Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (13 page)

Then, having named it, they all turned once more to me. Bright blue eyes were expectant; clearly, they wanted something. Something to do with the dragon.

I glanced at Del. "This is ridiculous." In Southron, not Northern; I have some

diplomacy. "I came here to find whoever was sending out the hounds, not discuss

bedtime stories."

"Well," she said lightly, "if it is ridiculous, your task will be that much simpler."

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

"Why do you think?" she retorted. "They want you to kill the dragon."

I peered up at the dragon-shaped mountain. It was a pile of stone, nothing more.

"If that's true," I told her, "this job will be very easy."

All right, it was a stupid thing to say. If I have learned anything in this business, it is never to underestimate your opponent. But the idea of a mountain

being an enemy was enough to irritate even me, even-tempered as I am; people who

allow religion or mythology to control their lives are begging for trouble.

It

just doesn't happen that way. We're born, we live, we die--gods don't have anything to do with it any more than dragons do.

And I'd come hunting hounds.

Now, inside a lodge, Del shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said. "No other sword-dancers from Staal-Ysta ever reached them. Only you. And so now you

can fulfill your promise, as you said." She paused. "Isn't that what you told me? That you took on the task of aiding Ysaa-den in the name of your new-won rank?"

Well, yes. Sort of. I mean, I had, but all I'd been after was a chance to track

down the hounds. At the time, it had provided a means of escape. A means of putting behind me what I'd done to Del. Because the only way I could deal with

her death was to hide from it in a job.

Trouble was--well, no, not trouble--Del wasn't dead. Which meant I no longer needed the job, because there was nothing to hide from.

The people of Ysaa-den--with all their animals--had escorted us en masse to the

headman's lodge. It was the biggest, but also the emptiest; he'd lost half of his family to, he told us, the dragon.

I sighed, hung onto my patience, went about my business. Del and I settled our

horses in the guest pen behind the lodge--the stud didn't like it much, threatening the sapling fence with iron-shod hind hooves until I told him to mind his manners--then joined the headman inside, where I tried to bring up the

hounds. But he waved them off like so much unnecessary baggage. What he wanted

to talk about was the dragon.

I listened for a moment or two, knowing better than to cut him off too soon--you

always have to humor people impressed by their own authority--then mentioned something about a long journey. He took the hint; he bowed himself out of the lodge, leaving us alone. To rest and refresh ourselves.

At least the empty lodge was quiet. The thought of living with multitudinous people and animals was not something I cared to consider.

The headman's dwelling, like the lodges on Staal-Ysta, was built of wood with mud, twigs, and cloth stuffed into the cracks between the logs. It provided shelter from the worst of the cold and wind, but nonetheless remained a bit chilly on the inside despite the fire laid at one end of the lodge, beneath the

open smoke hole, which let air in as well as letting smoke out. An open corridor

ran the length of the rectangle, lined on either side by wooden roof supports evenly spaced about ten feet apart. Beyond the supports were the compartments the inhabitants called their own; small, cramped spaces more like stalls than rooms. It was a place of enforced closeness. Del had spoken of kin ties and blood loyalties strengthened by living customs; I could see why. If they didn't

learn to live with one another, they'd end up killing each other.

Del went into the first empty compartment she came to. No doubt the headman expected us to use another--his own well-appointed one, I'm sure, down at the far end--but Del has never been one for unnecessary ceremony. She untied her bedding, spread pelts over hard-packed earth, sat down. And took out her jivatma.

It was a ritual I had witnessed many times. For anyone who lives by the sword,

the care of a blade is an important part of survival. Del and I had spent many

an evening beneath the moon, cleaning, honing and oiling our swords, tending the

little nicks, or inspecting and repairing harness and sheaths. But now, here, in

this place, it seemed odd to watch her yet again tending her sword. I don't know

why. It just did.

