Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (26 page)

"He went looking for you. Isn't that worth something?"

"I don't know," I growled. "Depends on if you think I'm worth something."

"Sometimes."

I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, rubbed a hand over my face.

"He saved my life, Tiger."

"I thought I saved your life."

"You, and Neesha, and the Vashni healer."

I squinted at her. "This isn't another of your cockamamie female ideas, is it? I mean, he's human, a

man, not a cat or dog. He's not astray."

"You were."

"I was?"

"Yes. All those years ago when the shodo accepted you for training. He took in a stray human and

gave him a home."

I drew myself up.
"And
I repaid him by becoming not only his best student but the South's greatest

sword-dancer ..." I thrust an illustrative finger in the air. ". . . which is, I might add, a title very recently

reaffirmed."

Del's tone was elaborately innocent. "I thought you said Abbu wasn't there."

I glowered. "We're not talking about Abbu. We're talking about the kid. And now you're telling me

you want me to ride back into Umir's domain, even though there will be men looking to kill me?"

"But you just reaffirmed you're the South's greatest sword-dancer. Will anyone challenge that?"

"Yes!" I cried. "Likely all of them!"

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "it shouldn't be so bad."

"No?"

"Not when I'm with you."

I looked for laughter in her eyes. But Del does blandly expressionless better than I do.

Of course, I knew she was overlooking one very salient detail that would give me the victory: she

was still recovering from a sandtiger attack. Del could no more get up and ride out of the Vashni camp

tomorrow than the kid—Nayyib, Neesha, whatever—could beat me in a circle. By the time she could,

the point would be moot. Because the kid likely wouldn't even be at Umir's anymore.

"All right," I said.

The abrupt capitulation startled her. "All right?"

"Yes. We'll go tomorrow."

Del nodded. "Good."

Or he might still be at Umir's, under duress, because Umir might possibly believe he was worth

something to Del and me. In fact, Umir might even expect to trade the kid to us for the book I'd

liberated.

A book of magic.

"Gahhhh," I muttered. "You and your strays."

Del shifted over on her pallet. "Lie down." She tugged at one arm. "Lie down and tell me all about

the sword-dance."

"I won."

"Details, Tiger."

I lay down beside her on the edge of the pallet. Hips touched. I rearranged my left arm so my

shoulder cradled her head. "What do you want to know?"

"How it was you reaffirmed that you are the South's greatest sword-dancer."

So I told her. It was nice that at least two of us believed it.

NINETEEN

DEL AND I were dinner guests of the Vashni chieftain. Apparently he'd decided I was indeed the

jhihadi and wanted to pay honor. We were escorted to his big hyort, given platters full of chunks of

various kinds of meat— including sandtiger, I didn't doubt—wild onions and herbs for seasoning, tubers,

and bread baked from nut flour. Not to mention plenty of the fiery Vashni liquor. I drank sparingly, still

felt the effects, and did my best not to make a fool of myself. Del was permitted to drink water as a nod

to her recovery, and I caught her watching me out of the corner of her eye. Apparently she expected me

to fall face-first into the modest fire in the center of the chieftain's hyort. I was tempted to remind her
I

hadn't gotten sick from it the last time, but decided the jhihadi wouldn't do such a thing before a Vashni

chieftain.

Later, maybe.

Afterward we were allowed to wander away from the encampment without interference or

company. Clearly we were not prisoners. Or else they simply knew we wouldn't get far without mounts,

and the horses were closely guarded. But since I wasn't trying to escape, it didn't matter. I simply walked

with Del a short distance, and sat down upon a boulder even as she did the same.

I stretched braced legs out, crossing them at ankles. Studied her face sidelong. "Tired, bascha?"

She hitched a shoulder inconclusively.

I gazed out at the deepening dusk. Vashni fires set a subdued glow over the village that would

become more obvious as darkness fell. A faint breeze teased at Del's hair. I rubbed at my own, feeling

added length. Maybe the tattoos along my hairline were finally hidden.

