Sword-Sworn

by Jennifer Roberson

  Well, sure. Why should I pay for what I own?

  The next interruption was Del. “What are you doing?”

  I scowled up at her, annoyed as her shadow slanted across the page I was reading. Since I was losing light as the sun went down, it mattered. With no little asperity, I replied, “I should think it’s obvious.”

  Her face was creased from the mattress, flushed from recent awakening. She looked very young. “What are you drinking?” She bent forward as if considering helping herself to what was in my cup, then wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff. “Never mind.”

  Del glanced around, looking for someone to take her order, then wandered over to the bar to place it herself when all of the girls disappeared into the back; it was their way of exhibiting jealousy. Apparently Fouad hadn’t yet informed them Del was their boss as much as he was.

  I followed her with my eyes, as did every other man in the cantina, though as yet there weren’t many. Within the hour the common room ought to begin filling up. In the meantime, Del, oblivious to the stares, served as distraction and the object of lustful thoughts, even draped in a sleep-wrinkled burnous, with a sword hilt poking above her shoulder.

  I heard raised voices from behind the curtain, including Fouad’s. The three girls abruptly reappeared, each wearing an outraged expression that altered to sullen resentment as they saw Del at the bar. One of them, rubbing her rump, even deigned to inquire as to Del’s wishes; the other two started working the tables, suggesting more drinks. None of them looked happy.

  Hmmm. Maybe I ought to have a word with them. Couldn’t have them displaying bad tempers to the customers. No doubt Fouad would appreciate me taking a hand in the running of the business.

  Del came back with a cup and flask. “Water,” she declared, eyeing my aqivi. “We mustn’t drink up all the profits.”

  I poured my cup full and availed myself of a portion of the profits. Del sighed and shook her head, hooking a stool to the table.

  I closed Umir’s book with a thump, latched the hook and hasp, and set it down on the bench next to me so it wasn’t in evidence to casual customers. “You’re only half awake, bascha. Why don’t you go back to bed?”

  “Oh, no, I’m very awake. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep again until well after dark.” She drank her water, eyes guileless over the rim of the cup. “In fact, there’s no need to stay the night here. We could get a start now.”

  “I haven’t slept.”

  “But you’ve spent the balance of the day resting, Tiger, reading a book in a quiet corner. Unless you consider that exhausting labor.”

  “Well, it might be,” I declared irritably. “It’s written by several people in several different tongues. I have to translate all of them in my head before I can figure out what anybody’s talking about, and even then I can’t always sort through their meanings, since I’ve been a mage all of a couple of months. It’s mental labor, bascha.”

  Her expression made an eloquent statement: she did not consider my explanation good enough.

  “Come on, Del, we’ve been through this. We leave in the morning. After we’ve had a chance to sleep in a real bed.”

  “You could have slept in a real bed this afternoon.”

  “I was, in case you haven’t noticed, being a considerate individual. I let you have the whole bed all to yourself.”

  “Considerate?” Del eyed my jug. “How much of that have you had?”

  I brightened. “Enough that I wouldn’t trust myself to stay ahorse.”

  “Hah,” she retorted. “You wouldn’t admit to being too drunk to sit a horse if you were lying face-down in a puddle of piss.”

  “I dunno,” I slurred, blinking owlishly. “I might need you to help me to bed. You know, hold me up, take my sandals off, undress me…” I waggled suggestive eyebrows at her.

  Del’s face was perfectly bland, but I saw the faintest hint of a twitch at one corner of her mouth. “Dream on.”

  I stiffened on my bench. “That’s cruel. I told you how I feel about dreams.”

  She was laughing at me unrepentantly even as she rose. “I will leave you to your reading, then.”

  “Wait—where are you going?” I started to reach for the book and my sword. “Back to bed?”

  She paused. “Don’t look so hopeful, Tiger. No, not to bed. I have it in mind to purchase some new clothing. Something—different.”

  “Why? What kind of clothing? How different?”

  “Something suitable for serving liquor.”

