Sword Sworn-Sword Dancer 6 (10 page)

we waited.

That triggered a response in the Vashni. One of them stayed back, but three others rode down. One

stationed himself in front of me, approximately three paces away; the other two took up positions on

either side of us.

The fourth rode down then. When he was close enough, I saw his eyes were lighter than the others,

the shape of his face somewhat different. I'd never heard of Vashni breeding with other tribes, but

anything was possible. They had taken a Northerner into their midst. Del's brother, by the time we found

him, had become one of them.

The warrior pulled up near Del. This close, we could smell them. Apparently rancid oil was

considered perfume in Vashni circles.

The warrior's eyes were a dark gray. He looked hard at Del, then at me. Something moved in those

eyes. He raised a hand to his face and touched one cheek, mimicking my scars.

I took it as invitation. "Sandtiger," I said.

Now he looked at Del. Now the hand rose to his hair, then indicated his eyes.

Blue-eyed, fair-haired Del said, "The Oracle's sister."

The Vashni closed in. We followed—or were made to understand it was wise to follow—the man

with gray eyes.

It was a camp, not a village. A tiny clearing surrounded by boulders, a grove of twisted,

many-limbed trees, a fire ring set in the middle with blankets thrown down around it. The stink of blood

and entrails as well as the piles of hides told us the Vashni were a hunting party, as did the skinned

carcasses hanging from the trees. Likely the village was a day's ride. Perhaps it was even the one where

Jamail had been held.

Once in camp, Del and I were motioned off our horses. We dismounted, and one of the warriors led

the stud and gelding away to tie them to a tree lacking the ornamentation of meat. The stud was not

happy, but he didn't protest. Del's black-painted, fringe-bedecked gelding went placidly and stood

where he was tied, lowering his head to forage in thatches of webby green grass spreading beneath the

tree. The Vashni mounts were turned loose once their bridles were slipped; apparently even they knew

better than to test a warrior's mood.

Gravely the gray-eyed man unsheathed knife and sword and set them down upon a woven blanket.

The other warriors followed suit. Then it was our turn.

Unarming before anyone was not something I enjoyed. Doing it before Vashni set a knot into my

guts. But a single misstep could get us killed. And they seemed to be peaceable enough—for the

moment.

Del and I added our weapons to the pile. The gray-eyed man, whom I took to be the leader, sat

down, motioning us to be seated on the blanket across from him, on the other side of the fire ring. We

did so. It was a comfortable spot out of the sun's glare, shaded by trees. If we'd been with anyone

besides Vashni, it might have been a nice little respite.

Then, surprisingly, the grey-eyed man placed a hand on his chest and identified himself: "Oziri." Botas

were brought out and passed around. We were, they made it clear, to drink first, even before Oziri.

Peaceable indeed. Courteous, even. I unstoppered the bota, smelled the pungent bite of liquor, took

a surreptitous deep breath, then squirted a goodly amount into my mouth. Even as I swallowed liquid

fire, clamping my mouth shut so as not to gasp aloud, I passed the bota to Del. Without hesitation she

drank down a generous swallow. Then tears welled up in her eyes, and she went into a spasm of

coughing.

It might have been insult. Instead, the Vashni found it amusing. Grins broke out. Heads nodded. One

warrior brought out a leather bag, dug inside, then tossed out sizeable chunks of meat to his companions.

I was thrown a chunk big enough for two; Del, they clearly judged, was still too incapacitated to catch

her own.

"If you die," I told her, "they'll likely take your body back to the village and boil the flesh off your

bones."

Her voice was thin and choked. "I'm not dying."

"Here." I divided and passed her some meat. "Maybe this will help."

She cleared her throat repeatedly, then accepted the meat even as she thrust the bota back at me.

"What is it?"

"Don't ask. Just eat." I sucked down more liquor. It was unlike anything I'd had before. Already my

brain tingled.

