Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (23 page)

pride and strength of will.

Silk had said it
for
me as much as to me: I had never believed it likely I would settle on one woman.

Unlike Alric, I wasn't made for a wife and children. I wanted no ties. Nearly two decades as a Salset

chula had taught me never to be owned by anyone again; and what was a husband but a man owned by

his wife?

Even Alric admitted Lena forbade him things. Who needs that?

And then Delilah arrived in my life, as driven as I to prove herself, if for different reasons, and having

no more interest in putting down roots than I did. Except for an enforced stay on Skandi and then time

spent on the island off Haziz to regain fitness, we had never stopped moving.

A sudden thought occurred: Now I was proposing to rebuild Alimat and take on students. Which

would require me to stay put.

No wonder everyone thought I was sandsick!

I roused from sleep long enough to mutter something mostly incoherent about old men growing soft,

then slid down again into the abyss.

Where the bones and the sword waited.

This time the skekton wears flesh, and a face. It is Del, gazing at me out of empty sockets. A

hand reaches, gestures. There, she seems to say, though her mouth does not move. There. Take up

the sword.

It lies just out of her reach, as if flung down or lost in battle. It is more than a sword, I see,

but
jivatma,
fashioned in the North of Northern rites. Yet it isn't Boreal. Isn't Del's
sword.

It is
mine. Samiel.

"There," she says, "take up the sword."

Sand drifts. Obscures the body. Carries flesh away. Bones remain. It isn't Del anymore but the

other woman.

"Find me," she says. "Find
—" --------- ,

---------------------------------------------- ;

"—me," I finished, and realized I was awake.

The sword lay beside me, where I had placed it. Not Samiel, just the sword I'd bought in Haziz. It

bore no runes, no Northern magic. Was nothing more than steel, with a leather-wrapped hilt.

In the darkness, I lifted the sword. Closed one hand around it. Felt again the pressure of four fingers.

Four, not three.

I closed my other hand around it, resting the pommel against my abdomen so that the blade bisected

air. And again, four fingers.

After a moment I set the sword down beside me and inspected my hands. Felt two stumps where

little fingers had lived.

Find me,
she had said.
Take up the sword.

Find who? What sword?

"What in hoolies do you want?" I said. "And what am I supposed to do about it? If you want me to

do something, you've got to give me more to go on!"

Of course, then I felt utterly absurd for talking aloud to a dream. But I was getting more than a little

tired of obscurity. I've always been a vivid dreamer, but this was new. And already old.

I considered the situation. I had fully intended to go to the fallen chimney formation to search for

Samiel. Del and I were on our way there when the sandtiger had attacked. So if I was heading there

anyhow, why would the dreams seem to be commanding me this way and that, like a recalcitrant child?

And what did the dead woman have to do with any of it? There had been no one but Del and me in the

chimney when Chosa Dei met Shaka Obre for the final time. We'd escaped. No one had been killed.

What did my
jivatma
have to do with the skeleton?

I sat up, planting my feet on the floor. Out of sorts, I scrubbed at mussed hair. I was bone-tired still,

since sleep had brought me no rest. Finally I lighted the candle on the table, then bent down to dig

through saddlepouches. I found Umir's book and propped it on my lap as close to candlelight as

possible.

It was a plain, leather-bound book. No inset gemstones, gold or silver scrollwork, no burned-in

knotwork designs that might set it apart from other books. I knew it was expensive;
all
books are

expensive and owned only by the wealthy. But it didn't look particularly special. The hinges and latch

were made of tarnished copper, and time-darkened gut threaded the pages onto the spine. I wondered

briefly if it was locked against me, but the latch opened easily enough. I turned back the cover and saw

the first page: fine sheepskin vellum, scraped to a clean, level sheet. The first letter on the page was

bigger than the rest, much more ornate, painted in remarkable colors. The print itself was plain black ink.

I squinted at it in poor light. Before Meteiera, I hadn't been able to read anything other than maps,

since mostly those were made up of symbols denoting roads, mountains, water, rather than words.

Words I'd never been able to sort out in my head, but I'd never really tried. Del could read, so I'd relied

on her on the few occasions it mattered. Mostly, it didn't. Then in ioSkandi, atop the spires, something

had happened. Something had changed me. Not only could I read, but I comprehended languages I'd

never before learned. I'd always had a few to hand—you just learn phrases over time—but now I knew

them all. Fluently.

I could read Umir's book.

Something deep in my belly fluttered. It wasn't quite fear, nor was it excitement, nor, happily, was it

nausea. Then I realized it was the first blossoming of anticipation.

The
Book of Udre-Natha
was, supposedly, a grimoire containing spells, incantations, summonings,

and other magical oddments. Umir had fancied himself a practitioner of the arcane arts, and indeed I'd

seen him do a few tricks. But I had spent most of my life denying magic existed, so I'd paid little enough

attention to such things. In time, I'd rather uneasily come to the conclusion that it did indeed exist, and

some could even summon and manipulate it to almost any degree—as apparently I had managed to do

once or twice. But I didn't like to think about it.

Certainly not in connection with me.

I carefully turned the pages, noting colorful first letters throughout, and diagrams, drawings, even

maps. The handwriting changed frequently, which suggested more than one man had written it. Though I

could read the words, they spoke of many things unknown to me. It was a comprehension of parts

without understanding the whole.

Then, paging through, I came across a brief scribbled note saying something about some kinds of

inborn magic coming to life late, residing unknown in the body and mind. That a man might live most of

his life ignorant of his power until something kindled it. Then, suddenly beset by magic like a blind man

given sight, he could react in one of several different ways. All of them seemed to entail some kind of

danger to himself or to others.