  I stood up so fast I overset the bench. “You’re not—you can’t mean—tell me you don’t…” I stopped, untangled my brain, started over from an entirely different direction, a more positive direction in view of Del’s tendency to disapprove of what she described as my tendency toward possessiveness. With immense courtesy, I queried, “What is it you intend to do, pray tell?”

  “Learn how to run a cantina.”

  Alarm reasserted itself. “By being a wine-girl?”

  Del took note of the fact my raised voice, carrying, had stopped all other conversations throughout the common room, focusing abrupt attention on ours. With a glint in her eye she inquired, equally loudly, “What’s wrong with being a wine-girl?”

  I had committed a slight tactical error in the rules of war: I had taken the battle to the enemy’s home. I could continue the fight valiantly if foolishly, or retire from the field with honor intact.

  Not that Del ever allowed me any when she owned the ground.

  “Why, nothing,” I replied guilelessly. “I’m sure you’d make the very best wine-girl this cantina’s ever seen.”

  Which, of course, did nothing at all to endear me to the wine-girls currently present, who already resented Del; yet another tactical error. Retreating with as much dignity as possible, I righted the bench and resumed my seat, whereupon I rescued the book, then promptly buried my face in a cup of aqivi.

  Del said calmly, “A good proprietor understands all facets of a business.”

  I wanted very badly to ask if those facets included selling her favors, but I decided I’d said quite enough for the moment.

  But later… well, later was a different issue altogether.

  I gulped more aqivi as Del departed, thinking maybe it was best if I got drunk before she started serving liquor to men who were entirely too free with their hands.

  Of course, Del was more likely to chop off a wandering hand than slap it playfully.

  I reconsidered getting drunk, if only to bear sober witness to the justifiable murder of several men.

  Then again, they were customers. It’s tough to make any profits if you kill or maim the customers.

  I went back to the aqivi.

  Sometime later, as the girls took to setting out and lighting table candles, I gathered up book and sword and made my way back to the room that was now ours. It was kind of a nice feeling knowing we had a place to leave things as needed on a regular basis as well as to sleep. I’d bunked often enough at Fouad’s in earlier days but almost never alone… well, come to think of it, I wouldn’t be alone now, either, but back then I’d ridden alone, too.

  I wondered as I slid aside the door curtain if this was a sign of getting soft or of advancing age, this appreciation of property. I’d never had a place of my own, nor needed one. With the Salset, as a chula, I slept on a ratty goatskin, but even that hadn’t been mine; at Alimat, learning to sword-dance, I’d had a bedroll and a spot on the sand to throw it, but neither qualified as a home. A room in the cantina wasn’t a home, either, but it was more than anything I’d claimed before.

  I grinned wryly as I returned the book to a saddlepouch and slid them under the bed. For a while there, in Skandi, it had looked as though I might be heir to a vast trading empire, due to inherit wealth, vineyards, ships, and a chunk of property containing an immense and beautiful house. But that was when the metri had a use for a long-lost grandson; that use had changed, and so had her attitude. She had, in fact, eventually denied altoge
ther I was her grandson, claiming her daughter had died before I was born. But Del made a surprising discovery on the way back home: I bore the keraka, the birthing mark that proved me a Stessa, one of the Eleven Families of Skandi. They claimed to be gods-descended, those families, but unless the gods they worshipped were petty and avaricious, I hadn’t noted any resemblance or advantage.

  Still, I couldn’t help the hand that stole up to my head, fingers parting hair to feel behind my left ear. Had the priest-mages of ioSkandi not shaved my head, we’d never have known the truth. Del had once asked if I now considered the possibility of returning to Skandi and presenting my case to the ten other Families, but I wasn’t interested. The metri had her heir in Herakleio, a cousin of sorts. He was Skandic-born, bred into island customs and convictions, one of them. I was Southron-born and -reared despite my Skandic ancestry; I belonged here.

  Of course, only if I survived the current minor problems of sword-dancers out to kill me, and Umir the Ruthless.