I glanced at her, noting the gauntness of her features. "You know we can't go anywhere tomorrow."

She sighed, kicking a stone away with a sandaled foot. "I know. Not together. But
you
could."

I didn't even have to think about it. "I just spent two hard days tracking you down. I'm not going

anywhere without you."

Del looked at me, clearly wanting to say something. Debated it. But held her silence.

"A few more days," I told her. "We're safe here. It's probably the best place we could be, without

worrying about who might come looking for us." I wanted to say she needed more time. Knew better

than to do it.

Her mouth was set in a grim, unhappy line. "I have been here too long already."

I shrugged, maintaining an excessively casual tone of voice. "You'll stay here as long as you need to."

"But Nayyib . . ." She let it trail off. A frown set lines between her eyes. "I wish you would go."

I was beginning to get exasperated with all this focus on Nayyib. "We don't know that Umir has him.

I mean, how can you be sure the kid actually went looking for me?"

"He said he would."

"We don't know anything about him, bascha."

Del looked at me again, comprehending the implication. "He isn't a liar."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't change anything. You can't go anywhere until you're completely

recovered, and I'm not going anywhere until then."

Del's left hand touched her right forearm, raising the hem of her burnous sleeve. Gently she fingered

the scars I knew were there.

I tried again. "If Umir has him, he'll hold onto him until we're found. He won't harm him. Not as long

as he thinks the kid is worth something."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Well, that was the chance Nayyib took. It's the chance we all take, riding into a situation we don't

fully understand. I've done it. You've done it. If he's done it, he'll learn from it."

"Or die."

"Maybe." I shrugged. "Like I said, that's always a chance."

Del nodded. Her head was bowed, expression pensive.

She is a woman who pays her debts, and obviously she felt she owed Nayyib one. I didn't dispute it;

he'd cared for her until she could travel and then brought her to safety. I owed him, too, for that. But I

wasn't about to immediately go chasing off after a kid I didn't really know now that I'd found Del again;

nor was I thrilled by the idea of taking myself back to Umir's domain quite so fast. It was possible some

of the sword-dancers who'd witnessed my victory over Musa would decline to track me further, but I

was certain some would. Not only for the honor of killing me, but Umir undoubtedly would pay

generously to get his book back.

A book that apparently knew all about me.

I slid off the boulder and stood up, reaching for her. "Let's go back to the hyort. You need to rest."

Her head snapped up. "I'm tired of resting!"

"Come on, Del." I closed a hand on her wrist, tugged gently. "A few more days, that's all."

She stood. "Will you spar with me tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Well, maybe the day after."

"Tomorrow."

"You're not ready for that."

"Neither were you. I did it anyway."

Nothing would be gained by arguing with her. I didn't say yes, didn't say no. Just pulled her to me,

slid an arm around her shoulders, and guided her back toward the hyorts.

"Most men," Del said abruptly, "detest weakness, sickness in woman. They ignore it, trying to

convince themselves she's fine. Or tell the woman there is nothing wrong, so they don't need to trouble

themselves with thinking about it. With the responsibility."

I glanced at her, wondering where the complaint came from.

"Most men want nothing at all to do with a sick woman. Some of them even leave. Forever."

I grunted. "As I said, I just spent two days looking for you. Even knowing you were sick. Hoolies,

the last time I saw you there was a chance you might not even live. Did I leave then?"

Inwardly I winced. Well, yes, I had left; but that hadn't been my fault.

"You are not what you were," Del said after a moment. "Not as you were when we first met in that

cantina."

I had a vivid memory of that cantina, and that meeting. "Well, no."

"You were a Southron pig."

"So you've told me. Many times."

"Tiger—" She stopped walking. Stared up into my face as I turned to her. "You are not what you

were."

I had the feeling that wasn't what she meant to say. But nothing more crowded her lips, even as I

waited. Finally I cradled her head in my hands, bent close, said, "Neither are you," and kissed her gently

on the forehead.

