Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (11 page)

"I don't want to pay it."

"You didn't have much choice. It was the polite thing to do when being hosted by murdering

savages."

"You're not sick."

"I did that yesterday, remember?" I gently slapped the bota against one arm. "Here. I know you

don't want to, but I promise it'll help."

"I have water."

"It's not water."

She lifted her head and looked at me. "You can't mean more of that horrible spirit!"

"I can. I do. Just a few sips, bascha. Then lie down and go back to sleep."

"Tiger—"

"I've already had my medicine. Your turn." She looked and sounded desperate. "I don't want any!"

"Well, I could pour it down your gullet
for
you . . ." She knew I'd do it, too. Del gritted her teeth, took

the bota, winced from the smell, then tipped the skin up to drink. Her hands shook, but she squeezed a

couple of swallows into her mouth.

I thought at first she might be sick again, but she managed to keep it down. "Another swallow," I

prompted.

She managed that, then thrust the bota back at me. After a moment she lay down on her side with

her back to me, one hand over her face. The sun through leaves spread a lattice of dappled shadow

across her body.

Smiling, I sorted out her tangled braid. "Sleep. We're in no rush."

What she replied was unintelligible. Probably just as well.

I knew better than to attempt to go back to sleep myself. Once awake after a session of too much

liquor, I stayed that way for a while. I'd sleep again later. Besides, other business called me. I got up,

suppressing groans, stood there a moment until the world steadied, then made my way into the brush to

find a likely bush. After offering a rather prodigous libation to the gods of alcohol, I set about assessing

our situation.

First I checked the horses and found them content, lipping up what remained of the grain that

apparently the Vashni had given them. Our oiled canvas buckets were on the ground within reach, and

each contained enough water that I knew the horses weren't thirsty. Our weapons remained on the

blanket where we'd put them, though the Vashni swords and knives were gone. Our saddle-pouches

were stacked next to them, and there was an extra leather bag. I loosed the thong drawstring enough to

discover the contents were more meat, nearly lost my belly then, and dropped the bag instantly. Later.

Maybe.

So. They had guested us in their camp, fed us, given us drink, untacked, fed, and watered our

horses, left our weapons and belongings, and gifted us with meat and bone necklets. All in all, I couldn't

think of a more polite visit with anyone.

Hmmm. Being the jhihadi has its advantages.

I dug through our pouches and pulled out some dried cumfa. While it's hardly a delicacy, it was

somewhat more appetizing this morning than barely cooked sandtiger meat left for gods know how long

in a leather bag, plus it was preserved in salt. Salt in the desert is a must. I grabbed up a water bota and

went back to the blanket, settling down to a meager breakfast. Del slept on.

Lucky bascha.

When next I awoke, Del was no longer retching. Or sleeping. In fact, she was up doing what I'd

already done: checking the horses, our belongings. She was moving with much less grace than usual but

had rebraided her hair and changed into a cleaner burnous, since she had, as I had, used her sleeve to

clean her face, and looked altogether more prepossessing than she had earlier. Though there was no

question she didn't feel good.

"It lives," I commented.

Del peered balefully at me, shielding her eyes from the sun with a raised hand. "Barely. I had more of

the spirits. What do you call it?—the bark of the dog?"

I grinned. "The
hair
of the dog. Told you it works."

"Marginally." She hooked a finger under the fingerbone necklet dangling against her harness and

displayed it. "What's this?"

"My guess is it's some kind of guest-gift. You're the Oracle's sister, and I'm the jhihadi. Maybe

they're some kind of safe passage tokens through Vashni territory. Not a bad thing to have."

It was an understatement to mention Del was not happy. "We didn't even wake up when they put

them on us. They might as easily have cut our throats."

"They could have done that while we were awake. Anyway, I think we'd better wear them for a

while, just in case."

She didn't like the idea, but nodded. Then she pointed at the Vashni sack. "Can we at least get rid of

that? I think we should bury it."

