Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (2 page)

I'm very good at it.

But it doesn't make me a hero.

Men, I figure, are pretty good at taking care of themselves. Women, too, unless

they stick their pretty noses into the middle of something that doesn't concern

them; more often than not it doesn't, and they do. But children, on the other hand, don't deserve cruelty. What they deserve is time, so they can grow up enough to make their own decisions about whether to live or die. The hounds had

stolen that time from too many settlement children.

I owed nothing to Staal-Ysta, Place of Swords, which had, thanks to Del, tried

to steal a year of my life in the guise of honorable service. I owed nothing to

the settlement on the lakeshore, except thanks for tending the stud. But no one

owed me anything, either, and some had died for me.

Besides, my time on the island was done. I was more than ready to leave, even with a wound only halfway healed.

No one protested. They were as willing to see me go as I was to depart. They even gave me gifts: clothing, a little jewelry, money. The only problem was I still needed a sword.

To a Northerner, trained in Staal-Ysta, a jivatma--a blooding-blade--is a sacred

thing. A sword, but one forged of old magic and monstrous strength of will.

There are rituals in the Making, and countless appeals to gods; being Southron,

and apostate, I revered none of them. And yet it didn't seem to matter that I held none of the rituals sacred, or disbelieved (mostly) in Northern magic.

The

swordsmith had fashioned a blade for me, invoking the rituals, and Samiel was mine.

But he didn't--quite--live. Not as the others lived. Not as Del's Boreal.

To a Northerner, he was only half-born, because I hadn't properly keyed him, hadn't sung to forge the control I needed in order to wield the power promised

by the blessing, by the rituals so closely followed. But then, clean, well-made

steel is deadly enough on its own. I thought Northern magic redundant.

And yet some of it existed. I felt it living in the steel each time I unsheathed

the weapon. Tasting Del's blood had roused the beast in the blade, just as her

blade, free of the sheath, had roused the trailing hounds.

I did not leave the sword lying in dirt and turf throughout the night. Old habits are hard to break; much as I hated the thing, I knew better than to ignore it. So I fetched it, felt the ice replaced with warmth, shoved it home in

its sheath. I slept poorly, when at all, wondering what the hounds would do once

I caught up to them, and if I'd be called on to use the sword. It was the last

thing I wanted to do, after what Del and others had told me.

She had said it so plainly, trying to make me see: "If you go out there tomorrow

and kill a squirrel, that is a true blooding, and your sword will take on whatever habits that squirrel possesses."

It had, at that moment, amused me; a blade with the heart of a squirrel? But my

laughter had not amused her, because she knew what it could mean. Then, I hadn't

believed her. Now, I knew much better.

In the darkness, in my bedding, I stared bitterly at the sword. "You're gone,"

I

told it plainly, "the moment I find another."

Unspoken were the words: "Before I have to use you."

A man may hate his magic, but takes no chances with it.

The stud had his greeting ready as I prepared to saddle him. First he sidled aside, stepping neatly out from under the saddle, then shook his head violently

and slapped me with his tail. Horsehair, lashed hard, stings; it caught me in an

eye, which teared immediately, and gave me cause to apply every epithet I could

think of to the stud, who was patently unimpressed. He flicked ears, rolled eyes, pawed holes in turf. Threatened with tail again.

"I'll cut it off," I promised. "As far as that goes, maybe I'll cut more than your tail off... it might be the making of you."

He eyed me askance, blowing, then lifted his head sharply. Ears cut the air like

blades. He quivered from head to toe.

"Mare?" I asked wryly.

But he was silent except for his breathing. A stallion, scenting a mare, usually

sings a song loud enough to wake even the dead. He'd do the same for another stallion, only the noise would be a challenge. This was something different.

I saddled him quickly, while he was distracted, untied and mounted before he could protest. Because of his alarm I nearly drew the sword, but thought better

of it. Better to let the stud run than to count on an alien sword; the stud at

least I could trust.

"All right, old man, we'll go."