For a moment she leaned into me, clearly exhausted. I considered scooping her up and carrying her

to the hyort, but that would play havoc with Del's dignity. She already felt uncomfortable enough about

being tired and sick, judging by her comments; I knew better than to abet that belief. I prodded her

onward with a hand placed in the center of her spine, and walked with her to the hyort.

There a warrior waited, standing quietly before the doorflap. He looked at me. "Oziri will see you."

It was the first mention I'd heard of the man we'd met a couple of weeks before. I exchanged a

baffled glance with Del, who seemed to know no more than I did, then saw her brief nod of acceptance.

She ducked into the hyort and dropped the doorflap.

I accompanied the warrior to another hyort some distance away, the entrance lighted by stave

torches. There I was left, with no word spoken to the hyort's inhabitant. I paused a moment, aware of

the call of nightbirds, the flickering of campfires, the low'pitched murmuring of conversations throughout

the village. It was incredibly peaceful here. I turned my face up to the stars. The night skies were ablaze.

A hand pulled the doorflap aside. "Come in," Oziri said. "You have hidden long enough."

The Vashni ignored my startled demand for an explanation. He gestured me to a place on a woven

rug covered by skins, fur side up, and took his own seat across from me. A small fire burned between

us, dying from flames to coals. Herbs had been strewn across it; pungency stung my eyes. I squinted at

him through the thin wisp of smoke. At the best of times, Vashni stank of grease, but all I could smell

now was burning herbs.

Seated, I looked at Oziri. No one had mentioned him, and I hadn't asked, but here he was, and here

I was. He wasn't chieftain or bodyguard, but obviously he was something more than warrior. A quick

glance around the interior of the hyort showed me herbs hanging upside down, dried gourds, painted

sticks, small clay pots stoppered with wax, a parade of tiny pottery bowls arranged in front of Oziri's

crossed legs. I began to get a sick feeling in the pit of my belly. Vashni were unrelated to the Salset, the

desert nomads I'd grown up among, but the accoutrements, despite differences, were eerily similar.

I looked at Oziri suspiciously. "You're a shukar."

Oziri smiled.

I drew in a breath, hoping I was wrong. "Among the Salset, the shukar doesn't hunt."

"Among the Vashni, he does. We are not a lazy people. Priests work also."

I wanted to wave away the thread of smoke drifting toward me but knew it would be rude. And I'd

been trained from birth to respect, even fear, shukars. It had been years since I'd seen the old man

who'd made my life a living hoolies, but I couldn't suppress a familiar apprehension.

I reminded myself I was a grown man now, no longer a helpless chula. The old shukar was dead. I

cleared my throat and tried again. "You said I was hidden. Hidden from what?"

"Stillness," Oziri said simply.

I waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, I asked him what he meant.

"You are never still," Oziri replied. "Even if your body is quiet, your thoughts are not. They are

tangled and sticky, like a broken spider web. Until you learn to be still, you will not find the answer."

"Answer to what?"

"Your dreams."

Apprehension increased. "What do you know about my dreams?"

Oziri took a pinch of something from one of the bowls and tossed it onto the fire with an eloquent

gesture. Flames blazed briefly, then died away. Yet another scent threatened my lungs. It was all I could

do not to cough.

"You must learn to be still," he told me.

"I'm kind of a busy man," I said. "You know—me being the jhihadi. There's much to think about. It's

hard to find time to be still."

Another gesture, another pinch of herbs drifted onto the coals. Smoke rose. The back of my throat

felt numb. This time I couldn't suppress a cough. I wanted very much to open the door-flap, or retreat

outdoors altogether, but I had a feeling that among the Vashni, rudeness might be a death sentence.

Oziri smiled, handed me a bota.

I unstoppered it, smelled the sharp tang of Vashni liquor. Just what I needed. But I drank it to wash

away the taste of the herbs, nodded my thanks, handed it back. Oziri drank as well, then set it aside.