Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (25 page)

Possibly in Haziz, if I remembered right. Foolish decision, even if I had been trying to save room in

saddlepouches. I could not even imagine Nayyib leading a mounted horse carrying an injured woman

through here, but I didn't have to; from time to time I found additional signs of their passage. I wondered

if the kid's horse would be lame by the time he got through; I wondered if the gelding would be lame by

the time
we
got through.

Slowly, carefully, I picked my way, trying to find some kind of route between stones and boulders

easier on the gelding. He was a game horse, coming along willingly without hesitation. At some point I

noticed the rocks were decreasing in size. Footing remained a challenge, but the way was less

demanding. Better yet, more sand and soil was in evidence, which not only made it easier to walk, but

held prints better. I was still on Nayyib's trail.

"Almost," I murmured to the gelding. "Not much farther."

And indeed, neither of us was required to go much farther at all, because even as I turned back to

encourage the gelding, I heard other horses approaching. I counted them by sound: four. They clopped

down through rocks, rolling and knocking them one against the other.

Finally.
I turned to face the Vashni, purposely not drawing my sword. I simply waited, easing my

body into a poised awareness that wasn't obvious.

The gelding, spying other horses, pealed out an ear-splitting whinny of greeting. I winced; even the

Vashni seemed somewhat startled by their mounts' answering noise. So much for the momentousness of

the meeting.

In one sweeping glance I noted each man. Oziri was not among them. I didn't have the slightest grasp

of Vashni politics, nor did I know if these four warriors were even of the same band, so I didn't attempt

to invoke his name as safe passage. Besides, Oziri was not my goal.

What I wanted to do was immediately demand if they had seen Del and if she were alive. But haste

is not the best strategy among strangers, especially dangerous ones. Instead, using the gift I'd gained in

Meteiera, I told them in their own language, succinctly and without flourish, that I was the jhihadi, and the

jhihadi was looking for the Oracle's sister.

No more, no less.

Vashni are not a demonstrative race on the whole, but I saw a faint ripple of response in their dark

faces. They said nothing aloud, yet eloquent fingers, as they examined me from a distance, spoke a

language I did not; apparently what I'd gained was limited to oral tongues. But possibly it didn't matter,

because my gut was certain they knew very well who, and where, Del was.

I just needed them to
tell
me.

I waited for confirmation. The clenching of my belly tightened. It was all I could do to breathe. I

applied every shred of discipline learned atop the spires to hold my silence with no indication of concern.

There was no confirmation. They simply rode down through the rocks, took up positions in front, on

either side, and behind me, and gestured at the the gelding. They closed in once I had mounted, making it

clear with no speech that I was to go with them.

Time turned backward. Years before, Del and I had ridden into a Vashni village. Now, as then,

word had been given before we arrived, so that by the time I entered the cluster of hyorts built in the

foothills, men, women, and children had turned out to witness my arrival. They formed up in parallel lines

facing one another, acting
as a
human gate into their home. I wondered how many people had ridden the

double lines to their deaths.

The lines ended in the center of the village, a common area surrounded by oilcloth hyorts. I was

escorted there, still hemmed in by the four warriors, and made to wait. More conversation with hand

gestures ensued, even as the double lines of villagers threaded themselves into a single circle of Vashni, a

human wall between my little party and the hyorts.

Quietly, carefully, I drew in a breath, held it a moment, released it. My right hand felt naked, empty

of sword. But this was not, I knew, the time to unsheathe. I sat in silence atop the gelding, ostensibly

relaxed.

Then, from somewhere beyond the village, I heard the ringing call of a stallion.

My head snapped around. I knew that voice. That arrogance.

Inwardly a small knot untied. A flutter of relief blossomed briefly in my belly. I grinned like a fool.

The grin dropped away as a voice called out. At once the circle of Vashni parted, allowing a warrior

to step through. He approached, flanked by two other men, both younger, both bigger, both bearing

traditional Vashni swords across their backs, though he was unarmed save for a knife. Black hair was

threaded with gray, and a childhood disease had left his face pocked. The seam of an old scar nicked the

corner of his right eye, extending to his ear. He wore an intricate bone pectoral across his bare chest.

I know a chieftain when I see one. But I was the jhihadi. Preordained by the Oracle himself, whom

Vashni had hosted for years. I did not so much as incline my head.

The chieftain halted. He eyed me briefly, then made a rapid gesture. The four warriors surrounding

me absented themselves. It left me atop the gelding in the center of the human circle, facing the chieftain

on foot with his two bodyguards.

Inspiration was abrupt. I eased myself out of the saddle, aware of the sudden tension in the Vashni.

Without hesitation or affectation—and without offering any manner of physical threat—I moved out in

front of the gelding, ran a hand down his muzzle, and knelt on one knee. I pressed two fingers into the

packed soil and sand and drew a line. Shallow at one end, deeper at the other, with a slight depression

made by the heel of my hand. Then I unhooked the bota from my shoulder, unstoppered it, poured water

in the shallow end of the line, and watched it trickle its way to the other. I placed the blade of grass I'd

pulled from the gelding's bit into the filling depression. Smiling, I looked up and met the chieftain's eyes.

After a lengthy consideration, he inclined his head very slightly. Then he turned and walked back

through the ring of villagers.

For an odd suspended moment I thought I was going to be left to fend for myself in the middle of the

village. But then a warrior appeared at my elbow as another took the gelding's reins and led him away. I

was escorted through the silent villagers to a hyort. There the warrior pulled the doorflap aside and

gestured me to enter.

I ducked in, aware the flap was dropped behind me. The light was permitted entry only through the

smoke hole in the narrow, peaked top of the hyort, concentrated in the middle of the carpeted dirt floor,

but it was enough. I saw the blanket-covered pallet and the woman upon it. That she slept was obvious

even though her back was to me; I knew the skyward jut of shoulder, the curve of elevated hip, the

doubling up of one knee intimately. Del had always stolen more than her share of the bed.

