Del, thus reassured, sat down on her own blanket, spread next to mine. “Getting careless in your old age.”
I scowled as she, all innocence, turned her attention to cleaning her blade, soiled with gritty dust and sticky grass juices.
As for my own, I’d intended much the same. I’d unpacked oil, whetstone, cloth. Such care was required if the steel was to stay unblemished and strong, and it was nothing I considered a chore. It was as much a part of me as breathing; you do it, you don’t think about it.
Cross-legged, I settled the sword across both thighs. In dying light it glowed, except for the blackened tip. About a hand’s-width of darkness, soiling beautiful steel as it climbed toward the hilt; as always, I swore beneath my breath. Once upon a time the blade had been pure, unblemished silver, clean and sweet and new. But circumstances—and a sorcerer—had conspired to alter things. Had conspired to alter me.
“Thrice-cursed son of a goat,” I muttered. “Why’d you pick my sword?”
It was an old question. No one bothered to answer.
I put one hand around the grip, settling callused flesh against taut leather wrappings knotted tightly around the steel. I felt warmth, welcome, wonder: the sword was a jivatma, blessed by Northern gods because I’d troubled to ask them, “made”—in the Northern way—by a Southron-born sword-dancer who wanted no part of it. I’d blooded it improperly by killing a snow lion instead of a man; later, knowing just enough to get myself into serious trouble, I’d requenched the thing in Chosa Dei, a sorcerer out of legend who turned out to be all too real. In requenching I’d finally keyed it. The sword was alive now, and magical—as Northern beliefs had it—only I’d perverted that life and magic by requenching in Chosa Dei.
That I hadn’t had much choice didn’t seem to matter. My jivatma, Samiel, hosted a sorcerer’s soul.
An angry sorcerer’s soul.
“Tell me again,” Del said.
Distracted, I barely glanced at her. “What?”
“Tell me again. About Jamail. About how he spoke.”
Frowning, I stared at blemished steel. “He just did. The crowd separated, leaving him in the open, and I heard him. He prophesied. He was, after all, the Oracle—or so everyone said.” I shrugged. “It fits, in an odd sort of way. Rumor had it the Oracle was neither man nor woman… don’t you remember the old man in Ysaa-den? He said something about—” I frowned, trying to recall. “—‘a man who was not a man, but neither was he a woman.’” I nodded. “That’s what he said.”
Del’s tone was troubled. “And you believe he meant Jamail.”
“I don’t know what he meant. All I know is Jamail showed up at the sword-dance and pointed me out as the jhihadi. After he spoke.”
“But his tongue was cut out, Tiger! Aladar did it, remember?” Del’s face was pale and taut. Words hissed in her throat. “He made him a mute, and castrate—”
“And maybe an Oracle.” I shrugged, wiping soft cloth the length of the blade. “I don’t know, bascha. I have no answers. All I can tell you is he did point at me.”
“Jhihadi,” she said. The single word was couched in a welter of emotions: disbelief, bafflement, frustration. And a vast, abiding confusion no weaker than my own.
“I don’t know,” I said again. “I can’t explain any of it. And besides, I don’t know that it really matters. I mean, right now all anyone wants to do is kill me, not worship me. That doesn’t sound much like a true messiah to me.”
Del sighed and slid her sword back into its sheath. “I wish—” She broke off, then began again. “I wish I could have spoken to him. Seen him. I wish I could have found out the truth.”
“We had to leave, bascha. They’d have killed us, otherwise.”
“I know.” She glanced northward. “I just wish—” Then, more urgently: “Dust.”
Hoolies. So there was.
I climbed to my feet even as Del unsheathed her sword. “We could run,” I suggested. “The horses are rested.”
“So am I,” Del said, assuming a ready posture. She made no motion to mount the roan.
Two steps and I was beside her. “After this, I could use some dinner.”
Del shrugged. “Your turn to cook.”
“My turn!”
“I fixed breakfast.”
“That glop we ate wasn’t my idea of breakfast.”
“Does it matter? You were spewing it anyway.”
Trust her to remember that.
Trust her to say it.
