Sword-Maker, page 24
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.
