Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (38 page)

A callused, toughened hand. But its touch was somehow tender. "A good man,"

she

said gently. "We will never forget you."

I watched her turn toward the house. Watched her walk through the door. Saw the

quiet swing of hips; the flicker of windblown skirts; a glint of bronze-colored

hair. Heard the lilt of a woman's voice lifted in soft song.

Don't ask me why. I've never been one for music. But it touched something inside

me, and I followed it anyway.

Adara turned, startled, as I stepped into the doorway. The song broke off in her

throat; one hand was spread across it.

She was suddenly vulnerable. And something in me answered. "Are you all right?"

I asked. "Do you need anything?"

Adara swallowed heavily. "Don't ask that," she said. "You might not get the answer you want."

I glanced at a broken wall.

"They're somewhere else," she said, interpreting the glance.

"No, I just meant--" I broke it off. "It could be awkward, if they misunderstood."

Adara smiled a little. "Yes."

Shadows crept into the room, softening her face. Snow or no snow, a storm was brewing. The light had changed.

"I wanted to say something," I told her.

Adara's color altered.

It was harder than I'd thought. I've never been a man for really talking to a woman of things that have substance, of things to do with feelings, except for

Del. And even that is sometimes uncomfortable, because we think so differently.

But something about Adara made me want to help.

I drew in a deep breath. "It's none of my business. But I'll say it anyway."

"Yes," she said faintly.

"A woman like you needs a husband. You've been alone too long. Del might disagree... she'd probably say a woman is often better without a man--maybe, for

some, she's right--but I don't think you're one of them."

"No." It was a whisper.

"You shouldn't be alone. I know there's Garrod to help, but that's not what you

need. You need a man of your own. Someone you can tend; someone who can tend you."

Adara said nothing.

I shifted a little. "All I mean is, there might be a chance for you. Here, in Iskandar. There will be plenty of men."

A brief, eloquent gesture indicating herself. "I'm no longer a young woman, and

I have two children."

"Cipriana has her own life now. Massou will be a man soon enough; for now he needs a father. He's quick-witted. A man could do much worse than to take you and the boy."

She stared at me a long moment. Her eyes were full of thoughts. Of possibilities.

She shut them a moment. Then looked straight back at me and carefully wet her lips. "I think you'd better go."

It took me aback. "What?"

Her mouth trembled a little. "This is not what I want to hear, this talk of other men. Not from you. Not from you."

It wasn't what I had intended. Somehow I'd made it worse. And for both of us; after too many weeks without Del in my bed, I was very aware of Adara. I'm not

made for abstinence. I didn't want Adara... but part of me wanted a woman.

Most of me wanted Del so bad it confused the rest of me.

Adara's smile was bittersweet. "I didn't think I could say this: I won't be a substitute."

It was cold water. The wind blew through the room, rippling the gauze of her skirts. Stripping the hair from her face, so I could see her pride.

I wanted to touch her, but couldn't. It would only make things worse.

"For someone else, you won't be." I turned and went out of the house.

Four

Sarad the swordsmith was one-eyed. The blind eye was puckered closed behind a shrunken lid. The good eye was black. Matching hair was twisted into a single braid and bound in dyed orange leather at the back of his neck. He wore an ocher-colored burnous and a leather belt plated with enameled copper disks.

The

colors were bright and varied.

Sarad showed me his smile. He sat cross-legged on a blanket with swords set out

before him. Steel glowed sullenly in the dying light of the day. "These are my

best," he said. "I can make better, of course... but that would take time.

Have

you the time to spare?"

Well, yes and no. I could spare the time for him to make a blade to order, but

only if I was willing to use my jivatma in the meantime.

Squatting across from Sarad, I thought about Kem, the swordsmith on Staal-Ysta.

It had taken days to fashion Samiel, and with my help. But mostly because of rituals; Kem rushed nothing. And while Sarad probably wouldn't hurry either--not

if he wanted to forge a good sword--he had no elaborate rituals to eat away extra hours.

