Sword Breaker-Sword Dancer 4 (14 page)

Walk away? Refuse to acknowledge the worth of the doing, the worth of the man, because it is easier not to do?"

I had no answers for her. But then, she didn't want them from me. Had she known I could hear her, she wouldn't have said a thing... except maybe those words designed to draw blood. Even now, she tried to do that. All unknowing. Which more than anything underscored the strength of her anguish.

"If you could see what he has done..." Despair crept into the tone. "If I could kill him, I would. If I could cut off his head as I cut off Ajani's, I would. If I could use magic or whatever else it might take to free you, I would--" Then, on a rush, expelling words and emotions, "There are things I would say to you, could I do it, could I say them... but we are neither of us the kind to admit weaknesses, or failures, because to admit them opens the door to more. I know it. I understand it. But now, when I need to know who and what you are... you offer me nothing--and I can't ask. I lack the courage for it."

Deep inside, I struggled. But no words were emitted. Eyelids did not lift.

"What am I to do?" she rasped. "I am weak. I am afraid. I am not the person I need to be to vanquish this enemy. I am not the Sandtiger."

And then a spate of muttered uplander, all sibilant syllables of twisty, foreign words strung together into a litany made to ward off that fear.

Silence. A hard, shattered silence. I wanted to fill it badly.

"You have warped my song," she declared. "You have reshaped all the words, and altered all the music."

Oh, bascha, I'm sorry.

"Please," Del said. "I have been so many things and sung so many songs, to make myself hard enough. To make myself strong enough. I am what I am. I am--not like others. I can't be like others, because there is weakness in it. But you gave me something more... you make me something more. You don't make me less than I am--less than I have had to be and still have to be ... you make me more."

I wanted badly to answer, to tell her I made her nothing at all, but that she made me something; something better. Something more--

The tone was raw. "What am I to do? Kill you for your own good?"

Not what I had in mind.

Nor Chosa Dei, either.

Who stood once more on the overlook beside Shaka Obre.

Again, sound. The hissing sibilance of edged steel pulled from lined sheath. The sluff and grate of Southron sandals. The subtle beat of a soft-stepping horse approaching across the sand.

"So," she murmured quietly, "He comes to us after all."

Metallic clatter: bridle brasses, bit shanks; the creak of Southron saddle. A horse, protesting vaguely, reined to a halt.

"Come down," she invited. "I give the honor to you: you may draw the circle,"

The answering voice was male, catching oddly on broken syllables. "Why do I want a circle?"

"Have you not come to challenge him?"

He didn't answer at once. Then, "He seems a bit indisposed."

"For the moment," she agreed. "But there is always me."

"I didn't come for you. At least--not to meet in the circle. Beds are much softer."

"A circle is the only place we will meet."

"Unless I beat you. If bedsport were the prize." Creaking leather again. "But that's not why I came."

"She sent you."

A trace of surprise underlay his tone. "You know about her?"

"More, perhaps, than she would like."

"Well." He cleared his throat, but the huskiness remained. "What has befallen him?

Certainly not Nezbet... unless the Sandtiger has grown so old and careless even boys may defeat him."

Contempt laced her tone. "Nezbet didn't beat him. This was--" She stopped. "You wouldn't understand."

Bridle brasses clattered as the horse shook its head. "What I understand is that he hasn't been himself for some time. There are rumors in Iskandar, and even in Harquhal... tales that make good telling when men gather to drink and dice."

"You are undoubtedly the subject of such tales. How often are they truthful?"

He laughed huskily. "Ah, but even I have seen he's not the same. And he isn't, Del... but then, you never saw him in his prime."

"His prime." She was angry. "In his prime he was--is--three times the man you are."

"Three times." He was amused. "And as for being a man--as a woman judges a man--only you can say. I've never slept with him."

"Three times the man," she said coolly, "in bed--and in the circle."

The broken voice was dangerously mild. "And I've never slept with you."

"Nor will you," she retorted.

"Unless I win it from you."

The answering tone turned equally lethal. "Just like a man," she said, "to make a woman's body the issue instead of the woman's skill."