Four
The dust, dyed orange by the sunset, resolved itself into a single rider. A man, with thick reddish-blond hair and great drooping red mustaches waving below his chin. He was too far yet to see his eye color, but I knew what it was: blue. I even knew him: Rhashad, a Borderer, half Southron, half Northern, who made his living as I did.
A rich blue burnous billowed in horse-born wind as he galloped up to the oasis. I saw big teeth bared in a grin half hidden in mustaches, the hand lifted in friendly greeting. He halted the sorrel before us, furrowing dirt and sand and grass, as multiple botas sloshed. Peeping over his shoulder glinted the pommel-knot of his sword, worn in Southron-style harness.
Teeth again: for Del. Blue eyes glinted against suncreased, sunburned skin. “Hoolies, but you’re a woman made for a man like me! I saw what you did against Ajani…” Rhashad laughed joyously, slewing a sly glance in my direction. “No, Sandtiger, no need to unsheathe your claws—yet. I don’t steal women from friends.”
I grunted. “As if you could.”
“Oh, I could—I have. Just not from my friends.” He arched ruddy, suggestive brows and aimed a bold stare in Del’s direction. “What do you say, bascha—once you grow tired of the Sandtiger, shall you come ride with me?”
I recalled that for some strange reason, Rhashad’s swaggering manner did not offend or irritate Del. In fact, she seemed to enjoy it, which I found somewhat puzzling. Other men, behaving in much the same way, met with a colder reception.
I had, once. A very long time ago.
And sometimes not so long. It all depended on her mood.
Del didn’t even flick an eyelash. “Would your mother approve?”
Rhashad’s braying laugh rang out. He slapped a thick thigh, then reined in the pawing sorrel. “Oh, I think so. She’s a woman much like you… how else do you think she got me?”
I lowered my sword and stood hip-shot. “Have you come for a reason, or just to trade gibes with me?”
“Gibes with you, pleasantries with her.” But even as he spoke, some of the gaiety faded. Rhashad unhooked a leg and slung it across a saddle well-hung with plump botas. He jumped down easily, raising dust, which he waved away absently. “Yes, I came for a reason. I thought you might need some help.” He led his sorrel to the basin and gave it leave to drink, doling out rein. “Like I said, I saw what she did. Now, we all know Ajani was no jhihadi, but all the tribes thought he was; at least, they’re all sure that Oracle fellow pointed straight at him. Which means now they all think Del killed the jhihadi when she lopped off Ajani’s head.”
“Yes,” I agreed patiently. “We had that part figured out.”
He was unperturbed by my irony. “And that means now they all want to kill you.” Rhashad shrugged wide shoulders; the Borderer is bigger than I. “For now, at any rate.”
Del, who still wore her harness beneath burnous, sheathed her sword easily, making most of it disappear under shelter of slick white silk. As always, it was impressive; I saw the appreciative flicker in Rhashad’s eyes. “For now?” she echoed.
“Eventually they’ll stop,” he declared. “After all, they can’t chase you all over the South. Not forever. Even if they are nomads. One of these days this little mistake will get all straightened out, and you two will no longer be hunted.”
“‘This little mistake,’” I muttered.
“Meanwhile,” she said lightly, “they might yet catch us, and kill us.”
“Well, yes, they could.” Rhashad pulled his sor
rel from the basin, dripping water. “If you’re stupid enough to be caught.”
I nodded. “We’d sort of hoped to avoid that.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Rhashad looked past Del and me to the horses. “I rode out before dawn, hoping to catch you. The tribes were still in disarray. After all, they’re none of them accustomed to cooperating, being solitary sorts.” He shrugged. “But that won’t last. By now they’ll have banded together for one purpose: to kill the jhihadi’s murderer. So, I decided to do what I could to help.” He jerked his chin to indicate our horses. “I’ve come to take one of your mounts.”
I blinked. “You’ve what?”
“Come to take one of your mounts.”
“Details,” Del suggested, waggling fingers in invitation. “I’m rather fond of details.”
“A pretty little thing like you?” Rhashad grinned at her. He was big, bold, uninhibited; not at all Del’s type. (I think.) “This is men’s business, bascha… Tiger and I will attend to details.”