He was rigid but quivering, breathing heavily. I urged him with rein, heels, and

clicking tongue to vacate the clearing, but he was having none of it.

It was not, I thought, the beasts I'd christened hounds. The stink of them was

gone; had been ever since I'd left Staal-Ysta. Something else, then, and close,

but nothing I could name. I'm not a horse-speaker, but I know a little of equine

habits; enough to discard humans or other horses as the cause of the stud's distress. Wolves, maybe? Maybe. One had gone for him before, though he hadn't reacted like this.

"Now," I suggested mildly, planting booted heels.

He twitched, quivered, sashayed sideways, snorted. But at least he was moving;

insisting, I aimed him eastward. He skittered out of the clearing and plunged through sparse trees, splattering slush and mud. Breathing like a bellows through nostrils opened wide.

It was an uneasy peace. The stud was twitchy, jumping at shapes and shadows without justification. Most times, he is a joy, built to go on forever without

excess commentary. But when he gets a bug up his rump he is a pain in mine, and

his behavior deteriorates into something akin to war.

Generally, the best thing to do is ride it out. The stud has been a trustworthy

companion for nearly eight years, and worth more than many men. But his actions

now jarred the half-healed wound, putting me decidedly out of sorts. I am big but not heavy-handed; he had no complaints of his mouth. But there were times he

tempted me, and this was one of them.

I bunched reins, took a deeper seat, and slammed heels home. He jumped in surprise, snorting, then bent his head around to slew a startled eye at me.

"That's right," I agreed sweetly. "Are you forgetting who's boss?"

Which brought back, unexpectedly, something I'd heard before; something someone

had said regarding the stud and me. A horse-speaker, a Northerner: Garrod.

He'd

said too much of our relationship was taken up in eternal battling over which of

us was master.

Well, so it was. But I hate a predictable life.

The stud swished his tail noisily, shook his head hard enough to clatter brasses

hanging from his headstall, then fell out of his stiff-legged, rump-jarring gait

into a considerably more comfortable long-walk.

Tension eased, pain bled away; I allowed myself a sigh. "Not so hard, is it?"

The stud chose not to answer.

East, and a little north. Toward Ysaa-den, a settlement cradled high in jagged

mountains, near the borderlands. It was from Ysaa-den that reports of beast-caused deaths had been brought to Staal-Ysta, to the voca, who had the duty to send sword-dancers when Northerners were in need.

Others had wanted the duty. But I, with my shiny new Northern title, outranked

those who requested the duty. And so it was given to me. To the Southron sword-dancer who was now also a kaidin, having earned the rank in formal challenge.

I tracked the hounds by spoor, though with slush dwindling daily there was little left to find. Prints in drying mud were clear, but snowmelt shifted still-damp mud and carried the tracks away. I rode with my head cocked sideways,

watching for alterations, but what I saw was clear enough: the beasts cut the countryside diagonally northeast with no thought to their backtrail, or anything

set on it. Ysaa-den was their target as much as Del had been.

We had come down from above the timberline, now skirting the hem of upland forests, slipping down from bare-flanked peaks. Uplands, downlands; all terms unfamiliar to me, desert-born and bred, until Del had brought me north. Only two

months before; it seemed much longer to me. Years, maybe longer. Too long for either of us.

The turf remained winter-brown and would, I thought, for a while. Spring in the

uplands was soft in coming, tentative at best. I knew it could still withdraw its favor, coyly turning its back to give me snow in place of warmth. It had happened once before, all of a week ago, when a storm had rendered the world white again and my life a misery.

The trees were still bare of leaves, except for those with spiky green needles.

The sky between them was blue, a brighter, richer blue, promising warmer weather. Beyond lay jagged mountains scraping color out of the sky. Pieces of the peaks lay tumbled on the ground, rounded by time into boulders scattered loosely here and there, or heaped into giant cairns like piles of oracle bones.

Chips and rubble fouled the track, making it hard to read. The stud picked his

way noisily, hammering iron on stone. Stone, as always, gave.

