Sword-Maker, page 18
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 Cantéada 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.”
