Sword Maker-Sword Dancer 3 (41 page)

It confirmed my foreboding, but I said nothing of it to him. "Where's Sula, old

man? I have no time for games."

"I have no time for you. Find Sula yourself." Filmed eyes narrowed. "And I hope

you like what you find, since you are the cause of it!"

I didn't waste my time asking futile questions, or trying to decipher his purposely vague pronouncements. I just went to find Sula.

And when I found her, I knew she was dying. Clearly, so did she.

"Sit," she said weakly, as I lingered in the doorflap.

I sat. I nearly fell. I couldn't say a word.

Sula's smile was her own. She hadn't been robbed of it yet. "I wondered if the

gods would grant me the chance to see you again."

The day was dull and sullen. Fitful light painted a harsh sienna patina against

the ocher-orange of her hyort. It washed the interior with sallowness, like aging ivory. To Sula, it was unkind.

This was my third Sula. The first had been in her early twenties, a slim, lovely

young woman of classic Salset features: wide, mobile face; dipped bridge of nose; black hair so thick and sunkissed it glowed ruddy in the daylight. At night it was black silk.

The second had been over forty, run to fat; lacking former beauty, but none of

her generosity, the kindness I'd come to crave. She had saved Del and me from the ravages of the Punja. And now I'd see her die.

The third Sula was not much older, but the plumpness had melted away. There was

nothing of Sula left except hide stretched over bones. The hair was lank and lifeless. The eyes dulled with pain. Lines graven in flaccid flesh bespoke a constant battle. The hyort smelled of death.

All I could manage was her name.

I don't know what she saw in my face. But it moved her. It made her cry.

I took her hand in mine, then closed the other over it. Brittle, delicate bones

beneath too-dry, fragile flesh. The woman of my manhood was a corpse in Salset

gauze.

I swallowed heavily. "What sickness is it?"

Sula smiled again. "The old shukar says it's not. He says it's a demon put inside to punish me. It lives here, in my breast--eating away my flesh." She was

propped against cushions. With one hand, she touched her left breast.

"Why?" I asked harshly. "What have you ever done?"

Sula raised a finger. "Many years ago, I took in a young chula who was no more a

boy, but a man. And when he killed the sandtiger--when he won his freedom--I made certain he was given it. For that, I am being punished. For that, I host a

demon."

"You don't believe that--"

"Of course not. The old shukar is jealous. He has always wanted me. And he has

never forgiven me." She made a weak gesture. "This is his punishment: he tells

people about the demon, so none will give me aid."

"No one--"

"None," she said raggedly. "Oh, I am given food and water--no one will starve me

to death--but none will aid me, either. Not where the demon can see."

"He's a dangerous old fool. And he's a liar--"

"And he's been shukar forever." Sula sighed and shifted against her cushions.

"But now he has lost even that."

"Lost it..." It stunned me. "How?"

"His magic was bad. Ever since you left, his magic has been weak. And so when the summons was made--when the Oracle called our names--the old shukar was replaced with a younger, stronger man." Black eyes were sad. "The old man sits

in the sun. The young man speaks of power."

"Gained from the jhihadi."

Sula nodded weakly. "The Oracle says the South will be given back to the tribes.

There will be no more need for lengthy journeys from this oasis to that one; from this place to another. The sand will be changed to grass and water will run

on the land."

I cradled her hand in mine. "Is that kind of change what you want?"

She was very tired. Her voice was a travesty. "All I have known is the desert...

the heat, the sand, the sun. Is it wrong to long for grass? To ask the gods for

water in plenty?"

"If war is the cost, yes." I paused. "Let me get you a drink."

Sula lifted a hand. I sank back down at her side. "You see only one side,"

she

said. "You, of all people."

"I don't understand."

She smiled, but very sadly. "Why did you stay with us?"

"Stay--?" I frowned. "I had to. I didn't have any choice."

"Why not run away?"

"Water," I said at once. "I couldn't carry enough water to get me far enough.