In the distance, beasts bayed. I heard the mournful howls, echoing in rocky canyons; the eerie keening of magic-made hounds drifting down from the dragon to

thread its way throughout Ysaa-den, sliding through chinks in the lodges and ghosting down the smoke hole. I shivered.

"Hoolies," I blurted irritably. "How can you people live in a place this cold?

I

have yet to see a truly warm day, or a piece of ground without some kind of snow

on it. How can you stand it, Del? All this cold and snow and drab, gray-white days? There's no color here!"

Her head was bent over her work. The laced braid swung, back and forth, gently,

as she tended the blade. With abrupt discomfort, I recalled the wager we'd made

regarding solitary nights in different beds.

And then recalled other things. Behavior I couldn't condone. Explanations I couldn't accept.

Del didn't even look up. "There is color," she said at last. "Even in winter.

There are the subtle colors of snow--white, gray, blue, pink, all dependent upon

sun and shade and time of day--and the richness of the mountains, the lakes, the

trees. Even the clothing of the children." She flicked a glance at me. "There is

color, Tiger. You have only to look for it."

I grunted. "I prefer the South. The deserts. Even the Punja. At least there I know what's what."

"Because there are no dragons?" Del didn't smile, just ran her whetstone the length of the blade. "But there are cumfa, and danjacs, and sandtigers... not to

mention lustful tanzeers, murderous borjuni, and warrior tribes like the Vashni."

Standing wasn't accomplishing much except sore knees and tired back; I dropped

my roll of bedding and perched my rump upon it, addressing her final comment.

"They gave your brother a home."

"The remains of him," she said. The whetstone rang out more loudly than usual.

"You saw what he was to that old man."

So I had. I am a man for women, having no desire for men in my bed, but I'd seen

clearly what there was between Del's brother and the old Vashni chieftain who'd

taken him in.

And had thought, at the time, that at least the boy had found someone to love after being stripped of manhood and tongue. Someone to love him.

"But you would have brought him back anyway," I said. "Isn't that what you intended, to get him out of the South?"

"Of course. And I would have. But--he chose otherwise."

"I don't think he had a choice, Del. I think he knew it was best for him to remain with the Vashni, where he was accepted for himself."

"Accepted because he belonged to the old man."

I knew what she meant by the emphasized word. In the South, where women are little more than brood mares or ornaments, men often seek more stimulating companionship with their own sex. In bed as well as anywhere else. And then, of

course, there was the slave trade--

I broke off the thought. "Maybe so," I agreed. "And maybe, by then, it was what

he wanted."

Del stopped honing. "But what happens?" she asked. "What happens when the old man is dead? Does Jamail become the slave of a new chieftain? Does he then serve

the new man as he served the old?"

"I don't know," I told her. "Short of going back down there to find out, we never can know."

"No," she said sharply. Then, more quietly, "No. You are right: he made his choice. Just as I made mine with Kalle."

I expected something more. But she gave me nothing save the muted ring of whetstone on steel. Another kind of song.

One I understood.

We had privacy until sundown. And then the headman and several other villagers

came into the lodge and very politely invited us to dinner. Since Del and I had

nothing better to do--and both of us were hungry--we accepted.

Given a choice, I'd have preferred the meal inside a lodge; as a matter of fact,

it was sort of what I'd expected. But apparently the Northerners took the first

breath of spring as a promise of temperate nights as well as days; when dinner

proved to be a village-wide gathering under the naked sky, seated on pelt-covered ground, I wrapped myself so close in my cloak it was next to impossible to move, though I left enough room for my eating arm to do its work.

One thing I'm good at is eating. And you never spit on a gift meal unless it's

served by an enemy.

The headman, whose name was Halvar, was very aware of the honor our presence did

Ysaa-den; he was also very aware of his own responsibilities in hosting us properly. While Del and I chewed roast pork, bread, tubers, and swallowed mugs

of ale, Halvar entertained us with the history of the village. I didn't pay much

attention, since I had trouble following his accent, and since I kept hearing references to the dragon, which told me mythology ran rampant in Ysaa-den.