One line in particular caught my eye. Magic must
be used,
it said, as a
boil must be lanced, lest it

poison mind and body.

Very familiar words. Sahdri had said something similar, as had Nihko.

I wondered, then, if my unwillingness to use whatever power I supposedly had was causing the

dreams. If I had locked my magic away somehow, was it now seeping out around the edges? Would it

burst free unexpectedly one day, threatening me and others?

Sahdri had said Skandic mages went mad from the magic, and that was why they exiled themselves

to ioSkandi. That the discipline and devotions learned there in Meteiera could control the worst of the

power when coupled with judicious use of it. But it was a finite period of control, because eventually

every priest-mage merged with the gods. Of course, their idea of merging was actually self-murder, since

they leaped off the spires. So I guess they really did go mad.

I'd never thought of magic as a
disease
before, but the book sure made it sound that way.

I read another line. Magic
manifests itself in uncounted ways no one may predict, depending on

the individual. But it is known that overuse of the power may kill the man, and denial of it after

manifestation may also kill him.

Oh, joy. Either way I could die.

Ten years, Nihko had told me I had left. Possibly twelve. Not exactly what I call fair compensation

for having magic in your blood.

Sighing, I closed the book, fastened it, set it on the table. Blew the candle out. Went back to bed.

This time I didn't dream.

SEVENTEEN

FOUAD STARED at me. He wore brilliant orange this morning. "Are you sandsick?"

My face got a little warm. "No."

"What in the names of all the gods
for
?"

"The horse," I muttered.

In his eyes I saw all manner of thought. Likely none of them had to do with the sanity of one

particular sword-dancer. "You want Silk's tassels for your horse."

I stared down fixedly at the saddlepouches on the bar, picking at leather thongs. "Yes."

Amusement was replacing the incredulous note in his voice. "Are you sure this is not for yourself?"

I glared at him. "No, it's not for me!"

He cocked his head thoughtfully, examining me. "I don't know—you might look good with women's

tassels hanging from your—"

"Nevermind!"

"—neck," he finished, grinning.

"He has blue eyes," I explained.

Fouad reverted to surprise. "A blue-eyed horse? In the desert?"

"I know! I know! Just get the tassels, Fouad. And if you've got any charcoal and axle grease, I'll

take that, too. Mixed."

"Also for your horse?"

This time I leveled my most threatening sandtiger's glare at him, and he flung his hands into the air.

"All right! All right. I'll get charcoal and axle grease. Mixed."

I watched him turn away. "What about Silk's tassels?"

"Oh, you can get those yourself!"

"But—" But. He was gone.

Swearing inventive oaths having to do with Fouad's nether parts and the decreasing amount of time

he would retain them, I swung the pouches over one shoulder and went back through the curtain. I didn't

know which room was Silk's, which was probably intentional on Fouad's part. So at each curtained

doorway I had to stop, ease the fabric aside and peer in, hoping I wouldn't awaken anyone. After a late

night of entertaining various dusty and lusty males just in from the desert, Fouad's wine-girls wouldn't

exactly enjoy me waking them up this early.

Fortune followed me until I found the correct room. As I eased aside the curtain, looking for a string

of crimson tassels, I discovered the owner of the tassels in the midst of a morning stretch. She stood in

the middle of her little room, nude, arching her back with arms outstretched. A long, luxurious,

languorous stretch. When a woman does that with her back, other parts of her body shift forward.

I realized, as my face got warm, that once upon a time I wouldn't have been embarrassed. But

somehow that had altered when I hooked up with Del. I guess maybe you don't have to get married for a

woman to start changing your perspective about naked women who are not the woman who's doing the

changing.

Not a happy thought, I reflected glumly.

Silk's eyes sprang open. I yanked my head back and shut the curtain hastily, then cursed myself for

behaving like a green boy who'd never been with a woman.

"Tiger?"

She
had
seen me. My face warmed again. "Yes?"

Silk now stood at the doorway, curtain pulled around her body. The long black hair was a tangle

spilling over her shoulders. Brows lifted, she waited for me to explain myself.

I floundered my way ahead. "I know this sounds strange . . . but could I buy your tassels?"

Black brows arched higher. "My tassels?" I pointed self-consciously. "Those tassels. The red ones."

She glanced back over a naked shoulder, marked tassels, then looked at me. "For her?"

"Her?" It took me a moment, but I got there. "No, not for Del! For my horse." Which I realized, as

soon as I said it, didn't sound particularly complimentary. At least Del was a human. I floundered on as

quickly as possible. "He's white. And blue-eyed. He needs shielding from the sun."

Silk eyed me a long moment, her expression curiously blank. Then she dropped the curtain and

padded naked to the table where the tassels lay. When she turned around again, swinging the tassels on

one finger, there was no attempt to cover herself. In fact, she was doing her best to display everything. I

cleared my throat, averted my eyes, and busied myself digging through pouches for coins.

She appeared in front of me, offering the tassels. "No charge." I looked up, wished I hadn't. "Why

no charge?" "Because I will have my payment over and over again," she explained sweetly, "each time I

imagine you telling your Northern bascha that you got these tassels from me. And what I was wearing

when
you got them." Hoolies. Women!

I muttered thanks through gritted teeth, grabbed the tassels out of her hand, and got myself back to

the front room as quickly as possible. Fouad, straight-faced, handed me a small pot of grease mixed with

charcoal.

In a purple burnous, carrying a pot of black greasepaint and dangling crimson tassels, I made my

way from the cantina with what dignity I could muster.

The white gelding peered at me out of sorrowful—and watery— blue eyes. He was bridled,