Sword Born ss-5

by Jennifer Roberson

  I smiled into the sunset, watching the colors change, then bent my mind and focus upon the slow, graceful, meticulous positioning of flesh and bone and muscle, answering with a contentment verging on bliss the blessed familiarity of ritualized movements I’d learned so many years before from the shodo of Alimat, who understood the needs of the soul as well as of the body.

  The metri’s servant found me there some while later. Sweat sheened me, but did not run my flesh; the breath moved freely in my lungs and did not catch; the protest of muscles left too long to ships and happenstance was fading. It would require dedicated daily practice before true fitness returned, but I was already looser than I had been since we’d left the South.

  Simonides waited until I broke the pattern of the ritual. Diffidently he took up the cloth I’d draped over the courtyard wall and handed it to me. I patted myself dry even as he spoke. "The metri sends to say Herakleio has gone into the city."

  It was the longest sentence I’d heard from him. His words were heavily accented, but decipherable. Still, the topic baffled me. "And?" I prompted.

  "The metri sends to say this is your responsibility."

  "Is it?"

  "The metri sends to say you will find him in a wine-house with other young men of his age, consorting with women."

  "Ah." Of course.

  "The metri sends to say this is your responsibility."

  "That he drinks and consorts with women?"

  "The metri sends to say —"

  I cut him off with a gesture. "And what do you say?"

  It startled him. He blinked. "I?"

  "You."

  "I say?"

  "You say."

  He opened his mouth. Shut it. Thought thoughts. Eventually opened his mouth again. "I say the metri expects you to bring him home."

  "That’s obvious, Simonides. What I’m wondering is, why?"

  "Your debt."

  "My debt doesn’t include playing nursemaid."

  For the briefest of moments a hint of amusement seasoned the quiet courtesy of his eyes. "The metri sends to say it does."

  "How can the metri send to say something in answer to a statement she hasn’t heard me make?"

  "The metri sends to say I am, in her absence, her eyes and ears."

  "And what do you say, O Eyes and Ears?"

  Simonides folded his hands together primly at the belt atop his kilt. "I, who as the eyes and ears of the Stessoi have seen and heard this before, say he will make a drunken fool of himself at the winehouses, provoke battles of wit and words and, eventually, provoke battles of the body as well, which other men will answer. Many songs will be sung. Much damage will be done. Much coin will be spent to set the winehouse to rights."

  I grinned. "The metri’s coin."

  "Herakleio has only what the metri gives him."

  That explained a lot. "She treats him like a child, yet expects me to make him a man?"

  "Here in Skandi," he said, "the mother raises the child. When the child is of age, the father raises him. The infant becomes a man. But Herakleio has only the metri, who is not his mother."

  "And I’m not his father, Simonides. Send to say to the metri that I say that."

  "But kinsman," he rebuked gently.

  I looked at him sharply. His expression was guileless, arranged in the bland mask of trusted servants. There was no fear, only acceptance. This was his place. He would do it no harm, nor his people. "You truly believe that?"

  His gaze was level. "I have seen all of the pretenders come before the metri. And I have seen you."

  "I didn’t come," I countered. "I was brought. And I had no choice."

  "I have seen all of the pretenders come before the metri. And I have seen you."

  I understood him then. He made a clear delineation between pretenders, and me. For some inexplicable reason, it sent an icy prickle down my spine. As if such belief were a harbinger of — something. Something dangerous.

  To be someone’s heir.

  I sat down abruptly upon the wall. Simonides smiled.

  "How old are you?" I asked.

  "I have sixty-two years."

  "How long have you served the Stessas?"

  "Sixty-two years."

  "Since birth?"

  He had the grace to gesture acknowledgment of my incredulity. "It is true I did not begin to serve until I had five years. But I was born into this household."

  Five years. And every year since in service to the Stessas — Stessoi — to the metri. I said, "You know what I was."

  He inclined his head slightly; a slave always knows another.

  "And that I am free now, and have been."

