Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (22 page)

need and revenge." I looked down at her steadily. "I think it gave your jivatma

a more intense kind of power."

Del said nothing; silence was eloquent.

I spread both hands, reins threaded through fingers. "When I requenched--when I

keyed the way you're supposed to, finally--I sang of specific, personal things,

just like you did. And my sword, like yours, is different, only it's because of

Chosa Dei, not any special pacts." I shook my head. "I don't understand it yet.

Maybe I never will. But I do know that heat and cold don't mix. One always has

to win. And I think it's the same with our swords."

Del was clearly troubled. "It was a mistake... it never should have happened...

in Staal-Ysta, we are taught never to requench--"

"I didn't have a whole lot of choice, now, did I?"

"No, no--I am not blaming you." But still she frowned. "I am thinking of the reason why requenching is forbidden. I am thinking about a sword-dancer who, whenever he desires, requenches his jivatma. And how he himself can 'collect'

the enemy's personal power, just as Chosa Dei collected magic by unmaking things." Del looked at my sword. "I am thinking about a man--or a woman--who forgets honor and promises and becomes addicted to power. Addicted to requenching."

"Are you saying nothing stronger than custom keeps sword-dancers with jivatmas

from requenching each time they kill?"

"Custom," she answered, "and honor."

I made a sound of derision. "That's some kind of control! What you're telling me

is a sword-dancer sick and tired of all these customs and honor codes could become a renegade. Ride all over the North and South requenching as he goes."

"No one would do--"

"Why not?" I interrupted. "What's to keep him from it? What's really to keep him

from it, if habit isn't enough?"

"A sword-dancer who did such a thing would be formally denounced by the voca and

declared outlaw," she said. "A blade without a name. He would owe swordgild to

Staal-Ysta and be subject to discipline by any sword-dancer who challenged him."

I triple-clucked my tongue at her in mock sorrow. "Such a frightening prospect,

bascha. Enough to make me go to bed and pull the covers over my head."

Color bloomed in her face. "Just because no one in the South has an honor at all, or assumes responsibility--"

"That's not it," I told her. "That's not my point. What I'm saying is, these swords are dangerous. Whatever magic turns a normal sword into a thing laden with the power to suck a soul from a person is nothing to take lightly. In the

wrong hands a jivatma could become a devastating weapon." I smiled sardonically.

"And yet the an-kaidin on Staal-Ysta continue to hand them out." I shifted in the saddle. "Don't know as how that's very wise, Delilah."

"No one except a kaidin is gifted with a jivatma. Or the one who chooses instead

to be a sword-dancer." She shrugged, spreading a hand. "By the time of choice,

the an-ishtoya has proven his or her honor; that is what rank is for. It is a selection process, a way of enforcing the honor codes of Staal-Ysta. It isn't undertaken lightly, Tiger; they don't give a blooding-blade to anyone unless it's quite certain he--or she--knows how to invoke the magic properly, and that

he is fully committed to upholding the honor systems."

"Del," I said patiently, "I have a jivatma."

It sank in. Del stared at me wide-eyed. And then waved a dismissive hand.

"Yes,

of course, but it's because you were worthy of one."

"Was I? Haven't I requenched?"

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it slowly. Frowned more deeply, pulling smooth, creamy forehead into lines of tension and concern. It's never easy to come face-to-face with the weakness in lifelong beliefs. I know; I used

to disbelieve in magic altogether.

"Del," I said quietly, "I'm not intending to requench again, if that's what you're worried about. I'd just as soon never key this thing again--I'm sword-dancer, not sorcerer. All I'm saying is, it seems kind of odd that this kind of power is given away freely with very few restraints. Honor is one thing,

bascha--and I don't doubt it counts for something on Staal-Ysta--but not everyone in the world understands the value in such a thing. Certainly most people--everyone I know--would be more than willing to use any advantage at hand, if it meant the difference between living and dying."

Del stared up at me from the ground. "Are you telling me you believe I will cast

off my honor and defeat Ajani unfairly?"