The swords all looked fine. They felt fine, too; I'd already handled six, trying

them out on simple and intricate patterns. Two had a balance I found to my liking, but they were only halfway measures. I'd spent more than half of my life

using a sword made specifically for me. I didn't like the idea of dancing with a

ready-made blade created for anyone with the coin to buy it.

But I liked even less the idea of dancing with Chosa Dei lying in wait in my steel.

Sarad gestured, indicating a sword. "I would be pleased to offer the Sandtiger

my best at a very good price."

I shook my head. "Your best isn't here. Your best is still in your hands."

Something glittered in his eye. "Of course. A sword-dancer such as yourself appreciates true skill and creativity; I can make you a perfect sword. All I require is time."

I picked up one of the two swords I thought would do. The steel was clean and smooth, with keen, bright edges. It had the proper weight, the proper flex, the

proper grip, the proper promise.

"This one," I said finally.

Sarad named his price.

I shook my head. "Too much."

"It comes with a scabbard--see? And I am a master, Sandtiger--"

"But this isn't the best you can do. Do you expect me to pay full price?"

He thought it over. Considered what it might do for business if the Sandtiger carried his sword. Named a lower price.

I counted out the coin.

Sarad pocketed it. "Have you a tanzeer yet?"

"Not yet. Why?"

The swordsmith gestured casually. "I have heard tanzeers are looking for sword-dancers."

"I heard that, too." I frowned a little. "Do you know why the tanzeers are hiring so many all at once?"

Sarad shrugged. "I hear things... things about the tribes, and the jhihadi."

He

glanced around, then looked back at me. "I think the tanzeers are afraid. So they unite in the face of a powerful enemy and hire men to fight."

I looked at Sarad gravely. "If this rumor is true, it would indicate the tanzeers believe this jhihadi exists--or will exist. And I've never known tanzeers to believe in much of anything except their own greed."

Sarad shrugged. "It's what I have heard." He eyed me thoughtfully. "I thought surely a man such as the Sandtiger would be sought by many, and hired immediately."

I sheathed the new-bought sword and thought about how best to attach it to my harness, specifically made for another sword. "I only got here at midday."

"Then you are slow." Sarad smiled. "Your son arrived a week ago."

I stiffened. "Where is this person?"

He shrugged. "I've seen him here and there. He visits the circles, lingers, then

goes to the cantinas."

"Which ones?"

A flick of his hand. "That one. And that one. And the other one street over.

There are many cantinas here. Sword-dancers like to drink."

I rose. "I think it's about time I paid 'my son' a visit."

"He will like that," Sarad said. "He's very proud of you."

I grunted and walked away.

He had, I'd been told, an old gray mare with a white splash on her face and three white legs. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed. Young; maybe eighteen or nineteen. No sword. A necklet of claws at his throat. And a tongue busy with my

name. All of which meant it shouldn't be hard to find him.

Except I couldn't find him.

Oh, people knew of him. I went to each of the three cantinas Sarad had mentioned, plus two more. None of them were real cantinas, being little more than broken buildings where a Southroner with liquor had set up hasty shop, selling cups of aqivi and amnit at premium prices. But no one seemed to mind.

It

was a place--or places--to gather, swapping tales and seeking work.

Yes, men said, they knew him. And they described him in the fashion I'd grown accustomed to hearing.

But none of them had a name. Everyone knew him only as the Sandtiger's cub.

I found it disconcerting. Anyone could claim the same, since no one knew any different, and do all sorts of nefarious deeds, thereby harming my reputation,

which I'd been at some pains to establish. It had taken years. And then some boy

fancying himself my son appropriates it without my knowledge.

I didn't like it much.

Even if he was my son.

After a while, I gave up. But I cautioned everybody to point him out to me if he

ever showed his face where I could see it.

Which gave them all something to laugh at: a grown man--the Sandtiger--had mislaid his own son.