  Another slight nod.

  "And yet you believe I am not a pretender hoping to gain wealth?"

  "What you pretend," he replied simply, "is that you can be nothing others expect of you."

  After a lengthy moment I managed an answer. "That is about the most convoluted piece of nonsense I’ve ever heard."

  With utmost sincerity he demurred. "Surely you have heard better."

  I eyed the metri’s servant. Simonides had a sense of humor after all. "You’re being obscure. On purpose."

  His expression betrayed no inkling of his thoughts. "The expectations of others," he said quietly, "can cause the bravest men to tremble."

  I assessed his overly bland expression. "And what do you expect of me?"

  Simonides smiled. "To go and fetch Herakleio home before he embarrasses the metri’s name — and the metri’s purse."

  "I’m trembling," I said dryly.

  Simonides bowed.

  I looked down at myself. Baggy trousers, barefoot. "It would probably be better if I had a shirt, then, yes? And shoes?"

  Simonides bowed again, then took himself away.

  Well, hoolies. I wasn’t ready for bed yet anyway.

  Del was more than a little surprised when I stopped by our room to tell her where I was bound. "You?"

  "Me."

  "Tiger…" She sat up from an ungainly sprawl across the bed. "Sending you to retrieve Herakleio from a wine-house is not unlike asking the hawk to ward the rabbit."

  "But hawks know all the secret ways into the hutch." I now wore a tunic over my trousers, and sandals. "Want to come along?"

  She frowned. "You don’t know these people, Tiger…what if it’s a trap?"

  My eyebrows shot up. "Why would it be a trap?"

  "Why wouldn’t it be?"

  I eyed her narrowly. "What are you suggesting?"

  "I don’t know." Del sounded as frustrated as I. "Maybe it’s only because we’re stuck here in this house, bound by its rules without knowing what they are. It makes me uneasy."

  "So does not having a sword."

  A muscle jumped briefly in her jaw. "Yes."

  "I know, bascha. Trust me, I know." I sighed. If both of us suspected the metri’s motivations, or intentions… I shook it off. "Meanwhile, you coming?"

  She considered. Then stood up. "But only to be certain the hawk does not overset the hutch."

  "Of course." I bared teeth. "Little rabbit."

  Del tugged at the rucked up folds of her long tunic, sorting out her clothing. "This little rabbit feels somewhat naked without a sword to hand."

  "This little rabbit has teeth," I reminded her.

  "And the hawk?"

  "The hawk has talons. But yes, he isn’t pleased to be without a sword either."

  "We should remedy that."

  "We should. Maybe tomorrow." I stopped in the doorway, turning back. "Do you suppose they even have swords on Skandi?"

  Del thought about it. "I haven’t seen anyone with one."

  "Me neither." I scowled. "What’s a self-respecting man to do for a weapon?"

  Del slid past me. "Use his teeth and talons."

  We did not, of course, have any idea which winehouse Herakleio habituated. We didn’t even know how many there were in Skandi, on Skandi, nor even what they looked like. Simonides, however, met us at the front
door.

  He arched a single eyebrow as he saw Del.

  "She’s the rabbit," I explained. "Also known as bait."

  His face cleared even as Del glowered at me. "The molah-man will take you both into the city. As he has taken Herakleio into the city on many similar occasions, he knows which winehouses to try."

  "Winehouses," I stressed — winehouseoi? — getting a better idea of the task. "Ah. And just how many are we to root around in?"

  "Why, as many as are required to find him."

  "And how many might that be?"

  "We are an island," he answered. "The first in a chain of islands. We import goods and export goods."

  "He means," Del translated, "that many ships come here with many men aboard them and likely every other building in the city is a winehouse."

  "Even so." Simonides didn’t smile, but I detected a faint glint of amusement in his eyes before he turned them to the ground.

  I nodded. "And might this molah-man be the same molah-man who took Herakleio into the city tonight?"

  "The metri employs many."

  Del sighed. "Is Herakleio in the habit of sending his molah-man home before he’s done drinking?"