I grinned. "I believe you will do whatever it takes to kill him. Because what you're doing is in the name of honor, which sort of balances out the effort."

She shrugged one shoulder slightly. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But how I kill Ajani

has nothing to do with your unwillingness to meet me in a circle."

I sighed. "It does, but I guess you can't see it right now. So let's just say that I, being a Southroner and entirely lacking in honor or scruples, don't have

the slightest understanding of what this sword is capable of. And that's why, in

addition to other things, I don't want to dance with you."

"Chosa Dei," she murmured.

I tapped the pommel knot. "Right here, bascha... and growing angrier by the moment."

Del looked down at the sword in her hand. "I have to dance," she said. "It's why

I went looking for you."

It cut deep. Right through flesh, muscle, belly wall, into the hidden places.

For four weeks I had mostly put aside thoughts of personal things because we were busy hunting hounds, but now it was fresh again. Now it hurt again.

It was especially painful in view of the things she'd told me in Halvar's lodge.

"Well, then," I said finally, "why don't you head on down the road to Harquhal,

all of twenty miles south or so, where I'm sure you'll find someone there who can give you a proper match."

Del stared up at me for a long moment. Her expression was unreadable. For a woman with only twenty-one years to her name--and that just barely--she was very

good at hiding what she felt.

Abruptly she resheathed, turned to her roan, stepped up into the stirrup.

Swung

a leg over and settled, gathering loose rein.

Hoolies, I thought, she's going. After all this--after settling things at last,

she's really going to go--

Del walked her horse to mine. "I lied," she said plainly.

Oh, hoolies, bascha... now you've got me confused.

"From the beginning, I lied."

"About what?" I asked warily.

"About the dancing. About why I came looking for you."

"Oh?"

Del nodded. "You are the kind of man--or were--who would take lightly a woman's

devotion. A woman's admission of admiration. A woman's need for you. You would

take it lightly, and hurt her, because she would have offered something of value--the truth of what she felt--and you would see nothing of value in it."

"I would?"

"Men," she said. "You, once, certainly; I recall what you were like."

"But I wouldn't any more?"

Her face was oddly expressionless. "Not around me. Not in reach of my sword."

I grinned, then hid it away behind an arch expression. "So, you're saying--I think--you didn't come looking for me just because of my dancing."

"No."

It brought me up short. I frowned. "No, you didn't come looking for me just because of my dancing; or no, that's not right?"

Del smiled. She smiled. "I came looking for you because of your dancing, yes--you are the Sandtiger--but also because of you. Just you, Tiger; now, I have said it aloud. I hope you treat it kindly."

It meant something. It meant a lot--but I couldn't show anything of it. Some things are just too private. "So, am I to take this to mean you're devoted to me? That you need me?"

Del turned her horse southerly. "Don't assume anything, Tiger. It can get you into trouble."

Two

It was warm in Harquhal. A faint afternoon breeze blew sand at our faces, lodging grit in our teeth. For once I didn't mind the crunching; it meant I was

home again.

Del, however, did. She rode her roan in through the gates and blew her lips free

of dust, brushing at blue woolen tunic and muttering in uplander. Something to

do with dust and sand. Something to do with dislike. And something, I think, with a bath.

But a bath would have to wait. "Harness," I said briefly, and headed off down the street.

Harquhal is the kind of place that attracts sword-dancers. It's a border town,

which means two cultures come together, and not always peaceably. This means there is often work for those of us who hire on to protect, retrieve, or bestow,

depending on circumstances, and depending on the employer. Which means where there are sword-dancers, there are also swords-smiths and craftsmen dedicated to

the art.

The man I went to see had been recommended by three different sword-dancers in

three different cantinas. There is nothing at all accomplished by being hasty about accoutrements that can possibly save a life. I took my time, asked around,

downed a few cups of aqivi just to reacquaint my tongue. Del made no complaint,

but I could feel her growing impatience. She wanted to ask about Ajani, but I'd

talked her out of it. First I wanted a proper harness and sheath, so that if we

ran into trouble I'd be better prepared.

