Sword-Sworn

by Jennifer Roberson

  In a purple burnous, carrying a pot of black greasepaint and dangling crimson tassels, I made my way from the cantina with what dignity I could muster.

  The white gelding peered at me out of sorrowful—and watery—blue eyes. He was bridled, saddled, and packed. Nothing left to do save for two final touches.

  “I’m sorry,” I told him, “but I have to do this.”

  He blinked lids edged with long white lashes. I stuck two fingers into the pot Fouad had given me, made a face denoting disgust, then began to glop on the first black circle.

  “I’ve seen dogs like this,” I said. “White dogs with black patches. But they were born that way. They don’t have humans painting the patches on.”

  The gelding dipped his head briefly and snorted.

  “I don’t blame you,” I agreed. “I’d protest, too. You look like a buffoon.” I moved to the second eye. “It’s not your fault. I don’t mean to offend you. But you must admit this is not exactly how a self-respecting horse is supposed to look.”

  He extended his nose and whuffled noisily.

  I filled in the last bit of white hair, stoppered the little pot, and stuck it in one of the pouches. I wiped off as much of the gunk from my fingers as I could on burlap grain sacking, then heaved a huge sigh and picked up the tassels. “It gets worse,” I informed the gelding.

  I had considered trading him in for a darker horse, but I decided against it for two reasons. First, he had truly smooth gaits and Del, wounded, might need them; second, he was Del’s pick for a mount. I’d learned from experience not to discard any number of items she’d selected for whatever reason, even if I considered them worthless, because she always eventually found a use for them. (Or said she would.) Even if it meant packing them along for months at a time, taking up space. In her own way, Del was as much a collector of unique things as Umir, except she at least didn’t collect humans.

  Unless you count the men who lose all control of their brains at first sight of her. We’d probably have a goodly collection trailing along after us, annoying the hoolies out of me, if I didn’t run them off.

  So I kept the gelding. Who stood very still and obliging as I looped the string of tassels from ear to ear, tucking the ends under the browband of the headstall.

  I stepped back and appraised him. Now he had two black patches around blue eyes and an ear-to-ear loop of brilliant red tassels dangling down his face. I gazed at him a long moment perched somewhat painfully between outright laughter and stoic resignation, then with great sympathy patted his nose. “Don’t worry—we’re leaving town the back way.”

  It was still early as we rode out of Julah, and I was certain that by taking the shorter route through Vashi territory I could cut a fair amount of time off the journey. If all went well, I would see Del before sundown. So I looked for and finally found the almost nonexistent wagon ruts cutting off from the main road into town, reflected I’d better make speed now while the footing was decent, and asked the gelding to once again resume the walk-trot-lope routine. Tassels swung and bobbled.

  Del and I had been in no hurry before. Now I was. By asking more of the gelding when the footing was decent and letting him drop into a ground-eating long-walk at other times, in good time I located the spot where Oziri and his three warriors had appeared. Here the footing was rocky, and I couldn’t in good conscience ask the gelding to do more than walk at a slower pace. I’d watered him twice already, and myself, but still felt the warmth of the sun. Within a matter of weeks it would be high summer.

  I bypassed the detour to the clearing where Del and I had gotten drunk on Vashni liquor, and found the dry streambed. I dropped down into it, following the left bank. Eventually I came across the leather bag I’d dropped off the stud in an effort to evade the rank stench of spoiling sandtiger meat. The bag had been chewed and clawed open. Someone—or several someones—had enjoyed a good meal.

  I exited there, trading sand for stone drifts, broken rock, and hardpan. Riding in, we hadn’t concerned ourselves with marking our route. Now I depended only on my recollection of those things I’d considered landmarks, such as a tree with a twisted limb or a spill of rocks forming a shape that caught my eye. During that ride I’d been studying wagon ruts, but the land rose steadily toward the massive rock formations thrusting upward in the distance, and so long as I headed in that general direction, I knew I’d find the plateau.

