Sword-Singer

by Jennifer Roberson

  Of course, the jagged scar across his upper lip did diminish the innocence of his features. It looked like a knife had cut it, and done a long time ago.

  He looked at the tangle of leather in my hands. He looked at the sheath and hilt. White brows lifted. “Sword-dancer?”

  “Sword-dancer,” I agreed. “Do you wish to enter a circle?”

  Lids flickered. Pale lashes screened pale eyes. After a moment he spread his hands, smiling to show innocent intent. “I have no sword. My weapon is the knife.”

  I shrugged, clicking my tongue. “Well, that is too bad. I guess we’ll have to be friends.”

  He ignored that altogether, jerking his chin in Del’s direction. “Is the woman yours?”

  It would have been so simple to answer yes, to stake a claim to Del and warn him away to another. But I had learned, thanks to Del, that a woman couldn’t be claimed; that a woman couldn’t be owned, and where she went was of her own free choice, not dependent upon a man.

  It would have been so simple. But it would have been a lie.

  “Ask her,” I suggested, “but you might not like the answer. She’s a sword-dancer, too.”

  Pale brows rose consideringly. He stared after Del, though she was gone, then narrowed icy eyes and glanced again at me. What he thought was plain: my disclaimer made me a fool.

  The stud nuzzled my shoulder. Remembering Massou’s experience, I shoved mouth away from flesh.

  It made the Northerner smile. “I won coin on you.”

  I blinked. “You bet on me to win?”

  “I know horses.” The smile was secretive. “Perhaps better than the horse-master who was so willing to give this one up. It is my trade, if after a different fashion.” The smile widened a little and twisted the upper lip. The scar didn’t entirely ruin his looks, but did draw attention. And I think it pleased him instead of warping his nature. (I know a little about scars.) “I would have tried him myself, but you spoke before I could.”

  “That doesn’t tell me why you bet on me.”

  He rubbed an idle forefinger across the twisted lip. “The horse knew you,” he said finally. “There is a language private to horses, but I know how to speak it.” He shrugged. “Not in words or thoughts, but in feelings. This one knew you well, so I knew you would win the contest.”

  I grunted. “You might have told me first and saved me a bloody nose.”

  He grinned, which stripped away the arrogance and replaced it with genuine amusement. “But I wanted to win. The odds were in my favor, because everyone else bet against you.”

  I appraised him much as he had appraised me. Tall, but lacking bulk, though not as tall as me. Graceful even in stillness; the boy knew how to move. He wore wool and leather as I did, cross-tied at calves and forearms, but his pale hair was very long and divided into two braids, one for either shoulder. He knotted them with leather thongs adangle with beads of blue and silver. They rattled when he moved.

  “Then I think you owe me a drink.”

  He blinked. Then smiled. “Are we to be friends, then? Or enemies over the woman?”

  “Oh, we can be either; that depends on you. But if you’re still here when Del comes around, you’ll see it doesn’t matter.”

  He laughed. Inclined his head. And, in fluent Southron, invited me to his camp.

  I agreed. Drinking a man’s liquor is better than fighting him.

  Unless you can do both.

  He spoke Southron as well as other languages, although mostly he kept to the Borderer mix even I could understand. His name, he said, was Garrod, and he was a horse-speaker. When I asked the difference between horse-speaker and horse-master, he said the second was a misnomer, that no man could master a horse. I thought one name as good as another, and told him so.

  Garrod sat on the ground on a blue-and-gray woven blanket, leaning against a convenient tree stump. It was a tiny little one-man camp, consisting of a fire circle filled with ash, a jumble of leather tack, and five magnificent horses.

  He tilted his head a little. Braid beads rattled. “As much difference,” he said quietly, “as between stallion and mare.”

  I snorted my response, enjoying the pleasant glow of Northern liquor as I sat on Garrod’s blanket and drank Garrod’s amnit. “You came to sell your horses, didn’t you? It sounds the same to me.”

