Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (46 page)

attentive now than I had been.

The trail took us down and around another tight turn, then leveled out. We were hemmed in by

mountain walls. Then those walls fell away as if bowing us into a palace. And palace it was; I pulled up

abruptly. Del fell in beside me, while Nayyib ended up on her far side.

"But—it wasn't like this . . ." Del said, astonished.

"Nothing like this," I agreed. Something had happened. Something that had riven the mountains

apart, shaping out of existing stone and soil a long, narrow canyon. It wasn't terribly deep, nor was it

huge. A compact slot cut between mountains and rock formations, opening up into a flat valley floor.

"Water," Nayyib said, pointing.

There hadn't been before. Now, bubbling up from a pile of tumbled boulders and fallen mountain,

was a natural spring. It flowed outward into the canyon, finding its way through scattered rocks, then

carved a fairly substantial streambed through the canyon floor.

I looked left, following the line of fallen hillside. And found the chimney.

Beit al'Shahar.

It had collapsed, breaking apart into sections. You could still see the suggestion of the columnar

formation here and there, but it no longer existed as a true chimney. Del and I had not left it that way.

Something more had happened.

Something powerful enough to open the way for an underground spring.

I tapped the stud back into motion and rode on. We passed the tumbled pile of slab-sided rock

sections that gave birth to the stream, still following wagon ruts. Here we traded stony ground for soil,

the first sparse scatterings of grass. Ahead, vegetation sprang up along the stream's meandering sides:

reeds, shrubbery, thick mossy growths. Grass increased. The canyon widened. Thin, infant trees stood

no higher than my knees.Oasis. Sheltered by canyon walls, with access to water, it was cooler here,

shaded, with grazing and fertile soil.

"It was nothing like this," Del murmured.

Nayyib raised his voice. "Someone's farming here."

Indeed, someone was. The spring fed narrow, manmade ditches dug to water patches of fields and

gardens, set apart from one another by low walls built of stones no doubt hacked out of the soil. We left

behind wilderness and entered a private paradise.

"There," Nayyib said.

There, indeed. A scattering of flimsy pens held sheep and goats. A small pole corral contained a

handful of horses. They had already smelled our mounts; now that we were in sight, all came trotting over

to the fence rails to offer interested greetings. The stud stuck his head high in the air and commenced

snorts of elaborate superiority, stiffened tail swishing viciously.

Behind me, Del's gelding pealed out a whinny.

"Look," she called. "They've built houses against the walls."

Low, squared, small houses built of adobe brick, surfaces hand-smoothed, with poles laid

side-by-side and lashed together for roofs, chinked with mud to keep the rain and wind out. Un-painted,

the dwellings were the color of the clay mud from which they were built: rich tan with an undertone of

red. They blended into the canyon walls.

Faces appeared in wide-silled windows. Then the bodies took residence in the open doorways.

Wagon ruts continued along the stream, fronting the dooryards of mudbrick homes standing

cheek-by-jowl. Chickens had free run of the place, pecking in the dirt around the houses, pens, and

corral.

"Sandtiger! Sandtiger!" A man emerged from one of the little houses. He came pelting down the ruts,

brown burnous flapping, turban bouncing on his head.

"Mehmet!" Del exclaimed.

I grinned. "And his aketni."

"Sandtiger! May the sun shine on your head!" Mehmet arrived, dark eyes alight. At once he dropped

to his knees, bowed his head, slapped the earth with the flat of his hand, then drew a smudged stripe

across his Desert-dark forehead.

"Oh, stop that," I said. "You know how I hate it."

He sat back on his heels, enthusiasm undimmed. "Jhihadi," he breathed. And then he sprang up and

began shouting in a dialect spilling so quickly from his mouth that I could only catch a third of what he

said.

"Jhihadi?" Nayyib asked dubiously.

I arched supercilious brows. "Didn't you know? I've been declared a messiah. I'm even worshiped

by—" I paused. "—however many people remain in Mehmet's aketni."

