Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (31 page)

her feet. Beneath it she wore a soft cream-colored leather tunic, cap-sleeved and belted, that hit her mid-thigh. She'd worn something similar the first time

I'd seen her. Though there was nothing indecent about the tunic--it was completely unrevealing--it was still considerably less than Southron women wore.

Even in bed.

Nabir, who had seen her in Northern tunic and trews and boots, stared. There was

a lot of limb showing, since she is long of legs and arms, and therefore a lot

of flesh. A lot of creamy Northern flesh stretched over exquisite Northern bones.

I, who also had seen her in nothing less than tunic and trews and boots for longer than I cared to recall, stared, too. But with less shock than Nabir; she

is very impressive, yes, but also exceedingly frustrating.

Nabir swallowed heavily. "I've already danced against you."

"And lost," she said. "Shall we see what Tiger has taught you?"

I watched her unhook her harness, preparing to add it to her pile once she'd unsheathed. I got up. "I don't think so, Del."

She was unsmiling. "His choice."

"Yes," Nabir said instantly.

I ignored the boy, staring instead at Del. "You're doing this to force my hand.

To make me use my sword."

"You can't spend your life being afraid of it," she said. "I don't deny it's worth your concern, but you have to learn to control it. Best to do it now rather than in a dance to the death, or in a dangerous situation where hesitation might kill you."

Nabir frowned. "I don't understand."

"You shouldn't," I said curtly. "This has nothing to do with you."

"Then what does it--"

"This." I bent, scooped up harness, stripped the sheath from my sword. "This is

what it has to do with, Nabir: Blooding-blade. Named blade. Jivatma. And one more thing: Chosa Dei. Whose soul is in this blade."

"So is yours," Del said steadily. "Do you think only Chosa Dei went into that sword when you requenched? You sang yourself into it, Tiger, as much as Chosa Dei. That, coupled with your determination and strength, will overcome any attempt he might make to steal the power from you."

"Chosa Dei," Nabir echoed.

I looked at him sharply. "Do you know Chosa Dei?"

"Of course." He shrugged. "In stories about how the South became the South."

My turn to frown. "What?"

Again he shrugged. "I heard as a child that once the North and the South were the same. That there was no desert, only grasslands and mountains. And then Chosa Dei grew jealous of his brother--I forget his name--and tried to steal what his brother had."

"Shaka Obre," I muttered.

Nabir, cut off, blinked. "What?"

"His brother." I flapped a hand. "Go on."

"Chosa Dei grew jealous. He wanted what his brother--Shaka Obre?--had. And when

his brother would not give it up, Chosa tried to steal it."

"What did he try to steal?"

Nabir shrugged. "The South. Chosa already held the North, but he wanted the South, too, because he always wanted whatever his brother had. He tried many magics, but none of them worked. Until he learned how to collect the power in things, and how to reshape it." Nabir frowned. "It was a true threat. So Shaka

Obre set wasting wards around the land, knowing Chosa wouldn't dare destroy what

he wanted so badly--only he was wrong. Chosa was willing to risk destroying the

land. He thought if he couldn't have it, his brother shouldn't, either."

"But it didn't work." Del, sounding reflective; did she know the ending, too?

I decided to forestall them both. "Oh," I said, "I see. Chosa tried to take the

South, and Shaka Obre's wasting wards kicked in. Which laid waste to the land and turned it into a barren desert--most of it, anyway." I didn't believe a word

of it. "But if that's all true, why didn't Shaka Obre transform the ruined South

back into what it was?"

Nabir took up the tale again. "He wanted to. But Chosa was so angry that he put

a spell on his brother and locked him away somewhere."

"Chosa was the one locked away," I declared, as if it refuted the story.

"I don't know," Nabir said testily. "I only know what I heard, which is that Chosa Dei's brother built wards to imprison his brother inside a dragon. But that by the time the spell was tripped, Chosa's magic finally succeeded.

Shaka

Obre was also imprisoned."

I looked from him to Del. They wore identical expressions. "Why is it," I began

again, "that everyone knows these stories but me? Northerner, Southroner--it doesn't seem to matter. Who told you these tales?"

