Then looked more closely. The sword was different. The black
discoloration had
moved up the blade. Nearly half of it was swallowed.
I didn't want a black sword.
I shut hands more tightly around the grip. "No," I said flatly, and
sent every
bit of strength I could muster flowing through arms, hands and fingers
into the
sword itself. I would make the sword change by forcing my will upon it.
I felt like a fool. What good would it do to envision myself overcoming
a
Southron sorcerer imprisoned in my sword? What kind of power was that?
I
couldn't summon demons or create runes; couldn't collect magic from men
and
things. All I could do was sword-dance.
"Sing," Del said quietly.
"Sing," I blurted in derision.
"Singing is the key. It's always been the key. It's how you defeated
him."
I had also thrust a blade into him. But things were different, now. I
couldn't
very well stab a sword.
In my head, I muttered. But I also made up a little song; a stupid
little song.
Don't ask me what it was. I can't even remember. Just some silly little
thing
about a Southron sandtiger being fiercer than a Northern sorcerer... at
any
rate, it worked. The black receded a little. Now only the tip was
charred.
"It's something," Del said, as I swayed on my feet. "For now, it should
be
enough."
I squinted, rubbed at my eyes, tried to focus clearly. "I'm dizzy."
"You invoked power." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "You can't just do it
without
expecting to pay some price. Do you come out of a circle as fresh as
when you
went in?"
Not hardly. I could smell myself. "Dizzy," I repeated. "And thirsty,
and
hungry."
Nabir still stood at the very edge of the circle. He was staring at the
sword.
"Can it do anything? Anything at all?"
I looked down at the blade. "One thing it can do is make you feel
pretty sick.
Hoolies, I need a drink!"
Del tossed me my harness. "You always need a drink."
I sheathed, scowling at her, and hooked arms through the loops. The new
leather
was still stiff. I'd have to spend some time working oil into the
straps. "Put
some clothes on," I told her crossly. "Let's go get some food."
Del looked past me to Nabir. "Are you coming?"
He shook his head. "I want to go see Xenobia."
"His light o' love," I told her quietly, as Del looked blank.
She watched Nabir gathering his things as I gathered mine. "I didn't
know he had
one."
"Since two days ago. Cantina girl. He wants to marry her."
"Marry her!"
"That's what I said." I stuffed silk, gauze, bota, and practice sword
beneath
arms and turned toward Harquhal. "But she's his first girl, and he
fancies
himself in love." I grinned as Nabir departed at a trot. "Why is it so
many boys
and girls fall in love with the first one who takes them to bed?"
Del's tone was deadly. "I didn't."
No. Not with Ajani.
"Come on, bascha," I sighed. "You need a drink, too."
The cantina was crowded and noisy. Greenish-gray huva smoke eddied in
the
beamwork, trailing malodorous tails. The place also stank of sour wine,
pungent
aqivi, mutton stew, and spiced kheshi, all bound together with the
acrid tang of
Southron sand, dusty bodies; a trace of cheap perfume. The place was
packed with
men, making the cantina girls happy. Also overworked--in both modes of
employment.
Every table was filled shoulder-to-shoulder by burnous-clad men. I saw
swords
hanging from belts, swords hanging from baldrics, swords strapped on by
harness.
If a tanzeer desired an army, he need go no farther than here.
"No room," Del murmured.
"There's room. Just no tables." I pushed through a knot of men next to
the door,
aiming for a deep-cut window. They ignored me mostly, moving apart only
slightly, but when Del started through I heard silence abruptly
descend. Not
over the entire room--it was too packed for that--but the group by the
door most
decidedly stopped talking.
I shot a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, five mouths hung open
inelegantly. And then closed, smiling broadly, as Del slid through the
stirring
knot.
You'd have thought they'd step aside. Southroners have some manners--
only
apparently this bunch didn't. As Del arrived in their midst, on the way
to me,
they closed ranks around her.
Oh, hoolies, bascha, can't you go anywhere?
I doubt they intended much. Maybe a pinch here, a tweak there; a stroke
or a
fondle or two. But whatever it was they expected to receive in return,
Del
didn't offer. She had something else in mind.
I heard, in the blink of an eye, several curses, a blurt or two of
pain, a
breathy hiss of shock. And then Del was through. She joined me at the
window.
I noted the merest glint of steel as she returned her knife to its
sheath.
Beyond her, two of the men bent to rub shins. One inspected sandal-
bared toes;
Del was wearing boots. All of them glared at her.
"Here?" Del asked at the window.
"Deep ledge." I stuffed clothing, bota, and wooden sword back into the
space.
"We can use it for a table."
We could. The adobe walls of the cantina were nearly a man-length
thick, with
the windows cut into the slabs. As deep as the ledge was, a man could
sit on it.
Del glanced around at the crowd. "We should have gotten food and drink
up front.
Now we have to fight our way through again."
"No, we don't. This little girl will be glad to help us out." I caught
the elbow
of a cantina girl perching on someone's knee, dragged her up, pulled
her over.
"Aqivi," I said succinctly. "Also kheshi and mutton stew." I glanced at
Del.
"And wine for the lady; she has refined tastes." Before the girl could
protest,
I slapped her on the rump and sent her off through the crowd.
Del's expression was curiously bland. "If you ever do that again, I'll
send you
to stand with the others."
"What others?"
"The men by the door."
I glanced over, saw she meant the men who'd accosted her, scowled.
"What did I
do?"
"You treated her like dirt."
I nearly gaped. "All I did was send her to do her job. One of them,
anyway."
Del's mouth was hard. "There are ways of doing the same without
degrading the
girl."
"Oh, Del, come on--"
"Perhaps this will make more sense: you treated her like a slave."
It got my back up; after all, I'd been a slave. "I did no such--"
"Yes, you did," she said. "And if you can't see it, you're blind."
"All I did was--" But I never got to finish. Someone came up behind me
and
slapped me on the back.
"Sandtiger!" he cried. "When did you get in?"
Hoolies, that hurt. I turned to scowl at him, then blinked in
astonishment. "I
thought you were dead."
"Hoolies, no," he said, "though it felt like it, even to me." He
grinned,
glanced past me at Del, elbowed me in the ribs. "I'd show you the scar,
Sandtiger, but the bascha might be offended."
"I'd probably even swoon." Del's tone was perfectly bland.
Belatedly, I recalled introductions. "Del, this is Rhashad. Old friend
of mine.
Rhashad, this is Del. New friend of mine."
"I can see why." He bestowed his best smile on her, displaying big,
very white
teeth framed by heavy red mustaches drooping just past his jaw.
"Northern-born,
are you? I'm half Northern myself."
And it showed. Rhashad was a Borderer, born in the foothills near the
ruins of
Iskandar. His hair was reddish blond, his eyes dark blue. To go with
the hair
his skin was tanned an odd yellowish red, with a generous sprinkling of
sunspots. He was big; his height nearly matched mine. Del was only a
finger's-width shorter. He packed more weight than me, though,
especially
through the shoulders.
"So," I said dryly, "I suppose you're heading home, since home is near
Iskandar.
No doubt you'll make a side-trip, if only to check out the action."
Rhashad grinned. He has a nice grin. He kept showing it to Del. "It's
in my
blood, Tiger. And I don't dare go home poor. My mother would throw me
out of the
hut."
Rhashad's mother was a long-standing joke among sword-dancers who knew
him. She
was, he claimed, a giantess, able to knock him silly with only the
flick of a
finger. But someone who'd met her once said she was a little bit of a
thing,
hardly reaching her son's elbow. Rhashad is known to exaggerate, but
it's all
part of the package. So far it hasn't killed him, though he came close
some time
before.
I glanced at Del. "His mother's the Northern half. That's where he gets
his
color."
Del arched her brows. "That's where he gets his charm."
Which promptly set Rhashad to braying for a cantina girl to reward
Del's
prescience. I told him a girl was on the way; he settled back into the
window,
hooking elbows on the sill.
"I'm up from Julah," he said. "New tanzeer down there, now that
Aladar's dead. I
picked up a little work, then the Vashni got too active and I decided
to head
back home. No sense in giving up my life just to let their black-eyed
women make
jewelry out of my bones."
I knew all about Aladar; I'd been present when Del killed him. "What's
stirred
up the Vashni?"
Rhashad shrugged. "This Oracle fellow. He keeps telling everyone the
jhihadi is
coming to reclaim the South for the tribes. The Vashni have always been
superstitious. So now they're beginning to think maybe they ought to
help out
the foretelling by making it come true. They've been killing a few
people here
and there; nothing serious yet, but it's been the obvious foreigner.
You
know--anyone blond, red-haired, blue-or green-eyed... whoever they
think looks
non-Southron. I guess they feel that if they're to reclaim the South,
they've
got to rid it of foreigners." He shrugged, stroking one half of his
mustache. "I
look too Northern, I'm thinking, so I made my way back up here."
"Jamail," Del said blankly.
Rhashad frowned. "Who?"
"Her brother," I explained. Del's face was white. "He's living with the
Vashni."
The frown deepened: two lines met between his eyes. "What's a
Northerner doing
with Vashni?"
"Never mind," Del said grimly. "Are you certain they're killing all
foreigners?"
"That's what they've been doing. Whether they still are, I can't say.
All I know
is, this Oracle fellow's got them all stirred up." His blue eyes were
solemn.
"I'll be frank, bascha--if your brother's with the Vashni, his chances
aren't
worth much. They take matters of religion seriously."
"They'll kill him," she said bitterly, "because this loki-brained
Oracle tells
them to."
Rhashad lifted a negligent shoulder. "Take it up with him, then; he's
heading to
Iskandar."
"The Oracle?" I frowned. "How do you know that?"
"Rumor. Makes sense, though. This Oracle fellow's been predicting the
jhihadi
will show his face at Iskandar; don't you think he might want to be
there? Sort
of to prove his point?"
I didn't answer. The cantina girl arrived, at last, carrying bowls of
stew and
kheshi, also a jug each of wine and aqivi. She balanced all with great
care and
concentration, gritting out Southron "excuse me's" as she fought her
way through
the throng. Del saw it and reached out at once to relieve her of the
jugs and
cups.
"Pay her extra," Del commanded as I reached for my pouch.
I scowled as I dug deep. "You're awfully free with my money."
"Women are," Rhashad observed cheerfully. "You should see how quickly
my mother
spends the coin I send home."
Del thanked the girl, then arched an eyebrow at Rhashad. "You send
money home to
your mother?"
"If I didn't, she'd have my ears. Or worse: my mustaches." Rhashad
grinned. "You
should come meet my mother. She'd like a bold bascha like you."
"Or not," I said hastily, seeing interest in Del's eyes. It might have
been for
the mother; I wouldn't risk it being for Rhashad. "Here, have some
aqivi. Del
prefers wine."
Del preferred not drinking. "Do you know a man named Ajani? He's
Northern, not a
Borderer, but he rides both sides."
"Ajani, Ajani," Rhashad muttered. "The name sounds familiar...
Northerner, you
say?"
"Very much so," she said flatly, "in everything but his habits. He is
blond,
blue-eyed, very tall... and he likes to kill people. If he doesn't sell
them to
slavers."
Rhashad's eyes sharpened. He looked at her more closely. This time he
really saw
her. Saw her and the sword.
The note in his voice was odd. "Have you ever been to Julah?"
Say no, I warned her mutely.
Del said yes.
Hoolies, he'll put it together.
Rhashad nodded slowly. His look on me was shrewd. "Eighteen months--or
so--ago,
Aladar ruled in Julah. Rich man, Aladar: he traded in gold and slaves.
And would
be to this day, if a slave hadn't killed him." He didn't look at Del.
"Nobody
knows any names. Only that one was a Northern woman, the other a
Southron man. A
man with scars on his face, who was a slave in Aladar's mine."
I hunched one shoulder. "Lots of men are scarred."
Rhashad spread four fingers and scraped them down one cheek. "Lots of
men are
scarred. Not all of them quite like this."
"Does it matter?" Del asked roughly.
Rhashad dropped his hand. "Not to me," he said evenly. "I don't betray
my
friends. But other people might."
A coldness touched my spine. "Why? If Aladar's gone, what does the new
tanzeer
care about how it happened?"
"The new tanzeer is Aladar's daughter."
"Aladar's daughter?" I gaped. "How did a woman inherit the domain?"
"Thank you," Del said dryly.
I waved it off. "Not now; this is important."
Rhashad nodded. "Indeed, it is. And the reason she holds the domain is
because
she was rich enough to buy men, and strong enough to hold them." He
smiled a
little. "Too much woman for me."
"A woman," I mused. "Hoolies, things are changing."
"For the better," Del remarked, then sipped her sour wine.
"Maybe not, bascha." I scowled into my bowl of rapidly cooling kheshi.
Then I
shrugged. "Ah, well, it won't last. They may be taking her money now,
but it'll
wear off. They won't put up with taking orders from a woman for long.
Rhashad
didn't, did he? And he's a Borderer. A man afraid of his mother."
"I respect my mother. And you should, too; she's a better man than
you."
"They'll overthrow her," I said thoughtfully. "They'll change
loyalties. They'll
sell it to a man, or else one will steal it for himself. And then
another will
try to steal it from him." I shook my head. "Julah will run with
blood."
"See why I left?" Rhashad asked. "First the Vashni begin killing, and
now there
will be war for control of Julah. I'd rather go see my mother."
"With Jamail in the middle, if he's not already dead." Del sighed and
scrubbed
at her brow. "Oh, Tiger, how much longer? First there is Ajani to think
about,
and now Jamail as well. What am I to do?"
"Go to Iskandar," I said. "It's the only logical choice."
Del's mouth was twisted. "There is no logic to feelings."
Which was, I thought, about the truest thing she'd ever said.
Especially when
applied to her.


Eleven
Something landed on my head. "Come on," the voice said. "We're going to
Iskandar."
I lay belly-down on my precarious cot, mashing my face into the lump of
cloth
pretending to be a pillow. My left arm was under the lump. I was under
a gauzy
sheet, trying to recapture sleep.
The thing on my head did not go away. Without opening my eyes I reached
up, felt
the saddle-pouches, dragged them off my head and over the side of the
bed.
"Who's keeping you?" I mumbled.
Del was not amused. "I have no time for this. Ajani could be at
Iskandar."
"Ajani could be anywhere. Ajani could be in hoolies." I freed my left
arm. "I
hope Ajani's in hoolies; then we can forget about him."
Del scooped up the pouches. "Fine," she declared. "I'll go there with
Abbu."
Del never threatens. Del does. She was about to do now.
"Wait--" I levered myself up, squinted through too-bright daylight at
her, tried
to remember my name. My mouth tasted like an old dhoti. "Give me a
moment,
bascha."
She didn't give a moment. "Meet me at the stables." And thumped the
door behind
her.
Oh, hoolies.
Hoolies.
Why does she always do this on the morning after the night before?
I swear, the woman plans it. She plans it, and she waits. She knows
what it does
to me.
With effort I turned all the way over and sat up. Sure enough, the door
was
still shut. Del was still gone.
I sat on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands, scrubbing
at
sleep-creased flesh. I needed food and a taste of aqivi; Del would give
me
neither. Nor would she give me time.
"You could always catch up," I suggested.
Yes. I could. I knew where she was going.
And I knew who'd be going with her.
Hoolies, hoolies, hoolies.
I hate men like Abbu.
I used the nightpot. Then, in an effort to wake up as much as wash
myself, I
splashed water all over my face and soaked most of my hair. Wet
tendrils
straggled down my neck. Droplets broke free and rolled, tickling
shoulders,
chest, belly.
I didn't feel any better. Just wetter.
I glowered at the door as I reached for underrobe, harness, burnous.
"What do
you expect? I sat up with Rhashad all night."
Del, being gone, didn't answer. Which was just as well with me. She'd
say
something back. Then I would be required to respond. And we would waste
too much
time bickering over nothing in an attempt to prove dominance.
Which struck me as pretty stupid.
I bent over to pull on the boots Del had found me. "You are stupid," I
muttered.
"You could be sitting in a cantina right about now with a warm and
willing
little Southron beauty in your lap and a jug of aqivi at your elbow. Or
you
could be hiring on with some rich tanzeer to protect his dewy-eyed
daughter--some cushy job like that. Or sitting over the oracle bones
with
Rhashad, stealing all his money. Or you could be sleeping." One boot
was on. I
turned to the other. "Instead, what are you doing? Getting ready to
ride to
Iskandar on a mission of revenge with a cold-hearted, hot-tongued
bascha--"
--whom I very badly wanted back in my bed.
I glared at the door. "Message for you, Ajani: if she doesn't kill you,
I will."
Del was waiting at the stables. With the blue roan. Out in front. In
the street.
Which told me a little something.
"It'll be there," I told her. "It's been there for hundreds of years."
She frowned.
"Iskandar," I clarified.
Del's frown deepened. But she spoke about something else. "I'd have had
him
waiting for you, but no one can get near him."
Him. She could only mean one thing. "That's because they don't have the
proper
technique." I went by her into the lathwork stable, gathered up bridle,
went
over to the stall. At least, it was sort of a stall; there wasn't much
left of
it. "All right," I said, "what have you been up to?"
The stud, who was tied to a thick piece of timber sunk in the ground,
answered
by pawing violently. More bits of stall came down. The ground around
him was
littered.
"Ah," I said, "I see."
So did the stableman. He came running when he realized the stud's owner
was
back. I listened to his diatribe for much longer than I liked, but
since I had
to bridle, saddle and load the stud anyway, I didn't lose any time.
Only my
waning patience.
"How much?" I asked.
The stableman took the question as an invitation to start all over
again with
complaints. I cut him off in mid-stride by drawing my knife.
He went white. Gaped. Then changed from white to red as I bent over the
stud's
left forehoof to check for stones or caked dirt, cleaning the frog of
the hoof
with my knifetip.
"How much?" I repeated.
The stableman named a price.
"Too much," I told him. "That would buy you a second stable; he didn't
do that
much damage."
He named another price.
I let the stud have his left hoof back and moved to work on the right.
"I could
leave him here..."
A third--and better--price. I nodded and gave him money.
Del was mounted and waiting as I led the stud out of doors into
daylight. Her
roan snorted. The stud curled back his upper lip and trumpeted his
dominance,
meanwhile stomping on my heels as he raised his tail and danced. A
stallion
dancing around on the end of an all-too-human arm is rather
disconcerting. So
between being momentarily deafened by his noise and having my bootheels
tromped
on, I was not in a good mood.
But then, neither was Del. "Nice technique," she observed as I bashed
his nose
with a fist.
"Have to get his attention."
"You did," Del said. "Now he's trying to bite you."
Well, he was. But horses have bad moods, too.
I put my left foot in the stirrup and started to pull myself up. The
stud bent
his head around and missed getting a hunk of me only because I saw it
coming and
slapped him in the mouth. He tried twice more; I slapped him twice
more. Then I
gave up on the leisurely mount and swung up all at once, coming down
into the
saddle with toes hooking stirrups.
"Now try," I suggested.
He might have. He has. This time he didn't. For which I was very
grateful, since
I had the feeling he'd win.
"Are you done?" Del asked.
Before I could answer--though nothing was expected--the stableman
stepped
forward. "I couldn't help noticing your scars--are you the Sandtiger?"
I nodded, gathering rein.
The man showed me a gap-toothed grin. "I sold a horse to your son."
"My son--" I scowled down at him. "What kind of horse, where was he
going, and
what does he look like?"
Del's tone was dry. "One at a time, Tiger. You'll confuse the poor
man."
The stableman knew horses best. "Old gray mare," he said. "Splash of
white down
her nose, and three white legs. Very gentle. A lady's mare, but he said
that's
what he wanted."
"Where was he going?"
"Iskandar."
Where else? "What does he look like?"
The man shrugged. "Not tall, not short. Eighteen or nineteen. Brown-
haired,
blue-eyed. Spoke Southron with an accent."
"What kind of accent?"
He shrugged, shaking his head.
"But he told you he was my son."
"Son of the Santiger; yes." He grinned. "Hasn't got the scars, but he
wears a
necklet of claws."
"And a sword?" I asked grimly.
He frowned. Thought back. Shook his head. "A knife. No sword."
"A necklet, but no sword. And riding an old gray mare." I glanced at
Del. "If
he's really going to Iskandar, at least we know what to look for."
She was startled. "You'll look?"
"Shouldn't be hard to find him. He's obviously not shy of boasting
about his
parentage--even though it's a lie."
Her tone was a little odd. "How do you know it's a lie?"
"He's too old," I told her. "If I'm thirty-six, and he's eighteen--or
even
nineteen--it means I was all of--" I stopped.
"Eighteen," Del supplied. "Or maybe seventeen."
Not too old after all. "Let's go," I said curtly. "No sense in staying
here."


***
By the time we were out of Harquhal, most of my bad temper was gone. It
was too
hard staying out of sorts when the Southron sun was shining on my face,
warming
the place where the beard had been. It felt odd to be clean-shaven. It
felt odd
to wear gauze and silk. It felt odd to be so carefree.
But it felt good to feel so odd.
"You know," I remarked, "you might have warned me last night you wanted
to
leave. I could have said good-bye to Rhashad, told Nabir there'd be no
more
lessons--"
"Nabir knows. I told him."
"Oh? When?"
"Last night. You and Rhashad were full of aqivi and too busy trying to
win one
another's money... Nabir came in, and I told him." She shrugged. "He
said he
would come, too, if he could convince Xenobia to quit her job and go
with him."
"Xenobia," I murmured.
"And I told Abbu, who also came in last night."
I looked at her. "He did? I didn't see him. When did he come in? Last
night? In
our cantina?"
"I said you were full of aqivi." Del waved a fly away. "Not long before
I left."
"Left?" I echoed. "You left? When? Why?" I frowned. "With him?"
"Aren't you full of questions today."
"I think I have a right."
"Oh? Why?"
"I just do." I scowled, disliking her tone. "Who knows what kind of
trouble you
might have gotten yourself into, going off with Abbu like that. You
don't know
what kind of man he is, bascha."
"One very much like you." She raised a hand to forestall my protest.
"No--like
you were. I'll admit, you've changed. You're not the arrogant fool you
once
were."
"So comforting," I said dryly. "And was he like me in bed,too?"
"You have no right to ask that."
"Hoolies, you mean you did?" I jerked the stud up short. "I was only
joking,
after all your natter about needing focus... do you mean to tell me you
went off
with Abbu last night?"
Del's tone was deadly. "I did not lie to you about requiring a focus.
And if I
have told you plainly I desire solitude, would I then go to bed with
Abbu?"
It slowed me down only a moment. "Maybe. I'm not sure any more."
"No."
I felt a little better--I felt a lot better about Abbu's lack of
success--but
was still a trifle disgruntled about her accompanying him. "You've got
to admit,
I've got a right to be concerned."
"No," Del retorted. "It's not your place."
That got my back up. "Why is it not my place? We've spent the last--
what,
eighteen months?--together, in bed and out, and you say it's not my
place?"
"It's not your place to ask whom I choose to sleep with," Del declared,
"any
more than it's my place to ask the same of you."
"But you can ask," I said. "You've been the only woman in my bed since-
-since--"
I frowned. "Hoolies, see what you've done? I can't even remember."
"Elamain," she said dryly.
Elamain. Elamain--oh, Elamain.
Del saw my expression. "Yes," she said, "Elamain. That Elamain."
How could I forget? How could any man forget? Her appetite was
insatiable, her
skill beyond belief, her stamina unbelievable, her imagination
unparalleled--
"Of course," Del remarked, "she did nearly get you killed."
The dream evaporated. "Worse," I said--with feeling.
"What could be worse than--oh. Oh. Yes, I remember. She almost got you
gelded."
I shifted in the saddle. "Let's not talk about that."
"Besides, what did you expect? You weren't giving me anything. Why
shouldn't I
sleep with Elamain--"
"--especially since she didn't give you much choice." Del smiled.
"Tiger, you
may think other women don't know, but we do. I know very well what kind
of woman
Elamain is--or was; Hashi probably had her killed--and how she worked
her magic
on you. Women like that have power. Men can never withstand it." She
tossed
loose hair behind her shoulders. "You can be sidetracked so easily...
you can
lose sight of what you intended just because a woman--"
"--tells me a story about how a Northern borjuni killed her family and
sold her
brother into slavery." I smiled. "Sound familiar, bascha?"
"That's not what I meant, Tiger."
"No. You meant women like Elamain luring poor fools into their beds. I
know. I
won't even deny it hasn't worked on me other times, either." I
shrugged. "You
used a different method, but the end result was the same."
Del didn't say anything right away. She'd turned her blue roan to face
me, and
now she had to rein him back to keep him from nosing the stud. Once she
had him
settled, she met my gaze stare for stare. Then tilted her head a
little.
"What would you have done?" she asked. "What would you have done with
your life
if I hadn't found you in that cantina?"
"Done?"
"Done," she repeated. "You said I'd sidetracked you as much as Elamain
might
have--sidetracked you from what? Made you lose sight of--what?"
"Well, if you hadn't found me in that cantina, I wouldn't have been
left as a
Sun Sacrifice by the Hanjii. I wouldn't have been thrown into Aladar's
mine. I
wouldn't have lost Singlestroke and gotten stuck with this Northern
sword, or
sucked up Chosa Dei."
"That's not what I asked."
"Those things wouldn't have happened."
"Tiger, you're avoiding my question."
"No, I'm not." I shrugged. "Hoolies, I don't know. I'm a sword-dancer.
I hire on
to do things. I'd probably be doing things; does that answer your
question?"
"Yes," she said, "it does." She waved away another fly. Or maybe the
same one.
"You asked me once what I'd do when Ajani was dead. Once I'd ended my
song."
"Yes, I asked. As I recall, you didn't have an answer."
"Because I refuse to look past that. To look beyond Ajani's death is to
lose
focus. To dilute the vision. And I can't afford that." Del flicked a
hand in the
air. "So, I don't look. But you don't have the same restrictions. You
can look.
What I ask now is, have you?"
"No sword-dancer wastes much time thinking about next year, next month,
next
week. Hoolies, sometimes not even next day. Only the next dance. He
looks to the
dance, bascha. Because that's what he lives for."
Del's eyes were steady. "When will your dance be ended?"
"I can't answer that," I said crossly. "I don't even know what it
means."
"You do. Oh, you do. You're not a stupid man. You're not a foolish man.
You only
pretend to be when you don't want to deal with truths."
I didn't say a word.
Del smiled a little. "It's all right, Tiger. I do the same thing."
"You don't pretend to be stupid. And you never pretend you're a fool."
"No." Her mouth was oddly warped. "Instead, I make myself cold and
hard. I make
myself dead inside, so I don't have to face those truths."
There are times when I hate this woman.
This was not one of them.




Part III


One
Del's voice was distant. "Tiger--what's wrong?"
It didn't make any sense. Just a jumble of words. No, not words;
sounds.
"Tiger? Are you all right?"
I felt--odd.
"Tiger!"
Oh, hoolies, bascha... something's wrong--something's wrong with me--
something's
wrong with--
I stopped the stud. Got off. Dragged the sword from its sheath. Then
walked
across the trail to a tumbled pile of rocks. Found a fissure. Wedged
the sword
into it.
Wedged the hilt into it, leaving the blade stuck up into air.
"Tiger--?" And then she sent her roan plunging between the blade and my
body.
It knocked me backward. It knocked me flat on my rump. I sat there on
the ground
trying to figure out what had happened.
Del reined the roan around. Her expression was profoundly frightened.
"Have you
gone loki?" she cried.
I didn't think so. What I was, somehow, was sitting on the ground
instead of in
the saddle.
Silence: Del said nothing. Her gelding pawed, digging pebbles and dust.
I heard
the clack of rock on rock, the scraping of hoof in hard ground, the
clink of bit
and bridle.
Saw the sword sticking up from the fissure.
"Hoolies," I muttered hoarsely.
Del said nothing. She watched me get up, watched me slap dust from my
burnous,
watched me take a step toward the sword. Then put the gelding between.
Brought up short, I stuck out a hand to ward off the roan. "What are
you trying
to--"
"Keep you from killing yourself," she said flatly, "do you think I
couldn't
tell?"
"I'd never--"
"You just did. Or would have."
I stared up at her in astonishment. Then across the roan's bluish rump
to the
waiting sword jutting patiently into the air.
I couldn't have. I couldn't have. It's not something I would do. I've
survived
too much travail in my life to end it willingly, let alone by my own
hand.
"Let me go," I said.
Del didn't move the gelding.
"Let me go," I repeated. "I'm all right now, bascha."
Her expression was unreadable. Then she moved the gelding out of my
way. I heard
the hiss of a blade unsheathed. I was visited by an odd thought: would
Del try
to kill me to keep me from killing myself?
Somehow, I didn't laugh. Not looking at my sword.
I approached it carefully. Felt nothing. No fear, no apprehension, no
desire to
do myself injury. Just a mild curiosity as to what the thing had
wanted.
It didn't say a word.
I bent. Closed one hand around the exposed portion of the hilt,
avoiding the
blade itself. Worked the sword from the fissure and turned it right
side up.
Black crept up the blade. This time it touched the runes.
"It doesn't want to go," I blurted.
Del's voice: "What?"
"It--he--doesn't want to go." I frowned down at the sword, then
wrenched my gaze
away to meet hers. "Chosa Dei wants to go south."
Del's mouth flattened. "Tell him we're going north."
"Northeast," I corrected. "And he knows exactly which way we're going--
it's why
he pulled this stunt." I paused. "One of the reasons, anyway; he also
wants out
of the sword. Killing me is a way of succeeding."
Del sheathed Boreal and edged the gelding closer. "It's black again."
"Some of it." I turned the blade from edge to edge to show both sides.
"What do
you suppose would happen if the whole thing went black?"
Del's tone was odd. "Do you really want to find out?"
I glanced at her sharply. "Do you know?"
"No. But I wouldn't run the risk."
"Neither will I," I muttered. "Time to show him who's boss again."
As before, I shut both hands around the grip, locking fingers in place.
It had
taken a song last time, a snatch of a little song sung to put Chosa Dei
in his
place. I summoned it again and let it fill my head. Thought briefly of
nothing
else other than proving my dominance. Like the stud with Del's blue
roan.
I was sweating when I opened my eyes. The song in my head died away.
The runes
were free of charring, but not the entire blade. "Only a little," I
rasped.
"Each time, more of the black remains."
"You must be vigilant," Del declared.
"Vigilant," I muttered. "You be vigilant."
Her face wavered before me. "Are you all right?" she asked.
I staggered toward the stud, who, bored, lipped idly at dirt. His
muzzle was
crusted with it. "Am I all right, she asks. I don't know; should I be
all right?
Every time I have this little argument with my sword, I feel like I've
aged ten
years." I stopped short of the stud and swung around. "I haven't, have
I?"
"What?"
"Aged ten--or twenty--years."
Del appraised me critically. "I don't think so. You look the same as
before--about sixty, I would say."
"That's not funny," I snapped, and then realized how I sounded. "All
right, all
right--but do you blame me? Who knows what Chosa Dei can do, even in a
sword!"
"True," Del conceded. "No, Tiger, you do not look like you have aged
ten or
twenty years. In fact, you look better than a week ago; sparring agrees
with
you. You should do it more often."
"I would if I could," I muttered. "Maybe at Iskandar."
I turned back to the stud, who greeted me with a bump of his muzzle
against my
face, followed by a snort. His snorts are bad enough any time; this
time it
included dirt. Dirt and mucus make mud.
I swore, wiped slime from face and neck, called him a dozen
unflattering names.
He'd heard them all before and didn't even flick an ear. So I caught
reins, dug
a foot into the left stirrup, dragged myself up with effort, plopped
rump into
saddle. Peered over at Del.
"All right," I said, "all right. I give up. The sooner I get Chosa Dei
out of
this sword, the happier I'll be... and if that means finding this Shaka
Obre,
then that's what we'll do."
Del's expression was odd. "It could take months. Maybe years."
I gritted teeth. "I know that," I told her. "What in hoolies else am I
supposed
to do? Fight this thing for the rest of my life?"
Del's tone was quiet. "I just think you should realize what sort of
commitment
you're making."
I glared at her. "This sword just tried to make me kill myself. Now
it's
personal."
Her smooth brow creased. "Shaka Obre is little more than a name,
Tiger... he
will be difficult to find."
I sighed. "We found Chosa Dei. We'll find Shaka Obre, no matter what it
takes."
Del's smile was oddly abrupt.
"What?" I asked warily.
"Only that you sound very like me."
I thought about it. About Del's quest to find Ajani, and the sacrifices
she'd
made.
Now it was my turn.
She brought her roan up beside me. "How much farther to Iskandar?"
"According to what Rhashad told me, another day's ride. We should make
it by
tomorrow evening." I peered down the track winding through scrub trees
and webby
grass. "You know, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if there is a jhihadi
due. Maybe
he can cure my sword."
Del sounded cross. "There's nothing wrong with your sword that you
can't cure
yourself. All it takes is control. And the willingness to try."
I looked at her a long moment. Then shifted in my saddle. "You know," I
said
lightly, "I'll be glad when Ajani's dead."
It caught her off guard. "Why?"
"Because maybe then you'll remember what it's like to be human again."
Her mouth opened. "I am--"
"Sometimes," I agreed. "Then again, other times you're a coldhearted,
judgmental
bitch."
I turned the stud and went on. After a moment, she followed.
Silence is sometimes noisy.
Iskandar, I knew, had been very old even before Harquhal was born.
Which meant
the track between them was very new, beaten into the ground only in
answer to
the Oracle. In time the track would fade, washed away by wind and rain,
and the
land would be true again, lacking the scars put on it by pilgrims gone
to see
the new jhihadi. Until then, however, the track would become a
lifeline.
Rhashad had been explicit in his instructions, but it wasn't necessary.
It was
easy to see the way. Easy to see the people leaving Harquhal behind on
the way
to Iskandar. Harder to avoid them.
We avoided them eventually by riding off the track. It was dusk,
growing chilly,
and my belly was complaining. Del and I went over a hill and found a
private
place for a campsite, not desirous of company. On the road you can
never be
sure.
"No fire," I suggested as I climbed down from the stud.
Del, saying nothing, nodded. She pulled off saddle, pad, pouches, the
roll of
pelt and blankets. Dumped everything in one spot and went back to tend
the roan.
It took no time at all. We settled mounts, spread bedrolls, ate a
journey-meal
out of our pouches and drank water out of botas. By the time the sun
was down
there was nothing left but bed. But neither of us sought it.
In the white light of a full moon I sat on my pelt, blankets draped
around my
knees, working oil into my harness. The leather was stiff from newness
and
needed softening. In time the oil, my sweat, and the shape of my body
would
coerce the harness to fit. Until then, I'd tend it every night. It was
ritual.
Del performed her own even as I completed mine. But it was not her
harness she
tended. It was Boreal's blade. Whetstone, oil, cloth. And exquisitely
tender
care.
She had braided back her hair. It left most of her face bare. In the
moonlight,
the angles were harsh. The planes were cut from glass.
Down the blade and back again: seductive sibilance. Then the whisper of
silk on
steel.
Her head was bent, and tilted, as she looked down the length of blade.
White-lashed lids were lowered, hiding the eyes from me. Thick, pale
braid fell
over a silk-clad shoulder, swinging with her motion. Down the blade,
then back
again: slow, subtle seduction.
Abruptly I had to know. "What are you thinking about?"
Del twitched minutely. She had been very far away.
Quietly I repeated it: "What are you thinking, bascha?"
The mouth warped briefly. Then regained its shape. "Jamail," she said
softly.
"Remembering what he was like."
I'd only seen him once. Never as she had.
"He was--a boy," she said. "No different from any other. He was the
youngest of
us all, at ten--five years younger than me. Trying so hard to be a man
when we
wanted to keep him a boy."
I smiled, seeing it. "Nothing wrong with that."
"He thought so. He would look at my father, my uncles, my brothers,
then look at
me. And swear he was as brave... swear he was as strong... swear he was
as
capable as any man full-grown."
I had not had a normal boyhood. I couldn't say how it should have been.
Couldn't
feel what Jamail had felt. Couldn't say the words I might have said if
I had
been Jamail, wanting to soothe my sister.
"They took us together," she said. "We hid beneath the wagon, trying to
make
ourselves small, but the borjuni fired the wagon. There was no place
left to
hide. We ran--Jamail's clothing caught fire--" She broke off a moment,
face
twisted oddly. "They caught fire, but he wouldn't scream. He just
stuffed his
fists in his mouth and bit them until they bled. I had to throw him
down. I had
to trip him and throw him down so I could smother the flames... and
that was
when they caught us."
My hands stilled on the harness. Del's continued to work her blade. I
doubt she
even knew it.
"He was burned," she said. "They didn't care. He was alive, he would
mend; he
would still bring a pretty price. That was all they thought of: what
the
Southron slavers would pay."
No, it was not all they thought of. There was Delilah as well--fifteen-
year-old
Northern beauty--but Del wasn't speaking of her. Jamail was the topic.
Jamail
was all that counted, and the fate of her family.
Del didn't count herself worthy enough to warrant the obsession.
Oh, bascha. Bascha. If only you knew.
"But he survived it," she said. "More than I, surely: slavery,
castration,
losing a tongue. He survived all of that only to fall to the Vashni."
Del drew
in a breath. "So now I am left to sit here, wondering if he's dead."
"You don't know that he is."
"No. No, I don't. Not knowing is what hurts."
Her hand continued its task, never faltering in its stroke. Boreal sang
a song,
a song of promises.
"Don't borrow grief," I told her. "Jamail could be perfectly safe with
the
Vashni."
"They're killing foreigners. He's all too obviously Northern."
"Is he? Was he?" I shrugged as she glanced up. "By the time we found
him, he'd
spent five years in the South. Two years with the Vashni. For all we
know, they
might consider him one of their own. The old man loved him; that should
carry
some weight."
"Old men," she said quietly, "often lose their power."
"And sometimes they don't."
"But all old men die."
I shook my head. "I can't make it any easier for you, Del. Yes, he
could be
dead. But you don't know that."
"And I wonder: will I ever? Or spend the rest of my life not knowing if
there is
anyone left of my blood."
"Believe me," I said roughly, "you can learn to live with that."
Del's hand closed over the blade. "And do you say that because I am a
coldhearted, judgmental bitch?"
I looked at her sharply, startled by the question. More startled by the
raw
tone. "No," I answered honestly. "I say that because it's what I've
done."
"You," she said blankly.
"Me," I agreed. "Are you forgetting the circumstances? No mother, no
father for
me... no brothers or sisters, either. I haven't the vaguest idea if
there is
anyone left of my blood, since I don't know what blood it is."
"Borderer," she said. "Borderer, or foreign."
I straightened. "That's what you think?"
Del shrugged. "You have the size of a Northerner, but your color is
mostly
Southron. Not as dark, of course, and your features are not as harsh.
You are a
little of both, I think, which might make you a Borderer." She smiled a
little,
assessing. "Or a foreigner. Have you never imagined it?"
That, and more. Everything. Every day of my enslavement. Every night in
my bed
of dung. Admitting it to no one. Not even to Sula, or Del. Because the
admitting
could make me weak. The weak do not survive.
"No," I said aloud, driving the weakness away.
"Tiger." Del set the sword aside. "Did it never occur to you that the
Salset
might have lied?"
"Lied?" I frowned. "I don't understand."
She sat cross-legged. Fingers curved around her knees. "You have spent
your life
believing you were left in the desert to die. Abandoned by mother, by
father...
that's what you have said."
"That's what I was told."
"Who told you?" she asked gently.
I frowned. "The Salset. You know that. What is this all about?"
"About lies. About deception. About pain inflicted on purpose, to make
the
foreign boy suffer."
Something pinched my belly. "Del--"
"Who told you, Tiger? It wasn't Sula, was it?"
My answer was instant. "No. Sula was never cruel. Sula was my--" I
stopped.
Del nodded. "Yes. Sula was your salvation."
In my hands I clutched the harness. "What of it?" I asked. "What has
Sula to do
with this?"
"When were you first made aware you weren't Salset?"
I had no real answer. "I just always knew."
"Because they told you."
"Yes."
"Who told you? Who told you first? Who told you so young that you would
never
think otherwise?"
"Del--"
"Was it the adults?"
"No," I said crossly. "The adults completely ignored me until I was old
enough
to be useful. It was the children, always the children..." I let it
trail off.
Recalling all too well the painful days of my past; the nightmare of
childhood.
Recalling and wondering.
Could it have been a lie?
I sat very still. Everything was suddenly, oddly, clear, the way it is
just
before a sword-dance. When you walk the edge of the blade, knowing an
instant
can make the difference.
All my senses sharpened. I knew who and where I was, and what I had
become. And
I knew it was hard to breathe.
In perfect stillness, Del waited.
"The children," I repeated, feeling the abyss crack open below.
Del's face was taut. "Children can be cruel."
"They said--" I broke it off, not daring to say it aloud.
After a moment she took it up. "They said you'd been left for dead in
the desert
by parents who didn't want you."
"They all said it," I murmured vaguely. "First one, then all the
others."
"And you never questioned it."
I couldn't sit there anymore. I couldn't sit at all. How could I just
sit--?
I thrust the harness aside and stood up stiffly, then walked away four
paces.
Stopped. Stared blindly into darkness.
Swung back numbly to challenge. "There was no one to question. Who was
I to ask?
What was I to say? I was a chula... chulas don't ask questions...
chulas don't
talk at all, because to talk invites a beating."
"There was Sula," she said gently.
Something stirred sluggishly. Anger. Desperation. A kind of pain I'd
never felt
because I'd never cared before. Not the way she made me care. "I was
fifteen." I
didn't know how to explain it; not so she could see, could understand,
could
comprehend. "Fifteen when I met Sula. By then I knew better than to
ask. By then
I didn't care. By then there was nothing in me to even wonder who I
was."
"That's a lie," she said.
Despair cuts like a blade. "Oh, hoolies... oh, bascha, you just don't
know ..."
I scraped stiff fingers through my hair. "There's no way you can know."
"No," she agreed.
I stared at her in the moonlight. It hurt to look at her. To think
about what
she'd said. To wonder if she was right.
"You were wrong to do this," I said. "You shouldn't have done it,
bascha. You
should have left it alone--should have left me alone... don't you see
what
you've done?"
"No."
"--Before, I knew what I was. I knew what had happened. It didn't make
me
happy--who would be happy knowing he was abandoned?--but at least I had
an idea.
At least there was something to hate. At least I didn't wonder if it
was
falsehood or truth."
"Tiger-"
"You took it away," I said. "And now there's nothing at all."
Del's face was stricken. She stared at me blindly a moment, then drew
in a noisy
breath. "Wouldn't you rather know you weren't abandoned?"
"Do you mean would I rather know my parents were murdered by borjuni?
Or maybe
murdered by the Salset, who then took me for a keepsake?"
She flinched. "That's not what I--"
I turned my back on her again. Stared very hard into darkness, trying
to sort
things out. She had changed everything. Altered the stakes. I had to
regain my
footing. Had to find a new way of playing.
My turn to suck a breath. "What do I do now? What do I do, Del? Drive
myself
sandsick wondering about the truth?"
"No," she answered harshly. "What kind of life is that?"
I swung around. "Your kind," I told her. "You punish yourself with your
life.
Shall I punish myself with mine?"
Del recoiled. Then swallowed visibly. "I only meant to give you a
little peace."
All the anger died out of me. With it went the bitterness, leaving
emptiness in
its place. "I know," I said. "I know. And maybe you have, bascha. I
just don't
know it yet."
"Tiger," she whispered, "I'm sorry."
The moonlight was on her face. It hurt me to look at her.
"Go to bed," I said abruptly. "I've got to check on the stud."
The stud was tied all of four paces away. He was fine. He was asleep.
He needed
nothing from me.
But Del didn't say a word.