"Aketni?"

"His little tribe. An offshoot of his original tribe. Apparently not everyone wants to worship me."

"And the Vashni," Del put in. "Remember?"

Nayyib's expression was odd. "This is a joke."

I sighed. "No, actually, it's not. Though it certainly feels like one to me."

"You're a messiah?"

"I'm not a messiah. They just
think
I'm a messiah."

"My brother said you were," Del remarked.

Nayyib was totally lost. "Your brother said Tiger was a messiah?"

"It's complicated," I explained.

"A
messiah?"
he repeated.

I made a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry, it's not true."

"You're a legendary sword-dancer, the grandson of a wealthy Skandic matriarch, a mage—
and
a

messiah?"

"A man of many parts," Del told him. "That's what the prophecy says."

I knew she was taking great joy in this, despite her bland expression. I shot her a quelling look.

"Look, I have no control over what people say or think. Or that my grandmother is wealthy and

powerful, or that I'm stuck with whatever this magic is inside me. What I know is that I'm a

sword-dancer. That's good enough for me."

Neesha's expression was indescribable. Del took pity on him.

"We rescued them," she explained. "They'd been led into nowhere by unscrupulous guides, robbed,

and left to die. Tiger and I found them, helped them."

Neesha's brows rode high on his forehead. "So they declared Tiger a messiah?"

"Not exactly." Del seemed to realize no explanation could sound reasonable. "But they worship the

jhihadi, and they think Tiger fits."

"Why are they
here?"
Neesha asked.

"Because this is Beit al'Shahar," I answered crossly, knowing the whole thing sounded ludicrous,

"and this is where I led them." I paused. "Supposedly."

Mehmet was waving his people out of their little homes. I saw the old women swathed in veils and

robes, gray braids dangling from beneath head coverings, but also a few younger men and women and

even a handful of children. Mehmet's aketni had increased in size since we'd last come across the tiny

caravan.

Everyone gathered around, falling into a semicircle. All eyes were fastened on me, staring avidly.

Mehmet stood in front of them, eyes alight with pride.

"We have done as you wished," he announced.

Since I didn't know what he was talking about, I prevaricated. "And you've done it well, Mehmet."

An outflung hand encompassed stream, ditches, grass, pens, corral, fields and gardens, and the

small, square adobe houses huddled against the canyon walls. "We have turned the sand to grass!"

Ah, yes. The infamous prophecy.

And then I realized it was true.

Del, behind me, began to laugh.

Nayyib muttered, "I don't believe
any
of this."

Mehmet was exceedingly proud to know the jhihadi personally. After everyone had offered deep

obeisances, he sent them all away to begin preparations for an evening feast. In the meantime, he offered

us the hospitality of his own "unworthy house." He and his wife would sleep in the front room, while Del

and I were gifted with the tiny bedroom.

He tripped a little over what to do with Nayyib, until the kid said he'd be perfectly happy sleeping

outside near the water, if that was all right. He even added he was unworthy to be under the same roof

as a messiah, which earned him a scowl from me and a snicker from Del.

"When did you get married?" I asked Mehmet. "And where did you find a wife?" The first time we'd

met, Mehmet had been the only young male left in his aketni, which was comprised of old women and

one old man, who'd later died. There was no one to marry in his own small tribe.

"I found my wife in Julah," he said proudly. "A caravan came through and stayed a few days. I went

out to their encampment to welcome them, and I preached the prophecy of the jhihadi. A few of them

decided to stay on and serve. Yasmah was one." His joy was infectious. "Now, come—these men will

take your horses and make them comfortable."

I decided against protesting the preaching part for the moment. Certainly the sand
had
been changed

to grass, at least right here; when we'd left it was desert, if not the sere harshness of the Punja and its

immediate vicinity. But I rather had my own idea about what had caused the change.

Mehmet bowed us into his house, whereupon he presented us to his wife. She was a small, slight,

black-eyed woman wrapped in robes and veils, quite shy, unwilling to meet my eyes at all. The gods only

knew what Mehmet had been telling her about his jhihadi.

