Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  I sighed. Wished I had Singlestroke. Bared my teeth in a lazy, friendly grin at the two dozen or so men who looked from Del to me, to see if I was capable of protecting the Northern bascha.

  I don’t consider myself a vain man. What I am is fact: big, strong, quick. There is a certain dangerous edge in my face, my posture, my eyes, shaped by the demands of my profession. And there are times I am perfectly willing to flaunt whatever advantages this affords me; I fight when I must, and with gusto, but only when there is no other way around it.

  Idly I assessed the room, letting them see what I did. Just as idly I scratched the scars on my face. Deep scars, old scars; four clearly defined claw stripes curving from right cheek to jaw, unmistakably from a beast some men labeled mythical: the lethal Punja sandtiger from which I’d taken my name.

  My badge of honor, in a manner of speaking. For men who knew of sword-dancers, it identified me at once.

  (Not everyone carries the mark of his profession and expertise on his face; I rather like it. Saves time.)

  “No trouble,” Del muttered under her breath. Half suggestion, half command.

  I slapped a spread hand over my heart. “Need you even say it?”

  She grunted. Waved away more smoke. Strode across the floor through crowded aisles to a tiny table in a corner at the very back of the cantina.

  Still smiling, I followed, watching everyone else watch her, even the cantina girls, who scowled, chewed bottom lips, nibbled thoughtfully on thumbnails. And who, if they were quick enough, realized they had better beguile their chosen partners immediately, if they were to recapture clearly divided attention.

  One of the girls, perched on the thigh of a lean young man sprawled casually at a table, got up at once and made her way to me, blocking my view of Del. Black-haired, dark-skinned, brown-eyed. A typical Southron girl: lush-figured, bold of features; at sixteen or seventeen, in full bloom. But it would fade too quickly, I knew; the desert sucks women dry before they are thirty.

  “Beylo.” She smiled, showing crooked teeth and a curiously attractive overbite. “Beylo, will you share your wine with Jemina?” Her hands were on my arms, caressing me through the thin fabric of my burnous. “I can bring you huva and many, many dreams.”

  “Of that I have no doubt.” I glanced past her to the young man she had deserted, marking black hair, blue eyes, the smudge of a new mustache, a rueful expression. He was not angry, and did not appear moved to protest her defection. He seemed amused by the performance, which was at least a welcome change from bruised male pride, which always demands reparation. (Generally in blood.) “But you are partnered already, bascha, and so am I.”

  Jemina shrugged a dusky naked shoulder, ignoring the loose neckline that slid lower still, exposing most of one plump breast. “He’s a boy, beylo…you are a man.”

  Well, yes, last time I looked. “Bascha, another time,” I set her out of my way and saw Del seated at the little table, clearly amused.

  Ah, well, too much to hope she might be jealous.

  I hooked out a stool and sat down, scowling as the uneven legs rocked me back and forth, threatening to tip me over entirely. I wedged the stool against the wall, settled substantial weight gingerly, looked up again to see the wry twist of Del’s mouth. And then she looked past me, and up, to watch the wine-girl who eyed her so assessively.

  Back again. I sighed. “Bascha—”

  “Wine?” she asked. “Aqivi?” She tossed black curls behind a shoulder. “I work for my living, beylo. I am not a common whore.”

  Unless, of course, the price was right. I sighed again and fingered my shriveled coin pouch. A few coppers clinked; hardly enough to buy a full meal and all the aqivi I wanted.

  My eyes strayed hopefully to Del. She tapped slender fingers on the scarred, sticky tabletop, sighed, waved a hand at the girl. “Stew,” she said, “and the cheapest wine you’ve got.”

  “Wine!” Aggrievedly, I stared. “A few coppers more will turn up a jug of aqivi.”

  “Wine,” Del said coolly, and the girl turned away with a flounce of layered skirts that clearly signaled my reduction in her esteem.

  I leaned forward, resting my weight on one planted forearm. “Just how do you propose to buy clothing if we haven’t enough coin for a proper meal?”

  “I propose to buy clothing by forgoing unnecessary expenditures on unnecessary things.” She paused, sweeping back a fall of hair. “Like aqivi.”

