Sword Born ss-5

by Jennifer Roberson

  "And Herakleio."

  "— which explains why so many Skandics look alike."

  "Which explains why you look like so many Skandics. You are."

  "But not necessarily related to the metri, or Nihko, or your boy Herakleio."

  "He’s not my boy," Del declared. "He’s older than I am."

  "By what, one or two years?"

  "That’s still older, Tiger."

  "While I’m just old."

  "You should take a nap," Del advised after a moment.

  "Why? Because I’m old?"

  "No. Because you’re cross-grained."

  "Cross-grained?"

  "Out of sorts."

  "I know what it means, bascha. And if I am, it’s because I’m tired —"

  "I said you should take a nap."

  "— of all these convoluted explanations," I finished with emphasis. "Hoolies, this is ludicrous! Women impregnated by gods, and men sent to marry their daughters —"

  "Most history is a collection of stories," Del said. "It is so in the North."

  "And I got my name because I killed a sandtiger I magicked up out of my dreams," I blurted in disgust. "Hoolies, do you think I really believe that? I was a kid. Younger even than Herakleio. Or you."

  "You have done things," she said finally, "that are not explainable."

  "There’s an explanation for everything."

  "And your sandtiger?"

  I shut my eyes. "Coincidence. Hoolies, I just wanted a way out of slavery. I took advantage of something that happens once or twice a year. It was just the Salset’s turn to be meat for a beast."

  "And changing the sand to grass?"

  "The sand isn’t grass, Del. It’s sand. And besides, all I did was suggest they bring the water to where it wasn’t."

  "Which can change the sand to grass."

  I grunted. "In time, I suppose."

  "Magic, Tiger, wears many guises."

  "Like Nihko?"

  Del was silent.

  I turned my head against my arm. "Well?"

  "I don’t know."

  "Maybe you should take the nap."

  "I am neither tired nor cross-grained. I am, after all, younger than you." She smiled sunnily even as I scowled. "Besides…"

  "Besides what?"

  "You were dead only yesterday."

  "But alive today — and lacking a sword." I swore. "I hate to be without a sword. I get into trouble when I don’t have a sword."

  "You get into trouble when you have a sword."

  "But I can also get myself out of it. If I have a sword."

  Del observed me. "You are on edge."

  "Aren’t you?"

  "They haven’t offered to harm us."

  "But they haven’t told us what they intend to do with us either. I don’t find that comfortable."

  "Especially when you lack a sword."

  "If I had one, we’d be gone from here already."

  "There’s more to it than that."

  I sighed, conceding it. "Something doesn’t feel right."

  Del was silent.

  I glanced at her. "Well? Don’t you feel it?"

  She nodded.

  "There. See?" I smiled triumphantly.

  "All we can do," she said, "is wait. Watch. Be ready."

  "I’d rather be ready with a sword in my hands."

  "Well, yes." Del’s smile was crooked. "But we have none, either of us, and until we can get them I think we’d best do what we can to preserve our energy." She paused. "As I said, you were dead only yesterday."

  Rather than debate it any further — I was on edge, and tired — I took a nap.

  Upon awakening alone, I went off in search of Nihkolara to clear up a few matters. It took me a while to track him down, but I found him at last seated upon one of the low perimeter walls surrounding Akritara, staring off into the distance. Beyond him, the setting sun leached the blue of the sky and transmuted it to dusty purple, streaked with ribbons of orange and gold.

  As if a friendly companion, I sat down upon the wall next to him and swung both legs over, perching comfortably even as the evening breeze stripped hair out of my face. (Which was one thing the shaven-headed first mate didn’t have to contend with.) "So, how did you do it?"

  He made no sign he was aware of my presence, though obviously he was. I figured Nihkolara was only rarely taken by surprise.

  I kept my tone light. "It’s not every man who can make another appear to be dead —"

  "You were."

  "Dead?" I expelled air through my nose in sharp commentary. "I don’t think so. But I’ll admit it’s an effective trick."