  My eyes were gritty from reading all day. For that matter, all of me was gritty; I hadn’t bathed in days. It crossed my mind to ask Fouad to have the girls bring in a half-cask and fill it, but I decided not to push my luck. I was in their bad graces after my comment to Del. So I opted for the public bathhouse down the street a way. A hot bath, a filling meal, a drink or two, and a good night’s sleep in a real bed. I felt my jaw: and a shave. Because come morning, we’d be back on the sand, sweating under burnouses, hunting one of Del’s strays.

  Of whom I was decidedly not jealous, thank you very much.

  I donned harness, did up buckles, made sure the blade exited the sheath without catching, and took myself off to the bathhouse.

  Del, who had explained that the scent of an unbathed, hot, active, liquor-imbibing male was not necessarily arousing in intimate moments, would undoubtedly appreciate it.

  Me, I’d never noticed. But sometimes you just have to cater to a woman’s wishes if you want her to yield to yours. It’s the way of the world.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  JULAH’S public bathhouse was actually a bathtent. In a small courtyard set back from the street, not far from the main well, an enterprising soul years before had strung a cross-hatching of ropes from hooks pounded into the back walls of buildings, hung swathes of gauzy fabric over them to form tiny private “rooms,” built three good-sized fires, and hired people to keep big cauldrons filled with heated water. Others filled smaller wooden buckets and hauled the water to the rough-hewn tubs in each “room.” It wasn’t much, but when you’ve been in the desert for weeks on end, it was sheer luxury. From time to time sun-baked ropes and fabric had to be replaced, but otherwise it was business as usual.

  I paid the price for water and soap, which cost extra, gave the hirelings time to reheat the tepid water in a tub, waved away the attendant who offered to scrub my back, and pulled the draperies closed. There’s not a lot of privacy in the bathtent, but since only men used it, it didn’t really matter. I stripped down and draped the burnous over the nearest rope, bowing it slightly, then made a small pile out of sandals, dhoti, and harness next to the tub. I risked one foot in the water, hissed a bit, then worked the other one in. The introduction of netherparts required a bit more courage, but once I was down, rump planted against wood, water lapping around my navel, the contrast between cooling air and hot water faded. Sighing, I unsheathed the sword, balanced it across the width of the tub, and felt the knots in my muscles begin to loosen. Bliss.

  I was about halfway through my bath when an overeager attendant pulled the curtain back, chattering to his customer, only to blush fiery red when he realized the tub already held a body. He apologized effusively and yanked the curtain closed, but not before the stranger had a good look at me hunched in the tub with one foot stuck up in the air as I scrubbed at toes.

  Additional mortified apologies from the attendant were issued through the curtains. Smiling, I assured him that all was well and forgiven—even as I quietly climbed out of the tub, pulled on my dhoti (not easy over wet flesh), knotted sandal thongs together and hung them over a shoulder along with the harness. The sword was in my right hand. I bent over, sloshed my left through the water as if I was only just exiting, then waited.

  Sure enough, within moments a sword blade sliced down through the back wall, severing the support rope. A body moved against falling fabric. I heard a blurt of shock, a curse—the former from an attendant, the latter from my attacker—and the clang of steel as I trapped the blade with my own and drove it down. Unweighting, twisting, I kicked out with one foot and made contact with the man’s body, knocking him backward. He tripped, went down hard. Sheets of gauzy material collapsed upon him, fouling his sword. I bent, locked hands around the tub, upended it, spilling lukewarm water in my assailant’s direction. Water on hardpack turns it slick; anything to slow him.

  A series of quick slashes with my sword brought down every “room” in my immediate area, entangling customers and attendants alike in steam-dampened curtains and ropes. I heard angry shouting and cries of alarm. Barefoot, damp, half-naked, with harness and sandals flopping against my ribs, I light-footed into the alley, to the street, then raced toward Fouad’s, hoping the sword-dancer had no idea where I might be staying.

  At the cantina door I paused briefly, caught my breath, examined the customers even as I entered. The first thing I saw was Del seated at a table with a man. She faced the doorway; his back was to me. Short of twisting all the way around on his stool, he wouldn’t see me. Del’s expression didn’t change, but I did note the way she lifted a hand as if to smooth back hair, and saw the quick, subtle gesture with fingers: go away. Not polite, perhaps, but it got the message across: He wasn’t an innocent customer making time with her but a threat, and she was making time with him to control his intentions. I tilted my head toward the back hallway, sending my own message, then soundlessly moved to our room.

