Sword-Maker, page 29
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 pregnancy. 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 dispel 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 readymade 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.