And

I've never cared much for mythology. Just give me a clean sword made of true-honed steel--

"Tiger."

It was Del; no surprise. I glanced over, picking a string of pork rind from between my teeth. "What?"

Briefly, she frowned. Then made a graceful one-handed gesture that somehow managed to indicate the entire gathering. "Because we go tomorrow to face the dragon, the village of Ysaa-den would like to make a song in our honor."

"I don't sing," I answered promptly.

"They don't want to hear you sing, Tiger. They want to sing for us."

I swallowed the freed bit of pork and washed it down with ale. Shrugged a single

shoulder. "If they want to. You know I'm not big on music."

Del changed languages adroitly, switching to accented Southron and smiling insincerely for Halvar's benefit. "It's considered an honor. And if you have any

manners at all--or good sense--you will tell them how honored we are."

"They can sing us to sleep, for all I care." I swallowed more ale.

Del's smile fell away. "Why are you being so rude? These people believe in you,

Tiger... these people are trying to tell you how much it means to them that you've come to save the village. You are the Sandtiger--someone out of Southron

legends. Now perhaps you can become the man of Northern legends as well.

Someone

who cares for the troubles of others, who tends the helpless and weak--"

I had to interrupt before she got in any deeper. "Appealing to my pride won't work."

"It has before."

I ignored that. "Maybe because I just can't understand why a village full of adults persists in telling stories instead of discussing things rationally."

I

gestured with my head toward the looming mountain. "It's a heap of stone, Del;

nothing more. If the hounds are up there, I'll go--but why keep telling me there's a dragon?"

Del sighed and set down her own mug. All around us the people stared; we spoke

in Southron, not Northern, but undoubtedly the tenor of our discussion was obvious, even if the words weren't.

"Tiger, weren't you listening to anything Halvar told us about how Ysaa-den came

to be?"

"I heard it, yes... but I didn't catch one word in ten, bascha. His uplander is

all twisty, and I don't speak it that well anyway."

Del frowned a little. "Mountain dialect; yes, it might be difficult for you.

But

that doesn't excuse your rudeness--"

"--in not taking his story literally?" I shook my head. "I'm not here to waste

my time on a storyteller's fancy, Del. They're all a bunch of liars anyway, if

you ask me--spinning tales for coin when they should be spending their time doing real work. I mean, how hard is it to make up stories? And then to be paid

for it--"

"Tiger." Del's tone cut me short. "We are not discussing skjalds, who hold high

honor in the North--and how would you know if being a skjald is difficult or easy? What does a man who kills other men know of telling stories?"

I slanted her a glance. "Last time I looked, you carried your own share of death-dealing, Delilah."

It shut her up for a moment. And then she looked at Halvar, who waited patiently, and managed a weak smile. But there was nothing weak about her tone

of voice. "This man and his village have offered to pay us high honor, Sandtiger. You will listen to the song, and you will wait quietly for its conclusion, and then you will thank Halvar and everyone of Ysaa-den for their kindness and graciousness. Do you hear?"

"Of course," I said, affronted. "What do you think I am, anyway? Some fool who

fell off the goat wagon this morning?"

"No," Del said coolly. "Some fool who fell off one thirty-eight or thirty-nine

years ago and landed on his head."

"Thirty-six!" I retorted, stung. And swore as she smiled sweetly and informed Halvar we would be very honored by the song.

At least, I think that's what she said. You never can be too sure with uplander.

It's hilly as the North itself. But whatever it was she said pleased Halvar mightily; he called out something unintelligible--to me--and people scattered to

lodges, returning moments later with skin drums, pipes, tambors, finger-bells,

wooden sticks, and other things I didn't recognize.

Musicians, obviously. The rest, who had only their voices, gathered children into laps or lovers into arms and prepared to make us a song.