  I followed my inner sense of direction with a pervasive sense of increasing urgency. As Umir’s prisoner, I’d been helpless; and I’d learned years before that when I could do nothing, it was best for mind and body to wait until opportunity presented itself. Now I was free, and the only thing keeping me from finding Del was the time it took me to reach her. I wanted to shorten that as much as was humanly possible.

  As the route began to slope up toward the plateau, I asked the gelding’s forbearance and put him into a long-trot; farther on, as the trail steepened to wind up to the tree-edged top, I gave him his head and asked for a lope. Hindquarters rounded as he dug into the incline, grunting with the effort.

  I leaned toward his neck, shifting weight forward. “Not so far,” I murmured. “Just a little farther.” But I wasn’t certain if it was the gelding I encouraged or myself.

  As he topped out with one gigantic bunching leap over the lip of the plateau, I reined in, kicked free of my right stirrup and dropped off even as the gelding slowed. I released the reins and ran toward the lean-to.

  “Del? Del!”

  Nothing.

  “Del!”

  In sand and loose pebbles, I skidded to a halt by the lean-to. It was empty. No blankets, no supplies, no tack. Just the crude shelter and sandy floor.

  Foreboding replaced urgency. I lifted my voice to a shout that rang in the rocks. “Hey, Nayyib! It’s me—Tiger! Where are you?”

  Nothing.

  Then I heard a snort and turned, but it was only Del’s gelding. He’d begun wandering over to the nearest tree, seeking grass. He found it in the shade and began to graze, tangled vegetation caught in the corners of his bitted mouth.

  No one answered my calls. All I heard was the clank of bit shanks as the gelding ripped grass out of the ground and chewed noisily, the high, piercing cry of a hawk in the cloudless sky, and the faint, distant chittering of ground vermin, scolding one another.

  Sweat ran down my temples. I closed my eyes, feeling the initial clench of panic in my belly. After a moment I banished it. I needed focus now, not emotion. Emotion makes you miss things.

  With deliberation, I set about doing what Del had originally hired me to do years before: track someone. Only this time it was Delilah I sought, not her brother.

  My examination of the campsite established there was no blood in the shelter or anywhere in the vicinity of the bluff’s flat crown. There was no grave that I could find, in sand, under trees, under rocks; and the fire ring hadn’t been used in days. Hoofprints crisscrossed one another, and all were old, nearly gone; likely from Nayyib’s horse and the mounts Rafiq and his friends rode, not to mention Del’s gelding and the stud. Breezes had scuffed the prints, and the tracks of insects and animals, but where there was soil, the impressions remained. There were piles of horse manure in several places, which could mean one of two things: two or more horses had stayed here long enough to leave deposits; or one horse had been moved from tree to tree for the grazing. The manure wasn’t fresh; beyond that I couldn’t tell. In the dry heat of the desert, horse droppings degraded quickly. I even found the sandtiger’s skeleton, bones picked clean and scattered by scavengers. The skull was missing.

  Consolation: with no grave anywhere in the area, it was unlikely Del had died here. And it made no sense for Nayyib to pack the body anywhere. In the desert, the dead were buried pretty much where they fell. This didn’t mean Del was alive—she could have died along the way—but at least she wasn’t dead here.

  The campsite felt very empty. I shivered, squatted, inspected another hoofprint, then picked up a rock an
d bounced it in my hand, looking around yet again to see if I had missed anything obvious. “Bascha,” I murmured, “where are you?”

  The gelding shook his head, rattling bit shanks, then recommenced grazing. I mentally kicked myself out of my reverie and went to tend him. My next plan was to see if I could find tracks leading away from the area, and though I wanted to do it as soon as possible, dealing with the gelding came first. You don’t dare lose your mount to neglect in the desert. A man afoot is a dead man.

  Once the gelding was haltered, unsaddled, cooled, and watered, I began a careful inspection of the edges of the campsite. It did not appear that Nayyib had constructed a litter for Del, because the shelter was whole and I found no signs of poles being dragged through the dust. It was possible she had recovered enough to ride, either in the saddle with him behind, or vice versa; it was also possible the stud had returned at some point. But the only prints I found coming and going were those Del and I had made riding up the bluff, those made by Nayyib, Rafiq, and the others, and the tracks leading away as Rafiq took me to Umir’s.