Two
Iskandar was a child's toy: a pile of unfired clay blocks left too long
in the
sun and rain. There were no corners left on the buildings, only
rounded,
slump-shouldered shells being transformed slowly to dust. Into the dirt
and clay
and piles of shale from which the city had come.
"This is stupid," I said. "All these people, on the word of an unknown
zealot,
are leaving behind their homes to come to a ruined city. And for all
anyone
knows, there isn't even any water."
Del shook her head. "There's water; too much green. And don't you think
the
jhihadi will provide if this is where he plans to return?"
Her tone was dry, ironic. A reflection of my own. Del believes in
religion more
than I do--at least, in the worth of faith--and she had not, up to now,
shown
any intolerance for the predicted return. If anything, she had
admonished me for
my cynicism, saying I should respect the beliefs of others even if they
didn't
match my own.
But now, faced with Iskandar, Del wasn't thinking of faith. Nor even of
religion. She was thinking of Ajani. She was thinking of killing a man.
And of the oaths to her own gods, far from Iskandar.
"Where's the border?" I asked. "You know all these things."
Which she did, better than I. Part of Del's training on Staal-Ysta was
something
she called geography, the study of where places were. I knew the South
well
enough, particularly the Punja, but Del knew all sorts of different
places, even
those she'd never been to.
"The border?" she echoed.
"Yes. The border. You know: the thing that divides North from South."
She slanted me a glance that said precisely nothing. Which meant it
said a lot.
"The border," she said coolly, "is indiscernible."
"It's what?"
"Indiscernible. I can't tell where it is. The land is too--odd."
The stud stumbled. I dragged his head up, steadied him, let him walk on
again.
"What do you mean: odd?"
Del waved an encompassing hand. "Look around you, Tiger. One moment we
are in
desert sand, the next in Northern grassland. Then another step into
borderland
scrub; a fourth into wind-scoured stone."
"So?"
"So. It is one thing to ride from Julah to Staal-Ysta and see how the
land
changes... it is entirely another to see the same changes in the space
of ten
paces."
I hadn't really thought about it. But now that she mentioned it, the
land did
change a lot. So did the temperature. One moment it was hot, the next a
tad bit
frosty. But one melted into the other and made it mostly warm.
We skirted, as did the track, the edge of a broad plateau. On our left
rose the
foothills of the North; to our right, beyond the plateau, stretched
scrubby
borderlands that, if the eye could see so far, would flatten into
desert. Below
us, directly northeast, was another, smaller plateau. In the center, on
the top,
stood the city of Iskandar.
It could not be characterized as a hilltop fortress, or even a desert
city.
There were no walls, only buildings, with dozens of alleys and
entrances. Most
were cluttered with fallen adobe blocks, crumbling away into dust, but
shale
walls marked foundations, mortared together with dried, grassy mud.
Once, the ruins might have been majestic, markers of human pride. But
humans had
returned, and the majesty was destroyed.
Iskandar was a warren overrun by desert vermin. There were carts,
wagons,
horses, danjacs, and countless human beasts brought to carry in the
burdens.
Most had moved into the city, filling in all the chinks, but many had
staked out
hyorts around the edges, creating little pocket encampments of desert
dwellers
unwilling to mix with city rabble.
We halted our mounts at the edge of the plateau. The trail wound down,
but we
didn't look down. We looked across at the city.
"Tribes," I said succinctly.
Del frowned. "How can you tell? They look like everyone else."
"Not when you get up close; do I look much like a Hanjii?" I nodded
toward
Iskandar. "The tribes don't build cities. They won't live in them. Most
of them
travel in carts and wagons, staking out hyorts when they stop a while.
See?
That's what all those tents are, skirting the edges of the city."
"But they've just made their own city by all settling in one spot."
"Special circumstances." I shrugged as she glanced at me. "You don't
find this
many tribes gathered together ever--at least, not without bloodshed.
But if this
Oracle's got all of them stirred up, it will change things. They'll
suffer one
another until the jhihadi question is settled."
Del looked down at the ruined city. "Do you think the Salset are
there?"
Something tickled inside my belly. "I suppose it's possible."
"Would they come for the jhihadi?"
I thought about the shukar. The old man's magic had been failing, or
he'd have
killed the cat and left me with no escape. Among the Salset, magic is
religion-based; when magic doesn't work, the gods are looking away.
They'd
looked away from the shukar. Otherwise how could a mere chula kill the
cat in
the shukar's place?
I thought about Del's question. Would he bring them to Iskandar? If he
thought
he needed to. If he thought it would bring him honor. If the old man
was still
alive.
He had been a year before.
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not. Depends on how things are going."
"You could see Sula again."
I gathered up my reins. "Let's go. There's no sense in staying here
just to gaze
across the landscape."
Well, there wasn't. But I might have put it better.
Del turned the roan and headed down the trail winding off the plateau
rim. Down,
across, then up. And we'd be in Iskandar.
Where she might find Ajani at last.
The stud topped the final rise and took me onto the plateau where
Iskandar
jutted skyward. The trail, instead of narrow, was wide and well-rutted,
showing
signs of carts and wagons. It wound around trees and close-knit bushes,
then
split into five fingers. Five smaller tracks leading toward five
different parts
of the city, where they fractured yet again. Most didn't enter
Iskandar. Most
stopped at clusters of hyorts; at knots made of wooden wagons.
Which told me a thing or two.
"What is it?" Del asked as she put her roan next to me.
I frowned bemusedly at the hyorts. There were tens and twenties of them
staked
between the plateau's edge and the city. It changed the look of the
place.
Softened Iskandar's perimeter. Altered the lay of the land in more ways
than
one.
"Tribes," I said at last. "Too many, and too different."
"They have as much right here as anyone."
"I'm not questioning that. I'm wondering where it will lead."
"If there really is a jhihadi--"
"--he could be dangerous." I reined the stud around a goat standing in
the
middle of the track. "Too much power held by a single man."
Del also passed the goat. "And if he used it for good?"
I make a noise of derision. "Do you know anyone who holds that much
power and
uses it for good?" I shook my head. "I don't think it's possible."
"Just because you haven't seen it doesn't mean it can't exist. Maybe
that's why
he's coming."
"If he's coming," I muttered.
Hyorts lined either side of the track. I smelled the pungent aroma of
danjac
urine. The tang of goat's milk and cheese. The almost overwhelming
stench of too
many people--of too many customs--living too close to one another.
And this was outside of the city.
Del and I were hardly noticed. I didn't know how long some of the
tribes had
been camped here, but obviously long enough so that the sight of two
strangers
was no longer worth comment. In the Punja, half a dozen of the tribes
gathered
would have killed us on the spot, or taken us prisoner. But no one
bothered us.
They looked, then looked away.
Looked away from Del.
I frowned. "There must be Northerners here."
"Why do you--oh. Oh, I see." Del glanced around. "If any are here, they
must be
inside the city."
"It's where we're going," I said. "We'll know sooner or later, bascha;
sooner--we're almost in."
And so we were. We passed through the last cluster of hyorts and wagons
and
entered Iskandar proper. No walls, no gates, no watch. Only open roads,
and the
city.
The city and her new people.
Southroners, most of them. Fewer Borderers. A handful of towheaded
Northerners,
head and shoulders above the rest. And goats and sheep and dogs and
pigs running
loose through the streets of Iskandar.
I couldn't help grinning. "Doesn't much look the kind of place a long-
awaited
jhihadi might come back to."
"It smells," Del observed.
"That's because no one actually lives here. They don't care. They're
only
borrowing it for a while... they'll leave with the jhihadi."
"If the jhihadi leaves."
I guided the stud through a narrow alley. "Wouldn't make sense for him
to stay.
Iskandar's a ruin. He might prefer a livable city."
"It could be made livable... Tiger, where are we going?"
"Information," I answered. "Only one place to get it."
Del's tone was dry. "I don't think there is a cantina."
"There probably is," I remarked, "but that's not where we're going.
You'll see."
So she did, once we got there. And it wasn't a cantina, either. It
wasn't one
thing at all, but two: the well, and the bazaar.
In every settlement, the well is the center of town. It is where
everyone goes,
because it is a necessity. Also an equalizer, especially in Iskandar
where no
tanzeer reigned. It was the only place in the city where all paths
would cross.
Thus it becomes the bazaar. Where people go, they buy. Others had
things to
sell. Even in Iskandar.
"So many," Del exclaimed.
More than I expected. Stalls filled much of the central square and
spilled into
adjoining alleys. There were vendors of all kinds, shouting at
passersby. The
whine of dij-pipes filled the air, keening in ornate Southron style,
while
street dancers jangled finger-bells and beat taut leather heads of
tambor-drums.
They wound their way through the crowds, trying to scare up a coin or
two, or
lead customers back to the stalls of the merchants who'd hired them.
"It is," Del said. "It's just like a kymri."
But this was the South, not the North. We don't have kymri.
I reined in the stud. Before us lay the choked square. "No sense in
riding
through there," I said. "We'd do better to walk--hey!" The shout was to
stop a
boy trying to squeeze by the stud. "You," I said more quietly. "Have
you been
here long?"
"A six-day," he answered, in Desert.
I nodded. "Long enough to know a little something about the place,
then."
The boy smiled tentatively. Black-haired, dark-skinned, light-eyed.
Half-breed,
I thought. But I couldn't name the halves.
"How do we go about finding a place to sleep?" I asked.
The boy's eyes widened. "All around," he answered. "There are many,
many rooms.
Many more rooms than people. Stay where you want." His eyes were on my
sword
hilt. "Sword-dancer?" he asked.
I nodded confirmation.
"Then you will want the circles." He waved a hand. "On the other side
of the
city. It's where all the sword-dancers are."
"All?"
"All," he repeated. "They come every day. That's where they all stay,
to
challenge one another so they can impress the tanzeers."
"And where are the tanzeers?"
The boy's quick smile flashed. "In the rooms that still have roofs."
Ah. Of course. In a ruin as old as Iskandar, timber would have rotted.
Dwellings
would be roofless, except for those with more than one story. Which was
where
the tanzeers would go.
So. The division of power began.
Boys often learn things other people don't. "How many?" I asked. "How
many
tanzeers?"
He shrugged. "A few. Not many yet. But they have brought sword-dancers
with
them... the rest they are hiring." His eyes were very bright. "You'll
have no
trouble finding work."
It didn't ring quite true. "And do you know why they're hiring so many
of us?"
The boy shrugged. "Protection against the tribes."
It made sense. The tribes and tanzeers didn't mix much; didn't see eye
to eye
when they did. And if the promised messiah was appealing primarily to
the
tribes, which is what it sounded like, the tanzeers would want to know.
I dug a copper out of my pouch and flipped it at the boy. He caught it,
grinned
again, glanced past me toward Del. Said something quickly in Desert,
then turned
and ran into the square.
Grinning, I kneed the stud out. We'd cut straight across the bazaar to
the
outskirts directly beyond. Where the boy had said there were circles.
"What did he say?" Del asked. "And you know which part I mean."
I laughed, then twisted my head to glance back. "He complimented me on
my taste
in baschas."
"That boy must have been no more than twelve!"
I shrugged. "In the South, you start young."
It wasn't easy cutting directly across the square. There was no
organization to
the tangled walkways between stalls. Some turned, some stopped, some
doubled
back. Twice I got turned around, then finally found the way. Through
the
cheek-by-jowl crumbling buildings, then out onto the plateau.
We were, I judged, directly opposite the hyorts, with Iskandar in
between. But
here there were no hyorts. Here there were no wagons. Only horses,
bedding, and
circles.
"Looks more like a war," I observed, "than a gathering for the
jhihadi."
Del halted her gelding beside me, gazing upon the scene. "Many wars,"
she
agreed. "Are there not many tanzeers?"
Slowly I shook my head. "It doesn't feel right."
"What doesn't?"'
"The tanzeers are hiring an army... an army of sword-dancers. They only
do that
on an individual basis--feuding tanzeers hire men to fight one another,
so they
can destroy one another--never as a group. The nature of desert domains
is each
man for himself... it just doesn't seem right that so many are here
together,
and all are hiring men."
Del shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Maybe," I said uneasily. "Maybe it does."
And then I thought about what Abbu Bensir had said concerning going to
a single
place to win coin and find a job. It wasn't the Southron way, but I saw
certain
advantages. No doubt so did the others; it was why so many were here.
"We could get rich," I said thoughtfully. "If we hired on with the
right
tanzeer, we could get very rich."
"I didn't come to get rich. I came to kill a man."
"If you find him," I said, "what do you plan to do? Challenge him to a
dance?"
"He's not worth the honor."
"Oh. So, are you just going to walk up to him and gut him?"
Del's expression didn't change. "I don't know."
"You think you might want to consider it?"
Now she looked at me. "I have considered it for six years. Now is the
time for
doing."
"But you can't do without thinking it through." I shifted in the
saddle, taking
weight on locked arms braced against the pommel. "He's not a popular
man. Others
will want to kill him. I doubt he walks alone. And if he's done all the
things
you say, I doubt he pisses alone."
Del's tone was steady. "I will find a way."
I sat back down in the saddle. "Can we at least get a meal first? And
maybe a
place to stay?"
Del extended a hand, indicating the plateau. "There is a place to
stay."
"I kind of thought we might go find a room. It might not have a roof,
but then
neither of us is a tanzeer. And it doesn't look like rain."
Automatically, Del glanced up at the sky. It was a clear, brilliant
blue,
without a cloud apparent. But this was border country. This was odd
country; it
just didn't feel right. Too many bits mixed together: vegetation,
temperature,
people.
"Sandtiger! Tiger! Del!"
I glanced around. Frowned. Peered at the circles, but saw no one I
knew. Only
men in the circles with swords in their hands.
"There." Del pointed in the other direction. "Isn't that--Alric?"
Alric? "Oh--Alric." The Northerner who'd helped us in Rusali, the
domain just
before Julah. I squinted. "Yes, I think it is."
Alric approached, waving. With him walked a short, fat woman. Two
little girls
preceded them; in one arm he carried a third. At least, I think it was
a girl;
sometimes it's hard to tell.
Del slid out of her saddle. "Lena had her baby."
I stayed in mine. "And, from the look of it, is expecting yet another."
The little girls, upon arrival, hurled themselves at Del, who bent down
to
receive them. I was privately astonished they even remembered her; they
were all
of three and four--or maybe four and five; at this age, who can tell?--
and
they'd only spent a week or so around us when Alric had taken us into
his home
after I'd gotten myself wounded. But Del is very good with children,
and the
girls had adored her. Obviously their opinions hadn't changed.
I watched her as the girls competed for her hugs. She was smiling,
laughing with
them, exchanging Southron greetings. I almost expected pain, expecting
Del to
see Kalle in their faces, but there was only happiness. I saw no trace
of
anguish.
About then Alric arrived with his heavily pregnant wife. The last time
I'd seen
her she'd also been heavily pregnant. And since the older girls were
but a year
apart, I began to suspect Lena and Alric enjoyed active nights
together.
Lena was Southron, and looked it; he was clearly Northern. The girls
were a
little of both. They had their mother's black hair and dark skin, but
their
father's bright blue eyes and high-arched cheekbones. They'd be
beauties when
they were grown.
Alric was grinning. "I thought so!" he said. "I told Lena it was you,
but she
said no. She said by now Del would have come to her senses and looked
for a
Northern man instead of a Southron danjac."
"Oh?" I looked down at Lena, who showed white teeth at me. "I suppose
you think
she'd be better off with another Alric."
Lena patted her swollen belly. "A strong, lusty Northerner is good for
a woman's
soul." Black eyes glinted. "And other things as well."
Alric laughed aloud. "Although so far all this lusty Northerner makes
is girls."
He patted Lena's belly. "Maybe this one will be a boy."
"And if not?" I asked.
Alric's grin widened. "We'll keep trying until we get one."
I waited for Del's comment; surely she had one. But the girls were
chattering at
her and she had no chance to speak.
Lena waved welcoming hands. "Come, come... we have a house in the city
not far
from here. You will come and stay with us; there are plenty of rooms.
We can
wait for the jhihadi together."
I glanced at Alric. "Is that why you came?"
He shifted the baby in his arms. "Everyone else was coming to Iskandar.
Even the
tanzeers. I thought it might be worthwhile to come up myself and see
how the
dancing was." He gestured with his head in the direction of the
circles. "And,
as you can see, there are sword-dancers aplenty. There will be coin as
well. Or
a tanzeer who'll hire me. With all these little mouths to feed, extra
coin would
be welcome."
Three little mouths to feed, and a fourth on the way. No wonder he'd
come to
Iskandar, but I thought it odd for Lena. She couldn't be far from
delivering.
Lena sensed my thought. "A child born in the presence of a jhihadi will
be
blessed throughout his life."
"Or hers," Alric said affably; the possibility of yet another daughter
did not
appear to trouble him.
He hadn't changed much. Still big. Still Northern. Still a sword-
dancer. But it
seemed odd to look at him now--smiling, cheerful, openly friendly--and
recall
how I had felt when I'd first met him. How I'd thought he was after
Del. I
hadn't trusted him at all until we'd sparred in an alley circle. You
learn a man
that way. Learn what he is made of.
"Alric," I said suddenly, "how is your dancing these days?"
His brow creased. "Well enough. Why?"
"How'd you feel about going a few matches? For old time's sake."
He grinned, displaying big teeth. Alric was big all over. "You always
beat me,"
he said. "But I've been practicing. Now maybe I can beat you."
I glanced across at the circles. "Shall we go find out?"
"Not now," Lena said. "First you will come to our house. You will eat.
Rest.
Give us the news you have. And we will give you ours." She slanted a
glance at
Alric. "Time for dancing and drinking later."
Del came forward with a girl on either arm. The roan trailed behind
them. "We
are grateful for your offer. Your news will be welcome."
I was a little surprised. I expected Del to want to go haring off after
news of
Ajani, trying to track him down in Iskandar, or find out if he was
expected. But
apparently she'd thought about what I'd said. If she was to kill the
man, it
would have to be carefully planned.
"Come," Lena said. She turned and waddled away.
Alric looked at Del over the black-fuzzed head of the baby. He smiled,
said
something in Northern dialect, slanted an oblique glance at me.
Del's chin came up. She answered briefly in the same dialect, then told
the
girls to show her the way to their quarters. Tugging on her arms, they
led her
toward the city. The roan trotted behind.
"And what was that?" I asked Alric.
He grinned. "I asked her if a Southroner was enough man for a free-
hearted
uplander woman." Blue eyes glinted. "Speaking as an older brother
looking out
for a sister's welfare."
"Of course," I agreed dryly. "And what did the sister tell the older
brother?"
"There is no Southron translation. It was a Northern obscenity."
Alric's grin
stretched wide. "Which says something all on its own."
Well, I suppose it does. But he didn't tell me what.
"Let's go eat," I said sourly.
Alric's eyes were guileless. "Would you like to hold the baby?"
Which gave me an opportunity to use an untranslatable Southron
obscenity.
The toothy grin widened. "And here I heard you were a father."
The stud walked onto my heels. Since I'd stopped moving, it wasn't
surprising.
"A father--? Oh. That." In disgust, I elbowed the stud in the nose and
pushed
him back a step. "Have you see him?"
Alric hitched the baby higher on a big shoulder and headed for the
city. "Your
son? No. Just heard there was a boy here--young man, really--who says
he's the
Sandtiger's son."
"He isn't," I muttered, matching my pace to his. "At least, not as far
as I
know."
"Does it matter if he is?"
I thought about it. "Maybe."
"Maybe? Maybe? What an odd thing to say." The baby caught a handful of
blond
hair and tugged; Alric freed it gently. "Don't you want to have a son
to carry
on your blood?"
What blood? And whose? For all I knew, it could be the blood of borjuni
killers.
"I figure I'm doing a good enough job carrying it all on my own."
Alric scoffed, but gently. "A man should have a son. A man should have
a family.
A man should have kinfolk to sing the songs of him."
"Northerner," I muttered.
"And if you meet him in the circle?"
I stopped short. "He's a sword-dancer? My s--this young man?"
Alric shrugged, frowning a little. "I heard of him at the circles. I
assumed he
was a sword-dancer, but perhaps he isn't. Perhaps he's a tanzeer."
My son, a tanzeer. Which meant he could hire me.
"No," I said, "I don't think so."
"Well, it doesn't matter. He is whatever he is." Alric lengthened his
stride and
led me into the city.


