Sword Singer-Sword Dancer 2 (3 page)

"No. No, of course not." Distracted, frowning, she shook her head, and the curtain of hair rippled. She had not braided it lately, leaving it loose to fall

over shoulders and down her back. "There are rituals--personal, private rituals... no one else may know them. Only me, when I make the sword my own."

Her eyes were on the hilt poking above my left shoulder, freed by the slit cut

so deliberately in the seam of my russet burnous so that nothing would hinder me

if I required it. Theron's jivatma made powerless by his death. "Had Theron known her name, he would have killed you. Killed me--"

"--and killed the sword." I nodded. "I understand, Del."

"No," she said, "you don't. But I cannot expect it of you. Not now. Not yet.

Not

until--" And abruptly she shrugged, clearly choosing not to finish what she had

begun, as if I was not prepared to hear it. "It doesn't matter. Not the understanding; not yet. What does matter is that you never again say her name,

not aloud, to anyone."

"No."

"No, Tiger."

I nodded. "No."

Her stare was so direct I wanted to look away, but I didn't. I saw her seek some

answer in my face, some expression she could trust, assurances unspoken but as

binding, if not more so, than the words. There had been many things between us--death, life, survival; more than mere affection, more than simple lust--that

counted for very much, but I knew, looking at her now, that nothing counted to

her so much as a man who kept his word.

After a moment she turned her gelding north, toward Harquhal. She said nothing

more of the sword or my commitment to permanent silence, but I knew the slip was

not forgotten. Nor ever would be.

Hoolies, I hadn't meant it. But an apology wasn't enough, no matter how sincere.

In the circle, it means nothing to a dead man to hear his killer's apology.

Harquhal is representative of most towns in the South. Adobe walls ward it against the wind, showing handprints and other geometric patterns laid in at construction. Cracks are plugged with fresh gobs of claylike mud, meticulously

fingered into place, denying the wind and sand even subtle means of entry.

But

walls, like intentions, are transitory; tents and stalls and wagons clustered haphazardly around the perimeter of the walls like chicks around a hen, ignoring

the possibilities of such things as simooms and smaller sister storms.

Harquhal is also representative of most border towns. Serving Northerners and Southroners alike, it has no nationality, and fewer loyalties. Ostensibly Southron, Harquhal pays only haphazard allegiance to the land I call my home.

Here, wealth holds dominance.

Del and I had little. In the weeks since we had left Jamail with the Vashni in

the mountains near Julah, we had survived on wagers won and a few odd jobs here

and there; collections for a Punja-mite of a greedy merchant who then tried to

cheat us out of our commission; effecting the rescue of the kidnapped son of a

powerful tanzeer who embraced the Hamidaa religion, which proseletyzed the uncleanliness of women, while all the time the kidnapped "son" was in reality a

daughter; escort duty for a caravan bound from one domain to another; other assorted employments.

Nothing, certainly, requiring remarkable ability with sword or guile. Nothing that added to the reputation of the Sandtiger, the legendary Southron sword-dancer, whose skill in the circle was matched by no man.

Unfortunately, now there was a woman. And she had displayed remarkable abilities

with a sword, relieving a renegade sword-dancer of his life. As for guile, Del

had little; she was blunt-spoken, straightforward, intolerant of Southron word

courtesies that often did little more than waste time. And time was her enemy.

The worst part of our journey was done. The Punja lay far behind us. What we faced now, once free of Harquhal, was the North.

Hoolies. I was a Southroner--what did I want with the North?

Nothing. Except Del, who had more than casual ties with the land of snow and banshee-storms.

More than casual ties with powerful Northern magic.

Glumly, I swung down off the stud in front of a lopsided adobe cantina roofed with a lattice of woven boughs, and tied tassled reins to a knobby post set crookedly in the ground. I heard the sounds of laughter and merriment inside, male and female; smelled the pungent stink of huva weed, the aroma of roasting

mutton, the tang of wine and aqivi.

Also the sweet-sour smell of urine; the stud was relieving himself.