  Which left one answer.

  I stopped looking at soil and the edges of the plateau. I looked instead at the tumbled carpet of porous smokerock, quartz, and shale spreading out from the huge boulders like a river of stone. I squatted, searching for the tiniest detail that might tell a story. And there I found one: chips knocked off of rock, showing raw, unweathered stone; the hollowed bedding where rocks had been seated until hooves knocked them loose; the tiny trails left by insects and others fleeing the heat of the sun when their cover was stripped away.

  It was impossible to judge how many horses, or if one was being ridden double, because the stones and their crevices held too many secrets. But a horse had certainly gone this way.

  So I played the game. If I were Nayyib, left with an injured woman, I’d want to get her to help as soon as possible. But going back to Julah the way I’d come could be dangerous; who knew how many sword-dancers were out looking for the Sandtiger? And it was no secret he traveled with a Northern woman; they’d recognize her immediately, assume she knew where their quarry had gone, and question her regardless of her health. So I—Nayyib—would head for Julah another way, attempting to leave no tracks. I would take to the rocks and, since I now had safe passage thanks to the fingerbone necklet, cut through Vashni territory. I’d already done it once on the way to Julah, going for the healer. It was tougher footing for the horse and thus tougher on Del, but safer in the long run.

  I went back to the gelding, grained him, watered him. Then collected bedding and saddlepouches. “We’re staying the night,” I told him. “We’ll lose the light soon enough. First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going hunting.”

  I dumped pouches at the shelter, then knelt down to spread my blanket. “Fat’s going into the fire,” I muttered. “My fat’s going into the fire.”

  Because if anyone had seen Nayyib and Del on their way to Julah, likely it was Vashni. And I didn’t have safe passage.

  EIGHTEEN

  I SLEPT POORLY, and awoke tired and unrefreshed. Despite circumstances that might provoke them, I hadn’t dreamed at all—at least, that I could remember. And I usually remembered something of my dreams, even if they lacked the dramatics of dead women lecturing me about swords. I got up with stinging eyes that felt full of grit after a day spent squinting hard at the ground, and even more itchy stubble clothing my jaw. I needed both shave and bath. But I didn’t suppose the Vashni would care.

  The gelding, of course, also did not take note of such things, but he did suggest from across the way that I should move him to fresh grass, give him water, and portion out more grain. I did all of those things, among others; then I shoved dried cumfa down my gullet, swallowed a few gulps of water, tacked out and loaded the gelding. But this time I put the halter on over the bridle (and tassels), tied loose reins to saddle thongs, and paid out the lead-rope to a distance that would keep the gelding off my feet while still being close enough to manage.

  “You get the day off,” I told him, slinging a bota over my shoulder. “I’m afoot, too.”

  I led him to the place I’d found hoof scars in the rocks, inspected it a moment in hopes of seeing some kind of route, but there was nothing indicating such. All I could do was head out and hope that eventually, upon trading stone river for sand and soil, I’d locate Nayyib’s tracks. They’d likely be obvious in softer ground: either a man on foot leading a horse; a horse carrying double and thus leaving much deeper prints; or two sets of hoofprints—if the stud had come back.

  I sighed. “Let’s go, Snowball.”

  The footing was worse than bad. If it wasn’t me tripping over stationary rocks or having loosely seated ones roll out from under my feet, it was the gelding. Hooves were not made for balancing atop rounded rocks, be they firmly seated against one another or treacherously loose; and my sandaled feet were no more appropriate. This was a place for boots, but I’d left mine somewhere along the way. Possibly in Haziz, if I remembered right. Foolish decision, even if I had been trying to save room in saddlepouches. I could not even imagine Nayyib leading a mounted horse carrying an injured woman through here, but I didn’t have to; from time to time I found additional signs of their passage. I wondered if the kid’s horse would be lame by the time he got through; I wondered if the gelding would be lame by the time we got through.