Three
The building Alric had claimed for Lena and the girls was large--four
rooms--but
lacked a roof and half of a wall on one side. Into the room lacking
most of one
wall he put the carthorse and his own mount, a bald-faced bay gelding.
It left
two rooms vacant: he offered one to Del and me.
I've never been one for sharing close confinement, preferring privacy,
but in
some situations it's good to have folk around. I thought it possible
this might
become one of them. As the city filled with strangers, trouble would
inevitably
break out. There would be thieves, certainly, come to prey upon
worshipers, and
feuds between hostile races. And if the promised jhihadi never arrived-
-which I
believed was likely--frustration would drive impatient people to do
things they
might not otherwise think about. Like starting fights, and killing. All
things
considered, I thought Alric's offer generous. Del and I agreed.
Lena sent the two little girls--Felka and Fabiola; don't ask me which
was
which--off to help Del with settling our belongings in one of the other
rooms. I
briefly considered lending a hand, then decided against it; Del looked
pleased
to spend time with the girls, even though they'd be little help, and I
felt more
like sitting with Alric by the fire, sharing a bota of aquivi. Lena
prepared
food.
Alric wiped his mouth. "Did you ever find Del's brother?"
I accepted the bota. "We found him. We left him."
"Dead?"
"No. With the Vashni."
Alric grimaced. "Good as dead, then. They're not a hospitable tribe."
I cocked an eyebrow in his direction. "It was a Vashni you got your
sword off
of, wasn't it? The blade with human thighbone hilt?"
Alric nodded. "But I put it away and got a Southron sword. I decided it
was a
bit too grisly to use a sword with a hilt made out of the bone of a man
I never
knew--or maybe a man I did know."
"New swords," I reflected. "A lot of that going around."
"I noticed." Alric's eyes were on the harness next to my leg. "No more
Singlestroke?"
I accepted a flat, hot loaf from Lena, blew on it to cool it. "Got
broken in a
sword-dance after we left Julah." I blew some more, then bit. The
steaming loaf
was nutty, flaky, delicious. "Like you, I've got another."
"But yours is a jivatma."
Alric's tone was odd. I glanced at him, glanced at the sheathed sword,
then
looked back at him. Recalled it was Alric who'd first told me about
jivatmas.
About Northern blooding-blades, and how rank in the North was reckoned.
"Jivatma," I agreed. "Del took me to Staal-Ysta."
Blond brows swooped up. Then down. "Since you have a blooding-blade,
I'm
assuming you are a kaidin."
"I'm Southron," I said. "I'm a seventh-level sword-dancer. I don't need
a fancy
name."
"But you carry a jivatma."
Irritably, I swallowed hot bread, then washed it down with aqivi.
"Believe me,
Alric, I'd give it to you if I could. But the thrice-cursed thing won't
let me."
Alric smiled. "If you enter a circle with a blooding-blade at your
beck, no one
will defeat you." He paused thoughtfully. "Except maybe Del."
"No," I blurted.
"But she has a jivatma, too--"
I shook my head. "That's not what I meant. I meant, Del and I have done
it once.
We'll never do it again."
Alric grinned. "You lost."
It stung, but only a little. "Nobody lost. Nobody won. Both of us
nearly died."
I drank, then continued before he could ask any questions. "And as for
taking my
sword into a circle--no. Not here at any rate--this is exhibition. I
just don't
think it's fair."
Alric shrugged. "Then don't sing. An unkeyed jvatma isn't much more
than a
sword."
"It isn't like that." I accepted a second loaf. "You don't understand.
This
sword wasn't quenched properly, the first or second time."
"Second!" Alric's eyes widened. "You requenched your blade?"
"No choice," I muttered, biting into the second loaf. "The thing's a
pain in the
rump, and I plan to replace it. I'll put this one away and use a
Southron
sword."
"There's a swordsmith here," he said. "With so many sword-dancers
present, a
smith would be a fool to ignore such a windfall. His name is Sarad, and
he's set
up a smithy out by the circles."
"I'll see him tomorrow," I said, as Del came back with the girls.
A faint frown puckered her brow, though she gave nothing away in
behavior. The
girls joined their mother in preparing the meal, and Del came over to
sit near
Alric and me.
"What's up?" I asked.
The puckered brow didn't smooth. "Can't you feel it? The weather is
changing. It
doesn't feel right."
Alric and I both glanced around, assessing daylight and temperature.
The way the
day tasted, odd as it sounds.
"Cooler," Alric remarked. "Well, I won't complain. After living so long
in the
South, I could use some Northern weather."
"This is the border." I shrugged. "Sometimes it's cool, sometimes hot."
"It was hot," Del said, "all of an hour ago. But now it's cooler.
Significantly
cooler; it just doesn't feel right."
I glanced up at the roof, which wasn't really a roof. A few spindly
timber
rafters remained, but most had rotted and fallen in, supplying wood for
Lena's
cookfire. All four rooms were in similar shape, which left them mostly
open to
the elements. No proper shade, but no cover, either. Alric had strung
up a
couple of blankets to provide a makeshift roof, but it wouldn't do much
if the
weather did turn chancy.
Del just shook her head. "I feel something in my bones."
I arched unsubtle brows. "Getting along in years?"
She slanted me a glance. "One of us certainly is."
"Here." Lena handed clay bowls around with bread and mutton stew. "With
the
tribes coming in, we should have mutton enough to spare. And all the
merchants,
too; we could live here for months."
I thought it unlikely they'd have to.
"I could set snares," Del offered, and instantly Felka and Fabiola
wanted to
accompany her.
It reminded me of something. For a moment I was swept away somewhere
familiar,
and yet unknown; abruptly the feeling died, and I realized what I
remembered.
Del offering to set snares while a tow-headed Borderer boy asked to
help her.
Massou, Adara's son, who had hosted a Northern demon and nearly
destroyed us
all.
Loki. It was enough to make me shiver. Thank the gods for the Canteada,
who had
sung them into a trap-circle and freed the Borderers.
"Later," Del promised the girls. "We'll see first if it's going to
storm."
Lena cuddled the baby against her breasts. "At least this little one
need not
concern herself with where her meals are coming from."
Alric's eyes glinted. "Nor I, if it comes to it."
A gust of wind blew into the room, scattering handfuls of dust. A cool,
damp-tasting wind, hinting at coming change. After months spent in the
North, I
knew the promise well.
Del looked at me. "Rain."
Well, it was the border. A day's ride south of here and rain was almost
an
unknown thing.
"Maybe." I drank amnit.
"Rain," she said again, mostly to herself.
Alric looked overhead. Two blankets tied to rotting timbers, and the
weather
tasted of rain.
Lena shifted uneasily. Southron-born and bred, rain was not to be
trusted, or
understood very well. "Maybe we should look for a house with a roof."
Alric's blond hair swung against shoulder blades as he shook his head,
still
staring into the sky. "No roofs for people like us... the tanzeers have
claimed
them all."
"All?" I asked. "There aren't that many people here--and there can't be
that
many tanzeers. Not yet."
Alric shrugged. "I looked. All the decent dwellings were claimed. We
took the
best we could find."
I set the bota aside. "Tell you what... I want to take a little walk
anyway,
just to check things out. I'll see what I can find in the way of better
shelter.
If there is to be a storm, we might as well be prepared."
Alric rose. "I'll go to the merchants and buy more blankets, some
skins... we
can put up a makeshift roof."
Del shook her head as I glanced her way. "I'll stay and help Lena."
It surprised me a little. Del is not a woman for women's things, as she
has so
often been at such pains to tell me. But neither is she a woman to
ignore the
needs of others; Lena had her hands--and belly--full with four
children. Del
never shirks assistance if she can offer any.
Well, it was fine with me. I didn't think Del would approve of me
talking to a
swordsmith about another blade.
I left them all behind and headed out toward the circles. More wind
kicked up as
I walked, gusting down through narrow alleyways and curling around
corners to
snatch at my burnous. Grit stung my face; I blinked to clear my eyes.
"Sandtiger? Tigerr."
I stopped, squinting, and turned. From out of a broken doorway stepped
a
Northerner, blond braids hanging to his waist. And a scar across his
top lip.
"Garrod," I said, on a note of disbelief.
He grinned as he approached, blue eyes bright. "I never thought to see
you
again, once you and Del left the Canteada and went north." He sobered,
recalling
the reasons. "Did Del settle her trouble?"
"Yes and no," I answered. "What are you doing here? Iskandar isn't
exactly
Kisiri."
He shrugged, hooking thumbs into a wide belt. His braids swung;
dangling colored
beads rattled in the wind. "We started for Kisiri. Got about halfway
there--but
then we heard about Iskandar; that people were coming here. I didn't
know
anything about any Oracle, or this promised messiah--at least, not
right
away--but I'd picked up a string of horses along the way. Since trading
is my
business, I wanted to go where I could buy or sell. Only a fool would
ignore
such an opportunity, and I've never been a fool."
Not lately, maybe. I hadn't been so sure before, when we'd briefly
ridden
together. Garrod was a horse-speaker, a man who had a knack with
horses. He
called it a kind of magic. He claimed he could talk to them, understand
them,
the way a man understands a man. I wasn't so certain that was true, but
he did
have a way with them. I'd seen it in the stud.
"So, you didn't go on with Adara and her children after all." It
surprised me a
little. Garrod had sworn he'd take them to Kisiri, but a man can change
his
mind.
Garrod grinned. "Oh, I went with them... by then I had no choice. The
girl
didn't give me any." And he shouted for Cipriana.
She came. So did Adara, her mother. And so did her brother, Massou.
I blinked in dull surprise, surrounded on the instant. They were
clearly as
startled, and certainly more pleased. I felt a little awkward: the last
time I'd
spent any time with them, they'd been hosting hostile demons.
Bronze-haired, green-eyed Adara was flushed with color, which didn't
quite agree
with her hair, but set her eyes aglint. She was oddly reserved, almost
shy; I
recalled, with a twinge of discomfort, she had hoped for affection from
me. But
it was Del who had it all; Adara had surrendered the field, but
obviously
recalled it.
Massou, blond and blue-eyed like his sister, was taller than I
remembered. Now
eleven, in place of ten; Cipriana was sixteen.
Cipriana was also pregnant.
Now I knew what Garrod meant about not having any choice. Women can do
that to
you.
Like her mother, she was red-faced, but for a different reason. It
didn't take
much to figure it out, either; she stepped up next to Garrod and twined
fingers
into his belt. Pale hair was tied back from a face delicately rounded
from
pregancy., I saw again the Northern features that had reminded me of
Del. A
younger, softer Del. The Del before Ajani.
Garrod dropped an arm around her shoulder. "We're kinfolk now."
"So I can see," I said dryly.
"Is Del here?" Massou demanded.
"Del's here," I agreed. "We're a couple of streets over."
The boy's eyes lighted. "You could come here," he asserted.
Adara nodded. "You could. We have enough room. See?" She gestured
toward the
building.
"We're with friends," I explained.
Garrod shrugged. "Bring them."
"They have three small girls, and another on the way."
The horse-speaker grinned again. "We have one on the way." Which made
Cipriana
blush.
"There is room," Adara said quietly. "I understand if you have no wish
to share,
but there is room for you all."
Her manner was a mixture of emotions. Clearly she recalled how I had
proved
uninterested in her availability: a widow whose husband had been unable
because
of bad health. It had taken courage for her to speak at all; I'd let
her down
gently, but no doubt it had been difficult. And then the loki had
invaded her
body, and her children, forcing them all into bizarre behavior.
She recalled it all, was embarrassed, and yet wanted my company, which
embarrassed her yet again.
I looked past her at the building, thinking of the others. "Do you have
a roof?"
Garrod shook his head. "The tanzeers have all the buildings with proper
roofs."
"So I keep hearing." I glanced up at the graying sky. "I think there's
a storm
brewing."
"But it's warm," Cipriana protested.
Massou disagreed. "Cool."
Garrod sniffed the wind, and frowned. "It smells almost like snow."
"Snow!" Adara was astonished. "Are you forgetting we come from a place
not far
from here? We know the weather. It never snows on the border."
"It smells like something," I said. But nothing like the hounds.
Garrod still frowned. "I think I will see to the horses."
Cipriana lingered. "Do you still have the stud?"
"Of course."
"Oh." Her expression changed. The stud hadn't liked her much. Hadn't
liked any
of them, once the loki had climbed inside.
"He'd be different, now," I told her.
"He bit me," Massou said.
"Yes, well, he had his reasons. He's bitten me, too, and I was never a
loki."
Adara's color deepened. "I wish we could forget that."
"It wasn't you," I told her. "I know that, and so does Del. We don't
blame you
for any of it."
"We could have killed you."
Or worse. But I didn't say it. "Let it go," I said quietly. "Don't let
it eat at
you."
"Can I see Del?" Massou asked.
As always, I looked to Adara. There had been a time when she'd wanted
her
children to avoid us.
Adara, comprehending my hesitation, nodded at once, as if to dispell
any hint of
her former reluctance. "Of course you may go, but only if invited."
"Del won't mind," I said. "I'm sure she'll be glad to see him."
"I want to go," the boy declared.
I gestured. "Two streets over, third house on the left."
Massou darted away.
Cipriana murmured something about finding Garrod and went away. Adara
smiled at
me and stripped wind-teased hair out of eyes. "You look a little tired.
Would
you care for something to drink? Eat?"
"Just ate." I was oddly ill at ease. "How long will you be staying?"
"Until Garrod is ready to leave." She shrugged a little, hearing how
dependent
it sounded. "He is a good man and treats Cipriana well. They care for
one
another. And it's easier for Massou and me to stay with them. I can
help with
the baby."
I smiled. "First grandchild."
Her eyes glowed. "Yes. Kesar's blood will be carried on."
She had buried her husband on the road from the border to Kisiri. A
strong
woman, Adara; as strong, in her own way, as Del. Borderers have to be.
Wind blew grit in our faces. It gave me an excuse. "Best go inside," I
said.
Adara nodded absently, looking into my face intently. As if she sought
an
answer. I don't know what she saw. I don't know what she wanted. All I
could do
was wait.
She smiled a little eventually, sensing my unease. She put a hand on my
forearm.
A callused, toughened hand. But its touch was somehow tender. "A good
man," she
said gently. "We will never forget you."
I watched her turn toward the house. Watched her walk through the door.
Saw the
quiet swing of hips; the flicker of windblown skirts; a glint of
bronze-colored
hair. Heard the lilt of a woman's voice lifted in soft song.
Don't ask me why. I've never been one for music. But it touched
something inside
me, and I followed it anyway.
Adara turned, startled, as I stepped into the doorway. The song broke
off in her
throat; one hand was spread across it.
She was suddenly vulnerable. And something in me answered. "Are you all
right?"
I asked. "Do you need anything?"
Adara swallowed heavily. "Don't ask that," she said. "You might not get
the
answer you want."
I glanced at a broken wall.
"They're somewhere else," she said, interpreting the glance.
"No, I just meant--" I broke it off. "It could be awkward, if they
misunderstood."
Adara smiled a little. "Yes."
Shadows crept into the room, softening her face. Snow or no snow, a
storm was
brewing. The light had changed.
"I wanted to say something," I told her.
Adara's color altered.
It was harder than I'd thought. I've never been a man for really
talking to a
woman of things that have substance, of things to do with feelings,
except for
Del. And even that is sometimes uncomfortable, because we think so
differently.
But something about Adara made me want to help.
I drew in a deep breath. "It's none of my business. But I'll say it
anyway."
"Yes," she said faintly.
"A woman like you needs a husband. You've been alone too long. Del
might
disagree... she'd probably say a woman is often better without a man--
maybe, for
some, she's right--but I don't think you're one of them."
"No." It was a whisper.
"You shouldn't be alone. I know there's Garrod to help, but that's not
what you
need. You need a man of your own. Someone you can tend; someone who can
tend
you."
Adara said nothing.
I shifted a little. "All I mean is, there might be a chance for you.
Here, in
Iskandar. There will be plenty of men."
A brief, eloquent gesture indicating herself. "I'm no longer a young
woman, and
I have two children."
"Cipriana has her own life now. Massou will be a man soon enough; for
now he
needs a father. He's quick-witted. A man could do much worse than to
take you
and the boy."
She stared at me a long moment. Her eyes were full of thoughts. Of
possibilities.
She shut them a moment. Then looked straight back at me and carefully
wet her
lips. "I think you'd better go."
It took me aback. "What?"
Her mouth trembled a little. "This is not what I want to hear, this
talk of
other men. Not from you. Not from you."
It wasn't what I had intended. Somehow I'd made it worse. And for both
of us;
after too many weeks without Del in my bed, I was very aware of Adara.
I'm not
made for abstinence. I didn't want Adara... but part of me wanted a
woman.
Most of me wanted Del so bad it confused the rest of me.
Adara's smile was bittersweet. "I didn't think I could say this: I
won't be a
substitute."
It was cold water. The wind blew through the room, rippling the gauze
of her
skirts. Stripping the hair from her face, so I could see her pride.
I wanted to touch her, but couldn't. It would only make things worse.
"For someone else, you won't be." I turned and went out of the house.


Four
Sarad the swordsmith was one-eyed. The blind eye was puckered closed
behind a
shrunken lid. The good eye was black. Matching hair was twisted into a
single
braid and bound in dyed orange leather at the back of his neck. He wore
an
ocher-colored burnous and a leather belt plated with enameled copper
disks. The
colors were bright and varied.
Sarad showed me his smile. He sat cross-legged on a blanket with swords
set out
before him. Steel glowed sullenly in the dying light of the day. "These
are my
best," he said. "I can make better, of course... but that would take
time. Have
you the time to spare?"
Well, yes and no. I could spare the time for him to make a blade to
order, but
only if I was willing to use my jivatma in the meantime.
Squatting across from Sarad, I thought about Kem, the swordsmith on
Staal-Ysta.
It had taken days to fashion Samiel, and with my help. But mostly
because of
rituals; Kem rushed nothing. And while Sarad probably wouldn't hurry
either--not
if he wanted to forge a good sword--he had no elaborate rituals to eat
away
extra hours.
The swords all looked fine. They felt fine, too; I'd already handled
six, trying
them out on simple and intricate patterns. Two had a balance I found to
my
liking, but they were only halfway measures. I'd spent more than half
of my life
using a sword made specifically for me. I didn't like the idea of
dancing with a
ready-made blade created for anyone with the coin to buy it.
But I liked even less the idea of dancing with Chosa Dei lying in wait
in my
steel.
Sarad gestured, indicating a sword. "I would be pleased to offer the
Sandtiger
my best at a very good price."
I shook my head. "Your best isn't here. Your best is still in your
hands."
Something glittered in his eye. "Of course. A sword-dancer such as
yourself
appreciates true skill and creativity; I can make you a perfect sword.
All I
require is time."
I picked up one of the two swords I thought would do. The steel was
clean and
smooth, with keen, bright edges. It had the proper weight, the proper
flex, the
proper grip, the proper promise.
"This one," I said finally.
Sarad named his price.
I shook my head. "Too much."
"It comes with a scabbard--see? And I am a master, Sandtiger--"
"But this isn't the best you can do. Do you expect me to pay full
price?"
He thought it over. Considered what it might do for business if the
Sandtiger
carried his sword. Named a lower price.
I counted out the coin.
Sarad pocketed it. "Have you a tanzeer yet?"
"Not yet. Why?"
The swordsmith gestured casually. "I have heard tanzeers are looking
for
sword-dancers."
"I heard that, too." I frowned a little. "Do you know why the tanzeers
are
hiring so many all at once?"
Sarad shrugged. "I hear things... things about the tribes, and the
jhihadi." He
glanced around, then looked back at me. "I think the tanzeers are
afraid. So
they unite in the face of a powerful enemy and hire men to fight."
I looked at Sarad gravely. "If this rumor is true, it would indicate
the
tanzeers believe this jhihadi exists--or will exist. And I've never
known
tanzeers to believe in much of anything except their own greed."
Sarad shrugged. "It's what I have heard." He eyed me thoughtfully. "I
thought
surely a man such as the Sandtiger would be sought by many, and hired
immediately."
I sheathed the new-bought sword and thought about how best to attach it
to my
harness, specifically made for another sword. "I only got here at
midday."
"Then you are slow." Sarad smiled. "Your son arrived a week ago."
I stiffened. "Where is this person?"
He shrugged. "I've seen him here and there. He visits the circles,
lingers, then
goes to the cantinas."
"Which ones?"
A flick of his hand. "That one. And that one. And the other one street
over.
There are many cantinas here. Sword-dancers like to drink."
I rose. "I think it's about time I paid 'my son' a visit."
"He will like that," Sarad said. "He's very proud of you."
I grunted and walked away.
He had, I'd been told, an old gray mare with a white splash on her face
and
three white legs. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed. Young; maybe
eighteen or
nineteen. No sword. A necklet of claws at his throat. And a tongue busy
with my
name. All of which meant it shouldn't be hard to find him.
Except I couldn't find him.
Oh, people knew of him. I went to each of the three cantinas Sarad had
mentioned, plus two more. None of them were real cantinas, being little
more
than broken buildings where a Southroner with liquor had set up hasty
shop,
selling cups of aqivi and amnit at premium prices. But no one seemed to
mind. It
was a place--or places--to gather, swapping tales and seeking work.
Yes, men said, they knew him. And they described him in the fashion I'd
grown
accustomed to hearing.
But none of them had a name. Everyone knew him only as the Sandtiger's
cub.
I found it disconcerting. Anyone could claim the same, since no one
knew any
different, and do all sorts of nefarious deeds, thereby harming my
reputation,
which I'd been at some pains to establish. It had taken years. And then
some boy
fancying himself my son appropriates it without my knowledge.
I didn't like it much.
Even if he was my son.
After a while, I gave up. But I cautioned everybody to point him out to
me if he
ever showed his face where I could see it.
Which gave them all something to laugh at: a grown man--the Sandtiger--
had
mislaid his own son.
I went "home" with my new-bought sword and thought bad things about the
man who
claimed my blood; by inference, also my name. I didn't like it at all.
My name
was mine, won at a very high cost. I didn't want to share it. Not even
with a
son.
I woke up because of the stud. It was very late and very dark, and
everyone else
was asleep, bundled up in blankets because of the temperature. Alric,
in the
other room, snored gently in Lena's arms.
Del, in our room, slept alone in her personal bedding. As I did in my
own.
The stud continued to stomp, paw, snort. If I let him go much longer,
he'd wake
up everyone else. And since I didn't much feel like making excuses for
a horse,
who wouldn't have any, I decided to shut him up.
I sighed, peeled back blankets, crawled to my feet. Alric's makeshift
roof
dipped down from rotting rafters, but it cut out some of the wind. It
also cut
out the light. I had to strain to see.
It was cold outside of my blankets. Here'd I'd been saying how nice it
was to be
back home again where it was warm, and it had to go and get cold. But I
shut it
out of my mind--glad I'd slept in my clothes--and went out to see to
the stud.
Del's blue gelding was tied in one of the corners of the room Alric had
deemed
the stable. He'd been roused by the stud's noise, but stood quietly
enough. The
stud, however, did not; tied out of reach of the roan, he nonetheless
warned him
away.
Alric's blanket-and-skin roof did not extend to the "stable," but the
light was
little better. There was no moon, no stars. It was all I could do to
see through
the damp gloom. Wind brushed my face, crept down the neck of my tunic.
I put my
hand on the stud's warm rump, then moved around to his head. Promised
to remove
his gehetties if he didn't quiet down; meanwhile, I tried to interpret
his signs
of unease.
It wasn't just the gelding. The stud didn't like him, but he tolerated
him well
enough. He'd learned to over the weeks. And I doubted it was the
packhorse
belonging to Alric, an old, quiet mare. He'd already proved
uninterested in her,
which meant it was something else entirely. Something I couldn't see.
Wind scraped through the broken wall, spitting dust and bits of grit.
The stud
laid back his ears.
I put a soothing hand on his neck. "Take it easy, old son. It's just a
little
wind. And the wall's breaking most of it; let's hear no complaints out
of you."
There was, in the dimness, the faint shine of a single eye. Ears
remained
pinned.
I thought briefly of Garrod. He'd tell me he knew what it was just by
"talking"
with the stud.
Who wasn't talking to me.
Then again, he was. He stomped a foreleg smartly and came very close to
my toes.
"Hey. Watch yourself, old man, or I will cut off--"
A quick sideways twist of his head and he shut teeth upon my finger.
I swore. Punched him in the eye to make sure I had his attention; he'd
ignore me
otherwise, and I might lose the finger. Then, when he paid attention, I
retrieved my hand from his mouth.
And began to swear in earnest.
I backed up a prudent step, out of the stud's reach, and squinted at
the finger.
It was ugly.
I swore some more, gritting the words in my teeth, and then proceeded
to hold
the entire hand out--torn finger included--and tell myself, repeatedly,
it
didn't hurt at all.
I wrung the hand a little. The finger didn't like it.
I walked around in a jerky circle, thinking mean thoughts about the
stud. Wished
briefly I was a woman so tears wouldn't be disapproved of; I didn't
cry, of
course, but thought it might be nice to have that kind of release. But
a man,
with others near, doesn't show that much of himself.
"Let me see," she said.
I jerked around, swore some more, told her I was fine.
"Stop lying," she said. "And stop trying to be such a man. Admit the
finger
hurts."
"It hurts," I gritted promptly. "And now it still hurts; admitting it
didn't
help."
"Is it broken?"
"I can't tell."
"Did you look?"
"Not very long."
Del came closer. "Then let me see."
The hand was shaking. It didn't want to be touched.
"I'll be gentle," she promised.
"That's what they all say."
"Here, let me see." She took my wrist into one hand.
"Don't touch it," I said sharply.
"I'll look, I won't touch. Of course if it is broken, the bone will
have to be
set."
"I don't think it's broken. He didn't bite that hard."
Del inspected the finger as best she could in poor light. "Hard enough
to shred
the skin. You're bleeding."
"Blood washes off--ouch--"
"Sorry," she murmured.
Her head was bent. Pale hair obscured her face; fell softly over her
shoulders;
lingered on her breasts. I couldn't see her expression. Only hear her
voice.
Smell her familiar scent. Feel her hands on mine.
Arousal was abrupt.
Oh, hoolies, bascha--how long can this go on--?
"It's raining." Del glanced up, peering at the sky through the place
where the
roof had been. Lips parted. Hair fell away from her face. A sculpted,
flawless
face made brittle by years of obsession. By months of determined focus.
I thought suddenly of Adara, who'd be more than pleased to have me. But
wasn't a
substitute; for Del, what woman could be?
"So it is," I said tightly.
Raindrops crawled through her hair, running with pinkish blood, the
blood from
my bitten finger resting, like my hand, unquietly on her shoulder.
Wanting to
cup her jaw; wanting to touch her face; demanding to lock itself
tightly in
slick pale hair--
Del swallowed visibly. "We should get under cover."
I didn't even blink as water ran down my face. "Yes, we probably
should."
Del looked at me. Neither of us moved.
Rain fell harder yet. Neither of us moved.
My voice was unsteady. "I can think of better places."
Del didn't say anything.
"I can think of dryer places."
Del didn't say anything.
Tension exploded between us. "You'd better go back," I said harshly. "I
don't
know how much longer I can respect your precious focus."
Del touched my face. Her sword hand trembled.
Oh, Delilah--don't--
In the darkness, her eyes were black. "To hoolies with my focus."


Five
By dawn, we were back in bedrolls. This time we shared one, spreading
blankets
and pelts in the chill of a too-damp morning, trying to hide from the
breeze
curling down through dripping blankets.
"Too long," I murmured weakly. "Can we forget your focus more often?"
Del, pulling hair from beneath my shoulder, twisted her mouth a little.
"Sidetracked already; I told you men can't keep their minds on anything
if a
woman is at issue."
It didn't sting at all, because she didn't mean it to. I found it a
welcome
respite. "Have I destroyed your concentration?"
"Last night, certainly. But not today."
"No?"
"No," she answered lightly. "I'll ask my sword for it back."
For some strange reason, it disturbed me. "Bascha--you don't mean it."
"Of course I mean it."
I twisted sideways, putting room between us, so I could look at her
clearly. "Do
you mean to tell me you plan to shed all the humanity you just
regained?"
Del's brows arched. "And do you mean to tell me I should forget who I
am in the
name of a single night's bedding?"
I scraped at a stubbled cheek. "Well, I sort of thought it might lead
to more
than a single night's bedding. Like maybe lots of single night's
bedding all
strung together, until we can't tell them apart any more."
Del thought about it. "Possibly," she conceded.
I was moved to protest, but didn't. Couldn't. I saw the glint in her
eyes.
"Hoolies, I think she's thawed!"
But the amusement faded away. "Tiger, I dismiss nothing about last
night. But
neither can I dismiss what I came here to do."
I sighed, stretched out again, scratched at an eyebrow. "I know. I wish
I could
ask you to forget about Ajani, but I don't suppose it would be fair."
"I'd never ask it of you."
No, maybe not that. "But you did try to sell my soul to Staal-Ysta for
a year."
Del stiffened beside me. "And how many years will you remind me?"
I lay there not breathing. Not because of her tone, which was a
combination of
shame, distress, irritation. And not because of her posture, which
bespoke the
deep-seated pain. But because of the words themselves.
"Years," I echoed softly.
"Yes." She was irritated. "Will you bring it up once a year? Twice?
Even once a
week?"
I swallowed heavily. "Once a year, I think."
"Why?" The cry was instinctive. "Haven't I said I was wrong?"
"Once a year," I repeated, "because it means we have that year."
Del lay very still. She didn't breathe, either. "Oh," was all she said,
after a
time of consideration. Of self-interpretation.
The prospect was frightening. But also strangely pleasing.
I'm not alone anymore.
You could argue I hadn't been, not really; not since Del and I had
first joined
up, except for a couple of enforced separations. But we had not, until
this
moment, explored anything past the moment. Sword-dancers never do.
Men and women must.
Which led me to other things. "I wonder if he is ..." I let it trail
off.
Del shifted beneath blankets. "Wonder what? About who?"
"If he really is my son."
She smiled. "Would it please you if he is?"
I thought about it. "I don't know."
"Tiger! A son."
"But what good is it to discover you have a grown son you never knew
existed?
And that if he does exist, it's only because of a bedding you can't
even
remember."
Del's tone was dry. "Have you had so many as that?"
"Yes."
She eyed me askance a moment, then rolled her head straight again and
stared up
at the lightening sky. "Well, a son is a son. It shouldn't matter how
he was
gotten, just that he was."
"How Kalle was gotten matters."
I thought she might snap at me, as she can. I thought she might swear
at me, as
she can; I taught her most of the terms. I thought she might even
withdraw
altogether; she's very good at that, if she's of no mind to share. Del
hides
herself very well.
But this time she didn't try.
Del sighed heavily. "Kalle was never Kalle. Kalle was a cause. Kalle
was an
excuse. She justified the pain. She made it easier to hate."
"So you could give her up."
"Yes. So I could fulfill my oaths."
"Which were made before you even knew you were pregnant."
Del frowned. "Yes. I made them even as my kinfolk died; even as Jamail
burned;
even as Ajani broke my maidenhead. Does it matter when? They were made.
Well
worth the doing. The honor is worth the strife."
Like Del, I stared at the sky. "You gave up a child. Why should I
acknowledge
mine?"
After a lengthy, painful silence, Del turned her head away. "I have no
answer
for you."
"There isn't one," I told her, and rolled over to pull her close.
I had fully expected, when Del discovered it, she would say something
about the
new sword. But not that it was broken.
I turned from arranging bedding to dry in the sun. Except there wasn't
any;
clouds still choked the sky. "What?"
"It's broken," she repeated.
"It can't be!" I stepped across bedding and stopped dead by the new
scabbard. It
lay precisely where I had left it: on a blanket by Samiel.
The sword was spilled out of the scabbard. The blade was broken in
half.
"Bad steel," she said.
I shook my head. "It wasn't. I'm sure of it. I examined it carefully."
Del shrugged; the weapon, being plain, unmagicked sword, held no
interest for
her. "When pressed too hard, it can break. Who did you dance against?
Alric?"
"Del, I didn't dance. Not against anyone. All I did was buy this sword.
I've
never even sparred with it."
"Bad forging, then."
"I'd never buy a bad sword. You know that." Now I was irritated. It
shouldn't
matter that it wasn't a Northern jivatma, only that it was a sword I
was
entrusting my life to. Or would have, had it been whole. I inspected
the sword
closely. "The hilt and this half look perfectly normal. Let's see the
rest of
it."
I picked up the scabbard, turned it upside down, shook the rest of the
blade
out. It landed on the hilt half with a dull, ugly clank.
Del's indrawn breath was loud.
"Black," I said blankly.
"Just like your jivatma."
We locked eyes for only an instant. And then I was grabbing harness,
grabbing
scabbard, closing a hand on the hilt. And jerking it from the sheath.
Samiel was whole. Samiel was unchanged. Steel shone bright and
unblemished--except for black charring stretching fully a third of the
blade.
"There's more," I said. "More discoloration."
Del didn't say a word.
I looked at the broken blade. "He unmade it," I said plainly.
She knelt down beside me, looking more closely at the jivatma. "He's
trapped in
your sword."
"He unmakes things," I declared. "Don't you understand? The new sword
was a
threat. He wants me on his own terms, not risking a loss by default."
Del's tone was carefully modulated. "Tiger, I think you're--"
"--sandsick? No." Somehow, I was certain. Don't ask me how. I just
knew, deep in
my gut, deep in my heart, deep in the part of me no one else could
share. "I'm
beginning to understand. I think I'm beginning to know him."
"Tiger--"
My look cut her off. "You said he'd come to know me. Why can't I come
to know
him?"
Alric stepped into the doorway. "Do you want to spar?" He asked.
"They're
betting on matches at the circles... there are wagers to be won."
Del and I looked at him. Then we looked at the sword.
Thinking of Chosa Dei.
"When?" I asked aloud, of anyone who might know. "When is this jhihadi
supposed
to arrive?"
Del and Alric were equally uncertain of the question, and why I would
ask it.
They exchanged glances, then looked at me, shrugging.
"I know as much as you," Del said.
I shot a glance at Alric, still plugging the doorway between our two
rooms.
"You've been here longer."
"The Oracle's coming," he answered. "I imagine he's supposed to get
here first.
Since he's the one foretelling the coming of the jhihadi, I'd think
he'd want to
do it from Iskandar instead of just tribal gatherings."
Something sounded odd. "Tribes," I said intently. "Are you saying this
Oracle is
aiming his foretelling only at the tribes?"
Alric shrugged. "I imagine his foretelling includes everyone; wouldn't
it have
to, since he's talking about the South? But all anyone knows for
certain is he's
moving among the tribes." He paused. "Or else they're coming to him."
I thought back to the discussion Abbu Bensir and I had had with Del
regarding
tanzeers, jhihadi, tribes. "I don't know how much of this is real, or
how much
of this is some ambitious man's attempt to gain himself a name," I said
slowly.
"You'd think if he wanted the obvious kind of power, he'd go straight
to the
tanzeers. They rule the South... parts of it, anyway."
"But they're corrupt," Alric remarked. "Tanzeers are bought and sold
all the
time. Domains fall overnight."
"There are people who aren't corrupt," I said evenly. "Southron people
whose
only interest is in surviving, in keeping alive their own way of life.
They owe
nothing at all to tanzeers, and they ignore the petty pacts and power
struggles.
All they do is live, drawing strength from their homeland."
"The tribes," he agreed.
"I should know," I said. "I grew up with one."
Del shook her head. "I don't understand."
I frowned, trying to put it into words that meant something. "The
tribes are all
little pieces of the South. Different races, different customs,
different
religious beliefs. It's why no one can really rule the Punja... the
tribes are
too fragmented, too difficult to control. And so the tanzeers content
themselves
with the pieces they can control, and the people... the tribes are left
alone."
Del nodded. "You said something like this before, with Abbu."
"Now I'm wondering if this jhihadi nonsense has nothing whatsoever to
do with
the tanzeers--at least, directly--but is aimed instead at the tribes."
I chewed
my bottom lip. "The tribes, put together, outnumber the rest of us. No
one
really knows how many there are--they live in all parts of the South,
and almost
none of them stay put. Which makes it impossible for anyone to deal
with them,
even if they wanted to."
Del nodded. "So?"
"So, if you were a man who wanted absolute power, what is the surest
way of
getting it once and for all without involving tanzeers?"
She didn't waste any time. "By uniting the tribes."
I nodded. "Which might explain why so many tanzeers are leaving their
domains to
come to Iskandar. Not because of the jhihadi. Because of the tribes.
They're
hiring sword-dancers to mount a defense of the South."
Alric shook his head. "Impossible," he said. "I'm a Northerner, yes,
but I've
lived in the South for years. I don't think anyone could unite all the
tribes,
for all the reasons you've given."
My turn to shake my head. "It's a matter of language," I said. "All you
have to
do is find the sort of message that appeals to every individual tribe,
and then
use the proper language."
"Religion," Del said flatly.
Now I nodded. "Religion, stripped of faith, of belief, is nothing more
than a
means to enforce the will of a few upon the many. Don't you see? Tell a
man to
do something, and he may not like the idea. He refuses. But tell him
his god
requires it, and he'll rush to do the task."
"If he believes," Alric cautioned.
"I don't know about you," I said, "but I'm not a religious man. I don't
think
there's much use in worshiping a god or gods when we're responsible for
our own
lives; relying on something--or someone--you don't know is a fool's
game. But a
lot of people disagree. A lot of people arrange their lives around
their gods.
They talk to them. Make offerings. Ask them for aid." I looked at Del.
"They
make oaths in the names of those gods, then live their lives by those
oaths."
Color flared in her face. "What I do is my own concern."
"Yes," I agreed. "I'm not arguing that. What I'm saying is, the tribes
are full
of superstitions. If a nanny bears twin kids, the year is supposed to
be
generous. And when it isn't, if it isn't, something else is blamed." I
sighed
and scratched at scars. "If a man discovered a way of uniting the
tribes in a
common goal, he could claim the South for himself. That's what I'm
saying."
Alric was frowning, considering implications. Thinking about tanzeers,
who would
want the jhihadi dead. Who would want the Oracle dead. And all the
sword-dancers
they could hire in order to win a holy war.
Del shook her head. "Would it matter? How do you know it wouldn't be
better for
the South if one man did rule it, instead of all these tanzeers?"
"Because who's to say what this one man will do?" I countered. "For
one, if he's
got the tribes on his side he wouldn't need to hire sword-dancers. We'd
be out
of a job." Del's expression was sardonic. "All right," I conceded,
"aside from
that, what if the tribes decided the rest of us didn't deserve to live?
That we
profaned the South? What if this jhihadi declared holy war and made the
rest of
us his enemies, fit only for execution?"
"He wouldn't," Del declared. "An entire people? An entire land?"
Alric's tone was odd. "The Vashni are killing foreigners."
Del's color faded.
"If the sand is changed to grass," I said, "the South becomes worth
having."
Del frowned, thinking. "But if the South is changed so drastically, it
alters
the way the tribes live. Would they want that? You yourself said
they're trying
to protect their way of life."
"There is that," I agreed. "But there's also the knowledge that, for
his god--or
gods--a man will do many strange things."
Alric nodded slowly. "The khemi, for instance. How many men do you know
would
willingly give up women?"
Del's tone was disgusted. "I know about khemi," she said. "Giving up
women is
one thing... claiming we are excrescence and not worthy of speech, of
touching,
of anything is carrying things too far."
"They interpret the Hamidaa'n a bit too literally," I agreed. "Those
scrolls
don't really say women are completely worthless, just inferior to men.
If you
talk to anyone of the true Hamidaa faith--not the khemi zealots--
they'll tell
you how things are."
Del's brows rose. "And that makes the opinion right?"
"No. What it does is prove what I've been saying: religion is a method
of
control."
Del tilted her head. "If you allow it to be. It can also offer
security, a focus
for your life. It can make your life worth living."
I looked at her harness, lying next to mine. At the intricate, twisted
hilt of a
dangerous, spell-bound sword. "You worship that. Does it make your life
worth
living?"
Del didn't even blink. "What it promises does."
Alric dismissed our argument. "If what you've said is true, something
should be
done."
Del overrode me before I could get started. "What if what the Oracle
has said is
true? Do you mean to argue with a messiah?"
"Right now," I said, "I need to go buy another sword."
Alric shook his head. "I have the Vashni sword. I would be pleased to
loan it."
Del waited until he went in the other room. "You are a fool," she said.
"You're
avoiding your jivatma when you should be learning to control it."
"That's right," I said sharply, and bent to pick up the sword. "Here.
You won
the wager. The sword is now forfeit."
"Tiger, no--"
"You won, bascha. You said I couldn't last." I put the sword in her
hands. I
knew she was safe; Del knew his name.
She closed fingers over the blade. Knuckles shone white.
I frowned. "You know better, bascha. You'll cut your fingers like
that."
Del said nothing. Her eyes were wide, and black; color drained out of
her face.
"Bascha--?" I thought again of how Sarad's sword had been broken.
"Here, let me
have--"
"It wants me--"
My hands were on the sword. "Let go, Del... let go-"
"It wants me--"
"Let go--"
"Boreal," Del whispered.
It shocked me. It turned me to stone.
"He wants us both--"
I took one hand off the sword and stiff-armed her in the chest.
Del fell away, releasing my sword, hands springing open. She tripped
over the
bedding, landed sprawled on her back, gazed up at me in horror.
Not because I'd hit her. She understood that. But because of what she'd
learned.
Because of what she'd felt.
"You have to kill it," she said.
"How can I--"
"Kill it," she repeated. "You have to discharge it. You have to strip
it of
Chosa Dei. You have to--"
"I know," I said. "I know. Haven't I been saying that?"
Del gathered herself, rearranged herself, remained sitting on the damp
dirt. "He
wants me," she said. "Do you understand? He is a man; he is a sword...
do you
realize what that means?"
It was a hideous thing to consider. Bile moved in my belly.
"Kill it," she said again. "Before it does worse to me."


