Sword Sworn ss-6

by Jennifer Roberson

  Discipline.

  It claimed its own power.

  I gathered myself there beside Delilah, body and soul, flesh and spirit, and tried to find the part of me that had been born atop a stone spire in far-off ioSkandi. I knew nothing of the doing but that I had done it. Once, twice, thrice. Since then I had locked the awareness away, concentrating only on the physical, the retraining of a body lacking two fingers.

  A shiver wracked me. Something slammed into my body, buffeting awareness like a wind snuffing out candleflame. Weakness swam in. I meant to move aside; I tried to move aside, to find and lean against the wall of stone regardless of claw gouges, needing the support. But my limbs got tangled. I could not tell what part of me were legs, which were arms, or if I even retained my head atop my shoulders.

  Power eluded me. What strength was left diminished like sand running out of a glass.

  Fear for Del surged up. "No —" I murmured, "— wait —" But all the strength poured out of my body. I slumped sideways, vision doubled; fought it, attempted to push myself upright; went suddenly down onto my back on hardpacked soil and sand. "— wait —"

  An outflung arm landed against unsheathed blades propped against the sidewall. I felt one of them, in toppling, fall across my elbow. It was the flat, not the edge — but by then I didn’t care.

  I was dimly aware of a flicker of stunned outrage, and a voice in my head. Not like this —

  In the circle, yes. If a man had to die. But not from the last wayward scratch of a dying sandtiger.

  "Bascha —" I murmured.

  But the world was gone.

  NINE

  Bones. Bones and sand. Bones and sand and sun. And heat.

  Parched lips. Burned flesh. Swollen tongue. Blood yet running, smearing her thighs. Except there are no thighs. No lips, no flesh, no tongue. All has been consumed.

  From a distance, the bones are thread against sparkling silk. But closer, ever closer, pushed down from air to earth like a raptor stooping, thread takes on substance, sections itself into skull, into arms, and legs. Silk is sand. Crystalline Punja sand.

  Scoured clean of flesh, ivory bone gleams. Delicate toes are scattered. Fingers are nonexistent. Ribs have collapsed into a tangled riddle. The skull lies on its side, teeth bared in a rictus, sockets empty of eyes.

  I am pulled into them, lips brought to dentition, live teeth clicking on dead. Against my mouth bone moves. "Find me," she says.

  I want nothing to do with her. With it. With what the bones had been.

  "Find me," she says. "Take up the sword."

  The hand captured my head. For a moment I feared it was sand, and sun, and death. But the hand cupped my head, lifted it, set bota against my lips. Living lips, not bone. Water trickled into my mouth.

  It was enough to rouse me to something akin to panic. I lifted both arms, grasped with trembling hands, closed on leather water-skin. Squeezed.

  "Not so much," he chided.

  He. Not she. The dead woman was gone.

  I drank. Swallow after swallow. Then he pulled it away.

  "Not so much," he repeated.

  I wanted all of it.

  "Del," I croaked. Swollen lips split and bled. Swollen eyes wouldn’t open. "Del…"

  "She’s alive." Damp cloth bathed my face. "I swear it."

  "Poison," I said. "Sandtiger —"

  "I know. I recognize the wounds. Here. A little more."

  More water. I drank, wanting to drown. "Del?"

  "Alive."

  "Poison…"

  "Yes."

  Dread was a blade in the vitals. "She’s dying…"

  "Maybe," he said.

  Del’s bones in the sand?

  "Don’t let her die."

  "It wants a healer," he said. "I need to go back to Julah."

  Julah. "Fouad’s," I told him. "Cantina."

  "Later," he replied. "I’ll stay awhile yet."

  "I won’t die," I said. "Not from a sandtiger."

  I heard a breath of laughter. "I don’t doubt it."

  "Del?"

  "Alive," he repeated.

  "You swore."

  "Yes. I’m not lying. She might die, but she’s not dead yet."

  It was something.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  But before he could answer, the world winked out.

  When next I roused, the weakness was less. I still lay on hardpan, itching from sand, but a light blanket was thrown over me and another, still rolled, pillowed my head. A bota lay at hand, as I had left one for Del. I shut fingers on it, brought to my mouth, drank and drank and drank.