  “Horses, to me, are more than things to be sold. More than merely animals who have been trained to carry or pull.” His icy eyes were oddly unfocused as he looked at his string of five, staked out in lush green grass. “Horses are my magic.”

  I was his guest, and there are rules; I refrained from laughing outright. Instead, I held out the bota. “Have another drink.”

  Solemnly he took it, drank, smiled companionably back at me. “I could have ridden your horse. I could have made him mine.”

  “By talking to him, I gather.”

  He gazed at me thoughtfully. His expression told me nothing, other than he appraised. And then Garrod smiled, twisting the scarred upper lip. “It would have saved you a bloody nose.”

  I took the bota back. “I need to buy a horse.”

  “For the woman, or for yourself?”

  “For her. For Del. Depending, of course, on price.”

  Garrod shrugged indifferently. “I would need to see her. To let them see her.”

  “Who? The horses?” Incredulously, I stared at the five grazing mounts. “Do you mean to tell me you ask them their opinion?”

  His tone was one of infinite patience; he’d met disbelief before. “Men choose horses for wrong reasons. They think of themselves, not of the animal. They buy or trade stupidly, and often the horse suffers for it.” He smiled. “Or the rider does.”

  “You mean me.”

  “I mean you.” Garrod sat upright, shifted his position, leaned back again, tugging left braid from under an armpit. “You and your horse could be better friends if the partnership was equal. You spend too much time telling him you are the master, while he tells you the same thing.” He shrugged a little, rattling beads in thick pale plaits. “He is happy enough, and so are you, but you both could be happier.”

  I’ve heard of strange things before, but never of a man who could talk to horses. Or of horses who would listen. “Garrod—”

  “Let them see her,” he said. “I will sell you the one who is best for her.”

  I thought about Del’s response. “She might not like any of them.”

  Garrod smiled. “She’s Northern, isn’t she?”

  “Del? Hoolies yes…nearly as fair as you.”

  “Then she will understand.”

  * * *

  Garrod and I shared the rest of the bota, trading stories full of truths and falsehoods, and generally enjoyed a pleasant afternoon. Once I’d had to tie up the stud again, since he’d pulled free of the treelimb I’d tethered him to, but I caught him before he could do any damage to Garrod’s horses and made sure my knot was tight.

  Since then he’d done little more than stare morosely at the others, or shred thick-woven turf and spit out globs of muddy roots.

  Garrod looked up at the sky. “Sun’s going down.”

  About this time Del arrived. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  I shrugged, content on Garrod’s blanket. “You said it wouldn’t be hard to find me.”

  “I thought not,” she agreed, “but then I foolishly neglected to remember that you’d most likely drink yourself into a stupor.”

  I raised my brows. “Had a bad afternoon, did we?”

  Garrod smiled and tossed her the bota. “We saved a swallow or two for you.”

  Del caught the bota but did not drink, appraising each of us in silence. Her gaze stayed on Garrod longer, giving nothing away; even I couldn’t tell what she thought. But I didn’t think she was pleased.

  “Massou is all right,” she said finally. “The bite will bruise, but nothing more.”

  “Could have told you that.” I gestured toward my host. “Name’s Garrod.
Horse-speaker, he says.”

  “Horse-speaker?” Del frowned, looking more closely at the young man I judged her own age. “You are young for it.”

  “True talent doesn’t wait on age,” Garrod answered. “But I could say the same of you, couldn’t I? He says you are a sword-dancer.” He paused pointedly a moment. “Not to mention you’re a woman.”

  Uh-oh. Not a good beginning.

  Del stared him down. Then dismissed him with surpassing speed, turning to look at me. “We have made a camp, and Adara has cooked a meal.”

  I sighed, recalling Massou’s temper and Adara’s weary depression. “How much longer are we to nursemaid them?”

  A fleeting expression told me she was as weary of it, though she said nothing to give the thought away. “One more night,” she answered quietly. “We’ll buy them a horse and wagon in the morning, and then we are free to go.”

  Clearly, she was ready; I saw the subtle signs of tension in her face.

