Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (16 page)

accept the risks than others."

Cipriana scraped fair hair back from her face. "Just because I don't wear a sword doesn't mean I can't do my part."

Del didn't smile. "Then why did you leave it to Massou?"

Cipriana opened her mouth, clamped it shut. It was Adara who answered for her.

"I made her give it to him," she said calmly. "A sword is a man's weapon."

Her children looked at Del, hilt poking over a shoulder, who merely sighed a little and nodded. "Southron, without a doubt, regardless of Border habits.

Well, I compliment Kesar on desiring freedom of choice for his children."

Color flared in Adara's face. "You have accepted our hospitality--"

"--and I am grateful, but it doesn't mean I have to believe as you believe,"

Del

spoke gently. "Woman, tend your children as you see fit; they are yours, not mine. But you should know that when a woman undertakes to do things a man ordinarily does, she should be prepared to act as a man when she must." Del looked at the girl. "Cipriana, you have courage and spirit. But if you mean to

use the staff, you had best learn how to do it."

Next she looked at the mother. "You, Adara, should hide a knife in your boot as

well as behind your blanket; men expect panic from a woman, not forethought.

As

for Massou and the sword--" she shook her head, "--a boy wquld do better with a

sling. He can hide, and strike in secret; a much more effective defense."

They stared at her, all three of them, struck dumb by her quiet and competent summation. I sipped effang, coughed, turned aside to sneeze. Tears ran down my

face.

Adara, diverted, smiled. "Poor Tiger," she said. "You are in misery."

"And will be, until I'm South again." I scowled at Del. "The sun'll be down behind the mountains soon, bascha. If we're going to see to this wagon, let's get at it before I start feeling worse."

"Thanks to me."

"Thanks to you." I rose, stretched, cursed inwardly as all my joints protested.

Massou's curiosity asserted itself. "Why is she to blame?"

"Because it was her fault." I scowled at the unblemished serenity of Del's expression. Thought about explaining how she had made me catch cold, knowing how

it would sound. "Never mind, Massou... let's just go fix the wagon."

The problem was simple enough to repair. It was a matter of fashioning a new linchpin, lifting the wagon high enough to slip the wheel back on, then driving

the linchpin through the wooden axle and pegging it in place. Unfortunately, I

was the one who got to do most of the heavy work; even with leverage, numbers and willingness, most of the operation called for brute strength.

Which naturally meant me, according to Del; the sardonic observation made Cipriana and Adara laugh, while Massou merely looked at me in perplexity.

I sighed. "Look at your hands and feet, boy. One day you'll be as big as I am,

and then they'll call you brute."

Grinning at Massou's immediate inspection of hands and feet, Del examined the mare. Gently she checked legs, hooves--fingering splints and bog spavins, setting fingernails between cracks in the hoof walls, ticking off infirmities--yet speaking softly all the while. The mare nosed Del's hair briefly, then returned to her stupor between the shafts.

Del turned to Adara, brows pulling downward. "How far are you bound?"

"To Kisiri," the woman answered. "My husband's kin are there."

Del tilted her head in consideration, mouth twisted doubtfully. "Too far, I think, for this mare. All the way over Reiver's Pass." She shook her head, patting the mare's shoulder. Even a passing glance at the animal underscored Del's concern; in addition to the weaknesses Del had found, she was swaybacked,

knock-kneed, too thin--clearly worn down from a journey still in its infancy.

"The Heights will suck the wind out of her and leave her with nothing to breathe."

"She has to last the journey! How else are we to go?" Adara moved rapidly to the

mare's head, neatly forcing Del to step away. The woman stroked the age-faded piebald face and whispered words of encouragement. "She is tired, that is all.

In the morning she will be better."

"In the morning she might be dead."

Adara turned to Del. "Have you no kind words in your mouth? Must you strip away

our hope?" She flicked a glance at Cipriana and her brother, both white-faced and wide-eyed with a sudden comprehension of the possibility of failure, and what it might mean for them. "Do you forget I have children to tend?"

Del's tone was gentle, but underneath lay the subtle edge of true-honed steel.