In the spirit of the moment, Del offered cool smile and arched brows. “Is that what you tell your mother?”
He laughed. “Hoolies, no—I know better. She’d have both my balls.” The smile slid into crooked consideration. “Of course, then there’d be no one to carry on the line… no, I think she’d settle for an ear instead, which would then destroy my good looks.” Blue eyes twinkled beneath heavy brows. “Which do you want, bascha? Balls, or an ear?”
If he meant to shock, he failed. Again the cool smile. Only I saw the glint in her eye; no one else knew her as I. “And do you think I could take neither?”
Rhashad’s grin wavered in the depths of red-blond mustaches. He frowned, thinking about the promise implicit in Del’s tone, but only for a moment; the expression cleared quickly. His manner was bluff as he shifted in the sand, but I could tell her implication had gone home. Rhashad liked what he saw. It was easy to think only of that, and forget what she could do. “Well, I think that’s a question that will have to be settled another time. Right now we’d best attend to those details.” He looked at me. “They’ll be tracking two horses. Why don’t you switch to one?” He glanced again at our mounts. “I’d take the roan. He’s bigger, more suited to carrying two, and neither of you is little—”
I shook my head, cutting him off. “He’d never last if we went into the Punja. He’s Northerner-bred… the stud’s smaller, but he’s tough. He won’t give up.”
Rhashad shrugged. “Whatever you like. Give me one of them—I’ll ride off in the other direction and lead them a pretty chase.”
“If they catch you—” Del began.
“If they do, I’m just a Borderer. My hands—and face—are clean.” He cast a glance at the scars in my cheek. “I’m not the Sandtiger. I’m not his woman, either. I think they’ll let me go.”
I spoke up hastily, before Del could light into Rhashad for daring to suggest she was my woman. Even if she was, in Southron parlance; Northerners are like that. (Or maybe just Del is like that.) “Meanwhile, it’s given us time to put some miles between them and us.” I nodded. “A good plan, Rhashad.”
He lifted a single big shoulder off-handedly. “Even my mother would like it.” He inspected our tiny camp, then glanced at the horizon as it swallowed the sun. “No moon tonight. You can get a few hours’ sleep, then ride out just before dawn. Meanwhile, I’ll take the other horse now. They might as well think you’re that far ahead of them; it’ll make them all the more willing to overextend their own mounts.”
“Why?” Del asked. “Why are you doing this?”
Rhashad smiled, chewing mustache. “Tiger and I are old friends. He’s taught me a trick or two for the circle, tricks that saved my life. I just figure I owe him. As for you, well…” The Borderer grinned. “My mother wouldn’t mind if I brought home a bold bascha like you. But since I can’t do that, I’ll settle for helping you escape. It would be such a waste if they killed you.” Rhashad shot me a glance. “Though not so much of one if they killed him.”
“Ha-ha,” I said dutifully, and turned back to lean my sword against the wind- and sandbreak. “Can you stay for food? Del’s just about to cook it.”
“Del is just about to do nothing of the sort,” she retorted. “Don’t try to trick me into it simply because Rhashad is here. I have no skills, remember? No devotion to womanly duty.” Del smiled sweetly. “I have no manners at all—I’m a sword-dancer, am I not?”
I ignored the implication. “He’s a guest,” I explained.
“No, he’s not,” she countered. “He’s just one of us.”
Rhashad, laughing, waved a hand. “No, no, I can’t stay. I’m going to ride out now. But—there is one more thing.”
The humor was gone from his eyes. Del and I waited.
The Borderer turned to his horse and mounted. “You remember what I told you about how things are in Julah? About how Aladar’s daughter succeeded to the tanzeership?”
“Yes,” I answered. “And at the time we also discussed the fact she probably won’t be tanzeer for long. This is the South. She’s a woman. Someone will take it away.”
“Maybe,” Rhashad said. “And maybe not. She’s got the gold mines, remember? She may be a woman, but she’s a very rich woman. Money buys men. Money also buys loyalty. If she pays them enough, they might not care if she’s a woman.”