  He continued staring into the sunset. "Believe as you will. You are an apostate."

  "I?" I slapped a hand against my chest with a meaty thwack. "But I am a messiah. How can I be an apostate?"

  He shook his head slightly. "You treat it all as a huge jest, Southron. Because you are afraid."

  "Afraid of what? You? That kid?"

  "Afraid of the truth." He glanced at me briefly, then looked back into the fading day. "What you do not understand, you ridicule. Because you know there is something in the heart of it that may be dangerous."

  "I understand danger well enough." I swung my feet briefly, thumping heels against plastered brick. "But you’re avoiding my question."

  "You appeared to be dead because you were."

  I sighed. "Fine. For the sake of argument, let’s say I was dead. How, then, did you bring me back?"

  Nihko grinned into the air. "Trickery."

  "More secrets, I take it?"

  The grin faded. He looked at me now, gaze intense. "Because I am ikepra does not mean I lack belief," he said, "and it is belief which rouses power. It means only that I failed in the maintenance of my oaths, in the convictions of my heart." Something moved in his face, briefly impassioned, then was diluted beneath a careful mask. "The body was weak."

  "Strong enough," I commented. "We’ve wrestled a little, you and I."

  "Flesh," he said dismissively. "I speak of the heart, the soul. But the body is a base vessel of vast impurities, and if one cannot cleanse himself of such, the vessel is soiled."

  "Ikepra?"

  "Broken oaths," he said, "provide a weak man with weaker underpinnings. Eventually they crumble — and so does he."

  I had intended to comment, but the words died in my mouth. We were more alike than I wanted to admit, Nihkolara and I. Possibly related, though I didn’t see how that would ever be settled. But certainly linked in the heart by knowledge of broken vows and shattered honor, and lives warped because of it.

  "So you found Prima Rhannet, because the kind of oath she wanted was one you could serve."

  "Without doubt," he confirmed. "Without hesitation. It is far easier to kill other men than to kill one’s soul."

  "Killing other men does kill the soul."

  He stared at me as if weighing my intent. Brow rings glinted. In clear light I could see the hint of a scab in his left eyebrow where he had cut from his flesh the ring I wore on my necklet. "If one’s soul is not already dead."

  I meant to answer, to dredge up some kind of witty remark that would diffuse the tension. But Nihkolara stood up and stepped over the wall onto the cobbles of the courtyard. I smelled the perfume of the blossoms, the acrid tang of dust lifted by wind. And the sweat of fear.

  "I think," he said, "you have a stronger heart than I."

  "I have what — ?" But he turned from me before I could complete the question and walked away with purposeful strides.

  Realizing he had deflected my questions away without divulging answers beyond glib, unspecific replies and personal challenges, I stared scowling into the sunset, disgusted that I’d let him get away with it.

  From here you couldn’t see the actual edge of the cliff, or know that the world currently was little more than a crescent of wracked remains, but the heart sensed something. It knew the island was paramount upon the waters, and yet subject to them. I felt at onc
e isolated, apart, humbled, despite the awareness that the earth stretched far beneath me as if I were a god.

  God. Hoolies. Nihko and everyone else had me thinking like they did.

  I shifted my weight then, an infinitesimal amount. A slight redistribution forward, leg muscles bunching, so that it would require very little effort on my part to spring up and turn, balanced for defense or offense. Because I knew he was there.

  "You fool no one," Herakleio announced belligerently.

  I smiled into the sunset. "Not anyone? Oh, I am irredeemably devastated."

  "You believe you are clever, claiming to want no part of us, when it’s obvious you mean only to mislead us, to convince the metri that you are the son of her daughter."

  Still smiling, I said, "You are a gloriously self-indulgent, self-centered fool, Herakleio. What makes you think I should want any part of you?"

  "Because of what we are," he shot back. "The Stessoi are gods-descended, one of the Eleven Families… we are wealthy and powerful beyond any man’s dreams, pretender, and certainly beyond yours. You come here thinking to fool the metri —"

  "I was brought here," I interrupted crisply, "against my own will. But I came because the choice was simple."