  "Del?"

  No answer.

  I opened my eyes. I had no idea what hour it was, or day. Merely that I was alive despite the best efforts of my body to die.

  "Bascha?" My voice was hoarse.

  No answer.

  I collected strength. Hoarded it. Hitched myself up on an elbow. Saw the colorful Vashni blanket and the body beneath.

  Shadow fell across me. I glanced up, staring blearily at the opening and the man squatting there. "You?" I croaked.

  Stubble emphasized the hollows and angles of his face. He was dark as a Southroner, but with the faintest tint of copper to his tan. And those honey-brown eyes, liquid and melting, fringed in black lashes Del would claim too lush for a man, and infinitely unfair when women would kill for such.

  "Me," he agreed.

  I slumped back onto the ground, wanting to groan. Didn’t, since we had company. "If you’ve come to challenge me — again — you picked a bad time."

  "So I see. And no, I haven’t. I’ve learned a little since you killed that sword-dancer in Julah."

  When was that? I didn’t remember. A day ago. A month. "Then what are you doing here?"

  "I am," he said, with grave dignity entirely undermined by a glint of irony in his eyes, "looking after a man who has repudiated his honor. And the infamous Northern bascha who should be lacking in such, being merely a woman, but who appears to have it regardless. Or so some say." He crawled into the lean-to, sat down beside me. "I couldn’t ask a dead man what elaii-ali-ma meant," he said, "but I asked another sword-dancer when he came into town."

  "Oh, good." I managed my own irony despite the hoarse voice. "Then you know. You don’t have to challenge me to a dance, because there can be no dance. But you can kill me if you want to." I paused. "If you can."

  The faintest of smiles twitched one corner of his mouth. "Well, that would at the moment be a simple thing."

  "And where’s the honor in that?"

  "So I asked myself." He placed a hand against my forehead. "The worst of the fever has passed, I think, but you’re far from well."

  I knew that without being told. "Who are you?"

  "My mother named me Nayyib."

  "This isn’t the road from Julah. What are you doing here?"

  "It’s a road from Julah," he clarified, "now. And I came looking for you. Fortunate thing, yes?"

  "I thought you said you weren’t going to challenge me."

  "I’m not. At least, not in that way."

  That sounded suspicious. "In what way, then?"

  "I wish to become a sword-dancer."

  I grunted. "I figured that."

  "I wish you to teach me."

  "What, you just decided this?"

  "I decided this in Julah, after you killed that sword-dancer."

  "Khashi."

  "After you killed Khashi."

  "Why? Didn’t you originally want to kill me?"

  "No. I wanted to dance against you. I didn’t know anything about this elaii-ali-ma. You were just — you. After I saw what happened to Khashi and learned what had happened to you, I decided to follow you."

  I attempted to frown, which isn’t easy when you’re sick. "You followed us to Julah."

  "Well, yes."

  ’And at that point you still wanted to challenge me."

  "I did. At that point I thought I was good with a sword."

  "You d
on’t anymore?"

  His mouth twitched. "Not good enough."

  "So now you want to be taught by a man who has no honor?"

  "A man who once was the greatest in all the South."

  Once was. Once. What in hoolies was I now?

  Well, sick. That’s what.

  "So you figure if you look after us while we’re sick, you’ll earn some lessons."

  His tone was exquisitely bland. "I should think saving your lives might be worth one or two."

  I shut my eyes. "You’re a fool."

  "Undoubtedly." He placed the bota under my hand again. "I’ve tended her, got more water down her, wet the cloth again. And I’ve watered your horse. Grained him. Tied him under a tree for what little shade there is, and the few blades of grass."

  "Busy boy," I muttered.

  He ignored that. "But he’ll need more water later. So will she. Can you manage it?"

  "I’ll manage it." How, I didn’t know. But I wouldn’t admit it to a kid. Especially not this kid, who had a mouth on him.

  He seemed to know it anyway. "I’ll go to Fouad’s and ask him for help. I’ll bring a healer, food, and more water. There isn’t much left. Ration it, if you want to live. I put wood by the fire."

  He had indeed been a busy boy — and it just might save us. "Wait." I levered myself up on an elbow, "You say there’s a road to Julah from here?"