  A tendril of huva smoke drifted down from the beamwork. I waved it away. “Aqivi is hardly unnecessary when I’ve spent the last three or four weeks sucking water on our way across the Punja.”

  Jemina returned and plunked down two wooden bowls of mutton stew, a half-risen loaf of brown bread, sloshing stoneware bottle, a pair of battered wooden cups bound by greenish copper.

  Del smiled sweetly. “Suck wine.”

  I might have answered, but I was too busy sniffing the stew in my bowl. Mutton is not one of my favorite dishes, although I’m accustomed to it. It’s better than dog. Certainly better than roasted sandtiger, which Del had ignobly served me once.

  After a moment I drew my knife and hacked off a chunk of hard bread, lifted the bowl and prepared to scoop watery stew into my mouth.

  Prepared. I never got any farther. Not when I saw the expression on Del’s face as she stared, transfixed, across the crowded cantina.

  Shock. Anger. Suspicion. And a cold, rising rage that glittered like ice in her eyes.

  By all the nameless gods of valhail, I swear I have never seen a look like that. On man or woman.

  Not even on a sword-dancer.

  Three

  She rose slowly, so slowly, until the tabletop hit her midthigh. Shrouded in the burnous, most of her was hidden. But I knew her. I knew how she moved, how she tensed, how she waited. I knew how to judge her intentions simply by reading her eyes.

  “Del—”

  She did not even glance at me.

  I wrenched my head around and stared across the cantina, trying to see what she saw. Trying to see what had set her on edge; what had stripped her of the woman I knew, reducing her to little more than an animal on the stalk.

  I saw nothing. Well, not nothing. I saw men. Just men. Bent over tables, hunched on stools, trading stories, jokes, insults. And wine-girls, plying their trades. And smoke and lamplight and shadows.

  “Del—” I turned back, frowning, and saw the color slowly fade from her face. There isn’t much to begin with, what with her Northern complexion, but now there was a decided difference. Now she looked like a woman dead three days.

  Slowly, she sank back onto her stool. Her hands still braced her balance against the table, fingers spread, rigid, and trembling. Trembling; I’d never seen Del shake.

  “Could I be wrong?” she asked herself in an odd, toneless voice. Then again, more forcefully, and yet still curiously toneless. “Could I be wrong?”

  I wrenched my head around yet again to seek out what had affected her so dramatically. And again, I saw men. I saw one of them rise from his stool and turn away, moving purposefully toward the door. He ducked through the curtain, was gone; I heard Del release a slow, noisy breath.

  “What in hoolies—” An upthrust hand cut me off. I waited, still concerned to see the minute trembling of her fingers, and eventually her eyes lost their opaque, blind expression and Del looked at me. This time, I think, she saw me.

  “Private,” she said only, and scooped up a cup of wine.

  Del doesn’t drink much. It isn’t like her to gulp wine, but now I saw how she held the cup against her mouth as if the liquor might restore her strength. I watched her throat move as she swallowed repeatedly, sucking wine like a man trying to chase away demons.

  Or a woman, with her own.

  “Privacy’s one thing.” I caught the cup in one hand, took it away from her, set it firmly on the table. “This is another. Maybe what you need is to talk about it.”

  “Maybe what I need is a jug of aqivi to shut you up,�
� she said sharply. And then, tight-jawed, she apologized for her tone.

  But not for the words. I smiled. “Effective bribery. Shall I call Jemina back?”

  “No.” Del stared at the cooling mutton stew. “No; we need to save the coin.”

  “Then let’s treat the wine as it should be treated.” I refilled her cup. “With slow and deliberate appreciation.”

  “It’s sour.”

  Her color was returning along with her mettlesome mood. “Yes, it’s sour,” I said blandly. “So, at the moment, are you.”

  “But you don’t know—” She stopped herself.

  “No,” I agreed, “I don’t. Unless you tell me.”

  “It’s private,” Del repeated.

  I stirred congealing stew with a piece of bread, making islands out of the meat and channeling the gravy. Mildly, I said: “You know more about me than anyone else alive.”

  Her glance was sharp, startled; she considered it, then withdrew abruptly, shaking her head. “I can’t. Not now.”