Although she did comment, eventually, that with all the aqivi in me I'd be lucky

to remain standing, let alone dance.

"I don't want to dance," I told her. "I'd just as soon avoid dancing altogether,

if I can; there's no need to be hostile."

"We want to kill a man. I don't think we can avoid it."

"You want to kill him. Ajani's not my problem. My problem, right now, is finding

a man who can give me exactly what I want in the way of a proper harness."

Which had led me to ask yet a third sword-dancer, who gave me the same name.

So

we went to see him.

He was a typical Southroner: brown-haired, brown-eyed, burned dark by the sun.

He wore the plain clothing of the tradesman--gauzy tunic, baggy trews, robe--and

no ornamentation. Which meant he didn't take an inordinate amount of pride in his appearance, unlike some gifted men, but, more likely, in his craftsmanship.

He stood behind a table. The shop was small, jammed with flats of skins, racks

of wood, trays full of wire, thong, tools. He watched Del and me come in through

the curtained doorway and nodded greeting. It was very brief to Del, intended mostly for me; the man, the Southroner. Nothing much had changed while I'd been

North.

I stopped at the table and looked the man dead in the eye. "It's a very special

sword."

Juba smiled. Undoubtedly he had heard the exact same words before, uttered by countless sword-dancers intent upon the blade that earned them a living. Only in

this case, what I said was understatement.

"Very special," I repeated, "and in need of precise attention." I set the sheathed sword on the table in front of Juba. "Don't touch," I said.

Again, Juba smiled. It was not a condescending smile, or one of disbelief--he was too professional to let his thoughts show so plainly--but it was a smile of

subtle acknowledgement: Let the customer say what he will. Juba will be the judge.

Only the hilt was visible above the lip of Halvar's sheath. It was bright, twisted-silk steel devoid of excess ornamentation. The sword was simply a sword.

"Jivatma" I said, and Juba's brown eyes widened. "What I want," I continued,

"is

a true sword-dancer's harness, cut to my size, and a diagonal scabbard as well.

Split sheath, of course--six-inch cut at the lip--so when I hook it out of the

scabbard the blade rides free. While sheathed I want it snug--I can't abide rattling--but I need it to come to hand easy. No snags or awkward motion."

Juba nodded slightly. "Cadda wood," he said. "It's light, but very strong.

And

suede lining inside. Outside I will encase it in danjac hide, then lace and wrap

it with thong, with a bit of wire for strength." He paused. "Do you want ornamentation?"

Some sword-dancers like to hang coin or rings or bits of jewelry from their sheaths, to prove they've been successful. Some even like to take something from

the loser--dead or alive--as a kind of trophy. Me, I've always kind of thought

that sort of thing was asking for trouble. While it's true not too many thieves

want to tangle with a man who earns his living with a sword, I've never known a

bandit yet who wouldn't do whatever he could to separate a man from his wealth.

Which meant that a sword-dancer who got drunk, or fell in with a scheming cantina girl, or who simply lost track of his wits, was asking to be robbed.

I started to shake my head.

"Yes," Del said. "Can you copy this?"

She had waited so quietly behind me, saying nothing to Juba or me, that I'd nearly forgotten she was there. But now she came forward, asking Juba for clay

slate and stylus. He set the slate out on the table, passed her the stylus, watched in pensive silence as she scraped out the design.

"There," she said at last. "Can you work those into the leather? From top to bottom, like so--twisting around and around and around... can you do this?"

Juba and I stared at the slate. Del had painstakingly carved elaborate runes into the unbaked clay, then blown the dust away. The shapes were intricate and

precise, and like nothing I'd ever seen.

Except on Samiel's blade.

Juba frowned, then looked at me. "Do you want those?"

His tone expressed doubt; he was, after all, a Southroner, and Del a Northern woman... but his job was to please the customer. He'd let me decide.