Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (40 page)

Nayyib soothed the stud with his hands and voice. "He did not approve."

I sighed, winced as I put too much weight on my aching leg. 'I think about all I'm good for is sitting

on his head. But he'll go down if I give him the signal; I trained him to that for sandstorms."

Nayyib looked doubtful. "After a fight?"

I considered it. Possibly not. "Let me try," I said.

Nayyib nodded.

I went to the stud's head, looked him in the eye, told him I needed him to go down, then gave him

the signal: a slap on the left shoulder. He wrung his tail and made no move.

"Oh, come now," I said. "You've done this before."

Another slap, plus a prodding thumb.

Nothing. Except for a very stubborn look in his eye.

"All right, we'll do it my way," Nayyib said. "Del can mind the rope snubbing up his one leg, while I

stitch." He glanced over his shoulder at Del, who had caught her gelding and Nayyib's and waited out of

the way. "Can you get into my saddlepouches? There is a leather pouch in there, dyed blue. It contains

medicaments. And I need you to bring me every halter rope and my spare burnous."

She nodded and turned to his horse.

Nayyib eyed me sidelong. "I've stitched men, too."

I shook my head. "Bruised, not bloodied. I'll wrap my knee later for support." And maybe my elbow

as well.

His tone was coldly angry. "I have never seen anyone purposely run a horse into another. To

purposely risk a mount with such brutality, just to kill another man."

I wasn't sure if he was angrier about the risk to horseflesh or human. "If you live long enough, I guess

you see everything."

And then Del was back, bringing ropes, burnous, and pouch, and we forgot about dead men, dead

horses, and tended a live one.

TWENTY-NINE

BY DEL'S tense silence, I knew she was worried. It's not often you attempt to drop a stallion to the

ground when he has no interest in going there. But Nayyib was right: the only way we could get the slash

stitched up was to put the stud out of commission temporarily. He wasn't a man; you couldn't explain to

him what needed to be done and why and expect him to agree. Nor could you get him drunk, and none

of us was strong enough to knock him unconscious. So while Del and I got him unsaddled, with blankets

and pouches pulled off and deposited on the ground, Nayyib calmly rigged a lip-twitch and a rope

harness, winding wide strips of his spare burnous around the hemp to pad it.

"Hobble his back legs." He handed me a pair of sheepskin-padded hobbles he'd conjured from his

saddlepouches. "And bind up his tail."

Very dictatorial, Nayyib, when it came to horses. But I deferred, impressed by his confidence and

quick thinking. Carefully I did as he asked, snugging the padded cuffs around both back legs. They were

shorter than usual, also, meant to keep the legs closer together. A long leather thong controlled the tail,

which was long enough—and strong enough—to blind a man if it slashed tough horsehair across his

eyes.

"Hold him a moment," Nayyib told Del quietly, and as she took the bridle the kid efficiently set about

looping padded ropes around various parts of the stud's body. "All right," he said. "Tiger, come hold his

head. Del, take this rope. When I say to pull as hard as you can.

It sound risky to me. "What will you be doing?"

Nayyib's smile was brief. "I'll be on the other leg. If all works well, he'll go over onto that right

shoulder. Once he does, sit on his head.
Hold
him there. Use the twitch to take his mind off everything

else." He glanced at Del. "Keep that rope snubbed tight. I'll stitch as fast as I can. If I'm lucky, the rear

hobbles will keep him from kicking my head off."

"Then what?" I asked.

"Once I'm done, I'll clear out. Del, you'll loosen your rope. Tiger, you get off his head. He'll come up

lunging, but the hobbles will hold him in place. All right?"

"Yes," Del said. I nodded.

Nayyib drew in a deep breath, moved to the stud's left fore. "Pull, Del!"

She pulled. Nayyib grabbed the left leg and folded it up. The stud flung his head, which nearly

decapitated me, then went down hard on the ground, rolling onto his right shoulder as the kid had hoped.

I was aware of Del working swiftly to snub and hold taut her rope. Then I plopped myself down on the

stud's head up behind his ears, where the neck began, and caught hold of the rope twitch in my left hand.