He dismounted, jangling brasses. "I know you have the skill. We danced together, remember? I was, however briefly, shodo to--" he paused. "--the an-ishtoya? "

"You served a purpose," she answered, avoiding the question. "That is all, Abbu."

Steps sloughed through sand. Paused beside my head. "Is he dead?"

"Of course not. Do you think I'm keeping vigil?"

The voice was very close. "I don't know what you might be doing. You're Northern, not Southron--and you're a woman. Women do odd things."

"He's exhausted. He's resting."

"He's unconscious, bascha. Do you think I can't tell?" He paused. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing."

"Is that why he looks half dead?"

"He's not."

The tone was speculative. "I was in Iskandar, remember? I was in the middle of the fury just like everyone else. Only I'm not a man for religious ecstasy." He paused. "Does the condition he's in have something to do with magic?"

Reluctantly: "Yes."

"I thought so," he said. "And it begins to make me wonder."

"Wonder what?" she snapped.

"The tribes think Ajani was the jhihadi."

"Yes. Because Ajani took pains to make it appear he was."

"But the Sandtiger took no pains at all, at anything, because it isn't his way. He just does." A single step nearer; the body knelt at my side. "What I'm wondering--now--is exactly how much he can do."

"Tiger is Tiger," she said. "He isn't the jhihadi, no matter what he says."

"He says he's the jhihadi?"

Silence.

Dryly: "Of course, he could be saying it just to try and impress you."

"No." Grudgingly. "He says my brother pointed at him."

"Your brother? What in hoolies does your brother have to do with any of this?"

"He's the Oracle."

Silence. Then, ironically. "Do I seem that gullible to you? Or is this a game you and the Sandtiger have cooked up?" He snorted. "If it is, I don't think it's working. Right now you have dozens of very angry warriors on your trail, not to mention ten or so sword-dancers hired by Aladar's daughter."

"Believe what you wish to believe." Sand grated as she shifted her position. "Will you draw the circle?"

"Not now." A husky chuckle. "You've frightened me badly, bascha. I don't dare a dance with you."

She said something in eloquent uplander. I opened my mouth to answer.

Fifteen

Chosa Dei nods. "You'll grow tired, Shaka. You'll grow bored, like me. And there won't be anything else to do, except start all over again."

In counterpoint, Shaka Obre shakes his head. "I won't let you hurt those people."

"Puny, fragile toys."

Shaka, angry, lashes out. "Then go make your own! If you're so good at it, go make your own. Somewhere ELSE, Chosa. Leave my world alone."

"Your world! YOUR world? We made this together, Shaka."

"It doesn't matter. You don't want it anymore. I do."

Contempt warps Chosa's expression. "You don't know what you want."

"Neither do you, Chosa. That's pan of your problem."

"I don't HAVE a problem. And if I do, it's you!"

Shaka Obre sighs. "Just go away. You're cluttering up my world."

"You'll miss me, if I do."

Shaka shrugs. "I know how to keep myself busy."

Abbu again. "What exactly did you do to him, Del?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Tell me anyway."

"The story is very long."

"Tell me anyway. We have time."

"The others will come, and then where will we be? I can't dance against them all, and you won't."

He was amused. "Of course not. You think I'm one of them, after all."

"Aren't you? Why else would you come?"

"Curiosity."

"Greed, more like. Did she offer you enough?"

"She offered me a very great deal. I am something of a legend, after all."

"Panjandrum," she muttered.

"That, too," he agreed. "Now, as for the Sandtiger--"

Ice descended abruptly. "You would have to dance against me first."

"I know that, bascha. You've made that very clear." He shifted. "What did you do to him?

And what did he do to make you risk his life?"

I struggled to open my eyes. Tried to speak. Tried to do something that told them I was alive, awake, aware.

Nothing worked.

--Chosa Dei on the pinnacle, overlooking the grassy valley cradled by forested hills; sunlight glinting off lakes--

"I made this," he says. "I could UNmake this--"

Back.

"Hoolies," Abbu remarked. "You did all this by taking his sword away from him?"

"Not--precisely." Del's tone was a mixture of things: weariness, worry, reticence. "As I have said, there is much more to it. A long story."

"As I have said, bascha, we have time."