  "To be poor, or rich."

  "To be free, or enslaved. And there was the small matter of my companion being held onboard ship, to insure my cooperation." I shrugged. "Some choices are easy. Especially when they concern others."

  "But you are free now. The metri has paid the renegadas. Your companion is here, not there. You may go."

  "But the metri has reminded me of a thing called a debt." I sighed. "Unlikely as it may sound, I don’t like owing anyone. I prefer to pay such debts."

  "I will pay it!"

  I turned then, swinging legs back over the wall so I might face him. "And then the debt would be yours."

  He was prepared for that. "You would pay it by leaving."

  I examined him, marking the look in his eyes. "Are you so very afraid that I am who the metri wants me to be?"

  He denied it, of course, but his eyes told the truth. "There has been a parade of pretenders presenting themselves to the metri. You are no different."

  "But I am," I replied. "And now that I have seen you, I understand why." I grinned. "Like it or not, boy, we are seeds from the same plant."

  "Every islander born bears some resemblance to us," he countered quickly. "Do you think there are so many of us on Skandi that we would never intermarry?"

  "But only those from the Eleven Families are permitted to intermarry," I said. "The gods-descended, naturally, wouldn’t dream of marrying anyone else. Which means that descendants of those families are bound to closely resemble one another, but not necessarily anyone else." I raised inquisitive brows. "Do you know if any of the other metris is missing a relative?"

  He hissed something at me in Skandic, stiff as an affronted cat.

  I grinned at him. "Relax," I said. "There’s a way out of this."

  "I could kill you."

  That language I understood very well. "Well, yes, that’s one way, though I confess it’s not the way I would prefer. And since the metri is not a stupid woman, she’d likely know it was you right off." I shrugged. "I don’t know what the customs are like in Skandi — maybe murderers are still allowed to inherit."

  Something in his expression suggested they were not. "What is your way, then? And why would you tell me it?"

  "Because I suspect the metri wants you to inherit," I answered calmly.

  It perplexed him. He was young.

  "First," I said, "it’s not as easy to kill another man as you might expect. And I’m not talking about the physical ability to take a life, but the will." Before he could protest, I continued. "Anyone can kill in self-defense, or to protect their kin. But to purposefully track a man and challenge him requires an entirely different part of the mind." I tapped my head. "And to carry through without getting killed yourself… well, it doesn’t always work out the way you’d like."

  "You are alive."

  "How old are you? Twenty-three?"

  The question took him aback. "Twenty-four."

  I nodded contemplatively. "For every year you have been alive, I’ve killed a man. Or maybe two. Possibly three. I’m alive not because I wanted it more than the others, but because I learned how to find the ways to survive. And the ways to kill. In here —" I touched my forehead,"— as much as in here." This time my heart.

  He frowned. "Why are you saying such things? Do you mean to frighten me?"

  "You’re twenty-four. Nothing frightens you."

  It stung. He glared at me, lips tight.

  "Good," I said. "It shut you up. Maybe if you listen, you’ll learn something."

  He stopped listening. "This is not your place. This is not your world. This is not your legacy."

  "It’s yours," I agreed. "But if you want it, you’re going to have to learn how to deserve it."

  "Deserve it — !"

  I stood up, wiped my palms together to brush away dust, then took one long stride that put me right up against Herakleio. Before he could step away or protest, I poked fingers into his breastbone. "You’re soft," I said gently. He made to move; I caught a wrist, clamped, and held him in place. "Big, broad, strong, and likely very quick, but soft. Soft up here —" I placed one forefinger against his brow and nudged. "— and soft down here." I dug stiffened fingers into his belly.

  Outraged, he opened his mouth to shout but I raised my voice and overrode him.

