Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (14 page)

thing."

"And where's the honor in that?"

"So I asked myself." He placed a hand against my forehead. "The worst of the fever has passed, I

think, but you're far from well."

I knew that without being told. "Who are you?"

"My mother named me Nayyib."

"This isn't the road from Julah. What are you doing here?"

"It's a road from Julah," he clarified, "now. And I came looking for you. Fortunate thing, yes?"

"I thought you said you weren't going to challenge me."

"I'm not. At least, not in that way."

That sounded suspicious. "In
what
way, then?"

"I wish to become a sword-dancer."

I grunted. "I figured that."

"I wish you to teach me."

"What, you just decided this?"

"I decided this in Julah, after you killed that sword-dancer."

"Khashi."

"After you killed Khashi."

"Why? Didn't you originally want to kill me?"

"No. I wanted to dance against you. I didn't know anything about this
elaii-ali-ma.
You were just—

you. After I saw what happened to Khashi and learned what had happened to you, I decided to follow

you."

I attempted to frown, which isn't easy when you're sick. "You followed us to Julah."

"Well, yes."

'And at that point you still wanted to challenge me."

"I did. At that point I thought I was good with a sword."

"You don't anymore?"

His mouth twitched. "Not good enough."

"So
now
you want to be taught by a man who has no honor?"

"A man who once was the greatest in all the South."

Once
was. Once. What in hoolies was I now?

Well, sick. That's what.

"So you figure if you look after us while we're sick, you'll earn some lessons."

His tone was exquisitely bland. "I should think saving your lives might be worth one or two."

I shut my eyes. "You're a fool."

"Undoubtedly." He placed the bota under my hand again. "I've tended her, got more water down

her, wet the cloth again. And I've watered your horse. Grained him. Tied him under a tree for what little

shade there is, and the few blades of grass."

"Busy boy," I muttered.

He ignored that. "But he'll need more water later. So will she. Can you manage it?"

"I'll manage it." How, I didn't know. But I wouldn't admit it to a kid. Especially not this kid, who had

a mouth on him.

He seemed to know it anyway. "I'll go to Fouad's and ask him for help. I'll bring a healer, food, and

more water. There isn't much left. Ration it, if you want to live. I put wood by the fire."

He had indeed been a busy boy—and it just might save us. "Wait." I levered myself up on an elbow,

"You say there's a road to Julah from here?"

"Such as it is. Paired ruts, nothing more."

"We didn't come that way."

"I crossed your tracks."

But Del and I had spent the night with the Vashni, and the kid—Nayyib—had only just reached us.

"There's a shorter way. Follow our tracks back to the streambed, and go from there."

Black brows drew together. "Vashni territory. Or is that your way of getting me killed?"

"Oh, I'd do that myself. No—here." With a trembling hand— hoolies, I hate being weak!—I pulled

the Vashni necklet over my head, fingerbones clacking. "Wear this. It's safe passage."

He stared at the necklet, then flicked a glance back at me. "You're sure?"

"Well, I suppose they might kill you for sheer hard-headedness, but it ought to get you safely

through."

He took the necklet, eyed it in distaste, then hooked it over his head. My elbow gave out and I

thumped back to the ground. Shut my eyes. "Do it for Del," I said wearily, "not for me."

Against my lids his shadow shifted. Retreated. "I will try," he told me, "to make certain she doesn't

die."

When I opened my eyes, the sun was down. And he was gone.

Wind blows. Sand shifts. It creeps upon the bones, begins to swallow them. Legs.
Arms.
The

collapsed cage of ribs. The jewels that are spine. All that is left is skull. And the sword. "Find

me," she says.
Could the bones belong to Del? Could she be dead?

I awoke with a start. "Auuggh," I croaked. "Stop with the dreams, already!"

Sweat drenched me. It stank of sandtiger venom. I rolled to my right side, started to use my elbow,

thought better of it as the wounds in my back protested. After a moment I made the attempt to sit upright

without the assistance of arms. Aching abdominal muscles warned me it wasn't such a good idea, but I

managed to stay there. Eventually the world settled back into place.