He was breathing hard, muscles twitching, nostrils fluttering with explosive snorts that raised puffs of

dust. The visible eye rolled, displaying reddened membranes.

"Hurry up!" I gritted, gripping the twitch and bridle.

My back was to the stud's body, so I couldn't view anything Nayyib did. If I glanced to my right, I

could see Del leaning against the rope crossing over the stud's neck But mostly I watched his visible eye,

balancing my weight evenly. With a knee on either side of him, one hand locked into the headstall of his

bridle and the other tightening the rope twisted around his bottom lip, I realized my gehetties were in a

rather perilous position. If he flung his head up, I'd likely be unmanned.

I swore again, spitting a faint sifting of dust from my mouth.

"How is your leg?" Del asked tightly.

"Ask me when we're done."

Stitching seemed to take forever. But eventually Nayyib warned us to be ready. "Del, loosen the

rope just a little. When Tiger gets off his head, give the stud as much slack as you can. He'll come up

hard and fast, but clumsy." He paused. "Tiger?"

"I'm ready."

"Del?"

"It's loose."

"All right, Tiger."

I let go of twitch and bridle and pushed up and away with planted legs, propelling myself forward. I

rolled, crouched, stood, hopped briefly as my left leg complained. Saw Del feeding more rope, then

jumping back. Nayyib was near the stud's head, freeing the twist of rope around his bottom lip. And

indeed the stud came up hard and fast, lunging frenziedly. The padded rope slid from his neck and chest,

pooled on the ground around his right leg. He wobbled a little, discovering his rear legs were still

hobbled, then found his balance. He stuck his big head high in the air, eyeing me, then released a pent-up

snort of severe annoyance that sprayed slime in all directions.

I wiped muck from my chest. "Thank you,"

Nayyib held his bridle again, soothing him. Quietly he told me, "You can take those hobbles now."

Ah, and let
me
get my head kicked off. Smart kid. Smiling crookedly, I limped toward the stud's

rear quarters, sliding my left hand over his spine and rump so he'd know I was there. I carefully avoided

the wound, marked by a curving row of neat silk-thread stitches, then bent and quickly untied the

padded hobbles and tail thong. And skipped back out of the way with alacrity as the stud took to

slashing his tail in indignation.

"There now," Nayyib crooned, and led him forward. "See? Not so bad. An affront to your dignity, I

do know, all this abuse, but you will survive it. You are the best of all horses,
a
stallion among stallions—

even if you are a jug-headed ugly son of a goat."

"Hey," I protested.

"Not so bad, not so bad," Nayyib continued, leading the stud in a wide circle. "You'll have a fierce

scar, you will, much like your rider. But you are
much
more handsome."

Del wandered over to my side. "He's like a horse-speaker."

I remembered the fair-haired kid we'd met years before at the kymri, a gathering of peoples in the

North. "I don't think Nayyib can read their minds."

"He doesn't have to. He knows what they need. See? The stud's calming."

She was smiling. I watched her watching Nayyib.

Horses weren't the only thing the kid could handle.

Nayyib brought the stud up to me. "I would recommend we go on," he said. "The cut hasn't

interfered with his muscles, so he can be ridden. But if we stay the night here, or even if we go back to

the oasis, which isn't that far, he'll stiffen. Best to keep him moving."

Del glanced at me warily. "To Julah?"

I shrugged, taking the stud's reins. "Let's see what happens when I'm in the saddle again."

As Nayyib packed away his supplies again, I set about readying the stud. He was unusually

subdued, as if he'd spent all of his temper and strength. Once he was saddled and loaded, I filled a

canvas bucket with water from a bota and let him drink. He sucked it up greedily, lifted his dripping

muzzle out of the bucket, then shoved it against my chest as if asking me to commiserate.

I smiled, scratching his jaw. "I'm sorry, old son. You didn't deserve that. It's me they want to kill, not

you."