The Punja would have killed me. At least with the tribe, I was alive."

Stiff fingers curled in my hand. "If the land were lush and cool, no one could

keep any slaves. It would be easy to run away, to survive a day unsheltered, with water in abundance."

I had run away once. I had been caught. As punishment, I was tied to a stake in

the sand and left for a second full day with no water to slake my thirst.

Left

there, and ignored, all of ten paces away from the camp so I would know what it

was to realize the Salset were my deliverance; that I owed my life to them.

I had been nine years old.

I drew in a painful breath. "I came for information. You've already given me some... but I need to know about the jhihadi. About what the tribes are planning."

Sula held onto my hand. "They are planning a holy war."

"But no one worships the same gods!"

"It doesn't matter. We are to have the jhihadi."

"And this is what he wants? To destroy the South completely?"

"To make it new again. To make it what it was, before the land was laid to waste." She rolled her head against her cushions. "I am only a woman... I don't

sit in councils. All I am told is the jhihadi will unite all the tribes. The Oracle promises this."

"So, this man is just supposed to arrive one day, wave his hands and declare everyone friends, then send them out to kill?" I shook my head. "Not a peaceful

kind of messiah."

"The young men don't want peace." Sula closed her eyes. "They have listened to

the Oracle, but have heard what they want to hear. When he foretells the ascendancy of the tribes, they think it can only come at the cost of other lives. They think nothing of living in peace with the tanzeers. They forget how

our lives will change... how crops will grow on the land, how water will come to

the tribes instead of the tribes following it." She dragged in a laboring breath. "He says nothing of a war, but that is what they hear."

"You've heard him? The Oracle?"

"He has gone to a few of the tribes. Word is being carried."

"And they accept him without question, believing what he says."

Sula rolled her head. "They believe what they choose to believe. The Oracle speaks of a jhihadi who can change the sand to grass. A man need only walk out

into the Punja to know what that could mean."

I knew. I'd lived there. Hoolies, I'd been born there.

Which reminded me of something.

"Sula." I shifted closer. "Sula, there's something I have to know... something I

have to ask. It has to do with how I came to be with the Salset--"

Sula's eyes were glazed. "--histories say the South and the North were one...

divided between two brothers--"

I hung on to my patience. I owed this woman too much. "Chosa Dei," I said.

"His

brother was Shaka Obre."

"--and that after a final battle one half would be laid to waste--"

"Shaka Obre's wards. Chosa Dei tripped them."

"--and after hundreds of years the brothers would be freed to contest for the land again... to make whole the broken halves--"

"Sula," I said sharply, "is the jhihadi Shaka Obre?"

Her lips were barely moving. "--only a small favor--a single small favor ..."

"Sula--"

"Let me die free of pain."

"Sula--" I bent over her. "Sula, please--tell me the truth... did the Salset find me? Or did they steal me?"

Pain-graved brow creased. "Steal you?"

"I was told--they always said--" I stopped short and tried again. "It would mean

something to me to know how I came to the Salset."

Tears rolled free of her eyes. "I heard what they told you. The children. How they taunted you."

"Sula, was it true? Was I abandoned in the Punja? Exposed and left to die?"

Her hand closed on mine. The voice was but a thread. "Oh, Tiger... I wish I knew..."

It was all she had left to give. Having given it, she died.

I sat there and held her hand.

Mother. Sister. Bedmate. Wife.

All and none of those things.

Seven

The man stepped out in front of me. I checked, moved aside; he blocked me yet again.

Not a man: a Vashni.

"Not now," I said clearly, couching it in Desert.

Dark eyes glittered. He didn't move a muscle, didn't say a word, made no indication he intended to step aside.

Three others came up behind me; this wasn't coincidence.

The day was gray. Dull, sullen sunlight gave way to heavy clouds. Rain stained

the ground.

Vashni wear very little. Brief leather kilts with belts. No boots, no sandals.