Knowing Vashni eyes were on her, Del lifted the meat to her mouth and found a promising edge. She

bit into it, froze a moment, then began to gnaw at it. Eventually she pulled the bite free and began to

chew. Her expression, despite her attempt to mask it, spoke of a flavor not particularly pleasing to her

palate.

Now that Del was eating, it was my turn. No more excuses. I bit into my portion, tore off a chunk,

tasted the sharp, gamy flavor, and began the lengthy process of chewing it into something that might be

swallowed. The warriors, I noted, had no problems. But then, they likely had been given tough and

mostly raw meat from the day their teeth came in.

Del's words were distorted around the bite she was clearly reluctant to swallow. "Wha' i' it?"

I grinned as I risked it—one big swallow to get it all down at once—and tossed the bota back. "Like

I said, don't ask. Just eat. Wash it down with that."

Oziri said, "Sandtiger."

I looked at him. "Yes?"

Something very like a smile quirked the corner of his mouth. He pointed to the meat. "Sandtiger. For

the Sandtiger."

Oh. Oh.

Hoolies—I was eating my namesake!

Del stopped chewing. She stared at the hunk of meat in her hand, plainly trying to decide if she

would be forgiven for spitting out what was in her mouth, or possibly killed for it. As I expected, she

took the safer road. She swallowed with effort, then squirted more liquor into her mouth. This time she

didn't cough, but a hand flew to her mouth. Droplets fell from her chin.

Sandtiger meat. No wonder it was so tough. They weren't exactly known as a food source. Usually

we were theirs.

I bit off another chunk and began to chew before it could chew back. It was impossible to relax, but

the Vashni, eating and drinking companionably, gave every indication we were guests, not quarry bound

for the cookpot.

Of course, it could just be the last meal prior to the cookpot.

I didn't say that to Del. Just watched her struggle to chew and choke down the meat, leavening it

with liquor. Eventually I took the bota back and did the same.

"Sandtiger," Oziri said.

I waited politely, wondering if he were addressing me or identifying my meal.

"The Oracle's sister took you into Beit al'Shahar and freed you of Chosa Dei."

Either that had become legend in his tribe, or this man had been one of the warriors who'd told Del

where to find Shaka Obre, after she'd hit me over the head with a rock. Or perhaps he was one of the

warriors who'd taken Jamail to the chimney formation where he somehow managed to learn how to

speak again despite lacking a tongue.

"Yes," I confirmed.

"You are free now?"

"Yes."

He ran a forefinger along his hairline. "Chosa Dei did that?"

He meant the rim of tattoos at the top of my forehead, not yet hidden by hair. "No. This was done in

Skandi. An island far away."

He didn't care about Skandi. "Did Chosa steal your mind?"

I smiled. "He tried. But no. I'm truly free of him." If I weren't, they'd likely boil me. "Thanks to the

Oracle's sister."

He nodded once, glancing at Del. "We honor you, Oracle's sister."

Del was startled. But she retained enough courtesy to give him thanks for that, for his meat, for his

liquor.

Oziri smiled. "You will be drunk."

Her face was rosy. "I think," she said, "I am."

He nodded once. "Good."

"Good?" she asked faintly.

"Good, yes." He glanced it me. "You, it will take longer."

"Oh, I don't know—I'm already feeling it."

"Drink more. There are tales to be told."

So I drank more, while the Vashni told us tales of the Oracle's prophecies of a man who would

change the sand to grass, thus changing the future of the desert. I kept my face free of reaction, but I

couldn't help wondering if that kind of future was anathema to them. Yet the warriors seemed merely to

accept what their Oracle had prophesied, as if it hadn't occured to them to question what might come.

Blind faith, sitting before me.

"Jhihadi," Oziri said, and the others murmured something.

I flicked a sharp glance at him.

"The Oracle said he will change the sand to grass."

I chewed thoughtfully at a final bite of meat, recalling the suggestions I had made to a young man

called Mehmet about digging new wells and using cisterns linked to channels to bring the water to areas

without. The suggestion had seemed quite logical to me, infinitely practical. So obvious, in fact, I found it

amazing no one else had ever thought of it.

