Sword-Maker, page 35
“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.
