Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (32 page)

Iskandar. His hair was reddish blond, his eyes dark blue. To go with the hair his skin was tanned an odd yellowish red, with a generous sprinkling of sunspots. He was big; his height nearly matched mine. Del was only a finger's-width shorter. He packed more weight than me, though, especially through the shoulders.

"So," I said dryly, "I suppose you're heading home, since home is near Iskandar.

No doubt you'll make a side-trip, if only to check out the action."

Rhashad grinned. He has a nice grin. He kept showing it to Del. "It's in my blood, Tiger. And I don't dare go home poor. My mother would throw me out of the

hut."

Rhashad's mother was a long-standing joke among sword-dancers who knew him.

She

was, he claimed, a giantess, able to knock him silly with only the flick of a finger. But someone who'd met her once said she was a little bit of a thing, hardly reaching her son's elbow. Rhashad is known to exaggerate, but it's all part of the package. So far it hasn't killed him, though he came close some time

before.

I glanced at Del. "His mother's the Northern half. That's where he gets his color."

Del arched her brows. "That's where he gets his charm."

Which promptly set Rhashad to braying for a cantina girl to reward Del's prescience. I told him a girl was on the way; he settled back into the window,

hooking elbows on the sill.

"I'm up from Julah," he said. "New tanzeer down there, now that Aladar's dead.

I

picked up a little work, then the Vashni got too active and I decided to head back home. No sense in giving up my life just to let their black-eyed women make

jewelry out of my bones."

I knew all about Aladar; I'd been present when Del killed him. "What's stirred

up the Vashni?"

Rhashad shrugged. "This Oracle fellow. He keeps telling everyone the jhihadi is

coming to reclaim the South for the tribes. The Vashni have always been superstitious. So now they're beginning to think maybe they ought to help out the foretelling by making it come true. They've been killing a few people here

and there; nothing serious yet, but it's been the obvious foreigner. You know--anyone blond, red-haired, blue-or green-eyed... whoever they think looks

non-Southron. I guess they feel that if they're to reclaim the South, they've got to rid it of foreigners." He shrugged, stroking one half of his mustache.

"I

look too Northern, I'm thinking, so I made my way back up here."

"Jamail," Del said blankly.

Rhashad frowned. "Who?"

"Her brother," I explained. Del's face was white. "He's living with the Vashni."

The frown deepened: two lines met between his eyes. "What's a Northerner doing

with Vashni?"

"Never mind," Del said grimly. "Are you certain they're killing all foreigners?"

"That's what they've been doing. Whether they still are, I can't say. All I know

is, this Oracle fellow's got them all stirred up." His blue eyes were solemn.

"I'll be frank, bascha--if your brother's with the Vashni, his chances aren't worth much. They take matters of religion seriously."

"They'll kill him," she said bitterly, "because this loki-brained Oracle tells

them to."

Rhashad lifted a negligent shoulder. "Take it up with him, then; he's heading to

Iskandar."

"The Oracle?" I frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Rumor. Makes sense, though. This Oracle fellow's been predicting the jhihadi will show his face at Iskandar; don't you think he might want to be there?

Sort

of to prove his point?"

I didn't answer. The cantina girl arrived, at last, carrying bowls of stew and

kheshi, also a jug each of wine and aqivi. She balanced all with great care and

concentration, gritting out Southron "excuse me's" as she fought her way through

the throng. Del saw it and reached out at once to relieve her of the jugs and cups.

"Pay her extra," Del commanded as I reached for my pouch.

I scowled as I dug deep. "You're awfully free with my money."

"Women are," Rhashad observed cheerfully. "You should see how quickly my mother

spends the coin I send home."

Del thanked the girl, then arched an eyebrow at Rhashad. "You send money home to

your mother?"

"If I didn't, she'd have my ears. Or worse: my mustaches." Rhashad grinned.

"You

should come meet my mother. She'd like a bold bascha like you."

"Or not," I said hastily, seeing interest in Del's eyes. It might have been for

the mother; I wouldn't risk it being for Rhashad. "Here, have some aqivi. Del prefers wine."