Relief was so tangible it sent a spasm through my body. I took one step, stopped, and just looked at

her, letting the tension of tear, the tautness of anxiety, bleed slowly out of my body. The knot that was

my spine untied itself.

I sat down then, next to the bed, close enough to touch her. I did not. I simply sat there, watching

her breathe. Smiling. Happy—and whole—merely to be in her presence.

I'm
here, bascha.

* * *

Del slept a long time, but I didn't care. I stretched out on my back, contemplated the peaked roof

where the smoke hole opened to sky, and waited in patient contentment until she turned over onto her

back, releasing a breathy sigh. I rolled onto hip and elbow and leaned upon my hand. Her eyes were still

closed, but her breathing had changed. I marked the pale lashes against fair skin, the threading of bluish

veins in her eyelids. She wore a burnous that hid most of her body, so I didn't know if she was still

bandaged or not. She was too thin; that I could tell from the bones in her face.

Del's eyes opened. She blinked up at the smoke hole. Then, frowning, she turned her head and

looked right at me.

My smile broadened. "Hey."

She gazed at me a moment. "Where in the hoolies have you been?"

I grinned. "Not a very good effort at sounding angry, bascha. Want to try again?"

An answering if drowsy smile curved her lips. She reached out a hand. "You won the dance."

I met her hand with my own. "I won the dance."

"Was it Abbu?"

"No, he wasn't there. Somebody named Musa. I didn't know him." I arched both brows. "I take it

Nayyib told you what Umir planned?"

"He said Rafiq and the others were quite taken with the idea of facing you in a circle in order to

execute you."

"I think
everybody
was quite taken with the idea of facing me in a circle in order to execute me.

Fortunately, they forgot I wouldn't be so enamoured of it, myself."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nope.".

Her eyebrows indicated subtle doubt. "Nothing?"

"One little cut along a rib." I traced it against my burnous. "Honest, bascha. You can see for yourself

the next time I'm naked." I wiggled eyebrows at her suggestively, then let go of her hand to stroke a lock

of hair out of her face, letting fingertips linger on the curve of her brow. "What about you?"

"I," she began, "may now rival the Sandtiger himself for the dramatic quality of my scars."

I winced. "I'm sorry, bascha."

"Why? Did you attack me?"

"No, but—"

" 'No, but' nothing," she said firmly. "The last thing I remember is going down beneath the sandtiger.

That I'm alive and uneaten likely indicates you killed him before he could kill me."

"Yes, but—"

"No 'yes, but,' either," Del declared. "Understood?"

I knew when to
appear
to surrender even if I disagreed. "Fine. Now give me details."

She caught my hand in hers again. Neither of us was the clinging sort, but we did like physical

contact. "I will do very well, Tiger. The wounds are almost healed, thanks to you, Nayyib, and the

Vashni healer. The poison is out of my body. Mostly I'm a little tired still, and bone-sore, but that will

pass." She grimaced. "Except the healer keeps sending me to bed. I'm tired of naps."

Having years before been badly wounded and poisoned myself by a sandtiger, I knew very well
why

the healer kept sending her to bed.

"But we can go in the morning," Del said.

It caught me off-guard. "Go where?"

"After Nayyib."

"Where is he? And why do we have to go after him?"

"He's looking for you."

"He left you here?"

"When it became obvious I was fine, and when I insisted, yes. He did."

"You're not 'fine.' "

"Fine enough. Anyway, two days ago I sent him to look for you."

It astonished me. "You sent him to Umir's?"

"Yes."

"Why?" An idea occured, preposterous as it was. "Did you expect him to
rescue
me?"

Del contemplated my aggrieved expression in silence a moment. "Actually, I expected to rescue you.

But I needed Neesha to scout for me first."

"Neesha?"

"Nayyib. Neesha is his call-name."

"You sent Nayyib-Neesha to scout for you, so you could come rescue me?"

"That was the plan," she confirmed gravely.

I was only half teasing. "You didn't think I could handle it on my own? A sword-dance? When I've

been dancing for almost twenty-five years—which is likely longer than the kid you sent has been alive?"

"You've been dancing longer than
I've
been alive."

Which was a devastatingly effective way to remind me just how old I was, and how old she wasn't.

"Hoolies," I muttered.

Del was laughing. She carried my hand to her mouth, kissed the back of it, then rested it beneath

hers against her chest.

I noted again how thin her face was, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. "Did you really think

I'd lose?"

'"Only an idiot believes he may never be defeated,' " Del quoted. "You said that, once."

"Yes, but I didn't expect
you
to believe it. You're supposed to believe I can do anything."

"And so you have."

Well, so far. Sort of.

"Anyway," Del continued, "I think we should go after Nayyib."

"Why? He should have reached Umir's by now, and he'll know what happened. I won. I left. I'm

here."

Del gazed at me. "What
if he
needs rescuing?"

This whole conversation was bizarre. "Why would he need rescuing? He's not worth anything."

"That's unfair!"

"To Umir," I elucidated. "He's not worth collecting. He's just a kid."

"He's twenty-three."

"That's a kid."

"I'm twenty-three, Tiger."

It shut me up, as she fully intended.

Del smiled, pleased to have won. "As for not being worth anything to Umir, of course he is. Neesha

can tell Umir and any other interested parties where I am. Because they know wherever I am, you will

eventually be."

"He could simply
not
tell them."

"Under torture?"

I scowled. "Why doesn't he just tell them you're dead? You almost were."

"Well, perhaps he will. But that doesn't mean he won't be tortured before he says it."

"Then he should have stayed here."