Swearing, I skipped back and nearly stumbled over my own sandaled feet, not wanting my burnous splattered. The stud rolled an eye in my direction and wrinkled a pale-brown muzzle forested with whiskers. I began again my endless litany of unflattering equine appellations.

Del avoided the steaming puddle as she dismounted and tied her gelding to another post. Absently she hooked a left hand up to the exposed hilt of her sword, snicked it twice against the tip of the hidden sheath to check ease of movement, nodded once. I'd seen her do it before, many times. It is a habit, though varied in execution, all sword-dancers develop.

We all have idiosyncracies. Some of them keep us alive.

"I take it you want to leave at first light." I waited for her to fall into step

beside me.

She shrugged. "There are things we much purchase first. Food, clothing--"

"Clothing!" I frowned. "I admit we could use cleaner apparel, but why spend good

coin on things we already have?"

She pulled aside the threadbare vermilion curtain at the door. "If you wish to

go north with nothing more to wear than a dhoti and burnous and freeze your gehetties off, you may. But I have no intention of freezing to death." And she

ducked in, forgetting, as usual, that I require more room than she does in entrances built for shorter men.

I jerked the curtain off my face and scowled after her as I followed. Then I coughed; huva smoke packed the exposed rafters of the cantina, drifting in slow,

eddying, malodorous ocher-green wreaths. The vice is one I abhor since a sword-dancer needs all his faculties in the circle. Of course Del had taken my

opinion as somewhat tainted by the fact I drink aqivi with great abandon, pointing out that a man with a gut full of aqivi is no less likely to die than a

man with a head full of huva dreams.

(Well, Del and I don't always agree on everything. Sometimes we don't agree on

anything.)

She squinted and waved a hand in front of her face, peering irritatedly through

the smoke as she sought an open table. And, as is common when Del walks into a

cantina (or any place, for that matter), desultory conversation devolved into a

muddle of hissed comments, muttered questions, unsubtle speculation.

I sighed. Wished I had Singlestroke. Bared my teeth in a lazy, friendly grin at

the two dozen or so men who looked from Del to me, to see if I was capable of protecting the Northern bascha.

I don't consider myself a vain man. What I am is fact: big, strong, quick.

There

is a certain dangerous edge in my face, my posture, my eyes, shaped by the demands of my profession. And there are times I am perfectly willing to flaunt

whatever advantages this affords me; I fight when I must, and with gusto, but only when there is no other way around it.

Idly I assessed the room, letting them see what I did. Just as idly I scratched

the scars on my face. Deep scars, old scars; four clearly defined claw stripes

curving from right cheek to jaw, unmistakably from a beast some men labeled mythical: the lethal Punja sandtiger from which I'd taken my name.

My badge of honor, in a manner of speaking. For men who knew of sword-dancers,

it identified me at once.

(Not everyone carries the mark of his profession and expertise on his face; I rather like it. Saves time.)

"No trouble," Del muttered under her breath. Half suggestion, half command.

I slapped a spread hand over my heart. "Need you even say it?"

She grunted. Waved away more smoke. Strode across the floor through crowded aisles to a tiny table in a corner at the very back of the cantina.

Still smiling, I followed, watching everyone else watch her, even the cantina girls, who scowled, chewed bottom lips, nibbled thoughtfully on thumbnails.

And

who, if they were quick enough, realized they had better beguile their chosen partners immediately, if they were to recapture clearly divided attention.

One of the girls, perched on the thigh of a lean young man sprawled casually at

a table, got up at once and made her way to me, blocking my view of Del.

Black-haired, dark-skinned, brown-eyed. A typical Southron girl: lush-figured,

bold of features; at sixteen or seventeen, in full bloom. But it would fade too

quickly, I knew; the desert sucks women dry before they are thirty.

"Beylo." She smiled, showing crooked teeth and a curiously attractive overbite.

"Beylo, will you share your wine with Jemina?" Her hands were on my arms, caressing me through the thin fabric of my burnous. "I can bring you huva and many, many dreams."