Del sighed. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

"Healing instead of hindering?" He laughed in his broken, husky voice; I'd given him that. "Because maybe I didn't hire on to catch him. Did you ever think of that? And even if I did, it's no challenge to capture a man in his present condition. Does nothing for the reputation. This is the Sandtiger, after all ..." Abbu paused. "At least--it was."

"And will be again." A cool hand touched my forehead, smoothing back sweat- and sand-crusted hair. "It begins with his sword," she said finally. "A Northern sword.

Jivatma."

Abbu grunted. "I know about them. And I've seen yours, remember? When we danced."

The fingers tightened briefly against my brow. I realized my eyes were held forcibly closed with a damp cloth binding. "There is more," Del said quietly. "A sorcerer. Chosa Dei."

Abbu's tone was incredulous. "Chosa Dei? But he's only a story!"

"Wards!" Chosa shrieks. "You put wards upon the land!"

"Of course I did," Shaka says quietly. "I didn't want you showing up one day, sick to death of boredom, and deciding--out of spite--to destroy what I made."

"YOU made!" Chosa bares his teeth. "WE made, you mean. It was both of us, Shaka--

and you know it!"

"But only one of us wants to destroy it."

"Not destroy. Unmake," Chosa explains. "And if you like, we can REmake it once we're done." He grins, reaching out to clasp his brother's shoulder. "It would be fun, yes? To unmake what we made, then remake it all over again. Only better--"

"I will not release the wards."

Chosa's fingers tighten rigidly, digging into Shaka's shoulder. "You will. You have to.

Because if you don't____"

The implication is clear. But Shaka shakes his head.

They stand again upon the pinnacle, overlooking the lush green grasslands they had, centuries before, made out of barren wasteland. Five generations have labored on the land, knowing fertile soil, water in plenty, abundant crops. Shaka's benevolent blessing has allowed them the freedom to blossom and grow, knowing little hardship.

And now Chosa Dei wants to unmake it. Out of boredom.

"No," Shaka says. "The land stays as it is."

"Divide it," Chosa counters. "Half is mine, after all; you couldn't have done any of it without my portion of the power."

Shaka's expression is distasteful. "I've heard all about you, Chosa. You do destroy. You kill. You--"

"I unmake," Chosa clarified. "And remake, yes?" He smiles. "We learn from our mistakes.

Each generation is an improvement upon the last; don't you think we might do better this time?"

Shaka shakes his head.

Rage contorts Chosa's features. "Lift the wards, Shaka. Enough of this folly. Lift the wards or I will unmake them, and then I'll unmake YOU."

Shaka laughs. "I think you're forgetting something."

"What am I forgetting?"

"I have magic, too."

"Not like mine," Chosa whispers. "Oh, not like mine. Trust me, brother. Test me, thwart me, and you will suffer for it."

Shaka assesses his brother. He shakes his head very sadly. "You weren't always like this.

As a child, you were cheerful and kind and generous. What happened? Where did you go wrong?"

Chosa Dei laughs. "I acquired a taste for magic."

"Then magic will be your bedmate." Shaka no longer smiles nor assesses; his decision is made. "Try my wards, Chosa, and you will find out how powerful they are. And how powerful I am."

Chosa scoffed. "You have been here for two hundred and fifty years, stagnating. While I have been in the world, collecting all the magic." He pauses. "Have you any idea AT ALL

how powerful I've become?"

Shaka smiles sadly. "Yes. I think I do. And that's why I can't let you 'unmake' what I have labored to protect."

"You must share," Chosa appeals beguilingly. "The way we've always shared."

"Not in this."

Rage convulses Chosa's features. "Then you will see what I am, yes? You will see what I can do!"

"Probably," Shaka agrees. "Since I can't change your mind."

"And you will suffer for it!"

Shaka looks down upon the lush grasslands. "Someone will," he says sadly. "You. Or I.

Or them."

"THEM!" Contempt is explicit. "What do I care for them? I can make as many of them as I need." He bares his teeth. "But I don't need them, yes?"

"Yes," Shaka says. "You do. Though you haven't the wit to see it."

Chosa Dei raises one hand. "Then let the testing begin."

Shaka Obre sighs. "It already has. But you haven't the wit to see THAT, either."