I grinned. "Not too fond of sandtiger, are we?"

"It doesn't taste particularly good going in either direction."

Fortunately I'd only experienced the one direction. I grabbed a bota and sucked down more water,

then made the effort to climb to my feet. It was easier this time. "Better take it with us, till we're out of

Vashni territory. You never know what might insult them."

"Then
you
carry it."

I glanced up at the sun. "Midday," I muttered. "We ought to get moving. Maybe we can make the

chimney before nightfall."

"Or not," Del said, "considering how we feel. You said yourself there is no rush."

"That was earlier, when I took pity on you."

"And I'm not deserving of any now?"

"You're standing, aren't you? If you can stand, you can ride."

Del said glumly, "I suppose that means I must stay on my horse."

"Well, I could always throw you belly-down over the saddle and tie you on. Of course, all the blood

would rush to your head, and I'm not sure that would make you feel any better. I certainly recall how I

felt when you did it to me."

She flicked me an arch glance. "That was the Vashni who did it to you. And it was either that or let

them kill you. To kill Chosa Dei."

"Well, they
were
much friendlier this time around," I agreed. Then I scratched my head and sighed,

staring at the horses. "I suppose they won't saddle themselves. Guess we'd better get to work."

And work it was, with a pounding head. Took longer than usual, too, though eventually we did have

both horses saddled, repacked, and ready to go. The Vashni had left us two blankets as well, which I

found downright neighborly of them.

I led the stud into the center of the clearing, sorry to leave the shade. With great deliberation I stuck

a foot into the left stirrup, carefully pulled myself up, and swung my right leg over. Amazingly, everything

stayed attached.

"Well, bascha, I guess—" But I didn't finish, because Del arrived with the gelding in tow, thrust his

reins at me urgently, and disappeared with haste behind a clump of trees.

This time I didn't tease her. I dug out some of the red silk left over from my Skandic clothing,

unhooked a water bota, and handed both down to her without comment when she reappeared. Del

rinsed her mouth, spat, then washed her face. She looked terrible.

I made the sacrifice. "Maybe we should stay here another night."

"No." Del took the gelding's reins back from me, flipped them over his neck, and mounted. She was

clearly shaky, but determined. "I know how badly you want to get your hands on your
jivatma.
If it

were mine . . ." She shook her head. "We'll go on."

The poor, pitiful bascha had reverted to cold-faced Northern sword-singer. I knew better than to

attempt to jolly her out of it.

Besides, she needed to concentrate on keeping her belly where it belonged.

I realized within a couple of hours that we were not going to make the chimney before nightfall.

Though I was feeling much better as the day wore on, and Del seem resigned to a generalized discomfort

—at least she wasn't sick anymore—a faster pace might upset the balance. Not only that, but footing

was tougher as we wound our way closer to the dramatic rock formations in the distance, beyond the

foothills. Skull-sized boulders sprouted like shrubbery, abetted by drifts of bedrock peeping above the

soil. "The horses had to pay more attention to where they set their hooves, and we had to pay more

attention to the occasional misstep, prepared to bring equine heads up to reestablish balance before they

went down onto their knees.

Then a sandy area caught my eye. Like water spilled from a pitcher, it wound its way through rocks,

then spread into a wider patch.

"Over here," I called to Del, riding behind me. "Footing's better."

And indeed it was. The sandy area went down a rocky hillock and opened into something very like a

shallow streambed, except there was no water. There had been once, before desert took it over. But

now it was dry, with an underlayment of hard and uneven stone intermixed with sandy pockets and

water-smoothed, hollowed-out boulders. Amazingly, there was a scattering of vegetation here, edging

the streambed. Tough, reedy-looking shrubbery of a pallid green hue.

"Look ahead—there." Del pointed. "Are those wagon ruts?"

