Sword-Maker, page 32
“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—Samiel—”
“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.