  “That man—”

  “Not now.”

  There are times, with Del, when silence is the best strategy. Accordingly, I turned my attention to sour wine and mutton stew, while Jemina made eyes at me from across the smoky cantina.

  In the morning Del rousted me out of bed with a fist snugged none too gently against my short ribs. When, aggrievedly, I protested such bad manners, she merely threw me my dhoti, harness and burnous and suggested I put them on as soon as possible, as she had plans for us this morning.

  “Plans?” I dressed, slipped into harness, tested the weight of the borrowed blade. “What sort of plans?”

  “Supplies,” she said succinctly, and yanked aside the curtain.

  The motion proved too much for the threadbare cloth that separated our tiny inn room from the corridor outside. Fabric parted and Del was left standing with a handful of faded green cloth. With a tongue-click of irritation she tossed it aside.

  “Out of sorts this morning, are we?” I picked up saddle pouches and preceded her out of the musty, low-roofed room. “Maybe if you’d spent more of last night sleeping instead of thinking—”

  “You snored.”

  Ah. My fault, then; I should have known. Accordingly, I possessed myself of silence and went down into the common room to order breakfast.

  Del was off her feed, as well; she was too well disciplined to ignore food when it was offered, not knowing when we might have another meal, but clearly she did not enjoy it. Impatiently she chewed hard bread, spooned down spiced kheshi, swallowed pungent goat’s milk. And then told me to hurry up as I considered a second bowl of kheshi.

  I cast her an exasperated scowl. “Hoolies, Del, we don’t need to run across the border.”

  “We don’t need to dawdle here, either. Tiger, you know there is a time limit.”

  “Time limit, shmime limit,” I said testily. “A man’s got to eat, Del. Or he won’t be any help at all, should you need it.”

  It shut her up, as I thought it might. She recalled I accompanied her only through personal whim; I could leave any time I felt like it. And by reminding Del I intended to render her aid as best I could, I deflated all her righteous indignation.

  It’s hard to be angry with someone who’s lending you a hand. Also bad manners.

  I looked at Del’s expression. And then, quietly, I sent the girl away with the second bowl of kheshi and stood up, gathering saddle pouches once more. Silently, I indicated the door.

  Del turned on her heel and marched out.

  It was clear Del recalled more of Harquhal than I did, though it had been nearly a year since she had been here. She led me directly to a small shop tucked into the shadows along the wall, and proceeded to spend an untold amount of time examining what appeared to be piles of furry pelts, supple leather, a heavy, dyed fabric. Weary of following along like a bearer waiting attendance on a Southron lady, I dumped the pouches by the door and began to do my own examining.

  The shop reeked of tanned leather and pungent fur, as well as other smells I could not begin to name. Accustomed to desert silks and gauzes, I could not comprehend what a man would want with so much weight and bulk. But Del apparently did; eventually she chose the things she wanted and gave the shopkeeper very nearly all of our coin.

  “Sulhaya,” she said, as he rolled the pelts around soft leather into long, flexible bundles and tied them.

  He answered back in Del’s indecipherable Northern tongue; I looked at him more sharply. He was old, and therefore white-haired, and the South had baked his flesh, but his eyes were blue as Del’s. No Southroner, this; he was clearly a Northerner, which meant Del apparently knew what she was doing. Some consolation, I guess, considering I didn’t.

  The old man’s eyes were on her sword hilt, poking above Del’s left shoulder. Boreal’s hilt is fashioned in such a way as to fool the eye, to bewitch the beholder into something like a trance if you stare at the hilt too long. The silver is everchanging, one shape melting into another, then another, until you forget about time entirely, thinking only of the moving forms within the metal. Trying to follow, to name at least one, before the blade assumes the aspect of the hilt and dispatches you entirely.

  “An-ishtoya?” the old man asked, and Del stopped short.

  Her face was frozen, sculpted into a flawless display of rigid beauty. But hard as stone, and equally inflexible.

  An-ishtoya. The highest rank a Northerner can know, as student, apprentice, in the circle. The rank is bestowed by the an-kaidin, the sword-master, higher than the teachers themselves, the kaidin; highest of the high. She had been ishtoya—student—and then an-ishtoya—the paramount—proclaimed so by the an-kaidin himself.