I went "home" with my new-bought sword and thought bad things about the man who

claimed my blood; by inference, also my name. I didn't like it at all. My name

was mine, won at a very high cost. I didn't want to share it. Not even with a son.

I woke up because of the stud. It was very late and very dark, and everyone else

was asleep, bundled up in blankets because of the temperature. Alric, in the other room, snored gently in Lena's arms.

Del, in our room, slept alone in her personal bedding. As I did in my own.

The stud continued to stomp, paw, snort. If I let him go much longer, he'd wake

up everyone else. And since I didn't much feel like making excuses for a horse,

who wouldn't have any, I decided to shut him up.

I sighed, peeled back blankets, crawled to my feet. Alric's makeshift roof dipped down from rotting rafters, but it cut out some of the wind. It also cut

out the light. I had to strain to see.

It was cold outside of my blankets. Here'd I'd been saying how nice it was to be

back home again where it was warm, and it had to go and get cold. But I shut it

out of my mind--glad I'd slept in my clothes--and went out to see to the stud.

Del's blue gelding was tied in one of the corners of the room Alric had deemed

the stable. He'd been roused by the stud's noise, but stood quietly enough.

The

stud, however, did not; tied out of reach of the roan, he nonetheless warned him

away.

Alric's blanket-and-skin roof did not extend to the "stable," but the light was

little better. There was no moon, no stars. It was all I could do to see through

the damp gloom. Wind brushed my face, crept down the neck of my tunic. I put my

hand on the stud's warm rump, then moved around to his head. Promised to remove

his gehetties if he didn't quiet down; meanwhile, I tried to interpret his signs

of unease.

It wasn't just the gelding. The stud didn't like him, but he tolerated him well

enough. He'd learned to over the weeks. And I doubted it was the packhorse belonging to Alric, an old, quiet mare. He'd already proved uninterested in her,

which meant it was something else entirely. Something I couldn't see.

Wind scraped through the broken wall, spitting dust and bits of grit. The stud

laid back his ears.

I put a soothing hand on his neck. "Take it easy, old son. It's just a little wind. And the wall's breaking most of it; let's hear no complaints out of you."

There was, in the dimness, the faint shine of a single eye. Ears remained pinned.

I thought briefly of Garrod. He'd tell me he knew what it was just by

"talking"

with the stud.

Who wasn't talking to me.

Then again, he was. He stomped a foreleg smartly and came very close to my toes.

"Hey. Watch yourself, old man, or I will cut off--"

A quick sideways twist of his head and he shut teeth upon my finger.

I swore. Punched him in the eye to make sure I had his attention; he'd ignore me

otherwise, and I might lose the finger. Then, when he paid attention, I retrieved my hand from his mouth.

And began to swear in earnest.

I backed up a prudent step, out of the stud's reach, and squinted at the finger.

It was ugly.

I swore some more, gritting the words in my teeth, and then proceeded to hold the entire hand out--torn finger included--and tell myself, repeatedly, it didn't hurt at all.

I wrung the hand a little. The finger didn't like it.

I walked around in a jerky circle, thinking mean thoughts about the stud.

Wished

briefly I was a woman so tears wouldn't be disapproved of; I didn't cry, of course, but thought it might be nice to have that kind of release. But a man, with others near, doesn't show that much of himself.

"Let me see," she said.

I jerked around, swore some more, told her I was fine.

"Stop lying," she said. "And stop trying to be such a man. Admit the finger hurts."

"It hurts," I gritted promptly. "And now it still hurts; admitting it didn't help."

"Is it broken?"

"I can't tell."

"Did you look?"

"Not very long."

Del came closer. "Then let me see."

The hand was shaking. It didn't want to be touched.

"I'll be gentle," she promised.

"That's what they all say."

"Here, let me see." She took my wrist into one hand.

"Don't touch it," I said sharply.

"I'll look, I won't touch. Of course if it is broken, the bone will have to be

set."

"I don't think it's broken. He didn't bite that hard."