Jewelry made out of bone, claimed from enemies' skeletons. In the rain, bare torsos were slick, smooth as oiled bronze. Black hair was plaited back from fierce desert faces in a single long braid, hanging clear to belted waists in sheaths of gartered fur.

Bone pectoral plates chinked and tinkled as they breathed.

I wore a knife and a sword. I touched neither of them.

Oddly, I felt tired. Too weary to deal with this on the heels of Sula's death.

"If it's foreigners you're killing, why start with me? There's a whole city full

of them all of ten paces from here."

The warrior facing me smiled, if a Vashni can do such a thing. Mostly he bared

his teeth, very white in a dark face. His Desert was quick and fluent. "Your time will come, Southron... for now your life is spared."

"Generous," I applauded. "So what is it you're after?"

"The sword," he answered calmly. Behind me, the others breathed.

Hoolies, how had word of Samiel gotten around already? I hadn't killed anyone.

Hadn't displayed his magic. Only Del and I knew of the broken sword and its blackened, discolored half. And the Vashni, as far as I knew, weren't partial to

any weapon other than their own, with its wicked, curving blade and human thighbone hilt.

Slowly I shook my head. "The sword is mine."

Color stained his face and set black eyes aglitter. "No one but a Vashni carries

a Vashni sword."

A Vashni--oh, a Vashni sword... like the one hanging from my harness.

Vashni aren't quite like anyone else, and they don't judge outsiders by anything

but their own customs. They don't engage in socially unacceptable behavior like

the Hanjii, who eat people, and they don't condone outright murder. But they do

have a habit of provoking hostilities so the death meted out to an enemy is considered an honorable one.

And then they strip away flesh, muscle, viscera and distribute the still-damp skeleton in a lengthy celebration.

Right about now an engagement of hostilities might be what I needed, but I was

angry. Too angry to think straight: this Vashni had no right to interfere with

my life out of a perverse tribal whim, regardless of the cause.

Not right after Sula--

I cut it off. Knew better than to protest, or to say anything he might interpret

as rude. I had no intention of becoming anyone's pectoral. "Take it," I said flatly.

He flicked a finger. I stood very still. I felt the touch of a hand on the hilt,

the snap of a blade sliding free. Weight lessened across my back; all I wore now

was the harness.

The Vashni's black eyes showed only the slightest hint of contempt. "A Vashni warrior also never gives up his weapon."

I clenched teeth together. "We've already established I'm not Vashni. And I don't see the point in trying to protect--or in dying over--a sword that was only borrowed."

Eyes narrowed. "Borrowed."

"My own sword broke. This was loaned to me."

"A Vashni never loans his sword."

"He does if he's dead," I snapped. "Call it a permanent loan."

Clearly the warrior had not expected such a response. Vashni are accustomed to

cowing frightened people into instant acquiescence, and I wasn't cooperating.

He

glared at me through the rain, then glanced past me to the others. One hand was

near his knife; was the insult enough to repay? Or would he have to work harder?

Deep inside, anger rose. Instinctively I called to memory my recollection of our

immediate surroundings and situation: tribal hyorts clustered but a pace or two

away--rain-slick ground--poor footing--no sword--four Vashni--no support--the city entrance ten paces away--chickens and dogs and goats--

And then something occurred to me. It made me forget about fighting. "What part

of the South are you from?"

The arched nose rose. "Vashni are from everywhere. The South is ours to hold."

"So the Oracle says." I smiled insincerely. "But it isn't yours quite yet, so why don't you answer my question?"

He contemplated my attitude. "Answer mine," he countered. "Why does it matter to

you?"

"Because the mountain Vashni down near Julah have been 'hosting' someone I know.

I just wondered if you- knew him."

He spat into the mud. "I know no foreigners."

I continued anyway. "He's a Northerner--blond, blue-eyed, fair... he's also castrate and mute, thanks to Julah's former tanzeer." I shrugged offhandedly so

my real concern wouldn't show, which might give them a weapon. "His Northern name was Jamail. He's sixteen now."

He assessed me. Black eyes didn't blink. "Is this boy kin to you?"