  "Such as it is. Paired ruts, nothing more."

  "We didn’t come that way."

  "I crossed your tracks."

  But Del and I had spent the night with the Vashni, and the kid — Nayyib — had only just reached us. "There’s a shorter way. Follow our tracks back to the streambed, and go from there."

  Black brows drew together. "Vashni territory. Or is that your way of getting me killed?"

  "Oh, I’d do that myself. No — here." With a trembling hand — hoolies, I hate being weak! — I pulled the Vashni necklet over my head, fingerbones clacking. "Wear this. It’s safe passage."

  He stared at the necklet, then flicked a glance back at me. "You’re sure?"

  "Well, I suppose they might kill you for sheer hard-headedness, but it ought to get you safely through."

  He took the necklet, eyed it in distaste, then hooked it over his head. My elbow gave out and I thumped back to the ground. Shut my eyes. "Do it for Del," I said wearily, "not for me."

  Against my lids his shadow shifted. Retreated. "I will try," he told me, "to make certain she doesn’t die."

  When I opened my eyes, the sun was down. And he was gone.

  Wind blows. Sand shifts. It creeps upon the bones, begins to swallow them. Legs. Arms. The collapsed cage of ribs. The jewels that are spine. All that is left is skull. And the sword. "Find me," she says. Could the bones belong to Del? Could she be dead?

  I awoke with a start. "Auuggh," I croaked. "Stop with the dreams, already!"

  Sweat drenched me. It stank of sandtiger venom. I rolled to my right side, started to use my elbow, thought better of it as the wounds in my back protested. After a moment I made the attempt to sit upright without the assistance of arms. Aching abdominal muscles warned me it wasn’t such a good idea, but I managed to stay there. Eventually the world settled back into place.

  The dream faded. Reality was bad enough.

  I turned my head and spat, disliking the aftertaste of fever and poison. Dry-mouthed, nothing was expelled. I found the bota, rinsed my mouth, tried again. Much better. Then I drank sparingly, recalling the boy’s warning regarding how much water was left.

  I looked across at the blanketed form. Del did not appear to have roused. I set down the bota, took a deep breath, and made my body move.

  Well, such as it could. In the end I flopped down on my belly, head near Del’s pallet, and hitched myself up on a forearm.

  "Bascha?" I peeled back the blanket with my free hand. Del’s face remained slightly blotched, a network of red overlaying extreme pallor. Her swollen lips had cracked and bled. I rested a hand on her abdomen, waited in frozen silence, then felt the slight rising and falling. She breathed.

  With effort, I pulled myself upright. Found her bota, shook it, heard the diminished sloshing. I had no idea when Nayyib had been here, when he’d left, or when he might return. For all I knew it was a week after he’d gone. I thought it more likely a matter of hours, though possibly it was the next day.

  I hooked my left hand under Del’s head and lifted it, placing the bota at her lips. I squeezed and dribbled water into her mouth. This time she swallowed without choking. I settled her head once more again the bedding.

  The cloth across her forehead was dry. I wet it yet again, replaced it, cleared away the trickles that threatened her eyes and ears. "I’m here," I told her. "A little the worse for wear, but still here, bascha."

  I did not know when Nayyib had changed her bandages. A torn burnous sat in a pile on her bedding, but I didn’t recognize it. The boy’s, apparently; and the fabric matched that now wrapping Del’s forearm, so he had done that much. I peeled back the cloth to bare the bite wound. I bent, sniffed; did not yet smell infection or putrefaction.

  So far.

  I searched for and found the bota of Vashni liquor. Once again I poured it into the wound.

  And for the first time in — hoolies, I didn’t know how many days it was since the attack! — Del opened her eyes. They were hazy and unfocused.

  "Bascha?"

  But almost immediately they closed again.

  "Del?"

  Her lips moved, but no sound issued from her mouth. Instead of water, this time I dribbled liquor into her mouth.

  Below the edge of the cloth, the faintest of frowns twitched her brows. Her left hand stirred, rose. Fingers touched her mouth. Then the hand flopped down to her neck.

  I’d forgotten about the cracked lips when I’d given her the liquor.