Del preferred not drinking. "Do you know a man named Ajani? He's Northern, not a

Borderer, but he rides both sides."

"Ajani, Ajani," Rhashad muttered. "The name sounds familiar... Northerner, you

say?"

"Very much so," she said flatly, "in everything but his habits. He is blond, blue-eyed, very tall... and he likes to kill people. If he doesn't sell them to

slavers."

Rhashad's eyes sharpened. He looked at her more closely. This time he really saw

her. Saw her and the sword.

The note in his voice was odd. "Have you ever been to Julah?"

Say no, I warned her mutely.

Del said yes.

Hoolies, he'll put it together.

Rhashad nodded slowly. His look on me was shrewd. "Eighteen months--or so--ago,

Aladar ruled in Julah. Rich man, Aladar: he traded in gold and slaves. And would

be to this day, if a slave hadn't killed him." He didn't look at Del. "Nobody knows any names. Only that one was a Northern woman, the other a Southron man.

A

man with scars on his face, who was a slave in Aladar's mine."

I hunched one shoulder. "Lots of men are scarred."

Rhashad spread four fingers and scraped them down one cheek. "Lots of men are scarred. Not all of them quite like this."

"Does it matter?" Del asked roughly.

Rhashad dropped his hand. "Not to me," he said evenly. "I don't betray my friends. But other people might."

A coldness touched my spine. "Why? If Aladar's gone, what does the new tanzeer

care about how it happened?"

"The new tanzeer is Aladar's daughter."

"Aladar's daughter?" I gaped. "How did a woman inherit the domain?"

"Thank you," Del said dryly.

I waved it off. "Not now; this is important."

Rhashad nodded. "Indeed, it is. And the reason she holds the domain is because

she was rich enough to buy men, and strong enough to hold them." He smiled a little. "Too much woman for me."

"A woman," I mused. "Hoolies, things are changing."

"For the better," Del remarked, then sipped her sour wine.

"Maybe not, bascha." I scowled into my bowl of rapidly cooling kheshi. Then I shrugged. "Ah, well, it won't last. They may be taking her money now, but it'll

wear off. They won't put up with taking orders from a woman for long. Rhashad didn't, did he? And he's a Borderer. A man afraid of his mother."

"I respect my mother. And you should, too; she's a better man than you."

"They'll overthrow her," I said thoughtfully. "They'll change loyalties.

They'll

sell it to a man, or else one will steal it for himself. And then another will

try to steal it from him." I shook my head. "Julah will run with blood."

"See why I left?" Rhashad asked. "First the Vashni begin killing, and now there

will be war for control of Julah. I'd rather go see my mother."

"With Jamail in the middle, if he's not already dead." Del sighed and scrubbed

at her brow. "Oh, Tiger, how much longer? First there is Ajani to think about,

and now Jamail as well. What am I to do?"

"Go to Iskandar," I said. "It's the only logical choice."

Del's mouth was twisted. "There is no logic to feelings."

Which was, I thought, about the truest thing she'd ever said. Especially when applied to her.

Eleven

Something landed on my head. "Come on," the voice said. "We're going to Iskandar."

I lay belly-down on my precarious cot, mashing my face into the lump of cloth pretending to be a pillow. My left arm was under the lump. I was under a gauzy

sheet, trying to recapture sleep.

The thing on my head did not go away. Without opening my eyes I reached up, felt

the saddle-pouches, dragged them off my head and over the side of the bed.

"Who's keeping you?" I mumbled.

Del was not amused. "I have no time for this. Ajani could be at Iskandar."

"Ajani could be anywhere. Ajani could be in hoolies." I freed my left arm. "I hope Ajani's in hoolies; then we can forget about him."

Del scooped up the pouches. "Fine," she declared. "I'll go there with Abbu."

Del never threatens. Del does. She was about to do now.

"Wait--" I levered myself up, squinted through too-bright daylight at her, tried

to remember my name. My mouth tasted like an old dhoti. "Give me a moment, bascha."

She didn't give a moment. "Meet me at the stables." And thumped the door behind

her.