  "Sometimes. Sometimes not." He flicked a glance at me. "Sometimes he does not return home at all."

  We were men. We both knew what that meant.

  So did Del. "And is there a favorite woman?"

  Simonides cleared his throat faintly. "Herakleio consorts with many."

  "In other words, this could take us all night."

  The servant inclined his head. "And even part of the day."

  I glanced at Del. "Care to change your mind about coming along?"

  Her expression was elaborately incredulous. "And permit the hawk to overset all the hutches?" She went on before I could answer. "If I stay, I won’t be able to sleep until you’re back. So I’ll come."

  "Why won’t you be able to sleep?"

  "Because I can’t when you’re gone. Not well." She shrugged. "I’ll wake up every time I turn over, wondering how near dawn it is and if your dead body is lying in some rank alley somewhere in the middle of a puddle of horse piss."

  The imagery was vivid. "Gods of valhail, why?"

  "Because," she said matter-of-factly, "it’s what women do."

  "Imagine men dead and lying in horse piss?" I shook my head. "It’s foolish to paint such pictures, bascha. A waste of time."

  "Undoubtedly," she agreed dryly. "But it is our nature."

  "To worry."

  "To wonder."

  "To imagine things that aren’t true and won’t come true?" I shook my head again, more definitively. "I always said an imagination could get women into trouble."

  "But occasionally these things are true and they do come true, and dead bodies are found lying in rank alleys in the middle of puddles of horse piss." She paused. "Which is why women the world over began worrying in the first place."

  "But it’s never come true with me."

  Her expression was as bland as only Del could manage. "Yet."

  I scoffed. "I could also live to be an old man and die in bed with no teeth left in my head."

  "You could also die in a puddle of horse piss with no teeth left in your head." She paused. "Tonight."

  "And you’d rather see it happen than simply imagine it."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because perhaps I could stop it." She shrugged. "Or, if not, I could at least go home to bed knowing you were lying dead in a puddle of horse piss, and not merely imagine it."

  Simonides, apparently recognizing where this discussion might lead — and how long it would take to get there — cleared his throat again. "The molah-man awaits,"

  So he did. So did Herakleio. Somewhere on an island that was full of winehouses and puddles of horse piss.

  If they had horses on Skandi. Which I don’t think they did.

  Ihe moon was nearly full. Feeling virtuous — and oddly relieved — because I’d taken the first serious steps toward regaining fitness, I relaxed against the back of the molah-cart, one arm slung around Del’s shoulders as we drew closer to the city on the rim of the caldera. Now that I had my land-legs back, I didn’t mind the joggle of the cart. It was soothing in a way. "Too bad we have to waste the night on finding Herakleio."

  Del doesn’t cuddle in public, but she did lean. With pale hair and in paler linen, she was aglow in the moonlight. "We could perhaps find him immediately," she said, "or find him very, very late."

  I laughed and set my chin atop her tilted head. "You don’t think he’s lying dead somewhere in a puddle of horse piss, then?"

  "He would not be so foolish as to put himself in the position to end up so."

  "Why not? And why would I?"

  "Because he is the heir of the Stessa metri. Heirs of wealthy, powerful people only rarely go into rank alleys with puddles of horse piss in them so that they can be killed."

  "But I would? And I’m not?"

  "You have. And I think even if you are the metri’s grandson, she prefers Herakleio in the role."

  "Thank you very much."

  "You’re the jhihadi, Tiger; isn’t that enough? Or must you be wealthy, too?"

  "Isn’t it a rule that the jhidadi should be rich? I mean, what’s good about being a messiah if you can’t afford to enjoy it?" I patted her head. "Not that you believe I am the jhihadi, mind you."

  "Well," she said thoughtfully, "I doubt very many jhihadis end up dead in puddles of horse piss."

  "Lo, I am saved." Something occurred to me then. "Um."

  Del, having heard that opening before, lifted her head and looked at me warily. "Yes?"