"Hiding the truth from them helps no one. Suckle them on dreams and falsehood to

the exclusion of reality and they'll be unprepared for life."

Adara's green eyes narrowed. She was a tall, strong woman, more substantial than

Del, and with as much determination. Beneath wool skirts and long belted tunic

was a firm body accustomed to hardship. It was hardship of a different sort than

Del's, but equally valid.

Uneasily, I looked from one to the other. I hate it when women fight...

unless,

as has occasionally happened, they're two cantina girls fighting over me.

This,

however, was different.

Adara opened her mouth to answer sharply, paused, glanced briefly at me.

Reconsidered her words. She modified her tone, but the intent remained quite clear. "Cipriana will one day be a wife, not a warrior. And the man she tends will be her husband, a settled man, who has no need of a sword, nor of a wife who wears one."

"Hoolies." I muttered wearily. I found a stump--wet, of course--and sat on it,

shivering in the dampness. The rain had faded to mist, but the sun had yet to shine. Everything was soot-gray and slate-blue; even the turf, ordinarily a rich, lively green, was dull and blotchy, channeled by runnels pouring off mounds and hummocks and terraces.

Obscurely, Del asked, "How old were you when she was born?"

Adara stared. And then answered politely enough, "Fifteen, even as Cipriana herself is now," She glanced at the girl, a mother's quiet pride evident in her

smile and the softening of her face. "I had been wed but a nine-month, so clearly the gods blessed the union."

"Fifteen." Del's expression was masked, but I knew her too well to miss the odd

note in her voice. One of weariness and recollection. "At fifteen, I too dreamed

of a husband and daughter... and a softer sort of life." Her eyes flicked a glance at me, at Cipriana, at the woman. Her tone hardened. "But the gods saw fit to give me a different road."

The Border woman was neither vindictive nor cruel, and did not, thank valhail,

display the quick-striking dagger of a jealous female's tongue. Plainly she heard the peculiar note in Del's tone, and it touched her. Hostility spilled away; her question was very soft. "Is it too late to take another?"

In a clipped, harsh tone, Del answered. "Much later than you know." And then, abruptly, as if she regretted saying anything at all, she was asking questions

about the remaining food supplies.

Adara sighed. Lines crept back into her face, aging her beyond her thirty years.

"We have what the thieves left us: a little flour, dates, dried meat, grain for

the mare in case foraging isn't enough... some tea and water..." Her head dipped

briefly, then snapped back up. The Border woman would not acknowledge how bad the telling sounded. "We had a nanny in kid, and another just weaned--"

"--and two hens," Cipriana said hollowly, "with a rooster. In crates." Her face

was solemn. "They took them all except the mare; they said she wasn't worth it."

As one, we looked at the mare. No, to thieves, she was not. Unless they meant to

eat her, but she was too old and too thin to offer much other than tasteless sinew and bone.

Del nodded. "Have you coin?"

Even Massou, young as he was, understood the possibilities in the question.

And

misunderstood, even as his sister and mother did. I didn't really blame them; they had been hard-used by thieves. There was no reason to trust anyone else until we gave it to them.

"Nothing left," Adara said sharply. "Will you take the mare, now?"

Del's tone didn't change, only the end of the question did. "Have you coin to buy supplies when you reach a settlement?"

The Borderer's color deepened. Ashamed, she looked at me, still sitting huddled

on the stump. "No," she said very softly. "I thought to sell the mare."

Del shook her head. "She will bring nothing; would a man pay coin for a horse no

one else will steal?" She didn't wait for a protest. "For now, what you need is

fresh meat. It won't last, but it will fill the belly tonight and tomorrow morning." She looked at Massou. "Do you know how to set a snare?"

His pinched face brightened. "Oh, yes! My father taught me," The brightness fell

out of his face as memory replaced it. Grief renewed, he stared hard at the ground.

Del's tone was brusquely sympathetic. "Fetch the makings, then, and you and I will snare us a meal." She paused. "If your mother doesn't mind."

That Adara wanted to was plain. But she made no protest, being a realistic woman: food had to come from somewhere and someone; Kesar was cold in the ground. Instead, she merely nodded.