  Slowly, carefully, I picked my way, trying to find some kind of route between stones and boulders easier on the gelding. He was a game horse, coming along willingly without hesitation. At some point I noticed the rocks were decreasing in size. Footing remained a challenge, but the way was less demanding. Better yet, more sand and soil was in evidence, which not only made it easier to walk, but held prints better. I was still on Nayyib’s trail.

  “Almost,” I murmured to the gelding. “Not much farther.”

  And indeed, neither of us was required to go much farther at all, because even as I turned back to encourage the gelding, I heard other horses approaching. I counted them by sound: four. They clopped down through rocks, rolling and knocking them one against the other.

  Finally. I turned to face the Vashni, purposely not drawing my sword. I simply waited, easing my body into a poised awareness that wasn’t obvious.

  The gelding, spying other horses, pealed out an ear-splitting whinny of greeting. I winced; even the Vashni seemed somewhat startled by their mounts’ answering noise. So much for the momentousness of the meeting.

  In one sweeping glance I noted each man. Oziri was not among them. I didn’t have the slightest grasp of Vashni politics, nor did I know if these four warriors were even of the same band, so I didn’t attempt to invoke his name as safe passage. Besides, Oziri was not my goal.

  What I wanted to do was immediately demand if they had seen Del and if she were alive. But haste is not the best strategy among strangers, especially dangerous ones. Instead, using the gift I’d gained in Meteiera, I told them in their own language, succinctly and without flourish, that I was the jhihadi, and the jhihadi was looking for the Oracle’s sister.

  No more, no less.

  Vashni are not a demonstrative race on the whole, but I saw a faint ripple of response in their dark faces. They said nothing aloud, yet eloquent fingers, as they examined me from a distance, spoke a language I did not; apparently what I’d gained was limited to oral tongues. But possibly it didn’t matter, because my gut was certain they knew very well who, and where, Del was.

  I just needed them to tell me.

  I waited for confirmation. The clenching of my belly tightened. It was all I could do to breathe. I applied every shred of discipline learned atop the spires to hold my silence with no indication of concern.

  There was no confirmation. They simply rode down through the rocks, took up positions in front, on either side, and behind me, and gestured at the gelding. They closed in once I had mounted, making it clear with no speech that I was to go with them.

  Time turned backward. Year
s before, Del and I had ridden into a Vashni village. Now, as then, word had been given before we arrived, so that by the time I entered the cluster of hyorts built in the foothills, men, women, and children had turned out to witness my arrival. They formed up in parallel lines facing one another, acting as a human gate into their home. I wondered how many people had ridden the double lines to their deaths.

  The lines ended in the center of the village, a common area surrounded by oilcloth hyorts. I was escorted there, still hemmed in by the four warriors, and made to wait. More conversation with hand gestures ensued, even as the double lines of villagers threaded themselves into a single circle of Vashni, a human wall between my little party and the hyorts.

  Quietly, carefully, I drew in a breath, held it a moment, released it. My right hand felt naked, empty of sword. But this was not, I knew, the time to unsheathe. I sat in silence atop the gelding, ostensibly relaxed.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the village, I heard the ringing call of a stallion.

  My head snapped around. I knew that voice. That arrogance.

  Inwardly a small knot untied. A flutter of relief blossomed briefly in my belly. I grinned like a fool.

  The grin dropped away as a voice called out. At once the circle of Vashni parted, allowing a warrior to step through. He approached, flanked by two other men, both younger, both bigger, both bearing traditional Vashni swords across their backs, though he was unarmed save for a knife. Black hair was threaded with gray, and a childhood disease had left his face pocked. The seam of an old scar nicked the corner of his right eye, extending to his ear. He wore an intricate bone pectoral across his bare chest.

  I know a chieftain when I see one. But I was the jhihadi. Preordained by the Oracle himself, whom the Vashni had hosted for years. I did not so much as incline my head.