I packed away the bucket, turned to mount him, and discovered how much a half-crushed leg

doesn't like being asked to bear all my weight. Swearing, I managed to make it up into the saddle, left

knee throbbing. So much for the healing I'd encountered at Meteiera. I'd been told any new injuries

would be mine to keep; seems like I was repeating old habits.

I turned the stud. "This way. To Julah, right?"

In concert, Del and Nayyib shook their heads.

"East?" I asked reluctantly.

"East," Del confirmed.

"What's east?" asked Nayyib.

I ran a hand over my face, trying to rein in anger and frustration. "Who in hoolies knows? Something

that seems to think I need to be there." A dead woman who spoke to me in dreams. "Look, it doesn't

feel
far,
whatever it is. If you two want to go on to Julah, go ahead. Maybe I'm supposed to do this

alone anyway.

Del shook her head. "If you go east, I go east."

I looked at Nayyib.

He hitched one shoulder in a dismissive half-shrug. "You said I could ride with you to Julah. We're

not there yet."

I sighed deeply. "Fine. Let's go east, shall we?"

East. Toward the sunrise—and whatever else might be lurking out there.

I became dimly aware of voices. Del and Nayyib were talking quietly, as if I weren't present. I felt

rather as if I were waking up from a dream, except I hadn't been sleeping. I was working like a human

lodestone, following the compulsion that pulled me east. For the moment that compulsion had slackened,

and I glanced up at the sun. By its position, I knew we'd been riding about two hours.

Then I became aware of the surroundings. A vast ocean of cream-pale sand, sparkling with crystals

afire from the sun. The Punja, the deadliest of the South's deserts.

I pulled up, stopping the stud. Del and Nayyib, reining in also, were staring at me warily. I frowned,

scratched idly at facial scars, then reached to pull up a bota hanging from the saddle and slake increasing

thirst.

"We need to water the horses," Del said.

I nodded as I unstoppered the bota. "Apparently I'm being allowed time to do just that. Or else

whatever it is insisting I come has decided we're far enough." I knew how it sounded, but it was the only

way I could think to describe it. I sucked down water, climbed down out of the saddle, easing onto my

left leg, and unhooked another bota. This I emptied into the canvas bucket and let the stud drink.

"You said it wasn't far," Del remarked.

"I said it
felt
like it wasn't far. I can't say for sure." I shook my head, grimacing. "I sound sandsick.

Hoolies, maybe I am."

"No." Del's voice was quiet. "You have instincts I have always trusted—and now more than

instincts."

Ah yes, more. Magic. Magery. I'd used a little on Umir's book, spelling the lock, and then shied

away from the idea like a spooked horse.

As the stud drank, I squinted across the expanse of sand, sheil-ding my eyes with the flat of one

hand. The Punja had killed more people than would ever be counted, sucking the life from their bodies,

scouring flesh from their bones. Whole villages had been swallowed by sand carried miles in dangerous

simooms, burying all signs of life. Caravans, crossing from oasis to oasis, paying huge amounts of money

to guides who knew the Punja, often disappeared despite their best efforts to anticipate the dangers.

Sometimes you just can't anticipate everything.

I certainly hadn't, when Del had hired me to guide her across the Punja. I'd have never guessed a

few years later we'd still be together as sword-mates, bed-mates, life-mates.

I smiled, recalling those first days. The ice-maiden from the North, summoning frigid, killing banshee

storms with her magical sword. Boreal was long dead, broken and buried in the chimney formation in the

mountains by Julah. Beit al'Shahar. My Nortern
jivatma,
Samiel, was there as well, whole and

unblemished, left behind as the chimney collapsed.

"Find
me," the woman had said, "
and take up the sword."

If the sword she meant was Samiel, why were we out here in the Punja, at least two day's ride from

Beit al'Shahar? I had inti-tally wanted to go get the jivatma, if possible; it was why we'd headed for the

mountains in the first place, once out of Haziz. It hadn't felt like a compulsion then, merely a plan.

Something I wanted to do.

Now, here, I
needed
to do it. Yet there was
no jivatma
anywhere nearby. That I knew. So maybe

I was meant to find another sword, a different sword.

Unless only the woman was here for me to find. Or what was left of her.