Massou stared at Del. "But--you're a woman. Shouldn't he set the snares?" A finger jutted in my direction.

Del's expression didn't change. "Tiger is ill and needs to rest."

"Will you take me as well?" Cipriana asked eagerly, and then shot a stricken glance at her mother. "May I?"

The corner of Del's mouth twitched.

Adara's firm jaw was tight, stretching flesh over bone. I knew what she would say, and why; she would not lose son and daughter to Del. "It would be best if

you stayed here, Cipriana. A woman prepares the meal." Swiftly, before Cipriana

could express disappointment, Adara added, "Perhaps you might ask Tiger to tell

you about the Punja and all of the places he has seen."

"But what about me?" Massou demanded promptly. "I want to listen, too."

Del's tone was dry. "Don't fret, Massou. He has stories enough for us all, and

for all the days of forever. And he's a hero in every one."

I sniffed pointedly. "Not much of one at the moment."

Adara smiled; Cipriana giggled. Massou looked merely confused.

I nodded thoughtfully. "Now, there was a time..."

Del turned on her heel and left.

Adara prevailed upon me to change clothes, since what I wore was thoroughly soaked. She unwrapped the remaining bundle I had lugged up and down Del's

"foothills" and handed me various pieces of alien clothing, then quietly took herself and her daughter around the side of the wagon while I shinnied out of wet silk, dhoti and harness.

Unfortunately, cold as I was, I couldn't replace wet clothes with new immediately. There was the problem of figuring out how to put them on.

Eventually, muttering violent but indecipherable curses through chattering teeth

(and coughing), I did sort things out, thanks to Adara's quiet explanations from

the other side of the wagon.

Of something called wool, there were baggy trews that reached to ankles; gaiters

cross-gartered with leather thongs stretching from knee to ankle; a long-sleeved

undertunic. The sleeveless overtunic was of leather decorated with silver-tipped

fringe. Low boots replaced my sandals.

The woolens were blue, every last bit, though none was the same blue, but a tangle of brights and darks. The leather was a uniform bloody brown. I felt like

a patchwork man.

I looked down at the pile of sodden silk and damp dhoti. On top of both lay my

sword and harness. I scooped it up and realized that for the first time in many

years, the harness leather would no longer come in contact with my flesh. The Northern clothes were too confining.

Del, I recalled, wore her harness strapped over her leather tunic. Time for me

to do the same.

Undoing buckles, I came out from behind the wagon. Cipriana peeped around the corner, saw I was clothed, giggled and said something to her mother mostly in Northern. Color stood high in her cheeks.

Adara did not look at me, but at the massive sword hilt jutting from the sheath.

"Is that a jivatma?" she asked.

I stopped undoing and moving buckles. Her face was pale. Even Cipriana was taken

aback, looking from my face to the sword and back.

"What do you know of jivatmas?" I shifted buckles again, deftly lengthening straps. The sword-weighted sheath swung.

"I--my husband was Northern. He told me a little about the swords, and the people who wield them." She touched her throat in a betraying gesture of vulnerability. "Is that a blooding-blade?"

I settled buckles into new places, snapped the straps, hooked arms through, head

and neck, adjusted the fit with a rolling motion of both shoulders. "For another

man, it was a jivatma," I said quietly. "For me, it's merely a sword. And only

temporarily, until I can get another."

Adara did not move her head. I saw the pulsebeat in her throat. "Then--you are

not a sword-dancer?"

A tug here, pull there... it would take time for the leather to settle, and for

me to adjust to it over layers of fabric instead of flesh. "I am a sword-dancer," I said, "but a Southron one. There is a difference. I don't know

what your husband told you, but in the South a man with a sword is a man with a

sword, not some sorcerer who claims a blade that comes to life when you sing a

song."

"Sword-singer," Cipriana said clearly, with more than a little awe.

I frowned. "Well, I suppose the term applies, in a way--at least, when it comes

to a jivatma.'" I shrugged, dismissing it; reached over my left shoulder to snick the blade in its sheath. "But Del and I are sword-dancers."