  Garrod shifted against his stump, rubbing at his knife-scarred lip. “He says you need a horse.”

  Del’s face masked itself. “And you have one to sell.”

  He waved a negligent hand over his shoulder. “I have five to sell.”

  Del looked at the horses. Quietly they grazed, staked out like dogs on a lead. Big, sturdy horses, fuzzy from winter hair. Two bays, two sorrels, a gray. They looked content enough with their lot; considerably more so than the stud. But then that wasn’t saying much.

  She flicked a glance at me. I shrugged a very little, lifting one shoulder almost imperceptibly. She was asking me what I thought of Garrod and his claim of equine magic; frankly, I didn’t know what I thought.

  Del’s mouth tightened, twisted faintly, loosened. “I think not,” she said, “for now. Perhaps in the morning.”

  Garrod’s smile was slow. “By morning they may not be here.”

  Horse-speaker or not, this language even I understood very well. Horse trading and haggling are as old as time itself.

  “By morning,” Del suggested, “you may want a lower price.”

  The Northerner grinned. “By morning they may cost more.”

  “All right, all right.” I was tired of the game. “Let’s go get some food, bascha—we’ll hunt a horse in the morning.”

  She cast Garrod a sideways glance of cool dismissal and turned on her heel to leave. Loose blonde hair swung against her back, hiding much of the harness and sheath. But it didn’t block the silver hilt, which rose above her left shoulder.

  Garrod looked up at me as I got to my feet. “A word of advice, friend Tiger: never trust a woman with a sword. Her tongue is bad enough.”

  I laughed. Then stopped as Del swung back. Showed her an expression of innocence, then shot a grin at Garrod. He raised his bota in salute.

  “Men,” Del remarked, as if it said everything.

  And I suppose, sometimes, it does.

  Nineteen

  Del and I threaded our way back through men, women, children, dogs, horses and other assorted livestock, winding around wagons, cookfires and open camps, ducking and dodging various games as we went. The sun decidedly was going down; it tipped the mountains with gilt and bronze and deepened the purples to black.

  “Kind of rude to Garrod, weren’t you?” Del is very tall; our steps were evenly matched, particularly as I was leading the stud.

  “I don’t like him.”

  I grunted. “I sort of gathered that much. Why, is the question. Or maybe, why not?”

  She shrugged. “I just don’t.”

  I suppose I should have been glad. Scarred lip and all, Garrod was a good looking young buck, and considerably closer to Del’s age than I am. But because we’d shared a bota and swapped lots of stories, I felt I knew him well enough not to feel threatened by youth or good looks, which I’d lost some time ago (although some women might argue otherwise; I’m not completely hopeless.) So I could afford to be offended by Del’s somewhat illogical dismissal of Garrod.

  “You don’t even know him. How can you judge him so quickly?”

  “The same way you judge an opponent when you step into the circle,” she said dryly. “It doesn’t take a lot of time.”

  The stud tried to walk over the top of me; I elbowed him back. “But you didn’t like me when we met.”

  Del looked thoughtful. “True,” she admitted, nodding. “You were a lot like Garrod, then: smug, arrogant, dominating, convinced of a nonexistent superiority…” She shrugged. “But you settled down a lot once I beat you in the circle.”

  “You never beat me in the circle.”

  “Oh? What about the time we danced in front of the Hanjii and their painted women? I seem to remember you taking leave of your meal.”

  “And I seem to remember you jammed a knee into—”

  “—your brains?” Del smiled blandly. “A man’s eternal vulnerability.”

  I forbore to answer that, preferring to forget our initial sword-dance, which had been a travesty. “Nothing’s ever really been settled between us,” I reminded her. “We’ve danced, yes, but mostly it’s just been sparring. We’ve never done it for real, to establish who’s the best.”

  “I have a good idea.”

  “So do I, and it isn’t you.”