Six
Del didn't like the idea. "It should be watched," she declared. "It
should never
be left alone."
Quietly I continued wrapping the jivatma in a blanket, wincing as I
jarred my
swollen little finger. We had determined it wasn't broken, but it hurt
like
hoolies. Tight wrapping protected torn flesh, but didn't do much for
the pain.
I set the bundle aside, next to the wall, and rose. "I'm not taking it
with me.
I've got the Vashni sword to use; this one can stay here."
"You saw what it did."
"When you touched it. If no one knows it's here, it can't do anything."
"The girls--"
"Lena has them well trained. They won't come in here because they've
been told
not to, and they respect privacy."
Del was unconvinced. "It should be attended to."
I sighed. "Yes. Why do you think I asked about the jhihadi?"
Eyes widened. "But you don't believe--"
"Right about now, I'll try anything. I think this messiah is probably
nothing
more than an opportunist, but why not give it a try? The tanzeers will
demand
proof of his divinity... they'll ask for specific signs, give him
specific
tasks. Why not ask him to 'cure' my sword."
"Because maybe he can't."
"Maybe he can't. Maybe he can." I shrugged. "I figure it's worth a
try."
Del frowned at me. "This isn't like you, Tiger."
"What isn't? My unwillingness to agree with you, or my willingness to
let the
jhihadi try?"
"You're almost never willing to agree with me; that's not what I mean.
I mean
the latter. You're the one who claims religion is nonsense."
"I used to say the same about magic, too, and look where it got me." I
hooked
arms through my harness, settled my borrowed Vashni sword. "Look,
bascha, I'm
not saying I believe in religion--I really don't think I could--but
who's to say
this jhihadi, if he's real, isn't something more than a messiah?"
"More?"
"If he's supposed to change sand to grass, I'd say he's got something
more than
divine charm going for him." I grinned. "Maybe he's a sorcerer. Maybe
he's Shaka
Obre."
It startled her. "The jhihadi?"
"Well? Isn't Shaka Obre the one who once held the South? Who made it
green and
lush? Doesn't it make sense that if he really did create the South, he
might
want to restore it to what it once was?"
"Chosa Dei imprisoned him."
"And he imprisoned Chosa. But Chosa's out now--sort of--and maybe Shaka
is, too.
He could be the jhihadi. He could be the man the Oracle's spouting
about."
Del considered it. "If he is--"
"--then he owes me."
She raised a skeptical brow. "And you think he'd be so grateful he'd do
you a
special favor."
"Chosa Dei was on the verge of destroying the wards. He had who knows
how many
jivatmas he was collecting magic from, as well as a few other tricks.
Given a
bit more time--or your sword--he'd have broken through. I may have
sucked him
into my sword, but at least he's not roaming free. If I were Shaka
Obre, I'd be
grateful to me."
Del sighed wearily. "It makes as much sense as anything else."
"And if this jhihadi isn't Shaka Obre, what does it matter? He might
still have
the ability to discharge my jivatma."
She glanced at the tightly rolled bundle. The sword was completely
hidden. "It
deserves to die," she said flatly.
"I sort of thought you'd agree... once you saw my point." I resettled
the
harness and turned toward the door. "Do you have plans for today?"
"Seeking out word of Ajani."
Something pinched my belly. "But not the man himself."
Del shook her head. "I need to learn about him. I need to learn who he
is; what
makes him think. It's been six years, and I never really knew him. Just
what
he'd done." She shrugged. "I need to see him without him seeing me.
Then I will
talk to my sword."
"You don't mean--ask for your focus again? Now?"
Del smiled. "You had last night, didn't you?"
"We had last night. And I'd like for it to continue."
The smile went away. She was calm, controlled, commited. "It will... if
I win."
I left the stud behind because trying to pick my way on horseback
through the
increasing throngs of people would try my patience, and might even
result in a
fight if the stud decided to protest. And besides, you can overhear
gossip
better if you're on foot with everyone else; if I wanted to learn the
latest
about the Oracle or the jhihadi, I'd do better to mix with the others.
By the time I'd fought my way through the alleys, streets and bazaar, I
knew a
little more. The Oracle, it was said, was busily foretelling the
jhihadi's
arrival soon. Of course, soon is relative; by oracular reckoning, it
still might
take a year. And I sincerely doubted anyone would wait that long.
But the Oracle was also foretelling a few other things. He was
mentioning
specifics, things about the messiah. Things like power: a power newly
gained. A
revelation of identity: a man of many parts. And an unwavering
commitment to
make the South what it was.
No wonder the tanzeers were worried.
I approached the tribe side of the city with a twinge of foreboding.
Generally
an individual tribe, on its own, can be dealt with one way or another,
through
trades, gifts, agreements. Some tribes, like the Hanjii and the Vashni,
tend to
be a bit more hostile, and are generally avoided. Except when you're
riding
through the Punja--where the tribes, being nomads, go wherever they
feel--sometimes it's hard to avoid them. But it was very unusual to
have so many
different tribes all clustered together. It changed the rules of the
game.
I wasn't certain my visit would do any good. For one thing, the Salset
might not
be present. For another--even if they were--they might simply ignore
me. The
adults all knew very well what I'd been. And none of them let me forget
it.
Certainly not the shukar, who had his reasons for hating me. But maybe
he was
dead. If the old man was dead, I might have an easier time.
But the old man wasn't dead.
I found the Salset mostly by accident. After picking my way through
goats,
sheep, danjacs, children, dogs, and chickens, winding through the
clusters of
hyorts and wagons, I came to the end of the hyort settlement beside the
city. I
wavered uncertainly a moment, thinking about approaching another tribe,
then
swung around to go back. And saw a familiar red hyort staked out beside
a wagon.
The Salset had settled behind a cluster of blue-green Tularain hyorts.
Since
there were more of the Tularain, it wasn't surprising the Salset were
hard to
see. So I wound my way through the Tularain cluster, then stopped at
the
shukar's hyort.
He was sitting on a blanket in front of his open doorflap. His white
hair was
thinning; his teeth were mostly gone; his eyes were filmed and blind.
Not much
life left in the old man. But he knew me anyway, the moment I said a
word.
"We gave you horses," he snapped. "We tended your ailing woman. We gave
you food
and water. You have no more claim on us."
"I can claim courtesy. You owe that to anyone. It's a Salset custom."
"Don't tell me what Salset custom is!" The quaver of his voice came
from age and
anger, not fear. "It was you who revoked custom and sought aid from an
unmarried
woman."
My anger rose to meet his. "You know as well as I do that was Sula's
decision.
She was free, bound to no man; Salset women take who they will, until
they
accept a husband. You're just jealous, old man--she took a chula, not
the
shukar."
"You forced her to say you'd killed the beast--"
"I did kill it," I said flatly. "You know it, too... you just don't
want to
admit a chula succeeded where you'd failed." A glance at the shabbiness
of
clothing and hyort told me times were no longer easy. Once he'd been a
rich man.
"Is your magic all used up? Have the gods turned their eyes from you?"
He was old, and probably would not last a year. A part of me suggested
I not be
so bitter, so harsh, but the greater portion of me remembered what life
with the
Salset had been like. I owed him no courtesy. I owed him nothing but
honesty; I
hated the old man.
"You should have died from the poison," he said. "Another day, and you
would
have."
"Thanks to Sula, I didn't." My patience was at an end. "Where is her
hyort,
shukar? Direct me to Sula, as you are required to do in the name of
Salset
courtesy."
He peeled back wrinkled lips and showed me his remaining teeth, stained
brown by
beza nut. Then spat at my feet. "When the jhihadi comes, you and others
like you
will be stripped from the South forever."
It confirmed my foreboding, but I said nothing of it to him. "Where's
Sula, old
man? I have no time for games."
"I have no time for you. Find Sula yourself." Filmed eyes narrowed.
"And I hope
you like what you find, since you are the cause of it!"
I didn't waste my time asking futile questions, or trying to decipher
his
purposely vague pronouncements. I just went to find Sula.
And when I found her, I knew she was dying. Clearly, so did she.
"Sit," she said weakly, as I lingered in the doorflap.
I sat. I nearly fell. I couldn't say a word.
Sula's smile was her own. She hadn't been robbed of it yet. "I wondered
if the
gods would grant me the chance to see you again."
The day was dull and sullen. Fitful light painted a harsh sienna patina
against
the ocher-orange of her hyort. It washed the interior with sallowness,
like
aging ivory. To Sula, it was unkind.
This was my third Sula. The first had been in her early twenties, a
slim, lovely
young woman of classic Salset features: wide, mobile face; dipped
bridge of
nose; black hair so thick and sunkissed it glowed ruddy in the
daylight. At
night it was black silk.
The second had been over forty, run to fat; lacking former beauty, but
none of
her generosity, the kindness I'd come to crave. She had saved Del and
me from
the ravages of the Punja. And now I'd see her die.
The third Sula was not much older, but the plumpness had melted away.
There was
nothing of Sula left except hide stretched over bones. The hair was
lank and
lifeless. The eyes dulled with pain. Lines graven in flaccid flesh
bespoke a
constant battle. The hyort smelled of death.
All I could manage was her name.
I don't know what she saw in my face. But it moved her. It made her
cry.
I took her hand in mine, then closed the other over it. Brittle,
delicate bones
beneath too-dry, fragile flesh. The woman of my manhood was a corpse in
Salset
gauze.
I swallowed heavily. "What sickness is it?"
Sula smiled again. "The old shukar says it's not. He says it's a demon
put
inside to punish me. It lives here, in my breast--eating away my
flesh." She was
propped against cushions. With one hand, she touched her left breast.
"Why?" I asked harshly. "What have you ever done?"
Sula raised a finger. "Many years ago, I took in a young chula who was
no more a
boy, but a man. And when he killed the sandtiger--when he won his
freedom--I
made certain he was given it. For that, I am being punished. For that,
I host a
demon."
"You don't believe that--"
"Of course not. The old shukar is jealous. He has always wanted me. And
he has
never forgiven me." She made a weak gesture. "This is his punishment:
he tells
people about the demon, so none will give me aid."
"No one--"
"None," she said raggedly. "Oh, I am given food and water--no one will
starve me
to death--but none will aid me, either. Not where the demon can see."
"He's a dangerous old fool. And he's a liar--"
"And he's been shukar forever." Sula sighed and shifted against her
cushions.
"But now he has lost even that."
"Lost it..." It stunned me. "How?"
"His magic was bad. Ever since you left, his magic has been weak. And
so when
the summons was made--when the Oracle called our names--the old shukar
was
replaced with a younger, stronger man." Black eyes were sad. "The old
man sits
in the sun. The young man speaks of power."
"Gained from the jhihadi."
Sula nodded weakly. "The Oracle says the South will be given back to
the tribes.
There will be no more need for lengthy journeys from this oasis to that
one;
from this place to another. The sand will be changed to grass and water
will run
on the land."
I cradled her hand in mine. "Is that kind of change what you want?"
She was very tired. Her voice was a travesty. "All I have known is the
desert...
the heat, the sand, the sun. Is it wrong to long for grass? To ask the
gods for
water in plenty?"
"If war is the cost, yes." I paused. "Let me get you a drink."
Sula lifted a hand. I sank back down at her side. "You see only one
side," she
said. "You, of all people."
"I don't understand."
She smiled, but very sadly. "Why did you stay with us?"
"Stay--?" I frowned. "I had to. I didn't have any choice."
"Why not run away?"
"Water," I said at once. "I couldn't carry enough water to get me far
enough.
The Punja would have killed me. At least with the tribe, I was alive."
Stiff fingers curled in my hand. "If the land were lush and cool, no
one could
keep any slaves. It would be easy to run away, to survive a day
unsheltered,
with water in abundance."
I had run away once. I had been caught. As punishment, I was tied to a
stake in
the sand and left for a second full day with no water to slake my
thirst. Left
there, and ignored, all of ten paces away from the camp so I would know
what it
was to realize the Salset were my deliverance; that I owed my life to
them.
I had been nine years old.
I drew in a painful breath. "I came for information. You've already
given me
some... but I need to know about the jhihadi. About what the tribes are
planning."
Sula held onto my hand. "They are planning a holy war."
"But no one worships the same gods!"
"It doesn't matter. We are to have the jhihadi."
"And this is what he wants? To destroy the South completely?"
"To make it new again. To make it what it was, before the land was laid
to
waste." She rolled her head against her cushions. "I am only a woman...
I don't
sit in councils. All I am told is the jhihadi will unite all the
tribes. The
Oracle promises this."
"So, this man is just supposed to arrive one day, wave his hands and
declare
everyone friends, then send them out to kill?" I shook my head. "Not a
peaceful
kind of messiah."
"The young men don't want peace." Sula closed her eyes. "They have
listened to
the Oracle, but have heard what they want to hear. When he foretells
the
ascendancy of the tribes, they think it can only come at the cost of
other
lives. They think nothing of living in peace with the tanzeers. They
forget how
our lives will change... how crops will grow on the land, how water
will come to
the tribes instead of the tribes following it." She dragged in a
laboring
breath. "He says nothing of a war, but that is what they hear."
"You've heard him? The Oracle?"
"He has gone to a few of the tribes. Word is being carried."
"And they accept him without question, believing what he says."
Sula rolled her head. "They believe what they choose to believe. The
Oracle
speaks of a jhihadi who can change the sand to grass. A man need only
walk out
into the Punja to know what that could mean."
I knew. I'd lived there. Hoolies, I'd been born there.
Which reminded me of something.
"Sula." I shifted closer. "Sula, there's something I have to know...
something I
have to ask. It has to do with how I came to be with the Salset--"
Sula's eyes were glazed. "--histories say the South and the North were
one...
divided between two brothers--"
I hung on to my patience. I owed this woman too much. "Chosa Dei," I
said. "His
brother was Shaka Obre."
"--and that after a final battle one half would be laid to waste--"
"Shaka Obre's wards. Chosa Dei tripped them."
"--and after hundreds of years the brothers would be freed to contest
for the
land again... to make whole the broken halves--"
"Sula," I said sharply, "is the jhihadi Shaka Obre?"
Her lips were barely moving. "--only a small favor--a single small
favor ..."
"Sula--"
"Let me die free of pain."
"Sula--" I bent over her. "Sula, please--tell me the truth... did the
Salset
find me? Or did they steal me?"
Pain-graved brow creased. "Steal you?"
"I was told--they always said--" I stopped short and tried again. "It
would mean
something to me to know how I came to the Salset."
Tears rolled free of her eyes. "I heard what they told you. The
children. How
they taunted you."
"Sula, was it true? Was I abandoned in the Punja? Exposed and left to
die?"
Her hand closed on mine. The voice was but a thread. "Oh, Tiger... I
wish I
knew..."
It was all she had left to give. Having given it, she died.
I sat there and held her hand.
Mother. Sister. Bedmate. Wife.
All and none of those things.


Seven
The man stepped out in front of me. I checked, moved aside; he blocked
me yet
again.
Not a man: a Vashni.
"Not now," I said clearly, couching it in Desert.
Dark eyes glittered. He didn't move a muscle, didn't say a word, made
no
indication he intended to step aside.
Three others came up behind me; this wasn't coincidence.
The day was gray. Dull, sullen sunlight gave way to heavy clouds. Rain
stained
the ground.
Vashni wear very little. Brief leather kilts with belts. No boots, no
sandals.
Jewelry made out of bone, claimed from enemies' skeletons. In the rain,
bare
torsos were slick, smooth as oiled bronze. Black hair was plaited back
from
fierce desert faces in a single long braid, hanging clear to belted
waists in
sheaths of gartered fur.
Bone pectoral plates chinked and tinkled as they breathed.
I wore a knife and a sword. I touched neither of them.
Oddly, I felt tired. Too weary to deal with this on the heels of Sula's
death.
"If it's foreigners you're killing, why start with me? There's a whole
city full
of them all of ten paces from here."
The warrior facing me smiled, if a Vashni can do such a thing. Mostly
he bared
his teeth, very white in a dark face. His Desert was quick and fluent.
"Your
time will come, Southron... for now your life is spared."
"Generous," I applauded. "So what is it you're after?"
"The sword," he answered calmly. Behind me, the others breathed.
Hoolies, how had word of Samiel gotten around already? I hadn't killed
anyone.
Hadn't displayed his magic. Only Del and I knew of the broken sword and
its
blackened, discolored half. And the Vashni, as far as I knew, weren't
partial to
any weapon other than their own, with its wicked, curving blade and
human
thighbone hilt.
Slowly I shook my head. "The sword is mine."
Color stained his face and set black eyes aglitter. "No one but a
Vashni carries
a Vashni sword."
A Vashni--oh, a Vashni sword... like the one hanging from my harness.
Vashni aren't quite like anyone else, and they don't judge outsiders by
anything
but their own customs. They don't engage in socially unacceptable
behavior like
the Hanjii, who eat people, and they don't condone outright murder. But
they do
have a habit of provoking hostilities so the death meted out to an
enemy is
considered an honorable one.
And then they strip away flesh, muscle, viscera and distribute the
still-damp
skeleton in a lengthy celebration.
Right about now an engagement of hostilities might be what I needed,
but I was
angry. Too angry to think straight: this Vashni had no right to
interfere with
my life out of a perverse tribal whim, regardless of the cause.
Not right after Sula--
I cut it off. Knew better than to protest, or to say anything he might
interpret
as rude. I had no intention of becoming anyone's pectoral. "Take it," I
said
flatly.
He flicked a finger. I stood very still. I felt the touch of a hand on
the hilt,
the snap of a blade sliding free. Weight lessened across my back; all I
wore now
was the harness.
The Vashni's black eyes showed only the slightest hint of contempt. "A
Vashni
warrior also never gives up his weapon."
I clenched teeth together. "We've already established I'm not Vashni.
And I
don't see the point in trying to protect--or in dying over--a sword
that was
only borrowed."
Eyes narrowed. "Borrowed."
"My own sword broke. This was loaned to me."
"A Vashni never loans his sword."
"He does if he's dead," I snapped. "Call it a permanent loan."
Clearly the warrior had not expected such a response. Vashni are
accustomed to
cowing frightened people into instant acquiescence, and I wasn't
cooperating. He
glared at me through the rain, then glanced past me to the others. One
hand was
near his knife; was the insult enough to repay? Or would he have to
work harder?
Deep inside, anger rose. Instinctively I called to memory my
recollection of our
immediate surroundings and situation: tribal hyorts clustered but a
pace or two
away--rain-slick ground--poor footing--no sword--four Vashni--no
support--the
city entrance ten paces away--chickens and dogs and goats--
And then something occurred to me. It made me forget about fighting.
"What part
of the South are you from?"
The arched nose rose. "Vashni are from everywhere. The South is ours to
hold."
"So the Oracle says." I smiled insincerely. "But it isn't yours quite
yet, so
why don't you answer my question?"
He contemplated my attitude. "Answer mine," he countered. "Why does it
matter to
you?"
"Because the mountain Vashni down near Julah have been 'hosting'
someone I know.
I just wondered if you- knew him."
He spat into the mud. "I know no foreigners."
I continued anyway. "He's a Northerner--blond, blue-eyed, fair... he's
also
castrate and mute, thanks to Julah's former tanzeer." I shrugged
offhandedly so
my real concern wouldn't show, which might give them a weapon. "His
Northern
name was Jamail. He's sixteen now."
He assessed me. Black eyes didn't blink. "Is this boy kin to you?"
I could have said no, and been truthful. But lying has its uses; in
this case,
I'd get my answer. "I'm blood-bonded to his sister."
Kinship. Such a simple, obvious key to unlock Vashni secrets. To force
the
warrior's hand.
He looked past me again to the others. But I knew he'd have to tell me
what he
knew, no matter how he felt. They are a fierce, ferocious tribe, but
the Vashni
have their weaknesses just like anyone else. In this case, it was
kinship. They
won't tolerate bastards or half-bloods, but full-birth kinship or
blood-bond
takes precedence over pride.
His eyes were not kind. "There was such a boy."
"A Northern boy--sixteen?"
"He was as you describe."
I kept my voice even. "You said 'was'?"
The Vashni didn't play diplomat to try to soften the blow. "The
Northern boy is
dead. This is a holy war, Southron--we must purge our people of
impurities to
prepare for the jhihadi."
I tried not to think of Jamail--or Del--as my own contempt flowered.
"Is that
what the Oracle said?"
I expected offense to be taken. I expected to have to fight. But the
Vashni
warrior smiled.
It was open, unaffected, and utterly genuine. Then he turned and went
into the
rain.
How do I tell Del? How in hoolies do I tell her? Sula's gone, chula.
Salvation
no longer exists.
How am I to tell her she's the only one left of her blood?
How do you thank Sula for all that she was and did?
I can't just walk into our borrowed bedroom and say: "Your brother's
dead,
bascha."
You can't go to the gods of valhail and ask to have Sula back.
It would kill her. Or get her killed; she'd immediately go after Ajani.
How do you tell a childless woman that she still gave birth to a son?
She's only just now coming to realize there's more to life than
revenge.
How do you tell a dead woman she's the one who gave you life?
Is her freedom worth the price?
Is my freedom worth the price?
Something was wrong. I knew it immediately as I got closer to the house
Del and
I shared with Alric and his brood. There is a feeling, a sound... when
a crowd
gathers to witness death, everybody knows.
Too much dying, I thought. First Sula, then Jamail--who was dying now?
The death-watch was on. It took all I had to break through, trying to
reach the
house. And then all I had to stop.
Oh, gods--oh--hoolies--
All the hairs stood up on my body. My belly began to churn. The street
stank of
magic.
Oh, hoolies--no--
Someone had my jivatma.
No--my jivatma had him.
But I put it away. I wrapped it up, set it aside, put it away--
And someone had stolen it.
Now it was stealing him.
He dug in mud with his feet. Sprawled on his back, he dug. Because the
blade had
gone in at his belly and threaded its way through his ribs to peek out
at the
top of a shoulder.
Showing a blackened tip only slightly tainted by blood.
No one kills that way. A clean thrust through ribs, through belly; a
slash
across abdomen. But no one threads a sword through ribs like a woman
weaving
cloth.
Except for Chosa Dei.
He lay on his back in the rain, digging mud with his feet. Trying to
shred the
cloth of his flesh so he could unstitch the hideous needle.
How can he be alive?
Because Chosa Dei wants the body.
I thrust my way through the gathered crowd and knelt down at his side.
His eyes
saw me, knew me; begged for me to help.
Slowly I shook my head: he'd known what the sword was. He'd told me
about Chosa
Dei.
"Why?" was all I asked.
His voice was wracked by pain. "She wouldn't have me--have me...
Xenobia
wouldn't have me ..."
"Is she worth dying for?"
"They wouldn't have me--have me... they said I was a bastard..."
From whom I had come, I knew. "Vashni," I said grimly. "That's your
tribal
half."
Nabir didn't nod. Black eyes were wide and fixed. "My brother," he
said. "My
brother; yes? I must unmake my brother."
"Nabir!" I shut my hand on his arm. "Give him up, Chosa."
"I must unmake my brother."
"But I'm here, Chosa. How do you plan to win?"
Nabir dug mud with his feet. "I knew what it was--I knew... with this
sword,
they might have me... with this sword, she might have me... the sword
of the
Sandtiger--"
There was very little blood. Chosa Dei was taking it all.
"Nabir--"
"I tripped... he made me trip... he took my feet away--"
Immediately, I looked. Nabir still dug mud, but there were no feet to
do it.
Only mud-coated stumps.
"--and I fell... and it turned... without a hand on it, it turned--"
"Nabir--"
"CHOSA DEI--don't you know who I am?"
I put a hand on the hilt. Felt the virulence of his rage.
"Don't you know WHAT I am?"
Only too well.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry... I've got no choice, Nabir."
"I'll give him back his feet--"
"No, Chosa... too late."
"I'll unmake YOU--"
"Not while I hold this sword."
"You don't want this sword--"
Two hands on the hilt. "And you can't have this body."
Nabir's body arced. "SAMIEL!" it shouted. "The sword is Samiel--"


Eight
He wasn't quite dead. But I knew I'd have to kill him.
"Nabir," I said, "I'm sorry--"
--unthreaded the deadly needle--
Nabir was mostly gone. Chosa used what was left. "Sam--Sam--Samie--"
"No good, Chosa. Now it's just me."
--blood and breath rushed out.
Unfettered rage exploded.
Hoolies, but this hurts--
I was aware, if only dimly, of the crowd gathered around. For the
moment, what
they saw was a dead man on the ground and another man by his side,
holding on to
the sword that killed him. What they heard was a low, keening wail like
the moan
of a stalking cat. They didn't know it was steel. They didn't know it
was Chosa.
They only knew the boy was dead in messy, spectacular fashion.
Faces: Alric. Lena briefly, with the girls; she hustled them back
inside.
Garrod, braids and all, working his way out of the crowd to the inside
perimeter. And Adara, staring mutely, trying unsuccessfully to send
Massou away.
And many, many strangers.
No Del. Where's De--
Chosa Dei was angry. Chosa Dei was very angry--and he took no pains to
hide it.
It wasn't unexpected. But the power was overwhelming.
I knelt in bloody mud while the rain ran down my back, wishing I knew
what to
do. Wishing I had the strength. Wishing I had the ability to unmake my
perverted
jivatma.
Heat coursed down the sword. In cold rain, steel steamed.
I shook. I shook with it, trying to suppress the raw power that
strained to
burst free of the sword. Chosa Dei was testing all the bonds,
attempting to
shatter the magic that bound him inside the steel. I knew better than
to wonder
what could happen if I just let him go, let him free--if he left the
sword
entirely, he'd be nothing but an essence, lacking face or form. In
order to be
what he wanted to be he'd have to have a body. He'd tried to take
Nabir's. He'd
take mine if I let him.
In rain, the blood washed away, leaving the blade free of taint...
except for
the discoloration reaching nearly to the hilt.
If Chosa ever touched it--
No.
My bones ached. They itched. Blood ran hot and fast, too hot and too
fast,
surging toward my head. I thought my skull would burst.
Samiel was shrieking. The sword was protesting Chosa.
If we could work together--
Light flashed inside my head.
Go to hoolies, Chosa... you're not beating me.
The blade began to smoke. .
You're not beating me--
Rain stopped falling. Mud began to dry. The ground beneath me steamed.
If it's a song you want, I'll sing it... I can't sing, but I will...
I'll do
what I have to, Chosa... whatever it takes, Chosa... you're not going
to beat
me, Chosa... you're not going to have my sword... you're not going to
have me--
Parched mud began to crack.
I got off my knees and stood. Clutching the hilt in my hands. Watching
the black
creep forward, licking at the hilt.
I'm a Southroner, Chosa--you're in my land, now.
A wind began to blow.
Do you really think you can win--?
The wind began to wail.
This is my land--
A hot, dry wind.
--you're not welcome here--
A wind from off the Punja.
--I don't want you here--
Blasting down through the alleyways, the streets, shredding silk
burnouses,
stripping makeshift roofs, drying eyes and mouths.
Go away, Chosa. Go back into your prison.
Dried mud broke and crumbled, blown northward out of the city.
Go back to sleep, Chosa. I'm too strong for you.
The sun ate into flesh.
Don't be stupid, Chosa... you're no match for me--
Black flowed down the sword and lodged again in the tip.
No, Chosa--away--
Chosa Dei refused.
No, Chosa--away--
Chosa withdrew a little... and then the firestorm engulfed me.
I came around to voices. "Keep him covered," someone said. "But he
looks so
hot," another protested. "He's sunburned. What he feels is cold."
Sunburned? How
could I be sunburned? The last I recall, the day had been full of rain.
I
shivered beneath the blanket. "I wish we could get him to let go of
that sword."
"Do you want to touch it?"
"After what it did? No."
"Neither do I." Nothing was very important. I let it all drift away.
And then came back again, trying to make sense of the words.
"--what they're saying about the Oracle... do you think it's true?"
Alric's voice now; I was beginning to tell them apart. "It's why most
of the
people came here... to see the Oracle and the jhihadi."
"But they're saying he's coming now." That was Adara.
Garrod's tone was dry. "Right this very moment?"
"No. But any day. Maybe even tomorrow."
Lena's quieter voice: "I heard he's already here, but being hidden by
the
tribes."
"Why would they hide him?" Garrod asked. "He's what the people want."
Alric's tone was crisp. "There are those who'd like to kill him--or
have him
killed. And besides, would you show off your holy oracle before things
were
ready?"
Adara sounded puzzled. "What do you mean: things?"
Garrod understood. "If there really is a jhihadi, it would be more
dramatic to
have the Oracle appear not long before the messiah. If he arrived too
soon,
everyone would get bored."
"People are already bored," Alric observed. "The tanzeers--who are
perhaps the
most bored of all, and yet have the most at stake--have already taken
to
challenging one another. They're pitting sword-dancer against sword-
dancer,
wagering on the outcome... I was at the circles earlier, trying to earn
a wage.
They're talking about the Oracle there, as well--wagering on him, of
course, and
what kind of person he is. Rumor says he's neither man nor woman."
Alric's tone
changed. "I'll go back as soon as I know Tiger is all right."
"Is he?" Adara asked.
Something I wanted to ask myself.
And then Del's voice, raised, from a little distance away, responding
to
Massou's treble comment in the other room. "What do you mean, he's
sick?"
I peeled open an eye. Saw Lena, Alric, Garrod, Adara--and Del, pushing
through.
The eye closed again.
"It's the sword," Alric told her. "It's done something to him."
She knelt down next to me. I realized, somewhat vaguely, I was lying on
my own
bedding in the room Del and I shared. ,
She stripped away blankets. "Done what to him?"
Alric shook his head. "I can't tell you exactly what happened... I
don't think
anyone really knows. But it was the sword. The jivatma--and Tiger. In
the middle
of some kind of battle."
I cracked the eye again.
"Chosa Dei," Del said softly, creases marring her brow. Fingers were
gentle and
deft, then she stopped examining me. "Tiger, can you hear me?"
I opened the other eye. "Of course I can hear you," I answered. "I can
hear all
of you--now."
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
She pressed the back of her hand against my cheek. "You're sunburned,"
she said.
"And the day is blazing hot."
I blinked. "It was raining."
Del lifted her hand and pointed straight up.
I followed the direction of her finger. Realized Alric's makeshift
blanket-and-skin roof had come down--or been torn down, since shreds
were left
to dangle--and saw the sky clearly. The blue, burning sky, full of
Southron sun.
No rain. No clouds. No wind. It was still, very still; my skin quailed
from the
sun.
I moved a little. Felt weight in my right hand. Realized it held a
hilt, with
the blade still attached. "What in hoolies--?" I frowned at Del.
Alric answered instead. "You wouldn't let go. And no one dared to touch
it."
Well, no; it was, after all, a jivatma.
I stiffened. Then wrenched myself off the bedding into a sitting
position.
"Hoolies, that was Nabir!"
"It was." Garrod's face was solemn. "Whoever he was, he's dead."
I stared at the sword. Slowly, very slowly, I unlocked stiffened
fingers and set
it down beside me. "He unmade Nabir's feet--" I swallowed heavily,
realizing I
was dizzy; that my belly was none too content. "Then put himself into
the boy.
First the sword, then himself...he nearly got what he wanted."
Adara's voice was puzzled. "I don't understand."
Del barely glanced over a shoulder, watching me instead. "Do you
remember the
loki, Adara?"
"Yes."
"Something very like one is trapped in Tiger's sword."
"Not a loki," I said. "Something far worse."
Adara shuddered. "Nothing could be worse."
Garrod's brows rose. "You saw what Tiger did... and what it did to
Tiger."
Something began to concern me. "What did it do to Tiger?"
Garrod was very succinct. "Tried to burn you up. Except you wouldn't
let it do
it... you stopped it cold--in a manner of speaking." He grinned. "The
rain went
away, the mud dried up, the sun came out for good."
Lena's voice was hushed. "It was a simoom."
Simoom--or samiel.
I looked at Del. Neither of us said a word.
Lena's face was troubled. "The young man came after Alric was gone to
the
circles, saying he wanted the Sandtiger. When I explained you weren't
here, that
you'd left for a while, he asked what sword you wore." She lifted wide
shoulders. "I told him: Alric's Vashni sword. And then he went away."
"Only to come back later when Lena and the girls were gone." Alric's
voice was
heavy. "Who would steal a jivatma?"
"A young, proud man trying to impress his first woman. An outcast
Vashni half
blood trying to buy his way into the tribe." I rubbed at my cheek, then
wished I
hadn't. Del was right: I was sunburned. "He probably got word to the
warriors
that I had the Vashni sword, knowing it would create a diversion so he
could
steal the jivatma." I sighed. "I'm sorry Nabir's dead, but I can't say
he wasn't
warned."
Del looked at the sword lying naked beside the bedding. "Tiger--the
black is
higher."
So it was: discoloration reached nearly halfway up the blade. "Less
than there
was," I told her. "It almost touched the hilt." I glanced around, saw
the
harness, stretched out an arm to reach it. Del dragged it closer, then
put it
into my hand. I sheathed the discolored sword, then set it back on the
ground.
"Do you think--" But whatever it was started to ask slid off my flaccid
tongue.
Del's voice was startled. "Tiger--? Tiger--"
"What is it?" Adara cried.
Cramps wracked me the length of my body. Toes, calves, thighs, then
through
abdomen and chest, until it reached my back. Pectoral muscles knotted,
stretching the flesh of my shoulders. Pain crawled up into my neck,
then reached
out and snared my jaw.
Hoolies, but I hurt.
"What is it?" Adara repeated.
"Reaction," Del explained crisply. "It's because of the magic--it's
happened
before... it will pass, in time; Lena, have you any huva weed? If not,
could you
send Alric to fetch some? I can brew a tea that will help."
"I have some," Garrod said, and took Adara and Massou with him.
I found it somewhat discomfiting to be discussed as if I were not
present, but
since basically I wasn't--only my spasming body--I didn't bother to
protest. I
just lay there tied up in knots, trying to breathe in and out through
the
cramping of midriff and back.
Alric, catching Del's twitch of the head, herded Lena and the girls
back into
the other room.
"Bascha--I can't--breathe--"
Del moved the sheathed sword aside, out of the way. "I know. Try to
relax. Try
to think about something else."
"You try it."
Her tone softened. "I know," she said again.
It took effort to speak an entire sentence. "Has this--happened to
you?"
Del was busy trying to knead out the worst of the amps. Trouble was, I
was
cramping all over, and she only had two hands. "Not like this," she
answered. "A
bit, yes, the first time I invoked my jivatma. But never again, and
nothing like
this... this is the worst I've ever seen."
Trust it to happen to me. "If these swords are supposed to be so
helpful--" I
broke it off and ground my teeth. "Oh, hoolies... this hurts."
"I know," she said yet again. "It must be because of Chosa Dei... if it
were
only the jivatma, it wouldn't be so painful. I don't know what you did,
but it
roused too much of the wild magic. And now you're paying the price."
"I don't know what I did, either." Oh, hoolies, it hurt. Sweat ran off
my body,
stinging sunburned skin. "I just--I just tried to stop Chosa Dei from
taking
Nabir's body--from trying to take mine."
Del dug into my neck, trying to loosen a locking jaw. The pain was
exquisite.
"You changed the weather, Tiger. You called up a storm."
She sounded so certain. "How do you know?" I demanded through locked
teeth. "You
weren't even here."
"Because with mine I call up a banshee-storm, which is known only in
the North.
Your storm is a samiel... a hot desert wind blasting straight out of
the Punja."
She paused. "Don't you understand? You have the strength of the South
in your
sword. The strength, the power, the magic... your sword is the South,
just as
mine is the North."
It took some thinking about. "Since when--ouch--has this been so clear
to you?"
"Since you used the sword against Chosa in the mountain."
"So why wait until now--ouch!...hoolies, bascha, be gentle... you sent
Garrod
for huva?"
"Yes."
"Huva weed is a narcotic."
"Yes."
"It will muddle up my head."
"No more muddled up than it is when you drink too much aqivi... ah--
here is
Garrod now. Lena will brew some tea."
Lena brewed tea. Del kneaded. I sweated and cramped. By the time the
tea was
ready, I was ready for anything if it meant the pain would go.
"Here." Del held the cup. "It will be bitter because it hasn't been
properly
brewed or steeped as long as it should be, but drink. It will help."
It was worse than bitter. It was horrible. "How long does it take?"
"This concentrated, not long. Try to relax, Tiger."
"I think I've forgotten how."
She worked the rigidity of my shoulders. "Give it a little time."
I gave it time. I gave it a lot of time. And then when I wasn't
looking, the tea
snuck up on me.
"Bascha--?"
"I'm here, Tiger."
"The room is upside down."
"I know."
"And you're floating in midair."
"I know."
"And I'm floating in midair."
"I know."
Pain diminished a step. Relief tapped at my consciousness, but I
wouldn't let it
in. I was afraid to let it in. If I let it in, and it didn't stay, I'd
never be
able to bear it.
Drowsily, I said: "He unmade Nabir's feet."
"And tried to unmake you."
"He wanted Nabir's body ..."
Her hands still worked sore flesh. "Do you see now, Tiger, why you must
be
vigilant? Why you can never set it aside, or sell it, or hide it, or
give it to
anybody? Why the sword is yours to ward?"
I didn't answer.
"You are right to seek out Shaka Obre. He may be the only one who can
aid you...
the only one who understands Chosa Dei well enough to defeat him."
I slurred everything together. "If things keep going the way they've
been going,
Chosa may get to know me well enough... he wants my body, you said?"
"You are strong enough for Chosa Dei. You are his match, or better...
he cannot
defeat you."
The words were getting harder to say. "You don't know that, bascha...
he nearly
beat me today ..."
"But he didn't. You stopped him. You fought him, and you beat him. You
have
every time, and you will every time."
More pain flowed away. With it went much of my sense. "I have--to get
rid of...
it .. ."
"Then have it discharged properly."
"Shaka Obre," I mumbled. "Maybe the jhihadi... may be the jhihadi ..."
Del smiled a little. Through the veil of my lashes, the tense Northern
features
softened. "If the jhihadi has time for such."
"Hoolies... tea... strong ..."
Cramps began to untie. I let the relief wash in, denying it nothing
now. It
could take me, it could have me... and its gift was akin to bliss. "Oh,
better... better ..." I drifted drowsily, letting the huva take me. And
then
words fell out of my mouth. "I asked Sula," I slurred. "I asked her
about the
truth."
Del's fingers slowed, then resumed their steady kneading. "What did she
say?"
It was hard to stay awake. "She didn't know the truth... she said she
didn't
know ..."
The fingers now were gentle. "I'm sorry, Tiger."
My tongue was thick in my mouth. "And then--she died. She died."
The hands stopped altogether.
My eyes were too heavy to open. "I'm sorry--bascha ..."
"Don't be sorry for me."
"No... because--because of Jamail." The world was sliding away.
"Jamail! What about--" She broke off.
It was harder to make the effort. "I didn't--I'm sorry--I meant..."
Vision was
slowly fraying.
Del said nothing.
I walked the edge of the blade. One--more--step--
"That's not--that's not how--" I licked dry lips "--I meant it to be
different--"
Del sat like a rock.
One more tiny step--
I was nearly incoherent. "I'm... sorry... bascha--"
The rock moved at last. Del lay down beside me, one hip jutting toward
the sky.
I felt the angle of her cheekbone against the loosening flesh of my
shoulder.
So--close--now--
She rested her arm on my chest and put the flat of her hand over my
heart, as if
to feel its beating.
"--Del--"
She locked her feet around mine. "I'm sorry, too," she whispered. "I'm
sorry for
us both."
--over the edge--
--and off--