  By the time Del joined me, I had sandals and harness on and the saddlepouches packed. “We’re leaving,” I said. “Go back and keep him company so there’s no suspicion, then meet me at the livery when you’ve got a chance to get away. I’ve got all of our things; I’ll have the horses ready.”

  Del nodded and disappeared. I waited until I was fairly certain she owned his attention again, then made my way to the cantina’s back door.

  Fouad met me there. “Trouble?”

  “The man with Del is a sword-dancer, likely on my trail.”

  “Ah. I wondered why she sat down with him.” He offered me an armload of filled botas. “When Del disappears, I’ll send Silk out to him with drugged wine. That’ll delay him.”

  I opened the door. “He may have someone riding with him.”

  He shrugged. “We’ll deal with him, too.”

  I grinned. “Kind of nice having another partner.”

  Fouad made a sour face and shut the door behind me.

  * * *

  It took Del a bit longer to arrive at the livery than I expected. Both the stud and the white gelding were tacked out and ready to go as we lingered in the stableyard; I tossed Del the reins to the gelding and swung up onto the stud. “What took you so long?”

  “He was very curious about your habits.”

  She wore a fresh, pale burnous and had wound her hair up on top of her head in some kind of arcane knotwork fastened with a carved bone rod. Wisps straggled down her neck most fetchingly. “I doubt it was me he was asking about!”

  Del mounted, gathering reins as she hooked her right foot in the stirrup. “Not initially, no. But we got around to you.” She paused. “Where are we going?”

  “North—” But I broke off as the stud sashayed sideways, snorting. I felt the tension in his body, the quivering of muscles. “What’s your problem?”

  “I think it’s my gelding,” Del said, amused.

  “What—again?” But it was possible. Horses could be rather obtuse sometimes. I reaffirmed my control over the stud. “As I was saying, we’re going north. We’l
l get out of town a ways, then find a place to stay the night.” I shot her a glance over my shoulder. “Guess you got your wish.”

  “What wish?”

  “To ride out after Nayyib tonight.”

  Del’s smile was swift as she took out the hair rod, tucking it away in a saddlepouch. “Guess I did.”

  “And I, meanwhile—unlike a certain someone I could mention, who spent most of the day unconscious—did not get to sleep in a real bed.”

  She brought the gelding up next to the stud as we turned onto the main drag. “Take solace in the knowledge you are repaying a debt.”

  “Solace isn’t as comfortable as a real bed.”

  Del nodded, tucking now-loose hair under the neckline of her burnous. “I did tell him you were a disagreeable soul. Cranky, even.”

  “Told who?”

  “Ahmahd. The sword-dancer back at the cantina. A very courteous soul, he was—offered to buy me liquor, dinner, and a bed.”

  “So long as he was in the bed.”

  “Well, I suppose he had hopes, yes.”

  I shook my head, grinning; so… predictable. Just like me. “This way…” I turned the stud and led Del through one of the narrower alleys, twisting about like a tangled skein of yarn. When at last we left the last hedge of buildings behind, we were free of the town entirely, striking out northward beneath a star-pocked sky. “I suspect they won’t think I’d head back into Umir’s domain.”

  “I suspect Ahmahd won’t, since I suggested otherwise.” Del brought the gelding up next to me again. “I explained we hadn’t seen one another for weeks. That you’d been hauled off to Umir’s by Rafiq and his friends, and that was the last I’d seen of you. But before then you’d talked of going to Haziz to take ship back to Skandi. I was hanging around hoping you’d show up but was beginning to worry that you’d gone without me.”

  I grunted. “I doubt he believed you.”

  “There was no one left in the cantina who’d seen us together. Fouad had different girls working, and everyone else who’d seen us talking had left. Ahmahd will learn the truth, of course, at some point, but at least it will buy us a little time.” A trace of dry amusement laced her tone. “Men tend to believe me, if I wish them to.”