"Of that I have no doubt." I glanced past her to the young man she had deserted,

marking black hair, blue eyes, the smudge of a new mustache, a rueful expression. He was not angry, and did not appear moved to protest her defection.

He seemed amused by the performance, which was at least a welcome change from bruised male pride, which always demands reparation. (Generally in blood.)

"But

you are partnered already, bascha, and so am I."

Jemina shrugged a dusky naked shoulder, ignoring the loose neckline that slid lower still, exposing most of one plump breast. "He's a boy, beylo . , . you are

a man."

Well, yes, last time I looked. "Bascha, another time," I set her out of my way

and saw Del seated at the little table, clearly amused.

Ah, well, too much to hope she might be jealous.

I hooked out a stool and sat down, scowling as the uneven legs rocked me back and forth, threatening to tip me over entirely. I wedged the stool against the

wall, settled substantial weight gingerly, looked up again to see the wry twist

of Del's mouth. And then she looked past me, and up, to watch the wine-girl who

eyed her so assessively.

Back again. I sighed. "Bascha--"

"Wine?" she asked. "Aqivi?" She tossed black curls behind a shoulder. "I work for my living, beylo. I am not a common whore."

Unless, of course, the price was right. I sighed again and fingered my shriveled

coin pouch. A few coppers clinked; hardly enough to buy a full meal and all the

aqivi I wanted.

My eyes strayed hopefully to Del. She tapped slender fingers on the scarred, sticky tabletop, sighed, waved a hand at the girl. "Stew," she said, "and the cheapest wine you've got."

"Wine!" Aggrievedly, I stared. "A few coppers more will turn up a jug of aqivi."

"Wine," Del said coolly, and the girl turned away with a flounce of layered skirts that clearly signaled my reduction in her esteem.

I leaned forward, resting my weight on one planted forearm. "Just how do you propose to buy clothing if we haven't enough coin for a proper meal?"

"I propose to buy clothing by forgoing unnecessary expenditures on unnecessary

things." She paused, sweeping back a fall of hair. "Like aqivi."

A tendril of huva smoke drifted down from the beamwork. I waved it away.

"Aqivi

is hardly unnecessary when I've spent the last three or four weeks sucking water

on our way across the Punja."

Jemina returned and plunked down two wooden bowls of mutton stew, a half-risen

loaf of brown bread, sloshing stoneware bottle, a pair of battered wooden cups

bound by greenish copper.

Del smiled sweetly. "Suck wine."

I might have answered, but I was too busy sniffing the stew in my bowl.

Mutton

is not one of my favorite dishes, although I'm accustomed to it. It's better than dog. Certainly better than roasted sandtiger, which Del had ignobly served

me once.

After a moment I drew my knife and hacked off a chunk of hard bread, lifted the

bowl and prepared to scoop watery stew into my mouth.

Prepared. I never got any farther. Not when I saw the expression on Del's face

as she stared, transfixed, across the crowded cantina.

Shock. Anger. Suspicion. And a cold, rising rage that glittered like ice in her

eyes.

By all the nameless gods of valhail, I swear I have never seen a look like that.

On man or woman.

Not even on a sword-dancer.

Three

She rose slowly, so slowly, until the tabletop hit her midthigh. Shrouded in the

burnous, most of her was hidden. But I knew her. I knew how she moved, how she

tensed, how she waited. I knew how to judge her intentions simply by reading her

eyes.

"Del--"

She did not even glance at me.

I wrenched my head around and stared across the cantina, trying to see what she

saw. Trying to see what had set her on edge; what had stripped her of the woman

I knew, reducing her to little more than an animal on the stalk.

I saw nothing. Well, not nothing. I saw men. Just men. Bent over tables, hunched

on stools, trading stories, jokes, insults. And wine-girls, plying their trades.

And smoke and lamplight and shadows.

"Del--" I turned back, frowning, and saw the color slowly fade from her face.

There isn't much to begin with, what with her Northern complexion, but now there

was a decided difference. Now she looked like a woman dead three days.

Slowly, she sank back onto her stool. Her hands still braced her balance against