Nine
Del's face was white. "This is serious."
After a moment, I nodded. "That's why I brought it up."
"If the name is freely known--"
"It wasn't my fault, bascha. Nabir said the name."
"But--how did he know?" She waved the question away before she finished
the
intonation. "No. He knew because Chosa Dei told him. Chosa Dei was in
him... the
jivatma had no secrets."
"You're saying if my blade ever cuts into someone, he'll know all about
the
power?"
Del's tone went dry. "While he's dying, yes. But I don't think it will
do him
much good."
Alric came into the doorway. "I couldn't help overhearing... and
anyway, I heard
the boy scream it out yesterday." He shrugged. "If you're worried about
the
blooding-blade's name being known, I don't think it's as serious as all
that."
Del scowled at him. "You're Northern. You know better--"
"Because I'm Northern, yes." Alric shook his head. "Named blades aren't
known
down here, Del. Not by very many. And the people I saw in the crowd
yesterday
were Southron, most of them; the name won't mean a thing. Certainly
they won't
realize that to know the name means they can freely touch Tiger's
sword--and
even if they did know it, I doubt they'd do anything about it." His
expression
was grim. "You weren't here yesterday. You didn't see what happened."
"No, but I know the results." Del still looked concerned. "Southroners
may be no
threat, but if there were Northerners present--"
"--then they know it, too." Again, Alric nodded. "But even in the North
jivatmas
are mostly legend. Unless you've trained to be a sword-dancer, you
don't hear so
much about blooding-blades."
"Hoolies," I said wearily, "what I'd give for a Southron sword."
Del's tone was implacable. "That, you can never have. Not while Chosa
lives."
It irritated me. "What do you mean? What if I went out and bought
another
sword?"
"Like the one from Sarad the swordsmith?" Del's contempt was delicate.
"Like the
one you borrowed from Alric?"
I didn't say anything.
She sighed. "Don't you understand? He won't let you have another. He'll
break
it, like the first one."
Alric nodded. "Or see that it's taken away, like the Vashni sword I
loaned you."
"That was probably Nabir... I think he went to the Vashni and told
them, hoping
it might buy him goodwill." I peeled dead skin off a forearm. For some
odd
reason the sunburn was already fading, sloughing off dead skin two days
quicker
than usual. I stared at the curl of skin; at the pattern of flesh and
hair. "I
can't risk another Nabir. I can't risk another--fight."
"Another storm, you mean." Alric's mouth twisted. "I don't know, Tiger-
-you
controlled that one well enough. And if I had the ability to call up a
simoom
any time I wanted--"
"I don't want," I stated clearly. "All I want is to go back to the kind
of life
I had before, when I hired on with local tanzeers, or made money on
circle
wagers."
"You can't have it," Del said. "That is over for you."
Alric's brows rose. "Maybe not. I mentioned to the others earlier...
there is
wagering at the circles."
"Tanzeers are hiring, so the sword-dancers are showing off. Some of the
tanzeers
are pitting their sword-dancers against one another for the hoolies of
it. Some
are settling scores. Those dances are real."
I shook my head. "I'm in no shape for dancing. Everything hurts too
much."
Alric shrugged lightly. "That will pass soon enough."
"Will it?" Glumly I picked at dead skin. "I'm not as young as I once
was."
"In the name of hoolies!" Del cried. "You're only thirty-six!"
Only. She said "only."
How generous of her.
Alric slouched against the doorjamb. "I'd bet money on you."
"On me, or on my sword?"
He grinned a Northern grin. "A little of both, I think."
I shook my head slowly. "I don't know, Alric... I'm not so sure anyone
around
here will ever risk a coin on a dance with me involved. If as many
people as you
say saw what happened yesterday..." I let it trail off.
"You're sandsick," he answered pleasantly. "Do you know how many people
will pay
just in case you might key that sword again?"
I twisted my mouth briefly. "Maybe. People are bloodthirsty--they might
like
that sort of thing. But how many sword-dancers would be willing to risk
their
lives against a possessed sword? I'll have no opponents."
Alric straightened hastily and moved aside as Lena thrust immense belly
between
man and doorjamb. "Tiger," she said, "someone is here to see you."
"See me?"
She nodded. "He asked for you."
I glanced thoughtfully at Del a moment, then gathered aching muscles
and harness
and made myself get up. The huva disorientation was gone, but not the
aftermath
of the cramping. I hurt all over.
"Shall I send him through?" Lena asked.
"No, I'll go outside. It's time I got some sun." With a glance at the
blatant
sky, uncluttered by blanket or skin.
Outside, the day was as bright. So was the man waiting for me, swathed
in
blinding silks. Baubles flashed on his fingers.
"Lord Sandtiger," he said, and grinned at me happily.
Dumbfounded, I stared. And then reached out to slap a plump shoulder.
"Sabo.
Sabo! What are you doing here?"
The eunuch's grin was undiminished. "I've been sent to fetch you."
My answering grin died. "Fetch me? Fetch me? I don't know, Sabo--the
last time
you were sent to fetch me it was to play me right into Hashi's palsied
hands...
and nearly under the gelding knife!"
Some of his gaiety faded. "That is over," he told me. "My lord Hashi,
may the
sun shine on his head, died two months ago. You need have no fear of
his
retribution now."
I hoped not. Sabo's master, tanzeer of Sasqaat, had proved a very
inhospitable
host. Of course, he claimed retribution because his intended bride's
virginity
was missing, so I suppose he had a right... except no one else had ever
accused
Elamain of being a virgin--ever--so the so-called retribution had been
little
more than an old man's jealous spite. But it nonetheless nearly got me
gelded.
Only Sabo's help had freed Del and me.
The round-faced eunuch still smiled. "I have a new master, now."
"Oh? Who?"
"Hashi's son. Esnat."
"Esnat?"
"Esnat. Lord Esnat."
I nodded deferentially. "And is Lord Esnat anything like his father?"
"Lord Esnat is a fool."
"So was Hashi--excuse me: Lord Hashi. Was a fool."
"My lord Hashi, may the sun shine on his head, was an old, bitter man.
Lord
Esnat is a fool."
"Then why are you serving him? You've never been a fool."
Sabo's tone was bland. "Because the lady asked me to."
Deep in my belly, something twitched. "The lady," I echoed ominously.
"You don't
mean--"
"--Elamain," he finished. "May the sun shine on her head."
"And other parts of her anatomy." I chewed at my bottom lip. "Then am I
right in
assuming it's Elamain who's sent for me?"
"No. Lord Esnat sent for you."
"Why?"
"Elamain asked him to."
I decided to say it straight out. "I'm still with Del, Sabo."
The eunuch smiled. "Then you have retained your good sense... and your
taste."
"But--don't you see? I can't go to Elamain."
"Elamain won't care."
"About Del? She certainly will. I'm not that stupid, Sabo."
"The lady wants to see you."
"She'll want to see all of me."
Sabo's pale brown eyes were guileless. "That didn't stop you before."
I shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well...maybe not--"
"Come tell her yourself," he suggested. And then his face brightened.
"Ah, the
Northern bascha... may the sun shine on your head!"
Del, in the doorway, glanced skyward. "I think it already is."
I stared at her. Thought back on the topic Sabo and I had discussed; on
my
invitation from Elamain. Found I had nothing to say.
Del's smile was slow. "Don't keep the--lady--waiting."
I wet my lips. "I don't suppose you'd want to come."
Her smile stretched wider. "You sound almost hopeful, Tiger."
Yes, well... maybe so. But I wouldn't tell Del that.
I shrugged. "Just a thought," I mentioned. "I thought maybe you'd want
to
gossip. Two women, after all."
Gravely, Del shook her head. "I'd sooner step into a circle... at least
there I
know the rules."
I started to answer, then remembered something. "Wait. You went to find
out what
you could about Ajani."
Del was expressionless. "So I did."
"And did you?"
She shrugged. "It can wait."
"Maybe it can, but will it?" I shook my head. "I know you, bascha...
you'll tell
me nothing, then go off all by yourself."
She smiled. "Go off to Elamain."
"Del--"
"Go," she said plainly.
Irresolute, I offered a promise: "I'll come straight back."
Her tone was perfectly bland. "And perhaps I shall be here."
Hoolies, she can be difficult.
I looked at Sabo. Saw the gleam of amusement in his eyes. Knew I
couldn't delay
any longer without giving myself away.
You're a grown man, I told myself. And Elamain's only a woman.
Hoolies, what a fool.
Esnat wasn't alone.


Ten
Elamain was alone. "Hello, Tiger," she purred.
Oh, hoolies. Del.
And then wondered what I was thinking. I mean, I was a grown man. One
who makes
his own decisions, needing no woman to do it for him. Needing no
guidance, no
suggestions, no commands. I could make my own way in the world, with or
without
a woman, and therefore didn't even need to think of Del right at this
very
moment.
Elamain shed her burnous. "Remember how it was?"
Hoolies, hoolies, hoolies... where's Del when I need her?
"Which time?" I asked. "In your wagon? Or in Hashi's cell?"
Elamain pouted. Elamain pouting is enough to move all the sand out of
the Punja.
Except I didn't want to.
Elamain had set up housekeeping in one of the buildings that still had
a roof;
Esnat was, after all, a tanzeer, and Elamain the widow of one. The room
she
inhabited had been much improved by rugs and silks and gauzes, draped
and piled
here and there. She reclined on fat cushions tumbled invitingly on
thick rugs.
Her golden eyes were sorrowful. "Do you blame me for that?"
Golden eyes; black-silk hair; smooth, dusky skin. The woman was made
for
bedding.
The woman enjoyed her bedding.
With studious care, I kept my eyes above the artful droop in the silk
of her
underrobe, falling away from her breasts. "You did have something to do
with it.
Wasn't it you who offered Del as a wedding present to Hashi, so he'd
give me to
you?"
Lids lowered minutely. Black lashes veiled her eyes. "I didn't want to
lose
you."
"Maybe not. But that's a pretty nasty way of trying to keep me,
wouldn't you
say? It nearly got me castrated."
She sat upright stiffly. "That wasn't my fault! How was I to know Hashi
would be
so annoyed?"
Annoyed. Interesting word: annoyed. I'd have put it more strongly,
considering
the penalty Hashi demanded in retribution for me sleeping with a woman
who slept
with whomever she liked--and was widely known for it. Hashi himself had
known.
I lifted eyebrows. "Are you sleeping with Esnat?"
"Of course I am." Elamain's tone was matter-of-fact. "Hashi's dead... I
had to
retain my position somehow."
"Sons don't often marry their father's wives."
"I don't have to marry him, Tiger. I only have to sleep with him. Esnat
is--"
She paused.
"A fool?" I supplied.
She made a gesture of casual acknowledgment with one graceful hand.
Then
stretched the hand toward me. "I was hoping you were in Iskandar. Come
to me,
Tiger. Let us rekindle what we once shared."
So much for Sabo's assurances. "I can't, Elamain."
Silk slid lower. "Why not? Have I gotten old and fat?"
She knew better. Elamain was no fatter than she'd been a year and a
half before,
when I'd helped rescue her caravan from borjuni. And though she was
that much
older, it didn't show anywhere. She was a lovely, alluring woman.
And I'm not made of stone.
I cleared my throat hastily. "Sabo said Esnat sent for me."
Elamain pouted again. "Because I told him to."
"Sabo said that, too. So, now I'm here. Was it business you wanted,
Elamain...
or something else entirely?"
Elamain stopped pouting. Her eyes lost their seductive cast and took on
another
expression. Elamain was thinking.
A woman like Elamain--thinking--can often be dangerous.
"There is someone else," she said.
"Maybe," I agreed warily. "Maybe it's just that I don't feel like--"
Elamain didn't let me finish. "No man has ever not felt like it," she
snapped.
"Not with me."
The situation took on an entirely new complexion. Now I was curious;
women are
often baffling creatures. "Are you serious?" I asked. "No one? Ever? No
matter
the circumstances?"
"Of course I'm serious." Elamain wasn't amused. "No man--not a single
man--has
ever said no to me."
"And that means something to you."
Color bloomed in her cheeks. Lovely, dusky cheeks. "How would you feel
if you
ever lost a sword-dance?"
"We're not talking about a sword-dance, Elamain... we're talking about
you
sleeping with men. One has nothing to do with the other."
"One is very like the other," she retorted, "and not in the obviously
vulgar
sense, either."
"Elamain--"
She rose. Straightened flowing silks. Crossed the carpeted floor to me.
"There's
someone else," she declared. "A man like you would never say no
otherwise."
It intrigued me. "A man like me? What is a man like me like?"
"A man like you is all man; why should he say no?"
Elamain had a point, although it didn't please me. "Are we all so
predictable?"
"Most of you," she agreed. "Not a single man I've ever met--except
Sabo, and
other eunuchs--has been blind to the bedding, and what it might be
like. You
certainly weren't."
No.
"And no man," she went on, "whom I have invited into my bed has ever
refused the
chance. Even men with sworn women, or men with wives at home."
No, I imagine not. She's that kind of woman.
Elamain frowned. "Except you."
"I'm not blind," I told her. "I'm not even deaf. And I'm certainly not
a
eunuch."
"But you won't go to bed with me."
I sighed. "Elamain--"
"Because there is someone else."
I said it clearly: "Yes."
A faint crease marred her brow. Then, abruptly, it cleared. "When you
rescued my
caravan, there was a woman with you... a Northerner. You don't mean
her, do you?
That woman who thinks she's a man?"
I cleared my throat. "First of all, Del doesn't think she's a man. She
doesn't
want to be a man; why should she? She's more than adequate as a woman
..." I
paused. "More than adequate."
Elamain was shocked. "She's nearly as tall as you! Much taller than
me!"
"I like tall women." I thought about where I was, and whom Elamain
could call
on: a tanzeer with authority. "But I like shorter women, too."
"She's white-haired. She looks old."
"She's not white-haired, she's blonde. It bleaches out, down here. And
she
certainly isn't old; she's several years younger than you."
Uh-oh. Shouldn't have said that.
Elamain glared. "I've seen her, Tiger. She looks like a man with
breasts."
Unfortunately, I laughed.
Hands went to hips. "She does. She's huge. And she carries a sword...
do you
know what that means?"
It took effort not to laugh more. "No, Elamain. Why don't you tell me?"
"It means she hates men. It means she wants to kill them. She probably
wants to
kill you."
"Sometimes," I agreed. "She nearly did, once."
Golden eyes narrowed. "You are teasing me."
I grinned. "A little. And you deserve it. Haven't you learned by now
not all men
appreciate hearing a woman yowl?"
Elamain lifted an eyebrow. "I'd rather hear the Sandtiger growl."
I smiled. "Not this time."
"You did before."
"That was before."
The crease in her brow came back. "Is she really that good?"
Patiently, I explained, "There's more to it than that."
"Oh?"
"But you wouldn't understand."
Elamain considered it lengthily. And then smiled--as only Elamain can
smile--shook back her silky, sooty curtain of unbound hair, took a
single smooth
step forward to merge her body with mine. And Elamain knows how to
merge.
"Then," she said huskily, "I will have to apply myself."
Hoolies, she's making it hard.
I was four steps away from the doorway when a man came out of an alley
and
stepped into my path. A slender, youngish man with dust-colored hair
straying
out from beneath a wilted turban. He wore plain white gauze, now
smudged and
soiled. There were spots on his chin, which tried to bury itself in his
neck.
His eyes were a medium brown. His manner hesitant.
"Sandtiger?" he asked. When I nodded, he looked relieved. "I'm Esnat,"
he said.
Esnat. Esnat. Guilt made me hot. Or maybe it was the sunburn.
"Esnat," I answered; a stupid sort of answer.
He didn't seem to mind. "Esnat," he agreed. "I'm tanzeer of Sasqaat."
Elamain's sleeping with this?
Well, Elamain would.
I cleared my throat. "So Sabo said."
"Yes. I told him to."
Esnat was not the sort of man I expected Hashi to sire. He was
diffident,
polite, altogether too unassuming for a man in his position. Which
meant, I
thought resignedly, Elamain had free rein. He only thought he ruled.
I thought about Elamain. "So," I said, "can I help you?"
Esnat glanced pointedly past me to the doorway, which made me feel even
hotter.
Then gestured for me to follow.
I did not, at first, intend to. After all, I'd just come from Elamain,
and who
knows what Esnat might do. He was Hashi's son; appearances don't always
count.
But his manner remained much the same: hesitant, polite, almost too
unassuming.
He was a very humble man--or else a clever one.
I stayed where I was. "What is it?" I asked clearly.
Esnat stopped, came back a few steps, looked worriedly past me again.
"Will you
come?" he hissed. "I don't want her to hear."
I didn't move. "Why not?"
He fixed medium brown eyes on me and glared. It was the first
expression of any
passion I'd seen on his face. "Because, you lumbering fool, how am I
supposed to
plot in secret if I'm not in secret?"
Lumbering fool, was I? Well, at least it sounded more like a man who
really was
tanzeer. Or believed he was.
I remembered I had my jivatma. I went with Esnat.
Not far. Only around the corner, where he sheltered in a deep doorway.
It left
me out in the street, but since I wasn't yet part of the secret I
decided it
didn't really matter.
Esnat cast quick glances around the street behind me. "All right," he
said
finally, "I sent for you because--"
"Elamain sent for me."
He only nodded, clearly impatient. "Yes, yes, of course she did... I
wanted you,
too, but I've learned it's easier to let her think she runs things."
His manner
was matter-of-fact, very like Elamain's when speaking of Esnat's
status. "And I
know what she wanted, too... but you don't know what I want."
I shifted stance a little.
Esnat saw it; smiled. "That's what I want," he said.
I froze. "You want what?"
"You," he said plainly. "I want to hire you."
I relaxed a little. For a moment... hoolies, the moment wasn't yet
gone. "Why do
you want to hire me?" And delicately: "What for?"
"Your sword," Esnat said.
I wasn't born yesterday. "Excuse me," I said. "What sword are we
talking about?"
Esnat scowled at me blankly. And then understood, and gaped. "Not that,
you
fool... I want to hire a sword-dancer to do sword-dancerly things."
I wished he'd stop calling me a fool. Particularly since it was what
everyone
called him--and I didn't think Esnat and I were anything alike.
"Sword-dancerly things," I echoed. "What sort of things are those?"
Esnat blinked at me. "Don't you know?"
We were, I began to think, talking at cross-purposes. Time for plain
speech.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Help me win a woman."
"I thought you were already sleeping with Elamain."
"Not that woman... a woman I can marry."
I grinned. "Then send Elamain away."
Esnat laughed. "No, not quite yet--Elamain serves a purpose. For now.
And
besides, how else would a man like me get a woman like that in my bed?"
He wasn't that bad... well, maybe he was. But still--"You're a tanzeer,
Esnat...
you can have any woman." I amended it quickly, thinking of Del. "Almost
any
woman."
"Any I bought, yes... even Elamain is bought." His smile wasn't amused.
"The
issue isn't Elamain. The issue is Sabra."
I nodded slowly. "And I'm supposed to help you win her. How?"
"By dancing, of course."
With effort, I retained my patience. "Esnat, my dancing isn't going to
help you
marry this woman."
"Of course it will," he assured me. "She'll know I'm serious about
courting
her." He paused, observing my frown. "Don't you see? It used to be when
a man
wanted to impress a woman, he fought her other suitors. Whoever won,
won the
woman. Well, I'm a tanzeer, and we don't do those things. It's stupid
to risk
ourselves when there are sword-dancers to do it for us."
I ignored the implication. "You said something like that before."
"And I meant it. This will be a proxy dance. A way of getting her
attention, of
making her see my point. So she'll accept me as a suitor."
Maybe this was the way tanzeers got married. At any rate, it wasn't
really my
business. Something else was. "How much are you offering?"
Esnat told me.
"You're sandsick!" I exploded.
"No. I'm serious."
I stared at him. "That much for a woman?"
Esnat looked right back. "Isn't a woman worth it?"
He was as bad as Del. "You're putting a lot at stake," I told him.
"What if I
lose? Will you want my gehetties, then?"
"Your gehett--oh." He laughed out loud, which didn't amuse me much.
"No,
no--that was my father's style. I'd just as soon you kept your
gehetties,
Sandtiger... I don't need any more eunuchs."
"What if I lose?" I repeated. "You're offering a lot if I win. What
happens if I
lose?"
Esnat's smile died. "You won't lose," he said. "I saw that sword."
I began to understand. "You're not such a fool after all."
Esnat's eyes glinted. "I let them think I am. It makes it easier. If
they have
no expectations, I don't have to waste my time trying to live up to
them. I can
do what I want. What I want is Sabra." He shrugged. "I am not the sort
of man
women notice. You know that by looking at me; I know that by looking at
me."
"Oh, I don't know--"
"Don't try to be kind, Sandtiger." He shrugged a little, tucking hands
inside
wide sleeves. "A woman like Sabra will not notice me, either, unless I
find a
way to make her look. She's wealthy herself; coin will not impress her.
I need
help. I need an advantage. I need a way of making her see me, to see
what I can
offer." He looked a little above my left shoulder. "That sword," he
said
plainly, "can give me my advantage. News of it is all over Iskandar.
Every
tanzeer will want it, and you. But if I hire the man who carries that
sword ..."
Esnat smiled happily. "I can win Sabra's regard."
Men have done more for less. "You knew," I said. "You knew if you
baited the
hook with Elamain, I'd come at once. And you would buy my service
before anyone
else could offer."
"I have learned," Esnat said, "to strike before anyone else. To do the
unexpected. To anticipate certain things... things like magical
swords."
"You couldn't have anticipated this sword."
"Well, no, not exactly," he agreed judiciously, "but I have made it a
practice
to be aware ..." Brown eyes were shrewd. "Will you hire yourself to
me?"
It would be easy enough, I thought, even with a possessed jivatma I
didn't want
to use. I am good, very good; if I wasted no time at all, fighting to
win
instead of dance, it could be over immediately. And I wouldn't risk
hurting
anyone, meanwhile making a huge profit.
But I liked Esnat. Slowly, I shook my head. "I admire your intentions,
but
you're offering too much."
Esnat's eyes took on anxious appeal. "Don't you think you're worth it?"
I shrugged. "What I'm worth doesn't really matter. I just think this is
too
much. I don't want to beggar you. There'd be nothing left over for
Sabra."
Esnat grinned. "If you want to win the game, you have to be willing to
lose it."
Hoolies, this was ridiculous. But if that's the way he felt... "All
right," I
agreed at last, "I'll accept your terms. You make it hard not to."
Esnat smiled happily. "I'll see to sending the challenge. The dance
will be in
two days."
There was nothing left to say. I turned to walk away.
Esnat's voice stopped me. "Did you find the bait to your liking?"
I didn't bother to look around. "Ask Elamain."


Eleven
The walk back through Iskandar's teeming bazaar was odd. There were
still
hundreds of people, all jammed together in the alleyways and streets,
but the
feel of it was different. The smell of it was different.
At first, elbowing my way through clusters of people gathered here and
there at
stalls, or talking together in groups, I thought it was simply that
there were
more of them. And then I realized, as I worked my way more deeply into
the
center of the city, it had nothing to do with numbers. It had to do
with
emotions. I could actually taste them: anticipation, impatience, a
tense
expectancy.
Puzzled, I glanced around. And knew almost at once what part of the
feeling was.
The city was empty of tribes. It hadn't been so the day before. People
of the
desert had walked freely throughout the city, doing much the same as
the others:
looking, talking, buying. But now the tribes were gone. Only the others
remained.
Also tanzeers, and their guards, filling narrow streets.
"This isn't right," I muttered, pushing my way through the crowd.
Nearby, someone spoke of the Oracle, discussing divinity. A listener
disagreed;
an argument ensued. I don't know who won.
Nearby, someone spoke of the jhihadi and the changes promised the
South. That a
man with a newborn power could unite the Southron tribes, then change
the sand
to grass.
I shook my head as I walked. It was impossible.
At last I made my way through and went to find Del, to tell her about
Esnat and
the dance I'd accepted. But discovered she was gone.
Lena looked up from cooking. "Some men came by earlier, looking for
you."
"Oh?"
"They said they represented a tanzeer named Hadjib, who wanted to hire
you."
I shook my head. "Don't know him."
Lena's expression was odd. "They said their employer had heard about
your
sword."
So it began. Everyone wanted the power. "Where's Del?"
"She went to the circles, with Alric. She said she had a sword-dance."
Foreboding was swift and painful. "She said she'd wait here for me."
"No, she didn't." Lena grinned. "She said she might be here."
I glared down at her. "It isn't fair," I complained. "You women always
protect
one another."
Lena's brows rose. "Is that what Elamain does?"
I blinked. "She told you about Elamain?"
"A little." Lena's smile didn't waver. "I've known her kind before."
I had no more time for Elamain or her kind. "Never mind, it doesn't
matter--"
And then I broke it off as something occurred to me. "Hoolies--she
wouldn't.
Would she? Would she?" I stared at Alric's wife. "She wouldn't
challenge Ajani
without telling me."
Lena looked right back. "Why don't you go and see?"
But I was already gone.
He was big. He was blond. I'd never seen him before.
Oh, hoolies, bascha... you said you wouldn't... not with him--he wasn't
worth a
circle... you said he wasn't worth it... you said you wouldn't do it--
Maybe it isn't Ajani.
Don't let this be Ajani.
As always, she'd drawn a crowd. Most were sword-dancers, which was to
be
expected; many were tanzeers; the rest were simply people. Southroners
mostly,
with a Northerner here and there.
Don't tease him, bascha... just get it over with.
My belly knotted up. My hands itched for a sword. My eyes wanted to
shut; I
wouldn't let them do it. I made myself watch.
He was not particularly good, but neither was he bad. His patterns were
open and
loose, lacking proper focus, but he was big enough to do damage if he
ever got a
stroke through. I doubted that would happen; Del's defense is too good.
Hurry up, bascha.
I wet dry lips. Bit into a cheek. Felt the tickle of new sweat under
arms and
dribbling down temples.
Oh, bascha, please.
I thought again of Staal-Ysta. Of the circle. Of the dance we'd had to
dance,
before the watching voca. Before the eyes of her daughter. No one was
there for
me. No one thought of me.
Except for the woman I faced.
Then, I hadn't felt helpless. Used, yes; tricked, certainly. But not
helpless. I
knew Del would never go for the kill, any more than I would. And we
hadn't; not
really. That had taken the sword. A thirsty, nameless jivatma demanding
to be
blooded.
Now, I felt helpless. I stood on the rim of the crowd watching Del
dance and was
conscious only of fear. Not of her skill, not of her grace, not of her
flawless
patterns. Only of my fear.
Would it always be like this?
Someone moved next to me. "I taught the bascha well."
I didn't look. I didn't have to. I knew the broken voice; the familiar
arrogance. "She taught herself, Abbu. With help from Staal-Ysta."
"And some from you, I think." Abbu Bensir smiled as I chanced a quick
glance at
him. "I won't deny your skill, or sully my own in the doing. We learned
from the
same shodo."
I watched Del again. She had recovered quickness, timing, finesse. Her
strokes
were firm and sure, her patterns artlessly smooth. But she wasn't
trying to kill
him.
I frowned. "Then this can't be Ajani."
Abbu, startled, looked at the man in the circle. "Ajani? No, that's
not. I don't
know who that is."
I turned sharply. "You know him?"
"Ajani? Yes. He rides both sides of the border." He shrugged. "A man of
many
parts."
The phrase stopped me a moment. "A man of many parts." I knew I'd heard
it
before. It had to do with the jhihadi; something the Oracle had said--
No time for that now. "Is he here? Ajani?"
Abbu shrugged. "Possibly."
The sound of the forgotten sword-dance faded. "Abbu--is he here in
Iskandar?"
Abbu Bensir looked straight at me. Saw how intent I was. "Possibly," he
repeated. "I haven't seen him yet, but that doesn't mean he's not here.
No more
than it means he is."
"But you'd know him if you saw him."
Abbu frowned. "Yes. I told you; I know the man."
"What does he look like?"
"He's a Northerner. Blond, blue-eyed, fair... taller even than you and
heavier
in bone. A little older, I think. And a little younger than me." Abbu
grinned.
"Do you want to ask him to dance? He's not a sword-dancer."
"I know what he is," I retorted, staring grimly out at Del.
Abbu looked also. "If I see him, I'll tell him you want him... ah--
there, she's
won. And no disgrace in the doing."
Blades clashed a final time. The Northerner, patterns destroyed, reeled
out of
the circle, which meant the dance was forfeit. He stood on the ruined
perimeter
and stared in shock at Del.
Who was, as always, contained, not glorying in her win.
Relief was a tangible thing. "I don't want him," I said. "And don't
tell him
anything."
Abbu studied me. "Is this an old hatred?"
Now I could give him my full attention. "I said: it isn't anything."
He rubbed thoughtfully at the notch in the ruined arch of his nose. "We
are not
friends," he said, "this Northerner and I. I know him; that is all."
It didn't really matter. Even if Abbu was lying and he and Ajani were
friends,
advance warning would do very little. One way or another, Del and I
would find
him.
I looked out at Del, who was tending to her sword. "What would you call
a man,"
I began, "who raids the unguarded caravans of families, killing
everyone he
finds except those he can sell as slaves. Those who are only children,
because
they offer less trouble. Those who are Northern children, because they
fetch a
higher price on the slaveblock in the South."
Abbu looked also, and for a long time. Dark eyes were fathomless,
masking what
he thought. When he did speak, his voice held no emotion. "What I would
call him
doesn't matter; what matters is what I call her."
Something moved deep in my belly. "And what is that, Abbu?"
"Sword-dancer," he said huskily, then shouldered his way through the
crowd.
I turned back, intending to go to Del; was stopped by a hand on my
shoulder.
"Sandtiger!" the hand's owner cried. "I didn't know you had a son. Why
didn't
you tell me? And such a fine speaker, too--the boy was born to be a
skjald."
Red hair, blue eyes, flowing mustaches. "Rhashad,"
I said blankly. Then, with exceptional clarity, "Where--is--he?"
He jerked a thumb. "Over in that cantina. He's right in the middle of a
story
about his father, the South's greatest sword-dancer... I didn't offer
to argue,
since the boy's proud of you, but he might recall there is me, after
all, and
Abbu Bensir--"
I cut him off. "--and your mother, no doubt." I scowled briefly out at
Del, who
was taking her own sweet time. "Over in that cantina, you say...? Well,
I think
it's time I met this son." I sucked air. "Del!"
She heard me. Saw me. Made her way across the circle. Her face was a
trifle
flushed and pale hair was damp at the temples, but she appeared no
worse for
wear. "What is it?" she asked quietly, as if to reprove me for noise.
I had no time for it. "Come on. Rhashad says this fool who's been going
around
telling everyone he's my son is over in that cantina." I waved a hand
in the
proper direction.
Del looked over at it. "Go ahead," she suggested. "I have to claim my
winnings."
"Can't they wait?"
"Yours never do."
Rhashad beamed at Del. "Won the dance, did you? A delicate girl like
you?"
Del, who is not precisely delicate, knew the manner for what it was.
And since
she liked Rhashad--don't ask me why--she was less inclined to argue. "I
won,"
she agreed. "Do you want to dance with me next?"
Blue eyes widened. "Against you? Never! I'd hate to crack those fragile
bones."
Del showed him her teeth. "My bones are very hardy."
"Talk about your bones some other time," I suggested. "Are you coming
with me?"
"No," Del said. "I told you that already. Go ahead; I'll catch up."
Rhashad made a grand gesture. "I'll show her the way."
Hoolies, it wasn't worth it. I went off to see my-son.
The cantina was small. It was, after all, culled from the rest of the
ruined
city, which meant it offered little in the way of amenities. There was
a
makeshift blanket roof, which gave its customers shade in which to
drink, but
that was about it.
I lingered in the doorway, looking for my son.
Dark-haired, blue-eyed, nineteen or twenty. Who couldn't ride very
well, judging
by his mount. Who didn't carry a sword, having a tongue instead, and
liking to
use it more than was good for him.
Not much to go on. But I thought it would do, under the circumstances.
There were men gathered in the cantina. No chairs, but hastily-cobbled
stools
and benches were scattered about the room. In the center, on a stool,
sat a man
with his back to the door; never a good thing. But plainly he wasn't
concerned
about who might come through. He had an audience.
The voice was young and accented. He obviously reveled in the attention
his
story gained; everyone was enthralled. "--and so I, too, found myself
the
destroyer of a great cat, just as my father was, the Sandtiger--you all
know of
him--and so I marked my victory by taking the cat's claws and making
myself this
necklace." A hand went to his neck, rattled something briefly. "It was,
I
thought, a most opportune and appropriate meeting between this great
cat and the
Sandtiger's cub--such is in the blood--and when at last I meet my
father I will
be most pleased to show him the claws and tell him what I've done.
Surely he
will be proud."
The listeners nodded as one: surely the Sandtiger would be.
Except I wasn't. Not proud. What I was, was--hoolies, I don't know what
I was. I
felt very odd.
"Of course," the boy added, "I kept my face pretty."
The men in the cantina laughed.
Is this my son? I wondered. Could I have sired this mouth?
I left the door and moved quietly into the room, saying nothing,
pausing behind
the young man. There wasn't much to see: dark brown hair brushing his
shoulders;
a vivid green-striped burnous; eloquent, graceful hands of a different
color
than mine. He was tanned, yes, but the sun marked him differently.
Darker than a
Northerner. Lighter than a Southroner; lighter even than me. And there
was the
foreign accent, coloring his Southron.
Why wait any longer?
I drew a steadying breath. "Where I come from," I said quietly, "a man
doesn't
name a father unless he's certain of the truth."
He started to turn on his stool, swinging around easily. His face was
young,
open; a bit, as he'd said, on the pretty side. "Oh, but I am certain...
I am the
Sandtiger's son--" Dark blue eyes abruptly widened in belated
recognition.
"Oh?" I asked softly.
The young man rose in a single smooth movement. I didn't even see it
coming.
"Do you know," the boy cried, "how long I've been waiting for this?"
I am big enough and strong enough to withstand most single punches,
especially
when they come from a smaller, slighter man. But there was a stool
behind me,
and as the blow connected with my jaw I spread both feet for balance
and
promptly fell over the thing.
It wasn't a graceful fall. It was an embarrassing fall.
And Del was there to see it.
I sat up, dragged my sheathed, harnessed blade into a more comfortable
position,
sat there swearing. Ignored the staring audience and looked around for
the boy,
who'd headed for the doorway. He was gone, but she wasn't.
Del drifted into the cantina. Her arrival did have one advantage: now
they gaped
at her instead of gaping at me.
"Fatherhood," she commented, "can be a painful thing."
I got up, untangling my legs from the stool and kicking the thing
aside. "That
lying Punja-mite isn't my son... what he is, is a charlatan!" I scowled
at her.
"You saw who he was!"
"Yes," Del agreed.
"I'll kill him," I promised.
One of the men spoke up. "You'd kill your own son?"
I glared at him. "He isn't my own son. He isn't even Southron."
The man shrugged a little. "You don't look Southron, either." And then
reconsidered it. "Maybe a half, or a quarter. But you're not a full
Southroner.
There are other things in the stewpot."
For some reason, it offended me. Usually I don't much care what I look
like, or
what people think of me. In my business it doesn't matter where I was
born, or
to how many races. Just that I can dance. And win; I'm paid to win.
I glared. "At least I was raised here. The Punja is my home; that boy's
from
somewhere else. He's a lying, scheming foreigner, using my name to gain
him
one."
The Southroner shrugged. "No harm in that."
No harm. No harm. I'd give him "no harm."
"Tiger," Del said quietly. "Is it worth fighting over?"
No. Not here. And not him; who I wanted was Bellin the Cat.
"Panjandrum," I muttered disgustedly, and stalked out of the cantina.