The dream faded. Reality was bad enough.

I turned my head and spat, disliking the aftertaste of fever and poison. Dry-mouthed, nothing was

expelled. I found the bota, rinsed my mouth, tried again. Much better. Then I drank sparingly, recalling

the boy's warning regarding how much water was left.

I looked across at the blanketed form. Del did not appear to have roused. I set down the bota, took

a deep breath, and made my body move.

Well, such as it could. In the end I flopped down on my belly, head near Del's pallet, and hitched

myself up on a forearm.

"Bascha?" I peeled back the blanket with my free hand. Del's face remained slightly blotched, a

network of red overlaying extreme pallor. Her swollen lips had cracked and bled. I rested a hand on her

abdomen, waited in frozen silence, then felt the slight rising and falling. She breathed.

With effort, I pulled myself upright. Found her bota, shook it, heard the diminished sloshing. I had no

idea when Nayyib had been here, when he'd left, or when he might return. For all I knew it was a week

after he'd gone. I thought it more likely a matter of hours, though possibly it was the next day.

I hooked my left hand under Del's head and lifted it, placing the bota at her lips. I squeezed and

dribbled water into her mouth. This time she swallowed without choking. I settled her head once more

again the bedding.

The cloth across her forehead was dry. I wet it yet again, replaced it, cleared away the trickles that

threatened her eyes and ears. "I'm here," I told her. "A little the worse for wear, but still here, bascha."

I did not know when Nayyib had changed her bandages. A torn burnous sat in a pile on her bedding,

but I didn't recognize it. The boy's, apparently; and the fabric matched that now wrapping Del's forearm,

so he had done that much. I peeled back the cloth to bare the bite wound. I bent, sniffed; did not yet

smell infection or putrefaction.

So far.

I searched for and found the bota of Vashni liquor. Once again I poured it into the wound.

And for the first time in—hoolies, I didn't know how many days it was since the attack!—Del

opened her eyes. They were hazy and unfocused.

"Bascha?"

But almost immediately they closed again.

"Del?"

Her lips moved, but no sound issued from her mouth. Instead of water, this time I dribbled liquor into

her mouth.

Below the edge of the cloth, the faintest of frowns twitched her brows. Her left hand stirred, rose.

Fingers touched her mouth. Then the hand flopped down to her neck.

I'd forgotten about the cracked lips when I'd given her the liquor.

I swore, stole the damp cloth from her forehead, and pressed it again her mouth. "Sorry, bascha. I

didn't think."

I didn't think a lot.

She did not stir again. I took up Nayyib's burnous, made more bandages, wrapped her forearm

again. Vashni liquor, I decided, ought to burn the poison out of anything.

I felt then at my own stripes on the back of my shoulder, cutting across the scapula. It was a bad

angle, and even twisting my head until my neck complained did not bring the claw wounds into sight, but

fingers told the story. The twin stripes were crusted, no longer bleeding. Leaving them alone was the best

medicine.

Weariness intruded, as did dizziness. But there was the horse to tend. I drank a little of the liquor,

breathed fire for a moment, then stoppered the bota and put it aside. I crawled to the opening of the

lean-to, peered blearily out at the world, and wanted very badly to turn around and collapse into sleep—

or unconsciousness—once more.

A few paces away, tied to a scrubby tree, Del's horse stood with a black-smeared face. With the

detached, exquisite clarity of fading fever, I wondered briefly what Nayyib had thought upon first sighting

the paint and fringe.

The gelding saw me and nickered, ears flicked forward.

"Fine," I muttered, "I'm coming. It might take me a day, but I'll get there."

Nayyib had left a water bota and grain pouch by the lean-to. I grabbed both, gathered my legs under

me, pressed both arms against the ground, and pushed.

In grabbing the shelter roof to steady myself, I nearly brought it down. I let go, took a step away,

and almost fell flat on my face. I saved myself from doing so only because most of me would have landed

in the fire ring, and that was not a particularly favored destination.