  "I suspect you spend most of your time drinking in cantinas — or whatever you call them here — hanging out with your friends — likely young men of the other ten supposedly gods-descended families about your age — and entertaining women. You repeatedly ignore the metri’s requests that you learn how to do the accounting because figures are boring, and you haven’t the faintest idea how the vineyards are run because you’d rather drink the results than make them." I released his wrist. "In short, you are a perfectly normal twenty-four-year-old male of a wealthy, powerful family who believes his ancestors were sired by gods."

  He sputtered the beginnings of an incoherent response. I cut him off.

  "She’s dying," I said. "She needs you to be prepared. She needs to know everything her family has worked for will be secure in your hands."

  He managed a response finally, sharp and aggressive. "Not in yours?"

  "There is no proof I am the son of her daughter. There never can be. She may want to believe it, but she doesn’t know it. And it matters."

  "She’s the metri. She can simply declare you heir."

  "But she didn’t," I told him. "She asked me to make a man of the boy who is."

  "As if you could!"

  I shrugged. "Try me."

  His lip curled. "Southroner. I know what you are, you sword-dancers. Kill-for-hires. All these games about honor codes and oaths — I know what you are. Men of no family, no prospects. Honorless men who worship a sword, who worship death, because there is nothing in your lives otherwise, no heritage, no pride, no place with the gods when you die." He,leaned into me, challenging with his body. "And you speak of making me a man."

  He definitely had mastered scorn. Fortunately, I had mastered patience.

  Well, sometimes.

  I crossed my arms and grinned. "Heard of us, have you?"

  "You are as bad as ikepra, you and men like you. And you dare to come here into this house, into the metri’s house, and profane her dwelling."

  "I’m sure she’s capable of hiring some priest to come cleanse and rebless it once I’m gone."

  "Go now," he hissed, spittle dampening my face. "Go now, sword-dancer."

  I did not wipe my face. Softly, I said, "Make me."

  He was, no doubt, accustomed to striking slaves, because he drew his right arm across his chest as if to backhand me. I, meanwhile, jammed a fist deep into his belly, and when he bent over it, I hooked an ankle around his. A quick leveraged jerk to upend him, and he w
as all flailing arms and awkward body.

  He landed hard, as I meant him to, sprawled flat on the stone of the terrace. Taken completely unaware, he drove elbows into stone, smacked the back of his skull, scraped his forearms, all before his legs and butt landed. When they did, he bit his tongue, which bled all over his chin and fine linen tunic as he wheezed and coughed.

  I stood over him, but not within range even if he’d had the wherewithal to attempt anything. "Insults don’t accomplish much," I told him, "unless you’re better than the other man." I flicked a spot of dust off my tunic. "And then you don’t need ’em."

  Spittle mixed with blood came flying out of his mouth. He missed.

  "I pay my debts," I told him. "If you don’t like it, take your complaints to the metri."

  Rage contorted his features. Even if he had been quick enough, skilled enough, he was so angry now any attack would have been ineffective. Breathlessly he loosed a string of teeth-gritted invective that undoubtedly would have scorched my ears had I understood the language.

  Then again, maybe not. I’ve been sworn at by the best. And she was far preferable as company than the metri’s brother’s wife’s brother’s grandson.

  I waved farewell at him. "Come see me in the morning."

  FIFTEEN

  It was conveyed to us by the kilted servant that the metri would have us all in to dinner. I got the impression this was a rare occurence; not that guests weren’t hosted properly, but that two of those guests were renegadas.

  Ah well. After my discussion with Herakleio, I was primed for a more interesting atmosphere.

  Which is exactly what I got. Del and I were escorted into a large, airy dining chamber already peopled by Prima Rhannet, her first mate, Herakleio, and the metri herself. Who, standing quietly beside the door, greeted me courteously, then smashed the flat of her hand into the side of my face.

  The shock of it drove me back a step. Instinct took over instantly, and I trapped her wrist in one hand before she could strike again, though she did not appear to intend it.

  I rubbed the knuckles of my other hand against my stinging cheek. "What in hoolies was that for?"