Twelve
Del's tone was quiet. "Are you angry because he lied? Or because it
isn't true?"
We sat in one of the broken rooms in one of the broken buildings
doubling as a
cantina. Because there was no proper roof the full moon had free rein,
painting
the room silver. Dripping candles and smoky lanterns added
illumination. There
were no proper tables, either, and nothing resembling chairs; merely
bits and
pieces of odds and ends appropriated for things on which to sit, or on
which to
put the liquor. It was very much like the cantina in which I'd
discovered
Bellin.
Masquerading as my son.
I had known all along there was nothing to it. While it wasn't
impossible I'd
sired a son of his age, it was a bit unlikely. At least, unlikely that
the boy
would know enough to tell everyone the Sandtiger had sired him. It
seemed more
likely that if there was a sandtiger cub wandering about the South, he
wouldn't
know who he was.
He wouldn't know who I was.
I sighed. "I don't know."
Del smiled a little. "It bothers you now, doesn't it? You had begun to
think
what it might be like to have a son... begun to think how you'd feel,
seeing
your own immortality; it's what a child is." She hunched a shoulder,
looking at
liquor instead of at me. "I know what it was for me, seeing Kalle, but
I knew I
had a daughter. For you, it was different."
Different. One might say so.
I sighed again, sipped slowly, let aqivi slide down my throat. The
familiar fire
was muted; I was thinking of something else. "He shouldn't have done
it, bascha.
That kind of lie is wrong. If he wants so badly to become a man of
repute--a
panjandrum--he might look for a better way than borrowing someone's
name."
"Or someone's other than yours."
Dull anger stirred. "It took me too long to get it... I won't share it
with
anyone, certainly not with a liar."
"He must have had a reason."
"That foreign-born Punja-mite doesn't need a reason for anything,
remember?" I
said testily. "All he wants is fame. So he decided to borrow mine."
Del's tone was dry. "You have more than enough to share."
"That's not the point. The point is he's been riding around the South
for
hoolies knows how long telling hoolies knows how many people he's my
son." I
heard the passion in my voice and purposely damped it. "I just don't
like it."
Del sipped her wine. "If you find him, you can tell him."
"I'll find him," I promised. "He can't hide from me."
Her mouth twitched slightly. "He seems to have done a good job of it
for the
last several weeks. I doubt you'll find him again unless he wants you
to."
"I'll find him," I repeated.
A body arrived at our low "table."
"Well, Sandtiger," he said. "I hear you've been hired to dance the day
after
tomorrow."
I glanced up: Rhashad. "The word's gone around already?" Thinking Esnat
hadn't
wasted much time bragging about his suit.
The red-haired Borderer grinned. "All over Iskandar. Doesn't take long
when the
Sandtiger is involved." He sat down on the floor, not bothering with a
"stool,"
and leaned against the crumbling wall. A sun-spotted hand, waving,
signaled for
more aqivi. "I plan to put money on it."
I shrugged. "Nothing to bet on, yet...I don't have an opponent."
Rhashad displayed big teeth in the shadow of ruddy mustaches. "Could
even be
me."
I didn't even blink. "Your mother wouldn't like it."
"Why not?"
"She wouldn't want you to lose."
"Hah!" Rhashad had played this game before. "I wouldn't be so certain
of
winning, Sandtiger... word is also making the rounds that you're not
the dancer
you once were."
I drank sparingly. "Oh?"
Rhashad waited until the recently summoned aqivi jug arrived, then
splashed a
measure into a cup. "Oh, yes. It's quite well known. The Sandtiger,
rumor says,
hasn't danced in months. He's lost his speed, his edge... lost a lot of
his
fire. Because of a wound, I hear... a cut not fully healed."
I smiled insincerely. "You've been talking to Abbu. Or listening to
him; that's
worse."
Rhashad shrugged. "You know Abbu Bensir. Part of the reason he's who he
is, is
because of the dance up here." The Borderer tapped his head. "You've
never been
a victim; you don't know what it's like."
"Abbu says whatever he likes." I drank more aqivi. "You know rumor as
well as I,
Rhashad. How many times have we heard how old and slow someone is--or
how young
and undisciplined--and discovered how wrong we were?" I grinned,
showing teeth
white as his own. "Sounds to me like someone--Abbu, maybe?--is trying
to force
better odds."
The Borderer nodded. "Not a bad attempt, since you don't look as
healthy as I've
seen you look." He grinned back pointedly. "And yes, I know rumor...
like the
ones about this Oracle fellow and the jhihadi."
I sighed. "What now?"
He shrugged. "Just that this Oracle fellow is supposed to show up here
in the
next couple of days. Tomorrow, maybe the next day. Maybe the day after
that."
"They've been saying that for days."
"This time the rumors are a bit more specific." Rhashad sucked down
aqivi. "I
figure it doesn't matter. Except, of course, it'll have some effect on
our
coin-pouches."
"Why?" Del asked. "What has the Oracle--or the jhihadi--have to do with
money?"
"There's likely to be a war." He sat against the wall with legs
splayed, combing
mustaches with his fingers. "Haven't you seen the change? The tribes
have all
but disappeared--the warriors, that is... word is all the tribesmen
have
gathered in the foothills to welcome this Oracle fellow. And then
they're
supposed to bring him down into Iskandar, so he can name the jhihadi."
I nodded thoughtfully. "I noticed things felt different. The tanzeers
are hiring
armed men."
"And a few assassins." Rhashad's teeth showed briefly. "That's never
been my
style, but it didn't stop him from asking."
I frowned. "Who asked what?"
"A tanzeer asked me to help assassinate the Oracle." Rhashad gestured.
"Not in
so many words, of course, but that was the gist of the talk."
I rubbed at gritty eyes. "I thought it might come to that. They can't
afford to
let him live... especially if he's rousing the warriors like this.
They'll try
to kill him before he does any more harm."
Del shook her head. "That will cause a war."
Rhashad pursed his lips. "A small one, yes... but without the Oracle to
rouse
them, the tribes will never remain united. They'll end up fighting
themselves."
"And the tanzeers will win." I nodded. '"So, they're hiring sword-
dancers to
fill out their guard, planning to send them against the tribes."
"Seems likely." Rhashad drank. "I'm not an assassin. I told the
tanzeer's man
I'd hire on to dance, but not to murder a holy prophet. He wasn't
interested in
that, so I still don't have a job."
Del looked at me. "You have a job."
"I hired on to dance," I emphasized. "Believe me, bascha, the last
thing I'd do
is get myself tangled up in a holy war, or an assassination. I don't
mind
risking myself in a circle--since it really isn't a risk--" that for
Rhashad's
benefit, "--but I won't hire on to assassinate anyone. Let alone this
Oracle."
Rhashad's blue eyes glinted. " 'A man of many parts.' "
Del frowned. "What?"
"Oh, that's one of the things they're saying about the jhihadi. That,
and his
special 'power.' Since nobody knows who--or what--he is, they're making
up
anything."
I looked at Del. "That's how Abbu described Ajani."
"Abbu described him ..." Del let it go, interpreting other things. "So,
Abbu
knows Ajani. And does he ride with him, too? Both sides of the border?"
"I don't think so, bascha."
"How do you know? I danced with him; I have learned a little about him.
Abbu
could be--"
"--many things, but he's not a borjuni. He's not a murderer, or a man
who sells
children." I kept my tone even. "He said he knew Ajani. He also said
they were
not friends. Do you claim everyone you meet as a friend? Or are they
all
enemies?"
Rhashad, not much of a diplomat, didn't sense the danger. "I'm not an
enemy,
bascha... I'd much rather be a friend."
Del's tone cut through his laughter. "Do you know Ajani?"
Rhashad stared at her. Amusement died away. "I don't know him. I know
of him.
What's he to you?"
Del was very succinct. "A man I plan to kill."
Ruddy brows arched up. "Oh, now, bascha--"
"Don't," I said clearly.
He is slow, but he gets there. "Oh," he said at last. And then went off
in
another direction. "You danced with Abbu Bensir?"
"Sparred," she answered briefly.
I grinned. "That's what she calls it. Ask Abbu about it: he'll tell you
he was
teaching her."
"Abbu wouldn't teach a woman." Rhashad eyed her thoughtfully. "I would,
though.
Do you still need a shodo?"
Del's tone was cold. "What I need is Ajani."
I set down the jug of aqivi. "What I think you need--"
But I didn't finish it. Something intruded.
It was, at first, unidentifiable. It was noise, nothing more; an odd,
alien
noise. I thought immediately of hounds, then dismissed it impatiently.
It didn't
sound like that; besides, there were no hounds any more.
Rhashad stirred uneasily, leaning forward from the wall to alter
posture and
balance. He did it without thinking; ingrained habits die hard. "What
the
hoolies is that?"
I shook my head. Del didn't move.
The noise renewed itself in the silence of the cantina. No one spoke.
No one
moved. All anyone did was listen.
It was a high-pitched, keening wail. It echoed in the foothills, then
crept onto
the plateau and into the city itself.
"Tribes," I said intently, as the noise abruptly changed.
The keening wail altered pitch. Hundreds of voices joined in exultant
ululation.
Rhashad's eyes were fixed. "Hoolies," he breathed in awe.
Del looked at me. "You know the tribes."
It was an invitation to explain. But there was little I could say. "If
I had to
guess," I murmured finally, "I'd say it's the Oracle. They're paying
tribute to
him... or else preparing for an attack."
"Foolhardy," Rhashad muttered. "They'd have to come up the rim trail.
The
plateau is too easy to defend."
I flicked a glance at him. "Who's camped at the head of that trail?"
"Tribes," Del murmured. "But still, I think they're outnumbered."
"We don't even know their numbers. Some of the warriors may have come
through
here every day, but most have camped elsewhere. The families have been
here...
with a few men to protect them."
Rhashad nodded. "To make things look normal."
I rose and kicked back my stool. "I think we should go back. Alric's
probably
with Lena and the girls, but you never know."
Even as we moved, the ululation died. The absence was eerie and
strangely
unsettling. Then everyone in the cantina was heading out the door.
"Come on, bascha," I said. "I don't like the way this feels--like
something's
going to happen."
Del followed me into the street.
Something did happen. It waited until we were almost all the way back
to the
house we shared with Alric, giving us time to breathe, but then it grew
impatient. The time for waiting was done.
Del and I heard it before we saw it. Hoofbeats, then frenzied shouting.
About
four streets over.
"The bazaar," Del said, unsheathing Boreal. In the moonlight, the blade
was
white.
I unsheathed my own, hating it all the while.
In the bazaar, people gathered. They hugged the shadows of empty stalls
and
dwellings uneasily, disliking uncertainty, but not knowing what else to
do. In
the middle of the bazaar, in the city's precise center, tribesmen had
gathered.
Not many; I counted six, all mounted and ready to ride. We outnumbered
them
vastly.
A seventh horse was mounted, but not in the usual way. The man who rode
it was
dead.
"What are they?" Del asked.
"A couple of Vashni. A Hanjii. A Tularain. Even two Salset."
"Do you know the Salset?"
"I knew them. They didn't know a chula."
A stirring ran through the crowd. One of the tribesmen--a Vashni--
continued his
harangue, pointing at the body, then gesticulated sharply. Clearly, he
was
unhappy.
"What is he saying?" Del asked, since he spoke pure Desert in the
dialect of the
Punja.
I released a noisy breath. "He's giving us a warning--no, not us; he's
warning
the tanzeers. The man--the dead man--crept up to their gathering and
tried to
murder the Oracle, just as Rhashad predicted. Now he's telling the
tanzeers
they're all fools; that the Oracle will live to present the jhihadi to
us, just
as he has promised." I paused, listening. "He says they don't want war.
They
only want what's rightfully theirs."
"The South," Del said grimly.
"And the sand changed to grass."
The warrior stopped shouting. He gestured, and one of the others cut
the ropes
binding the body on the horse. The body fell facedown; it was turned
over
roughly, then stripped of its wrappings to display the bloody nakedness
and its
blatant mutilation.
I must have made a sound. Del looked at me sharply. "Do you know him?"
"Sword-dancer," I answered tightly. "Not a very good one--and not a
very smart
one--but someone I knew nonetheless." I drew in a deep breath. "He
didn't
deserve that."
"He tried to kill the Oracle."
"Stupid, stupid Morab." I touched her on the arm. "Let's go, bascha.
The message
has been delivered."
"Will the tanzeers listen?"
"No. This just means they'll have to look to their own men to find
another
assassin. No sword-dancer will take the job; I'm surprised Morab did."
"Maybe he wanted the money."
I slanted her a disgusted glance. "It'll be hard to spend it now."
Even as Del and I went back into the shadows, the hoofbeats sounded
again. I
knew without having to look: the warriors were riding out. And Morab
was dead
and gone, lost to greed and stupidity. Someone would bury him; already
the
gawkers gathered.
The darkness was thick and deep in the caverns of recessed doors. Del
and I knew
better; we avoided those we could without exposing ourselves too much
by using
too much of the street. A compromise was best. Compromise--and a sword.
And yet the sword didn't help much when the thing slashed across my
vision and
thunked home in the wood of a door jamb but two feet from my face.
"Sorry," a voice said. "I just wanted a little practice."
He should have known better. Not only did the voice tell me who he was,
it told
me where he was. And I went there quickly to find him.
He grinned, stepping smoothly out of a doorway directly across the
street. In
each of his hands was an ax; the third was stuck in the wood.
"Ax," Del said quietly, inspecting the planted weapon as I moved to cut
off its
thrower.
"Oh, I know," I answered lightly, and teased his chin with my blade.
"Wait," Bellin said.
"You wait," I suggested. "What in hoolies do you think you're doing?"
Bellin's tone was disingenuous. "Practicing," he declared.
"Not any more." A flick this way and that; axes spilled out of his
hands. "No,"
I said plainly, as he made a motion to scoop them up.
In the moonlight, his face was young. Almost too young, and too pretty.
The grin
bled away from his mouth. "I knew what I was doing."
"I want to know: why?"
He stared back at me unflinchingly, ignoring stinging hands. "Because I
could,"
he told me. "And because you're you."
Del jerked the ax from the doorjamb and brought it over to me. "He
might have
sheared off your nose."
Bellin the Cat smiled. "I just wanted your attention."
I eyed him assessively, disliking his attitude. Then reached out my
left hand
and caught a wad of cloth at his throat, jamming him back against the
wall.
"You," I said, "are a fool. A lying, conniving fool who's lucky to be
alive. I
should give you a spanking--with three feet of Northern steel."
With my fist tucked up beneath his chin, Bellin's face was less than
happy. But
he didn't sound repentant. "I hit you in the cantina because I had to."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"If I hadn't, they might have begun to suspect me."
"Who is that?" I asked.
"The men I'm riding with."
"The men you're riding with would have required you to hit me? I find
that hard
to believe."
"You don't know them." He swallowed awkwardly. "If you'd remove your
hand from
my throat, I might be able to breathe... and then I could explain."
I let go all at once. "Explain," I said harshly, as Bellin staggered
his way to
regained balance.
He rubbed gingerly at his throat, then set his green-striped robe into
order.
"The story would sound better over a jug of aqivi."
I lifted my blade slightly. "Or over three feet of steel."
Bellin looked past me to Del. Smiled weakly, eyeing the ax in her hand,
then
glanced back at me. "It was your idea."
"My idea--" Abruptly I stepped close, forcing him to back up. The
doorway behind
him was open; Bellin fell in, then through. I followed silently with
Del on my
heels. "My idea, panjandrum?"
"Yes." He stopped and stood his ground. "My axes," he said plaintively.
Del and I didn't move.
Bellin, seeing it, sighed. Rubbed vigorously at his head, which hurt
his cut
hand and mussed his hair, then glared back at me. "You said I could
ride with
you if I found Ajani for you."
Now it was Del's turn. "Have you?" she asked. "Or is this another
trick?"
"No trick," he assured us. "Do you know how many months it took me to
find him?"
"Less than me," she snapped. "What about Ajani?"
Bellin sighed. He was, I realized all over again, no older than
nineteen, maybe
twenty, and a stranger to the South. I didn't know much about him
except he was
seeking fame, and he had a smooth way with his tongue. I was surprised
he was
still alive, that no one had killed him yet.
And then I remembered the axes.
"We're waiting," I said grimly.
Bellin nodded. "Not long after meeting you, I set out to find Ajani. It
was the
condition, you said; I decided to fulfill it."
The ax in Del's hand flashed. "Don't waste time, panjandrum."
He eyed her. Eyed the ax. Considered what it might be like to die by
his own
weapon; at least, I think he did. But it got him talking again.
"You can't just walk into countless towns and settlements asking for
Ajani," he
explained, even though Del, so straightforward, had. "It takes more
than that.
Cleverness, guile, a hint of ingenuity." Briefly, he smiled. "What it
takes is a
man who knows how to fit a story to suit his needs."
"The Sandtiger's son," I murmured.
Bellin nodded. "Who was I, but a stranger? A foreigner, to boot. No one
would
tell me the truth if I said what I really wanted. So I fed them a
story. The
best one I could think of." He touched a shadow at his neck; strung
claws
rattled. "I said I was your son. People talked to me."
"Why?" Del asked harshly. "Why go to so much trouble? You must know we
want no
part of you."
It was blunt, but true. Bellin only shrugged. "But if I told you what
you wanted
to know, you'd think more kindly of me. Stories would make the rounds.
My name
might be mentioned in them."
"Oh, your name is known," I said, "except you stole it from me."
He grinned. "Besides, I might grow on you. I grow on a lot of people.
Once they
get to know me, they're rather fond of me."
Pointedly, Del and I said nothing.
Bellin cleared his throat. '"Using your name made me known, with some
claim to
fame, so I could get some attention. It bought me into places, gave me
a card to
play when--if--Ajani became aware of me, or was made aware of me."
Bellin
shrugged. "It got me what I wanted: hired by Ajani. And it got you what
you
wanted... but more than you ever expected."
Del's tone was curt. "What is that, panjandrum?"
"Ajani is the jhihadi."


Thirteen
"What?" I blurted.
Del managed more. "If you think for one moment we will believe such
nonsense--"
Bellin merely smiled. "It doesn't matter what either of you believe,
only what
everyone else does."
That silenced us a moment; it was too true to ignore.
Then Del got angry. "I don't care what he calls himself. I know what he
is--I
know what he's done."
Bellin interrupted. "But it matters. Can't you see? Ajani is setting
himself up
as the jhihadi. He will make people believe he is; if they believe hard
enough,
he will be the jhihadi, because they'll make him so."
"Do you mean ..." I trailed off a moment, thinking about everything
that had
happened since we'd first heard about the jhihadi. "You're telling us
this
entire charade was Ajani's idea? The Oracle and everything?"
"Impossible," Del said curtly. "Not with the tribes involved. Not with
so many
people ready to name him messiah."
Bellin shrugged. "I don't know anything about Oracles and jhihadis--I'm
a
foreigner, remember? All I know is, Ajani's manipulating the city for
his own
benefit."
I shook my head. "Not the whole city. Not everyone who's here. Not all
the
tribes, the tanzeers, the people who need a god. He can't do all
that... it just
isn't possible."
Bellin sighed. "He's hired men to spread the rumors. I'm one of them.
We've been
going out among all the people dropping hints here and there, making
them think
about it. It was Ajani's idea to say the Oracle would arrive in two
days.
Because then he can point out the jhihadi--"
Del took it up, nodding. "--who really will be Ajani."
Slowly I shook my head. "There's too much to it. Too many people
involved... a
man can't just decide one day he wants to be a messiah, and then
proclaim
himself one. It doesn't happen that way."
"Of course it does." Bellin laughed. "Religion is an odd thing. A very
odd
thing--and Ajani understands that. He understands that if one very
strong man
surrounds himself with equally ambitious men, he can create his own
religion, or
set himself up as a king. All he requires is a core of loyal followers
willing
to do as he asks, no matter what he asks, and then have them spread the
word."
He gestured. "He has that already. And we've all been working the
crowds."
"Sula," I said intently. "She spoke of the histories... of a promised
jhihadi
supposed to change the sand to grass."
Bellin merely shrugged. "If you want to make something seem real, you
borrow
from real things."
It was utterly impossible. Not the idea, which I could understand very
well, but
that he could manage to rouse so many people willing to name him
messiah. "He's
only a borjuni--a Northern-born renegade. He kills people. Kidnaps
children and
sells them into slavery. Are you telling us Ajani has the wherewithal
to create
a new religion and make himself a messiah?"
Bellin's expression was odd. "Have you met Ajani?"
"I have," Del said coldly.
He spread his hands. "Then you know."
"Know what?" she snapped. "How much he enjoys his job?"
Bellin didn't flinch. "If you met him, you know."
"Tell me," I suggested. "I don't know anything."
The young man gestured fluidly with eloquent hands. "In islander-talk
we'd call
him a musarreia, a man who shines very brightly, like the biggest star
in the
sky. I am a sailor also; he could be called the polestar, by which we
navigate."
He frowned, seeing our faces. "Do you understand? He shines more
brightly than
anyone else. He is the flame, we are the moths... Ajani attracts us
all. And for
those who are not wary, the flame will burn us to death."
I couldn't say anything. Del, however, could.
"He's a murderer," she declared. "He killed all of my kinfolk and sold
my
brother to slavers. I was there; I know."
Bellin looked at her. His voice was very quiet, but no less convincing
for it.
"No one else knows that. And by the time he's proclaimed jhihadi, no
one will
believe it."
Del's expression was odd, almost painful to see. It was obvious she
wanted to
call Bellin a liar, to refute everything he'd said, because to admit he
might be
right gave Ajani additional power. She had spent six years of her life
building
a prison for him, some place to keep him whole, until she could deal
with him.
There, he was simply Ajani, the man who'd destroyed her life.
Now he was someone else. Someone no longer in prison. Someone she had
to deal
with in terms other than her own.
It hurt me to see her. It hurt me to see the pain, the struggle to
comprehend.
To confront Ajani again before she ever saw him.
I slid my sword back home, deep into the sheath. "I'll get the axes."
And went
out to retrieve them.
By the time I was back, Bellin was seated on the ground, leaning up
against a
crumbling brick wall. Del paced in silence: pale-haired, black-eyed
cat,
protesting imprisonment.
I gave Bellin his axes. He already had the other. "Are you sure?" I
asked
quietly. "Are you very sure?"
In the moonlight, he looked younger. "I don't know everything. Only
what he's
told us." Axes clinked together as he handled them nimbly. They weren't
heavy
chopping axes, but smaller, more balanced weapons. Deadly all the same.
"I am a
pirate," Bellin said quietly, "a fortuitous mariner. I know how to spot
good
fortune, and I know how to steal it. I've made my way in the world on
quick wits
and a quicker tongue; you've seen the result." His boyish smile was
lopsided.
"I've learned to judge men under their skin. Ajani's is thicker than
most." I
squatted down nearby. "Go on." Bellin sighed. "I don't know this--now
I'm only
guessing. But I've been here for a while, and I think I understand a
little
about how the South works." He glanced briefly at Del, who stood
listening
cloaked in shadows four paces away. "To have power in the South, a man
must be a
tanzeer."
"That's obvious," I said. "Everyone knows that."
"Could a Northerner claim a domain?"
"Probably not," I replied. "Even if he had enough men to win himself a
small
domain, the people would never accept him. Someone else would come
along--someone Southron, and with more men--and depose him forcibly.
He'd lose
his domain, and probably his life."
Del moved into the light. "He's a borjuni," she said. "He has been for
years.
Why would he change now?"
Bellin shrugged. "Ajani is forty years old." It hit home. I rubbed a
scar
thoughtfully. "Time for a change," I said. "Time for something more
permanent."
Scowling, I rose and began to pace myself, walking out speculation.
"All right.
Let's say Ajani is ambitious; we know he is. Let's say he's greedy; we
know
that, too. And let's say he's gifted in the ways of inspiring--and
controlling--men; you say he is." I shrugged. "Then let's also say he
wants more
than a simple domain. Maybe he wants them all--or at least a large
portion."
" 'Let's say,' " Bellin echoed, by way of agreement.
I went on, still pacing. "But how does he go about it? By killing the
enemy; in
this case, enemies." I thought it over. "We know killing is an obvious
means for
Ajani--he's done it often enough--but he also needs a weapon. A
particular kind
of weapon no one else can oppose. And I don't mean a sword."
"People," Del declared, understanding too well.
"People," I agreed. "So many people the tanzeers are forced to give
in."
She came farther into the light, leaving the shadows behind. "He wants
the
tribes. But he knows nothing can unite them. Nothing can make them
willing to
stand together to defeat the Southron tanzeers. You've said that often
enough."
I nodded. "So he uses religion. The tribes are incredibly
superstitious... he
makes himself a messiah, whom the tribes will revere utterly, because
he tells
them the things they most want to hear: he can change the sand to
grass." I
stopped pacing abruptly. "If he is as compelling as Bellin suggests,
they'll do
anything Ajani asks, even start a holy war."
Del's protest was desperate. "He's only one man."
Bellin's tone was soft. "His burning is very bright."
Silence was loud. Then I stated the obvious: "This changes things."
Del shook her head. "I still intend to kill him."
Dryly, I suggested, "Then you'd better do it in secret."
It stung. "I am not an assassin, Tiger. What I do, I do in the
daylight, where
everyone can see."
"Fine," I agreed. "Go ahead, bascha, but you'll start a holy war."
Del made a sharp gesture. "But there is no messiah! There is no
jhihadi. All of
it is a lie!"
"Didn't you listen to Bellin? Didn't you hear what he said?" I jabbed a
thumb in
his direction. "It doesn't matter what we know or what we think... only
what
they believe. If you kill the jhihadi, they'll be after your blood.
They'll be
after everyone's blood."
"Tiger-"
"Do you want that on your head?"
"Do you want me not to kill him?"
"After swearing all those oaths?" I shook my head. "I only want you to
think."
"I've thought." She looked at Bellin. "Where is Ajani?"
The boy didn't hesitate. "Somewhere in the foothills. I don't know
where."
Her eyes narrowed. "And yet you are working for him."
Bellin shrugged. "All I was hired to do was ride into Iskandar and help
spread
rumors. He met with us near Harquhal and told us what to do. Then he
went to
ground to prepare for his divine arrival."
"Can you find out where he is?"
"He'll be here in a day or two."
"You heard Tiger," she said. "For once he's making sense."
How nice of her to say so.
Bellin stood up, tucking axes underneath his robe. He snugged them into
a belt
at the small of his back, where they didn't show at all beneath the
billowy
fabric. "I can try," he said. "But Ajani went to ground on purpose. He
doesn't
want to be found. He wants to remain hidden until the jhihadi can
appear."
I thought about the warriors, gathered in the foothills. Likely they
knew where
he was; possibly he was with them.
Then I thought about dead Morab, lacking so much of his skin and all of
his
genitals.
Not worth the risk.
"We'll think of something," I muttered.
Bellin grinned at me. "So will the Sandtiger's son."