In the South, spring is different. Warmer, certainly. Quicker with its favors.

But much too short for comfort; in weeks it would be summer, with the Punja set

to blazing beneath the livid eye of the sun. It was enough to burn a man black;

me, it baked copper-brown.

I lifted a hand and looked at it. My right hand, palm down. Wide across the palm, with long, strong fingers; creased and ridged with sinew. Knuckles were enlarged; two of them badly scarred. The thumbnail was spatulate, corroded by weeks in a goldmine when I'd been chained to a wall. In places I could see bits

of ore trapped in flesh; my days in the North had bleached some of the color out, but beneath it I was still darker than a Northern-born man or woman.

Sunburned skin, bronze-brown hair, eyes green in place of blue. Alien to the North, just as Del had been to me.

Ah, yes, Delilah: alien to us all.

Men are fools when it comes to women. It doesn't matter how smart you are, or how shrewd, or how much experience you've had. They're all born knowing just what it takes to find a way to muddle up your head. And given the chance, they

do.

I've known men who bed only whores, wanting to make no better commitment, saying

it's the best way to avoid entanglements. I've known men who marry women so as

not to buy the bedding. And I've known men who do both: bed whores and wives; sometimes, with the latter, their own.

I've even known men who swear off women altogether, out of zeal for religious purity or desire for other men; neither appeals to me, but I'll curse no man for

it. And certainly, in the South, I've known men who have no choice in the matter

of bedding women, having been castrated to serve tanzeers or anyone else who buys them.

But I've known no man who, drunk or sober, will not, at least once, curse a woman, for sins real or imagined. A woman; or even women.

With me, it was singular.

But it wasn't Del I cursed. It was me, for being a fool.

It was me, for proving once and for all which of us was better.

Bittersweet victory. Freedom bought with blood.

The stud stiffened, snorted noisily, then stopped dead in his tracks.

I saw movement in the trees, coming down from tumbled gray rocks. Nothing more,

just movement; something flowing through oracle throws made of stone instead of

bone. I caught whipping tail, fixed eyes, teeth bared in a snarl. Heard the wail

of something hunting.

Too late the stud tried to run. By then the cat was on him.

It took us down, both of us. It sprang, landed, sprawled, throwing the stud over. I felt him buckle and break, felt him topple. I had time only to draw my

left leg up, out of the way; he'd trap it, landing on it. Maybe even break it.

I rolled painfully as the stud went down. Grunted, then caught my breath sharply

as my abdomen protested. And ignored it, thinking of the stud.

I came up scrambling, swearing at the cat. A big, heavy-fleshed male. White, splotched with ash, like a man come down with pox.

I picked up a rock and threw it.

It struck a flank, bounced off. The cat barely growled.

Another rock, another strike. This time I shouted at it.

Teeth sank into horseflesh. The stud raked turf with forelegs, screaming in pain

and terror.

My hand closed around the hilt. "Oh, hoolies, bascha--not a squirrel, a cat--"

And the sword was alive in my hands.

Two

Hungry. It was hungry.

And so very thirsty.

I had felt it before, in the sword. Felt them before: hunger and thirst both, with equal dominance. Nearly inseparable, indivisible from one another.

Felt them before, in the circle. When I'd run the sword through Del.

Oh, hoolies, bascha.

No. Don't think about Del.

Hot. It was hot--

Better than thinking of Del.

Was it?

Hot as hoolies, I swear.

Sweat broke from pores and ran down forehead, armpits, belly. Beneath hair and

wool, it itched.

The cat. Think of the cat.

Hoolies, it is hot--

And the sword is so very thirsty.

Oh, bascha, help me.

No--Del isn't here.

Think of the cat, you fool.

Think only of the cat--

The sword is warm in my hands. All I can think of is thirst, and the need to quench it with blood.

Sweating, still sweating--

Oh, hoolies, why me?

Thrice-cursed son of a Salset goat--

Watch the cat, you fool!

In my head I hear a song.