  I swore, stole the damp cloth from her forehead, and pressed it again her mouth. "Sorry, bascha. I didn’t think."

  I didn’t think a lot.

  She did not stir again. I took up Nayyib’s burnous, made more bandages, wrapped her forearm again. Vashni liquor, I decided, ought to burn the poison out of anything.

  I felt then at my own stripes on the back of my shoulder, cutting across the scapula. It was a bad angle, and even twisting my head until my neck complained did not bring the claw wounds into sight, but fingers told the story. The twin stripes were crusted, no longer bleeding. Leaving them alone was the best medicine.

  Weariness intruded, as did dizziness. But there was the horse to tend. I drank a little of the liquor, breathed fire for a moment, then stoppered the bota and put it aside. I crawled to the opening of the lean-to, peered blearily out at the world, and wanted very badly to turn around and collapse into sleep — or unconsciousness — once more.

  A few paces away, tied to a scrubby tree, Del’s horse stood with a black-smeared face. With the detached, exquisite clarity of fading fever, I wondered briefly what Nayyib had thought upon first sighting the paint and fringe.

  The gelding saw me and nickered, ears flicked forward.

  "Fine," I muttered, "I’m coming. It might take me a day, but I’ll get there."

  Nayyib had left a water bota and grain pouch by the lean-to. I grabbed both, gathered my legs under me, pressed both arms against the ground, and pushed.

  In grabbing the shelter roof to steady myself, I nearly brought it down. I let go, took a step away, and almost fell flat on my face. I saved myself from doing so only because most of me would have landed in the fire ring, and that was not a particularly favored destination.

  The gelding nickered again.

  Sun stabbed into my eyes. A lurking headache flared into existence. Everything, from bones and muscle to skin, ached unremittingly. I drew in a breath, set my teeth, and began the horren-dously lengthy and perilous journey to the gelding, all of five paces away.

  Upon reaching him I grabbed a hunk of mane to hold myself upright. "Hello," I said sociably, hoping he woul
dn’t move. "Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?"

  He blinked a white-lashed blue eye and nosed at the bota.

  "Coming," I muttered, working at the stopper. Once free, I upended the waterskin and drained the contents into the canvas bucket. The gelding dipped his head and began to drink. I hung onto the curve of his withers, wondering if I could make it back to the lean-to. Possibly the gelding would have company tonight, right where he was.

  Except Del was there. I’d make it back.

  Done drinking, the gelding lifted his head. Clinging to him one-handed, I took the opportunity to relieve myself. The sharp tang of venom expelled with urine made the gelding shift uneasily.

  "Not now," I suggested fervently, readjusting my dhoti. The gelding obliged. I thanked him with a pat, then opened the grain pouch and poured a handful into the empty water bucket. He needed good grazing, but there wasn’t any. For now, this had to do.

  I did not look forward to the journey back to the shelter. "One step an hour ought to get me there," I told the horse.

  But he was no longer paying me any mind. He’d drawn himself up, head lifted, and pealed out a whinny of welcome. Steadying myself against his neck, I turned, expecting to see Nayyib. Relieved that I’d see Nayyib. He was bringing the healer.

  And indeed, I saw Nayyib. Along with three other men on horseback. Nothing about them resembled healers. In fact, everything about them resembled sword-dancers.

  Especially since I knew one of them.

  He was highly amused. "Sandtiger." All his handsome white teeth were on display. "You look terrible."

  I glared. It was all I could manage. "What do you want, Rafiq?"

  "You."

  Figured. I sighed, squinted at him, hung onto the gelding. "How about we skip the sword-fight and name you the winner," I suggested. "Right about now, as you can see, I’m not really up to a match. There’d be no challenge in it. As I recall, you like to tease an opponent for an hour or two before defeating him. Hoo-lies, I’d go down in the blink of an eye. No fun for you."

  Rafiq was still grinning atop his palomino horse. "He said you were sick. Sandtiger, was it?" He laughed. "Appropriate."

  I shot a glance at Nayyib. He sat his mount stiffly, not even looking at me. I wondered if they’d paid him to lead them back here. Or promised him a dance in a circle. Or lessons in being a sword-dancer.