I knew very well she had gold mines. Her father had held them before her; it’s where he’d made me a slave.
I suppressed an involuntary shudder. Even now, I dreamed about it. “Anyway, what’s this got to do with us? Del and I aren’t necessarily heading to Julah.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rhashad declared. “She’s coming after you.”
Del glanced at me, inspecting my expression. “Does she know, then? Or is it merely convenient to blame the so-called jhihadi’s murderers for every drop of blood spilled from this day forward?”
Rhashad shrugged slightly. “Probably. Except Sabra has a very good idea exactly who killed her father. I told you that before: there were rumors about a big Southron sword-dancer with clawmarks on his face, and a magnificent Northern bascha who was living in Aladar’s harem.”
“Not my choice,” Del snapped. “As for his death, he deserved it.”
“Undoubtedly,” Rhashad nodded, “but his daughter doesn’t agree. She’s put a price on your head.”
“Oh?” I brightened. “How much are we worth?”
Rhashad’s expression was solemn. “Enough to buy sword-dancers.”
I sighed. “Anything else?”
Rhashad nodded. “Late last night, after you and Del rode out, I had a few drinks with Abbu Bensir.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“So, he said Sabra had sent for him.”
Del frowned. “But—he would not…” She glanced at me. “Would he? He is your friend. Like Rhashad.”
“Not like Rhashad,” I countered. “And not properly a friend; Abbu and I were—and are—rivals.” I shook it off with a twitch of shoulders. “It makes no difference. If he hires on, it becomes a matter of money. And a contract.”
“Did he not take oaths to honor the code of the dance?” she asked sharply.
“Southron circle oaths have nothing whatsoever to do with not killing specific people,” I told her. “We’re free to hire on however we will… even if it means dancing to the death against someone we know rather well.” I exchanged a glance with Rhashad. “Are you sure about all of this?”
He nodded. “Iskandar was full of it, and Harquhal, when I stopped for water… you were named, and Del, although mostly they just call her the Northern bascha.” He grimaced briefly. “And other less flattering things.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Del’s brows were puckered. “If she has hired Abbu Bensir—and other sword-dancers—the situation changes.”
“A little,” I agreed. “We’ve got tribes after us for murdering the jhihadi, and assorted sword-dancers—maybe even Abbu Bensir—hunting us to complet
e a tanzeer’s contract. If Abbu hired on; we don’t know that.”
“If he has, he is dangerous.” Del’s tone was deadly. “He is very, very good. I danced against him, remember?”
“So did I,” I sighed, “a very long time ago.”
Rhashad, smiling, touched his throat. “He makes no secret of it. Other men might be ashamed, but not Abbu Bensir. The ruined throat is a battle scar gained while in the circle against an honorable opponent.”
I hissed another oath. “I was seventeen,” I muttered. “Does he say that, too?”
Rhashad laughed. “No, not that. Your name is more than enough. Let the others think what they will.”
Del removed a few things from her saddle-pouches, transferred them to mine, then saddled the roan. Slowly, she led him over to Rhashad. “What will you do with him?”
“Take him southeasterly for a few days, just to throw them off, then head back toward the border. My mother can use a good horse.”
She nodded. “He is that.” She slapped a blue-speckled rump. “May the sun shine on your head.”
Rhashad displayed big teeth. “Not much chance it won’t.” He swung his sorrel aside and pulled the roan up close as he looked at me. “It may work for a while. The tribes are too worked up right now to think things through, which means they’ll make mistakes, and I doubt many of the established sword-dancers will hire on, since you’re one of their own—and she’s a woman, after all. I’d say it’d mostly be the younger ones trying to make a name. Capturing the Sandtiger would really mean something, in which case they might get careless in the rush to track you down.” He chewed one of his mustaches. “But if Abbu has hired on…” The Borderer shrugged. “You know Abbu. He’s not a stupid man.”
“It does change things,” I agreed. Then, seriously, “I owe you, Rhashad.”
He shrugged. “One day.” And headed out at a lope with the Northern roan at the end of taut reins.
I turned abruptly. “Let’s pack.”
She was startled. “Now?”
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