Fourteen
Del was silent all the way back to the dwelling we shared with Alric.
There
wasn't much I could think of to say, to shake her out of the silence;
and
anyway, I was too busy thinking myself.
Ajani. The jhihadi? It just wasn't possible.
And yet Bellin's explanation made perfect sense. Made too much sense;
if all of
it were true, Del's oaths were in serious trouble.
Clearly, she knew it.
We did not go into the dwelling because Del stopped short of the door.
Then
twisted aside and half collapsed against the crumbling wall, arms
folded tightly
beneath her breasts as she leaned.
"Six years," she said tightly. "Six years they've been dead--six years
I've been
dead. ..." She rolled her head against the wall in futile, painful
denial. "A
messiah--a messiah... how can he do such a thing?"
"Del--"
"He's mine. Always mine. It's what I stayed alive for. It's how I
stayed alive.
It's why I didn't give up."
"I know. Del--"
She wasn't listening. "All the way to Staal-Ysta, I fed myself on
hatred... on
revenge promised to me in the name of Northern gods. When I had no
food, I had
no hunger, because there was the hate... when I had no water, I had no
thirst,
because there was always the hate--" She broke it off sharply, as if
hearing
herself and the lack of control; Del dreads loss of control.
More quietly, she went on. "And when I knew there would be a child, I
feasted on
the hatred... it gave me a means to live. It wouldn't let me die. I
wasn't
allowed to die, because I had sworn my oaths. The child would bear
witness, even
inside my womb."
I said nothing.
Del looked at me. "You understand hatred. You lived on it, as I did...
you ate
and drank and slept it... but you didn't let it consume you. You didn't
let it
become you." She put both hands to her face. "I am--warped. I am wrong.
I am not
a woman, not a person, not even a sword-dancer. I am only hatred--with
nothing
left to eat."
The echo of Chosa Dei: "Obsession is necessary when compassion
undermines."
Del raked splayed fingers through her hair, stripping it from her brow.
The
moonlight bared her despair in the travesty of her face. "If Ajani is
taken from
me, there is no more 'me' left."
It hurt too much. I made my tone hard. "So, you're going to let him win
after
all. After six years. After all those oaths."
"You don't underst--"
"I understand very well, Delilah. As you yourself said, I lived on
hatred, too.
I know its taste, I know its smell--I know how it is in bed. And I know
how
seductive it is, how completely all-consuming... how satisfying it is
in place
of a human partner."
Del's face was bone-white. "All of the things I have done were done in
the name
of that hatred. I bore a daughter and gave her up... I apprenticed
myself to
Staal-Ysta... I killed many men--" she swallowed jerkily. "--I tried to
usurp
the freedom of a man I care about--and then I nearly killed him."
It took me a moment. "Well," I said, "he survived."
Del's gaze didn't waver. "If he had not, I would have allowed myself no
time to
grieve. I would have set aside the pain and gone on, seeking Ajani...
alone, as
before: a woman fed on hatred, sleeping with obsession--" The voice cut
off
abruptly. And as abruptly, came back. "Why are you here, Tiger? Why do
you stay
with me?"
I wanted to touch her, but didn't. I wanted to tell her, but couldn't.
I have no
skill with words. This particular sword-dance required more than what
we both
knew. Much more than what we had learned, in the circle with our
swords.
When I could, I shrugged. "I kind of thought you were staying with me."
Del didn't smile. "You have sworn no oaths. Ajani is not your duty."
Idly, I kicked at a stone, rolling it aside. And then moved against the
wall,
next to Del, letting it hold me up. "I think there are times when no
oaths have
to be sworn. Some things just--happen."
Del stared at me. Then drew in an unsteady breath. "You make it too
hard."
I stared steadfastly across the alley. "You're afraid, aren't you?"
"Of Ajani? No. I've hated too much for fear."
"No. You're afraid of what comes after."
Del shut her eyes. "I am afraid," she said, "that I won't feel the
things I know
I should feel."
"What are those, bascha?"
"Pleasure. Satisfaction. Elation. Relief: Fulfillment." Her eyes
opened; the
tone was edged with bitterness. "The things that should come with
bedding
unencumbered or colored by hatred."
I frowned down at the ground. "When I was young," I told her, "I swore
to kill a
man. And I meant it utterly; there was no room in my soul for anything
but
hatred, for anything but this oath. Like you, I lived on it. I drank
it. I went
to bed with it each night, whispering to the stars the oath I swore to
keep:
that I would kill this man. I was a boy; boys swear things, and never
keep them.
But I meant it... and that oath helped me survive until the time a
sandtiger
came into camp and killed some of the children. That oath made me take
my crude
spear and go out into the Punja by myself to kill that sandtiger.
Because I knew
that if I succeeded, if I killed the sandtiger, I could ask for a boon,
and then
I would get the one thing I most wanted."
"Freedom," Del murmured.
Slowly I shook my head. "A chance to kill the shukar."
She stiffened. "That old man?"
"That old man did more to destroy what was left of my life than anyone
else in
the tribe. And he was what made me survive."
"But you didn't kill him."
"No. I was sick for three days from the poison. Sula spoke for me,
saying I was
owed my freedom." I shrugged. "I thought killing the shukar would give
me a
freedom--of mind, if not of body. It was the only kind I knew."
"But they sent you away, instead."
"They gave me physical freedom. No more was I a chula."
"What are you saying, Tiger?"
"That in the end I won. That what the old man most wanted was me dead,
not
free... and I cheated him."
"Tiger-"
I kept my voice quiet. "Sometimes what we want is not what's best for
us. No
matter how much we want it."
Del made no answer. She leaned against the wall, as I did, staring into
darkness. And at last spoke. "Do you think I am wrong?"
I smiled wryly. "It doesn't matter what I think."
Del looked at me. "It matters," she said. "I have always cared what you
thought."
"Always?"
"Well, perhaps not at first... not when we first met. You were
insufferable
then, so cocksure and Southron and male." Del smiled a little. "I
thought what
you needed was a kick in the head, to knock some sense into you... or
maybe
castration, so you wouldn't think with your manhood instead of with
your brain."
"You have no idea what you can do to a man, Delilah, when he first sets
eyes on
you. Believe me, no man--no whole man--can think with anything else."
Del grimaced. "I never asked for that. It is a burden, not a gift."
"Funny," I said idly, "I've never found it a burden."
She slanted me a glance. "Vanity doesn't become you."
"Everything becomes me."
"Even Chosa Dei?"
I scowled; the game was over. "As far as I'm concerned, he has no stake
in this.
He's not part of me. He's not even part of the sword; he's merely a
parasite."
"But deadly. And now that we know Shaka Obre is in no way linked to
this jhihadi
..." She let it trail off. "I still can't believe it. Ajani--a
messiah?"
I shrugged. "He's an opportunist. Maybe there really is something to
this
jhihadi business--after all, it was the old holy man in Ysaa-den who
first
mentioned the Oracle and jhihadi--and Ajani concocted a plan based on
what he'd
heard."
Slowly, Del shook her head. "I can't reconcile the man I knew with the
man
Bellin knows."
I gave it a moment, then spoke carefully. "Are you so sure you can
reconcile him
with anything? What you remember is brutality and murder... you saw
Ajani and
his men kill your entire family. You saw Jamail on fire. You suffered
Ajani's--attentions. At fifteen years of age--and under those
circumstances--you
could never judge a man. Never see his potential for anything as
complex as
this. All you could do was feel... and emotions--or the lack of them--
don't
allow for much objectivity."
Del's tone was flat. "What they allow for is the ability--and the
desire--to
kill a murderer."
"And so we are back where we began." I straightened. "But maybe not."
"Maybe not? Tiger, what are you--"
"Come on," I said intently, "there's someone I have to talk to."
"Now? It's late."
"Come on, bascha. This won't wait."
Elamain, of course, thought I'd come to see her. Until she saw Del.
"Esnat," I said succinctly.
Sabo, who had greeted us at the door, went at once to fetch his master.
This
left Elamain standing in the room swathed in the silk of her hair as it
poured
down the front of her nightrobe. Delicate feet were bare. I found it
oddly
erotic; then recalled that to Southroners, any part of a woman was,
since she
hid it under so much.
"Esnat?" she echoed.
"Business," I said briefly. "You may as well go back to bed."
Elamain flicked a glance at Del, then looked back to me. "Only if
you're in it."
"Don't waste your time," Del suggested. "He is a man, Elamain, not a
tame cat...
and I, unlike you, believe he has more sense and integrity than you
give him
credit for. Teasing and tricking a man is no way to win him."
Elamain's eyes widened. "Who is teasing? Who is tricking? I hide
nothing of what
I want. No more than you do what you want, wearing a man's weapon--"
But she didn't get to finish, because Esnat came into the room.
He'd been asleep and was not yet fully awake. He blinked as he saw us,
pulled
his robes into order, raised brows at Elamain's presence. Thin dust-
colored
hair, now unencumbered by a turban, hung lankly to narrow shoulders.
The spots
on his chin were worse. I realized all over again I was supposed to
dance for
this man, so he could impress a woman.
Except his courtship might have to wait.
"I want honesty," I said. "Why are you here?"
Sabo, Elamain, and Esnat stared. It was not what they'd expected.
"Why?" I asked again. "Sasqaat is clear across the Punja. It's a small
domain.
Why would you come all the way to Iskandar? Why, for that matter, would
any
tanzeers come? What's in it for them?"
Something flickered in Esnat's eyes. Now I knew I had him.
"Don't waste my time," I said. "You're a tanzeer, and not a stupid one,
no
matter what you've led Elamain and others to believe. The masquerade is
over,
Esnat. I want the truth. Then I'll give you mine."
Esnat glanced around. Then gestured at cushions and rugs. He sank down
on the
nearest one even as Del and I found seats. "The Oracle," he said.
Elamain, who had opened her mouth to protest the situation, now closed
it. A
crease marred her brow. Clearly Esnat's answer was unexpected and
baffling;
she'd believed they'd come to Iskandar for another reason entirely.
Esnat gestured irritably, "Oh, Elamain, sit down. It would do no good
to send
you to bed--you'd only listen at the doorway. So sit down and keep your
mouth
closed; maybe you'll learn something." He glanced now at Sabo. "You,
too, Sabo.
You know this man better than I."
Elamain sat. Sabo sat. Esnat looked back to me.
"You view him as a threat," I said. "All his foretelling of a jhihadi
has every
tanzeer frightened he might be telling the truth."
Esnat nodded. "There is no doubt the Oracle has roused the tribes. When
word
came he was foretelling the coming of the jhihadi here in Iskandar, no
one could
believe it. But the tribes did, and they left the Punja en masse. That
made us
nervous."
"So you came up here to kill him before this jhihadi can appear."
Esnat shook his head. "I don't want to kill him. I think that would
touch things
off. There are other tanzeers who believe as I do, and we want to avoid
a holy
war, not start one by killing the Oracle. We came to Iskandar hoping to
convince
the others."
"The other tanzeers want war?"
He shrugged. "Hadjib and his followers consider it unavoidable. They
believe
nothing will calm the tribes now, unless the Oracle is killed. Without
a leader
to unify them, the tribes will fracture again." Esnat scratched his
chin,
leaving red streaks. "They have brought as many men as they can hire,
and are
hiring more. They fully believe they can smash this rebellion before it
occurs--or else consume the tribes in war." He grimaced. "These men are
accustomed to absolute power. They have no conception of religion, or
what it
can do to unify men... even desert tribes."
Hadjib. Hadjib. Somehow I knew the name... and then I recalled how.
Lena had
told me about a tanzeer who'd come looking for me. Now I knew why.
"But you do understand it," I said. "You understand, you and a few
others, what
could happen."
Esnat didn't hesitate. "It would be a bloodbath."
"And you don't want that."
"No. Such a thing would be harmful." Esnat frowned, glancing briefly at
Sabo,
Elamain, Del. "The tribes are no threat to us if they remain as they
have been
for decades: insular, independent races with no specific home, simply
traveling
about the South. But if they unite in a common goal motivated by faith,
they
become the greatest enemy we could know. They will gladly die in the
name of
their jhihadi, believing what they do is for divine favor... that sort
of
fanaticism can destroy the South. For us--for everyone--it is better
left the
way it is."
"The tribes might not agree."
Esnat shrugged. "They have been content with their lives, as you well
know...
had the Oracle not appeared, they would not now be here."
"They believe," I said quietly, "this jhihadi will change the sand to
grass."
"It doesn't matter," Esnat said. "You and I know such a thing cannot
occur."
"Magic," Del said quietly.
Esnat glanced at her. He assessed her quickly, then smiled. "You have
your own
share of magic, bascha, and so does the Sandtiger. But surely you must
see what
it would take to alter the South. I don't think such magic exists any
more, if
it ever did."
"Never mind the magic," I said. "There's something else we have to
think about."
I shifted on my cushion. "Esnat, what would you and the others say if I
told you
there was no jhihadi?"
He smiled wryly. "That we are all of a like mind. But what good will it
do?
Hadjib and his followers don't care if the jhihadi is real or not."
I leaned forward slightly. "What if I told you a man was behind this
holy war,
but not a true jhihadi? Merely a man, like you and me, but a very
clever one. A
man who has very carefully manipulated the tribes into believing he is
the
jhihadi, so he can gain power."
Esnat's eyes widened. "A single man?"
"A single Northerner with a gift for inspiring others."
He sat stunned, thinking about it. Thinking of what it could mean. "But
the
magnitude of it..."He let it trail off. "It's impossible."
"Is it? Think about it. A man hires another and calls him an 'Oracle.'
He sends
him out to a few of the tribes well-primed with the kind of words that
would
appeal to nomadic peoples. This jhihadi, the Oracle says, can change
the sand to
grass, so that the tribes will know comfort again. The tribes will know
power
again."
Esnat said nothing.
"After a while, the tribes themselves carry word throughout the Punja;
eventually throughout the South. Bit by bit by bit this 'Oracle' seeds
his
ground, and eventually it takes root. Eventually it bears fruit."
"One man," Esnat murmured.
"Ajani," I said. "A Northern borjuni--a man who burns very brightly."
Frowning, Esnat rubbed his chin. "Hadjib wouldn't listen," he murmured.
"We have
tried, all of us; they ignore the wisdom we offer. They are angry,
powerful men
unwilling to think of compromise when war is another way." He stared
blankly at
me. "They want this war, Sandtiger. They want it contained in Iskandar
so no
domains are threatened."
"More than domains are threatened," I declared. "Things are bad enough
in the
Punja for caravans, what with borjuni and a few hostile tribes. If the
tribes
went into full revolt, they could cut off all the caravan routes. That
would
destroy the domains as well as anything else." I shook my head. "Some
would
survive, yes, but not the small ones so dependent on trade. What about
Sasqaat?
You supplement your people with outside trade, don't you?"
"Of course. Sasqaat would die without trade."
"Well, then?"
"Well, then," he echoed. "What is there to do when the other tanzeers
won't
listen? We can't just send them home, though it would be the best
thing."
"Challenge them," Del suggested.
Esnat blinked at her. "What do you mean: 'challenge'?"
Her voice was very quiet. "This is the South, is it not? Where things
in the
lives of tanzeers are often decided by a sword-dance. Two men hired for
a single
purpose: to settle differences. To make a ruling by the sword. To
declare a
single winner."
"Southron tradition," I said, "can be a very powerful thing."
Esnat stared at us. "They have already tried to assassinate the
Oracle."
"If there's an Oracle," I agreed. "Ajani may have already relieved him
of his
duties. And I have no doubts that if he's shown himself as the jhihadi
to the
tribes--or is planning to--he's surrounded himself with guards." I
shook my
head. "Already tonight we've seen what the tribes will do to protect
their
Oracle. For the jhihadi, they will do worse. I don't think the tanzeers
will
find another man willing to risk that."
"But there are other ways. And they will look for that way."
I shook my head. "Not if a ruling based on the outcome of a traditional
sword-dance won your side the chance to defy them openly, to declare
the Oracle
and jhihadi safe. If all the tanzeers attended--from both sides--and
agreed to
abide by the outcome, you could end the war before it began."
"If we won," he said.
"That's always a risk," I agreed. "If Hadjib's faction won, you'd have
to let
them do whatever they wanted. You'd have no say in their plans, even if
it
included assassination."
His tone was thoughtful. "But if they lost, we could send them home."
"And probably prevent more violence."
Esnat frowned. "But the tribes. No one can be certain what they'll do."
"No. But if Ajani's behind this thing, and all the tanzeers go home,
he'll lose
some of his power. If they left, I doubt Ajani could keep the tribes
reconciled
long enough to march all over the South capturing domains for himself.
Eventually, the tribes would fall to quarreling." I shook my head. "For
all we
know, it was Ajani's idea to lure as many tanzeers as possible here to
Iskandar.
Contained, tanzeers are controllable; scattered, they are not. Much
like the
tribes."
Esnat studied me intently. "He is playing one against the other."
"The trick is to dilute Ajani's plan. Forcing the other tanzeers to
withdraw
would do it. If your side won the dance and all the other tanzeers went
home,
half the battle would be won without a sword being drawn, except for
those in
the circle." I shrugged. "Maybe the whole war."
Esnat considered it. "If I talked with the others who feel as I do and
they
agreed... we'd have to find the proper words, the kind of words that
will cause
the other tanzeers to accept such a challenge ..."
I interrupted. "Make it a formal challenge to Hadjib. If he feels he's
in
control of the pro-war faction, his pride will require that he answer
the
challenge personally. I can give you the ritual phrases that will
demand an
acceptance."
Esnat continued, easily incorporating my suggestion into his plan. "--
then hire
a sword-dancer worthy of the dance, one worthy of the risk, because it
wouldn't
be a risk, if we were certain he could win--" Brown eyes sharpened.
"Will you do
it, Sandtiger?"
I smiled. I've never been the kind of man to ignore an opportunity as
golden as
this one. "You already hired me to dance in hopes of impressing a
woman. For
that, you offered a very generous--"
Esnat didn't bother to hear me out. "Coin," he said dismissively. "For
this, you
will have a domain."
Elamain gasped. "You can do such a thing?"
Esnat smiled at her. "I can do many things."
"But--an entire domain?"
He raised a dust-colored eyebrow. "I think stopping a war might be
worth the
cost."
Elamain looked at me. Then she looked at Esnat.
Sabo merely grinned.
May the sun shine on his head.
Later--actually, late--I sat contemplating my future, scratching idly
at a
kneecap. I guess the scratching was loud, because Del rolled over.
"Tiger, can't you sleep?"
"No. I'm sitting here thinking about what it will be like to be a
tanzeer."
" 'Will'?" she asked ironically. "You're sure of yourself."
"Why shouldn't I be? I'm the best sword-dancer in the South."
"Who hasn't danced for months."
"I danced against Nabir."
"You sparred against Nabir."
"Besides, I've got this sword."
"Which you swore not to use in a dance."
I decided not to answer. Seemed like every time I said anything, Del
had a
retort.
Which meant we were back to normal.
I sat against the crumbling wall in our private room. Del was snugged
up in
blankets next to me, nothing much visible except a little hair, pale
luminescence in the light of the moon. Next door, Alric snored. I'd
tried to
sleep, but couldn't; too many thoughts in my head.
Me: a tanzeer. A sword-dancer-turned-tanzeer. It seemed impossible to
consider,
in light of my origins. A baby, left to die in the desert, born of
people no one
knew. And then a slave, in bondage to the Salset. And finally, a
killer. A man
who lived by the sword.
Me: a tanzeer. It made me want to laugh.
I stretched out legs and carefully adjusted the arrangement of my knees
from the
inside, shifting tendons and cartilage through interior muscle control.
I heard
the dull chatter, the snaps; felt the catch, the pop into place. I'd
need my
knees to dance. I wished they were a bit younger.
Del, whose head was close to my legs, peeled a blanket back. "That
sounds
terrible."
"You should hear the rest of me."
"I don't sound like that."
"You're not old enough to." Not an encouraging thought; except, maybe,
for Del.
"Be silent as long as you can."
"I have a finger that cracks." Del demonstrated. "I broke it on Staal-
Ysta."
"Hoolies, I've broken fingers and toes so many times I don't even
remember which
ones." I looked at the still-wrapped little finger the stud had tried
to eat.
"Except for this one. This one I remember."
"That one's not even broken." Del shifted and rolled over onto her
back. "Maybe
it will be a good thing, this domain. Maybe it's time you settled down.
No more
traveling, no more dancing--no more broken bits."
Settled down. Me. I hadn't thought of it that way. I'd just been
thinking about
the things that came with the title. Coin. A place of my own. A stable
for the
stud. People to cook and clean. Aqivi whenever I wanted it. Maybe even
a harem.
I slanted a glance at Del.
Maybe not a harem.
I scooched down the wall and stretched out on my bedroll again, pulling
a
blanket over me. Del lay very close; her hair caught on my stubble. I
picked it
away, then moved a little closer. Thought about how it had been for so
many
years, sharing nothing with no one.
The question occurred again. "Bascha, what are you going to do once
Ajani's
dead?"
"Ask me when he's dead."
"Del--"
"I'm hunting him tomorrow. Ask me tomorrow night."
Her tone of voice was definitive; she wanted no more questions,
especially about
Ajani. I watched her shut her eyes.
"Bascha--"
"Go to sleep, Tiger. You're older than me; you need it."
I lay there in aggrieved silence for long moments, trying to think of
an
appropriately cutting retort. But by the time I did, Del was sound
asleep.
So then I lay there wide awake and wide-eyed, glaring into darkness,
thinking
uncharitable thoughts about the woman by my side, and snoring Alric,
and
sleeping Lena and the girls.
Why do people who have no trouble falling asleep think it's easy for
everyone
else?
It just isn't fair.
If I were tanzeer, I'd make everyone stay awake until I was asleep.
If I were a tanzeer?
Hoolies... I just might be.
If I managed to win the dance.


Fifteen
I went out to inspect the circle, and that was where he found me.
His words were mostly ritual. "I'm sent to tell you my lord Hadjib
accepts Lord
Esnat's formal challenge. His personal sword-dancer will meet you in
the circle
when the sun is directly overhead."
Which didn't give us much time; it was already mid-morning. "Does your
lord
Hadjib understand the challenge fully? That should I win the dance, he
and his
followers must leave Iskandar at once and return to their domains?"
"He understands the challenge fully. My lord Hadjib swears not a drop
of blood
shall be spilled, should he and his fellow tanzeers be required to
leave
Iskandar. And he asks in return if your lord Esnat understands his part
in the
challenge should you lose the dance."
"Lord Esnat understands the challenge fully. Should I lose the dance,
Esnat and
his followers will join battle as Hadjib commands."
Simple terms, spelled out. It wasn't a dance to the death, simply to
victory.
The ritual was finished. No more need for formality.
"So," I said expansively, "care for a jug of aqivi?"
He smiled. "I don't think so."
I looked at the dark eyes; at the lines carved deep in his face; at the
notched
arch of his nose. Remembered what I'd felt when I nearly crushed his
throat.
"Too bad," I said lightly. "You might have enjoyed the time spent
retelling our
tall tales."
Abbu Bensir's smile widened. "Oh, I think we'll have a new and better
tale to
tell when this day is over. And so will the rest of the South."
I shook my head a little. "This isn't your sort of dance. What did they
promise
you?"
"Any dance is my sort of dance; you know better, Sandtiger." He
grinned. "As for
what they promised me? A domain all for myself."
I blinked. "You, too?"
A silver-flecked eyebrow arched. "A popular gift, this domain. I wonder
if it's
the same one."
"They wouldn't."
"They might. Do you trust your tanzeer?"
"Do you trust yours? He tried to hire me."
"Not for this."
"No. He wanted an assassin."
"Ah. I see." Abbu rubbed his nose. "I think we've gone beyond that,
judging by
this dance. Was it your idea?"
I frowned. "What makes you say that?"
"You lived with the Salset. You know what the tribes are like. I'd be
willing to
wager you'd want to avoid a holy war, since you have a very good idea
how messy
one would be,"
"Messy," I echoed. "A good way of putting it."
"I, on the other hand, don't really care. As far as I'm concerned, the
tribes
are nothing but parasites stealing water out of our mouths. It's better
left to
us, what little there is of it."
"So, you'd just as soon win this dance so you can kill a few warriors."
"I'd just as soon win any dance, Sandtiger. But I must admit meeting
you will
make it all the sweeter."
"Finally," I said.
"Finally," he agreed.
Which left us with nothing much else to say; both of us went away.


***
I sat outside in the shade, leaning against the wall. The sun climbed
the sky;
everyone watched it closely. Once it was overhead, we'd all adjourn to
the
circle.
Massou watched me. "Are you going to die?"
Adara, of course, was aghast. I waved her into silence.
"It's an honest question," I told her, "and I don't blame him for
asking it.
He's only curious."
Adara's green eyes were transfixed by the motion of hand and arm as I
carefully
honed my sword. "He has no business--"
"At his age, I'd have asked the same thing." If I'd been allowed to ask
anything. "No, Massou, I'm not going to die. It's not a dance to the
death. Only
to victory."
He thought about it. "Good. But I'd rather see Del dance."
It stung a little. "Why?"
"Because she's better."
Del, who leaned against the wall not so far away, smiled, then tried to
hide it
behind a mask of cool neutrality.
I shot her a scowl, then looked back at the boy. "That's only because
when you
saw me spar, I wasn't at my best."
Del's tone was dry. "You're not at your best now."
"Sound enough for Abbu."
Alric stood in the doorway. "Are you?" he asked seriously. "Abbu Bensir
is
good."
"I'm not exactly bad."
Del's voice again: "But not as good as you were."
"And besides, it's not like I've never danced against him before. I'm
the one
who gave him that throat."
Del, once more: "With a wooden sword."
I stopped honing the blade. "All right, what is it? Do you want me to
lose? Is
that why you're being so pointed about doubting my confidence?"
Del smiled. "I have no doubts about your confidence. What I have doubts
about is
your willingness to recognize that you are not in proper condition."
"I'm fine."
"Fine is not fit." Del straightened from the wall. "I don't want you to
walk
into that circle thinking Abbu stands no chance. He is good, Tiger--I
have
sparred with him myself. You are good, also--I have danced with you
myself. But
if you refuse to acknowledge the truth of the matter, you've lost
before you've
begun."
"I have no intention of stepping into the circle without being careful,
if
that's what you're afraid of. Hoolies, bascha, you'd think I'd never
danced
before!"
Del looked directly at me. "How many times have you been wounded in the
circle?"
"More times than I can count."
"How many times have you been seriously wounded in the circle?"
I shrugged. "Two or three times, I guess. It happens to all of us."
"And how many times have you come very close to death in the circle?"
"All right," I said, "once. You know that as well as I."
"And you have not danced a proper dance since then."
The defensiveness was abrupt. "I'm not afraid, if that's what you
mean."
Del didn't smile. "Of course you're afraid."
"Del--"
"I saw it, Tiger. I was in the circle, remember? The last time you
tried to
dance, the fear drove you out."
I forgot all about Massou and Adara and Alric. "That was fear for you!
It had
nothing to do with me." Angrily, I glared. "You have no idea what it
was like
for me seeing you sprawled on the ground with steel in your ribs. You
don't know
what I felt. You don't know what I thought. When I stepped into that
circle on
our way to Ysaa-den, I was on Staal-Ysta again."
"All I could think about was that dance, and I was afraid it might
happen
again."
Del drew Boreal. "Then dance with me now."
"Now? Are you sandsick? Besides, you're supposed to go meet with
Bellin,
remember? He'll have information about Ajani."
"Now," she said coolly. "A warm-up will do you good. It will loosen all
your
muscles... quiet your noisy knees."
"Oh, good," came from Massou, before Adara could hush him.
Hoolies, hoolies, hoolies. I don't want to do this.
So tell the bascha no.
Not so easy to do.
Especially when she's right.
I wiped the blade clean. Glanced up at the sun. Knew we had the time.
"Alric?"
He nodded. "I'll play arbiter."
Adara, muttering, forcibly dragged Massou to the end of the alley. He
protested,
of course, but she didn't let him go. Eventually he subsided, since she
threatened to take him away entirely if he didn't shut his mouth.
There was no need for a circle, so we didn't bother to draw one. We
just faced
one another in silence, took the measure of each other, thought our
private
thoughts.
Mine were not happy ones. I don't know what hers were.
"Dance," Alric said.
Hoolies, but I don't want--
Too late, Tiger. Nothing to do but dance.
Nothing to do but sing--
No--don't sing--
Don't give Chosa Dei the chance--
Northern steel clashed. The sound filled up the alley.
Get looser, I thought. Get looser--
Del's blade flashed. In and out of shadow, slicing the sun apart.
Shattering the
daylight with the brilliance of magicked steel.
Gods, but she can dance--
Well, so can I.
Of their own accord, my feet moved. I felt the acknowledgment of
muscles too
long kept from the circle; the sharpening of eyes. Focus came back
quickly,
blocking out the alley, the sun, the others gathering. All I saw was
Del. All I
heard was Del: the sloughing of her feet, the keening of her steel, the
breathy
exhalations.
This is the true dance, where two perfectly balanced halves come
together at
last and form a perfect whole. This is a dance of life, of death, of
continuity;
the world within seven paces. Nothing else exists. Nothing is as
important.
Nothing can fill the need the way a proper sword-dance can, danced with
a proper
opponent.
There is no other for me.
Ah, yes, bascha... show me how to dance.
And then, abruptly, my sleeping sword awoke. Chosa Dei awoke. I felt
him swarm
through the blade from wherever it was he lived. Felt him test my
strength. Felt
him gather himself. Knew what he meant to do.
Confusion diluted the focus, seeping through concentration: But I
haven't sung.
I haven't even thought of singing.
Chosa Dei didn't care. Chosa Dei was awake.
Oh, bascha--bascha--
She felt it in the swords. Tasted it in the air, in the acrid stink of
magic.
And jerked her blade from mine, falling back two steps. "Control it!"
she cried.
"Control it! You have the power; use it!"
I could feel it--feel him--trying to leave the sword. Trying to creep
up the
blade to the hilt, where he could make contact with my hands. Once it
was made,
I was lost, because the flesh is much too weak. He'd nearly taken
Nabir--he had
taken Nabir--he'd unmade Nabir's feet--
What would he do to me?
I stood in the center of the alley clutching the blooding-blade,
wondering how
to fight it. How to beat it, before it beat me.
"Control it," Del repeated. "You have the strength; use it!"
Power, she'd said. Strength.
The blade was turning black.
Use it, she'd said. Use it.
Do I know how to do that?
Hoolies, of course I do. I'm the Sandtiger.
No one defeats me.
Not even Chosa Dei.
"Yes!" Del shouted. "Yes!"
I must be doing it right.
Samiel, I whispered. But only inside my head. Nabir had said it aloud.
Nabir had
put me at risk.
Or was it Chosa Dei?
Samiel, I repeated. But only inside my head.
Del's face swam into my vision. A sweat-glossed, laughing face. "I told
you you
could do it--but you never want to believe me!"
I was panting. Breathing like a bellows. I felt the twinge in my
midriff:
knurled scar tissue had been pulled. Hands still clenched the sword,
clamped
around the grip. Knuckles shone white.
"It's--done?" I looked down at the sword in my hands. "Did I do it?"
She nodded, still grinning. "You drove him back down, Tiger. This time
without
the simoom. This time without the heat. This time with just yourself.
With the
strength from inside here." She put a hand to my heart. "And you have
it in
abundance."
I frowned, looking at the blade. "But it's still black. The tip. Chosa
Dei's
still in there."
She nodded, withdrawing her hand. "He's not banished. Only beaten.
Banishment
will take time. We have to discharge it properly."
And for that, we needed more magic. We needed Shaka Obre.
"Tiger?" Alric's voice. "Tiger--can you come? Something's upset your
stud. He's
trying to tear down the house."
Now I could hear it. He was stomping and pawing and kicking, squealing
his
displeasure.
"It's the magic," I muttered resignedly. "He hates it as much as I do."
I sheathed my defeated sword and went in to see the stud. He was indeed
trying
to tear down the house; he pawed chunks of crumbling brick and ancient
mortar
out of the wall, grinding it into the dirt.
"All right," I said, "you can stop now. I've put the sword away." I
stepped in
through the door, entering the "stable."
"You're not going anywhere, so you may as well be qu--"
He let loose with both hind hooves. One of them caught my head.
Voices.
"Alric--get him out--"
"I can't, Del--the stud's broken his tie-rope... he won't let me near
him--"
A spate of unintelligible words in a language I didn't know, or else I
had
forgotten.
The same male voice. "I know, Del--I know... but how can I drag him out
if the
stud won't let me near him?"
A woman's voice answering: frightened, angry, impatient."--need a
horse-speaker--" Then, abruptly, "Get Garrod--"
A boy's voice: "I will!"
"Then hurry, Massou--hurry!"
I was flat on my back in the dirt.
Why am I in the dirt?
Tried to sit up. Couldn't. All I could do was twitch.
The woman's voice again. "Tiger--stay still! Don't try to move."
Eyes won't open.
Everything sounds distorted.
"Tiger--don't move... don't give him a second chance."
Give who what second chance?
"Is he bleeding?"
"I can't tell."
Why would I be bleeding?
Sharply: "Don't try it, Del. I don't need two of you down."
"I can't leave him there, Alric. The stud's liable to stomp his head
in."
Someone was moving around me. No--something. It breathed heavily.
Pawed. Moved
around me again.
Now a new voice. "Where is--oh. Here, give me room."
"Tiger, don't move."
Don't worry, I don't think I can.
"Talk to him, Garrod. Tell him to let us in so we can get Tiger out."
Silence, except for nearby scraping. I tasted dust. Felt it. It
feathered across
my face. I tried to lift an arm to brush the dust away, but nothing did
what I
wanted. All I did was twitch.
The scraping stopped. I smelled the tang of sweat and fear. Something
was
afraid.
"Now," said a quiet voice.
Hands. They touched me, grasped me, dragged me.
Hoolies, don't drag me--my head will fall off my neck--
"Here," someone said, and they put me down again.
"Is he alive?"
Hoolies, yes. I wouldn't be anything else.
Something pressed my chest. "Yes." Relief. "Yes,"
I tried to open my eyes. This time I succeeded.
Not that it did much good. What I saw wouldn't stay still.
"Bascha?" My voice was weak. "Del--what happened?"
"The stud tried to kick your head off."
"He wouldn't--"
"He almost did."
Memory snapped back. "Hoolies--" I blurted. "The dance--"
"Tiger--Tiger no--"
I lurched into a sitting position, thrusting away the hands. "I have to
go--the
dance--" And then clutched my head.
Del sounded exasperated. "You're not going anywhere."
Through the pain, I gritted it out. "Abbu will be waiting. All of them
will be
waiting--"
"You can't even stand up."
It even hurt to blink. "Too much depends on the dance... they agreed,
all the
tanzeers... if I don't dance, Hadjib and his followers win--there'll be
war--oh,
hoolies ..."
Everything went gray around me. I lingered on the edges, wondering
which way I
would fall.
"Tiger?"
I yanked my senses back. "--have to get up," I mumbled. "Someone help
me up."
"Postpone the dance," Del said. "Do you want me to see to it?"
"They won't--there's no--I don't think--" Hoolies, it was hard to
think. Harder
yet to talk. "I won't forfeit this dance."
Del's face was tight. "They won't expect you to dance when you're in
this kind
of shape."
"Doesn't matter... Abbu will claim victory, and there'll be no chance
for
peace--"
She took her hand from my arm. Her tone was very cold. "Then if you
must do
this, get up and walk out of here. Now. Waste no more time on
weakness."
I rocked forward, slopped over onto an elbow, tried to gather legs. It
took me
two tries. Then I staggered to my feet.
Only to fall again. This time to my knees. And eventually to a hip,
levered up
on an elbow. I shut my eyes, shut my teeth, tried to wait it out.
Begging the
pain and sickness to wane.
"I'll postpone it," she said.
I was sweating. "You can't... bascha, you can't... they'll claim
forfeit--they
have the right...Abbu would win, and Hadjib would win... we can't
afford to
lose--"
"We can't afford to lose you."
"--sick--" I muttered tightly.
"You've been kicked in the head," she said curtly. "What do you
expect?"
Maybe a bit more sympathy--no, not from Del. Too much to hope for.
And then another voice intruded. A husky, male voice, asking after me.
Mentioning the dance.
He came through the doorway. I blinked up at him dazedly, trying not to
vomit.
It was very hard to think clearly.
"Ah," Abbu remarked, "one way of avoiding the truth." He glanced at the
others,
then looked back at me. "I came over to see what was keeping you.
Everyone is
gathered. Everyone is waiting." He smiled. "Your lord Esnat came close
to
forfeiting, but I said I would come here myself. It's very irregular,
of
course... but I want this dance too badly. I've waited too many years."
It was all I could do to lift my head high enough to see the sun
without spewing
my belly across the floor. "I'll be there," I mumbled; the sun glared
balefully
down from directly overhead.
Abbu Bensir laughed.
Del's tone was deadly. "Will you accept another dancer in his place?"
"Oh, bascha--"
Del ignored me. "Will you?"
"--South," I slurred. "Do you think Abbu or anyone else will accept a
woman in
my place?"
Del only looked at Abbu.
He was, above all, a Southroner: old habits die very hard. But every
man can
change, given reason enough to do so.
Abbu Bensir smiled. "It's the Sandtiger I want--but that can wait a
little. You
are no disgrace to the circle."
Del nodded once.
Abbu glanced at me. "Another time, Sandtiger... first I will beat your
bascha."
"Go," Del said coolly.
Abbu Bensir went.
Time to protest again. "--can't--Del... Del--" I sucked in a breath.
"You have
to go look for Ajani." The world was graying out. "You have to go meet
Bellin,
to find out where Ajani is... bascha, you have to go... you've waited
too long
already--"
Del knelt down by me. She put a hand to my temple and drew away bloody
fingers.
The look in her eyes was odd.
I squinted through the fog. "You have to find Ajani."
Her tone was very fierce. "To hoolies with Ajani."
"Dell--wait--come back--"
But Del didn't wait.
And Del didn't come back.