  Del sighed and flopped an arm in an easterly direction. “Camp’s over this way…Tiger, I don’t mean to make you angry, but you should know by now that—”

  “—what? You’re better? No, I don’t know…because it isn’t true.” A rag ball rolled out of play into our path. The stud stopped short; so did I. He breathed noisily, ears touching at tips, and eyed the ball uneasily. I told him he was a coward, bent and scooped up the ball, tossed it back to the waiting boy. “I’m bigger, stronger, more powerful—”

  “And I’m considerably swifter, and much more subtle with my strokes.” Del thrust out a wrist and flexed it. “When it comes to using patterns—”

  “But that’s the Northern style. I’m a Southroner.”

  She swung to face me. “But we’re North, now, Tiger. You’ve got to use my style.”

  “Why?” I asked flatly. “I’m very good at my own.”

  “Because—” Abruptly, the urgency spilled out of her tone. Briefly, she closed her eyes, then looked at me once more. “Because a good ishtoya is always prepared to learn.”

  I kept my voice very steady. “I am a seventh-level sword-dancer,” I said clearly. “Not first, not third, not fifth. Seventh, Del. There aren’t very many of those.”

  Del wet her lips, fingered hair out of her face, seemed oddly apprehensive. “Southron,” she said, “Southron. This is the North, Tiger…we must adhere to Northern customs.”

  “You must adhere to Northern customs. I’m just me.”

  “Tiger—”

  “This isn’t doing us any good,” I said curtly. “You can’t make me something I’m not, anymore than I can make you something you’re not. Would you have me demand you put down your sword for good and keep house for me all hidden behind Southron veils?”

  Del’s face was stiff. “There’s a difference between sword-dancing and keeping house.”

  “Is there? One is a man’s work, the other a woman’s.” I paused. “Usually.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  A woman’s eternal defense, although I didn’t tell her that. “Probably not,” I agreed. “All I know is, you’ve been acting funny ever since we crossed the border.”

  Her face was grim, which was a shame; Del’s features demand better treatment. “I have responsibilities.”

  “So do we all, Del.”

  “And as for acting funny, so have you. Especially lately.”

  I scratched my scars. “Yes, well…things haven’t felt right, lately. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’m getting the same prickles I got before.”

  Del’s brows shot up. “Prickles?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know how to explain it. Things just don’t feel right.” I gestured. “Shall we go
find the camp?”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then turned abruptly and marched off. I followed more sedately, slowed by a distracted horse.

  Camp indeed, such as it was. There was the familiar rainbreak, though no wagon to hook it to, as well as spread blankets and a fire. Adara squatted by the stone ring, stirring a pot of something that smelled a lot like stew. Cipriana helped her mother by pouring cups of tea. Massou, bowl in hand, sat on a blanket and glowered at the stud.

  The little campsite wasn’t exactly private, being wedged in between the road and numerous scattered wagons with adjacent open camps. But it would do, and certainly until the morning. I took the restive stud aside, not wanting to trouble the boy, and staked him out by a plot of turf as yet untrampled by wheels and boots and hooves.

  Del followed me over. “Kymri are cause for celebration. Tonight there will be singing and dancing.” It was, I thought, an apology of sorts.

  I slapped the stud on the shoulder. “I’m all for celebration, but I can’t do either one.”

  “You dance in the circle.”

  “That’s different.”

  “And I’ve never heard you sing. You might be very good.”

  I grinned at her. “Bascha, have you heard a danjac bray?”

  She looked blank. “A who?”

  “A what: a danjac. Beast of burden, down south.” I smiled. “Not much known for their voice.”

  “No, I’ve never heard one.”

  “And you don’t want to hear me.”

  She frowned a little. “Don’t you ever sing?”

  “Never ever, bascha.”

  Del shook her head. “A sword-dancer should sing.”

  “Waste of breath, bascha.”

  “Not when you want to win.”

  “Yes, well, I seem to do fine without making any noise.” I removed my boot from the patch of turf the stud wanted to plunder and turned back toward the camp. “Just because you sing—”

  She caught my arm. “Tiger—look—”

  I looked. Didn’t see much of anything out of the ordinary, just three men riding down the road, while a fourth walked out to meet them. A pale-haired man with braids.