And for that suggestion, Mehmet had named me jhihadi.

A man could own a dwelling and a plot of land and call himself a king. A man could have an idea that

suited a prophecy, and call himself a messiah.

And there were times when that kind of label could be valuable.

I swallowed the meat, then leaned forward, dug a shallow depression in the dirt, drew a line leading

out of it, then poured liquor into the depression. After a moment, it flowed into the finger-wide channel. I

reached out, plucked a sprig of grass, and set it at the end of the channel as the liquor arrived.

"Sand," I said, "is grass."

The Vashni stared at my little demonstration. Dark faces paled. Four pairs of eyes fastened

themselves on my face, staring in astonishment. Clearly they were shaken.

"But don't mind me," I told them, shrugging. "I'm pretty drunk."

And indeed I was. This morning I had eaten nothing, killed a man, lost the dinner I'd had the night

before, and swallowed most of the contents of an unfamiliar liquor under a warm afternoon sun.

"He is the jhihadi," Del declared emphatically. "My brother said so. Was he not your Oracle?" Now

it was her turn to be stared at. She blinked, put a hand to her head, then said the words I never, ever

expected to hear from her: "Oh, Tiger, I am so dreadfully drunk."

"Sometimes," I said, "this is a good thing." I put my arm around her shoulders, guided her close so

she could slump against me without falling over, and smiled fatuously at the Vashni. "And now, if you

don't mind, I think the Oracle's sister—and very probably the jhihadi—are going to pass out."

SEVEN

I WOKE UP to the sound of retching. Del, I realized, was no longer beside me. And she'd never

been drunk before.

Ah.

I cracked an eye and realized the sun was up, filtering down through the trees. This is not a

particularly strange discovery to make unless you've gone to sleep—or passed out—in the late

afternoon, and it appears to be the morning sun.

I opened the other eye, squinted up at arching limbs with their feathery, waving leaves, then girded

my loins for battle and managed to lever myself up on an elbow. The world wobbled. So did I. I caught

sight of Del several paces away, clutching a tree and looking for all the world as if she'd fall down

without it.

Poor bascha.

Belatedly, I became aware of a sense of absence. A sharp glance around the camp showed me no

Vashni, no Vashni horses, no skins or carcasses. Only the stud and gelding, still tied to trees but

unsaddled, and our belongings piled neatly nearby. Including knives and swords.

As I moved to get up, something shifted against my chest, getting caught on the harness. I looked

down, saw a handful of ivory ornaments danging against the burnous. Some kind of necklet had been put

around my neck as I slept. Closer inspection showed a string of human fingerbones carefully wired

together.

Ugh.

But I elected not to take the necklet off in case Vashni were watching from cover. You never know

when the repudiation of a gift might get you cooked. And then
your
fingerbones would adorn someone's

neck.

There is no cure for the day after a good drunk—or a bad one, depending on your point of view—

but there is something that helps. I groped around, found the bota, sloshed it to test for contents,

unstoppered it and drank. The bite was just as bad, the smell just as pungent. But adding new liquor to

old would improve morning-after miseries.

I raised my voice. "You going to live?"

Del didn't answer except to be sick again.

I sat up all the way, shut my eyes a moment, kept my own belly down with a massive application of

determination, and swallowed more liquor.

Eventually Del made her way back to the blanket, clutching a water bota. I noticed she also had

been gifted with a fingerbone necklet but decided against mentioning it just yet. She was very pale—

more than usual, that is—and circles had appeared beneath her eyes.

She sat down, leaned her head into her hands, and mumbled, "You must be enjoying this."

"What, seeing you get sick? Trust me, bascha, it's one of the least attractive sights in the world."

"No. That I am sick. After all the times I reprimanded you for getting drunk." She sighed heavily into

the heels of her hands. "I don't see how you do it. I don't see
why
you do it!"

"Well, usually that isn't the point. I mean, not to get so drunk I feel that bad the next day.

Unfortunately, sometimes it is the price you pay."