The gelding nickered again.

Sun stabbed into my eyes. A lurking headache flared into existence. Everything, from bones and

muscle to skin, ached unremittingly. I drew in a breath, set my teeth, and began the horren-dously lengthy

and perilous journey to the gelding, all of five paces away.

Upon reaching him I grabbed a hunk of mane to hold myself upright. "Hello," I said sociably, hoping

he wouldn't move. "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"

He blinked a white-lashed blue eye and nosed at the bota.

"Coming," I muttered, working at the stopper. Once free, I upended the waterskin and drained the

contents into the canvas bucket. The gelding dipped his head and began to drink. I hung onto the curve

of his withers, wondering if I could make it back to the lean-to. Possibly the gelding would have

company tonight, right where he was.

Except Del was there. I'd make it back.

Done drinking, the gelding lifted his head. Clinging to him one-handed, I took the opportunity to

relieve myself. The sharp tang of venom expelled with urine made the gelding shift uneasily.

"Not now," I suggested fervently, readjusting my dhoti. The gelding obliged. I thanked him with a

pat, then opened the grain pouch and poured a handful into the empty water bucket. He needed good

grazing, but there wasn't any. For now, this had to do.

I did not look forward to the journey back to the shelter. "One step an hour ought to get me there," I

told the horse.

But he was no longer paying me any mind. He'd drawn himself up, head lifted, and pealed out a

whinny of welcome. Steadying myself against his neck, I turned, expecting to see Nayyib. Relieved that

I'd see Nayyib. He was bringing the healer.

And indeed, I saw Nayyib. Along with three other men on horseback. Nothing about them

resembled healers. In fact, everything about them resembled sword-dancers.

Especially since I knew one of them.

He was highly amused. "Sandtiger." All his handsome white teeth were on display. "You look

terrible."

I glared. It was all I could manage. "What do you want, Rafiq?"

"You."

Figured. I sighed, squinted at him, hung onto the gelding. "How about we skip the sword-fight and

name you the winner," I suggested. "Right about now, as you can see, I'm not really up to a match.

There'd be no challenge in it. As I recall, you like to tease an opponent for an hour or two before

defeating him. Hoo-lies, I'd go down in the blink of an eye. No fun for you."

Rafiq was still grinning atop his palomino horse. "He said you were sick. Sandtiger, was it?" He

laughed. "Appropriate."

I shot a glance at Nayyib. He sat his mount stiffly, not even looking at me. I wondered if they'd paid

him to lead them back here. Or promised him
a
dance in a circle. Or lessons in being a sword-dancer.

"Sick," I agreed. "Probably even dying, and therefore not worth killing. So why don't you just ride on

out of here and let me die in peace?"

Rafiq jumped off his horse, pulling something from the saddle. "Because," he said, approaching, "we

have every intention of not letting you die. At least, not like this. If you're up and moving now, the

poison's mostly out of your system."

"What's the plan?" I asked.

Rafiq had a loop of thin braided leather in his hands. "You're coming with us."

He intended to tie my hands. I debated avoiding it, even tensed to do so.

Rafiq saw it and laughed. "I can tie you standing here before me with some measure of dignity, or I

can tie you with your rump planted in the dirt. Which do you prefer?"

I said nothing. He slipped the loop over my wrists and snugged it tight, preparing to knot it.

Then I moved.

TEN

WHEN I came to, my rump was not planted in the dirt. All of me was. Rafiq had one knee on my

chest and was scowling into my face. I expected him to apply inventive curses to my aborted attempt to

escape, but instead he asked, "What happened to your fingers?

I scowled back. "I got hungry."

Rafiq claimed a good share of Borderer blood and thus was larger than most men in the South. It

wasn't an impossibility for him to jerk me to my feet, especially with me wobbly from venom residue and

being knocked out. Especially with his two friends on either side of me, waiting to help. He lifted his

knee, they grabbed my arms, and he yanked me up by dint of tied wrists. Which hurt. Which he knew.