"Everyone," Del answered. "Mother, father, uncles, brothers... everyone just knew."

I looked at Nabir. "What about you?"

"My mother," he answered promptly. "Before--" But he cut it off abruptly.

I let it go. "No one ever told me."

Del's voice was soft. "No one tells stories to slaves."

No. So they don't.

Another thing I'd lost.

I pushed by Nabir and walked into the circle. "All right," I said, "all right.

If you want true steel so much, I'll give you true steel. But you're putting your life at stake."

Nabir hesitated only a moment. Then he reached down, traded wooden blade for steel, straightened erect again. And walked into the circle.

His quiet faith was implicit. "You're the Sandtiger."

I'm a fool, I thought. An aging, sandsick fool.

Who doesn't know any stories except the ones he makes up himself.

Ten

The sword knocked me to my knees. Not Nabir's; mine.

"See?" I shouted at Del, who waited quietly by the circle.

Nabir, who had backed away instantly the moment my blade had delivered its somewhat dramatic message, stood at the very inner edge of the circle. That he

wanted to step out was obvious; that he wouldn't, equally so. Habits die too hard.

"I see," Del observed. "I see also that you let it do that."

"Let it! Let it? Are you sandsick?" I rose awkwardly, off-balance, muttering curses about sore knees, and stared at her belligerently. "I didn't let it do anything, Del. One moment I was sparring with Nabir, the next I'm in the sand.

I

didn't have a whole lot of choice."

"Look at it," she said.

I looked. It was a sword. The same old sword it had always been; at least, since

I'd requenched it inside the mountain.

Then looked more closely. The sword was different. The black discoloration had

moved up the blade. Nearly half of it was swallowed.

I didn't want a black sword.

I shut hands more tightly around the grip. "No," I said flatly, and sent every

bit of strength I could muster flowing through arms, hands and fingers into the

sword itself. I would make the sword change by forcing my will upon it.

I felt like a fool. What good would it do to envision myself overcoming a Southron sorcerer imprisoned in my sword? What kind of power was that? I couldn't summon demons or create runes; couldn't collect magic from men and things. All I could do was sword-dance.

"Sing," Del said quietly.

"Sing," I blurted in derision.

"Singing is the key. It's always been the key. It's how you defeated him."

I had also thrust a blade into him. But things were different, now. I couldn't

very well stab a sword.

In my head, I muttered. But I also made up a little song; a stupid little song.

Don't ask me what it was. I can't even remember. Just some silly little thing about a Southron sandtiger being fiercer than a Northern sorcerer... at any rate, it worked. The black receded a little. Now only the tip was charred.

"It's something," Del said, as I swayed on my feet. "For now, it should be enough."

I squinted, rubbed at my eyes, tried to focus clearly. "I'm dizzy."

"You invoked power." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "You can't just do it without

expecting to pay some price. Do you come out of a circle as fresh as when you went in?"

Not hardly. I could smell myself. "Dizzy," I repeated. "And thirsty, and hungry."

Nabir still stood at the very edge of the circle. He was staring at the sword.

"Can it do anything? Anything at all?"

I looked down at the blade. "One thing it can do is make you feel pretty sick.

Hoolies, I need a drink!"

Del tossed me my harness. "You always need a drink."

I sheathed, scowling at her, and hooked arms through the loops. The new leather

was still stiff. I'd have to spend some time working oil into the straps.

"Put

some clothes on," I told her crossly. "Let's go get some food."

Del looked past me to Nabir. "Are you coming?"

He shook his head. "I want to go see Xenobia."

"His light o' love," I told her quietly, as Del looked blank.

She watched Nabir gathering his things as I gathered mine. "I didn't know he had

one."

"Since two days ago. Cantina girl. He wants to marry her."

"Marry her!"

"That's what I said." I stuffed silk, gauze, bota, and practice sword beneath arms and turned toward Harquhal. "But she's his first girl, and he fancies himself in love." I grinned as Nabir departed at a trot. "Why is it so many boys

and girls fall in love with the first one who takes them to bed?"