"Out here?" But even as I asked it, I saw what she meant. A few paces up there indeed appeared to

be wheel ruts running across the streambed, visible only when they hit sand pockets. I moved the stud

into a faster pace, then pulled up when I reached the ruts. "Hunh," I commented.
"Someone's
been out

here in a wagon."

Del reined in beside me. "It makes no sense. There is nothing out here for settlers or caravans."

I shook my head. "Not enough tracks for a caravan. One wagon, I'd guess. Two mules. Maybe

someone got lost." I marked how the ruts entered the streambed on one side and exited the other. "Let's

follow the tracks," I suggested, reining left. "Maybe whoever we find will invite us to supper."

If they haven't already been someone else's supper."

'I'm not sure we're still in Vashni territory," I said. "Which reminds me ..." I untied the increasingly

odiferous bag of sand-tiger meat from the saddle and let it drop into the edge of the streambed as the

stud climbed out. The gelding followed, white head swinging on the end of his long neck. Gold fringe

dangled lopsidedly. "You know, you could always hang your Vashni neck-let across your horse's face.

He's already wearing axle grease and wine-girl fringe . . . human fingerbones might give him a little added

class."

Del, not surprisingly, did not deign to reply.

We followed the tracks as they wound their way through the rocks and sand. After a while they

turned in toward the mountains on our left, gaining in elevation. We wound our way up, and then almost

abruptly the crude ruts gave out onto a flat area to our right, opposite the massive boulders skirting the

bottom of the mountain on the left. The flat formed a plateau, the chopped off crown of a shallow bluff

overlooking where we'd come from, including the streambed. A few straggly trees, low shrubbery, and

modest grassy patches skirted the edge near the continuation of the ruts. I pulled up there to give the stud

a blow and take a look around. Del's gelding picked its way slowly up to join us. Del was, I noticed,

drinking water again.

"You all right, bascha?"

She nodded as she restoppered the bota. "Much better than this morning. Just thirsty."

"Liquor does that." I glanced around. "You know, this wouldn't be a bad place to stop for the night

—" I broke off, whistling in surprise. "Hoolies—would you look at that?" I pointed. "Up there against the

boulders, there. Looks like a shelter to me. And the remains of a cookfire in front of it."

"Where—? Oh, that?" Del rode past me, heading toward the huge tumbled boulders lining the

merging of mountain with flat area. "It is a shelter, Tiger—it's a little lean-to. The wagon ruts go right past

it, but they're deeper by the shelter, as if they stopped here."

I followed. Del was right. Someone had used one of the larger boulder formations for the back wall

and had built a rough lean-to out of branches and canvas. The fire ring hadn't been used for a while, but

clearly this was a regular camping place. No one would sacrifice canvas in the desert unless he intended

to return.

"Halloo the camp!" I called. "We're coming in!"

Del reined in next to the fire ring. "No one's here."

"You never know." I dismounted and drew my sword. Del had done the same. But there was no

place to hide in the lean-to; it boasted only two sides, the boulder for a back wall, and a

branch-and-canvas roof. It was large enough for possibly three people, if they were very close friends.

"Good enough for tonight," I said. "Let's get the horses settled, and then we can think about food."

Del recoiled. Her expression clearly announced she wanted nothing to do with food. Possibly

forever.

I disagreed. "You need to eat something. You've only had water all day."

"Yes, and in fact. . ." She turned abruptly and headed toward the hillside strewn with tumbled

boulders, sheathing her sword.

"Are you sick again?" I asked.

"No. But I have had a
lot
of water."

"Ah." Grinning, I strode back to the horses. I decided to be a nice, kind, thoughtful man and untack

her gelding. "Hold on, old son," I told the stud. "You're next."

I untied saddlepouches and piled them beside the lean-to, tossed Del's bedding inside. The gelding

gazed at me out of mournful blue eyes, peering through dangling bits of fringe.

"You look ridiculous," I told him, undoing his girth. "No offense, but you do." I lifted saddle and