Oh, hoolies.

Hoolies.

Why does she always do this on the morning after the night before?

I swear, the woman plans it. She plans it, and she waits. She knows what it does

to me.

With effort I turned all the way over and sat up. Sure enough, the door was still shut. Del was still gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed and buried my face in my hands, scrubbing at sleep-creased flesh. I needed food and a taste of aqivi; Del would give me neither. Nor would she give me time.

"You could always catch up," I suggested.

Yes. I could. I knew where she was going.

And I knew who'd be going with her.

Hoolies, hoolies, hoolies.

I hate men like Abbu.

I used the nightpot. Then, in an effort to wake up as much as wash myself, I splashed water all over my face and soaked most of my hair. Wet tendrils straggled down my neck. Droplets broke free and rolled, tickling shoulders, chest, belly.

I didn't feel any better. Just wetter.

I glowered at the door as I reached for underrobe, harness, burnous. "What do you expect? I sat up with Rhashad all night."

Del, being gone, didn't answer. Which was just as well with me. She'd say something back. Then I would be required to respond. And we would waste too much

time bickering over nothing in an attempt to prove dominance.

Which struck me as pretty stupid.

I bent over to pull on the boots Del had found me. "You are stupid," I muttered.

"You could be sitting in a cantina right about now with a warm and willing little Southron beauty in your lap and a jug of aqivi at your elbow. Or you could be hiring on with some rich tanzeer to protect his dewy-eyed daughter--some cushy job like that. Or sitting over the oracle bones with Rhashad, stealing all his money. Or you could be sleeping." One boot was on.

I

turned to the other. "Instead, what are you doing? Getting ready to ride to Iskandar on a mission of revenge with a cold-hearted, hot-tongued bascha--"

--whom I very badly wanted back in my bed.

I glared at the door. "Message for you, Ajani: if she doesn't kill you, I will."

Del was waiting at the stables. With the blue roan. Out in front. In the street.

Which told me a little something.

"It'll be there," I told her. "It's been there for hundreds of years."

She frowned.

"Iskandar," I clarified.

Del's frown deepened. But she spoke about something else. "I'd have had him waiting for you, but no one can get near him."

Him. She could only mean one thing. "That's because they don't have the proper

technique." I went by her into the lathwork stable, gathered up bridle, went over to the stall. At least, it was sort of a stall; there wasn't much left of

it. "All right," I said, "what have you been up to?"

The stud, who was tied to a thick piece of timber sunk in the ground, answered

by pawing violently. More bits of stall came down. The ground around him was littered.

"Ah," I said, "I see."

So did the stableman. He came running when he realized the stud's owner was back. I listened to his diatribe for much longer than I liked, but since I had

to bridle, saddle and load the stud anyway, I didn't lose any time. Only my waning patience.

"How much?" I asked.

The stableman took the question as an invitation to start all over again with complaints. I cut him off in mid-stride by drawing my knife.

He went white. Gaped. Then changed from white to red as I bent over the stud's

left forehoof to check for stones or caked dirt, cleaning the frog of the hoof

with my knifetip.

"How much?" I repeated.

The stableman named a price.

"Too much," I told him. "That would buy you a second stable; he didn't do that

much damage."

He named another price.

I let the stud have his left hoof back and moved to work on the right. "I could

leave him here..."

A third--and better--price. I nodded and gave him money.

Del was mounted and waiting as I led the stud out of doors into daylight. Her roan snorted. The stud curled back his upper lip and trumpeted his dominance, meanwhile stomping on my heels as he raised his tail and danced. A stallion dancing around on the end of an all-too-human arm is rather disconcerting. So between being momentarily deafened by his noise and having my bootheels tromped

on, I was not in a good mood.

But then, neither was Del. "Nice technique," she observed as I bashed his nose

with a fist.

"Have to get his attention."

"You did," Del said. "Now he's trying to bite you."

Well, he was. But horses have bad moods, too.

I put my left foot in the stirrup and started to pull myself up. The stud bent

his head around and missed getting a hunk of me only because I saw it coming and