Del's tone was deadly. "I didn't."

No. Not with Ajani.

"Come on, bascha," I sighed. "You need a drink, too."

The cantina was crowded and noisy. Greenish-gray huva smoke eddied in the beamwork, trailing malodorous tails. The place also stank of sour wine, pungent

aqivi, mutton stew, and spiced kheshi, all bound together with the acrid tang of

Southron sand, dusty bodies; a trace of cheap perfume. The place was packed with

men, making the cantina girls happy. Also overworked--in both modes of employment.

Every table was filled shoulder-to-shoulder by burnous-clad men. I saw swords hanging from belts, swords hanging from baldrics, swords strapped on by harness.

If a tanzeer desired an army, he need go no farther than here.

"No room," Del murmured.

"There's room. Just no tables." I pushed through a knot of men next to the door,

aiming for a deep-cut window. They ignored me mostly, moving apart only slightly, but when Del started through I heard silence abruptly descend. Not over the entire room--it was too packed for that--but the group by the door most

decidedly stopped talking.

I shot a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, five mouths hung open inelegantly. And then closed, smiling broadly, as Del slid through the stirring

knot.

You'd have thought they'd step aside. Southroners have some manners--only apparently this bunch didn't. As Del arrived in their midst, on the way to me,

they closed ranks around her.

Oh, hoolies, bascha, can't you go anywhere?

I doubt they intended much. Maybe a pinch here, a tweak there; a stroke or a fondle or two. But whatever it was they expected to receive in return, Del didn't offer. She had something else in mind.

I heard, in the blink of an eye, several curses, a blurt or two of pain, a breathy hiss of shock. And then Del was through. She joined me at the window.

I noted the merest glint of steel as she returned her knife to its sheath.

Beyond her, two of the men bent to rub shins. One inspected sandal-bared toes;

Del was wearing boots. All of them glared at her.

"Here?" Del asked at the window.

"Deep ledge." I stuffed clothing, bota, and wooden sword back into the space.

"We can use it for a table."

We could. The adobe walls of the cantina were nearly a man-length thick, with the windows cut into the slabs. As deep as the ledge was, a man could sit on it.

Del glanced around at the crowd. "We should have gotten food and drink up front.

Now we have to fight our way through again."

"No, we don't. This little girl will be glad to help us out." I caught the elbow

of a cantina girl perching on someone's knee, dragged her up, pulled her over.

"Aqivi," I said succinctly. "Also kheshi and mutton stew." I glanced at Del.

"And wine for the lady; she has refined tastes." Before the girl could protest,

I slapped her on the rump and sent her off through the crowd.

Del's expression was curiously bland. "If you ever do that again, I'll send you

to stand with the others."

"What others?"

"The men by the door."

I glanced over, saw she meant the men who'd accosted her, scowled. "What did I

do?"

"You treated her like dirt."

I nearly gaped. "All I did was send her to do her job. One of them, anyway."

Del's mouth was hard. "There are ways of doing the same without degrading the girl."

"Oh, Del, come on--"

"Perhaps this will make more sense: you treated her like a slave."

It got my back up; after all, I'd been a slave. "I did no such--"

"Yes, you did," she said. "And if you can't see it, you're blind."

"All I did was--" But I never got to finish. Someone came up behind me and slapped me on the back.

"Sandtiger!" he cried. "When did you get in?"

Hoolies, that hurt. I turned to scowl at him, then blinked in astonishment.

"I

thought you were dead."

"Hoolies, no," he said, "though it felt like it, even to me." He grinned, glanced past me at Del, elbowed me in the ribs. "I'd show you the scar, Sandtiger, but the bascha might be offended."

"I'd probably even swoon." Del's tone was perfectly bland.

Belatedly, I recalled introductions. "Del, this is Rhashad. Old friend of mine.

Rhashad, this is Del. New friend of mine."

"I can see why." He bestowed his best smile on her, displaying big, very white

teeth framed by heavy red mustaches drooping just past his jaw.

"Northern-born,

are you? I'm half Northern myself."

And it showed. Rhashad was a Borderer, born in the foothills near the ruins of