We were served food and drink at the low table surrounded by lumpy cushions rather than stools or

benches, while Mehmet explained that they grew most of their own food, raised goats and sheep for

wool, milk, and meat, chickens for eggs, and only infrequently went into Julah for additional supplies.

"And no one knows you're out here?" Del asked. "No one knows this canyon exists, or the water?"

Mehmet shook his head. "No one."

"Someday people will come," I warned. "We came. We found your ruts and followed them here."

Mehmet spread his hands. "Were you not already coming here?"

Well, yes. Come to think of it.

He nodded even though I'd said nothing. "No one has cause to come here, except for the jhihadi."

"I didn't come here as the jhihadi," I explained. "I have business in the chimney, and then we'll be on

our way."

His eyes widened. "But—are you not staying?"

I felt bad about disappointing him. "No. We're headed for Alimat, across the Punja."

"But—but we did this for you." He spread his hands. "All of this. You told me, remember? Find

water where none exists. We have made a home here."

"You and your people have done very well, Mehmet—but I didn't mean I wanted to live here. I'm

sorry."

He leaped to his feet, gesturing sharply. "Come, then. All of you. Hurry."

The meal apparently was over, even if we weren't quite done eating it. Mehmet's little wife collected

the dishes from the low table and took them swiftly away even as her husband ushered us out of doors.

Two young children were playing down by the stream; Mehmet called to them to find some of the

men and have them bring our horses.

I looked up at the chimney formation, or what remained of it, on the other side of the canyon across

the stream. No horse could make it up there through the tumbled rocks and scree. I'd have to go on

foot.

The horses were brought. The stud had a wisp of lush grass hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

Apparently they'd been enjoying a meal, too.

"Go on, go on," Mehmet insisted. "Get on your horses. Hurry!"

We did as we were told. Our host nodded. "Now, ride into the canyon. You see that elbow of hill

up ahead? Go around that. The canyon curves to the right. Follow the stream. You will see."

"See what?" I asked.

"Go, go. Go and see."

"And do what?"

"Go and see."

I gave it up. Until we went and saw whatever it was he wanted us to go and see, we'd make no

progress toward actual communication.

"You're not coming?" Del asked Mehmet.

He shook his head vigorously. "It's for you. We kept it that way. Now, go and see."

"Let's go," I said to Del and Nayyib, and led the way.

As Mehmet instructed, we followed the stream around the designated elbow. Here the canyon

narrowed until there was very little good footing on either side of the stream, mostly the steep sides of

canyon walls. Huge sections of stone had broken off the walls, falling to the floor where they blocked

most of the way. The stream, undaunted, had found a new way through. But I noticed the fallen rocks

were all sharply angled and faceted, not yet worn smooth and round by water. Whatever brought them

crashing down was but a few years in the past.

The horses picked their way over dribbles of fallen stone. There was no actual trail through here, and

clearly none of Mehmet's people had ever attempted to bring in a wagon. The only tracks I saw

belonged to animals.

And then the walls reared back. A passageway lay open, and the stream purled through. Beneath

hooves, grass sprang up, thick, lush grass. Rocks in the water were mossy, wearing streamers of

vegetation. Canyon walls became crumbled hillsides, cloaked in a tangle of shrubbery and trees.

Old
trees. Mature trees. Mehmet's little canyon was new. This one was not.

The path we made took us out of shadow into sunlight. Out of canyon into valley. Out of paradise

into perfection.

We stopped, because we had to. We gazed upon it, marking how the stream cut through the middle

of meadow. Here was the true heart of the canyon with high walls surrounding us except for the throat

we'd passed through.

Nayyib released a blissfully appreciative sigh. "Good grazing."

Del climbed down off her gelding and knelt on one knee, digging into the soil. She brought up a

handful, rolled it through her fingers, then smelled it. "It should be," she agreed. "This is fine, fertile soil."