  But Del had turned her back on it, naming herself, instead, a sword-dancer, as she was free to do, and bound by no rituals other than those determined by the circle.

  The old man had clearly trespassed upon her rigidly guarded privacy. But she did not react as she so often did with me. Perhaps because of his age. Perhaps because he was a Northerner. Perhaps also because he knew better what the word meant, and all its accompanying weight.

  “No,” she said after a moment. “Sword-dancer.”

  Something moved briefly in his eyes. But his face—a webbing of lines and creases deeply incised in flesh lighter than my own—did not change. He looked again at Boreal, and then he nodded. Once. “Sing well,” he said, in Southron, and turned away to tend another customer.

  I shouldered saddle pouches, took on one of the rolled bundles, stepped out of the shop just ahead of Del. As she exited I paused to fall into step beside her.

  “Sing well,” I said, puzzled. “Didn’t he mean ‘dance’?”

  Del had hitched her sausage of hides under one arm. Her face was expressionless. “No,” she said. “He didn’t.”

  So much for expecting an answer or further explanation. Knowing better, however, than to hound her for it, I let the subject drop.

  We tacked and loaded the horses with care, knowing Harquhal was our last settlement before the border. And once out of the dun-colored walls and heading north, I would become a stranger to my environs; Del would be guide, while I was left to do as she suggested in all matters of conduct, not knowing Northern ways.

  Our roles would be reversed, and I wasn’t certain I liked it.

  Though Del undoubtedly would.

  She was still locked in silence as we led her coy gelding and my snuffy stud out of the lath-built stable behind the inn. Across broad rumps our mounts now carried the sausage rolls of fur and leather, jutting up and out. The stud wasn’t yet certain he approved of such measures; he walked with his massive hindquarters curiously elevated, as if on tiptoe. The frequent and noisy swishing of his tail told me quite eloquently he was considering making comment, as only a horse can.

  He snorted, banged my right shoulder—purposely—with his nose, nibbled.

  “Knock it off,” I suggested, fully aware of the fore-hooves tromping so closely to m
y own heels.

  He did not, and so I thrust a doubled fist noseward as he reached for my shoulder again. Fist and nose connected. He jerked backward instantly, nodding and bobbing his head at the end of braided, blue-dyed reins while one eye rolled in innocent, baffled amazement. But the eye also shrewdly judged; I smiled, wagged a warning finger, saw the tip-tilted ears flick up. Instantly he pinned them back again, but he’d given himself away; he wasn’t angry so much as disgruntled that I’d caught him at his tricks, and disgruntlement I could deal with.

  Del shook her head. “I don’t know why you keep him. He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “That depends,” I said, recalling the stud had, by all accounts, killed one of my enemies. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been present to witness it. “As for why, I guess it’s mostly habit. Like a man who keeps a nagging wife year after year after year.”

  She cast me a level glance, refusing to enter the debate. “One of these days he’s liable to kill you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. He might dump me on my head every now and again, but in the long run I think he’s rather fond of me.” I patted the firm, plate-shaped jaw. “We’re a lot alike.”

  “Thickheaded,” Del agreed, and then looked past me to the cantina where we had spent most of the former evening.

  I looked with her and saw nothing. But, looking back at her, I saw she did.

  And knew she would have to finish it before we left Harquhal.

  I sighed. Nodded. Stopped. “Go on,” I told her. “Get it over with.”

  She snapped her head around. “You know?”

  “I know you’ll never let it rest,” I said calmly. “Go, bascha. See if he’s there. If not, we can ride out of here knowing at least you looked. If he is, well…” I shrugged. “Up to you, bascha.”

  “But—you don’t know why—” She broke it off, shook her head a little. Silk-bright hair, unbraided, slid across silk-clad shoulders. “You can’t.”

  “Thickheaded I may be, but I am not entirely stupid,” I told her bluntly. “You saw a man last night, and until you see him again and satisfy whatever craving kept you awake last night—in a real bed, I might add—you’ll be moody as a breeding woman.”