Sixteen
He knelt next to me. I looked him in the eye. "Am I dying?" I asked.
"Is there
something I should know?"
Alric smiled. "No. You only feel like it. Here." He gave me a bota.
"Drink a
little of this. It'll make you feel better."
I drank. "Hoolies, that's aqivi!"
"It'll help settle you. I got hit over the ear once... it takes away
your
balance."
"Is that why I keep falling down?"
"That, or clumsiness."
Gingerly, I touched the tender place. It was, as Alric said, right over
my ear.
It was swollen, matted, a little crusty; no new blood. It also hurt
like
hoolies.
It was too quiet. "Where is everyone?" I asked. "Where did everyone
go?"
"To the dance. They wanted to wager on Del."
"Oh, hoolies... it's my dance--"
"You're in no shape for dancing."
"Maybe this will help." I drank more aqivi. Tried to uncross my eyes.
"I have to
go," I said. "Do you think I can sit here while she's out there
dancing?"
"I don't expect you to, no. But I also don't expect you want me to
carry you."
I drank yet again, then hitched myself to my feet. Stood there
wavering, trying
to maintain balance. "Why are there two of you?"
Alric stood up. "Two of me?"
"Yes."
He took the bota away. "I think you should go to bed."
"After I see about Del."
"Tiger--"
"I have to see about Del."
Alric sighed. Put away the bota. Took me under one arm. "We'll never
make it to
the circle."
It took great effort to speak. "Certainly we will."
"Then why don't you show me the way?"
"First just show me the door."
Alric steered me toward it.
By the time we made it through the alleys and out to the circles, I was
more
than ready to lie down and pass out. But I didn't dare do either, in
any
particular order, after what I'd said.
"Hoolies," I mumbled, "the people--"
They thronged around the circle. Behind us lay the city, broken walls
and rubble
now serving as steps and platforms from which to watch the dance.
People hung
out of the windows of crumbling second stories and lined the fallen
rooftops.
Others rimmed the circle itself, forming a human perimeter. Someone had
drawn a
second circle around the first as a line of demarcation. The three
paces between
the true circle and the second one was meant to serve as a buffer zone,
to keep
the people back.
I swayed. Alric's hand tightened. "What did you expect? This is a dance
between
two of the best sword-dancers in the South--even with you out of it--
and a lot
depends on it."
I squinted against the sunlight. "I wonder where Esnat is. He ought to
be here.
He better be here... him and all his friends... and Hadjib, too."
"They're probably watching from the city."
Someone jostled me. Unbalanced, I nearly fell. Only Alric kept me
upright.
"Everything's moving," I muttered.
I shouldn't have had the aqivi. Or maybe it was just that I shouldn't
have been
kicked in the head. Nothing fit together. I saw faces, heard talk, felt
the
press of the crowd. But everything seemed to exist at a very great
distance from
me.
I squinted through the rising thumping in my head. "Where's Del? Can
you see
her?"
"Not through all the people."
"Then let's get closer. I have to see Del."
"Tiger--wait--"
But I wasn't waiting for anyone. Not when I had to see Del.
It's not easy trying to walk when your balance isn't right, let alone
push your
way through a crowd. I stumbled, staggered, nearly fell, ignored oaths
and
insults, shouldered my way through the throng as Alric brought up the
rear. A
few people tried to stop us, but Alric and I are big. They didn't try
for long.
We broke through at last and nearly fell over the line. People
protested,
complaining about my pushiness, but a few were sword-dancers who
recognized me.
The word went around quickly: I was given room. It gave me a chance to
breathe.
All right, I'll admit it. I had thoughts of forcing Del out of the
circle by
claiming the dance mine; after all, it was. But just as I broke
through, nearly
falling flat on my face, someone told them to dance.
"Wait--" I blurted.
Too late.
It was a true dance. Both swords lay in the precise center of the
circle. Abbu's
back was closest to me; Del stood across from him. He blocked her view
of me,
but it didn't really matter. Now that the dance had begun, Del would
see nothing
at all except the man who danced against her.
At the word, they ran. Scooped. Came up. Swords flashed, clashed;
screeched away
to clash again.
All around us the people hummed.
Hoolies, my head hurts.
"Are you all right?" Alric asked. "You're looking kind of gray."
I didn't bother to look. I knew where he was: on my right.
"Tiger, are you--"
"Fine," I snapped. "Fine... just let me watch the dance."
The dance was mostly a blur. Abbu's back was still to me. He wore only
a suede
dhoti, as is customary, bare of legs, arms, torso.
The crowd muttered and hummed. Talking about the man. Talking about the
woman.
Discussing who would win.
To a man, they said Abbu.
I squinted, spreading feet in an attempt to maintain balance. "Watch
his
patterns," I muttered. "Bascha--watch his patterns."
Alric's voice was calm. "She's doing all right, Tiger."
"She's letting him tie her up."
"Del knows what she's doing."
Abbu blurred into two people. I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. "She
has to take
the offensive."
Blades clanged and scraped.
"Bascha--drive him back. Bring him across to me."
When he moved, I could see her. She wore only the ivory tunic and a
relentless
ferocity. She didn't want to kill him; she most certainly wanted to
beat him
beyond the hope of redemption. It was what she'd have to do in order to
force
his hand. Abbu wouldn't yield unless he knew she could kill him.
Unless he knew she might.
Del's patterns were flawless. His better still.
"Come on, bascha, watch him... don't let him draw you in--"
She drove him across the circle. Behind me, the spectators moved,
fearing a
broken circle. I knew better. They'd neither of them break it.
"Yes, bascha--yes--" The dance blurred again. I tried to squint it
away.
"Hoolies, not now--"
Abbu Bensir's turn to move. I nearly moved with him.
Alric's hand clamped around my right arm. "This isn't your dance."
Someone bumped my left elbow. He'd come in close, moving across the
outer
circle, usurping the little space left to me and Alric. I reeled,
nearly fell.
Scrubbed my eyes again. "Two of everything..."
"Aqivi," Alric remarked. "I should have given you water."
I felt drunk. I felt distant. Noise increased, then receded. The
clamoring hurt
my head. Around me, the world squirmed. Even Alric squirmed.
"Stay in one place," I suggested, as he moved closer on my left. "Come
on,
bascha--dance--"
Everything was gray. The steelsong hurt my ears.
"What's that?" Alric asked.
I chanced a glance to my right. Waited for vision to still. "Will you
stop
switching sides?"
"What's that sound?" he asked.
All I could hear was the steel. It cut my head right open.
Del broke through Abbu's guard and stung him in the elbow. Abbu skipped
back,
but the trick was a telling one. The woman had drawn first blood.
"Better, bascha... better--"
"What's that noise?" Alric asked.
I heard the clang of steel, the screech and scrape of blades. What did
he think
it was?
"Come on, bascha--beat him--"
"Tiger--look at that."
All I saw was the dance. Two moving bodies: one male, one female. Both
perfectly
matched. Both moving easily to a rhythm no one else heard. A desire no
one else
felt.
Come on, bascha--
"Tiger!"
Alric's voice got through. It stole my wits from the dance, from Del;
it made me
look beyond.
Across the circle from us, behind Del's back, the crowd abruptly
parted. Lines
of spectators peeled away like bark from a willow tree.
Leaving Vashni in their place.
Vashni. Vashni?
"Tiger," Alric repeated.
In the circle, the dance went on. Steel rang on the air.
The ululation began.
Softly, first; then rising. It swallowed. It swallowed the song of the
swords.
It swallowed the murmuring. It swallowed the whole world.
I rubbed at aching eyes. "Too much noise," I complained.
Alric, having moved again, now stood on my left. He smiled down at me.
And odd,
triumphant smile.
Smiled down at me; but we are the same size. "Wait--" I began, but the
world
grayed out again.
"Tiger. Tiger?"
Now from my right. "Two of you," I muttered, "trading places with one
another."
In the circle, Del danced. But no one watched any more.
"Oracle!" someone shouted. "Show us the Oracle!"
The ululations stopped. Vashni divided and flowed aside, leaving the
middle
open.
"Oracle," someone murmured. The word threaded its way through the crowd
until
all I could hear was the whisper. The sound of the syllables.
I squinted across the circle. Saw the hair, the eyes, the skin.
"Alric," I said
in disgust, "how did you get over there?"
He sounded startled. "What?"
"There." I tried to point. "One minute you're over there--the next
you're here
on my right--the next you're on my left. There aren't three of you, are
there?"
Alric didn't answer. "He's a Northerner," he blurted.
Northerner? Northerner?
What is he talking about?
Del and Abbu danced. I heard the steelsong threading through the
humming, the
shouts from everyone else.
Not shouting for the dance. Shouting for the jhihadi.
So many Northerners. So many Alrics.
I looked right: Alric.
I looked left: Alric.
Across the circle: Alric.
Hoolies, I must be sandsick.
"Aqivi," I muttered. "It's muddled up my head."
My muddled head swam.
I squinted again across the circle. "Alric--is that you?" I swung my
muddled
head and stared at the man on my left. "Or is that you... no, neither
one...
then who's that man?"
The Alric on my left looked at me out of piercingly bright blue eyes.
No, not
Alric--Alric's smile is different. Alric's eyes are different. He
doesn't cut
you with them.
These eyes were cold. These eyes were icy. These eyes waited for
something.
"The Oracle," repeated Alric--the Alric on my right, mimicking everyone
else.
I stared across the circle. Blond, blue-eyed Northerner: Alric was
right in
that. He looked a lot like Alric. He looked a lot like Del. Maybe it's
just that
Northerners all look alike to me--
My mouth dropped open. "Hoolies, that's Jamail--"
Alric's voice: "Who?"
"Del's brother--but the Vashni said he was dead!"
"He doesn't look dead to me. He looks like an Oracle."
Oracle. Oracle?
In the circle, in the dance, swords scraped and clashed and screeched.
"Wait--" I said, "wait... I don't--this isn't--he can't be the
Oracle... Jamail
doesn't have a tongue!"
Jamail opened his mouth and began to prophesy.
Now my mouth dropped open. "Am I awake?" I asked numbly, "or did the
stud really
kill me?"
Alric didn't answer.
"Del!" I shouted. "Del!"
But Del was busy dancing. Her back was to her brother.
"Hoolies, bascha--can't you hear? That's your brother talking!"
That's her brother--talking?
A flash of salmon-silver blade; the cry of magicked steel.
"He has no tongue," I protested.
Hoolies, everything fit. A mute who wasn't a man, but wasn't a woman,
either.
Oh, bascha, look.
Steelsong filled the air, punctuating the Oracle's words as he lifted
an arm to
point.
"Jhihadi!" someone shouted. "He's naming the jhihadi!"
The crowd behind me surged forward. Jostled, I nearly fell. A hand on
my left
arm steadied me, another hooked into my harness; Alric was on my right.
Alric was on my right.
"Jhihadi!" the crowd roared, as the Oracle made it clear.
The man on my left laughed. It was a wild, exultant laugh filled with
surprise
and gratification, and an odd sort of power. "All that money spent on a
false
Oracle, and now the real one picks me anyway..." He tightened his grip
on my
harness. "Now all I need is this."
I knew as I turned to look. By then it was too late.
Ajani wasted no time. He locked one hand around the hilt and jerked my
jivatma
free, shoving me back as he moved. I very nearly fell.
He watched me out of pale, icy eyes. Saw me stagger. Saw me struggle.
Saw me
gather flagging wits. Saw me open my mouth to protest.
And smiled. "Samiel," he whispered. The blade flared to life.
Oh--hoolies--Ajani--
Ajani with Samiel.
Ajani with Chosa Dei.
Who now was pointed at me.
I heard Alric's curse. Saw Ajani's eyes. How could I have confused
them?
"Thank you," Ajani said. "You made it easy for me."
I sucked in a breath, trying to hold off disorientation. "You don't
know what
you have. You don't know what that sword is."
Ajani's voice was smooth. Incongruously soft. "Oh, I think I do. People
are
talking about it... even my own men, who saw what you did with it and
remembered
what the boy said." The smile was brief, but warm. "I know what a
jivatma is. I
knew what to do with the name. It will be very useful for a man just
named
jhihadi."
I kept my tone steady. "If your men were there, you know. You know what
else it
can do. What it can do to you."
All around us the people fled.
Ajani lifted the sword. I thought about what it would be like for Chosa
Dei to
have me at last. And what it would be like when he--in my skin--tore
Ajani to
pieces.
It might be interesting. But I'd rather just be me.
Beyond me, Alric shouted. Said something about men: borjuni.
I looked only at Ajani, who held my jivatma.
And then heard Delilah's song, cutting through the circle.
Oh, bascha, bascha. Here is your chance at last.
The song rose in pitch. The circle was filled with Northern light so
bright even
Ajani squinted.
I pointed a courteous finger toward the woman who approached. Politely,
I told
Ajani, "Someone wants to see you."
By the time he turned, she was on him.


Seventeen
I knew she should be tired, after dancing with Abbu. But this was Ajani
at last;
I knew it didn't matter. Del could be on her deathbed and Ajani would
get her
off it.
So she could put him on his.
She drove him back, back, into the crowd; the crowd scrambled away. And
then
surged close again, surrounding Alric and me, murmuring about the
jhihadi and
the woman who tried to kill him.
Hoolies, they believed it! They thought he was the jhihadi!
Which meant if Del killed him, the crowd would tear her apart.
"Don't kill him," I said. "Oh, bascha, be careful--think about what
you're
doing."
I didn't expect an answer. Del didn't give me one.
They'd kill her. They'd shred her to little pieces.
Bascha, don't kill him.
Unless I could get to Jamail. But I knew better than to try. I could
barely
stand, jostled this way and that. And even if I could, the Vashni would
kill me
outright for daring to approach their Oracle, no matter what the
reason. Already
things had gone wrong; the Oracle had spoken, and a woman was trying to
thwart
him.
The Oracle's own sister.
Jamail, remember me?
No. He'd only seen me once.
Jamail, remember your sister?
But between Jamail and his sister were hundreds of Southerners:
tanzeers,
sword-dancers, tribesmen. Even the Oracle might have trouble getting
through the
crowd, now the jhihadi was named.
Jamail no longer mattered. His part in the game was done.
The crowd closed up tight. Hoolies, Del, where are you?
The crowd abruptly parted.
"Tiger--down--"
Alric's hand on my harness jerked me to the ground. Then his sword was
out and
slicing through someone's guts.
What?
What?
Ajani's fellow borjuni. Now become holy bodyguards warding the jhihadi.
Oh, hoolies--not now. My head hurts too much and my eyes won't focus.
I rolled through screening legs, scrabbling away, cursing as fingers
got stepped
on. Wished I had a sword.
Above me, battle commenced. Alric was all alone.
Hoolies, where's Del?
And then I saw the light. Heard the whistle of the storm. Felt the
sting of
flying dust. With the power of jivatmas, they built a private circle.
They
created a fence of magic made of light and heat and cold.
"I need a sword," I muttered, staggering to my feet.
In the circle, the wind howled. Ajani had my sword.
"Tiger! Tiger--here.*"
I turned; caught the weapon. An old, well-known blade. I stared in
muddled
surprise.
Through the brief gap, Abbu Bensir grinned. "You're mine," he called,
"not
theirs." And was swallowed by the crowd.
More of the new jhihadi's borjuni friends arrived with weapons drawn.
Alric and
I didn't count them; we knew they outnumbered us. But we also knew how
to dance.
All they knew was how to kill.
Time. Too much, and the tribes would reach the circle Del shared with
Ajani.
They couldn't break through until the dance was done and the magic
muted, but in
the end they'd reach her. In the end they'd kill her.
If she was still alive.
Too much time, and Ajani's borjuni bodyguards would wear down Alric and
me. Too
little, however, and we might be able to get away, if we had a bit of
luck.
Luck decided to call.
"Duck," a voice suggested. I didn't wait; I ducked. The thrown ax
divided a
head.
Bellin laughed aloud. "Practicing," he said.
Now we were there. The fourth was still in the circle.
Come on, Delilah, beat him.
Fire flared in the circle. People began to scream.
At first I assumed it was in the natural course of fighting, since by
now others
had joined in as well. And then I realized it had nothing to do with
fighting,
and everything to do with magic.
Chosa Dei wanted his freedom. Others would pay the price.
Even Del might.
Not again, bascha. You already paid it once.
Ajani was shouting something. I couldn't understand him; my head
pounded
unmercifully and my vision still was muddled. But I heard Ajani
shouting.
He said something about Shaka Obre.
Ajani didn't know Shaka Obre.
I cut down a borjuni. "Hold him, bascha--hold him--"
Boreal keened. A cold wind burst out of the circle, shredding silk and
gauze. It
frosted hair and eyebrows. Those who still could, fled.
I sucked in a breath and jerked my borrowed blade from a body. "Sing up
a storm,
bascha..."
In a mad dash to escape, people fell over one another. I saw their
breath on the
air.
Winter came into the circle. Summer drove it back. The blast of heat
baked us
all; I blocked my eyes with an arm.
Samiel burned white-hot. The air was sucked out of lungs.
The hostility around us turned abruptly to fear. Even Ajani's borjuni
exuded a
different stench.
Ajani. Ajani in the circle.
With Del.
Hoolies, bascha, where are you--?
Shouting died away. Light corruscated. All the rainbows danced, though
there was
no rain to form them. No moisture in the air. Only scorching heat.
Ajani was shouting still. Del stalked him in the circle. Back, back,
back;
Boreal teased Samiel, salmon-silver on black.
"Dance," Del invited. "Dance with me, Ajani."
Back. Back. Back. He tried to parry, couldn't.
I saw the bared teeth, the strained face. Saw the fear in piercing
eyes. It
wasn't fear of Del, but of what he felt in the sword.
He was a very large man, a man of immense strength as well as strength
of will.
But he didn't know Samiel. He didn't know Chosa Dei.
"Too much for you," I muttered.
Ajani shouted something. Tendons stood up in his neck.
Heat exploded from the circle. Nearby, a blanket roof caught on fire.
Then
another. People began to scream. People began to run. Iskandar was on
fire.
Wind ripped through the streets, spreading flame in its wake. Now
burnouses
caught fire, and people began to burn.
"No," Del declared.
Boreal's song-summoned banshee-storm howled out of the sword, shredding
Samiel's
flame. Winter came at Del's call. Fire doesn't burn in sleet.
It was abrupt and unpleasant. It doused Iskandar completely, then
wisped into
nothingness. I was wet, cold, sweaty. But so was everyone else, even
Ajani's
borjuni.
With renewed vigor, they attacked. With renewed vigor, I repulsed. Next
to me,
Alric fought; behind me Bellin counted Ajani's supporters they moved in
to
surround us. He called out greetings to each, naming them to their
faces, which
served to startle them. For Alric and me, it was an infallible way of
knowing
which man meant us harm.
Bascha, I said, I'm coming.
Something stung a rib. I smashed the sword away, then buried my own in
a belly.
Ripped it free again to turn on another man, but a misstep sent me by
him. I
staggered, tried to catch my balance, was swallowed by heat and cold
and light
and all the colors of the world.
Bascha, bascha, I'm coming--whether I want to or not.
I broke through, swearing, and fell into the circle, landing hard on a
shoulder.
Abbu's sword spilled free.
Hoolies, my head hurts... and the world's gone gray again.
Inside, the storm was raging. A hot rain fell. Steam rose from the
ground. The
breath of winter blew, whistling in my ears. Numbing nose and earlobes.
Boreal was ablaze with all the colors of the North, all the rich, vivid
colors.
Samiel was black.
A new thought occurred: If Chosa Dei takes Ajani, Del can take Chosa
Dei.
But Del didn't wait that long.
Sprawled on the ground, I saw it. Hatred. Rage. Obsession. The memory
of what
he'd done; of what had shaped her life. Of who had shaped her life,
bringing her
to this moment; bringing her to the edge, where balance is so
precarious, so
incredibly easy to lose. She teetered there, on the edge, looking just
beyond.
Acknowledging the price, because she'd paid it so many times.
Paying once more would change nothing. And also change everything.
Delilah's long song would end.
Wind screamed through the circle. It caught on blades and tore,
shrieking an
angry protest. Ajani's face was stripped bare. An unforgettable face;
an
assemblage of perfect bones placed in impressive arrangement. A
Northerner in
his prime: taller than I, and broader, with a lion's mane of hair
equally thick
and blond as Del's, flowing back from high brow. The magnificence of a
woman
made masculine for a man.
Bellin had summed it up: his burning was very bright.
His burning was too bright--Chosa Dei looked out of his eyes.
Pale, piercing eyes alight with unholy fire. With the knowledge of
promised
power.
Time to extinguish him, bascha--before he extinguishes us.
Del stopped singing. Del lowered her sword. And stood there waiting for
him.
Waiting? Waiting for what?
Was she blinded by his burning?
No, not Delilah. This was the man who had made her, the way I made my
sword. In
blood and fear and hatred.
Ajani bared his teeth. "We meet again," he said. "This time to end it,
yes?"
Del, like me, stared. His features were softening. The perfect nose,
the set of
his mobile mouth; the upswept angle of Northern cheekbones, slanting
down his
face. Ajani was being unmade.
Hoolies, bascha, kill him!
She slashed the blade from his hands. Her own was at his throat.
"Kneel," she
said hoarsely. "You made my father kneel."
Bascha, that isn't Ajani--
My sword lay on the ground. My clean, silver sword made of unblemished
Northern
steel.
My empty, unblemished sword.
Oh, bascha--wait--
"Del--" I croaked.
Ajani bared teeth at her. Chosa Dei stared out of his eyes. "Do you
know what I
am?"
"I know what you are."
Ajani shook back his hair. The shape of his jaw was changing. He was
wax,
softening. Light a candle; he would melt.
Del's voice was deadly. "I said: kneel."
Around us, beyond the circle, hundreds waited and watched, too
frightened to
attempt escape. I lay on the ground and panted, trying to clear my
head.
Thinking: If I can get to the sword--
But Ajani was too close. He had only to pick it up. He would pick it
up--
"Del--" I croaked again. It was all I could manage.
Ajani did not kneel. Chosa Dei wouldn't let him.
"I am power," he said. "Do you think you can defeat me? Do you think I
will do
your bidding, after waiting so long to do mine?"
Hoolies, he didn't need a sword. All he needed was himself.
Bascha--bascha, kill him--don't play games with this man--not even in
the name
of your pride--
Ajani spread his arms. There was no wasted flesh on him, nor a pound
out of
place. He was taut, fit, big. He made me look puny. His magnificence
rivaled
Del's.
"Do you know what I am?"
And I wondered, as I watched him, which man asked the question.
Del shifted her grip. The sword scythed down from above. She sliced a
hamstring
in two.
He fell, as she meant him to. It wasn't a proper posture, but no longer
did he
stand upright to tower over her. To tower over me as I staggered to my
feet.
His burning was very bright.
"Now," I whispered intently.
Del began to sing.
Chosa Dei was in him, but some of Ajani was left. Northern-born, he
knew. I saw
it in his eyes; in Ajani's still-human eyes, as the flesh of his face
loosened.
I saw it in his posture as he slumped before the sword, wearing a
bloody
necklace. Boreal was thirsty. She tasted him already.
Del sang a song of the kinfolk she had lost. Father, mother, grandfolk,
brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. So many kinfolk murdered. Only two of
them
spared: Jamail and Delilah, the last of the line. The man could never
sire a
son; the woman could never bear one.
She would kill Ajani. But in the end, he would win.
Delilah ended her song. Stood there looking at him. Did she feel
cheated, I
wondered, that Ajani wasn't alone? That when the moment came, she would
kill
more than the Northerner?
Chosa wasn't stupid. He reached out. Touched the sword. Closed slack
fingers on
the grip. Dragged it up from the ground. Black flowed into the blade;
better a
sword than useless meat.
Pale hair tumbled around his face. His magnificent Northern face, with
no hint
of softness about it. Chosa Dei was gone.
Ajani shook back his hair, holding the blackened jivatma. But he didn't
try to
use it, with Boreal kissing his throat. All he did was stare at the
woman who
held Boreal, progenitor of storms.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Del didn't bother to tell him. "You have a daughter," she said.
And then she took his head.


Eighteen
The body slumped to the ground. Del, set free at last, staggered back
and fell.
Oh, hoolies, bascha... don't pass out now.
She tried to get up, and couldn't. Exhaustion and reaction stripped her
of her
strength. All she could do was gasp, clinging to her sword.
Hoolies, Tiger, move--
The private circle was gone, banished by banished magic. Anyone who
reached us
now would find us easy to touch.
Del had killed Ajani. To the rest, he was the jhihadi.
I heard the ululations, the shouts of angry tanzeers. The clash of
Southron
steel.
"Sorry, Esnat," I mumbled. "I think Hadjib will get his war."
Samiel, I knew, was the answer... before they got to Del.
Bellin got there first. "Don't touch it!" I shouted.
He dove, thrust out with his axes, scooped up the blade. As I took an
unsteady
stride--Del and I were a pair--the sword came flying to me. I plucked
it out of
the air.
Southroners stirred, shouted. They saw the headless jhihadi; the woman
with the
sword; the Sandtiger with another. And a foreign boy with axes.
Bellin grinned at me. "Do something," he called. "You're supposed to be
good
with that thing."
Do something?
Fine.
How about a song?
The crowd surged forward en masse. But I cut the air with a reblackened
sword
and the crowd lurched back again. Across from me stood Alric, teasing
the air
with his swordtip. Promising violence.
Alric. Bellin. Me. And Del, but she was down. For now we had stopped
the crowd,
but that wouldn't last long. We needed more help.
Samiel might give it. All I had to do was sing.
Sing. I hate singing. But how else do you call the magic?
Bellin juggled axes. It was an impressive feat; also a useful one.
They'd all
seen how he used them. Everyone hung back as Bellin moved easily around
Del and
me, building a fence of flying axes.
"Just curious," he mentioned, "but why are you singing now? Especially
when you
do it so badly?"
I just kept on singing. Or whatever you want to call it.
"Jivatma," Alric said briefly, as if it answered the question. For
some, it
might; for Bellin, it answered nothing.
"Get Del," I said, and went right back to my song. Samiel seemed to
like it.
Behind us, far behind us, the ululation increased. The tribes were
coming in.
We edged toward the city. Hoolies, if they got through they'd cut us
down in a
minute. Samiel would take a few, but eventually we'd lose just because
of sheer
numbers.
Bellin, being helpful, started to sing along. He had a better voice,
but he
didn't know my song.
Samiel didn't seem to mind.
"Alric--have you got Del?"
"I've got her, Tiger... come on, we've got to go."
"Tiger?" It was Del. "Tiger--that was Jamail."
The keening wail increased. Moving this slowly wouldn't gain us any
time. We
needed something special.
All right, I said to my sword, let's see what you can do.
I thrust it into the air over my head, balanced flat across both palms,
as I'd
seen Del do. And I sang my heart out--loudly, and very badly--until the
firestorm came.
It licked out from the blade, flowed down my body, spilled across the
ground. I
sent it in all directions, teasing at feet and robes. It drove everyone
back:
tanzeers, tribesmen, borjuni.
Magic, I thought, can be useful.
I called up a blast of wind, a hot, dry wind born of the Punja itself.
It tasted
at sand and sucked it up, then spat it at the people.
The tribes, if no one else, would know what it was. Would call it
samiel, and
give way to its strength. You can't fight the desert when it rises up
to rebel.
"Go home!" I shouted. "He was a false jhihadi! He was a Northerner--is
that what
you want?"
In the sandblast, they staggered back. Tribesmen, borjuni, tanzeers;
the samiel
knows no rank.
"Go home!" I shouted. "It's not the proper time!"
The wail of the storm increased.
"Now," I said to the others, as the crowd, shouting, scattered.
I peeled the storm apart, forming a narrow channel. With alacrity, we
departed.
Garrod met us with horses: the stud, and Del's blue roan, "Go," he said
succintly. "They're watered and provisioned; don't waste any time."
The thought of riding just now did not appeal to me. My head was not
very happy.
"He'll dump me, or kick me again."
"No, I've spoken to him. He understands the need."
It was, I thought in passing, a supremely ridiculous statement. He was
horse,
not human.
Ah, hoolies, who cares? If Garrod said he would... I pushed away a damp
muzzle
come questing for reassurance.
Del sheathed her sword. "Jamail," was all she said.
That decided me. "Don't be sandsick," I snapped. "Jamail's the Oracle;
do you
think anyone will hurt him?"
"I thought he was dead, and he's not."
"So be happy about it. Let's go."
Garrod handed her reins. "Waste no time," he repeated. "I can hold the
other
horses, but not for very long. There are far too many of them... the
sandstorm
will only delay them, not stop them--once they've recovered their
courage
they'll come after you again. If you want a head start, go."
Del swung up on the roan and gathered in her reins, staring down at me.
"Are you
coming, then?"
I took the pointed hint. Sheathed my sword. Dragged myself up on the
stud, who
stomped and pawed and snorted. I clung muzzily to the saddle. "Which
way is
out?"
"This way," Del said, pointing, as Alric slapped the stud's rump.
"What about me?" Bellin called. "Aren't I supposed to come? I found
Ajani for
you!"
I held the stud up a moment. "I can think of better ways of becoming
famous than
riding with the woman who killed the new jhihadi. Certainly safer ones;
it's no
good being a panjandrum if you're not alive to enjoy it."
"True," Bellin agreed. "So I guess I can still be your son. You look
old
enough."
I called him a foul name and sent the stud after Del.
We clattered through the ruined city with no respect for its
inhabitants. Garrod
was absolutely right: now that I'd banished the sandstorm and Del and I
were
gone, there was nothing to prevent the crowd from solidifying its
deadly
intention. No matter what I'd shouted about Ajani being a false
jhihadi, he was
still the only one they knew, thanks to planted rumors and Jamail's
misinterpreted gesture. The crowd, fired by bloodlust, wouldn't listen
to the
truth no matter who gave it to them. Not even the Oracle.
Through the city and out, then bursting through colored hyorts huddled
together
on the plateau. And over the rim and off, swarming down the trail.
Behind us, as
we fled, the shouting slowly died, shredded by canyons and distance.
And
Iskandar was gone.
We rode as long and hard as we could, knowing we needed the distance.
Del
eventually called halt as we traded border canyons for border
foothills, and
scrubby, tree-clad ridges carved out of Southron soil. I wasn't so
certain it
was a good idea to stop yet, but she said I looked like I'd fall off if
the stud
so much as sneezed.
I held my head very still. "If he so much as blinks."
"Can you follow me?" she asked.
"As long as you don't go fast."
Del took us off the trail and over a snaky line of ridges and foothills
closer
to Harquhal than Iskandar. Trees were low and twisted and scrubby, but
plentiful, providing decent cover. Behind a sloping, tree-screened
hillside well
off the new-beaten trail, Del dismounted her roan.
She reached out to catch the stud. "Do you need help?"
With great care, I dismounted, clinging to the stirrup. "Help doing
what?"
She just shook her head. "Go sit down somewhere. I'll tend the horses."
I did. She did. And eventually came back, carrying saddle-pouches,
bedrolls,
botas.
In the hollow of the hill, we ate, drank, stretched out. Thought about
what had
happened. Thought about what we'd done.
Del was close beside me. I could hear her breathing. "Well," I said,
"it's
done."
She didn't say anything.
"You sang the song for your kinfolk, the one you swore to sing, and
collected
the blood-debt he owed for murdering everyone."
She still didn't say anything.
"Your song is over, bascha. You sang it very well."
She drew in a lengthy, noisy breath.
"You said I should ask you after Ajani was dead." I waited a moment.
"What will
you do now?"
Del's smile was sad. "Ask me in the morning."
"Bascha--"
"Ask," she said softly. "And then ask me the next morning, and the next
..." She
rubbed at eyes undoubtedly as tired and gritty as mine. "If you ask me
enough
times, maybe one of these days I'll know. And by then it won't matter,
because
years will have passed, and I'll have forgotten why I never knew what I
would do
once Ajani was dead. I will have simply done it."
It was, I thought, convoluted reasoning. But at that particular moment
it didn't
really matter.
I released a sigh. It felt so good just to stop. "Busy day," I
observed.
Del only grunted.
The sun dipped low in the west. "Who won the dance?"
Next to me, Del shifted. "Nobody won the dance. The dance was never
finished."
I attempted to summon outrage. "Do you mean to tell me you threw away
my chance
at a domain? My chance to be a tanzeer?"
Unimpressed, Del shrugged. "You'd be a bad tanzeer."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
My turn to grunt. "You're probably right."
"I'd make a better tanzeer."
"You're a woman, bascha."
"So?"
"So we're South, remember?"
"Aladar's daughter is a tanzeer."
"That will never last."
She sighed. "You're probably right. The South is still too backward."
The sun dipped lower still. "I think instead of a sword, I'm going to
get a new
horse."
Del grinned briefly. "The old one might protest."
"The old one can protest himself right into the stewpot, for all I
care. I'm not
about to put up with him taking pieces out of my head just because he
hates
magic."
"You hated magic, once."
"I still hate magic. It doesn't mean I'm going to kick somebody's head
off if
they use it."
"You used to bite mine off."
I grunted. "Long time ago, bascha."
"Hours ago, maybe."
I sighed. "Why are we arguing?"
"We're not arguing. We're delaying."
"What are we delaying?"
"Discussing what we're going to do."
"What are we going to do?"
"Go north?"
"No."
"Go south?"
"We have to. There's Shaka Obre to find."
Del didn't answer at once. When she did, her tone was odd. "You're
certain you
want to do that?"
"I have to. How else am I going to discharge this sword?"
"You've already learned to control it better."
I frowned. Rolled my head to look at her. "You sound like you don't
think it's
such a good idea to go hunting Shaka Obre."
She chose her words carefully. "I just think it will be very difficult
to find
him. His name is shrouded in myth--he's part of children's stories."
"So was Chosa Dei, but that didn't make him any less real. I can attest
to
that."
Del sighed, picking at the thin blanket she'd thrown over her long,
bare legs.
"It isn't easy, Tiger."
"Nothing much is, but what do you mean?"
"Looking for a man very difficult to find. I had reason, I had need...
but the
task was no easier."
"You're saying you don't think I'll stick with it."
"I'm saying it will be a very difficult quest."
"I don't have a lot of choice. Chosa Dei's presence will provide a good
enough
reason, I think."
Del sighed. "It will be complicated. We are wanted now, more so than
anyone in
the South--we killed the jhihadi. They will track us without respite.
We killed
the jhihadi, the man who intended to change the sand to grass."
"The man they think was the jhihadi."
Del considered it, then laughed a little. "Jamail was very clever,
doing what he
did. I wouldn't have thought of it."
"What did Jamail do?"
"Pointed at Ajani. He must have known someone would try to kill him...
if not
me, then the tanzeers. He got his revenge after all."
I grunted. "He wasn't pointing at Ajani. And it wasn't Alric, either; I
know: I
was there."
"Who else was he pointing at? I saw him do it, Tiger."
"So did I, bascha."
"Well, if it wasn't at Ajani--" Then, lurching up out of blankets:
"You're
sandsick!"
"Oh, I don't think so."
Loud silence.
"He wouldn't," she said at last. "He didn't--you know he didn't. Why
would he do
such a thing?"
I didn't offer an answer, thinking it obvious.
Del stared at me. "That horse kicked you harder than I thought."
I yawned. "I might make a bad tanzeer, but I think I can handle
messiah."
Louder silence.
Then, in pointed challenge, "Can you change the sand to grass?"
Another yawn. "Tomorrow."
Del's tone was peculiar. "He didn't really point at you. You were right
there,
yes, but it was Ajani he pointed at. I saw him. I saw him point. It was
Ajani,
Tiger."
I just lay there and smiled, blinking drowsily.
"Swear by your sword," she ordered.
I grinned. "Which one?"
"The steel sword, Tiger; don't be so vulgar."
I put out a hand and caught the twisted-silk hilt. "I swear by Samiel:
Jamail
pointed at me."
I knew she wanted to admonish me not to speak the name aloud. But she
understood
what it meant. She understood the oath.
Del thought about it deeply. Then made a careful observation. "You know
better
than to swear false oath on your jivatma." As if she wasn't certain;
maybe, with
me, she wasn't.
Through yet another yawn, "Yes, bascha. You've made it very clear
that's a bad
thing to do." I paused. "Would you like me to swear on your sword?"
Very firmly, "No."
I drifted off toward sleep. The edge was so very close. All I needed to
do was
take that final step and slide myself off the horizon, in concert with
the sun--
Del lay down again. Said nothing for several long moments.
I just drifted, aware of her nearness in an abstract, pleasing way.
Legs and
elbows touched. My temple brushed her shoulder.
Drowsily, I thought: A good way to fall asleep--
Then she turned a hip, shifting closer to me. Her breath in my ear was
soft. "Do
sword-dancers-turned-messiahs have bedmates? Or are they celibate?"
I cracked open a gritty eye. "Not tonight, bascha. I have a headache."
The sun fell over the edge. Laughing, so did I.