  "We don’t exactly speak the language of the locals."

  "Not exactly, no. Not even inexactly."

  "Then how are we supposed to tell the molah-man where to go?"

  "Tiger," she chided, "you’ve never had any trouble telling people where to go."

  "Hah," I said dutifully. "You don’t suppose he’s just going to stop at every one, do you?"

  "Well, that would be a way of making sure we found the proper winehouse."

  I eyed her sidelong. "You surprise me, bascha. I never thought I’d hear you describe any cantina — or wine-house — as ’proper.’ "

  Her turn to say "hah," which she did. Then, "We could split up."

  That jerked my head around. "You expect me to let you go into a slew of winehouses in a strange land by yourself?"

  Del arched pale brows eloquently. "And just what do you think I did when I first began looking for the sword-dancer known as the Sandtiger?"

  Since Del had in fact eventually found me in a cantina, I couldn’t exactly come up with a good retort. So I scowled ferociously.

  "Besides," she went on ominously, "I don’t expect you to ’let’ me do anything."

  "Well, no…" I knew better than to argue that point. "But think about it, bascha. You don’t even speak the language."

  "The language of the sword is known in all lands —" she began. And stopped. "Oh."

  "Oh," I agreed; neither of us had one. "Look, I know the ’little rabbit’ can bite —"

  " ’Little,’ " she muttered derisively; because, of course, she isn’t.

  "— but it’s not exactly wise for the rabbit to walk right into the mews when the hawks are very hungry. There’s only so much teeth can do against talons."

  "But Skandi is not the South. It may well be that Skandic hawks would treat a Northern rabbit with honor and decorum."

  "Male hawks full of liquor, and a lone female rabbit?"

  "Why, Tiger…" Blue eyes were stretched very wide. "Are you suggesting men full of liquor might behave toward a woman in ways less than kind?"

  I sniffed audibly. "Kinder than a gaggle of women gathering together after the men have left."

  Del batted her eyes. "But we’re only rabbits, Tiger. What can rabbits do?"

  "Precisely my point," I declared firmly. "Which I guess means we aren’t spli
tting up to look for Herakleio."

  Del, who doesn’t lose as often — or as well — as she wins, subsided into glowering silence the rest of the way to town.

  TWENTY

  Winehouses the world over, whatever they may be called, bear a striking resemblance to one another. There are almost never any windows, no source of natural light; illumination is left to lamps, lanterns, candles fueled by bad oil, worse tallow, and cheap wicks. Each winehouse smells the same, too: of whatever liquor is served, of oil, smoke, grease, the tang of unwashed bodies, cheap perfume, and bad food, be it on the table, in the body, or issuing therefrom at either end.

  As Del had predicted, this portion of the city was indeed pretty much comprised of winehouses every other building. The molah-man deposited us at the end of a beaten, stony pathway that wound its way through the moon-washed buildings, possibly even leading into alleys full of horse piss. From there we walked.

  "Pick a place, any place," I muttered.

  Del obliged. "This one."

  In we went. And to a man — and even to the women — everyone stared.

  In the South, in the Desert, it would have been me they stared at. But here in Skandi I looked very much like everyone else. It was Del they stared at.

  But then, everyone stares at Del every chance they get.

  "Hawks," I muttered, "weighing out the flesh."

  I felt Del’s amusement. "Enough flesh on this rabbit."

  "But tough," I said disparagingly.

  She grinned. "Do you see him?"

  "No. But let’s ask around." I eyed the crowd and raised my voice. I knew next to nothing of Skandic, save three important words. "Herakleio," I announced. "Stessa. Metri."

  Nothing. Except for stares. Only eventually did the discussions began, low-voiced, curious and suspicious. But none of them was addressed to us, and no answers were forthcoming.

  "Next?" Del murmured.

  Next indeed. And the next after that, and the next after that.

  "Why," I complained as we headed to Winehouse Number Five, "did we not bring Simonides with us? He speaks the lingo."